This programme is carried out. After supper the young creole goes to the piano, shrugs his shoulders in expressive disgust over its untuned condition, and makes Sylvia

AT THE PIANO.

understand that it is only because she desires it that he condescends to touch so poor an instrument. But when he begins to play, he draws forth, even from it, such melody that the chattering groups which fill the room are bushed into silence. His sister is right-he is an admirable musician, an amateur evidently, but cultivated in taste and technique as few amateurs are. His music is in the | lullaby key which Sylvia suggested the "Cradle Song" for which she asked, and those exquisite, dreamy nocturnes in which German composers excel-until at last he turns and asks with a smile if she is asleep.

"Not yet," she answers, "but, if this goes on, I soon shall be. It is like mesmerism."

"Before you go," he says, "listen to what I thought of when we came down that hillside this evening with the moonlight and delicate shadows all about us."

His lissome fingers sweep the keys, and the next instant we hear the fairies lightly tripping over the greensward in the wonderful scherzo of Berlioz's "Queen Mab." The fairy-like measure seems to us-who have so lately looked on the scene which suggested it to the musician's recollection-filled with a double grace and sentiment. Queen Mab's court, if we had surprised them at their revels, could scarcely have charmed us more.

When the strain ceases, Sylvia looks at the musician with her eyes shining.

"Whenever I think of this evening," she says, "I shall always think of that."

"And whenever I hear or play it, I shall think of you," says the young man.

"I am afraid this is going to be a very serious flirtation," I say to myself, as I walk across the room to where Aunt Markham is sitting, trying to look interested in a conversation on mineralogy, which Eric is holding with a gentleman well known for his devotion to that science. I am rather inclined to like mineralogy-at least to the extent of taking an interest in probable diamonds and emeralds-so, I join the group, and receive a great deal of information on the mineral wealth of Western North Carolina, which unhappily forsakes me as soon as it is acquired.

ment.

Adèle Dupont is, meanwhile, the centre of a group at the other end of the apartShe is charmingly dressed, and her gay, vivacious manners have a fascination which the men surrounding her plainly feel. Charley is not among them. Music may have charms to soothe the savage, but not the jealous, breast. Some time since he muttered something about smoking, and took his departure. In a lull of the conversation around me, I hear Adèle's light tones addressing her court.

"What birds of passage you all seem to be! No two of you come from the same point, no two of you are going to the same point. It reminds me of the old nursery game- One flew east, and one flew west, and one flew over the eagle's nest." "

"I wish you would fly with us to-morrow," says one of the gentlemen, gallantly.

"But with the best disposition in the world to be obliging, I could not fly with all of you," she answers, laughing.

When I retire presently and fall asleep, my dreams are a strange mélange of blue mountains and tripping fairies, of Aladdin's garden-the mineralogy is accountable for this-and men in strange guise flying east and west and north and south over endless peaks. Notwithstanding these freaks of fancy, my slumbers are sound and sweet, for Buncombe nights are delicious in their coolness-nights of which to dream in the heatparched, musquito-haunted low country.

I sleep late the next morning, and, when I wake, Sylvia is gone. I rub my eyes and look again. There is no doubt of the facther bed is empty, her boots have vanished. She is certainly gone. I gaze around in mute amazement. In all the twenty years that I have had the pleasure of her acquaintance, such a thing has never happened before as that, of her own accord-without the most stringent outside pressure-Sylvia should rise with the lark.

While I make my toilet I wonder what this strange caprice can possibly mean, and it is not until I am nearly dressed that the mystery is solved. Then the door opens, and the pleasant, dusky face of our chambermaid appears. She has come to tell me that "the gentleman" wants to know if I am ready for breakfast.

The gentleman in question is Eric, so I reply that I shall be ready presently. "You can hand me a necktie," I add; "and pray, Malvina, do you know what has become of my sister?"

Malvina is evidently surprised. She pauses on her way to the trunk, and stares at me.

"I thought you would have heard the young lady, ma'am," she replies, "though it's true she was very keerful not to make a noise to disturb you. I waked her at five o'clock, and she went to ride."

