“Mr. Hows’ delight in the scenery was certainly equalled by mine in listening to its praises.  I am very fond of this part of Westchester, and when people talk of the beauties of the Adirondacks, I listen with the silent conviction that we have everything here but the musquitoes and the bad cooking, with both of which I cheerfully dispense.

“But to return to our drive.  The last mile the road ran through a dark forest, following the course of a stream called Roaring Brook, which generally makes good its title to the name, but now, owing to the recent drouth, was reduced to roaring as gently as Bottom’s Lion promised to do.  At last the lake was reached, and turning to the right, we were soon skimming along at a great pace on the wide boulevard that skirts the water as far along as Pine’s Bridge.  There we put up our ponies at a hotel with an impossible and unpronounceable Indian name, and accepted the Colonel’s kind invitation for a row.  We all regretted there was no moon, with as much self-reproach as if it had been accidentally left behind, but were glad enough to get into our little white boat, that looked quite silvery against the dark current.

“The gentlemen, who had been dying to hear Marguerite sing ever since coming out here, now suggested that her voice was all that was needed to make the hour perfect; so Marguerite, who is as sweet and unaffected about her singing as if she hadn’t the most exquisite soprano ever heard off the stage, consented without any tiresome urging, and asked what it should be.  We were evenly divided between ‘Robin Adair’ and Mario’s ‘Good-bye, Sweetheart,’ so our pretty songstress kindly gave us both.

“I cannot recall the delicious effect of her singing as we were drifting along in the sombre twilight, better than by quoting Buchanan Read’s charming lines, which I dare say you have seen before: 

  “’I heed not if
  My rippling skiff
  Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;
  With dreamful eyes
  My spirit lies
  Under the walls of Paradise.

  “’Under the walls
  Where swells and falls
  The bay’s deep breast at intervals;
  At peace I lie,
  Blown softly by
  A cloud upon this liquid sky.

  “’No more, no more
  The worldly shore
  Upbraids me with its load uproar: 
  With dreamful eyes
  My spirit lies
  Under the walls of Paradise.’

    “I.  L. G.”

June 24.

The week commenced with a dash of rain, but this morning it was again as hot as though no clouds had darkened the sky.  Croquet was out of the question, and not even for the sake of trying my new beaver and stylish habit, so becoming to a slight figure, could I confront the dust and the sun’s blazing rays upon Nancy’s back (for such is the unromantic name of the horse that oftenest has the honor of bearing me when we ride).  No one seemed inclined to drive, so Lady Alice and the Duchess, that had been for some time impatiently stamping, and arching their pretty necks, evidently impatient to be off, were sent back to the stables, much amazed, I doubt not, at our capricious conduct; while we—­mamma, Marguerite, and I—­sauntered up to the cool pine grove, accompanied by Arthur, bearing a camp-chair for mamma, and a couple of wise-looking tomes, in whose society we were to spend the morning.