"Oh, aunty, mattings are so cheap; and those pictures didn't cost much, and they make Mary so happy!" "Oh, she'd be happy enough any way. You ought to look out a little for yourself, child." "Well, I do. Now, just look at the expense of going to parties. To begin with, it annihilates all your dresses at one fell swoop. If I make up my mind, for instance, not to go to parties this winter I have dresses enough and pretty enough for all my occasions. The minute I decide I must go, I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to wear. There must be an immediate outlay. A hundred dollars would be a small estimate for all the additions necessary to make me appear with credit. Even if I take my old dresses as the foundation, and use my unparalleled good taste, there are trimmings, and dressmakers' bills, and gloves, and slippers, and fifty things; and then a carriage for the evening, at five dollars a night, and all for what? What does anybody get at a great buzzing party to pay for all this? Then Harry has to use all his time, and all his nerves, and all his strength on his work. He is driven hard all the time with writing, making up the paper, and overseeing at the office. And you know parties don't begin till near ten o'clock, and if he is out till twelve he doesn't rest well, nor I either-it's just so much taken out of our life—and we don't either of us enjoy it. Now, why should we put out our wood fire that we do enjoy, and scrimp in our flowers, and scrimp in our home comforts, and in our servant's comforts, just to get what we don't want after all?” "Oh, well, I suppose you are like other new-married folks, you want to play Darby and Joan in your chimney-corner," said Aunt Maria; but for all that, I think there are duties to society. One cannot go out of the world, you know; it don't do, Eva." 66 it." 66 "I don't know about that," said Eva. "We are going to try "What! living without society ?" "Oh, as to that, we shall see our friends other ways. I can see Sophie a great deal better in a quiet morning-call than an evening reception; for the fact is, whoever else you see at a party, you don't see your hostess-she hasn't a word for you. Then, I'm going to have an evening here." "You an evening ?" "Yes; why not? See if I don't. And we'll have good times too." Why, who do you propose to invite ?" "Oh, all our folks, and Bolton and Jim Fellows; then there are a good many interesting, intelligent men that write for the maga zine, and besides our acquaintances on this street." "In this street? Why, there isn't a creature here," said Aunt Maria. Yes, there are those old ladies across the way." "What! old Miss Dorcas Vanderheyden and that Mrs. Benthusen? Well, they belong to an ancient New York family, to be sure; but they are old as Methusaleh." "So much the better, aunty. Old things, you know, are all the rage just now; and then there's my little Quaker neighbour." "Why, how odd! They are nice enough, I suppose, and well enough to have for neighbours; but he's nothing but a watchmaker. He actually works for Tiffany!" "Yes, but he is a very modest, intelligent young man, and very well informed on certain subjects. Harry says he has learned a great deal from him.” “Well, well, child, I suppose you must take your own way," said Aunt Maria. "I suppose we must," said Eva, shaking her head with much gravity. "You see, aunty dear, a wife must accommodate herself to her husband, and if Harry thinks this is the best way, you know-and he does think so very strongly-and isn't it lucky that I think just as he does? You wouldn't have me fall in with those strong-minded Bloomer women, would you, and sail the ship on my own account, independently of my husband?" Now, the merest allusion to modern strong-mindedness in woman was to Aunt Maria like a red rag to a bull-it aroused all her combativeness. "No; I am sure I wouldn't," she said, with emphasis. "If there's anything, Eva, where I see the use of all my instructions to you, it is the good sense with which you resist all such new-fangled, abominable notions about the rights and sphere of women. No; I've always said that the head of the woman is the man; and it's a wife's duty to live to please her husband. She may try to influence him-she ought to do that—but she never ought to do it openly. I never used to oppose Mr. Wouvermans. I was always careful to let him suppose he was having his own way; but I generally managed to get mine," and Aunt Maria plumed herself and nodded archly, as an aged priestess who is communicating to a young neophite secrets of wisdom. In her own private mind Eva thought this the most terrible sort of hypocrisy; but her aunt was so settled and contented in all her own practical views that there was not the least use in arguing the case. However she could not held saying, innocently, "But, aunty, I should be afraid sometimes he would have found me out, and then he'd be angry." "Oh, no; trust me for that," said Aunt Maria, complacently. "I never managed so bunglingly as that. Somehow or other, he didn't exactly know how, he found things coming round my way; but I never opposed him openly-I never got his back up. You see, Eva, these men, if they do get their backs up, are terrible, but any of them can be led by the nose-so I'm glad to find that you begin the right way. Now, there's your mother-I've been telling her this morning that it's her duty to make your father go back into business and retrieve his fortunes. He's got a good position, to be sure-a respectable salary; but there's no sort of reason why he shouldn't die worth his two or three millions as well as half the other men who fail, and are up again in two or three years. But Nellie wants force. She is no manager. If I were your father's wife, I should set him on his feet again pretty soon. Nellie is such a little dependent body. She was saying this morning how would she ever have got along with her family without me! But there are some things that even I can't do-nobody but a wife could, and Nellie isn't up to it." "Poor dear little mamma," said Eva. "But are you quite sure, Aunt Maria, that her ways are not better adapted to papa than any one's else could be? Papa is very positive, though so very quiet. He is devoted to mamma. Then, again, aunty, there is a good deal of risk in going into speculations and enterprises at papa's age. Of course, you know, I don't know anything about business or that sort of thing; but it seems