All were at home, and his welcome, as usual, was cordial.
“Any further news from my dear, dear friend?” was the first question that left the lips of Lizzie.
“Of course he has. She’d let him know how she was, before any of us!” said Frank, almost too jealous to live.
“As her oldest acquaintance in the city, perhaps she thinks me the one that she ought to communicate with, especially as her business is with our firm,” said Mr. W——, gravely. “But in a dispatch that I received this morning, announcing the death of her mother, and asking a few days longer leave of absence, in consequence, she begged me especially to come up here, tell her friends she was well, and would soon return to New York, and would make her first and only call away from business on them.”
“Oh, thank you—thank you, Mr. W——. All read the paper this morning. Frank says he don’t know hardly how to begin, but he means to write a romance about it. He is going to call it ‘The Angel of the Storm; or, The Pilot’s Timely Warning.’”
“That will sound very grand,” said Mr. W——, with a smile. “It seems to me I saw a dime novel, published by one of our city small fry, called ‘The Angel of the Washtub—a Romance of Soap-Suds and Starch.’ It must have sold hugely.”
“There you are laughing at me again!” said Frank.
“No, brother, he is only encouraging you in your first literary effort. Every one must have a start, you know, even if it is down hill.”
Mrs. Emory came into the room now with Jessie, and the latter ran and shook hands with the friend of her dear Hattie.
Mr. W—— told Mrs. Emory that he had heard from Hattie. She was well, and would soon return, and then, the elder Legare coming in, he broached the subject of his going to California.