visit. The house was small, but in a beautiful, bright street, and the
one window near the door was full of ferns and ivies. I did not get in,
which was a disappointment to me, particularly as I had no printed card,
and realized keenly all the ignominy of leaving one in writing. This was
in April, and I saw no more of my new friend. Richard was away, on some
business of the firm, and the days were very dull indeed.

In May he came back, and resumed the dinners, and the evenings in the
parlor, though not quite with the frequency of the past winter,--and I
think there was the least shade of constraint in his manner. It was on
one of these May days that he came and took me to the Park. It was a
great occasion; I had never been so happy before in my life. I was in
great doubt about taking Ann Coddle; never having been out of the house
without a person of that description in attendance before. But Ann got
a suspicion of my doubt and settled it, to go--of course. I think
Richard was rather chagrined when she followed us out to get into the
carriage; she was so dried-up and shrewish-looking, and wore such an
Irish bonnet. But she preserved a discreet silence, and looked
steadfastly out of the carriage window, so we soon forgot that she was
there, though she was directly opposite to us. It was Saturday; the day
was fresh and lovely, and there were crowds of people driving in the
Park. Once we left the carriage with Ann Coddle in it, and went to hear
the music. It was while we were sitting for a few moments under the
vines to listen to it, and watch the gay groups of people around us,
that a carriage passed within a dozen feet, and a lady leaned out and
bowed with smiles.

"Why, see--it is your sister!" I exclaimed, with the vivacity of a
person of a very limited acquaintance.