d guard against lurches and tips. Imogen went about her toilet
well-pleased; and her pleasure was presently increased when she found on
her dressing-table a beautiful bunch of summer roses, with "Mrs.
Geoffrey Templestowe's love and welcome" on a card lying beside it.
Thoughtful Clover had written to Ned Worthington to see to this little
attention, and the pleasure it gave went even farther than she had
hoped.

"I declare," said Imogen, sitting down with the flowers before her, "I
never knew anybody so kind as they all are. I don't feel half so
home-sick as I expected. I must write mamma about these roses. Of course
Mrs. Geoff does it for Isabel's sake; but all the same it is awfully
nice of her, and I shall try not to forget it."

Then, when, after finishing her dressing, she drew the blinds up and
looked from the windows, she gave a cry of sheer pleasure, for there
beneath was spread out a beautiful wide distance of Park with feathery
trees and belts of shrubs, behind which the sun was making ready to set
in a crimson sky. There was a balcony outside the windows, and Imogen
pulled a chair out on it to enjoy the view. Carriages were rolling in at
the Park gates, looking exactly like the equipages one sees in London,
with fat coachmen, glossy horses, and jingling silvered harness. Girls
and young men were cantering along the bridle-paths, and throngs of
well-dressed people filled the walks. Beyond was a fairy lake, where
gondolas shot to and fro; a band was playing; from still farther away
came a peal of chimes from a church tower.

"And this is New York!" thought Imogen. Then her thoughts reverted to
Miss Opdyke and her tale of the Tammany Indians, and she flushed with
sudden vexation.

"What an idiot she must have considered me!" she reflected.

But her insular prejudices revived in full force as a knock was heard,
and a colored boy, entering with a tinkling pitcher, inquired, "Did you
ring for ice-water, lady?"

"No!" said Imogen sharply; "I never drink iced water. I rang for hot
water, but I got it more than an hour ago."

"Beg pardon, lady."

"Why on earth does he call me 'lady'?" she murmured--"so tiresome and
vulgar!"

Then Lionel came for her, and they went down to dinner,--a wonderful
repast, with soups and fishes and vegetables quite unknown to her; a
bewildering succession of meats and entrees, strawberries such as she
had supposed did not grow outside of England, raspberries and currants
such as