"At your falling in love with Redbud Summers."

"I am not, sir; perhaps in light moments I may have made that youthful damsel a few gallant speeches; but I did not refer to her, sir."

"To whom, then?"

"To the perfidious Sallianna."

"Oh!" cried Ralph, restraining his laughter by a powerful effort.

"What surprises you, sir?"

"Nothing."

"You laugh."

"Can't help it. The idea of your thinking Verty your rival in the affections of Miss Sallianna! Jinks, my boy, you are blinded with love—open your eyes, and don't think you can see while they are closed. I tell you, Verty is in love with Redbud—I know it, sir. Or, if he is not with Redbud, it's Fanny. No, I don't think it is Fanny," murmured Ralph, with a thoughtful expression; "I think I'm safe there. A dangerous rival!"

And Ralph smiled at his own thoughts.

"What did you say, sir?" asked Jinks, frowning in the direction of the Bower of Nature.

"Nothing, my boy; but I say, Jinks, what makes you look so fierce? You resemble an ogre—you're not going to eat Mr. Verty?"

"No, sir; but I'm going to call him to account. If he is not my rival, he has stood in my way."

"How!"

"The perfidious Sallianna has fallen in love with him!"

And Jinks groaned.

Ralph took his arm with a sympathizing expression, and restraining a violent burst of laughter, said:

"Is it possible! But I knew something must have happened to make you so angry."

"Say furious!"

"Are you furious?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Come, now, I'll bet a pistole to a penny that you are revengeful in your present feelings.

"I am, sir!"

"What can you do?"

"I can defy my enemy."

"Oh, yes! I really forgot that; I must be present, recollect, at the encounter."

"You may, sir! I shall spit him upon my sword!"

And Jinks, with a terrible gesture, transfixed imaginary enemies against the atmosphere.

Ralph choked as he gazed at Mr. Jinks, and shaking with pent up laughter:

"Can't you find something, Jinks, for me to do?" he said, "this affair promises to be interesting."

"You may carry the challenge I propose writing, if you will, sir."

"If I will! as if I would not do ten times as much for my dear friend Jinks."

"Thanks, sir."

"Promise me one thing, however."

"What is it, sir?"

"To be cool."

"I am cool—I'll throttle her!"

"Throttle!"

"Yes, sir; annihilate her!"

"Her!"

"Yes, the treacherous Sallianna. She has made me wretched forever—lacerated my existence, and I am furious, sir; I do not deny it."

"Furious?"

"Yes, sir; furious, and I have reason to be, sir. I am ferocious, sir; I am overwhelmed with rage!"

And Jinks ground his teeth.

"What, at a woman?"

"At a perfidious woman."

"Fie, Jinks! is it credible that a man of your sense should pay the sex so high a compliment?"

This view seemed to strike Mr. Jinks, and clearing his throat:

"Hum—ah—well," he said, "the fact is, sir, my feeling is rather one of contempt than anger. But other things have occurred this morning to worry me."

"What?"

Jinks circumstantially detailed his interview with O'Brallaghan, adding the somewhat imaginary incident of the loss of O'Brallaghan's left ear by a sweep of his, Jinks', sword.

"What! you cut off his ear!" cried Ralph.

"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Jinks, "close to the caitiff's head!"

"Jinks! I admire you!"

"It was nothing—nothing, sir!"

"Yes it was. It equals the most splendid achievements of antiquity."

And Ralph chuckled.

"He deserved it, sir," said Mr. Jinks, with modest dignity.

"Yes—you had your revenge."

"I will have more."

"Why, are you not satisfied?"

"No!"

"You will still pursue with your dreadful enmity the unfortunate O'Brallaghan?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Well, I'll assist you."

"It is my own quarrel. The house of Jinks, sir, can right its own wrongs."

"No doubt; but remember one circumstance. I myself hate O'Brallaghan with undying enmity."

"How is that, sir?"

"Can't you guess?"

"No."

"Why, he had the audacity to sell my plum-colored coat and and the rest of my suit to this Mr. Verty."

"Oh—yes."

"Abominable conduct! only because I did not call at the very moment to try on the suit. He would 'make me another,' forsooth, 'in the twinkle of an eye;' and then he began to pour out his disagreeable blarney. Odious fellow!"

And Ralph turned aside his head to laugh.

"Leave him to me," said Mr. Jinks, arranging his sword with grace and dignity at his side; "if you wish to assist me, however, you may, sir. Let us now enter this tavern, and partake of rum and crackers."

"By all means—there is just time."

"How, sir?" asked Mr. Jinks, as they moved toward the tavern.

"I have just ordered my horse."

"To ride?"

"Yes."

Jinks sighed.

"I must purchase a steed myself," he said.

"Yes?" rejoined Ralph.

"Yes. To make my visit to the perfidious Sallianna."

Ralph laughed.

"I thought you had abandoned her?"

"Never!"

"You wish to go and see her?"

"I will go this day!"

"Good! take half of my horse."

"Half?"

"Ride behind."

"Hum!"

"Come, my dear fellow, don't be bashful. He's a beautiful steed—look there, through the window."

"I see him—but think of the figure we would cut."

"Two sons of Aymon!" laughed Ralph.

"I understand: of Jupiter Ammon," said Jinks; "but my legs, sir—my legs?"

"What of 'em?"

"They require stirrups."

"All fancy—your legs, my dear Jinks, are charming. I consider them the chief ornament you possess."

"Really, you begin to persuade me," observed Mr. Jinks, becoming gradually tractable under the effect of the rum which he had been sipping for some minutes, and gazing complacently at his grasshopper continuations in their scarlet stockings.

"Of course," Ralph replied, "so let us set out at once."

"Yes, yes! revenge at once!"

And the great Jinks wiped his mouth with the back of his hands;—brought his sword-belt into position, and assuming a manner of mingled dignity and ferocity, issued forth with Ralph.

The latter gentleman, laughing guardedly, mounted into the saddle, and then rode to the spot at which Jinks awaited him.

"Come," he said, "there's no time to be lost;—recollect, your rival has gone before!"

The thought inspired Mr. Jinks with supernatural activity, and making a leap, he lit, so to speak, behind Ralph, much after the fashion of a monkey falling on the bough of a cocoanut tree.

The leap, however, had been somewhat too vigorous, and Mr. Jinks found one of his grasshopper legs under the animal; while the other extended itself at right-angles, in a horizontal position, to the astonishment of the hostler standing by.

"All right!" cried Ralph, with a roar of laughter.

And setting spur to the terrified animal, he darted from the door, followed by general laughter and applause, with which the clattering of Mr. Jinks' sword, and the cries he uttered, mingled pleasantly. This was the manner in which Jinks set out for revenge.



CHAPTER XXXII.

AN OLD BIBLE.

On the morning of the day upon which the events we have just related occurred, little Redbud was sitting at her window, reading by the red light of sunrise.

If anything is beautiful in this world, assuredly it is the fresh, innocent face of a child, flooded with the deep gold of sunrise, and with cheeks still bathed in the delicate rose-bloom of slumber.

Morning and childhood go together, as all things pure, and fresh, and tender do; and in the face of the child, sitting there in the quiet morning, an imaginative mind might have discerned, without difficulty, more than one point of resemblance. The dews sparkling like diamonds on the emerald grasses, were not brighter or fresher than her eyes;—the merry breeze might have been gayer, but had not half as much thoughtful joy and tenderness as her gentle laugh;—the rosy flush of morning, with all its golden splendor, as of fair Aurora rising to her throne, was not more fair than the delicate cheek.

In a single word, Miss Redbud—about whom we always grow extravagant—was a worthy portion of the bright, fresh morning; and the hardest-hearted individual who ever laughed at childhood, and innocence and joy, (and there are some, God help them,) would have thought the place and time more cheerful and inspiring for her presence.

Redbud had been reading from a book which lay upon the window-sill. The idle breeze turned over the leaves carelessly as though, like a child, it were looking for pictures; and the words, "From dear Mamma," were seen upon the fly-leaf—in the rough uncouth characters of childhood.

This was Redbud's Bible—and she had been reading it; and had raised her happy eyes from the black heavy letters, to the waving variegated trees and the bright sunrise, overwhelming them with its flush of gold. Redbud was clad, as usual, very simply—her hair brushed back, and secured, after the fashion of the time, with a bow of ribbon—her arms bare to the elbow, with heavy falling sleeves—her neck surrounded with a simple line of lace. Around her neck she wore the coral necklace we have seen her purchase.

The girl gazed for some moments at the crimson and yellow trees, on which a murmurous laughter of mocking winds arose, at times, and rustled on, and died away into the psithurisma of Theocritus; and the songs of the oriole and mocking-bird fluttering among the ripe fruit, or waving up into the sky, brought a pleasant smile to her lips. The lark, too, was pouring from the clouds, where he circled and flickered like a ball of light, the glory of his song; and from an old, dead oak, which raised its straight trunk just without the garden, came the quick rattle of the woodpecker's bill, or the scream of that red-winged drummer, as he darted off, playing and screaming, with his fellows.

Beyond the garden all the noble autumn forests waved away in magic splendor—red, and blue, and golden. The oaks were beautiful with their waving leaves—the little alder tree exquisite in its faint saffron—the tall, tapering pines rose from the surrounding foliage like straight spears, which had caught on their summits royal robes of emerald velvet, green at first, but, when the red light fell upon them, turning to imperial purple, as of old, Emperors of Rome!

