I had been sorry at first that here in this Southern boarding-house Boston should be represented only by a lady who appeared to unite in herself all the stony products of that city, and none of the others; for she was as convivial as a statue and as well-informed as a spelling-book; she stood no more for the whole of Boston than did Juno for the whole of Kings Port. But my sorrow grew less when I found that in Mrs. Braintree we had indeed a capable match for her Southern counterpart. Juno, according to her custom, had remembered something objectionable that had been perpetrated in 1865 by the Northern vandals. “Edward,” said Mrs. Braintree to her husband, in a frightfully clear voice, “it was at Chambersburg, was it not, that the Southern vandals burned the house in which were your father’s title-deeds?” Edward, who, it appeared, had fought through the whole Civil War, and was in consequence perfectly good-humored and peaceable in his feelings upon that subject, replied hastily and amiably: “Oh, yes, yes! Why, I believe it was!” But this availed nothing; Juno bent her great height forward, and addressed Mrs. Braintree. “This is the first time I have been told Southerners were vandals.” “You will never be able to say that again!” replied Mrs. Braintree. After the bell and Daphne had stopped, the invaluable Briton addressed a genial generalization to us all: “I often think how truly awful your war would have been if the women had fought it, y’know, instead of the men.” “Quite so!” said the easy-going Edward “Squaws! Mutilation! Yes!” and he laughed at his little joke, but he laughed alone. I turned to Juno. “Speaking of mutilation, I trust your nephew is better this evening.” I was rejoiced by receiving a glare in response. But still more joy was to come. “An apology ought to help cure him a lot,” observed the Briton. Juno employed her policy of not hearing him. “Indeed, I trust that your nephew is in less pain,” said the poetess. Juno was willing to answer this. “The injuries, thank you, are the merest trifles--all that such a light-weight could inflict.” And she shrugged her shoulders to indicate the futility of young John’s pugilism. “But,” the surprised Briton interposed, “I thought you said your nephew was too feeble to eat steak or hear poetry.” Juno could always stem the eddy of her own contradictions--but she did raise her voice a little. “I fancy, sir, that Doctor Beaugarcon knows what he is talking about.” “Have they apologized yet?” inquired the male honeymooner from the up-country. “My nephew, sir, nobly consented to shake hands this afternoon. He did it entirely out of respect for Mr. Mayrant’s family, who coerced him into this tardy reparation, and who feel unable to recognize him since his treasonable attitude in the Custom House.” “Must be fairly hard to coerce a chap you can’t recognize,” said the Briton.