"I'll manage that. Kitty's a host in herself; I'll press her into the service."
My companion half sighed as I flew out of the room and upstairs, where, in two minutes' time, I was deep in consultation with Kitty on the subject of the habit. She entered into the plan with great ardor, and racked her brains to devise something feasible. I sat on the bed and waited breathlessly for the bright thought that I was sure would come, sooner or later, to Kitty's clever brain.
"You say you have a jacket that will do," she said, meditatively.
"Yes, the very thing—black cloth, trimmed with buttons and all that; and now, if I only had a long enough skirt. Oh, Kitty! can't you think of something?"
Kitty knit her brows, and, after a moment, said, thoughtfully:
"There's a whole piece of black bombazine, that was left over from the last funeral, upstairs in a trunk I know of. Sylvie and I could run up the breadths in no time. Would you mind?"
"Oh, Kitty! I couldn't quite stand that!" I exclaimed, between a shudder and a laugh. "Can't you think of anything else?"
"I have it!" cried she, with a sudden illumination of countenance. "I have it!"
"What!—how? Oh, do tell me!"
"Why," said my artful maid, with mischief in every line of her bright face, "why, Mrs. Roberts, by way of keeping me busy this morning, gave me her best bombazine dress to rub off and press out, and it's downstairs this minute; and you see, she always has a wide hem to her dresses, and a great piece turned in at the top; so by letting out all this, and putting on a piece around the waist, where it'll come under the basque, it will make you the very nicest riding-skirt in the world." And Kitty's eyes danced.