As she gazed, her feeling relented more and more—Verty grew still more amiable in her eyes—the turkey evidently weighed more than twenty pounds.

"I'm much obliged to you, young man," she said, "and I'll take the turkey from you as a friend. Come in and have some apples—there's a bell-mouth tree."

"Oh yes!" said Verty, "I'm very fond of apples—but Redbud may have some, too?" he added, smiling innocently.

"Hum!" said the ogress.

"Just a few, you know, ma'am," said Verty, with his bright smile. "I know from the way she looks that she wants some. Don't you, Redbud?"

Poor Redbud's resolutions all melted—Verty's voice did it all—she blushed and nodded, and said yes, she should like very much to have some apples.

"Then you may go," said the ogress, somewhat mollified, "but don't touch the small trees—I'm keeping them."

"Not for worlds!" said Verty.

"No, ma'am," said Redbud.

And they crossed the lawn, and opening the gate of the spacious and well-kept garden, passed in under the apple boughs. As for Mr. Jinks, he accompanied Mrs. Scowley to the house, bowing, grimacing, ambling, and making himself generally agreeable. True, he resembled a grasshopper, standing erect, and going through the steps of a minuet; but there was much elegance in Mr. Jinks' evolutions, and unbounded elasticity of limb. He entered with Mrs. Scowley; and there, for the present, we shall leave him.



CHAPTER XII.

HOW STREPHON TALKED WITH CHLOE IN AN ARBOR.

It was a beautiful garden which Verty and Redbud entered, hand in hand;—one of those old pleasure-grounds which, with their grass and flowers, and long-armed trees, laden with fruit or blossoms, afford such a grateful retreat to the weary or the sorrowful. The breath of the world comes not into such places—all its jar and tumult and turmoil, faint, die and disappear upon the flower-enameled threshold; and the cool breath of the bright heavens fans no longer wrinkled foreheads and compressed lips. All care passes from us in these fairy-land retreats; and if we can be happy any where, it is there.

We said that Verty and Redbud entered, hand in hand, and this may serve to show that the young pupil of Miss Lavinia had not profited much by the lessons of her mentor.

In truth, Redbud began to return to her childhood, which she had promised herself to forget; and, as a result of this change of feeling, she became again the friend and playfellow of her childhood's friend, and lost sight, completely, of the "young lady" theory. True, she did not run on, as the phrase is, with Verty, as in the old days—her manner had far more softness in it—she was more quiet and reserved; but still, those constrained, restless looks were gone, and when Verty laughed, the winning smile came to the little face; and the small hand which he had taken was suffered to rest quietly in his own.

They strolled under the trees, and Verty picked up some of the long yellow-rinded apples, which, lay upon the ground under the trees, and offered them to Redbud.

"I didn't want the apples," he said, smiling, "I wanted to see you, Redbud, for I've not felt right since you went away. Oh, it's been so long—so long!"

"Only a few days," said Redbud, returning the smile.

"But you know a few days is a very long time, when you want to see anybody very much."

Redbud returned his frank smile, and said, with a delicious little prim expression:

"Did you want to see me very much, Verty?"

"Yes, indeed; I didn't know how much I liked you," said the boy, with his ingenuous laugh; "the woods didn't look right, and I was always thinking about you."

Redbud colored slightly, but this soon disappeared, and she laughed in that low, joyous, musical tone, which characterized her.

"There it is!" said Verty, going through the same ceremony; "that's one thing I missed."

"What?"

"Your laughing!"

"Indeed!" Redbud said.

"Yes, indeed. I declare, on my word, that I would rather hear you laugh, than listen to the finest mocking-bird in the world."

"You are very gallant!" said Miss Redbud.

"Anan?" said Verty.

"I mean you are very friendly to me, Verty," said Redbud, with a bright look at his frank face.

"Why, what have I done? I hav'nt done anything for you, for ages. Let me see—can't I do something now? Oh yes, there are some flowers, and I can make a nice wreath!"

And Verty ran and gathered an armful of primroses, marigolds, and golden rods; some late roses, too, and so returned to Redbud.

"Now come to the arbor here—it's just like the Apple Orchard one—come, and I'll make you a crown."

"Oh! I don't deserve it," laughed the young girl.

Verty smiled.

"Yes, you do," he said, "for you are my queen."

And he went and sat down upon the trellised bench, and began weaving a wreath of the delicate yellow autumn primroses and other flowers.

Redbud sat down and watched him.

Placed thus, they presented a singular contrast, and, together, formed a picture, not wanting in a wild interest—Verty, clothed in his forest costume of fur and beads, his long, profusely-curling hair hanging upon his shoulders, and his swarthy cheeks, round, and reddened with health, presented rather the appearance of an Indian than an Anglo-Saxon—a handsome wild animal rather than a pleasant young man. Redbud's face and dress were in perfect contrast with all this—she was fair, with that delicate rose-color, which resembles the tender flush of sunset, in her cheeks; her hair was brushed back from her forehead, and secured behind with a large bow of scarlet ribbon; her dress was of rich silk, with hanging sleeves; a profusion of yellow lace, and a dozen rosettes affixed to the dress, in front, set off the costume admirably, and gave to the young girl that pretty attractive toute ensemble which corresponded with her real character.

As she followed Verty's movements, the frank little face wore a very pleasant smile, and at times she would pick up and hand to him a leaf or a bud, which attention he rewarded with a smile in return.

At last the wreath was finished, and, rising up, Verty placed it on Redbud's forehead.

"How nicely it fits," he said; "who would have imagined that my awkward fingers could have done it?"

Redbud sat down with a slight color in her cheek.

"I am very much obliged to you, Verty," she said; "it was very good in you to make this for me—though I don't deserve it."

"Indeed you do—you are my queen: and here is the right place for me."

So saying, Verty smiled, and lay down at the feet of Redbud, leaning on the trellised bench, and looking up into that young lady's eyes.

"You look so pretty!" he said, after a silence of some moments, "so nice and pretty, Redbud!"

"Do I?" said Redbud, smiling and blushing.

"And so good."

"Oh, no—I am not!"

"Not good?"

"Far from it, Verty."

"Hum!" said Verty, "I should like to know how! I might be better if you were at Apple Orchard again."

"Better?"

"Yes, yes—why can't you live at Apple Orchard, where we were so happy?"

Redbud smiled.

"You know I am growing up now," she said.

"Growing up?"

"Yes; and I must learn my lessons—those lessons which cousin Lavinia can't teach me!"

"What lessons are they?"

"Music, and dancing, and singing, and all."

Verty reflected.

"Are they better than the Bible?" he said, at length.

Redbud looked shocked, and replied to the young savage:

"Oh no, no!—I hardly think they are important at all; but I suppose every young lady learns them. It is necessary," added the little maiden, primly.

"Ah, indeed? well, I suppose it is," Verty replied, thoughtfully; "a real lady could'nt get along without knowing the minuet, and all that. But I'm mighty sorry you had to go. I've lost my teacher by your going."

Redbud returned his frank look, and said:

"I'm very sorry, Verty; but never mind—you read your Bible, don't you?"

"Yes," Verty replied, "I promised you; and I read all about Joseph, and Nimrod, who was a hunter, and other people."

"Don't you ever read in the New Testament?" Redbud said. "I wish you would read in that, too, Verty."

And Redbud, with all the laughter gone away from her countenance, regarded Verty with her tender, earnest eyes, full of kindness and sincerity.

"I do," Verty replied, "and I like it better. But I'm very bad. I don't think I'm so good when you are away, Redbud. I don't do what you tell me. The fact is, I believe I'm a wild Indian; but I'll grow better as I grow older."

"I know you will," said the kind eyes, plainly, and Verty smiled.

"I'm coming to see you very often here," he said, smiling, "and I'm going to do my work down at the office—that old lady will let me come to see you, I know."

Redbud looked dubious.

"I don't know whether cousin Lavinia would think it was right," she said.

And her head drooped, the long dusky lashes covering her eyes and reposing on her cheek. It was hard for Redbud thus to forbid her boy-playmate, but she felt that she ought to do so.

"Think it right!" cried Verty, rising half up, and resting on his hand, "why, what's the harm?"

"I don't know," Redbud said, blushing, "but I think you had better ask cousin Lavinia."

Her head sank again.

Verty remained silent for some moments, then said:

"Well, I will! I'll go this very day, on my way home."

"That's right, Verty," replied the young girl, smiling hopefully, "and I think you will get cousin Lavinia to let you come. You know that I want you to."

Verty smiled, then looking at his companion, said:

"What made you so cold to me when I came at first? I thought you had forgotten me."

Redbud, conscious of her feelings, blushed and hesitated. Just as she was about to stammer out some disconnected words, however, voices were heard behind the shrubbery, which separated the arbor from a neighboring walk, and this created a diversion.

Verty and Redbud could not help overhearing this conversation.



CHAPTER XIII.

VERTY EXPRESSES A DESIRE TO IMITATE MR. JINKS.

The voice which they heard first was that of Mr. Jinks; and that gentleman was apparently engaged in the pleasant occupation of complimenting a lady.

"Fairest of your sex!" said the enthusiastic Mr. Jinks, "how can I express the delight which your presence inspires me with—ahem!"

The sound of a fan coming in contact with a masculine hand was heard, and a mincing voice replied:—

"Oh, you are a great flatterer, Mr. Jinks. You are really too bad. Let us view the beauties of nature."

"They are not so lovely as those beauties which I have been viewing since I saw you, my dearest Miss Sallianna."

("That's old Scowley's sister, he said so," whispered Verty.)

"Really, you make me blush," replied the mincing and languishing voice—"you men are dreadful creatures!"

"Dreadful!"

"You take advantage of our simplicity and confidence to make us believe you think very highly of us."

"Highly! divinest Miss Sallianna! highly is not the word; extravagantly is better! In the presence of your lovely sex we feel our hearts expand; our bosoms—hem!—are enlarged, and we are all your slaves."

