frock, and the pink shoes and stockings! Was ever a governess in such a plight? But light-hearted Sydney soon got over it, and ended by dancing a jig next evening in the back hall.
Many were her adventures and many were the odd pranks she played, but they would take too long to relate here. She finished her first novel, however, and when the Fetherstonhaughs went to their town house in Dominick Street, she brought it with her. One fine morning, she borrowed the cook's cloak and bonnet, and set out, with the precious MS. under her arm. She relates how she wandered on and on, until she came to Henry Street. Here she stopped, for she saw the name of "T. Smith, Printer and Bookseller," over the door. After some delay, a good-humoured, middle-aged man, with his face half shaved and a razor in one hand, appeared, and the following conversation, as told by the authoress herself, took place: —
"I want to sell a book, please."
"To sell a book, dear? An ould one, for I sell new books myself. What is it about and what is the name of it?"
I was now occupied in taking off the rose-coloured ribbon with which I had tied my manuscript.
"What, it's a manuscript, is it? " cried Mr. Smith.
"The name, sir," I said, "is 'St. Clair.'"
"Well, now, my dear, I have nothing to do
