Notwithstanding his boast of knowingness in the mysteries of feminine apparel, he could not have told of what material the divine robe was made—­except that it was some shiny white stuff, with wide embroidery upon the flounces.  But Rosa, her aunt, and cousin had gone into ecstacies over it, and instigated by kind-hearted Mrs. Mason, the enraptured owner had rushed off to Mrs. Mason’s chamber to try it on, returning presently in full array, elate at the “perfect fit,” and insisting upon a unanimous declaration that she “had never before worn anything one-thousandth part as becoming.”

“It is a winsome, fantastic, enchanting little being!” remarked Mr. Chilton, in soliloquy at his dressing-table, the next evening.  “I hope she will enjoy the gathering to-night, as she hopes to do.  Will she miss me at the next she attends?”

Then—­laughing at the sentimental visage portrayed upon the mirror—­“It would be the acme of ludicrous folly for me to disturb myself on that score.  We have had a pleasant time together—­she and I—­and tomorrow it will be over.  There is the whole story—­except that, in a month I shall cease to think of her, unless her name is accidentally uttered in my hearing—­I wish I could forget some other things as easily!—­and she will probably be the affianced darling of one of the lumbering Honorables—­the elder and homelier of the brace, I fancy, since he is the wealthier, and the humming-bird should have a fitting cage.”

Expressing in his composed lineaments and firm stride nothing like disconsolateness at the programme, he flung his cloak over his arm, took his white gloves in his hand, cast a passing glance at the glass to see that his whiskers and hair were in order, and ran down the two flights of stairs lying between Bachelor’s Hall and the Masons’ private parlor.

“Come in!” said a plaintive voice, in answer to his knock.

Rosa was alone in the cosy apartment.  She was curled up in a great padded chair, set upon the hearth-rug.  Her dress was a plain black silk; she wore a scarlet shawl, and her head-gear was some odd, but distractingly pretty construction of white lace, a square folded in two unequal triangles, and knotted loosely, handkerchief-wise, the points in front, under her chin.

“Not ready!” exclaimed Frederic, in merry reproach.  “You, the model of punctual women!”

“I am not going!” sighed the humming-bird, dolorously.  “I have had a horrid sore throat all day—­and—­a—­headache—­and Aunt Mary got frightened, and forbade me to put my head out of doors.”

“That is a heart-rending affliction!  And could you not send the incomparable dress as your representative?”

“Don’t laugh!” she said, jerking away her head.  “I cannot bear it to-night—­not that I care the millionth part of a fig for all the parties in christendom; and as for the dress, you think that I haven’t a soul above such frippery and gewgaws:  but I wish I had never seen it.  I shall never wear it as long as I live!”