November saw two important additions to the neighbourhood in Myrtle Street. Mr. and Mrs. Van Horn moved into Number Four, and Agnes's first baby was born. It proved a fine, bouncing little girl, black-eyed and dark-skinned,—exactly the image of its very good-looking father. Agnes had hoped for a boy, and that it would look like her; but she could not allow her disappointment to embitter her against the little, helpless being which drew its life from her. She even submitted without a murmur to its being called Margaret,—after Joe's mother,—and only made a wry face when he persisted in nicknaming it Peggy, and Madge, and Magpie, and every thing else which could be twisted out of the name of Margaret.
Agnes recovered soon from her confinement, and, Joseph getting an advance of wages about the same time, she hired a nice little English girl to assist her in taking care of the little Madge, as the child came finally to be called. She seemed more placid and contented, and also much more serious and thoughtful, than she had ever done since her marriage; and Letty believed that (as it often happens) the baby was going to make a woman of its mother.
As for Joseph, his admiration of the little stranger was almost painful to witness. The baby was never out of his arms while he was in the house: he built endless castles in the air as to its future, and was terrified at every one of its little ailments. He called Letty up one cold, rainy morning at two o'clock to come and see it expire in convulsions, and ran off a mile for Dr. Woodman before she could dress herself,—somewhat to the disgust of the good doctor, who had been up all the night before, and arrived to find Madge fast asleep in her mother's arms,—the disease having readily yielded to three drops of paregoric!
The other arrival made much more noise and stir in the neighbourhood. Number Four was the only house in the street which made any pretensions to gentility; and it was very genteel indeed. It had a tower, and a bow-window, and a veranda, and a gabled porch, and dormer windows, and every thing else which a house could have outside. And it had a drawing-room, and a parlour, and a dining-room, and a sitting-room, and a library, and every thing else which a house could have inside. And it was painted a delicate peach-blossom colour; and it had a varnished front door, and inside blinds, and various scollops and points and apertures about the roof, and looked just fit to hang up in a tree with a pair of white mice in it. So John said; but Joseph, whose imagination was dazzled with all this show, ascribed this remark to envy, and began to consider the possibility of converting his own dwelling into something similar.
The whole neighbourhood was kept in a state of excitement, for some time, by the arrival of Mrs. Van Horn's furniture. Some people admired the splendour of the carved rosewood sofa, the marble tables, and the pictures,—which seemed to be all gilt frames; and the excitement reached its height when it was discovered that Mrs. Van Horn actually had a piano! For Myrtle Street had hitherto been unblessed or unannoyed by the presence of any musical instrument except Mr. De Witt's fiddle.
But when Mrs. Van Horn made her appearance, the wonder and admiration were transferred from all other things to herself. It was during the time of the first great expansion of skirts; and Mrs. Van Horn's crinoline exceeded every thing that had heretofore been seen in Myrtle Street. Her basque was the longest, her sleeves the richest, her bonnet the most fashionable, that could be imagined. She was a pretty little woman, with pleasant features, long fair curls, a great deal of colour, and very lively manners. Her husband was a dark-whiskered, black-haired man, who dressed as extensively in his way as his wife did in hers. He wore a seal-ring on his finger and a heavy chain on his watch,—quite a contrast to the hard-working men who daily went up and down Myrtle Street with their dinner-pails and baskets.
Agnes was greatly taken with the new-comers, especially with Mrs. Van Horn. She thought the squirrel cage they occupied every thing that could be desired in the way of a mansion, and was really angry with Letty for wondering where they would put all their clothes and furniture, and, that being disposed of, where they would live themselves. What Letty thought of the new-comers may be gathered from a conversation she held with her husband the evening after she had been with her cousin to call on them.
"Have you seen any thing of our new neighbours?" he asked, as he composed himself in his favourite chair after supper.
"I have seen all I want to see," replied Letty, promptly.
It was seldom that she spoke so decidedly about any one; and John looked up in surprise. Letty set up her last dishes, gave a final brush to the stove-hearth, and sat down with her knitting on the other side of the fire. John waited quietly, knowing that Letty would begin to talk of her own accord by-and-by.