"Oh," sighed Hanny, in delight.

"And there have been so many changes! Oh, who do you think we met in London? Not Whittington and his cat, but Nora Whitney without her cat. And poor Pussy Gray is dead, and Nora is a tall young lady with a splendid voice, and will make a famous singer, I suppose. And Delia is getting to be famous too, I hear. It is odd, but she doesn't suggest a genius to my mind. I think you often are disappointed in geniuses. We saw some while abroad, and they did not come up to my expectations, or else one expects too much. Still there are some lovely faces."

"But she is just delightful! Only she keeps so busy, we do not see much of her."

"And poor little Tudie! How sad it was! I can sympathise with her sister now, for being an only child."

Then Hanny said Charlie had entered a theological seminary; and Daisy agreed being a clergyman would prove just the calling for him, he was so earnest and conscientious. Hanny had written everything, she thought; but Daisy was so eager to hear it all over again.

Mr. Jasper came in. He had been back and forth, and kept up the habit of calling on the Underhills, so nothing about Hanny surprised him.

The little girl felt rather startled when she went into the large dining-room. At this period, there were people who spent the whole season at the Astor House, though there were some newer hotels that were very attractive. It was like a grand party, Hanny thought. The ladies were so prettily attired, so bright and chatty.

When they went back to the parlour, that looked like a party, too. Hanny felt very plain in her school-dress. There were a number of Mr. Jasper's business friends, that he brought up to introduce to his wife and the two girls. But they were so busy talking, that they hardly noticed any one else.

Doctor Joe returned, armed with an invitation from Mrs. Underhill, for Mrs. Jasper and Daisy, to come up and make them a visit; and Mrs. Jasper said she should be glad to go somewhere, and find an old-fashioned American home-feeling. Daisy could hardly let Hanny go. Doctor Joe proposed that he should come for Daisy the next day, for she could not be of any special service to her mother until some plans were decided upon. That was a splendid thought.

They kissed and kissed, as if they were never to see each other again. Hanny's eyes were lustrous, and her cheeks pink with excitement. And there was so much to tell her mother.

"You must go to bed," declared Doctor Joe. "It is after ten."

"But, oh, my lessons! I have not looked at them."

"Never mind lessons now. You can get up early in the morning."

She was very tired, she had talked so much and listened so intently. And in five minutes she was asleep, in spite of the unlearned lessons.

She studied every moment the next morning, and all the way down in the stage, and managed to get through. She was a very good scholar ordinarily, and ambitious to have perfect recitations. But she kept counting the hours, for she could hardly believe Daisy Jasper was really at home.

Joe brought her up to the house when he had finished his round of calls. He handed her out quite as if she was a stylish young lady, though she was not in long gowns. But Joe was curiously proud of her, as being one of his first cases.

Everybody gave her a cordial welcome. Jim was at once her most devoted. Mrs. Underhill soon concluded foreign ways had not spoiled her; and grandmother said she was a pretty-behaved, intelligent girl. But, oh, the things she had seen, and done! She could talk French and German; she had taken painting-lessons from real artists, and had some pretty studies for Hanny, in a box not yet unpacked. She had brought the friendship ring, which was two tiny hands clasped over a sapphire with diamond sparks around it. Hanny's eyes shone with delight; she was getting quite a collection in the way of gifts.

Daisy seemed to bring a fascinating atmosphere. She was not forward, indeed there was often a pretty air of deprecation; but she had seen a good deal of society without being actually in it, and, since her aunt's death, had been her mother's companion. Her different lessons had mostly been given at home, except those in oil-painting; and there was no air of schools about her. She was so ready to be entertaining, so fresh, and yet with a charming simplicity.

"I am so glad for Hanny to have such a friend," her mother said to the Doctor. "She hasn't seemed to take any one to her heart since we have been up here; and it does make her seem a bit old-fashioned to be so much with elderly people."

"Yes. They seem to suit exactly."

Jim took them over to the Deans' one evening. Oh, what a merry talk they had about old times, for it did seem quite old to them. They recalled the day in summer, when the "caravan" went down Broadway to the store where Charles had been employed one vacation, and dear old First Street. Biddy Brady, who had danced for them, had run away and married a young Irishman. Old Mrs. McGiven still sold candies and cakes, and slate-pencils, and, oh, Washington pie that was almost as great a necessity to childhood then, as chewing-gum is now.

Mr. Jasper brought up the pictures when he escorted his wife. There were two pretty bits of landscape on the shore of Lake Geneva, and the other a Holland scene, with a stretch of canal and a queer house that looked as if it might topple over some day, if the foundation was washed out.

"But they never do," explained Daisy. "It's all so curious, and most of it so clean! And, oh, the windmills, and the queer costumes that have not changed in a century!"

Beside that there was a water-colour, a study of the most elegant tulips, painted from a real bed.

Hanny was wild with delight. They hung the pictures in her room, though Doctor Joe declared they ought to go in his study. He pretended to feel very badly that Daisy had not done anything for him.

"I will wait until I can paint something really worthy," she replied with a bright flush. "I owe you so much, that I ought to give you the very best. I mean to go on with my lessons. I love the work, and if I have any talent, it certainly is that."

"But you used to draw figures, faces," said Hanny, "and they were so real."

"In the summer I took lessons in miniature painting on ivory. I must confess that is my ambition; but it will take years to attain to perfection. I suppose now I ought to go to studying solid branches," and she laughed lightly. "I've begun wrong end first, with the accomplishments. But I had to talk German, for mamma wouldn't bother. And as she had not forgotten all her French, she went at that with me, and so I am a tolerable scholar. But I dare say Hanny could twist me all up with mathematics. I only know enough to count change. Still, I am quite an expert in foreign money. And, Hanny, were my sentences fearfully and wonderfully constructed, and did I slip up often on spelling?"

"I am quite sure you did not," protested Hanny.

"I do suppose she ought to go to a good school," said Mrs. Jasper.

"I am afraid I should not like school now. I could no longer be the heroine. And how could I descend to an ordinary station in life? Oh, Dr. Underhill, can't you interpose on the score of my still delicate health."

She had such a pretty colour in her cheeks, and her eyes shone with merriment.

"Doctor, you really must begin to be severe with her. She has her own way quite too much."

But it was a very charming way, they all thought. She roused Hanny to an unwonted brightness. Even grandmother laid claim to her, for she was delighted with her piquant description of places and people. She had heard Jenny Lind, and several other noted singers; but it seemed to her that the ovation to the Swedish Nightingale in New York must have been magnificent.

Jim claimed her when he was indoors; and they had many a merry bout. It hardly seemed possible that the few years could have wrought such a change in her. Ben took glowing accounts to Delia; and although she felt hurt and sore over the coolness of the Underhills, she did not abate one jot of her love for Ben.

She had been very busy arranging Nora's wardrobe, and now most of the care of the house devolved upon her. Mrs. Whitney would read for hours to Aunt Patty; often the old lady went soundly asleep. To be sure, matters were not attended to with the niceness of Mrs. Underhill; but Barbara was a treasure with her German neatness, and Bridget kept her kitchen at sixes and sevens. Mr. Theodore brought home one guest or three, with the same indifference; and if Ben's mother could have seen the cheerful manner in which Delia hurried about and arranged the table on short notice, she must have modified her opinion a little. Theodore was quite negligent about money-matters as well. Sometimes he was very lavish; then he would declare he was "dead broke," and she must do the best she could. Three or four of his friends would be in about ten, and couldn't she fix up a bit of something?

Sometimes she ran a little in debt; but when the good times came, she was only too eager to get matters straight. And she was so bright and gay with it all, and made Ben's visits so pleasant, that he sometimes forgot there was any trouble.

She had said decisively that they could not marry yet awhile; and Ben had accepted her fiat. But they did begin to plan for the journey abroad, and had a good deal of entertainment counting the cost, and considering where they would go.

"I should so like to see Daisy Jasper," she said.

"I will ask her to come down," answered Ben.

But Dolly invited them both up one Saturday, when Hanny and Daisy were to be there to tea. And Daisy told Delia about meeting Nora, and how happy she was in her new prospects.

She had been a little homesick, she wrote to Delia, but only for a few hours at a time. Madame Clavier was as careful as any mother could be, fussy, she thought sometimes; but no doubt it was for her good.

Daisy was very attractive to the children until Delia came, when they deserted their new friend for stories. Delia had not lost her girlish gift.

The Jaspers were a month making up their minds what to do, and then decided to board until spring at least. Joe found them a very pleasant place in their neighbourhood, to Hanny's delight. She was so glad to get her dear friend back again, sweet and unchanged; not but what she had found several charming girls at school, and some of them were just wild to see that lovely Miss Jasper, so her circle was widening all the time.

Margaret thought she ought to wear long dresses. Girls not quite grown up wore them to their gaiter-tops. Crisp, elegant button-boots had not come in, like a good many other excellent things. And Hanny was undeniably petite. Stretch up her very utmost, she hardly measured five feet. Women had not, by taking thought, added an inch to their stature by high heels. There were one or two "lifts" put in between the soles, called spring-heels; but the hats helped out a little.

