THE DRESSMAKER AND HER CUSTOMER.

Constance Hudson, for the marriage being a secret we must still call her by that name, wanted a dress-maker who could cut up the cerulean silk which lay concealed under her pillows into gores and trimmings, shapely and graceful, as the robes she had so coveted on the stylish girls who looked down upon her at the dancing-school. But she had no information by which to guide her search, and was sadly at loss. Her strangely-isolated existence had been barren of friends, even acquaintances; and there was no one with whom she could take counsel, except little Rhoda, who might have guided her out of this difficulty.

Constance was afraid to trust Rhoda. The inquisitive little thing might insist upon interfering, and, being an excellent judge of prices, would probably enlighten her father and excite unpleasant questions.

But the masquerade was approaching and something most be done. There was an old, worn-out dress-maker in the house, who kept herself from absolute starvation by altering dresses and fitting cheap garments for the poor people around her. She had made the rattling silk of which Constance complained so much, and considered it a miracle of elegance. Indeed, it had inspired the admiration of the whole neighborhood, but Constance had been among really well-dressed women since then, and entertained no idea of trusting her azure silk in the hands of widow Croft. Still, the old woman might be able to point out some more efficient person; and, in order that this might be done, Constance dropped into her little room one day and soon got the intelligence she wanted.

Widow Croft was lame, and had given up going out to day's work more than a year, but some of her old customers dropped in upon her, now and then, with something to alter or mend, and talked about other dress-makers quite confidentially. She had never seen the person, but there was a young dress-maker in P—— street, up stairs, who took in work, and was considered really stylish by very fashionable people. Mrs. Croft had the address somewhere, for a lady had left it with her, and thus Constance found her greatest difficulty removed.

The next day the girl we call Constance Ellery, found herself surrounded by a cloud of billowy silk and filmy white lace, measuring, cutting, sewing, and searching her brain for some novel idea of trimming which should establish her in the good opinion of the most dashing, reckless, and profitable customer that had ever entered that humble apartment. The silk was rich and heavy enough to give forth that soft, luxurious rustle about which her customer had been so eloquent to her husband; and the lace that lay entangled in its folds like the fleecy whiteness of a cloud, had a value of gold in it which startled the dress-maker when she thought of the responsibility it imposed on her.

The dress-maker who follows her calling from natural artistic taste, possesses more of genius than most persons are willing to admit. Labor performed under the inspiration of ideas ceases to be work, and exalts itself into the fine arts. Constance Ellery soon became interested in her task; the sloping gores resolved themselves into a sweeping train, long and flowing into rich waves of azure, softened by the whiteness of delicate lace, impalpable as if the frost of a single night had passed over it. Folds of satin were woven in and out of this exquisite fabric. Narrow lace lay upon the table ready for the corsage when that would come under consideration. Never was a young girl more richly surrounded, and never did one work more zealously.

Toward evening the skirt was finished, and laid daintily across the little bed in the corner, sweeping to the floor in rich, sumptuous folds that might have satisfied an empress. The corsage, shapely as the form to which it had been fitted, was well in hand, and each turn of those deft fingers gave it new grace. Constance Ellery had promised to have the dress finished in two days—and this was the second on which she had been working. Her hands flew up and down, in and out, like little snow-birds picking up seed. She had promised the dress, and it must be done; so each moment found her more and more diligent, till she fairly panted for breath in her anxiety.

Toward night she slackened this eager haste a little, and sewed on more leisurely; the sumptuous garment was almost finished now, and the pretty dress-maker was pleased with the effect. Nothing half so beautiful had ever passed under her hands before. She felt all the pride of creation in it, and broke out into scraps of song more than once as her task drew near its completion.

When it was quite dark, Constance Hudson came after her dress, flushed and excited as if she had walked fast, and was still followed by some apprehension. With a quick glance she saw that the dress-maker had kept her promise, and the roses in her cheek grew vivid with pleasure.

"What a good girl you are," she said, throwing her bonnet on the bed, and seizing upon the dress so eagerly that it was dragged half across the floor. "Oh! I am crazy to try it on; but if it shouldn't fit? Mercy on me! what if it should not fit?"

"But it will," said the dress-maker, rescuing the dress from Constance. "It is sure to be all right."

Constance Hudson was too busy divesting herself of the dress that she wore, for any notice of this assurance. Lifting the skirt over her head, she dropped it carelessly around her feet, and held out both white arms for the new garment. As she made this gesture, Constance Ellery paused for a moment with the rich dress in her hands, lost in admiration of the beautiful woman before her. Untaught as she was in the arts, this girl felt the effect of such rare beauty in all her being—the rounded arms tapering downward in their smooth whiteness; the sloping shoulders, and exquisite bust just defined through the lace of her undergarments, pure and white as the whitest marble, were so perfect that even this untaught girl felt their loveliness as if it had been sculptured by an artist. In taking off her bonnet, a long, heavy curl coiled itself down her neck; and Constance Hudson had given it an impatient dash on one side, leaving it in a sumptuous wave on her left shoulder, which gleamed out from under it like lilies in the shade.

