"But I mean a dress," says she, lifting her head out of the trunk, and wiping the swe—well, perspiration from her face. "A Dolly Varden. Don't you understand?"
"A dress, and some Miss Dolly Varden, all at once! Now I can't think what dress you mean; and, as for that young person, I don't know her from a bag of sweet corn. How should I? Never having been introduced!" says I.
E. E. just sat back on the floor, and drew a deep breath.
"Oh, Phœmie," says she, "you are so stolid about some things. Why, it is only a dress I mean."
"Then what did you drag in that young person for?" says I.
"Because she gives her name to the dress."
"I'm sure the dress ought to be very much obliged to her. That is if she came by the name honestly," says I.
"And it's all the rage now. You must order one, Phœmie."
"What, the dress or the girl?" says I.
Cousin E. E. got out of patience, and sprung up red in the face. Across the room she went, slopping along in her slippers, flung back the lid of the trunk that seemed to be overrunning with poppies, marigolds, and morning-glories, and, giving something a jerk, brought up a puffy, short gown of white muslin, blazed all over with great straggling flowers—the morning-glories, poppies, marigolds that I had seen bursting up from the trunk.