“No, I don’t know Cousin Frank Reeve!” exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton, turning very red—“neither do I wish to know him.” “Why, ma’ma, he is so pleasant—so delightful!” “_Is he?_ Well, Miss Julia, that is no reason why I should know him, or you either—and, let me tell you, if you have any ridiculous, childish _penchant_ for ‘Cousin Frank,’ you had better banish it at once!” and Mrs. Hazleton looked very knowing. “Ma’ma, I—I don’t understand you.” “O yes you do. I have said enough—so no more of Frank Reeve. Now tell me if you can what were the colors of the _Vich-ian Vohr_ plaid—Alice knows I dare say—go and ask her.” And glad of an excuse to leave the room, Julia quickly withdrew. Mrs. Hazleton spoke the truth—she did not know Cousin Frank, though the nephew of the departed Ketchim. She had never seen him—but she had heard of moonlight walks and tender billet-doux. In her widowhood, so long as Julia was out of the way, she cared little which most occupied her time—books or a lover. The case was now altered. She had a higher object to be accomplished, to which the plighted affections of her daughter must be made to yield—what did she care for the affections! Poor Julia’s eyes were swollen with weeping—her head ached intolerably, but her heart ached worse. There was a ring at the door—she listened—O happiness! ma’ma was out—and there was Cousin Frank! What could Julia do! What _did_ she do but rush down stairs and burst into a fresh flood of tears on Cousin Frank’s shoulders! Very improper, was it not? However, we will not stop to argue the matter now, but rather adopt Jack Easy’s system—finish the story first and have the argument afterward! As interesting as our pair of lovers undoubtedly were to themselves, a third party might not form the same opinion. We will not intrude, therefore, but content ourselves with marking the result of this interview, which was that Julia from that hour appeared in excellent spirits, quite delighting ma’ma with her praises of Herman Wallace, and never once mentioning the name of Cousin Frank again—simply amusing herself when alone with kissing mysteriously folded billets, and penning little rose-colored notes—surely there was no harm in that! In the meanwhile Wallace had become a constant visiter. Although Alice was generally in the room upon these occasions, Mrs. Hazleton had no longer any fears. Wallace to be sure was very polite and agreeable—brought her books—sometimes reading a favorite passage—of course, why should he not? and so Mrs. Hazleton herself began to treat her with more attention—but with Julia he would chat in a low voice in snug window seats, or remote corners, while she in turn seemed to lend a willing ear—blushing, smiling, and evidently very happy. “Ah, there certainly must be some understanding between them!” thought the delighted Mrs. Hazleton. CHAPTER VII. MASQUERADING.