"The circumstances are peculiar; yes, I am certainly right in saying they are peculiar," continued Caleb, reflecting; "but she--that is, he--has commissioned me to get her some things suitable to a lady in such a position, as the same peculiar circumstances prevent her from choosing the articles herself. She is not going to be married yet," rubbing his head with a little vexed perplexity; "but she is going on a visit to his friends, and he--the young man I mean. Ah! that's it," with a chuckle, as though he had discovered a way out of some difficulty--"he, the young man, my dear, has a proper pride, and wants her to make a favourable impression on his relations; do you see, Miss Queenie." "Is she so very poor?" returned Queenie, innocently, and not at all suspecting the veracity of Caleb's garbled-up tale. "Poor! well I may say that she is poor--extremely so," with a burst of candor; "but a lady,--dear, dear,--as much a lady as yourself, Miss Queenie." "I should have thought her lover could have chosen some pretty things for her himself," observed Queenie, a little incredulously, at this juncture. "He must be a poor sort of lover," she thought, "to devolve such an interesting duty on her old friend." Caleb coughed, and stopped to inspect a promising gooseberry bush; and then he discovered his pipe was out, and must replenish it; it was quite five minutes, too, before it would draw properly, and Queenie got impatient for her question to be answered. "Why cannot he get them himself?" she enquired, a little scornfully; "he need not have troubled you." "Well, you see, a man with a broken leg is not particularly active, and shopping does not suit the complaint," was the oracular answer, as Caleb puffed volumes of smoke, bravely. "No, no, that sort of thing is not good for the complaint," continued the old man, with another chuckle; "so you see, Miss Queenie dear, if you don't help me a bit with your advice I shall have to go to Molly after all, and shall come back with a plaid satin, or something that wouldn't suit the pretty creature at all. Come, now,"--coaxingly,--"what should you think she would like best?" Queenie wrinkled her white forehead reflectively,--poor and pretty, and with a lover laid up at a distance. This began to get interesting; she must do her best to help this unknown girl. "Well, if I were judging for myself," she returned at last, "I should think a nice useful black silk--" "Ah! that is just it," interrupted Caleb, enthusiastically. "I ought to have thought of that; of course, a black silk." "And," continued Queenie, now thoroughly absorbed in a mental review of this ideal wardrobe, "a pretty spring suit,--brown, I think, if it would suit her,--and a brown hat with a pheasant wing. I think she would look nice in that." "Brown, of course; the idea of my never thinking of brown," repeated Caleb, clapping his hands, "the very color of all others that would suit her. Go on, Miss Queenie dear."