The report proved to have unusually good foundation.  Within a fortnight each respectable householder received a note intimating that Mrs. Wittleday would be pleased to see self and family on the evening of the following Thursday.

The time was short, and the resources of the single store at East Patten were limited, but the natives did their best, and the eventful evening brought to Mrs. Wittleday’s handsome parlors a few gentlemen and ladies, and a large number of good people, who, with all the heroism of a forlorn hope, were doing their best to appear at ease and happy.

The major and lieutenant were there, of course, and both in uniform, by special request of the hostess.  The major, who had met Mrs. Wittleday in city society before her husband’s death, and who had maintained a bowing-acquaintance with her during her widowhood, gravely presented the lieutenant to Mrs. Wittleday, made a gallant speech about the debt society owed to her for again condescending to smile upon it, and then presented his respects to the nearest of the several groups of ladies who were gazing invitingly at him.

Then he summoned the lieutenant (whose reluctance to leave Mrs. Wittleday’s side was rendered no less by a bright smile which that lady gave him as he departed), and made him acquainted with ladies of all ages, and of greatly varying personal appearance.  The young warrior went through the ordeal with only tolerable composure, and improved his first opportunity to escape and regain the society of the hostess.  Two or three moments later, just as Mrs. Wittleday turned aside to speak to stately old Judge Bray, the lieutenant found himself being led rapidly toward the veranda.  The company had not yet found its way out of the parlors to any extent, so the major locked the lieutenant’s arm in his own, commenced a gentle promenade, and remarked: 

“Fred, my boy, you’re making an ass of yourself.”

“Oh, nonsense, major,” answered the young man, with considerable impatience.  “I don’t want to know all these queer, old-fashioned people; they’re worse than a lot of plebes at West Point.”

“I don’t mean that, Fred, though, if you don’t want to make talk, you must make yourself agreeable.  But you’re too attentive to Mrs. Wittleday.”

“By George,” responded the lieutenant, eagerly, “how can I help it?  She’s divine!”

“A great many others think so, too, Fred—­I do myself—­but they don’t make it so plagued evident on short acquaintance.  Behave yourself, now—­your eyesight is good—­sit down and play the agreeable to some old lady, and look at Mrs. Wittleday across the room, as often as you like.”

The lieutenant was young; his face was not under good control, and he had no whiskers, and very little mustache to hide it, so, although he obeyed the order of his superior, it was with a visage so mournful that the major imagined, when once or twice he caught Mrs. Wittleday’s eye, that that handsome lady was suffering from restrained laughter.