eland or her niece, do
you?"

"No, I don't know them," is the prompt reply, "but I was in the
telegraph office yesterday, and saw your acceptance when it arrived."

TABLEAU.

_August 19_.

I am not partial to Friday, as it is often an unlucky day for me--a
superstition that has come down to me from grandmamma; but, although I
try to think it absurd, our experience of yesterday proved a singular
confirmation.

Ida and I had thought to celebrate the return of Marguerite and
Gabrielle by inviting several friends from the city to enjoy the
delicious moonlight with us. Mamma accordingly wrote the invitations,
and we at once commenced our preparations. The _fete_ we decided
should last three days, and was to commence Friday afternoon--ominous
day! We were to have moonlight walks and drives; we were to kindle a
fire of pine cones and charcoal upon the beach at Rye Lake, and boil
the kettle and make tea; a boat was to be placed upon our own little
pond, and a tent pitched near by; and, last and most brilliant, Ida's
lovely Southern friend, Miss Worthington, and Gabrielle, were to occupy
the tent, dressed as gypsies, and tell the fortunes of the company.

We could scarcely wait for Friday to arrive, but there were many
preparations to be made, so we curbed our impatience and worked very
industriously. As we were now seven in the household, not counting the
servants, and had invited quite a number of guests, the resources of
our house were not extensive enough to stow them all away, consequently
we spent a lively morning at the side-hill house fitting up three
rooms, with Minna's assistance.

The blue room, with its pretty outlook upon the meadows, was our
favorite, and upon it we bestowed the most attention. The carpet was
gray and blue, of an especially pretty pattern, and the handsome
marble-topped bureau, exhumed from the never-failing resources of the
house in the woods, looked as fresh as though purchased yesterday. We
made the bed with our own hands, touching with reverent care the superb
blankets with their inscription:

"To Horace Greeley, the Protector of American Industry."

Then, when the blue silk eider-down counterpane was adjusted to our
satisfaction, and one or two little ornaments added to the bureau and
chimney-piece--"Cupid" in the Naples Gallery, and my dear Lela's
portrait, both framed in blue velvet, and a beautiful Sevres vase which
mamma calls "the one that Pickie _didn't_ break" (his l