("Just listen, Redbud!" whispered Verty, laughing.)

"La!" replied the voice, "how gallant you are, Mr. Jinks!"

"No, Madam!" said Mr. Jinks, "I am not gallant!"

"You?"

"Far from it, Madam—I am a bear, a savage, with all the rest of the female sex; but with you—you—hem! that is different!"

("Don't go, Redbud!—"

"But, Verty—"

"Just a minute, Redbud.")

"Yes, a savage; I hate the sex—I distrust them!" continued Mr. Jinks, in a gloomy tone; "before seeing you, I had made up my mind to retire forever from the sight of mankind, and live on roots, or something of that description. But you have changed me—you have made me human."

And Mr. Jinks, to judge from his tone of voice, was looking dignified.

The fair lady uttered a little laugh.

"There it is!" cried Mr. Jinks, "you are always happy—always smiling and seducing—you are the paragon of your sex. If it will be any satisfaction to you, Madam, I will immediately die for you, and give up the ghost."

Which Mr. Jinks seemed to consider wholly different from the former.

"Heigho!" said the lady, "you are very devoted, sir."

"I should be, Madam."

"I am not worthy of so much praise."

"You are the pearl of your sex, Madam."

"Oh, no! I am only a simple young girl—but twenty-five last January—and I have no pretensions in comparison with many others. Immured in this quiet retreat, with a small property, and engaged in the opprobrious occupation of cultivating the youthful mind—"

"A noble employment, Madam."

"Yes, very pleasing; with this, and with a contemplation of the beautiful criterions of nature, I am happy."

"Fairest of your sex, is this all that is necessary for happiness?" observed Mr. Jinks.

"What more!"

"Is solitude the proper sphere of that divine sex which in all ages of the world—ahem!—has—"

"Oh, sir!"

And the flirting of the fan was heard.

"Should not woman have a companion—a consoler, who—"

The fan was evidently used to hide a number of blushes.

"Should not such a lovely creature as yourself," continued the enthusiastic Jinks, "choose one to—"

Redbud rose quickly, and said, blushing and laughing:—

"Oh, come, Verty!"

"No, no—listen!" said Verty, "I do believe—"

"No, no, no!" cried Redbud, hurriedly, "it was very wrong—"

"What?—courting."

"Oh, no! It's mean in us to listen!"

And she went out of the arbor, followed by Verty, who said, "I'm glad courting ain't wrong; I think I should like to court you, Redbud."

Redbud made no reply to this innocent speech of Mr. Verty, but walked on. The noise which they made in leaving the arbor attracted the attention of the personages whose conversation we have been compelled to overhear; and Mr. Jinks and his companion passed through an opening in the shrubbery, and appeared in full view.

Miss Sallianna was a young lady of thirty-two or three, with long corkscrew curls, a wiry figure—a smile, of the description called "simper," on her lips, and an elegant mincing carriage of the person as she moved. She carried a fan, which seemed to serve for a number of purposes: to raise artificial breezes, cover imaginary blushes, and flirt itself against the hands or other portions of the persons of gentlemen making complimentary speeches.

She displayed some temporary embarrassment upon seeing Redbud and Verty; and especially stared at that young gentleman.

Mr. Jinks was more self-possessed.

"Ah, my dear sir!" he said, stalking toward Verty, and grimacing, at the same time, at Redbud, "are you there, and with the fairest of her—hem!"

And Mr. Jinks stopped, nearly caught in the meshes of his gallantry.

"Yes, this is me, and I've been talking with Redbud," said Verty; "is that Miss Sallianna?"

The lady had recovered her simper; and now flirted her fan as gracefully as ever.

"See how your reputation has gone far and wide," said Mr. Jinks, with a fascinating grimace.

"You know you were talking of her when—how do you do, Miss Sallianna," said Verty, holding out his hand.

"La!" said the fair one, inserting the points of her fingers into Verty's palm, "and Mr. Jinks was talking of me? What did he say, sir,—I suppose it was in town."

"No, ma'am," said Verty, "it was at the gate, when I came to see Redbud—the pigeon showed me the way. He said you were something—but I've forgot."

"The paragon of beauties and the pearl of loveliness," suggested Mr. Jinks.

"I don't think it was that," Verty replied, "but it was something pretty—prettier than what you said just now, when you were courting Miss Sallianna, you know."

Mr. Jinks cleared his throat—Miss Sallianna blushed.

"Really—" said Mr. Jinks.

"What children!" said the lady, with a patronizing air; "Reddy, do you know your lesson?"

By which question, Miss Sallianna evidently intended to reduce Miss Redbud to her proper position of child.

"Yes, ma'am," said Redbud "and Mrs. Scowley said I might come in here."

"With this—young man?"

"Yes, ma'am. He is a very old friend of mine."

"Indeed!" simpered the lady.

"Are you not, Verty?"

But Verty was intently watching Longears, who was trying to insert his nose between two bars of the garden gate.

"Anan?" he said.

"La, what does he mean?" said the lady; "see! he's looking at something."

Verty was only making friendly signs to Longears to enter the garden. Longears no sooner understood that he was called, than he cleared the fence at one bound, and came up to his master.

Mr. Jinks had not heard his own voice for at least half a minute; so he observed, loftily:

"A handsome dog! a very handsome dog, sir! What did you say his name was? Longears? Yes? Here, Longears!"

And he made friendly signs of invitation to the hound. Longears availed himself of these indications of friendship by rearing up on Mr. Jinks, and leaving a dust-impression of his two paws upon that gentleman's ruffled shirt-bosom.

Verty laughed, and dragged him away.

"Longears," he said, "I'm surprised at you—and here, too, where you should conduct yourself better than usual!"

Miss Sallianna was about to say something, when a bell was heard to ring.

"Oh!" said Redbud, "there's school. Playtime's over."

"Over?" said Verty, with an exhibition of decided ill-humor.

"Yes, sir," said Miss Sallianna, "and my young pupil must now return to her studies. Mr. Jinks—"

And the lady threw a languishing glance on her cavalier.

"You will come soon again, and continue our discussion—of—of—the beauties of nature? We are very lonely here."

"Will I come?" cried the enthusiastic Jinks; and having thus displayed, by the tone in which his words were uttered, the depth of his devotion, the grasshopper gentleman gallantly pressed the hand held out to him, and, with a lofty look, made his exit out of the garden.

Verty followed. But first he said to Redbud, smiling:

"I'm going to see Miss Lavinia this very day, to ask her to let me come to see you. You know I must come to see you, Redbud. I don't know why, but I must."

Redbud blushed, and continued to caress Longears, who submitted to this ceremony with great equanimity.

"Come!" said Miss Sallianna, "let us return, Miss Summers."

"Yes, ma'am," said Redbud; "good-bye, Verty," she added, looking at the boy with her kind, smiling eyes, and lowering her voice, "remember what you promised me—to read your Bible."

And smiling again, Redbud gave him her hand, and then followed Miss Sallianna, who sailed on before—her head resting languidly on one shoulder—her fan arranged primly upon her maiden chin—her eyes raised in contemplation to the sky.

Poor Verty smiled and sighed, and followed Redbud with his eyes, and saw her disappear—the kind, tender eyes fixed on him to the last. He sighed again, as she passed from his sight; and so left the garden. Mr. Jinks was swaggering amiably toward town—Cloud was standing, like a statue, where his master had left him. Verty, leaning one arm on the saddle, murmured:

"Really, Redbud is getting prettier than ever, and I wonder if I am what Mr. Roundjacket calls 'in love' with her?"

Finding himself unable to answer this question, Verty shook his head wisely, got into the saddle, and set forward toward the town, Longears following duly in his wake.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE THIRTEENTH OF OCTOBER.

Just as the boy left the surburban residence of Miss Redbud, Mr. Roundjacket, who had been writing at his old dusty desk for an hour, raised his head, hearing a knock at the door.

He thrust the pen he had been using behind his ear, and bade the intruder "come in!"

One of the clients of Mr. Rushton made his appearance, and inquired for that gentleman. Mr. Roundjacket said that Mr. Rushton was "within," and rose to go and summon him, the visitor meanwhile having seated himself.

Mr. Roundjacket tapped at the door of Mr. Rushton's sanctum, but received no answer. He tapped louder—no reply. Somewhat irate at this, he kicked the door, and at the same moment opened it, preparing himself for the encounter.

An unusual sight awaited him.

Seated at his old circular table, covered with papers and books, Mr. Rushton seemed perfectly ignorant of his presence, as he had not heard the noise of the kick. His head resting upon his hand, the forehead drooping, the eyes half closed, the bosom shaken by piteous sighs, and the whole person full of languor and grief, no one would have recognized the rough, bearish Lawyer Rushton, or believed that there could be anything in common between him and the individual sitting at the table, so bowed down with sorrow.

Before him lay a little book, which he looked at through a mist of tears.

Roundjacket touched him on the shoulder, with a glance of wonder, and said:—

"You are sick, sir!—Mr. Rushton, sir!—there is somebody to see you."

In truth, the honest fellow could scarcely stammer out these broken words; and when Mr. Rushton, slowly returning to a consciousness of his whereabouts, raised his sorrowful eyes, Roundjacket looked at him with profound commiseration and sympathy.

"You have forgotten," said Mr. Rushton, in a low, broken voice, his pale lips trembling as he spoke,—"you don't keep account of the days as I do, Roundjacket."

"The days—I—"

"Yes, yes; it is natural for you to wonder at all this," said the weary looking man, closing the book, and locking it up in a secret drawer of the table; "let us dismiss the matter. Did you say any one wanted me? Yes, I can attend to business—my mind is quite clear—I am ready—I will see them now, Roundjacket."

And the head of the lawyer fell upon his arm, his bosom shaken with sobs.

