"We'll have to piece it on this end," and Walter laughed. "We must get our money's worth."

"We might stay over," suggested Dele mirthfully.

"Just the thing," returned Jim, "and all for the same money."

The children glanced at each other in sudden surprise. The glory of a grand conspiracy shone in their eyes.

"Well, that's too good!" declared Walter. "Won't I just brag of that at school on Monday. Oh, yes, let's stay."

"We had better go down, for it is getting cool up here. If we only had something to eat. Hanny, are you hungry? I don't believe Nora ever knows whether she has eaten or not. Mother says she's just the worst. I don't mind a bit, but you all——"

"I wouldn't give a copper for supper. It's ever so much more fun staying," rejoined Walter.

"I'm always hungry as a bear, but I'd a hundred times rather stay," Jim replied. "Hanny, will you mind?"

"I'm not a bit hungry," answered Hanny. "It's all so beautiful. Oh, do let's stay!"

"That settles it. Dele, you are a trump."

They picked their way carefully down-stairs. The room was not very brilliantly lighted, but they found many curiosities that had escaped their attention before. They espied the diorama and it interested them very much. Half a dozen people straggled in. The janitor turned on more light, and began to arrange a platform in a recess.

How any one would feel at home Jim never thought. The rest were in the habit of doing quite as they liked, and Delia often stayed at her aunt's until nine o'clock.

At seven the main hall was quite full. The people were crowding up around the platform. The children went too. The curtain was swung aside and out stepped Tom Thumb, to be received with cheers. He sang a song and went through with some military evolutions. There was a railing around and no one could crowd upon him, but a number spoke to him and shook hands.

"My little girl," said a tall gentleman who had watched Hanny's ineffectual efforts to make herself taller, "will you let me hold you up? Wouldn't you like to shake hands? You're not much bigger yourself."

"Oh, please do," entreated Dele in her eager young voice. "She is so small."

Hanny was a little startled, but the man held her in his arms and she smiled hesitatingly. As she met the kindly eyes she said, "Oh, thank you. It's so nice."

The general came down that end.

"Here is a little lady wants to shake hands with you," the gentleman said, who was quite a friend of Tom Thumb's.

The small hand was proffered. Hanny was almost afraid, but she put hers in it and the gallant little general hoped she was well. Then he made a bow and retired behind the curtain, and it was announced that he would appear again after the lecture-room performance.

They went in and took their seats. Nora was tired, and leaning her head on Dele's shoulder went sound asleep. Hanny was getting tired; perhaps, too, she missed her supper.

It wasn't quite so much fun, for the play was just the same. The audience enjoyed it greatly. The Indians were more obstreperous, and sang a hideous song. The vocalists sang many popular songs of the day, "Old Dan Tucker," "Lucy Long," "Zip Coon," and several patriotic songs. There was more dancing than in the afternoon, and the boys enjoyed the Juba in song and dance by a "real slave darkey" who had been made so by a liberal application of burnt cork, and who could clap and pat the tune on his knee.

They did not stop to see Tom Thumb again, but went straight down-stairs. Walter said good-night and declared he had had a splendid time, and Dele must thank Cousin The again. The four others bundled into the stage, which was crowded, but some kindly disposed people held both Nora and Hanny. They had quite a habit of doing it then.

Jim had been wondering what they would say at home. Of course he knew now he ought not have stayed. But nothing had happened, and Hanny was all right, and—well, he would face the music whatever it was. If Dele could be trusted, why not he?

There had been a good deal of anxiety. Mrs. Underhill had expected them home by six, but their father said: "Oh, give them a little grace." But when seven o'clock came she went down to Whitney's to inquire. The table was still standing. Mrs. Whitney sat at the head with a book in her hand; Dave, the second son, was smoking and reading his paper. Both girls had gone out.

"Oh, Mrs. Underhill, don't feel a bit worried! They'll come home all safe. I shouldn't wonder if Dele had taken them over to her aunt's, and she'll never let them come home without their supper. She's the greatest hand for children I ever saw. And Dele's so used to going about. Then everybody's out on Saturday night. Dear me! I haven't given it an anxious thought," declared Mrs. Whitney.

But Mrs. Underhill could not take it so comfortably.

"There's so many of them we should hear if anything had happened," said John. "And there is no use looking, for we shouldn't know where they are; Jim's pretty good stuff too, for a country boy. Now, mother, don't be foolish."

But she grew more and more uneasy. If she had not let Hanny go! What could she have been thinking of to do such a thing?

After nine Mr. Underhill walked out to the Bowery, and watched every stage that halted at the corner. Men, women, and children alighted, but no little girl. Oh, where could she be? He felt almost as if the world was coming to an end.

Then a familiar group all talking at the same time stepped out on the sidewalk. A big girl and two little ones.

"O father, father!" cried Hanny.

He wanted to hug her there in the street. It seemed to him he had never been so glad and relieved in all his life, or loved her half so well.

"Where have you stayed so long?"

"We went to two museums," said Hanny, before the elders could find their tongues. "And oh, father, we saw Tom Thumb and he's just as little and cunning as a baby! And he shook hands with me. A gentleman held me up. It was beautiful, but I'm awful tired."

"Oh, were you troubled?" cried Delia. "Why didn't you just go in to ma and she would have told you that I always come up right, and that nothing ever happens to me, I'm so used to taking care of children. Why, when we lived down town I used to take out the neighbors' children—over to Staten Island and to Williamsburg, and always brought them home safely. Then we hadn't half seen the curiosities, and we should have missed the nice time with that lovely little Tom Thumb. And we thought it such capital fun!"

Mr. Underhill really could not say a word. Tired as she was, the little girl was full of delight. Jim tried to make some explanations and take part of the blame, but Delia talked them all down and was so fresh and merry that you couldn't imagine she had gone without her supper.

Mrs. Underhill stood at the area gate with a shawl about her shoulders. The little girl let go of her father's hand and ran to her.

"Dear Mrs. Underhill," began Dele, "I expect you'll almost want to kill me, but I never thought about your being worried, for no one ever worries about me. I suppose it is because I never do get into any danger. And you must not scold any one, for I was the eldest, except Cousin Walter, and it was my place to think, but I didn't one bit. It seemed awful funny, you know, to have it all over for the same money, and we not paying anything at all! And I did take good care of Hanny. She's had a lovely time—we all have. And please don't scold Jim. He's been a perfect gentleman. We didn't do anything rude nor coarse, and everybody was as polite to us as if we'd been Queen Victoria's children. And so good-night."

"Jim, your father ought to give you a good thrashing. The idea! I wouldn't have believed any child of mine could have had such a little sense," his mother declared.

I don't know what might have happened, but just then Steve and Margaret returned. And when Steve caught sight of Jim's sober face and heard the story, he thought it very boylike and rather amusing. Besides, it seemed a pity to spoil the good time. So he laughed, and told Jim he had cheated Mr. Barnum out of a quarter, and that he would have to save up his money to make it good.

"And he owes me nine cents toward the omnibus ride. He must pay me that first," said his mother sharply.

"I wasn't admitted twice" rejoined Jim. "It is the admittance. I didn't see any notice about not staying, and I don't believe I really owe Mr. Barnum another quarter."

"Jim, I think I'll educate you for a lawyer. You have such a way of squirming out of tight places."

They all laughed.

"Mother, do give the children some supper," said their father.

"Here, Jim, pay your mother." Steve laid him down sixpence and three pennies. We had Mexican sixpences and shillings in those days. "You'll have enough on your mind without that debt. And next time think of the folks at home."

"Why didn't the Whitneys feel worried? Oh, thank you, Steve."

"It did beat all," said Mrs. Underhill. "There Mrs. Whitney sat reading a novel——"

"Perhaps it was her French exercise," interrupted Steve, with a twinkle in his eye.

"It was no such thing! It was a yellow-covered novel!" I don't know why they persisted in putting novels in pronounced yellow covers to betray people, unless it was that publishers wouldn't use false pretences. And to put a story in the fatal color made it as reprehensible to most people as a yellow aster. "And such a table!" Mrs. Underhill caught her breath. "Everything at sixes and sevens, and the cloth looking as if it had been used a month, and Mrs. Whitney as unconcerned as if the children had only gone down to the corner. I declare I couldn't be so—so——"

"But they're a jolly lot. They save a great deal of strength in not worrying. And they know Dele is trusty. She's a smart girl, too."

"Well, I wouldn't want any of my sons to marry girls brought up as those Whitneys."

"Hear that, Jim. You are fairly warned."

Jim turned scarlet.

"Jim will have to be in better business many a year than thinking of girls," subjoined his mother decisively.

The little girl didn't seem very hungry. She ate her bread-and-milk and talked over the delights of the afternoon, and her enjoyment mollified her mother a good deal. Jim considered at first whether it wouldn't rather even up things if he went without his supper, but the biscuits and the boiled beef were so tempting, and in those days boys could eat the twenty-four hours round. People were wont to say they had the digestion of an ostrich. But I think if you had tried them on nails and old shoes the ostrich would have gone up head.

"Oh, do you see how late it is? I know Hanny will be sick to-morrow! And Jim, you'll have the doctor's bill to pay."

"Oh, no," said Hanny with a smile, "Joe has promised to doctor me for nothing."

Mrs. Underhill lost her point. Jim wanted a good laugh, but he thought it would hardly be prudent.

Of course something ought to have happened to impress their wrong-doing on the children. But it didn't. They were all well and bright the next morning. Mr. Theodore Whitney took occasion to say that he hoped the Underhills wouldn't feel offended. It was just a young people's caper, and he thought it rather amusing.

Mrs. Whitney said in the bosom of her household: "Well, I wonder that Mrs. Underhill has an ounce of fat on her bones if she's worried that way about her eight children! I always felt to trust mine to Providence."

Jim "gave away" the thing at school, and was quite a hero. But some of the boys had crawled under a circus tent. And a circus was simply immense!

