EVENTIDE

A SERIES OF

TALES AND POEMS.

By

EFFIE AFTON.

"I never gaze

Upon the evening, but a tide of awe,

And love, and wonder, from the Infinite,

Swells up within me, as the running brine

From the smooth-glistening, wide-heaving sea,

Grows in the creeks and channels of a stream,

Until it threats its, banks. It is not joy,—

'Tis sadness more divine."

Alexander Smith.

BOSTON:

FETRIDGE AND COMPANY.

1854.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
J. M. HARPER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

Stereotyped by
HOBART & ROBBINS,
New England Type and Stereotype Foundery,
BOSTON.

To the

FIRESIDES OF THE WESTERN WORLD,

With the fond Hope

THAT ITS PAGES MAY SERVE TO ENLIVEN OR ENTERTAIN SOME FEW
OF THOSE EVENING HOURS WHEN PLEASANT FACES GATHER
ROUND WARM, GLOWING HEARTH-STONES,

This simple Volume

IS UNOBTRUSIVELY PRESENTED,

BY THE

UNKNOWN AND NAMELESS AUTHOR,

WHO WOULD RATHER FIND WARM HEARTS AMONG HER READERS
THAN WIN THE LAURELS OF A TRANSITORY FAME.

Transcriber's Note:

There are two instances of illegible words in this text, both as a result of ink blots.
They have been indicated as [illegible].

PREFACE.

When the sun has disappeared behind the western mountains, and the stars sparkled o'er the blue concave, we have been accustomed to sit down to the compilation of this unpretending volume, and therefore it is called "Eventide." O, that its pages might be read at that calm, silent hour,—their follies mercifully overlooked, their faults as kindly forgiven.

Fain would we dedicate this "waif of weary moments" to some warm-hearted, watchful spirit, who might shelter it from the pitiless assaults of the wide, wide world. But will not our simple booklet prove too insignificant a mark for the critic's arrows?

In the language of another, we confidently say, melancholy is indifferent to criticism.

Thus,

"In our own weakness shielded,"

O, Reading Public, we steal upon you 'mid the falling shadows, and lay "Eventide" at your feet.

CONTENTS.

• WIMBLEDON; OR, THE HERMIT OF THE CEDARS,[7]
• SCRAGGIEWOOD, A TALE OF AMERICAN LIFE,[245]
• ALICE ORVILLE; OR, LIFE IN THE SOUTH AND WEST,[329]
• COME TO ME WHEN I'M DYING,[401]
• ELLEN,[404]
• I'M TIRED OF LIFE,[405]
• LINES TO A FRIEND, ON REMOVING FROM HER NATIVE VILLAGE,[407]
• HO FOR CALIFORNIA![409]
• N. P. ROGERS,[411]
• LINES,[413]
• HENRY CLAY,[415]
• THE SOUL'S DESTINY,[417]
• LINES TO A MARRIED FRIEND,[419]
• NEW ENGLAND SABBATH BELLS,[421]
• MY HEART,[423]
• OUR HELEN,[425]
• MY BONNET OF BLUE,[427]
• DARK-BROWED MARTHA,[429]

[WIMBLEDON;
OR
THE HERMIT OF THE CEDARS.]

CHAPTER I.

"The stars are out, and by their glistening light,

I fain would whisper in thine ear a tale;

Wilt hear it kindly? and if long and dull

Believe me far more deeply grieved than thou."

Clear and loud on the hushed silence of the midnight hour rang the chimes of the village clock, from the tall steeple-tower of the quaint old church of Wimbledon, while several ambitious chickens rose from their neighboring perches, piped a shrill answering salute, and sank to their nocturnal slumbers again. But nor clock nor chanticleer disturbed Wimbledon. Still she slept on beneath the blossoming stars; and by their soft, inspiring light, with your permission, gentle reader, we'll enter the sleeping village.

Dim gleams of snowy cottages, peeping through a wealth of embowering vines, steal on our star-lighted vision as we roam along the grassy streets, and we scent the breath of gardens odorous with the sweets of dew-watered flowers. Above and around we hear the musical stir of the night wind among boughs and branches of luxuriant foliage, while ever and anon it comes from afar with a deep-toned, solemn murmur, as though it swept o'er forests of cedar and mournfully-echoing pine. Still roaming on, the low rippling of flowing waters comes soothingly to our ears, and we pause on the bank of a flower-bordered river that goes sweetly singing on its way to the distant ocean. A tiny sailboat lies in a sheltering cove, rocked gently to and fro by the swaying current. On a hill beyond the stream we mark a large white-belfried building, relieved against a dark background of wide-stretching timber-land. And turning our delighted footsteps down an avenue of lofty cedar and linden trees, there rises at length before our vision a splendid mansion, built after a most beautiful style of architecture, with deep, bay windows, long corridors and vine-covered terraces. Magnificent gardens, displaying the perfection of taste, lay sloping to the southward. On the east the silvery river was seen glancing through the shrubbery that adorned its banks. To the west lay a beautiful park and pleasure ground, while far away to the northward stretched the deep, dense forest, tall, dark and sombre.

And over all this lovely scene the stars shed their mild, ethereal light. O, Wimbledon! art thou not beautiful 'neath their soft, silver gleams? And doth not shadowy-vested romance roam thy grassy paths and flower-strewn ways to-night, and with her wild, mysterious eyes gloating on thy entrancing scenery, doth she not resolve to dwell awhile, 'mid thy embowering vines, thy dewy-petalled flowers, mournfully-musical cedar-groves, and web a fiction from the thousand tangled threads which complicate and ramify thy social life?

We shall see what we shall see in Wimbledon; for gray dawn is already breaking in the dappled east, and a man, closely buttoned to the chin in a gray overcoat, emerges from a large brick mansion on the outskirts of the village, and directs his steps toward an old, black, rickety-looking house, which stands just on the bank of the river, surrounded by a tangled growth of brush-wood.

Here the gairish day at length disclosed what the modest night had obscured with her diamond veil of stars. Squalid poverty glared through the broken window-panes, and want seemed clattering her doleful song on the flying clapboards and crazy casements. A feeble, struggling light from within showed the inmates were stirring as the man in the overcoat gave a loud, careless thump on the trembling door, which was opened by a pale, gaunt-looking urchin, clad in garments bearing patches of divers hues.

"Is your mother at home, Bill?" inquired the man, gruffly.

"Yes, sir," answered the boy in a meek tone; "will you please to walk in, Mr. Pimble?"

"No; tell her I want her to come and wash for me to-day," said the man, in a harsh, rough voice, as he turned away.

The boy bowed and reëntered the miserable apartment, where a few soggy chips smoked on a bed of embers that were gathered in the corner of a huge fire-place. A woman, with a begrimed cotton handkerchief tied over her head, sat on the hearth endeavoring to blow them into a blaze, while the smoke, that poured down the foul and blackened chimney, caused the tears to roll from her eyes, and baffled her efforts.

"Never mind the fire, mother," said the lad, approaching; "I'll try and pick up some dry sticks in course of the day to have the room warm when you come home to-night. Mr. Pimble has just called, and wants you to go and wash for him to-day."

"He won't pay me a cent if I go," answered the woman moodily; "all my drudgery for that family goes to pay the rent of this miserable old shell."

"I think he will give you something to-day, mother, if you tell him how needy we are," suggested the boy.

"Never a cent," said the woman, with a gloomy shake of her head; "however, I may as well go. I shall get a cup of tea and bit of dinner, and I'll look out to bring you a cake, Willie."

"O, will you, mother?" exclaimed the boy, his wan features brightening momentarily at the prospect of a single cake to appease the gnawings of hunger.

The woman threw a coarse, threadbare blanket over her shoulders and went forth, while the boy bent his way along the riverbank in search of dry twigs and branches with which to replenish their wasted stock of fuel. And he thought, as he picked up here and there the scanty sticks and laid them in small bundles, of some lines of poetry he read on a bit of newspaper that blew across his path one day:

"If joy and pain in this nether world,

Must fairly balanced be,

O, why not some of the pain to them.

And some of the joy to me?"

And he could not settle the point in his youthful mind. He could not tell why David Pimble should go to school the year round at the great, white seminary on the hill, while he could only go about two months in the cold, biting winter to a town-school a mile distant. He could not tell why said David should have warm woollen jackets, while his were threadbare and patched with rags; nor why David should fare sumptuously on buttered toast and smoking muffins, while he starved on the crusts that were cast from his well-spread table.

All these were knotty points which poor little Willie Danforth was too young and untaught to solve. When he should be older and wiser, would he be able to solve them? He didn't know;—he hoped so; though he feared he never would be much wiser than now, if he was always to remain so poor, and be debarred from the privilege of attending school.

There's one school whose doors are and have ever been open wide for Willie—the school of poverty and experience. Lessons swift and bitter are indelibly impressed on the minds of the pupils there.

Thoughtful and abstracted, Willie wandered along, gathering his little bundles of firewood, till he found himself at the foot of the hill on which stood the great, white seminary where David Pimble, his brother and sister, went to school month after month and year after year. He heard voices, and, looking up, beheld the little group that were occupying his thoughts, on the hill-top, laughing and mocking at him as he toiled along with his bundles of sticks. His cheeks glowed with anger for a moment, and then grew ashy pale, as he plodded on toward his miserable home.

Dilly Danforth, the poor washerwoman, had seen better days; but the drunken dissipation of a husband, who was now in his grave, had reduced her to abject, despairing poverty. Her unfortunate marriage and persistence in clinging to the man of her choice, and enduring all his abuses, excited the displeasure of her family, and they cast her from them to suffer and struggle on as best she might. She knew not as she had a relative in the world. She surely had no friend, save Willie, her little boy, with whom she dwelt in the comfortless abode we have briefly visited.

Alas for the suffering poor! How prone are the wealthy, by warm, glowing grates, to forget their cheerless habitations, and turn inhumanly from their pitiful tales of want and destitution!

CHAPTER II.

"This work-day world, this work-day world,

How it doth plod along!"

Tap, tap, tap, on the back kitchen door of Esq. Pimble's great brick mansion, and a clattering of plates and tea things within which quite drowned the timid knock. A second and louder one brought a fat, red-faced woman with rolled-up sleeves and a dish-towel in hand, to answer the summons.

"Sakes, Dilly Danforth!" exclaimed she, on beholding the well-known, faded blanket of the washerwoman; "what brings you here so airly in the mornin'? If you are after cold victuals, I can tell you you can't have any, for mistress—"

"I am not come seeking charity," said Dilly, cutting short the woman's brawling speech; "Mr. Pimble wished me to come and wash for him to day."

"He did?" said the bold-visaged housekeeper, opening her large, buttermilk-colored eyes with astonishment; "well, for sure!"—and here she seemed debating some matter in her mind for several moments, her hand still holding the door in forbidding proximity to poor Mrs. Danforth's pale, grief-worn face.

"Well, you can come in then, I s'pose," she said, at length, flinging it open spitefully, and returning to the wiping of her breakfast dishes, which she sent together with such a crash, that poor Dilly, as she stood over the stove trying to warm her chilly fingers by a decaying fire, momentarily expected to see them scattered over the floor in a thousand fragments.

"Sakes! are you cold this warm spring morning?" snarled the plump, well-fed housekeeper, as she thumped back and forth, carrying her piles of plates to the cupboard. "Why don't you shut the outside door after you, then? For my part, I'm most roasted to death."

"You have been in a warm room, while I have not seen a fire this morning," said Dilly, meekly, as she closed the door and returned to her place by the stove.

"Well, I wish I hadn't," answered the ireful Mrs. Peggy Nonce;—"a hard fate is mine; sweltering over a great fire all my life, to cook for a family that don't know nothing only to make the work as hard as they can. Now, here's Mr. Pimble goes and gets you here to wash; never tells me a word about it till you come right in upon me just as I have got my breakfast things cleared away, settin'-room swept out, and fire all down in the kitchen. I s'pose you have had nothing to eat to-day, for you always come half starved, though why you do so I don't know, save to make me work and get all you can out of us. When Mr. Pimble rents you that great house so cheap, too! I declare, I should think, with all that man's trials, he would get to be a hypocrite and believe in total annihilation."

Dilly made no reply to this speech. Probably the latter part was beyond her simple comprehension.

Mr. Pimble himself, the man of trials, as his housekeeper affirmed, now opened the sitting-room door and looked forth. He was habited in a long, faded, palm-figured bed-gown, all muffled up round his chin, and sheep-skin slippers without heels. He had a lank, pale, discouraged visage, and thin, light hair, streaked with gray, in a very untidy state straggling about his face. He pulled his wrapper up yet closer about his head, when he discovered the washerwoman, and shambled across the clean-swept floor, his heelless slippers going clip-clap after him, as he stalked along. What a gaunt, unhealthy-looking personage was the rich Peter Paul Pimble, Esq., of Mudget Square!

"Well, you are come, then, are you?" said he, glancing toward the kitchen clock, which was on the stroke of eight; "pretty time to commence a day's work."

"And she has had no breakfast; and the water is not in the kettles," put in dame Peggy. "I could have had that all hot for her, if you had just told me she was comin' to wash. But some folks always like to be so sly and underhanded."

"Stop your clack!" said the master, turning toward her with an angry glance, "and get a bite of something to eat while she is putting her water on and building a fire. I shall be at home through the day to superintend matters and see that all is done to my wishes."

Thus saying, he scuffled back to his warm fire in the parlor; for, though it was a bright morning in the early part of May, and odorous flowers opening their petals to the genial sunbeams, and groups of singing birds merry on all the foliage-covered trees, still Esq. Pimble was cold—always cold, summer and winter. No genial influence could warm his sluggish blood, or impart a glow to his dry, parchment-colored face.

There he sat; his feet poised on the fender, and a newspaper in his skinny clutch, from which he seemed to read. Now and then he yawned, stretched himself, approached the window, gazed forth for a moment with some anxiety depicted on his expressionless face, and then sunk down in his cushioned chair again. All the while the washing was going on briskly in the kitchen. Peggy Nonce had outlived her morning's asperity, and concluded to bake a batch of dried apple pies, as there must be a fire kept in the stove for Billy, and it would save burning the wood another day for the express purpose of cooking operations. So it appeared dame Peggy, with all her tempers, had one good point at least, and one but seldom found in servants,—a lookout for her employer's interests. The bluffy housekeeper was given to gossip, too, as all of her class are; and who could give her a better synopsis of the private affairs of half the families in Wimbledon, than Dilly Danforth, the washerwoman, who performed the drudgery and slop-work in many of the fine homes of the upper class? But, after all, Peggy had more to give than receive; for by some means the poor washerwoman did not seem possessed of the "gift of gab." She was lamentably ignorant on many points where Peggy thought, with her advantages, she would have been well-informed and able to answer any question proposed. And so the news-loving housekeeper, though she remembered her master's interests in the article of firewood, was fain to forget them in a matter of far more importance, and broached forth into a long tale of his trials and domestic discomforts. Warming with her discourse as she proceeded, her voice grew so shrill and vehement, that Mr. Pimble, had he not been deeply engaged in poring over the trials his loquacious housekeeper was so eloquently setting forth to her silent and rather inattentive listener, he would have discovered himself the hero of a tale which might have lost Mrs. Peggy Nonee a place she had occupied half a lifetime. But Mr. Pimble sat in bed-gown and slippers till dinner was announced at one P.M., and the three young Pimbles tumbled into the hall in boisterous glee, just escaped from the restraint of school discipline. They all rushed to the table at once, and called for half a dozen kinds of food in a voice, which the glum, abstracted father heaped indiscriminately on their plates. There was no sound save the clatter of knives and forks for several minutes, while the interesting family discussed their amply-provided and well-prepared meal. At length Master Garrison Pimble, a lad of a dozen years, declared sister Sukey had got the biggest piece of venison pie. Susan, a little girl of seven summers, said she "didn't care if she had; she ought to have."

"No, you oughtn't either," returned Master Garrison, "for you are not half as big as I."

"I don't care for that," lisped Susan; "mammy says women ought to have the best and most of everything, and do just what they like to, and go just where they want to."

"Well, they shouldn't do any such thing, should they, father?" demanded the argument-loving Garrison.

"Eat your dinners quietly, my children," returned the silent father, "and not meddle with matters you do not understand."

"But I do understand them," continued the youth. "I know sister Sukey ought not to have the largest piece of pie, and she shan't."

Thus saying, he made a dive at Miss Susan's plate, and bore off her generous slice of venison pastry on his fork. Susey screamed at the top of her voice, and, clutching her hands in her brother's hair, she pulled it so vigorously he was fain to drop his prize, which fell to the carpet and was devoured by a half-starved grimalkin, while he boxed his sister's ears soundly for her vixen attack upon his bushy black hair.

"I'll learn you to pull my hair!" said he, with a very red face.

"I'll learn you to steal my pie!" shrieked she, as, maddened by her smarting ears, she flew at him and dug long, bloody scratches in his cheeks with her sharp little nails. The father now parted the combatants, and shut the warlike Susey in the closet, where she was loud in pronouncing maledictions against her brother, and heaping vituperations upon her father; declaring, when mammy came home, she would tell her how she was abused in her absence, and mammy would take sides with her, because she knew men were all cross and ugly, and tried to hurt and wrong poor feeble woman. Garrison and David finished their meal in silence; and when the seminary bell rang to announce the hour for reöpening of school, Mr. Pimble liberated Susey, and all went shouting off together.

Then he called in Dilly and the housekeeper, and, while they dined on the fragments, went out in the kitchen to inspect the progress there. All seemed to be moving on well, and, as he was returning to his seat by the sitting-room fire, a covered buggy drove to the front piazza, and a gentleman descended and assisted two ladies to alight. Directly the parlor was dashed open, and the trio made their entry. Foremost was the mistress of the mansion, Mrs. Judith Justitia Pimble. What a puny, trembling thing appeared the husband, as he stood there like a galvanized mummy in presence of that tall, portly woman, with her broad shoulders and commanding aspect! Her first act was to smother the fire; her second, to throw open the windows; her third, to ensconce herself in her liege lord's easy-chair, and bid her guests lay aside their travelling garbs, and make themselves at home. Finding his comfortable seat appropriated, and no notice vouchsafed him, Mr. Pimble shuffled off into the kitchen.

"Was that your husband, sister Justitia?" inquired the lady visitor, as she threw off her shawl and bonnet, with an energetic toss.

"Yes," answered the majestic lady in her most majestic tone, "that was Pimble. You will not mind him at all; he is as near nothing as can be,—a mere crank to keep the machine in motion,—you understand. He has his sphere, however. The lowest brute animals have theirs. Pimble's is to stay at home and superintend the minor matters of life, such as milking the kine, feeding the chickens, and slaughtering a lamb occasionally to subserve the grosser wants of poor human nature. In brief, all those trivial and perplexing things in which a superior mind cannot be supposed to feel an interest, and by which it is not right it should be fettered, and prevented from soaring to its own lofty sphere of thought and action."

Mrs. Pimble paused for breath as she delivered herself of the above voluble speech, and the lady visitor replied:

"You speak heroicly, sister Justitia. I see you have obtained your rightful position in your own household. O, would that all our crushed and down-trodden sisters were possessed of but a tithe of your energy and independence of character! Then would our young Reform, which encounters on every side the swords and pickaxes of infuriate battalions of the tyrant man, ride in triumphal chariot over our whole broad country's proud domain!"

"Ah, sister Simcoe, how doth your inspired language fill my soul with fire! I rejoice that you are come among us. How will your presence encourage our ranks, and, in the triumph of your medical skill, vile male usurpers of the healing art shall sink to rise no more! I long to read again the proceedings of our late convention, the thrilling speeches, the sweeping resolutions!"

"Let us thus occupy ourselves," said young Dr. Simcoe, turning toward a remote corner of the apartment where sat the small man who had accompanied the ladies, perched on a hard, uncushioned chair, his hands folded in his lap, and his eyes bent studiously on the carpet. This was the personage on whom the accomplished young medical practitioner had, a few months previous, condescended to bestow the princely honor of her hand.

"Sim," said the eloquent wife, as she glanced carelessly upon him, "where are the portmanteaus?"

"In the entry," answered the small man, raising his eyes for a moment to his fair consort's face.

"Bring them in and open them," said the lady, again sinking down in her soft seat.

The small man disappeared in a twinkling, and the portmanteaus were soon placed on the table, and their contents spread forth.

"I will now order some refreshment," said Mrs. Pimble;—"and while it is preparing, we can amuse ourselves with the documents. What would you prefer for your dinner, sister Simcoe?"

"Pea soup," returned the lady doctor; "that is my uniform dish,—simple and plain."

"And Mr. Simcoe, what would he choose?"

"O, he has no choice!—anything that comes handiest will do for him."

Mrs. Pimble glanced toward Mr. Simcoe. Mr. Simcoe simpered and bowed. So Mrs. Pimble swept into the kitchen to issue her commands. She started on beholding Dilly Danforth bending over a wash-tub filled to the brim with smoking linen, just out of a boiling suds. Darting one fiery glance toward her forceless husband, sitting humped up over the stove, his head supported on his hands, she exclaimed, "What does this mean?" Mr. Pimble looked up vacantly; Peggy turned round from her occupation of washing the dinner dishes, and Dilly kept to her wash-tub. No one seemed to understand to whom the stately mistress addressed her brief interrogatory. "Have you all lost your tongues?" at length exclaimed Mrs. Pimble, in a louder tone; and, seizing her husband's chair, she gave it a rough jerk, and demanded, "Are you dumb, Peter Pimble? What is that beggar-woman,"—pointing toward Dilly,—"doing here?"

"Don't you see she is washing?" returned the husband, rather ironically.

"Well, by whose leave?"

"Mine."

"Yours?—and why have you brought a washerwoman into the house in my absence, and without my permission?"

"Because all my linen was dirty."

"What if it was?"

"I wanted it washed."

"What for?"

"Because the spring courts are held in Olneyville next week."

"What if they are?"

"I would like to attend."

"You would, would you? No doubt, and confine me at home to superintend the domestic affairs. No, Mr. Pimble, you don't enslave me in that manner. I'm a free woman, and acknowledge no man master. I'll see if I'm not mistress in my own house. Here, Dilly Danforth, take your hands out of that wash-tub, and pack off home, instanter. There will be no more washing done in my house to-day, or ever again, unless I order it done. And you, Peggy Nonce, make a pea soup and broil a nice steak, with all the appropriate dishes, and have a dinner prepared in half an hour, to serve myself and guests."

There was an instant commotion in the kitchen, and the mistress swept back to her guests in the parlor.

CHAPTER III.

"She is a saucy wench,

Somewhat o'er full

Of pranks, I think—but then with growing years

She will outgrow her mischief and become

As staid and sober as our hearts could choose."

Old Play.

