CHAPTER VI.

"And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,

My springs of life were poisoned--'tis too late:

Yet am I changed; though still enough the same

In strength to bear what time cannot abate,

And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate."

BYRON.

AGAIN 'twas night; but this time deepening into morn. In a spacious

chamber, furnished with all the appliances of opulent luxury, sat a man,

upon whose massive brow forty winters had traced many a deep and rugged

line. He seemed one who had not been slighted by fortune, for the insignia

of several illustrious orders hung upon his breast. A small cabinet table,

upon which were strewed gorgeously bound books and written papers of

various kinds, was drawn up beside him. The materials for writing were

also there; but he heeded them not, but sat with his head leaning upon his

hands apparently in abstracted meditation.

He remained in this position for full an hour, not moving a single muscle,

and more like a dead than a living thing. Then he arose suddenly, and

paced the apartment with a vigorous and hasty step. His limbs were firm

and his form athletic; it was his _head_ only that looked old. This

also lasted some time, and then he sat down once more, and, unlocking a

concealed drawer, drew forth a letter and a miniature. Upon the letter

he gazed long and earnestly, his look assuming an expression of mingled

terror and dejection piteous to behold. Laying down the picture with

a sigh, he then opened the billet and began to read, his countenance

becoming each moment more careworn and haggard. And it was not strange it

should be so; for it is a mournful thing to look upon the letters that

once told of the throbbing affection of some friend or loved one, when

the friendship is dead or merged in a deeper feeling for another, or the

love is banished forever from its chosen temple. To recall the words that

dropped on the page; archangels proclaiming with trumpet notes that we

were the idol of one beating heart at least; to bring up again our old

smile, and find it gleams, and with no Promethean power, upon affection's

corse. Ah me, 'tis sad, indeed! The reader muttered to himself ever and

anon, but his words were disjointed and unintelligible. He sighed, too,

frequently and deeply, and even groaned aloud as he read the following

passage:--

"Oh, believe me, your highness, it is fate, and not my own will, that

makes me seem ungrateful! The gratitude your priceless favor has

engendered in my breast is so warm, so fervid, that _my life_ would be

cheerfully given in requital; but when you ask _my heart_, alas! I can

only say, I have it not to give. Years ago, ere I had seen your highness,

or dreamed of the possibility of our ever meeting, Love had in my heart

a Minerva birth, and, though the object of it lies in a bloody grave in

a stranger's land, it will live in my own weary soul while it remains

on earth, and accompany it when it flees to join him. You say, 'Perhaps

I have not yet been fortunate enough to win your love or attract your

regard but let me beseech you at least to receive and weigh the depth,

the purity, the strength of my devotion against that of other men ere you

decide.' Monseignor, you _compel_, even were _I not willing to accord_, my

'esteem;' my worthless 'regard,' and all the love my father and the dead

do not claim, you also have; but were I to consent to your request, and

become your wife, at his own altar should I send up a perjured vow to God."

Carefully, he placed both letter and picture in the drawer from whence he

had taken them; but, instead of locking it, drew forth another "billet."

It was much shorter, a mere note, in fact, but seemed to contain matter as

pregnant with agitation as its predecessor. He paused some time over the

following postscript:--

"You tell me that the grave, in closing over the object of my love,

severed the tie between him and me forever--that death pronounced a

divorce which gave me liberty to form another attachment. You know not

woman's love to say so. It is impossible, when once ignited, to quench it

entirely. It may be unseen, the ashes may be cold; but a spark certainly

slumbers beneath them, and will never, never die! Oh, your highness, let

me entreat you to select some worthier object than myself upon which to

lavish your affections! I can never be yours!"

The man read this to the end. When he had finished, there was a smile

of mockery upon his face; but a spasmodic shudder which convulsed his

frame evinced the pain which it was meant to hide. How we learn to cheat

_ourselves_ by playing the hypocrite to others! The letter fell from his

grasp to the floor. His head assumed its old position on his hand, and he

gazed on vacancy. He remained in this posture so long that the candles

one by one flickered and went out, not even perceiving, so great was his

abstraction, the glare they gave just before they expired. The large

gothic window immediately opposite to where he sat was open, and the air

grew cooler and cooler each moment. It seemed, however, as if there were

no stars in the sky--all was darkness. Suddenly, a terrific flash of

lightning illumined earth and heaven, and cast a strong ruddy glare upon

every object in the apartment. A tremendous peal of thunder followed, and

the man started to his feet and advanced to the window. The rain was now

coming down in large drops, and flash after flash of lightning, and peal

after peal of thunder followed each other with astounding rapidity. The

wind, which had lain motionless and dead previous to the beginning of the

storm, now at one moment went rushing by with extreme violence, and the

next sank into a low moan that was awful enough to blanch the cheek and

palsy the heart of the stoutest. It was like the wailing voice of a God

sorrowing over the sins of man, or the spirit of earth singing a dirge

over vanished time.

The tenant of the chamber stood with folded arms, regardless of the fierce

gusts that ever and anon dashed the heavy rain-drops in his face, and

the ghastly blue tint cast upon his countenance by the lightning made

him look unearthly enough to be the arbiter of the dreadful contest then

raging between the shrieking storm fiends. His eye grew brighter and more

glistening. There seemed a sympathy between the unchained elements in

their rage and his own proud spirit. His form dilated, and he seemed to

look with a strange delight upon the swaying trees bending beneath the

terrific blasts of wind, and to list to the crashing thunder with a fierce

joy. A magnificent oak, which had resisted every attempt of the tempest to

more than shake its smaller limbs, was suddenly torn up by the very roots,

and, with a rushing noise, fell to the ground. The very earth seemed to

groan as it fell.

"Thus would _I_ die," exclaimed the looker on, exultingly--"thus would

I die! Amid a world's agonizing throes, when the mountains seem to bend

their scathed tops, and the ocean roars its submission to the storm."

As he spoke, he advanced, heedless of the elements, through the casement,

and stood upon the extreme edge of the battlemented parapet. A shrill,

mocking laugh greeted his concluding words, and a voice, that seemed to

his excited imagination preternaturally hollow, exclaimed--

"And die thus you shall!"

For a moment he stood perfectly paralyzed; but a heavy hand was laid upon

his shoulder, and he turned to meet the glare of two eyes that shone as if

lit with fire from hell. The person from whom the glance proceeded held in

a threatening position a long, keen-looking dagger, and the blade gleamed

brightly in the electric light with which a sudden flash of lightning

illumined the scene. The man who had a moment before looked defiantly upon

the wrathy heavens shrank from the danger which now threatened him from

a human foe. It was, however, but for a moment. He saw in the implacable

countenance of the man who had so strangely come upon him, sufficient

evidence of some dark and evil purpose to make him look for mischief. He

suspected the existence of a danger that would tax his every energy. He

turned upon the intruder a look of inquiry, firm and proud, and somewhat

rebuking in its aspect. The next moment, however, recollecting that,

in the intervals between the flashes, all was invisible, he put the

question audibly, which before he had mutely expressed. A tremendous peal

of thunder drowned the words in its frightful reverberations, and the

lightning that followed showed him the arm of his foe raised to strike.

Even as the blade touched his breast he caught his adversary's wrist and

threw himself upon him. Powerful he found him beyond all expectations, and

his cheek turned ghastly pale, for he felt hope deserting him.

The struggle was terrible; a look of vengeful despair sat on the beaded

brow of one, and deep, dark, unmitigable hate gleamed in the strained

eyeballs of the other. The assailed man chafed like a maimed lion in the

hunter's toils, and his efforts bore that character of ruthless savageness

which is the consequence of hopeless fear--of rayless despair. The other,

in the proud consciousness of tried strength, dashed his dagger into

the bosom of the clouded chaos that formed the atmosphere in which they

fought, and, by the exertion of resistless bodily power, bore his victim

back towards the verge of the parapet. _Too_ pale to seem human, like the

animated statues of two contending gladiators, they rocked to and fro on

its extremity. A momentary strife ensued, in which the muscles of each

seemed cracking with the might of their exertions. For a single instant,

the assailant seemed to give way, and the heart of his victim beat with

a hope that intensity made an agony; but the relaxation was but the

prelude to a more violent effort. Again they were upon the verge of the

battlement--they balanced upon the edge--and then sank into the darkness.

A wild, sardonic laugh, and a cry of agony that seemed to freeze the very

elements and hush their destructive howl into silence, went up to heaven,

succeeded by a dull, heavy sound that announced the departure of two souls

to judgment.

The next day the patrol discovered, beneath the postern that opened upon

the castle fosse, two mangled bodies, quite dead. The one was the Prince

Carlos, Regent of Spain, and the other the Count Carlo Zanotti.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 1: I have liberally availed myself, in the above theory, of the

hints of my talented friend, J. J. Woodward, contained in an epistolatory

criticism on Bulwer's Zanoni, written to a mutual friend.]

THE ORPHAN'S DEPARTURE.

BY MARGARET FLOYD.

(_See Plate._)

THE early years of few have been so carefully guarded and protected as

were those of Edith Frazier. Her father was the rector of a church in

a beautiful but secluded country village in the south of England. In

addition to his sincere piety and high-toned moral character, Mr. Frazier

possessed a well-cultivated mind. His wife was also a superior woman, and

as Edith was their only child, her early training was the object of their

most careful attention. In a lovely and sequestered home, surrounded not

only by the comforts and luxuries, but the elegances of life, and in close

association with persons of high refinement and elevated goodness, the

young girl grew slowly up to womanhood. There was no undue excitement of

vanity or the passions to force her, like some hothouse plant, into an

early maturity; and no unseasonable call upon her for self-reliance or

exertion, which entirely blots out of some lives the sweet carelessness of

girlhood. At sixteen, she was still almost a child, when the death of her

mother, her first great sorrow, made her sensible for the first time that

this world is not the place for that uninterrupted happiness which had,

until then, been her portion.

Edith was almost heart-broken at the loss of her mother. They had been

constant companions, and she missed her every moment more and more. Mr.

Frazier tried to supply to his daughter the place both of father and

mother, but he was a studious, reserved man, and himself suffering deeply

from his bereavement, so that they did little else but remind each other

constantly of their great sorrow.

About a year after Mrs. Frazier's death, finding that his daughter did not

rally from the depression so foreign to her nature, Mr. Frazier proposed a

tour through the northern part of England and Scotland. It was just at the

beginning of the pleasant summer weather, and, arranging matters in his

parish so that his absence for two or three months would not be felt, he

decided to leave immediately.

On the Sunday before his departure, a stranger was seen in the little

parish church. He was a man who would have been noticed in any place, and

who, in a quiet country village, was an object of general attention.

Tall, handsome, and with a strikingly high-bred and gentlemanlike

appearance, he would have been singled out anywhere as one of nature's

nobility. Edith was struck and gratified by the stranger's evident

interest in the sermon her father preached that day. It was one with which

he had taken especial pains, and the daughter, proud as well as fond of

her father, was glad to see that he had at least one appreciative listener.

A few days after, Mr. Frazier and Edith set out on their journey.

London was their first stopping-place, and several very busy days were

spent there, while Edith, with the vivid interest of one to whom almost

everything in that vast and crowded city was strange and new, visited the

many places of interest and note within it. While they were standing in

St. Paul's, the stranger who had attracted their attention in Hillcomb,

their own village, a few days before, passed them with a look of evident

recognition. They met again while going over Westminster Abbey; and it

so happened that they were at the same time paying to the genius of

Shakspeare the homage of a visit to his grave at Stratford, and that they

passed each other again while strolling over the grounds around Newstead

Abbey.

By this time they had advanced so far on the way to acquaintanceship,

that, when they again encountered each other near the lakes in

Westmoreland, the home of so many of the poets of England, a bow was the

almost involuntary mark of recognition. English reserve and shyness might

have prevented any more intimate intercourse, but for an accident that

happened to Edith in Scotland.

Mr. Frazier, finding that the cool and bracing air of that country had

as favorable an effect on his daughter's health as the wild and romantic

scenery had on her mind, and being pleased with a quiet country inn which

he had found, proposed that they should make it their home for two or

three weeks. They could not have found a pleasanter resting-place, for

Lock Lomond was spread out in its calm serenity at their feet, and Ben

Lomond towered in savage grandeur above their heads.

The first person whom they recognized on taking their seats at the table

of the inn was the stranger whom they had met so frequently. Edith could

not repress a smile as she shyly returned the stranger's salutation, at

the chance that seemed to take such a whimsical pleasure in thus bringing

them together. A few days after, while walking with her father in the rude

paths on the side of the mountain, she strayed a little way from him when

he stopped to admire the scene from some particularly favorable point of

view; and when she attempted to return, she found herself, to her dismay,

so perplexed by the intricate windings of the paths that she was at a loss

which to take. She called to her father and heard his voice in reply,

but it grew fainter and fainter, until, at last, it could no longer be

discerned. Becoming aware that every step she took only led her farther

from home, she stopped to see if she could not in some way distinguish

the right path. But she was so utterly bewildered that she found it to

be impossible. She thought that the only thing that was left for her to

do was to remain stationary; in that way she would, at least, avoid the

danger of falling into the mountain streams around, or down any of the

precipices.

