From the pave we will now step into a spacious drawing-room.

A lively Italian air, exquisitely sung by a fair young girl, falls with delightful cadence upon the ear, while touched by the fingers of one scarcely less fair, the piano adds its pleasing accompaniment, filling the lofty apartment with thrilling melody. Seated in a comfortable lolling chair, is a gentleman of middle age—the only listener, by the by, to the charming music of his niece and daughter, yet more than compensating by his true love of the “art divine,” and the heartiness of his approval, for the superficial plaudits of a fashionable assembly. This is evidently the dwelling of a man of fortune and of taste. Elegance without ostentation mark its adornments. A choice collection of paintings from the old masters decorate the walls, and scattered around are various specimens of rare artistic skill and beauty.

The song ended, a lively conversation ensued.

“So I find, Margaret, you have been gadding as usual this morning,” said Mr. Belden, “and filling your cousin’s little head with more folly and nonsense than her good mother can eradicate in a twelve-month.”

“O, no, papa, I have done nothing of the kind, I assure you; and yet I should not like to be answerable for all the mischief done that little head and heart, too, to-day,” answered Margaret, looking archly at her cousin. “See how she blushes. Now confess, Emma, the image of a certain person, who so awkwardly beset us this morning, still haunts your fancy.”

“Well, Margaret, I do confess,” replied Emma, while a crimson glow mantled her cheeks, “that I think he possessed one of the finest faces I ever saw. He was not more awkward, certainly, than we were; and I much doubt whether, in fact, we were not the most so of the three.”

“Speak for yourself, if you please,” was the reply; “for my part, I never enjoyed any thing more. Such sideling and bowing; such blushing, and such bobbing about; why a dancing-master might make a fortune out of this new pas de trois. And as for you, Emma, you really looked like a little simpleton.”

“What is all this, girls—what new adventure have you met with?” inquired Mr. Belden.

“Only one of those awkward rencounters, papa, which happen every day, except, perhaps, that one seldom sees a handsomer young man than the poor fellow who came so near running us down. Tall and erect, eyes like stars, brows black as night, and, but for his awkwardness, a very—but, mercy, Emma, look, look—there he is—yes, it certainly is,” she suddenly exclaimed; “do come here, quick. See, he is evidently looking for some number. Now he is at 87; there, he stops at 91—no that is not it; see how he gazes this way. As I live, the fellow is crossing over! Why the audacious—he bows. Emma, Emma, he is coming up the steps!” and even as she spoke there was a ring at the door. The girls quickly disappeared, and the next moment Auburn was ushered into the presence of the astonished Mr. Belden; doubtless no less astonished himself at his position and daring errand.

Daring, indeed—but what will not love dare!

After so suddenly losing sight of his inamorata, without the shadow of a hope that he might ever again behold her, Auburn turned, and gloomily accompanied his friend Evans to his lodgings, wishing, nevertheless, that he had been many fathoms deep, ere he had thus inopportunely encountered him. His unusual taciturnity drew forth the raillery of his friend. Auburn vainly endeavored to shake off this depression; but the very effort only caused him to talk the more wildly, then plunged him again into the same moody silence. Evans jested the more, until finally, already in no very amiable frame of mind, he became provoked; high words ensued, and the two friends parted in anger.

Auburn now took refuge in his studio, vainly striving to forget his chagrin in his late all-engrossing pleasure—painting—the mistress to whom but that morning he had sworn eternal fealty. At length throwing down the brush in despair, he exclaimed,

“Heavens, how that face haunts me! And must I leave the city to-morrow, and thus lose the only chance I may ever have of meeting her again. No, I cannot do it! and yet what folly,” he added, “why should I allow such a trifle to disturb me thus? Even should I discover who she is, what good can result to me!” And now the poor artist paced the room despairingly; again he soliloquized:

“Yes, I will postpone my journey. I will haunt Broadway, Trinity, the Opera, theatres—I will neither eat nor sleep until I have found her.”

At this moment his eye rested upon the roguish face of his cousin Kate, still upon his easel; and the conversation of the morning at once flashed upon him.

