THE LADIES ’ FLORAL CABINET. 
213 
are introduced to her mother, a limp, prostrate figure, 
lying, book in hand, upon a satin couch, 
y And this is my Cousin David’s wife ! But when she 
. speaks—that such voice and manner can belong to such 
a person is incredible. The composure, the graceful 
ease of une grancle dame, the voice—it is impossible to 
describe it. It has the round, melodious sweetness of 
the harp, as Italians play it. Nothing spoken by such 
a voice can seem dull or common. 
“ And at last I have the happiness of seeing the cousin 
Ruth, of whose praises I have many a time been so 
fiercely jealous. And this is your friend?”—with a 
winning smile and extended hand to Madame. 
“ We have been expecting your visit with so much 
pleasure, all of us, but most especially my husband, 
who has been as impatient as a child for your coming 
ever since he learned where you were. He is down in 
town now—we had persuaded him you could not pos¬ 
sibly reach here this morning—but will be in presently. 
Have seats.” 
Comfortable chairs are hospitably drawn forward, 
and a genial, grateful glow—which happier, more for¬ 
tunate women can scarcely understand—conies about 
my desolate heart at this cordial welcome. There are 
Bohemians from choice and Bohemians from necessity 
—fate. I am of the latter, and have never been able to 
overcome longings for the domestic life, which can 
never be mine. 
“ Children,” says Mrs. Easten’s lovely voice, “ come 
speak to the ladies.” 
They skirmish a little among themselves in the corner 
and do not come. The mother doesn’t notice. She 
talks to Madame. She has been abroad, the charming 
voice is saying, and has lived in Madame's beloved 
Paris. 
Marguerite is my vis-d-vis. The girl is marvelously 
beautiful. A statuesque-white, sensuous beauty—pale, 
flaxen hair, without a tinge of gold: great velvety-black 
eyes, long-laslied and heavy lidded; ivory-white face, 
utterly colorless, save the vivid red of the perfect lips. 
The slender hands folded upon her lap have none of the 
usual restlessness of youth—they are motionless. She 
has a drooping way with these heavy lids. Her eyes 
rest upon the motionless hands. , 
I make a little dry talk. I am by no means a talka¬ 
tive person, and not in the least interested in the swarm, 
for whom, in fact, I have conceived a strong aversion; 
but no other topic suggests itself to my limited imagi¬ 
nation, and one must talk. So I inquire blandly: 
“ Are there no children between you and these little 
ones ? ” 
“ None living,” Marguerite responds. 
Succumbed early to the maternal regime, I think, 
eyeing the unkempt survivors. But one 'doesn’t say 
such things, and I politely remark : 
“There is considerable difference in age between you 
and—” 
“Annette,” supplies Marguerite. 
Then we both glance at the children. It is quite im¬ 
possible to identify Annette by a bird’s-eye view of her 
back. 
Tlu-ough the doorway now comes a large, purple-faced 
man. He bows, looks at Madame, then longer at me, 
but there is no recognition in his eyes, and there can 
only bo pain in mine as the fear seizes me that this is 
my cousin David. It is, indeed, he. 
“My husband. Why! don’t you know each other 
after all?” Mrs. Easten says. “It’s j'our cousin 
Ruth ! ” 
“Dear Ruth! dear Ruth!” He takes my hands in 
his, and his voice trembles. How could it be possible 
for me to forget you— the only sister I ever knew? Of 
course I knew you. I was blinded coming so suddenly 
from the sunshine into the darkened room.” 
I control myself as well as I can, press my quivering 
lips together, steady my voice, and say: 
“ I knew you at once,” which is true in the letter— 
not hi the spirit. 
He salutes Madame with old-time courtliness, then 
drew his chair beside mine. We or the civilized world 
can’t shriek, and groan, and beat our breasts, and tear 
our hair out over disallusionments. Fancy the stout, 
middle-aged father of a family, and a precise, gray- 
liaired spinster making such clamor. 
The conventional smile is the badge of civilization. 
I don mine as quickly as may be. Is the meeting as pain¬ 
ful to Cousin-David as to me ? I never knew. Shocked, 
dazed by the changes time has wrought—which I 
should have expected, but have not—I sit looking at 
him, wondering if he thinks me as greatly changed, and 
am not in the least reassured by his next words. 
“What have you been doing all these years, Ruth? 
You are blooming—blooming as a rose. Look at me ! 
I’m gray as a badger ! ” 
Mrs. Easten listens to our talk with flattering atten¬ 
tion; and presently, when there comes a pause in the 
conversation, she fills it with the smooth readiness 
which I so much admire—all the more for having 
rather a halting tongue of my own. 
“ Your visit, which would have been most welcome 
at any time, is singularly opportune, regarding it from 
our point of view—human nature is a very selfish 
thing, mes amis. And Marguerite is to be married 
Thursday: so we shall not only have your society after 
the marriage, to prevent our being lonely, but we shall 
have the benefit of your invaluable taste and advice 
before the grand event,” with a sweet, musical laugh. 
The remark includes Madame, who gives a twitter of 
delight. People like Madame and me are not used to 
have their taste and advice considered invaluable. At 
another time I would no doubt feel as flattered and 
charmed as Madame plainly does; but I am still stunned 
by the heart-sickening effort to identify the man beside 
me with the stripling of twenty years ago. 
“Mademoiselle ees ferry young,” is Madame’s reply. 
Cousin David has risen, and is leaving the room, 
but he stops at this, lays his hand upon Marguerite’s 
head. 
“True,” he says; “Marguerite is young—not yet 
eighteen—but there are unusual circumstances in the 
case. This young woman,” patting her head gently, 
with his great hand, “has been engaged to Judge 
Granger since she wore long clothes—at least it would 
seem so—nobody remembers how it began or how it all 
came about.” 
While he speaks the girl’s dark eyes meet his gravely, 
coolly. She does not smile or speak—there is not a 
trace of girlish shyness; not the faintest rose tint comes 
into the ivory white cheeks. 
Madame and I unconsciously exchange glances, and 
are greatly abashed thereat. 
Nothing more is said, and our bad manners escape 
