"Pray let me have it now," said I; "it shall be woven into the ballad."
"She is neither more nor less," answered Zenobia, "than a seamstress from the city; and she has probably no more transcendental purpose than to do my miscellaneous sewing, for I suppose she will hardly expect to make my dresses."
"How can you decide upon her so easily?" I inquired.
"O, we women judge one another by tokens that escape the obtuseness of masculine perceptions," said Zenobia. "There is no proof which you would be likely to appreciate, except the needle-marks on the tip of her fore-finger. Then, my supposition perfectly accounts for her paleness, her nervousness, and her wretched fragility. Poor thing! She has been stifled with the heat of a salamander-stove, in a small, close room, and has drunk coffee, and fed upon dough-nuts, raisins, candy, and all such trash, till she is scarcely half alive; and so, as she has hardly any physique, a poet, like Mr. Miles Coverdale, may be allowed to think her spiritual."
"Look at her now!" whispered I.
Priscilla was gazing towards us, with an inexpressible sorrow in her wan face, and great tears running down her cheeks. It was difficult to resist the impression that, cautiously as we had lowered our voices, she must have overheard and been wounded by Zenobia's scornful estimate of her character and purposes.
"What ears the girl must have!" whispered Zenobia, with a look of vexation, partly comic, and partly real. "I will confess to you that I cannot quite make her out.
