The orphan nieces
Date: 2025-10-03T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Orphans -- Juvenile fiction; Children and death -- Juvenile fiction; Sisters -- Juvenile fiction; Duty -- Juvenile fiction; Nieces -- Juvenile fiction; Love -- Religious aspects -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The orphan nieces
or, Duty and inclination

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: October 3, 2025 [eBook #76970]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Anson D. F. Randolph & Company, 1856

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ORPHAN NIECES ***

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

THE ORPHAN NIECES.

FRONTISPIECE.

THE ORPHAN NIECES;

OR,

Duty and Inclination.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "UPWARD AND ONWARD," "IRISH AMY," "SOPHIE KENNEDY,"
"COMFORT ALLISON," ETC.

NEW YORK:

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY

770 BROADWAY, COR. 9th ST.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by the

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

CONTENTS.

——————

CHAPTER FIRST. LAYING OUT PLANS

CHAPTER SECOND.

CHAPTER THIRD.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

CHAPTER NINTH.

CHAPTER TENTH.

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

DUTY AND INCLINATION;

OR,

The Orphan Nieces.

CHAPTER FIRST.

LAYING OUT PLANS.

IT was the time of the noon recess in Mrs. Granger's school, and the long upper school-room was pretty well filled with her pupils, who were gathered as chance or inclination prompted, some walking up and down in pairs, or singly, talking and reading, others actively engaged in battledore graces, or the old and classic game of jack-stones, and a few at their desks, endeavoring, amid the babel of noises, to fix their attention upon their lessons. By far the largest group, however, was assembled around the piano, sitting, standing, lounging, in all sorts of attitudes, graceful and ungraceful, and engaged in discussing that never-failing subject of interest, the approaching examination.

"After all, girls," remarked Olive McHenry, after the matter had been reviewed in every aspect of which it seemed capable, "after all, there is something very pleasant about examinations."

"I should be glad to know what it is," remarked her cousin Charlotte. "I have never been able to see any thing agreeable about it, except that it comes just before vacation."

"I suppose that is one pleasure," said Olive, with something of a sigh, "but I think there are some others. It always causes a little excitement, the rules are relaxed, and all the teachers are in their best humor."

"To say nothing of the prizes," remarked Helen Monteith.

"Yes, the prizes are pleasant, too, but they are only for a few, so it is hardly fair to rank them among the pleasures of examination."

"But don't you think vacations are pleasant, Olive?" asked one of the little girls.

"Oh! Yes, of course," answered Olive, but somewhat indifferently.

"But it is so nice to think about going home," persisted little Anna, who was only eleven years old. "Think of the journey, and the arrival, and dear, dear mother!" Anna checked herself, and looked around, blushing, as though she feared having exposed herself to ridicule.

"You forget I have no mother, Anna," remarked Olive, gravely but gently.

"To be sure that makes a great deal of difference," assented Anna, in a sympathizing tone. "I should not care any thing about going home, if it were not for seeing father and mother."

"Perhaps, if you had some one at home who had done every thing they could for you, you might care something about seeing them, Annie," remarked Charlotte Merton, in the measured tone which was always a sign of excitement with her, "instead of feeling that no gratitude or affection was due them because they were 'only' uncle and aunt."

Olive colored extremely, and looked very much hurt. Several of the girls exchanged glances, and Anna looked from one to the other in surprise.

"I don't think Olive had any such meaning, Charlotte," said Helen Monteith, while Olive stooped to pick up some scattered bits of paper. "I am sure it is natural she should think of her parents, when we are all talking of going home, and seeing our friends."

"It may be very natural, too, for Olive to be constantly insinuating that she is not happy, or well-treated at home," returned Charlotte, "but I must say, it does not seem to me to be just the thing for a person in her situation."

"I did not mean or say any such thing, Charlotte," said Olive, looking up suddenly; "you know very well I did not. You have been angry all day, because I stood above you in history this morning, and you take this way to revenge yourself."

Olive stopped suddenly. She caught Helen's eye of warning fixed upon her, and biting her lip, she again attempted to busy herself with the bits of paper but it was in vain. She burst into tears, and retreated to her seat, while Charlotte looked after her with an expression of triumph, and the girls exchanged glances, some of sympathy and others of amusement.

"What is the matter with your sister, Abby?" asked one of the girls in another part of the room.

Abby McHenry looked up from the book she was reading, and in which she had contrived to be wholly absorbed, despite the noise and confusion around her. "Is any thing the matter with Olive?" she asked, as if she were only half-awakened.

"I presume so," said Maria Grey; "she seems to be crying, and she is not apt to cry for nothing."

"I suppose she has had some trouble with Charlotte," said Abby, closing her book, and preparing to go to her sister. "I do wish Charlotte would leave off teasing her, or that she would leave off caring for it. I think she might be used to her amiable cousin by this time. But I must go and stop her crying, or she will make herself sick: She does not cry as easily as I do."

Abby did not inquire of her sister what disturbed her, but she sat down by her, and by caresses and persuasions, finally induced her first to check her sobs, and then to retire to her room, and bathe her face and eyes before school. This accomplished, she returned to the school-room, and sought out Helen Monteith.

"Do take Olive out to walk after school, Helen, and keep her quiet," she said. "She gets into such a taking, and I can not manage her half as well as you do."

"You don't get into takings, yourself, Abby," said Helen, laughing at the oddity of the request.

"I don't allow Charlotte to disturb me, at any rate," returned Abby. "I know her too well, and what is the use? But do pray comfort Olive, if you can. I don't know what she will do when we go home for good," she continued; "for it is worse there than it is here. I really dread the close of the next half-year, not for myself, but for her."

"Come and walk in the grove with me, Olive," said Helen, accordingly, as soon as school was out. "I have obtained permission of Mrs. Granger, and the day is so cool that we shall have our favorite walks all to ourselves."

Olive assented, and the two friends were now to be seen passing up and down the long gravelled paths, which led through a thick grove of beech and maple, down to the water's edge.

"How tired you look, Olive," said Helen, at last.

"I am not so much tired as I am fretted and worried," Olive replied. "I do not see what it is to come to."

"What 'what' is to come to?" asked Helen.

"The times I have with Charlotte," replied Olive. "You saw how it was at noon. Because I said something about having no mother, she took it up, and made it appear that I was trying to insinuate that I was not well-treated at home. There is hardly a day of our lives that she does not get up some such scene, and she generally takes occasion, in the course of it, to put me in mind of the fact that I am dependent upon her father."

"But you are not entirely dependent, are you?" inquired Helen.

"Not entirely. We three girls, Abby, Laura, and myself, have almost three hundred dollars a year between us. That is enough to provide as with clothes, but it will not be quite as much when we finish going to school. So Abby and I stay at uncle Merton's, and my aunt Dimsden has adopted Laura, and educates her at home."

Olive paused a little, and then went on. "Uncle Merton is very kind, and I always get on nicely with him. Aunt is kind too, at least in all essentials, and I am very much attached to her. But she naturally sides with Charlotte, and never imagines that she can do any thing wrong. Then aunt is proud. She was very indignant at my mother, for marrying beneath her, as she thought, and she thinks I am just like my father. I hope I am," continued Olive, coloring with a justifiable pride; "I should not wish to resemble a better man."

"But in spite of all this I should do very well, if it were not for Charlotte. She renders my life miserable by her everlasting jealousy and suspicion. Even that I could put up with, but this feeling that I am only a dependent, and have no home of my own except upon sufferance—that I may be looked upon as an intruder and a burden—it is that which embitters every moment of my life."

"How does Abby bear it?" asked Helen.

"Why, Helen, you know how Abby is? Nothing ever disturbs her. I have heard aunt scold her half an hour at a time, so that if it had been me, I should have felt like drowning myself almost, and she would not care any more for it than though the old cat had mewed at her. It is just so when Mrs. Granger finds fault with her. I wish I had her temper, I am sure."

Helen had her doubts whether Olive would be, upon the whole, improved by having her sister's indifference, but she did not express them. "I wonder, Olive," she said, after a few moments' silence, "that you do not at once take measures to render yourself independent."

"How do you mean?" asked Olive. "How would I?"

"Very easily. You have had every advantage of education so far, and you say you expect to be in school at least half a year longer. What hinders you from preparing yourself thoroughly, and thus engaging in teaching?"

Olive looked as though she had received a perfectly new idea. "I never thought of that," said she; "I wonder if I could."

"Why not? A great many people undertake it, who are by no means equal to you in capacity or advantages, and are successful."

"But it is a great drudgery, Helen."

"That depends upon circumstances, my dear. That teaching must always be hard work, I allow, but it seems to me that it is very possible to raise it above the character of drudgery."

"How?"

"By putting one's whole heart and soul into it, as many teachers do. Witness Mrs. Granger and Miss Lee, and our good Professor De V. But, even allowing that it is hard work, is it not better to work hard, and be your own mistress, than to live in leisure and luxury, dependent upon another, however kind and considerate that other may be?"

Olive looked very thoughtful. "Yes," said she, at length, "I would rather work hard from year's end to year's end, if I could make enough to support myself comfortably. But how should I go to work to procure a situation?"

"Ask Mrs. Granger to find you one. You know she procured excellent places for Ann Browning and Elizabeth Hayes. She likes nothing better than to help the girls in this way, unless it is to see them married."

"What would uncle and aunt say, I wonder? I think it very doubtful whether they would hear of such a thing. Aunt said the last time we were at home that she hoped to have us settled in homes of our own before we were twenty-five."

"There is another thing to be taken into the account, Olive," said Helen. "Suppose your aunt undertakes to make up a match for you. If you are at all what I take you to be, you are not the girl to marry for a home or an establishment, whatever may be your circumstances. But suppose, as I said, she undertakes in all kindness to provide you with a husband. Your ideas and hers very probably would not agree. If you refused, out and out, your situation at home would not be rendered in the least degree more comfortable, while if you accepted, as you might be greatly tempted to do, there would be an end of all self-respect and happiness for the future."

"I have often thought of that, among the other discomforts of my condition," replied Olive, "though I never saw my way out of it before. I do not think that aunt Rebecca would ever intentionally do any thing ungenerous, though she does not like to be contradicted. But it will not do to decide hastily," she continued. "I must take the matter into consideration. I believe I will say that I will not try to come to any conclusion till after next Sunday."

"Why next Sunday?" asked Helen.

"Because it is Communion-Sunday," replied Olive. "I do not know but I am superstitious about it, Helen, but it does seem to me as though prayers upon communion-days were worth more than at other times."

"I do not see why they should not be," Helen said; "one would naturally pray with more faith and earnestness in presence of the memorials of the love of our Master and only Saviour, and it is said, 'According to your faith be it unto you.'"

"I have often thought it was wrong in me to be so discontented," continued Olive, after they had taken two or three turns in silence, "and I have struggled hard against the feeling, but it will come back."

"I think it would be wrong to be discontented, if you could help yourself," returned Helen, "but if we can better our condition by proper and lawful means, it appears to me that we have a right to do so. If I were you, I should make a great effort to be free, and not be discouraged by a good many hindrances. But if it should be shown to be clearly impossible, I should try to be contented, and make the best of it."

"I wonder what Charlotte will say?"

"Never mind what Charlotte says," returned Helen, with some little impatience in her tone. "I do wonder, Olive, that when you know her so well, you should constantly disturb and fetter yourself with a reference to her. You never appear to advantage where she is, because you always seem under such a constraint, and you hardly ever express an opinion before her, without looking as if you wondered how she would take it."

"It is foolish I know," said Olive, coloring, "but one reason is that she always seems upon the watch to turn me into ridicule, and if I say an unguarded word, she is sure to take advantage of it. Then if I show any signs of resentment, comes out something about my being dependent."

"Another reason for rendering yourself independent."

"Yes, and a very great one. If it were not for her, I should not care so much. For really aunt means to be very kind, though she does not always show it in the most agreeable way. And uncle is every thing that is good. I think if I decide upon this course, I will write to him before we go home. I can always speak my mind better in a letter than in any other way, and if I have his consent, I shall have little to fear; for he is most emphatically head of the house. Even Charlotte is afraid of him."

"You will have a strong motive for making the most of your time while you remain in school," said Helen. "If I were you, Olive, I would devote more time to Latin and mathematics. You are a good French and Italian scholar, and your standing in the other classes is excellent. But if you will allow me to say so, you are rather behindhand in these two branches, especially in algebra."

"I know I am," replied Olive; "I like them so much less than the others, and they are so much more difficult for me, that I have always felt a temptation to neglect them."

"But they are very necessary for a teacher," remarked Helen.

"I will begin to work at them this very night. I shall dislike to give up the French prize, too," she continued, with something like a sigh, "but it can not be helped. I must risk a less for a greater, as Mr. De V. says. Charlotte will think I am trying to take the mathematical prize from her. She regards it as hers already, you know, and I fear there is no chance of my coming up to it so late in the term."

"Charlotte again! Why should you wish to take it from her? Let her have that, and the French prize too, if she wants them. I should rather give them both up, than have any new cause of jealousy arise. You are working for a larger prize than a writing-desk, are you not?"

"She might have every one in the school if it would make her any better-natured," returned Olive. "Suppose I tell her that I will not try for any of them?"

"That would hardly answer the purpose. Just devote yourself to making up your own deficiencies and let things take their course. If you gain a prize, well and good; if not, you can afford to lose it. But there is the half-hour bell for tea; I had no idea we had been out so long."

When the bell rung for study at seven, Olive prepared to push her resolution into practice. Yet it was not without a sigh that she cleared her end of the table of dictionaries and grammars, and took down her slate and geometry. This was soon dispatched, and it was with a still deeper sigh that she turned to her algebra.

Abby intimated her surprise in humorous dumb-show, but did not speak; for both the sisters were very particular in observing the rules, Olive from principle, and Abby because she very well knew that there was no use in talking, to her sister, since she only lost her credit-marks, without getting any answers.

The lesson appeared uncommonly puzzling, and at first it seemed hopeless to try to understand it. Yesterday she would have contented herself with bestowing only just as much labor upon it as would save her from disgrace in the class, but she had a new and powerful motive for exertion. With a strong effort, she brought all her powers of mind to bear upon the task before her, and before nine o'clock she was able to lay down her slate with a sigh at once of fatigue and relief, and turn to her French lesson. She had hardly set about it, however, before the bell rang, which proclaimed that study was over for the night, and set free the hundred and twenty tongues that inhabited the building, Abby's among the number.

"How you have been fagging at that algebra!" she exclaimed, as the first stroke sounded. "Are you going to try to get Charlotte's prize away from her?"

"No," replied Olive, as she threw herself back in her chair; "I have no expectation of any such thing. She is too far before me for that. But I want to make up my deficiencies in mathematics if I can."

"What a pity you did not begin before! It is so near examination that every credit counts, and you will not have time to get any extras in French, if you give so much to algebra. I should not like to have you lose the French prize, after taking it so often."

"I own I should be sorry to lose it," said Olive, "but after all, Abby, the prize is not the principal thing."

"Perhaps not, but you must own it is a great help. Much as I love music, I don't believe I should have applied for an extra practice-hour, but for the hope of winning that beautiful copy of Dante."

"I am working for a prize, too," said Olive, "but it is not a school prize."

Abby looked at her in surprise. "Oh! Yes, of course," she said at last, "you always want to do just right, I know." Abby spoke in entire good faith. Perhaps the strongest feelings she ever had were admiration and love for her sister. She would for Olive's sake sacrifice even her dearly beloved laziness, which was the strongest proof of affection it was possible for her to give.

"That is not it, exactly, either," said Olive. "I have a plan in my head."

"Don't tell me, Olive, if you don't want Charlotte to know," interrupted Abby. "You know she always questions every thing out of me sooner or later. However, don't look so disappointed," she added; "if you want me to know very much, I will make an extra effort to keep my own counsel for once."

"I do want you to know very much," replied Olive, "and I do not want you to mention it to Charlotte, at least not till after I write to uncle." And she proceeded to unfold her plans.

Abby listened with a mingled expression of perplexity and astonishment. When Olive had finished:

"If you were the least bit like me, Olive, I should say it was the most absurd thing in the world. But being as you are, I don't so much wonder at it. I don't see why you can not be contented to go on as we have done, and as I always mean to do, enjoying the good and letting the evil go by. But if you can not, and I really suppose you can't, you would no doubt be more comfortable in a state of independence. But O Olive! Only think of the work! Think of having to teach all sorts of children six hours a day, from year's end to year's end all your life long."

"And think of having to put up with Charlotte's impertinence, and aunt Dimsden's matchmaking, and aunt Rebecca's lectures all one's life long, never being able to spend a cent of money without having to account for it to some one, whose tastes are entirely different from your own. Think of—"

"Yes, I know all that," interrupted Abby, "but after all, we always have as much money as we want to spend, or nearly as much; for I don't believe any body had really ever as much as they wanted," she added laughing. "As for aunt's lectures, they need not worry you, if you would only take them in the right way. Charlotte is a nuisance sometimes, I allow, but then she has a right in her father's house, and we are there only upon sufferance; so we must not wonder if she sets herself up."

"Being there upon sufferance is the very thing I complain of," said Olive. "I would rather work ever so hard and feel that I had a right to be somewhere, than to live with the kindest persons in the world upon sufferance."

"So would not I," replied Abby. "But Olive, if you are really set upon this scheme, I would write to uncle about it before we go home, and get his consent: then you will know exactly what to expect and can act accordingly. I shall be sorry to have you go away from me," she added with a sigh, "but if you think you will be happier—and perhaps," she said with her birdlike laugh, which Olive could never resist, "I shall make a grand marriage by that time, and then you can come and live with me." And she forthwith began to place the prospective arrangements of Olive's bedroom.

Olive sighed and smiled. She knew her sister had almost no capacity for seriousness, and while she often felt painfully the want of sympathy which existed between them, she was thankful for her affection—an affection greater than Abby bestowed upon any other living creature.

CHAPTER SECOND.

BY the end of the week which Olive had set for consideration, her determination was firmly fixed upon the plan which Helen had proposed to her. The letter to her uncle was written and sent, and she composed herself to wait for an answer with what patience she might, applying herself meanwhile with all diligence to perfect herself in those studies wherein she felt herself most deficient.

Charlotte found, to her great surprise, that Olive was gaining upon her in mathematics, while they were more nearly upon an equality in French than they had ever been before; for Olive found it entirely impossible to keep up her ordinary standing in the latter class. She could not help feeling mortified the first two or three times she came to the recitation with only her regular lesson and a short translation. But the feeling passed off by degrees, and she was able to hear Charlotte commended with all due complacency.

Not so Charlotte. Every honor gained by Olive in algebra and geometry seemed an annoyance to her, and she actually turned pale when the credits were read at the end of the week, and Olive's name stood within one of her own.

Several of the girls smiled, and Abby laughed outright, despite her sister's reproving looks, all of which did not tend to make Charlotte feel any more amiably. Almost as soon as school was out for the afternoon, she came up to where Olive and Abby were standing, with several of the other girls.

"I wish to know, Olive," she said, in her measured tones, "whether you intend to dispute the mathematical prize with me?"

"I do not intend to dispute it with you, or any one, Charlotte," replied Olive, gently; "I should stand very little chance of success if I did. You know I have always been very deficient in mathematics, and I want to make it up while I have time. As for the prize, that is as it may happen. I shall be very much surprised if I do get it, and certainly your chance is much better than mine."

"I am to understand, then, that you mean to contend for the prize?"

"No," replied Olive, a little impatiently; "I do not. I only mean to learn my lessons as well as I can, and let the prize take its chance."

"If that is all you want, I think it would be just as well to learn your lessons without the key," said Charlotte, with a significant sneer.

Olive colored, while Abby exclaimed: "How perfectly absurd you are, Charlotte. I don't believe Olive ever looked at the key, and I am sure I should know it if she had."

"I do not believe there is any key," said Maria Grey. "Miss Lincoln," she asked of one of the teachers who was passing, "is there any key to the higher algebra?"

"Not that ever I heard of," answered Miss Lincoln; "why?"

"Nothing, only Charlotte thought she had seen one," said Maria, and Miss Lincoln passed on. "You see you are wrong, Charlotte," she continued; "I really think you owe Olive an apology for your uncivil insinuation."

"Perhaps I was wrong in 'this' instance," returned Charlotte, with peculiar emphasis. "I confess I am not so well acquainted with keys and counted exercises as some of you."

She turned round to mark the effect of this speech upon Olive, but Olive had left the room.

Olive learned to attach much less importance to her cousin's jealousy, since she seemed to have a prospect of escaping from it at some time or other. But she had a new source of uneasiness. It was two weeks since she had written to her uncle, and she had yet received no answer. She began to think that he was ill, or else that he was seriously displeased, and either idea was sufficiently unpleasant. About Mrs. Merton's opinion she felt less anxiety; for she felt that, however annoyed her aunt might be in the outset, she was sure to come round to her husband's side in the end.

The next morning, however, brought the much-desired answer, and it was with no little agitation that Olive retired to her room and broke the seal. A hasty glance told her that she had nothing to fear from her uncle's anger, and, that apprehension removed, she was able to read the letter more calmly from beginning to end.

Mr. Merton was not in the least displeased with his niece's desire for independence; on the contrary, he sympathized with her entirely, but he feared that she had not thoroughly counted the cost. Teaching, pursued as a means of support, was a laborious, and oftentimes a harassing occupation. It would probably be some time before she would be able to earn a high salary, or occupy any but a subordinate position, and she would find herself obliged to put up with a good many trials, of which she had very little conception. He did not, however, mean to discourage her from her undertaking, which he thought very praiseworthy, but he wished her to take the time which remained of the term for consideration. And if, when she came home, she continued of the same mind, he would cheerfully aid her by every means in his power. He mentioned at the end that aunt Rebecca sent her love, but he did not say whether she knew any thing of the matter in hand.

Olive's feelings had been wrought up to a pitch higher than she herself was aware of. While the matter was uncertain, she had made up her mind to be disappointed, but no sooner did she learn that there was every prospect of success, than she became aware of what a failure would have cost her, and, while she laughed at herself for the weakness, she could not help crying.

Abby surprised her before she had quite dried her tears. She snatched the letter from her sister's hands, and read it through.

"Why, what are you crying for?" she very naturally asked. "I do not see but uncle says every thing you could wish. You certainly can not think it unreasonable that he wants you to wait till vacation before deciding! Even I should not object to that."

"I don't know what I am crying for, that is the truth," said Olive, drying her tears and laughing, "only that I had made up my mind to be disappointed, and uncle's kind letter came upon me with a sort of surprise. I do not at all complain of his wanting me to take a longer time for consideration, you may be sure."

"I wonder what aunt Rebecca will say!"

"I rather think he has not mentioned the affair to her at all. I wish you would join me, Abby."

"Oh! No; it is entirely out of the question. To begin with, I don't know any thing well enough to teach it, but music, and I never should have the patience to teach that. Think of being obliged, day after day, to listen to all sorts of compositions, good and bad, drummed and thrummed, and thumped and pounded, out of all sorts of pianos, by all sorts of hands, with a running accompaniment of 'one,' two, three—'one,' two, three—mind the rests—one, two, three—take care of that accidental—and so on, to the end of the chapter."

"But you might learn other things, Abby."

"It is far too late for that, my dear, even if I had the capacity, which I have not. And besides, I am very well contented as I am. I shall be sorry to have you away, but if you think you will be happier, I shall not mind it so much. And perhaps, as I said, I shall be married to some rich man before you come back from your first term, and then you can come and live with me."

"You would not marry for an establishment, would you, dear?"

"Oh! Not really, you know! That would be worse than teaching, because it would be mean, us well as inconvenient. But then, I may take a fancy to a rich man as well as a poor one, may I not?"

"You may, to be sure," said Olive, smiling, "but I do not think it is very profitable to speculate upon such things."

"Well, then, if you won't be interested in my matrimonial projects, come and play battledore with me in the hall. That good-natured little Anna has lent me hers, and I am dying for some one to play with me. Come, you are getting as old as your great-grandmother, over those stupid figures. Who do you think will want a teacher looking like a Sphynx?"

Olive laughed, but suffered herself to be drawn away from her books, and at the end of an hour's active exercise, she certainly felt better, and inclined to take a brighter view of life. She gave Charlotte her father's message, without, however, showing her the letter, at which Charlotte was very angry, and at once concluded that Olive had been writing something to her disadvantage.

Examination-time came, and, to the wonder of every one, Olive took but one premium, and that was for the higher mathematics—considered the highest prize in the school. No one stood any where near her but Charlotte, and she was twenty behind, though she took the second honor in French, and the first in history.

Olive was as much astonished as any one else: she had not kept the run of her own credits, and could hardly believe her ears when the account was read. It was with any thing but a feeling of unmixed pleasure that she went forward to receive the prize—a beautifully-fitted writing-desk.

As soon after school as she could get an opportunity, she went up to Mrs. Granger's private room, where she found Charlotte, apparently in a state of much excitement, and she caught her own name as she entered.

"Mrs. Granger," said Olive, "are you sure there is no mistake about the prize?"

"What mistake could there be, Olive?"

"I did not think—I had no idea of gaining the prize in mathematics," replied Olive. "I supposed Charlotte would like it of course."

"I presume Charlotte thought so too, and that may be the way she has lost it," said Mrs. Granger. "She has taken it so many times that she felt herself perfectly secure, and relaxed her efforts, while you have improved very much. Charlotte has taken two prizes, and that ought to content her."

"I should hive taken this too, if I had had a fair chance," burst forth Charlotte, the violence of her feelings causing her to forget the respect due to Mrs. Granger's presence. "If the trial had been half fair, I should have had nothing to fear."

"What am I to understand by that, Miss Merton?" asked Mrs. Granger, with stately dignity.

"That Olive has been helped and favored in every way, while I have been left to depend upon my own efforts," returned Charlotte, far too angry to consider what she said. "Miss Lincoln has always been ready to assist her, and so has Miss Smith. As long as the partiality extended only to French, I was willing to put up with it, but to be cheated out of my just dues by a poor relation—a dependent upon my father's bounty."

"Charlotte Merton, hold your peace!" said Mrs. Granger, in her very sternest tone of authority, before which the boldest rebel quailed. "Your conduct is disgraceful in the extreme. In charging Miss Lincoln with favoritism, you at once insult me, and make an accusation which you can not sustain, for I venture to say that there is not another girl in the class, beside yourself and Olive, who is the least surprised at the result. As for your saying that Olive has cheated you, the very fact of her coming here at once to ascertain whether there was not a mistake—to say nothing of her established character for purity and honor—gives the lie to that assertion.

"For shame, young lady! Have you so little magnanimity that though you have taken two premiums yourself, you grudge your cousin another, besides taunting her with her misfortunes? I am very much disappointed in you, Charlotte! I knew your temper was in many respects faulty, but I never saw any littleness in you before. No, Olive, my dear, there is no mistake about the prize. You have fairly earned it, and we all rejoice that your efforts have been crowned with success. Yet I venture to say that the honor has not been your object in these efforts—is it not so?"

"Yes ma'am," replied Olive, whose first indignation against Charlotte had subsided into something like pity. "I hardly thought at all of taking the prize. I had another object in view."

"I think I partly guess what that object is," said Mrs. Granger, "and if you choose, you shall tell me this evening, when I shall be at leisure. Come, Charlotte, I am sure you must regret your hasty words and unjust suspicions. Let me see you give your cousin your hand, and say so."

"If you think Olive has been perfectly fair, and she says so, Mrs. Granger, I am willing to believe it," replied Charlotte, who began, in truth, to see that she was not appearing to advantage. "I confess I was hasty, Olive," she added, offering her hand. "I hope you will forget what I said. No doubt you are perfectly entitled to the prize."

Olive took the hand, and offered a kiss in return, which was accepted, and the two cousins went down-stairs, and entered the school-room together, with an appearance of more cordiality than was usual with them.

Some of the girls were glad to see it, others wondered, and many prophesied that it would not last long. In this they were so far mistaken, that it lasted all next day, and through the journey home; for Charlotte had become more and more sensible that her anger at losing the prize would very naturally be attributed to envy at her cousin's success, and she had at the bottom of her heart a great respect for Olive's good opinion.

Before they left school, Olive had laid open all her plans and desires to Mrs. Granger, and received that lady's cordial approval. Mrs. Granger furnished her all the assistance in her power towards obtaining a situation whenever she should desire it, but strenuously advised her to spend another half-year in school, more, she was pleased to say, to acquire the routine of school business, than to add to her accomplished merits.

Owing to a slight accident, the girls did not arrive at home until so late an hour of the night that they could think of nothing except taking a hearty supper and going directly to bed. The next morning, however, the whole subject was brought up by the usual inquiry about prizes.

"Olive and I have changed this time," remarked Charlotte, with tolerable good humor. "She has carried off the mathematical honors, and left the French to me."

"Olive taken the mathematical prizes!" said aunt Rebecca, with evident astonishment. "I thought you always reckoned upon that with certainty, Charlotte, and I see your French is only second. How does it happen, Olive, you have taken such a sudden start?"

"I don't know, aunt, unless it is because I have studied harder than usual," replied Olive, coloring a little under her aunt's scrutinising glance.

"I suppose you have taken the first French, too," continued Mrs. Merton. "Really you have come home covered with honors."

"Maria Grey took the first French," said Abby, who had heretofore been occupied in slyly feeding the cat under the table. "Olive has given more time to algebra and Latin than to any thing else this term."

"Why was that, Olive?" asked Mrs. Merton, rather sharply.

"Olive has been quite mysterious about the matter," Charlotte remarked, unable to resist the temptation to tease her cousin a little. "She has assured us that she had another object in view besides the mere writing-desk. I believe Mrs. Granger is in the secret, but Abby and myself are shut out."

"Speak for yourself," interrupted Abby, gayly. "You think I never can know any thing without telling or it, but you are mistaken for once; I have known it all along."

"I do not approve of secrets," said Mrs. Merton, looking a good deal displeased. "I can not conceive of any good motive Olive could have for concealment in this case, I am sure."

"I believe I am in this mighty secret, eh, Olive?" said Mr. Merton, smilingly.

"Yes, uncle," replied Olive, glad of her uncle's protection. "You know more about it than any one."

Mrs. Merton waited in dignified silence. Mr. Merton helped himself to another piece of toast, buttered it, took a hot egg, and breaking it, said, quietly:

"The reasons that Olive has been so earnestly devoting herself to mathematics this term are, first, that she felt she had neglected them before; and secondly, because she has, as I understand, made up her mind to engage in teaching, as soon as she leaves school, and she justly thinks that this branch is a very important one to her success."

"In teaching!" exclaimed Charlotte.

And then there was an awful silence. Olive dared not look up. She felt her aunt's glance of offended majesty fastened upon her. She knew if she met it, she should certainly either laugh or cry, and she did not want to do either.

Abby's head was down under the table to look after the cat; and if it was Minny that mewed, her voice sounded uncommonly like a giggle.

At last Mrs. Merton spoke:

"May I ask, Miss McHenry, what are the motives which have led to this extraordinary decision? Do you not consider that you have been well-treated in this house?"

"No, aunt," replied Olive, meekly.

"Then, permit me to ask, once more, why you wish to quit us, and engage in the occupation of 'teaching?'" with an emphasis upon the word, as though Olive had proposed to engage in the occupation of street-cleaning.

"Because I do not wish to be dependent any longer, aunt Rebecca," replied Olive at last, in a voice which trembled at first, but which gathered firmness as she proceeded. "You have been very kind to me, and I have never felt otherwise than grateful for it, but I would, rather earn my own living if I can."

"And how long has this precious project been in agitation?"

"I first thought of it at the beginning of last term," replied Olive. "I wrote to uncle upon the subject immediately, and as he did not disapprove, I considered myself at liberty to entertain the idea."

Mrs. Merton turned to her husband: "Do you mean to say, Mr. Merton, that this young lady is aided and abetted by you in this matter?"

"Why, yes; I must say that I thought the idea a good one," replied Mr. Merton deliberately. "Olive has talents, and a good education, and if she is willing, for the sake of independence, to undergo the labor of teaching, she has my full consent to try the experiment, at the same time that she knows she is as welcome as possible to stay here, and make our house her home for life, or until she gets a home of her own."

"Thank you, uncle," replied Olive warmly.

Mrs. Merton leaned back in her chair. "I have no more to say," she remarked in a resigned tone of voice; "I really can say no more. I have always feared, from Olive's extreme resemblance to her father, that some of his peculiarities might appear in her. But I hoped a good education might overcome the advantages of a low origin. I see it was in vain."

"Aunt," said Olive, with some indignation in her tone, "you have no right to speak so of my father. Whatever may have been his birth, he was an honest and honorable man, and deserve nothing but good of any one. His losses of property might have come from error in judgment, but no one ever accused him of one speck of dishonesty or selfishness. My dear mother always spoke of him as the kindest of men; and my own recollections of him tell me the same thing. You are welcome to say what you please to me, but spare my father's memory."

"You are right, Olive," said her uncle, gravely. "Your father was one of the most honorable of men; and if his birth was not high, it was honest, and such as no republican need be ashamed of. But we will drop this subject for the present. And you, 'my little dunce,'" he added, turning round to Abby, "what are you going to do?"

"Stay at home and play for you, uncle," replied Abby, returning her uncle's pull of the hair by a most impish pinch. "You don't know how much new music I have learned since I was at home last. I took the first prize."

"I hope that you, Abby, are going to appreciate the advantages of your position sufficiently to remain at home," said aunt Rebecca with dignity. "I hope you will display more sense than to go running away after some Quixotic idea of independence."

"I am quite ready to stay here as long as you want to keep me, aunt," returned Abby lightly. "It would be nice to be independent, I dare say, but it would be quite too much trouble for me."

If the look Charlotte turned upon her cousin was one of contempt, it was quite lost upon Abby, who, having fed the cat with all that remained upon her own plate, was slyly abstracting morsels from her uncle's, when her aunt put a stop to the process by rising from the table.

All day long, Mrs. Merton showed her displeasure, by treating Olive with marked coldness, and bestowing an extra amount of petting upon Abby and Charlotte.

Abby took it very quietly, as she was accustomed to do all her aunt's moods, but Charlotte rather withdrew from it. She felt very uncomfortably. She could not help being aware, now that there was a prospect of losing it, how much she valued Olive's society, and many of the expressions which she had been in the habit of using towards her cousin came back to her mind with unpleasant force. She respected Olive's decision, and felt that, in similar circumstances, she herself would have done the same. And yet, this very respect made her feel annoyed with herself for according, and with Olive for deserving it.

At last, as they were sitting together in the twilight, Charlotte broke out abruptly: "Olive, I am glad you are going away, and yet I am sorry."

"How can you be both?" asked Olive, rousing herself from a reverie.

"I am sorry we are going to lose your society," replied Charlotte. "And I am glad you are going to be more pleasantly situated, and that you prefer working for yourself to being supported by others."

"I should always have preferred it, if I could have seen my way clear," said Olive, coloring little. "I only hope I may be able at some time to repay uncle for what he has spent on my education."

"You need not think of that. I am sure he considers himself more than repaid for any thing he has done for you. But we shall all miss you very much. I am sure I shall for one."

"I never imagined that," said Olive. "I really supposed you would be glad to have me out of the way."

"That is a great mistake," replied Charlotte. "I have always been attached to you."

"You have taken a strange way of showing it, I must say," remarked Olive, not without some bitterness. "I never could have guessed that you had any other feeling for me than dislike and jealousy."

Charlotte colored in her turn. "I can not blame you for thinking so," she said, "and yet it is not true. Jealous I confess I always have been, ever since you came here. I was prejudiced against you before, and I wanted something to justify me in it; so I tried to believe that you were ungrateful, and that you wanted to injure me in my father's esteem. But I could not really dislike you, though I tried very hard, and though I gave you just cause for disliking me. Come, shall we let by-gones be by-gones, and try to have fair play for the future?"

As she spoke, she sat down by Olive, and laid her hand on her shoulder, a wonderfully near approach to a caress for her.

"Very willingly, I am sure," replied Olive, returning the movement by a much warmer one. "I can not bear to think that any one dislikes me, and I have often wished that we could agree better. It will be much pleasanter being in school as friends than as foes."

"But I am not to return to school," said Charlotte. "Have you not heard? Mother means that Abby and I should stay at home this winter. She says we can have music and Italian masters here, and she wants to have us go out a little. So if you go back, it will be alone."

"But why Abby?" asked Olive in surprise. "I do not wonder that she wants you at home, but certainly Abby would bear a good deal of education still, though I fear the poor child will never be a wonderful scholar in any thing but music. You must allow, Charlotte, that she plays and sings splendidly."

"Better than any one else I ever heard, of her age," replied Charlotte; "and that is one reason why mother wants her at home. She says her musical talents and graceful manners will make such a sensation that it's a shame they should be lost to the world any longer, and besides," she added, laughing, "I suspect she thinks it will be very becoming for a fair belle and a dark belle to come out together."

Abby, be it remarked, was brilliantly fair, with an immense profusion of wavy hair, of a peculiar paly-gold tint. Charlotte, on the contrary, was dark, with a good deal of color, and with hair, eyes, and eyelashes all of an intense blackness. Olive was rather pale, inclining to be sallow, and her hair, though excellent in quality and quantity, was of a dull, unreflecting brown. Her only really beautiful features were her eyes, which were of a dark-gray, with long black lashes, and even, level eyebrows—a trifle too heavy for the rest of her face. Olive could not be called pretty, which might be one reason that she did not stand as high in her aunt's favor, as her eminently beautiful sister.

"Does Abby know of this arrangement?" asked Olive.

"I don't know that she does," said Charlotte; "I rather think mother has said nothing to her yet; and if I were you, Olive, I would not tell her. You know mother likes to have the first notice of her plans come from herself; and Abby will never be able to help saying, 'Oh! Yes, I knew!'"

"Poor Abby is such a child," said Olive, with something of a sigh. "I sometimes feel as though it were wrong to leave her to herself."

"Oh! She will do well enough. You know how fond mother is of her, and I suppose you do not doubt that she will take the best care of her." Charlotte said this with a little of the old jealousy in her tone.

"Of course I know that," Olive hastened to say, "but I am afraid Abby will stand too much in awe of her to confide in her as she does in me. But she will not hear of my giving up my plan upon her account, and so I can only hope all will be for the best. So it is settled that you are not to go back with me. I am afraid I shall be rather lonely, but I suppose I may as well get used to it," she added, with something of a sigh.

Charlotte pressed her hand, and sighed too. She began to feel that in losing Olive, she should lose much more than she had been aware of.

Mrs. Merton continued to treat Olive with coldness all the next day, but by the morning of the third her face began to relax into its usual smiles. She was, in truth, a very kind-hearted woman, and anxious to do every thing in her power for her daughter and her nieces. But then she wanted to do it exactly in her own way, and to have them mere passive recipients of her favors. Any thing like contradiction, or having a will of their own, annoyed her extremely. For this reason, Abby had always been more her favorite than Olive; for Abby never contradicted any body if she could help it. It was too much trouble. Even Charlotte did not entirely satisfy her in this respect, for Charlotte was apt to have an opinion of her own, and to maintain it stoutly, too. But she had always intended to be just to Olive, though she did not particularly like her.

We have said, that in a gentle, lady-like way, she was something of a match-maker. It was her wish to introduce her into society, under the best auspices, and if possible, to settle her in life advantageously. That Olive should actually intend to renounce all these privileges, and give herself up to the laborious life of a school-teacher, seemed incredible, and at first her indignation knew no bounds.

But after calm reflection, she began to see certain alleviating circumstances. She honestly regretted that the girl should be so blinded to her own interests, but perhaps upon the whole it was just as well. It would be much less trouble to bring out two young ladies than three. Olive was very difficult to manage sometimes, and she had very romantic ideas upon certain subjects. A year's experience of the real hardships of life would probably do more towards bringing her to reason than all the lectures in the world, and she would be ready to return home and behave like a reasonable being, at least so far as could be expected from her father's daughter.

So reasoned Mrs. Merton, and by such reasoning, aided by the natural kindness of her heart, her wrath cooled apace. She gave Olive her formal consent to the plan, accompanying the same with an hour's lecture upon the folly of romantic ideas, and the absolute necessity of laying them aside, if she meant to succeed in life, concluding all with a kiss, and the injunction very kindly given, that she must always consider her uncle's house as her home, and an assurance that she would ever find it open to her, should she not find her occupation of teaching as agreeable as she expected. Olive was very grateful for the kindness, and took the lecture in excellent part, and so fair weather was once more established throughout the family, greatly to the delight of Mr. Merton, who never could endure any thing like a family dissension.

CHAPTER THIRD.

OLIVE'S vacation passed away pleasantly and quickly; she felt that she had never before spent one so agreeably.

Charlotte's jealousy seemed almost entirely subdued. She thoroughly respected her cousin for her independence, and felt ashamed of the many times she had taunted her with her unfortunate circumstances: moreover, she began to feel the real value of Olive's society, and now that she seemed likely to lose it, she felt a desire to make the most of what remained.

Mr. Merton saw, with pleasure, that a warm friendship seemed, at last, likely to grow up between his daughter and his favorite niece, and encouraged it by every means in his power. Mrs. Merton, who never did any thing by halves, exerted all her powers, which were by no means small, to make the time pass pleasantly. Rides and drives, short journeys and impromptu pic-nics, filled up the time pretty thoroughly. And when Olive ventured to remonstrate a little, she received this answer:

"You are going to begin a life of hard work, my dear. It is no more than right that you should play while you can. And mind, Olive, I will not have you spend your vacation in sewing. There will be time enough for that when you are away from home."

Upon this kind pretext, aunt Rebecca took the whole charge of Olive's clothes. And when she got ready to return to school, she found herself furnished with an entirely new and very handsome wardrobe, sufficient to last a long time. She remonstrated a little at being so far favored above the other girls.

"Your case is very different from theirs, Olive. As I said before, you are about entering upon a laborious life, and it is but fair that the commencement should be made easy for you. Abby and Charlotte will have plenty of time to play, and it would be no kindness to take their work out of their hands. Abby, especially, needs to be taught to sew. It is a knowledge which can not fail to be useful to her, however she may be situated in life."

Olive was fain to acquiesce in this reasoning, though she thought that Mrs. Merton would find she had taken upon herself more than she imagined, in trying to make Abby work. She well remembered all the entreaties and remonstrances, the coaxing and scolding that were necessary at school, to make her mend her stockings or keep her dresses in any decent order. She took an opportunity to say a few last words to her sister upon the subject.

"Do pray, Abby dear, try to keep your clothes in nice order. You know how much any slovenliness annoys aunt Rebecca, and I shall not be here to pick up your things after you, and take up your stitches for you!"

"Never fear," said Abby, lightly; "I am going to turn over a new leaf about that."

"But, Abby, you have turned over so many new leaves which did not seem to have any thing on them after all—"

"That you are afraid the whole book will be found to contain nothing but blank leaves, after all, eh, sister mine? But I shall arrive at the reading by and by, and then see how interesting it will be!"

"Pray what do you mean to have your book turn out?" asked Olive.

"Perhaps it may turn out a song,
Perhaps turn out a sermon,—"

sang Abby, in her skylark tones. "Perhaps a solemn tragedy—who knows?"

Poor Abby! Who knows, indeed!

"And, Abby, one other thing. You know I shall not be here for you to tell all your affairs to—and it takes a good while for a letter to come and go. Now won't you confide in aunt Rebecca, and take her advice about every thing? You know you are apt to be giddy sometimes," said Olive, with the air of one who makes an assertion which may seem doubtful to the hearer.

"I did not know I was any thing else," laughed her sister. "I feel complimented by that 'some times,' Olive."

"Well, then, if you know that you are giddy, won't you confide in aunt Rebecca?"

"Yes, of course, if I can think of any thing to confide. But you had better say uncle Merton. I could go to him with a story a great deal easier than I could to aunt Rebecca, for all people generally consider him so solemn and grave. I wonder why it is?"

"Because he spoils you, and never lectures you for your good, you little goose."

"Well, I don't like to be lectured for my good," with a little toss of her head, which set her golden curls dancing, so that they seemed to emit a light of their own. "It never does me any good, and makes me feel more like being cross than any thing else in the world. I don't mean you, of course," she added, fearful that she might seem unkind; "you never do lecture, you only talk."

"Then, if I only talk, will you mind what I say?"

"Yes, of course, if I can."

"And you will write to me very often, won't you, Abby? You know I shall be very lonely without you or Charlotte—"

"Without Charlotte, especially," said Abby, parenthetically.

"I like Charlotte better than I ever did before," said Olive. "But it is no trouble for you to write letters, and you will have so much to say. You must tell me all about your parties and going out, and all the new acquaintances you make. I wish you would keep a journal, and send it to me every week."

"Keep a journal, indeed! I would about as soon undertake to keep my uncle's books. I never expect to have perseverance enough to keep a journal."

"Perhaps it would be a good time to acquire that rather convenient quality," suggested Olive.

"Oh! No, I can not engage to keep a journal, but I will write as often as you wish to hear from me. Any thing else, my dear little Mentor?"

"Nothing, only—you will be going out a good deal, dear Abby, and perhaps you will meet temptations. Pray don't let any thing make you forget what we used to learn at our mother's knee when we were children."

"I shall never forget that Olive," said Abby, her bright face assuming the most serious expression of which it was capable. "It seems as though I remembered that more distinctly than any thing else about her. And for all you think I am so giddy, (and I know I am,) you never knew me forget to say my prayers night and morning."

"That is true," Olive admitted.

"Or laugh or whisper in church, did you?"

"I hope not. To say nothing of any higher motive, I do not believe you would ever do any thing so entirely vulgar and ill-bred."

"Well, Olive, I can tell you that I saw our very superfine aunt Dimsden and our very superfiner sister Laura, talking to the very super-finest Miss Eaton in service-time, at St. David's, last Sunday evening, and I know Dr. Eastman saw them, too, for he looked straight at them."

Olive laughed. "Do you know what aunt Rebecca thinks of aunt Dimsden, Abby?"

"Oh! Yes, I know. They are a pair of affectionate sisters-in-law, are they not? But I thought Laura ought to know better. I really was mortified for her."

"I am glad I did not see her," said Olive. "I don't think Laura has improved at all the last year, Abby."

"How can she improve, living as she does? Aunt Dimsden thinks of nothing but having a place in society, and making as much parade as she can, upon as small means. I believe her Bible reads, 'Whether ye eat, or drink, or whatever ye do, do all for a social position.'"

Olive shook her head reprovingly, but she could not help admitting the truth of what Abby said. "I am sure you will admit, Abby, that it might have been better for Laura, if she had always had the prospect before her of being obliged to earn her own living. It really makes me unhappy to think what sort of a woman she is likely to become."

"There is no use in making yourself unhappy about it, Olive; Laura likes it."

"So much the worse for her."

"And aunt Dimsden pretends to be a religious woman too," said Abby, thoughtfully. "How is it, Olive, that she says the same prayers and creed that we do, and that Mrs. Eastman and Mrs. Addiston do, and yet makes dress and company and outside show her chief objects?"

"I don't know," answered Olive, with a deep sigh; "I don't want to judge her, but I think such people do a great deal more mischief than they think for."

"Aunt Rebecca does not seem to bestow nearly as much thought and pains upon her dress and so on," continued Abby, "and yet she is always well-dressed, and appears like a lady, while Aunt Dimsden—" Abby paused.

"Aunt Rebecca would not do any thing mean for the sake of what aunt Dimsden calls society," said Olive. "She would never run after or court any one she did not respect, or slight any one who had been kind to her, however vulgar the person might be."

"She has no need of doing so," replied Abby. "She has plenty of such society as she likes without it. Sometimes I wonder, Olive, how such people as Miss Eaton, and—and others would act if there came up another persecution for the sake of Christianity."

"There is no telling," said Olive; "they might be as firm and resolute in dying for their faith as any one at all. They might realize then that faith is a real true thing, and not a fashion."

"I think if Miss Eaton should be burned alive, aunt Dimsden and Laura would go to the stake without flinching," said Abby, laughing.

"Poor Laura!" sighed Olive.

"Well, I know; I feel very sorry about her, too, and I wish things were different, but I can not make them so, and what is the use of fretting? I should rather be in your place than hers. But I don't want to be in either so long as I can stay as I am."

And so the conversation ended, not very satisfactorily in all points to Olive, but more so, upon the whole, than such conversations between herself and her sister usually did. About Laura she felt less anxiety and no responsibility. They had been very much separated from early childhood, Laura having been adopted by Mrs. Dimsden immediately after her father's death—and their dispositions were entirely different. Laura, with all her apparent amiability, was too selfish to be very lovable.

They had been educated upon very different plans, and their whole system of ideas and theory of life were entirely dissimilar. Mrs. Merton thought Mrs. Dimsden a very vulgar woman: Mrs. Dimsden thought Mrs. Merton proud, set up, and disagreeable, at the same time that she courted her society, and made the most in all her conversation of the small degree of intimacy existed between them. Mrs. Dimsden talked of dear Rebecca and my sister Rebecca, and quoted her sayings and doings upon all occasions; while Mrs. Merton always spoke with great respect of Mrs. Dimsden, and treated her with as much distance as she could reconcile it to her conscience to assume towards the widow of her husband's half-brother. Mrs. Merton, in fact, though a very proud, and somewhat worldly woman, was neither mean nor vulgar, while Mrs. Dimsden was both.

Mrs. Merton, though she liked to see her young friends married and settled in life, and thought any romantic ideas of love and spiritual affinity very much out of place, would yet have scorned the idea of going out of her way to attract or entice gentlemen. While Mrs. Dimsden avowedly considered getting married the principal object in the life of woman—the very thing for which she was made, and failing which, she must necessarily miss the great object of existence. In this belief she devoted all her energies to marrying off whatever young lady might be under her charge for the time being. People laughed at her, but she carried her point; and having provided for her younger sisters and cousins, she was intent upon making a match for Laura—a match which should exceed all others in brilliancy and cause her sister-in-law to hide her diminished head.

Laura, on her part, fell in very well with all her aunt's schemes on her behalf. She was quite as beautiful as Abby, and almost as devoid of serious thought. But there was this difference, that while Abby had a kind and warm heart, and for the sake of any one she loved would sacrifice almost any thing, Laura, under a veil of amiable manners, was very selfish, and seldom bestowed a thought upon any one's peace or comfort except her own. She did not care for books except just so far as they could minister gracefully to her love of display, and she valued music and drawing upon the same grounds. In fact, she lived only upon the outside, and if she had a heart, she had never found it out, and was not very likely to do so under the tuition of aunt Dimsden. She liked Olive as well as she could like any body; she envied Abby her musical talent, and thought her much more reasonable than Olive. This last plan especially, she looked upon as preposterous to a degree.

"But Olive," she remarked sweetly, "had always been a strange, unaccountable creature, and there was no use in distressing one's self about her freaks."

Aunt Dimsden said she had given that up long ago, but at the same time she gave Olive some friendly advice as to marrying a minister or a professional man—a thing, she observed, which teachers are very apt to do.

Olive's last term in school was a very pleasant one. Her friend, Helen Monteith, was still there, and some others of her particular set; and there were several of the new girls whom she liked very much. She was very busy, for besides her regular business, she spent a good deal of time in learning what Mrs. Granger called the theory and practice of teaching, by hearing classes, assisting the younger girls in their lessons, and helping Miss Lincoln to correct compositions and exercises. She was surprised to find what an amount of labor was required in that department alone, and how little, after all this labor, certain of the girls contrived to learn.

"It reminds me," she said, upon one occasion, "of an old proverb I have heard many repeat,—That one man may lead a horse to water, but twenty men can not make him drink."

"And yet the poor teacher is blamed for not making him drink," replied Miss Lincoln.

"Yes. Many people can never be brought to acknowledge that their own children and their own management at home is in fault. What is one to do in that case?"

"Have patience," said the teacher, sighing: "I know of nothing else. But I think one great reason why scholars, especially girls, learn so little, is from the want of any adequate motive."

"One would think the mere pleasure of knowing ought to be enough," said Olive.

"Not with children. They have not knowledge enough to appreciate the value of more."

"But most of the girls here are not children, Miss Lincoln. There are very few under fourteen years old."

"True," replied Miss Lincoln, "but think how ignorant many of them are when they come, and when they go away, for that matter."

"What motive would you propose, then?"

"Why, they are several. One is, as you say, the desire of knowledge, but every one can not appreciate that. The next best is the desire of usefulness, and the best of all is the religious motive, which includes the others; 'Whether ye eat or drink, or whatever ye do, do all to the glory of God.'"

"But I think, Miss Lincoln, it is much easier to acquire knowledge with the idea of turning it to some account, besides the mere enjoyment of it one's self," said Olive; "I am sure I have studied much better this term than ever I did before. I never go over a single lesson without thinking, 'Now, how should I explain this, if I were called upon to teach it?' And I find my ideas much clearer for the process."

"Yes, you learn to analyze, and to see clearly what you know, and what you do not know."

"I have heard teachers say that it was very difficult to study while engaged in school," remarked Olive.

"It is so," admitted Miss Lincoln; with a sigh. "Their powers of mind and body are generally so over-taxed in their school duties that they are glad to rest themselves as thoroughly as possible when they are out of the school-room. Some are stronger than others, and some schools are better supplied with assistants, but as a rule, teachers, especially in the smaller schools, are very much over-taxed."

Olive sighed. "Not a very pleasant prospect for me," she said.

"It is part of the price one must be content to pay for independence and usefulness," replied Miss Lincoln. "But some teachers are much more favorably situated than others in that respect. In this house, for instance, we should be very ungrateful if we complained. The only over-worked person in the establishment is Mrs. Granger."

"But, Miss Lincoln, think how many men have studied law and medicine, and even divinity, while teaching."

"Oh! Yes, I know it. There are many honorable exceptions, even among women. I studied chemistry myself, while I was teaching in a district-school."

Olive had anticipated one thing, in which she was pleasantly disappointed. She had supposed a good many of the girls would look down upon her, when they learned that she was to be dependent upon her own resources. But in this she found herself mistaken. Girls in a large school are apt to be very thorough democrats, and if there is an aristocracy, it is almost always one of talent and personal influence. Of this aristocracy, Olive had always been a prominent member, and she did not find her position at all changed. Her equals treated her with the same consideration to which she had always been accustomed, and with the younger girls, her influence was increased rather than diminished, from the fact that she sometimes heard their lessons, or assisted them in their exercises.

Still there were some few who took it upon them to pity her extremely, and among the number were Miss Lucretia Monroe, and her friend, Miss Jane Douglass, who had long enjoyed the proud preëminence of being the greatest dunces in the school. Either of these young ladies could miss question after question at a public examination with the greatest coolness; they cared nothing for prizes, to which, indeed, they never aspired. And they never considered themselves disgraced by being found out in any scrape whatever. Of course, they were not held in any high estimation by the aristocracy aforesaid. But, secure in the depths of their ignorance, they did not feel themselves in the slightest degree disturbed, by the not always concealed contempt of Misses Grey, Monteith, McHenry, and company.

"Poor Olive!" said Lucretia one day to Maria Grey, with a sweet air of amiability. "How much I pity her!"

"Do you?" said Maria, carelessly. "I dare say she would be very much obliged to you if she knew it."

"Yes, because she has got to teach for a living," continued Miss Monroe, elegantly. "I don't know what I should do if I were so reduced."

"I don't know what you would, I am sure," returned Maria. "You would be in a bad case certainly; I can not think of any thing you could possibly teach."

"You need not snap one up so, Maria. I do not expect to be a school-ma'am myself, and my papa never intended I should be educated for one. But any way, I am sorry for Olive, and I shall make a point of noticing her just as much as ever."

"'You' notice Olive McHenry!" exclaimed Maria Grey. "Upon my word, Miss Monroe, you are sublime in the extreme of your impertinence. Why, child, it is an honor to you, that she sometimes condescends to help you out of a scrape, when every one else is tired of you. The idea of your presuming to pity Olive McHenry, because she prefers independence gained by her own exertions, to idleness and uselessness! You would do much better if you would exert yourself to imitate her a little."

Nevertheless, Miss Monroe persisted in her charitable intentions, and proceeded to bestow a good deal of her society upon Olive, who could not help wondering what in the world had come over her.

She asked Maria one day. "She comes to my room, till I am tempted sometimes to tell her that I would rather have it to myself, and she seems to miss no opportunity of talking with me."

"Don't you understand it?" replied Maria, laughing. "She is pitying you for your hard fate. She told me that she was sorry for you, and meant to notice you as much as she could."

"I wish she would show her pity in some other way than by bestowing her society upon me," said Olive. "It becomes rather fatiguing, besides taking up a good deal of valuable time, which I don't very well know how to spare."

"Why don't you tell her so?"

"Oh! I don't want to make an enemy of the girl. Dunce as she is, it is better to have her good-will than her ill-will, and perhaps I may do her some good."

"The idea of doing good to Lucretia Monroe! You would be a good person to head a crusade, Olive; nothing short of a physical impossibility would stop you. But there is no harm in trying."

Indeed, Olive made a good many efforts to induce Lucretia to leave off abstracting cakes and cheese from the table, and pickles from the storeroom, and to give a little more time to her books. In which she succeeded so far that Miss Monroe actually presented herself at the class with a perfect lesson thrice in one week, to the amazement of all who heard her, and passed three days without breaking a single rule.

We regret to be obliged to add, that the improvement was not permanent: Miss Monroe relapsed into her old habits in the course of a week or two, and at the end of the year, left school as great a dunce as she entered it. Her father, a sensible, plain man, who had never received any thing but a district-school education, felt very much disappointed at the small improvement made by his daughter, and was much disposed to lay the blame upon her own idleness and want of principle.

But his wife informed him that it was solely the fault of the teachers, who had not made study interesting to Lucretia. Miss Monroe had been allowed to study what she liked, and to leave off as soon as she came to a hard place. In this way, she had acquired a little music, a little drawing, and less French; and she had learned to spell correctly, and to express herself in tolerable English, because no scholar who had been at Mrs. Granger's two years could very well help it. But history, natural science, and general literature, had passed through her mind like water through a sieve, leaving her no wiser.