All these sights and sounds were pleasant things to Redbud, and she gazed and listened to them with a species of tranquil pleasure, which made her tender face very beautiful. At last her eyes returned to her old Bible, and she began to read again from the sacred book.

She turned the leaf, and came to a passage around which faint lines were traced in faded ink;—the words thus marked were those of St. Paul, so sublime in their simplicity, so grand in their quiet majesty:

"Having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ."

These words had been marked by Redbud's mother, and as the child gazed upon the faded ink, and thought of the dear hand which had rested upon the page, a tender regret betrayed itself in her veiled eyes, and her lips murmured, wistfully, "Mamma." Her down-cast eyes were veiled by the long lashes; and the child's thoughts went back to the old happy days, when her mother had taught her to pray, joining her infant hands, and telling her about God and all his goodness.

It was not grief which the child felt, as her mental glance thus went backward to the time when her mother was alive;—rather a tender joy, full of pure love, and so far separated from the world, or the things of the world, that her face grew holy, as if a light from heaven streamed upon it. Oh, yes! she needed no one to tell her that her dear mother's desire had been fulfilled—that she was with Christ; and her heart rose in prayer to the Giver of all good, to bless and purify her, and give her power to conquer all her evil thoughts—and passing through the toils and temptations of the world, come finally to that happy land where her dear mother lived and loved—from which she looked upon her child. She prayed to be kept thus pure; for strength to resist her sinful inclinations, ill-temper, discontent and uncharitable thoughts; for power to divorce her thoughts from the world, spite of its sunshine, and bright flowers and attractions—to feel that holy desire to be with the dear Savior who had died for her.

The child rose with a countenance that was sacred for its purity, and hopefulness, and trust. She gazed again upon the brilliant morning land, and listened to the birds, and smiled—for in the sunlight, and the carol of the bright-winged oriole, and every murmur of the merry wind, she felt the presence of a loving and All-merciful Creator, who would bless her, if she loved and obeyed Him.

And so the tender eyes again beamed with the unclouded light of childhood, and the lips were again calm and happy. The child had sought for peace and joy from the great central source, and found it. Everything was now delightful—all the clouds had passed—and a bright smile illumined her fresh face, and made the sunlight envious, as it poured its fresh golden radiance upon her brow and cheek.

Redbud had just closed her Bible, and was about to put it away upon the shelf, when a light step was heard in the room, and a laughing voice cried, "Well, miss!" and two white arms encircled her neck, two red lips imprinted a kiss upon her cheek.

The arms and the lips belonged to Fanny.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

FANNY'S VIEWS UPON HERALDRY.

Fanny was overflowing with laughter, and her face was the perfection of glee. Her dark eyes fairly danced, and the profuse black curls which rippled around her face, were never still for a moment.

In her hand Miss Fanny carried a wreath of primroses and other children of the autumn, which spread around them as she came a faint perfume. From the appearance of the young lady's feet, it seemed that she had gathered them herself. Her shoes and ankles, with their white stockings, were saturated with the dews of morning.

After imprinting upon Miss Redbud's cheek the kiss which we have chronicled, Fanny gaily raised the yellow wreath, and deposited it upon the young girl's head.

"There, Redbud!" she cried, "I declare, you look prettier than ever!"

Redbud smiled, with an affectionate glance at her friend.

"Oh!" cried the impulsive Fanny, "there you are, laughing at me, as much as to say that you are not pretty! Affected!"

"Oh, no," said Redbud.

"Well, I don't say you are."

"I don't like affectation."

"Nor I," said Fanny; "but really, Reddy, I had no idea that yellow was so becoming to you."

"Why?" asked Redbud, smiling.

"You are blonde, you know."

"Well."

"I wonder if blonde don't mean yellow," said the philosophic Fanny.

"Does it?"

"Yes."

"What then?"

"Why, of course, I thought yellow primroses would'nt become you;—now they would suit me—I'm so dark."

"You do not need them."

"Fie—Miss Flatterer."

"Oh, no, Fanny, I never flatter."

"Well, I'm glad you like me, then!" cried Fanny, "for I declare I'm desperately in love with you, Reddy. Just think, now, how much flattered Miss Sallianna would have been if I had carried these flowers to her—you know she loves the 'beauties of nature.'"

And Miss Fanny assumed a languishing air, and inclining her head upon one shoulder, raised her eyes lackadaisically toward the ceiling, in imitation of Miss Sallianna.

"No, Fanny!" said Redbud, "that is not right."

"What?"

"Mimicking Miss Sallianna."

"Not right!"

"No, indeed."

"Well, I suppose it is not, and I have been treating her very badly. Suppose I take your wreath of yellow primroses and carry them to her."

"Oh, yes—if you want to," said Redbud, looking regretfully at the wreath, which she had taken from her brow.

Fanny laughed.

"No, I will not," she said; "I have a good reason."

"What?"

"The axiom in heraldry."

"What axiom?"

"Never put color upon color—yellow upon yellow in this instance!"

And Miss Fanny burst into laughter, and fairly shook with glee.

Redbud gave her a little reproachful glance, which showed Fanny the uncharitable nature of her observation.

"Well," said the owner of the soiled ankles, "I ought not to have said that; but really, she is so ridiculous! She thinks she's the handsomest person in the world, and I do believe she wants to rob us of our beaux."

Redbud smiled, and lightly colored.

"I mean Verty and Ralph," Fanny went on, "and I know something is going on. Miss Sallianna is always in love with somebody; it was Mr. Jinks the other day, and now I think it is one of our two visitors."

"Oh, Fanny!"

"Yes, I do! you need'nt look so incredulous—I believe she would flirt with either of them, and make love to them; which," added the philosophic Fanny, "is only another phrase for the same thing."

Redbud remained for a moment confused, and avoiding Fanny's glance. Then her innocent and simple smile returned, and leaning her arm affectionately upon the young girl's shoulder, she said, seriously:

"Fanny, please don't talk in that way. You know Verty is not an ordinary young gentleman—"

"Oh, no—!" cried Fanny, laughing.

"I mean," Redbud went on, with a slight color in her cheek, "I mean, to amuse himself with compliments and pretty speeches—if Miss Sallianna thinks he is, she is mistaken."

"Odious old thing!—to be flirting with all the young men who come to see us!" said Fanny.

"No, no," Redbud went on, "I think you are mistaken. But as you have mentioned Verty, please promise me one thing, Fanny."

"Promise! certainly, Reddy; just ask me whatever you choose. If it's to cut off my head, or say I think Miss Sallianna pretty, I'll do it—such is my devotion to you!" laughed Fanny.

Redbud smiled.

"Only promise me to amuse Verty, when he comes."

"Amuse him!"

"Yes."

"What do you mean."

"I mean," Redbud said, sighing, "that I don't think I shall be able to do so."

"What!"

"Fanny, you cannot understand," said the young girl, with a slight blush; "I hope, if you are my real friend, as you say, that you will talk with Verty, when he comes, and make his time pass agreeably."

Redbud's head sank.

Fanny gazed at her for a moment in silence, and with a puzzled expression, said:

"What has happened, Reddy, between you and Verty—anything?"

"Oh, no."

"You are blushing! Something must have happened."

"Fanny—" murmured Redbud, and then stopped.

"Have you quarreled? You would'nt explain that scene in the parlor the other day, when I made him tie my shoe. You have quarreled!"

"Oh, no—no!"

"I'm glad to hear it," cried Fanny, "though I could easily have made it up. I would have gone to Mr. Verty, and told him that he was a wretch, or something of that sort, and made him come and be friends again."

Redbud smiled, and said:

"We have not quarreled; but I don't think I shall be able to amuse him very much, if he comes this morning, as I think he will. Please promise me—I don't like Verty to be unhappy."

And the ingenuous face of the young girl was covered with blushes.

"I suppose not!—you and Verty are very good friends!" cried Fanny, looking out of the window, and not observing Redbud's confusion; "but suppose my cavalier comes—what then, madam?"

"Oh, then I absolve you."

"No, indeed!"

"'No, indeed' what?"

"I won't be absolved."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know but I prefer Mr. Verty to that conceited cousin of mine."

"What cousin—not Ralph?"

"Yes; I don't fancy him much."

"I thought you were great favorites of each other."

"You are mistaken!" said Fanny, coloring; "I did like him once, but he has come back from college at Williamsburg a perfect coxcomb, the most conceited fop I ever saw."

"Oh, Fanny!"

"Yes, indeed he has!"

And Miss Fanny blushed.

"I hate him!" she added, with a pout; then bursting into a fit of laughter, this young lady added:

"Oh! he promised to bring his album to-day, and show me all the 'good wishes' his friends wrote in it for him. Won't that be funny! Just think of finding out how those odious young college geese talk and feel toward each other."

Redbud smiled at Miss Fanny's consistency, and was about to reply, when the bell for prayers rang.

The two young girls rose, and smoothing their hair slowly, descended, arm in arm, and still conversing, to the dining-room, where old Scowley, as Verty called her, and Miss Sallianna, awaited them, in state, with their scholars.