Roundjacket looked at him no longer with so much surprise—he had understood all.

"Yes, yes, sir—I had forgotten," he muttered, "this is the 13th of October."

Mr. Rushton groaned.

Roundjacket was silent for a moment, looking at his friend with deep sympathy.

"I don't wonder now at your feelings, sir," he said, "and I am sorry I intruded on—"

"No, no—you are a good friend," murmured the lawyer, growing calmer, "you will understand my feelings, and not think them strange. I am nearly over it now; it must come—oh! I am very wretched! Oh! Anne! my child, my child!"

And allowing his head to fall again, the rough, boorish man cried like a child, spite of the most violent efforts to regain his composure and master his emotion.

"Go," he said, in a low, broken voice, making a movement with his hand, "I was wrong—I cannot see any one to-day—I must be alone."

Roundjacket hesitated; moved dubiously from, then toward the lawyer; finally he seemed to have made up his mind, and going out he closed the door slowly behind him. As he did so, the key turned in the lock, and a stifled moan died away in the inner chamber.

"Mr. Rushton is unwell, and can't transact business to-day," said Roundjacket, softly, for he was thinking of the poor afflicted heart "within;" then he added, "you may call to-morrow, sir,"

The visitor went away, wondering at "Judge Rushton" being sick; such a thing had never before occurred in the recollection of the "oldest inhabitant." Just as he had disappeared, the door re-opened, and Verty made his appearance.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Roundjacket," said the boy, "for having run off so this morning, but you see I was after that pigeon. I'll stay till night, though, and work harder, and then it will be right again."

Instead of a very solemn and severe rebuke, Verty was surprised to hear Mr. Roundjacket say, in a low and thoughtful voice:—

"You need not work any to-day, Verty—you can go home if you like. Mr. Rushton is unwell, and wishes to be quiet."

"Unwell?" said the boy, "you don't mean sick?"

"Not precisely, but indisposed."

"I will go and see him," said the boy, moving towards the door. Mr. Roundjacket interposed with his ruler, managing that instrument pretty much as a marshal does his baton.

"No," he said, "that is impossible, young man. But you need give yourself no uneasiness—Mr. Rushton is only a little out of sorts. You will find him quite well to-morrow. Return home now. There is your rifle."

These words were uttered with so much decision, that Verty made no further objection.

"Well," he said, with his thoughtful smile, "I'm very sorry Mr. Rushton is sick, but I'm glad I can go and hunt some for ma mere. Must I go now, sir?"

"Yes, and come early to-morrow, there's some work; and besides, your measure for the clothes must be taken."

Verty nodded indifferently, and taking up his rifle, went out, followed by Longears.



CHAPTER XV.

THE PEDLAR AND THE NECKLACE.

Verty mounted Cloud again, and set forward toward Apple Orchard. That place very soon rose upon his sight, and riding up to the house Verty encountered the good-humored Squire, who was just coming in from the fields.

"Good morning, Squire," said the boy, smiling, "may I go and see Redbud, if you please?"

The Squire laughed.

"Redbud? What, at school, yonder?"

"Yes, sir."

The good-natured old gentleman looked at the boy's frank face, and admired its honest, ingenuous expression.

"I don't see why you should'nt, Verty," he replied, "if you don't go too often, and keep my little 'Bud from her lessons."

"Oh! no, sir."

"Go, go by all means—it will be of service to her to see home faces, and you are something like home to her. Short as the distance is, I can't leave my farm, and we can't have 'Bud with us every week, as I should wish."

"I've just come from there," said Verty, "and Redbud is very well, and seems to like the place. There is a man who comes there to see Miss Sallianna, and Redbud most dies laughing at him—I mean, I suppose she does. His name is Mr. Jinks."

"What! the great Jinks? the soldier, the fop, the coxcomb and swaggerer!" laughed the Squire.

Verty nodded.

"That's the very man, sir," he said, "and I saw him to-day. I came back, and found Mr. Rushton wanted to be quiet, and Mr. Roundjacket said I might go and hunt some for ma mere"

"Go, then, Verty; that is, if you won't stop to dinner."

"I don't think I can, sir—I should like to see Miss Lavinia, though, if—"

"Out visiting," said the Squire.

This removed all Verty's scruples; he had virtually done what he promised Redbud, and would now go and see her, because the Squire had a better right to decide than even Miss Lavinia. He, therefore, bowed, with a smiling look, to the old gentleman, and continued his way toward the lodge of his mother.

He had reached the foot of the hill upon which the cabin was situated, when he saw before him, seated on a log by the side of the bridle-path he was following, one of those pedlars of former times, who were accustomed to make the circuit of the countryside with their packs of wares and stuffs—peripatetic merchants, who not unfrequently practised the trade of Autolycus.

This man seemed to be a German; and when he spoke, this impression was at once verified. He informed Verty that he was tired, very hungry, had travelled a long way, and would be obliged to his honor for a little bit of something, just to keep body and soul together till he reached "Wingester." He had gone toward the house, he said, but a dog there had scared him, and nobody seemed stirring.

Verty very readily assented to this request, and first stabling Cloud, accompanied the German pedlar to the cabin. The old Indian woman was out in the woods gathering some herbs or roots, in the properties of which she was deeply learned; and in her absence, Wolf had mounted guard over the lodge and its contents. The pedlar had approached, intent on begging, and, if possible, larceny; but Wolf had quickly bared a double row of long, sharp teeth, which ceremony he had accompanied with an ominous growl, and this had completely daunted Autolycus, who had retreated with precipitation.

Wolf now made no further objection to his entry, seeing that Verty accompanied him; and the two persons went into the house.

"Ma mere's away somewhere," said Verty; "but we can broil some venison. Wait here: I'll go and get it."

The boy, humming one of the old border songs, opened a door in the rear of the lodge, and passed into a sort of covered shed, which was used as a store-room by the old woman.

The door closed behind him.

The pedlar looked around; the two hounds were lazily pawing each other in the sun, before the door, and no sound disturbed the silence, but their low whining, as they yawned, or the faint cry of some distant bird.

The pedlar muttered a cautious "goot!" and looked warily around him. Nothing worth stealing was visible, at least nothing small enough to carry away.

His prying eye, however, detected an old chest in the corner, half covered with deer and other skins, and the key of this chest was in the lock.

The pedlar rose cautiously, and listened.

The young man was evidently preparing the venison steaks from the noise he made, an occupation which he accompanied with the low, Indian humming.

The pedlar went on the points of his toes to the chest, carefully turned the key, and opened it. With a quick hand he turned over its contents, looking round cautiously.

After some search, he drew forth a silver spoon, and what seemed to be a necklace of red beads, the two ends of which were brought together by a circular gold plate. Just as the pedlar thrust these objects into his capacious breast-pocket, the door opened, and Verty entered.

But the boy did not observe him—he quickly and cautiously closed the chest, and began examining one of the skins on the lid.

Verty looked up from the steaks in his hand, observed the occupation of the pedlar, and began to laugh, and talk of his hunting.

The pedlar drew a long breath, returned to his pack, and sat down.

As he did so, the old Indian woman came in, and the boy ran to her, and kissed her hand, and placed it on his head. This was Indian fashion.

"Oh, ma mere!" he cried, "I've seen Redbud, and had such a fine time, and I'm so happy! I'm hungry, too; and so is this honest fellow with the pack. There go the steaks!"

And Verty threw them on the gridiron, and burst out laughing.

In a quarter of an hour they were placed on the rude table, and the three persons sat down—Verty laughing, the old woman smiling at him, the pedlar sullen and omnivorous.

After devouring everything on the table, the worthy took his departure with his pack upon his shoulders.

"I don't like that man, but let him go," said Verty. "Now, ma mere, I'm going out to hunt a bit for you."

The old woman gazed fondly on him, and this was all Verty needed. He rose, called the dogs, and loaded his gun.

"Good-bye, ma mere" he said, going out; "don't let any more of these pedlar people come here. I feel as if that one who has just gone away, had done me some harm. Come, Longears! come, Wolf!"

And Verty took his way through the forest, still humming his low, Indian song.



CHAPTER XVI.

MR. ROUNDJACKET MAKES HIMSELF AGREEABLE.

On the morning after the scenes which we have just related, Mr. Roundjacket was seated on his tall three-legged stool, holding in his left hand the MS. of his poem, and brandishing in his right the favorite instrument of his eloquence, when, chancing to raise his eyes, he saw through the window an approaching carriage, which carriage had evidently conceived the design of drawing up at the door of Mr. Rushton's office.

A single glance showed Mr. Roundjacket that this carriage contained a lady; a second look told him that the lady was Miss Lavinia.

We might very rationally suppose that the great poet, absorbed in the delights of poesy, and thus dead to the outer world, would have continued his recitation, and permitted such real, sublunary things as visitors to pass unheeded. But such a conclusion would not indicate a very profound acquaintance with the character of Mr. Roundjacket—the most chivalric and gallant of cavaliers.

Instead of going on with his poem, he hastily rolled up the manuscript, thrust it into his desk, and hastening to a small cracked mirror, which hung over the fire-place, there commenced arranging his somewhat disordered locks and apparel, with scrupulous care.

As he finished this hasty toilette, the Apple Orchard carriage drew up and stopped at the door, and Mr. Roundjacket rushed forth.

Then any body who would have taken the trouble to look, might have seen a gentleman opening the door of a chariot with profuse bows, and smiles, and graceful contortions; and then a lady accepting the proffered hand with solemn courtesy; and then Mr. Roundjacket might have been observed leading the lady elegantly into the office.

"A delightful morning—a very delightful morning, madam," said Mr. Roundjacket.

"Yes, sir," said Miss Lavinia, solemnly.

"And you look in the best of health and spirits, madam."

"Thank you, sir; I feel very well, and I am glad to think that you are equally blest."

