e had lost a dear friend.

Two other poets, sisters, Alice and Ph[oe]be Cary, came to New York, and
held receptions that were quite famous as time went on. To be sure,
there was the old name of blue-stocking applied to them now and then;
for people, women especially, were taking a wider interest in other
affairs beside literature, prefiguring the new woman. Miss Delia Whitney
was very much interested. They were not quite up to clubs in those days,
or she would have been a charter-member.

But the child Hanny had enough to do to study her lessons, practise her
music, and make her visits, with a little sewing in between. She did
make her father a set of shirts; but underclothing of all kinds was
being manufactured; and though the older-fashioned women sneered at it,
as rather poor stuff, the men seemed to like it. At gentlemen's
furnishing stores, you could buy shirts cut and made in the latest
style, the neckbands of which always seemed to fit, or else the men
discreetly refrained from grumbling when they had spent so much money.
And women began to find it eased their burdens.

No one wanted home-knit stockings, the English and French and Germans
sent us such perfect ones. White was still all the style, unless you
wore black, or blossom-coloured silk. Of course there were common people
who put slate-colour on their children, because white made so much
washing. And as for pantalets, there were none left.

There were other people called away beside poets, and changes made in
families. Grandmother Underhill went to the country wherein the faithful
abide, and Aunt Katrina. Grandmother Van Kortlandt came to make her home
with her daughter. Aunt Crete and Cousin Joanna Morgan, and here and
there some of the old people, as well as the young, passed over the
narrow river.

But there seemed new babies all around. Dolly and Margaret had little
sons, and Cleanthe a daughter. John was quite jealous of Hanny's notice;
for his little girl was fair, and had light hair, and they were quite
sure it looked like her. John wanted to call her Hannah Ann.

"Oh, no," said Hanny; "there are so many beautiful names now!" Then she
laughed. "I shall not promise her a hundred dollars, nor my string of
gold beads. I am not sorry, for I have loved both grandmothers; and one
is gone--"

"Why don't we name her after _her_ grandmothers?" exclaimed Cleanthe.
"One of hers is gone," and she sighed. "It seems such a long name for a
wee baby."

"Ma