Like a clover-blossom in a vase of camellias little Debby looked that night among the dashing or languid women who surrounded her; for she possessed the charm they had lost,—­the freshness of her youth.  Innocent gayety sat smiling in her eyes, healthful roses bloomed upon her cheek, and maiden modesty crowned her like a garland.  She was the creature that she seemed, and, yielding to the influence of the hour, danced to the music of her own blithe heart.  Many felt the spell whose secret they had lost the power to divine, and watched the girlish figure as if it were a symbol of their early aspirations dawning freshly from the dimness of their past.  More than one old man thought again of some little maid whose love made his boyish days a pleasant memory to him now.  More than one smiling fop felt the emptiness of his smooth speech, when the truthful eyes looked up into his own; and more than one pale woman sighed regretfully within herself, “I, too, was a happy-hearted creature once!”

“That Mr. Evan does not seem very anxious to claim our acquaintance, after all, and I think better of him on that account.  Has he spoken to you tonight, Dora?” asked Mrs. Carroll, as Debby dropped down beside her after a “splendid polka.”

“No, Ma’am, he only bowed.  You see some people are not so presuming as other people thought they were; for we are not the most attractive beings on the planet; therefore a gentleman can be polite and then forget us without breaking any of the Ten Commandments.  Don’t be offended with him yet, for he may prove to be some great creature with a finer pedigree than any of ‘our first families.’  Mr. Leavenworth, as you know everybody, perhaps you can relieve Aunt Pen’s mind, by telling her something about the tall, brown man standing behind the lady with salmon-colored hair.”

Mr. Joe, who was fanning the top of Debby’s head with the best intentions in life, took a survey, and answered readily,—­

“Why, that’s Frank Evan.  I know him, and a deused good fellow he is,—­though he don’t belong to our set, you know.”

“Indeed! pray, tell us something about him, Mr. Leavenworth.  We met in the cars, and he did us a favor or two.  Who and what is the man?” asked Mrs. Carroll, relenting at once toward a person who was favorably spoken of by one who did belong to her “set.”

“Well, let me see,” began Mr. Joe, whose narrative powers were not great.  “He is a book-keeper in my Uncle Josh Loring’s importing concern, and a powerful smart man, they say.  There’s some kind of clever story about his father’s leaving a load of debts, and Frank’s working a deused number of years till they were paid.  Good of him, wasn’t it?  Then, just as he was going to take things easier and enjoy life a bit, his mother died, and that rather knocked him up, you see.  He fell sick, and came to grief generally, Uncle Josh said; so he was ordered off to get righted, and here he is, looking like a tombstone.  I’ve a regard for Frank, for he took care of me through the smallpox a year ago, and I don’t forget things of that sort; so, if you wish to be introduced, Mrs. Carroll, I’ll trot him out with pleasure, and make a proud man of him.”