"Blest!" said Mr. Roundjacket; "since you came, madam, that may be very truly said."

A ghost of a smile lit, so to speak, upon Miss Lavinia's face, and then flew away. It was very plain that this inveterate man-hater had not closed her ears entirely to the voice of her enemy.

Roundjacket saw the impression he had made, and followed it up by gazing with admiring delight upon his visitor;—whose countenance, as soon as the solemnity was forgotten, did not by any means repel.

"It is a very great happiness," said the cavalier, seating himself on his stool, and, from habit, brandishing his ruler around Miss Lavinia's head,—"it is a great happiness, madam, when we poor professional slaves have the pleasure to see one of the divine sex—one of the ladies of creation, if I may use the phrase. Lawbooks and papers are—ahem!—very—yes, exceedingly—"

"Dull?" suggested the lady, fanning herself with a measured movement of the hand.

"Oh! worse, worse! These objects, madam, extinguish all poetry, and gallantry, and elevated feeling in our unhappy breasts."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, my dear madam, and after a while we become so dead to all that is beautiful and charming in existence"—that was from Mr. Roundjacket's poem—"that we are incapable even of appreciating the delightful society of the fairest and most exquisite of the opposite sex."

Miss Lavinia shook her head with a ghostly smile.

"I'm afraid you are very gallant, Mr. Roundjacket."

"I, madam? no, no; I am the coldest and most prosaic of men."

"But your poem?"

"You have heard of that?"

"Yes, indeed, sir."

"Well, madam, that is but another proof of the fact which I assert."

"How, indeed?"

"It is on the prosaic and repulsive subject of the Certiorari."

And Mr. Roundjacket smiled after such a fashion, that it was not difficult to perceive the small amount of sincerity in this declaration.

Miss Lavinia looked puzzled, and fanned herself more solemnly than ever.

"The Certiorari, did you say, sir?" she asked.

"Yes, madam—one of our legal proceedings; and if you are really curious, I will read a portion of my unworthy poem to you—ahem!—"

As Mr. Roundjacket spoke, an overturned chair in the adjoining room indicated that the occupant of the apartment had been disturbed by the noise, and was about to oppose the invasion of his rights.

Roundjacket no sooner heard this, than he restored the poem to his desk, with a sigh, and said:

"But you, no doubt, came on business, madam—I delay you—Mr. Rushton—"

At the same moment the door of Mr. Rushton's room opened, and that gentleman made his appearance, shaggy and irate—a frown upon his brow, and a man-eating expression on his compressed lips.

The sight of Miss Lavinia slightly removed the wrathful expression, and Mr. Rushton contented himself with bestowing a dreadful scowl on Roundjacket, which that gentleman returned, and then counteracted by an amiable smile.

Miss Lavinia greeted the lawyer with grave dignity, and said she had come in, in passing, to consult him about some little matters which she wished him to arrange for her; and trusted that she found him disengaged.

This was said with so much dignity, that Mr. Rushton could not scowl, and so he invited Miss Lavinia to enter his sanctum, politely leading the way.

The lady sailed after him—and the door closed.

No sooner had she disappeared, than Mr. Roundjacket seized his ruler, for a moment abandoned, and proceeded to execute innumerable flourishes toward the adjoining room, for what precise purpose does not very accurately appear. In the middle of this ceremony, however, and just as his reflections were about to shape themselves into words, the front door opened, and Verty made his appearance, joyful and smiling.

In his hand Verty carried his old battered violin; at his heels stalked the grave and dignified Longears.

"Good morning, Mr. Roundjacket," said Verty, smiling; "how do you do to-day?"

"Moderate, moderate, young man," said the gentleman addressed; "you seem, however, to be at the summit of human felicity."

"Anan?"

"Don't you know what felicity means, you young savage?"

"No, sir."

"It means bliss."

Verty laughed.

"What is that?" he said.

Mr. Roundjacket flourished his ruler, indignantly.

"Astonishing how dull you are occasionally for such a bright fellow," he said; "but, after the fashion of all ignoramuses, and as you don't know what that is, I declare you to be one after the old fashion. You need illustration. Now, listen."

Verty sat down tuning his violin, and looking at Mr. Roundjacket, with a smile.

"Felicity and bliss are things which spring from poetry and women; convertible terms, you savage, but often dissevered. Suppose, now, you wrote a great poem, and read it to the lady of your affections, and she said it was better than the Iliad of Homer,—how would you feel, sir?"

"I don't know," Verty said.

"You would feel happiness, sir."

"I don't think I would understand her. Who was Iliad, and what was Homer?"

Mr. Roundjacket flourished his ruler, despairingly.

"You'll never write a poem, and you'll never be in love!" he said, with solemn emphasis.

"Oh, you are wrong!" said Verty, laying his violin on the desk, and caressing Longears. "I think I'm in love now, Mr. Roundjacket!"

"What?"

"I'm in love."

"With whom?"

"Redbud," said Verty.

Roundjacket looked at the young man.

"Redbud Summers?" he said.

Verty nodded.

Roundjacket's face was suddenly illuminated with a smile; and he looked more intently still at Verty.

"Tell me all about it," he said, with the interest of a lover himself; "have you had any moonlight, any flowers, music, and that sort of things?"

"Oh, yes! we had the flowers!" said Verty.

"Where?"

"At old Scowley's."

"Who's he?" asked Mr. Roundjacket, staring.

"What!" cried Verty, "don't you know old Scowley?"

"No."

"She's Redbud's school-master—I mean school-mistress, of course; and Mr. Jinks goes to see Miss Sallianna."

Roundjacket muttered: "Really, a very extraordinary young man."

Then he added, aloud—

"Why do you think you are in love with Redbud?"

"Because you told me all about it; and I think from what—"

Just as Verty was going on to explain, the door of Mr. Rushton's room opened again, and Miss Lavinia came forth.

She nodded to Verty, and asked him how he was.

"I'm very well," said the young man, "and I hope you are too, Miss Lavinia. I saw your carriage at the door, and knew you were in here. Oh! how tight your hair is curled!" he added, laughing.

Miss Lavinia drew herself up.

"I reckon you are going to see Redbud," said Verty.

Miss Lavinia looked intently at him.

"Yes," she said.

"Give my love to her," said the young man, "and tell her I'm coming to see her very soon—just as quick as I can get off from this dull old place."

Which words were accompanied by a smile, directed toward Roundjacket. As to Miss Lavinia, she stood aghast at Verty's extraordinary communication, and for some moments could not get words to express her feelings.

Finally she said, solemnly—

"How—have you been—"

"To see Redbud, ma'am?"

"Yes."

"I've been once," Verty said, "and I'm going again."

Miss Lavinia's face assumed a dignified expression of reproof, and she gazed at the young man in silence. This look, however, was far from daunting him, and he returned it with the most fascinating smile.

"The fact is, Miss Lavinia," he added, "Redbud wants somebody to talk to up there. Old Scowley, you know, is'nt agreeable, at least, I should'nt think she was; and Miss Sallianna is all the time, I reckon, with Mr. Jinks. I did'nt see any scholars with Redbud; but there ARE some there, because you know Redbud's pigeon had a paper round his neck, with some words on it, all about how 'Fanny' had given him to her; and so there's a 'Fanny' somewhere—don't you think so? But I forgot, you don't know about the pigeon—do you?"

Miss Lavinia was completely astounded. "Old Scowley," "Mr. Jinks," "pigeon," "paper round his neck," and "Fanny,"—all these objects were inextricably mingled in her unfortunate brain, and she could not disentangle them from each other, or discover the least clue to the labyrinth. She, therefore, gazed at Verty with more overwhelming dignity than ever, and not deigning to make any reply to his rhapsody, sailed by with a stiff inclination of the head, toward the door. But Verty was growing gallant under Mr. Roundjacket's teaching. He rose with great good humor, and accompanied Miss Lavinia to her carriage—he upon one side, the gallant head clerk on the other—and politely assisted the lady into her chariot, all the time smiling in a manner which was pleasant to behold.

His last words, as the door closed and the chariot drove off, were—

"Recollect, Miss Lavinia, please don't forget to give my love to Redbud!"

Having impressed this important point upon Miss Lavinia, Verty returned to the office, with the sighing Roundjacket, humming one of his old Indian airs, and caressing Longears.



CHAPTER XVII.

MR. JINKS AT HOME.

The young man sat down at his desk, and began to write. But this occupation did not seem to amuse him, and, in a few moments, he threw away the pen he was writing with, and demanded another from Mr. Roundjacket.

That gentleman complied, and made him a new one.

Verty wrote for five minutes with the new one; and then split it deplorably. Mr. Roundjacket heard the noise, and protested against such carelessness.

"Oh," sighed Verty, "this writing is a terrible thing to-day; I want a holiday."

"There's no holiday in law, sir."

"Never?"

"No, never."

"It's a very slavish thing, then," Verty said.

"You are not far wrong there, young man," replied his companion; "but it also has its delights."

"I have never seen any."

"You are a savage."

"I believe I am."

"Your character is like your costume—barbarous."

"Yes—Indian," said Verty; "but I just thought, Mr. Roundjacket, of my new suit. To-day was to be the time for getting it."

"Very true," said the clerk, laying down his pen, "and as everything is best done in order, we will go at once."

Roundjacket opened Mr. Rushton's door, and informed him where he was going, and for what purpose—a piece of information which was received with a growl, and various muttered ejaculations.

Verty had already put on his fur hat.

"The fact is," said Roundjacket, as they issued forth into the street of the town, followed by Longears, "the old fellow, yonder, is getting dreadfully bearish."

"Is he, sir?"

"Yes; and every year it increases."

"I like him, though."

"You are right, young man—a noble-hearted man is Rushton; but unfortunate, sir,—unfortunate."

And Mr. Roundjacket shook his head.

"How?"

"That's his secret—not mine," was the reserved reply.