Mr. Salsify Mumbles was a grocer in a small way, and his good wife took boarders,—young ladies and gentlemen from different parts of the country, who came to attend Cedar Hill Seminary, a school of high repute and extended celebrity. Her number was limited to three this summer, because she conceived her health to be delicate, and because Mr. Salsify had communicated to her in private that he was certainly "rising in his profession;" and the quick-sighted lady foresaw the day speedily approaching when she would no longer be obliged to perplex herself with so ungrateful a class of beings as boarders, but should roll through the streets of Wimbledon in her coach and four, the "observed of all observers."

Mrs. Mumbles had one fair daughter, Mary Madeline, upon whom she doted with true maternal fondness. This young lady was most perversely inclined to smile upon one Mr. Dick Giblet, a clerk in her father's grocery. Mrs. Mumbles was inconsolable, and Mr. Giblet was banished from the premises, and taken into employ by the firm of Edson & Co., the largest merchants in Wimbledon.

Rumor said these gentlemen were so well pleased with the young man, that they had offered him a yearly salary of several hundred dollars, and proposed, should he continue to perform his duties as well as hitherto, to take him into the firm, on his coming of age. Mrs. Salsify now began to regard Dick with different eyes, as what prudent mother would not? She sent Mary Madeline to the store of Edson & Co., whenever she was in want of a spool of cotton or yard of tape; but the young clerk had grown so vain with his elevation, that he looked very loftily down upon her, bowed in the most distant manner, and never exchanged more words with her than were necessary in the buying and selling of an article. So Mary Madeline told her mother, and upbraided her as the cause of the young man's cold treatment. Mrs. Salsify bade her daughter be of good cheer. "'Twas all a feint on Dick's part, to conceal his love till he was sure of hers,—all would come round right in time." But Mary Madeline would not believe it, and said she should die if she had to stay in the back store alone so much, sorting spices and writing labels, for she was constantly thinking of Dick, who used to be with her. She must have something to divert her attention; and, at length, Mrs. Salsify hit upon the project of sending her to school at the seminary one term. It was fitting that the daughter of the rich Mr. Mumbles that was to be, should be possessed of suitable polish and refinement to adorn the high circles in which her position would call her to move. So Miss Mumbles answered to her name among the two hundred scholars, male and female, that had assembled in the halls of Cedar Hill Seminary, for the summer term. Quite a sensation she produced in her gay muslin dress and fiery-colored silk apron; for Mrs. Salsify declared her resolve to dress her tip-top. She was not the woman to half do a thing, when she undertook; she always came up to the mark, or went a little beyond. Better overshoot than fall short, was her motto. And when Mary Madeline came home, on the evening of her debut at the seminary, walking between the two young lady boarders, Amy Seaton and Jenny Andrews, Mrs. Mumbles could not avoid drawing a comparison between the three; and her daughter appeared to her like a blazing star between two sombre clouds, for Miss Seaton and Miss Andrews, who were both orphans, wore plain, dark gingham frocks and linen aprons. The third boarder was a little brother of Miss Seaton's, about a dozen years of age. Charlie was his name; a bright, intelligent boy, brimful of mischief and fun.

Mrs. Salsify kept no girl;—she could not find a good one, she said,—a bad one she would not have, as long as she could manage to perform her work herself, which she thought she could do with Mary Madeline's assistance nights and mornings. It would not be for long, she trusted, this slavery to boarders, for Mr. Salsify continued to inform her, at stated intervals, that he was certainly "rising in his profession."

The husband and wife sat alone one evening, indulging in confidential discourse, as 'tis said conjugal mates are wont to do on certain occasions.

"Really," exclaimed Mrs. Mumbles, "it is astonishing, the quantity of victuals these boarders consume. It is so unfeminine and indelicate for young ladies to have appetites. I declare it quite shocks me to see the large slices of bread and butter disappearing down Jenny Andrews' little throat, and, as for that Charles Seaton, I believe he would eat a whole plum pudding if he could get it. I left off making them long ago."

"I have not noticed one on the table for several days," returned Mr. Salsify, "and, as I saw the last one was sent away untouched, I feared they had detected the musty raisins."

"O, la, no! the greedy mugs don't know the difference, I assure you," answered the wife, "'twas only because they had stuffed themselves so full of veal pie, that the pudding was not devoured." Just then Amy Seaton came in and asked if she might get a lunch for Charlie, as he was not in season for supper.

"O, yes!" answered Mrs. Salsify, in her blandest tone; "here are the keys. I lock the pantry because Mr. Mumbles is so absent-minded he often leaves the door open, and the cat gets in and devours the victuals. Get just what you want for Charlie and a lunch for yourself and Jenny if you choose."

"Thank you," said Amy taking the bunch of keys from Mrs. Salsify's hand. Wide swung the pantry door on its creaking hinges, and Amy's eyes brightened as she stepped in, thinking of the little feast they were to have up stairs on the good lady's sudden fit of generosity. She glanced her light eagerly along the shelves in search of pies and sweet cakes, for she had seen Mrs. Salsify baking a large amount of good things that morning; but nothing met her wistful gaze save a plateful of burnt gingerbread crusts which had been picked over and left after the evening's meal, a plate of refuse meat, and a few bits of salt cod-fish in a broken saucer. She was about to go and tell Mrs. Mumbles her pantry was destitute of victuals, when she recollected that lady superintended her own work, and she should only inform her of what she already knew. Several similar instances of the lady's singular generosity now occurred to her mind. She recollected one day, on coming in unexpectedly from school, of finding Mrs. Salsify buying a large quantity of cherries, and of her saying she was going to pick them over, and would set them on the dairy shelf where she might go and eat of them whenever she chose. But Amy could not find them anywhere, and when she innocently asked Mrs. Salsify where she had put them, that good lady, after blushing and stammering a good deal, said they proved so dirty she was obliged to throw them away. This and other similar occurrences decided Amy to say nothing of the destitution of the pantry. So she returned the keys to her boarding mistress, and, without a word, ascended to her room, where she gave Charlie the bit of fish and crust of gingerbread she had obtained.

"Is this all I'm to have for my supper?" said he, looking ruefully on the scanty, unpalatable food.

"'Tis all I can find in the pantry, bub," answered Amy; "can't you make it answer for to-night? and to-morrow I will buy you something nice at the bakery."

"Why," said Jenny, raising her dark, fun-loving eyes from a problem in Euclid, "I saw Mrs. Mumbles baking mince pies, and custards and plum cake, this morning."

"Bah," said Charlie, "I don't want any of her plum cake if she puts the same kind of raisins in it she does in her puddings. But, Jenny, I think I know where she keeps her nice victuals."

"Where?" asked Jenny, with an earnest look on Charlie's cunning face.

"Have you never noticed that great tin boiler under her bed?" Jenny burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which Amy vainly endeavored to silence, and directly Mary Madeline appeared and said, "Mother would like to have a little less noise if they could favor her, as she had company below." Then the three sat down on the floor, and Jenny and Charlie planned a midnight attack upon the tin boiler. Amy, who was more sedate and cautious, advised them to desist; but 'twas just the exploit for Jenny's frolicsome, mischievous temperament. Charlie was to take a pillow-case, and creep softly under the bed, and fill it from the supposed contents of the mysterious boiler, while Jenny stood at the kitchen door to assist him in bearing the precious burden to their room. How slow the hours passed after the plot was formed ere it could be carried into execution! Mrs. Salsify in the parlor below kept wishing her visitors would go, for she had never seen the wicks in the camphene lamps of so surprising a length. They flooded the whole room with light, and she recollected Jenny Andrews had asked the privilege of trimming them after they were last used. She dared not rise and pick them down, for such narrow-souled persons as she are always fearful that the truth will be known and their littleness exposed; so she sat in a perfect fever, watching the fluid getting every moment lower, and scarcely heeding the remarks of her guests. At length they took their departure, and Mrs. Salsify rushed in a sort of frenzy to the lamps, and dropped the caps over the blazing wicks.

"Mary Madeline," said Mr. Mumbles, reprovingly, "don't you know how to trim a lamp properly? Enough fluid has been wasted to-night by means of those long wicks to last two evenings with wicks of a proper length."

"'Tis none of Maddie's doings," returned Mrs. S., "she is more prudent than that. 'Twas that hussy of a Jenny Andrews who trimmed them after Miss Pinkerton was here the other night."

"Well, the girl ought to pay for the waste she has occasioned," said Mr. Salsify, gruffly. "Let us retire now; I declare 'tis near eleven o'clock." The conspirators in the room above heard with eager ears the departure of the guests, and sat in perfect silence till midnight chimed from the old clock tower. Then Charlie Seaton, pillow-case in hand, crept silently down the stairs with Jenny close behind him. Mrs. Mumbles' bed-room opened out of the kitchen, and the door was always standing ajar. Thus Charlie's quick eye had detected the boiler while sitting at the dining table directly opposite her room. As he now paused a moment in the kitchen before crossing the forbidden precincts, the deep-drawn sonorous breathings convinced him that Mr. and Mrs. Salsify Mumbles were lulled in their deepest nocturnal slumbers. Gently dropping on his knees, he crawled softly to the object of plunder. Lucky chance! the cover was off, and the first thing his hand touched was a knife plunged to the hilt in a large loaf. This he captured and deposited in his bag. Then followed pies, tarts, etc., and last a small jar, which he took under his arm, and, thus encumbered, crept on all-fours to the kitchen door, where Jenny relieved him of the jar. They softly ascended the stairs, where Amy was ready to receive them.

"How dared you take that jar?" said she; "what does it contain?"

"I don't know," said Charlie; "but I know what my pillow-case contains. It was never so well lined before, Amy."

Thus saying, he commenced removing its contents, while Jenny pulled the knife out of the loaf, which proved to be pound cake, uncovered the jar, and pronounced it filled with cherry jam. "Ay," said Amy, "there's where those cherries I saw her buying of Dilly Danforth went, then. She told me they were so dirty she had to throw them away. But I think you had better go and carry these things back."

"Never," said Charlie; "I am going to eat my fill once in Mrs. Mumbles' house."

"But what will she say when she discovers her loss?"

"That is just what I'm anxious to know," said Jenny.

"So am I," returned Charlie, chopping off a large slice of pound cake and dividing two pies in halves. "The old lady goes in for treating her visitors well, don't she? I dare say these condiments were intended to supply her guests for years. I wish we had some spoons to eat this cherry jam."

"You had better carry that back," said Amy.

"No, I will not go down on my knees and crawl under Mrs. Salsify's bed again to-night on any consideration."

"Neither would I," said Jenny, "the old adage is 'as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb;' so let us enjoy ourselves to the utmost in our power. Here is food enough, of the best kind too, to serve us well for the remainder of our stay here, only a week longer you know. I'll keep it locked in my trunk."

So saying, they cleared away, and Charlie bade good-night, and all retired to bright visions of pound cake and cherry jelly.

CHAPTER IV.

"She was a lovely little ladye,

With blue eyes beaming sunnily;

And loved to carry charity

To the abodes of misery."

There was a tiny bark floating down the flower-bordered river that wound so gracefully through the beautiful village of Wimbledon, and a smiling little lady, in a neat gingham sun-bonnet, sat coseyly in the stern, beneath the shady wing of the snow-white sail. A noble-looking lad plied the oar with graceful ease, chatting merrily the while with the little girl, and laughing at her constant and matronly care of a large basket which was placed beside her, neatly covered with a snowy napkin. "One would think that there were diamonds in that basket, Nell, you guard it so carefully," said he.

"No, only nice pies mother gave me leave to take to Aunt Dilly Danforth, the poor washerwoman," returned the little miss, again smoothing the napkin and adjusting the basket in a new position. "I wish you would row as carefully as you can, Neddie, so as not to jostle them much."

"So I will, sis," returned he; "let's sing the Boatman's Song as we glide along." And their voices rose on the calm summer air clear and sweet as the morning song of birds. Now and then their light barge touched the shore, and Ned plucked flowers to twine in Ellen's hair. O, that ever, down life's uncertain tide, these innocent young spirits might float as calmly, happily on to the broad ocean of eternity!

"Is that the old shanty where Dilly lives?" said the lad at length, pointing to a low black house, just beyond a clump of brushwood, which they were swiftly approaching.

"Yes," said Ellen, gathering up her basket.

"Here I must lose you, then," said Ned; "how I wish you would go fishing with me down to the cove!"

Ellen smiled. "Are you going to be all alone, Neddie?" asked she.

"Nobody but Charlie Seaton will be with me. You like him."

"Yes, I like him well enough," said Ellen, innocently; "but I would not care to go a-fishing with him."

"Why not, sis?" inquired Ned.

"Because it would not be pretty for a little girl to go fishing with boys."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the lad; "what a prudent little sis I have got! for all the world like Amy Seaton. But I like Jenny Andrews better, she is so full of fun and frolic. Did you know how she and Charlie Seaton robbed old Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, one night not long since?"

"O, no! robbed her? That was wrong, surely."

"O, no! You see she nearly starved them, so they helped themselves to her sweetmeats without invitation. That's all; not very wicked, I'm thinking, Nell."

"I think it was wicked for her not to give them enough food, and wicked for them to take it without her knowledge," said Ellen, after a pause. "But what did she say when she discovered her loss?"

"Not a word. What could she say?" asked Ned.

"I could not guess, and therefore inquired," said Ellen. "Will Jenny come to school next term?"

"Yes, Jenny, Amy and Charlie, and board at Dea. Allen's. That will be a good place; only I fancy the deacon's long prayers and sober phiz will prove a sad trial to Jenny. Well, you must go, sis," said he, pushing his boat high up on the green, grassy bank, by a few skilful strokes of his oar. Then assisting her out and placing the precious basket safely in her arms, he was soon gliding down the smooth current again. Ellen directed her steps toward the dilapidated dwelling a few yards before her, turning frequently to catch a glimpse of her brother's little bark as it came in view through some opening in the shrubbery that grew on the river's side.

One timid rap brought Willie Danforth to the door. The poor boy looked quite embarrassed to behold pretty, neat Ellen Williams standing there on the miserable, dirty threshold. "Good day, Willie," said she, pleasantly; "is your mother at home?"

"No, miss, she is scrubbing floors at Mr. Pimble's," said Willie, awkwardly enough.

"O, I am sorry she is gone, for I wanted to see her very much. Will you let me come in and leave this basket for her?"

"O, yes!" answered the poor lad, "or I will carry it in for you."

"I can carry it very well," said Ellen, "if you will only let me go in."

"I would let you come in, Miss Ellen," returned Willie, "only I am afraid it would frighten you to see such a sad, dirty place;" and the ragged little fellow blushed crimson, as he thus revealed his poverty and destitution.

Ellen pitied his embarrassment, and said, "I should like to go in, Willie, because, if I saw what you needed, I could tell mother, and she would make you more comfortable, I know."

The boy lifted the wooden latch of the inner room. The door opened with a dismal creak, and Ellen entered. There was one old, broken-backed chair, which he offered her, and sat down himself on a rough bench, with a sorrowful, embarrassed expression on his pale, interesting features. Ellen, still noticing Willie's painful confusion, knew not what to do after placing her basket on the rude, wooden table, and began to regret that she so strongly pressed an entrance.

"I told you you would be frightened," said the boy at length, in a choking tone.

"O, I am not frightened!" returned Ellen, glad to speak now that he had opened the way for her; "I am only sorry to find people living so forlornly in our pretty, happy village. I thought you had a good nice house to live in, for Mrs. Pimble said so, and that her husband rented it to you for almost nothing, and that your mother—but I won't say any more," said Ellen, stopping short in her discourse.

"Yes," said Willie, "tell me all she said, and then I will tell you something."

"Well, then, she said your mother only went out washing to make folks think she was needy, so they would give her food and clothing. 'Twas wicked for her to say it, surely."

Willie's face grew pale as death, and then flushed crimson to the temples.

"Don't look so," said Ellen, approaching the bench and putting her little hand on his hot cheeks. "O, Willie! you are sick and tired," she continued, soothingly; "will you not lay your head down on my lap, and tell me all about your troubles?"

Willie's full heart overflowed. Those accents of kindness, so strange to his ears, what a magic power they had! He leaned his dear bright head on her soft little palm, and his low voice told in broken accents a tale of want and suffering. Ellen wept, for her young heart was full of tenderness and sympathy. The hours sped on, while they thus held converse, till a hand on the latch aroused them. 'Twas Dilly returned from her day's work at Mr. Pimble's. Willie sprang up to meet her. "O, mother!" said he, "a sweet angel has come since you left me, this morning, crying because I was so hungry."

"Alas, my boy!" said the woman, "I fear you must still go hungry, for I have brought you nothing. Mr. Pimble says my week's work must go for rent."

Now was Ellen's moment of joy, as she bounded across the broken floor and lifted the napkin from her basket. "No, no, Willie,—no, no, Aunt Dilly, you shall not go hungry to bed to-night. Look what mother has sent you! How thoughtless of me not to have remembered my basket before, when Willie has been suffering from hunger all these long, long hours!"

"O, no! I have not thought of being hungry since you came," said the boy.

Mrs. Danforth approached the basket and gazed on its contents with tearful eyes. She had not seen the like on her table for many a day, and, dropping on her knees, she breathed a silent prayer to God for his goodness in putting it into the hearts of his children to remember her in her need! Willie brought forth a small bundle of sticks and lighted a fire, while Ellen ran and filled a black, broken-nosed tea-kettle, and hung it on a hook over the blaze. It soon began to sing merrily, and the children laughed and said it had caught some of their happiness. Then Ellen took some tea from the paper her mother had wrapped so nicely, put it in a cracked blue bowl, and Willie fixed a bed of coals for her to set it on. Dilly sat all the while gazing with tearful eyes on the two beaming faces which were constantly turned up to hers, to see if she gave her approval to their movements. At length the repast was prepared, and, after partaking with them, as Mrs. Danforth insisted upon her doing, Ellen set out for home, with Willie by her side. He hesitated some at first, when his mother told him he must accompany her, for his jacket was ragged and his shoes out at the toes. But when Ellen said so reproachfully he was "too bad, too bad, to make her go all the way home alone," he brightened, and said "he would be very glad to go with her if she would not be ashamed of him." So they set out together, each holding a handle of the basket; Ellen bidding Aunt Dilly a cordial good-by, and promising to come soon again and bring her mother. They met Mr. Pimble on their way, who scowled and passed by in silence.

Ellen found her mother anxiously waiting her return. She heard with pleasure and interest her little daughter's animated description of her visit; but when she said she had promised to visit Aunt Dilly soon again, and take her mother with her, Mrs. Williams looked sad.

"What makes you look so, dear mamma?" said Ellen; "will you not go and see poor Dilly?"

"I shall be very glad to do so, my dear child," answered the fond mother, "if it is possible. You know your father has often wished to remove to a place where his skill in architecture might be employed to better advantage, and an excellent opportunity now offers for him to dispose of his situation here, and remove to a large city, where his services will be in constant demand."

"And I shall never see Willie Danforth again," said Ellen, bursting into tears.

Childhood is so simple and unaffected, ever expressing with innocent confidence its dearest thought, and claiming sympathy! Mrs. Williams tried long to comfort her little daughter, and at length succeeded by holding out a prospect that she might some time return and visit her early associates. Ned was consoled by the same prospect. But then, we never know, when we leave a place, what changes may occur ere we revisit its now familiar scenes. Mrs. Williams felt this truth more vividly than her children. But few changes had marked their sunny years, and it never occurred to their youthful minds but what Wimbledon as she was to-night would be exactly the same should they return five or ten years hence. The mother did not disturb this pleasant illusion, "for experience comes quite soon enough to young hearts," she said, "and I'll not force her unwelcome lessons upon my happy children." So Ned and Ellen, when it was decided they should leave on the morrow, almost forgot the pangs of departure from their rich, beautiful home, so intently were they dwelling on the joy of returning and meeting their schoolmates and companions after a period of separation. O, gay, light-hearted youth! What is there in all life's after years, its gaudy pomp, its feverish flame, or short-lived honors, that can atone for the loss of thy buoyant hopes, and simple, trusting faith?

Sad was poor Dilly Danforth when she heard of the sudden departure of the benevolent Williams family, and bitterly she exclaimed, "No good thing is long vouchsafed the poor. Our poverty will only seem the darker now for having been brightened for a transient hour."

Willie, who had returned from his walk with Ellen with severe pains in his limbs and head, fell sick of a rheumatic fever, and suffered much for the want of warm clothing, care and medical treatment. O, how often he thought of Ellen! "If she were there he would not suffer thus. She would be warmth, care, clothing and physician for him."

His mother was obliged to labor every day to procure fuel for the fire; and to warm the great, cold room, where the piercing autumn blasts blew through wide gaping cracks and chasms, and get a bottle of wormwood occasionally, with which to bathe his aching limbs, was the utmost her efforts could accomplish. With this insufficient care, 'twas no wonder Willie grew rapidly worse. One bitter cold night Dilly sat down utterly discouraged as she placed the last stick of wood on the fire. Her boy had been so ill for several days she could not leave him to go to her accustomed labor, and consequently the small pile of fuel was consumed. What was she to do? Willie was already crying of cold, and she sat over the expiring blaze crying because she had naught to render him comfortable. After a while he grew silent, and, softly approaching, she found he had sunk into a quiet slumber. Carefully covering him with the thin, tattered blankets, she pinned a shawl over her head, and, softly closing the door behind her, stole forth into the biting night air, and directed a hasty tread toward Mr. Pimble's great brick mansion. A bright light gleamed through the kitchen windows as she ascended the steps and gave a hurried knock. Directly she heard a shuffling sound, and knew Mr. Pimble, in his heelless slippers, was approaching. Fast beat her heart as the door opened, and she beheld his gaunt form and unyielding features.

"What brings you here this bitter cold night, Dilly Danforth?" exclaimed he, in a surly tone, as the furious blast rushed in his face, and nearly extinguished the lamp he held in his skinny grasp.

She stepped inside, and he closed the door.

"'Tis the bitter cold night which brings me, Mr. Pimble," she said, feeling she must speak quickly, for Willie was at home alone; "my boy is sick and suffering from cold. For myself, I would not ask a favor, but for him I entreat you to give me an armful of wood to keep him from perishing."

"Why don't you work and buy your wood?" asked he, angered by this sudden demand upon his charity.

"I worked as long as I could leave my child," answered Mrs. Danforth, "and I thought maybe you would be willing to allow me something for my work here."

"Allow you something, woman? Don't I give you the rent of that great house for the few light chores you do for us, which really amount to nothing? Your impudence is astonishing;" and Esq. Pimble's voice quivered with rage, as he thus addressed the trembling woman.

Dilly stood irresolute, and Mr. Pimble was silent a few moments, when a voice from the parlor called out, imperiously, "Pimble, I want you!"

