The next morning, in Virginia’s sunny front room tears and laughter mingled.  There was a present for Eugenie and Anne and Emily and Puss and Maude, and a hear kiss from the Colonel for each.  And more tears and laughter and sighs as Mammy Easter and Rosetta unpacked the English trunks, and with trembling hands and rolling eyes laid each Parisian gown upon the bed.

But the Fair, the Fair!

At the thought of that glorious year my pen fails me.  Why mention the dread possibility of the negro-worshiper Lincoln being elected the very next month?  Why listen, to the rumblings in the South?  Pompeii had chariot-races to the mutterings of Vesuvius.  St. Louis was in gala garb to greet a Prince.

That was the year that Miss Virginia Carvel was given charge of the booth in Dr. Posthelwaite’s church,—­the booth next one of the great arches through which prancing horses and lowing cattle came.

Now who do you think stopped at the booth for a chat with Miss Jinny?  Who made her blush as pink as her Paris gown?  Who slipped into her hand the contribution for the church, and refused to take the cream candy she laughingly offered him as an equivalent?

None other than Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of Saxony, Duke of Cornwall and Rothesay, Earl of Chester and Carrick, Baron Renfrew, and Lord of the Isles.  Out of compliment to the Republic which he visited, he bore the simple title of Lord Renfrew.

Bitter tears of envy, so it was said, were shed in the other booths.  Belle Cluyme made a remark which is best suppressed.  Eliphalet Hopper, in Mr. Davitt’s booths, stared until his eyes watered.  A great throng peered into the covered way, kept clear for his Royal Highness and suite, and for the prominent gentlemen who accompanied them.  And when the Prince was seen to turn to His Grace, the Duke of Newcastle, and the subscription was forthcoming, a great cheer shook the building, while Virginia and the young ladies with her bowed and blushed and smiled.  Colonel Carvel, who was a Director, laid his hand paternally on the blue coat of the young Prince.  Reversing all precedent, he presented his Royal Highness to his daughter and to the other young ladies.  It was done with the easy grace of a Southern gentleman.  Whereupon Lord Renfrew bowed and smiled too, and stroked his mustache, which was a habit he had, and so fell naturally into the ways of Democracy.

Miss Puss Russell, who has another name, and whose hair is now white, will tell you how Virginia carried off the occasion with credit to her country.

It is safe to say that the Prince forgot “Silver Heels” and “Royal Oak,” although they had been trotted past the Pagoda only that morning for his delectation.  He had forgotten his Honor the Mayor, who had held fast to the young man’s arm as the four coal-black horses had pranced through the crowds all the way from Barnum’s Hotel to the Fair Grounds.  His Royal Highness forgot himself still further, and had at length withdrawn his hands from the pockets of his ample pantaloons and thrust his thumbs into his yellow waistcoat.  And who shall blame him if Miss Virginia’s replies to his sallies enchained him?