PART II.

“ALL aboard!”

As the cars glided out of the lighted depot into the darker streets, leading to the utter gloom of the open country, two gentlemen settled themselves into their seats with audible sighs of satisfaction.

“Homeward bound!” said the elder, a man of fifty, hale in figure and face, although his hair was almost white.

“For which let us be thankful!” responded his companion, heartily. “This has been a long week to me, although a busy one—longer than a fortnight would have been at home.”

“You may blame the twin babies for that,” said the other, smiling indulgently at his impatience.

“_Bless_ them for it, you mean—the boys and their mother. A man may well be impatient to get back to such treasures as are mine.”

He was a fine-looking fellow, manly in every gesture and tone, six-and-twenty years old, the son-in-law of the gentleman beside him, and had been for a year his law-partner.

“You are right. Emma is a good girl—a noble woman; her mother’s own daughter for sense, discretion, and warmth of heart. There is nothing frivolous or shallow about her. Let me see—the boys are almost three months old, are they not?”

“Just three months to-morrow. It is marvellous what strength the thought of them puts into my heart and arm. The cunning little rascals! Emma writes that they grow every day. She is sure they will recognize me on my return. I suppose you experienced papas, who have outlived the novelty of this sort of thing, amuse yourselves vastly at our expense; but it pleases me to believe what she says. They are very bright, healthy in mind and body, as the children of such a mother should be. They and I are blest beyond comparison in having her for the angel in our house. Should it please GOD to spare our lives”—

The sentence rested on the shocked air, incomplete, never to be finished. One terrific jar!—a crashing and splintering, and reeling, an awful sense of falling down, down, through utter darkness, over and over, then a blow that ended everything—surprise, consternation, fearful questioning—in blank, black silence.

When the débris of the telescoped cars was cleared away, the two men were found lying, as they had sat, side by side. The younger was dead. The elder moved and groaned as he was lifted from the wreck. Papers upon their persons established their identity beyond a doubt.

Early next morning a telegram was brought into a pretty dressing-room, where the sunshine, peering through the vine-leaves about the window, made dancing shadows on the floor, laughed, and leaped, and flashed in reflection from the water in a China bath, set in the middle of the chamber. In this splashed and crowed two baby-boys, one held by the mother, the other by the grandmother, and between these knelt two younger women—all four in delighted worship of the tiny cherubs. There was a breathless hush as the youngest of the party sprang up to seize the envelope, and tore it open.

“_Collision!_” said the missive. “_Frederick Corwin killed instantly. Philip Hiller badly injured. Both will be sent on in next train._”

In this ghastly shape came disaster to the long-exempt household. Life and the world had dealt so benignly and bountifully with them heretofore, that they had insensibly learned to look upon their possession of health, love, and happiness as assured for years and years to come. Emma’s marriage had removed her from them but a couple of blocks, and all concurred in the opinion that this was a charming variety upon their former estate.

“How did we ever get along without Fred’s and Emma’s house to run into? It is as good as having two homes,” the girls often said among themselves.

When the twins came—bouncing, healthy boys—the excitement and joy in one house equalled that in the other. It seemed now, indeed, that they could ask nothing more of Heaven; that the brimming cup of bliss was mantled all over with rose-leaves. And when “Papa and Fred” were obliged to be absent from their homes for a week, in attendance upon the doings of a court a hundred miles away, Emma and her babes were transferred with much ceremony and rejoicing to her mother’s care; given up to the petting and admiration of the doating aunties without reservation, beyond Fred’s earnest entreaty that they would not kiss the boys away to skeletons before he returned, and a threat to have them protected by copper sheathing from the fate of St. Peter’s brazen toe.

Dear Fred! the merry, handsome, stalwart brother; their only one,—who was never to jest with them again; never again to hold wife and babes in his embrace. Imogen and Blanche mourned for him only less passionately than did she who had proudly and gladly borne his name. Poor wife! she was denied the satisfaction of hearing that her name had been the last in his thoughts and speech; that the loyal heart had never beat more lovingly for her than in its latest throbbings; for weeks passed before Mr. Hiller could speak at all, and then the disjointed utterances of the palsied tongue told nothing beyond the terrible fact that the brain had sustained serious, it might be irreparable, damage. A paralytic cripple he would remain until the day of his death, although this half-life might be prolonged for years, pronounced the best medical authorities in the land, summoned without regard to distance or expense, by the agonized wife.

Stricken, smitten of GOD, and afflicted, the four women sat them down together in the mother’s room, a month after the double bereavement, and took mournful but deliberate counsel together. Their affairs were not at a desperate pass, as they already knew. There was the house in which they lived, free of mortgage, which would bring at least thirty thousand dollars in the market; ten thousand dollars in bank stocks and other securities—solid, paying investments, and five thousand dollars’ worth of real estate—chiefly unimproved lots in a growing part of the city, that might be very valuable in time, if they could be held and the taxes paid. Fred had invested four thousand dollars in the latter kind of property, and his life was insured for ten thousand more. If Emma were to sell everything—furniture, lots and all—she would have just seventeen thousand dollars with which to support herself, to rear and educate her boys. By living upon the interest of the life-insurance fund, and paying taxes on the real-estate for some years, she might double the little fortune bequeathed to her, without reserve, by her husband’s will.

“I shall not touch a cent of it, if I can help it,” she said, in sad decision. “It shall be the father’s provision for his sons. They will need it all, in order to educate themselves as he would have wished. For the present I shall work for them and myself. You foresaw this years ago, mother. I thank GOD, and thank you, that you prepared us to meet it!”