With her daughter's want of proficiency in drawing, Mrs. Monroe was really annoyed, especially as their neighbor, and Lucretia's old friend and playmate, Miss Thorn, who had taken lessons of a professor in the place, had been able to decorate her mother's back-parlor with a great number of showy drawings in colored chalks, after only a quarter's instruction. To be sure, Miss Thorn never could do any thing after she left off taking lessons. And when she attempted, at home, and without assistance, to copy a portrait of her father, no one could have told whether the object produced was intended for male or female. But the pictures done under the eye of Professor B. were much more brilliant than the portfolio of pen and ink studies and crayon drawings, which was all that Lucretia had to show; and, while being entirely her own workmanship, certainly displayed less skill than Miss Thorn's, which had all been "touched up" by the accommodating professor.

For many weeks, Abby's letters came regularly, and were very interesting, giving full and most graphic accounts of the various parties, concerts, etc., which she attended under the chaperonage of aunt Rebecca. And many a laugh did Olive and her friends have over her descriptions and pen and ink sketches of the people she met in company, and at her aunt's house.

Charlotte wrote sometimes, but not very often. She did not seem to enjoy going into the world as much as her cousin, and said she often wished herself back at Mrs. Granger's. She spoke frequently of the attentions Abby received, and the admiration excited by her musical talents.

After a time, Abby's letters grew shorter, and less frequent. She did not seem to be quite as contented, and spoke rather pettishly of the constant watchfulness of her aunt, who, she said, treated her as though she were a baby. At one time, she seemed to be the happiest person possible, and perhaps her next letter would be a commentary upon the Arabic song quoted by Dumas—"The earth is vanity, and all in it is misery." Such extremes had never been common with Abby, whose cheerfulness was usually a steady stream, subject neither to drought nor freshet.

Olive became quite uneasy, and began to long for the time to come when she should be at home again. One thing, however, comforted her. Mrs. Merton was not a very great letter writer, but she wrote to Olive three or four times in the course of the term, and in neither of her letters did she express any disapprobation of Abby, nor did she seem aware of any change in her spirits or temper. This was quite a consolation, for aunt Rebecca was tolerably clear-sighted, and Olive thought if any thing had been wrong in Abby's conduct, she would have been pretty apt to speak of it.

Still, she was very glad when the time came for her to go home. An excellent situation had been procured for her by the kindness of Mrs. Granger, whose good offices to her pupils extended far beyond their school-days. She was to take charge of the female department of a school in Pennsylvania, which had long maintained an excellent reputation. The salary was to be five hundred dollars, and as much more as she chose to make by music and drawing lessons. She was to have an assistant, if she wished it, and the entire control of matters in her own department rested with her.

At first, Olive shrunk from assuming so much responsibility, and almost wanted to decline, but Mrs. Granger was very anxious that she should secure the place, and her uncle and aunt, to whom the plan was communicated, approved it highly: so she was fain to accept, though with a good many misgivings. Once decided, however, the prospect seemed to brighten; she began to look upon Basswoods as her future home, and built some castles in the air (even the most practical people erect such edifices sometimes) upon the little round dot which represented that place upon the map of Pennsylvania.

Olive felt very sadly at leaving school for the last time. She had been there so long, that it seemed more like home to her than her uncle's house. She had never experienced any thing but kindness from Mrs. Granger, or any of her subordinates. With her pleasant little room in the third story were associated all the great experiences of her young life, since her mother's death. Here she had taken her first peep into the boundless wealth of foreign literature, written her first verses, and sketched her first cottage. Here, too, she had experienced her first deep religious feelings, and here she had found that pearl of great price, which is not far from every one of us, though we pass it by again and again, without seeing it.

Moreover, Olive had many warm, and some deeply-attached friends, among the school-girls. It is very much the fashion to sneer at school-girl attachments, and the author has heard a popular lecturer declare that there never had existed, and never could exist, any such thing as female friendship. Possibly, the gentleman was not very well read in Scripture history, for he might have remembered the story of Ruth and Naomi. We have known intimacies formed at school which have continued through many and severe changes, and one case, where a close correspondence was continued through thirty years, the parties meeting only twice or thrice during the time.

There is often in the friendship of two cultivated and religious young women a simplicity and truthfulness—a disinterested admiration of each other's good qualities, and an unfeigned rejoicing in each other's good fortune, which it is pleasant to look upon. As for the assertion that women can not endure to hear each other praised, we leave such shallow sneers to boys with their first tail-coats, and brainless young men, who have nothing manly about them but a budding moustache.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

OLIVE arrived at home about seven in the evening, much wearied with her journey, and very glad to find herself once more with her friend. Abby seemed just as usual; she danced and clapped her hands, and danced around her, as much like a child as ever. Still Olive could not help fancying, as she looked at her, that there was a change—she could not exactly tell how.

There was a shade of womanliness, and even care, upon her bright face, which had never belonged there, and which Olive could not help feeling sorry to see. She said to herself that Abby was getting on in life—it was time for her to grow grave and womanly, perhaps. But she felt that she would rather have her remain what she always had been—a happy and careless child.

But Abby talked so fast, and Charlotte had so many questions to ask, that she soon forgot her anxiety in giving and receiving information about school-mates and teachers, friends and neighbors, in answering aunt Rebecca's searching interrogatories about the place where she was going, and in the enjoyment of that delightful feeling of home and comfort which one always feels on returning after even a short absence.

Olive thought that Charlotte was rather pale and thin, and that she seemed grave and somewhat subdued. But Charlotte laughed at the idea of her being unwell, saying that she was only tired of going out, and she was glad the visiting season had almost come to a close.

"That is very ungrateful of you, Charlotte," said Abby. "Is it not, aunt Rebecca?"

"Why is it ungrateful?" asked Charlotte, rather sharply.

"Because you have received so much attention, and so many pretty compliments. I'll tell you, Olive, what Major Trimble said—"

"Major Trimble is an old goose, and you are not much better for troubling yourself to repeat his nonsense," interrupted Charlotte.

"Charlotte, Charlotte, for shame!" remonstrated Mrs. Merton. "How can you speak so of Major Trimble? He is a most excellent and respectable man."

"Mother, you laugh at him, yourself! Did you not have to go out of the room when he talked about the comedies of Dante, the great Roman poet, to Professor L.?"

"And engrossed all the conversation, so that Mr. L. could not say a word, though every one in the room was anxious to hear him," pursued Abby. "You know, aunt Rebecca, every one laughs at poor Major Trimble."

"Mr. Trimble is a very respectable man," repeated aunt Rebecca, "and it is wrong and unladylike to call any one an old goose."

"Well, I will not call him any thing, if Abby will leave off quoting him."

"I will not quote him if I can help it, Charlotte," said Abby, laughing; "but it is a great temptation. You do look so magnificent when you hear him mentioned."

"Come, girls," interposed Mrs. Merton, "you are keeping Olive up quite too late, considering that she has been riding all day. To rest, to rest, my children. You have eight weeks at least, of uninterrupted conversation before you, and can well afford to spare a few hours. And remember, Olive and Abby, no talking after you get to bed," she added, in her kindly authoritative tone.

Olive was very glad to obey the command, for she was very tired and had a bad headache.

She slept late the next morning, and breakfast was entirely over when she appeared, Mrs. Merton kindly excusing her by saying that it must be quite luxury for her to lie in bed for once. Mrs. Merton had no spite in her disposition. She never would say that approved of Olive's plans, and she heartily wished they had never entered her head. But now the matter was settled and could not be helped, she was above making her niece in any way uncomfortable on account of it.

The day was passed in unpacking and arranging, and in receiving company; for aunt Dimsden and Laura came over in the morning, and Mrs. Merton invited them to spend the day. Laura was even more affable and graceful than usual, but she seemed more than ever taken up with dress and company, and the admiration she had received. The same Major Trimble, whom Charlotte and Abby ridiculed so unmercifully, was apparently quite an oracle with her; and she indignantly repelled the idea that he was tiresome, declaring that she hated people like Professor L., who were always talking about such "grand things."

"What grand things?" asked Olive.

"Why Shakspeare and Dante, and—"

"Yes, Dante, the great Roman poet," interrupted Abby, but the joke was lost upon Laura, who continued, quite jealous in the defense:

"I am sure he knows as much as William Forester, and you are never weary of having him hanging about you, Abby."

"William Forester," exclaimed Abby, coloring: "William Forester's little finger knows more than Major Trimble thinks he does."

"That is saying a great deal, Abby," said Charlotte, gravely.

"What nonsense, Abby! Mr. Forester is well enough, but he is nothing remarkable, and he is as poor as poverty, besides being a coxcomb."

"I admire the elegance of your expressions, Miss Dimsden," said Charlotte, sarcastically. "I think both gentlemen would be flattered by what you say about them, if they knew it."

"You need not be so grand, Charlotte, you talk about people yourself."

"Not about young gentlemen," returned Charlotte.

"Well, now, isn't young Forester a coxcomb?" persisted Laura.

"No," said Abby, emphatically, "he is not a coxcomb, Laura, but a true gentleman, in every sense of the term. You have no more right to call him a coxcomb than he has to call you a coquette."

"Not quite so much, possibly," said Laura, significantly; "men are very apt to call women coquettes, who refuse them, you know!"

"Do you mean to say, Laura McHenry, that you refused William Forester?" asked Abby, with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes.

"In the first place, my name is not Laura McHenry, but Laura Dimsden, my dear; and secondly, it does not concern you whether I refused him or not. You know Mrs. Merton says there is nothing more unladylike than for a woman to tell of a refusal."

"And she is right," interrupted Olive, "whether she tells it out and out, or only implies it."

"And besides, Abby," continued Laura, disregarding the interruption, "if you are so warm in his defense, people will really begin to believe what they say about you."

"What do they say?" asked Abby, but Charlotte interposed:

"Do pray leave the gentlemen to themselves. I am sure we have heard enough of them, and I want you to hear Olive and Abby play that duet from Mendelssohn."

Laura muttered something about stupid, old-fashioned music, but she was, in her heart, rather afraid of pushing matters to extremities with her cousin; for though she herself excelled in light skirmishing, yet in a regular engagement, Charlotte was sure to conquer.

Abby's hand trembled, and, she made more than one mistake, a thing very unusual with her.

At every one Laura smiled significantly, and Charlotte looked as though she would like to box Miss Dimsden's ears. They kept up a regular snip-snap all day, and Olive was not sorry when the arrival of company from out of town, called Mrs. Dimsden and her adopted daughter home before tea. She could not help fearing that something was wrong with Abby, and she longed to find out what it was, but there seemed to be no opportunity. The parlor was full of company all the evening. They were up quite late, and Abby did not seem inclined for conversation after they retired to their own room.

The next evening, as the girls were busily engaged over some new books in the garden-arbor, Olive suddenly felt Abby start. She looked up in surprise, and saw a tall, handsome young gentleman approaching them.

Abby at first seemed inclined to go to meet him, but checked herself and waiting till he came up, introduced him to her sister as Mr. Forester.

He bowed politely, offered his hand to Charlotte, and seating himself without farther ceremony, he took up one of the books, and entered into conversation about it with graceful ease. He was unquestionably a very handsome man, though there was a certain want of strength and firmness about his mouth, which showed itself especially when he spoke, through his well-trimmed and handsome beard.

Charlotte did not seem to like him very particularly, and they disagreed rather sharply several times, Mr. Forester sustaining his opinion politely and well, despite the keenness of his opponent's wit.

There was nothing to find fault with, in what he said, and yet Olive noticed a lightness—a want of earnestness—which did not please her.

Abby seemed at first constrained and uncomfortable, but the feeling wore off apparently, and she was soon talking and laughing more merrily than Olive had yet heard her.

When they went into the house, singing and playing took the place of conversation, and Mr. Forester joined a fine and cultivated voice to those of the girls. It came out incidentally, that he drew and painted, and he was evidently quite at home in foreign literature. Other gentlemen coming in, he devoted himself exclusively to Abby.

Olive thought her uncle did not seem to look upon him with any particular favor. When he had taken his departure, and the girls were alone together, Abby, after sundry unfinished sentences, asked Olive what she thought of Mr. Forester.

"Why, I hardly know," said Olive. "I should have to see more of him before I could decide."

"But you must admit that he is very agreeable!"

"Oh! Yes, very pleasant, and well-bred, and all that, but—"

"But what?" asked Abby impatiently.

"I hardly know what. As I said, I do not know enough of him to form any judgment about him."

"I don't believe he ever offered himself to Laura, at any rate," said Abby after a pause, during which she had curled and uncurled her hair several times.

"That is nothing if he did. It is no disgrace to a man to be refused."

"No, but—"

"But what?" asked Olive, in her turn.

"Nothing as regards him, but if you were engaged to a man, you would not like to know that he had offered himself to any one else first."

"I do not think it would be pleasant, perhaps," said Olive, "but I do not see why you should have called Laura so sharply to account for what she said. To be sure it was not a very wise or lady-like speech, but from the way you took it up, any one might think you were personally interested in the matter. I would be more careful if I were you, especially before Aunt Dimsden."

"There it is!" exclaimed Abby, petulantly. "Lectures, nothing but lectures, from morning till night. I do wonder whether I am such a fool as every one seems to believe me. If I am, I think it is a pity I could not die at once and be out of the way."

"Abby!" exclaimed Olive, perfectly astonished. In all her experience, she had never before such an outbreak from her sister.

"I thought when you came home, you would have a little patience with me, and treat me kindly," continued Abby, beginning to cry. "It is bad enough to be watched by Aunt Rebecca, and checked and interfered with by Charlotte, without your joining in. I—" But Abby's voice became quite lost in her hysterical sobs.

Olive tried her best to quiet her, and to persuade her to tell what was the matter, but in vain.

For though her ill-humor seemed to dissolve with her tears, and she embraced and kissed her sister warmly, she still wept, and at last cried herself to sleep.

Next morning, the cloud seemed to have passed away, and Abby was as gay and cheerful as ever, lavishing all sorts of caresses on her sister, as though trying to make her forget the scene of the night before.

But Olive could not forget. It was so very different from Abby's usual habits—so utterly foreign to any thing she had ever known of her—that she was completely puzzled.

The next day was Sunday, and according to the inflexible rule of Mr. Merton's household, they all went to church, both morning and evening. Mr. Forester sat directly behind them at the latter service, and walked home with them, or rather with Abby, for they lagged so far behind that Aunt Rebecca twice stopped and waited for them to come up.

Monday evening, they were at a small party, together, and on Tuesday he called again. Olive was beginning to like him better. She thought him very modest and unaffected, and quite took herself to task for her first prejudice against him. She improved an opportunity one day, when they were alone together, to ask Charlotte about him.

"Who is he, and where did he come from? What are his antecedents, and what does he do with himself?"

"He is Mr. William Forester, and he comes from H. His antecedents are Mr. and Mrs. Jackson Forester who were old acquaintances of my father's, and very nice people, I believe," was Charlotte's cunning reply.

"Very satisfactory thus far," said Olive, smiling, "but you have not answered the most important of all. What does he do with his time?"

"He amuses himself, and entertains other people."

"And is that all? I should think at his age, he ought to be doing something more profitable."

"A good many people think so," said Charlotte, "and my father among the number. I believe, to do the young man justice, he does pretend to study law, but I do not know when he accomplishes it. He is always busy with some picture or translation, or getting up an amateur concert, or a military display, not to mention the hours he spends in dangling after different young ladies—Abby, for instance."

"Has he been long attentive to Abby?" asked Olive, glad that her cousin had introduced the subject.

"Why, yes, for three months perhaps. Before that, he was quite devoted to Laura. You heard what she said about refusing him."

"Yes. I did not know what to think about it."

"It is like enough to be true. She would certainly refuse him if he did offer himself, for she is bent upon marrying a rich man. William has about five or six thousand of his own, so he is not what one would call poor, but that is not enough to meet her views. I wish her would not come here quite so much, for I do not think either father or mother like him very well, and mother thinks it would be a disadvantage to Abby to have any idle story set afloat."

"But you do not think," said Olive alarmed, "that there is any thing—any engagement between them?"

"Oh! No!" replied Charlotte. "Abby is giddy enough sometimes, but I can not think she would enter into any engagement without father's knowledge and consent. I hope not, I am sure, for I fear he would never forgive her. But if I may speak quite plainly, Olive?"

"Of course. That is just what I want."

"I am afraid Abby likes him."

"I have thought so myself sometimes," said Olive, after a moment's painful thought, "but I can hardly believe it. She has always been so perfectly open with me, and so ready to tell me every feeling that I can not think she would conceal this," she concluded, thereby betraying the very small amount of her knowledge of human nature.

"Perhaps I am mistaken: I hope I am," said Charlotte, kindly. "I am not very good at observing and watching people."

"Do you think your mother notices Mr. Forester's attentions to Abby?" asked Olive, after another pause.

"Sometimes I have thought she did," said Charlotte. "She never seems very well pleased at his coming here. I know my father thinks him idle and trifling, a character with which, you know, he has very little patience. I hope Abby does not care for him, for I do not believe he has any stability of character, and that is something which she, of all people, needs in a husband."

"She is so young, too. I do hope she has no such idea."

"If you have any influence with her, Olive, pray persuade her to be open with my father. You know nothing annoys him so much as any concealment. But do not worry yourself; we may be entirely mistaken, you know. It seems rather odd, does it not," she added, smiling, "that we should be taking counsel together about her affairs? Do you remember how we used to quarrel in school?"

"No, I have been forgetting it as fast as possible," replied Olive. "I think the fault was, perhaps, as much mine as yours."

"You are very charitable to think so, but I can not agree with you. I was too unboundedly provoking. I have been angry with myself, many a time since, to think how I used to insult you."

"Do not let us talk of it," said Olive; "it is one of the things that is past and gone. After all, Charlotte, school-days are pleasant days. I don't believe we shall ever be much happier than we were at Mrs. Granger's."

"I do not believe I shall ever be so happy again," replied Charlotte, with a sigh. "I have wished myself back there twenty times a week, this winter. When I was in school, I had an object. Every morning I thought, now here is just so much to be accomplished before night. Almost all my duties were such as I had pleasure in, and at night I would look back and think that I had really brought something to pass."

"Yes, that is very pleasant," said Olive. "But can not you do so now?"

"No," replied Charlotte, abruptly.

"Excuse me, but I do not see why."

"You would see why, if you would consider. Just think how it has been since you came home. Nothing but going out, or having company at home, day after day, and night after night, and what does it amount to?"

"I think it is pleasant enough for a little while," said Olive. "I have really enjoyed myself very much, since I came home this time."

"Yes, because you have been hard at work all winter, and need recreation. But you would not enjoy it to go on so, day after day, and week after week, without seeming to bring a single thing to pass. I should really enjoy going back to school, and timing my employments by the bell and the hour-glass again."

"But it seems to me—I do not know by experience, to be sure—that you might contrive to do something more than that, Charlotte. You might study a good deal."

"When?"

"You know no one calls here before twelve o'clock. You might be tolerably certain of having the time to yourself from half-past eight to eleven."

"But supposing I should, what could I accomplish in that time?" asked Charlotte, half-incredulously, but with an appearance of considerable interest.

"A great deal, I think," replied Olive. "You never gave as much time as that to any one lesson in school. Suppose you undertake some new language, Greek, for instance, which you were always desirous of learning. I think you could easily get a teacher, if you wanted one. If you would give two hours a day to that, and the other hour, when you had it to spare, to natural history or chemistry, I think you would find at the end of the year that you had accomplished a good deal."

"It looks very pretty," said Charlotte, "but I am afraid it would not work very well. I should be liable to so many interruptions. There is always shopping and sewing to be done and a hundred things to break up one's plans."

"Well, then, when it is necessary, you must be content to give way for a little, and begin again. Half a loaf is better than no bread, as the proverb says."

"Lord Chesterfield says it is vulgar to use proverbs," observed Charlotte.

"It is very convenient," returned Olive, laughing.

"And besides, I don't believe I should ever have perseverance enough to carry out such a plan, without some one to make me," continued Charlotte.

"'Lead thine own captivity captive, and be Caesar unto thyself.' There is a grand quotation for you to set off against the vulgarity of the proverb. You would gain a great deal more by disciplining yourself, than if some body did it for you. And besides, Charlotte, system ought to be a means, and not an end. There is no particular use in being systematical for the mere sake of system."

"I have a great mind to try it," said Charlotte, doubtfully. "This will be a good time to begin, because there will be no more parties. I wonder what mother would say. I do not believe she will like the idea of my studying Greek."

"Then take something else—Spanish or German. You have never learnt German, and there is nothing more interesting to study. But I do not believe she will have any objections to your learning Greek, if you wish to."

"I wish you were going to be here to study with me," said Charlotte.

"I wish I were, for more reasons than one," returned Olive, sighing, "but I have made an engagement, and I must keep it. Not that I am sick of the idea of teaching," she added, seeing Charlotte smile. "On the contrary, I like the prospect better than ever before, but I feel as if I were wanted here."

"You must not be too anxious about Abby," said Charlotte. "I do not believe any harm will come of it. She is a dear little creature, and always ready to do any thing one wants her to. I think she is willing to obey, from the very fact that it is less trouble than to have her own way. You know mother is very fond of her, and she will take excellent care of her."

"I know that, Charlotte, but I don't think you can tell how I feel towards Abby. She seems more like a child than a sister. I should never consent to leave her with any one else but aunt Rebecca."

Charlotte looked at Olive in her intent way, as though she meant to read her through and through. "I believe you are sincere," she said at last, "but I must say I wonder at your feeling so. I do not think my mother has ever treated you in a manner to attach you to her."

"Your mother has done a great deal for me, more than I have always appreciated at the time," said Olive, remembering how excessively jealous Charlotte used to be during their school-days, lest her mother's kindness should be undervalued. "She has never intended any thing but kindness, I am sure, and if she has sometimes said things that made me unhappy at the time, I should be very ungrateful to lay them up. I was sorry to disoblige her by the course I took, and I should not have decided as I did, had I not been perfectly certain that it was for the best."

"It is for the best," replied Charlotte, "and I have no doubt that mother will feel it so after a while, if she does not now. And do not distress yourself about Abby. As I said before, she is growing older every day. We will all take good care of her, and Mr. Forester will be out of the way, I presume, before long. I am sure no harm will come to her."

Olive felt a great deal of comfort from Charlotte's kindness and consideration, and only hoped it would be continued to her sister, while she was absent.

Abby herself seemed less capricious, and more inclined to be reasonable, than for some time past. She sought her sister's society constantly, and was even more affectionate and good humored than usual. Mr. Forester continued to be a frequent visitor, and Mrs. Merton began to raise her eyebrows and show signs of discontent when he appeared.

Once, when he came home with Abby about dusk, and it appeared accidentally that they had taken a long walk together, aunt Rebecca gave her youngest niece quite a serious lecture about encouraging such an idle young man, and giving occasion to gossip. As Abby listened in submissive silence, without any of her usual petty petulance and impatience, and before the discourse was half ended, burst into a flood of tears, Mrs. Merton thought she had said all that was necessary. So she kissed the little weeping beauty, assuring her that she was not angry with her, but merely wished her to be careful what she did, and that she should never suspect her of any thing really improper or underhanded.

Poor Abby cried more than ever, and as soon as she was alone, she threw herself upon the bed and cried herself to sleep.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

EVERY BODY knows how fast vacation-time speeds away. Olive could hardly tell what had become of hers, but the fact was plain that it was gone, and that only one week intervened before she was to enter upon a new and untried mode of life, in a new place and among entire strangers.

The only people in Basswoods that she had ever seen were Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, the pastor and his wife, who had called upon her at Mrs. Granger's after she had accepted the invitation of the trustees. Mr. Gregory was a very pleasant elderly man, apparently possessing a good deal of cultivation, and his wife seemed a very nice, lively little person. Olive thought she should like them very much.

But with all this, and with all the courage she could muster, her heart sunk not a little sometimes, as she thought of the prospects before her. The conviction that she was in the right course did not, however, vary a moment, nor did her faith in Him who giveth strength according to the day. For Olive's faith was neither a mental abstraction nor a vague feeling; if there was any one fact of which she felt absolutely certain, it was that God sitteth upon the throne of his mercy, always hearing, and invariably answering the prayer of humility and love, unless in cases where refusing is kinder than giving.

She felt no more doubt that he would give her the strength necessary for her duty, than she felt that he had given her duties to perform. She had always prayed much, but never so much as now, and in an especial manner did she commend her sister Abby to Him who is the father of the fatherless. By earnest devotion—by her consciousness that she was acting rightly, and by resolutely looking at the bright side of the picture, she was able to overcome all forebodings and to pack her trunks when the time came, with a cheerful though somewhat anxious heart.

She expected to leave early in the morning with a gentleman from Basswoods, who was to pass through on the cars. Her uncle had intended to accompany her himself, and see her comfortably settled in her new home, but an important law-suit called him in another direction a day or two before the time came. He bade Olive good-by with a great deal of affection, telling her that she must write very often, be sure to come home at once if she got sick, or if she did not find herself as comfortable as she expected, and at parting, put into her hands a little package, with requisitions not to open it till she reached her journey's end.

Abby was very desirous to know what was inside this mysterious parcel, and showed so much anxiety about it, that Olive put it away in her trunk, in order, as she said, to put temptation out of her way. Aunt Merton made her a present of a very handsome and commodious writing-desk, well supplied with all sorts of pretty stationery, and moreover filled a new work-box with a great store of pins, needles, tape, thread, every thing of the kind, in short, which she could be expected to want for a twelvemonth and more. Her wardrobe had again been put in complete order, by Mrs. Merton's directions, and in fact, no school-teacher ever left home, for the first time, under more favorable auspices.

To Olive's vexation, Mr. Forester came in, and spent the very last evening she was to have at home. He did not seem to have the least idea of being in the way, and made great efforts to be entertaining. Abby was alone in the parlor when he came in, and when Olive entered, they were standing by the window, very closely engaged in conversation: she even thought he had Abby's hand in his, but if so, it was very quickly withdrawn, and Mr. Forester, turning round, began talking with his usual ease and politeness.

Olive felt vexed both at him and Abby, and all her efforts could not make her as cordial as she wished. Abby was constrained and silent, but that perhaps was no more than was natural. Mr. Forester staid quite late, much to Olive's annoyance, and Mrs. Merton exclaimed against his want of tact. Contrary to her habit, Abby did not say one word in his defense, though she colored and looked very much disturbed: in fact, she had seemed upon the brink of a fit of crying the whole evening through.

As usual upon such occasions, every one declared that Olive ought to go to bed early that she might be quite fresh for her journey next day. And as usual, every one found so many last words to say, that it was full an hour later that common before the family retired.

When the sisters were alone together, Abby seemed still less inclined for conversation, and yet there appeared to be something upon her mind which she wished to express. She answered yes and no at random to Olive's remarks, curled and uncurled her hair half a dozen times, and was so absent that Olive exclaimed, half-amused and half-vexed:

"Why, Abby, I don't believe you know what you are doing."

"I don't," said Abby shortly and in a tone which made Olive look at her in surprise. She paused a moment, nervously folding a piece of paper in her fingers, and then proceeded abruptly:

"You may as well know the truth, Olive, first as last. I promised William I would not tell any one else, but I must tell you."

"Tell me what?" eked Olive in amazement and terror; for Abby's color varied every instant, from deep crimson to pale as ashes, and she shook in every limb.

"What is the matter with you?"

Abby made another effort, and succeeded in saying, though in a voice which did not sound the least like her own: "I am engaged to be married, Olive!"

Then as though the great difficulty were passed, she went on more calmly. "I meant to tell you before, but William was anxious it should be kept secret for the present. He would have preferred to have it remain so, till you came back at any rate, but I felt as though I could not have you go away—" She relapsed into silence again, busying herself aimlessly with her curls.

Olive had seated herself upon the side of the bed: she felt as though she could not stand. But she saw how agitated Abby was, and with a strong effort, she preserved her own calmness.

"Engaged to whom?" she asked quietly.

"To William Forester, of course," returned Abby pettishly; "who else should it be?"

"How long have you been engaged to him?" pursued Olive.

"Ever since the day aunt Rebecca made such a fuss about our walking together—the day we went to the cemetery," answered Abby, with a degree of impatience. In fact, the great effort Olive was making to preserve her composure, rendered her tone more severe than she was aware of.

"Why did you not tell me before?" she asked again.

"You had better ask why I tell you now," exclaimed Abby, angrily, throwing down her brush, and turning round. "William told me you would not have any sympathy with me, and advised me not to say a word to you, and I see he was right. I don't know why you should sit there and question me in that cold severe tone, as though you had authority over me for life and death. I am not accountable to you."

"Hush, Abby," said Olive, in a tone which now certainly trembled sufficiently; "do not let us make matters worse by quarrelling. I don't mean to be severe, but I am perfectly overwhelmed. Why, that is six weeks ago!"

"Yes, and I wondered at your not suspecting us, though I was very glad you did not."

"I have not been used to watching you in order find out your secrets, Abby," said Olive, more and more agitated. "You have always been as open as day before. Why should Mr. Forester be so anxious to have you conceal such a thing your best friends?"

"He does not want any one to know it at present," replied Abby evasively.

"But why? I should think the honorable way would have been for him to go at once to my uncle, mention the matter to him, and ask his consent, as he is your guardian, and has always been as kind as the kindest father to you."

"You don't know any thing about such things, Olive. You never were in love, and I don't believe you ever will be."

"Perhaps not," returned Olive, "but I know what is right, and straightforward, and gentlemanly, and the course which Mr. Forester has taken does not seem to me to be either."

"William says my uncle is prejudiced against him, and you know he is, yourself."

"I don't know any such thing. My uncle is not apt to be prejudiced against people, and if he were, it makes no difference in your duty. Why should he have a prejudice against Mr. Forester?"

"He says William is idle," returned Abby, "because he does not choose to pin himself down to the office, and let all his fine talents wither away, while he is poring over stupid law-books. When he brought up those beautiful outline drawings the other night, uncle just asked him how much time they had taken from Blackstone. As though a man of his genius were going to be fettered in that way. Besides, he has no need to apply himself as the rest of the young men do, when he is so much quicker than they are. But there is no use in talking to you," she added, turning away. "You do not understand William nor me. We understand each other, that is our comfort, and it is about the only one I have."

"No doubt," said Olive bitterly, "this stranger, whom you have not known six months at the outside, understands you much better than your sister, who has been with you, and cared for you, ever since you were born. It does seem to me that my affection is likely to be as disinterested as his."

"You have never been in love," Abby repeated, "and you can not understand the matter."

"Very well, we will take that for granted. I have never been in love, and therefore can not enter into your feeling, but I am none the less able to see what is right, and I can never believe it is an honorable proceeding, to gain the affections of a young girl, hardly seventeen years old, and entangle her in an engagement, which is to be kept secret from her friends for an indefinite length of time."

"Please to remember, Olive, that you are speaking of my affianced husband," said Abby, with flashing eyes, "and that I will not listen to one word to his disadvantage."

"Very well," said Olive, after a moment's reflection, "I will say no more about him. It may be that he has only erred in judgment. But how long is this secrecy to continue, Abby?"

"I don't know—I have never thought."

"Then pray, my dearest child, do think before this affair goes any farther. You know how clear-sighted uncle and aunt Merton are."

"I can not compliment aunt Rebecca upon being very clear-sighted," said Abby, laughing. "If she had been, she might have seen before this time that there was something in the wind. How gravely she lectured me that night," she continued, with an amusing imitation of Mrs. Merton's impressive manner. "I must be careful, or people would make remarks about me. It would be very unpleasant, and a great disadvantage to me to have any report of an engagement get abroad. I should think she would have seen then, that something unusual was the matter."

"I presume the possibility of your wishing to deceive her, never entered her mind," said Olive gravely, vexed almost beyond endurance by Abby's unreasonable levity. "But you must know, Abby, that things can not go on so. There are aunt Dimsden and Laura always upon the watch too. Suppose her suspicions are aroused, and she speaks to uncle Merton, or tells the story to every one, till it gets to his ears from some other quarter. What will you do when he calls you to account about it? You know he can not endure any thing like slyness, even in the smallest matters."

"I don't know," said Abby lightly, but sighing at the same time. "I must trust William to get me out of the scrape, some way or other. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

"Quite sufficient, I should think. Just consider how you will be situated, with your mind burdened with a secret which you are constantly afraid of having found out, obliged to resort to all sorts of subterfuges: you may even be driven to downright untruth before you know it."

Abby sighed deeply. She was conscious of having transgressed in this respect more than once already. Olive hoped she had gained a little advantage.

"I am sure, Abby, you can not be happy living in this way," she said.

"I don't expect to be happy, except when I am with William," replied Abby. "Then I forget that there is any thing like discomfort or misery, in the world; he is so kind and good. He makes me feel like another being—so elevated. I feel above all earthly cares and trammels."

"And duties too," thought Olive, but she did not say so. As she became cooler, she saw that she had made a great mistake in speaking so severely of Mr. Forester. It was necessary, above all things, for her to gain Abby's confidence, and this was not the way to do it. Abby continued:

"When I am away from him, I expect to be more or less unhappy, of course; 'the course of true love never did run smooth,' you know. But for all that, I would not give him up; No, not if every friend I have in the world should set himself against him."

Olive sighed at the infatuation as it seemed to her, of her sister. "I do wish you would tell uncle all about it," she said earnestly.

"I dare not," replied Abby, turning pale at the very idea. "He would be so angry!"

"What will he be if he finds it out for himself, and discovers that you have been deceiving him all the time?"

"How you do harp upon deception," said Abby. "It is not deceiving him to tell him nothing about it."

"O Abby! You would not have made that distinction a year ago."

"I was a child, and afraid to say my soul was my own, a year ago—but, at any rate, I shall not tell him."

"Then let me—he will not be at home, but I can write to him."

"Indeed you must not!" returned Abby, in great alarm. "William would be very angry. It was as much as I could do, to gain his consent for telling you. Promise me that you will not say a word about it!"

"I can not make such a promise," said Olive; "It does not seem right. Mr. Forester ought to tell uncle Merton himself."

"Do you suppose, Olive," asked Abby, "that it would be very pleasant for a man of William's delicate feelings and exquisite refinement, to expose himself to the questionings and reproofs of such a cold, practical, middle-aged man as my uncle, who judges of every thing in the world by two touchstones—common-sense and duty?"

"And very good touchstones I consider them," returned Olive. "But pleasant or not pleasant, it is the part of an honest man to do it. I can not give my consent to any such secret arrangement, Abby; it is altogether wrong. I am sure your own conscience can not approve of it."

"Conscience, conscience, Olive! How you do go over that word. I can tell you, sister mine, that there are instincts and feelings in the human soul, which will not be chained down by old-fashioned trammels of conscience and duty, and such catch-words. Once for all, I tell you that you can not understand my feelings, because you have never been in love yourself, and so there is no use talking to you. I am sorry you feel hurt at my silence, and I should have told you before, if William had been willing, but he was not. He wishes the affair to be kept still till he shall have finished his studies, or else till he gets engaged in some other business; for he begins to think the law will never suit him, it is so confining. Then, you know, he is not dependent on his profession entirely: his father left him ten thousand dollars."

"But that was some time ago, and in the way he has lived, he must have spent a good deal."

"Of course, he does not intend to depend entirely upon that. He means to do something, and he does not wish to have this matter talked of till he is settled. Then, of course, he expects to ask my uncle in form. Oh! You will see it will all come out right, if you will only let us have our own way about it: we shall be nicely fixed by and by, in a house of our own, with pictures and books, and every thing delightful inside and out; and you shall come and live with us, instead of drudging at school-teaching. And there," said Abby, catching at any shade of self-justification, "when you took up this notable school-keeping scheme, you acted as much for yourself as I am doing."

"But in a very different way, Abby," replied Olive. "Before I took one single step in the matter, or even made up my own mind, I wrote to uncle about it, and I have not done a single thing, from first to last, without his knowledge and consent. If he had opposed it, I should have given it up, or at least have waited till I was twenty-one. Besides, teaching is not like getting married. If I find that I can not be useful or happy in it, I can stop."

"What are you talking about, girls?" asked aunt Rebecca's voice of authority, at the door. "You ought to have been asleep an hour ago. Olive, do not let me hear another word to-night."

There was nothing for it to obey, and where was the use of talking? Nothing that Olive could say, seemed to make any impression. She had always pleased herself with the idea that Abby's disposition was so easy and yielding that there would be no difficulty in guiding her aright, and that she was naturally so open, that no secrets could exist between them. Now she found out her mistake. The yielding disposition was only yielding in matters which Abby did not care any thing about, or which she thought not worth the trouble of a contradiction. Her frankness was only a habit and not a principle, and yielded to the first temptation. She was completely bewildered and dazzled by the sentimental sophistry of her accomplished admirer, with whom she was really as much in love as a girl of seventeen is capable of being.

Of course, she could see nothing save perfection, in Mr. Forester. He was really an interesting and agreeable man, and, as is the case with almost every girl who falls in love, she invested him with all those attributes of manly excellence which existed only in her own mind. Olive's arguments made but little impression upon her. She took refuge in the idea, which indeed had some truth in it, that Olive had never been in love, and therefore could not understand her feelings. When she was absolutely driven into a corner, and forced to reflect, she could not but acknowledge to herself that she occupied an unpleasant and somewhat undignified position, and that the course she was pursuing was not likely to end in any thing desirable. But she comforted herself with the idea, "that it would all come right in the end—that she should get through with it some way."

Olive, on her part, was thoroughly perplexed, and almost for the first time in her life, could not see her duty plain before her. If her uncle had been at home, she almost thought she should have gone straight to him, and told him the whole story. And yet—she had properly no authority over Abby, and what right had she to betray her secret? If she had had more time, she would have talked to Mr. Forester, and endeavored to prevail upon him to take an open and manly course. But she had no time—there was the great trouble. Her uncle was not at home. Even should she think it best to speak to Mrs. Merton, there would be no opportunity, and moreover, she was very doubtful of the expediency of such a step.

What could she—what ought she to do? She thought it over and over, and prayed for light, but she could see none, except that she felt more and more as though Mr. Merton ought to be informed, but then—could she betray her sister? She knew her uncle well, and she felt sick as she thought how angry he would be with Abby. She could not sleep, and was so restless, that she awoke her companion, who asked what was the matter.

"I am thinking about this miserable business, Abby. Do promise me that you will tell uncle all about it when he comes home, or persuade Mr. Forester to tell him. I am sure it is the only right way."

"Dear me, are you worrying over that yet?" said Abby sleepily. "I wish I had not told you, since you are so distressed about it."

"But will you tell uncle?"

"Yes, if I can, or I will get William to. Now do go to sleep, like a dear child."

Olive turned and tossed, and finally fell into troubled slumber, which seemed to have lasted about five minutes, when she was awakened by Mrs. Merton's hand and voice.

"I have allowed you to sleep just as long as I dare, my dear. You will have no more than time to dress, and get your breakfast comfortably. I will finish your packing myself."

Olive sprang up, and was soon dressed. She meant to have risen early, but her restless night had defeated her plans, and before she had finished her prayers, Mrs. Merton's voice was again heard at the door. The breakfast was very inviting, but she could take nothing except a cup of coffee.

Aunt Rebecca busied herself in putting a provision of sandwiches and cakes into her travelling-bag, and in looking to see that nothing had been left. Charlotte sat by, grave and silent, except when she sharply reproved Abby for crying, and making Olive cry too.

Contrary to Olive's expectations, they had some time to spare at the dépôt, and the first person they saw was Mr. Forester, who was evidently waiting for them. She would have given a great deal to have been able to say a few words to him in private, but there seemed to be no opportunity.

At last he contrived to get between her and her aunt, and said in the same moment, in a low tone: "I suppose Abby has told you?"

"Yes," returned Olive.

"I hope her course has your approval," he said carelessly.

"I can not say—I think you should have spoken to my uncle," replied Olive. And then, seeing that Mrs. Merton's attention was still occupied, she added, earnestly: "Do be open with him, and allow Abby to be so: it is the only right—the only honorable way."

Mr. Forester colored deeply, and his eyes flashed fire; he seemed about to make an angry reply, but controlled himself, and merely said in a tone of hauteur: "Pardon me, if I esteem myself the best judge of that matter, Miss McHenry. But as your sister's confiding disposition has foolishly placed her secret in your hands, you will no doubt use it as suits your purpose; and Abby will find out her folly too late."

"Late!" said Mrs. Merton catching the last word. "Are we late?"

"No, ma'am, the cars are late—ten minutes behind time at least. Ah! Here they come at last."

"Miss McHenry here?" said an elderly gentleman entering the ladies' room. "Ah! Good morning, ma'am. Mrs. Merton I presume I have the pleasure of addressing—and which of these young ladies am I to take in charge?"

Mrs. Merton presented Miss McHenry. Jones bowed and shook hands.

"We have no time to lose, Miss McHenry. Have you your checks and tickets? All right—come then, bid good-by all—good morning, Madam—" And almost before Olive knew where she was, she was out of the dépôt, and whirling along at lightning speed through the country.

Mr. Jones was a kindly, fatherly sort of man, one of those old gentlemen who always call all young girls "my dear," and take pleasure in petting them. He was very kind to Olive, provided her with a new magazine from a small library of such things which he seemed to have with him, left her to herself for a while, as he saw that her heart and eyes were full to overflowing; and when he perceived that she was becoming more composed, pointed out all the objects of particular interest on the road, talked to her about the place she came from, and the one she was going to, and made himself so agreeable that she several times found herself forgetting her great trouble for as much as ten minutes together.

She found considerable amusement in watching the people in the cars, who presented the usual variety. There was a returned Californian going home with his wife, who had evidently been down to the seaboard to meet him. He was a great rough six-footer of a man, bearded like the pard, and full of strength and spirits; and it was quite touching to see the way in which he caressed and petted his delicate little wife, something as though he was afraid of breaking her by too rough handling. There were of course two or three bashful and blushing brides, and still more bashful and awkward grooms, looking as though they thought all the world must know that they were just married. Then there were a thoughtful father and mother, with a tribe of handsome boys and girls going to settle at the West, all merry, good-natured, and full of spirits.

And finally, a couple of would-be fine ladies from some Western city, full of second-hand airs, and last year's finery, who amused themselves the whole way, in talking over their own and their neighbors' family quarrels—how Rebecca Coleman made a party, and did not ask the speaker, though she invited George's wife; and what she said to George about it, and what George said to her; how the refreshments were poor and scanty, and Rebecca only attended to those that she liked; how the minister's wife wore feathers in her bonnet, and made a great many visits, and how the minister himself encouraged pauperism by relieving the poor; how easy it was to deceive him, and how he had spoken of a clergyman of another denomination as an intelligent and gentlemanly man—it was even reported that he said 'fellow.' Olive thought the minister was to be pitied, who numbered such a party of ill-natured detractors among his flock.

As it drew towards night, Olive began to think less of those she had left behind, and to feel a little anxious respecting the people she was soon to meet, and among whom her hope was to be, for the next five months at least. A boarding-place had been provided for her by the care of Mr. Gregory, and she tried to find out something about it from Mr. Jones, but without much success. He could or would tell her nothing more than they were very nice people, and lived in one of the pleasantest places in Basswood. Upon farther questioning, she discovered that the family consisted of an elderly man and his wife, and one daughter, who was too old to go to school. In fact, it soon became obvious to her, that while Mr. Jones was delighted to give her descriptions of the situation, scenery, and manufactures of Basswoods, he was resolutely determined to say nothing about the people, and Olive could not help admiring his prudence and discretion, at the same time that she felt a little vexed at it.

At the last station, Mr. Jones informed her that they had only thirty miles father to go, and her eyes were soon abundantly occupied in studying the picturesque and beautiful valley through which they were passing. By and by, the train came to a full stop—then backed—then went on, and finally stopped again.

Olive looked out; there seemed nothing to stop for. They were in a deep, narrow valley, shut in by high mountains, and nothing like a settlement was visible.

Mr. Jones got up and went to the door, but he could see nothing to account for the delay, so he sat down again.

By and by the conductor came along, and, on being interrogated, informed them that they were behind time, and must wait for another train.

"How long?" inquired several gentlemen, anxiously.

"Perhaps five minutes—perhaps an hour. As soon as the up-train has passed, we shall be able to go on, but we must wait an hour for them; after that, we shall have a right to the road."

Various opinions now made themselves heard. Mr. Jones said that they should not get to their destination till late, but considered that even that was better than running any risk. The Californian thought the whole thing rather "slow," but was not disposed to grumble at any thing, and having made acquaintance with the boys opposite, began telling them bear-hunting and gold-digging stories, with infinite good-nature, and a vast amount of odd expressions and California slang. The Western ladies looked at him and the whole party, as though they had been their natural, born enemies, especially when the boys laughed, which, it must be confessed, they did somewhat uproariously.

Their husbands thought the conductor ought to go on at any rate, even at the imminent risk of being run over, which would be incomparably less of an evil than waiting an hour.

"Would you not like to go to the end, and look out, my dear?" said Mr. Jones to Olive. "It will be less fatiguing than sitting still, though there is not much to see."

Olive could not agree that there was very little to see, when she stepped out upon the platform. They were in a very narrow valley, between two high, rocky ridges, which almost deserved the name of mountains. There seemed hardly more than room for the road and the stream, which murmured and foamed along, as though hurrying to escape from such confined quarters. The sun was just dropping behind the western hills, which were very steep, and clothed with dark evergreens, made still more sombre by the deep shadows. While the eastern mountains, glowing with all the magnificent coloring of beech, maple, and graceful birch, with here and there a sumach burning like a living fire, was lighted by the whole blaze of sunset.

Mr. Jones smiled at Olive's exclamations of delight.

"You are an enthusiast about such things," he said. "I used to be myself when I was young, but I have had it a good deal driven out of me, I am sorry to say. But I am glad you are fond of mountains, for you will see enough of them. I love them like old friends, for I was born among them."

Olive found the hour pass very pleasantly in watching the changes of light and shade on the hill-tops and in the valley, and in listening to her companion's reminiscences of the early settlement of the country. She felt almost sorry when the train went on again, and she began to feel that every moment brought her nearer to her journey's end.

At last came the long whistle which announced that the station was in sight. The people who were going to stop began to gather up their shawls and bags, and to look out their checks. And those who were going on felicitated themselves with the idea of a hot supper.

She soon found herself in a carriage with her kind companion, who insisted on going with her to the house, and introducing her to her host and hostess. Olive was very thankful: she was vexed to find herself trembling and agitated, when she meant to be very calm and composed. The carriage stopped at the gate of a very pretty two-story brick house, a good deal shaded, which was all she could see by moonlight.

A light streamed out from the hall-door, and two or three figures appeared at it, showing that she was expected.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Felton," said Mr. Jones; "I have brought your new inmate, you see, and I hope you have some supper for her. I am sure she must be starving."

Mrs. Felton came forward, and shook hands kindly with Olive, introducing her to her husband at the same time—a ceremony from which that gentleman received but little benefit, as he was out at the gate, superintending the removal of the baggage. Mrs. Felton was a middle-aged, meek-looking woman, with mild hazel eyes, and a certain nervous, undecided expression.

"Supper—yes, certainly. So you have had no supper, but we waited so long, I am afraid every thing is quite spoiled. I guess I had better get something fresh. Ruth!"

"Pray do not take any trouble for me," said Olive, who did not feel very much like eating, being conscious of a certain hysterical feeling in her throat; "I am not hungry."

"But you must be hungry, because you have been travelling all day," insisted Mrs. Felton, argumentatively; "people are always hungry when they have been travelling."

And, having asked Mr. Jones to stay to supper, and telling her husband, who was still invisible, to take the trunks up-stairs, Mrs. Felton led the way into the dining-room—a very cheerful apartment, furnished with easy-looking, odd-shaped, rush-bottomed, and closely-wound chairs and sofas; a tall, old-fashioned mahogany clock, with a marvellously painted and gilded face, ticked in the corner; some curious old prints and paintings upon glass ornamented the walls; and a beautiful large white cat sat composedly on a chair at the corner of the supper-table, as though she had taken her usual place, and was waiting for the rest of the company.

"I kept the table standing because I thought you might not have had your supper, you see," pursued Mrs. Felton, in a mild, purring kind of voice. "There! Sit down in the rocking-chair, and let me take your bonnet. Your room is all ready for you, but perhaps you will not like it. I thought the front-chamber was the pleasantest, because you can see every one that passes, but Ruth liked the back one the best—Ruth!"

"Yes, mother," replied the individual so often called, in a cheerful voice, entering at the same time, with a waiter full of smoking dishes, "I only waited to fry two or three eggs, and get out the hot biscuits—I laid some by on purpose. How do you do, Miss McHenry?" she continued, without waiting for an introduction. "Tired enough, of course! Don't move," she continued, setting down her dishes; "I will push the table up to you." And she suited the action to the word, before Olive had time to remonstrate, and handed her a cup of fragrant tea, begging her to help herself to an egg and a piece of ham.

Olive had really believed that she was not hungry, but every thing was so very nice and inviting, that she felt her appetite return, and ate a hearty supper, to the evident delight of her hostess.

As soon as she had finished, Ruth asked her if she would not like to go to her room. "It is all ready, and I am sure you will be glad to be quiet," she said, as she lighted a candle in a queer little old-fashioned silver candlestick; "I will show you the way."

Every thing looked inviting in the room whither Olive was conducted. It was large and high, but full curtains and a warm-colored carpet gave it an air of comfort. An old-fashioned toilet and glass stood between the windows: an equally antiquated book-case filled up one recess of the chimney, and a commodious table and chair the other.

Ruth set down the candle, and sweeping a comprehensive glance around the room to see that all was right, bade Olive good-night, begging not to hurry herself in the morning, as the school did not begin till the next day, and she would have plenty of time for unpacking.

Olive certainly did not feel inclined to any extra exertion. She took out what she wanted for the night, and unpacked her Bible and prayer-book, and, despite all the varied excitements of the day, she was asleep before her head touched the pillow.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

OLIVE slept late the next morning, and when she awoke from a dream of home, she could hardly understand for a moment, where she was. It was some little time before she could arouse herself sufficiently to rise and put back the window-curtain. It was one of the softest mornings of early autumn. The window looked toward the east, across the not very wide valley in which the village lay, to a high, bold, rocky eminence, which bounded it on that side, while here and there she caught glimpses of the same sparkling and rapid stream, which they had seen so often the day before, now augmented to a considerable river. She could not see much of the village, though two or three large old-fashioned farmhouses were in sight around the edges of the valley.

She had finished dressing, and was standing at the open window enjoying the fresh air and the prospect, so different from any thing to which she had been accustomed, when a light tap was heard at the door and Ruth entered.

"I heard you stirring," she said, half-apologetically, "and came up to see if you wanted any help. We thought we would not wake you. I hope you feel rested?"

Ruth Felton had one of those faces which it is impossible to see without loving. She was far from handsome, being small and thin, with rather a sallow complexion, and no special pretensions to elegance or grace, but whenever she came into a room she seemed to bring sunshine with her. There was something in her expression so cheerful and bright, so thoroughly good and withal so earnest and full of helpfulness, that every one with whom she came in contact felt influence, and owned its power. She possessed moreover that not exceedingly common gift, a remarkably sweet voice; truly, an excellent thing in woman. Ruth was not young, and there were various signs and tokens about her which seemed to show that she was verging towards an old maid. Many people wondered why she had never married, but when questioned upon the subject, she always laughed her bright, cheery laugh, and said she never had had time.

"School begins to-morrow," said Ruth, as they went down-stairs together, "and I suppose you may expect a call from Mr. Prendergrass to-day."

"Who is Mr. Prendergrass?" asked Olive.

"Why, the principal of the Academy; is it possible you have had so little curiosity as not to ask the name of your associate?"

"I believe I have heard it before," replied Olive, coloring a little, "but I have had so many things to think of."

"Yes, I dare say," said Ruth. "But you will soon learn all about the things and the people with whom you have to do. I suppose you are ready for your breakfast?" she added, as they entered the dining-room.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked Olive, seeing only a small round table set by the window.

"Oh! Yes, two hours ago. We breakfast at half-past six in summer, and at seven in winter. I am afraid our hours will be too early for you."

"Oh! No; I was accustomed to early hours at school, but aunt Merton has spoiled me a little, since I have been at home. What a beautiful puss!" she continued, as the white cat she had seen the night before roused herself from a comfortable nap, and came gravely forward to pay her respects.

"I hope you like cats," said Ruth; "Jenny is a great pet, and to say the truth, a little spoiled. She is the descendant of a cat that my brother brought home from Bombay, and my mother values her on that account. But if you find her troublesome, you must drive her away."

Olive had no great fear of finding the pretty creature troublesome, for she loved pets of every description, and had more than once incurred aunt Rebecca's displeasure, by patronizing stray kittens and forlorn puppies.

Jenny was very ready to be taken up, and they were having a fine game at play, when Ruth entered with the breakfast, followed by Mrs. Felton with a work-basket.

"Ruth," said the latter, in a tone of mild remonstrance, which somehow made Olive feel nervous, "you shouldn't let that cat trouble Miss McHenry."

"She does not trouble me," said Olive; "I am very fond of cats."

"You are very kind to say so," returned Mrs. Felton, with an expression of gentle incredulity, "but a great many people don't like them, and I never want any thing belonging to me to be troublesome or intrusive. I never want to be myself. For that reason I did not go up to your room this morning. I felt that you would come down when you got ready, but Ruth thought differently."

Mrs. Felton never thought, she only felt; and she had no opinions, but only feelings.

Olive glanced at Ruth, expecting to see some signs of annoyance, but none were visible. She busied herself in setting the table in order. And inviting Olive to seat herself at it, she placed herself at the coffee-urn—a curious, little old-fashioned institution of plated ware with a gilded ivory pine-apple upon the top—and said grace in a very grave, unaffected manner. After which, she proceeded to pour out the coffee, Mrs. Felton murmuring away all the time, partly, as it seemed, to herself and partly to her companions.

"I suppose you rested well, Miss McHenry? At least, I hope you did."

"Oh! Yes," replied Olive, smiling; "only I slept rather too long. I am quite rested this morning."

"You are a good sleeper, I suppose. I am not," said the lady, as she threaded her needle. "I never get any sleep till towards morning, and yet it is very singular how Mr. Felton will always insist that I sleep all night. I am sure I don't know how he can tell, for he never wakes up from the time he goes to bed till he gets up again. I suppose you have never been away from home before?"

"Oh! Yes; I have been at school a great deal," replied Olive, "though to be sure, I have always had my sister and cousin with me." And she sighed for the tenth time as she thought of poor Abby.

"No doubt you will miss them very much," continued Mrs. Felton. "It is a sad thing to have none of one's relations near one. I have never seen any of mine since I was married. Indeed, I haven't any nearer than second cousins, for my mother was an only child and my father had but one brother, who died at sea. I fear you will be very lonely here after what you have been accustomed to."

"Come, mother," said Ruth, cheerfully, "you must not go to making Miss McHenry home-sick. I think she will find our village a very pleasant one, and we have plenty of agreeable people, you know. We must not discourage her at the outset."

"I don't mean to discourage her, of course," returned the lady in an injured tone. "I suppose she may like sympathy, though you don't."

Olive thought she did not either, if this was a specimen. To turn the conversation, she asked hastily: "Is the Academy far from here?"

"Only a little way," replied Ruth; "you can see it from the front-door. It is a very pleasant building, and well fitted up, though one of the oldest in the place. It was built before the war."

"How large is the school?" asked Olive.

"There are usually about fifty in the girls' department, and twice as many in the other. You will find them pleasant enough for the most part, though there are a few black sheep, of course."

"I am sure poor Miss Brown had trouble enough," remarked Mrs. Felton.

"It was her own fault, mother," said Ruth. "She would go round, talking about the girls out of school, and telling the whole village of every little unpleasant circumstance. It is almost as unfortunate for a teacher to gossip, as for a minister."

"Is Mr. Gregory in town now?" inquired Olive.

"He is," replied Ruth. "Do you know him?"

"He called upon me at Mrs. Granger's, with his wife," said Olive. "I was very much pleased with him."

"Almost every body likes Mr. Gregory," remarked Ruth, as she put the dishes together upon the tray.

"Why, yes, I suppose they do," said Mrs. Felton; "and I dare say he is a good man. But I must say, he has very little feeling, and does not understand my case at all. Would you believe it, Miss McHenry, when I told him how much I suffered from low spirits and dolts and all sorts of distressing feelings about myself, instead of sympathizing with me, he told me he thought I did not take exercise enough, and advised me to teach a class in Sunday-school. He said he did not think it was a good thing for people to be always studying over their own feelings. And when I went to see Mrs. Tower—she is his daughter—at the time her child died, and was asking her all about little Henrietta's sickness and death, and telling her of the loss of my own children, and saying every thing I could think of, to show my sympathy—he as good as told me to hold my tongue, and let her alone."

Olive did not wonder at it, but she said nothing in reply, and only observed that Mrs. Gregory seemed a very pleasant person. Mrs. Felton allowed that she was, but thought her very gay and frivolous for a person of her age. She was clearly of the opinion that there was "nothing so dainty sweet, as lovely melancholy," and no one was approved by her who had the heartlessness to be gay in this world's woes.

Olive began to feel that such a perpetual presence might become very wearisome after a while, and she wondered how Ruth could preserve her cheerfulness under it. But Ruth seemed to mind her mother's murmurs no more than she did the purring of the cat. She again came up to Olive's room to show her the shelves and drawers, of which there were a great abundance, and then left her to herself till dinner-time.

Olive was not very long in unpacking and arranging her matters, though she lingered a little over her books and drawing materials which were nicely accommodated in the book-case. A small portrait of her mother, copied by herself, from the large picture at Mr. Merton's, and one or two favorite landscapes, found very good lights upon the walls. The table held her work-box and the new desk very nicely.

As she opened the latter for the first time, her eye fell upon Mr. Merton's mysterious packet, which she had quite forgotten. She opened it, and found a very nice case, containing a handsome gold watch and chain, exactly such a one as he had presented to Charlotte on her birth-day, and two bright new twenty-dollar gold pieces, with a kind note, which, as it was very characteristic of the gentleman, we subjoin.

