a calamity as this would have
ruined an ordinary milliner; but the invincible Grifoni rose superior
to it almost without an effort, and proved incontestably that it was
impossible for hostile Fortune to catch her at the end of her resources.
While the minor milliners were prophesying that she would shut up shop,
she was quietly carrying on a private correspondence with an agent in
Paris. Nobody knew what these letters were about until a few weeks had
elapsed, and then circulars were received by all the ladies in Pisa,
announcing that the best French forewoman who could be got for money
was engaged to superintend the great Grifoni establishment. This
master-stroke decided the victory. All the demoiselle's customers
declined giving orders elsewhere until the forewoman from Paris had
exhibited to the natives of Pisa the latest fashions from the metropolis
of the world of dress.

The Frenchwoman arrived punctual to the appointed day--glib and curt,
smiling and flippant, tight of face and supple of figure. Her name was
Mademoiselle Virginie, and her family had inhumanly deserted her. She
was set to work the moment she was inside the doors of the Grifoni
establishment. A room was devoted to her own private use; magnificent
materials in velvet, silk, and satin, with due accompaniment of muslins,
laces, and ribbons were placed at her disposal; she was told to spare no
expense, and to produce, in the shortest possible time, the finest and
nearest specimen dresses for exhibition in the show-room. Mademoiselle
Virginie undertook to do everything required of her, produced her
portfolios of patterns and her book of colored designs, and asked for
one assistant who could speak French enough to interpret her orders to
the Italian girls in the work-room.

"I have the very person you want," cried Demoiselle Grifoni. "A
work-woman we call Brigida here--the idlest slut in Pisa, but as sharp
as a needle--has been in France, and speaks the language like a native.
I'll send her to you directly."

Mademoiselle Virginie was not left long alone with her patterns and
silks. A tall woman, with bold black eyes, a reckless manner, and a
step as firm as a man's, stalked into the room with the gait of a
tragedy-queen crossing the stage. The instant her eyes fell on the
French forewoman, she stopped, threw up her hands in astonishment, and
exclaimed, "Finette!"

"Teresa!" cried the Frenchwoman, casting her scissors on the table, and
advancing a f