A little more than two years had passed away. It was in "peach-time." There was a merry group of young people in Mr. Royden's orchard, one mild September afternoon.

There was Chester, proud, happy, overflowing with wit. He was just married, and had come home, to pass a few days, with his fair bride.

She was a perfect doll; beautiful to look upon, with her soft eyes, fair cheeks, ringlets and symmetrical form; but there was not much character in her face. Her love for Chester was of the romantic kind. Although they had been a week married, she could not relish a peach unless he gave it her with a smile, having taken out the stone and tasted it himself first.

Sarah was there, too,—now Mrs. Kerchey. Let not the reader be surprised. Having broken that gentleman's arm, she could not make up her mind to break his heart also, when he came to woo. He had qualities which she was bound to respect; and at length she saw that, casting all prejudice and false pride aside, she could bestow upon him a large portion of love. Yet she never would have married him, had it not been for her mother's persuasion.

Parents like to see their children well situated in life. Mrs. Royden could not rest until she heard Sarah addressed as Mrs. Kerchey. This amiable young couple had been married eighteen months; they were very comfortable, and quite happy; Mr. Kerchey had greatly improved in personal appearance; and the sweet little baby, that Lizzie seemed to carry forever in her arms, and devour with kisses, was their property.

Lizzie was a "great girl." But she was very ladylike in her manners. She gave promise of becoming a noble woman. Already she was beginning to have beaux, but she was sensible enough not to care much for them. She was an insatiable reader, and a superior scholar.

James, now a blushing, amiable young man, with a little down on his chin, had quite fallen in love with his new sister. How happy, he thought, Chester must be with his heiress, whom he had won in spite of the cruel professor!

Georgie was now a stout lad, big enough to climb trees and shake off the peaches, and polite enough to pick the handsomest ones for Mrs. Chester; and Willie was what his father called him, "quite a little man." He felt himself quite a big one, and tyrannized over the turkeys and chickens accordingly. He had a little sister, about three years old,—a sweet child to kiss, except that, on the afternoon we are describing, her face was stained from ear to ear, and from nose to chin, with peach-juice.

We must not forget Hepsy. She was there, sitting on the grass, and knitting a purse for Mrs. Chester. O, how her poor heart throbbed when she gazed upon that pretty face! How her eyes had rained tears of late, when they saw only the gloom of her own chamber! But she had conquered that wild passion which once devoured her heart, and banished selfishness from her breast. She loved the fair bride very tenderly, and felt that to see her and Chester happy would console her for all she had endured. Hepsy's health was good, for her, although she was never strong, and often the disease of her spine caused her hours of secret pain.

Chester was the life of the company,—brimful of good spirits and fun. Every word he spoke was treasured in Hepsy's heart. With a somewhat different feeling, yet with no less admiration, his fair Sophronia caught at the merest drops of nonsense that dripped from his lips, thinking them pearls. She was not very witty herself, and she naturally looked upon Chester as the most brilliant and talented man then existing in the known world.

"There's Deacon Dustan's carriage!" suddenly cried Georgie, from the top of the peach-tree, looking towards the road.

The boy had been lately reading stories of the whale-fishery, and he fancied himself a man at the masthead, on the lookout for blowers.

"We must go over and see the deacon's people to-morrow, Phronie," said Chester.

"O, yes!" exclaimed Phronie, clapping her little hands with childish glee, "anywhere you please."

"The carriage has stopped," observed Lizzie, listening.

Willie ran off towards the fence to see. His little sister, following him, fell headlong into the grass, and burst a great juicy peach on her bosom, at which she began to cry.

"O, never mind, Jenny!" cried Sarah, picking her up, and using her handkerchief to remove the effects of the disaster from the child's clear skin. "You look as though a slight application of water would do your face no harm, sis. What a monster you are, in peach time!"

At that moment a tall, awkward youth, with a good-natured grin on his brown features, came through the gate, at the corner of the shed, and shouted,

"Hillo!"

What a voice! It was rough as the bark of a hickory-tree.

"You can't guess who is come," said Sam,—for it was he,—with a broader grin than before.

"Anybody to see me?" asked Chester.

"Wal, you as much as anybody," replied Sam, throwing his head aside to spit.

"Who is it?" Sarah inquired.

"Guess!"

"How provoking you are, Sam Cone!" exclaimed Lizzie. "Why can't you tell? Georgie said it was Deacon Dustan's carriage that stopped."

"So 'twas; I opened the gate for the deacon to drive through; but somebody came with him—you can't guess who."

Sam spit again, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"O!" said Sophronia, with a look of disgust, turning away her face; "he chews tobacco!"

"What of it?" rejoined Sam, who overheard her.

And he rolled the weed in his cheek, with the air of one proud of the accomplishment.

"Do spit out the filthy stuff!" exclaimed Chester.

"It an't no worse than smoking," retorted Sam.

This was a home thrust. Chester, during his last year at school, had become addicted to cigars, which his silly little wife thought delightful in his lips.

"O, there's no comparison!" she cried, indignantly.

Sam was not convinced; but he could not be indifferent to the opinion of so pretty a creature; so, with a sheepish look, he flung the quid on the ground behind him.

"Well, if you can't guess who has come," said he, "I'll tell you. It's the old minister,—Father Brighthopes."

"Father Brighthopes!" echoed the children, in chorus.

"Yes," said Sam; "Deacon Dustan was over to town when he came, and brought him straight here."

There was a general rush for the house. Lizzie—for the first time voluntarily—abandoned the baby to Mr. Kerchey's arms, and ran to greet her old friend. Georgie, who had not forgotten the clergyman, came slipping down the tree, regardless of damage done his clothes.

"What else could have happened, to give us a more delightful surprise?" cried Chester. "Come, Phronie. Now you will see, and judge for yourself, the glorious old man you have heard me tell so much about."

Hepsy was not the last to start. But she stopped to take Jenny with her.

"Come, dear," said she, "you must have your face washed now. What are you doing?"

The child, seated upon the turf, was absorbed in the anatomy of a grasshopper. It was one of the oldest of its race,—a large, respectable fellow, over an inch long. In pursuing her investigations, however, Jenny had taken its head off; and it had thus fallen a victim to infant science.

"Why, Jenny!" exclaimed Hepsy, "you have killed the poor thing!"

"Are you sorry?" lisped the little girl, with beautiful simplicity. "You needn't be," she added, cheerily. "There's enough more of 'em."

It took Hepsy a good while to explain exactly why children should not indulge a passion for decapitating insects; and Jenny was sadly troubled when allusion was made to the gentle removal of her own fair head from her shoulders, in order that she might judge how grasshoppers felt under the circumstances.