THE ODALISQUE.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine.THE LOVE TESTS OF HALLOWE’EN.—No. 2.

“Steadily the hand passed from point to point, and from figure to figure on the dial of the clock, my feelings becoming more and more excited every moment. At last came the warning that is given just before the striking of the hour, and the minute hand had but a point or two to pass before it was on the sign of twelve. My very breath was suspended. A few moments more, and then the hammer of the clock fell, and each stroke appeared as if made upon my heart. Suddenly there came a rush of wind past the house, and strange, wild, mournful tones it made; then the door swung open, and in came the apparition of a man. I saw in an instant that it was the one of whom I have spoken. His face had a fixed, dreamy, and, it seemed to me, troubled expression. He went up, slowly, to the table, and sitting down at my plate, took some fruit. For the space of nearly a minute it seemed to me, he remained there motionless; but did not eat. Then rising he turned away and left the room. During the brief period he remained, he manifested not the slightest consciousness of our presence. You may be sure we did not remain long after he had retired, but went tremblingly up stairs, half frightened out of our wits, and buried ourselves beneath the clothes without stopping to remove our garments, where we lay and shivered as if both of us had ague fits.

“Well, sure enough,” continued Aunt Edith, “it turned out as the sign had indicated. I was married to the young man, and my cousin died an old maid. It was all folly I thought to struggle against my fate, and so from that memorable ‘Hallow-Eve’ received my lover’s attentions with favor.”

“And were you so weak as to believe that any one did really come in?” said Mr. Wilmot.

“I was,” returned Aunt Edith.

“It was all your imagination,” said the brother, positively.

“No, I believe not. I don’t think it was possible for both of our eyes to be deceived.”

“Then your cousin saw it too?”

“So she would have averred, had you asked her the day before her death.”

Mr. Wilmot shook his head; while the girls looked credulous. I noticed that Kate glanced slightly around, every now and then, half fearfully.

“One day,” resumed Aunt Edith, “about two years after our marriage, something favoring an allusion to the subject, I said to my husband—‘There is one thing that I never could bring myself to mention, and I hardly like to do it now.’ ‘What is that?’ he asked. I then related to him, minutely, all that I have told you this evening. He looked grave, and was thoughtful for some time. Then he said—‘And there is also one thing about which I have never felt free to speak to you. I remember that night well, and shall have cause to remember it as long as I live.’ ‘Were you conscious of any thing?’ I asked eagerly. ‘Yes, of a great deal,’ he replied. ‘I saw, in fact, all that passed.’ ‘In a dream?’ said I. ‘No, while awake—as fully awake as at this time. To throw off all disguise, and speak without mystery, I happened on that night to be going home at a late hour, and in passing your house saw a light streaming through a small opening in the shutter. It instantly occurred to me that you might be up and engaged in some love experiments, as it was Hallow-Eve; so, stealing up softly, and peeping in, I saw that I was not in error. No very long time was spent in determining what to do. My decision I marked by suddenly jerking the shutter back, and slamming it loudly against the house. Concealed by the darkness, I perceived the effect of this. It was what I had anticipated. You did not in the least suspect the truth. As plainly as if I had been in the room, I could now see all that was passing; and, as I understood the particular charm you were trying, knew precisely what part I was to act in the ceremony. So, as I had all along believed myself to be the favored one, although you somehow or other appeared to think differently, I took the liberty of walking in, just as the clock struck twelve.”

At this part of Aunt Edith’s story she was interrupted by a burst of laughter from all in the room.

“And so that was the explanation of the great mystery?” said Mr. Wilmot. “The troubled spirit was a real flesh and blood visiter after all.”

“Yes. And in my heart I forgave him for the trick he played off upon me so adroitly.”

“Why, Aunt Edith!” exclaimed Maggy, taking a long breath. “How you frightened me! I really thought it was a spirit that had entered!”

“No, child. Spirits, I believe, are not apt to walk about and visit love-sick maidens, even on Halloween, for all that may be paid to the contrary. The instance given you is the best authenticated I have ever known.”

This relation furnished abundant food for merriment, as well as for some sage reflections during the evening, and even Maggy, Jane and Kate saw reason to join with the rest in laughing over the folly of Love Tests at Halloween.

THE ODALISQUE.

———

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

———

In marble shells the fountain splashes;Its falling spray is turned to stars,When some light wind its pinion dashesAgainst thy gilded lattice-bars.Around the shafts, in breathing cluster,The roses of Damascus run,And through the summer’s moons of lustreThe tulip’s goblet drinks the sun.The day, through shadowy arches fainting,Reveals the garden’s burst of bloom,With lights of shifting iris paintingThe jasper pavement of thy room:Enroofed with palm and laurel bowers,Thou see’st, beyond, the cool kiosk,And far away, the penciled towersThat shoot from many a stately mosque.The voice of bird and tinkling waterSounds cheerly in the cloudless morn,That comes to thee, its radiant daughter,Across the glittering Golden Horn;And like the wave, whose flood of brightnessIs seen alone by eyes on shore,Thy sunlit being moves in lightnessNor knows the beauty all adore.Thou hast no world beyond the chamberWhose inlaid marbles mock the flowers,Where burns thy lord’s chiboque of amber,To charm the languid evening hours.There sounds, for thee, the fond lute’s yearningThrough all enchanted tales of old,And spicy cressets, dimly burning,Swing on their chains of Persian gold.No more, in half-remembered vision,Thy distant childhood comes to view;That star-like world of shapes ElysianHas faded from thy morning’s blue:The eastern winds that cross the TaurusHave now no voice of home beyond,Where light waves foam in endless chorusAgainst the walls of Trebizond.For thee the Past may never reckonIts hoard of saddening memories o’er,Nor voices from the Future beckonTo joys that only live in store.Thy life is in the gorgeous Present,An orient summer, warm and bright;—No gleam of beauty evanescent,But one long time of deep delight.

In marble shells the fountain splashes;

Its falling spray is turned to stars,

When some light wind its pinion dashes

Against thy gilded lattice-bars.

Around the shafts, in breathing cluster,

The roses of Damascus run,

And through the summer’s moons of lustre

The tulip’s goblet drinks the sun.

The day, through shadowy arches fainting,Reveals the garden’s burst of bloom,With lights of shifting iris paintingThe jasper pavement of thy room:Enroofed with palm and laurel bowers,Thou see’st, beyond, the cool kiosk,And far away, the penciled towersThat shoot from many a stately mosque.

