BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND.

"I don't believe it," said my cousin Ned, who was passing his college vacation at our house, and there was a world of unwritten scepticism in the air with which he dashed down the paper over whose damp columns his eyes had been travelling for the previous half hour.

"You see, Cousin Nelly," continued Ned, getting up and pacing the long old-fashioned parlor with quick, nervous strides, "it's all sheer nonsense to talk about these doors in every human heart. It sounds very pretty and pathetic in a story, I'll admit; but so do a great many other things which reason and actual experience entirely repudiate. There are hearts—alas! that their name should be legion—where 'far away up' there is no door to be opened, and 'far away down' are no deeps to be fathomed. Now don't, Cousin Nelly, level another such rebuking glance at me from those brown eyes, for I have just thought of a case illustrative of my theory. Don't you remember Miss Stebbins, the old maid, who lived at the foot of the hill, and how I picked a rose for you one morning which had climbed over her fence into the road, and so, of course, became 'public property?' Faugh! I shall never forget the tones of the virago's voice, or the scowl on her forehead as she sallied out of the front door and shook her hand at me. A woman who could refuse a half withered flower to a little child, I wonder that roses could blossom on her soil! At the 'smiting of the rod,' no waters could flow out of such a granite heart. In the moral desert of such a character, no fertilizing stream can make its way."

I did not answer Cousin Ned's earnest, eloquent tones, for just then there was the low rap of visitors at the parlor door; but I have always thought there was a good angel in the room while he was speaking, and that it flew straight to Miss Stebbins, and looking down, down, very far down in her heart, he saw a fountain there, rank weeds grew all around it, the seal of years was on its lip, and the dust of time deep on the seal; but the angel smiled, as it floated upward and murmured, "I shall return and remove the seal, and the waters will flow."

Stern and grim sat Miss Stebbins at her work, one summer afternoon. The golden sunshine slept and danced in its play-place in the corner, and broke into a broad laugh along the ceiling, and a single beam, bolder than the rest, crept to the hem of Miss Stebbins's gown, and looked up with a timid, loving smile in her face, such as no human being ever wore when looking there.

Poor Miss Stebbins! those stern, harsh features only daguerreotyped too faithfully the desolate, arid heart beneath them; and that heart, with its dry fountain, was a true type of her life, with the one flower of human affection which had blossomed many years before along its bleak, barren highway.

She never seemed to love anybody, unless it was her brother William, who was a favorite with everybody; but he went to sea, and had never been heard of since. Sally had always been a stray sheep among the family; but dark hours, and at last death, came upon all the rest, and so the homestead fell into her hands. Such was the brief verbal history of Miss Stebbins's life, which I received from Aunt Mary, who closed it there, in rigid adherence to her favorite maxim, never to speak evil of her neighbors.

But, that summer afternoon, there came the patter of children's feet along the gravel-walk which led to Miss Stebbins's front door; and, at the same moment, the angel with golden-edged wings came down from its blue-sky home into Miss Stebbins's parlor.

She raised her head and saw them, two weary-looking little children, with golden hair and blue eyes, standing hand in hand under the little portico, and then that old termagant scowl darkened her forehead, and she asked, with a sharp, disagreeable note in her voice, like the raw breath in the north-east wind—

"Wa-all! I should like to know what you want standing there?"

"Please, ma'am," said the boy, in a timid, entreating voice, which ought to have found its way straight into any heart, "little sister and I feel very tired, for we have walked a long way. Will you let us sit down on the step and rest a little while?"

"No; I can't have children loafing round on my premises," said Miss Stebbins, with the same vinegar sharpness of tone which had characterized her preceding reply. Moreover, the sight of any of the miniature specimens of her race seemed always fated to arouse her belligerent propensities. "So just take yourselves off; and the quicker, the better 'twill be for you."

"Don't stay any longer, Willy. I am afraid," whispered the little girl, with a tremor rippling through her voice, as she pulled significantly at her brother's coat sleeve.

