She went and stood in front of Nora with her arms akimbo.

"Look," she said, "my frock has a rent from here to here, and this
petticoat is none of the best, and my stockings--well, I know it is
my own fault, but I _won't_ darn them, and there is a great
hole just above the heel. Now, this skirt will hide all blemishes."

"But what will your mother say?"

"Bless her!" said Biddy, "she won't even notice. Here, let's whip on
the dress."

She hastily divested herself of her ragged cotton skirt, and put on
the pale blue with the dirty silk flounces.

"What are you looking so grave for?" she said, glancing up at Nora.
"I declare you're too stately for anything, Nora O'Shanaghgan! You
stand there, and I know you criticise me."

"No; I love you too much," replied Nora. "You are Biddy Murphy, one
of my greatest friends."

"Ah, it's sweet to hear her," said Biddy.

"But, all the same," continued Nora, "I don't like that dress, and
it's terribly unsuitable. You don't look ladylike in it."

"Ladylike, and I with the blood of----"