hristine.
"Yes, I shall wear robes like this," she said dreamily, drawing the
flowing drapery over her knees clad in the little linen trousers, and
scanning the effect: "they would trail behind me--so." Her bare feet
peeped out below the hem, and again we all laughed, the little brown
toes looked so comical coming out from the silk and the snowy
embroideries. She came down to reality at once, looked at us, looked at
herself, and for the first time seemed to comprehend the difference.
Then suddenly she threw herself down on the ground like a little animal,
and buried her head in her arms. She would not speak, she would not look
up: she only relaxed one arm a little to take in Drollo, and then lay
motionless. Drollo looked at us out of one eye solemnly from his
uncomfortable position, as much as to say, "No use: leave her to me." So
after a while we went away and left them there.

That evening I heard a low knock at my door. "Come in," I said, and
Felipa entered. I hardly knew her. She was dressed in a flowered muslin
gown which had probably belonged to her mother, and she wore her
grandmother's stockings and large baggy slippers: on her mat of curly
hair was perched a high-crowned, stiff white cap adorned with a ribbon
streamer, and her lank little neck, coming out of the big gown, was
decked with a chain of large sea-beans, like exaggerated lockets. She
carried a Cuban fan in her hand which was as large as a parasol, and
Drollo, walking behind, fairly clanked with the chain of sea-shells
which she had wound around him from head to tail. The droll tableau and
the supreme pride on Felipa's countenance overcame me, and I laughed
aloud. A sudden cloud of rage and disappointment came over the poor
child's face: she threw her cap on the floor and stamped on it; she tore
off her necklace and writhed herself out of her big flowered gown, and
running to Drollo, nearly strangled him in her fierce efforts to drag
off his shell chains. Then, a half-dressed, wild little phantom, she
seized me by the skirts and dragged me toward the looking-glass. "You
are not pretty either," she cried. "Look at yourself! look at yourself!"

"I did not mean to laugh at you, Felipa," I said gently: "I would not
laugh at any one; and it is true I am not pretty, as you say. I can
never be pretty, child; but if you will try to be more gentle, I could
teach you how to dress yourself so that no one would laugh at you again.
I could make you a little brigh