The first misfortune of my married life, came in the person of Margaret Melville. She burst into the boudoir one morning like a young tornado, seizing me in her strong arms, and giving me a shower of kisses, before I had time to recover from my astonishment. Ernest and myself were seated side by side by the escritoire. He was reading,--I was writing to Edith, little dreaming of the interruption at hand. "My dear creature," she exclaimed, with one of her inimitable ringing laughs, "how _do_ you _do_? You didn't think of seeing me, I know you didn't. Where did I come from? I dropped down from the upper regions,--you do not believe that. Well, I came with a party of friends, who wanted me to keep them alive. They are stopping at the Astor House. By the way, my trunks are there,--you may send for them as soon as you please. (Her trunks! she had come for a long visit, then!) There is my bonnet, mantilla, and gloves,--here _I_ am, body and soul,--what a glorious lounge,--good old Cr[oe]sus, what a palace you are in,--I never saw any thing so magnificent! Why, this is worth getting married for! If I ever marry, it shall be to a rich man, and one who will let me do just as I please, too." Ernest in vain endeavored to conceal his vexation at this unexpected innovation on the elegant quietude and romantic seclusion of our home. His countenance expressed it but too plainly, and Margaret, careless as she was, must have observed it. It did not appear to disconcert her, however. She had not waited for an invitation,--she did not trouble herself about a welcome. She had come for her own amusement, and provided that was secured, she cared not for our gratification. I can hardly explain my own feelings. I always dreaded coming in contact with her rudeness; there was no sympathy in our natures, and yet I experienced a sensation of relief while listening to her bubbling and effervescent nonsense. My mind had been kept on so high a tone, there was a strain, a tension, of which I was hardly conscious till the bowstring was slackened. Besides, she was associated with the recollections of Grandison Place,--she was a young person of my own sex, and she could talk to me of Mrs. Linwood, and Edith, and the friends of my rural life. So I tried to become reconciled to the visitation, and to do the honors of a hostess with as good a grace as possible. Ernest took refuge in the library from her wild rattling, and then she poured into my ear the idle gossip she had heard the evening before.