Although the hot, strong tea was very grateful in her exhausted condition, this, with the very excitements of the day, kept Miss Featherstone awake the brief remainder of the night. She breakfasted the following morning with the children and their tutor. To her great surprise, little Harry, looking pale and wan, was at the table.

"Madame is too ill to rise," Mr. Brown announced in his very best English, "and the bonne is attending her. Will this dear mees take the head of the table and us oblige by pouring out the coffee?"

Miss Featherstone cheerfully acceded, and left her own breakfast cooling while she coaxed and consoled the little invalid, who was quite fretful after his last night's experiences. She was making an attempt to eat something herself when Mrs. Pinckney sent for her, and, as there was no one to take care of the child, she carried him in her arms to his mother's room.

"Good-morning, Miss Featherstone;" and she devoured the curly-headed boy with kisses. Mrs. Pinckney, reclining on large pillows, looked prettier than ever. No degree of negligence affected her appearance: her light, curling, slightly-dishevelled hair and delicate, clear skin were the more attractive under conditions which would be fatal to many women. "Sit down, Miss Featherstone.—Adele!" calling to the nurse, "you must take dear little Harry away: I want to talk to Miss Featherstone. Be very careful of him: don't let him eat or over-fatigue himself. And, Adele, after lunch come and help me dress: I think I should feel better for a drive.—Don't you think I should feel better for a drive, Miss Featherstone? I'm in miserable health," she added as the door closed on the nurse and child, "I've had so much trouble. I've lost my husband—he died of consumption"—she seized her pocket-handkerchief and began to cry: "I was alone, except for servants, with him at St. Augustine. I think his family were very inconsiderate. I wrote letter after letter, telling them of his condition and begging and imploring them to come to my assistance; but no one came. I had just left him for a few hours to get a little rest—I was so worn out with anxiety and the responsibility—and he died—alone—with his nurse—" Sobs choked her voice.

Miss Featherstone rose and kissed her: it was a way she had of comforting. Mrs. Pinckney received the caress graciously, and pressed her hand.

"Then my income is not nearly so large as it was," she resumed, "and I'm obliged to practise a great deal of economy. I've discharged my maid, and share the children's nurse with them, and Adele is growing quite discontented with double duty. I parted with Baptiste also: it was a frightful sacrifice, for he was just a perfect butler. I'm always having economy talked at me by my husband's family, and I hate it!" with a discontented sigh. "I had a house in New York," she continued, "which they urged me to give up. They said I couldn't afford to keep both, and it was better for the children to keep the country-house, and that here on the river it would be easy to get to town. I'm extravagantly fond of going to the theatre and opera, and have had in a great measure to relinquish it. I went even when I was in mourning: the doctors said I must be amused. We'll go sometimes this winter together," she added coaxingly. "Well, now, Miss Featherstone, as to your role of governess: I don't feel as if you were to be anything but my nice new friend, you were so kind last night to my dear little Harry. You teach the common English branches and the rudiments of Latin, French and music? Mr. Brown—is it not an odd name for such a thorough Frenchman? but his father was English, although he was born and educated in France—Mr. Brown teaches them Latin and French at present, but I don't know how long I shall keep him; so you'll be relieved of that. I shall want you to act as a friend in the household—I'm so much of an invalid—sit at the head of the table occasionally, and give orders to the servants."

Miss Featherstone looked slightly perplexed. Her duties as governess were mingling in a distracting manner with those of housekeeper.

"The children are so young," Mrs. Pinckney said apologetically, "they can't be kept at their lessons from morning till night. Rose is eleven, Alfred nine, Dick seven. Harry might possibly learn his alphabet, but I doubt it. You can arrange the hours and studies to suit yourself; and I want you to govern and manage the children—relieve me in that way as much as possible. I hope you'll be very comfortable and happy in my house, Miss Featherstone. If there is anything out of the way in your room or anywhere else, let me know. I'm sure we shall be good friends;" and with a hearty, affectionate kiss she dismissed the governess.

As Miss Featherstone descended the stairs she met Doctor Harris, gallant and gay, with a rose in his buttonhole, followed by the nurse and child, on a visit of reassurance to the fair mother.

Nothing is truer than that homely old proverb, "The lame and the lazy are always provided for;" and Mrs. Pinckney was provided for effectually when she lit upon Miss Featherstone. Just before Christmas the governess was summoned to an interview with Mrs. Pinckney, who was, as usual, in bed: "Oh, my dear Miss Featherstone, I'm in despair—ill again. Christmas coming, and my husband's brother, Colonel Pinckney, is on his way to make us a visit. If there's any one I feel nervous and fidgety before, it is Colonel Pinckney: he seems to look you through and see all your faults and weaknesses: at least, he does mine, and he makes me see them too, which I don't like one bit. I do the best I can: I'm in such miserable health, and have had so much to break me down. Did you ever know any one, dear Miss Featherstone, who had had so much trouble?—my husband's death and all."

The young girl did not reply. Visions of her own lonely home rose before her—her mother fading slowly away under an accumulation of misfortunes; her only brother shot in the Union army; her father sinking into almost a dishonored grave through hopeless liabilities brought on indirectly by the war; she, petted and idolized, the only remaining member of the family, seeking her daily bread and finding a pittance by working among strangers. She hung her head and had not a word with which to reply.

"I dare say you've had troubles of your own," exclaimed Mrs. Pinckney. "Of course you have, or you wouldn't be here, you dear creature! It is well for me that you are here, though," kissing her affectionately. "Now, everything must be just right when this haughty, fastidious brother-in-law of mine comes. He isn't apt to find fault, but I am conscious that he is secretly criticising my dress, my dinners, the gaucheries of the servants, my moral qualities, even the way I turn my sentences. I shouldn't mind trying to talk my very best English if he were not prying into my motives: it is difficult to be on one's guard in every direction," with a sigh.

"I should think he'd be very disagreeable," said Miss Featherstone.

"No:" the no was hesitating. "He is dangerously attractive: at least he attracts me. I'm all the time wondering what he is thinking, which keeps me perpetually thinking of him. He is a Southerner, you know, and was in the army; so you must be very careful,'my dear mees,' as Mr. Brown says, not to come out with your 'truly loyal' sentiments: he won't like them."

"I don't care whether he likes them or not." Miss Featherstone's face was crimson: it was the first spark of temper she had shown since she came into the house.

Mrs. Pinckney looked at her in surprise, then laughed: "I'm delighted to see something human about you: I thought you were a saint."

"By no manner of means," returned the governess curtly.

"I shall warn Dick not to get upon the subject of the war," was the note that Mrs. Pinckney, inconsequent as she generally was, made of the scene.—"But I'm forgetting why I sent for you," she said aloud. "I want you to go to town and buy Christmas presents and quantities of things to eat and drink. I was going myself, but I never can count upon a day as to being well with any certainty," with rather an ostentatious sigh. "I've made out a list: there's plenty of money, isn't there?"

Miss Featherstone had the care of the money and accounts: "Yes," hesitatingly; "that is—"

"No matter," interrupted Mrs. Pinckney. "I have accounts at hosts of places. The carriage is ordered to take you to the station: will you be ready, dear, at ten o'clock?"

Miss Featherstone looked at her watch and hurried to her room.

It was snowing when she returned from New York: great flakes fell on her as she stepped, loaded with bundles, out of the carriage. The children met her with joyful whoops at the front door: "Oh, here's clear little Miss Featherstone, and we know she's got our Christmas presents.—You can't deny it. Hurrah!"

They dragged her into the dining-room, where the table, decked with flowers, was handsomely arranged for dinner. A blazing wood-fire roared on the hearth: in front of it stood a tall, handsome man with a military air. He was dark, with brilliant eyes, a certain regularity of features, and, as his passport declared, his hair was dark brown and curly. Colonel Pinckney looked haughty and impenetrable, as his sister-in-law had described him. Mrs. Pinckney, exquisitely dressed, reclined in a large chair by the corner of the fireplace: she held up a pretty fan to screen her face from the heat, and was talking gayly to her brother-in-law. At a table in a corner Mr. Brown, by the light of a large lamp, was endeavoring, with great difficulty, to read an English paper.

"Oh, mamma, see poor little Miss Featherstone loaded down with boxes and bundles!" shrieked the children, dragging her up to the fire.

"Dear children, do go and get Adele to take them," said their mother.—"Here, Mary," to a servant who entered, "carry these packages up to my dressing-room.—There are more in the carriage?" in reply to a remark of Miss Featherstone.—"Adele," to her maid, who stood at the door, "bring in everything you find in the carriage."

Two or three weeks passed, and Colonel Pinckney made no sign of departure. In spite of his unsocial tendencies, he drove and dined out with his sister-in-law, for many nice people chose this winter to remain at their country-houses. He took long walks by himself, and made inroads into the school-room, for he was very fond of the children. Mrs. Pinckney was less frequently indisposed, and exerted herself in a measure to entertain him. She never, by any accident, occupied herself, and was one morning lying back in a large chair by a coal-fire in the library, her little idle hands resting on her lap, when Colonel Pinckney, who had been examining the books on the shelves which lined the room, assumed his usual position, with his back to the fire, and startled his sister-in-law by exclaiming, "Where did you get your white slave, Virginia?"—Mrs. Pinckney looked bewildered—"this young girl who fills so many places in the house? She appears to be nurse, housekeeper, governess and maid-of-all-work in one."