Lily Ludlow said, out of her bitterest envy, "I shouldn't have thought you would let a girl take you out, Jim Underhill!"

"She didn't take me! I bought my own ticket. And there was her cousin——"

"Well—if you like that style of people—and red hair—and Dele Whitney has no more figure than a post! I wouldn't be such a fat chunk for anything! And her clothes are just wild."

"Of course you're ever so much the prettiest. And I wish we could go to the Museum together, just us two." Jim thought it would be fine to take out one girl.

That mollified Lily a little.

"And I just wish you lived up by our house. It seems so easy then to come in. And when you once get real well acquainted—intimate like—well, you know I like you better than any girl in school;" though Jim wondered a little if it was absolutely true.

"Do you, really?" The eyes and the smile always conquered him. She made good use of both.

"Oh, you know I do."

Chris didn't see why she couldn't get acquainted with Margaret. She wanted her mother to call, but Mrs. Ludlow said, "I've more friends now than I can attend to." And Miss Margaret seemed to hold up her head so high. Then Mr. Stephen was going to marry in the Beekman family. And Chris wondered why Mr. John didn't go in some store business instead of learning a carpenter's trade.

Hester Brown was out of school a week. Mrs. Craven had begged the girls not to tease her, but after a few days she announced that a mistake had been made in the calculation—some people thought three years—but the end was sure. However three years seems a lifetime to children.



CHAPTER X

A MERRY CHRISTMAS

George Underhill came down and made a nice long visit. He felt he liked his own home people a little the best, but his heart was still set on farming. Thanksgiving came after a lovely Indian summer, such as one rarely sees now. Then each State appointed its own Thanksgiving, and there were people who boasted of partaking of three separate dinners.

After that it was cold. The little girl had a good warm cloak and hood and mittens, and it was nothing to run to school. She studied and played, and knew two pretty exercises on the piano. Jim and Benny Frank grew like weeds. But Benny somehow "gave in" to the boys, and two or three of the school bullies did torment him.

"I'd just give it to them!" declared Jim. "I wouldn't be put upon and called baby and a mollycoddle and have that Perkins crowding me off the line and losing marks. I'd give him such a right-hander his head would hum like a swarm of bees."

It was not because Benny was afraid. But he was a peace-loving boy and he thought fighting brutal and vulgar. His books were such a delight. He liked to go in and talk to Mr. Theodore, as they all called the eldest Whitney son. Mr. Theodore in his newspaper capacity had found out so many queer things about old New York, they really called New York that in early 1800. He had such wonderful portfolios of pictures, and nothing in the Whitney house was too good to use.

Hanny often went in as well. And though Dele was such a harum-scarum sort of girl, she was good to the children and found no end of diversions for them. Nora was a curious, grave little thing, and her large dark eyes in her small, sallow face looked almost uncanny. She devoured fairy stories and knew many of the mythological gods and goddesses. They had a beautiful big cat called Old Gray. It really belonged to Mr. Theodore, but Nora played with it and tended it, and dressed it up in caps and gowns and shawls and carried it around. It certainly was a lovely tempered cat. Hanny was divided in her affection between the Deans' dolls and Nora's cat. The play-house was too cold to use now, and Mrs. Dean objected to having it all moved down to her sewing-room. But Mr. Theodore's room had a delightful grate, a big old lounge, a generous centre-table where the girls used to play house under the cover, and such piles of books everywhere, so many pictures on the wall, such curious pipes and swords and trophies from different lands. You really never knew whether it was cleared up or not, and the very lawlessness was attractive.

Sometimes they sat in the big rocker, that would hold both, and they would divide the cat between them and sing to her. Occasionally kitty would tire of such unceasing attention, and emit a long, appealing m-i-e-u. If Mr. Theodore was there—and he never seemed to mind the little girls playing about—he would say, "Children, what are you doing to that cat?" and they would no longer try to divide her, but let her curl up in her own fashion.

"Oh, mother!" said the little girl, one rainy afternoon when she had to stay in, "couldn't we have a Sunday cat that didn't have to stay out in the stable and catch mice for a living? Nora's is so nice and cunning and you can talk to it just as if it was folks. And you can't quite make dolls, folks. You have to keep making b'lieve all the time."

"Martha doesn't like cats. And Jim would torment it and plague you continually. And you know I wouldn't let Jim's little dog come in the house."

"But so many people do have cats."

"There's hardly room with so many folks. You wait until Christmas and see what Santa Claus brings you," said her mother cheerily.

There came a little snow and the boys brought out their sleds. For two days the air was alive with shouts and snowballing, and then it was like a drift of gray sand alongside of the street gutter. But winter had fairly set in. Stoves were up.

In the back room at the Underhills' they had a fire of logs on the hearth, and it was delightful.

Ben was tormented more and more. The boys knocked off his cap in the gutter and made up rhymes about him which they sang to any sort of tune. This was one:

"Benjamin Franklin Underhill, Was a little boy too awfully still: Forty bears came out of the wood, And ate up the boy so awfully good."

"Come out from under that hill," while some boy would reply, "Oh, he dassent! He's afraid his shadder'll meet him in the way."

One day he came home with his pocket all torn out. Perkins had slipped a crooked stick in it and given it what the boys called a "yank."

"Go in and ask your mother for a needle and thread. You'll make a good tailor!" he jeered.

"What is all this row about?" asked his mother, who was in the front basement.

Ben held out his jacket ruefully, and said, "Perkins never would leave him alone."

Jim had complained and said Ben always showed the white feather. Mrs. Underhill couldn't endure cowards. She was angry, too, to see his nice winter jacket in such a plight.

"Benny Frank, you just march out and thrash that Perkins boy, or I'll thrash you! I don't care if you are almost as tall as I am. A great boy of fifteen who can't take his own part! I should be ashamed! March straight out!"

She took him by the shoulder and turned him round, whisked him out in the area before he knew where he was. She would not have him so meek and chicken-hearted.

Ben stood a moment in surprise. Jim had been scolded for his pugnacity. Perkins was always worse when Jim wasn't around.

"Go on!" exclaimed his mother.

Ben walked out slowly. The boys were down the street. If they would only go away. He passed the Whitneys and halted. He could rescue hounded cats and tormented dogs, and once had saved a little child from being run over. But to fight—in cold blood!

"Oh, here comes my Lady Jane!" sang out some one.

"She's quite too young— To be ruled by your false, flattering tongue."

"Sissy, wouldn't your mother mend your coat? Keep out of the way of the ragman!"

Perkins was balancing himself on one foot on the curbstone.

"Come on, Macduff!" he cried tragically.

Macduff came on with a quick step. Before the boys could think he strode up to Perkins and with a well-directed blow landed him in the sloppy debris of snow and mud, where the children had been making a pond. And before he could recover Ben was upon him, roused to his utmost. The boys were nearly of a size. They rolled over and over amid the plaudits of their companions, and Ben, who hated dirt and mud and all untidiness, didn't mind now. He kept his face pretty well out of the way, and presently sat on his adversary and held one hand, grasping at the other.

The boys cheered. A fight was a fight, if it was between the best friends you had.

"Beg," said Ben.

"I'll see you in Guinea first!"

Ben sat still. The kicks were futile. With such a heavy weight breathing was a difficult matter.

"You—you—if you'd said fight I'd a-known——" and Perkins gasped.

"Oh, let up, Ben. You've licked him! We didn't think 'twas in you. Come—fair play."

"There's a good deal in me," cried Ben sturdily. "And I'm going to sit here all night till Perkins begs. I've a good seat. You boys keep out. 'Tisn't your fight. And you all know I hate fighting. It may do for wild animals in a jungle."

Ben's lip was swelling a little. A tooth had cut into it. But his eyes were clear and sparkling and his whole face was resolute. Perkins' attempts at freeing his hands grew more feeble.

"Boys, can't you help a fellow?"

"'Twas a fair thing, Perk. You may as well own up beat. Come, no snivelling."

Quite a crowd was gathering. There was no policeman to interfere.

Perkins made a reluctant concession. Ben sprang up and was off like a shot. His mother met him at the door.

"Go up-stairs and put on your best clothes, Ben," she said, "and take those down to the barn." She knew he had come off victor.

"I s'pose I'd had to do it some time," Ben thought to himself. "Mother's awful spunky when she's roused. I hope I won't have to go on and lick the whole crew! I just hate that kind of work."

As he came down his mother kissed him on the white forehead, but neither said a word.

When he went in to see Mr. Theodore that evening he told him the story. It was queer, but he would not have admitted to any one else his mother's threat. Mr. Theodore laughed and said boys generally had to make their own mark in that fashion. Then he thought they would try a game of chess, as Ben knew all the moves.

Jim was surprised and delighted to hear the story the next day. He nodded his head with an air of satisfaction.

"Ben's awful strong," he said. "He could thrash any boy of his size. But he isn't spoiling for a fight."

A few days later there came a real snowstorm of a day and a night. Jim sprung the old joke on Hanny "that they were all snowed up, and the snow was over the tops of the houses." She ran to the window in her night-dress to see. Oh, how beautiful it was! The red chimneys grew up out of the white fleece, the windows were hooded, the trees and bushes were long wands of soft whiteness, the clothes-line posts wore pointed caps.

"Don't stand there in the cold," said Margaret.

They all turned out to shovel snow. The areas were full. The sidewalks all along were being cleared, and it made a curious white wall in the street. Mr. Underhill insisted that the boys should level theirs. Some wagons tried to get through and made an odd, muffled sound. Then there was the joyful jingle of bells. The sun came out setting the world in a vivid sparkle, while the sky grew as blue as June.

Not to have snow for Christmas would have spoiled the fun and been a bad sign. People really did believe "a green Christmas would make a fat graveyard." It was so much better in the country to have the grain and meadows covered with the nice warm mantle, for it was warm to them.

Father Underhill took the little girl to school, for all the walks were not cleared. Men and boys were going around with shovels on their shoulders, offering their services.

