LITMIR.BIZ

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fond of music," said another; "pray sing something more, Miss Cleveland, and perhaps he may again come out."

      He had travelled down from the third story to the parlor through the flue (fortunately there was no fire), and was now commencing to desire society and food again.

      "Since he is fond of music," said Marguerite, "I will sing the ballad of the Flying Dutchman from Wagner's opera—that ought certainly to draw him out again."

      A music-loving squirrel evidently, and one versed in the art; for with the first strains of those curious harmonies and chromatic runs, descriptive of the howling winds that herald the coming of the Phantom Ship, Holländer's tiny head peered out, followed, after a furtive glance about, by his little body. Two gentlemen started to capture him, and then a chase ensued. Holländer tried to scamper up a picture, but tripped upon its glass, and fell. At last, the Colonel captured him in an attempt to scale the curtains, and after much struggling, kicking, biting, and other vigorous protestations from Holländer, landed him safely in his cage.

      The squirrels evidently enjoy country life very much. Early this morning Minna took them out of doors, and removed the bottom of the cage that they might play upon the grass, which so much exhilarated them that I am convinced they fancied they were entirely free. Then I removed the hot cotton from their little nest, and filled it with fresh clover-leaves, which I am sure they much prefer. They run no risk of being devoured here, for Aunt Mary always disliked cats, so that there is not one upon the place, and Gabrielle's pet dog, a native of Bordeaux, has viewed them from afar, and snuffed at the cage, but is evidently too well-bred a Frenchman to desire even to tease them.

      June 14.

      A letter to-day from one of my Paris friends, Jennie Ford. She says:

      "How divine it must be at Chappaqua! I am glad you are enjoying yourself, and are well. But you do not say a word of your Western trip. I hope you have not given it up."

      Then follows a cordial invitation for me to visit her in her beautiful home upon Lake Erie, now looking its prettiest in the leafy month of June. All sorts of pleasant inducements are held out: a croquet-lawn of velvet softness, long drives, and charming rides in which to display my stylish new beaver and habit, moonlight excursions upon Lake Erie, and no lack of handsome cavaliers, including naval officers. However, despite all these attractions, I do not think I shall care to leave Chappaqua this summer.

      Jennie enclosed a photograph of the lady who reigned as belle of the American colony in Paris, some four or five years ago—Mrs. Horace Jenness, then Miss Carrie Deming. Three years of married life have changed the beautiful Carrie somewhat, if this picture is a truthful one. The perfect outline of her face is unaltered, but the haughty expression that "La Princesse" wore in former days has vanished, and the fond young mother, grouped with her two little children is prettier than ever.

      June 15.

      I feel singularly indolent, and indisposed to journalize this evening. Perhaps it is the result of two hours spent in croquet, a game in which I am very unproficient and therefore find decidedly wearisome; but Gabrielle, who is the best croquet player in Chappaqua, is in the city to-day, and my feeble assistance was necessary to make up the quartette.

      Two entire hours spent in this game seem quite an unwarrantable loss of time, but we have had a guest from New York to-day, and therefore both Plato and Kohlrausch have remained under lock and key in the library.

      I think no one enjoys the country more thoroughly than a physician when he can escape from his patients for a holiday, and Dr. Howe, our visitor of to-day, was not an exception. This gentleman is, I fancy, quite young in his profession, for his figure is of almost boyish slenderness; his face, too, which reminds one somewhat of Shelley in its delicacy and brightness, and its dark eyes and luxuriant curls, is quite youthful for a fully fledged M.D.

      Dr. Howe returned from Europe some months since, and brought us a letter of introduction from a friend of mamma's in Florence; but owing to mamma's long illness and the seclusion in which we lived last winter, we have not seen him many times.

      I have in my lap a number of letters received in this evening's mail. One is from my dear friend, Mrs. Knox, the charming contralto of Christ Church. We had expected her to visit us this week, but her unexpected departure for the West has prevented her from doing so. She says:

      "You must truly be enjoying Chappaqua these heavenly June days. I hope that the fresh air and rest are putting roses into your pale cheeks and giving you health and strength for your literary labors. My sudden departure compels me to forego the pleasure I had anticipated in seeing you at Chappaqua—at least until the fall. I am appreciative of the courtesy of your dear mamma in inviting me to spend a day in that lovely retreat, already made sacred to me by my high regard and admiration for your most noble uncle, whose home it was."

      Another letter is written upon most dainty stationery, bearing the impress of Tiffany, and adorned with a prettily devised monogram in lavender and gold (handsome stationery is one of my weaknesses). This letter I know to be sprightly and amusing before I open it, for my friend Lela has been for two or three years one of my most entertaining correspondents. We were intimate friends in Paris three or four years ago, when Lela was a school-girl, and I an enfant de Marie, and although we have been separated by hundreds of miles, by the ocean, and finally, by Lela's marriage, our attachment continues; so, no reproaches upon school-girl friendships, I beg.

      Lela was married last winter, but she and her handsome French husband are yet in the honeymoon, which will last, I fancy, forever—certainly the former Queen of Hearts seems now to care for only one heart. She says:

      "You must be having a lovely time in such a charming place. We have been to Saratoga. It was stupid enough to send your worst enemy there."

      June 17.

      This week has been quite lost, so far as study is concerned, for nearly every day has been interrupted by visitors.

      Looking out of the window this morning, I saw a carriage containing two strange young ladies stop before the house. In answer to their inquiry for Miss Greeley and Miss Gabrielle, Minna informed them, in her broken English, that they were both in the city for the day. They looked quite aghast upon receiving this information, for they had already dismissed their carriage, in which they had driven from Pleasantville, and knew probably that there was no down train till 4.45, so quite helplessly they inquired if no members of the family were at home. Learning that Mrs. Cleveland and her daughters were here, one of the young ladies, a stylish girl in mourning, desired Minna to announce Miss Hempstead and her cousin. I puzzled a little over the name while glancing in the mirror to see that my crape ruffle was properly adjusted, and my hair in tolerable order. The name seemed familiar, and yet I knew that no friend of mine bore it.

      I found the young ladies in the music room. Miss Hempstead introduced herself by saying:

      "Perhaps you may have heard my name, although you do not know me. My brother was a friend of Mrs. and Miss Greeley, and was purser of the Missouri."

      I was then somewhat surprised that I had not divined Miss Hempstead's identity from the name and her black dress; but the burning of the Missouri made scarce any impression upon me at the time, surrounded as I was last fall by such heavy family afflictions; and the name of the young purser, whose tragic fate then filled the newspapers, had since then almost entirely passed from my memory.

      An ordinary passenger ship is wrecked or burned, "Extras" are issued, a three days' excitement follows, and it is then a thing of the past; but as the Missouri bore, on this memorable voyage, not indeed Caesar and his fortunes, but the supposed fiancé of dear Ida, its loss is an event still interesting to the gossiping public. It was useless to try to convince any one that no engagement had ever existed between Mr. Hempstead and Ida: no one would credit my most solemn protestations. Many people not personally acquainted with us, but who knew the facts "upon the best authority," as outsiders usually do, said that the marriage was to have taken place before the election, but after Aunt Mary's death it was postponed for three months. Before two weeks had elapsed, however, Mr. Hempstead was, in the poetic

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