"My dear Dick, what do you mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Pinckney with some indignation. "Do you think I impose upon Miss Featherstone? I love her dearly. Then my delicate health, and you know I'm obliged to be economical."

Colonel Pinckney made a movement of impatience and almost disgust., "How much do you pay her?" he abruptly exclaimed, turning his flashing eyes upon his companion.

"How angry you look! how you frighten me!" said Mrs. Pinckney, who had a trick of coming out with everything she thought. "I pay her"—and she stammered—"two hundred dollars a year."

"The devil!" he exclaimed. "I beg your pardon, Virginia, but I can hardly believe it. What an absurd compensation for all that girl does! Why, one of your dresses frequently costs more than that: I see your bills, you know."

"I'm very sorry you do if this is the use you make of your knowledge," replied Mrs. Pinckney in an injured tone. "She is in mourning, and does not require many dresses: besides, Richard, no one preaches economy to me more than you do. I'm sick of the very word," petulantly.

"What position, really, is she supposed to occupy?"

"She is the governess," said Mrs. Pinckney in a sulky tone.

"Now listen, Virginia. I have seen that young girl darning stockings in the school-room and at the same time hearing the children's lessons; I have seen her arrange the dinner-table, with the children clinging to her skirts; I have seen her with the keys, giving out the stores; I know she keeps your accounts; and I can readily comprehend where those clear, well-expressed letters came from, although signed by you, which I have frequently received in my character of guardian and executor."

"You certainly don't think I meant to deceive you as to the letters?"

"Oh no," replied her brother-in-law: "I don't think you in the least deceitful, Virginia;" and in his own mind reflected, "'Hypocrisy is the homage which vice pays to virtue.'"

Nobody likes hypocrisy, to be sure, but Mrs. Pinckney did not take the trouble to veil her peccadilloes. Easy and indolent as she was, being now thoroughly roused by his thinly-veiled contempt, she endeavored to be disagreeable in her turn. With the most innocent air in the world she exclaimed, "I declare, Dick, I believe you're in love with Miss Featherstone, although you like fair women—"

"And she is dark," he interrupted.

"Regular features—"

"And her dear little nose is slightly retroussee; but you cannot deny, Virginia, that she has a most captivating air."

"I'm fond of her, but I do not think her captivating." Mrs. Pinckney was now thoroughly out of temper. She was not naturally envious, but she could be roused to envy. "And so you're in love with her?" satirically.

"How can I help it?" he returned with a mocking air. "She has magnificent eyes, a bewildering smile: then she has that je ne sais quoi, as our foreign friend would say. There is no defining it, there is no assuming it. To conclude, I consider Miss Featherstone dangerously attractive."

"Just what I told her you were," returned Mrs. Pinckney, who saw he was trying to tease her, and had recovered by this time her equanimity. In spite of his phlegm he looked interested. "You'd better take care and make no reference to the war, for she is furiously loyal, I can tell you," said Mrs. Pinckney, recalling the conversation. "Since when have you been in love with her?"

"From the very first moment I saw her, when she entered the dining-room, her cheeks brilliant from the cold, her lovely eyes, blinded by the light, peering through their long lashes, a little becoming embarrassment in her air as she saw your humble servant—laden down with your bundles, and your children, as usual, clinging to her skirts."

"Dick, how disagreeable you are!" and Mrs. Pinckney began to pout again.

"We are all her lovers," he maliciously continued—"all the men here—Doctor Harris, Mr. Brown and—" he bowed expressively.

"Doctor Harris?" exclaimed his sister-in-law. This defection cut her to the heart.

"The day my namesake and godchild, little Dick, was ill I went to the nursery, as in duty bound: you know how fond I am of that child. There was Miss Featherstone, not the nurse, interested and concerned, sitting by the patient. There was Doctor Harris, interested and absorbed with Miss Featherstone. His looks were unmistakable: I saw it at a glance. And as for Mr. Brown, he raves about this 'dear mees' or 'cette chere mademoiselle' by the hour together. She carried his heart by storm the first time he saw her, as she did mine."

"How far does your admiration lead you? Do you wish any assistance from me?"

"As you please: I am indifferent," he returned, shrugging his shoulders. "Seriously, Virginia—I say this in my character of guardian and adviser-general to the family—I think what you give her is a beggarly pittance in return for all she does, and I suggest that you raise her salary."

Miss Featherstone, although prejudiced at first against Colonel Pinckney, grew by degrees to like him. His manner to her was grave and respectful; he carried off the children, quite conveniently sometimes, when she was almost worn out with fatigue; and the air of friendly interest with which his dark eyes rested upon her was in a manner comforting. Their little interviews, although she was unconscious of it, gave zest to her life.

One cold morning, as she sat before breakfast with little Harry on her lap, warming his hands before the dining-room fire, Colonel Pinckney exclaimed, "Miss Featherstone, did you have the care of that child last night?"

"Yes," as she pressed the fat little hands in hers.

"And dressed him this morning?"

"Why, yes. Colonel Pinckney, excuse me: why shouldn't I?"

"Virginia is the most selfish human being I ever knew in my life," he burst forth. "You, after working like a slave during the day, cannot even have your night's rest undisturbed. I'll speak to her, and insist upon it that this state of things shall not continue any longer."

Miss Featherstone looked annoyed: "Mr. Pinckney"—she never would, if she remembered it, call him "Colonel"—"I beg that you will do nothing of the kind. Mrs. Pinckney is quite ill with a cold: she can scarcely speak above a whisper, and she required Adele's services during the night. I volunteered—it was my own arrangement—sleeping with the child," eagerly.

"Oh yes," he returned, "you are remarkably well suited to each other—you and Virginia: you give, and she takes," sarcastically. "Listen, Miss Featherstone. I have known that woman twelve years—it is exactly twelve years since my unfortunate brother married her—and in all that time I never knew her consider but one human being, and that was herself."

"Indeed, you're very much mistaken, Colonel—that is, Mr.—Pinckney, as far as I am concerned. Mrs. Pinckney is really very kind to me. I am exceedingly fond of her, but I cannot bear to see things going wrong, and when I can I make them right. Mrs. Pinckney is in delicate health."

"That's all nonsense," he interrupted. "She spends her time studying her sensations. If she were poor she'd have something better to do. I think you are doing wrong morally, Miss Featherstone. You are encouraging her in idleness and selfishness by taking her duties and bearing them on your young shoulders.—Now, Harry, come here," to that small individual, who slowly and unwillingly descended from the governess's lap: "leave Miss Featherstone, my young friend, to pour out the coffee and eat her own breakfast. Adele is with mamma, is she? Well, Uncle Dick will give Harry his breakfast."

The cold was intense the following day, yet Miss Featherstone, well muffled up, was on her way to the hall-door, where the sleigh was waiting to take her to the station.

"Forgive me," exclaimed Colonel Pinckney, who waylaid her, much to her annoyance, "but what are you going to do for the family now?"

"I am going to New York to get a cook," she replied with a decided air.

"Do you know the state of the thermometer?"

"I don't care anything about it," with some obstinacy, tugging at the button of her glove.

"But I do," he said. "Now, Miss Featherstone, while I'm here I am master of the house, and if it's necessary to go to town it's I that am going—to use Pat's vernacular—and not you. Give me directions, and I'll follow them implicitly."

"So Dick went, did he?" said Mrs. Pinckney. She was propped up in bed with large pillows: Miss Featherstone, still in her bonnet, sat by her side.

"Yes: it was very kind, for I don't know what would have become of the children all day, poor things! and you sick."

Mrs. Pinckney glanced searchingly at her. "Dick is very kind when he pleases, and exceedingly efficient," returned the invalid: "I've no doubt he'll bring back a capital cook."

"I had a great prejudice against Mr. Pinckney," said Miss Featherstone, slowly smoothing out her gloves, "but I confess it has vanished, there is something so straightforward and manly about him; and he certainly is very kind."

"He does not flatter you at all?"

"Oh no; and that is one reason I like him. I detest the gallant, tender manner which many men affect toward women."

"Doctor Harris, for instance?"

"Well, Doctor Harris, for instance," returned Miss Featherstone, smiling, and blushing a little.

"Doctor Harris has certainly made love to her, and Dick as certainly hasn't. I wonder—oh, how I wonder!—whether he was in earnest the other day?" Her large blue eyes were fixed scrutinizingly on the governess, although she thought, not said, these things. "He thinks you do a great deal too much in the house, and was quite abusive to me about it: he actually swore when he discovered the amount of your salary. Now, my dear Miss Featherstone, you may name your own price: I'll give you anything you ask, for no amount of money can represent the comfort you are to me."

"I don't want one cent more than I at present receive," replied the governess, kissing her fondly.