The man roused himself and rushed to the door in such haste as to lose both his slippers.

"What are you blabbing about out there?" Dilly heard Mrs. Pimble ask, in an angry tone.

"Dilly Danforth has come for some wood," was the moody reply.

"And so you are giving wood to that lazy, foolish, stupid creature, are you?"

"No, I am not. She says her boy is sick and she has no fire."

"A pretty tale, and I hope 'tis true. She'll learn by and by her sin and folly. If she had asserted her own rights, as she should have done, and left her drunken husband and moping boy years ago, she might have been well off in the world by this time. But she chose like an idiot to live with him and endure his abuses till he died, and since she has tied herself to that foolish boy. O, I have no patience with such stupid women! They are a disgrace to the true female race. Go and tell her to go home and never enter my doors a-begging again."

Dilly did not wait to receive this unfeeling message, but pulled her thin blanket around her, and stole out in the chill night air, and ran toward home as swiftly as possible. She stumbled over something on the threshold. It was a bundle of firewood. How came it there? She could not tell, but seized it in her arms, ran hastily in, and approached Willie's bed-side. He was still sleeping tranquilly, and that night a comfortable fire, lighted by unknown generosity, blazed on the lowly hearth.

CHAPTER V.

"There is a jarring discord in my ear,

It setteth all my soul ashake with fear,

Good sir, canst drive it off?"——

Old Play.

All Wimbledon was aroused one cold November morning by a direful conglomeration of sounds;—strange, discordant shrieks, ominous groans, a clanking, as of iron chains and fetters, a slow, heavy, elephantine tread gradually growing on the ear, and a deep, continuous rumbling as of earthquakes in the bowels of the earth. Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, nervous and delicate as she was, clung fast to the neck of her liege lord when he attempted to throw open the sash of his window, to discover the import of this unusual disturbance of the nocturnal stillness of Wimbledon. Good Deacon Allen, who was lying on his deaf ear, became restless, and visions of the final retribution and doom of the wicked harassed his slumbers. Suddenly he awoke, and dismal groans and unearthly rumblings struck his terrified ear. "Sally! Sally!" said he, leaping from bed and giving his sleeping spouse a vigorous shake, "why sleepest thou? arise and don thy drab camlet and high-crowned cap, and prepare to meet thy Lord; for behold he cometh!"

"Samuel," said the good wife but half awake, "you are prating in your sleep. Return to your pillow and be quiet till day-break."

"You speak like a foolish virgin, Sally," returned the excited deacon. "Do you not hear the roaring of the resurrection thunder and the wailings of the wicked?"

"I do hear something," said Mrs. Allen, now poking her night-capped head from beneath the blankets, and listening a moment attentively. "'Tis a sound of heavy carts drawn by oxen over frozen ground. Ay, I guess it is the new family, that bought out neighbor Williams, moving their goods. Just look out the window,—our yards join,—and see if there is not a stir there." The deacon obeyed.

"O, yes," said he, "I can distinguish several loaded teams and dusky figures moving to and fro."

"I thought 'twas the new-comers," returned the wife, who possessed more ready wit and shrewdness than her amiable consort, and, withal, could hear vastly better. "You had better come to bed again, Samuel;—'tis an hour to daylight."

"I cannot get to sleep again, I have been so disturbed," said the husband, fidgetting round in the dark room to find his clothes.

"O, pshaw!—put your deaf ear up and you'll soon fall off," answered the wife, drawing the covering over her head. Deacon Allen, who had a very high opinion of his wife's good sense, concluded to follow her advice, and the happy couple were soon enjoying as pleasant a morning snooze, as though neither the resurrection nor the "new family" had disturbed their slumbers.

Jenny Andrews and Amy Seaton, who slept in the room above, never heard a sound, nor did Charlie in his cosey chamber beyond, and great was the astonishment of the young people, on opening their casements, to behold the long line of heavy-loaded teams drawn up in the yard of the splendid mansion which stood next above Dea. Allen's, the former residence of Esq. Williams. Teamsters in blue frocks were unfastening the smoking oxen from the ponderous carts, and as the girls hurried below to impart the intelligence of the arrival of the new family to Mrs. Allen, they heard the voice of Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, and entering the sitting-room found that lady laying aside her bonnet and shawl. Mary Madeline was standing by the window gazing into the adjoining yard. Jenny and Amy had not seen their former boarding mistress since they left her house at the close of the summer term, several months before. But she was so elate about the arrival of the new family that all memory of their former ill-usage seemed to have escaped her, and she grasped the hands of both and shook them cordially. "I am glad to see you," she exclaimed; "why have you not called on us this fall? Mary Madeline has often said I wish Jenny and Amy would come in, it would seem so much like old times. Here, my dear," said she, seizing hold of the young lady's shawl and pulling her from the window, "don't be so taken up with the new family that you can't speak to your old friends." Mary Madeline now turned and spoke to her former schoolmates. Then, drawing a chair close to the window, she resumed her gaze, with her gloves and handkerchief lying unheeded on the floor and her gay shawl dragging behind her. "O, mother! mother!" she exclaimed at length, "there comes the family."

Mrs. Salsify, who was engaged in telling Mrs. Allen of Mr. Salsify's prosperity, and how he was "rising in his profession," and how he meditated adding another story to his house and putting a piazza round it next spring, dropped all, even her snuff-box, and rushed to the window as a large covered wagon, drawn by a span of elegant black horses, drove rapidly into the adjoining yard. First alighted a tall man in a black overcoat,—the master no doubt, the gazers decided,—then a tall man in a gray overcoat, then a tall man in a brown overcoat. And the man in the black overcoat and the man in the gray overcoat moved away, the former up the steps of the mansion and around the terraces, trying the fastenings of the Venetian blinds, and examining the cornices and pillars of the porticos; the latter turned in the direction of the stables and outhouses, while the man in the brown overcoat assisted three ladies to alight, all grown-up women, one short and fat, the other two tall and thin. The gazers were a little puzzled by the appearance of the new family. As far as they could discover there was no great difference in the respective ages of the six individuals who had alighted from the wagon, and Mrs. Salsify Mumbles declared it as her opinion that the family consisted of three brothers who had married three sisters for their wives. The short, fat woman, who had a rubicund visage and turned-up nose, and wore a broad-plaided cashmere dress, drew forth a bunch of keys from a wicker basket that hung on her arm, and with a pompous tread ascended the marble steps, unlocked the broad, mahogany-panelled door, turned the massive silver knob, and, swinging it wide, strode in, the tall ladies in blue cloaks following close behind. Soon sashes began to be raised, blinds flew open, and the tall ladies were seen standing on high chairs hanging curtains of rich damask and exquisitely wrought muslin, before the deep bay windows. The three tall men threw off their overcoats, and, with the assistance of the blue-frocked teamsters, commenced the business of unlading the carts.

"All the furniture is bagged," said Mrs. Salsify, impatiently; "one cannot get a glimpse to know whether 'tis walnut, or rosewood, or mahogany. They mean to make us think 'tis pretty nice, whether 'tis or not; but we shall find out some time, for they can't always be so shy. Well, Mary Madeline," she added, turning to her daughter, "we may as well go home, I guess;—there's nothing to be seen here but chairs and sofas sewed up in canvas. I thought I would run over a few minutes, Mrs. Allen, as I knew your windows looked right into the yard of the new comers, and we could get a good view. Of course, we wanted to know what sort of folks we were going to have for neighbors. I hope they'll be different from the Williams'."

"Why?" asked Mrs. Allen, looking up from the brown patch she was engaged in sewing on the elbow of the deacon's black satinet coat. "I only hope they will prove as good neighbors and I will be perfectly satisfied."

"O, I don't know but what the Williams' were good enough, but they were too exclusive, too aristocratic for me. Mrs. W. never thought Mary Madeline fit for her Ellen to associate with."

"How do you know she thought so?" asked Mrs. Allen; "for my part, I lived Mrs. Williams' nearest neighbor for ten years or more, and always considered her a very kind-hearted, unassuming woman, wholly untainted with the pride and haughtiness which too often disfigure the characters of those who possess large store of this world's goods and move in the upper circles."

"Well, you were more acquainted with Mrs. Williams than I was, of course; but she was not the kind of woman to suit my taste. There's Mrs. Pimble and Mrs. Lawson now, both rich and splendid, keep their carriages and servants, but they are not above speaking to common people."

"I am not personally acquainted with those ladies," answered Mrs. Allen.

"They are reformers," said Mrs. Mumbles, in a reverential tone; "you should hear their awful speeches. Daniel Webster could never equal them, folks tell me."

"I have understood that they belonged to the fanatical class of female lecturers that have arisen in our country within the last few years."

"O, they hold conventions everywhere, and such terrible gesticulations as they pronounce against the tyranny and oppression of the female sex by the monster man!" said Mrs. Salsify. "I declare I wish they would have one of their indignation meetings here, for I think the men are getting the upper hand among us."

"Doubtless you would join their ranks should they do so," observed Mrs. Allen, with a quiet smile, as she arose, gave the deacon's coat a shake, and hung it on a peg behind the door.

"Well, I don't know but I should," returned Mrs. S.; "but come, Maddie, how we are wasting time! I declare, two carts are already unloaded, and there goes the seminary bell. 'Tis nine o'clock." Jenny, Amy and Charlie, ran down stairs all equipped for school, as Mrs. Mumbles and her daughter stepped into the hall, and all went forth together. Mrs. M. repeated her invitation for the young ladies and Charlie to visit her, and the girls laughingly promised to do so at their first leisure. Mary Madeline went to Edson's store on an errand, and her mother proceeded directly home. Great was her anger to behold the back kitchen door swinging wide. She shut it behind her with a slam, muttering some impatient exclamation about Mr. Salsify's stupid carelessness. As she stood by the stove warming her chilled fingers, a noise from the pantry startled her ears, and, opening the door, she beheld the great, shaggy watch-dog, that belonged to the store of Edson & Co., lying on his haunches with a nice fat pullet between his paws, which he was devouring with evident relish and gusto. He turned his head towards her, uttered a low growl, and went on with his breakfast again. Mrs. Salsify looked up to a peg on which she had hung six nicely-dressed chickens the night before. Alas! the last one was between the bloody devourer's paws. She glanced toward a pot she had left full of cream, under the shelves. It was empty; and toward her rolling-board, where she had left a pan of rich pie-crust, with which she was intending to cover her thanksgiving pies. All had disappeared. She trembled with rage.

"Get out, you thievish rascal!" she exclaimed, bringing her foot violently to the floor.

The dog sprang toward her, and, seizing the skirt of her gay-striped, bombazine dress with his glistening ivories, rent it from the waist, flew through the parlor window, and rushed through streets, by-lanes and alleys, rending the flaring fabric, and dragging it through mud-holes till it looked like some fiery-colored flag borne away by the enemy in disgrace.

Mrs. Salsify rushed down into her husband's shop in awful plight, her hair standing on end, and her great, green eyes almost starting from their sockets. Mr. Salsify looked with amazement on his lady, as did also the half-score of customers that stood around his counters. Her saffron-colored skirt was rent in divers places, revealing the black one she wore beneath, and the gay-striped waist she still wore was hung round with ragged fragments of the vanished skirt.

"Lord, love us, what is the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Salsify, rushing toward his wife.

"Edson's dog has eat up six chickens, a cream-pot, a rolling-board, pie-crust, and all!" exclaimed Mrs. Mumbles, with a frantic air, as she fell into her husband's outstretched arms, wholly unmindful of the laughter her appearance and words had excited among her good man's customers.

"Edson's dog,—how could he get into the house?" demanded Mr. Mumbles.

"I saw him out with Dick Giblet, this morning, when he was leaving packages," said little Joe Bowles, with a mischievous leer in his black eyes.

The husband and wife exchanged a glance. The whole truth flashed upon them,—'twas a trick of Dick's. Mr. Salsify ordered his customers to leave the shop, and locking the door, he led his terrified, trembling wife up stairs, where they found Mary Madeline lying on the floor in a fainting fit, with the fragments of her mother's skirt clenched tightly in her cold hands.

CHAPTER VI.

"Her face was fairer than face of earth;

What was the thing to liken it to?

A lily just dipped in the summer dew?

Parian marble—snow's first fall?

Her brow was fairer than each,—than all.

And so delicate was each vein's soft blue,

'Twas not like blood that wandered through.

Rarely upon that cheek was shed,

By health or by youth, one tinge of red,

And never closest look could descry,

In shine or shade, the hue of her eye,

But, as it were made of light, it changed

With every sunbeam that over it ranged."

The midnight stars were over all the heaven, O, wildly, wildly bright! Orion, like a flaming monarch, led up "the host of palpitating stars" to their proud zenith, while, far in the boreal regions, danced strange, atmospheric lights, with flitting, fantastic motions and ever-changing forms and colors. A young girl stood in the deep recess of a large window, with the rich, blue-wrought damask curtains wrapped closely about her slight, fragile form, gazing intently on the splendors of the midnight heaven. Long she stood there, and no sound broke the stillness, save now and then a half-audible sigh. At length she said, "I cannot endure this solitude and the depression which is stealing over me. Would that I had a mother to love and bless me! Father is often so strange and silent, and Rufus cannot sympathize with my feelings. I must call Sylva to bear me company, for one of my nervous attacks is upon me, and I cannot sleep." Softly opening a side-door, she said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "Sylva, are you awake?"

"Yes," was the answer; "what is your wish, Miss Edith?"

"That you would come and sit with me a while."

"What time is it!"

"I know not; but, by the stars, it should be little after midnight."

"Return to your room, and I will soon be there with a light," answered the one called Sylva.

The young girl did as requested, and sank down in a large arm-chair which nearly concealed her in its soft cushions. Presently the small side-door opened, and Sylva entered, bearing an astral lamp and a few light pieces of kindling wood.

"O, I don't mind a fire!" said Miss Edith.

"Well, I do," answered the woman; "you would catch your death, up here half the night with no fire."

"'Tis a cold place we are come to, isn't it Sylva?" said the young lady, springing from her chair and wrapping an elegant cashmere dressing-gown, lined with azure satin, round her tall, delicate figure, and then again sinking down among the soft velvet cushions of her spacious fauteuil.

"Yes, Miss Edith, it is, indeed," answered Sylva, as she lighted a bright fire in the polished grate. "How your father expects to rear so fragile a bud in this bleak region I do not know."

"I have never seen him in such spirits as since we came here," returned Edith, toying with the silken tassels of her rich robe. "You know he was always so silent and reserved in our former home, Sylva. But sometimes I fancy there is something unnatural in his manner. One moment he will laugh wildly, and the next a dark frown will have gathered on his brow. Twice he has caught me in his arms and said, 'Edith! Edith, you have a part to play, and I rely on you to do it!' Then he would look on me so sternly, I would burst into tears, and strive to free myself from his embrace. What did he mean by such words, Sylva?"

"Why, that you are coming on to the stage of action, and he desires you to be educated and accomplished in a manner to adorn the high circles in which you will move."

"O, more than that, Sylva!" said Edith doubtfully; "he need not have looked so stern, were that all; but still he is a kind, indulgent father for the most part. I should not complain;" and the young girl relapsed into thoughtful silence. The pale fire-light glowed on her delicate features. One tiny white hand rested on the cushioned arm of the chair, and the large, melancholy blue eyes were fixed on the glowing blaze within the shining ebon grate. The profile was strictly Grecian in outline, and the soft, silken hair fell in a shower of golden ripples over her small, sloping shoulders. Her lips were vermilion red, and disclosed two rows of tiny pearls whenever they parted with dimpling smiles.

"Have you become acquainted with any of the village people, Sylva?" asked the fair girl, rousing at length from her reverie.

"No, save this young Mrs. Edson, who called yesterday, I have seen no one," returned the woman, "unless I mention that sunken-eyed washerwoman, Dilly Danforth, as she is called."

"O, I saw her on the steps one day! What a forlorn-looking creature she is! I think she must be very poor. Still, it seems to me there should be no poverty in this rich, happy-appearing village. I fancy it will be a love of a place in summer, Sylva, when all the maples and lindens are in leaf, and the numerous gardens in flower. O, when father took me out in the new sleighing phaeton last week, I saw a most magnificent mansion, grander than ours, even. The grounds seemed beautifully laid out, and over the arching gateway I read the words 'Summer Home' sculptured in the marble. It is closed at present, but when the occupants return in the spring, I hope I shall get to know them, for I would dearly love to visit at so delightful a place. Father said I should become acquainted with the family. He knows their names, and I think said he had met the gentleman once." Edith grew quite smiling and happy as she prattled on, forming plans and diversions for the coming summer. Sylva listened to her innocent conversation in respectful silence, and, after a while, as the fire burned low, and the cocks began to crow from their neighboring perches, the sweet girl ceased to speak. She had wearied herself and fallen asleep.

The sun was shining brightly through the blue damask curtains when she awoke, and Sylva was bending over her, parting away the rich masses of auburn curls which had fallen over her face as she leaned her head over the arm of the chair. "Your father and Rufus are calling for you," said the attendant pleasantly.

"Why, how long I have slept!" said Edith, opening her blue eyes with a wondering expression. "What o'clock is it, Sylva?"

"It is half-past nine," answered the woman.

"I have been dreaming the strangest dream about that beautiful mansion I was telling you I saw in my ride the other day—that 'Summer Home,' as it is so sweetly styled. I thought I saw a lovely young girl there, younger than myself, but far more womanly in aspect, and she said she was my cousin, and kissed me, and gave me rare flowers and delicious fruit. Did you say father had called for me? Well, I'll dress and go down in the parlor. What are you doing there, Sylva?"

"Getting your muff and tippet," answered she.

"Is father going to take me out?" asked Edith with animation.

"Rufus is going to take you to church," said Sylva. "He said you expressed a wish to go last Sabbath, but it was too cold. To-day is more pleasant, and he is ready to attend you."

"He is kind," said Edith. "Am I not a naughty girl to murmur when I have a brother so good, and a father who loves me so dearly?"

"You do not murmur, do you, Miss Edith?"

"Sometimes I wish I had a mother, or that she had lived long enough to leave her form and features impressed on my memory."

A tear fell as the fair girl spoke thus, but she brushed it quickly away, and commenced arraying herself for church.

"I shall be delighted to behold the interior of that antiquated looking building," remarked she, as Sylva placed the dainty hat over the clustering curls; "and, besides, I can see all the village people, and form some opinion of those who are henceforth to constitute our associates and friends."

"And all the people will see you, too," said Sylva, smiling.

"O, I don't mind that!" answered Edith; "they would all see me, sooner or later, as I'm to go to school, in the spring, at the white seminary on the hill."

Thus speaking, the beautiful girl descended to the drawing-room. A tall, elegantly-proportioned man, with a magnificent head of raven black hair, which hung in one dense mass of luxuriant curls all round his broad, marble-like brow, and quite over his manly shoulders, was leaning in a careless, graceful attitude against a splendid mahogany-cased piano, that stood in the centre of the apartment, and moving his white, taper fingers over the pearl-tipped keys, waking now rich bursts of song, and, anon, dwelling long on deep, solemn notes, that pierced the soul with melancholy. He did not move when the door opened, and Edith crossed the room and stood beside him ere he noticed her presence.

"Where is brother Rufus?" she asked, drawing on her tiny, lemon-colored gloves.

The gentleman turned and gazed down upon the fair speaker. The clear complexion and soft blue eyes of the daughter were exact counterparts of the father's; so were the rich red lips and pearly teeth. Their only point of difference was in the color of the hair. "What do you want of Rufus?" asked he, in a tone almost stern, after he had gazed on her several moments in silence. She turned her speaking eyes upon his face, and answered, "Sylva said he would take me to church."

"To church!" said her father, now relaxing his features into a smile, "what an odd fancy! And are you arrayed in this fine garb to attend service in an old, dilapidated country church?"

"Do you think me very finely-dressed?" said Edith, archly, as she for a moment surveyed herself in the large mirror which hung from ceiling to floor between the eastern windows. She wore a crimson velvet dress and mantle, a muff and tippet of white ermine, and a chapeau of light blue satin, with a long, drooping white plume. Her hair was gathered into luxuriant masses of curls each side of her sweet face, and confined by sprays of pearls and turquoises.

Rufus now entered. He was very unlike his sister in personal appearance. His hair was the color of his father's, but far less abundant, and straight as an Indian's. Eyes and complexion were both dark, and his countenance indicative of rather low intelligence, and weak intellectual powers. The father looked on him as though he was not quite satisfied with the son who was, probably, to perpetuate his name.

"Are you ready, Edith?" asked the youth.

"Yes," she returned. He approached to give her his arm, and, as they were passing out, Edith caught her father looking grimly on them, and said quickly, "Do you mind our going to church, papa? We will stay at home if you wish."

"No, go along!" said he. "I'll not thwart you in so small a matter, and hope I may never have occasion to in a greater!" Edith looked up in his face as he uttered these last words. There was a dark shade flitting over it. It haunted her all the while she was walking to church; but so many things occupied her attention, after entering, it passed from her mind.

CHAPTER VII.

"I fain would know why woman is outraged,

And trampled in the very dust by man,

Who vaunts himself the lord of all the earth,

And e'en the mighty realms of sea and air."

Winter was passing away, and Wimbledon was making but slow progress toward the better knowledge of the new family that had come among them. The silver plate on the hall door announced the master's name as Col. J. Corydon Malcome, a sounding appellation enough; and he was often seen walking up and down the streets in his rich, fur-lined overcoat and laced velvet cap, placed with a courtly air over his cloud of ebon curls. He was known to be a widower, and the woful extravagancies into which Mary Madeline Mumbles cajoled her doting mother, were enough to make one shudder in relating. Wimbledon was ransacked for the gayest taffetas, the jauntiest bonnets, and broadest Dutch lace, till, at length, poor Mr. Salsify went to his wife with a doleful countenance, and told her he could never "rise in his profession" as long as she upheld Madeline in such whimsical extravagance. Mrs. Salsify looked lofty, and tossed her carroty head; but her husband had waxed bold in his distress, and could not be intimidated by ireful brows, or pursed-up lips. So he proceeded to free his mind on this wise: "As for Mary Madeline's ever catching that haughty, black-headed Col. Malcome, I know better; she can't do it, and I would much rather have her marry Theophilus Shaw, who is a steady, modest shoemaker. He makes good wages, and can maintain a wife comfortably, and would treat her well; which is more than I would trust that murderous-looking colonel to do."

"Well, you will have your own way, I suppose," said Mrs. S., putting on an injured expression. "I see it is about as Mrs. Pimble and the sisterhood tell me. Men are all a set of tyrants, and the women are their slaves."

