."

"Yes," responded Mrs. Delano, "it might have saved him the trouble of
going to Arabia Petraea or Damascus, in search of something new. What
do you think about accepting Mr. Bright's offer?" "O, I hope we shall
go, Mamita. The children would be delighted with him. If Alfred had
been here this morning, he would have exclaimed, 'Isn't he jolly?'"

"I think things must go cheerfully where such a sunflower spirit
presides," responded Mrs. Delano. "And he is certainly sufficiently
_au naturel_ to suit you and Florimond."

"Yes, he bubbles over," rejoined Flora. "It isn't the fashion; but I
like folks that bubble over."

Mrs. Delano smiled as she answered: "So do I. And perhaps you can
guess who it was that made me in love with bubbling over?"

Flora gave a knowing smile, and dotted one of her comic little
courtesies. "I don't see what makes you and Florimond like me so
well," said she. "I'm sure I'm neither wise nor witty."

"But something better than either," replied Mamita.

The vivacious little woman said truly that she was neither very wise
nor very witty; but she was a transparent medium of sunshine; and the
commonest glass, filled with sunbeams, becomes prismatic as a diamond.

CHAPTER XXV.

Mrs. Green's ball was _the_ party of the season. Five hundred
invitations were sent out, all of them to people unexceptionable for
wealth, or fashion, or some sort of high distinction, political,
literary, or artistic. Smith had received _carte blanche_ to prepare
the most luxurious and elegant supper possible. Mrs. Green was
resplendent with diamonds; and the house was so brilliantly
illuminated, that the windows of carriages traversing that part of
Beacon Street glittered as if touched by the noonday sun. A crowd
collected on the Common, listening to the band of music, and watching
the windows of the princely mansion, to obtain glimpses through its
lace curtains of graceful figures revolving in the dance, like a
vision of fairy-land seen through a veil of mist.

In that brilliant assemblage, Mrs. King was the centre of attraction.
She was still a Rose Royal, as Gerald Fitzgerald had called her
twenty-three years before. A very close observer would have noticed
that time had slightly touched her head; but the general effect of
the wavy hair was as dark and glossy as ever. She had grown somewhat
stouter, but that only rendered her tall figure more majestic. It
still seemed as if the fluid Art, whose harmonies