“I dressed myself from top to toe.”

“Are you going out this morning, Sara?” said Mr. Jones, as he saw an unusual quantity of finery on the dressing-table, embroidered collars, cuffs, handkerchiefs and gay ribbons.

“Yes; I have some calls to make—no very important ones to be sure; I intend dining out to Mrs. Hill’s place at Summerfield. But as I think it a duty to assist in putting down the pride of such people, I wish to go with some eeclaw, and will take Pushaw with me, to show off his handsome suit. Some of my friends told me it was folly in me to put myself to the trouble of calling, but I wish them to see how mistaken they were, poor things! when they took upon themselves to treat us with so much indifference when we were neighbors. The Hills are of no earthly use, everybody knows that! and I vow and declare that I saw Mrs. Hill wear that shine silk of hers two winters ago. I really must ask some of her acquaintances; it is worth while to ascertain it. I suppose I must go alone, for I could not ask any one to be charitable enough to go with me; and after this, I mean to cut the Seymour and Hill clique most decidedly.”

Mrs. Jones took breath, and laughed at her own wit as though she relished it; and well she might, for the idea of her being able to “cut people” was a very funny one to be sure.

“Hill is doing a bad business this winter,” said her husband, buttoning his coat, and straightening himself before the glass. “He’ll be ‘done up’ at the end of it, I’ll wager any thing, for he sold his beautiful horse a short time since, and a man must be in a poor way to part with such an animal as that is. Sinclair bought him, and hardly knows how to ride.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t care, for one,” remarked Mrs. Jones, with great elegance of manner and tone, as she threw over her shoulders a Brussels cape that had been sent up by her modiste for her inspection. “This is splendid, I declare! I’m glad Mrs. Puff thought of sending this; it is exactly like one Mrs. Macfuss wore at the Ford’s fine dinner, and so it must be the fashion. As I was saying, Mr. Jones, the Hills were rather high with me last summer; I never could get them to come over and be intimate. Now there’s Marian Fawney, as sweet a girl as ever lived, I had only to tell her once, and we’ve been like sisters ever since.”

“Yes; a little too intimate for my good,” said Mr. Jones, as he thought of the constant visits of all Miss Fawney’s family. “It may all be very fine for you, Sally, and she may be a very good girl, but I think she loves rich folks, and no others.”

“Well, and who don’t?” replied his wife, who felt herself subject to a similar weakness. “Besides, Mr. Jones, her acquaintance has been an advantage, consider that! I have no doubt but that through her influence we shall have Mrs. Macfuss in our house before the season is out.”

“D—n Mrs. Macfuss!” exclaimed Mr. Jones, forgetting Chesterfield in his indignation at the heart-aches she had given him and his helpmate. “You expect the Saxons, too, I suppose! For they are as proud as the others, and as grand in their notions.”

“The Saxons dine here on Monday,” said Mrs. Jones, with a look of triumph. “They called this week, and I immediately asked them, reserving the news for one of your cross humors, and you were just beginning one at the Macfusses.”

Mr. Jones “unknit his threatening brow” and congratulated his wife upon her cleverness. “And never mind, Sally,” continued he, forgetting to use the more musical name of Sara, “I’ll pull down those Macfusses yet, with the fortune I’m making; for I have sworn to be the wealthiest man in ——, and I don’t think Macfuss can say as much. I have the means before me, and if Will can help, ‘there’s no such word as fail.’ Hurrah, Sally! hurrah!”

Mr. Jones was like Richard, “himself again,” and almost upset the chiffoniere in the middle of the room. His wife smiled benignantly upon his playfulness, but thought it time to end his exhilaration where it began; “for,” said she to herself, “if any one should hear him!” So she dismissed him by reminding him of the hour, and Mr. Jones left his Penates for his sanctuary, the counting-room. In his mind, if mind it were, there was but one idea, the one of amassing wealth, and he was as unlike that being of superiority, man, as the sloth to the bee. While his limbs moved, while his fingers marked down the all-important figures, his mind lay dormant, his soul stagnant; and forgetful of the treasures that “neither rust nor moth doth consume, where thieves do not break through nor steal,” he left uneared for the harvest which we are bound to reap—the harvest of a good and useful life. Where his treasure was, there also was his heart; but such things pass away, and will be like a drop in the ocean; where then would lie the benefit of all this toil, these struggles for the vain possessions of a passing world?

Equally heedless of her real fortune, his wife proceeded to her duty of une grande toilette. Calling her sable handmaid, she gave directions for Master Pushaw’s outfit, upon this unusual occasion for display.