The day, through shadowy arches fainting,

Reveals the garden’s burst of bloom,

With lights of shifting iris painting

The jasper pavement of thy room:

Enroofed with palm and laurel bowers,

Thou see’st, beyond, the cool kiosk,

And far away, the penciled towers

That shoot from many a stately mosque.

The voice of bird and tinkling waterSounds cheerly in the cloudless morn,That comes to thee, its radiant daughter,Across the glittering Golden Horn;And like the wave, whose flood of brightnessIs seen alone by eyes on shore,Thy sunlit being moves in lightnessNor knows the beauty all adore.

The voice of bird and tinkling water

Sounds cheerly in the cloudless morn,

That comes to thee, its radiant daughter,

Across the glittering Golden Horn;

And like the wave, whose flood of brightness

Is seen alone by eyes on shore,

Thy sunlit being moves in lightness

Nor knows the beauty all adore.

Thou hast no world beyond the chamberWhose inlaid marbles mock the flowers,Where burns thy lord’s chiboque of amber,To charm the languid evening hours.There sounds, for thee, the fond lute’s yearningThrough all enchanted tales of old,And spicy cressets, dimly burning,Swing on their chains of Persian gold.

Thou hast no world beyond the chamber

Whose inlaid marbles mock the flowers,

Where burns thy lord’s chiboque of amber,

To charm the languid evening hours.

There sounds, for thee, the fond lute’s yearning

Through all enchanted tales of old,

And spicy cressets, dimly burning,

Swing on their chains of Persian gold.

No more, in half-remembered vision,Thy distant childhood comes to view;That star-like world of shapes ElysianHas faded from thy morning’s blue:The eastern winds that cross the TaurusHave now no voice of home beyond,Where light waves foam in endless chorusAgainst the walls of Trebizond.

No more, in half-remembered vision,

Thy distant childhood comes to view;

That star-like world of shapes Elysian

Has faded from thy morning’s blue:

The eastern winds that cross the Taurus

Have now no voice of home beyond,

Where light waves foam in endless chorus

Against the walls of Trebizond.

For thee the Past may never reckonIts hoard of saddening memories o’er,Nor voices from the Future beckonTo joys that only live in store.Thy life is in the gorgeous Present,An orient summer, warm and bright;—No gleam of beauty evanescent,But one long time of deep delight.

For thee the Past may never reckon

Its hoard of saddening memories o’er,

Nor voices from the Future beckon

To joys that only live in store.

Thy life is in the gorgeous Present,

An orient summer, warm and bright;—

No gleam of beauty evanescent,

But one long time of deep delight.

JESSIE LINCOLN:

OR THE CITY VISITERS.

———

BY MISS M. J. B. BROWNE.

———

The village of N., reader, where the scene of my story is laid, is truly a most lovely place, so far certainly as Nature is responsible; for a broad, beautiful river bounds it on one side, and a fine range of mountains, picturesquely grand, screen it on another. Wealth, too, has joined hands with Nature to assist in the perfect completion of whatshehad left as it were unfinished. Sweet cottages nestling in green shrubbery, and elegant mansions surrounded by spacious gardens and lawns, glistening with fountains or shady with groves, reveal to the beholder a harmonious conspiracy between taste and affluence to picture Paradise in daguerreotype—everything must be in daguerreotype in these days.

But themoral—perhaps it would be more charitable to say theconventionalaspect of the village, is not so lovely as the natural aspect. A certain line of distinction has been drawn in society, and has long been assuming a greater and greater stringency, as an old generation passes away, and a new one refining upon its ancestor succeeds it. It is not the aristocracy of family and birth—the pride of nobility, as in England—nor the aristocracy of wit and talent, as in France—nor yet the true aristocracy of intellect and moral worth—but the peculiarly American aristocracy of money! Caste, determined by the possession or non-possession of estates and bank-stock, is scarcely more rigidly guarded on Hindoo ground than here—and intermarriages between the “higher and lower classes”—ridiculous names it is true, to be applied to society in republican democratic America—are regarded as sufficient reason for casting off all association with thedegradedparty, whatever rank said party may have sustained before.

And here I cannot forbear a passing remark on the obvious inconsistency of this principle. The accidents of fortune are so very variable, and its mutations such matters of every day experience, that a more fluctuating or uncertain standard of station could not possibly have been chosen. The possessor of half a million to-day, in a few years may die alone and in penury, the miserable tenant of a deserted garret, while the ragged, shivering, homeless boy, who pays his last hardly earned copper for the privilege of sleeping on an untenanted board, may at length find himself in the enjoyment of the “highest honors in the gift of his country-men,” the honorable master of thousands, with a once starving and outcast beggar child the sharer of his emoluments and the elegant mistress of his mansion. Thesonof the rich man may die unknown and unblessed in the prison or the almshouse, “while the son of the maid servant who cleaned the President’s kitchen,” may be carried to the “white house” in triumph, the chief magistrate of a great and powerful nation. But pardon mydigression, dear reader—I needed not topen your own sentiments. It is time I should introduce you to some of my people, if I would interest you, as I hope I may, in their acquaintance.

The “first and best” lady in the village of N. was Mrs. Josepha Tower. This lady was a widow, and in every respect, in heart, and mind, and manners, she was a truly elegant and accomplished woman. She belonged in a measure to the “old school,” and she possessed an uncommon share of sterling common sense, and the firmest and most uncompromising Christian principle. She was the possessor, too, of ample wealth, and diffused it with a liberality which reflected honor on her generosity, as well as poured a stream of happiness into her bereaved and widowed heart. The earlier part of Mrs. Tower’s life had been passed in a Southern city, though she was proud to claim a birth-right on New England’s soil, and an affinity with the upright and earnest New England heart in her purposes and dispositions. When the cholera with pestilential breath swept over the city of C⁠——, it numbered among its victims her husband and her only child; and as the staff and centre of her hopes were thus suddenly cut down at a single stroke, Mrs. Tower turned her face toward the home of her childhood, and sought amid the green hills and quiet streams, where those fresh and careless years had been passed, for that alleviation to her sorrows which she must have sought in vain among scenes where her irreparable losses would be constantly suggested by contact and association. She came forth from the furnace of her affliction like gold seven times purified, and resolutely declining even the consideration of a second marriage while her heart was bound so fast in its wedlock to the grave, she consecrated her influence and her wealth to the noble purpose of promoting the well-being and the happiness of her fellow sojourners in a wilderness world. The star of her hope had gone out while she yet watched it in midheaven, and why should she not henceforward bind herself to the unselfish aim of spreading abroad the joy which had taken its flight from her own bosom, leaving in its place a calm and holy resignation? So to the north and to the south, to the east and to the west, “from the river to the ends of the earth,” flowed the rills, all fresh and fertilizing, which found their reservoir in her kindly and world-embracing benevolence.

