The servant bowed and retired. In a few moments more there fluttered down into the large reception room from above the loveliest embodiment of the new order of finery that he had ever seen. Such daintiness in curls and laces, such lightness in silken flounces displayed upon spreading hoops, he felt to be without equal. With a graceful courtesy she received his almost ponderous bow. “Mother gives you her greeting, and she cannot come with us to-day,” she said. “She has a very severe headache.” “I am very sorry to hear that,” he replied sympathetically, “but you will come? The weather has favored us, and I fancy the meadows will be beautiful to see.” “Oh, yes, I will come,” she returned smiling. “It is not quite three, however,” she added. “You are early.” “I know,” he answered, “but we may talk until then. Besides there is something I wish you to see before theater time--no, I will tell you of it later. Henry will be on time.” They seated themselves very respectfully distant and took up the morning’s commonplaces. Had he heard of the fire and where the French minister was now being entertained? Cards had but this morning come from the Jacob Van Dams for a reception at their new house in Broome Street. The Goelets were to build farther out in Pearl Street. “I think it is a shame,” she said, “the way they are deserting us in this street. We shall have to go also very shortly, and I like Wall Street.” “When your turn comes perhaps you will not mind it so much,” he returned, thinking of the proposal he hoped to find the courage to make. “Broome Street is certainly pleasing after the new style.” She thought of all the fine residences being erected in that new residence section, and for some, to him, inexplicable reason, smiled. Outside, through the vine-festooned window, she could see a broad, open barouche turning. “Here is the carriage,” she said. As they came out of the quiet chamber into the open sunlight, part of their stilted reserve vanished. Once in the carriage beside him, she smiled happily. As they rolled into William Street and up the Old Boston Road into the green shaded Bowery, she laughed for the very joy of laughing. “It is good to feel spring again,” she said, “the cold days are so many.” As they traveled, an occasional citizen before his doorway, or pleasure seeker upon horseback, greeted them. The distinguished Aaron Burr was here prancing gaily countryward. Old Peter Stuyvesant’s mansion was kept as rich in flowers as when he had been alive to care for it. “Are not the fields beautiful about here?” he observed, after they had passed the region of the Collect. “Lovely,” she returned. “I never see them but I think of dancing, they are so soft.” “Let us get out and walk upon them, anyhow,” he answered. “Henry can wait for us at the turn yonder.” He was pointing to a far point, where, through a clump of trees, the winding footpath, leading out from here, joined Broadway, now a lane through the woods and fields.