Mary felt more disappointed than she was willing to acknowledge, and for a moment she half wished herself back in Chicopee, but soon recovering her equanimity, she ventured to ask how long George was to be gone. "Until April, I believe," said Ida; "but any way you are to stay until he comes, for Aunt Martha promised to keep you. I don't know exactly what George said to her about you, but they talked together more than two hours, and she says you are to take music lessons and drawing lessons, and all that. George is very fond of music." Here thinking she was telling too much, Ida suddenly stopped, and as the tea bell just then rang, she started up, saying, "Oh, I forgot that father was waiting in the parlor to see you. I've said so much about you that his curiosity is quite roused, but I can introduce you at the table just as well." Our lady readers will pardon Mary if before meeting Mr. Selden she gave herself a slight inspection in the long mirror, which hung in her dressing room. Passing the brush several times through her glossy hair, and smoothing down the folds of her neatly fitting merino, she concluded that she looked well enough for a traveller, and with slightly heightened color, followed Ida into the supper room, where she found assembled Mrs. Mason, Aunt Martha, and Mr. Selden. The moment her eye fell upon the latter, she recognized the same kindly beaming eye and pleasant smile, which had won her childish heart, when on board the Windermere he patted her head, as George told how kind she had been to him. "We have met before, I believe," said he, and warmly shaking her hand he bade her welcome to Boston. Then seating her by his side at the table he managed by his kind attentions to make both her and Mrs. Mason feel perfectly at home. Aunt Martha, too, was exceedingly polite, but after what Ida had told her, Mary could not help feeling somewhat embarrassed in her presence. This, however, gradually wore away, and before the evening was over she began to feel very much at home, and to converse with Aunt Martha as freely and familiarly as with Ida. The next morning between ten and eleven the door bell rang, and in a moment Jenny Lincoln, whose father's house was just opposite, came tripping into the parlor. She had lost in a measure that rotundity of person so offensive to her mother, and it seemed to Mary that there was a thoughtful expression on her face never seen there before, but in all other respects, she was the same affectionate, merry-hearted Jenny.