This was cunning in aunt. We all had a hearty laugh over it. But good-night, dearest; I will finish in the morning.
Morning.
When I returned to the parlor, after changing my dress, yesterday, uncle and Mr. Cullen sat in their arm-chairs, face to face, talking with thoughtful eyes of Congress and Hungary. If Congress would do thus and so, then Hungary could do so and thus, so and thus. If Congress would not, then God help Hungary. They had their eyes on each other’s face; they appeared as if they two could sit there and talk forever, never once lacking themes of interest, never once tiring of each other’s discourse. And uncle—dear, good man that he is!—let me have a part now and then, by saying—“Yes, this is what I was saying to you yesterday, you remember, Monde.” And then again—“And Monde, I see, thinks the same.” So that he and Mr. Cullen soon came to speak as much to me as to each other.
Aunt came in, in a jet black dress, and rich black lace cap, with scarlet trimmings. She looked happy, and was as fresh and graceful as a girl—only her cap and collar were both awry, and a lock of hair straggled. Her eyes sought Mr. Cullen’s directly.
“Mother,” said he, answering her smile with one as genial, “I am as hungry as a wolf. What are you going to have for dinner, I wonder.”
“Guess.”
“A chicken-pie.”
“Yes! as true as you live. I remembered how you liked them, and we made this on purpose for you.”
“Thank you! you are always kind. What else have you? I am so hungry!”