There's a rose upon the mantle, stuck by careless hand in a vase of antique design--one rose, no more; for one such faultless rose as this fills up all the spirit's longing in a rose. A thousand roses, perfect of their kind, could do no more. Here we have _sub rosa_ a profound philosophical maxim showing its colors--as brief as profound, i.e., enough is enough, whether it be enough rose or enough stewed pigeon with green peas. On a spider-legged table in this diminutive lady's bower, there sat a dish of ferns; some moss was growing in a basket; some colored strands of wool lay across a piece of canvas; a carved paper-cutter peeped out from the leaves of an unread book, left lying on an ottoman by some person who had been seated in an easy-chair with silken cushions, soft to rest upon in weariness, in a cozy corner; and on a sofa of crimson plush reposed, in restful quiet, a guitar with blue ribbon attached. This guitar told its own tale; Mell _had_ learned something useful, after all, at that famous boarding-school; for to the strumming of this guitar she could sing you, with inimitable taste and in a bird-like voice, an English madrigal, or a French _chansonnette_, or one of those plaintive love ditties which finds its way into the listener's heart through any language. "Now, mother," said Rube, looking about him with pardonable pride, "isn't this pleasant? Have we, amid all our grandeur, any such snug den as this?" "Well, no, Rube! It _is_ charming! _Multum in parvo_, one may say. But whom have we here?" It was Mell, halting for one awe-struck instant in the doorway, attired in a fresh muslin dress, with ribbons to match her eyes, and cheeks dyed a red carnation at the formidable prospect of meeting, face to face, the august mistress of the Bigge House. Rube pressed forward to meet her, and took her fluttering hand in his own, and led her forward. "Your new daughter, mother, and this, Mellville, is our good mother. You'll get along famously with her, I believe, in spite of Clara." Who but a blundering man, like dear honest Rube, would have so completely let the domestic cat out of the bag? No need for Mell to be the most wide-awake creature in existence to understand on the spot, the real status of affairs, as concerned herself, at the Bigge House. Subjugated at once by her beauty, constrained to admit her lady-like deportment, Mrs. Rutland kissed the rounded cheek and hoped she would make her dear boy very happy. And Mell looked flatteringly conscious of the great lady's condescension, and blushingly avowed her unalterable determination to try. This interesting little ceremony seemed to dissipate all the underlying displeasure at Rube's choice in his mother's mind.