“Yes, and fence with Wentworth and Harrington, besides turning the studio up-stairs into a gymnasium. Then you go on these tours, as you call them. You have a regular parish of negroes and Irish people, and all sorts of forlorn characters, on whom you shower food, and clothes, and books, and goodness knows what else. And you go to theatres, circuses, operas, lectures, picture-galleries, woman’s rights conventions, abolition meetings, political gatherings of all sorts at Faneuil Hall, with the most delectable impartiality. Then you used to attend church at William Henry Channing’s, which our best society thought horrid.”
“Yes, and now Theodore Parker’s, which they think worse still. And you have harbored fugitive slaves in your house, and helped them off to Canada. And you swallow Garrison and Parker Pillsbury”—
“And adore Wendell Phillips.”
“Yes, and adore Wendell Phillips. And subscribe for the ‘Commonwealth’ newspaper, which your uncle says ought to be put down”—
“And the ‘Liberator.’”
“Yes, and subscribe for Garrison’s ‘Liberator,’ which is your uncle’s bête noire. In short, Muriel, I wonder how you keep your popularity. I’m sure I couldn’t do all that you do, and have these cozy old citizens, these formal and fashionable mammas, these mutton-chop whiskered, English-mannered gentlemen, and Beacon street belladonnas, so fond of me as they are of you. But then, I suppose they don’t know the extent of your heresies.”
“My dear Emily,” returned Muriel, “please to remember that you’re from the rural districts. You live at Cambridge half the year, and you’ve been off there in Chicago for the last ten months, so you don’t know how many Boston ladies do all, or nearly all, that I do. I’m not half such an original as you imagine. But see here, bird of Paradise, time passes. Are you going with me, or not? I’ll go anywhere, or do anything you like, after the Pardiggle excursion is over. That must be attended to, anyway.”
Before Emily could reply, the door opened, and Mrs. Eastman came in. A beautiful, fair-complexioned, gentle lady, of middle age, with silver-grey hair falling in graceful tresses beside her face. As beautiful in her waning day as Muriel in her matin prime.
“Not gone yet, dear,” she said, with a bright smile.