A few days after Colonel Pinckney—a self-constituted committee, apparently, for the prevention of cruelty to governesses—surprised Miss Featherstone in the school-room. She was seated before the fire in a low chair, little Harry, who was fretful from a cold, lying on her lap, the other children clustered around her. As he softly opened the door he heard these words: "'Blondine,' replied the fairy Bienveillante sadly,' no matter what you see or hear, do not lose courage or hope.'" As she told the story in low, drowsy tones she was also mending the heel of a little stocking.

"It is abominable!" the colonel cried: "you are worn out with fatigue: I hear it in your voice. I called you a 'white slave' to Virginia: nothing is truer. You've today given out supplies from the store-room, you were in the kitchen a long time with the new cook, you set the lunch-table—don't deny it, for I saw you—besides taking care of the children and hearing their lessons."

"While Mrs. Pinckney is ill this is absolutely necessary," she returned with decision: "of course it makes some confusion having a new cook—"

"Children," he interrupted, "this seance is to be broken up: scamper off to Adele to get ready: I'll ask mamma to let you drive to the station in the coupe to meet Mr. Brown: there will certainly be room for such little folks.—And as to you, Miss Featherstone, as head of the house pro tem. I order you to put on your hat and cloak and walk in the garden for a while with me: the paths are quite hard and dry."

"Mamma! mamma! we are to drive to the station: Uncle Dick says so," shrieked the children, breaking up a delicious little doze into which Mrs. Pinckney had fallen while Adele sat at her sewing in the darkened room.

"Is Uncle Dick going with you?"

"No, he is going to walk in the garden with Miss Featherstone."

Mrs. Pinckney felt quite cross: "He is positively insolent, ordering things about in this way, interrupting my nap and all. What, under Heaven, should I do without her if he is in earnest about Miss Featherstone?"

If she could have heard what Colonel Pinckney was saying in the garden she would have been still crosser.

"I want to enlighten you a little as to my fair sister-in-law," he began after a few commonplaces.

"Oh, please don't, Colonel Pinckney"—unconsciously she was sliding into the "Colonel." "I'd much rather you wouldn't. I think—" and she hesitated.

"What do you think?"

"Why"—and she looked embarrassed—"I am afraid I shall not love Mrs. Pinckney as well if you analyze and show up all her little weaknesses. We could none of us bear it," she continued warmly. "Remember that line—

Be to her faults a little blind.

I like to love people, and feel like a woman in some novel I've read: 'Long and deeply let me be beguiled with regard to the infirmities of those I love.'"

"You're an angel!" he cried.

Miss Featherstone looked startled and annoyed.

Colonel Pinckney, with much self-possession, recovered himself immediately. "We all know it," he continued jestingly—"Mr. Brown, the children, servants and all; but, in spite of this, you shall not be imposed upon. Now, I wish to give you a resume of Mrs. Pinckney's life—"

"Oh, Colonel Pinckney! when we are under her roof!"

"It is a shelter bought with my father's money," he returned. "But you must and shall hear me: it is necessary. She is the incarnation of selfishness: in a young person it could go no further. One can pardon anything rather than selfishness. She entirely exhausted our charity during poor Harry's long illness. She travelled with every comfort that money could give: she had her maid, Harry had his man, the children were left with my mother. One winter they went to Nassau, the next to the south of France: from both places she wrote such despairing letters that my poor old father and mother were nearly beside themselves. It was like the explosion of a bomb-shell in the household when a letter came from Virginia. Sometimes I used to read and suppress them: they were filled with shrieks and lamentations. Harry was in a rapid decline; the mental torture was more than she could bear; some one must come immediately out to her, etc. The first winter my eldest brother went, to the serious injury of his business: he is a lawyer. I went when they were in Europe, my wound not yet healed. By George! Harry looked in better health than I: every one thought I was the invalid. The doctor was called in immediately, who said I had endangered my life by the expedition. I found out my lady had been to balls and on excursions all the time she was writing those harrowing letters."

"Is it possible," said Miss Featherstone, "that you think Mrs. Pinckney is false—that she deliberately tells untruths?"

"Not a bit of it," interrupted Colonel Pinckney. "She loves to complain and make herself an object of sympathy. Poor Harry, of course, had a constant cough, and whenever he took cold all his distressing symptoms were aggravated: then she'd write her letters. By the time they were received he would be pretty well again. You can see for yourself what she is: she sends for Doctor Harris, has Adele sleep on a mattress on the floor in her room, leaving little Harry to keep you awake all night—a fine preparation for the drudgery of the next day—then toward evening she rises, makes a beautiful toilette, and drives with me several miles to a dinner-party. Not a month ago, you remember, this occurred when we went to Judge Lawrence's. To go back to my poor brother: let me tell you what happened from her crying wolf so often. The next winter they went to St. Augustine: we live in Virginia, you know. A few weeks after their arrival the alarming letters began and continued to appear. I took it upon myself to suppress most of them, for really I had grown scarcely to believe a word she said with regard to her husband, and, as I am sanguine, thought poor Harry would overcome the disease, as our father had before him, and live to a good old age. One morning, however, a telegram came: he was dead!" Colonel Pinckney could scarcely speak. Recovering himself a little, he continued in husky tones: "He died alone with his nurse: Virginia, taking care of herself as usual, was in another room asleep."

"I wonder what they are talking about?" thought Mrs. Pinckney, twisting her pretty neck in all directions so she could see them from her bed. Their two heads were close together: he was speaking earnestly, and Miss Featherstone's eyes were on the ground.

Mrs. Pinckney dressed and went down to dinner, although she had not quite recovered the use of her voice. "Dick," she whispered, "it was a fine move, your sending the children away this afternoon, so that you could have Miss Featherstone all to yourself. Did you come to the point?"

"No, but I will one of these days: I am preparing her mind," he added mischievously.

As time went on a vague uneasiness seized the young governess. She imagined Mrs. Pinckney was growing cool in her manner toward her: certainly, Doctor Harris, who was constantly at the house, was becoming importunate in his attentions. Once she looked up suddenly at as prosaic a place as the dinner-table. Colonel Pinckney was gazing both ardently and admiringly upon her. "Certainly I must be losing my senses to imagine these men in love with me: it's preposterous."

Mr. Brown put the matter at rest, as far as he was concerned, for one day, as she returned from a walk, he accosted her on the veranda, and with a series of the most violent grimaces and gesticulations, his eyes flashing, his face working in every possible direction, he told her that he was desole: his life depended upon her. He was so odd and absurd in his avowal that she burst out laughing: then, as she beheld an indignant, inquiring expression on his honest red countenance, she grew frightened, sank on a seat and wept hysterically. This encouraged him: he sat down beside her and exclaimed, "Dear mees"—and he peered at her blandly—"your life is empty: so is mine. Let it be for me—oh, so beautiful!"—and he spread out his little fat hands with rapture—"to comfort and console one heavenly existence, ensemble." He placed a hand on each stout knee and gazed benignly down upon her.

She hung her head as sheepishly as if she returned the little foreigner's affection—afraid of wounding him, she was speechless—when at this unlucky moment Colonel Pinckney, coming suddenly round the house, walked up the steps. She saw him glance at her—Mr. Brown's back was toward him—and a smile he evidently couldn't restrain stole over his face.

"Oh, Mr. Brown, I'm so sorry!" she found courage at length to say. "You are very kind—you've always been kind to me from the moment I entered the house—but indeed you must never speak on this subject again." She shook hands with him in her embarrassment, apparently as a proof of friendship, then ran into the house.

"Virginia, what do you think has happened to me?" cried Colonel Pinckney, bursting into his sister-in-law's room, which he seldom invaded. "Yesterday, as I came up the steps, I surprised Mr. Brown, who was offering himself—bad English, poverty and all—to Miss Featherstone. This minute—by George!—I stumbled into the dining-room, and there is Doctor Harris going through the same performance."

"Sit down and tell me all about it," exclaimed Mrs. Pinckney, her curiosity overcoming her pique.

"Each time," continued Colonel Pinckney, "the lover's back was turned toward me, while I had a most distinct view of Miss Featherstone, who was blushing, hanging her head and looking as distressed as possible, poor little soul!"

"Why! won't she accept the doctor?" said Mrs. Pinckney with animation.

"It didn't look like it. I couldn't hear what he said, but his back had a hopeless expression. Did you know that she came from one of the best families in Philadelphia, that most aristocratic of cities, and that they were very wealthy? Her only brother was killed in the war, and she is the sole unfortunate survivor."

"She might do many a worse thing than marry Doctor Harris: he is well educated and a gentleman."

"She could do a better thing, and that is to marry me," exclaimed the colonel. "I'm going to give her a chance, and will tell you the result immediately. I wonder who'll stumble in upon my wooing?" and with mirthful eyes he darted out of the room.

"I never knew a man so changed," soliloquized Mrs. Pinckney. "He used to be haughty and reserved: now he talks a great deal, uses slang expressions and romps and plays with the children like any ordinary mortal. One can never tell whether he is in earnest or not. I don't believe he'd have told me if he'd really meant to offer himself."

