So we cared for ourselves, Alice and I, through those merry, thoughtless two years that followed,—­merry (not happy) in our Fourth-Street promenades, our Saturday-afternoon assignations at the dancing-school rooms, our parties and picnics; and merry still, but thoughtless always, in our eager search for excitement in the novels, whose perusal was our only literary enjoyment.

Somehow we woke up,—­somehow we groped our way out of our frivolity.  First came weariness, then impatience, and last a passing-away of all things old and a putting-on of things new.

I remember well the day when Alice first spoke out her unrest.  My pretty Alice!  I see her now, as she flung herself across the foot of the bed, and, her chin on her hand, watched me combing and parting my hair.  I see again those soft, dark brown eyes, so deep in their liquid beauty that you lost yourself gazing down into them; again I see falling around her that wealth of auburn hair of the true Titian color, the smooth, low forehead, and the ripe, red lips, whose mobility lent such varying expression to her face.

At that moment the eyes drooped and the lips trembled with weariness.

“Must we go to that tiresome party, Kate?  We have been to three this week; they are all alike.”

I looked at her.  “Are you in earnest? will you stay at home?  I know I shall be tired to death; but what will Laura C. say? what will all the girls think?”

Alice raised herself on her elbow.  “Kate, I don’t believe it is any matter what they think.  Do we really care for any of them, except to wish them well? and we can wish them well without being with them all the time.  Do you know, Kate, I have been tired to death of all this for these three months?  It was very well at first, when we first left school; parties were pleasant enough then, but now”—­and Alice sprang from the bed and seated herself in a low chair at my feet, as, glowing and eager, she went on, her face lighting with her rapid speech,—­“Kate, I have thought it over and over again, this tiresome, useless life; it wears me out, and I mean to change it.  You know we may do just as we please; neither papa nor mamma will care.  I shall stay at home.”

“But what will people say?” I put in, feebly.

Alice’s eyes flashed.  “You know, Kate, I don’t care for ‘people,’ as you call them.  I only know that I am utterly weary of this petty visiting and gossiping, this round of parties, concerts, and lectures, where we meet the same faces.  There is no harm in it that I know of, but it is simply so stupid.  If we met new people, it would be something; but the same girls, the same beaux.”

“And George W. and Henry B., what will they do for partners to-night? what will become of them?”

Alice put up her lip.  “They will console themselves with Laura C. and those Kentucky girls from Louisville.  For my part, I shall put on my walking-dress, and go over the river to spend the evening with Uncle John, and, what is more, I shall ask mamma to let me stay two or three days.”  And, suiting the action to the word, she began to dress hurriedly.