"With a kind of girlish nonsense that passes for wit. But older minds demand the real article."

"You have a certain brightness of talk that brings out the best in other people. That is a rare gift, I am beginning to observe. Put the novel by for a little while."

"But every time I take it out, it seems worse," she returned ruefully.

Then she admitted another worry.

"Aunt Patty stumbled and fell about a month ago in her room. She was lame for some days; and I can see she isn't quite the same. Mother thinks it was a stroke. She is old, you know, and if she should be laid up! She clings to me so. You see, she misses Nora, who was running in and out, and the young girls who came here, and--oh, Ben, I am afraid I am growing stupid!"

Ben laughed and kissed her, and told her not to cross bridges until she came to them.

Then Theodore went to Washington for a fortnight; and Ben felt that it was hard for Delia to be bereft of that useful article, a man around the house. When Theodore returned, there was an imperative journey to the West. Already there were clouds rising that disquieted the wisest statesmen who were studying how to prevent any outward clashing. Mr.

Whitney, with his _savoir faire_, was considered one of the best men to send on a _quasi_ political mission.

"You just drop in to supper every evening, Ben," he said with his Good-bye. "Dele has a head worth that of any half-dozen women; but I like to feel some one is looking after her. Mother is away a good deal."

The. had a misgiving Ben and Delia might want to marry; but they couldn't possibly spare Delia. So he was very friendly and obliging to Ben.

"Mother," oddly enough, was taking a great interest in the small end of the woman question, that was pushing its way in among other things. Mr.

Whitney had been the most indulgent of husbands, and her sons had accepted household discomforts with no grumbling. But she took most kindly to the emancipation of women. She had a friend in Brooklyn who was lecturing on the subject; and she had vague aspirations that way herself. She was still a woman of fine presence and a fair share of intelligence.

Bridget had married, and been superseded by an untrained Katy. Aunt Patty was growing rather weak-hearted and childish, so Delia did have her hands full, and but little time for writing.

Theodore had been absent hardly a week when the stroke came. One morning, Aunt Patty was unable to move hand or foot on one side, and could hardly speak intelligibly, though her face kept its sweet expression. Mrs. Whitney had gone away somewhere with her friend.

When Ben heard the sad story that night, and folded the trembling, sobbing girl to his heart, his resolve was taken. A nurse had come, to be sure; but Delia should not bear this trial alone. He must live here, and comfort her with his love.

He went home quite early that evening. His father and Hanny were in Joe's study; his mother sat alone, darning stockings.

She glanced up and smiled; but when she saw his grave face, she said, "Oh, Ben, what has happened?"

"They are in great trouble down at Beach Street. Old Aunt Boudinot has had a stroke of paralysis. Mrs. Whitney has gone on a little journey with a friend; and Delia is alone. Mother, I have resolved to be married and help her bear her burthen. There is no immediate danger of Miss Boudinot dying, I believe; but since The. is away--they need some one--"

"Ben!"

Then she looked in her boy's face. Benny Frank and Jim were still boys to her. There was Joe to be married before it came their turn, and poor George, if he should live to come back. But it was not a boy's face, nor a boy's pleading eyes, that met hers. A man's grave sweetness, and sense of responsibility, shone in the clear, deep grey orbs, and the whole face had matured, so that she was amazed, bewildered.

"Mother dear," he began, "can't you wish me God speed, as you have the others? I've never loved any one but Delia; I never shall. I know I can make her happy; and isn't there some duty on my side? Am I to demand everything, and throw out a few crumbs of comfort now and then? We have known each other long enough to be quite sure, quite satisfied. But she has said all along she would not marry me until she could be considered a daughter of the house. I shall persuade her to now, unless--mother, can't you give her a welcome?"

He put his arms about his mother's neck. Was there some mysterious strength and manliness in him she had not realised before, even in his very voice. When had she lost her boy? What a pang went to her inmost heart. Yes, he was a man, and he had a right to himself. She was not a selfish woman; but her face dropped down on his shoulder and she cried softly.

"Mother--dear." There was a sweet, faint break in his voice, and he kissed her brow softly.

"You have been such a good boy, Ben. I've been a little worried sometimes about Jim; but you have gone on so straight and steadfast. I do thank the Lord for all of you. And I have wanted you to have the best--"

"She is the best to me, mother. Like her a little for my sake," he pleaded tenderly.

"I _do_ like her. If she makes you happy--"

That was all. If Delia made her son as happy as Dolly or Cleanthe--

Ben kissed his mother. Ten years ago she had thought kissing rather foolish for anybody but the little girl. Now her big sons always kissed her. Perhaps there was more love in the world.

