“Oh! what’s your good news, Laura?”

“Ariana Cooper and Geraldine Parker are both married,—­both on the same day, at Grace Church, New York.”

“Is it possible?  Who told you?  How do you know?”

“I read it in the ‘Evening Post,’ just before I came up-stairs.  Now guess,—­guess a month, Del, and you won’t guess whom they have married.”

“No use to guess.  They’ve found somebody in New York at their aunt’s, I suppose.  Both so pretty and rich, they were likely to find good partis.”

“Merchants both, I think.  Now do guess!”

“How can I?  Herbert Clark, maybe,—­or Captain Ellington?  No, of course not.  A merchant?  Julius Winthrop.  I know Ariana was a great admirer of a military man.  She used to say she would have loved Sidney for his chivalry, and Raleigh for his graceful foppery; and Pembroke Dunkin she admired for both.  It isn’t Pembroke?”

And here I sighed over and over, like a foolish virgin.

“Now, then, listen.  Here it is in the paper,” said Laura.

“’Married, at Grace Church, by the Rev. So-and-So, assisted, etc., etc., Ossian Smutt, Esq., of the firm of S. Hamilton & Company, to Ariana, eldest daughter of the late George S. Cooper.  At the same place, and day, Hon. Unity Smith, M.C., to Geraldine Miranda, daughter of the late Russell Parker of Pine Lodge.  The happy quartette have left in the Persia for a tour in Europe.  We wish them joy.’”

“Ugh!  Laura! goodness! well, that outdoes me,” I screamed, with a sudden sense of relief, that set me laughing as passionately as I had been crying.  For, though I have not before owned it, I had been crying heartily.

The Balm of a Thousand Flowers descended on my lacerated heart.  To say the truth, I had dreaded more Ariana’s little shrug, and Geraldine Parker’s upraised eyebrows, on reading my marriage, than a whole life of that name, on my own account merely.  But now, thank Heaven, so much trouble was out of my way.  Mrs. Unity Smith, and Mrs. Orlando—­no, Ossian Smutt, could by no possibility laugh at me.  Mrs. A. Sampson wasn’t bad on a card.  It would not smut one, anyhow.  I laughed grimly, and composed myself to sleep.

The next morning had come the pleasant letter from my Albany aunt, with the fifty-dollar note.  Laura continued rocking, fifty strokes a minute, and stitching at the rate of sixty.  I held the note idly, rubbing up my imagination for things new and old.  Laura, being industrious, was virtuously employing her thoughts.  As idleness brings mischief, and riches anxiety, I did not rock long without evil consequences.  Eve herself was not contented in Eden.  She had to do all the cooking, for one thing,—­and angels always happening in to dinner!  For my part, the name of Adam would have been enough to spoil my pleasure.  Here Laura interrupted my thoughts, which were running headlong into everything wicked.