chairs, the wonderful tables, and the little easy-chair, are all flushed up, and seem quite enlivened at its sportive tricks.  The silver sewing-bird, with its glittering little garnet eyes, is peering curiously down at the painted fish-geranium on the teapot; and the geranium, sweltering by the fire, seems almost wilted with the heat.  The teapot pants and struggles under its steaming contents, and looks appealingly at the great china cup on the table; and now a lump of sparkling sugar is dropped into its shiny recesses, and the fragrant odor of that gentlest soother of troubled thoughts pervades the room.

How shall I describe the mistress of this fairy resting-place, as she sits in the softened light of this golden winter evening, with the trickling golden currents and the quivering firelight playing on her dress, and the last rays of the sunshine melting into golden threads in her hair?  How can I picture the look of girlish innocence on her face, the artless grace of her manner, her delicate feminine ways, and the dainty arrangement of her toilet?  How can I tell of the irresistible charm that pervades every article about her, from the little French boot resting on the rug, to the ruffle that circles her white throat?  The balmy morning of her young life has passed.  The brown calico frock, and the little school bonnet, with its blue veil, have been put away forever.  The lithe figure has grown matronly, the childish timidity is gone; the softened face tells of changes,—­changes made by much happiness; changes also, alas! by trouble.

The dark eyes beam with a deeper tenderness, with a wealth of maternal devotion, with a world of maternal anxiety.  The aurora, with its hazy glow, has disappeared, and now the sun shines brightly on the early day; yet through all the love, and all the care, and all the joy of her pure life, remains that radiant smile, the glorious creation of a glorious God, that awakens in man one sensation,—­tranquillity.  O man, with the joy of your own young love, O woman blessed with a remembrance of earlier days, is it needful I should say, Madame Althie Pontalba is the Little Blue Veil?

There were two visitors here an hour ago,—­a lady and a gentleman.  Whatever their lack of ostentation, there was an air of distinction about both that would strike the most casual observer.

The cabriolet was plain, but the horses showed the purest blood, and the harness and equipments a neatness one would not see in a day’s ride.  The gentleman was tall and stately, with a well-shaped aquiline nose, and a mustache and imperial pointed a la militaire; and the lady was petite and graceful, with a face of rare loveliness.  The features of both told plainly of a great trial bravely endured.  The lady entered alone.  Her carriage and demeanor possessed all that quiet elegance which is only met with in the society of the great; but it was with no courtly speech she addressed the mistress