But we must now return to the Grand Prix. An invalid who had been

forbidden by his doctor to read the newspapers for several months, and

who should chance to make his first promenade on the Boulevards on the

eve of the Grand Prix, would know at a glance that something

extraordinary was about to happen. At every step he would meet the

unmistakable garb that announces the Englishman on his travels--at

every turn he would hear the language of Shakespeare and of Mr.

Labouchere adorned with a good deal of horse-talk. Coney's Cosmopolitan

Bar, Rue Scribe, is full on this day of betters and bookmakers, and

possibly of Englishmen of a higher rank, whilst its silver

_gril_--which is not of silver, however, but polished so bright as

almost to look like it--smokes with the broiling steak, and the gin

cocktails and brandy-and-soda flow unceasingly. Toward midnight,

especially--after the Salon des Courses has closed its doors--is

Coney's to be seen in its glory. The circus of the Champs Élysées,

where Saturday is the favorite day, makes on this particular Saturday

its largest receipts in the year; the Jardin Mabille is packed; the

very hackney-coachmen wear the independent, half-insolent look that

they have had since morning and will have till the evening of the next

day--unfailing sign in Paris that some great spectacle is impending;

milliners and dressmakers are out of their wits; the world has gone

mad. The restaurant-waiters and the barbers of the Boulevard may

condescend, if you happen to be a regular customer and given to

tipping, to enlighten you on the chances of the respective horses. The

most knowing in these matters are supposed to be Pierre, the host of

the Grand Café, right under the rooms of the Jockey Club, and the

rotund Henry, keeper of the Restaurant Bignon, Avenue de l'Opéra, the

confidant of certain turfmen, who may favor him with invaluable hints

if their _salmis_ of woodcocks should have been a success or their

_cotelette double_ be done to a turn. Charles, of the Café Durand,

Place de la Madeleine, and Henry, the barber of the Boulevard des

Italiens, are also posted in the quotations and keep themselves well

informed.

On Sunday morning by ten o'clock the Bois de Boulogne is filled with

pedestrians, who take their breakfast on the grass to while away the

time of waiting. The restaurants Madrid and the Cascade, where the

tables are spread amidst flowers and shaded by trees--a feature that is

duly remembered in the bills, like an _hors d'oeuvre_--are turning

visitors away. Toward half-past two the enclosure of the paddock is

absolutely full: not a vacant chair is to be found, and a fearful

consumption of iced champagne begins at the buffet. For, strange to

say, the weather is always fine on this day, and the Encouragement

Society is as notorious for its good-luck in this respect as the

Skating Club and the Steeple-chase Society are for quite the opposite.

By degrees--and perhaps helped by the champagne--the vast throng will

be observed, as the supreme moment approaches, to depart from its

habitually staid and calm demeanor, and finally to show some signs of

enthusiasm, though without growing in the least noisy and turbulent,

like that at Epsom on the Derby Day. Once in a year, however, I as the

French say, doesn't make a custom, and the Parisian crowd, to quote its

own expression, "croit que c'est arrivé." The applause, in case the

winner is a French horse, comes from patriotic motives: if he happens

to be English it is given from a feeling of courtesy; and the crowd

having done its duty in either case, the famous "return," that has

often furnished a subject for the painter, begins. And a wondrous sight

it is. Up to six o'clock the innumerable carriages continue to defile

upon the several routes that lead to the city, forming a procession of

which the head touches the Place de la Concorde, whilst the extremity

still reaches to the tribunes of Longchamps. And when evening comes on,

and bets are settled, and heated brains seek to prolong the day's

excitement far into the night, such haunts as the Mabille grow so noisy

that the police is generally obliged to interfere. There was a time

when, on these occasions, that jolly nobleman, the duke of Hamilton,

then a prominent figure on the French turf, did not disdain to lead his

followers to the battle in person, and to practise the noble art of

boxing upon all comers, whether policemen or bookmakers. But these

deeds of former days are now but traditions: His Grace has married,

which is said to have taught him wisdom, and the bookmakers have grown

into millionaires, with a sense of the gravity becoming their

position.--L. LEJEUNE.

MRS. PINCKNEY'S GOVERNESS

The short October day had come to an end. It had been one of those

soft, misty, delicious days common enough at this season of the year.

The gathering darkness perplexed the young girl who, without maid or

escort of any kind, stood peering through the gloom at the little

way-station. Discouraged, apparently, at the result of her search, she

entered the station-house, and inquired, in rather a depressed voice,

if they knew whether Mrs. Pinckney had sent a carriage or vehicle of

any kind for her: "she was expected," she added.

Youth and good looks are naturally effective, and the young Irishman in

authority there, Michael Redmond, was by no means insensible to their

influence. He darted out with an air of alacrity, returning, however,

almost immediately with the depressing information that Mrs. Pinckney's

carriage was not there. "She went herself to the city this morning,

madam," he said, with an effort at consolation. "Perhaps in her absence

the servants have forgotten--" Here he paused.

"It is very unfortunate," she murmured, evidently not accustomed to

such emergencies. Nature, however, although ill-seconded by her

previous life, had given her both courage and decision. "Is there

nothing here which I can hire? is there nobody to drive me to Mrs.

Pinckney's?"

"I'll see, madam," returned the young man.

Why he used the term "madam," which was undoubtedly misplaced, toward

so youthful a person, is only to be explained by an idea he had of

exaggerated respect, a kind of protection apparently to her loneliness

and helplessness.

He darted headlong out again into the darkness. "There is a boy here

with an open wagon, madam," returning almost as quickly as he went out.

"It is not an elegant conveyance, but--" and he hesitated--"it is the

only one."

"Oh, it will do, thank you: anything will do which can carry me to the

house. Is there room for my trunk?"

Michael with strong, serviceable arms swung the trunk lightly into the

wagon. She was already seated, the boy, who was to drive, beside her.

"Oh, thank you." She drew a diminutive purse from her travelling-bag,

and was evidently about to recompense him when something in his manner

deterred her. She thanked him again, for gracious words fell lightly

and easily from her lips, and the little vehicle went rattling out upon

the road.

Mrs. Pinckney's house was four or five miles from the station: the boy

drove at a furious pace, and it was by good luck rather than by good

guidance that no catastrophe occurred. The beautiful day was succeeded

by a cloudy evening: neither moon nor stars were visible, and as they

passed through the avenue leading to the house, under the branches of

magnificent old trees, large drops of rain began to fall. The light

which shone through the open door revealed camp-chairs still standing

on the lawn, and children's toys were scattered over the veranda. The

boy's rough feet as he carried in her trunk annihilated the face of a

smart French doll, and Miss Featherstone's dress caught on, and was

torn by, a nail in a dilapidated rocking-horse. The light came from a

picturesque-looking lamp which hung from an arch in the centre of a

broad, low hall. She rang the bell: the sound reverberated through the

house, yet no one came. The boy, who had stood the trunk on end,

growing impatient, rang again: they heard voices, hubbub and confusion,

children's cries, servants summoned, a man speaking very volubly in

French. Then very imperfect English sentences were shouted in a kind of

despair. The door was divided in the middle, with a large brass knocker

as an appendage to the upper half. Miss Featherstone, growing anxious

and impatient, sounded this vigorously, which brought a maid, who had

evidently quite lost her head, to the door.

"This is Mrs. Pinckney's?" said the young girl in prompt, cheerful

tones. "I am Miss Featherstone, the governess, whom Mrs. Pinckney

expects."

"Yes, ma'am," replied the servant in an absent, distracted manner.

"Marie!" shrieked the French voice in shrill tones of alarm and anger.

"Please, miss, I must go. Do come in and sit down: I'll send

somebody--"

"Marie! Marie!--Where is that _vilaine femme?"_

At the second summons she fled, leaving Miss Featherstone and the boy,

standing with her trunk on his shoulders, on the threshold.

The young girl walked in, sat down in a large leathern chair, and was

taking out her purse to pay her driver when a little fat man, with a

very red face and bushy black hair, came flying through the hall,

carrying a child in his arms. He was followed by two or three sobbing

children and the girl whom Miss Featherstone had already seen. "My dear

mees," he said, never stopping until he reached the governess, "see

this leetle enfant, this cher petit Henri. He has already one

contortion--spasm--what you call it?--and I fear he goes to have one

other. Ma chère mademoiselle, have you some experience? Is it that you

know what we shall do?"

The child lay pale and unconscious in the arms of the distressed little

foreigner. Miss Featherstone tore off her gloves; her purse, unheeded,

fell on the floor; she led the way into the nearest room, which proved

to be the dining-room, the helpless group following. "Bring a tub of

hot water for his feet," she said in calm, decided tones. She was

seated, and had taken the child in her arms.--"Now, monsieur"--to the

Frenchman--"will you be kind enough to give me some ice from that

pitcher on the sideboard behind you?"

She drew a delicate little handkerchief from her pocket, and, putting

pieces of ice in it, held it to the child's head. "Some one," she

continued, "take off his shoes and stockings."

Her composure restored a degree of order, although no one seemed to

have recovered their senses sufficiently to obey her as to the child's

shoes. The boy who had acted as her driver knelt down and proceeded to

accomplish it. When the poor little feet were up to the knees in hot

water and the child was evidently reviving, she said, "The doctor

should be sent for immediately. As this boy has a horse and wagon at

the door, it would be best to send him. What is the name of your family

physician?"

"Doctor Harris."

"You know where he lives?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, very well."

"Stop a moment: some one write a line, so that there shall be no

mistake."

The foreigner flung up his hands with a gesture of despair. "It is so

difficile for me to write l'Anglais--" he began.

With the child lying on her left arm she opened her bag with her

right--the little driver, the most collected person besides herself of

the party, holding it up to her--found a scrap of paper and a pencil

and wrote a brief, urgent appeal to the physician to come immediately,

mentioning that the mother was from home, and signing herself "Laura

Featherstone, governess."

Sooner than she would have believed possible Doctor Harris appeared: he

came in his own gig, the little driver who had been so active in the

events of the evening vanishing entirely from the scene, and, as it was

afterward remembered, in the confusion without his douceur.

Doctor Harris, a comparatively young man, was cheerful and reassuring.

"There will probably be no recurrence of the convulsions," he said,

examining the child, who was sleeping tranquilly in the young girl's

arms; "but what was the exciting cause? what has he been eating?"

"I find him with a grand heap of the raisins and the nuts," replied the

French tutor excitedly. "Madame goes to town this morning and takes la

bonne pour s'en servir--le pauvre enfant est abandonné, voilà tout!"

Gesticulating with much vehemence, he sat down at the conclusion as if

exhausted by his efforts.

"What has been done for the child?" asked the physician in a cautious

whisper.

The little Frenchman rose; his eyes flashed; he waved his fat, short

arms toward Miss Featherstone: "Cette chère mademoiselle, she is one

angel from the sky: she do it all," with increased animation and

violence--"ice for his head, hot water for his feet. I could not tink,

I was so *_accablé_"

This vehement declamation not being calculated to ensure the patient's

slumbers, Doctor Harris ordered the little fellow to be undressed and

put to bed immediately. "I should like to see you, my dear young lady,

when you are at leisure," he said as Miss Featherstone rose, still with

the child in her arms, and was following the maid to the nursery: "I

have directions to leave in case of a recurrence. However, I don't

think there will be any return of the convulsions," he added.

The maid, reduced to helplessness by terror, looked on while Miss

Featherstone undressed the sleeping boy. She laid him in the bed,

ordered the servant to sit by his side until her return, put the candle

on the floor so that it would not shine in his face, and went out to

meet the doctor.

"Who will be with the child during the night?" was his first query.

"_Hèlas!_ I do not know," cried the foreigner with a gesture of

despair.

"If there is no one else to take care of him I will," replied the young

girl cheerfully.

"It is infâme!" said the tutor.--"Cette chère mademoiselle has but

arrived: she is weary. Parbleu! she must be hungry. Why not somebody

tink of dis?--My dear mees, have you had dinner? Non? J'en etais sûr,"

with a groan.

Mr. Brown--for that was the tutor's very English name--was so dramatic

in the expression of his good feeling that Miss Featherstone could not

repress a smile as she turned to the physician, and, taking out her

pencil and a little memorandum-book, said, "If you'll give me

directions, Doctor Harris, I think that I'm perfectly competent to take

care of the child."

Doctor Harris, who was gallant and a bachelor, made a whispered

remonstrance referring to her fatigue, but she replied gravely, "I am

in perfect health, and it never makes me ill to sit up with a sick

person: I have had experience." Some painful remembrance evidently

agitated her, for her voice suddenly failed.