Every thing tasteful and elegant in the matter of household appointments, was always to be found at Mrs. Tower’s. Books, not laid upon the shelves of her library merely to dazzle by their gilding, but to be read by every body who would read—pictures and statues—for she was a generous patroness of the arts—music and flowers, and the most refined and polishedsociety, were among the most familiar attractions one always found at the residence of that excellent lady; and yet I tell my readers only the truth when I say that with all her wealth, and her truly enviable social position, Mrs. Tower was the only woman in the whole circle of N.aristocracy who had independence enough to bid defiance to conventional proscription, and invite whom she pleased to tea with her—whether it was the President’s lady or her washer-woman. Mrs. Tower to be sure had too much politeness to invite those whom she knew her aristocratic neighbors did not choose to recognize as equals when she invitedthem; but she heartily despised the principle which governed her wealthier acquaintances, in excluding the worthy poor from their societybecausethey were poor; and in the face of all expostulation and astonishment, she disdained such unreasonable trammels and acted accordingly, though she well knew what surprise her decision occasioned, and what gossip it furnished. But the fault-finders—what could they do? They could not proscribe Mrs. Tower, for she abounded in that one great requisite for elevated station—a plenty ofmoney—and she could gather into her house more distinguished people from the circle of her private acquaintance, than half the village put together—they could not lose the pleasure of such agreeable levees as Mrs. Tower made for strangers who were visiting her at all seasons of the year. Beside, just now when my story commences, the young minister of the village was an inmate of her family, and being unmarried and unbetrothed, and there being at the same time a goodly number of young ladies unmarried, but marriageable, in the most important families of his parish, the minister, Rev. Louis Style, became a very interesting character, aside from his public capacity, and the unconscious prize in quite an extensive lottery. But more of the Rev. Louis Style anon.

——

One lovely evening in summer, a circle of young ladies was sitting in the delicious moonlight that streamed fitfully through the glancing leaves and fragrant clusters of honeysuckle that shaded the veranda of Mrs. Tower’s residence, chatting joyfully—thegirlsI mean—not the honeysuckles or the moonlight, though I could not vouch thattheyexchanged no love whispers audible to the ears of fairies—laughing merrily over the ices and fruit, and of course, gossiping.

Mrs. Tower had been more than usually agreeable, though she was always lovely; and as to Mr. Style, he had carried every heart. The girls had all been completely captivated; some by his calm and manly beauty, and some by the flashing brilliancy of his ripe and richly cultivated mind, and some by those inexpressible fascinations, which, had he been a man of the world, would have made him irresistible in all society. But Mr. Style was a man of pure and exalted piety, and would have conscientiously feared to use his slightest power to interest a heart to which his own must stoop from its own moral height to meet, or to whose affection he could not earnestly respond. Indeed so fastidious was the Rev. Mr. Style, that he had never met the lady, as he determined, whom he could cordially invite to the queenship of his affections. He was verily so happy and contented as an inmate of Mrs. Tower’s family in the pursuit of his daily duties—so happy in the satisfaction and regard of his people, that it seldom occurred to him that “it is not good for a man to be alone.” The mammas and blooming young ladies, however, adopted that doctrine as one of the most important, prominent and practical of the whole creed, and most especially did they set their faces against so Popish a practice as the “celibacy of the clergy!”

Mrs. Tower had withdrawn from the circle a few minutes to examine the dispatches brought in by the evening mail, but returning soon with a smile of unusual gladness illuminating her pensive face, and an open letter in her hand, she said—

“Well, girls, I have intelligence here that makes me very happy. I have at length prevailed with a young friend of mine, to leave the city and pass a few weeks with me during the hottest of the season, and I am so very glad⁠—”

“O, so am I,” interrupted Miss Charlotte Varley, a very languishing young lady, who had great hopes of success with Mr. Style, since she had joined his communion and was a teacher in his Sabbath-school—but withal abelle—“a young gentleman from the city will be very refreshing this terrible weather—I hope he is a pious man, Mrs. Tower—we have so few of those—and that he will bring us some new plans about Sabbath-schools and benevolent societies such as are found to be most useful in the city!”

Miss Varley closed her remarks with a small sigh, and looked at Mr. Style for pious sympathy. Mr. Style that moment turned away to pluck a drooping blossom that hung near him, and some of the ruder minxes indulged in mischievous glances and a smothered laugh.

“I declare, Charlotte,” interposed Miss Emilie Jones, who was one of Miss Varley’s most sincere despisers, “the effervescence of your regard for Sabbath-schools and ‘cent societies,’ has quite anticipated the sequel of Mrs. Tower’s story—you did not allow her time to say whether we are to be favored by the accession of aladyor agentlemanto our little country community—but consulting your own fancy, I suppose you took it for granted it must be a ‘pious young gentleman.’ ”

The color deepened in Charlotte’s really beautiful face, as a glimpse of her ridiculous position flashed from Emilie’s playful satire, and to increase her confusion, the girls all laughed more saucily than before. There might have been some serious heart-burnings, but Mrs. Tower came to the rescue.

“Charlotte is entirely excusable, young ladies,” she said, “and I am responsible for her remark by my own ambiguity. My friend is alady, and one of the loveliest of her sex in mind and heart. I have not seen her since she grew into a woman, but I am confident from what I know of the development of her character, I shall not be disappointed in the promise of her childhood. She will be here in two weeks at most, and possibly sooner. Now I am old and dull girls, and I shall draw largely on your vivacity for her entertainment,atfirstformysake, and afterward, when you know her, for her own.”

“O yes, indeed, Mrs. Tower,” promised the girls, and none more promptly than Charlotte and Adelaide Varley, both for themselves and for their mother and three sisters at home. They would specially make a party for her, though they had determined to makenoparties till their friends, Mrs. Tyler and her daughter, very genteel people from New York, should come, which event could not certainly be hoped for at least for three weeks. And Misses Charlotte and Adelaide telegraphed to each other, while the rest were promising their attentions, how much pleasure it must afford Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth if they should happen to recognize a city acquaintance in Mrs. Tower’s expected visiter—“as their metropolitan friends,” Charlotte remarked, “were so very gay and fashionable, they had sometimes languished in the country for a city face or something that looked familiar.”

