A VISITOR FOR DORIS
Doris was in the little still-room, as it was called--a large sort of
pantry shelved on one side, and with numerous drawers and a kind of
dresser with glass doors on another. By the window there were a table
and the dainty little still where Miss Recompense made perfumes and
extracts. There were boxes of sweet herbs, useful ones, bottles of
medicinal cordials and salves. Miss Recompense was a "master hand" at
such things, and the neighbors around thought her as good as a doctor.
It was so fragrant in this little room that Doris always had a vague
impression of a beautiful country. She had a kind of poetical
temperament, and she hoped some day to be able to write verses. Helen
Chapman had written a pretty song for a friend's birthday and had it set
to music. The quartette sang it so well that the leading paper had
praised it. There was no one she could confess her secret ambition to,
but if she ever _did_ achieve anything she would confide in Uncle
Winthrop. So she sat here with all manner of vague, delightful ideas
floating through her brain, steeped with the fragrance of balms and
odors.
"Please, 'm," and Dinah stood in the door in all the glory of her gay
afternoon turban, which seemed to make her face more black and
shining--"Please, 'm, dere's a young sojer man jus' come. He got a
bundle an' he say he got strict d'rections to gib it to missy. An'
here's de ticket."
"Oh, for me!" Doris took it eagerly and read aloud, "Lieutenant E. D.
Hawthorne." "Oh, Miss Recompense, it's from Cary, I know," and for a
moment she looked undecided.
Miss Recompense had on her morning gown, rather faded, though she had
changed it for dinner. Her sleeves were pushed above the elbow, her
hands were a little stained, and just now she could not leave her
concoction without great injury to it, though it was evidently improper
for a child like Doris, or indeed a young lady, to see a strange
gentleman alone. And Mr. Adams was out.
Doris cut the Gordian knot by flashing through the kitchen and entering
the lower end of the hall. The young man stood viewing "The Destruction
of the Spanish Armada." But he turned at the sort of bird-like flutter
and glanced at the vision that all his life long he thought the
prettiest sight he had ever beheld.
She had on a simple white frock, though it was one of her best, with a
narrow embroidered ruffle around the bottom that Madam Royall had given
her. When it was a little crumpled she put it on for afternoon wear. The
neck was cut a small square with a bit of edging around it, gathered
with a pink ribbon tied in a bow in front. She still wore her hair in
ringlets; it did not seem to grow very fast, but she had been promoted
to a pompadour, the front hair being brushed up over a cushion. That
left innumerable short ends to curl in tiny tendrils about her forehead.
Oddly enough, too, she had on a pink apron Betty had made out of the
best breadth of a pink India lawn frock she had worn out. It had pretty
pockets with a bow of the same.
"Miss Doris Adams," exclaimed the young lieutenant. "I should have known
you in a minute, although you are----" He paused and flushed, for Cary
had said, "She isn't exactly handsome, but very sweet-looking with
pretty, eager eyes and fair hair." He checked himself suddenly,
understanding the impropriety of paying her the compliment on the end of
his tongue, but he thought her an enchanting picture. "You are larger
than I supposed. Adams always said 'My little cousin.'"
"I was little when I first came. And I have grown ever so much this
summer--since Cary went away. Oh, have you seen him? How is he? Where is
he?"
Doris had a soft and curiously musical voice, the sound that lingered
with a sort of cadence. Her eyes shone in eager expectation, her curved
red lips were dewy sweet.
"He is well. He has sailed on the _United States_ as midshipman. I saw
him at Annapolis--indeed, we came quite near being on the same vessel.
He is a fine young fellow, but he doesn't look a day over eighteen. And
there _is_ a family resemblance," but he thought Doris would make a much
handsomer young woman than Cary would a young man. "And I have a small
packet for you that I was to deliver to no one else."
He held it out to her with a smile. It was sealed, and was also secured
with a bit of cord, which, of course, should have been a thread of silk,
but we saved our refinements of chivalry for other purposes.
"He is going to make a fine, earnest, patriotic sailor. You will never
hear anything about him that you need be ashamed of. He told me his
father wasn't quite reconciled to the step, but after this splendid
victory in Boston harbor--to strain a little point," laughingly, "the
town may well be proud of the courageous navy. And I hope you will hear
good news of him. One thing you may be sure of--he will never show the
white feather."
Oh, how her eyes glistened! There were tears in them as well.
