Louisiana. Burnett Frances Hodgson

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СКАЧАТЬ was so much more deeply so that she felt it her duty to contain herself and return to cheerfulness.

      "Never mind," she said. "I will tell you all I know about them, and," – after a pause for speculative thought upon the subject, – "by-the-by, it isn't much, and I will lend you some books to read, and give you a list of some you must persuade your father to buy for you, and you will be all right. It is rather dreadful not to know the names of people and things; but, after all, I think there are very few people who – ahem!"

      She was checked here by rigid conscientious scruples. If she was to train this young mind in the path of learning and literature, she must place before her a higher standard of merit than the somewhat shady and slipshod one her eagerness had almost betrayed her into upholding. She had heard people talk of "standards" and "ideals," and when she was kept to the point and in regulation working order, she could be very eloquent upon these subjects herself.

      "You will have to work very seriously," she remarked, rather incongruously and with a rapid change of position. "If you wish to – to acquire anything, you must read conscientiously and – and with a purpose." She was rather proud of that last clause.

      "Must I?" inquired Louise, humbly. "I should like to – if I knew where to begin. Who was Worth? Was he a poet?"

      Miss Ferrol acquired a fine, high color very suddenly.

      "Oh," she answered, with some uneasiness, "you – you have no need to begin with Worth. He doesn't matter so much – really."

      "I thought," Miss Rogers said meekly, "that you were more troubled about my not having read what he wrote, than about my not knowing any of the others."

      "Oh, no. You see – the fact is, he – he never wrote anything."

      "What did he do?" she asked, anxious for information.

      "He – it isn't 'did,' it is 'does.' He – makes dresses."

      "Dresses!"

      This single word, but no exclamation point could express its tone of wild amazement.

      "Yes."

      "A man!"

      "Yes."

      There was a dead silence. It was embarrassing at first. Then the amazement of the unsophisticated one began to calm itself; it gradually died down, and became another emotion, merging itself into interest.

      "Does" – guilelessly she inquired – "he make nice ones?"

      "Nice!" echoed Miss Ferrol. "They are works of art! I have got three in my trunk."

      "O-o h!" sighed Louisiana. "Oh, dear!"

      Miss Ferrol rose from her chair.

      "I will show them to you," she said. "I – I should like you to try them on."

      "To try them on!" ejaculated the child in an awe-stricken tone. "Me?"

      "Yes," said Miss Ferrol, unlocking the trunk and throwing back the lid. "I have been wanting to see you in them since the first day you came."

      She took them out and laid them upon the bed on their trays. Louise got up from the floor and approaching, reverently stood near them. There was a cream-colored evening-dress of soft, thick, close-clinging silk of some antique-modern sort; it had golden fringe, and golden flowers embroidered upon it.

      "Look at that," said Miss Ferrol, softly – even religiously.

      She made a mysterious, majestic gesture.

      "Come here," she said. "You must put it on."

      Louise shrank back a pace.

      "I – oh! I daren't," she cried. "It is too beautiful!"

      "Come here," repeated Miss Ferrol.

      She obeyed timorously, and gave herself into the hands of her controller. She was so timid and excited that she trembled all the time her toilette was being performed for her. Miss Ferrol went through this service with the manner of a priestess officiating at an altar. She laced up the back of the dress with the slender, golden cords; she arranged the antique drapery which wound itself around in close swathing folds. There was not the shadow of a wrinkle from shoulder to hem: the lovely young figure was revealed in all its beauty of outline. There were no sleeves at all, there was not very much bodice, but there was a great deal of effect, and this, it is to be supposed, was the object.

      "Walk across the floor," commanded Miss Ferrol.

      Louisiana obeyed her.

      "Do it again," said Miss Ferrol.

      Having been obeyed for the second time, her hands fell together. Her attitude and expression could be said to be significant only of rapture.

      "I said so!" she cried. "I said so! You might have been born in New York!"

      It was a grand climax. Louisiana felt it to the depths of her reverent young heart. But she could not believe it. She was sure that it was too sublime to be true. She shook her head in deprecation.

      "It is no exaggeration," said Miss Ferrol, with renewed fervor. "Laurence himself, if he were not told that you had lived here, would never guess it. I should like to try you on him."

      "Who – is he?" inquired Louisiana. "Is he a writer, too?"

      "Well, yes, – but not exactly like the others. He is my brother."

      It was two hours before this episode ended. Only at the sounding of the second bell did Louisiana escape to her room to prepare for dinner.

      Miss Ferrol began to replace the dresses in her trunk. She performed her task in an abstracted mood. When she had completed it she stood upright and paused a moment, with quite a startled air.

      "Dear me!" she exclaimed. "I – actually forgot about Ruskin!"

      CHAPTER III.

      "HE IS DIFFERENT."

      The same evening, as they sat on one of the seats upon the lawn, Miss Ferrol became aware several times that Louisiana was regarding her with more than ordinary interest. She sat with her hands folded upon her lap, her eyes fixed on her face, and her pretty mouth actually a little open.

      "What are you thinking of?" Olivia asked, at length.

      The girl started, and recovered herself with an effort.

      "I – well, I was thinking about – authors," she stammered.

      "Any particular author?" inquired Olivia, "or authors as a class?"

      "About your brother being one. I never thought I should see any one who knew an author – and you are related to one!"

      Her companion's smile was significant of immense experience. It was plain that she was so accustomed to living on terms of intimacy with any number of authors that she could afford to feel indifferent about them.

      "My dear," she said, amiably, "they are not in the least different from other people."

      It sounded something like blasphemy.

      "Not СКАЧАТЬ