“Amen!” said her sisters fervently. “Dark as is the day—so much darker than we ever dreamed it would be,” added Imogen, tearfully, yet trying to smile, “we have much to be thankful for. We are strong; we know how to work; and there are papa and the babies, darling Fred’s sons, to work for.”

“Papa and the babies!” Even the fond wife did not resent the classification. The hale gentleman whose half-century of honest, temperate life had not bowed his head or dimmed his eye; the sage, shrewd man of business, than whom none were more respected by his fellow-citizens, was a tremulous, timid child, who wept if his meals were delayed one minute, or his wife, his faithful, tender nurse, were out of his sight for an hour.

“Utterly incapable of attending to the simplest matters connected with his business!” cried open-eyed Everybody, hovering, harpy-like, about the human wreck. “Why, he couldn’t count one hundred to save his life. Of course, they will get a certificate of lunacy from the court, and sell the house, lots, and whatever they can realize anything upon; put all they have together, and live as prudently as possible. The girls ought to marry before long. They are pretty and popular, in spite of their little eccentricities. It isn’t to be expected that they will make brilliant matches now, of course; but they must bring down their ambition to a reasonable level. Beggars mustn’t be choosers. It is unfortunate that poor Mrs. Corwin has those two children. But they may not live. Twins are more likely to die than other babies. And, if they _should_ be taken, she’ll be likely to pick up another husband. Her little property would be a consideration to some men.”

Even the true friends of the sorely-tried family wished sincerely and aloud that “each of the dear girls had a husband to take care of her;” recommended them warmly to the compassionate and favorable notice of their bachelor acquaintances, and devised pious plans of matchmaking for their relief from the inconveniences of their altered circumstances.

“The worst part of it all was that poor Emma was encumbered with the children, who would be more and more expensive every year, and that poor, dear Mr. Hiller would be a helpless imbecile all his life. And what a mistake in them to refuse to treat him as such, and have him examined by a commission who would give his family the right to dispose of his property!”

If the Ruler of the intellects and lives of men had hearkened to these benevolent economists, the crippled man and the brace of “unfortunate” infants would have been taken speedily and comfortably out of this present evil world.

“Thank heaven for the babies!” uttered Blanche, throwing her arms about Emma’s waist. “You darling sister! I bless you for them every hour. What should we have done through all these last fearful weeks without them—and you? Touch their weeny teenty patrimony! Indeed you shall not! And more than that, we’ll make it a big one by the time they are ready to enter college.”

The mother, as chief counsellor, had her plan ready for their consideration. The house—a large double one—was still to be occupied by them. The front parlor was to be used for the millinery department, and put entirely under Blanche’s care. In the back, Imogen would hold sway; and a smaller apartment in the rear of the hall should be the fitting and trying-on chamber. The library across the hall, adjoining the dining-room, was to be the family parlor. In every other part of the house things were to remain unchanged.

“Who deserves to live more comfortably and luxuriously, to rest in soft chairs and sleep upon elastic mattresses, to have generous food served elegantly to tempt the appetite and strengthen the body, than she who purchases all these with her own toil?” said the strange logician whose daughters were too used to her “queer notions” to be startled by them. “I do not say that you will make money fast, or at once. I do contend that, saving rent, bookkeeper’s and saleswoman’s wages, as you will do, you ought to be able to clear your business and personal expenses the first year—if nothing more.”

“If the customers come,” suggested Emma.

Mrs. Hiller nodded confidently. “They will come! In the beginning, out of curiosity and the love of novelty. It will depend upon your skill whether they continue their custom.”

All previous sensations respecting the Hillers—their odd fancies and daring talk and levelling theories; Emma’s marriage and the birth of her twins; the tragical death of her husband and Mr. Hiller’s deplorable condition—faded into the realms of forgottenness before that excited by the appearance in all the leading papers, the following month, of an advertisement to the effect that the “Misses Hiller would open on Tuesday, the 15th instant, at their father’s residence on Lofty Avenue, a first-class millinery and dressmaking establishment, and pledged themselves to use their best efforts to give satisfaction to their customers.”

The sudden intrusion of a bee-moth into a well-regulated, honey-lined hive might create such commotion among the inhabitants thereof as prevailed in the “best circles” of the city when the Incredible was, at length, developed by means of printer’s ink and paper, into the Certain. The Hiller philosophy had wrought its legitimate fruits, said the wise ones. Such sympathy with the lower classes, and familiarity with their modes of thought and personal history, amounting to fanatical imitation of their language and habits and mercenary views of life; such bold scoffing at the ethics and usages of SOCIETY (this in capitals half an inch long, if you please, Mr. Printer!) could have but one sequel, and that a catastrophe.

“Be it so!” enunciated resigned Everybody, in the calm of sinless despair. “Since the Hiller girls prefer to sink to the level of mere working women; to fly in the face of Providence that would, if they were more reasonable and less sentimental, endow them with property to the amount of at least fifty thousand dollars—sixty thousand, if poor Mrs. Corwin’s be included, with the certain prospect of fifteen thousand more at poor Mr. Hiller’s death—if they prefer, instead of taking the goods thus offered them and living like ladies in the sphere to which they were born, faithful to the principles that control refined SOCIETY—to delve and plan and accumulate, let them be recognized forthwith as _laborers_—nothing more, and nothing less! We, the loyal leaguers of SOCIETY, true to the traditions of our class and age, cannot more effectually and dignifiedly exclude them from our sacred circle than by patronizing and _paying_ them _as_ dressmakers and milliners. They have exquisite taste. That we, being candid even where our enemies are concerned, will admit. They have also, tact and energy, and association with US in the past has given them just ideas of our style and needs. While we do not budge an inch from our belief and precept that they should have starved genteelly; lived on bread and tea, dyed and turned and otherwise rejuvenated their friends’ cast-off dresses; shivered over pinched-in grates in winter and sponged upon obliging acquaintances in summer—sooner than thus degrade themselves and betray their caste for the sake of pampering their flesh with the delicacies of the markets, and their pride by indulging in purple and fine linen, in damask and cut-glass, in Brussels and satin—we”—concluded breathless Everybody, “accept the situation as they have set it before us.”

