always been our boast, though, like President
Jackson's, our coat-of-arms is nothing but 'a pair of shirt-sleeves.'"

From Debby's eyes there shot a bright glance of admiration for the young
man who could look two comely women in the face and serenely own that he
was poor. Mrs. Carroll tried to appear at ease, and, gliding out of
personalities, expatiated on the comfort of "living in a land where fame
and fortune were attainable by all who chose to earn them," and the
contempt she felt for those "who had no sympathy with the humbler
classes, no interest in the welfare of the race," and many more moral
reflections as new and original as the Multiplication-Table or the
Westminster Catechism. To all of which Mr. Evan listened with polite
deference, though there was something in the keen intelligence of his
eye that made Debby blush for shallow Aunt Pen, and rejoice when the
good lady got out of her depth and seized upon a new subject as a
drowning mariner would a hen-coop.

"Dora, Mr. Ellenborough is coming this way; you have danced with him but
once, and he is a very desirable partner; so, pray, accept, if he asks
you," said Mrs. Carroll, watching a far-off individual who seemed
steering his zigzag course toward them.

"I never intend to dance with Mr. Ellenborough again, so please don't
urge me, Aunt Pen"; and Debby knit her brows with a somewhat irate
expression.

"My love, you astonish me! He is a most agreeable and accomplished young
man,--spent three years in Paris, moves in the first circles, and is
considered an ornament to fashionable society. What _can_ be your
objection, Dora?" cried Mrs. Carroll, looking as alarmed as if her niece
had suddenly announced her belief in the Koran.

"One of his accomplishments consists in drinking Champagne till he is
not a 'desirable partner' for any young lady with a prejudice in favor
of decency. His moving in 'circles' is just what I complain of; and if
he is an ornament, I prefer my society undecorated. Aunt Pen, I cannot
make the nice distinctions you would have me, and a sot in broadcloth is
as odious as one in rags. Forgive me, but I cannot dance with that
silver-labelled decanter again."

Debby was a genuine little piece of womanhood; and though she tried to
speak lightly, her color deepened, as she remembered looks that had
wounded her like insults, and her indignant eyes silenced the excuses
rising to her aunt's lips. Mrs. Carroll began to rue the hour she ever
u