“It must be a melancholy and most insupportable deprivation,” chimed in Emilie Jones, “to spend a whole fortnight on the stretch in such an ugly and unsightly village as this of N. has the reputation of being, especially in the summer, and all that time, not so much asseefiery red brick palisades towering up on both sides of you, and pouring down on your ‘devoted head’ a perfect torrent of heat! I am sure if I were anybody’s ‘metropolitan friends,’ I should mourn being obliged to set my feet on the cool grass! How I should miss the scorching them on a hot pavement, to say nothing of the disadvantage to my lungs of inhaling fresh clear air, instead of dust and cigar smoke, and all sorts of vile fumes and abominations! What is your taste, Mr. Style?”

“I am a great lover of the country, and particularly of this beautiful village, Miss Emilie,” gallantly replied Mr. Style.

“Well, well, Emilie, enough of your mischief for once,” said Adelaide Varley, with a very severe smile which she meant for an indifferent one. “We all know you are more wicked than citified. But my watch says it is time to go home, and I guess Mrs. Tower will be glad to be rid of such a set of chatter-boxes as we have proved ourselves this time.”

“Mr. Style will write a livelier sermon for it, I’ll wager my thimble, after he has slept upon the savor of our conversation,” said Emilie, as she gave him her hand at parting, and turned gayly round to bid Mrs. Tower good night.

“Come again, dears, every one of you,” said Mrs. Tower, as she smiled on the youthful group, “come every day and enliven us with the life of such glad spirits. Mr. Style would lead a most monotonous life indeed ifIwere all the company he could have.”

“You, indeed, my dearest Mrs. Tower,” replied Emilie. “That man is verily avaricious who covets better or more charming society than our most delightful hostess of this evening, to say nothing of the ice creams and etceteras! Yes, worthy of stripes is he, whether clergyman or layman!”

And Emilie finished her speech with a quick glance at the young minister, and her own peculiarly rich and musical shout of mirth, and tripped lightly down the terrace and across the wide and shaded street to her own home.

As the other young ladies of the party had farther to go, Mr. Style took them all under his protection, rendering particular assistance to Miss Charlotte, who complained of excessive weariness and lassitude. Beside, being occasionally afflicted with a difficulty of the heart, she could not walk so fast as some of the girls, so Mr. Style found himself safely at Mrs. Varley’s door with his delicate charge, many minutes after all the others were laughing and speculating about it in their own rooms.

“Well, Adelaide, what do you think of Mrs. Tower’s coaxing a very pretty young lady to her house, to pass some weeks in company with the Rev. Mr. Style?” said Charlotte, very sharply, as she ran upstairs to the parlor, in double quick time, quite independent of the “heart difficulty,” that had so impeded her progress home.

“It’s downright scandalous!” said Miss Annette, the eldest daughter, “and I should not wonder at any breeze it might raise in the church and society—it may result in something very unpleasant indeed!” and Annette shook her head very doubtfully.

“It is ridiculous! Nothing but a trap, depend on it,” said Mrs. Varley, for Adelaide had detailed the whole story with her own annotations long before Charlotte reached home.

“It is really a very presuming thing,” seriously responded Annette, shaking her head still more dubiously.

“Yes, yes—very presumptuous indeed!” sneered Mrs. Varley, who never had any opinions, only those that were to be had at second hand. “Just as if Mrs. Tower could not only dictate who we shall have for minister, but also who he shallmarry! for I declare, girls, it looks like that—don’t it now?”

“To be sure it does, mamma,” replied Annette; “you have hit the nail on the head this time! It takesyouto see what folks are about behind the scenes. Lottie, did you get any particulars about this person out of Mr. Style, coming home—whether he ever saw her—whether she is rich and fashionable, so it will do forusto notice her⁠—”

“No, Annette, I did not learn any thing about her, though I asked questions enough in all conscience,” fretted Charlotte. “But I think we had better write immediately to Mrs. Tyler and find out something,” she continued. “I declare, mamma,” and the tears started to her eyes for very vexation and disappointment, “Mr. Style would not speak only on the most indifferent subjects coming home, and if I don’t bring him to the point soon, I don’t believe one of us will ever be married in the world, and I will go to a convent! Iwill!”

“Don’t say so, Lottie! don’t dear,” soothed the mamma—“only think what good aim money takes at the hearts of men, and are we notrich, child; and are not my daughters fine dashing girls, dressing as well as the best of ’em, and wont they finally marryjest as they please? The chaff always blows away first, they used to say when I was young!”

“Well, who wants to wait forever, mother, for allthat?” said Annette, who really had waited a reasonable time, with her purse and her heart in her hand, and yet no bidders.

“Ifor one, want to wait till I amsought,” said Adelaide, “and not make such a ridiculous matter of it as Charlotte does, in her pursuit of Mr. Style. The girls all laughed at your speeches, Lottie, till I am heartily vexed and ashamed about the whole game. Do be a little wiser in your demonstrations—”

“I guess I’ll come and borrow some of the wisdomyouhave to spare, Miss,” retorted Charlotte, very angrily, as she rose and whisked out of the room, slamming the door violently after her.

Mrs. Varley and the three sisters, Annette, Almeda, and Cynthia, all pounced upon Adelaide, who was really more shrewd and sensible than they all, till she diverted them from the attack by a narration of what was always interesting, the gossip she had gathered from one and another, together with her own active surmises during the evening.

“If you had seen how Emilie Jones acted, mamma—I could not help thinking Mr. Style and Mrs. Tower were both delighted with her impudence,” said Adelaide. “For my part, I think she is one of the sauciest and most sarcastic imps I ever saw. If Capt. Jones was not so rich and his family so influential, I would cut her acquaintance.”

“And a mighty deal would she care for that,” replied Annette, “so long as Mrs. Tower makes such friends of her and her mother. But did she tell you that her father and George are coming home directly? Mrs. Jones was here to-night, and she said so.”

“No—she did not say a word about it. She makes no disclosures to me,” returned Adelaide. “There will be another mark for our beautiful Charlotte—the young lieutenant—if she does not succeed in her ‘ecclesiastical measures,’ ” she added, biting her lips in expectation of a torrent of displeasure from her mother and sisters. It came, of course, and in a fit of resentment and passion, she too flirted off to bed.