“But it is suicidal!” actually sobbed the well-wishers of the recalcitrant trio. “_They will never marry well now!_”

“Tuesday the 15th inst.” arrived—sharp but clear November weather, and the desecrated Hiller mansion wore its most cheerful aspect. In the back parlor the decks had been cleared for action, as Imogen phrased it, by removing the piano, a large sofa, and an inlaid stand or two. Imogen’s sewing machine and chair were by the side window. Before the embayed recess at the end of the room was a long, rather narrow table of singular construction, the plan being her own. The top was covered with enamelled leather, with morocco pouches at each corner, rather larger than the pockets of a billiard-table, and deep drawers underneath. A tape-measure and a case of scissors lay upon this. The pictures on the walls; the carpets; the rich hangings of the windows; the lounging-chairs set invitingly about, the easel, with its collection of fine engravings in one corner, a _chiffonier_ loaded with attractive articles of virtu, and a few fresh, attractive books—even the stand of flowers in the bay-window were the same that had so often challenged the admiration of Mrs. Hiller’s guests, as giving her parlors “_such_ an air of home-like elegance.”

In Blanche’s realm there had been more and material alterations. In the niches on each side of the mantel were tall, shallow cases, with sliding glass doors. These were made of black walnut, and bright silver-plated knobs and pegs set in the back. Beneath the doors were drawers with handles of the same metal. An attractive array of bonnets and hats hung in one case; of caps, and headdresses and wreaths, bouquets, sprays of flowers in the other, these last apparently springing from a box filled with moss set in the bottom. Opposite the mock conservatory was a show-case, being a walnut table handsomely carved, with a glass box on top containing ribbons arranged with a nice regard to harmony and contrasts of colors and shades. This also had drawers beneath with silver knobs. At one of the front windows stood Blanche’s chair and wicker-work stand. Hanging-baskets of living flowers swung between the curtains; a mocking-bird’s cage in the arch dividing the rooms.

Emma was walking slowly up and down the length of the two apartments, ready to retire, at the approach of customers, to her desk in the fitting-room. Her sisters had insisted upon her right to seclude herself from general observation.

“We don’t mind being made a show of! In fact, we rather like it!” the irrepressible Blanche was saying. “But they sha’n’t come to stare at, and whisper about you, Queenie!”

Her eyes sparkled; her cheeks were red as the French poppies in the glass case near by. Every crimp in her blonde hair seemed to stir in the breeze of excitement that swept and swayed her merry spirit. She flitted about from Imogen’s dominion to her own, altering, admiring, exclaiming, like a restless humming-bird.

“I am sorry for you, too,” she ran on, “for I anticipate great fun during the next few weeks. All the calls to-day that are not prompted by curiosity, more or less ill-natured, will be of condolence. Don’t I know how our dear friends will pull out eye-glass and handkerchief in the same tug. ‘You poor, dear girls!’ Mrs. Smith will sniff. (No matter what happens to you, whether you lose a front tooth, or your fortune, or your life, your best wishers will call you ‘poor dear!‘) ‘Now _do_ you think—honestly, now, you know—that it was _really_ necessary for Philip Hiller’s daughters to take this un_pre_cedented step?’”

“Miss Allfriend will kiss us all around, and drop a tear on each of our noses, with—‘My _dear_ children! it makes my heart bleed! And _how_ does mamma stand it?’ And Mrs. Williams will trot in, eye-glass up—‘Bless me! bless me! I thought I should drop when I read it in the papers! Such a shock! You can’t really conceive! Bromide and red lavender all night, my dears! I assure you!’”

“Hold your saucy tongue!” laughed Imogen, in spite of herself, and even Emma smiled at the spirited mimicry.

Blanche rattled away faster than ever. “I am going to be prim and proper when they begin to come! One and all will criticise our appointments as ‘shockingly extravagant;’ declare that ‘the like was never seen before in store or work-room—quite out of keeping, you know!’ and prophesy swift ruin if we keep on as we have begun. And we won’t hint that we paid for everything, our very own selves, with the money papa has forced upon us for the work we have done in the last four years. It’s none of their business! nor that we have some left, to repair losses, should we have any!”

“Dear papa! all we can do won’t bring back health and reason to him!” sighed Emma. “Or life to”—

Her eyes filled suddenly, and she would have hastened from the room, but Imogen caught her in her arms.

“For _their_ sakes—those who loved and believed in us—and for the babies; we will acquit ourselves bravely, sister. There are times when work that we must do—systematic and sustained effort for others, is GOD’S best cure for soul-morbidness. _I_ know!”

The others exchanged a silent look over the bright head bowed on Emma’s shoulder—a glance of blended pity and indignation. Then, Blanche pulled back the glass door of her flower-case with needless rattle, and busied herself with a pendant of glossy ivy.