Night closed around Edith as she sat alone under the shelter of a gray

rock that jutted out from the side of the mountain. She had around her

only the light shawl she had thrown on for an afternoon's walk, and it was

but a slight protection from the chilling night-air. In her hurried and

toilsome search after her father, she had bruised her feet and wearied

herself so that she could no longer stand. She called at intervals, in the

faint hope that some wanderer might hear her and come to her assistance;

but her voice died away from exhaustion, and she was still alone.

It was not so much a feeling of fear that weighed upon her, for the

perfect trust in her all-seeing Father, which her mother had taught her

from her childhood, was a tower of strength to her in this her hour of

need; and the physical discomfort she could bear; but the thought of her

father's anxiety and distress on her account almost overcame her.

The stars were going out one by one, when Edith heard in the distance a

faint shout. She could not answer it, but, almost as if led by some unseen

spirit, it came nearer and nearer. At last she gathered voice to reply,

and she had evidently been heard. She could distinguish the sound of

footsteps, and at last dimly discern a man's figure as it stopped before

her.

"Is this Miss Frazier?" said the man in a voice that revealed its owner

to be a person of refinement and tenderness.

"Yes," said Edith, rising with difficulty.

"I am Mr. Hildreth, the gentleman whom you have met so frequently lately.

I heard of your disappearance from your father, and have been seeking for

some hours. Could you walk a little way with me? He is not far from here;

we can soon find him."

Edith tried to walk, but found it impossible. Taking her in his arms, Mr.

Hildreth carried her a little way; then meeting her father, he resigned

her to him while he went before to act as a guide. With some difficulty

they reached the bottom of the mountain, and obtaining a rude vehicle from

some of the country people near, conveyed Edith to the inn.

The acquaintance thus begun soon ripened into a friendship. Mr. Frazier

and Edith learned that Mr. Hildreth was an American from the city of New

York. The letters of introduction that he had with him proved that he had

a right to the best society in England, for which his polished manners

and uncommon conversational powers showed that he was well fitted. He had

been taking an invalid aunt to the south of France for the benefit of the

climate, he told them, and after seeing her comfortably established there,

he had taken advantage of a few months' leisure to travel wherever his

fancy led him. He readily accepted Mr. Frazier's invitation to join him

and his daughter in their tour. The similarity of taste they had shown so

singularly was a sufficient evidence, he said, that any course they might

take would be equally agreeable to both parties.

The next six weeks, Edith thought, were the most delightful she had ever

spent. Nowhere does the society of an agreeable and intellectual person

add more to the enjoyment of the company than in travelling. Although

grave and quiet, Mr. Hildreth was full of thoughtfulness and observant

care for the comfort of his fellow-travellers. Whenever he spoke to Edith,

there was a gentle deference in his manner that, from one of his superior

abilities, was irresistibly attractive.

On his side, Mr. Hildreth was no less charmed by those with whom he had

been so strangely thrown. On the Sunday in which he had first seen them,

he had been pleased and impressed by Mr. Frazier's sermon, and thought

that he had never seen a face of more artless and attractive loveliness

than Edith Frazier's. She reminded him of Chaucer's beauties, of a rose

half opened and still wet with the morning dews, and of all that was most

fresh and delicate in nature. Her mind answered to the promise of her

countenance. Ignorant of the world and uncontaminated by it, she walked

in almost unconscious innocence the simple path of duty. Her disposition,

naturally cheerful and bright, had already begun to recover its buoyancy,

and her happiness reacted on her graver companions, who seemed to vie with

each other as to which should add most to her pleasure.

Seasons of unshaded happiness are generally as brief as bright. By the

end of the six weeks, Mr. Hildreth received a letter from his aunt, who

wrote urgently for his immediate presence. He took a reluctant leave of

his companions, but not before he had had a long conversation with Mr.

Frazier, in which he asked his permission to reveal to Edith the love that

had already become a strong feeling in his heart.

Heretofore he had been thrown, he said, among a set of worldly and

fashionable women, and had come to look upon simplicity and unworldliness

as traits no longer to be met with among the educated and polished members

of society, and Edith Frazier exhibited a character as new as attractive

to him. She was the only woman that he had ever met, whose society and

conversation never wearied or lost their interest to him.

Mr. Frazier's paternal pride was gratified at the tribute thus paid to

Edith by a man like Mr. Hildreth, but he could not bear to think of giving

up the only object of affection left to him, nor contemplate without pain

the idea that his daughter's home might be in a distant land. He did

all that he felt justified in doing to avert the day of separation, and

pleading Edith's youth, requested Mr. Hildreth to postpone for a year his

declaration. To this delay Mr. Hildreth was unwilling to consent; but at

last was obliged unwillingly to yield to a probation of six months.

He left Edith, in accordance with the promise he had made Mr. Frazier,

entirely unconscious of his feelings towards her, and for some time

almost equally unaware of her own. She knew that the loss of his society

had deprived her of the greater part of the pleasure she had taken in

the new scenes through which she was journeying, but it was not until

she was again settled in her own home at Hillcomb that she began to feel

that Mr. Hildreth had been far more to her than a mere agreeable casual

acquaintance.

This discovery mortified her extremely. She felt as though it was both

wrong and humiliating, that one whom she had known so short a time, and

who had shown no proof of regarding her as anything but a very young

and rather pleasing girl, should engross so much of her thoughts. She

resolved to use every means to crush the feelings that, new as they were,

seemed to have struck their roots so deeply in her heart. But first she

could not resist asking her father one question.

"Do you think we shall ever see Mr. Hildreth again, father?" said she one

day, with affected indifference.

"Perhaps so," said he, quietly; "we can never tell what may happen."

"He can never have spoken to my father about coming here," thought Edith,

"or he would not have seemed so uncertain about it;" and, with true

feminine pride, the young girl forbore any farther mention of the one whom

yet she found it impossible to forget.

Two months of the six had passed away, when Edith was called to bear

another heavy trial. Her father died suddenly, leaving her unprovided

for and alone in the world. Such an event was apparently the last in the

world to be expected, as Mr. Frazier had always seemed to be a man in

vigorous health, and with a fair prospect of long life. To a long life

he had evidently looked forward, for he had made no arrangements for his

cherished daughter, and had left no directions by which she might guide

her future course.

In her desolation, Edith could think of but one person from whom she might

expect protection; a half-sister of her father's, who resided in London.

She had seen her aunt, Mrs. Burnleigh, but seldom, but knew that she was a

widow in easy circumstances, with a large family of children. To her she

accordingly applied, and received in return an invitation to come to her

until she had decided on her future course.

With a sorrowful heart, Edith left the home where so many bright and happy

years had been passed. As she sat alone waiting for the coach to pass

that was to convey her to London, with no attendant but the gardener's

boy, and no companion but her canary, a parting gift from Mr. Hildreth,

sent to Hillcomb by him from Dover just before he embarked for France,

the contrast between her present desolation and the warm, sheltering

love in which she had so long lived, almost overcame her. But the lonely

soon acquire the power of self-control, and Edith had already begun to

learn the hard lesson of self-reliance. With an outward composure that

hid the painful throbbings of her heart from her travelling companions,

she took her seat in the coach, and in a few hours arrived safely at Mrs.

Burnleigh's.

Edith found her aunt an apparently well-meaning, proper kind of a woman,

kind and sympathizing in her manners, but who evidently had not the

slightest intention of denying herself or her children the smallest luxury

for the sake of her brother's orphaned daughter. For a few weeks Edith

was left to the quiet indulgence of her grief, and then Mrs. Burnleigh,

thinking that she had done all that society could possibly demand of her

in the way of respect to her brother's memory or kindness to his child,

began to sound Edith as to her intentions for the future.

The young girl, thrown so suddenly upon her own resources, had not yet

begun to think for herself, and the idea of seeking a home among strangers

made her heart sink within her. She begged her aunt to take upon herself

the task of finding for her some position that she could fill creditably,

but she hoped, she said, timidly, that it might be somewhere near her

aunt, her only remaining relative.

This did not suit Mrs. Burnleigh exactly, who, being of that turn of mind

that always foresees the possible evil in all cases, was not pleased

with the idea that she might at any time be called upon to offer a home

to her friendless relative. Like a prudent woman, however, she forbore

saying anything that might reveal her true feelings, but was none the less

resolved that, if two equally favorable situations offered themselves, it

would be wiser for her to advise Edith to accept the one at the greatest

distance.

She succeeded beyond her hopes. Coming in one day, she said to Edith, with

unusual animation--

"My dear, I have found a most delightful situation for you. Two hundred

pounds a year for teaching one little girl. You can speak French, can you

not?"

"Yes, I have spent a year in France."

"And you play unusually well, and draw and paint beautifully, so that I

think the parents of the child may consider themselves quite fortunate."

"Who are they?" asked Edith

"They are Americans--a Mr. and Mrs. Blake, from South Carolina."

Edith's heart had bounded at the mention of the country, but it sank when

the state was named to which Mrs. Burnleigh wished to send her. Unlike

most English girls, she knew enough of the geography of the United States

to remember that a wide distance separated South Carolina from New York,

so that, even if Mr. Hildreth had returned to his own country, which

was unlikely, she would be almost as distant from him there as if she

remained in England. The idea of going so far away from all on whom her

relationship or early association gave her any claim, was exceedingly

painful to her.

"Don't you think, dear aunt," said she, hesitatingly, "that I might find

something to do nearer home?"

"It would be impossible for me to find you another situation so

advantageous in every respect; but, if you think you could succeed, you

had better make the attempt," replied Mrs. Burnleigh, coldly, while a

displeased expression settled upon her face.

There were a few moments' silence, and then Edith said--

"How soon will Mr. and Mrs. Blake expect me?"

"They are now here. I have just met them at one of my friends, who had

been speaking to them about you. They told me that they intended to sail

for America in about two weeks, and that, if you were ready by that time,

they would like you to accompany them."

"Very well," said Edith; "you can tell them that I shall be ready to go

with them."

"They are charming people," said her aunt, caressingly; "I am sure, my

dear, you will like them very much, and be very happy with them. Of

course, I would not wish my brother's child to go where she would not be

with those who are likely to take some interest in her."

Edith could not help perceiving that her aunt was relieved by the prospect

of her departure; and this thought, while it strengthened her in her

resolve, made her feel her isolation still more deeply.

On board the same steamer with Mr. and Mrs. Blake and Edith was a little

girl, an invalid, who interested the young English girl extremely. Edith

had brought her bird with her. It was the only thing she had to remind her

of happier days, and she could not bear to part with it. At little Ellen's

earnest request, she hung the cage in her state-room, and, before the end

of the voyage, the little sick girl had become so attached to the pretty

bird, whose sweet song was almost the only cheering sound she heard during

the long and weary days at sea, that she could not speak of parting with

it without showing by her tearful eyes the pain it gave her. Edith felt

that she ought not to deprive the little sufferer of so great a pleasure,

and, concealing her reluctance to give up a souvenir she had cherished

so long, she told little Ellen that the bird was to be hers. The child's

evident delight was some compensation to Edith for her self-denial, yet

it was with a sharp pang that she watched the cage as it was put in the

carriage, after the arrival of the steamer at New York, to be conveyed

to the upper part of the city, while Edith, with her new friends, went on

board another steamer about to sail for Charleston.

Mr. Blake's residence was among the pine forests of the State; a region

healthful, it is true, but peculiarly desolate, especially to one

accustomed to the soft verdure and smiling landscape of England. The tall

dark trees; unceasingly sighing forth their low and mournful murmurs,

seemed to Edith a fit emblem of the griefs that were henceforward to

darken her life.

There was but little in her new home to call her thoughts from the sad

recollections to which they were constantly recurring. Mr. Blake and

his wife were very kind to her, treating her rather as a guest than one

to whose services they were entitled; but they lived in a part of the

country very thinly settled, their nearest neighbor being at a distance

of seven or eight miles, and there was a wearying monotony in Edith's

daily life that weighed upon her spirits. Gratitude for the unvarying

and thoughtful kindness shown to her by Mrs. Blake induced Edith to make

every exertion to regain her accustomed cheerfulness, and she had, in

some measure, succeeded, when the Christmas holidays came to remind her,

by the contrast between her own position and that of the persons by whom

she was surrounded, more painfully of her isolation. The little family

gatherings, from which she could hardly absent herself without appearing

unmindful of Mrs. Blake's gentle yet urgent requests, and yet where she

felt herself among them, but not of them, recalled to her so forcibly the

former seasons, when her happiness and pleasure were to all around her

the one thing of the greatest importance, that, for the first time since

her departure from England, Edith yielded to her feelings of loneliness,

and every night wet her pillow with her tears. The reply of the Shunamite

woman to the prophet's inquiry about her wants, "I dwell among mine own

people," came with a new and touching significance to her mind, now that

she began to feel that never again would she feel the sweet security and

protection implied in such a position.