They were interrupted by the sound of carriage-wheels rolling rapidly

up the avenue.

"Voici madame!" cried Mr. Brown, who flew to the door to hand Mrs.

Pinckney out.

He had taken the earliest opportunity to enlighten her as to the

child's illness, for they heard her exclaim, "I know it: oh, I have

heard of it! Where is the doctor?"

Mrs. Pinckney was tall and slight: she had blonde hair, large,

beautiful eyes--they were blue--and regular features. In short, she was

exceedingly pretty: so thought Doctor Harris, and he made many salaams

before her.

"Oh, doctor," she exclaimed, rushing up to him and grasping his arm,

"is there any danger? Tell me, is there any danger?"

"Not the slightest, ma'am," he replied promptly.

She wouldn't be reassured: "But why not? Convulsions are so serious,

they are so terrible! I had a relative who was ruined for life by

epilepsy: he was a handsome fellow, but he lost good looks, mind,

everything. Oh, Doctor Harris, don't tell me that my poor little Harry

is to have epilepsy!" She had the art of puckering her forehead into a

thousand wrinkles, yet looking lovely in spite of it.

"I certainly shall not tell you anything of the kind," said the doctor

with a reassuring smile, "for it wouldn't be true; but who is the

relative who had epilepsy?"

"Oh, a nephew of my husband, and he had a dreadful fall. He fell out of

a second-story window: it was in the country, and rather a low house,

but it finished him, poor fellow! Oh, doctor, sit down: I am tired to

death, and this news has so upset me! Will you assure me, upon your

honor, that my child will never have epilepsy?"

"Sincerely, Mrs. Pinckney, I don't think there is the least danger; but

you must be careful as to what he eats. Nuts and raisins are not a

particularly wholesome diet for a child three years old."

She looked about inquiringly, and did not seem the least surprised as

her eye fell on Miss Featherstone.

The tutor, still irate from his alarm, exclaimed, "You take la bonne,

madame. I am occupy with mes élèves: then I am not in his care."

Mrs. Pinckney, who was not an irritable woman, took no notice of this

implied reproach: "What is to be done with him to-night, Doctor Harris?

Can you sleep here?" As he shook his head, "You'll come the first thing

in the morning? Oh, doctor, can I go to bed and sleep comfortably? Do

you assure me that there is not the slightest danger of a recurrence of

those dreadful spasms?"

When the distressed mother spoke of sleeping comfortably a smile, which

all his admiration for the fair widow could not restrain, flickered

over Doctor Harris's face: "I was about to give this young lady"--and

he turned to Miss Featherstone--"directions for the night, as we didn't

expect you home: she has been very kind and efficient, and was going to

take care of the child; but now--"

He was interrupted by Mrs. Pinckney crossing the room, seizing Miss

Featherstone's hand and kissing her with effusion: "My dear Miss

Featherstone--your name is Featherstone, is it not?--I have no words to

thank you sufficiently."

"Oh, the chère mees!" burst forth the little Frenchman. "I was so full

of frighten I not know what to do, which way to turn myself; and she,

so calm, so _smooth_," he said, hesitating for a word, and apparently

discomfited when he found it--"she take the helm, she issue the orders:

every one obey, and the child is saved." After this peroration he

glanced around as if for applause.

"I was about to say," resumed Doctor Harris, "that, now that the nurse

has returned, Miss Featherstone, who has been travelling all day, had

better have some dinner and be sent to bed."

"Oh, certainly," replied Mrs. Pinckney; "and now that I'm so much

relieved I'd like some dinner myself.--Mr, Brown, do you know what

prospects there are of our having any dinner?"

The tutor shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands with a

deprecatory gesture: "I know not, my dear madame. Les enfants et moi,

we have our dinner at two o'clock: we did not comprehend that madame

would return to-night," as a happy apologetic afterthought.

Mrs. Pinckney glanced at a little watch which she took from her belt:

"Twelve o'clock, but the servants probably have not gone to bed."--She

rang the bell. "Mary," to a maid who entered, "tell the cook to make

some tea and send in cold chicken or beef--whatever is left from

dinner."

"I think the fire is out, Mrs. Pinckney," the servant hesitatingly

replied.

"Oh, no matter: let her get a few chips and make a fire: I _must_ have

my tea."--Doctor Harris rose. "Oh, doctor, don't go until you have

taken one more look at my darling."

The nursery was on the same floor. Mrs. Pinckney insisted on kissing

the child, much to the physician's annoyance. He checked her, and

carefully refrained from talking himself while in the room. As he was

taking leave at the front door she repeated, "Now, doctor, you're sure

I can be comfortable--that I can go to bed and go to sleep? Tell me

positively"--and she looked earnestly in his face--"that the child will

never have another convulsion."

He laughed, and bent an admiring tender, gaze on the pretty mother, who

stood appealingly before him: "My dear Mrs. Pinckney, I cannot swear

positively that Harry will never have another convulsion, particularly

if he is allowed to eat nuts and raisins _ad libitum_: however, with

ordinary care I don't think it at all probable."--"Is it possible," he

reflected as he drove home, "that I want to marry that woman, selfish

and inconsiderate as she is? Why, she would have let the governess, a

perfect stranger, sit up with the child if I hadn't interfered! She is

awfully pretty, though. I can't help liking her: then, her money would

be a comfortable addition to my professional emoluments."

Although the hot, strong tea was very grateful in her exhausted

condition, this, with the very excitements of the day, kept Miss

Featherstone awake the brief remainder of the night. She breakfasted

the following morning with the children and their tutor. To her great

surprise, little Harry, looking pale and wan, was at the table.

"Madame is too ill to rise," Mr. Brown announced in his very best

English, "and the bonne is attending her. Will this dear mees take the

head of the table and us oblige by pouring out the coffee?"

Miss Featherstone cheerfully acceded, and left her own breakfast

cooling while she coaxed and consoled the little invalid, who was quite

fretful after his last night's experiences. She was making an attempt

to eat something herself when Mrs. Pinckney sent for her, and, as there

was no one to take care of the child, she carried him in her arms to

his mother's room.

"Good-morning, Miss Featherstone;" and she devoured the curly-headed

boy with kisses. Mrs. Pinckney, reclining on large pillows, looked

prettier than ever. No degree of negligence affected her appearance:

her light, curling, slightly-dishevelled hair and delicate, clear skin

were the more attractive under conditions which would be fatal to many

women. "Sit down, Miss Featherstone.--Adèle!" calling to the nurse,

"you must take dear little Harry away: I want to talk to Miss

Featherstone. Be very careful of him: don't let him eat or over-fatigue

himself. And, Adèle, after lunch come and help me dress: I think I

should feel better for a drive.--Don't you think I should feel better

for a drive, Miss Featherstone? I'm in miserable health," she added as

the door closed on the nurse and child, "I've had so much trouble. I've

lost my husband--he died of consumption"--she seized her

pocket-handkerchief and began to cry: "I was alone, except for

servants, with him at St. Augustine. I think his family were very

inconsiderate. I wrote letter after letter, telling them of his

condition and begging and imploring them to come to my assistance; but

no one came. I had just left him for a few hours to get a little

rest--I was so worn out with anxiety and the responsibility--and he

died--alone--with his nurse--" Sobs choked her voice.

Miss Featherstone rose and kissed her: it was a way she had of

comforting. Mrs. Pinckney received the caress graciously, and pressed

her hand.

"Then my income is not nearly so large as it was," she resumed, "and

I'm obliged to practise a great deal of economy. I've discharged my

maid, and share the children's nurse with them, and Adèle is growing

quite discontented with double duty. I parted with Baptiste also: it

was a frightful sacrifice, for he was just a perfect butler. I'm always

having economy talked at me by my husband's family, and I hate it!"

with a discontented sigh. "I had a house in New York," she continued,

"which they urged me to give up. They said I couldn't afford to keep

both, and it was better for the children to keep the country-house, and

that here on the river it would be easy to get to town. I'm

extravagantly fond of going to the theatre and opera, and have had in a

great measure to relinquish it. I went even when I was in mourning: the

doctors said I must be amused. We'll go sometimes this winter

together," she added coaxingly. "Well, now, Miss Featherstone, as to

your rôle of governess: I don't feel as if you were to be anything but

my nice new friend, you were so kind last night to my dear little

Harry. You teach the common English branches and the rudiments of

Latin, French and music? Mr. Brown--is it not an odd name for such a

thorough Frenchman? but his father was English, although he was born

and educated in France--Mr. Brown teaches them Latin and French at

present, but I don't know how long I shall keep him; so you'll be

relieved of that. I shall want you to act as a friend in the

household--I'm so much of an invalid--sit at the head of the table

occasionally, and give orders to the servants."

Miss Featherstone looked slightly perplexed. Her duties as governess

were mingling in a distracting manner with those of housekeeper.

"The children are so young," Mrs. Pinckney said apologetically, "they

can't be kept at their lessons from morning till night. Rose is eleven,

Alfred nine, Dick seven. Harry might possibly learn his alphabet, but I

doubt it. You can arrange the hours and studies to suit yourself; and I

want you to govern and manage the children--relieve me in that way as

much as possible. I hope you'll be very comfortable and happy in my

house, Miss Featherstone. If there is anything out of the way in your

room or anywhere else, let me know. I'm sure we shall be good friends;"

and with a hearty, affectionate kiss she dismissed the governess.

As Miss Featherstone descended the stairs she met Doctor Harris,

gallant and gay, with a rose in his buttonhole, followed by the nurse

and child, on a visit of reassurance to the fair mother.

Nothing is truer than that homely old proverb, "The lame and the lazy

are always provided for;" and Mrs. Pinckney was provided for

effectually when she lit upon Miss Featherstone. Just before Christmas

the governess was summoned to an interview with Mrs. Pinckney, who was,

as usual, in bed: "Oh, my dear Miss Featherstone, I'm in despair--ill

again. Christmas coming, and my husband's brother, Colonel Pinckney, is

on his way to make us a visit. If there's any one I feel nervous and

fidgety before, it is Colonel Pinckney: he seems to look you through

and see all your faults and weaknesses: at least, he does mine, and he

makes me see them too, which I don't like one bit. I do the best I can:

I'm in such miserable health, and have had so much to break me down.

Did you ever know any one, dear Miss Featherstone, who had had so much

trouble?--my husband's death and all."

The young girl did not reply. Visions of her own lonely home rose

before her--her mother fading slowly away under an accumulation of

misfortunes; her only brother shot in the Union army; her father

sinking into almost a dishonored grave through hopeless liabilities

brought on indirectly by the war; she, petted and idolized, the only

remaining member of the family, seeking her daily bread and finding a

pittance by working among strangers. She hung her head and had not a

word with which to reply.

"I dare say you've had troubles of your own," exclaimed Mrs. Pinckney.

"Of course you have, or you wouldn't be here, you dear creature! It is

well for me that you are here, though," kissing her affectionately.

"Now, everything must be just right when this haughty, fastidious

brother-in-law of mine comes. He isn't apt to find fault, but I am

conscious that he is secretly criticising my dress, my dinners, the

gaucheries of the servants, my moral qualities, even the way I turn my

sentences. I shouldn't mind trying to talk my very best English if he

were not prying into my motives: it is difficult to be on one's guard

in every direction," with a sigh.

"I should think he'd be very disagreeable," said Miss Featherstone.

"No:" the _no_ was hesitating. "He is dangerously attractive: at least

he attracts me. I'm all the time wondering what he is thinking, which

keeps me perpetually thinking of him. He is a Southerner, you know, and

was in the army; so you must be very careful,'my dear mees,' as Mr.

Brown says, not to come out with your 'truly loyal' sentiments: he

won't like them."

"I don't care whether he likes them or not." Miss Featherstone's face

was crimson: it was the first spark of temper she had shown since she

came into the house.

Mrs. Pinckney looked at her in surprise, then laughed: "I'm delighted

to see something human about you: I thought you were a saint."

"By no manner of means," returned the governess curtly.

"I shall warn Dick not to get upon the subject of the war," was the

note that Mrs. Pinckney, inconsequent as she generally was, made of the

scene.--"But I'm forgetting why I sent for you," she said aloud. "I

want you to go to town and buy Christmas presents and quantities of

things to eat and drink. I was going myself, but I never can count upon

a day as to being well with any certainty," with rather an ostentatious

sigh. "I've made out a list: there's plenty of money, isn't there?"

Miss Featherstone had the care of the money and accounts: "Yes,"

hesitatingly; "that is--"

"No matter," interrupted Mrs. Pinckney. "I have accounts at hosts of

places. The carriage is ordered to take you to the station: will you be

ready, dear, at ten o'clock?"

