Summer has come with its fruits and flowers; and away from the dust and turmoil of the city, our story takes us to a beautiful village overlooking the bright waters of the Cayuga Lake.

It is evening. The laborers are returning from their daily toil, some with their cradles and scythes thrown over their lusty shoulders, others, sunk amid the fresh and fragrant new-mown hay, are driving their teams homeward. From every branch the birds are gayly singing; cheerful sounds greet the ear from the farm-yard, and sweet on the gentle evening air floats the fragrance of the countless blossoms which adorn the neat garden-plots, and climb around the windows of the villagers.

Seated in the piazza of the comfortable inn is a traveler, who but a half hour since alighted from the stage, and made known his intention of spending some weeks in the village; consequently, the best room in the house is at his service, as also the best bows of Boniface and his attendants.

One glance will suffice us to recognize in the stranger our young artist, yet at the second we shall wonder what can have wrought so great a change in the outward man; why that happy, joyous air is exchanged for one so grave and even gloomy; why that fresh and blooming countenance is now so wan and haggard!

O, this love—this love!

Either absorbed in the beauty of the scene around him, or in his own moody thoughts, most probably the latter, the moments passed unheeded away, nor until aroused by his host with the announcement of supper, did he once move from his half-recumbent position. After slightly partaking of this repast, to the evident discomfiture of the good landlady, who attributed the dainty appetite of her guest, to nothing less than a dislike for her excellent fare, Auburn strolled forth from the inn, and proceeded slowly along the now almost deserted street.

The moon had by this time risen, casting her mild radiance over the peaceful village, and silvering the bosom of the placid lake below, while many a gambol did the shadows play upon the dewy green-sward, and upon the house-tops, as the leaves of the large elms flittered and danced in the soft evening breeze.

Suddenly a strain of delicious music broke the stillness. It aroused Auburn from his revery; he paused, and found himself near a small cottage, standing at some little distance from the street, the peculiar beauty of which at once attracted him. An avenue of horse-chestnuts and other ornamental trees led up to the entrance, while for some distance the road and enclosures were lined with the tall, silvery poplar. Clusters of beautiful flowers nodded their fragrant heads in the moonlight, while the soothing murmur of a brook winding through a grove of willows, shadowing one end of the cottage, fell pleasantly upon the ear.

Still the music floated around him—now pensive, now gay. Well known airs brought back the memory of other scenes; one voice, too, was strangely familiar—he could almost fancy he was listening, as of old, to the sweet notes of his cousin, Kate Kennedy.

The music ceased, yet still Auburn lingered. Two ladies, accompanied by a gentleman, now appear in the piazza which encircles the cottage. Arm in arm they saunter down the walk, talking and laughing gayly. When near the gate, they pause for a moment; an affectionate good-night is interchanged—one lady returns slowly to the house, while the other two persons continuing their walk are in a moment close to Auburn.

“Harry!”

“Kate!” were simultaneous exclamations, and the next instant the cousins affectionately embraced.

“My husband, Harry,” said Kate, disengaging herself; and to add to the surprise of our hero, his friend Evans claimed that happy privilege—and a warm, cordial greeting was exchanged.

“How singular we should have thus met! I must have had some prescience there was pleasure in store for me!” exclaimed Auburn. “This half hour, dear Kate, have I been listening to the songs you used to sing me, with a strange conviction that it was your voice I heard.”

“But you surely must have known of my intended marriage, Harry?” said Kate. “And that reminds me that you never even answered my letter inviting you to the ceremony; and here is George, too, who also wrote, requesting you to act upon the interesting occasion conjointly with my dear friend—but I forget—you do not like to hear about her—the more your loss. Say, why did you not answer?”

“Simply because I never received your letter. The fact is, I have been a rover since I left the city—to no place ‘constant ever.’ How long have you been here?” continued Auburn—“I trust I have not arrived just as you are about leaving?”

“Oh, no, we have been here but a few days, on a visit to George’s parents. That same annoying friend of mine also dwells here, and possibly we may remain to attend her wedding—but what brought you here?”

“Partly pleasure—partly the hope of profit. You both know my ardent desire to visit Italy, and the small means I possess to carry my wishes into effect. Apart from my own desire to improve the superior facilities which the old world affords, you are aware that in this country it is rarely an artist arrives to eminence, or even a reputation above the medium, unless he has first sunned himself beneath the vine-clad hills of Italy—a foreign stamp is needed ere he can pass current with the multitude. To Italy, then, must I go, ere I can realize my ambitious hopes. By leading a sort of strolling life, for a season, roaming from village to village, in the exercise of my profession, I hope to raise a sufficient sum for the undertaking.”

“I have no doubt of your success,” said Evans. “Indeed in this place there are several wealthy families who would doubtless be glad of an opportunity to transmit themselves to posterity through your fadeless tints.”

“I should not wonder, George,” said Kate, “if Emma—”

“Emma!” exclaimed Auburn.

“Yes, Emma—why, what is the matter with you—one would think I had uttered some charm. I was going to say perhaps Emma might sit for her portrait—her lover would like it, I dare say.”

At the word lover, the heart of Auburn, just now in his mouth, sunk like lead—and yet he knew not why.

“Do you think,” added Kate, “you could portray

but excuse me again—I always forget myself when speaking of Emma Willis.”

“Emma Willis!” cried Auburn. “Kate, who are you talking of—good heavens, you don’t say that—”

“Say what!” interrupted Kate. “What ails the man? All I said was, that, as I have told you a thousand times, Emma Willis is a charming girl; and I hope to attend her wedding ere I leave the village—but here we are at home—good-night, we shall see you to-morrow”—and breaking from Auburn, who vainly endeavored to detain her, the mischievous girl ran into the house, followed by Evans, who also seemed in an unaccountable hurry to get away from his friend—and such a laugh as came wafted to poor Harry’s ears and was too much for any Christian to bear.

——