At a late—­a very late breakfast, the morning after the Shirley ball, the Smiths were assembled with the exception of Blanche, who had entreated to be left undisturbed, since she must sleep or die, and Percival, who had breakfasted sketchily on scraps and confectionery, hours before, and was away in the woods with his gun.

The mail, always deposited in a little heap beside the general’s plate, had been distributed.  There was very little—­two newspapers, a couple of letters for Nesbit Thorne, and one for Norma from a New York friend, claiming a promised visit, and overflowing with gossip and news of Gotham, full of personalities also, and a faint lady-like suspicion of wickedness—­a racy, entertaining letter.  The writer, a Mrs. Vincent, was Norma’s most intimate friend, and she often sacrificed an hour of her valuable time to the amusement of the girl, whom she felt convinced was bored to death down in that country desert.  The letter in question was unusually diffuse, for Mrs. Vincent was keeping her room with a heavy cold, and had herself to amuse as well as Norma.  Norma read scraps of it aloud for the edification of her mother, and the young men; the general, with his nose in his paper, let the tide of gossip pass.

Thorne, after a comprehensive glance at his own correspondence, slipped his letters quietly into his pocket, and gave his best attention to his cousin’s.  He had a rooted objection to reading even indifferent letters under scrutiny, and these he felt convinced were not indifferent; for one was addressed in the handsome large hand of his wife, and the writing on the other was unknown to him—­it had a legal aspect.  They were letters whose perusal might prove unpleasant; so Thorne postponed it.

There is an old adage relative to thoughts of the power of darkness being invariably followed by the appearance of his emissaries, and although Mrs. Thorne was far from being the devil, or her letter one of his imps, the arrival of the one, so promptly upon the heels of thoughts of the other, was singular; her husband felt it so.

“Mamma,” observed Norma, glancing up from her letter, “Kate says that Cecil Cumberland is engaged, or going to be engaged, I can’t exactly make out which.  Kate words it a little ambiguously; at all events there appears to be considerable talk about it.  Kate writes:  ’Cecil looks radiantly worried, and sulkily important.  His family are ranged in a solid phalanx of indignant opposition, which, of course, clinches the affair firmly.  Eva Cumberland was here this morning in a white heat of passion over it; and I believe apoplexy or hydrophobia is imminent for the old lady.  The fact of Mrs.——­’” Norma’s voice trailed off into an unintelligible murmur, and she read on silently.

“Mrs.—­who, my dear?” questioned her mother, with lively interest.  “Is Cecil going to marry an objectionable widow?”

“Wait a moment, mamma.  Kate writes so indistinctly, I’ll be able to tell you presently,” there was a shade of reserve perceptible in Norma’s voice.