ever saw such heaps and mountains of clothes; such a
litter of small things; such stacks of boots and shoes.

It really seemed as if she was fitting out an army of feminines. Even
Cecilia was down on her knees packing, and E. E. was deep in a high
trunk with her slippers half dropping from her feet as she punched
things in and pressed them down. The help, black and white, kept running
up and downstairs like hens with their necks wrung. Every few minutes
there came a ring at the door, and paper-boxes and bundles were set down
in the hall, and struggled upstairs when any of the help thought it
worth while to bring them, which was once in about ten minutes, all
morning.

I think Dempster made a cowardly attempt to get out of the way, but it
was of no use. On such occasions men are wanted, especially when the
bills come in, and E. E. knows her privileges.

LXXVI.

THE DOLLY VARDEN.

As I stood looking on, wondering if cousin really meant to turn the
house inside out, and set up a village of trunks somewhere on the
sea-shore, that hard-working creature lifted her face, and looked at me
deploringly.

"Oh, Phoemie," says she; "are you packed? How cool you look."

"Packed," says I; "oh, yes; I always keep my pink silk folded."

"But your summer things, are they ready? Surely you'll have a Dolly?"

"No," says I; "its years since I have thought of a doll, and I haven't
the least idea of going back to my play-house days."

"But I mean a dress," says she, lifting her head out of the trunk, and
wiping the swe--well, perspiration from her face. "A Dolly Varden. Don't
you understand?"

"A dress, and some Miss Dolly Varden, all at once! Now I can't think
what dress you mean; and, as for that young person, I don't know her
from a bag of sweet corn. How should I? Never having been introduced!"
says I.

E. E. just sat back on the floor, and drew a deep breath.

"Oh, Phoemie," says she, "you are so stolid about some things. Why, it
is only a dress I mean."

"Then what did you drag in that young person for?" says I.

"Because she gives her name to the dress."

"I'm sure the dress ought to be very much obliged to her. That is if she
came by the name honestly," says I.

"And it's all the rage now. You must order one, Phoemie."

"What, the dress or the girl?" says I.

Cousin E. E. got out of patience, and sprung up red in the face. Across
the room she went, slopping along in her slippers, flung back the lid of