CHAPTER FIRST.

CROQUET.

A croquet party has assembled in Mrs. TIMOTHY LADLE'S front yard,
located in one of the most romantic spots in that sylvan retreat, the
State of Indiana.

"Who's going to play," did you say?

Come with me, and I'll introduce you.

This austere female, with such inflexible rigidity of form, such
harrowing cork-screw curls, and chronic expression as of smelling
something disagreeable, is Mrs. LADLE, the hostess. A widow. Her
husband, the late TIMOTHY, was a New York detective. Amassing a
competency, he emigrated to Indiana, became a Bank Director and
Sunday-School Superintendent, and died beloved by all.

Produce your very best bow for Mrs. LADLE, and trot out your company
talk, for she's in the mother-in-law business, and thoroughly up to
snuff.

This old male party, with the remains of a luxuriant growth of very red
hair, clinging fondly, like underbrush round a rock, to the sides of his
head, with a seedy-looking patch far under the chin to match, whose limp
dickey droops pensively as if seeking to crawl bodily into the embrace
of the plaid gingham which encircles his neck, and in whose nose is
embodied that rare vermilion tint which artists so love to dwell
upon;--this is the Hon. MICHAEL LADLE, brother of the late TIMOTHY, a