"I could earn a lot of money if I didn't have to go to school to-day," said Jim, with a longing look at the piles of snow. "If it only was Saturday!"

But there was no end of fun at school. The boys began two snow-forts, and the snowballing was something tremendous. The air was crisp and cold, and it gave everybody red cheeks.

Before night the stage sleighs were running, for the omnibuses really couldn't get along. Steve came home early to take the boys and Hanny out. Hanny still wore the red cloak and a pretty red hood and looked like a little fairy.

They went over to the Bowery. You can hardly imagine the gay sight it was. Everything that could be put on runners was there, from the dainty cutter to the lumbering grocery box wagon. And oh, the bells on the frosty air! It was enough to inspire a hundred poets.

There were four horses to the long sleigh. Steve found a seat and took the little girl on his lap, covering her with an extra shawl. The boys dropped down on their knees in the straw. It was a great jam, but everybody was jolly and full of good-natured fun. Now and then a youngster threw a snowball that made a shower of snow in the sleigh, but the passengers shook it off laughingly.

They went down to the Battery and just walked across. Castle Garden was a great white mound. Brooklyn looked vague and ghostly. The shipping was huddled in the piers with fleecy rigging, and only a few brave vessels were breasting the river, bluer still than the sky. And here there was such a splendid turnout it looked like a pageant.

They came up East Broadway. The street lamps were just being lighted. They turned up Columbia Street and Avenue D, and stopped when they came to Houston Street. A man on the corner was selling hot waffles as fast as half a dozen men could bake them, and a colored woman had a stand of hot coffee that scented up the air with its fragrance.

They had to walk up home, but Steve carried Hanny over all the crossings. It was a regular carnival. The children decided snow in New York was ever so much more fun than snow in the country.

But after a few days they settled to it as a regular thing, though the sleighs were flying about in their tireless fashion, making the air musical with bells. And Christmas was coming.

It really was Christmas then. Not to have hung up your stocking would have been an insult to the sweetest, merriest, wisest, tenderest little man in the world. There were some fireplaces left for him to come down, and he was on hand promptly.

And such appetizing smells as lurked in every corner of the house! Fruit cake, crullers and doughnuts, and mince pies! Everybody was busy from morning till night. When Hanny went to the kitchen some one said, "Run up-stairs, child, you'll be in the way here," and Margaret would hustle something in her apron and say, "Run down-stairs, Hanny dear," until it seemed as if there was no place for her.

The Dean children were busy, too. But Nora Whitney didn't seem to have anything to do but nurse dear Old Gray and read fairy stories. Delia told them Ophelia was to be married Christmas morning, and "they were going over to his folks in Jersey to spend a week."

"But it won't make a bit of difference," Delia announced. "Frank has a steady beau now and they'll take the parlor. And then, I suppose, it'll be my turn. I shall just hate to be grown up and have long skirts on and do up my hair, and be so fussy about everything. When I think of that I wish I was a boy."

The little girl wondered if Margaret would get married next Christmas. Her gowns were quite long now, and she did have a grown-up air. It seemed years since last Christmas. So many things had happened.

The cousins were to come down from Tarrytown and make a visit, and Aunt Patience and Aunt Nancy were to come up from Henry Street for the Christmas dinner. If they only could bring the cat!

"Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" some one shouted while it was still dark. Hanny woke out of a sound sleep. "Merry Christmas," said Margaret with a kiss.

"Oh dear, I shan't get ahead of anybody," she sighed. "Do you think I could get up, Peggy?"

"I must light a candle," Margaret said.

"Come down and see what's in your stocking, Han!" shouted Jim.

Margaret sprang out of bed and put on the little girl's warm woollen wrapper and let her go down. She ran eagerly to her mother's room, and her father made believe asleep that she might wake him up. She wanted to wish some one Merry Christmas the first of all.

Two wax candles were burning in the back room and the fire was crackling. There were stockings and stockings, and hers were such little mites that some one had hung a white bag on the brass nail that held the feather-duster, and marked it "For Hanny." And a box lay in a chair.

There was a cruller man with eyes, nose, and mouth. There were candies galore, the clarified ones, red and yellow, idealized animals of all kinds. There was an elegant silver paper cornucopia tied with blue ribbons. There was a box of beautiful pop-corn that had turned itself inside out. Ribbon for her hair, a paint-box, a case of Faber pencils, handkerchiefs, a lovely new pink merino dress, a muff that purported to be ermine, a pair of beautiful blue knit slippers tied with ribbons. These didn't come from Santa Claus, for they had on a card—"With best love and a Merry Christmas, from Dolly." That was Dolly Beekman. Hanny laid them up against her face and kissed them, they were so soft and beautiful.

She drew a long breath before she opened the box. Of course it couldn't be a real live kitty. John and Steve were coming in at the door.

"Merry Christmas!" she shouted with the boys They were not so very far ahead of her.

Steve caught her under the arms and held her almost up to the ceiling, it seemed. She was so little and light.

"Ten kisses before you can come down."

She paid the ten kisses, and would have given twice the number.

"I'm trying to guess what is in the box." She looked perplexed and a crease came between her eyes.

"It's a chrononhontontholagosphorus!"

"A—what?" Her face was a study.

The boys shouted with laughter.

"Yes, Joe sent it. Santa Claus had given his all out, and Joe had to skirmish around sharp to get one."

"Is it alive?" she asked timidly, her eyes growing larger with something that was almost fright.

"Oh, Steve!" said Margaret, in an upbraiding tone. "Boys, you're enough to frighten one."

Steve untied the string and took off the cover. Hanny had tight hold of her sister's hand. Steve lifted some tissue paper and tilted up the box. There lay a lovely wax doll with golden hair, a smiling mouth that just betrayed some little teeth, eyes that would open and shut. She was dressed in light-blue silk and beautiful lace. Though her mother had said she was too big to have a doll, Joe knew better.

She was almost speechless with joy. Then she knelt down beside it and took one pretty hand.

"Oh," she said, "I wish you could know how glad I am to have you! There's only one thing that could make me any gladder, that would be to have you alive!" Steve winked his eyes hard. Her delight was pathetic.

Then she had to see the boys' Christmas. Benny Frank had a new suit of clothes, Jim had a pair of boots, which was every boy's ambition then, and an overcoat. And lots of books, pencils, gloves, and the candy it would not have been Christmas without.

Mr. Underhill poked up the fire and took the little girl on his knee. Mrs. Underhill put out the candles, for it was daylight, and then went down to help get breakfast. Cousin Fannie and Roseann, as Mrs. Eustis was always called, came in and had to express their opinion of everything. Then breakfast was ready.

John went down in the sleigh for Aunt Patience and Aunt Nancy Archer. They were not own sisters but sisters-in-law and each had a comfortable income. It did not take very much to make people comfortable then. They owned their house and rented some rooms.

Hanny had to go in and see Josie and Tudie Dean's Christmas and bring them in to inspect hers. Then Dele and Nora Whitney were her next callers. Nora had a silk dress and a gold ring with a prettily set turquoise.

"The marriage was at ten," began Dele, "and it was just nothing at all. I wouldn't be married in such a doleful way. She just had on a brown silk dress with lots of lace, and white gloves, and the minister came and it was all over in ten minutes. There was wedding-cake and wine. I've brought you in some to dream on. Nora and I are going down to Auntie's in Beach Street where there's to be a regular party and a Christmas tree and lots of fun. After 'Phelia comes back she's going to have a wedding-party and wear her real wedding-dress."

Nora thought the doll beautiful. Hanny just lifted it out of the box and put it back. It seemed almost too sacred to touch.

Jim went out presently to get some Christmas cake. The grocers and bakers treated the children of their customers to what was properly New Year's cake, and the boys thought it no end of fun to go around and wish Merry Christmas.

The dinner was at two. Doctor Joseph came in to dine and to be congratulated by the cousins. The little girl's gratitude and delight was very sweet to him. He put up the piano stool and she played her pretty little exercises for him. Then about four he and Steve went down to the Beekmans, where there was a dancing party in the evening.

The elders sat and talked, to Benny Frank's great delight. The "old times" seemed so wonderful to the children. Aunt Patience was the elder of the two ladies, just turned seventy now, and had lived in New York all her life. She had seen Washington when he was the first President of the United States, and lived in Cherry Street with Mrs. Washington and the two Custis children. Afterward they had removed to the Macomb House. Everything had been so simple then, people going to bed by nine o'clock unless on very special occasions. To go to the old theatre on John Street was considered the height of fashionable amusement. You saw the Secretaries and their families, and the best people in the city.

But what amused the children most was the Tea Water Pump.

"You see," said Aunt Patience, "we had nice cisterns that caught rainwater for family use, and we think now our old cistern-water is enough better than the Croton for washing. There were a good many wells but some were brackish and poor, and people were saying then they were not fit to use. The Tea Water pump was on the corner of Chatham and Pearl, and particular people bought it at a penny a gallon. It was carried around in carts, and you subscribed regularly. My, how choice we were of it!"

"There's a pump down here at the junction that's just splendid!" said Jim, "I used to go for water last summer, it was so good and cold."

"We miss our nice spring at home," said Mrs. Underhill, with a sigh.

"And what else?" subjoined Ben.

"Oh, the milk did not go round in wagons. There were not half so many people to supply. We kept a cow and sold to our neighbors. The milkmen had what was called a yoke over their shoulders, with a tin can at each end. They used to cry, 'Milk ho! ye-o!' The garbage man rang his bell and you brought out your pail. A few huckster men were beginning to go round, but Hudson Market was the place to buy fresh vegetables that came in every morning. And, oh, there were the chimney-sweeps!"

"We had our chimney swept here," said Jim. "The man had a long jointed handle and a wiry brush at the end."

"But then there were little negro boys who climbed up and down and sometimes scraped them as they went. But several were smothered or stuck fast in London and it was considered cruel and dangerous. You'd hear the boys in the morning with their 'Sweep ho!' and you wouldn't believe how many variations they could make to it."

