An entree into the hotel in our wet dresses was rather a formidable affair for Ida and myself, as all the boarders were assembled upon the piazza to see, I suppose, how we looked after our “miraculous escape from drowning.”  Hastening past them into a private room, we took off our dripping wraps, and supplied their places with brilliant plaid shawls lent us by the landlady, in which we drove back to Chappaqua—­to the wonder, I doubt not, of all who recognized us on the way.  The horses this time went more evenly, and the entire strain of propelling the carriage did not fall upon poor Lady Alice.  But when we reached home, Mr. Reid’s white suit, and our dresses, veils, and even faces, were a sight to behold from the liquid mud with which we were bespattered.  We had to turn out of our way for a couple of miles, as a tree blown down by the storm lay across the main road, and this second detention did not increase the enthusiasm of our welcome from Lina, for dinner had been ordered at half-past three, and it was five when we reached the house.  Her pet dessert, a lemon soufflee, intended to be eaten as soon as baked, was not, I must own, improved by standing so long; but otherwise no serious damage was done to the dinner, and we were thankful that our adventures when indulging in pleasure parties on Sunday were over.

The evening passed quietly, but very agreeably.  Mr. Reid went down to the city in the six o’clock train, and papa read aloud to us Byron’s splendid, stirring “Isles of Greece,” and portions of “Childe Harold.”  Reading poetry is quite an accomplishment of papa’s, and although he is very happy in sentimental and heroic verse, he has also a keen sense of humor, and his reading of comic and dialect poems, especially those of Hans Breitmann, have been much complimented; indeed, in “our circle” he is the reader par excellence of Bret Harte, John Hay, and Hans Breitmann.

August 7.

Marguerite and Ida went down yesterday to the city for a day’s shopping, a relaxation of which we are all quite fond.  I walked down to the station to meet them upon their return, and was not a little surprised to see a third black-robed figure emerge from the cars with them.  Too petite to be Gabrielle, who has been visiting a school-friend for the last week, it was not until the second glance that I recognized the abundant golden-brown hair and romantic eyes of our pretty cousin, Theresa Walling.

Theresa is Aunt Arminda’s granddaughter, and although only eighteen, is entitled to pass through a door in advance of Marguerite, Ida and I, and to occupy the back seat in a carriage, for she is married, and has had two sweet little girls, one of whom died during that sad month of November, last year, and the oldest, her pretty Theresa Beatrice, only a week ago.  Quite delicate from her childhood, the loss of her babies has been a great affliction to their poor little mother, and Ida brought her out to visit us, hoping that change of scene might bring back the former rose-flush to her pale cheeks.