The Varley family were very wealthy in purse, and it was the only anchor with which they were able to fasten themselves on society. They were ignorant, vulgar, and haughty, proud, unprincipled, and deceitful. A more designing, intriguing, manoeuvring woman than Mrs. Varley, can seldom be met with, but her plans were all so superficially laid, and so very shallow and short-sighted, they had so far unfortunately failed, at least all the matrimonial alliances she had projected for her five marriageable daughters—inasmuch as they all remained a heavy article in a sated market. Charlotte was the youngest, and in person, so far as the delicate tinting of the face and a faultless chiseling of form were concerned, she possessed unusual loveliness. But the deformity of her ill disciplined and misdirected mind, and the prominent weakness of her character, were so apparent, that in the estimate of really sensible and intelligent people, the one favorable item passed for almost nothing.

Mrs. Varley had resolved to secure the Rev. Mr. Style for her youngest daughter, and she determined that nothing should be left undone to accomplish so desirable an object. Charlotte was herself too weak to play her part well in a well concerted scheme—but in a miserably lame one, she played it wretchedly. Mr. Style saw to his infinite but necessarily concealed disgust, the snare that was spread in his sight, and though nothing in the world was easier than to escape, it subjected him to a mortifying espionage, and most disagreeable caution in his pastoral intercourse with his people. What the designs of others might be he was too high-minded even to imagine; but there was no mistaking Miss Charlotte Varley’s intentions, with eyes only half open.

Since Mr. Style had been an inmate of Mrs. Tower’s household, Mrs. Varley had been making perpetual attempts to place herself and her daughters on a footing of intimacy there; but her efforts had been unsuccessful, as Mrs. Tower was just as polite as ever, and just as reserved as ever, leaving Mrs. Varley to guess at the reason. Of course she put her own construction upon the matter, and never failed, when she could find or make an opportunity, to hint at something unfavorable in relation to Mrs. Tower. She did, as malicious people often do, foil herself with her own weapons, for almost every body loved and admired Mrs. Tower, and distrusted and disliked Mrs. Varley, though her wealth and standing in society gave her a kind of influence and power, which she and the five Misses Varley most industriously exerted.

Mrs. Tower’s clear mind fathomed at a glance the intent of her neighbor, but the sentinels about the out-posts of her prudence, were never for once caught slumbering on duty, or taken in a moment of unguardedness; and she sealed her discoveries in her own breast, leaving her friend and protÉgÉ, the Rev. Mr. Style, to his own conclusions and his own discretion. He longed to ask her if his observations tallied with hers, but he feared it might savor of conceit, or wear some other unworthy aspect in her eyes, so they remained mutually silent.

Such was the condition of things when Mrs. Tower welcomed to her house and her hospitalities the daughter of her early friend, sweet Jessie Lincoln. An illness of a few days had delayed her arrival, but the paleness it had left on her cheek only added a charm to her sad and lovely face.

“Now you are mine for a long, long time—for always, Jessie,” said Mrs. Tower, as she folded the gentle girl to her heart. “How long I have urged you, and now you are really with me at length? How like the Jessie of my childhood you are, dearest, and how like the Jessie I laid beside her father in the grave!”

The awakening of painful remembrances brought the relief of mingled tears to the childless widow and the orphan Jessie; but soon controlling her emotions Mrs. Tower continued?—

“I shall preach one of my favorite doctrines in your ears, my dear Jessie, till you are my proselyte indeed. This notion of yours about dependence is only a notion. It is banishing the bloom from your cheek, and stealing from your whole youth the treasures of joyousness which the young should especially garner. There is bitterness enough laid up for meridian years, Jessie, without casting so deep a shadow over the light and the hope of your girlhood. You must henceforth make my house your home, and be my own daughter. Say, Jessie, will you not?”

Poor Jessie could only reply with her tears.

“At least you must consider the matter,” proceeded Mrs. Tower, “and if I succeed in making your stay with me agreeable while you are my guest, I shall certainly hope to persuade you. But dry those tears, Jessie. I dare say I have opened the subject prematurely—if you are not too weary for company to-night, I must take you down stairs and introduce you to some ladies I see coming up the avenue, to sympathize in my gladness—Mrs. Jones and her Emilie. Mrs. Jones is one of my dearest friends, and Emilie is a wild, crazy-headed creature, but very sensible and affectionate, and I am sure you will love her.”

Jessie’s plain traveling-dress was exchanged for one of simple white muslin, and the bright mass of her beautiful black hair, released from its confinement, fell in smooth, heavy ringlets over her shoulders. Her whole air was a harmonious combination of ladylike reserve and a native born gentility, which education indeed may polish and improve, but can never implant. Mrs. Tower fondly kissed the cheek of the graceful girl, and then placing Jessie’s arm within her own, she led her with almost maternal pride to the drawing-room.

Mrs. Jones and her daughter welcomed the young stranger with the sincere cordiality of old friends, and Emilie, who became immediately fascinated with the simplicity and unassuming gentleness of her manner, expressed the earnest hope that Miss Lincoln would be happy enough to spend the whole summer.

“If you have a country-loving taste, I am sure you cannot find a lovelier spot than our own village, Miss Lincoln—or Jessie—as I mean to call you when we are no longer strangers,” said Emilie, her brilliant face sparkling with kindness, as she sat down on the sofa by Jessie’s side. “There is every thing beautiful at Mrs. Tower’s I know,” she continued, “but I am so wild, and so much of a rambler that I love the forests and glens and waterfalls, and above all horseback excursions! We have a pair of fine saddle-horses that papa has just brought home—high-spirited creatures they are—they make me think of Zenobia’s horses. Don’t you ride on horseback, Miss Jessie?”