Miss Featherstone looked at her watch and hurried to her room.

It was snowing when she returned from New York: great flakes fell on

her as she stepped, loaded with bundles, out of the carriage. The

children met her with joyful whoops at the front door: "Oh, here's

clear little Miss Featherstone, and we know she's got our Christmas

presents.--You can't deny it. Hurrah!"

They dragged her into the dining-room, where the table, decked with

flowers, was handsomely arranged for dinner. A blazing wood-fire roared

on the hearth: in front of it stood a tall, handsome man with a

military air. He was dark, with brilliant eyes, a certain regularity of

features, and, as his passport declared, his hair was dark brown and

curly. Colonel Pinckney looked haughty and impenetrable, as his

sister-in-law had described him. Mrs. Pinckney, exquisitely dressed,

reclined in a large chair by the corner of the fireplace: she held up a

pretty fan to screen her face from the heat, and was talking gayly to

her brother-in-law. At a table in a corner Mr. Brown, by the light of a

large lamp, was endeavoring, with great difficulty, to read an English

paper.

"Oh, mamma, see poor little Miss Featherstone loaded down with boxes

and bundles!" shrieked the children, dragging her up to the fire.

"Dear children, do go and get Adèle to take them," said their

mother.--"Here, Mary," to a servant who entered, "carry these packages

up to my dressing-room.--There are more in the carriage?" in reply to a

remark of Miss Featherstone.--"Adèle," to her maid, who stood at the

door, "bring in everything you find in the carriage."

Two or three weeks passed, and Colonel Pinckney made no sign of

departure. In spite of his unsocial tendencies, he drove and dined out

with his sister-in-law, for many nice people chose this winter to

remain at their country-houses. He took long walks by himself, and made

inroads into the school-room, for he was very fond of the children.

Mrs. Pinckney was less frequently indisposed, and exerted herself in a

measure to entertain him. She never, by any accident, occupied herself,

and was one morning lying back in a large chair by a coal-fire in the

library, her little idle hands resting on her lap, when Colonel

Pinckney, who had been examining the books on the shelves which lined

the room, assumed his usual position, with his back to the fire, and

startled his sister-in-law by exclaiming, "Where did you get your white

slave, Virginia?"--Mrs. Pinckney looked bewildered--"this young girl

who fills so many places in the house? She appears to be nurse,

housekeeper, governess and maid-of-all-work in one."

"My dear Dick, what do you mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Pinckney with some

indignation. "Do you think I impose upon Miss Featherstone? I love her

dearly. Then my delicate health, and you know I'm obliged to be

economical."

Colonel Pinckney made a movement of impatience and almost disgust.,

"How much do you pay her?" he abruptly exclaimed, turning his flashing

eyes upon his companion.

"How angry you look! how you frighten me!" said Mrs. Pinckney, who had

a trick of coming out with everything she thought. "I pay her"--and she

stammered--"two hundred dollars a year."

"The devil!" he exclaimed. "I beg your pardon, Virginia, but I can

hardly believe it. What an absurd compensation for all that girl does!

Why, one of your dresses frequently costs more than that: I see your

bills, you know."

"I'm very sorry you do if this is the use you make of your knowledge,"

replied Mrs. Pinckney in an injured tone. "She is in mourning, and does

not require many dresses: besides, Richard, no one preaches economy to

me more than you do. I'm sick of the very word," petulantly.

"What position, really, is she supposed to occupy?"

"She is the governess," said Mrs. Pinckney in a sulky tone.

"Now listen, Virginia. I have seen that young girl darning stockings in

the school-room and at the same time hearing the children's lessons; I

have seen her arrange the dinner-table, with the children clinging to

her skirts; I have seen her with the keys, giving out the stores; I

know she keeps your accounts; and I can readily comprehend where those

clear, well-expressed letters came from, although signed by you, which

I have frequently received in my character of guardian and executor."

"You certainly don't think I meant to deceive you as to the letters?"

"Oh no," replied her brother-in-law: "I don't think you in the least

deceitful, Virginia;" and in his own mind reflected, "'Hypocrisy is the

homage which vice pays to virtue.'"

Nobody likes hypocrisy, to be sure, but Mrs. Pinckney did not take the

trouble to veil her peccadilloes. Easy and indolent as she was, being

now thoroughly roused by his thinly-veiled contempt, she endeavored to

be disagreeable in her turn. With the most innocent air in the world

she exclaimed, "I declare, Dick, I believe you're in love with Miss

Featherstone, although you like fair women--"

"And she is dark," he interrupted.

"Regular features--"

"And her dear little nose is slightly _retroussèe_; but you cannot

deny, Virginia, that she has a most captivating air."

"I'm fond of her, but I do not think her captivating." Mrs. Pinckney

was now thoroughly out of temper. She was not naturally envious, but

she could be roused to envy. "And so you're in love with her?"

satirically.

"How can I help it?" he returned with a mocking air. "She has

magnificent eyes, a bewildering smile: then she has that _je ne sais

quoi_, as our foreign friend would say. There is no defining it, there

is no assuming it. To conclude, I consider Miss Featherstone

dangerously attractive."

"Just what I told her you were," returned Mrs. Pinckney, who saw he was

trying to tease her, and had recovered by this time her equanimity. In

spite of his phlegm he looked interested. "You'd better take care and

make no reference to the war, for she is furiously loyal, I can tell

you," said Mrs. Pinckney, recalling the conversation. "Since when have

you been in love with her?"

"From the very first moment I saw her, when she entered the

dining-room, her cheeks brilliant from the cold, her lovely eyes,

blinded by the light, peering through their long lashes, a little

becoming embarrassment in her air as she saw your humble servant--laden

down with your bundles, and your children, as usual, clinging to her

skirts."

"Dick, how disagreeable you are!" and Mrs. Pinckney began to pout

again.

"We are all her lovers," he maliciously continued--"all the men

here--Doctor Harris, Mr. Brown and--" he bowed expressively.

"Doctor Harris?" exclaimed his sister-in-law. This defection cut her to

the heart.

"The day my namesake and godchild, little Dick, was ill I went to the

nursery, as in duty bound: you know how fond I am of that child. There

was Miss Featherstone, not the nurse, interested and concerned, sitting

by the patient. There was Doctor Harris, interested and absorbed with

Miss Featherstone. His looks were unmistakable: I saw it at a glance.

And as for Mr. Brown, he raves about this 'dear mees' or 'cette chère

mademoiselle' by the hour together. She carried his heart by storm the

first time he saw her, as she did mine."

"How far does your admiration lead you? Do you wish any assistance from

me?"

"As you please: I am indifferent," he returned, shrugging his

shoulders. "Seriously, Virginia--I say this in my character of guardian

and adviser-general to the family--I think what you give her is a

beggarly pittance in return for all she does, and I suggest that you

raise her salary."

Miss Featherstone, although prejudiced at first against Colonel

Pinckney, grew by degrees to like him. His manner to her was grave and

respectful; he carried off the children, quite conveniently sometimes,

when she was almost worn out with fatigue; and the air of friendly

interest with which his dark eyes rested upon her was in a manner

comforting. Their little interviews, although she was unconscious of

it, gave zest to her life.

One cold morning, as she sat before breakfast with little Harry on her

lap, warming his hands before the dining-room fire, Colonel Pinckney

exclaimed, "Miss Featherstone, did you have the care of that child last

night?"

"Yes," as she pressed the fat little hands in hers.

"And dressed him this morning?"

"Why, yes. Colonel Pinckney, excuse me: why shouldn't I?"

"Virginia is the most selfish human being I ever knew in my life," he

burst forth. "You, after working like a slave during the day, cannot

even have your night's rest undisturbed. I'll speak to her, and insist

upon it that this state of things shall not continue any longer."

Miss Featherstone looked annoyed: "Mr. Pinckney"--she never would, if

she remembered it, call him "Colonel"--"I beg that you will do nothing

of the kind. Mrs. Pinckney is quite ill with a cold: she can scarcely

speak above a whisper, and she required Adèle's services during the

night. I volunteered--it was my own arrangement--sleeping with the

child," eagerly.

"Oh yes," he returned, "you are remarkably well suited to each

other--you and Virginia: you give, and she takes," sarcastically.

"Listen, Miss Featherstone. I have known that woman twelve years--it is

exactly twelve years since my unfortunate brother married her--and in

all that time I never knew her consider but one human being, and that

was herself."

"Indeed, you're very much mistaken, Colonel--that is, Mr.--Pinckney, as

far as I am concerned. Mrs. Pinckney is really very kind to me. I am

exceedingly fond of her, but I cannot bear to see things going wrong,

and when I can I make them right. Mrs. Pinckney is in delicate health."

"That's all nonsense," he interrupted. "She spends her time studying

her sensations. If she were poor she'd have something better to do. I

think you are doing wrong morally, Miss Featherstone. You are

encouraging her in idleness and selfishness by taking her duties and

bearing them on your young shoulders.--Now, Harry, come here," to that

small individual, who slowly and unwillingly descended from the

governess's lap: "leave Miss Featherstone, my young friend, to pour out

the coffee and eat her own breakfast. Adèle is with mamma, is she?

Well, Uncle Dick will give Harry his breakfast."

The cold was intense the following day, yet Miss Featherstone, well

muffled up, was on her way to the hall-door, where the sleigh was

waiting to take her to the station.

"Forgive me," exclaimed Colonel Pinckney, who waylaid her, much to her

annoyance, "but what are you going to do for the family now?"

"I am going to New York to get a cook," she replied with a decided air.

"Do you know the state of the thermometer?"

"I don't care anything about it," with some obstinacy, tugging at the

button of her glove.

"But I do," he said. "Now, Miss Featherstone, while I'm here I am

master of the house, and if it's necessary to go to town it's I that am

going--to use Pat's vernacular--and not you. Give me directions, and

I'll follow them implicitly."

"So Dick went, did he?" said Mrs. Pinckney. She was propped up in bed

with large pillows: Miss Featherstone, still in her bonnet, sat by her

side.

"Yes: it was very kind, for I don't know what would have become of the

children all day, poor things! and you sick."

Mrs. Pinckney glanced searchingly at her. "Dick is very kind when he

pleases, and exceedingly efficient," returned the invalid: "I've no

doubt he'll bring back a capital cook."

"I had a great prejudice against Mr. Pinckney," said Miss Featherstone,

slowly smoothing out her gloves, "but I confess it has vanished, there

is something so straightforward and manly about him; and he certainly

is very kind."

"He does not flatter you at all?"

"Oh no; and that is one reason I like him. I detest the gallant, tender

manner which many men affect toward women."

"Doctor Harris, for instance?"

"Well, Doctor Harris, for instance," returned Miss Featherstone,

smiling, and blushing a little.

"Doctor Harris has certainly made love to her, and Dick as certainly

hasn't. I wonder--oh, how I wonder!--whether he was in earnest the

other day?" Her large blue eyes were fixed scrutinizingly on the

governess, although she thought, not said, these things. "He thinks you

do a great deal too much in the house, and was quite abusive to me

about it: he actually swore when he discovered the amount of your

salary. Now, my dear Miss Featherstone, you may name your own price:

I'll give you anything you ask, for no amount of money can represent

the comfort you are to me."

"I don't want one cent more than I at present receive," replied the

governess, kissing her fondly.

A few days after Colonel Pinckney--a self-constituted committee,

apparently, for the prevention of cruelty to governesses--surprised

Miss Featherstone in the school-room. She was seated before the fire in

a low chair, little Harry, who was fretful from a cold, lying on her

lap, the other children clustered around her. As he softly opened the

door he heard these words: "'Blondine,' replied the fairy Bienveillante

sadly,' no matter what you see or hear, do not lose courage or hope.'"

As she told the story in low, drowsy tones she was also mending the

heel of a little stocking.

"It is abominable!" the colonel cried: "you are worn out with fatigue:

I hear it in your voice. I called you a 'white slave' to Virginia:

nothing is truer. You've today given out supplies from the store-room,

you were in the kitchen a long time with the new cook, you set the

lunch-table--don't deny it, for I saw you--besides taking care of the

children and hearing their lessons."

"While Mrs. Pinckney is ill this is absolutely necessary," she returned

with decision: "of course it makes some confusion having a new cook--"

"Children," he interrupted, "this séance is to be broken up: scamper

off to Adèle to get ready: I'll ask mamma to let you drive to the

station in the coupé to meet Mr. Brown: there will certainly be room

for such little folks.--And as to you, Miss Featherstone, as head of

the house _pro tem_. I order you to put on your hat and cloak and walk

in the garden for a while with me: the paths are quite hard and dry."

