The young man took the extended member, and made a bow. Miss Sallianna received it with a still more gracious smile, and asked Mr. Verty to be seated.

He shook his head.

"I must go away, ma'am," he said, sadly; "Redbud has quarrelled with me, and I cannot stay. Oh! what have I done to cause this!"

And Verty's head sank upon his bosom, and his lips trembled.

Miss Sallianna gazed at him with a curious smile, and after a moment's silence, said:

"Suppose you sit down for a minute, Mr. Verty, and tell me all about this—this—highly intrinsic occurrence. You could not repose your sorrows in a more sympathetic bosom than my own."

And subsiding gracefully upon the sofa, Miss Sallianna made Verty sit by her, and even gently moved her fan before his face, smiling and simpering.

Perhaps the reader may feel some surprise at the change in Miss Sallianna's demeanor toward the young man, the fact of whose existence she had scarcely noticed on the occasion of their first meeting in the garden. The explanation will be neither lengthy nor difficult. Miss Sallianna was one of those ladies who have so profound an admiration for nature, beauty, love, and everything elevated and ennobling, that they are fond of discussing these topics with the opposite sex—exchanging ideas, and comparing opinions, no doubt for the purpose of arriving at sound conclusions upon these interesting subjects. If, in the course of these conversations, the general discussion became particular and personal—if, in a word, the gentleman was induced to regard the lady as an example of the beauties they were talking about, in nature, love, etc., Miss Sallianna did not complain, and even seemed somewhat pleased thereof. Of course there would have been no profit or entertainment in discussing these recondite subjects with a savage such as Verty had appeared to be upon their former interview, when, with his long, tangled hair, hunter's garb, and old slouched hat, he resembled an inhabitant of the backwoods—what could such a personage know of divine philosophy, or what pleasure could a lady take in his society?—no pleasure, evidently. But now that was all changed. The young gentleman now presented a civilized appearance; he was plainly becoming more cultivated, and his education, Miss Sallianna argued, should not be neglected by his lady acquaintances. Who wonders at such reasoning? Is this the only instance which has ever been known? Do sentimental ladies of an uncertain age always refuse to take charge of the growing hearts of innocent and handsome youths, just becoming initiated in the mysteries of the tender passion? Or do they not most willingly assume the onerous duty of directing the naive instincts of such youthful cavaliers into proper channels and toward worthy objects—even occasionally, from their elevated regard, present themselves as the said "worthy objects" for the youthful affection? Queenly and most lovely dames of uncertain age, and tender instincts, it is not the present chronicler who will so far forget his reputation for gallantry, as to assert that "I should like to marry" is your favorite madrigal.

Therefore let it be distinctly understood and remembered, as a thing necessary and indispensable to the true comprehension of this veracious history, that the beautiful Miss Sallianna was not attracted by Verty's handsome dress, his fashionable coat, rosetted shoes, well powdered hair, or embroidered waistcoat gently rubbing against the spotless frill—that these things did not enter into her mind when she resolved to attach the young man to her suit, and turn his affection and "esteem" toward herself. By no means;—she saw in him only a handsome young fellow, whose education could not prosper under the supervision of such a mere child as Redbud; and thus she found herself called upon to superintend it in her proper person, and for that purpose now designed to commence initiating the youthful cavalier into the science of the heart without delay.

These few words may probably serve to explain the unusual favor with which Miss Sallianna seemed to regard Verty—the empressement with which she gently fanned his agitated brow—the fascinating smile which she threw upon him, a smile which seemed to say, "Come! confide your sorrows to a sympathizing heart."

Verty, preoccupied with his sad reflections, for some moments remained silent. Miss Sallianna broke the pause by saying—

"You seem to be annoyed by something, Mr. Verty. Need I repeat that in me you will find a friend of philosophic partiality and undue influence to repose your confidential secrets in?"

Verty sighed.

"Oh! that is a bad sign," said the lady, simpering.

"What, ma'am?" asked Verty, raising his head.

"That sigh."

"I don't feel very well."

"In the body or the mind?"

"I suppose it's the mind, ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am—I am not so much your senior. True, the various experiences I have extracted from the circumambient universe render me somewhat more thoughtful, but my heart is very young," said Miss Sallianna, simpering, and slaying Verty with her eyes.

"Yes, ma'am—I mean Miss Sallianna," he said.

"Ah! that is better. Now let us converse about nature, my friend—"

"If you could tell me why Redbud has—"

Verty stopped. He had an undeveloped idea that the subject of nature and Redbud might not appear to have any connection with each other in the mind of Miss Sallianna.

But that lady smiled.

"About Redbud?" she asked, with a languishing glance.

"Yes—Miss."

"What of the dear child?—have you fallen out? You men must not mind the follies of such children—and Reddy is a mere child. I should not think she could appreciate you."

Verty was silent; he did not know exactly what appreciate meant, which may serve as a further proof of what we have said above, in relation to the necessity which Miss Sallianna felt she labored under, as a tender-hearted woman, to educate Verty.

The lady seemed to understand from her companion's countenance, that he did not exactly comprehend the signification of her words; but as this had occurred on other occasions, and with other persons, she felt no surprise at the circumstance, attributing it, as was natural, to her own extreme cultivation and philological proficiency. She therefore smiled, and still gently agitating the fan before Verty, repeated:

"Have you and Redbud fallen out?"

"Yes," said the young man.

"Concerning what?"

"I don't know—I mean Redbud has quarreled with me."

"Indeed!"

Verty replied with a sigh.

"Come!" said Miss Sallianna, "make a confidant of me, and confide your feelings to a heart which beats responsive to your own."

With which words the lady ogled Verty.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE RESULT.

Verty looked at Miss Sallianna, and sighed more deeply than he had ever sighed before. The lady's face was full of the tenderest interest; it seemed to say, that with its possessor all secrets were sacred, and that nothing but the purest friendship, and a desire to serve unhappy personages, influenced her.

Who wonders, therefore, that Verty began to think that it would be a vast relief to him to have a confidant—that his inexperience needed advice and counsel—that the lady who now offered to guide him through the maze in which he was confounded and lost, knew all about the labyrinths, and from the close association with the object of his love, could adapt her counsel to the peculiar circumstances, better than any one else in the wide world? Besides, Verty was a lover, and when did lover yet fail to experience the most vehement desire to pour into the bosom of some sympathizing friend—of either sex—the story of his feelings and his hopes? It is no answer to this, that, in the present instance, the lover was almost ignorant of the fact, that he loved, and had no well-defined hopes of any description. That is nothing to your true Corydon. Not in the least. Will he not discourse with rising and kindling eloquence upon everything connected with his Phillis? Will not the ribbons on her bodice, and the lace around her neck, become the most important and delightful objects of discursive commentary?—the very fluttering rosettes which burn upon her little instep, and the pearls which glitter in her powdered hair, be of more interest than the fall of thrones? So Corydon, the lover, dreams, and dreams—and if you approach him in the forest-glade, he sighs and talks to you, till evening reddens in the west, about Phillis, only Phillis. And as the old Arcady lives still, and did at the time of our history, so Corydons were ready to illustrate it, and our young friend Verty felt the old pastoral desire to talk about his shepherdess, and embrace Miss Sallianna's invitation to confide his sorrows to her respective bosom.

"Come now, my dear Mr. Verty," repeated that lady, "tell me what all this means—are you in love, can it be—not with Reddy?"

"Yes, ma'am, I believe I am," said Verty, yielding to his love. "Oh, I know I am. I would die for her whenever she wanted me to—indeed I would."

"Hum!" said Miss Sallianna.

"You know she is so beautiful and good—she's the best and dearest girl that ever lived, and I was so happy before she treated me coldly this morning! I'll never be happy any more!"

"Cannot you banish her false image?"

"False! she's as true as the stars! Oh, Redbud is not false! she is too good and kind!"

Miss Sallianna shook her head.

"You have too high an opinion of the sex at large, I fear, Mr. Verty," she said; "some of them are very inconstant; you had better not trust Redbud."

"Not trust her!"

"Be careful, I mean."

"How can I!" cried Verty.

"Easily."

"Be careful? I don't know what you mean, Miss Sallianna; but I suppose what you say is for my good."

"Oh yes, indeed."

"But I can't keep still, and watch and listen, and spy out about anybody I love so much as Redbud—for I'm certain now that I love her. Oh, no! I must trust her—trust her in everything! Why should I not? I have known her, Miss Sallianna, for years, and years—we were brought up together, and we have gone hand in hand through the woods, gathering flowers, and down by the run to play, and she has showed me how to read and write, and she gave me a Bible; and everything which I recollect has something in it about Redbud—only Redbud—so beautiful, and kind, and good. Oh, Miss Sallianna, how could I be careful, and watch, and think Redbud's smiles were not here! I could not—I would rather die!"

And Verty's head sank upon his hands which covered the ingenuous blushes of boyhood and first love. In this advanced age of the world, we can pity and laugh at this romantic nonsense—let us be thankful.

Miss Sallianna listened with great equanimity to this outburst, and smiling, and gently fanning Verty, said, when he had ceased speaking:

"Don't agitate yourself, my dear friend. I suspected this. You misunderstand my paternal counsel in suggesting to you a suspicionative exemplification of dear little Reddy. Darling child! she is very good; but remember that we cannot always control our feelings."

Verty raised his head, inquiringly.

"You do not understand?"

"No, ma'am," he said; "I mean, Miss—"

"No matter—you'll get into the habit," said the lady, with a languishing smile; "I meant to observe, my dear friend, that Reddy might be very good, and I suppose she is—and she might have had a great and instructive affection for you at one period; but you know we cannot control our sentiments, and Reddy has probably fancied herself in love with somebody else."

Verty started, and half rose.

"In love with somebody else?" he cried.

"Yes," said the lady, smiling.

"Oh, no, no!" murmured the young man, falling again into his seat.

Miss Sallianna nodded.

"Mind now—I do not assert it," she said; "I only say that these children—I mean young girls at Reddy's age—are very apt to take fancies; and then they get tired of the youths they have known well, and will hardly speak to them. Human nature is of derisive and touching interest, Mr. Verty," sighed the lady, "you must not expect to find Reddy an exception. She is not perfect."

