Josephine looked after him with a sneer. "A mighty honor! If he had a spark of generosity or politeness, he would have bought me a bouquet, if they do ask such enormous prices. I have a good mind not to go, I shall feel so mean without one." Ida said she regretted it; and she did feel for her. She knew, that to party-goers, these little things are no trifles; she had seen a girl dull or sulky for an entire evening, because of a deficiency of this sort. "I wish I could help her," she was saying to herself, as she returned to her apartment. The aroma that stole upon her senses said, "you can." She was no heroine, for she stood over her flowers, and doubted and pondered for a good half hour, before her wavering mind rested upon its pivot; and then a tear bedewed a Camelia's spotless bosom, as she emptied the vase, and saying aloud, "If thine enemy thirst, give him drink," set about arranging them anew. Her Christmas rose-tree was hanging with buds, which, on the morrow, would be blossoms, but she despoiled it of its nodding pearls; and adding geraniums and citronaloes, completed as tasteful a bouquet, as ever bloomed under the fingers of a fashionable florist. She gave it to Josephine, when she came into the parlor to survey her full-length figure in the tall glass. "Oh! how lovely!" she exclaimed involuntarily; then recovering herself, said coldly, "They are pretty;" and returned them. "They are for you," said Ida. "Who sent them?" "They were presented to me; and as their beauty is wasted upon the 'desert air' of my chamber, I shall be obliged to you to display them." Josephine would have rejected the generous offer, if there had been the remotest chance of another; but it was late, and she could not go bouquetless. "Who gave them to you?" she asked. Ida paused, then replied, "Mr. Dana." "He will know them; I had rather go without any." "No danger of that! he will not be there." Her patience was nearly spent. Josephine accepted the gift with a very bad grace; she was awkward and embarrassed, and what appears more improbable, a little ashamed. Mr. Read was attired with scrupulous neatness and elegance, and looked ten years younger than he really was. Ida "presumed" to tell him so, and was recompensed by a bland smile. She had done her duty, perhaps more, and she did not repent of her self-denial; but something of the desolate feeling of "lang-syne" fell upon her, as she was left, sole tenant of the parlor and the house. Weak and weary, she sighed for human society and affection. It was a darkened hour; clouded by self-doubtings, mournful memories and forebodings. The piano was open; she had not touched it since her arrival at home; but she went to it now; only plaintive tunes came to her fingers; she played fitfully, as her mood disposed her; the music was the voice of her thoughts; and she sang to a rambling, irregular measure--