"Why, no, father. I've never been able to conquer my aversion toward

him, since he vilified Annie's character, and caused her flight," said

she, wondering at her father's question.

"Then you do not wish to marry him?"

"Heavens! no."

"All right then. I'll see that you don't. Now run away, child."

"Dr. Prague, I'm astonished at you," exclaimed Mrs. Prague, in her most

towering style, as the door closed after Kate, "thus to pamper to the

follies of your offspring. Young people never know what is for their

interest. They should be held in perfect subjection to their parents'

wishes, and taught to obey their slightest commands."

"Very pretty, Mrs. Prague," remarked the doctor, carelessly, as his wife

paused for breath.

Whether he alluded to her logic or her face, we cannot say.

"Had Sheldon been discreet and saved his fortune," she resumed, "he

would have been the proper man for our Catherine."

"But he blundered and fell in love with Annie Evalyn."

"Faugh! don't mention that minx to me," said Mrs. Prague, with a sneer;

"but it must be confessed, Sheldon has very limited knowledge of

business, or he might have saved a part of his fortune at least. My

son-in-law, Esq. Hardin, by his alacrity and far-seeing judgment,

secured himself from material loss in the great land crash."

"Humph! quite as likely by his cunning and artful machinations."

"Dr. Prague, I'm astonished to hear you detract from the worth and

honesty of your son-in-law, even in our private conversation."

"I may repeat here what I've of late heard broached in public places,

that Hardin involved Sheldon in the speculations with the intention to

effect his ruin."

"Such groundless insinuations are worthy their originators," said Mrs.

Prague, in an angry, vehement tone.

"May be time will render us all wiser than we are now, madam."

"I hope it will," she answered, significantly, as with a lofty air she

rose from the luxurious sofa, and remarked, "I will now go down to

Marion's, and pass an hour in conversation with my son-in-law."

"Do so, madam," said the doctor, "and as you pass the office door, send

Kate up here with my cigar-case, if you please. It lies on the table

there."

And the majestic Mrs. Dr. Prague rustled her brocades into the private

parlor of her daughter Marion, just as the latter was hushing the

shrieks of a chubby little boy, who seemed nearly frantic with affright.

"What is the matter of him, Marion?" asked she.

"His father kissed him in his sleep and woke him. You know he always

screams at sight of Lawrence."

"Strange he should be afraid of his father; but he will doubtless get

over it as he grows older."

"I think it increases upon him."

"Is not Lawrence at home?" inquired Mrs. Prague.

"He is in the office with Mr. Sumpter, I believe," was the reply.

"Would you think it, Marion? Your father is opposed to our Catherine's

marrying Mr. Sumpter."

"Indeed, I do not wonder. I do not consider him a proper person for any

young lady of taste and refinement to marry."

"Why so? Lawrence extols him."

"Does he?"

The child had grown quiet, and now slept in its mother's arms. As her

son-in-law did not appear, Mrs. Prague soon retired.

Hardin was having a stormy scene with Sumpter. The latter had of late

grown bold and impetuous. Admitted in confidence to all Hardin's

nefarious schemes and plottings, he gained a power over the wicked man,

and began to exercise it with arbitrary sway. He was a reckless,

unprincipled gambler, and, having recently encountered heavy losses,

came with a bold demand on Hardin's purse.

"You are getting to use me shabbily," he exclaimed, angrily; "with all

Sheldon's fortune tucked away in your pocket, to say nothing of--you

know what--you refuse me so small a favor as a cool thousand. Come, hand

over, or, by Heaven, I'll inform against you!"

"You can hardly do that, without marring your own good fame," said

Hardin, ironically; "and I know you would shrink from doing that."

"None of your sneers, Hardin," growled Sumpter, fiercely; "will you give

me the money?"

"No!" thundered Hardin, with an oath; "you shall not ride rough-shod

over me in this way. Now begone from my sight!"

"Very well; good-evening, Esq. Hardin," said Sumpter, with a savage,

revengeful leer on his countenance, as he went out, slamming the door

spitefully behind him.

Hardin was alarmed, after the wretch was gone, as he reflected how far

he was in the monster's power, and in what ruin he might involve him if

he chose.

CHAPTER XVII.

"Now mark him in the tempest hour,

Will he be calm, or will he quail

Before the fury of its power?

----Read ye the tale."

There are those that know not the extent of their powers till they are

called forth and tasked to the utmost by trial and misfortune. Such an

one was Frank Sheldon. Disposed to ease and quiet in the hour of

prosperity, when adversity came, it aroused him at once to vigorous,

decisive action. Though bereft of love and fortune at a blow, as it

were, his manly spirit did not cower and sink beneath the strokes; that

he suffered is true, but he bore up bravely under the adverse fortune.

He was proud, as all great minds are, and the blight so publicly cast on

Annie Evalyn's good repute, cut him to the quick; but he hoped she might

be able to refute the aspersions cast on her by Sumpter, for he was loth

to think ill of a being that had appeared so amiable and exalted in her

nature, so lofty in soul and intellect, and was beautiful as an angel in

person. But, instead of this, she fled by night from the scene of her

confusion, leaving behind all her effects, and no clue to her intended

course. Did not this wear the appearance of guilt? Still he did not

condemn her, but learned from Dr. Prague the place of her former

residence, and wrote a letter, assuring her of a continuance of

affection, and asking an explanation of Sumpter's strange tale. No

answer was returned,--indeed, the letter never reached its destination;

but this Sheldon did not know, and was forced to regard the silence as

another proof of her cupidity.

With this view of the matter he found it less difficult to subdue his

passion. He could not, _would_ not love a guilty, artful thing.

And now fell another blow in quick succession; his land investment

proved worthless, and at a sweep his fortune went past power to recover.

Hardin expressed much regret, but Sheldon could not avoid noticing that

he clutched at every opportunity to save his own affairs, and exposed

him to the most uncertain hazards.

Old Dr. Prague loudly bewailed Sheldon's ill luck, and declared he would

never forgive himself for having advised the young man to embark in the

cursed speculations. But Sheldon begged him not to be unnecessarily

distressed, as it was no fault of his that the schemes proved abortive;

and the good doctor finally coincided, and settled down to his oranges

with tolerable serenity.

Sheldon did not long remain inactive; he left those scenes amid which

misfortune had overtaken him, and repaired to the eastern cities, where

he readily found employ in an extensive printing establishment, and

applied himself assiduously to his duties. In a short time he was

admitted to the firm, and became assistant editor of a popular magazine.

This was an occupation congenial to his tastes, as it afforded him not

only an opportunity of writing, but of reading, and becoming intimately

acquainted with the polite literature of the day.

He was one day in the editorial sanctum, examining a quantity of

manuscripts lately received, when one, in a clear, delicate female hand,

attracted his eye. There was something in the light, fairy tracery which

instantly riveted his attention. He read it through; "Woodland Winne,"

was the signature,--a _nomme de plume_, of course. He wondered who could

be the fair authoress of this beautiful production.

While thus occupied in conjectures, a gentleman entered the apartment.

"Here, Wilberforce, do you know this MS.?" said Sheldon, holding it

toward him.

"O, yes!" answered the gentleman, glancing it over; "beautiful hand, is

it not?"

"Yes; but who is the writer?"

"O, I don't know that! I have had several communications from the same

pen in the last three months, all exquisite in their style and diction,

and eliciting warm commendation from the literary press."

"And cannot you discover the fair unknown?"

"No, I have addressed her under her _nomme de plume_, and desired her

true name remitted, in confidence, if she objected to publicity; but she

has never seen fit to gratify my curiosity."

"Strange one so deserving should shun notoriety," remarked Sheldon.

"So it seems to me," said Wilberforce, who was the senior editor; "but I

came in to call you to the Literary Association; it meets at three

o'clock. Come, let's be off, or we shall be too late;--these MSS. we can

look over to-morrow."

They closed the office and went out in company. But Sheldon forgot

himself several times in the debate, as a semblance of that delicate

manuscript, enwrit with those clear, sparkling fancies, rose often

before his mental vision.

There seemed to be a spell about it, to charm and lead captive his

imagination.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"The hour of vengeance strikes,--hark to the gale!

As it bursts hollow through the rolling clouds.

Such is the hand of Heaven!"

It came at length, swift, avenging justice; awful in might, and none

could resist its angry hand.

The "pestilence that walketh at noonday," swept over the fair, young

cities of the west, and thousands fell victims to the remorseless

destroyer.

O, Cholera! great be the name of him, who, from the mazes of scientific

lore, shall call a power to rob thee of thy terrors, thou scourge of

mankind!

Lawrence Hardin returned from a southern trip to find his house left

desolate; wife and child both in their hastily-covered graves. He shook

with agony, and scarce was the first frantic burst of grief subsided,

ere the officers of justice entered his mansion and declared him their

prisoner. He glared at them wildly.

"What mean you," he asked, "by this untimely intrusion in the house of

death?"

"Prepare to accompany us to the court-room immediately," was the answer,

"to answer to a charge of swindling and forgery preferred by one John

Sumpter, who is also arrested and undergoing examination."

Hardin grew ashy-pale at these words.

"The villain!" he muttered; "so he has betrayed me. Carry me where you

will, Mr. Officer. Life is a curse to me henceforth."

Thus speaking, he resigned himself passively to the custody of the

sheriffs. They conducted him instantly to the court-house, and placed

him in the prisoner's box beside Sumpter, who cowered and moved away at

his approach. Hardin threw a look of envenomed hatred on the wretch, and

sat down. When the charges were read he merely bowed; and when asked

what he had to plead, replied: "Nothing, only that they would hang him

up as soon as convenient, and thus end his misery." He was placed in

jail with Sumpter, and several other defaulters, to await a final trial

at the autumn sessions.

And the pestilence swept on; young and old, rich and poor, all fell

before its blasting power. In the brief space of twenty-four hours, Dr.

Prague was bereft of wife and children, and left a poor, lone man, in

his solitary mansion. Where should the mourner turn for consolation? At

this crisis, he thought of his old friend, Parson Grey, and determined

to quit the city for a few weeks, till the epidemic should have

subsided, and make him a visit. He was just the calm, holy spirit he

needed to solace his afflictions; and accordingly a letter was

despatched, which brought a speedy reply, sympathizing in his distress,

and urgently inviting him to join them as soon as possible.

He visited Hardin before departing, informed him of the death of all his

family, and kindly inquired if he could be of any service to the

imprisoned man.

"No!" was the answer; "and I don't know what you came here at all for.

What do I care if your wife and brats _are_ dead? So is _my_ wife dead,

and _my_ child, and I hope soon to be. The greatest favor you can bestow

is to get out of my sight."

The doctor gazed on the hardened wretch with pity, and turned away. He

left the city in July, and the first of September the trials came on.

The large court-house was densely thronged to hear the pleas and

decision in the case of the extensive forgeries and bank frauds of

Hardin and Sumpter. There could be little doubt of the verdict, as the

evidence against the parties was powerful and conclusive, and none

seemed so regardless of the issue as the prisoners themselves. With

hard, stoical faces, they confronted the jury, as they returned from

their deliberations and resumed their seats on the platform.

Without, the elements were raging in their wildest, most terrific fury.

