buoy one up and keep the
effervescence of the cup of pleasure up to the proper sparkle.

At a late--a very late breakfast, the morning after the Shirley ball,
the Smiths were assembled with the exception of Blanche, who had
entreated to be left undisturbed, since she must sleep or die, and
Percival, who had breakfasted sketchily on scraps and confectionery,
hours before, and was away in the woods with his gun.

The mail, always deposited in a little heap beside the general's plate,
had been distributed. There was very little--two newspapers, a couple
of letters for Nesbit Thorne, and one for Norma from a New York friend,
claiming a promised visit, and overflowing with gossip and news of
Gotham, full of personalities also, and a faint lady-like suspicion of
wickedness--a racy, entertaining letter. The writer, a Mrs. Vincent,
was Norma's most intimate friend, and she often sacrificed an hour of
her valuable time to the amusement of the girl, whom she felt convinced
was bored to death down in that country desert. The letter in question
was unusually diffuse, for Mrs. Vincent was keeping her room with a
heavy cold, and had herself to amuse as well as Norma. Norma read
scraps of it aloud for the edification of her mother, and the young
men; the general, with his nose in his paper, let the tide of gossip
pass.

Thorne, after a comprehensive glance at his own correspondence, slipped
his letters quietly into his pocket, and gave his best attention to his
cousin's. He had a rooted objection to reading even indifferent
letters under scrutiny, and these he felt convinced were not
indifferent; for one was addressed in the handsome large hand of his
wife, and the writing on the other was unknown to him--it had a legal
aspect. They were letters whose perusal might prove unpleasant; so
Thorne postponed it.

There is an old adage relative to thoughts of the power of darkness
being invariably followed by the appearance of his emissaries, and
although Mrs. Thorne was far from being the devil, or her letter one of
his imps, the arrival of the one, so promptly upon the heels of
thoughts of the other, was singular; her husband felt it so.

"Mamma," observed Norma, glancing up from her letter, "Kate says that
Cecil Cumberland is engaged, or going to be engaged, I can't exactly
make out which. Kate words it a little ambiguously; at all events
there appears to be considerable talk about it. Kate writes: 'Cecil
looks radiantly wo