COUSIN FRANK AGAIN.

Breakfast was over—Mr. Hazleton gone to his office—Alice to pen a letter to her mother—and Julia was left alone with Mrs. Hazleton. It was no light errand upon which she was bent, and gladly would she have followed her cousin from the room—but an encouraging smile from Alice re-assured her. Yet how to open the dreaded subject? Several times she essayed to speak, but the words died upon her lips. Meanwhile Mrs. Hazleton, in a most voluble strain, was planning characters and dresses for a fancy ball. So far as Julia herself was concerned, the Scottish Chiefs were chosen for the field of display—deciding she should go as Helen Mar, and she was now trying to fix upon some character calculated to set forth her own charms to the best advantage.

“What do you think of Die Vernon?” said she turning to Julia—“or would Flora McIvor suit my style better—perhaps Mary, Queen of Scots, or—but what is the matter with you? How stupid you are! Why don’t you speak? I declare I believe you will get to be as dull as Alice Churchill. What ails you?”

“Nothing, ma’ma—I—I only?—”

“Only what? do speak!” cried Mrs. Hazleton, impatiently.

“I only wanted to tell you that—that Frank Reeve is in town,” stammered poor Julia.

“And pray who is Frank Reeve, to call such a blush to your cheek?”

“Why, dear me, ma’ma, you know Cousin Frank Reeve!”

“No, I don’t know Cousin Frank Reeve!” exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton, turning very red—“neither do I wish to know him.”

“Why, ma’ma, he is so pleasant—so delightful!”

“Is he? Well, Miss Julia, that is no reason why I should know him, or you either—and, let me tell you, if you have any ridiculous, childish penchant for ‘Cousin Frank,’ you had better banish it at once!” and Mrs. Hazleton looked very knowing.

“Ma’ma, I—I don’t understand you.”

“O yes you do. I have said enough—so no more of Frank Reeve. Now tell me if you can what were the colors of the Vich-ian Vohr plaid—Alice knows I dare say—go and ask her.” And glad of an excuse to leave the room, Julia quickly withdrew.

Mrs. Hazleton spoke the truth—she did not know Cousin Frank, though the nephew of the departed Ketchim. She had never seen him—but she had heard of moonlight walks and tender billet-doux. In her widowhood, so long as Julia was out of the way, she cared little which most occupied her time—books or a lover. The case was now altered. She had a higher object to be accomplished, to which the plighted affections of her daughter must be made to yield—what did she care for the affections!

Poor Julia’s eyes were swollen with weeping—her head ached intolerably, but her heart ached worse. There was a ring at the door—she listened—O happiness! ma’ma was out—and there was Cousin Frank! What could Julia do! What did she do but rush down stairs and burst into a fresh flood of tears on Cousin Frank’s shoulders! Very improper, was it not? However, we will not stop to argue the matter now, but rather adopt Jack Easy’s system—finish the story first and have the argument afterward!

As interesting as our pair of lovers undoubtedly were to themselves, a third party might not form the same opinion. We will not intrude, therefore, but content ourselves with marking the result of this interview, which was that Julia from that hour appeared in excellent spirits, quite delighting ma’ma with her praises of Herman Wallace, and never once mentioning the name of Cousin Frank again—simply amusing herself when alone with kissing mysteriously folded billets, and penning little rose-colored notes—surely there was no harm in that!

In the meanwhile Wallace had become a constant visiter. Although Alice was generally in the room upon these occasions, Mrs. Hazleton had no longer any fears. Wallace to be sure was very polite and agreeable—brought her books—sometimes reading a favorite passage—of course, why should he not? and so Mrs. Hazleton herself began to treat her with more attention—but with Julia he would chat in a low voice in snug window seats, or remote corners, while she in turn seemed to lend a willing ear—blushing, smiling, and evidently very happy. “Ah, there certainly must be some understanding between them!” thought the delighted Mrs. Hazleton.

——