July 16.

An air of mystery has pervaded the house for the past week.  My offers to take Ida’s letters to the post, or to go and fetch home the mail, have been met with a hasty negative, and Minna despatched forthwith to attend to them; and whenever I might enter Ida’s room, it would appear to be at a most inopportune moment, for the earnest conversation that had been going on between herself and Gabrielle would instantly stop, and their countenances assume a most transparent expression of indifference.  Long whispered conversations with mamma were continually taking place, and Ida seemed to be more frequently called to the kitchen by Lina than I had ever before known her to be, that autocrat being ordinarily by no means tolerant of her presence there.  Finally, Ida was summoned to New York upon important business—­to meet her lawyer, I supposed, but wondered why she did not simply authorize papa to represent herself, as well as Gabrielle, whose guardian he is, and thus spare herself a tedious day in the city in such sultry weather.

Yesterday was my birthday, and to-day is Marguerite’s.  As the fetes occur in midsummer, we are usually—­if in America—­upon the Catskill Mountains, or some equally inaccessible place, so that a celebration is not practicable; indeed, our birthdays have not been celebrated since 1869, when some friends in Paris took us all to St. Germain, where we passed a most delightful week at the Pavilion Henri Quatre (a hotel built upon the spot where Louis XIV. was born), and daily drove and picniced in the grand old forest for which St. Germain is noted.  The events of yesterday were therefore most unexpected and agreeable.

Ida and Gabrielle, after congratulating Marguerite and I, and giving us some elegant presents (for we usually receive our presents upon the same day, as less than twenty-four hours separate our anniversaries), asked us to drive down to the station with them to meet the train, and gently intimated that as some one might come up from New York with papa, we had better put on our best bombazines.  Quite obediently I went upstairs, put on the dress with its weight of crape, clasped on my new black velvet ceinture, with its buckles of oxidized silver in delicate filagree work, (Marguerite’s gift), and obtuse to the inappropriateness of a dress fan for morning use, suspended from the chatelaine another birthday gift—­a black lace fan.  Then, when I had put the finishing touch, in the shape of dear Ida’s present—­a vinaigrette of oxidized silver formed like a half-furled fan—­I was quite satisfied with my toilette; before the day was over, however, my ceinture was adorned with a tortoise-shell chatelaine, whistle, and tablets, as well as a dainty riding-whip—­papa’s present—­and I deeply mourned the impossibility of wearing two beautiful pictures, a new novel, and a large box of Iauch’s best bonbons.

When the train arrived, papa emerged, followed by our artist neighbor, Mr. John Hows.