"I haven't grown an inch this year," she declared ruefully. "And I am afraid I never will be any taller. It's queer, when all the rest of you are large."

"You are just right," said her father. "You will be my little girl all your life long."

Doctor Joe comforted her with the asseveration that he liked little women, "honest and true;" and Daisy also insisted she was just right.

"For you see how admirably your head goes down on my shoulder; and if we were the same size, we should be bumping heads. Queen Victoria is only five feet, and she is very queenly."

"But I am not queenly."

"No, but you could be, if you set about it."

She had some frocks to wear out that could not be let down; and her mother settled the question according to that for the present.

There was another thing that gave her a vague suspicion of being grown up, and that was cards.

The "quality" used visiting-cards; but it would have been considered underbred and pretentious to sow them around in the modern manner. They were kept for state occasions. Of course Dolly and Margaret had them; and Hanny thought Joseph B. Underhill, M. D., looked extremely elegant. Jim had some written ones in exquisite penmanship. He had not given up society because one girl had proved false and deceitful. He made a point of bowing distantly to Mrs. Williamson, and flushed even now at the thought of having been such a ninny!

Daisy Jasper's name was on her mother's cards. But you couldn't persuade Mrs. Underhill into any such nonsense. She declared if Joe brought her home any, she would put them in the fire. One day, however, he dropped a small white box into Hanny's lap, as she sat in his easy-chair, studying her lessons. It was too small for confectionery; it might be—she had coveted a pair of bracelets.

So she looked up with an inquiring smile.

"Open it, and see if they suit."

She was sure then it was bracelets.

There was white tissue-paper and something stiff. She tumbled the contents out in her lap. A few cards fell the plain side up. She turned one over. In very delicate script she saw—

"Miss Nan Underhill."

"Oh!" with a cry of delight. They called her Nan altogether at Stephen's, and the school-girls wrote her name in that manner. She often used it in writing notes. It looked so very attractive now.

"Oh, you lovely Joe!"

"They are nice to use with your girl-friends. There are a great many little society regulations that show refinement and good breeding, and I want you to observe them. When you get to be a middle-aged woman, Hannah Ann will look solid and dignified. I consulted Daisy and Mrs. Jasper, and both approved."

"Just a thousand thanks," and she threw up her arms to bring his face down within kissing reach.

The long skirt was settled by a rather peculiar circumstance.

We were beginning to have real literary aspirations, and some writers who attracted attention abroad. Miss Bremer had found a great many things to like in us; and Jenny Lind had been enthusiastic. Some Englishmen of note had been over and found we were not a nation of savages or red men, and that the best and highest in English literature was not unknown to us. Several of our writers had been abroad; and there was growing up a spirit of cordiality.

Then Thackeray was coming over to lecture on The English Humourists. Nearly everybody went to reading him. Some because it was, as we should say now, a "fad;" others because they wanted to appear conversant with his works; and a few because they had learned to understand and to love the wonderful touches of the master-pen. Boston received him with open arms. Then he was to visit the principal cities.

Ben and Delia were tremendously interested; and most of their talk was spiced with bits and quotations, and the telling scenes from his novels. Delia was beginning to have a good deal of discrimination and judgment. Sometimes, in moments of discouragement, she admitted to Ben that she was afraid she really hadn't any genius. Her novel had been recast ever so many times, and still languished.

Ben brought up tickets for Mr. Thackeray's second lecture. He had gone to the first one, and meant to hear them all. Joe must take Hanny, who would always regret it if she didn't hear him. He had seen Mr. Jasper; and they were all going the same evening.

Joe had meant to hear him. He was fond of hearing and seeing notable people, and kept his mind freshened up with all that was going on in the great world.

Hanny was delighted, of course, though the fact of listening with Daisy beside her added a great deal. They had an enthusiastic, rather school-girlish friendship. Daisy's mind was, of course, the more experienced. But with youthful fervor they were training themselves into perfect accord, en rapport, so they could look at each other and understand.

There was a really fine audience. And when the large, burly, broad-chested Englishman stepped on the platform, he had a cordial and enthusiastic welcome.

This evening he was at his best. His manner was clear and engaging; he moved his audience to tears and smiles. There was satire and tenderness and the marvellous insight that made him absolutely personify the writers he touched upon. The audience was charmed.

Hanny could not decide upon him. She was being won against her will, rather her preconceived notions; and yet her first feelings about him would return to disturb her. Mr. and Mrs. Jasper were delighted beyond expression; Joe was deeply interested, though he confessed he did not know Thackeray as he ought. He had read only one or two of the novels and the "Yellowplush Papers."

"I am going to read 'Vanity Fair' over again," said Hanny, when they reached home. "I didn't like it, really and truly."

"You are hardly old enough to enjoy such things," returned Joe. "Even I have not made up my mind, and I know I would not have liked them at seventeen. We believe in heroes and great deeds then, and the possibilities of life look grander to us than they do afterward. I suppose it is right that we should want to be pleased then."

Hanny felt that she wanted to be pleased with a story, or else very sorry for the misfortunes that no human power could seem to avert. But when mean and shallow and selfish people caused their own trials, were they worthy of sympathy?

They talked at school with the wide diversity of crude, girlish opinions. The papers were full of him as well.

Ben was one of his enthusiastic admirers. And now they planned to give a banquet,—printers and newspaper-men,—and Mr. Thackeray was to be the guest of the occasion; there was to be a dinner, with some of the bright literary lights, music, and dancing,—a really grand affair. Theodore Whitney was on the committee; and Ben had a lesser position. They meant to make it the affair of the season. Joe must surely take tickets. It was such a shame Dolly couldn't go; and, of course, Steve wouldn't. John and Cleanthe were not interested in such things; and, after thinking it over, Mrs. Hoffman declined.

"I shall have to look up a girl," said Joe. "Hanny, you have never been to a ball. Would you like to go?"

"Oh, I think a ball would be splendid! If Daisy could go, or Dolly."

"Yes, Daisy's mother or Dolly would have to go."

That gave him an idea, and he went down to see Mrs. Jasper.

"Why, I really think I would like to go myself," she said. "We do not consider Daisy quite a grown-up lady. I should like to keep her just a young girl for a long while; but, perhaps, that will not be possible."

"Hanny is a very young girl," returned Joe. "And I do not think father could stand it to have her grown up. But she keeps so small, I don't just know how we should get mother coaxed around. Both girls would enjoy it immensely."

"Oh, she would trust her with Mr. Jasper and me, if we were to take Daisy. Dear me—one festivity doesn't really signify. And yet—" she blushed and smiled with a certain girlishness. "They may be dangerous; I went to a Christmas ball when I was sixteen, and met Mr. Jasper. I was out on a holiday,—a mere school-girl."

"I don't believe Hanny or Daisy will find any one to fall in love with," said Joe, seriously; "they are so in love with each other."

"Oh, yes. They are planning to live together. There must be a settlement; for both will have to bring their respective families."

Joe was a good deal amused at that.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE LITTLE GIRL GROWN UP

Mrs. Underhill said "No." It was not to be thought of for a moment. Hanny in short frocks!

"It would have to be made long in the skirt, I suppose," returned Joe, gravely.

"Long! What are you talking about!"

"She would enjoy seeing the dancing. And when she was an old lady, and Thackeray dead, she could tell her children she was at a banquet with the great novelist."

"What nonsense you do talk, Joe."

Doctor Joe laughed, gave his mother a squeeze and a kiss that brought the bright colour to her cheek, and then went off to comfort two rich old patients who had nothing the matter with them, except the infirmities of age. They thought there was no one like Dr. Underhill.

Perhaps his mother thought so, too. She was taking a good deal of comfort with him in these days, when she had cast Ben a little out of her good graces. She had a hope that Ben's sturdy common sense would convince him after a while that Delia would make a poor, improvident wife. And there was a chance that, while Ben was waiting to get ready, some one might capture Delia. She sincerely hoped it would be some one well-to-do and deserving, and who could afford servants and a generous household expenditure. Ben would get over it in time.

And much as she enjoyed Joe, she wanted him to marry and have a home and family of his very own. But was any one good enough for such a sweet, generous, noble soul!

Of course Hanny couldn't go; that was a foregone conclusion. But then the Jaspers were going, and it wasn't like taking a young girl out in society. Just one night would not matter. Daisy had been to several grown-up festivities abroad, where they were ever so much more strenuous about girls. There would be so many people, they would pass in the throng unnoticed; and it was not like a public ball.

It was a little odd, but Miss Cynthia settled it finally. Her verdict seemed to settle a good many things. She did not "dress-make" very steadily now; but there were some folks who thought they couldn't have a wedding, or a large party, without Miss Cynthia's advice and assistance.

She came to spend the day. Grandmother Van Kortlandt enjoyed her very much, as she could not visit a great deal herself. Cynthia always had the latest news about all the relatives. She gossiped in a bright social fashion, with no especial ill-nature, or sharp criticism, indeed her sharpnesses were amusing for the bit of real fun in them.