"Come, come, wife!" said Mr. Salsify, impatiently; "pray, don't get any of those foolish notions in your head. Depend upon it, nothing could so effectually put a stop to my 'rising in my profession.' The piazza and second story could never be built, if you neglected your home affairs, and went cantering about the country, like those evil-spirited women, turning everything topsy-turvy, and mocking at all law and order; but I know my wife has a mind too delicate and feminine to commit such bold, masculine actions."

Mr. Mumbles had chosen the right weapon with which to combat his wife's inclinations toward the Woman's Rights mania. A love of flattery was her weak point. It is with half her sex. We too often say, by way of expressing our disapproval of a certain man, "O, he is a gross flatterer!" thus very frequently condemning the quality we most admire in him;—or, if not the one we most admire, at least the one which affords us most pleasure and gratification when in his society. But to our tale:

On a certain blustering January day, a sleigh, containing two ladies and a gentleman, drove to the door of Col. Malcome's elegant mansion, and were ushered into the spacious drawing-room by the blooming-visaged housekeeper. Col. Malcome arose from the luxurious sofa on which he had been reclining among a profusion of costly furs, and received his visitors with an air of courtly magnificence, which might have had the effect to intimidate a modest, retiring female; but not king Solomon in all his glory could intimidate or abash Mrs. Judith Justitia Pimble, or Mrs. Rebecca Potentia Lawson. As for poor, insignificant Peter Pimble, he looked quite aghast with terror and astonishment at his own temerity in penetrating to a presence so imposing and sublime, and cuddled away in the most obscure corner he could find, while his majestic wife assumed a velvet-cushioned arm-chair, which stood beside a marble table.

"Perhaps you do not know our names?" said Mrs. Pimble, bending a sharp glance on Col. Malcome from beneath her shaggy brows.

"I certainly have not that pleasure, madam," answered the colonel, with a graceful bow.

"I do not like that style of address," said Mrs. Lawson, arising from the ottoman on which she had been sitting, with her broad, white palms extended to the warmth of the glowing grate, and throwing her stately form upon a crimson sofa; "it is a fawning, affected, puppyish manner, which men assume when speaking to women, as if they were not capable of understanding and appreciating a plain, common-sense mode of address."

"Ah, yes!" said Mrs. Pimble, "man has so long reigned a tyrant of absolute sway, that centuries will pass, I fear, before he is dethroned, and woman elevated to her proper stand among the nations of the earth."

Here she tossed her bonnet on the table, smoothed her bushy hair, and, drawing a red bandanna from her pocket, gave her long nose a vigorous rub, and settled herself in her soft chair again. Col. Malcome sat bolt upright among the furs which were piled up around him, and stared at his visitors. Yes, refined and polite though he was, he forgot his good-breeding in surprise at the coarse, singular manners of his involuntary guests. The figure in the extreme corner of the apartment at length attracted his notice, and placing a chair in proximity to the fire, he said, "Will you not be seated, sir?"

The muffled shape moved, but the brawny lady in the rocking-chair spoke, and it was still again.

"O, Pimble can stand, Mr. Malcome," she said, "that's his name, and mine is Mrs. Judith Justitia Pimble, author of tracts for the amelioration of enslaved and down-trodden woman; and this is Mrs. Rebecca Potentia Lawson, my sister and co-operater in the work of reform."

Col. Malcome bowed; but, recollecting the rebuff one brief remark of his had received, remained silent.

"The object of our visit," said Mrs. Lawson, "is to see and confer with the ladies of your household."

"Begging your pardon," said the colonel, "my family contains but one lady."

"Ah, the one we met at the door, then?" remarked Mrs. Pimble.

"No, madam; that was my housekeeper," returned the colonel.

"Well, what do you call her?" asked Mrs. Lawson.

"My housekeeper, madam, as I have just informed you."

"She has no other name, I suppose?" said Mrs. Pimble, in a loud, ironical tone; "she is to you a housekeeper, as a horse is a horse, or a cow a cow;—not a woman"——

"O, yes! a woman, certainly," interrupted the colonel.

"A woman, but not a lady?" continued Mrs. Pimble.

The gentleman bowed as if he felt himself understood. "Well, sir," said Mrs. Lawson, peering on him through her green glasses, "will you please to inform us of the difference between a woman and a lady?"

Col. Malcome, who loved the satirical, had a mind to apply it here, but his politeness restrained him, and he merely remarked, "In a general sense, none: in a particular, very great."

"That is, in your opinion," said Mrs. Pimble. "Now let me tell you there is no difference, whatever. The wide world over, every woman is a lady—(the colonel hemmed,)—every woman is a lady," repeated Mrs. P., "and every lady is a woman."

"That is, in your opinion?" remarked Col. Malcome.

"In every sensible person's opinion."

"Well, sister Justitia," said Mrs. Lawson, drawing forth a massive silver watch, by a steel fob-chain; "we are wasting time. There's but an hour to the lecture, and we have several miles to ride. Let us state the object of our visit in a form suited to this man's comprehension."

The colonel felt rather small, on hearing this depreciation of his intellectual powers, but said nothing.

"Well, make the statement, sister Potentia," said Mrs. Pimble, folding her brawny arms over her capacious chest, and giving a loud, masculine ahem.

"Mr. Malcome, we would like to see the female portion of your household," said Mrs. Lawson, in a slow, measured tone, with an emphasis on every word.

As the colonel, indignant at the coarse vulgarity of the intruders, was about to reply in the negative—the door opened, and Edith entered, accompanied by Sylva, who led a small, white Spanish poodle by a silver cord. The little animal capered gracefully about, cutting all sorts of cunning antics, much to the amusement of the young girl, till at length discovering the muffled shape of Pimble behind the door, he ran up to him, smelt at his clothes, and commenced a furious barking.

"You had better go out doors, Pimble," said his wife; "you are so contemptible a thing even insignificant curs yelp at your heels."

Mrs. Lawson laughed loudly at this witty speech, and the poor man was about disappearing outside the door, when Col. Malcome prevented his exit by bidding him be seated, and ordering Sylva to drive Fido from the room. Quiet being restored, and Mr. Pimble having ventured to drop tremblingly on the extreme edge of the chair offered for his comfort and convenience, Col. Malcome said, "You wished to see the female portion of my household:—here are two of them; my daughter and her attendant."

"Her attendant!" remarked Mrs. Lawson, "I do not know as I exactly understand the signification of that term, as applied by you in the present instance."

"Her waiting-woman, then," answered the colonel, "if that is a plainer term."

"Ay, yes; her waiting-woman," resumed Mrs. L. "Well, your daughter looks rather puny and sickly. She needs exercise in the open air, I should say,—narrow-chested,—comes from a consumptive family on the mother's side?"

"Madam," said Col. Malcome, with a sudden anger in his tone and manner, "I don't know as it is any business of yours, from what family my daughter comes."

"O, no particular business," continued Mrs. Lawson, with undisturbed equanimity; "I only judged her to come of a consumptive race by her face and form. Public speaking would be an excellent remedy for her weakly appearance. That enlarges the lungs, and creates confidence and reliance on one's own powers. Miss Malcome, would you not like to attend some of our lectures and reform clubs?"

"I don't know," answered Edith, tremblingly. "I think I would if father is willing;" and she turned her sweet blue eyes up to his face, as if to read there her permission or refusal.

"A slave to parental authority, I see," remarked Mrs. Pimble; "but this lady, grown to years of maturity; she, surely, should have a mind of her own. Don't you think woman is made a galley-slave by the tyrant man?" she demanded, turning her discourse on Sylva, who looked confused, as if she did not quite understand the speech addressed to her. At length, she asked timidly, "What woman do you refer to, madam?" "To all women upon the face of the earth!" returned Mrs. Pimble, vehemently. "Are they not loaded with chains and fetters, and crushed down in filthy mire and dirt by self-inflated, tyrannizing man?"

"O, no!" answered Sylva, innocently; "no man ever put a chain on me, or on any woman of my acquaintance, or ever pushed one down in the dirt."

"Poor fool!" exclaimed Mrs. Pimble, with great indignation; "you are grovelling in the mire of ignorance, and man's foot is on your neck to hold you there."

The figure that trembled on the edge of the chair was now heard calling faintly, "Mrs. Pimble—Mrs. Pimble."

"Pimble speaks, sister Justitia," said Mrs. Lawson.

"What do you want?" asked the lady, turning sharply round.

"'Tis four o'clock, ma'am," gasped he.

"Four o'clock! didn't I tell you I wished to be at the lecture-room at that hour?"

"I didn't like to interrupt you," he answered feebly.

"What a fool of a man!" exclaimed the enraged wife. "Bring the sleigh to the door, instanter;" and Pimble rushed out, the ladies following close on his heels, vociferating at the top of their voices, without even a parting salutation to the family they had been visiting.

CHAPTER VIII.

"It is a hermit.

Well, methinks I've read

In romance tales of such strange beings oft;

But surely ne'er did think these eyes should see

The living, breathing, walking counterpart.

Canst tell me where he dwells?

Far in the woods,

In a lone hut, apart from all his kind."

Old Play.

The pale moonbeams peeped through the rents and crevices of Dilly Danforth's wretched abode, as the poor woman sat on the hearth with Willie's head lying in her lap, while he read by the flickering fire-light from the pages of a well-worn Bible. The little fellow had never fully recovered from that long, painful illness that had nearly cost him his life, and from which it is very possible he would never have arisen but for those little bundles of firewood that were so providentially laid on poor Dilly's threshold, by some charitable, though unknown, hand. They still continued to be placed there, and it was well they were so, for Mrs. Danforth's health had failed so much she was not able to perform half her former amount of labor; and had it not been for these small armfuls of fuel, which very much resembled those Willie used to collect, the washerwoman and her boy must have perished during the long, cold winter season. Yes, perished in the very midst of Wimbledon; within a stone's throw of many a well-filled woodyard, and under the nose of a Mrs. Pimble's philanthropic efforts for the amelioration of her species. Dilly's neglect on the part of the many arose, not so much from inhumanity and covetousness, as from a wrong bias, which a few words had created in the people's minds. A report had passed through the village, several months before, purporting to come from a reliable source, which represented Mrs. Danforth as not so poor as she appeared; that she assumed her poverty-stricken garb and appearance to excite sympathy, and thus swindle, in a small way, from the purses of her wealthy neighbors. There is nothing of which people have a greater horror than of being humbugged, if they know it; so, for the most part, the Wimbledonians turned a deaf ear and cold shoulder on the washerwoman's sorrowful supplications for charity. Little Edith Malcome pitied the pale, sad face that appeared at the kitchen door every Monday morning, and always asked her father's permission to give her a basket of victuals to carry home, which were always received with many grateful expressions by the poor woman.

Edith sat by the drawing-room window, one bleak, stormy winter morning, watching the snow as it fell silently to the earth, when a man of singular appearance, walking slowly along the opposite side of the street, attracted her notice.

"O, father!" exclaimed she quickly, "come here; the oddest-looking man is going past."

Col. Malcome rose from his seat by the fire and approached the window. "What a disgusting appearance he presents!" said he, gazing on the slowly-receding figure. "It angers me to see a man degrade himself by such uncouth apparel."

"O, not disgusting! is he, father?" said Edith, "only odd and droll; and his face looked so pale and mild, I thought it really pretty. If he only wouldn't wear that short-waisted, long-tailed coat, with those funny little capes on the shoulders, and leave off that great tall-crowned hat with its broad, slouching brim, and have a little cane instead of that long pole he carries in his hand, he would be quite a pretty man,—don't you think so, father?"

"Well, really I don't know how he might look were he thus transformed," answered Col. Malcome. "I only expressed my opinion of his present appearance."

"Don't you know who he is?" asked Edith.

"No," said her father, returning to his seat.

"Well, I wish you would try and learn his name," pursued the fair girl.

"What for?" asked Col. M., resuming the perusal of the volume he had left to obey her summons to the window.

"Because I would like to know it," returned she. "I fancy he is some relation of that pale Dilly Danforth's, for he has just such mournful eyes."

"I do not wish to see them then," said her father, with some impatience of manner, "for I don't like the expression of that woman's eyes."

"They are very sad," said Edith, "but sorrow has made them so. I think they were once very beautiful. But won't you learn this strange man's name? Perhaps he is very poor, and we could alleviate his wants by kind charities."

"No," answered Col. M. in a tone which dismissed the subject; "I cannot run about the country to hunt up old stragglers for you to bestow alms upon."

Edith looked on her father's stern brow, and, feeling it was useless to urge her plea any longer, stole away to her own apartment, where she found Sylva engaged in feeding her canaries and furnishing them with fresh water. The little bright creatures were singing sweetly, but Edith did not heed their songs. She stood apart by a window, and gazed out on the falling snowflakes. At length she saw Rufus enter the yard, and soon heard him ascending the stairs. "Where have you been, brother?" she asked, as he came in, his face reddened by exposure to the cold, biting atmosphere.

"Down on the river, skating with some of the village boys," answered he, drawing a chair close to the glowing fire; "and O, such a fine time as we had! I shall be glad when we go to school, Edith; it will be so much more lively and pleasant."

"I shall be glad when the snow is gone, so I can run out doors, and sow my flower-beds," returned Edith, thoughtfully. Then she sat gazing in the fire a long time, as was always her wont when thinking deeply on any subject. Sylva had finished her care of the birds, and brought forth Fido from his little cot-bed in her room. He sprang into Edith's lap, then into Rufus', kissing their cheeks and evincing his joy at beholding them in various pleasing, expressive ways. But Edith pushed him away and told Sylva to put him to bed again. So the brisk little fellow was carried off, looking very sorry, and wailing piteously, as if he pleaded permission to remain by the warm fire.

Rufus was younger than his sister, and of an intelligence and refinement so far below hers, that she seldom evinced much pleasure or enjoyment in his society, but she looked towards him now with an eager expression of interest, as he said,

"O, Edith, I saw the funniest man this morning!"

"Where?" she asked quickly.

"Down by the side of the river among a clump of brushwood, gathering little bundles of sticks. Charlie Seaton and I spoke to him, but he did not answer us."

"Did he wear a long overcoat with small capes on the shoulders, and a slouching-brimmed hat?" inquired Edith earnestly.

"Yes," said Rufus. "Have you seen him, then?"

"Passing along in the street," returned she. "Did Charlie know his name?"

"No; but he said it was a man who lived alone in a small hut, far off in the forest, made of the boughs and branches of cedar trees, curiously twisted together; and he is thence styled the Hermit of the Cedars."

"A hermit!" exclaimed Edith. "I have read of such beings in old books, but I never supposed they really existed, or at least never expected I should see one with my own eyes. I shall like this place better than ever, now; it will be so romantic to have a hermit in our vicinity. What do you suppose he was going to do with his bundles of sticks, Rufus?"

"Use them for firewood, probably," said he.

"But I should have thought he might have obtained that in the forest where he lives, and not been obliged to travel all the way down here, this stormy day, to pick up wood from among the snow, and then carry it two or three miles in his arms," said Edith, in a ruminating tone.

"O, hermits are strange beings, sis!" answered Rufus, whistling a vacant tune as he stood before the window gazing forth on the dismal storm which debarred him from his accustomed diversion of skating on the frozen surface of the river.

While his children were occupied with the preceding conversation, Col. Malcome had donned his fur-lined overcoat and stepped across the yard to Deacon Allen's cottage. The good people were quite embarrassed to behold so smart a visitor in their unostentatious little parlor, but the colonel, by his gentlemanly grace, soon placed them at their ease. After a few moments' conversation on general topics, he asked, casually enough, who was the owner of the fine mansion he had noticed in his rambles about town, with the appellation "Summer Home" sculptured on its marble gateway?

"O, that is Major Tom Howard's!" answered Deacon Allen. "His family have made it their abode for six or eight months every season since they owned it; and I understand, after their next return, it is to become their permanent residence."

"'Tis a delightful location," remarked Colonel M.; "a very large mansion. Has Mr. Howard a family corresponding with its dimensions?"

"O, no, only a wife and one child—a beautiful girl."

"How old is his daughter?" inquired the colonel.

"Well, about fourteen I should say; but seems much older from her matured growth and manners."

"Has Mr. Howard no sister living with him?" asked the visitor, carelessly.

"No," answered the deacon.

"And has he not lost one?"

"Not since he came among us; though his wife, I have understood, always dresses in black. She is a confirmed invalid and seldom seen."

"Then the family do not mingle much in society?" said the colonel.

The deacon shook his head.

"Somewhat aristocratic, probably," remarked the visitor.

"I should judge so," said the deacon. "They don't send Florence to school, but keep three tutors for her at home. She is very accomplished, but rather wilful and proud, they say."

"The effect of over-indulgence, perhaps," said the colonel, rising.

"Will you not honor us with another call?" asked Mrs. Allen.

"With pleasure," answered he, bowing a graceful good-morning to his delighted entertainers.

CHAPTER IX.

"A vestal priestess, proudly pure

But of a meek and quiet spirit;

With soul all dauntless to endure

And mood so calm that naught can stir it,

Save when a thought most deeply thrilling

Her eyes with gentlest tears is filling,

Which seem with her true words to start

From the deep fountain of her heart."

The fine parlors of Mr. Leroy Edson's tasteful mansion were brilliantly illuminated. Warm fires glowed in the shining marble grates. Dim argand lamps bathed in soft light the rich furniture, carved cornices, and rare statuary which decorated the mantels. The élite of Wimbledon were assembling, and young Mrs. Edson moved lightly to and fro, receiving her numerous guests with graceful self-possession, and welcoming them to her home and heart with warm, earnest cordiality. They were nearly all strangers to her, as she had been but a few months installed mistress of Mr. Edson's splendid mansion; but she felt they were the people among whom she was henceforth to live and find her associates and friends. She had made one call, only, since her arrival in Wimbledon, and that on Col. Malcome's family, who were later comers than herself.

Louise Edson was graceful, brilliant, beautiful. O, what a wealth of thought and intellect was hers; what a broad, generous nature; what lightning-like perceptions, quick, far-seeing judgment, sparkling humor and sarcastic wit! She floated in a sea of exuberant life and beauty, which was fed continually from the exhaustless fountains of her own thought-wealthy soul. Her calm, clear eyes mirrored the bright fancies that flitted through her brain. The chestnut hair, brushed away from the youthful brow, revealed the tiny blue veins on the white expanding temples; while the high, straight nose and curved nostrils, with the sweet little mouth and tapering chin that smiled below, made up a face whose regular features were its least claim to beauty. It was the soul within which shone over these features and lighted them at times with supernatural loveliness. And was this brilliant being understood and appreciated by the man who had won her for his bride? Faugh!—we blush at our own stupidity in asking the question. Are such lofty souls ever appreciated by even one of the swarming masses that people the earth with their corporeal bodies? Let those answer who can.

But Louise, soaring as was her nature, was yet cursed with that weakness which too often possesses souls like hers, swaying e'en a more tyrant sceptre than in meaner breasts, as though in envious hate of those sky-aspiring pinions, and a demon wish to make them lick the dust. She was an orphan, with no relative save a maiden aunt, with whom she dwelt. She felt alone in the wide world, and she wanted—O, pity her, reader, if you can!—she wanted somebody to lean on, somebody to look up to. Could she not lean on her own strong intellect, and look up to the stars?—or could she not breathe forth her rich-laden soul in lofty song and romance, and lean upon the pillars of a world-wide fame? No, O, no! With all her strength of soul and intellect, she had weak woman's heart. She must love and be loved; and when the wealthy Mr. Leroy Edson knelt, an enamored knight, at the shrine of her youth and beauty, she gave him her hand. He thought he had done a most generous deed in thus raising a poor, lone orphan girl from comparative obscurity to a position among the highest circles of society. Her superior education and gem-freighted soul were all the fortune she brought him; a fortune greater than the treasures of Ind., but of whose princely value he had not the power to form the most distant estimate. To behold her tall, graceful figure flitting through his elegant mansion, performing some light household duty, receiving her guests or chatting and singing gayly through the long evenings, was, to him, life's whole of happiness. And was Louise altogether content with the man of her choice? No, or she had not gathered Wimbledon about her to make merry the midnight hour. People do not give fêtes to display their happiness. They give them too often to relieve a tedious monotony, to silence a gnawing discontent, and forget for the moment in hilarious excitement some uneasy foreboding of evil to come, or disquieting conviction that all, even now, is not as it should be.

Louise had not been many weeks Mrs. Edson, before she discovered the man she had taken for "better or worse" till death should separate them, was no helpmeet for her. They had not a thought or sympathy in common. He hired servants to execute her commands; bought her fine clothes, and fine books too, when he found these latter most delighted her; but he never wished to hear her read from them, and invariably yawned if she spoke of literary subjects. He was good-natured and fond of display, with a fair estimate of his own importance and standing in society. He regarded himself as one of the pillars of Wimbledon's wealth and prosperity;—remove him, and the whole structure would tremble and perhaps go down with a crash to rise no more. It took but a brief time for Louise to read her husband's soul through and through; and with her sharp, critical nature, that could not understand and would not overlook faults and follies to which her bosom was a stranger, she decided she had married a fool. What was to be done? The act was voluntary on her part. True, a longer acquaintance between the parties might have led to a different result, but it was too late to think of that now. And this was the end of all her heart-longings for some one to love and reverence, to lean on and look up to! O, how intense was her agony! All her fine feelings wasted, her soul's wealth poured idly forth, and her rich life in its blooming years given to one who could not understand one of her lofty dreams or soaring aspirations. A falcon with sun-daring eyes tied to a grovelling buzzard! Was't not a hard fate, reader? Pity her, all ye who can,—pity her a great deal; mourn over her cruel wreck of happiness; and if in future years the warm, impassioned nature, goaded by its own unuttered pangs, driven wild by its rayless, hopeless desolation, is guilty of some irregularities, some acts which virtue and propriety can hardly sanction, O, remember her early sufferings, and be merciful!

Mr. Edson's party passed off pleasantly. All seemed delighted with their entertainment. The lord of the mansion was in great good-humor, and his beautiful wife the star of the evening. In a simple robe of dark blue cashmere, which fastened low over her white, sloping shoulders, and fitted closely her slender waist, while the ample folds swept the rich tapestry carpets, she moved among her guests like the embodiment of a graceful thought. Her luxuriant brown hair was gathered in bands at the back of her head; a massive chain and cross of gold ornamented her swan-like neck, and bands of the same material clasped her round, white arms. Small wonder that Mr. Edson should feel proud of his wife. The whole evening she was the centre of a delighted group. All flocked around to hear her brilliant conversation and gaze on her animated, expressive features. Col. Malcome and the gentle Edith engaged a large share of her attention and regard. The young girl was insensibly attracted by the affectionate interest evinced in her manner, and the sweet voice and beaming smile with which she addressed her. Col. Malcome expressed his admiration of the exquisite taste displayed in the furnishing of her parlors.