——

The Varley family were very wealthyin purse, andit was the only anchor with which they were able to fasten themselves on society. They were ignorant, vulgar, and haughty, proud, unprincipled, and deceitful. A more designing, intriguing, manœuvring woman than Mrs. Varley, can seldom be met with, but her plans were all so superficially laid, and so very shallow and short-sighted, they had so far unfortunately failed, at least all the matrimonial alliances she had projected for her five marriageable daughters—inasmuch as they all remained a heavy article in a sated market. Charlotte was the youngest, and in person, so far as the delicate tinting of the face and a faultless chiseling of form were concerned, she possessed unusual loveliness. But the deformity of her ill disciplined and misdirected mind, and the prominent weakness of her character, were so apparent, that in the estimate of really sensible and intelligent people, the one favorable item passed for almost nothing.

Mrs. Varley had resolved to secure the Rev. Mr. Style for her youngest daughter, and she determined that nothing should be left undone to accomplish so desirable an object. Charlotte was herself too weak to play her partwellin a well concerted scheme—but in a miserably lame one, she played it wretchedly. Mr. Style saw to his infinite but necessarily concealed disgust, the snare that was spread in his sight, and though nothing in the world was easier than to escape, it subjected him to a mortifying espionage, and most disagreeable caution in his pastoral intercourse with his people. What the designs of others might be he was too high-minded even to imagine; but there was no mistaking Miss Charlotte Varley’s intentions, with eyes only half open.

Since Mr. Style had been an inmate of Mrs. Tower’s household, Mrs. Varley had been making perpetual attempts to place herself and her daughters on a footing of intimacy there; but her efforts had been unsuccessful, as Mrs. Tower was just as polite as ever, and just as reserved as ever, leaving Mrs. Varley to guess at the reason. Of course she put her own construction upon the matter, and never failed, when she could find or make an opportunity, to hint at something unfavorable in relation to Mrs. Tower. She did, as malicious people often do, foil herself with her own weapons, for almost every body loved and admired Mrs. Tower, and distrusted and disliked Mrs. Varley, though her wealth and standing in society gave her a kind of influence and power, which she and the five Misses Varley most industriously exerted.

Mrs. Tower’s clear mind fathomed at a glance the intent of her neighbor, but the sentinels about the out-posts of her prudence, were never for once caught slumbering on duty, or taken in a moment of unguardedness; and she sealed her discoveries in her own breast, leaving her friend and protégé, the Rev. Mr. Style, to his own conclusions and his own discretion. He longed to ask her if his observations tallied with hers, but he feared it might savor of conceit, or wear some other unworthy aspect in her eyes, so they remained mutually silent.

Such was the condition of things when Mrs. Tower welcomed to her house and her hospitalities the daughter of her early friend, sweet Jessie Lincoln. An illness of a few days had delayed her arrival, but the paleness it had left on her cheek only added a charm to her sad and lovely face.

“Now you are mine for a long, long time—foralways, Jessie,” said Mrs. Tower, as she folded the gentle girl to her heart. “How long I have urged you, and now you are really with me at length? How like the Jessie of my childhood you are, dearest, and how like the Jessie I laid beside her father in the grave!”

The awakening of painful remembrances brought the relief of mingled tears to the childless widow and the orphan Jessie; but soon controlling her emotions Mrs. Tower continued⁠—

“I shall preach one of my favorite doctrines in your ears, my dear Jessie, till you are my proselyte indeed. This notion of yours about dependence isonlya notion. It is banishing the bloom from your cheek, and stealing from your whole youth the treasures of joyousness which the young should especially garner.There is bitterness enough laid up for meridian years, Jessie, without casting so deep a shadow over the light and the hope of your girlhood. You must henceforth make my house your home, and be my own daughter. Say, Jessie, will you not?”

Poor Jessie could only reply with her tears.

“At least you must consider the matter,” proceeded Mrs. Tower, “and if I succeed in making your stay with me agreeable while you are my guest, I shall certainly hope to persuade you. But dry those tears, Jessie. I dare say I have opened the subject prematurely—if you are not too weary for company to-night, I must take you down stairs and introduce you to some ladies I see coming up the avenue, to sympathize in my gladness—Mrs. Jones and her Emilie. Mrs. Jones is one of my dearest friends, and Emilie is a wild, crazy-headed creature, but very sensible and affectionate, and I am sure you will love her.”

Jessie’s plain traveling-dress was exchanged for one of simple white muslin, and the bright mass of her beautiful black hair, released from its confinement, fell in smooth, heavy ringlets over her shoulders. Her whole air was a harmonious combination of ladylike reserve and a native born gentility, which education indeed may polish and improve, but can never implant. Mrs. Tower fondly kissed the cheek of the graceful girl, and then placing Jessie’s arm within her own, she led her with almost maternal pride to the drawing-room.

Mrs. Jones and her daughter welcomed the young stranger with the sincere cordiality of old friends, and Emilie, who became immediately fascinated with the simplicity and unassuming gentleness of her manner, expressed the earnest hope that Miss Lincoln would be happy enough to spend the whole summer.

“If you have a country-loving taste, I am sure you cannot find a lovelier spot than our own village, Miss Lincoln—or Jessie—as I mean to call you when we are no longer strangers,” said Emilie, her brilliant face sparkling with kindness, as she sat down on the sofa by Jessie’s side. “There is every thing beautiful at Mrs. Tower’s I know,” she continued, “but I am so wild, and so much of a rambler that I love the forests and glens and waterfalls, and above all horseback excursions! We have a pair of fine saddle-horses that papa has just brought home—high-spirited creatures they are—they make me think of Zenobia’s horses. Don’t you ride on horseback, Miss Jessie?”

Jessie had never practiced at all.

“O well! I can learn you in a very little time, and I’ll undertake to be your tutor in horsemanship, for I am far more notable in it, than in somemorefeminine accomplishments. Do you hearmy boast Mrs. Tower? I have engaged to learn Miss Lincoln to ride on horseback, in which art I have informed herI excel!” and Emilie laughed heartily at her own nonsense.

“No very unreasonable boast, Miss Emilie,” said Mr. Style; “and I think Miss Lincoln would have no difficulty in believing every word, if she had seen you practicing your Arabs this morning. I was confident your neck would be broken! But have you found names for the horses yet? You were in a grave study about that last evening!”