"Why, of course she ought to go," declared Miss Cynthia. "I'd like to see the great man myself, and shake hands with him, though I am not over fond of the English; and I do hope and pray he won't go home and make fun of us. As for the dancing, and all that, Peggy Underhill, you went to lots of frolics before you were as old as Hanny, and had young men beauing you round. I don't see but you have made a good and capable wife and mother; and it didn't hurt you a bit."

"But I was not going to school."

"It wasn't the fashion then. And now women are in Oberlin College, studying the same things as the men; and they fall in love and get married just as they always did. The ball, or whatever you call it, won't hurt Hanny a bit. There will be the Jaspers, and Joe, and Ben, and I'm sure that's enough to take care of one little girl."

"She has nothing to wear; she is still in short frocks. And the idea of buying a ball-dress, that she won't want until next winter!"

"Now see here. Let's look over the old things. There's her blue silk, outgrown of course. They ruffle everything now, and it will be wide enough for that. And I can just cover the waist, and ruffle the skirt with white tarleton. It is nearly two yards wide, and makes lovely trimming. There's no use saving it up for Stephen's children."

They all laughed at that.

"And, Aunt Marg'ret," to grandmother, "why didn't you keep your little girl shut up in a band-box, while all the other girls were having good times and getting lovers? She might have been a queer, particular, fidgety old maid, instead of having a nice family for us to quarrel over."

"I will buy her a new dress," said grandmother.

"She doesn't want anything but a few yards of tarleton. She won't be likely to get into the papers. She and Miss Daisy will sit and look on, and just whisper to each other, and feel afraid to say their souls are their own; but they'll enjoy the pretty dressing and the dancing, and they will see how the thing is done when it comes their turn in good earnest."

So Mrs. Underhill had to give in. Grandmother slipped five dollars in Miss Cynthia's hand, as she was going away.

"If that falls short, I'll give you some more. And you just buy that tarleton."

Hanny wasn't quite sure, and never said a word at school until the very day. But she and Daisy had a thrill of delight talking it over. Miss Cynthia came armed with the tarleton. The skirt was let down; but girls' long dresses were not sweeping length in those days. Then it was covered with narrow ruffles that suggested drifting clouds over an azure sky. The bodice was not outgrown, after all. It was covered with the tarleton, and had a fall of beautiful old lace around the shoulders, a pretty frill at the neck, and short sleeves. Joe bought her white gloves, and she had a blue sash.

Miss Cynthia came in to dress her; but the little girl had a quivering fear that something had happened to her maid, for it was full eight o'clock. She put her back hair in a French twist, much worn then, with two big rings right on the top of her head that looked like a crown. Her front hair she curled over an iron, and then combed it out; and it was a mass of fluffy waves, gathered in bandeaux just above her ears. She had her mother's beautiful pearl earrings, that had come from France with the old French grandmother, and a handsome mother-of-pearl-topped comb in her hair.

They put on the ball-dress. "Now look at yourself," said Miss Cynthia, "and get used to it before I let in the folks."

Hanny stood before her mother's tall mirror. Oh, this was Miss Nan Underhill, and she had never seen her before. There was a mystery about her,—a sudden sense of a strange, beautiful, unseen world, a new country she was going into, an old world left behind, an intangible recreation that no words could explain, but that touched her with a kind of exalted sacredness, as if a new life was unfolding all about her. She hardly dared stir or breathe.

"For a girl with no special beauty, I think you look very well. But, land sakes! You'll see no end of handsome girls; Margaret and Jim carried off the beauty of this family."

Miss Cynthia's voice recalled her from the vision of coming womanhood, that she was to live over again on her wedding night, with its holy blessedness enshrining her within her bridal veil.

Her father's eyes shone with a softness that looked like tears. Her mother viewed her all over with a critical air.

"I must say, Cynthia, you've done wonderfully. The dress looks very nice. And now, Hanny, I do hope you won't be forward or silly. Mind everything Mrs. Jasper says, and don't you and Daisy giggle. Be careful and don't lose Margaret's handkerchief. I don't just know as you ought to carry that."

Joe said she was lovely; and Jim really was very complimentary. He did wish that he was going. But Jim counted the cost of everything now, for he was trying to get out of debt.

The coach came up from the Jaspers' and Hanny was put inside. Joe insisted on sharing the box with the driver.

When Daisy took off her wrap in the dressing-room, she had on a pale pink silk. Part of her curls were tied up in a bunch on top of her head, and fastened with a silver arrow and two roses. She would always wear it in ringlets, or at least until she was so old she wouldn't mind about her shoulders being not quite straight.

The affair was a banquet primarily. To be sure they gathered in the Assembly room; and there was Ben, and Delia, who looked very nice and bright in maize colour and brown.

"Oh, Hanny, you are as lovely as a picture," she whispered enthusiastically. "But you are a little mite; there is no denying it. I was so afraid you couldn't come, that something would happen at the last moment. Miss Cynthia is capital."

Hanny coloured and almost sighed. She might as well give up hoping to be tall, and accept the fact.

They went into the banquet-room, where there were two long tables. They passed around to where a circle of men stood, some of them very fine looking indeed. The advancing group were presented to the great novelist, and in future years Hanny was to treasure the cordial smile and pressure of the hand. But he was to come again when the world had learned to pay him a finer and more discriminating admiration.

His end of the table was literary. The Jasper party were opposite, at the other one. What brightness and wit spiced the party, they could gather from the genial laughter. There were toasts and responses that scintillated with gaiety and touched the border of pathos.

It was long, and of course the younger people who came for the ball were not compelled to stay. The novelist was to leave at the close of the dinner. And presently most of the company found their way to the dancing room, where the band was discoursing enchanting music, and where every one enjoyed the promenade.

But when the quadrille sets were formed and in motion, Hanny was enraptured. Ben and Delia were among them. Delia certainly had a frivolous side to her nature for a genius. She was very fond of fun and pleasure and dancing, and had no lack of partners all the evening.

Some there were who danced like a fairy dream; others who made blunders and gave the wrong hand, and betrayed various awkwardnesses. Doctor Joe found several lady friends, and danced two or three times, then proposed that Hanny should try, which he was sure "would inspire Daisy into making the attempt," he said with a persuasive smile.

Hanny was very much afraid out on the large space. But Delia was in the same set, and her bright merry eyes were full of encouragement. It was not alarming. Indeed, in five minutes, the music had put a "spirit in her feet," and she felt quite at home.

Then a friend of Ben's came to ask her; and Doctor Joe sat down to persuade Daisy. While abroad, she had taken what we should now term a series of physical culture lessons to strengthen and develop her limbs, and to learn how to overcome her misfortune in every possible manner. Indeed, it was hardly noticeable now, and she had outgrown the sensitiveness of her childhood.

"Oh, mamma, do you think I could?"

"Of course she can," declared Doctor Joe. "I can't have you playing wall flower altogether at your first ball. And if you drop down in surprise, or faint away, I will carry you to the dressing-room at once."

He was so tender and full of nonsense, yet so much in earnest, that she rose reluctantly. But like Hanny, with the eager joy of youth, she soon forgot everything except the pure pleasure, and the delight of gratifying dear Doctor Joe, who was so strong and gentle that she could not even feel a bit nervous.

As for Hanny, she was really enchanted. The room full of people, smiling and happy, the changing figures, the light airy dresses, the shimmer of silks, the cloudlets of lace, the soft flying curls, for so many people wore ringlets still, the happy smiling faces, and the throb of the music was intoxicating. It was a strange, delightful world that she had gone into with her first long gown and her hair done up.

She came back, flushed and excited, her pretty eyes shining, her red lips all in a quiver.

"Now you must sit down and rest," said Mrs. Jasper. "And if you are very obedient, you may get up in that Spanish dance. I think that quite delightful and bewildering."

A lady sat on the other side of Mrs. Jasper, and resumed the incident she was describing. Mr. Jasper came up with a young man.

"Here is an old friend!" he exclaimed. "Where is Daisy?"

"Somewhere with the Doctor. Oh, what a surprise!" and she took the young man's hand.

"I wasn't sure I could get here; and it would have been very ungrateful to Mr. Jasper, when he sent me a ticket. I wanted to see Miss Daisy again. But I have just come on a flying business tour, and must start to-morrow for Philadelphia. Still, I may have a little leisure when I return. What a gay scene."

Hanny sat fanning herself, and feeling that her cheeks were scarlet. If it only wouldn't culminate in her nose! Then Mr. Jasper turned and introduced his young friend. Hanny moved a little, so he could sit between her and Mrs. Jasper,—a very attractive young man, a Mr. Andersen.

"Miss Underhill," he repeated, as Mr. Jasper turned away, "I've been speculating on a Miss Underhill for five minutes. I wonder if you will consider it impertinent; but perhaps you never speculate upon people, and then it might be reprehensible. Just as I entered the room, there was a merry group talking, and a sort of 'nut brown mayde,' all in brown and yellow with bright hair and laughing eyes said, 'Miss Nan Underhill.' Of course I was too well bred, and in too great a hurry to listen to any more, or I might have found out about her. I had just an instant interior gleam of what she must be like with that English name. And I wonder if the fates have directed my steps to her?"

