“I believe my breath will get long next, my memory’s getting so much so,” said Mr. Omer. “Well, sir, we’ve got a young relation of hers here, under articles to us, that has as elegant a taste in the dressmaking business⁠—I assure you I don’t believe there’s a Duchess in England can touch her.”

“Not little Em’ly?” said I, involuntarily.

“Em’ly’s her name,” said Mr. Omer, “and she’s little too. But if you’ll believe me, she has such a face of her own that half the women in this town are mad against her.”

“Nonsense, father!” cried Minnie.

“My dear,” said Mr. Omer, “I don’t say it’s the case with you,” winking at me, “but I say that half the women in Yarmouth⁠—ah! and in five mile round⁠—are mad against that girl.”