"I'm sure, you never look better in any dress you've got," insisted Mr. Murden, who had very pleasant associations connected with their early married life and the dress in question. "Why, it's a perfect fringe around the bottom, and has two great stains on the skirt. What are you thinking of, John?" "Well, well, I'll give it up. I like it, that's all. How much will a new one cost?" Mrs. Murden, slightly diplomatic, could not present an estimate. Her husband had told her of a business loss when he came in; it was not a very favorable moment. Wonderful as it seemed to her, the purple silk was still unsold when a week had passed; but, then, it is a color very few dare to try their complexions by, which Mrs. Murden did not reflect upon. The celebrated "Purple Jar" was not more attractive to "Rosamond," as chronicled by Miss Edgeworth, than was the dress to its constant worshipper, who made an errand into Chestnut Street daily that she might pause for a moment before it. Mr. Murden said she reminded him of his father's old pony, who always halted of his own accord at the houses of the doctor's principal patients. Mrs. Murden "did not thank him" for any such comparisons. That same evening there was a perceptible rise of spirits observable in the father of the family. He tossed the baby, accordingly, so far that its anxious mother was sure its poor little head would be dashed against the ceiling; he gave George Washington, the eldest hope, three several rides on his boot, and carried him up to bed in a fashion best known to nurses as "pig-a-back." Mrs. Murden wondered what had happened; she little knew the good fortune in store for her. "Well, Barney"--Mr. Murden always called his wife Barney when in particularly good humor, though her name was a very romantic one, Adelaide Matilda--"how about that dress? Tell us, out and out, how much it would cost. Let's see if it would break a fellow." "It's a splendid piece," began Mrs. Murden. "So I have been told every day for two weeks." "You know I'm not _very_ extravagant; and, once in a while, dear, I _do_ take a fancy for something handsome." Mr. Murden thought the proposition would have been stated correctly, if she had said, "every little while;" but Mrs. Murden was warming his slippers for him, and looking very pretty in the bright firelight, so he made no ungracious comment; he only said-- "Come, Barney, out with it. What's the entire figure?" "Well, it's a two dollar silk, I find"--Mrs. Murden made a desperate attempt to look unconcerned--"and it will take ten yards." "Whew!" Mr. Murden had thought a ten dollar gold piece would have been all-sufficient, and was turning one over in his pocket at the moment. "Why, as much as an overcoat almost." "And will last twice as long, dear; just remember that."