"I don't so much mind you old fellows, who, if you haven't sense enough not to addle your brains, never will have. But the young men oughtn't have the temptation thrust in their way. They think it looks smart and manly; and they make themselves so silly that I'm like a lump of ice to some of them. I like clear-brained people."

So upstairs they had music and recitations. Every young man of any elocutionary ability felt himself empowered to recite "The Raven," that much admired and sharply discussed poem by the Poet Poe, whose melancholy end still created much interest. Critical spirit ran high. One party could see only a morbid faculty heightened by opium and intoxicants; others found the spirit of true and fine genius in many of his efforts, and believed the circumstances of his life had been against him.

Ben was reading one evening in Doctor Joe's cosy library, enjoying the most capacious arm-chair, and improvising a foot-rest out of one not quite so luxurious. The Doctor had been making out bills, and feeling quite encouraged, perhaps lighter-hearted than he would when he had waited a year for the payment of some of them.

"Joe," began his brother, abruptly, "what do you suppose makes mother so bitter about Delia Whitney?"

"Bitter?" repeated Joe, in the tone of indecision people often use when a proposition or question takes them by surprise.

"Yes. We all used to be so nice and jolly together, and Delia likes us all so much. Hanny has such good times down there, with the old lady who sings such pretty old-fashioned songs, if her voice is rather cracked and tremulous; and Nora is bright and entertaining. But the other day mother wouldn't let her go; and she was dreadfully disappointed; and mother is not as cordial to Delia as she used to be. Dele spoke of it."

Ben looked straight at his brother, out of the frankest of eyes. It was Joe who changed colour.

"I hate things to go crosswise. And when something keeps you just a little ruffled up all the time—"

Ben drew his brows. Was he really unconscious of the trouble?

"You go there a good deal, you know. Some of the men are not quite the company a young fellow should choose, mother thinks."

That was begging the main issue, of course.

"I don't see much of the older men. They're mostly smoking downstairs, and I don't care a bit for that. But their talk is often worth listening to. People who just keep in one little round have no idea how rich the world is growing intellectually, scientifically; and on what broad lines it is being laid."

"It is not the men altogether. Ben, you don't go anywhere else. Perhaps it would be wisdom to enlarge your acquaintance among girls, young ladies," and Joe gave a short laugh that betrayed the effort.

"I don't care a penny for girls in general," said Ben, with elderly gravity. "Delia sometimes asks them in; and we seldom have as good a time. She's a host in herself; and I've always liked her."

"You haven't had a very wide experience. And you are too young to make up your mind about—anything."

Ben started up suddenly and flushed. What a fine, strong, solid face he had! It wasn't the face of one turned about with every wind of doctrine; it was not as handsome as Jim's bid fair to be, but it had hardly a weak or selfish line in it. Ben had always been such a good, generous, steady boy.

"You don't mean," he began with a little gasp,—"Joe, you can't think that mother—that any one would object if the time came for me to—to marry Delia?"

"You are too young to think of such things, Ben," said his brother, gently.

"Why—I've been thinking of it ever since Mr. Theodore came home. We were talking one time about going to Europe—"

"Are you really engaged, Ben?"

The young fellow laughed and blushed.

"Well—I suppose not exactly," he answered slowly. "We've never come to that boshy stuff you find now and then in stories. But we know all about each other's plans; and we like so many of the same things; and we always feel so comfortable together, not a bit as if we were trigged up in Sunday clothes. I don't think she's the most beautiful girl in the world; but she has lovely eyes, and I've never seen a handsome girl I have liked as well. Steve chose his own wife, and so did John. Cleanthe's a splendid housekeeper; but she doesn't have time to read a newspaper. Dolly's well informed, and has something fresh to talk about. But it seems to me Margaret is always caring about society and etiquette, and who is in our set, and a hundred things that bore me. Phil has all his life been used to style, so Margaret's just the one for him. And why shouldn't I have just the one for me?"

Joe laughed heartily then.

"I'd wait a year or two," he answered drily. "You are not out of your time; and it is an unwise thing to take the responsibilities of life too early. Delia may fancy some one else."

"Oh, no, she won't," replied Ben, confidently. "We just suit. I can't explain it to you, Joe; but it is one of the things that seem to come about without any talking. Are some things ordained? I should be awful sorry to have mother object to it; but I know Dolly would stand by us when the time came."

"Well—don't hurry; and, Ben, take the little comments patiently. If mother was convinced that it was for your happiness, she would consent. We all know there are unwise marriages, unhappy ones, as well."

"Oh, we're not in any hurry! You see, Delia is really needed at home. The old aunt is awfully fond of her. And she's so interested in her stories. We have such fun planning them out; and she does some capital little sketches."

Joe nodded in a friendly manner, as if he did not altogether disapprove. But there was a belief that literary women could not make good wives. People quoted Lady Bulwer and Lady Byron; and yet right in the city were women of literary proclivities living happily with their husbands.

And Joe had found careless, fretful, indifferent wives and poor housekeepers among women who could not even have written a coherent account-book. Come to think, he liked Delia a good deal himself. And if she wasn't such a great worker, she did have the art of making a cheerful, attractive home, and putting everybody at ease.

The new woman and cooking-schools were in the far future. Every mother, if she knew enough, trained her daughter to make a good wife, to buy properly, to cook appetisingly if not always hygienically, to make her husband's shirts, and do the general family sewing, to keep her house orderly, to fight moths and mice, and to give company teas with the best china and the finest tablecloth.

To be sure there was a little seething of unrest. Mrs. Bloomer had put forth a new costume that shocked the feminine world, though they were complaining of the weight of heavy skirts and the various devices for distending them. Lucretia Mott and some other really fine women were advocating the wider education of the sex. Women were being brought to the fore as teachers in schools, and higher institutions were being discussed. There was a Mrs. Bishop who had preached; there were women who lectured on various subjects.

The sewing-machine was making its way; and the argument in its favour was that it would save a woman's strength and give her more leisure. But employment of any kind out of the house was considered derogatory unless one had no father or brother to supply her needs.

Still, the old simple life was going out of date. There was more style; and some leaders of opinion professed to be shocked at the extravagance of the day. There was a sudden influx of people up-town. There were new stores and offices. One wondered where all the people came from. But New York had taken rapid strides in her merchant-marine. The fastest vessels in the China trade went out of her ports. The time to both California and China was shortened by the flying clippers. The gold of that wonderful land of Ophir was the magic ring that one had only to rub, if he could get hold of it, and work wonders.

But the little girl went on her quiet way. They were finding friends in the new neighbourhood; yet Daisy Jasper could not be superseded. Every letter was carefully treasured; and, oh, how many things she found to say in return.

They kept up the intimacy with the Deans, though Josephine seemed almost a young woman. Mr. Reed enjoyed the pleasant home wonderfully. Charles spent much of his leisure over music, of which he was passionately fond. He and Jim were not so intimate. Jim was going with a gayer lot of young fellows, while Charles was seriously considering his life-plans.



CHAPTER XIV

AMONG GREAT THINGS

Were people more enthusiastic in old New York than they are at the end of the century? We have done so much, we have had so many wonderful happenings since then. To be sure, Dickens had been over and made, people thought, a somewhat caustic return for the hospitable welcome; Harriet Martineau had made a tour, and gone home rather favourably impressed; and the winter before the intellectual circle—and it was getting to be quite notable—had honoured the Swedish novelist, Frederica Bremer, and been really charmed by her unaffected sweetness. If they were not quite ready to take up her theories for the advancement of women, they fell to reading the delightful "Neighbours" and "Home." And now there was to be another visitant, "The Swedish Nightingale."

For Mr. Barnum was still the prince of entertainers. Theatres waxed and waned, and new stars came to the front who had still their laurels to win; people strove for cards to the Steven's Terrace, just back of Columbia College on Park Place. Bleecker Street was not out of date, though Mrs. Hamilton Fish had gone up to Stuyvesant Square, and was gathering about her a political clique. There were card-parties and dances; there were Christy's Minstrels and the Hutchinson family; and some of the more intellectual circles had conversaziones where the best talent displayed itself. Still, Barnum could not be crowded out. No sarcasm withered him; and his variety was infinite. It was a safe place for mothers to go and take their children. The men had formed several ambitious clubs, and were beginning to entertain themselves.

Jenny Lind had already captivated Europe. Mr. Barnum judiciously brought interest up to fever heat. After the bargain was made known, and the young singer had taken her passage with her suite, a musical rage pervaded the very city. The streets leading to the wharf were thronged by crowds in the wildest enthusiasm. Triumphal arches were built across Canal Street, and as she came down the gang-plank of the steamer, shouts rent the very air.

