e look on his face which puzzled and
disconcerted me. He only said, "Good heavens!" And all my after efforts
were vain to find out what he meant, and why he looked in that strange
manner.

Little things that puzzle one in childhood remain long in one's memory.
For years I puzzled over that look of Mr. George's, and the remembrance
never was a pleasant one. It chilled my enthusiasm for my new dress at
the time, and made me feel inclined to cry. I think I have lived to
understand it.

But I was not insensible of my great loss, though I took pride in my
fashionable mourning. I do not think I much connected the two in my
mind. I did not talk about my father to any one but Mr. George, but at
night I often lay awake and cried about him. This habit certainly
affected my health, and I had become a very thin, weak child when the
home voyage came to restore my strength.

By the time we reached Riflebury, my fashionable new dress was neither
new nor fashionable. It was then that Mrs. Minchin ferreted out a
dressmaker whom Mrs. St. Quentin employed, and I was put under her
hands.

The little Bullers' things were "made in the house," after the pattern
of mine.

"And one sees the fashion-book, and gets a few hints," said Mrs. Buller.

If Mr. George was not duly impressed by my fashionable mourning, I could
(young as I was) trace the effect of Aunt Theresa's care for my
appearance on other friends in the regiment. They openly remarked on it,
and did not scruple to do so in my hearing. Callers from the
neighbourhood patronized me also. Pretty ladies in fashionably pitched
bonnets smiled, and said, "One of your little ones, Mrs. Buller? What a
pretty little thing!" and duly sympathized over the sad story which Aunt
Theresa seemed almost to enjoy relating. Sometimes it was agony to me to
hear the oft-repeated tale of my parents' death, and then again I
enjoyed a sort of gloomy importance which gave me satisfaction. I even
rehearsed such scenes in my mind when I was in bed, shedding real tears
as (in the person of Aunt Theresa) I related the sad circumstances of my
own grief to an imaginary acquaintance; and then, with dry eyes,
prolonging the "fancy" with compliments and consolations of the most
flattering nature. I always took care to fancy some circumstances that
led to my being in my best dress on the occasion.

Gentleman company did not haunt my new home as was the case with the
Indian one. But now and then officers of the r