The Merchant at Home.

It was late when Della awoke, and Minny lay with her cheek on her hand, just fallen into her first sleep.

"Minny! Minny!"

"Bernard!" murmured the girl, in her half-disturbed sleep.

"Minny, I say!"

"Yes, Miss."

"Bring me my watch, Min, and show me the hour. Didn't I hear you say 'Bernard,' just now, in your sleep? You haven't any Bernard; that's for me to say."

"No, Miss, I haven't any Bernard."

"Well, then, you shouldn't talk so in your sleep."

"True enough."

"Well, no matter, Minny; it wasn't my Bernard you mean't, I am quite sure. May be you were talking about those priests on that great snowy mountain, somewhere in the world, which you made me so sleepy reading about the other evening?"

"The Monks of St. Bernard, Miss."

"Yes; how droll!"

"Will you get up, Miss Della?"

"Yes; how late, Min? I forgot to look, after all."

"A quarter past nine."

"Papa must have gone."

"He never goes down street before seeing you."

"Dear papa! Minny, wheel my little chair in front of the dressing-glass. I'll be with you in a second."

"It is ready, Miss."

"There, Min, I left my note under my pillow! Bring it, and let me read it again while you dress my hair."

Minny obeyed.

"Minny, I wonder if it's as delightful to be a wife as it is to have a lover?"

"It seems strange to hear you talking about either, Miss."

"Why, Minny, I am old enough, I am sure."

"Yes, but you seem so very young; no one thinks about your being married yet."

"Mother does."

"Not to this man, Miss Della. For worlds I wouldn't dictate; but, Miss, if all this secresy and deceit ends as it seems it will, isn't it going to break your mother's heart?"

"I expect so, Minny; every mother's heart is broken when her daughter gets married; but it heals up always, and is as good as ever."

Oh! Della, Della!

"But, Miss, when she finds how deceitful you have been, after all her doting kindness, and love, and—"

"Don't be tiresome, Minny. Deceitful! oh, that's awful—you know I never was deceitful."

"No, no! There, don't cry! Call it secresy or anything; but when it is discovered, I say, think what a house of misery this will be."

"Well, Minny, if there's misery it won't be my fault, I'm sure. You know very well that papa wouldn't have me notice Bernard, much more than I would Black Voltaire. If he would, don't you suppose I would be very glad to show him all my letters, and to tell him how we love each other, and all that? But now, if I did, he'd rave, and go into a furious passion, shut me up, maybe, and send Bernard to Europe, or some other horrid place. Oh, I should be frightened to death."

"That's the very thing, Miss; he looks so high for you."

"Bernard is just as high as papa was when he first came here,—but there's another thing; don't you know I'm not allowed to see any one an instant alone, that wears pantaloons? The very instant that a gentleman calls, and says he'd like to see Miss Della, doesn't papa or mamma, or that provoking old governess, march straight into the parlor, and receive them before me? And isn't it very provoking? Why, even little Charley Devans, a boy three years younger than I, called to tell me a little innocent secret his sister had sent by him, and wasn't there mamma, as straight as a marshal, in one chair, and my governess, stiff as my new parasol-top, in the other, and he couldn't say a word? But you know he met me in the street that day you walked out with me, and told me all about it."

"Yes, Miss, but this is all for your good."

"No, Minny, it is all for my hurt. Though, maybe, they don't know it. Now, don't you see that if young Mr. Devans could have seen me alone but one little minute that day, he wouldn't have planned a clandestine meeting, and so make me do a very naughty thing, by walking alone with him, after having been charged never to walk alone with any gentleman?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Well, Minny, I don't often reflect, you know—but the other day, after I had received a note from Bernard, I sat down and reflected a long time. And it was on this subject. And I came to the conclusion, that all this watching—just raise that bandeau a trifle higher—and spying, for it is nothing else, on the part of mammas and governesses, has a very bad tendency, indeed. Don't you see that it throws a kind of mystery about the men, and, right away, young girls—and it's natural for young girls to be curious—want to find out what there is so very awful about them, and go to work to do it?"

Minny looked up surprised; she had never heard her mistress talk so fast and so long before.

"And then, Minny, see how many very young girls get married to men almost old enough to be their grandfathers, here. Can't you see the reason? It's so that they can be their own mistresses, and say and do what they like. I've had them tell me so after marriage; and then they're almost always sure to begin to flirt a little, and enjoy themselves in this happy way they ought to have been left to do when single; and then their old curmudgeons of husbands get jealous, and angry, and then there are dreadful times! Oh, dear! I think it is a terrible state of society!