Broad flashes of lightning at intervals illuminated the crowded hall,

and glared on the sea of upturned human faces, marked with every variety

and shade of passion and feeling. The thunder roared and reverberated

through the heavens with tremendous crashings, as the judge arose, and,

turning toward the jury, asked, in solemn accents, if they had agreed

upon a verdict.

They had.

"Are the prisoners at the bar guilty, or not guilty?"

There came a blinding flash, followed by a deafening thunder-bolt, as

the foreman rose and pronounced the word, "_Guilty_."

Smothered screams at this moment issued from various parts of the

assembly. The building was struck and on fire. Terrible confusion

ensued. Frantic cries and shrieks mingled with the bellowings of the

storm without, rendering the scene awful beyond description. All rushed

pell-mell for the street. The crackling flames burst through the broad

windows on the side of the judges' platform, rolling a dense volume of

smoke and stifling heat into the interior of the building. In the wild

excitement and terror, the prisoners were forgotten. They stood in the

box where they had received sentence. The flames were rapidly

approaching them. Sumpter turned a glance full of hatred and vengeance

on Hardin. "You swore revenge on Sheldon," said he, "and I helped you

accomplish your iniquitous designs. You refused a paltry sum when I

asked it, and then I swore revenge on you, and this is the way I finish

it."

Hardin drew a revolver from his breast; "And this is the way I finish

mine," he said; and, taking aim, lodged a ball in the heart of Sumpter.

Then, springing quick as lightning over the box, he rushed among the

crowd and gained the street. The intense darkness favored his flight,

and, hurrying on, he gained the levees, secreted himself in the hold of

a boat, and had the good fortune to find himself floating down the river

in the morning.

CHAPTER XIX.

"Go forth, thou spirit proud and high,

Upon thy soaring way;

Plume all thy pinions for the sky,

And sing a glorious lay."

As the young sapling of the forest bends and sways in the fury of the

blast, and, when it is passed, rises and shakes the weight of rain-drops

from its pliant boughs, and stands stronger, higher, more beautiful than

before, so Annie Evalyn, when the passion-storm had spent its fury, rose

a purer, loftier being, with a heart firm and free, and a soul elevated

and sublime in its aspirations. There might be traces to tell the

tempest had been a wild one; a paleness on the brow; the lips thinned

and slightly compressed; the eyelids sometimes drooping their long

lashes over the dark, liquid eyes, and a tear stealing silently over the

marble cheek; or a slight shudder for a moment convulsing the slender

frame, as if memory painted a picture the soul shrank from contemplating.

Yet these light tokens of what _had_ been, heightened the sublime beauty

of what was _now_. Annie was no longer a child in the world's lore of

experience. Sorrow and suffering are swift teachers. They unfold and

perfect the powers with astonishing rapidity. Annie Evalyn was a woman;

with a quick eye and ready judgment to detect and discern the workings

of that great mystery, the human heart, yet simple and child-like in her

manners, as of old.

"Bless it, but this is an agreeable surprise!" exclaimed Aunt Patty, as

Annie entered the little, rock-built cottage, on a clear, cool evening

in early autumn, with a bright smile beaming on her lovely features;

"why, I didn't once think of your comin' to-night, hinney, bein' as you

were here last Saturday. But it does my old heart good to know you

remember your poor, ignorant aunty, when you are among your little

scholars and so many kind friends at the Parsonage."

"O, I never forget you, aunty!" said Annie, returning the old lady's

embrace; "this humble cot and these old Scraggiewood oaks are very dear

to my heart."

"I'm glad to hear it, dear; it is a homely spot, to be sure, but it has

sheltered us well. But what is doing at the parson's, love? All well and

happy?"

"Yes, and Aunt Rachel sent you this little box of wax-candles. She said

you loved to read evenings, sometimes, and these gave such a clear,

steady light, it would do your old eyes good to behold it."

"The dear, kind-hearted creature!" said Aunt Patty, receiving the

package and brushing away a grateful tear. "Sure she is a perfect

Christian if there is one on earth."

"O, we have some news at the vicarage, aunty! The old gentleman, in

whose family I resided during my stay in the western country, has sent a

letter to Parson Grey, narrating a sad tale of misfortunes, and

expressing a desire to visit him ere long. It seems the cholera has been

committing frightful ravages through those sections, and his entire

family have been swept away in the brief space of one week. And, O,

aunty, I dread to go on!"

"Let me hear, child."

"You recollect the man, Sumpter, who spoke those dreadful words in a

social company?"

"Yes, yes, didn't I have him here, in this very room, on a night long

ago--and Hardin too? Ay, dark, wicked schemes, and worse than those,

showed in their cups. But go on, love."

"Well, they have been arrested for forgery and found guilty. The sequel

of the affair Mr. Grey received last evening, in an extra sent him by

Dr. Prague. It appears the verdict was rendered during a violent storm,

which struck the court-house, and, in the confusion that followed,

Hardin shot Sumpter and escaped."

"O, shocking!" exclaimed Aunt Patty, with horror depicted on her

countenance. "Ay, God's vengeance is sure to overtake the wicked sooner

or later."

"We look for the arrival of Dr. Prague every day. How do you think he

will meet me, aunty?"

"How should he meet you, child, but with shame and confusion of face?"

"But he was always kind to me, aunty."

"Well, he didn't do right never to send a letter to inquire after your

fate, or forward your clothes and wages."

"He might have been prevented by his wife. I know she was a violent

woman and had ever a dislike to me."

"Nothing should prevent a man from doing what is just and right, Annie,"

said Aunt Patty, in an inflexible tone; "but it is like you to think the

best of people's failings, and I acknowledge it is a good way. Now,

hinney, I'll make a dish of tea, and we'll have a brimming bowl of

Crummie's sweet milk, with some of your favorite berries. I'm so glad!

It seems a Providence that I gathered some this mornin'. I'll slab up

some batter cakes; you know I'm pretty good at them; and just you light

one of Rachel's candles--though it is hardly dark yet, it will make the

table look so cheerful-like."

Annie did as directed, and they soon sat down to the simple meal. Aunt

Patty's face was redolent with good-humor and cheerfulness, as she

dished out the largest, ripest berries, and nicest browned cakes for her

darling.

"Do you write your pretty stories and poetries for that city magazine

now, hinney?" she asked, as they discussed their meal.

"Yes, aunty, and I have brought several numbers for your perusal. I

still want to be famous, aunty, though I once thought I didn't care for

anything more in this world; but that was in a foolish time, and is past

by now. Mr. Grey says it is better to be good than great; but if one can

be both, why, better still, I fancy. And I know I feel happy when I'm

teaching those poor little children to read and love each other, and

grow up to be blessings to their parents. This is doing good, Mr. Grey

says; but this restless heart of mine is not filled, is not content. It

feels there are other faculties, lying dormant and unemployed. The

editors of this magazine have offered two prizes,--one for the best

tale, the other for the best poem,--and I'm going to strive to win them.

The money would make you very comfortable for life, aunty; and you have

done so much for me I want to repay some of your kindness if I can."

"Dear heart!" said the old woman, tearfully, "what have I ever done for

you that is not already ten-fold repaid by seeing your bright eyes, and

feeling that you love your old aunty?"

"But I'm not wholly disinterested, aunty; don't you see I covet the fame

that would follow should I succeed? That's for me; the money for you.

Now kiss me good-night, and I'll to my cot to dream a subject for my

labor."

"God bless and prosper you, my darling!" said the fond aunt.

CHAPTER XX.

"It was a face one loved to gaze upon,

For calm serenity of thought was there.

The eyes were soft and gentle in their glance,

And looked with trusting artlessness in yours.

Placid her mien, like that of lofty souls

That after storm sink down in tranquil rest."

Once more is winding on the spring-time of the year, and once more is

Annie Evalyn away from the old forest home. Her soft, bird-like tones

echo through the sumptuous drawing-rooms of Dr. Prague's stately

mansion, in that fair western city. During his visit to the east the

preceding summer, he had succeeded in coaxing her away from Mr. Grey and

her aunt, to pass a few months with him, and cheer and enliven his

lonesome abode.

"No one could do this so well as Annie," he said, "always his pet and

darling; though his foolish, yielding old heart had been overruled by

others to treat her with wicked neglect, for which he now cursed

himself, and wanted opportunity to make amends."

So Annie kissed them all round, and went with him to pass a few months.

She had completed her prizes, and was now waiting to hear of their

reception. She had also contributed to the literary publications of the

city, and received a large share of flattery and applause; and, though

writing under a fictitious signature, her identity was well known in

private circles. Sumpter's villany and disgraceful end had effectually

destroyed his tale of her duplicity and artifice, and the highest

classes sought her friendship and society. The memory of former trial

and suffering stole over her sometimes, as she mingled again 'mid the

scenes of its enacting; but she was too wise and good to allow it to

rankle, or stir bitter feelings in her bosom. Let the past be forgotten

in the felicity of the present. Heaven had visited devouring vengeance

on the guilty ones. Let her bow in silence and adore!

It was evening. Annie sat on a low ottoman at the side of the infirm,

good-natured old Dr. Prague. A bright gas-light sparkled through a

wrought-glass shade above them, and a silver salver, containing some

golden oranges and pearl-handled knives, stood on a walnut stand near

by. A servant entered, bearing a package of papers.

"Here they are, dear uncle!" exclaimed Annie, springing forward to

receive them from the waiter's hand. "Now our evening's amusement can

commence;" and she passed him the dish of fruit, twirled the light a

little higher, and, drawing a stool close to his side, said, "Now what

shall I read first? The price of stocks, the list of deaths----"

"No, little babbler," said he, patting her curls playfully; "you know

what comes first of all. 'Woodland Winnie,' of course."

"Woodland Winnie is a silly little thing," remarked Annie.

"I'll be my own judge as to that, Miss Annie; please to read on."

"O, here is something from 'Alastor!'" she said, turning over the pages

of a new eastern magazine. "I do so love his writings; please let me

read this first, uncle. Do you know his real name?"

"No; but I sometimes fancy it may be my old ward, Frank Sheldon, as he

has always had a turn for writing, and is one of the editors of this

periodical."

"One of the editors of this magazine!" repeated Annie, in a quick,

excited tone; "I never knew that before."

"Why, I thought I told you last fall, at Parson Grey's, in some of our

talks about former days."

"No; you said he was employed in some printing establishment at the

east, that was all."

"Well, I intended to have mentioned the rest; but what makes you look so

earnest and rosy, Annie?"

"O, nothing!" she answered; "I was only thinking."

"Frank has written to me, recently, a letter of sympathy and condolence,

and says he will visit the west this summer," the old man continued,

paring an orange. "I was going to make him my sole heir, but now I've

found you, I believe I shall curtail him and take you in for a share."

"O, you had better not!" she exclaimed quickly.

"And why better not, child?"

"Because he is more deserving your generosity than I."

"More deserving? No, indeed, Annie. But see how nicely I have peeled

this orange for you," passing it to her.

"For me, uncle! You had better eat it yourself."

"Why, what ails the girl? She won't even accept an orange from my hand."

"Yes I will, uncle; but after you had prepared it so nicely, I thought

you ought to enjoy it yourself," she answered, accepting the luscious

fruit. He gazed on her affectionately while she ate the juicy slices,

with grateful relish, and when she had finished, said, "Now will Annie

read to me awhile?"