"I cannot tell you, Mrs. Edson," said he, "what I most admire in your elegant drawing-rooms. They are one harmonious whole; but if you were removed, I think I would very soon discover what was wanting to render them complete."

"Now," said Louise, "let me tell you at the commencement of our acquaintance, which I hope for my humble sake may continue to be cultivated, that I detest flattery of all things;" and she turned a smiling glance on him, as these piquant words fell from her pretty, red lips, rendered more than usually charming by the slight sarcastic curl she gave them.

"So do I," returned he; "but truth is not flattery."

"In the language of the poet," said she, laughing, "I will not seek to cope with you in compliment. Do you know I feel a lively interest in your beautiful daughter?"

"I am gratified to know it," said he, glancing on the bright creature at his side with an expressive glance. "Edith is a timid little thing; she would improve under your accomplished tuition. Not that I have the presumption to ask for her your care and instructions beyond what she might receive by a neighborly interchange of visits."

"O, say she may spend a portion of every week with me, when spring opens and the earth is divested of its garb of snow!" said Louise, in a tone of affectionate eagerness. "You cannot tell how her innocent gayety would lighten many of my weary hours."

Col. Malcome started as he heard these words, and turned a searching glance upon her. A slight blush suffused her cheek for a moment, but she soon regained her self-possession. It was one of her faults to give too free, unrestrained expression to her thoughts. They came welling up to her lips, and escaped ere she was aware.

For several moments he continued to gaze on her, and there was something in his countenance that instantly revealed to her quick eye that he had not only believed in the weariness she had so thoughtlessly expressed, but had also fathomed its cause. She felt displeased and irritated at her own want of caution and what she silently termed his presumption.

"Why do you look on me so strangely?" she asked at length.

"I beg your pardon, madam," said he, suddenly averting his gaze.

"Which I shall not give," returned she, with a slight, dignified movement of her queenly head, "unless you tell me what you think of me."

"All I think of you, Mrs. Edson," said he, turning his face again toward hers, "perhaps would not please you to know."

"Yes, all," said Louise, "I will know all."

"Well, this is not the time or place for the disclosure," answered he.

She looked at him sharply as he pronounced these words. He smiled and added, "I should be monopolizing the time which belongs to your company."

"Ay, yes!" said she, "your words recall the duty I owe to my condescending guests;" and, bowing, she glided away and joined a company that surrounded the piano.

"You play, of course, Mrs. Edson," said a portly man with a benevolent countenance.

"Occasionally, though I have rather a dull ear," she answered, assuming the music-stool. Several light songs were performed with fine taste and skill, and received the warmest encomiums of her listeners. Another and another was called for, till at length she arose and said, "There are doubtless others here who play far better than myself. I have led the way, let them follow."

Col. Malcome arose from a sofa near by, on which he had thrown himself to listen to the fair musician, and assumed the seat she had vacated. A few prolonged notes, and then one of the most beautiful and intricate compositions of Beethoven, poured its sonorous strains on the ears of the assembly. The performer at length seemed to forget all around him, and at the end of the second chorus joined his own deep, rich tones with the instrument. All were delighted; but Louise, with her quick sensibilities, was thrilled to the centre of her soul. And she felt piqued and angry too; not that he had excelled her, for she was above such small envy, but——she could not tell why.

The party dispersed, and she found herself again in the solitude of her own apartment. That swelling chorus rolled through her midnight dreams, and echoed in her ears for many a day, as she superintended her domestic affairs, or sat down to the perusal of some treasured volume.

CHAPTER X.

"I tell thee, husband, 'tis a goodly thing,

To get a daughter married off your hands,

And know she's found an easy-tempered mate;

For many men there be in this rude world.

Who do most shockingly abuse their wives;

But of their number is not this mild youth

Who takes our daughter for his wedded bride."

Young Mrs. Edson's party was a three days' wonder. Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, inasmuch as she was excluded from being one of the guests, availed herself of the next choicest privilege, and learned, as far as she was able, the dresses and conversation of those in attendance; and how Mrs. E. comported herself, and what she cooked for supper. She was shocked to learn the young wife wore a low-necked dress, and set her down at once as a low, vulgar woman, in whose company she should consider it a disgrace to be seen. Mrs. Pimble said another milk-sop had come among them to fawn and giggle in the face of the oppressor, man.

The Edson fête seemed to pave the way for others, and the winter season passed gayly and pleasantly among the wealthier classes of Wimbledon. Col. Malcome, his daughter, and Rufus, were present at all the social gatherings; and, in fact, the colonel's was getting to be a familiar and welcome face at almost every door in the village. He even called on Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, one day, and addressed several civil speeches to the interesting Mary Madeline, who blushed crimson beneath the glance of his unresistible eyes, as she termed them, and trembled like an aspen, in her red silk gown. We do not know that we have ever spoken of the personal charms of this blooming young lady, and we will now attempt a brief daguerreotype for the reader's enlightenment and edification.

Her hair was of that peculiarly brilliant color noticed in that delightful esculent vegetable, the carrot, when boiled and prepared for table. She wore it twisted in a hard, horny knob at the top of her head, which strained her blue-green eyes, and gave them the expression of those of a choked grimalkin. Her nose turned divinely upwards; her blubber lips turned downwards with a grievous, watery expression. Her cheeks were red; so was her nose; so were her eyes at times, when the horny knob took a harder twist than usual. She had small, hairy ears, ornamented with enormous jewels. Her neck was short, and three stubborn warts, of the size of peas, stuck to its left side. Her waist might have been admired in the fifteenth century; but it was some nine inches too short by as many too broad, to elicit the admiration of the gallants of the present age, who rave, and go distracted about gossamer divinities scarcely six inches in circumference. She was about four feet four in stature, and her foot would have crushed Cinderella, and used her slipper for a thumb-cot. Such was Mary Madeline Mumbles in her eighteenth year, and never was child more like parent, than was this young lady like her doting, affectionate mamma.

We have been at considerable trouble to sketch Miss Mumbles at full length, that the reader may be able to form a correct idea of her appearance when she steps forth in full glory of silken bridal attire, on the arm of Mr. Theophilus Shaw, the promising young shoe-cobbler, upon whom Mr. Salsify had long since set his heart, as the proper man to become his future son-in-law. And Miss Mary, who lost her passion for Dick Giblet, after he shut the watch-dog in the kitchen-pantry,—a trick which had nearly cost her the loss of a beloved mother,—and finding she could not captivate the handsome Colonel Malcome with checkered aprons and broad lace, began, like a dutiful child, to receive the advances of the mild Theophilus more graciously, and had, after much maidenly confusion, consented to become his wife, when, as we have seen, the uncompromising colonel called, and distracted her with fear lest she had been too precipitate in accepting Theophilus, when a higher prize might be on the point of falling into her arms. But her apprehensions were banished after a while, as the colonel did not appear a second time, and the marriage was finally consummated; and Mary Madeline Mumbles became in due form Mrs. Theophilus Shaw. Jenny Andrews and Amy Seaton officiated as bridesmaids, and a large party were invited to make merry on the occasion.

The bride's apparel was magnificent; so was the bridegroom's. We would attempt to describe it in detail, but dare not, knowing well we should fail to do it justice. Mrs. Salsify had the wicks of her parlor lamps full half an inch in length, and never seemed to notice how swiftly the camphene was disappearing, so elate was she with the prospect of marrying her beautiful daughter.

The happy couple were to make a short bridal excursion, and then return and dwell under the bride's parental roof for the present; Mrs. Salsify having vacated her bed-room, which the young people were going to use for kitchen, parlor, and shoemaker's shop. And a little pasteboard sign with the words, "Theophilus Shaw, Boot & Shoe Maker," scrawled on it with lampblack, in an awkward, school-boy hand, was suspended by a string from the bed-room window.

"I am glad to have Mary Madeline settled in life," said Mrs. Mumbles, after the arrangements were all complete; "and the matter off my mind."

"So am I," answered her husband; "and I am glad she has made so good a match, too. Mr. Shaw will make a much better husband than Dick Giblet, or that black-headed Col. Malcome."

"O, a better one than that scapegrace of a Dick, of course!" said Mrs. Salsify, quickly; "but as to a better one than the colonel, I don't know about that. The advantages of his position are very great. Maddie would have been the tip-top of Wimbledon if she had married him."

"So she will be now, in time," returned Mr. S., confidently, "for I am 'rising rapidly in my profession.' Next summer I shall build the piazza and second story, and in ten years I'd like to see the man that can hold his head above Mr. Salsify Mumbles."

At these hopeful words, the wife fondly embraced her husband, and the loving couple fell to forming plans and projects for their brilliant future.

CHAPTER XI.

And yet this wild woods' man was happy once,—

Bright fame did offer him her richest dower,

But disappointment blasted all his hopes,

And crushed him 'neath her desolating power.

Cold and bleak roared the fierce wintry blasts through the broad, dense forest that stretched away to the north of Wimbledon. The stars sparkled with unwonted brilliancy over the clear blue firmament, as a quick step crackled along the narrow, icy path, and a dark form was seen hurrying toward a faint light that gleamed dimly through a dense clump of cedars. Then there was a sound as of bars withdrawn, and a bright, blazing hearth was revealed for a moment as the dark form entered, when all was hushed and silent again, save the dismal roar of the night wind through the surrounding pines.

"You are late to-night, uncle," said a tall, dark-haired youth, as he undid the fastenings of the wanderer's long overcoat, and removed his woollen mittens and wide-brimmed hat.

"What time do you conceive it to be?" asked the man, depositing his long staff in a corner, and approaching the glowing fire.

"Past midnight, I would suppose," answered the boy, piling up a quantity of books that were scattered over a small table, and with which he had been occupying himself through the long evening hours.

"O, not so late as that!" returned the man, drawing a rude chair before the fire and extending his small, thin hands to the grateful blaze. "The village clock in the old church tower at Wimbledon was on the stroke of ten when I laid my bundle of sticks in their accustomed place, and set my face homewards. I must have travelled at a laggard pace, if it is already midnight. Are you lonesome when I'm away, Edgar?" inquired he, turning his deep, melancholy eyes on the fair, open countenance of the youth.

"Sometimes I am," returned he; "I have been so to-night. A strange power seemed to possess my thoughts, to lead them through most hideous scenes, and dark, awful glooms and shadows enveloped my soul in mazes of doubt and fear."

"What a nervous boy you are!" said the man, "come and sit beside me, and I'll tell you of a project I've been revolving in my mind these several days." Edgar did as requested, and after a brief silence the hermit commenced:

"These six months, my lad, you have dwelt in this little hut in the forest, holding intercourse with no human being save myself. It is not right your boyhood and youth should pass in this manner. I have been selfish in keeping you all to myself, to cheer my solitude. 'Twas your parents' dying wish that you should receive all the advantages of education and travel. Your life has been, for the most part, spent in the toil of study, and I knew you needed an interval of relaxation and retirement to reïnvigorate your mental and physical energies. So I brought you to share the seclusion of my hermitage for a while. Grateful as has been your presence to me, I should wrong you, and forfeit the promise given your parents on their deathbeds, if I encouraged or permitted this retirement for a longer period than is necessary for your restoration to health and vigor. You know I am your guardian, Edgar. The fortune left for you by your father was entrusted to my care till you should attain a suitable age to have it transferred to your own hands, and ample provisions were made for your education and instruction in the painter's art. Do you see what I am coming at, Edgar?" he added, pausing in his discourse, and directing his gaze toward the boy, who sat listening attentively to his uncle's words.

"No, Uncle Ralph," answered the lad; "I don't know as I do, unless you are going to send me away from you to some distant school;" and his voice trembled as he spoke.

"Would you dislike to leave me, my boy?" said the hermit, a tear dropping from his melancholy eye.

"Ah, that would I!" returned Edgar, "for I have none to care for me in the wide world, save you."

"Pshaw, pshaw, boy! don't prate in that way, with your bright, curly locks," said the man, laying his thin hand softly on the youth's light, clustering hair. "When these locks are gray, and you have toiled and labored for fame and honors never gained, or that burned and furrowed the brow that wore them; when you have engaged in the world's weary strife and sunk by the wayside worn and disheartened by the contest; when friends have proved false;"—here the hermit's voice grew deeper and more vehement—"and when those who professed for you the fondest love turn coldly away to mock and scorn at your deep devotion, then, then, my boy, you will exclaim in bitterness, 'there are none to care for me!'"

He paused, and bowed his face on his hands. Edgar longed to comfort him, but knew not what to say.

The night wind roared solemnly without, the fire burned low on the rude hearth, and the little apartment, but illy protected from the searching blasts, grew chilly. Still the hermit sat silent, his bowed head resting between his small, attenuated hands. Edgar rose, brought the long overcoat and spread it over his shoulders, as a protection from the increasing cold. Then wrapping a blanket around his own light form, he stole softly to the window, and turned his gaze upward to the star-lighted heaven. He dearly loved to sit thus through the hushed midnight hours, and listen to the deep, heavy roaring of the mighty winds, as they swept through the surrounding forest, while his soul seemed borne away on their rushing currents, up and upward till her pinions brushed the starry palaces of angels and beatified spirits; and on, and on, with new splendors ever bursting on her ravished vision, till the elysium of light in the high heaven of heavens poured its bewildering glories upon her, and her weary wings fluttered to rest at last upon the bosom of the All-Holy.

Edgar was possessed of a temperament of the most imaginative order, deeply imbued with lofty, poetic sentiment, and a tendency to reserve and melancholy. His father had been an artist, and the sunny skies of Italy cast their bright glory over his tender years, warming to impassioned ardor the springs and fountains of his youthful bosom. Very few boys of his age and acquirements could have endured the seclusion in which he had dwelt for the last six months; but nothing could have been more consonant with the reserved, romantic disposition of Edgar; and the prospect of leaving the wild hut in the forest to go forth among the wide world's jostling crowds, caused him heart-throbbing pangs.

After a long silence the hermit roused himself. The room was cold and dark.

"Edgar?" said he, in a low, broken voice.

"I am here," answered the youth, rising, and feeling his way through the darkness to his uncle's side, "Won't you lie down now? The room is so cold, and there is no wood within to replenish the fire."

"Yes, my boy, I will lie down," said the hermit, "but not to sleep; the ghosts of past joys are with me to-night."

"Drive them away, uncle!" said the lad soothingly. "I am not disposed to sleep either. Let us lie down and cover us warm, and then you tell me of your plans and projects for my future, as you had commenced to do a few hours ago."

"No, Edgar, not to-night," answered the recluse. "Your young eyes will wax heavy with these midnight vigils. You must sleep, my boy, and to-morrow I will communicate my plans concerning you."

"As you say, uncle," returned Edgar, preparing to lie down.

Young, and happily ignorant of the cares and sorrows that distract the bosoms of maturer years, he was soon asleep.

The hermit moved to the window, and, after gazing forth some time in silence, murmured, "Wild, wild is the night! Heaven send she does not suffer. I left two bundles on her lonely sill, though my fingers grew stiff with cold ere I had gathered them. Thus do I feebly endeavor to atone for past misconduct. How the wind roars through the pines! O, what memories of long ago rush o'er my soul! I think of Mary as the time approaches when she will be near me. Shall I see her face again? God forbid!" exclaimed he, stamping his foot violently upon the stone floor. After a while he resumed his low soliloquy. "I fear for Edgar," he said, "lest the cold world chill his heart and undo his usefulness, as it has mine. He has my temperament, reserved, sensitive, and with the same accursed capacity for strong, undying attachment. What a fair prospect of fame had I! What honors were ready to crown me when that monster came and blasted them all! Such do I fear will be Edgar's fate. But he must go forth into the world; such was the wish of his parents. I can keep him near me a few months longer by sending him to the Wimbledon seminary, ere he must depart for some distant university or school of art. Then the great world will have opened before him, and I shall see him no more." The hermit suddenly ceased. Tears choked his utterance.

"Uncle!" said Edgar, starting quickly from his slumbers, "will you not come and lie down?"

"Yes, my boy," answered the sorrowing man, approaching the rude couch.

The wintry winds wailed on with piteous, mournful voices; but the Hermit of the Cedars slept at last,

"A troubled, dreamy sleep."

CHAPTER XII.

"Lawyers and doctors at your service.

We are better off

Without them.

True, you are,—but still

You follow on their heels, and fawn,

And flatter in their faces. If you

Would leave your brawls and fights which

Call for physic, very soon you'd be

Beyond their greedy clutches."

Old Play.

Reader, do you wonder where's the doctor whose saddle-bags may be supposed to contain the divers specifics for the "ills" which the "flesh" of Wimbledon is liable to become heir to? He doth exist, and, when occasion calls, we'll trot him forth.

And do you say this same Wimbledon has never a lawyer within its precincts,—and whoever heard of a village of several hundred inhabitants without at least half-a-dozen of these learned disciples of Blackstone to settle its wrongs and right its abuses?

Permit us to inform you, friend, that we consider lawyers dangerous animals; and the less men and women have to do with them, the better!

Nevertheless, there is one o' the craft in Wimbledon; and, if you had not been blind as a bat, you would have discovered, ere this, the sign of "Peter Paul Pimble, Esq., Attorney-at-Law," hung over the door of a small, black building in Mudget square. True, Mr. Pimble don't practise his profession much, for a very good reason; nobody is in want of his services; and that's the case with two thirds of the lawyers in Christendom.

Mrs. Pimble has converted her husband's office into a committee-room, and receptacle for hoards of pamphlets and papers, containing the proceedings of divers conventions held for the advancement of the cause of "Woman's Rights, and promulgation of Universal Freedom and Philanthropy."

Mrs. Pimble, the ardent reformist, is at present detained from her labors by the illness of her eldest son, Garrison. She has sent for the young female physician, Dr. Sarah Simcoe; but the word is, "pressing business detains that medical functionary at home,"—so, in direct violation of her established principles, she has been compelled to send for old Dr. Potipher, who considers himself, par excellence, the Esculapius of Wimbledon.

But Peggy Nonce comes blowing back from her hasty errand, and says the doctor is down to Mr. Moses Simcoe's. Mrs. Pimble wonders what should take a vile male practitioner to the house of an accomplished lady-physician. Peggy looks wise, as much as to say she could explain the mystery if she chose. But no one asks her to speak, so she goes into the kitchen, where Mr. Pimble sits in his dressing-gown and sheepskin slippers, shivering over an expiring fire. He lifts his head, as the bustling housekeeper begins to rattle the covers of the stove for the purpose of putting in some more wood, and asks feebly if "Dr. Potipher has arrived."

"No," answers Peggy. "He is down to Mr. Simcoe's."

"Who is sick there?" inquires Mr. Pimble.

"His wife."

"Why, she is a doctor herself! Can't she cure her own ailments?" says Mr. Pimble.

"Not always, I reckon," is Peggy's reply, while she is evidently vastly amused by something she does not choose to communicate at present.

Beside the bed of her sick boy stood Mrs. Pimble. She laid her hand on his forehead. It burned with fever, and his pulse was quick and hard. She was not much skilled in the "art medical," but she resolved to do something for her child, and forthwith proceeded to the kitchen and compounded a dish of catnip leaves and ginger. It exhaled a savory smell, and she felt quite confident it would cool off Garrison's fever. Placing a large bowl of the liquid by his bed-side, she bade him drink freely of it through the evening, while she was gone to the Reform Club, and when she came home she would call at Sister Simcoe's and obtain a prescription for him. The sick lad promised to do as she requested. His fever inclined him to drink incessantly, and ere his mother was ten yards from the house, he had guzzled the whole brimming bowlful. And still he called for drink, drink; which his insensate father carried to him in copious quantities as often as he desired it.

Mrs. Pimble proceeded on her way to the club room. For some reason there was but a thin attendance. None of the prominent members were present, and the little company decided to adjourn. Mrs. Pimble hurried round to Mrs. Simcoe's, to learn the cause of her absence and get the prescription for Garrison. The lady-doctor had been lecturing for several months in different towns of the county, and was but recently returned.

Mrs. Pimble entered without knocking, as was her wont, and walked into the young doctor's office, where she beheld, not the fair, feminine face of the rightful proprietor, but the ugly, rhubarb-colored visage of the village apothecary, Dr. Potipher, ensconced in the high-backed cushioned chair, fast asleep.

She turned back and opened the sitting-room door, and there stood Mr. Simcoe before a bed, holding a tea-tray, containing several vials and glasses. Mrs. Pimble started on seeing the night-capped head of Mrs. Simcoe raised feebly from the pillow, and darting forward, exclaimed, "Mercy, Sister Simcoe! what has befallen you?"

A smothered wail from beneath the bed-clothes now met her ear, and, turning down the blankets, she discovered two red-faced, bald-headed babies, wrapped in swaddling-clothes. She started back aghast.

"What are those things—what are those things?" she demanded, hysterically, pointing to the infant strangers.

"Simcoe's children!" groaned the pale lady-doctor, turning uneasily away from the little things that lay squirming and making such grimaces, as only very young babies can make, in the face of Mrs. Pimble. The alleged father stood there, chuckling over the smartness of his progeny. Mrs. Pimble darted one withering glance upon him, and walked away without another word. She roused old Dr. Potipher, and took him home with her. Well she did so, for Garrison was much worse than when she left him, and the doctor pronounced it a case of brain fever, which would require the nicest care and nursing.

Thus a wet blanket was most audaciously thrown upon the Woman's Rights' Reform, which was fain to arrest its progress in Wimbledon for a while. We shall see how long.

CHAPTER XIII.

"Thy hands are filled with early flowers,

Thy step is on the wind;

The innocent and keen delight

Of youth is on thy mind;

That glad fresh feeling that bestows

Itself the gladness which it knows,

The pure, the undefined;

And thou art in that happy hour

Of feeling's uncurbed, early power."

The spring dawned bright and beautiful over Wimbledon, and when the first blue-birds sang on the budding boughs, and the grass was springing green in streets and by-ways, the tenants of "Summer Home" returned; and a bright young girl, with dark abundant hair hanging in a rich profusion of shiny ringlets over her white, uncovered shoulders, was seen skipping lightly through the gardens and grounds, pruning shrubs, transplanting flowers, and training truant vines over arbors and alcoves.

It was Florence Howard, resplendent in the light of her girlish beauty, and buoyant overflow of health and happiness. Often, in her morning strolls, she noticed a tall, graceful boy, in a blue frock-coat, with a shining morocco cap placed over a head of light curly hair, passing along, satchel in hand, to the seminary on the hill, and every night she saw him disappear within the forest that lay to the northward of her father's residence.

She wondered what became of him, for the woods were wide and deep, and it must be a long way to the other side. There surely could be no habitation within their precincts, and Florence's curiosity was strongly excited to fathom the mystery, which in her eyes surrounded the fair-haired youth.

