"Bob is right," observed Harriet, after he had gone; "I saw in a moment that such a man as Colonel Forrester would never fancy me."
"Nor me," said Caroline.
Sophia kissed her nieces with more kindness than usual as they bade her good-night. And, they, retired to bed impatient for the arrival of morning, that they might give their mother all the particulars of Colonel Forrester's visit.
In a fortnight, he returned from Washington, and this time he made his first visit in the morning, and saw all the ladies to the best advantage. His admiration of Sophia admitted not of a doubt. Being employed for the remainder of the winter on some military duty in Philadelphia, he went for a few days to Boston and brought his mother (whose friend had recovered from her illness), to fulfil her expected visit. The girls found Mrs. Forrester a charming woman, and, fortunately for them, very indulgent to the follies of young people. The colonel introduced to them various officers that were passing through the city, so that they really did walk in Chestnut street with gentlemen in uniform, and sat in boxes with them at the theatre.
Before the winter was over, Sophia Clements had promised to become Mrs. Forrester as soon as the war was at an end. This fortunate event took place sooner than was expected, the treaty having been made, though it did not arrive, previous to the victory of New Orleans. The colonel immediately claimed the hand of the lady, and the wedding and its preparations, by engaging the attention of Harriet and Caroline, enabled them to conform to the return of peace with more philosophy than was expected. The streets no longer resounded with drums and fifes. Most of the volunteer corps disbanded themselves—the army was reduced, and the officers left off wearing their uniforms, except when at their posts. The military ardour of the young ladies rapidly subsided—citizens were again at par—and Harriet and Caroline began to look with complacence on their old admirers. Messrs. Wilson and Thomson were once more in favour—and, seeing the coast clear, they, in process of time, ventured to propose, and were thankfully accepted.
PETER JONES.
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
"Let the players be cared for."—Shakspeare.
In the early part of the present century, there lived in one of the long streets in the south-eastern section of Philadelphia, a tailor, whom we shall introduce to our readers by the name of Peter Jones. His old-fashioned residence, which (strange to say) is yet standing, was not then put out of countenance by the modern-built structures that have since been run up on each side of it. There were, it is true, three or four new houses nearly opposite, all of them tenanted by genteel families—but Peter's side of the way (at least for the length of a square), was yet untouched by the hand of improvement, his own domicile being the largest and best in the row, and moreover of three stories—an advantage not possessed by the others. It had a square-topped door lighted by three small square panes—the parlour window (there was but one) being glazed to match, also with small glass and heavy wood work. The blue-painted wooden door-step was furnished with a very convenient seat, denominated the porch, and sheltered above by a moss-grown pent-house. The whole front of the mansion was shaded by an enormous buttonwood tree, that looked as if it had been spared from the primeval forest by the axe of a companion of William Penn. The house, indeed, might have been the country seat of one of the early colonists. Under this tree stood a pump of excellent water.