“Thee shouldn’t talk so, Lucy,” said Grandma Dayton, who was of Quaker descent, at the same time holding up between herself and the window the long stocking which she was knitting.  “Doesn’t thee know that when thee is finding fault with the weather thee finds fault with Him who made the weather?”

“I do wish, grandma,” answered Lucy, “that I could ever say anything which did not furnish you with a text from which to preach me a sermon.”

Grandma did not reply directly to this rather uncivil speech, but, she continued:  “I don’t see how the weather will hurt thee, if it’s the party thee is thinking of, for Mr. Graham’s is only ten rods or so from here.

“I’m not afraid I can’t go,” answered Lucy; “but you know as well as I that if the wind blows enough to put out a candle, father is so old-maidish as to think Lizzie and I must wear thick stockings and dresses, and I shouldn’t wonder if he insisted on flannel wrappers!”

“Well,” answered grandma, “I think myself it will be very imprudent for Lizzie, in her present state of health, to expose her neck and arms.  Thy poor marm died with consumption when she wasn’t much older than thee is.  Let me see—­she was twenty-three the day she died, and thee was twenty-two in Sep—­”

“For heaven’s sake, grandmother,” interrupted Lucy, “don’t continually remind me of my age, and tell me how much younger mother was when she was married.  I can’t help it if I’m twenty-two, and not married or engaged either.  But I will be both before I am a year older.”

So saying, she quitted the apartment, and repaired to her own room.

Ere we follow her thither we will introduce both her and her sister to our readers.  Lucy and Lizzie were the only children of Mr. Dayton, a wealthy, intelligent, and naturally social man, the early death of whose idolized, beautiful wife had thrown a deep gloom over his spirits, which time could never entirely dispel.  It was now seventeen years since, a lonely, desolate widower, at the dusky twilight hour he had drawn closely to his bosom his motherless children, and thought that but for them he would gladly have lain down by her whose home was now in heaven.  His acquaintances spoke lightly of his grief, saying he would soon get over it and marry again.  They were mistaken, for he remained single, his widowed mother supplying to his daughters the place of their lost parent.

In one thing was Mr. Dayton rather peculiar.  Owing to the death of his wife, he had always been in the habit of dictating to his daughters in various small matters, such as dress, and so forth, about which fathers seldom trouble themselves.  And even now he seemed to forget that they were children no longer, and often interfered in their plans in a way exceedingly annoying to Lucy, the eldest of the girls, who was now twenty-two and was as proud, selfish, and self-willed as she was handsome and accomplished.  Old maids she held in great abhorrence, and her great