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Di and Laura were preparing to assist at an “event of the season,” and Nan, with her own locks fallen on her shoulders, for want of sundry combs promoted to her sisters’ heads, and her dress in unwonted disorder, for lack of the many pins extracted in exciting crises of the toilet, hovered like an affectionate bee about two very full-blown flowers.

“Laura looks like a cool Undine, with the ivy-wreaths in her shining hair; and Di has illuminated herself to such an extent with those scarlet leaves, that I don’t know what great creature she resembles most,” said Nan, beaming with sisterly admiration.

“Like Juno, Zenobia, and Cleopatra simmered into one, with a touch of Xantippe by way of spice. But, to my eye, the finest woman of the three is the dishevelled young person embracing the bed-post; for she stays at home herself and gives her time and taste to making homely people fine,–which is a waste of good material, and an imposition on the public.”

As Di spoke, both the fashion-plates looked affectionately at the gray-gowned figure; but, being works of art, they were obliged to nip their feelings in the bud, and reserve their caresses till they returned to common life.

“Put on your bonnet, and we’ll leave you at Mrs. Lord’s on our way. It will do you good, Nan; and perhaps there may be news from john,” added Di, as she bore down upon the door like a man-of-war under full sail.

“Or from Philip,” sighed Laura, with a wistful look.

Whereupon Nan persuaded herself that her strong inclination to sit down was owing to want of exercise, and the heaviness of her eyelids a freak of imagination; so, speedily smoothing her ruffled plumage, she ran down to tell her father of the new arrangement.

“Go, my dear, by all means. I shall be writing; and you will be lonely, if you stay. But I must see my girls; for I caught glimpses of certain surprising phantoms flitting by the door.”

Nan led the way, and the two pyramids revolved before him with the rigidity of lay-figures, much to the good man’s edification; for with his fatherly pleasure there was mingled much mild wonderment at the amplitude of the array.

“Yes, I see my geese are really swans, though there is such a cloud between us that I feel a long way off, and hardly know them. But this little daughter is always available, always my ‘cricket on the hearth.'”

As he spoke, her father drew Nan closer, kissed her tranquil face, and smiled content.

“Well, if ever I see picters, I see’em now, and I declare to goodness it’s as interestin’as play-actin’, every bit. Miss Di, with all them boughs in her head, looks like the Queen of Sheby, when she went a-visitin’ What’s-his-name; and if Miss Laura a’n’t as sweet as a lally-barster figger, I should like to know what is.”

In her enthusiasm, Sally gambolled about the girls, flourishing her milk-pan like a modern Miriam about to sound her timbrel for excess of joy.

Laughing merrily, the two Mont Blancs bestowed themselves in the family ark, Nan hopped up beside Patrick, and Solon, roused from his lawful slumbers, morosely trundled them away. But, looking backward with a last “Good night!” Nan saw her father still standing at the door with smiling countenance, and the moonlight falling like a benediction on his silver hair.

“Betsey shall go up the hill with you, my dear, and here’s a basket of eggs for your father. Give him my love, and be sure you let me know the next time he is poorly,” Mrs. Lord said, when her guest rose to depart after an hour of pleasant chat.

But Nan never got the gift; for, to her great dismay, her hostess dropped the basket with a crash, and flew across the room to meet a tall shape pausing in the shadow of the door. There was no need to ask who the new-comer was; for, even in his mother’s arms, John looked over her shoulder with an eager nod to Nan, who stood among the ruins with never a sign of weariness in her face, nor the memory of a care at her heart,–for they all went out when John came in.