"With the greatest pleasure, uncle," she answered, returning to the

package of books, from which she read till he was satisfied.

"Your voice reminds me of those wild, bright birds I used to hear

singing in that old wilderness of Scraggiewood, when I called on a quiet

evening at that rocky cottage where you were nursed into being; a spot

fit to adorn a fairy tale. No wonder you are such a pure-souled,

imaginative creature, reared in that pristine solitude of nature. Now

you may retire, darling, and don't fail to be down in the morning to

pour the old man's coffee, because it is never so sweet as when coming

from Annie's little hands." Thus speaking, he bestowed a fatherly kiss

upon her soft cheek, and she glided away to her own apartment. A long

time on her downy couch she lay gazing on the moonbeams that glinted

over the rich flowers of the Persian carpet, while crowding thoughts and

fancies thronged upon her brain. Most prominent were those of Sheldon,

and his connection with the magazine for which she had written her

prizes. Amid wonderings and fancyings she fell asleep, to follow them up

in dreams, with every variation of hue and coloring. She was roaming

through the gravelled avenues of an extensive flower-garden, when a

rainbow of surpassing brilliancy spanned a circle in the air above her,

and wherever she turned her steps, it followed, hovering just above her

head; and the delicate colors seemed to strike a warm, heart-thrilling

joy down to the inmost recesses of her soul. She woke, with a delicious

sense of happiness, to find the morning sun throwing his golden beams

into her apartment.

CHAPTER XXI.

"And I did love thee, when so oft we met

In the sweet evenings of that summer-time,

Whose pleasant memory lingers with me yet,

As the remembrance of a better clime

Might haunt a fallen angel. And O, thou--

Thou who didst turn away and seek to bind

Thy heart from breaking--thou hast felt e'er now

A heart like thine o'ermastereth the mind;

Affection's power is stronger than thy will.

Ah, thou didst love me, and thou lovst me still!"

Annie's foot was on the stairs to descend to the drawing-room, on the

following evening, when she heard the old doctor's voice in the hall,

exclaiming, in tones of loud, hearty welcome,

"Why, bless my eyes! Frank Sheldon, my boy, do I behold you at last? And

to come upon me in this unexpected manner! I've a mind to throw this

orange at your head."

"Do so, sir, if you choose; but first hear my apology for this

unceremonious surprise. Business brought me----"

"I won't hear a word about an apology," interrupted the doctor,

bestowing a hearty slap on his young friend's shoulder. "Come in, boy,

come in;" and the doors of the drawing-room opened and closed after

them.

Annie ran back to her apartment in a flutter of emotion. "Sheldon there!

and he came from _that office_! Business brought him,--what would come

of it all?" She dared not hope or anticipate. She dared not think at

all; and, throwing her graceful form on a sofa, she commenced tearing

some water-color paintings she had lately been executing, into strips,

and twisting them into gas-lighters.

Meantime Sheldon was snugly bestowed in a cushioned seat beside his good

friend, the doctor, who was plying him with a thousand questions

concerning his affairs, prospects, etc. After he had become satisfied on

these points, he recollected Sheldon had mentioned some business as the

cause of his sudden visit.

"What was it you said about business bringing you so unexpectedly?" he

inquired. "So, I would not have enjoyed this pleasure had inclination

alone biased your feelings!"

"You wrong me, sir," returned Sheldon, "by such an insinuation. I would

have visited you in the summer, in any event. I merely intended to say

business hurried my arrival. Our magazine, several months ago, issued a

set of prizes for the best poem and tale. The articles have been

received, and I commissioned to award the authoress, who, it appears, is

a resident of your city."

"Indeed!" said the doctor. "Then we've a literary genius among us. What

is her name?"

"She writes under a _nomme de plume_."

"And what is that?"

"Woodland Winnie."

The good doctor sprang to his feet with such remarkable quickness as to

overturn the tray of oranges on the stand beside him, and they went

rolling over the carpet in all directions, while he clapped his hands

and roared again and again with convulsing laughter. Sheldon was

dumb-founded.

"Good!" exclaimed the doctor, in a tone of gleeful chuckling. "Ha, ha,

ha! I declare I shall die a laughing. So cunning, the witch,--never to

tell me!"

"Do you know the lady?" asked Sheldon in amaze, gazing on his friend's

extravagant demonstrations of mirth and joy.

"Better and better!" roared the doctor. "Do I know her? Yes; she has

been an inmate of my mansion for the last _six_ months. Why, boy, she is

an angel;--as gifted, as beautiful, and as good as all the beauty and

genius put together. She has warmed my old heart and filled my house

with sunshine."

"You will do me a great favor to introduce your humble servant to this

paragon of excellence."

"Exactly! I'll do it all in good time; but take another orange, man!" he

said, extending the empty tray to Sheldon. "Zounds! where are they

gone?" he exclaimed, perceiving the dish to be vacant. "Have I eaten

them all?"

Sheldon could not forbear laughing now, as he informed the doctor of his

accident, which called forth another burst of merriment.

"Well, you want to see this lady?" he said, when it had subsided. "I'll

bring her to you in a jiffy;" and the gleeful doctor departed on his

errand.

Sheldon paced the floor uneasily during his absence; but he was not kept

long in waiting. He soon heard steps descending the stairs and, whirling

a chair so as to give him but a side view of the entrance, sat down to

await their coming. The doors slid open, and he became aware of a light,

graceful figure, in a dark, crimson robe, leaning on the doctor's arm,

and approaching with fairy-like steps. The setting sun was throwing a

flood of radiance through the heavy folds of purple damask, and filling

the apartment with soft, dreamy light as they paused before him.

"I have the pleasure of presenting to you 'Woodland Winnie,' Mr.

Sheldon," said the doctor.

Sheldon raised his dark eyes slowly to the lady's face, and there, in

the genial light of that mild spring evening, stood Annie Evalyn. He

started as if an electric shock had shot through his frame. She trembled

and blushed, and the old doctor roared and shook with laughter at

Sheldon's speechless surprise; but the latter soon recovered himself and

greeted Annie with respectful cordiality, offering an apology for his

surprise, by saying he was not prepared to behold a former acquaintance

in the fair authoress. She returned his salutations with grace and ease,

while the doctor continued to laugh immoderately. So pleased was the old

gentleman with the part he had enacted in the scene, that he actually

consumed twelve oranges, and despatched a servant for a fresh supply.

Sheldon could not avoid stealing a glance at Annie as she sat on the

sofa before him. The dark chestnut curls were lifted away from the

expanding temples, and the delicate marble complexion, relieved by a

just perceptible tinge of rose on either cheek; while the beautifully

imaginative expression of the full blue eye, the curved lip and nostril

speaking the free, dauntless spirit, and the exquisite contour of the

light, graceful figure, yet somewhat taller and thinner than when he had

last seen her, all conspired to assure him it was no timid, shrinking

girl he beheld, but the lofty, talented, accomplished woman. Back came

the old love and admiration ten-fold stronger than ever. The doctor went

out to look after his oranges. There was a silence. It was growing

oppressive. He rose and approached the sofa.

"I have erred, Annie," he said, in a low, mellow tone, fraught with deep

sorrow and contrition.

"We are human, Frank," she answered, very softly.

It was not the words, but the tone, the manner, that convinced him he

was forgiven. He sat down beside her, and there, in the deepening

twilight of that spring evening, what a holy happiness was rising over

the ruins of wickedness and crime! Who shall say how much holier, purer,

and more elevated for the trying ordeal to which it had been subjected?

CHAPTER XXII.

"To all and each a fair good-night,

And rosy dreams and slumbers bright."

We are winding to a close. In the delicious coolness of a summer

evening, Aunt Patty sat upon her lowly stile, her head drooped pensively

on her withered hand, as if absorbed in deep meditation. The sound of

approaching footsteps aroused her, and directly a light form was at her

side, while a soft voice whispered in her ear: "You are thinking of one

from whom I bring tidings."

It was Netta Wild, accompanied by her husband, who carried a small

package in his hand.

"Ay, yes! true, Netta, I was thinking of Annie," said the old woman,

rising, and beckoning them to enter, while she bustled about and lighted

a candle. "So you have brought me news of her?" she continued. "I always

know when I'm going to hear from hinny, for I'm thinking and dreaming

about her all the time for three or four days before the tidings come."

"You should have had bright visions of late, Aunt Patty, if they are to

tally with the truth," said Netta. "Annie has won the prizes."

"Has she? Do tell!" exclaimed the old woman, her face glowing with

pleasure.

"Yes, and here are the magazines containing the articles," answered

Netta, untying the package; "but this is the smallest part of her good

fortune; there's better news yet to be imparted, Aunt Patty. Sit down

here close beside me while I read this letter,--it is for both of us,

she says."

Aunt Patty hitched her chair close up, remarking, as she did so, that

"the best news she could hear of hinny was, that she was coming back to

her old aunty."

"Well, she is coming back," said Netta, "but not alone; in brief; she is

married, Aunt Patty."

"O dear! O dear!" groaned the old lady in agony; "I have lost her

forever, my darling, darling Annie!"

"No you haven't," said Netta; "for she says it was in the bargain that

she should never go from her dear old aunty while she lived, but always

be near to cheer and console her declining years."

"O, the hinny love!" said Aunt Patty, brightening at these words.

"And she describes her meeting with Sheldon (for he is the bridegroom);

of his being one of the editors of the magazine for which her prizes

were written; of his surprise at finding to whom he was awarding them,

and the explanation, and awakening of the old love, which quickly

followed."

"We are married, Netta," she writes, "and are all bound eastward, as

soon as Dr. Prague can close up his affairs in this city, as he proposes

to accompany us, and spend the remainder of his days near your kind

father. He says he has no ties to bind him to the western country. You

will take this package, containing my prizes, to aunty, and read this

letter to her. Tell her she must use the note enclosed to buy her a

smart new dress, and get you to make her a high-crowned cap with an

extra pinch in the border, in which to receive her Annie's husband."

The old woman laughed and cried by turns, and said, "'Twas not much use

to rig up such an old, withered thing as she was; but then she would do

all as hinny wished."

George and Netta stopped awhile to chat upon the expected arrival. Netta

said, "The young couple could live in the beautiful stone mansion George

had just completed, and which was now wanting a family. It was built in

Gothic style, and most romantically situated, only a little distance

from the Parsonage, in a delightful grove of maples and elms. She had

been wondering who would occupy it, but never dreamed it might be Annie

and her noble husband."

Thus they talked and planned; Aunt Patty all the while half wild with

excitement and expectation. At length they took leave, Netta promising

to come next day, and assist in making the new dress and smart cap.

* * *

Onward they came, on the wings of the flying steam-steed. Onward they

came, a happy trio; the good old doctor, boisterous in his glee and

satisfaction, looking first on Annie, then on Sheldon, and bursting

again and again into peals of exuberant laughter; so wonderfully pleased

was he with the success of his first attempt at match-making; for he

appropriated to himself the whole glory of cementing the union between

his two favorites. The only thing that caused anxiety or solicitude

during their journey was a fear lest the good old gentleman, in his wild

abandonment of joy, should forget himself, and eat so many oranges as to

endanger his precious existence. But, happily, their fears proved

imaginary. No such catastrophe occurred to mar their felicity, and the

little party safely reached the hospitable mansion of Parson Grey, and

were received with every demonstration of joy and welcome by the

expectant inmates. Aunt Rachel was in her highest cap, and soon

commenced preparations for the bridal supper, on which she had expended

her utmost, and expected to derive much commendation therefrom; but now,

Annie, little whimsie! overturned all her hopes at once. She had set her

heart on eating her bridal supper with Aunt Patty at the rock cottage in

Scraggiewood, and Sheldon declared it _his_ wish too.

