It was a longer cry than might have been expected. Howbeit, it wore itself out in a shadowy corner, and then the dressmaker came forth, and washed her face, and made the tea. “You wouldn’t mind my cutting out something while we are at tea, would you?” she asked her Jewish friend, with a coaxing air.
“Cinderella, dear child,” the old man expostulated, “will you never rest?”
“Oh! It’s not work, cutting out a pattern isn’t,” said Miss Jenny, with her busy little scissors already snipping at some paper. “The truth is, godmother, I want to fix it while I have it correct in my mind.”
“Have you seen it today then?” asked Riah.
“Yes, godmother. Saw it just now. It’s a surplice, that’s what it is. Thing our clergymen wear, you know,” explained Miss Jenny, in consideration of his professing another faith.
“And what have you to do with that, Jenny?”
“Why, godmother,” replied the dressmaker, “you must know that we Professors who live upon our taste and invention, are obliged to keep our eyes always open. And you know already that I have many extra expenses to meet just now. So, it came into my head while I was weeping at my poor boy’s grave, that something in my way might be done with a clergyman.”
“What can be done?” asked the old man.
“Not a funeral, never fear!” returned Miss Jenny, anticipating his objection with a nod. “The public don’t like to be made melancholy, I know very well. I am seldom called upon to put my young friends into mourning; not into real mourning, that is; Court mourning they are rather proud of. But a doll clergyman, my dear—glossy black curls and