“So I presumed,” he replied; and presently he came back with a smiling expression in his eyes, that made his sister ask him once or twice what was the matter, to which he replied each time, “nothing.” But she knew better. Something evidently pleased him very much. “It’s excessively cold,” said Mrs. Castleton, as she drew herself up in her shawl. “I wish we had a little fire.” “You had better go up stairs as soon as your room is ready,” said her husband. And presently, when the housekeeper came to show them to their rooms, shivering and blue, she bid the girls good night. “Let me carry your shawls for you,” said Harry, as he gathered up his sister’s and friends’ “things,” and following them up, he heard one of the girls exclaim, as she opened the door, “Oh, charming! How comfortable!” It was a large room, and a nice wood-fire was blazing most cheerfully. “Now, Ruth,” he said, “you see what amused me.” “How?” she asked. “Why, Mrs. Castleton chose, as usual, what she supposed was the best; but her room has no fire-place in it; and I really enjoyed her selfishness being for once at fault.” “Oh, I am sorry,” said Mary, “for she seemed really suffering. I did not know it. If I had—” “Yes,” said Harry, with an admiring look, “I thought you would offer to change with her if you knew it, so I said nothing about it.” “You were right, Harry; I am glad of it,” said Ruth. “There’s no reason why we should not be comfortable too. So good-night to you.” And as she shut the door, she continued with, “A very bright idea of Harry’s; and now girls don’t let us go to bed this hour yet. Let us enjoy this fire.” And they did enjoy it, abusing Mrs. Castleton. It was quite amusing to hear them. One would scarcely think she could be the same person they started with. But young girls are always equally enthusiastic in either liking or disliking. Mrs. Castleton had been an angel because she was pretty and graceful. She was now, if not quite a devil, at least, detestable, because she was discovered to be spoilt. And “that cross Mr. Castleton,” was now “poor Mr. Castleton.” So much for moods and tenses. Traveling is a magic glass. A few days at Niagara, in equal ecstasies, when Mr. Sutherland and his agreeable friend were met again. Then they turned their faces once more toward home. The gentlemen pursuing their original plan, separated to travel by themselves, but were to meet the ladies again at West Point. At Albany, however, Mrs. Castleton said to her husband: “We’ll take the night boat, my dear, I am tired.” “But you want to stop at West Point, don’t you?” he asked. “Oh, no,” she replied, “I am tired, and want to get home.” “Not stop at West Point!” exclaimed the three girls in a breath. “No,” she replied. “Those balls are stupid things.” “But, dear Mrs. Castleton,” said Grace, and “Oh, Mrs. Castleton do,” said Ruth, in every accent of imploring urgency.