“Dress him in the suit that came from the North, Cilla,” said she, with an air of Zenobian authority. “I wish to take him with me. Be prompt, and do not cross him, for he would cry, and I cannot have his face swollen. It will disfigure him.”

There were few charms to destroy in Master Jones’s little dish-face, but his mother descended to the front parlor with a Gracchi perception of greatness in embryo, and walked up and down before the pier-glass until her father’s softened image followed her. Sundry shrill screams had found their way below, but as the injuries were entirely confined to poor Cilla’s face and hands, Mrs. Jones was satisfied. She surveyed him attentively, and the result was satisfactory; although Master Pushaw looked very much as if he were about to mount Miss Foote for a race, or a circus pony for a ride around the ring. His clothes were remarkable for their gay color, and he wore a fools-cap, whose long gold tassel swung to and fro as his motions grew animated. We have seen little creatures dressed like, and resembling him—but they were not children.

Mrs. Jones was whirled off in triumph to Mrs. Hill’s. A pretty cottage, elegantly but simply furnished, stood unmoved as the splendid equipage dashed up to the front door. A servant opened it, at sound of the bell, and answered in plain English that his mistress was “at home.” Mrs. Jones descended the steps, and was ushered into the parlor. Still there was no unusual stir about the place, the pretty portraits kept in their frames on the wall, and the flowers remained unwithered at her approach. Mrs Jones’s astonishment redoubled, and when Mrs. Hill entered the room, her smiling, blooming countenance completed the disappointment of her guest. Nay, her quiet manner, and indifference to the mass of ribbons, flounces and embroidery that sat before her, gave Mrs. Jones nervous twitches at the mouth, and she at length asked for Mrs. Hill’s little boy, certain of seeing him, as Master Pushaw looked when he was not “dressed in the suit that came from the North.”

But the nurse entered holding by the hand a beautiful boy, whose smooth, fresh complexion was ornamented with only the bloom “Nature’s cunning hand had laid on.” His costume was as unlike a fancy one as possible, and Mrs. Jones felt the thorn deeper in her side, as his bright dark eye rested boldly and scrutinizingly upon his visiter.

“What a funny cap!” exclaimed he, as it swung to and fro when Pushaw turned his head.

“And so it is funny, dear!” replied the nurse with true Irish naivetÉ.

“Take the little boy with you, Charley, and get him a nice biscuit,” said Mrs. Hill, and she felt relieved as the children left the room. “A glass of wine will refresh you after the drive, Mrs. Jones,” continued she, hoping to direct her attention to a different channel; and pulling the bell, she ordered a tray of refreshment for her fashionable guest, not fearing to display the contents of her pantry to such practiced eyes.

Mrs. Jones swallowed a sponge cake, and washed it down with a mouthful or two of wine; but it almost choked her, and she rose to go without having dazzled Mrs. Hill with an account of her “elegant dinner-service, and the splendid silver tea-set.” She remained imperturbable during the enumeration of the parties Mrs. Jones had attended, and the invitations she had been forced to decline, so bidding her hostess good morning, the lady stepped into her carriage with a feeling of bitter disappointment, “for” said she, “Mrs. Hill don’t look at all as though her husband were doing a bad business. Mr. Jones must be mistaken; no woman on the verge of poverty could ever look as undisturbed as she did this morning.”

No woman like Mrs. Jones could have been cheerful under the sad reverses of the young creature whom she chose to despise. Her aim was fashion—her idol wealth. Mrs. Hill cared for neither; she struggled to preserve in adversity the happiness that had begun in prosperity. The object of the visit she received was intelligible to her, and her only emotion was one of pure amusement as she resumed her quiet rational pursuits. Mrs. Jones would have disdained pleasures that occasioned no display. Fanny felt grateful to the Giver of all good for the resources that supplied the place of the worldly amusements in which she could no longer afford to participate; and felt that however they may gratify for a time, they leave, from their uselessness, a void in the heart.

That night, while she and her husband sat together in animated, sprightly discourse over some work they had been reading, four people were assembled around the centre-table in one of Mrs. Jones’s handsome parlors. The lady herself, her husband, and Miss Fawney, with her brother, a little snub-nosed, purple-visaged fellow, conceited, of course, and fond of talking.

Mrs. Jones held a pencil in her hand. Before her lay a portfeuille of unexceptionable shape and hue, and on a sheet of satin paper she was writing a list of the guests to be invited to a ball Miss Fawney thought it advisable for her to give. It was a popularity party, but as she catered for patronage that needed notes from the Élite, not from the vulgar, it was a very exclusive affair.

