Mrs. Felton.—There, there, Em’ly! Never mind, let me examine the dress. Where is the fault, Miss Philp?
Miss Philp.—The sleeves are too long, the neck is too small, and the skirt is too short.
Mrs. Felton.—Alas! I fear it is spoiled. My mind has been so burdened with trouble that I am beside myself.
Mercy.—It fits Em’ly to perfection.
Em’ly.—How can we ever pay you for the material? What shall we do?
Miss Philp.—Madam, what is your bill for making this dress?
Mrs. Felton.—I sent you the bill.
Miss Philp.—Ah, yes, I recollect. (Draws bill from pocket
and reads.) “To making dress, twelve dollars.” Well, it is of no use to me; you may keep it—take the dress and receipt the bill.
Mrs. Felton.—But our rent—if we do not pay something to-day we may be turned out into the world, homeless.