THE "COMING OUT"
At eighteen, Miss Murray was to from the of the into the full of the world—as much of it, at least, as be had out of London; for her papa not be to his and pursuits, for a weeks' in town. She was to make her débût on the third of January, at a ball, which her to give to all the and choice of O and its for twenty miles round. Of course, she looked to it with the impatience, and the most of delight.
"Miss Grey," said she, one evening, a month the all-important day, as I was a long and of my sister's—which I had just at in the to see that it no very news, and till now, unable to a moment for reading it, "Miss Grey, do put away that dull, letter, and to me! I'm sure my talk must be more than that."
She seated herself on the low at my feet; and I, a of vexation, to up the epistle.
"You should tell the good people at home not to you with such long letters," said she; "and, above all, do them on proper note-paper, and not on those great sheets. You should see the little lady-like notes to her friends."
"The good people at home," I, "know very well that the longer their are, the I like them. I should be very sorry to a little lady-like note from any of them; and I you were too much of a lady yourself, Miss Murray, to talk about the ‘vulgarity' of on a large of paper."
"Well, I only said it to you. But now I want to talk about the ball; and to tell you that you positively must put off your till it is over."
"Why so?—I shall not be present at the ball."
"No, but you will see the rooms out it begins, and the music, and, above all, see me in my new dress. I shall be so charming, you'll be to me—you must stay."
"I should like to see you very much; but I shall have many opportunities of you charming, on the occasion of some of the and parties that are to be, and I cannot my friends by my return so long."
"Oh, mind your friends! Tell them we won't let you go."
"But, to say the truth, it would be a to myself: I long to see them as much as they to see me—perhaps more."
"Well, but it is such a time."
"Nearly a by my computation; and, besides, I cannot the of a Christmas from home: and, moreover, my sister is going to be married."
"Is she—when?"
"Not till next month; but I want to be there to her in making preparations, and to make the best of her company while we have her."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I've only got the news in this letter, which you as and stupid, and won't let me read."
"To is she to be married?"
"To Mr. Richardson, the of a parish."
"Is he rich?"
"No; only comfortable."
"Is he handsome?"
"No; only decent."
"Young?"
"No; only middling."
"Oh, mercy! what a wretch! What of a house is it?"
"A little vicarage, with an ivy-clad porch, an old-fashioned garden, and "
"Oh, stop!—you'll make me sick. How can she it?"
"I she'll not only be able to it, but to be very happy. You did not ask me if Mr. Richardson were a good, wise, or man; I have answered Yes, to all these questions—at least so Mary thinks, and I she will not herself mistaken."
"But—miserable creature! how can she think of her life there, up with that old man; and no of change?"
"He is not old: he's only six or seven and thirty; and she herself is twenty-eight, and as as if she were fifty."
"Oh! that's then—they're well matched; but do they call him the ‘worthy vicar'?"
"I don't know; but if they do, I he the epithet."
"Mercy, how shocking! and will she wear a white and make and puddings?"
"I don't know about the white apron, but I say she will make and now and then; but that will be no great hardship, as she has done it before."
"And will she go about in a plain shawl, and a large bonnet, and to her husband's parishioners?"
"I'm not clear about that; but I say she will do her best to make them in and mind, in with our mother's example."
