When Carrie had been at home about three months,
all Rice Corner one day flew to the doors and windows
to look at a stranger, a gentleman with fierce mustaches,
who seemed not at all certain of his latitude, and evidently
wanted to know where he was going. At least, if he
didn't, they who watched him did.

Grandma, whose longevity had not impaired her guessing
faculties, first suggested that “most likely it was Car'line
Howard's beau.” This was altogether too probable
to be doubted, and as grandmother had long contemplated
a visit to Aunt Eunice, she now determined to go
that very afternoon, as she “could judge for herself what
kind of a match Car'line had made.” Mother tried to
dissuade her from going that day, but the old lady was
incorrigible, and directly after dinner, dressed in her bombasin,
black silk apron, work bag, knitting and all, she departed
for Captain Howard's.

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They wouldn't confess it, but I knew well enough that
Juliet and Anna were impatient for her return, and when
the shadows of twilight began to fall, I was twice sent into
the road to see if she was coming. The last time I was
successful, and in a few moments grandmother was among
us; but whatever she knew she kept to herself until the
lamps were lighted in the sitting-room, and she, in her
stuffed rocking-chair, was toeing off the stocking only
that morning commenced. Then, at a hint from Anna,
she cast toward Lizzie and me a rueful glance, saying,
“There are too many pitchers here!” I knew then just
as well as I did five minutes after, that Lizzie and I must
go to bed. There was no help for it, and we complied
with a tolerably good grace. Lizzie proposed that we
should listen, but somehow I couldn't do that, and up to this
time I don't exactly know what grandmother told them.

The next day, however, I heard enough to know that
his name was Penoyer; that grandma did n't like him;
that he had as much hair on his face as on his head; that
Aunt Eunice would oppose the match, and that he would
stay over Sunday. With this last I was delighted, for I
should see him at church. I saw him before that, however;
for it was unaccountable what a fancy Carrie suddenly
took for traversing the woods and riding on horseback,
for which purpose grandfather's side-saddle (not
the one with which Joe saddled his pony!) was borrowed,
and then, with her long curls and blue riding skirt floating
in the wind, Carrie galloped over hills and through valleys,
accompanied by Penoyer, who was a fierce looking
fellow, with black eyes, black hair, black whiskers, and
black face.

I couldn't help fancying that the negro who lay beneath
the walnut tree, had resembled him, and I cried for fear
Carrie might marry so ugly a man, thinking it would not

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be altogether unlike, “Beauty and the Beast.” Sally, our
housemaid, said that “most likely he'd prove to be some
poor, mean scamp. Any way, seein' it was plantin' time,
he'd better be to hum tendin' to his own business, if he
had any.”

Sally was a shrewd, sharp-sighted girl, and already had
her preference in favor of Michael Welsh, father's hired
man. Walking, riding on horseback, and wasting time
generally, Sally held in great abhorrence. “All she
wished to say to Mike on week days, she could tell him
milking time.” On Sundays, however, it was different,
and regularly each Sunday night found Mike and Sally
snugly ensconced in the “great room,” while under the
windows occasionally might have been seen three or four
curly heads, eager to hear something about which to tease
Sally during the week.

But to return to Monsieur Penoyer, as Carrie called
him. His stay was prolonged beyond the Sabbath, and
on Tuesday I was sent to Capt. Howard's on an errand.
I found Aunt Eunice in the kitchen, her round, rosy face,
always suggestive of seed cake and plum pudding, flushed
with exertion, her sleeves tucked up and her arms buried
in a large wooden bowl of dough, which she said was going
to be made into loaves of 'lection cake, as Carrie was
to have a party to-morrow, and I had come just in time
to carry invitations to my sisters.

Carrie was in the parlor, and attracted by the sound of
music, I drew near the door, when Aunt Eunice kindly
bade me enter. I did so, and was presented to Monsieur Penoyer.
At first, I was shy of him, for I remembered that
Sally had said, “he don't know nothin',” and this in my estimation
was the worst crime of which he could be guilty.
Gradually, my timidity gave way, and when, at Carrie's

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request, he played and sang for me, I was perfectly delighted,
although I understood not a word he said.

When he finished, Carrie told him I was a little poet,
and then repeated some foolish lines I had once written
about her eyes. It was a very handsome set of teeth
which he showed, as he said, “Magnifique! Tres bien!
She be another grand Dr. Watts!”

I knew not who Dr. Watts was, but on one point my
mind was made up—Monsieur Penoyer knew a great deal!
Ere I left, Carrie commissioned me to invite my sisters to
her party on the morrow, and as I was leaving the room,
M. Penoyer said, “Ma chere Carrie, why vous no invite
la petite girl!”

Accordingly I was invited, with no earthly prospect,
however, of mother's letting me go. And she didn't
either; so next day, after Juliet and Anna were gone, I
went out behind the smoke-house and cried until I got
sleepy, and a headache too; then, wishing to make mother
think I had run away, I crept carefully up stairs to Bill's
room, where I slept until Sally's sharp eyes ferreted me
out, saying, “they were all scared to death about me, and
had looked for me high and low,” up in the garret and
down in the well, I supposed. Concluding they were
plagued enough, I condescended to go down stairs, and have
my head bathed in camphor and my feet parboiled in hot
water; then I went to bed and dreamed of white teeth,
curling mustaches and “Parlez vous Francais.”

