"Why, Jerome, my boy, what is the matter?
Don't you remember my daughter?
Lucina, where are your manners ?" And then Lucina curtesied low, with her fair curls drooping forward over her blushing face and neck, as pink as her corals, and Jerome bowed and strove to say something, but he knew not what, and never knew what he said, nor anybody else.
"'Twas the new clothes, boy," said the Squire in his ear.

"By the Lord Harry, 'twas much as ever I knew you myself at first! I took you for an earl over from the old country.

Lucina meant no harm.

Go you now and have a talk with her." Jerome wondered anxiously afterwards if he had spoken properly to the Squire's wife, to Mrs.Doctor Prescott, to Miss Camilla, and the others--if he had looked, even, at anybody but Lucina.

He remembered the party as he might have remembered a kaleidoscope, of which only one combination of form and color abided with him.