“You know what a tease he is. Oh, no, you don’t! for you never met him. But you will before long! ‘Better than all of them put together, with the little round button on top,’ said I. (You see I am used to his chaff!) ‘My very dearest school friend, of whom you have heard me talk ten thousand times—Susie Barnes, now Mrs. Cornell. She has been living five years in Brooklyn (and I’ve always declared I’d rather go to Canada than to Brooklyn) and here’s her card telling me that she has returned to civilization. Mrs. Arthur Hayward Cornell, No. — West Sixty-seventh St.’ At that he pricked up his ears. “‘That’s the new cashier in the Pin and Needle Bank,’ says he. ‘Somebody was talking of him at the Club last night.’ And nothing would do but I must tell him all about you. In going over the story and thinking of the dear old times, my heart got so warm and full that I rushed off by the time he was out of the house.” Mrs. John Hitt, a well-dressed, prettyish woman, whom the cold morning light showed to be also a trifle society-worn, embraced her hostess anew, and then held her off at arm’s length for inspection. “You _sweet_ old girl! what sort of life have you led that you have kept your roses, your dimples, and the sparkle in your eyes all these years? Do you know that you are absolutely bewitching?” The lately recovered friend smiled, coloring as a woman of Mrs. Hitt’s world could not have done. “You are the same impulsive Kitty!” she said affectionately. “I have had a quiet, busy, happy life with Arthur and the children. Three babies in five years do not give a housekeeper much time for anything but domestic duties.” “I should think not, indeed!” The shiver of shoulders was well-executed, the heavenward cast of eyes and hands dramatic. “I wonder you live to tell it! One child in six years has been enough to unsettle _my_ wits. Now that you are once more within my reach (Oh, you _darling_!) we must make up for lost time and see a great deal of each other! Do you ever sing nowadays? Or have you let your music go to the dogs? I suppose so, if Providence _has_ interfered to save your wild-rose complexion. I was _raving_ to Jack this morning over the voice you used to have, and your genius for theatricals and all that. ‘Indeed,’ said I, ‘there was nothing that girl _couldn’t_ do.’ To think of wasting such an organ, or wearing it thin in crooning nursery ditties.” Mrs. Cornell laughed a soft, merry burst of amusement, at which the other eyed her curiously. “You behave less like an exhumed corpse than anybody could imagine who knew of your five years in Brooklyn, and the three younglings. What amuses you?”