This was too impertinent of Ada, and Catharine resolved, early the next morning to go over and tell her so. The Somerses always spent their winters in town, and as a few squares only separated the friends, Catharine was soon at the door of Mr. Somers’ house, ringing the bell with the vehemence of a postman. The well-bred servant who opened the door, looked surprised when he found that it was Miss Ashton who had nearly broken his bell-wire; but as Miss Ashton was a privileged belle herself, and had been running tame about Mr. Somers’ house ever since he could remember, he stepped back respectfully, while she passed unannounced into the sitting-room. “Good morning, Mrs. Somers, where is Ada?” asked she, taking off her bonnet. “You will find her in the library, my dear,” replied Mrs. Somers, and away flew Catharine, with the easy familiarity of one whose welcome is unquestionable. She was prepared to heap abuse upon the head of the offending Ada, but when she flung open the door, she had not the heart to find fault with any thing so pretty. Her _blouse_ of rich Cashmere was fastened around the waist by a cord and tassel, its loose sleeves lined with crimson silk, were looped back so as to contrast with the snow-white cambric of the under sleeve; and the dainty little collar that encircled her white throat was fastened by a very small cameo brooch. Her dark hair was drawn over her ears _à la comtesse_, and the edge of its large twisted coronal, was just visible above one of the prettiest heads in the world. Ada had been poring, with rapture, over Jean Paul’s apostrophe to an old maid. She had found an advocate, and her large orbs were luminous with the enthusiasm of a mind that has just found, mirrored in another, the image of its own thoughts; and she looked so fair, so fresh, so any thing but like a student, that Catharine forgot her offences, and could only exclaim: “Ada, you are radiant with beauty this morning. So should a woman look who has just parted from her lover. But you! you might as well be a mummy three thousand years old, as the beautiful girl you are.” “Thank you,” said Ada quietly, while Catharine rattled on. “Pray, whose is the spell that has brought such brilliancy to your eye?” “Jean Paul’s.” “Jean Paul’s!” echoed Catharine, disdainfully, “Only think of giving one’s best feelings to an author! Literally falling in love with a set of abstractions!” “Falling in love!” returned Ada, laughing. “Who but you would have applied such a term to such a passionless recreation as reading? Ah, my poor Kate, you are far gone, indeed, and there is no method in your madness!” “Well, don’t preach, but shut your book, and listen to me. I am very angry with you. Why were you not at Julia’s last night?” “Why, because I was engaged to go and hear Mr. —— lecture on Shakspeare.”