"Oh yes, she is!" murmured poor Verty, thinking of Redbud's dreadful change, and yet battling for her to the last with the loyal extravagance of a true lover; "she would not—she could not—deceive me."

"I do not say she would."

"But—"

"I know what you are about to observe, sir; but, remember that the heart is not in our power entirely"—here Miss Sallianna sighed, and threw a languishing glance upon Verty. "No doubt Reddy loved you; indeed, at the risk of deeming to flatter you, Mr. Verty—though I never flatter—I must say, that it would have been very extraordinary if Reddy had not fallen in love with you, as you are so smart and handsome. Recollect this is not flattery. I was going on to say, that Reddy must have loved you, but that does not show that she loves you now. We cannot compress our sentiments; and Diana, Mr. Verty, the god of love, throws his darts when we are not looking—ah!"

Which last word of Miss Sallianna's speech represents a sigh she uttered, as, after the manner of Diana, she darted a fatal arrow from her eyes, at Verty. It did not slay him, however, and he only murmured wofully,

"Do you mean Reddy has changed, then, ma'am? Oh, what will become of me—what shall I do!"

Miss Sallianna threw a glance, so much more languishing than the former, upon her companion, that had his heart not been wrapped in Redbud, it certainly would have been pierced.

"Follow her example," simpered Miss Sallianna, looking down with blushing cheeks, and picking at her fan with an air of girlish innocence. "Could you not do as she has done—and—choose—another object yourself?"

And Miss Sallianna raised her eyes, bashfully, to Verty's face, then cast them with maidenly modesty upon the carpet.

"No, ma'am," said Verty, thoughtfully, and quite ignorant of the deadly attack designed by the fair lady upon his heart—"I don't think I could change."

In these simple words the honest Verty answered all.

"Why not?" simpered the lady.

"Because I don't think Redbud is in love with anybody else," he said; "I know she is not!"

"Why, then, has she treated you so badly?" said Miss Sallianna, gradually forgetting her bashfulness, and reassuming her languishing air and manner—"there must be some laborious circumstance, Mr. Verty."

Verty pressed his head with his hand, and was silent. All at once a brighter light illumined the fair lady's face, and she addressed herself to speak, first uttering a modest cough—

"Suppose I suggest a plan of finding out, sir," she said; "we might find easily."

"Oh, ma'am! how?"

"Will you follow my advice?"

"Yes, ma'am—of course. I mean if it's right. Excuse me, I did not mean—what was your advice, ma'am?" stammered Verty.

The lady smiled, and did not seem at all offended at Verty's qualification.

"It may appear singular to you at first," Miss Sallianna said; "but my advice is, that you appear to make love—to pay attentions to—somebody else for a short time."

"Attentions, ma'am?"

"Seem to like some other lady better than Redbud."

"Oh, but that would not be right."

"Why?"

"Because I don't."

Miss Sallianna smiled.

"I don't want you to change at all, Mr. Verty," she said; "only to take this modus addendi, which is the Greek for way,—to take this way to find out. I would not advise it, of course, if it was wrong, and it is the best thing you could do, indeed."

Verty strongly combated this plan, but was met at every turn, by Miss Sallianna, with ready logic; and the result, as is almost always the case when men have the temerity to argue with ladies, was a total defeat. Verty was convinced, or talked obtuse upon the subject, and with many misgivings, acquiesced in Miss Sallianna's plan.

That lady then went on in a sly and careful manner—possibly diplomatic would be the polite word—to suggest herself as the most proper object of Verty's experiment. He might make love to her if he wished—she would not be offended. He might even kiss her hand, and kneel to her, and perform any other gallant ceremony he fancied—she would make allowances, and not become angry if he even proceeded so far as to write her billet-doux, and ask her hand in a matrimonial point of view. Miss Sallianna wound up by saying, that it would be an affair of rare and opprobrious interest; and, as a comedy, would be positively deleterious, which was probably a lapsus linguae for "delicious."

So when Verty rose to take his departure, he was a captive to Miss Sallianna's bow and spear; or more accurately, to her fan and tongue: and had promised to come on the very next day, after school hours, and commence the amusing trial of Reddy's affections. The lady tapped him with her fan, smiled languidly, and rolled up her eyes—Verty bowed, and took his leave of her.

He mounted Cloud, and calling Longears, took his way sadly toward town. Could he not look back and see those tender eyes following him from the lattice of Redbud's room—and blessing him?



CHAPTER XXIV.

OF THE EFFECT OF VERTY'S VIOLIN-PLAYING UPON MR. RUSHTON.

The young man had just reached the foot of the hill, upon which the Bower of Nature stood—have we not mentioned before the name which Miss Sallianna had bestowed upon the seminary?—when he heard himself accosted by a laughing and careless voice, and raised his head, to see from whom it proceeded.

The voice, apparently, issued from a gentleman who had drawn rein in the middle of the road, and was gazing at him with great good humor and freedom. Verty returned this gaze, and the result of his inspection was, that the new-comer was a total stranger to him. He was a young man of about nineteen, with handsome features, characterized by an expression of nonchalance and careless good humor; clad in a very rich dress, somewhat foppish, but of irreproachable taste; and the horse he bestrode was an animal as elegant in figure and appointments as his master.

"Hallo, friend!" the new-comer had said, "give you good-day."

Verty nodded.

"You don't recognize me," said the young man.

"I believe not," replied Verty.

"Well, that's all right; and it would be strange if you did," the young man went on in his careless voice; "we have never met, I think, and, faith! all I recognize about you is my coat."

"Your coat?"

"Coat, did I say?—worse than that! I recognize my knee-breeches, my stockings, my chapeau, my waistcoat!"

And the new-comer burst into a careless laugh.

Verty shook his head.

"They are mine, sir," he said.

"You are mistaken."

Verty returned the careless glance with one which seemed to indicate that he was not very well pleased.

"How?" he said.

"I maintain that you are wearing my clothes, by Jove! Come, let us fight it out;—or no! I've got an engagement, my dear fellow, and we must put it off. Fanny is waiting for me, and would be dying with disappointment if I didn't come."

With which the young fellow touched his horse, and commenced humming a song.

"Fanny?" said Verty, with a sad smile, "what! up at old Scowley's?"

"The very place! Why, you have caught the very form of words by which I am myself accustomed to speak of that respectable matron."

"I know Miss Fanny."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Stop!" said the young man, laughing with his easy nonchalance; "tell me if we are rivals."

"Anan?" said Verty.

"Are you in love with her? Honor bright now, my dear fellow?"

"No," said Verty, drawn, he did not know how, toward the laughing young man; "no, not with—Miss Fanny."

"Ah, ah!—then with whom? Not the lovely Sallianna—the admirer of nature? Faith! you're too good-looking a fellow to throw yourself away on such a simpering old maid. By Jove! my dear friend, and new acquaintance, I like you! Let us be friends. My name's Ralph Ashley—I'm Fanny's cousin. Come! confidence for confidence!"

Verty smiled.

"My name is Verty," he said; "I havn't any other—I'm an Indian."

"An Indian!"

"Yes."

"Is it possible?"

Verty nodded.

"Why, you are an elegant cavalier, or the devil take it! I'm just from Williamsburg—from the college there; and I never saw a finer seigneur than yourself, friend Verty. An Indian!"

"That's all," said Verty; "the new clothes change me. I got 'em at O'Brallaghan's."

"O'Brallaghan's? The rascal! to sell my suit! That accounts for all! But I don't complain of you. On the contrary, I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. Have you been up there?—I suppose you have?"

And the young man pointed toward the Bower of Nature.

"Yes," said Verty.

"Visiting?"

"Yes—Redbud."

"Pretty little Miss Summers?"

Verty heaved a profound sigh, and said, "Yes."

The young man shook his head.

"Take care, my dear fellow," he said, with a wise air, "I saw her in town the other morning, and I consider her dangerous. She would not be dangerous to me; I am an old bird among the charming young damsels of this wicked world, and, consequently, not to be caught by chaff—such chaff as brilliant eyes, and rosy-cheeks, and smiles; but, without being critical, my dear friend, I may be permitted to observe, that you look confiding. Take care—it is the advice of a friend. Come and see me at Bousch's tavern where I am staying, if my visnomy has made a favorable impression—Ah! there's Fanny! I must fly to her—the charming infant."

And the young man gave a farewell nod to Verty, and went on singing, and making signs to the distant Fanny.

Verty gazed after him for a moment; then heaving another sigh much more profound than any which had yet issued from his lips, went slowly on toward the town—his shoulders drooping, his arms hanging down, his eyes intently engaged in staring vacancy out of countenance. If we are asked how it happened that the merry, joyous Verty, whose face was before all sunshine, now resembled nobody so much as some young and handsome Don Quixote, reflecting on the obduracy of his Toboso Dulcinea, we can only reply, that Verty was in love, and had not prospered lately—that is to say, on that particular day, in his suit; and, in consequence, felt as if the world no longer held any more joy or light for him, forever.

With that bad taste which characterizes the victims of this delusion, he could not consent to supply the place of the chosen object of his love with any other image; and even regarded the classic and romantic Miss Sallianna as wholly unworthy to supplant Redbud in his affections. Youth is proverbially unreasonable and fastidious on these subjects, and Verty, with the true folly of a young man, could not discern in Miss Sallianna those thousand graces and attractions, linguistic, philosophical, historical and scientific, which made her so far superior to the child with whom he had played, and committed the folly of falling in love with. So he went along sighing, with his arms hanging down, as we have said, and his shoulders drooping; and in this melancholy guise, reached the office of Judge Rushton.

He found Mr. Roundjacket still driving away with his pen, only stopping at intervals to flourish his ruler, or to cast an affectionate glance upon the MS. of his great poem, which, gracefully tied with red tape arranged in a magnificent bow, lay by him on the desk.

On Verty's entrance the poet raised his head, and looked at him curiously.

"Well, my fine fellow," he said, "what luck in your wooing? You look as wo-begone as the individual who drew Priam's curtain at the dead of night. Come! my young savage, why are you so sad?"

Verty sat down, murmuring something.

"Speak out!" said Mr. Roundjacket, wiping his pen.

"I'm not very sad," Verty replied, looking perfectly disconsolate—"what made you think so, Mr. Roundjacket?"

"Your physiognomy, my young friend. Are you happy with such a face as that?'

"Such a face?"

