“But that 's nonsense,” interrupted Aimée. “And, as Dolly says, nonsense won't do now. But,” with a quaint sigh, “we always _do_ talk nonsense.” But here a slight diversion was created. Mrs. Phil jumped up, with an exclamation of delight, and, dropping Tod on to Mollie's lap, disappeared through the open door. “I will be back in a minute,” she called back to them, as she ran up-stairs. “I have just thought of something.” “Girls,” said Mollie, “it's her white merino.” And so it was. In a few minutes she reappeared with it,--a heap of soft white folds in her arms, and a yard or so of the train dragging after her upon the carpet,--the one presentable relic of a once inconsistently elaborate bridal trousseau, at present in a rather tumbled and rolled-up condition, but still white and soft and thick, and open to unlimited improvement. “I had forgotten all about it,” she said, triumphantly. “I have never needed it at all, and I knew I never should when I bought it, but it looked so nice when I saw it that I could n't help buying it. I once thought of cutting it up into things for Tod; but it seems to me, Dolly, it 's what you want exactly, and Tod can trust to Providence,--things always come somehow.” It was quite characteristic of Vagabondia that there should be more rejoicing over this one stray sheep of good luck than there would have been over any ninety and nine in the ordinary folds of more prosperous people. And Mrs. Phil rejoiced as heartily as the rest. It was her turn now, and she was as ready to sacrifice her white merino on the shrine of the household impecuniosity as she would be to borrow Dolly's best bonnet, or Mollie's shoes, or Aimée's gloves, when occasion demanded such a course. So the merino was laid upon the table, and the council rose to examine, comment, and suggest. “A train,” said Dolly, concisely; “no trimming, and swan's-down. Even the Bilberry could n't complain of that, I 'm sure.” Mollie, resting her smooth white elbows on the table in a comfortably lounging posture, regarded the garment with great longing in her drowsy brown eyes. “I wish it was white satin,” she observed, somewhat irrelevantly, “and I was going to wear it at a real ball, with real lace, you know, and a court train, and flowers, and a fan.” Dolly looked down at her handsome childish face good-naturedly. She was such an incongruous mixture of beauty and utter simplicity, this easy-going baby of sixteen, that Dolly could not have helped liking her heartily under any circumstances, even supposing there had been no tie of relationship between them. “I wish it was white satin and you were going to wear it,” she said. “White satin is just the sort of thing for you, Mollie. Never mind, wait until the figurative ship comes in.” “And in the interval,” suggested Aimée, “put a stitch or so in that wrapper of yours. It has been torn for a week now, and Tod tumbles over it half a dozen times every morning before breakfast.”