A certain air of gloom at this time hung over official Washington, for the minds of all were still oppressed by the memory of that fatal accident—­the explosion of the great cannon “Peacemaker” on board the war vessel Princeton—­which had killed Mr. Upshur, our secretary of state, with others, and had, at one blow, come so near to depriving this government of its head and his official family; the number of prominent lives thus ended or endangered being appalling to contemplate.  It was this accident which had called Mr. Calhoun forward at a national juncture of the most extreme delicacy and the utmost importance.  In spite of the general mourning, however, the informal receptions at the White House were not wholly discontinued, and the administration, unsettled as it was, and fronted by the gravest of diplomatic problems, made such show of dignity and even cheerfulness as it might.

I considered it my duty to pass in the long procession and to shake the hand of Mr. Tyler.  That done, I gazed about the great room, carefully scan-fling the different little groups which were accustomed to form after the ceremonial part of the visit was over.  I saw many whom I knew.  I forgot them; for in a far corner, where a flood of light came through the trailing vines that shielded the outer window, my anxious eyes discovered the object of my quest—­Elisabeth.

It seemed to me I had never known her so fair as she was that morning in the great East Room of the White House.  Elisabeth was rather taller than the average woman, and of that splendid southern figure, slender but strong, which makes perhaps the best representative of our American beauty.  She was very bravely arrayed to-day in her best pink-flowered lawn, made wide and full, as was the custom of the time, but not so clumsily gathered at the waist as some, and so serving not wholly to conceal her natural comeliness of figure.  Her bonnet she had removed.  I could see the sunlight on the ripples of her brown hair, and the shadows which lay above her eyes as she turned to face me, and the slow pink which crept into her cheeks.

Dignified always, and reserved, was Elisabeth Churchill.  But now I hope it was not wholly conceit which led me to feel that perhaps the warmth, the glow of the air, caught while riding under the open sky, the sight of the many budding roses of our city, the scent of the blossoms which even then came through the lattice—­the meeting even with myself, so lately returned—­something at least of this had caused an awakening in her girl’s heart.  Something, I say, I do not know what, gave her greeting to me more warmth than was usual with her.  My own heart, eager enough to break bounds, answered in kind.  We stood—­blushing like children as our hands touched—­forgotten in that assemblage of Washington’s pomp and circumstance.

“How do you do?” was all I could find to say.  And “How do you do?” was all I could catch for answer, although I saw, in a fleeting way, a glimpse of a dimple hid in Elisabeth’s cheek.  She never showed it save when pleased.  I have never seen a dimple like that of Elisabeth’s.