Octavia laughed again.

"Don't you know what it is?" she said. "It isn't like a Slowbridge cap;
but it's a cap, nevertheless. They wear them like this in New York, and I
think they are ever so much prettier."

It was true that it was not like a Slowbridge cap, and was also true that
it was prettier. It was a delicate affair of softly quilled lace, adorned
here and there with loops of pale satin ribbon.

"Let me try it on," said Octavia, advancing; and in a minute she had done
so, and turned Miss Bassett about to face herself in the glass. "There!"
she said. "Isn't that better than--well, than emulating Lady Theobald?"

It was so pretty and so becoming, and Miss Belinda was so touched by the
girl's innocent enjoyment, that the tears came into her eyes.

"My--my love," she faltered, "it is so beautiful, and so expensive,
that--though indeed I don't know how to thank you--I am afraid I should
not dare to wear it."

"Oh!" answered Octavia, "that's nonsense, you know. I'm sure there's no
reason why people shouldn't wear becoming things. Besides, I should be
awfully disappointed. I didn't think I could make it, and I'm real proud
of it. You don't know how becoming it is!"

Miss Belinda looked at her reflection, and faltered. It was becoming.

"My love," she protested faintly, "real Mechlin! There is really no such
lace in Slowbridge."