SEPTEMBER 15, 18--.

Just three months since I opened my Journal, and, on glancing over what

I wrote on Guy's wedding day, I find that in one respect at least I was

unjust to the little creature who is now my sister and calls me Miss

Frances. Not by a word or look has she shown the least inclination to

assume the position of mistress of the house, nor does she seem to think

me at all in the way; but that she considers me quite an antediluvian I

am certain, for, in speaking of something which happened in 1820, she

asked if I remembered it! And I only three years older than Guy! But

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then she once called him a dear old grandfatherly man, and thought it a

good joke that on their wedding tour she was mistaken for his daughter.

She looks so young--not sixteen even; but with those childish blue eyes,

and that innocent, pleading kind of expression, she never can be old.

She is very beautiful, and I can understand in part Guy's infatuation,

though at times he hardly knows what to do with his pretty plaything.

It was the middle of August when they came from Saratoga, sorely

against her wishes, as I heard from the Porters, who were at the same

hotel, and who have told me what a sensation she created, and how much

attention she received. Everybody flattered her, and one evening when

there was to be a hop at Congress Hall, she received twenty bouquets

from as many different admirers, each of whom asked her hand for the

first dance. They had ascertained that Guy was not a disciple of

Terpsichore, though I understand he did try some of the square dances,

with poor success, I imagine, for Lucy Porter laughed when she told me

of it; and I do not wonder, for my grave, scholarly Guy must be as much

out of place in a ball room as his little, airy doll of a wife is in her

place when there. I can understand just how she enjoyed it all, and how

she hated to come home, for she did not then know the kind of home she

was coming to.

It was glorious weather for August, and a rain of the previous day had

washed all the flowers and shrubs, and freshened up the grass on the

lawn, which was just like a piece of velvet, while everything around

Elmwood seemed to laugh in the warm afternoon sunshine as the carriage

came up to the door. Eight trunks, two hat-boxes, and a guitar-case had

come in the morning, and were waiting the arrival of their owner, whose

face looked eagerly out at the house and its surroundings, and, it

seemed to me, did not light up as much as it should have done under the

circumstances.




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