"To ride!" I ejaculate. "With whom?" "I think she called the gentleman Mr.Mr. Dewpan," answers Malvina.

Then I remember that there were signs of a secret understanding between Sylvia and Victor Dupont the night before, and, when they parted, I caught the words "sunrise" and "Beaucatcher "--but I was too sleepy to give them due weight, or to be equal to that

mathematical calculation known as putting two and two together. Now, every thing is plain. "Sunrise-ah!" I say to myself. "Not difficult to understand what that means!"

Leaving my room, I meet Aunt Markham issuing from hers, and as we go down-stairs together I tell her of Sylvia's escapade. She is surprised and concerned.

"To mount a strange horse-how rash! She may be thrown-there may be a terrible accident-who knows whether Mr. Dupont understands horses?"

"He is old enough to understand them," I say and just then a cheery voice speaks above us:

"Good-morning, madame!-good-morning, mademoiselle. Ah, what a charming day!-is it not?-how cool, how fresh, how delicious!"

We glance up. Descending the stairs is Madame Latour-Adèle Dupont's aunt-a vivacious lady, with dark eyes, a sallow complexion, and a foot like a fairy.

"It is pleasant to think that, while we have been sleeping, those dear young people have been enjoying the first freshness of this delightful morning!" she goes on, after we have returned her greeting. "Chère petite Adèle was so eager about her ride that she must have waked at five o'clock. I saw them off from my window. Ab, it was heavenly, the air sweet, the birds singing!-and then I returned to bed like a sluggard."

"So Miss Dupont went to ride, also," says Aunt Markham. "I wonder if there is no danger about the horses? Do you think Mr. Dupont was quite sure that they were safe? When one gentleman has charge of two ladies-"

"Pardon!" says Madame Latour, looking a little surprised, "but Mr. Kenyon went also. He accompanied Adèle. Victor escorted your charming niece. Be sure she is quite safe under his protection. He is a dauntless rider," etc., etc.

I do not hear the end of the panegyric on Mr. Dupont, because I am so much surprised by this news of Charley. If it is strange that Sylvia should have been smitten with a mania for the beauties of Nature, sufficient to rouse her from her slumbers at daylight, what can be thought of an indolent gentleman, who has consistently and persistently declined to appreciate those beauties, when he also leaves his pillow for the saddie at five o'clock in the morning?

We go to breakfast, and are devoting ourselves to beefsteak, hot cakes, and coffee, when the matutinal equestrians make their appearance. They come in directly from horseback the girls still in their habits, loose locks of hair floating, fresh color mantling, youth and good spirits in looks, manner, and bearing. They cause quite a sensation in the large dining-room as they make their way to our table. Sylvia sits down and heaves a deep sigh-a common mode with her of expressing inexpressible feelings.

"Oh, it was heavenly!" she says.

"I am hungry as a wolf," remarks Charley. "What will I have?" (to the waiter :) Any thing and every thing! When a man has been riding on an empty stomach for

"Mrs. Markham," cries Adèle, eagerly, "it was lovely beyond every thing you can imagine!-Victor, tell them all about it! I am famished."

"I wonder if she thinks Victor is not famished, too?" says Eric, under his mustache.

However that may be, Victor obeys. Like most Frenchmen and people of French blood, he describes dramatically - his dark eyes quicken, he uses many gestures.

"When we rode out of Asheville," he says, "it was very early-some time before sunrise-and the mist, like a white curtain, wrapped every thing. We knew that this would add greatly to the effect if we could reach the top of the hill on which we were yesterday evening, in time to see the sun rise, so we rode at a brisk pace and soon

THE MORNING RIDE.

found ourselves there mademoiselle and myself in advance of Adèle and Mr. Kenyon."

My horse was slow," says Adèle, " and I grew tired of urging him on-I knew we should reach there soon enough."

"We rode up to the fortification," continues Mr. Dupont. "The east was all aglow with radiance-the most beautiful colors momentarily changing on the sky-and the reflection fell over and gilded the great sea of vapor at our feet, which the wind was gently agitating into billows."