“Another year I will devise some such plan as this for showing off my feathers—something like an aviary—see if I don’t!”

Not one of the three ever referred, in so many words, to the fact that handsome, accomplished Harding Walford had not entered the house in more than a month; that his visits had slackened perceptibly in frequency and length since it became generally known that Mr. Hiller would never recover. He had been Imogen’s most devoted attendant for almost a year. Her family had not doubted what would be her answer to the declaration they saw was pending. The world reported that he had broken a positive engagement, and ran no risk in so doing, since she had neither father nor brother to defend her rights. But there was not, on this account, meted out to him a formidable share of censure. He was “the best judge of his own affairs.” He was not rich. Had he been, he might still, with reason, hesitate to take a step that would entail upon him such a weight of responsibility as would a connection with the no longer prosperous Hillers, even had not Imogen’s eccentric conduct of late, in banding with her sisters “to undermine the distinctions of SOCIETY,” been ample excuse for his defection. He was wise in his generation, and the applause showered upon him who doeth good unto himself, was his due. SOCIETY always pays this sort of debt.

Only—Imogen had believed in him; and the shivering of her trust beyond the hope of repair, was very hard to bear. So much more cruel than the thought of being the target of gossip’s shafts, that the latter rattled unheeded against her armor of proud rectitude that day, and ever afterward. Desertion had stung its worst when the man she loved had looked for the last time, with love-full eyes, into hers.

Customers did come; singly, in twos and threes, and, a little past midday, when they had discussed the Hillers’ affairs comfortably over their luncheon-tables, in droves. They gathered in the spacious rooms, as Mrs. Hiller had predicted, not so much to buy or order, as to criticise and wonder. The most comic part of the exhibition to fun-loving, dauntless Blanche was that so many were disconcerted at finding that they were not singular in their curiosity and the resolve to gratify it. Hardly second to this was the ludicrous uncertainty on the part of most of the visitors as to the proper line of conduct to be pursued in greeting the gentlewomen so abruptly transformed into trades-people whom they were here to scrutinize. That the cordial yet respectful familiarity of equals was not to be thought of, now, was the dominant impression with the majority. Yet few were so indurated in worldliness, or so barefaced in the display of it as to attempt to treat their late social compeers exactly as they would “quite common persons.” The result was a combination of stiffness and patronage totally at variance with the carriage of well-bred ease, flavored with hauteur, they adjudged to be “the thing in the circumstances.”

The proprietors of the elegant apartments were mistresses of themselves and the position from the beginning. With a single eye to business, they adroitly evaded all allusion to the novelty of the scene; received the compliments to their establishments and their wares with smiling composure; showed the stock and took orders with professional dexterity, and entirely ignored glances and veiled hints of commiseration.

“Have you _no_ assistants?” queried more than one.

“At present, none,” Imogen returned, quietly. “Should our business require it, we shall procure help, keeping everything, of course, under our own personal supervision.”

“It is not an untried field to us, you know,” subjoined Blanche, in her blithest tone. “Much practice has taught us swiftness and the artistic sleight of hand that distinguishes the work of the _modiste_ from that of the amateur.”

The rooms were quite full when a plain but handsome carriage stopped at the door. A lady alighted with her arms full of bundles, followed by two slender girls of eighteen and twenty, each with a parcel, although the footman stood idly by, holding the door.

“Just like her!” murmured a spectator inside the front window, peeping through the lace curtains. “She prides herself on her want of what she calls false shame, and on being able to wait on herself.”

A hum ran from the tattler through the little assembly. Blanche, who was showing a box of feathers to a customer, feigned not to hear it; dared not to steal a look at her sister, although she longed to know how she comported herself in view of the approaching ordeal. She was the only one present whose eyes were not directed instantly toward the young dressmaker as she advanced a few steps to meet the new arrivals. Foremost in the group was the mistress of the carriage, a stately figure, richly attired, who wore her own gray hair folded smoothly above a pair of black brows and searching, usually severe eyes. They softened and shone at sight of the form in deep mourning, awaiting her pleasure, perhaps reading through the guise of lady-like self-possession the secret trouble that fluttered heart and pulse, while the trained features served the resolute will faithfully.

“My dear child!” she said, impulsively, holding fast to her parcels, but bending to kiss the cheek which flushed high under the salute.

Her daughters pressed forward to bestow caresses as affectionate upon “dear Imogen,” the family having recently returned from abroad. Their mother allowed them no time for inquiries or condolence.

“I am very, very glad to see you looking so well and bright!” she pursued, in a breezy, cheerful tone, neither shrill nor loud, but one that could make itself heard whenever and by whomsoever she willed. “I didn’t mean that my first call should be one of business, but I suppose you wouldn’t admit me upon any other plea, in business hours. But there’s the great Huntley wedding, week after next, you know, and the girls haven’t enough finery to warrant their appearance there—just from Paris, too! So we have come to cast ourselves upon your generosity and beg you, for the sake of old times and present friendship, to make us presentable. Unless you are too severely taxed already by the importunate friends of whom I see so many present. How is the dear father to-day? You must let me see him and mamma before I leave—and Emma and the babies! You mustn’t exclude us from the other parts of the house because you have taken to practicalities in sober, serious earnest. We would rebel outright, and _en masse_—after having been welcomed, during so many years, to the pleasantest home in the city!”

Imogen had led the way into the other parlor while the lady talked, and was now undoing the wrappings of the three silk dresses, and opening boxes of rare, fine lace on the long table. Her back was to the groups of attentive listeners to the foregoing monologue, and the keen eyes beside her saw her fingers shake, the long, brown lashes fall quickly to hide the unshed tears.