Parson Grey was of opinion the young couple should be left to act their

own pleasure in the matter, and all finally coincided; Aunt Rachel with

some disappointed looks, that Aunt Patty's oaten cakes should gain the

preference to her rich, frosted loaves; but she reflected that her

sumptuous banquet could be displayed and partaken of some other day; and

so she smoothed her brow and joined the rest in wishing Frank and Annie

a pleasant walk to Scraggiewood.

As evening closed in, the happy couple, arm in arm, and unattended, took

their way over the rough forest path. Annie had so much to tell of her

early years passed there, and he was so intent on listening, that they

were close upon the cottage, ere they seemed to have passed over one

half the distance.

"What a wild, weird spot!" he exclaimed. "No wonder you have such

glorious fancies, love."

Annie motioned him to be silent; she had caught a glimpse of her aunt

sitting in the porch.

"Come quick," she said, and in a moment they stood before the startled

old lady. Annie flung her arm over her neck and said: "Here's Annie and

her husband come to Scraggiewood to take their bridal supper with their

dear aunty."

The old lady returned her darling's embrace warmly, but looked rather

abashed and disconcerted at beholding so fine a gentleman; but when he

advanced and shook her heartily by the hand, expressing in eloquent

words his gratitude to her for rearing so bright a flower to bless his

life, she gradually regained her composure; and with the young couple

roaming round the hut, out under the trees, and away into the woods in

the clear moonlight to search up Crummie, for Annie said, "Frank must

become acquainted with all her friends,"--the joyful dame set about

preparing a repast. She managed to get on her new gown and cap while

they were out, for their sudden arrival had surprised her in her

homespun garb. Annie noticed the change soon as they were seated at the

table, and, though Aunt Patty thought she needn't, remarked upon it at

once.

"When did you find time to make that fine toilet, aunty?" she asked in a

roguish tone.

But Aunt Patty turned the point well. "Why, dear, seeing you were so

particular in your letter that I should spruce up to receive you and

your husband, I thought I could do no less than respect your wishes."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Sheldon; "you are well answered for your pleasantry,

Annie."

Thus they discussed their simple meal with mirth and good-humor. Aunt

Patty's batter cakes seemed to have received an extra fine touch, and

the cream and butter were such as a king might relish, Sheldon declared.

When the meal was over they sat down on the stile, Aunt Patty, at

Annie's request, drawing her chair close beside them. Then they talked,

and told her how much they anticipated living in the great mansion so

near to Parson Grey; and they would come every week to see her; and a

hundred other fine plans Annie formed, laying her head all the while on

her husband's arm, as he twined wild flowers among her dark curls, and

laughed at her lively sallies. Aunt Patty declared 'twas a sight angels

might envy, their love and happiness.

The moon rose high above the tall forest trees, casting a mild, holy

radiance over the scene. And thus we leave them;--and thus we

say--"Good-night to Scraggiewood!"

ALICE ORVILLE;

OR,

LIFE IN THE SOUTH AND WEST.

CHAPTER I.

"Adown the lovely waters,

Behold the vessel glide,

While beauty's fairest daughters

Gaze on the laughing tide."

"She sought no notice, therefore gained it all,

As thus she stood apart from all the throng

Of heartless ones that passed before her eyes."

The Mississippi--river of majestic beauties--with the green, delightful

shores, elegant plantations, and dense forests of tall cotton-wood and

dark, funereal cypress, overhung with the parasitical moss, gliding

panorama-like before the enraptured vision! How proudly the mighty

steam-boats cut the turbid water, bearing the wealth and merchandise of

those productive lands to the numerous towns and cities that adorn the

banks of the majestic river!

It was a lovely night in early June, and the guards of that queenliest

of all queenly boats, the "Eclipse," were thronged with ladies and

gentlemen just risen from their evening banquet in the sumptuous

dining-saloon. They were passing Baton Rouge, and many an exclamation of

delight was uttered, not only in admiration of the lovely scenery around

them, but that they were so happily near the terminus of a journey,

which, despite the splendid appointments of the boat, was fraught with

danger, and occasioned more or less uneasiness and anxiety in the bosoms

of all the passengers.

Apart from the crowd, leaning over the balustrade, her dark eyes riveted

on the lovely prospect passing before her vision, stood a young girl of

perhaps fifteen summers. Her form was slight, and a profusion of black,

wavy ringlets floated over her small shoulders, while in all her

movements was visible that singularly beautiful grace of motion, ever so

attractive, and which is noticed only in very finely-constituted

organizations. She stood apart from the hilarious groups around her,

evidently

"In a shade of thoughts that were not their thoughts."

Her simple grace and self-possession, and the indifference manifested to

the flattering attentions bestowed upon her by the gentlemen during the

voyage, had rendered her an object of peculiar interest with them, and

provoked no small amount of envy and invidious remark from the weaker

sex.

"Look there," remarked a freckled-faced lady in blue and yellow, to a

counterpart in red and green; "see Miss Pink o' Propriety, as the

captain calls her, standing out there alone, to attract some gentleman's

notice."

"Of course," returned miss red and green, sneeringly. "I hate that girl,

she puts on such airs. And travelling alone, in charge of the captain

and clerk, shows what she is plainly. There, look! The bait has

taken,--Mr. Gilbert is caught!" and the rainbow ladies joined in a loud

laugh, as a fine-looking gentleman approached the fair, abstracted girl,

and accosted her.

"Always flying your crowd of admirers," said he, "and hiding in some sly

nook. Please tell me some of your pretty thoughts, as we glide past this

lovely scenery, Miss Orville."

"The recital of my poor thoughts would not repay you for listening,"

said the young lady, with a pleasant smile.

"Now I may consider myself dismissed, I suppose," remarked the

gentleman; "but if you don't tolerate me, you'll have to some other of

my sex; for naught so charms us contradictory human bipeds as

indifference to our gracious attentions, and we always pay our most

assiduous court where it receives the smallest consideration."

"Well, if you choose to remain and entertain me with your company--"

commenced the fair girl.

"I can do so, but you prefer to be alone," interrupted the young man;

"is not that what you would say?"

"As you have been pleased to give expression to my unexpressed thoughts,

I'll abide by your decision," she remarked quietly.

The gentleman bade her good-evening, and walked away, looking somewhat

chagrined by his easy dismissal. On the fore-deck he found the clerk of

the boat.

"I've just come from Miss Orville," he said, falling into step with the

latter. "You are a lucky fellow, Mr. Clerk, to have such a lovely being

entrusted to your care."

"She is a sweet young lady, indeed," said the clerk. "I was never

trusted with a charge in which I felt more interest."

"No wonder. Half the gentlemen on the boat are in love with her, and she

is so mercilessly indifferent to all their blandishments! Yet she is of

an age to love flattery and adulation."

"She appears like one whose heart is preöccupied," remarked the clerk.

"But she is too young for that to be the case, I would suppose."

"Love is restricted to no particular age."

"She is from the north, too, and the maidens of those cold climes are

less susceptible to the influence of the tender passion than the

daughters of our sunny shores," pursued Gilbert.

"Less susceptible it may be," answered the clerk, "but once enkindled,

the flame seldom flickers or grows dim. Northern hearts are slow to wake

and hard to change. I was raised in Yankee land, Gilbert, and should

know something of Yankee girls."

"True, true; but where do you say this young lady is going?"

"To New Orleans."

"And do you know where she will stop in the city?"

"At the residence of her uncle, Esq. Camford."

"Possible? I know that family well."

"Indeed," remarked the clerk; "then you may have an opportunity to

pursue your acquaintance with Miss Orville, in whom you seem to feel

more than ordinary interest."

"Why, yes," said Gilbert, "I believe I'm in love with her at present;

but then I don't make so serious a matter of a heart affair as many do."

Gilbert was a wealthy southern planter, of rather easy, dissolute

habits, yet possessed of some redeeming points.

"With good luck we shall hail the Crescent City to-morrow," remarked the

clerk, at length, as he stood regarding the speed of the boat with

admiring gaze.

"Say you so?" exclaimed Gilbert. "I must have a last game of euchre

to-night, then;" and he hurried into the saloon to make up a party.

"Hilloa, Reams!" said he to a foppish-looking fellow, lying at length on

a rosewood sofa, intent on the pages of a yellow-covered volume which he

held above his perfumed head; "come, have done with 'Ten Thousand a

Year,' and let us have a last game of cards. We shall be in New Orleans

to-morrow, so here's our last chance on _la belle_ Eclipse."

"O, give over your game!" yawned the indolent Reams. "I'm better

employed, as you see."

"No!" returned Gilbert, "I'll not give over; if you won't play, I can

find enough that will. You are a cowardly chap, Reams; because you lost

a few picayunes last night, you are afraid to try your luck again.

Where's that young fellow, Morris?"

"What, the handsome lad from old Tennessee?" said Reams, languidly

passing his taper fingers through his lavender-moistened locks; "he will

never hear of any cards save wedding ones tied with white satin, for he

has been for the last half hour on the guards in earnest conversation

with that pretty Miss Orville."

"The deuce he has!" exclaimed Gilbert with a blank expression, as he

walked away with a hasty step, leaving Reams to adjust himself to his

book again. He soon collected a group of card-players and sat down to

his game; while young Wayland Morris and sweet Alice Orville promenaded

the hurricane deck, and admired the beautiful scenery through which they

were gliding, from the lofty pilot-house, conversing with the ease and

freedom of old acquaintances; for thus ever do kindred souls recognize

and flow into each other wherever they chance to meet in this fair world

of ours.

CHAPTER II.

"My mistress hath most trembling nerves;

The buzz of a musquito doth alarm her so,

She straightway falleth into frightful fits."

It was the dinner hour at the splendid mansion of Esq. Camford, the

silver service duly laid on the marble dining-table, the heavy curtains

drooped before the broad, oriel windows, and an odor of orange flowers

pervading the apartment as the light breeze lifted their silken folds.

Colored servants, in snowy jackets and aprons, stood erect and prim in

their respective places, awaiting the entrance of their master's family

and guests. At length there was a bustle in the hall, and a loud, burly

voice heard exclaiming,

"Here, Thisbe, you black wench, run and tell your mistress to come into

the drawing-room in all haste. Here's an arrival; her niece, Miss

Orville, just in on the Eclipse. I was down on the levee, to see to the

consignment of my freight, and run afoul of her. Run, you nigger, and

tell her to come here quick."

"Yes, massa," and off patted the woman to impart the summons, while

Alice stood indeterminate on her uncle's threshold.

The servant plodded up a long pair of stairs, and tapped thrice at the

door of an apartment, e'er she was bid in a peevish voice to "come along

in, and not stand there foolin'." The woman entered timidly.

"What do you want with me?" snarled the fine lady from the depths of a

cushioned chair, her white fingers playing with a richly-wrought Spanish

fan.

