That light in Lucy’s pensive hazel eyes, that gentle, hopeful expectant look on her sweet face, has, from the time that men were born on earth subdued the fiery rage of angry braves in mortal strife engaged, has turned brutality into cowering shame, and caused the harshest, roughest and most savage of the human kind to smooth the brow, soften the voice and gently move aside, rendering ready homage to a being raised higher far than the throne of the mightiest king on earth. As she, who chambered with the cattle on Judah’s hills, opened the passage from the groaning earth to realms of eternal bliss by what she gave to men, so ever those crowned with that pellucid halo of expected maternity stand holding ajar the gates that bar the path from man to that mysterious source of life and soul called God. It is woman in her grandest glory, who draws man and his Maker near together, with arms outstretched and hands extended she grasps man and reaches up toward the Divine Author of our beings. In simplest attire and humblest station she sanctifies the spot she stands upon. When most beset by want or danger there lives no man worthy of the name, who could refuse to heed her lightest call. Oh! that wistful, yearning, hopeful, tender, loving look that transfigured Lucy’s sweet face until resemblance came to it, to that face that has employed the souls, hearts and hands of those most gifted by high heaven with pen and brush. Out of this trance-like blissfulness the pensive dreamer was aroused by the coming of her ever constant guardian, her grandfather, who told her that Miss Arabella Chapman had called, bringing some offering that could be placed in no other hand than that of the young matron. Away hastened Lucy to greet the time-worn maiden, but fresh-hearted friend, and to hurry with her up to a sealed and sacred apartment, over whose threshold no male foot must ever step, wherein was hidden heaping trays and shelves of doll-like garments of marvelous texture and make, articles the names of which no man ever yet has learned to call, all so cunningly devised as to create the need of lace, embroidery or such matter on every edge and corner. Silky shawls and fleecy wraps, and funny little caps of spider-spun lace, and socks of soft stuff so small that Lucy’s tiny thumb could scarce find room therein, all and much more than man can tell were here stored carefully away and only shown to closest friends by the fair warder of that holy keep. And, oh! the loving, jealous care of Lucy. No hand but her own could fold these small garments just right. What awful calamity might befall should one crease be awry or disturbed; no eye so well could note some need in that dainty, diminutive collection of fairy underwear as hers; no breast could beat so tenderly as hers as close she pressed, fondled and kissed the little gowns for elfin wear.