"Now, Minny, I'll tell you just how I feel when a gentleman calls here. There's mamma, and maybe the governess, in the parlor (now I would rather have them there than not, if I didn't know just what they were there for;) well, the governess fixes her eyes on me when I go in, and seems to say, 'Don't forget your Grecian bend;' and mamma looks down at my feet, and seems to say, 'Be sure and turn out your toes'—and the consequence is, I forget both, and feel red all over, and know that I'm acting like a very silly little fool. I sit down, and both pairs of those eyes are on me; and both pairs of those ears are wide open, and I'm as ungraceful as a giraffe; when I know, if left to act naturally, and wasn't watched all the time, I could appear very well. Then a young man here, no matter of how high family he is, or how good or how worthy, if he happens to be ever so poor, and feels as if he'd like to take some young lady to a play or concert, or anything, he's not only got to take her, but two or three duennas to keep himself and her straight; and it's such a tax on him, that if he does it often he's always poor; and then mothers turn up their noses at him, and say he's not eligible, and all that.

"Who could have been more strict, as it is called, with any daughter than Madame Gerot with Louise? Yet see how admirably she turned out! Mon Dieu! it was frightful! Then there's a dozen other cases I could cite almost like her. I tell you, Minny, young people can't learn each other's characters at all, unless they're alone by themselves a little time. But here, a man must pay his devoirs, and make his proposals, with a third person's eyes upon him all the time; and has almost to court the mother as much as the daughter, if not more. Oh! these things make courting very unpleasant, and marriage sometimes very unhappy, when both should be the happiest seasons of one's life. Ah, me! it's very hard to have mothers always act as if their daughters hadn't judgment enough to be trusted alone a minute."

"Do daughters prove themselves trustworthy always, Miss, when they are left alone?"

"If mothers would make daughters trustworthy, Minny, I tell you they must trust them. Society is not conducted in this manner in the North, yet I believe the young people there are better by far than they are here. But I don't care much about it now. I used to—but I shall be married some day to the man I want, and be happy in my own way.

"There, Minny, does that fold, just arranged, look well? Do I appear quite elegant and pretty now?"

"Quite, Miss."

"What a long lecture I've read you, Minny. I feel quite exhausted, I declare, and quite like going to bed again. Here's Bernard's letter—put it with the rest, and take precious, precious care of it."

Fanning herself languidly, Della moved slowly away towards the breakfast-room. A servant stood waiting to open the door for her, with an obsequious bow, and she stood in the presence of her parents.

"Dear dort!" cried her mother, (making as she thought an affectionate abbreviation of daughter,) "what is the matter that you look so flushed and excited this morning? Your cheeks are really vulgarly red; dear me, I hope they'll pale off a little before evening."

"Good morning, Della," said Mr. Delancey, formally, who even at home sat in his usual position, bolt upright in his chair; "good morning; I'm glad to see that you have acquired a graceful manner of entering a breakfast-room."

"If I keep on improving, papa, you will give me the promised winter in Havana I suppose?"

"I suppose so, my child. I wish to make you very happy."

There was a softness in Mr. Delancey's cold eyes, as he spoke, which one would no sooner have expected to see there, than they would thought to have seen a rock melt. Only his daughter could bring it there.

"Miss Della," said the governess, "your attitude is a trifle too stiff—a little more of the bend, if you please."

Miss Della tipped a little.

"Dort, darling," said Mrs. Delancey, "pray don't display such an appetite—it is really frightful to see you eat so much. A young lady like you should be very delicate at table."

"And pay long visits to the cupboard between meals, eh, mamma?"

Mr. Delancey looked anxiously to note the progress his daughter had made in the viands before her.

"Don't do anything outrÉ in public, Della, no matter what you are obliged to do in private."

"No, papa."

"I want to see you very perfect in all things,—in all things, Della—do you understand?"

"Yes, papa."

"Make it your aim to be everything a young lady can be. Remember you are all the child that's left me now. All my hopes are upon you—try never, never to disappoint me!"

Mr. Delancey rarely spoke so feelingly—it was a rare manner for him, and the effect of his words was very strange. Della's elegantly embroidered kerchief was clasped suddenly to her face, and she burst into a violent fit of weeping.

"Della, how un-self-possessed! you astonish me."

"You shouldn't have made that allusion to her brother," said Mrs. Delancey, sympathizingly.

"Dry your eyes immediately, Della; I am ready to go," said her father, sternly.

Della choked back her tears, and rising, approached her father, and gracefully put her lips to his forehead, and gave the usual morning kiss.

"No more scenes to-day, Della."

"No, papa."

The door closed, and he was gone.