So chirruped these twain,—I, meanwhile, interjecting such interruptions as I could think of. “No one ever says of _me_ that I haven’t an ounce of superfluous flesh.” “Nor ever will, unless you go as a missionary among the Feejeeans,” retorted Alice. You see I am rather—but no matter about me. At the edge of the sidewalk, and nearly opposite the window at which we were standing, was an oblong carriage-block of granite, and upon this was seated, at this juncture, a sister of Lucy’s,—a little girl of nearly four years of age, playing with a set of painted squares of wood, known in the nursery as “blocks,” which had been presented to her by her godmother, Mrs. Carter, at whose special request the little thing had been brought to Richmond. Her country nurse was standing a few paces distant, dressed out in her finest, airing her best country manners for the bedazzlement of a city beau of her acquaintance (as having been formerly of her county), a mulatto barber who had chanced to pass that way, and had stopped for a chat about old times. The Unknown had not observed the little girl till, in his listless way, he had sauntered to within a few feet of her, when, catching sight of the mass of sunny curls that poured over her neck and shoulders (her back was turned towards him), he stopped, and seeing what her occupation was and hearing the babbling of her little tongue as she agreed with herself, now upon this plan, now on that, upsetting one structure almost before it was begun for another which was to share a like fate; gazing upon this little scene, a look of pleased interest, not unmingled with sadness, came into his face. “He is a married man,” said I. “Say not so!” cried Alice, with a tragic air. “But his wife’s dead,” I added. “I breathe again!” intoned Alice, in the same vein. “Oh, _Alice_!” said Lucy, with gentle reproachfulness. “Why, of course, Lucy,” began Alice, throwing herself into an argumentative attitude, “of course I do not really rejoice at the poor woman’s death; but how can you expect me to grieve over a person I never—” “You are a greater scamp than ever,” said Lucy, laughingly stopping her friend’s mouth with her hand. The little architect felt that some one stood behind her, and, turning her head and judging with that unerring infantile instinct that he was a friend, she gave him a number of those irresistible little looks, with which every one is familiar, half coy, half coquettish, which showed that, young though she was, her name was woman. Ladies at her time of life do not appreciate the necessity of introductions as preliminary to conversation with gentlemen. “Build me a house!” cried she to the stranger, running towards him and looking now into his face, now at her blocks, with a smile half expectation, half timidity.