“You are _very_ good!” said a gentle, grateful voice. “But I felt sure you would be!”

“My love!” A strong and not small hand—ungloved—a superb diamond _solitaire_, in itself a fortune, flashing on it as the guard to a worn wedding-ring—covered the chill, uncertain fingers, busy with paper and twine. Imogen felt the warmth and thrill of the pressure to her very heart. “If you ever dare to say another word like that, I’ll never forgive you! Trimmings, style, everything—we leave to you, Imogen, my dear!” she continued, aloud. “If you can make my girls half as _distingué_ as you are yourself in full dress, or home-dress either, for that matter, I shall be satisfied. I always told you you were a genius in your profession—creative, not merely imitative genius. It was a shame that you did not give others the benefit of it before now. It is refreshing to one who has cultivated any taste for the æsthetic, to look about your rooms. I have lively hopes that dress may be understood and studied as one of the fine arts among us in time. You will be known in this generation and region, at least, as a benefactress. We go into another room to be measured, did you say?”

She swept her daughters before her into the fitting-room, and a buzz and rustle succeeded the silence her entrance had caused.

In Blanche’s hearing no one could comment openly upon what had passed. But there were significant whispers and wondering looks, and by the time the gossips reached the street, much and prolonged discussion with regard to this episode in the history of “opening day.”

For the eccentric old lady who could afford to defy the dictate of SOCIETY, and exercised her right, was Mrs. Horatio Harding, whose own veins were full of old, rich Dutch blood, and whose husband was a merchant prince, and Mr. Harding Walford was her nephew-in-law. If she had set her mind upon making the Hiller girls the fashion, she had carried her point triumphantly. With a sort of insolent grace, perhaps, at which people grumbled while they obeyed her, but she had had her way, as usual. Mrs. Horatio Harding had “opinions,” and it was not always safe or pleasant to oppose her.

“You may not know that you have done us a great service—one for which we can never pay you aright,” said Imogen to her at the close of “the season’s” work. “But you have! That we have succeeded beyond our most sanguine expectations is due, in a large measure, to the foothold you gave us that first day. If other women who have as much influence would use it to free, not enslave, their sex; to overcome, instead of strengthening the prejudices that bear so hardly upon us already, what a change would be wrought in homes where the few strive and toil, and the many are served!”

The strong white hand with the glittering _solitaire_, was raised threateningly.

“What did I tell you? I will not be praised for doing a simple act of justice, especially when my heart, as well as my conscience, moved me to it. And _you_, my sweet child, may not know that you have had a narrow escape from marrying a man who has proved himself no more worthy to mate with you than am I with one of the holy men of old—those of whom the world was not worthy. But you have. That is all I shall ever _say_ on the subject. But I think the more for my reserve when with you. And Harding Walford knows that I do. I am not reticent in his hearing. Don’t attempt to defend him! He has lost _you_, and that ought to be punishment enough for one who is capable of appreciating you. Not that he ever was.”

“I don’t want him to be punished, dear Mrs. Harding,” replied Imogen, gently. “He only swam with the tide.”

“Precisely! and to deserve such a wife as you would make, a man ought to be strong of soul and right of purpose. Don’t talk to me about moral cowards! I think I was born hating them!”

Two years later, this steady friend dropped in to see the sisters on a gloomy afternoon in February. The light from the front windows made long, clean cuts in the clinging yellow fog without, across the rimy pavement to the carriage, with its liveried coachman and fine horses. Passers-by, on their way to humble homes, lifted eyelids beaded with the icy damp, and thought how lucky were the dwellers in the stately house; how much-to-be envied the guest who rode in state above the mire of the common ways. Those who recognized the liveries, and knew whose was the dwelling, pondered, more or less wonderingly, upon the incongruity of the unabated intimacy, and speculated, perhaps, upon the probabilities that the Harding pride would have revolted at a matrimonial alliance between a scion of their house and one of the “reduced” family, for all Mrs. Horatio’s show of friendship. It was a lucky thing, decided eight out of ten of those who considered the matter, that young Walford had not committed himself irrevocably before the “misfortune” that showed him how near he was to the edge of the abyss. He had made a desirable match last fall, and was now travelling in Europe with his heiress bride.

Little cared guest or hostesses what the outside world thought or believed respecting their intercourse. Emma’s boys were building block houses on the back parlor floor. The three sisters were gathered about the centre-table in the other room, talking in low voices over their work. Mrs. Harding stopped in the doorway on seeing their grave faces, and that they were making black _crêpe_ bonnets.

“A mourning order!” she said, in her unceremonious way. “Anybody that I know?”

“Not an order exactly,” explained Imogen, when they had welcomed her. “But poor Mr. Sibthorpe has gone at last, and Blanche proposed that we should spare the widow and three unmarried daughters the expense of bonnets and veils; so we are making them and the widow’s caps out of work hours. We do our charity work at such odd times you know—and together.

“You are the Blessed Three Sisters—_that_ everybody knows!” uttered the visitor. “I don’t believe I _could_ set a stitch for that tribe of lazy locusts! Amelia, the married one, is no better. Her husband failed awhile ago, as you may remember, and she is too proud to help him in the small haberdasher’s shop he has lately set up; sits at home like a—I won’t say lady—but an idiotic automaton—”

“Who ever heard of an intellectual one?” laughed Blanche.