Prayer was succeeded by breakfast; and then—the young damsels having eaten with the most unromantic heartiness—the whole school scattered: some to walk toward "town;" others to stroll by the brook, at the foot of the hill; others again to write letters home.

As Miss Sallianna had informed Verty, that day was a holiday, and young ladies going to school have, in all ages of the world, appreciated the beauties and attractions of this word, and what it represents—recreation, that is to say.

Redbud and Fanny strolled out in the garden with their arms locked as before, and the merry autumn sunshine streaming on them.

They had a thousand things to talk about, and we may be sure that they did not neglect the opportunity. What do not young ladies at school discuss? Scarcely anything escapes, and these criticisms are often very trenchant and severe.

How they criticise the matrimonial alliance between aged Dives with his crutch and money-bags, and the fascinating and artless Miss Sans Avoir, who dedicates her life to making happy the old gentleman!

How gaily do they pull in pieces the beautiful natural curls of Mr. Adonis, who purchased them at the perruquier's; and how they scalp Miss Summer Morning, with her smiles and bright-eyed kindness, in the presence of gentlemen—while behind the scenes she is a mixture of the tigress and the asp! All these social anomalies do young ladies at school talk about—as do those who have left school also.

But Redbud and Fanny did not—they were far too good-natured to take pleasure in such comments, and instead, spent the hours in laughing, playing and reading in the pleasant arbor. Thus the morning drew on, and the lovely autumn day sailed past with all its life and splendor toward the west. Fanny was gazing toward the house, as they thus sat in the arbor, and Redbud was smiling, when a gentleman, clothed in a forest costume, and carrying a rifle, made his appearance at the door of the Bower of Nature.

"Oh, Reddy!" cried Fanny, "there's your friend, Verty; and look what a fright he is!"



CHAPTER XXXIV.

HOW MISS SALLIANNA ALLUDED TO VIPERS, AND FELL INTO HYSTERICS.

Verty paused upon the threshold of the mansion to push back his long, curling hair; and with a glance behind him, toward Cloud, meant as a caution to that intelligent animal and to Longears, deposited his rifle against the door.

The young man, as we have said, had once more donned his rude forest costume; and even at the risk of appearing to undervalue the graces and attractions of civilization with the costume, which is a necessary part thereof, we must say that the change was an improvement. Verty's figure, in the dress which he generally wore, was full of picturesqueness and wild interest. He looked like a youthful Leather-stocking; and seemed to be a part of the forest in which he lived, and from which he came.

He had been cramped in the rich clothes; and the consciousness of this feeling, so to speak, had made his manner stiff and unnatural; now, however, he was forest Verty again. His long hair had already become tangled, thanks to the autumn winds, and the gallop to which he had pushed Cloud;—his person assumed its habitual attitude of wild grace; his eye no longer restless and troubled, had recovered its expression of dreamy mobility, and his lips were wreathed with the odd Indian smile, which just allowed the ends of the white teeth to thread them;—Verty was himself again.

He raised his head, and would have caught sight of the young girls in the garden, but for a circumstance which occurred just at that moment.

This circumstance was the appearance of Miss Sallianna—Miss Sallianna arrayed in all her beauties and attractions, including a huge breastpin, a dress of enormous pattern, and a scarf around her delicate waist, azure-hued and diaphanous like the sky, veiled with an imperceptible cloud.

The lady was smiling more than ever; her air was more languishing; her head inclined farther to one side. Such was her ecstacy of "inward contemplation," to use her favorite phrase, that the weight of thought bent down her yellow eye-lashes and clouded her languishing eyes.

She raised them, however, and glancing at Verty, started.

"Good-morning, ma'am," said Verty—"Miss, I mean. I got your letter."

"Good-morning, sir," said Miss Sallianna, with some stiffness; "where are your clothes?"

Verty stared at Miss Sallianna with great astonishment, and said:

"My clothes?"

"Yes, sir."

"These are my clothes."

And Verty touched his breast.

"No, sir!" said Miss Sallianna.

"Not mine?"

"They may be yours, sir; but I do not call them clothes—they are mere covering."

"Anan?" said Verty.

"They are barbarous."

"How, ma'am?"

Miss Sallianna tossed her head.

"It is not proper!" she said.

"What, ma'am?"

"Coming to see a lady in that plight."

"This plight?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Not proper?"

"No, sir!"

"Why not?"

"Because, sir, when a gentleman comes to pay his respects to a lady, it is necessary that he should be clad in a manner, consistent with the errand upon which he comes."

"Anan, ma'am'?"

"Goodness gracious!" cried Miss Sallianna, forgetting her attitudes, and vigorously rubbing her nose; "did any body ever?"

"Ever what, ma'am?"

"Ever see a person so hard to understand as you are, sir."

"I don't understand long words," said Verty; "and you know I am an Indian."

"I knew you were, sir."

Verty shook his head, and smiling dreamily:

"I always will be that," he said.

"Then, sir, we cannot be friends—"

"Why, ma'am—I mean, Miss?"

"Because, sir, the properties of civilization require a mutual criterion of excellence—hem!"

"Oh yes," said Verty, very doubtfully, and checking by an effort his eternal exclamation of ignorance; "but I thought you liked me."

"I do, sir," said Miss Sallianna, with more mildness—"I thought we should be friends."

Verty smiled.

"What a funny letter you wrote to me," he said.

"Funny, sir?" said Miss Sallianna, blushing.

"Very pretty, too."

"Oh, sir!"

"But I did'nt understand more than half of it," said Verty with his old dreamy smile.

"Pray why, sir?"

"The words were so long."

Miss Sallianna looked gratified.

"They were expressive, sir, of the reciprocal sensation which beats in my heart."

"Yes, ma'am," said Verty.

"But recollect, sir, that this sentiment is dependent upon exterior circumstances. I positively cannot receive you in that savage dress."

"Not receive me?"

"No, sir."

"What's the matter with my poor dress?"

"It's abominable, sir—oderous; and then your hair—"

"My hair?" said Verty, pulling at a curl.

"Yes, sir—it is preposterous, sir. Did any body ever!"

And Miss Sallianna carried her eyes to heaven.

"I don't know," Verty said; "but it feels better."

"It may, sir; but you must cut it off if you come again."

Verty hesitated.

"I thought—" he began.

"Well, sir?"

"I was thinking," said the young man, feeling a vague idea that he was going wrong—"I thought that you were not so very particular, as you are only a school-mistress, and not one of those fine ladies I have seen riding by in their carriages. They might think some ceremony needed—"

"Not a—very well, sir—a schoolmistress—only—indeed!" said Miss Sallianna, with dignity.

Verty was too little acquainted with the expression of concentrated feeling to understand these words, and smiling,

"Then," he said, "there was another reason—"

"For what, sir?" said Miss Sallianna, with great dignity.

"For my not being very particular."

"Please state it, sir."

"Yes, ma'am."

The lady sniffed with indignation.

"I meant," said Verty, "that as you had very few beaux here—I believe you call 'em beaux—I could come so. I know that Mr. Jinks comes, but he is too fierce to be agreeable, and is not very nice, I should think."

Miss Sallianna darted a glance of scorn at the unlucky Verty, which would have transfixed that gentleman; but unfortunately he did not see it.

"Yes," he went on, "there is a great deal of difference, Miss Sallianna, between coming to see you, who are only a schoolmistress, and hav'nt much fine company, and the rich ladies;—then you know I thought that the difference between our ages—you being so much older than I. am, about thirty or thirty-five, I suppose—"

The cup was full.

"Mr. Verty," gasped Miss Sallianna, "you will please to end our interview at once, sir!—this language, sir, is intolerated, sir!—if you wish to insult me, sir, you can remain!—I consider your insinuations, sir, as unworthy of a gentleman. The viper!" cried Miss Sallianna, becoming hysterical, and addressing her observations to the ceiling; "the viper which I warmed in my bosom, and who turns and rents me."

Which was very ungallant in the viper not to say extraordinary, as it implied that vipers dwelt in houses "to let."

"Who beguiled himself into this resort of innocence, and attacked my suspicious nature—and now casts reproaches on my station in society and my youth!"

"Oh, ma'am!" cried Verty.

"Don't speak to me, sir!

"No, ma'am."

"Your very presence is deletrious."

"Oh, Miss Sallianna!"

"Go sir—go!"

"Yes, ma'am—but are you well enough?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Have a glass of water?"

"No, sir!"

"I'm so sorry I said anything to—"

"There is reason, sir."

"You don't hate me?"

"No, sir!" said Miss Sallianna, relenting, and growing gradually calmer; "I pity and forgive you."

"Will you shake hands?"

"Yes, sir—I am forgiving, sir—"

"At your time of life you know, ma'am, we ought'nt to—"

Unfortunate Verty; the storm which was subsiding arose again in all its original strength.

"Leave me!" cried Miss Sallianna, with a tragic gesture.

"Yes, ma'am—but—"

"Mr. Verty?"

"Ma'am!"

"Your presence is opprobrious."

"Oh, Miss Sallianna!"

"Yes, sir—intolerant."

"I'm so sorry."

"Therefore, sir, go and leave me to my thoughts again—go, sir, and make merry with your conjugal companions!"

"Yes, ma'am," said Verty; "but I did'nt mean to worry you. Please forgive me—"

"Go, sir!"

