No sooner had Laura left to attend to her visitors, than Clara plunged into the drawers containing the dresses for her choice. With the rapidity of instinct she selected the most becoming; then swiftly and deftly, with the hand of an adept and the eye of an artist, she arranged her toilet. A dexterous adaptation of pins speedily rectified any little defect in the fit. Where were the collars? Locked up. No matter! There was a frill of exquisite lace round the neck of the dress; and this little narrow band of maroon velvet would serve to relieve the bareness of the throat. What could she clasp it with? Laura had not left the key of her jewel-box. A common pin would hardly answer. Suddenly Clara bethought herself of the little coral sleeve-button, wrapped up in the strip of bunting. That would serve admirably. Yes. Nothing could be better. It was her only article of jewelry; though round her right wrist she wore a hair-bracelet of her own braiding, made from that strand given her by Esha; and from a flower-vase she had taken a small cape-jasmine, white as alabaster, and fragrant as a garden of honeysuckles, and thrust it in her hair. A fan? Yes, here is one. And thus accoutred she entered the room where the three expectants were seated. On seeing her, Laura’s first emotion was one of admiration, as at sight of an imposing _entrée_ at the opera. She was suddenly made aware of the fact that Clara was the most beautiful young woman of her acquaintance; nay, not only the most beautiful, but the most stylish. So taken by surprise was she, so lost in looking, that it was nearly a third of a minute before she introduced the young gentlemen. Onslow claimed acquaintance, presented a chair, and took a seat at Clara’s side. Kenrick stood mute and staring, as if a paradisic vision had dazed his senses. When he threw off his bewilderment, he quieted himself with the thought, “She can’t be as beautiful as she looks,—that’s one comfort. A shrew, perhaps,—or, what is worse, a coquette!” “When were you last in St. Louis, Miss Brown?” asked Onslow. “All questions for information must be addressed to Miss Tremaine,” said Clara. “I shall be happy to talk with you on things I know nothing about. Shall we discuss the Dahlgren gun, or the Ericsson Monitor?” “So! She sets up for an eccentric,” thought Onslow. “Perhaps politics would suit you,” he added aloud. “I hear you’re an Abolitionist.” “Ask Miss Tremaine,” said Clara. “O, she has betrayed you already,” replied Onslow. “Then I’ve nothing to say. I’m in her hands.” “Is it possible,” said Kenrick, who was irrepressible on the one theme nearest his heart, “is it possible Miss Brown can’t see it,—can’t see the loveliness of that divine cosmos which we call slavery? Poor deluded Miss Brown! I know not what other men may think, but as for me, give me slavery or give me death! Do you object to woman-whipping, Miss Brown?”