_June 8_.

The usual routine of our morning occupations has been somewhat broken
of late, for these June days are too perfect to be spent within doors,
even with such grand companions as Plato or Beethoven. We plan
charming hours to be spent in the pine grove, where Marguerite will
read to us a chapter or two of Kohlrausch's "Germany," and Ida will
give us a few pages of Taine's brilliant "Angleterre;" but as we are
starting with camp chairs, books, and work, Bernard approaches:

"Any orders, Miss?"

Frail mortals are too weak to resist, and in a few moments we are
seated in Ida's stylish new phaeton; and Gabrielle's irrepressible
ponies, under the guidance of Tourbillon herself, are dashing away at a
pace that terrifies our sober Quaker neighbors beyond expression.
Mamma has been solemnly warned against allowing Gabrielle to drive
"those fearful horses;" but we all share our pretty Tourbillon's
fondness for a _tourbillon_ pace, and know well the strength she
possesses in her little wrists, and the coolness she could exercise
were there any danger.

While returning from a charming drive upon the Sing Sing road, a day or
two since, the horses, whose spirits were unusually high, shied
suddenly at something dark by the roadside. By a dexterous management
of the reins, Gabrielle quickly subdued them, and we all looked to see
what had startled them. An object was crouching in the grass,
evidently human, but of what sex or nationality it was impossible in
one swift glance to determine; and it was quite amusing to hear our
different opinions as we drove on.