It was a hot, sultry afternoon at —— ——, a fashionable summer resort at the sea side. The three great events of the day were accomplished—namely, the bath, dinner, and the arrival of the boat bringing the mail; the visiters, therefore, had nothing to do but to get rid of the afternoon in as noisy a manner as possible, keeping themselves as warm and uncomfortable as they could, in order to prove that they were enjoying themselves after the most approved fashion. Ladies could be seen in every direction, passing from one hotel to another, flitting in and out of cottages, dressed in the most incongruous style—in silks, mulls, and gauzes, fitted for a full-dress dinner or evening party; and surmounting this dressy costume was—the only really sensible article to be seen in this dominion of Folly—the prim, plain country sun-bonnet. Fashion had established that hats at the sea-side were vulgar, and accordingly, every belle mounted one of these useful, but exceedingly ugly head-dresses. Carriages and wagons of every description darted to and fro, from the funny little Jersey sand wagon, with horses of a Jersey match, gray and brown, or black and white, up to the well matched, well ordered establishment of the _nouveau riche_, who was willing to sacrifice his delicate town-bred horses, in order to exhibit his magnificence to the _plebs_. A fine establishment drew up in front of the entrance of one of the principal hotels, and the owner of it, Mr. Martin, a prosperous merchant, with his fussy, dressy, good-natured, fat little wife, entered it. As Mr. Martin handed his wife in, he asked, “Where’s Edda?” “Oh, let her alone, my dear,” replied his wife, “she will get over her moping after awhile. She’s fretted herself into a sick headache, and is lying down.” “Confound the fellow,” muttered Mr. Martin, “I wish she had never seen him. If I had my way she should be divorced from him. What right has a man to a wife when he cannot support her? Now, as long as he lives, I suppose, our poor little darling will be down-hearted.” “Oh,” said the wife, settling herself back comfortably in the luxurious carriage, after having carefully disposed the folds of her rich, silk gown and heavily embroidered mantle in a manner to crush them the least, “wait until he gets fairly settled out at the West, and the winter parties, and concerts, and operas commence, then Edda will cheer up.” “I hope so, with all my heart,” ejaculated Mr. Martin, “and if money, amusements, and fine clothes can make her what she was two years ago, I shall be glad enough, for I hate a sad, gloomy face.” While they were thus talking, their niece, the subject of their conversation, was lying in her bed-room, burying her throbbing, aching head in the pillows of the couch, wishing that an endless sleep would come to her, and deaden the painful sense of grief.