The young traveller and poet, Bayard Taylor, had captured the prize offered for the finest ode to be sung at her first concert. Two hundred dollars seemed a large price at that time, as Tennyson had not been offered a thousand for a poem. So great was the inquiry for tickets, that they were sold at auction a few days previous. And Mr. Genin, a Broadway hatter, signalised himself by making the highest bid for a ticket,—two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Over one thousand tickets were sold on the first day.

The concert was to be at Castle Garden. At five, the doors were opened, and people began to throng in, though each seat had been secured to its proper owner; and by eight, the audience was in a perfect transport of expectation. It was said to be the largest audience assembled to listen to her. And when she was led on the stage by her manager, the enthusiasm was beyond description. It seemed to divine beforehand that the fair-haired Swedish songstress would meet all expectations; and she passed beyond it.

Ben had been caught by the enthusiasm, and squandered his savings on a ticket. He and Jim had been in the crowd around the hotel, that first night when the New York musical society had serenaded her, and she had bowed from the old stone balcony to the admiring crowds.

"There isn't any word to express it," declared Ben, at the breakfast-table the next morning. "Joe, you must hear her, and Hanny—all of you. Never mind the cost."

"Ben, you have lost your senses," said his mother, with a touch of her old sharpness. "As if we were all millionaires! And I have heard people sing before."

"Not anything like that. You can't imagine such melody. And the enthusiasm of the crowd is worth something!"

The little girl looked up wistfully. She was beginning to understand the value of money.

"Yes," returned Joe; "Hanny must hear her. I wouldn't have her miss it for anything. But the tickets won't be so high after a little."

They dropped to regular prices, but that was high for the times; and the rush continued unabated. New York broke out in a Jenny Lind furore. There were gloves, and hats, and shawls, and gowns, beautiful little tables, and consoles, and furniture of all sorts that bore her name. The bakers made Jenny Lind cake. What a time there was! Enthusiastic adorers took her carriage from its shafts, and dragged it from Castle Garden to the hotel. Was New York old in those days? Rather, it was the glowing, fervid impetuosity of early youth.

And the serenade, when Broadway was jammed for blocks, and lighted by torches in the street, and illuminations in the houses and stores. There was a wonderful cornetist, Koenig, who could have won another Eurydice from the shades with his playing. Out on the balcony he stood and moved the crowd with his melody. Then she came out beside him, and, in the hush, a thousand times more appreciative than the wildest applause, the magnificent voice sang to its large, free audience, "Home, Sweet Home," as no one will ever hear it sung again. That alone would be fame enough for any writer of song!

The furore did not abate. But they must all go,—Stephen and Dolly, Margaret and her husband, Joe and the little girl, and her father.

"It is nonsense for an old fellow like me," he declared, half humourously.

"But I shall like it so much better, and then we can talk it over afterward. That's half the pleasure."

She looked so wistful out of her soft eyes, and patted his hand with her caressing little fingers, of course he couldn't say No.

It was so much harder to persuade Mrs. Underhill. "It certainly was wicked to spend so much money just to hear one woman sing. She had heard the 'Messiah,' with Madame Anna Bishop in it; and she never again expected to hear anything so beautiful this side of heaven."

They carried the day, however, in spite of her objections. Castle Garden looked like fairyland, with its brilliant lights, its hundred ushers in white gloves and rosettes, their wands tipped with ribbon as if for some grand ball. The quiet was awe-inspiring. One did not even want to whisper to his neighbour, but just sit in fascinated silence and wonder what it would be like.

Then Jenny Lind was led on the stage, and the entire audience rose with one vast, deafening cheer,—a magnificent one, as hearty as on her first night. It seemed as if they would never stop. There was a cloud of waving handkerchiefs, shaking out fragrance in the air.

A simple Swedish maiden in her gown of soft, white silk, with no blaze of diamonds, and just one rose low down in her banded hair, only her gracious sweetness and simplicity, a thousand times finer and more effective than flashing beauty. She has heard the applause many a time before, in audiences of crowned heads; and this from the multitude is just as sweet.

When all is listening, attentive silence, she begins "Casta Diva." "Hark to the voice," and every one listens with such intensity that the magnificent sound swells out and fills the farthest space. There is no striving for effect. A woman singing with a God-given voice, in simple thanks for its ownership, not a queen bidding for admiration. Had any voice ever made such glorious melody, or so stirred human souls?

The applause has in it an immensity of appreciation, as if it could never get itself wholly expressed.

Then another favourite, which everybody sang at for years afterward: "I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls." In some of the sorrows of her womanhood, the little girl was to recall the sweet refrain—

"That you loved me still the same."

Then "Comin' thro' the Rye," with a lilt and dainty deliciousness that one never can forget. But "Home, Sweet Home," moves to tears and enthusiasm. Surely, no voice ever put such pathos, such marvellous sweetness, into it!

And sometimes now, when the little girl looks over to the other country, one of the many joys she thinks will be hearing such blessed voices as Jenny Lind's and Parepa Rosa's. You could not shake her faith in immortality and all these precious joys to come.

She was quite a heroine at school for many days to come. People did not think it worth while to spend so much money on children at that time.

Margaret and her mother had compromised on the school question, or rather Margaret had yielded.

Hanny would graduate at the end of the year. Margaret preferred a stylish boarding-school after that. The Hoffmans were quite in the swim of that period. The Doctor's connections, and Margaret's beauty, made them welcome in circles that were beginning to grow a little exclusive, and demand grandfathers for vouchers. There was a little talk, even then, about nouveaux riches; but, after all, no one seemed to absolutely despise wealth.

Margaret was really very ambitious for the younger members of the family. Jim, with his good looks and the brightness that was akin to wit, was her favourite. Then he took naturally to elegance.

Dolly was very happy and jolly with her husband and children. They lived in a very pleasant manner; and society courted Dolly as well. Stephen was prospering wonderfully, and had a fine standing among business-men.

Hanny was extravagantly fond of the children. Stevie called her Auntie Nan, now; but Annie said simply Nan. Margaret had adopted it as well. Hannah was rather awkward and old-fashioned. Even Ben sometimes warbled,—

"Nannie, wilt thou gang wi' me?"

She had another great and unexpected treat a few weeks later. She had gone on Friday to make a real visit at Dolly's, and go from there to school on Monday morning. And, fortunately for her, she had taken her best Sunday frock, which she was wearing a good deal lest she might outgrow it.

And who should drop in but Delia Whitney. Whether Dolly suspected all was not clear sailing for the young people, no one could have told from her friendly manner. She had taken quite a liking to Delia, and was much interested in her success.

They talked over the Jenny Lind concert. Delia had attended two. She was going about quite a good deal among literary people.

"And to-morrow night, The. and I are going to take Ben to the Osgoods. Oh, Hanny, that's the author of the little song you sing:—

"'I love you, I adore you; but I'm talking in my sleep.'

And she's just lovely."

"Oh," cried Hanny, "I should like to see her, truly. You know I told you about seeing her in the carriage when she went up to Mr. Poe's."

"Well, can't you go? The. has a standing invitation to bring friends. Why, Nora has gone! She sang up there one evening, and did wonderfully well. Her teacher thinks in a year or two she can try concerts; only it isn't best to strain her voice now. And you may see some famous people, and some yet to be famous, myself among them."

"Oh, I don't care about the others," said Hanny, naively. "And if you are quite sure—Dolly, ought I to go?"

"Why not?" answered Dolly. "It's fortunate that you brought your best frock; though we could have sent for it. Why, yes, if you would like to."

Hanny drew a long breath. Twice of late her mother had found excuses when she had asked to go down to Beach Street. She, too, had a vague feeling there was something in the air; but her simple nature was not suspicious. And it wasn't like going to the Whitney's. She couldn't do such a thing without asking permission.

Delia finished her call, kissed the babies and Hanny, and said they would all be up at eight, sharp.

"I'll have Hanny in apple-pie order," answered Dolly, with her bright smile.

Stephen was delightful in his family; and he had the same odd little look in his eye as her father, suggestive of fun. He was teaching her to play checkers; and, although Dolly helped sometimes, she found it hard work to beat him. Dolly sat by embroidering.

The next morning they drove down-town and did some shopping, and called on Annette, who made them stay to luncheon. Mrs. Beekman was quite poorly now, and had grown very, very stout. She said, "she had lost all her ambition. It was a great thing to be young, and have all your life before you."

It was so delightful; and Dolly was sure they wouldn't have many more such Indian summery days, so they went over to Washington Parade-ground, where the style promenaded on Saturday afternoon. Hanny wore her best dress and a pretty cloth cape trimmed with a little edge of fur. They took Stevie, who was delighted of course, and who ran about, very proud of his new jacket and trousers.

Many of the promenaders nodded to young Mrs. Stephen Underhill. Belles and beaux went by; prettily dressed children; stylish little boys, who carried canes, and had long tassels drooping over one side of their caps. Hanny enjoyed it all very much.

