A late breakfast found Mr. and Mrs. Marshman and myself at the table, Finnock and the two young ladies having gone for an ante-gestacular walk.

After a smoke I hurried over to Congress Hall and found Carlotta and Herrara Lola in the parlor. She was looking perfectly lovely in a morning dress of India muslin, and with her hair flowing loose through a band of gold. For the first time now I felt the abashment I had dreaded, and realized the disadvantage at which I appeared, in person and manners, after my long residence among books and boys, as I met the glance of Herrara’s dark eyes, and imagined I could detect a smile at my discomfiture beneath the jetty fringe on his lip.

“Cousin Herrara!” said Carlotta, “this is John, my brother; you almost know him, I have spoken to you so much of him.”

I bowed low over his hand, which was soft, and small as a woman’s, as he said, with just enough Spanish in his accent to soften the English:

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Smith. Lola has made us acquainted ere this occasion.”

His manners were those of a courteous iceberg, and I endeavored to adjust mine to a reciprocal degree of frigidity. I had just commenced a stereotyped reply when the same horses and carriage I had seen at the railway drove up, and he remarked to Carlotta:

“I ordered the carriage for our usual drive, but I presume you now prefer renewing old times and terms with your friend.”

“Certainly, Cousin Herrara, I will stay with John, as I have not seen him for years, and am with you every day.”

“I resign her then to you, Mr. Smith,” he said, turning off, while I thanked him with an attempt at one of his bows. He approached a group of gentlemen outside the door and asked two of them to ride with him. The three got into the carriage, a few plunges of the noble animals and the spokes in the wheels became almost invisible as they whirled up the street.

“A superb equipage!” I said, as we took our seats near the window.

“Yes, Cousin Herrara purchased the turnout from a Cuban acquaintance here a few days since. He is going to send it to Havana.”

“You are very fond of Cousin Herrara, are you not?” I asked, with something of petulance in my tone.

“Indeed I am,” she said, frankly; “he is as kind and loving as he can be, and is always attentive without being obtrusive. I am indebted to him for almost all the pleasure I have seen since I left Wilmington. But, come, tell me all the news about the dear old place,” she said, laying her cheek on the downy tips of her fan. “What of Lulie and your Chapel Hill love?”

“Lulie is still Frank’s slave, and a remorseless cruel master he is,” I said.

“Then you and she have never renewed your old feeling?”

“And never will,” I said, solemnly. “The other lady to whom you refer, DeVare’s fiancÉe, is here now as the Hon. Mrs. Marshman. Her old Congressman is, however, too jealous for her to receive attentions from gentlemen.”

“Really, you seem to be unfortunate in your loves.”

“Indeed I am. I even fear that——” I found that the sentence might prove too pointed for the occasion, and I would not complete it.

Without asking for the remainder, she changed the subject into inquiries about all her acquaintances, and put me through a regular examination. When she had concluded, I told her I would now put her on the witness stand.

“Do you love Herrara, Lola?” I first asked.

She looked at me steadily, as if to read my motives, and then, as the smile came back to her face, said, “That is too pointed and abrupt; try circumlocution and I will be more communicative.”

She was so quiet and self-possessed in her evasion that I felt more than ever convinced that she loved her cousin, and said, with an attempt at ironical pleasantry:

“You are engaged to him, and can’t deny it. Invite me to the wedding, please.”

She laughed carelessly, as she looked out the window and replied:

“Your method of extorting information is so ingenious that I would dread its inquisition, were I not happily relieved by seeing yonder the object of your inquiries.”

As she spoke Lola’s phÆton rolled to the door, and he and his companions got out. He came in, drew a chair to Carlotta’s side, and taking her fan from her hand fanned his face vigorously, turning it from side to side to catch the wind, and lifting the dark, curling hair from his high, handsome forehead. As soon as he approached I again felt that shrinking in his presence, that consciousness of a consciousness in him of superiority, though my own pride would not acknowledge it. He was such an Apollo in face and form, so elegant and recherche in style, that I was sure Carlotta could not help regarding me as plain and unsophisticated; and, feeling desirous of escaping the consequent awkwardness of my situation, I was about to go to my hotel, when Carlotta spoke:

“Herra, you ought to have remained with us. I am sure you would have enjoyed our conversation more than you did your ride.”

“If you conversed at all I would,” he said, folding her fan and returning it. “The road was so dusty we could not open our mouths. But you are fortunate, Mr. Smith, if you can entertain Carlotta for half an hour. Ten minutes is her maximum time of interest in what I say.”

“Now, Herra,” said Carlotta, “You know I was with you a whole hour yesterday; but you would have been as much interested in Mr. Smith’s conversation as I was, as it was about yourself.”

I only heard his nonchalant “Ah! indeed!” when, with a hot flush on my cheek, and an angry resentment in my heart, I rose, and without a word of adieu left them, and walked across the street to the Union. I knew they could see me from the window, and I fancied them laughing at my discomfiture. I was just debating whether I would leave the Springs and continue my tour of travel alone, or stay there and make love to Miss Finnock, when I saw the little flat face and wide eyes of the lady in question peeping out the parlor door. As I approached she smiled a froggy little smile, and said:

“Have you seen my brother or Mr. Marshman? I have been expecting them some time.”

