Of old, the Seymour family had always been a bulwark on the side of a temperate self-restraint and reticence in worldly indulgence; of a kind that parents find most useful to strengthen their hands when children are urging them on to expenses beyond their means:  for they could say, “The Seymours are richer than we are, and you see they don’t change their carpets, nor get new sofas, nor give extravagant parties; and they give simple, reasonable, quiet entertainments, and do not go into any modern follies.”  So the Seymours kept up the Fergusons, and the Fergusons the Seymours; and the Wilcoxes and the Lennoxes encouraged each other in a style of quiet, reasonable living, saving money for charity, and time for reading and self-cultivation, and by moderation and simplicity keeping up the courage of less wealthy neighbors to hold their own with them.

The John-Seymour party, therefore, was like the bursting of a great dam, which floods a whole region.  There was not a family who had not some trouble with the inundation, even where, like Rose and Letitia Ferguson, they swept it out merrily, and thought no more of it.

“It was all very pretty and pleasant, and I’m glad it went off so well,” said Rose Ferguson the next day; “but I have not the smallest desire to repeat any thing of the kind.  We who live in the country, and have such a world of beautiful things around us every day, and so many charming engagements in riding, walking, and rambling, and so much to do, cannot afford to go into this sort of thing:  we really have not time for it.”

“That pretty creature,” said Mrs. Ferguson, speaking of Lillie, “is really a charming object.  I hope she will settle down now to domestic life.  She will soon find better things to care for, I trust:  a baby would be her best teacher.  I am sure I hope she will have one.”

“A baby is mamma’s infallible recipe for strengthening the character,” said Rose, laughing.

“Well, as the saying is, they bring love with them,” said Mrs. Ferguson; “and love always brings wisdom.”

CHAPTER XVII.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

“Well, Grace, the Follingsbees are gone at last, I am thankful to say,” said John, as he stretched himself out on the sofa in Grace’s parlor with a sigh of relief.  “If ever I am caught in such a scrape again, I shall know it.”

“Yes, it is all well over,” said Grace.

“Over!  I wish you would look at the bills.  Why, Gracie!  I had not the least idea, when I gave Lillie leave to get what she chose, what it would come to, with those people at her elbow, to put things into her head.  I could not interfere, you know, after the thing was started; and I thought I would not spoil Lillie’s pleasure, especially as I had to stand firm in not allowing wine.  It was well I did; for if wine had been given, and taken with the reckless freedom that all the rest was, it might have ended in a general riot.”