Another ever welcome guest was John A. Andrew, the great War Governor, as we loved to call him. He was not governor in those days,--that is, when I first remember him; but he was then, as always, one of the most delightful of men. Who else could tell a story with such exquisite humor? The stories themselves were better than any others, but his way of telling them set every word in gold. The very sound of his voice made the air brighter and warmer, and his own delightful atmosphere of sunny geniality went always with him. That was a wonderful evening when at one of our parties some scenes from Thackeray’s “The Rose and the Ring” were given. Our mother was Countess Gruffanuff, our father Kutasoff Hedzoff; Governor Andrew took the part of Prince Bulbo, while Flossy made a sprightly Angelica, and Julia as Betsinda was a vision of rarest beauty. I cannot remember who was Prince Giglio, but the figure of Bulbo, with closely curling hair, his fine face aglow with merriment, and the magic rose in his buttonhole, comes distinctly before me. Who were the guests at those dinner-parties so well remembered? Alas! I know not. Great people they often were, famous men and women, who talked, no doubt, brilliantly and delightfully. But is it their conversation which lingers like a charm in my memory? Again, alas! my recollection is of finger-bowls, crimson and purple, which sang beneath the wetted finger of some kindly elder; of almonds and raisins, and bonbons mystic, wonderful, all gauze and tinsel and silver paper, with flat pieces of red sugar within. The red sugar was something of an anticlimax after the splendors of its envelope, being insipidly sweet, with no special flavor. The scent of coffee comes back to me, rich, delicious, breathing of “the golden days of good Haroun Alraschid.” We were never allowed to drink coffee or tea; but standing by our mother’s chair, just before saying good-night, we received the most exquisite dainty the world afforded,--a “coffee-duck,” which to the ignorant is explained to be a lump of sugar dipped in coffee (black coffee, _bien entendu_) and held in the amber liquid till it begins to melt in delicious “honeycomb” (this was probably the true ambrosia of the gods); and then we said good-night, and--and--went and begged the cook for a “whip,” or some “floating-island,” or a piece of frosted cake! Was it strange that occasionally, after one of these feasts, Laura could not sleep, and was smitten with the “terror by night” (it was generally a locomotive which was coming in at the window to annihilate her; Julia was the one who used to weep at night for fear of foxes), and would come trotting down into the lighted drawing-room, among all the silks and satins, arrayed in the simple garment known as a “leg-nightgown,” demanding her mother? Ay, and I remember that she always got her mother, too.