"The resemblance to the sea was perfect," says Sylvia, eagerly. "You cannot imagine any thing more delusive! The waves caught the light on their crests, just as ocean-waves do. All below us-all over Asheville and the distant mountains-there was nothing to be seen but this boundless, rippling expanse, aglow with tints so roseate and so radiant that we could only stand and gaze in breathless wonder. The effect lasted I cannot tell how long, but for some time."

"At least half an hour," says Mr. Dupont. "Then the sun rose over the hills behind us, and his rays fell horizontally over the shifting sea of vapor. For a minute it was like a vasty deep of molten gold heaving and tossing at our feet. Then it began to dissolve, and peaks tinged with the same

islands."

"Pisgah first!" says Sylvia. "You should have seen how superbly the great crest came up out of the mist which still clung around the lower heights. Then gradually the other mountain-tops appeared, and we saw islands and continents, diversified by seas and lakes -all bathed in the most delicious colors!"

"I'll tell you what it was like," says Charley, speaking for the first time. "It was as if the world was being newly created, and we saw the water divided from the land."

"And every thing was so fresh!" cries Sylvia. "The earth seemed, as Charley says, new made. I don't think I have ever known an hour of purer delight than that which we spent on Beaucatcher-odious name!"

"Mount Sylvia," says Victor Dupont, with a smile.

"Well, Mount Sylvia, then. Even after our sea was dried up, the mist of early morning still wrapped in soft haze the far heavenly heights of the glorious prospect. Asheville remained submerged to the last, but, when finally we saw its green hills and scattered houses emerge, we turned our horses' heads, and, piloted by Charley, descended BeauMount Sylvia at the back. The road led us down, through a shaded gorge of the hills, to the valley of the Swannanoa. Oh, if I could-if I only could tell you of all the beautiful things we saw! We rave over evening scenes-over the long shadows and westering light-yet how pathetic it is compared with the joyousness of early morning! The effects of light and shade are somewhat similar, but the spirit is so different. If you could have seen the rocks this morning blushing in the sun, the mosses and lichens, gemmed with due and hung with fairy-like cobwebs, the ineffable freshness of the whole landscape-as if Nature had washed her face and then the river, when we reached it

ah!" "Total bankruptcy in the matter of adjectives!" says Eric, aside. "I have been anticipating it for some time. What a fortunate thing that Miss Dupont's appetite is so excellent, else she would probably take up the strain and chant for us the beauties of the Swannanoa!"

After breakfast I chance to be coming down-stairs just as Charley is standing alone in the hall, lighting a cigar. I take advantage of the opportunity to walk up to him, to button-hole him, and conduct him into a private corner. Here I look straight into his eyes.

"Charley," I say, "what is the meaning of your conduct this morning? What unhallowed influence is at work with you? Such a thing has never been known before that you -you should rise at daylight for the pleasure of riding several miles with a young lady! Tell me, honestly and seriously, are you flirting, or are you falling in love, with this girl?"

"Women's heads always run on flirting and falling in love," replies Charley, with an air of carelessness. "Suppose I return your question and ask you whether Sylvia is flirting or falling in love with Monsieur le Musicien?"

you imagine that she is doing either? Can she not be civil and agreeable to the young man without incurring such suspicions?

"And can I not be civil and agreeable to Miss Dupont without incurring ditto?"

"Of course, if you choose to take that tone about it, there is nothing to be said," I remark, with dignity, "but, if you think I do not understand the matter, you are vastly mistaken!"

"I don't know that there is any thing to understand," says Charley, coolly, "except that Sylvia is amusing herself with Mr. Dupont, and I am allowing Miss Dupont to amuse herself with me. Voilà tout!"

"I hope you are not both playing with fire," I say, vexedly.

"If we are, we shall probably be scorched," returns Monsieur Imperturbable, walking away.

THE LITTLE JOANNA.*

A NOVEL.

BY KAMBA THORPE.

CHAPTER XV.

POMPS AND VANITIES.

Nor long did Joanna stand thus in rapt contemplation of her finery, her head drooped on one side, her finger on her chin, before Miss Basil appeared in the doorway.