"Well, I won't ask it, then," Verty said; "I never care to know anything—there's the tailor's, aint it?"

"Yes, that is the shop of the knight of the shears," replied the clerk, with elegant paraphrase; "come, let us get on."

They soon reached the tailor's, which was not far from the office, on the same street; and Mr. O'Brallaghan came forward, scissors in hand, and smiling, like a great ogre, who was going to snip off people's heads, and eat them for his breakfast—only to satisfy his hunger, not from any malevolent feeling toward them. Mr. O'Brallaghan, as his name intimated, was from the Emerald Isle—was six feet high—had a carotty head, an enormous grinning mouth, and talked with the national accent. Indeed, so marked was this accent, that, after mature consideration, we have determined not to report any of this gentleman's remarks—naturally distrustful as we are of our ability to represent the tone in which they were uttered, with any degree of accuracy. We shall not see him frequently, however, and may omit his observations without much impropriety.

Mr. O'Brallaghan surveyed Verty's lythe and well-knit figure, clad in its rude forest costume, with patronizing favor. But when Roundjacket informed him, with hauteur, that "his friend, Mr. Verty," would give him an order for three suits:—one plain, one handsome, one very rich—the great O'Brallaghan became supple and polite; and evidently regarded Mr. Verty as some young lord, in disguise.

He requested the young man to walk into the inner room, where his artist would take his measure; and this Verty did at once.

Imagine his surprise at finding himself in the presence of—Mr. Jinks!

Mr. Jinks, no longer clad in elegant and martial costume, redolent equally of the ball-room and the battle-field—no longer moving majestically onward with wide-stretched legs, against which his warlike sword made dreadful music—no longer decorated with rosettes, and ruffles, and embroidery; but seated on the counter, in an old dressing-gown, with slipper'd feet and lacklustre eyes, driving his rapid needle through the cloth with savage and intrepid spirit.

Verty did not recognize him immediately; and Mr. Jinks did not observe the new comers either.

An exclamation from the young man, however, attracted his attention, and he started up.

"Mr. O'Brallaghan!" cried the knight of the needle, if we may so far plagiarize upon Roundjacket's paraphrase—"Mr. O'Brallaghan! this is contrary to our contract, sir. It was understood, sir, that I should be private, sir,—and I am invaded here by a route of people, sir, in violation of that understanding, sir!"

The emphasis with which Mr. Jinks uttered the various "sirs," in this address, was terrible. O'Brallaghan was evidently daunted by them.

"You know I am a great artist in the cutting line, sir," said Mr. Jinks, with dignity; "and that nobody can do your fine work but me, sir. You know I have the right to mature my conceptions in private, sir,—and that circumstances of another description render this privacy desirable, sir! And yet, sir, you intrude upon me, sir,—you intrude! How do you do, young man?—I recognize you," added Mr. Jinks, slightly calmed by his victory over O'Brallaghan, who only muttered his sentiments in original Gaelic, and bore the storm without further reply.

"I will, for once, break my rule," said Mr. Jinks, magnanimously, "and do for this gentleman, who is my friend, what I will do for no other. Henceforth, sir, recollect that I have rights;" and Mr. Jinks frowned; then he added to Verty, "Young man, have the goodness to stand upon that bench."

O'Brallaghan and Roundjacket retreated to the outer room, where they were, soon after, joined by Verty, who was laughing.

"Well," muttered the young man, "I will not tell anybody that Mr. Jinks sews, if he don't want it to be known—especially Miss Sallianna. I reckon he is right—women don't like to see men do anything better than them, as Mr. Jinks says."

And Verty began to admire a plum-colored coat which was lying on the counter.

"I like this," he said.

O'Brallaghan grew eloquent on the plum-colored coat—asserting that it was a portion of a suit made for one of his most elegant customers, but not sent for. He could, however, dispose of it to Mr. Verty, if he wished to have it—there was time to make another for the aforesaid elegant customer.

Verty tried the coat on, and O'Brallaghan declared, enthusiastically, that it fitted him "bewchously."

Mr. Roundjacket informed Verty that it would be better to get the suit, if it fitted, inasmuch as O'Brallaghan would probably take double the time he promised to make his proper suit in—an observation which O'Brallaghan repelled with indignation; and so the consequence was, that a quarter of an hour afterwards Roundjacket and Verty issued forth—the appearance of the latter having undergone a remarkable change.

Certainly no one would have recognized Verty at the first glance. He was clad in a complete cavalier's suit—embroidered coat-ruffles and long flapped waistcoat—with knee-breeches, stockings of the same material, and glossy shoes with high red heels, and fluttering rosettes; a cocked hat surmounted his curling hair, and altogether Verty resembled a courtier, and walked like a boy on stilts.

Roundjacket laughed in his sleeve at his companion's contortions, and on their way back stopped at the barber and surgeon's. This professional gentleman clipped Verty's profuse curls, gathered them together carefully behind, and tied them with a handsome bow of scarlet ribbon. Then he powdered the boy's fine glossy hair, and held a mirror before him.

"Oh! I'm a great deal better looking now," said Verty; "the fact is, Mr. Roundjacket, my hair was too long."

To this Mr. Roundjacket assented, and they returned, laughing, to the office.

Verty looked over his shoulder, and admired himself with all the innocence of a child or a savage. One thing only was disagreeable to him—the high heels which Mr. O'Brallaghan had supplied him with. Accustomed to his moccasins, the heels were not to be endured; and Verty kicked both of them off against the stone steps with great composure. Having accomplished this feat, he re-entered.

"I'm easier now," he said.

"About what?"

"The heels."

Mr. Roundjacket looked down.

"I could'nt walk on 'em, and knocked 'em off," Verty said.

Mr. Roundjacket uttered a suppressed chuckle; then stopping suddenly, observed with dignity:—

"Young man, that was very wrong in you. Mr. Rushton has made you a present of that costume, and you should not injure it; he will be displeased, sir."

"I will be nothing of the sort," said a growling voice; and turning round, the clerk found himself opposite to Mr. Rushton, who was looking at Verty with a grim smile.

"Kick away just as you please, my young savage," said that gentleman, "and don't mind this stuff from Roundjacket, who don't know civilized from Indian character. Do just as you choose."

"May I?" said Verty.

"Am I to repeat everything?"

"Well, sir, I choose to have a holiday this morning."

"Hum!"

"You said I might do as I wanted to, and I want to go and take a ride."

"Well, go then—much of a lawyer you'll ever make."

Verty laughed, and turning towards Longears, called him. But Longears hesitated—looking with the most profound astonishment at his master.

"He don't know me!" said the young man, laughing; "I don't think he'll hunt if I wear these, sir."

But Mr. Rushton had retired, and Verty only heard a door slam.

He rose.

"I'm going to see Redbud, Mr. Roundjacket," he said, "and I think she'll like my dress—good-bye."

Roundjacket only replied by flourishing his ruler.

Verty put on his cocked hat, admired himself for an instant in the mirror over the fire-place, and went out humming his eternal Indian song. Five minutes afterwards he was on his way to see Redbud, followed dubiously by Longears, who evidently had not made up his mind on the subject of his master's identity.

In order to explain the reception which Verty met with, it will be necessary to precede him.



CHAPTER XVIII.

HOW MISS LAVINIA DEVELOPED HER THEORIES UPON MATRIMONY.

The Apple Orchard carriage, containing the solemn Miss Lavinia, very soon arrived at the abode of old Scowley, as our friend Verty was accustomed to call the respectable preceptress of Miss Redbud; and Miss Lavinia descended and entered with solemn dignity.

Miss Sallianna and herself exchanged elaborate curtseys, and Miss Lavinia sailed into the pleasant sylvan parlor and took her seat reverely.

"Our dear little girls are amusing themselves this morning," said Miss Sallianna, inclining her head upon one shoulder, and raising her smiling eyes toward the ceiling; "the youthful mind, my dear madam, requires relaxation, and we do not force it."

Miss Lavinia uttered a dignified "hem," and passed her handkerchief solemnly over her lips.

"In this abode of the graces and rural sublunaries," continued Miss Sallianna, gently flirting her fan, "our young friends seem to lead a very happy life."

"Yes—I suppose so."

"Indeed, madam, I may say the time passes for them in a golden cadence of salubrious delights," said Miss Sallianna.

Her visitor inclined her head.

"If we could only exclude completely all thoughts of the opposite sex—"

Miss Lavinia listened with some interest to this peroration. "If we could live far from the vain world of man—"

The solemn head indicated a coincidence of opinion.

"If we could but dedicate ourselves wholly to the care of our little flock, we should be felicitous," continued Miss Sallianna. "But, alas! they will come to see us, madam, and we cannot exclude the dangerous enemy. I am often obliged to send word that I am not 'at home' to the beaux, and yet that is very cruel. But duty is my guide, and I bow to its bequests."

With which words, Miss Sallianna fixed her eyes resignedly upon the ceiling, and was silent. If Miss Lavinia had labored under the impression that Miss Sallianna designed to utter any complaints about Redbud, she did not show that such had been her expectation. She only bowed and said, politely, that if her little cousin Redbud was disengaged, she should like to see her.

"Oh yes! she is disengaged," said Miss Sallianna, with a languishing smile; "the dear child has been roaming over the garden and around the ensuing hills since the first appearance of the radiant orb of Sol, madam. I think such perambulations healthy."

Miss Lavinia said that she agreed with her.

"Reddy, as I call your lovely little niece—your cousin, eh?—is one of my most cherished pupils, madam; and I discover in her so many charming criterions of excellence, that I am sure she will grow up an object of interest to everybody. There she is out on the lawn. I will call her, madam, and if you would dispense with my society for a short time, I will again return, and we will discuss my favorite subject, the beauties of nature."

Miss Lavinia having, by a solemn movement of the head, indicated her willingness to languish without her hostess' society for a short period, Miss Sallianna rose, and made her exit from the apartment, with upraised eyes and gently smiling lips.

