Honest Mrs. Van Astrachan, however, though not acquainted with Mrs. Ferrola, went to the funeral with Rose; and the next day her carriage was seen at Mrs. Ferrola’s door.

“You poor little darling!” she said, as she came up and took Mrs. Ferrola in her arms.  “You must let me come, and not mind me; for I know all about it.  I lost the dearest little baby once; and I have never forgotten it.  There! there, darling!” she said, as the little woman broke into sobs in her arms.  “Yes, yes; do cry! it will do your little heart good.”

There are people who, wherever they move, freeze the hearts of those they touch, and chill all demonstration of feeling; and there are warm natures, that unlock every fountain, and bid every feeling gush forth.  The reader has seen these two types in this story.

“Wife,” said Mr. Van Astrachan, coming to Mrs. V. confidentially a day or two after, “I wonder if you remember any of your French.  What is a liaison?”

“Really, dear,” said Mrs. Van Astrachan, whose reading of late years had been mostly confined to such memoirs as that of Mrs. Isabella Graham, Doddridge’s “Rise and Progress,” and Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest,” “it’s a great while since I read any French.  What do you want to know for?”

“Well, there’s Ben Stuyvesant was saying this morning, in Wall Street, that there’s a great deal of talk about that Mrs. Follingsbee and that young fellow whose baby’s funeral you went to.  Ben says there’s a liaison between her and him.  I didn’t ask him what ’twas; but it’s something or other with a French name that makes talk, and I don’t think it’s respectable!  I’m sorry that you and Rose went to her party; but then that can’t be helped now.  I’m afraid this Mrs. Follingsbee is no sort of a woman, after all.”

“But, pa, I’ve been to call on Mrs. Ferrola, poor little afflicted thing!” said Mrs. Van Astrachan.  “I couldn’t help it!  You know how we felt when little Willie died.”

“Oh, certainly, Polly! call on the poor woman by all means, and do all you can to comfort her; but, from all I can find out, that handsome jackanapes of a husband of hers is just the poorest trash going.  They say this Follingsbee woman half supports him.  The time was in New York when such doings wouldn’t be allowed; and I don’t think calling things by French names makes them a bit better.  So you just be careful, and steer as clear of her as you can.”

“I will, pa, just as clear as I can; but you know Rose is a friend of Mrs. John Seymour; and Mrs. Seymour is visiting at Mrs. Follingsbee’s.”

“Her husband oughtn’t to let her stay there another day,” said Mr. Van Astrachan.  “It’s as much as any woman’s reputation is worth to be staying with her.  To think of that fellow being dancing and capering at that Jezebel’s house the night his baby was dying!”

“Oh, but, pa, he didn’t know it.”