"Poor little boys!" said Hanny. "Didn't they get awful black and sooty?"

The boys laughed. "They were black to begin with," said Jim. "All they had to do was to shake themselves."

"And how do you suppose Santa Claus keeps so clean?" asked the little girl, nothing daunted.

That was a poser. No one could quite tell.

"We used to burn out our chimney," announced Aunt Patience.

"Burn it out?"

"Yes. We'd take a rather lowering day, or start in just as it was beginning to rain. We'd put a heap of straw in the fireplace and kindle it, and the soot would soon catch. Then some one would go up on the roof to see if the sparks caught anywhere. We never let it get very dirty. But presently they passed a law that no one should do it on account of the danger. But sometimes chimneys caught fire by accident," and Aunt Patience laughed.

"Why, it was like the wolf in little Red Riding Hood," declared Hanny.

Then they all talked of the old roads and streets and the Collect which was a great marshy pond, and the canal through Lispenard's meadows over to the North River, where present Canal Street runs. In the Collect proper there was a beautiful clear lake where people went fishing. A great hill stood on Broadway, and had to be cut down more than twenty feet.

Father Underhill recalled his first visit to the city when he was nineteen, and going skating with some cousins. And now it was all graded and finished streets, houses, and stores.

But Aunt Patience said it was time to go home, and they planned for the Morgan cousins to come and spend the day. They were to bring the little girl with them.

They had a light supper and then John escorted the ladies home. Benny Frank wanted his father to tell some more incidents of the old times. The little girl was tired and sleepy and ready to go to bed, but she had one wish saved up for next Christmas already—a set of dishes.



CHAPTER XI

THE LITTLE GIRL IN POLITICS

A whole week of holidays! Jim and Benny Frank had their mother almost wild, and Martha said "she would be dead in another week. If Christmas came twice a year there would be no money nor no people left. They would be all worn out."

It was splendid winter weather. Sunny and just warm enough to thaw and settle the snow during the day and freeze it up again at night. Then there came another small fall of snow to whiten up the streets and make the air gayer than ever with bells.

The Morgan cousins had to go down and call on Miss Dolly Beekman, and were very favorably impressed with her. The little girl went with them to Cherry Street and had "just a beautiful time with the kitty," she told her mother. Her blue woollen frock was full of white cat-hairs as a memento. She went to tea with the little Dean girls, she spent an afternoon with Nora, and had the little girls in to visit her. Margaret played on the piano and they had a charming dance, beside playing "Hot butter blue beans," which was no end of fun.

On New Year's Day everybody had "calls." Margaret was hardly considered a young lady, but Miss Cynthia came to help entertain. It was really very pleasant. A number of family relatives called in, some of whom they had not seen since they came to the city. They were all rather middle-aged, though Joe brought in his chum, a very handsome young man who had graduated with his class but was two years older. Margaret was quite abashed by Doctor Hoffman's attention to her, and his saying he should take her good wishes as a happy omen for his New Year. Indeed, she was very glad to have Miss Cynthia come to the rescue in her airy fashion.

Late in the afternoon the Odells drove down. The little girls went up-stairs to see the Christmas things and the lovely doll for whom no name had been good enough. John had a fire in his room and it was nice and warm, so he told them they might go up there. They played "mother" and "visiting," and wound up with a splendid game of "Puss in the Corner." There were only four pussies and they could have but three corners, but it was no end of fun dodging about, and if they did squeal, the folks down in the parlor hardly heard them.

Saturday was Saturday everywhere. It was "Ladies' day" too. But people had to clear up their houses and begin a new week, a new year, as well, for it was 1844.

The little girl wondered what made the years. Mrs. Craven explained that the recurrence of the four seasons governed them, and some rather learned reasons the child could not understand. But she said:

"It seems to me the year ought to begin in spring and not the middle of the winter."

Ophelia came home, she was Mrs. Davis now, and they had a grand party with music and dancing and a supper, and Nora wore her pretty new silk frock. Then Mrs. Davis went down-town to be near her husband's business, and started housekeeping in three rooms.

The next great event on the block was a children's party. They were children then until they were at least sixteen. Miss Lily Ludlow and her sister had ten dollars sent to each of them as a Christmas gift. Chris went out straightway and bought a new coat. Lily's was new the winter before. There were a great many things she needed, but most of all she wanted a party. She had been to two already.

"What a silly idea!" said her father.

But Lily kept tight hold of her idea and her money, and the last of January, with Chris' help, she brought it about. They took the bedstead out of the back parlor and changed the furniture around. And though her mother called it foolishness, she baked some tiny biscuits and made a batch of crullers and boiled a ham. Lily bought fancy cakes, mottoes, candies, and nuts, and a few oranges which were very expensive.

The Underhill boys were invited, of course. Benny said "he didn't believe he would go. He shouldn't know what to do at a party."

"Why, follow your nose," laughed Jim. "Do just as the rest do. Don't be a gump!"

"And I hate to be fooling round girls."

"You don't seem to mind Dele Whitney. You're just cracked about her."

I don't know how the boys of that day managed without the useful and pithy word "mashed."

"It's no such thing, Jim Underhill! She's always down-stairs with her mother. I go in to see Mr. Theodore;" yet Ben's face was scarlet.

"You know you like her," teasingly.

"I do like her. And it's awful mean not to ask her when she's in the same crowd and lives on the block. But she doesn't care. She wouldn't go."

"Sour grapes." Jim made a derisive face.

"You shut up about it."

"Don't get wrathy, Benjamin Franklin."

When his mother said "Benny Frank," he thought it the best name in the whole world. Perhaps part was due to his mother's tone. And Ben was a splendid boy's name. But his schoolmates did torment him. They asked him if he had finished his roll, and if he had any to give away. They pestered him about flying his kite, and inquired what he said to the King of France when he went abroad—if it was "parley vous de donkey." If there is anything the average school-boy can turn into ridicule he does it. When Jim wanted to be exasperating he gave him his whole name. And then Ben wished he had been called plain John, even if there had been two in the family.

But the day of the party Jim coaxed him, and Jim could be irresistible. Then Margaret said: "Oh, yes, I think I would go." She fixed up both of the boys, and scented their handkerchiefs with her "triple extract," and hoped they would have a nice time, insisting that one needn't be afraid of girls.

Of course they did, especially Jim. He was in for all the fun and frolic, and the kissing didn't worry him a bit when the "forfeits" were announced. He didn't mind how deep he "stood in the well," nor how high the tree was from which they "picked cherries." Ben could rise to an emergency if he was not praying for it every moment.

Chris was a great card. She could not help wishing that she knew enough young people in her social round to ask to a party. There were enough young ladies, but a "hen party" wasn't much fun. She made herself very agreeable to the Underhill boys, and wished in the sweetest of tones "that she did know their sister Margaret."

There were a good many imperfect lessons the next day, but the party was the great topic. Hosts of girls were "mad."

"I couldn't ask everybody. The house wouldn't hold them," declared Lily. But she took great comfort in thinking she had "paid out" several girls against whom she had a little grudge. And the "left-outs" declared they wouldn't have gone anyhow. It must be admitted that the party did advance Lily socially.

The family had hardly recovered from this spasm of gayety when Stephen insisted that Margaret should go to a Valentine's ball at the Astor House, to be given to the ladies by a club of bachelors. He was going to take Dolly. Mrs. Bond would be there, and Dolly came up to coax her prospective mother-in-law. "Margaret had not gone into any society and was only a school-girl, altogether too young to have her head filled with such nonsense," with many more reasons and conjunctions. Dolly was so sweet and persuasive, and said the simplest white gown would do, young girls really didn't dress much. Then Margaret would have it ready for her graduation. They would be sure to send her home early and take the best of care of her.

Joe said: "Why, of course she must go. It wasn't like being among strangers with Dolly and her people." So the boys and Dolly carried the day. All the while Margaret's heart beat with an unaccustomed throb. She did not really know whether she wanted to go or not.

St. Valentine's Day was held in high repute then. You sent your best girl the prettiest valentine your purse could afford, and she laid it away in lavender to show to her children. Bashful young fellows often asked the momentous question in that manner. There were some lovely ones, with original verses written in, for there were young bards in those days who struggled over birthday and valentine verses, and who would have scorned second-hand protestations.

Though Margaret didn't get any valentines the little girl received three that were extremely pretty. She asked Steve if he didn't send one.

"Oh, dear," he answered, as if he were amazed at the question, "I had to spend all my money buying Dolly one." And Joe pretended to be so surprised. He had spent his money for Margaret's sash and gloves and bunch of flowers. Even John would not own up to the soft impeachment and declared, "Your lovers sent them."

"But I haven't any lovers," said the little girl, in all innocence.

She used to read them to her mother, and ask her which she thought came from Steve, which from Joe and John. It was quite funny, though, that Nora Whitney had one exactly like one of hers. And even Mr. Theodore declared he didn't send them.

Margaret looked like an angel, the little girl thought. Her white cashmere frock was simply made, with a lace frill about the neck and at the edge of the short sleeves. Her broad blue satin sash was elegant. Miss Cynthia came and plaited her beautiful hair in a marvellous openwork sort of braid, and she had two white roses and a silver arrow in it. Her slippers were white kid, her gloves had just a cream tint, and Miss Cynthia brought her own opera cloak, which was light brocaded silk, wadded and edged with swans-down.

Joe looked just splendid, the little girl decided. If she could only have seen Dolly!

The Beekman coach was sent up for Margaret, who kissed her little sister and went off like Cinderella!

"Oh, do you suppose she will meet the king's son?" asked Hanny, all excitement.

"Oh, child, what nonsense!" exclaimed her mother.

It wasn't the king's son; but young Doctor Hoffman was there, and Margaret danced several times with him. They talked so much about Joe that Margaret felt very friendly with him.

