It really seemed as if she was fitting out an army of feminines. Even Cecilia was down on her knees packing, and E. E. was deep in a high trunk with her slippers half dropping from her feet as she punched things in and pressed them down. The help, black and white, kept running up and downstairs like hens with their necks wrung. Every few minutes there came a ring at the door, and paper-boxes and bundles were set down in the hall, and struggled upstairs when any of the help thought it worth while to bring them, which was once in about ten minutes, all morning.
I think Dempster made a cowardly attempt to get out of the way, but it was of no use. On such occasions men are wanted, especially when the bills come in, and E. E. knows her privileges.
LXXVI.
THE DOLLY VARDEN.
AS I stood looking on, wondering if cousin really meant to turn the house inside out, and set up a village of trunks somewhere on the sea-shore, that hard-working creature lifted her face, and looked at me deploringly.
"Oh, Phœmie," says she; "are you packed? How cool you look."
"Packed," says I; "oh, yes; I always keep my pink silk folded."
"But your summer things, are they ready? Surely you'll have a Dolly?"
"No," says I; "its years since I have thought of a doll, and I haven't the least idea of going back to my play-house days."