Verty saw that this tragic gesture indicated a determination which could not be disputed.

He therefore put on his hat, and having now caught sight of Fanny and Redbud, bowed to his companion, and went—into the garden.

Miss Sallianna gasped, and sinking into a chair, fell into violent hysterics, in which numerous allusions were made to vipers. Poor Verty!



CHAPTER XXXV.

HOW MISS FANNY MADE MERRY WITH THE PASSION OF MR. VERTY.

Verty approached the two young girls and took off his hat.

"Good morning, Redbud," he said, gently.

Redbud blushed slightly, but, carried back to the old days by Verty's forest costume, quickly extended her hand, and forgetting Miss Lavinia's advice, replied, with a delightful mixture of kindness and tenderness:

"I'm very glad to see you, Verty."

The young man's face became radiant; he completely lost sight of the charge against the young lady made in Miss Sallianna's letter. He was too happy to ever think of it; and would have stared Redbud out of countenance for very joy and satisfaction, had not Miss Fanny, naturally displeased at the neglect with which she had been treated, called attention to herself.

"Hum!" said that young lady, indignantly, "I suppose, Mr. Verty, I am too small to be seen. Pray, acknowledge the fact of my existence, sir."

"Anan?" said Verty, smiling.

Fanny stamped her pretty foot, and burst out laughing.

"It's easy to see what is the matter with you!" she laughed.

"Why, there's nothing," said Verty.

"Yes, there is."

"What?"

"You're in love."

Verty laughed and blushed.

"There!" cried Fanny, "I knew it."

"I believe I am."

"Listen to him, Redbud!"

"She knows it," said Verty.

"Hum! I don't see how anybody can help knowing it."

"Why?"

"Because it is plain."

"Ah!"

"Yes, sir; this very moment you showed it."

"Yes—I believe I did."

"Odious old thing!"

"Who?"

"Why, Miss Sallianna, sir—I don't care if you are paying your addresses! I say she's an odious old thing!—to be giving herself airs, and setting her cap at all our beaux!"

Verty stared, and then laughed.

"Miss Sallianna!" he cried.

"Yes, sir!"

"I'm in love with her!"

"You've just acknowledged it."

"Acknowledged it!"

"There! you're going to deny your own words, like the rest of your fine sex—the men."

"No—I did'nt say I was in love with Miss Sallianna."

"Did'nt he, Redbud?" asked Fanny, appealing to her friend.

"No," said Verty, before she could reply; "I said I was in love with Redbud!"

And the ingenuous face of the young man was covered with blushes.

Fanny fairly shook with laughter.

"Oh," she screamed, "and you think I am going to believe that—when you spend the first half an hour of your visit with Miss Sallianna—talking, I suppose, about the 'beauties of nature!'"

And the young girl clapped her hands.

"I wanted"—commenced Verty—

"Oh, don't tell me what you wanted!" cried Fanny; "you saw in the garden here two nice young girls, if I do say it—"

"You may—!"

"I am not to be led off in that way, sir! I say you saw two agreeable young ladies here evidently not indisposed to talk with visitors, as it's a holiday—and in spite of that, you pass your time in the house with that old Sallianna, cooing and wooing and brewing," added Miss Fanny, inventing a new meaning for an old word on the spur of the moment, "and after that you expect us to believe you when you say you are not in love with her—though what you see to like in that old thing it would take a thousand million sybils, to say nothing of oracles and Pythonesses, to explain!"

With which exhausting display of erudition, Miss Fanny lay back on her trellised seat, and shook from the point of her slippers to the curls on her forehead with a rush of laughter.

Redbud had recovered from her momentary confusion, and, with a beseeching glance at Fanny, said to Verty:

"How much better you look, Verty, in this dress—indeed you look more homelike."

"Do I?" said the happy Verty, bending his head over his shoulder to admire the general effect; "well, I feel better."

"I should think so."

"The other clothes were like a turkey blind."

"A turkey blind?"

"Oh, you smile!—but you know, when you are lying in the blind, the pine limbs rub against you."

"Yes."

"Then they did'nt suit me."

"No," assented Redbud.

"I don't dance the minuet—so I did'nt want high-healed shoes—"

Fanny began to laugh again.

"Nor a cocked hat; the fact is, I do not know how to bow."

"See! Come, Mr. Fisher-for-Compliments!" cried Fanny.

"Oh, I never do!"

"Well, I believe you don't."

"Does anybody?"

"Yes; that odious cousin of mine—that's who does—the conceited coxcomb!"

"Your cousin!"

"Yes, sir."

"Who is it?"

"Ralph Ashley."

"Oh—and he comes to see you—and—Miss Sallianna; she said—"

Verty's head drooped, and a shadow passed over his ingenuous face.

"There, you're thinking of Miss Sallianna again!"

"No—no," murmured Verty, gazing at Redbud with a melancholy tenderness, and trying to understand whether there could possibly be any foundation for Miss Sallianna's charge, that that young lady was in love with Mr. Ralph Ashley.

"Could it be? Oh, no, no!"

"Could what be?" asked Fanny.

For once Verty was reserved.

"Nothing," he said.

But still he continued to gaze at Redbud with such sad tenderness, that a deep color came into her cheek, and her eyes were cast down.

She turned away; and then Miss Lavinia's advice came to her mind, and with a sorrowful cloud upon her face, she reproached herself for the kindness of her manner to Verty, in their present interview.

"I think I'll go and gather some flowers, yonder," she said, smiling faintly, and with a sad, kind look to Verty, in spite of all. "Fanny and yourself can talk until I return, you know—"

"Let me go with you," said Verty, moving to her side.

Redbud hesitated.

"Come, Redbud!" said Verty, persuasively smiling.

"Oh, no! I think I would like to get the one's I prefer."

And she moved away.

Verty gazed after her with melancholy tenderness—his face lit up with the old dreamy Indian smile. We need not say that the notable scheme suggested by Miss Sallianna—namely, his making love to some one else to try Redbud—had never crossed the ingenuous mind of the young man. From that pure mirror the obscuring breath soon disappeared. He did not wish to try Redbud—he loved her too much; and now he remained silent gazing after her, and wholly unconscious of the existence of Miss Fanny.

That young lady pouted, and uttered an expressive "hum!"

Verty turned his eyes absently toward her.

"You can go, sir, if you don't like my society—I am not anxious to detain you!" said Miss Fanny, with refreshing candor.

"Go where?" said Verty.

"After Redbud."

"She don't want me to."

"Hum!"

And this little exclamation indicated the light in which Fanny regarded the excuse.

Verty continued to gaze toward Redbud, who was gathering flowers.

"How kind and good she is!" he murmured.

And these words were accompanied by a smile of so much tender sincerity, that Fanny relented.

"Yes, she is!" said that young lady; "I'm glad to see that some of your sex, sir, have a little taste. It is not their failing."

"Anan!" said Verty, smiling.

Fanny laughed; and her good humor began to return completely.

"I know some who are utterly deficient," she said.

"In what?"

"Taste."

"Yes."

And Verty gazed after Redbud.

Fanny burst out laughing; but then remembering her promise to Redbud, to treat Verty well, and amuse him, checked this exhibition of satirical feeling, and said:

"Your taste, Mr. Verty, is such that I ought to quarrel with it—but I'm not going to;—no, not for fifty thousand worlds! If I have any quarreling to do, it will be with some one else!"

"With whom?"

"That coxcomb cousin of mine, Ralph Ashley."

Verty's countenance became clouded; it was the second time his rival's name had been uttered that morning.

"He is a fop," said Fanny—"a pure, unadulterated, presumptuous and intolerable fop. As I live, there he is coming up the road! Oh, won't we have fine times—he promised to show me his college album!"

And the impulsive Fanny clapped her hands, and more loudly than ever. Five minutes afterward Mr. Ralph Ashley dismounted at the door of the Bower of Nature.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

RALPH MAKES LOVE TO MISS SALLIANNA.

We shall now return to Miss Sallianna, and see what effect the viper tendencies of Mr. Verty had produced upon that young lady.

The hysterics did not last long.. Miss Sallianna had a large and useful assortment of feminine weapons of this description, and was proficient in the use of all—from the embarrassed, simpering laugh and maiden blush, with down-cast eyes, raised suddenly, at times, toward the "beloved object," then abased again—to the more artistic and effective weapons of female influence, tears, sobs, convulsions, hysterics and the rest. In each and all of these accomplishments was Miss Sallianna versed.

The hysterics, therefore, did not last long; the eyes grew serene again very soon; and contenting herself with a few spiteful looks toward the group in the garden, which glances she accompanied with a determined and vigorous rubbing of her antique nose, Miss Sallianna gently raised her fan, and seeing a cavalier approaching from the town, assumed her habitual air of languishing and meditative grace.

This cavalier was our friend Ralph, who, having deposited Mr. Jinks upon the earth before they emerged from the willows in sight of the Bower of Nature, now came on, laughing, and ready for any adventure which should present itself.

Ralph drew up before the house, tied his horse, and entered.

Miss Sallianna rose graciously, smiling.

"Good morning, sir," said the lady, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, and leaning her head on her right shoulder, "we have a charming day."

"Oh, charming! but that is not all, madam," said Ralph, smiling satirically, as he bent profoundly over the hand given to him.

