"Oh, confound names, I never can think of names."
"Oh, I know who he means," said Adelaide, "it is Lucy, Lucy Smith."
"Yes, yes, that is it. It is Lucy at any rate."
"She is in her room. She has got the dumps—the blues—I should not wonder if she was all melted by this time, she has been crying these three days."
"Crying, why what has she to cry about? I should not think anybody need to cry in this house, you never cry, do you?"
The very question almost brought a tear, but she drove it back.
"Well, Lucy must come down and have some wine. Get her down, and we will have another bottle."
"She won't come. We are all tired of trying. She has got the pouts, because Mrs. Laylor took her trunk away from her to keep for her board. She don't make any thing. All she ever did make was out of Frank Barkley, and that she gave to redeem her watch and a good-for-nothing old Bible I don't see what she wants of that."
"Well, I am going to have her down—I have no opinion of having any girl in the dumps. Where is her room?"
"Third floor back room. That is right, go and bring her out whether or no. She has hardly been out for a week till to-day Mrs. Laylor took her out riding with her, to try to put a little life in her, for fear she would die on her hands, and she would have to bury her for charity."