the rich furniture. A bright fire glowed in
the marble grate, and in the genial atmosphere of her own creating,
young Mrs. Edson moved, a thing of grace and beauty. She wore a robe of
emerald Genoa velvet, with an open bodice, laced over a chemisette of
fine-wrought Mechlin lace. Broad, drooping Pagoda sleeves revealed her
white arms encircled by quaintly-fashioned jet bracelets. Her guests
were not numerous, but select. Col. Malcome and his family were most
prominent among the number. Florence Howard was there, attended by
Rufus, and Edgar Lindenwood in company with Edith. Jenny Andrews, with
no less a personage than our quondam, roguish friend, Dick Giblet,
shop-boy of Mr. Salsify Mumbles' grocery; now Mr. Richard Giblet, of the
firm of Edson, Giblet & Co. A very respectable appearance Dick made,
too, for he was a quick, sprightly young fellow, albeit somewhat
over-fond of a mischievous joke; but this he would outgrow in time
probably. Amy Seaton, sedate and modest as ever, with laughing Charlie
for her beau, and several others, among whom we might mention Miss
Martha Pinkerton, made up the little party.

Edith looked fragile and sweet as ever in a dress of azure thibet cloth,
her light hair hanging in clusters of wavy curls over her small
shoulders. She leaned gracefully on the arm of Lindenwood, and looked in
his face with a gentle, artless expression of countenance.

Florence, in her crimson cashmere, and dark, massy ringlets, looked a
shade paler than when we last saw her, but more queenly and brilliant,
if possible.

There were many points of resemblance between her and Louise Edson. Both
were endowed with superior mental and intellectual powers; both
accomplished and beautiful; but there was at times a gentleness in
Florence's manner, a dreamy light in the far depths of her large, hazel
eyes, that indicated less firmness and strength of character, with
tenderer susceptibilities. Perhaps life's trials would sooner unnerve
her spirit.

Mr. Edson was not present, nor was it necessary he should be, to enhance
the enjoyment of his gifted wife. He was, in fact, very much the same
sort of an appendage in his elegant mansion that Mrs. Pimble averred her
husband to be in his,--"a mere crank to keep the machine in motion." Not
that Mrs. Edson monopolized her husband's sphere, as did the masculine
Mrs. Pimble. By no means. She appeared to give her lord full sway and
sceptre in his own household, and the good-natured ma