fall, and now we have all settled to our different occupations, and are as methodical in the disposition of our time as though we were in school.

None of us are very early risers, for mamma, who should naturally set us a good example, has been too long an invalid to admit of it, and we girls have become habituated to the luxury of breakfasting in bed, from residence abroad and in the tropics. Not that we breakfast in bed at the "Villa Greeley," however; we are much too sociable, and our dining-room is too attractive, for that. But we gratify our taste for reasonable hours by assembling around the table at half-past eight.

"Shocking!" I fancy I hear Katie exclaim. "I breakfast at least two hours earlier. How can you bear to lose so much of the beautiful morning?"

Don't imagine, dear Katie, that I sleep till half-past eight: you must know the wakeful temperament of our family too well for that. I find it, however, very poetic and delightful to listen to the matins of the robins, thrushes, and wrens, from my pillows; and by merely lifting my head I have as extended a panorama of swelling hills and emerald meadows, as though promenading the piazza.

I have been in my day as early a riser as any one—even you, dear Katie, have not surpassed me in this, respect; for you recollect those cold winter days when I arose at "five o'clock in the morning," not, however, to meet Corydon, but to attack the Gradus ad Parnassum of Clementi by gaslight, in my desire to accomplish eight hours of practice undisturbed by visitors. At seven, however, I used to meet with an interruption from my German professor. Poor man! I now pity his old rheumatic limbs stumbling over the ice and snow to be with me at that unreasonable hour of the morning. But I then was ruthless, and would not allow him even five minutes grace, for my time was then regulated like clockwork, and a delay of a few moments would cause an unpardonable gap in my day. Now, however, that my education is nominally finished, I feel that I may without self-reproach indulge in some extra moments of repose, for it is impossible for one to work all the time; and a quiet hour of reflection is often, I think, as useful as continual reading or writing.

We indulge in very simple morning toilettes here, as we have no gentleman guests for whom to dress, nor ladies to criticise us; consequently a few brief moments before the mirror suffice to make us presentable. A black print wrapper made Gabrielle-fashion, with our hair brushed off plain from our faces, and flowing loosely à la belle sauvage, or in cool braids, is the order of the day. Even Marguerite, who is the most conventional of our quartette, has conformed to the fashion reigning here, and no longer coiffed in the stylish Impératrice mode, her sunny brown hair floats over her shoulders unconfined by hair-pins, cushions, or rats. Truly we live in Arcadian simplicity, for under our roof there are neither curling nor crimping irons, nor even a soupçon of the most innocent poudre de riz.

At half-past eight a little hand-bell, silver in material and tone, summons us to the breakfast-room. This room is on the ground floor, and is one of the prettiest in the house. Four windows give us an extended view of our Dame Châtelaine's sloping meadows and wooded hills, and the carriage road winding off towards the pine grove and the house in the woods. We have several pictures on the walls—first a portrait of my dear uncle; a boyish face with fair hair, deep blue eyes, and an expression angelic in sweetness. No one would imagine it to be the face of a married man, but it was painted, mamma says, when he was thirty years old. Two large and admirable photographs, taken early last summer, hang opposite it. A striking contrast they are to the pensive, fragile, blonde boy; these are impressed with the vigor and mental and physical activity of his busy life, but the broad intellectual brow, and the almost divine expression that plays about the mouth, are the same in each.

An engraving from a picture by Paul Delaroche, the Archangel Gabriel—the "patron," in Catholic parlance, of our little Gabrielle—hangs between the windows, and over the comfortable sofa is a copy of Liotard's celebrated pastel "la belle Chocolatière" in the Dresden Gallery. This copy Aunt Mary bought in that city when there some years ago, and it is considered wonderfully fine. Very pretty and coquettish she looks in her picturesque Vienna dress, with the small, neatly-fitting cap, ample apron, and tiny Louis Quinze shoes. In her case

        "My face is my fortune,"


was exemplified, and so pretty and modest is her demeanor that it is no wonder that Count Dietrichstein, haughty nobleman though he was, married her. She is very different, however, from the chocolate vendors whom I have seen in the streets of Paris. I don't think a nobleman would ever raise one of them from their original station, for they are as a rule past fifty, and ugly and withered as only a Frenchwoman of that age can be.

Breakfast is followed by a turn upon the piazza, a little stroll to the spring, near which delicious wild strawberries nestle in a background of sweet clover, bright buttercups, and field daisies, or a game of croquet under the grand old oak-trees

        "After the sun has dried the dew."


Then we separate, each to our own room, and our different occupations.

[Illustration: The Spring.]

Ida is very busy now, for she is preparing a volume for publication in the fall—her dear father's manuscript lectures and letters.

Gabrielle throws herself upon a sofa, and lies there motionless, absorbed in the fascinating pages of some favorite book; indeed, she is so quiet that in my periodical fits of tidiness I often seize a print or bombazine frock, thrown, as I suppose, carelessly upon the bed or sofa, and only by its weight do I discover that it is animated. Last year, Gabrielle's favorite site for reading was in the dear old apple-tree close beside the house; but since she has attained the dignity of sixteen and train dresses, she has abjured the apple-tree.

Marguerite is translating a volume from the German, Musikalische Märchen, and I divide my time between the piano and occasional newspaper articles.

But it is already one o'clock and dinner hour. The afternoon passes much like the morning. We have letters to write, and much reading aloud. I have two books in progress—Plato's "Dialogues," and Madame de Stäel's incomparable "Germany:" the latter I read aloud while in Munich, but it is a work that cannot be too often studied.

At half-past six we dress and go down to the postoffice (about a hundred yards distant) for the evening mail. Half an hour later we sup, and then follows, as L. E. L. would say, "a struggle and a sacrifice." What could be more delicious than a game of croquet, or a drive in the cool twilight? But Chappaqua, lovely though it is, possesses a malaria that is dangerous after sunset, they say, and much as I love to drive when Nature is bathed in the last ruddy flush of day, and during the soft gray hour that succeeds it, I must heed the prediction of chills to all who indulge.

The evening is always devoted to music. Both Ida and Gabrielle are very fond of the piano, and Ida is rapidly becoming quite proficient in the divine art. She commenced the study of music when a little child, under an excellent teacher, and also took lessons while in boarding-school; but one studies the piano under difficulties while in the routine of a pensionnat, for the hour devoted to it must be taken from one's recreation time, or from some other lessons. Our friends will remember, too, that dear Ida was taken out of school while yet very young, to become the devoted