"He described the house to me, and the town. I have never been in Boston
before, and have come from Washington on important business. I return
this evening. I don't know when I shall see him again, and letters to
vessels are so uncertain. That seems the hardest part of it all. But he
may happen in this very port before a great while. One never knows.
Believe that I am very glad to have the opportunity of coming myself,
and if in the future I should run across him on the high seas or the
shore even,"--smiling again,--"I shall feel better acquainted and more
than ever interested in him. There is one great favor I should like to
ask--could you show me the study? Adams talked so much about that and
his father."
"It is here." Doris made a pretty gesture with her hand, and he walked
to the door, glancing around. There was the high backed chair by the
table with its covering of Cordovan leather, and he could imagine the
father sitting there.
"One would want a year to journey around these four walls," he said with
a soft sigh. "A library like this is an uncommon sight. And you study
here? Adams said you had been such a comfort and pleasure to his father.
Oh, what a magnificent cat!"
"Kitty is mine," said Doris. She crossed over to the window, and Solomon
rose to his fullest extent, gave a comfortable stretch, and rubbed the
cheek of his young mistress, then arched his back, studied the visitor
out of sleepy green eyes and began to turn around him three times in cat
fashion.
They both laughed at that. Did Doris know what a pretty picture she made
of herself in her girlish grace?
"Thank you. What a splendid old hall! I should like to spend a day
looking round. But I had only the briefest while, and I was afraid I
should not get here. So I must be satisfied with my glimpse. I shall
hope that fate will send me this way again when I have more leisure. May
I pay a visit here?"
"Oh, yes," returned Doris impulsively. "And I can never tell you how
glad I am for this," touching the little packet caressingly to her
cheek. "There isn't any word with enough thanks and gratitude in it."
"I am glad to have earned your gratitude. And now I must say farewell,
for I know you are impatient to read your letter."
He stepped out on the porch and bowed with a kind of courtly grace.
Doris realized then that he was a very handsome young man.
"Miss Doris,"--he paused halfway down the steps,--"I wonder if I might
be so bold as to ask for yonder rose--the last on its parent stem?"
Thomas Moore had not yet immortalized "The Last Rose of Summer" and
given it such pathetic possibilities.
"Oh, yes," she said. "That is a late-blooming rose--indeed, it blooms
twice in the season." Only this morning she had gathered a bowl of rose
leaves for Miss Recompense, and this one had opened since. She broke
the stem and handed it to him. "It is a very little gift for all you
have brought me," she added in a soft, heart-felt tone.
"Thank you. I shall cherish it sacredly."
Miss Recompense had hurried and donned a gingham gown and a fresh cap.
She had come just in time to see the gift, and the manner in which the
young man received it alarmed her. And when he had walked down to the
street he turned and bowed and made a farewell gesture with his hand.
Doris had nothing to cut the cord around the packet, so she bit it with
her pretty teeth and tore off the wrapper, coming up the steps. Then
raising her eyes she sprang forward.
"Oh, dear Miss Recompense, letters, see! A letter from Cary all to
myself, and one for Uncle Win! I'll just put that on his table to be a
joyful surprise. And may I come and read mine to you? He was in such a
hurry, though really I did not ask him to stay. Was that impolite?"
"No--under the circumstances." She cleared her throat a little, but the
lecture on propriety would not materialize.
"'Dear little Doris.' Think of that--wouldn't Cary be surprised to see
how much I have grown! May I sit here?"
Miss Recompense was about to decant some of her preparations. Doris took
the high stool and read eagerly, though now and then a little break came
in her voice. The journey to Annapolis with half a dozen college chums
bent on the same errand, the being mustered into the country's service
and assigned to positions, meeting famous people and hearing some
thrilling news, and at last the order for sailing, were vivid as a
picture. She was to let Madam Royall and the household read all this,
and he sent respectful regard to them all, and real love to all the
Leveretts. There had been moments when he was wild to see them again,
but after all he was prouder than ever to be of service to his country,
who needed her bravest sons as much now as in her seven years' struggle.
There was a loose page beginning "For your eyes alone, Doris," and she
laid it by, for she felt even now that she wanted to cry over her brave
cousin. Then he spoke of Lieutenant Hawthorne, who had been instrumental
in getting him his appointment, and who had undertaken to see that this
would reach her safely. And so many farewells, as if he could hardly say
the very last one.