"Mamma! mamma! we are to drive to the station: Uncle Dick says so,"

shrieked the children, breaking up a delicious little doze into which

Mrs. Pinckney had fallen while Adèle sat at her sewing in the darkened

room.

"Is Uncle Dick going with you?"

"No, he is going to walk in the garden with Miss Featherstone."

Mrs. Pinckney felt quite cross: "He is positively insolent, ordering

things about in this way, interrupting my nap and all. What, under

Heaven, should I do without her if he is in earnest about Miss

Featherstone?"

If she could have heard what Colonel Pinckney was saying in the garden

she would have been still crosser.

"I want to enlighten you a little as to my fair sister-in-law," he

began after a few commonplaces.

"Oh, please don't, Colonel Pinckney"--unconsciously she was sliding

into the "Colonel." "I'd much rather you wouldn't. I think--" and she

hesitated.

"What do you think?"

"Why"--and she looked embarrassed--"I am afraid I shall not love Mrs.

Pinckney as well if you analyze and show up all her little weaknesses.

We could none of us bear it," she continued warmly. "Remember that

line--

Be to her faults a little blind.

I like to love people, and feel like a woman in some novel I've read:

'Long and deeply let me be beguiled with regard to the infirmities of

those I love.'"

"You're an angel!" he cried.

Miss Featherstone looked startled and annoyed.

Colonel Pinckney, with much self-possession, recovered himself

immediately. "We all know it," he continued jestingly--"Mr. Brown, the

children, servants and all; but, in spite of this, you shall not be

imposed upon. Now, I wish to give you a résumé of Mrs. Pinckney's

life--"

"Oh, Colonel Pinckney! when we are under her roof!"

"It is a shelter bought with my father's money," he returned. "But you

must and shall hear me: it is necessary. She is the incarnation of

selfishness: in a young person it could go no further. One can pardon

anything rather than selfishness. She entirely exhausted our charity

during poor Harry's long illness. She travelled with every comfort that

money could give: she had her maid, Harry had his man, the children

were left with my mother. One winter they went to Nassau, the next to

the south of France: from both places she wrote such despairing letters

that my poor old father and mother were nearly beside themselves. It

was like the explosion of a bomb-shell in the household when a letter

came from Virginia. Sometimes I used to read and suppress them: they

were filled with shrieks and lamentations. Harry was in a rapid

decline; the mental torture was more than she could bear; some one must

come immediately out to her, etc. The first winter my eldest brother

went, to the serious injury of his business: he is a lawyer. I went

when they were in Europe, my wound not yet healed. By George! Harry

looked in better health than I: every one thought I was the invalid.

The doctor was called in immediately, who said I had endangered my life

by the expedition. I found out my lady had been to balls and on

excursions all the time she was writing those harrowing letters."

"Is it possible," said Miss Featherstone, "that you think Mrs. Pinckney

is false--that she deliberately tells untruths?"

"Not a bit of it," interrupted Colonel Pinckney. "She loves to complain

and make herself an object of sympathy. Poor Harry, of course, had a

constant cough, and whenever he took cold all his distressing symptoms

were aggravated: then she'd write her letters. By the time they were

received he would be pretty well again. You can see for yourself what

she is: she sends for Doctor Harris, has Adèle sleep on a mattress on

the floor in her room, leaving little Harry to keep you awake all

night--a fine preparation for the drudgery of the next day--then toward

evening she rises, makes a beautiful toilette, and drives with me

several miles to a dinner-party. Not a month ago, you remember, this

occurred when we went to Judge Lawrence's. To go back to my poor

brother: let me tell you what happened from her crying wolf so often.

The next winter they went to St. Augustine: we live in Virginia, you

know. A few weeks after their arrival the alarming letters began and

continued to appear. I took it upon myself to suppress most of them,

for really I had grown scarcely to believe a word she said with regard

to her husband, and, as I am sanguine, thought poor Harry would

overcome the disease, as our father had before him, and live to a good

old age. One morning, however, a telegram came: he was dead!" Colonel

Pinckney could scarcely speak. Recovering himself a little, he

continued in husky tones: "He died alone with his nurse: Virginia,

taking care of herself as usual, was in another room asleep."

"I wonder what they are talking about?" thought Mrs. Pinckney, twisting

her pretty neck in all directions so she could see them from her bed.

Their two heads were close together: he was speaking earnestly, and

Miss Featherstone's eyes were on the ground.

Mrs. Pinckney dressed and went down to dinner, although she had not

quite recovered the use of her voice. "Dick," she whispered, "it was a

fine move, your sending the children away this afternoon, so that you

could have Miss Featherstone all to yourself. Did you come to the

point?"

"No, but I will one of these days: I am preparing her mind," he added

mischievously.

As time went on a vague uneasiness seized the young governess. She

imagined Mrs. Pinckney was growing cool in her manner toward her:

certainly, Doctor Harris, who was constantly at the house, was becoming

importunate in his attentions. Once she looked up suddenly at as

prosaic a place as the dinner-table. Colonel Pinckney was gazing both

ardently and admiringly upon her. "Certainly I must be losing my senses

to imagine these men in love with me: it's preposterous."

Mr. Brown put the matter at rest, as far as he was concerned, for one

day, as she returned from a walk, he accosted her on the veranda, and

with a series of the most violent grimaces and gesticulations, his eyes

flashing, his face working in every possible direction, he told her

that he was _dèsolè_: his life depended upon her. He was so odd and

absurd in his avowal that she burst out laughing: then, as she beheld

an indignant, inquiring expression on his honest red countenance, she

grew frightened, sank on a seat and wept hysterically. This encouraged

him: he sat down beside her and exclaimed, "Dear mees"--and he peered

at her blandly--"your life is empty: so is mine. Let it be for me--oh,

so beautiful!"--and he spread out his little fat hands with

rapture--"to comfort and console one heavenly existence, _ensemble."_

He placed a hand on each stout knee and gazed benignly down upon her.

She hung her head as sheepishly as if she returned the little

foreigner's affection--afraid of wounding him, she was speechless--when

at this unlucky moment Colonel Pinckney, coming suddenly round the

house, walked up the steps. She saw him glance at her--Mr. Brown's back

was toward him--and a smile he evidently couldn't restrain stole over

his face.

"Oh, Mr. Brown, I'm so sorry!" she found courage at length to say. "You

are very kind--you've always been kind to me from the moment I entered

the house--but indeed you must never speak on this subject again." She

shook hands with him in her embarrassment, apparently as a proof of

friendship, then ran into the house.

"Virginia, what do you think has happened to me?" cried Colonel

Pinckney, bursting into his sister-in-law's room, which he seldom

invaded. "Yesterday, as I came up the steps, I surprised Mr. Brown, who

was offering himself--bad English, poverty and all--to Miss

Featherstone. This minute--by George!--I stumbled into the dining-room,

and there is Doctor Harris going through the same performance."

"Sit down and tell me all about it," exclaimed Mrs. Pinckney, her

curiosity overcoming her pique.

"Each time," continued Colonel Pinckney, "the lover's back was turned

toward me, while I had a most distinct view of Miss Featherstone, who

was blushing, hanging her head and looking as distressed as possible,

poor little soul!"

"Why! won't she accept the doctor?" said Mrs. Pinckney with animation.

"It didn't look like it. I couldn't hear what he said, but his back had

a hopeless expression. Did you know that she came from one of the best

families in Philadelphia, that most aristocratic of cities, and that

they were very wealthy? Her only brother was killed in the war, and she

is the sole unfortunate survivor."

"She might do many a worse thing than marry Doctor Harris: he is well

educated and a gentleman."

"She could do a better thing, and that is to marry me," exclaimed the

colonel. "I'm going to give her a chance, and will tell you the result

immediately. I wonder who'll stumble in upon my wooing?" and with

mirthful eyes he darted out of the room.

"I never knew a man so changed," soliloquized Mrs. Pinckney. "He used

to be haughty and reserved: now he talks a great deal, uses slang

expressions and romps and plays with the children like any ordinary

mortal. One can never tell whether he is in earnest or not. I don't

believe he'd have told me if he'd really meant to offer himself."

A day or two afterward Miss Featherstone had occasion to go to town. It

was exceedingly inconvenient, for she was needed everywhere as usual,

but gloves and boots must be replenished, even by impecunious heroines.

As she came down Colonel Pinckney handed her into the carriage and

followed her. She felt a little annoyed, but supposed he was driving

only to the station: however, he sent the coachman home, and when the

cars came up he entered and took his seat beside her.

"You look depressed, Miss Featherstone: I hope that my going to New

York meets with your approbation? I've been neglecting a thousand

necessary matters, and the pleasure of your company to-day gave me the

necessary incentive."

He was so frank as to his motives that Miss Featherstone laid aside her

reserve in a measure, and became communicative. "Everything has

changed, Colonel Pinckney," she said with a sigh. "Mrs. Pinckney has

grown decidedly cool, and I think you have opened my eyes so that I

don't love her quite as much as I did. I am sorry: I should rather have

been blind. Then--" She paused, feeling that her confidences must go no

further.

"Then," he continued, "it makes it very embarrassing that the tutor and

family physician should both have fallen in love with you."

"I think of leaving," she continued, neither admitting nor

contradicting his assertion. "Forgive me: you have spoken from the best

motives, but I think you have made trouble," she added hesitatingly.

"Mrs. Pinckney is now continually on the alert to prevent my working;

she will no longer let little Harry sleep in my room; she orders the

dinner for the first time since I've been in the house; the children

are swooped off by Adèle as soon as their school-hours are over; and

everything is odd, strange and uncomfortable. I think I must go away. I

wrote an advertisement to put in the papers: perhaps you could do it

for me?" she said timidly: "I dread going to the offices."

"Certainly," he replied courteously, and put it in his pocket.

Colonel Pinckney appeared to share her depression, and he sat for some

time silent: then he said in an agitated voice, "It will be a sorrowful

day for that house when you leave it: I never knew such a

transformation as you have effected. Until this winter my only

associations with it have been of dirt, gloom and disorder: the

children were neglected and fretful, the dinners shocking and ill

served; and this with an army of servants and money spent _ad libitum_.

Now, on the contrary, the rooms are fresh, cheerful and agreeable;

there are pleasant odors, bright fires, attractive meals; the children

perfect both in appearance and manner; and all this owing to the

influence--perhaps I ought to say labors--of one young, inexperienced

girl. I've always imagined I disliked efficient women: I've changed my

mind. When I was young a fair, indolent creature, always well dressed

and smiling, was my beau ideal: now a brunette, bright and

energetic--some one who never thinks of herself, but is making

everybody else happy and comfortable--this is my present divinity." He

smiled tenderly upon her.

Miss Featherstone endeavored to shake off her embarrassment. He was a

frank, kind-hearted man, entirely unlike his sister-in-law's idea of

him, with an exaggerated gratitude for her exertions in his brother's

family. She would not be so silly as to imagine every man was being

transformed into a lover. "You are kinder to me than I deserve," she

said, then changed the conversation.

She expected to meet him as she took the train to return, but he was

nowhere to be seen. He did not even appear when the train stopped, and

she had a solitary drive to the house.

"Did you know that Dick had gone?" said Mrs. Pinckney at the

dinner-table, levelling scrutinizing glances from her lovely blue eyes.

"No," answered the governess with sudden depression and embarrassment:

"he said nothing about leaving this morning. You know Colonel Pinckney

went to New York in the train that I did."

"You didn't see him after your arrival?"

"No: he put me on a car and left me."

"I suspect it was an after-thought," said Mrs. Pinckney. "I had a

telegram, directing me to send on his travelling-bag by express: the

rest of his luggage was to be left until further orders.--Is it

possible that she has refused him?" thought Mrs. Pinckney behind her

fan. She was occupying her usual seat by the fire: Miss Featherstone

was in a low chair, with Harry on her lap, the other children hanging

about her. She was telling them a story, but they were not as well

entertained as usual. The young governess was unlike herself to-night,

and little touches, dramatic effects and gay inflections of the voice

were lacking.

A month passed, and nothing had been heard from Colonel Pinckney. "He

might have written just one line," said his sister-in-law querulously.

She was in her favorite position, propped up by pillows on the bed,

Miss Featherstone at her side waiting to receive orders, for gradually

all her old duties had been permitted to slip back into her willing

hands. "Certainly he seemed to enjoy himself when he was here; yet not

one line of thanks or remembrance have I received. I heard," she said

mysteriously, "that Dick was very devoted to Miss Livingstone at

Saratoga last summer--there's no end to the women who have been in love

with _him_: perhaps this sudden move has something to do with her.

Nothing but a great emergency can excuse him," petulantly.