"Yes; I tell you that you look as if you had just parted with all your hopes—as if some adverse fate had deprived you of the privilege of living in this temple of Thespis and the muses. You could not look more doleful if I had threatened never to read any more of my great poem to you."

"Couldn't?" said Verty, listlessly.

"No."

The young man only replied with a sigh.

"There it is—you are groaning. Come; have you quarreled with your mistress?"

Verty colored, and his head sank.

"Please don't ask me, sir," he said; "I have not been very happy to-day—everything has gone wrong. I had better get to my work, sir,—I may forget it."

And with a look of profound discouragement, which seemed to be reflected in the sympathizing face of Longears, who had stretched himself at his master's feet and now lay gazing at him, Verty opened the record he had been copying, and began to write.

Roundjacket looked at him for a moment in silence, and then, with an expression of affection and pity, which made his grotesque face absolutely handsome, muttered something to himself, and followed Verty's example.

When Roundjacket commenced writing, he did so with the regularity and accuracy of a machine which is set in motion by the turning of a crank, and goes on until it is stopped. This was the case on the present occasion, and Verty seemed as earnestly engaged in his own particular task. But appearances are deceptive—Indian nature will not take the curb like Anglo-Saxon—and a glance over Verty's shoulders will reveal the species of occupation which he became engaged in after finishing ten lines of the law paper.

He was tracing with melancholy interest a picture upon the sheet beneath his pen; and this was a lovely little design of a young girl, with smiling lips, kind, tender eyes, and cheeks which were round and beautiful with mirth. With a stroke of the pen Verty added the waving hair, brushed back a la Pompadour the foam of lace around the neck, and the golden drop in the little ear. Redbud looked at you from the paper, with her modest eyes and smiles—and for a moment Verty gazed at the creation of his pencil, sighing mournfully.

Then, with a deeper sigh than before, he drew beneath this another sketch—the same head, but very different. The eyes now were cold and half closed—the lips were close together, and seemed almost disdainful—and as the gentle bending forward in the first design was full of pleasant abandon and graceful kindness, so the head in the present sketch had that erect and frigid carriage which indicates displeasure.

Verty covered his eyes with his hand, and leaning down upon the desk, was silent and motionless, except that a stifled sigh would at times issue from his lips, a sad heaving of his breast indicate the nature of his thoughts.

Longears rose, and coming to his master, wagged his tail, and asked, with his mute but intelligent glance, what had happened.

Verty felt the dog lick his hand, and rose from his recumbent posture.

"Yes, yes, Longears," he murmured, "I can't help showing it—even you know that I am not happy."

And with listless hands he took up the old violin which lay upon his desk and touched the strings. The sound died away in trembling waves—Roundjacket continued writing.

Verty, without appearing to be conscious of what he was doing, took the bow of the violin, and placing the instrument upon his shoulder, leaned his ear down to it, and drew the hair over the strings. A long, sad monotone floated through the room.

Roundjacket wrote on.

Verty, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, his lips sorrowfully listless, his frame drooping more and more, began to play a low, sad air, which sounded like a sigh.

Roundjacket raised his head, and looked at the musician.

Verty leaned more and more upon his instrument, listening to it as to some one speaking to him, his eyes closed, his bosom heaving, his under lip compressed sorrowfully as he dreamed.

Roundjacket was just about to call upon Verty to cease his savage and outrageous conduct, or Mr. Rushton, who was in the other room, would soon issue forth and revenge such a dreadful violation of law office propriety, when the door of that gentleman's sanctum opened, and he appeared upon the threshold.

But far from bearing any resemblance to the picture of the poet's imagination—instead of standing mute with rage, and annihilating the musician with a horrible scowl from beneath his shaggy and frowning brows, Mr. Rushton presented a perfect picture of softness and emotion. His head bending forward, his eyes half closed and filled with an imperceptible mist, his whole manner quiet, and sad, and subdued, he seemed to hang upon the long-drawn sighing of the violin, and take a mournful pleasure in its utterances.

Verty's hand passed more and more slowly backward and forward—the music became still more affecting, and passing from thoughtfulness to sadness, and from sadness to passionate regret, it died away in a wail.

He felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turned round. Mr. Rushton, with moist eyes and trembling lips, was gazing at him.

"Do not play that any more, young man," he said, in a low tone, "it distresses me."

"Distresses you, sir?" said Verty.

"Yes."

"What? 'Lullaby?'"

"Yes," muttered the lawyer.

Verty's sad eyes inquired the meaning of so singular a fact, but Mr. Rushton did not indulge this curiosity.

"Enough," he said, with more calmness, as he turned away, "it is not proper for you to play the violin here in business hours; but above all, never again play that music—I cannot endure the memories it arouses—enough."

And retiring slowly, Mr. Rushton disappeared, closing the door of his room behind him.

Verty followed him with his eyes until he was no longer visible, then turned toward Mr. Roundjacket for an explanation. That gentleman seemed to understand this mute interrogation, but only shook his head.

Therefore Verty returned to his work, sadly laying aside the two sketches of Redbud, and selecting another sheet to copy the record upon. By the time he had finished one page, Mr. Roundjacket rose from his desk, stretched himself, and announced that office hours were over, and he would seek his surburban cottage, where this gentleman lived in bachelor misery. Verty said he was tired, too; and before long had told Mr. Roundjacket good-bye, and mounted Cloud.

With Longears at his side, soberly walking in imitation of the horse, Verty went along toward his home in the hills, gazing upon the golden west, and thinking still of Redbud.



CHAPTER XXV.

A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, JUST FROM WILLIAM AND MARY COLLEGE.

Instead of following Verty, who, like most lovers, is very far from being an amusing personage, let us go back and accompany Mr. Ralph Ashley, on his way to the Bower of Nature, where our young friend Fanny awaits him; and if these scenes and characters also fail to entertain us, we may at least be sure that they are from the book of human nature—a volume whose lightest chapters and most frivolous illustrations are not beneath the attention of the wisest. If this were not true, the present chronicler would never be guilty of the folly of expending his time and ink upon such details as go to make up this true history; it would be lost labor, were not the flower and the blade of grass, the very thistle down upon the breeze, each and all, as wonderful as the grand forests of the splendid tropics. What character or human deed is too small or trivial for study? Never did a great writer utter truer philosophy than when he said:

"Say not 'a small event!' Why 'small?' Costs it more pains than this, ye call A 'great event,' shall come to pass, Than that? Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in, or exceed!"

And now after this philosophical dissertation upon human life and actions, we may proceed to narrate the visit of Mr. Ralph Ashley, graduate of Williamsburg, and cousin of Miss Fanny, to the Bower of Nature, and its inmates.

Fanny was at the door when he dismounted, and awaited the young gentleman with some blushes, and a large amount of laughter.

This laughter was probably directed toward the somewhat dandified costume of the young gentleman, and he was not long left in the dark upon this point.

"How d'ye do, my dearest Fanny," said Mr. Ralph Ashley, hastening forward, and holding out his arms; "let us embrace!"

"Humph!" said Fanny; "indeed you shan't!"

"Shan't what—kiss you?"

"Yes, sir: you shall do nothing of the sort!"

"Wrong!—here goes!"

And before Miss Fanny could make her retreat, Ralph Ashley, Esq., caught that young lady in his arms, and impressed a salute upon her lips, so remarkably enthusiastic, that it resembled the discharge of a pistol. Perhaps we are wrong in saying that it was imprinted on his cousin's lips, inasmuch as Miss Fanny, though incapacitated from releasing herself, could still turn her head, and she always maintained that nothing but her cheek suffered. On this point we cannot be sure, and therefore leave the question undecided.

Of one fact, however, there can be no doubt—namely, that Mr. Ralph Ashley received, almost immediately, a vigorous salute of another description upon the cheek, from Miss Fanny's open hand—a salute which caused his face to assume the most girlish bloom, and his eyes to suddenly fill with tears.

"By Jove! you've got an arm!" said the cavalier, admiringly. "Come, my charming child—why did you treat me so cruelly?"

"Why did you kiss me? Impudence!"

"That's just what young ladies always say," replied her cavalier, philosophically; "whatever they like, they are sure to call impudent."

"Like?"

"Yes, like! Do you pretend to say that you are not complimented by a salute from such an elegant gentleman as myself?"

"Oh, of course!" said Miss Fanny, satirically.

"Then the element of natural affection—of consanguinity—has its due weight no doubt, my dearest. I am your cousin."

"What of that, man?"

"Everything! Don't you know that in this reputable province, called Virginia, blood goes a great way? Cousins are invariably favorites."

"You are very much mistaken, sir," said Fanny.

"There it is—you girls always deny it, and always believe it," said Mr. Ralph, philosophically. "Now, you would die for me."

"Die, indeed!"

"Would'nt you?"

"Fiddlesticks!"

"That's an impressive observation, and there's no doubt about your meaning, though the original signification, the philological origin of the phrase, is somewhat cloudy. You won't expire for me, then?"

"No!"

"Then live for me, delight of my existence!" said Mr. Ralph Ashley, with a languishing glance, and clasping his hands romantically as he spoke; "live for one, whose heart is wrapped in thee!"

Miss Fanny's sense of the ludicrous was strong, and this pathetic appeal caused her to burst into laughter.

"More ridiculous than ever, as I live!" she cried, "though I thought that was impossible."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

Mr. Ashley gently twined a lock around his finger, and assuming a foppish air, replied:

"I don't know whether you thought it impossible for me to become more ridiculous; but you can't help confessing, my own Fanny, that you doubted whether I could grow more fascinating."

Fanny's lip curled.

"Oh, yes!" she said.

"Come—don't deny what was perfectly plain—it won't do."

"Deny—?"

"That you were desperately in love with me, and that I was your sweetheart, as the children say."

And Mr. Ralph gently caressed the downy covering of his chin, and smiled.

"What a conceited thing you are," said Fanny, laughing; "you are outrageous."

And having uttered this opinion, Miss Fanny's eyes suddenly fell, and her merry cheek colored. The truth was simply, that Ralph had been a frank, good-humored, gallant boy, and the neighbors had said, that he was Fanny's "sweetheart;" and the remembrance of this former imputation now embarrassed the nearly-grown-up young lady. No one could remain embarrassed in Mr. Ralph's society long however; there was so much careless ease in his demeanor, that it was contagious, and so Fanny in a moment had regained all her self-possession, and returned the languishing glances of her admirer with her habitual expression of satirical humor.

