“Fancy! fancy! What is fancy, pray?” “That you have enemies; that persons wish to annoy you. Why should they?” Miss Eliza sprang up from her chair, and turned upon her mother. “No enemies! no enemies! What keeps me here, then? Why is that silly child set up in the tableau nature and cultivation intended me to fill? Madam! madam! are you also joining in the conspiracy against me?” Miss Eliza shook her long, white forefinger almost in the grand old face of her mother, as she spoke. “Is it by your connivance that all gentlemen are excluded from my presence?” “No one has ever been excluded, Eliza.” “Indeed!” The word was prolonged into a sneer, which brought a faint color into Mrs. Halstead’s face. “To think,” added Miss Eliza, wrathful in the face, “to think of the pincushions, penwipers, and lamp-mats, to say nothing of wax-dolls and little babies, that I have made and dressed for this very fair—it’s enough to break one’s heart. Not a stall left for me to attend; every corner in the tableaux filled up with silly, pert creatures that I wouldn’t walk over. This is justice—this is patriotism. I might be direct from Richmond, for any attention they give me.” “I am sure, Eliza, the committee were very thankful for your help,” said old Mrs. Halstead, soothingly. “Thankful, indeed! Oh, yes! it is easy enough to simper, and shake hands, and speak of obligations. But why didn’t they treat all us young girls alike? Why am I left out of every thing?” Before Mrs. Halstead could answer, a servant entered the room and informed Miss Eliza that the carriage had returned. “But I will assert my rights,” cried the lady, gathering a rose-colored opera-cloak about her, and pluming herself before the mirror. “You can go, Thomas; I will be down in one moment.” A little deficiency of the toilet had struck Miss Eliza; and searching in some pocket hid away in her voluminous skirts, she drew forth a little pasteboard box, turned her back squarely on the old lady, and occupied herself, after a mysterious fashion, for some moments close to the mirror. “Do not defend these women, mamma,” she said, with angry emphasis. “I blush for them.” There certainly did seem to be some truth in this assertion, for Miss Eliza’s cheeks had flushed suddenly to a vivid red; but then her forehead and around her mouth had grown white in proportion, showing great intensity of shame. “Now I am going, mamma; but first give me your blessing.” Miss Eliza dropped one knee to her mother’s foot-stool, bent her tall form before the grand old lady, and seemed waiting for a solemn benediction; but the sensible old lady put back the mass of false curls that fell swooping over her daughter’s waterfall, and fastened them in place with a hair-pin from her own silver-white hair. “That will do, my dear. I see nothing else out of the way.” Miss Eliza arose with a slight creak of the joints, and a look of mournful reproach.