nd all the rest of the
world death.

"You do not compliment the South very much," said Sligo Moultrie,
smiling.

"Oh no! The South is home, and we don't compliment relations, you know,"
returned Miss Grace.

"Yes, thank Heaven! the South _is_ home, Miss Grace. New York is like a
foreign city. The tumult is fearful; yet it is only a sea-port after all.
It has no metropolitan repose. It never can have. It is a trading town."

"Then I like trading towns, if that is it," returned Miss Grace, looking
out into the bustling street.

Mr. Moultrie smiled--a quiet, refined, intelligent, and accomplished
smile.

He smiled confidently. Not offensively, but with that half-shy sense of
superiority which gave the high grace of self-possession to his manner--a
languid repose which pervaded his whole character. The symmetry of his
person, the careless ease of his carriage, a sweet voice, a handsome
face, were valuable allies of his intellectual accomplishments; and when
all the forces were deployed they made Sligo Moultrie very fascinating.
He was not audacious nor brilliant. It was a passive, not an active
nature. He was not rich, although Mrs. Boniface Newt had a vague idea
that every Southern youth was _ex-officio_ a Croesus. Scion of a fine old
family, like the Newts, and Whitloes, and Octoynes of New York, Mr. Sligo
Moultrie, born to be a gentleman, but born poor, was resolved to maintain
his state.

Miss Grace Plumer, as we saw at Mrs. Boniface Newt's, had bright black
eyes, profusely curling black hair, olive skin, pouting mouth, and pearly
teeth. Very rich, very pretty, and very merry was Miss Grace Plumer, who
believed with enthusiastic faith that life was a ball, but who was very
shrewd and very kindly also.

Sligo Moultrie understood distinctly why he was sitting at the window
with Grace Plumer.

"The roses are in bloom at your home, I suppose, Miss Grace?" said he.

"Yes, I suppose they are, and a dreadfully lonely time they're having of
it. Southern life, of course, is a hundred times better than life here;
but it is a little lonely, isn't it, Mr. Moultrie?"

Grace said this turning her neck slightly, and looking an arch
interrogatory at her companion.

"Yes, it is lonely in some ways. But then there is so much going up to
town and travelling that, after all, it is only a few months that we are
at home; and a man ought to be at home a good deal--he ought not to be a
vagabond."

"Thank you," said Grace, bow