Then after supper, Dolly put a fine lace tucker over the edging at the neck of her frock, and found a blue sash, and curled her hair so as to make it all wavy at the edge of her forehead; and there was a very sweet, attractive girl, if she wasn't a beauty.

Mr. Theodore Whitney seemed very much amused and pleased, and politely inquired if he might be Miss Underhill's escort. Delia looked unusually nice in her new brown silk and some beautiful old lace Aunt Clem had given her.

People did not wait until ten o'clock for "functions" to begin; neither did they give them that uneuphonious name. Hanny had read and heard a good deal since her first visit to genius in the plain, poor, little cottage; and this certainly had more of the true aspect one connects with poesy. The two rooms were daintily furnished; pictures everywhere. Mr. Osgood was a painter, and his portraits were quite celebrated. The curtains fell with a graceful sweep. The light brocade of the chairs threw out glisteny shades; the little tables set about held books and engravings, and great portfolios leaned against the wall. There was a case of choicely-bound books, and an open piano. Flowers were in vases on brackets, and low, quaint china bowls. It was like a lovely picture to the little girl; but she felt afraid of the people talking so earnestly, and wondered if they were all poets and authors.

The party greeted their hostess, and Hanny was introduced. Was it the glamour of the summer and the blue gown that had made Mrs. Osgood so lovely sitting there in the carriage? Now she was thin, and her hair was banded down in the fashion of the day; then it had been flying in ringlets. Her gown was black silk, and that made her look rather grave; but when she smiled, all the old sweetness was there. Hanny knew her then.

Delia took charge of Hanny, and seated her by a table with a book of choice engravings. Ben had found some one he knew, and Mr. Whitney had gone to talk to General Morris. A tall young lady came over and began complimenting Miss Whitney on her story in Godey's, and Delia flushed up with pleasure. Then she begged to introduce her to a friend. She wrote verses only, and her friend had composed music for them.

Hanny kept watching her hostess. She knew some of the guests, from having had them pointed out to her in the street. There was Mr. Greeley, thin of face and careless of attire in those early days. In the street he could always be told by a shaggy light coat that he wore.

A very sweet-looking elderly lady came up presently and spoke to Delia, who was in full flow of eager talk with the young musical composer.

"Isn't that your sister, or your niece,—the one who sang here some time ago? I saw her come in with Mr. Whitney."

"Oh, no," returned Delia. "But she is a very dear friend,—Mr. Underhill's sister."

"Mr. Stephen Underhill?"

"Yes, she is his sister; but it is Mr. Ben Underhill who is here."

"I know Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Underhill very well. She was a Beekman. And Dr. Hoffman's wife belongs to the family."

Delia turned and introduced Mrs. Kirtland.

She had such an attractive face, framed in with rows of snowy puffs, quite gone out of date, but becoming to her nevertheless.

"I feel that I almost know you," she said sweetly, "though I half mistook you for Miss Whitney; but she is dark, and you are fair, so I ought not to have made the blunder. I know your brother Stephen and his wife."

"Oh!" Hanny gave it a glad little sound, and smiled, as she put out her small hand.

Mrs. Kirtland took the unoccupied seat.

"I suppose you have hardly begun life, you look so young. But no doubt you are a genius of some sort. Mrs. Osgood is so extraordinarily good to young geniuses."

"No, I haven't any genius," and Hanny flushed, as she gave a beguiling smile that lighted up her face. "And though there are a good many of us, we have not even a family genius."

"That depends upon whether you restrict the word to painting a picture or writing a poem or a story. Mr. Stephen Underhill is very highly spoken of as one of the promising young business-men. And is it your brother who was in the office of old Dr. Fitch, and in the hospital?"

"Yes, ma'am," returned Hanny, with a glow of pleasure. Young people were still expected to say "Yes, sir," and "Yes, ma'am," to their elders, out of respect.

"That does very well for one family, though the Whitneys seem to have a good share. Miss Delia is quite a success, I hear. And we always find Mr. Whitney very entertaining. Have you known them long?"

"Oh, for years, seven almost. And we used to be neighbours."

"A friendship is said to be certain when you have held it seven years. Have you met Mrs. Osgood before?"

"No, ma'am; but I saw her quite a long while ago at Fordham."

"At Fordham! Then you must have known the poet Edgar Allan Poe."

"A little," returned Hanny, timidly.

"There's such a romance to his life at that place,—his lovely young wife dying, and the devotion of Mrs. Clemm. Oh, tell me about your episode!"

Hanny told the story, very simply, charmingly as well.

"Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Kirtland, "Frances must hear that!" Then she glanced around. Mrs. Osgood was no longer receiving guests, but mingling with the company. Some one was going to the piano; and everybody listened to an exquisite voice singing a beautiful Italian melody. When that was finished, a young man who was to be famous in after years read a sweet, simple poem that touched every one's heart. Then the talk began in little groups again.

Mrs. Kirtland signalled to her hostess, who came over to them.

"Frances," she said, "here is a youthful worshipper who remembers you as a lovely lady all in cerulean blue, and with long curls, going up to the Poe cottage. See how you have lived in the child's memory. And she sings a song of yours."

Hanny's face was scarlet for a moment; but Mrs. Osgood sat down beside her, and they talked of the poet and Mrs. Clemm, and touched lightly upon the sad after-happenings. He had at one time been a frequent guest. There was even yet a deep interest in him, though opinion was sharply divided. And Mrs. Osgood had known the beautiful Virginia, whose sad fate even then was hardly realised. They talked a little about "Annabel Lee" and the "high-born kinsman;" and Hanny thought she had a delightful time.

There was coffee and chocolate and lemonade, with plates of dainty cakes and confectionery, in an ante-room. Then a gentleman sang a hunting-song in a fine tenor voice; and another paper on Art was read.

If people came early, they also dispersed at a reasonable hour. It was not quite ten when Delia, Hanny, and Ben made their adieus to the hostess, who stooped and kissed Hanny for "old remembrance' sake," she said.

Mr. Whitney was going down with some of the older men. Ben saw his little sister safe in Stephen's hands, and then went on with Delia.

"I've had such a splendid time!" exclaimed Hanny. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

When she told the home-folks about it, her mother made no comment; but Joe and her father were very much interested. And when, not long after that, "the high-born kinsman" came for the charming woman who had given much pleasure in her brief way through the world, and who had not disdained to write a verse and her name in many a society album, Hanny felt quite as if she had lost a dear friend.

Two other poets, sisters, Alice and Ph[oe]be Cary, came to New York, and held receptions that were quite famous as time went on. To be sure, there was the old name of blue-stocking applied to them now and then; for people, women especially, were taking a wider interest in other affairs beside literature, prefiguring the new woman. Miss Delia Whitney was very much interested. They were not quite up to clubs in those days, or she would have been a charter-member.

But the child Hanny had enough to do to study her lessons, practise her music, and make her visits, with a little sewing in between. She did make her father a set of shirts; but underclothing of all kinds was being manufactured; and though the older-fashioned women sneered at it, as rather poor stuff, the men seemed to like it. At gentlemen's furnishing stores, you could buy shirts cut and made in the latest style, the neckbands of which always seemed to fit, or else the men discreetly refrained from grumbling when they had spent so much money. And women began to find it eased their burdens.

No one wanted home-knit stockings, the English and French and Germans sent us such perfect ones. White was still all the style, unless you wore black, or blossom-coloured silk. Of course there were common people who put slate-colour on their children, because white made so much washing. And as for pantalets, there were none left.

There were other people called away beside poets, and changes made in families. Grandmother Underhill went to the country wherein the faithful abide, and Aunt Katrina. Grandmother Van Kortlandt came to make her home with her daughter. Aunt Crete and Cousin Joanna Morgan, and here and there some of the old people, as well as the young, passed over the narrow river.

But there seemed new babies all around. Dolly and Margaret had little sons, and Cleanthe a daughter. John was quite jealous of Hanny's notice; for his little girl was fair, and had light hair, and they were quite sure it looked like her. John wanted to call her Hannah Ann.

"Oh, no," said Hanny; "there are so many beautiful names now!" Then she laughed. "I shall not promise her a hundred dollars, nor my string of gold beads. I am not sorry, for I have loved both grandmothers; and one is gone—"

"Why don't we name her after her grandmothers?" exclaimed Cleanthe. "One of hers is gone," and she sighed. "It seems such a long name for a wee baby."

"Margaret Elizabeth,—it is a beautiful name," said Hanny, with delight. "Mother will give her something, I know. And I will be her godmother, and endow her for the Elizabeth."

"With all your worldly goods?" asked John.

"Not quite all—"

"You'll be impoverished, Hanny," interrupted John, with a glint of humour. "Six nephews and nieces already! And there are four of us still to marry, if George ever comes back. He hasn't made his fortune yet. He was crazy to go. The good times here suit me well enough."

