"
Vesta rose again in her white morning-gown, like a stag rising from a
snow-drift. A long, trembling movement, the result of tittering, passed
down the graceful column of her back.
"He sits there like an Indian riding past in a show, mamma! Did you ever
see such a hat?"
"I think it must be buggy by this time," said the mother; and both of
them shook with laughter again. "Unless," added Mrs. Custis, "the bugs
are starved out."
"Poor, lonely creature," said Vesta, "he can only wear such a hat from
want of understanding."
"His _understanding_ is good enough, dear. He has the green gaiters on."
They laughed again, and Vesta's hair, shaken down by her merriment, fell
nearly to her slipper, like the skin of some coal-black beast, that had
sprung down a poplar's trunk.
"Ah! well," exclaimed Vesta, as her maid entered and proceeded to wind
up this satin cordage on her crown, "what men are in their minds, can
woman know? Old ladies, not unfrequently, wear their old coal-scuttle
bonnets long past the fashion, but it is from want. This man is his own
master and not poor. His companion is a negro, and his taste a mouldy
hat, old as America. How happy are we that it is not necessary to pry
into such minds! A little refinement is the next blessing to religion."
"Your father's mind is a puzzle, too, Vesta. He has everything which
these foresters lack,--education, society, standing, and comforts.
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