"I haven't given a thought to the subject. Pray, don't talk, Grace, you confuse me."
"But you'll have to give it a thought," she exclaimed. "Josephine's going to wear her new pink silk, and I should think you'd want to look nicely the first time you go into company. Ella Wynkar was saying the other day, she thought it was the queerest thing you never went anywhere."
"Grace, really if you can't be quiet, I must go into my own room. I won't waste any more time misdirecting these cards, which I cannot help doing if you talk all the while."
She subsided for a few minutes, but pretty soon began again.
"It's going to be splendid sleighing; it's stopped snowing altogether, and I believe the sun is actually coming out; don't you wish there was any chance of your having a sleigh-ride?"
"No," I exclaimed, impatiently; "I don't wish for anything but quiet, and if you must be lazy yourself, I don't see what need there is of making other people so."
"You're shockingly out of temper this morning," said Grace, shrugging her shoulders and getting up to go. "I think I shall have to 'leave you to your own reflections,' as mamma always says after giving any of us a lecture. I must go and see what mischief Esther is in. She has been too quiet this morning."
I saw, by the sly gleam in Grace's eye, that Esther's peace was over; I knew the futility of argument, and attempted none; ten minutes after, a distressed little voice outside, crying, "Won't you speak to Grace? She's got the brushes out of my paint-box, and she won't give 'em to me," showed me how Grace was killing time. I opened the door for the little malheureuse, told her not to mind about the paint-brushes, but if she'd be a quiet child, she might sit down here and look at the big "Pilgrim's Progress;" so I installed her in Grace's vacated seat, by the window, and she dried her tears, and looked the book through twice; then, kneeling in the chair, gazed out into the street, so quietly that I almost forgot her existence. My task was a distasteful one, insomuch as it interfered with pleasanter occupations, and I had great difficulty in keeping my patience to its completion; but at last it was ended, and the last name on the list copied on the envelope of the last card, and replaced in the basket, and, fagged and dispirited, I pushed them away, and, crossing over to the window, sat down by it, and took the child on my knee.
No wonder the scene had fascinated her so long; it certainly was bright and picturesque. Snow is as magical a beautifier as moonlight; it freshens up, gilds over, and brightens the worn-out surface of every-day, and makes a pretty picture of a common reality. I had never suspected Gramercy Park of beauty before, but under the light mantle of this snow it became lovely. The trees bent with its light weight; it capped and decorated the iron railings, and crested the roofs and window-casings of the houses on the square. It lay white and unsullied on the ground, and in the courtyards; only a few children had as yet burst nursery bounds, and, wild with delight, rushed into the new element; and but a few shovels and brooms were at work. The sky had come out gorgeously blue, the sunshine was glittering gaily on the white snow; it was altogether a brilliant picture, done in high colors, but possessing the advantage that nature's pictures always enjoy, of not having an inharmonious or jarring tinge. Even the sleigh-loads of gaily-dressed people that began to dash past, seemed to have got themselves up to match and not mar the scene. The bright colors of the sleigh-robes, the flashing of the silver bells, the red cheeks of the girls, the gay clothes of the pretty children, were quite harmonious and quite effective. Esther looked at it for a long while in perfect content, as she would have looked at a nice picture-book; by and by, it began to assume a more personal character on her eyes.
"I should like to go out and ride myself," she said, at length.