“At half past ten,” was the brother’s reply.

“Oh!  Edward, Edward!” she exclaimed, “And I dare say he will not be punctual.  He may keep us here till eleven.”

“Courage, mes enfants,” said their mother, “et parlez plus doucement.”

The girl then ushered them into the back parlor, saying, “Here’s the company.”

The room was large and gloomy.  A checquered mat covered the floor, and all the furniture was encased in striped calico covers, and the lamps, mirrors, etc. concealed under green gauze.  The front parlor was entirely dark, and in the back apartment was no other light than a shaded lamp on a large centre table, round which was assembled a circle of children of all sizes and ages.  On a backless, cushionless sofa sat Mrs. Watkinson, and a young lady, whom she introduced as her daughter Jane.  And Mrs. Morland in return presented Edward and Caroline.

“Will you take the rocking-chair, ma’am?” inquired Mrs. Watkinson.

Mrs. Morland declining the offer, the hostess took it herself, and see-sawed on it nearly the whole time.  It was a very awkward, high-legged, crouch-backed rocking-chair, and shamefully unprovided with anything in the form of a footstool.

“My husband is away, at Boston, on business,” said Mrs. Watkinson.  “I thought at first, ma’am, I should not be able to ask you here this evening, for it is not our way to have company in his absence; but my daughter Jane over-persuaded me to send for you.”

“What a pity,” thought Caroline.

“You must take us as you find us, ma’am,” continued Mrs. Watkinson.  “We use no ceremony with anybody; and our rule is never to put ourselves out of the way.  We do not give parties [looking at the dresses of the ladies].  Our first duty is to our children, and we cannot waste our substance on fashion and folly.  They’ll have cause to thank us for it when we die.”

Something like a sob was heard from the centre table, at which the children were sitting, and a boy was seen to hold his handkerchief to his face.

“Joseph, my child,” said his mother, “do not cry.  You have no idea, ma’am, what an extraordinary boy that is.  You see how the bare mention of such a thing as our deaths has overcome him.”

There was another sob behind the handkerchief, and the Morlands thought it now sounded very much like a smothered laugh.

“As I was saying, ma’am,” continued Mrs. Watkinson, “we never give parties.  We leave all sinful things to the vain and foolish.  My daughter Jane has been telling me, that she heard this morning of a party that is going on tonight at the widow St. Leonard’s.  It is only fifteen years since her husband died.  He was carried off with a three days’ illness, but two months after they were married.  I have had a domestic that lived with them at the time, so I know all about it.  And there she is now, living in an elegant house, and riding in her carriage, and dressing and dashing, and giving parties, and enjoying life, as she calls it.  Poor creature, how I pity her!  Thank heaven, nobody that I know goes to her parties.  If they did I would never wish to see them again in my house.  It is an encouragement to folly and nonsense—­and folly and nonsense are sinful.  Do not you think so, ma’am?”