“This looks like a little paradise, after the pandemonium in which I have lately existed. A paradise, of which my lady is the Peri,” he murmured, in a low voice, as he lifted her hand, and, bowing over it, pressed it to his lips. Erminie blushed beautifully and murmured something in reply, to the effect that she hoped he would be happy with them. “Humph!” thought the good minister to himself—“that is all very high-toned, I dare say; but, for my part, I had rather seen him kiss her openly and heartily, as an honest sweetheart and betrothed husband should! but, then, very likely he is right and I am an old-fashioned fogy!” “Are you ready for tea, papa, dear?” inquired Erminie, with her hand upon the bell. “Yes, pet—quite; and so is Eastworth. Have it in directly.” Erminie rang, and tea was immediately served. Everything was in perfect neatness and taste. Colonel Eastworth’s favorite delicacies were on the table. Erminie presided over the urn. And the pretty parlor maid waited on the table. “A beautiful contrast to the hurly-burly of the hotel ordinary!” said Eastworth, frankly. “You should not be too hard upon the hotels. How is it possible they should be any better than they are, in their present overcrowded state,” said the charitable minister. And then their conversation left the hotel grievance and turned upon more agreeable subjects. When tea was over and the service cleared away, Erminie brought out Gustave Doré’s illustration of “Don Quixote,” and laid the volume on the table. It was a rare work and a new purchase; and it had cost the good minister a round sum to import it from Paris. But Erminie had expressed a wish to possess it; and her father never denied his beloved daughter anything that she wanted which it was possible for him to procure. So here it lay upon the table; at this time, perhaps, the only copy of the work to be found in America. Colonel Eastworth had never seen it; so Erminie had the delight of being the first to show it to him. There are perhaps about a hundred large plates—each plate being a perfect work of art, to be studied separately and carefully, and with ever-increasing appreciation and enjoyment of its truthfulness to nature and richness in humor. In the examination of this book the hours sped quickly away, so quickly that ten o’clock, the regular bedtime of the quiet household, came and passed unheeded. But if the striking of the clock did not disturb our laughing party, something else soon after did—the ringing of the street doorbell. Dr. Rosenthal himself went out to see what this very late summons might mean. It was the penny postman of his district. And the minister started; for this was an unheard of hour for the penny postman to present himself.