It was one of the loveliest evenings in the loveliest month of a New England autumn. One of those delicious pet days, as they are fondly called, which, perhaps, from the uncertainty of their continuance, sometimes elevate the spirits more than the “long, sunny lapse of a summer day’s light.” Birds had been clamorous in melody, rare flowers had confidingly expanded their delicate petals to the genial glow that was abroad, and there seemed to be more light in the world than we are accustomed to enjoy. Yet that day had passed away—the warmer beams were gone, but their delightful influence still was felt in the soft, balmy temperature that remained. The birds had all vanished; yet even of them one would have said some soft charm still lingered in the dreamy hum which, though gradually becoming fainter, was still afloat; and if some delicate flowers had closed their bosoms from the breath of evening, others there were which gave out their fragrance.

On this delightful and balmy evening we introduce our readers to the cottage of Pastor Bartlett, adjoining the village church. It was remote from the main village, and shut out from its bustle and occupation—in this suiting the character and taste of its occupants. From its porch, where they were sitting, the pious man and his wife feasted their eyes with the refreshing green of the woods, whose boughs bent gracefully down to kiss the beautiful verdure that grew beneath, while the whole was softly bathed in a rich, warm flood of purple light.

The sunset hung lingering over the village, as if to contrast its own chamelion-like and gorgeous beauty with the fixed and placid scenery below. Many of the settlers might have been seen seated at the vine-clad doors of their simple dwellings, watching its fading splendor as it sunk behind the tall trees which almost hid from view the pastor’s cottage at the considerable distance we have described.

The excellent clergyman and his partner were sitting on a bench on the left of the porch, screened from observation by the cool boughs of a sycamore, the shadows of which half covered the little lawn that separated the precincts of the cottage from those of silent death. Above the white-washed pailings rose the village church. The old man and his wife were, as we have said before, calmly enjoying the beauty of the evening, the freshness of the air, and not least, perhaps, their own peaceful thoughts—the spontaneous children of a contemplative spirit, and a quiet conscience. Theirs was the age in which we most sensitively enjoy the mere sense of existence, when the face of nature, and a passive conviction of the benevolence of our Great Father, suffice to create a serene and ineffable happiness which rarely visits us till we have done with the passions; till memories, if more alive than heretofore, are yet mellowed in the hues of time, and Faith softens into harmony all their asperity and harshness; till nothing within us remains to cast a shadow over the things without; and on the verge of life, the angels are nearer to us than of yore. There is an old age which has more youth of heart than youth itself!

At length the pair simultaneously arose, and withdrew into the cottage, for sunset was their appointed season for evening devotion. The old man seated himself in his large arm-chair, but his wife lingered standing near the open lattice, until the gloom of twilight was gathering over the sky, and continued to gaze down the path leading to the village with intentness and eagerness. At last, as though weary of her employment, she turned away with a smothered sigh, saying, “Husband, what can detain Grace?”

“I know not,” was the disturbed reply of the venerable man at this suggestion. “There is no fear that bodily harm can have come to her, for it is now a long time since we have had any incursions from the Indians. But I am inclined to fear for her soul’s happiness. Has it not occurred to you, wife,” he continued, “that Grace’s relaxed interest in the duties of religion, together with her repeated absences from home, originate in some cause not purely accidental. For myself, my suspicions have been attracted toward the stranger who in the last few weeks has appeared among us. She has already informed us of their having had more than one interview at the dwellings of some of my people in the village. We must see to it that they meet no more. He must have no further opportunity of awakening an interest in the unsuspecting bosom of our daughter.”

There was a tone of deep despondency in the voice which spoke these words—for recently the change in their child had become marked. Unusual absences from her home—a sadness foreign to her natural cheerfulness of manner—a sudden and frequent outbreaking of tenderness toward her mother and himself—tears often springing overflowingly to her eyes—all these circumstances could do no more than excite uneasiness and anxiety in the minds of her parents.

A low murmuring sound was presently heard at the little wicket-gate outside, and immediately after the door was softly unlatched, and Grace Bartlett glided into the room.

The anxious glances of the pastor and his wife at once discovered by the light of the fire, which blazed brightly upon the hearth-stone, that the young girl’s eyes were dimmed with a slight expression of sorrow, and that her lovely cheek was a shade paler than its wont. She moved gently forward, knelt down at her father’s side, and kissed his brow.

“Grace,” said the old man, sadly, as he laid his hand among her beautiful tresses, “we have awaited your return, my child; it is past our customary hour for prayer. Do you tire of the happiness of home, that you seek for enjoyment elsewhere?” he added, as he gazed down on the face of the lovely being so emphatically the light of his home.

The girl’s countenance betrayed a confused consciousness as her beautiful “forget-me-not” eyes encountered those of her parent; but she made no reply, and a moment after arose from her knees. Untying her bonnet and hanging it against the wall, while her golden hair, disobedient to previous arrangement in modest bands by its owner, fell luxuriantly around her neck, she took a seat to signify that she was now prepared to join her parents in the devotions of the evening.