“No pertness, miss! I don’t pick my terms when I am excited. She sits in the small parlor over the store, as I was saying, and curries favor with wealthy and charitable ladies by cutting sponge and velvet into monkey and black-and-tan terrier pen-wipers for fancy fairs. What are the Sibthorpe’s going to do, now that the man they murdered among them is dead?”

“His life was insured”—began Emma.

“Humph!” interrupted Mrs. Harding. “You needn’t proceed. They will eat the insurance up to the last dollar, and by that time the boys will be big enough to divide the women among them; to carry them bodily—their expenses, that is—as we see ants running about with egg sacs bigger than themselves on their shoulders. I know the old, hideous story by heart. Drop the subject.”

“Let me give you a piece of news that will entertain you better,” said Blanche, merrily. “One of the Payne girls—Sophia, the youngest—is going to marry a widower with eight children—all at home.”

“Serves her right! But I am sorry for the children. Go on!”

“The happy man is a Mr. Gregorias, of Spanish extraction. He is small and withered, and reported to be rich as cream. So Arethusa says. The wedding dress is to be of white satin, with point lace veil and flounces—the gift of the groom.”

“Have you undertaken the trousseau?” queried Mrs. Harding, fixing her keen gaze upon Imogen.

“No,” she answered, coloring as she smiled. “I have declined making any engagements for the spring. I am going abroad for a year in May, and Blanche does not want a stranger here in my place.”

“Markham Burke _is_ the man, then! My love! I congratulate you with all my heart. I have been on thorns all winter about you and the noble fellow. I was afraid you had some Quixotic notions that would stand in the way of his happiness and yours.”

“No; why should I have?” rejoined the _fiancée_, speaking quietly and sensibly. “We are not vowed to our trades, or to celibacy. Markham says there is no need that he, with his ample means, should let me keep up my business. Whatever I have made, he insists upon settling upon me. He would have had me divide it all between Blanche and Emma, but they would not allow it.”

“I should hope not!” cried Blanche, energetically. “Two women who can take care of themselves!’”

“Blanche will enlarge her department,” continued Imogen, “now that I will leave her room. You should hear her plans of making a temple of art—not of fashion alone—in these two parlors. It will be very beautiful. She can afford to indulge her taste in these respects. She is making money.”

“Means to be a nabob-ess before she dies—or marries,” interjected the youngest sister.

“You are a mercenary witch,” said Mrs. Harding. “Emma, Mr. Harding says your lots are rising in value fast, and the price of land in that quarter of the city is sure to increase with tenfold rapidity during the next dozen years. He would not advise you to close with the offer made you last week, unless you need the money.”

“Thank you and him!” replied the young widow. “I am not anxious to sell. Let it grow for the boys. It belongs to them. The rest of us are provided for. Even for mamma there is enough and to spare. We have never been tempted by the various straits of poverty and shabby gentility to wish for our father’s death, that we might profit by _his_ life-insurance policy. Feeble as he is, his cheerfulness, his patience and affection for us all, make his a very bright presence in our home. It is a priceless comfort to us all that he is not compelled, when he needs them most, to relinquish the home and luxuries he toiled so long and bravely to obtain for us.”

“You can’t imagine what pride and delight he takes in the boys!” exclaimed Blanche. “We really hope he may live to see them grown.”

“It is the story of the old storks and their young, to the life,” said Mrs. Harding to her husband that night. “I used to think it a fable. I believe now that it is true, out and out!”

INDEX

PAGE EGGS 18

A hen’s nest 27 Eggs baked (_No. 1_) 20 (_No. 2_) 20 Egg cutlets 21 Eggs forcemeat 27 fricasseed 21 poached _à la Bonne Femme_ 24 poached with mushrooms 25 scalloped (_hard-boiled_) 23 (_raw_) 22 stirred 22 sur le plat 19 toasted 19 whirled 24 with anchovy toast 26

FISH 29

_Entrées and Relishes of Fish_ 29

Cold fish—what to do with 29 Cod or halibut—baked 36 (_salt_) _au maître d’hôtel_ 43 with cheese 44 scalloped 44 with egg sauce 43 44 Cutlets of halibut, cod or salmon 35 Cutlets of halibut, cod or salmon _à la reine_ 35 Eels stewed _à l’Allemande_ 33 _à l’Americain_ 33 fricasseed 34 Fish-balls 32 Roes of cod or shad (_fried_) 29 Sauce for the above 30 Roes of cod or shad (_stewed_) 30 Sauce 30 Roes scalloped 31 Salmon, baked with cream sauce 36 cutlets _en papillote_ 38 devilled 42 in a mould 39 Sauce for the above 39 Salmon, _mayonnaise_ of 40 Dressing for above 40 Salmon, smoked (_broiled_) 42 steaks, or cutlets (_fried_) 37 steaks, or cutlets (_broiled_) 38 stewed 39

SHELL FISH.

