Moon-faced babies crowed and clapped
their chubby hands when she passed by their
wicker-thrones; story-loving children clustered
round her knee, and never were denied; pale invalids
found wild-flowers on their pillows; and
forlorn papas forgot the state of the moneymarket
when she sang for them the homely airs their
daughters had no time to learn. Certain plain
young ladies poured their woes into her friendly
ear, and were comforted; several smart Sophomores
fell into a state of chronic stammer, blush,
and adoration, when she took a motherly interest
in their affairs; and a melancholy old Frenchman
blessed her with the enthusiasm of his nation, because
she put a posy in the button-hole of his
rusty coat, and never failed to smile and bow as
he passed by. Yet Debby was no Edgworth heroine
preternaturally prudent, wise, and untemptable;
she had a fine crop of piques, vanities, and
dislikes growing up under this new style of cultivation.
She loved admiration, enjoyed her purple
and fine linen, hid new-born envy, disappointed
hope, and wounded pride behind a smiling face,
and often thought with a sigh of the humdrum
duties that awaited her at home.
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