“She shan’t wait another hour!” said Phil, hurrying out of the room, and telling himself that his mother cared more for him than all his New York friends combined. He dressed himself anew, with as much care, though not as much trepidation, as when preparing for the Dinon party; he even slipped out of doors and by lighting two or three matches selected a bud from a rose-bush which was carefully covered from the frost every night. He dressed his hair carefully, caressed his moustache into the form a barber had told him was most becoming to his style of face, and squeezed his feet into the low, tight, patent-leather shoes which a shoemaker had assured him were the only proper thing for evening dress. Then he came down-stairs, whistling “Hail to the chief.” Mrs. Hayn hastily adjusted the spectacles she had been polishing, and as Phil entered the room she threw up both hands in amazement and delight. It was worth the price of a coat, thought Phil to himself, to enable that dear, honest old face to express so much enjoyment. As his mother gazed at him, Phil went through the various poses which had been demanded of him when he was a child--even later--and clothes were being fitted to him by the trustworthy Sarah Tweege; he turned around, presented one side view and the other, walked across the room and back, and saluted his mother with his most profound bow. His mother’s delight knew no bounds. Finally the good old lady took both his hands, held him at arms’ length, looked as if she never could see enough of him; then she gave him a motherly hug, and exclaimed,-- “I should think she’d have fell dead in love with you the minute she clapped her eyes on you, with all those things on.” Phil retired hastily, and when he removed his dress-coat he savagely shook his fist at it. CHAPTER XVI. MORE NEWS THAT WAS NOT ENOUGH.