ushered her down--with some pride in the
effect produced by a pair of tiny felt slippers which she had rushed
out to buy because there were no shoes in the house small enough for
Mirah, whose borrowed dress ceased about her ankles and displayed the
cheap clothing that, moulding itself on her feet, seemed an adornment
as choice as the sheaths of buds. The farthing buckles were bijoux.

"Oh, if you please, mamma?" cried Mab, clasping her hands and stooping
toward Mirah's feet, as she entered the parlor; "look at the slippers,
how beautiful they fit! I declare she is like the Queen Budoor--' two
delicate feet, the work of the protecting and all-recompensing Creator,
support her; and I wonder how they can sustain what is above them.'"

Mirah looked down at her own feet in a childlike way and then smiled at
Mrs. Meyrick, who was saying inwardly, "One could hardly imagine this
creature having an evil thought. But wise people would tell me to be
cautious." She returned Mirah's smile and said, "I fear the feet have
had to sustain their burden a little too often lately. But to-day she
will rest and be my companion."

"And she will tell you so many things and I shall not hear them,"
grumbled Mab, who felt herself in the first volume of a delightful
romance and obliged to miss some chapters because she had to go to
pupils.

Kate was already gone to make sketches along the river, and Amy was
away on business errands. It was what the mother wished, to be alone
with this stranger, whose story must be a sorrowful one, yet was
needful to be told.

The small front parlor was as good as a temple that morning. The
sunlight was on the river and soft air came in through the open window;
the walls showed a glorious silent cloud of witnesses--the Virgin
soaring amid her cherubic escort; grand Melancholia with her solemn
universe; the Prophets and Sibyls; the School of Athens; the Last
Supper; mystic groups where far-off ages made one moment; grave Holbein
and Rembrandt heads; the Tragic Muse; last-century children at their
musings or their play; Italian poets--all were there through the medium
of a little black and white. The neat mother who had weathered her
troubles, and come out of them with a face still cheerful, was sorting
colored wools for her embroidery. Hafiz purred on the window-ledge, the
clock on the mantle-piece ticked without hurry, and the occasional
sound of wheels seemed to lie outside the more massive central quiet.
Mr