That day, for the first time, the children wearied Miss Featherstone,

and she carried them in a body to Adèle, saying that she had a violent

headache and was going out in the garden for a walk. As she paced

slowly up and down the tears fell over her pale cheeks. The only window

from which she could be seen was Mrs. Pinckney's, and that lady, she

knew, was too much absorbed in her own sensations to give her a

thought. "How I despise myself!" she murmured, "how degraded I am in my

own eyes! Can I ever recover my self-respect? I'm so miserable that I

should like to die because Colonel Pinckney has left the house,

and"--she hesitated--"because his sister-in-law thinks he was drawn

away by Miss Livingstone, Oh!"--and she groaned and clasped her hands

frantically together--"and all this agony for a man who has never

uttered a word of love to me!" Here a remembrance of his whole air and

manner rather contradicted this thought. "Everything wearies me: I am

actually impatient of the children, and when Mrs. Pinckney wails and

complains I can scarcely listen with decency. I want to burst out upon

her and say, 'You silly, tiresome woman! you have had your dream of

love and your husband; you have still four dear children; you have a

home, plenty of money, hosts of friends, besides youth and good looks;

while I am--oh, how desolate!'"

This imaginary attack upon Mrs. Pinckney seemed to comfort her

somewhat, for she dried her tears and tried to form a plan of action:

"He evidently didn't put my advertisement in the paper, for I've looked

in vain for it. I must go away where I shall never see Colonel Pinckney

again. I'll stifle, throttle, this miserable love, and endeavor once

more to be enduring and courageous."

Just then the house-door opened: some one walked down the veranda steps

and came rapidly in her direction.

"I have been looking everywhere for you," cried Colonel Pinckney; and

he seized both her hands: "no one seemed to know where you had gone."

The bright color rose in her cheeks, and in spite of her resolve her

eyes beamed with delight. She murmured inarticulately that she had told

Adèle, then relapsed into silence.

"I have to implore your forgiveness for neglecting to obey as to the

advertisement, but the truth is----" and he hesitated--"I have a plan.

It may not meet with your concurrence," he added, "but I wished to

submit it before you made other and irrevocable arrangements."

"You have thought of some position for me?" she forced herself to say,

all the bloom and delight vanishing from her face.

"Yes. I know an individual who wants precisely such a person as you

are, for--a wife."

"Colonel Pinckney!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"Do forgive me, dear Miss Featherstone. I am such a confounded

poltroon"--and he seized her hands again--"that I dare not risk my

fate; but that person is"--and he looked down upon her, his heart

beating so violently that he could scarcely speak--"that person

is--myself!"

Of what happened then Mrs. Pinckney, roused by her brother-in-law's

return, was cognizant, for actually, in the open air, with her blue

eyes bent eagerly upon them, he clasped the governess in his arms. "It

is a fact accomplished!" cried the fair widow with a sigh, and sank

back upon her pillows.

THE HOME OF THE GENTIANS.

There is a lonesome hamlet of the dead

Spread on a high ridge, up above a lake--

A quiet meadow-slope, unfrequented,

Where in the wind a thousand wild flowers shake.

But most of all, the delicate gentian here,

Serenely blue as the sweet eyes of Hope,

Doth prosper in th' untroubled atmosphere,

Where wide its fringèd eyelids love to ope.

You cannot set a foot upon the ground

On warm September noons, in this old croft,

But there some satiny blossom crushed is found,

Swift springing up to look again aloft.

Prized! sung of poets! sought for singly where

Adventurous feet may hardly dare to climb!

Here, scattered lavishly and without care,

In all the sweet luxuriance of their prime.

Ah! how the yellow-thighed, brown-coated bee

Dives prodigally into those blue deeps

Of glistening, odorless satin fair to see,

And soon forgetting wherefore, trancèd, sleeps!

And how the golden butterflies skim over,

And poise, all fondly, on these lifted lips,

Leaving the riches of the sweet red clover

For the blue gentians' fine and fairy tips!

Beautiful wildlings, proud, refined and shy!

Mysteries ye are, have been, and yet shall be:

The secrets of your being in ye lie,

And no man yet hath found their hidden key.

Might we not laugh at our world's vaunted lore,

For ever boasting, "This, and this, I know"?

Not all the science of its hard-won store

Can make one single fringèd gentian grow.

--HOWARD GLYNDON.

NEWPORT A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

There is a magnetism in places which has as strong and subtle a potency

as that which belongs to certain persons. Newport, Rhode Island, is not

an inapt example of the class of which I speak. The wonderful mildness

of the air, coupled with its exhilarating qualities; the fertility of

the soil, which throws tropical vegetation over the stern realism of

crag and precipice; the mixture of the wildest features of Nature with

its softest and most intoxicating influences,--all these anomalies,

unexplained even by the proximity of the itself inexplicable Gulf

Stream, combine to form a perfect and most desirable whole. Nor is this

description over-colored or the offshoot of the latter-day caprice that

has made of the place a fashionable resort. The very name of the State

suggests that of a classic island famed for its atmosphere; and as

Verrazano, writing in 1524, compares Block Island to Rhodes, it is

possible that hence arose its title. Neal in 1717, and the Abbé Robin

in 1771, both speak of Newport as the Paradise of New England, and

endorse its Indian appellation, Aquidneck, or the Isle of Peace.

Berkeley, dean of Derry, who came here in 1729 full of zealous but

utopian plans of proselytism, writes of it that "the climate is warmer

than Italy, and far preferable to Bermuda" (his original destination).

Indeed, it is to the good man's enthusiasm for Newport that we owe his

burst of poetical prophecy, "Westward the course of empire takes its

way."

If the staid and reverend Berkeley, he whom Swift, writing to Lord

Carteret, recommends as "one of the first men in the kingdom for

learning and virtue," and of whom Pope exclaims, "To Berkeley every

virtue under heaven," found here this fascination, what wonder that

more excitable pilgrims of Latin blood made of it a Mecca? The French

particularly came often to Newport in early colonial days, and have

left jottings of their stay and the pleasure it afforded them. Monsieur

de Crèvecoeur visited it in 1772, and found delight in its natural

beauties. He notes the bay and harbor, the approach to which he

considers remarkably fine, and admires the acacia and plane trees which

line the roads, all of which, unfortunately, were destroyed during the

Revolution. The young attaché of the French legation of to-day, who

chafes at the diplomatic duties which delay his shaking off the dust of

Washington for the delights of Newport, hardly comprehends how much

heredity has to do with his appreciation of it. He does not stop to

think, as he sips his post-prandial coffee at Hartman's window, of the

line of French chivalry that a century ago made their favorite

promenade by the spot where he now sits. His mind, running on Mrs.

A----'s ball or Mrs. B----'s lawn-tennis, is far from dreaming of the

irresistible De Lauzun, the gallant De Fersen, a fugitive from the love

of a queen, but destined to serve her as lackey in her need, the two

handsome Viosmenils, the baron Cromot du Bourg, the duc de Deux-Ponts,

or any of the brilliant cortége of a bygone day. But what memories the

mere enumeration of their names brings up! Rank and valor were the

heritage of all of them, an heroic but unhappy end the fate of most.

Who can say that the aroma of their presence does not still linger

round the old town, up and down the narrow streets where they passed

with gay jests and clanking sword, or in the quaint mansions, still

peeping out from behind century-old hedges, where they left the record

of their graces in the heart of their host and of their loves on his

window-pane? What can be pleasanter than for the American pen to linger

over the page of history that chronicles the generous sympathy which

brought this fine flower of France to our shores? Where is the heart,

even in our cynical nineteenth century, which holds enthusiasm an

anachronism, that does not thrill at the recollection of the chivalry

that quitted the luxury and revels of Versailles to dare the dangers of

an ocean-voyage (then no ten-day pleasure-trip) for a cause that still

hung in the balances of success? Viewed practically, the help offered

was even more deserving of praise. The French are not an adventurous

nation: they are not fond of travelling. Hugo says Paris is the world,

and to the average Frenchman it embodies the world it comprises: it

_is_ the world. Expatriated, he would rather dwell, like the poet, on a

barren island within sight of the shores of France than seek or find

new worlds to conquer. It must therefore be conceded that the sentiment

which brought us our allies in 1780 was a hearty one, nor had they

encouragement from the example of others; for, although La Fayette,

young and full of ardor, had fired the hearts of his compatriots, and

made it the fashion to help us even before the alliance in 1778, yet

the expedition of that year under the comte d'Estaing had been an utter

failure. There was, however, a strong incentive which brought the young

nobles of the time to us, and that was the one which the old

philosopher declared to be at the bottom of every case--a woman. In

this particular instance the prestige was heightened by the fact that

she was also a queen. Marie Antoinette was then at the zenith of her

beauty and power. The timid, shrinking dauphiness, forced to the arms

of an unwilling husband, himself a mere cipher, had expanded into a

fascinating woman, reigning triumphantly over the court and the

affections of her vacillating spouse. The birth, after years of

wedlock, of several children completed her conquest and gave her the

dominion she craved, and she now threw her influence unreservedly into

the balance for the American colonies, little dreaming she was therein

laying the first stone toward her own ruin.

On the 6th of February, 1778, the treaty between the United States and

France was signed, followed in July of the same year by a declaration

from the king protecting neutral ships, although bound for hostile

ports and carrying contraband goods. Meanwhile, on the 13th of April,

the French fleet had sailed from Toulon under the command of D'Estaing,

who had with him on the Languedoc, his flagship, a regularly appointed

envoy, Girard de Rayneville, who had full power to recognize the

independence of the States, Silas Deane, one of the American

commissioners, and such well-known officers as the comte de la

Motte-Piquet, the Bailli de Suffren, De Guichen, D'Orvilliers, De

Grasse and others. The history of this first expedition is a short and

disastrous one. The voyage was long, owing to the ships being unequally

matched in speed, and it was ninety days after leaving Toulon before

they anchored in Delaware Bay. D'Estaing had hoped to surprise Lord

Howe, who was guarding the mouth of the Delaware to strengthen the

position of Sir Henry Clinton at Philadelphia, but when the fleet

arrived Clinton had evacuated Philadelphia, and was in the harbor of

New York. Here the French admiral followed him, but, finding no pilots

at Sandy Hook willing to take him over the bar, he on Washington's

recommendation proceeded to Rhode Island to co-operate with Sullivan,

who was in command of the army there, which was divided into two

brigades under Generals Greene and La Fayette. On the 29th of July,

1778, the French fleet appeared off Newport, to the delight of the

inhabitants, who were suffering from the English occupation, and saw in

prospect an end to their troubles. But, alas! their joy was premature.

Sullivan was so slow in moving that the moment for action was lost.

Lord Howe, having received reinforcements, appeared off Point Judith,

where D'Estaing tried to meet and give him battle; but a hurricane

coming up, both fleets were obliged to spend their energies in saving

themselves from destruction, and before the storm passed the French

ships were so scattered that all hope of success had to be abandoned.

D'Estaing found himself on the 13th of August separated from his

convoy, and his ship, Le Languedoc, bereft of rudder and masts, forced

to an encounter with three English vessels. His fleet rallied round

him, but it was too late after a disastrous action to do anything but

repair damages: in fact, Lord Howe had already reached Sandy Hook.

D'Estaing appeared off Newport on the 20th to announce that he should

be obliged by instructions to go to Boston for provisions and water,

and thus ended the first visit of the French to Newport, to the dismay

of the inhabitants. Sullivan criticised D'Estaing severely, but was

obliged by La Fayette to retract: indeed, it is a question whether the

fault of failure lay in Sullivan's procrastination or in want of

judgment on the part of the French commander, who nevertheless, on his

return to France, interested himself to induce the government to send

out twelve thousand men to America. La Fayette also, through his

friendship with Vergennes, exerted himself toward the same end, the

proposition being not unfavorably received by the government, which

merely demurred as to the number of troops required. Before leaving

France, however, La Fayette had secured full consent to the expedition,

and on him devolved the grateful task of bearing to Congress and

Washington the news of the co-operation of that country. The fleet was

prepared at Brest, and was placed under Admiral de Ternay, the command

of the troops being given to the comte de Rochambeau, not through court

favor, but in consideration of the affection of the army for him.

