In a large, pleasant garden, laid out in the old fashioned style, two young friends were walking together one summer evening. Sometimes they would sit down on a grassy slope, looking at the bright clouds in the western sky; then rising together in the most friendly manner, they would walk beneath the arching trees, stopping often to pluck flowers, and many-patterned leaves, from the low hanging boughs, but ever and anon they talked busily together, and their conversation soon turned upon their early recollections.

“I remember well the first time I ever saw you, Magdalene,” commenced the younger one. “It was a still summer day, soon after we first moved here. Every thing at home was in confusion. Our scanty load of furniture had been tossed into our neglected old house, apparently to arrange itself. Our one girl, with noisy undirected zeal, went stumbling about, falling over chairs, and breaking crockery; while my poor father, sick and irritable, lay upon a bed, fuming at every thing. Unnoticed and wondering, I sat in a corner, amused for a time by the chaos by which I was surrounded. But at length I grew very weary at the voices of displeasure and vexation, that grated so harshly upon my ears. Looking up at the window, I saw how brightly the sun was shining upon the green waving trees in the avenue beyond; and with a sudden longing for quiet I slipped out at the door. Our own garden, a square of bare ground was by no means inviting; but beyond grew a row of tall, beautiful trees, that seemed to bound a large flower-garden, and farther still, a little wood with a low stile, enchanted my fancy, and promised me an easy entrance. Oh! I cannot tell you how beautiful it looked, to a child brought up in the close dismal streets of a large city. I felt as if I stood in Fairy-land. Every thing seemed to have a marvelous light,—a mysterious shading cast over it, which gave me a sensation, as if something strange and wonderful were hidden behind every bush, or at every corner around which I passed. As I went on, my childish attention was attracted by the pretty iron railings which bounded the garden, and looking between them, I saw a well-kept lawn, and smooth walks, winding around mounds of green turf. On one of these mounds, you were sitting, reading with a calm air, perfectly in keeping with the scene around. I thought you much older than you really were, for you were tall for your age. You seemed to me so striking in your dark blue dress, with your beautiful features, that I immediately ran over in my mind all the heroines I had ever read of, but as I could not find one that exactly resembled you, I thought of a name for you, and had commenced to connect a long story with it, when a voice from the house called you, and to my great disappointment, you went in. I continued for awhile to look in upon the wide garden, but I felt as if the life of the scene, and the heroine of my story had departed with you.”

“Ah! yes, Franzchen,” answered her companion, “from the first, you were romantic and fanciful. But I remember well, with what childish superiority I at first looked down upon you. When Aunt Katrine told me one day, that she was going to bring little Franzchen Deshalbens to see me,—I cried contemptuously—What, Aunt!—That girl, with such a little unwashed face, and such great black eyes to see me!—I don’t like babies for play-fellows! But before you had been with me long, I learned to like you well enough, and think I might possibly find pleasure in the companionship of one younger than myself. You remember, we went into the garden, and as we sat upon the mound, you told me the story of ‘the fair lady and the genii.’ I soon forgot my disdain, and besought you to continue, until the moon rose upon your endless and enchanting recitals.”

“Yes, indeed! Magda. I too remember with what dignity you received me. But that only pleased me, because it corresponded with the character I had drawn out for you, of a great princess. But I think I should have been a little overawed, if Aunt Katrine had not spoken so kindly to me. Then when I commenced to speak of my favorite stories, you seemed to think such things so far beneath you, that I did not expect the interest with which you afterward listened.”

“And then, Franzchen, I used to come to the fence at the foot of the garden, to see you sitting on the ground, building a castle with small sticks, and you, little muddy thing, would look up with your great dark eyes, to tell me of some new tale you had been reading, and you would fix upon a character in it for each of us. Sometimes you were the hero or heroine of the piece, and would tell the whole in the first person. What a changeful, chameleon-like creature you made yourself out to be. Now you were the brave knight, Sir George, and rode fighting for Christendom; and now as the sorrowful Griselda, you told me of your cruel, task-exacting aunt, until the tears came into my eyes; or you spoke of yourself as ‘the fair one with the locks of gold,’ while all the time your curling black hair fell over your face. Do you know, Franzchen, I often envy you those curling dark locks? Stay now, while I arrange these white jasmins in your hair. Flowers never look so well in mine.”

“Dear Magda, how can you envy me, with your beautiful, light, braided hair? Do you know, last night, I thought you looked like an old Grecian statue, with your fine features, and tall, fine figure; and you spoke to every one with so much ease and self-possession.”

“There, now! Franzchen. You are running away again from all common sense, into the crazy region of your imagination. Do not try to make a heroine of me, I beseech you, or expect me to take all your fancies for realities. But it is growing late. I hope you are not too romantic to eat any supper.”

As they returned to the house, they were met by Aunt Katrine. “Here, girls! come quickly,” she cried. “I have a letter for Magdalene, from her father’s sister, the high and mighty Baroness of Radgardin.”

Now this aunt of Magda’s,—a pretty, foolish, ambitious woman, had married a nobleman of high birth, and great wealth, whose sister was a margravine. Great indeed, was the dignity of the noble Baron of Radgardin, and great was the elation and self-consequence of his baroness. Had not Magda grown up uncommonly beautiful and striking in appearance, it may well be doubted whether she would have taken so much interest in her, as she now seemed to. But as it was, she liked to have her handsome niece with her, and had already many ambitious designs connected with her. Her darling scheme at present, was to marry her to the young Count Hugo, the son of an old friend of the baron’s, and she constantly remarked that Magda, a beauty, and somewhat of an heiress, should hold up her head, and remember, that she was the niece of the Baroness of Radgardin, and the grand-daughter of the Baron of Roderkamp. She had now written to invite her to pay her a visit, as she expected to have much noble company at her house, to whom she was anxious to introduce her.

Among the rest, she was to be honored by the presence of Count Hugo, and she went so far as to hint that her family were always remarkable for beauty, and as some of them had already done so well in the world, Magda also, under her guidance, might do equally so. At the close, she added, “My dear child, you must come. I have seen your father, and he said that the only obstacle that would prevent your coming was, that you had a friend staying with you, whom you had promised to accompany on a visit. You must prevail upon your friend to delay this visit, and come with you. My carriage shall be at your door next Tuesday—so be sure and be ready.”

Magda laughed heartily as she read the letter. “But we will go, Franzchen,” she said, “for we shall have a fine time no doubt, and besides that, I have seen this Count Hugo, and like him very much. So does my father. I have often heard him speak very highly of him.”

But Franzchen looked upon the matter very seriously, and never doubting but that Magda had only to appear to conquer the whole world, she cried,—“But Carl Engleford, Magda, what is to become of poor Carl Engleford?”

“Oh, never mind Carl Engleford! I tell you, Franzchen, I’m very ambitious, and I want to see Count Hugo again. But we must write to your cousin and delay our visit there.”

This cousin of Franzchen’s whom they spoke of visiting, was a good-natured, but high-tempered woman, who had never been able to bear with Monsieur Deshalbens’ perverse and irritable temper; but at his death she would gladly have taken charge of her little cousin; Magda however would never consent that she should be separated from her, and they compromised the matter by going often to pay her a long visit, but this might easily be delayed on so important an occasion as the present.

“We shall want a good many things,” said Magda, with a prudent and business like air, after a few minutes consideration; “I shall go at once to my father and get a draft for each of us. Shall I manage every thing myself?”

“Pray do,” said Franzchen, who was still thinking of Carl Engleford.

Magda found plenty to occupy her, and busied herself with preparing and packing; but at length the eventful day arrived, and with it the baroness’s carriage.

“Is Lisette to go with us?” asked Franzchen, as she saw the girl descending the stairs, bonnet on and band-box and parcel in hand.

“Certainly. We must have a waiting-maid at Radgardin castle,” answered her companion.

They set off in high spirits. After a long and somewhat wearisome ride they approached the castle.

It was a magnificent building, situated upon a winding river, which swelled out into a little lake before it. The commencement of the water was hidden from view by deep, dark woods, terminated by a distant range of blue mountains. Franzchen was fairly enchanted, as the coachman, exciting the spirited horses, whirled them at full speed along the smooth, level road entering the extensive pleasure-grounds.

“Oh, Magda, look, look!” she cried, “what beautiful glimpses we catch of the water as we pass among the trees, and how finely the road winds down to the river!”

Magda had been there before, but she now joined heartily in her friend’s admiration. Soon they drew up at the gate of the castle, were ushered up stairs, and received in the vestibule by the baroness.

“Oh, my dear Magda, how delighted I am to see you—I knew you would come. Although I am rusticating here in the country just now, we shall not be very dismal, I can assure you. I have a delightful party coming to see me. The Margrave and Margravine of Baralt, the Landgrave of Durathor, the Dowager Countess of Hinkle, Baron Logrum, and better than all—”

Here she was interrupted by her niece, who drew Franzchen forward to introduce her to her aunt, who immediately drew herself up—“was much gratified at the honor Mademoiselle Deshalbens had done her in accompanying her niece to her little country-house”—“hoped she was not fatigued by the journey,” and so on.

After the usual inquiries and compliments had been gone through with, they were conducted to a handsome room, opening on a balcony overlooking a modern flower-garden behind the castle. The baroness left them to rest and refresh themselves. She was soon followed by a servant bearing fruits and refreshments on a gilded waiter.

But Franzchen thought not of eating as she stood at the window looking out upon the terrace. So looking doubtfully at her companion, who was busily engaged directing Lisette to unpack the trunks, she began:

“Oh, Magda, how pleasant it would be to run down and look at the river. We could so easily descend these steps and pass through that gate.”

“No, indeed, Franzchen. You must lie down immediately and go to sleep.”

“What! I go to sleep! It isn’t night yet!”

“But we have been traveling all day, and to-night we are to be introduced to a great party. If we do not rest now we shall be horribly weary when evening comes, and look frightful and stupid.”

“But, Magda, I’m not sleepy at all. It will be of no use to lie down.”

“But you must, Franzchen; you must eat and sleep, or you will look thin and pale, and I don’t want you to look like a scarecrow.”

“I don’t want to look like a scarecrow, either. Do you think I shall?”

“Of course you will if you don’t lie down. Now do, dear Franzchen.”

“Well, then, if I must,” said Franzchen, sighing as she turned away from the window.

Magda smiled as she saw her lie down and in a few minutes fall fast asleep, but without thinking of following her example, she was turning again to Lisette, when the baroness looked in.

“Do you not want to rest, my dear?”

“No, aunt; I never sleep in the day time.”

“Well, then, leave Lisette and come with me a moment, I want to have a talk with you.” So saying, she led the way to the balcony, and after a few compliments on her manners and appearance, she began. “Now, my dear child, who is this friend of yours, this Mademoiselle Deshalbens?”

“She is an orphan,” answered Magda. “Her father came to our neighborhood when she was very young, and purchased a house near to ours. When he died he left her, with a moderate fortune, to the guardianship of my father, who had taken a great deal of interest in her.”

“Who was her father? Were you acquainted with him before?”

“No, they were perfect strangers, but we liked Franzchen so much, that we would gladly have had her with us always. Monsieur Deshalbens was French. His health was very poor from the time we first became acquainted with him; his wife, who was a German, had died some time before.”

“A Frenchman! and nobody I suppose. My dear Magda, you must be careful what acquaintances you form. At your time of life it is very important. Now, don’t look so indignant, my dear, I’m not finding fault with your friend in the least, you know, for she seems to be a harmless little creature, and her manners are very pretty, only wanting in style of course. But how much better it would be if all your acquaintances were selected from high-life, and your intimate friend should be a baroness, or a lady something, at least.”

“If all she wants is a little mann—”

“There, now, my dear, why should you take offense at what I have said? It was only meant to guide your conduct in future. Do not let us speak of it any more now. I want you to give me your opinion about a little walk I am having made down here. Come, let us go and see it.” So saying, she descended from the balcony with a smiling countenance, and Magda followed, to hear that Count Hugo was expected every moment—was such a handsome young man—so brave, so distinguÉ, etc.

When Franzchen opened her eyes, it was quite evening. The room was brightly lighted by a chandelier from the ceiling, and Magda was standing beside her, waiting for her to awaken. She jumped up, wondering that she had forgotten herself for so long a time, and asking how her companion had slept.

“Excellently well, dear Franzchen. But it is time you dressed. The baroness has been here. She says that every one has come, and we must descend to the drawing-room as soon as we can. Come, I will arrange your hair myself, for I have set Lisette to altering a little your white gauze dress with the blue trimming.”

“But how will you get dressed, Magda?”

“Don’t you see that Lisette has already braided my hair? She can finish dressing me in a minute. Now, pray, don’t open your eyes so wide. I did not sleep quite as long as you, that is all.”