After that the world ran on in snow, in sunshine, and in rain. The days grew longer. March was rough and blowy. Mother Underhill had to go up in the country for a week, for Grandfather Van Kortlandt died. He had been out of health and paralyzed for a year or two. Aunt Katrina had been staying there, and they would go on in the old house until spring. She was grandmother's sister. Of course no one could feel very sorry about poor old Uncle Nickie, as he was called. He had always been rather queer, and was no comfort to himself, for he had lost his mind, but everybody admitted that grandmother had done her duty, and the Van Kortlandt children, grown men and women, thanked her for all her good care.

Oh, what fun the children had on the first of April! What rags were pinned to people—what shrieks of "My cat's got a long tail!" And there on the sidewalk would lay a tempting half-dollar with a string out of sight, and when the pedestrian stooped to pick it up—presto! how it would vanish. When one enterprising wight put his foot on it and picked it up triumphantly the boys called out:

"April fool! That's an awful sell, mister! It's a bad half-dollar."

They watched and saw him bite it and throw it down. Then they went after it and had their fun over and over again. Stephen had given the half-dollar to Jim with strict injunctions not to attempt to pass it or he'd get a "hiding," which no one ever did in the Underhill family. Mrs. Underhill declared "'Milyer was as easy as an old shoe, and she didn't see what had kept the children from going to ruin." Joe always insisted "it was pure native goodness."

Then they called out to the carters and other wagoners: "Oh, mister, say! Your wheel's goin' round!" And sometimes without understanding the driver would look and hear the shout.

They had another trick they played out in the Bowery. Boys had a reprehensible trick of "cutting behind," as the stages had two steps at the back, and the boys used to spring on them and steal rides. It was such a sight of fun to dodge the whip and spring off at the right moment. Sometimes a cross-grained passenger who had been a very good boy in his youth would tell.

On this day they didn't steal the ride. They called out with great apparent honesty: "Cuttin' behind, driver—two boys!"

Then the driver would slash his whip furiously, and even the passers-by would enjoy the joke. Of course you could only play that once on each driver.

Altogether it was a day of days. You were fooled, of course; no one was smart enough to keep quite clear. But almost everybody was good-natured about it. Martha found some eggs that had been "blown," and a potato filled with ashes, and there were inventions that would have done credit to the "pixies."

The little girl would not go out to play in the afternoon, and she didn't even run when Jim said, "Nora wanted her for something special." But she really had no conscience about fooling her father several times. He pretended to be so surprised, and said, "Oh, you little witch!" It was a day on which you had need to keep your wits about you.

Then with the long days and the sunshine came so many things. Little girls skipped rope and rolled hoops, their guiding-sticks tied with a bright ribbon. The boys had iron hoops and an iron guider, and they made a musical jingle as they went along. There were kites too, but you didn't catch Benny Frank flying one. And marbles and ball. In the afternoon the streets seemed alive with children. But what would those people have said to the five-story tenement-houses with their motley crew! Then Ludlow and Allen and many another street wore such a clean and quaint aspect, and the ladies sat at their parlor windows in the afternoon sewing and watching their little ones.

"Ring-a-round-a-rosy" began again. And dear me, there were so many signs! You must not step on a crack in the flagging or something dreadful would happen to you. And you mustn't pick up a pin with the point toward you or you would surely be disappointed. If the head was toward you, you could pick it up and make a wish which would be sure to come to pass. You must cut your finger-nails Monday morning before breakfast and you would get a present before the week was out. And if you walked straight to school that morning you were likely to have good lessons, but if you loitered or stopped to play or were late, bad luck would follow you all the week. And the little girls used to say:

"Lesson, lesson, come to me, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, three, Thursday, Friday, then you may Have a rest on Saturday,"

So you see a little girl's life was quite a weighty matter.

That summer political excitement ran high. Indeed, it had begun in the winter. A new party had nominated Mr. James Harper for mayor, and in the spring he had been elected. Mr. Theodore used to pause and discuss men and measures now that it was getting warm enough to sit out on the stoop and read your paper. Country habits were not altogether tabooed. But what impressed his honor the mayor most strongly on the little girl's mind was something Aunt Nancy Archer, who was now an earnest Methodist, said when she was up to tea one evening.

"I did look to see Brother Harper set up a little. It's only natural, you know, and I can't quite believe in perfection. But there he was in class-meeting, not a mite changed, just as friendly and earnest as ever, not a bit lifted up because he had been called to the highest position in the city."

"There's no doubt but he will make a good mayor," rejoined Mr. Underhill. "He's a good, honest man. And all the brothers are capable men, men who are able to pull together. I'm not sure but we'll have to go outside of party lines a little. It ought to broaden a man to be in a big city."

The little girl slipped her hand in Aunt Nancy's.

"Is he your school-teacher?" she ventured timidly.

"School-teacher? Why, no, child!" in surprise.

"You said class——"

"You'll have to be careful, Aunt Nancy. That little girl has an inquiring mind," laughed her father.

"Yes. It's a church class. I belong to the same church as Brother Harper. We're old-fashioned Methodists. We go to this class to tell our religious experiences. You are not old enough to understand that. But we talk over our troubles and trials, and tell of our blessings too, I hope, and then Brother Harper has a good word for us. He comforts us when we are down at the foot of the hill, and he gives us a word of warning if he thinks we are climbing heights we're not quite fitted for. He makes a comforting prayer."

"I should like to see him," said the little girl.

"Well, get your father to bring you down to church some Sunday. Do, Vermilye."

"Any time she likes," said her father.

They talked on, but Hanny went off into a little dreamland of her own. She was not quite clear what a mayor's duty was, only he was a great man. And her idea of his not being set up, as Aunt Nancy had phrased it, was that there was a great handsome chair, something like a throne, that had been arranged for him, and he had come in and taken a common seat. She was to have a good deal of hero-worship later on, and be roused and stirred by Carlyle, but there was never anything finer than the admiration kindled in her heart just then.

After Aunt Nancy went away she crept into her father's lap.

"Aren't you glad Mr. Harper's our mayor?" she asked. "Did everybody vote for him? Do girls—big girls—and women vote?"

"No, dear. Men over twenty-one are the only persons entitled to vote. Steve and Joe and I voted. And it's too bad, but John can't put in his vote for President this fall."

"The mayor governs the city, and the governor, the State. What does the President do?"

Her father explained the most important duties to her, and that a President was elected every four years. That was the highest office in the country.

"And who is going to be our President?" She was getting to be a party woman already.

"Well, it looks as if Henry Clay would. We shall all work for him."

If it only wouldn't come bedtime so soon!

The little girl studied and played with a will. She could skip rope like a little fairy, but it had been quite a task to drive her hoop straight. She was unconsciously inclined to make "the line of beauty." I don't know that it was always graceful, either.

Some new people moved in the block. Just opposite there was a tall thin woman who swept and dusted and scrubbed until Steve said "he was afraid there wouldn't be enough dirt left to bury her with." She wore faded morning-gowns and ragged checked aprons, and had her head tied up with something like a turban, only it was grayish and not pretty. She did not always get dressed up by afternoon. Oh, how desperately clean she was! Even her sidewalk had a shiny look, and as for her door brasses, they outdid the sun.

She had one boy, about twelve perhaps. And his name was John Robert Charles Reed. He was fair, well dressed, and so immaculately clean that Jim said he'd give a dollar, if he could ever get so much money together, just to roll him in the dirt. His mother always gave him his full name. He went to a select school, but when he was starting away in the morning his mother would call two or three times to know if he had all of his books, if he had a clean handkerchief, and if he was sure his shoes were tied, and his clothes brushed.

And one day a curious sort of carriage went by, a chair on wheels, and a man was pushing it while a lady walked beside it. In the chair was a most beautiful girl or child, fair as a lily, with long light curls and the whitest of hands. Hanny watched in amazement, and then went in to tell her mother. "She looks awful pale and sick," said Hanny.

Josie Dean found out presently who she was. She had come to one of the houses that had the pretty gardens in front. She had been very ill, and she couldn't walk a step. And her name was Daisy Jasper.

Such a beautiful name, and not to be able to run and play! Oh, how pitiful it was!

The little girl had her new spring and summer clothes made. They were very nice, but somehow she did not feel as proud of them as she had last summer. Her father took her to Aunt Nancy's church one Sunday. It was very large and plain and full of people. Aunt Nancy sat pretty well up, but they found her. There seemed a good many old men and women, Hanny thought, but the young people were up in the galleries. She thought the singing was splendid, it really went up with a shout. People sang in earnest then.

When they came out everybody shook hands so cordially. Aunt Nancy waited a little while and then beckoned a tall, kindly looking man, who was about as old as her father, though there was something quite different about him. He shook hands with Sister Archer, and she introduced him. He said he was very glad to see Mr. Underhill among them, and smiled down at the little girl as he took her small hand. She came home quite delighted that she had shaken hands with the mayor. Then one day Steve took her and Ben down to Cliff Street, through the wonderful printing-house, small in comparison to what it is to-day. They met the mayor again and had a nice chat.

The next great thing to Hanny was Margaret's graduation. She had been studying very hard to pass this year, for she was past eighteen, and she was very successful. Even Joe found time to go down. She wore her pretty white dress, but she had a white sash, and her bodice had been turned in round the neck to make it low, as girls wore them then. Hanny thought her the prettiest girl there. She had an exquisite basket of flowers sent her, beside some lovely bouquets. Annette Beekman graduated too, and all the Beekman family were out in force.

There were some very pretty closing exercises in the little girl's school, and at Houston Street Jim was one of the orators of the day, and distinguished himself in "Marco Bozzaris," one of the great poems of that period.

After that people went hither and thither, and when schools opened and business started up the Presidential campaign was in full blast. There was Clay and Frelinghuysen, Polk and Dallas, and at the last moment the Nationals, a new party, had put up candidates, which was considered bad for the Whigs. Still they shouted and sang with great gusto:

"Hurrah, hurrah, the country's risin' For Harry Clay and Frelinghuysen!"