Grandmother Underhill put fifty dollars in the bank for the new baby, and gave it a silver spoon. Hanny gave her a silver cup with her name engraved on it, and, with Dolly's help, made her a beautiful christening robe, which Cleanthe saved up for her, the sewing and tucking on it was so exquisite. She used to show it to visitors with a great deal of pride.



CHAPTER XV

THE BEGINNINGS OF ROMANCE

There was Saratoga and Newport; and Long Branch laid claim to some distinction; even Cape May was not unknown to fame,—still the Jersey coast, with all its magnificent possibilities, really had not been discovered, and was rather contemptuously termed sand wastes. It was getting to be quite the thing to go off awhile in the summer. Some of the style had spent a "season" in London, and seen the young Queen and the Prince Consort and the royal children, and gone over to Paris to see "the nephew of his uncle," who was taking a hand in the new French Republic.

But plain people still visited their relatives a good deal. Ben had taken a holiday, and gone up to Tarrytown after Hanny; and they had made pilgrimages along to different cousins. They sat on the old porch at Fordham; but one of the cousins was married, and gone to her own home, taken the tall, bright-eyed young man who had been about so much the olden summer.

It was really a delightful walk over there. Ben was finding out odd places for Delia, who was now interested in some Revolutionary sketches. They had explored Kingsbridge; they had found Featherbed Lane; they learned the Harlem River once had borne the Indian name of Umscoota. Here, more than forty years before, Robert Macomb had built his dam, in defiance of certain national laws, as he wanted a volume of water for his mill.

Many and ineffectual were the efforts made to remove it by the surrounding property-owners who had large and beautiful estates. For no one dreamed then that the great city would sometime absorb everything, and that here was to stand a beautiful bridge, the pride of the city. But the old dam was one dark night assaulted by a "piratical craft," that demanded entrance, and, on being refused a right through the waterway, demolished the old affair; and the freed and happy river went on to the sea unvexed, and still kept Manhattan an island, to be bridged over as convenience required.

Down in one of the pretty valleys was the home of Cousin Jennie, that Hanny always connected with Mrs. Clemm and the poet. All about were green fields and orchards, hills and valleys. Between them and the Harlem lay a high wooded ridge from whose top you could see the Hudson, and the Harlem was like a cord winding in and out of green valleys. There was Fort George and Harlem plains; and Hanny recalled the two old Underhill ladies whose lives had reached back to Revolutionary times.

They rambled about the historic ground, peaceful enough then. There was the old Poole house, the De Voe house, and further up the Morris mansion. What names they recalled!—Washington, Rochambeau, the Hessian General Knyphausen.

And then Cousin Jennie's husband pointed out a place with a romantic story. When the Hessian Army had swept on in the steps of General Washington's retreating men, they had been encamped for some time, foraging about for food and demanding supplies of the farmers,—an ill-fed, and ill-clothed set of conscripts, without much enthusiasm, many of them torn from home and friends, neither knowing nor caring about the land where they had gone to fight, and perhaps lay their bones.

Among them a young fellow, Anthony Woolf by name, whose mother, in a district in distant Germany, had yielded to the blandishments of a second husband, thus rendering her son liable to conscription, as he was no longer her sole protector. Young Anthony knew his stepfather grudged him the broad acres of his patrimony, and guessed whose influence had sent the press-gang one night, and hurried him off, without even a good-bye to his mother, to the nearest seaport town, and there embarked him for a perilous ocean-journey, to fight against people struggling for their liberty.

He had fought, like many of the others, under a sort of rebellious protest. Several had deserted: some joining the American army from sympathy. But Anthony was sick of carnage and marching and semi-starvation. Winter was coming on. So, one night, he stole out unperceived, and hurried down to the river's edge. On the other side, at some distance, he could see a faint gleam of light between the leafless trees. He had watched it longingly. There were many kindly disposed people who gave shelter to deserters. He threw off his heavy coat, and his boots, with the soles worn through, and made a plunge. The water was cold, the way longer than it looked; but he buffeted across and crawled out in the autumn blast, dripping and shivering, and ran up to the kitchen steps, that looked more friendly than the great wide porch and stately doorway. The maids were frightened, and a man came, to whom he told his story in broken English, and was taken in, warmed and fed and clothed, and kept out of sight for several days.

In his gratitude and delight, he made himself useful. He had been accustomed to farming and herds and flocks. The old Morris estate was large; and when the British Army was safely out of the way, there was work in plenty; and a faithful hand Anthony Woolf proved.

When the long summer days came the next year, there was no end of spinning in the great house, where linen and woollen were made for the family use. The farmers' daughters used to be eager for the chances; and one day, when pretty Phebe Oakley's grandmother was going over to the great house, as it was so often called, the young girl begged her to speak a good word for her, as she could spin both wool and flax.

"They'll be glad to have you," said grandmother on her return. "But, Phebe, they have a young Woolf over there; so look out he doesn't catch you."

Phebe tossed her head. She was in no hurry to be caught. And yet it so fell out that when Anthony Woolf had saved up a little money, and negotiated for a farm over in the valley, he caught pretty Phebe Oakley, and built a house for her, and prospered.

They looked at the place where the Hessian Army had been encamped, and traced the course of the young fellow's daring swim. And here was the old part of the house he had built, and where he had outlived his own son, but left grandsons behind him, one of whom had married Cousin Jennie. Grandmother was still alive,—a little, rather-faded, and shrunken old lady who had once been pretty Phebe Oakley, who lived with her daughter in the old part.

"There are lots of romances lying about unused," said Ben. "I should like to have a story-teller's gift myself."

Hanny was so interested in young Mr. Woolf that she had to tell Joe all the story when she came home; and he said they must go up the historic Harlem some day. And he said Umscoota meant "Stream among the green sedge."

This year it had to be Rutger's Institute for Hanny. There were a great many new schools; but Dolly and Margaret carried the day. She thought at first she shouldn't like it at all; but when she came to know the girls, she began to feel quite at home, and, in some queer fashion, as if she were growing up. But she didn't seem to grow very fast.

Ben came to his twenty-first birthday. He was a tall, well-grown young fellow, and often surprised Jim by the amount of knowledge he possessed. And then he went over to the "Tribune" office, and sometimes tried his hand at queer, out-of-the-way bits of past lore that people were almost forgetting. Just how it came about, he never clearly remembered himself; but one night, when Delia had seemed unusually attractive to three or four young men who haunted the place, he rose abruptly and said he must go. There was a set look in his usually pleasant face, and he shut his lips, as if something had displeased him.

Delia went to the hall door. As he turned, she caught his arm.

"What is it, Ben?" she said in a hurried whisper. "Something has happened to vex you."

"Something!" with youthful bitterness. "We never have any good times any more. There's always such a crowd—"

"Oh, Ben! Are you jealous? Why, you know I like you better than any of them! Gordon only comes to get ideas; he's so very anxious to do something in literature. As if I could help anybody!" and she laughed. "The others come for fun. You're worth them all, Ben. Oh, don't go away angry!" with a voice of tender pleading.

Ben felt suddenly foolish. Was he angry over such a trifle? Then he glanced up in Delia's face; he was on the step below. What was there in her eyes; and she had said she liked him better than any of them, even that handsome Van Doren. Well, he was most jealous of Van Doren, who was in his last year at Columbia, and whose father was rich and indulgent.

"Oh," he said with an indrawn breath, "you must know that I love you. I've always loved you, I think."

She put her arms about his neck, and kissed him. It was very reprehensible, I suppose. Young people were honestly friendly in those days, and seldom had a chaperone; yet they did not play at love, unless they were real flirts; and a flirt soon gained an unenviable reputation.

"Come down a ways with me," he entreated, with a little tremulous sound in his voice that touched her.

The street was very quiet. He put his arm about her, and drew her close to his side.

"Oh, it's cool out here, and you've no wrap!" He was suddenly very careful of her. "But I wanted to say—it isn't only a like, but a love. You do love me, Delia?"

"I love you, love you! I love you and yours."

"Of course we will have to wait. We are both young. But I'm doing a bit of outside work, and have a chance to come up—"

"If we did marry, you'd have to come and live with me; for I have promised Aunt Patty never to leave her. I haven't really thought about marriage. There is so much to my life all the time. Oh, yes, we can wait. But you must not feel afraid, Ben. I like fun and nonsense, and plenty of people to talk to. I'm not sure I shall make a good wife, even, though both of my sisters do."

"I want you, good or bad," said Ben, sturdily.

They both laughed, and then he kissed her again.

"Oh, you must go back! You'll get an awful cold."

"I never do take cold. I'll run like a flash. Come to-morrow night. Oh, Ben!"

"Oh, Delia, my darling!"

Then she flew back. How long had she been gone? She re-entered the room with a most nonchalant air; and in two minutes she had them all in a whirl of conversation, even if they did look rather curious.