Jean Baptiste de Vimeur, comte de Rochambeau and marshal of France, was

born in Vendôme in 1725. At sixteen he served under the maréchal de

Broglie, was afterward aide to the duc d'Orléans, and distinguished

himself in the battles of Crevelt, Minden, Closterkamp and Corbach,

being seriously wounded several times. A thorough soldier, Rochambeau

possessed not only courage, but a clear, practical eye, accompanied by

foresight and judgment. His memoirs show him to have taken more kindly

to the camp than the court, and outside of war to have been fond of the

sports of a country gentleman. His appearance in Trumbull's picture of

the surrender of Cornwallis shows us more of a Cincinnatus than of an

Alexander. He was reserved in his manner, even with his officers, and

De Fersen, writing to his father, complains of it, acknowledging,

however, that it was shown less with him than with others. Later on he

does Rochambeau justice, and says: "His example had its effect on the

army, and the severe orders he gave restrained everybody and enforced

that discipline which was the admiration of the Americans and of the

English who witnessed it. The wise, prudent and simple conduct of M. de

Rochambeau has done more to conciliate America to us than the gain of

four battles."

With this representative soldier of his time came so fine a showing of

the noblesse of France, fresh from the most brilliant court of Europe,

that they are worth a short description. They are interesting, if from

nothing else, from the fact that they are the men who appear on the

page of history one day steeped in the enervating luxury and intrigue

of Versailles and Marly, the next fighting and dying with the courage

of the lionhearted Henri de la Rochejaquelin in Vendée, leaving as an

epitaph on their whole generation the words of the Chouan chief,

"Allons chercher l'ennemi! Si je recule, tuez moi; si j'avance, suivez

moi; si je meurs, vengez moi!" Never even in Napoleon's campaigns,

where each man had as incentive a name and fortune to carve, was there

such a race of soldiers as these same aristocrats.

First and foremost, let us mention Armand Louis de Gontaut, duc de

Lauzun, the duc de Biron of the Vendée. He was the gayest gallant of

the time, and whether with the Polish princess Czartoriski, the

beautiful Lady Sarah Bunbury--George III.'s admiration as he saw her

making hay at Holland House--Mesdames de Stainville and de Coig and the

rollicking actresses of the Comédie Française, or Mrs. Robinson (the

prince of Wales's "Perdita,"), seems to have had universal success. We

except the record that gives him the love of Marie Antoinette. To him

was entrusted in this expedition the legion that bore his name, with

Count Arthur Dillon as coadjutor. The maréchals-de-camp were the two

brothers Viosmenil, celebrated for their beauty, and the marquis de

Chastelleux, a member of the Institute and possessed of some literary

merit. He had written a piece called _La Félicité publique_, which drew

from the wits of the day the following epigram:

À Chastelleux la place académique:

Qu' a-t-il donc fait? Un livre bien conçu.

Vous l'appelez _La Félicité publique_;

Le public fut heureux, car il n'en a rien su.

He printed twenty-four impressions of his travels in America by the aid

of a printing-press on the squadron, the first record of a book having

been published privately in the colonies. The aides of De Rochambeau

were the handsome Swede Count de Fersen, the marquis de Vauban, Charles

de Lamette (who fought a famous duel in the Bois de Boulogne with the

duc de Castries), De Dumas and De Laubedières: De Tarli was intendant.

The list of officers comprised such historic names as those of the

marquis de Laval-Montmorenci, the duc de Deux-Ponts (colonel of the

regiment raised in Alsace that bore his name), his two brothers,

Vicomte de Chartres, De Custine, D'Olonne, De Montesquieu and the

vicomte de Noailles. The last named had, as ambassador to England, the

task entrusted to him of bearing to Lord Weymouth the news of the

French alliance with America.

The fleet which appeared off Newport on the 11th of July, 1780,

comprised seven ships of the line--the Duc de Bourgogne, Neptune,

Conquérant, Provence, Eveillé, Jason and Ardent--the frigates

Surveillante, Amazone and Gentille, the corvette Fantasque (which was a

hospital-ship) and the cutter La Guêpe. There were thirty-two

transports with the expeditionary corps of five thousand men. Admiral

de Ternay, wisely profiting by D'Estaing's experience, lost no time in

reaching his destination. He was welcomed by the sight of the French

flag planted both on Point Judith and Newport Point, this being the

signal agreed on with La Fayette that all was well. Only a few days

later he would have been intercepted by an English squadron, Admiral

Graves having sailed from Portsmouth early in the season, intending to

prevent the French reaching Newport, but his plans were deranged by the

bad weather. The squadron entered the beautiful harbor of Newport with

flying flags and pennons bright with the golden fleur-de-lys of France.

From the earliest days of the colony Newport had taken a prominent

place in its history. Its natural advantages had early singled it out

for both commercial and social distinction. One of the first governors,

Coddington, was its original settler. An openly-avowed freedom from

prejudice was among the first declared principles of Rhode Island.

Quakers and Jews were gladly received, and while the former brought

with them the temperance and moderation peculiar to their tenets, the

latter grafted on Newport commerce the spirit of enterprise which made

the town celebrated in colonial annals for its prosperity and

importance. The Jewish merchants were men of good origin, fine presence

and character. They were many of them of high birth in Spain and

Portugal, and they have bequeathed to posterity a record of stately

hospitality and unblemished integrity. The names of Lopez, Riviera,

Seixas and Touro are honored and respected still in their former home,

and the fine arch that towers over the gay promenade of to-day gives

entrance to their last resting-place, so solemn and so majestic a home

of the dead that it drew from the Nestor of American poets a stirring

apostrophe to the manes of the dead sons of Israel. The fine harbor and

bay of Newport soon attracted commerce from all nations, which heaped

its wharves with riches and made princes and magnates of its

merchants--a position they seemed born to sustain. The Overings,

Bannisters, Malbones and Redwoods kept open house and exercised lavish

hospitality--witness, as told by the Newport _Herald_ of June 7, 1766,

the story of Colonel Godfrey Malbone's feast on the lawn of his burning

mansion, so fine an edifice that its cost had been a hundred thousand

dollars in 1744; but the house taking fire at the time he had invited

guests to dinner, he thus feasted rather than disappoint them, and all

through the long summer night they held high revel and pledged each

other in jovial toasts while the flames of the burning building

illumined these Sardanapalian orgies. Year after year added to the

importance of this city by the sea: year after year the Indies poured

into its warehouses the riches with which Newport, out of its

abundance, dowered New York, Boston and Hartford and ornamented and

enriched the stately homes of its merchants. There is, however, one

blot on its scutcheon--one which darkens the picture of this prosperity

and the means that helped make it--and that is the slave-trade. Yes,

the town which was to give birth to William Ellery Channing was one of

the first to become interested in this baleful traffic. It is true it

was denounced by the Legislature, which as early as 1652 made it penal

to hold slaves, yet statistics show that between 1730 and 1752 the

return cargoes of all ships from the West Indies consisted of them. The

slave-trade of Newport bore fruit in other evils. At this time there

were no less than forty distilleries at work, and this rum, exported to

Africa, bought and brought home the human freight. However, in 1774 the

importation was prohibited, and all male children born after 1784 were

declared to be free.

Nowhere was there a more courtly and elegant society than in Newport.

The rules of etiquette were rigorously adhered to, and there was no

jesting on so sacred a topic as the honor and respect due to those whom

the good rector of Trinity was wont to allude to as moving in higher

spheres. De Ségur a year or two later says of it: "Other parts of

America were only beautiful by anticipation, but Rhode Island was

complete. Newport, well and regularly built, contained a numerous

population, whose happiness was indicated by its prosperity. It offered

delightful circles composed of enlightened men and modest and handsome

women, whose talents heightened their personal attractions." To-day,

Newport is the rendezvous of the best society of the land. Handsome

women and clever men meet and greet there, but can the society be more

distinguished than, from this description, it must have been a century

ago? We wonder if the stately dames who in the eighteenth century held

court here would quite approve of the _laissez-aller_ of modern

intercourse. The youth of to-day, whose highest praise for his fair

partner of the cotillon is often that she is "an awfully good fellow,"

has little kinship with his ancestor, who used to wait at the

street-corner to see the object of his devotion go by under the convoy

of her father and mother and a couple of faithful colored footmen,

thinking himself happy meanwhile if his divinity gave him a shy glance.

The gay girl of the period, who scampers in her pony chaise down the

avenue from one engagement to the other, and whose most sacred

confidence is apt to be that she adores horses and loves "pottering

about the stable," is, with all her charms, quite different from the

blushing little beauty of 1780, who in powdered hair, quilted petticoat

and high, red-heeled shoes gave her lover a modest little glance at the

street-corner, thinking it a most delicious and unforeseen bit of

romance to have a lover at all. But other times other manners, and

nineteenth-century men and women are no doubt as charming in their way

as were our pretty ancestresses and their gallants of a century ago.

The prosperity of Newport received a check from the Revolution. The

English occupation resulted in a vandalism that destroyed the fine

mansions, turned public buildings, and even Trinity Church, into

barracks for the soldiers and stables for their horses, laid waste the

country, cut down the trees and obliterated the landmarks. Thus the

French found it, and they were welcomed as possible deliverers and

defenders from the English rule. Rochambeau and his staff reached

Newport in the frigate Hermione on the afternoon of the 11th of July,

and the next day the troops were landed, many of them being ill and all

in need of rest after the long voyage and cramped quarters. The forts

were put in possession of the French, who proceeded to remodel them

into a better condition to resist a siege. General Heath, hearing at

Providence the news of the arrival of the fleet, came down to Newport

to greet Rochambeau, whom he met on shore, going afterward on board the

Duc de Bourgogne to see the admiral, who in return saluted the town

with thirteen guns. On the evening of the 12th Rochambeau dined with

General Heath, a grand illumination of the town taking place afterward,

and each day saw some new festivity to welcome the guests who had made

the American cause their own. The army had been stationed across the

island guarding the town, the right toward the ships and the left upon

the sea, Rochambeau thus carefully covering the position of his vessels

by the batteries. Everything was _en fête_. The people were delighted

with the manners and courtly polish of the French. Robin says of the

discipline insisted on at Newport, "The officers employed politeness

and amenity, the common soldiers became mild, circumspect and

moderate." The French at Newport were no longer the frivolous race,

presumptuous, noisy, full of fatuity, they were reputed to be. They

lived quietly and retired, limiting their society to their hosts, to

whom every day they became dearer. These young nobles of birth and

fortune, to whom a sojourn at court must have given a taste for

dissipation and luxury, were the first to set an example of frugality

and simplicity of life. They showed themselves affable, popular, as if

they had never lived but with men who were on an equality. Every one

was won, even the Tories, and their departure saddened even more than

their arrival had alarmed. Rochambeau also alludes to the discipline of

the army, and says: "It was due to the zeal of the generals and

superior officers, and above all to the goodwill of the soldiers. It

contributed not a little to make the State of Rhode Island acquiesce in

the proposition I made it, to repair at our expense the mansions which

the English had mutilated, so that they might serve as barracks for the

soldiers if the inhabitants would lodge the officers. We spent twenty

thousand crowns in repairing the houses, and left in the place many

marks of the generosity of France toward its allies."

We have before us an old plan of Newport in 1777, and a list of the

officers' hosts. We find the general quartered at 302 New lane, corner

of Clark and Mary streets. Its proprietor, William Hunter, was

president of the Eastern Navy Board at Boston and an earnest upholder

of the rights of the colonies. The gallant and all-conquering Lauzun

was at the widow Deborah Hunter's, No. 264 Thames street. Mrs. Hunter

was the mother of two charming daughters, whom Lauzun eulogizes in his

journal. His praise has been often quoted, yet it is worth repeating,

as it shows this Lovelace in a new and pleasing light. He says: "Mrs.

Hunter is a widow of thirty-six who has two daughters, whom she has

well brought up. She conceived a friendship for me, and I was treated

like one of the family. I passed my time there. I was ill, and she took

care of me. I was not in love with the Misses Hunter, but had they been

my sisters I could not have been fonder of them." The two Viosmenils

and their aides were at Joseph Wanton's, in Thames street. The Wantons

had been governors of Rhode Island from 1732: Joseph Wanton was the

last governor under the Crown. He is described as wearing a large white

wig with three curls--one falling down his back and one forward over

each shoulder. De Chastelleux lodged with Captain Maudsly, at No. 91

Spring street; De Choisy at Jacob Riviera's in Water street; the

marquis de Laval and the vicomte de Noailles at Thomas Robinson's, in

Water street; the marquis de Custine, the commander of the regiment

Saintonge, at Joseph Durfey's, 312 Griffin street; Colonel Malbone

entertained Lieutenant-Colonel de Querenel at No. 83 Thames street;

while Colonel John Malbone was the host of the commandant Desandrouins,

the colonel of the engineers, at No. 28 of the same street; William

Coggeshall of No. 135 Thames street had the baron de Turpin and De

Plancher for guests; De Fersen and the marquis de Darnas were at the

house of Robert Stevens, and De Laubedières and Baron de Closen at that

of Henry Potter, both in New lane; Madame McKay, 115 Lewis street,

quartered De Lintz and Montesquieu; Joseph Antony, at 339 Spring

street, Dumas; and Edward Hazard, of 271 Lewis street, the two

D'Olonnes. Admiral de Ternay was much on his ship, but lodged at

Colonel Wanton's in Water street; his captains, De la Chaise and

Destouches, were at Abraham Redwood's, 78 Thames street.