The Democrats, Loco-Focos, as they were often called in derision, were very sure of their victory. So were the Whigs. The other party did not really expect success. There were parades of some kind nearly every night. Even the boys turned out and marched up and down with fife and drum. There was no end of spirited campaign songs, and rhymes of every degree. The Loco Foco Club at school used to sing:

"Oh, poor old Harry Clay! Oh, poor old Harry Clay! You never can be President For Polk stands in the way."

Nora Whitney used to rock in the big chair with kitty in her arms, and this was her version:

"Oh, poor old pussy gray! Oh, poor old pussy gray! You never can be President For Polk stands in the way."

This didn't tease the little girl nearly so much, for she knew no matter how sweet and lovely and good a cat might be, it could only aspire to that honor in catland. She did so hate to hear Mr. Clay called old and poor when he was neither. To her he was brave Harry of the West, the hero of battle-fields.

Jim had a rather hard time as well. He thought, with a boy's loyalty, his people must be right. But there was Lily, who, with all her people, was a rabid Democrat. He quite made up his mind he wouldn't keep in with her, but the two girls he liked next best had Democratic affiliations also.

Then the Whigs had a grand procession. Perhaps it would have been the part of wisdom to wait until the victory was assured, but the leaders thought it best to arouse enthusiasm to the highest pitch.

Stephen had joined with some friends and hired a window down Broadway. The little girl thought it a very magnificent display. Such bands of strikingly dressed men marching to inspiriting music, their torches flaring about in vivid rays, such carriage loads, such wagons representing different industries, and there was the grand Ship of State, drawn by white horses, four abreast, and gayly attired, in which Henry Clay was to sail successfully into the White House. After that imposing display the little girl had no fear at all. Jim was very toploftical to Miss Lily for several days.

Then came the fatal day. There were no telegraphs to flash the news all over the country before midnight. A small one connected Baltimore and Washington, but long distance was considered chimerical.

So they had to wait and wait. Fortunes varied. At last reliable accounts came, and Polk had stood in the way, or perhaps Mr. Binney, the third candidate, had taken too many votes. Anyhow, the day was lost to brave Harry of the West.

The little girl was bitterly disappointed. She would have liked all the family to tie a black crape around their arms, as Joe had once when he went to a great doctor's funeral. Dele teased her a good deal, and Nora sang:

"Hurrah, old pussy gray! Hurrah, old pussy gray! We've got the President and all, And Polk has won the day."

Then the Democrats had their grand procession. The houses were illuminated, the streets were full of shouting children. Even the boys had a small brigade that marched up and down the street. And oh, grief, Jim marched with them!

"I wouldn't be such a turn-coat!" declared the little girl angrily. "I'm ashamed of you, James Underhill. I shall always feel as if you wasn't my brother any more."

"Sho!" returned Jim. "Half the boys turning out have Whig fathers! There wouldn't have been enough for any sort of procession without us. And they promised to cry quits if we would turn out. It don't mean anything but fun!"

She took her trouble to her father. "You are sorry we have been beaten?" she said excitedly.

"Yes, pussy, very sorry. I still think we shall be sorry that Clay isn't President."

"I'm sorry all the time. And when he was so good and splendid, why didn't they put him in?"

"Well, a great many people think Mr. Polk just as splendid."

"Oh, the Democrats!" she commented disdainfully.

"More than half the votes of the country went against our Harry of the West. One side always has to be beaten. It's hard not to belong to the winning side. But we won four years ago, and we did a big lot of crowing, I remember. We shouted ourselves hoarse over the announcement that:

'Tippecanoe and Tyler too! Were bound to rule the country through.'

We drove our enemies out of sight and erected Log Cabins on their ruins. We had a grand, good time. And then our brave and loyal Tippecanoe died, and some of us have been rather disappointed in Mr. Tyler. We will all hope for the best. There are a good many excellent men on both sides. I guess the country will come out all right."

There really were tears in her eyes.

"You see, my little girl, we must make up our minds to occasional defeat, especially when we go into politics," and there was the shrewd laughing twinkle in his eye. "It is supposed to be better for the country to have the parties about evenly divided. They stand more on their good behavior. And we will hope for better luck next time."

"But you couldn't turn round and be a Democrat, could you?" she asked, with a sad entreaty.

"No, dear," he replied gravely.

"I'm glad we have Mayor Harper left. Can the new President put him out?"

"No, my dear."

They kissed each other in half-sorrowful consolation. But alas! next year even Mayor Harper had to go out.



CHAPTER XII

A REAL PARTY

The little girl would have felt a great deal better if Lily Ludlow had not been on the other side. Lily was growing into a very pretty girl. They were wearing pantalets shorter now, and she noticed that Lily wore hers very short. Then aprons were made without bibs or shoulder bands, and had ruffles on the bottom. They were beginning to go farther around, almost like another skirt. Lily had two white ones. She walked up and down the block with a very grand air. Then Miss Chrissy met Margaret at the house of a mutual acquaintance, and invited her very cordially to call on her, and Margaret did the same. Miss Chrissy lost no time, but came card-case in hand, and made herself very agreeable.

"Would you like to go down and call on Jim's girl?" Margaret asked smilingly. Ben always called her that.

"No," replied Hanny, with much dignity. "I don't like her. She called me 'queer' the first time she saw me, and I shouldn't think of calling Nora queer, no matter how she looked. If Jim wants her he may have her, but I do hope they won't live in New York."

The temper was so unusual and so funny that Margaret let it go without a word.

Everything came back to its normal state. Mr. Theodore and her father and Steve remained the same good friends. The party transparencies and emblems were taken down. It seemed to her that people had not been as deeply disappointed as they ought to be. She was very loyal and faithful in her attachments, and no doubt you think quite obstinate in her dislikes.

But something else happened that aroused her interest. Indeed, there were things happening all the time. Miss Jane Underhill, up at Harlem, was dead and buried, and Margaret had taken a great interest in Miss Lois. Cousins had been going and coming. Mrs. Retty Finch had a little son, and Aunt Crete had come down and spent a week with her sister-in-law. But this distanced them all—Steve and Dolly Beekman were going to be married! The Beekmans had been staying up in the country house. All the girls had been married there.

There were to be five bridesmaids. Annette and Margaret were among them. Joe was to be best man and stand with Miss Annette. Doctor Hoffman was to stand with Margaret. There was a Gessner cousin, a Vandam cousin, and Dolly's dear friend, Miss Stuyvesant. All the bridesmaids were to be gowned in white India mull, and Dolly was to have a white brocaded silk, and a long veil that her grandmother had worn. Hosts and hosts of friends were invited. The house would be big enough to take them all in.

Miss Cynthia made the little girl a lovely dress. First she took her pink merino for a slip. Then there were lace puffs divided by insertion, a short baby waist, short sleeves, pink satin bows on her shoulders, with the long ends floating almost like wings, and a narrow pink ribbon around her waist with a great cluster of bows and ends. She was to have her hair curled all around, and to stand and hold Dolly's bouquet while she was being married. I suppose now we would call her a maid of honor.

No one could say that Mr. Peter Beekman had ever given a mean wedding. He liked Stephen very much, and Dolly could almost have wheedled the moon out of him if she had tried. He teased Annette by telling her she would have to be an old maid, and stay home to take care of her father and mother.

Grandmother Van Kortlandt came down. She laid off her mourning and wore her black velvet gown with its English crown point lace. Grandmother Underhill came too, but she wore black silk with her pretty fine lace fichu that she had been married in herself. Uncle David, and Aunt Eunice, who wore a gray satin that had been made for her eldest son's wedding. There were Underhill cousins by the score, some Bounetts from New Rochelle, some Vermilyeas, for no one really worth while was to be slighted.

The day had been very fine and sunny. That was a sign the bride would be merry and happy and pleasant to live with. And when the evening fell the great lawn was all alight with Chinese lanterns that a second cousin in the tea trade had sent Dolly. All the front of the big old house was illuminated. It was square, with a great cupola on top of the second story, and that was in a blaze of light as well.

The Underhills all went up early. Steve was very proud of his mother, who had a pretty changeable silk, lilac and gray, and Joe had given her a collar and cuffs of Honiton lace, to wear at his wedding, he said.

They went in to see the bride when she was dressed. Of course she was beautiful, a pretty girl couldn't look otherwise in her wedding gear. Her veil was put on with orange blossoms and buds, and delicately scented. There was a wreath of the same over one shoulder and across her bosom. Her hair was done in a marvellous fashion, and looked like a golden crown.

How the carriages rolled around and the silks rustled up and down the stairs. There were gay voices and soft laughs, and presently word was sent that the Reverend Dr. De Witt had arrived. Then the immediate family went down. Dolly stooped and kissed Hanny and told her she must not feel a mite afraid. The young men filed out. Stephen took Dolly, just putting her white-gloved hand on his arm as if it was the most precious thing in the world. Joe, smiling and really much handsomer than Stephen, though you couldn't persuade Dolly to any such heresy; then Doctor Hoffman and the others. They seemed to float down the broad stairs. The rooms were very large, but oh, how full they were! The procession walked through the back parlor; Stephen and Dolly and the little girl went straight up to Dr. De Witt, who stood there in his gown and bands, a sweet, reverential old man. The bridesmaids and groomsmen made a half-circle around. There was some soft beautiful music, then a silence. Dr. De Witt began. Dorothea Beekman and Stephen Decatur Underhill promised each other and all the world, to love and cherish, and live together according to God's holy ordinance all their lives.

The little girl held the flowers and listened attentively. She had an idea there must be a great deal more to it and was almost disappointed, for she could not understand that it included all one's life. Dr. De Witt bent over and kissed the bride with solemn reverence. Then Stephen kissed his wife. There was a great deal of kissing afterward, for the new husband kissed the bridesmaids, and the groomsmen had a right to kiss the bride. The mothers had their turn next, and afterward all was laughing confusion.