“No, indeed,” I replied, offering my arm; “shall we go in search of them, or wait here in the parlor?”

“We had best wait, perhaps,” she said, glancing toward two chairs in a shaded corner.

We took our seats, and her ceaseless little tongue began:

“Oh! Mr. Smith, you should have been with us this morning.”

“Why and where?” I said, affecting Laconicism.

“Mrs. Marshman and I walked out to the Indian encampment near here, and we saw there such an interesting old woman. She claims to be of the royal line of chiefs, and, in her broken way, talks very prettily of the encroachments of the whites upon the hunting grounds of her fathers.”

“To one of your poetic temperament, Miss Finnock,” I replied, “she must indeed be an object of interest. What a romantic sadness attaches itself to a contemplation of the destiny of these forest children! Poor, fading race! A few squalid beggars are all that are left of the legions of feather-decked warriors who once fought their battles here. Ever receding before the resistless march of civilization, the last tribe will soon chant their death-song on the shores of the Pacific, and sink with the setting sun in its waves.”

It roused her, and I saw by the spread of her nostrils that her soul was on fire. My remarks were part of an old speech at school, which I happened to remember, but they served very well for a match to the powder of her romance. She gazed at me as if in raptures while I was speaking, and when I ended she clasped her hands, with tears, or water, in her eyes, and exclaimed:

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Smith, there is a romantic interest that clings to the memory of these Nature’s lords. Their mysterious origin, their nobility of soul, their mute adoration of the Great Spirit, the wild poetry of their legends, all have combined to make me admire them with all the fervor of my nature. Oh! what indeed must be the agony of their bursting hearts, as they stand on some lone mountain, and read in the smoke of the steamer their certain doom. Ah! when we think of their wrongs, the tomahawk becomes the battle-axe of freedom, and the scalping-knife as sacred as the dagger of a Corday.”

Fearing, if I encouraged her, she might pack up and go West, to become the Florence Nightingale of the Comanches, I begged pardon for changing the subject, and asked her if she had seen my sister.

“Your sister!” she exclaimed, in her surprise, “I thought you were travelling alone, and expected to meet your family at Niagara.”

“So I did, but it seems they telegraphed of the change in their plans after I had left the University; and so I was very greatly surprised to find them here.”

“She is not your sister, except by adoption, is she? I have heard Mrs. Marshman speak of you in connection with her. You are expected to love and marry her, are you not?”

“No, I cannot love on compulsion,” I replied, looking very steadily at her; “the emotion must be spontaneous, and unaffected by circumstances.”

“You express my sentiments perfectly,” she said, looking at me with a glance that was meant to be searching.

“Have you ever loved, Miss Finnock?” I asked, artlessly. Her eyes fell to her lap, and her fingers twitched each other as nervously as if she were a mute and were spelling.

“I cannot say that I have,” she replied, after a pause. “I may, as a child, have felt heart throbs and bashfulness as the little boy over the way came to trundle hoops with me, but I have never felt that fervid and deep emotion which accords with my idea of love.”

“May I ask, then, Miss Finnock, if you have given nothing in return for the many hearts laid at your feet?”

“There have been no——;” she commenced the truth but caught herself, and said:

“I have never had an offer of love I believed sincere, nor, indeed, one that I could reciprocate.”

I knew that I ought not to say anything more, but Carlotta had offended me, and I was reckless.

“But did you believe a love sincere, would you return it?” I asked, deepening my tone of voice to the dramatic.

Her eyes came timidly up to mine, and then fell again as she said softly:

“That depends on whose the love was.”

“Miss Finnock!” I said, drawing hearer, “If I——.”

“Hush! hush! here comes Lil,” she said, raising her hands in warning. “Oh, how provoking!” she added, with a look that was intended to be sweet.

As I looked up, Mrs. Marshman entered the room, and little knowing how de trop she was, took a seat near us and commenced some ordinary topic of conversation. I felt relieved, and was therefore quite affable, but Miss Finnock seemed put out about something, and was scarcely civil in her replies to her. She soon excused herself, and leaving Mrs. M. and myself in the parlor, ran up stairs. She was gone about ten minutes, and returning, brought with her a bark-and-bead cigar case, which, after a moment’s hesitation, she gave me, with the remark: “I purchased that from the old Indian, Mr. Smith, and I beg that you will accept and preserve it as a souvenir of this morning, and of our mutual admiration of the red man.”

“Why, Saph!” said Mrs. Marshman, while I was bowing my acknowledgments, “you do not know Mr. Smith well enough to make him a present.”

“Mr. Smith appreciates the gift, and will not misconstrue my motives. I dare say he will remember our conversation,” she added, glancing archly at me.

