chool, taught her, in two long summers at her
great country estate on the Hudson River, all the household arts and
duties that girls of her own age were beginning to despise. So that
when, after a brilliant debut in New York and a winter season there in
which her wit and beauty, to say nothing of her horsemanship and
exquisite dancing had made her the belle of that critical metropolis
(not too large, then, for one reigning toast), she married one of the
country's most prominent young lawyers, already suggested for high
posts abroad, it was felt that America would honour both herself and
whatever Court should receive these two young fortunates from her hands.

There is a picture of her in the Court dress in which she made her bow
to Queen Victoria, standing at the foot of a Roman stairway of
yellowish marble, near a fountain, her baby boy clinging to her hand.
Under the blue-black of her heavy hair, her cheeks are tinted like
wall-ripened peaches; her strong, curved figure is just the Flora and
Juno of the ancient city's statuary.

There is still whispered, in a few old New York houses that have kept
their white marble and black walnut, the audacious story of Lilda
Appleyard's falling-in-love. It was at the Philadelphia Centennial of
'76, whither her father had taken her for a long visit, for its
educational influences. He used to say that women had little chance of
acquiring practical information of the large and comprehensive order,
and that no one would ever know without a trial what of all that sort
their brains could or could not take in. The progress of the world, he
said, was no greater than the progress of its homes, "and that," he
used to wind up, "is no more nor less than the progress of their women."

So Miss Lilda studied the progress of all three at the Centennial, and
took sage notes in a little red morocco book, and the proud banker read
them in private for years afterward to his friends. But she was not
engaged in this interesting occupation by night as well as day, you may
rest assured. Many a ball and high tea did Philadelphia's ladies offer
their visiting friends, and there was not one of any consequence that
failed to beg the honour of Miss Lilda Appleyard's company. And her
luggage was by no means limited to the little red morocco book!

A party from New York had come in a special train to Philadelphia for
three days at the Centennial, and the occasion was seized by the wife
of an army offi