“But my white gauze dress with the blue trimming! Where did it come from? I never saw it before.”

“Why, I ordered it, to be sure, and plenty more beside. Did you think, you little ignoramus, that we were coming without any thing to wear? But now, let me do your hair.”

“How kind you always are, Magda! I never thought of it.”

“I know that. You never paid a visit to the Baroness of Radgardin before, and don’t know of what importance such things are in her eyes.”

“But, Magda, what are you putting those pearls in my hair for? They are the prettiest ornaments you have. You must wear them yourself.”

“Oh, no! I’m going to wear my little tiara, my golden crescent, that we used to call the crown. It is more suitable, you know.”

“Suitable! To what?”

“Why, to my exalted expectations, to be sure! You forget Count Hugo.”

“Has he come?” asked Franzchen, eagerly.

“Yes, some time ago; and I have seen and talked with him. There! Now, pray, don’t give such another start, for you have disarranged all the curls I had just finished brushing. Sit still, and I will tell you all about it. I did not feel at all inclined to sleep, and I went down the terrace, with the baroness, to see a new walk she is having made. We were in full discussion concerning it, when we heard a voice behind us and turning, saw Count Hugo, who had left his horse with a servant at the entrance of the park, that he might, as he told us, have the pleasure of walking slowly through it, and enjoying the fine views.”

“I like him for that!” cried Franzchen, who was growing quite excited. “That is just what I should have liked to have done! I hate those indifferent sort of persons, who pass every thing by without the least admiration, and would not walk a step out of their way to see the most beautiful scene in the world. But what next, Magda?”

“Only that we had a pleasant little conversation, and I like him better than ever. After paying his respects to the baroness, he hastened to claim my acquaintance, and stayed talking to me until my aunt, alarmed for my toilette, carried him off.”

“Oh, I am so glad! I’m sure he must like you very much, Magda! It seems like a dream. How stupid I was to sleep all the time.”

“Not at all,” said Magda, quietly, as she gave the last touch to Franzchen’s hair. “There comes Lisette with the dress.”

The toilette was at length completed, and Magdalene announced her intention of descending immediately.

Franzchen, who always delighted in seeing her friend handsomely dressed, could not refrain from a little innocent admiration, but danced around her, examining her from head to foot, and exclaiming, “You look like some great queen, Magda, in your white satin dress, and your little golden coronal.” Magda smiled quietly, and thought little Franzchen did not look at all amiss in the white gauze dress, her dark curls fastened back by the bandeau of pearls, and her eyes sparkling with delight.

As they were ushered into the brilliant saloon, the baroness came forward and introduced them to one and another, until Franzchen was almost bewildered. First they must curtsey to this stout lady in blue, and the noble margravine, then smile sweetly on that good-tempered old gentleman, and gratefully on this condescending great landgrave.

Then advanced from the crowd, a thin, elderly gentleman, with rather a vacant countenance, and stiff manner, accompanied by a younger one, with bright, brown eyes, and a lively, pleasant face. They welcomed Magda with much friendliness, and were introduced to Mademoiselle Deshalbens as Baron Radgardin and Count Hugo.

Franzchen’s eyes fairly danced. She felt as if she was in an enchanted land, and although, after the first introduction was over she was left almost unnoticed in the crowd, she was fully occupied in admiring the brilliancy of the lights, the gay appearance of the lamps, and above all, in watching Magda dancing with Count Hugo, who evidently admired her greatly, and seized every opportunity of conversing with her.

At length a sandy-haired young man, whose countenance left the impression of a perfect blank upon Franzchen’s mind, requested her to dance. She arose to join the set, but was so busy thinking and admiring, that she hardly knew what she was doing; but she danced with the unconscious grace that was natural to her.

“Mademoiselle Deshalbens moves like a zephyr,” remarked the count, who had been watching the new-comer with considerable satisfaction—and Magda smiled assent.

After the dancing and supper were over, a walk was proposed upon the terrace—and every gentleman hastened to escort some fair lady to the promenade.

As Franzchen stood waiting, she saw the count looking for Magda, who was already walking with Baron Logrum. As he turned away disappointed, he noticed her standing alone, and hastened to beg the honor of conducting her.

She desired nothing more than the opportunity of becoming acquainted with him; and although at first she stood a little in awe of him, she had a natural gift at making herself at home with every one, and inducing them to talk. But the count was no difficult subject. He spoke with the ease of an intelligent, well educated man, and the wit of a young and lively one.

He commenced at once about Magdalene, whom he rejoiced again to have met. Then they admired the pleasant walk, the fine view, and the bright moonlight; and at length they wandered off into a comparison of their favorite writers, whom they discussed with an animation that astonished a very prim and proper couple, who walked just behind them, alternately answering with yes and no’s, to questions asked at minute intervals.

By the time they returned to the saloon, Franzchen felt almost as if they were old friends, and thought how much better one free and earnest conversation was than a thousand silent meetings.

“I like the count very much,” she said, as she returned with Magda to their room, after the company had dispersed; “and he talks so much of you.”

“You do not wonder so much now, that I could forget Carl Engleford, while thinking of him?”

“No.” Franzchen was obliged to confess that she was no longer surprised at it.

It may easily be imagined that the two friends rose rather late upon the ensuing morning; but that was the custom in that noble house—and the midday sun was shining brightly when Lisette entered with the coffee.

Magdalene and Franzchen sat opposite each other in their loose morning-dresses, and entered into a regular gossip, as they sipped their coffee, on the events of the preceding day.

They talked over the kind though stiff baron, the ambitious baroness, the condescending landgrave, and last, but not least, the agreeable young count.

“I always had a high esteem for him,” said Magda, “from what I have heard of him. And I think he is more truly polite and polished than any one I have ever met with.”

“I think so, too,” said Franzchen; “he is so gentle and kind; and I like so much to see his eyes twinkle, when he says any thing merry.”

“Yes, he really has beautiful eyes, so full of life and intelligence.”

“And then, Magda, his manners are so simple and unaffected. I was afraid, because he was a count, and very rich, that he would be haughty and self-conceited; but he is not so at all—is he?”

“Not in the least,” responded Magda; and so they agreed that they were very well pleased to have met him.

“Good news! good news!” cried the baroness, when she next found Magda alone. “The count is going to stay with us awhile, for he is quite at leisure for some time to come. Ah! I know well enough to whom it is owing. He was delighted with the party last night, and expressed great pleasure at meeting you here, expressing at the same time the highest admiration of your appearance and manners—so dignified and lady-like!”

Magda smiled, blushed, and said he was really too complimentary.

“Oh, he admires you exceedingly; and he likes your little friend, too. He says there is something very bright and lovely in the expression of her face, and that the contrast between you is very becoming to you both. Was it not good-natured of him to take so much notice of her?”

“No, he only showed a due discernment, I think,” answered Magda.

“Oh, my dear, you are so fond of her! But to do her justice, she really dressed herself with good taste last night, which is a thing I like to see. And you did also, Magda; only I did not like your head-dress quite so well.”

“That is because nature has not bestowed upon me such fine dark curls, ma’am.”

“Well, she has pretty hair. But, my dear, we must make good use of the time while the count is with us.”

“I shall certainly endeavor to,” said Magda, as she went to join Franzchen and the count in the park.

One fine evening the two friends, accompanied by Count Hugo, who was now their constant companion, strolled down to the river. As they looked toward the blue distant mountains, Franzchen wished for wings that she might fly away to their dim summits; but Magda thought it would be far more agreeable to glide over the clear surface of the water.

The count seized upon the idea with alacrity. “Yes, that is the very thing,” he cried. “And, see! here is a little boat all ready. Will you not trust yourselves to my guidance? I am a good boat’s-man, I assure you.”

“Oh, delightful!” cried Franzchen. “You shall row us in the path that the moon has marked out for us; and we will glide down the stream like the fairies we hear of in old stories, in their little walnut-shell boats.”

“But what if we should tip over?” suggested the prudent Magda.

“Then we would float along like the sea-nymphs, with flowing locks spread out upon the water. I think, to bathe in this beautiful river would be quite pleasant.”

“And only think,” interposed the count, “what a fine opportunity I should have of displaying my gallantry in rescuing you by those flowing locks, and swimming with you to the land.”

“Oh, my poor head! It makes me shudder to think of it,” said Magda, clasping her hands above her. “That might do for water-nymphs, if they have hair of ropes, and skin like leather; but for poor human beings, me thinks, it would be more romantic than agreeable.”

“But there is really no danger,” replied the count; “and I shall consider it as an imputation upon my skill, if you do not try it.”

Franzchen jumped into the boat, Magda followed, and Count Hugo, placing himself at the helm, soon showed himself skillful in the use of the oar.

The moonlight shining like silver upon the still water, the dark trees and bushes casting deep, mysterious shadows upon the margin, the fresh evening air, and the showers of diamonds falling from the oars, all combined to carry Franzchen, keenly alive to every thing picturesque, into the seventh heaven. Unable to contain herself, she broke forth with her clear voice into a little river song, in which she was quickly joined by her companions. Then Count Hugo begged for another, and another—and so they floated on, making the echoes resound with sweet sounds until they came to a little island, where the count moored the boat to the shore, and springing out, offered them his hand.

They made the circuit of the island, and then sat down on the craggy roots of some old trees, looking toward the dark woods on the opposite side of the river.

“This little island reminds me of a story you were telling me the other day, Franzchen,” said Magda.

“Oh, tell it us! tell it us again!” said the count, seating himself opposite to them. “This is the very time and place for it; and that alone is needed to make the evening perfect!”

Franzchen thought it quite perfect already, but she readily consented, on condition that they also should relate something in their turn. She then commenced a little anecdote concerning a prince, who once possessed a large province, with a small island upon the coast, to which his predecessors had been so greatly attached, on account of its extreme beauty, that they had built a palace upon it, and held there their court during the fairest months of the year. There, one by one, his ancestors had been gathered to their rest—and tradition associated with that spot the fate of their line. Year by year the king grew more attached to his island heritage; and through many sorrows and misfortunes, he clung to it as a reminiscence of the past, and a safeguard for the future. At length a powerful and ambitious neighbor made war upon him, defeated him, and drove him to take refuge upon this one small island, the last of his possessions. As long as he could retain it he was not without hope; but when this also was taken from him, the unfortunate king wandered, exiled and broken-hearted, in a foreign land, and at length returned in disguise, old and friendless, to die upon the ground consecrated to his race.

Franzchen always entered with her whole heart into every thing she related, however insignificant; and she now described with great effect the loveliness of the island, and the despair of the exiled monarch. Her eyes beamed, and her voice rose as she told of the conflict, and fell again into sadness, as she spoke of the defeat, the exile, and the sad return.

Count Hugo moved nearer as she proceeded, and looked at her with increasing interest and pleasure; and Magda smiled, for she had often experienced the living interest which Franzchen threw, like a magic web, over all her recitals. Then she and Count Hugo must also relate something; and though they could not pretend to compete with Franzchen, yet the eager interest she took in all that was said, acted almost like inspiration; and the tales and traditions went round, until Magda, startled by the lateness of the hour, rose to return.

After that the count liked nothing better than to prevail upon Franzchen to draw upon her retentive memory for the stories and anecdotes in which she delighted; and then they would enter into airy and mystical conversations, and such abstract philosophical questions, that Magda declared she was fast taking leave of her seven senses, and running the risk of colds, chills, and all kinds of disasters, by sitting upon the grass, and walking through the park at all hours of the day.

So passed the time for days and for weeks; for Count Hugo prolonged his stay, and, indeed, he seemed very unwilling to take his departure at all; and the baroness, triumphant in the success of her plans, would not hear of Magda’s leaving.

Day after day Count Hugo walked out with them, read to them, and seemed to take increasing interest in their society.

After leaving Magda and the count alone, Franzchen often found them engaged in earnest conversation, when they would appear evidently embarrassed by her return. Then the count would jump up, offer her his seat, and enter at once into an animated discussion upon the first subject that entered his head. This Franzchen looked upon as a very natural proceeding, and a matter of course. Sometimes it struck her, that he talked too much to her, that he paid her more attention, and consulted her wishes even more than Magda’s; but that was only a little awkwardness, and Magda was not of a jealous disposition.

At length they came to the conclusion that the visit to Franzchen’s good cousin could be postponed no longer. So they reluctantly fixed upon the day for their departure, and the baroness could not prevail upon them to delay it.

On the last evening they went to take a farewell walk in the park. Magda was silent and thoughtful, Franzchen decidedly dismal, and Count Hugo seemed uneasy and absent-minded. Franzchen at length, to break the silence, doubled a large leaf into a cup, and pretending to be very thirsty, dipped up water from the river, and offered it to her companions, under the pretence that it was the choicer nectar. Count Hugo declared the river water was detestable, begged her not to taste it, and said he would bring her some from the spring. In vain she protested that she would wait until she returned, that she could not think of letting him go all the way back to the spring. He was only too happy to be of any service—and he darted away.