On New Year's eve, Edith slipped away from the merry group assembled in

Mr. Blake's parlors to indulge her sad meditations for a little while

without interruption. As she stood on the porch listening to the mournful

music of the pines, whose aromatic incense filled the air with its

healthful fragrance, and watching the moon as it slowly waded through the

clouded sky, now shining out in full brilliancy, and then almost entirely

darkened as it passed behind the thick masses of vapor that were hanging

in the vast concave, she thought that just such sudden alternations of

darkness and light had been her lot in this life.

"The clouds hang heavily over me now," thought she; "but there will be

brightness soon."

Almost at the same moment there came the sound of an approaching arrival,

and Edith hastily retreated to the house. She had hardly time to mingle

with the gay family party, when, hearing her name called, she turned

suddenly, while a thrill of amazed delight passed over her at the familiar

tone, and saw before her Mr. Hildreth, whose smile shed a light and warmth

upon her heart to which it had long been a stranger.

The clouds were at once lifted off from her soul, and she was once more

the light-hearted girl she had been in her English home. In the midst

of her happiness there was a feeling of insecurity, a doubt as to its

continuance. But that Edith would not allow herself to dwell upon. It was

happiness enough for the present to think that one whom she so highly

esteemed still cared enough for her to seek her out in her secluded home.

But before the last hours of the old year had passed away, walking in

the serene moonlight under those pine-trees to whose mournful murmur her

thoughts had been so long attuned, Edith listened with a beating heart to

the avowal of the same feelings which Mr. Hildreth had confessed to her

father more than a year before. What had become of all the sadness that

had brooded over Edith's heart so many months? It was gone like the clouds

from the sky, but not to return, like them, in a few short hours.

"How did you find me out?" asked Edith, after many more important

questions had been asked and answered.

"Ah, a little bird told me where I should find the runaway."

"A bird?" said Edith, wonderingly.

"Perhaps it was the cage rather than the bird," replied Mr. Hildreth.

"I had been for some two or three months in search of you, or rather

your aunt, with whom I was told you were staying. But she seemed to be

possessed by some perverse and wandering spirit; for, when I went to

London to find her, she had just left with her family on a tour through

Germany, and, when I followed her there, I learned she had gone into

Italy. Into Italy I went post haste, and reached Naples just in time to

learn that Mrs. Burnleigh had left the week before for Egypt and the

Pyramids. No whit daunted, I was about to seek you, even if I had to go

to the heart of Ethiopia, when the sudden illness of my aunt recalled me

to Marseilles. Her death obliged me to return to New York; but I arranged

my business there as soon as possible, and had already engaged my passage

in the next steamer to Liverpool, when, walking through Fifth Avenue,

my eye was attracted by a cage that I recognized instantly, by certain

peculiarities, as one that I had sent you just before I left England after

our pleasant tour. A sudden hope seized me that some happy impulse had

led your travel-loving aunt to my very hearthstone, and I lost no time in

making inquiries of the lady of the house, from whom I learned all about

the little Edith for whom I had been seeking in such far away places.

"And now, dearest," he continued, after a pause, "have you any objection

to a tour through Europe? I went in such haste before that, far from

satisfying my curiosity, I only increased the desire to see everything

more at my leisure."

"None at all," said Edith, with a smile and blush.

"Well, then, I will see how soon Mrs. Blake can spare you, and we will set

off on our travels. I hope she will be very obliging about it."

She was very obliging, and gave Edith, to whom she had become strongly

attached, a grand wedding in the southern fashion, which lasted two days,

and she hung the pine grove with colored lamps, so that the dark woods

took, for that occasion only, quite a festal appearance.

[Illustration]

CELESTIAL PHENOMENA.--APRIL.

BY D. W. BELISLE.

LEO.--This is one of the most clearly defined and brilliant constellations

in the winter hemisphere, containing an unusual number of very bright

stars. It is situated east of Cancer, and comes to the meridian the sixth

of this month. This constellation contains ninety-five stars visible to

the naked eye.

"Two splendid stars of highest dignity,

Two of the second class the Lion boasts,

And justly figures the fierce summer's rage."

Five very bright stars in this constellation are grouped in the form of

a sickle. Regulus, in the shoulder of Leo, is the lowest of this group,

and forms the end of the handle in the sickle. It is the brightest star

in the cluster, and is of great use to nautical men in determining their

longitude at sea. Eta, a small glittering star, marks the other end of

the handle, while Al Gieba Adhafera, Ras al Asad, and Lambda form the

blade. Two small stars, at an equal distance from Lambda, form a small

right-angled triangle. Denebola, in the brush of the tail, is a star of

the first magnitude, and, with Zozma in the back, and Theta in the thigh,

form a triangle whose vertex is Denebola.

According to Greek mythology, the Lion was one of the formidable animals

killed by Hercules in the forests of Nemæa, and was placed by Jupiter in

the heavens to commemorate the event. Egyptian mythologists claim the

honor of having placed it there, asserting it was placed in the heavens

to commemorate the haunting of the banks of the Nile during the heat of

summer by these monsters, the river then being at its highest elevation.

* * * * *

LEO MINOR.--This constellation is of modern origin, occupying the space

between Ursa Major and Leo Major. The stars in the cluster are of the

third and fourth magnitude, with no particular interest attached to them.

It comes to the meridian the 6th of April.

* * * * *

SEXTANT.--This is a small constellation south of Leo, and contains

forty-one stars, all very small and unimportant, and comes to the meridian

the 6th of April. This constellation is sometimes called Urania's Sextant,

in honor of one of the muses who presided over Astronomy. Urania was

daughter of Jupiter and Mnemosyne.

* * * * *

HYDRA.--This is an extraordinary constellation, winding through a vast

space from east to west for more than one hundred degrees. It lies

south of Cancer, Leo, and Virgo, and reaches from Canis Minor to Libra.

It contains sixty stars, principally of the second, third, and fourth

magnitudes. The head of Hydra may readily be distinguished by four bright

stars south of Acubens, in the Crab. They form a rhomboidal figure.

The three upper stars form a beautiful curve, and are too distinct and

conspicuous to be forgotten when once seen. Alphard, twenty-three degrees

south south-west of Regulus, is a very brilliant star of the second

magnitude, and is in the heart of Hydra, and comes to the meridian twenty

minutes before nine o'clock on the 1st of April. When the head of the

Hydra is on the meridian, its other extremity is many degrees below the

horizon, so that its whole length cannot be traced out in the heavens

until its centre is on the meridian.

"Near the Equator rolls

The sparkling Hydra, proudly eminent,

To drink the Galaxy's refulgent sea;

Nearly a fourth of the encircling curve

Which girds the ecliptic his vast folds involve;

Yet ten the number of his stars diffused

O'er the long track of his enormous spires;

Chief beams his heart, sure of the second rank,

But emulous to gain the first."

According to mythology, the Hydra was a terrible monster that infested the

Lake of Lerna, in the Peloponnesus. It was reported to have had a hundred

heads, and, as soon as one of these was cut off, two grew in its place,

unless the wound was stopped by fire.

"Art thou proportioned to the Hydra's length,

Who, by his wounds, received augmented strength?

He raised a hundred hissing heads in air;

When one I lopped, up sprang a dreadful pair."

The formidable monster was at last destroyed by Hercules, with the

assistance of Iolaus, and who afterwards, dipping his arrows in the gall

of the Hydra, rendered every wound inflicted by them incurable and mortal.

* * * * *

THE CUP.--This small constellation lies south of the Lion, and rests upon

the Hydra. Six of the principal stars form a crescent or semi-circle,

opening to the west. The crescent of the Cup is so striking and clearly

defined, when the moon is absent, that no description is necessary to

point it out, as it is the only one of the kind in that part of the

heavens.

* * * * *

COMETS.--These objects of extraordinary interest form a part in the

economy of the solar system. Since the time when the presence of a comet

was considered by nations to be the sure precursor of war, famine, and

pestilence, up to the present period, these visitors have created much

speculation and excitement; and, no longer ago than the fall of 1853, it

was predicted by an eminent "professor" that one of these waifs in the

heavens would come in collision with the earth, and destroy a portion of

China. This, however, like many other pieces of mischief which had been

predicted it would accomplish, failed, and the professor has retired from

observation covered with the laurels won by his research.

A comet, so brilliant that it could be seen at noonday, made its

appearance seventy-three years before the birth of our Saviour. This date

was just after the death of Julius Cæsar, and by the Romans the comet was

believed to be his metamorphosed soul, armed with fire and vengeance. This

comet appeared again in 1106, and then resembled the sun in brightness,

being of great size, and having an immense trail.

In 1456, a large comet made its appearance. The terror it created extended

through all classes, and the belief was universal that the day of judgment

was at hand. At this time, the Turks, with their victorious armies, seemed

destined to overrun all Europe. This added to the gloom and terror. The

people became regardless of the present, and anxious only for the future.

To prepare the world for its expected doom, Pope Callixtus III. ordered

the Ave Maria to be repeated three times instead of twice a day, and to it

was added, "Lord, save us from the Devil, the Turk, and the Comet!" and

thrice each day these obnoxious personages suffered excommunication. At

length, the comet began to retire from eyes in which it found no favor,

and the Turks retired to their own dominions.

The comet of 1680 was of the largest size, having a trail ninety-six

millions of miles in length. Dawning science, however, robbed it of its

terrors, assisted by the signal failure of its illustrious predecessor.

Such are many of the fantasies which these peculiar visitors have called

up. The beautiful comet of 1811, the most splendid of modern times, was

considered, even by many intelligent persons, as the harbinger of the

war which was declared the spring following; and the remembrance will be

fresh in the minds of many of an indefinite apprehension of some dreadful

catastrophe, which pervaded both continents, in anticipation of Bela's

comet in 1832.

Comets, unlike the planets, observe no one direction in their orbits, but

approach to and recede from their great centre of attraction in every

possible direction. Some seem to come up from immeasurable depths below

the ecliptic, and, having doubled the heaven's mighty cape, again plunged

downward with their fiery trains,

"On the long travel of a thousand years."

Again, they seem to come from the zenith of the universe, and, after

doubling their perihelion about the sun, reascend far above human vision.

Others, again, seem to be dashing through the solar system in every

conceivable direction, apparently in an undisturbed path; others are

known, however, to obey laws like those which regulate planets. Nothing

is known with certainty as to the composition of these bodies, although

it is certain they contain very little matter, for they produce little or

no effect on the motions of planets when passing near those bodies. Upon

what errands they come, what regions they visit when they pass from view,

what is the difference between them, the sun, and planets, and what is

their mission in the economy of the universe, are questions often pondered

over, but the solution of which is beyond the limited powers of human

understanding.

[Illustration]

MRS. MURDEN'S TWO DOLLAR SILK.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "MISS BREMER'S VISIT TO COOPER'S LANDING," "GETTING INTO

SOCIETY," "MUSTARD TO MIX," ETC. ETC.

"ISN'T it perfect?" said young Mrs. Murden, drawing her husband towards a

shop window as she herself made a halt in front of it. "I think it is the

loveliest shade I ever saw, and that satin stripe gives it such an air so

perfectly genteel!"

"What?" asked Mr. Murden, simply, roused from his calculation of

percentage on certain articles just consigned to him. "It" was certainly

an indefinite pronoun, with all that display of elegant silks, ribbons,

laces, and embroideries, so skilfully arranged to attract the promenaders

of Chestnut Street.

"Why, that silk. I've stopped to look at it twice this week."

"That blue and red plaid? Yes, it is very handsome; just the pattern of

your woollen shawl, isn't it?"

"Plaids!" exclaimed Mrs. Murden, contemptuously. "Why, that's only a

dollar silk; besides, everybody wears plaids--they're _so common_!"

"Then a thing is not pretty when it's common?"

"Why, of course not. I heard Mrs. George Barker say yesterday that no real

lady wore such gay colors on the street; that, in Paris, plain colors are

all the rage. I mean that rich purple, with the thick satin stripe. It's

perfect."

Young Mrs. Murden had thought the plaids the very height of fashion, until

she overheard this conversation between Mrs. George Barker and her mother.

Who should know what was stylish, if Mrs. George Barker did not, when she

lived in a house with a marble front, had a coachman in livery, and the

family arms, done in the best manner, on the panel of her crimson lined

carriage?

People said she had made a mistake in the last, however; that the

stately swan of the crest should have been a tailor's goose. But, then,

these were people who had no carriage of their own, and were obliged

to patronize omnibuses. No doubt, if they could have afforded it, the

paternal awl and lapstone would have been transposed into a dagger and

shield, in a similar manner; so their opinion is no manner of consequence.

Mrs. Murden had gone into Evans & Gilman's to "price," as she called it,

the very plaid she now scorned--for her best silk was giving way--when she

overheard its sentence pronounced by those red lips, with a shrug of the

sable-caped shoulders of the fashionable lady. Mrs. Barker pronounced the

purple "exceedingly stylish;" Mrs. Murden "caught the verdict as it fell;"

and, from that moment, her affections were centred upon it.

Not that she had any claims to being stylish herself; on the contrary,

her little home, in a far away cross street, was exceedingly plain; but

the young wife had undeveloped aspirations towards a less humble sphere,

shown by being, in some sort, a leader of the circle in which she visited.