I assured her that I would, and would eternally treasure the case, with pleasant memories of the fair donor, and of our delightful converse, and even ventured on the hackneyed rhapsody about death alone being competent to part the said case and myself. She bowed and blushed, and I toyed with the case in the momentary silence that ensued, and opening saw that there was a crumpled note deep down in it. Just as I was inserting two fingers to reach it a waiter approached, and presented his salver, on which lay two cards. I looked up in surprise as I read the names, “Herrara Lola” and “Lola Rurlestone,” and asked where they were.

“In the lower parlor, sir,” he said, bowing as I rose to follow him. I excused myself to the two ladies, and thoughtlessly left the cigar case on an ottoman where I had laid it when I took up the cards.

In the lower parlor I found Carlotta and her cousin waiting for me. Carlotta was standing near the piano, looking expectantly towards the door, while Herrara was leaning carelessly against the instrument, turning over the leaves of a music portfolio.

“John, what on earth did you mean by leaving us so abruptly,” said Carlotta, making a feint of striking me with her glove. “I would have thought you offended if I could have imagined any cause.”

“You ought to have known me better,” was all I could think of for a reply.

“Well, it makes no difference now, but you must go back with us. Mrs. Smith sent us over after you. She says she has scarcely spoken to you since we found you.”

“I am at your service,” I said, and Herrara rose up from the piano languidly and said:

“Mr. Smith will escort you back, Lola; I’ll go to the billiard room.”

“May I tell him, Herra?” asked Carlotta, as he walked off; “it’s such a short time.”

“I don’t care,” he replied, as he lifted his hat gracefully and left the parlor.

“May I ask what it is you wish to tell?” I said, feeling an interest in all secrets between them.

“Everybody believes here that Cousin Herrara and I are engaged, and I assure you it is very inconvenient, for it deprives me of a quantity of attention which you know I would receive, and I believe from your conduct you have fallen into the same error.”

“I have had sufficient reason for such a belief,” I replied.

“Well, it’s no such thing. He is engaged to a lady in Madrid. He returns to Cuba next month, and then sails to Spain for his beautiful bride.”

“Then you are still in the market?” I said, with an unaccountable feeling of relief at my heart.

“Of course I am,” she replied, as we ran across the street to Congress Hall.

We had hardly joined father and mother in the parlor before a servant appeared with cards for Carlotta, and soon Monte and two others entered.

As she received them across the room I was left to a quiet talk with my parents. We had not told each other a tithe of what we had to tell when I saw the gentlemen rise and accompany Carlotta to the piano. As she seated herself gracefully at the instrument, and gave the warbling keys the petting of a prelude, there was a hush round the room, and I listened eagerly for the first note. She sang a soft Italian air, as full of mellow, rich trillings as a nightingale’s song, and her splendid voice, perfect in its culture, rose and fell with exquisite melody and wondrous expression through the difficult measures. Its floods of glorious music so filled the room that we could not have told where the notes came from but for the throbbing of her Parian throat. When the last sound had died away, like the sobbing of a silver bell, every one gave the rapt applause of silence, till Monte, with his affected drawl, asked for a half dozen screeching arias. When she had sung enough the gentlemen left, and I was hoping that I would have her to myself, when another waiter appeared with more cards, and I found I would only have to play spectator at her levee.

I intended to move over to their hotel, but found, on application at the office, that it was too much crowded, and kept my rooms at the Union. That evening at tea I found Mr. Marshman and lady present, but Miss Finnock had finished and gone to her room. Underneath my plate I found the cigar case and a note. I looked up in some confusion, and found Mrs. Marshman smiling at me, as if she thought our love was a foregone conclusion.

“Sappho is a dear little girl, isn’t she?” she said, as I unfolded the note.

“Very,” I replied laconically, finding, without surprise, that the note was a string of verses, as follows:

“Forgotten the gift, the giver, alas!

Cannot claim the least thought in the day.

With me all the moments and seconds that pass

Bear an image of thee on their way.

This morning, suspenseful, I hung on thy speech,

And Time, oh, too swiftly did fly;

The cup is dashed down before my lips reach

It, and bliss is cut off with ‘If I——’

And oh! what a vista of happiness opes

At the touch of the Sesame ‘if;’

What a sun-colored life, what a Canaan of hopes

Do I glimpse through the unclosing rift.”

There was no signature, but a holly leaf was pinned at the bottom of the verses. The emblem of holly I knew to be “Forgotten;” but if I had picked the verses up in Bessarabia I would have known Miss Finnock wrote them. I folded them up carefully and put the cigar case in my pocket, and finished my tea in silence, Mrs. Marshman having risen from the table while I was reading. I was really annoyed at the turn things had taken. If Miss Finnock had been an experienced flirt I should have regarded the affair as capital fun, but I felt sure Miss F. was in earnest; for, though she was old enough, she had never had much experience, and I had not attained that very desirable point of social education when I could knowingly trifle with a young lady’s feelings. I resolved once not to see her again, but remembered that I had an engagement to visit the encampment with her next morning.

“Well,” I said, resignedly, as I lit my cigar on the lawn, “I will certainly not commit myself farther. No word or hint of love will I give to-morrow.”