CHAPTER VII.
Judge Provost, whose wife and daughters were the leaders of fashion in Hamilton, was himself a social Greatheart. Having brought to bear upon various vexed domestic problems the force of his astute mind and enlightened Christianity, he had arrived at a series of conclusions equally creditable to both. The pertinence of his deductions was so obvious to the impartial reasoner as to excite his surprise that the great body of good and sensible men and women did not adopt and practise them.
The judge maintained, first, that the best way to keep men out of jails was to provide them with abodes so comfortable that they should prefer these to stone cells and prison fare; secondly, as a modification of the same principle, that, since amusements are necessary to the happiness of the young, they should be supplied with lawful diversions in their own homes, lest they should seek unlawful abroad; thirdly, in unconscious plagiarism of the wise and genial author of "Annals of a Country Neighborhood," he held and believed for certain, that the surest way to make an indifferent thing bad was for good people to refrain from doing it.
Acting upon these principles, the eminent jurist built a bowling-alley at the back of his garden; caused his eight children to be instructed in music and dancing, and encouraged them to pursue these recreations in his parlors—where, also, back-gammon and chess-board lay in full sight. Finally, he crowned their gratification, while he drew upon himself the reprobation of the zealots and puritans among his neighbors, by throwing a wing out from the main building of his residence expressly for a billiard-room. It was a pretty place, and a cheerful, with its green carpet and lounges, tinted walls and long French windows; and, as may be supposed, was a popular resort with those of the students who had the entrée, as well as with the young Provosts and their friends of both sexes in the town.
It was very bright with afternoon sunshine and merry with the chatter of gay voices one day late in February, when a party of six or eight girls was collected about the great table, four playing, the others looking on, and talking, sometimes of the game in progress, sometimes upon matters of neighborhood gossip—all in a familiar, yet ladylike way.
"Somebody mark for me, please," said a ruddy-cheeked damsel, who had never by any chance won a game, and whose principal points were the point she made of missing at every shot. "If I should hit anything it would be a pity not to get credit for it. Now—all of you look and learn!"
She poised the cue with a superabundance of caution, pursing up her lips into a tight O, as she took aim, dashed at the white ball nearest her, which flew frantically from side to side of the board, rebounding twice from the cushion and at last popping into a distant pocket, having dodged every other ball with a malicious ingenuity eminently illustrative of the proverbial perversity of inanimate things.
"Better luck next time!" said the player, invincibly good-humored, resigning her place. "If there is anything in perseverance and hope, I shall do it yet, some day, and astonish you all."
The rest laughed—with, more than at her—and Jessie Kirke took the stand she had vacated. All leaned forward to watch her play, her skill being already
