strangle
with persistent hands the little serpents of the ridiculous in Monsieur
Leclerc's soul, when he beheld his pupil's first appearance. What reason
was it, O rose of seventeen, adorning thyself with cloudy films of lace
and sparks of jewelry before the mirror that reflects youth and beauty,
that made Miss Lucinda array herself in a brand-new dress of yellow
muslin-de-laine strewed with round green spots, and displace her
customary hand-kerchief for a huge tamboured collar, on this eventful
occasion? Why, oh, why did she tie up the roots of her black hair with
an unconcealable scarlet string? And most of all, why was her dress
so short, her slipper-strings so big and broad, her thick slippers so
shapeless by reason of the corns and bunions that pertained to the feet
within? The "instantaneous rush of several guardian angels" that once
stood dear old Hepzibah Pynchon in good stead was wanting here,--or
perhaps they stood by all-invisible, their calm eyes softened with love
deeper than tears, at this spectacle so ludicrous to man, beholding in
the grotesque dress and adornments only the budding of life's divinest
blossom, and in the strange skips and hops of her first attempts at
dancing only the buoyancy of those inner wings that goodness and
generosity and pure self-devotion were shaping for a future strong and
stately flight upward. However, men, women, and children do not see
with angelic eyes, and the titterings of her fellow-pupils were
irrepressible; one bouncing girl nearly choked herself with her
hand-kerchief trying not to laugh, and two or three did not even try.
Monsieur Leclerc could not blame them,--at first he could scarce control
his own facial muscles; but a sense of remorse smote him, as he saw how
unconscious and earnest the little woman was, and remembered how often
those knotty hands and knobbed feet had waited on his need or his
comfort. Presently he tapped on his violin for a few moments' respite,
and approached Miss Lucinda as respectfully as if she had been a queen.

"You are ver' tired, Mees Lucinda?" said he.

"I am a little, Sir," said she, out of breath. "I am not used to
dancing; it's quite an exertion."

"It is that truly. If you are too much tired, is it better to wait?
I shall finish for you the lesson till I come to-night for a French
conversation?"

"I guess I will go home," said the simple little lady. "I am some afraid
of getting rheumatism; but use makes perfect, and I shall