“And so we really must go to-morrow,” said Franzchen, sadly, after standing a moment looking after him. “What shall we do without Count Hugo, Magda?”

“But we need not part with him. He only waits for permission to accompany us to-morrow to your cousin’s.”

“Does he, indeed? Oh, Magda, surely you will grant it.”

“I have nothing to do with it, Franzchen. I shall never exert any influence over him but that of a friend.”

“Why, Magda, I always supposed—”

“But Carl Engleford,” interrupted Magda, archly. “What would become of poor Carl Engleford! And now,” she said, speaking more seriously, “let me assure you, dearest Franzchen, that I have never for a moment thought of the count for myself. It is for you I have sought his society; it is for your sake I have prolonged our stay; and it is for your sake alone that the count has remained with us. Forgive me a little innocent deception. The baroness manoeuvered for me, and I must needs manoeuvre a little for you. Now the count has fairly engaged me on his side. He loves you truly; and it has long been my most earnest wish to see you look favorably upon him.”

“Ah, yes!” cried Count Hugo, who at that moment appeared among the trees, bearing a pitcher of water, which he let fall hastily as he rushed forward to seize her hand. “Loveliest Franzchen! have you not long seen how I delight in your society, and how miserable I should be without you! It is, indeed, your permission I wait for! Will you not grant it?”

Magda quietly descended after the pitcher, which had been rolling down the sloping ground in a most perilous manner, while the count poured forth such a torrent of persuasion and beseeching looks, that before the bewildered little Franzchen well knew what she was about, she had granted the desired permission, and allowed him to cover her hand with kisses, in gratitude therefor. But although she had consented rather hastily, yet, on recovering her senses, and considering the matter, she did not feel inclined to retract; and her first thought on the following morning was, “How glad I am Count Hugo is going with us.”

Great was the triumph of the baroness, when she heard that the count was to accompany her guests; but immense was her astonishment and disappointment, when she discovered that it was as the declared suitor, not of Magdalene, but of Franzchen; and severe would have been the upbraidings which her niece would have had to bear, for not acquainting her sooner with the true state of things, had not Count Hugo, before their departure, earnestly thanked her for the great kindness and discretion with which she had discerned his feelings, and aided him in seeking the society of her young friends. Whereupon, she thought it best to conceal her dissatisfaction, under the pretence of great penetration. And, after all she thought, Baron Logrum is richer than the count, and evidently admires Magda greatly; and so—and so—

And so ended the visit to Radgardin.

———

BY RICHARD COE.

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ODES OF HORACE. BOOK I. ODE XXIII.

———

BY D. R. K.

———

———

BY H. L. JONES.

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Death was in the house; in the room; in the small pallet where, side by side, lay the mother and her newly born child.

Poverty was there, too, hard-featured and repulsive always, but now hanging her head and hiding her face before the stern reality of the dark angel. What mattered it how the soul took its departure? whether in state, with many mourning eyes gazing, and white stoled priest with lifted hands at the bedside; or desolate and wholly forsaken of man as was Clara Neville’s on her straw-bed in her lonely hovel? It mattered not—and yet may our last moments be cheered by the silent and tearful love of friends—as we start on our dark voyage, may we hear the cheering tones and be buoyed up by the affectionate throbs of the beloved hearts around us!

Pestilence had come among the inmates of the hamlet. They were not barbarians, else, to leave the couch of death untended. But bereavement and selfishness and mortal fear had done its work. The few who remained were dying alone, and of this number was Clara Neville and her young daughter. Her husband in a distant land, her kindred estranged or dead, she met her fast coming fate alone, but with one all-absorbing anxiety. With that anxious will, she had kept herself, as it were, alive—that she might not leave her little one in the world behind her. While the death-damps hung on her own brow, her straining gaze yet rested on the form and face of the pale infant, whose fluttering breath grew shorter and shorter every instant. Still she clasped her baby close to her poor heart, with the energy that death itself could not subdue, and when at length the limbs straightened in what the mother knew was the last convulsion, Clara cast her eyes to heaven, and closing her speechless lips, in a glad smile passed away.

So it seemed at least. But help was nighest when it seemed farthest away. The door of the hovel was flung open—the serene air poured in; gentle hands ministered at the couch, and restoratives and cordials on lip and brow brought back the life that seemed to have left its dwelling. The disease had reached its crisis, and the eyes of both mother and child once more opened on the world.

Clara, weak and half insensible still from the deadly illness she had suffered, scarcely looked at the pure, white linen of her bed, the little comforts and luxuries about her, or the gentle and watchful Sister of Charity who bent over her, with the cool draught or the nourishing mixture. She looked only at the sleeping cherub at her bosom, without power to smooth, as she longed to, the brown curls on the forehead, or to kiss the gentle eyes in their pleasant sleep. Then she, too, sunk into such a sleep, long and refreshing, and hour after hour the Sister sat by the bed, till the night passed and the morning, and the sun came against the white curtain at the head of the silent bed. Nature was kindly dealing with Clara and her young baby; they slept and gathered strength to live. Stronger and deeper came the breath of both—more rapidly ran the rosy current over the calm faces of both, till Nature, drawing from her deep wells of love, moistened the thirsty lip of one, at the moment the glad throb of the other’s heart woke them both to happy existence. Clara nursed her child and had no words to express her joy. The watchful Sister saw the emotion that pervaded her frame, and placing her finger on her lip, prepared a composing draught for the young mother.

Many days passed of the kindest care and the most rapid recovery. Both mother and child were so well as no longer to need the constant aid of the Sister. But she sat with Clara the evening before her departure, her kind face lighted up with benevolence and interest in those she had saved from death.

“Holy Mary grant it may be best for both of you!” ejaculated she, as her fingers mechanically sought her rosary and moved rapidly over it.

“Amen!” said Clara, piously.

“You have tasted the bitterness of death once. You can never dread it so much again. I have attended many death-beds, I never saw any thing so nearly like it as yours was; but for a little warmth about the heart, I should have been quite discouraged; and then when I tore open your vest the crucifix lay there, and I was almost sure you were living. Our Blessed Mother would be loth that the pillow on which Jesus rested should be hard and cold; and sure enough it was not half an hour before your eyes opened.”

“Dear Sister Martha,” said Clara; “I had dreams in that half hour which I shall never forget to the last day of my life.”

“Tell me them if you may. The dreams of those who have passed from death back to life, must be foreshadowings and pictures of the life beyond. Holy St. Ignatius had many such, when exhausted with excessive fasts he lay in death-like swoons on the floor of his cell. Tell me, then, I pray you, in what form death came to you.”

“Like two vast dark wings, which grew darker and darker, and folded closer and closer over me, till at last they seemed to brood over me, as I have seen birds over their young. There was nothing strange or gloomy about them—nothing frightful. They seemed to have a right there, and I knew what it was; only I could not look at or attend to its approaches, because I waited and watched first for the soul of my darling to pass. I said it with my thought to the dark wings, and it replied—‘You shall pass away together.’ Then it came closer to me, like a watching mother to the bed, and I felt it come down on my eyes like a shadow, and then I seemed to sleep a long, long while. Such a sleep as one is half conscious of, and the refreshment of which he fully enjoys.

“When I awoke, I found or felt myself in the folds, as it were, of a cloud. It was rose-colored, and seemed made of music—but the music was not set harmony either, and seemed composed of all natural soothing sounds. The whisper and rush of the wave on the sea shore, the murmur of the brooklet, or the sighing of the wind among the trees or over the long grass; all sounds that are associated with peace and loveliness filled and seemed to compose this cloud, for there was a mingling of senses, so to speak, or rather all that was most lovely in sound and color and odor embathed and permeated my being without my perceiving, far less analyzing, the source of my pleasure. At length, as if the natural body were changed for a spiritual one, I began to ascend and descend on the pillowy clouds above and about me, I moved voluntarily, and was conscious of an independent existence. Slowly came back the memory of life and of its relations. But though I remembered my baby entirely, I was without that agonizing anxiety for her with which I had died. There were many soft female faces about me as I lay there, and presently I felt that the Blessed Mother herself was among them, for she leaned over me and smiled; and then, I knew without her telling me, that my own baby was the one she held in her arms and gave to me. I cannot express to you the home-feeling that this gave me. All about me grew more soft and lovely, the forms and features of all more and more distinct, as if they were careful not to oppress the new-born soul with excess of beauty.

“But when the rose-cloud floated away and the clear blue beyond of the very heavens, sprinkled with starry light, of which our firmament in a clear wintry night gives you but a feeble idea, I felt then the activity of a spirit. With the celerity of thought we traversed, in bands or alone, the infinite space, where we learned God in its beauty and vastness, and learning Him, adored Him. It was but a beginning, a moment of eternity that I had begun to taste, yet what years I seemed to myself to live! Once only I saw the Holy Jesus, and then He spoke so gently the words, ‘A little while, and where I am, you shall be also. Suffer your little one, also, to come unto me, and forbid her not; she will remember her first moments in heaven.’

“And then the next thing I remember was a dull, sluggish feeling, of almost pain, and a choking sensation; and then, your face, full of compassion, my kind Sister, beamed on me and consoled me. It had been a grievous change from heaven’s angels, but that I found one of mercy on earth.”

“Very little like an angel,” said Sister Martha, with a smile; “but tell me now, how the angels look.”

“That is just what I cannot do,” said Clara, “no more than I can tell how the soul looks that beams in your eye, but is not your eye,—how the tears well up from your tender heart, and soften but do not suffuse. Ah! with what body do they come? Something that without seeing, we love, and before which, body, and feature, and form, even in this life melt away. Even here we love what we never saw or can see, how much more in a world, where thought meets thought with purest eloquence, unimpeded by words or tones, where the glance of an eye speaks a clear reply to every question you ask, and gentle affections lapse your soul in perpetual joy. You love them, these angels, without knowing why, and without the need of sight to feed the feeling.”

“You have seen very much, Clara,” said the pious sister, “I would I might die, to learn thus, how to live.”

“Yes, life can never seem to me as it has done. I would that so it might have looked to my darling child. I would that she might have the memory of that fond embrace, and those touching words of the Divine Saviour.”

Sister Martha never forgot this incident in her monotonous and yet ever varied existence. In the varieties of pain and suffering which she witnessed and relieved, she constantly remembered the young Clara and her eventful entrance into a life which promised so little to innocence and poverty. From time to time she traced her path, and administered such consolations and assistance as were consistent with her own duties, and when ten years after, Mrs. Neville sunk into a sleep of death, Sister Martha closed the eyes of the parent, and bore the weeping child to the convent of Chaillot, where she would have at least a shelter, and the kind care she needed.

Since her birth, Clara, or as the Sisters of the French Convent called her, Claire Neville, had neither seen nor heard from her father, but her mother, who had received no intelligence of his death, had constantly looked forward, even to the day of her death, to a re-union with him upon earth, and not an hour before she died, she had told the beloved being, for whom alone she wished to live, that she was convinced that she should not depart, without once more being consoled by his presence.

A few moments before her final departure, her vivid fancy, acting on the hope that had so long filled her whole being, produced the resemblance for which she sighed. She raised her eyes to the door, and a glad expression of recognition, illumined them with more than mortal light; and while those about her in vain sought for the object of her mental sight, she was evidently in a state of happy conviction that the so long-lost was found, and that her child had, when most she needed it, found a friend and a father. Her lips moved, but uttered no sound—she gazed at her child, and smiled,—and, in that smile, passed into a world, where is no more death.

Claire remained at the convent, which was within a mile of the small town of Chaillot, on the French coast; and, by rendering such services as her tender age would permit—and by her unvarying sweetness and gentleness, endeared herself to the sisters, and as they said, amply repaid them for the slight expenses she incurred.

But, deprived of the society of children, and having no person about her, with whom she could precisely sympathize, the young girl grew up with an isolation of spirit, easy to foresee, and a prematurity of character, consequent on her position, which strangely contrasted with her childish face. Her eyes, which were of a clear blue, had a sweet seriousness in their depths, so far removed from the glad insouciance of childhood, as to startle you as you gazed, and for the moment to fill you with awe, as if in the presence of a spirit—at least such was my own feeling the first time I saw her.

I had been ordered to the south of France for my health, and had been stopping for a week in the town, near which the convent of Chaillot was situated. Its white walls could be easily seen through the trees around it, and from its windows the far-reaching sea suggested images of lonely and solemn grandeur, in unison with the secluded character of the pious inmates. From this institution, of all the passive virtues, came forth alternately bands of those heroic spirits, the Sisters of Mercy, who relinquishing the life of quiet inaction, which the convent induced, went with their hearty sympathy, their cheerful aid, and their unshrinking labor, into every abode where poverty, sickness, or even pestilence cried out for a helping hand.

