We were received at about nine o'clock at the station in Buffalo, and were put into several sleighs and driven all over America, as it seemed to me--for, apparently, we turned all the corners in the town and followed all the streets there were--I scolding freely, and characterizing that friend of mine in very uncomplimentary words for securing a boarding-house that apparently had no definite locality.

But there was a conspiracy--and my bride knew of it, but I was in ignorance.

Her father, Jervis Langdon, had bought and furnished a new house for us in the fashionable street, Delaware Avenue, and had laid in a cook and housemaids, and a brisk and electric young coachman, an Irishman, Patrick McAleer--and we were being driven all over that city in order that one sleighful of those people could have time to go to the house, and see that the gas was lighted all over it, and a hot supper prepared for the crowd.

We arrived at last, and when I entered that fairy place my indignation reached high-water mark, and without any reserve I delivered my opinion to that friend of mine for being so stupid as to put us into a boarding-house whose terms would be far out of my reach.

Then Mr.Langdon brought forward a very pretty box and opened it, and took from it a deed of the house.