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234 little porcelain lady, and get rested,” said Jane, putting her arm around her mother’s willowy waist and drawing her along.

“Jane found the word, Florimel; Jane always does!” cried Mary. “Our mother is just that, a little porcelain lady! I’ve been trying to think ever since she came what it was that she made me want to say, and it’s Austin Dobson’s line: ‘You’re just a porcelain trifle, belle Marquise.’”

“Don’t know it,” said Florimel, too preoccupied to be interested in poetical labels and their suitability. “Can’t you come and see, once more, if all my costumes are right, Mary?”

“I have a few last stitches to take on my Florence Nightingale dress; a red cross to sew on, and the cap isn’t right. I’ll do it in your room and look yours over at the same time, though we have made sure of yours over and over, Mellie,” said patient Mary.

To do Florimel justice she usually aroused to see Mary’s readiness to serve when her hands were more than full. She did so now. Throwing her arms around her in a hug that was more expressive than considerate, she cried:

“You dear old Mary-Job, you! Why don’t you say: ‘Get out with you, you selfish little black gypsy! I’ve got enough to do to attend