There are a few days in our autumnal season—very few and rare!—when we draw the curtain against the glare of the sun at breakfast, and yet in the evening are glad to gather around the cheerful glow of the fire. These are days of varied skies, with fleecy clouds lying low beneath a broad expanse of blue, with massive shadows on the mountains, and here and there over the landscape tips of sunlight that make the meanest objects pictures; and, with all these, a breezy wind that scatters the yellow leaves and shakes the tree-tops, while it curls the current of the bright river into mimic waves. The sportsman will tell you that on such days the birds are somewhat wild, and the angler will vow that no fish will rise to the fly, nor is it a scent-lying day for the harriers; and yet, with all this, there is a spring and elasticity in the air that impart themselves to the temperament, so that the active grow energetic, and even the indolent feel no touch of lassitude.

It was on the morning of such a day that Barrington, with his sister and granddaughter, drew nigh the Home. Conyers had parted with them at Dublin, where his regiment was now stationed, but was to follow in a day or two. All the descriptions—descriptions which had taken the shape of warnings—which they had given Josephine of the cottage could not prevent her asking at each turn of the road if that large house yonder, if that sombre tower over the trees, if that massive gate-lodge were not theirs. “I know this is it, grandpapa,” said she, clapping her hands with delight as they came opposite a low wall within which lay the spacious lawn of Cobham Park, a portion of the house itself being just visible through the trees; “don't tell me, aunt,” cried she, “but let me guess it.”

“It is the seat of Sir Charles Cobham, child, one of the richest baronets in the kingdom.”

“There it is at last,—there it is!” cried she, straining oat of the carriage to see the handsome portico of a very large building, to which a straight avenue of oaks led up from the high-road. “My heart tells me, aunt, that this is ours!”

“It was once on a time, Fifiue,” said the old man, with a quivering voice, and a glassy film over his eyes; “it was once, but it is so no longer.”

“Barrington Hall has long ceased to belong to us,” said Miss Dinah; “and after all the pains I have taken in description, I cannot see how you could possibly confound it with our little cottage.”

The young girl sat back without a word, and, whether from disappointment or the rebuke, looked forth no more.

“We are drawing very near now, Fifine,” said the old man, after a long silence, which lasted fully two miles of the way. “Where you see the tall larches yonder—not there—lower down, at the bend of the stream; those are the trees. I declare, Dinah, I fancy they have grown since we saw them last.”

“I have no doubt you do, Peter; not that you will find the cottage far more commodious and comfortable than you remembered it.”

“Ah, they've repaired that stile, I see,” cried he; “and very well they've done it, without cutting away the ivy. Here we are, darling; here we are!” and he grasped the young girl's hand in one of his, while he drew the other across his eyes.

“They 're not very attentive, I must say, brother Peter, or they would not leave us standing, with our own gate locked against us.”

“I see Darby running as fast as he can. Here he comes!”

“Oh, by the powers, ye're welcome home, your honor's reverence, and the mistresses!” cried Darby, as he fumbled at the lock, and then failing in all his efforts,—not very wonderful, seeing that he had taken a wrong key,—he seized a huge stone, and, smashing the padlock at a blow, threw wide the gate to admit them.

“You are initiated at once into our Irish ways, Fifine,” said Miss Barrington. “All that you will see here is in the same style. Let that be repaired this evening, sir, and at your own cost,” whispered she to Darby, into whose hand at the same moment Peter was pressing a crown piece.

“'T is the light of my eyes to see your honors home again! 'Tis like rain to the new potatoes what I feel in my heart, and looking so fresh and well too! And the young lady, she isn't—”

From what dread anticipation Darby's sudden halt saved him the expression is not for me to say, but that Peter Barrington guessed it is probable, for he lay back in the carriage and shook with laughter.

“Drive on, sir,” said Miss Dinah to the postilion, “and pull up at the stone cross.”

“You can drive to the door now, ma'am,” said Darby, “the whole way; Miss Polly had the road made while you were away.”

“What a clever girl! Who could have thought it?” said Barrington.

“I opine that we might have been consulted as to the change. On a matter as important as this, Peter, I think our voices might have been asked.”

“And how well she has done it too!” muttered he, half aloud; “never touched one of those copper beeches, and given us a peep of the bright river through the meadows.”