Mr. Andersen was not the tall, stern, gloomy hero of romance; he was medium in height and figure, with a frank, eager sort of face, dark hair, and eyes she thought black then, but afterwards came to know that they were of the deep blue of a midnight sky in winter. He had such a smiling mouth, and his voice had a curious, lingering cadence that suggests that one may have heard it in a previous state.

Hanny caught the spirit of the half badinage, and the laughing light in his face.

"I think I ought to know the ideal before I confess identity," she replied.

"Can't I change the ideal? Or repent my vague, wild fancy?"

"Oh, was it wild? Then I must insist upon it. Miss Nan Underhill, an English girl; of course she was tall, this vision of your imagination?"

Hanny was quite sure her face grew redder. And this ideal girl was beautiful. Oh, dear!

"Yes, tall; a daughter of the gods, or the old Norse Vikings before they were Anglicised, with fair hair. And you have the fair hair."

"But I am not tall! I am sorry to have you disappointed."

"I am not disappointed. What does a vagrant fancy amount to? I consider myself fortunate in meeting Miss Underhill. Why, suppose I had gone rambling about and missed you altogether? Have you known the Jaspers long?"

"Oh, years and years. Before they went abroad."

"What a beautiful girl Daisy is! I am glad she is here enjoying herself. Oh, isn't it the regulation thing to speak of the hero of the feast? Of course when you heard he was coming to lecture you began to read his novels—if you had not before."

"I had not read them before. There are a great many books I have not read. But I tried at 'Vanity Fair;' and I am afraid I don't like it."

"I do not believe you will now. I can't imagine real young people liking them. But when one has grown older and had sorrow and suffering and experience, there are so many touches that go to one's heart. And 'Vanity Fair' is a novel without a hero. Still I always feel sorry for poor Major Dobbins. I wonder if Amelia would have liked him better if his name had been something else? Could you fall in love with such a name?"

They both laughed. She raised her eyes. How exquisitely fair and sweet and dainty she was! The soft hair had shining lights; and her eyes had a twilight look that suggested a pellucid lake, with evening shades blowing over it.

"A little more of something would have made him a hero, and spoiled the book."

"But I don't like Amelia, nor Becky; and the Crawleys are horrid. And Thackeray seems holding up everybody and laughing at them. I like to believe in people."

"I am glad there is a time when we can believe in them: it is the radiant time of youth. What did that little smile hide, and half betray? Confess!"

"Are you so very old?"

The charming gravity was irresistible.

"Seven and twenty, and I am beginning to worship Thackeray. At seven and thirty, he will be one of my passions, I know. Now and then I come to a sentence that goes to my heart. No, do not read him yet awhile, unless it is some of the little things. There is 'Dr. Birch and his Young Friends;' and if you want to be amused you must read his continuation of 'Ivanhoe.' But then you will have neither heroines nor heroes left. And if you and Miss Daisy want to laugh beyond measure, get the 'Rose and the Ring,' that he wrote for his two little girls."

"Oh," said Hanny, "are they at home, in England?"

"Yes, with an aunt."

"Haven't they any mother?"

"They have no mother," he said gravely.

Years later, the novelist was to be one of the little girl's heroes, when she knew all the bravery of his life, and why his little girls were without a mother.

Joe and Daisy returned, and there was a pleasant rencontre; then Delia and Ben came up, and they had a merry chat and a promenade.

"I wonder," as the musicians began tuning again, "if you are engaged for all the dances. Could I be allowed one?"

He took up her card.

"I have been dancing so much already; but Mrs. Jasper said I might try the Spanish dance."

"Oh, then try it with me! I am not too old to dance, if I have come to adoring Thackeray. And I am to go away soon."

"To go away—where?" And she glanced up with an interest that gave him a quick sense of pleasure.

"To Hamburg first; then to find some relations."

"In Germany? But you are not a German?" in surprise.

"I ought to be a Dane, if one's birth counts for anything; and if one's ancestors count, then an old Dutch Knickerbocker," he returned, with a soft, amused laugh. "But I believe I cannot boast of any English descent, such as the son of a hundred earls. That doesn't sound as poetic as the daughter of a hundred earls."

"Who was not one to be desired," interposed the young girl.

"Ah, you read Tennyson then? It is odd, but a good many of us begin on poetry. I like it very much myself."

A touch of thought settled between Hanny's brows.

"Are you wondering about my mixed lineage? Part of it came from the old Dutch governor, Jacob Leisler. My grandfather went to Germany, and ran away with a lady of high degree, and brought her back to America, where my father was born, and lived all his young life, until his marriage. Then business took him abroad, and I was born; and my mother died at Copenhagen. My father is connected with the importing house of Strang, Zahner, & Co., of which Mr. Jasper is a member. He is married again, to a very sweet, amiable German woman. Oh, here we are to take our places!"

Hanny hesitated an instant. She longed to have Mrs. Jasper's approbation.

"We have been looking for you," said Ben. "Let us begin in the one set. Here is Daisy and Joe."

Then it would be all right. She glanced up and smiled with cordial assent.

The old-fashioned Spanish dance was a great favourite at that time, when germans were unknown. Its graceful turns and windings, its stately balances, until the dancers seemed all one long elegant chain, that moved to the perfect time of the music, was indeed fascinating. People danced then. Youth never dreamed of being bored, and walking languidly. Every movement was delicate and refined.

Was she really in some enchanted country? When Mr. Andersen was compelled to leave her, he glanced over or past his partner with an expression so near a smile that Hanny's pulses quickened. When he came back, the light touch of his hand gave her a little thrill that was quite delicious. Now and then they had a bit of conversation.

Once he said, in his charming fashion, that was admiration rather than criticism:—

"Why, you are very petite!"

"Yes; I am not the tall, slim English girl."

"I am very glad. We dance so well together; I wish I were not going away so soon. And you can't guess—you will think it strange,—to American ideas it is; but when I go back I have to hunt up a descendant of this grandmother of high degree who has been making matrimonial overtures to my father on my behalf."

"Oh, that is like a story! And what will you do?"

"I will think about it, and answer you when you return to me."

He gave her to the next partner, with a graceful inclination of the head.

There were numberless evolutions before he could take her again. She glanced up out of sweet, questioning eyes.

"I've been considering," he resumed, as if they had not parted. "You see, it is this way. My father is very, very fond of me, though there are other children. Then I have my mother's fortune, which he has been very watchful of. He is a splendid, upright, honourable man. Now, if your father asked such a thing of you,—what I mean is, if he asked you to see some one and learn how well you could like her or him—"

She was off again. Oh, what a sweet little fairy she was! What poet wrote about twinkling feet? Hers certainly twinkled in their daintiness. He had not considered her prettiness at first; now it seemed as if she was exquisitely fair, with that soft pink in her cheeks.

"Yes. Do you not believe you would go to please him, and see? And you might not like her, and she might not like you. But sometimes people do take sudden fancies. What do you think, looking at it out of an American girl's eyes?"

"I should go for my father's sake."

There was such a delicate gravity in her clear eyes as she raised them a little.

"Thank you," he returned softly. "What an odd thing to talk of in the midst of our dancing! When you are older, you will find people making a confidante of you very often, you seem so serious and truthful."

They were coming down to the end of the winding chain; Mr. and Mrs. Jasper stood there. One more figure, and the cornet and horns and violins gave three long breaths of melody and stopped.

"My dear children," said Mrs. Jasper, as she stretched out her hand. "Daisy, you will be in bed all day to-morrow! Your mother will never trust me with you again, Hanny; I didn't think it would be so long."

"But it was so delightful, mamma." Daisy was in a tumult of pleasure.

"We must go at once. Mr. Jasper will be back by the time we have found our wraps. Doctor, I can't thank you for making such a patient martyr of yourself, only you are always so good. Hanny, have you had a nice time?"

"It has been splendid," with a long, long breath, and shining lights in her eyes.

Delia went to the dressing-room with them.

"I'm going to have two more dances," she said. "It is the first real ball I've been to in a long while. I'm so glad you came. Ben says he never imagined you were so pretty. Think of that, from one's own brother! And Daisy did not shine you down, either."

Hanny kissed her with a sort of rapture. She couldn't understand; she seemed to be walking on the azure clouds instead of solid earth.

Mr. Andersen went to the carriage with them, and said he should surely call when he returned from Philadelphia.

Daisy leaned her head down on her mother's shoulder. She was more tired than she would admit. Hanny's eyes were like stars, and her brain was still filled with wonderful melodies and light airy figures trooping to the ravishing sounds, the shimmering light and sparkle. Doctor Joe just carried her up the steps, and opened the door with his latch-key. But Mrs. Underhill had heard them, and she came downstairs, wrapped in a shawl.

"Oh, Joe, how could you keep her out so late! Do you know it's almost three o'clock?"

Then the mother folded her to her heart. It seemed as if she had been snatched from some great danger; and now that she had her safe and sound, she felt as if she should never let her go again.

"You're all excitement, Hanny; you tremble like a leaf. Such dissipations are bad for growing girls."

