The next day Oliver Barton proceeded to his office at an earlier hour than usual; so early indeed that most of those adjoining were still closed. Being of a meditative turn of mind, and even inclined to castle-building, this era of his life afforded much subject for thought. “If I succeed,” thought he, “it will be the commencement of an extensive practice.” Forthwith, upon this contingency, he proceeded to erect a magnificent superstructure in the air, which was finally blown away by it occurring to him that he might not succeed. Unwilling to contemplate this side of the picture, and remembering his client was a lady, he took from the table before him “Chesterfield’s Letters,” in hopes of finding something there both useful and entertaining.

Notwithstanding the agreeable wit and advice of his lordship, the hours passed heavily. At last in came Uncle Scott, a little, genteel-looking person, in tight pantaloons and well-brushed coat, carrying his ivory-headed cane under his arm. He looked the very personification of a precise old bachelor, who had lived in the great world and grown wise by experience.

“Here I am, according to appointment,” said he, pulling a showy watch from its fob, “just half past twelve, and we are to be at Miss Medford’s at one.”

“I’m ready, uncle,” returned Oliver, after having changed his coat and settled his hat before the glass with extra attention. Mr. Scott, like most old bachelors, was very punctual in fulfilling engagements.

“You told me, I believe, that Miss Medford was an orphan?” said Oliver, when they had reached the street.

“Yes, poor thing,” answered Mr. Scott, “she lost her mother while still an infant, and it has now been ten years since her father, Charles Medford, died. He was a generous, noble-hearted fellow, but too much given to fine company and expense. I recollect him well, for we were young men together, and dashed about in the same gay society. He married a beautiful woman for love,” and Uncle Scott sighed, “with her face for her fortune, and as his own amounted to little more, the match was any thing but happy. To be deprived of the only parent she had ever known nearly broke Clara’s heart, and she wept long and bitterly. So touching was her grief it affected the heart of her uncle, John Medford, who, as he was a bachelor, adopted her, and resolved to cherish her as his own. He was one of the most singular men I have ever known. Withered and forbidding in appearance, crabbed in temper, and particular about money matters even to parsimony, he was no attractive object to so tender a flower as Clara. But, by her childish love and attention, she insinuated herself into his unkindly heart, and soothed the many cares of the declining years of his life—so that even he blessed her. At his death the principal amount of his property was bequeathed to her, but with this singular provision, that if she marry within ten years it was to go to some distant relative. Among the many whims of the old man, he particularly hated a branch of his family, the children of a disobedient sister. These are now endeavoring to prove the illegality of the will in question, as they are entirely cut off by it from all share in his estate; but you shall hear more of the circumstances from her own lips.”

They were now at their destination, and in a few moments found themselves seated in a spacious and richly furnished parlor, containing many indications of female taste and attention. On the centre-table lay a small boquet of beautiful flowers, blushing with the freshness of the field, but which, on a closer inspection, were found to be artificial, doubtless moulded under the delicate fingers of the presiding fairy. A number of beautifully shaded landscape sketches next attracted Oliver’s attention, and as he turned from one to another he would have forgotten the dry subject on which he came, but for the promptings of Mr. Scott.

They had not waited long before Clara Medford entered. If Oliver had been affected by her story he was still more touched with her winning grace and beauty, enhanced rather than obscured by the deep mourning in which she was dressed. She was somewhat pale, but he would have found no difficulty in accounting for this in her late affliction, had not the sweet expression of her hazel eye more than atoned for it. Her mien was so easy and unaffected that Oliver, who had dreaded the awkward formality of so embarrassing an interview, felt at once perfectly self-possessed. There was something serene and even childlike in her countenance, which was extremely interesting, and she seemed polite, rather because it was natural to her, than in obedience to the requirements of custom.

We leave them to converse over the business of the suit, of which the reader already knows sufficient for the purposes of our narrative.

——