ep at a handsome
young fellow prinking himself in the great looking-glass set in the
hat-stand. Then he came in, tripping along with his hand held out to
Cousin E. E., who went forward with her train following after, took his
lilac glove in her hand, smiled up in his face, and said how glad she
was to see him.

Before he could answer, that forward child came up and held out _her_
hand. She, too, was delighted; wondered he hadn't been there lately.
Indeed, she began to think he was never coming again.

The young fellow did seem to be taken aback a minute, for the forward
creature had just cut her mother out; but he soon began to talk and
laugh with her as chipper as could be, and only stopped to give me a nip
of a bow when Cousin E. E. introduced him.

Well, my opinion is I gave him as good as he sent; but short measure at
that; for I just lifted my head as if taking a sniff at the flowers, and
that was all. If that young man thought I was brought up in the woods to
be scared by owls, he found out his mistake. He was standing with his
back towards me when I heard E. E. say, in one of those whispers that
cut to the ear keener than a scream:

"It is Miss Phoemie Frost, the celebrated writer."

"What," says he, "Miss Frost, the person on whom the Grand Duke levelled
his eye-glass at the opera three times, and who was prevented opening
the ball with him by the machinations of the committee?"

"The same," says Cousin E. E.

Before she could put in another word, that young gentleman had wheeled
round in his patent leather boots, and was making me a bow that went so
near the floor that his lilac gloves fell below his knees. Then he rose
slowly, like a jack-knife that opens hard, and stood there a-smiling in
my face as if I had just treated him to a quart of maple molasses fresh
from the kettle.

"Miss Frost," says he, "I'm happy to make your acquaintance; your
writings have been my delight--in fact, a household word in our
family--for years."

"Years?" says I.

"That is, ever since you began to honor the world with the emanations of
your genius," says he, with an open wave of both hands.

I bowed. I half rose from that round sofa. I knew by the soft, quivering
sensation that smiles were creeping to my lips, and giving them a lovely
redness.

"Sir," says I, "you are complimentary. I am but a young beginner in the
paths of literature--a timid worker in the great harvest field of
thought."

He smiled; he moved th