"My dear," returned Nan, gently, for she loved all speeches of this sort, being a devout little soul and truly pious, "nothing was further from my thoughts than to laugh at you, for the more we think in this way the grander our work will appear to us. Mrs. Trimmings may be fat and vulgar, but when you were measuring her and answering her so prettily--and I know how nicely you would speak, Phil--I think you were as brave as one of those old knights--I cannot remember their names--who set out on some lofty quest or other!" "I suppose the child means Sir Galahad," observed Phillis, with a groan at Nan's ignorance. "Oh, Nannie, I wish I could say,-- "'My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure;'" and then she softly chanted,--for quotation never came amiss to her, and her head was crammed with choice selections from the poets,-- "'All armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the Holy Grail.'" "Yes, the Sangreal, or the Quest. It does not matter what, for it was only an allegory," returned Nan, who had plenty of ideas, only she confused them sometimes, and was not as clever in her definitions as Phillis. "It only meant that those grand old knights had some holy purpose and aim in their lives, for which they trained and toiled and fought. Don't you see?--the meaning is quite clear. We can have our Quest too." "Bless her dear heart, if she is not travelling thousands of years and miles from Mrs. Trimmings!" exclaimed Phillis, who never could be serious long. "Well, Nannie, I understand you, though you are a trifle vague. We will have our Quest and our unattainable standard; and I will be your maiden knight--yours and Dulce's. "'How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall! For them I'll battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall.'" And when she had repeated this she rose, laughing, and said they were all a little demented; and what did they mean by wasting their time when there were three dresses to be cut out? and Dulce must have the work fixed for the sewing-machine. For the next hour there was little talk, only the snipping sound of scissors and the rustling of silken breadths, and sometimes the swish and the tearing of sundry materials, and then the whirring and burning and tappings of Dulce's sewing machine, like a dozen or two of woodpeckers at work on an iron tree. And no one quoted any more poetry, for prose was heaped up everywhere about them, and their heads were full of business.