Marie always made a point to be very pious on Sundays.

There she stood, so slender, so elegant, so airy and undulating in all her motions, her lace scarf enveloping her like a mist.

She looked a graceful creature, and she felt very good and very elegant indeed.

Miss Ophelia stood at her side, a perfect contrast.
It was not that she had not as handsome a silk dress and shawl, and as fine a pocket-handkerchief; but stiffness and squareness, and bolt-uprightness, enveloped her with as indefinite yet appreciable a presence as did grace her elegant neighbor; not the grace of God, however,--that is quite another thing! "Where's Eva ?" said Marie.
"The child stopped on the stairs, to say something to Mammy." And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs?
Listen, reader, and you will hear, though Marie does not.
"Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully." "Lord bless you, Miss Eva! my head allers aches lately.

You don't need to worry." "Well, I'm glad you're going out; and here,"-- and the little girl threw her arms around her,--"Mammy, you shall take my vinaigrette." "What! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them diamonds! Lor, Miss, 't wouldn't be proper, no ways." "Why not?
You need it, and I don't.