"You will want a watch, my dear, by which to regulate your hours, and I hope you will find this a good one. The gold pieces are to supply you with any little conveniences, of which you may feel the need. With regard to your course in your new home, I have but a few words of advice to give you. Mind your own business—never gossip nor let others gossip to you: do not be too set in your own way: have patience, but not mock patience: and look to God in all trials and difficulties."

Such was Mr. Merton's note, over which Olive shed a few tears. "Oh! If Abby would only be open with him," she thought, "how much misery it would save us all."

She did not dare permit her thoughts to dwell too long upon the subject, for she felt that she needed all her strength for what was before her. So she bathed her eyes, dressed herself neatly and becomingly, and had finished a letter to aunt Rebecca, and begun one to Abby, before the dinner-bell rung.

At dinner, she saw the hitherto invisible Mr. Felton—a mild, good-natured man, with a quiet, subdued manner. Olive thought his wife's sympathy must have affected him. He was cordial, and entered into conversation very readily, displaying considerable intelligence. They had hardly risen from the table, when Mr. and Mrs. Gregory were announced, and Olive entered the parlor to greet them, with a feeling that they were old friends.

Mr. Gregory was all kindness and cordiality. As Olive looked at him, she did not wonder at his not sympathizing very deeply in Mrs. Felton's troubles. He looked like a man who had passed through the furnace of affliction and come out unspoiled, but perhaps a little hardened by the fire. Suffering was written in every line of his face, but it was suffering past and gone.

Half an hour's conversation with him made Olive feel as though she had found a valuable friend. There was that about him which irresistibly attracted confidence, and she was almost startled, after he had gone, to find how freely she had expressed herself. Mrs. Gregory was a kindly, motherly woman, evidently proud of her husband, and enjoying full faith in his infallibility.

After they had gone, Mr. Jones came and brought his two daughters, pretty, shy girls of fourteen and sixteen, both evidently terribly afraid of the new school-mistress, who, on her part, was almost equally afraid of them, though she managed to conceal her trepidation. By some well-directed questions, she presently had them at their ease and talking quite fluently.

White Jenny opportunely walked into the room, suggesting a ready subject for conversation, and Phebe had grown quite eloquent in describing a Maltese cat that she had, and a terrier belonging to her brother, which slept, ate, and hunted rats together, when the door opened, and Ruth appeared, ushering in a tall gentleman, whom she introduced to Olive as Mr. Prendergrass.

The girls were hushed in a moment, and seemed as if looking around for some place of escape, while Olive rose in some confusion, and put down white Jenny, to greet her associate in the care of the youth of Basswoods.

Mr. Prendergrass was a tall man, very spare and upright. His iron-gray hair was arranged with mathematical precision, his whiskers ditto. He wore the neatest of black suits, and the neatest of black gloves, and his linen was got up to an extent that was quite alarming. There was a tradition current among the boys that he wore a tin shirt-bosom and collar, and had once nearly cut off one of his ears with the latter.

Mr. Prendergrass bowed a solemn bow, and then another, in reply to Olive's courtesy. Then he sat down, casting rather a nervous glance at white Jenny, who was amusing herself with the tassels of Miss Jones' parasol. "I am happy to see you, Miss McHenry," he said, in a tone as formal as the rest of his appearance. "I hope you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey?"

"Quite, thank you," said Olive, wishing she could think of something to add to it.

"Did you find your journey agreeable?" inquired Mr. Prendergrass again, precisely as though he was hearing a lesson.

"Very much so," replied Olive. "The route is very picturesque."

"Are not the mountains beautiful, Miss McHenry?" said Anna Jones, timidly, and coloring as she spoke.

"Extremely so to me, especially as they were the first I had ever seen. I longed to make sketches all the way."

"They are splendid in winter," said Anna, quite enthusiastically. "The pines look so grand, covered with snow, and the long icicles hanging from the rocks." She seemed quite frightened at having said so much, and relapsed into silence and stiffness again.

Mr. Prendergrass looked as though he thought mountains were frivolous things. Mr. Jones preserved a provoking taciturnity, and Olive was wondering what she ought to do or say next, when the youngest Miss Jones made a furtive poke with her parasol in the direction of the principal, accompanied by the least possible mischievous glance of her eye towards her sister.

Jenny sprang upon the parasol, and Mr. Prendergrass started.

"Do, do be pleased to dismiss that quadruped," he said, almost imploringly, to Miss Phebe. "Be quiet, cat, I entreat," he continued, as Jenny made another jump after the withdrawn parasol.

Olive caught up the offending animal, and carried her off, and Mr. Prendergrass appeared much relieved. "I have a great dislike to the feline race," he observed, reseating himself. "I believe it to be constitutional. My father was nearly killed by one—a panther, I mean," he added, looking resentfully at the young ladies, who betrayed some tendency to giggling.

Olive was much interested, and related several anecdotes of persons who were made ill, or otherwise unpleasantly affected by the presence of cats. Mr. Prendergrass unbent a little, and Olive was surprised to find that he could talk very well when he was not thinking of himself.

At last Mr. Jones proposed that they should step over to the academy. "I should like to have Miss McHenry's opinion of the arrangements in the girls' room," said he. "She may have some improvements to suggest."

"The rooms are exactly as they were arranged by the Reverend Mr. Snowden, sir!" said Mr. Prendergrass, solemnly.

"Very true, sir, but Miss McHenry may have ways of her own, you know."

Mr. Prendergrass looked as though the idea of Miss McHenry's having ways of her own was not agreeable to him, but he only bowed solemnly.

And the whole party proceeded to the academy.

It was a pretty, neat building, and Olive was surprised to see it looking so new and fresh, till she was informed that it had lately been put in complete repair. The date of 1775 still remained in iron letters upon each of the gables, and Mr. Jones pointed out, upon one of the windows, two or three bullet-marks which had been made in a skirmish with the Indians.

The upper school-room, appropriated to her use, was a very pleasant apartment, neatly fitted up with movable desks and chairs, set in rows across the room.

On being questioned, Olive admitted that she should prefer a different disposition. She thought it better that they should be arranged around the apartment, so that the girls might sit with their faces to the wall.

"Why, may I inquire, Miss McHenry, do you wish the 'young ladies' to assume such a position?" said Mr. Prendergrass, somewhat severely, and with an emphasis on the words "young ladies."

"I think that it is easier to overlook them, and there is less temptation to whispering," replied Olive, feeling quite alarmed at her own temerity. "But perhaps it is only because I am accustomed to such an arrangement that I prefer it."

"Very probably, ma'am. Many persons can only like what they are accustomed to."

"At the same time," interrupted Mr. Jones, "there is no reason whatever why Miss McHenry should not have the seats arranged in her own way. I will come over with the boys and make the alteration."

"My predecessor, the Rev. Mr. Snowden—" began Mr. Prendergrass.

"Was a very excellent man, sir, though rather too fond of the rod. But he has been dead at least fifteen years, and the school has gone on better without him than ever it did with him. Do you see any other alterations to suggest, Miss McHenry?"

Mr. Prendergrass looked on with lowering brows, while Olive went over the room, and seemed prepared to resign on the instant, if she should presume to recommend any other innovations. But she saw nothing else to change. She particularly admired the mat and commodious table and desk which had been provided for the teachers. It fortunately happened that this table and all its arrangements had been executed under the eye of Mr. Prendergrass himself, and from plans of his own. His eyebrows relaxed, and his manner grew more gracious, and by the time they had made the rounds of the boys' room, and he had discovered that Olive was a good Latin scholar, he was as amiable as possible.

At parting, Olive adverted to her own inexperience, and requested permission to apply to him in any emergency. Mr. Prendergrass was evidently highly flattered, and they parted on the best possible terms.

"He is a good creature, and really talented," said Mr. Jones, as they walked towards home, the girls having dropped behind, to communicate with some of their companions. "But you must hold your own with him. He is rather apt to be overbearing, and thinks every change from the customs of the Rev. Mr. Snowden must be wrong, of course."

"I am not sure, but that is better than thinking that every change must be an improvement," remarked Olive. "I am afraid he was very much offended about the desks."

"You need not distress yourself about that," replied her companion. "By next week, he will imagine the improvement to be his own. With all his faults, he is an excellent and conscientious man, and manages the school well. His great trouble is his overweening vanity, and his desire to have his own way. Every one laughs at him, but he seldom finds it out. If he does, he never forgives the laughter. I do not imagine you will have any trouble with him."

It was nearly tea-time when Olive returned home. She occupied her evening in finishing her letter to Abby, wherein she exerted all her eloquence to prevail upon her sister to take a right course. She sent a civil message to Mr. Forester, feeling that she owed him a little reparation for her plain speaking, and went to bed with an anxious yet a hopeful heart.

The next morning she was up before the sun. Never had she prayed with more fervor—never had the promises of Scripture been more full of comfort and encouragement to her. Her fears and tremors of the day before had almost vanished.

And when, after the school had been opened by prayers and singing in the large hall, she took her place upon her own estrade in the young ladies' room, it was with a degree of calmness and composure, that surprised herself. As she glanced over the assembled ranks of girls, all sitting demurely, with their hands before them, she thought her materials not unpromising. About half of the fifty were daughters of substantial people in the village, well-dressed pretty girls, all lady-like and proper; the rest were daughters of farmers in the neighboring country, who went home to help in the dairy and kitchen in summer, and attended school in the winter, often working for their board in some village family. As was to be expected, these were not all very polished, or dressed in the best taste, but many of them looked good and sensible.

The morning was spent in enrolling, examining, and classifying, looking over books, and ascertaining former progress. Olive wondered whether she should ever succeed in connecting their names with their faces, so as not to make perpetual mistakes—when she should distinguish Miss Julia Goodrich from Miss Sarah Goodrich, and both from the other Miss Goodrich, who was not related to them.

The girls appeared to have been tolerably well taught, so far as concerned book-learning, hitherto, but they were deficient in general knowledge, and those school-manners which she had been accustomed, under Mrs. Granger's vigilant eye, to consider as essential. They lounged on their desks, and in recitation they kicked their feet, bit their fingers, and played with their books. Olive saw a good many little things which needed reformation, but she was aware that all reform should be commenced with caution and gradually carried on.

In the afternoon, she organized a drawing-class, and this she found rather a difficult matter. A number of the girls had drawn a little: that is to say, they had copied a number of fancy castles and cottages, with their walls strikingly at variance with the recognized principles of gravitation, and shaded by trees, composed of a hard outline, filled up with little "M"s and "N"s; others had gone so far as to use colored chalks, and even to paint in oils. It had been a favorite maxim with the former drawing-master that in order to paint, it was not at all necessary to know how to draw, * and it may be imagined what sort of productions came out of the hands of his pupils.

* A literal fact.

Of course, all these young ladies had no mean opinion of their own abilities, and Olive foresaw that it would be a much more difficult matter to teach them than though they had never touched a pencil. She had herself been drilled through Chapman's inimitable method, with pen and ink, by an indefatigable and really scientific teacher. And she resolved, if possible, to pursue the same course with her own pupils, though she foresaw that some of them were likely enough to be restive under it. Accordingly, she sent Anna Jones to Mr. Prendergrass, for two or three quires of foolscap, and a box of steel-pens. The girls looked at each other with surprise, and the surprise increased, as she proceeded to lay before each half a dozen' sheets of ruled paper, and to distribute the pens.

Olive saw it, and smiled. "You will think my first lesson a simple one, young ladies," she said. "And yet I venture to say that not more than half of you will succeed at the first trial. It is only to draw a line from one side of the paper to the other, following the ruled line—so." She continued taking up a white chalk crayon, and drawing lines back and forth, from one side of the blackboard to the other.

The girls were mostly quite confident of success when they began, and there was a general laugh when upon examination not one of the attempts was found perfect. Olive was glad to see them take it so good-naturedly.

"You see," said she, "that it is not quite so easy as you thought. I do not know that I ever saw any one succeed at the first trial. It will require a great deal of patience, and some faith, for you to follow out this method, but I venture to promise, that you will never regret it."

"Can not we draw pictures at all?" asked Anna Jones.

"Certainly, my dear. I shall allow you to draw pictures every now and then, that you may judge of your own progress."

The girls seemed very very well-satisfied, and addressed themselves seriously to the work before them, with one exception. This was Miss Julia Goodrich.

Olive had discovered in the course of the day that this young lady was not wanting in self-conceit: she seemed to think that she knew enough already, and that it was something of a condescension for her to attend school at all. Olive foresaw that it would probably become necessary to set her down, but she did not expect the occasion would come quite so soon. Miss Julia was evidently offended at being put to such an exercise, and after three or four unsuccessful trials, she threw down her pen, and sat leaning on her elbow.

"Do not be discouraged, Miss Julia," said Olive kindly; "you will soon acquire a better method of holding your pen, and it will be easier for you."

"I am not discouraged," replied Miss Julia shortly.

"Then do not waste your time, as we have none too much to devote to drawing."

"I am not going to work at these things," said the young lady, pushing away the paper contemptuously. "I can draw well enough already, and only came into the class for practice. I want something pretty to do."

Miss Julia's manner was sufficiently insolent, and her tone, if possible, still more so. She had been the terror of two or three teachers, and, in fact, had ruled matters very much her own way. Olive's perfect good-breeding had awed her a little, but she was determined not to give up the victory without a struggle.

"What can you draw?" asked Olive, turning over her portfolio.

"Any thing," returned Julia, triumphantly, taking this mildness as a sign of yielding. She never was more mistaken in her life.

Olive left her portfolio open, and taking up a large white china inkstand, and sticking two or three pens into it, she set it on a book before her pupil, saying composedly, "Very well, draw that." And she turned again to her portfolio.

There was a subdued titter among the girls, which she was not very sorry to hear.

Julia looked annoyed and mortified. "Oh! I didn't mean 'that,'" she said. "Nobody could do such things as that."

"You are mistaken," said Olive, gently; "any body who has made much progress in drawing can do such things. But perhaps you would prefer a picture." And she placed before her an exquisite drawing of Powers' Proserpine which she had done from a cast while at school, and a delicately-finished landscape in pen and ink.

Worse and worse. The titter grew into a giggle, which Olive checked with a glance, and Julia's face grew redder and redder.

"I can't do them things," she said, sullenly.

"Those things," corrected Olive, still quite unruffled. "But I thought you said you could draw any thing."

"There isn't a girl in this school that could draw either of those pictures!" said Miss Goodrich, positively, but looking just ready to cry, from anger and mortification. "I know there ain't!"

"There are a great many in other schools, I assure you, and I presume most of those here would like to learn. But what can you do, then?"

Miss Goodrich produced from the depths of her portfolio a remarkable production, purporting to be a landscape, but so utterly out of any thing like perspective, as to be absolutely painful to the educated eye. Trees a mile distant were represented of the same color, and with the same minuteness, as those near at hand; while a lake, upon which was a boat about half a mile long, descended towards the foreground at an angle of forty-five degrees. This specimen of art she handed to Olive, but by no means so triumphantly as she had at first anticipated: she began to have a dawning perception that she had made herself very ridiculous.

Olive looked at it, making commendable efforts to keep the corners of her mouth in order. Then, taking a picture of about the same size and style from her own portfolio, she gently placed them side by side before her pupil.

Julia looked from one to the other: her face grew redder and redder, and her eyes filled with tears. She took up Olive's sketch and examined it. Then looked again at her own, and, at last quite overcome, she burst into tears and sobbed aloud.

Olive now really pitied the girl.

"You had better go out into the air a little, Julia," she said, kindly; "Laura, my dear, go with your sister."

The two left the room, and Olive, turning to the class, said, gravely: "I trust to your honor, girls, never to mention this little affair again, either to Julia or any one else. You will see the reason for what I say, if you think how you would like to be treated yourselves under such circumstances."

The girls looked at each other with some surprise, but with evident approbation, and Olive saw that, so far as they were concerned, she had gained a complete victory. But she felt rather anxious about the effect upon Julia. She was, however, soon set at rest.

"What did Miss McHenry say after I went out?" Julia asked of Anna Jones, in the short recess that Olive allowed them.

"She said we were not to say any thing about the matter, to you or any one else, because we would not like it ourselves," replied her friend.

Julia hesitated a moment, and then said:

"Anna, do you think I made a fool of myself?"

"I think you did," said the straightforward Anna; "and if I were you, I would tell Miss McHenry so, and ask her to overlook it. That will be the best way to make every one forget it."

Julia meditated a moment, and then marched straight up to the drawing-table, where Olive was standing, surrounded by all the older girls.

"Miss McHenry," she said, resolutely, but with a slight tremor in her voice. "Anna Jones says I made a fool of myself this afternoon—at least, I asked her if I didn't, and she said yes, and I am come to ask your pardon. I see that you are right, and that I don't know any thing about drawing. If you will let me come into the class again, I will do just what you want me to."

"I am very glad to hear you say so, my dear," said Olive, kissing her; "it is always an excellent sign, when a girl is ready to acknowledge that she has been in the wrong. I shall be very glad to teach you all I know, and I have no doubt that you will soon learn to draw very well."

Thus ended Olive's first contest in school, wherein, by the exercise of a great deal of forbearance, and a little ready wit, she put her opponent entirely in the wrong, and drew the sympathies of the whole school to herself. Julia was possessed of a great many good qualities, but she had been badly managed, both at home and in school. She was really very quick, and easily kept at the head of almost all her classes, and she had been put forward to think herself a good deal more talented than she was, by the injudicious praises of parents and teachers. Her strong will had never happened to have a stronger one opposed to it, and thus she had carried all before her. Olive foresaw a good many mortifications in store for her, but she hoped they would all end as well as the first had done.

School was dismissed at half-past four, and Olive walked a little way down the street, hoping that the fresh air would cool her hot forehead, and quiet its throbbing. But she soon became conscious that she was being stared at from almost every house that she passed, and turned back again. Ruth met her at the door.

"How tired you are," she said, kindly, "but you will soon get used to it. How did you get on?"

"Very well, I believe," said Olive, wearily, "but really I hardly know."

"You had better go up-stairs, and lie down till tea-time," said Ruth compassionately. "You will find it easier to-morrow, and still more so the next day, till by and by, you will hardly mind it at all."

Olive was very glad of the encouragement, and still more of the rest. She threw herself upon the lounge, and closed her eyes without thinking of slumber, but by degrees her thoughts mingled themselves confusedly together, and she slept soundly, till she was aroused by the tea-bell, and rose feeling quite herself again.

Mrs. Felton had prepared herself to sympathize with Olive's trials, and seemed quite provoked to think she had not had any. Mr. Felton inquired whether she had found the school pleasant, and on being answered in the affirmative, mildly remarked that some people found things agreeable, and others made them so, after which he finished his supper without another word, and then betook himself to his newspaper.

"There has been a piano sent here for you to-day," said Ruth as they adjourned to the parlor.

"A piano! From whom?" asked Olive, very much surprised.

"Mr. Gregory sent it," replied Ruth. "It is one that Augusta Tower had before she was married. Mr. Tower bought a much finer one for her, and when she went home to live, she took it with her. So as one was enough in the house, and you had none, they thought you might as well use this."

It was a plain but handsome instrument of good tone, and perfectly in tune. Olive was delighted. She was fond of music, and played very well, though she had not Abby's splendid talents, and she had sighed more than once over the prospect of being without a piano of her own.

"A good many people thought Mrs. Tower ought to have sold her handsome piano, after her husband died," said Mrs. Felton, in her sighing voice, "but she hardly sold any of her things. It looks rather singular to see the minister's parlor the handsomest furnished of any in town."

"I don't know why she should sell her things, mother," said Ruth. "They can not be in debt, and she had enough to support herself, though not as much as people generally thought she would have."

"Ruth never will allow that Mrs. Tower can do any thing wrong," said Mrs. Felton, appealing to Olive. "Even when, the third Sunday after her child died, she played the organ just as usual, Ruth defended that."

"We should not have had any music at all, if she had not, mother, and you know the Bishop was here. Augusta did not think she ought to give up all her duties because she was in affliction. I know she was blamed for going into Sunday-school so soon too, but I must say, I think she did right."

"But she is always doing such queer things," persisted Mrs. Felton. "Do you know, Miss McHenry, she was married on Tuesday morning, and she went to church the Sunday before, though the invitations were all out."

"I do not see any thing wrong in that," remarked Olive. "It seems to me that would be the very time I should want to go."

"Especially as it was the Communion," added Ruth.

"Well, my dear, very likely you are right and I am wrong. I always am, you know," said Mrs. Felton, in deeply resigned tones. "I only know, it would have been thought very strange when I was young, but people have improved since then, no doubt. I don't think I am quite a fool, however." And with these words, Mrs. Felton returned to the dining-room.

Ruth suppressed a sigh and asked Olive to play something.

"Mother thinks Augusta is very odd," she said, after a while, "but I hope you will like her. She goes out very little, but I think she will come and see you."

"Did I understand you that she was a widow?" asked Olive.

"Yes, her husband died five years ago—just two years after they were married. He was a cultivated, agreeable man, and was supposed to be very rich. But after his death, it was found that there was only about a thousand a year, for Augusta and her child. They lived rather expensively, I suppose, but they had no debts, and so Augusta kept most of their furniture and all her books and pictures. She furnished the Parsonage, which needed it very much, and she has lived at home ever since. Her child, a most lovely little creature, died last summer very suddenly. I was always fond of Augusta, when we were school-girls. But since her widowhood, I have loved her more dearly than ever."

"Is she an only child?" asked Olive.

Something passed across Ruth's face, like a sudden gust of wind across a still piece of water, but almost before it could be noticed, it was gone.

"She had one brother, but he is dead," she said quietly.

At this moment, the door-bell rang, and a Mrs. Dennison entered. She was a pretty, matronly woman, one of those "mothers in Israel," a certain proportion of whom are to be found in almost every church, efficient helps to the minister, faithful in their own families, and ready to lend a helping hand to every good work, but so quiet and undemonstrative that they are hardly appreciated till they are dead and gone. And then every one says on every occasion when assistance is needed: "How we do miss Mrs. Dennison!" She had come to call upon Miss McHenry, and invite her to the sewing society next day, at her house.

Ruth advised Olive to go.

"You will find yourself a little stared at, perhaps, but the meetings are very pleasant, and it is a good way to become acquainted with the people."

"I never attended a society in my life," said Olive. "There was none connected with our church, and I believe aunt Rebecca had a prejudice against them. She thought they promoted scandal."

"If scandal-loving people meet together, they will be likely enough to talk scandal," replied Ruth, "whether it be at a society or a party. But it has never been my fate to hear very much of it at society. I suppose they may be different in different places. Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Gregory have been at the head of ours for a good many years, till the latter resigned in favor of Augusta, and they are neither of them people likely to encourage gossip. But I leave you to judge for yourself."

Other callers came in, and Olive was introduced to several ladies and gentlemen, all well-bred, pleasant people. And when at rather an early hour, she laid her head on her pillow, it was with a very pleasant feeling of encouragement and thankfulness that the lines had fallen to her in such pleasant places. If she could have forgotten her great anxiety about Abby, she would have been quite happy.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

IT was an old custom for school to be out on Friday afternoons at half-past three. Olive dressed for the society before she went to school, and Ruth was to call for her on her way. The two days since Wednesday had passed without any thing particular to mark them, except that one or two new scholars had entered.

The girls, for the most part, were quiet, orderly, and studious, and very ready to attend to her hints with regard to sitting, speaking, and standing. Julia, especially, was quiet and meek to a degree that astonished all her companions, and seemed particularly to delight her sister, a meek, gentle, little thing, over whom she was rather given to tyrannizing. She took so much pains with her ruled lines that she was advanced to the next step in Chapman without delay, and Olive promised her that after three or four more lessons, she should have something really pretty to do.

As Olive entered the dressing-room, she found one of the girls, named Melissa Tucker, waiting to speak to her. She was a pale-faced, pale-haired girl, with eyes of no particular color, and a disagreeable drawl to her speech.

"What is it, Melissa?" asked Olive.

"I think it my duty, Miss McHenry," said Melissa, solemnly, "to tell you that I saw Jane Ramsdell and Phebe Jones whispering twice this morning, and once yesterday."

"Indeed," said Olive, proceeding to take off her bonnet, without manifesting any vital interest in the intelligence.

"Miss Brown used to call them up and reprove them before the whole school, when they did so," persisted Miss Tucker, after waiting in vain for the commendation which she expected. Olive took no notice.

"They whisper a great deal. I often see them, and I shall think it my duty to tell you, Miss McHenry, every time the girls do any thing wrong. Miss Brown used to say she was very much obliged to me for doing so."

"I am not of Miss Brown's opinion," said Olive. "I do not want any one coming to me with stories of what the girls do. Any mischief which I can not see, I am willing to pass over. You would not have been very well pleased, I venture to say, Melissa, if Phebe had told me, this morning, when you were reading that story in school-time, though you knew very well that it was contrary to rules."

Melissa looked confounded.

"I saw you at the time," Olive continued, "but I did not see fit to notice it then. I beg, however, that you will remember the circumstance, when you give in your report to-night; and please to remember, also, that I will have no tale-bearers about me. You may have thought it your duty, as you say, to come and tell me, but as you see I do not wish you to do so again, it will be your duty in future to avoid it."

Melissa followed her teacher into the school-room with as much anger in her heart as could well dwell there, and she mentally resolved to be revenged before many hours. The consternation was great, when before the calling of the merit-roll, Olive rose and said:

"I have been told that one or two of the girls whispered this morning. I was sorry to hear it, and I hope, if it is true, that they will answer accordingly, and be careful not to offend again. I suppose you would all like to know who informed me." She paused, and a murmur of mingled expectation and indignation ran round the room. "I shall not tell you," she resumed, "nor in any way point out the offender. I presume she did what she thought was right. But once for all, I wish to say that I do not want any one coming to me with stories. I am tolerably clear-sighted myself, and moreover I trust to your honor not to try to deceive me. I hope I am safe in so doing," she said, looking round the room.

Every hand was raised in token of assent. "If you know of any large girl, tyrannizing over and tormenting a little one, and can not stop her yourselves, or if you find out that any one in the school is plotting to set the house or the river on fire, you may come and tell me, but I do not wish to hear of any thing else. Now we will let the matter drop."

She began to call the roll, and when she came to the name of Phebe Jones, Phebe answered with spirit:

"Yes, Miss McHenry, and I should have answered so, if you had not been told. I wanted very much to know where the lesson was, and you were busy with the new scholars, so I asked Jane Ramsdell. She did not hear the first time, and I asked her again."

"If that was all, Phebe, and I presume it was if you say so, I will excuse it this time," replied Olive. "But remember hereafter, I would rather you should wait a little than break a rule."

Ruth now entered—basket in hand, and the girls all rose—another ancient usage at the entrance of a stranger, which pleased Olive very much. "Don't you think that a very pretty custom?" she said to Ruth, as, school being dismissed, they walked towards Mrs. Dennison's.

"Very," replied Ruth, "and it has the sanction of antiquity with us. One of the teachers not long ago, tried to abolish it on the ground that it looked old-fashioned, but the boys and girls stood out so stoutly for it that she was forced to give it up. I do not think myself that there is any great danger, at the present time, of young people's being too deferential to their elders."

When they arrived at Mrs. Dennison's, they found the room quite full, and all eyes were turned towards the new-comers. Olive felt her color rise a little, but she bore the battery of glances very well, and after speaking to Mrs. Dennison, who came forward to meet her, she followed her companion towards the centre-table, where sat the principal officers of the society, cutting out and arranging work, and marking patterns.

They seemed to have their hands very full indeed. One of them was Mrs. Dennison herself, and the other a lady in the deepest mourning, whom Olive knew at once must be Ruth's friend, Mrs. Augusta Tower. Olive thought she had seldom seen a more lovely woman.

Mrs. Tower was small and somewhat slight, with an exquisitely fair complexion, and a bloom as delicate as an infant's. Her eyes were large and well shaped, but their color was not so easily decided. Olive thought them like deep rills. All the features were clearly cut, and the eyebrows, especially, though not heavy, were remarkably well defined, not arched, but level, and turning a little down at the outer corner. Her soft brown hair was plainly dressed, under a widow's tucked crape cap of the simplest form. A chain and cross of beautiful brown hair were her only ornaments.

"Some work?" she said, in answer to Ruth's inquiries. "Oh! Yes, as soon as I finish this pattern: but we are really overburdened to-day, so much has been ordered."

"Can not I do that?" asked Olive. "I have a good deal of experience in drawing patterns."

Mrs. Tower gladly accepted the offer, and made a vacant space at the overloaded table, where Olive found herself employed most of the time till dark, in tracing scollops, wheels, eyelets, etc. Ruth sat near her, engaged on a child's cambric apron. There was a buzz of conversation in the room, now and then enlivened by a hearty laugh from some of the younger ladies.

It was really a very pretty sight. The parlors were large and neatly furnished, though in rather old-fashioned style, and opened together by folding doors. The back-room where there was a fire, seemed to have been taken possession of by the elderly ladies, half a dozen of whom were congregated around the windows, knitting and netting, and talking in subdued tones. Their conversation was not, perhaps, very deep or learned, but it was wholly kindly and good, and many times there dropped from the lips of these mothers in Israel, sentiments of wisdom and experience which many a learned man might lay to heart, and be the better for—yes, even that deeply-learned gentleman who lately declared in a lecture that no woman had ever added any thing to the sum of human intelligence.

Several of these ladies were mothers and grandmothers of some of Olive's pupils, and came forward to speak to her, and she felt herself strengthened and encouraged by their kindly greetings. In the front-room were the younger part of the company, young married ladies with their sisters and cousins, numbering, like all assemblies of American women, a large proportion of pretty faces, clear, straightforward, intelligent eyes, and thoughtful brows.

The murmur of talk, which had stopped for a little at Olive's entrance, soon began again, and Olive could not help fancying that she herself was sometimes the subject of conversation. She felt that if so, it was no more than natural, and strove not to feel any embarrassment. Two ladies near her, were talking about the Sunday-school. She listened with interest, and at last ventured to ask a question.

"Are you interested in Sunday-schools?" asked the elder of the ladies, after replying to the interrogatory.

"Very much theoretically, but practically, I know little about them. I have never taught at all."

"We shall be very glad of your assistance in our school," continued Mrs. Sands; "for teachers are not too numerous among us. But perhaps you are sufficiently burdened already."

"I have hardly tried it long enough to know," was Olive's rather embarrassed reply. "I shall be able to tell better after a few weeks."

"I hope you feel the importance of the trust committed to you, Miss McHenry," said the other lady, whom she now thought must be Melissa Tucker's mother. "It is a solemn responsibility."

"It is, indeed," said Olive, hardly knowing what to say.

"You must be sometimes quite weighed down with the awful account you will have to give of your labors."

"I try not to be weighed down," said Olive. "Do you not think it is possible to take too much responsibility upon one's self? After all, in this, as in many other things, we can only do our best, with all the light we can get, and leave the event to God." Olive spoke with some effort, and a slight blush.

But looking up, she met Mrs. Tower's deep eyes raised to hers, with a sudden flash as it were, of approbation, and Mrs. Dennison too smiled an assent. Mrs. Tucker, however, looked doubtful, and a little annoyed.

"That doctrine gives great encouragement to carelessness," she said.

"I do not see how," Mrs. Tower replied. "Because, if we take ever so much responsibility, we can really do nothing without the will of God, you know."

"I think there is great comfort in the idea, too, that all the responsibility does not rest with us," remarked Mrs. Dennison, in her subdued voice. "I know, after my little Sammy died, I used to go over and over all his sickness, and say to myself, if this had been done, or if that had been tried, perhaps he might have lived, though I really knew, all the time, that every thing had been done that could be. But by and by it came to me, as it were, that after all, as you say, Miss McHenry, the event was in the hands of One that could not do wrong, or make a mistake, and then I felt quite reconciled."

Mrs. Tower bent over her work, and Olive heard a suppressed sigh.

"Then you think, I suppose," said Mrs. Tucker, sharply, "that you may be just as giddy and careless as you please, and let every thing go, because God can bring it out right in the end."

"That is hardly a fair construction, Mrs. Tucker," said Ruth, who had hitherto sat silent. "Miss McHenry said we were to do our best, and leave the event to God. That is, surely, a very different thing from being careless and giddy."

Mrs. Tucker said something about hair-splitting which Olive did not exactly catch, and she was not sorry when the entrance of half a dozen of the school-girls occasioned something of a move and interrupted the conversation.

Julia Goodrich, the leader in every thing, came up and asked for work—something easy, of course, for never was young girl at sewing society known to ask for any thing else. The rest soon gathered round, and at last came Melissa Tucker, with a countenance of melancholy, and rather an elaborate appearance of having been crying. Mrs. Tucker charged her with it at once, and with a faint smile, Melissa owned the soft impeachment.

"You are so quick-sighted, dear aunt," she said, in her drawling tones.

Olive was surprised, for the remarkable similarity in looks and tones had led her to think that they were mother and daughter.

"What has been the matter with you? I insist upon knowing," said Mrs. Tucker, with emphasis, and looking daggers at all the other girls.

"Nothing of much consequence," replied Melissa, mournfully, threading her needle.

"Have your feelings been hurt, Melissa?" with still more emphasis.

"I confess they have been deeply wounded, dear aunt, but I must submit. I know submission is our duty under trials. We must take it meekly when we are misunderstood and cruelly treated." And again she sighed deeply, with a significant glance at Olive.

But Olive was earnestly engaged in comparing the pattern she was drawing with one which a lady was working, and this speech was lost upon her.

Mrs. Tucker, however, followed the glance, and saw where it rested. She liked a scene, especially when she was able to take a prominent part, and she determined to get one up.

"Melissa," she said, solemnly, and in tones which drew upon her the attention of all in her neighborhood, "I will know what you have been crying about, and who has injured your feelings. I know very well how forgiving you are, and I won't have you trampled upon by any one. No one, whether teacher or any one else, need think she is going to tyrannize over you, because you are timid and retiring. Tell me at once."

Olive could not help hearing and understanding this, and she was beginning to feel painfully embarrassed as to what she ought to do, when she was unexpectedly relieved.

"Yes, Melissa, out with it," said a rich, manly, and somewhat jovial voice behind her. "Let us hear who it is that has sent you to the society, like a Niobe on private exhibition, with your eyes and nose as red as a beet. Let us hear the doleful tale."

Olive looked round with a feeling of inexpressible relief, to recognize her friend, Mr. Jones, who had come in with Mr. Gregory, in time to hear Mrs. Tucker's speech.

The young lady darted a wrathful glance at the unsentimental interlocutor and said, in soft tones, which, however, trembled with rage:

"You always will have your joke, dear uncle, but I don't mind it."

"I don't know why you should; you are used to it by this time, one would think. But you look at Miss McHenry as though you wanted to bite her. What has she done to you—shut you up in a closet or put a fool's cap on you, eh?"

"Not quite so bad as that," said Olive, laughing. "I never resort to extreme measures, except in extreme cases, and should hardly venture to proceed so far without a warrant from the trustees."

"Oh! Don't think to shift the responsibility upon us," replied Mr. Jones. "The only use of trustees in a school is to pay salaries and keep the building in repair."

"If you want any one locked up, you must put a lock upon the closet," said Julia Goodrich. "The lock has been broken ever since I can remember."

Mr. Jones promised to have the matter attended to at once, and professed his intention to provide a fool's cap at his own expense.

Mrs. Tucker and Melissa seemed to give up all idea of a scene as soon as he appeared, but they were silent and sulky.

And Olive was glad when a call to tea gave her an opportunity of changing her position. The tea-table, as usual upon such occasions, was bountifully spread, and to Olive's city eyes looked overloaded with its pyramids of hot biscuits and cold bread, and its baskets and plates of cake, cookies, crullers, etc. But she was very hungry, and she was glad to see every one make a business of eating. Three or four of the young ladies waited on the company, and every thing was accomplished with ease, and with no more confusion than served to provoke the smiles and laughter of the girls themselves, and the good humored raillery of Mr. Jones and Mr. Gregory.

As they left the supper-room, Mrs. Dennison managed to say to Olive:

"You must not mind Mrs. Tucker: we all know she is queer, but I think she is rather a well-meaning woman. As for Melissa, she is an affected little humbug, and always was, from the time she could talk. I dare say you served her right."

"I did nothing to her except to let her alone," said Olive.

"I presume not, and you need not fear that any one will blame you. She is pretty well-known by every one but her aunt, who thinks her a suffering angel."

Olive's mind was quite relieved, but she could not quite get over the unpleasant impression she had received.

Mr. Jones came up to her, as she was standing a little apart, and said the same thing as Mrs. Dennison, adding: "I suppose Melissa came to you with some of her stories, and you told her to hold her tongue. I am glad, if you did, for she bids fair to become the pest of the village, if she is not broken of this love of tale-bearing. The last teacher, Miss Brown, encouraged her in it, and more than half her trouble grew out of that very thing. Don't let it disturb you any more."

Olive did not mean to let it disturb her, but she could not help thinking of it a good many times afterwards.

A number of gentlemen, married and single, dropped in, in the course of the evening, and she was introduced to more people than she had any hope of remembering. For the most part, they were well-mannered, sensible men, and Olive liked them very well, except two or three of the younger ones, who, in trying to make fine gentlemen of themselves, had quite spoiled the original material, without succeeding in manufacturing any thing like a presentable article. They all appeared to be rather shy of her, and from some whispers which she overheard, she fancied that she was considered a very learned lady.

A Mr. Landon, to whom she was introduced by Mrs. Tower, and with whom she had some conversation, struck her as being a very intelligent person. He seemed quite young, not more than three or four and twenty, Olive judged. But he had very manly, serious manners, and showed no lack of cultivation. He was tall and stout, but not particularly handsome, though he had fine eyes, and an exceedingly firm, well-cut mouth, and his face, usually grave and somewhat stern in its expression, flashed now and then with a smile which was quite remarkable for its suddenness and brilliancy. He was evidently a great favorite with Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, with whom he had a long talk in the course of the evening.

"How do you like our society?" asked Mrs. Tower of Olive, as they were walking homeward under the convoy of Mr. Landon.

"That is hardly a fair question, Mrs. Tower," said Mr. Landon, anticipating Olive's reply, "since even if Miss McHenry does not like it, she can hardly in politeness say so to the president of the said society."

"Please to let Miss McHenry answer for herself: How do you like our society?"

"Very much, I can sincerely say," replied Olive, warmly. "If this is a specimen, I think they must be a public benefit."

"My father will tell you that he finds a great advantage in seeing his flock together once a fortnight in a sociable way," said Augusta. "And they offer another in another in affording a common ground upon which all the members of the church can meet each other; for even in a village like this, distinctions are apt to grow up. There are two or three families here, who will never come, and who have even tried to break up the meetings, but they do not exactly like to set their influence openly against my father's wishes. I am sorry they do so, for they are really pleasant people."

"I think one family will come around yet," remarked Mr. Landon. "The Vander Heydens have shown signs of relenting lately."

"And if they do, the Rusts will be sure to follow," said Ruth. "Anne Rust would be certain to do whatever Mrs. Vander Heyden did."

Mrs. Tower promised to come and see Olive very soon, and Mr. Landon expressed an intention of availing himself of her protection to pay his respects, and so they separated.

"You were not at the society last night," said Olive to Mr. Prendergrass, as they met in the hall next morning before school.

Mr. Prendergrass looked amazed at the very idea.

"No ma'am! I can not afford to spend my time so. Life is too precious to be wasted in visiting such assemblies. Is it possible, Miss McHenry, that you, with your cultivation and learning, can find enjoyment in such scenes?"

"Do you think the effect of cultivation ought to be to make us avoid intercourse with our fellow creatures, Mr. Prendergrass?"

"Really, ma'am, I can not say," replied the gentleman; "I do not know that I ever thought of it in that light. I have always considered it a waste of time to spend it in frivolous conversation and gayety."

"But gayety need not always be frivolous," said Olive, "and a little of it is very refreshing after a day of hard labor; at least, I find it so. Don't you think your health might be better if you allowed yourself a little more relaxation?"

"I do not know. Perhaps it might. I am obliged to you for the suggestion, Miss McHenry. I shall take it into consideration," he said, with his formal bow.

Olive felt as though she had gained quite a victory.

It is not our intention to give a detailed account of Olive's progress in school-teaching. Suffice it to say that she found her tasks growing easier, and herself gaining upon the confidence of her scholars, day by day. She had once or twice, a little trouble with Julia Goodrich, whose habits of domineering over her sister and of thinking herself wiser than any one else in the world were not to be overcome all at once.

But Julia was affectionate, truthful, and capable of thorough respect. And after a little time, she found a pleasure in looking up to one so decidedly her superior, as she was forced to confess Olive to be. Little Sarah felt that the change in her sister was a very pleasant one, and Julia began to be a great favorite with her companions.

Not so Melissa Tucker. That astute young lady, in calculating on the fine scene which she proposed to get up at the society, had quite forgotten that in so doing she was pointing herself out to her companions as the very person who had been the tale-bearer. She had been suspected before, and upon her entrance into the school-room the next morning, she was greeted by a peal of laughter, and many allusions more or less covert to her having carried her wares to an unprofitable market, etc., which did not fail to enrage her to the highest degree. At first she thought to gain sympathy by weeping, but being kindly but peremptorily desired to stop crying and learn her lessons, she gave that up, and took refuge in the most inveterate sullenness, which Olive did not notice at all.

It was almost two weeks before she received a letter from Abby, though Mrs. Merton and Charlotte had both written only a few days after her departure. Abby's letter was rather short and constrained, and she made no allusion to what Olive had urged upon her; only she mentioned that her uncle had returned, and said that Mr. Forester was going to M., and would be away for some time.

Mrs. Merton evidently had no suspicion of what was going on. She spoke of Abby with much affection, and though she mentioned that the child was somewhat low-spirited, she evidently ascribed it all to Olive's departure.

"I had no idea," she wrote, "that Abby could feel any one thing so long and so deeply."

Olive felt sick at heart when she thought of the time when her uncle and aunt should discover how shamefully they had been deceived. In a second letter written soon after the first, Charlotte said that Mr. Forester had really gone to establish himself in M., and expressed her pleasure thereat.

"He is forever coming here, and it annoys my father very much, for he has not a good opinion of the young man, as you know very well. Abby, poor child, really pines after you. I do not think she has slidden down the banisters more than twice since you went away, and she hardly ever sings about the house as she used to. I am trying to study Greek, and by dint of stubborn perseverance, really make out very well. But after all, it does not seem to satisfy me. I want some object more than the mere acquisition of knowledge."

In another letter, some time after, she wrote:

"Abby has taken to corresponding violently with those Miss Jennings from M. You will remember them. I never used to think she cared for them, but she seems to find great comfort in their letters."

"The Miss Jennings of M.! Why, they left M. long ago," said Olive to herself.

But upon a moment's reflection, the truth flashed upon her. It was a plan contrived between Abby and William Forester to conceal their correspondence. Deception upon deception! And she almost felt as though she were participating in it by being in the secret. Again with all the powers of her eloquence, she urged Abby to tell all, representing to her the inevitable consequence of the course she was pursuing.

Abby's answer was short and decisive.

"It is too late now. I wish with all my heart that the matter had never been carried so far—that is, the concealment, for of my engagement I shall never repent. But now it is too late. William will not tell uncle, and I dare not. I must abide the issue; and after all, I hope it will turn out well. Do not fret about me, dear Olive; I am sure shall be quite happy in the end. Enjoy yourself in your new path, and leave me to mine."

What should she do? The more she thought, the more unable she was to come to a decision.

Mrs. Felton, who was a keen observer of faces, remarked to Ruth that Miss McHenry's letters did not seem to do her much good; for she always looked sad after every one that she received. Ruth had observed the same thing, and wondered at it, but she was possessed of too much delicacy to say a word.

Between Olive, Ruth, and Augusta Tower there had grown up a very earnest and thorough friendship, and Olive often wished for Helen Monteith, between whom and the upright and downright Ruth, she often noticed a resemblance.

Ruth was not at all accomplished, except that she had learned French by herself, at odd times, as she said. But she had read and re-read all the best English books in Mr. Gregory's library, and was almost as familiar as himself with the writing of those great fathers of the Church, whose voices find echoes in the hearts of all Christians, and will find them to the end of time. She had studied a great deal of history, too, and could give date and place to all the great events of the world, a thing which Augusta meekly confessed her inability to do.

"I remember 1492," she was wont to say, "and 1649, and 1776, and I remember 1689, but I never can tell what happened then." To which Ruth was sure to reply, "The English Revolution, you goose."

Ruth had read a great deal of poetry too, but it was chiefly among what are called the English classics. And many a lively discussion did she have with Olive and Augusta concerning the merits of ancient and modern English verse, wherein the "Morte d'Arthur" was arrayed against "Alexander's Feast," and "In Memoriam" against "Lycidas," and even—frightful to relate—The "Drama of Exile" against "Paradise Lost." They always came together, however, on Spenser—dear, religious, chivalrous, pure-minded Spenser—and the beloved and quaint George Herbert, dear to every earnest heart that ever found him out.

Mrs. Gregory sat by with her knitting or sewing, kindly smiling upon the earnest disputants, and now and then putting in a plea in favor of Cowper's "Task," Young's "Night Thoughts," and Thomson's "Seasons."

Augusta Tower was as different as possible from Ruth. In the first place, her personal beauty was very remarkable, but of this she appeared to have very little consciousness. She was very accomplished, drawing beautifully, playing and singing as well as Abby herself, and having a very general acquaintance with all sorts of books. She loved music, and practised a great deal, at which Mrs. Felton wondered greatly, thinking that a widow ought not to care for such things.

"You are very happy in loving music so well, I am sure, Mrs. Tower," she said, one evening, after Augusta and Olive had been playing a brilliant duet together. "If I should lose my husband, I am certain I should never care for any of the amusements of the world again. Indeed, I don't now. I have renounced all such things."

It was difficult to see how Mrs. Felton could have renounced music, inasmuch as she had never known one note from another. Augusta made no reply to her, but she afterwards said to Olive: "Do you, too, think it very strange that I should keep up my music?"

"No," replied Olive; "I am extremely glad you do."

"I never played very well till after I was married," she continued, "but Mr. Tower was extremely fond of music, and to please him, I set to work in earnest to make myself a good performer. It is from the same feeling that I keep it up now. It 'was' hard, at first, but I persevered, and I find my reward. Then, too, it gratifies my father, and I often win him to an hour or two of the rest he so much needs, by playing and singing to him."

But after all, the great and surpassing charm of Augusta's character was her piety. It enveloped her like a golden halo, and every one who approached her felt its influence. Not that she ever put forth any claims to superior sanctity, for she felt none. But it was impossible to talk to her for fifteen minutes without knowing that love to God was the crowning motive of her life, and influenced all she said and did. Those who were favored with an intimacy with her felt themselves elevated and ennobled by the influence of it, and better prepared to meet the storms and waves of this troublesome-world.

At a sick-bed, in the house of mourning, peace and consolation followed her steps like attendant angels, and those who suffered and wept felt the influence of her presence. In the Sunday-school, she was almost worshipped by the class of girls that she taught, and the worst child in the room was ashamed to be naughty under the gentle sorrow of her eye. Augusta had never been gay, in the ordinary society acceptation of the word. She felt that she could not be so, and keep wholly unsullied the white robe of her discipleship; and even when exposed to great temptations during her short married life, she had steadfastly adhered to her resolution of avoiding dissipation, large parties, and late hours. Happily for her, Mr. Tower was, in most things, like-minded with herself. He was one of the excellent of the earth; and when he was taken from her, after three short years, she was able to be thankful, amid all her desolation, that she had loved such a man.

Ruth's piety, though perhaps as fervent, was of a different cast. She had much more to contend with in herself, being naturally hasty in temper and speech, and prone to dwell upon and magnify injuries and griefs. Augusta's faith had been implanted and nourished in her earliest years by the most religious and consistent of parents, and had grown with her growth and strengthened with her strength, while Ruth's had only arrived through the medium of bitter and aching sorrow.

Very, very hard was it for her to bring every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ—to rule rebellious feelings and bitter murmurings, and to guard the hasty tongue—long and long before she tasted, save at very rare intervals, the exceeding great joy of loving God in all and before all, and trusting all things great and small, to him. Thus her religion had a certain vein of sternness in it, which did not at all belong to Augusta's; and this continued even after she had found happiness—real happiness, as well as peace in believing. Though kind and sympathizing in real sorrow, she had, in general, but little patience with weak complaints and fretful murmurs, and oftentimes it was hard for her to bear her mother's continual low spirits and repinings, like a continual dropping in a very rainy day. Duty, with Ruth, was all in all. I can because I ought, was her motto, and well she carried it out.

She was not so universally admired as Augusta, but she had a great many warm friends, especially since she had learned to rule her tongue. She was invaluable as a member of the church, the society, and the Sunday-school, and it was her own fault if she was not married. Certain it is that more than one farm, besides a flourishing law business, had been laid at her feet, but she rejected them all—some kindly, some sharply, according to the degree of assurance manifested by the profferers, and continued to live on quietly with her mother.

With two such friends, Olive might have been very happy, if she had had no outside disturbing cause. She liked the place and the people, who, on their part, were all very kind to her, calling upon her, and inviting her to more tea-drinkings and parties than she knew what to do with. Late hours, happily, were not the fashion in Basswoods, and though some of these reunions were rather stiff, others were pleasant enough to make up. For Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Jones she formed a warm attachment. They were not very cultivated women, but they were truthful, warm-hearted, and Christian, and besides, they liked her. Mrs. Tucker was not to be brought round. She continued sullen and distant, but luckily, she and her amiable niece had but little influence. Mr. Prendergrass, distant and grim at first, had evidently been won over. He lent her his books, of which he had a choice collection, he came to see her oftener than she cared to have him, and always seemed perfectly happy while listening to her playing. Nay, he astonished the small world of Basswoods by making his appearance at sewing society, and though he did nothing the whole time but stand bolt upright in a corner, he professed to have passed a very pleasant evening.

Mrs. Felton's mind was very much exercised to know whether the Vander Heydens would come to call on Miss McHenry, and opined that it would be downright shameful if they did not. Miss McHenry cared very little indeed about the matter. She had been upon terms of intimacy with a great deal grander people than the Vander Heydens, and she did not think they looked particularly agreeable as she had seen them in church. They came, however, and Mrs. Felton's heart was set at rest.

Olive thought Miss Vander Heyden a pretty, rather affected girl, and her mother a nice sort of person. But she could not imagine upon what they founded their claims to extra gentility, till she found that they prided themselves upon the fact of their family's having lived in the same place since the old French war. They invited her to tea to meet Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, and she called once afterwards, and then the intercourse ended. She sometimes heard of them from Mr. Landon, whom she saw frequently, and who was distantly connected.

Mr. Landon had become rather a frequent visitor at Mrs. Felton's, and Olive was getting to like him very much. He was a grave, serious, hard-working man—so different from William Forester! Mr. Landon had not very long ago finished the study of law, and was succeeding to what promised to be a very lucrative practice in Basswoods, which was the county-town of E. He had begun to be noted as a speaker already, and older lawyers treated his opinions with respect, and pronounced him a rising young man. He loved his profession, he himself said, better than any thing else in the world, except his sister, a nice little girl of nine, who had been a great favorite with Olive from the first. They were orphans, and each possessed of a comfortable fortune.

"I wonder you work so hard, Walter, when you and Louisa have plenty enough to live upon," said Annette Vander Heyden to him, one day. "Why don't you spend more time in company, and in indulging your taste for music and drawing?"

"Because I want to be some body, Annette," returned Mr. Landon. "What is a man worth that spends his time in amusing himself?"

"You are too ambitious," said Annette, gravely. "What would become of you if you were to lose your eyesight, or your voice, so that you could not practise?"

"I should find something else to do, I suppose," was the reply. "I do not believe I shall ever be placed anywhere where there will not be work for me. Ambitious as you think me, and as I know I am, law is not the first thing with me, though I confess it is next to the first."

Between Walter Landon and Olive there grew up, by degrees, a very warm and intimate friendship—friendship they called it, and neither of them dreamed of any thing else. Ruth and Augusta used to speculate, sometimes, upon this intimacy, and wondered whether it would grow into any thing serious, but there seemed to be no very great likelihood of it. Other people, of course, had their say about it, but Olive was not much in the way of hearing reports, and perhaps would not have cared if she had. Almost every one agreed that it would be a very good match, and an excellent thing, inasmuch as it would keep Miss McHenry among them.

Olive was sorry that there was no vacation between Christmas and New-Year's—she wanted very much to go home and see how they were getting on. Her aunt was very indignant, and wanted her to come at any rate, but Olive knew that would not do at all, and prepared, with rather a heavy heart, to spend her Christmas as happily as she could at Basswoods.

It passed very pleasantly, despite her homesickness. There was no school on Christmas-day, of course. Olive had ventured, supported by Mr. Jones, to introduce the daring innovation of decking her own room with evergreens, and it looked so pretty, that the young gentlemen, smitten with admiration, did the same, not only by their own peculiar territory, but also by the great hall, which they ornamented in beautiful style.

Mr. Gregory preached one of his best sermons on Christmas-day, and the church was filled. All the Felton household went to the parsonage to dine, where they met Walter and Louisa Landon, and two or three of the school-girls, who lived too far away to go home.

When they returned, at night, Olive found a large parcel and two or three letters awaiting her, which latter, much to Mr. Felton's amusement, were opened first. Aunt Rebecca's and Charlotte's were, as usual, kind, and filled with good wishes.

Abby's was short, and very sad. She did not know what to do, she said, but she almost felt as though she could not live so any longer. Her uncle seemed as though he began to suspect something wrong, and she thought he watched her. Mrs. Dimsden kept dropping all sorts of hints and insinuations, and Laura was always prying about. She did not know what to do, but she felt that she must do something very soon.

Olive felt distressed and sick at heart. She feared very much that Abby might take some hasty step, which would make matters ten times worse. One sentence, especially, alarmed her:

"If I were independent in money matters, like you, it would not be so bad, but now I must give an account of every penny I spend, and uncle complains that I am extravagant, and spend money foolishly. It is not for myself; entirely, if I do, but that I can not tell him, even if it would do any good. I used to think that the troubles and difficulties of people in love were all nonsense, but I know better now."

Olive wondered whether she could be lending Mr. Forester money. Abby had never intimated to her that she held any correspondence with him, but she had inferred as much from what Charlotte had said about her writing to the Misses Jennings, at M. All her discomfort was renewed, and increased ten-fold.

"I do hope," she said inwardly, with some degree of impatience, "that I shall never be in love, if it always makes people act so like fools." Poor Olive!

The parcel, on being opened, was found to contain a variety of pretty remembrancers and a jar of West-India preserved oranges, of which Mrs. Merton, in a very polite note, begged Mrs. Felton's acceptance.

Mrs. Felton was very much pleased. She said she had never seen any since she married, and promised herself the pleasure of sending Mrs. Merton some preserved apricots, which she had great skill in preparing, when Olive returned home in the summer.

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

THE winter wore away happily, on the whole. Olive thought that, aside from her secret trouble about Abby, she had never spent a pleasanter one. The girls all liked her, and she had very little trouble with them. The drawing-class got on finely, having advanced from rudimental lines and squares to heads and figures; and some of them had begun drawing from objects with a decision of hand and correctness of eye which fully justified Chapman's method.

She sometimes got very tired, and was usually unable to study much, but she had abundance of the sort of society that she liked best, and as many new books as she cared to read, and she looked forward with pleasure to the prospect of returning to her labors after the spring vacation. How rich she felt, when her first quarter's salary was paid into her hands! She had no idea that she could enjoy the possession of money so much.

As spring came on, there began to be a good deal of sickness in Basswoods, especially among poor people, of whom there were a good many in the lower part of the town. Measles and hooping cough prevailed, and took on malignant forms; and severe quinseys and influenza prostrated whole families at once. Those whose households were unvisited set themselves seriously to help their afflicted neighbors, and for a time little else was done.

Ruth and Augusta were among the busiest, and were away day and night. But Ruth would not allow Olive to assist them in watching.

"You are obliged to be employed all day, whether you feel able or not," she said; "and you must have your nights to rest. Besides, you will be going home in two or three weeks, and if you do not look well, they will not let you come back." And Olive was fain to acquiesce, since she could not help herself.

The school was much diminished in numbers, as many of the girls from out of town had returned home to avoid the sickness, and she was able to give a great deal of time to those that remained, much to her and their satisfaction.

Her uncle had promised to come for her, and she had at last resolved, by the advice of Mr. Gregory, to tell him all, when he came. He would then have time to get over the first heat of his anger before he saw Abby, and in that case she was sure of his acting reasonably. She found her heart very much lightened after she had formed this resolution, though she felt that it would require all her strength to carry it out, and would have given almost any thing to be safe the other side of it.

There remained now only one more week before her return home, and that was the week before Easter. There was service in the church every evening at four o'clock, and by exact punctuality she found herself able to attend. Mr. Gregory's plain, earnest lectures did her a great deal of good, and she felt stronger and better for every one of them.

One evening, after church, she was walking, slowly homeward, by herself, enjoying the beautiful twilight, and thinking over what she had just heard. She had not seen Mr. Landon for several days. He was very much engaged in his office, and, moreover, he did more than his share in taking care of the sick. It was very pleasant to have such a friend. It occurred to her, several times, that she should miss him a great deal if he should go away, as he now and then talked of doing, but she did not dwell upon that idea. If she were afraid to do so, she did not acknowledge the fear to herself.

She was presently joined by Dr. Gordon, the oldest physician in the place, who had been her fast friend from the beginning. He looked very weary, and Olive remarked it.

"Yes," said he, "I am indeed very tired and very sad. I do not see where all this is to end. At first, the sickness seemed confined to the poor people, but now it is share and share alike with all classes. Poor Annette Vander Heyden is much worse."

"I did not know she was sick," replied Olive. "Is she very unwell?"

"She is very ill, indeed," said the doctor. "I fear she will never be any better. It will be a sad blow to the family, as well as to Walter Landon."

Olive felt as though some one had struck her, but she asked, quietly: "Why to him?"

"They have been engaged a long time, I suppose," was the answer. "I know it used to be talked of, even when Walter was at college."

"They will make a fine-looking pair, will they not?" said Olive, in a tone of quiet interest. "I think Annette is a very agreeable girl."

