and a thief would be worse than even a South Sea Islander." "Oh yes, my dear," said Johanna, with a shiver. "By-the-by, the first step in the civilization of the Polynesians was giving them clothes. And I have heard say that crime and rags often go together; that a man unconsciously feels that he owes something to himself and society in the way of virtue when he has a clean face and clean shirt, and a decent coat on. Suppose we try the experiment of dressing Elizabeth. How many old gowns have we?" The number was few. Nothing in the Leaf family was ever cast off till its very last extremity of decay; the talent that "Gars auld claes look amaist as gude's the new" being specially possessed by Hilary. She counted over her own wardrobe and Johanna's but found nothing that could be spared. "Yes, my love, there is one thing. You certainly shall never put on that old brown merino again; though you have laid it so carefully by, as if you meant it to come out as fresh as ever next winter. No, Hilary, you must have a new gown, and you must give Elizabeth your brown merino." Hilary laughed, and replied not. Now it might be a pathetic indication of a girl who had very few clothes, but Hilary had a superstitious weakness concerning hers.--Every dress had its own peculiar chronicle of the scenes where it had been, the enjoyments she had shared in it. Particular dresses were special memorials of her loves, her pleasures, her little passing pains; as long as a bit remained of the poor old fabric the sight of it recalled them all. This brown merino--in which she had sat two whole winters over her Greek and Latin by Robert Lyon's side, which he had once stopped to touch and notice, saying what a pretty color it was, and how he liked soft-feeling dresses for women--to cut up this old brown merino seemed to hurt her so she could almost have cried. Yet what would Johanna think if the refused? And there was Elizabeth absolutely in want of clothes. "I must be growing very wicked," thought poor Hilary. She lay a good while silent in the dark, while Johanna planned and replanned--calculating how, even with the addition of an old cape of her own, which was out of the same piece, this hapless gown could be made to fit the gaunt frame of Elizabeth Hand.--Her poor kindly brain was in the last extremity of muddle, when Hilary, with a desperate effort, dashed in to the rescue, and soon made all clear, contriving body, skirt, sleeves and all. "You have the best head in the world, my love. I don't know whatever I should do without you." "Luckily you are never likely to be tried. So give me a kiss; and good night, Johanna."