DEBORAH'S BOOK.
often say, 'If I have rung the bell once for Deborah to come in and thread that child's needle, I have rung it fifty times, my dear.' 'Indeed!' my mother would reply; and add, with pretty maternal pride, 'my little girls are all particularly clever with their needle.'
'So they are, my dear,' our aged relation would answer; and she once added, 'As for this little thing, she mended my gloves the other day like a woman, and then came up to me so prettily, "Are these stitches small enough, do you think, Mrs. Wells? there's rather a long one here, but I can pull it out if you like." "Yes, my dear," said I, "that will do." I couldn't see one of 'em without my spectacles! You may send her to me, and welcome, Fanny, if you like. I dare say the sea air will do her good—a poor little aguish thing.' So I was sent, or rather brought over by my father, together with my knitting and my netting, my little work-box, my story-books, and my Peep of Day. I felt what a fine thing it was to go out on a visit, and what a matter of rejoicing it was that my cheeks were not round and rosy, like the cheeks of my brothers and sisters; besides, mamma had put a new blue veil on my bonnet, to shade me from the sun, and had given me a parasol a thing that I had never possessed before, for I was only six years old. Therefore, as I said, a natural elation resulting from conscious ill-health, and some new property, took entire possession of my little heart; and as I sat in the gig by papa's side, I drew myself up as much as I could, and hoped the passers-by, seeing me with my veil and my parasol, would think I was a grown-up lady.