On the 21st of July, Admirals Graves and Arbuthnot arrived off the

harbor with eleven vessels--one of ninety, six of seventy-four, three

of sixty-four, and one of fifty guns. The following day the number was

increased to nineteen, and from this time the French squadron was

effectually blockaded in Newport. Although doubt seems to have been

felt by some as to the good intentions of the French army, the general

feeling on their arrival was one of joy. On Sunday, the 15th, the

intelligence became known in Philadelphia, where Congress was then

sitting. Washington ordered the soldiers to wear a black-and-white

cockade as a symbol of the alliance, the American cockade being black

and the French white, but seems withal to have felt nervous and

impatient for some decisive action. He sent La Fayette to Newport to

urge Rochambeau to make an attack on New York, but the latter replied

that he expected from the admiral de Guichen, who commanded the West

India squadron, five ships of war, and declined to take any steps until

his army was in better condition. La Fayette, who was young and full of

ardor, was hardly pleased with Rochambeau's caution, but apologized for

his impetuosity on the ground of disliking to see the French troops

shut up in Newport while there was so much to be done. To this

Rochambeau replied that he had an experience of forty years, and that

of fifteen thousand men who had been killed and wounded under his

orders he could not reproach himself with the loss of a single person

killed on his account. He desired, however, a personal interview with

Washington--a request which from some reason the commander-in-chief did

not seem anxious to grant. There was at times a coolness in the

relations between Rochambeau and Washington, arising perhaps from a

different estimate of La Fayette; but the cloud, if there was any, was

never very perceptible or of any long duration. On the 21st of August a

committee of the General Assembly of the State, at that time in session

at Newport, presented Rochambeau and De Ternay with a formal address of

welcome. De Rochambeau's reply was full of manliness and good-will. He

said, "The French troops are restrained by the strictest discipline,

and, acting under General Washington, will live with the Americans as

their brethren. I assure the General Assembly that as brethren not only

my life, but the lives of the troops under my command, are entirely

devoted to their service." This frank avowal dissipated a fear felt by

some that the French might have some ulterior motive in coming to the

assistance of the colonies.

It is not to be supposed that the belles of Newport were indifferent to

the advent of these fascinating French paladins, or that the gallant

Gauls were unmoved by the beauty and grace of the Newport women. With

one accord they joined in admiration of their fair hostesses, not only

for their charms of face and figure, but for the purity and innocence

of their characters, which made a deep impression on these Sybarites,

accustomed as they were to the atmosphere of intrigue and vice peculiar

to the French court of the day. We find the record of this enthusiasm

in the letters and journals of the officers, but for a picture of the

special belles of the time there is none more correct than that

furnished by the prince de Broglie and the comte de Ségur, who visited

Newport the following year. They note particularly Miss Champlin, the

daughter of a rich merchant who lived at No. 119 Thames street. Mr.

Champlin had large shipping interests, which he managed with great

enterprise. At his house De Broglie was introduced by De Vauban, who as

aide to De Rochambeau had met all the Newport notables, and the prince

writes: "Mr. Champlin was known for his wealth, but more for the lovely

face of his daughter. She was not in the room when we entered, but

appeared a moment after. She had beautiful eyes, an agreeable mouth, a

lovely face, a fine figure, a pretty foot, and the general effect was

attractive. She added to these advantages that of being charmingly

_coiffée_ in the Paris style, besides which she spoke and understood

our language." Of the Hunters, Lauzun's hostesses, De Broglie says:

"The elder, without being regularly handsome, had a noble appearance

and an aristocratic air. She was graceful, intellectual and refined.

Her toilette was as finished as Miss Champlin's, but she was not as

fresh, in spite of what De Fersen said. The younger, Nancy Hunter, is

not so modish, but a perfect rosebud. Her character is gay: she is

always laughing, and has beautiful teeth--a thing not common in

America." But Vauban, who on this occasion acted as master of

ceremonies, promised the prince a greater treat for the morrow, and

took him on that day to a house on the corner of Touro street and the

Park, where they found a serious and silent old gentleman, who received

them without compliment or raising his hat and answered their questions

in monosyllables. The lively Frenchmen would have made a short visit

had not the door opened and a young girl entered; and here De Broglie's

own raptures must speak: "It was Minerva herself who had exchanged her

warlike vestments for the charms of a simple shepherdess. She was the

daughter of a Shaking Quaker. Her headdress was a simple cap of fine

muslin plaited and passed round her head, which gave Polly the effect

of the Holy Virgin." Yes, this was Polly Lawton (or Leighton), the very

pearl of Newport beauties, of whom the prince says in continuation:

"She enchanted us all, and, though evidently a little conscious of it,

was not at all sorry to please those whom she graciously called her

friends. I confess that this seductive Lawton appeared to me a

_chef-d'oeuvre_ of Nature, and in recalling her image I am tempted to

write a book against the finery, the factitious graces and the coquetry

of many ladies whom the world admires." Ségur says: "She was a nymph

rather than a woman, and had the most graceful figure and beautiful

form possible. Her eyes appeared to reflect as in a mirror the meekness

and purity of her mind and the goodness of her heart." Polly chides the

count, according to the rules of her faith, for coming in obedience to

the king, against the command of God, to make war. "What could I reply

to such an angel?" says the entranced Frenchman, "for she seemed to me

a celestial being. Certainly, had I not been married and happy in my

own country I should, while coming to defend the liberty of the

Americans, have lost my own at the feet of Polly Lawton." We fear the

comtesse de Ségur would hardly have relished her lord's raptures over

the pretty Quakeress, and would have quite approved of Rochambeau's

order which sent him back to his post.

Among this bevy of Continental beauties, to whom we may add the names

of the lovely Miss Redwood--to whose charms sailors in the street would

doff their hats, holding them low till she had passed--the two Miss

Ellerys, Miss Sylven, Miss Brinley, Miss Robinson and others, it is not

wonderful that the French officers bore patiently the enforced

blockade. They indulged in constant festivities, to which they invited

their fair enslavers. A deputation of Indians, numbering nineteen and

consisting of members of the Tuscarora, Caghnawgas and Oneida tribes,

visited the camp on the 2d of August. They were cordially received by

Rochambeau, who gave them a dinner at which they were reported to have

behaved well. After dining with General Heath they performed their

war-dance, which was a novel and interesting sight to the French

officers. As a return for this entertainment the French army gave a

grand review, preceded by firing of cannon. The sight must have been a

fine one. The regiments were among the flower of European chivalry,

some of them of historical celebrity, such as the regiment of Auvergne,

whose motto was "_Sans tache_" and one of whose captains, the famous

D'Assas, is said to have saved a whole brigade at the expense of his

life, crying, as he saw the enemy approaching on his unsuspecting

comrades, "À moi Auvergne! voilà les ennemis!" and fell dead. The

uniforms of the troops were most effective. The officers wore white

cockades and the colors of their regiments faced with white cloth. The

Bourbonnais regiment was in black and red, Saintonge in white and

green, Deux-Ponts in white; the Soissonnais wore pink facings and

grenadier caps with pink and white plumes, while the artillery were in

blue with red facings. The savages were delighted with the pageant, but

in spite of its splendor expressed more astonishment at seeing trees

loaded with fruit hanging over tents which the soldiers had occupied

for months than at anything else. They took their departure in

September, being presented with blankets and other gifts by Rochambeau.

Perhaps the finest display was that which celebrated the French king's

birthday on Friday, the 25th of August. The ships were decorated with

the flags of all nations during the day and brilliantly illuminated at

night. High mass was celebrated on the flag-ship, after which a number

of salutes were fired. The town joined in the festivity. The bells of

Trinity were rung and the inhabitants decorated their houses with

flags. The autumn was spent in agreeable pastimes, but with the

approach of winter it became necessary to put the army into comfortable

quarters. The houses which Rochambeau had offered to repair were ready,

and the regiments were installed in them; the State-House, which had

been used as a hospital by the English, was put to the same use by the

French; and an upper room in it was fitted up as a chapel, where masses

were said for the sick and dying by the ábbe de Glesnon, the chaplain

of the expedition. The list of the dead was soon to include no less a

person than Admiral de Ternay. He was taken ill of a fever early in

December, and brought on shore to the Hunter house, where he died on

the 15th, being buried with great pomp in Trinity churchyard on the

following day. The coffin was carried through the streets by sailors:

nine priests followed, chanting a requiem for the departed hero. The

tomb placed over the remains by order of Louis XVI. in 1785 having

become injured by the ravages of time, the United States government in

1873, with the co-operation of the marquis de Noailles, then French

minister, had it moved into the vestibule of the church, placing a

granite slab over the tomb. One of Rochambeau's aides ascribes the

admiral's death to chagrin at having let five English ships escape him

in an encounter.

The winter passed slowly. Rochambeau ordered a large hall to be built

as a place of meeting for his officers, but it was not completed until

nearly spring. Meanwhile, the Frenchmen gave occasionally a handsome

ball to the American ladies, such as that of which, in January, the

officers of the regiment De Deux-Ponts were the hosts, and one given by

the handsome Viosmenils on the anniversary of the signing of the treaty

of alliance, February 6, 1781. But the crowning festivity of the French

stay in Newport took place in March, when Washington visited it for the

purpose of witnessing the departure of an expedition comprising part of

the French fleet under Destouches, which was to co-operate with La

Fayette on the Chesapeake. The barge of the French admiral was sent for

the American chief, and he crossed the bay from the Connecticut shore,

landing at Barney's Ferry on the corner of Long Wharf and Washington

street. The sight must have been an imposing one--the beautiful harbor

of Newport full of stately ships of war and gay pleasure-craft, the

French troops drawn up in a close line, three deep, on either side from

the ferry-house up Long Wharf and Washington street to Clarke street,

where it turned at a right angle and continued to Rochambeau's

head-quarters, while the inhabitants, wild with enthusiasm, crowded the

wharves and quays to see the two commanders meet. Both were men of fine

and stately presence: Washington was in the full prime of his imposing

manhood, the very picture of a nation's chief; the French marshal was

covered with brilliant decorations, and stood with doffed hat to

welcome the hero of Valley Forge. In the evening the town was

brilliantly illuminated, and, as at that time many of the people were

very poor, the town council ordered that candles should be distributed

to all who were not well off enough to buy them, so that every house

might have lights in its windows. The procession on this occasion was

led by thirty boys bearing candles fixed on staffs: Washington and De

Rochambeau followed, and behind them came a concourse of citizens. The

night was clear and there was not a breath to fan the torches. The

brilliant cortége marched through the principal streets, and then

returned to the Vernon house, corner of Clarke and Mary streets, where

Washington and Rochambeau were quartered. Washington waited on the

door-step until all the officers and his friends had entered the house,

and then turning to the boys who had acted as torch-bearers thanked

them for their services. It may be believed that these young patriots

felt well repaid. The French officers were much impressed with the

looks and bearing of the American chief. De Fersen, writing to his

father, says: "His fine and majestic countenance, at the same time

honest and sweet, answers perfectly to his moral qualities. He has the

air of a hero. He is very reserved and speaks little, but is polite and

frank. There is an air of sadness about him which is not unbecoming,

but renders him more interesting." A few evenings after the French gave

a grand ball to Washington, which he opened with the beautiful Miss

Champlin, at whose house he had taken tea on that evening. The gallant

Frenchmen seized the instruments from the band and themselves played

the music of the minuet "A Successful Campaign" for a couple

representing so much beauty and valor. The entertainment was given in

Mrs. Cowley's assembly-rooms in Church street, and Desoteux,

aide-de-camp to Baron Viosmenil, had charge of the decorations. An

eye-witness says of the ball: "The room was ornamented in an exceeding

splendid manner, and the judicious arrangement of the various

decorations exhibited a sight beautiful beyond expression, and showed

the great taste and delicacy of M. de Zoteux, one of Viosmenil's aides.

A superb collation was served, and the ceremonies of the evening were

conducted with so much propriety and elegance that they gave the

highest satisfaction."