Often a victim to this open-handed charity, this sublime self-sacrifice would be brought home to the convent, to breathe her last. But never was there a gap in these heroic ranks. As fast as one brave spirit fell, the place was filled by another, animated by her example, and eager to take up her cross. It was to this place, that the little Claire, taught by the example of Sister Martha, looked forward as to the fulfillment of her destiny. For this purpose, her education had, at the early age of fourteen, fitted her for a nurse; and in the convent she was called on, in all the little cases of illness which needed a soother. Nobody could spread a plaster so smoothly as Claire—nobody could place a pillow so nicely under the head as Claire—no one stepped so softly, spoke so gently, bathed so coolly, as Claire—none murmured so monotonously the rosary, or sung in a low tone the Ave Maria, so as to bring sleep on the strained eyelids, as Claire—and her gentleness and assiduity had entirely won the hearts of the good Sisters.

One day, it was late in the afternoon, I had gone down on the beach to walk, as my habit was, for some hours. The character of the shore for miles, which was exceedingly bold and rocky contrasted with the smooth expanse and soothing murmurs of the sea; and debarred by my want of strength, from scaling the rocks, as I longed to do, I used to wander on the white, hard sand, with a free feeling of delight, and an animating glow, that was second only to the sense of power with which the strong, firm step of the mountaineer springs from one cliff to another.

On the afternoon I mention, this effervescence of the blood, which induced a corresponding elevation and sensitiveness to the spirit, kept me in a perpetual state of enjoyment, which I did not attempt to analyze, but was content to feel. The sun had set, and the brilliant hues over the water continually broke in little rainbows on the crested waves. The air, balmy and fresh, was full of life. The birds wheeled and circled in graceful joyousness over the lapsing, and seemingly conscious ocean, which swelled and whispered its mysterious replies. For the first time I felt my own spirit in harmony with nature in this aspect. Formerly, an undefinable terror took possession of me at being left alone with the ocean. It was the same with the sky. Many a time I have glanced timidly at the depths of the sky, and shrunk from it, as if it were from the presence of the Creative Power; and always when the whole breadth of the sea stretched out his leviathan length before me, it awed and oppressed me to such a degree that I did not like to walk alone on the beach. Every wave, as it dashed up the smooth “untrampled floor,” had come laden with sounds of lamentation. I had continually thought, as I looked at it, how deceitful it was, in its beauty, and how its magnificence and pomp covered sorrowing, and wrecks, and heart breakings. But now, for no reason, all was different. The ocean seemed like a great angel of God’s mercy, beautiful, vast, and conscious. It married with the sky, and reflected all hues of beauty and glory, and sang out songs of praise to the Power that made them both. My spirit rose and mingled with the simple majesty of the scenery. I too felt myself a child of God, and could understand and worship him. In my heart were echoed the dim soundings of the sea; in my thoughts sparkled the watching stars, and the still lingering sun-beams. The transcendant beauty, above all form, yet which reveled in creative forms; the vastness and vague splendor of nature, in this view, all spoke of the Infinite in my soul. Deep called unto deep to praise Him, and I paced hurriedly to and fro, with an excitement and elevation of soul that rendered me insensible to the passage of time.

The water was already dark with the reflection of night, when a light touch startled me, as if I had received an electric shock. I looked up and saw a sweet, serious figure at my side.

“Madame is not aware that the evening is chill,” said she, gently.

“Chilly is it?” I answered. “It seems very warm.”

“You have been walking a long time—hours. Will Madame permit me to go home with her?”

She mingled the formal politeness of a stranger with the familiar tu that seemed induced by kindness and anxiety. I felt the feverish glow on my cheek, and replied, “that I had probably walked beyond my strength.” Already the re-action of lassitude and weakness crept over me, and I could hardly walk, as we turned toward the village.

“It is half a mile to the village. You are very weak. Permit me to attend you to the convent near. It wilt be no inconvenience. Lean on me, dear Madame.”

She spoke these words calmly and slowly, but, as if she were to be obeyed. I followed her mechanically, or rather tottered along by her side without question. I felt too much exhausted to talk, and also the need of immediate repose and care in my wearied condition.

A few minutes walk brought us to the convent gate. An old man, who was also the gardener, opened it, and two of the sisters hurried to the door to receive us. A slight gesture from my guide, produced profound silence, and I was at once taken to a room and a bed.

I awoke from an unconscious state, produced I supposed by the sedative I had drank immediately on my arrival, and looked languidly around me. I remember my first feeling was one of surprise at the comfortable appearance of every thing near and about me. I had never been in a convent before, and had supposed, with the vague notions of Protestantism about convents, that I should be put in a cell at least, with probably a death’s head and cross-bones for furniture, and a hair-cloth and thongs for entertainment. On the contrary, I felt myself lying on a down-bed—muslin curtains gathered in delicate folds above it—the windows shaded with the same material—waving lightly to and fro in the summer night air. The oaken floor so highly polished, and the neat table holding a nurse-lamp and some phials. Besides that, there was no look of a sick-room. The lamp shone on the mild face of the Madonna of Sassoferato, whose clasped hands and conventual garb seemed to make her the tutelar genius of such a scene; and below, was the never-failing crucifix of ivory on a bronze stand.

Not a sound, but the sighing of the leaves against the window, interrupted the midnight quiet of the scene. Refreshed and composed by the judicious treatment I had received, I lay calmly recalling the preceding evening, and wondering what my landlady at the village would think of my being out all night. I might have spared any anxiety on that account, as I afterward learned, as the good Sisters had at once dispatched a messenger to assure her of my safety. In that small place the arrival of a stranger is an event. The seclusion of a convent is favorable to curiosity, and my name, situation, health, and person, were perfectly well-known to all the good Sisters, though I had not chanced to meet one of them.

A distant strain of music broke the silence around me. I started, and raising myself in bed undrew the curtains. A figure clothed in white approached the bed, and I recognized at once the face of my yesterday’s companion.

“Do not be startled. It is only the Sisters.”

She bent her sweet face over me, like an angel watcher.

“You have been sitting by me all night, my dear,” said I.

“Oh! that is nothing,” she answered, cheerfully. “I like to keep awake in the night.”

“But what can you have to occupy yourself with? Surely, you cannot be satisfied with telling your beads over?”

“I have my netting by me, and then there are always one’s thoughts and memories.”

“And your memories, my dear,” said I, “what are they? What can you remember that is not so mingled with pain and deprivations, that the contemplation of it must be sad rather than pleasant?”

In reply, she told me in her own simple and touching manner the story of her mother’s death, and the almost revelation that preceded it.

“And how do you feel about it yourself?” said I.

“I fully believe, madam, that such an impression would not have been vouchsafed by the good God to my mother, unless it had been true, and important also that I should know it.”

“Then you still look for your father, my child?”

“As I look for the sunrise to-morrow,” she answered, raising her clear eyes to heaven. “Some day he will certainly come.”

“And meanwhile!”

“Meanwhile, I think of him continually. I imagine always how he would like to have me conduct myself, and in all my little troubles I look forward to the time when I shall feel no more sorrow. You will not think me superstitious, madam, when I tell you that my mother’s heart is very near to mine, and often I am conscious of heavenly thoughts that I am sure are of her whispering to my spirit.”

I would not for the world have disturbed fancies so sweet and holy as filled the breast of this lovely child with any doubts of their reality, even if I had not been more than half inclined to agree with her in the belief of spiritual intercourse with the departed.

“But, Claire,” said I, after a long pause, “it is a strange and terrible thought, one at which we instinctively revolt, that close to us, by night or by day, is a haunting spirit, even if it were our mother’s. It seems to me I should so dread the answer, that I could never gather courage to speak to such a spirit, if I believed it could and would answer me.”

“I suppose it would not answer. Ah! if it could do so, would it not long since have responded to the agonized cry of the bereaved! But, though it is not to sense that it speaks, the impression is not the less vivid or credible. It is not what you see with your mortal eye, dear lady, that you believe most fully and heartily. Even if we were to see the beloved form or hear the beloved tones, a something would whisper to us of doubt and incredulity. It would be ‘an optical illusion,’ or ‘a derangement of the auricular organs,’ and we should very soon come to believe ourselves entirely mistaken in the impressions we had received. It is only the mind itself that can take distinct cognizance of its own objects.”

“You speak like a philosopher, dear Claire. Where have you learned to consider the subject so deeply?”

“Of Father Angelo,” replied the young girl, simply.

“And he is your confessor, I suppose,” said I.

“Yes, madam; and my best friend. For dear Sister Martha, who has told me of my early life, could not resolve my doubts and fears, and the thousand anxieties that I should naturally feel, and I have been both relieved and enlightened by free conversation with Father Angelo. He must have suffered much himself, for his heart is so tender and his manner so soothing, and yet he always strengthens one’s spirit so much, with his calm views of another life, in this life of ours. Till he came to us I never knew fully what sympathy was. The Sisters but half understood me, and when I saw the excellence of their lives, when I watched their hardy activity and their daily devotion to duty, I used to feel sure that theirs must be the true thought that led directly to right action, and that my world of fancies and mysteries must be a morbid and unhealthy one. Still I felt constantly that ‘I heard a voice they could not hear,’ and never till last summer, when Father Angelo came to us, did I at all understand myself.”

“And now that you do understand yourself, you are happy, my child?” I asked.

“As happy as one with unoccupied affections can be, madam. I feel that I have much love that has never been called into action, and I fancy that my father when he comes will fill my heart. Meantime, I see why it is that there are depths in my soul that no plummet can sound, and where the voice of God alone calls forth an answer. Sometime or other, either in this world or a future one, these deep voices will find musical utterance, and the harmony of the affections, which alone is wanting to the harmony of nature, will make my being what God intended it to be.”

“You are happy, my dear child, to have such a confidence; it comes sometimes after suffering and sorrowful experiences, but seldom in the bloom of life.”

“And I should have wandered long and unhappily but for the guidance of Father Angelo,” said Claire, her eyes radiant with grateful affection whenever she spoke of this father of her best thoughts.

I became curious to see Father Angelo.

“When will he come here again?” I inquired.

“To-morrow at furthest,” said Claire.

“Then I hope I shall see him.”

“Assuredly, if madam desires it,” said Claire, with a pleased look. “But apparently, madam is a Protestant?”

“Oh, I do not want to confess to him,” said I, laughing.

“Pardon me, madam. But have you never felt that it would be a great pleasure and privilege to confess?”

“Assuredly not, Claire,” said I, more seriously.

“Madam has had dear friends then, to whom she could express every thought—confess every fault—and to whom she could apply in every difficulty?” inquired she.

“No—not always,” answered I, hesitatingly; “but, Claire, we believe that to God alone we should confess.”

“God alone can absolve,” said Claire, devoutly, “by the mouth of his minister, the repenting heart. But there are so many things we wish to say to an earthly friend, and to which we must receive an answer—”

“But we believe the Bible to be a sufficient guide to all our darkness and doubts.”

“Morally I know it is, madam. And I do not say that its precepts will not reach every variety of intellectual difficulty. But I have found that conference with a superior mind is a great relief and pleasure, as well as guide, in understanding the doubts that often weigh on the mind.”

“Unquestionably it is so, Claire; but we find those superior minds in the circle of our acquaintances, in our husbands, brothers, and the friends to whom we attach ourselves. We have not the need of confession that you feel, isolated as you are from any guiding mind.”

“Yes, madam, that is true. I can see that in such a case confession would not be so necessary; but with us it is a great need.”

She drew the curtains as she spoke, and sat silently at her netting. I lay revolving in my mind for a long time the conversation I had been holding with this strange girl. There was something in the maturity of her mind and the dignity of her manner, that contrasted greatly with the extreme youthfulness of her figure and face. Her eyes had a quiet serenity that seemed the result of having attained, at a bound, the goal to which humanity generally reaches after long and painful experiences and mental vicissitudes that leave their unmistakable marks on the face. But in Claire’s face, seen by the pale light of the room, was an angelic wisdom, pure and high. Yet she did not look satisfied; or rather, she was satisfied only in the thought of a future different from the calm present.

I asked myself how would this sweet flower bear transplanting? She had no ties but those of gratitude to the place she was in, and as a sphere of usefulness, some one more strong and hardy could fill it better than she did. She evidently looked and longed for the arrival of her father, more from “the necessity of loving” than from a filial feeling. I did not myself believe that he was in existence, or that if he were, he was worthy of her affection, or he would long ere this have sought her out. Thoughts like these kept me wakeful, and when I undrew the curtain again to speak to Claire, I found she had gone softly out, and her place was supplied by a stout “Sister,” to whom I had no inclination to speak. She told me, in answer to my query, that day was nearly breaking, and I sunk to sleep in the hearing of the distant music of the morning-hymn.

