She dreamed of Paradise, and began to breathe and hope. Who would not in her place? She talked louder than ever, and began to patronize a few, offering to chaperone very young ladies, or ladies of a certain age. Her toilette was magnificent, and began to be elegant. Mrs. Jones had improved decidedly. The house continued to be thronged with her usual visiters. Her parlors were a kind of club-room for young men who staggered about, half-sober, after having played cards all night, or rested their weary heads upon the satin pillows of her sofas, and dozed off the effect of the champagne. Mrs. Jones declined all further communication with her former friends, and wrote pompous notes to all who took any liberty with her name. It was a thing she could not think of allowing; she had certainly the right of choosing her associates, and neither herself nor Mr. Jones could permit any one to question their conduct in any manner. Indeed, she was often upon the point of requesting Mr. Jones to impress it upon the minds of the silly creatures, that she could not acknowledge the acquaintance of such a promiscuous set. They had fastened upon her during her residence at “the Creek,” and she could not shake them off; she never dreamed of encouraging them, and had resolved on her return from the North, not to notice any calls paid her by such an obstinate set. “Ah, indeed!” exclaimed the bosom-friend of days gone by, upon hearing all this repeated; “she don’t intend to know us! Perhaps she forgets how glad she was when aunt invited her and her sister to a party, and they mortified us so, by coming with paper crowns on their heads, and little baskets filled with artificial flowers on their arms?” “And every one laughed so!” cried another. “She came to see _me_ once, with a colored dress on, trimmed all over with broad white ruffles. Wasn’t that a costume? I wonder who _she_ is, to slight us! She would do better to recollect what she springs from. Indeed! the time was—” But we have not time to repeat the angry sayings of Mrs. Jones’ friends. Some were told to her, but she cared not a _sous_, since the old set and the new would never meet to canvass her pedigree or her paper wreaths of yore. So, bidding a long farewell to them all, she left for New York, in all the glory of traveling-dresses, trunks labeled “John Johnson Jones,” and a white nurse for Master Pushaw. CHAPTER II. “I dressed myself from top to toe.” “Are you going out this morning, Sara?” said Mr. Jones, as he saw an unusual quantity of finery on the dressing-table, embroidered collars, cuffs, handkerchiefs and gay ribbons.