“O yes, Mr. Style, I am happily relieved of that anxiety. I could not think of christening them with those Quixotic names which you suggested, for I knew I could never remember them—and I was so troubled to suit myself, that I referred the whole matter to papa and George, and after a protracted and laborious discussion, they declared for the illustrious names of Romulus and Remus! I hope they may not quarrel for precedence, as those old worthies did! Indeed I shall be wrathful enough if Romulus practices any imposition or violence on Remus, for he is decidedly my favorite, and not entirely anon resistantI discover. But I shall give Miss Lincoln her introductory lessons on my docile old Betty, who has run so many delightful races for my pleasure. After that I purpose to settle a pension on Betty, and leave her to enjoy a calm old age. O I long to be about it! Will you be too tired to take your first ride to-morrow morning, Miss Lincoln? Betty is quiet as a kitten, and will kneel to take you on her back. Mrs. Tower’s avenue behind the garden is just the place too. Mrs. Tower may we ride there?”

“Certainly you may, Emilie,” replied Mrs Tower. “I give you the range of my house and grounds, together with the command of my carriage and coachman, till you shall get Jessie acclimated!”

“That is noble, Mrs. Tower! All I want. Your avenue is longer and wider than ours. I am sure I shall have roses as red as my own on Jessie’s cheek in a very little while. And you, Mr. Style, may prepare yourself for a challenge to a horse-race, when Miss Lincoln can ride my Romulus!”

Jessie expressed unbounded delight at the prospect of amusement that was before her, and offered a thousand thanks to Emilie for her willingness to instruct her.

“O pray don’t say a word about that,” replied Emilie. “Perhaps I shall not prove so competent as I promise. But if I fail, Mr. Style here shall finish your education!”

“Now, Mr. Style,” said Mrs. Tower, when the ladies had made their adieux, “you must take charge of Jessie’s entertainment, while I attend to a little business. I am sure she will be pleased with the conservatory?”

The young clergyman very readily undertook the commission, and throwing open a door from the drawing-room, he led the delighted girl into a sweet wilderness of flowers and fragrance.

Three weeks glided by almost imperceptibly, for Jessie Lincoln had never experienced such a full tide of happiness. The cool, fresh country zephyr kissed her cheeks, and there crept over them a delicious tinting, delicate as the blush of a rose-bud. Vigorous exercise, rural walks, and every kind of simple pleasure banished the sickly and languid expression from her face, and with returning health came vigor, vivacity, and joyousness. George and Emilie Jones were unwearied in their devotion to Jessie’s happiness; the Varleys had outdone everybody in promises of attention and politeness, especially Miss Charlotte, who found very frequent occasion to watch for any indications of Mr. Style’s preference of Jessiebefore herself. Poor Charlotte! she longed to read his heart; the indifference, nay, positive aversion she would have discovered there, would have been “the gall of bitterness” to her own, for she was deeply and desperately in love, if ever a silly young woman was, and a breath could have fanned her electrical jealousy into an uncontrollable flame. She would have given the last farthing of her fortune for an assurance of affection from the young minister. Alas! he never gave her any; yet at this juncture, without the slightest reason to believe he regarded her with any other sentiment than the commonest acquaintance, she confidently did believe she had taken him in her toils, and he would soon declare himself her admirer, unless Jessie stood in the way.

It was impossible not to see with one’s eyes open that Mr. Style was becoming deeply and vitally interested in Jessie, though in her simplicity and humility she was wholly unconscious of it; and if she had conceived the possibility of such a thing, she would bitterly have rebuked her own presumption, for she regarded herself altogether too humble to aspire to such a position in the world as to become the wife of such a gifted man. It is true that the lustre of his mind, the high tone of his moral endowments, and the faultlessness of his exterior moulding,charmedher—and what young heart would theynotcharm, I pray you tell me, dear lady reader? But the idea of loving Mr. Style with any other love than that which is inspired and sanctioned by respect and friendship merely never entered her mind. Jessie was, however, the beau ideal of all his visions—the pure, pious, refined, and high-souled woman he had always hoped to meet before he surrendered his heart with its rich treasury of manly and generous love. He knew her history—you shall know more of it anon, reader—and he admired and revered the strength and unconquerable resolution with which she had combated and triumphed in the midst of the most depressing discouragements. Respect, admiration, love, combined to make him—no, not a willing slave at her feet—he felt her moral nobility would revolt at that; but they made him ready to plant his strength by the side of her weakness, to be its defence and protection till the death-angel should come, commissioned to guide her from earth to heaven.

——

Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth, Mrs. Varley’s genteel “metropolitan friends,” had detained themselves at Saratoga so long as the most fashionable company remained. But they at length wrote a hasty note to the “dear Varleys” stating definitely when they should be at the depôt in N., expecting to see the carriage in waiting. And they did come, “bag and baggage,” to stay till November—it was onlyAugustthen, and they flattered themselves, so they announced, that even in so short a stay, very much happiness might be reciprocated.

The prime advantage of Mrs. Tyler’s acquaintance to the Varley family, consisted in the circumstance that that lady and her daughter boarded at what they called one of the most fashionable houses in the city. Mrs. Tyler despised housekeeping; it confined one so to the mercy of servants, besidescompanymade it so troublesome and expensive. The Miss Varleys could go and board at the same place in the winter, and Mrs. Tyler would be so very kind and condescending as to “take all the trouble ofchaperoningthem into the society of the ‘upper ten thousand,’ and nobody could with any certainty predict what advantages might accrue; perhaps a splendid settlement, perhaps”—I know not how many inducements she possessed, all of which sounded golden enough in the ears of the Miss Varleys when they made her acquaintance at —— Beach the season before, and insured for her what she intended, an invitation to the country when it was genteel to go into the country without such a bill of expense. The sphere in which Mrs. Tyler actually moved was only in the same pseudo-genteel orbit with the Mrs. Washington Potts’s, Mrs. De Perouk’s and a similar galaxy of inferior magnitude, to whose acquaintance and real claims to respect our shrewd and gifted countrywoman, has introduced so many delighted and instructed readers. Blessings on her simplicity, and on her two-edged satire; blessings on her mind and her pen, for holding up a mirror before the face of society, in which it may see not only its lineaments of loveliness, but also its deformities.

Mrs. Tyler was a very small,dried-upwoman, if I may be tolerated for the expression, though a row of beautiful porcelain teeth displayed themselves whenever she parted her parched and skinny lips; her cheeks were most unnaturally rosy—I should have saidrougey! A profusion of smooth and glossy ringlets adorned her head, and her whole dress was so in the extreme of fashion, there could have been, indeed, but a paltry difference between her “polar and equatorial diameter.” Brilliants sparkled in her gay caps, among theribbons and roses; gems flashed on her withered hands; “tinkling ornaments, cauls, round tires like the moon, chains, and bracelets, and mufflers, bonnets and head-bands, and tablets, earrings and rings, changeable suits of apparel, mantles, and wimples, and crisping-pins, glasses, fine linen, hoods and veils,” figuratively speaking, the Prophet’s whole catalogue of a Judean toilette, was in requisition, with many modern inventions, at which a Judean maiden would have stood aghast, to make a vain old woman young again! O, miserable ambition!