The sun was already high in the heavens when I awoke. Claire was sitting by the side of my bed, and at my first motion, spoke to me with a cheerful smile that well corresponded with the serene brightness of the day.

“Father Angelo has been here for some time, madam; I have been telling him about you, for truly, madam, I feel as if I had known you a long time, instead of only one night. He will be glad to see you.”

“And I shall like to see him, Claire. But as I feel myself, thanks to your kindness, quite recovered, I will not receive him so entirely in dishabille.”

In a few momenta I was dressed, and walking in the small garden attached to the convent. Claire left me for a short time, and then came out followed or rather attended by her friend.

He was dressed in the common black robe of his order, with the cowl thrown back so as fully to display his head and throat. For the first time, I understood that he was not a monk, but only a clergyman, as we should say. A priest, and not a very old one either. Certainly he had never numbered more than thirty-five years. His face was entirely pale, and his temples covered with dark hair, while his red lips and white, even teeth had the grace of feminine contour.

I was struck with the gravity, even to sadness, of his manner, no less than with the beauty of his person. He uttered in a low, quiet voice the usual benediction, and then asked me to listen to him, as he had much to say to me. I replied with some surprise, that I was quite at his service, and leading me to a rude garden-seat, over which honeysuckles and roses made a natural bower, he said quietly to Claire—

“You will leave us, Claire, for half an hour; and send Sister Mary with some of her coffee and best buns.”

This was not precisely the confessional I had anticipated; and in spite of the little flutter of my spirits, this picture of myself, in high colloquy with a Catholic priest, sipping hot coffee and eating nice buns, was so laughable, that I could hardly keep my face in a state of suitable gravity.

Sister Mary’s white buns and fragrant coffee were delicious indeed. While I partook of them, Father Angelo leaned his head on his hand in profound abstraction. His complete absorption continued for some minutes after the nun had left us alone. At length he raised his head, and looking steadily at me, said abruptly,

“I suppose it is vain to attempt any thing like a conversion of your principles to the true church.”

“Entirely so,” I answered, “as I was born and educated I shall probably remain.”

“So I thought.”

Again there was a long silence. What it was to end in, I could not guess; but I determined not to break it. My companion was evidently agitated and uncomfortable. His red lips became pale and quivering, and his brow bent. He rose from his seat, and paced back and forward on the graveled walk. After some time had elapsed in this inward conflict, he seated himself once more by my side, and taking my hand, addressed me thus:

“Pardon me for saying that I require from you a solemn promise of secrecy in regard to what I am about to communicate.”

I was somewhat prepared for a communication, it is true; but not at all disposed to bind myself to secrecy with a stranger. He seemed to read my thoughts, for he fixed his bright eyes on mine, and then dropped them with an expression of embarrassment.

“I should not have asked you, madam, for this pledge of secrecy, but that it is of much importance—and—and I think you can receive no inconvenience—possibly—”

He stopped entirely, but again raised his eyes with an expression so imploring, that I said at once,

“Say on, sir. I promise you that nothing but the most imperative necessity shall make me disclose to any one what you may tell me.”

“Thank you,” said he, eagerly; “it is not on my account that I desire secrecy. But there are many reasons—the good of the church—evil tongues. When I have told you all, these reasons will readily suggest themselves to your own mind. You are surprised that I should choose to make an entire stranger my confident in a secret. But in the first place, you are not entirely unknown to me. I have interested myself in you somewhat; and there have been persons enough ready to tell me of your ‘birth, parentage, and education.’ Of your mind and heart, Claire has told me much this morning, in a long conversation we have had; and, in short, circumstances make it necessary that I should confide in you.”

There was something so heartfelt in the tone in which Father Angelo spoke, something so entirely sincere, notwithstanding the mystery in which the affair was enveloped, that I repeated what I had before said:

“Whatever you wish to say to me, sir, I am ready to hear, to keep entirely to myself, and to assist you to the best of my power.”

He looked greatly relieved, and proceeded.

“You have divined, before this, madam, the reason of my wish to confide in you. You are a foreigner, a Protestant, a widow, and independent in your actions. Claire needs all these for her friend and efficient adviser.”

“Claire! then it is of her you wish to speak? I supposed your secret concerned yourself. She has told me of her own life.”

“She has told you what she knew,” said Father Angelo, with the same abruptness as before. Indeed, through the whole of our interview, there was an earnestness which dispensed with the usual forms almost of civility.

“I have been waiting, watching for such an event as your coming, ever since last year, when I first became fully acquainted with Claire, and saw how unsuited she was to a conventual life. She has warm feelings and superior intellect, and she is fretted continually by the discrepancy between her inward and outward life. She would be a companion to you, and—she has some means—” he stopped, and a slight flush passed over his pale face. “I should not wish her to be a dependent on the bounty of any person.”

“I understand, however, from Claire herself,” said I, “that her mother died poor, and that she has been indebted to charity for her support. This father of hers—if he be living—”

“You think he must be a wretch,” said Father Angelo, calmly, “so to desert those who have every claim on his care. Be it so. He is a wretch. And most wretched is he, that, seeing before him the form of his child, and listening to the outpourings of her angelic soul, he should be barred from acknowledging kindred with it, and forced, for the very love he bears her, to tear her from him forever.

“If you will accede to my earnest request, take Claire with you to America—care for her—watch over her—be to her all that, alas! her father must not be—and I shall feel that all, and a thousand times more than all I deserve, and all I live for, is granted, and shall at once enter a convent of La Trappe. I long for it—I long for eternal silence; and have only retained my present position, that I might find Claire, read her character, and do what I could to unfold and strengthen it. That mission is accomplished. Her native strength of wing has already carried her mind beyond what my feeble flights can follow. She soars to regions of purity and peace, where my soul cannot revel, unless after long years of penance and suffering. She loves the ideal parent, who is to her the personification of all virtue; and it is impossible, and ought to be so, for me to sully her thoughts with the reality which to her must always be a source of disappointment and mortification, and to me inexpressible shame.”

This revelation was not unexpected to me, so far as regarded the relationship of the two parties; but it filled me with much matter for meditation. I had no curiosity to know the events of Father Angelo’s past life. The lines of suffering, and the traces of strong passions, were marked deeply on his marble brow, and composed even to severity as his manner now was, I could read under the habitual restraint of his expressive face, that no slight agony had wrought on a naturally proud and sensitive spirit, before it could compel itself to forego its sweetest pleasures rather than breathe on the purity of the beloved object.

After some time passed on my side in revolving what I had heard, and what I was expected to do, and on his, in a distressful silence that watched painfully for my first word, I asked,

“But about Claire’s religious influences. She will have few of the kind she has been accustomed to; and all her indirect influences, you must be aware, will not be very favorable to her religious constancy.”

“I think she will become a Protestant. You are surprised that I should be willing to trust her in such an atmosphere. But there are some minds that are cast, so to speak, in a Protestant mould; and hers is one. She has not a great deal of faith, and her mind naturally tends so much to inquiry, perhaps I should say skepticism, that I found it difficult to lead her. I may as well say at once, that my own reasons for adopting the profession and character of a priest, were first to discover her, and know her mind more intimately than I could do in any other position; and secondly, because the Catholic faith promises more to me than any other religion. I feel the need of what it has to give; but to Claire, I can see its spirit and forms are not so necessary. I am not bigoted nor intolerant, as you see. Perhaps I am not a good Catholic. But I wish you to understand that I am not acting against my conscience.”

“These are strange words from a Catholic priest,” said I, looking at him. A flush of impatience crossed his face again.

“I need not qualify my words to you, I am sure. What I need—a wretched, debased sinner—stripes—fasting—silence—and digging my own grave daily—are not the necessary aliment of Claire’s soul, fresh from the forming hand of the All-Pure.”

“Then I understand that Claire, if I take her, is to be like my own child; that no interference of any kind with my authority or influence is to be allowed?”

“There is no person living authorized to interfere,” said Father Angelo, sadly. “Her father will be dead to her. And God will reward or punish you as you deal by this forlorn and most angelic child.”

“I accept the trust,” said I, with the same solemnity that was expressed in the manner of the unhappy father. He took my hand in his, and holding it up, repeated a short prayer in Latin, which I took to be an invocation, but I said nothing; and, indeed, was so agitated and exhausted that I could not speak.

“I shall leave this place this morning,” said he, with a more composed voice, “and shall send to you such information as may be necessary to her future welfare in any possible contingency.”

He rung a bell which stood on the table, and Claire came into the garden, as if she had been in waiting. He made a sign to her to attend to me, and as soon as I had taken the restorative she hastened to offer, rose to go. I shall never forget the look of anguished affection that spread over his pale face, as he murmured above Claire’s bright head the customary benediction. His whole being seemed one thrill of pain. Stooping over he pressed on her forehead a kiss of such love! and then without another word hurried away.

Claire looked astonished, as well she might, for she had never seen him agitated before, though, as she said, she conjectured he must have suffered much.

“He feels sorrowfully at leaving you, my child,” said I, “he tells me he is about leaving this part of the country.”

She looked at me, as if she wondered at his communicating such an intention to me, rather than to herself, but was too delicate to inquire further.

The same afternoon a package came to the convent, directed to me, and contained, among other things, a letter from Father Angelo “to his beloved daughter in Christ Jesus”—in which he recommended her to accept the proposal I had made of taking her with me to America, and containing besides some affectionate words of advice. It was brief, and I could easily see that many feelings had prevented his being more prolix.

I then entered more fully into the subject with Claire, of her leaving her native country for mine. I found, to my great joy, that she was not only willing but desirous to go with me, and that a night’s free converse with me had given me much of her affection.

“I have not dared to think, dear madam,” she said tearfully, “how ‘doubly lone’ I should be when you were gone.”

“And you think you shall not long for the seclusion of Chaillot, and the hymns of the Sisters?”

“Oh, I dare say I shall long to see them. But meanwhile I do so long to be with you, and to see something and somebody in the world!”

“And you will be my own daughter?” I asked her now more seriously—“do you know how much that implies? If I give you all I shall require much from you.”

“Not more than all my heart,” answered she gayly, “and that you shall certainly have.”

“Till somebody else asks for it,” said I to myself.

The remainder of my stay at Chaillot was cheered by the occasional visits of Claire, but the most of the time she spent at the convent, and among the poor of the village, who loved her and mourned her departure. When at last the vessel bore us both away from France she was deeply affected. I was glad to see it: glad that mere curiosity and interest in novelty had not dulled her heart to one sympathy.

Arrived at Boston, we met the kind faces of friends, how kind and how dear, we never feel till an ocean has separated us, and soon found ourselves quietly established at my own residence, as if not a week had passed since I was last there. Claire gained in a northern climate all she needed to make her perfect—strength of body, and consequent strength of mind. She was never weary of the bold natural scenery in which New England abounds, and wandered and climbed till I used to beg her to take care of herself for my sake.

All this time I had a plot in my head. For what woman was ever without one? Had I not a son, whose image was seldom absent an hour from my memory, yet whose name I was careful not to mention to Claire? Who could tell what might be in the future, if I did not mar its brightness by my own interference? So I patiently waited the result of accidental influences. I expected Herbert home by the next packet. He had been prevented from meeting me in France, and accompanying us home, by illness, and I had availed myself of the escort of some friends who were coming to America, without waiting for his recovery.

We had been returned for more than two months. The autumnal tints already brightened with consumptive red the rich verdure of summer, and the harvest-moon shone out with a calm brilliancy that almost mocked the daily sun. Claire was delighted with Nature under its bold American features. As I watched the daily development of her taste, and delighted to see its refinement and richness, I felt that I could not have desired more in a daughter, than was thrown as it were by the bounty of Providence into my lap.

We had been sitting in the old portico, with shawls wrapt about us, and watching the moonlight on the clumps of trees, as it silvered and sprinkled them with heavenly glory, and neither of us had for a long time spoken. Claire, who connected all still, solemn beauty with the thought of her lost mother, was, I doubted not, thinking of heaven and her; and I was myself recalling my short and eventful acquaintance with her father. Claire rose from her seat, and walked down the avenue a short distance, then turned and stood by a fountain, which played by the side of a larch tree. It was a pretty picture. The fountain, the tree, and the moon, that embathed the girl, the fountain, and the tree in soft splendor. Claire had removed her shawl from her shoulders, and stood with it dropping off her arm, as motionless as a statue. Her bright, waving hair lay over her shoulders—and like the spirit of the scene she stood.

