The hurry and skurry of getting ashore was hardly over, when it was discovered that Mrs. Castleton’s bag had been left in her state room, and to avoid an explosion of vexation on the part of the provoked husband, Harry Meredith had to start off poste haste to get it, having scarcely time to spring back to shore ere the boat pushed off for Troy, and thinking, as he did so, that if the lady had not been so pretty he would not have interfered to prevent her getting the scolding she so richly deserved. Heated and panting he returned in time for a cold cup of coffee, as the rest of the party had already breakfasted during his absence. But Mrs. Castleton said so gracefully, “I am afraid my carelessness has made you lose your breakfast, Mr. Meredith,” that he could not but answer, “Oh, not at all. I have had a capital breakfast.” The pleasant ride however to Utica restored the travelers to their usual high spirits. Mary Randall was discovered to have as keen a sense of enjoyment as any of them, with a fund of good temper that seemed inexhaustible. “And _so_ punctual,” as young Meredith said most approvingly. Her shawl was never missing, and her carpet-bag was always ready, (two great points, young ladies, if you would win a gentleman’s heart in traveling,) but graceful, charming Mrs. Castleton was forever forgetting something, and they never stopped any where that they did not hear Mr. Castleton’s voice saying, in a tone of mixed vexation and despair, “Now, Julia, have you got your bag? and where _is_ your shawl?” To which she generally answered “Yes—no—is not this mine? No, dear, I believe I left it in the car—or perhaps its only in the carriage. Just call the driver back, wont you?” “The stage starts at six in the morning for Trenton, ladies,” said Meredith at night as they parted. “So you must be bright and early. There’s no danger of _your_ not being ready,” he said, turning to Mary Randall with a smile. “You are a capital traveler, I see.” Mrs. Castleton did not look pleased. She thought the compliment to Mary was an implied reproof to herself—and she was not used to any thing but admiration, except, indeed, from her husband; but she seemed used to his scolding, for somehow she did not appear to mind, if indeed she heard it, which seemed doubtful. Meredith often thought him downright cross. “How he does scold that pretty wife of his,” he said to Ruth. “And how sweetly she bears it. I declare I can hardly keep from answering for her sometimes.” “She does not seem to care for it though,” replied Ruth, who was beginning to be a little disenchanted of her _beau ideal_; “and she is provoking.” “If she were not such a beauty, I suppose she would be,” he replied. “Are you ready, Mrs. Castleton?” said Ruth, in her animated voice, at her door the next morning. “Ready!” exclaimed Mrs. Castleton, who was standing before the glass, as she stroked her glossy hair. “Ready!”