Jessie had never practiced at all.

“O well! I can learn you in a very little time, and I’ll undertake to be your tutor in horsemanship, for I am far more notable in it, than in some more feminine accomplishments. Do you hear my boast Mrs. Tower? I have engaged to learn Miss Lincoln to ride on horseback, in which art I have informed her I excel!” and Emilie laughed heartily at her own nonsense.

“No very unreasonable boast, Miss Emilie,” said Mr. Style; “and I think Miss Lincoln would have no difficulty in believing every word, if she had seen you practicing your Arabs this morning. I was confident your neck would be broken! But have you found names for the horses yet? You were in a grave study about that last evening!”

“O yes, Mr. Style, I am happily relieved of that anxiety. I could not think of christening them with those Quixotic names which you suggested, for I knew I could never remember them—and I was so troubled to suit myself, that I referred the whole matter to papa and George, and after a protracted and laborious discussion, they declared for the illustrious names of Romulus and Remus! I hope they may not quarrel for precedence, as those old worthies did! Indeed I shall be wrathful enough if Romulus practices any imposition or violence on Remus, for he is decidedly my favorite, and not entirely a non resistant I discover. But I shall give Miss Lincoln her introductory lessons on my docile old Betty, who has run so many delightful races for my pleasure. After that I purpose to settle a pension on Betty, and leave her to enjoy a calm old age. O I long to be about it! Will you be too tired to take your first ride to-morrow morning, Miss Lincoln? Betty is quiet as a kitten, and will kneel to take you on her back. Mrs. Tower’s avenue behind the garden is just the place too. Mrs. Tower may we ride there?”

“Certainly you may, Emilie,” replied Mrs Tower. “I give you the range of my house and grounds, together with the command of my carriage and coachman, till you shall get Jessie acclimated!”

“That is noble, Mrs. Tower! All I want. Your avenue is longer and wider than ours. I am sure I shall have roses as red as my own on Jessie’s cheek in a very little while. And you, Mr. Style, may prepare yourself for a challenge to a horse-race, when Miss Lincoln can ride my Romulus!”

Jessie expressed unbounded delight at the prospect of amusement that was before her, and offered a thousand thanks to Emilie for her willingness to instruct her.

“O pray don’t say a word about that,” replied Emilie. “Perhaps I shall not prove so competent as I promise. But if I fail, Mr. Style here shall finish your education!”

“Now, Mr. Style,” said Mrs. Tower, when the ladies had made their adieux, “you must take charge of Jessie’s entertainment, while I attend to a little business. I am sure she will be pleased with the conservatory?”

The young clergyman very readily undertook the commission, and throwing open a door from the drawing-room, he led the delighted girl into a sweet wilderness of flowers and fragrance.

Three weeks glided by almost imperceptibly, for Jessie Lincoln had never experienced such a full tide of happiness. The cool, fresh country zephyr kissed her cheeks, and there crept over them a delicious tinting, delicate as the blush of a rose-bud. Vigorous exercise, rural walks, and every kind of simple pleasure banished the sickly and languid expression from her face, and with returning health came vigor, vivacity, and joyousness. George and Emilie Jones were unwearied in their devotion to Jessie’s happiness; the Varleys had outdone everybody in promises of attention and politeness, especially Miss Charlotte, who found very frequent occasion to watch for any indications of Mr. Style’s preference of Jessie before herself. Poor Charlotte! she longed to read his heart; the indifference, nay, positive aversion she would have discovered there, would have been “the gall of bitterness” to her own, for she was deeply and desperately in love, if ever a silly young woman was, and a breath could have fanned her electrical jealousy into an uncontrollable flame. She would have given the last farthing of her fortune for an assurance of affection from the young minister. Alas! he never gave her any; yet at this juncture, without the slightest reason to believe he regarded her with any other sentiment than the commonest acquaintance, she confidently did believe she had taken him in her toils, and he would soon declare himself her admirer, unless Jessie stood in the way.

It was impossible not to see with one’s eyes open that Mr. Style was becoming deeply and vitally interested in Jessie, though in her simplicity and humility she was wholly unconscious of it; and if she had conceived the possibility of such a thing, she would bitterly have rebuked her own presumption, for she regarded herself altogether too humble to aspire to such a position in the world as to become the wife of such a gifted man. It is true that the lustre of his mind, the high tone of his moral endowments, and the faultlessness of his exterior moulding, charmed her—and what young heart would they not charm, I pray you tell me, dear lady reader? But the idea of loving Mr. Style with any other love than that which is inspired and sanctioned by respect and friendship merely never entered her mind. Jessie was, however, the beau ideal of all his visions—the pure, pious, refined, and high-souled woman he had always hoped to meet before he surrendered his heart with its rich treasury of manly and generous love. He knew her history—you shall know more of it anon, reader—and he admired and revered the strength and unconquerable resolution with which she had combated and triumphed in the midst of the most depressing discouragements. Respect, admiration, love, combined to make him—no, not a willing slave at her feet—he felt her moral nobility would revolt at that; but they made him ready to plant his strength by the side of her weakness, to be its defence and protection till the death-angel should come, commissioned to guide her from earth to heaven.

——