“Yes; your telling her about our making our own dresses. Nan, you are right: needlework is our forte; nothing is a trouble to us. Few girls have such clever fingers, I believe; and then you and Dulce have such taste. Mrs. Paine once told me that we were the best-dressed girls in the neighborhood, and she wished Carrie looked half as well. I am telling you this, not from vanity, but because I do believe we can turn our one talent to account. We should be miserable governesses; we do not want to separate and seek situations as lady helps or companions; we do not mean to fail in letting lodgings; but if we do not succeed as good dressmakers, never believe me again.”
“Dressmakers!” almost shrieked Dulce. But Nan, who had expressed herself willing to take in plain needlework, only looked at her sister with mute gravity; her little world was turned so completely upside down, everything was so unreal, that nothing at this moment could have surprised her.
“Dressmakers!” she repeated, vaguely.
“Yes, yes,” replied Phillis, still more eagerly. The inspiration had come to her in a moment, full-fledged and grown up, like Minerva from the head of Jupiter. Just from those chance words of Nan’s she had grasped the whole thing in a moment. Now, indeed she felt that she was clever; here at least was something striking and original; she took no notice of Dulce’s shocked exclamation; she fixed her eyes solemnly on Nan. “Yes, yes; what does it matter what the outside world says? We are not like other girls; we never were; people always said we were so original. Necessity strikes out strange paths some times. We could not do such a thing here; no, no, I never could submit to that myself,” as Nan involuntarily shuddered; “but at Hadleigh, where no one knows us, where we shall be among strangers. And then, you see, Miss Monks is dead.”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! what does she mean?” cried Dulce, despairingly; “and what do we care about Miss Monks, if the creature be dead, or about Miss Anybody, if we have got to do such dreadful things?”
“My dear,” returned Phillis, with compassionate irony, “if we had to depend upon you for ideas––” and here she made an eloquent pause. “Our last tenant for the Friary was Miss Monks, and Miss Monks was a dressmaker; and, though perhaps I ought not to say it, it does seem a direct leading of Providence, putting such a thought into my head.”
“I am afraid Dulce and I are very slow and stupid,” returned Nan, putting her hair rather wearily from her face: her pretty color had quite faded during the last half-hour. “I 59 think if you would tell us plainly, exactly what you mean, Phillis, we should be able to understand everything better.”
“My notion is this,” began Phillis, slowly: “remember, I have not thought it quite out, but I will give you my ideas just as they occur to me. We will not say anything to mother just yet, until we have thoroughly digested our plan. You and I, Nan, will run down to the Friary, and reconnoitre the place, judge of its capabilities, and so forth; and when we come back we will hold a family council.”
“That will be best,” agreed Nan, who remembered, with sudden feelings of relief, that Dick and his belongings would be safe in the Engadine by that time. “But, Phillis, do you really and truly believe that we could carry out such a scheme?”
“Why not?” was the bold answer. “If we can work for ourselves, we can for other people. I have a presentiment that we shall achieve a striking success. We will make the old Friary as comfortable as possible,” she continued, cheerfully. “The good folk of Hadleigh will be rather surprised when they see our pretty rooms. No horse-hair sofa; no crochet antimacassars or hideous wax flowers; none of the usual stock-in-trade. Dorothy will manage the house for us; and we will all sit and work together, and mother will help us, and read to us. Aren’t you glad, Nan, that we all saved up for that splendid sewing-machine?”