“Ready, I see,” Fred said, springing up and putting her cloak around her and pulling the hood over her head, for the night had set in a little chilly. “You are looking charming,” he said, as she lifted her eyes and thanked him. “Oh, no,” she answered gayly. “I have only my old gown to wear; but it does not matter. Nobody will look at me, among all those young ladies from Worcester and Springfield. They say the hotel is filled with them. Cynthia, our maid, saw several carriage loads coming from the station.” Fred gave a little shrug as he replied: “I have not seen them yet, but you need have no fears of eclipse.” It was strange, how he, who was usually so grave and dignified, unbent to this little girl, whose fan and flowers he held as he escorted her to the carriage, which was driven rapidly away. The White house stood at a little distance from the street, and the avenue leading to it was lined with lanterns suspended from the trees, whose branches met in graceful arches here and there across the road. Overhead the summer moon was sailing through a rift of feathery clouds, which broke occasionally and left the grounds flooded with light. Nearer the house there was a soft plash of water falling into the deep basins of the fountains, and the odors of many flowers—roses, hundreds of them—trained on trellises and twining around the Corinthian pillars of the handsome, stately house. From every window lights were gleaming, and before some of them in the upper rooms, airy forms were flitting, showing where the guests were laying aside their wraps before descending to the drawingroom, where the judge stood, in all the pride and dignity befitting a man, with a William the Conqueror pedigree behind him. He had felt a little abashed when he met the first of his city friends, but their congratulations upon the solidity of his bank and the firmness with which it had withstood the attack, reassured him, until he began to look upon himself as a man of more consequence than he had been before, inasmuch as he had been a kind of martyr and had passed unscathed through the fire. The scowling faces of the crowds, the jeers of the boys, calling him old Money Bags, and Nancy Sharp’s sympathy for the poor old man, were for the time forgotten. He was himself again—proud, conceited, arrogant and showing it in every expression of his face as he received his guests. Louie’s story had somehow been circulated among the strangers who had arrived, and great was the curiosity to see her. Herbert had, with his father, heard with some surprise Fred’s assertion that he was going for her in the brougham, taking it for granted that every carriage in the White stable was at her disposal. Such heroic conduct as hers could not be too highly appreciated, Fred thought, and was a little disgusted with his uncle’s reply: