The girl looked a brilliant woman in a superb Venetian dress of purple
velvet, which she called 'the Branciani dress,' and once attired in it,
and the rich purges and swelling creases over the shoulders puffed out to
her satisfaction, and the run of yellow braid about it properly inspected
and flattened, she would not return to her more homely wear, though very
soon her mother began to whimper and say that she had lost her so long,
and now that she had found her it hardly seemed the same child. Emilia
would listen to no entreaties to put away her sumptuous robe. She
silenced her mother with a stamp of her foot, and then sighed: "Ah! Why
do I always feel such a tyrant with you?" kissing her.

"This dress," she said, and held up her mother's chin fondlingly between
her two hands, "this dress was designed by my friend Merthyr--that is,
Mr. Powys--from what he remembered of a dress worn by Countess Branciani,
of Venice. He had it made to give to me. It came from Paris. Countess
Branciani was one of his dearest friends. I feel that I am twice as much
his friend with this on me. Mother, it seems like a deep blush all over
me. I feel as if I looked out of a rose."

She spread her hands to express the flower magnified.

"Oh! what silly talk," said her mother: "it does turn your head, this
dress does!"

"I wish it would give me my voice, mother. My father has no hope. I
wish he would send me news to make me happy about him; or come and run
his finger up the strings for hours, as he used to. I have fancied I
heard him at times, and I had a longing to follow the notes, and felt
sure of my semi-tones. He won't see me! Mother! he would think