damask; and scattered about the room were ottomans, divans, books, pictures, and every thing which could in any way conduce to a young lady’s comfort or happiness.  On the marble mantel there stood two costly vases, filled with rare flowers, among which Mary recognized her favorites.  But ere she had time to speak of it, Ida opened a side door, disclosing to view a cosy little bedroom, with a large closet and bathing room adjoining.

“Here,” said she, “you are to sleep; but you needn’t expect to be entirely exclusive, for every night when I feel cold or fidgety, I shall run in here and sleep with you.  Is it a bargain?”

Mary was too happy to speak, and dropping into the easy chair she burst into tears.  In a moment Ida, too, was seated in the same chair, and with her arm around Mary’s neck was wondering why she wept.  Then as her own eyes chanced to fall upon the vases, she brought one of them to Mary, saying, “See, these are for you,—­a present from one, who bade me present them with his compliments to the little girl who nursed him on board the Windermere, and who cried because he called her ugly!”

Mary’s heart was almost audible in its beatings, and her cheeks took the hue of the cushions on which she reclined.  Returning the vase to the mantel-piece, Ida came back to her side, and bending closer to her face, whispered, “Cousin George told me of you years ago when he first came here, but I forgot all about it, and when we were at Mount Holyoke, I never suspected that you were the little girl he used to talk so much about.  But a few days before he went away he reminded me of it again, and then I understood why he was so much interested in you.  I wonder you never told me you knew him, for of course you like him.  You can’t help it.”

Mary only heard a part of what Ida said.  “Just before he went away.—­” Was he then gone, and should she not see him after all?  A cloud gathered upon her brow, and Ida readily divining its cause, replied, “Yes, George is gone.  Either he or father must go to New Orleans, and so George of course went.  Isn’t it too bad?  I cried and fretted, but he only pulled my ears, and said he should think I’d be glad for he knew we wouldn’t want a great six-footer domineering over us, and following us every where, as he would surely do were he at home.”

Mary felt more disappointed than she was willing to acknowledge, and for a moment she half wished herself back in Chicopee, but soon recovering her equanimity, she ventured to ask how long George was to be gone.

“Until April, I believe,” said Ida; “but any way you are to stay until he comes, for Aunt Martha promised to keep you.  I don’t know exactly what George said to her about you, but they talked together more than two hours, and she says you are to take music lessons and drawing lessons, and all that.  George is very fond of music.”