"Oh, mother, I think I'm done growing," Hanny laughed, with a soft ring of music in her voice. "I have wanted to be tall like Margaret; but now I do not mind a bit. I think I shall always be father's little girl. And the dancing was so delightful; but you can't think how queer and long the supper was. And Mr. Thackeray really shook hands with me. He has two little girls, and they haven't any mother. If you could have seen Daisy! And she dances beautifully."

"Hanny, your tongue runs like a mill-race. Do keep still, child. Cynthia has you pinned in every fashion. I hope your dress looked nice enough for a little girl. There, I'll take care of them all. You will never want to get up in the morning."

When she had hung the dress out of sight, she felt as if she had her little girl once more. And the little girl fell asleep to the sound of the most delicious music ever floating through one's brain.



CHAPTER XIX

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

Yes, Hanny Underhill was a little girl again in gaiter-length dresses, and her braids tied across at the back of her head. They let her sleep until the latest moment; and then she had to hurry off to school. But her eyes were bright; and she could have danced along the street, if it had been the proper thing to do.

Daisy did not fare so well. She had a headache, and was very languid. Joe said Hanny had better not go down; and that Daisy would be all right to-morrow. So Hanny studied her lessons, and began to read "Vanity Fair" aloud to grandmother. But grandmother said she didn't care about such a silly girl as Amelia; and though there were wretched women in the world, she didn't believe any one ever was quite so scheming and heartless as Becky.

Then Hanny told her father about the dancing, and the partners she had, and Mr. Andersen, who was going back to Germany to marry some distant cousin. Altogether, it was a splendid time, only she felt as if there had been some kind of a Cinderella transformation; and that she was safe only as long as she wore short frocks.

A week afterward, Mr. Andersen returned to the city, and Hanny was invited down to tea at the Jaspers. They had a nice time, only the talk was not quite so charming as when it was interspersed with dancing.

He was to go to Paris also. And now Louis Napoleon had followed in the footsteps of his illustrious uncle, and was really Emperor of France. What a strange, romantic history his had been!

After this, life went on with tolerable regularity. There was plenty of amusement. Old New York did not suffer. Laura Keene thrilled them with the "Hunchback," and many another personation. Matilda Heron was doing some fine work in Milman's "Fazio," and the play of "The Stranger" held audiences spell-bound. Then there were lectures for the more sober-minded people; and you heard youngish men who were to be famous afterward. Spirit-rappings had fallen a trifle into disfavour; and phrenology was making converts. It was the proper thing to go to Fowler's and have your head examined, and get a chart, which sort of settled you until something else came along. Young ladies were going into Combe's physiology and hygiene and cold bathing. Some very hardy and courageous women were studying medicine. Emerson was in a certain way rivalling Carlyle. Wendell Phillips was enchanting the cities with his silver tongue. There had been Brooke Farm; and Margaret Fuller had flashed across the world, married her Italian lover, who fought while she wrote for liberty; and husband, wife, and child had met their tragic death in very sight of her native land.

People were thinking really great thoughts; and there was a ferment of moral, transcendental, and aesthetical philosophy. Women met to discuss them in each other's parlours, prefiguring the era of clubs. Alice and Ph[oe]be Cary's receptions had grown to be quite the rage; and Anne C. Lynch was another figure in the social-literary world. Beecher was drawing large audiences in Brooklyn, and telling the old truths in a new fashion. There is always a great seething and tumult before the water fairly boils and precipitates the dregs to the bottom.

But whatever comes and goes, young girls are always growing up with the flush and fragrance and elusive fascinations of spring. To-day, a credulous tenderness and overwhelming faith in the past; to-morrow, a little doubtful, hesitatingly anticipative, with the watchwords of "The True, the Good, and the Beautiful;" and still concerned in the latest style of doing one's back hair, and if silver combs and gilt pins would keep in fashion; and flushing celestial rosy red, yet with an odd sense of importance, when men began to lift their hats in a gravely polite manner, as if the laughing, hoydenish girl of yesterday, who strung herself out four or five wide on the sidewalk with books in hand, was the shy, refined, hesitating, utterly delicious young woman of to-day.

There were times when Hanny stood on the mysterious borderland. She used to steal up and look at the wraith of a ball-dress hanging in the third-floor closet, put away with the "choice" garments. The skirt looked so long, almost uncanny. She could see the girl who had gone to the banquet, who had danced with young men who asked "the pleasure" with the politest inclination of the head. And, oh, the lovely dances she had with Mr. Andersen! The bewitching Spanish movement floated through her brain; and the young man's voice—what a curious, lingering sweetness it had—went over her like a wave of music. Of course his German cousin would fall in love with him,—how could she help it?—and they would marry. They would go to Paris once a year or so, when business took him; they would go over to London; but their real home would be in some German town, or maybe in the castle from which the pretty grandmother had run away with her American lover. She was so glad there were real romances left in the world. It wasn't likely any would happen to her. She was not tall, nor elegant, nor handsome; and though she could sing "Bonnie Doon," "Annie Laurie," "A Rose-tree in Full Bearing," and "The Girl I Left behind me," for her father, she was not a company singer. But she really didn't mind. Her father would want her. She wasn't quite resigned to being an old maid; but then she need not worry until she was twenty-five. And when you came to that, half the relatives were fighting for Miss Cynthia Blackfan; and Mr. Erastus Morgan had invited her over to Paris to see the new Emperor, who was copying in every way his granduncle who had ruled half Europe.

Then she would close the closet door and run blithely downstairs with a bit of song. That was Miss Nan Underhill up there; and in her short school-girl frock she was plain household Hanny.

But they had delightful times. Doctor Joe bought a new buggy, very wide in the seat, and used to take her and Daisy out when the days were pleasant. Then Charles and Josie came over evenings, or they went to Mrs. Dean's, and talked and sang and discussed their favourite poems and stories, and thought how rich the world was growing, and wondered how their grandfathers and grandmothers had existed!

The little rue in the Underhills' cup became sweetened presently with the balm of love and forbearance, that time or circumstances usually brings about when truth and good sense are at the helm.

Matters had gone rather hard with Delia Whitney of late. In a certain fashion, she had come to the parting of the intellectual ways. People were as eager then as now to discover new geniuses. There were not so many writing, and it was easier to gain a hearing. She had been successful. She had been praised; her stories and poems were accepted, published, and paid for. She had been made much of by her brother's friends, and some of the literary women she had met.

She began to realise it was not altogether wandering at one's sweet will, unless one had a garden of unfailing bloom in which to gather the flowers of poetry, or even prose. There were greater heights than even girlhood's visions. But there must be training and study to reach them, and she had been lilting along in a desultory way, like a careless child.

But had she any real genius? When she bent her whole mind to the cultivation of every energy, what if she should find it was energy and imagination merely? Her novel did not progress to her satisfaction. Characters might be common-place; but there was to be force enough in their delineation to keep the attention of the reader. They must be clear-cut, vivid; and hers seemed all too much alike, with no salient points.

"Do you suppose no one ever felt discouraged before?" asked Ben, with his brave, sweet smile. "That's no sign."

"But if I really wasn't a genius? And I have had so many splendid plans and plots in my brain; but when they come out, they are flat and weak. I don't ever expect to stand on the top-most round; but I can't stay down at the bottom always. I would rather not be anywhere."

Ben comforted her in his quiet fashion.

"Oh, what should I do without you!" she cried. "I want to achieve something for your sake."

"You will achieve. And if you do not, there is enjoyment left. You inspire other people."

"With a kind of girlish nonsense that passes for wit. But older minds demand the real article."

"You have a certain brightness of talk that brings out the best in other people. That is a rare gift, I am beginning to observe. Put the novel by for a little while."

"But every time I take it out, it seems worse," she returned ruefully.

Then she admitted another worry.

"Aunt Patty stumbled and fell about a month ago in her room. She was lame for some days; and I can see she isn't quite the same. Mother thinks it was a stroke. She is old, you know, and if she should be laid up! She clings to me so. You see, she misses Nora, who was running in and out, and the young girls who came here, and—oh, Ben, I am afraid I am growing stupid!"

Ben laughed and kissed her, and told her not to cross bridges until she came to them.

Then Theodore went to Washington for a fortnight; and Ben felt that it was hard for Delia to be bereft of that useful article, a man around the house. When Theodore returned, there was an imperative journey to the West. Already there were clouds rising that disquieted the wisest statesmen who were studying how to prevent any outward clashing. Mr. Whitney, with his savoir faire, was considered one of the best men to send on a quasi political mission.

"You just drop in to supper every evening, Ben," he said with his Good-bye. "Dele has a head worth that of any half-dozen women; but I like to feel some one is looking after her. Mother is away a good deal."

The. had a misgiving Ben and Delia might want to marry; but they couldn't possibly spare Delia. So he was very friendly and obliging to Ben.

"Mother," oddly enough, was taking a great interest in the small end of the woman question, that was pushing its way in among other things. Mr. Whitney had been the most indulgent of husbands, and her sons had accepted household discomforts with no grumbling. But she took most kindly to the emancipation of women. She had a friend in Brooklyn who was lecturing on the subject; and she had vague aspirations that way herself. She was still a woman of fine presence and a fair share of intelligence.

