“Fanny,” said Miss Seymour, as she stepped from her carriage one evening at her sister’s door, “come with me, wont you? I am going to drive on to the city, having some _emplettes_ to make, and we can call on Mrs. Jones as we return. The sound of her silvery voice will re-animate you this evening, for you do not look so well.” Mrs. Hill was not as cheerful as was her wont, for her prospects did not brighten, and she had been sitting on the steps, thinking, until a few tears rolling over her sweet face, left their glaze, and did not escape Eda’s eye of affection. Ever willing to oblige, however, and anxious to resume her usual looks, before her husband should return to mark and grieve over her sadness, she assented. “You must wait awhile, Eda, until I change my dress; I must put on a more ceremonious costume, for Mrs. Jones has ceased asking me to ‘come over and be intimate’ since my fortunes are changing. This satin de laine would be an insult after the magnificence with which she assailed me two weeks ago? Can you give me time to make _une toilette soignée_?” “Certainly,” said Miss Seymour, seating herself and taking her little nephew on her lap, “although you require but a slight change in my humble opinion, to present yourself at Mrs. Jones’s door.” Fanny smiled and hastened in; but soon returned, looking pretty enough to make the fine lady jealous, in despite of her simple attire. She had that real elegance of manner which Mrs. Jones so much admired in herself, but could not see in others that failed to prosper in the world’s estimation. She was “at home,” the servant said, and they were ushered in by an African damsel, in washing attire. Her clothes were looped about her waist like a _blanchisseuse_, and she displayed a pair of ebony legs ending with wide, naked feet. Her drapery was not like her mistress’s company, “select,” but seemed to hold the accumulated dust and dirt of the house. Seated in the parlors, the sisters had leisure to contemplate the contents of the apartment they had often heard described. Two portraits hung opposite. One represented Mrs. Jones in ball costume, giving the finishing touch to her toilette. On her lap was a very work-box looking casket, out of which she was taking a string of most unequivocal wax-beads, supposed to resemble pearls. Mr. Jones sat bolt upright, with a book in his hand, looking very learned, and very much puzzled about some weighty question. But what struck them most was, that on the tables in the corners, stood cake-baskets, covered with doilies, and candlesticks innumerable were disposed about the room, with unlit candles, and curled paper wound around them. Some of the baskets contained cake that plainly looked, “don’t touch me yet,” and we forgot to mention a tub of rather muddy water that stood in the middle of the folding-doors, on a large oil-cloth, as though the dark damsel, with the very short garments, had been interrupted in the act of scouring paint at this untimely hour.