Miss Elizabeth was large and masculine in all her proportions, with an ungraceful stoop in her shoulders, coarse and prominent features, staring blue eyes, a brilliant and exquisite complexion, and most unusually beautiful hair. Her manners were intended to be easy and nonchalant, while in truth, to the eyes of true refinement, they were unpardonably bold and rude. Miss Tyler had persuaded herself she was awit, her sayings had sometimes occasioned so much laughter, and she delighted to use her fancied power everywhere, and on all occasions, shooting the shafts of her sarcasm and irony hither and thither without delicacy, civility, or mercy. She dressed gaudily and expensively, while her father drudged behind the counter of his “hardware and leather establishment,” early and late to support such enormous and unnecessary expenditures. She read novels “all night,” and wasfamiliar with the fate of every hero and heroine, from those of Bulwer, Eugene Sue, and George Sand, down to the prettiest specimen of “yellow-covered literature” for sale in small retail beer-shops, or peddled in railroad cars by newsboys. She gloried in the unfeminine and unprincipled habit of laughing at and ridiculing people in their very presence, if their backs were turned, and especiallycountry people; was strangely familiar with strangers; laughed and talked very loud in the streets, shops, and public conveyances,et cetera. Dear reader, I need not fill my outline more definitely; with a blush for the honor of my sex, I am compelled to admit there is more thanoneElizabeth Tyler in “these degenerate days!”

Well, the next day after Mrs. Tyler and her daughter arrived Mrs. Varley gave a very extensive invitation to thetonof the village, to assemble at her house in the evening, to pay their respects and make the acquaintance of her most distinguished visiters. The invitation, of course, included Mr. Style, Mrs. Tower, and Jessie Lincoln, concerning whom they had unaccountably neglected to make any inquiries, strange as it may seem, when she was the object of such nervous anxiety.

From eight till nine, poor Charlotte sat on the sofa by the side of Miss Tyler, terribly dispirited, and eagerly watching for the announcement of the Rev. Mr. Style. Elizabeth rallied her in vain; she scarcely remembered to introduce her friend, and tried fruitlessly to be amused by Elizabeth’s coarse and unladylike satires on the really elegant company as they entered. By and by Charlotte and Elizabeth simultaneously started; Charlotte rose from her seat, and Miss Tyler suddenly seized her arm, as if to detain her till some surprise was explained, and leveled her quizzing-glass deliberately at a group who were that moment exchanging salutations with Mrs. Varley near the door.

“There is Mr. Style! that’s him! that splendid figure!” whispered Charlotte, who had neither eyes nor ears for any one else.

“Gracious, Charlotte Varley! what kind of company do you entertain, for mercy’s sake!” very audibly ejaculated Miss Tyler. “Upon my word, if there isn’t mymantuamaker, Jessie Lincoln, invited to a party to honorus, mamma! Isn’t that a pretty piece of impudence! Well, I did think you were genteel people, and decently aristocratic before—you Varleys!”

“Laud!” chimed the mamma, displaying her elegant row of porcelain, and fanning herself vigorously, “Who is the people that’s distinguished by such elustrious visiters assewing-women, and takes ’em out into company? Don’t introduceus, Miss Varley!”

“Havn’t you got some tailoress girls, and school ma’ams stowed away somewhere, Lottie, that you are going to bring out, to give distinction to thismélange?” sneered Elizabeth, in a lower tone, with a most contemptuous smile, before Charlotte had time to recover from her confusion enough to apologize that the company was no more exclusively patrician.

“She is Mrs. Tower’s visiter,” stammered Charlotte, in a whisper, as Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth rose from the sofa, and majestically walked a little aside, lest the despised mantuamaker should approach near enough to make an introduction inevitable.

“Atoweringspecimen she must be!” punned Elizabeth to Miss Emilie Jones, who had stood near the sofa, leaning on the arm of her brother. The blood mounted to Emilie’s forehead, in an angry flood, and the bitterest retort rushed with the speed of lightning to her lip.

“Hush, Emilie,” softly whispered her more prudent brother, as he saw the resentment of the insult to her friends, flashing in luminous sparkles from her black and brilliant eyes. “Silence is the ‘better part of valor’ just now, sister!”

Emilie darted from his side, and in a few minutes she had clustered a charming circle of ladies and gentlemen about Miss Lincoln, and by the most graceful and assiduous attentions, she sought to banish the cruel embarrassment and mortification Miss Tyler’s vulgar rudeness had occasioned, for Jessie had instantly recognized her, and guessed at the import of her contemptuous remarks, by the inquiring eyes that were immediately bent upon her, from the vicinity in which Miss Tyler had made her communications. She did not blush for the truth that she was poor, and had heretofore gained her livelihood by the labor of her hands, but the curious and somewhat disdainful glances which she felt were directed toward her, chafed her sensitiveness to its tenderest vitality. She did, indeed, shrink from the charge of intrusion and presumption, which she had no doubt many hearts were preferring against her, however politeness might for the moment peek to conceal it. Poor Jessie tried to appear composed as if nothing had happened to pain her, but she found her self-possession deserting her in her utmost need. The hand that rested on Emilie’s arm trembled—the great tears struggled into Jessie’s eyes—her cheeks glowed one moment with the heat of a fever, and the next her face was almost as colorless as the white dress she wore.

“Do take me to some less conspicuous place, Emilie,” she whispered, “this cruel scrutiny kills me.”

Emilie did as she was requested, and apparently without design, extricated her from the group around her, led her to a seat by an open window, and sat down by her, with so much sympathy and distress in her usually joyous face, that poor Jessie was quite overcome, and was obliged to screen herself with the curtain to conceal her irrepressible tears. As she took hold of the folds of the curtain, the massive drapery fell, and so rich and dark was the velvet, that it entirely concealed those within from those without, who were gayly promenading the piazza, or lingering listlessly in the moonlight.

Some movement diverted almost all the company from the room, and also from the piazza near the window where Jessie and Emilie were sitting, and the same movement gave Mr. Style an unobserved opportunity to join them. Emilie looked in his face—there was a sternness and resentment in its expression that puzzled her for a moment, it was so unlike him, but his first remark solved her difficulty at once.

