We have led such a quiet life since last fall, that a visit from a friend is a very pleasant excitement, and with the assistance of our invaluable Minna and Lina, there is nothing to be dreaded in the preparations.  Then, too, it is so pleasant to unpack the superb linen that Aunt Mary bought abroad—­the heavy damask table-cloths with their beautiful designs, and the immense dinner napkins, protecting one’s dress so admirably against possible accident—­and to take out the exquisite silver and Sevres; everything is perfection, even to the little gold, lily-shaped hand-bell.  Afterwards we go to gather flowers in all their morning freshness, and if it is ten o’clock, we walk down to the station to meet the New York train.

Senor Delmonte is a very agreeable gentleman, and quite a favorite in New York circles.  In figure he rises far above ordinary humanity, six feet two inches being, I believe, his exact height—­and his very dark complexion and stately gravity render him quite conspicuous in a drawing-room.  He is reported extremely wealthy.

Upon returning from a drive on the Pleasantville road with Senor Delmonte, Ida ran down to the kitchen for a moment, to see if harmony reigned there (for Lina and Minna are not, I regret to say, becoming warm friends; but more of that to-morrow).  Ida rarely troubles the cook with her presence, for Lina, like all cordons bleus, is a great despot, and impatient of surveillance; but as she can be trusted to arrange an entire menu without any hints from Ida, la Dame Chatelaine gladly leaves the responsibility to her.  What therefore was my surprise to see Ida return from her visit downstairs with an unmistakable look of anxiety upon her pretty face, and beckon me out of the music room where we were sitting.

“What do you think, Cecilia?” she announced, in despairing accents.  “Lina has made a soup of sour cream, which is now reposing in the ice-box!”

“Of what?” I said, scarcely crediting her words, and running down to the kitchen.

Lina’s feelings were considerably ruffled that her young mistress did not appreciate the soup, which she considered a triumph of art, and which consisted of sour cream, spices, and a little sugar—­to be eaten, of course, cold.

“Nice soup,” she said, in the most injured tones; “King of Sweden think excellent, but Miss no like it.”

It was, however, too late to make another soup, so we consoled ourselves with the thought that a king approved of it, and we would show a plebeian taste if we did not also appreciate it.  However, some wry faces were made over the unlucky soup at the table, and the King of Sweden’s taste was the subject of much merriment.

I was somewhat sceptical at first that Lina had ever been in the royal household at Stockholm, notwithstanding that she did cook so admirably; but she managed yesterday evening to tell me, in her broken English, about her residence in the palace.