"To dress the pictures and looking-glasses," said Emma. "And to festoon upon the walls," chimed in Laura. "And loop up bed and window-curtains," finished Emma. "My dear girls! if the President and suit were expected, your preparations would not be more formidable. Why trouble yourselves so much?" "Trouble! _you_ never incommode yourself for other people! oh no!" replied Emma, in severe irony. "We love the bustle and excitement of fixing," said Laura. "And what is there for me to do?" questioned Ida, stooping over the pile. "Nothing! you are to play lady and hold your hands. It is difficult, because unusual work--but please try!" laughed Laura. Miss Betsey came along, with a rueful face. "Miss Ida--there's a dozen loaves of cake, and ever so many snow-balls _wont_ get in the big sideboard, no how!" "Put them in the light closet, Miss Betsey. I hope we shall be able to eat it all!" she continued to the girls. "Never fear!" said Emma. "Your Richmond party could consume it in a week. How many are there?" "Let me see! Arthur, Carry and my pet--three--Mr. and Mrs. Dana, three children and Charley--nine. They will be here to-morrow night--Ellen Morris, Monday or Tuesday. I have invited Anna Talbot and Josephine--but do not expect them. Then for Tuesday evening--from the neighborhood--Dr. Hall and lady--and a friend, who shall be nameless--" pinching Emma's cheek--"the Strattons--Kingstons--Frenches--and oh! I gave Charley _carte-blanche_ to ask any of my Richmond acquaintances--and all for what? To hear that Miss Ida Ross is--" "'Free, white, and twenty-one!'" sang Emma, cheerily. "Twenty-one! in four years, I shall be a spinster of a quarter of a century! Heigho!" She said it jestingly; but at nightfall, she was pacing the porch alone--Laura having gone home, and Emma asleep, wearied by her day's activity; and the thought returned to her. Twenty-one! the golden sands were slipping fast. The sky-meeting waves upon the horizon no longer blushed with sunset dyes, and nodded their bright crests, in luring welcome; her eyes were bent upon the regular swell of the Present, as she glided over it. The navigation of the unknown seas beyond, she trusted to the Pilot, who had engaged to see her safely to the desired haven. It was a holy, still hour. Her swift step scarcely broke the silence--the firm, elastic tread of youth and health;--and an unruffled spirit was within;--a fulness of contentment and peace the world could not disturb or take away. She had conned that invaluable lesson--"It is better to trust than to hope." "A letter, ma'am--no papers," said Will, sententiously.