t of silk from a great paper box, and shook it
out till it fluttered like the leaves on a young maple-tree.

"Isn't it superb?" says she; "peacock green and peacock blue
intermingled like a poem, sloping folds up the front breadth two and
two, bunching splendidly behind, frilled, flounced, corded, folded,
trailing, and yet demi to a large extent. Cousin Frost, Cousin Frost!
did you ever see anything so original, so--so--"

"Scrumptious," says I, a-helping her out, "peacock green and peacock
blue; if we only had the half-moons on the train now."

She looked at me earnestly; her soul had taken in the thought, and it
burned in her eyes.

"Oh, why didn't I think of that?" says she.

I smiled. It takes genius to understand the fine irony of genius. Cousin
E. E. is bright, but the subtle originality of a new thought isn't in
her. That usually does in a family what this Government is trying so
hard for--centralizes itself in one person.

It is not difficult to say where this supreme essence condenses itself
in our family. Still, I do not object to other members making their
little mark, and if E. E. can make hers in the peacock line, why not?

To my fancy, that dress was a nation sight too much. It was all in a
flutter, silk heaped on silk. E. E. tried it on, and fairly waded in
silk when she walked. There was neither elegance nor simplicity in it,
nothing but a sickening idea of extravagance and money.

E. E. looked like a peacock, walked like a peacock, and seemed to feel
like one. She took a little mite of a bonnet from a box that came just
after the dress, and put it on. It was shaped like the small end of a
loaf of sugar, with a pink rose and a bunch of green and blue feathers
on the top, bee-hivy in height, but brigandish in shape, slightly
pastoral, and a little military.

"Isn't it stylish?" says she, setting it on the top of her curls and
puffs, with such an air.

"Original," says I, "but you know which is _my_ color."

E. E. laughed till the feathers shook on her head.

"Oh!" says she, "Dempster and I are prudent. After the middle of July
perhaps we may--"

"Till then," says I, "you'll sit on the fence peacock fashion."

We had more words, for E. E. is nobody's fool; but just then Cecilia
came in, and I made myself scarce.

XLVII.

THE FIRST HORSE-RACE.

Well, we started for the races in high feather. Cousin D. had just got
his open carriage cushioned off beautifully. His horses had roset