They began to make plans presently. Ben was in favour of a quiet marriage; and of course he would remain at Beach Street. Delia had promised to care for her aunt; and there was no one else to take charge.

"I don't know as I have been just right about it," said Mrs. Underhill.

"But Mrs. Whitney's carelessness and inefficiency have always tried me.

Still, the children have turned out well. Delia is smart, and capable; and since you are quite resolved--"

Ben smiled then; and it went to his mother's heart. He knew he had won the victory.

The next morning she said to him:--

"Ben, I've decided to go down and see Delia. I have never been there but once, since they went to Beach Street. Could you stop and tell her? Give her my love. I'm very sorry all this should happen, and she alone."

Mrs. Underhill was not given to half-hearted measures. When the work was done, and the dinner planned out, she dressed herself and went down-town. Delia was a little embarrassed at first; but they talked about Aunt Boudinot, and she went up to see her. The sweet old face lighted up, and she reached out her "best hand," in a sad sort of fashion; but she could utter only one word at a time.

"Ben said, I must keep you to dinner, and he would come up," exclaimed Delia, with a bright blush. It was so like old times to hear her cheerful voice. "And you will be late at home."

Delia ran down and put on a clean cloth, and wiped the dishes over with a dry towel, to take off the roughness Katy always left behind in her manipulations. And she broiled the steak herself. She could do that to perfection.

Then they arranged about the marriage. Delia certainly did need some one. It was not worth while to make any fuss. Mrs. Whitney would surely be back by Monday, and it was appointed for that evening.

Dolly took the news with cordial sweetness. Margaret was sorry that Ben had not looked a little higher; but since it must be, they would make the best of it. Hanny was delighted. Joe went down that very evening, and gave the young people his best love.

Mrs. Whitney came home on Saturday. She considered the step very judicious. She thought they had been engaged long enough. Then Ben and The. were such good friends; and with The. away so much, it was lonesome. "She was glad they had set the marriage for Monday evening, for she had promised to go out to Buffalo on Tuesday with Mrs. Stafford.

A nurse was the proper thing for Aunt Patty. It was too bad, to be sure; but at her time of life, one might expect almost anything. And she, Mrs.

Whitney, never had been any sort of a nurse; so it was folly for her to undertake it." She was very sweet to Aunt Patty. She had a good deal of the suavity that helps matters to run easily, and her sympathies were boundless.

Delia's sisters, and their children, and a few friends were invited. All the Underhills came, and Hanny was bridesmaid; but she wore her last summer's embroidered muslin, which was not long in the skirt.

They missed Ben a good deal, though he ran up every now and then. And Theodore was gone six weeks, instead of two or three. Now that Mrs.

Underhill had really "given in," she was most cordial and sympathetic to her new daughter. Doctor Joe went down every day, though very little could be done, since even a physician could not fight against old age.

Joe thought Delia very sweet and patient.

There were two great undertakings engrossing the public mind. One was a grand library. Old Mr. John Jacob Astor, some years previous, had left a large sum of money for this purpose; and there were heated discussions as to its scope and purpose. It would be a reference library rather than an entirely free library for general readers. But it would be a fine addition to the city.

The other was the Crystal Palace. There had been the first famous World's Fair at Sydenham, opened by the Prince Consort. And now, we were trying our energy and ingenuity to have something worthy of attracting the nations. Reservoir Square had been selected; and the great iron braces and supports and ribs had been watched with curiously eager eyes, as they spread out into a giant framework, and were covered with glass that glinted in the sun like molten gold. When its graceful dome arose, enthusiasm knew no bounds.

We had not dreamed of the great White City then. But we were only in the early middle part of the century.

A park had been opened on the east side, out of an old tract known as "Jones's Woods," and was quite a picnic-place for the working-people on a holiday. There was a talk about another, and, perhaps, the inspiration was evolved as the Fair grounds were being put in attractive order. A short time afterward, the Central Park board was appointed, with Washington Irving as president.

The country was wild and rough all about. Here and there, clusters of houses began to indicate the coming city. Kip farm had not disappeared; and people talked of Strawberry Hill and Harlem Heights; and there remained some fortifications of the old Rock House of 1812 memory. The old times were recalled, as people went rambling around.

Broadway still kept its vogue and elegance on the dollar side. There was Thompson's and Taylor's, where the stylish young ladies stopped in the afternoon for chocolate or cream and confections, and theatre parties went after the play. But, on the whole, there were mysterious strides up-town.

The old streets were quaint and cool in summer, with the trees that had grown for years in ungrudged spaces. The park in Beach Street was still lovely; and now Hanny often went over from school and stayed to tea with Ben and Delia. Daisy came down as well; and they talked of Nora, who was getting on famously, and who had sung at an out-of-doors fete for a children's charity.