* * * * * _Morning._ When I returned to the parlor, after changing my dress, yesterday, uncle and Mr. Cullen sat in their arm-chairs, face to face, talking with thoughtful eyes of Congress and Hungary. If Congress would do thus and so, then Hungary could do so and thus, so and thus. If Congress would not, then God help Hungary. They had their eyes on each other’s face; they appeared as if they two could sit there and talk forever, never once lacking themes of interest, never once tiring of each other’s discourse. And uncle--dear, good man that he is!--let me have a part now and then, by saying--“Yes, this is what I was saying to you yesterday, you remember, Monde.” And then again--“And Monde, I see, thinks the same.” So that he and Mr. Cullen soon came to speak as much to me as to each other. Aunt came in, in a jet black dress, and rich black lace cap, with scarlet trimmings. She looked happy, and was as fresh and graceful as a girl--only her cap and collar were both awry, and a lock of hair straggled. Her eyes sought Mr. Cullen’s directly. “Mother,” said he, answering her smile with one as genial, “I am as hungry as a wolf. What are you going to have for dinner, I wonder.” “Guess.” “A chicken-pie.” “Yes! as true as you live. I remembered how you liked them, and we made this on purpose for you.” “Thank you! you are always kind. What else have you? I am so hungry!” “Pumpkin pies and toasted brown bread; it will be ready in less than five minutes.” “Ah, this is good! there is nothing I love so well. But, Ponto, let this paper alone. Here, you little rascal!” (For Ponto was running off with the “Era;” going sideways in a highly comical way, that he might not step on it.) “Ponto grows more roguish: I am afraid you help to spoil him, Miss Hedelquiver.” And in all that he said and did--I mean Mr. Cullen, of course--he was like a good son, running over with delight and sociability at finding himself beneath the home-roof once more. “The handsomest pie I ever saw,” said he, as uncle was beginning to carve it. I looked at aunt, but she would not look at me. She would say--“I think so too. Rosamonde put on the cross and border. Neither Bessy nor I should ever have thought of such a thing.” Mr. Cullen looked up to me, I know, and uncle, too; but I was drinking, and kept my eyes down in my tumbler of water. “I am vexed,” thought I, for one moment, “for this is what she will keep doing.” But the next moment I looked about me undauntedly, and thought--“Yet, if she does, I wont be vexed. I will only do those things that I do in such a way that she can’t hold me up for admiration. Good! I fancy Mr. Cullen will see something not quite so pretty as that chicken-pie, before many days.” And I was full of mirth at thought of the hodge-podge I will perpetrate if I am troubled.