Five minutes afterwards Redbud ran in, laughing and rosy-cheeked.

"Oh, cousin Lavinia!" she cried, "I'm so glad to see you!"

Miss Lavinia enclosed her young relation in a dignified embrace, and kissed her solemnly.

"I am very glad to see you looking so well, Redbud," she said, indicating a cricket at her feet, upon which Miss Redbud accordingly seated herself. I have not been able before to come and see you, but Miss Scowley gives me excellent accounts of you."

"Does she!" laughed Redbud.

"Yes."

Redbud laughed again.

"What is the cause of your amusement?" said Miss Lavinia.

"Oh, I only meant that she told everybody who came, that everybody was good."

"Hum!"

"She does," said Redbud.

"Then you mean that you do not deserve her praise?"

"Oh, I did'nt mean that, cousin Lavinia! I'm very glad she likes me. I want everybody to like me. But it's true."

"I believe you are good, Redbud," Miss Lavinia said, calmly.

"I hope so, ma'am."

"Are you happy here?"

"Oh yes, ma'am—except that I would like to be at home to see you all."

"Do you miss us?"

"Oh yes, indeed!"

Miss Lavinia cleared her throat, and began to revolve her address to be delivered.

"You do not see us very often, Redbud," she said,—"I mean myself and your father—but from what I have heard this morning, that young man Verty still visits you."

Redbud colored, and did not reply.

Miss Lavinia's face assumed an expression of mingled severity and dignity, and she said to the girl:

"Redbud, I am sorry you do not observe the advice I gave you,—of course, I have no right to command you, and you are now growing old enough to act for yourself in these things. You are nearly seventeen, and are growing to be a woman. But I fear you are deficient in resolution, and still encourage the visits of this young man."

Poor Redbud was silent—she could not deny the accusation.

Miss Lavinia looked at her with grim affection, and said:

"I hope, Redbud, that, in future, you will be more careful. I am sorry to be compelled to say it—but Verty is not a proper person for you to remain upon such intimate and confidential terms with. He has good qualities, and is very sensible and kind-hearted; but he is a mere Indian, and cannot have anything in common with one so much his superior in station, as yourself."

"Oh, ma'am—!" began Redbud.

"Speak plainly," said Miss Lavinia; "do not be afraid."

"I was only going to say that I am not superior to Verty," Redbud added, with tears in her eyes; "he is so good, and kind, and sincere."

"You misunderstand me—I did not mean that he was not a proper companion for you, as far as his character went; for, I say again, that his character is perfectly good. But—child that you are!—you cannot comprehend yet that something more is wanting—that Verty is an Indian, and of unknown parentage."

Poor Redbud struggled to follow Miss Lavinia's meaning.

"I see that I must speak plainly," said that lady, solemnly, "and I will commence by saying, Redbud, that the whole male sex are always engaged in endeavoring to make an impression on the hearts of the other sex. The object to which every young man, without exception, dedicates his life, is to gain the ascendancy over the heart of some young person of the opposite sex; and they well know that when this ascendancy is gained, breaking it is often more than human power can accomplish. Young girls should carefully avoid all this, and should always remember that the intimacies formed in early life, last, generally, throughout their whole existence."

Redbud looked down, and felt a strong disposition to wipe her eyes.

Miss Lavinia proceeded, like an ancient oracle, impassible and infallible.

"Now, I mean, Redbud," she said, "that while Verty may be, and no doubt is, all that you could wish in a friend, you still ought not to encourage him, and continue your injudicious friendship. Far be it from me to insist upon the necessity of classes in the community, and the impropriety of marrying those who are uncongenial in taste and habit, and—"

"Marrying, ma'am!" exclaimed Redbud—then she stopped.

"Yes, Redbud," said Miss Lavinia, with dignity, "and nothing will persuade me that this young man has not conceived the design of marrying you. I do not say, mind me, that he is actuated by unworthy motives—I have no right to. I do not believe that this young man has ever reflected that Apple Orchard, a very fine estate, will some day be yours. I only say that, like all youths, he has set his heart upon possessing your hand, and that he is not a proper husband for you."

Having uttered this downright and unmistakeable opinion, Miss Lavinia raised her head with dignity, and smoothed down her silk dress with solemn grace.

As to poor Redbud, she could only lean her head on her hand, and endeavor to suppress her gathering tears.

"Verty is an Indian, and a young man of obscure birth—wholly uneducated, and, generally speaking, a savage, though a harmless one," said the lady, returning to the charge. "Now, Redbud, you cannot fail to perceive that it is impossible for you to marry an Indian whom nobody knows anything about. Your family have claims upon you, and these you cannot disregard, and unite yourself to one of an inferior race, who—"

"Oh, cousin Lavinia! cousin Lavinia!" cried Redbud, with a gush of tears, "please don't talk to me anymore about this; you make me feel so badly! Verty never said a word to me about marrying, and it would be foolish. Marry! Oh! you know I am nothing but a child, and you make me very unhappy by talking so."

Redbud leaned her forehead on her hand, and wiped away the tears running down her cheeks.

"It is not agreeable to me to mention this subject," Miss Lavinia said, solemnly, smoothing Redbud's disordered hair, "but I consider it my duty, child. You have said truly that you are still very young, and that it is ridiculous to talk about your being married. But, Redbud, the day will come when you will be a woman, and then you will find this intimacy with Verty a stone around your neck. I wish to warn you in time. These early friendships are only productive of suffering, when in course of time they must be dissolved. I wish to ward off this suffering from you!"

"Oh, ma'am!" sobbed Redbud.

"I love you very much."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And as I have more experience than you," said Miss Lavinia, grimly—"more knowledge of the wiles of men, I consider it my duty to direct your conduct."

"Yes, ma'am," said Redbud, seeing the wall closing round her inexorably.

"If, then, you would spare Verty suffering, as well as yourself, you will gradually place your relations on a different basis."

"On—a—dif—ferent—basis," said Redbud; "Yes, ma'am."

"It may be done," said Miss Lavinia; "and do not understand me, child, to counsel an abrupt and violent breaking off of all the ties between yourself and this young man."

"No, ma'am."

"You may do it gradually; make your demeanor toward him calmer at every interview—if he must come—do not have so many confidential conversations—never call him 'Verty'"—

"Oh, ma'am!" said Redbud, "but I can't call him Mr. Verty."

"Don't call him anything," said the astute enemy of the male sex, "and gradually add 'sir' to the end of your observations. In this manner, Redbud, you may place your relations on an entirely different footing."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Miss Lavinia looked at the child for some moments with a singular expression of commiseration. Then smoothing the small head again, she said more softly:—

"What I advise is for your own good, Redbud. I only aim at your happiness. Pursue the plan I have indicated, and whenever you can, avoid this young man—as you will both suffer. Men, men," murmured Miss Lavinia, "they are our masters, and ask nothing better than that delightful tribute to their power—a broken heart."

"Yes, yes, Redbud," said the solemn lady, rising, "this advice I have given you is well worthy of your attention. Both you and this young man will undergo cruel suffering if you persist in your present relations. I will say no more. I have done my duty, and I am sure you will not think that I am actuated by old-maidish scruples, and have made a bugbear for myself. I love you, Redbud, as well as I love any one in the world, and all I have said is for your good. Now I must go."

And Miss Lavinia solemnly enclosed the weeping girl in her arms, and returned to her carriage. Before her sailed Miss Sallianna, smiling and languishing—her eyes upon the sky, and uttering the most elegant compliments. These were received by Miss Lavinia with grave politeness; and finally the two ladies inclined their heads to each other, and the carriage drove off toward Winchester, followed by Redbud's eye. That young lady was standing at the window, refusing to be comforted by her friend Fanny—who had given her the pigeon, it will be remembered—and obstinately bent on proving to herself that she was the most wretched young lady who had ever existed.

Meanwhile Miss Lavinia continued her way, gazing in a dignified attitude from the window of her carriage. Just as she reached the bottom of the hill, what was her horror to perceive a cavalier approach from the opposite direction—an elegant cavalier, mounted on a shaggy horse, and followed by a long-eared hound—in whose richly clad person she recognized the whilom forest boy.

Miss Lavinia held up both her hands, and uttered an exclamation of horror.

As to Verty, he passed rapidly, with a fascinating smile, saying, as he disappeared:—

"I hope you gave my love to Redbud, Miss Lavinia!"

Miss Lavinia could only gasp.



CHAPTER XIX.

ONLY A FEW TEARS.

The theories of Miss Lavinia upon life and matrimony had so much truth in them, in spite of the address and peculiarities of the opinions upon which they were based, that Redbud was compelled to acknowledge their justness; and, as a consequence of this acknowledgment, to shape her future demeanor toward the young man in conformity with the advice of her mentor.

Therefore, when Miss Redbud saw Verty approach, clad in his new costume, and radiant with happy expectation, she hastily left the window at which she had been standing, and, in the depths of her chamber, sought for strength and consolation.

Let no one deride the innocent prayer of the child, and say that it was folly, and unworthy of her. The woes of youth are not our woes, and the iron mace which strikes down the stalwart man, falls not more heavily upon his strong shoulders, than does the straw which bears to the earth the weak heart of childhood.

Then, when the man frowns, and clenches his hand against the hostile fate pressing upon him, the child only weeps, and endeavors to avoid the suffering.

Redbud suffered no little. She loved Verty very sincerely as the playmate of her earlier years, and the confidential friend of her happiest hours. The feeling which was ripening in her heart had not yet revealed itself, and she felt that the barrier now raised between herself and the young man was cruel. But, then, suddenly, she would recollect Miss Lavinia's words, recall that warning, that they both would suffer—and so poor Redbud was very unhappy—very much confused—not at all like herself.