In the midst of this Philip Hoffman leaned over Margaret.

"I believe you kiss the bridesmaid, too," he said, in a serious fashion, and touched her soft red lips with his. Margaret's face was scarlet, and her breath seemed taken away.

They made a pretty semicircle afterward, and all the guests came up with good wishes. There were so many elegantly dressed people that the little girl was half dazed. I forgot to tell you that she wore her string of gold beads, and they always had a wedding flavor after that.

Presently the procession re-formed and went out to the dining-room, where the table ought to have groaned, if tables ever do. There were some immaculate black waiters who handed one thing after another. The bride cut the cake of both kinds—pound cake like gold, and fruit cake rich enough to give you indigestion. And this wasn't the regular supper.

The bride had to grace the head of every table. What merry quips and jests there were! People were really gay and happy in those days. No one thought of being bored, they had better manners and kindlier hearts, and enjoyment was a duty as well as pleasure. The musicians were playing softly in the hall. By and by the elder people, who had a long drive to take and who had passed their dancing days long ago, began to say good-by to the bridal couple. In the upper hall a table was piled with white boxes tied with narrow white ribbon, containing a bit of the bride's cake, and a maid stood there handing them to the guests. You put some under your pillow and dreamed on it. If the dream was delightful you might look for it to come true. If it was disagreeable you felt sure you didn't believe in such nonsense.

Then the dancing commenced. There were three large rooms devoted to this. Several of the old men went up-stairs to Mr. Beekman's special room to have a smoke and a good game of cards. But oh, how merry they were down-stairs! They danced with the utmost zest because they really liked to.

The little girl danced, too. Steve took her out first, and she went through a quadrille very prettily. Then it was Joe, and after that Doctor Hoffman begged her mother to let her dance just once with him, and though she was a little afraid, she enjoyed it very much. Dolly introduced her to ever so many people, and said she was her little sister.

"Am I really?" said Hanny, a little confused.

"Why, yes," laughingly. "And one reason why I wanted to marry Stephen was because he had so many brothers. Now they are all mine, five of them."

The little girl studied a moment. "It's queer," she said with a smile, "but I have one more than you. And are you going to have Margaret, too?"

"Yes, and your mother and father. But I am going to be very good and not take them away. Instead, I shall come to see you and have my little piece. I'm quite in love with Benny Frank. And Jim's a regular mischief."

Jim did wish, when he saw all the pretty girls, that he was a grown man and could dance. Ben found some men to talk to, and Mr. Bond, who was in a large jewelry establishment, told him about some rare and precious stones. Old Mrs. Beekman made much of them and said she envied Mrs. Underhill her fine boys.

There was supper about midnight. Cold meats of all kinds, salads, fruits, and ice cream, to say nothing of the wonderful jellies. Tea and coffee, and in an anteroom a great bowl of punch.

After that Mrs. Underhill gathered her old people and her young people, and said they must go home. Joe promised he would look out for George, and Margaret was to stay to the bridesmaid's breakfast the next morning.

Dolly slipped a ring on the little girl's finger.

"That's a sign you are my little sister for ever and ever," she said, with a kiss.

"Can't I ever grow big?" asked Hanny seriously.

Mr. Beekman laughed at that.

"You must come down and see me," he exclaimed. "We're going to move next week, and we always take Katchina. Come and have a good time with us."

The little girl was asleep in grandmother's arms when they reached home. And the old lady gently took off her pretty clothes and laid her in the bed.

"She's by far the sweetest child you've got, Marg'ret," she said to Mrs. Underhill.

That was not the end of the gayeties. Relatives kept giving parties, and the bridesmaids were asked. Margaret began to feel as if she knew Doctor Hoffman very well. He liked Annette, too. Perhaps he would marry Annette. They had all been saying, "One wedding makes many."

It seemed so queer to be without Stephen. The little girl began to realize that they had somehow given him away, and she did not quite enjoy the thought. He and Dolly came down and stayed two days, and, oh, dear! Dolly was the sweetest and merriest and funniest being alive. She played such jolly tunes, she sang like a bird, and whistled like a bobolink, could play checkers and chess and fox and geese, and she brought Jim a backgammon board.

They talked a good deal about building a house way up-town. Mr. Beekman had offered Dolly a lot. John said it was going to be the finest part of the city. Stephen couldn't really afford to build, but they would like to begin in their own home. Property was getting so high down-town that young people like them, just beginning life, must look around and consider.

"You just go up-town, you can't miss it. And Mayor Harper is going to make a beautiful place of Madison Square. The firm I am with count on that being the fine residential part," declared John.

"We can't afford much grandeur on the start," says Dolly, with charming frankness. "When we get to be middle-aged people, perhaps——"

Mrs. Underhill is very glad to have her so prudent. She will make a fine wife for Stephen.

Stephen took his new wife up to Yonkers to spend a Sunday, so that Aunt Crete would not feel slighted. She seemed quite an old lady. And though it was cold and blustering they walked up on the hill where father's new house was to be built, by and by, a lovely place for the children and grandchildren to cluster around a hearthstone.

Meanwhile Margaret was learning to cook and bake and keep house. She practised her music diligently, she kept on with her French, and she began to read some books Dr. Hoffman had recommended. There were calls to make and invitations to tea, and a Christmas Eve party at one of her schoolmate's. Joe said she must let him know when she wanted an escort, and John was ready to go for her at any time.

It did not seem possible that Christmas could come around so soon. Santa Claus was not quite such a real thing this year, so many gifts came to the little girl by the way of the hall door. But she hung up her stocking all the same, and had it full to the topmost round. There was a beautiful set of dishes, and they came with best love from "Dolly and Stephen." There was cloth for a pretty new winter coat, blue-and-black plaid, some squirrel fur to trim it with, and a squirrel muff.

Among the gifts bestowed on Margaret was a box of lovely hothouse flowers. There was only "Merry Christmas" on the card.

Stephen and Dolly came to the Christmas dinner, but they strenuously denied any knowledge of it. Mrs. Underhill had all her family together, and she was a happy woman. In truth she was very proud of Stephen's wife.

Grandmother Van Kortlandt had come to make a visit. Aunt Katrina was down also staying with her son, as the two old ladies found it rather lonesome now that there were no active duties demanding their attention. And Grandmother Underhill had sent the little girl her Irish chain bedquilt, finished and quilted.

The Dean children came in during the afternoon to exchange notes and tell a grand secret. Their aunt and two cousins were coming from Baltimore. Bessy was quite a big girl, fourteen, and Ada was ten. Their mother had said they might have a real party of boys and girls, not just a little tea party and playing with dolls; but real plays with forfeits.

"You know I've just studied with all my might and main, and mother said if I had all my lessons and a good record that I could have the thing I wanted most, if it didn't cost too very much. And I said I wanted a real party."

"It will be just splendid!" declared Hanny.

"And we've been counting up. We have seven cousins to ask. And the girls at school—some of them. I wish we knew some more boys. Oh, do you think Jim would come?"

"I'll ask him if you would like."

"Oh, just coax him. I suppose Benny Frank will feel that he's too old. But he's so nice. Oh, do you s'pose John Robert Charles' mother would let him come? Oh, there! I promised to call him Charles, but I think Robert's prettier, don't you? And mother said she'd write the invitations on note-paper. And she has some lovely little envelopes."

That did look like a party.

"I think John Robert Charles is real nice," said Hanny timidly. "But I am afraid of his mother."

"Oh, so is he, awful! Yet she isn't real ugly to him, only cross, and so dreadful particular. She makes him go out and wipe his feet twice, and wear that queer long cloak when it rains, and that red woollen tippet. She bought red because it was healthy; he said so. He wanted blue-and-gray. She lets him come over to our house sometimes, and he can sing just splendid. But the boys do make fun of him."

Poor John Robert Charles often thought his life was a burden on account of his name and his mother's great virtue of cleanliness. He was not allowed to play with the boys. Ball and marbles and hopscotch were tabooed. He could walk up and down and do errands, and that with going to school was surely enough. Then she exaggerated him. His white collars were always broader; if trousers were a little wide, his were regular sailor's. She bought his Sunday suit to grow into, so by the second winter it just fitted him. His every-day clothes she made. And oh, she cut his hair!

It is very hard to be the daughter of such a mother, a rigid, uncompromising woman with no sense of the fitness of things, of harmony or beauty, or indulgence in little fancies that are so much to a child. Quite as hard to be the son. Charles had everything needful to keep him warm, in good health, and books for study. When it rained hard he had six cents to ride in the omnibus. And he did have the cleanest house, and the cleanest clothes, and, his mother thought, a very nice time.

Luckily there were no boys this end of the block. They were quite grown up, or little children. But there were enough below to torment the poor lad. In the summer when the charcoal man went by they would sing out:

"John Robert Charles, what did you have for breakfast?" and the refrain would be, "Charcoal."

"What did you have for dinner?" "Charcoal."

"How do you keep so clean?" "Charcoal."

Early this autumn the boy had made a protest. Day after day he said it over to himself until he thought he had sufficient courage.

"Mother, why don't you call me just Charles, as my father does?"

His mother's surprise almost withered him. "Because," when she had found her breath, "John is after my father, who was an excellent man, and Robert was for the only brother I ever had, and Charles for your grandfather Reed. If you grow up as good as any of them you'll have no occasion to find fault with your name."

Yet boys at school called him Bob, and he really did enjoy it. He went to a very nice, select school where there were only twenty boys.

He had made quite an acquaintance with the Dean girls. He could play house, and they had such delightful books to read.

"And the party must be some time next week. Thursday, mother thought, would be convenient. I should give the invitations out on Monday," Josie said. "And, oh, try to coax Jim."

The cousins came. Hanny saw them on Sunday, and on Monday two little girls went round with a pretty basket and left pale-green missives at the houses of friends. There was one for Ben also.