"Yes, perfectly outrageous!" she said; "and college has positively ruined you—you cannot deny it."

"Ruined me?"

"Wholly."

"On the contrary, it has greatly improved me, my dearest."

And Ralph sat down on the trellised portico, stretching out his elegant rosetted shoes, and laughing.

"I am not your dearest," said Fanny; "that is not my name."

"You are mistaken! But come, sit by me: I'm just in the mood to talk."

"No! I don't think I will."

"Pray do."

"No," said Fanny, shaking her head coquettishly, "I'll stand while your lordship discourses."

"You positively shan't!"

And with these words, the young man grasped Miss Fanny's long streaming hair-ribbon, and gently drew it toward him, laughing.

Fanny cried out. Ralph laughed more than ever.

There was but one alternative left for the young girl. She must either see her elegantly bound up raven locks deprived of their confining ribbon, and so fall in wild disorder, or she must obey the command of the enemy, and sit quietly beside him. True, there was the third course of becoming angry, and raising her head with dignified hauteur. But this course had its objections—it would not do to quarrel with her cousin and former playmate immediately upon his return; and again the movement of the head, which we have indicated, would have been attended by consequences exceedingly disastrous.

Therefore, as Ralph continued to draw toward him gently the scarlet ribbon, with many smiles and admiring glances, Miss Fanny gradually approached the seat, and finally sat down.

"There, sir!" she said, pouting, "I hope you are satisfied!"

"Perfectly; the fact is, my sweet Fanny, I never was anything else but satisfied with you! I always was fascinated with you."

"That's one of the things which you were taught at college, I suppose."

"What?"

"Making pretty speeches."

"No, they didn't teach that, by Jove! Nothing but wretched Latin, Greek and Mathematics—things, evidently, of far less importance than the art you mention."

"Oh! of course."

"And the reason is plain. A gentleman never uses the one after he leaves college, and lays them by with the crabbed books that teach them; while the art of compliment is always useful and agreeable—especially agreeable to young ladies of your exceedingly juvenile age—is't not?"

"Very agreeable."

"I know it is; and when a woman descends to it, and flatters a man—ah! my dear Fanny, there's no hope for him. I am a melancholy instance."

"You!" laughed Fanny, who had regained her good-humor.

"Yes; you know Williamsburg has many other things to recommend it besides the college."

"What things?"

"Pretty girls."

"Oh! indeed."

"Yes, and I assure you I did not neglect the opportunity of prosecuting my favorite study—the female character. Don't interrupt me—your character is no longer a study to me."

"I am very glad, sir."

"I made you out long ago—like the rest of your sex, you are, of course, very nearly angelic, but still have your faults."

"Thank you, sir."

"All true—but about Williamsburg—I was, I say, a melancholy sample of the effect produced by a kind and friendly speech from a lady. Observe, that the said speech was perfectly commonplace, and sprung, I'm sure, from the speaker's general amiability; and yet, what must I do, but go and fall in love with her."

"Oh!" from Fanny.

"Yes—true as truth itself; and, as a consequence, my friends, for the first, and only time, had a good joke against me. They had a tale about my going to his Excellency, the Governor's palace, to look at the great map there—all for the purpose of finding where the country was in which she lived; for, observe, she was only on a visit to Williamsburg—of studying out this boundary, and that—this river to cross, and that place to stop at,—the time it would take to carry my affections over them—and all the thousand details. Of course, this was not true, my darling Fanny, at least—"

"Ralph, you shall stop talking to me like a child!" exclaimed Fanny, who had listened to the details of Mr. Ashley's passion with more and more constraint; "please to remember that I am not a baby, sir."

Ralph looked at the lovely face, with its rosy-cheeks and flashing eyes, and burst out laughing.

"There, you are as angry as Cleopatra, when the slave brought her bad news—and, by Jove, Fanny, you are twice as lovely. Really! you have improved wonderfully. Your eyes, at this moment, are as brilliant as fire—your lips like carnation—and your face like sunlit gold; recollect, I'm a poet. I'm positively rejoiced at the good luck which made me bring such a lovely expression into your fair countenance."

Fanny turned her head away.

"Come now, Fanny," said Ralph, seriously, "I do believe you are going to find fault with my nonsense."

No reply.

Mr. Ralph Ashley heaved a sigh; and was silent.

"You treat me like a child," said Fanny, reproachfully; "I am not a child."

"You certainly are not, my dearest Fanny—you are a charming young lady—the most delicious of your sex."

And Mr. Ralph Ashley accompanied these words with a glance so ludicrously languishing, that Fanny, unable to command herself, burst into laughter; and the quarrel was all made up, if quarrel it indeed had been.

"You were a child in old times," said Mr. Ashley, throwing his foot elegantly over his knee; "and, I recollect, had a perfect genius for blindman's-buff; but, of course, at sixteen you have 'put away' all those infantile or 'childish things'—though I am sincerely rejoiced to see that you have not 'become a man.'"

Fanny laughed.

"I wish I was," she said.

"What?"

"Why a man."

"Oh! you're very well as you are;—though if you were a 'youth,' I'm sure, Fanny dear, I should be desperately fond of you."

"Quite likely."

"Oh, nothing truer; and everybody would say, 'See the handsome friends.' Come now, would'nt we make a lovely couple."

"Lovely!"

"Suppose we try it."

"Try what?"

"Being a couple."

Fanny suddenly caught, from the laughing eye, the young man's meaning, and began to color.

"I see you understand, my own Fanny," observed Mr. Ralph, "and I expected nothing less from a young lady of your quickness. What say you? It is not necessary for me to say that I'm desperately in love with you."

"Oh, not at all necessary!" replied Fanny, satirically, but with a blush.

"I see you doubt it."

"Oh, not at all."

"Which means, as usual with young ladies, that you don't believe a word of it. Well, only try me. What proof will you have?"

Fanny laughed with the same expression of constraint which we have before observed, and said:

"You have not looked upon the map of Virginia yet for my 'boundaries?'"

Ralph received the hit full in the front.

"By Jove! Fanny," he exclaimed, "I oughtn't to have told you that."

"I'm glad you did."

"Why?"

"Because, of course, I shall not make any efforts to please you—you are already 'engaged!'"

"Engaged! well, you are wrong. Neither my heart nor my hand is engaged. Ah, dear Fanny, you don't know how we poor students carry away with us to college some consuming passion which we feed and nurture;—how we toast the Dulcinea at oyster parties, and, like Corydon, sigh over her miniature. I had yours!"

"My—miniature?" said the lively Fanny, with a roseate blush, "you had nothing of the sort."

"Your likeness, then."

"Equally untrue—where is it?"

"Here!" said Mr. Ralph Ashley, laying his hand upon his heart, and ogling Miss Fanny with terrible expression. "Ah, Fanny, darling, don't believe that story I relate about myself—never has any one made any impression on me—for my heart—my love—my thoughts—have always—"

Suddenly the speaker became silent, and rising to his feet, made a courteous and graceful bow. A young lady had just appeared at the door.



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE NECKLACE.

This was Redbud.

The poor girl presented a great contrast to the lively Fanny, who, with sparkling eyes and merry lips, and rosy, sunset cheeks, afforded an excellent idea of the joyous Maia, as she trips on gathering her lovely flowers. Poor Redbud! Her head was hanging down, her eyes wandered sadly and thoughtfully toward the distant autumn horizon, and the tender lips wore that expression of soft languor which is so sad a spectacle in the young.

At Mr. Ralph Ashley's bow, she raised her head quickly; and her startled look showed plainly she had not been conscious of the presence of Fanny, or the young man on the portico.

Redbud returned the profound bow of Fanny's cavalier with a delightful little curtsey, and would have retired into the house again. But this Miss Fanny, for reasons best known to herself, was determined to prevent—reasons which a close observer might have possibly guessed, after looking at her blushing cheeks and timid, uneasy eyes. For everybody knows that if there is anything more distasteful and embarrassing to very young ladies than a failure on the part of gallants to recognise their claims to attention, that other more embarrassing circumstance is a too large quantum of the pleasing incense. It is not the present writer, however, who will go so far as to say that their usual habit of running away from the admirer should be taken, as in other feminine manoeuvres, by contraries.

So Fanny duly introduced Mr. Ralph Ashley to Miss Redbud Summers; and then, with a little masonic movement of the head, added, with perfect ease:

"Suppose we all take a walk in the garden—it is a very pretty evening."

This proposition was enthusiastically seconded by Mr. Ralph Ashley, who had regained his laughing ease again—and though Redbud would fain have been excused, she was obliged to yield, and so in ten minutes they were promenading up and down the old garden, engaged in pleasant conversation—which conversation has, however, nothing to do with this veracious history.

Just as they arrived, in one of their perambulatory excursions around the walks, at a small gate which opened on the hill-side, they discovered approaching them a worthy of the pedlar description, who carried on his broad German shoulders a large pack, which, as the pedlar jogged along, made, pretences continually of an intention to dive forward over his head, but always without carrying this intention into execution. The traveling merchant seemed to be at the moment a victim to that species of low spirits which attacks all his class when trade is dull; and no sooner had he descried the youthful group, than his face lighted up with anticipated business.

He came to the gate at which they stood, and ducking his head, unslung the pack, and without further ceremony opened it.

A tempting array of stuffs and ribbons, pencils, pinchbeck jewels and thimbles, scissors and knives, immediately became visible; with many other things which it is not necessary for us to specify. The pedlar called attention to them by pointing admiringly at each, and recommended them by muttering broken English over them.

With that propensity of young ladies to handle and examine all articles which concern themselves with personal adornment, Fanny and Redbud, though they really wanted nothing, turned over everything in the pack. But little resulted therefrom for the pedlar. He did not succeed in persuading Redbud to buy a beautiful dress pattern, with dahlias and hollyhocks, in their natural size and colors; and was equally unsuccessful with Fanny, who obstinately declined to reduce into her possession a lovely lace cap, such as our dear old grandmamas' portraits show us—though this description may be incorrect, as Fanny always said that the article in question was a night-cap.

Disappointed in this, the pedlar brought out his minor "articles;" and here he was more successful. Mr. Ashley bought sufficiently for his young lady friends at the seminary, he said, and Redbud and Fanny both purchased little things.

