Miss Douglas, who was about moving on, turned again at this cry of woe, and immediately a ripple of musical, irrepressible laughter broke from her scarlet lips. There stood her friend in the act of gathering up her voluminous train, while directly behind her stood an unmistakable countryman, with one huge foot planted firmly upon the ruffles and plaitings of the beautiful skirt, securely pinning it to the floor, and making it optional with Miss Aspasia, either to go on and leave behind her that (to her) very important appendage, or wait until that herculean member should be removed. The luckless, though innocent cause of this uncomfortable state of affairs, was gazing with wide eyes, and open mouth, at the figure of an Indian upon the trail opposite him, and wholly unconscious of the strong attachment which bound him to the fashionable belle. “I beg your pardon,” said Miss Douglas, hastening to the rescue, “but will you please lift your foot?” “Eh? What? Oh, ya-as,” ejaculated the clumsy, but good-natured fellow. “I declare, miss, I never saw so many wimmen a losin’ their clo’s off before. I hain’t ben nowhere to-day but somebody’s dress has ben tumblin’ off on ’em, and I’ve stepped on’t. I sh’d hev a fit if ’twar me, and I’m tarnal glad I wur born to a pair o’ breeches.” Miss Huntington colored angrily, and murmured something about “such insufferable insolence,” whereupon the irrepressible countryman offered a piece of friendly advice. “Grandm’th’r ’d tell ye to sew it on stronger to the bindin’—put on a button and make a buttonhole. That’s her way, and I don’t believe she ever lost her petticoat in her life.” Having delivered himself of these pithy remarks, he moved away, and at this instant a suppressed laugh greeted Miss Brownie’s ear. Looking up, she caught two pairs of mirth-gleaming eyes fixed upon herself and her unfortunate companion. Two young men were standing near, and had been amused witnesses of the comical scene just described. On being discovered, one of them lifted his hat and bowed low to Miss Douglas, who flushed a rosy red as she returned it, and who would instantly have burst into gleeful laughter had it not been for doing violence to her companion’s feelings. As it was, however, she linked her arm in Miss Huntington’s and turned quickly away, but not before she had caught the look of unmistakable admiration with which the other gentleman regarded her. “Who is she?” he asked eagerly of his companion, after he had watched her out of sight. “That full-rigged craft, with all her sail crowded on, is Miss Aspasia Huntington, a Baltimore belle and heiress——” “And the other?” interrupted the first speaker, somewhat impatiently. “Is—hold on to your ears, my boy—Miss Mehetabel Douglas, of Philadelphia,” was the startling announcement, accompanied with a smile of amusement. “Thunder!” “’Tis rather an imposing cognomen for such a dainty piece of flesh and blood, I admit.”