I yielded. Human nature is weak, and I had a letter yesterday from uncle Ben, saying that the hay and corn crops are promising. Besides, there is a sort of reason just now why I should be a little self-liberal in the way of dress. As Cousin E. E. says, people do expect something better than alpaca and calico of high genius--especially when the form is tall, and the figure commensurate to the genius. "But have I time? That French dressmaker will want three weeks, at least." Cousin E. E. saw by this that the austerity of my economical education was giving way; so she jumped up, flipped the slippers from her feet, and was soon buttoning her boots and tying her bonnet, ready for a start. "Where are you a-going?" says I. "Where they'll take your measure and send the Dolly home to-morrow morning, or down by express. Leave it to me, and you shall have something really beautiful." "Let there be plenty of flowers," says I. "Of course," says she, "bright, rich colors." "Hollyhocks," says I, "are my favorites; dandelions and feather-edged poppies come next; then a vine of trumpet flowers tangling the bunches together, would look scrumptious." "I see you enter into the spirit of it," says she; "but have you got everything else?" "Everything else? Of course I haven't. Who has, in fact? But my pink dress is turned wrong side out, and packed." "Have you a flat?" says she. "A flat! I? Not that I can call my own. Dempster has introduced half a dozen, but I don't claim them." "Oh, I don't mean men, but a broad straw flat that answers for a bonnet and an umbrella." "No," says I; "I have a Japanese thing that opens like a toad-stool, and shuts like a policeman's club. Will that do? That Japanese embassador gave it to me, with such a tender look. I never open it that his smile does not fall upon me like sunshine in a shady place." "That will be distinguished; take it, by all means. But you will want the straw flat, and a bathing-dress as well." "Now, Cousin E. E., says I, "what do you mean?" "Why, you mean to bathe, of course?" "Cousin E. E., have you ever seen a Vermont lady--not to say a woman of genius--who did not bathe?" says I, with dignity. "But you will go into the water?" "To a certain extent," says I, "that has always been my habit." "But the ocean--salt water?" "Well," says I, "salt water is beyond me; but if that is the fashion down at Long Branch, I don't object to a trifle of salt." "The bathing is delightful," says she. "At the turn of every tide you see parties in the water all along the shore." "Parties in the water--_parties_?" "Ladies and gentlemen." "What!!" "Children, too." "Ladies and gentlemen bathing together! Cousin, you--well, if I were telling a story like that to a congregation of born idiots, they might believe me--that's all." "But it is true."