Perhaps it would be interesting to the participants of the gay Newport

cotillons of to-day to know the names of the dances with which the

company regaled themselves a hundred years ago. They were "The Stony

Point" (so named in honor of General Wayne), "Miss McDonald's Reel," "A

Trip to Carlisle," "Freemason's Jig" and "The Faithful Shepherd." As

Benoni Peckham, the fashionable hair-dresser of the day, advertises in

the Newport _Mercury_ a "large assortment of braids, commodes, cushions

and curls for the occasion," we may guess that the belles of Newport

made elaborate toilettes. One of them, writing to a friend in New York,

speaks of a dress she had worn at some festivity which probably was not

unlike many at Washington's ball. "I had," she says, "a most stiff and

lustrous petticoat of daffodil-colored lutestring, with flowered gown

and sleeves lined with crimson. My cap was of gauze raised high in

front, with doublings of red and bows of the same, and was sent me

direct by the bark Fortune from England." So it seems the Newport

beauties did not disdain the exports of the mother-country they were at

war with. A few nights later the citizens gave a ball in honor of the

two heroes.

The visit of the French to Newport terminated soon after this fête.

Washington and Rochambeau, it is said, planned in the Vernon house an

attack on New York, and in May the vicomte de Rochambeau brought to his

father from France the news of the sailing from Brest, under Admiral de

Grasse, of a large squadron laden with supplies and reinforcements. The

restrictions imposed on him by De Sartines were removed, and the new

ministry sent him full powers to act. He therefore determined upon an

immediate move, for his troops were becoming demoralized through long

inactivity. After a conference with Washington at Weathersfield a

summer campaign was resolved upon, and, returning to Newport,

Rochambeau proceeded to make arrangements for it. The troops began to

move on the 10th of June, almost a year from the date of their arrival.

A farewell dinner was given on the Due de Bourgogne to which about

sixty Newport people were asked. The next day the whole army left camp

and marched to Providence, so ending a sojourn which, although not

productive of positive advantage, will long remain a brilliant page in

the history of Newport.

A few words on the after fate of these gay Frenchmen. The story is not

a bright one. The times that tried men's souls were at hand, and many

of them fell victims. The comte de Rochambeau, made a marshal by Louis

XVI., narrowly escaped death under Robespierre. In 1803 Napoleon gave

him a pension and the grand cross of the Legion of Honor: he died in

1807. Lauzun perished on the scaffold, sentenced by the Tribunal in

January, 1794. The night before his death he was calm, slept and ate

well. When the jailer came for him he was eating his breakfast. He

said, "Citizen, permit me to finish." Then, offering him a glass, he

said, "Take this wine: you need strength for such a trade as you ply."

D'Estaing, on his return from America, was commander at Grenada. He

became a member of the Assembly of Notables, but being suspected by the

Terrorists was guillotined on the 29th of April, 1793. The vicomte de

Rochambeau was killed at the battle of Leipsic; Berthier became

military confidant to Napoleon, was made marshal of France and murdered

at Bamberg; the comte de Viosmenil was made marshal at the Restoration;

his brother the marquis was wounded and died, defending the royal

family; the comte de Darnas, who helped their flight, barely escaped

with his life; Fersen was killed in a riot at Stockholm; the comte

Christian de Deux-Ponts was captured by Nelson while on a

boat-excursion at Porto Cavallo: Nelson generously released him on

learning who he was; Desoteux, the master of ceremonies of the Newport

assembly, became the celebrated Chouan chief in Vendée; Dumas was

president of the Assembly, general of division, fought at Waterloo and

took a high rank in the constitutional monarchy of 1830. With what

interest and sympathy must the Newport belles have watched the career

of their quondam admirers! How must the tragic fate of some of them

have saddened friendly hearts beyond the ocean they had once traversed

as deliverers! The lot of the fair danseuses of the French balls at

Newport was in most cases the ordinary one, and yet the record of their

loves and their graces leaves a gracious fragrance amid their former

haunts in the city by the sea. In the old streets and peeping from the

quaint latticed windows we can with a little imagination see their

graceful figures and fair faces, or find in the Newport drawing-rooms

their pictured likenesses on the wall or in the persons of their

descendants, often no less piquante and attractive than the dames of

1780. Miss Champlin married, and until lately her grandson was living

in the old house, the home of five successive generations; her brother,

Christopher Champlin, married the beautiful Miss Redwood; one of the

Miss Ellerys took for a husband William Channing and became the mother

of a famous son; her granddaughter was the wife of Washington Allston;

the Miss Hunters married abroad--one the comte de Cardignan, the other

Mr. Falconet, a Naples banker.

We pass over the sad fate of Newport for years following the

Revolution--the misery and dilapidation that succeeded its former

prosperity. We turn from the picture which a later French traveller,

Brissot de Warville, draws of its poverty and desolation in 1788 to

look at the renaissance, the rejuvenation that rescued this historic

spot from oblivion. To-day lines of villas and stately mansions have

uplifted themselves on the avenues, and gay crowds throng the streets.

The shadowy forms of a past generation may still haunt the scenes of

their former triumphs, but must rejoice over the life and light that

nineteenth-century revels have dowered them with. The world rolls on,

and brings in its course new actors, new scenes, a new drop-curtain,

but men and women are always men and women. The loves, hopes, fears,

disappointments or triumphs of to-day,--these, if nothing else, link us

to a past generation. The idler on the club piazza, if not a Lauzun or

Fersen, may no doubt arouse himself as nobly in a grand question of

right or wrong (have we not seen it in our own generation?), unsheathe

his sword and become, like Lytton's hero, "now heard of, the first on

the wall:" the pretty belle of the afternoon fête, may she not have the

same heart of steel and a spirit as true as that of some

eighteenth-century ancestress? There is room, then, even in this

historic spot, for the gay modern cortêge, for the life, the light, the

prosperity and pleasure which embalm old memories and keep a centennial

on the shrines where the youth and chivalry of a century ago lived,

loved and have left the subtle odor of past adventure to add a

mysterious but not unlovely fragrance to present experience.--FRANCES

PIERREPONT NORTH.

STUDIES IN THE SLUMS

V.--DIET AND ITS DOINGS.

Later and more scientific investigations have tended to confirm the

truth of the rather broad statement made by Buckle in his _History of

Civilization_, that rice and potatoes have done more to establish

pauperism than any and all causes besides. A food easily procured,

sufficiently palatable to ensure no dissatisfaction, and demanding no

ingenuity of preparation, would seem the ideal diet, the promised rest

for weary housekeepers and anxious political economists; but the latter

class at least have found their work made double and treble by the

results of such diet, while social reformers--above all, the advocates

of total abstinence--are discovering that till varied and savory food

and drink are provided the mass of the people will and must crave the

stimulant given by alcoholic drinks.

National dietaries and their results on character and life, fascinating

as the investigation is, have no place in the present paper, the design

of which is simply to show the existing state of the food-question

among the poor. Of these, poor Irish form far the larger proportion, a

German or French pauper being almost an anomaly. Thrift seems the

birthright of both the French and German peasant, as well as of the

middle class, and their careful habits, joined to the better rate of

wages in America, soon make them prosperous and well-to-do citizens. It

is in the tenement-houses that we must seek for the mass of the poor,

and it is in the tenement-houses that we find the causes which,

combined, are making of the generation now coming up a terror in the

present and a promise of future evil beyond man's power to reckon. They

are a class apart, retaining all the most brutal characteristics of the

Irish peasant at home, but without the redeeming light-heartedness, the

tender impulses and strong affections of that most perplexing people.

Sullen, malicious, conscienceless, with no capacity for enjoyment save

in drink and the lowest forms of debauchery, they are filling our

prisons and reformatories, marching in an ever-increasing army through

the quiet country, and making a reign of terror wherever their

footsteps are heard. With a little added intelligence they become

Socialists, doing their heartiest to ruin the institutions by which

they live. The Socialistic leader knows well with what he deals, and

can sound every chord of jealousy and suspicion and revenge lying open

to his touch. On the rich lies the whole responsibility of want and

disease and crime. Equalize property, and these three dark shadows flee

fast before the sunshine of prosperity. Character, intelligence, common

decencies and common virtues have nothing to do with present

conditions, and the ardent leveller of class-distinctions counts as his

enemy any one who seeks to give the poor a truer knowledge of how far

their earnings may be made to go toward securing better food or less

pestilent homes.

Yet foul air and overcrowding would be less fatal in their results were

food understood. The well-filled stomach gives strange powers of

resistance to the body, and nothing shows this more strongly than the

myriad cases of children and infants who are taken from the

tenement-houses to the sanitariums at Bath or Rockaway. A week or two

of pure air and plenty of milk gives a look almost of health to

children who have been brought there often with glazed eyes and

pinched, ghastly little faces. Air has meant half, but many mothers

have been persuaded to give milk or oatmeal porridge instead of weak

tea and bread poisoned with alum, and have found the child's strength

become a permanent and not temporary fact.

That these children are alive at all, that fatherhood and motherhood

are allowed to be the right of drunkards and criminals of every grade,

is a problem whose present solution passes any human power, but which

all lovers of their kind must sooner or later face. In the mean time

the children are with us, born to inheritances that tax every power

good men and women can bring to bear. Hopeless as the outlook often

seems, salvation for the future of the masses lies in these children.

Not in a teaching which gives them merely the power to grasp at the

mass of sensational reading, which fixes every wretched tendency and

blights every seed of good, but in a practical training which shall

give the boys trades and force their restless hands and mischievous

minds to occupations that may ensure an honest living, while the girls

find work from which, with few fortunate exceptions, they are still

debarred.

The American distaste for domestic service seems to be shared in even

greater degree by the children of foreigners born in this country and

to a certain extent Americanized. The mothers have usually been

servants, and still "go out to days' work," but, no matter how numerous

the family, such life for any daughter is despised and discouraged from

the beginning. Work in a bag-factory or any one of the thousand, but to

the employés profitless, industries of a great city is eagerly sought,

and hardships cheerfully endured which if enforced by a mistress would

lead to a riot. To be a shop-girl seems the highest ambition. To have

dress and hair and expression a frowsy and pitiful copy of the latest

Fifth Avenue ridiculousness, to flirt with shop-boys as feeble-minded

and brainless as themselves, and to marry as quickly as possible, are

the aims of all. Then come more wretched, thriftless, ill-managed

homes, and their natural results in drunken husbands and vicious

children; and so the round goes on, the circle widening year by year

till its circumference touches every class in society, and would make

our great cities almost what sober country-folk believe them--"seas of

iniquity."

Happily, to know an evil is to have taken the first step in its

eradication. The work only recently begun--the past five years having

seen its growth from a very humble and insignificant beginning to its

present promising proportions--holds the solution of at least one

equation of the problem. To have made cooking and industrial training

the fashion is to have cleared away at a leap the thorny underbrush and

tangled growth on that Debatable Ground, the best education for the

poor, and to find one's feet firmly set in a way leading to a Promised

Land to which every believer in the new system is an accredited guide.

That cooking-schools and the knowledge of cheap and savory preparation

of food must soon have their effect on the percentage of drunkards no

one can question; but with them, save indirectly, this present paper

does not deal, its object being rather to show what "daily bread" means

to the lower classes of New York, the same showing applying with almost

equal force to the working poor of any large town throughout the

country. Knowledge of this sort must come from patient waiting and

watching as one can, rather than from any systematized observation. The

poor resent bitterly, and with justice, any apparent interference or

spying, and only as one comes to know them well can anything but the

most outside details of life be obtained. In the matter of food there

is an especial touchiness and testiness, every woman being convinced

that to cook well is the birthright of all women. I have found the same

conviction as solidly implanted in far higher grades of society, and it

may be classed as one of the most firmly-seated of popular delusions

that every woman keeps house as instinctively and surely when her time

comes as a duck takes to water.

Such was the faith of Norah Boylan, tenant of half the third floor in a

tenement-house whose location need not be given a "model

tenement-house," six stories high and swarming from basement to attic,

forty children making it hideous with the screaming and wrangling of

incessant fights, while in and over all rested the penetrating,

sickening "tenement-house smell," not to be drowned by steam of washing

or scent of food. Norah's tongue was ready with the complaint all

tongues made in 1878--hard times; and she faced me now with hands on

her hips and a generally belligerent expression: "An' shure, ma'am, you

know yourself it's only a dollar a day he's been earnin' this many a

day, an' thankful enough to get that, wid Mike overhead wearin' his

tongue out wid askin' for work here an' there an' everywhere. An'

how'll we live on that, an' the rint due reg'lar, an' the agent poppin'

in his ugly face an' off wid the bit o' money, no matter how bare the

dish is? Bad cess to him! but I'd like to have him hungered once an'

know how it feels. If I hadn't the washin' we'd be on the street this

day."

"What do you live on, Norah?"