"Father," said she one evening, as she sat beside him on the western terrace, "I don't like being confined herewith these stupid tutors. I wish you would let me go to school at the seminary."

"Your advantages at home are far superior, my daughter," answered her father.

"O, but I should like the air and exercise, and the company of children of my own age so much," pursued she, poking her little fingers through her father's silvered locks, and leaning up against his side in a very coaxing attitude. "I shall become the saddest mope in the world if I am cooped up here."

"I apprehend small danger of that," returned her father, laughing, "for you have appeared to me, since our last return, a wilder romp than ever before."

"O, that's only because I'm so glad to get to this delightful place again, and to know we are to go away no more!" said she. "It will wear off after a while, and I shall become silent and solemn as a nun. Won't you let me go to the seminary just one term? I can still take my music lessons of Mrs. Sayles here at home, and I know my French and Italian masters would like a respite from their duties." She stood looking earnestly in her father's face.

"You smooth the way very well, my little daughter," said he, patting her rosy cheek; "but I incline to think you had better continue your studies in the old way."

Florence looked disappointed, and turned slowly from his side. Her dejected appearance touched his affectionate heart, and he called her back. She came bounding toward him, with new hope dancing in her dark liquid eyes.

"If you can obtain your mother's consent," said he, "I will not object to your attending school at the seminary one term, as you seem so much to desire it."

"O, thank you, thank you, dear father!" exclaimed the glad girl, putting her arms round his neck, and giving him a grateful kiss on either cheek, "and may I commence to-morrow? that is, if mamma consents to my going?"

"To-morrow?" said he, "had you not better wait, as this term is so far advanced, and commence with a new one?"

"O, no!" returned she, "I should rather begin at once."

"Well, go in, little Miss Rattle, and see what your sage mamma says on the subject," said her father, smiling at her earnest countenance.

Away went Florence, with the lightness of a bird up the hall stairs, and, giving a light tap at a closed door, stood dancing softly on tip-toe, as she waited a summons to enter. "Who's there?" asked a low, trembling voice at length.

"Me, mamma," answered Florence; "may I come in? I've something to ask you."

The door was opened by a short, thin woman, of dark complexion, small peering black eyes, and slick, shining hair of the same hue, which was arranged with an air of nicety and precision.

Florence entered and glanced with an expression of alarm toward the drawn curtains of a mahogany bedstead. "Is mother worse?" she asked in a voice but a breath above a whisper.

"She has had one of her bleeding spells," answered the small, dark woman. "Where is your father?"

"On the lower terrace; shall I call him?"

"No, I will go to him," returned the woman, "if you will remain by your mother a while."

"O, yes, I shall be delighted to stay!" said Florence, approaching the couch.

"You must not talk to her," remarked the woman; "she needs to be very quiet."

"I won't speak a word unless she asks me to," answered the young girl, sitting down by the bed-side, as the dark woman disappeared, closing the door softly behind her.

After a few moments' silence the sick woman stirred and parted the curtains slightly with her wan hand. Florence rose. "Do you want anything, mother?" she asked.

"No, my dear, I have been asleep. Where is Hannah?"

"Gone below. I think to send father for Dr. Potipher."

"I hope not," said the invalid; "it is not necessary. This is only one of my common attacks. I shall be as well as usual in a few days."

"Do you think so, mother?" asked Florence, brightening. "I feared you were very ill. I had something particular to say, but I was not going to say it, for fear of hurting you."

"What is it, dear?" inquired the mother.

"Something papa and I have been talking about down on the piazza to-night."

"Well," said the sick woman, looking affectionately on the earnest expression and downcast lids of Florence's large hazel eyes.

"I asked him to let me go to the seminary this term, and he said if you had no objection I might do so," said the hesitating girl, at length, with a long-drawn breath, as though she had relieved her bosom of a heavy burden.

The pale lady was silent a few moments, as if revolving the matter in her mind. Then she spoke suddenly. "You said your father had no objection?"

"Yes," answered Florence.

"Then, of course, I have none," said the woman, turning over on her pillow and settling herself as if to sleep again.

Florence was about to pour forth her gratitude for the favor shown her request, when the dark-browed woman entered, shook her finger at her, and bade her go below. Florence's eyes flashed back her answer.

"I'll go at my mother's request, not otherwise," said she.

A dark frown gathered on the woman's features, and the invalid said tremblingly, "I would like to sleep; perhaps you had better go and stay with your father a while, my dear."

Florence kissed the pale brow, and then moved toward the door with noiseless tread. The dark woman cast a glance of angry triumph upon her, which was returned by one of fearless defiance.

Since Florence's earliest recollection her mother had been an invalid, shunning society and subject to long fits of depression, and, upon the slightest excitement, to severe attacks of palpitation and bleeding from the chest, which frequently prostrated her on a bed of suffering for weeks. Hannah Doliver had always been her attendant, though Florence, in the simplicity of her young heart, often wondered that her parents should retain her in their service; for she was a bold, impudent, violent-tempered woman, who set up her will for law in the household, and seemed to exercise an almost tyrannic sway over the weak invalid, who appeared to stand in awe of her slightest nod. She showed a marked dislike for Florence, and delighted in tantalizing her, when she was a little child, and thwarting her wishes. As the fair girl grew older, she resolved the arbitrary woman should not govern or intimidate her, and met all her attempts at petty tyranny with a bold, undaunted spirit, which seemed to increase the woman's hatred. Florence once asked her father why he did not send Hannah Doliver away.

"Your mother could not do without her, my child," said he.

"I think she could do better without her than with her," returned Florence, "for she is cross to mamma, and makes her do everything just as she says."

"O, no, I guess not," said her father.

"But she does," persisted Florence, "and I would not have her in the house." Major Howard patted his little daughter's cheek and said, "When you are older, Florence, you will understand a great many things that seem dark and mysterious to you now."

Florence was not satisfied, but she turned away, and never mentioned the subject to her father again.

Early the next morning the glad-hearted girl was astir, getting in readiness for school. She gathered her books together and placed them in a satchel of crimson broadcloth, which she had just embroidered, with bright German wools, in wreaths of spotted daisies and wild columbines. Then donning a blue muslin frock, dotted over with small silver stars, and tying on a black silk apron with open velvet pockets, from one of which peeped a snowy lace-edged handkerchief, she took satchel, gloves and gypsy hat, and descended to the parlor, ensconcing herself in a nook of the north window, where she stood gazing over the hill-tops toward the distant forest with eager eyes to behold the fair-haired boy emerge from its recesses.

At length he appeared, and she watched him till he was descending the hill which sloped past her father's mansion. Then, hastily tying on her hat and seizing her satchel, she was hurrying through the hall to gain the street, when she encountered Hannah Doliver.

"Where are you going?" demanded she in a sharp tone.

"To school," answered Florence, rushing past her.

"By whose leave, I wonder?" said the woman, running after her, to drag her back. But the nimble-footed girl was too swift for her, and she returned to the house muttering angrily to herself. Meantime, Florence bounded over the gravelled walks, and was emerging from the gateway just as the lad, in the morocco cap, was passing by. He arrested his steps on beholding her, and bowed gracefully. She returned his salute, and said, blushingly, "I am going to school up to the seminary. May I walk with you?"

"Certainly, Miss Howard," answered he; "I shall be grateful for your company."

"You know my name," said she, advancing to his side; "I am ignorant of yours."

"Edgar Lindenwood," returned he, and the two walked on together.

CHAPTER XIV.

——"She has dark violet eyes,

A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheek

The blushing blood miraculous doth range

From sea-shell pink to sunset. When she speaks

Her soul is shining through her earnest face

As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud.

My tongue's a very beggar in her praise,

It cannot gild her gold with all its words."

Alexander Smith.

There was a neat, little vine-covered cottage standing a few doors removed from the elegant mansion of Leroy Edson, and in it dwelt Mrs. Stanhope, a widow lady and her maiden sister, Miss Martha Pinkerton, a female of uncertain age, as authors say, and possessed of the peculiarities common to persons of her class. They were not poor, nor were they rich, but made a good living, as the world goes, by taking in needlework. Young Mrs. Edson frequently dropped in to pass an hour in social converse with Mrs. Stanhope, who was a pleasant, agreeable woman. Miss Martha, too, always wore a smile on her sharp-featured face when the lovely young wife appeared at the cottage. As they were simple, unostentatious people, living in a retired and quiet way, she laid aside all form and ceremony, and was accustomed to run in at any hour, in whatever garb she chanced to be.

On a bright May morning, as the ladies had made all things tidy, and were seating themselves to their daily avocation of the needle, they heard the garden gate swing, and beheld Mrs. Edson approaching in her little white sun-bonnet and spotted muslin dressing-gown, open from the waist downwards, revealing a fine cambric skirt, wrought in several rows of vines and deep scolloped edges. Mrs. Stanhope met her visitor on the porch.

"Good-morning," said she, extending her hand; "I am happy to see you:—how beautiful and eloquent you are looking!"

"O, this glorious, sweet-breathed morning, with its birds and flowers, is enough to brighten the most torpid thing into animation!" exclaimed Louise, grasping her friend's hand warmly. "You don't know how I love everything and everybody to-day, Mrs. Stanhope," she continued, in a tone of earnest enthusiasm, as she entered the little parlor, still holding the good woman by one hand, while she extended the other to Miss Pinkerton, who rose from her work to receive her, and drew an old-fashioned, straight-backed rocking-chair, cushioned and lined with gay copperplate, up before the window for her comfort. "I must not sit long," said Louise, assuming the proffered seat, "for I have left my house quite alone; the servants having gone out on errands for themselves. I tried one thing and another to divert myself, but the birds sang so sweetly, the sun was so bright, and everything seemed to say, up and away. So I donned my sun-bonnet and ran over here as the nicest, quietest little nook I could fly to; and where I should be as welcome in my morning-gown as in full dress of ruffles and satins."

"And even more so, if possible," answered Mrs. Stanhope; "simple people like us are always a good deal put out and embarrassed by grandeur and display. It has something awful and unapproachable in our eyes."

"It has something servile and contemptible in mine," said Louise; "I always shrink from a woman flaunted out in rustling silks, great, glaring rings on her fingers, and alarming jewels swinging like ponderous pendulums from her ears. I think what a poor, little, pinched, narrow-contracted, poverty-stricken soul is there, that seeks to atone for the lack within, by rigging her poor body out like a veritable queen of harlots."

Mrs. Stanhope and Miss Martha burst into a cordial fit of laughter, as Louise, with a good deal of spirit and sarcasm, delivered herself of the preceding speech; and, before their merriment had subsided, a knock was heard at the inner door, and Col. Malcome stepped in, bowing gracefully, with a pleasant "Good-morning" to the three ladies. Mrs. Stanhope rose and offered him a chair. Depositing a large package he held in his arms on a corner of the sofa, he sat down.

Mrs. Edson blushed. She thought it was at being caught from home in dishabille by a gentleman of the colonel's etiquette and high breeding. After a few casual remarks upon the beauty of the morning, he turned his discourse to her, and remarked:

"I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Edson; we are getting to be quite strangers of late. Edith is lamenting that you do not honor us with more frequent visits."

"I have often wished to call on your family, Col. Malcome," returned Louise, in a calm, clear voice; "but since your daughter commenced attending school, have desisted, lest I might inconvenience her."

"Edith does not go to the seminary after two o'clock," said he; "her evenings are quite unemployed, and she would be highly gratified to receive a call from you."

"I shall be pleased to call on her, and also to receive more frequent visits from her. She has less to confine her at home than I; so her visits should outnumber mine."

"Ay, yes; you speak sensibly, Mrs. Edson," returned he; "you have more calls on your time than Edith. Strange I can never remember you are a married woman."

"It would be well for you to remember it," said Louise, with a dignified curve of her graceful neck, and slight addition of color, which very much heightened her beauty.

"Mrs. Edson is so youthful in appearance," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, "I think she might excuse one for forgetting she is a matron."

"I'll excuse you, Mrs. Stanhope," said Louise, rising; "I don't want to be anything to you, but your little girl, and to run in here just when I have a mind to, and to have you chide me when I do wrong, and love me always, whether right or wrong. So good-morning," and, curtseying gracefully, she glided from the room and retraced her steps to her own mansion.

There was a silence of several minutes after she left, during which Col. Malcome recollected his package, and, placing it on the table, politely inquired if the ladies could oblige him by sewing a quantity of linen, of which he should be in need in course of a few weeks, as he meditated going a journey. They would be very willing to do it for him, could they get it in readiness by the time he would want it; but they had a great deal of unfinished work on their hands. Miss Pinkerton was confident they could accomplish the colonel's, however.

"I am doubtful, Martha," said Mrs. Stanhope; "you know the large bundle Mrs. Howard's waiting-woman brought in, last night."

"O, that can easily be put by," returned Martha.

"But Hannah said the major wanted it in a month at longest."

"Pshaw! that's a phrase of her own making. It sounds just like Hannah Doliver's impertinent manner of expressing herself."

Col. Malcome gave a sudden start as Miss Pinkerton carelessly uttered these words.

"What did you say was the name of Mrs. Howard's woman?" he demanded, with an eagerness that astonished his hearers.

"Hannah Doliver," repeated Miss Martha; "do you know her?"

"No," said he, suddenly assuming an appearance of composure; "that is, I think not; but I have frequently heard the name of Doliver before. How long has she lived with Major Howard?"

"A great many years, I believe," answered Martha. "People hereabouts wonder at their keeping the ill-tempered, arbitrary hussy. They say she rules the whole house save Miss Florence."

"Ay; the young lady must have a spirit, then, I should judge, if she defies such a virago as you describe this woman to be."

"No more spirit than she should have," returned Miss Pinkerton. "A sweet, beautiful girl is Florence Howard as ever the sun shone upon."

"Ay, yes, indeed," interposed Mrs. Stanhope; "she used to call on us last summer, when her embroidery teacher was away, to get Martha to assist her in her tambour work; and I declare, I thought her the most lovable creature I ever saw."

"I am told these Howards do not mingle much in society," remarked the colonel carelessly.

"No," returned Mrs. S., "Mrs. Howard never goes out. She is a confirmed invalid, and her disease inclines her to quiet and solitude. I don't believe there's a woman in the village who has seen her in all the seasons the family have passed at Summer Home."

"O, yes!" said Miss Martha. "Dilly Danforth, the washerwoman, saw her once. When she was there a year ago this spring, putting the house to rights, she cleaned the paint and windows of Mrs. Howard's room, and thus got a sight at the invalid. She told me she was a pale, thin woman, with a distressed expression of countenance. Her hair was nearly white, and she looked much older than her husband."

Col. Malcome stood before a window with his back toward the ladies, listening intently to their words.

"I have understood that Miss Florence is attending school at the seminary this term," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, at length; "do you know if it is so, Col. Malcome?"

"I think I heard Edith and Rufus say something to that effect," answered he.

"I hope she will drop in and see us some day," said Miss Pinkerton. "She and Mrs. Edson are great favorites of mine, and I doubt not your pretty daughter would become one also, if I should get acquainted with her. We are but humble people, but should be very happy to receive a call from Miss Edith."

"Thank you," said the colonel; "'tis very possible she may some time visit you, though she is rather timid and inclined to shrink from strangers. Well, ladies, shall I leave my work?" he added, laying his white hand on the package as he stepped toward the door.

"Yes," answered Miss Martha; "I will engage to have it ready in season for you."

He bowed and withdrew. Miss Pinkerton peeped through the curtain, as he walked down the garden path, and thought she had never beheld so handsome and elegant a specimen of the genus homo.

CHAPTER XV.

"O, loveliest time! O, happiest day!

When the heart is unconscious, and knows not its sway;

When the favorite bird, or the earliest flower,

Or the crouching fawn's eyes make the joy of the hour,

And the spirits and steps are as light as the sleep

Which never has wakened to watch or to weep.

She bounds on the soft grass,—half woman, half child,

As gay as her antelope, almost as wild.

The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years.

She has never known pain—she has never known tears;

And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart;

The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart."

L. E. L.

"Father!" said Florence Howard, the second day of her first vacation, "had I not better study Latin next term?"

"Latin!" answered he in a tone of surprise, "why should you study that?"

"O, for discipline to my mind," returned Florence.

"I think you will find the acquirement of French and Italian sufficient discipline," said he.

"O, but they are so easily learned! I want something more difficult—something I have to study hard on."

"Why, you would be running to me to get your lessons for you half the time!" said her father, laughing.

"No, I wouldn't," answered she, shaking her curly head cunningly. "Edgar would assist me."

"Edgar! and who is he?" inquired Major Howard.

"Why, Edgar Lindenwood! You know him," returned she.

"No, certainly I don't know anything about him," said her father.

"Why, you have seen the tall boy with the morocco cap and light curls, that used to walk to school with me last term!" said Florence, looking earnestly in his face.

"O, yes! I have seen him frequently," returned Major H. "What do you say is his name?"

"Edgar Lindenwood."

"And where does he live?"

"With his uncle."

"And who is his uncle?"

"The Hermit of the Cedars."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Major Howard. "And so, this young hermit is going to teach you Latin, Miss Florence? Romantic, upon my word!"

"Edgar is not a hermit!" said Florence, pouting her red lips and assuming an air of dignity which vastly amused her father. "He is brave, and bright, and handsome, and, our preceptor says, already a finer scholar than many a graduate from the university."

"Well, well; I cannot argue the merits of this favorite of yours, Florence," said her father; "but I promise to give him a larger share of my attention henceforth."

"I wish you would, father," said Florence. "I may bring him home with me from school some day,—may I not?"

"No!" returned Major Howard. "I can notice him in the street."

"But you cannot judge of him so far off," pursued Florence. "He looks better the nearer you approach him."

"I shall judge him best at a distance," remarked her father, moving away.

Florence did not exactly like the tone of voice in which he uttered these last words; but she soon forgot all else in the contemplation of studying Latin, and having Edgar's assistance in learning her lessons. She had never in her life taken any note of time,—never felt it lag heavily on her hands; but it appeared to her now that these interminable days of vacation would never come to an end. She passed one of them with Edith and Rufus Malcome, and this was by far the most insupportable of any. "She loved Edith dearly," she said; "but could not endure the childish prattle and frivolity of Rufus."

He was six months older than Florence, and Edith had seen seventeen summers, while Florence was only in her fifteenth; but she was so well matured in manners and appearance as to seem the senior of the delicate, retiring Edith.

Col. Malcome paid her many courteous attentions during her visit, and expressed an ardent hope that a friendship and intimacy might spring up between her and his daughter.

Florence said she should be delighted to form a companionship with Edith.

"We are located so near the seminary," said Col. Malcome, as she was preparing to return home, and Rufus stood waiting to accompany her; "while your father's mansion is so distant, that it will be very convenient for you, on rough days, to come and pass the night with Edith. Indeed, I should be highly gratified if you would make my house a sort of second home, and come in, familiarly, every day, if you choose."

Florence thanked him for his kindness, kissed Edith, and descended to the street in company with Rufus.

Col. Malcome approached the window and regarded the couple earnestly till they passed beyond his view, while strange, dark, commingled expressions passed over his face. Edith crept up to him and said softly, "What troubles you, father?"

He looked down sternly on her sweet, upturned face, and said in a tone of strong command:

"Edith, I desire you to cultivate the acquaintance of Florence Howard by every means in your power."

"I shall be glad to do so, father," answered she, with a look and tone which deprecated his sternness.

"'Tis well, then," said he, relaxing his brow and imprinting a kiss on her soft cheek as he turned away and stepped forth upon the piazza. The full moon was just rising in the east; the river rippled sweetly in the distance, and the whippoorwills piped their sharp, shrill notes on the hushed evening air. Suddenly he heard the garden-gate unclose, and, turning, beheld Mrs. Edson and her husband approaching. Descending the marble steps, he met them in the avenue, and, after a cordial interchange of salutations, ushered them into the gas-lighted drawing-room, where Edith, in a gossamer-like muslin, reclined on a velvet ottoman.

The evening passed pleasantly to all but Mr. Edson, who sat like a pantomime in a play, staring and grinning at what he could not understand or digest. Col. Malcome seemed, however, to take a malicious pleasure in placing his guest in the most awkward positions, and showing off his own superior grace and polish to the best advantage. If anything, he rather overdone. But perhaps he thought with Mrs. Salsify Mumbles in this case, "Better overshoot than fall short." Louise was graceful and self-possessed as usual; and it must be confessed did not appear very much disconcerted when Col. M. showed her husband in some ridiculous light, or mercilessly uncurtained his crude, narrow-minded opinions and ideas.

Scorn and contempt for the man she had married were fast mastering all kinder feelings she once had toward him.

CHAPTER XVI.

"I bid you leave the girl, and think no more

About her from henceforth."

"Ah, I can leave

Her, sire;—but to forget will be, I fear,

A thing beyond my power."

It was midsummer, and the Hermit of the Cedars sat under his low piazza, curiously constructed of the enwreathed boughs and branches of evergreen trees. He held a volume in his attenuated hand, with the contents of which, he seemed intently occupied. His appearance was melancholy in the extreme. A pale, thin face;—deep sunken eyes, and a broad, high brow, by sorrow seamed with furrows long and wide; for she doth ever dig with deeper, harsher hand than time. A loose linen garment was wrapped around his tall, gaunt form, and a white handkerchief tied over his head to prevent the passing breezes from blowing his thin, straggling gray hair about his features.

So intent was he on the contents of his book that he did not notice the approach of the cheerer of his solitude. Edgar came along the narrow path with a step quicker and more impatient than was his wont, and there was an expression on his fine, manly face which had something of mortification and anger, but more of regret and sorrow. He threw his satchel on the ground, and sat down at the hermit's feet, who laid aside his volume, on beholding him in that position, and asked him if he was fatigued or ill.

"No," said the youth, "but I shall be glad when I am gone away from here to the university."

"Ah!" returned the hermit, "it is as I knew it would be when I placed you at the seminary. Your desire for fame and honor has returned, and you long to go forth in the great world and mingle in its st[illegible]."

"No," said Edgar, "I would rather live and die within the walls of this hermitage, than ever go beyond them again; but I'm resolved I will not do the foolish thing. I'll go forth, and if my life is spared, show those who call me a foundling, and a wild cub of the woods, that I am something more than they suppose me to be."

"Who has dared apply such epithets to you, my boy?" exclaimed the hermit, his pale cheeks glowing with anger.

"Do you know Major Howard of 'Summer Home?'" asked Edgar.

"That do I," answered the hermit; "and did he call you by these names?"

"Yes," returned Edgar.

"He talk of foundlings!" said the hermit. "Why did you not slap him in the face, Edgar?"

"The words did not come directly from him to me," said the youth, wondering at his uncle's anger, which far exceeded his own.

"Ay, through a third person you obtained them? and that was"——

"His daughter, Florence Howard."

