“Is it a good deal?” said I, simply; for, after all, five hundred dollars did not seem such an Arabian fortune.

“Yes, Del, a good deal.  Whichever way it is decided, it will make my fortune.  And now—­the other thing.  You are sure you are very calm, and all this won’t make you sleepless?”

“Oh, no!  I am calm as a clock.”

“Well, then,—­your Aunt Allen is dead.”

“Dead!  Is she?  Did she leave us all her money?”

“Why, no, you little cormorant.  She has left it all about:  Legacies, and Antioch College, and Destitute Societies.  But I believe you have some clothes left to you and Laura.  Any way, the will is in there, in the library:  Mr. Drake had a copy of it.  And the best of all is, I am to be the executor, which is enough better than residuary legatee.”

“It is very strange!” said I, thinking of the multitude of old gowns I should have to alter over.

“Yes, it is, indeed, very strange.  One of the strangest things about the matter is, that my good friend Solitude was so taken with ’my queer name,’ as he calls it, that he ‘took a fancy to me out of hand.’  To be sure, he listened through my argument in the Shore case, and that may have helped his opinion of me as a lawyer.—­Here comes Laura.  Who would have thought it was one o’clock?”

And who would have thought that my little ugly chrysalis of troubles would have turned out such beautiful butterflies of blessings?

* * * * *

MARION DALE.

  Marion Dale, I remember you once,
  In the days when you blushed like a rose half-blown,
  Long ere that wealthy respectable dunce
  Sponged up your beautiful name in his own.

  I remember you, Marion Dale,
  Artless and cordial and modest and sweet: 
  You never walked in that glittering mail
  That covers you now from your head to your feet.

  Well I remember your welcoming smile,
  When Alice and Annie and Edward and I
  Came over to see you;—­you lived but a mile
  From my uncle’s old house, and the grove that stood nigh.

  I was no lover of yours, (pray, excuse me!)—­
  Our minds were different in texture and hue: 
  I never gave you a chance to refuse me;
  Already I loved one less changeful than you.

  Still it was ever a pride and a pleasure
  Just to be near you,—­the Rose of our vale. 
  Often I thought, “Who will own such a treasure? 
  Who win the rich love of our Marion Dale?”

  I wonder now if you ever remember,
  Ever sigh over fifteen years ago,—­
  Whether your June is all turned to December,—­
  Whether your life now is happy or no.

  Gone are those winters of chats and of dances! 
  Gone are those summers of picnics and rides! 
  Gone the aroma of life’s young romances! 
  Gone the swift flow of our passionate tides!