Fanny bought the most splendid glass breastpin, which she pretended, with a merry laugh, to admire "to distraction." Redbud, without knowing very well why, bought a little red coral necklace, which looked bright and new, and rattled merrily as she took it; for some reason the pedlar parted with it for a very small sum, and then somewhat hastily packed up his goods, and ducking his head in thanks, went on his way.

"Look what a very handsome breastpin I have!" said Fanny, as they returned through the garden; "I'm sure nobody would know that it is not a diamond."

"You are right," said Mr. Ashley, smiling, "the world is given to judging almost wholly from outward appearances. And what did you purchase, Miss Summers—or Miss Redbud, if you will permit me—"

"Oh, yes, sir," said Redbud, looking at him with her kind, sad eyes, "you need'nt be ceremonious with me. Besides, you're Fanny's cousin. I bought this necklace—I thought it old-fashioned and pretty."

Redbud was silent again, her eyes bent quietly upon the walk, the long lashes reposing thus upon the tender little cheeks.

"Old-fashioned and pretty," said the young man, with a smile, "did you not make a mistake there, Miss Redbud?"

"No, sir—I meant it," she said, raising her eyes simply to his own. "I think old-fashioned things are very often prettier and more pleasant than new ones. Don't you?"

"I do!" cried Fanny; "I'm sure my great grandmother's diamond breastpin is much handsomer than this horrid thing!"

And the young lady tore the pinchbeck jewel from her neck.

Mr. Ashley laughed.

"There's your consistency," he said; "just now you thought nothing could be finer."

Miss Fanny vehemently opposed this view of her character at great length, and with extraordinary subtilty. We regret that the exigencies of our narrative render it impossible for us to follow her—we can only state that the result, as on all such occasions, was the total defeat of the cavalier. Mr. Ralph Ashley several times stated his willingness to subscribe to any views, opinions or conclusions which Miss Fanny desired him to, and finally placed his fingers in his ears.

Fanny greeted this manoeuvre with a sudden blow in the laugher's face, from her bouquet; and Redbud, forgetting her disquietude, laughed gaily at the merry cousins.

So they entered, and met the bevy of young school girls on the portico, with whom Mr. Ralph Ashley, in some manner, became instantaneously popular: perhaps partly on account of the grotesque presents he scattered among them, with his gay, joyous laughter. After thus making himself generally agreeable, he looked at the setting sun, and said he must go. He would, however, soon return, he said, to see his dearest Fanny, the delight of his existence. And having made this pleasant speech, he went away on his elegant horse, laughing, good-humored, and altogether a very pleasing, graceful-looking cavalier, as the red sunset showered upon his rich apparel and his slender charger all its wealth of ruddy, golden light.

And as he went on thus, so gallant, in the bravery of youth and joy, a young lady, sitting on the sun-lit portico, followed him with her eyes; and leaning her fine brow, with its ebon curls, upon her hand, mused with a sigh and a smile. And when the cavalier turned round as the trees swallowed him, and waved his hat, with its fine feather, in the golden light, Miss Fanny murmured—"Really, I think—Ralph—has very much—improved!" Which seemed to be a very afflicting circumstance to Miss Fanny, inasmuch as she uttered a deep sigh.

Meanwhile our little Redbud gazed, too, from the brilliantly-illumined portico, toward the golden ocean in the west. The rich light lingered lovingly upon her golden hair, and tender lips and cheeks, and snowy neck, on which the coral necklace rose and fell with the pulsations of her heart. The kind, mild eyes were fixed upon the sunset sadly, and their blue depths seemed to hold more than one dew-drop, ready to pass the barrier of the long dusky lashes, which closed gradually as the pure white forehead drooped upon her hand.

For a long time the tender heart remained thus still and quiet; then her lips moved faintly, and she murmured—

"Oh, it is wrong—I know it is—I ought not to!"

And two tears fell on the child's hand, and on the necklace, which the fingers held.



CHAPTER XXVII.

PHILOSOPHICAL.

We left our friend Verty slowly going onward toward the western hills, under the golden autumn sunset, with drooping head and listless arms, thinking of Redbud and the events of the day, which now was going to its death in royal purple over the far horizon.

One thought, one image only dwelt in the young man's mind, and what that thought was, his tell-tale lips clearly revealed:—"Redbud! Redbud!" they murmured; and the dreamer seemed to be wholly dead to that splendid scene around him, dreaming of his love.

There are those who speak slightingly of boyhood and its feelings, scoffing at the early yearnings of the heart, and finding only food for jest in those innocent and childish raptures and regrets. We do not envy such. That man's heart must be made of doubtful stuff, who jeers at the fresh dreams of youth; or rather, he must have no heart at all—above all, no sweet and affecting recollections. There is something touching in the very idea of this pure and unselfish emotion, which the hardened nature of the grown-up man can never feel again. Men often dream about their childhood, and shed unavailing tears as they gaze in fancy on their own youthful faces, and with the pencil of imagination slowly trace the old forms and images.

Said a writer of our acquaintance, no matter who, since no one read or thought of him:—"The writer of these idle lines finds no difficulty in painting for himself a Titian picture, in which, as in his life-picture, his own figure lies on the canvas. Long ago—a long, long time ago—in fact, when he was a boy, and loved dearly a child like himself, a child who is now a fair and beautiful-browed woman, and who smiles with a dreamy, thoughtful expression, when his face comes to her—long ago, flowers were very bright in the bright May day, by a country brookside. The butter-cups were over all the hills, for children to put under their chins, and pea-blossoms, very much like lady-slippers, swayed prettily in the wind. Beneath the feet of the boy and girl—she was a merry, bright-eyed child! how I love her still!—broke crocuses and violets, and a thousand wild flowers, fresh and full of fairy beauty. The grass was green and soft, and the birds rose through the air on fluttering wings, singing and rejoicing, and the clouds floated over them as only clouds in May can float, quickly, hopefully, with a dash of changeful April in them—not like those of August: for the May cloud is a maiden, a child, full of life and joy, running and playing, and looking playfully back at the winds as they rustle on—not August-like—a thoughtful ripened beauty, large, lazy, and contemplative, whose spring of youth has passed, whose summer has arrived, in all its wealth, and power, and languid splendor. Well, they wandered—the boy and girl—on the bright May day, pleasantly across the hills, and along the brook, which ran merrily over the pebbles as bright as diamonds. That boy has now become a man, and he has vainly sought, in all the glittering pursuits of life, an adequate recompense for the death of those soft hours. Having gone, as all things must go, they left no equivalent in the future. But not, therefore, in sadness does he write this: rather in deep joy, and as though he had said—

'Give me a golden pen, and let me lean On heaped-up flowers—'

"So wholly flooded is his heart with the memory of that young, frank face. She wore a pink dress, he recollects—all children should wear either pink or white—and her hair was in long, bright curls, and her eyes were diamonds, full of light. He thought the birds were envious of her singing, when she carolled clearly in the bright May morning. He wove her a garland of flowers for her hair, and she blushed as she took it from his hands. She had on a small gold ring, and a red bracelet; and since that time he has loved red bracelets more than all barbaric pearls and gold. In those times, the trees were greener than at present, the birds sang more sweetly, and the streams ran far more merrily. They thought so at least, as they sat under a large oak, and he read to her, with shadowy, loving eyes, nearly full of happy tears, old songs, that 'dallied with the innocence of love, like the old age.' And so the evening went into the west, and they returned, and all the night and long days afterward her smile shone on him, brightening his life as it does now."

Who laughs? Is it at Verty going along with drooping forehead, and deep sighs; or at the unappreciated great poet, whose prose-strains we have recorded? Well, friends, perhaps you have reason. Therefore, let us unite our voices in one great burst of "inextinguishable laughter"—as of the gods on Mount Olympus—raised very high above the world!

Let us rejoice that we have become more rational, and discarded all that folly, and are busying ourselves with rational affairs—Wall-street, and cent per cent. and dividends. Having become men, we have put away childish things, and among them, the encumbrances of a heart. Who would have one? It makes you dream on autumn days, when the fair sunlight streams upon the sails which waft the argosies of commerce to your warehouse;—it almost leads you to believe that stocks are not the one thing to be thought of on this earth—that all the hurrying bustle of existence is of doubtful weight, compared with the treasures of that memory which leads us back to boyhood and its innocent illusions. Let us part with it, if any indeed remains, and so press on, unfettered, in the glorious race for cash. The "golden age" of Arcady is gone so long—the new has come! The crooks wreathed round with flowers are changed into telegraph-posts, and Corydon is on a three-legged stool, busy with ledgers—knitting his brow as he adds up figures. Let us be thankful.

Therefore, as we have arrived at this rational conclusion, and come to regard Verty and his feelings in their proper light, we will not speak further of the foolish words which escaped from his lips, as he went on, in the crimson sunset slowly fading. In time, perhaps, his education will be completed in the school of Rational Philosophy, under that distinguished lady-professor, Miss Sallianna. At present we shall allow him to proceed upon his way toward his lodge in the wilderness, where the old Indian woman awaits him with her deep love and anxious tenderness.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

CONSEQUENCES OF MISS SALLIANNA'S PASSION FOR VERTY.

When Verty made his appearance at the office in Winchester, on the morning of the day which followed immediately the events we have just related, Roundjacket received him with a mysterious smile, and with an expression of eye, particularly, which seemed to suggest the most profound secrecy and confidence. Roundjacket did not say anything, but his smile was full of meaning.

Verty, however, failed to comprehend;—even paid no attention to his poetical friend, when that gentleman put his hand in his breast-pocket, and half-drew something therefrom, looking at Verty.

The young man was too much absorbed in gloomy thought to observe these manoeuvres; and, besides, we must not lose sight of the fact, that he was an Indian, and did not understand hints and intimations as well as civilized individuals.

Roundjacket was forced, at last, to clear his throat and speak.

"Hem!" observed the poet.

"Sir?" said Verty, for the tone of Roundjacket's observation was such as to convey the impression that he was about to speak.

"I've got something for you, my dear fellow," said the poet.

"Have you, sir?"

"Yes; now guess what it is."

"I don't think I could."

"What do you imagine it can be?"

Verty shook his head, and leaned upon his desk.