It was not large, or very select, but there were some well-educated,

well-bred people, some very warm, true hearts, and, as the case will

always be, others as empty-minded, selfish, and frivolous as if they were

really in fashionable life. Mrs. Murden, as her husband sometimes noticed,

had rather an inclination to court the latter party, as they dressed and

furnished the most showily, and, in fact, to outvie them--a disposition

which the far-sighted Mr. Murden dreaded not a little.

He was decidedly a domestic man, and, besides, as his wife often said,

so her dress was put on properly, with a clean collar and undersleeves,

he did not know half the time whether it was silk or calico. Indeed, he

had brought quite a serious attack of pouting upon himself, by calling

his wife's new green foulard a calico. You may be sure, he had entirely

forgotten that purple silks were ever manufactured by the next day at

dinner, when he was reminded of it by Mrs. Murden abruptly terminating a

long fit of musing by the exclamation--

"I should be perfectly happy, if I had it."

Mr. Murden, foolish man, supposed at first that she meant a picture of the

children, who were marvellously near of an age--two of them.

"Well, dear, when shall we take them down to Root's? Say the word." For

Mr. Murden himself thought it a great pity that such remarkable beauty

should be lost to the world. No doubt, Root would insist on a duplicate

for his show-case.

"Root's! I was talking about _that silk_, Mr. Murden. What has Root got

to do with it, I'd like to know?" Mrs. Murden seemed inclined to help to

tarts before the dessert was served.

"Oh!" And Mr. Murden resumed his carver, helping himself to a second cut

of beef. "Bless my soul, how much women do think of dress! Who's going to

have a new one?"

"It's high time I had, dear. Only think, we've been married three years

next month, and I've only had one silk in that while."

"Why, you had one in the summer--that striped frock and cape."

"That's an India; we don't call these thin things anything. I mean a good,

heavy _poult de soie_, like my mazarine blue I had when we were married.

It's fairly gone now, careful as I have been. It's been turned and

cleaned, and now it's so shabby I hate to put it on."

"I'm sure, you never look better in any dress you've got," insisted Mr.

Murden, who had very pleasant associations connected with their early

married life and the dress in question.

"Why, it's a perfect fringe around the bottom, and has two great stains on

the skirt. What are you thinking of, John?"

"Well, well, I'll give it up. I like it, that's all. How much will a new

one cost?"

Mrs. Murden, slightly diplomatic, could not present an estimate. Her

husband had told her of a business loss when he came in; it was not a very

favorable moment.

Wonderful as it seemed to her, the purple silk was still unsold when a

week had passed; but, then, it is a color very few dare to try their

complexions by, which Mrs. Murden did not reflect upon. The celebrated

"Purple Jar" was not more attractive to "Rosamond," as chronicled by Miss

Edgeworth, than was the dress to its constant worshipper, who made an

errand into Chestnut Street daily that she might pause for a moment before

it. Mr. Murden said she reminded him of his father's old pony, who always

halted of his own accord at the houses of the doctor's principal patients.

Mrs. Murden "did not thank him" for any such comparisons.

That same evening there was a perceptible rise of spirits observable in

the father of the family. He tossed the baby, accordingly, so far that its

anxious mother was sure its poor little head would be dashed against the

ceiling; he gave George Washington, the eldest hope, three several rides

on his boot, and carried him up to bed in a fashion best known to nurses

as "pig-a-back." Mrs. Murden wondered what had happened; she little knew

the good fortune in store for her.

"Well, Barney"--Mr. Murden always called his wife Barney when in

particularly good humor, though her name was a very romantic one, Adelaide

Matilda--"how about that dress? Tell us, out and out, how much it would

cost. Let's see if it would break a fellow."

"It's a splendid piece," began Mrs. Murden.

"So I have been told every day for two weeks."

"You know I'm not _very_ extravagant; and, once in a while, dear, I _do_

take a fancy for something handsome."

Mr. Murden thought the proposition would have been stated correctly,

if she had said, "every little while;" but Mrs. Murden was warming his

slippers for him, and looking very pretty in the bright firelight, so he

made no ungracious comment; he only said--

"Come, Barney, out with it. What's the entire figure?"

"Well, it's a two dollar silk, I find"--Mrs. Murden made a desperate

attempt to look unconcerned--"and it will take ten yards."

"Whew!" Mr. Murden had thought a ten dollar gold piece would have been

all-sufficient, and was turning one over in his pocket at the moment.

"Why, as much as an overcoat almost."

"And will last twice as long, dear; just remember that."

"Well, well, for once in my life--there's a nice piece of extravagance;

but, as you've set your heart upon it, you shall be indulged, Barney. Take

them both." And he dropped the two eagles, received that afternoon for

what he had considered a bad debt, into her outstretched hand.

It was thus that Mrs. Murden came into possession of her two dollar silk,

the envy of her next door neighbor, Mrs. Keyser, her intimate friends,

Mrs. Hopkins and Miss Lippincott, to whom it was shown in the piece.

"How are you going to have it made?" asked Mrs. Keyser. "I'd have a

basque, by all means, and have it open." Mrs. Keyser was one of those

ladies who accomplish so much on a committee of foreign affairs, and so

little in the home department.

"Oh, so would I," said Miss Lippincott, who always assented to everything

that was said.

"I don't believe a basque would be becoming," enviously interposed Mrs.

Hopkins, who was herself remarkably stout and dumpy in figure.

"Perhaps not," said Miss Lippincott; "very likely not."

"I don't believe Miss Johns could fit a basque either," pursued Mrs.

Hopkins, who had no intention of being outdone by her neighbor; _her_

dresses were all made for the winter.

"Nor I," added Miss Lippincott.

"I wouldn't trust Miss Johns to put scissors into _that_ silk anyhow,"

Mrs. Keyser said; for, having relations living in Spruce Street, she was

considered to have unusual claims to knowingness in matters of fashion,

and was not slow to put them forth.

"Surely," thought Mrs. Murden, "it never would do. Miss Johns was well

enough for a plain dress; but a _two dollar silk!_"

"How I wish you could afford to have it made at Miss Stringer's now,"

continued Mrs. Keyser. "Emma Louisa always has everything done there, and

so does Mrs. Coleman, she's so intimate with, and Mrs. George Barker. You

never saw such splendid fits."

It is presumed that Mrs. Keyser did _not_ allude to convulsions; but Mrs.

Hopkins always elevated her little flat _nez_ on a mention of these Spruce

Street relatives; for every one knows she said to Miss Lippincott, as they

walked down the street together--

"Every one knows that she never is invited there when any one else is

expected, not even to the wedding. _I_ wouldn't own such relations, if I

had shoals of them; would you, Miss Lippincott?"

"No, indeed," returned that lady, with unusual animation for her, for she

was rather worn out with allusions to the Spruce Street relations herself,

in an intimacy of some months' standing.

It was a very daring thing, but young Mrs. Murden, revolving all these

things in her mind, the basque, the open front, Miss Johns's lack of

style, and that she was employed by all her acquaintances, came to the

conclusion that her dress should be made at a Chestnut Street shop,

although she had never had anything made out of the house before. "But

it's once in a lifetime," as she said to Mr. Murden, walking down with

him after dinner; and he, who had never seen a fashionable mantuamaker's

bill, thought it of very little consequence to whom the important

commission was intrusted.

The little woman felt rather nervous, it is true, on entering such awful

precincts as the shop of Miss Stringer, which was by no means diminished

by the manner of the lady in waiting, who pursued, at the same time, her

gossip with another damsel seated in the window with a "dummy" on her

knee, shaping a cap on its unconscious head, not less empty, perhaps, than

the one it was destined to grace.

"I should like a dress made, if you could do it," stammered forth Mrs.

Murden as the girl leisurely surveyed her from head to foot, taking an

exact inventory of her dress, and knowing to a fraction the cost of every

article.

"Certainly, madam." And then over her shoulder to the cap-maker at the

window: "Is it possible that she has white feathers on a blue bonnet? I

wouldn't wear such a thing myself. Who's with her?"

"Young Rushton," returned the street surveyor, turning dummy's blank face

for another fold of lace. "He's devoted, they say."

"I beg your pardon, madam." It was not a pardon asked for inattention, but

a suggestion to Mrs. Murden to finish her business.

"A dress," continued Mrs. Murden, falteringly. "When could you make it?"

"Next week, or week after, perhaps, or early next month. You can call

on Wednesday, and Miss Stringer will make an appointment to fit you,"

vouchsafed the attendant with the Jenny Lind silk apron. "You can send

round the material in the mean time. Street or evening-dress?"

Strictly speaking, Mrs. Murden never had had an evening-dress; her silks

were worn to the parties she usually attended. She had the precious

purchase with her, and she considered it quite handsome enough for any

ball that ever was given; but she would not have offered it to the young

woman then on any consideration. She felt convicted of carrying her own

bundles, and consequently carried this one home again, to be left next day

by Mr. Murden on his way to the store.

Wednesday, and Mrs. Murden, dressed in her best, waited again upon Miss

Stringer. This time, the lady herself appeared, and proved not to be

quite so _withering_ as her assistant--principals seldom are. There were

several fashionable ladies in waiting, all on the most gossipping and

familiar terms with Miss Stringer, who was besieged with petitions for

impossible work to be done in incredible haste, enforced by "You kind,

good creature," and other terms of endearment written in the wheedling

vocabulary. According to their piteous statements, not one of these

splendidly attired women had a dress to cover them, or a cloak to shield

them from the cold. Mrs. Murden had a fine opportunity of seeing and

hearing while she waited exactly one hour for Miss Stringer. She had

never been in such close contact with fashionable women before. Like many

others of her own position in life, they had always been her envy and her

admiration from a distance, as they swept across the pavement from their

carriages, or brushed past her at the entrance of Bailey's or Levy's, at

whose fascinating windows she was spell-bound. They could not have a wish

ungratified, she was sure; their lives must pass like a fairy tale, all

flowers and music. But, now that she saw them nearer, the wan and restless

eyes, the half hidden wrinkles painfully distended in the glare of a

bright winter's morning, and the querulous, fretful tones, told another

story.

"They were tired to death"--they whose feet scarcely touched the pavement,

and who had servants at every call. "The party of last night was so

stupid!" "The ball of Thursday wouldn't be worth the trouble of dressing

for." "What should they wear? Miss Stringer must tell them." "Did she know

Rushton's engagement was broken with Bell Hamilton? Her ill health, it was

said; but every one knew, because he had been flirting so all winter with

Mrs. McCord. But then she had such a brute of a husband, Coleman McCord,

who could blame her? He was devoted to the southern beauty, Miss Legree."

"Was lemon color quite out of date? and should they get crimson fuchsias

with gold tips for the wreath?"

Mrs. Murden was so deep in moral reflections suggested by this style of

conversation, that she did not perceive Miss Stringer was ready for her

at first. She was almost sorry when the moment arrived, for she dreaded

an interview with this maker of fine ladies, who dictated to them so

coolly, and was so besieged, and coaxed, and petted by them. The lady's

distant, preoccupied manner added to her embarrassment, when, finding she

had an unoccupied half hour, she proposed to fit her forthwith, and asked

Mrs. Murden into the inner apartment, with its curtains and lounges, its

cheval glass reflecting the little woman's figure from head to foot, and

reminding her that the dress she wore was at least two inches shorter

than the flowing robes of the birds of paradise who had just taken their

departure. Silly little body, she felt so awkward and old-fashioned,

and wished in her heart she was in her own back parlor, with Miss Johns

and her heart-shaped pin-cushion. She was quite a mirror of fashion to

Miss Johns, who was indebted to Mrs. Murden for half her new sleeves and

trimmings, caught by those observing black eyes, and shaped out at home

with the aid of old newspapers. But here it was the mantuamaker's place to

dictate.

"A basque, of course, or is it an evening-dress? What name?"

"Murden--Mrs. Murden." And she knew perfectly well it was one entirely

foreign to the ears that caught it, low as was her tone. But when Miss

Stringer came to see that silk her opinion might change. Mrs. Murden

longed to have it brought forth and note the effect.

"A silk; for the street, I suppose? Basque, of course. We only make

bodices in full dress. Open body?" And Miss Stringer's rapid fingers

measured the shoulders, the waist, the arms, presented to her,

mechanically. Customers were but lay figures to the fashionable _modiste_,

to be made up at pleasure. "Miss Elbert, Mrs. Murden's silk."

But Miss Elbert feigned entire ignorance of its reception. "Mrs.

Murden--she could not remember the name." And a bustle of search ensued,

while the forewoman from the work-room made her appearance for orders,

bringing skirts and waists of such rich and dazzling materials as Mrs.