to me like a great sea, where you are up on the wave to-day and down to-morrow. So if papa really won't go into these things, perhaps it's all for the best." "But, Eva, it is so important now for the girls, poor things, just going into society-for you know they can't keep out of it, even if you do. It will affect all their chances of settlement in life-and that puts me in mind, Eva, something or other must be done about Alice and Jim Fellows. Everybody is saying if they're not engaged, they ought to be." Oh, aunty, how exasperating the world is! Can't a man and woman have a plain, honest friendship? Jim has shown himself a true friend to our family. He came to us just in all the confusion of the failure, and helped us heart and hand in the manliest way—and we all like him. Alice likes him, and I don't wonder at it." 66 Well, are they engaged?" said Aunt Maria, with an air of statistical accuracy. How should I know? I never thought of asking. I'm not a police detective, and I always think that if my friends have anything they want me to know, they'll tell me; and if they don't want me to know, why should I ask them?" 'But, Eva, one is responsible for one's relations. The fact is, such an intimacy stands right in the way of a girl's having good offers-it keeps other parties off. Now, I tell you, as a great secret, there is a very fine man, immensely rich, and every way desirable, who is evidently pleased with Alice." "Dear me, aunty! how you excite my curiosity. Pray who is it?" said Eva. "Well, I'm not at liberty to tell you more particularly; but I know he's thinking about her; and this report about her and Jim would operate very prejudicially. Now, shall I have a talk with Alice, or will you ?" "Oh, aunty dear, don't, for pity's sake, say a word to Alice. Young girls are so sensitive about such things. If it must be talked of, let me talk with Alice." "I really thought, if I had a good chance, I'd say something to the young man himself," said Aunt Maria, reflectively. "Oh, good heavens! Aunty, don't think of it. You don't know Jim Fellows." "Oh, you needn't be afraid of me," said Aunt Maria. "I am a great deal older and more experienced than you, and if I do do anything, you may rest assured it will be in the most discreet way. I've managed cases of this kind before you were born. "But Jim is the most peculiar-—” "Oh, I know all about him. Do you suppose I've seen him in and out in the family all this time without understanding him perfectly?" "But I don't really think that there is the least of anything serious between him and Alice." Very likely. He would not be at all the desirable match for Alice. He has very little property, and is rather a wild, rattling fellow; and I don't like newspaper men generally." "Oh, aunty, that's severe now. You forget Harry." "Oh, well, your husband is an exception; but, as a general rule, I don't like 'em-unprincipled lot, I believe," said Aunt Maria, with a decisive nod of her head. "At any rate, Alice can do better, and she ought to." The ringing of the lunch bell interrupted the conversation, much to the relief of Eva, who discovered with real alarm the course her respected relative's thoughts were taking. Of old she had learned that the only result of arguing a point with her was to make her more set in her own way, and she therefore bent all her forces of agreeableness to produce a diversion of mind to other topics. On the principle that doctors apply mustard to the feet to divert the too abundant blood from the head, Eva started a brisk controversy with Aunt Maria on another topic, in hopes, by exhausting her energies there, to put this out of her mind. With what success her strategy was crowned it will remain to be seen. (To be continued.) SUMMER DAYS. CLEAR and rosy dawnings, stealing o'er the hill, Corn-fields growing golden 'neath the sun's bright ray; L. W. B. CHAPTER XLIII.-ALICE'S DIARY.-LOVE AND MARRIAGE AT THE COURT OF CHARLES II. Winestead, August 24, 1665.-The Lord is visting us in His anger, and truly we are a wicked nation. The cry of so many distressed and persecuted souls must have gone up to heaven itself, to call forth the double scourge of war and pestilence. Never has the plague been so bad as it is this summer, within the memory of any one living. The prisons are full of Nonconformists and Quakers, and such prisons they be that many die there from overcrowding and uncleanliness, before they have even been brought to trial. All the fine promises that were made when the King came to England, have been worse than broken; and many are looking back regretfully to the days of the Commonwealth, who a few years since were nearly mad with joy to see the Monarchy restored. The Court has fled to Salisbury, but nothing can check the pleasure-seeking; for while the poor people are dying in Londonlast week to the number of eight thousand-the extravagance and sin at Court are as shameless as ever. The King has a new favourite, Mistress Stewart, she shares his attentions with Lady Castlemaine, who, however, still preserves her great influence; 'tis said that he visits both ladies before breakfast. The Duke of York also has fallen in love with Mistress Stewart, so that she is much sought after by those who would secure the royal favour. The good people at Hull began to tremble, thinking the plague was about to visit them as well, but by care and prudence it is hoped they may be spared this scourge. Kate and her little son have been with us some months, and now they are gone the house seems lonely, the child's pattering feet and merry laugh made pleasant music all the day. Ralph thinks of making this boy his heir, for he says his title and lands shall not descend to a Papist while he has the power to will them otherwise. My friend Mistress Blagg is at Chelsea, where she has chosen to remain during this awful time, and from which place she can render some help to the sufferers; she writes word that a number of pious people have refused to leave the city, and are, for sweet charity, tending the sick and dying without considering their own lives; many of the ejected ministers have also taken on themselves the charge of parishes from which the timid pastors have fled, and glad are these proscribed ministers to preach, though it be to a plague-stricken flock, and receive no reward for their labours. I am more charmed than ever with my dear friend; though so young she seemeth to have as much experience in |