"Florence Howard!" repeated his uncle, "and what do you know of her?"

"I have been to school with her four or five months, and have assisted her in her Latin studies this summer," returned Edgar.

"And shall never behold her face again!" said the hermit, in a tone of angry vehemence, bringing his heavy sandalled foot down upon the wooden sill with a violence that made Edgar start from his lounging posture on the turf, and gaze with amazement upon the fierce workings of a face he had never seen flushed by an angry emotion before. He feared his uncle had suddenly gone mad, and stood indeterminate what course to pursue, when the countenance before him changed, the eyes closed, and the hermit fell heavily on the green sward in front of his door. Edgar, in his alarm, lifted the prostrate form in his strong, young arms, and bore him to the low, rough couch, which was their nightly resting-place. Then, taking a bottle from a [illegible] shelf above the huge, black fire-place, he poured its contents in a cup, and bathed the temples of the deathly-looking face till the eyes opened with recognition, and the lips moved, though inaudibly.

He watched by the bed-side several hours, and at length the hermit rose suddenly to his feet, and bade Edgar retire. He obeyed, and closed his eyes, but not to sleep. Opening them after a while, he beheld his uncle sitting before the table engaged in writing. Again the lids closed, and he fell into a light drowse, during which Florence Howard flitted before him in countless variety of forms. When again he looked around he was alone. The long summer twilight had deepened into evening, and Edgar rose and lighted a lamp. On the table he discovered a small, folded billet, addressed to him. He sank on his knees, opened it, and read. Various were the expressions that flitted over his features as he did so. When he had finished he refolded it carefully, and, drawing a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked a small box which sat on the table, placed the letter within, then relocked it and returned the keys to his pocket.

Then he extinguished the lamp and sat down in the window-nook to his watch of the stars.

But his thoughts were different from what they once were when he gazed on their glistening faces.

His soul-pinions had kissed the earth, and become fouled by contact with a grosser element; and heavy with a weltering weight of woe, that they could not soar aloft and hover over the casements of angelic homes, to rest at last on the glory-bright hills of heaven.

CHAPTER XVII.

"I only know their dream was vain,

And that they woke to find it past,

And when by chance they met again,

It was not as they parted last.

His was not faith that lightly dies;

For truth and love as clearly shone

In the blue heaven of his soft eyes

As the dark midnight of her own.

And therefore heaven alone can tell

What are his living visions now,

But hers—the eye can read too well

The language written on her brow."

Phebe Carey.

The yearly examination and exhibition of Cedar Hill Seminary was approaching, and teachers and pupils were busied with preparations in order to pass the ordeal creditably to themselves and to the institution.

Prominent among the list of performers stood the name of Edgar Lindenwood, often in juxtaposition with that of Florence Howard. Since the scene in the hermit's hut, Edgar, as commanded by his uncle, had studiously avoided Florence, and she, for a still longer period, had evinced a certain distance and reserve toward him. Edgar's knowledge of her father's dislike might be sufficient cause to part him from her, but it could by no means justify his growing intercourse with Edith Malcome.

As the time approached for the exhibition, Florence asked her father's permission to absent herself entirely and remain at home. Maj. Howard thought she had better attend, as she had been to school several terms; but she said she felt too languid to take part in the exercises, and thus obtained the excuse of her indulgent father.

Edgar's quick, impassioned nature regarded her absence as a direct insult to himself, for in all the parts assigned her, she would be brought on the stage in company with him, and frequently obliged to hold single converse. If this opinion needed further confirmation it was added, when she appeared at the Scholars' Levee, held on the evening of the exhibition, in elegant dress and dashing spirits, with Rufus Malcome for a partner.

They passed each other in the dance without a token of recognition. Edgar attached himself to Edith for the larger part of the evening. After the first two or three cotillons he did not care to join them; and Edith, being too delicate to bear the excitement, they roamed through the hall, conversing together of the events of the exhibition, or mingling among groups of the village people who had assembled by invitation to partake in the festive scene.

"Ha, my little fairy!" whispered Mrs. Edson in the ear of Edith, as she was sauntering past on the arm of Lindenwood, unmindful of her friend's proximity; "are you so far skyward you can't see poor Louise? Introduce me to your princely gallant, an' it please you."

Edith turned and presented Edgar to Mrs. Edson, who instantly found them a place in the group around her.

"This scene brings vividly before me my happy school days," she remarked, tears welling up to her beautiful eyes, which she dashed hurriedly away, exclaiming, "but I must not begin to prose about myself when I was young, lest I drive you all away by my tedious recitals."

"Mr. Lindenwood," said she, turning to Edgar, "though we have never met before, your vivid personations on the stage to-day have caused you to seem more like an old friend than a comparative stranger."

Edgar expressed his pleasure that his poor performances had met her approbation, and also that she condescended to recognize him as a friend.

"What a graceful creature is Florence Howard!" continued Mrs. Edson, as the fair girl whirled past her in the dance. "Edith, your brother should consider himself most fortunate in securing the most brilliant lady in the room for a partner; no disparagement to your charms, my dear," she added, leaning over and bestowing a kiss on the soft cheek of the blushing girl. "You know what I think of you, darling. The spirit of beauty is everywhere, says the poet. She assumes the largest variety of types and forms, and, verily, she has given her most dangerous one to Florence Howard. She is the brilliant dahlia, the pride of the gay parterre; but my Edith is the modest daisy blooming in some sheltered nook. The stormy winds shall rend the one from its lofty stalk and scatter its wealth of purple leaves o'er the miry earth, while dews and sunbeams kiss the modest plant that blooms in the lowly vale. Is it not so, Mr. Lindenwood?" she asked, as, pausing, she encountered his gaze fixed earnestly on her face.

"I don't know," he said; "that is, I have not considered the subject. Edith, I think the party are retiring," he added, turning his eyes to several disjointed groups; "remain with Mrs. Edson a few moments and I will return to you."

As he entered the ladies' dressing room, he saw Florence standing alone by the window, in the very spot where they had often stood in the interim of recitations, and studied their lessons from the same book. He thought he would give the world to know she was thinking of those times now. Approaching softly he stood near her in silence a few moments.

"O, Florence!" said he, at length, in a low, deep tone, tremulous with intense feeling and tenderness. Was there not enough of passionate devotion breathed in that one word to convince her of his eternal, unchanging affection?

What poor, weak simpletons are we, to pine and languish for words, where looks and tones are infinitely more expressive! Some people affirm that "actions speak louder than words." But we can't say much in favor of those, because, as far as we know, people in love invariably act like fools.

Florence turned at Edgar's adjuration, and he saw, by the moonlight, two great tear-drops dimming her starry eyes. He was about to extend his hand when Rufus Malcome rushed into the room, calling her name. Changing his purpose, he said, in a light conventional tone, "Have you been happy to night?"

"O, very!" answered she, with a gay laugh, which echoed in his ear long after she had taken the arm of Rufus and tripped lightly away.

When Edgar returned to Edith, he found Col. Malcome in lively conversation with Mrs. Edson. Florence and Rufus had disappeared, and Edith signifying her wish to retire, he led her from the hall and escorted her home. He found Florence in Col. Malcome's parlor sitting on a sofa with Rufus at her side.

"Come in, Lindenwood," said he; "here's room for us all."

"Thank you," returned Edgar. "I have a long walk before me, and must not tarry."

"O, stay with us to night," said Rufus.

"We should be pleased to have you remain, if agreeable," remarked Edith, timidly.

"It would be very agreeable," said Edgar, politely, "but my absence would alarm my uncle."

"O, he wants to be off to his hermitage!" laughed Rufus, coarsely; "let him go. You will stay, won't you, Florence?"

"If Edith invites me," returned she.

"Well, I do," said Edith quickly.

"Then the point is settled," remarked Florence.

"Good-night to you all," said Edgar, moving hastily toward the door.

Scarce ten minutes had elapsed, after his departure, when Florence rose and said, "Now I am going."

"Why, you just promised to remain all night," said Rufus, in a tone of undisguised disappointment.

"No," said she; "I made no promise, and I am going."

"Then I'll go with you," returned Rufus, seizing his hat.

"No," said Col. Malcome, suddenly entering the apartment. "With Miss Howard's consent, I'll be her escort home to-night."

Florence said she should be honored by his company. So bidding good-night to Edith and Rufus, she took his proffered arm and descended to the street.

"How have you enjoyed the ball to-night?" inquired he, as they walked on together.

"Very well," answered she, briefly.

"This young Lindenwood, that burrows with the strange chap they call the 'Hermit of the Cedars;' you are acquainted with him, I believe."

"He has attended school at the seminary, since I commenced to go," answered Florence, as calmly as she was able.

"He has been paying Edith some attentions of late," continued the colonel, in a careless tone; "do you suppose he really cares for her?"

"I don't know," answered Florence; and her voice trembled in spite of her efforts to steady it.

"Of course you don't know," the colonel went on, still in that cold, indifferent tone; "I merely asked what you thought?"

"I never thought anything about it in my life," said Florence, in a choking voice.

"That's rather strange," returned he. "I have thought of it several times lately;—but here we are at your father's gate. Present my regards, and say I would be happy to receive a call from him whenever he is so disposed."

Florence bowed good-evening to her gallant, and hurried to her own apartment.

The night was warm. A waning moon lighted the eastern terrace, and, not feeling disposed to sleep, she stepped through a window that opened to the floor, and, leaning against a pillar, stood silently gazing over the gardens and grounds below.

She had not been standing long thus when she beheld the figure of a man moving slowly along the gravelled walks, pausing frequently and fixing an earnest gaze on the windows of the apartment occupied by her mother. She grew alarmed, and was about descending the stairs to arouse her father, when she heard the hall door open softly, and saw the figure of a woman stealing down the garden path. She recognized the dark form instantly as that of Hannah Doliver. The man met her and the two went into a green-house. After an hour the woman reappeared, and retraced her steps to the mansion, but the man she saw no more. Securing her windows, Florence retired, resolving to impart to her father a history of what she had seen.

When, she did so, he only laughed at her and said he supposed it was some enamored knight come to pay his devoirs to the fair lady of his love, and counselled her to say no more of the matter, as it would needlessly irritate Hannah to know her secret was discovered.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"The world hath used me well, and now at length

In peace and quietness I sit me down

To feed upon the fruits of my hard toils.

Ambition doth no more distract my breast,—

I've reached the height my spirit strove to gain;

Here will I rest, and watch life glide away."

It is quite time for us to call on Mrs. Salsify Mumbles again. We fear the good lady, who is rather sensitive on such points, has felt neglected ere this; but we hope not, and, as her mansion heaves in view, we are convinced that matters of more importance than visits from our humble selves, have engaged our old friend's attention.

The second story has actually gone up, and the piazza spreads its white palings along the sides of Mr. Salsify's dwelling. The pasteboard sign of "Mr. Theophilus Shaw, Boot & Shoe Maker," is no longer seen swinging from the bed-room window, but a new sign stretches its sublime length over the doors of Mr. Salsify's old grocery, announcing, in staring black and yellow, to the inhabitants of Wimbledon, that "Mumbles, Shaw & Co., wholesale dealers in pork, cheese, onions, dried apples, sausages, and verdigris, continue at the old stand, No. 9 Temple street, where they will entertain the trading public in a genteel and finished manner."

Thus it appears Mr. Salsify's high hopes are at length realized. Most fortunate man! He has "risen in his profession" to the topmost summit of his earthly ambition.

Happy will it be for him if he remains content with his present elevation, and goes not, like too many restless mortals, clambering to a higher point, only to fall back, on some adverse day, into the slough of ill-luck and despondency.

Mrs. Salsify sits in her parlor making caps for her thumb, at least we should judge so, from their surprisingly small dimensions; and Mary Madeline is nowhere to be seen. But Dilly Danforth is in the kitchen bending over a great wash-tub, pale and sunken-eyed as ever. Now that we look at this woman attentively, it strikes us she is wonderfully like that lank-visaged man, who dwells in the lonely forest hut, the "Hermit of the Cedars," as he is called. But then it may be only the resemblance which all the sons and daughters of affliction have in common. 'Tis not likely 'tis more than that. And gazing on Willie, who stands over the great arches, replenishing the fires, and at intervals poking the white heaps of linen beneath the fierce bubbling suds with a long wooden shovel, we fancy for a moment there's something about him like Edgar Lindenwood. Of course, he is not so large or so well-dressed; nevertheless, he is greatly improved since we last saw him; and there is something in the turn of the head, which is certainly finely shaped, though placed on the shoulders of a beggar boy; and something in the set of the rusty cloth cap over the bright, sunny curls, that reminds us of the tall, graceful lad we used to see winding his way over the hills to the large, white seminary. But then, a great many boys have pretty-formed heads, and bright, curly hair; and, should we attempt, no doubt we could find a large number with more points of resemblance than we have been able to make out between Edgar Lindenwood and Willie Danforth. We are full of conceits. Sometimes Edith Malcome is like Florence Howard, and Rufus' glistening, coal-black hair reminds us of Hannah Doliver, while the handsome colonel has a look we cannot fathom, and from which we turn with a creeping shudder.

'Tis quite astonishing what strange fancies possess people at times.

While we have been indulging in ours, Mrs. Mumbles has put away those impossible caps, and come into the kitchen to see how matters and things are progressing, and just as she begins to tell Aunt Dilly, that she "wants her to get through washing in time to scour down the pantry shelves and scrub the oil-cloth on the dining-room floor," in runs Miss Susan Pimble, and says, "Mamma wants Mrs. Danforth to come and do a little light work for her, to-morrow; for she has got to go to Goslin Flats to attend a great mass convention, and can't stop to do it herself. She will pay Aunt Dilly well, if she will oblige her. Garrison has been sick—Peggy Nonce is away on a visit to her son, who has recently been married, and mamma's public duties and household affairs have proved too heavy for her shoulders," etc., etc.

Susy ran through a long rigmarole, with a volubility worthy the daughter of a fluent public speaker.

We hasten away lest our mania for discovering resemblances should detect one between Mrs. Salsify Mumbles and pert Susy Pimble.

CHAPTER XIX.

"Ay, little do those features wear

The shade of sin,—the soil of care;

The hair is parted o'er a brow

Open and white as mountain-snow,

And clusters there in many a ring,

With sun and summer glistening.

Yet something on that brow has wrought

A moment's cast of angry thought."

In an arbor of Major Howard's elegant garden, the moonlight shimmering its rich, clustering vines with silver, and the night-breezes murmuring in low, musical voices among the dark green leaves, sat a man of commanding aspect and handsome features. Light auburn hair, closely trimmed, lay in short, thick masses of wavy curls around his high, pale brow. His mien and manner indicated the well-bred gentleman. A small, dark figure crouched beside him. It was Hannah Doliver.

"We meet again at last," said the man, after a considerable silence. His voice was low and deep, and the woman trembled as she answered,

"I marvel how you have discovered me."

"Few things escape my knowledge which it subserves my interest to know," returned he. "What in the name of all the fiends possessed you to enter the service of Tom Howard?"

"A lone, forsaken female finds shelter where she can," whined the woman.

"O, don't babble in that hypocritical tone!" said the man. "I did not leave you so destitute; and I took the child off your hands that no incumbrance might fetter your footsteps."

"Fiend!" exclaimed Hannah. "You shall not talk to me thus. What have you done with my boy?"

"I have done well by him," answered the man. "He has been reared as a gentleman. No stain has ever been suspected on his birth."

"Where is he?" asked she, in a voice trembling with emotion.

"He is near you. I left him but an hour ago, well and happy."

"Near me!" said the woman almost wildly. "It cannot be—you lie to me, Herbert!"

"By the heavens above, I utter the solemn truth!" returned the man.

"What name does he bear?"

The man bowed his tall form and whispered in her ear. She sprang to her feet, paced hurriedly to and fro down the little alcove, and at length threw herself on her knees and exclaimed,

"O, let me see him! Can you be so cruel as to withhold the child from his mother's right?"

"It rests with you to decide whether you see him or no," said the man, wholly unmoved by her distress and emotion. Swear to keep my presence here a secret, and do my bidding in all things, and you may see your boy when you choose."

"I swear!" answered the woman, frantically.

"Tell me first why you are here serving Tom Howard's wife?"

"I am not serving his wife."

"Who then?"

"His sister."

"His sister!" exclaimed the man, now evincing strong emotion. "And does she live?"

"She lives; and lives to palm herself off on the world as the wife of her own brother."

"What iniquity!" said the man. The woman burst into a low laugh.

"Why do you laugh?" demanded he, fiercely.

"Because iniquity comes so prettily from your lips," replied she in a sarcastic tone.

"Take care, woman!" said he. "Remember you are in my power."

The little dark figure trembled and was silent.

"I wonder she would receive you again into her service," remarked the man at length in an absorbed tone.

"Fear is a strong motive. I threatened to reveal her deception to the public."

"Ay, you have some skill and tact, I find!" said he, rising. "Now remember, when I wish to see your mistress, you are to gain me an entrance to her."

"What do you want to see her for?" asked the woman. "I believe a sight of you would throw her into fits."

"It is none of your business why I wish to see her," said he. "But mind, you do not look on your boy unless you implicitly obey all my commands." Here he stooped and whispered again in her ear.

"I hate the girl!" she said, after he had ceased speaking and stood gazing down on her, twirling his velvet cap carelessly in his hand.

"But you would like to see your boy so well married," remarked he.

"'Twould be a sweet revenge," she said in a chuckling tone. He turned to depart.

"Herbert!" she called, softly.

"What do you wish?" said he, pausing.

The woman hesitated, and at length said, "The girl—her child I mean; is she——?"

Again the man whispered in her ear. "None can say," he added aloud, "that I have not been a kind parent to my children."

"I'm glad there's some virtue in you," said the woman, turning toward the quiet mansion that stood in almost palace-like magnificence in the midst of the beautiful grounds that surrounded it on all sides. The man lingered behind, and finally left the garden by a path lying in an opposite direction from the one by which he had entered. He bent his steps rapidly in the direction of the river. Either the warmth of the night or his own emotions oppressed him; for, as he gained its banks, he slackened his pace, drew off his cap, and loosened his collar. With arms folded across his chest, he moved slowly along, like one intensely absorbed in some dark and intricate train of thought. Sometimes he muttered to himself, and made strange gestures, or tossed his head with a confident air, as though he saw onward to the success of some plan he concerted. So occupied was he in his own thoughts, that he never saw the tall, gaunt figure of a man, crouching in the shadow of a small linden tree, that stood on the bank of the river, nearly opposite Dilly Danforth's wretched abode, although he passed in so close contact as to brush against the little bundle of sticks the unknown held in his hand, while his deep, sunken eyes glared on the passer till they seemed nearly starting from their sockets.

"'Tis he!" murmured the gazer, when the abstracted one was beyond the sound of his voice. "I must see where he goes;" and, stealing noiselessly to the door of Dilly's abode, he placed the bundle of sticks on her sill, and slowly followed the receding figure.

CHAPTER XX.

"And the clear depths of her dark eye

Were bright with troubled brilliancy,

Yet the lips drooped as with the tear,

Which might oppress, but not appear.

Her curls, with all their sunny glow,

Were braided o'er an aching brow;

But well she knew how many sought

To gaze upon her secret thought;—

And love is proud—she might not brook

That others on her heart should look."

One pleasant autumn evening a social group were assembled in Mr. Leroy Edson's tasteful parlor. A tall, argand lamp on a marble table, shed its mild, ethereal light over the rich furniture. A bright fire glowed in the marble grate, and in the genial atmosphere of her own creating, young Mrs. Edson moved, a thing of grace and beauty. She wore a robe of emerald Genoa velvet, with an open bodice, laced over a chemisette of fine-wrought Mechlin lace. Broad, drooping Pagoda sleeves revealed her white arms encircled by quaintly-fashioned jet bracelets. Her guests were not numerous, but select. Col. Malcome and his family were most prominent among the number. Florence Howard was there, attended by Rufus, and Edgar Lindenwood in company with Edith. Jenny Andrews, with no less a personage than our quondam, roguish friend, Dick Giblet, shop-boy of Mr. Salsify Mumbles' grocery; now Mr. Richard Giblet, of the firm of Edson, Giblet & Co. A very respectable appearance Dick made, too, for he was a quick, sprightly young fellow, albeit somewhat over-fond of a mischievous joke; but this he would outgrow in time probably. Amy Seaton, sedate and modest as ever, with laughing Charlie for her beau, and several others, among whom we might mention Miss Martha Pinkerton, made up the little party.

Edith looked fragile and sweet as ever in a dress of azure thibet cloth, her light hair hanging in clusters of wavy curls over her small shoulders. She leaned gracefully on the arm of Lindenwood, and looked in his face with a gentle, artless expression of countenance.

Florence, in her crimson cashmere, and dark, massy ringlets, looked a shade paler than when we last saw her, but more queenly and brilliant, if possible.

There were many points of resemblance between her and Louise Edson. Both were endowed with superior mental and intellectual powers; both accomplished and beautiful; but there was at times a gentleness in Florence's manner, a dreamy light in the far depths of her large, hazel eyes, that indicated less firmness and strength of character, with tenderer susceptibilities. Perhaps life's trials would sooner unnerve her spirit.

Mr. Edson was not present, nor was it necessary he should be, to enhance the enjoyment of his gifted wife. He was, in fact, very much the same sort of an appendage in his elegant mansion that Mrs. Pimble averred her husband to be in his,—"a mere crank to keep the machine in motion." Not that Mrs. Edson monopolized her husband's sphere, as did the masculine Mrs. Pimble. By no means. She appeared to give her lord full sway and sceptre in his own household, and the good-natured man thought never husband had so obedient, condescending partner as blessed his bosom. Consummate actress, to conquer where she seemed to yield, and use her advantages so skilfully that the vanquished felt himself the victor. Mrs. Pimble stormed and blustered, but she exercised not half the power over her household that Louise Edson swayed by a soft word or placid smile.

But we forget our party, which waxes merry as the evening progresses, warmed by the genial influences of social intercourse. Col. Malcome and Mrs. Edson discussed the merits of different authors; Lindenwood modestly joined them, and Florence dropped an occasional word. Edith sat silent. Rufus yawned, and at length commenced a game of forfeits with Dick Giblet, over which he soon grew so boisterous, that his father reproved him sternly for a violation of the rules of politeness. The youth's brow flushed with sudden anger, and for the remainder of the evening he sat apart from the company. When the party dispersed he did not come forward to claim Florence, and she fell a second time to the care of Col. Malcome. Edgar escorted Edith, and the couples went different ways to reach their destinations. Edgar took the street by the river, and Col. M. that leading past the seminary. The latter had much the longer walk; but Edith, fragile and delicate, complained of fatigue, ere they had proceeded far, and Edgar proposed she should rest awhile on the trunk of a fallen tree by the river's brink. She sat down, and he, after a few moments, assumed a seat at her side. Her veil was thrown off, and her small silk hat had fallen back from her head, revealing in full her girlish features and wavy, auburn curls. Edgar was gazing on the beautiful face, when suddenly a footstep met his ear, and, turning, he beheld his uncle, the hermit, standing before them, staring wildly upon Edith; who, as soon as she discovered the strange-looking being, uttered a faint scream and sunk on Edgar's bosom. "Don't be alarmed," said he, whispering in her ear; "this man will not harm you,"—and then lifting his head to address his uncle, and inquire what brought him there, so far from home at that late hour, he found the hermit had disappeared.