Lobster, curried 48 devilled 49 cutlets 46 croquettes 46 fricassee 45 pudding 47 Sauce for the above 47 Lobster rissoles 45 Sauce for the above 46 Lobster scalloped (_No. 1_) 50 (_No. 2_) 50 stewed 49 Oysters, boiled in the shell 55 broiled 57 devilled 57 in batter 58 panned 53 scalloped (_No. 1_) 56 (_No. 2_) 56 stewed 58 Oyster Patés 59 pie (_cream_) 59 Turtle fricassee 52

PATÉS 68

Patés, chicken 69 70 of fish 70 Swiss 71 Paté of beef and potato 73 _de foie gras_ (_imitation_) 73 Stella 72 of sweetbreads 68 White sauce for the above 69

CROQUETTES 75

Croquettes, beef 78 chicken 77 fish 79 game 81 hominy 82 of lobster or crab 80 potato 83 rice 83 veal and ham 81 venison or mutton 78 Cannelon of veal 84 beef 85 A pretty breakfast dish 85

SWEETBREADS 86

Sweetbreads, brown, fricassee of (_No. 1_) 86 brown, fricassee of (_No. 2_) 87 white, fricassee of 88 broiled 90 larded (_fried_) 90 (_stewed_) 89 roasted 91 _sautés au vin_ 92

KIDNEYS 93

Kidneys, _à la brochette_ 96 broiled 95 fried 93 94 stewed 96 with wine 95 toasted 94

HASTE OR WASTE? 98

MEATS, INCLUDING POULTRY AND GAME 108

Calf’s brains, fried 115 on toast 116 head, a mould of 114 ragoût, or imitation turtle 112 ragoût of, and mushrooms 113 liver, _à l’Anglaise_ 108 _à la mode_ 111 _au domino_ 109 fricassee of 111 _sauté_ 110 Chickens, fried 132 whole 133 “smothered” 133 with oysters 134 or other white meat, fondu of 135 and eggs minced 129 fricassee _à l’Italienne_ 128 Fowl, devilled 125 Galantine 136 Game or poultry in savory jelly 138 Jellied tongue 137 whole 140 Meat and potato puffs 119 Mince of veal or lamb 121 Mock pigeons 117 Ollapodrida of lamb 109 Quenelles 130 131 Rabbit, brown fricassee of 122 white fricassee of 121 curried 123 devilled 124 roast 126 Rechauffée of veal and ham 131 Roast quails 127 Roulade of beef 131 mutton 132 Salmi of game 125 Scalloped chicken 119 120 beef 120 Veal cutlets 116 turnover 118 Wild duck or grouse braised 127

GRAVY 141

SALADS 146

Salad, cabbage 147 chicken 149 lobster, without oil 148 dressing 148 oyster 146 cream dressing for 151 dressing, golden 152 potato 153

VARIOUS PREPARATIONS OF CHEESE 154

Cheese biscuits 156 fingers 156 fondu 157 with macaroni 155 patés 160 pudding 161 sandwiches 161 with eggs 154 toasted 154 Cream Cheese (_No. 1_) 158 (_No. 2_) 160 Ramakins 161

POTATOES 163

Potatoes _à la Duchesse_ 166 _Lyonnaise_ 163 _à l’Italienne_ 165 fried 164 scalloped 164 stewed 163 Potato eggs 166

LUNCHEON 168

VEGETABLES 172

Baked tomatoes 174 Devilled 174 Fritters of canned corn 173 Fried egg plant 172 Mock fried oysters 172 stewed 173

BREAKFAST-ROLLS, MUFFINS, TEA-CAKES, ETC. 176

Batter or egg-bread, southern 179 bread (_No. 2_) 180 Boiled mush, to be eaten with milk 180 Brown biscuit 186 Corn-bread, Adirondack 176 loaf 177 Chrissie’s 179 cake 176 meal muffins (_raised_) 178 (_quick_) 178 Cream toast 140 Crumpets, hominy 189 Crumpets, rice 183 Excellent muffins 186 Graham gems (_No. 1_) 187 (_No. 2_) 187 (_No. 3_) 188 Milk porridge 181 Minute biscuit (_brown_) 187 Oatmeal biscuit (_for breakfast_) 181 gruel (_for invalids_) 181 Rolls, French 182 plain, light 183 tea 182 all day 184 Quick loaf 185 Rusk (_No. 1_) 188 Susie’s (_No. 2_) 189 Soda biscuit, without milk 189 Unity loaf 185

GRIDDLE CAKES 191

Cakes, buttermilk 191 Corn-meal flapjacks 192 Cakes, farina griddle 194 grandma’s 192 Graham, griddle 195 rice 193 rice or hominy 192 sour milk 191 Susie’s flannel 194

WHAT I KNOW ABOUT EGG-BEATERS 196

WHIPPED CREAM 203

_Fancy Dishes for Dessert_ 208

An almond Charlotte 214 215 Chocolate blanc-mange 219 and cream 220 custards (_baked_) 220 (_boiled_) 221 Créme du café 218 chocolat 218 thé 217 Easter eggs 210 Glacé oranges 209 Jelly, apple 231 custard 231 claret 236 lemon 233 orange 234 oranges 208 peach 232 raspberry and currant 233 strawberry 232 wine 235 Jellies, note upon 236 Macaroon basket 230 Naples sponge 213 Narcissus blanc-mange 216 Ribbon jelly and cream 209 Rockwork 221 Snow, apple (_No. 1_) 226 (_No. 2_) 226 lemon 227 orange 227 rice 228 summer 228 Syllabub 229 Trifle, an ambushed 222 apple 223 lemon 224 orange 227 strawberry 217 tipsy 216 Trifles, queen of 224 Turret cream 212 Tutti frutti jelly 234 Velvet cream 230

