A week after Arthur Grayson’s arrival in the city, the following letter was received at his father’s delightful residence on the banks of the Susquehanna:

“This old study is not such a disagreeable room after all,” said Ariana, as she was ensconced in the low window-seat, with Arthur Grayson beside her. They were hidden from the view of her brother-in-law by his long overcoat, which no remonstrances could induce him to have hung elsewhere. “Madison has probably discovered that the parlors of Herculaneum were thus ornamented,” she continued, pointing to a pair of boots which were standing in the midst of the apartment.

“It is a very pleasant room to me,” he replied, “and I shall long remember the hours spent here.”

A glance of joy shot from Ariana’s eyes, but it passed away as she thought, “I dare say both of my brothers-in-law used to say just such agreeable things before they were married.”

“If I ever meet with a man who tries to be disagreeable, I shall believe that he is sincere,” she replied, somewhat pettishly.

“Why do you suspect me of hypocrisy?” said Arthur, coldly. “I remarked that our pleasant chats had cheated me of many weary hours; you cannot doubt that this is the case. I neither said nor intended more.”

Ariana had always applauded sincerity, but this frank avowal did not meet her approbation. The tÊte-À-tÊte was becoming awkward, and was luckily interrupted at this juncture by the ring of the postman. A letter was handed to Mr. Grayson; it contained a note which he gave to Miss Huntingdon. She blushed at seeing that it bore the signature of Isabella Grayson, and was penned in a feminine hand, of remarkable delicacy and beauty. The flush on her cheek grew absolutely crimson, as she read the polite invitation to accompany her sister on a visit to Castleton the ensuing month. At that moment Arthur Grayson was wishing that he had not induced his mother to extend her hospitality, as Ariana had of late openly announced her predilections for single blessedness, and had at the same time been so bewitchingly agreeable, that he began to feel that her society was dangerous to his peace.

“I fear I must decline this invitation,” said she, after a pause of some minutes.

“For what reason?” he asked, while his dark eyes were fixed in close scrutiny upon her varying countenance.

Ariana blushed still deeper, and then attempted to smile, but a tear stole to her eye as she replied with great frankness, “We have spent so many delightful hours together that your memory will be very pleasant, but I am afraid that the charm would be broken if I were to see you at home.”

This confession almost drew from Arthur one of still deeper import, but a remembrance flashed upon him of all he had heard of Ariana’s coquetry, and he merely replied, “If that is all, I will remain away from Castleton, rather than deprive my mother and Mrs. Daley of the pleasure of your society.”

This proposition, however, was by no means agreeable.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, “I have no idea of exiling you on my account, only promise to try and not be very disagreeable.”

This pledge was easily given. Soon after a messenger arrived to say that Mr. Dormer was quite unwell, and begged that Mrs. Daley would spare Ariana.

If there be any where in the world a striking instance of the fallen pride of humanity, a sick man affords the example.

When Ariana returned, Mr. Dormer was lying on the sofa, in the parlor, in his gay dressing-gown, having absolutely refused to go to his chamber and be regularly treated as a patient. Harriet stood by him with a wine-glass of medicine in one hand, and a saucer of sweetmeats in the other, trying to coax the invalid to swallow the dose she had so carefully prepared for him. The naughtiest of boys never made up such rueful faces, or protested more willfully against the disagreeable injunction.

“There’s no use,” he said at last, angrily; “I’d rather die than swallow such stuff.”

“But, dear Andrew, what could I do without you?” said the affectionate Mrs. Dormer, now almost in tears.

A sudden and violent pain made her husband inclined to change his resolution, and snatching the glass, he said, “There, give me the sweetmeats, quick.” With much writhing and choking, he swallowed a dose which one of his children would have taken without a murmur.

“What is the matter, Andrew?” asked Ariana, kindly, as she stepped to his side.

“Matter enough,” he replied, “my stomach is entirely ruined by the horrid messes on which I have been fed for the last month. A horse could not have stood the cooking to which I have been forced to submit.”

Mr. Dormer, after smoking his digestive organs out of order, in spite of the remonstrances of his friends, now actually believed that he was an injured man, victimised by a bad cook and a careless wife.

Such a miserable week as followed this scene had rarely fallen to Ariana’s lot, but she was really grateful to Mr. Dormer for his disinterested kindness to her, and relieved her sister of much trouble and care. Every day that detained the peevish patient from his business made him still more unreasonable and exacting. He would have been well much sooner if any one could have induced him to obey the orders of the physician. After a dose of calomel, he would insist on a hearty dinner of beef-steak, and when purposely kept in a low state to prevent the danger of fever, called loudly for wine or brandy, declaring that his wife would like nothing better than to see his strength so reduced that there could be no hope of his recovery.

The servants were so exhausted with his caprices that the chambermaid took French leave, and then Mrs. Dormer, who had double duty to perform, was taxed with inattention to his wants.

“I wonder if Arthur Grayson has a strong constitution?” was the question which passed through Ariana’s mind, as she witnessed the daily martyrdom of her meek sister. Now the dressing was all torn from the blisters of the impatient invalid, then the covering thrown off, and a moment after a complaint made that some outer door had been left open on purpose to freeze him to death. Every dose of medicine was taken with a struggle, every word of advice regarded as an infringement on his rights.

Where was that clever fellow, Andrew Dormer? What would the merchants on ’change have said to the transformation? Nothing, we presume, for like himself, they were few of them clever fellows to their own wives and servants.

——