"Massa says come down in the drawin'-room to see a nice young lady, Miss

Orful, or some sich name, what's just come on the 'Clipse, that signed

away all massa's freight," said the woman with a profound courtesy.

"What gibberish is this?" said the lady, in fretful humor; "go and tell

your master to come here this moment. I declare, my nerves are all

a-tremble, and my life is worried out of me by these stupid niggers. Get

out of my sight, and do my bidding!"

The servant disappeared instanter through the door.

"Where is your mistress?" bawled Esq. Camford, when she reäppeared in

the hall.

"She says you must come to her this minute, for she is e'en-amost

nervousy to death," answered poor Thisbe, in a shaking voice.

"Come to her? Thunder and Mars! didn't you tell her her niece was here

waiting a welcome?"

"Yes, massa. I tell her there was a nice young lady here, what come on

de 'Clipse."

"O, Lord! these fidgety women!" exclaimed Esq. Camford, impatiently. "I

hope you are not one of the sort, are you, Miss Orville? But come into

the parlor here, while I go up and rouse your aunt."

"I hope, if she is sick, you will not disturb her on my account," said

Alice, somewhat alarmed at the commotion her arrival had occasioned.

"Thunder! she is not sick, I'll wager; that is, no sicker than she deems

it necessary to be to produce an effect. I'm anxious you should behold

your cousins,--four in all; three youngest at school. They'll be home at

dinner, and it is already past the usual hour. Thunder! is dinner ready,

Thisbe?"

"Yes, massa, and a waitin' mighty long time too."

"Well, as I was saying, you must see your cousins, Jack, Josephine and

Susette. Our oldest daughter is over to Mobile for a few weeks. Pheny is

about your age, and you'll be great friends, no doubt; that is, if you

can romp and flop about pretty smart; but I must go for your aunt."

Here an exclamation of "Mercy, mercy!" called the esquire's attention,

and he beheld his amiable consort sinking aghast, with uplifted hands on

a sofa in the hall. "Law, Nabby, what's the matter now?" said he, going

toward her leisurely enough, as though he were accustomed to such

scenes.

"O, Adolphus Camford! what wench is that you have been sitting beside on

my embroidered ottoman? Answer me quick, for the love of Heaven! I will

not say for the love you bear me, as it is evident by your conduct that

you have ceased to regard me with a spice of affection," exclaimed the

fair lady, in a tone of trembling excitement.

"Good, now, Nabby, good! A scene enacted on the arrival of our little

up-country cousin, Ally Orville;" and the esquire roared with laughter.

Alice heard all, and wondered what she had come among.

The lady, nothing appeased by this explanation, as soon as she had taken

breath, burst forth again. "And you dared take the girl, in her dirty,

disordered travelling garb, into the drawing-room! Adolphus Camford, I'm

horrified beyond expression! Here, Thisbe, run and bundle the thing off

to her room before any one sees her. And to come just at our fashionable

dinner-hour too!"

"Fuss and feathers, is that the child's fault? She came when the boat

did, of course. I was down there after my freight, and found her; she

seemed a mighty favorite with all on board, I assure you, and a handsome

young fellow rode up in the carriage with us, to mark her residence,

that he might call on her."

"Yes, and our house will be overrun by hoosiers, and all sorts of

gawkins, no doubt. But take this girl out of sight, Thisbe. You can

carry some dinner to her room if she wishes any."

"Thunder and Mars! She is your own brother's child; ain't you going to

let her come to the table with the family?"

"Perhaps so, at a proper time. When I have seen her, and considered

whether she is a suitable personage for my jewel daughters to have for a

companion."

"Why, didn't she come here more by your invitation than mine? for she

was well enough off at home, but, because she was the only child of your

deceased brother, you wanted to do something for her, and so sent for

her to come here, and finish her education at your expense, where she

could receive more fashionable polish than in a country town, away up in

Ohio; and as to her looks, just step into the parlor and see for

yourself."

"O, where is she?" he exclaimed, finding the room vacant in which Alice

had been seated a few moments before.

"I sent Thisbe to take her off," replied Mrs. Camford; "here are the

children; my brilliant son, my jewel daughters. I declare my nerves are

so shaken I feel quite incapacitated to preside at the dinner-table."

"Pshaw, Nabby," said the blunt husband, "come along. I'll risk you to

despatch your usual quantity of lobster salad and roasted steak."

"Adolphus, you shock me," faltered the delicate little lady, of a good

two hundred pounds' weight, as she hung to her lord's stalwart arm and

entered the dining saloon.

"My darling children, assume your seats at table. Billy and Cato, unfold

their napkins. Adolphus, you see we have chops for dinner."

Delivering herself of this flowery speech, the lady sank exhausted into

the high-backed chair that was held in readiness by the officious

waiter, and was shoved up to her proper place, the head of her sumptuous

table.

The meal proceeded in silence, and all, even the delicate lady, did

ample justice to the chops, the entrées, and nicely-prepared side

dishes, as well as to the elegant dessert that followed in course.

CHAPTER III.

"She wound around her fingers

Her locks of jetty hair;

And brought them into graceful curl

About her forehead fair."

Alice remained closeted in her little room, eating but a morsel of the

dinner brought her by Thisbe, till night-fall, when the woman again

appeared, and said,

"Mistress says, if Miss Alice has made herself presentable, she can

attend her in the family sitting-room in half an hour."

Alice bowed to this message, and said she would be pleased to meet her

aunt and cousins at the time specified. The woman paused a moment, and

then asked timidly,

"Would not Miss Alice like a waitin'-maid sent to 'sist her in

dressin'?"

"No, thank you," returned Alice, smiling. "I am accustomed to wait on

myself."

The woman opened wide her shiny eyes, and exclaiming, "Massy! who ever

heard the like?" retired with a courtesy.

Alice laughed quite heartily after she was gone. "The idea of a black

girl to help me put on a plain muslin frock, and twist my ringlets into

a little smoother curl!" said she. "I could array myself to meet a queen

in ten minutes."

Thus speaking, she took from her trunk a snowy India muslin frock. It

fastened low over her finely-formed shoulders, and a chain of red coral

round her neck, with bracelets of the same material on her delicate

wrists, completed her toilet. With her own rare grace of motion, she

glided down the hall stairs, and into the presence of her aunt, who rose

from the soft-cushioned chair in which she had been reclining, with an

expression half terror, half anger, distorting her features.

"Mercy, mercy! Another trial to my weak nerves!" she exclaimed. "Thisbe,

my nerve-reviver instantly!"

The servant flew from the room, and returned with a small, silver-headed

vial, which the lady applied to her nostrils, and soon grew calm.

Alice stood all the while dismayed at the confusion her sudden entrance

had occasioned, and the three cousins, perched on cushioned stools,

gazed on her with curious eyes. The aunt at length got sufficiently

revived to speak.

"Now, Miss Orville, my long-since-departed brother's only child, advance

to embrace your affectionate aunt!"

Alice came forward with a gentle, inimitable grace, and, extending her

hand, said,

"How do you do, aunt? I am sorry to have made you so ill."

"That is right, Miss Orville! you should be so. My nerves are delicate;

the least disturbance sets them all a tremble, and no one understands my

nerves; no one appreciates my nerves. Now I will present you to your

cousins. I call my daughters my three jewels. The eldest, and belle and

beauty, as we call her, is not at home, being in the city of Mobile at

present. Her name is Isadora Gabriella Celestina Camford. You will

behold her in due time, I trust. My second child is a son. I call him my

brilliant among my jewels. Daniel Henry Thomas Lewis John Camford come

forward to greet Miss Alice Orville."

The lad thus called on, rose, stretched himself, and coming up to Alice

said, "How d'ye do, cous.?"

The young girl received his extended hand kindly, and, after gazing for

the space of a full minute straight in her face, he resumed his seat.

"Very well done, my brilliant son!" said the mother. "Next in order

comes my second jewel. Now Dulcinea Ophelia Ambrosia Josephine, my

adored remembrance of Don Quixote, Shakspeare, the Naiads, and the

mighty Napoleon, advance to greet your cousin!"

And this living remembrance of the immortal dead sprang from her stool,

and, running to Alice, threw both arms round her neck, and, kissing her

on either cheek, exclaimed, "O, Cousin Alice! I'm glad you are come, for

now I shall have some one good-natured enough to talk to and go to

school with every day; for, by your pretty, angel-face, I know you are a

sweet-tempered thing."

During this volubly-uttered harangue, the mother was making helpless

gestures to Thisbe for the nerve-reviver; but the graceless wench never

heeded one of them, so intently was she gazing with distended eyes and

gaping mouth on Miss Pheny's somewhat boisterous, but really

warm-hearted greeting of her Cousin Alice. Pheny was a universal

favorite among the servants, "for that she was a smilin', good-natured

young lady, and not a bit nervousy," as they declared.

At length poor Mrs. Camford uttered a faint cry, which called Thisbe's

attention back to the spot from whence it never should have

strayed,--her mistress' cushioned chair,--and she rushed in a sort of

frenzy for the nerve-reviver, and applied it to the trembling lady's

nostrils; whereupon that delicately-constituted specimen of the genus

feminine uttered a stentorian shriek and flounced about the room like an

irate porcupine, greatly to the terror of Alice, who had never witnessed

such a scene before. But neither the brilliant son nor jewel daughters

seemed in the least alarmed, and in a few moments the mother regained

possession of her chair and senses, when her first act of sanity was to

hurl the bottle Thisbe had applied to her nostrils at the poor woman's

head with such force, that, had she not dodged the missile, it must have

inflicted a severe contusion.

"There, you blundering black brute!" she exclaimed, "see if you'll bring

your master's hartshorn headache-dispenser again, when I send for my

nerve-reviver. The idea of a delicate woman like me having a bottle of

hartshorn bobbed under her nose! The wonder is I am not dead; yes, dead

by your hand, you brutal black nigger! But where was I in my

presentation? O, I recollect! That mad-cap girl, my second jewel, so

horrified me. I dare not yet refer to it lest my nerves become spasmodic

again. Pray excuse her, Miss Orville, and I will proceed to my youngest,

my infant-jewel! Eldora Adelaide Maria Suzette, greet your cousin, love,

as you ought."

The child arose, made a stiff bend of her shoulders, and said, "I hope

to see you well, Miss Alice Orville."

Alice returned her salute with a graceful courtesy, and all resumed

their seats.

"Now," said Mrs. Camford, "this dreaded ceremony of presentation is

over, I hope we may get on well together. I'm desirous, Miss Orville,

that you should commence tuition at the seminary immediately. I shall

have no pains spared to afford you a fashionable education. As my

deceased brother's only child, I would have this much done at my own

expense. I always told Ernest, though he married a poor girl from the

north, and went off there to live with her, much against the wishes of

our parents, that I would never see a child of his suffer."

"I have never suffered, madam!" said Alice, quickly.

"For food and clothes I suppose not, Miss Orville," said Mrs. Camford,

loftily; "but my nerves are all shattered by this long confab, and I

will now retire, leaving you young people to cultivate each other's

acquaintance. Thisbe, carry me to my private apartment!"

And Thisbe lifted her delicate mistress in her arms, and tugged her from

the room; an operation that reminded one, not of a "mountain laboring to

bring forth a mouse," but of a mouse laboring to bring forth a mountain.

