“Do you know, John, at the prices that Mrs. Atkins asks, you will have to pay more than for all your family service together?  What we have this week would be twenty dollars, at the least computation; and it is worth it too,—­the work of getting up is so elaborate.”

John opened his eyes, and looked grave.  Like all stable New-England families, the Seymours, while they practised the broadest liberality, had instincts of great sobriety in expense.  Needless profusion shocked them as out of taste; and a quiet and decent reticence in matters of self-indulgence was habitual with them.

Such a price for the fine linen of his little angel rather staggered him; but he gulped it down.

“Well, well, Oracle,” he said, “cost what it may, she must have it as she likes it.  The little creature, you see, has never been accustomed to calculate or reflect in these matters; and it is trial enough to come down to our stupid way of living,—­so different, you know, from the gay life she has been leading.”

Miss Seymour’s saintship was somewhat rudely tested by this remark.  That anybody should think it a sacrifice to be John’s wife, and a trial to accept the homestead at Springdale, with all its tranquillity and comforts,—­that John, under her influence, should speak of the Springdale life as stupid,—­was a little drop too much in her cup.  A bright streak appeared in either cheek, as she said,—­

“Well, John, I never knew you found Springdale stupid before.  I’m sure, we have been happy here,”—­and her voice quavered.

“Pshaw, Gracie! you know what I mean.  I don’t mean that I find it stupid.  I don’t like the kind of rattle-brained life we’ve been leading this six weeks.  But, then, it just suits Lillie; and it’s so sweet and patient of her to come here and give it all up, and say not a word of regret; and then, you see, I shall be just up to my ears in business now, and can’t give up all my time to her, as I have.  There’s ever so much law business coming on, and all the factory matters at Spindlewood; and I can see that Lillie will have rather a hard time of it.  You must devote yourself to her, Gracie, like a dear, good soul, as you always were, and try to get her interested in our kind of life.  Of course, all our set will call, and that will be something; and then—­there will be some invitations out.”

“Oh, yes, John! we’ll manage it,” said Grace, who had by this time swallowed her anger, and shouldered her cross once more with a womanly perseverance.  “Oh, yes! the Fergusons, and the Wilcoxes, and the Lennoxes, will all call; and we shall have picnics, and lawn teas, and musicals, and parties.”

“Yes, yes, I see,” said John.  “Gracie, isn’t she a dear little thing?  Didn’t she look cunning in that white wrapper this morning?  How do women do those things, I wonder?” said John.  “Don’t you think her manners are lovely?”

“They are very sweet, and she is charmingly pretty,” said Grace; “and I love her dearly.”