At that moment the little low-roofed apartment, so unostentatious in its old-fashioned furniture, so exact in its modest neatness—its bare walls unornamented with ought save a piece of faded tapestry, or an occasional nail whereon was hung sundry bunches of dried herbs and bags of rose-leaves—this, with the girl in her youthful simplicity and grace, kneeling by the side of her venerable parents, the eyes of all closed, and their hands clasped in devotion, while the old man’s lips were parted in the act of prayer, formed altogether as complete a picture as possible of colonial economy and piety.

The aspect of the room was homely but pleasant, with its low casement, beneath which stood the dark shining table that supported the large Bible in its green-baize cover, the Concordance, and the last Sunday’s sermon in its ebon case. By the fire-place stood the elbow-chair, before which the minister was kneeling, with its needle-work cushion at the back. Fifty or sixty volumes ranged in neat shelves on one end of the wall, and a half-a-dozen chairs, and a table, completed the furniture of the apartment. But it was the occupants who made the effect of the scene, in their pious act of evening devotion.

When the prayer was ended, Grace hastily withdrew, as if to avoid all further questions. But her anxious mother was not long in following her. She entered the little chamber of the young girl softly. Her daughter heard her, and started from the chair she had taken.

The gentle matron drew her affectionately to her side as she seated herself on the low bedstead, saying, “Grace, thou wast not educated to have any secrets from thy fond parents. Tell me, then, my child, who accompanied thee to the gate this evening?”

The girl hesitated for some moments, during which a momentary blush suffused her face and neck. Then, hiding her face in her mother’s bosom, she timidly replied, “It was the young stranger; he met me on the path leading from the village, and attended me home.”

The mother’s face evinced a troubled expression. “Oh, Grace, my daughter,” she said, “thou shouldst not have permitted him to do so. Thy father hath ever said since that young man’s arrival in the village, that it did not become any of our sect to hold ungodly converse with the sons of Baal.”

“But, mother,” urged the fair transgressor, “the stranger belongs not to that impious race. Every Sabbath, since his sojourn in the settlement, his attendance at the place of weekly worship has been regular and respectful.”

“My child!” ejaculated her mother, in a voice tremulous with sorrow, “thou hast yet to learn to beware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Satan sometimes transformeth himself into an angel of light to steal away the affections of the innocent. But,” added the pious matron, “I will chide thee no more for the present. Thy father and I will henceforth be more watchful of thee. Commend thyself to God, and seek thy pillow for the night.” So saying, she kissed her daughter and withdrew.

On the present evening, Grace had agreed to meet her lover, after the family worship in her father’s cottage, for the young man was about to depart from the village on the following day. The moment she was alone in the room, the struggle in her mind, increased by the words of her mother, depicted itself on her sweet face in an expression of doubtful agony, such as never had sat upon her countenance before—for its ordinary expression was that of the most seraphic serenity. She took up her little Bible to find some word of excuse for her contemplated act of disobedience, but it was only to turn over the leaves with a throbbing heart and wandering brain, that would not permit her attention to be arrested by the words before her. Laying the holy book down again, she sunk upon her knees to pray. The ordinary words of her devotions were not urged, but she asked God to forgive her for the sin she was about to commit, and rose confirmed and strengthened in her purpose.

Sitting down by her lattice, she listened for every sound within the cottage to die away. At length, when all was still and dark, she lifted the latch of her door and stole to the threshold of her father’s room. Finding all quiet, she retraced her steps, and raised the sash of her low window with the caution of one who fears danger in the beating of her own heart. Jumping through this, she alighted on the garden plot below. She proceeded to steal along under the shadow until she reached a rustic arbor, which she hurried into, and was welcomed in the arms of her lover.

“So you have come at last!” he said, joyfully. But as he spoke, he saw her eyes were filled with tears.

She buried her face in his bosom, and her sobs became audible. Raising her head gently and kissing her through her tears, he smoothed the golden hair back from her forehead. “What aileth thee, my beloved?” he asked, after he had soothed the first outburst of her emotion.

“Charles,” she sighed, as she looked up at him eagerly and endearingly, “I fear I do wrong to meet you here against my parents’ wishes.”

“Your conscience is too tender, sweet innocence,” was his reply. “God is more lenient in his judgment than thou deemest him. He hath implanted in thy bosom the very love for me and inclination to meet me here which thou art now afraid he will condemn; and thine own immaculate virtue and purity are thy sure safeguards from greater harm than he who now speaks could ever bring upon thee. Dearest, I would not hurt a hair of your beloved head, still less bring upon thee the judgments of Heaven. Dost thou not believe it, Grace?”

“Nay, but your religion?” she urged timidly—

“Is easily changed,” replied the lover. “Why, Grace, I will turn Puritan in garb, habits, worship, every thing, to win thee. At present I am on an embassy of diplomacy; but, in a few weeks, when I return, I shall have nothing to do but to court you in the guise that shall most please your scrupulous parents. You know how from the first moment I saw you”—and he lowered his voice to the soft, musical key of impassioned devotion—“you became dearer to me than aught in this world besides. I love you, Grace, better than all words can tell, and shall live until we meet but in the hope of coming to reclaim you, with arguments fitted to disarm all the objections of your father and mother. You will not forget me, will you?” he asked.

She laid her hand trustingly in his, and in a look of unalterable love gave him her reply.

The stolen interview did not last much longer, and in another half hour Grace Bartlett slept sweetly on her pillow, and the stranger was at his quarters in the village.

——