That afternoon we were condoling with each other in our little city of refuge, when the opening front door revealed among our guests a slender youth, who, upon being directed to his room, sprang up the stairs two or three steps at a time.
"Mercy!" said I. "Worse and worse! There's no hope for us! A strange young man to be entertained in our little parlor!" My aunt entering just then, we confided our miseries to her. "Never mind, Lizzie," she said, "Sara shall keep him in the large room. She must bring down all her prettiest books and pictures and arrange a table in a corner for his amusement. He will not be here much of the time. He has to go to church with his father, you know."
The name of this unwelcome intruder was Roger A. Pryor. He made himself charming. I had not yet tucked up my long braids, but he treated me beautifully. He was so alert, so witty, so amiable, that he was unanimously voted the freedom of our sanctum. He entered with glee into our schemes for self-defence. Running out to a shrub on the lawn, he returned with a handful of "wax berries," gravely explained, "ammunition," and proceeded to test the range of the missile. Just then one of the enemy, the great Dr. Plumer, entered the hall, and the soft berry neatly reached his dignified nose. His Reverence gave no sign of intelligence. He had been a boy himself!
St. George Tucker took an immense fancy to our new ally. He found a great deal to say to me. How glad was I that my aunt had given me a new rose-colored silk bonnet from Mme. Viglini's.
The week passed like a dream. When the stage drew up at midnight to take our guest to the railroad, seven miles distant, we were both very triste at parting.
He was sixteen years old, was to graduate next summer at Hampden Sidney College, and come the session afterward to our University. I hoped all would go well with him; and after the winding horn of the stage was quite out of hearing, I,—well, I had been taught early to entreat the Father of all to take care of my friends. There could be no great harm in including him by name, nor yet in adding to my petition the words "for me!"
I suppose I may have seemed a bit distrait after this incident, for my uncle, who was always devising occupation for me, insisted upon my writing a story. I liked to please him, and I surprised him by producing a love story. I think I called it "The Birthnight Ball." I remember this quotation, which I considered quite delicate and suggestive:—
"The stars, with vain ambition, emulate her eyes." That is all I remember of my story. My uncle sent it to the Saturday Evening Post in Philadelphia and it was accepted, the editor proposing, as I was a young writer, to waive the honorarium! I was only too glad to accept the honor.
In the autumn my uncle took us on a long journey to Niagara Falls and the Northern Lakes. In New York we stopped at the Astor House on Broadway, and my room looked into the park then opposite, where scarlet flamingoes gathered around a fountain. We walked in the beautiful Bowling Green Park, then the fashionable promenade, took tea with the Miss Bleeckers on Bleecker Street, and bought a lovely set of turquoises, a jewelled comb, and a white topaz brooch from Tiffany's. Moreover, my seat at table was near that of John Quincy Adams, now an aged man, paralytic, and almost incapable of conveying his food to his lips. He was charmingly cheerful, and courteous to a sweet-faced lady who attended him.
I think we took the canal-boat in Schenectady which was to convey us across the state of New York.