The lady was busy with some crochet-work, when a girl, apparently about twelve years old, came through the half-opened folding-doors, and settled on an ottoman at her feet.  She had large, luminous dark eyes, very deeply fringed, and her cheeks were like ripened peaches.  The dark mass of her wavy hair was gathered behind into what was called a Greek cap, composed of brown network strewn with gold beads.  Here and there very small, thin dark curls strayed from under it, like the tendrils of a delicate vine; and nestling close to each ear was a little dark, downy crescent, which papa called her whisker when he was playfully inclined to excite her juvenile indignation.

“See!” said she.  “This pattern comes all in a tangle.  I have done the stitches wrong.  Will you please to help me, Mamita Lila?”

Mrs. Delano looked up, smiling as she answered, “Let me see what the trouble is, Rosy Posy.”

Mrs. Blumenthal, who was sitting opposite, noticed with artistic eye what a charming contrast of beauty there was between that richly colored young face, with its crown of dark hair, and that pale, refined, symmetrical face, in its frame of silver.  “What a pretty picture I could make, if I had my crayons here,” thought she.  “How gracefully the glossy folds of Mamita’s gray dress fall over Rosa’s crimson merino.”

She was not aware that she herself made quite as charming a picture.  The spirit of laughter still flitted over her face, from eyes to dimples; her shining black curls were lighted up with a rope of cherry-colored chenille, hanging in a tassel at her ear; and her graceful little figure showed to advantage in a neatly fitting dress of soft brown merino, embroidered with cherry-colored silk.  On her lap was little Lila, dressed in white and azure, with her fine flaxen curls tossed about by the motion of riding to “Banbury Cross.”  The child laughed and clapped her hands at every caper; and if her steed rested for a moment, she called out impatiently, “More agin, mamma!”

But mamma was thinking of the picture she wanted to make, and at last she said:  “We sha’n’t get to Banbury Cross to-day, Lila Blumen; so you must fall off your horse, darling, and nursey will take you, while I go to fetch my crayons.”  She had just taken her little pet by the hand to lead her from the room, when the door-bell rang.  “That’s Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said she.  “I know, because she always rings an appoggiatura.  Rosen Blumen, take sissy to the nursery, please.”

While the ladies were interchanging salutations with their visitor, Rosa passed out of the room, leading her little sister by the hand.  “I declare,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “that oldest daughter of yours, Mrs. Blumenthal, bears a striking resemblance to the cantatrice who was turning everybody’s head when I was in Rome.  You missed hearing her, I remember.  Let me see, what was her nomme de guerre?  I forget; but it was something that signified a bell, because there was a peculiar