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Nina ran into the house nearly borne to the ground by
the weighty bundles she carried; and soon the whole
establishment was in an uproar. She herself saw to
every thing;—the presents were unwrapped; the supper
was ordered on a royal scale; and messages were sent by
Nina to all her friends in the neighborhood to come (with
their brothers, cousins, or other escort), and sup with her.
The presents Nina thought magnificent;—such beautiful
silks and laces, and such slippers, fitting admirably!
Then the earrings, and breastpins, and bracelets—the ribbons,
and handkerchiefs, and gloves! Surely such a lover
would be a model of a husband—such as the world rarely
saw!

The presents once laid out to the best advantage for
the inspection of her female friends, and the gentlemen
too, if they wished to see them—Nina applied herself to
the supper, which she determined should be worthy of
such a guest. The servants were soon flying about like
startled lapwings;—that unfortunate Sallust, who earlier
in the evening had been in horrible doubt whether his
head or feet were uppermost, now gave himself up for
lost, and obeyed, or endeavored to obey, with the silence
of despair;—and aunt Jenny thought that if such a clatter
was made about a simple supper, the wedding preparations
would deprive her of the small remnant of senses
which she yet possessed.

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Father Von Horn, to escape all this hurry, bustle, and
noise, lit his meerschaum, and took his former position at
the door, where he sat in quiet meditation, smoking like
a bashaw, and gazing pleasantly at the red flush of sunset
on the western mountain, now almost overthrown and
obliterated by the fast-coming night.

Hearing a footstep toward Queen-street, he turned his
head and saw Barry. The boy looked pale and startled,
and sunk in thought.

“Well, Barry, my boy,” said father Von Horn, “what's
the matter?”

Barry raised his head with a frightened look, evidently
brought back to the real world around him by the old
man's hearty greeting.

“Oh, sir—nothing,” said Barry, blushing at the thought
that he was telling a falsehood.

“My child,” said his uncle, “you ought not to think
and walk about dreaming so much; no active, energetic
man dreams his time away. I know you have the poetic
and imaginative temperament, which exalts reverie into
an improper delight; but check it, check it, Barry—now,
while you are young.”

Barry sat down, returning no reply, upon the grass at
the old man's feet. Father Von Horn smoothed his long
dark hair with his hand.

“Courtlandt the Tall himself,” he muttered; “the
child is the very image of the old man, and the portrait.”

“What did you say, uncle?” asked Barry, rousing from
his abstraction.

“I said you were like Courtlandt the Tall—my father.”
Barry smiled; his preoccupation, for a moment, seemed
to have disappeared.

“Am I much, uncle?”

“Very much.”

“Was he a good man?”

“As good and brave a man as ever drew breath.”

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“Then, uncle, I am very glad I am like him in my
face,” said Barry, “maybe, after a while I shall be like
him in my character.”

“You will, my boy, I am sure; you will be a good
man, Barry—for you are a good boy.”

“Uncle, you don't know how glad you make me feel by
saying I will be good. I only want to be good—I don't
want to be a great, rich man, for I am afraid it would
harden me, you know; make me look down on poor people.
Oh, uncle, I hope I will be good, and you will always love
me.”

“Bless your heart, my boy,” said father Von Horn,
cheerily, “every body loves you. Don't fear I ever will
stop loving you. Well, all this talking with Nina and
you, has made me forget Burt; I must see to him. No,”
continued father Von Horn, as Barry was about to rise
and go in his place, “I must look to the old horse myself.”

And he entered the house. As he went in Nina came
out, clad in her most graceful manner, and radiant with
happiness and expectation. At first she did not perceive
Barry, from the lowness of his seat. But he rose, and
Nina seeing him, called the boy to her and smoothing his
hair, kissed him affectionately.

“Barry, you are very handsome,” said Nina, laughing;
“but you must fix yourself nice for the supper.
Recollect every body in the neighborhood is coming; and
now I think of it, why don't you go and bring Sally.”

Barry blushed: then almost trembled with a sudden
recollection.

“I can not, cousin Nina,” he said in a low voice; “I
must go—”

Then suddenly checking himself, he sunk into one of
the chairs shuddering. Nina did not observe this strange
conduct: her whole attention was given to a gay party
of young persons who rapidly approached; these were the

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guests who had chanced to meet each other, and who
bore down in one compact body—of laughing rosy faces,
and manly forms—upon Nina, and (prospectively) her
supper. Ladies at that day were not ashamed to eat
heartily, and were guilty of no trifling with dainty confections,
when good substantial edibles were at hand:—the
gentlemen too, were fond of those night-dinners called
suppers; and both the ladies, and the gentlemen, had
repeatedly partaken of this pleasant meal in great perfection
at the old German's mansion. Thus the feast and
flow of other things than reason and the soul, were agreeably
looked forward to.

Mr. Lyttelton arrived just as Nina was shaking hands
with her male friends, and kissing the young girls of the
party—a practice to which young girls for some mysterious
reason are much addicted—and all having entered
the hospitable doors, they were welcomed honestly and
heartily by the old man; and the merry laughter and
gay talk commenced, with many admiring looks at the
rich presents—Nina receiving every compliment with
wonderfully elegant composure: and so in due course of
time came, “the supper and the dance.”

In the midst of this uproar, of clinking glasses, merry
voices, and gay laughter, Nina's face became suddenly
overcast by something like a cloud. The thought of Max
had occurred to her; and this thought made her melancholy
even in the very whirl of the revelry.

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