Bridget had married, and been superseded by an untrained Katy. Aunt Patty was growing rather weak-hearted and childish, so Delia did have her hands full, and but little time for writing.

Theodore had been absent hardly a week when the stroke came. One morning, Aunt Patty was unable to move hand or foot on one side, and could hardly speak intelligibly, though her face kept its sweet expression. Mrs. Whitney had gone away somewhere with her friend.

When Ben heard the sad story that night, and folded the trembling, sobbing girl to his heart, his resolve was taken. A nurse had come, to be sure; but Delia should not bear this trial alone. He must live here, and comfort her with his love.

He went home quite early that evening. His father and Hanny were in Joe's study; his mother sat alone, darning stockings.

She glanced up and smiled; but when she saw his grave face, she said, "Oh, Ben, what has happened?"

"They are in great trouble down at Beach Street. Old Aunt Boudinot has had a stroke of paralysis. Mrs. Whitney has gone on a little journey with a friend; and Delia is alone. Mother, I have resolved to be married and help her bear her burthen. There is no immediate danger of Miss Boudinot dying, I believe; but since The. is away—they need some one—"

"Ben!"

Then she looked in her boy's face. Benny Frank and Jim were still boys to her. There was Joe to be married before it came their turn, and poor George, if he should live to come back. But it was not a boy's face, nor a boy's pleading eyes, that met hers. A man's grave sweetness, and sense of responsibility, shone in the clear, deep grey orbs, and the whole face had matured, so that she was amazed, bewildered.

"Mother dear," he began, "can't you wish me God speed, as you have the others? I've never loved any one but Delia; I never shall. I know I can make her happy; and isn't there some duty on my side? Am I to demand everything, and throw out a few crumbs of comfort now and then? We have known each other long enough to be quite sure, quite satisfied. But she has said all along she would not marry me until she could be considered a daughter of the house. I shall persuade her to now, unless—mother, can't you give her a welcome?"

He put his arms about his mother's neck. Was there some mysterious strength and manliness in him she had not realised before, even in his very voice. When had she lost her boy? What a pang went to her inmost heart. Yes, he was a man, and he had a right to himself. She was not a selfish woman; but her face dropped down on his shoulder and she cried softly.

"Mother—dear." There was a sweet, faint break in his voice, and he kissed her brow softly.

"You have been such a good boy, Ben. I've been a little worried sometimes about Jim; but you have gone on so straight and steadfast. I do thank the Lord for all of you. And I have wanted you to have the best—"

"She is the best to me, mother. Like her a little for my sake," he pleaded tenderly.

"I do like her. If she makes you happy—"

That was all. If Delia made her son as happy as Dolly or Cleanthe—

Ben kissed his mother. Ten years ago she had thought kissing rather foolish for anybody but the little girl. Now her big sons always kissed her. Perhaps there was more love in the world.

They began to make plans presently. Ben was in favour of a quiet marriage; and of course he would remain at Beach Street. Delia had promised to care for her aunt; and there was no one else to take charge.

"I don't know as I have been just right about it," said Mrs. Underhill. "But Mrs. Whitney's carelessness and inefficiency have always tried me. Still, the children have turned out well. Delia is smart, and capable; and since you are quite resolved—"

Ben smiled then; and it went to his mother's heart. He knew he had won the victory.

The next morning she said to him:—

"Ben, I've decided to go down and see Delia. I have never been there but once, since they went to Beach Street. Could you stop and tell her? Give her my love. I'm very sorry all this should happen, and she alone."

Mrs. Underhill was not given to half-hearted measures. When the work was done, and the dinner planned out, she dressed herself and went down-town. Delia was a little embarrassed at first; but they talked about Aunt Boudinot, and she went up to see her. The sweet old face lighted up, and she reached out her "best hand," in a sad sort of fashion; but she could utter only one word at a time.

"Ben said, I must keep you to dinner, and he would come up," exclaimed Delia, with a bright blush. It was so like old times to hear her cheerful voice. "And you will be late at home."

Delia ran down and put on a clean cloth, and wiped the dishes over with a dry towel, to take off the roughness Katy always left behind in her manipulations. And she broiled the steak herself. She could do that to perfection.

Then they arranged about the marriage. Delia certainly did need some one. It was not worth while to make any fuss. Mrs. Whitney would surely be back by Monday, and it was appointed for that evening.

Dolly took the news with cordial sweetness. Margaret was sorry that Ben had not looked a little higher; but since it must be, they would make the best of it. Hanny was delighted. Joe went down that very evening, and gave the young people his best love.

Mrs. Whitney came home on Saturday. She considered the step very judicious. She thought they had been engaged long enough. Then Ben and The. were such good friends; and with The. away so much, it was lonesome. "She was glad they had set the marriage for Monday evening, for she had promised to go out to Buffalo on Tuesday with Mrs. Stafford. A nurse was the proper thing for Aunt Patty. It was too bad, to be sure; but at her time of life, one might expect almost anything. And she, Mrs. Whitney, never had been any sort of a nurse; so it was folly for her to undertake it." She was very sweet to Aunt Patty. She had a good deal of the suavity that helps matters to run easily, and her sympathies were boundless.

Delia's sisters, and their children, and a few friends were invited. All the Underhills came, and Hanny was bridesmaid; but she wore her last summer's embroidered muslin, which was not long in the skirt.

They missed Ben a good deal, though he ran up every now and then. And Theodore was gone six weeks, instead of two or three. Now that Mrs. Underhill had really "given in," she was most cordial and sympathetic to her new daughter. Doctor Joe went down every day, though very little could be done, since even a physician could not fight against old age. Joe thought Delia very sweet and patient.

There were two great undertakings engrossing the public mind. One was a grand library. Old Mr. John Jacob Astor, some years previous, had left a large sum of money for this purpose; and there were heated discussions as to its scope and purpose. It would be a reference library rather than an entirely free library for general readers. But it would be a fine addition to the city.

The other was the Crystal Palace. There had been the first famous World's Fair at Sydenham, opened by the Prince Consort. And now, we were trying our energy and ingenuity to have something worthy of attracting the nations. Reservoir Square had been selected; and the great iron braces and supports and ribs had been watched with curiously eager eyes, as they spread out into a giant framework, and were covered with glass that glinted in the sun like molten gold. When its graceful dome arose, enthusiasm knew no bounds.

We had not dreamed of the great White City then. But we were only in the early middle part of the century.

A park had been opened on the east side, out of an old tract known as "Jones's Woods," and was quite a picnic-place for the working-people on a holiday. There was a talk about another, and, perhaps, the inspiration was evolved as the Fair grounds were being put in attractive order. A short time afterward, the Central Park board was appointed, with Washington Irving as president.

The country was wild and rough all about. Here and there, clusters of houses began to indicate the coming city. Kip farm had not disappeared; and people talked of Strawberry Hill and Harlem Heights; and there remained some fortifications of the old Rock House of 1812 memory. The old times were recalled, as people went rambling around.

Broadway still kept its vogue and elegance on the dollar side. There was Thompson's and Taylor's, where the stylish young ladies stopped in the afternoon for chocolate or cream and confections, and theatre parties went after the play. But, on the whole, there were mysterious strides up-town.

The old streets were quaint and cool in summer, with the trees that had grown for years in ungrudged spaces. The park in Beach Street was still lovely; and now Hanny often went over from school and stayed to tea with Ben and Delia. Daisy came down as well; and they talked of Nora, who was getting on famously, and who had sung at an out-of-doors fete for a children's charity.

Delia was happy and charming; but she was very much engrossed with home affairs. Nurses grew tired and went away; and Aunt Patty became more and more helpless.

Then came the great event to Hanny's life, and she was quite nervous over it. This was graduation; but when she had passed the examinations successfully, the real care was over.

And the new clothes! The old ones had been made to do through the spring; but now there was no question about long skirts. There were pretty plaid summer-silks,—everybody wore them then, and they were almost as cheap as now,—lawns, a light grey cashmere for ordinary occasions, and a white India muslin for graduation. The very next evening Dolly was to give her a party.

Grandmother thought it ought to be at home, instead.

"She will want one in the fall," said Dolly, "to announce that she is really Miss Underhill, and ready for society. Home will be the place for that. And she will be getting acquainted with young people through the summer. She's never been anything but a little girl."

There wasn't such a fuss made about sweet girl graduates then; and, later on, Rutgers Institute was to wheel into line and become a college; but even now they had bouquets and baskets of flowers. And some of the girls had lovers, and were engaged, even if there was no co-education. The chapel was crowded with admiring friends; and the girls looked sweet and pretty in their white gowns and flowing curls; for youth has a charm and beauty of its own that does not depend on regular features, or style, or any of the later accessories of life. It is an enchanted land of sunny skies and heavenly atmospheres.

She came home out of it all with a curious new feeling. That night of the banquet it had been almost a masquerade. Even now the blue shimmer and clouds of white ruffles seemed to belong to some other state. She wondered a little if she would ever wear it again.