As I, too, followed down the walk, I was conscious of a second figure, which, as I approached, came out from the shadow of a tree. Once in the light, I recognized Herbert, and did not scream. Neither did I beckon to him to look at, and fall in love with, the beautiful being before us, because I felt very certain that if it were to be done, there could not be a better time for him to do it without my aid. And with a self-command, which I believe is rare among match-makers, I beckoned to him to retire to the house, while I went forward to Claire.

She was still motionless, absorbed in thoughts of a not painful character, as was evident from the placid expression of her lifted eyes.

“You will take cold, Claire,” said I, gently.

“Thank you,” she answered, in her sweet French accent, “I am not afraid. You know I am used to all hours and weathers.”

“But I am going in now. My son has arrived. You have never heard me speak of him, I believe—but I have felt considerable anxiety about him. An anxiety which is now happily relieved by his arrival.”

She looked a little surprised, but made no inquiry and followed me into the house. I was curious to see the effect of this her first acquaintance with an accomplished and eminently attractive man. Hitherto she had seen no person above the common peasantry of the small town of Chaillot, except Father Angelo.

Three weeks after this evening, Herbert came into my room, whence Claire had just gone to take a walk, and throwing himself into a chair, wiped the wet from his forehead and hair in a state of unquestionable agitation.

“Come, mother! help me—help me, or I sink!”

“What, really overcome? You, the redoubtable! the renowned! the invincible! Can I believe my eyes!” answered I, laughing heartily—for love-sickness, like sea-sickness, gets no sympathy—and I was really pleased to see Herbert, for once, undoubtedly in earnest.

“Now, a truce to your satire, mother mine. And a truce to your smiles even. I wont allow that there is any occasion for grief either; but the fact is, I cannot live, now, without Claire and her love—and she knows it—”

“Knows it!”

“Yes!” said Herbert, impatiently; “and that’s the devil of it! While I was endeavoring to wind myself softly, soothingly, you see, into her tender heart, not to break it, you know, but just to set all its faculties and springs fluttering, like pigeons, and to watch how she should blush, and sigh, and droop—till, just at the right point, I meant, when she least hoped and expected it, when she should despairingly throw herself down, half senseless with excitement and hopelessness—then, I meant to have stepped in. Now, mother, don’t say, What an insufferable puppy! for I feel it enough, I assure you. The fact is, I didn’t know myself what I did mean till half an hour ago.”

“Is it possible! Why, Claire has been reading to me nearly or quite half an hour, and has just gone out to carry some comfort to old Nurse Dobbins. No appearance of maiden agitation about her, my poor son, but as calm as a clock.”

The fact was, I had noticed that her cheek had a slight pallor, and had recommended the walk myself; but this I did not think it necessary to mention.

“Doubtless!” was the pettish reply. “I wonder if she is not all ice—or rather, whether she has a heart for any thing but old women!”

“She certainly has a heart, and one well worth the winning, Herbert. But not in the fashion you have been used to. All-conquering knight that you are—you must lay down your tinsel and frippery, and don the helmet of sterling gold, and break a lance for honor bright, if you would win favor from this child of nature.”

“Isn’t she, mother?” said Herbert, enthusiastically, “isn’t she the noblest, and loveliest, and sweetest creature that ever the earth presumed to bear up? You love her, I know; teach me how to love her, so that she may love me! for it is true what I tell you. I cannot live without her pure and beautiful heart!”

I had never seen Herbert thoroughly moved before. Under an exterior of frivolity he concealed the real fervor and enthusiasm of which I knew him capable. But it had been long since I had seen him at all excited about any thing. That Claire should interest him, was only allowing him a pure natural taste; but that Claire should not have reciprocated the sentiment she excited, puzzled me, I allow—for I was a parent.

“Tell me, mother,” he continued—or would have done so, but that Claire just at that moment entered the room, with her basket on her arm. Her pale cheek now flushed with a rapid walk, was brilliant with health, and her eyes met both Herbert’s and mine with a buoyancy and serenity, as little like a love-stricken girl as could well be imagined. I saw Herbert’s cheek turn pale, as he suddenly rose and springing through the window upon the lawn, whistled to his dog, and walked rapidly away.

Claire looked after him, and then meeting my inquiring eye, she stood with hers looking clearly into my face.

“And so my poor Herbert has no chance?” said I.

She seated herself by me with a little embarrassment, which became her a thousand times more than the serene self-possession so habitual to her.

“My beloved mother—my benefactress!” she stopped.

“Not a word of that, Claire. Hearts are to be given, and not bought. But how comes it that you see nothing lovable or winning about Herbert? He seems perfectly hopeless.”

“I might have seen, indeed I did see, a thousand charming qualities in Mr. ——,” said Claire, with grave simplicity, “but that he seemed to be only amusing himself with me, and not in earnest about any thing. Least of all did I believe him in earnest when he professed love for me. Love! which I have always looked on as something so holy, so sacred, so ennobling! a trust so solemn as another’s heart, not to be taken without awe and trembling! Believe me, dearest mother, I did not once think, nor can I now, that Mr. —— had an earnest thought in the whole matter. Evidently he has only been amusing himself, and trying perhaps to amuse me with the idea of having made a conquest. He mistook me altogether.” She drew her head up a very little, with an expression that spoke of wounded pride; but instantly dismissed it, and resumed her usual affectionate look.

“I hope you will not think any more about it, dear Claire. These things are best dismissed from the thoughts. Shall we go on with our reading?”

I spoke hurriedly, for, in truth, I was severely disappointed. I did not think how much so, until I listened to the calm, decided tone, and looked on the quiet face of Claire. Things looked hopeless for Herbert; and I could not help sympathizing with him in his keen disappointment. Meantime, as I knew affection could not be reproached into existence, I endeavored to divert both my own mind and hers from a painful subject.

Absence is said to be the death of love, I believe it is sometimes the birth of it. Certainly, Herbert, if he had tried a thousand ways to Claire’s heart, could not have hit on a likelier road than that which led him away from her, under the pretence of going to Niagara Falls.

“My body will go in search of the picturesque, mother,” said he, with a faint attempt at gayety, “but my soul remains at home. It will haunt you—both; and I charge you listen to its whispers that shall be in your ears night and day!”

“Farewell, Claire!” was all he said to her; and when he was gone, she sat for some minutes, looking into the heart of a flower she was holding in her hand, as if trying to solve a problem too difficult for her.

Days passed, and weeks. We talked, and walked, and rode, and read by turns, as we were wont to do, before this vision of Herbert had passed over and breathed on the mirror of her pure heart. But no longer was her eye clear, and her brow serene. She was disturbed and restless. An enemy had come in to her heart to steal away its peace. When we read poetry, a consciousness in her voice, gave meaning and depth to every passionate tone; and when we walked in the November woods, their melancholy beauty woke sad feelings kindred to the scene. I saw that her sensitive nature was touched to its depths. She had begun to think, not that she was loved, for her standard of that passion was too high to leave her in such an error; but how sweet it would be to be loved. Her heart, like a lonely harp-string, vibrated in every breeze, and seemed asking vainly for its completing harmony.

She did not ask me to read to her any of Herbert’s letters. I wished she would, and once read to her what I thought a very capital description of the cataract. But she only said composedly that my son had described the scenery, and not his own impressions on seeing it.

“I don’t believe any reality on earth could equal the descriptions we have had of Niagara. It would need heaven and hell almost to body forth the ideas that travelers have called up. I can only hope to be able, if ever I see it, to forget all that I have ever heard about it, so as to shrink before its magnificence as I should feel bound to do.”

“Suppose we try, Claire?” said I.

“With all my heart,” answered she, evidently glad in her restless state to be going somewhere. I had previously told her that Herbert had gone to Quebec.

In a week’s time Claire and myself, with a man-servant, had reached Albany, and there took the canal-boats to Buffalo. The wearisome journey by stage-coach had admirably prepared us for the monotonous ease of the boat. Fortunately there were very few passengers, and we lay in our little clean white berths and rested and read as quietly as if we had been in our own rooms.

On reaching the Falls we were too thoroughly wearied to attempt more that night, and went to our beds.

On our way, a fellow passenger, experienced in sight-seeing, had recommended to us to take our first view from the American side, and from below, instead of the usual view from Table Rock. We therefore crossed the river a little distance below the Falls, without giving way to the temptation of gazing for a moment at the view before us, though the roar was terrible in our ears. Then we walked on the American side, closer, closer till we were within twenty feet of the cataract. The spray dripped over us, the rocks were slippery to our feet, the roar of a thousand floods seemed in our bewildered ears; and below, as it were, the reverberating yells of damned spirits tossing, and whirling, and dashing and howling forever. Then we looked up. The volume of water seemed coming down from the very heavens upon us. We uttered a faint cry of terror—turned round and fled. That is to say, we fled several yards. No matter. We were impressed sufficiently with the physical grandeur of the scene. It was oppressive, overwhelming. Afterward, when we roamed over all these rocks and took views from every point, and gazed at the cataract’s wondrous beauty as well as power, we found a moral grandeur with which our souls sympathized, and to which they rose to enjoy and adore. These jottings down of our impressions can give no idea to one who has not visited the Falls, and to one who has, will scarcely enhance his recollections. I mention them only to illustrate a trait of Claire’s character.

A mother with her child were wandering along among the loose stones and sharp rocks close to the terrible whirlpool from which we had just turned. The mother had let go the child’s hand, and he, a lad of some four or five years old, slipped from the stone on which he stood, and as a natural consequence was in imminent danger of his life. But one rock, and that slippery and sloping, intervened between the little fellow and certain death. The mother screamed, but was motionless from mere horror; Claire, who at once forgot every thing about her but what was connected with the living drama before her, pulled at a stroke her scarf from her neck, and giving me one end to hold, while she held the other, slid her feet rapidly down to the very brink of the torrent, caught the boy firmly by his foot and stood holding him. She was as pale as death, but as firm and strong in her attitude as if she stood on the parlor floor. She dared not move, and I had not strength, and was too distrustful of the strength of the scarf, to dare to pull them up.

As we stood thus it seemed hours, though it could scarcely be half a minute before relief was obtained by a rope thrown by a strong arm from behind over the form of Claire, which fully supported her in her perilous position. Immediately after she was clasped in the arms of a man in a cloak, whom we had seen sitting near us in an absorbed attitude, seemingly regardless of all about him. He had sprung from his seat, caught up a boat-rope, which I perfectly remembered afterward to have stepped over, thrown it around Claire, so as to support her, and then giving the noose to my servant, who stood close but inactively behind, steadied himself by the other end of the rope, slipped and sprang down by Claire, caught up the boy with one hand and tossed him up to his mother, and then bore the now fainting Claire carefully up to the bank.

The boy screamed wildly with fright, and the mother was voluble with her thanks and offers of assistance. Claire remained still and motionless in the arms of the stranger, and I watched the spray dash over her marble face. Presently her eyes opened slowly, with a deep sigh. She looked at her preserver and a beautiful color overspread her face. Then for the first time I also looked at him, for to this moment no one had spoken but the woman whose carelessness had put in jeopardy three lives.

He had bent his head down to hers and had kissed her forehead, rosy with returned consciousness. She replied by pulling her arm over his neck and kissing, not his forehead, but his very lips. The woman and her boy had gone, the servant discreetly retired, and there in the sound and rush of many waters, in the turmoil of elemental war, the still, small voice of two loving hearts, lately so near to death, was heard and registered.

“But you wrote me, Herbert, that you were setting off for Quebec last week. Who could have dreamed of finding you here?”

“And so I did go to Quebec. But I used it up in two days, and then came on here once more. In my then state of mind it was a relief to place myself where you found me, and listen to the roar of the water from morning till night. Now, I don’t care how soon we go away.”

We did journey, however, for some weeks; and when we returned and were once more in our own quiet parlor at home, I asked Herbert to come with me to my room.

“I am going to read you something, Herbert. Something about Claire.”

Then I opened the packet which Father Angelo had given me. First there was the official announcement, or rather a copy of it, of Father Angelo’s admission to the Convent of la Trappe, in Piedmont, and his consequent death to the world and every body in it. Then a separate packet contained such particulars of his life as he deemed necessary for me to know, and to communicate to Claire, if I thought proper, or to whomsoever she should hereafter marry. There were also papers conveying a small amount of property to her. Enough for her subsistence should she be deprived by misfortune of my support.

