the skirts, &c., &c., and thus she went through all her own repositories, of course finding not a thread that did not belong to her, for well had they been sifted that morning. "Now, Miss Ophelia," she said, "ask Lucy for her key to her one trunk—she always wear it round her neck—she very careful of her key—she have such rich clothes, you know."
"For shame, Adéle! I am sure Lucy looks prettier in her plain clothes than an old painted up person would, even dressed in mamma's clothes."
"Ophelia! no hints."
"Well, then, mamma, she need not hint at Lucy if she does not want to be hinted at; and besides, I won't unlock Lucy's trunk. She steal mamma's cape, indeed! I would trust her with all the gold in the world."
"Why don't you unlock your own trunk, Lucy?"
Lucy blushed deeply, and said she had rather not." Adéle threw up both hands, and looking at Mrs. Hartell, exclaimed, "Mon Dieu! est il possible?"
"No, it is not possible!" retorted Ophelia; and, fired by Adéle's insinuation against her favorite, she caught the riband by which Lucy's key was suspended and unlocked the trunk. On the top lay a pencil sketch of Charles Lovett, that he had the Sunday before given to Lucy. Ophelia grasped it, and held it up to Lucy archly. Lucy, trembling with embarrassment, begged her to give it to her; and while a little contest ensued between them, Adéle, casting, ever and anon, stolen glances at Mrs. Hartell, proceeded in her investigations. It was a short piece of work. There was something in the neatness and order with which our humble
