I listened. The moment that crowd of musicians saw my white
feather, they struck up "Lo, the Conquering Hero comes," with a soft and
touchingly subdued sweetness, which threw an exquisite femininity into
the air, and plainly marked out its object.

Feeling this, I bowed a graceful recognition to those superior
performers, who answered with a prolonged blast from the most curlecued
of the long toot-horns as our carriage swept down the curving road that
forms a horse-shoe--just a little broad at the heel--in front of Messrs.
Leland's hotel.

Feeling that many admiring eyes were upon me, I stepped with dignity
from the carriage, and walked with a downcast look, which I did my best
to make unconscious, through the gay crowd that had gathered in front of
that long portico, only just to get a glimpse of me as I went in.

Sisters, I had compassion on these people, and walked with slow
gracefulness through their midst, determined to give even the humblest a
chance to see how true genius can deport itself when ovations of music
and respectful admiration recognize its greatness.

There was a great publisher present when we got back to the hotel. I
have no doubt that he listened to the music of that band when it gave me
this harmonious reception, and I hope he indirectly felt the compliment
reverberate back on himself. It was an honor he deserved to share with
me, or any other high-bred, intellectual person to whom he had opened a
golden pathway to the Temple of Fame through his numerous art journals.

I had an idea of the gentleman in my mind, and tried to single him out
from the crowd of persons standing in silent homage on the balcony as I
passed into the hotel, but I think he was not there.

Before the day was out, I could give a good guess at the reason why he
did not appear to claim the honor of my acquaintance. He was meditating
a delicate little surprise for me--one of those poetic fancies that take
root only in highly artistic minds. By and by you will hear what it was.

In Washington, and at the Grand Duke's reception at Sandy Hook--why that
strip of salt water, which lets ships in and out from New York to the
Atlantic Ocean, is called a hook, I cannot make out, for the life of me;
and as for its being sandy--well, in my opinion, it is deep, salt water,
and nothing else. But, as I was a-saying, in Washington, and at Sandy
Hook, the largest guns of the nation did me homage. Here I am received
with bursts of music fr