She held in her hands the blue ribbon, from which she was still endeavoring to smooth out the creases, preparatory to the delivery of a wise speech in which she meant to reason with Joanna; but having caught sight, first of the display on the bed, and next of the great, green box with Lebrun's name in staring capitals, she stopped, dumb at the first word.

What new revelation of Joanna's incomHad she prehensible character was this? not the promise that a child trained up in the way she should go, should not depart from it? Yet here was this child, whom from infancy she had trained with unsparing pains, already departing into the ways of pomps and vanities, and hankering after the state of a fine lady, to which it had not pleased God to call her. It was enough to destroy one's faith in the wisdom of SoloHer literal mind could never comprehend that the way in which a child should go must be a way conformed to the just demands of youthful spirits. When we begin to use crutches we are apt to condemn dancing.

mon.

"Joanna," said she, in a voice hoarse and tremulous with indignation and dismay, "I demand the meaning of all this!"

"O 'Mela!" cried Joanna, clasping her hands in ecstasy. "It means that I am going to the dining!"

"You are going to destruction!" cried Miss Basil, remembering the reckless extravagance Joanna had been guilty of in buying so useless a thing as a picture-doubtless she

* ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by D. APPLETON & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

had not paid less than a dollar or two for it. "Where is your folly to end?" she cried, making a dash at the green box. "Have you been running up accounts, you reckless girl? These things must be returned immediately, do you hear? I say, immediately ! " "O Pamela!" said Joanna, with mingled anger, mortification, and reproach. "How can you go on so? The grandmamma herself gave these things to me, that I might make a creditable appearance at her dining next Thursday."

"Next Thursday? Next Thursday, child? Did I hear you aright?" Miss Basil asked, with keen interest. "I wonder Mrs. Basil hasn't named the day to me, and this only Saturday. But you are dreaming, surely?"

"No, indeed!" answered Joanna, shrill with exultation; "next Thursday! And," she continued, triumphantly, knowing well that Miss Basil would never oppose "the grandmamma's" expressed wishes, "I am to have my skirts a proper length, a demi-train -at last!"

Miss Basil should have felt flattered by Mrs. Basil's interest in poor little Joanna, but she resented it as an injury.

"Dear, dear, dear," she said, plaintively, “Joanna, how often must I tell you that this world is all a fleeting show? but you never will believe me."

"No," said Joanna, sturdily; "not while you say that, 'Mela."

"True happiness-" began Miss Basil. "True happiness," interrupted Joanna; "I know what it is; it is going to a dinnerparty in a brand-new polonaise. 'Mela, there are three yards left of that green challis; I can have a flounce."

"No, indeed, Joanna," said Miss Basil, sternly; "those three yards are to make new waist and sleeves."

"But I don't want new waist and sleeves; I want a flounce," said Joanna, piteously.

"Your heart is set upon the vanities of dress, and I am not going to encourage you," said Miss Basil, resolutely.

"But I care a great deal more about the flounce, not having it, than I should if I had it," argued Joanna, not inaptly.

"I dare say," replied Miss Basil, dryly. "Here is this ribbon, a new ribbon, wantonly abused." Joanna, who had not noticed the ribbon before, started, blushing vividly. "Your head is turned," pursued Miss Basil, thinking, O most lame and impotent conclusion! that she had gained a great advantage. "Your head is turned; and it is not hard to guess who has turned it."

"Pamela," said Joanna, with unaffected innocence, "if you mean that my head is turned by the dinner-party, I tied that ribbon on the tree before the grandmamma gave me those things."

But Miss Basil could never understand her. "Why did you tie the ribbon there?" she asked, sternly.

"'Mela, you know," said Joanna, appealingly. Poor child, she hardly knew, herself; but some blind instinct of womanhood made her appeal to a woman's sympathetic intuition.

asked, determined to have an explanation of what was inexplicable.

"I suppose it was silly," said poor Joanna, the tears starting to her eyes, “but-why are you so harsh, Pamela? What wrong have I done? It was no fault of mine that Mr. Arthur Hendall carved my name on the tree."