"It has some connection with the subject of numerous conversations we have held," said Roundjacket, persuasively, waving backward and forward the ruler which he had taken up abstractedly, and as he did so, indulging in a veiled and confidential smile; "now you can guess—can't you?"

"I think not, sir."

"Why, what have we been talking about lately?"

"Law."

"No, sir!"

"Havn't we?"

"By no means—that is to say, there is a still more interesting subject, my dear young savage, than even law."

"Oh, I know now—"

"Ah—!"

"It is poetry."

"Bah!" observed the poet; "you're out yet. But who knows? Your guess may be correct. It may be poetry."

"What, sir?"

"This letter for you, from a lady," said Roundjacket, smiling, and drawing from his pocket an elegantly folded billet.

Verty rose quickly.

"A letter for me, sir!" he said, blushing.

"Yes; not from a great distance though," Roundjacket replied, with a sly chuckle; "see here; the post-mark is the 'Bower of Nature.'"

Verty extended his hand abruptly, his lips open, his countenance glowing.

"Oh, give it to me, sir!"

Roundjacket chuckled more than ever, and handing it to the young man, said:

"An African of small dimensions brought it this morning, and said no answer was required—doubtless, therefore, it is not a love-letter, the writers of which are well-known to appreciate replies. Hey! what's the matter, my friend?"

This exclamation was called forth by the sudden and extraordinary change in Verty's physiognomy. As we have said, the young man had received the letter with a radiant flush, and a brilliant flash of his fine eye; and thus the reader will easily comprehend, when we inform him, that Verty imagined the letter to be from Redbud. Redbud was his one thought, the only image in his mind, and Roundjacket's words, "post-mark, the Bower of Nature," had overwhelmed him with the blissful expectation of a note from Redbud, with loving words of explanation in it, recalling him, making him once more happy. He tore open the letter, which was simply directed to "Mr. Verty, at Judge Rushton's office," and found his dream dispelled. Alas! the name, at the foot of the manuscript, was not "Redbud"—it was "Sallianna!"

And so, when the young man's hopes were overturned, the bright flash of his clear eye was veiled in mist again, and his hand fell, with a gesture of discouragement, which Roundjacket found no difficulty in understanding.

Verty's face drooped upon his hand, and with the other hand, which held the letter, hanging down at the side of his chair, he sighed profoundly. He remained thus, buried in thought, for some time, Roundjacket gazing at him in silence. He was aroused by something pulling at the letter, which turned to be Longears, who was biting Miss Sallianna's epistle in a literary way, and this aroused him. He saw Roundjacket looking at him.

"Ah—ah!" said that gentleman, "it seems, young man, that the letter is not to your taste."

Verty sighed.

"I hav'nt read it," he said.

"How then—?"

"It's not from Redbud."

Roundjacket chuckled.

"I begin to understand now why your face changed so abruptly when you recognized the handwriting, Mr. Verty," said the poet; gently brandishing the ruler, and directing imaginary orchestras; "you expected a note from your friend, Miss Redbud—horrid habit you have, that of cutting off the Miss—and now you are unhappy."

"Yes—unhappy," Verty said, leaning his head on his wrist.

"Who's the letter from?"

"It's marked private and confidential, sir; I ought not to tell you—ought I."

"No, sir, by no means," said Roundjacket; "I would'nt listen to it for a bag of doubloons. But you should read it."

"I will, sir," Verty said, sighing.

And he spread the letter out before him and read it carefully, with many varying expressions on his face. The last expression of all, however, was grief and pain. As he finished, his head again drooped, and his sorrowful eyes were fixed on vacancy.

"I'll tell you what it is, Verty, my friend," said Roundjacket, chuckling, "I don't think we make much by keeping you from paying a daily visit to some of your friends. My own opinion is, that you would do more work if you went and had some amusement."

"And I think so, too," said a rough voice behind the speaker, whose back was turned to the front door of the office; "it is refreshing to hear you talking sense, instead of nonsense, once in your life, Roundjacket."

And Mr. Rushton strode in, and looked around him with a scowl.

"Good morning, sir," said Verty, sadly.

"Good morning, sir?" growled Mr. Rushton, "no, sir! it's a a bad morning, a wretched, diabolical morning, if the sun is pretending to shine."

"I think the sunshine is very pretty, sir."

"Yes—I suppose you do—I have no doubt of it—everything is pretty, of course,—Roundjacket!"

"Well?"

"Did you get exhibit 10?"

"I did, sir," replied Roundjacket, sighting his ruler to see if it was straight. "Have you had your breakfast, sir?"

"Yes, sir; why did you ask?"

"Oh, nothing—you know I thought you uncommonly amiable this morning."

Mr. Rushton scowled, and the ghost of a smile passed over his rigid lips.

"I am nothing of the sort! I'm a perfect bear!" he growled.

"Not inconsistent with my former observation that you were better than usual," observed Roundjacket, with an agreeable smile. "I can prove to you quite readily that—"

"You are a ninny—I have no doubt of it—if I would listen to your wretched jabber! Enough! if you talk any more I'll go home again. A fine state of things, truly—that I am to have my mind dissipated when I'm in working trim by the nonsense of a crack-brained poet!"

Roundjacket's indignation at this unfeeling allusion to his great poem was so intense, that for the moment he was completely deprived of utterance.

"And as for you, young man," said Mr. Rushton, smiling grimly at Verty, "I suppose you are following the ordinary course of foolish young men, and falling in love! Mark me, sir! the man that falls in love makes a confounded fool of himself—you had better at once go and hang yourself. Pretty people you are, with your 'eyes' and 'sighs'—your 'loves' and 'doves'—your moonlight, and flowers and ecstacies! Avoid it, sir! it's like honey-water—it catches the legs of flies like you, and holds you tight. Don't think you can take a slight sip of the wine, sir, and there leave off—no, sir, you don't leave off, you youngsters never do; you guzzle a gallon! The consequence is intellectual drunkenness, and thus you make, as I said before, confounded fools of yourselves! Bah! why am I wasting my time!—a vast deal of influence we people who give good advice possess! Young men will be fools to the end—go and see your sweetheart!"

And with a grim smile, the shaggy lawyer entered his sanctum, and banged the door, just as Roundjacket, still irate about the slur cast upon his poetry, had commenced reading in a loud voice the fine introductory stanzas—his hair sticking up, his eyes rolling, his ruler breaking the skulls of invisible foes. Alas for Roundjacket!—nobody appreciated him, which is perhaps one of the most disagreeable things in nature. Even Verty rose in a minute, and took up his hat and rifle, as was his habit.

Roundjacket rolled up his manuscript with a deep sigh, and restored it to the desk.

"Where are you going, young man?" he said. "But I know—and that is your excuse for such shocking taste as you display. As for the within bear," and Roundjacket pointed toward Mr. Rushton's apartment, "he is unpardonable!"

"Well, good-bye."

These latter words were uttered as Verty went out, followed by Longears, and closed the door of the office after him.

He had scarcely heard or understood Mr. Rushton's extraordinary speech: but had comprehended that he was free to go away, and in the troubled state of his mind, this was a great boon. Yes! he would go and suffer again in Redbud's presence—this time he would know whether she really hated him. And then that passage in the letter! The thought tore his heart.

What could the reason for this dislike possibly be? Certainly not his familiar ascent to her room, on the previous day. Could it have been because she did not like him in his fine clothes? Was this latter possible? It might be.

"I'll go to Mr. O'Brallaghan's and get my old suit—he has not sent them yet," said Verty, aloud; "then I'll go and see Redbud just as she used to see me in old times, at Apple Orchard, when we were—ah!—so happy!"

The "ah" above, represents a very deep sigh, which issued from Verty's breast, as he went along with the dignified Longears at his heels. Longears never left his master, unless he was particularly attracted by a small fight among some of his brethren, or was seized with a desire to thrust his nostrils against some baby playing on the sidewalk, (a ceremony which, we are sorry to say, he accompanied with a sniff,) throwing the juvenile responsibility, thereby, into convulsions, evidenced by yells. With these exceptions, Longears was a well-behaved dog, and followed his master in a most "respectable" manner.

Verty arrived at the fluttering doorway of O'Brallaghan's shop, and encountered the proprietor upon the threshold, who made him a low bow. His errand was soon told, and O'Brallaghan entered into extensive explanations and profuse apologies for the delay in sending home Mr. Verty's suit left with him. It would have received "attinshun" that very morning—it was in the back room. Would Mr. Verty "inter?"

Verty entered accordingly, followed by the stately Longears, who rubbed his nose against O'Brallaghan's stockings as he passed, afterwards shaking his head, as if they were not to his taste.

Verty found himself opposite to Mr. Jinks, who was driving his needle as savagely as ever, and, with a tremendous frown, chaunting the then popular ditty of the "Done-over Tailor." Whether this was in gloomy satire upon his own occupation we cannot say, but certainly the lover of the divine Miss Sallianna presented an appearance very different from his former one, at the Bower of Nature. His expression was as dignified and lofty as before; but as to costume, the least said about Mr. Jinks the better. We may say, however, that it consisted mainly of a pair of slippers and a nightcap, from the summit of which latter article of clothing drooped a lengthy tassel.

On Verty's entrance, Mr. Jinks started up with a terrific frown; or rather, to more accurately describe the movement which he made, uncoiled his legs, and raised his stooping shoulders.

"How, sir!" he cried, "is my privacy again invaded!"

"I came to get my clothes," said Verty, preoccupied with his own thoughts, and very indifferent to the hero's ire.

"That's no excuse, sir!"

"Excuse?" said Verty.

"Yes, sir—I said excuse; this is my private apartment, and I have told O'Brallaghan that it should not be invaded, sir!"

These indignant words brought Mr. O'Brallaghan to the door, whereupon Mr. Jinks repeated his former observation, and declared that it was an outrage upon his dignity and his rights.

O'Brallaghan displayed some choler at the tone which Mr. Jinks used, and his Irish blood began to rise. He stated that Mr. Verty had come for his clothes, and should have them. Mr. Jinks replied, that he had'nt said anything about Mr. Verty; but was contending for a principle. Mr. O'Brallaghan replied to this with an observation which was lost in his neck-handkerchief, but judging from as much as was audible, in defiance and contempt of Jinks. Jinks observed, with dignity and severity, that there were customers in the store, who were gazing at Mr. Verty, just as he was about to disrobe. O'Brallaghan muttered thereupon to himself some hostile epithets, and hastily returned to wait upon the customers, leaving Mr. Jinks dodging to avoid the eyes of the new-comers, but still preserving an expression of haughty scorn.