Miss Recompense wiped her eyes and stepped about softly, as if her whole
body was pervaded with a new tenderness. She made little comments to
restore the equilibrium, so that neither would give way to undue
emotion.
"Miss Recompense, do you think I might run up to Aunt Elizabeth's with
my letter? They will all want to hear."
"Why--I see no objections, child. And then if you wanted to go to Madam
Royall's--but I think they will keep you to tea at Sudbury Street. Let
Betty or Warren walk home with you. Take off your apron."
Doris read half a dozen lines of her own personal letter and laid it in
the bottom of her workbox, that had come from India, and had a subtle
fragrance. She did not want to cry in real earnest, as she felt she
should, with all these references to Uncle Win. She tied on her hat and
said "Good-afternoon," and really did run part of the way.
They were just overflowing with joy to hear, only Betty said, "What a
shame Cary had to go before the glorious news of the _Constitution_!
There was a chance of two days after he had written his letter, so he
might have heard." Postage was high at that time and mails uncertain, so
letters and important matters were often trusted to private hands. Then
Lieutenant Hawthorne had not gone to Boston as soon as he expected.
Betty had some news too. Mr. and Mrs. King were going to Washington,
perhaps for the greater part of the winter.
As they walked home Betty rehearsed her perplexities to Doris. It was
odd how many matters were confided to this girl of thirteen, but she
seemed so wise and sensible and sympathetic.
"If it wasn't quite such hard times, and if Warren could marry and bring
Mercy home! She's an excellent housekeeper, just the wife for a
struggling young man, mother admits. But whether _she_ would like it,
and whether Aunt Priscilla would feel comfortable, are the great
questions. She's been so good to Warren. Mary badgered him dreadfully
about her part. If Mary was a little more like Electa!"
Warren had been keeping company with Mercy Gilman for the last year. She
was a bright, cheerful, industrious girl, well brought up, and the
engagement was acceptable to both families. Young people paid more
deference to their elders then. Warren felt that he could not go away
from home, and surely there was room enough if they could all agree.
"It's odd how many splendid things come to Electa, though it may be
because she is always willing to take advantage of them. They have
rented their house in New York and are to take some rooms in Washington.
Bessy and Leverett are to be put in school, and she takes the two little
ones. Their meals are to be sent in from a cook shop. Of course she
can't be very gay, being in mourning. Everybody says Mrs. Madison is so
charming."
"Oh, I wish you could go," sighed Doris.
"And Mary is always wondering why I do not come and stay with her, and
sew and help along. Oh, Doris, what if I should be the old maid aunt and
go visiting round! For there hasn't a soul asked me to keep company
yet," and Betty laughed. But she was not very anxious on the subject.
They reached the corner and kissed each other good-night. Miss
Recompense sat on the stoop with a little shawl about her shoulders. She
drew Doris down beside her and inquired about her visit.
While there was much that was stern and hard and reticent in the Puritan
character, there was also an innate delicacy concerning the inward life.
They made few appeals to each other's sympathies. Perhaps this very
reserve gave them strength to endure trials heroically and not burden
others.
Miss Recompense had judged wisely that Mr. Adams would prefer to receive
his missive alone. His first remark had been the usual question:
"Where is Doris?"
"Oh, we have had quite an adventure--a call from a young naval officer.
Here is his card. He brought letters to you and Doris, and she was eager
to take hers over to Betty. She will stay to supper."
He scrutinized the card while his breath came in strangling gasps, but
he preserved his composure outwardly.
"Did you--did he----" pausing confusedly.
"I did not see him," returned Miss Recompense quietly. "I was not in
company trim, and he asked for Doris. I dare say he thought her a young
lady."
"Is he staying in Boston?" fingering the card irresolutely.
"He was to return to Washington at once. He had come on some urgent
business."
Mr. Adams went through to his study. He looked at the address some
moments before he broke the seal, but he found the first lines
reassuring.
"Will you have supper now?" asked Miss Recompense from the doorway.
"If convenient, yes." He laid down his letter and came out in the hall.
"Doris told you all her news, I suppose?"
"She read me her letter. Cary seems to be in good spirits and position.
He spoke very highly of Lieutenant Hawthorne."
"The accounts seem very satisfactory."
Then they went out to the quiet supper. A meal was not the same without
Doris.