"Yes, barring her absurd pride of family, I do not know a nicer young lady; and Walter was always a favorite of mine. Good-by, Miss McHenry, and pray take care of yourself, or we shall have you down, too."

"I shall take care," said Olive, lightly. "You know I am going home next Wednesday. Will you please send word to school, by Catharine, how Annette is? I shall feel very anxious to know."

The doctor promised.

Olive bade him good-night and went into the house, and up-stairs to her own room. A heavy, hard pain was pressing at her heart, and she felt as though she should suffocate. But she had only one distinct thought—that she would not think of any thing just then.

Very quietly she took off her bonnet and brushed her curls, and then, going down into the sitting-room as usual, she set about correcting a large pile of compositions, going over and over every one, with even more than ordinary care and deliberation. Phebe Jones came to take a music lesson. She seemed to think Olive was rather more particular than usual about touch and time, and she told Anna, when she returned, that she had never seen Miss McHenry when she came so near to being cross.

"You look pale, Olive," said Ruth. "I am afraid you are over-working yourself."

Olive admitted that she was tired, and should be glad of some tea. Mrs. Felton bustled about to expedite matters, and to provide something better than usual, and Olive exerted herself to eat, that she might not be disappointed, but it was very hard work. She sat up as late as usual, apparently reading attentively, but in reality seeing nothing but blank confusion upon the page before her, while repeating to herself that she would not think of it till bed-time.

Bed-time came at last, and she sat down alone with her trouble, and looked at it, almost as though it had been a bodily presence of evil which it was necessary to face and conquer. What was it, after all? Walter Landon was going to be married and what of that? Had she not said to herself, twenty times, that this was nothing but friendship? Vain subterfuge—miserable lie! She knew better—she had known it all the time. Abby might well say that Olive could not understand her feelings, but she knew them now. She had blamed and pitied—Abby herself had never sunk so low as she.

She set herself to examine all their intercourse from the first, but there was no comfort in that. She could not blame Walter, for he had never showed a mark of any thing but mere friendship. No; the truth was plain—she had given away her heart to a man who had never asked for it, and who did not care for it. She had weakly, miserably permitted herself to go on, and be drawn in, to the shipwreck of peace, self-respect—every thing. She had not seen him for several days: perhaps he had discovered her secret, and was keeping away in compassion to her.

Her eyes overflowed with hot tears at last, but they gave her no relief. She could see nothing, think of nothing, to extenuate her miserable folly. She had gone on, quietly placing upon a stranger all her hopes and wishes, and setting him in the place of God, till at last she discovered that she was dependent upon him for all her happiness that she was inexpressibly wretched at the thought of his caring for any one else. There was no excuse, no comfort, no hope. She had loved an idol more than God, and God had forsaken her, while she had found too late that her idol was not hers, but another's. What should she do?

She slept, at last, from very weariness of body, but when she awaked, the load was still upon her heart, dull, heavy, oppressive, crushing her very life out. She prayed, but without comfort, and set about her daily task, with a feeling of relief at having something tangible to do, wherewith she was forced to occupy her thoughts and hands. Nobody could have seen any difference in her, except that she was rather more particular than usual about the lessons, and had, perhaps, more than ordinary patience with the dullness and stupidity of some of the girls, and the perverseness of others. She was careful to ask Catharine Gordon about Annette.

"Papa thinks she is much worse," said little Kitty, with a quivering lip. "He said so this morning. Oh! Won't it be too bad if she should die!" And the child burst into tears, for the families had long been on terms of intimacy, and she was very much attached to Annette.

Olive tried to comfort her, while her own tears fell fast. They relieved her a little, but she dared not indulge in them, and was soon as calm as ever.

"Olive; do you feel able to watch to-night?" asked Ruth, at the tea-table, after she had studied Olive's face a little.

"Yes, indeed," replied Olive, glad of any duty that promised self-forgetfulness for a time. "Where?"

"With that Mrs. Beman and her child," said Ruth. "You know they both have the measles. The child is rather better, but it is doubtful whether the woman can live through the night."

"I don't believe Olive is able," said Mrs. Felton. "She looks tired now. Why don't you ask Mrs. Gregory, or Mrs. Dennison?"

"Mrs. Gregory is sick herself, and Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Jones are engaged," said Ruth, briefly.

Olive knew that they were going to Mrs. Vander Heyden's, where some of the younger children had been added to the sick-list. "I am quite well, and shall be glad to go," she repeated. "I suppose you will set out early."

Ruth assented, and before nine they were at Mrs. Beman's. They were poor but respectable people, of the sort who, without any visible drawback, never seem to prosper, but always remain about where they set out. The house was clean and comfortable, and they seemed to have every thing necessary for the sick.

The husband and eldest daughter, a girl of twelve or fourteen, though worn out with fatigue, were unwilling to retire as they thought there was a change in the sick woman.

And on going near the bed, Ruth's experienced eye saw at once that the messenger was there. She whispered to Olive to take the baby, and relieve the little girl who was quietly weeping by the fireside.

The poor woman was quite sensible, and able to speak a little. She had been but a plain, hard-working person all her life, but the majestic presence of death was with her, and all around her felt its power. In few but earnest words, she commended the little one to its sister's care.

"God deal with you, Sally, as you deal with that motherless child. I have tried to be a mother to you, and to treat you, in all things, like my own, and I have loved you as well, for aught I know. Be a good girl, Sally, and take good care—"

"I will, mother," sobbed the child. "I'll be good to Liddy."

The dying woman seemed satisfied, and lay quietly for a little while. "I've known trouble and sorrow of all sorts," she said, opening her eyes again, "more than most of my age, but I've had help through it all. It's most over now. Give me my baby. You look sad, young woman," she remarked, as Olive laid it in her arms. "If you've got trouble, don't rest in yourself, nor in any man. Trust in the Lord. God bless you all!"

These were her last words, and in a few minutes, she was gone.

Some of the neighboring women came in and laid out the body. Mr. Beman and Sally retired to rest, and Olive and Ruth were left with the child and its dead mother. Neither of them felt inclined to talk. The little one seemed disposed to slumber, and Olive held it in her arms and looked at its wasted features, but her thoughts were far away. The bitter feeling of injury was gone, but she felt very, very desolate. All the sorrows of her life returned upon her; her own orphaned state—Abby's misconduct and danger—Laura's estrangement—her uncle's probable anger—all were present to her at once. She felt as though she could never remember a time when she had been happy. Past, present, and future seemed shrouded in blackness, and she could see no hope of any light. She prayed for submission to the will of God, and that Annette's life might be spared, and by and by she found that she could be thankful that she had only herself to blame, and not Walter.

In the long, long hours before daybreak she had made her final resolve. She had a profession—that certainly was a comfort. The experiment of teaching had been tried with success. If she could never be happy again, at least she could be useful, and with all the earnestness of her nature, she consecrated herself to the work, and resolved with God's help to follow it out.

Still, with all this, her heart would not be quiet, but throbbed and struggled under that crushing pain: still her weary spirit repeated over and over again: "How wretched, how very wretched I am!"

The child passed an easy night and was clearly much better in the morning. Neighbors came in and promised to attend to every thing necessary.

As Ruth and Olive were walking homeward at sunrise, the bell began to toll. They looked at each other, but did not speak. The age was struck—twenty—and then two strokes followed to show that a woman was dead.

"Annette!" said Olive.

"It must be, I suppose," Ruth replied, sighing, "Poor child!"

Olive could not repress her tears as she thought of the blooming girl she had so lately seen in health and spirits, and they flowed still faster as she thought of Walter's grief—grief which she could not comfort and hardly sympathize with.

Ruth pressed her hand, but said nothing. She had partly guessed the state of the case the day before, but doing as she would be done by, she had not said a word. She advised her friend to lie down, and try to sleep, and Olive was glad to obey.

All that day she suffered greatly, but the next—the resurrection morning—she found relief at last. In the presence of the white carved symbols of infinite love and infinite sorrow, she seemed to hear a whisper of peace; her load grew less oppressive with every prayer, and when after the distribution of the elements, she rose from her knees, she found she had left it behind her. The Comforter was come to her, and she found strength to say and to feel, from her heart's depths, "Not my will, but Thine be done."

Before, she had felt that she should soon die, and rejoiced in the thought, but now the language of her soul was: "I shall not die but live and declare the loving-kindness of the Lord."

"Olive," said a well-known voice behind her, as they were going out of church.

She turned and saw Walter. He looked pale and worn out with grief and watching.

"Will you go and see Louisa?" he asked, as he offered his hand. "She is at Mrs. Jones's, and needs some one with her; not that she is ill, but she is worn out and nervous. Can you go and stay with her this afternoon?"

"I will," replied Olive, grateful for the proof of confidence.

"When do you go?" he asked.

"On Wednesday; possibly on Tuesday, if my uncle comes."

"I may not see you again before you go," said Walter. "They feel as though they could not spare me there, and Agnes is very sick. God bless you, Olive, till we meet again."

"God bless and comfort you, Walter," returned Olive calmly.

She went at once to Mrs. Jones's, and found Louisa suffering from severe nervous headache, the result of fatigue and excitement; for she was a delicate child, and somewhat spoiled withal. Olive found it necessary to exert a little authority over her to make her stop crying, and the effort necessary to take care of her patient was useful to herself.

Louisa was better in the evening, but she begged hard to have Olive stay with her all night, and Olive consented.

She was walking slowly homeward the next morning, glad that there was no school, when she saw a carriage drive up to Mrs. Felton's, and a gentleman get out, who she was sure was her uncle. Her heart almost failed her as she hurried forward. She had not expected him till evening at soonest, and not very much till Tuesday. He must have left home Sunday night, an action so contrary to all his habits as to fill her with fear of she knew not what calamity.

"Your uncle is come," said Ruth, meeting her at the door, and observing her evident agitation with surprise.

Olive waited not to hear more lest her resolution should fail her entirely, but hastily opened the parlor-door. Mr. Merton was standing opposite it, and her heart sunk as she met his glance.

"I bring you pleasant news, Miss McHenry," were his first words, "but no doubt you are prepared for them, since you have been in the secret from the first."

"What is the matter, uncle?" Olive rather gasped than spoke.

"Read that letter," handing her one with the seal unbroken. "It will probably tell you more than I can."

Olive tried, but the words swam before her eyes, and her head whirled. She looked at her uncle imploringly. "I can not see," she said; "do tell me!"

"Your sister Abby is married," replied Mr. Merton abruptly, "and I suspect—" "You knew as much before," he was going to add, but he saw Olive's lips grow white, and before he could reach her, she fell to the ground.

It was the drop too much in the full cup, and for the first time in her life, she fainted away.

Happily Ruth was at hand, and Mrs. Felton was out.

Olive soon revived, and Ruth left her to attend to some household call.

"When, uncle?" asked Olive, after a short silence.

"Olive," said her uncle, "I used to think I could trust you implicitly, and even now, I on hardly believe that you would deceive me. Before I reply to any questions, tell me all you know about this miserable business."

Olive roused herself and went through with the story, from beginning to end.

Mr. Merton listened fixedly. "Why did you not write and tell me?" he asked, when she had finished.

"I hoped to prevail upon Abby to do so herself, and I thought that would be much better. Besides, what right had I to betray her secret? I had no authority over her, and she told me in confidence."

"But you made yourself privy to her subterfuge in corresponding with that man!"

"I did not know for certain that she did correspond with him," said Olive, "though I guessed it from something Charlotte said. I had made up my mind to tell you all when you came, and risk the consequences."

"Then she has told you nothing about this precious marriage?"

"Not a word, sir! I have all her letters, and can show them to you," she added, proudly, for she was beginning to feel indignant. "Perhaps you will believe them, unless you choose to accuse me of forgery as well as lying."

"Sit still," said her uncle. "I have no desire to see her letters, or to hear from her again. My only object is to clear you from the imputation of being engaged in the conspiracy, which, it seems, she has been carrying on for a year or more. I believe we have done you injustice, and I beg your pardon. I know that you must feel it more than any of us, my poor child!" he continued, kissing her forehead.

"How did it happen?" asked Olive, after an interval of silence. "How did it all come out?"

"It came out by degrees. I could not help seeing that something more was the matter with her, than merely your going away, and I began to watch her. It seems, too, that your aunt Dimsden had her suspicions, even before Forester went to M., but instead of coming and telling me, as she should have done, she talked to other people—"

"Just like her," said Olive, bitterly.

"I do not defend Mrs. Dimsden," Mr. Merton continued. "She did very wrong, and so I have told her. Well, as I have said, my suspicions were aroused, and I watched her, but I could find nothing to justify them. I wish now I had questioned her about it."

"Oh! Why didn't you?" exclaimed Olive, in renewed grief. "If you had done so kindly, she would have told you all; I am sure she would. She was naturally so open. O my child, my darling child!"

"I was wrong, Olive, but I acted for the best. After a time, Forester returned, and came at once to our house, where he met with a cool reception from all but Abby. I had made up my mind to demand a full explanation from him, but I was frustrated. He had hardly sat down before Mrs. Dimsden and Laura came in. Charlotte, who I think had no suspicions, asked after the Misses Jennings, with whom Abby had, apparently, been maintaining a correspondence for three or four months. Forester looked confused and annoyed, and Abby colored deeply.

"But before either of them had time to reply, Laura exclaimed, 'Why, Charlotte, the Misses Jennings went to Kentucky long ago—just after they left school.'

"The truth flashed upon me at once, and I was going to speak, when Forester said, with perfect ease: 'Are you sure, Miss Laura? Do you make a study of the M. directory?'

"Abby said not a word, but I saw that she was ready to drop. I did not want to get up a scene before them, and turned the conversation. They did not stay long, and as soon as they were gone, I turned to Abby and demanded an explanation—Mr. Forester standing by. She began to cry, of course, and I could get nothing out of her.

"Forester then took the matter upon himself, and informed me that he had been engaged to Abby almost a year, and intended to marry her, with my consent, if I would give it—otherwise without it. He complimented me, by saying that but for my prejudice against him, and harshness when I was opposed, they should have confided in me, and declared that you had known and approved the whole matter from the beginning. This enraged me more than any thing else, and I ordered Abby to leave the room and go to her own apartment.

"Mr. Forester had the coolness to follow her to the door, and exchange some words with her in German, which, of course, I did not understand. He then returned and requested to know what my intentions were with regard to Abby. I can not tell you all about it, but the end was, that I ordered him to leave the house.

"I went up to Abby's room, but I found she had locked herself in, and I could get nothing from her. It was the same in the morning—she would take no breakfast, nor open her door, and I went to the office, hoping that she would be more reasonable by night. When I came home, I found Mrs. Merton and Charlotte in great alarm. The door had not been opened, nor any movement heard. I had then no hesitation in forcing the door, but she was gone—" He paused, perhaps to give himself time to control his voice, which certainly trembled very much.

Olive was weeping bitterly.

"She had taken very little except what she had on. She even left behind a watch and chain I gave her at Christmas, and all her trinkets, all her letters, except the last one from you."

"And did she leave nothing for me?"

"Yes, a note—the one you have in your hands."

Olive began to read aloud, but Mr. Merton interrupted her: "Read to yourself, Olive; I do not wish to hear one word from her."

She read accordingly:

"I am going to be married at last, Olive. I did not mean to take such a step till you came home, but they have driven me to it. Uncle is just as harsh and unjust as I knew he would be, but I thank him for all his kindness to me, and aunt, too. I shall take nothing more with me than I can help. I will write just as soon as I am settled anywhere."

"Did you hear nothing of her afterwards?" Olive asked, as soon as she could speak.

"Nothing, except a notice of their marriage in the paper that evening. I told you I wished to hear nothing more. She has taken her own course, and she must abide by it. This subject will necessarily be renewed when we reach home, but till then, I wish to have it dropped entirely. You look very much worn and fatigued," he said kindly. "I am afraid you are working too hard."

"Oh! No," replica Olive, "I like it very much, and do not usually get over-tired, but there has been a good deal of sickness in town, and I have been nursing as well as teaching. One of our loveliest girls died yesterday."

"Then you find the place pleasant?"

"Very much so. I should have been quite happy the last few months if my mind had been at ease about Abby. The school is a very nice one, and there are a good many agreeable people here. I enjoy the idea of coming back very much."

"Do you know a young Mr. Landon?" asked Mr. Merton.

"Yes, very well," replied Olive, thankful that she could answer steadily, and without coloring. "He is a great favorite here, and thought very talented."

"He is a rising young man," replied her uncle. "I heard him make an argument, not long ago, which would have done credit to many an older lawyer. I should like to meet him."

"You will not be likely to do so, now," said Olive. "The young lady who died yesterday, Miss Vander Heyden, was his cousin, and they were said to be engaged."

"I thought of returning to-night," said Mr. Merton, rising, "but I see you are unfit for it. We will go to-morrow morning, if you please, and till then you must take the time to rest. I shall stay at the hotel, and must go down now, and secure a room."

When he was gone, Olive sat a little while, perfectly still. It did not seem possible for her to make an exertion. She was stunned and overwhelmed to such a degree, by the events of the last few days, that she seemed to have lost power of sense or feeling. She was still sitting in precisely the same attitude, when a shadow fell before her, a soft arm was passed round her neck, and Augusta sat down beside her.

Olive laid her head on her shoulder. "Have you heard?" she asked.

"I have heard nothing, love, except that you were in trouble, and had received sad news from home? Is it your sister?"

Olive assented, silently.

"I did not know she was ill," said Augusta, after a little pause.

"It is not that," said Olive. "It almost seems as though the news of her death would not be half as hard to bear. She is married, Augusta—married against my uncle's wishes, and without his knowledge, to a man utterly unworthy of her. She has carried on a course of deception for months, and I see plainly that my uncle is too angry ever to forgive her. And I might have prevented it all by a little decision and courage."

"How?"

Olive went over the outline of the story, adding at the end:

"I might have prevented the whole thing if I had staid at home, as they wanted me to—if I had not been so proud, and so set upon being independent. It is all my fault."

"I do not think so," replied Augusta, gently. "You acted for the best, so far as I can see, and that is all we can ever do. I do not really see that you could have acted otherwise."

"I might have told uncle at first."

"You forget that he was away, and you had no opportunity. Besides, you were doubtful whether you had the right to do so. No, Olive, you are wrong, now—naturally so, but still wrong. Don't you remember what Mrs. Dennison said about her little boy's sickness and death? Even supposing that you made a mistake, which I do not allow—"

"You do not know, Augusta," said Olive. "You have not tried it. I do not mean that you have not suffered, but not in this way—not by the unworthiness of those you loved. I could bear any thing else."

"Come and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow," repeated Augusta, involuntarily. "Olive, if your sister has sinned, she is yet young, and has time for repentance before her. Others have sinned much more deeply, against more warnings and opportunities for repentance, and at last been cut off in the midst of their sins. I had a dear brother—" She paused. "We had little comfort in his life or death."

"I am impatient, I know," said Olive, sighing, "but I have had so much, the last few days. I thought I had made up my mind to patience and self-forgetfulness, but this has overcome me entirely. I feel as though I could not have it so."

"God has comfort for all sorrows, Olive."

"I used to think so, before I had any. Nay, I thought so no longer ago than yesterday, but to-day all seems dark as night again."

"Have patience, my child, and accept the bitter cup. He will send the sweet in his own time, and if we have no pleasures in this world, we shall always have duties; that is one comfort. And, after all, it is but for a day."

"A long, long, dreary day, Augusta."

"Sorrow 'may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.' When we look at the past through dying eyes, it will seem very short, believe me; and we go to no uncertain future, my love. We know in whom we have believed, and He will make all plain. Once more, dearest, have patience! Drink of the cup which He drank, and be baptized with the baptism that He was baptized withal. It is indeed not joyous, but grievous, but it worketh the peaceable fruits of righteousness to them that are exercised thereby. For look how high the heavens are in comparison of the earth—so great is the Lord's mercy to them that fear him. Look how far, also, the east is from the west—so far hath He set our sins from us. 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the LORD pitieth them that fear him.'"

"Augusta, I know I am impatient and wrong. I will try not to be so."

"I did not mean to reprove you, dearest."

"No, you comfort me. You have done me good, but I feel so weary and desolate. I have counted so on seeing Abby, when I went home. She has always been so near my heart. Oh! I ought never to have left her. I knew what a child she was, and it was my duty to have staid with her, but I did not see it then. And now she is gone—lost to me forever!" And again she gave way to a violent burst of grief which both perplexed and alarmed Augusta, and she glanced at Ruth, who had just entered, as though to ask what should be done.

"Olive," said Ruth, with a little more of austerity than usual in her tone, and taking both her hands, "this will never do. You have duties before you which will require all your strength, and this is not the way to fit yourself for them. You must come up-stairs and lie down, and let me do your packing. You are worn out, for want of sleep, and will be sick to-morrow. Come with me, like a good girl."

Olive obeyed like a child. She was, indeed, utterly worn out and exhausted. Augusta sat down beside her, and read in her soft voice, selections from Scripture. In a few minutes, Olive's sobs grew less frequent, her eyes closed, and her friend had the satisfaction of seeing her in a deep sleep, from which she arose composed and refreshed.

CHAPTER NINTH.

OLIVE'S heart sank as she approached home the next evening, and thought of the reception she was likely to meet with, and how sad it would be without Abby.

Mr. Merton had been very kind all day, but he had said little, and not one word about the matter that was clearly occupying both their thoughts. She dared not speak herself, for he had positively forbidden her to renew the subject till they reached home. She knew how Mrs. Merton would feel, very well. Not only her affections (and Abby had always been very dear to her) were wounded, but also her pride, and that in the tenderest point. Aunt Rebecca had very particular notions upon the subject of the education of young ladies. Her ideas of propriety were very strict, and she was often shocked by the freedoms indulged in by some of the young ladies in town. She prided herself upon the care with which her daughters and nieces had been educated, and more than one young girl, who had been secretly indignant at seeing Olive and Abby held up to them as models, would triumph greatly over this result of the boasted system.

As they rode up from the depot, Olive leaned back in the carriage, and shut her eyes, while her soul poured itself out in an earnest prayer for strength and patience.

"Be calm, Olive. You shall be cleared from suspicion," said her uncle, as he assisted her to alight.

Mrs. Merton stood at the door, and received her husband warmly, as did Charlotte, but neither of them took the least notice of Olive, till they entered the drawing-room, when Mrs. Merton said, in her most freezing tones:

"Your room is prepared, Miss McHenry. Perhaps you will have the goodness to retire to it at once."

Olive did not move from the attitude in which she had drawn herself up, but she turned her eyes to her uncle. He did not speak.

"Before I sit down in this house, Mrs. Merton," she returned, in tones as calm, though not so cold as her own, "I must demand to be freed from the unjust suspicion to which I have been subjected. My uncle, I believe, is convinced of my innocence. If he chooses to justify me, I shall be glad. If not, I shall be obliged to seek some other shelter for the night."

Charlotte's eyes flashed fire. Mrs. Merton turned to her husband.

"I fully believe Olive to be innocent," said Mr. Merton, with emphasis. "She has convinced me that though she knew of Mr. Forester's engagement, it was only the night before she left home that she was informed, and nothing but indecision respecting the best course of action prevented her from informing me immediately. I think she mistook her duty, but I fully believe that she acted from the best motives."

"I am very glad to hear you say so," replied Mrs. Merton, unbending at once. "Olive, I am sorry you met with such a cold reception, but you must remember that we have had great provocation. Let me untie your bonnet," she added, kissing her kindly; "it is a sad coming home foe you, my poor child, when we had hoped to be so happy together."

Olive struggled to repress her tears, and succeeded in doing so till she found herself alone in her own room—Abby's room. It was just as she had left it. The last book she had been reading was turned down upon the open writing-desk, and Abby's personal property was strewed about the room in the picturesque confusion usual with her, when she had no one to pick up after her. The key was in her trinket-box, and on opening it, Olive perceived that she had left all her ornaments. Nothing was missing from the room but the old Bible and prayer-book, her mother's gifts. Olive wondered how she could have the heart to take them.

The bitterness of her grief returned with ten-fold violence, and when Mrs. Merton herself came up to look after her, she was so alarmed at the state in which she found her usually composed and undemonstrative niece that she sent her to bed at once, administered ether and other restoratives, and sat by her till she fell asleep.

At breakfast next morning, Olive was treated just as usual by her uncle and aunt, but Charlotte did not relax in her stiffness at all. She treated Olive with ceremonious politeness, but exchanged no more words with her than were exacted by the courtesies of the table. Olive felt the coldness very much, for she had unconsciously relied a good deal upon Charlotte's sympathy and friendship.

The meal passed almost in silence, no one seeming inclined to talk. As they were about rising from table, a servant brought in the letters and papers: there were two letters for Olive, and her heart beat fast as she recognized on one of them Abby's well-known handwriting.

Mr. Merton saw it, too. "Where is she?" he asked, when he saw that Olive had finished reading it.

"She is at M.," replied Olive, handing him the letter, but he repelled her hand.

"That is all. You will please to pack up all her personal property, and I will see that it is forwarded, and then I require that all intercourse with her on the part of this family shall cease."

"Do you mean that prohibition to apply to me, uncle?" asked Olive.

"Certainly."

"I can not consent to it, sir," she replied, respectfully but firmly. "I can not promise to cease all intercourse with my poor Abby. That she has done wrong I do not deny, but I love her none the less, and I can never forget that she is my sister. She will need friends now more than ever, and I certainly shall not desert her."

"Olive McHenry, you greatly forget yourself," said Mr. Merton sternly. "Do you know to whom you are speaking?"

"Hardly," replied Olive, almost involuntarily. "You are so unlike yourself that I might well be excused for forgetting it. But what if Abby has sinned?" she went on, rather surprised at her own courage. "What are we, that we should be unforgiving? Have we no need of mercy ourselves? No, I can never consent to give up my sister, till she gives me up. And then, she is such a child—so young in years, and so much younger in mind. It seems but yesterday that she was playing with her dolls, sitting on the floor by your side, uncle! Do you remember the first night you came to our house—the night after mother died, and how you found Abby lying on the bed by her, and could not coax her away, till you came and took her, and she cried herself to sleep in your arms? It seems such a very little while ago!"

"We will let the subject drop for a little, I think," said Mrs. Merton, rising. "You will have a good deal to do this morning. Have a little patience, my dear," she continued, when Mr. Merton had left the room. "Your uncle is deeply wounded, and feels as I do, that we ought to show our disapprobation of Abby's course, but I don't think he will apply that to you."

"Especially as Miss McHenry was in the secret from the beginning," said Charlotte, "and quite as much to blame as the poor child herself."

Mrs. Merton was leaving the room, and did not hear Charlotte's remark. "You are determined to suspect me, Charlotte," said Olive.

"I know you, Olive McHenry, as I knew you in school. You blinded me for a little time with your well-acted candor and friendliness, but my eyes are opened. I am sorry they are, for I thought I was going to have an intimate friend, for once in my life."

"You think—" Olive began.

"I know," said Charlotte, interrupting her, "that Abby, simple child that she is, would never have been able to carry on such a system of deception, unless some one had supported her in it. You thought, no doubt, that it would be a very nice thing for you to be my father's favorite niece, and to have one less to share the property and you imagined that an elopement would be a good way to get rid of Abby, and illustrate your own virtues. You may find yourself mistaken, as deep as you think yourself."

"I shall not reply to your insinuations, Charlotte," returned Olive. "They are too foolish and unreasonable to merit an answer. You yourself promised to watch over Abby while I was gone: how you have fulfilled that trust you yourself best know. But there is no use in talking. I thought you had outgrown your childish jealousy, but it seems not."

With these words, she left the room and went up-stairs, where she occupied herself in looking over Abby's clothes, to see if they needed any putting in order. Among them she found all the letters which she had written during the winter, and she was wondering at Abby's leaving them behind, when Charlotte entered, with her hands full of books.

"These are Abby's," she said, shortly.

"Thank you," Olive quietly replied; "please to lay them on the table."

Charlotte lingered a little, looking over the books. After a moment, she said, in the same abrupt way, "Can I help you?"

"No, thank you," replied Olive, surprised at the offer.

But Charlotte did not go; she seemed looking for something.

"Charlotte," said Olive, after a short struggle with her pride, "would you rather believe me innocent or guilty?"

"Innocent, if I could," was the reply.

"Here are all the letters I have written to Abby since I left home. If you wish, you can look them over, and satisfy yourself. I do not ask you to, but you can if you choose."

She laid the package down by her cousin, and busied herself with the drawers. But, glancing in the mirror a few minutes afterwards, she saw that Charlotte was deeply engaged in their perusal. Neither of them spoke for almost an hour. Then Charlotte said, laying down the last letter:

"Olive, you are innocent. I have done you great injustice, and I ask your pardon."

"It is granted," said Olive, taking the offered hand, and kissing her.

"What do you mean to do about corresponding with her?" asked Charlotte.

"What would you do yourself in such a case?"

"I am afraid I should be too angry with her to care much about it," replied Charlotte. "If my sister had acted as Abby has, I should never forgive her."

"Then you would make up your mind not to be forgiven yourself, I suppose?"

"What do you mean?"

"'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive your trespasses,'" Olive repeated. "Which of us can afford to cherish anger upon such conditions?"

"I never understand that sort of talk," said Charlotte; "it all sounds cant alike to me."

"Just because you don't understand it. If should call your pleasure in geology cant, you would consider that rather a narrow-minded view, I think."

"We won't dispute it now," returned Charlotte. "Don't some of these clothes need repairing? Abby's things generally do. Let me put the stockings in order."

Olive consented, and they busied themselves together all the morning. They were just about concluding their labors, when a light step came up-stairs, and Laura entered. She seemed quite subdued, and wept bitterly as she embraced her sister. Charlotte left the room.

"I have not been here before since she went," said Laura, after a little; "isn't it shameful?"

Olive assented silently.

"It seems almost worse than if she were dead," she continued. "To think she will be so near, and yet we can never see her, or even write to her."

"Don't you mean to write to her, Laura?" asked Olive.

"I can't. Aunt Dimsden declares I shall have nothing to do with her from this time. She says, if Abby were at the door, and it stormed ever so hard, she would not let her in."

"She ought to be ashamed of herself then," said Olive, indignantly. "Her own marriage was not so very proper, from all I have heard, that she need be the first to throw stones at poor Abby."

"That is the very reason, child! Don't you know that people who have done any thing questionable in that line themselves, are just the ones who think it necessary to be ferociously proper ever afterwards?"

"She may be as proper as she pleases, but I am not going to desert the poor child for any of them," said Olive. "I have told uncle that I mean to write to her, and moreover I shall stop a day in M. when I go back, on purpose to see her."

"But they say—at least aunt Dimsden says that Abby has done so very wrong that she ought to be made an example of."

"I don't deny that she has done wrong: nobody feels it more than I do, and I do not think she ought to be treated as though she had not. But I do say, that it is quite too much, to require us, her sisters, to give her up, and so leave her to go more and more wrong."

"You are independent, Olive, and can do as you please," said Laura, sighing. "I wish I was."

"You can be, in the same way that I am."

"Oh! No. I never could make up my mind to teach school, or to work for a living. I could not consent to any thing which would lower my social position."

"Why, Laura, I never was of so much consequence in my life, as I have been since I went to Basswoods."

"Yes, in such a little country place as that, but not among stylish people."

"But you used to be very contented, Laura: you thought no one was as happy as yourself."

"Aunt Dimsden is not so kind as she was," said Laura. "She is very cross sometimes, and when she is vexed, or mortified, she bestows all her ill-temper upon me. She has been very angry with me, for presuming to refuse an offer without consulting her—some body that lives not a hundred miles from Berkley Square, you know."

"But, Laura—!"

"Oh! Yes, I know all you would say—that he is dissipated, and a fool besides, but you know they are rich and very fashionable, and his sisters paid me a great deal of attention. I think all the family were anxious for the match, but he was quite too bad. I suppose I am bound to make a rich marriage at last—indeed, it is the only way I see to escape from dependence, but this one was rather too much, and I dismissed him somewhat suddenly. They were all very angry, and aunt thinks I am almost as bad as Abby. She told me she expected I would go the same way, and it will not be for want of sufficient provocation if I don't."

"But you would not marry for money alone, would you?"

"Not perhaps for money alone; I would not marry a really bad, vulgar man, if he was ever so rich. But if he had position, and style, and so on, as well as money. I don't believe in all that silly, sentimental nonsense of love, and all that, it only makes fools of people, just as it has of Abby."

"But it is not absolutely necessary to marry at all," said Olive.

"I do not agree with you there, sister mine. I think it is necessary, if a woman wants to be any body that she should marry, unless she retires into a nunnery or something. I hope you don't mean to be an old maid, Olive."

"I think it most likely I shall," said Olive, sighing in spite of herself, "but I hope to be some body nevertheless. Will you let me come and stay with you, when I grow too old to work any longer?"

"Of course," said Laura, "if I have any home myself. But now tell me what you intend to do about Abby? Do you really mean to write to her?"

"I really do. I would obey uncle in almost any thing else, but in this I must follow my own conscience and my own feelings."

"You can afford it," said Laura, "because you are independent, but I dare not. Aunt has been very angry on account of the refusal, and she says, if I do not mind what she says about this, she will leave me to take care of myself. But if you write, give my love to Abby, and tell her I would write too if I could—and send her these ear-rings; Maria Lewis gave them to me, but I do not care any thing about them, and aunt has never seen them. I have no money to buy her any thing new, and I wanted to send her something.

"Did I tell you that aunt Dimsden is coming over to spend the afternoon? I believe in my heart, she is glad of Abby's marriage, and the triumph over aunt Rebecca, till I am ready to stone her. You know I never was very fond of aunt Rebecca myself, but I am sorry for her, and I think aunt Dimsden ought to be ashamed of herself. I can tell you, Olive, you think I am so well off—"

"I never thought so, Laura," interrupted Olive. "I would rather go out as a seamstress than live as you do."

"Well, every one else thinks so, at any rate, but I am sometimes tempted to say I will marry the first presentable man that comes along, to escape from it."

"Do give up that idea of marrying for money, Laura! I can not bear to think of it. You will repent as surely as you do."

"Well, I don't know," said Laura, lightly. "If you marry for money, you are pretty sure of getting it, at any rate, and if you marry for love, you may be deceived, you know. Now, if you have finished your packing, do dress, and come down-stairs. I dare not face them all alone."

"I am sure, Laura, uncle would not be angry at you for refusing Sam Lewis. You know there is nothing he detests like an idle, frivolous young man."

"I don't believe he knows any thing about that," returned Laura, "but I am always afraid of him."

After luncheon, Laura sat down to a handkerchief she was embroidering, and Olive to write.

She had almost forgotten Augusta's letter, till she saw it in her desk. It was just like Augusta herself, and Olive felt refreshed and comforted by it. Among other news of the place, she said:

"Jenny Vander Heyden is better, and the sickness is abating. Mr. Landon is going away, and he told me he meant to go and see you before his return."

Olive's heart beat somewhat faster at the thought, and she almost wished Augusta had not told her. After twice reading the letter, she put it carefully away, and began writing to Abby. She sighed, as she thought of the unsatisfactory intelligence she had to convey, but there was no help for it, at least at present. As Mr. Merton said, she had taken her own course, and she would have to abide by it.

She was just finishing, when Mrs. Dimsden came in. Olive greeted her as warmly as she could, and then asked to be excused, as she was anxious to close her letter in time for the post. As she placed it in the vase appropriated for the purpose, Mrs. Dimsden unceremoniously took it out of her hand, and read the direction: "Mrs. William Forester, Eagle Hotel, M."

"So you have been writing to Abby, have you?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Olive, coolly.

"I have forbidden Laura to do any thing of the kind," said Mrs. Dimsden, drawing herself up: "I will not allow any young person in my family to have any intercourse with a girl who has no more sense of propriety than Abby. I have never thought it necessary to make as much fuss as some people," with a glance at aunt Rebecca, "but I do think my girls generally turn out well."

Mrs. Merton had a way of looking at a forward or impertinent person, as though he or she were a superfluous chair, or an intruding cat, which she sometimes brought to bear upon her sister-in-law with great effect.

She was silenced for a moment, and replaced the letter.

At this moment, Charlotte entered, and looked into the vase as she passed.

"Charlotte," said her mother, "have I not often told you that it was very rude to look at the direction of another person's letter?"

Now Charlotte knew very well that this reproof was not in the least intended for her; she took it very coolly, and sat down by Laura to admire her work.

Mrs. Dimsden colored furiously. "Perhaps, if you had kept a more careful watch over your young ladies' letters, sister Merton, some things might not have happened that have happened. I know my mother always looked out for me."

"Was that the reason you never did any thing improper when you were young, aunt Dimsden?" asked Charlotte carelessly.

It was a home-thrust, for Miss Ashly had been considered rather an eccentric young lady, and there were some circumstances in her career, and in the way she became Mrs. Dimsden, which were more curious than edifying. That lady did not like to provoke a contest with Charlotte, who was not in the least afraid of her, and by superior coolness usually came off conqueror. She turned her head, and murmured something about impertinence, but did not venture upon a retort.

Mrs. Merton conversed as politely as possible with every one in the parlor, and was especially gracious to Olive.

Charlotte, very contrary to her usual custom, devoted herself to Laura, with whom she very seldom condescended to talk when she could help it. Laura was very low-spirited, and hardly said a word, though she seemed grateful to Charlotte for her kindness, and clung to Olive in a way very uncommon with her. Mrs. Dimsden contradicted her at every word she said, and seemed out of all patience with her.

When Mr. Merton came in to tea, he looked into the vase as usual, and took out the two or three letters it contained.

"Your letter is over weight, Olive," he said, balancing it on his finger: "you must add another stamp."

He smiled kindly as he handed it to her, and she received it with a glad heart, rightly judging that it was a tacit concession of the point.

"Thank you, uncle," she said in a voice too low to be heard by Mrs. Dimsden, who was anxiously watching the scene, in the pleasing anticipation of an explosion.

He smiled again, and walked away, putting the letter in his pocket.

But Charlotte had not finished yet. She was, as we know, not at all an amiable young lady, and she was extremely jealous of any affront offered to her mother. She felt that her debt to Mrs. Dimsden was not quite discharged.

"Papa," said she, "do you know Sam Lewis?"

"Yes, I know him. Why?"

"What is he like?"

"Like a fool!" replied Mr. Merton, who was not particularly well disposed toward idle young men just then.

"A great many young men are that," said, Charlotte sententiously. "Is that all there is remarkable about him?"

"No," said Mr. Merton: "he is remarkably idle, remarkably dissipated, and a remarkable torment to every one who ever tried to do any thing with him."

"That seems a pity," remarked Olive. "They used to be quite nice people, especially Mrs. Lewis. I liked her very much."

"They were nice people. It is the ambition to be fine and fashionable that has spoiled them—that is, the younger part of them, for Mrs. Lewis is just as gentle and pleasant as ever. I often feel sorry for her, when I see how unceremoniously she is treated by her children. I tried, for his father's sake, to do something with Sam, but it was useless. He has not even sense enough to be governed. I heard the other day that he was going to be married, but I hope it is not true. I should be sorry to think that any girl could throw herself away upon such an apology for a man."

Charlotte's triumph was now complete, but she had too much sense to parade it openly. And for the rest of the evening, she was as polite to her victim as Mrs. Merton herself.

"How could you have the heart to annoy aunt Dimsden so?" said Olive, half-reprovingly, half-laughing, as they went up-stairs together, after the guests had departed. "You are downright revengeful."

"If Mrs. Dimsden annoys my mother when I am by, she may make up her mind to be paid in her own coin," replied Charlotte. "Besides, I felt sorry for Laura, who I saw was very uncomfortable. I really pity the poor girl."

"I feel very anxious about Laura," said Olive, sighing; "she is, as you say, very uncomfortable, and she does not seem to have any thing to sustain herself upon. I am afraid she is acting upon a wrong principle."

"How do you mean?"

"She thinks she must certainly marry some body, in order to be independent and have a position in the world, and that is all she lives for. She has, or seems to have, no idea of any higher motive in life, nor has aunt Dimsden for her that I can see. Think of her wanting Laura to marry Sam Lewis!"

"Did not my father give him a charming character?"

"I hope she will be satisfied, and not torment Laura any more about him," said Olive. "But what is the child to do? Either aunt Dimsden is angry with her about something, or else she is getting tired of taking care of her—perhaps both. Laura feels as uneasy as possible under her state of dependence, and yet she has a fixed idea that it would be a terrible degradation for her to do any thing towards supporting herself; and she feels as though a certain amount of luxury and a certain position were absolutely necessary to existence. Only look at all this and think what a temptation it places in her way, to marry the first tolerably respectable man with a large fortune who presents himself, and you will understand why I am so full of trouble about her."

"But does Laura think you have degraded yourself?" asked Charlotte.

"Aunt Dimsden does, I know," replied Olive. "As for Laura, I think she considers me an exception to all general rules, a sort of oddity. She went so far to-day, as to say she envied me."

"I am sure I do," said Charlotte, sighing; "not that I am not perfectly well off at home, and as happy as those around me can make so perverse a person as I am, but I never can feel as though I was working to any purpose."

"I am sure your Greek and drawing come on nicely," said Olive. "I never saw any one improve so much as you have. If you were a pupil of mine, I should be proud of you. That copy of your father's portrait is beautiful. I wish you would give it to me, to take back to Basswoods."

"I meant it for you, as well as one I begun of my mother, and I am very glad you like them. But Olive, I am not contented with the acquisition of knowledge merely for the sake of knowledge. I want to do something with it. In short," said she, smiling rather bitterly, "I am, without any particular reason for it, about as discontented as any body can be. I wish some one would tell me what I want."

"I think I can tell you," said Olive, "but I rather doubt whether you will believe me."

"May I come and sleep with you?" asked Charlotte.

"I shall be glad to have you," replied Olive, "if you will let me do just as I would if I were alone."

"Of course," said Charlotte, "we will each take our own way."

Charlotte occupied herself with a book, while Olive went through with her usual reading and prayers. She had herself given up even the semblance of prayer, ever since she left the nursery.

"Now Olive," said she, as they were curling their hair afterwards, "tell me what I want."

"I think you want the two sacraments, as Mr. Gregory says—the baptism of duty and the communion of love. Are you as much in the dark as ever?"

"No; I think I partly understand you, but please explain."

"First, then, you want to do every single thing because it is right do it. This rule applies to all actions, great as well as small. Moreover, you need to have such a love to God, and such a desire to promote his glory that you will do every thing that is right because it is pleasing to him, and avoid every thing that is wrong for the same reason. Are not these two motives which cover all things?"

"Perhaps so, if one could understand them. I confess I can not. I do not know what you mean by love to God. Can you tell me, for I suppose you think you love him?"

"I know I do."

"What sort of a feeling is it?"

"It is the same feeling that we have toward our best earthly friends, though as much higher and purer in its character, and greater in its degree, as the object is greater and purer. There is no selfishness mixed with it, and no distrust, since the object is absolutely perfect in goodness and truth. If there is happiness in loving a fallible mortal, who may change or die at any time, must there not be much more in loving and being loved by one in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning, and who has the will and the power to order all things as is best for us?"

"I can not understand such a love for God. He is too far off."

"He is not far off. His name is Emmanuel—God with us!"

"I have no feeling towards the Supreme Being," said Charlotte, after a little pause, "except one of terror when I think how helpless we are—bond slaves in his hands."

"If you loved and trusted him, you would find pleasure instead of terror in the idea that your destinies were in the hands of one who could do no injustice and no wrong. Then every thing you did would be sanctified by the thought that you were doing it for him, since he is served by every one of our duties, whatever it is. I know you always take pleasure in working for people. I never saw you so happy, as when you were straightening and going over those long accounts for your father, when I was at home before. If in addition, you had had in your mind the thought of pleasing your Father in heaven, you would have been still happier."

"But, Olive, do you not think there is danger of losing one's reverence for the Supreme by thus mixing him up with all the common and daily concerns of life?"

"If there is," replied Olive, "we are not answerable for it, since he himself says that not a sparrow falls to the ground without him, and that whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, we must do all to the glory of God."

"And does this feeling really comfort you, Olive, when you are in trouble? I have heard people talk about religious consolations, but I always took it all for cant."

"Take care," said Olive, "that in dreading and avoiding cant, you do not fall into it yourself, and that of the worst kind—that of condemning as cant all that you do not understand. Yes, I have found, more than ever before, the great comfort of having such a trust and confidence in God, as I have described. But for that, I do not believe I could have lived through this last week. It is all that gives me any hope about Abby. She has been so well taught, and the child of so many prayers, that I can not but think she will come right at last."

"I wish I felt so," said Charlotte sighing, "but I can not, and I do not know how to attain to it."

"Prayer and repentance are the only ways I know," replied Olive. "The bitter comes before the sweet; and the godly sorrow that worketh repentance must precede the love of Christ which passeth knowledge. We must repent in sackcloth and ashes, before we can rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory. Do try, Charlotte—I know you will be so much happier, not only here but hereafter."

"I will make no promises," said Charlotte, "but I will think of what you have said, and I am very much obliged to you for speaking so freely, and not being shocked at me. You do not know how miserable I was at the thought that I had been deceived in you after all. If you did, you would not wonder that I was so savage when you first came home."

CHAPTER TENTH.

ALREADY half the time allotted to Olive's vacation had passed, and she was beginning to think with mingled pain and pleasure of a speedy return to Basswoods, and her duties there. She knew that she was sure of a very warm welcome, not only from Ruth and Augusta, but also from her pupils, who were almost all very much attached to her. She liked the place and the people; perhaps too, she enjoyed the idea of being a person of a good deal of consequence; she liked the quiet and regular employment, and there was a great pleasure in witnessing the gradual improvement of the girls under her charge, not only in book-learning, but also in manners and in those minor morals which affect so much the comfort of our daily lives.

Sadly as the matter had resulted, she felt as though a mountain's weight was removed from her mind in getting rid of her secret, and she could not help whispering to herself that the marriage might after all turn out better than they feared—that William might settle down, now that he had the responsibility of a wife upon his hands, and become an industrious man, after all. She intuitively felt that this consolation would not bear much examination, but it comforted her for the time.

She had rather reluctantly given up her plan of stopping in M. to make Abby a visit, at Mr. Merton's urgent advice.

"You had better defer your visit, at least till your return, Olive," he said, when she mentioned her desire to him. "Abby will be in no state to bear reason just now. She has not had time to find out her mistake yet. Moreover, I do not believe you will be very welcome—at least to Mr. Forester. He will not be likely to forgive your plain speaking to him and to Abby, and especially your bringing him out in a downright falsehood. Abby is altogether under his influence, and sees through his eyes. I shall not forbid your going, but if you will be advised by one who has seen much more of the world than you have, you will defer your visit for the present."

So Olive wrote to her sister to say she was not coming, and had the mortification to perceive by the tone of Abby's next letter that it was a great relief to her. For the first time, Mr. Merton asked to see the letter.

"You see I was right," said he, briefly, as he handed it back to her, "but do not be grieved, my dear. The time will come when Abby will be glad enough to have you with her."

Of Laura, Olive saw very little. Aunt Dimsden had never encouraged their intimacy to any great degree, and she now told Olive plainly that she filled Laura's head with notions very unfit for a girl in her circumstances. "Your romantic ideas of disinterestedness and independence sound very well, but let me tell you, you will find out their fallacy when it is too late."

"When will that be, aunt?" asked Olive.

"When you see Miss Dimsden at the head of society, mistress of a fine establishment, and surrounded with every luxury, while Miss McHenry is still a drudging school-mistress, and a faded old maid, or at best, the wife of some country parson, obliged to struggle the year round to make both ends meet, and darning her children's ragged stockings, while her sister is spending her hundreds a day."

"I don't think I shall ever marry a minister," said Olive, "though I know some ministers' wives who are very happy people."

"Well, a school-master, then—perhaps the other teacher in the academy."

Olive gave way to incessant laughter at the idea of exchanging her maiden name for the style and title of Mrs. Simon Prendergrass. "I might do worse," she said, endeavoring to compose her risibles. "Mr. Prendergrass is a very nice man, and has quite a good little property, only he invests it all in books that nobody can read but himself."

"You had better set your cap for him," was the elegant reply. "I don't believe you will ever do any better. But be that as it may, I will not have you filling Laura's head with romantic notions. I have brought her up, and I have the best right to her, and I will agree to give up," ("what" she did not state,) "if she does not turn out better than any of you. As for Charlotte, she is an impertinent little hussy. I only wish I had her. I'd bring down her spirits, I'll engage."

True to her word, Mrs. Dimsden contrived to keep the sisters apart, and Olive hardly saw any thing of Laura, except in presence of others. Even when they were together, she could not help feeling very painfully how very little they had in common. Charlotte was much more of a companion for her, for though, as we have seen, almost entirely irreligious, she was not frivolous, and she utterly despised that dependence for happiness upon fashion and position in which poor Laura had been educated.

Mrs. Merton was, perhaps, almost as worldly as Mrs. Dimsden, but it showed itself in a different way. Having been for many years at the head of society, in the place where she resided, and needing no struggle to maintain her position, she was quite too firm to care much about being fashionable. She gave parties when and how she pleased, and was always sure of as many people as she chose to invite. She was not at all afraid to dress as she liked, or to say that she could not afford this or that, nor was she ashamed of having her carriage seen standing in an unfashionable street, at the doors of unfashionable people. Regarded in a religious point of view, her worldliness was, perhaps, no better than that of her sister-in-law, but it must be admitted that it was less destructive to every thing like integrity and solidity of character.

There was one subject of contemplation which was constantly presenting itself to Olive's mind, and from which she as constantly turned her thoughts, as far as she could, and that subject was Walter Landon. Would he come and see her? she wondered. Augusta had said nothing more about him, though she spoke of the Vander Heydens several times, and Ruth had never mentioned his name.

"And why," she proceeded to ask herself with severity, "should she wish him to come? What was he to her, more than any other acquaintance in the world? Would not—ought not all his thoughts and affections to be buried in Annette's grave?"

Olive felt a loss of self-respect every time she suffered her mind to dwell upon these topics, and invariably told herself that Mr. Landon was nothing to her, and that it was very wrong and foolish to think of him at all. But, though all this was undoubtedly true, it did not prevent her from reading Augusta's first letter several times over, nor hinder her heart from beating faster every time the door-bell rang, and sinking sadly when the person who was nothing to her did not make his appearance.

One night, during the last week of her vacation, there was a ring at the door, and a strange voice was heard, inquiring whether Mrs. Merton lived there, and secondly whether she was at home.

"I wonder who that is?" said Charlotte.

Olive did not answer, though she had recognized the first tone of his voice. Her heart was beating inconceivably fast just then.

A tall, gentlemanly personage entered the room, with a bow which even Laura might have approved.

"Mr. Landon," announced Edward, the Black Prince, approvingly; for Edward was an excellent judge of a gentleman.

Mr. Landon was greeted with perfect composure, and a proper degree of warmth by Miss McHenry, and then presented to her uncle and aunt. Mr. Merton remembered having seen the young lawyer in court, and was quite prepared to like him, and Mrs. Merton was evidently pleased by his manners and address.

Olive was provoked at herself for feeling anxious about the impression he was likely to make, and asked herself again, severely, what he was to her.

He was very glad to see her that was certain, and replied with warmth to her inquiries about Basswoods and its people. The sickness had almost disappeared, the society had resumed its meetings, Mr. Prendergrass was well, but melancholy and lonely—with a mischievous glance at Olive, who blushed, of course, to the roots of her hair, thereby provoking Charlotte to make various inquiries about that gentleman.

Olive could not help thinking Mr. Landon was in remarkably good spirits for a young gentleman who had so lately passed through such a severe affliction.

She had refrained from making any inquiries about the family on the hill for fear of wounding his feelings, but it seemed really quite unnecessary.

"You have not inquired for the Vander Heydens," said Mr. Landon, himself, turning from Charlotte to Olive.

"Augusta wrote that Jenny was out of danger," replied Olive, more and more surprised, and somewhat hurt; for the idea of doubting Dr. Gordon's intelligence never entered her mind.

"Yes, they are all well, now, but very sad. The joy and life of the household is gone."

"Annette seemed an interesting girl," remarked Olive, hardly knowing what to say.

"You did not know her, Olive—Miss McHenry," he said, correcting himself. "Annette never did herself justice with strangers, and the absurd family pride with which her mother's head is filled, though she had less of it than the rest, often made her appear at a disadvantage. She had many excellent qualities, more than she herself was aware of. I think she would have made a splendid woman."

Olive wondered more and more. Was it possible that Walter could speak so of a woman to whom he had been engaged, dead only two weeks?

"You were more intimate with them than most people in the village," she said, without exactly knowing why.

"We were cousins, you know, and Louise has always been with them a great deal since my mother died. I believe the good people of Basswoods were so kind as to give us to each other, at one time, but they were quite mistaken. We were more like brother and sister than cousins."

"I was told that you were engaged," said Olive, feeling that she must say something. "Dr. Gordon thought so."

"Dr. Gordon was mistaken," replied the gentleman, with more warmth than seemed exactly necessary. "I was very much attached to Annette, but I should think that any one who knew us well might have seen that we were not at all suited to each other."

Why did her mother look so amused? Charlotte wondered.

She certainly did look amused, and perhaps Mr. Landon saw it; for he colored, and rather hastily turned the conversation by asking Mr. Merton some questions about the courts in M. Henceforth the conversation ran upon law and lawyers. Mr. Merton was enthusiastic in his profession, and of course was delighted to find Mr. Landon the same.

Mrs. Merton and Olive sat by, apparently much interested, though it is doubtful whether either of them could have repeated a word of the conversation five minutes after it ceased.

By and by, music was proposed. Olive played, whether well or ill she could not have told, and then she and Charlotte sang a duet together.

"Do you sing, Mr. Landon?" asked Charlotte.

"Sometimes, in church and Sunday-school," said Mr. Landon, smiling; "and I know a few old ballads." And being farther pressed, he sang without accompaniment, one of Burns's inimitable songs.

"That is charming. That is the sort of music that I like," said Mrs. Merton, quite enthusiastically, for her. "I confess I do not find half the pleasure in modern music that I do in those old songs. Pray sing something else if you are not tired."

Mr. Landon was not tired, and he sang "Molly Bawn," much to the amusement of Mr. Merton, who had never heard it before.

"I wonder you do not cultivate your musical talents," observed Charlotte; "there are so few gentlemen that sing."

"I did at one time, Miss Merton, but to tell you the truth, I found it too engrossing. It was present to my mind a great many times when I knew very well that I ought to be occupied with something else. It took time from more important studies, and so I dropped it."

"And very rightly, too," said Mr. Merton, approvingly. "Accomplishments are often very dangerous things to one who has his own way to make in the world. They may do for a man who has no business but to amuse himself."

"A man who has nothing to do but to amuse himself is a very poor creature, in my estimation," said Mr. Landon.

"And a nuisance to society, besides," observed Charlotte. "There is our old acquaintance, Major Trumbull, for instance, Olive. What a bore he is, with his everlasting prattle about art and architecture, and the æsthetic, and so on. And after all, he does not know a good picture from a bad one, unless he hears some one else give opinion beforehand."

Mr. Landon discovered that it was growing very late, and took his leave, after accepting an invitation from Mrs. Merton to dine with them the next day, which was Sunday.

"A very well-informed, unassuming, well-mannered young man," was Mr. Merton's verdict, after the visitor had departed, "and pretty sure to rise in his profession. We shall see him a distinguished lawyer, one of these days."

"What connections has he in Basswoods?" asked Mrs. Merton, of Olive.

"None nearer than the Vander Heydens, and one sister," was the reply.

"What is she like?"

"A very nice little girl—one of my best scholars. Her health is not strong, and I have to watch and see that she does not work too hard; for she is as fond of study as her brother."

"How came Mr. Landon to know your Christian name?" was the next question.

"From hearing it at the rectory, I presume," said Olive. "Mr. Gregory's family all call me Olive, and he is there a great deal."

Mrs. Merton seemed satisfied, but she had one question more. "What do you suppose brought him to M., Olive?" she asked, with something of a smile.

"I don't know; perhaps he had business," replied Olive, vexed at feeling the color rise in her cheeks.

Perhaps he had—we all know that lawyers travel a great deal. But why should Olive blush at that? And why, after going up-stairs, should Olive sit for an hour, looking out of the window, when, even if it had not been very dark, there was nothing to be seen but Mr. Watson's highly respectable mansion over the way? Why, to be sure?

When they went to church, the next morning, Mr. Landon was standing in the porch. Of course Mr. Merton invited him to sit with them, and of course he accepted. He was very attentive and devout, thereby winning still more of Mr. Merton's approbation. Olive thought she had never felt the beauty of the service so deeply. Mrs. Merton guessed, in her own mind, that her niece's thoughts might be wandering a little: but for once she was mistaken. Olive had left all earthly thoughts at the church-door, and her mind was filled with one absorbing desire—that she might be reconciled to the will of God, whatever that will might be. She had never felt so much at peace with herself since she first discovered that she loved Walter Landon.

Charlotte, who for the most part went to church only to please her mother and had nothing to do but to use her eyes, thought she had never seen Olive look so nearly beautiful.

Some one else in the church was using her eyes and that was Mrs. Dimsden who had discovered the genteel stranger with the Mertons the moment he entered. For the first time in her life, she thought well of the free-church system, as it enabled her to take a seat directly behind them, instead of the one she usually occupied. She did not take much by her motion, however, for Mr. Landon sat with his back to her, and never looked round once during the whole service.

"I wonder who that is!" she said to Laura, as they were coming out of church. "I never saw him before."

"Some country friend of Olive's, probably," answered Laura, carelessly, "or some office acquaintance of my uncle's. He looks like a young lawyer."

Mrs. Dimsden was not satisfied. She thought the stranger had something distinguished in his appearance, and she was immediately anxious to find out all about him.

"You had better go over and see Olive this afternoon," she said, after luncheon; "you know she is going in two or three days."

"It will look just as though I want to see this person, whoever he is," objected Laura.

"Never mind that; I will be answerable for appearances, if you do as I bid you. You can stay to dinner, and come to church with them this evening."

Laura was vexed, but there was nothing for it but to obey.

"I did not come of my own accord, Olive," she said, as she went up-stairs with her sister to take off her bonnet. "Aunt Dimsden sent me, so you need not think I want to steal your beau from you."