"Not all, sir?" sighed the lady.

"There is something still more charming."

"What is that?"

"The dear companion with whom good fortune blesses me."

This was so very direct, that Miss Sallianna actually blushed.

"Oh, no—" she murmured.

"Yes, yes!"

"You men—"

"Are sincere—"

"Oh, no! such flatterers."

"Flatterers, madam?" said Ralph, laughing, "that is true of some of us, but not of me; I am so perfectly sincere, and clad in the simplicity of my nature to that degree, that what I say is the pure out-gushing of my heart—ahem!"

The lady smiled, and motioned toward a settee.

"The beauties of nature—"

"Yes, my dear madam."

"Are—ahem!"

"Yes, yes."

"So much more beautiful than those of art," sighed Miss Sallianna, contemplating the ceiling, as though nature had taken up her post there to be gazed at.

"I fully agree with you," said Ralph, "they are."

"Oh, yes—they are—I knew you would—you are so—so remarkable—"

"No, no, Miss Sallianna!"

"Yes, you are—for your intrinsic perspicuity, sir—la!"

And Miss Sallianna ogled her visitor.

"This," said Ralph, with enthusiasm, "is the proudest moment of my life. The beautiful Sallianna—"

"Oh, Mr. Ashley."'

"Yes, madam!" said Ralph, "torture would not make me change the word."

"La! Mr. Ashley!"

"The beautiful Miss Sallianna has declared that I am possessed of intrinsic perspicuity! I need nothing more. Now let the fates descend!"

With which heroic words Mr. Ralph Ashley wiped his brow with solemn dignity, and chuckled behind his handkerchief.

"I always admired perspicuity," said Miss Sallianna, with a languid glance.

"And I, beauty, madam."

"La! sir."

"Admiration is a weak word, Miss Sallianna."

"Opprobrium?" suggested the lady.

"Yes, yes! that is the word! Thank you, Miss Sallianna. I am not as strong in philology as you are. I should have said opprobrium—that is what I have always regarded beauty, such as yours, all my life."

Miss Sallianna covered her face with her fan. Here was an opportunity to supply the place of the faithless Verty and the odious Jinks. As the thought occurred to her, Miss Sallianna assumed an awful expression of favor and innocent fondness. Ralph shuddered as he caught sight of it.

"Are you fond of ladies, sir?" asked Miss Sallianna, smiling.

"Yes, Miss Sallianna, devotedly," said Ralph, recovering, in some degree.

"I should think so."

"Why, madam?"

"From your visits."

"My visits?"

"Oh, yes—you are very sly!"

"Sly?—I?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Never!"

"I think you have grown fond of—"

"Yourself, madam?"

"La—no. I fear—"

"As I do—"

"That such a thing—"

"Is more than I could presume to do," said Ralph, laughing.

Miss Sallianna bestowed upon the young gentleman a look from her maiden eyes, which seemed to say that he might presume to grow fond of her, if it had really become necessary to his peace of mind.

"But I meant Fanny," she said.

"Fanny!"

"Yes, your cousin."

"A mere baby!" said Ralph, with nonchalance.

"I agree with you."

"Which I consider a circumstance of great encouragement, Miss Sallianna. The fact is, Fanny is very well in her way, and in course of time will make, no doubt, a very handsome woman. But at present I only call to see her because I have nothing else to do."

"Indeed?"

"I am just from college."

"Yes."

"And consequently very innocent and inexperienced. I am sure you will take charge of my education."

"La! Mr. Ashley."

"I mean, Miss Sallianna, the education, not of my mind—that is finished and perfect: Oh, no! not that! The education of my heart!"

Ralph was getting on at headlong speed.

"Do you consent?" he said.

"La—really—indeed—"

"Why not, oh, beautiful lady—"

"How can I ever—so inexperienced—so innocent a person as myself can scarcely—"

And Miss Sallianna fell into a flutter.

"Then Fanny must."

"Oh, no!" observed Miss Sallianna, with vivacity.

"Why not?" said Ralph.

"She could not—"

"Could not!"

"She is too young, and then besides—"

"Besides, Miss Sallianna?"

"She is already taken up with her affair with Mr. Verty."

"What!" cried Ralph, beginning to have the tables turned upon him, and to suffer for his quizzing.

"She is evidently in love with Mr. Verty," said Miss Sallianna, compassionately; "that is, the child fancies that she feels a rare and inexpressive delight in his presence. Such children!"

"Yes, madam!" said Ralph, frowning.

"Especially that silly young man."

"Verty?"

"Yes; he is very presumptuous, too. Just think that he presumed to—to—make love to me this morning;" and Miss Sallianna's countenance was covered with a maiden blush. "I could scarcely persuade him that his attentions were not agreeable."

And Miss Sallianna looked dignified and ladylike.

"Fanny in love with him," said Ralph, reflecting.

"Look through the window," said Miss Sallianna, smiling.

Ralph obeyed, and beheld Verty and Fanny sitting on a knoll, in the merriest conversation;—that is to say, Fanny was thus talking. Young ladies always begin to converse very loud when visitors arrive—for what reason has not yet been discovered. Verty's absent look in the direction of Fanny's face might very well have been considered the stare of a lover.

"Do you doubt any longer?"

"Oh, no!"

"Then, Mr. Ashley—"

"Yes, madam."

"In future you will—"

"Care nothing for—"

"The person—"

"Who seems to me the concentration of folly and everything of that description—no, madam! In future I will carefully avoid her!"

And with this ambiguous speech, Mr. Ralph rose, begged Miss Sallianna to excuse him for a short time, and making her a low and devoted bow, took his way into the garden, and toward the spot where Fanny and Verty were sitting.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

VERTY STATES HIS PRIVATE OPINION OF MISS SALLIANNA.

Fanny complimented Mr. Ralph Ashley with a very indifferent bow, and went on talking with, or rather to, her companion Verty.

Ralph tried to laugh at this; but not succeeding very well, came suddenly to the very rational conclusion that something unusual was going on in his breast. He had never before failed to utter the most contagious laughter, when he attempted the performance—what could the rather faint sound which now issued from his lips be occasioned by?

Puzzled, and at his philosophy's end, Ralph began to grow dignified; when, luckily, Redbud approached.

The young girl greeted him with one of her kind smiles, and there was so much light and joy in her face, that Ralph's brow cleared up.

They began to converse.

The chapter of accidents, whereof was author that distinguished inventor of fiction, Miss Sallianna, promised to make the present interview exceedingly piquant and fruitful in entertaining misunderstanding; for the reader will observe the situation of the parties. Miss Sallianna had persuaded Verty that Redbud was in love with Ralph; and, in the second place, had assured Ralph, a few moments before, that Fanny was in love with Verty.

Redbud was clinching Verty's doubts by smiling sweetly on Ralph;—Fanny was causing dreadful jealousy and conviction of his misfortune in Ralph, by making herself agreeable to Verty.

The schemes of the great Amazonian General, Sallianna, seemed to be crowned with complete success; and, doubtless, all would have turned out as she desired, but for one of those trivial circumstances which overturn the most carefully matured conceptions of the greatest intellects.

This was the simplicity of our friend Verty; and he unconsciously commenced the overturning operation by saying:

"Redbud, did you find the flowers you wanted?"

The young girl replied:

"Oh, yes!"

"'Beauties of nature,' Miss Sallianna would call 'em, would'nt she?" continued Verty, with a smile.

"Now, Verty!" said Redbud, reproachfully.

"I can't help it," returned Verty; "I don't like Miss Sallianna."

"Not like that paragon!" cried Fanny.

"No."

"Why not, sir?"

"She told me a story."

"A story, sir!"

"Yes."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself to speak so disrespectfully of such a divine creature—with so much maiden innocence and intrinsic simplicity," observed Miss Fanny, inclining her head upon one shoulder, and rolling her eyes toward the sky.

Ralph began to laugh.

"I would'nt say it if it was'nt true," Verty said; "but it is."

"What story did she tell you, sir?" Fanny went on.

"She said that Redbud was in love with him—Ralph Ashley."

And Verty smiled.

Fanny burst into a roar of laughter; Redbud blushed; Ralph looked with astonishment at the plain-spoken Verty.

"You know that was a story," said he, simply.

Everybody remained silent for a moment, and then the silence was broken by Ralph, who cried, laughing:

"I'll back you, friend Verty! every word of it!"

"You, sir!" cried Fanny.

"Yes! I wonder if your divine creature—Sallianna by name—did not tell me, ten minutes since, that you—yes, you, Miss Fanny!—were desperately enamored of Mr. Verty!"

The whole party were so overcome by this ludicrous expose of Miss Sallianna's schemes, that a laugh much louder than the first rang through the garden; and when Miss Sallianna was descried sailing in dignified meditation up and down the portico, her fan gently waving, her head inclined to one side, her eyes fixed upon the sky, Mr. Ralph Ashley entered into a neighboring mass of shrubbery, from which came numerous choking sounds, and explosive evidences of overwhelming laughter.

Thus was it that our honest Verty at once cleared up all misunderstanding—and made the horizon cloudless once again. If everybody would only speak as plainly, when misconceptions and mistakes arise, the world would have far more of sunshine in it!

