Which might oppress, but not appear.
Her curls, with all their sunny glow,
Were braided o'er an aching brow;
But well she knew how many sought
To gaze upon her secret thought;—
And love is proud—she might not brook
That others on her heart should look."
One pleasant autumn evening a social group were assembled in Mr. Leroy Edson's tasteful parlor. A tall, argand lamp on a marble table, shed its mild, ethereal light over the rich furniture. A bright fire glowed in the marble grate, and in the genial atmosphere of her own creating, young Mrs. Edson moved, a thing of grace and beauty. She wore a robe of emerald Genoa velvet, with an open bodice, laced over a chemisette of fine-wrought Mechlin lace. Broad, drooping Pagoda sleeves revealed her white arms encircled by quaintly-fashioned jet bracelets. Her guests were not numerous, but select. Col. Malcome and his family were most prominent among the number. Florence Howard was there, attended by Rufus, and Edgar Lindenwood in company with Edith. Jenny Andrews, with no less a personage than our quondam, roguish friend, Dick Giblet, shop-boy of Mr. Salsify Mumbles' grocery; now Mr. Richard Giblet, of the firm of Edson, Giblet & Co. A very respectable appearance Dick made, too, for he was a quick, sprightly young fellow, albeit somewhat over-fond of a mischievous joke; but this he would outgrow in time probably. Amy Seaton, sedate and modest as ever, with laughing Charlie for her beau, and several others, among whom we might mention Miss Martha Pinkerton, made up the little party.
Edith looked fragile and sweet as ever in a dress of azure thibet cloth, her light hair hanging in clusters of wavy curls over her small shoulders. She leaned gracefully on the arm of Lindenwood, and looked in his face with a gentle, artless expression of countenance.
Florence, in her crimson cashmere, and dark, massy ringlets, looked a shade paler than when we last saw her, but more queenly and brilliant, if possible.