Mrs. Somers, though her acquaintance in town was numerous, could hope, in none of her idle visiters, to find a substitute for her old friend; and she was sincerely distressed at this separation. They sat together for some hours, talking of the prospects of their children—their fears and hopes—the one trembling as she spoke of the dangerous career of her boy—the other, as she remembered that _her_ child, as a woman, was to receive her fate from the hands of others. They then naturally fell upon the subject of their children’s mutual inclination, and wondered whether their destinies would ever be united. “Ada is very near to my heart,” said Mrs. Darrington; “but it would be too much to expect any serious results from this childish freak.” “We must leave them to themselves,” replied Ada’s mother. “In such cases, it is sacrilegious to lay a hand upon the web of the Fates; but I confess, I should be glad to know that Ada would ever marry your son.” “Here she comes,” interrupted Mrs. Darrington; “I am curious to know what _she_ will think of Mr. Darrington’s appointment.” Ada ran up the steps, followed by her shadow, Catharine Ashton, who, guiltless of admirers, was addicted to romping of every kind. Not but what Miss Ada heartily enjoyed a romp herself, but of late she had become ashamed of being caught climbing fences and running races. At that moment, however, she had entirely forgotten that she ever braided her hair, or tied her sash “_avec intention_;” for the said sash streamed like a pennant to the wind, while the hair followed the same direction. Catharine, behind her, in much the same guise, was trying not to make _too_ great a clatter upon the marble pavement of the hall; but Ada dashed on like a young Bacchante, and never stopped till she reached the lawn behind the house, where she threw herself full length on the grass, and screamed to Catharine to do the same. “She is something of a romp, my Ada,” said Mrs. Somers, smiling. “Not yet a lady, certainly.” “So much the better,” replied her friend. “Who would wish to stretch those free young limbs upon a Procrustean bed of propriety?” “Not I, certainly,” said the mother. “But I am sometimes afraid that in my dread of making Ada artificial, I give too much sway to—Nature.” “Not to such a nature as hers. Were there any tendency to coarseness in Ada’s mirth, you might be right to moderate it; but where nature is graceful in her wildness, no art can compete with her in loveliness.” Another shout of mirth was heard, and Ada and Catharine burst into the parlor. “What descent of wild Indians is this, Ada?” asked her mother, doubting the grace or refinement of this last movement. Ada started back, coloring with shame, and Catharine sneaked behind the nearest _causeuse_ that offered concealment.