“I only wanted to tell you that—that Frank Reeve is in town,” stammered poor Julia.
“And pray who is Frank Reeve, to call such a blush to your cheek?”
“Why, dear me, ma’ma, you know Cousin Frank Reeve!”
“No, I don’t know Cousin Frank Reeve!” exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton, turning very red—“neither do I wish to know him.”
“Why, ma’ma, he is so pleasant—so delightful!”
“Is he? Well, Miss Julia, that is no reason why I should know him, or you either—and, let me tell you, if you have any ridiculous, childish penchant for ‘Cousin Frank,’ you had better banish it at once!” and Mrs. Hazleton looked very knowing.
“Ma’ma, I—I don’t understand you.”
“O yes you do. I have said enough—so no more of Frank Reeve. Now tell me if you can what were the colors of the Vich-ian Vohr plaid—Alice knows I dare say—go and ask her.” And glad of an excuse to leave the room, Julia quickly withdrew.
Mrs. Hazleton spoke the truth—she did not know Cousin Frank, though the nephew of the departed Ketchim. She had never seen him—but she had heard of moonlight walks and tender billet-doux. In her widowhood, so long as Julia was out of the way, she cared little which most occupied her time—books or a lover. The case was now altered. She had a higher object to be accomplished, to which the plighted affections of her daughter must be made to yield—what did she care for the affections!
Poor Julia’s eyes were swollen with weeping—her head ached intolerably, but her heart ached worse. There was a ring at the door—she listened—O happiness! ma’ma was out—and there was Cousin Frank! What could Julia do! What did she do but rush down stairs and burst into a fresh flood of tears on Cousin Frank’s shoulders! Very improper, was it not? However, we will not stop to argue the matter now, but rather adopt Jack Easy’s system—finish the story first and have the argument afterward!