She wore a finely wrought chain of gold about her neck, from which was suspended the beautiful coral cross, set with brilliants, which her aunt had given her at the same time she gave her the other contents of the casket.
The butterfly hair ornament to match she had fastened in her glossy hair, and it sparkled and gleamed with her every movement.
She surely was lovely, as Viola said:
“I’m afraid your mamma will think me too fine,” she said, half regretfully, and struck by the young girl’s words.
“But,” she added, “this is the simplest thing I have, unless I wear white, and your mamma said Alma was to dress in white.”
“Miss Douglas, who—what are you?” Viola asked, an expression of perplexity on her young face.
“My dear, must I repeat my dreadful name? I am Mehetabel Douglas, and a poor governess,” Brownie said, gayly.
“I know that, of course; but haven’t you been a fine lady at some time in your life?” demanded the young girl, impatiently.
“That depends altogether upon what you mean by the term ‘fine lady,’ Viola.”
“Why, one who has everything rich and elegant, and who goes among fashionable people.”