Upon this particular afternoon Mrs. Scratchell and her five daughters were assembled in the schoolroom busied with a task of all-absorbing interest. They were making their winter dresses, and the threadbare carpet was strewed with shreds and patches of dark blue merino, while the somewhat stuffy atmosphere was odorous with glazed lining. It was a shabby old panelled room, from whose wainscot almost all the paint had been worn and scrubbed away in the progress of years. But though the paint was mostly gone a general drabness remained. Narrow drab moreen curtains hung beside the straight windows--an oblong mahogany table, with those treacherous contrivances called flaps, occupied the centre of the room, and was now covered with bodices, and sleeves, and pockets, and skirts, in various stages of being. There was an old horsehair sofa against the wall, loaded with books, slates, and desks which had been thrust aside to make room for the more agreeable pursuit of dressmaking. There were a dozen chairs of various shapes and make, the odds and ends of a sale-room or a broker’s shop. No ornament or beautification of any kind had ever been attempted in the schoolroom. The apartment was unpretendingly hideous; and yet the Scratchell children were fond of it, and looked back to it in after years as the dearest room in the world. Perhaps the only thing that could be called good in it was the wide old fireplace, with its blue and white Dutch tiles, basket grate, and capacious hobs, which were so convenient for cooking toffy or roasting chestnuts. Bella was at work with her mother and sisters. She had a natural gift for dressmaking, as she had for many things, and was the general cutter out and contriver, and the family arbiter upon fashion. It was she who decided how the sleeves were to be made, and whether the skirts were to be plain or flounced. She sat among them this afternoon, her busy scissors crunching and grinding over the table, cutting and slashing with quite a professional ease and audacity. ‘What a correct eye and what a steady hand you have, Bella!’ said her mother, admiringly. ‘It’s quite wonderful.’ ‘I’d need have something, mother,’ sighed Bella, ‘as I’ve no money.’ ‘True, my dear. There’s a great deal wanted to make up for the loss of that. One feels it every day.’ ‘Every day,’ echoed Bella. ‘Why not say every hour, every moment? When doesn’t one feel it? It is a steady gnawing pain, like toothache.’ ‘But Providence has made you so bright and clever, dear. That’s a great consolation. There’s Miss Harefield now, I don’t suppose _she_ could make herself a dress.’ ‘I doubt if she could thread a needle,’ said Bella. ‘But I’d change places with her any day.’ ‘What, Bella! and be almost alone in the world? Without a mother--or sisters--or brothers!’