The Widow paused; lifted a flimsy handkerchief with a very deep black border so as to play the jet bracelet; pushed the tip of her slender foot beyond the lowest of her black flounces; looked up; looked down; looked at Mr. Richard, the very picture of artless simplicity,—­as represented in well-played genteel comedy.

“A good bit of stuff,” Dick said to himself,—­“and something of it left yet; caramba!” The Major had not studied points for nothing, and the Widow was one of the right sort.  The young man had been a little restless of late, and was willing to vary his routine by picking up an acquaintance here and there.  So he took the Widow’s hint.  He should like to have a scamper of half a dozen miles with her some fine morning.

The Widow was infinitely obliged; was not sure that she could find any horse in the village to suit her; but it was so kind in him!  Would he not call at Hyacinth Cottage, and let her thank him again there?

Thus began an acquaintance which the Widow made the most of, and on the strength of which she determined to give a tea-party and invite a number of persons of whom we know something already.  She took a half-sheet of note-paper and made out her list as carefully as a country “merchant’s” “clerk” adds up two and threepence (New-England nomenclature) and twelve and a half cents, figure by figure, and fraction by fraction, before he can be sure they will make half a dollar, without cheating somebody.  After much consideration the list reduced itself to the following names:  Mr. Richard Venner and Mrs. Blanche Creamer, the lady at whose house she had met him,—­mansion-house breed,—­but will come,—­soft on Dick; Dudley Venner,—­take care of him herself; Elsie,—­Dick will see to her,—­won’t it fidget the Creamer woman to see him round her? the old Doctor,—­he’s always handy; and there’s that young master there, up at the school,—­know him well enough to ask him,—­oh, yes, he’ll come.  One, two, three, four, five, six,—­seven; not room enough, without the leaf in the table; one place empty, if the leaf’s in.  Let’s see,—­Helen Darley,—­she’ll do well enough to fill it up,—­why, yes, just the thing,—­light brown hair, blue eyes,—­won’t my pattern show off well against her?  Put her down,—­she’s worth her tea and toast ten times over,—­nobody knows what a “thunder-and-lightning woman,” as poor Major used to have it, is, till she gets alongside of one of those old-maidish girls, with hair the color of brown sugar, and eyes like the blue of a teacup.

The Widow smiled with a feeling of triumph at having overcome her difficulties and arranged her party,—­arose and stood before her glass, three-quarters front, one-quarter profile, so as to show the whites of the eyes and the down of the upper lip.  “Splendid!” said the Widow, —­and to tell the truth, she was not far out of the way, and with Helen Darley as a foil anybody would know she must be foudroyant and pyramidal,—­if these French adjectives may be naturalized for this one particular exigency.