The foster-sisters

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

To say that we read these books was nothing. We devoured them, read them aloud to each other, and talked about them from morning till night. Books of any sort other than "Lives of the Saints" and "Meditations" were such a wonder to us that it is not strange our heads were a little turned with them. I think Amabel and I had our first difference of opinion over the amiable Clementine, whom she admired for her wonderful spirit of self-sacrifice and piety, and whom I thought a sentimental little fool—(I have never changed my mind)—and she was downright vexed with me, when I laughed outright at the pathetic image of Sir Charles and Clementine on their knees to each other, and the faithful Camilla presenting a smelling-bottle alternately to each of their noses. We were actually rather cool to each other for a whole day, but made up our quarrel at night over Mr. Thomson's description of a thunder shower.

I have said that Mrs. Thorpe's shop was a resort for all the fine folks in town. It was not long before we began to be observed as we sat in the back-parlor, which was divided from the shop by a screen. In this parlor were kept some special boxes of lace too precious to be trusted to the outer shop, and hither also came the fine ladies to try on the "heads," ruffs, and so on, which they were minded to purchase.

At this distance of time, I may say without vanity, that I was an unusually pretty girl, though not so handsome as Amabel. She was and is one of the most beautiful women I ever saw in my life. I had a dark clear skin, with a fresh color, and the crisped or waved black hair so common in Cornwall. Amabel, on the contrary, was fair and delicate as a lily, with dark clear grey eyes, and a wonderful profusion of straight golden hair, a little inclining to redness. Her features were regular, and she had always a calm placid look, a little wondering, as it were, as though her spirit had not got over its surprise at the strange sphere wherein it found itself.

Ladies began to notice us, and gentlemen to pass and re-pass the door of the parlor, and put up their eye-glasses to stare at us. All this made Mrs. Thorpe a little uneasy, and she used now and then to make a pretext to send us out of the room.

One day, a grand equipage stopped at the door, with a great clatter of horse-hoofs. A lackey in a fine livery jumped down and opened the door, and a gentleman who was in the shop rushed forward to give his hand to a very fine lady indeed, who descended from the vehicle. She wore an immense hoop, at least eight yards in circumference, a sacque and petticoat of contrasting colors. Her hair was cut and curled close round her well-rouged and patched face, and she wore a very small chip hat cocked up at one side, and trimmed with very rich, white and silver ribbons. These same white ribbons had a significance which, at the time, I did not understand. The lady was followed by her gentlewoman in waiting, an impudent looking piece, nearly as fine as her mistress, who carried a horrid little lap-dog in her arms.

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the gentleman, laying his hand on his heart with a theatrical air. "Do my eyes deceive me, or does the adorable Lady Throckmorton deign once more to bestow on our barbarous town the light of her presence? I had thought nothing would bring you from the Baths at this time of the year."

"And nothing would but dire necessity, I assure you, Captain Lovelace," answered the lady. "But Sir John's mother, who is much in years and very frail, desired to see her son, and Sir John would not travel without me—indeed he is not very fit to do so—so as I could not deprive the poor lady of what might be the last sight of her son, I was obliged to quit all the dear delights of the Baths."

"Angelic goodness!" said Captain Lovelace.

"Nay, 'twas no such great matter. We shall all come to age and infirmity some day. My lady has been a good mother to her son, and would have been to me if I had but let her."

The lady spoke these last words with a tone expressive of some emotion. I even thought there were tears in her beautiful eyes. If so, she soon dispersed them, and, as if she were ashamed of her late seriousness, she began to chatter the most arrant nonsense to Captain Lovelace and her dog, alternately,—treating the one with about as much respect as the other, I thought, while she turned over the caps and aprons Mrs. Thorpe showed her, calling one horrible—absolutely hideous and revolting—and another ravishing, angelic! Perfectly divine!