"Just to think!" cried Fanny, "how that odious old tatterdemalion has been going on! Did anybody ever?"

"Anan?" said Verty.

"Sir?" said Fanny.

"What's a tatterdemalion?" asked the young man, smilingly.

"I don't exactly know, sir," said Fanny; "but I suppose it's a conceited old maid; who talks about the beauties of nature, and tries to make people, who are friends, hate each other."

With which definition Miss Fanny clenched her handsome little hand, and made a gesture therewith, in the direction of Miss Sallianna, indicative of hostility, and a desire to engage in instant combat.

Ralph laughed, and said:

"You meant to say, my dear child, that the lady in question tried to make a quarrel between people who loved each other—not simply 'were friends'. For you know she tried to make us dislike one another."

Fanny received this insinuating speech with one of heir expressive "hums!"

"Don't you?" said Ralph.

"What; sir?"

"Love me!"

"Oh, devotedly!"

"Very well; it was not necessary to tell me, and, of course, that pretty curl of the lip is only to keep up appearances. But come now, darling of my heart, and light of my existence! as we hav'nt quarreled, in spite of Miss Sallianna, and still have for each other the most enthusiastic affection, be good enough to forget these things, and turn your attention to material affairs. You promised me a lunch!"

"Lunch!"

"Yes—and I am getting hungry."

"When did I promise?"

"Yesterday."

"Oh—now—"

"You remember; very well. It was to be eaten, you will recollect, on the hill, yonder, to the west, to which our steps were to tend."

"Our picnic! Oh, yes! My goodness gracious! how could I forget it! Come on, Reddie—come and help me to persuade Mrs. Scowley to undo the preserve-jar."

Redbud laughed.

"May I go!" said Verty.

"Certainly, sir; you are not at liberty to refuse. Who would talk with Reddie!"

"I don't think—" murmured Redbud, hesitating.

"Now!" cried Fanny, "did anybody ever!"

"Ever what!" said Verty.

"Ever see anybody like this Miss Redbud!"

"I don't think they ever did," replied Verty, smiling.

Which reply caused Miss Fanny and Mr. Ralph to laugh, and Redbud to color slightly; but this soon passed, and the simple, sincere look came back to her tender face.

Redbud could not resist the glowing picture which Fanny drew of the picnic to be; and, with some misgiving, yielded. In a quarter of an hour the young men and the young girls were on their way to the beautiful eminence, swinging the baskets which contained the commissariat stores, and laughing gleefully.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

HOW LONGEARS SHOWED HIS GALLANTRY IN FANNY'S SERVICE.

It was one of those magnificent days of Fall, which dower the world with such a wealth of golden splendor everywhere—but principally in the mountains.

The trees rose like mighty monarchs, clad in royal robes of blue and yellow, emerald and gold, and crimson; the forest kings and little princely alders, ashes and red dogwoods, all were in their glory. Chiefly the emperor tulip-tree, however, shook to the air its noble vestments, and lit up all the hill-side with its beauty. The streams ran merrily in the rich light—the oriole swayed upon the gorgeous boughs and sang away his soul—over all drooped the diaphanous haze of October, like an enchanting dream.

To see the mountains of Virginia in October, and not grow extravagant, is one of those things which rank with the discovery of perpetual motion—an impossibility.

Would you have strength and rude might? The oak is, yonder, battered by a thousand storms, and covered with the rings of forgotten centuries. Splendor? The mountain banners of the crimson dogwood, red maple, yellow hickory and chestnut flout the sky—as though all the nations of the world had met in one great federation underneath the azure dome not built with hands, and clashed together there the variegated banners which once led them to war—now beckoning in with waving silken folds the thousand years of peace! Would you have beauty, and a tender delicacy of outline and fine coloring? Here is that too; for over all,—over the splendid emperors and humble princes, and the red, and blue, and gold, of oak, and hickory, and maple, droops that magical veil whereof we spoke—that delicate witchery, which lies upon the gorgeous picture like a spell, melting the headlands into distant figures, beckoning and smiling, making the colors of the leaves more delicate and tender—turning the autumn mountains into a fairy land of unimagined splendor and delight!

Extravagance is moderation looking upon such a picture.

Such a picture was unrolled before the four individuals who now took their way toward the fine hill to the west of the Bower of Nature, and they enjoyed its beauty, and felt fresher and purer for the sight.

"Isn't it splendid!" cried Fanny.

"Oh, yes!" Redbud said, gazing delightedly at the trees and the sky.

"Talk about the lowland," said Ralph, with patriotic scorn; "I tell you, my heart's delight, that there is nothing, anywhere below, to compare with this."

"Not at Richmond?—but permit me first to ask if your observation was addressed to me, sir?" said Miss Fanny, stopping.

"Certainly it was, my own,"

"I am not your own."

"Aren't you?"

"No, and I never will be!"

"Wait till you are asked!" replied Ralph, laughing triumphantly at this retort.

"Hum!" exclaimed Fanny.

"But you asked about Richmond, did you not, my beauty?"

"Ridiculous!" cried Fanny, laughing; "well, yes, I did."

"A pretty sort of a place," Ralph replied; "but not comparable to Winchester."

"Indeed—I thought differently."

"That's not to the purpose—you are no judge of cities."

"Hum! I suppose you are."

"Of course!"

"A judge of everything?"

"Nearly—among other things, I judge that if you continue to look at me, and don't mind where you are walking, Miss Fanny, your handsome feet will carry you into that stream!"

There was much good sense in these words; and Fanny immediately took the advice which had been proffered—that is to say, she turned her eye away from the bantering lips of her companion, and measured the stream which they were approaching.

It was one of those little mountain-brooks which roll their limpid waters over silver sands; hurl by through whispering ledges, the resort of snipe and woodcock; or, varying this quiet and serene existence with occasional action, dart between abrupt banks over mossy rocks, laughing as they fly onward to the open sunlight.

The spot which the party had reached, united these characteristics mentioned.

A path led to a mossy log, stretched from bank to bank, some feet above the water—a log which had answered the purpose of a bridge for a long time, it seemed; for both ends were buried in the sward and the flowers which decorated it.

Below this, the limpid stream wound over bright sands and pebbles, which glittered in the ripples like diamonds.

"Now!" cried Ralph, "here is a pretty pass! How are these delightful young ladies to get over, Verty?"

"I don't know—I suppose they will walk," observed Verty, simply.

"Walk!"

"Yes."

"What! when that very dog there had to balance himself in traversing the log?"

"Who, Longears?"

"Yes, Longears."

"He's not used to logs," said Verty, smiling, and shaking his head; "he generally jumps the streams, like Cloud."

"Oh! you need'nt be afraid," here interrupted Redbud, smiling, and passing before Fanny quickly; "we can get over easily enough."

The explanation of which movement was, that Miss Redbud saw the lurking mischief in Mr. Ralph's eyes, and wished at least to protect herself.

"Easy enough!" cried Ralph, moving forward quickly.

"Yes; look!"

And with the assistance of Verty, who held one of her hands, Redbud essayed to pass the bridge.

The moss rendered it slippery, and near the middle she almost fell into the stream; with Verty's aid, however, the passage was safely effected.

"There!" said Redbud, smiling, "you see I was right, Mr. Ashley—was I not?"

"You always are!"

"And me, sir?" said Fanny, approaching the bridge with perfect carelessness.

"You are nearly always wrong, my life's darling," observed Mr. Ralph.

"You are too bad, Ralph! I'll get angry!"

"At what?"

"At your impertinence!"

"I was not impertinent."

"You were."

"I was right."

"You were not."

"And the proof is, that you are going to do something wrong now," said Ralph, laughing.

"What, sir?"

"I mean, you think you are going to?"

"What! for goodness gracious sake!"

"Cross that log!"

"I certainly am going to," said Fanny, putting her foot upon it.

"You certainly are not."

"Who will prevent me?"

"I will, my heart's dear," said Ralph, snatching Miss Fanny up in his arms, and rapidly passing across with his burden; "nothing easier! By Jove, there goes your slipper!"

In fact, just at the middle of the log, the ribbon, binding the slipper to Miss Fanny's ankle, had broken—probably on account of her struggles—and the luckless slipper had fallen into the stream. It was now scudding along like a Lilliputian boat, the huge rosettes of crimson ribbon standing out like sails.

Ralph burst into a roar of laughter, from which he was instantly diverted by a rousing slap upon the cheek, administered by the hand of Fanny, who cried out at his audacity.

"Cousins, you know!—we are cousins, darling; but what a tremendous strength of arm you have!"

"Try it again, sir!" said Miss Fanny, pouting, and pulling down her sleeve, which had mounted to her shoulder in the passage.

"Never!" cried Ralph; "I am fully conscious of my improper conduct. I blush to think of it—that is to say, my left cheek does!"

"Served you right!" said Fanny.

"Uncharitable!"

"Impudent!"

"Unfortunate!"

With which retort, Mr. Ralph Ashley pointed to the slipper-less foot, which was visible beneath Miss Fanny's skirt, and laughed.

Ralph would then have made immediate pursuit of the slipper, but Verty detained him.

The young man called Longears, pointed out the rosetted boat to that intelligent serviteur, and then turned to the company.

In two minutes Longears returned, panting, with the slipper in his dripping mouth, from which it was transferred to the foot of its mistress, with merry laughter for accompaniment.