"I do wish you would not use that word," replied Olive, rather impatiently. "Why should you not come over here if you choose? There is nothing in it to need an apology."

"I thought you would all think I came over to see who your visitor was," said Laura; "and, to tell the simple truth, I suppose that was what aunt sent me for. Don't tell me any thing about him, and then I shall have the pleasure of disappointing her."

"Laura, Laura, how perverse you are! If she had not told you to find out, you would never have rested till you knew all there is to know."

"Maybe so. Is he coming to dinner?"

"I believe aunt invited him."

"Then I suppose she will depart from her rule of giving the servants their Sunday. She would not ask a stranger to a cold dinner."

"I do not believe she has made any difference," said Olive. "I know all the servants went to church this morning."

So it proved. Mrs. Merton made no apology for the cold fowl and ham, except to say that it was one of her rules never to have unnecessary cooking done on Sunday.

"So much for being above the fashion," thought Laura. "I wonder whether the Eatons would dare to do such a thing."

The conversation was cheerful enough, though somewhat serious in its character. Mr. Landon was interested in hearing an account of the different charities of the city, in almost all of which Mr. and Mrs. Merton were more or less engaged. Free churches, homes for old people, parish schools and Sunday-schools, were discussed in all their bearings and relations. Laura thought it all very stupid, and Mr. Landon something between a Puseyite and a Methodist. He spoke of a certain Mr. Dennison, who was his particular friend. And after a little, it came out that he was a hatter, but no one seemed at all shocked. Aunt Merton was a good deal of a riddle to Laura: she was so very fashionable, and yet seemed to care so little about it.

They went to church in the evening, and walked round by Mrs. Dimsden's to leave Laura, who complained of headache. That young lady had to undergo a severe cross-examination from her excellent aunt, but as she had sedulously avoided finding out any thing, she had very little to tell, except that she believed Mr. Landon was a young lawyer from the country, who did not seem to have any distinguished connections.

"Your aunt is always inviting such persons. I do wonder she should. Even the clerks in the office are very often there, I am told."

"Yes, indeed," said Laura; "aunt makes a point of asking some of them to tea almost every week, and I never saw her or Charlotte take more pains to entertain any one. I remember how aunt set down Morgan Spencer once, for putting on airs to one of them. The sweet youth was nearly frightened out of what little wit he has."

"Well!" sighed Mrs. Dimsden. "I don't pretend to understand Rebecca Merton. She is beyond me. I knew her pride would have a fall, though, when she used to make such a display of Abby and Charlotte last winter, and if it does not have another, I shall miss my guess. If you will be a good girl, Laura, I will have you at the head of an establishment of your own long before Charlotte, with all her beauty and talent. Now go to bed, child, and put on your best looks to-morrow, for I think we shall have some company that you will like to see. And pray don't be perverse and romantic, my dear, for you know the only object I have is to see you settled in life."

Laura was delighted to see her aunt again in good humor. She promised that she would eschew romance and perverseness, and went to bed, feeling quite happy.

"Olive," said Mrs. Merton, "will you stay at home, and keep house this morning? Charlotte and I have shopping to do, and shall probably not be at home till luncheon-time?"

Olive assented, of course. There was something a little peculiar in her aunt's manner, she thought, and she found herself speculating over it more than once in the course of the long letter that she was writing to Augusta and Ruth, which was to be sent by Mr. Landon. She had just finished it, when the Black Prince ushered Mr. Landon himself into the drawing-room with the information that Madam and Miss Charlotte were out, but Miss Olive was at home.

Mr. Landon seemed to think that Miss Olive would answer every purpose, and the Prince retreated to his own dominions, apparently greatly amused with something in his own mind.

Mr. Landon did not converse with his usual freedom and elegance. On the contrary, he seemed a good deal embarrassed. Indeed, after a while, he was quite at a loss, and did not speak a word for all of five minutes, during which time he cut, ripped, twisted, and otherwise destroyed almost half a yard of elaborate tape trimming, besides dulling the little scissors in a very distressing manner. Strange to say, Olive had not the presence of mind to stop the mischief or, perhaps she was too much engaged on that camellia flower, whereof the pattern seemed to have become very difficult all at once.

"Olive!" said Walter at last.

Well, perhaps it is not necessary to tell the rest. I suppose these things are managed very much alike, all the world over. Of course, Mr. Landon did not fall on his knees, or conduct himself in any such absurd manner, because he was ordinarily a very sensible, practical young man, and not quite a fool, even in love. We may conclude, from what we know of the gentleman, that he told his love in a very manly, earnest fashion, and that Olive answered in the same way. If he kissed her hand, and—and so on, why, that is nobody's business.

Whether the Black Prince had his own thoughts about what was going on, I can not say; though, if he did not, why should he have made such a clatter in setting down the luncheon-tray outside the door, when there was no need to set it down at all, the said door being ajar? And why should he have indulged in a private and respectful giggle, when he went back for the pickled oysters?

Mrs. Merton and Charlotte came in almost as soon as luncheon was ready, and Mrs. Merton was graciousness itself, both to Mr. Landon and to her niece. Mr. Landon had quite recovered his fluency, and never appeared to better advantage, while Olive was silent and abstracted, though she did not seem particularly miserable.

By and by the gentleman took his leave, and Olive escaped to her own room. We will not follow her, for she needs solitude, wherein to collect her thoughts—to think what she has done and said—to wonder whether any one was ever so happy or so thankful before.

It would be paying a poor compliment to Mrs. Merton's care and discernment to imagine that she did not understand the whole matter. She was a woman of great penetration, and very much accustomed to judge of character. And, moreover, she was very skillful in drawing people out, and making them display their true colors. She saw nothing to object to, but very much to approve in the young lawyer, though she believed he might be a little Quixotic in his ideas of duty. She was very much pleased that he had, in a manner, referred the matter to her, even before speaking to Olive. His character as a lawyer was high—very high for so young a man, and he had a respectable property, and no vulgar relations. She would, indeed, have preferred to have Olive settled nearer home, and she could not help pitying her for being, in all probability, condemned to spend her life in a country village—a fate which seemed to her very deplorable, though Olive professed to like it.

Still, Olive was not a belle; she did not care very much for society and style, and all that, and she was not the kind of girl likely to make a brilliant match. On the whole, as she said to Charlotte, Olive had done quite as well as she expected—so different from that poor, foolish child, Abby, whom they all thought would have turned out so much better.

Olive was quite happy, when she received the congratulatory kiss of her aunt and uncle, on coming down to dinner. Mr. Merton had seen and talked with Walter, and expressed himself quite satisfied with the young man's views. It was all talked over in the family council that evening. Olive had quite made up her mind to return to Basswoods, and fulfill her engagement there, and Mr. Merton supported her in this resolve, against the opposition of his wife and Charlotte. The term would be out in the middle of July, and she could then come home to stay till she left it for good. The only other stipulation which Olive made was that the engagement should be kept a secret.

"But what will you do about Laura?" suggested Charlotte. "You must tell her."

"Yes, I suppose so, and perhaps it will be best to tell aunt, too, but I dislike having such an affair the theme of conversation. And then, if any thing happens—"

"I will manage that," said Mrs. Merton; "leave it to me, my dear." And to her, Olive was quite content to leave it.

Finally, the matter was thus settled. Olive was to return to Basswoods and finish her term there, giving Mr. Jones timely notice of her intention to resign, and Mrs. Merton was to use her own discretion about keeping the matter a secret. Olive tried timidly to bring in a word in favor of Abby, but was stopped at once by her uncle.

"Not a word about that, Olive! I have conceded much—more, perhaps, than I ought—in allowing you to visit her and correspond with her, and that is all you must ask. She shall never enter this house again, till she has, at least, expressed some sorrow for her misconduct, and a desire to be forgiven."

Olive sighed, but she could only submit, in the hope that her uncle would relent, or her sister come to her senses some day.

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

SCHOOL was to begin on Wednesday as usual, and Olive arrived in Basswoods on Monday evening at dusk. She found several people waiting to welcome her—Mr. Gregory and Augusta, Mr. Landon and Mr. Jones, and last not least, Mr. Prendergrass. As Olive shook hands with the last named gentleman, and received his half-formal, half-embarrassed greeting, her mind adverted for the first time to what Mrs. Dimsden had so elegantly said, about her setting her cap for the school-master, and she wondered whether there could be any possible danger of his making a mistake—of his fancying that she was giving him encouragement, but she dismissed it as too absurd to deserve consideration.

Ruth was not at the station, but was waiting for her at the door of the old house which Olive was quite surprised to see looking as usual, forgetting that houses do not generally change very much in the course of four weeks. It seemed like home to be again in her comfortable, cheerful room, which was just as she left it, except that a beautiful bouquet stood in a little vase of biscuit-ware on the table.

"Louisa Landon brought that over," said Ruth, seeing that Olive's eyes were fixed upon it, the moment she entered the room.

"Did she?" asked Olive, taking it up, to examine it.

"Why of course, you know she did," retorted Ruth shortly, but not unkindly. "What is the use of pretending you don't? Don't you think I have guessed all about it by this time?"

"I am glad you have, I am sure," said Olive, laughing and blushing; "for it will save me the awkwardness of telling you, which I have been dreading all the way. Well, what do you think about it?"

"Me! I don't know any thing about such things. I think Walter is a very nice young man, and you are a very nice young woman, and I dare say you will be as happy as most people. I hope so, I am sure."

Olive glanced at Ruth in surprise, and saw that she seemed a good deal agitated, though she was stooping over Olive's trunk, as if to hide her face from observation. The expression passed away as she looked, and she was as calm as ever. Olive remembered the same look once before, when Ruth had spoken of Augusta's brother, and she had wondered at the time, but now something in her own feelings gave her a clue to her friend's.

"Don't think I am cross, Olive," said Ruth presently. "Sometimes I remember things I would rather forget, and it upsets me for a moment. Cool as you think me, I was not always so. Augusta can tell you—she is the only one who knows. I never speak or think of it, if I can help it. I wish you every happiness, my dear, and I think your prospects are as fair as any one's. I have known Walter from a child. Don't talk to me now—I shall get quiet presently."

And when Olive met her a few minutes afterwards, she was as composed and cheerful as usual, nor did she ever again advert to the subject.

From Augusta she afterwards learned part of the story. Frederick Gregory was a young man of promising talents, and, as every one thought, of good principles, but he went to college, so often only another name for going to destruction. He was treated with a great deal of attention, and often invited out, and at last fell into the hands of one of those gangs of fashionable rascals, some of whom are to be found in almost every city, who think it an excellent joke to draw in a young man, first to drink, then to gamble, and so on, to utter ruin, and when it is accomplished, hold up their hands in astonishment that any one could be so weak.

Into such a set did Frederick Gregory fall. Mr. T's game-suppers and little dinner-parties (for men only) were very pleasant, and his vanity was flattered in being distinguished by such a fashionable man, albeit he did not think Mr. T. as elegant as his father, or old Judge Landon of Basswoods. One thing led to an other—"champaigne" to brandy-punch, punch to clear brandy: which led to betting on the players, and that to playing on his own account. Why pursue the story?

Frederick Gregory was expelled from the college for gross misconduct in his third year. He went home for a short time, but life in his father's house and under his mother's eye was unendurable to him. Fresh disgrace and exposure followed, and at last he went to sea, and was never heard of again.

Frederick and Ruth had been lovers almost from childhood, and though their parents refused to recognize any engagement till Frederick should have finished his college career, they considered themselves none the less bound to each other. It was very long before Ruth could believe that Frederick was as degraded as people said, but she was at last convinced in a way not to be mistaken. The young man visited her one evening when he was too far gone in intoxication to know what he was about, and absolutely insulted her. Once convinced, her course was taken.

The next morning she sent him a letter, breaking off the engagement, and refusing to see him again, till he could give proof of his reformation. He made no attempt to overcome her resolution, for he had for some time felt his engagement to be only a restraint and an annoyance. Before leaving Basswoods, he sent her a seal-ring which she had given him before he went to college, with a note, thanking her for having taken the first step towards a separation, and bidding her an eternal farewell.

What Ruth felt on this occasion, nobody knew, unless it were Augusta. She kept about her duties as usual, for two or three months. Then she had a long and tedious fit of sickness, from which she rose up, cured in body and mind. After a long storm, she had found a calm; she had conquered in deadly strife, and was henceforth at peace with herself and the world. She was sometimes haunted, as all of us are upon dark days, with the ghosts of the enemies she had slain, but they were only ghosts, and fled at daylight.

She lived for duty, and with the duties came many pleasures, but her home was not here, "and all her heart was fixed above." Love and marriage were things utterly out of the question with her, and though she might have been comfortably established more than once, she dismissed all her suitors with an indifference nowise flattering to them, and very provoking to her mother, who could not see why Ruth should be so foolish as to refuse such an excellent man as Mr. Brown, the largest merchant in the place. She might have annoyed her daughter not a little, had not Mr. Felton, for the first and last time in his life, asserted his individuality, and forbidden her to say another word on the subject, declaring that in this and all other matters, Ruth should do just as she chose, a proceeding which besides silencing his wife, amazed her to such a degree that she actually forgot to be lone and low for as much as three days afterwards.

Olive was warmly welcomed by all her pupils, most of whom declared that they were tired of vacation, and quite ready to begin school again. The drawing-class had each a picture or two to show her, the results of her holiday labors, and they were all delighted to find that they could draw at home as well as in school. Miss Tucker was gone, her aunt having concluded to send her to a seminary at a distance, where her talents would be appreciated, and her feelings respected; such at least was the reason she gave Olive, with an emphasis intended to be very cutting, and Olive accepted it politely, glad to be rid of her on any terms.

The school was smaller than it had been in the winter, as many of the country pupils had returned to their homes to assist in the summer labors of the dairy and the farm. Olive found some of her best pupils missing, but she felt herself in some degree compensated by being able to bestow more time and attention upon the rest. As she thought how much she might do for them in a few years, she could not help feeling a pang of regret at being obliged to leave them so soon. She had not yet said any thing to Mr. Jones about her intention, nor did she mean to do so, till about a month before the summer vacation, as that would afford abundance of time to procure another teacher.

After she had been in Basswoods about two weeks, Olive received a letter from Helen Monteith, and one from Abby at the same time. Helen had been visiting Mrs. Granger, and had been to see Abby. She wrote to Olive that they were comfortably established in the principal hotel of the place, and that Abby liked it very much, but Mr. Forester was discontented and talked of going to housekeeping as soon as he could find a house.

"I think Abby dreads it," she said, "but she talks cheerfully about it, and is quite sure she can learn. She seems rather subdued, and I think feels very much the separation from her family. She thinks her uncle and aunt are very hard-hearted to treat her with so much severity, and really, I do not think she has the least idea of having done wrong. A good many people have visited her, and some of Mr. Forester's relations have sent her very handsome presents. I think they cherish the hope that William may settle down and be steady now that he has a wife on his hands; and perhaps he will. He certainly seems very fond of her."

Abby wrote in good spirits. She adverted to the housekeeping scheme, and said they had been house-hunting several times, but rents were high, and they had not found any thing desirable.

It was evident that Abby was coming to the conclusion that it cost money to live, a fact of which she had never been in any degree sensible before. She spoke of the kindness of Mr. Forester's relations, and contrasted it with the sternness of her uncle and aunt Merton, by whom she evidently felt herself very much abused. She exulted greatly over Olive's engagement, and said she supposed her sister would now be willing to admit that she had not been so very much to blame. She was mistaken, however.

The more deeply Olive loved, the more she wondered at Abby's course. The effect of her own attachment was to make her more and more anxious to do her duty in every respect, to correct her faults, and to render herself worthy of her lover, and her destiny as a wife and mother. Her conscience had never been so quick to feel the first approach of wrong, her thankfulness had never been so deep, or her desire of self-consecration so entire as since she had been engaged.

She did not consider how different all this might have been, if Walter had not had the deepest sympathy in all her religious feelings; if he had not been her superior in religious experience; if he had regarded the whole matter with indifference, or at best with a careless respect as an institution very well suited to women and clergymen, and such narrow-minded people; if he had gently laughed at her scruples, and intimated that conscience was all very well, but there were instincts and feelings of our nature much higher, and better guides, etc., etc., the cant of a certain fashionable school very much in favor with such gentlemen as Mr. Forester.

Contrary to the well-known prediction, the course of Olive's true love seemed likely to run very smooth indeed. Walter's business was very prosperous, he had no debts, and he had sufficiently demonstrated the fact of his being able to make a living. Olive's little property was in an excellent shape, and she thought the proceeds of her year's labor would go far toward fitting her out comfortably and respectably.

There seemed no reason why the young people should wait longer than the first of October. Aunt Merton and her prime minister, Mammy, had already begun to calculate how much sheeting, toweling, etc., etc., would be wanted, when an event happened which changed the face of affairs very considerably.

Olive had been in school about eight weeks, when one Sunday, on taking her seat in church, she found the desk occupied by a stranger, and she was not long in recognizing the peculiar features and bearing of the Rev. Dr. V., a gentleman well-known for his talents, both as a speaker and a writer. She had heard him once before, and prepared herself for a treat. She was not disappointed.

The Doctor's subject was the lack of young men for the ministry, and most splendidly was it handled. There was enough of originality to keep the attention awake, without any of that straining after effect so painful and disgusting in some popular preachers. Every one in the congregation was made to feel that the subject was an important one, and one in which he or she had a share of responsibility. Chancing for a moment to look away from the preacher, Olive met Walter's eye, filled with an expression that thrilled to her very heart. She knew what he was thinking of as well as though he had spoken.

"How do you like Dr. V.'s sermon?" he asked as they met after Sunday-school in the porch.

"Very much," replied Olive, hardly knowing what she said; "it was a powerful appeal, certainly."

They walked a little way in silence, and then Olive said earnestly: "Walter, tell me what you are thinking of."

"I am thinking, Olive, whether this is not an appeal to me. Young men are wanted, and I am young and strong. Who is there that can go better than I?"

"It would be a great sacrifice," said Olive presently.

"Yes, a sacrifice to both of us—to me of wealth, fame, and almost all the earthly objects I had set my heart upon; not to mention the fact, that our marriage must be put off at least a year, and possibly longer. Yes, it will be a sacrifice."

"Perhaps we ought not to take that so much into the account, as the simple matter of what our duty is," said Olive gently. "Nothing, no sacrifice can be so painful to me, Walter, as the idea of being a clog upon you. I could bear any thing better than that."

"I am sure you never will be so, Olive," replied Waiter, earnestly. "You have done me far too much good already for me to imagine such a thing possible. But we will not be hasty. I will revolve the matter in my own mind, and do you do the same. Perhaps I ought not to mention it yet, but I can not bear to have a thought that you do not share."

The girls thought they had never seen Miss McHenry so absent as she was in school, next day. She became aware of it herself after a little, and exerted herself to be attentive to her duties, but it was hard work, and she was glad when school was out.

A long solitary walk helped to compose her thoughts, but she still felt almost as though she were dreaming.

"Olive looks tired to-night," Mrs. Felton remarked in her general way, addressing no one in particular.

"I have taken a long walk," said Olive, trying to rouse herself from her abstraction. "I have been up past the old red house on the banks of the river."

"Do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Felton. "That lonesome road, and so far too! But you didn't go alone?"

"Yes, why not."

"Well, I declare! I wouldn't have done it for any money when I was your age, and I don't know that I would now. Why, the old Vander Heyden vault is on that road!"

"Well!"

"And the graves of the family that was murdered by the Indians, in the old red house!"

"I never heard that," said Olive, with some interest; "what was it?"

Mrs. Felton loved nothing better than to tell a story, and moreover, she had some talent for narration.

"A family of the name of Munn formerly lived in that house," she began. "They were not much respected, and the man used to come up to the village and get drunk, leaving his family alone for two or three days at a time. Basswoods was a little place then, and this house was more lonely then, than it is now. His wife was rather a violent-tempered woman, but she worked hard, and was in a manner fond of her children. One afternoon in sleighing-time, Munn started for the village, and as usual his wife scolded him for it.

"A neighbor (that is, he lived three or four miles off) was passing, and heard them using very high words, and he said to Munn, half in joke, 'You had better not leave your family alone to-night, Jacob; there is talk of Indians up the river.'

"And so there was, though nobody thought much of it.

"'Indians!' said the brute, with an oath. 'I only wish they would come and carry off this one!' pointing to his wife.

"The man said no more, but went on his way, and Munn came up to the village. He did not go home till towards dark the next day, and the first thing he saw was his own baby lying with its brains dashed out in the snow by the gate. The woman and the other two were lying scalped and dead inside the door, and the house was robbed. It was the only one in the valley which was attacked, which made it the more singular.

"Most likely," said Mr. Felton, "the mischief was done by a small party of Indians who knew Munn's habits. They had their spies all through the country at that time. I can remember seeing him round the village when I was a boy—a miserable, crazy creature, always talking to himself about the Indians."

"But why should I not walk there?" persisted Olive. "The Indians are all dead long ago."

Mrs. Felton had no very satisfactory reason to give, only that the place had a bad name, and no one would live there. Strange things had happened in the house.

"But what things?"

Well, she could not exactly say, only that queer things had been seen there at might, and people did not like to pass it. Some thought it was not altogether the Indians.

"And if I were you, Olive, I would not walk that way towards night. It is as well to be on the safe side, you know."

This reminiscence produced others, and Olive was surprised to find how many such traditions attached to the place. In one house there had been a murder committed. From another, a young girl had mysteriously disappeared one evening, and never was heard of again. In another, the watchers by a dead body had been alarmed by footsteps in the room, and sobs and sighs sounded near them, though nothing was to be seen. Olive had never heard so many ghost stories in her life. They had, at least, the good effect of arousing her attention, and turning her thoughts for a time away from the subject was engrossing them, perhaps more effectually than any thing more sensible would have done.

The next day found her much more composed. She had made up her mind entirely to the sacrifice, feeling her own share to be nothing to Walter's; and, girl-like, she even began already to find some pleasure in the prospect of the quiet parsonage and useful life, which lay beyond that long separation which she would not look at. She was detained an hour after school by an extra class, and then went round to the parsonage to tea.

"Where is your father?" she asked, after a while. "He did not come round to hear my class in Latin, as he promised."

"He has been closeted with Walter almost all the afternoon," replied Augusta; "I can not think what they are so earnestly engaged about. Walter looked as though he had the weight of nations upon his shoulders when he came in. And you, too, look anxious, Olive! I hope there is nothing wrong."

"Oh! No!" replied Olive, earnestly. "Nothing wrong. Something very right, I hope, but something which will make a great difference in our plans, if we decide upon it."

Augusta looked at her inquiringly, and they were silent for a while.

"After all, Olive, putting aside gratified ambition, which is perhaps but a questionable good, there are few happier lives than a clergyman's," said Augusta. She spoke rather to what she supposed were her friend's thoughts, and so Olive answered her.

"People have a great deal to say of a clergyman's trials, you know."

"I know, and doubtless some have more trouble than others. One can only speak from one's own experience and observation, of course. I have lived in a parsonage all my life long, you know, and I do not know that my father has been especially favored, except that he has remained a long time in the same place. We have had some hard times, and some sad times. There have been troubles, and now and then hard feeling and discontent in the parish. Once my father had no salary for three years, and we were poor enough. But the people have always come round after a while, and we have been as comfortable as ever. I am sure my father has enjoyed pleasures which more than counterbalanced his trials, and just think how it will be in the next world, when he shall come to know the full fruition of his labors!"

"But it must be hard, Augusta, for a man like your father to labor Sunday after Sunday, month after month, without seeing any fruit of his toils."

"Yes," replied Augusta, "and a minister undoubtedly needs faith, more than almost any one else in the word. But then, what state of life is there, which has not its trials? I remember well how my husband used to come home at night, especially in court-time, so worn out and disgusted with the meanness and villainy with which he was obliged to come in contact, the double-distilled lies and inveterate malice with which he was obliged to come in contact, even among his own clients. I have asked him sometimes, why he did not abandon his profession, and take up some other line of business, and his answer always was that there was no profession in the world which had not its drawbacks and its annoyances; and that, in laying down one burden, of which he knew the weight, he might take up another still heavier."

"Walter loves his profession," said Olive, sighing. "I do not think any thing but a certain sense of duty would make him dream of resigning it."

"I hope he will not be hasty."

"He is not apt to be hasty, I think," observed Olive. "Do you know, Augusta, that when I went away from here, I thought he was engaged to Annette Vander Heyden."

"I thought you did," said Augusta, smiling; "I knew very well he was not."

"Why did you not—?" Olive stopped, suddenly coloring as deeply as the crimson cushion she was working.

"Why did I not tell you? Because I thought it better both for your dignity and his, to let him tell his own story. I felt pretty sure that he would do so, and if he did not, the least said was soonest mended."

"I assure you, Augusta, I never was more astonished than I was when I discovered that I cared any thing about him." Olive made this declaration with great seriousness, and looked rather indignantly at Augusta for receiving it with a hearty laugh.

"Well, my dear child, what of that? You do not suppose that people in general go and fall in love of malice prepense, do you? To be sure, I have known cases where men, and women, too, set themselves about getting married as they would take steps to buy a cow or a horse, but I never heard of any one's making a deliberate calculation to fall in love."

"I do not know that I ever thought of it in that way," said Olive, joining in the laugh, "but I do assure you I was surprised."

"And you thought nobody was ever so unhappy before, I dare say."

Olive nodded.

"Whereas, your experience was that of at least eighty out of every hundred sensible and reasonable people, who marry at all, and perhaps as large a proportion who never do. But here are my father and Walter, coming back from the orchard. Walter looks as though his heart was lighter, does he not?"

He did, indeed, and, as Olive observed him, she thought he must have made up his mind to something certain. He looked pleased at meeting her, and his cheerful greeting and warm hand-pressure made her heart feel ten pounds lighter. The subject was not adverted to during the evening, but when they were walking homeward, Walter told her that he had been discussing the matter the whole afternoon with Mr. Gregory, and that he felt his mind quite made up to the step.

"Mr. Gregory advises me to let the matter rest for a month," said he. "And, of course, I shall do so, if only in deference to his opinion, trying meanwhile to gain all the light I can upon the matter. The only thing that really troubles me, Olive, is your sacrifice. I had enjoyed so much the prospect of our having a home of our own this fall, and having Louisa with us. I had built so many castles on it that—" Walter's voice faltered: he could not complete the sentence.

"We will not think about that," said Olive, cheerfully, though she felt a moisture rise to her own eyes as she spoke. "Our engagement has been a very short one, and we shall be none the less happy in the end, for knowing each other better. I believe you have full faith in me, Walter; you have no doubt of my constancy—there, that will do! And I have not a shadow of distrust for you. We can afford to wait."

"And what will you do meantime?" asked Walter.

"Go on teaching here as long as they want me," replied Olive. "I am thankful that I am not dependent on any body for a house or a living. It is pleasant at Mrs. Felton's, and I like the school very much—more than I ever expected to do, when I begun. I do not think three or four years of such discipline will do me any harm."

"You are determined to see only the bright side, my love."

"I am, in this case, because the dark side is most prominent, and speaks for itself," replied Olive.

"What will your uncle and aunt say?" asked Walter.

"Frankly, I do not think they will be pleased. Uncle—I wish to speak with all respect—is proud of his profession, and considers every slight offered to it as an insult to himself. I believe, to speak the truth, that they will be likely to consider you a very visionary and enthusiastic person, in making such a sacrifice. My aunt has, of course, renounced the world and its vanities, but she thinks it no harm to give up the most of her time and energies to what she and others call the requirements of society. I hesitate to say this, lest I should seem lacking in respect and affection, but I know that the inconsistency used to strike me when I was quite a child."

"But what does she make of such texts as—'Be not conformed to this world,' 'The friendship of the world is enmity towards God,' and others of like character?" asked Walter.

"I suppose she thinks they applied only to the time when they were written, and have nothing to do with people nowadays."

"Yes, that is a convenient way of dispensing with inconvenient precepts."

"You must not understand me to say that she always does it, Walter, by any means. In many things, I think my aunt is guided by truly religious motives. For instance, she never invites company on Sunday, unless it is some person to whom it will be a real kindness. She is careful to see that the servants go to church regularly, and that they are provided with proper books, both of instruction and amusement; and she is very kind to the poor, and to all sorts of forlorn and friendless people. I think this is her one great inconsistency."

"It is so with many excellent people, I know," said Walter; "and, after all, Olive, we all have our own pet failings. Perhaps this is no worse than many things in us, which we never think of as faults. But do not say any thing to them of the matter till it is settled, one way or other. As Mr. Gregory says, a distance of time makes a great difference in our feelings, and it is possible that I may see grounds for changing my mind. We will wait a month, and then decide."

They waited a month accordingly. Walter now and then adverted to the subject, but he said very little. At the end of that time, he informed Olive that his mind was settled, if hers was. He intended to devote himself to the ministry, and to commence his preparatory studies at once. Olive had no objections to offer, and in a few days, all was settled.

Walter would not have as much to do as many young men in the same circumstances, inasmuch as he was an excellent classical scholar already, and had read a good deal of Church-history, and of other matters which would come into the course.

Of course there were a great many different opinions expressed in Basswoods when the matter came to be generally known. Some people thought it a very foolish, romantic move, for a young man already in good practice as a lawyer, to exchange a lucrative profession, which offered so many chances of rising in the world, for one which held out no promise, either of wealth or of gratified ambition. Others thought it was very hard upon poor Miss McHenry, as of course her marriage must now be put off indefinitely, if not broken off entirely. But when Miss McHenry appeared just as good spirits as ever, and upon the same terms with her lover, they had nothing more to say, except that it was a queer world, a proposition which, if you regard it in some lights, hardly admits of a denial.

There were many who gave an unqualified approval, and wished that more young men would follow such a good example, and among them were Olive's fast friends, Mr. Jones and Dr. Gordon, the two acting members of the board of trustees, who were, moreover, much pleased at the idea of keeping their favorite teacher two or three years longer.

When Olive announced the change of plans to her aunt, Walter wrote a long letter to Mr. Merton, in which he gave a full account of all the motives and reasons which had influenced him.

Mr. Merton replied very soon. As a general thing, he said, he could not approve of a young man's changing his profession when he had once set out in life, and he really thought that, with Mr. Landon's talents, he might do as much good as a Christian layman, as in the character of a clergyman. Still, it could not be denied that there was a great want of young men for the ministry. He desired his young friend to do nothing hastily, but consider well what he was going to relinquish, and also what he was going to take upon himself before making any decided move, and enjoined it upon him not to enter the work of the ministry, unless it was his intention to devote to it all his energies of mind and body. On the whole, the letter was quite as satisfactory in its character as Olive expected.

Aunt Rebecca's was not quite so much so. She evidently regarded the whole scheme as visionary and fanatical, and fully believed that Olive's apparently cheerful concurrence in it was only a freed and sorrowful acquiescence to the whims of her enthusiastic lover. She seemed indeed to place Walter's conduct upon a par with William Forester's relinquishment of the study of law, because he could not bring his mind down to such narrow limits. She concluded by expressing, in most affectionate terms, her sympathy in Olive's sad disappointment, and reminding her that she had always a home at her uncle's, independent of any one's caprice.

The kind tone of the letter brought tears to Olive's eyes, even while she half-laughed and was half-vexed at the determination to think her a martyr, in spite of herself. Since she had had the charge of young people upon her own hands, she had learned to appreciate, more than she had ever done before, how much she owed to aunt Rebecca's kindness, and how many times she had tried it, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes through willfulness and selfishness. She wrote again, to assure her aunt that she was not suffering and to beg her not to be uneasy, as she was perfectly well, and about as happy as she could be, inclosing, at the same time, a little sketch of her own face, in order to demonstrate, clearly, that she was not pining away.

The next letter was still more kindly expressed towards herself. Mrs. Merton had read Walter's letter to her husband, and admitted that his arguments were strong, but still she thought he might have been contented with doing all the good he could in his own profession. She sent him a very affectionate message, however, and Olive had no fear but that, in course of time, he would be fully taken into favor again.

Charlotte's letter was concise and to the point, like almost every thing she said. "You know very well that I do not pretend to be governed by your motives, or even to understand them, always. But I must say I think you have done right. You have acted consistently with your own views and professions. If I believed as Walter does, I should act just as he has done. I am sorry, on some accounts, that your marriage is put off, but I think perhaps it will be as well in the end."

Olive thought so, too, and she settled herself to her work with fresh patience and hopefulness, now that there was a chance of her seeing something of the fruit of her labors. People gradually ceased talking about it, and busied themselves with other matters, and by degrees Olive became as much accustomed to the thought of spending her life in a parsonage as though she had never had any other prospect before her.

"Aunt Dimsden was right," she said to herself, sometimes; "I shall be a minister's wife, after all."

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE summer term passed rapidly, unmarked by any particularly startling incident. The Basswoods people had become accustomed to the idea of Olive's engagement and Walter's change of profession, and troubled themselves very little more about the matter. The school prospered, and was larger than usual in summer, and Olive had her hands full of employment,—so full, indeed, that the trustees began seriously to talk of giving her an assistant the next term.

Olive hoped it would not be necessary. She liked to have the management in her own hands, and feared that some one might be appointed who would not work with her, and might, perhaps, thwart her plans.

She was the more solicitous on this point, as she knew very well that she had an enemy in the amiable Mrs. Tucker, who had never forgiven the summary setting down of the sensitive and conscientious Melissa, and who had never since hesitated to use all her influence against Olive, both secretly and openly. She talked of mercenary motives, and drew touching contrasts between people who taught only for money and those who taught for the love of it, though who these last were, she did not think it necessary to state. She intimated that Olive was fond of society, and went out a great deal, that her connections in M. were very fashionable people, that Miss McHenry paid a great deal of attention to the manners of her pupils, and even advised them about their dress, etc., etc.

Olive heard very little of these speeches, and troubled herself not at all about them. She had early discovered Mrs. Tucker to be a meddling, vulgar woman, very fond of having her own way, and considering herself a model of solid education, though upon what she founded her claim it would be difficult to say, except it were upon the fact of her having no accomplishments.

The school was full, the girls loved her, and the trustees were quite satisfied. Walter was every thing she had believed him to be, and now she had kind friends, and her own relatives, if they did not entirely approve of Walter's course, were at least satisfied with her. She was happier than she had ever been before in all her life, and she would have been quite happy, but for her constant feeling of anxiety about Abby—an anxiety to which she could attach no definite shape, but which haunted her continually, and made her heart beat fast at sight of a letter with the B. post-mark.

After a longer interval than usual, she got a letter, saying that they were at housekeeping, and that Abby liked it very well, "so far." The next letter was not quite so cheerful. They had not a good girl, and Abby had so much to do that she got tired to death. She supposed it was all her own fault, in not knowing how, but thought if they could only get competent servants, they would do better. She was very anxious to have Olive stop and pay them a visit on her return to M., if not to spend the whole vacation with them, and Olive fully intended to do so.

Olive, herself, was learning a good deal about work, from Ruth, who excelled in all that constituted a good housekeeper. Every Saturday she took a lesson in baking, and she felt more proud of her first fair, light loaf of bread, than she had ever been of a fine drawing.

Aunt Merton, to whom she wrote an account of her exploits, commended her highly for taking pains to acquire a practical knowledge of such things—"a knowledge, my dear, which can never come amiss in any station. At the same time, I can not but hope, notwithstanding Mr. Landon's eccentric course, that you will never be placed in circumstances which will render it necessary for you to bake your own bread."

It was plain that aunt Rebecca had not quite forgiven Walter yet, for what she considered his romantic folly. Yet Mrs. Merton regretted, extremely, the great want of young men for the ministry, and was in favor of having it made an especial object of prayer in the churches. She admired, too, the heroism of missionaries, and gave liberally to the cause.

Olive was not at all disturbed by her aunt's letter. She appreciated the kindness, and only smiled at the inconsistency. She had learned away from home, what, when at home, she had never fully realized—that, taking them all in all, there were few better people in the world than her uncle and aunt Merton. And many times did she feel herself shamed and humiliated, as she looked back on her own conduct, and thought how illy she had often requited their kindness.

The time sped on, and the summer term was near its close. Olive had made all her preparations for the long vacation, and Walter had wound up his business, except what had gone into the hands of his successor, and was giving his whole attention to some preparatory studies, under the direction of Mr. Gregory.

At the earnest petition of a number of the girls who had hitherto considered themselves quite too old to go to Sunday-school, Olive had taken a Bible-class, in which she found, both pleasure and profit. Julia Goodrich stood at the head of this class, as she did at the head of the day-school, side by side with her fast friend, Anna Jones. She never missed a lesson, was apparently very much interested in the information she acquired, and was regular in her attendance; yet Olive could not flatter herself that she was making any decided impression upon her. When the subject of personal piety was pressed upon her attention, she treated it with respect, but frankly owned that she had no interest in it, on her own account. She seemed to have an idea that she should some time or other, be converted, without any special agency of her own, and that all would be right, as a matter of course.

Olive was very much in doubt what to do with these girls during her absence. She had asked, as a personal favor to herself, that they would continue to meet, and they had promised to do so, but she could think of no one to whom to commit the charge of the class. Augusta and Ruth had their hands full, the one with the infant-school, the other with a class of large boys from the country which she had taught for several years.

She was talking the matter over with Augusta one day, when Mrs. Vander Heyden came in. She was a pleasant woman, and rather remarkably well-informed, and Olive had more than once thought of her. But as Mrs. Vander Heyden had never had any thing to do with the school, she did not venture to propose it.

In the course of conversation, however, it came out, incidentally, that Olive was looking for some one to supply her place during her absence.

"If you will trust them to me, Miss McHenry," said Mrs. Vander Heyden, "I will do as well as I can by them. I have very little experience in teaching, but perhaps I can keep them together."

"I could ask nothing better," replied Olive, equally surprised and pleased; "and I shall be very much obliged to you. I did not think of asking you, as you have never been in Sunday-school."

Mrs. Vander Heyden sighed. "Perhaps I have been wrong in keeping so much aloof from such things," said she, "but we have had such a pleasant circle at home, and I found it so easy to occupy myself fully there that I shrank from any thing which should take me out. We are sadly broken up," she added, with a sigh.

"Is Agnes going south?" asked Augusta.

"Yes, we shall take her to her aunt, in Georgia. I hope the change and the journey will do her good, for she is still sadly delicate. Jenny will be very lonely without her, I fear."

"Poor Mrs. Vander Heyden! How very sad she seems," said Olive, after the lady had gone. "I was very much surprised at her offer, were not you?"

"Not so much as I should have been a year ago," replied Augusta. "The family have lived, hitherto, almost entirely within themselves, and I believe, felt themselves quite beyond the need of neighborly sympathy. But the death of poor Annette, and the long-continued illness of Agnes and Jenny, have taught them a good lesson. I do not know what would have become of them, if they had been done by as they have been in the habit of doing to others. It shows what a really noble nature the woman has, that she has learned the lesson, and is ready to repair and acknowledge her error."

In the year which she had spent in school, Olive had learned to have not only a great respect, but also a really friendly regard for her partner in the institution. It is said that we are apt to like those whom we have benefited, and if so, it is no wonder that Olive liked Mr. Prendergrass. She had certainly, done him a great deal of good. She had coaxed him out of his seclusion, and persuaded him into society; she had made him laugh heartily, more than once. She knew, too, how to draw out his vast and miscellaneous stores of thought and information, so as to make him an entertaining companion. But it was not merely his learning that commanded admiration. He was so thoroughly good, his feelings were so elevated and dignified, his piety so earnest, every thing about him so sincere and true, that Olive had a hearty reverence for him, and looked up to him with an almost daughterly regard, at the same time that she could not help being sometimes amused and sometimes annoyed by his eccentricities, and she now and then laughed at him a little, when she was with Ruth or Augusta. In what light he regarded her, we shall soon see.

One Wednesday evening Olive did not go to church, as usual. She was not very well, and had had a fatiguing day in school. She would not allow any one to stay at home with her, and they all went, leaving her to enjoy that not unpleasant degree of indisposition which may be defined as too unwell to work and not too unwell to enjoy a new book. In this peaceful state, she had established herself upon the sofa, and given herself up to the fascinations of the "Princess."

It was not a very pleasant interruption to hear Mr. Prendergrass's voice, inquiring if Miss. McHenry was at home. But she put down her book, turned her feet off the sofa, and prepared to be gracious, wondering all the time what had kept him from church, when the clergyman himself was hardly more punctual than he.

The fact was, that Mr. Prendergrass had, for a long time, been trying to work his courage up to the point necessary for making a declaration of love to Miss McHenry. He lived, in general, so entirely out of the world, and was habitually so abstracted, that the report of Olive's engagement to Walter had never reached him, or had fallen upon unheeding ears. For the first time in his life, he had fallen into the society of a pretty, cultivated girl. The teachers before Olive had made no more impression upon him than the desks, or other furniture of the school-room. In fact, he had looked upon women in general as necessary evils, to be endured and made the best of.

Olive was entirely different. She had begun by a tacit but decided declaration of independence. She was clearly not afraid of him, though she treated him with respect. She often disagreed with him, and sometimes laughed at him. The consequence of all which was, that Mr. Prendergrass, before he knew what he was about, fell violently in love with Miss McHenry. It was a long time before he would acknowledge the fact to himself, and still longer before he could make up his mind to inform the object of his affections. But when he saw the Felton family going to church without her, and ascertained that she was at home, alone, he thought it would never do to allow so good an opportunity to pass by unimproved.

Olive never knew, exactly, how he contrived to make her understand the matter. She was so utterly astonished, so shocked and grieved at having unwittingly led the good man into an error that for a moment she could not say a word. Mr. Prendergrass evidently took her silence for encouragement.

"May I hope, Miss Olive," he said, in a trembling voice, and changing his first seat for one upon the sofa, at her side, "that you will listen to my humble suit with favor? I am aware of my unworthiness, and your exalted merit, but if the devotion of so humble an individual as myself can make you happy—"

"Stop, pray stop, Mr. Prendergrass!" exclaimed Olive, finding her voice at last. "I am so very sorry. I am afraid I have been very much to blame." And girl-like, she burst into tears.

Poor Mr. Prendergrass was inexpressibly shocked and alarmed.

"Don't weep, pray don't, my dear Miss McHenry! What have I said to cause you a moment's grief?"

"It is not what you have said," replied Olive, recovering her calmness, "but I fear I have been very much to blame. I looked up to you so much, Mr. Prendergrass—I felt you were so much above me, and so much older that I never thought of your caring any thing more for me than as a friend."

Mr. Prendergrass felt his heart sink fathoms deep, but he did not mean to give it up quite yet. "Respect is an essential agreement in the marriage-covenant. Do you not think so, Miss McHenry?" he asked timidly.

"Yes, sir, certainly, but something more than respect is necessary."

"You refer to love, Miss McHenry! Is that entirely out of the question, madam? So far as I myself am concerned, I repeat that life itself is not dearer to me than my Olive."

The dignity and earnestness with which the good man spoke, brought the tears again to Olive's eyes, but she forced them back, and determined to put an end to the scene at once.

"You will see that it is quite impossible, Mr. Prendergrass, when I tell you that I have been engaged to Mr. Landon ever since my return. I regret, very much, that any thing in my conduct should have led to such a mistake on your part, and I fear I have been to blame in not foreseeing it. But, as I said, I have been in the habit of looking up to you so much that it never struck me as possible."

Her tone, even more than the words, convinced Mr. Prendergrass that his visit was hopeless. He rose and walked up and down the room a few times.

"Miss McHenry," he said at last, stopping before her, "why did you ever come here? I was happy before that. I lived in my duties and my books, contented in solitude. I felt the need of nothing. You drew me out of myself, and away from my studies. You, first of any woman in the world, commanded my respect. You made me perfectly happy for a time, happier than I ever knew any one could be, only to plunge me in utter misery. Why did you not leave me alone?"

He walked once more the length of the room.

"Now what am I to do? I can not go back to my old way of life, and be happy in it, after the year of enjoyment I have passed. I can not forget you, even if it were possible to myself, since I must meet you every day. I have given you every thing, and left myself poor indeed, only to contribute to your amusement, and be cast aside for a younger man, who, whatever may be his merits, never can love you better than the poor awkward school-master with whom you have diverted yourself, without a thought of the mischief you were doing."

"Mr. Prendergrass, I can not permit this," said Olive, with dignity. "I make great allowances for your disappointment, but you do great injustice, both to me and to yourself, when you accuse me of trifling with you. I found you, as you say, shut up with your books, and I thought it a great pity. I tempted you from your seclusion, not to amuse myself with you—such a thought never entered my mind—but because I thought it would be much better for you, while your society would be pleasant to others. You have never given me the least reason to think that I was more to you than any other young lady in the village. I have no more to say, except that when you are more yourself, I am sure you will do me justice."

Mr. Prendergrass stood a moment. "Forgive me, Miss McHenry. I have spoken improperly, and you are right, as you always are. Good-night."

"We part friends, at least, I hope," said Olive, offering him her hand.

He took it in a grasp which almost crushed it, pressed it to his lips, and pulling his hat over his eyes, he left the house, passing Mrs. Felton at the gate, without even a sign of salutation.

"What on earth ails the man?" said Mrs. Felton to her daughter. "I should not wonder if he had got the neuralgia again. Why, where's Olive?" she continued, as she entered the sitting-room, and found it vacant. "I don't believe but that she is real sick. Hadn't you better go up and see?"

Ruth went up, but did not go in. She had an inkling of the state of the case, and she thought Olive would prefer to be alone, so she contented herself with asking, at the door, if Olive wanted any thing, and then went to her own room.

Olive would have given a good deal if she could have avoided meeting her rejected lover the next morning, but there was no help for it. And she determined to put the best face she could upon the encounter.

Mr. Prendergrass rose and bade her good morning, as usual, when she entered the large room, following her train of girls.

Glancing at him, after she was seated, she was shocked to see how he was altered. He looked ten years older, at least. His eyes were hollow, and there was an expression of forlorn wretchedness about him, which went to Olive's heart. His voice, however, was full and firm as ever in going through the morning prayers.

When school was out, at noon, Mr. Prendergrass entered the library, where Olive was, searching for something in one of the book-cases.

"Allow me a moment, Miss McHenry," he said, in his formal way, and closing the door. "I made myself very ridiculous last night," he continued, "and I fear gave you great pain."

"On the contrary, you never commanded my respect more," said Olive warmly, "and the only pain I felt was for your disappointment, and the fear that I had lost your friendship."

"You are very kind to say so." He paused a moment. "From henceforth let the whole matter be forgotten, so far as possible. I entirely acquit you of any wrong in the matter, and blame only my own folly and vanity."

Olive would have interrupted him, but he waved his hand, and proceeded. "We will say no more about it, if you please. I believe Mr. Landon to be a worthy and excellent young man, and I greatly respect him for the course which I understand he has lately taken. I hope you may both be happy, and so long as I know 'you' are so, I can never be quite wretched. God bless you!"

He bowed, and was gone, leaving Olive to wonder whether, if she had never seen Walter, she might not, in the course of time, have fallen in love with this honorable, noble, kind-hearted, formal, eccentric piece of humanity.

School was out at last, and us the scholars assembled once more to receive their prizes and to bid good-by, Olive felt sadly at leaving them, even for the vacation. She had expected when she returned for the summer term, to give up her charge entirely at this time, and to return to Basswoods as Mrs. Landon. A great change had passed over her prospects. She was none the less happy, but it was a calm and subdued happiness. Those who saw only the outside pitied her disappointment, but she told Augusta that if she could, by turning her hand, reverse the whole matter, she would not do it.

"I respect and love him more than ever, when I see him making such sacrifices to what we both feel to be paramount duty," said she, "and I never think of it but with a thankful heart that we are both of one mind."

"Mr. Prendergrass is going to travel this vacation; only think of that!" said Ruth. "He has not been out of Basswoods before, except to York to buy books, for ten years. He says he is going to the White Mountains, and up the St. Lawrence, and so home by the way of Niagara. I only hope the poor man will not get lost."

"Perhaps he will only get married," said Augusta. "You look quite indignant, Olive, but let me tell you, my dear, there is truth in the saying that 'many a heart is caught in the rebound.'"

"I was not aware that I looked indignant," replied Olive, coloring. "It is nothing to me, of course, but it does not seem very probable."

The girls smiled and turned the conversation, leaving Olive wondering why she should have felt a little vexed at the idea of Mr. Prendergrass being married.

She had expected to go alone to B., but when the day came, she found Walter prepared to accompany her.

"I can afford myself so much of a holiday," he said, in answer to her remonstrances, "and I do not choose to have you travel alone, if it can be helped. Besides, I want to see your sister and Forester. You know he was a classmate of mine. We used to be thought very much alike."

Olive wondered where the resemblance could have been, as she contrasted the high-flown æsthetics and refined selfishness of her accomplished brother-in-law, with the hearty, manly energy, and determined self-sacrifice of her lover: the one pampering his mind and indulging his taste for idleness with all sorts of pretty and petty amusements which he dignified by the name of intellectual pursuits; the other devoting all his energies to the profession he had chosen, and only relinquishing it at the call of a still higher duty. She did not express her thoughts to her companion, but perhaps he guessed them, for he said presently:

"You must not judge Forester too harshly. He has been a spoiled child all his life; petted, waited on, and admired by father and mother, brothers and sisters. He had talent, and they thought it genius, and accordingly humored him in all his pursuits, and gratified all his desires. After living upon his father till he was nearly five-and-twenty, it was naturally not easy for him to settle down to business at once. He was admired and courted in society, and that finished the spoiling."

"All that need not have made him dishonorable and false," said Olive, "as he certainly was, so far as Abby was concerned."

"Perhaps it need not, but I think you will find that idleness and self-indulgence are very apt to have that effect after a time. We will not despair of him, however, my dear Olive. The fact of his having a wife dependent upon him may force upon his mind the necessity of exerting himself."

Olive tried to hope so, but it must be confessed she did not feel very sanguine. They arrived in B. in the afternoon, and after some little trouble, succeeded in finding the house—a small brick cottage in a retired street, and Walter left her at the door, promising to return in the evening.

Her sister met her with open arms, and then followed the usual amount of tears, laughter, clapping of hands, and other demonstrations, common to all Abby's great occasions.

"You are just as much of a child as ever, Abby," said Olive, when she was finally settled in the parlor.

"Why, no, I think not quite," replied Abby, sobering down a little. "I have learned some things since I saw you. Only think, Olive, I have been a wife almost six months, and you are not married yet, nor likely to be very soon."

"I am very well contented as I am," said Olive.

"Yes, I dare say; you always are, you know. But how do you like our house? You see it is not in a fashionable neighborhood, and the house is not large nor splendid, but it is comfortable."

"It looks so," said Olive, looking round. "I see you have a piano."

"Yes, Mrs. Forester sent me that. Wasn't she kind? So different from—"

"Hush! Abby," interposed Olive, "I will not hear one word against uncle or aunt Merton. They have been kinder to you than you deserve, and you know what I thought from the beginning. You have never, so far as I know, intimated a wish to be forgiven."

"William says it is not my place to do so," said Abby. "He says they ought to make the first advances, and that uncle has insulted him. Not," she added hastily, "that I should do so, even if he would let me. But we had better not talk about that! Let me take you up to your room: you must be tired, and when William comes in, we will get your trunks up. I used to wonder how people kept house without a man, but I am finding out."

Olive begged her sister not to trouble herself, and accompanied her up-stairs to the bedroom destined for her. It was small, but well-furnished, and tolerably neat, though showing signs of needing the dusting-brush.

"The dust settles on every thing so," said Abby. "I can't think why it is. We did not use to see any dust at aunt Merton's. I hope you will not laugh at my housekeeping, Olive! I do my best, but I know very well things do not go on as they used to at home."

"Aunt Merton has excellent servants, and plenty of them," said Olive, encouragingly, "and she has kept house a good many years, while you are only a beginner. You will soon learn."

"I hope so," said Abby, "for I do hate to have things go wrong. Emma Forester was here the first fortnight, and you don't know how nice it was. She is not a bit like William—not at all a genius, though she is cultivated. William says she cares for nothing but sewing and Sunday-schools, but she is a real housekeeper, and I am sure Katy did better for her than she does for me."

"Why did she not stay?" asked Olive.

"Oh! Her mother and Emmeline wanted her, and she had to go home. But there comes William, and I must go down and have the trunks brought up."

Olive heard, accordingly, an argument down in the hall, which ended in the trunks being dragged up-stairs by a stout, good-natured English girl.

"I am afraid they are rather too heavy for you," said Olive kindly.

"Oh! No, indeed. I'm very stout, you see, and Mrs. Forester is far too delicate to put her hand to such a thing."

Olive wondered whether that were the only alternative but she dressed herself and went down-stairs.

Mr. Forester, in dressing-gown and slippers, was stretched upon the sofa in the parlor, reading a newspaper. He rose, however, when she entered, and greeted her with his accustomed easy cordiality.

"So you have come to see how far we have gone in the way of destruction you so kindly prophesied to us!" said he, after a few common-place inquiries.

"I don't remember expressing any such prophecy," replied Olive.

"Ah! Well, you thought so, and your pattern uncle thinks so still."

"Perhaps we had better let that branch of the subject rest," said Olive. "We shall not be likely to agree any better than we did before, and I can not consent to hear my uncle spoken of, except with respect."

"Very well," said Mr. Forester good-naturedly, "there are enough of other subjects to talk about. What has become of Landon, and why did he not come up with you?"

"He is in town," replied Olive, "and will be here this evening. I learned this morning, for the first time, that you were class-mates."

"Yes, surely. We never were very intimate, though. Landon was one of those plodding fellows, who give their whole energies to the daily routine of study, and are great favorites with faculty and tutors in consequence. He is just the man to make a lawyer or a minister."

"Walter is very industrious," replied Olive. "I think sometimes he hardly allows himself as much recreation as he needs, but his health is good, and he always gives himself up entirely to every thing he undertakes."

"Yet he has given up the study of law as well as William," remarked Abby, who had just come in.

"No one can say that he has consulted his ease in so doing," replied Olive, smiling, "since the one he has chosen is much more laborious, besides being worse paid."

"I can not conceive why he should have made the exchange," said William; "he always seemed to enjoy the idea of studying law."

"He thought it was his duty to do so."

"His duty! Yes, that sounds just like him," laughed Mr. Forester. "'My duty' always settled every thing for him. But, Abby, is not tea ready? I am sure it is past the time."

"It is just ready," was the reply; "I came in to tell you so."

"I don't remember hearing any thing about it. Abby is not much of a housekeeper, Miss McHenry. I wonder your good aunt did not give her lessons."

"Girls of seventeen are not apt to be good housekeepers," was the reply that rose to Olive's lips, but she checked herself, and said simply: "Abby has been a great deal in school, and she has had very little experience. She will do very well, I dare say."

"Oh! Yes, of course. Don't color so, little wife: you know you said as much yourself this morning."

The tea was very nice and abundant, though plain. The biscuits especially were very nice, and Olive noticed them.

"I made them myself," said Abby, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Emma taught me while she was here."

"You were an apt scholar, certainly," replied her husband, helping himself to another. "But, my love, I should rather you would try your skill in teaching Katy, than in doing such things yourself. A good housekeeper directs, instead of doing—is head, and not hands."

Abby looked mortified, and Olive felt indignant.

"I am inclined to think, if you were to try it, you would sometimes find it necessary to be head and hands too," said she: "at least, I never saw a housekeeper who did not."

Mr. Forester smiled and turned the conversation, but poor Abby's spirits had received a check. She evidently felt a good deal like a child who has taken a good deal of pains in preparing a present, and then hears it criticised by the person for whom it is intended. Mr. Forester seemed quite unconscious of having said any thing unkind, and continued to make himself very gracious to Olive, and to Mr. Landon when he appeared.

"How do you like your new business?" asked Walter.

"What do you mean, the nursery business? Oh! I gave that up, long ago. My partner, who was a stupid fellow, thought I ought to take half the labor of superintendence; and it did not suit me to be out in all weathers. Besides, I did not like his ideas. I wanted to make the grounds picturesque and pretty, but he had a notion that it was much more convenient to plant the trees in straight rows all of a sort, with a stake at the head of each. There was no beauty or grace in that! Then, it really seems a very heartless thing to sell for money, a tree or shrub which one has raised and nourished. So I gave it up, and lost some money by it. I am keeping books now, till something better comes along."

"Play something, Abby," said Olive. "Have you learned any thing new?"

"Not very lately; my hands have been too full."

She played and sung better than ever, Olive thought, but Mr. Forester thought she did not give exactly the correct expression.

"I really wish my ear was not so fastidious, Miss McHenry. It deprives me of any pleasure in ordinary music, and has prevented me from practising enough to make a good player myself."

Once more Abby looked uncomfortable, and Olive felt indignant. She persuaded her sister to sing again and sang with her, Mr. Forester talking all the time to Mr. Landon of the comparative merits of Jenny Lind and Sontag. So the evening passed.

Mr. Landon took his leave early, promising to call the next morning before he left town.

And Olive retired, feeling more than ever anxious about Abby's future. She could see, now that she looked at her, that Abby was thinner than usual—that she had lost much of her animation, and looked careworn. She thought she saw in Mr. Forester the beginning of what she feared he would become, when the first novelty of getting a wife and having his own way about it was worn off—a selfish, exacting, careless husband, seeking his own ease, and troubling himself very little about the comfort of his wife. There were no signs of God being acknowledged in the family—no grace at table, no evening prayers, not even a family Bible in the parlor. She went to sleep at last, so full of sad forebodings for Abby that she almost forgot to be thankful for herself.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

EVERY day that Olive spent in her sister's house, convinced her more and more that Abby, in her hasty and ill-advised marriage, had made shipwreck of her life's happiness, and roused her indignation more and more against her brother-in-law. She acquitted him of deliberate tyranny and unkindness, but she could not help seeing how systematically selfish he was—how he would let Abby go to market in the rain, rather than take the trouble to order the dinner himself on his way to his place of business. How he regularly took the best place in the room, the best light by the window, the new book or newspaper as soon as it came in. He would sit by the grate and let the fire go entirely out, while Abby and Olive were shopping, or busy in the kitchen, and he would never stir to make it up again unless he was particularly requested to do so.