The man had been sinned against and was also a great sinner. He had sinned against the young English girl, Clara, whom he had seduced from her home under the false pretence of marriage, and whose fidelity to him and trust in him had continued to her gentle death. Afterward to win for himself the means of keeping up his dissipated habits he had recourse to forgery, and had escaped in disguise, and narrowly, with his life. After that he went to Rome; by a run of luck in gambling he obtained the means of making a handsome appearance in society there, and by his cultivation, taste and fine manners, so impressed an Italian family of some distinction that he married one of the daughters. The marriage was an unhappy one. His wife eloped with his friend, and the old drama of a duel was acted over. Finally his resources were exhausted, and either reason or conscience suggested to him the claim which a wife and child had on his memory. At all events, he became an altered man, took holy orders, obtained permission to travel, and did travel in search of his long-forgotten wife and child. After a long search he found Claire. He sought her society. He became her confessor and her friend. He learned her pure heart, and her enthusiastic devotion to the memory of her parents. Then the iron entered into his soul. He felt the impossibility of presenting himself to such an innocent being as the realization of such an ideal as hers. He now dreaded any chance by which his relationship could become known to her, as much as he had heretofore eagerly sought her. All he could do for her he did, but he constantly watched an opportunity to secure to her an efficient friend, who could take her into the world, and withdrawing her from the dull and confined life she then had, put her into the way of forming connections for herself which would in some degree lead her to forget or cease to look for her father. The agony of being forced to deny himself every parental caress, lest he should be forced to explain his relationship, and consequently the reasons for his long and unpardonable estrangement, made him wish a thousand times he were dead indeed, and he said he longed every hour for the time to arrive when he should take the vow of eternal silence, for such only harmonized with the gloom of his soul.

It would be wearisome to go through all the details of such a life, of such talents abused, of such a mournful old age.

We talked the matter over freely and fully, and Herbert concluded with me that it was best to burn the package, that under no possible combination of circumstances could it fall into her hands. It should be his happiness he said to make her forget to look for her father.

How he found out how much she could bless him—and when she discovered that though he was full of faults, she loved him, faults and all, I cannot tell; but every body’s experience will furnish similar instances for themselves or others.

———

BY J. HUNT, JR.

———

The whole matter is this.

The tea-things had just been cleared away, the baby just got fast asleep and laid in his crib, my wife just got fixed by the round-table making a blue velvet cap for him, and I had just got comfortably settled in my arm-chair on the other side of the table, when Tom returned from the post-office through the rain and mud and dark bringing one letter. My wife gave a pish! when I told her it was not from her mother, but apologized immediately for her expression when I informed her that the letter—broad, thick and with a vast deal of ink in the superscription—was from Charley. Giving the wick of the lard-lamp another turn she begged me to read it aloud.

Tearing off the envelope—drawing my chair a little nearer the fire and clearing my throat I read—

I read the rest of the letter to my wife, but it is entirely too flattering to me to be coolly written out here. Indeed I remarked all along, through the three more pages which followed, to my wife, that his encomiums were only the warm expressions of a warm soul unusually excited, and which must be taken with all allowance.

Charley’s letter flushed me through and through. That my old friend should be elected Senator to congress from his State I hoped but hardly expected. Intimate companionship with a friend, you know, has a tendency to dwindle him in our eyes. Don’t misunderstand! Intimacy with such a man as Charles Bell makes one love and prize him more and more—but does not make one think more and more that such a man is suited to be a grave and reserved Senator. It is just as it is with the Swiss peasant whose cabin is on a side of Mont Blanc—the hoary old mountain does not appear a tithe so sublime to him as it does to some traveler in the distance.

I say I felt thoroughly warmed and rejoiced. I arose, put all my wife’s spools and scraps off the table into her lap, laid my portfolio and ink-stand upon it, begged my wife to absorb herself in her baby’s velvet cap, dipped my pen in the ink and now have written thus far.

All my past intercourse with Charley rushes to my lips now, as tears do sometimes to one’s eyes. I want to tell just as briefly and distinctly as possible how he has risen from nothing to what he now is. I know much better than he—and if he reads this, it will do him good. Any-how, I feel in the mood of writing, and before I go to bed, if my baby don’t wake with the colic and my wife don’t interrupt me I will tell you exactly how Charley Bell became a United States Senator.

The fact is, too, that I have a half-hope that some youth may read this and may get a word which may wake him to a higher and nobler life than he has ever yet dreamed of. If the eye of any such a one rests on these pages, just one word my fine fellow. Forget for a little while that everlasting Julia whom you fell in love with last Tuesday a week ago, and read with all your soul of souls.

I cannot exactly say when I did not know Charley. He is some three years older than myself—he being about eighteen, and I about fifteen years of age when our friendship began to be a thing to be remembered. He looked when I saw him a year ago exactly as he did when we used first to chat cosily beside his fire-side, about Bulwer and Dora Anson. He is of a medium size, handsome, earnest face, forehead broad rather than high. There is a peculiar gentleman-look about him, wherever he is or whatever he is doing. He has such an enthusiastic sympathy with every man, woman and child he meets with that he is popular of course.

His peculiarity, however, always consisted in a hunger after personal excellence. From our first acquaintance we made a distinct arrangement to tell each other of our faults as plainly as words could convey meaning. If he did not faithfully do his part toward me in this arrangement I am very, very much mistaken. He thought aloud about me—told me exactly what I was, and what I was not. I did the same in regard to him. We have acted thus for many years now. We have been of vast benefit to each other—and will continue to be till we die.

I do verily believe that this arrangement had a good deal to do in making him the man he is.

Just in this way.

When we first became intimate, and had made our arrangement as above, I opened the war by talking to him as follows:

“Charley, my fine fellow, you are ambitious to be a good speaker. Now—you remember our little arrangement about correcting the faults of each other?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the plain fact is you have got a most miserable, squeaking voice. Your chest is narrow, you stoop, you don’t have that broad, strong, manly appearance which is almost essential to a speaker.”

I saw he winced under this. He felt eloquence deeply—he thought eloquently—and forgot that the thought must be expressed eloquently, or it is eloquence only to himself.

That afternoon he made a pair of dumb-bells—and I do verily believe that he has hardly missed a day from that to this in which he has not exercised his chest and his voice in every possible way. No one would ever think now that he was not always the broad-chested, powerful-voiced orator he is.

It strikes me that even this little event had something to do with Charley in his becoming a Senator. You never saw a narrow-chested man who had any voice, energy or eloquence in your life. If you have got a stoop, my boy, you had better correct it if you ever intend being any thing.

I received from him one day a very, very plain exposition of one of my many faults. Never mind what it is. He pointed it out to me as you would point out a rattlesnake in a thicket to any companion you chanced to be walking with. I saw it—this vile fault of mine—and have been hunting it, and striking savagely at it, whenever I detect it stealing through my conduct with its accursed insidiousness ever since. Alas! it is “only skotched not killed” yet. But that is another matter. I only mention it to say that his very plain remarks gave an edge to my remarks, as I observed—

“You are right, Charley, perfectly so—and I war against that accursed fault forever. But it reminds me of one of yours.”

“Eh?”

“Charley, you have a vile, offensive, disgusting habit of chewing tobacco. It is loathsome. If you would only keep the weed in your mouth, why it would only poison yourself—but you will be everlastingly spitting out its juice—and it poisons me—poisons me through sight, smell, hearing and feeling. Don’t use it any more.”

True to his own true nature, he never took another quid. Whether this is one cause of his blooming health and firm nerve I will not say. I will say that it is one cause of his astonishing popularity with the ladies—whether they know that it is or not—and thus one cause of this election of his as Senator.

These faults of ours! I said they are like snakes. So they are. Sometimes a man catches sight of one of them lying full-length in its loathsomeness in his own conduct or conversation. Suppose the fault is self-conceit?—a disease of mentioning one’s self at all times, which you have contracted. Well, you see the same fault in some fool or other, or some Charley Bell tells you of it. The knowledge falls like a flash of daylight on the vice—you see it! If it would only perish—crawl out of you, it would be well. But the vile thing—crawls into you—like a snake into its hole. It does not show its head while you are watching for it. A day or two passes. You forget about it—and it is out—drawing its filthy trail through all your conduct again.

This is not a digression. Because I wanted to say that Charley was a man of too strong a desire after personal excellence not to wage eternal war after such vermin. A shrewd observer would have known the existence of his besetting faults only by the unusual prominence of just the opposite virtues, just as you recognize the former drunkard in the man who has a special horror now of all that can intoxicate.

There were several minor defects in Charley’s character, which I pointed out to him, but which he has so completely conquered that I have forgotten what they were.

I really must say something about that Dora Anson affair.

Dora was the brunette daughter of an established lawyer in our inland village. I see her as distinctly before me while I write, as if she was before me. She was some sixteen years of age—had the usual amount of education and mind—was unaffected—warm-hearted—black haired and eyed—rosy-lipped—woman-rounded form. Charley fell in love—astonishingly in love with her. I was amazed. He was of an intellectual, though impulsive nature; and she had no conversational power—nothing in the world but a lively, natural, voluptuous sort of beauty, to recommend her to him.

Astonishingly in love. He made love to her by flowers, and was accepted in the same way, before he went to college. He was absent a year. The very night of his return he went to a party at her father’s, which happened that night. He got a seat near her toward the close of the evening—in a low voice made a passionate appeal to her, although surrounded by company—went home—wrote her a still more passionate letter. He was too impulsive—frightened her—had his letter returned, and came to me, and as we sat on a log in the moonlight, told me the whole. He was about twenty years old then, and the affection had quickened, expanded, strengthened his heart even more than that chest-exercise had his lungs. There was a depth, and breadth, and force about his affection for Dora which stirred up his whole being. It rolled through him like a sea, deepening and washing out the sands of his heart till that heart became deep and broad. For months that love lived and worked in him; at last it died out like the steam from the engine of a steamship.

When I see his hearty affection for his friends—his warm sympathy for all among whom he mingles, which gives him his wonderful popularity, I can trace it all back to that development of his heart under the hot summer of that love of his for Dora Anson. I do believe that the genial smile, the cordial manner, the melting persuasiveness of his tones, all owe their development, if not their origin, to that culture of his heart. The sun may have set which shone on his soul, but it left that soul all ruddy and ripe from its warm rays. If Dora had jilted him, it would have left him a soured man. If she had married him, it would have left him a satiated man. In either case it would have injured him. But she did not jilt him—did not marry him; he outgrew so sensuous a love as that, and somehow or other they drifted apart.

I believe, however—and my wife, to whom I have just mentioned it, agrees with me—that his connection with Mr. Nelson had very much to do in making him the man he is.

You see, when Charley had finished his law-studies, his father and mother were dead. He never had any brothers or sisters. One or two thousand dollars was his fortune. Being a young man—now some twenty-five—of fine appearance, and talents, and manners, he attracted the attention of Mr. Nelson, a keen and rich lawyer in the village, and in a few weeks he was settled in his office as a junior partner. For some six months Nelson seemed wonderfully attached to Charley—continually spoke of him with the loudest praise—over-rated him, in fact. At the close of this period, however, he suddenly took just as violent a set against Bell as he had before for him. Nobody ever knew the reason of this. I don’t think Nelson himself did. The truth is, the elder partner was a singular man. He always dressed neatly in black—was rather thin, with a stooping shoulder, a retreating forehead, a quick way of talking, and a rapid step. He was excessively hospitable and generous, more for the sake of being a sort of protector and superior of the guest than any thing else. Self-will was the trait of his character.

But I am writing about Charley, and have got no time to paint this Nelson. Enough to say that he took as vehement a dislike to Bell as he before had a liking. He ridiculed and opposed and thwarted him with an astonishing bitterness. Bell, at first, was staggered with astonishment—then cut to the very soul with such unkindness from the last man on earth from whom he expected it. But it did him great good. It corrected his blind confidence in every man completely, and gave him a quiet watchfulness of men in all his dealings with them, which was of immense benefit to him. It destroyed in an instant all his false and colored ideas of things. The faults of his character which Nelson pointed out and ridiculed, and made the ostensible cause of his alienation, were forever corrected—just as a wart is burnt off by corrosive sublimate. Nelson’s extravagant depreciation of him after such extravagant praise of him, gave him, in one word, an impulse to prove himself unworthy that depreciation and more than worthy the former praise, which did more for him than if his senior partner had given him years of the most careful instruction and countenance. Besides, it threw him suddenly on himself—made an independent man of him forever. Just what that chest-exercise did for his lungs, that Dora affair did for his heart, this Nelson matter did for his will—it deepened and broadened and strengthened it to an unusual degree—it did very much toward making him a Senator.

My wife agrees with me that the little love affair of his with Marie McCorcle had not much if any effect on our friend. Failing a little in love with her when he was some twenty-six years old, for a remark she made in a speech when May Queen, he proposed in a note—was rejected in a note. Mounting his horse, he took a ride of some eleven days on business somewhere. On his return he was over with it, except of course the feeling of pique. The first day of his ride he chanted, as he told me, the words of her rejection to “Old Hundred,” all day long, over and over and over. The next day it was to a faster tune. He trotted his horse rapidly back, making his hoofs keep time to the swiftest jig of his recollection, as he rode into town with the words of her rejection still on his lips.