All the evening he had remained in his room, reading his son's letter
more than once and lapsing into deep thought over it. He heard the
greetings now, and came out, inquiring after the folks in Sudbury
Street, sitting down on the step and listening with evident pleasure to
Doris' eager chat. It was bedtime when they dispersed.
"Uncle Win," Doris said the next morning, "there is a page in my letter
I would like you to read. And do you think I might go home with Eudora
and take dinner at Madam Royall's? Cary sent them some messages."
"Yes, child," he made answer.
They were indeed very glad, but like Betty they could not help wishing
he had been on the famous _Constitution_. Alice was particularly
interested, and said she should watch the career of the _United States_.
After that the ice seemed broken and no one hesitated to mention Cary.
But Mr. Winthrop said to Doris:
"My dear child, will you give me this leaf of your letter. I know Cary
did not mean it for my eyes, but it is very precious to me. Doris, how
comes it that you find the way to everybody's heart?"
"And you will forgive him, Uncle Win? He was so brave----" Her voice
trembled.
"I have forgiven him, Doris. If I should never see him again,--you are
young and most likely will,--assure him there never was a moment that I
ceased to love him. Perhaps I have not taken as much pains to understand
him as I might have. I suppose different influences act upon the new
generation. If we should both live to welcome him back----"
"Oh, we must, Uncle Win."
"If he has you----" Oh, what was he saying?
"You will both have me. I shall stay here always."
He stooped and kissed her.
The other alternative, that Cary might not return, they banished
resolutely. But it drew them nearer together in unspoken sympathy.
Everybody noted how thin and frail-looking Mr. Adams had grown. Doris
became his constant companion. She had a well-trained horse now, and
they rode a good deal. Or they walked down Washington street, where
there were some pretty shops, and met promenaders. They sauntered about
Cornhill, where Uncle Win picked up now and then an odd book, and they
discovered strange things that had belonged to the Old Boston of a
hundred years agone. There was quite an art gallery in Cornhill kept by
Dogget & Williams--the nucleus of great things to come. It was quite the
fashion for young ladies to drop in and exercise their powers of budding
criticism or love of art. Now and then someone lent a portrait of
Smibert's or Copley's, or you found some fine German or English
engravings. An elder person generally accompanied the younger people.
The law students, released from their labors, or the young society men,
would walk home beside the chaperone, but talk to the maidens.
Then Uncle Winthrop committed a piece of great extravagance, everybody
said--especially in such times as these, when the British might take and
destroy Boston. This was buying a pianoforte. Madam Royall approved, for
Doris was learning to play very nicely. An old German musician, Gottlieb
Graupner, who was quite a visitor at the Royall house, had imported it
for a friend who had been nearly ruined by war troubles and was
compelled to part with it. Mr. Graupner and a knot of musical friends
used to meet Saturday evenings in old Pond Street, and with a few
instruments made a sort of orchestra. As a very great favor, friends
were occasionally invited in.
There was a new organist at Trinity Church, a Mr. Jackson, who was
trying to bring in the higher class cathedral music. The choir of Park
Street Church, some fifty in number, was considered one of the great
successes of the day, and people flocked to hear it. Puritan music had
been rather doleful and depressing.
There was quite a discussion as to where the piano should stand. They
had very little call to use the parlor in winter. Uncle Winthrop's
friends generally visited him in the study. The spacious hall was the
ordinary living-room, and Doris begged that it might be kept here--for
the winter, at least.
Oh, what a cheerful sound the music made in the old house! Uncle Win
would bring out a book of poems, often Milton's "L'Allegro" and half
read, half listen, to the entrancing combination. Dinah declared "It
was like de w'ice ob de Angel Gabriel hisself." Miss Recompense enjoyed
the grand old hymns that brought back her childhood.
Solomon at first made a vigorous protest. He seemed jealous of the
pretty fingers gliding over the keys, and would spring up to cover them
or rest on her arms. But when he found he was banished to the kitchen
every evening, he began to consider and presently gave in. He would sit
beside Uncle Win in dignified protest, looking very "dour," as a
Scotchman would say.
And then the country was electrified with the news of another great
victory. Off the Canary Islands, Captain Decatur, with the frigate
_United States_, met the _Macedonian_, one of the finest of the British
fleet. The fight had been at close quarters with terrific broadsides.