As the carriage rolled briskly along, Darby, who trotted alongside, kept up a current narrative of the changes effected during their absence.

“The ould pigeon-house is tuck down, and an iligant new one put up in the island; and the calves' paddock is thrown into the flower-garden, and there's a beautiful flight of steps down to the river, paved with white stones,—sorrow one is n't white as snow.”

“It is a mercy we had not a sign over the door, brother Peter,” whispered Miss Dinah, “or this young lady's zeal would have had it emblazoned like a shield in heraldry.”

“Oh, how lovely, how beautiful, how exquisite!” cried Josephine, as they came suddenly round the angle of a copse and directly in front of the cottage.

Nor was the praise exaggerated. It was all that she had said. Over a light trellis-work, carried along under the thatch, the roses and jessamine blended with the clematis and the passion-flower, forming a deep eave of flowers, drooping in heavy festoons across the spaces between the windows, and meeting the geraniums which grew below. Through the open sashes the rooms might be seen, looking more like beautifnl bowers than the chambers of a dwelling-house. And over all, in sombre grandeur, bent the great ilex-trees, throwing their grand and tranquil shade over the cottage and the little grass-plot and even the river itself, as it swept smoothly by. There was in the stillness of that perfumed air, loaded with the sweet-brier and the rose, a something of calm and tranquillity; while in the isolation of the spot there was a sense of security that seemed to fill op the measure of the young girl's hopes, and made her exclaim with rapture, “Oh, this, indeed, is beautiful!”

“Yes, my darling Fifine!” said the old man, as he pressed her to his heart; “your home, your own home! I told you, my dear child, it was not a great castle, no fine chÂteau, like those on the Meuse and the Sambre, but a lowly cottage with a thatched roof and a rustic porch.”

“In all this ardor for decoration and smartness,” broke in Miss Dinah, “it would not surprise me to find that the peacock's tail had been picked out in fresh colors and varnished.”

“Faix! your honor is not far wrong,” interposed Darby, who had an Irish tendency to side with the majority. “She made us curry and wash ould Sheela, the ass, as if she was a race-horse.”

“I hope poor Wowsky escaped,” said Barrington, laughing.

“That's what he didn't! He has to be scrubbed with soap and water every morning, and his hair divided all the way down his back, like a Christian's, and his tail looks like a bunch of switch grass.”

“That 's the reason he has n't come out to meet me; the poor fellow is like his betters,—he's not quite sure that his altered condition improves him.”

“You have at least one satisfaction, brother Peter,” said Miss Dinah, sharply; “you find Darby just as dirty and uncared for as you left him.”

“By my conscience, there 's another of us is n't much changed since we met last,” muttered Darby, but in a voice only audible to himself.

“Oh, what a sweet cottage! What a pretty summer-house!” cried Josephine, as the carriage swept round the copse, and drew short up at the door.

“This summer-house is your home, Fifine,” said Miss Barrington, tartly.

“Home! home! Do you mean that we live here,—live here always, aunt?”

“Most distinctly I do,” said she, descending and addressing herself to other cares. “Where's Jane? Take these trunks round by the back door. Carry this box to the green-room,—to Miss Josephine's room,” said she, with a stronger stress on the words.

“Well, darling, it is a very humble, it is a very lowly,” said Barrington, “but let us see if we cannot make it a very happy home;” but as he turned to embrace her, she was gone.

“I told you so, brother Peter,—I told you so, more than once; but, of course, you have your usual answer, 'We must do the best we can!' which simply means, doing worse than we need do.”

Barrington was in no mood for a discussion; he was too happy to be once more at home to be ruffled by any provocation his sister could give him. Wherever he turned, some old familiar object met his eye and seemed to greet him, and he bustled in and out from his little study to the garden, and then to the stable, where he patted old Roger; and across to the cow-house, where Maggie knew him, and bent her great lazy eyes softly on him; and then down to the liver-side, where, in gilt letters, “Josephine” shone on the trim row-boat he had last seen half rotten on the bank; for Polly had been there too, and her thoughtful good-nature, forgetting nothing which might glad them on their coming.