Ben sauntered up home. It was quite early. Hanny was upstairs reading to grandmother, who went to bed at nine, and liked to have Hanny come in and read to her. Joe sat in his office, poring over an abstruse medical article. He glanced up and nodded.

"Joe," the lad began, with a bright flush that gave a certain tenderness to his eyes, which were dewy sweet,—"Joe, listen a minute. I am engaged to Delia Whitney,—just to-night. But I hate mean, underhand things. I wanted some one to know it. And—shall I tell mother? Of course she won't like it; though I don't see why."

"Ben, I don't believe I would just now. You are young, and you won't be married under a year or two. No, I would wait a little. She may settle to it presently," said the elder, thoughtfully.

"I don't want her to feel hurt. I'd just like to go and tell her, I am so happy."

He looked so brave and manly that Joe was almost sorry not to send him. But he did know that his mother objected to it strenuously, and might say something that would cut Ben to the heart.

Latterly, he had been cherishing a vague belief that the affair would end in a sort of a good comradeship.

"Thank you," Ben laid his hand on the elder's shoulder. "You are a dear good brother, Joe. Don't you suppose you will ever marry? No one will be quite good enough for you. You're a splendid fellow."

Joe went back to his book; but it had lost interest. Well—it was rather queer. He had been made very welcome in several houses; and Margaret had given delicate little suggestions. But he had never cared for any one. He would be nine and twenty on his next birthday,—quite a bachelor.

It was somewhat curious; but Ben, who had never cared for fixing up, though he was always clean, suddenly developed a new care for his cuffs and collars, and indulged in light-coloured neckties, and gloves that he could no longer "run and jump in," as Jim had accused him of doing. He went out Sunday evening to tea, which was a new thing, though he often stayed at the Whitneys' through the week. There was a certain air of being of supreme consequence to some one; Mrs. Underhill rather resented it.

Jim was very gay this winter. A good-looking young collegian who was bright and full of fun, and could sing college glees in a fine tenor voice, tell a capital story, and dance well, was not likely to go begging.

One evening he stumbled over his old friend Lily Ludlow, whom he had not seen for two years,—a tall, stylish girl, handsome in the ordinary acceptation of the word, but lacking some of the finer qualities, if you studied her closely. There had been some great changes in her life. Her father had died suddenly, leaving but small provision for them. Chris had her hands full trying to live pretentiously on a rather small income.

They had found an elderly aunt of Mr. Ludlow's who, in her day, had been quite a society woman. She had an old-fashioned but well furnished house in Amity Street, and had not given up all her acquaintances. The house was to go to her husband's family when she was done with it, there being no children; and her income ended with her life, so there was nothing to expect from her.

"But I do want a housekeeper and a nurse, sometimes," she said to Mrs. Ludlow. "If you like to fill the place, you will have a good home and good wages. And Lily's fine looks ought to get her a husband."

Amity Street still had a rather select air, if its fashion was falling off a little. The house was old, but not out of date, and quite imposing; and the big doorplate, with "Nicoll" on it, stamped it as undeniably aristocratic, Miss Lily thought. She urged her mother to accept it.

"I don't feel as if I could be at that queer old woman's beck and call. I remember when we were first married she said some very mean things. My family was quite as good as your father's, Lily. Neither of his brothers amounted to much, though his sister married a rich Southerner and went off to forget all her relatives. We've never asked anything of the Ludlows, and I don't want to now."

"But it will only be for a year or two. Of course I shall marry; and then you will have two homes."

"I'd a sight rather go with Chris. And if you could teach—seems to me you might, with your education. And you have had two lovers already."

"Who couldn't take care of me. I am not going to marry that way. But, as Aunt Nicoll says, 'We shall be sure of a good home.'"

Lily gained her point. Early in the preceding spring they had gone to Amity Street. The spacious, old-fashioned parlours were a little out of date, but had been elegant in their day. Lily laid off her mourning, and fell heir to some handsome gowns that Chris helped her remodel. Mrs. Nicoll was queer and bad-tempered; and the difficulty had been to keep servants who would submit to such exactions. Matters went a little smoother; but poor Mrs. Ludlow had to suffer.

Lily spent a month at Saratoga with Mrs. Nicoll and the maid. The old lady was a good deal entertained by the airs and graces and bright ways of her grand-niece. Lily made several conquests; but the desirable offer of marriage was not forth-coming.

Mrs. Nicoll gave a reception early in the season,—a thing she always did; and her friends attended with a certain kindly feeling that she was old, and the duty might never be required of them again. Miss Lily made quite an impression; and cards and invitations were left for her. And when she attended a dance at the Apollo Rooms, the height of her ambition was reached.

At a pretty private dance she met her school-day admirer again, and tried her charms, which had increased notably since that youthful period. She did dance beautifully, and had no lack of the small talk of the day. Jim promised to call, and did so at an early date, rather surprised at the solid elegance of the place. Lily expatiated skilfully on dear old Aunt Nicoll, who would have mother come and stay with her; since they were alone it seemed the best thing to do; and Aunt Nicoll had no near relatives of her own. There were plenty of her husband's family "hungry for what she had," said Lily, with a sort of sneer, as if they might find themselves mistaken in the end.

Certainly, Jim thought, Lily had dropped in a clover-field. He found that Mrs. Nicoll was considered a rich woman. Lily was handsomely dressed, and no doubt she would be kindly remembered in the old lady's will. Not that Jim was speculating on any part or lot in the matter. He was too young; he would have his three years in the law school, and after that, getting established.

Lily begged him to bring some of his friends. The house was lonely, with no young people for companionship; and she raised her eyes in the old pleading fashion that even now had quite an effect upon him.

Jim chose several young men that he associated with. Some of them had sisters, who declared Miss Ludlow charming. She was not anxious now to have any of the Underhills on her visiting-list; but she did mean to make use of Jim. She had grown quite worldly-wise and experienced.

Two of Jim's friends were generously supplied with pocket-money. One was a young Virginian, Mr. Weir, the other, Harry Gaynor, and both spent lavishly. Flowers were costly then; and Lily was the recipient of many a handsome bouquet. In return, she now and then gave a dainty supper, simple to be sure, or a card-party, with some delightful confections, and a little coffee or chocolate. Mrs. Nicoll always retired early, and took some drops to make sure of sleeping the first part of the night, so she was not easily disturbed.

Then there were stars at the theatres. Parodi was emulating Jenny Lind, who had gone to Havana; and the houses were crowded, if the tickets were not so high. It was so easy to spend money when an artful girl, with softest voice and bewitching eyes, planned for you. And it was so easy to borrow, when you had good friends.

Miss Lily looked carefully over her ground; Harry Gaynor was gay and delightful, but one couldn't be quite sure he was not flirting. And though Mr. Weir had plenty of money, there was a large family of brothers and sisters, and they lived on an extensive plantation miles away from any considerable town. There was a Mr. Lewis, not so young, who had an interest in an old well-established leather firm that had been left him by an uncle. There were some non-eligibles.

Mrs. Nicoll had said, in her caustic way:—

"You make the most of your time, Lily Ludlow. I'm past eighty, and you may find me dead in my bed some morning. I have not a stiver to leave any one; so don't you count on that. I can hardly pay my own way."

Still she had every luxury for herself; for years she had considered nothing but her own wants and indulgences.

Poor Jim! In his young mannishness he was quite sure there was no danger of falling in love; of course such a thing would be wildest folly. But Lily was very fascinating and very flattering. She put it on the score of old friendship; but, with a coquette's ardour, she did enjoy the young fellow's struggles to keep himself on a firm footing. And when he saw Gaynor's attentions, and listened to Weir's rhapsodies, a passion of boyish jealousy sprang up in his heart.

Miss Lily kept her other admirers out of the way, except as she might meet them at dances or whist parties. She was not much in love with Mr. Lewis; he was slow and really conceited, and, for a young man, rather careful of his money. If she only dared run the risk, and take Mr. Weir, who was to finish his college course in the summer! And then arose a new star on her horizon.

Mr. Williamson was forty and a widower; but he drove an elegant pair of bays, belonged to a club, and had apartments at a hotel. She tried captivating simplicity, and succeeded, to her great surprise, though she knew his habits were not irreproachable. She had begged of Mr. Lewis a little time for consideration, when one morning Mr. Williamson astonished her by a call, and an offer of his hand and fortune.

Miss Ludlow did not show her amazement, neither did she jump at the offer. She was very delicately surprised. Was he quite certain of his wishes? And—it was so unexpected!

So certain indeed that he would bring her a ring that very afternoon, and take her out driving,—a man of his years not to know his own mind!

She could hardly believe her good fortune. For a fortnight she engineered her way skilfully, still keeping Mr. Lewis in reserve. And then she was convinced, and dismissed him.

"Guess who is engaged?" Harry Gaynor cried, one morning. "I never was so beat in my life! Jim, maybe this will hit you hard. Seems to me you've been rather distraught of late and sighing like a furnace."

