“Oh, mamma,” cried Clara, “come here;” and throwing open the parlor-door, she exhibited the apartment; “come here and see how you like my arrangements for cousin Florence; are not those flowers beautiful?”
“And will not Cousin Florence admire our new carpet, mamma?” said little Rosa.
“I dare say,” said Clara, “it is handsomer than Cousin Florence’s, as it is in all probability so much newer.”
“Yes, my dears,” said Mrs. Delmont, smiling at the simplicity of the young girls, while she was careful not to destroy their pleasant anticipations by undeceiving them. “Yes, my dears, every thing looks very sweet and pretty; those flowers are really beautiful, and I give you a great deal of credit for your good taste. Come, daughters, and show me your cousin’s room.”
“Here, mamma,” said Clara, opening the door, “does it not look quiet and beautiful?”
“Oh, ma!” exclaimed Rosa, “look at those roses on the window-curtains. Sister Clara, how did you fasten them so prettily?”
“Really, my dear Clara,” said Mrs. Delmont, “I congratulate you on your success. I do not think you will see a prettier room in Savannah. Recollect, Rosa, to have some plates in the parlor to eat those nuts in, as I fear the children will soil the carpet with them.”
“Oh, Cousin Florence would not let them soil our pretty carpet, I do not think, mamma,” said little Rosa, as she tripped off for the plates.
The sound of wheels was now heard in the distance, and Clara and her mother hastened to meet their cousin, whom they had not seen for several years.
It was late in October, and the soft breath of summer was chilled, but not frightened away by the coming winter, and the vines that draped the windows still perfumed the air with the rich fragrance of their clustering blossoms. A gentle melancholy, peculiar to autumn, overspread the scene, which seemed the very habitation of beauty and happiness: when Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland drove up the long avenue, and alighted at the gate of Primrose Cottage, as Clara had called Mrs. Delmont’s house, in memory of one of her favorite books, the dear old Vicar of Wakefield.
Mrs. Cleveland was the wife of a flourishing merchant in the city of Savannah, where she had resided since her marriage, which had taken place about five years previous to the commencement of our story; and was an amiable though an exceedingly indolent woman, and indulged her children to such an extent that they were, in consequence, extremely annoying to every one by whom they were surrounded. As soon as Mrs. Cleveland entered the house complaining of excessive fatigue, she was ushered by Clara into her neat apartment, which, however, we are sorry to say, did not long remain so, for the lady immediately threw herself on the bed, caused her trunk to be unpacked, insisted upon the children’s dresses being changed, while the mother, the children, and their nurse, seemed to vie with each other in the attempt to fill every chair and vacant place with such articles as were not in immediate requisition, which gave to the room so disorderly and careless an appearance, that it would never have been recognized as the same sweet looking apartment which Clara had prepared that morning for their reception.