The next winter Cynthia was fairly launched on society. There was no regular coming out in almost bridal array, with a grand tea and a houseful of flowers. When a girl left school she expected to be invited out and to give little companies at home. Almost the first thing, she was asked to be one of the six bridesmaids at Laura Manning's wedding.

The Mannings had one of the splendid new houses on Chestnut Street, with spacious grounds before the houses grew so close together. Avis Manning was still in school, Cynthia was between the two in age. Mr. Manning was connected with the East India trade and an old friend of the Leverett family. It had begun by Cynthia being invited to a girls' tea, and Mrs. Manning had taken a great fancy to her. Laura was not very tall, and they did not want any one to dwarf the bride.

Every one was to be in white, the bride in a soft, thick silk, and she was to have a court train. The maids were to be in mull or gauze, as a very pretty thin material was called. The Empress Josephine had brought in new styles that certainly were very becoming to young people. The short waist and square neck, the sleeve puffs that had shrunk so much they no longer reached the ears, the short curls around the edge of the forehead arranged so the white parting showed, the dainty feet in elegant slippers and choice silk stockings that could not help showing, for the skirts were short. Pretty feet and slim ankles seemed to be a mark of good family.

"Will I do?" Cynthia stood before Cousin Chilian with a half-saucy smile. Around her throat she wore a beautiful Oriental necklace, with pendants of different fine stones that sparkled with every turn of the head. There were match pendants in her ears, and just back of the rows of curls was a jewelled comb.

She was a pretty girl without being a striking beauty. But her eyes would have redeemed almost any face, and now they were all aglow with a wonderful light.

He looked his admiration.

"Because if you don't like me——"

There was a charming half-coquettish way about her, but she never made a bid for compliments.

"What then?" laughing.

"I'd stay home and spoil the wedding party. I know they couldn't fill my place on a short notice."

He thought they couldn't fill it at all, but he said almost merrily, "You need not stay at home."

Cousin Eunice said she looked pretty enough for the bride. Miss Winn had attended to her toilette, and now she wrapped a soft silken cloak about her and Cousin Chilian put her in the carriage. He was all in his best, ruffled shirt-front, light brocaded silk waist-coat, and there were lace ruffles about his hands.

One feels inclined to wonder at the extravagance of those days, when one sees some of the heirlooms that have come down to us. But their handsome gowns went through several seasons, and then were made over for the daughters. And they did not have their jewels reset every few months.

Such a roomful of pretty girls! Youth and health and picturesque dressing make almost any one pretty. Miss Laura looked fine, but she paused to say, "Oh, Cynthia, what an elegant necklace!"

"Father had it made for mother," she replied simply.

They patted and pulled a little, powdered, too.

Miss Willard, the great mantua-maker of that day, who superintended the dressing of brides, saw that everything was right. The young men came from their dressing-room, and they began to form the procession. Both halls were illuminated with no end of candles, and guests were standing about. Mr. Lynde Saltonstall took his bride-to-be, and they let the white train sweep down the broad stairway, then Avis Manning and Ed Saltonstall followed. They were not much on knick-names in those days, but he had been called Ed to distinguish him from some cousins.

Cynthia and a cousin came next, and there were several other relatives. It was a beautiful sight. The bride walked up to the white satin cushion on which the couple would kneel during the prayer, the maids and attendants made a semicircle around her, and then the nearest relatives. The old white-haired minister had married her mother.

Then there was kissing and congratulation and Mrs. Saltonstall had her new name, though Avis said she liked Manning a hundred times better.

"Then you wouldn't accept my name?" said Ed, but he looked laughingly at Cynthia.

"Indeed I wouldn't! I don't want any one's name at present. I'm going to be the only daughter of the house a while," she returned saucily.

"I wonder if I ought to go on and ask all the maids?" There was such a funny anxiety in his face that it added to the merriment.

"You needn't ask this one," said Ward Adams, and Cousin Lois Reade blushed scarlet, though they all knew she was engaged.

"But I'm going to dance with every maid. And just at twelve I'm going to hunt for a glass slipper."

His look at Cynthia said he needn't hunt very far, and she blushed, which made her more enchanting than before.

They all laughed and talked, the older men teasing the bride a little and giving her advice as to how she should break in her new husband. Young people's weddings were expected to be gay and every one added his or her mite. The fine new house was duly admired. On one side it was all one long room, beautifully decorated. On the other a library, for books were beginning to come in fashion, even if you were not a clergyman or a student. Then a kind of family sitting-room, with a large dining-room at the back. Some of the fine old houses were taken for public purposes later on.