"Willy! Willy! That was your brother's name; don't you remember?" the angel bent down and whispered very softly in the harsh woman's ear; and all the time his hand was gliding down, down in her heart, searching for that hidden fountain. "You must have been just about that little girl's age when you and he used to go trudging down into the meadows together to find sweet flagroot. And you used to keep tight hold of his hand, just as she does. Oh, how tired you used to get! Don't you remember that old brown house, where nobody lived but starved rats and a swarm of wasps, who made their nest there in the summer-time? And you used to sit down on the old step, which the worms had eaten in so many places, and rest there. How he loved you! and how careful he was always to give you the best seat! and, then, he never spoke one cross word to you, if everybody else did. Now, if you should let those children sit down and rest, just as you and Willy did on the old brown step, you could keep a sharp eye on them, to see they didn't get into any mischief."

The angel must have said all this in a very little time, for the children had only reached the gravel-walk again, when Miss Stebbins called out to them; and, this time, that spiteful little note in her voice was not quite so prominent—

"Here, you may sit right down on that corner a little while; but, mind you, don't stir; for, if you do, you'll have to budge."

"Little sister," said the boy, in a low tone, after they were seated, "lay your head here, and try to go to sleep."

The little girl laid her head, with its shower of golden bright curls, on her brother's breast; but, the next moment, she raised it, saying—

"I can't sleep, brother, I'm so thirsty."

"Don't you remember that day you and Willy went into the woods after blackberries, and how you lost your way groping in the twilight of the forest?" again whispered the angel, with his hand feeling all the time for the fountain. "You found an old lightning-blasted tree, and you sat down on it, and he put his arm round you just so, and said, 'Try and go to sleep, little sister.' But you couldn't, you were so thirsty; for you had walked full three miles. Who knows but what those children have, too?"

There was a little pause after the angel had said this, and then Miss Stebbins rose up and went into her pantry, where the shelves were all of immaculate whiteness, and she could see her face in the brightly scoured tin. She brought out a white pitcher, and, going into the garden, filled it at the spring. Returning, she poured some of the cool contents into a cup which stood on the table, and carried it to the children; and she really held it to the little girl's lips all the time she was drinking.

Farther and farther down in the heart of the woman crept the hand of the angel; nearer and nearer to the fountain it drew.

Miss Stebbins went back to her sewing, but, somehow, her fingers did not fly as nimbly as usual. The memories of bygone years were rising out of their mouldy sepulchres; but all freshly they came before her, with none of the grave's rust and dampness upon them.

"That little boy's eyes, when he thanked you for the water, looked just as Willy's used to," once more whispered the angel, bending down close to Miss Stebbins's ear. "And his hair looks like Willy's, too, as he sits there with that sunbeam brightening its gold, and his arm thrown so lovingly around his sister's waist. There! did you see how wistfully he looked up at the grapes, whose purple side are turned towards him as they hang over the portico? How Willy used to love grapes! And how sweet your bowls of bread and milk used to taste, after one of your rambles into the woods! If those children have walked as far as you did—and don't you see the little boy's coat and the little girl's faded dress are all covered with dust?—they must be very hungry, as well as tired and thirsty. Don't you remember that apple-pie you baked this morning? I never saw a pie done to a finer brown in my life. How sweet it would taste to those little tired things, if they could only eat a piece here in the parlor, where the flies and the sun wouldn't keep tormenting them all the time!"

A moment after, Miss Stebbins had stolen with noiseless step to her pantry, and, cutting out two generous slices from her apple-pie, she placed them in saucers, returned to the front door, and said to the children—

"You may come in here, and sit down on the stools by the fire-place and eat some pie; but you must mind and not drop any crumbs on the floor."

It was very strange, but that old harsh tone had almost left her voice. The large, tempting slices were placed in the little hands eagerly lifted up to receive them; and, at that moment, out from the lip of the fountain, out from the dust which lay heavy upon its seal, there came a single drop, and it fell down upon Miss Stebbins's heart. It was the first which had fallen there for years. Ah, the angel had found the fountain then!

The softened woman went back to her seat, and the angel did not bend down and whisper in her ear again; but all the time his hand was busy, very busy at its work.

"Where is your home, children?" inquired Miss Stebbins, after she had watched for a while, with a new, pleasant enjoyment, the children, as they dispatched with hungry avidity their pie.

