Mr. Colton is “honorable” from having represented his government for four years at Venice.  In appearance he is tall and swarthy, with a foreign and picturesque cast of features not unlike the Italian type:  a “lovely brigand” we sometimes call him.  Notwithstanding his easy and somewhat nonchalant air, he is a true American in his active and restless disposition and his love for travelling.  I would be afraid to state the number of miles he has travelled since we made his acquaintance in Paris four years ago, and I have known him to start at forty-eight hours’ notice to make a tour of the world.

Mr. Colton made us a visit of two days, and was sufficiently enthusiastic over dear Chappaqua to satisfy even our exacting demands.

We had some sport over the probable speculations of the telegraph operators concerning our visitor.  Out of mischief, Marguerite had mentioned him in her telegram merely as “the Honorable Francis;” for so deep an interest is taken in the messages we receive and send, that we enjoy puzzling the operators a little; indeed, we may say that our telegrams are common property here, for seldom do we receive them until they have been carefully read by the telegraph and railroad officials, and then handed to any interested outsider who may chance to be in the office.  I will give a little scene that occurred not long ago, by way of illustration.

Our friend Mr. A——­ alights from the morning train, and is welcomed by a friend of his who is stopping for a week or so in Chappaqua.

“Delighted to see you, A——.  Knew you were coming up this morning, so thought I would run down to the train and meet you.”

“How in the world did you know I was coming, my dear fellow?” inquires the astonished A——.  “You don’t know Mrs. Cleveland or her niece, do you?”

“No, I don’t know them,” is the prompt reply, “but I was in the telegraph office yesterday, and saw your acceptance when it arrived.”

TABLEAU.

August 19.

I am not partial to Friday, as it is often an unlucky day for me—­a superstition that has come down to me from grandmamma; but, although I try to think it absurd, our experience of yesterday proved a singular confirmation.

Ida and I had thought to celebrate the return of Marguerite and Gabrielle by inviting several friends from the city to enjoy the delicious moonlight with us.  Mamma accordingly wrote the invitations, and we at once commenced our preparations.  The fete we decided should last three days, and was to commence Friday afternoon—­ominous day!  We were to have moonlight walks and drives; we were to kindle a fire of pine cones and charcoal upon the beach at Rye Lake, and boil the kettle and make tea; a boat was to be placed upon our own little pond, and a tent pitched near by; and, last and most brilliant, Ida’s lovely Southern friend, Miss Worthington, and Gabrielle, were to occupy the tent, dressed as gypsies, and tell the fortunes of the company.