Murden had never dreamed of, while she trembled for the fate of her own

precious purple. Two errand girls, charity children they looked like,

with their little sharp, thin faces and faded shawls, were dispatched to

match buttons, and gimps, and galloons, with handsful of patterns, and

heads full of instructions, which last did not stay where they were put,

which accounted for Miss Lawrence appearing at the Thursday ball with

yellow fringe on a lemon-colored dress, and Mrs. Johnson Rogers finding

her gray silk--she was in half mourning for the late lamented Mr. Johnson

Rogers--decorated by brown velvet acorn buttons. However, both passed for

Parisian novelties, and were greatly admired; so Miss Stringer, and not

the stupid errand girls, who came back too late to admit of a change,

received the credit of these novel decorations.

Much to Mrs. Murden's relief, the silk was at last forthcoming, from an

out-of-the-way drawer, and she awaited with inward satisfaction Miss

Stringer's inspection. But two-dollar silks were everyday bread and butter

to that lady, who merely glanced at it, and tossed the package upon a

neighboring sofa, as if it had been so many yards of crash towelling.

"Very good quality," she remarked. "You got it at Evans & Gilman's. Trying

to most complexions. _What now_, Miss Elbert? No, I shall not _touch_ Mrs.

Cadwalader's dress before Monday. Tell her she can wear her white _moire

d'antique_; she's only worn it twice this season to my knowledge. Tell her

to wear her Honiton scarf, and no one will know what kind of a dress she

has on. That will do, Mrs.--I beg your pardon--Mudon. You can come again

on Thursday week. How will you have it trimmed?"

Mrs. Murder did not venture to suggest a trimming, and prudently left the

whole matter to Miss Stringer's abler hands. Prudently, in one sense; she

had never seen a bill from a fashionable shop, recollect. She had been

just about to inquire what Miss Stringer would charge. Fortunate escape!

The question would have been met with paralyzing coldness. It is a risk

to procure your own trimming; but to seek to place a limit as to ultimate

expense--unpardonable in the eyes of an autocrat of fashion.

So Mrs. Murden departed very much cast down, and very insignificant in

her cashmere dress and the fur she had thought so handsome--so it was in

her own set; but her eyes had been dwelling upon velvet cloaks and sable

victorines the past two hours. Alas! for her last year's mantle, pretty as

it had been; embroidered merinos looked so _common_--fatal word.

Miss Stringer had entirely forgotten the appointment when she presented

herself again on Thursday week. Meantime, it had been very difficult

to parry the inquiries of her trio of intimates as to when and how the

dress was to be made, without betraying her all-important secret. But she

succeeded to admiration. It was in vain for Mrs. Hopkins to remark that

Miss Johns was engaged for nearly all the week, to her certain knowledge,

or for Mrs. Keyser to allude to Emma Louisa's green poplin, the "sweetest"

thing she had ever seen; Mrs. Murden did not give out a clue. She saw

the identical green poplin at Miss Stringer's, on her second audience,

and heard Miss Elbert remark, with her accustomed freedom, upon its

possessor, who was set down by Miss Stringer's young woman as decidedly

vulgar and over-dressed. Mrs. Keyser never would have survived overhearing

this assault upon her kinswoman. Mrs. Murden treasured it up for future

remembrance.

"It does make me sick," remarked Miss Elbert, "to see people load on such

things. Thank my stars, I'm not a rich woman! Poor things, I pity them!

in a fever from morning till night about a dress or a cloak. Half of them

murder the king's English. Don't you say so, Miss Replier?"

Miss Replier, who still fitted "dummy" to one unending round of caps,

assented with a nod.

"Then they're so afraid some one else will have something," continued

this free-spoken, candid young person. "Did you see Mrs. James Thomas,

the day of our opening, take up that garnet hat Miss Stringer had ordered

out for Mrs. McCord? Mrs. McCord wouldn't have it, after all, when she

heard there was one made from it. And there's Miss Thornton thinks she's

got the only _Eugenie_ robe in the country. Levy imported three to my

certain knowledge. For my part, it makes me sick as the head boy at a

confectioner's. If I was as rich as Mrs. Rush, I wouldn't have a thing

better than I have now." And here she condescended to see if Miss Stringer

was disengaged, and ushered the possessor of the purple silk into the

fitting-room.

It was quite a picture as Mrs. Murden entered it. The lounges spread

with dresses that surpassed her imagination. Two bonnets, all lace and

flowers, the frame seeming only intended to support them, were on stands

in one corner, and wreaths, gloves, ribbons, and embroideries made up the

graceful confusion. Miss Stringer was on her knees before a large deal

box, folding and packing these wonderful creations.

"A bridal order," she said, "for the South. Look around, if you would like

to."

Mrs. Murden would not have touched any of them for a kingdom; it seemed

as if a breath would soil the gossamer-like evening-dresses, with their

light garlands of flowers. A velvet robe fit for a queen, destined for the

mother of the bride; a morning-dress of French cambric embroidery, over a

violet-colored silk; flounced dresses, with borders of woven embroidery,

in the most delicate contrasting shade; glove-knots, shoulder-knots,

breast-knots, of ribbon and gold lace, were some of the items of this

costly _trousseau_.

The cherished purple silk faded, as if it had been exposed to a summer

sun, in Mrs. Murden's eyes. It looked so very "_common_"--to think of a

two dollar silk being common--beside those brocades and flounced taffetas,

when it came to be tried on; and then the prices dealt out in the most

amiable manner by Miss Stringer conscious that she had made a good thing

of it.

The velvet had cost a hundred dollars "before scissors had touched it."

The lace on the skirt of the bridal-dress was seventy-five dollars a

yard; the morning-dress was a robe imported, of course, at sixty dollars;

and so on to the ermine-bordered mantle, at four hundred and fifty.

Mrs. Murden asked when her dress would be sent home, as she resumed her

bonnet and cloak. She had lost nearly all interest in it, as Miss Stringer

pulled and puckered, let out, and let in, the nicely fitting basque. It

was not lost, perhaps, but swallowed up for the time in the contemplation

of so much elegance, which, come what would, she could never hope to

attain. And she colored, we grieve to record it, as she gave the lynx-eyed

Miss Elbert her address, so far away from the fashionable quarter. Perhaps

she saw the glance exchanged with Miss Replier as it was named.

Mrs. Murden anticipated the arrival of the purple silk with dread

forebodings. She hoped her husband would not be at home if the bill came

with it. "Making up" was a trifle when she sewed with Miss Johns, and

found her own trimmings. She knew that Mr. Murden had not calculated on

any extra demands, the dress once purchased. Besides, he had been losing

money all the week, and besides, she had anticipated the last dollar of

her month's allowance. She was more abstracted than ever as the time drew

near.

But it came, and there was no help for it--on Saturday evening, the night

of all others when Mr. Murden was sure to be at home. It was very, very

stylish; the trimming, a broad embossed velvet ribbon, matched the shade

to perfection. Mr. Murden wanted to have it tried on at once, and did

not think the absence of a chemisette detracted at all from the _tout

ensemble_.

He felt very much pleased with himself for having allowed his pretty wife

to have her own way, and gave her a kiss by way of approval to her taste,

which chaste matrimonial salute was interrupted by the reappearance of

their one servant, to say that the girl was waiting in the hall, as the

bill was receipted.

"Ah, the bill!" There it was, pinned conspicuously on the flap of the

basque. Mr. Murden detached it, and read the amount: "$13 29 cts. Received

payment, Ann Stringer."

"Good gracious, my dear, what a mistake! More than half as much as the

dress cost!"

Mrs. Murden caught at the straw. Perhaps it was a mistake, and the wrong

bill had been sent to her. But there was no such good fortune; there it

was, in Miss Elbert's own hard, angular handwriting, item by item. And Mr.

Murden paid it on the spot, for he never allowed a bill to be presented

twice; but he went out without returning to the parlor, and shut the

front door with a bang, to countermand the new overcoat which he had been

measured for that afternoon, and which he needed badly.

It was weeks before the purple silk was again alluded to by him, and

spring before Mrs. Murden could afford to purchase undersleeves and a

chemisette to wear with it. She walked to church in the mazarine blue

beside the shabby overcoat, with its threadbare sleeves and rusty collar,

a humbler and a better woman. It was only when Mr. Murden discovered what

a cure the surfeit of finery in Mrs. Stringer's fitting-room had wrought,

that he quite pardoned the folly and extravagance of the purple silk.

"For," as Mrs. Murden said, "there must always be a great many people

better dressed, spend what she would, so where was the use? And, after

all, comfort was the thing, not show."

The purple silk became quite a favorite eventually, for Mr. Murden did not

consider the lesson dearly bought at thirty-three dollars and twenty-nine

cents, since it was to last a lifetime.

[Illustration]

MANAGEMENT OF CANARY BIRDS.

BY request of a correspondent, we publish the following from Mrs. Hale's

"New Household Receipt-Book:"--

"Canary birds that are kept tame will breed three or four times in the

year. Towards the middle of March begin to match your birds, putting one

cock and hen into the breeding-cage, which should be large, so that the

birds may have room to fly and exercise themselves. Place two boxes or

little basket-nests in the cage, for the hen to lay her eggs in, because

she will sometimes have a second brood before the first are fit to fly,

leaving the care of them to the father bird, who feeds and brings them up

with much care, while she is sitting on her second nest of eggs. Whilst

your birds are pairing feed them, besides the usual seeds, with the yolks

of hard-boiled eggs, bread that has been moistened, or, if hard, grated

fine, and pounded almond-meat. When the young birds are to be fed, give

the same soft food, and be sure have it fresh every day; also furnish

the old birds with fresh greens, such as cabbage-lettuce, chickweed,

groundsel, &c. Give fresh water every day, and a clean bath every morning.

The hen lays, commonly, four or five eggs, and sits fourteen days. When

the young are hatched, leave them to the care of the old birds to nurse

and bring up till they can fly and feed themselves, which is, usually, in

about twenty days."

GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.

LESSON IV.

Fig. 36 shows the position of the two ellipses _a_ and _b_, which form

the bases of the ornamental sketch shown in Fig. 37. In like manner,

the half-ellipse, formed on the horizontal line in Fig. 38, is the

foundation of the sketch shown in Fig. 39. So also is the foundation of

a flower-petal, shown in Fig. 40, made clear by the analytical sketch

in Fig. 41, where the preliminary forms are shown drawn. Again, the

ornamental scroll in Fig. 42 is drawn by sketching a half-ellipse on the

horizontal line.

[Illustration: Fig. 36.]

[Illustration: Fig. 37.]

[Illustration: Fig. 38.]

[Illustration: Fig. 39.]

[Illustration: Fig. 40.]

The convolvulus flower and stem in Fig. 43 are also drawn by previously

sketching an ellipse to form the flower.

[Illustration: Fig. 41.]

[Illustration: Fig. 42.]

In sketching the flower in Fig. 44, the pupil must first draw an outline

which will take in the whole figure, making it as near the shape of the

sketch as the eye dictates. After the correct outline is formed, the

details must be drawn.

[Illustration: Fig. 43.]

[Illustration: Fig. 44.]

[Illustration: Fig. 45.]

[Illustration: Fig. 46.]

[Illustration: Fig. 47.]

[Illustration: Fig. 48.]

[Illustration: Fig. 49.]

The flower, stem, and leaves of the sketch in Fig. 45 must be drawn in,

the form being estimated chiefly by the eye; the stem ought to be put in

first, thereafter the distances between the leaves, and then filling in

the details. The ivy-leaf in Fig. 46 is to be drawn in the same way as

the last. The ivy-stem and leaves shown in Fig. 47 should be drawn by

first sketching out the length, form, and direction of the stem, then

ascertaining and marking the distances between the leaves, and filling in

the details as before. The leaf in Fig. 48, and the leaves in Fig. 49,

should next be copied. Fig. 50 is the leaf of the common "dock." It is to

be copied by first drawing an ellipse, thereafter filling in the details.

Fig. 51 is the stem and leaves of the "burdock." The sketch may be put in

at once by the assistance of the eye; it may be better, however, to draw a

circle for the part _a_, and an ellipse for that of _b_.

[Illustration: Fig. 50.]

[Illustration: Fig. 51.]

The scroll in Fig. 52 may be sketched by drawing an outline which would

touch all the parts of the design, thereafter filling up the details.

[Illustration: Fig. 52.]

[Illustration: Fig. 53.]

In drawing the sketch shown in Fig. 53, the pupil will have to trust

greatly to the eye. The stem should be drawn first, its length and

direction being carefully noted; the distances of the extremities of

the leaves from the stem should next be marked off; next, their general

outline, and thereafter the details. The proportions the parts bear to one

another must be attended to.

THE TRIALS OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.[2]

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

(Continued from page 227.)

CHAPTER VI.

THE efforts made by Perkins to find the residence of the stranger proved

unavailing. Half suspecting that Michael had deceived him, he returned to

the shop of Mr. Berlaps, and asked the direction anew. It was repeated

precisely as at first given.

"But I have been there."

"Well, wasn't she at that number?"

"No."

"I don't know anything about her, then. It often happens that these

sewing-girls deceive us as to their whereabouts."

Perkins turned away disappointed, but with his interest in the stranger

more than ever excited.

"Who and what can she be? and why do I feel so deep an interest in a

perfect stranger, who cannot possibly be anything to me?" were involuntary

questions which the young man endeavored, but in vain, to answer.

