roundings like clear blue
water deeply shaded by shrubbery around its edges. Her manners were a
little shy, for her parents had wisely forborne an early introduction
to society. But she entered pleasantly enough into some small talk
with Fitzgerald about the skating parties of the winter, and a new
polka that he thought she would like to practise.

Callers began to arrive rapidly. There was a line of carriages at
the door, and still it lengthened. Mrs. King received them all with
graceful courtesy, and endeavored to say something pleasing to each;
but in the midst of it all, she never lost sight of Gerald and
Eulalia. After a short time she beckoned to her daughter with a slight
motion of her fan, and spoke a few words to her aside. The young
girl left the room, and did not return to it. Fitzgerald, after
interchanging some brief remarks with Mr. King about the classes at
Cambridge, approached the _cantatrice_, and said in lowered tones:
"I tried to call early with the hope of hearing you sing. But I was
detained by business for grandfather; and even if you were graciously
inclined to gratify my presumptuous wish, you will not be released
from company this morning. May I say, _Au revoir_?"

"Certainly," she replied, looking up at him with an expression in her
beautiful eyes that produced a glow of gratified vanity. He bowed good
morning, with the smiling conviction that he was a great favorite with
the distinguished lady.

When the last caller had retired, Mrs. King, after exchanging some
general observations with her husband concerning her impressions of
Boston and its people, seated herself at the window, with a number of
Harper's Weekly in her hand; but the paper soon dropped on her lap,
and she seemed gazing into infinity. The people passing and repassing
were invisible to her. She was away in that lonely island home, with
two dark-haired babies lying near her, side by side.

Her husband looked at her over his newspaper, now and then; and
observing her intense abstraction, he stepped softly across the room,
and, laying his hand gently upon her head, said: "Rosa, dear, do
memories trouble you so much that you regret having returned to
America?"

Without change of posture, she answered: "It matters not where we
are. We must always carry ourselves with us." Then, as if reproaching
herself for so cold a response to his kind inquiry, she looked up at
him, and, kissing his hand, said: "Dear Alfred! Good angel of my