On Sunday evening he would not go with them to a church at some little distance where a clergyman was officiating that Abby particularly desired to hear, playfully excusing himself upon the ground of always being sleepy at evening service, and disliking the style of music. But the next day but one, he dragged them out to a picture-exhibition quite at the other end of the town, though the day was damp and unpleasant, and Abby had a bad cold. In short, he always considered himself first of any one.

Olive could not guess whether Abby was at all aware of her husband's failings. Of course she could not say a word about them, even if it would have done any good. Several other things were very apparent. One was, that Abby was not strong. She got very tired with her household cares, few as they were in comparison with those of many people, and the unaccustomed responsibility weighed on her mind. She really too great pains to learn, and Olive assisted her as much as she could, but many times did she see the tears start to the poor child's eyes after she had taken great pains in the concoction of some dish for dinner or tea, to hear some careless criticism from her husband, or his often-repeated remark:

"I do not want you to do such things, Abby. Leave them to Katy. How often must I tell you, my dear, that it is the part of a good housekeeper to direct and not to work herself? You are getting really quite coarse from working in the kitchen."

Then Abby's color would rise, and she would be unable to eat a mouthful, while Mr. Forester would complacently enjoy the fruit of his wife's labors.

"I do wish Abby were not so sensitive and touchy," he said to Olive one day.

"We always thought she had a remarkably serene temper at home," replied Olive. "You should remember how young she is—only seventeen now, and the cares of life weigh heavily upon her."

"I do not think she has so very much to do," said Mr. Forester, in a tone of injured innocence. "I take all I can upon myself; and I have often seen women with much larger families who got on much better than Abby does."

"I do not think Abby is very well," remarked Olive. "She looks very pale oftentimes, and has not a particle of appetite in the morning."

Mr. Forester seemed rather alarmed, and for some days was so attentive and considerate that Abby was quite happy, and Olive almost began to like him.

But it did not last long; he soon became as careless as ever, and the cloud settled again upon his little wife's spirits. It was touching to see how she endeavored to deceive herself and Olive, how much she made of every kindness, how proud she was of his accomplishments, and how anxious to conceal his deficiencies. In all that related to her affections for her husband, she was a woman: in every thing else, she was a child.

She confessed to Olive after a while that she was often very home-sick, and longed to see her uncle and aunt, and that she would have written to beg pardon long before "if William had thought it best; not of course that I would say I was sorry for having married him, you know, but sorry that they were displeased at it. I can not bear to think of their being angry," she said, her eyes overflowing. "I never could endure to have even one of the girls in school put out with me."

"I do not think uncle would require you to say any thing more than that you were sorry for having displeased him, but he thinks you ought to make some acknowledgment of error, and indeed so do I."

"Do they ever talk of me?"

"Aunt does very often. She never writes without asking me whether I have heard from you, and how you are. I can tell you, Abby, there are not many orphan girls who have kinder friends than we have been blessed with."

"Yet you were very anxious to make yourself independent of them."

"In a pecuniary point of view—yes! I felt as if it were wrong to be dependent upon uncle for a living as long as I could support myself. But I have never made myself in any way independent of their authority, and have no wish to do so."

"Well," replied Abby, "what is done can not be helped. Perhaps matters will take a turn before I see you again, if I ever do. Sometimes I think I never shall."

"That is a foolish thought, my baby," said Olive, taking her sister's head upon her lap as she used to do in school, to soothe Abby's troubles; "why should you think so?"

"I don't know; I am not very well, and—you know mother died that way."

"But just think, Pussy, how many children are born every year, and people get well directly; and as for mother, I don't think she would have died but for the other troubles, father's death and the poverty and all. You must not encourage these gloomy fancies indeed, my love. It is worse than foolish, it is downright wrong. It is a want of faith in God."

Abby sighed again deeply. "Dear Olive, I am very much to blame, I know, about that and many things. I can not go to church as I used to. William does not always want to attend, and I hate to go alone; and even if I do, it does not seem to do me much good. I wish I were a little girl again, as I was when I first went to uncle's to live, or else I wish I had not been so happy all my life."

"But you must rouse yourself, Abby, my child," said Olive, cheerfully; "you have never known care before, and you are very young indeed to have the responsibility of a family upon your shoulders. But if you keep up good courage and do your best, the hardest parts will soon be past, and you will go on easier. Every one has some trouble at first."

"If I could only ever do right."

"I think you do wonders, both in cooking and housekeeping."

"William thinks I might get along with directing Katy, and doing nothing myself," said Abby, "but I have tried and I can not. She is good-natured, and willing to do any thing she can, but she is not much of a cook, and she is careless unless I stand over her. I think she has learned good deal, though."

"Oh! Yes, she has improved since I came. If you keep her a few months longer, she will turn out an excellent servant, I am sure."

"But Olive, when I am sick will you come and be with me if you can? I think I shall die if I am left alone."

"I promise you, baby. Keep up good courage, have faith in God, and I am sure all will go well."

The vacation lasted six weeks, and Olive spent four with her sister. She would willingly have devoted to her the whole six, but Mrs. Merton would not hear of it. And she reluctantly took her leave.

"Olive has promised to come to me next winter if I want her," said Abby to her husband after she had done crying.

"Has she?" replied Mr. Forester absently, and working busily at a sketch of "the East Wind," that had occupied him and the only table in the room for several evenings. "But don't you think after all, my love, that it is pleasanter to be by ourselves? Olive is very nice, but she is a little severe, a little trying, with her extremely practical ways. But never mind," he added, seeing Abby's eyes ready to overflow again. "You shall have her if you want her, my dear, if she were ten times as practical. Only, I hope you do not mean to cry so every time she goes away, or I shall wish her somewhere else. I can't bear to see women cry, and you of all others. Come now, don't shed any more tears, but look at my head of the east wind, and tell me how you like it."

Abby dried her eyes, looked at the picture, and was duly interested. She tried to keep from crying afterwards, and sustained her spirits wonderfully, considering how much she was alone.

Mrs. Granger interested herself much in the poor child, as she called her, and went to see her as often as she could, giving her many useful hints about household management, etc., but she was of course much engaged.

Abby had many lonely hours, when it was very hard not to dwell upon the dark side of the picture, when she could not help seeing that her idol was not a god—that even marriage with a man she loves is not enough to make a woman happy.

But in these very lonely hours she found comfort after a while. The lessons she had learned ever so long ago at her mother's knee began to come back to her; many a passage learned in Sunday-school invested itself with a new meaning. The little Bible she had brought away with her came to lie in her work-basket, and chapters which used to be only tasks now became full of divinest comfort. The poor child crept timidly near, and laid her weary head on her Saviour's arm. Thus she grew happier by degrees, and wrote so much more cheerfully that Olive was quite encouraged about her.

Olive's vacation at home was very pleasant. No one could be kinder than Mrs. Merton, though the sight of her niece seemed to renew her indignation at Mr. Landon's eccentricity, and Olive had to summon all her philosophy to meet the expression of it.

Charlotte, for a wonder, supported Olive, against her mother, and declared that Mr. Landon was right and consistent, and that she respected him for the course he had taken, though she was sorry for Olive's disappointment about getting settled in a home of her own.

Mrs. Merton was vexed, then laughed, called them a pair of romantic girls, and declared they would know better when they were older.

"Of course you think every thing Walter does is just right, now. But wait till you have been married ten years."

"Or till I have been married as long as aunt Rebecca," Olive ventured to say laughingly. "Now tell me honestly, aunt, don't you think uncle Merton is about as perfect as human nature allows any one to be?"

"Oh!—Well, yes, perhaps so. But your uncle would never do any thing so romantic."

"That depends upon what you call romantic. Some people would have thought it a very romantic proceeding to adopt two orphan girls, and give them an expensive education."

"Yes, I know many people did say so, but I assure you, my dear, we have never regretted it—not even when poor Abby disappointed us so sadly. And now, Olive, tell me all about the poor child. I have had no opportunity to ask you. Does she seem comfortable? Is her husband kind to her?"

"I do not think he means to be unkind, aunt. I believe he loves her as well as he can love any one but himself. But he is selfish in little things, and not very considerate, and I think Abby feels it."

"Of course she must," said Mrs. Merton emphatically. "A constant display of small selfishness will do more to render a household uncomfortable than even very serious faults of temper. And how are they situated in a pecuniary point of view? Do they seem to have enough?"

Olive thought they seemed comfortable for the present, but she had doubts for the future. "Mr. Forester has given up his nursery business, and says he has lost money by it."

"Why did he do that?" asked Charlotte.

"So far as I could find, his only reason was that he discovered it to be work instead of play. He said his partner cared for nothing but making money, and persisted in planting all the trees in straight lines. He is keeping books, now. But I don't believe he will persevere in it long. Abby tries very hard. It is really affecting to see the pains she takes to learn to cook and to sew. I am certain she never worked so hard at any school-lesson as she did to learn to make soda-biscuits."

"Poor, dear child!" said Mrs. Merton. "Only to think of her little hands doing such things. And does her husband appreciate her efforts?"

"I don't believe he does. He does not think there is any need of her working, herself, and I have heard him tell her, two or three times, that if she only knew how to direct, there would be no need of her putting her hand to any thing."

"How absurd!" said Charlotte. "I wonder how my father would get on in his office, on that principle, or a merchant in his store?"

"It troubles Abby very much, and discourages her, too," said Olive.

"And how do you think Abby felt about us?" asked Mrs. Merton. "Do you think she ever feels as if she would like to see us again? I don't want you to betray confidence, my dear," she added, seeing Olive hesitate, "but I feel anxious to know."

"I do not know that I shall betray any confidence in telling my own thoughts, aunt," said Olive. "I think Abby would very gladly ask to be forgiven, if Mr. Forester would let her. She would not say that she was sorry she married him, of course."

"Certainly not," interrupted Mrs. Merton. "We should never ask that."

"But I do think it makes her very unhappy to be so entirely separated from the family. She made me promise to be with her at the time of her confinement, if I could, but I shall not be surprised if Mr. Forester contrives to prevent it, for I know very well he does not like me. Abby is very low-spirited about it, and thinks she shall never get well. I am afraid she is sad enough, when she is alone, as of course she must be, a great deal of the time."

"Poor child!" sighed Mrs. Merton again. "How I do wish I could send and have her here, at home! If she would only take one step toward a reconciliation, I am sure your uncle would forgive her at once."

"I am sure he would, if he were to see her."

"Well, my love, we will have patience; all will be brought round yet. I am sure I wish poor Abby well, with all my heart!" A fact which Olive did not in the least doubt.

Laura seemed to be going on in much the same way as ever, but Olive did not see her. Mrs. Dimsden had taken her down to the sea-shore, and from there to Saratoga, where her dazzling beauty and sweet manners attracted much attention. Laura seemed to be in Paradise, to judge from her letters, which were very long, and so filled from end to end with descriptions of dances, parties, and every thing of that sort, that Olive hardly had patience to read them through. Now that Abby was in some degree separated from her, she felt more and more painfully the distance between herself and Laura. They did not seem to have one thought in common.

Charlotte was much more of a companion to her, though they differed so widely upon many points. She was at least serious and thoughtful. She was not impatient of half an hour's grave conversation, and she had a thorough respect for goodness in others.

Laura valued people by their dress, their station, their fine houses, and above all, by their degree of fashion. It was respectable to go to church, and besides, it was a good place to see and be seen, so she went regularly, and knelt gracefully at all proper places, but she did not like the preaching, especially Doctor Eastman's preaching, and she wished they would leave that out. She thought his personal appeals to the hearts and consciences of his flock very Methodistical, such being the title given by a great many people to any thing like earnestness.

She could understand, or thought she could, the motives of Miss Eustace, an heiress, and a very beautiful and dignified person, in presenting a superb altar-cloth and set of cushions to the church, but she could not comprehend why the same Miss Eustace should sit back with her Sunday scholars, every Sunday, and find all their places for them, or why she should spend a great deal of her time in working for them, when no one would know it, unless by accident. Laura lived entirely in and for this world, and thought or cared no more for any other than if she had had no soul.

Olive returned to Basswoods, feeling as if the winter would be rather a long one. Walter was not there. He had gone, after a short visit in M., to pursue his studies at a distance. He was to return at Christmas for a week, and to this week she looked forward as a weary passenger on shipboard looks for the land.

The school filled up at once, and so many large girls came in, that Olive, after a good deal of consideration and consultation, came to the conclusion that it would by necessary to have another teacher for the little ones. Mrs. Tucker and a few of her special adherents, who had formed a sort of party against Olive, manœuvred greatly to get this appointment into their own hands. Mrs. Tucker wished to give it to a young friend of her own, and, by what she considered a master-stroke of policy, she invited that young lady to come and make her a visit during the vacation. Miss Lambert was really a nice sort of girl, and would have answered Olive's purpose very well, but Mrs. Tucker had reckoned without her host, and like some other great generals, had out-manœuvred not her adversary, but herself. Mr. Jones heard his sister-in-law's innuendoes and suggestions very patiently, for some time.

"Sister Tucker," he broke out at last, "do you really think the trustees are going to do such a mean and uncivil thing as to put an assistant into the school without consulting Miss McHenry's wishes about it?"

"I don't see the incivility," replied Mrs. Tucker, a good deal alarmed, but standing her ground. "If Miss McHenry did not like it, she could leave."

"Yes, and that is what you want. Because she checked Melissa in her tattling when she first came, as you ought to have done yourself long ago, you have always been against her. Now, listen to me. These insinuations against Miss McHenry must be put a stop to, at once and forever. They do you no credit, let me tell you, either as a woman or a Christian, and you do Miss Lambert great harm. She seems a pretty good girl, and if Miss McHenry approves of her, there may be no objection to having her. But not one step shall be taken without her concurrence."

Mrs. Tucker could only murmur something about "not meaning any harm."

"Then be careful you don't do any harm. I have seen so much malice, and so much mischief under that cloak of not meaning any harm, that I don't think much of it."

In effect, Miss McHenry, understanding the state of the case, willing to conciliate, and having seen Miss Lambert and conversed with her away from her champion, Mrs. Tucker, was very well pleased with her, and signified to the trustees that she had no objection to their giving her the vacant place.

Mrs. Tucker exulted greatly, but her triumph was of short duration. For Miss Lambert, being really an honest, good-hearted, affectionate girl, and positively declining to tell tales out of school, and submitting herself entirely to the guidance of her principal, Mrs. Tucker considered her as having gone over to the enemy, and quarrelled with her, accordingly. It became necessary for her to seek a new boarding-place, and as she had abundance of room, Olive persuaded Mrs. Felton to take her.

Maria was young, and her opportunities had not been great. She delighted to read and study under Olive's direction, and she, on her part, grew very much attached to her, and so ended an affair which might have been a very serious one for our heroine, had her friends been one whit less straightforward or sensible.

But Miss Lambert did not remain through the year, for a very good reason—an excellent reason, indeed, since it was no other than Mr. Prendergrass. That gentleman had fallen into the habit of visiting at least once a week at Mrs. Felton's, and to him habit was second nature. So he kept on visiting there, as usual, after Olive returned. And now that there was no farther danger of mistakes, Olive was very glad to see him.

But after Miss Lambert came, she began to perceive, with much amusement, that she was not the principal attraction. He talked to her, indeed, but he looked at Maria. She was very glad to observe, after a little, that Maria herself had no objection to have Mr. Prendergrass look at her, that she was glad to see him when he came, and low-spirited if he went away early, or failed to present himself at the usual time.

At last, one day, not long after the holidays, Maria came to Olive's room, and with blushes, and smiles, and tears, and much pretty confusion, acquainted her with the fact that Mr. Prendergrass had offered himself to her, and wished to be advised.

"About what does Maria wish to be advised?" Olive asked.

Maria wanted to be advised whether she should marry Mr. Prendergrass or not.

"That depends entirely upon circumstances, my dear. If you do not love him, you ought not to marry him."

"But I am afraid I do love him," sobbed Maria.

"Then you had better marry him, by all means, my love, if there is no other objection. He is a most excellent man, and no doubt will make you very happy."

"You know I have neither father nor mother," said Maria. "I have hardly a friend in the world but you."

"Don't think of marrying simply for a home, Maria. I would rather you did almost any thing else."

"I don't indeed, Miss McHenry. I would rather go to the poor-house. But I do like him so very much, and he is so good—that—that—"

"That you can not help crying about it," said Olive smiling, and kissing her. "My love, I think you could hardly have done better, and I wish you joy with all my heart. Now then, dry your eyes and answer Mr. Prendergrass's note and don't keep the poor man in suspense any longer."

"Poor man," she thought as Maria left the room. "I need not have distressed myself so much about breaking his heart and all that. I do not believe men's hearts are so easily fractured after all."

Olive felt some awkwardness upon meeting and congratulating her former lover upon his approaching marriage, but there was no necessity for any embarrassment upon her part, for he evidently felt none. The fact that he had once cared himself to Olive seemed to have passed entirely from his mind, and he could think of nothing and look at nothing but his dear Maria.

There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed, as Mr. Prendergrass beside his salary had a comfortable little property, the result of his savings for many years.

Augusta and Ruth helped Olive to put Maria's wardrobe into a state befitting so grand an occasion. She had many presents, indeed quite a setting out of plate and china from those who took an interest in the motherless girl. The wedding took place at Mrs. Felton's and was quite a splendid affair. Contrary to the forebodings of those who knew his habits, Mr. Prendergrass was not late and did not forget the ring. Maria looked very lovely, the bridegroom very manly and sensible, and every one was pleased except Mrs. Tucker.

That lady was not pleased. She thought Mr. Prendergrass ought to be ashamed of himself to marry such a little chit of a girl as Maria Lambert—a man of "his" age! It was all an affair of Miss McHenry's getting up, and just like her. Maria had been a good girl before she fell under that woman's influence—but she had shown the disposition of a serpent in going to Mrs. Felton's, as if that lady was in the habit of taking reptiles to board, and she would have no more to do with her: so she would not go to the wedding, though Maria invited her, and would not call upon her, though they lived very near—a circumstance which probably did not detract in the least from the happiness of Maria's married life.

It was wonderful and exceedingly pleasant to see how Mr. Prendergrass improved under the influence of his young wife. He learned to dress, talk, and comport himself much like ordinary mortals, discovered that there were other objects in life besides books, and entertained company at home with great propriety. Maria was as happy as the day was long, thought her husband the most wonderful of men, and herself the happiest woman in the world, especially after Olive consented to take her younger sister in her place. She insisted upon Olive's coming to make them a visit.

And Olive accepted the invitation and enjoyed it greatly, thinking at least once every day how much Mr. Prendergrass was superior to Mr. Forester though he could not have told a Claude from a Turner—and his musical knowledge, like the western gentleman's, only amounted to two tunes, one of which was Old Hundred and the other wasn't; and how much happier Maria was than poor Abby.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

OLIVE was not with Abby at her confinement, after all—not from any fault of her own, but because Mr. Forester had very clearly intimated that he did not want her, and preferred even his own sister Emma, whom he did not seem to like very well either. But though Olive was not with her, Aunt Merton was—to explain which, we must go back a little.

As the time of trial drew near, Emma Forester, who was staying with Abby, saw that there was something which weighed upon her mind and disturbed her very much.

Emma was a kind-hearted and practical woman—she had need to be so, having exercised in her own person all the common-sense which had been brought to bear upon the family affairs since she was twelve years' old. She was not a favorite with her brothers or sisters, and truth to say, Emma's manners were not amiable: she was apt to be short and rather sharp in her replies, and to criticise, especially her brother William, pretty severely. She had been very much displeased with him for his marriage, an affair which his mother considered as at worst only an amiable eccentricity—but her anger did not extend to her little sister-in-law, for whom she felt very sorry, well-knowing what was before her.

William had positively declined having Olive to stay with Abby during her confinement, not so much in words, as in looks and tones, giving it to be understood that he preferred having his house to himself. He would not have had Emma either, if he could have helped himself, but she left him no choice, coming of her own accord about six weeks beforehand, and establishing herself for a long stay, without consulting him.

Abby was delighted to have Emma, since she could not have Olive. They suited very well: Emma from temper and habit liking to direct, and Abby pleased to be directed. Emma took at once the whole charge of housekeeping off her sister's hands, leaving her to take the rest she so much needed: and this in itself was a great relief.

But her good offices did not end here. She saw that Abby was very unhappy—that she had some secret trouble, apart from the vague fear of death which had haunted her by turns for a long time. And she set herself kindly and delicately to discover and if possible to remedy it. At last, after much coaxing, it all came out in a gush of tears.

"O Emma! I want to see aunt Rebecca so much. I want to tell her how very sorry I am for displeasing her, and ask her to forgive me."

"Well, love, what hinders you from writing to her? I dare say she would come and see you at once, if she knew you desired to see her."

"I am sure she would," sobbed Abby. "Olive says she always asks about me. I would give any thing to see her once more."

"Why not write immediately?" asked Emma.

"William does not wish to have me, Emma. He does not like aunt, and he thinks uncle has insulted him. I did speak about it once, but—" A new gush of tears followed, as she recalled the scene.

"Don't cry, my dear—now you really must not!" said Emma, with authority. "I think it can be managed, and if it can not, you must not make yourself ill about it. Lie down, child, and don't try to sew: I will attend to all that."

Abby still looked anxious. "I don't know whether it is best for you to say any thing, Emma. I am afraid—"

"Tut! Tut! My dear. He is not my husband, you know. I have not said that I shall speak to him either, but I want you to be gratified, if possible."

"You do not think it is a notion—do you, Emma?"

"No, child; I think it is a feeling that does you credit. And even if it were, I don't see why your notions should not be gratified, as well as those of other people."

"Well, I don't know," sighed Abby. "I am afraid I am very troublesome and fanciful sometimes. Nothing ever used to disturb me when I was a girl. Olive used to cry five times to my once. But lately, some how, every thing seems so heavy and hard to me—even things that would not have made any impression on me a year ago. I am afraid it is my fault, and that I am growing very unamiable."

"You are sick, child; that is all."

"I am glad you think so. You are so good to me, Emma. I don't know how I shall ever repay you."

"Pshaw!" returned Emma shortly. "One must be hard-hearted indeed, to be any thing but good to such a poor little forlorn bird as you are. I am glad if I can do any thing for you, I am sure."

William was out in the evening. There was a grand concert in town, and the tickets were only a dollar. He had lost his place as accountant that morning, and wanted something to divert his mind from what even he thought rather an unpleasant circumstance. So he went to the concert, and afterwards took an oyster-supper downtown with a friend, feeling not at all uneasy at being out late, since he knew Emma would not let his wife sit up for him. He was a little vexed to find Emma herself awaiting his return.

"Why did you sit up?" he asked. "You know I can let myself in."

"I did not sit up altogether for you," replied Emma. "I had a piece of work to finish to-night. But I do want to speak to you about Abby."

"Is she ill?" asked Mr. Forester, rather anxiously.

"She is as well as she has been for some days past, but she is very unhappy, poor child."

"What does she want now?" said he, with the air of a man accustomed to yield to a vast number of unreasonable desires upon the part of his wife. "I am ready to do any thing in reason."

"She wants to see her aunt," replied Emma, as usual coming to the point at once.

Mr. Forester's face was darkened by a very unpleasant frown. "I thought I had settled that matter once for all," he said, tapping his finger upon the table. "I told Abby that when her uncle would apologize for his treatment of me, I would let her see him, and not before. I must say, she forgets her duty as a wife, in complaining of me to you, and I do not think the better of you for encouraging her in it."

"She has not complained of you!" returned Emma, indignantly. "She thinks you are a demi-god, or somewhere near it, poor child."

"How did this come out, then?"

"I guessed it, and she admitted that it was so."

"And told you I would not let her write?"

"She said you thought it was not best."

"I do think so. I think, too, that Abby forgets herself strangely, in cherishing a desire which she knows to be directly contrary to my judgment. Since you are in her confidence, you may tell her that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Merton shall ever enter my doors, till they make me a humble apology. In her present condition, there is nothing to be done but to get along with her whims as easily as possible, but when she is better—it don't signify talking of it now! I thought you knew that I had too much pride and self-respect to be over-crowed by my wife's relations."

He took up his candle to go up-stairs.

"Very good," said Emma, coolly. "Keep your pride and self-respect, and lose your wife. Do you know what Dr. M. thinks of her?"

William hesitated, turned, and came back to the table. "Doctors are so fanciful," he said peevishly.

Emma did not reply.

"Do you really think, Emma, that there is danger?"

"There is always danger," was the brief response.

"I should be sorry to cross her unnecessarily," he continued, after another pause. "She tries her best to please me, I must say, but,—don't you think, Emma, she is very childish?"

"Very, or she would never have married you," was the rather unpromising reply. "But you are the last person who ought to complain of that. You knew what she was when you took her."

"I knew she was young and girlish, and thought I could form her mind—"

"You had better have formed your own first," interrupted his sister.

"I thought I could make her what I wanted. You know what sort of woman I always admired—a gentle, yielding character that would twine round her husband like the honeysuckle round an elm."

"Like a pea round a pumpkin-vine would be the better comparison in your case," said Emma. "You never could stand alone yourself, much less sustain any thing else. But there is no use in talking of that now: the mischief is done, and you have only to make the best of it. Now, the case stands thus. Abby, like, all young girls in such circumstances, thinks she is certainly going to die, and I do not know but she is right, for Dr. M. is very anxious—at any rate, she thinks so. She is longing, from the bottom of her affectionate little heart to see the people who have brought her up, and been father and mother to her—and to be friends with them. It is a reasonable wish, too. But you, for the sake of sustaining your absurd pride, deny her this comfort—perhaps the last that it may be yours to grant. You admit that she has never gone contrary to your wishes since you married her, and, on the contrary, has striven in every way to please you, and yet you will not make this small sacrifice to soothe her hour of trial—perhaps of death!"

"Settle it in your own fashion!" said Mr. Forester abruptly, and turning away. "I am willing she should have the whole clan here, Olive and all, if it will do her any good. Only let me know when they are coming that I may be out of the way, and avoid the scene. I must look out for something to do, I suppose, and I have not much hope of finding it here. I can make that an excuse for running away for a few days."

"Something to do! What do you mean?" asked his sister, with a feeling of anxiety which prevented her from noticing, as she otherwise would have done, the heartlessness of this speech.

"Oh! I have given up my engagement with Hancock, and shall be out of work after to-morrow," he replied, with a vain attempt to appear unconcerned.

"William, are you mad? Why did you throw up your situation without knowing that you had something to turn to, at this time of all others? What was the matter?"

"The matter was that we could not agree, and so we thought it best to part," returned Mr. Forester doggedly. "He wanted to pin me down to the desk from Monday morning till Saturday night, ten hours a day. I thought I had a right to some relaxation now and then. So I went off on a fishing-party two or three times, you know, and was not there when he expected me. Then I COULD not give my whole attention to figures; it is quite too tiresome and stupid, and narrows down one's mind to a mere point. The consequence was, that I made some trifling mistakes, and so you see—"

"I see," said Emma, finishing the sentence for him, "that as usual, you have no one to blame but yourself! William, when will you ever be a man? You talk of Abby's being a child, and so she is, but a good and obedient child; while you are a perverse, self-willed boy—a torment to yourself and every one that has any thing to do with you."

She walked nervously up and down the room a few times. William took up a pen and began to draw figures all over a sheet of music-paper. He was used to his sister's fault-finding, and waited patiently till she should exhaust her vexation, and propose some remedy for his embarrassments.

"There is no use in all that," he said at last; "and besides, you will disturb Abby."

"Very true," replied Emma, pausing in her walk, and throwing herself into a corner of the sofa. "I am glad you have the grace to think of her. How much have you beforehand?"

"Well, perhaps two hundred dollars—perhaps a little more. I do not know exactly how much of my salary I have drawn."

"Don't you keep an account?"

"No, indeed! I tried it once, but the cigars, and so on, mounted up so—"

His sister made a gesture of impatience, and he returned to his trees.

"Is that all you have to depend upon?"

"Pretty much all. There may be a little coming in from publishers."

"And out of this, your rent is to be paid—and the physician, and poor Katy, and the nurse, and housekeeping to be carried on! How do you think it is all to be done?"

"I don't know, I am sure," replied William, with an air of virtuous resignation. "I hope it will all come right some way. I must find something else to do, after I have enjoyed a little vacation, and poor Abby is right again. And now, don't you think we had better break up this council and retire? If she wakes, she may be alarmed. I won't say any thing to her, but you may tell her that she may write as penitent a letter as she pleases, disowning her husband and all his relations, if she will—"

"You know she does not want to do that. She only wants—"

"She only wants what is right, and you, too, I dare say, sis, though you are rather sharp in your way of putting it. Come, now, don't look so miserable," he added, in a coaxing way, putting his arm round her. "I will be as steady as old Hancock himself, if you will only kiss and be friends."

Emma yielded, as she almost always did in the end, to her fascinating brother's soothing and coaxing, so far as to kiss him good-night. But she lay awake till almost morning, thinking what was to become of her brother and sister when worse came to the worst—when they had spent all they had, and exhausted every one's patience.

Abby roused up as William entered, and begged to know if there was any thing wrong, but being gayly assured that every thing was very right, went quietly to sleep again.

As for William, nothing disturbed his slumbers: if he had been going to be hanged the next morning, he would have slept equally well, comforting himself with the reflection that something favorable would certainly happen before the time came.

Abby was very happy next morning when Emma informed her that there was no farther objection to her writing to her aunt, but her joy was a little damped when she was told (for Emma thought best to tell her) that William would probably have to be away upon business at the time. Still, it was with a joyful heart that she sat down to indite her letter, which she wrote and rewrote with a nervous anxiety, till Emma, seeing the state of the case, took the best copy from her hand, pronounced it good enough, folded and sealed it, and then placed it before Abby, to direct. William carried it to the post, without any remark, and made his wife very happy all day by a great many kind words, and some little attentions, which cost him nothing, but which were invaluable to her.

The family at Mr. Merton's were seated at the breakfast-table, when the letter was brought in.

Mrs. Merton took it, and broke the seal. And when Charlotte looked up from one of her own a moment after, she was both astonished and alarmed to see such an unusual sight as tears rolling down her mother's cheeks. She rose hastily, as did Mr. Merton, and the Black Prince, with his accustomed delicacy, withdrew, under the pretext of seeking hot cakes, but remained close by the outside of the door—perhaps to be within call.

"It is from Abby," said Mrs. Merton, as soon as she could find a voice. "The poor dear child has come to her senses at last. Read it, Charlotte, my dear."

And Charlotte read, being obliged to pause more than once in the course of it. When she had done, she looked anxiously from one to the other.

"You will go—you will go at once, father, will you not?"

"Certainly, my dear child, if your mother says so. I dislike the idea of meeting Forester, but poor Abby must not be disappointed. Yes, we will go at once."

"You will not see him," said Charlotte. "Did you not notice, she says he will be obliged to go away upon business?"

"Then we will set out without delay—as early as to-morrow," said Mrs. Merton.

"Why not to-day?" asked her husband. "There is time enough."

"Perhaps it will be better to leave space for a letter to precede us," suggested Mrs. Merton. "We must not startle her, you know."

Mr. Merton acquiesced, and Charlotte sat down, at once, to write the letter.

How delighted Abby was when she received it! She laughed and cried by turns, kissed her husband and thanked him so many times that he really began to think he had made a meritorious sacrifice, and felt very self-complacent in consequence. He half-resolved to stay and face it out, but found his courage failing the next morning, and went off, bidding his wife a most affectionate farewell, thinking, as he went, how badly he should feel if he were to lose her, and beginning at once to set his possible feelings first to rhyme and then to music, till he composed an affecting song, called the "Widower's Lament."

Abby would sit at the window and watch for carriages till she was wearied out, and obliged to lie down upon the sofa, in spite of herself. Then she fell asleep, and when she awoke, she found her aunt and uncle sitting beside her.

It is impossible to say what extravagances she might have committed, if aunt Rebecca had not put on her most impressive face of authority, and absolutely forbidden her to speak one word. Abby submitted, and lay still, hardly daring to think that she was awake, and not dreaming. She still lay upon the sofa, feeling very weak, but very happy, while the others went out to tea, listening, with subdued pleasure, to their voices, and enjoying the thought that uncle and aunt Merton were taking tea in her house.

How exactly it seemed like old times, when aunt Rebecca brought her her tea in the little silver mug which she had always used at home, and which had been sent to her, with the rest of her possessions, at the time of her marriage. She could almost believe that she had never been away at all.

Aunt Merton was one who never did any thing by halves. When she made up her mind to take Abby into favor, she did it heartily, and showed that she did, by making no allusions to the past, except such as were necessary in talking over affairs in M. The neighbors, the servants, the garden, above all, Laura's approaching marriage, were all talked over again and again, till Mr. Merton suggested that Abby must be tired, and that they had better go.

Abby, however, was very anxious to have them stay. There was plenty of room, and if aunt thought she could be comfortable—.

Aunt had no doubt at all about that, and so they staid. It was well they did, for Abby was taken ill in the night, and after some hours of considerable danger, was "as well as could be expected," with a fine little daughter.

Emma telegraphed to her brother with but a faint hope of his getting the message, for she knew he would probably be off fishing or scenery-hunting, and so it proved. He did not return till nearly a week had elapsed, and knew nothing of the matter till Emma met him at the door. He was sufficiently alarmed, on hearing the state of the case, to ward off the lecture which had been brewing for him, and she had hard work to keep him from rushing up to his wife's room at once.

Aunt Merton came down to see him, while he was waiting for Emma to prepare Abby, and though nothing but politeness, and even cordiality, were expressed in her tone, she succeeded, in ten minutes, in making him feel more like some condemned piece of furniture about to be sent to auction than like the master of his own house.

Abby was not so well as she had been, and William was cautioned against exciting her. He was very much affected at the sight of the wee colorless face, looking smaller than ever from the absence of the accustomed curls, and showed so much feeling that Mrs. Merton began to think she had done him injustice.

Abby brightened up very much after he came home, and she really was very happy—happy in her baby, which she found some difficulty in imagining to be really hers—in her husband whom she felt was showing to excellent advantage—in having so many friends about her, and every one so much kinder than she deserved. She felt sad when she thought of their all going away and leaving her alone. But then there would be baby, and she thought she could not be very lonely.

Emma wished very much that she could stay, but she well knew that it would be impossible.

Mrs. Forester and Emmeline fancied they were unable to live without her. Emmeline liked to think that she had delicate health, and that it hurt her to work. She could go to two or three parties in a week, and dance till two o'clock in the morning, though it always made her feel dreadfully to dust the parlor, and fatigued her almost to extinction to make her own bed. She always got a terrible headache over plain sewing, though she could embroider for hours, yes, even upon silver canvas, and her crochet collars and mats almost equalled real lace in fineness. In short, Emmeline could play to any extent, but work always made her sick directly.

Mrs. Forester never thought that Emmeline ought to be crossed in any thing. She was not strong herself, and she was very fanciful besides being proud, and her pride was constantly brought into active exercise by the reduced circumstances of the family, and the consequent struggle to keep up appearances. When Emma was at home, she earned something by translating and editing for a publisher of children's books, and moreover she took the whole oversight of the household, besides doing a great part of the work. It is easy to see that she could not be spared.

Abby did not recover so rapidly as they had at first hoped. She did not seem to have any particular disorder, but she gained strength very slowly, and now and then slight symptoms of a tendency to disease of the lungs alarmed her aunt and the physician. She was very much distressed when she found that William had lost his place, for she was beginning to realize how much it cost them to keep house, and she knew her husband would never exercise any sort of economy. It cost her a feverish night, and she was worse for three or four days.

Mr. Merton saw that something had gone wrong and that Mr. Forester was out of employment. And after a day or two, he ventured to make some inquiries of that gentleman relative to his affairs.

Mr. Forester was decidedly stiff and cold at first, but he could not withstand Mr. Merton's kindness, and moreover he was at his wits' end for the means of supporting himself and his wife. His mother had heretofore been his resource when he had exhausted his own finances, but she had impoverished herself in her efforts to help him. And Emma, in answer to a hint of the sort, had informed him that any farther assistance from that quarter was entirely out of the question. He confessed to Mr. Merton, at last, that he had hardly the means of defraying the expenses of his wife's confinement, to say nothing of the cost of housekeeping. He had drawn on Mr. Hancock for his salary as fast as it became due, and instead of having, as he supposed, a considerable balance in that gentleman's hands, he was actually some few dollars in debt to him.

There was no use in any reproaches, and Mr. Merton made none, but promised to see what he could do towards finding him employment. Mr. Forester was very much obliged, and thought to himself that it might not, after all, be a bad thing to have made up friends with his wife's rich uncle. After two or three days, Mr. Merton held another conversation with him, in the course of which he told him that he had procured for him a situation as accountant and draughtsman in a large foundry and machine-shop. The salary was liberal, but close attention to business would be absolutely necessary, in order to retain the place. He took the opportunity to press upon Mr. Forester's attention the great advantage of keeping regular accounts, and being economical of time as well as money. He thought the young gentleman might find time to finish his law studies, and be prepared to enter into business as a lawyer in the course of a year, promising him all the assistance in his power, and Mr. Forester thanked him, and listened respectfully, with some faint idea of following the advice. He went to work the next day, with great vigor.

At the end of a week's trial, his employer professed himself perfectly satisfied, and engaged him for a year, at a salary which, care and economy, would be sufficient to support them in comfort. With this care removed from her mind, Abby began to improve rapidly, and in the course of a few days was so much better that her aunt thought she might venture to leave her to herself.

"Suppose," said she to her husband, "that we go round the other way, stop at Basswoods, and take Olive home with us. It will be so much pleasanter than for her to come alone."

Mr. Merton thought it an excellent idea, and, accordingly, as Olive was sitting at the piano one evening after tea, she was surprised by the sudden entrance of her uncle and aunt.

At first she was frightened, thinking that Abby must be worse. But a moment's thought reassured her, and she gave herself up to the unexpected enjoyment. They had proposed to stay at the hotel, but Mrs. Felton had abundance of room, as Isabella Lambert was at her sister's: she was very urgent with them to remain, and Mrs. Merton finally consented, after stipulating that she should make no difference in the family arrangements. There was, indeed, no need of her doing so, for Mrs. Felton's housekeeping was always carried on upon a very liberal scale—so liberal, indeed, that Olive thought she could not make much by her boarders.

"Why, really, my love, you are delightfully situated here—are you not?" said Mrs. Merton, as she surveyed Olive's comfortable room. "I had no idea that you were in such luxurious quarters. I should think Mrs. Felton might be a trifle wearisome sometimes, however."

"One soon gets used to it," replied Olive, smiling. "I know exactly how much importance to attach to her complaints, and in general mind them no more than the rain on the windows. She is really very kind to me, and I have no excuse for being dissatisfied or home-sick, except the desire to see you all."

"And Miss Felton—what a delightful person she is!" pursued Mrs. Merton. "She is not pretty, but there is such a charming cheerfulness about her face and voice that she really seems to bring the sunshine into the room with her. If she only had a little more style, she would really make a sensation in society. You must bring her home with you some time, Olive, to make a visit. I should be quite delighted to have her, and I think a little of the world would be a great advantage to her."

"I am glad you like her," said Olive, feeling as though she did not care to have Ruth improved in that way. "She is one of my most intimate friends. I want you to see Mrs. Tower; she is very different from Ruth, but equally excellent."

"All in good time, my dear. I mean to see all your friends before I go, and your school, too. How soon is it out?"

"There is only one week more."

"And then you have an examination, I suppose?"

"No, aunt, I am thankful to say, we do not. We have a review-day every fortnight, and the last two weeks of the term are spent in the same way, but we have no public display, except in declamation and compositions. The school is open to visitors at all times, and we have a good many, especially on repetition-days. If you will come in to-morrow, we shall be very glad to see you. I assure you I am proud of my girls. But I want to hear all about Abby and the baby."

Mrs. Merton was very ready to tell; and Abby's affairs, and Laura's approaching marriage, occupied the evening. Olive was very much touched at hearing of her uncle's kindness, and especially on learning what neither Abby nor William yet knew, that he had defrayed the entire expenses of her sister's confinement, besides leaving in Abby's hands a sum sufficient to last till William should receive his first quarter's salary. She could not help feeling some sympathy for what she supposed must be William's mortification at being oblige to receive assistance from one whom he had so deeply wronged, but she might have spared herself the trouble.

That talented young gentleman had early imbibed the idea that he was created to amuse himself, and the rest of mankind to wait upon him. From the exaltation of his fancied genius and refinement, he looked calmly down upon those lower mortals, whose grovelling minds permitted them to learn and labor truly to get their own living, in the state of life to which God had called them. He had felt a little annoyed at first, on discovering that Mr. Merton had left money with Abby, but the feeling did not prevent him from spending seven or eight dollars of it upon some new engravings which had struck his fancy, and which, he assured Abby, were so cheap that it would have been really foolish not to buy them.

"Economy!" he said, when she remonstrated with him. "Oh! Yes, of course, we must practise economy, but your uncle can not expect me to deny myself all gratifications. I can not live without books and pictures."

"In what, then, do you propose to economize?" persisted Abby.

"Oh! Why—in dress and housekeeping—any thing, in short, but intellectual pleasures."

Abby shook her head. "The housekeeping costs as little as it can, William."

"But could you not manage with a less expensive girl, my dear? I have heard of servants getting only six shillings a week, and we give Katy twelve!"

"I do not like to part with Katy," replied Abby, her heart sinking at the prospect of a new and cheap girl. "She has just learned to be useful, and attends to baby so nicely."

"Oh! Well, I only mentioned it. I thought, when it came to your own case, you would not be so very desirous of saving. It is easy to be economical of other people's enjoyments."

Abby's pale face flushed, and the tears filled her eyes.

"There, now, don't cry! I am sorry I said any thing, but you are so cool in proposing your economy to me. But come, cheer up, my little darling. I am coming to take you to ride presently."

Abby cheered up, and was thankful for the prospect of a little fresh air, for she was not able to walk out yet. But when the carriage came, there was a new cause of annoyance.

"Why do you wear that coarse blanket of a thing, my dear?" said William, glancing disdainfully at the large woollen shawl Abby had put on. "It makes you look like a servant."

"I have no other," replied Abby, coloring. "My cloak is not warm enough, and I can not wrap the baby in it."

"Oh! Pray don't take the baby. She will be sure to cry, as they always do when they ought not to, and besides, it will tire you to death. I am sure your cloak is warm enough, my love," he continued, dexterously removing the obnoxious shawl, and throwing it over the arm of the sofa. "You do not know how mild and pleasant it is. Come, you are too bad to make such a figure of yourself, when you know how much I like to have you admired, and you are ten times prettier than ever."

So Abby wore the cloak, returned home chilled through, and was very ill next day, in consequence. Mr. Forester was very sorry, paid her every attention, and to prevent the possibility of such an accident happening again, went out and bought a new shawl, for which he paid thirty dollars.

To return to Basswoods! Mrs. Merton was delighted with the place and the people, and quite astonished to find so much refinement in a country village. Mrs. Gregory made a little party for her: so did Mrs. Gordon, and at both did Mrs. Merton win golden opinions from all sorts of people, by her elegant appearance and charming manners. It was a peculiarity of hers that every one with whom she conversed ten minutes, felt as though he or she had received a personal favor. Some of Mrs. Tucker's adherents, who had hitherto been rather unfriendly to Olive, suddenly turned completely round, and were warm in their praises of her and her relations.

In short, Mrs. Merton's visit did a great deal of good, and Olive enjoyed it extremely. She told her aunt she thought it would not do to offer to pay Mrs. Felton for their board, and Mrs. Merton, after considerable hesitation, consented to give up the idea, thinking that she could make it up in some other way. Accordingly, she afterwards sent Mrs. Felton a beautiful dress and shawl, with an elegant letter, which Mrs. Felton showed to all the village, thanking her for all her kindness to her niece, and requesting her to accept the accompanying articles from herself and her husband, as a testimonial of her gratitude.

A proud and happy woman was Mrs. Felton. Ruth was pleased with the delicacy of the attention to her mother, and Mr. Felton, whose conversation was usually summed up in a semidiurnal report of the state of the weather, gave vent to the profound and original idea, that in point of fact, some people were very different from other people.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

MRS. DIMSDEN'S summer campaign at Newport and Saratoga had been successful, almost beyond her highest hopes. Laura was going to be married to a man of wealth and position fully equal to her uncle Merton's—a man who had been an object with speculating young ladies and their mammas for several years. Attracted by Miss Dimsden's magnificent beauty, he had followed the ladies from Cape May to Newport, from Newport to the White Mountains, and from thence to Saratoga, where he finally surrendered at discretion.

It was a singular circumstance that no sooner was it known that Mr. Witherington was engaged to the young and beautiful Miss Dimsden, than all these same speculating young ladies and their speculating mammas were at once filled with pity and sympathy for the poor girl, thus remorselessly sacrificed by her heartless aunt, and with contempt for the weak-minded suitor, caught by a girl without principle and without fortune.

Olive had made anxious inquiries of Mrs. Merton concerning her future brother-in-law.

"It is an excellent match, my dear, in all the generally received senses of that much abused word. Mr. Witherington is a man of good manners, excellent principles, and a large fortune. He has a fine house in town, and a fine house in the country, and all that; and moreover, he is desperately in love with Laura."

"Then I do not see, aunt, but that Laura's chances for happiness are excellent."

"If you will excuse my saying so, Olive, I think her chances are better than his." Olive looked at her inquiringly. "You know I am not romantic in the least," continued Mrs. Merton, "but then I have rather peculiar notions. I do not think a woman has any right to marry a man unless she honestly prefers him to all the rest of the world."

"And you think, aunt, that Laura does not—"

"I think she is almost indifferent, my dear. Begging your pardon for speaking so freely of your sister, I do not think she has depth of character enough to appreciate a man like Mr. Witherington. He is an earnest, grave person—what I call a weighty man, and I fear he will be disappointed in his wife. Of course, he can see no fault in her now."

"But it seems rather strange," said Olive, after a little silence, "that Laura should not like such a man."

"She does like him, my child, but she does not love him, and no one should know better than you that there is all the difference in the world between loving and liking."

"I suppose aunt Dimsden is delighted."

"Oh! Of course; you know what her ideas of marriage are. But don't attach too much importance to what I say, my love," added Mrs. Merton kindly. "Perhaps when you see them together, you may think I am entirely mistaken."

"And how is Laura?" asked Olive.

"She is splendid—really magnificent! I never knew that she was half so beautiful, and she has a subdued, gentle manner, which is very becoming to her. And now, while I think of it, Mrs. Dimsden is bent upon having a grand display—a reception, and all that, and of course you and Charlotte must be dressed to correspond. Now what I want to stipulate is that you shall permit us to provide your dress and ornaments. I know you like to be independent, my dear, but you must really allow us this pleasure. You will have ways enough to dispose of your earnings by and by."

Olive accepted the kindness, and felt very grateful for it. She knew her aunt wanted her to be dressed like Charlotte upon all occasions, an expenditure which, now that she was dependent upon her own resources, and had such a strong motive for saving, she felt that she could not well afford, and she appreciated the delicacy which thus granted a favor on pretense of asking one.

They arrived at home early in the evening, and Olive was hardly dressed before the Black Prince announced Mr. Witherington and Miss Dimsden.

Laura was certainly more dazzling than ever, and Olive could not wonder at her lover for looking at her constantly, even while talking to other people. She was very much pleased with Mr. Witherington. He did not talk much, and was evidently full of serious thought, but what said was frank, manly, and to the purpose. She thought he winced a good deal under Mrs. Dimsden's genteel vulgarisms, and she admired the adroit way in which Laura often contrived to turn the conversation, or to divert her lover's attention to herself.

The evening passed before she could satisfy herself as to whether her aunt was right in her ideas about the depth of Laura's attachment.

The next day she spent the whole morning in her sister's apartment, admiring and commenting upon the bridal finery which Laura displayed for her inspection. Every thing was of the best and handsomest, and Olive gave her aunt credit for greater liberality than she had thought belonged to her. Laura told her how many presents she had had.

"These two boxes of hankerchiefs Charlotte gave me. See what beauties they are, all marked with my name so ingeniously. Aunt Merton gave me this set of cameos. Don't they look just like her, so quietly elegant? Besides, she and uncle together gave me the tea and coffee-set that you will see by and by. They are much handsomer than Jane Lewis's were. Mrs. Schuyler gave me the fruit and cake-knives, and Louisa a beautiful little pitcher. The Jenners sent me the egg-cups lined with gold, and Mrs. John Jenner a beautiful basket, etc., etc. Now confess, Olive, is it not worth while to be married, to have such beautiful things given to one?"

"I am afraid I never took that into the calculation," said Olive, good-naturedly.

"No, I dare say not, but you and I are very different, you know. Now only think, if you had only been guided by aunt Dimsden, you might have married a rich man, too, instead of a poor minister. Not," she added hastily, "that Mr. Witherington's money is the only good thing about him."

"I should think his money was the least recommendation," said Olive. "He appears to me to be a very earnest, excellent man. I only hope you love him as he deserves."

Laura laughed and then sighed. "Why, to tell you the simple truth, Olive, I don't think it is in me to 'fall in love,' as people call it, with any body. I esteem Mr. Witherington highly, and I have a very great respect for him. I think that is a great deal more sure foundation than such a violent passion, don't you?"

Olive shook her head. "'Love,' honor, and obey, Laura!"

"Oh! Well, of course, yes. But there is another thing, Olive—do you think that obey is to be rendered literally, or is it just put in to fill out the line?"

"I think of it in this way, Laura. A man ought to be head of his own house, and when there is a decided difference of opinion, the wife ought to give up. I must say I do not believe in a woman's humoring a man in all his whims and caprices, as Abby does with William. It is not good for her, and certainly it is very bad for him."

"But, now for instance, to take something that you know all about, there was Janet Forster. She married Mr. Heyling, you know, when she was so very poor, and he not only took care of her, but of all her relatives. Then she was seized with a poetical mania, and wanted to publish her poems. He was a very proud man, and it disturbed him dreadfully to think his wife should write for money. He could not bear to have her publish the volume, but she persisted. It came out in spite of him, and she got the pay for it, whatever it was. What do you think of that?"

"I never knew exactly the truth of the matter before," said Olive, "though I knew that poor Mr. Heyling was very unhappy. I must say, I think she did very wrong. Supposing that it was a foolish pride, which I will not deny, she was under the greatest obligations to him, not only for herself, but for her family. The poems were not so very splendid that the world would have suffered any great loss from their suppression."

"I don't think he objected so much to her publishing as to her writing for money."

"Then she ought not to have written for money. What did a few hundred dollars, more or less, matter, compared to her husband's annoyance?"

"I always thought she was wrong," remarked Laura. "If I were going to differ from my husband, at least I would do it in a delicate way, and not make it a subject of town gossip. But I don't believe Mr. Witherington will try to govern me much."

"I rather hope he will," said Olive, smiling. "He does not seem at all like a man who would be tyrannical or capricious, and a little reasonable government will do you no harm."

Laura laughed heartily at the idea. "Really, Olive, you are very good. Don't look grave, my dear, I mean to be quite a pattern wife, I assure you, and shall preside over my husband's establishment with all the dignity and grace imaginable. I mean to make him very happy, and never contradict him unless we differ in opinion. But come down-stairs—I want to show you my presents."

The presents were magnificent. Laura had their cost all by heart, and went over it all with a readiness which would have done credit to a jeweller's' clerk.

"What a quantity of silver you have!" remarked Olive. "If you should ever become reduced in circumstances, you might set up a shop, and stock it with your bridal presents. Let me see—here are one, two, three, six butter-knives, all marked with your name, and how many fruit-knives?"

"Two complete sets, besides three odd ones. That is the trouble—one gets so many things just alike. I have four or five cream-spoons, and three sugar-sifters, and so with other things."

"I shall be quite afraid to put my simple presents by the side of all these grand things, Laura. I have not felt as if I could spend much money, and my plain white Parian ware will look out of place beside all these grand things, I am afraid."

"No, indeed," replied Laura, with more earnestness than she usually manifested. "If you had given me nothing more than a sheet of paper, Olive, I should think more of it than of all these fine things that people give me to display their own liberality, and get themselves talked about."

"You don't seem to have a very high opinion of your friends," remarked Olive.

"Of course that does not apply to all of them," returned Laura. "Some of these were given by dear friends, and these I really value. The things uncle and aunt Merton have given me, for instance, and Mrs. Schuyler's presents, because she was a friend of mother's, you know, and the Jenners, because I always loved them. But there is Maria Lewis, she never liked me, though she wanted me to marry Sam. And after I refused him, she hated me, I know—yet she sends me this superb "odeur"-box, just that she might see it on the table, with her name attached to it."

"I should hardly want to accept presents upon such terms, I think," said Olive.

"Oh! The things are just as pretty and convenient, you know, as if they liked me ever so much. But tell me, Olive, and pray don't think I ask because I am dissatisfied, or any such thing—why can not you afford to spend as much money as you want? I am sure you have some good reason."

"My reason is Abby, Laura. I feel as if the time would come when she will need all that I can do for her. William is not getting on at all in business, and is not likely to. He is very extravagant besides."

"I am very sorry to hear it. I hoped they were doing pretty well. Perhaps I shall be able to help them."

"If you can do it by denying yourself, and curtailing your own expenses, my dear Laura, I shall be very glad. But pray do not ask Mr. Witherington to do any thing for them."

"What a queer girl you are! Why not?"

Olive thought if the "why not" did not present itself, there was no use in arguing the point any farther.

"I hope, at any rate, Laura, if your husband approves, you will go and see Abby, or at least write to her."

"I have done that already," said Laura. "I told aunt I would not be married at all unless she would let me ask Abby to the wedding. She made a great fuss at first, and threatened to appeal to Mr. Witherington, so I saved her the trouble by appealing to him myself. Then she was frightened, for he is so very precise and particular in his ideas, and she thought the match might be off."

"What did he say?" asked Olive, very much interested.

"He praised me very much in the first place, for telling him every thing. Then he asked very particularly about the affair, and aunt told him, only she made it a great deal worse than it was. You would have thought Abby had behaved more shamefully than any one ever did in the world. I could not help putting in a word now and then, and finally he said I might have my own way in the matter. Aunt was very angry, but she dared not show it to him, you know. So I wrote to her day before yesterday. I do wonder if she will come?"

"I am rather afraid not, Laura. Abby has more on her hands than you have any idea of. She wrote to me that she had changed girls lately, and she has not learned to keep house so but that it takes all her time. Moreover, I do not think William will spare her, and I am very certain he will not come himself."

Laura sighed.

"I am very sorry for her, I am sure. It seems a great pity—so pretty and well-educated as she is. She ought to be enjoying herself in society, instead of being burdened with a house and a baby at her age. Only think, she is only eighteen now! I do think girls lose a great deal by marrying so young, Olive, even if they marry well."

"I think so, too, Laura. But I must go home, or aunt will miss me at luncheon-time. I shall see you again to-morrow, and arrange about every thing."

Olive felt rather sadly as she walked homeward. She did not think Laura was doing right, and she feared that Mr. Witherington would be disappointed in her. He seemed an earnest, thoughtful man, who would need something more in a wife beside beauty and fine manners. And, fond as she was of her, she could not conceal from herself that Laura had no depth, either of character or principle. She clearly married Mr. Witherington, not because she loved him, but because he was an excellent match, and could give her at once that wealth and position which she had been educated to regard as the chief end of existence.

For a time, her husband's eyes might be blinded by her beauty and his own passion, but Olive felt as though he must find out the deficiencies in his wife after a while, and be made very unhappy by the discovery. There was nothing for it, however, but to hope that a man of so much depth of character might influence Laura, and lead her to higher things. At present, all the energies of herself and her aunt seemed concentrated on the desire that the wedding should eclipse every thing of the kind ever seen in M. before. Aunt Merton, though she disapproved of gay weddings, as a matter of taste, lent her efficient aid to gratify them, and devoted more time and attention to the affair than she had ever done to any party of her own.

Abby could not come. She wrote that Katy had left her, and the girl she had was not very efficient, baby was troublesome, she was not strong herself, and, on the whole, she thought it would be better not to make the attempt. She sent her love and good wishes, and a beautiful handkerchief; embroidered by her own hands, as a present for Laura. Olive was glad that Laura persisted in carrying this handkerchief on her wedding-day, instead of the more splendid Honiton-bordered one which Mrs. Dimsden had provided.

They talked over the letter together, and agreed that it was very sad, despite the evident effort to make it cheerful. Abby was clearly very home-sick, and very much depressed, though she said not a word of any new trouble, except her change of girls, and that baby was troublesome. She had made acquaintance with the rector of the nearest church and his wife, who were very kind to her, but she could not get to church very often. Mrs. Granger came to see her sometimes, and was very good to her. Such was the substance of her letter.

The eventful day arrived. Olive's dress was perfect, and aunt Rebecca, as she clasped the last bracelet—part of a beautiful set of ornaments presented by her brother-in-law, pronounced that she had never looked so well in her life. And, as Olive looked in the glass, she thought so, too, and wished that Walter were there to see her. Mrs. Merton did honor to the occasion by a superb new dress, and her most magnificent display of diamonds—rather a remarkable thing for her, as she did not usually trouble herself to dress much. Charlotte was attired exactly like Olive, and looked very queenly and amiable.

"Olive," said she, as they were waiting for the carriage to convey them to Mrs. Dimsden's, "how should you like all this fuss, if you were going to be married yourself?"

"I am afraid I should think it a very great bore," answered her cousin.

"To be obliged to fix one's attention on ribbons, and lace, and petticoats, at such a time, when all one's thoughts should be concentrated upon better things," continued Charlotte, "to be obliged to listen to flat compliments and foolish speeches at such a time, I think it would be dreadfully tiresome."

"People feel very differently about such things," observed Olive. "A wedding always seems to me among the most solemn of religious ceremonies, and a gay party seems about as appropriate on such an occasion, as it would at a christening or a confirmation. It is taking so much upon one's self. It makes such an entire change in all one's circumstances and duties—such a responsibility."

"I almost wonder you have the courage to attempt it, Olive. You have such high ideas upon the subject. Do you think you will ever be able to live up to your own notions of the duties of a wife?"