"It was he, then?" said Miss Basil, her eyes flashing.

"Of course it was," replied Joanna, with innocent decision; "who else could have done it?"

"And it was my tree, mark you, my tree, that I cherished," said Miss Basil, in a choking voice.

"How can it possibly be your tree, Pamela," said Joanna, calmly, "when you have told me, over and over again, that every thing here belongs to Mr. Arthur Hendall?"

Miss Basil rose abruptly and walked across the room. She did not like the taste of this fruit of her own planting; but she felt that it would never do to make wry faces over it. Returning presently, she asked, not without a touch of scorn:

I suppose you are flattered by it?" "I liked it—yes," answered Joanna, slowly, and coloring.

Joanna," said Miss Basil, under conviction that now was the time for the word in season, "I am your truest friend, and I tell you he means nothing by it."

"Of course he means nothing by it," said Joanna, in mild astonishment. "How was he to tell that you cherished that particular tree? I am sure I didn't know it. Cutting my name there is just an empty compliment, you see, not to be compared to an eventful present like this lovely polonaise. And if you are indeed my truest friend, O Pamela, consider, consider the flounce, and what an tage it would be."

would not have spared invective; but so remorseless an extravagance as this transported her economical spirit beyond all bounds.

"You surely never threw away five dollars in that way?" she gasped. "You'll go headlong to destruction with your imprudent waste of money. Joanna, Joanna! What shall be done to you? Five dollars for a trumpery picture to stick against the wall, and you so desperately hard on shoes!"

แ

"It was my own money," said Joanna, sturdily.

"So much the worse!" retorted Miss Basil, illogically. "Will you never learn to husband your resources, foolish child! Don't think I shall permit that trash to hang there!"

66

Pamela," said Joanna, deliberately,

'you can't bring back the five dollars that way; and, if you do any harm to my picture, I'll go away to foreign parts, and you shall never hear of me." (Joanna had long ago discovered that this threat invariably brought Miss Busil to reason.) "I'll die and be buried under alien skies, and the place of my-my sepulchre you shall never know!"

"Don't think to prevail with me by such idle threats, Joanna," said Miss Basil, visibly moved. "It ought to be a matter of principle with you to deny your eyes the gratification of that picture, at least until by persevering diligence you shall have atoned for such extravagance."

"Turn it to the wall, then, 'Mela," said Joanna, penitently, "if you think I have done so wrong."

Miss Basil always felt it to be her duty to preach severe doctrines to Joanna's awakened conscience.

"I do, indeed, think so," she answered, gladly availing herself of the unlooked-for advan-permission to turn the picture to the wall. "You have been guilty of criminal extravagance—yes, criminal, for money is a trust, whether it be ours in large or in small sums. If you don't feel your responsibility in little things, you will never be able properly to appreciate it in great things. Self-indulgence will be your bane. Let this be a lesson to

What could a woman like Miss Basi say to a girl like this? If Joanna could not be made to see the folly of cutting up for flounces the material that had been so carefully saved for waist and sleeves (and the child did outgrow her things so!), how could she be made to understand the significance or the insig-you-" nificance of having her name cut in the bark of a tree by a vain and idle young man? "Oh, of course, Joanna," said she, sourly, "it is useless to talk common-sense and economy to a girl that throws away money on a trumpery picture."

"Trumpery picture!" said Joanna. "'Mela, you don't know; it is a valuable possession. Do you know what I paid for it?"

"More than it is worth, I don't doubt," said Miss Basil, dryly.

Then Joanna began to tremble, and to wish that the picture had not come under discussion just when the green flounce was about to create a crisis.

"What did you give for it?" Miss Basil asked, laying aside her assumed indifference when she saw that Joanna wished the subject dropped.

"I gave my gold-piece," said Joanna, rather reluctantly.

Had she said that she had given but a dollar, Miss Basil, who had made it the study of her life to avoid all useless expenditure,

"Now, 'Mela," cried Joanna, with tears in her eyes, "don't! I can't be sorry that I bought the picture; no, I am glad, for it does make me happy to look at it. Pamela, can't you see that I must have something to -to nourish my aspirations?" she asked, pathetically. "We do need something more

than food and raiment in this life."

