University of Virginia Library

“Isabel,”—it was Eleanor who spoke,—
“You should have been a lady! Every turn
Of shoulder, every poise of arm or foot,
Reminds me of the graceful dames who stooped
To pet me at my father's festivals.
I never see you in that working-gown
And coarse stuff apron, but I find myself
Murmuring ‘There 's Cinderella!’”
Where 's the shoe?
O for a fairy-coach, a godmother!”
Laughed Isabel; “for I, in honest truth,
Have also dreamed of these things.”
“And the prince?”
Asked Esther. Why did foolish Isabel blush?
“Perhaps I am a lady, Eleanor,”
She said, in haste, the sunset of her cheek
Fading along its oval, brown and rich,
And dying in deep dimples. “‘Now sit still
And be a little lady, Isabel!’
My mother used to say, when company
Came to take tea with us, and she had fears
That I should be too much myself. And I,
Who had a lady painted on my brain
From English story-books, with folded hands
And puckered lips, sat picturing myself
Some proud earl's daughter. ‘Lady!’ Who defines
That word correctly?”
“Who defines what word?
Ask me, young woman.”
And a gay moon-face,
With laughter pencillings about the eyes,
Round as two moons, and tresses crinkling brown
Over a forehead smooth as infancy's,
Shone in between the looms.
“Well, tell us, then,
What ‘lady’ means: for, Minta Summerfield,
They say I'm like one; not the real thing!”