A day or two afterward Miss Featherstone had occasion to go to town. It was exceedingly inconvenient, for she was needed everywhere as usual, but gloves and boots must be replenished, even by impecunious heroines. As she came down Colonel Pinckney handed her into the carriage and followed her. She felt a little annoyed, but supposed he was driving only to the station: however, he sent the coachman home, and when the cars came up he entered and took his seat beside her.

"You look depressed, Miss Featherstone: I hope that my going to New York meets with your approbation? I've been neglecting a thousand necessary matters, and the pleasure of your company to-day gave me the necessary incentive."

He was so frank as to his motives that Miss Featherstone laid aside her reserve in a measure, and became communicative. "Everything has changed, Colonel Pinckney," she said with a sigh. "Mrs. Pinckney has grown decidedly cool, and I think you have opened my eyes so that I don't love her quite as much as I did. I am sorry: I should rather have been blind. Then—" She paused, feeling that her confidences must go no further.

"Then," he continued, "it makes it very embarrassing that the tutor and family physician should both have fallen in love with you."

"I think of leaving," she continued, neither admitting nor contradicting his assertion. "Forgive me: you have spoken from the best motives, but I think you have made trouble," she added hesitatingly. "Mrs. Pinckney is now continually on the alert to prevent my working; she will no longer let little Harry sleep in my room; she orders the dinner for the first time since I've been in the house; the children are swooped off by Adele as soon as their school-hours are over; and everything is odd, strange and uncomfortable. I think I must go away. I wrote an advertisement to put in the papers: perhaps you could do it for me?" she said timidly: "I dread going to the offices."

"Certainly," he replied courteously, and put it in his pocket.

Colonel Pinckney appeared to share her depression, and he sat for some time silent: then he said in an agitated voice, "It will be a sorrowful day for that house when you leave it: I never knew such a transformation as you have effected. Until this winter my only associations with it have been of dirt, gloom and disorder: the children were neglected and fretful, the dinners shocking and ill served; and this with an army of servants and money spent ad libitum. Now, on the contrary, the rooms are fresh, cheerful and agreeable; there are pleasant odors, bright fires, attractive meals; the children perfect both in appearance and manner; and all this owing to the influence—perhaps I ought to say labors—of one young, inexperienced girl. I've always imagined I disliked efficient women: I've changed my mind. When I was young a fair, indolent creature, always well dressed and smiling, was my beau ideal: now a brunette, bright and energetic—some one who never thinks of herself, but is making everybody else happy and comfortable—this is my present divinity." He smiled tenderly upon her.

Miss Featherstone endeavored to shake off her embarrassment. He was a frank, kind-hearted man, entirely unlike his sister-in-law's idea of him, with an exaggerated gratitude for her exertions in his brother's family. She would not be so silly as to imagine every man was being transformed into a lover. "You are kinder to me than I deserve," she said, then changed the conversation.

She expected to meet him as she took the train to return, but he was nowhere to be seen. He did not even appear when the train stopped, and she had a solitary drive to the house.

"Did you know that Dick had gone?" said Mrs. Pinckney at the dinner-table, levelling scrutinizing glances from her lovely blue eyes.

"No," answered the governess with sudden depression and embarrassment: "he said nothing about leaving this morning. You know Colonel Pinckney went to New York in the train that I did."

"You didn't see him after your arrival?"

"No: he put me on a car and left me."

"I suspect it was an after-thought," said Mrs. Pinckney. "I had a telegram, directing me to send on his travelling-bag by express: the rest of his luggage was to be left until further orders.—Is it possible that she has refused him?" thought Mrs. Pinckney behind her fan. She was occupying her usual seat by the fire: Miss Featherstone was in a low chair, with Harry on her lap, the other children hanging about her. She was telling them a story, but they were not as well entertained as usual. The young governess was unlike herself to-night, and little touches, dramatic effects and gay inflections of the voice were lacking.

A month passed, and nothing had been heard from Colonel Pinckney. "He might have written just one line," said his sister-in-law querulously. She was in her favorite position, propped up by pillows on the bed, Miss Featherstone at her side waiting to receive orders, for gradually all her old duties had been permitted to slip back into her willing hands. "Certainly he seemed to enjoy himself when he was here; yet not one line of thanks or remembrance have I received. I heard," she said mysteriously, "that Dick was very devoted to Miss Livingstone at Saratoga last summer—there's no end to the women who have been in love with him: perhaps this sudden move has something to do with her. Nothing but a great emergency can excuse him," petulantly.

That day, for the first time, the children wearied Miss Featherstone, and she carried them in a body to Adele, saying that she had a violent headache and was going out in the garden for a walk. As she paced slowly up and down the tears fell over her pale cheeks. The only window from which she could be seen was Mrs. Pinckney's, and that lady, she knew, was too much absorbed in her own sensations to give her a thought. "How I despise myself!" she murmured, "how degraded I am in my own eyes! Can I ever recover my self-respect? I'm so miserable that I should like to die because Colonel Pinckney has left the house, and"—she hesitated—"because his sister-in-law thinks he was drawn away by Miss Livingstone, Oh!"—and she groaned and clasped her hands frantically together—"and all this agony for a man who has never uttered a word of love to me!" Here a remembrance of his whole air and manner rather contradicted this thought. "Everything wearies me: I am actually impatient of the children, and when Mrs. Pinckney wails and complains I can scarcely listen with decency. I want to burst out upon her and say, 'You silly, tiresome woman! you have had your dream of love and your husband; you have still four dear children; you have a home, plenty of money, hosts of friends, besides youth and good looks; while I am—oh, how desolate!'"

This imaginary attack upon Mrs. Pinckney seemed to comfort her somewhat, for she dried her tears and tried to form a plan of action: "He evidently didn't put my advertisement in the paper, for I've looked in vain for it. I must go away where I shall never see Colonel Pinckney again. I'll stifle, throttle, this miserable love, and endeavor once more to be enduring and courageous."

Just then the house-door opened: some one walked down the veranda steps and came rapidly in her direction.

"I have been looking everywhere for you," cried Colonel Pinckney; and he seized both her hands: "no one seemed to know where you had gone."

The bright color rose in her cheeks, and in spite of her resolve her eyes beamed with delight. She murmured inarticulately that she had told Adele, then relapsed into silence.

"I have to implore your forgiveness for neglecting to obey as to the advertisement, but the truth is——" and he hesitated—"I have a plan. It may not meet with your concurrence," he added, "but I wished to submit it before you made other and irrevocable arrangements."

"You have thought of some position for me?" she forced herself to say, all the bloom and delight vanishing from her face.

"Yes. I know an individual who wants precisely such a person as you are, for—a wife."

"Colonel Pinckney!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"Do forgive me, dear Miss Featherstone. I am such a confounded poltroon"—and he seized her hands again—"that I dare not risk my fate; but that person is"—and he looked down upon her, his heart beating so violently that he could scarcely speak—"that person is—myself!"

Of what happened then Mrs. Pinckney, roused by her brother-in-law's return, was cognizant, for actually, in the open air, with her blue eyes bent eagerly upon them, he clasped the governess in his arms. "It is a fact accomplished!" cried the fair widow with a sigh, and sank back upon her pillows.



THE HOME OF THE GENTIANS.

There is a lonesome hamlet of the dead Spread on a high ridge, up above a lake— A quiet meadow-slope, unfrequented, Where in the wind a thousand wild flowers shake.

But most of all, the delicate gentian here, Serenely blue as the sweet eyes of Hope, Doth prosper in th' untroubled atmosphere, Where wide its fringed eyelids love to ope.

You cannot set a foot upon the ground On warm September noons, in this old croft, But there some satiny blossom crushed is found, Swift springing up to look again aloft.

Prized! sung of poets! sought for singly where Adventurous feet may hardly dare to climb! Here, scattered lavishly and without care, In all the sweet luxuriance of their prime.

Ah! how the yellow-thighed, brown-coated bee Dives prodigally into those blue deeps Of glistening, odorless satin fair to see, And soon forgetting wherefore, tranced, sleeps!

And how the golden butterflies skim over, And poise, all fondly, on these lifted lips, Leaving the riches of the sweet red clover For the blue gentians' fine and fairy tips!

Beautiful wildlings, proud, refined and shy! Mysteries ye are, have been, and yet shall be: The secrets of your being in ye lie, And no man yet hath found their hidden key.

Might we not laugh at our world's vaunted lore, For ever boasting, "This, and this, I know"? Not all the science of its hard-won store Can make one single fringed gentian grow. —HOWARD GLYNDON.



