THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET 
211 
How hot it is! 
In apathetic wretchedness I gaze through the window 
at the bare, blackened, treeless wall of rock towering 
before it—at the heated, mote-flecked atmosphere shim¬ 
mering against the surface ofjdie cliff, like the air about 
the mouth of a furnace. 
This, then, is Crystal Springs! whither Madame and 
I, together with some half hundred other unfortunates, 
have been inveigled by glowing advertisements. In 
these advertisements, we—Madame and I—thought we 
had found the solution of a problem which had occa¬ 
sioned us some uneasiness. This problem was where to 
spend the vacation. Strange, is it not, and rather 
piteous, that one should be so utterly alone in the world 
—so desolate ? 
Yet Madame and I are just so utterly alone—just 
so desolate. 
Crystal Springs ! Green fields, mossy dells, and cool, 
rippling waters—a vision of Arcadia rose before our 
tired eyes. 
Only fifty miles from the school, and eight dollars a 
week! Anxiously I listened while Madame made the 
calculation. Yes, we could afford it. So we came. 
And this is Crystal Springs! 
The hotel, a mere shell of boards, stands unsheltered, 
shutterless, in the blazing, broiling sun. Ci^stal 
Springs, a single languid stream, oozing from an ancient 
“gum” under a crazy shed, is a mile away, down a 
dreary stretch of sun-baked, cinder-strewn railroad 
track. Twice a da)’ we tramp patiently over this inter¬ 
vening mile, with the heroic endurance peculiar to 
Americans in pursuit of recreation. 
I have observed this peculiarity in no other nation; 
and certainly Madame does not share it. She has a 
cheery nature, but Crystal Springs would depress the 
spirits of a lark. And to-day Madame’s discontent 
breaks out in a rage; albeit, an effervescent French 
rage, which is now fast subsiding into plaintiveness. A 
wet handkerchief is spread over her head. 
“ H6las! I shall liaf ze a-jpop-lexy! ” 
Then a tap on the door. 
Madame forgets her sufferings, chiefest of which is 
ennui, aud trips blithely to the door. A grinning 
negro hands her a letter. Negroes are “ proned,” 
as they express it, to grin at Madame; aud very 
oddly does she look, with the corner of the hand¬ 
kerchief dangling about her brown face. 
“ Zat which I haf ees ze lettre of Mademoiselle! ” 
A letter is an event to Madame and me. We have few 
correspondents—the world is not eager for the auto¬ 
graphs of impecunious mediocrity. 
I turn it over aud over in the idiotic way common to 
those who receive few letters. At last I open it, and 
the signature is David Easten—my cousin David— 
whose name I have not heard, whose handsome face I 
have not seen for so many years How long since I 
heard his name I cannot remember. But a sunny June 
day, twenty years ago, comes back, and I see a youth’s 
slender form, clad in blue, marching to martial music 
down the village street; a child-maiden prone upon the 
earth among the lilacs in the old garden, weeping her 
heart out, and feeling that the end of all things has 
come. 
Long quiet memories stir. I scarce comprehend the 
words I read aloud, though ’tis a commonplace letter 
enough: 
“My Dear Ruth: I shall not reproach you for your 
uncousinly conduct in concealing your whereabouts 
until I can do so orally. By the merest chance, we 
learn you, with a friend, are stopping at Crystal Springs, 
and write immediately to beg you and your friend to 
come to us at once. My wife joins in a most cordial 
invitation to you both. I should have delivered the in¬ 
vitation in person, but for the approaching; marriage of 
my daughter Marguerite, which renders it impossible 
for me to leave home just now. We shall expect you 
at your earliest convenience. It is only a few hours’ run 
to Clay ville. 
“ Most affectionately, your cousin, 
“David Easten.” 
David’s wife! David’s daughter! How strange it 
seems! 
Mechanically my eyes go back to the parched cliffs; 
but my thoughts are far away, in our old New England 
home—David’s home and mine. And very dearly we 
loved each other with all our childish hearts. The 
breeze comes over the beloved hills; I feel the salt air 
on my face. 
Madame prances like an electrified goblin. 
“ Eh bien! Eh bien! een ze nac o’ temps ! ” 
So Madame says “in the nick of time.” Then a 
shadow falls upon the radiant little brown face. 
“ 3Iais, ve ville go, ville ve not, chere mademoiselle ? ” 
pleadingly. “ Ce matin, I do say to ze—what ees eet 
you do say en Anf/lais ? — L'Aubergisle I do mean— cette 
vilaine femme down stair, who poi-zan. us wiz sal-a-raw- 
tous. Ce matin, I do say to heev— avec biensiance, I 
assure you, mademoisolle—ze bread ees vile ! ” 
Madame’s pose is worthy La Franfaise. 
“What ees eet she do say tome? Eet is theze—‘if 
you do not like ze ac-com-mo-da-tiou, you can lief.’ 
He bien! Ve go ! I turn my nose at heer ! ” 
The half-intelligible tirade jars upon the memories the 
letter has stirred. And as it ends I turn fretfully upon 
Madame. 
“I know nothing of these people,” I say. “I have 
not seen my cousin for twenty years—his family never 
at all. How can I tell then,” I demand sharply, 
“ whether or not it would be pleasant to visit them?” 
The little Parisienne’s answer disarms me. 
“ Eef zay are like Mademoiselle zay are charm-trip!” 
I know I am not in the least charming; an ordinary 
and rather bad-tempered old maid instead. But no one 
save Madame ever says things like that to me. What 
can I do, except consent? And consent I do, smiling in 
a shame-faced way. There is small inducement to tarry 
at Crystal Springs, and I leave the time of departure to 
Madame. 
Madame remembers the morning’s unsuccessful en¬ 
counter with the landlady, and says, “now, at once;” so 
we set about packing our scanty belongings. The last 
garment is folded and our trunks locked as the dinner- 
bell rings. We are in no haste. We are acquainted 
with the menu of Crystal Springs—its invariable mutton 
and potatoes. 
“ Revenons d nos moutons, for ze las temps,” says 
Madame, with her funny little French cluck of the 
tongue. 
It is late in the afternoon of the same day that we are- 
seated in the train. Madame gives a whisk of her skirts, 
and a stamp of both little feet, literally shaking off the 
dust of Crystal Springs. 
At twilight we reach the Ohio River. Swollen by the- 
