In the first place, she was what Mrs.Arthur James Johnson called "a fine lady," and what the maids called "a real lady." She was an old friend and, I think, a relative of my father, who had married a little below his own rank--my mother being the daughter of a rich manufacturer.

My father had died before I can remember things, and Joseph and I lived with our mother and her friends.

At least, we were with our mother when she could bear the noise; and for the rest of our time, when we were tired of playing games together, we sat with the maids.
"That is where you learned your little _toss_ and your trick of grumbling, my dear," my godmother said, planting her gold eye-glasses on her high nose; "and that is why your mouth is growing out of shape, and your forehead getting puckered, and your chin poked, and--and your boots bulged crooked." "_My boots_, godmother ?" "Your boots, my dear.

No boots will keep in shape if you shake your hips and kick with your heels like a servant out Sunday walking.

When little girls flounce on the high road, it only looks ridiculous; but when you grow up, you'll never have a clean petticoat, or be known for a well-bred woman behind your back, unless you learn to walk as if your legs and your feelings were under your own control.