the time for calls. Some of the Cincinnati ladies held a consultation whether they should call or not; some who stood upon a slippery hill backed out; but others who were ladies indeed, and felt themselves firm as the rock of ages, knew the rules of etiquette, and called on her—not so much, I must say, on Minnie's account, as on account of Mrs. L., her hostess.
At this time there was a great fair at the Masonic Hall; Minnie was present, accompanied by her friends and many gentlemen. On her entering the room, there were about one thousand people in the hall; all had their backs to the door, looking at the different handsome things around the room; but, as if by a unanimous impulse, all turned round and looked at her; some of her party were disconcerted a little, but Minnie herself took it as a great compliment; she had been so accustomed to admiration she did not think anything of it. She looked more like a fairy than a human creature; her dress was a tulle with three skirts; about her shoulders and waist was a light scarf of a delicate shade of pink, spangled; her boots were pink silk, and she wore a delicate pink kid glove; her hair, as I have before mentioned, was a beautiful chesnut, which laid in massive waves across her head. She had no scarcity of diamonds, and her complexion was most brilliant. As she moved around the room, the crowd moved after her she was more an object of admiration than anything there.
The style of dress I have described was a common thing with Minnie, and though unusual in Cincinnati, was nothing thought of in Louisville. I once dressed Minnie for a ball in Louisville, when her dress was
