Miss Grief and Other Stories by Constance Fenimore Woolson

her thin lips drawn down in permanent discontent. Her dress was a shapeless linsey-woolsey gown, and home-made list slippers covered her long, lank feet. “Be that the fashion?” she asked, pointing to my short, closely fitting walking-dress.
    â€œYes,” I answered; “do you like it?”
    â€œWell, it does for you, sis, because you’re so little and peaked-like, but it wouldn’t do for me. The other lady, now, don’t wear nothing like that; is she even with the style, too?”
    â€œThere is such a thing as being above the style, madam,” replied Ermine, bending to dip up glass number two.
    â€œOur figgers is a good deal alike,” pursued the woman; “I reckon that fashion ud suit me best.”
    Willowy Erminia glanced at the stick-like hostess. “You do me honor,” she said, suavely. “I shall consider myself fortunate, madam, if you will allow me to send you patterns from C——. What are we if not well dressed?”
    â€œYou have a fine dog,” I began hastily, fearing lest the great, black eyes should penetrate the sarcasm; “what is his name?”
    â€œA stupid beast! He’s none of mine; belongs to my man.”
    â€œYour husband?”
    â€œYes, my man. He works in the coal-mine over the hill.”
    â€œYou have no children?”
    â€œNot a brat. Glad of it, too.”
    â€œYou must be lonely,” I said, glancing around the desolate house. To my surprise, suddenly the woman burst into a flood of tears, and sinking down on the floor she rocked from side to side, sobbing, and covering her face with her bony hands.
    â€œWhat can be the matter with her?” I said in alarm; and, in my agitation, I dipped up some sulphur-water and held it to her lips.
    â€œTake away the smelling stuff,—I hate it!” she cried, pushing the cup angrily from her.
    Ermine looked on in silence for a moment or two, then she took off her neck-tie, a bright-colored Roman scarf, and threw it across the trap into the woman’s lap. “Do me the favor to accept that trifle, madam,” she said, in her soft voice.
    The woman’s sobs ceased as she saw the ribbon; she fingered it with one hand in silent admiration, wiped her wet face withthe skirt of her gown, and then suddenly disappeared into an adjoining room, closing the door behind her.
    â€œDo you think she is crazy?” I whispered.
    â€œO no; merely pensive.”
    â€œNonsense, Ermine! But why did you give her that ribbon?”
    â€œTo develop her æsthetic taste,” replied my cousin, finishing her last glass, and beginning to draw on her delicate gloves.
    Immediately I began gulping down my neglected dose; but so vile was the odor that some time was required for the operation, and in the midst of my struggles our hostess reappeared. She had thrown on an old dress of plaid delaine, a faded red ribbon was tied over her head, and around her sinewed throat reposed the Roman scarf pinned with a glass brooch.
    â€œReally, madam, you honor us,” said Ermine, gravely.
    â€œThankee, marm. It’s so long since I’ve had on anything but that old bag, and so long since I’ve seen anything but them Dutch girls over to the Community, with their wooden shapes and wooden shoes, that it sorter come over me all ’t onct what a miserable life I’ve had. You see, I ain’t what I looked like; now I’ve dressed up a bit I feel more like telling you that I come of good Ohio stock, without a drop of Dutch blood. My father, he kep’ a store in Sandy, and I had everything I wanted until I must needs get crazy over Painting Sol at the Community. Father, he wouldn’t hear to it, and so I ran away; Sol, he turned out good for nothing to work, and so here I am, yer see, in spite of all his pictures making me out the Queen of Sheby.”
    â€œIs your husband an artist?” I asked.
    â€œNo, miss. He’s a coal-miner, he is. But he