"Probably not, as I never yet lived up to my own standard of duty in any thing. But I shall do my best, and I hope I shall not be left to myself. Then Walter and I agree perfectly in all important matters, which will be a great help."

"I have no doubt you will get on nicely," said Charlotte. "You are the only pair of lovers I ever saw who seemed to me to be in the faintest degree rational, or in fact endurable. I used to think people in that condition must act like fools, as a matter of course."

"Carriage waiting, young ladies," announced the Black Prince, himself "en grande tenue," as expecting to bear a conspicuous part.

Wrappers and hoods were donned, under the direction of Mammy, who gave a last touch to the drapery, and a last charge to her young ladies not to get cold as they came out of church.

They found Laura ready dressed, and looking very splendidly in her white "moire antique" and beautiful veil. Pearls, gloves, bouquet, wreath, were all in the finest taste. Mrs. Dimsden, in a splendid satin dress and a wonderful cap, was walking round and round her, adding a touch here, and a pin there, now adjusting a fold of her veil, and then giving a pull to the skirt.

Mr. Witherington was grave, and apparently a little embarrassed. Olive thought he felt himself rather oppressed by the weight of his aunt-in-law. He certainly did not look as if he enjoyed the bustle very much, though he brightened up wonderfully when his beautiful bride appeared, and looked very happy.

Laura's feelings did not at all interfere with her self-possession. She very evidently thought more of her dress than of any thing else. She showed no sign of timidity when they found the church crowded with people, and the street outside filled with gazers, and was not half as much embarrassed as Mr. Witherington. His voice trembled very much in making the responses, but she was as cool as though going through an ordinary school recitation.

Every one said so beautiful a bride had never been seen in the church before. Mr. Merton gave her away, Olive held the glove, and every thing passed off well.

There were three quarters of an hour to spare before the company began to arrive, and Mr. Witherington seemed as if he would gladly have had his wife to himself for a few minutes, but he was made to understand that it was quite out of the question. Laura must have some changes made in her dress, and she must give her opinion with regard to the table and the refreshment-room. Mr. Witherington felt himself decidedly in the way, but comforted himself with the idea that it would soon be over, and then he could enjoy his dear Laura's society in peace. He had yet to learn that his dear Laura was in her element amidst such scenes, and found a quiet day at home the most stupid thing possible.

The presents were all ticketed, as Charlotte had said, and arranged on the table so as to show to the best advantage, Abby's handkerchief occupying a conspicuous place among the more splendid gifts. The circle was duly formed, and every thing arranged for the grand parade, before the first carriage, rattling to the door, announced the first installment of the dear two hundred friends to whom Mrs. Dimsden had sent cards.

Olive found the whole thing desperately stupid. It was very tiresome to stand two hours in a graceful attitude, and reply to the inane speeches addressed to her by the young gentlemen who came to pay their respects to Mr. Witherington. She felt vexed at Laura for her evident enjoyment of the affair—vexed at Mrs. Dimsden for her parade of the presents and dresses, and so forth, sorry for Mr. Witherington, who looked uncomfortable and out of place, and provoked at herself for feeling like crying all the time.

Mrs. Merton shone superior, doing the gracious to all the rather out of the way people, being in every place where she was most wanted, and making every one say, "What a splendid woman Mrs. Charles Merton is!" And many people added—"So different from Mrs. Dimsden!"

The supper was very splendid, the Black Prince in his glory—a glory of manners and dress, of gloves and white favors. He had a brother, second only to himself in splendor, who was always under Edward's orders upon such occasions.

Mrs. Dimsden was rather nervous at first, but Mrs. Merton whispered, "Don't be disturbed, my dear Alicia! Leave every thing to Edward and Mammy—I always do."

"My dear Alicia!" Mrs. Dimsden felt two inches taller, and was quite happy for the remainder of the evening. Every thing was of the best. The brilliant pyramids stood up straight. The ice-cream doves, and nymphs, and temples, kept their shape, and the oysters and salads were perfect.

Major Trimble expressed to divers and sundry people the original opinion that Mrs. Dimsden was quite a "Palladium" of a housekeeper, and that Mrs. Witherington was quite dazzling, but added confidentially his opinion that it was a pity she should be sacrificed to such a dull old sort of a man as Mr. Witherington seemed to be.

Well—it was all over at last. The guests departed, the bridesmaids returned home, and sat down by the fire to rest and talk the matter over.

"Was not Laura magnificent?" was the first exclamation, but "How uncomfortable poor Mr. Witherington looked!" the next.

"He seemed to feel himself so much out of place," said Olive, "but I do not think any the worse of him for it."

"Nor I," replied Mrs. Merton. "I think he looked thoughtful and earnest, as a man should on his wedding-day. I hope, Olive," she continued, as she unclasped her bracelets and pulled off her gloves, "that you have no desire to have a grand wedding. A wedding-party two or three weeks afterward is not so bad, but really, people ought to want to be by themselves at such times."

Olive raised her hands in horror.

"I think I see myself," she said, "paraded out for three mortal hours, to be looked at and criticised by every one that chose to look at me, and go home and talk about me afterward. But, after all, every thing passed off nicely—did it not? And how well aunt Dimsden looked—only aunt Rebecca eclipsed her."

"Did I?" said Mrs. Merton. "I am very sorry for that. I dressed more than usual, thinking Alicia would like it."

"And so she did," said Charlotte, "especially when you called her dear Alicia. I was afraid she would spoil it all by being fussy. How well the Black Prince appeared! I think, mother, it would be a grand thing for Edward and George to let themselves out, to do manners at the expensive people's parties. Just think what an advantage it would be to them!"

"Hush!" said Olive. "And don't be scandalizing your neighbors. Well, it has all gone off nicely, and aunt Dimsden has gained her point with Laura, as with all the rest, and given her a rich husband and a splendid wedding."

"I wonder who she will take in hand next," said Mrs. Merton. "After all, my dears, it is much better to pass over Mrs. Dimsden's weak points, and dwell upon her good ones. She has been very kind to Laura, and has acted for the best, according to her ideas. And now I must insist upon your going to bed at once. We shall have plenty of calls to-morrow, and I want you to look your best. You need not laugh, Olive. It is no reason that because you are engaged, you should not do yourself credit. Your lover will not think the less of you because other people admire you."

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

POOR Abby! The girls had guessed rightly in thinking that she was very home-sick, and very much depressed. She did not grow strong, as she had hoped to do, and was able to go out but little. Her baby was a great care—enough to have used up all her strength, if she had had nothing else to do. And to crown her grievances, she lost Katy just as her services began to be very valuable.

Katy was very sorry, indeed, to leave, but she could not go on from month to month without having any wages. She did not like to speak to Mrs. Forester, who was so delicate and so good to her, and so one day, when the lady was out, she broached the matter to the gentleman, of whom, notwithstanding his grand air, she was not half so much afraid as of his wife. He treated the matter negligently enough at first, assuring her, in a careless way, that she should be paid by and by. Katy grew bolder and insisted that she could not live without clothes. Whereupon, Mr. Forester waxed angry, and ordered her to leave the house at once.

When Mrs. Forester came home from a shopping excursion, wearied almost to death, she was struck with consternation to find Katy packing up her goods and crying bitterly, and to hear that Mr. Forester had told her to go straight off, and never come near the house again. Abby could have cried herself upon the spot, but painful experience had taught her to restrain her tears. She felt what an ungrateful return it was for all Katy's faithful and unrewarded services, and looked forward with dread to the amount of work that would be thrown upon her hands, already so burdened. She would have tried to soothe Katy—to prevail upon her to stay, at least till some one could be found to supply her place, but William, who overheard her, put a stop to her endeavors, in a way which he considered very magnificent.

"I have desired Katy to go at once! She has been very insolent to me, and I will have no one under my roof who does not treat me with proper respect."

"I want my wages!" said Katy, changing her tone at once from the tearful to the defiant, as the gentleman appeared upon the scene. "You owe me thirty-five dollars, and I want it before I leave the house."

"I should like to see you get it," replied Mr. Forester, turning away. "If you had asked me properly, I would have given it to you at once. But now you shall wait my pleasure."

"You call yourself a gentleman—do you?" began Katy, her blood thoroughly up.

But he had disappeared, and Abby said, almost imploringly:

"Hush! Hush, Katy! I am sure you would not say any thing to grieve me. You shall be paid, I promise you." And she took out her purse, containing the remainder of her uncle's gift, which she had been saving against any emergency. She had only twenty dollars.

"There is all I have at present, but you shall have the rest, I promise you."

Katy melted into tears once more. "Indeed, Mrs. Forester, I would not have said any thing, but I am clean out of clothes, and I must pay my little brother's board, you know. Any way, I shall always think well of you and the dear baby."

Mr. Forester thought, for a while, he had done a grand thing, and shown a great deal of firmness and decision. But he began to be not quite so sure of it, when he saw how hard it was for Abby to prepare tea and wash up the dishes, and how tired she seemed after it. He fully intended to get up the next morning and make up the fires, but baby was restless, and kept them both awake, and when he first roused himself, he really was too sleepy to get up. A cry from the little one at last roused him to the consciousness that Abby was down-stairs. And when he descended, he found breakfast nearly ready.

In reply to his remonstrances, his wife only pointed to the clock, which was fast approaching to eight, the hour when it was absolutely necessary for him to be at the office.

Mr. Forester was very sorry, and a little vexed. He swallowed his breakfast, not without a remark that the cakes were not as light as usual, and was hunting for his hat and gloves, when Abby said: "Can't you bring in some wood before you go? It is so hard to carry it up the steps."

"I really don't see how I can, my love. Mr. Hitchcock is so very particular about my being there just to the minute. I will send you up a boy as I go along."

The boy did not come, however, and Abby had every thing to do herself. Hard work it was to get the breakfast things out of the way, wash and dress little Emma, and prepare the dinner before one o'clock, and, after all, William did not come home till a late tea-time.

"I had an invitation to dine at the Irving, and I thought it would save you some trouble," was his excuse.

"It might have done if I had known it beforehand," said Abby. "As it was, it did not make much difference."

"Come, come, my love, don't be cross. You know I have to work hard all day, and when I come home, I like to shake off my annoyances, and have a cheerful, smiling face to meet me. There is a letter for you."

Abby took it eagerly, and the color flushed to her pale face more brightly than usual, as she looked it over.

"It is from Laura," she said. "She wants me to come out to the wedding. Oh! How I do wish I could go. I would give any thing to see M. again."

Mr. Forester looked rather blank. "I suppose they do not include me in the invitation."

"Of course they do. Laura would know better than to leave you out, if she wanted me. But don't you think I might manage it some how? I do want to go so much."

"I do not see how," replied William, rather peevishly. "What would become of the house in the mean time?"

"We might shut it up that long."

"And then, what is to become of me, for I assure you it is utterly out of the question for me to dream of going, even if I wanted to. I put up with Mrs. Merton here for your sake, but it is quite too much to think of my going there."

"Could you not manage for a few days?" faltered Abby, her heart sinking, yet unwilling to give up at once the pleasure of being present at her sister's wedding. "I need not go till Wednesday, and I could get the new girl into tolerable training by that time."

"Oh! Yes—if you are set upon going, I suppose I can manage to exist, though—but, of course, that is no matter. But there is another thing that does matter, and that is—how are you going to get the money necessary to such an expedition?"

"I don't know about that; it will not cost a great deal."

"Have you any of your reserved fund left?"

"Only two or three dollars. I had to take it to pay Katy with."

"So you paid Katy, did you?" said Mr. Forester, laying down his paper, and looking at his wife. "I thought you heard me tell her that I would pay her at my leisure."

"They are so poor," faltered Abby, "and Katy has been so faithful."

"Upon my word, Mrs. Forester, this is rather too much! I have borne with your humors and whims a long time, on account of your health, and endeavored to bring you to reason by gentleness, and when I came home to-night, wearied out with business, and expecting to find, as I had a right, a pleasant home and a cheerful wife to receive and welcome me, I was not disposed to find any fault, though things were the very reverse of this. But for you to set me at defiance in this way is rather too much. I said I would pay that insolent servant at my leisure, and you fly in the face of my authority, and pay her yourself, contrary to my express orders, and then expect me to supply you with money for an expensive journey. As to your going, I say nothing about that. You can go if can supply the means, and I will exist as I can till you come back. But I beg you to understand, once for all, that I will be master in my own house."

Abby sat like a statue through the whole of this reasonable harangue. She did not even lift her eyes when her husband rose to leave her, but as he opened the door, she gasped out—"Don't—don't go," and knew no more till she found herself lying upon the sofa, with a neighbor attending upon her, while her husband was walking distractedly up and down the room, getting in the way of every thing that was done for her relief. She tried to speak, but Mrs. Gray checked her.

"Now, don't you speak one word, Mrs. Forester, but just lie still, and I'll attend to every thing. Don't you think you had better see the doctor?"

"Oh! No!" whispered Abby, thinking with terror of the already long bill. "It's nothing but a little fatigue. Katy went away yesterday, and I have rather over-worked myself to-day. I shall be better presently."

Mr. Forester felt a pang go to his selfish heart, as he heard his suffering wife thus trying to divert the blame from himself.

"Come, Abby, cheer up, my dear," he said, approaching her. "You will know better than to work so hard next time, and your new girl has come."

Then as Mrs. Gray left the room, he added: "I am sorry you took my words so much to heart, but you must learn to control yourself a little. You are very much of a child, and need a great deal of guidance. But how are you ever to improve, if you go into a fainting-fit every time that any one intimates you are in the wrong?"

Abby put up her hands imploringly, but having once begun to be dignified, Mr. Forester felt like carrying it through. He kissed her rather coolly, and then added, by way of finishing the business:

"There, there, I forgive you, and will try to forget it, but you must remember that the continuance of my love depends upon your conduct, and not upon my own will. I hope we shall have no more such scenes as this of to-night, for it is very unpleasant for me to be obliged to reprove you, and I can not in conscience allow such things to pass unnoticed."

With this magnificent declaration, Mr. Forester dropped the subject, and sat down to read to his wife, by way of showing his magnanimity, a book which she did not care a straw for, and did not understand. He really felt very much injured, and thought he had conferred a great favor upon his erring wife by not giving way to her ill-temper.

And poor Abby tried to think she had been very wrong and selfish in wishing to leave her husband alone, to go to her sister's wedding, and that he had shown a great deal of forbearance toward her faults. For paying Katy she could not be sorry. But in spite of herself a verse from the last chapter she had read would keep running through her head: "Ye shall be ashamed for the oats that ye have desired, and confounded for the gardens that ye have chosen."

Kind Mrs. Gray came over the next morning, early enough to prevent her from getting up till after breakfast. It was she who directed the new girl, put the parlor in order, and dressed the baby. She was a plain woman, but very kindly and very sensible, and during the whole week, while Abby remained unwell, she was the greatest possible assistance and comfort to her.

Mr. Forester grumbled a little at finding that "meddling woman always there," but he was very civil to her, nevertheless. As the time went on, he began to have a lurking, unacknowledged suspicion, that he had not been so very magnificent after all—that it was he who had been borne with, and not Abby. As he looked at her slight figure and almost transparent hands, and noticed how her color flushed and faded, and how fast her breath went and came under any little excitement, an undefined feeling of fear came over him, that made him very kind, and somewhat checked his propensities to self-indulgence.

We say somewhat, for when a man has grown up from infancy with the idea that because he is talented, and does not like to work, all the rest of the world is bound to wait upon, work for, and give up to him, nothing but an absolutely crushing blow will drive it out of him. Sometimes stroke upon stroke, mortification upon mortification, defeat upon defeat, makes him know himself to be but man, and brings him to the feet of God in repentance and self-abasement, and then there is hope. But quite as often such persons go down to their graves with the idea that they are martyrs to their own superiority, and that all the world is leagued against them.

The new girl turned out better than Abby had feared. True she did not and could not fill Katy's place. That was not to be expected, at the wages she received. But she was neat, good-natured, very strong, and able to do all the drudgery of the little household. She was fond of the baby, and took her off Abby's hands for several hours in the day, leaving her at liberty to sew, and sometimes to practise a little. Abby had for some time had an idea of taking pupils in music, almost the only thing she felt herself really competent to teach, and after some little hesitation she proposed the plan to her husband.

Mr. Forester laughed at first, then doubted whether it would be best, and then consented, on condition that they should come to the house while he was away, as he never could endure the noise of beginners practising. "I don't see how you can endure the thought of it. But I dare say you are lonely when I am gone. You have no taste for art, and not much for general literature, and it is natural you should like some amusement."

Thus graciously did Mr. Forester grant to his wife permission to spend some portion of her small remaining strength in laboring for his support. But his manner was kind and affectionate, and Abby was satisfied. The next point was to obtain pupils, and here she was successful beyond her hopes. Good Mrs. Gray interested herself in the matter, and soon procured for her six little girls, all beginners. Thus twelve times a week did Abby, with her exquisite ear and high musical culture, labor through the never-ending, still beginning scales and exercises. But she fixed her mind resolutely upon the twelve dollars a piece which was to be the reward of her labors and perseverance.

By and by two young ladies wishing to learn singing were added to the number. They were nice girls, and frequently brought presents of flowers and fruit to their gentle little mistress. But sometimes, when Abby found herself gasping for breath, and almost unable to articulate, after their lessons, she felt a vague misgiving that she was purchasing the additional thirty dollars of income pretty dearly. The little girls, however, progressed nobly, their parents were satisfied, as well they might be at getting for twelve dollars what ought to have cost them sixteen.

Baby was very good, and beginning to be playful and amusing. And upon the whole, Abby was rather happy than otherwise. She said nothing in her letters home of her being engaged in teaching, but merely offered as an excuse for not writing oftener that her time was very much occupied.

Laura had intended to make her a visit on her return from her bridal-tour, but Mr. Witherington's business called him unexpectedly, and she was obliged to give it up, writing a very kind and earnest invitation for Abby to come and visit them. Abby was glad of the letter, though she knew very well she should never be able to go. But she was pleased to think that in the midst of all the bridal gayety of her new home, Laura had remembered and cared for her, and she prayed earnestly that her sister might be happy.

For in the midst of all her troubles, Abby had found this great comfort—she had learned to pray. She had been in a manner religiously brought up, and had always said her prayers, night and morning, ever since she could remember. But it was only in the dreary time before little Emma was born that she had learned to know the full meaning of the words "communion with God." Then she had really drawn near the throne—she had sat down in the shadow of that great rock, and the weary land became not quite so weary. Water out of the pure river of life had satisfied her thirst, and in her saddest hours, she found comfort in the thought that we have not a High-Priest who can not be touched with the feelings of our infirmities, but who, in that He suffered being tempted, is able to succor them that are tempted.

When she could have Bridget to take care of Emma, Sunday morning or evening was a time of refreshing from the presence of the Lord. The word of God was as rain upon the mown grass to her, and she brought home a supply of strength for a long time, from every communion season. Mr. Forester could not understand it. He thought the singing far from good, the preaching dry, and the church very bare and barn-like, but he saw that Abby enjoyed it, and he felt that there was something essentially beautiful in the idea of a young mother's being religious, and even went so far as to go himself sometimes. Moreover, he made a sketch of Abby herself kneeling before a statue of the Virgin, and teaching her child to clasp its little hands in the attitude of prayer, which was very much admired in the shop where it was sent to be framed.

For a time he had gone on very well in the employment which Mr. Merton had procured for him. The work was not hard, and part of it was of a kind in which he might be supposed to take some pleasure, namely, the drawing of designs for ornamental iron work. But after a time, it became very irksome to him. His employers desired that his designs should be such as they could make a profit on, and insisted on his altering some of his favorite pictures, for the frivolous and insufficient reason that it was quite impossible to carry them out in practice.

Moreover, they made it a point that he should be upon the spot in business hours, and that his designs should be ready when they were wanted, not being disposed to make much allowance for the eccentricities of genius. More than once they had been on the very verge of a rupture, but Mr. Hitchcock, the managing partner, had seen Abby, and was much interested in her. And for her sake, he exercised more patience toward Mr. Forester than he had ever been known to exhibit before.

But one day matters came suddenly to a crisis. An important design which Mr. Forester had undertaken to finish for a particular day, was not forthcoming, and the workmen were at a stand for want of it. Mr. Forester had not come in, and Mr. Hitchcock began a search for the missing pattern among the heaps of paper which covered his desk. In the course of which, he came across quantities of fancy sketches, mostly unfinished, among which was the first rude draught of Abby's portrait, quantities of verses and translations, also mostly unfinished, bits of crayon and pencil innumerable, but no pattern. He had not quite finished his search, when Mr. Forester made his appearance, and upon being questioned, frankly confessed that the design was not finished, or even begun. He had not felt in the humor for the last two or three days, and was trying to refresh his mind a little.

Mr. Hitchcock was very angry. Not only was a large pecuniary consideration at stake, but what he valued still more, the honor of the firm, which had always held the highest reputation for punctuality in the fulfillment of contracts. In a few words, chosen more for their strength than their elegance, he set before Mr. Forester the consequences of his remissness, not only to the firm, but to himself, delivered a short lecture upon idleness, and finished by saying that in his opinion Mr. Forester would be doing much more for his wife and child in working for them than in making pictures of them in such heathenish attitudes as that—holding up the unfinished picture as he spoke, and glancing from it to the artist with stern contempt.

Mr. Forester waited to hear no more.

He put on his hat, collected his papers and drawing materials, made a low bow, and walked out of the shop without a word.

Abby was engaged with one of her little pupils when her husband entered, and throwing all he carried upon the table, gave audible vent to his feelings in such an exclamation as she had never heard from him before.

Luckily the lesson was nearly over. Abby hurried it through, and having dismissed the child, looked to her husband for an explanation, which was not long delayed.

"It serves me right!" William exclaimed indignantly, as he strode up and down the room. "What business had I to prostitute my talents to such base uses—to make my genius a slave to a man who does not even speak his mother tongue correctly? What right had I to make art subservient to a vile machinist, a man without one elevated idea, a—"

"But do tell me what it is," Abby ventured to interrupt. "Have you lost your situation?"

"I have given up my situation, if that is what you mean." And then followed an excited and somewhat incoherent account of the transaction, giving Abby to understand that he had been insulted beyond endurance by his tyrannical employer, because he would not do something very degrading, though what that something was did not clearly appear.

Abby comforted, and sympathized, and agreed as far as possible, not knowing any thing about the matter, till her husband felt more like a martyr than ever. At the same time, her heart sank when she thought how soon their rent was due, and wondered how it was to be obtained. The next quarter's salary would have paid it, and now it must be paid, if at all, out of the proceeds of her music lessons, upon which she had depended for family expenses.

"I think," she said, pondering, "that I had better take two or three new pupils in singing. I get more for that than for the piano, and Miss Emsley told me she knew two at least who would like to begin. That will be thirty dollars more."

"That is so like you, Abby—always thinking about the money, and where it is to come from. You would not have had me remain with a man who had insulted me, would you?"

"Of course not, if he really meant to insult you. But you know he is a hasty man, and sometimes says more than he means. Perhaps he will come round."

As if to justify Abby's prediction, the evening brought a note from Mr. Hitchcock, containing all that was due of Mr. Forester's salary, and intimating that if Mr. Forester was willing to endeavor to do better, he, Mr. Hitchcock, was willing to give him another trial.

Mr. Forester pocketed the money, twisted up the note, and tossed it to the baby to play with.

"There is no answer," he said to the messenger, who still lingered.

"Please to sign the receipt that Mr. Hitchcock sent at the bottom of the note, sir."

Abby rescued the paper from the clutches of baby, and smoothing it out, handed it to her husband, saying in a low voice, "Had you not better take time to consider?"

An impatient "No, child, of course not," was all the answer vouchsafed to her. The receipt was signed and the messenger departed.

For several days, Mr. Forester had nothing better to do than to lie on the sofa, read German novels, play with and tease the baby, and criticise the playing of the little girls, much to their indignation and his wife's annoyance.

"I have something to say to you, if you have leisure to hear it," she said one day, after dinner. "You know our lease will not be out till next winter."

"Well, what of that?"

"Mrs. Gray knows of a family—two middle-aged people and their daughter, who would be glad to take the lower part of the house, with most of the furniture. Don't you think it would be cheaper than to live as we are? Then I could have my pupils here still, and get on with a little girl from the asylum to take care of Emma."

"Do you suppose we could live in any degree comfortably so?"

"Oh! Yes! Mrs. Gray says they are very decent, respectable people, though plain. Then you see the house would support us, instead of being an expense. We could take the front-room up-stairs, with the little room adjoining, for ourselves, and the girl could sleep in the attic very well."

"And I should not have any more marketing to do. I declare, my love, I really admire your practical turn of mind. It seems a grand arrangement. But when can it be carried into effect?"

"Next week, if you approve."

"Oh! By all means!" replied Mr. Forester. "I have got to go down to Boston, but I suppose you can do about as well without me as with me. I am not much assistance upon such occasions."

"I know that very well," said Abby, not without a slight tinge of bitterness in her tone. "But what takes you to Boston?"

"I must try to find something to do, which there seems little likelihood of my discovering here."

"But if there is a prospect of our going away, it would not be worth while to make the change, would it?"

"There is no very great prospect. It is merely a bare chance, but the journey will do me good, at any rate. And among my father's friends there, something may turn up. I have money enough to go, and if you are not housekeeping, you will not need any great amount."

So Mr. Forester set out for Boston the next day, leaving his wife to make all the arrangements for moving. It was the latter end of April, and the weather was very trying. She took a little cold which settled upon her lungs, and prevented her from singing for a while. And even when the hoarseness passed off, her lungs remained sore.

Notwithstanding this, she took four new pupils in singing, who offered themselves, (for her music began to be talked of as something out of the common) and tried to think it a matter of no importance when she found that every lesson left her with a pain in her chest, and a feeling of exhaustion, which prevented her from uttering an unnecessary word for hours afterward.

William did not return as soon as she expected, but he wrote the most entertaining and affectionate letters imaginable. At last, an old acquaintance of his father's found him occupation in working out sketches, and drawing designs on stone, intended to illustrate an extensive scientific work about to be published. He wrote to Abby that the job would occupy about three months—perhaps not as long, and that it would be necessary for him to remain where he was. But as the time was so short, and the business probably not a permanent one, he thought, if she found herself comfortable, she had better remain where she was.

And Abby thought so too, and toiled patiently, morning after morning, through the dull round of lessons, feeling quite happy if she received a letter at night from her talented husband, who seemed to be enjoying himself very much. Sometimes, looking back on her past life, she wondered if it had not been all a dream, that she had been her uncle's pet and her aunt's pride, envied by all around her, and knowing no more of care than her own Canary. It seemed so very long ago that she and Olive had been school-girls together, their greatest anxiety centred on gaining a prize, their greatest anxiety keeping Charlotte in a good humor, or begging some of the little ones off from a merited punishment. But she never allowed herself to repine or be fretful, and a love-letter from her husband, or a smile or caress from her beautiful baby repaid her for all. Verily that love which passes the love of woman must be wonderful indeed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

BASSWOODS gave Olive a rather more cordial reception than usual when she returned. In fact, Mrs. Merton's visit had done her a great deal of good. People are very apt to set a greater value on what they perceive to be prized by others, and the good people of Basswoods suddenly thought much more of Miss McHenry, on discovering that she had an uncle and aunt who were such very superior people, and who were evidently so much attached to her.

The school filled up at once, and even with Isabella Lambert's assistance, Olive found her hands very full. Isabella's talents were of a higher order than her sister's, and she had studied more, and Olive found her a valuable coadjutor, as well as a pleasant companion.

Melissa Tucker, having finished her education, had returned to her aunt's house, improved in nothing, but on the contrary more malicious, more conceited, and more fond of tattling than ever. Her aunt, however, thought her nothing short of perfection, and paraded her sayings and doings upon all occasions. No sooner did Melissa find herself comfortably settled at home than she began to look about for something whereon to exercise her talents, and she soon came to the conclusion that she could not be better employed than in making mischief between Miss McHenry and her friends.

She knew better than to address herself to Olive, whom she felt understood her perfectly, so she began her attack by calling upon Mrs. Prendergrass and Isabella, professing great regret that there had been any misunderstanding, and a desire to be friends, an advance that was cordially met by the two girls, who had always disliked the idea of a quarrel. Once established there, she began by wary insinuations of "patronage," "intermeddling," etc., to try to poison their minds against Olive. If she had been open in her abuse, they would have met her at once. But her covert attacks were not so easily warded off; and they began to have their effect, especially upon Isabella. She was, at first, not quite so successful with Maria, who cared nothing at all about being patronized, and knew that Olive did not meddle. So she changed her points of attack.

"Cousin Maria," she said one day, in her softest accents, "don't you think Mr. Prendergrass thinks a great deal of Miss McHenry?"

"So we all do," was the brief reply.

"Of course. It is natural you should, perhaps; especially after what happened before you were married, you know."

"I don't know what you mean, Melissa. What happened before we were married?" asked Maria, her curiosity a little excited.

"Why, don't you know? Oh! I am sorry I said any thing, but I supposed you knew all about it. It was so commonly talked of in the village. But if I had had any idea that you did not know it, I would not have spoken for the world."

"I can not conceive what you refer to," said Maria, seriously annoyed.

"Why, only that Mr. Prendergrass was so much attached to Miss McHenry. It was in every one's mouth, but nobody blamed him, for of course they all knew that she drew him on. It was about the same time that she was spreading her nets for Mr. Landon, and I really don't suppose she meant any thing worse than to amuse herself, and perhaps have another string to her bow, in case one failed. But it was well-known that he offered himself to her, and that she refused him more than once. I am sorry I told you, but it was so generally talked of, that I supposed, of course, you would have known it."

And, having fulfilled her mission, Miss Tucker departed, congratulating herself on the idea that she had at last succeeded in sowing dissension between Miss McHenry and her most devoted adherents. She had never forgiven or forgotten her first rebuff in attempting to carry tales to Miss McHenry in school, and moreover, she felt a mean jealousy of Olive's popularity, being one of those amiable persons who think every consideration bestowed upon another just so much taken from themselves.

As it turned out, she was completely baffled, and that not by any ingenuity upon Olive's part, but by simple plain dealing. She soon perceived, that something was the matter—that Isabella's manner toward her grew haughty and distant, and that any little favor was received most ungraciously, if at all; while at Maria's house, which she had always looked upon as a second home, she met a reception so cold as almost to amount to an insult. She took no notice of it at first, thinking it but a passing cloud, but the change soon became too much marked not to force itself upon her attention, and she determined to investigate the matter.

Accordingly, one evening, after tea, she called at Maria's, accompanied by Augusta, and received any thing but a welcome, while a most cordial greeting was bestowed upon her companion. Mr. Prendergrass indeed was the same as ever, and his cordial manners gave Olive more courage to proceed.

"Maria," she said, after a few moments of indifferent conversation, "I have not come without an errand, as you may imagine after the reception you gave me the last time I was here, but I am determined, if possible, to be at the bottom of this business. It is evident that both you and Isabella think you have some good reason to be offended with me, and I think, in all Christian kindness, you are bound to tell me what it is."

Olive spoke kindly but decidedly.

Isabella flushed up to her temples, and Maria seemed just ready to cry, while Mr. Prendergrass laid down his book, and stared first at one, and then at another, in undisguised amazement.

Maria at last murmured something about "not being aware—"

"That is simply impossible, Maria. Both you and Isabella must be aware that you have treated me very differently for three weeks past, from what you have done before. I think I have a right to demand the cause of offense that I may make amends if I have been wrong, and take measures to justify myself if I have been slandered. I have aimed to treat you as a sister," she continued, her voice faltering a little, "from the first time that you came to me, and I have done the same by Isabella, but it is possible, that by some inadvertence, I may have wounded you. If so, I am very sorry."

Mr. Prendergrass here interrupted her. "Miss McHenry, I can not conceive it possible, ma'am, that any of my household can have treated you with disrespect, so much attached to you as we all are. If so, I shall insist upon an immediate apology."

"It is not an apology that I want, Mr. Prendergrass," replied Olive. "I presume Maria thinks I have injured her in some way, and I am only anxious to get at the truth. I suspect some one has been telling stories about me, and—"

The look that passed between the sisters convinced her at once that she was right, and she went on with fresh courage.

"If this is so, I hope you will tell me at once both the name of the storyteller and the substance of the story."

"I am sure I never thought of such a thing," said Maria, beginning to sob, "till I was told that—that—"

"Well—that what?" said Olive encouragingly.

"That you—that Mr. Prendergrass had—had—"

A sudden light burst upon Olive's mind, and she exclaimed: "You little goose! You don't mean to say any one has been trying to make you jealous!"

Maria sobbed more than ever.

"I dare say that some obliging person has been telling you that your excellent husband was a little taken with me at one time, which was very true, and a great compliment I felt it, though, as he will tell you, it was one I would rather have dispensed with. But that was long before he saw you. When you came, he almost forgot that such a person as I ever existed."

"But they say that you encouraged him, and—and—"

"Did I ever encourage you, Mr. Prendergrass?" asked Olive, turning to him.

"No, Miss McHenry," he replied. "You never gave me one particle of encouragement. I regret very much that my dear wife has been so weak as to cherish suspicions injurious, not only to herself and you, but to her husband, who has never had a thought separate from her since he first knew her."

"You see, my dear Maria, how unfounded your ideas have been—do you not? I was engaged to Mr. Landon three months before Mr. Prendergrass ever said any thing to me, and I have been engaged to him ever since. Now, tell me, did I ever say an unkind word to either of you since I first knew you?"

"No," said both the sisters at once.

"Did I ever speak harshly or slightingly of you to any one?"

"You said I was a good sort of a girl, if I were educated," said Isabella, half-indignantly, half-laughing.

"I do not see any thing very slanderous in that, even if it were true," observed Olive. "But I do not remember saying so. When was it?"

"At Mrs. Jones's—at the society."

"Augusta, do you remember my saying that Isabella was a good sort of a girl, if she were educated?" asked Olive, with due gravity.

"Nothing of the kind," replied Augusta. "I remember Miss Tucker asking you if you did not think Miss Lambert would be a pretty girl, if she were not so uncultivated. I can not say I have any recollection of your making any reply whatever."

"Why, Melissa told me herself that you said so!" exclaimed Isabella, unguardedly.

"Oh! Ho! I thought we should get at the bottom of the business before long. So Miss Tucker has been having a hand in it. But, Maria, I thought you knew the whole family too well to attach any importance to their sayings and doings."

"Melissa said you called me a serpent," sobbed Maria, now as much ashamed as she had before been angry.

"I assure you, my child, if I had ever thought so, I should acquit you now. You have shown conclusively that you have little of the wisdom attributed to that animal, or you could not allow yourself to be made uncomfortable by the speeches of a professed mischief-maker. But let by-gones be by-gones. Is there any more?"

Maria and Isabella could not think of any thing else that amounted to aught but vague insinuations, except that Melissa had declared that Miss McHenry had told Mr. Gregory, in her hearing, that Mr. Prendergrass was a great fool to marry a poor girl, who had her reasons for being glad to jump at the chance of having him.

"That is neither more nor less than an unmitigated lie!" said Olive, provoked into using a strong word. "I don't see, Maria, how you could believe such a story for a moment. I am not much in the habit of using such elegant expressions—am I? But we won't say any thing more about it," she added. "I see you are convinced that you are wrong, so we will let the whole matter drop, and consider it as a joke."

"Don't go!" begged Maria. "Stay and spend the evening with us, if it is only to show that you are not angry with us. I am sorry I was so very silly, and so is Isabella, I am sure. Pray do stay—won't you?"

Olive laughed, and suffered her bonnet and shawl to be captured, and herself to be set down in the most comfortable chair in the room. It seemed as if the girls could not do enough to show their penitence and good-will, while she, on her part, set herself to obliterate any uncomfortable impression that might have been left upon their minds. They were in the midst of a great frolic over a game of "twenty questions," Mr. Prendergrass replying with a caution which would have been becoming to a diplomatist, to the severe examination of the ladies, when the door opened, and in walked Miss Melissa herself.

She looked both startled and puzzled at the scene which greeted her eyes, but in a moment recovered herself, and came forward with her usual caressing manner. Miss McHenry and Mrs. Tower greeted her with great politeness—the latter especially was remarkably gracious. Maria and her sister looked provoked and uneasy, and Mr. Prendergrass was as immovable as Mont Blanc. It was impossible for Miss Tucker not to perceive that something was wrong, but she made great efforts to appear as usual.

"How pleasant it looks here!" she observed, in her smoothest way. "It is really delightful to find you all so sociably engaged."

"You know how to appreciate such things, Miss Tucker," said Augusta, in her most silvery tones. "I am really delighted that you came in."

"But I must really call you to account for little mistake you made," added Olive, taking up the ball. "How did you come to tell Miss Lambert that I said she would be a good sort if she were only educated, when you know very well you yourself asked me if I did think so?"

If a glance could have killed Isabella, she would have fallen dead upon the spot, but Miss Tucker did not answer. She did not exactly know what to say. Olive went on:

"Moreover, you told Mrs. Prendergrass that I made remarks about herself and her husband which you know very well I never did make. I do not know how you can reconcile it with your conscience to tell such falsehoods, nor does it particularly matter to me. I am sorry, however, that you should do it, under the mask of a high religious profession, both for your own sake, and for that of the cause. I must tell you that if you are leaning for salvation upon any principle which allows you to do such things, you are leaning upon a broken reed which will fail you in the day of trial. Let me entreat you to examine your own state at once and honestly, and repent of the slanders of which you have been guilty before it is too late, and you are brought into judgment for them. I am not much afraid of your injuring me, but I must tell you that unless you stop these covert attacks I shall take some measures to defend myself, and these measures may not be very agreeable to you. I hope this is all that is necessary for me to say."

Miss Tucker had stood like a statue during this address, and for a moment after it was concluded, then recovering herself she said, blandly, but with a deep sigh:

"Dear Miss McHenry, I am sorry to see you so angry and for such a trifle. I am much obliged to you for your advice, and for your threats I am not at all troubled at them. If Maria has been weak enough to betray a friend who meant to do her a service, I pity her from the bottom of my heart, and regret that her confiding disposition should be so abused." And she glanced in an unmistakable way from Olive to the gentleman.

"Did you mean to do her confiding disposition a service when you told her that Miss McHenry made insinuations against her character to my father?" inquired Mrs. Tower. "Permit me to tell you that I shall inform him of the way you have used his name in this matter in order that he may take such steps as he thinks best."

Miss Tucker heard this with another sigh, as though in pity for such deep depravity, but she did not seem inclined to say any more, and walked in a dignified manner out of the room. The next thing heard of her was that she had gone to spend some time with a school-mate who lived at the West, somewhere about Green Bay.

Olive was very glad, for she disliked very much the idea of a collision, and feared further mischief. The Lamberts, heartily ashamed of being influenced by such a person, were more her friends than ever, and Olive took pains to show them by every means in her power that she did not cherish any resentment. Isabella improved in usefulness every day, and Olive grew more and more attached to her the more she knew her.

Olive's Sunday-school class at last began to reward her for the pains she had taken. When Mr. Gregory announced an approaching confirmation, four of the oldest girls gave in their names at once. Julia stood aloof for the time. She seemed very anxious to make a profession of her faith, but was afraid she should not always persevere, and that she would be the means of bringing discredit upon her profession.

"But Julia," said Olive, "you are not required to persevere always all at once. Every duty has its day, and for every day strength will be provided according to the need. It is not as if you were dependent on yourself, you know, and is it not something like a distrust of God's mercy to doubt his giving you that power which he has promised?"

Julia pondered.

"It is such a little time since I began to think about such things. Miss McHenry, I used to think I was so much superior to the rest of the girls because I did not care for going to church, and religious books and such things."

"But you do not feel so now, Julia."

"No indeed! I can not tell you how ashamed and humbled I am when I look back at that time. It is more that than any thing else which discourages me now, for fear that I should go back and be as proud and careless as ever."

"I do not think there is much danger of that, Julia. You could never forget that feeling of unworthiness, and of the mercy which brought you to the knowledge of it."

"Perhaps not; and yet people do become careless, you know."

"Yes; and they are much more likely to become so if they have nothing outward to prevent them. You will have the communion, coming at least every month, to make you examine your self, to remind you of your Saviour's dying love and mercy, to renew your self-consecration to himself and his Church. Will not this be a great help to you in maintaining a Christian character?"

Julia thought so, but she still seemed to feel that she was unworthy.

"So are we all, my dear. There never was a communicant yet who was worthy of the mercy of God. But if, with all your unworthiness, you have not hesitated to accept the salvation of which the communion is only the outward and visible sign, why should you be stopped by the sign itself?"

Julia thought and considered, and finally made up her mind to take the step. She had left school, but still continued to be a frequent visitor, and Olive was very fond of her, though she had given her more trouble than any other girl in school. But there was something about her so truthful and hearty, and so far removed from the aimless frivolity that wearied her life out in so many of her other pupils, that she was ready to forgive a good deal of willfulness.

If Julia was sometimes conceited, and now and then rebellious, she learned her lessons and took an interest in them, and in things which illustrated them. She really thought and talked, instead of dreaming and chattering. Then she was eminently truthful, and resorted to none of the mean artifices which some of the other girls used to conceal their faults. She would have scorned to bring in a false excuse for being late in the morning, or to lay a plot for getting called out of school half an hour before it was over, or pretend a headache or weak eyes as an excuse for neglecting a lesson.

With many of Olive's pupils, seriousness upon any subject whatever, seemed all but out of the question. Senseless chattering and equally senseless giggling seemed their only idea of social intercourse, and any attempt to develop or employ their higher faculties only made them sullen. Educating these young persons was almost out of the question. The only thing that could be done was to drag them perseveringly through a course of lessons in hopes that some knowledge would stick to them which might afterwards bear fruit. This was hard work enough, and thankless enough, but now and then one would come out from her companions, and after a while attain to a respectable degree of learning, and these few examples encouraged Olive to persevere.

Olive's warm friendship with Ruth and Augusta continued and increased, and it did them all good. In Mrs. Tower indeed the improvement was not so apparent, but in Ruth every one saw it. She was as cheerful and useful as ever, but she was much gentler, and did not say nearly so many sharp things. Moreover, she was more careful in her manners and dress. Her superb hair was put up with some attention to the becoming, as well as to the shortest possible time in which it could be put up, and her general appearance was much improved.

The Milton and Tennyson war still waged sometimes, but with diminished force. Olive had learned to see new beauties in the English classics, and Ruth allowed that not many poems were superior to the "Palace of Art," and that Dryden never wrote any thing equal to "Œnone." Ruth even treated the ingenious Mr. Ruskin with something short of absolute contempt, a degree of toleration at which Augusta never expected her to arrive. And Augusta, who had a secret leaning to candlesticks, allowed that in the present state of the world, it would be better worth while to build four churches worth four thousand dollars a piece and leave the rest of the money for parish purposes than to erect one edifice costing fifty thousand.

They had been studying German together during the last winter, Olive acting as teacher, and they found a new source of pleasure as they learned to read it with some degree of facility. Together they admired and pitied Egmont, and heartily detested Wilhelm Meister, and set critics at defiance by alternately ridiculing and railing at Faust. They studied the beloved Schiller, laughed over "Puss in Boots," and regretted that Goethe's years of life had not been granted to the good and pure Fouqué and Novalis.

Mr. Gregory shook his head sometimes over these German raptures, and wished that they would spend the time upon Greek. And Mrs. Felton was made very uneasy on their account, having imbibed the idea that all the Germans since Luther's time were either infidels or transubstantialists—meaning probably trancendentalists—but as Ruth lost none of her fondness for the Bible and religious reading, and seemed to enjoy her lessons very much, her fears gradually subsided, and she regarded the obnoxious volumes with more complacency, even when opened in her presence.

But before long an event happened which for some time put an end to their studies. One evening the three friends were sitting over their books in the pleasant little study at the parsonage which looked out upon the road. It was a warm spring evening, and the long windows were thrown open to their full extent to admit the spring air and the last lingering rays of the sun.

"Decidedly it is too dark for study," said Augusta, closing her book.

"I have been looking for you to find that out," replied Ruth; "I have been unable to tell one letter from another for the last half-hour."

"There is nothing very strange in that," answered Augusta, laughing. "You never will be able to tell your 'B's and your 'V's apart, even in broad daylight. If we were to study two years, I should expect to find you looking for 'beugen' among the 'v's."

"There is some one coming to see your father," remarked Olive, glancing out of the window; "do you know who it is?"

"It is no one I ever saw before, I am sure," said Augusta. "How miserably ill he looks! Bless me, Ruth, what is the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost."

Ruth was indeed extremely pale. She stood looking at the stranger, who came straight across the grass to the study-windows, as though familiar with the ways of the place. He was a respectably-dressed man, tall and large, but looking very pale and ill. The girls glanced from him to Ruth in surprise, seeing nothing in his appearance to cause alarm. But before they could speak, he reached the window.

Ruth sprang forward to meet him, and seemed as though she would have fallen, but he caught her in his arms.

"God bless you, Ruth!" he exclaimed. "You knew me, if no one else did."

Augusta caught his hand and looked in his face.

"Frederick! Can it be possible?"

"I did not think I was so altered that no one could recognize me," he said mournfully. "Yes, Augusta, I have come back to see if there is a corner of the old house left for me—to die in," he added in a lower tone, as he sank upon the sofa. "Where are my father and mother?"

"Shall I go and find them?" asked Olive in a low tone. And without waiting for an answer, she hurried away.

She met Mr. and Mrs. Gregory sauntering slowly homeward through the deepening twilight, the one burdened with a basket of early radishes and lettuce from a neighbor's hotbeds, the other with a bunch of flowers.

"Where are you hurrying at such a rate?" asked the lady in wonder.

"I was going to look for you," replied Olive breathlessly, though trying to conceal her agitation. "There is a gentleman at the house that wants very much to see you."

"Why, child, how flurried you are!" exclaimed Mr. Gregory. "Is it Walter?"

"It is no one I ever saw before," said Olive, as they walked along more quickly, "but Augusta and Ruth know him, and sent me to look for you."

"Augusta and Ruth! Husband, can it be—!" And Mrs. Gregory quickened her steps almost to a run, to keep pace with her husband's long strides.

Olive followed at a distance, thinking she might be needed, and sat down in the parlor. She heard a faint scream, an exclamation from Mrs. Gregory, and then the door closed between them. She sat patiently for half an hour, struggling against a forlorn kind of feeling of being a stranger, and out of place. Why is it that this feeling so often comes to us in the presence of joy in which we have no share, and so seldom when the scene at which we are present is one of sorrow? She was just wondering what Mrs. Felton would imagine had become of them, when she heard Augusta's voice calling to her.

"What—are you sitting here in the dark? Come in, do. I am afraid we have not been very hospitable, but we have been so surprised with Frederick, that—"

"That you have forgotten me," said Olive smiling; "and no wonder. How is Ruth?"

"She hardly knows, herself, I believe. Was it not wonderful that she should have known him the first moment? It is six years since we have any of us seen him. Poor fellow! He is sadly worn and tired now, but I hope he will be better to-morrow."

"Where has he been all this time?" asked Olive.

"Oh! In many places here and there. Mostly in the Indian Ocean. He has come home quite a rich man he says."

Olive could not so much wonder at Ruth's recognition of her long-absent lover, when she looked at him as he sat between his father and mother on the sofa. He was so exactly like Augusta, despite his beard and moustache, and all other differences, she thought she should have known him anywhere. He looked pale and worn, for all his bronze complexion, and there was a languor in his manners which seemed to indicate either illness or great fatigue. One hand was clasped in his mother's, the other rested on his father's arm. But his eyes seemed all for Ruth, who sat leaning back in the rocking-chair, looking pale, but with an expression of intense yet subdued happiness that fully transfigured her face, and made Olive wonder how she could ever have thought her plain.

Augusta was the only one of the party who looked sad. Her brother had left them in the beginning of her engagement, and since then she had been a beloved wife, a widow, and a childless mother.

"Ruth, what will your mother think has become of us?" asked Olive, after a while. "We ought to have been at home by eight, and it is now eleven."

"We must go," said Ruth, rousing herself. "I had no idea that it was so late. I wonder what mother will say?" she continued, as they were walking homeward by themselves, having declined Mr. Gregory's escort. "Would you mind telling her about it, Olive, and letting me go up-stairs? I want so much to be alone."

Olive consented, of course, and as they found the door open, Ruth went straight to her own apartment, and Olive went into the sitting-room, where she found Mrs. Felton asleep on the sofa.

"Bless me. Olive!" she said peevishly, as she roused herself and rubbed her eyes. "Where have you been all this time? Here I have been sitting up for you till my eyes are fairly out of my head. Where is Ruth?"

"She is gone up-stairs," replied Olive. "I am sorry we kept you up, but we could not help it very well. They have had rather an exciting evening at the parsonage. Frederick has come home."

"Why, do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Felton, wide awake at once. "Well, if I ever! You don't say he has come home! Why, every one thought he was dead long ago. And so he has come back! When did he get here? Tell me all about it, won't you?"

Olive complied, making her tale as circumstantial as possible. When she mentioned the circumstance of Ruth's being the first to recognize the stranger, Mrs. Felton exclaimed: "There now! That is just like her! I never did see such a girl. I dare say she would have him now if he asked her, though she has refused so many good offers."

"He does not seem to me as though he were likely to have any body," said Olive. "I think he looks very ill indeed, but that might have been only fatigue and agitation."

"I wonder if he has come home to be a burden on the old folks in the evening of their days?" Mrs. Felton went on to say. "I think it will be really too bad if he has."

"He told Augusta that he had come home quite a rich man," answered Olive, "but even if he had not, I know they would not feel it a burden."

"Quite a rich man, eh? Well now, I'd never expect that of Fred Gregory. But any way, I am glad he has come home if he has reformed. It will be a comfort to their minds to see him once more. What did the old lady say to him when she came in?"

"I don't know. I was not in the room. I thought they would rather be by themselves."

Mrs. Felton seemed to think this a very remarkable piece of self-denial on Olive's part, and promised herself the pleasure of going over to sympathize with Mrs. Gregory, the first thing in the morning. The hint that Olive had given respecting Frederick having acquired property, was sufficient to set her imagination at work, and she lay awake half the night, arranging a romance wherein Mr. Gregory the younger played the part of an immensely wealthy nabob, come home expressly to marry her daughter, and to die shortly afterward, leaving Ruth a rich widow.

"We can go on living together just the same," her reverie went on, "only in more style, of course. Black always was becoming to Ruth. I wonder whether she will wear caps?" And in deciding whether these caps should be of muslin or crape, Mrs. Felton finally lost the thread of her reflections in sleep.

It did not appear, however, that any part of her romance was likely to be realized, except that which related to her hero's death. In the morning, he was so ill that he was unable to leave his room, and for two or three weeks he lay between life and death, in a fever. No one seemed to think it strange that Ruth was constantly at the parsonage, and indeed made it her home, till Frederick began to improve a little.

There was a great deal of talk about his unexpected return, and considerable speculation as to the amount of his property, and people wondered whether he would marry Ruth in case he got well enough, and whether she would have him. Mrs. Tucker thought that she would refuse him with disdain if she had an atom of proper pride about her, as, of course she had not, or she would not be at the parsonage so much. She did not think it at all proper, for her part.

Meantime, the objects of all this conversation paid very little attention to any thing beyond themselves. The prodigal was happy in being at home again, at peace with himself, the world, and his God, and looking forward with humble confidence to that city which hath foundations, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. The peace that passeth all understanding brooded over Ruth's heart and mind. She felt that it was well with her lover, and whether she enjoyed his society in this world, or looked forward to it in the next, was comparatively a matter of small concern. It was enough that he was faithful, repentant, forgiven, safe; that she could minister to his wants, both of body and mind; that he loved to have her by him; that he always knew her, even when his father and mother seemed like strangers to him; that he was at last worthy of her love.

After a time, he recovered sufficiently to ride out, and even to walk to church. But he continued feeble and suffering, and all felt that his life hung upon a thread. He had earnestly requested Doctor Gordon's true opinion, and that opinion was freely given. The physician told him that he could never recover, even though he might live some time. His disease was one of the heart, which might terminate his life at any moment.

Frederick received the announcement calmly and cheerfully, and set about finding some employment which should occupy without fatiguing him. This was found in the cataloguing and arranging a large quantity of East-Indian and Chinese curiosities, which he had picked up in his travels, and which he proposed to present to the academy. Thus he spent his time quietly and peacefully, happy in the society of those he loved best in the world, and awaiting the summons to his heavenly rest.

This was the state of things when Olive went down to New-York to visit Laura, who would not hear of her stopping anywhere else first.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

OLIVE found Laura established in a fine house, in a fashionable street, with abundance of fine furniture, fine visitors, fine servants, every thing, in short, which had formerly constituted her idea of perfect happiness. Mrs. Witherington welcomed her sister with much more cordiality than usual, and seemed to think she could not do too much to make her comfortable. Olive had never slept in a room so splendidly furnished as that which Laura assigned to her. The pretty trifles that covered her dressing-table cost more than all Olive's wardrobe put together, and the price of the mantel-ornaments would have supported a Western missionary and his wife for a year. The whole decoration of the house was upon the same lavish scale, and seemed so extravagant to Olive that she was glad to learn that it had been furnished before her sister came into it.

Laura appeared to enjoy it all wonderfully, and Mr. Witherington appeared to think nothing too good or too expensive for her. The first evening was spent quietly at home, Laura issuing an order to be denied to visitors, and giving up a party to which she was engaged, for Olive's sake.

"It is quite a sacrifice, I assure you," she said, laughing; "for I was expecting to make a very splendid appearance."

"I am sure, my dear, I enjoy the prospect of spending an evening quietly and rationally at home, and going to bed at a reasonable hour," observed Mr. Witherington, "especially as we are to be in town but a few days longer. I think there is no greater bore upon earth than continual parties."

"But we have not been to a party in nearly five days," said Laura, pouting a little; "and the last one was a wedding, too, you know. Besides, you know this will be the last one."

Mr. Witherington sighed, but did not make any reply, and Olive thought he looked annoyed and uncomfortable. She could not wonder, when she found how Laura spent her time, and how little of it was given to her home and her husband.

True there were no more parties, but something else came along to fill up every evening. One night a concert, then the opera, where a star of the first magnitude was then rising, then a few friends at home, fifty being Laura's most contracted definition of the word few. They were to go to the country the next week, and then Olive hoped there might be some respite.

"Confess, now, Olive," Laura said, one morning when they were driving together, "that with all your philosophy you would like to exchange with me. Is not this better than school-teaching from day to day, with no recreation, only now and then a sewing society?"

"I have never had much experience of your way of life, Laura," Olive replied, "but from what I have observed since I have been here, I would rather spend my life in teaching district-school from one year to another, than spend my life as you do. I am sure it would not be any more fatiguing, and I should at least have the comfort of thinking that I was bringing something to pass."

Laura looked incredulous.

"I am very sure I never was so tired after the hardest day I ever spent in school, as I was the morning after Mrs. Blank's party, and you seemed equally so; and what have you to show for it, after all? Suppose you pass the whole of next winter in this way—what will it amount to? You have no time to read or study, and very little, as far as I can see, to attend to your household. And then, at the end of life, how will it look as it is passed in review?"

"There is no use in bringing that in," said Laura, abruptly. "If we were always thinking how things would look when we come to die, we should never do any thing."

"I don't know about that," said Olive. "I think we should do some things a good deal better."

"But not any thing we want to do," persisted Laura. "If we were always thinking upon death, we should have no pleasure in things that are very agreeable now, because we should all the time feel that we must go and leave them."

"Perhaps we should only set a more just value upon them. You know the lines Mr. Witherington was reading last evening from his favorite, Southey:

"'O Monarch! only in the hour of death,
We learn to value things like these.'

"But at any rate, it does not seem wise to fix one's mind entirely upon things which we may be called upon to leave at any time, and must inevitably give up before a good while."

"I declare, Olive, you are a capital preacher!" said Laura, forcing a laugh. "I hope Walter will accept of your help in writing his sermons. And by the by, when is that young gentleman to be expected? I thought he was going to meet you here."

"I expect him to-day or to-morrow—possibly this evening."

"Is he as much given to preaching as yourself, my dear? Because if he is, I shall be quite afraid of him. You have made me quite blue, already."

"I don't mean to make you blue, my love," replied Olive affectionately, "but I do wish I could persuade you to think a little. You have so much to be thankful for—youth, health, fortune, an excellent husband—I can not bear to have you ungrateful for it all."

"Well, Olive, he 'is' a good husband," said Laura feelingly. "You don't know how good he is. I am sure I did not till I came to see him every day. I did not believe any man could be so thoroughly excellent as he proves himself. Since we have been married, I have never known or seen him do or say a thing that I would wish otherwise. I only wish I were more worthy of him, but some how one's conscience and one's wishes are so terribly at variance."

"But since it is conscience that must decide the matter at last, would it not be well to bring one's wishes a little more into harmony with its teachings?" asked Olive. "At least would it not be worth while to try?"

Laura did not reply, and Olive thought she had said enough.

The remainder of the drive was rather a silent one. When they arrived at home, they found Walter awaiting them. He brought the pleasant news that his studies would be finished by the next spring, and then—

"Then comes ordination," said Olive.

"Yes, and something else after it," said Walter. "I hope it will not be long before I am settled somewhere, and I assure you I have no idea of boarding or keeping bachelor's hall."

"And have you no desire of remaining for a short time that interesting creature, an unmarried clergyman?" asked Olive mischievously. "Just think how much you will lose if you settle down so soon as a family man."

"I really can not say I wish to fill that trying position, Olive. I think it is one in which it is exceedingly difficult to appear to advantage. But when have you heard from M., and from Mrs. Forester?"

"It is three weeks since I have had a letter from Abby," returned Olive, "and I am growing very anxious about her. Mr. Forester has been in Boston for some time—in fact, nearly all summer, and they are boarding. But her constant excuse is that she has so much to do. I can not understand it."

Walter looked surprised.

"Did you not know Abby was giving music lessons? I heard so early in the summer. I understand she has a good many pupils."

"She has never said a word about it to me," replied Olive. "How did you hear of it?"

