And what was Rosalie’s surprise, on looking in the diminutive dress-closet, to find a pretty dress of softest silk, white and apple green, just ready made to fit her figure, and everything besides to match, even to silken stockings and pretty slippers, and a cluster of red and golden leaves upon the dressing-table, as simple and pretty as the rest.
Rosalie, from feeling old as the hills, suddenly felt young as a blue-bell blowing on an early summer morning.
“Oh, Brightcoat! I never felt so happy in my life. To get rid of this old black and red thing! Why, that in itself is Paradise. But to wear these! It’s past belief. Now, if you were me, how would you wear your hair—high or low? Which do you think suits me?”
“I say in that loose bundle at the back you used to wear when you first came to us.”
“The way Mariana did it.”
“Was it?”
“Yes. Oh, dear, dear! I’m afraid I shan’t do it a bit nicely. When you try to do your hair nicely it always looks hideous; have you ever noticed that?”
“No; you see I haven’t got any.”
“Of course not! My dress is almost the exact colours of your skin. Have you noticed it?”
“Yes. My master said the colours were chosen out of compliment to me.”