“Every thing shall be perfectly elegunt, Marian—so be as select as you please, my love, I fear no rivalry in business like this; Mrs. Macfuss shall see herself at home, if she accepts,” said Mrs. Jones, raising her head proudly, and smiling as she concluded.

“That’s right, Sara!” said her husband, stroking his small crop of whiskers. “Go the whole hog, and give us something out of the way.” (Mr. Jones was forgetting Chesterfield, decidedly, but then he had not so much need to learn refinement, since his rise in the world.)

“Do mind him for once, Mrs. Jones, although you ladies don’t love obedience to the conjugal yoke,” observed Mr. Fawney, screwing up his face to refrain from laughing at his own wit. “All the young men in town are wishing that you would give a party. They know what they may expect, I can tell you.”

“Do they, indeed?” said the lady, expanding. “Then lose no time, Marian Fawney, I leave the invitations to you, for you know none but the first people here, and we can ask as many as you will write down. I give you coorte blonche.”

“Will you, dear Mrs. Jones,” cried she, embracing that lady with great affection, and filled with delight at the commission given her. “How kind of you to leave every thing to me! But then you know how much I feel—” Miss Fawney here wept a little, and wiping her eyes and snuffling, resumed: “Now we’ll begin with—the Macfusses, of course—then the Fentons—”

“But none of them have called on Sara,” interrupted Mr. Jones.

“But they will—I know that they intend it. Mrs. Macfuss told me the other day that Mrs. Jones entered a room like a Parisian, and that her dress was perfect!” said Marian.

This appeased Mr. Jones, and so enraptured his wife, that it was a pity it was not true; but Miss Fawney told an untruth so gracefully that falsehood became in her plus belle que la belle veritÉ.

“Shall Mrs. Hill be invited?” asked she in a tone that plainly demanded a negative.

“Might as well,” said Mr. Jones, picking his teeth with fashionable ease.

“Poor thing!” sighed Miss Fawney, while her face lengthened as she assumed a look of compassion, “does she go out this winter?”

“Mrs. Jones says her husband does a bad business this season,” observed Mrs. J. “She can’t get a ball-dress, what’s the use of tempting her?”

“Ever principled, my dear Mrs. Jones!” cried Miss Fawney, much affected a second time, but restraining her tears. “However, she might borrow one from her sister,” continued she, feeling that the more she dwelt upon Mrs. Hill’s reverses, the less inclined Mrs. Jones was to be polite to her.

“D—n it, let ’em come!” said the master of the house, conscious of no reason for slighting people who were never rude. “What’s the difference to Sally how they dress! She don’t lose by it, does she?”

“You have such a kind heart!” cried Marian, taking his hand, and gazing upon him with a look of two-fold approbation; but Mr. Jones turned away, wondering inwardly “what in heaven’s name the girl was forever crying about!”

“Come, Sara, decide! shall the invitation be written, or not?” said he, somewhat impatiently.

“No!” said the lady, positively, for she had just remembered Mrs. Hill’s indifference to her costly silk, her new carriage, and Pushaw’s fancy cap.

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“Fanny,” said Miss Seymour, as she stepped from her carriage one evening at her sister’s door, “come with me, wont you? I am going to drive on to the city, having some emplettes to make, and we can call on Mrs. Jones as we return. The sound of her silvery voice will re-animate you this evening, for you do not look so well.”

Mrs. Hill was not as cheerful as was her wont, for her prospects did not brighten, and she had been sitting on the steps, thinking, until a few tears rolling over her sweet face, left their glaze, and did not escape Eda’s eye of affection. Ever willing to oblige, however, and anxious to resume her usual looks, before her husband should return to mark and grieve over her sadness, she assented.

“You must wait awhile, Eda, until I change my dress; I must put on a more ceremonious costume, for Mrs. Jones has ceased asking me to ‘come over and be intimate’ since my fortunes are changing. This satin de laine would be an insult after the magnificence with which she assailed me two weeks ago? Can you give me time to make une toilette soignÉe?”

“Certainly,” said Miss Seymour, seating herself and taking her little nephew on her lap, “although you require but a slight change in my humble opinion, to present yourself at Mrs. Jones’s door.” Fanny smiled and hastened in; but soon returned, looking pretty enough to make the fine lady jealous, in despite of her simple attire. She had that real elegance of manner which Mrs. Jones so much admired in herself, but could not see in others that failed to prosper in the world’s estimation.

She was “at home,” the servant said, and they were ushered in by an African damsel, in washing attire. Her clothes were looped about her waist like a blanchisseuse, and she displayed a pair of ebony legs ending with wide, naked feet. Her drapery was not like her mistress’s company, “select,” but seemed to hold the accumulated dust and dirt of the house.