"Yes," assented Miss Basil, readily enough, for the "spirit of preach " was strong within, and she could seize any text; "steady principles, a sound faith-"

'Mela," said Joanna, with doleful weariness, "all that has nothing to do with the flounce to my green challis."

"I see it is no use talking to you, Joanna," said Miss Basil, with a sigh. "I suppose you must do as you please when your heart is so set on a thing; but I hope you'll never regret the flounce."

"That I never will!" said Joanna, positively, and springing up with alacrity. "I must go at once to work at it."

66

Joanna, surely you forget," reinonstrat

ed Miss Basil, gravely. "This is Saturday, and work like that is no preparation for tomorrow."

"But my week's mending is all done," said Joanna, innocently.

"I am not thinking of the week's mending, child," said Miss Basil, solemnly, "but of the duties of religion."

"You don't suppose I am going to sew on it to-morrow?" asked Joanna, half ready to cry, accustomed though she was to Miss Basil's opposition to the pomps and vanities.

"You might as well sew on it as have your head and heart full of it."

"Oh, dear, Pamela! don't you see that if I can just familiarize myself with the-the idea, my head and my heart will both be the more-discumbered by to-morrow?" asked Joanna, imploringly.

"Ah, child," Miss Basil answered, with a telling sigh," what would become of you, wonder, if I were to leave you wholly to your own devices?" Joanna thought in her heart it might not be so bad for her, but she said nothing; and Miss Basil continued:

But a day will come-yes, a day will surely come, when you'll remember, with tardy gratitude, maybe, how I've carried your waywardness on my heart all these years."

And without a word of interest in Joanna's first toilet, she went away in the comfortable consciousness of having performed her duty unshrinkingly.

"I know what all that means," said poor little Joanna to herself, a tear rolling over her cheek; "it means that she will pray for me at intervals all day to-morrow; but it would do me a great deal more good, I should feel more-Christian placidity, if she would only help about my flounce."

This child that Miss Basil had trained so carefully from infancy seemed destined in every way to be a perpetual source of surprise and bewilderment to her anxious guardian. Whether she went in the way she should go, or whether she departed therefrom, she was forever doing some unexpected thing. The next morning being Sunday, Joanna, to the confusion of Miss Basil's private anticipations, came forward as usual, with simple, childlike solemnity, to recite the Church Catechism and a hymn, as she had been accustomed to do ever since she could remember.

But then Miss Basil could not divine how little distasteful this exercise was to Joanna, who had always, happily for her, associated it with the impressions derived from an old pictorial Bible, with its rude engravings of Moses in the bullrushes, Elijah raising the Shunamite's son, Daniel in the lion's den, Ruth among the stocks, the Babe in the manger, the Marys at the tomb-pictures that, in spite of their crudity, impressed her childish heart with a deep sentiment of religion that she, poor child, failed to recognize as religion, because it was opposed to Miss Basil's creed of sackcloth and ashes.

It was because her Sunday lesson helped to keep alive these early impressions that Joanna never was willing to miss reciting the Catechism and the hymn, more especially as Miss Basil permitted her to select the hymn herself, which unwonted wisdom was

attributable to the fact that Joanna would memorize just three times as many lines of her own selection. Although Miss Basil's taste inclined her to prefer such strains as "Life is but a winter's day, a journey to the tomb," she could tolerate any thing that passed under the name of sacred poetry; and she honestly thought "the more the better," particularly

in Joanna's case.

And Joanna liked going to church, where she sat, not in her grandfather's pew, close to the pulpit, but up-stairs in the gallery with Miss Basil, who had always sat there in a remote corner. Joanna liked going to church, not so much because it was her one stated contact with the outside world, as because, from her dim corner facing the chancel-window, gaudy with colored glass, she had early learned to believe in the church as the gate of heaven; and, sitting there, she was thinking far more in her simple, childlike faith, of God and his angels than Miss Basil ever knew. But religion was, as yet, only a senti ment with Joanna, and Sunday was blissful chiefly because on that day Miss Basil did not believe in work, and she could be idle with impunity.