Days and weeks past by, and Alice was not so unhappy as she feared she

would be from her first experience. The "belle and beauty" returned from

the city of Mobile, under escort of Mr. Gilbert, who proved to be the

fair Celestina's _fiancée_. And Wayland Morris was a frequent visitor.

He often invited Alice to walk over different portions of the city.

There was an old ruinous French chateau to which they were wont to

direct their steps almost every Saturday evening when the weather was

pleasant; and to walk with Morris, gaze into his deep blue eyes, and

listen to his eloquent voice as he recited to her old tales and legends

of long ago from his well-stored, imaginative brain, was becoming more

than life to Alice. Perhaps she did not quite know it then. Whoever

knows the value of a blessing till it is withdrawn? Ah! and when we wake

some morning to find our hearts left desolate, how earnestly and

tearfully do we beg its return, with fervent promises never to drive it

from our bosoms, or scorn and slight it again! But does it ever come?

Alas, no!

CHAPTER IV.

"O, know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in her clime,

Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,

Now melts into sorrow, now maddens to crime;

O, know ye the land of the cedar and vine,

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine?"

Bright, balmy, beautiful southern land! Alas, that amid all your

luxuriance of beauty, where the flowering earth smiles up to the far

sparkling azure, and all nature seems chanting delicious harmonies, that

man should here, as elsewhere, make the one discordant note! Frail,

grovelling, passion-blinded man! The noblest imperfection of God! When

will he be elevated to the standard for which the Maker designed him?

It was early spring, and the "floating palace," Eclipse, had made many

pleasant trips between New Orleans and Louisville, since Alice Orville

stood on her guards and feasted her beauty-loving eyes on the delightful

river scenery.

The magnificent boat was now at the levee in New Orleans, advertised to

sail on the morrow. All was a scene of confusion in her vicinity.

Freight and baggage tumbled over the decks, passengers hurrying on

board, carts, hacks and omnibuses rudely jostling one against another,

runners loudly vociferating for their respective boats, etc. At length a

young man made his way through the crowd to the clerk's office, booked

his name, and engaged passage for a small town in Tennessee. The clerk

glanced at the name, and, instantly extending a hand to the passenger,

exclaimed; "Ah, Mr. Morris, happy to meet you! I look in so many

different faces, yours did not strike me as familiar at first. How has

been your health, and how have you prospered since I saw you last? Now I

recollect you were on the boat when we brought the pretty young lady

down; Miss Orville, I think was her name. Is she yet in the city?"

"I believe she is," answered Morris, in a tone meant to be careless.

"Surrounded by enamored admirers, no doubt," remarked the clerk. "So you

are bound up the river, Morris?"

"Yes, to visit my widowed mother in Tennessee; she is failing in health,

and sent for me to come to her."

"Indeed; 'tis like a dutiful son to obey the summons. Will you return to

New Orleans?"

"Such is my intention at present."

"Well, make yourself comfortable here, and the Eclipse will set you off

at your stopping-place in two or three days," said the gentlemanly

clerk, dismissing his friend, as others thronged around for

accommodations.

The sun sank behind the "Father of Waters," as before a small gray

cottage on the eastern shore of the mighty river, a young, fair-haired

girl stood watching its departing light. At length a boat came in view

round a winding curve, and the little maiden leaped up, clapped her

hands gleefully, and disappeared within the cottage. Onward came the

graceful boat, lashing the waters into foam with its swift-revolving

wheels. It neared the shore, made a brief halt, and then glided on its

way again. A young man bounded up the embankment, and the fair girl met

him on the lowly sill with open arms. "Dear sister Winnie, how you are

grown!" exclaimed he; "but lead me to mother quickly."

"I will, I will, brother Wayland. She has talked of you all day long,

and feared you would not arrive in time to see her."

"Ah! is she failing so rapidly, then?" said the young man, while a gloom

stole over his features.

"O, not so very fast!" answered the child; "and now you are come, I dare

say she will soon be well again."

He patted her cheek, and hurriedly entered his mother's apartment. She

was lying on an humble pallet, wan and emaciated to so fearful a degree,

that the son could hardly recognize the parent from whom he had parted

eight months before.

"O, mother!" said he in sorrowful, reproachful accents; "why had you not

sent for me sooner?"

"I have wanted for nothing, my boy," answered the invalid, in a husky

voice. "Your letters spoke of success, and hopes for the future; how

could I be so selfish as to call you away from prospects so fair, to

tend on a sick-bed?"

The son was silent, and after a few moments' pause, she resumed: "Winnie

did all that could be done for me. But for a few weeks I've failed

faster than usual, and I could not bear to die without beholding my

darling boy once more. Besides, what was to become of Winnie, left alone

and unprotected?"

"Do not speak so hopelessly, dear mother," said Wayland, tears gathering

in his eyes; "I trust with the advancing spring your health may

improve."

The poor woman shook her head. Winnie came, and, putting her little arms

round her mother's neck, commenced sobbing bitterly.

"Winnie! Winnie! you worry mother doing so," said Wayland, drawing her

away; "come now with me; I want to see your pretty fawn and pet kids."

"O, brother! the white spots are all gone from Fanny's neck and sides,

and the kiddies' horns are grown so long I'm half afraid of them; but

come, I'll find them for you;" and the child, diverted from her tears,

seized her brother's hand to lead him forth in search of her playmates.

They were soon found, and after admiring and caressing them a few

moments, Wayland left his sister to frolic with them on the lawn, and

returned to his mother's side.

They had a long, confidential conversation, in which the son imparted to

his affectionate parent a brief history of the past eight months. She

listened with eager interest to the rehearsal. When he mentioned Alice

Orville, she regarded his countenance with a fixed, searching

expression, and a faint smile stole over her pale, sad face; but when he

breathed the name of Camford, she started convulsively, and demanded his

Christian name.

"Adolphus," answered Wayland, in amaze at her emotion. "He is Miss

Orville's uncle, and the wealthiest merchant in New Orleans."

"'Tis the same," she murmured; "you were too young, my son, when your

father died, to have any recollection of the events which preceded his

death; but you have heard from me that he was hurried out of the world

by temporal misfortunes too great for his delicate, sensitive

temperament to endure. The sudden descent from affluence to poverty bore

him to the grave. And I have told you, Wayland, that by the hand of one

man, all this woe and suffering was brought upon us."

"And who was that man, dear mother?" asked the youth, in an agitated

voice.

"Adolphus Camford," answered she, trembling as she spoke the fatal name.

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Wayland, starting to his feet. "Then may the

son avenge the father!"

"Stop, my boy," said his mother; "I intended this revelation but as a

caution for you against your father's destroyer. 'Vengeance is mine, I

will repay,' saith the Lord. Promise that you will remember this,

Wayland, or I cannot die in peace."

"I promise, mother," said the young man, bowing at the bed-side, and

leaning his head tenderly on her bosom.

CHAPTER V.

"If there is anything I hate on earth,

It is a ranting, tattling, prattling jade,

Who gossips all day long, and fattens on

Her neighbors' foibles, and at night lies down

To dream some ghostly tale, and rises soon

To bawl it through the town as good and true."

Hast ever attended a Ladies' Sewing Circle, reader, and witnessed the

benevolent proceedings of the matrons, spinsters, and young maidens, for

the poor, benighted heathen on the far-distant shores of Hindostan, or

the benighted millions who sit in the "region and shadow of death" on

the desert plains of Ethiopia? And while thou hast heard the lady

president plead so eloquently for those nations, who, groaning in their

self-forged chains, bow to the great Moloch of superstition and

idolatry, as to "draw tears of blood," as it were, from the eyes of her

rapt and devoted listeners, hast ever marked a pale, trembling child of

want totter to the door, and ask for the "crumbs that fall" from this

humane society's tea-table, and heard the answer, "Begone! this is a

benevolent association for the purpose of evangelizing the heathen, not

to feed lazy beggars at our own doors?"

And has thy lips dared e'en to whisper,

"O for the charity that begins at home!"

Well, the "Ladies' Literary Benevolent Combination for Foreign Aid" was

duly congregated at Mrs. Jane Rockport's, Pleasant-street, in the town

of Bellevue, on the western shore of Lake Erie. It was a rainy day,--as

days for the meeting of sewing circles most always are; though why

Heaven should strive to thwart benevolence is a point upon which we will

not venture an opinion.

About twenty of the most zealous in the course of philanthropy, who no

doubt felt the wrongs of the suffering heathen impelling them to brave

the wind and rain, had assembled in Mrs. Rockport's parlor, and, after

hearing a hymn composed for the occasion by the Misses Gaddies, and

performed by the same interesting young ladies, and an appropriate

prayer by the president, Mrs. Stebbins, the work designed for the

present meeting was laid upon the table, and the several members of the

little company selected articles upon which to display their

benevolence, and scattered off in groups of two and three to different

parts of the room, while a low, incessant hum of voices struck the ear

from all quarters. It appeared the devoted ladies were exerting their

tongues as well as fingers in the good cause.

"Now, do you suppose it is true?" asked Miss Jerusha Sharpwell, at

length, in a raised voice, with horror and amazement depicted on her

sharp-featured face.

"Why, Susan Simpson told me that Dilly Hootaway told her that little

Nanny Dutton told her, 'Pa had got a nice lamb shut up in a pen, and

they were going to have it killed for Christmas,'" said Mrs. Dorothy

Sykes, in reply to her companion's startled exclamation.

"Enough said," returned Miss Jerusha, with a toss of her tall head; "now

such things ought not to pass unnoticed, I say."

This was uttered in so loud a tone that the attention of all in the room

was roused, and several voices demanded what was the matter.

"Matter enough," said Miss Sharpwell; "that thievish Oliver Dutton has

stolen a sheep from the widow Orville."

"La! have you just heard of it, sister Sharpwell?" exclaimed Mrs.

Fleetwood; "I knew it a week ago."

"You did, did you?" said Mrs. Sykes; "why, it was only stolen last

night."

"Perhaps Mr. Dutton has stolen two sheep," suggested Mrs. Aidy.

"No doubt, no doubt," put in Miss Jerusha, much excited.

"Well, ladies," observed Mrs. Milder, "as I am perfectly sure, I may

safely affirm that Mr. Dutton has stolen no sheep from Mrs. Orville."

"How do you know he has not?" demanded Sykes and Sharpwell in a breath.

"Because Mrs. Orville has no sheep," returned Mrs. Milder, quietly.

"Well, now, was there ever such a place as this is coming to be? No one

can believe a thing unless they see it with their own eyes," exclaimed

Mrs. Sykes, in an indignant tone. "I'm sure I heard Dutton had got a

lamb for Christmas; and how could the poor critter come by it unless he

stole it somewhere; and as Mrs. Orville lives alone, I thought likely he

would take advantage of that, and steal it from her, for I didn't know

but what she kept sheep."

"Very natural, Mrs. Sykes, that you should thus suppose," chimed in Miss

Jerusha. "No one questions your honor or veracity. But what were you

saying, Miss Gaddie? I thought you were speaking of Mrs. Orville's

daughter that went off south a year or two ago."

"I was merely remarking that Mrs. Orville received a letter from Alice

last week, and sis, who used to be acquainted with her, called to

inquire after her welfare."