We have said very little of this child's character, preferring rather to let the current of our narrative reflect her pure features from its surface, as it flowed on through those old border days which were illustrated and adorned by the soft music of her voice, the kindness of her smile. Perhaps, however, this is a favorable occasion to lay before the reader what was written by a poor pen, in after years, about the child, by one who had loved, and been rendered purer by her. Some one, no matter who, had said to him one day—"Tell me about little Redbud, whom you praise so much"—and he had taken his pen and written—

"How can I? There are some figures that cannot be painted, as there are some melodies which cannot be uttered by the softest wind which ever swept the harp of Aeolus. You can scarcely delineate a star, and the glories of the sunset die away, and live not upon canvas. How difficult, then, the task you have imposed upon me, amigo mio—to seal up in a wicker flask that moonlight; chain down, by words, that flitting and almost imperceptible perfume—to tell you anything about that music which, embodied in a material form, was known as Redbud!

"Observe how I linger on the threshold, and strive to evade what I have promised to perform. What can I say of the little friend who made so many of my hours pure sunshine? She was the most graceful creature I have ever seen, I think, and surely merrier lips and eyes were never seen—eyes very blue and soft—hair golden, and flowing like sunset on her shoulders—a mouth which had a charming archness in it—and withal an innocence and modesty which made one purer. These were the first traits of the child, she was scarcely more, which struck a stranger. But she grew in beauty as you conversed with her. She had the most delightful voice I have ever heard—the kindest and most tender smile; and one could not long be in her company without feeling that good fortune had at last thrown him with one of those pure beings which seem to be sent down to the earth, from time to time, to show us, poor work-a-day mortals, that there are scales of existence, links as it were, between the inhabitants of this world and the angels: for the heavenly goodness, which sent into the circle which I lived in such a pure ray of the dawn, to verify and illumine the pathway of my life—thanks—thanks!

"How beautiful and graceful she was! When she ran along, singing, her fair golden locks rippling back from her pure brow and rosy cheeks, I thought a sunbeam came and went with her. The secret of Redbud's universal popularity—for everybody loved her—was, undoubtedly, that love which she felt for every one around her. There was so much tenderness and kindness in her heart, that it shone in her countenance, and spoke plainly in her eyes. Upon the lips, what a guileless innocence and softness!—in the kind, frank eyes, what all-embracing love for God's creatures everywhere! She would not tread upon a worm; and I recollect to this day, what an agony of tears she fell into upon one occasion, when some boys killed the young of an oriole, and the poor bird sat singing its soul away for grief upon the poplar.

"Redbud had a strong vein of piety in her character; and this crowning grace gave to her an inexpressible charm. Whatever men may say, there are few who do not reverence, and hope to find in those they love, this feeling. The world is a hard school, and men must strike alone everywhere. In the struggle, it is almost impossible to prevent the mind from gathering those bitter experiences which soil it. It is so hard not to hate so tremendous a task, to strangle that harsh and acrid emotion of contempt, which is so apt to subdue us, and make the mind the hue of what it works in, 'like the dyer's hand.' Men feel the necessity of something purer than themselves, on which to lean; and this they find in woman, with the nutriment I have spoken of—the piety of this child. It did not make her grave, but cheerful; and nothing could be imagined more delightful, than her smiles and laughter. Sometimes, it is true, you might perceive upon her brow what resembled the shadow of a cloud floating over the bright autumn fields—and in her eyes a thoughtful dew, which made them swim, veiling their light from you; but this was seldom. As I have spoken of her, such she was—a bright spirit, who seemed to scatter around her joy and laughter, gilding all the world she lived in with the kindness of her smiles.

"Such, amigo mio, was little Redbud when I knew her; and I have spoken of her as well as I could. No one can be more conscious of the insufficiency of my outline than myself. My only excuse is, a want of that faculty of the brain which—uniting memory, that is to say, the heart, with criticism, which is the intellect—is able to embody with the lips, or the pen, such figures as have appeared upon the horizon of life. I can only say that I never went near the child, but I was made better by her sincere voice. I never took her hand in my own, but a nameless influence seemed to enter into my heart, and purify it. And now, amigo, I have written it all, and you may laugh at me for my pains; but that is not a matter of very great importance. Farewell!"

It is rather an anti-climax, after this somewhat practical account of our little heroine, to inform the reader that Redbud was sitting down, crying. Such was, however, the fact; and as conscientious historians we cannot conceal it. Overwhelmed by Miss Lavinia's fatal logic, she had no choice, no course but one to pursue—to avoid Verty, and thus ward off that prospective "suffering;" and so, with a swelling heart and a heated brain, our little heroine could find no better resource than tears, and sobs, and sighs.



CHAPTER XX.

HOW MISS FANNY SLAMMED THE DOOR IN VERTY'S FACE.

As Redbud sat thus disconsolate, a footstep in the apartment attracted her attention, and raising her tearful eyes, she saw her friend Fanny, who had run in, laughing, as was her wont. Fanny was a handsome little brunette, about Redbud's age, and full of merriment and glee—perhaps sparkle would be the better word, inasmuch as this young lady always seemed to be upon the verge of laughter—brim full with it, and ready to overflow, like a goblet of Bohemian glass filled with the "foaming draught of eastern France," if we may be permitted to make so unworthy a comparison. Her merry black eyes were now dancing, and her ebon curls rippled from her smooth dark brow like midnight waves.

"Oh! here's your beau, Reddy!" cried Miss Fanny, clapping her hands; "you pretended not to know him as he came up the hill. Make haste! you never saw such an elegant cavalier as he has made himself!"

Redbud only smiled sadly, and turned away her head.

Miss Fanny attributed this manoeuvre to a feeling very different from the real one; and clapping her hands more joyfully than ever, cried:

"There you are! I believe you are going to pretend he ain't your beau! But you need not, madam. As if I did'nt know all about it—"

"Oh, Fanny!" murmured poor Redbud.

"Come! no secrets from me! That old Miss Lavinia has treated you badly, I know; I don't know how, but she made you cry, and I will not have anything to say to her, if she is your cousin. Forget all about it, Reddy, and make haste down, Verty is waiting for you—and oh! he's so elegant. I never saw a nicer fellow, and you know I always thought he was handsome. I would set my cap at him," said Miss Fanny, with a womanly air, "if it was'nt for you."

Redbud only murmured something.

"Come on!" cried Fanny, trying to raise her friend forcibly, "I tell you Verty is waiting, and you are only losing so much talk; they never will let our beaux stay long enough, and as to-day's holiday, you will have a nice chat. My cousin Ralph, you know, is coming to see me to-day, and we can have such a nice walk out on the hill—come on, Reddy! we'll have such a fine time!"

Suddenly Miss Fanny caught sight of the tears in Redbud's eyes, and stopped.

"What! crying yet at that old Miss Lavinia!" she said; "how can you mind her so!"

"Oh! I'm very unhappy!" said poor Redbud, bursting into tears; her self-control had given away at last. "Don't mind me, Fanny, but I can't help it—please don't talk any more about Verty, or walking out, or anything."

Fanny looked at her friend for a moment, and the deep sadness on Redbud's face banished all her laughter.

"Why not talk about him?" she said, sitting down by Redbud.

"Because I can't see him any more."

"Can't see him!"

"No—not to-day."

"Why?"

Redbud wiped her eyes.

"Because—because—oh! I can't tell you, Fanny!—I can't—it's wrong in cousin Lavinia!—I know it is!—I never meant—oh! I am so unhappy!"

And Redbud ended by bursting into a flood of tears, which caused the impulsive and sympathetic Fanny, whose lips had for some moments been twitching nervously, to do the same.

"Don't cry, Fanny—please don't cry!" said Redbud.

"I'm not crying!" said Miss Fanny, shedding floods of tears—"I'm not sorry—I'm mad with Miss Lavinia for making you cry; I hate her!"

"Oh!" sobbed Redbud, "that is very wrong."

"I don't care."

"She's my cousin."

"No matter! She had no business coming here and making you unhappy."

With which Miss Fanny sniffed, if that very inelegant word may be applied to any action performed by so elegant a young lady.

"Yes! she had no business—the old cat!" continued the impulsive Fanny, "and I feel as if I could scratch her eyes out!—to make you cry!"

"But I won't any more," said Redbud, beginning afresh.

"And I will stop, too," said Fanny, becoming hysterical.

After which solemn determination to be calm, and not display any further emotion on any account, the two young ladies, sinking into each other's arms, cried until their white handkerchiefs were completely wetted by their tears.

They had just managed to suppress their emotion somewhat—preparatory to commencing again, doubtless—when the door of the apartment opened, and a servant girl announced to Miss Redbud that a gentleman had come to see her, and was waiting for that purpose at the foot of the stairs.

"Oh! I can't see him," said Redbud, threatening a new shower.

"You shall!" said Fanny, laughing through her tears.

"Oh, no! no!" said Redbud.

"What shall I tell 'um, Miss," said the servant?

"Oh, I can't go down—tell Verty that—"

"She'll be down in a minute," finished Fanny.

"No, no, I must not!"

"You shall!"

"Fanny—!"

"Come, no nonsense, Reddy! there! I hear his voice—oh, me! my goodness gracious!"

These sudden and apparently remarkable exclamations may probably appear mysterious and without reason to the respected readers who do us the honor to peruse our history; but they were in reality not at all extraordinary under the circumstances, and were, indeed, just what might have been expected, on the generally accepted theories of cause and effect.

In a single word, then, the lively Miss Fanny had uttered the emphatic words, "Oh, me!—my goodness gracious!" because she had heard upon the staircase the noise of a masculine footstep, and caught sight of a masculine cocked-hat ascending;—which phenomenon, arguing again upon the theories of cause and effect, plainly indicated that a head was under the chapeau—the head of one of the opposite sex.