Down upon these white shoulders, overflowing them with brightness, came those waves of blue silk rustling, floating, and settling around her in soft, luxurious folds. Then the corsage was fitted to the slender waist; buttons of Roman pearl, pendant and pear-shaped, fastened it over the bust and gleamed out from the frost-like lace. A tangle of blue and lace, that seemed like floating mist, held the exquisite garment in place of a sleeve, scarcely concealing that graceful curve where the shoulder melted into the snow of the arm.

"Let me look! Let me look!" exclaimed the impatient creature. "I feel like a queen—let me see if I am like one."

She pushed the dress-maker aside, and went up to a rather good-sized, old-fashioned glass in a tarnished frame, which was the only ornament the room boasted.

"Hold up the light—higher—higher. There! Oh isn't it stunning?"

"I thought you would like it," said the dress-maker, well pleased that her work was appreciated. "See, this is a better light!"

Constance Ellery was standing a little on one side, yet behind her customer, holding up the lamp which shed its flickering radiance alike upon them both. All at once Constance Hudson dropped her hands from the lace she had been arranging over her bosom, and fastened her eyes, with a steady, fascinated gaze, on the mirror. Then she turned and faced the dress-maker angrily, even haughtily.

"What on earth does this mean?" she said. "There is something here that I do not understand."

The dress-maker colored painfully. She had no idea what the girl meant by that searching look and defiant tone.

"Is there anything wrong about the dress?" she questioned, faintly. "I—I thought it so beautiful."

"Pooh! I am only a fool! Don't mind me," was the brusque reply. "It is beautiful! One would think I had grown into it; but my arms need bracelets, half a dozen of them; and I must have a necklace."

"No, no!" protested Constance Ellery. "All this perfect outline would be destroyed. A moss rose-bud on the left shoulder, just a few in the hair, and you will be lovely."

"That is what _he_ said," answered Constance. "Strange, isn't it, that you should settle on the same idea."

"Have I been agreeing with some gentleman?" said the dress-maker, blushing, as she fastened the last button. "Well, it is a mere chance, for I scarcely know a gentleman, except my uncle."

"Then you have an uncle?" asked Constance, carelessly, with her mind on her dress.

"Yes, the dearest and best that ever lived."

"I suppose every girl thinks that of her relations till she marries?" said Constance, still busying herself with the lace upon her bosom.

"Are you married, then?" asked the dress-maker.

"Married? Me? Oh, goodness! Do I look like a married woman?"

Constance Hudson broke into a peal of mocking laughter as she spoke, but her face and neck turned scarlet. She began to unbutton the dress with more energy than was needed, as if something had made her angry.

"I must hurry off the dress," she said, "or that uncle of yours may be coming in and catch me."

"No danger," said the dress-maker, with a sigh; "he is seldom here; business keeps him away so much."

"Just like my father; but he's a splendid old fellow, I can tell you."

The dress-maker busied herself in folding the dress which Constance Hudson flung to her as she took it off.

"Do it up just as small as you can," she said. "I want to carry it home under my shawl. You will want some money—how much?"

Constance Hudson thrust one hand into her bosom, and drew forth a roll of bills; "How much?" she repeated.

The dress-maker blushed a little. She always did color when receiving money, poor thing! and mentioned a moderate sum, which astonished and half-offended her customer. Constance had heard the young ladies of her class speak boastfully, regarding the enormous bills sent in by their dress-makers, as if extravagance were a thing to be proud of, and Constance's moderation rather offended her. So she flattered her crisp fifty-dollar notes over and over, in order to convince the humble girl that she was one of those who could afford to pay tremendous prices; then selecting just twice as much as Constance had charged, handed it to her carelessly.

"That is about the right thing, I should say. Don't blush! Don't look so flustered! I shan't touch a cent of change. The work is done beautifully. I am quite satisfied at any price; in fact, another five dollar bill might be thrown in. Here it is—no thanks! Gracious! how you blush! Good evening! I will call again some day—there is a thing I want to make out. Do you know there is something about you that puzzles me?"

"Is there?" said the dress-maker. "I cannot think what! But I have given you no receipt. Indeed, I do not know the name."

"Oh! you never mind that! Good-evening! I shall be sure to come again. This blue silk isn't the only dress I am going to have, by a long-shot. You'll see!"

Constance Hudson took the bundle in her arms, drew her shawl over it, and went out of the house so elated that she almost hugged the precious burden in self-gratulation.

"I hope father won't be at home; he might insist on seeing it. Well, after all, what if he did? The old fellow doesn't know one kind of silk from another—I needn't be afraid of him; but William, my gracious! what _would_ he say?"

Just then the shadow of a man, who had been walking behind her, came out boldly on the pavement, and some one spoke her name almost in a whisper.

Constance Hudson jumped aside and gave a little scream.

"Why, Mr. Church, is it you? Goodness! how you scared me!"

"Yes, Constance, it is I. But what are you doing out alone at this late hour?"

"Late? Is it? I didn't know."

"With a huge bundle, too! Oh, Constance!"

"It is my dress—my ball-dress, you know. I could not trust any one to bring it home because of father."

"Oh! that is it! Well, we are near the house, run in, leave that enormous bundle, and come out again; I have something to say to you."

"Don't wait near the door, then," was her reply—and our readers will need no other proof that Sterling's wife had become used to meeting Mr. Church oftener than her father or husband dreamed of.