They went out to refreshments and the bride cut the cake with a silver knife. Large suppers were no longer considered the style, but there was a bountiful supply of delicacies. They drank health and long life to the bride and groom, and good wishes of all kinds.

The black waiter, in white gloves and white apron, stood in the hall to deliver boxes of wedding cake as the older people took their departure. And then the fiddlers began to tune up. There were two minuets to take in all the party. Cynthia and Mr. Jordan were in the head one, with the bride. He was a little stiff and excused himself, as he wasn't much given to dancing. It didn't matter so much in the minuet.

Then they paired off any way. Mr. Ed Saltonstall caught Cynthia's hand.

"I'm just dying to dance with you, and this is the basket quadrille. Jordan dances like a pump handle, but he's a good fellow. Now let us have something worth while. I know you dance beautifully."

"How do you know?" piquantly.

"I'd like to be nautical and impertinent, but I'm afraid you'd report me to Mr. Leverett. Oh, it's in you, in every motion. Aren't you glad you didn't live in those old Puritan days when you would have been put in the stocks if you had skipped across the room? Come."

That was dancing. Not a halt nor an ungraceful turn, but every curve and motion was as perfect as if they had danced together all their lives. She gave two or three happy sighs. Her cheeks were like the heart of a blush rose; she never turned very red when she ran or skipped, and never looked blowsy.

Another person watched and thought her the prettiest thing in the room, and was very glad she belonged to him.

"I'm sorry I have to dance with some one else and it's Lois Reade. Adams would like to kick me, I know, and she would be twice as happy with him. That is the price you pay for assisting your brother into matrimony. Next time there shall not be but one bridesmaid, and I'll dance with her all the evening."

"Next time? Will he be married twice?" she asked demurely.

"Oh, you witch! You are the most delicious dancer—it almost seems as if you were sipping some very fine wine——"

"And it went to your head," she laughed.

"Head and heels both. I'm extravagantly fond of it with a partner like you. You'll go to the assemblies this winter?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Is Mr. Leverett very—he's your guardian, and somehow I stand just a little in awe of him. He is so polished, and knows so much, and is he going to be very exclusive?"

"Why——" She didn't quite understand, but she looked out of such lovely eyes that all his pulses throbbed.

"Take your places."

She was standing there alone when Mr. Adams asked her. That was only fair play. Mr. Saltonstall was in the same set and he gave her hand a squeeze when he took her, crumpled it all up in his, and she flushed daintily.

He could not dance with her again until the very last. That was a "circle" in which you balanced and turned your partner and went to the next couple, but some way you returned to your own. There were various pretty figures in it. Once or twice she was a little confused, but he seemed always on the watch for her.

The music stopped and the fiddlers were locking their cases. The dancers went out to the supper-room again.

"I'd rather dance than eat. I believe I could dance without music. Would you like to try?" he asked.

"Oh, no!" with a frightened look that made him laugh.

Mr. Leverett came, and Mr. Saltonstall was all polite deference. He wished he could be invited to call, but how was it to be managed?

Then Cynthia went upstairs to put on her cloak. The bride kissed her, and said she was glad to have had her, and when they gave their house-warming she must be sure to come.

"I've had such a lovely time. Thank you ever so much."

"I'm the obliged one," was the reply.

If she had not been in the carriage she must have danced all the way home. There was music in her head and a "spirit in her feet." She hardly heard what Cousin Chilian was saying, only after they entered the house and she slipped out of her wrap, with his good-night, he said, "You are a very pretty girl, Cynthia." Of course, he should have had more sense than to foster a girl's vanity.

The next morning she asked him about the assemblies.

"They are very nice dancing parties. Only the best people go and no sort of freedom or misbehavior is tolerated. I think I'll take out a membership."

"Oh, do, please do," she entreated.

The elegant wedding was talked of for days. Girls called on Miss Leverett—it seemed funny to be called that. She was asked to join a sewing society that made articles of clothing for the widows and children of drowned sailors, and there were many of them on the New England coast. Her tender heart was moved by the pathetic tales she heard.

"Dear Cousin Eunice," she said one day, "I went with one of the committee to see a poor sick woman who is in awful destitution. There are three small children, and when she is well she goes out washing. They send her driftwood and old stuff from the ship-yards, and one of the companies pays her rent. But you should see the things! Such ragged quilts that hardly hold together, and one little boy was without stockings. There are so many things up in the garret that you will never use——"

"Likely, dear, but they are Chilian's."

"He said I might ask you, that he was willing. Can't we go up and find some? What is the use of their being piled up year after year, and people in need? Ah, if you could see the poor place!"

