She longed to shower riches, refinement,
beauty upon her.
"How has your dress worn, Prissie?" said the elder woman after a
pause. "My sakes, child, you have got your best brown cashmere on! A
beautiful fine bit of cashmere it was, too. I bought it out of the
money I got for the lambs' wool."
Aunt Raby stretched out her hand, and, taking up a fold of the
cashmere, she rubbed it softly between her finger and thumb.
"It's as fine as velvet," she said, "and I put strong work into it,
too. It isn't a bit worn, is it, Prissie?"
"No, Aunt Raby, except just round the tail. I got it very wet one day
and the color went a trifle, but nothing to signify."
A vivid picture rose up before Priscilla's eyes as she spoke of Mrs.
Elliot-Smith's drawing-room, and the dainty, disdainful ladies in
their gay attire, and her own poor, little forlorn figure in her muddy
cashmere dress-- the same dress Aunt Raby considered soft and
beautiful as velvet.
"Oh, Aunt Raby," she said with sudden impulse, "a great many things
have happened to me since I went away. On the whole I have had a very
good time."
Aunt Raby opened her mouth to emit a prodigious yawn.
"I don't know how it is," she said, "but I'm a bit drowsy to-night. I
suppose it's the weather.
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