“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hall,” said one of the old lady’s neighbors; “here is the book you lent me. I am much obliged to you for it. I like it better than any book I have read for a long while. You said truly that if I once began it, I should not lay it down till I had finished it.”

“Yes,” said the old lady, “I don’t often read a book now-a-days; my eyes are not very strong, (blue eyes seldom are, I believe,” said she, fearing lest her visitor should suspect old Time had been blurring them;) “but that book, now, just suits me; there is common-sense in it. Whoever wrote that book is a good writer, and hope she will give us another just like it. ‘Floy’ is a queer name; I don’t recollect ever hearing it before. I wonder who she is.”

“So do I,” said the visitor; “and what is more, I mean to find out. Oh, here comes Squire Dana’s son; he knows everything. I’ll ask him. Yes, there he comes into the gate; fine young man Mr. Dana. They do say he’s making up to Sarah Jilson, the lawyer’s daughter; good match, too.”

“Good afternoon,” said both the ladies in a breath; “glad to see you, Mr. Dana; folks well? That’s right. We have just been saying that you could tell us who ‘Floy,’ the author of that charming book, ‘Life Sketches,’ really is.”

“You are inclined to quiz me,” said Mr. Dana. “I think it should be you who should give me that information.”

“Us?” exclaimed both the old ladies; “us? we have not the slightest idea who she is; we only admire her book.”

“Well, then, I have an unexpected pleasure to bestow,” said Mr. Dana, rubbing his hands in great glee. “Allow me to inform you, Mrs. Hall, that ‘Floy’ is no more, nor less, than your daughter-in-law,—Ruth.”

“Impossible!” screamed the old lady, growing very red in the face, and clearing her throat most vigorously.

“I assure you it is true. My informant is quite reliable. I am glad you admire your daughter-in-law’s book, Mrs. Hall; I quite share the feeling with you.”

“But I don’t admire it,” said the old lady, growing every moment more confused; “there are several things in it, now I think of them, which I consider highly immoral. I think I mentioned them to you, Mrs. Spear,” said she, (trusting to that lady’s defective memory,) “at the time I lent it to you.”

“Oh no, you didn’t,” replied Mrs. Spear; “you said it was one of the best and most interesting books you ever read, else I should not have borrowed it. I am very particular what I put in my children’s way.”

“Well, I couldn’t have been thinking of what I was saying,” said the old lady; “the book is very silly, a great part of it, beside being very bold, for a woman, and as I said before, really immoral.”

“It is highly recommended by the religious press,” said Mr. Dana, infinitely amused at the old lady’s sudden change of opinion.

“You can’t tell,” said the old lady; “I have no doubt she wrote those notices herself.”

“She has made an ample fortune, at any rate,” said the young man; “more than I ever expect to make, if I should scribble till dooms-day.”

“Don’t believe it,” said the old lady, fidgeting in her chair; “or, if she has, it won’t last long.”

“In that case she has only to write another book,” said the persistent Mr. Dana; “her books will always find a ready market.”

“We shall see,” said the old lady bridling; “it is my opinion she’ll go out like the wick of a candle. People won’t read a second edition of such trash. Ruth Hall ‘Floy’? Humph! that accounts,—humph! Well, anyhow, if she has made money, she had her nose held to the grindstone pretty well first; that’s one comfort. She ‘Floy’? Humph! That accounts. Well, sometimes money is given for a curse; I’ve heern tell of such things.

“—Yes, yes; I’ve heern tell of such things,” muttered the old lady, patting her foot, as her two visitors left. “Dreadful grand, Ruth—‘Floy’ feels now, I suppose. A sight of money she’s made, has she? A great deal she knows how to invest it. Invest it! What’s the use of talking about that? It will be invested on her back, in silk gowns, laces, frumpery, and such things. I haven’t a silk gown in the world. The least she could do, would be to send me one, for the care of that child.

“—Yes, laces and feathers, feathers and laces. The children, too, all tricked but like little monkeys, with long ostrich legs, and short, bob-tailed skirts standing out like opery girls, and whole yards of ribbin streaming from their hair, I’ll warrant. The Catechize clean driven out of Katy’s head. Shouldn’t be at all astonished if they went to dancing school, or any other immoral place.

“—Wonder where they’ll live? In some grand hotel, of course; dinner at six o’clock, black servants, gold salt-cellars and finger-glasses; nothing short of that’ll suit now; humph. Shouldn’t be astonished any day to hear Ruth kept a carriage and servants in livery, or had been to Victory’s Court in lappets and diamonds. She’s just impudent enough to do it. She isn’t afraid of anybody nor anything. Dare say she will marry some Count or Duke; she has no more principle.

“—Humph! I suppose she is crowing well over me. V-e-r-y w-e-l-l; the wheel may turn round again, who knows? In fact, I am sure of it. How glad I should be! Well, I must say, I didn’t think she had so much perseverance. I expected she’d just sit down, after awhile, and fret herself to death, and be well out of the way.

“—‘Floy’! humph. I suppose I shan’t take up a newspaper now without getting a dose about her. I dare say that spiteful young Dana will call here again just to rile me up by praising her. What a fool I was to get taken in so about that book. But how should I know it was hers? I should as soon have thought of her turning out Mrs. Bonaparte, as an authoress. Authoress! Humph! Wonder how the heels of her stockings look? S’pose she wears silk ones now, and French shoes; she was always as proud as Lucifer of her foot.

“—Well, I must say, (as long as there’s nobody here to hear me,) that she beats all. Humph! She’ll collapse, though; there’s no doubt of that. I’ve heard of balloons that alighted in mud-puddles.”