y had no need
of such messings; that she did not wish her daughter to make a slave of
herself, and that Cook would not put up with it. Between these two
limits Phoebe's noble ambition was confined, which was a "trial" to her.
But she did what she could, bating neither heart nor hope. She read
Virgil at least, if not Sophocles, and she danced and dressed though she
was not allowed to cook.

As she took the matter in this serious way, it will be understood that
the question of dress was not a mere frivolity with her. A week before
the ball she stood in front of the large glass in her mother's room,
contemplating herself, not with that satisfaction which it is generally
supposed a pretty young woman has in contemplating her own image. She
was decidedly a pretty young woman. She had a great deal of the hair of
the period, nature in her case, as (curiously, yet very truly) in so
many others, having lent herself to the prevailing fashion. How it comes
about I cannot tell, but it is certain that there does exist at this
present moment, a proportion of golden-haired girls which very much
exceeds the number we used to see when golden hair had not become
fashionable--a freak of nature which is altogether independent of dyes
and auriferous fluid, and which probably has influenced fashion
unawares. To be sure the pomades of twenty years ago are, Heaven be
praised! unknown to this generation, and washing also has become the
fashion, which accounts for something. Anyhow, Phoebe, junior, possessed
in perfection the hair of the period. She had, too, the complexion which
goes naturally with those sunny locks--a warm pink and white, which, had
the boundaries between the pink and the white been a little more
distinct, would have approached perfection too. This was what she was
thinking when she looked at herself in her mother's great glass. Mrs.
Beecham stood behind her, more full-blown and more highly-coloured than
she, but very evidently the rose to which this bud would come in time.
Phoebe looked at her own reflection, and then at her mother's, and sighed
such a profound sigh as only lungs in the most excellent condition could
produce.

"Mamma," she said, with an accent of despair, "I am too pink, a great
deal too pink! What am I to do?"

"Nonsense, my pet," said Mrs. Beecham; "you have a lovely complexion;"
and she threw a quantity of green ribbons which lay by over her child's
hair and shoulders. A cloud crossed the blooming count