exactly the
right thing in her crisp, old voice--there is nothing sleepy and Southern
about her. At last she sat down by me and she told me such an exquisite
story, showing the feeling after the war and the real aristocrats the
Southerners were. Two old aunts of hers were left absolutely destitute,
having been great heiresses, and to support themselves took in sewing,
making dresses for their friends. Their overseer became immediately rich,
and a year or so afterwards gave a grand ball for his daughter. The day
before the ball an old and not bright friend called, and found Miss Barbara
sewing a white satin frock and the tears dropping from her eyes. She
pressed her hand in sympathy, and said she felt as badly as she did to see
her making when she ought to be wearing, the frock; but Miss Barbara sat up
straight and said, "It is not that; I like the work, but what do you think!
Timothy Murran (the overseer) has had the impudence to send us an
invitation!" Isn't this a dear story, Mamma, and should not we have loved
and honoured those old ladies?

But Mrs. Van B.-C. says the modern people in New York would not in the
least understand this subtle pride, and would only think them old fools,
and she added--"which they probably were!"

She says we are not to judge of American men by most of those we have seen
in New York as yet; that there are a section of elderly, refined and
cultivated gentlemen, no longer interested in trade now, who were
contemporaries of her daughter (the beautiful Duchesse de Ville Tranche,
who died so tragically). She wants us to meet them.

But Octavia and I both told her we liked those we had seen very much
indeed; they were so kind, only not naughty like Englishmen. And she had
such a look in her eye as she said, "That is just it, my dear, and it makes
all the difference."

You see, Mamma, I am not telling you of any of the people we know in
England, because as I said before they are just like us, and not
interesting in consequence. Octavia and I feel we want to see quite others,
and next week perhaps we start for the West.

Heavens! The mail is going. I must stop!

Fondest love to my angels,

Your affectionate daughter,
ELIZABETH

LATOUR COURT, LONG ISLAND

LATOUR COURT, LONG ISLAND,
_Saturday._

Dearest Mamma,--We are here for Sunday, but first I must tell you of the
day "down town." We went with one of the interesting business men we have
met lately, and we seemed to moto