NEWPORT A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

There is a magnetism in places which has as strong and subtle a potency as that which belongs to certain persons. Newport, Rhode Island, is not an inapt example of the class of which I speak. The wonderful mildness of the air, coupled with its exhilarating qualities; the fertility of the soil, which throws tropical vegetation over the stern realism of crag and precipice; the mixture of the wildest features of Nature with its softest and most intoxicating influences,—all these anomalies, unexplained even by the proximity of the itself inexplicable Gulf Stream, combine to form a perfect and most desirable whole. Nor is this description over-colored or the offshoot of the latter-day caprice that has made of the place a fashionable resort. The very name of the State suggests that of a classic island famed for its atmosphere; and as Verrazano, writing in 1524, compares Block Island to Rhodes, it is possible that hence arose its title. Neal in 1717, and the Abbe Robin in 1771, both speak of Newport as the Paradise of New England, and endorse its Indian appellation, Aquidneck, or the Isle of Peace. Berkeley, dean of Derry, who came here in 1729 full of zealous but utopian plans of proselytism, writes of it that "the climate is warmer than Italy, and far preferable to Bermuda" (his original destination). Indeed, it is to the good man's enthusiasm for Newport that we owe his burst of poetical prophecy, "Westward the course of empire takes its way."

If the staid and reverend Berkeley, he whom Swift, writing to Lord Carteret, recommends as "one of the first men in the kingdom for learning and virtue," and of whom Pope exclaims, "To Berkeley every virtue under heaven," found here this fascination, what wonder that more excitable pilgrims of Latin blood made of it a Mecca? The French particularly came often to Newport in early colonial days, and have left jottings of their stay and the pleasure it afforded them. Monsieur de Crevecoeur visited it in 1772, and found delight in its natural beauties. He notes the bay and harbor, the approach to which he considers remarkably fine, and admires the acacia and plane trees which line the roads, all of which, unfortunately, were destroyed during the Revolution. The young attache of the French legation of to-day, who chafes at the diplomatic duties which delay his shaking off the dust of Washington for the delights of Newport, hardly comprehends how much heredity has to do with his appreciation of it. He does not stop to think, as he sips his post-prandial coffee at Hartman's window, of the line of French chivalry that a century ago made their favorite promenade by the spot where he now sits. His mind, running on Mrs. A——'s ball or Mrs. B——'s lawn-tennis, is far from dreaming of the irresistible De Lauzun, the gallant De Fersen, a fugitive from the love of a queen, but destined to serve her as lackey in her need, the two handsome Viosmenils, the baron Cromot du Bourg, the duc de Deux-Ponts, or any of the brilliant cortege of a bygone day. But what memories the mere enumeration of their names brings up! Rank and valor were the heritage of all of them, an heroic but unhappy end the fate of most. Who can say that the aroma of their presence does not still linger round the old town, up and down the narrow streets where they passed with gay jests and clanking sword, or in the quaint mansions, still peeping out from behind century-old hedges, where they left the record of their graces in the heart of their host and of their loves on his window-pane? What can be pleasanter than for the American pen to linger over the page of history that chronicles the generous sympathy which brought this fine flower of France to our shores? Where is the heart, even in our cynical nineteenth century, which holds enthusiasm an anachronism, that does not thrill at the recollection of the chivalry that quitted the luxury and revels of Versailles to dare the dangers of an ocean-voyage (then no ten-day pleasure-trip) for a cause that still hung in the balances of success? Viewed practically, the help offered was even more deserving of praise. The French are not an adventurous nation: they are not fond of travelling. Hugo says Paris is the world, and to the average Frenchman it embodies the world it comprises: it is the world. Expatriated, he would rather dwell, like the poet, on a barren island within sight of the shores of France than seek or find new worlds to conquer. It must therefore be conceded that the sentiment which brought us our allies in 1780 was a hearty one, nor had they encouragement from the example of others; for, although La Fayette, young and full of ardor, had fired the hearts of his compatriots, and made it the fashion to help us even before the alliance in 1778, yet the expedition of that year under the comte d'Estaing had been an utter failure. There was, however, a strong incentive which brought the young nobles of the time to us, and that was the one which the old philosopher declared to be at the bottom of every case—a woman. In this particular instance the prestige was heightened by the fact that she was also a queen. Marie Antoinette was then at the zenith of her beauty and power. The timid, shrinking dauphiness, forced to the arms of an unwilling husband, himself a mere cipher, had expanded into a fascinating woman, reigning triumphantly over the court and the affections of her vacillating spouse. The birth, after years of wedlock, of several children completed her conquest and gave her the dominion she craved, and she now threw her influence unreservedly into the balance for the American colonies, little dreaming she was therein laying the first stone toward her own ruin.

On the 6th of February, 1778, the treaty between the United States and France was signed, followed in July of the same year by a declaration from the king protecting neutral ships, although bound for hostile ports and carrying contraband goods. Meanwhile, on the 13th of April, the French fleet had sailed from Toulon under the command of D'Estaing, who had with him on the Languedoc, his flagship, a regularly appointed envoy, Girard de Rayneville, who had full power to recognize the independence of the States, Silas Deane, one of the American commissioners, and such well-known officers as the comte de la Motte-Piquet, the Bailli de Suffren, De Guichen, D'Orvilliers, De Grasse and others. The history of this first expedition is a short and disastrous one. The voyage was long, owing to the ships being unequally matched in speed, and it was ninety days after leaving Toulon before they anchored in Delaware Bay. D'Estaing had hoped to surprise Lord Howe, who was guarding the mouth of the Delaware to strengthen the position of Sir Henry Clinton at Philadelphia, but when the fleet arrived Clinton had evacuated Philadelphia, and was in the harbor of New York. Here the French admiral followed him, but, finding no pilots at Sandy Hook willing to take him over the bar, he on Washington's recommendation proceeded to Rhode Island to co-operate with Sullivan, who was in command of the army there, which was divided into two brigades under Generals Greene and La Fayette. On the 29th of July, 1778, the French fleet appeared off Newport, to the delight of the inhabitants, who were suffering from the English occupation, and saw in prospect an end to their troubles. But, alas! their joy was premature. Sullivan was so slow in moving that the moment for action was lost. Lord Howe, having received reinforcements, appeared off Point Judith, where D'Estaing tried to meet and give him battle; but a hurricane coming up, both fleets were obliged to spend their energies in saving themselves from destruction, and before the storm passed the French ships were so scattered that all hope of success had to be abandoned. D'Estaing found himself on the 13th of August separated from his convoy, and his ship, Le Languedoc, bereft of rudder and masts, forced to an encounter with three English vessels. His fleet rallied round him, but it was too late after a disastrous action to do anything but repair damages: in fact, Lord Howe had already reached Sandy Hook. D'Estaing appeared off Newport on the 20th to announce that he should be obliged by instructions to go to Boston for provisions and water, and thus ended the first visit of the French to Newport, to the dismay of the inhabitants. Sullivan criticised D'Estaing severely, but was obliged by La Fayette to retract: indeed, it is a question whether the fault of failure lay in Sullivan's procrastination or in want of judgment on the part of the French commander, who nevertheless, on his return to France, interested himself to induce the government to send out twelve thousand men to America. La Fayette also, through his friendship with Vergennes, exerted himself toward the same end, the proposition being not unfavorably received by the government, which merely demurred as to the number of troops required. Before leaving France, however, La Fayette had secured full consent to the expedition, and on him devolved the grateful task of bearing to Congress and Washington the news of the co-operation of that country. The fleet was prepared at Brest, and was placed under Admiral de Ternay, the command of the troops being given to the comte de Rochambeau, not through court favor, but in consideration of the affection of the army for him.

Jean Baptiste de Vimeur, comte de Rochambeau and marshal of France, was born in Vendome in 1725. At sixteen he served under the marechal de Broglie, was afterward aide to the duc d'Orleans, and distinguished himself in the battles of Crevelt, Minden, Closterkamp and Corbach, being seriously wounded several times. A thorough soldier, Rochambeau possessed not only courage, but a clear, practical eye, accompanied by foresight and judgment. His memoirs show him to have taken more kindly to the camp than the court, and outside of war to have been fond of the sports of a country gentleman. His appearance in Trumbull's picture of the surrender of Cornwallis shows us more of a Cincinnatus than of an Alexander. He was reserved in his manner, even with his officers, and De Fersen, writing to his father, complains of it, acknowledging, however, that it was shown less with him than with others. Later on he does Rochambeau justice, and says: "His example had its effect on the army, and the severe orders he gave restrained everybody and enforced that discipline which was the admiration of the Americans and of the English who witnessed it. The wise, prudent and simple conduct of M. de Rochambeau has done more to conciliate America to us than the gain of four battles."

With this representative soldier of his time came so fine a showing of the noblesse of France, fresh from the most brilliant court of Europe, that they are worth a short description. They are interesting, if from nothing else, from the fact that they are the men who appear on the page of history one day steeped in the enervating luxury and intrigue of Versailles and Marly, the next fighting and dying with the courage of the lionhearted Henri de la Rochejaquelin in Vendee, leaving as an epitaph on their whole generation the words of the Chouan chief, "Allons chercher l'ennemi! Si je recule, tuez moi; si j'avance, suivez moi; si je meurs, vengez moi!" Never even in Napoleon's campaigns, where each man had as incentive a name and fortune to carve, was there such a race of soldiers as these same aristocrats.

