In every sunny spot around the house were tables covered with cakes like pyramids of snow, so white and smooth was the icing poured over them. In the kitchen were fowls roasting and hams boiling; turkeys innumerable in their tin houses, getting basted and browned; and oysters getting plumped and pickled, peppered and spiced. There was more shuffling, running about, upsetting and breaking, than can be imagined, and fussing, to Mrs. Jones’s content. Baskets of champagne arriving from town; blocks of ice; borrowed china and glass; lamps, candelabras, &c., &c. Servants rushing out to assist the draymen, shouting, tumbling over one another in an agony of amazement at “Miss Sally’s importance,” and ransacking drawers and closets for cup-towels and tumbler-towels that were insufficient for all the wiping that was to be done. The table was set out—and a magnificent one it was, if profusion is beauty. There was nothing wanting. Plenty of lights, too, were in readiness, and nearly all was completed the evening before, to poor Mrs. Jones’s relief. She went to bed, endeavoring to think the fatigue a pleasure, and slept soundly enough to feel recruited. But, alas! a bad day and a worse night damped her expectations, and she walked about, giving her directions with less buoyancy than the evening previous. _Then_, the fair moon was filling the earth with her silver light, and covering the galleries (whereon the guests were to have promenaded) with her radiance. _Now_, the air was damp and chilly, the rain was still dropping over the roof, and the roads were, of course, almost impassable. The grandees shrugged their shoulders at the idea of a wet drive to Mrs. Jones’s party, and many who would have gone, remained at home for want of comfortable equipages. The musicians called the quadrilles in hoarse voices, and their instruments were out of tune. The wind blew out the lights, and great confusion prevailed among the dancers. The icing ran down the sides of the cakes, the Charlotte Russes flowed over and the beautiful jelly, so perfectly moulded, melted away like a dream. Mrs. Jones was ready to swoon, but rallied, and talked louder than ever as she ran to and fro, in great agony of mind. Her husband suffered less; he was winning at cards, and the expenses of the party were much lessened as some of the guests pockets lightened. He even forgot the absent Macfusses, and wondered that Sara “took on so.” Supper was announced—the champagne foamed and sparkled, the corks flew about like hail-stones, and every body was pleased but poor Mrs. Jones, who was glad when it ended, and lay down at length with a terrible _migraine_. Then came the nightmare in the shape of one of her own black cakes thrown at her head by Mrs. Macfuss—and so ended the party for her.