ition, and even
colored wax-candles figured on the mantel-pieces. The costumes of the
family had been tried on the day before: the Colonel's black suit fitted
exceedingly well; his lady's velvet dress displayed her contours to
advantage; Miss Matilda's flowered silk was considered superb; the eldest
son of the family, Mr. T. Jordan Sprowle, called affectionately and
elegantly "Geordie," voted himself "stunnin'"; and even the small youth
who had borne Mr. Bernard's invitation was effective in a new jacket and
trousers, buttony in front, and baggy in the reverse aspect, as is wont
to be the case with the home-made garments of inland youngsters.

Great preparations had been made for the refection which was to be part
of the entertainment. There was much clinking of borrowed spoons, which
were to be carefully counted, and much clicking of borrowed china, which
was to be tenderly handled, for nobody in the country keeps those vast
closets full of such things which one may see in rich city-houses. Not a
great deal could be done in the way of flowers, for there were no
greenhouses, and few plants were out as yet; but there were paper
ornaments for the candlesticks, and colored mats for the lamps, and all
the tassels of the curtains and bells were taken out of those brown linen
bags, in which, for reasons hitherto undiscovered, they are habitually
concealed in some households. In the remoter apartments every imaginable
operation was going on at once,--roasting, boiling, baking, beating,
rolling, pounding in mortars, frying, freezing; for there was to be
ice-cream to-night of domestic manufacture;--and in the midst of all
these labors, Mrs. Sprowle and Miss Matilda were moving about, directing
and helping as they best might, all day long. When the evening came, it
might be feared they would not be in just the state of mind and body to
entertain company.

--One would like to give a party now and then, if one could be a
billionnaire.--"Antoine, I am going to have twenty people to dine
to-day." "Biens, Madame." Not a word or thought more about it, but get
home in season to dress, and come down to your own table, one of your own
guests.--"Giuseppe, we are to have a party a week from to-night,--five
hundred invitations--there is the list." The day comes. "Madam, do you
remember you have your party tonight?" "Why, so I have! Everything
right? supper and all?" "All as it should be, Madam."

"Send up Victorine." "Victorine