After an hour and a half, with her fighting force disabled, the
_Macedonian_ struck her colors. Her loss in men killed and wounded was
over one hundred, and the _United States_ lost five killed and seven
wounded.
The American vessel brought her prize and prisoners into port amid
general acclaim. The _Macedonian_ was repaired and added to the
fast-increasing navy, that was rapidly winning a world-wide reputation.
And when she came up to New York early in January with "The compliments
of the season," there was great rejoicing. Samuel Woodworth, printer and
poet, wrote the song of the occasion, and Calvert, another poet,
celebrated the event in an ode.
Captain Carden was severely censured by his own government, as Captain
Dacres had been, for not going down with flying colors instead of
allowing his flag to be captured and his ship turned to the enemy's
advantage. Instead of jeering at the navy of "pine boards and striped
bunting," it was claimed the American vessels were of superior size and
armament and met the British at unfair advantage, and that they were
largely manned by English sailors.
There was an enthusiastic note from Cary. He was well, and it had been a
glorious action. Captain Carden had been a brave gentleman, and he said
regretfully, "Oh, why do we have to fight these heroic men!"
But Betty had the letter of triumph this time. Mrs. King was a
delightful correspondent, though she was always imploring Betty to join
her.
There had been a ball and reception given to several naval officers who
were soon to go away. The President, engaged with some weighty affairs,
had not come in yet, but the Secretary of the Navy, Mr. Hamilton, and no
end of military and naval men, in gold lace and epaulettes and gleaming
swords, were present, and beautiful, enthusiastic women in shimmering
silks and laces. One did not have to get a new gown for every occasion
in those days.
There was a little lull in the dancing. Mrs. Madison, who was charmingly
affable, was seated with a group of men about her, when there was a stir
in the hall, and a sudden thrill of expectancy quivered through the
apartment. Ensign Hamilton, son of the Secretary, and several midshipmen
entered, and the young man went straight to his father with the captured
flag of the _Macedonian_. Such a cheer as rent the air! Ladies wiped
their eyes and then waved their handkerchiefs in the wild burst of joy.
They held the flag over the heads of the chief officer while the band
played "Hail, Columbia!" Then it was laid at the feet of Mrs. Madison,
who accepted it in the name of the country with a charming and graceful
speech. Afterward it was festooned on the wall with the flag of the
_Guerriere_.
"So, you see, Cary has been the hero of a great victory," said Betty
enthusiastically; "but we all wish it had been 'off Boston Light'
instead of on the distant ocean. And it is a shame not to be in
Washington. Electa seems to be going everywhere and seeing everything,
'in spite of her being the mother of four children,' as Aunt Priscilla
says. And the ladies dress so beautifully. We shall come to be known as
'plain Boston' presently."
There was no Worth or Pingat to charge enormous prices. Patterns were
passed around. Ladies went visiting and took their sleeves along to
make, or their ruffles to plait, and altered over their brocades and
paduasoys and crapes, and some darned Brussels "footing" until it was
transformed into really handsome lace. They could clean their feathers
and ribbons, and one wonders how they found time for so many things.
They were very good letter writers too. Dolly Madison and Mrs. Adams are
fresh and interesting to-day.
But Boston could rejoice, nevertheless. To the little girl Cary was
invested with the attributes of a hero. He even looked different to her
enchanted eyes.
Uncle Win used to smile with grave softness when she chattered about
him. At first it had given him a heartache to hear Cary's name
mentioned, but now it was like a strain of comforting music. Only he
wondered how he ever would have lived without the little girl from Old
Boston.
She used to play and sing "Hail, Columbia!"--for people were patriotic
then. But the sweetest of all were the old-fashioned ones that his wife
had sung as a young girl, daintily tender love songs. Sometimes he tried
them with her, but his voice sounded to himself like a pale ghost out of
the past, yet it still had a mournful sweetness.
But with the rejoicing we had many sorrows. Our northern frontier
warfare had been full of defeats; 1813 opened with various misfortunes.
Ports were blockaded, business dropped lower and lower. Still social
life went on, and in a tentative way intellectual life was making some
progress.
The drama was not neglected either. The old Boston Theater gave several
stirring representations that to-day would be called quite realistic.
One was the capture of the _Guerriere_ with officers, sailors and
marines, and songs that aroused drooping patriotism. Perhaps the young
people of that time enjoyed it as much as their grandchildren did "H. M.