This little incident was the subject of much amusing comment to the party—in which Miss Fanny took her share. She had soon recovered her good-humor, and now laughed as loudly as the loudest. At one moment she certainly did blush, however—that is to say, when, in ascending the hill—Verty and Redbud being before—Mr. Ralph referred to the delight he had experienced when he "saluted" her in crossing—which he could not help doing, he said, as she was his favorite cousin, and her cheek lay so near his own.

Fanny had blushed at this, and declared it false;—with what truth, we have never been able to discover. The question is scarcely important.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

UP THE HILL-SIDE AND UNDER THE CHESTNUTS.

Thus leaving the sedgy stream behind, with all its brilliant ripples, silver sands, and swaying waterflags, which made their merry music for it, as it went along toward the far Potomac,—our joyful party ascended the fine hill which rose beyond, mounting with every step, above the little town of Winchester, which before long looked more like a lark's nest hidden in a field of wheat, than what it was—an honest border town, with many memories.

Verty and Redbud, as we have said, went first.

We have few artists in Virginia—only one great humorist with the pencil. This true history has not yet been submitted to him. Yet we doubt whether ever the fine pencil of Monsignor Andante Strozzi could transfer to canvas, or the engraver's block, the figures of the maiden and the young man.

Beauty, grace, and picturesqueness might be in the design, but the indefinable and subtle poetry—the atmosphere of youth, and joy, and innocence, which seemed to wrap them round, and go with them wherever they moved—could not be reproduced.

Yet in the mere material outline there was much to attract.

Redbud, with her simple little costume, full of grace and elegance—her slender figure, golden hair, and perfect grace of movement, was a pure embodiment of beauty—that all-powerful beauty, which exists alone in woman when she passes from the fairy land of childhood, or toward the real world, pausing with reluctant feet upon the line which separates them.

Her golden hair was secured by a bow of scarlet ribbon, her dress was azure, the little chip hat, with its floating streamer, just fell over her fine brow, and gave a shadowy softness to her tender smile: she looked like some young shepherdness of Arcady, from out the old romances, fresh, and beautiful, and happy. Poor, cold words! If even our friend the Signor, before mentioned, could not do her justice, how can we, with nothing but our pen!

This little pastoral queen leant on the arm of the young Leatherstocking whom we have described so often. Verty's costume, by dint of these outlined descriptions, must be familiar to the reader. He had secured his rifle, which he carried beneath his arm, and his eye dwelt on the autumn forest, with the old dreamy look which we have spoken of. As he thus went on, clad in his wild forest costume, placing his moccasined feet with caution upon the sod, and bending his head forward, as is the wont of hunters, Verty resembled nothing so much as some wild tenant of the American backwoods, taken back to Arcady, and in love with some fair Daphne, who had wiled him from the deer.

All the old doubt and embarrassment had now disappeared from Redbud's face; and Verty, too, was happy.

They went on talking very quietly and pleasantly—the fresh little face of Redbud lit up by her tender smile.

"What are you gazing at?" said the young girl, smiling, as Verty's eye fixed itself upon the blue sky intently; "I don't see anything—do you?"

"Yes," said Verty, smiling too.

"What?"

"A pigeon."

"Where?"

"Up yonder!—and I declare! It is yours, Redbud."

"Mine?"

"Yes—see! he is sweeping nearer—pretty pigeon!"

"Oh—now I see him—but it is a mere speck; what clear sight you have!"

Verty smiled.

"The fact is, I was brought up in the woods," he said.

"I know; but can you recognize—?"

"Your pigeon, Reddie? oh, yes! It is the one I shot that day, and followed."

"Yes—"

"And found you by—I'm very much obliged to him," said Verty, smiling; "there he goes, sweeping back to the Bower of Nature."

"How prettily he flies," Redbud said, looking at the bird,—"and now he is gone."

"I see him yet—another has joined him—there they go—dying, dying, dying in the distance—there! they are gone!"

And Verty turned to his companion.

"I always liked pigeons and doves," he said, "but doves the best; I never shoot them now."

"I love them, too."

"They are so pretty!"

"Oh, yes!" said Redbud; "and they coo so sweetly. Did you never hear them in the woods, Verty—moaning in their nests?"

"Often—very often, Reddie."

"Then the dove was the bird sent out of the ark, you know."

"Yes," said Verty, "and came back with the olive branch. I love to read that."

"What a long, weary flight the poor bird must have had!"

"And how tired it must have been."

"But God sustained it."

"I know," said Verty; "I wish I had been there when it flew back. How the children—if there were any children—must have smoothed its wings, and petted it, and clapped their hands at the sight of the olive branch!"

The simple Verty laughed, as he thought of the glee of the little ark-children—"if there were any."

"There are no olives here," he said, when they had gone a little further; "but just look at that hickory! It's growing as yellow as a buttercup."

"Yes, and see the maples!"

"Poor fellows!" said Verty.

"Why pity them?

"I always did; see how they are burning away. And the chestnuts—oh! I think we will get some chestnuts: here is a tree—and we are at the top of the hill."

Verty thereupon let go Redbud's arm, and busied himself in gathering a pile of the chestnuts which had fallen. This ceremony was attentively watched by Longears, who, lying with his front paws stretched out straight, his head bent knowingly on one side, and an expression of thoughtful dignity upon his countenance, seemed to be revelling in the calm delights of a good conscience and a mild digestion.

Fanny and her cavalier came up just as Verty had collected a pile of the chestnuts, and prepared some stones for the purpose of mashing them out.

The party thereupon, with much laughter, betook themselves to the task, talking gaily, and admiring the landscape as they munched—for even young ladies munch—the chestnuts.

One accident only happened, and that was not of an important nature. Longears, full of curiosity, like most intellectual characters, had approached very near Verty as he was mashing the chestnuts upon the stone selected for the purpose, and even in the excess of his interest, had protruded his nose in the vicinity of the young man's left hand, which held the nuts, while he prepared to strike it with the mass of limestone which he held in his right.

It chanced that Verty was talking to Fanny when Longears made this demonstration of curiosity, and did not observe him.

Longears sniffed.

Verty raised his stone.

Longears smelt at the chestnut in his master's grasp, his cold muzzle nearly touching it.

The stone crashed down.

Longears made a terrific spring backwards, and retiring to some distance rubbed his nose vigorously with his paws, looking all the while with dignified reproach at his master.

The nose had not suffered, however, and Longears was soon appeased and in a good humor again. The incident caused a great accession of laughter, and after this the chestnuts having been eaten, the party rose to walk on.



CHAPTER XL.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.

"How, sir."

"Well, madam."

"Keep your promise."

"Please to indicate it."

"I refer, sir, to your college album."

"Oh, certainly! here it is, my darling—all ready."

And Mr. Ralph Ashley, between whom and Miss Fanny this dialogue had taken place, seated himself beneath a magnificent tulip-tree; and with a movement of the head suggested a similar proceeding to the rest.

All being seated, the young man drew from his breast-pocket a small volume, bound in leather, and with a nod to Fanny, said:

"I have changed my mind—I can't read but two or three."

"Broken your promise, you mean."

"No, my own;—oh, no."

"Ralph, you are really too impudent!"

"How, pray?"

"And presumptuous!"

"Why?"

"Because, sir—"

"I call you 'my own' in advance? Eh?"

"Yes, sir!"

Fanny had uttered the words without reflection—intending them as a reply to Mr. Ralph's sentence, the words "in advance," being omitted therefrom. Everybody saw her mistake at once, and a shout of laughter greeted the reply.

Ralph assumed a close and cautious expression, and said:

"Well—I will be more careful in future. The fact is, that people who are to be married, should be as chary of their endearments, in public, as those who are married."

General laughter and assent—except from Fanny, who was blushing.

"Nothing is more disagreeable," continued Ralph, philosophically, "than these public evidences of affection; it is positively shocking to see and hear two married people exchanging their 'dears' and 'dearests,' 'loves' and 'darlings'—especially to bachelors; it is really insulting! Therefore, it is equally in bad taste with those who are to be married;—logically, consequently, and in the third place—and lastly—it is not proper, between myself and you, my Fanny—hum—Miss Fanny!"

This syllogistic discourse was received by Fanny with a mixture of blushes and satirical curls of the lip. "Hum!" more than once issued from her lips; and this expression always signified with the young lady in question—"indeed!"—"really!"—"you think that's mighty fine!"—or some other phrase indicative of scorn and defiance.

On the present occasion, after uttering a number of these "hums!" Fanny embodied her feelings in words, and replied:

"I think, Ralph, you are the most impudent gentleman I have ever known, and you wrong me. I wonder how you got such bad manners; at Williamsburg, I reckon. Hum! If you wait until I marry you—!"

"I shall never repent the delay?" asked Ralph—"is that what you mean? Well, I don't believe I shall. But a truce to jesting, my charming cousin. You spoke of Williamsburg, and my deterioration of manners, did you not?"

"Yes!"

"I can prove that I have not deteriorated."

"Try, then."

"No, I would have to read all this book, which is full of compliments, Fanny; that would take all day. Besides, I am too modest."

"Oh!" laughed Fanny, who had recovered her good humor.

"Let us hear, Mr. Ralph," said Redbud, smiling.

