University of Virginia Library

4. IV.

The sick pasha shall be amused. Bismillah!
he wills it so. If the story-teller becomes prolix
and tedious, — the bow-string and the sack, and
two Nubians to drop him into the Piscataqua!
But, truly, Jack, I have a hard task. There is
literally nothing here, — except the little girl
over the way. She is swinging in the hammock
at this moment. It is to me compensation for
many of the ills of life to see her now and then
put out a small kid boot, which fits like a glove,
and set herself going. Who is she, and what is
her name? Her name is Daw. Only daughter
of Mr. Richard W. Daw, ex-colonel and banker.
Mother dead. One brother at Harvard, elder
brother killed at the battle of Fair Oaks, nine
years ago. Old, rich family, the Daws. This is
the homestead, where father and daughter pass

eight months of the twelve; the rest of the year in
Baltimore and Washington. The New England
winter too many for the old gentleman. The
daughter is called Marjorie, — Marjorie Daw.
Sounds odd at first, does n't it? But after you
say it over to yourself half a dozen times, you
like it. There's a pleasing quaintness to it,
something prim and violet-like. Must be a nice
sort of girl to be called Marjorie Daw.

I had mine host of The Pines in the witness-box
last night, and drew the foregoing testimony
from him. He has charge of Mr. Daw's vegetable-garden,
and has known the family these
thirty years. Of course I shall make the acquaintance
of my neighbors before many days.
It will be next to impossible for me not to meet
Mr. Daw or Miss Daw in some of my walks.
The young lady has a favorite path to the sea-beach.
I shall intercept her some morning, and
touch my hat to her. Then the princess will
bend her fair head to me with courteous surprise
not unmixed with haughtiness. Will snub
me, in fact. All this for thy sake, O Pasha of
the Snapt Axle-tree!.... How oddly things fall
out! Ten minutes ago I was called down to the

parlor,—you know the kind of parlors in farmhouses
on the coast, a sort of amphibious parlor,
with sea-shells on the mantel-piece and spruce
branches in the chimney-place,—where I found
my father and Mr. Daw doing the antique polite
to each other. He had come to pay his respects
to his new neighbors. Mr. Daw is a tall, slim
gentleman of about fifty-five, with a florid face
and snow-white mustache and side-whiskers.
Looks like Mr. Dombey, or as Mr. Dombey
would have looked if he had served a few years
in the British Army. Mr. Daw was a colonel in
the late war, commanding the regiment in which
his son was a lieutenant. Plucky old boy, backbone
of New Hampshire granite. Before taking
his leave, the colonel delivered himself of an invitation
as if he were issuing a general order.
Miss Daw has a few friends coming, at 4 p. m.,
to play croquet on the lawn (parade-ground) and
have tea (cold rations) on the piazza. Will we
honor them with our company? (or be sent to
the guard-house.) My father declines on the
plea of ill-health. My father's son bows with as
much suavity as he knows, and accepts.

In my next I shall have something to tell you.

I shall have seen the little beauty face to face. I
have a presentiment, Jack, that this Daw is a
rara avis! Keep up your spirits, my boy, until
I write you another letter,—and send me along
word how's your leg.