First and foremost, let us mention Armand Louis de Gontaut, duc de Lauzun, the duc de Biron of the Vendee. He was the gayest gallant of the time, and whether with the Polish princess Czartoriski, the beautiful Lady Sarah Bunbury—George III.'s admiration as he saw her making hay at Holland House—Mesdames de Stainville and de Coig and the rollicking actresses of the Comedie Francaise, or Mrs. Robinson (the prince of Wales's "Perdita,"), seems to have had universal success. We except the record that gives him the love of Marie Antoinette. To him was entrusted in this expedition the legion that bore his name, with Count Arthur Dillon as coadjutor. The marechals-de-camp were the two brothers Viosmenil, celebrated for their beauty, and the marquis de Chastelleux, a member of the Institute and possessed of some literary merit. He had written a piece called La Felicite publique, which drew from the wits of the day the following epigram:

A Chastelleux la place academique: Qu' a-t-il donc fait? Un livre bien concu. Vous l'appelez La Felicite publique; Le public fut heureux, car il n'en a rien su.

He printed twenty-four impressions of his travels in America by the aid of a printing-press on the squadron, the first record of a book having been published privately in the colonies. The aides of De Rochambeau were the handsome Swede Count de Fersen, the marquis de Vauban, Charles de Lamette (who fought a famous duel in the Bois de Boulogne with the duc de Castries), De Dumas and De Laubedieres: De Tarli was intendant. The list of officers comprised such historic names as those of the marquis de Laval-Montmorenci, the duc de Deux-Ponts (colonel of the regiment raised in Alsace that bore his name), his two brothers, Vicomte de Chartres, De Custine, D'Olonne, De Montesquieu and the vicomte de Noailles. The last named had, as ambassador to England, the task entrusted to him of bearing to Lord Weymouth the news of the French alliance with America.

The fleet which appeared off Newport on the 11th of July, 1780, comprised seven ships of the line—the Duc de Bourgogne, Neptune, Conquerant, Provence, Eveille, Jason and Ardent—the frigates Surveillante, Amazone and Gentille, the corvette Fantasque (which was a hospital-ship) and the cutter La Guepe. There were thirty-two transports with the expeditionary corps of five thousand men. Admiral de Ternay, wisely profiting by D'Estaing's experience, lost no time in reaching his destination. He was welcomed by the sight of the French flag planted both on Point Judith and Newport Point, this being the signal agreed on with La Fayette that all was well. Only a few days later he would have been intercepted by an English squadron, Admiral Graves having sailed from Portsmouth early in the season, intending to prevent the French reaching Newport, but his plans were deranged by the bad weather. The squadron entered the beautiful harbor of Newport with flying flags and pennons bright with the golden fleur-de-lys of France.

From the earliest days of the colony Newport had taken a prominent place in its history. Its natural advantages had early singled it out for both commercial and social distinction. One of the first governors, Coddington, was its original settler. An openly-avowed freedom from prejudice was among the first declared principles of Rhode Island. Quakers and Jews were gladly received, and while the former brought with them the temperance and moderation peculiar to their tenets, the latter grafted on Newport commerce the spirit of enterprise which made the town celebrated in colonial annals for its prosperity and importance. The Jewish merchants were men of good origin, fine presence and character. They were many of them of high birth in Spain and Portugal, and they have bequeathed to posterity a record of stately hospitality and unblemished integrity. The names of Lopez, Riviera, Seixas and Touro are honored and respected still in their former home, and the fine arch that towers over the gay promenade of to-day gives entrance to their last resting-place, so solemn and so majestic a home of the dead that it drew from the Nestor of American poets a stirring apostrophe to the manes of the dead sons of Israel. The fine harbor and bay of Newport soon attracted commerce from all nations, which heaped its wharves with riches and made princes and magnates of its merchants—a position they seemed born to sustain. The Overings, Bannisters, Malbones and Redwoods kept open house and exercised lavish hospitality—witness, as told by the Newport Herald of June 7, 1766, the story of Colonel Godfrey Malbone's feast on the lawn of his burning mansion, so fine an edifice that its cost had been a hundred thousand dollars in 1744; but the house taking fire at the time he had invited guests to dinner, he thus feasted rather than disappoint them, and all through the long summer night they held high revel and pledged each other in jovial toasts while the flames of the burning building illumined these Sardanapalian orgies. Year after year added to the importance of this city by the sea: year after year the Indies poured into its warehouses the riches with which Newport, out of its abundance, dowered New York, Boston and Hartford and ornamented and enriched the stately homes of its merchants. There is, however, one blot on its scutcheon—one which darkens the picture of this prosperity and the means that helped make it—and that is the slave-trade. Yes, the town which was to give birth to William Ellery Channing was one of the first to become interested in this baleful traffic. It is true it was denounced by the Legislature, which as early as 1652 made it penal to hold slaves, yet statistics show that between 1730 and 1752 the return cargoes of all ships from the West Indies consisted of them. The slave-trade of Newport bore fruit in other evils. At this time there were no less than forty distilleries at work, and this rum, exported to Africa, bought and brought home the human freight. However, in 1774 the importation was prohibited, and all male children born after 1784 were declared to be free.

Nowhere was there a more courtly and elegant society than in Newport. The rules of etiquette were rigorously adhered to, and there was no jesting on so sacred a topic as the honor and respect due to those whom the good rector of Trinity was wont to allude to as moving in higher spheres. De Segur a year or two later says of it: "Other parts of America were only beautiful by anticipation, but Rhode Island was complete. Newport, well and regularly built, contained a numerous population, whose happiness was indicated by its prosperity. It offered delightful circles composed of enlightened men and modest and handsome women, whose talents heightened their personal attractions." To-day, Newport is the rendezvous of the best society of the land. Handsome women and clever men meet and greet there, but can the society be more distinguished than, from this description, it must have been a century ago? We wonder if the stately dames who in the eighteenth century held court here would quite approve of the laissez-aller of modern intercourse. The youth of to-day, whose highest praise for his fair partner of the cotillon is often that she is "an awfully good fellow," has little kinship with his ancestor, who used to wait at the street-corner to see the object of his devotion go by under the convoy of her father and mother and a couple of faithful colored footmen, thinking himself happy meanwhile if his divinity gave him a shy glance. The gay girl of the period, who scampers in her pony chaise down the avenue from one engagement to the other, and whose most sacred confidence is apt to be that she adores horses and loves "pottering about the stable," is, with all her charms, quite different from the blushing little beauty of 1780, who in powdered hair, quilted petticoat and high, red-heeled shoes gave her lover a modest little glance at the street-corner, thinking it a most delicious and unforeseen bit of romance to have a lover at all. But other times other manners, and nineteenth-century men and women are no doubt as charming in their way as were our pretty ancestresses and their gallants of a century ago.

The prosperity of Newport received a check from the Revolution. The English occupation resulted in a vandalism that destroyed the fine mansions, turned public buildings, and even Trinity Church, into barracks for the soldiers and stables for their horses, laid waste the country, cut down the trees and obliterated the landmarks. Thus the French found it, and they were welcomed as possible deliverers and defenders from the English rule. Rochambeau and his staff reached Newport in the frigate Hermione on the afternoon of the 11th of July, and the next day the troops were landed, many of them being ill and all in need of rest after the long voyage and cramped quarters. The forts were put in possession of the French, who proceeded to remodel them into a better condition to resist a siege. General Heath, hearing at Providence the news of the arrival of the fleet, came down to Newport to greet Rochambeau, whom he met on shore, going afterward on board the Duc de Bourgogne to see the admiral, who in return saluted the town with thirteen guns. On the evening of the 12th Rochambeau dined with General Heath, a grand illumination of the town taking place afterward, and each day saw some new festivity to welcome the guests who had made the American cause their own. The army had been stationed across the island guarding the town, the right toward the ships and the left upon the sea, Rochambeau thus carefully covering the position of his vessels by the batteries. Everything was en fete. The people were delighted with the manners and courtly polish of the French. Robin says of the discipline insisted on at Newport, "The officers employed politeness and amenity, the common soldiers became mild, circumspect and moderate." The French at Newport were no longer the frivolous race, presumptuous, noisy, full of fatuity, they were reputed to be. They lived quietly and retired, limiting their society to their hosts, to whom every day they became dearer. These young nobles of birth and fortune, to whom a sojourn at court must have given a taste for dissipation and luxury, were the first to set an example of frugality and simplicity of life. They showed themselves affable, popular, as if they had never lived but with men who were on an equality. Every one was won, even the Tories, and their departure saddened even more than their arrival had alarmed. Rochambeau also alludes to the discipline of the army, and says: "It was due to the zeal of the generals and superior officers, and above all to the goodwill of the soldiers. It contributed not a little to make the State of Rhode Island acquiesce in the proposition I made it, to repair at our expense the mansions which the English had mutilated, so that they might serve as barracks for the soldiers if the inhabitants would lodge the officers. We spent twenty thousand crowns in repairing the houses, and left in the place many marks of the generosity of France toward its allies."

