"A dress, and some Miss Dolly Varden, all at once! Now I can't think what dress you mean; and, as for that young person, I don't know her from a bag of sweet corn. How should I? Never having been introduced!" says I. E. E. just sat back on the floor, and drew a deep breath. "Oh, Phœmie," says she, "you are so stolid about some things. Why, it is only a dress I mean." "Then what did you drag in that young person for?" says I. "Because she gives her name to the dress." "I'm sure the dress ought to be very much obliged to her. That is if she came by the name honestly," says I. "And it's all the rage now. You must order one, Phœmie." "What, the dress or the girl?" says I. Cousin E. E. got out of patience, and sprung up red in the face. Across the room she went, slopping along in her slippers, flung back the lid of the trunk that seemed to be overrunning with poppies, marigolds, and morning-glories, and, giving something a jerk, brought up a puffy, short gown of white muslin, blazed all over with great straggling flowers--the morning-glories, poppies, marigolds that I had seen bursting up from the trunk. "There is a Dolly," says she, a-shaking out the puffy, short dress, as if it had been a banner. "Not by a long shot," says I, laughing. "It may be a whopping big doll's dress; in fact, it looks like it, for what woman on earth would ever think of wearing that? Why, the flowers would set her on fire." "This is for Cecilia," says she, "but I have one just like it, and mean to wear it if you've no objection?" "Not the least in the world," says I. "It isn't my mission to stop peacocks from strutting and showing their half-moons if they want to." E. E. laughed. She is a good-hearted creature, and I set store by her after all. "I will try this on," says she. "They are all the rage, I tell you. Try one, Phœmie; your tall figure would set one off splendidly." "Do you really think so?" says I, beginning to take a notion to the great bunches of flowers which did stand out from the white ground with scrumptious richness. "I am sure of it. No one carries off a dress so well," says she, "and it will be expected of you. Distinguished persons are so criticised, you know." I looked at the dress again; the flowers were natural as life; the muslin was wavy, and white as drifted snow. "But the cost?" says I. "A burnt child dreads a blisterous contamination. That pink dress of mine is a scrumptious garment--palatial, as one might say, but costly. The value of twenty-five yards of silk is a load for any tender conscience." "Oh, a Dolly doesn't take half as much," says E. E.; "besides short skirts are the style on the sea-shore. The expense really isn't very enormous. In fact, almost any one can afford a Dolly."