n one respect at least I was
unjust to the little creature who is now my sister and calls me Miss
Frances. Not by a word or look has she shown the least inclination to
assume the position of mistress of the house, nor does she seem to think
me at all in the way; but that she considers me quite an antediluvian I
am certain, for, in speaking of something which happened in 1820, she
asked if I remembered it! And I only three years older than Guy! But
then she once called him a dear old grandfatherly man, and thought it a
good joke that on their wedding tour she was mistaken for his daughter.
She looks so young--not sixteen even; but with those childish blue eyes,
and that innocent, pleading kind of expression, she never can be old.
She is very beautiful, and I can understand in part Guy's infatuation,
though at times he hardly knows what to do with his pretty plaything.

It was the middle of August when they came from Saratoga, sorely
against her wishes, as I heard from the Porters, who were at the same
hotel, and who have told me what a sensation she created, and how much
attention she received. Everybody flattered her, and one evening when
there was to be a hop at Congress Hall, she received twenty bouquets
from as many different admirers, each of whom asked her hand for the
first dance. They had ascertained that Guy was not a disciple of
Terpsichore, though I understand he did try some of the square dances,
with poor success, I imagine, for Lucy Porter laughed when she told me
of it; and I do not wonder, for my grave, scholarly Guy must be as much
out of place in a ball room as his little, airy doll of a wife is in her
place when there. I can understand just how she enjoyed it all, and how
she hated to come home, for she did not then know the kind of home she
was coming to.

It was glorious weather for August, and a rain of the previous day had
washed all the flowers and shrubs, and freshened up the grass on the
lawn, which was just like a piece of velvet, while everything around
Elmwood seemed to laugh in the warm afternoon sunshine as the carriage
came up to the door. Eight trunks, two hat-boxes, and a guitar-case had
come in the morning, and were waiting the arrival of their owner, whose
face looked eagerly out at the house and its surroundings, and, it
seemed to me, did not light up as much as it should have done under the
circumstances.

"Why, Guy, I always thought the house was brick," I heard her say as the
ca