ripped-up and newly-turned dresses. For Minty had conceived the bold
idea of altering one of her mother's gowns to the fashion of a certain
fascinating frock worn by Louise Macy. It was late when her self-imposed
task was completed. With a nervous trepidation that was novel to
her, Minty began to disrobe herself preparatory to trying on her new
creation. The light of a tallow candle and a large swinging lantern,
borrowed from her father's forge, fell shyly on her milky neck and
shoulders, and shone in her sparkling eyes, as she stood before her
largest mirror--the long glazed door of a kitchen clock which she had
placed upon her chest of drawers. Had poor Minty been content with the
full, free, and goddess-like outlines that it reflected, she would have
been spared her impending disappointment. For, alas! the dress of her
model had been framed upon a symmetrically attenuated French corset, and
the unfortunate Minty's fuller and ampler curves had under her simple
country stays known no more restraining cincture than knew the Venus
of Milo. The alteration was a hideous failure, it was neither Minty's
statuesque outline nor Louise Macy's graceful contour. Minty was no
fool, and the revelation of this slow education of the figure and
training of outline--whether fair or false in art--struck her quick
intelligence with all its full and hopeless significance. A bitter light
sprang to her eyes; she tore the wretched sham from her shoulders, and
then wrapping a shawl around her, threw herself heavily and sullenly on
the bed. But inaction was not a characteristic of Minty's emotion; she
presently rose again, and, taking an old work-box from her trunk, began
to rummage in its recesses. It was an old shell-incrusted affair, and
the apparent receptacle of such cheap odds and ends of jewelry as she
possessed; a hideous cameo ring, the property of the late Mrs. Sharpe,
was missing. She again rapidly explored the contents of the box, and
then an inspiration seized her, and she darted into her brother's
bedroom.