Meanwhile, Josephine had reached her chamber, and, locking the door, sat down and leaned her head on the table. Though no tears fell from her eyes, her bosom heaved and fell heavily, and more than one deep sigh escaped her. Was it disappointment that had so overcome her? Had she fancied something grander and more pretentious than this lonely cottage? Was it that Aunt Dinah's welcome was wanting in affection? What revulsion could it be that so suddenly overwhelmed her? Who can tell these things, who can explain how it is that, without any definite picture of an unexpected joy, imagination will so work upon us that reality will bring nothing but a blank? It is not that the object is less attractive than is hoped for, it is simply that a dark shadow has passed over our own hearts; the sense of enjoyment has been dulled, and we are sad without a reason. If we underrate sorrows of our youth,—and this is essentially one of them,—it is because our mature age leaves us nothing of that temperament on which such afflictions preyed.

Josephine, without knowing why, without even a reason, wished herself back in the convent. There, if there was a life of sombre monotony and quietude, there was at least companionship; she had associates of her own age. They had pursuits in common, shared the same hopes and wishes and fears; but here—but here—Just as her thoughts had carried her so far, a tap—a very gentle tap—came to the door. Josephine heard it, but made no answer. It was repeated a little louder, and then a low pleasing voice she had never heard before said, “May I come in?”

“No,” said Josephine,—“yes—that is—who are you?”

“Polly Dill,” was the answer; and Josephine arose and unlocked the door.

“Miss Barrington told me I might take this liberty,” said Polly, with a faint smile. “She said, 'Go and make acquaintance for yourself; I never play master of the ceremonies.'”

“And you are Polly,—the Polly Dill I have heard so much of?” said Josephine, regarding her steadily and fixedly.

“How stranded your friends must have been for a topic when they talked of me!” said Polly, laughing.

“It is quite true you have beautiful teeth,—I never saw such beautiful teeth,” said Josephine to herself, while she still gazed earnestly at her.

“And you,” said Polly, “are so like what I had pictured you,—what I hoped you would be. I find it hard to believe I see you for the first time.”

“So, then, you did not think the Rajah's daughter should be a Moor?” said Josephine, half haughtily. “It is very sad to see what disappointments I had caused.” Neither the saucy toss of the head, nor the tone that accompanied these words, were lost upon Polly, who began to feel at once that she understood the speaker.

“And your brother,” continued Josephine, “is the famous Tom Dill I have heard such stories about?”

“Poor Tom! he is anything rather than famous.”

“Well, he is remarkable; he is odd, original, or whatever you would call it. Fred told me he never met any one like him.”

“Tom might say as much of Mr. Conyers, for, in truth, no one ever showed him such kindness.”

“Fred told me nothing of that; but perhaps,” added she, with a flashing eye, “you were more in his confidence than I was.”

“I knew very little of Mr. Conyers; I believe I could count on the fingers of one hand every time I met him.”

“How strange that you should have made so deep an impression, Miss Dill!”

“I am flattered to hear it, but more surprised than flattered.”

“But I don't wonder at it in the least,” said Josephine, boldly. “You are very handsome, you are very graceful, and then—” She hesitated and grew confused, and stammered, and at last said, “and then there is that about you which seems to say, 'I have only to wish, and I can do it.'”

“I have no such gift, I assure you,” said Polly, with a half-sad smile.

“Oh, I know you are very clever; I have heard how accomplished you were, how beautifully you rode, how charmingly you sang. I wish he had not told me of it all—for if—for if—”

“If what? Say on!”

“If you were not so superior to me, I feel that I could love you;” and then with a bound she threw her arms around Polly's neck, and clasped her affectionately to her bosom.