S. Pinafore."
Doris liked the rare musical entertainments. People grew quite used to
seeing Mr. Winthrop Adams with the pretty, bright, growing girl, who
might have been his daughter. It was a delight to her when anyone made
the mistake. Occasionally an old gentleman remembered her grandfather,
and the little boy Charles who went to England.
Then in the early summer Mrs. King came on for a visit, and brought her
eldest child Bessy, a bright, well-trained little girl.
There had been a good deal of trouble at the Mannings', and grandmother
had gone back and forth, making it very confining for Betty. Crops had
proved poor in the autumn; the children had the measles and Mrs. Manning
a run of fever. Elizabeth had taken a cold in the early fall and had a
troublesome cough all winter. Mrs. Leverett wanted to bring her home for
a rest, but Mrs. Manning could not spare her, with all the summer work,
and the warm weather would set her up, she was quite sure.
The country was drawing a brief breath of relief. There had been the
magnificent victories on the Lakes and some on the land, and now and
then came cheering news of naval successes. Everybody was in better
spirits. Mrs. King seemed to bring a waft of hope from the Capital
itself, and the Leverett house was quite enlivened with callers.
Invitations came in for dinners and suppers and evening parties. Madam
Royall quite claimed her on the strength of the Adams relation, and also
Doris, who was such a favorite. Doris and little Bessy fraternized at
once, and practiced a duet for the entertainment of Uncle Winthrop, who
praised them warmly.
She planned to take Betty back to New York with her.
"But I can't go," declared Betty. "Warren must not be taxed any more
heavily, so there would be no hope of having help, and mother cannot be
left alone."
"Is there any objection to Mercy coming? Why doesn't Warren marry? That
would relieve you all. I suppose it _is_ best for young people to have a
home by themselves, but if it isn't possible--and I'd like to know how
we are going to get along in heaven if we can't agree with each other
here on earth!" Mrs. King inquired.
"That sounds like father," said Betty laughingly, yet the tears came to
her eyes. "Poor father! He did not suppose we would have such hard
times. If the war would only end. You see,"--after a pause,--"we are not
quite sure of Aunt Priscilla. She's changed and softened wonderfully,
and she and mother get along so well. She insisted upon paying a
generous board, and she was good to Warren."
"I must talk it over with mother. There is no need of having your life
spoiled, Betty."
For Betty was a very well-looking girl, arch and vivacious, and her
harvest time of youth must not be wasted. Mrs. King was really glad she
had no entanglement.
Mrs. Leverett had no objections to a speedy marriage If Mercy could be
content. Warren had thought if he could be prosperous he would like to
buy out Betty's share if she married. "And my share will be mine as
long as I live," added the mother. "But Warren is fond of the old house,
and Hollis has a home of his own. You girls will never want it."
Warren was delighted with what he called "Lecty's spunk." For Aunt
Priscilla agreed quite readily. It was dull for Betty with two old
people. Mercy would have her husband.
So the wedding day was appointed. Mercy had been a year getting ready.
Girls began soon after they were engaged. Mrs. Gilman was rather afraid
the thing wouldn't work, but she was sure Mercy was good tempered, and
she had been a good daughter.
They made quite a "turning round." Mrs. Leverett went upstairs to
Betty's room, which adjoined Aunt Priscilla's, and she gave some of her
furniture for the adornment of the bridal chamber.
It was a very quiet wedding with a few friends and a supper. At nine
o'clock the new wife went to Sudbury Street. Mrs. Gilman had some rather
strict ideas, and declared it was no time for frolicking when war was at
our very door, and no one knew what might happen, and hundreds of
families were in pinching want.
Mercy was up the next morning betimes and assisted her new mother with
the breakfast. Warren went down to his shop. But they had quite an
elaborate tea drinking at the Leveretts', and some songs and games in
the evening. Mercy _did_ enjoy the wider life.
Mrs. Manning had come in for the wedding and a few days' stay, though
she didn't see how she could be spared just now, and things would get
dreadfully behindhand. Mrs. King was to go home with her and make a
little visit. Bessy thought she would rather stay with Doris, and she
was captivated with the Royall House and Eudora. The children never
seemed in the way of the grown people there, and if elderly men talked
politics and city improvements,--quite visionary, some thought
them,--the young people with Alice and Helen had the garden walks and
the wide porch, and discussed the enjoyments of the time with the zest
of enthusiastic inexperience but keen delight.