"H-m-m," ejaculated Jim. "A baby party. Will they play with dolls?"

"Oh, Jim! it's going to be a real party with refreshments. Of course there won't be dolls."

"Washington pie and round hearts."

The tears rushed to Hanny's eyes.

"Never mind about him," said Ben, "I'll go. I'll be your beau. And see here, Hanny, it's polite to answer an invitation. Now you write yours and I'll write mine, and I'll leave them at the door."

Hanny smiled and went up-stairs for her box of paper.

Jim gave a whistle and marched off; but when he saw the pretty Baltimore cousin, he reconsidered, though he was afraid Lily Ludlow would laugh at him when she heard of it.

Margaret dressed the little girl in her pretty blue cashmere, and she felt very nice with her two brothers. Most of the children were ten and twelve, but the two cousins were older. Bessie Ritter was quite used to parties and took the lead, though the children were rather shy at first.

They played "Stage-coach," to begin with. When the driver, who stood in the middle of the room, said, "Passengers change for Boston," every one had to get up and run to another seat, and of course there was one who could not find a seat, and he or she had to be driver. That broke up the stiffness. Then they had "Cross Questions," where you answered for your neighbor, and he answered for you, and you were always forgetting and had to pay a forfeit. Of course they had to be redeemed.

Charles Reed came, though his mother couldn't decide until the last moment. He looked very nice, too. He had to sing a song, and really, he did it in a manly fashion.

But the little girl thought "Oats, peas, beans," the prettiest of all. It nearly foreshadowed kindergarten songs. The children stood in a ring with one in the middle, and as they moved slowly around, sang:

"Oats, peas, beans, and barley grows, 'Tis you nor I nor nobody knows How oats, peas, beans, and barley grows. Thus the farmer sows his seeds, Thus he stands and takes his ease, Stamps his foot and claps his hands And turns around to view his lands; A-waiting for a partner, A-waiting for a partner, So open the ring and take one in, And kiss her when you get her in."

The children had acted it all, sowing the seed, taking his ease, stamping, clapping hands, and whirling around. They looked very pretty doing it. Bessy Ritter had asked Ben to stand in first and he had obligingly consented. Of course he chose her. Then the children sang again:

"Now you're married you must obey, You must be true to all you say, You must be kind, you must be good, And keep your wife in kindling-wood. The oats are gathered in the barn, The best produce upon the farm, Gold and silver must be paid, And on the lips a kiss is laid."

The two took their places in the ring, and Jim next sacrificed himself for the evening's good and chose another of Josie's cousins. Then John Robert Charles manfully took his place and chose Josie Dean. So they went on until nearly all had been chosen. Then Mrs. Dean asked them out to have some refreshments. They were all very merry indeed. Mr. Dean sang some amusing songs afterward, and they all joined in several school songs.

"I've just been happy through and through," admitted Charles. "I wish I could give a party. You should come and plan everything," he whispered to Josie.

It was time to go home then. There was a Babel of talk as the little girls were finding their wraps, mingled with pleasant outbursts of laughter. Mr. Dean was to take some of the small people home, and Jim obligingly offered his escort. It had not been so very babyish.

Ben wrapped his little sister up "head and ears," and ran home with her. How the stars sparkled!

"It's been just splendid!" she said to her mother. "Don't you think I might have a party some time, and Ben and all of us?"

"Next winter, may be."

Her father looked up from his paper and smiled. She seemed to have grown taller. What if, some day, he should lose his little girl!

The very next day Mr. Whitney announced that he was going to take the Deans and their cousins and Nora to the Museum. He wanted the little girl to go with them. Delia was visiting in Philadelphia. He promised, laughingly, to have them all home in good season.



CHAPTER XIII

NEW RELATIONS

New Year's Day was gayer than ever. The streets were full of throngs of men in twos up to any number, and carriages went whirling by. There were no ladies out, of course. Margaret had two of her school friends receiving with her, one a beautiful Southern girl whose father was in Congress, and who was staying on in New York, taking what we should call a post-graduate course now, perfecting herself in music and languages. Margaret was a real young lady now. Joe had taken her to several parties, and there had been quite a grand reception at the Beekmans'.

The little girl was dressed in her blue cashmere and a dainty white Swiss apron ornamented with little bows like butterflies. Miss Butler thought she was a charming child. She stood by the window a good deal, delighted with the stir and movement in the street, and she looked very picturesque. Her hair, which was still light, had been curled all round and tied with a blue ribbon instead of a comb. Her mother said "it was foolishness, and they would make the child as vain as a peacock." But I think she was rather proud of the sweet, pretty-mannered little girl.

There was one great diversion for her. About the middle of the afternoon two gentlemen called for her father. One was quite as old, with a handsome white beard and iron-gray hair, very stylishly dressed. He wore a high-standing collar with points, and what was called a neckcloth of black silk with dark-blue brocaded figures running over it, and a handsome brocaded-velvet vest, double-breasted, the fashion of the times, with gilt buttons that looked as if they were set with diamonds, they sparkled so. Over all he had worn a long Spanish circular which he dropped in the hall. The younger man might have been eighteen or twenty.

Ben was waiting on the door. He announced "Mr. Bounett and Mr. Eugene Bounett."

"We hardly expected to find any of the gentlemen at home," began the elder guest. "We are cousins, in a fashion, and my son has met the doctor——"

"Father is at home," said Margaret in the pause. "Hanny, run down-stairs and call him."

"Miss Underhill, I presume," exclaimed the young man. "I have seen your brother quite often of late. And do you know his chum, Phil Hoffman? Doctor, I ought to say," laughingly.

"Oh, yes," and Margaret colored a little.

Then her father came up. These were some of the Bounetts from New Rochelle, originally farther back from England and France in the time of the Huguenot persecution. Mr. Bounett's father had come to New York a young man seventy odd years ago. Mr. Bounett himself had married for his first wife a Miss Vermilye, whose mother had been an Underhill from White Plains. And she was Father Underhill's own cousin. She had been dead more than twenty years, and her children, five living ones, were all married and settled about, and he had five by his second marriage. This was the eldest son.

They talked family quite a while, and Mrs. Underhill was summoned. The young man went out in the back parlor where the table stood in its pretty holiday array, and was introduced to Margaret's friends. They hunted mottoes, which was often quite amusing, ate candies and almonds and bits of cake while the elder people were talking themselves into relationship. Eugene explained that his next younger brother was Louis; then a slip of a girl of fifteen and two young cubs completed the second family. But the older brothers and sisters were just like own folks; indeed he thought one sister, Mrs. French, was one of the most charming women he knew, only she did live in the wilds of Williamsburg. Francesca was married in the Livingston family and lived up in Manhattanville. How any one could bear to be out of the city—that meant below Tenth Street—he couldn't see!

"Is that little fairy your sister?" he asked. "Isn't she lovely!"

Margaret smiled. She thought Mr. Eugene very flattering. Then the others came out, and Mr. Bounett took a cup of black coffee and a very dainty sandwich. He left sweets to the young people. And now that they had broken the ice, he hoped the Underhills would be social. They, the Bounetts, lived over in Hammersley Street, which was really a continuation of Houston. And they might like to see grandfather, who was in his ninetieth year and still kept to his old French ways and fashions.

Miss Butler was very enthusiastic about the callers. "Why, you are quite French," she said, "only they show it in their looks."

"We have had so much English admixture," and Father Underhill laughed with a mellow sound. "But I've heard that my great grandmother was a useless fine lady when they came to this country, and had never dressed herself or brushed her hair, and had to have a lady's maid until she died. She never learned to speak English, or only a few words, but she could play beautifully on a harp and recite the French poets so well that people came from a distance to see her. But her daughters had a great many other things to learn, and were very smart women. My own grandmother could spin on the big wheel and the little wheel equal to any girl when she was seventy years old."

"How delightfully romantic!" cried Miss Butler.

"There's a big wheel in the garret at Yonkers, and a little wheel, and a funny reel," said Hanny, who was sitting on Miss Butler's lap, "and we used to play the reel was a mill, and make believe we ground corn."

"I've done many a day's spinning!" exclaimed Mrs. Underhill. "The Hunters raised no end of flax, and we spun the thread for our bed and table linen. One of our neighbors had a loom and did weaving. Cotton goods were so high we were glad to keep to linen. Ah, well, the world's changed a deal since my young days."

They were disturbed by an influx of guests. The fashionable young men came late in the afternoon and evening. The gilt candelabrum on the mantel was lighted up, and it had so many branches and prisms it was quite brilliant. Then there were sconces at the side of the wall to light up corners, and these have come around again, since people realize what a soft, suggestive light candles give. The Underhills had no gas in their house, it was esteemed one of the luxuries. Even the outskirts of the city streets were still lighted with oil.

Steve came in and teased the girls and begged them to eat philopenas with him. He seemed to find so many. And he said the best wish he could give them for 1845 was that they might all find a good husband, as good as he was making, and if they didn't like to take his word they were at liberty to go and ask his wife.

Quite in the evening the two doctors called, and Joe announced that he was going to have a Christian supper and a cup of tea, so that he would be able to attend to business to-morrow, as half the city would be ill from eating all manner of sweet stuff. After he had chaffed the girls a while he took Doctor Hoffman down-stairs, "out of the crowd," he said, and Mrs. Underhill gave them a cup of delicious tea. She and Martha were kept quite busy with washing dishes and making tea and coffee. Joe had requested last year that they should not offer wine to the callers.

He went out in the kitchen to have a talk with his mother about the Bounetts. Dr. Hoffman played with his spoon and would not have another cup of tea. Mr. Underhill wondered why he did not go up-stairs and have a good time with the girls. They could hear the merry laughter.

"Mr. Underhill——" he began presently.

"Eh—what?" said that gentleman, rather amazed at the pause.

Doctor Hoffman cleared his throat. There was nothing at all in it, the trouble was a sort of bounding pulsation that interfered with his breath, and flushed his face.