She tried on Lucy's gown, and, as before, got two looking-glasses into a line, twisted and twirled, and inspected herself north, south, east and west, and in an hour and a half resigned herself to take the dress off. Lucy observed with a sly smile that her gayety declined, and she became silent and pensive.
“In the dead of the night, when with labor oppressed, All mortals enjoy the sweet blessing of rest,” a phantom stood at Lucy's bedside and fingered her. She awoke with a violent scream, the first note of which pierced the night's dull ear, but the second sounded like a wail from a well, being uttered a long way under the bedclothes. “Hush! don't be a fool,” cried the affectionate phantom; and kneaded the uncertain form through the bedclothes; “fancy screeching so at sight of me!” Then gradually a single eye peeped timidly between two white hands that held the sheets ready for defense like a shield.
“B—b—but you are all in white,” gulped Lucy, trembling all over; for her delicate fibers were set quivering, and could not be stilled by a word, fingered at midnight all in a moment by a shape.
“Why, what color should I be—in my nightgown?” snapped the specter. “What color is yours?” and she gave Lucy a little angry pull—“and everybody else's?”
“But at the dead of night, aunt, and without any warning—it's terrible. Oh dear!” (another little gulp in the throat, exceeding pretty).
“Lucy, be yourself,” said the specter, severely; “you used not to be so selfish as to turn hysterical when your aunt came to you for advice.”
Lucy had to do a little. “Forgive, blessed shade!” She apologized, crushed down her obtrusive, egotistical tremors, and vibrated to herself.
Placable Aunt Bazalgette accepted her excuses, and opened the business that brought her there.
“I didn't leave my bed at this hour for nothing, you may be sure.”
“N—no, aunt.”