“Why, Mr. Wyman, see how thoughtful she seems of those around her,” said Florence, her eyes still fixed upon the engaging stranger.

“Yes, I see all that, and all the externalism of her life.  It is all acting.  Within, that woman is cold and heartless.  She is sharp enough, and quick in her instincts, but give me hearts in conjunction with heads.”

“Why, then, did you invite her?” she accompanied this inquiry with a most searching glance.

“For the same reason I invited all.  I want them to mingle, for the time to lose their sense of individual importance, their feelings of selfishness, or in a few words, to throw off the old and take on the new.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, Florence?”

“Yes, very much.  I like to see so many people together, and absorb the spirit of the occasion.”

“I am glad you do.  Come this way.”  He led her to a remote part of the room, where stood a tall, dark-eyed stranger.

“Miss Vernon, Mr. Temple” and he watched their eyes as they met, and knew he had linked two souls for at least one evening’s enjoyment.

A bustling woman, who could not conceive of any christianity outside of church-going, came and stood beside Miss Evans, and commenced a conversation by saying,—­

“There seems to be plenty of people in our village, though we don’t see many of them at church.”

This was put forth as a preface, designed to exhibit the character of a forthcoming volume, but Miss Evans adroitly changed the subject to one of general interest.

Just at this point, a stir was made, a rustling of silks was heard, and the way opened for a young prodigy in music, considered by his parents to be the wonder of the nineteenth century; one of those abstracted individuals who seem to live apart from the multitude, speaking to no one, save in monosyllables, and walking about, with an air of superiority, constantly nurtured by his doating parents’ admiration,—­at home a tyrant, abroad a monkey on exhibition.

After a flourish of sounds, and several manipulations, each accompanied with a painful distortion of countenance, he commenced a long and tedious sonata,—­tedious, because ill-timed.  On a suitable occasion it would have been grand and acceptable.  Of course the music was wasted on the air, because it had only a mental rendering.

The anxious parents looked around for the expected applause.  It did not come.  Only a few murmured, “How very difficult,” while a sense of relief was so manifest, that none could have failed to realize that such elaborate performances should be reserved for a far different occasion.  But we are slow in learning the fitness of things, and that everything has its proper time and place.

The next performer was a sprightly girl of seventeen, who played several airs, and sung some sweet and simple songs, charming all with their light and graceful beauty.