Calming Edith's alarm as well as he was able, he escorted her home, and then set off for the hut in the forest, pondering, as he went, upon the event of the evening, and wondering what could be the cause of the fierce and ireful expression which disfigured the usually placid face of his uncle, as he gazed so fixedly on Edith. It reminded him of the violent passion evinced in regard to his intercourse with Florence Howard. He knew the recluse had experienced a severe disappointment in early life, and concluded this had tended to sour his mind toward the whole female race, and caused him to look with angry distrust upon the most gentle and lovely of the sex. In no other way could he account for the repugnance manifested by his uncle toward his friendship and acquaintance with both Florence and Edith. Thus ruminating, he reached the forest habitation to find all dark and gloomy. The hermit had not returned to his hut.

Col. Malcome lingered a moment as he escorted Florence to the door of her father's mansion, and, as he did so, Major Howard stepped forth, rather suddenly. Florence presented him to the colonel, and the two gentlemen shook hands cordially.

"I have frequently desired to call on you and form your acquaintance, Col. Malcome," said the major; "but frequent absences from home, and the delicate health of my wife, have prevented me hitherto."

A slight, cynical smile flitted over the colonel's face at these latter words, but it was not observed in the obscure light of evening, and he answered, politely, that he had often desired an acquaintance with the major, and hoped that now their children had established a friendly intercourse, the parents might soon follow the example.

Major Howard expressed a wish that it might be so, and Col. Malcome, bowing gracefully, retired.

Florence, after inquiring for her mother, and learning she was comfortable as usual, ascended to her room, made fast the door, and drew forth her journal, which was the dearest companion of her lonely hours, the receptacle of her most treasured thoughts, and safety-valve for all unuttered griefs and hidden sorrows.

She had scarcely touched her gold-tipped pen to the virgin page, when a soft knock on the door displaced her train of thought.

"Father?" said she putting her lips close to the lock, for he was the only one from whom she could expect a call at that late hour. There was no answer. She hesitated a moment, and then opened the door. Hannah Doliver slid in.

Florence stood still, gazing with astonishment on the little wiry form, as it wormed around the apartment, touching the books, and giving sudden pulls at the curtains and bed drapery. She had never seen Hannah over her threshold before, and wondered what a visit from her might import.

"I came to see if you wanted anything, Miss Florence," said the woman, at length, fixing her twinkling eyes on the fair girl's face.

"No!" said Florence, in an impatient tone; "what should I want at this hour, but to be alone?"

"O, I'm not going to intrude upon you but a moment," returned Hannah. "I thought, as you had been out late and 'twas rather cold, you might want a fire lighted in your room, or a cup of warm tea, or something; so I ran up to see." Florence grew more and more astonished. "Have you enjoyed yourself this evening?" asked Hannah.

"Yes," answered Florence briefly.

"I am glad to hear it," returned the woman. "This Col. Mer—— what is his name?" she paused and asked abruptly.

"Malcome," said Florence.

"O, yes! I'm bad at remembering strange names. Well, this Col. Malcome has got some fine children, has he not?"

"Yes," returned Florence; "his daughter is a beautiful girl."

"And his son?"

"Is a loggerhead."

At these words, a furious anger, flashed over Hannah's face, and, glaring fiercely on Florence for a moment, she darted from the room and slammed the door behind her. The young girl turned the key, saying, "I'm glad to be rid of her hateful presence. What possessed her to come here is more than I can tell." And in the surprise this unusual visit occasioned, she retired and forgot her journal.

CHAPTER XXI.

"A mien that neither seeks nor shuns

The homage scattered in her way;

A love that hath few favored ones,

And yet for all can work and pray.

A smile wherein each mortal reads

The very sympathy he needs;

An eye like to a mystic book,

Of lays that bard or prophet sings,

Which keepeth for the holiest look

Of holiest love, its deepest things."

What an impetus was given to the cause of Woman's Rights, when the first Bloomer stepped upon the stage! With what tremendous huzzas of triumph and victory did the whole assaulting sisterhood mount the breaches thus made in the great bulwarks of man's tyranny and despotism; infuriately calling on every woman throughout the length and breadth of the nation to rise in the might of her slumbering strength, make her petticoats into pillars of defiance, and hurl them on the weak, unguarded outposts, till the whole tottering fabric should go down with a crash to rise no more.

Mrs. Pimble and her coadjutors commenced rolling the ball of reform with increased velocity. Mass meetings, of the most boisterous and denunciatory character, were held through the community. It appeared a war was commenced which threatened to cease only with the extermination of the masculine portion of Wimbledon. Mr. Salsify Mumbles, though as brave as most men in common encounters, was afraid to step outside his door lest his unmentionables should be seized by some of the new-fledged manhood, and a petticoat tied to his coat-tail. Even the green damask curtains and cushion-coverings that adorned the high, old-fashioned pulpit of the village church, were voted as ostentatious and calculated to foster luxurious idleness in the pastor; and a committee appointed and authorized to tear them from their places and sew them into bloomers for the comfort of the lady-lecturers, whose callings exposed them to the most inclement weathers. And so green-legged Philanthropy stalked through Wimbledon; but it never laid an armful of wood on the sill of Dilly Danforth's humble abode, though rough blew the storms of the inclement winter; nor did it put a cap over Master Willie's curly locks, or sew a charitable patch on the elbow of his ragged jacket. Because it was philanthropy in the wider sense, which sought to relieve in the sum of thousands—not of units.

Mrs. Dr. Simcoe figured not so largely among the sisterhood of reformers as she would have done had she not been encumbered by "Simcoe's children," who were two of the most ill-natured, uncompromising offshoots of barbarism that ever tormented a meek, unoffending woman.

Mrs. Lawson thought some reformer should arise to fill the place so nearly vacated by the persecuted lady, and fixed upon Mrs. Edson as her successor.

So, on a day, Mrs. Lawson, in green damask bloomers, black overcoat, and deer-skin gloves, appeared on the steps of Mrs. Edson's mansion, and gave a herculean pull at the door-bell which brought the master of the house instanter, with staring eyes, to answer the pealing summons. "I believe Mrs. Edson resides here," said the lady-reformist, looking loftily upon the man, who was evidently very much struck with his visitor's personal equipments.

"She does," answered he, at length.

"I have come to hold a conversation with her," said Mrs. Lawson, stamping the snow from her boots, and proceeding toward the open door of the sitting-room.

Louise rose as she entered, glanced at the strange figure, then at her husband, and then back to the figure again, with an amusing expression of wonder on her beautiful features.

"I do not know this—this person's name," said he, at length.

"Lawson—Mrs. Portentia Lawson!" said the lady-reformist, laying her walking-stick on the piano, and unbuttoning her over-coat. "I am actively engaged in the benevolent enterprises of the day, and have come to obtain your aid and coöperation, madam." Here she made a low inclination toward Louise.

"My wife does not meddle in such matters," said Mr. Edson, simply. "I pay a stated sum yearly toward the support of the gospel, and give as much as people in general to the missionary and Bible societies."

"It is nothing to me," said Mrs. Lawson, turning sharply upon the speaker, "what you give to support the gospel, or to endow Bible societies. I have nothing to do with such milk-sop organizations, or the donkeys that draggle at their heels. Other and loftier objects engage my attention and claim my powers. My business is not with you, sir! It is with the woman who condescends to acknowledge you as her husband!" Having delivered herself of the preceding harangue, Mrs. Lawson turned her attention to Louise, and vouchsafed no further notice of Mr. Edson, who soon slunk out of the room and returned to his counter.

"I suppose you are not wholly ignorant of the reform the more talented of your sex are making efforts to effect in the social condition of Wimbledon," remarked the nimble-tongued Mrs. Lawson to her fair auditor, who was sitting in a low rocking-chair before the glowing grate, with her tiny, slippered-feet poised on the fender.

"Yes!" answered she, purposely ignorant. "I am confined at home by my duties as a wife, and know very little of what is passing around me."

Mrs. Lawson proceeded to give a detailed account of the labors of a small band of enfranchised females for the liberation of their enslaved and suffering sisters, whose weakness and timidity had hitherto prevented their rising and throwing off the yoke of the oppressor, man. So eloquently did she rehearse her tale, so still and patient was her listener, that she felt confident of gaining a new coädjutor in the ranks of female reform. As she finished her recital, she directed a sharp, piercing glance toward Mrs. Edson, whose calm, clear eyes and placid face evinced no disturbing emotions.

"Will you join our ranks?" demanded Mrs. Lawson, "and aid us in rending the fetters forged on woman's wrists by the tyrant man?"

"No!" said Louise, in a quiet but determined tone.

"Then you do not believe in Woman's Rights!" said Mrs. Lawson, half her enthusiasm falling off and leaving her coarse features blank and bare.

"O, yes!" answered Louise, her face brightening as she spoke, "I believe in Woman's Rights with all my heart and soul. Yet not in crowds, and camps, and forums, where swarming multitudes are jostling to and fro; and brawls, and shouts, and loud harangues make tumult in the air, do I believe she finds her proper sphere. Not in halls of legislation, or among empannelled juries, or yet within the sacred desk, would I behold the form of woman. No, no! what sight so revolting to a refined soul—whether it dwell in male or female bosom—as unsexed womanhood, booted and spurred, parading over rostrums, brawling in debates, and spouting sophistical sentiments on subjects of whose true signification they are as ignorant as an idiot of the laughter and derision his babble excites? O, 'tis woman's thrice-beautiful right to relieve and succor the care-worn and distressed, wherever on this goodly earth they fall within the circle of her sphere and influence! To give sweet, unobtrusive charities to the children of want! By gentle words of sympathy and hope, to raise and cheer the drooping souls of her erring sisters; and in dim-lighted rooms, where restless disease tosses on couches of pain and agony, 'tis hers to move with noiseless tread, to smooth the pillow, bathe the brow, and give the healing potion! Say not her sphere is limited, her influence small, her mission low, or her rights unacknowledged."

Louise rose as she proceeded, her face glowing with the sentiments she uttered. Mrs. Lawson stood before her, moving backwards gradually, till she finally receded through the open door, took to the street, and was seen no more in the home of Louise Edson.

CHAPTER XXII.

"Babies are very well when they don't cry,

But when they do, I choose not to be nigh;

For of all awful sounds that can appal,

The most terrific is a baby's squall;

I'd rather hear a panther's hungry howl,

Or e'en a tiger's deep, ferocious growl,

Than sit in chimney-corner 'neath my hat,

And list the screechings of an irate brat."

We thought we would go to Mrs. Stanhope's this cold, starry, winter evening, but on passing the parlor windows of Dea. Allen's cottage, the curtains being yet undrawn, we distinguished, by the blazing firelight within, the form of that good lady, and also that of her maiden sister, Miss Martha Pinkerton, both sitting at the family table, drinking tea with the good deacon and his amiable spouse. Amy Seaton and Charlie were there, too, but we missed the laughing face of Jenny Andrews, and Mrs. Allen said she was gone on a sleighing excursion, which a number of the young people of Wimbledon were enjoying, this fine, bright evening.

"I want to know," asked Miss Pinkerton, sipping her bohea, "if you believe there's any truth in the report of Florence Howard's engagement with Rufus Malcome, Mrs. Allen?"

"Well, I never thought much about the matter," returned that mild-visaged lady. "The young people's affairs don't interest me particularly. The two families are quite intimate. We have the Malcomes at our next door, and can't well avoid seeing a large number of their visitors, as they come and go."

"Col. Malcome is a very gentlemanly man," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, as they were rising from the table.

"Yes," said the good deacon, wiping his face with a yellow silk handkerchief; "but sometimes I fear he is not the Christian he should be. He never goes to church, and every Sunday that wicked-looking woman of Major Howard's is there the whole day, racketing about with Rufus and the servants. I don't think a peaceable, pious man would counsel such doings, for my part."

"That Hannah Doliver at Col. Malcome's every Sabbath?" said Miss Pinkerton, opening wide her large, light eyes; "I don't see what she does there; really, the impudence of some people is astonishing. 'Tis likely she wants to see all she can and gossip about the colonel's affairs."

Nobody replied to this pert speech of Miss Martha's, and Mrs. Stanhope resumed the conversation by giving a brief account of Mrs. Lawson's discomfiting attempt to convert Mrs. Louise Edson into a reformer; she having received an amusing description of the scene from Louise's own lips. This was exciting considerable merriment among the group, when there came a rap on the door, and Mrs. Salsify Mumbles entered with her daughter, Mary Madeline; the latter carrying a bundle in her arms. Before the salutations were fairly over, said bundle began to squeal, and on removing several yellow flannel blankets, a baby was discovered of nearly the same hue as the shawls which had enveloped it.

And the baby became the toast on all sides; as what baby does not, when making its debut among strangers? Mrs. Allen said it was the image of its grandma, whereupon Mrs. Salsify laughed and looked supremely silly. The deacon patted its back and said, "Poor little innocent! what a world of sin and misery it has come into!"

Mrs. Stanhope said it appeared very strong of its age, and Miss Pinkerton gave it a hasty, expressive glance, which spoke her opinion more eloquently than words could have done.

Amy and Charlie approached in their turn, and, gazing on it, exclaimed, innocently,

"What a funny thing!"

Verily, there was more truth than fiction in these words. It certainly was a funny thing. On the crown of its long, bare, peaked head, stuck one of the little, furbelowed caps we once saw Mrs. Salsify engaged in making, which was tied down over its flapping ears with orange-colored ribbon. A receding forehead, little specs of eyes, a turned-up nose, and great blubber lips, adown whose corners flowed eternally two miniature cataracts. O, what a face! Surely, nobody but a grandmother would be pleased to have it said to resemble theirs. 'Twas such a scowling, uncomfortable-looking baby, and had such a shrill, piercing squeal for a cry; for all the world like a miniature porker. Mary Madeline tossed it up and down in her arms, trotted it on her knee, but still it squealed, and Mrs. Salsify said it was squealing for its father; it always did so when it was carried away from him, and they should have to take it home. So they bundled off, and then Miss Martha spoke. "It was strange people would carry their squalling brats into their neighbors' houses to annoy them."

"Children are usually more trouble among strangers than at home," Mrs. Allen remarked.

Then Charlie Seaton said, "Willie Danforth told him it was always squealing when he passed Mr. Salsify's, which was several times a day, on his way to and from the seminary; and he thought they kept a pig in their parlor, till one day he saw the baby's face at the window, and discovered the sounds proceeded from its noisy throat."

"How happens it that Willie Danforth goes to school at the seminary, when his mother is so poor?" asked Miss Pinkerton.

"Willie says his mother found a paper on her door-sill one morning," answered Charlie, "and on opening it several bank-notes fell out. On the paper was written, 'Use these for William's tuition at the seminary.' So he is going to school till the money is spent."

"Well, I declare," said Miss Martha, "that was a strange incident. Does Mrs. Danforth know who left the money?"

"She thinks it was the same one who leaves little bundles of sticks at her door, every now and then," answered Charlie.

"Well, who is that?" inquired Miss P.

"O, she don't know," returned the lad.

"I am glad some kind soul remembers the poor widow," said Mrs. Allen; "for I have often feared many of us were too neglectful of the lone woman."

"You know, wife," said the deacon, "what sad reports we heard of her hypocrisy; how she assumed an appearance of extreme poverty to create sympathy and wheedle people into deeds of false benevolence. I do not think such sinfulness should be countenanced."

"I know such reports were spread abroad concerning her," remarked Mrs. Stanhope; "but I never could trace them to any other source than that ranting, blustering Mrs. Pimble."

"What! that brawling, fanatical, crazy-pated, man-woman?" exclaimed the deacon, vehemently; "pray, don't mention her. The wrath of God will fall upon her and all the guilty brood who have desecrated His sanctuary, by tearing down its curtains and converting them into garments to serve Satan in." The excitable deacon was waxing warm, when his wife gave him a conjugal nudge, and he held his peace.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"From the hour by him enchanted,

From the moment when we met;

Henceforth by one image haunted,

Life may never more forget.

All my nature changed—his being

Seemed the only source of mine.

Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing

Thy sad future to divine?"

Florence Howard sat in a deep-cushioned fauteuil, beside a marble table which graced the centre of the elegant apartment she called her own. A loose robe, of India cashmere, in superb colors, with a lining of the softest, rose-colored velvet, was folded carelessly about her graceful form. One white hand toyed with the luxuriant chestnut curls, that hung in beautiful profusion over her shoulders; the other rested lightly on the cushioned arm of the chair. A quantity of rich writing materials were spread out on the table before her; but she glanced towards them listlessly, and at length bowed her queenly head between her hands, and sat a long time still and silent, as if absorbed in reverie. Ever and anon her little foot tapped impatiently the soft carpet beneath it, as though some harassing, unpleasant vision disturbed her brain. The clear, ringing chimes of the college clock finally aroused her to consciousness.

Rising, she drew aside the heavy folds of the damask curtain, and gazed for a moment forth on the sleeping earth. The stars were bright, and a slender crescent rim hung just above the dark cedar forest that swept and swayed to the northward. Florence dropped the curtain, and, returning to the table, opened a large morocco-bound volume, which revealed a virgin page. Twirling the silver top from a carved, mosaic inkstand, she dipped the golden tips of a pearl-handled pen in its ebon contents, and holding it between her small, taper fingers, rested her arm a few moments on the stand, as if waiting for her thoughts to form and arrange themselves ere she gave them expression. Suddenly the pen dashed off, and line after line of graceful characters grew on the pure, white page till it was completely filled.

"I have looked out on the midnight," she wrote, "with all its countless diamonds blazing on its brow; and far on the verge of the northern horizon hung the pale disc of the young crescent moon hurrying to obscure itself behind the dark, gloomy forest,—like as my hopes fail when I turn my eyes toward those cedar-tops. O, earth, how soon thy children learn the lesson of sorrow and distrust! But where is my old pen taking me this evening? This journal grows a sad, ghostly thing, o'ersplashed with tears, and wo-fraught to the edges.

"To turn the subject: What have I done to-day? Moped dismally till evening, and then muffled myself in furs; sat down among cushions and buffalo robes in the omnibus-sleigh, beside ——, shall I write it? yes! beside Rufus Malcome, and dashed away over the snow-clad earth to the music of merry bells and merrier voices around me.

"How finely Jenny Andrews and Richard Giblet enjoyed themselves! I understood their happiness well. Mrs. Edson was not quite so buoyant with spirits as usual; but she conversed with Rufus in her charming style. I was quite indignant to hear so much eloquence and refinement wasted on a churl like him, and just malicious enough to think the fair speaker would have preferred to say her pretty things in the ear of one who could have better appreciated their worth and beauty, namely, Col. Malcome. He is really a splendid man, though I hardly relish the power he seems to exercise over father, who is so infatuated with him I believe he would scarcely be able to refuse any request he might choose to make. I wonder so talented a father should own a dolt like Rufus for a son. Silly-pated fellow! he has made love to me several times. I say made it, and truthfully; for no such simpleton as he could ever actually feel it in their bosoms. But then, no doubt, he thinks he is in love,—desperately so. I have no pity for him; nothing but contempt, and yet, should he propose for me to my father, I fear the result would be his acceptance. He has wealth and position, and I know father has a suspicion that I have yet a lingering recollection of the hermit's boy, as he calls Edgar. O, name of all others! Have I dared write it in full on these pages? I must draw an obscuring line over it. There! Now,

'One last, long sigh to hope and love,

Then back to busy life again.'"

While Florence was occupied with her journal in the room above, Col. Malcome sat with her father in the parlor below, and that which she had feared might some time come to pass had actually occurred; and when she nestled down on her soft pillow and sank to sleep, if her slumbers were not tranquil and dreamless, they were sweeter than any she might know for many a weary night to come; for she slept in blissful ignorance that she was the affianced bride of Rufus Malcome. Early on the following morning her father imparted to her the dismal intelligence.

"I have accepted him," said Major Howard, "on the conditions that the engagement shall remain a secret between the families, and the union not be consummated for at least one year, as you are both young. Col. Malcome will give his son fifty thousand dollars on his marriage, and also a splendid situation wherever he chooses to reside."

He ceased, and Florence remained silent and abstracted.

"This will be a match suitable for my daughter," said the fond father, approaching and laying his hand affectionately on her bowed head. "Does she not agree with me?"

Florence lifted her face; the light seemed suddenly to have gone out of her eyes and left them in utter darkness. No tinge of color glowed on her features, which worked with painful and scarcely suppressed emotion. The father started back on beholding her. "My child!" he exclaimed, "what is the matter?"

"Leave me alone, father, I entreat of you!" she said.

"Not till you tell me what is distressing you so," said he, chafing her cold hands in his. "Is this engagement so repulsive, so averse to your feelings, as to cause this appearance of agony and distress?"

But she only said, "Leave me, dear father, I entreat you, for a while! I have a sudden illness. By and by I will speak to you."

Awed by her tone and manner, the fond father obeyed. An hour passed by, during which the grief-stricken girl never moved, when the door opened, and Hannah Doliver entered. She glowered on Florence with an expression of hate and gratified revenge, which changed to one of fawning fondness when the pale, tear-stained face was turned toward her. "Pray, don't sit here in the cold all day!" said she. "Your mother desires you to come to her."

Florence wrapped her rich dressing-gown around her, stole down the stairs and entered the apartment of the invalid, who reached her wasted arm from the bed as she approached, and clasped it round the slender, graceful waist. The young girl bowed her head on the pillow, and burst into tears.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"He held a letter in his withered hand

Which brought good tidings of the absent one.

O, what soul-cheering things are letters, when

They come fresh from the hand of one we love,

All brimming o'er with kindly-uttered words!"

The wailing winds swept onward with low and piteous sound, while the "Hermit of the Cedars" sat beneath his humble roof, beside a rough table, and, by the light of a tallow candle, pored over a closely-written page. In the recess of the small window, a bright-haired boy was sitting, very like the dreamy Edgar who sat there in summers and seasons passed by, and watched the stars gleaming, like showers of diamonds, through the interlacing forest-boughs. But it was not Edgar, for he was far away, storing his mind from the mines of ancient lore.