Seated in the parlors, the sisters had leisure to contemplate the contents of the apartment they had often heard described. Two portraits hung opposite. One represented Mrs. Jones in ball costume, giving the finishing touch to her toilette. On her lap was a very work-box looking casket, out of which she was taking a string of most unequivocal wax-beads, supposed to resemble pearls.

Mr. Jones sat bolt upright, with a book in his hand, looking very learned, and very much puzzled about some weighty question.

But what struck them most was, that on the tables in the corners, stood cake-baskets, covered with doilies, and candlesticks innumerable were disposed about the room, with unlit candles, and curled paper wound around them. Some of the baskets contained cake that plainly looked, “don’t touch me yet,” and we forgot to mention a tub of rather muddy water that stood in the middle of the folding-doors, on a large oil-cloth, as though the dark damsel, with the very short garments, had been interrupted in the act of scouring paint at this untimely hour.

“Mrs. Jones has scrubbing done at a strange time,” said Eda, pointing to the implements before mentioned.

“Hush, Eda! I’m sure that we have called at a very wrong hour,” said Fanny, pointing in her turn to the cake and candles. “Does not that look like a bidding of guests to the banquet hall?”

“It does, indeed. What have we done, Fanny? How could we know of such preparations when the stupid girl said her mistress was at home? The idea of scouring at such an hour, too! Housekeeping should be like the mechanism of the clock—we know that it goes, but do not see the operation. When was our house ever seen in such a trim by visiters?”

“In such an untrim, you mean to say,” said Fanny; “but pray do not laugh, Eda, it is like hypocrisy to do so now, that we have given ourselves the trouble of coming to see Mrs. Jones.”

“You are too good, Fanny; but if you keep your face serious in that absurd way, striving to practice what you preach, I shall shriek out,” replied her sister. “Do laugh, if you feel like it.”

“No, Eda, no!” said Fanny, trying to look grave. “Do not make me act rudely. We have made the mistake, for we live in the country and hear none of these ‘fine ladies’ doings.”

“Pshaw! Mrs. Jones cannot give a party without my hearing of it; she owes me the invitation, and you also.”

“I never shall expect one,” said Mrs. Hill, smiling, and the servant entered to ask “if Miss Seymour were in the parlor.”

“Miss Seymour and Mrs. Hill,” said Eda, wondering what was to come next.

“Well, then, marm, Miss Sarly say, (and I told her it was you and Mrs. Hill, too,) that she’s been busy all day, and can’t see no company. Here’s a ticket for you to come to the party. Miss Sarly say she never had no time to send it out in the country, but long’s you are here, she told me to fotch it down. They a’nt none for you marm,” turning to Fanny.

This new way of sending invitations was, in reality, ignorance on the part of poor Mrs. Jones. She had not yet been out as far as Mr. Seymour’s country-seat, and thought it an excellent idea to take advantage of Eda’s presence in the house. The neglect of Mrs. Hill was intentional, as we have seen, but it was now difficult to say which was most uncontrollable, Eda’s indignation, or her sister’s amusement.

“I have a mind to send it back to her,” cried Eda, in French. “What gross impertinence!”

“Ignorance, sister; she knew no better, and I told you I expected nothing from Mrs. Jones,” said Fanny. “Do let us go, dear Eda! I cannot help it now, I must laugh! Come”—and she led the way out, observing that she ought to forgive it, as Mrs. Jones had not yet unlearned her habitudes de chaumiÈre. The door stood open, and behind it was Mrs. Jones, intent upon hearing what comments were passed by Mrs. Hill, when she found herself “neglected.” She had the great satisfaction of knowing that she was seen, for Fanny’s merry eyes rested full upon her; and she was somewhat disappointed as she heard the sweet, silver laugh that echoed behind them as the carriage rolled away.

This was not pleasant, but Mrs. Jones remembered that Mrs. Hill saw no one now, “and, of course, Miss Seymour wont come when her sister is not invited. I wish I had not kept on this old gown, since they spied me out; but, lor! it don’t make any difference. I wonder what they said, too; I couldn’t tell from here.”

She asked Cilla; but Cilla replied that “they didn’t talk Merrican, and how could she understand? But I tell you what, Miss Sarly, I didn’t like to invite one ’thout tother; and I felt very oncomfortable ’bout it, too!”

