“You are right there!” cried the others, kissing her less noisily, but as fondly, as did the madcap of the flock.
Any mother might be proud of the trio, clustered about her, sipping the tea they declared to be more delicious than all the delicacies of the supper table; talking as fast as their nimble tongues could move of what they had done, and seen, and heard, since she had superintended their toilets, four hours before. That the understanding between her and them was perfect, hearty, and joyous, was plain.
Emma, the eldest, was twenty-one, tall, shapely, with a complexion and gait that bespoke healthy nervous organization, a sound mind and judgment. Her excellent sense and happy temper made her a safe counsellor, as well as agreeable companion, for her more volatile sisters. She dressed tastefully, as did they all; moved with composed grace through a systematic round of daily duties; was her father’s pride, the mother’s helper, and not a whit less popular in her circle than if she had been both wit and beauty, whereas she was neither.
Imogen was far handsomer, a decided blonde, while Emma had gray eyes and dark hair. The second daughter liked to set off her fairness by all justifiable and lady-like appliances of art and fashion, and knew how to do it. She was never florid or conspicuous in appearance, yet never en déshabille in the simplest attire. Her clothes became a part of her so soon as she put them on. A few touches of her deft fingers brought fitness out of disorder; added the nameless, inestimable air we term “style,” for the want of a fitter word, to whatever she touched or wore. A very busy bee she was in her way, with a mania for renovating her own paraphernalia and that of everybody else who would allow her the privilege; giving to the parlors, which were her especial charge, a new aspect every day by the variety of her elegant devices.
Blanche—eighteen and just “out,” was petite in figure, with light, fluffy hair, dancing blue eyes and small white teeth that somehow made more arch her merry smile. She was the pet and the mischief-maker of the household, affectionate and frolicsome, with innumerable tricksy, yet dainty ways that belonged only to herself; quick of wit and fearless of tongue, and facile in hand as Imogen, her room-mate and confederate in all her schemes of pleasure or work.
“Emma lays the foundation; Imogen builds thereupon. Mine is the ornamental department—the glossing over and decking, after the scaffold is down,” she had once said.
The mother recalled it, now, watching them as with unsealed eyes, and was confirmed in the resolutions which were the fruit of her evening’s musings.
“Away to bed, magpies!” she said, at length, “I won’t hear a word more! You are warmed and refreshed now. And unless you go soon, you will not be down in season to recount your adventures and conquests to papa at breakfast. He considers himself an ill-used person when he has to go off without getting the evening’s report. Moreover, I want you to have your brains steady and clear, for I must have a long business talk with you to-morrow forenoon.”
“Business! that sounds portentous,” said Imogen, in affected consternation.
“It sounds entrancing!” commented Blanche. “It savoreth of new dresses, and, perchance, jewelry—peradventure, though that is a bold flight of fancy, of a trip across the sea next summer.”