"Well, what did she hear?" asked Miss Sharpwell.

"Not much, did you, sis?" asked the elder Miss Gaddie of her younger

sister.

"No, I didn't _hear_ much, but I _see_ enough," answered that

interesting miss.

"Lord bless us, child!" exclaimed Miss Jerusha. "What did you see?"

"Why, Mrs. Orville was blubbering like a baby when I entered, but she

tried to hush up after a while."

"Mercy to me!" exclaimed Mrs. Sykes; "her daughter must be dead or come

to some awful disgrace away off there."

"No, she is not dead," said Miss Gaddie, "for her mother said she was

well, and spoke of returning home next spring or summer."

"O, dear! these young girls sent off alone in the world most always come

to some harm," said Miss Sharpwell, with a rueful expression of

countenance.

"True, true, sister Jerusha," returned Mrs. Sykes, "what should I think

of sending my Henrietta off so?"

"Sure enough, sister Sykes," said Miss Sharpwell. "We ought not,

however, to forsake our friends in adversity. Let us call on Mrs.

Orville, and sympathize in her affliction."

"With all my heart, sister Jerusha. I am a mother, and can appreciate a

mother's feelings over a beloved child's downfall and disgrace," said

Mrs. Sykes, with a distressful expression of pity distorting her

countenance.

And thus in the mint of the Ladies' Benevolent Society was cast, coined

and made ready for current circulation, the tale of poor Alice Orville's

imaginary shame and ruin. Yet faster flew those Christian ladies'

Christian fingers for the poor heathen, while they thus discussed the

slang and gossip of the village.

At length the president arose, and said the hour for adjournment had

arrived. She complimented the ladies on their prompt attendance and

enthusiastic devotion to the good cause. "Who can tell the results that

may follow from this little gathering of Christian sisters on this dark,

rainy evening?" she exclaimed. "What mind can conceive the mighty

influence these seemingly insignificant articles your ready tact and

skill have put together, may exert on the heathen world? Even this

scarlet pin-cushion may save some soul from death 'mid the spicy groves

of Ceylon's isle." [Tremendous sensation, as the lady president waved

the pin-ball to and fro.] "But language would fail me to enumerate the

benefits this holy organization of Christians is destined to bestow on

benighted Pagandom. We will now listen to a hymn from the sisters

Gaddies, and adjourn to Wednesday next, at 2 o'clock, P.M., at the house

of Mrs. Huldah Fleetfoot."

The hymn was sung, and the "Ladies' Literary Benevolent Combination for

Foreign Aid" duly adjourned to the time and place aforementioned.

We have seen that Miss Jerusha Sharpwell and Mrs. Dorothy Sykes had

agreed to call on Mrs. Orville, and condole with her on her daughter's

disgrace; but those benevolently-disposed ladies deemed it expedient to

call first at sundry places in the village and repeat the lamentable

tale, probably to increase the stock of sympathy; so Mrs. Orville heard

the sad story of her daughter's shame from several different sources,

ere these good ladies, their hearts overflowing with the "milk of human

kindness," came to sympathize in her affliction.

She received them with her accustomed urbanity and politeness, while

they cast wondering glances toward each other; probably that they had

not found Mrs. Orville in hysterical tears. But Miss Sharpwell, nothing

daunted, and determined to sympathize, readily expressed her admiration

of Mrs. Orville's fortitude of mind, that she could support herself with

so much calmness, under so great an affliction.

"I do not know as I quite understand you, Miss Sharpwell," remarked Mrs.

Orville, in a calm tone, and fixing her clear eyes steadily on her

visitor's face. "I have experienced no severe affliction of late. I have

lost no sheep, as I had none to lose."

"La! then that was all a flyin' story about Dutton's stealing your

lamb," broke in Mrs. Sykes. "Well, I'm glad to find it so; but I wonder

where the poor critter _did_ get it?"

"I can enlighten you on that point," said Mrs. Orville; "Mrs. Milder

presented him with it for a Christmas dinner."

"_She_ did?" exclaimed Miss Sharpwell. "Why couldn't she have said

so at the sewing society, the other day, then, when we were talking

about it, and thus settled the matter in all our minds? I hate this sly,

underhanded work. But we must not forget our errand, sister Sykes."

"By no means," observed the latter. "Dear Mrs. Orville, we are come to

sympathize with you in a far greater affliction than the loss of a sheep

would prove--the loss of a daughter's fair fame."

"You grow more and more enigmatical," said Mrs. Orville, smiling; "my

daughter has lost neither her health nor fair fame, as you express it. I

received a letter from her last week. She was well, and purposes to

return home the coming summer."

"Why, goodness, is it so?" exclaimed Sykes; "we heard as how you had

awful news of Alice, and were well-nigh distracted about her."

"I heard a report to that effect," said Mrs. Orville; "but whence it

originated I cannot say. It has no foundation in truth."

"Well, what an awful wicked place this is getting to be! I declare it

makes my blood run cold to think of it," said Miss Jerusha, with a pious

horror depicted on her countenance.

"And religious prayer-meetings kept up, and a Christian sewing circle in

the place too," added Mrs. Sykes. "I declare wickedness is increasing to

a fearful extent. We must be going, sister Jerusha. I declare I can

hardly sit still, I feel so for the sinners of this village."

"Mrs. Orville, I am glad the stories reported concerning your daughter

are false, for _your_ sake," said Miss Sharpwell, as the sympathetic

ladies rose to depart; but she added, in her most emphatic tone, "I

tremble for the sakes of those who put those stories in circulation.

Good-day, my friend."

CHAPTER VI.

"I tell you I love him dearly,

And he loves me well I know;

It seems as if I could nearly

Eat him up, I love him so."

"Well, sis, how do you like New Orleans?" asked Wayland Morris of his

sister Winnie, as he entered her quiet little study-chamber one evening

after the toil of the day was over.

"O, I like it well enough, Wayland," she answered; "that is, I like my

boarding-place here with Mrs. Pulsifer, I like my dear, kind teacher,

Aunt Debby, and I like my playmates."

"And is there anything you do not like, my sister?" asked Wayland,

observing she hesitated.

"Yes, two things."

"What are they?"

"First, I don't like to have you work so hard to support me in

idleness."

"In idleness, Winnie?"

"Yes, or what is just the same thing, I mean earning nothing to support

myself. I could learn some trade, and thus obtain money sufficient for

all my wants, and give you some, too, if you would but let me do it."

"My brave little sis," said Wayland, drawing her to his bosom, "have I

not told you that when you have acquired an education, you can become a

teacher, which will surely prove an occupation more congenial to your

taste, and by it you can gain an ample competence for all immediate

necessities?"

"But it will take a great deal of money to procure an education," said

Winnie, looking doubtfully in her brother's face.

"Not a very great deal, my prudent little sis," laughed Wayland, "and I

can easily furnish you with the sum needful."

"And, when I'm a teacher, will you let me repay all you have expended on

me?"

"Yes, yes, if that will put your mind at rest."

"Ah, but I fear it will be beyond my power to repay _all_ you are

expending on your foolish little sis! You are growing thin and pale,

brother, and you have none of the joyous spring and laughter with which

you used to chase my pretty fawns away up there on the green shores of

Tennessee."

"I am older and graver now, Winnie; besides, I often think of our dear

mother, sleeping there in death's embrace, and of our being orphans in

the wide world."

"O, it is very sad, brother!" said the young girl, bursting into tears.

"Do not weep so bitterly," said Wayland, endeavoring to soothe her

grief; "you said there were two things you did not like. I have

dispensed with one; now tell me the other."

"O, never mind that now!" said Winnie, quickly; "assist me in my Algebra

lesson, there's a good brother."

"Yes, after you have told me what I have asked."

"Well, it is a foolish thing, you will say. You know Jack Camford?"

"Yes; do you?" inquired Wayland in surprise.

"He comes to our school this term," said Winnie, demurely.

"And he is the other thing you do not like, is he?"

"Why, no, brother; he is not a thing, is he?"

"Well, perhaps not; but what is it you do not like?"

"Why, I don't like to have the girls tease me, and say he comes to our

school just to see me," said Winnie, averting her face.

Wayland's brow darkened at these words, and he was some time silent.

"Are you angry, brother?" asked Winnie at length.

"No, Winnie, not angry, but pained. My sister, this young Camford is not

a fit person for you to associate with."

"Why not?" exclaimed Winnie.

Wayland gazed in her face, and felt it was time to speak. "Winnie, would

you have for a friend the son of a man who robbed your father of his

fortune and hurried him into the grave?"

She was silent. "Adieu now, sister," continued Wayland, "I will call and

see you to-morrow evening," and with a tender kiss on the soft cheek, he

left her in her first young, girlish love-sorrow. Bitterly she charged

him with cold, unfeeling cruelty; for she intuitively perceived the

drift of those few words. "But was her poor Jack to suffer for his

father's errors? No; thrice no! and she longed to lay her head on his

bosom and tell him all her sorrows, for he was not stern and cruel, like

brother Wayland. No, he loved her dearly, as she loved him."

* * *

"Thunder and Mars! what's to pay now, I wonder?" exclaimed Esq. Camford,

rushing pell-mell into the dining room, where his family were assembled

at breakfast, and throwing his delicate wife into hysterics.

"O, Thisbe! run for the nerve-reviver," shrieked Mrs. Camford. "O,

Adolphus! why will you not regard my tremulous nerves, and not affright

me thus? What desperate thing has happened? O, Adolphus! you'll be the

death of me."

"I'll be the death of that cursed young vagabond, John Camford," blurted

forth the squire, in a tone of terrible rage.

"O, my son, my brilliant among my jewels! how has he incurred your

displeasure?" faintly articulated Mrs. Camford.

"Why, I saw the graceless scamp tugging a girl through the French market

this morning, filling her hands with bouquets and all sorts of

fol-de-rols. There is where the money goes he wheedles out of me every

week; but I'll fix the young rapscallion. Next thing, we shall have some

creole girl, or mulatto wench introduced to the family as Mrs. Camford,

junior."

The squire fairly foamed at the mouth, with anger. His fair consort was

in frantic hysterics, beating the floor with her heels, and exclaiming,

"O, mercy, mercy! my son, my Daniel, Henry, Thomas, Lewis, John! my

brilliant, among my jewels! O, spare him for the love of Heaven, my

husband, my adored Adolphus!"

Thisbe was following her mistress and bobbing the nerve-reviver to her

nose, but it failed to produce the usual effect. All the servants in

attendance stood with their mouths agape, while the three jewel

daughters proceeded quietly with their breakfast, and Alice sat among

them, a silent spectator of the scene. And now, as if to cap the climax,

in walked the culprit, Mr. Jack Camford, in _propria persona_, looking

as unconcerned and innocent as if nothing had occurred to displace him

in his father's good graces. At sight of her brilliant son, Mrs. Camford

shrieked and fell prostrate on the floor, and Thisbe, in the moment of

excitement, seized the senseless form and carried it from the room with

as much ease as she would have borne a cotton-bale. No sooner had the

door closed on his delicate spouse, than Esq. Camford bellowed forth,

"Daniel Henry Thomas Lewis John Camford, you rascal, come and stand

before your father!" The son instantly did as commanded. Doffing his

"Kossuth," and passing one hand through the long locks of curling black

hair, he swept it away from his clear, smooth brow, and stood

confronting his wrathful parent with a calm, unembarrassed aspect. He

was certainly a handsome young fellow, and Winnie Morris was quite

excusable for loving him a little in her girlish heart. The father's

anger softened as he gazed on his fair-looking boy, and when he spoke,

his voice had lost all its former harshness.

