The very morning after I was again in the drawer, a female voice was heard asking for "worked French pocket-handkerchiefs." As I clearly came within this category--alas, poor Adrienne!--in half a minute I found myself, along with fifty fellows or fellowesses, lying on the counter. The instant I heard the voice, I knew that the speaker was not "mamma," but "my child," and I now saw that she was fair. Julia Monson was not as brilliantly handsome as my late owner, but she had more feeling and refinement in the expression of her countenance. Still there was an uneasy worldly glancing of the eye, that denoted how much she lived out of herself, in the less favorable understanding of the term; an expression of countenance that I have had occasion to remark in most of those who think a very expensive handkerchief necessary to their happiness. It is, in fact, the natural indication that the mind dwells more on show than on substantial things, and a proof that the possessor of this quality is not content to rely altogether on the higher moral feelings and attainments for her claims to deference. In a word, it is some such trait as that which distinguishes the beautiful plumage of the peacock, from the motive that incites the bird to display his feathers. In company with Miss Monson was another young lady of about her own age, and of a very similar appearance as to dress and station. Still, a first glance discovered an essential difference in character. This companion, who was addressed as Mary, and whose family name was Warren, had none of the uneasiness of demeanor that belonged to her friend, and obviously cared less what others thought of every thing she said or did. When the handkerchiefs were laid on the counter, Julia Monson seized on one with avidity, while Mary Warren regarded us all with a look of cold indifference, if not one of downright displeasure. "What beauties!" exclaimed the first, the clerk at that moment quitting them to hand some gloves to another customer--"What delightful needle-work! Mary, do YOU purchase one to keep me in countenance, and I will purchase another. I know your mother gave you the money this very morning." "Not for that object, Julia. My dear mother little thinks I shall do any such thing." "And why not? A rich pocket-handkerchief is a stylish thing!" "I question if style, as you call it, is just the thing for a young woman, under any circumstances; but, to confess the truth, I think a pocket-handkerchief that is to be LOOKED at and which is not to be USED, vulgar." "Not in Sir Walter Scott's signification, my dear," answered Julia laughing, "for it is not so very COMMON. Every body cannot have a worked French pocket-handkerchief." {Sir Walter Scott = British novelist and poet (1771-1832), often compared with Cooper--I have not located his definition of "vulgar"}