Of what occurred at the party I will tell you as it was
told to me. All the elite of Rice Corner were there, of
course, and as each new arrival entered the parlor, M.
Penoyer eyed them coolly through an opera glass. Sister
Anna returned his inspection with the worst face she could
well make up, for which I half blamed her and half didn't,

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as I felt sure I should have done the same under like circumstances.

When all the invited guests had arrived, except myself,
(alas, no one asked why I tarried,) there ensued an awkward
silence, broken only by the parrot-like chatter of M.
Penoyer, who seemed determined to talk nothing but
French, although Carrie understood him but little better
than did the rest. At last he was posted up to the piano.

“Mon Dien, it be von horrid tone,” said he; then off
he dashed into a galloping waltz, keeping time with his
head, mouth, and eyes, which threatened to leave their
sockets and pounce upon the instrument. Rattlety-bang
went the piano—like lightning went Monsieur's fingers,
first here, then there, right or wrong, hit or miss, and oftener
miss than hit—now alighting among the keys promiscuously,
then with a tremendous thump making all
bound again, — and finishing up with a flourish, which
snapped two strings and made all the rest groan in sympathy,
as did the astonished listeners. For a time all was
still, and then a little modest girl, Lily Gordon, her face
blushing crimson, said, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur,
but haven't you taught music!”

The veins in his forehead swelled, as, darting a wrathful
look at poor Lily, he exclaimed, “Le Diable! vat vous
take me for? Von dem musique teacher, eh?”

Poor Lily tried to stammer her apologies, while Carrie
sought to soothe the enraged Frenchman, by saying, that
“Miss Gordon was merely complimenting his skill in
music.”

At this point, the carriage which carried persons to
and from the depot drove up, and from it alighted a very
small, genteel looking lady, who rapped at the door and
asked, “if Capt. Howard lived there.”

In a moment Carrie was half stifling her with kisses,

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exclaiming, “Dear Agnes, this is a pleasant surprise. I did
not expect you so soon.”

The lady called Agnes, was introduced as Miss Hovey,
a school-mate of Carrie's. She seemed very much disposed
to make herself at home, for, throwing her hat in
one place and her shawl in another, she seated herself at
the piano, hastily running over a few notes; then with a
gesture of impatience, she said, “O, horrid! a few more
such sounds would give me the vapors for a month; why
don't you have it tuned?”

Ere Carrie could reply, Agnes' eyes lighted upon Penoyer,
who, either with or without design, had drawn
himself as closely into a corner as he well could. Springing
up, she brought her little hands together with energy,
exclaiming, “Now, heaven defend me, what fresh game
brought you here?” Then casting on Carrie an angry
glance, she said, in a low tone, “What does it mean?
Why didn't you tell me?”

Carrie drew nearer, and said coaxingly, “I didn't expect
you so soon; but, never mind, he leaves to-morrow.
For my sake treat him decently.”

The pressure which Agnes gave Carrie's hand seemed
to say, “For your sake, I will, but for no other.” Then
turning to Penoyer, who had risen to his feet, she said
respectfully, “I hardly expected to meet you here, sir.”

Her tone and manner had changed. Penoyer knew it,
and, with the coolest effrontery imaginable, he came forward,
bowing and scraping, and saying, “Comment vous
portez vous, Mademoiselle. Je suis perfaitement delighted
to see you,” at the same time offering her his hand.

All saw with what hauteur she declined it, but only one,
and that was Anna, heard her as she said, “Keep off, Penoyer;
don't make a donkey of yourself.” It was strange,
Anna said, “how far into his boots Penoyer tried to draw

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himself,” while at each fresh flash of Agnes' keen, black
eyes, he winced, either from fear or sympathy.

The restraint which had surrounded the little company
gave way beneath the lively sallies and sparkling wit of
Agnes, who, instead of seeming amazed at the country
girls, was apparently as much at ease as though she had
been entertaining a drawing room full of polished city
belles. When at last the party broke up, each and every
one was in love with the little Albany lady, although all
noticed that Carrie seemed troubled, watching Agnes narrowly;
and whenever she saw her tete-a-tete with either of
her companions, she would instantly draw near, and seem
greatly relieved on finding that Penoyer was not the subject
of conversation.

“I told you so,” was grandmother's reply, when informed
of all this. “I told you so. I knew Car'line
warn't goin' to make out no great.”

Juliet and Anna thought so too, but this did not prevent
them from running to the windows next morning to
see Penoyer as he passed on his way to the cars. I, who
with Lizzie was tugging away at a big board with which
we thought to make a “see-saw,” was honored with a
graceful wave of Monsieur's hands, and the words, “Au
revoir, ma chere Marie.”

That day Phoebe, Aunt Eunice's hired girl, came to
our house. Immediately Juliet and Anna assailed her
with a multitude of questions. The amount of knowledge
obtained was, that “Miss Hovey was a lady, and no mistake,
for she had sights of silks and jewelry, and she that
morning went with Phoebe to see her milk, although she
didn't dare venture inside the yard. “But,” added Phoebe,
“for all she was up so early she did not come out to
breakfast until that gentleman was gone.”

This was fresh proof that Penoyer was not “comme il

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faut,” and Anna expressed her determination to find out
all about him ere Agnes went home. I remembered “Dr.
Watts” and the invitation to the party, and secretly
hoped she would find out nothing bad.