"Some of us were talking of music one day, and one, a young man from B., spoke of his sister's music-teacher as singing wonderfully well, and called her Mrs. Forester. This aroused my curiosity, and from his description of her husband, I satisfied myself that it could be no one else than Abby."

"What did he say about her husband?" asked Olive.

"Why, really, my love, his description was so far from complimentary that I should not care to repeat it."

"You need not be afraid," said Olive, coloring. "I could hardly think worse of him than I do. And so that is the secret of her want of time. Poor child! She is wearing her life out giving music lessons, while he is enjoying himself at Boston, in an artistic fashion. Why could he not stay at home and take care of her? My uncle found him an excellent place, where he had a good salary."

"So Hitchcock said. I believe it was his father or some relation that employed him. But he said Mr. Forester was always behindhand, and could not be depended upon for any thing, and they had an explosion one day, and Mr. Forester went off. Do you know where he is now?"

"The last I heard, he was preparing illustrations for some book or other, but very likely he has become tired of it by this time. There is, as your friend says, no dependence upon him. With all his fancied intellectual superiority, he is as meanly selfish as any man I ever knew."

"I saw a sister of his once, who seemed a very nice girl," remarked Walter. "I fancy she is older than Forester."

"Yes, his sister Emma. Abby thinks all the world of her, and she has always been the main stay of the family. But I think they all look down upon her, and consider her a person of no talent whatever. I am sure William does—though she has more in her little finger than goes to his whole composition. But to think of that poor little thing giving music lessons!" Olive almost cried at the very idea.

"But why is it so much worse for her than for you?"

"Because she is so utterly unfitted for it, Walter. And then it is such a disappointment—such a contrast to what she expected when she was married. She thought she was going to be perfectly happy, only because she married the man she loved—and such an accomplished person. Much good his accomplishments do him or any one else, except to make him think himself superior to all the rest of mankind, and that every one else is bound to work for and wait upon him."

"Does he profess to be in any degree a religious man?"

"Oh! No, indeed. He is quite too grand for that. He says, so far as I can get at his ideas, that he worships God in beauty—that every thing beautiful must have good in it—and that art is religion."

"A very convenient faith for those who like to escape from all restraints upon their conduct."

"Oh! Yes. You should hear him discourse upon the trammels of convention, and the narrow-minded views of those miserable dogmatists who would shackle the grasping genius of such minds as—George Sand, for instance, that 'large-souled woman and large-hearted man,' as he is fond of calling her. I asked him one day point-blank if he did not think her a very bad woman."

"What did he say?"

"He politely replied that my views of morality were too narrow to enable me to judge of a character like hers. For my part, I can not say that I have any desire for wider views of morality than those taken by the Author of the Ten Commandments."

"And Abby—does she sympathize in all these large views?"

"I think there was a time when she did, in some degree," replied Olive, "but I am sure she is very much changed in that respect. In one of her letters, she told me how she loved to think of the lessons she learned at her mother's knee, though she was a very little child then, and how much she enjoyed the idea of teaching them over again to little Emma.

"'I put her dear little hands together and say a prayer for her every night and morning,' she wrote, 'and it seems as if she knew what I meant already, she is so still.'

"And I am sure, though she does not say so, that she prays a great deal herself. The whole tone of her letters shows that she is very much changed in that respect."

"Let that give you comfort, my dearest Olive," said Walter tenderly. "If, in the midst of her troubles, she has learned to love God, we have the very highest assurance that all things work together for good. No real harm can happen to her while she is faithful to Him, though in his wisdom he may call upon her to glorify him, even in the fires."

Olive was silent for a few moments, and then said: "I wrote to her this morning, and I really think, if I do not have an answer in two or three days, I must go on there directly, instead of going to the country with Laura. I do not like the idea of losing a moment of our time together either, but I feel so anxious about her."

"Wait a little," said Walter; "we may hear again soon, and then you can decide better what course to take."

Walter's prediction was verified, for Mr. Witherington brought in a letter at dinner-time, addressed to Olive. It was from Charlotte, and contained the startling intelligence that Abby was at home, and very ill.

"You will be surprised to hear that Abby is with us," she wrote, "and, indeed, it hardly seems real to any of us yet. It appears that Mrs. Granger had been away, so that she had not seen Abby for some time. As soon as she came home she went to visit her, and found her so very unwell, and so very uncomfortable, that she wrote to father about it, without telling Abby what she was going to do. As soon as we received the letter, father and mother set out directly, and they found her so very unwell, and so very uncomfortable, that they thought the only thing to be done was to bring her home at once, and she was very glad to come. She is a little more comfortable to-day, but Dr. M. does not give us much encouragement, and she is so very anxious to see you, that mother thinks you had better come home directly. She wants Walter to come with you and finish his visit here. Telegraph, that we may know when to expect you.

"P. S.—Mammy has taken possession of little Emma, and will hardly allow any one else to look at her. She is a sweet little creature, and seems healthy."

Olive handed the letter to Laura. "I must go to-morrow," she said, "or to-night, if it is not too late."

"You will gain nothing by leaving to-night," said Mr. Witherington, as soon as he understood the matter. "It will be better to take the early morning-train. I shall be very sorry to have you leave us, but I can not ask you to stay."

Laura's eyes were full of tears, as she followed Olive to her own room.

"Poor Abby! Poor child! But I am thankful she is at home again. I think she will get better—don't you?—now that she has a comfortable place to live in."

"I don't know," said Olive. "Charlotte would not have written so if she had not been very much alarmed. She does not make a fuss for nothing, and I think Abby must have felt herself very ill before she consented to go. Poor child! I suppose she thought she might at least die at home."

"Don't talk about that," said Laura. "I am sure she will get well. Just think how strong she always was!"

"She has never been well since Emma was born," said Olive, shaking her head, "and if her lungs were affected, as aunt feared last spring, there would be nothing worse for her than singing lessons. I declare, Laura, I never thought it would be hard for me not to hate any one, but it is hard for me to have any other feeling toward that man—"

"And the worst of it was, in my mind," said Laura, "that I never believed he really cared much for her, except for having his own way. You know I insinuated to you that he offered himself to me."

Olive nodded.

"He did so again, and from what I heard afterward, I was pretty sure he was engaged to Abby even then. I taxed him with his attentions to her at the time, but he laughed, and said all he cared for was her music. If she had refused him, he would have been dangling after some one else in two weeks' time. Then after, there was so much opposition made by the family, I suppose he persuaded himself that he really loved her, and was determined to have her at any rate."

"He is—but there is no use in talking about that. I should like to forget him entirely, if I could. Do you think you shall go to the country to-morrow?"

"Probably not till Thursday now. I shall be able to go to M. as easily from Briars as from here, if it is necessary. If she gets better, so that change of air is considered desirable for her, we will come and take her down there. You must be sure and let me know of her state as often as you can. Does it not seem strange that this news should come just as we were talking about death this morning?"

"'In the midst of life we are in death,'" repeated Olive, almost involuntarily. "But if it must be one or the other, I should rather it were Abby than you."

"You think she is better prepared. But, indeed, Olive, I am going to try and be more serious after this. You and my husband make me ashamed of being such a butterfly. But you know I was brought up to it."

"I know it," said Olive, "but don't make that an excuse for your present course of life, if you feel that you are wrong, Laura. You can act for yourself, and you are bound to do it."

"But what shall I do, Olive? Suppose I become convinced of the uselessness and emptiness of all these things—how shall I break off from them? I can not go into a convent."

"And it would be of no use if you did, so long as you carried an unchanged heart with you. The same desires and objects of life would be just as sinful if they were not gratified, as though they were. It is not the circumstances, but your heart, that wants changing first, and when that is right, never fear but the way will be plain before you."

The next morning, Walter and Olive began their journey, and arrived at home in the middle of the afternoon. Charlotte met them at the door.

"She is much more comfortable to-day," was her reply to Olive's hurried query, "but you must expect to see her much changed. She had a terrible turn of suffering last night, from which she was relieved by a severe hemorrhage at the lungs this morning. She says it is the third she has had since June. You can not go up now," she added, checking Olive's eagerness. "She has just fallen asleep for the first time in twenty-four hours."

Olive inquired for the baby.

"Mammy has taken her out to walk. She is the only one who can coax her away from her mother, but Emma seemed to take to her honest black face at once. She will sit upon the bed as still as a mouse, hours at a time, if we will let her. I never saw such a child! Mr. Collins came yesterday to pray with Abby, and when he began, the little thing put her tiny hands together, and held them up as though she understood it all. It was quite too much for mother—I never saw her so affected. She was obliged to leave the room."

"How does Abby seem to feel herself?"

"She is quite composed most of the time, and complains very little. The only thing that comes to trouble her, is her anxiety about her husband. She is afraid he will not get here—"

"Has any one written?" asked Olive, as Charlotte paused without completing the sentence.

"Father wrote the day they came home, but we have received no answer. I think, though she does not say so, that she is afraid he will be displeased at her coming. I do not see why he should. She could not stay there alone, and in such an uncomfortable place, too."

"How was she when uncle found her? I have heard nothing yet, except what you said in your letter."

"That is pretty much all. Father got a letter from Mrs. Granger, saying that she thought Abby was very ill—more than she herself was aware. Mrs. Granger did not say that she had bled at the lungs; perhaps she did not know it. But her description of the symptoms she had observed alarmed father and mother so much that they determined to set out for there directly.

"When they got there, the woman who lived in the lower part of the house told her that she thought Mrs. Forester was dying of consumption, and had been all summer. They found her up-stairs, in a room as hot as a furnace, with the western sun full on the windows. She was lying on the sofa, partly dressed, and a little girl was trying to put the room in order. It seemed that was the only place she had to stay, and she lay there from one day to another, unable to go down-stairs most of the time.

"Of course she was very much surprised to see them. She tried to make out that she was only tired and sick. But, partly by questioning her, and partly by inquiring of the woman of the house, (who seemed disposed to be as kind as she knew how, mother said) they found that she had been giving lessons in singing and on the piano all summer, and had only stopped the latter when she grew too hoarse to speak.

"Mrs. Hines said that Mr. Forester had been there twice, and staid four days each time. She thought he took some money from Mrs. Forester when he went away. She said she had tried to alarm him about Mrs. Forester's state of health, but he seemed to think she was not very sick.

"'Nonsense, Mrs. Hines!' he had said. 'How can you think of her being sick with such a splendid color as she has? It is nothing but a cold.'

"'I was mad enough at him to knock him down,' the good woman said, 'but I don't think he meant to neglect her. It was only his foolishness—'"

"It has been his foolishness which has done all the mischief, from beginning to end," said Olive bitterly. "But go on, Charlotte."

"There is little more to tell," replied her cousin. "She was unwilling to come at first, though mother said she evidently wished it very much. But she yielded at last, upon father's assurance that he would write to Mr. Forester directly. She bore the journey better than was expected, and seemed so happy when she was carried in and laid upon her old bed. She appeared just as much like a child as ever at first. And Edward would let no one carry her in but himself, and the good old fellow laughed and cried till I did not know but he would go into hysterics outright. Mammy seized upon Emma, who went to her directly, and she has kept her ever since, except when she has been cooking something nice to tempt 'Miss Abby' into eating.

"Almost every one we know has come to inquire for her—even aunt Dimsden seems to have forgiven her completely. She has been here two or three times a day, and sat up with her last night. Indeed, no one in the house went to bed till almost morning."

Mrs. Merton now entered the room to greet Olive and Walter. She was stately and elegant as ever, but looked worn and anxious.

"Abby is still asleep, my dear. Come and get some refreshment, for I am sure you must both need it. Mr. Landon, how well you are looking. I think your change of employment must agree with you." She continued: "I assure you sir, I was very angry with you for a time, till this romantic girl begged a peace for you. How could you give up all your splendid prospects so suddenly?"

"Simply because I thought it was right, dear Mrs. Merton," said Walter, "and I have never found reason to alter my opinion, though I can not deny that at the time I felt it a great sacrifice."

"I should think so indeed. With your talents, you might have become so distinguished and been so useful."

"I hope what talents I have may be a hundredfold more useful in the calling I have chosen," replied Walter; "and as for distinction, pardon me, but I do not think a Christian has any right to make that an object. The servants in the parable were commanded to employ that committed to their charge, whether it were ten talents or one, not to their own advantage but to that of their master; and if they were rewarded afterward, it was only by the grace of their lord. I do not believe that at the last hour I shall at all regret the loss of worldly distinction."

"But according to that view you remove one of the greatest spurs to human action," remarked Charlotte.

"True, but only to substitute a stronger and better one in its place. The man who is moved to employ his time and talents because they are gifts from the Being best loved in the universe, to be employed to His honor and consecrated to Him, will, I think, be far less likely to go wrong than he who uses his gifts only to his own advantage, and that he may obtain the praise of men."

"But are all men capable of being influenced by such motives?" inquired Charlotte incredulously. "Are they not above the reach of common minds?"

"Since they are offered by the Lord of all alike to all minds, we are bound to believe that they are suited to all. I believe more people are actuated by them than the world chooses to believe. How many men and women one sees discharging monotonous and painful duties from year to year and from day to day with nothing visible to sustain them, yet cheerful and even happy under their burdens, because they have a faith that looks above and beyond them to a region of rest and happiness."

Charlotte sighed.

"I wish I had it then, I am sure," she said in a weary tone not unmixed with bitterness. "But the more I struggle for it, the more unattainable it seems."

Mammy now appeared to say that Miss Abby was awake, and Olive and her aunt withdrew.

"Miss Merton," said Walter, after a moment's silence, "will you permit me to ask you a question upon your last remark? Of course I can not claim an answer, but it may lead to something satisfactory to you perhaps. You say that you have sought such a faith—but how?"

"By study," replied Charlotte, "I have examined all the evidences for the authenticity and authority of the Scriptures, and perfectly satisfied myself on that point. Then I began to review the articles of our Church, comparing them with the Bible, and, as far as I have gone, I am convinced that they are perfectly scriptural."

"But still I understand that you have not yet attained to what you really want. You have collected the materials, but they are only dead matter after all. You have acquired knowledge, and now you want faith to make that knowledge available."

"Yes, I suppose so. But how is that to be attained?"

"By prayer. My dear Miss Charlotte, in this matter I can give you no other advice than I would give to the youngest child in my Sunday-school class. Seek God in prayer; beg of him to enable you to see yourself exactly as you are. Let me ask you what you will think a common-place question: Have you felt yourself to be a great sinner?"

"I can not say that I ever have," replied Charlotte frankly. "Of course, I know that I have done wrong sometimes, but it seems to me that I am about as good as people in general."

"That is at least an honest answer. Let me ask you again to entreat of God to see yourself just as you are. Pray for correction of your own unworthiness, and then compare yourself with the requirements of His law and Gospel. That is the first step, and when you have attained to that, believe me, you will no longer care whether you are as good as other people or not. I do not hesitate to tell you that you must come to feel yourself a lost sinner, utterly without any plea in the sight of God, and deserving of nothing but his anger, before you can arrive at peace."

"That is just what I have heard preached all my life, Mr. Landon, and it has done me no good yet."

"You have heard it preached all your life because there is nothing else to preach," replied Walter. "We have no right to make a new Gospel for the use of the first families exclusively. The reason that you have derived no good from it has been that you have not yielded to it. Beware that pride in your own talents and refinement does not prevent you from yielding to this Gospel which you have heard all your life, till it be too late. Only open your mind to conviction, be willing to see the truth as it is, and after a while you will find rest to your soul."

"You have spoken plainly, Mr. Landon, and I thank you for it," said Charlotte, after a moment's silence. "I tell you plainly that I do not believe I shall ever come to see myself such an utterly lost creature as you think me, though I suppose you have the same opinion of all the rest of mankind and I will endeavor to follow your advice, and perhaps I shall profit by it."

Olive found Abby supported by piles of pillows, and breathing with difficulty. She was fearfully changed. The rosy flushed skin had become white as paper, and a scarlet spot burned in each cheek, while her eyes looked twice as large as ever, and perfectly transparent.

Much as she felt the necessity of calmness, Olive could hardly command her voice as she spoke to her.

Abby had been forbidden to speak, but she whispered:

"I am so glad you have come. Have you heard from William yet?"

"Not yet, but I presume he will be here to-night. He might have started for home you know, and in that case the letter would have met him on the road."

This supposition, which no one had thought of, seemed to comfort Abby, and she lay back with a more contented expression. Olive gave Laura's messages, which seemed to give her pleasure, and she whispered:

"Thank her."

They sat for some time in silence, and then seeing that her aunt had left the room, Abby said with effort:

"I must say one thing, Olive, in case I get worse. If any thing happens to me, you must take Emma, if Walter is willing. Bring her up like your own, in the fear of God. Will you?"

"I will, love, God helping me. But indeed you must not talk now, you will be better to-morrow."

"I hope so. I should like very much to get well if God pleases. Do you think it is wrong?"

"No indeed, dear child. But try and be willing to have it either way." Olive could say no more.

"I am, I hope, Olive," said Abby. "I have learned where and who He is, Olive. We are not strangers."

"You must not say another word," said Olive. "Let me read you something."

"Not now. Just sit still, and let me look at you."

She took Olive's hand in her own, and leaned back with her eyes fixed upon her. Gradually her eyes closed, her grasp relaxed, and she fell into a tolerably quiet sleep, which lasted till dark.

Her physician came in the evening, and pronounced that there was a slight improvement.

Olive followed him down-stairs to learn his opinion of her sister's case.

"Please tell me the exact truth, Doctor," she said, as he made her some evasive reply. "It can not be worse than my fears."

"My dear Olive, you know all about it now as well as I can tell you," said the good old man. "She may get well, but humanly speaking there is hardly a possibility of it. I shall not be surprised to see her comparatively comfortable again, and she may even be able to be up again, but that is all. She must be kept quiet, and indeed she keeps herself so. I never saw any one in a better state of mind, and that of itself does a great deal. If she sleeps to-night, as she seems inclined, I shall expect to see her a great deal better in the morning."

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

AS the doctor had prophesied, Abby was much more comfortable the next morning—better, indeed, than, she had been since her arrival, and it was thought that a little talking would do her no harm. She seemed to find the greatest pleasure in recurring to her childhood, and her school-days, and in talking about them.

Emma sat quietly upon the bed, looking at her mother, and amusing herself with some old play-things of Charlotte's that Mammy had discovered in a remote corner of the nursery. She was a very precocious and beautiful child, having her mother's blue eyes and fair hair already beginning to curl in rings round her face.

Olive and Charlotte sat at work by the bed, and Mrs. Merton went and came from the parlor to the sick-room as she could find time. A great many people called to inquire for the invalid, and, according to the pleasant custom of the place, gifts of flowers, fresh fruit, and other delicacies, were sent in.

Abby seemed as though she would have been quite happy, but for her anxiety about her husband, who came about noon, feeling very much abused, and preparing to be very lofty and indignant at having his wife carried off without his knowledge. He had not received the letter, having left Boston before it arrived, and he was naturally much amazed on reaching home, and going straight to his room, to find Abby and the baby gone, the bedstead empty, and the furniture covered up.

The terrible fear that first came over him being removed by the reply to his first question, he was all the better prepared to be irritated, when Mrs. Hines, nowise inclined to soften matters, informed him "that Mrs. Forester's friends had come and took her home, and time enough they did, too, in her opinion."

An attempt to silence and overawe that lady by dignified and lofty demeanor turned out a signal failure, and ended in what might with propriety be called a scolding-match, on which occasion the gentleman came off second-best, so that it was in no very good humor that he took the cars to M. By the time he arrived there, he had worked himself up into a great passion, and was determined to do wonderful things. Abby should return with him at once, or not at all, and he would put a final end to her peevishness and childish freaks of temper. He would teach Mr. Merton to interfere in his affairs.

A thundering ring brought that gentleman himself to the door. Mr. Merton possessed in a remarkable degree the commanding presence, and calm, all-penetrating eye, which is apt to belong to distinguished lawyers. And as his gaze rested upon his nephew-in-law, that gentleman felt a sudden and sensible diminution of his courage and wrath; so he thought it best to begin, before any more of it forsook him.

"So, Mr. Merton!" he commenced, in a much louder tone than was necessary. "You think it an honorable proceeding, do you, to enter a gentleman's house and interfere with his affairs, as you have done with mine! Let me tell you—"

"Tell me in a lower tone, if you please," interrupted Mr. Merton blandly. "There is no occasion for the next street to be informed, and moreover, your voice will alarm your wife, who lies in a very precarious state. Be pleased to walk in, and then we can discuss the matter properly."

Mr. Forester was put down, in spite of himself. He followed Mr. Merton in to the library, and took a seat. "Well, sir!" he continued. "I should like to know by what right my wife has been taken away without my knowledge?"

"Simply because there was no one to stay with her, and she was far too ill to be left alone. There was no other course to take."

"By whose judgment was she pronounced so ill?" asked Mr. Forester, trying to continue his lofty tone, but feeling more and more all the time that it was a failure.

"Upon my own, and my wife's, corroborated by that of your family physician," was the composed reply.

"She must have become suddenly worse, then," said Mr. Forester peevishly. "She seemed well enough when I was last at home. I never saw any one have a more splendid color."

"Being unused to sickness, probably the symptoms did not attract your attention," returned Mr. Merton politely. "She is very ill now, and I am sorry to be obliged to tell you, that Dr. Willson pronounces her recovery very doubtful. Indeed, he told Olive that only the utmost quiet and ease, would prolong her life from day to day. I should not tell you this painful intelligence so abruptly, my dear sir," he continued, "but that I wish to impress upon you the absolute necessity of caution. I will go and tell my wife that you are here; and she will prepare Abby for seeing you."

Mr. Merton was gone some little time—long enough for Mr. Forester to make up his mind that they were all in a conspiracy to frighten him out of finding any fault with Abby. "But I will not be bullied," he said internally, as he followed Mr. Merton up-stairs; "she shall go back to-morrow, if she is able to be moved."

All thought of finding fault, of taking Abby back, for once even of himself, were put to flight by his first look at her. She had raised herself from her pillows, and was looking eagerly toward the door: every trace of color had vanished from one cheek, while on the other the hectic spot burned more brightly than ever. Her large eyes looked black, from the dilatation of their pupils and the hands she stretched out to him were transparent as porcelain.

He was shocked beyond measure. It had never been any part of his education to put any constraint upon his emotions, and as she threw herself towards him, he clasped her in his arms, and burst into tears. Abby's eyes were always ready to overflow, but nothing could be more dangerous now than a fit of crying.

"This will never do!" Mrs. Merton's calm voice was heard saying. "Mr. Forester, you are endangering Abby's life by giving way so. If you can not compose yourself, you must retire at once. Abby, my love, remember—"

Mr. Forester disengaged himself from his wife's embrace, and walked to the window to recover his composure. Even then, he found time to think how hard-hearted Mrs. Merton was, and how little she could appreciate delicate feelings like his. In a few moments, he returned and sat down by the bed-side, and Mrs. Merton left them together, with a renewed charge to William, not to agitate Abby.

"So you came home and found your bird flown," said Abby softly, after a little pause. "What did you think, when you found I was not there?"

"I was very much alarmed, of course," replied Mr. Forester. "I could not be otherwise, not having heard of your being worse. Why did you not write?"

"I was not able for several days, and kept thinking I should be better. Mrs. Granger wrote to uncle without my knowledge, and when he came, I was so ill, and so very uncomfortable that I seemed to have no other choice. Uncle wrote to you directly after we arrived here."

"Are you sure? I have had no letter. But if you were so unwell the last time I was at home, why did you not say something about it? I never saw you looking better than you did then."

"I did tell you that my cough was very troublesome," said Abby timidly.

"I don't remember it," replied Mr. Forester, carelessly. And indeed he had paid very little attention to it, having been absorbed for the time in running over a new piece of music. "But I hope you will soon be well enough to return home, for I can not say I like the idea of your being here."

Abby's heart sunk. "It is so pleasant and home-like here," she pleaded, "and they are all so kind, and so fond of Emma. And if you are away in Boston, I might as well be here as there."

"Only that it is not very agreeable to me to come here, and be treated like a criminal by all the family," rejoined Mr. Forester peevishly, "and I do not choose to have my child brought up to despise her father."

"They have never said an unkind word about you," said Abby, with an eagerness which set her coughing. "I am sure uncle's letter was as kind as could be."

"I see that they have won you over to their side altogether," replied Mr. Forester, in what he meant for a playful tone, but which was really one of annoyance. "We shall soon have you making them a humble apology for having married me at all."

"I think uncle has forgiven me entirely," said Abby faintly, for she was getting very tired.

"So you acknowledge that you are wrong! What a pity you had not thought of it before. You might have saved yourself all the trouble you have had in housekeeping, and have been still an admired young lady. But come, don't bring the water-works into play," he added, seeing her eyes full of tears, "or you will be worse, and I shall be turned out of doors for an unnatural monster. I want you to get well, so I can have you all to myself again."

But in the earnestness of justifying herself from the charge of wishing she had never been married, Abby over-exerted herself, and coughed terribly.

The ominous sound summoned Mrs. Merton, and she at once dismissed Mr. Forester, not without a grave rebuke for allowing his wife to talk so much.

The gentleman went down-stairs in any thing but an amiable humor. He had intended to be very magnanimous and very gentle with his wife, but upon reviewing what he had said, he could not but be conscious that he had allowed his annoyance to appear plainly—that he had disturbed her, instead of doing her any good, and that Mrs. Merton thought, though she did not say so, that he was not to be trusted.

It was, therefore, with no amiable feelings that he met Miss Merton and Miss McHenry in the parlor. They took pains to be very polite, feeling really sorry for him in view of the distress which they supposed he must feel. Olive asked him how he found Abby.

"She is very unwell, no doubt," said he, throwing himself into a corner of the sofa. "I do not believe her hasty journey has done her any good. She is much worse than when I left her."

Miss Charlotte stiffened up directly. "The journey was not a hasty one, Mr. Forester," said she coldly, "and Abby was so unwell when my father found her that it was impossible to think of leaving her where she was, with no one to take care of her."

"I understood Mrs. Forester that the people of the house were very attentive," he replied loftily.

"It would be rather hard both for them and her to have her left upon their hands," said Olive gently. "Such people have usually enough to do to attend to their own affairs, and however well disposed they may be, they can not bestow that constant attention which is needed by an invalid in Abby's situation. But how do you like your present employment?" she asked, hoping by turning the conversation to prevent an explosion from Charlotte. "I should think it must be very agreeable."

"Oh! I have given that up," replied the gentleman. "The man was too insufferably accurate. He insisted upon my doing every thing according to rule and measure, and had the audacity to prefer his own stiff sketches to the drawings I made from them, because he said they were more correct! As if mere mechanical correctness were the main thing in a picture!"

"But in a scientific work," said Olive, "it seems to me that accuracy would be worth much more than picturesque effect."

"May-be so," returned her brother-in-law, "but I can not work in that way. I must have room allowed for the play of my imagination. These very practical people never have any sympathy for aught beyond their own ideas."

"Perhaps the very practical people might make the same complaint of the very imaginative ones," replied Olive, smiling; "at any rate, as a certain number of practical people seem to be necessary for the well-being of society, it is perhaps best to have patience with them."

"Yes, of course, if they will only have patience with us, and be willing to know their place, and keep to it. And as you say, a certain number of them seem to be rather convenient. Now there is my sister, Emma—she has not one spark of genius, and is as narrow-minded as possible, but yet she is a very useful person in the family. I hardly know what my mother and Emmeline would do without her. But to return to your sister. When do you think she will be able to be moved?"

"Moved!" exclaimed Charlotte and Olive together. "You surely can not think of taking her away."

"Why, I don't know," he replied doubtfully. "Perhaps a change might do her good. I was thinking of going to some of the villages near Boston to live, and of course I could not go without her."

"I am afraid she will never live to be moved again," said Olive, her eyes filling with tears. "Dr. Willson says her case is almost hopeless."

"But don't you think physicians are apt to make matters worse than they are, Olive?" asked William anxiously. "They naturally like to enhance their own importance. I have seen people much worse than she is, who recovered."

"We must hope for the best as long as we can," said Olive sadly, "but I fear there is but one event possible. Her only chance is to be kept perfectly quiet and easy in mind. Pray do not say a word to her about going away. I am sure it would worry her very much, and perhaps bring on another bad attack."

The mischief was done, however. Abby coughed very badly all the afternoon, and the evening brought another time of great distress, followed by another attack of bleeding, not so severe as the last, but enough to cause serious alarm in her present weak state. Dr. Willson absolutely forbade her talking to any body, and only one person was allowed to be in her room at a time.

The next day, Mr. Merton courteously invited Mr. Forester to make the house his home as long as Abby continued ill. Mr. Forester was much obliged, but hinted at painful obligations, whereupon Mr. Merton intimated that Mr. Forester's services would be valuable in the office just now, and Mr. Forester accepted the invitation upon condition that his services should be considered an equivalent for his board. For about a week he was very assiduous in his attendance upon office-work, and Mr. Merton really began to have hopes of him, but they were not very long-lived.

As usual, when the novelty of the thing wore off, his industry began to relax. His old companions courted his society. It was very wearisome to work in the office all day, and then return at night to Abby's sick-room, and the grave circle in Mr. Merton's drawing-room. He persuaded himself that his own health was failing, as it always did when he worked in the house, and that he needed exercise, and his office-hours became few and far between.

If he had been a clerk, Mr. Merton would have discharged him at the end of a month, but Abby's comfort was now the principal object, and he was allowed to take his own course. The example was by no means a good one, and, as may be imagined, began to make trouble among the other young men, and Mr. Merton was very glad when he abandoned the office altogether, and became wholly absorbed in the idea of publishing a set of translations from the older German and Italian poets, an occupation which he varied by long pedestrian rambles, which sometimes kept him away for a day or two at a time, and from which he returned with abundance of beautiful but unfinished sketches.

Olive once or twice finished up some of these sketches into pictures, which Mr. Forester admired very much, and showed to every body as his own. He was quite astonished to find that his sister-in-law could draw as well as himself and that Charlotte was more than his equal in languages, both ancient and modern, and now and then a glimmering perception came across his mind that he was not altogether so far above all the rest of the world as he had always imagined.

Abby lay from day to day with little visible alteration, except that she was gradually growing weaker, and less able to withstand her terrible attacks of difficulty of breathing, which were always followed by bleeding. She was quiet and smiling, apparently perfectly resigned to whatever might happen, happy in being once more at home, in feeling herself forgiven, in having her husband and child with her. She had told William her desires in respect to Emma, and he had given his consent to the arrangement, without thinking much about it.

In fact, Mr. Forester made entirely a false estimate of his own character. He fancied himself earnest, passionate, and susceptible of strong emotions, when in reality he was both shallow-minded and shallow-hearted, utterly incapable of receiving deep or lasting impressions. As Laura said, if Abby had refused him, he would have forgotten all about her in six weeks. But like most persons of weak will and understanding, he was very obstinate, and when he found himself opposed, he resolved to win her at all hazards. But he was kind to her now, and took some little pains to render himself agreeable to the family, and that was enough to render her happy.

It had already been settled in the family councils that Olive was not to return to Basswoods at the end of the vacation. Abby could not bear the idea of her sister's leaving her even for a day, and Mrs. Merton thought that as there was no probability of her returning for any length of time, she had better write to Mr. Jones, in order to give him time to provide a substitute. She did so at once, advising him to apply to Mrs. Granger again, and she also wrote to Ruth, informing her of the change in her plans. She felt very sorry to take leave of the school so abruptly, but her anxiety and grief for Abby swallowed up all minor considerations.

Walter entirely approved of her plan of spending the winter at home, thinking, though she did not say so, that she ought to have a season of rest before undertaking the somewhat arduous duties of a pastor's wife. His visit was a comfort to the whole family. Abby liked to have him read to her and pray with her, even better than Dr. Eastman; Mr. Merton enjoyed the quiet evening conversations, and formed all the time a higher and higher estimate of his young friend's abilities and principles; Charlotte liked him because he was so perfectly honest and plain spoken—so utterly without humbug, was her expression; and even Mrs. Merton quite forgave his romance, as when driven into a corner she still persisted in calling it.

Mr. Forester, utterly unconscious of what an admirable foil he was to Walter's good qualities, tolerated, and sometimes patronized him, to Olive's indignation and Walter's great amusement. And though he could not but look with contempt upon a man who had given up the study of music because it interfered with such a trifling pursuit as practising law, he yet allowed that Walter would make a very good sort of husband for Olive, who was as prosy as himself.

In a week or two letters came from Mr. Jones and Isabella Lambert, containing both pleasant and sad news. The pleasant part of the intelligence was, that upon Mrs. Granger's earnest recommendation, the committee had engaged Helen Monteith to fill Olive's place, Isabella being still retained as second teacher. Nothing could have pleased Olive more. She knew that Helen would carry out her plans, and keep up the influence which she had acquired, and she felt, too, that she would fill up the gap in the little social circle at the parsonage.

A postscript in Isabella's letter, written the next day, announced the death of Frederick Gregory. As the doctor had predicted, it was very sudden at last. He had been working at his collections by times during the day, and seemed as well as usual. But while they were all sitting together in the twilight, he had complained of fatigue, and laid his head upon Ruth's shoulder. After a few moments' silence, she touched his hand, and was alarmed at its coldness. Lights were brought, but all was over. He had breathed his last, resting upon the breast which had been faithful to him for so many years.

Olive wrote to the girls, and received an answer from Ruth almost immediately. It was short, and a good deal of it related to business, but there were a few sentences which related to himself, and which set Olive's heart at rest about her. Ruth evidently felt resigned to her loss, and was deeply thankful that so much more had been vouchsafed to her than she had any reason to expect. She told Olive that Helen was to have her old room, but there would be another for her whenever she came to Basswoods; her letter concluding with quantities of affectionate messages from the school-girls, who, Ruth said, were quite in despair, and perfectly sure that they never could, never should, and never would like any other teacher as well as Miss McHenry.

Olive wrote them a kind of general letter, recommending Miss Monteith to their especial consideration, and begging them to show their affection by being as dutiful and respectful to her successor as they had been to herself.

A few days later, the express brought her a package containing a beautiful writing-desk and color-box, which had been purchased for her by their joint contributions. Mr. Forester criticised the form and arrangement of both, and wondered what a parcel of common-place school-girls could find in their mistress to be grateful for. But Olive shed some tears over the pretty gifts, and felt that the love of her pupils was worth a great deal to her.

Laura and her husband came up to see Abby, and spent two weeks at aunt Dimsden's, who was in the seventh heaven of enjoyment and gratified vanity, and displayed her adopted daughter and her daughter's husband, or, as William said, "trotted out her elephants," till the elephants themselves did not know whether to be most amused or annoyed.

Olive's opinion of Mr. Witherington rose with every opportunity she had of observing him, and she could not but hope that he would, after a time, acquire such an influence over Laura, as would make her worthy of him. She thought that Laura was really improved—that she was less frivolous, less fond of display, and showed less anxiety to be admired. Aunt Dimsden was rather vexed with her niece for making Abby's state an excuse for not attending some of the gay parties that were made for her, and wanted Mr. Witherington to interpose his authority to prevent his wife from being moped to death in a sick-room. But Mr. Witherington was not inclined to do so, and she had to content herself with talking to every one about her dear Laura's sensibility and affection for her sister.

Abby liked having Laura to sit with her and talk to her a little while at a time, for she soon grew weary now of any conversation. Laura told her many stories and anecdotes of her New-York life, and her fine acquaintances, and sometimes made her laugh more than Mrs. Merton thought was quite safe. But she always slept well after it, and seemed to enjoy it so much that no one had the heart to interfere with her pleasure. The last day of Laura's stay, she was alone with Abby quite a long time, and when she left her, she was weeping bitterly. It was some time before Olive knew the subject of their conversation. But Mr. Witherington told her afterwards, he thought it had a great effect upon Laura—that she was much more domestic, and cared more for her husband's society, and less for the excitements which had formerly been her chief delight.

It seemed as though Abby declined from the day Laura left them. She lost her voice entirely, and was unable to sit up a moment. But she had no more of the terrible turns of suffering which had been so distressing to witness, and which nothing seemed to relieve. She lay most of the time in a painless, half-dreaming state, not always recognizing those about her, but always docile and uncomplaining. Little Emma was almost always with her, sitting upon the bed, as near her mother as she could creep, and keeping her eyes fixed upon her, or playing with her long, thin fingers. Abby liked to have Emma near her, and the little one's presence often roused her when nothing else would have the desired effect.

Every night, as long as she was able to speak, she put Emma's hands together, and repeated her evening prayer, and it was a sad grief to the baby, the first time her mother was too ill to notice her clasped hands, and the inarticulate murmur with which she had learned to accompany the whispered words.

William seemed about this time to awaken all at once to the idea that his wife was dying. He seldom left her, except to procure something which he fancied would give her pleasure, watched her day and night, and gave up all his favorite employments to read to her when she was able to hear him, or to sit by with his hand clasped in hers, when she was restless and unable to sleep. It was evident that Abby herself never blamed him, even in her inmost thoughts, and that she loved him with an earnestness and depth over which his own faults and follies had no power. To her, he was still the William who had attracted her first love, whom she had invested with qualities which certainly never belonged to him, and whom she still believed in, despite all her disappointments and the sad experience of her married life.

A few days before the last, she seemed to revive very much. She regained her voice in some measure, knew every one about her, and seemed much stronger than she had been for weeks. William was full of joy, and seemed to look upon her as nearly well, and even Mrs. Merton could not help having some hopes. Abby had expressed a wish to receive the holy communion, and Mrs. Merton consulted the doctor.

"Nothing can hurt her, my dear madam," he said, in answer to her anxious inquiries. "This apparent gain is but the last flash of the lamp. Let her have her own way in every thing, but do not leave her alone a moment."

Dr. Eastman was accordingly summoned, and with all her friends around her, Abby received, for the last time, the pledges of the dying love of the Saviour, who was even then standing at the door. She did not seem much fatigued, and spoke without difficulty several times after the clergyman had gone, but Mammy's experienced eye saw that a change had come over her.

"She is marked for death, Mrs. Merton," said she to her mistress, whom she had gone to call, leaving Charlotte and Olive with Abby. "She won't be here many hours longer. Lord receive her, poor dear lamb!"

"Do you think she is dying, Mammy?" asked Mrs. Merton anxiously, but preserving her composure, as she usually did, so long as there was any thing to be done. "Send Edward for Mr. Merton at once—he was called to the office a few minutes ago; and let him call for Dr. Willson."

When she entered the sick-room, she found Abby half-leaning upon her husband, but holding Charlotte's hand, and talking to her at intervals. Charlotte sat like a statue, but the tears fell fast from her eyes.

The only words Mrs. Merton caught were, "Take Him for your own, Lotta. Nothing else is worth living for."

Then, after a few moments' silence: "He is so good—he helped me—he helps me now."

"Don't talk, Abby," said William hoarsely; "you will exhaust yourself."

"It won't make much difference," she said, with a heavenly smile illuminating her already sharpened features. "Dear William, don't grieve too much, and study the Bible. Don't be deceived by fancies. There is nothing but Christ!" She was silent again, and lay apparently asleep for half an hour, till Mammy brought in the baby.

Emma stretched out her hands to her mother.

"Set her down here," said Abby, now seeming to speak with a little difficulty.

As Mammy obeyed, she took her hand and kissed her. "Thank you, dear Mammy. Take care of her while she is little, won't you?"

"So help me God, I will, Miss Abby," said Mammy, quite overcome. Her sobs were the signal for a burst of tears from every one in the room. Abby's eyes filled, too, but the drops did not fall. She looked around the room, and called every one to her by name, even the servants, who had collected at the door. There was again an interval of silence, and she said faintly, "Uncle!"

"What, love?" asked Mr. Merton, trying to speak calmly.

"I was a very ungrateful girl, but indeed I loved you all the time. Please forgive me and poor William, for my sake."

Mr. Merton kissed her, but could not reply.

Abby now changed rapidly, and when Dr. Willson put some wine to her lips, she could not swallow. Taking, with a last effort, Emma's little hands between her own, she murmured some indistinct words, of which they could only distinguish the last—"for Jesus Christ's sake."

And when she had so spoken, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

FROM the first of Abby's illness, Olive had felt that she could not get well, but now that she was really gone, it seemed but a dream. She could not think, in passing Abby's room, that her sister was no longer there. The exquisite statue of alabaster that lay folded on soft satin and surrounded with beautiful flowers was not Abby, and she could not connect it with her sister.

It seemed as though the house were almost empty. Emma would hardly go to any one but Mammy, and she cried constantly for her mother, especially at night. She would not allow her father to take her at all. All necessary business was attended to by Mrs. Dimsden with a quietness and kindness which did her great credit, causing Mrs. Merton to think that she had really done Alicia injustice, and making her resolve that she would hereafter be more patient with her short-comings.

William shut himself up in his room, and would see no one. Perhaps as he went back over the circumstances of his married life, he felt some self-reproach and some misgiving that he had not always been the kindest and most considerate of husbands—that it would have been better if he had been willing to cramp his fancy and genius a little and work steadily at a respectable calling, instead of quarrelling with his employers and allowing his wife to waste almost her last breath in music lessons. Perhaps he thought that the things he had been spending, time and money upon (thinking himself all the time much superior to his poor Abby) would not weigh a grain when laid in the balance against her self-sacrificing industry. It is at least charitable to hope so. He left M. a few days after his wife was buried, to pay a visit to his mother, having first borrowed fifty dollars of Mr. Merton, who was very kind to him at parting, and very glad to get rid of him so cheaply.

He left Emma in Olive's charge, with proper expressions of gratitude and confidence, which she could very well have dispensed with, and begged her to keep Abby clothes and ornaments for the child and not let her forget her father. "I think she is very bright," was his last remark. "I hope she may turn out talented."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Olive when he was out of hearing. "I would rather she would turn out almost any thing else."

"Talents do nobody any harm, my dear Olive, when they are rightly improved, and the character properly cultivated," said Mrs. Merton, who overheard her. "But when a man thinks that because he can do a little of a good many things very easily and likes to amuse himself with books and pictures, that he is a genius and that therefore he is excused from hard work and from doing any thing that he does not like; when he once accepts the supposition that he has a right to please himself and that every one else is bound to work for him—why, I would give more for any little Dutch child that is taught to work at four years old, by picking up chips while its father saws wood."

Walter came up to the funeral, as did Mr. Witherington and Laura, so that the family were once more all together. Laura seemed very much subdued, and every way improved. She would gladly have taken the little Emma herself, but Olive would not hear of such a thing, and indeed aunt Merton seemed to want her more than any body. She should keep her till Olive was married, she declared, and then they would see what was to be done.

She hoped matters might be so managed that Olive might be settled near them. Mrs. Merton had her own reasons for hoping so, though she thought best to keep them to herself. Their parish church had long been full and crowded to overflowing, and some of the families who lived most distant from church, Mrs. Merton's among the number, began to think of colonizing and establishing a new parish nearer at hand. It was not likely that the movement would be carried into effect before spring. Mr. Merton had great influence among his friends and neighbors, every one liked Olive, and there seemed no reason why Olive's husband should not take charge of the new chapel, as soon as it was built and he was ordained.

It was only since her niece had been away from her, that Mrs. Merton had learned to appreciate her—for in reality she had never really done Olive justice while she was at home. Her very quick feelings and somewhat irritable temper, as well as a certain diffidence which sometimes looked like sullenness, made her appear at a great disadvantage by the side of poor Abby, who was always gentle, cheerful, and tractable, and laid her open to constant defeats in her frequent skirmishes with Charlotte, who usually contrived to throw the blame of the quarrel upon her. Mrs. Merton thought her own daughter hasty, but open and generous, and she had never been able to believe that Olive really was so.

But the spirited yet judicious and respectful way with which Olive had asserted her right to support herself, and the entirely noble manner in which she had come out of the affair of poor Abby's miserable marriage, had acquired for her upon the part of her aunt, a respect which every thing she did contributed to strengthen, and Mrs. Merton no sooner began to respect any one than she began to like them. She felt too, that she had done Olive injustice, and she was anxious to make it up to her by every means in her power. It would have pleased her better undoubtedly, if her niece had made a more splendid match, but she saw that she and Walter were very well suited to each other, that he was a talented, industrious, and steady young man, and she felt that under such circumstances she had no right to interfere. The course he had taken about studying for the ministry had displeased her very much at first, but she gradually learned to regard it with more favor as she saw how entirely he was fitted for the profession he had chosen. As she said to Mr. Merton, it was plain that Mr. Landon would do his best in whatever he undertook, and would never be any thing but a credit to those connected with him.

Walter's stay was a short one, but before he left M. it was settled that Olive was to be married in the spring as soon after her lover's ordination as he should be settled anywhere. Meantime, she was to remain at Mrs. Merton's, except that she intended to make a visit to Basswoods some time during the fall. Mrs. Merton again began to turn her attention to sheeting and linen, and made numerous long shopping excursions, which resulted in such a quantity of brown paper parcels that the Miss Willets who lived opposite, thought Mrs. Merton must be thinking of setting up a shop.

Over the contents of these bundles did Mrs. Merton and Charlotte hold long and solemn consultations, to which Olive was sometimes admitted and sometimes not. She was not to be allowed to make herself thin and ill with sewing, Mrs. Merton pronounced, so she was only allowed to do the very lightest parts of the work, the rest having been committed to a seamstress renowned for skill and the mysteries of the needle. Olive would have remonstrated at the quantity and quality of the articles lavishly provided, but Mrs. Merton had a plea which stopped all remonstrances.

"You know, my dear, that we always intended to provide for you both as if you were our own, and since poor dear Abby did not have her share, you must take a double portion."

Abby died the last of September, and it was not until the end of November that Olive felt any spirits for her intended visit to Basswoods. She carried an invitation from her aunt to little Louisa to come home with her and spend the holidays, with which she was very well pleased, thinking that the child would be both gratified and benefited by the change. She found Helen completely established in her old quarters, and to all appearance likely to become as much of a favorite in the place as she herself had been. Every one was pleased with her, Ruth said, except Mrs. Tucker, who had wished to obtain the place for Melissa.

It was rather trying to Olive to be obliged to listen to Mrs. Felton's expressions of sympathy, for that lady always seemed to suffer under a fear that her friends would not appreciate the extent of their misfortunes. If she visited a mother who had lost her child, she would insist upon inquiring into all the circumstances of the little one's sickness and death, and related all the cases in any degree similar which had come within her knowledge. Nothing offended her more than to have any one intimate to her that this sort of conversation was ill-timed; she set that person down at once as unfeeling and wicked, and she had never quite forgiven Mr. Gregory for somewhat abruptly dismissing her from Augusta's room at the time that her little girl died.

Ruth seemed entirely unaltered, except that her cheerfulness had a certain subdued character, and that she talked less. She seemed to take as much interest as ever in all her old pursuits, and she and Augusta were still reading German together. Frederick's collection had been arranged by them in the library of the academy, and formed quite a valuable cabinet of natural history. The little property he had brought home with him was left to his parents for their life-time; at their death to be equally divided between Ruth and Augusta.

This arrangement disappointed Mrs. Felton, who had made up her mind that Ruth was to turn out an heiress, and who had built several castles in the air upon this foundation, but all the other parties interested were more than satisfied. Mrs. Felton could not understand what a clergyman could want with so much money. Their house was furnished well enough—some people thought too well for a minister—and what any one could want of so many books was more than she could see. Why, the parish library contained more volumes than were to be found in the whole country when she was a girl, and she did not perceive that any one was the better for it. Nobody ever thought any thing of what she said, however. The parish library went on increasing no one exactly knew how, while the comeliness of the sanctuary was increased by various repairs and improvements till it became one of the prettiest in the country.

If Olive met with some annoyances in the course of her visit, the pleasures greatly counterbalanced them. Every one was glad to see her. The first time she entered the school-room, she was nearly devoured by the kisses of the girls, while Helen looked on smilingly, above the jealousy which some people would have felt upon such an occasion. Mr. Prendergrass actually left the regions below, and came up-stairs to speak to her, though such a thing as the principal entering the young ladies' department had never been known in the Rev. Mr. Snowden's time.

Olive saw at once that Helen was likely to succeed—all the girls liked her and she evidently liked them, without being finical or fussy about little things, she was sufficiently strict, and she required the most perfect recitations at the same time that she took pains to make those recitations lively and interesting. Several of the larger girls, including Anna Jones and Julia Goodrich, had left school, though they still came two or three times a week to draw and read French, and Helen told Olive that their influence and example had been of great use to her. They were a good deal looked up to by the younger set, who seeing them take pride in being good scholars and punctual in their attendance, were naturally more inclined to be so, too.

Upon the whole, the tone of the school had improved very much during the three years it had been under Olive's care. The standard of scholarship was higher, there was much less gossiping and consequently much less quarrelling among the girls, and a better state of morals prevailed altogether.

Olive could not but be thankful that it had not fallen into the hands of another Miss Brown, who would undo in one quarter all that she had accomplished. It was hard for her to leave Basswoods, where she had spent so many happy hours, and where she had first known Walter. Every house and street-corner in the curious old place was dear to her—yes, even the haunted old red house, to which she and the girls persisted in walking one Saturday afternoon, despite Mrs. Felton's grave remonstrances. Olive took a sketch of it, which that lady declared she would not have hanging up in her room for any thing; it was all very well for people not to be superstitious, but she did think there was such a thing as presumption. She appealed to Mr. Gregory to know if this last remark was not true, and his grave assent made her almost forget his want of appreciation for her sympathy.

Olive's stay was prolonged from day to day, and from week to week, till at last she hardly left herself time to return before the holidays.

Louisa enjoyed her visit at Mrs. Merton's very much, and won all hearts by her merriment and docility. She received more pretty presents than she ever had before. Mr. Merton took great pleasure in showing her all the lions of the city. Mrs. Dimsden made a children's party for her, and Olive feared the little girl's head would be turned entirely. She did not think it best for her to stay longer than a fortnight, as it was not desirable that she should lose her standing in school. And she returned with Walter, feeling that she had subjects enough of thought and conversation to last her all winter.

Helen wrote that Louisa had settled down to her studies as well as was to be expected, and that she seemed to think Mrs. Merton's home the very "ne plus ultra" of magnificence, and Mrs. Merton herself a sort of superior being.

But the winter was not destined to pass without further sorrow. The little Emma, who had always seemed a healthy child, was taken suddenly ill, not long after Louisa's visit, and despite all that could be done, died on the fourth day. She was insensible most of the time, and seemed to suffer but little. She had never seemed to Mrs. Merton like a child that was likely to grow up, but more like one of those little angels who are sent to earth, to show what the Saviour meant when He said: "Of such is the kingdom of heaven." Her extraordinary precocity, her perfect docility, and almost unearthly beauty, had always been in her aunt's eyes so many signs that her pilgrimage on earth would be a short one.

Mammy thought so too.

"Her mother keeps calling her," she said to Olive one day. "She won't be here long, Miss. Most every time I watch her asleep, I see her smile and hold up her hands, and I know her mother calls her."

Though Olive had something of the same feeling, the baby's death was a bitter disappointment to her. Yet when she was calm enough to think the matter all over, she was constrained to say it was well. William would undoubtedly marry again, and even if he did not, she well knew there was no dependence to be placed upon him—that he would be very likely to take a fancy to remove Emma from her charge after a while. Nevertheless, she missed the little creature sadly. And for a long time, the sight of a child of Emma's age would bring the tears into her eyes.

A message was sent to Mr. Forester at the first appearance of danger, but he only arrived in time for the funeral. He remained two or three days at Mr. Merton's, occupied in selecting his own books from among Abby's, and in burning her letters and papers. As we shall have nothing further to do with that gentleman, we may as well say here that within a year from Emma's death, he married a wealthy young lady, an heiress, who had been first attracted to him by "The Widower's Lament," which was published with an appropriate vignette, and greatly admired as displaying such a depth of feeling.

The present Mrs. Forester is not in the least like Abby, possessing upon the contrary good deal of decision of character and some sharpness of tongue on occasions. Nevertheless, she is in the main an estimable person, and as she took the precaution before she was married of having all her property secured upon herself, it is to be hoped that Mr. Forester may loiter away the rest of his life without doing a great deal more mischief.

His sister Emma has married late in life a very excellent man in good circumstances greatly to the astonishment of her mother and Emmeline, who have a great deal to say about Emma's selfishness and ingratitude in leaving them, after all they had done for her. William sympathizes with them and says that Emma was always narrow-minded.

Mr. Landon's ordination came on early in March, and Mrs. Merton took Olive down to New-York to be present at it. The new parish was organized by this time, and when Walter came up on a visit to Mrs. Merton's, he was invited to fill the vacant pulpit for several Sundays.

Olive thought the severest ordeal through which she had ever been called upon to pass was hearing Walter's first sermon. But with all her fears and misgivings, she could not but feel that it had been all she could wish. Every one else seemed to think so too, for at the end of the six weeks for which he had been invited to take charge of the parish, a formal call was tendered to him to become the pastor of the new church.

For his own part, he would have preferred to make his first essay in a country congregation. But he knew how anxious Olive's friends were to have her settled near them, and how kindly Mr. Merton had exerted himself to procure this place for him; so, as there was really no good reason for refusing, he accepted the call, and was formally installed in the sacred office. The salary was sufficiently liberal, he had something of his own, and there seemed to be no reason why the engagement between him and Olive should be prolonged.

It was not prolonged beyond the first of June. Olive had sent for Augusta and Ruth to come up and bring Louisa with them, and they accepted the invitation. Louisa and Charlotte were to be bridesmaids, and the former mounted her first long dress upon the occasion.

The wedding was a very quiet one, the deep mourning of the family forming a ready excuse for having no company, though Mrs. Dimsden thought the fact of Olive's being the minister's wife ought to have outweighed it. Abundance of cake and cards were sent out by Mrs. Merton next day, and no one was dissatisfied except Mammy, who thought the affair was not half grand enough, though she admitted that it was very genteel.

The new-married pair went down to make a short visit at Mrs. Witherington's. She was staying at the Briars, and welcomed them with her usual cordiality and grace. Olive liked the country-house better than the town-house. It was more quiet, the furniture was all old-fashioned, and looked as if it might have been there since the old French war, and indeed much of it had retained its place since the Revolution. The gardens and conservatories were splendid, and Mr. Witherington seemed perfectly happy in walking through them, giving directions to the gardener or holding consultations with him over some delicate grape-vine or sickly-looking pear-tree.

Laura frankly confessed that she had at first detested Briars, and only came there in compliance with the wishes of her husband, who was very fond of the place.

"But do you know I am really beginning to like it? The mornings were terribly long at first, till I took to practising violently. Mr. Witherington likes Beethoven and Mendelssohn, and I am learning all the old-fashioned things I can pick up to please him. I think it is little enough, as long as he is so indulgent to me. We ride out on horseback almost every day, and you know I was always fond of that. There are some very pleasant people within visiting distance, and upon the whole I like it almost as well as New-York."

"I suppose you will return to the city in winter," said Olive.

"Oh! Yes, but I assure you I shall not be so dissipated as I was last year. I am beginning to think that there are other things in the world besides company and dress. I shall never forget what dear Abby said to me that last day. But tell me all about your plans, my dear. Are you going directly to housekeeping?"

"Oh! Yes, I think it is best to begin as one means to keep on. I never believed in young married people boarding, and it is especially inconvenient for a minister. We shall have a very pleasant house—the one Mr. Fairfax built for Jenny, you know. The church, when it is built, will be just next door. I left Mammy planning about carpets and curtains as happy as possible."

"She and Edward will have hard work deciding to which house they belong—won't they?"

"I don't know," replied Olive laughing; "I think the Black Prince thinks that I am hardly able to take care of myself. Aunt has kindly promised to spare me Anne, so I shall have no trouble with servants to begin with."

After a short stay in Basswoods, where Olive received so many bridal presents as to materially increase her baggage, Mr. and Mrs. Landon returned to M. to find her house all prepared for them, with tea ready, Louisa looking out for them, and Anne in attendance.

The beautiful china which decorated the table, was at once recognized by Olive as part of a set upon the merits of which Laura had asked her opinion one day when they were in New-York. The house was elegantly but not splendidly furnished, though Louisa thought nothing had ever been seen more beautiful than the dark-green and crimson carpets and rosewood chairs. She could hardly allow her sister-in-law time to take off her bonnet, so anxious was she to display the contents of closets, book-cases, drawing-room, and study, and especially her own little room with its blue and white bed, table, and chairs all to match, and its little book-case and desk, which Mrs. Merton said was to be all her own. It was not till she had done the honors of the whole house that she remembered that her brother and sister might possibly like something to eat after their ride.

They had hardly finished their tea before a ring was heard, and in came Mrs. Merton and Charlotte, closely followed by aunt Dimsden, all anxious to see Olive, and know how she liked her new house. Mrs. Merton was in her most gracious mood, and Louisa listened with blushing delight to her commendation of her own conduct during her brother's absence. The house had again to be passed in review; and the presents of friends to be discussed and praised. The silk quilt which Olive had brought from Basswoods, and upon which Anna and Phebe Jones had been employed for a year previous, was displayed and admired, as well as Mrs. Felton's knit counterpane, Ruth's beautiful embroidery, and Augusta's Chinese screens and tea-trays. Charlotte thought Olive would have to have a fancy-fair to get rid of the quantities of book-marks, pen-wipers, glove-boxes, and other small articles presented by the younger part of the congregation.

"Well, Olive," were Mrs. Dimsden's parting words, "you see I was right, after all. I knew you would marry a minister, and really," she concluded, glancing at Walter as she spoke, "taking all things into consideration, I doubt if you could have done better even if I had found you a husband myself."

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Table of Contents

- THE ORPHAN NIECES;

- CHAPTER FIRST.

- CHAPTER SECOND.

- CHAPTER THIRD.

- CHAPTER FOURTH.

- CHAPTER FIFTH.

- CHAPTER SIXTH.

- CHAPTER SEVENTH.

- CHAPTER EIGHTH.

- CHAPTER NINTH.

- CHAPTER TENTH.

- CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

- CHAPTER TWELFTH.

- CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

- CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

- CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

- CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

- CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

- CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

- CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

- CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE