“Oh no, mum. This glass have got so dull; I'm just polishing of it a bit. I shan't be a minute now, mum.” From silver tissue paper, Mrs. Dodd evolved a dress (unmade) of white crape embroidered in true lover's-knots of violet silk, and ears of wheat in gold. Then there was a scream at the glass, and Sarah seen in it with ten claws in the air very wide apart: she had slily turned the mirror and was devouring the reflexion of the finery, and this last Indian fabric overpowered her. Her exclamation was instantly followed by much polishing; but Mrs. Dodd replied to it after the manner of her sex: “Well it _is_ lovely,” said she to Julia: “but where is the one with beetle wings? Oh here.” “Real beetles' wings, mamma?” inquired Julia. “Yes, love.” “So they are, and how wicked! and what a lovely green! I will never wear them: they are prismatic: now, if ever I am to be a Christian, I had better begin: everything _has_ a beginning. Oh vanity of women, you stick at nothing. A thousand innocent lives stolen to make one dress!” And she put one hand before her eyes, and with the other ordered the dress back into the wardrobe with genuine agitation. “My dear, what expressions! And you need not wear it; indeed neither of them is fit for that purpose. But you _must_ have a pretty thing or two about you. I have hoarded these a good many years; now it is your turn to have them by you. And let me see; you want a travelling cloak: but the dear boy will not let us; so choose a warm shawl.” A rich but modest one was soon found, and Julia tried it on, arching her supple neck, and looking down over her shoulder to see the effect behind, in which attitude oh for an immortal brush to paint her, or anything half as bright, supple, graceful, and every inch a woman. At this moment Mrs. Dodd threw a lovely blue Indian shawl on the bed, galvanising Sarah so that up went her hands again, and the door opened softly and a handsome head in a paper cap peeped on the scene, inquiring with mock timidity “May 'The British Workman' come in?” He was invited warmly; Julia whipped his cap off, and tore it in two, reddening, and Mrs. Dodd, intending to compliment his foresight, showed him the bed laden with the treasures they had disinterred from vanity's mahogany tomb. “Well, mother,” said he, “you were right, and I was wrong: they are inappropriate enough, the whole lot.” The ladies looked at one another, and Sarah permitted herself a species of snort. “Do we want Sarah?” he asked quietly. She retired bridling. “Inappropriate?” exclaimed Mrs. Dodd. “There is nothing here unfit for a bride's trousseau.” “Good Heavens! Would you trick her out like a Princess?” “We must. We are too poor to dress her like a lady.” “Cinderella; at your service,” observed Julia complacently, and pirouetted before him in her new shawl.