e's house, one August evening, it was rather a
disappointment to find that he and his charming Laura had absented
themselves for twenty-four hours. I had not seen them since their
marriage; my admiration for his varied genius and her unvarying grace
was at its height, and I was really annoyed at the delay. My fair
cousin, with her usual exact housekeeping, had prepared everything for
her guest, and then bequeathed me, as she wrote, to Janet and baby
Marian. It was a pleasant arrangement, for between baby Marian and me
there existed a species of passion, I might almost say of betrothal,
ever since that little three-year-old sunbeam had blessed my mother's
house by lingering awhile in it, six months before. Still I went to bed
disappointed, though the delightful windows of the chamber looked out
upon the glimmering bay, and the swinging lanterns at the yard-arms of
the frigates shone like some softer constellation beneath the brilliant
sky. The house was so close upon the water that the cool waves seemed to
plash deliciously against its very basement; and it was a comfort to
think that, if there were no adequate human greetings that night, there
would be plenty in the morning, since Marian would inevitably be pulling
my eyelids apart before sunrise.

It seemed scarcely dawn when I was roused by a little arm round my neck,
and waked to think I had one of Raphael's cherubs by my side. Fingers of
waxen softness were ruthlessly at work upon my eyes, and the little form
that met my touch felt lithe and elastic, like a kitten's limbs. There
was just light enough to see the child, perched on the edge of the bed,
her soft blue dressing-gown trailing over the white night-dress, while
her black and long-fringed eyes shone through the dimness of morning.
She yielded gladly to my grasp, and I could fondle again the silken
hair, the velvety brunette cheek, the plump, childish shoulders. Yet
sleep still half held me, and when my cherub appeared to hold it a
cherubic practice to begin the day with a demand for lively anecdote, I
was fain drowsily to suggest that she might first tell some stories to
her doll. With the sunny readiness that was a part of her nature, she
straightway turned to that young lady,--plain Susan Halliday, with both
cheeks patched, and eyes of different colors,--and soon discoursed both
her and me into repose.

When I waked again, it was to find the child conversing with the morning
star, which still shone through