The rest of my task is a pleasant one. I like to think about Annie Rennaugh—I love even to write her name. She was a cousin of Dora’s and resided in the same town. I cannot say that she was pretty—but I can say that she was beautiful. Just in this way. She was of a small, modest, quiet appearance. You would hardly look at her twice if you saw her in a promiscuous company. Only become acquainted with her, however, and an irresistible charm is upon you. There is such a delicious ease in all she says and does—such a deep mirth and artless confidence in her that conquers without observation.

She was a special friend of Charley’s. He confided to her from the very first all his affair with Dora. I saw him one evening at a party with her. She was seated in a chair by the door, with a saucer of strawberries and cream in her lap. He was seated at her feet in the doorway—enjoying the summer air—conversing in a low, earnest tone with her as they took alternate teaspoonsful of the fruit. They were talking about Dora—Charley’s ideal Dora—as earnestly as if they were talking love on their own account.

Well, the full moon of Dora’s influence waxed into the full orb of its influence upon her lover, and then waned, and waned. His friendship, however, for Annie increased slowly—slowly, but most surely. When he was whirled away for those four weeks by Marie McCorcle, he told her all about it, and had, as usual, all her sympathy. Then he was off for college and corresponded with her regularly. I was with him in college. Many a time has he torn up—at my advice—the long letter he had written her, because it was entirely too warm, even though it was directed in the most fraternal manner possible to “My dear Sister Annie,” and signed, “Your affectionate brother, Charles.”

You can see immediately how it all ended. A friendship begun in mere indifference had ripened through six years into deep, genuine affection. He never dreamed that he loved Annie until he found that she was essential to his existence. For the first time he knew what true love was. He found that it was not the sensual flush of passion, such as warmed him under the hot beauty of Dora—that it was not the fever of the imagination which diseased him under the moonlight of Marie. He found that love was not a passion but a feeling; was not a fit but a condition; was not a hot flush of blood, but the quick, even, everlasting flow of the heart’s tide, giving health and life to the whole man.

I am writing nothing but actual fact, and so I cannot say how he told Annie his love and how she accepted him. He has talked to me—I do believe in all it amounts to several hundred hours—about Dora and Marie. He has quoted to me at least one dozen dozen times every word that ever passed between him and them, but he never told me any thing about his love conversation with Annie. They are married. They seem perfectly happy in the quiet possession of each other and of the blue-eyed baby boy that laughs in their arms.

This was the making of Charles Bell. A remark of mine has led to the development of his noble form, and the establishment of that full health so essential to successful labor. His love for Dora has expanded his heart and warmed and flushed him all through and through with an affection and persuasion and love, that shows itself in his every tone and smile and clasp of the hand and word. His affair with Marie has cultivated his imagination perhaps. His painful experience with Mr. Nelson has corrected all false ideas of men—has given him caution, self-possession, self-reliance and energy. He has learned to meet things as they come; to do his utmost, and then, not only not murmur at whatever happens but actually to acquiesce, to rejoice in every event. Annie is an infinite blessing to him. He is full of impulse, and she, by a silent, irresistable influence, controls and directs it. He is full of noble aspiration but inclined to be fickle—she is ever pouring oil on the fire of his soul as with an unseen angel hand—is silent and uncongenial when he wanders from his better self—and thus draws him quietly but irresistibly back.

Of course there were many circumstances in politics and situation which conspired to elevate him to his present position. I have only alluded to the quiet under-current of his private life. I wrote what I have written only because I felt like doing so. I do not think either he or Annie will be offended at my freedom should they read this—especially as I have not mentioned his State or his real name. I am heartily sick of all romance and romantic ideas and descriptions of men and women, but I do look upon the “Hon. Charles Bell and his amiable lady,” as the Washington papers will call them, as two of the finest persons in all my knowledge. Both are most sincere Christians, and singular as it may seem to some, I regard their companionship and mutual influence as one which is to last not only through this poor world, but through all eternity. I would like exceedingly to write out my ideas on this point, but I cannot do it now. Besides, the editor may be married to a second wife, and in that case, would most certainly refuse admission to this little sketch in the pages of his magazine.

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BY ELIHU SPENCER.

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BY MISS SUSAN A. STUART.

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“What a picture of delicious comfort, dear Aunt Mary,” said Cora Norton, as throwing herself into the luxurious depths of a Voltaire chair, and placing her pretty little feet on the low fender, she looked around her Aunt Mary’s snuggery.

A cold, misty rain was falling without; but the ample crimson curtains were drawn closely, so that no evidence of the inclemency of the weather was visible within to its two inmates. The cheerful, crackling fire threw over the chamber and its occupants “fitful gleams and red,” as drawn closely on the opposite sides of the fire-place they chatted cosily together.

“Yes, Aunt Mary, you have so much comfort, so much repose, that I can enter con amore into your feelings, as you thus sit so tranquilly in your well-lined, little nest, and take a bird’s-eye view of the bustling, plotting, never-resting world. But, dearest aunty, your darling little pony has just tired me sufficiently, so as to leave me in a state of quiescence, in which state one of your pleasant reminiscences of by-gone days would prove very acceptable. I hope, my dear aunty, you know how to take a slight hint, for I am awfully modest about asking favors.” And she crossed her little hands demurely on her lap, settled herself still more comfortably, and with an asking smile on her roguish, pretty face nodded her head in a very patronizing manner at her aunt, saying, “Commencez-donc, s’il vous plaÎt, ma bonne.”

“Well! my little chatterbox, is your tongue worn out at last, and you really wish to play the part of listener! But, what shall I tell you? Let us see! Florence Walton,” continued the old lady musingly, as she rubbed her spectacles with her silk apron. “Yes, yes, she is given to ridicule herself, and might one day suffer from it, as my poor Florence has done. Here, Co, count the stitches for the heel in this stocking for me, with your young eyes, and I will try to think over something about her.”

“You have seen Florence Walton here,” said Mrs. Jordan, as Cora handed her knitting back to her, “but you must forget her looks, if you wish to have before your mind’s eye the proud, beautiful girl of my narrative. A petted and spoiled child was Florence, when she and I were school-mates. An only child—beautiful, talented, and winning in her affectionate ways—with parents, who were the happy slaves to her slightest caprices, how could it be otherwise?”

“I remember, as though but yesterday, when she was ushered in among us school-girls by Madame Gaspard. As natural, we all sat silent and restrained before the new-comer, who, unused to school-discipline, and in all the freedom of her, but just-quitted, home-circle, was in the habit of giving speech to the first thoughts that presented themselves to mind, without caring for their fitness, and too proud to show respect for our opinions, like another school-girl among utter strangers would have done.

“Yes! I recollect it as freshly as yesterday, and see before me now the bright, fearless creature, as with an impatient toss of her glossy ringlets she said half-pettishly—‘Pleasant as my home, indeed! I wish I was there now, at any-rate, for I feel here as a cat must feel in a strange garret.’ And a smile parted her saucy lips, as we broke into hearty laughter at this compliment from the new girl.

“That quaint phrase of Florence Walton’s introduced her at once, and frolick and fun finished the evening. Many, and many were the scrapes that her wit and laughter-loving propensity has brought upon her, but through all her affairs beamed forth the evidence of a noble, generous, bold, but quick temper, impossible to daunt, but, like the generality of impulsive temperaments, led child-like and trusting through the affections. I have seen Florence in after-years, for we were school-mates a long, long time, throw herself in a perfect abandonment of tears on her bed, after answering saucily and with light laughter, some friend whom she dearly prized—and yet, after remonstrances from me and advice for the future would reply—‘In vain, dear Mary, all your good advice, and so would be my promises of amendment, were I foolish enough to make them. I know, dear friend, my besetting sin—know it, and I assure you, I most deeply deplore my weakness, which would prevent me from making good any promise I might make you or myself for the future. As well ask the bird not to fly, or the fish not to swim, as to make me promise when irritated, not to use my only weapon—ay! sharper, I will admit, than a two-edged sword. Mary, it is my misfortune more than my fault. I have felt—keenly, bitterly felt—how wrong I am in acting thus. In casting from me by ridicule and foolish jests, friends whose affection I dearly prize. Oh! you cannot tell how I have struggled—how in my own heart-communings I have determined to be more guarded for the future. But the future was ever as the past. My sin is too strong, and I too weak.’

“Many such conversations have we held together and I, Cora, was a wicked sinner myself, then, and knew not God, nor the efficacy of prayer, therefore I could not tell the erring, but warm-hearted girl, to cast her burthen at the foot of the Cross; and that from the knowledge of her weakness would come her strength, for that He, the Mighty One, loved to help the weak ones, who come as suppliants to his throne. Ah! yes, we were wicked, and only thought of such things not being respectable, instead of their sinfulness!

“Time sped on, working his changes as he ever does, and our school-days passed like our girlhood, never to return. Florence and I made every promise of everlasting friendship when we parted; kept, too, I believe as faithfully as if made in more mature years. The first letter I received from her after we had both left for our homes, told me of the death of her father, which was very sudden. The newspapers announced shortly after this, the demise of her remaining parent, and my heart clung still more fondly to her, poor thing, for she had no brothers or sisters to sympathize with her in this sad bereavement. She was now alone to struggle with the cold world, which made no allowance for her faults of the head, but were visited upon her as crimes of a darker die.

“Years elapsed, and nothing more reached me of Florence. I married your uncle, dear Cora, and spent many, many happy years with him here, in my little nest as you term it, when death also came to tear him from me. Then, too, with my sorrow, came the oftener thoughts of my girl-friend, Florence Walton. Wondering had she ever married—was she a mother, a widow—and still above all came the wish that I could see her once again. I had written to her frequently, but my letters were never answered, and so I began to imagine that time had blotted out my name from ‘memory’s page,’ or that she had gone forth into the world under some other cognomen, and that my letters had failed to reach her. Somehow, I could never think her dead, there was too much life and liveliness in my ideal of her, to join them together.

“Other thoughts began to have influence over me, when one day among letters and papers, came one, bearing my name in her own hand-writing! That old, familiar penmanship brought back, like some fondly remembered strain of music, thoughts of childhood’s happy days, and my heart leaped forth in love welcome to the writer ere I broke the envelope. How much more were my feelings stirred within me, when the warm, passionate nature of Florence beamed forth in every line. She proffered a visit to me, telling me, that she too had known sorrow, deep, lasting—and when she thought of my happiness, she could not bear to lay open the still tender wound; but I had suffered, as she had very recently learned, and could therefore without additional heart-pangs give my sympathy to a friend, my own, old, wayward, school-friend.”

“How quickly did I respond, and urge her to come speedily, and she came.”

“Yes, dear aunty,” said Cora, “I recollect her now. I was a tiny one, it is true, but I remember well a lady, who dressed in mourning, and was accustomed to walk evening after evening up and down the broad portico with you, while I, too, would endeavor to keep pace with you, till tired out I have thrown myself across the door-step and slept, unconsciously, until you became aware of ‘my small existence,’ and gave me to Elsie, to put in bed.”

“Yes, dear Co, I plead guilty; for the fascination of Florence’s conversation, tinctured, too, with sadness, was sufficient to make any one forget their own identity. It was during that visit she narrated all that happened to her during our separation. But, as I am but little skilled as a raconteuse, I will, after Elsie has given us our tea, lend you her journal to glance over. She said, when she gave it to me, ‘This journal, my dear Mary, will bring me and my trials sometimes before your eyes; for I cannot bear to be utterly forgotten by the one being who has loved me through evil as well as good report. Besides, I think it sinful to remind myself, by looking over these blotted pages—which, strange incongruity as it may appear, I cannot bear the idea of destroying—as they make me unhappy and discontented, by recalling times past, that were better forever to lie buried in Oblivion’s stream.’

“There, Co, is the manuscript—rather formidable in its closely written pages; but to me, so full of interest, that I should have read it were it six times as long. So, read it to yourself, dear, after you have given me my tea, and then I will attend to my little domestic concerns; for though ’tis, indeed, but a ‘wee nest,’ yet the birds of the air do not minister to me.”

“Thank you, dear aunty. Now, Elsie, my good Elsie, please hurry with the tea-waiter; for I am so famished with curiosity to read these yellow leaves, that I will pardon any supper, if ’tis not comme il faut, if you will only hurry!”

My readers will imagine the refreshment past—the wick of the lamp raised—the shade adjusted—and the fair Cora, with her head supported by one tiny hand, hid in a shower of curls, seated at the centre-table, in the most comfortable of all chairs, and deeply intent upon the pages of