matters were quite changed.

I do remember the dresses I had then, and the keen interest I took in
the subject of dress at a very early age. A very keen interest was taken
in it by Aunt Theresa herself, by Aunt Theresa's daughters, and by the
ladies of Aunt Theresa's acquaintance. I think I may say that it formed
(at least one of) the principal subjects of conversation during all
those working hours of the day which the ladies so freely sacrificed to
each other. Mrs. Buller was truly kind, and I am sure that if I had
depended in every way upon her, she would have given to my costume as
much care as she bestowed upon that of her own daughters. But my parents
had not been poor; there was no lack of money for my maintenance, and
thus "no reason," as Aunt Theresa said, why my clothes should not be
"decent," and "decent" with Aunt Theresa and her friends was a synonym
for "fashionable."

Thus my first black frock was such an improvement (in fashion) upon the
pink silk one, as to deprive my deep mourning of much of its gloom. Mrs.
(Colonel) St. Quentin could not refuse to lend one of her youngest
little girl's frocks as a copy, for "the poor little orphan"; and a bevy
of ladies sat in consultation over it, for all Mrs. St. Quentin's things
were well worth copying.

"Keep a paper pattern, dear," said Mrs. Minchin; "it will come in for
the girls. Her things are always good."

And Mrs. Buller kept a paper pattern.

I remember the dress quite clearly. It is fixed in my mind by an
incident connected with it. It had six crape tucks, of which fact I was
very proud, having heard a good deal said about it. The first time Mr.
George came to our bungalow, after I had begun to wear it, I strutted up
to him holding my skirt out, and my head up.

"Look at my black frock, Mr. George," said I; "it has got six crape
tucks."

Matilda was most precocious in--at least--one way: she could repeat
grown-up observations of wonderful length.

"It's the best crape," she said; "it won't spot. Cut on the bias.
They're not real tucks though, Margery. They're laid on; Mrs. Minchin
said so."

"They are real tucks," I stoutly asserted.

"No, they're not. They're cut on the bias, and laid on to imitate
tucks," Matilda repeated. I think she was not sorry there should be some
weak point in the fashionable mourning in which she did not share.

I turned to Mr. George, as usual.

"Aren't they real tucks, Mr. George?"

But Mr. George had a strang