She was not in the least sentimental, her natural disposition inclining her to be more than cheerful, actually gay.  She soon recovered herself, and when, a short time after, she stood, scissors in hand, demonstrating how very easy it was to make something out of nothing, her sisters never suspected how very near tears had lately been to those bright eyes, which were always the sunshine of the house.

“You are giving yourself a world of trouble,” said Selina.  “If I were you, I would just make over the dress to Elizabeth, and let her do what she could with it.”

“My dear, I always find I give myself twice the trouble by expecting people to do what they can’t do.  I have to do it myself afterward.  Prove how a child who can’t even handle a needle and thread is competent to make a gown for herself, and I shall be most happy to secede in her favor.”

“Nay,” put in the eldest sister, afraid of a collision of words, “Selina is right; if you do not teach Elizabeth to make her own gowns how can she learn?”

“Johanna, you are the brilliantest of women! and you know you don’t like the parlor littered with rags and cuttings.  You wish to get rid of me for the evening?  Well, I’ll go!  Hand me the work basket and the bundle, and I’ll give my first lesson in dress making to our South Sea Islander.”

But Fate stood in the way of Miss Hilary’s good intentions.

She found Elizabeth not as was her wont, always busy, over the perpetual toil of those who have not yet learned the mysterious art of arrangement and order, nor, as sometimes, hanging sleepily over the kitchen fire, waiting for bedtime; but actually sitting, sitting down at the table.  Her candle was flaring on one side of her; on the other was the school room inkstand, a scrap of waste paper, and a pen But she was not writing; she sat with her head on her hands, in an attitude of disconsolate idleness, so absorbed that she seemed not to hear Hilary’s approach.

“I did not know you could write, Elizabeth.”

“No more I can,” was the answer, in the most doleful of voices.  “It bean’t no good.  I’ve forgotten all about it.  T’ letters wonna join.”

“Let me look at them.”  And Hilary tried to contemplate gravely the scrawled and blotted page, which looked very much as if a large spider had walked into the ink bottle, and then walked out again on a tour of investigation.  “What did you want to write?” asked she, suddenly.

Elizabeth blushed violently.  “It was the woman, Mrs. Cliffe, t’ little lad’s mother, you know; she wanted somebody to write to her husband as is at work at Birmingham, and I said I would.  I’d learned at the National, but I’ve forgotten it all.  I’m just as Miss Selina says—­I’m good for nowt.”

“Come, come, never fret;” for there was a sort of choke in the girl’s voice.  “There’s many a good person who never learned to write.  But I don’t see why you should not learn.  Shall I teach you?”