Sympathy, like a fashionable physician, is wonderfully successful where there is little the matter. In the great ills of life, when the real afflictions come down to crush, to wound, or to stun us, we are comparatively removed from even the kindest of our comforters. Great sorrows are very selfish things. In the lighter maladies, however, in the smaller casualties of fortune, sympathy is a great remedy, and we are certain to find that, however various our temperaments, it has a sort of specific for each. Now Josephine Barrington had not any great cares upon her heart; if the balance were to be struck between them, Polly Dill could have numbered ten, ay, twenty, for her one, but she thought hers was a case for much commiseration, and she liked commiseration, for there are moral hypochondrias as well as physical ones. And so she told Polly how she had neither father nor mother, nor any other belongings than “dear old grandpapa and austere Aunt Dinah;” that she had been brought up in a convent, never knowing one of the pleasures of youth, or her mind being permitted to stray beyond the dreary routine of prayer and penance. Of music she knew nothing but the solemn chants of the organ, and even flowers were to her eyes but the festal decorations of the high altar; and, lastly, she vaguely balanced between going back to the dismal existence of the cloister, or entering upon the troubled sea of life, so full of perils to one unpractised and unskilled as she was. Now Polly was a very pretty comforter through these afflictions; her own home experiences were not all rose-colored, but the physician who whispers honeyed consolations to the patient has often the painful consciousness of a deeper malady within than that for which he ministers. Polly knew something of a life of struggle and small fortune, with its daily incident of debt and dun. She knew what it was to see money mix itself with every phase of existence, throwing its damper over joy, arresting the hand of benevolence, even denying to the sick-bed the little comforts that help to cheat misery. She knew how penury can eat its canker into the heart till all things take the color of thrift, and life becomes at last the terrible struggle of a swimmer storm-tossed and weary; and yet, with all this experience in her heart, she could whisper cheerful counsels to Josephine, and tell her that the world had a great many pleasant paths through it, though one was occasionally footsore before reaching them; and in this way they talked till they grew very fond of each other, and Josephine was ready to confess that the sorrow nearest to her heart was parting with her. “But must you go, dearest Polly,—must you really go?”

“I must, indeed,” said she, laughing; “for if I did not, two little sisters of mine would go supperless to bed, not to speak of a small boy who is waiting for me with a Latin grammar before him; and the cook must get her orders for to-morrow; and papa must have his tea; and this short, stumpy little key that you see here unlocks the oat-bin, without which an honest old pony would share in the family fast: so that, all things considered, my absence would be far from advisable.”

“And when shall we meet again, Polly?”

“Not to-morrow, dear; for to-morrow is our fair at Inistioge, and I have yarn to buy, and some lambs to sell.”

“And could you sell lambs, Polly?” said Josephine, with an expression of blank disappointment in her face.

Polly smiled, but not without a certain sadness, as she said, “There are some sentimentalities which, to one in my condition, would just be as unsuitable as Brussels lace or diamonds. They are born of luxury and indolence, and pertain to those whose existence is assured to them; and my own opinion is, they are a poor privilege. At all events,” added she, rapidly, “they are not for me, and I do not wish for them.”

“The day after to-morrow, then, you will come here,—promise me that.”

“It will be late, then, towards evening, for I have made an engagement to put a young horse in harness,—a three-year-old, and a sprightly one, they tell me,—so that I may look on the morning as filled. I see, my dear child, how shocked you are with all these unladylike cares and duties; but poor Tom and I used to weld our lives together, and while I took my share of boat-building one day, he helped me in the dairy the day after; but now that he is gone, our double functions devolve upon me.”

“How happy you must be!”

“I think I am; at least, I have no time to spare for unhappiness.”

“If I could but change with you, Polly!”

“Change what, my dear child?”

“Condition, fortune, belongings,—everything.”

“Take my word for it, you are just as well as you are; but I suppose it's very natural for one to fancy he could carry another's burden easier than his own, for it was only a few moments back I thought how I should like to be you.”

“To be me,—to be me!”

“Of course I was wrong, dearest. It was only a passing, fleeting thought, and I now see how absurd I was to wish to be very beautiful, dearly loved, and affectionately cared for, with a beautiful home to live in, and every hour free to be happy. Oh, what a sigh, dearest, what a sigh! but I assure you I have my calamities too; the mice have got at the seeds in my onion-bed, and I don't expect to see one come up.”

If Josephine's first impulse was to feel angry, her next was to laugh out, which she did heartily; and passing her arm fondly round Polly's waist, she said, “I 'll get used to your raillery, Polly, and not feel sore at it; but remember, too, it's a spirit I never knew before.”

“How good and generous, then, to bear it so well!” said Polly, affectionately; “your friend Mr. Conyers did not show the same patience.”

“You tried him, then?” said Josephine, with a half-eager glance.

“Of course; I talked to him as I do to every one. But there goes your dinner-bell.” Checking herself on a reflection over the pretension of this summons of three people to a family meal in a cottage, Polly tied on her bonnet and said “Good-bye.”