That night, as he sat alone in his room, his friend Milford came in and

found him with the miniature before alluded to in his hand.

"Whose sweet face is that? Bless me! But she is a lovely creature!" said

Milford, as his eye caught a glimpse of the picture which Perkins made a

movement to conceal. "Aha! Mr. Sobersides! have I found you out at last?"

But seeing that his remarks had the effect to disturb, even agitate his

friend, he said, in a changed tone--

"Forgive me if I have thoughtlessly jarred a string that vibrates

painfully! I knew not that you carried in your heart an unhealed wound."

"And yet I do, my friend. A wound that, I fear, will never cicatrize. Five

years have passed since I parted with the living original of this picture.

The parting was to be only for a few months. We have never met since, and

never will, in this world! The sea gives not up its dead!"

There was a solemn earnestness in the voice of Perkins that showed how

deeply the loss still affected him.

"To me," said his companion, after a pause, "it seems strange that you

should never have alluded to this subject, even to your nearest friend."

"I could not, Milford. The effort to keep my feelings under control has

been severe enough, without permitting myself to speak of the matter at

all. But now that it has been alluded to, I feel inclined to talk upon the

subject, if you have any desire to hear."

"I certainly have an anxious desire to hear," replied Milford.

Perkins shaded his face for a few moments with his hand, and sat silent

and thoughtful. He then gave, in a calm voice, the following narration:--

"You are aware that, when I came to this city to reside, a few years

since, I removed from Troy, New York. That is my native place--or, at

least, I had lived there from boyhood up, when I removed to Boston. It is

now about ten years since a man named Ballantine, who seemed to possess

considerable wealth, made his appearance in the place, accompanied by

his daughter, a young girl about thirteen years of age. He came from

New Orleans, where his wife had died, and where he was still engaged in

business. His object in coming north with his child was to secure for

her the advantages of a good seminary. He seemed to prefer Troy, and

after remaining there for some months, concluded to place his child in

the family of a newly-married man, whose wife, somewhat matronly in age

and in habits, happened to please his fancy, as a maternal guardian for

his child. After making every requisite arrangement in regard to her

education, he returned to New Orleans, from which city money to defray her

expenses was regularly transmitted. Once a year he came north to visit

her, and remained in our town for a few weeks.

"I happened to know the family in which Eugenia Ballantine was placed,

and became acquainted with her immediately. I was then but a boy,

though some four years her senior, yet old enough to feel for her, from

the beginning, something more than a mere fraternal regard. And this

sentiment was reciprocal. No place was so pleasant to me as that which was

cheered by her presence--no smile warmed my heart like her smile; and I

could always see her countenance brighten the moment I came where she was.

"Gradually, as year after year passed, and she still remained among us,

our early preference for each other, or rather our early affection,

assumed a more serious character. We loved each other; she was just

seventeen, and I twenty-one, when I ventured to tell her how deeply,

fervently, and purely I loved her. The formal announcement did not seem to

create surprise, or agitate her in the least.

"'I never doubted it,' was her innocent reply, looking me tenderly in the

face.

"'And do you love me as truly as I love you, Eugenia?' I asked.

"'Have you ever doubted it?' was her quiet response to this, also.

"From that moment I was bewilderingly happy. My family was one of wealth

and standing, and I immediately wrote to Mr. Ballantine, who, after

sufficient time to make inquiry in regard to the character and position

of his daughter's lover, returned a cordial assent to my proposal for her

hand. Thus far everything had gone on as smoothly as a summer sea. We

smiled sometimes together at the carping adage, 'The course of true love

never did run smooth,' and referred to our own case as a signal instance

of its falsity.

"During the summer succeeding our engagement, Mr. Ballantine did not come

on to the north. In the ensuing spring, Eugenia's term of instruction

closed at the seminary, after having been in Troy nearly five years. She

was a tall, beautiful woman, with a mind highly cultivated, and externally

accomplished in every respect. I was proud of her beauty and acquirements,

at the same time that I loved her with fervent devotion. Spring passed

away and summer came; with the advancing season her father arrived from

the south. He had not seen his child for two years, during which time she

had grown up into a mature and lovely woman. I could forgive the jealous

pride with which he would look into her face, and the constant tenderness

of his allusions to her when she was away from his side.

"'I do not think, Mr. Perkins,' he would say to me, sometimes, 'that I can

let you have my Eugenia, unless you will go south. I am sure I cannot part

with her again.'

"'Why not come north, Mr. Ballantine?' I would suggest.

"But he would shake his head as he made some disparaging remark in regard

to the north, and playfully insist that I must go with him to the sunny

south. It was about the first of September that I asked that our marriage

might take place at an early day. But the father shook his head.

"'Be content that the flower is to be yours. Do not become too eager to

pluck it from its parent stem. I must have my dear girl with me for at

least one winter. In the spring she shall be yours.'

"'Oh, no! Mr. Ballantine,' I said, in alarm, 'you are not going to rob me

of her for so long a time?' I spoke with warmth.

"'Rob you of her!' ejaculated the father, in seeming half indignation.

'You are unreasonable and very selfish, my dear boy! Here you have had her

for five years, and after a little while are to have her for life, and yet

are unwilling to give me even the boon of a few short months with my own

child. You are not generous!'

"I felt the rebuke, and confessed that I had been moved by too selfish

feelings.

"'If you think the time long,' he added, 'all you have to do is to take a

packet and come round--we shall welcome you with joy.'

"'That I shall no doubt be compelled to do, for I will not be able to

exist for five or six long months away from Eugenia.'

"'So I should suppose. Well, come along, and after I get you there, I will

see if I can't inoculate you with a love of Southern people, Southern

habits, and Southern manners. I am sanguine that you will like us.'

"'Well, perhaps so,' I said. 'But we will see.'

"The time for the departure of Mr. Ballantine and his daughter was set

for the first of October. The few remaining days passed on fleet wings,

and then, after completing the necessary arrangements, Eugenia left Troy

with her father for New York, thence to go by sea to her native city.

I accompanied them down the river, and spent two days with them in the

city, previous to the sailing of the ship Empress, in which they were to

embark. Our parting was tender, yet full of hope for a speedy meeting. I

had already made up my mind to visit New Orleans about January, and remain

there during the winter. Our marriage was then to be solemnized.

"After the sailing of the Empress, I returned to Troy, to await the news

of her safe arrival at New Orleans. I felt gloomy and desolate, and for

my uncompanionable humor received sundry playful jibes or open rebukes

from my friends. In about a week I began to examine the shipping lists of

the New York papers, in the hope of seeing some notice of the good ship

that contained my heart's best treasure. But no record of her having been

spoken at sea met my eyes as I scanned the newspapers day after day with

an eager and increasing hope, until four, five, and six weeks had passed

away. So much troubled had I now become, that I went down to New York to

see the owners of the ship.

"'Has the Empress arrived out yet?' I asked, on entering their

counting-room.

"'Not at the latest dates,' was the reply, made in a voice expressive of

concern.

"'Is not her passage a very long one?'

"'We should have had news of her arrival ten days ago.'

"'Has she been spoken on the passage?'

"'Never but once, and that after she was three days out.'

"'Is she a good ship?' I next inquired.

"'None better out of this port,' was the prompt answer.

"For ten days I remained in New York, eagerly examining each morning the

shipping lists, and referring to all the southern papers to which I could

get access. I met during that time but one reference to the Empress,

and that was contained in a paragraph alluding to her long passage, and

expressing great fears for her safety. This thrilled my heart with a

more palpable and terrible fear. On the next day but one, I met in a New

Orleans paper a farther allusion to her, coupled with the remark that a

suspicious-looking vessel, clipper-built, with a black hull, had been

seen several times during the past few weeks cruising in the Gulf, and

expressing a fear lest she had come across the Empress. I thought this

would have driven me beside myself. But why prolong this painful narration

by attempting to describe my feelings, as day after day, week after week,

and month after month passed, and no tidings came of the missing ship?

From the day I parted with Eugenia, I have neither seen her nor heard

from her. The noble vessel that bore her proudly away neither reached her

destination, nor returned back with her precious freight. All--all found a

grave in the dark depths of the ocean.

"It is a terrible thing, my friend, to be _thus_ reft of all you hold

dearest in life. If I had seen her touched by the hand of disease, and

watched the rose fading from her cheek, leaf after leaf falling away,

until death claimed at last his victim, I could have borne the severe

affliction with some degree of fortitude. Even if she had been struck down

suddenly at my side, there would have been something for the bruised heart

to rest upon. But to be taken from me thus! her fate shrouded in a most

fearful mystery! Oh! it is terrible!"

And the young man set his teeth firmly, and clenched his hands, in a

powerful struggle with his still o'ermastering feelings. At length he

resumed, in a calmer voice--

"No matter what terrors or violence attended her death--no matter how deep

she lies in the unfathomable sea, her spirit is with the blessed angels,

for she was pure and good. This ought to be enough for me. The agonies of

a fearful departure are long since over. And why should I recall them,

and break up afresh the tender wounds that bleed at the slightest touch?

Henceforth I will strive to look away from the past, and onward, in

pleasing hope, to that future time when we shall meet where there will be

no more parting."

"She must have been a lovely creature, indeed," said Milford, some minutes

after his friend had ceased, holding, as he spoke, the miniature in his

hand, and looking at it attentively.

"She was lovely as innocence itself," was the half abstracted reply.

"Although I never saw her, yet there is an expression in her face that

is familiar"--Milford went on to say--"very familiar; but it awakens, I

cannot tell why, a feeling of pain. This face is a happy face; and yet it

seems every moment as if it would change into a look of sadness--yea, of

deep sorrow and suffering."

"This may arise, and no doubt does, from the melancholy history connected

with her, that I have just related."

"Perhaps that is the reason," Milford returned, thoughtfully. "And yet I

know not how to account for the strangely familiar expression of her face."

"Did you ever see a picture in your life that had not in it some feature

that was familiar?" asked Perkins.

"Perhaps not," the friend replied, and then sat in mental abstraction

for some moments. He was not satisfied with this explanation, and was

searching his memory for the original of that peculiar expression which

had struck him so forcibly. He was sure that it did exist, and that he had

looked upon it no very long time before. But he tried in vain to fix it.

The impression floated still in his mind only as a vague idea.

"There! I have it!" he at length exclaimed, but with something of

disappointment in his tones. "I remember that the young seamstress we were

speaking of a few days ago, a single glimpse of whose face I obtained, had

that very look which strikes me as familiar in this picture. I thought I

had seen it somewhere else."

Perkins started, and looked surprised and agitated. But this was only

momentary.

"Now you speak of her," he said, calmly, "I remember that I always thought

of Eugenia when I saw her, which is no doubt the reason why I have felt

strongly interested for the young stranger, who has doubtless seen better

days. I related to you, I believe, the adventure I had near the bridge, in

which she was concerned?"

"You did. I wonder what in the world takes her over to Charleston so

often? She goes, I believe, almost every day, and usually late in the

afternoon. Several persons have spoken of her to me; but none seemed to

know her errand there, or to have any knowledge of her whatever."

"There is some mystery connected with her, certainly. This afternoon I

went in to make some inquiries in regard to her of Berlaps. I was just in

time to hear Michael, his salesman, give her some insulting language, for

which I rebuked the fellow sharply."

"Indeed! How did she take it?" said Milford.

"She did not seem to notice him, but glided quickly past, as he bent over

the counter towards her, and left the store."

"Did you see her face?"

"No. Her veil was closely drawn, as usual," answered Perkins.

"I don't know why it is, but there is something about this young female

that interests me very much. Have you yet learned her name?"

"It is Lizzy Glenn--so I was told at the clothing store for which she

works."

"Lizzy Glenn? An assumed name, in all probability."

"Very likely. It sounds as if it might be," said Perkins.

"If I were you," remarked the friend, "I would learn something certain

about this stranger; if for no other reason, on account of the singular

association of her, in your involuntary thought, with Miss Ballantine. She

may be a relative; and, if so, it would afford a melancholy pleasure to

relieve her from her present unhappy condition, for the sake of the one in

heaven."

"I have already tried to find her; but she was not at the number where

Michael said she resided."

"She may not have given him the right direction," said Milford.

"So he pretends to infer. But I would rather believe that Michael has

purposely deceived me than that she would be guilty of falsehood."

"If I see her again," said Milford, "I will endeavor, by all means, to

discover her place of residence."

"Do, if you would oblige me. It is my purpose not to lose sight of her

at our next meeting, be it where it may. Our present conversation has

awakened a deeper interest, and stimulated a more active curiosity. I am

no blind believer in chance, Milford. I do not regard this meeting with

the stranger as something only fortuitous. There is a Providence in all

the events of life, and I am now firmly assured that these encounters with

the seamstress are not merely accidental, as the world regards accidents,

but events in a chain of circumstances that, when complete, will result in

positive good. Of the nature of that good--as to who will be blessed or

benefited--I do not pretend to divine. I only feel ready to act my part in

the drama of life. I must and will know more about this stranger."

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII.