Meanwhile Verty had descried his old forest suit lying upon a shelf, and, laying down his rifle, had nearly indued his limbs therewith. In fifteen minutes he had completed the change in his costume, and stood before Mr. Jinks the same forest-hunter which he had been, before the purchase of the elegant clothes he had just taken off. Instead of rosetted shoes, moccasins; instead of silk and velvet, leather and fur. On his head, his old white hat had taken the place of the fashionable chapeau. Verty finished, by taking off the bow of ribbon which secured his hair behind, and scattering the profuse curls over his shoulders.

"Now," he sighed, looking in a mirror which hung upon the wall, "I feel more like myself."

Jinks gazed at him with dignified emotion.

"You return to the woods, sir," he said; "would that I could make up my mind to follow your example. This man, O'Brallaghan, however—"

And Mr. Jinks completed his sentence by savagely clipping a piece of cloth with the huge shears he held, as though the enemy's neck were between them.

Verty scarcely observed this irate movement.

"I'll leave the clothes here," he said; "I'm going now—good-bye."

And taking up his rifle, the young man went out, followed by Longears, who, to the last, bent his head over his shoulder, and gazed upon Mr. Jinks with curiosity and interest.

Jinks, with a savage look at O'Brallaghan, was about to return to his work, when a letter, protruding from the pocket of the coat which Verty had just taken off, attracted his attention, and he pounced upon it without hesitation.

Jinks had recognized the handwriting of Miss Sallianna in the address, and in an instant determined to use no ceremony.

He tore it open, and read, with savage scowls and horrible contortions of the visage, that which follows. Unfortunate Jinks—reading private letters is a hazardous proceeding: and this was what the hero read:

"BOWER OF NATURE, AT THE MATIN HOUR.

"CHARMING, AND, ALAS! TOO DANGEROUS YOUNG MAN:

"Since seeing thee, on yester eve, my feelings have greatly changed in intensity, and I fluctuate beneath an emotion of oblivious delight. Alas! we young, weak women, try in vain to obstruct the gurgling of the bosom; for I perceive that even I am not proof against the arrows of the god Diana. My heart has thrilled, my dearest friend, ever since you departed, yester eve, with a devious and intrinsic sensation of voluminous delight. The feelings cannot be concealed, but must be impressed in words; or, as the great Milton says, in his Bucoliks, the o'er-fraught heart would break! Love, my dear Mr. Verty, is contiguous—you cannot be near the beloved object without catching the contagion, and to this fact I distribute that flame which now flickers with intense conflagration in my bosom. Why, cruel member of the other sex! did you evade the privacy of our innocent and nocturnal retreat, turning the salubrious and maiden emotions of my bosom into agonizing delight and repressible tribulation! Could you not practice upon others the wiles of your intrinsic charms, and spare the weak Sallianna, whose only desire was to contemplate the beauties of nature in her calm retreat, where a small property sufficed for all her mundane necessities? Alas! but yester morn I was cheerful and invigorating—with a large criterion of animal spirits, and a bosom which had never sighed responsible to the flattering vows of beaux. But now!—ask me not how I feel, in thinking of the person who has touched my indurate heart. Need I say that the individual in question has only to demand that heart, to have it detailed to him in all its infantile simplicity and diurnal self-reliance? Do not—do not—diffuse it!

"I have, during the whole period of my mundane pre-existence, always been troubled with beaux and admirers. I have, in vain, endeavored to escape from their fascinating diplomas, but they have followed me, and continued to prosecute me with their adorous intentions. None of them could ever touch my fanciful disposition, which has exalted an intrinsic and lofty beau—idle to itself. I always had to reply, when they got down upon their knees to me, and squeezed my hands, that I could not force my sensations; and though I should ever esteem them as friends, I could not change my condition of maiden meditation and exculpation for the agitation of matrimonial engagements. I need not say that now my feelings have changed, and you, Mr. Verty, have become the idle of my existence. You are yet young, but with a rare and intrinsic power of intellect. In future, you will not pay any more intention to that foolish little Reddy, who is very well in her way, but unworthy of a great and opprobrious intelligence like yours. She is a mere child, as I often tell her, and cannot love.

"Come to your devoted Sallianna immediately, and let us discurse the various harmonies of nature. I have given orders not to admit any of my numerous beaux, especially that odious Mr. Jinks, who is my abomination. I will tell Reddy that your visit is to me, and she will not annoy you, especially as she is in love with a light young man who comes to see Fanny, her cousin, Mr. Ashley.

"Come to one who awaits thee, and who assigns herself

"Your devoted,

"SALLIANNA."

Jinks frowned a terrible frown, and ground his teeth.

For a moment, he stood gazing with profound contempt upon the letter which he had just read; then seizing his shears, snipped the unfortunate sheet into microscopic fragments, all the while frowning with terrible intensity.

The letter destroyed, Jinks stood for a moment with folded arms, scowling and reflecting.

Suddenly he strode to the other side of the room, kicking off his slippers as he went, and hurling his night-cap at the mirror.

"Yes!" he cried, grinding his teeth, "I'll do it, and without delay—perfidious woman!"

In ten minutes Mr. Jinks had assumed his usual fashionable costume, and buckled on his sword. A savage flirt of his locks completed his toilette, and in all the splendor of his scarlet stockings and embroidered waistcoat, he issued forth.



CHAPTER XXIX.

INTERCHANGE OF COMPLIMENTS.

O'Brallaghan, as he passed through the shop, requested to be informed where Mr. Jinks was going.

Jinks stopped, and scowled at Mr. O'Brallaghan, thereby intimating that his, Jinks', private rights were insolently invaded by a coarse interrogatory.

O'Brallaghan observed, that if Mr. Jinks was laboring under the impression that he, O'Brallaghan, was to be frowned down by an individual of his description, he was greatly mistaken. And by way of adding to the force of this observation, Mr. O'Brallaghan corrugated his forehead in imitation of his adversary.

Jinks replied, that he was equally indifferent to the scowls of Mr. O'Brallaghan, and expressed his astonishment and disgust at being annoyed, when he was going out to take some exercise for the benefit of his health.

O'Brallaghan informed Mr. Jinks that the going out had nothing to do with it, and that he, Jinks, knew very well that he, O'Brallaghan, objected to nothing but the tone assumed toward himself by the said Jinks, whose airs were not to be endured, and, in future, would not be, by him. If this was not satisfactory, he, the said Jinks, might take the law of him, or come out and have it decided with shillalies, either of which courses were perfectly agreeable to him, O'Brallaghan.

Whereupon, Jinks expanded his nostril, and said that gentlemen did not use the vulgar Irish weapon indicated.

To which O'Brallaghan replied, that the circumstance in question would not prevent Mr. Jinks' using the weapon.

A pause followed these words, broken in a moment, however, by Mr. Jinks, who stated that Mr. O'Brallaghan was a caitiff.

O'Brallaghan, growing very red in the face, observed that Mr. Jinks owed his paternity to a "gun."

Jinks, becoming enraged thereupon, drew his sword, and declared his immediate intention of ridding the earth of a scoundrel and a villain.

Which intention, however, was not then carried into execution, owing to the timely arrival of a red-faced, though rather handsome Irish lady of twenty-five or thirty, who, in the broadest Celtic, commanded the peace, and threatened the combatants with a hot flat-iron, which she brandished in her stalwart fist.

O'Brallaghan laid down the stick which he had seized, and ogled the lady, declaring in words that the wish of mistress O'Callighan was law to him, and that further, he had no desire to fight with the individual before him, who had been making use of abusive and threatening language, and had even drawn his skewer.

Jinks stated that he would have no more altercation with an individual of Mr. O'Brallaghan's standing in society—he would not demean himself—and from that moment shook the dust of his, O'Brallaghan's, establishment from his, Jinks', feet. Which declaration was accompanied with a savage kick upon the door.

O'Brallaghan congratulated himself upon the extreme good fortune for himself involved in Mr. Jinks' decision, and hoped he would carefully observe the friendly and considerate advice he now gave him, which was, never to show his nose in the shop again during the period of his mundane existence.

Whereupon Jinks, annihilating his adversary with a terrific frown, stated his intention to implicitly observe the counsel given him, and further, to have revenge.

In which O'Brallaghan cheerfully acquiesced, observing that the importance attached by himself to the threats of Mr. Jinks was exactly commensurate with the terror which would be caused him by the kick of a flea.

And so, with mutual and terrible frowns, this alarming interview terminated: Mr. Jinks grimacing as he departed with awful menace, and getting his grasshopper legs entangled in his sword; Mr. O'Brallaghan remaining behind, though not behind the counter, paying devoted attention to the ruddy and handsome lady with the hot flat-iron, Mistress Judith O'Callighan, who watched the retreating Jinks with tender melancholy.



CHAPTER XXX.

WHAT OCCURRED AT BOUSCH'S TAVERN.

Let us follow Mr. Jinks.

That gentleman went on his way, reflecting upon the step which he had just taken, and revolving in his mind the course which he should pursue in future.

The result of his reflections was, that a matrimonial engagement would just answer his purpose, especially with a lady possessing a "small property—" at which words, as they left his muttering lips, Jinks frowned.

It was Miss Sallianna's favorite phrase.

Miss Sallianna!

The tumult which arose in Jinks' breast upon the thought of that young lady's treachery toward himself occurred to him, may, as our brother historians are fond of saying, "be better imagined than described." Before, Jinks' brows were corrugated into a frown; now, however, two mountain ridges, enclosing a deep valley, extended from the upper portion of the bridge of the Jinks nose to the middle of the Jinks forehead.

The despairing lover resembled an ogre who had not dined for two whole days, and was ready to devour the first comer.

What should he do? Take revenge, or marry the perfidious woman? Jinks did not doubt his ability to perform the latter; and thus he went on his way in doubt and wrath.

At least he would go that very morning and charge her with perfidy; and so having decided upon his course so far, he strode on rapidly.

Mr. Jinks bent his course toward Bousch's tavern, where he proposed to take up his temporary residence.