“Don’t be so distressed, Miss Lincoln—it is not difficult to put the right interpretation—” and then hebit his lips to stay the wrathful thoughts that were clamoring for utterance. A gleam of delight illuminated Emilie’s eyes, and she involuntarily extended her hand to him, in token of her sympathy with all he had refrained from uttering.

“Ah!” she said, and the bitterest scorn was in her glance and tone, “you are a prudent man, I know, but I am a fearless and reckless being, and I shall take the liberty to read out the interpretation, you no doubt wisely repress.”

“No, no, dear Emilie,” expostulated Jessie, “I will beg Mrs. Tower to release me from my promise, and I will go where I shall not involve my generous friends in such painful and humiliating circumstances.”

“Never! Jessie Lincoln, never!” warmly remonstrated Emilie, “you shall⁠—”

She was interrupted by the sound of footfalls and smothered voices on the piazza without.

“I would not be an impertinentlistener,” she said, “but I recognize Charlotte’s voice. Something of interest to you, Mr. Style, I presume, for I hear your name.”

The footsteps drew nearer, and the voices grew more clear and audible.

“Now we are alone, Elizabeth,” said Charlotte, “I must tell you my troubles. I had every reason to believe Mr. Style was in love with me—mamma says I had—and I have no doubt he was on the eve of a declaration, which would have made me the proudest and happiest creature in the world, when Mrs. Tower brought about the advent of that minx of a low-bred Jessie Lincoln, whose true place in the world you have been good enough to disclose. How I do despise her! I know Mrs. Tower got her here on purpose tofoilme. They say she manages admirably to keep them together, and that Mistress Jessie is ready to dog him everywhere, and throw herself eternally in his way. And then that saucy Emilie Jones, my worst enemy, sustains her in it all, and helps it forward. I don’t know what ridiculous things that bewitched mantuamaker wont do to raise herself into genteel society, and save any more mantuamaking. But I declare, Elizabeth, I shalldiewithout him! What shall I do? How shall I manage it? Come, you know?” Charlotte’s voice began to tremble as if she were in tears.

A crimson blush—but it was the blush of indignant innocence—burnt Jessie’s face, neck and arms. She rose to go, but Mr. Style, with contempt and disgust, and utter indignation battling with discretion for the mastery in every lineament of his face, gently drew her to a seat again.

“Do?” responded the heartless and unprincipled Elizabeth, “why, let me think. He does somehow seem to be a prize worth capturing, he is so stately and handsome. I am not sure, Lottie, but I shall come into the ranks to contend for him myself, ha! ha! ha! At least you could afford me the pleasure of a flirtation, just while I stay! I would not snap my finger, however, for a little obscure country parson for ahusband! Well, I guess you must manage to get some story into currency, that will give her an impulse back to her patterns and fashion-plates, and make him a chance to forget such a very meek and meaching face, and sanctimonious demeanor; but mind you, don’t mention yourauthority. I shall be terribly angry if you do, for these sewing-girls get possession of a great many things they might circulate to one’s disadvantage you know—and they are so touchy and jealous, they are really a very mischievous class of persons. But let me tell you a fact. I lost a splendid bracelet that cost me forty dollars at one dress-maker’s! I will not mention her name, but you can makeyour own inferences!” And Elizabeth Tyler and Charlotte Varley maliciously giggled.

“I may drawminetoo, may I not?” said Emilie Jones, as she sprang to her feet, with dashing eyes and indignation burning in every feature. Thrusting aside the drapery, she presented herself on the piazza, with an air as imperial as a second Zenobia defending the honor of her Palmyra. But the offending parties had hastily retreated, and mingled with the other guests who were returning from a stroll in the beautiful garden, which was gayly enough illuminated to be the trysting-place of Houries.

“Be calm, Jessie—Miss Lincoln,” said Mr. Style, as he drew her unresisting arm within his own. “Such malice always works ruin to those who cherish it.”

Jessie’s wounded heart fluttered strangely. The cruel and unprovoked injustice she suffered, awoke her pride, and made her stronger in body and spirit, while the mingling of the champion and the lover in Mr. Style’s tone and manner reassured her, and restored her self-possession. He placed her by the side of Mrs. Tower, who was chatting agreeably, wholly ignorant that any thing had occurred to disturb or distress Jessie, then attached himself to one and another circle, as he saw their entertainment flagging, and at length he found himself by the side of Miss Charlotte and her friend.

“Really, Mr. Style,” said Charlotte, as she laid her small, fair hand on his arm, and looked up languidly in his face; “you have been so choice of yourself or so democratic to-night, I have hardly seen you at all. Now it is your duty as a knight-errant, to make yourself agreeable to my dearest friend, Miss Tyler.”

Mr. Style was disgusted almost to loathing, and in his soul he shrunk from the false and deceitful woman, whose deliberate wickedness and folly his own senses had so unwillingly attested. But he gallantly bowed in obedience to Charlotte’s familiar challenge, and addressed something very common-place to Miss Tyler. She was transformed in a moment, and became all vivacity, and wit, and life. She joked and frolicked, and laughed till the attention of the company was attracted, and poor Charlotte began to be most cruelly jealous. Indeed, so entirely did Miss Tyler attach herself to Mr. Style, that emancipation was hopeless for the remainder of the evening. At a late hour the guests departed; and painful, indeed, were the disclosures Jessie made to Mrs. Tower, of the misery and mortification she had endured so innocently.

“Do let me go to-morrow, dear Mrs. Tower, my mother; I can never endure that the humbleness of my station should expose you to reproach like this.”

“No, Jessie,” replied Mrs. Tower, as she drewthe weeping girl to her bosom. “You are my own daughter now, and by an instrument legally attested, no longer dependent on your own exertions, but my chosen and acknowledged heiress. It is no reproach to you, my dearest child, among those whose true elevation of mind and character places them above the necessity of those artificial props, which are always called to sustain assumption—that you were reared under the clouds of misfortune, or that your own hands supported an invalid father and mother. Jessie, I honor you for it, and the gift of a fortune is but a trifling reward. Say no more about leaving me—you cannot and you must not do it. Leave this matter all to my ‘elder wisdom,’ and forget it in the repose your mind and body need.”

——

The following morning, as Mrs. Tower and Jessie were sitting in the library, with Emilie Jones and her brother, a servant brought in an awkwardly folded and hastily written note, and presenting it to Jessie, informed her that the bearer waited in the hall for a reply. Jessie opened the unsealed paper and read:

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