bearing, and one sentence, uttered in her clear voice, and a smile dispelled all unfavourable impressions. Arthur and Charley were at the foot of the stairs. "What a Babel!" said Ida, as they entered the thronged rooms. "And what a waste of breath!" replied Charley. "There is neither sociability, or rational enjoyment, to be had in these very large assemblies." "I rather like the excitement of the crowd;" said Ida, "it affects me strangely, but agreeably; with the same sensation the waves may feel in their sports,--a tumultuous glee at being a part of the restless whole,--never still, and always bounding onward." "How do you account for it? Is it magnetism--animal electricity?" "Perhaps so. If, as some contend, we are electrical machines, the revolving currents of the subtle fluid must operate powerfully upon the system of each, in a crowd like this. But to leave speculative ground--perilous to me, inasmuch as I do not know what I am talking about--" "And I understand the science less," interrupted he. "You remember the Scotchman's definition of metaphysics--what were you going to ask?" "Why you dislike these scenes? I fancied you would be in your element." "Excuse me for saying that I suspect you class me among amphibious creatures--a _sui generis_--equally at home in the air, earth, and water, and not over-well qualified for any of these states of existence." Ida would have disclaimed; but he had come too near the mark; the eyes that asked a reply were penetrating as laughing; she was thankful that the bridal party released her from their regards. "The bride is pretty," he observed, when the confusion was a little over. "Tame praise for such beauty," said Ida. "What then? superb--magnificent? and if I wish to describe the Alps or Niagara, can you help me to a word?" "You do not affect the florid style now in vogue?" "No. It is the vice of American language and literature. We 'pile on the agony,' until the idea is smothered; plain words lose their meaning, become too weak to go alone, and have to be bolstered up by sonorous adjectives." Ida smiled, and turned her head to look for Ellen Morris. Charley remarked the movement, and imitated it. "Ha! can it be!" he exclaimed. "What!" she questioned. "I cannot be mistaken! it is he! What wind has blown him hither? An old--I thought, a transatlantic friend; the gentleman with the moustache, conversing with one of the bridesmaids." "Ellen Morris! I see him; but he deserves more than the doubtful designation of the 'gentleman with the moustache.' Who, and what is he?" "An artist and poet, just returned from Italy, and the hero of divers adventures, which, as you love the romantic, I may relate to you in my poor way some day. His cognomen is Lynn Holmes." "He looks the poet; how handsome!" "'Tame praise for such beauty,'" quoted Charley, with mock gravity.