We have before us an old plan of Newport in 1777, and a list of the officers' hosts. We find the general quartered at 302 New lane, corner of Clark and Mary streets. Its proprietor, William Hunter, was president of the Eastern Navy Board at Boston and an earnest upholder of the rights of the colonies. The gallant and all-conquering Lauzun was at the widow Deborah Hunter's, No. 264 Thames street. Mrs. Hunter was the mother of two charming daughters, whom Lauzun eulogizes in his journal. His praise has been often quoted, yet it is worth repeating, as it shows this Lovelace in a new and pleasing light. He says: "Mrs. Hunter is a widow of thirty-six who has two daughters, whom she has well brought up. She conceived a friendship for me, and I was treated like one of the family. I passed my time there. I was ill, and she took care of me. I was not in love with the Misses Hunter, but had they been my sisters I could not have been fonder of them." The two Viosmenils and their aides were at Joseph Wanton's, in Thames street. The Wantons had been governors of Rhode Island from 1732: Joseph Wanton was the last governor under the Crown. He is described as wearing a large white wig with three curls—one falling down his back and one forward over each shoulder. De Chastelleux lodged with Captain Maudsly, at No. 91 Spring street; De Choisy at Jacob Riviera's in Water street; the marquis de Laval and the vicomte de Noailles at Thomas Robinson's, in Water street; the marquis de Custine, the commander of the regiment Saintonge, at Joseph Durfey's, 312 Griffin street; Colonel Malbone entertained Lieutenant-Colonel de Querenel at No. 83 Thames street; while Colonel John Malbone was the host of the commandant Desandrouins, the colonel of the engineers, at No. 28 of the same street; William Coggeshall of No. 135 Thames street had the baron de Turpin and De Plancher for guests; De Fersen and the marquis de Darnas were at the house of Robert Stevens, and De Laubedieres and Baron de Closen at that of Henry Potter, both in New lane; Madame McKay, 115 Lewis street, quartered De Lintz and Montesquieu; Joseph Antony, at 339 Spring street, Dumas; and Edward Hazard, of 271 Lewis street, the two D'Olonnes. Admiral de Ternay was much on his ship, but lodged at Colonel Wanton's in Water street; his captains, De la Chaise and Destouches, were at Abraham Redwood's, 78 Thames street.

On the 21st of July, Admirals Graves and Arbuthnot arrived off the harbor with eleven vessels—one of ninety, six of seventy-four, three of sixty-four, and one of fifty guns. The following day the number was increased to nineteen, and from this time the French squadron was effectually blockaded in Newport. Although doubt seems to have been felt by some as to the good intentions of the French army, the general feeling on their arrival was one of joy. On Sunday, the 15th, the intelligence became known in Philadelphia, where Congress was then sitting. Washington ordered the soldiers to wear a black-and-white cockade as a symbol of the alliance, the American cockade being black and the French white, but seems withal to have felt nervous and impatient for some decisive action. He sent La Fayette to Newport to urge Rochambeau to make an attack on New York, but the latter replied that he expected from the admiral de Guichen, who commanded the West India squadron, five ships of war, and declined to take any steps until his army was in better condition. La Fayette, who was young and full of ardor, was hardly pleased with Rochambeau's caution, but apologized for his impetuosity on the ground of disliking to see the French troops shut up in Newport while there was so much to be done. To this Rochambeau replied that he had an experience of forty years, and that of fifteen thousand men who had been killed and wounded under his orders he could not reproach himself with the loss of a single person killed on his account. He desired, however, a personal interview with Washington—a request which from some reason the commander-in-chief did not seem anxious to grant. There was at times a coolness in the relations between Rochambeau and Washington, arising perhaps from a different estimate of La Fayette; but the cloud, if there was any, was never very perceptible or of any long duration. On the 21st of August a committee of the General Assembly of the State, at that time in session at Newport, presented Rochambeau and De Ternay with a formal address of welcome. De Rochambeau's reply was full of manliness and good-will. He said, "The French troops are restrained by the strictest discipline, and, acting under General Washington, will live with the Americans as their brethren. I assure the General Assembly that as brethren not only my life, but the lives of the troops under my command, are entirely devoted to their service." This frank avowal dissipated a fear felt by some that the French might have some ulterior motive in coming to the assistance of the colonies.

It is not to be supposed that the belles of Newport were indifferent to the advent of these fascinating French paladins, or that the gallant Gauls were unmoved by the beauty and grace of the Newport women. With one accord they joined in admiration of their fair hostesses, not only for their charms of face and figure, but for the purity and innocence of their characters, which made a deep impression on these Sybarites, accustomed as they were to the atmosphere of intrigue and vice peculiar to the French court of the day. We find the record of this enthusiasm in the letters and journals of the officers, but for a picture of the special belles of the time there is none more correct than that furnished by the prince de Broglie and the comte de Segur, who visited Newport the following year. They note particularly Miss Champlin, the daughter of a rich merchant who lived at No. 119 Thames street. Mr. Champlin had large shipping interests, which he managed with great enterprise. At his house De Broglie was introduced by De Vauban, who as aide to De Rochambeau had met all the Newport notables, and the prince writes: "Mr. Champlin was known for his wealth, but more for the lovely face of his daughter. She was not in the room when we entered, but appeared a moment after. She had beautiful eyes, an agreeable mouth, a lovely face, a fine figure, a pretty foot, and the general effect was attractive. She added to these advantages that of being charmingly coiffee in the Paris style, besides which she spoke and understood our language." Of the Hunters, Lauzun's hostesses, De Broglie says: "The elder, without being regularly handsome, had a noble appearance and an aristocratic air. She was graceful, intellectual and refined. Her toilette was as finished as Miss Champlin's, but she was not as fresh, in spite of what De Fersen said. The younger, Nancy Hunter, is not so modish, but a perfect rosebud. Her character is gay: she is always laughing, and has beautiful teeth—a thing not common in America." But Vauban, who on this occasion acted as master of ceremonies, promised the prince a greater treat for the morrow, and took him on that day to a house on the corner of Touro street and the Park, where they found a serious and silent old gentleman, who received them without compliment or raising his hat and answered their questions in monosyllables. The lively Frenchmen would have made a short visit had not the door opened and a young girl entered; and here De Broglie's own raptures must speak: "It was Minerva herself who had exchanged her warlike vestments for the charms of a simple shepherdess. She was the daughter of a Shaking Quaker. Her headdress was a simple cap of fine muslin plaited and passed round her head, which gave Polly the effect of the Holy Virgin." Yes, this was Polly Lawton (or Leighton), the very pearl of Newport beauties, of whom the prince says in continuation: "She enchanted us all, and, though evidently a little conscious of it, was not at all sorry to please those whom she graciously called her friends. I confess that this seductive Lawton appeared to me a chef-d'oeuvre of Nature, and in recalling her image I am tempted to write a book against the finery, the factitious graces and the coquetry of many ladies whom the world admires." Segur says: "She was a nymph rather than a woman, and had the most graceful figure and beautiful form possible. Her eyes appeared to reflect as in a mirror the meekness and purity of her mind and the goodness of her heart." Polly chides the count, according to the rules of her faith, for coming in obedience to the king, against the command of God, to make war. "What could I reply to such an angel?" says the entranced Frenchman, "for she seemed to me a celestial being. Certainly, had I not been married and happy in my own country I should, while coming to defend the liberty of the Americans, have lost my own at the feet of Polly Lawton." We fear the comtesse de Segur would hardly have relished her lord's raptures over the pretty Quakeress, and would have quite approved of Rochambeau's order which sent him back to his post.

Among this bevy of Continental beauties, to whom we may add the names of the lovely Miss Redwood—to whose charms sailors in the street would doff their hats, holding them low till she had passed—the two Miss Ellerys, Miss Sylven, Miss Brinley, Miss Robinson and others, it is not wonderful that the French officers bore patiently the enforced blockade. They indulged in constant festivities, to which they invited their fair enslavers. A deputation of Indians, numbering nineteen and consisting of members of the Tuscarora, Caghnawgas and Oneida tribes, visited the camp on the 2d of August. They were cordially received by Rochambeau, who gave them a dinner at which they were reported to have behaved well. After dining with General Heath they performed their war-dance, which was a novel and interesting sight to the French officers. As a return for this entertainment the French army gave a grand review, preceded by firing of cannon. The sight must have been a fine one. The regiments were among the flower of European chivalry, some of them of historical celebrity, such as the regiment of Auvergne, whose motto was "Sans tache" and one of whose captains, the famous D'Assas, is said to have saved a whole brigade at the expense of his life, crying, as he saw the enemy approaching on his unsuspecting comrades, "A moi Auvergne! voila les ennemis!" and fell dead. The uniforms of the troops were most effective. The officers wore white cockades and the colors of their regiments faced with white cloth. The Bourbonnais regiment was in black and red, Saintonge in white and green, Deux-Ponts in white; the Soissonnais wore pink facings and grenadier caps with pink and white plumes, while the artillery were in blue with red facings. The savages were delighted with the pageant, but in spite of its splendor expressed more astonishment at seeing trees loaded with fruit hanging over tents which the soldiers had occupied for months than at anything else. They took their departure in September, being presented with blankets and other gifts by Rochambeau.