So Cilla had the advantage over her mistress in good feeling at least, but she was told to hold her tongue and go to her work, and no one was ever the wiser by it. But as we wish to give only an account of the rise of Mr. and Mrs. John Johnson Jones, we must pay less attention to the little incidents of every-day life.

To have slighted Mrs. Hill, “whose husband did a bad business,” was one triumph—to have secured Eda’s non-attendance, another. But to receive Mrs. Macfuss’s acceptance, was one worthy of the gods! This joyful blow was too much for Mrs. Jones’s nervous system! She had the paint rescoured, and Cilla, much discomforted, observed (out of her lady’s hearing, of course,) “that if cos Mrs. Makefuss is a comin’ I has to do all my work over, I wish, (oh, my sakes! if Miss Sarly could hear me!) she’d a kept her ’ceptance to herself. Here’s Miss Sarly almost out her head, and when the ’oman do come, she’ll be crazy as a coot—and coots is bad off for sense.”

Cilla was not far wrong. When Miss Fawney communicated the intelligence that an acceptance was to be sent on the morrow, Mrs. Jones ran about in playful bewilderment and relieved herself a little by adding some extra-artificials to her dress. She borrowed more candlesticks and lamps, and had some idea of illuminating the house from attic to cellar, ordering lanterns to be hung at the gate, that Mrs. Macfuss might not mistake. “And now, Marian, my dear child,” continued she, turning to her convenient friend, “do tell me what Mr. and Mrs. Macfuss like best to eat. What more can I have on my table that they would relish? I know they always have the finest of every thing—think well now, and let me know.”

Miss Fawney was a little puzzled at first, but suddenly recollected what she liked most herself, so informed Mrs. Jones that Mr. Macfuss was very fond of pÂtÉ de foie gras, and also of oyster gumbo.

“The gumbo I have prepared, my love, of course; but the potty dee foy graws I had almost forgotten. Gourmand has quantities of potties, as he is a Frenchman, and imports those articles from Paris direct. I think you said Mrs. Macfuss liked sherbet and lemon ice cream?”

No; Miss Fawney liked vanilla best, and affirmed that Mrs. Macfuss was very partial to it.

“Is she, indeed! Oh, Marian, I had ordered lemon!” cried Mrs. Jones, in dismay. “Come, we’ll go to Praline’s this instant and reverse it. And those pine apples. They must be rich. Smith! have the carriage round immediately; I’ll go up and put on my bonnet, Marian;” and when Mrs. Jones arrived at Praline’s her heart dilated as she saw in how much consideration she was held by her confectioner and his wife. They were all smirks and smiles, particularly as she constantly repeated “you know now, Mrs. Praline, that I mind no expense whatever.” And Miss Fawney called her an extravagant creature! “But I knew, Mrs. Jones, that when you did give a party, it would be a magnificent affair!”

And so, indeed, it proved. The weather was fine and everybody came. Mrs. Macfuss meeting her own set, and seeing so much display, was reconciled to her new acquaintance. Mr. Macfuss, seeing a magnificent supper and drinking the finest of wines, shook hands with his host, and asked him to come and see him sociably.

There was a pleasant combination of things. The host and hostess said they never would regret the ball, and Miss Fawney was profuse in her congratulations. At length they had reached the goal, and began to feel with Mr. and Mrs. Vincent Crummles, the sweets of popularity.

Mrs. Jones who heard soon after to say that she had scarcely time to take her meals, people so thronged the house; and before she was quite aware of it, she had asked Mrs. Macfuss to come over and be intimate!

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One evening, as Mrs. Hill and her brother stood together at the gate of her pretty cottage, a handsome equipage dashed by, filling with dust the mouths of the plebeian pedestrians on either side of the smooth road through Summerfield.

Two ladies were on the back seat, while in front sat two little boys, looking very gravely at one another. The driver had on a coat filled with brass buttons—and this was called a livery; so the whole effect was very grand and imposing.

“Who was that, Fanny?” said young Seymour; “whose carriage is that?”

“The carriage belongs to Mrs. John Johnson Jones, brother. Did you not see her?”

“I did not recognize her—she bowed, did she not?”

“Not she, my good sir; she never bends so low. Could you not see how stiff the lady was?”

“Then who did bow to you just now?”

“Mrs. Macfuss,” said Fanny, smiling archly.

“Whew! Whose little innocents were those in front?”

“Master Pushaw Jones and Master Johnny Macfuss.”

Mr. Seymour paused.

“Fanny,” said he at length, “I’ll go to Texas. I see that Mrs. Macfuss has been over, and is intimate!”

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BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

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BY COUSIN MARY.

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BY WM. F. LYNCH.

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(Continued from page 230.)