AS little Henry, after parting with his mother, hurried on by the side

of Mr. Sharp, who took his way directly across the bridge leading over

to Charleston, where he had left the chaise in which he had ridden from

Lexington, a handsome carriage, containing a mother and three happy

children, about the age of himself, Emma, and the sister who had just

died, drove rapidly by. The children were full of spirits, and, in their

thoughtless glee, called out gayly, but with words of ridicule, to the

poor, meanly clad child, who was hurrying on at almost a run beside the

man who had become his master. Their words, however, were heeded not by

the full-hearted boy. His thoughts were going back to his home, and to his

much-loved mother.

This incident is mentioned here, as a striking illustration of the

practical working of that system of grinding the poor, especially poor

females, by which many men make fortunes, or at least acquire far more

than a simple competence for life. That carriage belonged to Berlaps,

and those happy children were his. But how could he buy a carriage and

horses, and build fine houses, and yet not be able to pay more than the

meagre pittance for his work that the reader has seen doled out to

his half-starving workwomen? How could his children be fed and clothed

sumptuously every day, and the widow, who worked for him from early dawn

until the silent watches of midnight, not be able to get wholesome bread

and warm garments for her little ones, _unless he took more than his just

share_ of the profits upon his goods? If he could only afford to pay seven

cents for coarse shirts, and so on, in proportion, up through the entire

list of articles made, how came it that the profits on these very articles

enabled him to live in elegance, build houses, and keep his own carriage

and horses?

Such questions apply not alone to the single instance of Berlaps, here

introduced. They are pertinent in their application to all who add to

their profits for the purpose of a grand aggregate, at the expense of

reducing the pay, even a few cents, upon the hard toiling workwoman whose

slender income, at best, is barely sufficient to procure the absolute

necessaries of life. This cutting down of women's wages, until they

are reduced to an incompetent pittance, is a system of oppression too

extensive, alas! in this, as well as many other countries. It is one of

the quiet and safe means by which the strong oppress the weak--by which

the selfish build themselves up, cruelly indifferent to the sufferings of

those who are robbed of a just compensation for their labor. The record

of a conversation overheard between two of the class alluded to will

illustrate this matter. They were tailors--or, rather, what are sometimes

called slop-shop or clothing men. Let it not be supposed that tailors

alone are the oppressors of workwomen. In most of the employments at

which females engage, especially such as admit of a competition in labor,

advantage is taken of the eager demands for work, and prices reduced to

the lowest possible standard. In the eager scramble for monopolizing

more than a just share of custom, or to increase the amount of sales by

the temptation of extremely moderate rates, the prices of goods are put

down to the lowest scale they will bear. If, in doing this, the dealer

was content with a profit reduced in some proportion to the increase of

his sales, no one would have a right to complain. He would be free to

sell his goods at cost, or even below cost, if that suited his fancy.

Instead of this, however, the profits on his articles are often the same

that they were when prices were ten or fifteen per cent. higher, and he

reaps the advantage of a greatly increased sale, consequent upon the more

moderate rates at which he can sell. The evil lies in his cutting down

his operatives' wages; in taking off of them, while they make no party to

his voluntary reduction of prices, the precise amount that he throws in

to his customer as a temptation to buy more freely. But to the promised

dialogue:--

"Money don't come in hand-over-fist, as it ought to come," remarked Grasp,

of the flourishing firm of Grasp & Co., Merchant Tailors, of Boston, to

the junior partner of the establishment. "The nimble sixpence is better

than the slow shilling, you know. We must make our shears eat up cloth

a little faster, or we sha'n't clear ten thousand dollars this year by

one-third of the sum."

"Although that would be a pretty decent business these times."

"I don't call any business a decent one that can be bettered," replied

Grasp, contemptuously.

"But can ours be bettered?"

"Certainly!"

"How?"

"By selling more goods."

"How are we to do that?"

"By putting down the prices, and then making a confounded noise about it.

Do you understand?"

"I do. But our prices are very low now."

"True. But we may reduce them still further, and, by so doing, increase

our sales to an extent that will make our business net us beyond the

present income quite handsomely. But, to do this, we must cut down the

prices now paid for making up our clothes. In this way, we shall be able

to greatly increase our sales, with but a slight reduction upon our

present rates of profit."

"But will our workmen stand it? Our needle-women, particularly, work very

low now."

"They'll have to stand it!" replied Grasp; "most of them are glad to get

work at any price. Women, with half a dozen hungry mouths around them,

don't stand long to higgle about a few cents in a garment, when there

are so many willing to step in and take their places. Besides, what are

three or four cents to them on a vest, or pair of pants, or jacket? The

difference in a week is small and will not be missed--or, at the worst,

will only require them to economize with a little steadier hand; while

upon the thousands of garments we dispose of here, and send away to other

markets, it will make a most important aggregate on the right side of

profit and loss."

"There is no doubt of that," replied the partner, the idea of the

aggregate of three or four cents on each garment occupying his mind, and

obscuring completely, for a time, every other idea. "Well, I'm with you,"

he said, after a little while, "in any scheme for increasing profits.

Getting along at the rate of only some two or three thousand a year is

rather slow work. Why, there's Tights, Screw, & Co., see how they're

cutting into the trade, and carrying everything before them. Tights told

me that they cleared twenty thousand dollars last year."

"No doubt of it. And I'll make our house do the same before three years

roll over, or I'm no prophet."

"If we are going to play this cutting down game, we had better begin at

once."

"Oh, certainly. The sooner the better. But first, we must arrange a

reduced scale of prices, and then bring our whole tribe of workwomen and

others down to it at once. It will not do to hold any parley with them. If

we do, our ears will be dinned to death with trumped-up tales of poverty

and distress, and all that sort of thing, with which we have no kind of

concern in the world. These are matters personal to these individuals

themselves, and have nothing to do with our business. No matter what

prices we paid, we would have nothing but grumbling and complaint, if we

allowed an open door on that subject."

"Yes, there is no doubt of that. But, to tell the truth, it is a mystery

to me how some of these women get along. Very few make over two dollars

a week, and some never go beyond a dollar. Many of them are mothers,

and most of them have some one or more dependent upon them. Food, rent,

clothes, and fuel, all have to come out of these small earnings. By what

hocus-pocus it is done, I must confess, puzzles me to determine."

"Oh, as to that," returned Grasp, "it is, no doubt, managed well enough.

Provisions, and everything that poor people stand in need of, are very

cheap. The actual necessaries of life cost but little, you know. How far

above the condition of the starving Irish, or the poor operatives in the

manufacturing portions of England, is that of the people who work for us!

Think of that for a moment."

"True--very true," replied the partner. "Well," he continued, "I think we

had better put the screws on to our workwomen and journeymen at once. I am

tired of plodding on at this rate."

"So am I. To-night, then, after we close the store, we will arrange our

new bill of prices, and next week bring all hands down to it."

And they were just as good as their word. And it happened just as they

said--the poor workmen had to submit.

* * * * *

But we must return from our digression.

The child who, under the practical operation of a system of which the

above dialogue gives some faint idea, had to go out from his home at the

tender age of ten years, because his mother, with all her hard toil early

and late, at the prices she obtained for her labor, could not earn enough

to provide a sufficiency of food and clothes for her children--that child

passed on, unheeding, and, indeed, unhearing the jibes of the happier

children of his mother's oppressor, and endeavored, sad and sorrowful

as he felt, to nerve himself with something of a manly feeling. At

Charlestown, Mr. Sharp got into his chaise, and, with the lad he had taken

to raise, drove home.

"Well, here is the youngster, Mrs. Sharp," he said, on alighting from his

vehicle. "He is rather smaller and punier than I like, but I have no doubt

that he will prove willing and obedient."

"What is his name?" asked Mrs. S., who had a sharp chin, sharp nose, and

sharp features throughout; and, with all, rather a sharp voice. She had

no children of her own--those tender pledges being denied her, perhaps on

account of the peculiar sharpness of her temper.

"His name is Henry," replied her husband.

"Henry what?"

"Henry Gaston, I believe. Isn't that it, my boy?"

Henry replied in the affirmative. Mr. Sharp then said--

"You can go in with Mrs. Sharp, Henry. She will tell you what she wants

you to do."

"Yes, come along." And Mrs. Sharp turned away as she spoke, and retired

into the more interior portion of the house, followed by the boy.

"Mrs. Sharp will tell you what she wants you to do!" Yes, that tells

the story. From this hour the child is to become the drudge--the hewer

of wood and drawer of water--for an unfeeling woman, whose cupidity and

that of her husband have prompted them to get a little boy as a matter of

saving--one who could do the errands for the shop and the drudgery for

the house. There was no thought for, and regard towards, the child to be

exercised. He was to be to them only an economical little machine, very

useful, though somewhat troublesome at times.

"I don't see that your mother has killed you with clothes," said Mrs.

Sharp to him, after taking his bundle and examining it, and then surveying

him from head to foot. "But I suppose she thinks they will do well enough;

and I suppose they will. There, do you see that wooden pail there? Well,

I want you to take it and go to the pump across the street, down in the

next square, and bring it full of water."

Henry took the pail, as directed, and went and got the water. This was the

beginning of his service, and was all well enough, as far as it went. But

from that time he had few moments of relaxation, except what the night

gave him, or the quiet Sabbath. All through the first day he was kept busy

either in the house or shop, and, before night, had received two or three

reprimands from Mrs. Sharp, administered in no very affectionate tones.

When night came, at last--it had seemed a very long day to him--and he was

sent to bed alone, in the dark, he put off his clothes and laid himself

down, unable, as he did so, to restrain the tears and sobs. Poor child!

How sadly and yearningly did his heart go back to the narrow apartment,

every nook and corner of which were dear to him, because his mother's

presence made all sunshine there! And how earnestly did he long to be with

her again! But he soon sank away to sleep, from which he did not awaken

until the half angry voice of Mrs. Sharp chided him loudly for "lazing it

away" in bed until after sunrise. Quickly getting up and dressing himself,

he went down and commenced upon a new day of toil. First he had to bring

in wood, then to grind the coffee, afterwards to bring water from the

pump, and then to scour the knives for breakfast. When these were done,

he was sent into the shop to see if Mr. Sharp didn't want him, where he

found plenty to occupy his attention. The shop was to be sprinkled and

swept out, the counter to be dusted, and various other little matters to

be attended to, which occupied him until breakfast-time. After he had

finished this meal, Mrs. Sharp managed to find him plenty to do for some

hours, and then her husband laid out work for him, at which he devoted

himself all the rest of the day, except when he was wanted in the kitchen

for some purpose or other. And so it continued, day after day, from

morning until night. Not an hour's relaxation was allowed the child; and

if, from weariness or disheartened feeling, he sometimes lingered over a

piece of work, a severe scolding or some punishment from Mrs. Sharp was

sure to follow.

Thus things went on, every day adding to the cold of a rapidly advancing

northern winter. But Mrs. Sharp still thought, according to her first

conclusions in regard to Henry's clothes, that "they would do." They were

not very warm, it is true--that she could not help admitting. "But then

he is used to wearing thinner clothes than other children," she reasoned,

"or else his mother would have put warmer ones on him. And, any how,

I see no use in letting him come right down as a dead expense upon our

hands. He hasn't earned his salt yet, much less a suit of winter clothes."

But the poor little fellow was no more used to bearing exposure to the

chilling winds of winter than she had been when a child. He therefore

shrunk shiveringly in the penetrating air whenever forced to go beyond

the door. This did not fail to meet the eye of Mrs. Sharp--indeed,

her eye was rarely off of him when he was within the circle of its

vision--and it always irritated her. And why? It reproved her for not

providing warmer clothes for the child; and hurt her penurious spirits

with the too palpable conviction that before many weeks had passed they

would be compelled to lay out some money for "the brat," as she had

begun frequently to designate him to her husband, especially when she

felt called upon to complain of him for idleness, carelessness, dulness,

stupidity, wastefulness, uncleanliness, hoggishness, or some other one of

the score of faults she found in a child of ten years old, whom she put

down to work as steadily as a grown person.

A single month made a great change in his external appearance; such

a change as would have made him unfamiliar even to his mother's eye.

While under her care, his clothes, though poor, had always been whole

and clean--his skin well washed, and his hair combed smoothly. Now, the

color of his thin jacket and trowsers could scarcely have been told for

the dust and grease which had become imbedded in their texture. His skin

was begrimed until it was many shades darker, and his hair stood stiffly

about his head, in matted portions, looking as if a comb had not touched

it for weeks. One would hardly have imagined that so great a change could

have passed upon a boy in a few weeks as had passed over him. When he left

his mother's humble abode, there was something about him that instantly

attracted the eye of almost any one who looked at him attentively, and won

for him favorable impressions. His skin was pure and white, and his mild

blue eyes, with their expression of innocent confidence, looked every one

in the face openly. Now there was something repulsive to almost every one

about the dirty boy, who went moping about with soiled face and hands, a

cowed look, and shrinking gait. Scarcely any one seemed to feel a particle

of sympathy for him, either in or out of the house where he dwelt.

