walking suit in which one could not walk, and a
winter suit which exposes the throat, head, and feet to cold and damp,
was rather a failure, Clara, especially as it has no beauty to reconcile
one to its utter unfitness," said Dr. Alec, as he helped Rose undo her
veil, adding, in a low tone, "Nice thing for the eyes; you'll soon see
spots when it's off as well as when it's on, and, by and by, be a case
for an oculist."

"No beauty!" cried Mrs. Clara, warmly, "Now, that is just a man's
blindness. This is the best of silk and camel's hair, real ostrich
feathers, and an expensive ermine muff. What could be in better taste,
or more proper for a young girl?"

"I'll shew you, if Rose will go to her room and oblige me by putting on
what she finds there," answered the Doctor, with unexpected readiness.

"Alec, if it is a Bloomer, I shall protest. I've been expecting it, but
I know I cannot bear to see that pretty child sacrificed to your wild
ideas of health. Tell me it isn't a Bloomer!" and Mrs. Clara clasped her
hands imploringly.

"It is not."

"Thank Heaven!" and she resigned herself with a sigh of relief, adding
plaintively, "I did hope you'd accept my suit, for poor Rose has been
afflicted with frightful clothes long enough to spoil the taste of any
girl."

"You talk of my afflicting the child, and then make a helpless guy like
that of her!" answered the Doctor, pointing to the little fashion plate
that was scuttling out of sight as fast as it could go.

He closed the door with a shrug, but before anyone could speak, his
quick eye fell upon an object which caused him to frown, and demand in
an indignant tone,

"After all I have said, were you really going to tempt my girl with
those abominable things?"

"I thought we put them away when she wouldn't wear them," murmured Mrs.
Clara, whisking a little pair of corsets out of sight with guilty haste.
"I only brought them to try, for Rose is growing stout, and will have
no figure if it is not attended to soon," she added, with an air of calm
conviction that roused the Doctor still more, for this was one of his
especial abominations.

"Growing stout! Yes, thank Heaven, she is, and shall continue to do it,
for Nature knows how to mould a woman better than any corset-maker,
and I won't have her interfered with. My dear Clara, have you lost your
senses that you can for a moment dream of putting a growing girl into an
instrument of torture like this?" and with a sudden