Miss Eunice went unwillingly. The thrift of New England did often shrivel into penuriousness. She and Elizabeth were in the habit of putting away so many partly worn articles for the time of need.

"Those old blankets and quilts——"

"Elizabeth thought they would do to cover over."

"But there are so many better ones. And some on the closet shelves that have never been used. Why, there is enough to last a hundred years."

"Oh, no;" with an alarmed expression.

"And even I shall not last a hundred years. No one does."

"Oh, yes. I knew a woman who lived to be one hundred and four."

"Did she come to want?"

"She had a good son to take care of her."

"And you have Cousin Chilian. I read somewhere in the Bible—I wish I could remember the chapters and verses, 'While we have time let us do good unto all men.' I suppose that means those who haven't been frugal and careful, as well as the others."

"We can't tell just what every sentence means."

"But we can help them. And here is a poor woman who doesn't go to taverns;" smiling tenderly and with persuasive eyes.

They picked out enough for a wagon-load. Some of Cousin Chilian's clothes that would do to cut over, old woollen blankets, and a variety of articles.

"Let us put them all in this chest."

"We might need the chest."

"Oh, no, we won't. They will be so much easier to carry that way. Silas could drive down there. And, oh, you can't imagine how much good they will do."

Cynthia went down to see afterward, and the poor woman's gratitude brought tears to her eyes.

"They will be a perfect God-send this winter," she said. "I've been frettin' as to what we should do. I've never begged yet. Well, the Lord is good."

Then there came another source of interest. Polly Upham was "keeping company." A nice, steady young man in the ship-chandlery business, with a little money saved up, whose folks lived at Portsmouth. He came regularly on Wednesday night and Sundays to tea. They went to church in the evening, and that certified it to the young people. Betty had left school and was trying her hand at housekeeping. Louis, the little fellow, was a big boy.

Alice Turner was engaged also, and certainly very much in love if she considered the young man a paragon. Cynthia compared them all with Cousin Chilian, and it wasn't a bit fair.

She met Mr. Saltonstall at a small party, where they played games and had forfeits.

It was odd, she thought, how the girls chose him in everything. She didn't choose him once. He spoke of it afterward.

"Why, I thought some of the others ought to have a chance," she explained with winning sweetness. "But if it had been dancing!" and she laughed, and that reconciled him.

Then Mrs. Lynde Saltonstall gave her house-warming. It was a simple dwelling and not very large, but it was pretty as a picture. And young people didn't expect to rival their fathers and mothers in the start.

They had dancing, and that was enough. They were all young people, and two of the fiddlers were there. They had a gay time and a nice supper.

"I think Ed is smitten with Cynthia Leverett," Laura remarked to her husband. "He seemed to feel annoyed that they had sent Miss Winn in the carriage for her. She's a lovely dancer."

"It wouldn't be a bad thing for Ed. She has lots of money that just turns itself over on interest. And her trustee has been buying up some choice Boston property for her. She's pretty and has charming manners and comes of a good family."

Then Mrs. Stevens asked her to come in to Boston for a few days. She was going to have a little dancing party.

"My dear, you'll dance yourself to death," said Cousin Eunice.

"Oh, no. It isn't as hard as cleaning house or washing, as some of the poor women do. And it is tiresome to practise on the spinet, hour after hour—counting time and all that. If I was a girl of twenty years ago I'm afraid I should be chasing up and down some old garret, spinning on the big wheel."

Cousin Eunice laughed, too. Cynthia always made commonplaces seem amusing, she accented them so with her bright face.

They were very glad to have her in Boston. Chilian took her in on Saturday and staid with her until Monday morning. On Sunday Anthony Drayton was invited in to dinner. He had improved very much. The country air had been effaced. And he was a gentleman by instinct, and acquired cultivation readily.

"And a fine fellow!" said Cousin Giles, rubbing his hands. "He's decided to go in for law presently, and it will be a most excellent thing. I don't know but I'll have to adopt him, as you did Cynthia."

Anthony hovered about the young girl. She had been cultivating her voice the last year. It was a sweet parlor voice, adapted to the old-time songs. Mrs. Stevens had a book of them and she sang most cheerfully.

"Oh, I wish you were going to stay over another Sunday," he exclaimed wistfully. "But I shall come in on Tuesday evening. I don't dance, but Mrs. Stevens is so kind to me, I've met several of the first men in the city here."

"Oh, I am glad you are coming."

It was a very sincere joy and she could not keep it out of her face, did not try to. And it was such a sweet face that she raised to his. He had a sudden unreasonable wish that he was five years older and settled in business, but then—she was very young.