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, “it can’t be—I can’t be such a simpleton as to have fallen in love! Pooh! no, no—it can’t be. Love! ha! ha! ha! ridiculous!—in love! No, Miss Kate, all right yet. Let me shake off this idle mood. Love!—nonsense!” and seizing his pallet, he first, somewhat spitefully, removed the provoking portrait from its position, and then commenced copying a beautiful head of Titian. But in vain he toiled. It was soon evident he had forgotten his subject; his head drooped upon his breast; his brush motionless, and for many moments he remained buried in deep thought. Suddenly starting up with such vehemence as nearly to overturn the easel, he seized his hat and rushed from the room, plunged down stairs, and into the street. Up Broadway he once more pushed along, nor paused until C—— street was attained. Here, for a moment, he halted, irresolute, then turning the corner, commenced a deliberate survey of every house, and gazing most pertinaciously at the windows in particular, careless of the attention which his peculiar manner attracted. When, then, he really caught a glimpse of the object of his search peeping through the rich hangings at the window of Mr. Belden, it is no wonder his senses forsook him, and that without a moment’s consideration, he impulsively rushed up the steps, rang the bell, and found himself, as has already been shown, in the presence of that gentleman.

One rapid glance around the room betrayed the fair object of his search had disappeared. Then the awkwardness of his position dawned faintly through the maze in which his wits were wandering. But it was too late to retreat, so summoning courage to address Mr. Belden, he inquired,

“Can I have the pleasure of speaking with Miss—Miss—your daughter, sir?”

A frown gathered dark on the brow of Mr. Belden, as he replied,

“Who are you, sir?—and what is your business with Miss Belden, may I ask?”

“Here is my card,” answered Auburn. “I am aware my presence here may appear somewhat singular, yet as I leave town early to-morrow, I must urge a few moments conversation with that young lady.”

“Your boldness, sir, is unsurpassed. Miss Belden cannot have the honor of seeing you.”

The reply of Auburn was interrupted by the sudden appearance of that young lady, whom, we must frankly confess, had, with Emma, been playing the part of eaves-dropper, and fearing her father would really drive the rash youth away without an interview, which her love of mischief tempted her to grant. She broke from the entreaties of her cousin, and stepped quietly into the room.

“Ah, here is my daughter,” added Mr. Belden. “Now, sir, your business—what have you to say?”

But poor Auburn had nothing to say. That Miss Belden was not the one he sought, a glance sufficed to assure him; and Margaret, too, most provokingly assumed a stately never-saw-you-before-sir air, which rendered his embarrassment tenfold.

“I beg your pardon for this intrusion, Miss Belden,” said he at length, “for which I can offer no excuse, except that I have been laboring under a delusion,” and bowing, he was about to leave the apartment, when, by chance, his eye fell upon a music-book, on which the name of “Emma Willis” was inscribed. A drowning man will catch at a straw—so will a desperate lover. Turning abruptly he now hazarded the inquiry,

“Is Miss Willis at home?”

“Miss Willis is at home,” coldly answered Mr. Belden.

Auburn’s heart throbbed tumultuously.

“Can I see her for a moment?” he eagerly demanded.

“No, sir, you cannot!” exclaimed Mr. Belden now rising, and angrily confronting his visiter; “and by what right, sir, do you longer intrude upon my family? Your conduct at least warrants suspicion. You first inquire for Miss Belden—you equivocate—you acknowledge yourself mistaken, and then demand an interview with my niece. Pray, what authority have you for such proceedings—you are not acquainted with the young lady, I believe?”

“No, sir, I am not,” replied Auburn, now fully restored to his senses, “and until to-day I acknowledge I never saw either this lady (bowing to Miss Belden,) or Miss Willis. Again I ask pardon for my intrusion. I know appearances are much against me; but the interest awakened in my bosom for your lovely niece, even in those few brief moments when it was my happiness to see her, and the fact that I am forced to leave the city to-morrow, is all I can urge in favor of my rashness; it was this alone which inspired me with boldness to call here.”

“Boldness, indeed! If this is all you have to say in extenuation, I, young sir, shall have the boldness to show you the door, and request a speedy retreat therefrom,” cried Mr. Belden.

Forgetting in his anger that Mr. Belden had any grounds for such uncourteous treatment, mortified, and disappointed, Auburn turned indignantly upon his heel and left the house—a merry laugh from the drawing-room ringing discordantly in his ear as he passed out.

——