There were some pretty gifts for her at home. Josie Dean and Charlie Reed came around in the evening. He had passed his first year's examinations successfully.

Doctor Joe and Jim and the elder people were talking very earnestly about the duties and the purposes of life. Josie touched Hanny's hand, and, with a little movement, the sign girls understand, drew her out on the porch.

"Let us walk down the path. Oh, Hanny, I've something to tell you!" and her voice was in a sort of delicious tremble. "May be you have suspected. I told Charlie I must confess it to you; though we do not mean to say much about it at present. Oh, Hanny, can't you guess?"

There were so many things; it was something joyful, certainly. She glanced up and smiled. Josie's face was all one roseate flush.

"Oh!" with a mysterious throb.

"We are engaged, dear. I don't know when we began to love each other. We have been so much with each other, you know. He has helped me with my lessons; and we have sung, and played, and read, and gone to church together. It was like having a brother. Tudie and I used to envy you the boys. And it was not quite like a brother either, for another feeling came in. Sometimes I wanted to run away, such a queer tremble came over me. Then there were hours when I could hardly wait for him to come home from the seminary. And for a while, he was so grave, I wondered if I had offended him. And then—do you suppose any one can tell just how it happens?—though they always do in books. All in an instant, you know some one loves you. It's strange and beautiful and exciting; and it seems as if the best and loveliest of all the world had come to you. We have been engaged a whole week; and every day it grows more mysteriously delightful."

"It is so strange," said Hanny, with a long, indrawn breath. "And—Charlie!"

"Oh, don't you remember how we waylaid Mr. Reed one night, and begged him to let Charlie go to singing-school? He laughed about it the other night, though he said you were the bravest of the three. And he is delighted with it. Then mother is so fond of Charles. Of course it will be a two years' engagement. Mother doesn't want me to teach school now. She thinks I ought to learn about housekeeping and sewing, and fit myself for a minister's wife. That seems so solemn, doesn't it? Oh, I do wonder if I can be good enough! And visiting the poor, and helping to the right way, and being patient and sweet, and real religious! But he will help me; and he is so good! I think he couldn't have been anything but a minister. I do suppose Mrs. Reed knows about it in heaven. She was so different that last year, sweeter and kinder; and we feel sure she has gone to heaven. But we want her to know; and dear little Tudie! You must come over and spend the day, now that school is ended; and we will do nothing but talk about it. Oh, Hanny, I hope some day you will have a lover! But you seem such a sort of a little girl even yet. And I have worn long skirts a whole year."

A lover! Hanny's face was scarlet in the fragrant dusk.

"We must go in. I promised mother we would not stay late. And Charlie has some examinations for to-morrow. You may tell your mother and Daisy Jasper."

Joe said they needn't hurry off so; and Charles flushed as he looked at Josie. They rose and said good-night; and Josie kissed Hanny in a rapturous kind of fashion.

"I'll bet a sixpence those two youngsters are engaged," said Jim. "Hanny, what was all the long talk about?"

She was not quite sure all the rest were to be taken in the confidence; but she looked so conscious, and Jim was so positive, that she admitted the fact.

"That's just like a theological student."

"It is a very suitable engagement. Mrs. Dean has brought Josie up sensibly; and Charles is such a fine fellow. Of course they must all be pleased about it," commented Mrs. Underhill.



CHAPTER XX

MISS NAN UNDERHILL

Just a few days later, Mrs. Odell came down for some advice and help, for Janey was to be married. Her betrothed was a well-to-do young farmer up in Sullivan County. He was coming down in August to go to the World's Fair; and he wanted to be married and make a general holiday of it.

"I am not much judge of such matters; but Stephen's wife will go shopping with you. I don't know what we should do without her," said Mrs. Underhill.

That very morning two silver-embossed envelopes came for Miss Nan Underhill. One schoolmate was to be married in church at noon, and go to Niagara on a wedding journey. The other was an evening ceremony with a reception afterward. Mr. James Underhill had an invitation to this also.

Was all the world getting married, or being engaged! Standing on the threshold, Hanny shrank back in dismay. It was looking out of a tranquil cloister into a great, unknown world; and it gave her a mysterious shiver. She didn't feel safe and warm until she had dropped on her father's knee, and had his strong, fond arms about her.

Dolly's party was a great success. The young people were invited to meet Miss Nan Underhill. And Miss Nan wore her graduation dress and blue ribbons. Blue gave her a sort of ethereal look; pink added a kind of blossomy sweetness.

Dolly knew so many young folks. True, there were some older ones. Ben and Delia came up for an hour. Dolly said they were old-fashioned married people already. Hanny thought there didn't seem much difference, only Ben had a new strange sort of sweetness. She was very fond of Delia; and it was a delight to feel free to go down to Beach Street.

Peter and Paulus Beekman came; and they were nice, fine, rather stout young men. Peter was a lawyer; he and Jim were quite friends. Paulus was in shipping business.

"Oh," said Peter to Nan, "you look just as you did when you were a little girl and used to come to grandfather's. Do you remember that beautiful Angora cat? That was grandfather's sign. He always took to people Katschina liked. And your hair hasn't grown any darker. I like light hair. Aunt Dolly has such beautiful hair! And I'm glad you have not grown up into a great, tall May-pole. I just adore little women. When I marry, I am going to choose a 'bonnie wee thing,' like the wife in the song."

Hanny flushed rosy red. Oh, why would people talk about being married, and all that? And if Peter wouldn't look at her in just that way! It gave her a touch of embarrassment.

But oh, they had a splendid time! Modern young people would have been bored, and voted it "no spread at all." They played Proverbs, and What is my thought like? and everybody tried to bring out their very best, and be as bright and witty and joyous as possible. They had plain cake and fancy cake, and a new kind of dainty crisp crackers; candies, nuts, raisins, and mottoes, which were the greatest fun of all. Afterward, some dancing with the Cheat quadrille, and it was so amusing to "cut out," or run away and leave your partner with his open arms, and a blank look of surprise on his face.

Doctor Joe came to take the little girl home; for he was quite sure Jim would want to take some one else's sister.

"Aunt Dolly," said Peter, when he was going away without any girl at all, though he had hoped to walk home with Hanny, "isn't Nan Underhill just the sweetest little thing in the world? I don't wonder grandfather liked her so. With that soft, indescribable hair, and her eyes,—twilight eyes, some one put in a poem,—and that cunning dimple when she smiles, and so dainty altogether. What made you say she was not pretty?"

"Why, I said, she was not as handsome as Mrs. Hoffman."

"She suits me ten times better. She is like this,

"'A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food.'"

Dolly repeated the talk and the verses to Stephen. "And Peter is such a solid, steady-going fellow. He was really smitten."

"The idea! And with that child!"

Dolly laughed gaily. "I suppose when our girls get to be eighteen, you will still think them children. Why, I wasn't quite fifty when you fell in love with me!"

Fifty! How ridiculous it was to think of Dolly ever being fifty. Ah, it is love alone that holds the secret of eternal youth!

"Well, I hope there won't any one be foolish over Hanny, in a long while," said Stephen, decisively.

"Foolish!" repeated Dolly, in a tone of resentment. But then they both laughed.

The Odell girls came down to make a two days' visit. They went up to the Deans' to tea; and the two engaged girls strayed off by themselves, with their arms about each other, and had confidences in which the masculine pronoun played an important part. And poor Polly bewailed the prospect of being left alone. If she had a brother like Jim, she wouldn't mind.

Jim's girls were a kind of standing amusement to the family. This was a case where there was safety in numbers, Mrs. Underhill felt assured. If she had known of the episode of Lily Ludlow, her confidence would have been a little shaken. Jim was a general lover of the sex, and a good-looking, entertaining young fellow is apt to be spoiled.

Just now he had a penchant for Daisy, who teased him, and was as uncertain as an April shower. She and Hanny were inseparables. Jim took them round to Dolly's, or down to Ben's, or to Mrs. Hoffman, who had a new grand piano, and had refurnished her parlor, quite changing the simplicity of her first wedded life. Through the winter, she had given fortnightly receptions, that had an air and grace of the highest refinement. You always met some of the best and the most entertaining people. It was not a crush and a jam; but men and women really talked at that period, and brought out their best. Knowledge was not at a discount.

Young ladies came to call on Miss Underhill; and in the evenings, they brought their brothers or admirers. When she knew of it beforehand, she always had Daisy to help. Sometimes the whole party would go out for a little walk, and have some cream or water ices. The city was still so airy and open, you did not have to fly out of it at the first pleasant day.

This summer, nearly everybody was staying at home, and waiting for the big fair to open. Rooms at hotels and private houses were engaged; and the plainer country people came in to visit. There would be crowds, of course.

The Underhills had invited some of the elder relatives, since they had plenty of room.

And on July 4th, this great event occurred. The President, Mr. Franklin Pierce at that time, was the grand master of the occasion. Oh, what a Fourth of July it was! The grounds were crowded. The military were out in force; and the fireworks would have done credit to the empire of China. Never had the city seen such a gala time; the Victory of Peace it was called.

