“No; it belongs to the Master. I found it in the lumber rooms among the attics, and asked him for it, and so he gave it to me.” “Gave it to you? It looks almost priceless.” “I know—reckoned from some standpoints. But I liked the design. It is lovers’ knots, and sprays of lily of the valley. Have you noticed it?” “Yes.” “It was that that put it in my head about the wedding-dress. When I have finished, it will be a beautiful creation.” “But do not the moths attack the lace?” “Oh, no; you see it belongs to the Master, otherwise it would have been eaten long ago.” “But why do you not wear it yourself, if he gave it to you?” Again the tired, puzzled look came over Mariana’s face. “I have no use for it. Besides—I don’t know. I think it has something to do with sacrifice or freedom. I can’t tell which.” “Will you give it to Lady Flamington, do you think?” “I shall not give it to anyone, except the one who asks.” “But you will be besieged.” “How can that be when no one knows about it?” And she spread the lace upon the ivory satin, and drew it into graceful folds, just as an understanding artist would. As she did so, even by the meagre light Rosalie perceived its exquisite beauty. “Who is to be fitted for it?” she asked. “I don’t know. One does not like to trouble people; I think I shall use my own discretion. After all, I scarcely hope that anyone will wear it.” “Could I be of use to you?” “It is too cold for you to take off your dress.” “Oh, no! Let me do it, just to feel I’ve done something in the day.” “Thank you,” said Mariana. “You are neither too tall nor short. I think it would show to advantage on a figure like yours. I’ll fit it for just such a one as you.” She cut a piece from the soft piles of satin, and began to shape it to a bodice lining. “Are you going to try it on with _satin_?” asked Rosalie, astounded at such extravagance. “Yes; inside and out must be both alike for a perfect finish. I might use silk, but I prefer the same material.” What a marvellous fitter on she was! and yet how wonderfully patient Rosalie stood, the whole long evening through. It was no light twenty minutes—not even an hour—but dragged out into three. Mariana forgot herself evidently in her occupation, and had no mercy on the model she was fitting. She treated her as a thing of wood and stone till she had realised the full effect in fit of bodice, skirt, and train, which, when perfected, she removed and folded into tissue papers, all labelled for the purpose near at hand. Then suddenly when all was finished she looked at her, and saw how deathly white her face had grown under the lengthened strain. “Ah! now you are ill, and I am to blame for it,” she said. But Rosalie shook her head, though she shivered. “It’s the cold; everything is so damp down here.”