"These exams are enough to make any one sigh. And I am way behind. I must study day and night."

"There are always engagements at this season, and weddings at Easter," returned Weir, laughingly.

"That isn't guessing, Jim!"

"Oh, bother! What do I care?"

"Then your charmer told you last night?"

"My charmer? What are you driving at, Gaynor?"

"Oh, how innocent! Miss Lily Ludlow."

"I've met that Lewis there," returned Jim, with an air of bravado, though he flushed a little. "He's a regular stick."

"But it isn't Lewis. It's that Gerald Williamson,—a man about town. And the queer thing is that he thinks he has struck a fortune. Do you know, Jim? Is she to be the old lady's heir?"

Jim was silent. What should he say?

"Of course she is," said Weir. "That is—I think it depends on whether Mrs. Nicoll approves of the marriage."

He had turned very pale.

"Are you sure it is Williamson?" asked Jim.

"He announced it himself. My cousin heard him. And as for the old lady—the house is willed away. I've heard some talk; I can't just remember what. She's been shrewdly giving the impression."

"It would be a shame to sell her to the highest bidder! And Williamson's double her age. No sister of mine would be allowed to do such a thing. She can't love him! Why, she has only been driving out with him a few times."

"If she's sold, she has done the business herself. She's a girl to look out for the main chance. Weir, I hope you haven't been hovering too near the flame. The Ludlow is capital to flirt with,—quick, spicy, sentimental by spells, not the kind of a girl to waste herself on a young, impecunious fellow like our friend Jim, here, so he goes scot-free. Weir, I hope you're not hard hit. We've all had a good time; but I think now we must address ourselves to the examinations in hand, and let the girls go. Though I am in for two big weddings, presently."

There was a summons to the class-room that stopped the chaffing. Jim felt very sober. Lily had indirectly led him to think she cared a great deal about him, and if matters only were a little different! He ought not to get engaged; but the preference was flattering when a man like Weir was head over heels in love with her!

But to marry an old man like Gerald Williamson! thought the young fellow, disdainfully.



CHAPTER XVI

COUNTING UP THE COST

Jim failed miserably. What was the matter? He couldn't seem to remember the simplest thing. Did it make any difference to him whom she married? Well—if it had been Weir; but that imperious, pretentious, half-dissipated Williamson, who report said had run though with one fortune, and two years ago had fallen heir to another! Why were some people so lucky! Grandmother Van Kortlandt had some money; but Hanny was named for her, and Joe was a great favourite. Then Jim flushed hotly. The idea of counting on any one's money!

Still he had a boyish, chivalric idea that he would like to snatch Lily from this awful peril, as it seemed to him. Could it be really true? The older men said Williamson was a braggart. There might be no truth in it. He would ask Lily.

Several days passed before Jim achieved his desire. Then, as he loitered around one afternoon, he saw Williamson leave the house. After a few moments he knocked.

"Miss Lily is indisposed, and cannot see any one," announced the maid.

"She will see me," returned Jim, with an air of dignity; and he walked into the parlour that had an atmosphere of twilight, quite determined to remain until she came down.

She seemed in no hurry, and Jim's temper began to loose its serenity. The maid came and lighted the gas jet in the hall. Then there was a rustle of silken garments on the stair.

"Oh, Jim dear," the entreating voice said, "I've had such a horrid headache all the afternoon. I've been in the bed. I really did not feel fit to see any one," with a languid, indifferent air.

And Williamson had just gone away!

"So you will excuse me, if I'm stupid—"

"Is the story true about your—your engagement?" asked the young fellow, abruptly.

"My engagement? Well, I've had an offer of marriage,—two of them. Wouldn't you advise me to take the best one?" rather archly.

The tone rang flippantly. Jim felt she was evading.

"You see I can't be young always. And Aunt Nicoll may go without a moment's warning. She had a bad spell yesterday; and she does get in such horrid tantrums! Mother is awfully tired of staying with her. And most girls get married—those who have a chance." She ended with a forced little laugh.

"Is it Williamson? You don't know the sort of man he is," and Jim's voice was husky with emotion.

"Oh, everybody gets talked about sooner or later! He has been rather wild; but he wants to settle down now. And I'm not a sentimental girl. Yes, I do think I'll take him," hesitatingly.

"Lily!"

"Oh, Jim, you are very young and inexperienced! If you were ten years older, there wouldn't be a man on the whole earth I'd marry as soon. But you know I said we could only be friends; and I hope you haven't been cherishing any silly romances about me," tossing her head coquettishly. "I shall always like you, and I want us to keep friends. But you can't understand all the reasons. Some girls might drag you into an engagement, and waste all your young years; but I could not be so mean to any friend I cared about. We have settled all this matter."

Her tone took on a rather sharp business accent. It was almost curt.

Yes, it had been settled. Yet she had demanded a lover-like devotion, and allowed him to speculate on what might have been if she were rich or he older. And though Jim's sturdy common-sense had kept him from going very deep, he felt wretched and jealous that any other man should have the supreme right; and yet he had a conviction that the friendship or flirtation ought to end.

"He thinks you are Mrs. Nicoll's heiress."

She gave a light laugh. "Oh, that will do to talk about; and she may leave me a little. If I was her heiress—"

The glance roused Jim's anger. He rose suddenly.

"I hope you love Williamson," he said, in a tone that he meant to sound bitterly cutting. "A girl who sells herself for money to such a man—"

"Nonsense, Jim!" She rose also. "You'll find most of the world will consider it a good marriage; and anyhow, I have to look out for myself. It's too bad to break up the pleasant times we've had this winter; but you must not be angry. You will understand it better presently. I wouldn't let you go off in this way if I hadn't such a wretched headache; but you will come in again."

Jim said good-evening with superb dignity. What a stylish fellow he was. Of course he felt a little "huffy" now; but next winter, when she had a home of her own, she would give attractive parties, and invite Jim among the very first. By that time he would be over his boyish folly. And now, what must she wear to the theatre to-night? She must look her prettiest. Her wretched headache was gone.

James Underhill felt as he had sometimes in the old school days, that he had been duped. He was angry with her, with himself. He had brought his friends to the house; and he knew Weir was really in love with her, yet she had laughed daintily about some of his peculiarities. What if she had laughed with Gaynor about him? She did satirise people. It was strange how many faults he saw in her! Yet he did hate to have her marry Williamson.

He heard of her being at the theatre that evening with an array of diamonds, which young girls seldom wore. In a week or so the marriage was discussed with a little wonder. Mrs. Nicoll was one of the old New Yorkers, a Ludlow herself. It was fortunate for Lily's prestige that her plain, unambitious father was dead, and her mother kept well in the background. No one quite knew about the fortune.

Richard Weir was certainly hard hit. He made a pretence of devoting himself to his studies to keep away from Gaynor's raillery. But one day he said to Jim,—

"Something ought to be done to save Miss Ludlow from such an awful sacrifice; don't you think so, Underhill? That old aunt has egged her on, and she's doing this for her mother's sake. If I was in a position to marry, I know I could persuade her to throw it up. What shall I do, Jim? I know she really loves me. She is heroic about it. She thinks it would spoil my life in the very beginning. I don't know how father would take it; and there's such a family of us to provide for."

"Let her alone," returned Jim, gruffly. So she had played with this honest-hearted young fellow as well; and the saddest of all was that he really believed in her.

"She will marry Williamson, no matter what comes. Weir, I'm sorry enough I introduced you, if you are going to take it that way. Lily Ludlow is a flirt, pure and simple. I've never believed it until now. There is no use in our wasting our sympathies upon her."

"You don't half do her justice, Jim; if you could hear her side—"

"I have heard it," laconically. "Weir, I'm awful sorry," and he wrung the young fellow's hand.

There was another aspect to Jim beside the mortification. He had dropped behind in his standing. Late hours and planning all sorts of amusements had distracted his attention. And there was another fact to face. He had been spending money with a lavishness that he wondered at now. He had borrowed of Weir, of Gaynor, of Ben. When he counted up the total he was dismayed. His father had been generous. They had all been very proud of him. How could he confess the miserable fiasco to any one? Perhaps, after he had taken his degree—

But he had to study hard for that. No more frolicking about! He had a good deal of resolution, when it was put to the test. He would ask sober-going Ben to lend him a hundred dollars, which he would pay back by degrees. No girl should ever win a smile out of him again. He would never borrow when he was once out of this difficulty.

He knew Dick Weir really needed his money, and this emboldened him to apply to Ben. Alas!

"I'd do it in a minute Jim; but I've been trying a sort of experiment. I had a chance to buy some capital stock, five hundred dollars' worth, and I just scraped up everything I had, and borrowed, so I'm behind, and must catch up. You've been pretty gay, haven't you, Jim?"