Time passed on, and New Year's day rapidly approached, that anxiously

longed-for time, to which Henry had never ceased to look forward since

he left his mother's presence. Every passing day seemed to render his

condition more and more uncomfortable. The air grew colder and colder,

and the snow lay all around to the depth of many inches. A suit of cloth

clothes had been "cooked up" for him out of an old coat and trowsers that

had long since been worn threadbare by Mr. Sharp. Thin though they were,

they yet afforded a most comfortable substitute for those their welcome

appearance had caused him to throw aside. But the pair of shoes he had

worn when he left Boston were still considered good enough, if thought

of at all, notwithstanding they gaped largely at the toes, and had been

worn so thin in the soles that scarcely the thickness of a knife-blade lay

between his feet and the snow-covered ground. In regard to sleeping, he

was not much better off. His bed was of straw, upon the floor, in a large,

unplastered garret, and but scantily supplied with covering. Here he would

creep away alone and in the dark every night, on being driven away to bed

from crouching beside the warm kitchen fire after his daily toil was done,

and get under the thin covering with all his clothes on. There he would

lie, all drawn up into a heap to keep warm, and think of his mother, and

long for New Year's day to come, until sleep would lock up his senses in

unconsciousness.

At last it was New Year's eve, but the poor child had heard no word about

going home. He could sleep but little through that night for thinking

about the promised return to his mother on the next day, and for the dread

he felt lest Mr. Sharp had forgotten, or would disregard his promise. The

bright morning of another new year at length arose, clear and piercingly

cold, and Henry crept early from his bed, and went down stairs to make the

fires as usual. When Mr. Sharp at length made his appearance, he looked

wishfully and inquiringly into his face, but no notice whatever was taken

of him, except to give him some order, in the usual short, rough tone in

which he always addressed him.

"Ain't I going home to see my mother to-day, sir?" was on his tongue, but

he feared to utter it.

After breakfast he watched every movement of Mr. Sharp, expecting each

moment to see him go out and get the chaise ready to take him to Boston.

But no such idea was in the mind of the thoughtless, unfeeling master.

Nine, ten, and eleven o'clock came and went, and the poor child's anxious

heart began to fail him. Several times he was on the point of recalling to

the mind of Mr. Sharp his promise to his mother that he should be sent

home at New Year's, but as often his timid heart caused him to shrink

back. At last dinner-time came, and yet nothing was said, nor were there

any indications that the boy was to go home. The meal passed, and then

Henry was directed to go on some errand about a mile away.

"But ain't I going home to-day, Mr. Sharp?" said he, with a sudden,

despairing resolution, looking up with tearful eyes, as he spoke.

"What's that?" eagerly asked Mrs. Sharp, coming forward. "What's that, ha?"

The frightened boy slunk back, and stood with his eyes upon the floor.

"Go where, did he say, Mr. Sharp?"

"Go to see his mammy, to be sure!" replied the hatter, in a half-sneering

tone of surprise.

"His mammy, indeed! And pray what put that into his head, I should like to

know?"

"Mr. Sharp told mother he would send me home to see her on New Year's

day," the child ventured to say, in explanation.

"Clear out! Off with you, Mr. Assurance!" exclaimed Sharp, in an angry

voice, at this, half raising his hand to strike the lad. "How dare you!"

Henry started back trembling, at once conscious that all hope of seeing

her he had so pined to meet for many long and weary days of suffering and

privation, was at an end. Slowly he left the house, shrinking in the cold

blast, and went on his errand through the hard frozen snow.

"Did any one ever hear such impudence!" ejaculated Mrs. Sharp, in

breathless surprise. "Sent home on New Year's day to his mammy! A pretty

how-do-you-do, upon my word! the dirty little ill-conditioned brat!"

"I believe, now I come to think of it," said Sharp, "that I did say

something of the kind to his mother, just to pacify her, though I had no

thought of doing it; and, indeed, I don't suppose she cares any great

deal about seeing him. She didn't look as if she could keep soul and body

together long."

"If she wanted to see him so dreadful bad, why didn't she keep him at home

with her, tied all the while to her apron-string?" said the unfeeling

woman.

"She would have had to work a little harder to have done that. No doubt

she was glad enough to get rid of the burden of supporting him."

"Well, all that I can say is, that any mother who is not willing to work

to take care of her children, don't deserve to see them."

"So say I," returned the husband.

"And as to Henry's going home, I wouldn't hear to any such thing. He'd not

be a bit too good to trump up any kind of stories about not being treated

well, so as to prevail upon her not to let him come back. I know just how

boys like him talk when they get a chance to run home. Even when they do

come back, they're never worth a cent afterwards."

"Oh, no! As to his going home, that is out of the question this winter,"

replied Sharp. "If his mother cares about seeing him, she'll find her way

out here."

With a sadder heart than ever did poor Henry grope his way up into the

cold garret that night, with but one thought and one image in his mind,

the thought of home and the image of his mother. He dreamed of her all

night. He was at home. Her tender voice was in his ear, and his head

rested on her bosom. She clothed him in warmer garments, and set him

beside her at the table, upon which was tempting food. But morning came

at last, and he was awakened from visions of delight to a more painful

consciousness of his miserable condition by the sharp, chiding voice of

his cruel mistress. Slowly, with stiffened limbs and a reluctant heart,

did he arise, and enter upon the repulsive and hard duties of another day.

As he had not been permitted to go home, his next consolatory thought was

that his mother would come out at once to see him. This hope he clung to

day after day, but he clung to it in vain. It mattered not that, every

time the shop door opened when he was in it, he turned with a quickened

pulse to see if it were not his mother, or that he would pause and listen,

when back in the house, to hear if the strange voice that came suddenly

from the shop, were not the voice of her he so longed to see. She came

not; nor was any word from her brought to him.

And thus passed the whole of the severe month of January, the long and

cold winter adding greatly to his other causes of suffering.

(To be continued.)

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 2: Entered according to Act of Congress, by T. B. PETERSON,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of

Pennsylvania.]

[Illustration]

LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:

BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL, AND

HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN.

EDITED BY HORACE MAYHEW.

THE FOURTH LETTER LEFT.

(_Dated March 9th._)

SHOWING WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF SOME MORE OF HER SCHOOLFELLOWS.

IN my last letter, I forgot to tell you about the two Miss Suetts, Emilia

and Julia. They are fat, and round, and heavy, like (Meggy says) a couple

of yeast dumplings. Their parents are in India, and they never go home.

No one cares much about that, however; for they are great _teazers_, and

the most dreadful _tell-tales_. But they are never without preserves and

pickles of some kind, and have such delicious pomegranates and guava

jelly sent to them, in such large blue jars, that, after all, I doubt

if any two girls would be more missed from the school than the two

Suetts--disagreeable things as they are. You should only taste their

tamarinds, Nell!

There is also Ada Steele, the poetess, who writes verses, some of which

have actually appeared in print (in the "Family Page," I think), and you

cannot imagine how conceited she is about it. I am told she knows every

line of poetry that ever was written. She is such a dreadful plague, that

I never go near her if I can avoid it. You cannot ask her what's the day

of the month, but she'll give you a hundred lines of poetry right off from

some poet or other. Meggy calls her "a tap of poetry," which once turned

on, will go on running till you stop it. Byron is her especial favorite,

and she always calls him "dear." His works are not allowed in the college;

but Ada Steele has got a copy of them, and she puts it under her pillow

every night.

But the girl I dislike most is Susan Carney. Fancy a tall, thin creature,

with hair the color of blotting-paper, and with eyes like an owl's, that

cannot look at you, and you have her standing before you. She is the

"_sneak_" of the school; and moves about like a cat. When we are talking

secrets, and turn round, there she is--pretending to look for something,

but in reality listening. Or, if a girl has comfortably got one of James's

delicious novels inside her grammar, and looks up to see that it is all

right and snug, there is Carney's cold, fishy eye sure to be fixed

sideways upon her. Meggy says her eye is so sharp, she's confident that,

like a needle's, _it would cut thread_. We cannot have a bit of fun but

Miss Carney is sure to spoil it. We cannot read or write a letter in

class without her knowing it. We cannot talk to the masters, or have a

comfortable bit of gossip about the filthy dinners and the lady principal,

without our being requested, before the day is half over, "to step to Mrs.

R.'s boudoir," after which you will see the girls coming back with red

eyes and burning cheeks.

The oddest thing is, no one is sure that it is Carney who tells, though

every one is convinced that she does. She manages it so cleverly that

she is never found out. We tease her as much as we dare, calling her

"policeman," "spy," "tell-tit," and everything we can think of; but it

takes no effect upon her. She turns a little pale, talks morality in a

whining tone, and leaves it to Mrs. Rodwell to redress her wrongs.

Another curious thing is the way in which she wheedles a secret out of

you. Though on your guard, she flatters and fawns, and coaxes and lectures

till you have parted with your secret long before you are aware of it.

You would imagine she was chloroform, so cleverly does she extract it,

without the smallest consciousness on your part. The fact is, _she crawls

over you_, Nelly; and as for talking, it is my firm belief she would talk

a letter out of a letter-box. She is exceedingly neat and clean, with not

a single hair out of bounds; and, somehow, her dresses do not rustle, nor

her shoes creak, as other persons' do. She is down upon you, like a shower

at the horticultural _fête_, before you have time to run for it. What with

her crawling, and her sleek appearance, and her gliding so noiselessly

about the room, she looks like a big lizard, or some slippery serpent,

that was advancing towards you; and I always feel inclined to scream, or

to put up my parasol, when she comes near me, to frighten her away.

Nor is she much a favorite with the remainder of the school. The little

girls bribe her with oranges and cakes, and lend her small sums of money,

to prevent her telling. But the big girls know it's no use, and waste

nothing upon her; they know well enough she will take the bribe one

minute, and go and _blab_ the next. The governesses are even afraid of

her, and begin talking of the weather whenever she approaches.

But what shocks me the most, Nelly, is that she is righteous. She moans

and groans, and turns up the whites (or the yellows, rather) of her

eyes, and is _so_ pious at church, and is always inveighing against

"the shameful wickedness" of the school. Then she reads hymns, and is

embroidering a _prie-dieu_ for her godpapa, who is something in the

church, and exceedingly rich; and she writes such insufferably long

sermons, twice the length of anybody else's; and after service she begs

to see Mrs. Rodwell, _pour confier son cœur_ as she calls it, but we all

know what that means, for as sure as plum-pudding on Sunday, some one is

sure to be punished that same afternoon! I only wish we could find her

out in anything. I really believe the entire school would rush up to the

lady principal, and tell of her. But Miss Carney is far too cautious to be

caught tripping! They tell me she even sleeps with her eyes open.

Let us turn from this hateful creature (I can't help hating her, Nelly) to

some more agreeable subject. I will not tire you with descriptions of Miss

Smiffel, the butcher's daughter, or Miss Embden, the baker's daughter,

except to tell you that they have a sad time of it, and are called rare

ugly names, because their papas happen to be butchers and bakers, just as

if they could help it. I need not tell you, either, about Lizzy Spree,

a little, merry, fidgety, laughing thing, with black eyes, who is the

romp--the "bad girl" of the school. She is always playing tricks, making

apple-pie beds, or sewing up the tops of our stockings, or hiding the

dancing-master's shoes, or tying the cat's tail to the parrot's leg, or

filling Miss Blight's bed with bread-crumbs and cockchafers, or breaking a

window, or tearing her dress every day. The consequence is, she is always

in punishment; but she cares no more for it than a duck cares for an

umbrella. She spends all her pocket-money on crackers and detonating balls

and valentines, and is always going to be expelled; only Mrs. Rodwell

relents, and gives her "one chance more." The maid fell down stairs with

the soup-tureen yesterday, from the fact of her strewing the kitchen-steps

with marbles and orange-peel. It was too bad. We had to go without soup in

consequence.

But, Nelly, you would quite love little Jessie Joy; she is the wee'st

little thing you ever saw. You might hang her to your _châtelaine_. You

would declare that she was not more than ten, and yet she was sixteen last

birthday. She has a rosy round face, and little flaxen curls, exactly like

a pretty doll, if you could only keep her still for a moment to look at

her. She plays about the room like the sun on a looking-glass, and her

whole body seems to quiver with light. I defy you to catch her, unless,

perhaps, it was in the dark. We call her "pet" and "tiny."

I don't know how it is Jessie cannot be taught; and yet she is far from

being an idiot, for the little thing understands; nor is she stupid, for

she is quick enough to outwit us all. Still, they have never been able

to teach her anything. Her eyes (I don't know what color they are) fly

away like butterflies directly you attempt to catch them, and settle on

all places but on her book. We think she can read, but no one is sure of

it. If told to learn, she pouts her lips like cherries, until you feel

inclined to bite them; and her little head swings to and fro, Nelly, like

the bells on a fuchsia when set a dancing by the wind. The lady principal

cannot scold her. The utmost she can do is to call her to her in an angry

tone, when she takes up her little head in her two hands as if it were

a bowl of milk, and kisses her gently on the forehead. This is all her

punishment; and the little culprit runs back into her place as quick as a

rabbit.