"Mary and I haven't any home now. We had one once before papa died, a great way over the sea," answered the boy.

"And where are you going now? and what brought you and your little sister over the sea?" still farther queried the now interested woman.

"Why, you see, ma'am, just before papa died, he called old Tony to him—now, Tony was black, and always lived with us—'Tony,' said he, 'I am going to die, and you know I have lost everything, and the children will be all alone in the world. But, Tony, I had a sister once that I loved, and she loved me; and, though I haven't seen her for a great many years, still I know she loves me, if she's living, just as well as she did when she and I used to go hand in hand through the apple-orchard to school; and, Tony, when I'm dead and buried, I want you to sell the furniture, and take the money it brings you and carry the children back to New England. You'll find her name and the place she used to live in a paper—which anybody'll read for you—in the drawer there. And, Tony, when you find her, just take Willy and Mary to her, and tell her I was their father, and that I sent them to her on my death-bed, and asked her to be a mother to them for my sake. It'll be enough, Tony, to tell her that.' And Tony cried real loud, and he said, 'Massa, if I forget one word of what you've said, may God forget me.'

"Well, papa died, and, after he was buried, Tony brought little sister and me over the waters. But, before we got here, Tony was taken sick with the fever, and he died a little while after the ship reached the land and they had carried him on shore. But, just before he died, he called me to him and put a piece of paper in my hand. 'Don't lose it, Willy,' he said, 'for poor Tony's going, and you'll have to find the way to your aunt's all alone. The money's all spent, too, and they say it's a good hundred miles to the place where she lived. But keep up a good heart, and ask the folks the way, and for something to eat when you're hungry; and don't walk too many miles a day, 'cause little sister ain't strong. Perhaps somebody'll help you on with a ride, or let you sleep in their house nights. Now don't forget, Willy; and shake hands the last time with poor Tony.'

"After that, we stayed at the inn till the next day, when they buried Tony; and, when they asked us what we were going to do, we told them we were going to our aunt's, for papa had sent us to her, and then they let us go. When we asked folks the way they told us, though they always stared, and sometimes shook their heads. We got two rides, and always a good place to sleep. They said our aunt lived round here; but, we got so tired walking, we had to stop."

"And what was your father's name?" asked Miss Stebbins, and, somehow, there was a choking in her throat, and the hand of the angel was placed on the fountain as she spoke.

"William Stebbins; and our aunt's name was Sally Stebbins. Please, ma'am, do you know her?"

Off, at that moment, came the seal, and out leaped a fresh, blessed tide of human affection, and fell down upon the barren heart-soil that grew fertile in a moment.

"William! my brother William!" cried Miss Stebbins, as she sprang towards the children with outstretched arms and tears raining fast down her cheeks. "Oh, for your sake, I will be a mother to them!"

A year had passed away; college vacation had come again, and once more Cousin Ned was at our house. In the summer gloaming we went to walk, and our way lay past Miss Stebbins's cottage. As we drew near the wicket, the sound of merry child-laughter rippled gleefully to our ears, and a moment after, from behind that very rose-tree so disagreeably associated with its owner in Cousin Ned's mind, bounded two golden-haired children.

"Come, Willy! Mary! you have made wreaths of my roses until they are wellnigh gone. You must gather violets after this."

"Mirabile dictu!" ejaculated Cousin Ned. "Is that the woman who gave me such a blessing a long time ago for plucking a half withered rose from that very tree?"

"The very same, Cousin Ned," I answered; and then I told him of the change which had come over the harsh woman, of her love, her gentleness, and patience for the orphan children of her brother; and that, after all, there was a fountain very far down in her heart, as there surely was in everybody's, if we could only find it.

"Well, Cousin Nelly," said Ned, "I'll agree to become a convert to your theory without further demurring, if you'll promise to tell me where to find a hidden fountain that lies very far down in a dear little somebody's heart, and whose precious waters are gushing only for me."

There was a glance, half arch, half loving, from those dark, handsome eyes, which made me think Cousin Ned knew he would not have to go very far to find it.