"
Of course I remembered Gretchen; but to meet her as my friend's wife
was quite another thing. A few steps brought us to the door of a
handsome establishment two centuries old, or more; the front frescoed,
and the interior neat and orderly as a New England housewife's. The
floor upon which we entered from the street was paved with a species
of marble, black and white, diamond shaped, but too suggestive of cold
to be altogether pleasing. A broad, wooden staircase of a peculiar
rich brown hue led to the parlor on the second floor. The windows
looking out into the mountain ranges were draped with ruby-colored
damask; the floor was covered with a richly tufted carpet bordered
with flowers, and sofas and easy chairs were temptingly arranged. On a
table in the centre of the room, and under an elaborately chased
lamp, were implements for letter-writing, magazines, and newspapers.
Through the folding-doors we caught a glimpse of well-filled
book-shelves, and a woman's voice came floating out to the rich,
mellow accompaniment of the piano. There was the rustle of a silk
dress. I turned my head.
"This is my ambition," said my friend, while a look of pride blended
with the manly expression of his handsome face.
There stood Gretchen--the Gretchen I had known ten years before; no
longer the slight blushing girl, but mature in her beauty, a happy
wife and mother; the same sweet smile on her lips, and her eye full of
gushing gladness as she welcomed me to her home.
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