"Jack, my lad," he said, "why do you stand gazing about you thus? Come,

and sit down to your breakfast."

"You bade me stand before you, father, therefore I did so," said the

son, now approaching the table and assuming a seat beside his cousin

Alice.

There were a few moments of silence, during which all were occupied with

their meal. At length Esq. Camford inquired, casually enough, "Jack,

what young lady was that I saw you with in the French market this

morning?"

Jack, at the moment helping Alice to a snipe, answered carelessly,

"Young lady? O, Miss Winnie Morris, sister of Wayland Morris, editor of

our Literary Gazette."

Alice suddenly dropped her bird on the cloth, and Esq. Camford sprang

from the table, and, seizing his hat, bolted from the apartment,

overturning two servants in his way, and exclaiming at the top of his

voice, "Thunder and Mars! Thunder and Mars!"

Jack burst into a hearty laugh as his father cleared the door, and said,

"Was there ever a theatre could equal our house for enacting scenes?

Why, Alice, where are you going?" he continued, observing her rise from

the table; "stay a moment; will you be disengaged when I come in to

dinner? I want a few moments' private conversation with you."

"I shall be at your service, cousin," she answered, closing the door

behind her.

"What have you to say to Alice?" inquired Miss Celestina, the "belle and

beauty," in a querulous tone; picking at a bunch of flowers that laid

beside Josephine's plate.

"O, please don't spoil my flowers, sister!" said Miss Pheny; "they were

sent to me this morning by a particular friend."

"Faugh! what particular friend have _you_ got, I wonder?" sneered the

beauty; "some foolish love affair afoot here, to rival Jack's, I

suppose. Ha, ha! what silly things children are! But come, bubby, tell

me what you want with Alice?"

"That's my business," returned the youth proudly.

"To talk about your sweetheart, no doubt, and solicit her sympathy in

your love troubles. You'll find father won't have you toting about with

this beggar girl, I can tell you!" said the fair Celestina, spitefully.

"She is not a beggar," retorted Jack with flashing eyes, "but a far more

beautiful and accomplished lady than many who have had the best

advantages of fashionable society."

"O, of course, she is all perfection in your eyes at present," returned

the beauty in an aggravating tone, as she rose to retire; "but this day

six months I wonder how she will appear to your fickle, capricious

gaze?"

"If you were worth a retort, I'd make one," said Jack, with a glance of

angry contempt on his sister, as he took his cap and left the apartment.

CHAPTER VII.

"Thy haunting influence, how it mocks

My efforts to forget!

The stamp love only seals but once

Upon my heart is set."

Winnie Morris was laying her pretty head on her kind teacher's shoulder,

and pleading, O, so eloquently, with her sweet lips and eyes!

"Indeed, I want to go very much, dear Aunt Debby, and Jack will be so

disappointed if you say no. He sent me to plead, because he said nobody

could resist me. Will you not let me go this once, if I'll promise never

to ask again?"

"The theatre is not a fit place for young girls," said the teacher, with

a serious mien; "by going there they obtain false ideas of life."

"But I won't, Aunt Debby, I'm sure I won't, by going just once."

The good-natured teacher patted the soft cheek of her winsome pleader,

and the gentle act seemed to convince the child that she was gaining her

point.

"O, Debby, Debby!" she exclaimed, throwing her white arms round the good

woman's neck; "you will let me go with Jack to-night, I know."

"For which do you most wish to go: to see the play, or to be with him?"

asked Debby, still delaying the wished-for permission.

"O, to be with him!" answered Winnie; "and I could not be with him

unless I went out somewhere, for brother Wayland is cross at Jack; only

think of it--cross at my Jack! And he asks Mrs. Pulsifer whenever Jack

comes to see me, and then scolds; or not exactly that,--but says I ought

not to associate with a person he does not approve, and that Jack is

wild and unsteady, and won't love me long; but he doesn't know him as

well as I do, or he wouldn't say so, I'm sure;" and Winnie grew

eloquent, and her cheeks flushed vermilion red, while she spoke of her

girlish love. But Miss Deborah's face had assumed a less yielding

expression during her fair pupil's recital.

"So it appears your brother is not pleased with young Mr. Camford," she

remarked, as Winnie ceased; "under the circumstances, you must apply to

him for permission to accompany Master Jack to the theatre."

"O, dear! I wish I had not said a word," sobbed Winnie. "'Tis no use to

go to Wayland, for I know he would refuse my request; so I may as well

make up my mind to pass the evening alone in my room. I'm more sorry for

Jack, after all, than myself, he will be so sadly disappointed.

Good-night, Aunt Debby," and with dejected aspect the young girl put on

her little straw hat and left the school-room.

The evening stole on, and Jack Camford was beside his cousin Alice, in

her quiet apartment.

"I don't see why Wayland Morris should hate me so inveterately, as to

forbid his sister to receive any calls from me," remarked the youth,

bitterly.

"How do you know he does so?" inquired Alice, without raising her eyes

from the German worsted pattern on which she was occupied.

"Because Winnie told me so, to-night. I had invited her to attend the

theatre, but it appears she dared not ask her brother's permission, for

fear of a refusal," said Jack, in a troubled tone. "You are acquainted

with Mr. Morris, Alice?"

"No," returned she, quickly.

"Why, he calls on you."

"He did call at the house once or twice, soon after my arrival here, I

believe."

"Once or twice!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise; "why, he was here almost

every day for several months, and we all thought you were declared

lovers."

"Hush, Jack! how you are running on!" said Alice, with a flushed

countenance.

"Well, don't tell me you are not acquainted with young Morris, then,"

returned Jack.

"I have not seen him, as you are aware, for the last six months,"

remarked Alice.

"But you _could_ see him very easily."

"So could you."

"Ah, Alice! I thought you would do me so small a favor."

"As what?"

"See Mr. Morris, and ascertain why he opposes my addresses to his

sister."

"Is he the only one who opposes you?"

"You allude to my family; but not one of them should control me, in this

matter, if I could win her from her brother."

"You are very young, Jack; wait a few years, and your feelings will

change."

The boy looked on his cousin as she uttered these words with so much

apparent indifference, and exclaimed:

"O, Alice! you have never loved, or you could not talk thus to me," and

hurriedly left the apartment.

Alice heard him rush down the hall stairs and into the street. "Poor

Jack!" she sighed; "but what could I do for him? To place myself before

Wayland Morris, and plead my cousin's suit with his sister, when

probably the very cause of his objection to their acquaintance is that

the lover is a relation of mine; and it appears that by some

misapprehension I have as unwittingly as unfortunately incurred his

displeasure. What other reason can there be for the cessation of his

visits, but that he does not desire to see me?"

Ay, what other indeed, Alice? If you would have Wayland's love, there

could not be a stronger proof that 'tis yours, than this apparent

neglect and forgetfulness. Love joys in mystery,

"Shows most like hate e'en when 'tis most in love,

And when you think 'tis countless miles away,

Is lurking close at hand."

So, be not too sad, Ally, dear, when the brave steamboat bears you up

the majestic Mississippi, and far onward over the beautiful Ohio, amid

her wild, enchanting scenery, and the dashing railroad cars at length

set you down on a quiet summer evening at your mother's rural threshold.

Try hard to say, "I have forgotten Wayland Morris;" but your heart will

rebel; and try harder to say, "I shall never behold his face again;"

still "hope will tell a flattering tale;" and try hardest of all to

exclaim, "I'll fly his presence forever." But yet, away down low in your

beating bosom, a little voice will love to tantalize and whisper--"Will

you, though?"

CHAPTER VIII.

"Come, clear the stage and give us something new,

For we are tired to death with these old scenes."

Night after night, high up in the sky, the stars shone wildly bright,

but the heaven refused its grateful showers and the earth lay parched to

a cinder beneath the blazing sunbeams. The mighty Mississippi shrunk

within its banks to the size of a mere wayside rivulet, and the long

lines of boats lay lazily along the levees. No exchange of produce or

merchandise could be effected between the upper and lower regions of the

great Mississippi valley, and the consequence was universal depression

in trade and heavy failures. Esquire Camford went among the first in the

general crash, and his fair consort's nerves went also. The

nerve-reviver failed to produce the least soothing effect in this

dreadful emergency, and she sank into a bed-ridden ghost of hysteria,

with Thisbe for her constant attendant, to minister to her numerous

wants, and feed her with lobsters' claws and Graham crackers, which

constituted her sole food and nourishment.

As for the "belle and beauty," she, on a day, married Mr. Gilbert, in

pearl-colored satin, and that gentleman chancing to overturn a

sherry-cobbler on the fair bride's robe, the delicate creature went into

a nervous paroxysm, which so alarmed and terrified the happy bridegroom,

that, when he recovered his senses, he found himself on the far, blue

ocean, with the adorable Celestina's marriage-portion, consisting of the

snug sum of fifty thousand dollars, wrapped up in a blue netting-purse

in his coat pocket. How the great bank-bills grinned at him, as if to

charge him with the wanton robbery and desertion! He gazed around in a

bewildered manner, and the first face that met his eye was that of his

brother-in-law, Jack Camford, who advanced with a woeful smile

distorting his fine features, and exclaimed,

"Upon my word, you're a lucky dog, Gilbert!"

"How so?" demanded the latter.

"To have married my sister the day before father failed, and thus

secured a pretty fair sum of money; and now to have escaped a tedious

wife and got safely off with it in your pocket," said Jack, with a

theatrical flourish of manner.

"But what does all this mean? Why are you here, and where is this ship

bound?"

"Well, I'm here--hum--I don't know why, save that life was intolerable

at home after the smash-up, and Winnie Morris heard I was getting wild,

and turned a cold shoulder on me, I fancied. As to this craft, that

reels and tumbles about like a reef of drunkards, she is bound for

Australia; so I suppose, in due time, you and I will be landed on the

shores of the golden Ophir, if we don't get turned into Davy Jones'

locker by some mishap."

"Australia!" exclaimed Gilbert, "what the deuce am I going there for;

and how came I in this place?"

"All I know is, I found you here asleep when I came aboard, and here you

have been asleep for the last three days, wearing off the effects of

your wedding-feast, I suppose. I thought best not to disturb you, as at

sea one may as well be sleeping as waking."

"But, Jack Camford! I cannot go to Australia," said Gilbert, still half

confounded.

"How are you going to avoid it?" asked Jack, laughing.

"True! but what will my bride say? Here I hold her fortune in my hand."

"Exactly! Divide it with me, if you please, and we'll increase it

four-fold e'er a year in the golden land."

"But I don't like the idea of going to Australia!" pursued Gilbert.

"Neither do I, very well," answered Jack; "but when folks can't do as

they will, they must do as they can, I've heard say."

Thus we leave our Australian adventurers and return to the land from

which they are so rapidly receding. We didn't know what else to do here

in the eighth chapter, reader, unless we capped the climax, cleared the

stage, and scattered the characters; for we were quite as tired of them

as you were, and wanted to get them off our hands in some way.