THE QUILTING.
"Only think, Charlotte," said Marianne Glanvil, on entering the chamber where her sister was endeavouring to get through a warm afternoon in August, by lolling on the bed in a loose gown,—"Susan Davison has just been here with an invitation for us."
Charlotte.—And pray, who is Susan Davison?
Marianne.—The daughter of farmer Davison up the creek. We met her at Trenchard's the day we were obliged to drink tea there.
Charlotte.—I wonder how you can remember their names, or theirselves either: I am sure I do not know one of these people from another, and I never wish to know.
Marianne.—But this Susan Davison is really not so bad. She is diffident enough, to be sure, but is rather less awkward and uncouth than the generality of country girls.
Charlotte.—To me they are all alike; I do not profess to understand the varieties of the species.
Marianne.—Well, I was going to tell you, that after a sitting of half an hour, Susan Davison, as she rose to depart, uttered an invitation to her quilting to-morrow.
Charlotte.—And what is a quilting?
Marianne.—Now, I am sure you must have heard of quiltings. It is an assemblage of all the females in the neighbourhood, for the purpose of quilting, in one afternoon, a whole patch-work bed-cover.