nstructed."

"One might, and get no harm," said the sister softly; but Tom flung out
of the room. "Mamma, it is serious."

"Do you think so?" asked the elder lady, now thrusting aside all her
papers.

"I am sure of it. And if we do not do something--we shall all be sorry
for it."

"What is this girl, Julia? Is she pretty?"

Julia hesitated. "Yes," she said. "I suppose the men would call her so."

"You don't?"

"Well, yes, mamma; she is pretty, handsome, in a way; though she has
not the least bit of style; not the least bit! She is rather peculiar;
and I suppose with the men that is one of her attractions."

"Peculiar how?" said the mother, looking anxious.

"I cannot tell; it is indefinable. And yet it is very marked. Just that
want of style makes her peculiar."

"Awkward?"

"No."

"Not awkward. How then? Shy?"

"No."

"How then, Julia? What is she like?"

"It is hard to tell in words what people are like. She is plainly
dressed, but not badly; Mrs. Wishart would see to that; so it isn't
exactly her dress that makes her want of style. She has a very good
figure; uncommonly good. Then she has most beautiful hair, mamma; a
full head of bright brown hair, that would be auburn if it were a shade
or two darker; and it is somewhat wavy and curly, and heaps itself
around her head in a way that is like a picture. She don't dress it in
the fashion; I don't believe there is a hairpin in it, and I am sure
there isn't a cushion, or anything; only this bright brown hair puffing
and waving and curling itself together in some inexplicable way, that
would be very pretty if it were not so altogether out of the way that
everybody else wears. Then there _is_ a sweet, pretty face under it;
but you can see at the first look that she was never born or brought up
in New York or any other city, and knows just nothing about the world."

"Dangerous!" said the mother, knitting her brows.

"Yes; for just that sort of thing is taking to the men; and they don't
look any further. And Tom above all. I tell you, he is smitten, mamma.
And he goes to Mrs. Wishart's with a regularity which is appalling."

"Tom takes things hard, too," said the mother.

"Foolish boy!" was the sister's comment.

"What can be done?"

"I'll tell you, mamma. I've been thinking. Your health will never stand
the March winds in New York. You must go somewhere."

"Where?"

"Florida, for instance?"

"I should like it very well."

"It would be bett