"I have been an idiot," replied Jim, sturdily. "But I have learned a lesson."

"You just go to Joe. He's the best fellow in all the world. Don't worry father about it; he takes such pride in his young collegian," and Ben smiled with generous kindliness upon his younger brother.

That was the best thing certainly; yet it was days before Jim could summon sufficient courage. And then he found, as he blundered a little over the matter, that Joe thought it worse than it really was.

"Have you been gambling?" the elder asked gravely.

"No, not that, Joe. It's all been a silly sort of extravagance. I am mad at myself when I think of it." He wouldn't say he had been tempted by a girl into much unwise expenditure. How could he have been so weak!

"It will be all right," returned Joe. "I am glad it is not gambling debts; though a hundred dollars wouldn't cover much. I hope you are coming through in good shape."

"You may be sure of that. Oh, Joe, how kind you are!"

"What is brotherhood for, if not that?" said Joe gravely.

He would not put himself in the way of meeting Miss Ludlow, though she did send him two rather plaintive notes. Early in June, the marriage took place; and the bride's trousseau was quite magnificent, if it was not made in Paris. Mrs. Nicoll was delighted with what she termed her grandniece's good sense, and gave her a handsome set of rubies, beside having her diamonds reset for her. And when she died, some two months later, it was found she had made a new will on Lily's wedding day, in which she bequeathed the bride all her personal effects and some valuable bank-stock, if the amount was not very large. The next winter, Mrs. Williamson took her place in society, and was quite a married belle, managing her husband as adroitly as she had managed her lovers.

Jim studied day and almost night to make up for the dissipation of the winter, and passed with honour, though Joe had hoped he would have one of the orations. He went immediately into the law office of a friend of Stephen's as clerk and copyist while he was waiting for the new term of the law school.

Charles Reed did distinguish himself, and was one of the heroes of the occasion. He was a fine, manly fellow now, and Mrs. Dean loved him like a son. Indeed, it seemed as if he might be her son, the young people were so much to each other. Josie would graduate the next year at the high school.

Ben and Delia had gone along through the winter with very little change, except to learn how much they loved each other. The young men did not have quite such rollicking good times, though Nora was developing into a very attractive young girl and enchanted them with her singing. Delia was very busy trying her best to come up to some high standards of literary work. Everybody was not a genius in those days. Colleges had not begun to turn them out by the score, and the elder people were very often helpful to the younger ones.

There was, it is true, a certain kind of Bohemianism among the men that proved dangerous to more than one fine, promising mind. Ben liked the bright wit and keen encounters, and the talk that ran through centuries of intellectual activity as if it was only yesterday. He was taking a curious interest in politics as well, for some great questions were coming to the fore.

Mrs. Underhill had preserved a cautious silence respecting Delia, indeed, ignored the whole matter. Dolly was cordial when they met. Jim had been so taken up with his engrossing experience that he rarely went to Beach Street; and the two sets of society were widely apart. Delia had supposed everything would come around straight; it generally did in her happy-go-lucky fashion.

But on Commencement day, when she was all smiles and gladness, Mrs. Underhill's coolness and Mrs. Hoffman's stately distance quite amazed her.

"Ben," she said, "something has happened with your people. Your mother hardly spoke to me, and Margaret was icy. And now that I come to think of it, Hanny hasn't been near us since Nora's birthday—February that was. Are they offended because—don't they like our engagement? And I love them all so, from least to greatest; only Margaret is rather high up."

"Hanny's had such lots of lessons, and her music, and she's corresponding with Daisy Jasper in French. Grandmother takes her time, too. You don't have so much leisure out of childhood."

"What jolly times we had back there in First Street! Oh, Ben, I did like you all so much! And I can't bear to have the good feeling die out."

There were tears in Delia's brown eyes. Ben was moved immeasurably.

"May be I ought to have said something to mother; Joe counselled me to wait."

"Then it has been talked about!" Delia stood up very straight, and looked like a spirited picture. "What is their objection to me? Your family are all prospering. Stephen is really a man of mark; Of course Dr. Hoffman was rich to begin with. And John's wife had quite a fortune when her parents died. Joe is up among the important people; and Jim will make a smart lawyer, every one says. You are a splendid lot!" and her honest admiration touched him.

"I don't know. I've never felt very splendid."

"You are solid, and strong, and sensible. What a pity that alliteration won't do in a poem!" and she laughed in her joyous manner. "I don't care if you never are rich, so long as we have good times. And as you can't write a bit of verse, you dear, lovely old Ben, nor a story, I do not believe our tastes will clash. Why shouldn't we agree just as well when we are married as we do now? Even that tremendous, gloomy, erratic Edgar Allan Poe adored not only his wife, but his mother-in-law. To be sure, there was Milton and Byron, and Mrs. Hemans and Bulwer, and a host of them; but Mr. and Mrs. Browning are going on serenely. And 'The Scarlet Letter' hasn't made trouble in Hawthorne's family yet. I think it is temper, rather than genius. And I have a good temper, Ben," looking up out of honest, convincing eyes.

"You just have," returned Ben, with emphasis, kissing her fondly.

"Ben, I love you too well to make you unhappy."

"You will never make me unhappy."

"May be I'm not careful enough in little things."

"I don't fret about the little things," said Ben. "We both like easy-chairs, and evenings at home, and reading about famous people, or queer people, and wonderful places. We both like a fire, and a cat; I adore a nice cat, it is such a comfortable thing. And we like to go out where people are bright and vivacious, and know something. We're fond of music, and pictures, and like a good play. Oh, there are things enough to agree upon all our lives; so what would be the use of hunting round to find a few things to dispute about."

"Why, there wouldn't be. But I want your mother to like me, and to feel sure I shall do my best to make you happy. Of course, we may not get rich."

"Bother riches! But I'm not going to give you up for anybody in Christendom."

"You are very sweet, Ben." There was a sound of tears in Delia's voice.

"I'll see what it is," subjoined Ben. "Oh, it will all come straight, I know."

"I shall not marry you for the next seven years, no, not for twenty, until everybody is willing," said Delia, decisively.

Why couldn't people be kindly affectioned one toward another, as the Apostle enjoined, when there was nothing very objectionable in the other? It puzzled Ben. He was passionately fond of his mother, too; but the issue had to be met. And the very next evening when Mrs. Underhill was out watering her garden, that had in it all manner of sweet herbs and the old-time flowers dear to her heart, Ben came wandering down the clean-cut path.

"Mother," when they had both stood silently several minutes,—"mother, I want to tell you—Delia Whitney and I are engaged."

"I supposed as much," said his mother, tartly. Then she turned to come up the path.

"Mother, you have welcomed Dolly and Cleanthe; and we have all been like brothers and sisters. Haven't you a tender word for Delia? You used to like her."

"Delia Whitney was well enough for a neighbour. You have run and run there, Ben, and really never taken the trouble to look about. You are young, and hardly know what is best for you. You could have looked higher. But you've gotten in with those newspaper people; and they do drink, and are not very choice in their company."

"And lawyers drink; yet we are going to make a lawyer out of Jim. And we have known country farmers addicted to the habit. Newspaper-men are quite up to the average. But that has nothing to do with Delia."

"No, women don't so often take to drinking. But she is in it all; and I don't like such public business for a woman. A wife's place is at home; and Mrs. Whitney is a very poor housekeeper. Ben, a great deal of a man's happiness depends on the way his house is kept."

"But their house is always bright and pleasant. And think how Delia used to work in First Street. She can keep house good enough for me."

"You have always had things so neat and orderly, Ben, that you don't know how trying that sort of helter-skelter housekeeping can be. A woman can't run hither and yon, and write stories and what not; and now they are beginning to lecture and talk, and make themselves as mannish as possible! No, I don't like it. And I pity the man who has to live in that sort of neglected home. And then, Ben, come disputes and separations."

He had heard the narrow reasoning before. Mrs. Reed came into his mind. With her passion for cleanliness and order, she certainly knew nothing about a happy, comfortable home. His mother still scouted a sewing-machine. Delia had hired one with a good operator, and declared that in a week they had done up all the summer sewing. He knew his mother would say it was only half-done. To be sure, Delia's mother was a great novel-reader and had neglected her household many a time for an interesting book. But she wrote neither stories nor verses.

"Of course, you will do as you like. And you think you are the only one that will suffer. But a mother has many sorrowful hours over a son's unhappiness and discomfort."

Then she passed him, and went into the house. And, after the fashion of unreasoning women, she hurried up to her own room and cried a few bitter tears. Ben had been such a good, upright, pleasant son. He ought to have the best wife in the world, for he was easy-going and would put up with almost anything. She was disappointed.

She would have scouted the idea of being aristocratic or mercenary; yet she did want him to look higher. There had been such an attractive Hoffman cousin spending a month with Margaret, who thought Ben delightful. There were two or three girls in the neighbourhood. In fact, a young man might as well marry some one of distinction and character; Dolly and Cleanthe were none the worse for their money.