Mrs. Stevens said to her on Monday, after she had read a note over and glanced up at her rather furtively, "There's a friend of yours coming Tuesday night—a friend from Salem that I hope you will be glad to see."

"From Salem——"

"Mr. Saltonstall. He was in here a fortnight or so ago. His mother and I used to be great friends. I happened to ask him if he knew the Leveretts, and he told me about his brother's marriage, that you were one of the bridesmaids."

"Oh, yes. Laura Manning was one of the older girls at Madam Torrey's. They had just gone in their new house and the wedding was splendid. And I liked Mr. Edward Saltonstall so much. He is a most beautiful dancer. I'm so glad he is coming. You see I don't know many of the new dances, and I shouldn't so much mind making a break with him."

She looked up in her sweet, brave innocence as she uttered it.

"You are not in love with him, little lady, and he is very much smitten with you," Mrs. Stevens ruminated. "But you shall have the chance."

"I've always liked Ed," she continued. "He's a nice, frank, honest fellow, pretty gay at times, but not at all in the dissipated line, just full of fun and frolic. So I asked him down, and here he says he will come," waving her note. "I look out for men who dance. I do like to see young folks have a good time. The older people can play cards."

It seemed rather odd that at eight o'clock not a soul had come. At home they would be beginning the fun by this time. Then a sudden influx of girls, some she had met before—two or three young men—and then young Saltonstall, who had been counting the moments the last half hour.

"I am so glad to see you. It was such a surprise."

He could see it in her face, hear it in her voice. He really was afraid of saying something foolish—something that would be no harm if they were alone.

"I've known Mrs. Stevens a long while. And Mr. Giles Leverett. It's queer—well, not quite that either—that I've known you such a little while. I always thought of you as a child, though I've seen you drive your pony carriage."

"Mrs. Stevens is delightful."

Then there was another relay, quite a number of young gentlemen. The black fiddlers in the hall began to tune up.

There were two very handsome girls and beautifully gowned. All of them looked pretty in dancing attire. Then a quadrille was called. There were just eight couples.

Of course, Mr. Saltonstall took her. The rug was up and the floor had been polished. The dancing was elegant, harmonious.

"The next is the Spanish dance. You will like that. The windings about are like the song words to the music."

"But—I don't know it;" and she shrank back.

"Oh, you'll get into it. You are the kind that could pick up any step. You make me think of a swallow as it darts round. If it made a mistake no one would know it."

"Oh, I'd rather not;" entreatingly.

"Don't spoil the set."

She rose up and let him lead her out. She had a way of yielding so quickly, when it was right and best, very flattering to a man in love and easily misread.

If dancing had been art instead of nature, something by rote instead of a segment of inner harmony, she could not have succeeded so well. He warded off the few blunders, and at the third change she had another well-bred partner. But she was glad to get back to him. The joy shone in her dangerous eyes.

There were some new dances coming in. One of the girls from New York and her escort waltzed up and down the room in a slow-gliding manner that was the poetry of motion. She was fascinated, enchanted, and she knew she could do it herself.

"We'll try it sometime," Saltonstall said.

Mr. Leverett came in, bringing Anthony Drayton with him. He knew he was late, but he didn't dance, and he had earned five dollars copying that evening. But he must see Cynthia.

"Oh, I thought you would not come!"

Then she had been giving a thought to him out of her happy time!

"I was detained. Are they all well, or didn't Cousin Chilian come down?"

"Oh, no."

They were being marshalled out to supper.

"You'll have to content yourself with me," said Mrs. Stevens to Anthony, and he accepted smilingly. But she placed Cynthia next, so he could have a little talk with her. He was getting on so well, and she was glad for him.

Some one wanted Miss Tracy to waltz again. Then they had a galop, and the party broke up. Anthony said good-night, and that he was coming up on Saturday. Then Saltonstall drew her into a little nook in the hall that made a connection with another room when it was open. Mrs. Stevens had smiled over its uses.

"Cynthia, my darling, I must tell you this," and his voice seemed to throb with emotion. "I want the right to come and visit you as lovers have, for I love you, love you! I am coming to see Mr. Leverett and ask his permission. I do nothing but dream of you day and night. You are the sweetest, dearest——"

"Oh, don't! don't!" She struggled in the clasp. "Oh, I can't—I——" and he felt her slight body tremble, so he loosed it.

"Forgive me. I wanted you to know so no one can take you from me. I want to see you often. Oh, love, good-night, good-night!"

He pressed a rapturous kiss upon her hand and was gone. She slipped through to the dining-room and took a glass of water.

"You look tired to death, little country girl," said Uncle Giles, and he kissed her on the forehead.