“But it is of no use dwelling on that part of the subject; the proper course is to find a remedy, which we have done in this fair. I tell you, Horace, the country can produce nothing like it. It will be superb. The only trouble is about the tableaux. Every lady of the committee has some commonplace daughter that she insists on crowding into the foreground. Thank heaven, I have no daughter to push forward after this coarse fashion. There is Mrs. Pope, now, insists that Amelia shall stand as Rebecca, in the great Ivanhoe tableau, when her eyes are a greenish-blue, and her hair a dull brown; and I cannot reasonably object, for there is not a passable brunette in the whole company. I was thinking it over when you came in. The whole thing will be spoiled for want of a proper heroine.” “Who stands as Beatrice?” asked Horace, with the animation of a new idea. “Miss Eustice, of course.” “Why, of course?” “Because she is fair as a lily, blue-eyed, and so exquisitely feminine; and for another reason.” “What is that, mother?” “You are to stand as Ivanhoe.” Horace saw the way open by which his idea might be worked out at once, and it must be confessed, dealt rather artfully with his mother. “Not with an ugly Rebecca, though. I could not stand that.” “But how can it be helped?” “Mother, I saw by accident, this evening, the very person you want—a soldier’s daughter, perfectly lady-like, and very beautiful.” “Of the right type of beauty? Would she make a striking contrast to my favorite?” inquired Mrs. Savage, eagerly. “No contrast could be more decided.” “But who is she?” “A soldier’s daughter!” “But is she presentable? Has she style, education?” “She has everything that goes to form a lovely woman, I should say.” “Where can I see her?” “Perhaps she would come to you.” “It is a bold step; but I can afford that. As my protegé, they will not dare to ask questions. Where does the girl live? Could I see her to-night, or early in the morning? I am so weary now. Upon my word, Horace, you have helped me out of a most annoying dilemma. To-morrow morning, before breakfast, I must see this person. What is her name?” “Burns, mother—Anna Burns.” “Thank you, Horace. Now, another thing. We must have something national, patriotic, and all that. A soldier’s family, for instance; but the dresses are so plain and unbecoming, that our young ladies fight shy of it. Could you manage something of the kind for me?” Horace thought of the picture he had seen that night, and answered that, perhaps, it would be possible, only the whole thing must be managed with great delicacy; and he, as a gentleman, must not be supposed to interfere with it. His mother could write a little note to the young person who had already done work for her. “For me? Anna Burns? It must have been for the committee. I remember no such person; but that will be an opening. Is she to form part of this tableau, also?” “The principal figure.” “And the rest?”