You, my dearest of friends,--or, rather, you who would be, but for this
one point of hopeless contention between us,--do you remember a certain
warm morning, last August, of which I told you then you had not heard the
last? Here it is again: perhaps in print I can make it look blacker to you
than I could then; part of it I saw, part of it you unwillingly confessed
to me, and part of it little Blue Eyes told me herself.
It was one of those ineffable mornings, when a thrill of delight and
expectancy fills the air; one felt that every appointment of the day must
be unlike those of other days,--must be festive, must help on the "white
day" for which all things looked ready. I remember how like the morning
itself you looked as you stood in the doorway, in a fresh white muslin
dress, with lavender ribbons. I said, "Oh, extravagance! For breakfast!"
"I know," you said; "but the day was so enchanting, I could not make up my
mind to wear any thing that had been worn before." Here an uproar from the
nursery broke out, and we both ran to the spot.
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