The men had it largely to themselves this day. It was more the ceremonies, than the articles exhibited, that attracted attention. That came later on.

There was a great influx of visitors in the city. The streets were thronged; the stages were crowded. One wonders what they did without electric cars. But numbers of people still kept carriages, and temporary lodging-houses were erected in the vicinity of the Palace. It certainly was a great thing for that day. And the interior, with its handsome dome, its galleries, its arched naves, and broad aisles, had a striking and splendid effect.

And, oh, the riches of the world that had contributed some of its choicest treasures! There were many people who never expected to go to Europe, and who were glad beyond measure to have it come to them. Here was the largest collection of paintings and sculpture that had ever been gathered in New York. Then, for the first time, we saw Powers' matchless Greek slave, and Kiss' Amazon, and many another famous marble. There was the row of the Apostles by the sculptor Thorwaldsen, about which there was always a concourse of people; and some of the devout could almost see them in the flesh.

We have had a Centennial since, and a famous White City, and almost any day, in New York, you can see some famous pictures and statuary. Then people run over to Europe, and study up the galleries, and write books of exquisite descriptions; but it was not so at that time. There is the grand Museum of Art near to where the old Palace stood; but all was new then. We had not been surfeited with beauty; we had not had a flood of art critics, praising or denouncing, and schools of this or that fad. It is good for cities, as well as nations, that they should once be young, and revel in the enchanting sense of freshness and delight.

Presently, it became a sort of regular thing to go,—a kind of summer-day excursion. There were delightful walks and drives up above. Bloomingdale was still a garden of sweetness. Riverside was unknown, only as the beautiful bank of the Hudson. You went and carried your lunch, or you found some simple cottage, where a country-woman dispensed truly home-made bread, and delicious ham, and a glass of milk, buttermilk on some days.

The remembrance of it to Hanny Underhill, through all her after years, was as of a golden summer. The little knot of young people kept together. When Josie Dean recovered somewhat, from the first transports of her engagement, she proved very companionable. Charles, in his long vacation, was quite at their service. Jim couldn't always be at liberty; but he did get off pretty often. Sometimes Joe, sometimes Father Underhill, chaperoned the party; but they were allowed to go by themselves as well. Girl friends joined them; Peter Beekman, and even Paulus, thought it a great thing to be counted in.

Oh, the wonderful articles! It was a liberal education. Sevres china, Worcestershire with its wonderful tint, Wedgwood, Doulton, Cloisonnee, some rare Italian; and the tragic stories of Palissy, of Josiah Wedgwood, and Charles III. of Naples taking his secret to Spain; some queer Chinese ware, and Delft and Dresden, until it seemed as if half the genius of the world must have been expended in the exquisite productions.

And then the laces, the gossamer fabrics, the silks and velvets, the jewels, the elegant things from barbaric Russia, the wonders of the Orient, the plainer exhibit of our own land rich in mechanical wonders, the natural products, the sewing-machine that now could do the finest of work, the miniature looms weaving, the queer South American and Mexican fabrications, the gold from California,—well, it seemed as if one never could see it all.

Hanny wondered why Peter Beekman should want to stay close by her when Daisy was so bright and entertaining, and when there were other girls. When he looked at her so earnestly her heart gave a great throb, her cheeks burned, and she wanted to run away.

He wished she wasn't so shy and so ready to shelter herself under Charlie's wing, or her father's, or Joe's. And when she felt really safe she was so merry and enchanting!

It was a day in August, rather warm, to be sure; but Polly Odell had come down just on purpose to go, "for now that Janey was married and gone the house was too horrid lonesome!" They stopped for Josie. Doctor Joe brought Daisy up in the afternoon, and they were all in the picture-gallery, where they were ever finding something new. Perhaps Polly had made big eyes at Peter; perhaps Peter liked her because she talked so much about Hanny. Anyhow, they had rambled off way at one end. Daisy was resting, and telling the doctor about some pictures in the Berlin gallery. Hanny moved up and down slowly, not getting very far away. She was fond of interiors, and the homely Dutch or French women cooking supper, or tending a baby, or spinning. And there were two kittens she had never seen before, scampering about an old kitchen where a man in his shirt-sleeves had fallen asleep over his paper. It seemed to her she could see them move.

A man of six or seven and twenty, young for his years, yet with a certain stamp of the world and experience, went slowly along, glancing at the visitors in a casual manner. Of course he would know Miss Jasper and Dr. Underhill. It was like looking for a needle in a hay-stack; but Mrs. Jasper had suggested the picture-gallery; and suddenly he saw a small figure and fair face under a big leghorn hat full of wild roses and green leaves. She was smiling at the playful kittens. Oh, it surely was Miss Nan Underhill!

He came nearer; and she looked startled, as if she might fly. What a delicious colour drenched her face!

"Oh, you surely haven't forgotten me!" he cried. "I should remember you thousands of years, and I could pick you out of a world full of women."

"I—" Then she gave her soft little laugh, and the colour went fluttering all over her face in a startled, happy manner. "But I thought—"

"Did you think me a fixture in German wilds? Well, I am not. It's a long, long story; but I have come over now for good, to be a true American citizen all the rest of my days. The steamer arrived last night; but I couldn't get off until nearly noon. Then I went to a hotel and had some dinner, and came up to see Mrs. Jasper. She sent me here. Where are the others?"

"Daisy is—" she glanced about—"oh, down there with my brother,—and Miss Odell"—how queer that sounded!

"Let us stop here and rest until I get my breath and summon enough fortitude to encounter them. You are dreadfully surprised, I see by your face, I don't wonder. I must seem to you dropped from the clouds."

She wasn't a bit afraid, and sat down beside him. And she wondered if he had married the German cousin and brought her over; but it was strange not to mention her. It must be, however, if he was going to live in America.

"Oh, do you remember that night and the Spanish dance? I have shut my eyes and danced it ever so many times in memory. And you sent me away,"—with a soft, untranslatable laugh.

"I—" She looked amazed. She seemed caught and held captive in the swirl of some strange power. The colour fluttered up and down her sweet face, and her eyelids drooped, their long, soft lashes making shadows.

"Yes, you said I ought to go; and I shall always be glad I went,"—in a confident tone.

"Your cousin?" she said inquiringly, with no consciousness that a word would swerve either way.

"Yes. You know I told you my father's wishes. That sort of thing doesn't seem queer to continental people. But it was not so much his as the aunt's,—the relation is farther back than that; but it serves the same purpose. She had known about my father, and was desirous of being friends. So after I was home about a week, and had confessed to my father that the prospect of the marriage was not agreeable to me, he still begged me to go."

Hanny looked almost as if she was disappointed. He smiled and resumed:—

"It is a lonely spot on the Rhine, not far from Ebberfeld. We will look it up some day. I don't know how people can spend their lives in such dreary places. I do not wonder my grandmother ran away with her brave lover. The castle is fast going to ruins. There was a brother who wasted a great deal of the patrimony before he died. The Baroness is the last of her race. There is a poor little village at the foot of the mountain, and some peasants who work the land; and then the cousin, who is expected to rehabilitate the race by marrying a rich man."

"Yes." There was such a pretty, eager interest and pity in her eyes that he smiled.

"She is six and twenty; tall, fair, with a sorrowful kind of face, that has never been actually happy or pretty. Who could be happy in that musty old rookery! The father, I believe, did very little for their pleasure, but spent most of his time in town, wasting their little substance."

"Oh, poor girl!" cried Hanny, thinking of her own father, so loving and generous.

"She seemed to me almost as old as her mother. And then she told me her troubles, poor thing, and I found her in heart and mind a sort of inexperienced child. She has had a lover for two years; an enterprising young man, who is superintendent of an iron mine some fifty miles distant. It is the old story over again. I wish he had my grandfather's courage and would run away with her. He has no title nor aristocratic blood, and the mother will not consent. But I had made up my mind before I went there, and even if I had been fancy free, I couldn't resign myself to live in that old ruin."

"Oh, what will she do?"

"I advised her to run away." Herman Andersen laughed softly. "But I think I persuaded them both to come to the city and visit my father. They will find business isn't so shocking. They have lived in loneliness until they know very little of the real world. The old castle is not worth saving. Then I went home, and after a good deal of talking have arranged my life in a way that is satisfactory to my father, and I hope will be eminently so to myself. Some day I will tell you about that. Now where shall we find the others?" and he rose.

"Daisy is down here." Hanny rose also; but she had a queer sort of feeling, as if the world was turning round.

It seemed to Doctor Joe that he so rarely had a good talk with Daisy now, that he would make the most of this opportunity. Jim was always hovering about her. It was natural she should like the younger people. He was like a very much older brother. She was looking pale and tired. She could not stand continual dissipation. And while she often had a brilliant color and Hanny very little, the latter possessed by far the most endurance.

She liked to be alone with Doctor Joe. There was something restful and inspiriting, as if she absorbed his generous, superabundant strength.

So they almost forgot about Hanny, or thought her with the others. And now she came walking slowly down to them with a strange young man.