"I wonder who that is!" and the plush and purple, and calves spring up
behind, and I drive home to dinner.

Now, Carrie, dear, isn't that nice?

Well, I don't know how it is--but things are so queer. Sometimes when
I wake up in the morning, in my room, which I have had tapestried with
fluted rose silk, and lie thinking, under the lace curtains; although
I may have been at one of Mrs. Gnu's splendid parties the night
before, and am going to Mrs. Silke's to dinner, and to the opera and
Mrs. Settum Downe's in the evening, and have nothing to do all the
day but go to Stewart's, or Martelle's or Lefevre's, and shop, and pay
morning calls;--do you know, as I say, that sometimes I hear an old
familiar tune played upon a hand-organ far away in some street, and it
seems to me in that half-drowsy state under the laces, that I hear the
girls and boys singing it in the fields where we used to play. It is a
kind of dream, I suppose, but often, as I listen, I am sure that I
hear Henry's voice again that used to ring so gayly among the old
trees, and I walk with him in the sunlight to the bank by the river,
and he throws in the flower--as he really did--and says, with a laugh,
"If it goes this side of the stump I am saved; if the other, I am
lost;" and then he looks at me as if I had anything to do with it, and
the flower drifts slowly off and off, and goes the other side of the
old stump, and we walk homeward silently, until Henry laughs out, and
says, "Thank heaven, my fate is not a flower;" and I swear to love him
for ever and ever, and marry him, and live in a dingy little old room
in some of the dark and dirty streets in the city.

Then I doze again: but presently the music steals into my sleep, and I
see him as I saw him last standing in his pulpit, so calm and noble,