"I don't know what I can do," Ben said to Dolly, with a sigh. "Delia has a suspicion that mother is against her. I'm not in a hurry to marry; but Delia won't marry me until everybody is ready to welcome her."

"Yes, you are young; and a good many things come around straight if you give them time, just like a northeast wind. Ask Delia to come up to tea, whenever she and you are at liberty."

Dolly kissed Ben. In some respects he was still boyish.

Margaret was vexed over the certainty. It was said Nora Whitney had a chance to go abroad with a Madame Somebody who used to sing in operas. She would be educated for a professional. Of course a Jenny Lind or a Parodi or Malibran was different; but just an ordinary singer!—or one could admire an acknowledged woman of genius who had a position, or any social prestige!

Ben said nothing to Delia; but she guessed his announcement had not been satisfactory. She had not been to the Underhills for six months or more. But, in her generous fashion, she made no comment.

Late that summer a wonderful thing happened that filled everybody with elation, and for twenty-four hours set the city wild. Every show-window had a picture of a trim, spirited yacht that seemed to have triumph written all over her; and men and boys crowded around to look at it, and cheered it with an enthusiasm seldom inspired nowadays. We were all going wild over our great triumph; for we had distanced England on the seas and in British waters. The gallant "America" had borne off the "Queen's Cup," the prize offered for the fleetest yacht in the great race.

We had been very proud of our fleet "clippers" that were scudding about to different ports. Then the Steers brothers had built the "America" for Mr. Stevens, of the New York Yacht Club; and he decided to take her over to the great contest that was to be a race around the Isle of Wight. She met with a little mishap in the beginning; but, nothing daunted, her courageous captain kept on to the end, eighty-one miles, and distanced all competitors. Other yachts of all nations were entered; and it must have been a magnificent sight when she had eight minutes to spare, and could glance back at her really splendid rivals. The pretty story of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort was told over many times. The Queen asked the captain of the royal yacht who was first.

"The 'America,' your Majesty."

"And who is second?"

"There is no second, your Majesty," returned the Captain, gallantly admitting the defeat.

So the brave "America," after being flattered and feted, brought home her trophy; and thousands rushed to see that and the beautiful yacht. But the English Club did not mean to resign honours so easily, and announced that efforts would be made to win back the famous cup. And to-day the cup is still ours, after many challenges and trials.

But the enthusiasm then knew no bounds. There were little flags with a miniature yacht and the American colours; and the patriotic boys wore them in their jackets. Jim put up a handsome engraving in his room.

He had been working like a Trojan all summer, except a brief fortnight, and had begun to pay back his debt.

Nora Whitney was to go abroad under the care of a well-known musician and his wife, who was a fine concert-singer. It seemed such an excellent opportunity; and Nora had an ambition to reach a high standard. The Professor and Madame had visited the Whitneys, and both parties were mutually satisfied.

"I could never let a child of mine go away among strangers in that manner," declared Mrs. Underhill. "No one can tell what will happen to her. I shouldn't have thought it of Mr. Theodore. The women, of course, are not overweighted with common sense, and the poor child has no mother."

"Oh, dear," sighed Hanny, "all the little girls are dropping out; and we used to have such nice times. I do wonder if Daisy means ever to come back. And Josie Dean is a young lady with long dresses, and does up her hair."

"Elenora Whitney is not worth worrying about," subjoined Mrs. Underhill, tartly; "and Josie Dean is a very nice, modest girl."

Charles Reed and Josie had dropped into a fashion of making frequent calls during the summer. The young fellow made a confidant of Doctor Joe, as young people were very apt to do, he was so sympathetic and kindly.

Mr. Reed had quite a fancy at first that he should study medicine.

"It is a fine profession, when one's heart is in it," said Doctor Joe. "And there are so many new discoveries and methods all the time. Still, I can't quite fancy Charlie taking up the disagreeable side."

"He could be a professor, I suppose," commented his father, rather reluctantly. "He loves study and books, and he ought to turn his education to some account. I would do anything for him; he knows that. He is all I have; and he is a fine boy."

It was odd; but Charlie talked his desire over with Josie first of all, and she approved of it enthusiastically. Then he rather timidly confessed it to his father.

"I used to believe that I never wanted to be a clergyman; but, after mother died, I began to think it over. She was so sort of sweet and changed that last year, almost as if she had a presentiment; and though she took such an interest in my studies, she never spoke of that, though I know it was her heart's desire. All the time I seem to have had a leaning towards it. It is a grand life, when one's heart and soul are in it; and I am sure now mine would be. I should feel as if I was keeping near to her, and doing something for her happiness. And if you would not feel disappointed—"

"My boy, I should be gratified," said his father, warmly. "I should not have tried to influence your choice; but I do think, in certain ways, you are especially fitted for this profession. I can trust you never to bring discredit on so sacred a calling; and I think you are alive to the true responsibility of it. Yes; it is what she would like, if she were here."

Jim declared he had felt sure of this decision all the last year. They all decided Charles Reed would make a fine conscientious clergyman.



CHAPTER XVII

A GLAD SURPRISE

Doctor Joe stood at the doorway of the Institute. It was still in Madison Street, though it was to go up-town and be transformed into a college. The girls came trooping out,—they were really girls then, and had a deliciously girlish air.

"Oh, Joe!" cried Hanny, glancing up rather in amaze. What had happened?

He bowed gravely to some of her compeers. They thought Jim splendid; but they stood a little in awe of grave Doctor Joe.

"I have come for you to go and make a call," he said. "Let me take your books."

She glanced up the street.

"Oh, this isn't in style," he began laughingly. "I have neither coach nor four."

"Then we will have a nice walk. Where? Down at the Battery?"

She had such a sweet, eager face, and she was so easily pleased.

"We will go over to Broadway, first," he replied. "Then—well, wherever you like."

So they chatted as they walked along, across City Hall Square, where the fountain was still playing on sunny days.

The Astor House was yet in its glory. She wondered a little, as they walked up the stone steps, through the hall, and then up the thickly padded stairs, and into the spacious parlour.

A lady, dressed in black, was standing by the window, and turned smilingly. Hanny was bewildered by a familiar likeness. Then a young girl sprang up from the sofa; and Hanny caught a glint of golden curls, as she was clasped in the outstretched arms.

"Oh, Hanny!"

"Oh, Daisy!"

That was all they said for a moment or two. They cried a little, as people often do, out of pure gladness, and just hugged each other tighter.

"I was so afraid I never should see you again. Papa laughed. You know he has crossed the ocean so many times. If I hadn't been coming home, I suppose I shouldn't have been worried. But it seemed such a long, long while, and I was just crazy to see you, to get home. I don't believe I shall ever really want to go abroad again."

Hanny raised her head from Daisy Jasper's shoulder. Oh, what a tall girl she was! Her complexion was like pearl and blush roses; her hair was a wonderful gold; and her eyes, somehow, suggested the starry heaven at night. Hanny felt strangely abashed.

Then Mrs. Jasper claimed a greeting. Hanny knew that a year ago they had lost Aunt Ellen, with an attack of fever. Mrs. Jasper looked rather pale, but she had not changed.

"Why, you haven't grown a bit!" cried Daisy. "And look at me! You'll have to go to German baths, and all that, to get a good start. What a pity you did not go with us! I've had such a longing for girls. You don't get acquainted with them on the continent. They are always in the school-room. And I am just hungry, all the way through, for some one young and enthusiastic, and foolish and merry things to laugh at."

"But—I didn't know you were coming—"

"No, dear Doctor Joe kept the secret well. We did hope to be in on Saturday."

"Then you knew?" and she looked half reproachfully at her brother.

He laughed. He had only done Daisy's bidding.

"Now, if you want to keep Hanny to dinner, I'll come down this evening. I have a few calls to make," he announced presently.

"Indeed we do. You have so many folks, you might give me Hanny," and Daisy glanced at Doctor Joe with a bright, arch smile.

"If you took Hanny, you would have to take father and me, sure. The others might squeeze along without her; but I am afraid they would get thin on it."

Then the Doctor nodded and went his way.

"Now that you have Hanny, I will go and unpack one of the trunks," said Mrs. Jasper.

Hanny and Daisy went down in the corner of the long apartment, and took possession of a tete-a-tete.

"Oh, you are so changed!" cried the little girl "And so—so beautiful!"

"And so well! That's the loveliest thing. I can take long walks and dance, think of that! I am only a little lame. Just the merest crook in my back, and one leg a tiny bit shorter, but a thick sole makes it all right. And I've grown like a weed, while you are a tiny bit of something very choice,—a dainty little white rose. And I am so glad to have you again. Oh, don't let anything ever come between us! Let us be friends all our lives long. I have brought you a beautiful ring to bind friendship."