Redbud raised her head quickly at her friend's exclamation, and discerned the reason therefor. She understood, at a glance, that Verty had become impatient, waiting in the hall down stairs;—bad heard her voice from the room above; and, following his wont at Apple Orchard, quite innocently bethought himself of saving Redbud the trouble of descending, by ascending to her.

Verty sent his voice before him—a laughing and jubilant voice, which asked for Redbud.

Fanny jumped up and ran to the door, just as the young man placed his foot upon the landing, and stood before the group.

Verty made a low bow, and greeted Miss Fanny with one of the most fascinating smiles which could possibly be imagined. Fanny slammed the door in his face, without the least hesitation.

For a moment, Verty stood motionless and bewildered, vainly striving to make out what this extraordinary occurrence meant. At Apple Orchard, as we have said, the doors had never been slammed in his face. On the contrary, he had ranged freely over the mansion, amusing himself as seemed best to him: taking down a volume here—opening a closet there—strolling into the Squire's room, or Redbud's room, where that young lady was studying—and even into the apartment of the dreadful Miss Lavinia, where sat that solemn lady, engaged in the task of keeping the household wardrobe, stockings, and what not, in good condition. No one had ever told Verty that there was the least impropriety in this proceeding; and now, when he only meant to do what he had done a thousand times before, he had a door banged in his face, as if he were a thief with hostile intentions toward the spoons.

For some moments, therefore, as we have said, the young man stood thunderstruck and motionless. Then, considering the whole affair a joke, he began to laugh; and essayed to open the door.

In vain. Fanny, possibly foreseeing this, had turned the key.

"Redbud!" said Verty.

"Sir?" said a voice; not Redbud's, however.

"Let me in."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," replied the voice.

"Why?" said Verty, with ready philosophy; "it's nobody but me."

"Hum!" said the voice again, in indignant protest against the force of any such reasoning.

"You are not Redbud," continued the cavalier; "I want to see Redbud."

"Well, sir,—go down, and Reddy may come and see you," the voice replied; "as long as you stand there, you will not lay eyes on her—if you stay a week, or a year."

At this dreadful threat, Verty retreated from the door. The idea of not seeing Redbud for a year was horrible.

"Will you come down, Redbud, if I go?" he asked.

Voices heard in debate.

"Say?" said Verty.

After a pause, the voice which had before spoken, said:

"Yes; go down and wait ten minutes."

Verty heaved a sigh, and slowly descended to the hall again. As he disappeared, the door opened, and the face of Fanny was seen carefully watching the enemy's retreat. Then the young girl turned to Redbud, and, clapping her hands, cried:

"Did you ever!—what an impudent fellow! But you promised, Reddy! Come, let me fix your hair!"

Redbud sighed, and assented.



CHAPTER XXI.

IN WHICH REDBUD SUPPRESSES HER FEELINGS AND BEHAVES WITH DECORUM.

In ten minutes, as she promised, Fanny descended with Redbud,—her arm laced around the slender waist of that young lady, as is the wont with damsels,—and ready to give battle to our friend Verty, upon any additional provocation, with even greater zest than before.

Redbud presented a singular contrast to her companion. Fanny, smiling, and full of glee, seemed only to have become merrier and brighter for her "cry"—like an April landscape after a rain. Redbud, on the contrary, was still sad, and oppressed from the events of the morning; and, indeed, could scarcely return Verty's greeting without emotion.

Resplendent in his elegant plum-colored coat—with stockings, long embroidered waistcoat, and scarlet ribbon tied around his powdered hair, Verty came forward to meet his innamorata, as joyous and careless as ever, and, figuratively speaking, with open arms.

What was his surprise to find that no smile replied to his own. Redbud's face was calm—almost cold; she repelled him even when he held out his hand, and only gave him the tips of her fingers, which, for any warmth or motion in them, might have been wood or marble.

Poor Verty drew back, and colored. Redbud change toward him!—no longer care for him! What could this frigid manner with which she met him, mean;—why this cool and distant bow, in reply to his enthusiastic greeting?

Poor Verty sat down disconsolately, gazing at Redbud. He could not understand. Then his glance questioned Miss Fanny, who sat with a prim and demure affectation of stateliness, on the opposite side of the room. There was no explanation here either.

While Verty was thus gazing silently, and with growing embarrassment, at the two young girls, Redbud, with a beating heart, and trembling lips, played with the tassel of the sofa-cushion, and studied the figure of the carpet.

Fanny came to the rescue of the expiring conversation, and seizing forcibly upon the topic of the weather, inserted that useful wedge into the rapidly closing crack, and waited for Verty to strike the first blow.

Unfortunately, Verty did not hear her; he was gazing at Redbud.

Fanny pouted, and tossed her head. So she was not good enough for the elegant Mr. Verty!—she was not even worth a reply! He might talk himself, then!

Verty did not embrace this tacit permission—he remained silent; and gazing on Redbud, whose color began slowly to rise, as with heaving bosom and down-cast eyes she felt the young man's look—he experienced more and more embarrassment—a sentiment which began to give way to distress.

At last he rose, and going to her side, took her hand.

Redbud slowly drew it away, still without meeting his gaze.

He asked, in a low voice, if she was angry with him.

No—she was not very well to-day; that was all.

And then the long lashes drooped still more with the heavy drops which weighed them down; the cheeks were covered with a deeper crimson; the slender frame became still more agitated. Oh! nothing but those words—"if you would prevent him from suffering"—could bear her through this trying interview: they were enough, however—she would be strong.

And as she came to this determination, Redbud nearly sobbed—the full cup very nearly ran over with its freight of tears. With a beseeching, pleading glance, she appealed to Fanny to come to her assistance.

Such an appeal is never in vain; the free-masonry of the sex has no unworthy members. Fanny forgot in a moment her "miff" with Verty, when she saw that for some reason Redbud was very nearly ready to burst into tears, and wished to have the young man's attention called away from her; she no longer remembered the slight to herself, which had made her toss her head, and vow that she would not open her lips again; she came to the rescue, as women always do, and with the most winning smile, demanded of Mr. Verty whether he would be so kind as to do her a slight favor?

The young man sighed, and moved his head indifferently. Fanny did not choose to see the expression, and positively beaming with smiles, all directed, like a sheaf of arrows, full upon the gentleman, pushed the point of her slipper from the skirt of her dress, and said she would be exceedingly obliged to Mr. Verty, if he would fasten the ribbon which had become loose.

Of course, Verty had to comply. He rose, sighing more than ever, and crossing the room, knelt down to secure the rebellious ribbon.

No sooner had he knelt, than Miss Fanny made a movement which attracted Redbud's attention. Their eyes met, and Fanny saw that her friend was almost exhausted with emotion. The impulsive girl's eyes filled as she looked at Redbud; with a smile, however, and with the rapidity and skill of young ladies at public schools, she spelled something upon her fingers, grazing as she went through the quick motions, the head of Verty, who was bending over the slipper.

Fanny had said, in this sly way: "Say you are sick—indeed you are!—you'll cry!"

Verty rose just as she finished, and Miss Fanny, with negligent ease, thanked him, and looked out of the window. Verty turned again toward Redbud. She was standing up—one hand resting upon the arm of the sofa, from which she had risen, the other placed upon her heart, as if to still its tumultuous beating.

Verty's troubled glance fled to the tender, sorrowful face, and asked why she had risen. Redbud, suppressing her emotion by a powerful effort, said, almost coldly, that she felt unwell, and hoped he would let her go up stairs. Indeed, (with a trembling voice), she was—not well: he must excuse her; if—if—if he would—come again.

And finding her voice failing her, poor Redbud abruptly left the room, and running to her chamber, threw herself on the bed, and burst into a passion of tears.

She had obeyed Miss Lavinia.

Yes! with a throbbing heart, eyes full of tears, a tenderness toward her boy-playmate she had never felt before, she had preserved her calmness. Crying was not wrong she hoped—and that was left her.

So the child cried, and cried, until nature exhausted herself, and rested.



CHAPTER XXII.

HOW MISS SALLIANNA FELL IN LOVE WITH VERTY.

Verty stood for a moment gazing at the door through which Redbud had disappeared, unable to speak or move. Astonishment, compassion, love, distress, by turns filled his mind; and standing there, on a fine October morning, the young man, with the clear sunshine streaming on him joyfully, took his first lesson in human distress—a knowledge which all must acquire at some period of their lives, sooner or later. His mixture of emotions may be easily explained. He was astonished at the extraordinary change in Redbud's whole demeanor; he felt deep pity for the sickness which she had pleaded as an excuse for leaving him. Love and distress clasped hands in his agitated heart, as he threw a backward glance over the short interview which they had just held—and all these feelings mingling together, and struggling each for the mastery, made the young man's bosom heave, his forehead cloud over, and his lips shake with deep, melancholy sighs.

Utterly unable to explain the coldness which Redbud had undoubtedly exhibited, he could only suffer in silence.

Then, after some moments' thought, the idea occurred to him that Miss Fanny—the smiling, obliging, the agreeable Miss Fanny—might clear up the mystery, so he turned round toward her; but as he did so, the young girl passed by him with stately dignity, and requesting, in a cold tone, to be excused, as she was going to attend to her friend, Miss Summers, sailed out of the room and disappeared.

Verty looked after her with deeper astonishment than before. Then everybody disliked him—everybody avoided him: no doubt he had been guilty of some terrible fault toward Redbud, and her friend knew it, and would not stay in his presence.

What could that fault be? Not his costume—not the attempt he had made to intrude upon her privacy. Certainly Redbud never would have punished him so cruelly for such trifling things as these, conceding that they were distasteful to her.

What, then, could be the meaning of all this?

Just as he asked himself the question for the sixth time, there appeared at the door of the apartment no less a personage than Miss Sallianna, who, ambling into the room with that portion of the head which we have more than once mentioned, and the lackadaisical smile which was habitual with her, approached Verty, and graciously extended her yellow hand.