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I'm on the divvy that's me, and mum's my lay till you toot. Yours, BARNEY. P.S. I've clayed her with Scarry. With some knowledge of the general mining camp argot and of Mr. Bree's private system for the communication of ideas Mr.
How, in that case, it might have been nothing better than a surreptitious scrap of silk or velvet, that would have lain in Bel Bree's work-basket, with a story about it of how, and for what gayety, it had been made; a scrap out of a life that these girls could only gossip and wonder about, not participate, and with self-same human privilege and faculty delight in; and yet the only scrap that "out of the sweepings" they could have picked up?
Somebody must do the running and the shouting to relieve the instincts of older and busier people, who must pretend as if they didn't care. All this kept Miss Belinda Bree from utterly wearing out at her dull work in the great warerooms, or now and then at days' seamstressing in families. It really keeps a great many people from wearing out. Miss Bree's work was dull.
"I shall have to give it up," she whispered emphatically into Bel Bree's ear. "It's no use your asking me to go to Chapel any more. I ain't sanctified a grain. I did begin to think there was a kind of work of grace begun in me, but I can't stand Miss Proddle! What are people made to strike ten for, always, when it's eleven?" "I think we are all striking twelve" said Bel Bree.
"But you see we all have to do for somebody, and I'd as lief it would be teacups, for my part, as buttons." Bel Bree's old tricks of rhyming were running in her head. This game of Crambo a favorite one with the Schermans and their bright little intimate circle stirred up her wits with a challenge.
Miss Bree's nose grew apprehensive; it drew itself up with a little, visible, trembling gasp, her small eyes glanced timidly from under the drawn, puckered lids, it was evidently all she could do to hold her ground. But Bel had put her there, and loyalty to Bel kept her passive. It is so much harder for some poor meek things ever to take anything, than it is forever to go without.
If there is anything in this story that you cannot credit, if you cannot believe in such a relation, and such a friendship, and such a mutual service, as Asenath Scherman's and Bel Bree's, if you cannot believe that Bel Bree may at this moment be ironing Mrs.
One morning Morris Hewland had come up the stairs with a handful of tuberoses; he was living at home, then, through the pleasant September, at his father's country place, whence the household would soon remove to the city for the winter. Miss Bree's door was open. She was just replacing her door-mat, which she had been shaking out of the entry window.
The devil, whom he had let have his heart for a minute, had got his lips and spoken through them before he knew. "Where?" asked Bel. "Home?" "Yes, home," said the young man, hesitating. "Where your mother lives?" Bel Bree's simplicity went nigh to being a stronger battery of defense than any bristling of alarmed knowledge. "No," said Morris Hewland. "Not there.
We were always glad, I remember, when our dress-making week fell in with the equinoctial. But now, all poor Miss Bree's "best places" had slipped away from her, and her life had changed.
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