an to say that men and
women--gentlemen and ladies--go down to the salt water and bathe
together?"

"Indeed they do."

"I don't believe it! I won't believe it! If my great-grandmother were to
rise from her grave and swear to it, I would tell her to go back again
and hide her face. Somebody has been imposing on you, Cousin E. E."

"Believe it or not, it is the truth," says E. E. "Ask Dempster."

"Ask Dempster! Do you think I have lost every grain of modesty, that
such an outrageous question should pass my lips?"

"Well, believe it or not, as you like," says she, "I haven't time to
prove it; only it isn't worth while to scout at what every one does, and
you are a little apt to do that, Phoemie."

"So, if I lived among hottentots, I mustn't object to rancid-oil on my
hair--but I think I should, anyhow."

"Well, well; get on your bonnet, or the Dolly Varden will never be
finished in time," says she, laughing.

I put on my beehive, and we both went right down town. On our way we saw
a wire woman standing in a broad, glass window, with a dress on, that
took the shine off from anything I had ever seen in the way of a dress.

"There is a Dolly," says E. E., "and really, now, I do believe it would
fit you."

We went into the store, had the wire woman undressed, and her Dolly
carried up-stairs, where I put it on, behind a red curtain, with a
chatty female woman hooking it together, and buttoning it up in puffs
and waves that made me stand out like a race-horse with a saddle on. The
girl was French, with a touch of the Irish brogue--just enough to give
richness to the language.

I asked her what was the reason of it, and she said in their
establishment a great many of the upper crust Irish came to trade, and
she had caught just the least taste of a brogue in waiting on
them--which was natural, and accounts for the accent so many of these
French girls have, which I must own has puzzled me a little.

When my dress was on, E. E. and this French girl led me up to a great,
tall looking-glass, and stood with their hands folded, while I took an
observation. The French girl clasped her hands, and spoke first:

"Tra jolly," says she.

"No," says I, "that is not exactly my state of mind--composed I may be,
but not jolly, by any manner of means."

"She means that the dress is beautiful," says E. E.

"Oh!" says I, "why didn't she say so then?"

"Well, she did, in her way."

"Magnifique," says the girl, cutting the word