Perhaps the finest display was that which celebrated the French king's birthday on Friday, the 25th of August. The ships were decorated with the flags of all nations during the day and brilliantly illuminated at night. High mass was celebrated on the flag-ship, after which a number of salutes were fired. The town joined in the festivity. The bells of Trinity were rung and the inhabitants decorated their houses with flags. The autumn was spent in agreeable pastimes, but with the approach of winter it became necessary to put the army into comfortable quarters. The houses which Rochambeau had offered to repair were ready, and the regiments were installed in them; the State-House, which had been used as a hospital by the English, was put to the same use by the French; and an upper room in it was fitted up as a chapel, where masses were said for the sick and dying by the abbe de Glesnon, the chaplain of the expedition. The list of the dead was soon to include no less a person than Admiral de Ternay. He was taken ill of a fever early in December, and brought on shore to the Hunter house, where he died on the 15th, being buried with great pomp in Trinity churchyard on the following day. The coffin was carried through the streets by sailors: nine priests followed, chanting a requiem for the departed hero. The tomb placed over the remains by order of Louis XVI. in 1785 having become injured by the ravages of time, the United States government in 1873, with the co-operation of the marquis de Noailles, then French minister, had it moved into the vestibule of the church, placing a granite slab over the tomb. One of Rochambeau's aides ascribes the admiral's death to chagrin at having let five English ships escape him in an encounter.

The winter passed slowly. Rochambeau ordered a large hall to be built as a place of meeting for his officers, but it was not completed until nearly spring. Meanwhile, the Frenchmen gave occasionally a handsome ball to the American ladies, such as that of which, in January, the officers of the regiment De Deux-Ponts were the hosts, and one given by the handsome Viosmenils on the anniversary of the signing of the treaty of alliance, February 6, 1781. But the crowning festivity of the French stay in Newport took place in March, when Washington visited it for the purpose of witnessing the departure of an expedition comprising part of the French fleet under Destouches, which was to co-operate with La Fayette on the Chesapeake. The barge of the French admiral was sent for the American chief, and he crossed the bay from the Connecticut shore, landing at Barney's Ferry on the corner of Long Wharf and Washington street. The sight must have been an imposing one—the beautiful harbor of Newport full of stately ships of war and gay pleasure-craft, the French troops drawn up in a close line, three deep, on either side from the ferry-house up Long Wharf and Washington street to Clarke street, where it turned at a right angle and continued to Rochambeau's head-quarters, while the inhabitants, wild with enthusiasm, crowded the wharves and quays to see the two commanders meet. Both were men of fine and stately presence: Washington was in the full prime of his imposing manhood, the very picture of a nation's chief; the French marshal was covered with brilliant decorations, and stood with doffed hat to welcome the hero of Valley Forge. In the evening the town was brilliantly illuminated, and, as at that time many of the people were very poor, the town council ordered that candles should be distributed to all who were not well off enough to buy them, so that every house might have lights in its windows. The procession on this occasion was led by thirty boys bearing candles fixed on staffs: Washington and De Rochambeau followed, and behind them came a concourse of citizens. The night was clear and there was not a breath to fan the torches. The brilliant cortege marched through the principal streets, and then returned to the Vernon house, corner of Clarke and Mary streets, where Washington and Rochambeau were quartered. Washington waited on the door-step until all the officers and his friends had entered the house, and then turning to the boys who had acted as torch-bearers thanked them for their services. It may be believed that these young patriots felt well repaid. The French officers were much impressed with the looks and bearing of the American chief. De Fersen, writing to his father, says: "His fine and majestic countenance, at the same time honest and sweet, answers perfectly to his moral qualities. He has the air of a hero. He is very reserved and speaks little, but is polite and frank. There is an air of sadness about him which is not unbecoming, but renders him more interesting." A few evenings after the French gave a grand ball to Washington, which he opened with the beautiful Miss Champlin, at whose house he had taken tea on that evening. The gallant Frenchmen seized the instruments from the band and themselves played the music of the minuet "A Successful Campaign" for a couple representing so much beauty and valor. The entertainment was given in Mrs. Cowley's assembly-rooms in Church street, and Desoteux, aide-de-camp to Baron Viosmenil, had charge of the decorations. An eye-witness says of the ball: "The room was ornamented in an exceeding splendid manner, and the judicious arrangement of the various decorations exhibited a sight beautiful beyond expression, and showed the great taste and delicacy of M. de Zoteux, one of Viosmenil's aides. A superb collation was served, and the ceremonies of the evening were conducted with so much propriety and elegance that they gave the highest satisfaction."

Perhaps it would be interesting to the participants of the gay Newport cotillons of to-day to know the names of the dances with which the company regaled themselves a hundred years ago. They were "The Stony Point" (so named in honor of General Wayne), "Miss McDonald's Reel," "A Trip to Carlisle," "Freemason's Jig" and "The Faithful Shepherd." As Benoni Peckham, the fashionable hair-dresser of the day, advertises in the Newport Mercury a "large assortment of braids, commodes, cushions and curls for the occasion," we may guess that the belles of Newport made elaborate toilettes. One of them, writing to a friend in New York, speaks of a dress she had worn at some festivity which probably was not unlike many at Washington's ball. "I had," she says, "a most stiff and lustrous petticoat of daffodil-colored lutestring, with flowered gown and sleeves lined with crimson. My cap was of gauze raised high in front, with doublings of red and bows of the same, and was sent me direct by the bark Fortune from England." So it seems the Newport beauties did not disdain the exports of the mother-country they were at war with. A few nights later the citizens gave a ball in honor of the two heroes.

The visit of the French to Newport terminated soon after this fete. Washington and Rochambeau, it is said, planned in the Vernon house an attack on New York, and in May the vicomte de Rochambeau brought to his father from France the news of the sailing from Brest, under Admiral de Grasse, of a large squadron laden with supplies and reinforcements. The restrictions imposed on him by De Sartines were removed, and the new ministry sent him full powers to act. He therefore determined upon an immediate move, for his troops were becoming demoralized through long inactivity. After a conference with Washington at Weathersfield a summer campaign was resolved upon, and, returning to Newport, Rochambeau proceeded to make arrangements for it. The troops began to move on the 10th of June, almost a year from the date of their arrival. A farewell dinner was given on the Due de Bourgogne to which about sixty Newport people were asked. The next day the whole army left camp and marched to Providence, so ending a sojourn which, although not productive of positive advantage, will long remain a brilliant page in the history of Newport.

A few words on the after fate of these gay Frenchmen. The story is not a bright one. The times that tried men's souls were at hand, and many of them fell victims. The comte de Rochambeau, made a marshal by Louis XVI., narrowly escaped death under Robespierre. In 1803 Napoleon gave him a pension and the grand cross of the Legion of Honor: he died in 1807. Lauzun perished on the scaffold, sentenced by the Tribunal in January, 1794. The night before his death he was calm, slept and ate well. When the jailer came for him he was eating his breakfast. He said, "Citizen, permit me to finish." Then, offering him a glass, he said, "Take this wine: you need strength for such a trade as you ply." D'Estaing, on his return from America, was commander at Grenada. He became a member of the Assembly of Notables, but being suspected by the Terrorists was guillotined on the 29th of April, 1793. The vicomte de Rochambeau was killed at the battle of Leipsic; Berthier became military confidant to Napoleon, was made marshal of France and murdered at Bamberg; the comte de Viosmenil was made marshal at the Restoration; his brother the marquis was wounded and died, defending the royal family; the comte de Darnas, who helped their flight, barely escaped with his life; Fersen was killed in a riot at Stockholm; the comte Christian de Deux-Ponts was captured by Nelson while on a boat-excursion at Porto Cavallo: Nelson generously released him on learning who he was; Desoteux, the master of ceremonies of the Newport assembly, became the celebrated Chouan chief in Vendee; Dumas was president of the Assembly, general of division, fought at Waterloo and took a high rank in the constitutional monarchy of 1830. With what interest and sympathy must the Newport belles have watched the career of their quondam admirers! How must the tragic fate of some of them have saddened friendly hearts beyond the ocean they had once traversed as deliverers! The lot of the fair danseuses of the French balls at Newport was in most cases the ordinary one, and yet the record of their loves and their graces leaves a gracious fragrance amid their former haunts in the city by the sea. In the old streets and peeping from the quaint latticed windows we can with a little imagination see their graceful figures and fair faces, or find in the Newport drawing-rooms their pictured likenesses on the wall or in the persons of their descendants, often no less piquante and attractive than the dames of 1780. Miss Champlin married, and until lately her grandson was living in the old house, the home of five successive generations; her brother, Christopher Champlin, married the beautiful Miss Redwood; one of the Miss Ellerys took for a husband William Channing and became the mother of a famous son; her granddaughter was the wife of Washington Allston; the Miss Hunters married abroad—one the comte de Cardignan, the other Mr. Falconet, a Naples banker.