widowed sister-in-law, who had come to spend a few months with her late husband's family. The widow no longer wore the roses of youth, but was yet on friendly terms with Time; indeed, so quietly had their annual settlements passed off, that it would have puzzled any one not in their confidence to tell how the account stood. The simplicity of her dress, the chastened look, and the sobriety of phrase, of which her recent affliction was the cause, might have hinted at thirty-five; but when her clear, placid eye was turned upon you, and you saw the delicate flush deepening or vanishing upon a smooth cheek, and noted the changeful expression that hovered like a spiritual presence around her mouth, it would have been treason to think of a day beyond twenty. She had known but little of Marcia, and that little had shown her only as a lover of dress and of admiration, besides being capricious to a degree unusual even in a spoiled favorite.
A musical soirée was under consideration. Marcia was a proficient upon the harp and piano, and, as she had heard that Mr. Greenleaf, the handsome painter, as she called him, was a fine singer, she determined to practise some operatic duets with him, that should move all her musical friends to envy.
"You seem to have taken a strong liking to this Mr. Greenleaf, Marcia."
"Yes, Lydia," replied the beauty, "I do like him, exceedingly,—what I have seen of him. He will do—for a month or so. People are frequently quite charming at first, like fresh bouquets,—but dull and tame enough when the dew is off."
"But you can't have a new admirer, as you have fresh flowers, every day."
"That's true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true."
"What a female Bluebeard you are!"
"Wouldn't you, now, like to meet some new, delightful person every day? Consider how prosaic a man is, after you know all about him."
"I always find something new in a man really worth knowing."
"Do you? I wish I could. I always look them through as I used to my toys. I never cared for my 'crying babies,' after I found out what made them squeak."
"I am afraid the comparison will hold out farther than you intended. You were never satisfied with your toys until you had not only explored their machinery, but smashed them into the bargain."
"But men stand it better than toys. If they get smashed, as you say, they heal wonderfully. I sometimes think, that, like lobsters, they can repair their injuries by new growths,—fresh claws, and fins, and feelers."
"Complimentary, truly! but I notice that you don't speak of vital organs."
"Hearts, you mean, I suppose. That is an obsolete idea,—a relic of superstition."
"But how many of these broken idols have you thrown aside, Marcia? Have you kept account?"
"Dear me! no! Why should I?"
"It would be interesting, I think, to a student of social statistics, to know how many engagements there are to one marriage, how many offers to one engagement, how many flirtations to one offer, and how many tender advances to one flirtation."
"Oh, Lydia! Love and Arithmetic! they never went together. I leave all calculations to my wise and busy brother. I like to wander like a hummingbird, that keeps no account of the flowercups it has sipped out of."
"Let us reckon. I can help you, perhaps. I have heard you talk of half a dozen. There is Colonel Langford,—one."
"Handsome, proud, and shallow. Let him go!"
"There is Lieutenant Allen,—two."
"Fierce, impatient, and exacting. He can go also. I had as lief be loved by a lion."
"Next is Mr. Lanman,—three."
"Wily, plausible, passionate, and treacherous. He is only a cat in a new sphere of existence."