PUDDINGS OF VARIOUS KINDS 238

Puffs, chocolate 259 coffee cream 259 corn-meal 260 cottage 258 jam 257 lemon 258 Ristori 257 vanilla cream 259 white 260 Pudding, almond corn-starch 244 rice 239 sponge 269 apple batter 255 and batter 283 soufflé 280 arrowroot (_cold_) 242 (_hot_) 243 soufflé 281 baked apple 255 boiled apple 254 lemon 268 Boston lemon 270 orange 270 bread and raisins 249 batter 282 cocoanut 276 sponge 265 corn-meal fruit 245 cherry bread 250 custard bread 251 cherry soufflé 279 corn-meal without eggs 246 Derry 267 dishes 283 English tapioca 242 Essex 253 farina 247 farmer’s plum 274 fig 262 custard 262 263 fruit bread 248 sponge cake (_boiled_) 265 sponge cake (_baked_) 266 hasty 246 impromptu Christmas 276 lemon 271 soufflé 277 macaroni and almond 252 marrow sponge 263 nursery plum 275 orange 267 orange custard 272 peach batter 256 plain boiled (_No. 1_) 273 (_No. 2_) 273 plain macaroni 253 plain sponge-cake 264 Queen’s 271 rice-flour, hasty 247 rice with fruit 238 rusk 261 rock custard 272 rice soufflé 281 southern rice 240 sago 243 sponge-cake soufflé 279 Susie’s bread 248 steamed 251 tapioca custard 241 Wayne 208 white 261 Willie’s favorite 250 Jelly puddings 274 A very delicate soufflé 282 Léche créma soufflé 278 Peach léche créma 256 Rice méringue 240 Rosie’s rice custard 241

FRITTERS 284

Fritters, apple 287 bell 284 corn-meal 289 cream 291 curd 293 currant 286 lemon 287 light 286 peach (with yeast) 290 potato 291 rice 288 roll, or imitation doughnuts 292 rusk 285 sponge-cake 292

CONCERNING ALLOWANCES 294

(_Confidential—with John._)

RIPE FRUIT 308

Apples and jelly 313 Baked pears 313 Boiled chestnuts 314 Cocoanut frost on custard 312 Frosted peaches 310 Frosted and glacé oranges 311 Melons 314 Stewed apples 313 Tropical snow 312 Walnuts and hickory nuts 314

CAKES OF ALL KINDS 316

Cake, apple 317 _filling_ 318 a Charlotte _à la Parisienne_ 336 a Charlotte cachée 321 brown 334 Carolina, without eggs 316 Charlotte polonaise 319 _filling_ 319 chocolate 317 _filling_ 317 cocoanut and almond 330 _filling_ 330 cocoanut sponge 331 cocoanut—richer 331 coffee 332 cream rose 327 _filling_ 327 citron 335 corn-starch cup 339 currant 344 Fanny’s 321 Fred’s favorite 339 _filling_ 339 fruit and nut 341 Jeanie’s fruit 337 mother’s cup 322 Morris 326 Mont Blanc 326 _filling_ 327 molasses fruit 333 Myrtle’s 334 my lady’s 329 _filling_ 329 May’s 338 Neapolitan (yellow, pink, white, and brown) 323 yellow 323 pink and white 323 brown 324 _filling_ 324 Newark 341 Nellie’s cup 316 “One, Two, Three” cup 340 orange 318 _filling_ 319 Orleans 325 Pompton 338 raisin 333 risen seed 335 rich almond 336 snow drift 340 _filling_ 340 Sultana 328 unity 333 white 316 wine 341 Cakes, almond—small 350 cocoanut—small 345 cream 350 custard 351 citron—small 352 Queen 352 rich drop 346 rose drop 345 snow drops 346 variegated 345 Cookies, Bertie’s 347 carraway 350 Kellogg 347 lemon 349 Montrose 348 Aunt Molly’s 348 seed 348 ginger 353 Lemon macaroons 349 Ginger-snaps 354 Fried jumbles 354 Seed wafers 353 Almond icing 322 Genuine Scotch short-bread 354 Gingerbread, eggless 343 half-cup 344 Richmond 343 sugar 343 Unity 342

TEA 356

BEVERAGES 360

A cozy for a teapot 362 A summer drink 362 Coffee with whipped cream 368 Café _au lait_, frothed 363 Soyer’s 364 Chocolate, frothed 363 milled 364 Claret cup 365 Curaçoa 371 Ginger cordial 366 Mulled ale 367 wine 368 Noyau 371 Orange cream 373 Porteree, very fine 366 Punch, milk (hot) 367 rum milk 368 clear 369 Rose syrup 372 Shrub, currant and raspberry 369 lemon 370 strawberry 370 Tea _à la Russe_ 360 iced 361 cold 361 milk punch 361 Vanilla liqueur 373 White lemonade 365

FLAVORING EXTRACTS 375

Bitter almond 376 Lemon 375 Orange 375 Vanilla 375

PRESERVED FRUITS, CANDIES, ETC. 378

Candy, peanut 383 Dotty Dimple’s vinegar 384 lemon cream 384 marbled cream 386 sugar 387 Candied lemon peel 381 Cranberries 383 Cherries, canned 381 _glacé_ 381 Chocolate caramels 385 cream drops 386 Maple syrup 382 Marmalade, apple 378 Dundee orange 380 orange 379 pear and quince 379

THE SCRAP-BAG 388

Another treasure 395 Cleansing cream 393 For cholera symptoms 389 a cough 389 chapped hands and lips 392 nausea 391 sore eyes 393 throat 389 For sudden hoarseness 388 388 Mixture for cleaning black cloth, or worsted dresses 393 Mustard plasters 391 Parting words 398 Pumpkin flour 394 Seymour Pudding 396 Strawberry short-cake 396 To clean marble 394 Welsh rarebit 397

PRACTICAL—OR UTOPIAN? PART I 402