People did not wait until ten o'clock for "functions" to begin; neither did they give them that uneuphonious name. Hanny had read and heard a good deal since her first visit to genius in the plain, poor, little cottage; and this certainly had more of the true aspect one connects with poesy. The two rooms were daintily furnished; pictures everywhere. Mr. Osgood was a painter, and his portraits were quite celebrated. The curtains fell with a graceful sweep. The light brocade of the chairs threw out glisteny shades; the little tables set about held books and engravings, and great portfolios leaned against the wall. There was a case of choicely-bound books, and an open piano. Flowers were in vases on brackets, and low, quaint china bowls. It was like a lovely picture to the little girl; but she felt afraid of the people talking so earnestly, and wondered if they were all poets and authors. The party greeted their hostess, and Hanny was introduced. Was it the glamour of the summer and the blue gown that had made Mrs. Osgood so lovely sitting there in the carriage? Now she was thin, and her hair was banded down in the fashion of the day; then it had been flying in ringlets. Her gown was black silk, and that made her look rather grave; but when she smiled, all the old sweetness was there. Hanny knew her then. Delia took charge of Hanny, and seated her by a table with a book of choice engravings. Ben had found some one he knew, and Mr. Whitney had gone to talk to General Morris. A tall young lady came over and began complimenting Miss Whitney on her story in Godey's, and Delia flushed up with pleasure. Then she begged to introduce her to a friend. She wrote verses only, and her friend had composed music for them. Hanny kept watching her hostess. She knew some of the guests, from having had them pointed out to her in the street. There was Mr. Greeley, thin of face and careless of attire in those early days. In the street he could always be told by a shaggy light coat that he wore. A very sweet-looking elderly lady came up presently and spoke to Delia, who was in full flow of eager talk with the young musical composer. "Isn't that your sister, or your niece,--the one who sang here some time ago? I saw her come in with Mr. Whitney." "Oh, no," returned Delia. "But she is a very dear friend,--Mr. Underhill's sister." "Mr. Stephen Underhill?" "Yes, she is his sister; but it is Mr. Ben Underhill who is here." "I know Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Underhill very well. She was a Beekman. And Dr. Hoffman's wife belongs to the family." Delia turned and introduced Mrs. Kirtland. She had such an attractive face, framed in with rows of snowy puffs, quite gone out of date, but becoming to her nevertheless. "I feel that I almost know you," she said sweetly, "though I half mistook you for Miss Whitney; but she is dark, and you are fair, so I ought not to have made the blunder. I know your brother Stephen and his wife."