LITMIR.BIZ

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unexpected visit yesterday from Mr. O'Dwyer, a member of The Tribune staff, and for several years dear uncle's private secretary.

      Mamma had invited Mr. O'Dwyer to come out and pass a quiet day with us, and had appointed Wednesday for the visit. Desirous of a little excitement, and already somewhat weary of our nun-like simplicity of toilette, we decided to do honor to our guest by dressing our hair quite elaborately, and attiring ourselves, despite the heat, in our best bombazines with their weight of crape. We were assembled in the dining-room after our early dinner, discussing, in our plain print wrappers and Marguerite braids, our plans for the morrow, when Minna announced:

      "A visit, Madame; a gentleman."

      "Probably a neighbor upon business," said mamma to us; "show him in here, Minna."

      The door opened, and enter the guest for whom, in imagination, we were making such extensive preparations.

      A very expressive glance was telegraphed around our circle. I was engaged in the domestic occupation of hemming one of papa's handkerchiefs, and although Hawthorne draws so pretty a picture of the beautiful Miriam while engaged in "the feminine task of mending a pair of gloves," with all deference to the poet's taste, I consider the beguiling little scraps of canvas or kid which I produce when company is present, much more attractive than plain sewing.

      In a moment the surprise was explained. Mr. O'Dwyer had received orders to represent The Tribune somewhere, the following day, just in time to catch the Pleasantville express, and run out to tell us that he could not come at the time appointed.

      "The circumstances were trying," we said to each other, after his departure; but imagine, girls, how much worse they would have been, had the visitor been a lady! As long as a wrapper is black, I very much doubt if a gentleman would know it from an afternoon dress.

      June 8.

      The usual routine of our morning occupations has been somewhat broken of late, for these June days are too perfect to be spent within doors, even with such grand companions as Plato or Beethoven. We plan charming hours to be spent in the pine grove, where Marguerite will read to us a chapter or two of Kohlrausch's "Germany," and Ida will give us a few pages of Taine's brilliant "Angleterre;" but as we are starting with camp chairs, books, and work, Bernard approaches:

      "Any orders, Miss?"

      Frail mortals are too weak to resist, and in a few moments we are seated in Ida's stylish new phaeton; and Gabrielle's irrepressible ponies, under the guidance of Tourbillon herself, are dashing away at a pace that terrifies our sober Quaker neighbors beyond expression. Mamma has been solemnly warned against allowing Gabrielle to drive "those fearful horses;" but we all share our pretty Tourbillon's fondness for a tourbillon pace, and know well the strength she possesses in her little wrists, and the coolness she could exercise were there any danger.

      While returning from a charming drive upon the Sing Sing road, a day or two since, the horses, whose spirits were unusually high, shied suddenly at something dark by the roadside. By a dexterous management of the reins, Gabrielle quickly subdued them, and we all looked to see what had startled them. An object was crouching in the grass, evidently human, but of what sex or nationality it was impossible in one swift glance to determine; and it was quite amusing to hear our different opinions as we drove on.

      "I think," said mamma, "that it was an enormous woman, with a baby in her arms, but I really cannot be sure, for I only looked at the face—such a hideous, repulsive face. I shall dream of it to-night, I am convinced."

      "A woman!" said Marguerite. "My impression was of a very murderous-looking man—an Indian, I thought, he was so very dark."

      Gabrielle's view of the case differed from the others. The creature had, she said, a heavy black beard, which, was un-Indian-like, and was garbed in a dark calico gown with open sleeves, through which she plainly perceived a pair of unmistakably muscular, masculine arms. In the words of Macbeth—

       "You should be woman,

       And yet your beard forbids me to interpret

       That you are so."

      Neither Marguerite nor Gabrielle had seen the baby, and Gabrielle's conclusion that this frightful being was a convict who had escaped from Sing Sing disguised as a woman, was quite logical.

      "Chappaqua is certainly in unpleasant proximity to Sing Sing," I said with a shudder, for I have not many elements of a heroine about me.

      "Yes," was mamma's cheerful rejoinder, "and you know we were told yesterday that one or two of the most dangerous convicts had recently escaped, and had entered several houses in Chappaqua—to say nothing of Mr. O'Dwyer's report that that dreadful Captain Jack has escaped, and is known to be lurking in the neighborhood of our peaceful little village."

      "Pray let us change the subject," I entreated, "or between convicts and Modocs I shall have the nightmare for a month."

      June 9.

      We have just said good-by to Señor Delmonte, of Hayti, who has gone down on the 4.45 train, after passing, I hope, a pleasant day with us.

      [Illustration: The Train Station.]

      We have led such a quiet life since last fall, that a visit from a friend is a very pleasant excitement, and with the assistance of our invaluable Minna and Lina, there is nothing to be dreaded in the preparations. Then, too, it is so pleasant to unpack the superb linen that Aunt Mary bought abroad—the heavy damask table-cloths with their beautiful designs, and the immense dinner napkins, protecting one's dress so admirably against possible accident—and to take out the exquisite silver and Sèvres; everything is perfection, even to the little gold, lily-shaped hand-bell. Afterwards we go to gather flowers in all their morning freshness, and if it is ten o'clock, we walk down to the station to meet the New York train.

      Señor Delmonte is a very agreeable gentleman, and quite a favorite in New York circles. In figure he rises far above ordinary humanity, six feet two inches being, I believe, his exact height—and his very dark complexion and stately gravity render him quite conspicuous in a drawing-room. He is reported extremely wealthy.

      Upon returning from a drive on the Pleasantville road with Señor Delmonte, Ida ran down to the kitchen for a moment, to see if harmony reigned there (for Lina and Minna are not, I regret to say, becoming warm friends; but more of that to-morrow). Ida rarely troubles the cook with her presence, for Lina, like all cordons bleus, is a great despot, and impatient of surveillance; but as she can be trusted to arrange an entire menu without any hints from Ida, la Dame Châtelaine gladly leaves the responsibility to her. What therefore was my surprise to see Ida return from her visit downstairs with an unmistakable look of anxiety upon her pretty face, and beckon me out of the music room where we were sitting.

      "What do you think, Cecilia?" she announced, in despairing accents. "Lina has made a soup of sour cream, which is now reposing in the ice-box!"

      "Of what?" I said, scarcely crediting her words, and running down to the kitchen.

      Lina's feelings were considerably ruffled that her young mistress did not appreciate the soup, which she considered a triumph of art, and which consisted of sour cream, spices, and a little sugar—to be eaten, of course, cold.

      "Nice soup," she said, in the most injured tones; "King of Sweden think excellent, but Miss no like it."

      It was, however, too late to make another soup, so we consoled ourselves with the thought that a king approved of it, and we would show a plebeian taste if we did not also appreciate it. However, some wry faces were made over the unlucky soup at the table, and the King of Sweden's taste was the subject of much merriment.

      I was somewhat sceptical at first that Lina had ever been in the royal household at Stockholm,

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