sewing stand, for the triple purpose of confusing her zephyrs, flirting
at a side table, and ascertaining whether Henrietta had fulfilled the
luxuriant promise of her earlier youth. Snowe was, womanly speaking, as
you will see, 'a perfect love of a man.' 'Newport, for example, and
charming drives? Williamsport and the Susquehanna, Miss Fanny?'

Very statesmanly, O Landon G. Snowe, Esq., both the glance beneath which
my poor little sister's eyes fell, and the allusions twain to the scenes
of many a pleasure past. But Fanny, though not mistress of her blushes,
can, at least, control her words.

'You are not a very good Oedipus, Mr. Snowe; we were discussing
imports.'

'Such as laces and silks?'--

'And punch,' suggested Henrietta.

Mr. Snowe's eyeglass was here freshly adjusted, and his attention
bestowed upon the young lady who talked of punch, a thing unheard of in
society! The prospect was refreshing. Henrietta was stylish, piquant,
and pretty. Fanny was uncertain, indifferent, but, for the moment,
divine. He magnanimously sacrificed himself to the impulse of the
moment, and the courtesies of hospitality, and walked courageously over
to Henrietta, under cover of a huge book.

'They were views from the White Mountains, he believed. Had Miss Ruyter
seen them? Allow him;' and he wheeled her sofa nearer the table, and
unfurled the book. Henrietta was charmed.

'The Schwartz Mountains? She had not understood. These are glaciers? How
they glisten! And these little flowers below are violets? Such pretty,
modest, ladylike flowers. Had Mr. Snowe a favorite among flowers?'

Mr. Snowe was prepared. He had answered the question exactly five
hundred and ten times. To Cecilia Lanner, who was almost a _religieuse_,
and who wore her diamond cross from principle, he was the very poet of a
passion flower, such holy mysteries as its opening petals disclosed to
him! To Lucy Grey, who wore pensive curls, and had a sweet voice, he
presented constantly fragrant little sprays of mignonette, cunning moss
baskets with a suspicion of heliotrope peeping out, and crushed myrtle
blossoms between the leaves of her most exquisitely bound books. To Katy
Lessing, who rowed a small green boat somewhere up the Hudson in the
summer, he confided the fact that water lilies were his admiration: he
loved the limpid water; its restless waves were like heart throbbings
(this nearly overwhelmed poor Katy). All great and noble souls loved the
water;--he