But Sunday passed, and Joanna's thoughts reverted to the flounce of her green challis. It was for her an arduous undertaking, yet she knew that it was vain to expect sympathy or assistance from Miss Basil, who, indeed, was too busy about more important matters to attend to any such trifle. However, by dint of diligence and perseverance, the demi-train, with its flounce, was finished early on Thursday morning, and Joanna, having nothing more to do, beset poor Miss Basil with suggestions about the table, the dishes, the silver, the flowers, and even about old Thurston's "deportment."

Miss Basil was a much-enduring woman, but her endurance failed at last, and she curtly reminded her officious adviser that it was none of her dinner-party. Joanna had almost fancied that it was, and upon this home-thrust she returned to cool her enthusiasm with a shower of tears. Why was Pamela so unfeeling? Why was she always so indifferent? And poor, harassed Miss Basil was asking herself what she should do to shield this thoughtless child from the deceitful snares of the world.

It would be hard to say which was more to be pitied in this state of mutual misunderstanding, but Joanna had at least this advantage over Miss Basil: she could forget every vexation in the contemplation of the marvelous puffs of her polonaise.

CHAPTER XVI.

ON THE THRESHOLD OF SOCIETY.

NEVER had a day seemed so long to Joanna as that memorable Thursday. The dinner-hour was half-past five, and she thought the time to dress would never come. At last, afraid of being late, she began the preparations for her toilet; but when all was done, finding that it was but a little past three, she carefully undressed again, for fear

of crushing that billowy enflure, which was, in her eyes, the chief merit of her costume.

There was no one to give the gracious finishing touches, no one to assure her that all was right, no one to take a pride in her appearance. Poor little Joanna felt this; yet not to such a degree as to mar her satisfaction in the demi-train with the flounce, notwithstanding the fact that it did not "hang evenly," and was too full here and too scant there; defects that Miss Basil's more skillful hands might easily have remedied, could she have seen how much better a little judicious interest on her part would have been for Joanna than all the lectures on pomps and vanities she could devise.

Hearing the clock in the hall down-stairs strike four at last, Joanna concluded that any longer delay in completing her toilet would be inadvisable, and she put on again the lovely polonaise, with many admiring glances at the glass, and many little earessing pats of adjustment, that must have been the result of a natural instinct, for certainly she had not learned these ways from Miss Basil.

As she was tying her sash, it occurred to her suddenly that she might never have so good an opportunity to display certain jewels of her mother's, relics of departed grandeur, that Miss Basil kept under, lock and key. Knowing that she would have to contend the point, and haunted always by that fear of being late which is the torment of the novice, she hastened to Miss Basil's room, but Miss Basil was not there. She ran, breathless, down to the dining-room, but Miss Basi was not there. Rushing aimlessly through the hall, she encountered old Thurston, who was waiting to admit the guests.

"Miss J'anna," said he, with respectful solicitude, "ef you isn't uncommon keerful, somebody'll tread on your dress and elapse the gathers."

"I shouldn't mind it at all," said Joanna, with a lofty air. Proof so indisputable of the length of her train could hardly fail to give her satisfaction, and she proceeded gravely to practise the difficult art of managing her flowing draperies, unconscious that she had Basil Redmond for an amused spec

tator.

He had come early, that he might see Miss Basil before the arrival of the other guests-thus far he was willing to make himself at home at Basilwood-and he was now waiting in the sitting-room, the door of which was open, affording him a view of Joanna in all her glory.

"But, Thurston!" she exclaimed, suddenly quitting the contemplation of her trailing robes, "no one has come yet, I hope? Where is my cousin; I must see her instantly!"

"Miss Pamela? she's not come down yet, and nobody is come except Mr. Redmond, as I remember him, a harum-scarum boy to disappear, and then come back without warning, as nobody wouldn't know him, so growed he is-"

"Oh, what do I care for him?" interrupted Joanna, with an impatient shrug. "It's Pamela I want."

Just then Miss Basil came down the stairs,