Since this house has become historical, let us say a word of it. It was one of those old wooden "ordinaries" of Virginia, which are now never seen in towns of any size, crouching only on the road-side or in obscure nooks, where the past lives still. It was a building of large size, though but two stories in height, and even then presented an ancient appearance, with its low eaves, small-paned windows, and stone slab before the door. Behind it was an old garden, and near at hand, two ponderous valves opened upon a large stable-yard full of bustling hostlers.

The neighborhood in which this ancient dwelling stood was not without a certain picturesqueness, thanks to the old, low-eaved houses, dating from the French-Indian wars, and grassy knolls, from which quarries of limestone stood out boldly; above all, because of the limpid stream, which, flowing from the west just by the portico of the old tavern, murmured gaily in the traveller's ear, and leaped toward him as he crossed it, or allowed his weary animal to bathe his nostrils in the cool water. Two or three majestic weeping-willows plunged their broad trunks and vigorous roots into the clear stream, and sighed forever over it, as, passing onward, it ran away from the Bousch hostelry toward its ocean, the Opequon.

This old tavern, which exists still, we believe, a venerable relic of the border past, was, in the year 1777, the abode of a "number of Quakers, together with one druggist and a dancing-master, sent to Winchester under guard, with a request from the Executive of Pennsylvania, directed to the County-Lieutenant of Frederick, to secure them." The reasons for this arrest and exile may be found in a Congressional report upon the subject, (Anno. 1776,) which states, that well-attested facts "rendered it certain and notorious that those persons were, with much rancour and bitterness, disaffected to the American cause;"—for which reason they were requested to go and remain in durance at Winchester, in Virginia. How they protested at Philadelphia against being taken into custody—protested again at the Pennsylvania line against being carried out of that state—protested again at the Maryland line against being taken into Virginia—and ended by protesting at Winchester against everything in general—it is all written in the Book of the Chronicles of the Valley of Virginia, by Mr. Samuel Kercheval, and also in an interesting Philadelphia publication, "Friends in Exile." To this day the old sun-dial in the garden of "Bousch's Tavern" has upon it the inscription:

"Exul patria causa libertates" with the names of the unfortunate exiles written under it—always provided that the dial itself remains, and the rain, and snow, and sun, have not blotted out the words. That they were there, the present chronicler knows upon good authority. How the exiles passed their time at Winchester, and finally returned, will, some day, be embodied in authentic history.

It was many years after the quaker inroad; in fact the eighteenth century, with all its philosophical, political, and scientific "protests" everywhere, was nearly dead and gone, when another scene occurred at Bousch's tavern, which history knows something of. As that august muse, however, does not bury herself with personal details, we will briefly refer to this occurrence.

It was about mid-day, then, when a carriage, with travelling trunks behind it, and a white, foreign-looking driver and footman on the seat before, drew rein in front of the old hostelry we have described.

The footman descended from his perch, and approaching the door of the carriage, opened it, and respectfully assisted two gentlemen to alight. These gentlemen were dressed with elegant simplicity.

The first had an oval face, which was full of good-humor, and in which an imaginative eye might have discerned an odd resemblance to a pear; the second, who seemed to be his brother, was more sedate, and did not smile.

The gentlemen entered the inn, and asked if dinner could be furnished. The landlord replied that nothing could be easier, and called their attention to a noise which issued from the next room.

The elder gentleman, whose accent had indicated his foreign origin, approached the door which led into the dining-room, followed by his companion.

They looked in.

A long table, covered with a profusion of everything which the most robust appetite could desire, was filled with ploughmen, rough farmers, hunters from the neighboring hills, and a nondescript class, which were neither farmers, ploughmen, nor hunters, but made their living by conveying huge teams from town to town. They were travelling merchants—not wagoners simply, as might have been supposed from their garments full of straw, and the huge whips which lay beside them on the floor. When they chewed their food, these worthies resembled horses masticating ears of corn; when they laughed, they made the windows rattle.

The good-humored traveller shook his head; over the face of his companion passed a disdainful smile, which did not escape the landlord.

As the elder turned round, he observed his servant inscribing their names in the tavern-book. He would have stopped him, but he had already written the names.

He thereupon turned to the landlord.

Could they not have a private room?

Hum!—it was contrary to rule.

They wanted to dine.

Could they not make up their minds to join the company?

The younger traveller could not, and would not—a room.

The landlord assumed a dogged expression, and replied that he made no distinction among his guests. What was good enough for one was good enough for all.

Then, the young traveller said, he would not stay in such a place.

The host replied, that he might go and welcome—the sooner the better—he wanted no lofty foreign gentlemen with their airs, etc.

The two gentlemen bowed with grave politeness, and made a sign to their servants, who came forward, looking with terrible frowns at Boniface.

Prepare the carriage to set out again—they would not dine there.

How Monseigneur would go on in spite of—

Enough—Monseigneur would consult them when it was necessary. Harness the horses again.

The result of which command was, that in ten minutes the two gentlemen were again upon the road.

The landlord watched them, with a frown, as they departed. He then bethought him of the book where the servant had inscribed their names, and opened it. On the page was written:

"MR. LOUIS PHILLIPPE, "MR. MONTPENSIER, PARIS."

The landlord had driven from his establishment the future king of the French, and his brother, because they wanted a private apartment to dine in.

The common version that the Duke was personally assaulted, and turned out, is a mere fiction—our own account is the proper and true one.

So Bousch's Tavern was only fated to be historical, when Mr. Jinks approached it—that character having not yet been attached to it. Whether the absence of such associations affected the larder in Mr. Jinks' opinion, we cannot say—probably not, however.

Certain is it that Jinks entered with dignity, and accosted the fat, ruddy, German landlord, Mr. Bousch, and proceeding to do what a quarter of a century afterwards a Duke imitated him in, asked for a private chamber. Mr. Bousch seemed to see nothing improper in this request, and even smiled an assent when Jinks, still scowling, requested that a measure of Jamaica rum might be dispatched before him, to his chamber.

Jinks then strolled out to the pathway before the tavern, and looked around him.

Suddenly there came out of the stable yard a young man, mounted on a shaggy horse, which young man was clad in a forest costume, and held a rifle in his hand.

Jinks directed a terrible glance toward him, and started forward.

As the horseman came out of the gateway, he found the road obstructed by Mr. Jinks, whose drawn sword was in his hand.

"Back! rash youth!" cried Jinks, with terrible emphasis, "or this sword shall split thy carcass—back!"

And the speaker flashed the sword so near to Cloud's eyes that he tossed up his head and nearly reared.

Verty had been gazing at the sky, and was scarcely conscious of Mr. Jinks' presence;—but the movement made by Cloud aroused him. He looked at the sword wonderingly.

"Stand back!" cried Jinks, "or thou art dead, young man! Turn your horse into that receptacle of animals again, and go not toward the Bower of Nature!"

"Anan?" said the young man, calmly.

"So you pretend not to understand, do you! Vile caitiff! advance one step at your peril—try to go and complete arrangements for a matrimonial engagement at the Bower of Nature, and thou diest!"

Verty was getting angry.

"Mr. Jinks, you'd better get out of the way," he said, calmly.

"Never! stand back! Attempt to push your animal toward me, and I slaughter him. Base caitiff! Know that the rival you have yonder is myself! Know that she loves you not, and is now laughing at you, however much she may have made you believe she loved you! She is a wretch!"

Verty thought Mr. Jinks spoke of Redbud—the dominant idea again—and frowned.

"Yes! a perfidious, unfeeling traitoress," observed Mr. Jinks, grimacing terribly; "and if thou makest a single step toward her, I will spit thee on my sword!"

Verty cocked his rifle, and placing the muzzle thereof on the Jinks' breast, made a silent movement of his head, to the effect, that Mr. Jinks would consult his personal safety by ceasing to obstruct the way.

Jinks no sooner heard the click of the trigger, and saw the murderous muzzle directed towards his breast, than letting his sword fall, he started back with a horrified expression, crying, "murder!" with all the strength of his lungs; and even in his terror and excitement varied this expression by giving the alarm of "fire!"—for what reason, he always declined to explain, even to his most intimate friends.

Verty did not even smile, though he remained for a moment motionless, looking at Mr. Jinks.

Then touching Cloud with his heel, he set forward again, followed by the dignified Longears. As for Longears, we regret to say, that, on the occasion in question, he did not comport himself with that high decorum and stately courtesy which were such distinguishing traits in his elevated character. His mouth slowly opened—his lips curled around his long, white teeth, and his visage was shaken with a nervous tremor, as, looking over his shoulder, he went on in Cloud's footsteps. Longears was laughing—positively laughing—at Mr. Jinks.

That gentleman ceased crying "fire!" and "murder!" as soon as he came to the conclusion that there was no danger from the one or the other. He picked up his sword, looked around him cautiously, and seeing that no one had observed his flight, immediately assumed his habitual air of warlike dignity, and extended his hand—which held the hilt of his undrawn sword—toward Verty. This gesture was so tragic, and replete with such kingly ferocity, that Mr. Jinks was plainly devoting Verty to the infernal gods; and the curses trembling on his lips confirmed this idea.

He was standing in this melo-dramatic attitude, gazing after the Indian, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and heard a jovial voice say, "How are you, Jinks, my boy! What's the fun?"

The voice was that of Mr. Ralph Ashley.



CHAPTER XXXI.

MR. JINKS ON HORSE-BACK, GOING TO TAKE REVENGE.

Jinks remained silent a moment. Standing face to face, the two personages surveyed each other in silence—the one laughing, joyous, ready for any amusement which would be so obliging as to turn up; the other stately, warlike, and breathing terrible and malignant vengeance.

Ralph laughed.

"I say, old fellow, what's the matter?" he asked; "you look decidedly blood-thirsty."

"I am, sir!"

"By Jove! I don't doubt it: you resemble Achilles, when he and Agamemnon had their miff. What's the odds?"

"I have been insulted, sir!"

"Insulted?"

"And tricked!"

"Impossible."

Jinks remained silent for a moment, looking after Verty.

"Yes," he said, with an awful scowl, "that young man has robbed me of my mistress—"

"Who—Verty?"

"Yes, sir."

Ralph burst out laughing.

"What are you laughing at?" asked Jinks, with dignity.