“And to think, after all,” cried Kate, “that this sudden conquest has been achieved by a simple country girl—our own blushing Emma here, who never before even lost sight of her lambs and chickens. Why, from your grandiloquent description, Margaret, I should not wonder if he should prove some foreign count.”
“Or a play-actor, from his tragic air,” said another.
“Or a poet,” cried a third.
“Or a fugitive from the Insane Hospital,” added a fourth.
“Or a writer of romances, stealing his characters from real life. I’ll warrant his name to be Adolphus Gustavus Augustus Fitz—something or other—”
“O, no,” interrupted Miss Belden, “his name is a thousand times prettier than any of your Sts. and Fitz.—it is Auburn—Henry C. Auburn.”
“Henry C. Auburn!” screamed Kate. “Say that again, Margaret! Henry C. Auburn!—delightful!” and bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, the little gypsy clapped her hands, and danced about the room apparently in an ecstasy of delight. The next moment she vanished from the room, and hastily dispatched the following note to the lodgings of Auburn.
“Dear Cousin Harry—
“One so imperturbable to all the blandishments of beauty; one who has sworn fealty to pencil and pallet, and jests at all the powers of Cupid, can surely fear no danger in coming hither this evening, even though to meet the charming friend of whom I told you this morning. I therefore once more entreat, nay, I command your presence, though at the eleventh hour. I will only hint that if you come you may not leave town to-morrow. In haste,
“Kate.”