the day after she herself had come to the island, was full of clothes
belonging to her "poor mamma;" and as we have seen, the little woman
was fully inclined to make use of them.

Beautiful clothes they were; rich silks and velvets, with here and
there cloudy laces and strange webs of Eastern gauze. For she had
been a beautiful woman, this poor mamma, and it had been the delight
of Hugh Maynard, her proud and fond husband, to deck his lovely wife
in all rare and precious stuffs. Some of them were stained with
sea-water, and many of the softer stuffs were crumpled and matted
hopelessly, but that mattered little to Star. Her eyes delighted in
soft, rich colours, and she was never weary of turning them over and
over, trying them on, and "playing s'pose" with them.

"S'pose," she would say, "my poor mamma was going to a banquet, like
the Capulet one, or Macbeth's. Oh, no! 'cause that would have been
horrid, with ghosts and daggers and things. S'pose it was the
Capulets! Then she would put on this pink silk. Isn't it pretty, and
soft, and creamy? Just like the wild roses on the south side of the
meadow, that I made a wreath of for Imogen on her birthday. Dear
Imogen! it was _so_ becoming to her. Well, so my poor mamma put it
on--_so_! and then she paced through the hall, and all the lords
turned round and said, 'Mark'st thou yon lady?' 'Cause she was so
beautiful, you know. _This_ is the way she paced!" and then the little
creature would fall to pacing up and down the room, dragging the
voluminous pink folds behind her, her head thrown back, and a look
of delighted pride lighting up her small face.

It was the funniest little place, this room of Star's, the queerest,
quaintest little elfin bower! It was built out from the south side