"Yes—let us see how the odious, college students write and talk," added Fanny, laughing.

"Well, I'll select one from each branch," said Ralph: "the friendly, pathetic, poetical, and so forth. Lithe and listen, ladies, all!"

And while the company listened, even down to Longears, who lay at some distance, regarding Ralph with respectful and appreciative attention, as of a critic to whom a MS. is read, and who determines to be as favorable as he can, consistent with his reputation—while they listened, Ralph opened his book and read some verses.

We regret that only a portion of the album of Mr. Ralph Ashley has come down to modern times—the rats having devoured a greater part of it, no doubt attracted by the flavor of the composition, or possibly the paste made use of in the binding. We cannot, therefore, present the reader with many of the beautiful tributes to the character of Ralph, recorded in the album by his admiring friends.

One of these tributes, especially, was—we are informed by vague tradition—perfectly resplendent for its imagery and diction; contesting seriously, we are assured, the palm, with Homer, Virgil and our Milton; though unlike bright Patroclus and the peerless Lycidas, the subject of the eulogy had not suffered change when it was penned. The eulogy in question compared Ralph to Demosthenes, and said that he must go on in his high course, and gripe the palm from Graecia's greatest son; and that from the obscure shades of private life, his devoted Tumles would watch the culmination of his genius, and rejoice to reflect that they had formerly partaken of lambs-wool together in the classic shades of William and Mary; with much more to the same effect.

This is lost; but a few of the tributes, read aloud by Mr. Ralph, are here inserted.

The first was poetic and pathetic:

"MY DEAR ASHLEY:

"Reclining in my apartment this evening, and reflecting upon the pleasing scenes through which we have passed together—alas! never to be renewed, since you are not going to return—those beautiful words of the Swan of Avon occurred to me:

'To be or not to be—that is the question; Whether 'tis better in this world to bear The slings and arrows of—'

"I don't remember the rest; but the whole of this handsome soliloquy expresses my sentiments, and the sincerity with which,

"My dear Ashley,

"I am yours,

"——."

"No names!" cried Ralph; "now for another: Good old Bantam!"

"Oh, Mr. Bantam writes this, does he?" cried Fanny.

"Yes, Miss; for which reason I pass it—no remonstrances!—I am inflexible; here is another:

"DEAR RALPH:

"I need not say how sorry I am to part with you. We have seen a great deal of each other, and I trust that our friendship will continue through after life. The next session will be dull without you—I do not mean to flatter—as you go away. You carry with you the sincere friendship and kindest regards of,

"Dear Ralph, your attached friend,

"—— ——."

"I like that very much, Mr. Ralph," said Redbud, smiling.

"You'd like the writer much more, Miss Redbud," said the young man; "really one of the finest fellows that I ever knew. I want him to pay me a visit—I have no other friend like Alfred."

"Oh, Alfred's his name, is it!" cried Fanny; "what's the rest? I'll set my cap at him."

"Alfred Nothing, is his name," said Ralph, facetiously; "and I approve of your course. You would be Mrs. Nobody, you know; but listen—here is the enthusiastic:

"MY DEAR ASHLEY:

"You are destined for great things—it is yours to scale the heights of song, and snatch the crown from Ossa's lofty brow. Fulfil your destiny, and make your country happy!"

"—— ——."

"Oh, yes!" said Fanny; "why don't you!"

"I will!"

"Very likely!"

"I'm glad you agree with me; but here is the considerate."

And turning the leaf, he read—

"I SAY, OLD FELLOW:

"May your course in life be serene and happy; and may your friends be as numerous and devoted as the flies and mosquitos in the Eastern Range.

"Your friend, till death,

"—— ——."

"The fact is," said Ralph, in explanation, "that this is probably the finest wish in the book."

"Were there many flies?" said Fanny,

"Myriads!"

"And mosquitos?"

"Like sands on the seashore, and of a size which it is dreadful to reflect upon even now."

"Very large?"

"You may judge, my dear Fanny, when I tell you, that one of them flew against a scallop of oysters which the boots was bringing to my apartment, and with a single flap of his wings dashed it from the hand of the boots—it was dreadful; but let us get on: this is the last I will read."

And checking Miss Fanny's intended outburst at the oyster story, Mr. Ralph read on—

"You ask me, my dear Ashley, to give you some advice, and write down my good wishes, if I have any in your direction. Of course I have, my dear fellow, and here goes. My advice first, then, is, never to drink more than three bottles of wine at one sitting—this is enough; and six bottles is, therefore, according to the most reliable rules of logic—which I hate—too much. You might do it if you had my head; but you havn't, and there's an end of it. Next, if you want to bet at races, ascertain which horse is the general 'favorite,' and as our friend, the ostler, at the Raleigh says—go agin him. Human nature invariably goes wrong; and this a wise man will never forget. Next, if you have the playing mania, never play with anybody but gentlemen. You will thus have the consolation of reflecting that you have been ruined in good company, and, in addition, had your pleasure;—blacklegs ruin a man with a vulgar rapidity which is positively shocking. Next, my dear boy—though this I need'nt tell you—never look at Greek after leaving college, or Moral Philosophy, or Mathematics proper. It interferes with a man's education, which commences when he has recovered from the disadvantages of college. Lastly, my dear fellow, never fall in love with any woman—if you do, you will inevitably repent it. This world would get on quietly without them—as long as it lasted—and I need'nt tell you that the Trojan War, and other interesting events, never would have happened, but for bright eyes, and sighs, and that sort of thing. If you are obliged to marry, because you have an establishment, write the names of your lady acquaintances on scraps of paper, put them in your hat, and draw one forth at random. This admirable plan saves a great deal of trouble, and you will inevitably get a wife who, in all things, will make you miserable.

"Follow this advice, my dear fellow, and you will arrive at the summit of happiness. I trust I shall see you at the Oaks at the occasion of my marriage—you know, to my lovely cousin. She's a charming girl, and we would be delighted to see you.

"Ever, my dear boy,

"Your friend

"and pitcher,

"—— —— ——"

"Did anybody—"

"Ever?" asked Ralph, laughing.

"Such inconsistency!" said Fanny.

"Not a bit of it!"

"Not inconsistent!"

"Why, no."

"Explain why not, if you please, sir! I wonder if—"

"That cloud does not threaten a storm, and whether I am not hungry?" said Ralph, finishing Miss Fanny's sentence, putting the album in his pocket, and attacking the baskets.

"Come, my dear cousin, let us, after partaking of mental food, assault the material! By Jove! what a horn of plenty!"

And Ralph, in the midst of cries exclamatory, and no little laughter, emptied the contents of the basket on the velvet sward, variegated by the sunlight through the boughs, and fit for kings.

The lunch commenced.



CHAPTER XLI.

USE OF COATS IN A STORM.

It was a very picturesque group seated that day beneath the golden trees; and the difference in the appearance of each member of the party made the effect more complete.

Redbud, with her mild, tender eyes, and gentle smile and sylvan costume, was the representative of the fine shepherdesses of former time, and wanted but a crook to worthily fill Marlow's ideal; for she had not quite

"A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs,—"

her slender waist was encircled by a crimson ribbon, quite as prettily embroidered as the zone of the old poet's fancy, and against her snowy neck the coral necklace which she wore was clearly outlined, rising and falling tranquilly, like May-buds woven by child-hands into a bright wreath, and launched on the surface of some limpid stream.

And Fanny—gay, mischievous Fanny, with her mad-cap countenance, and midnight eyes, and rippling, raven curls—Fanny looked like a young duchess taking her pleasure, for the sake of contrast, in the woods—far from ancestral halls, and laughing at the follies of the court. Her hair trained back—as Redbud's was—in the fashion called La Pompadour; her red-heeled rosetted shoes—her silken gown—all this was plainly the costume of a courtly maiden. Redbud was the country; Fanny, town.

Between Verty and Ralph, we need not say, the difference was as marked.

The one wild, primitive, picturesque, with the beauty of the woods.

The other richly dressed, with powdered hair and silk stockings.

This was the group which sat and laughed beneath the fine old tulip trees, and gazed with delight upon the splendid landscape, and were happy. Youth was theirs, and that sunshine of the breast which puts a spirit of joy in everything. They thought of the scene long years afterwards, and saw it bathed in the golden hues of memory; and sighed to think that those bright days and the child-faces had departed—faces lit up radiantly with so much tenderness and joy.

Do not all of us? Does the old laughter never ring again through all the brilliant past, so full of bright, and beautiful, and happy figures—figures which illustrated and advanced that past with such a glory as now lives not upon earth? Balder the beautiful is gone, but still Hermoder sees him through the gloom—only the form is dead, the love, and joy, and light of brilliant eyes remains, shrined in their memory. Thus, we would fain believe that no man loses what once made him happy—that for every one a tender figure rises up at times from that horizon, lit with blue and gold, called youth: some loving figure, with soft, tender smiles, and starlike eyes, and arms which beckon slowly to the weary traveller. The memory of the old youthful scenes and figures may be deadened by the inexorable world, but still the germ remains; and this old lost tradition of pure love, and joy, and youth, comes back again to bless us.

The young girls and their companions passed the hours very merrily upon the summit of the tall hill, from which the old border town was visible far below, its chimneys sending upward slender lines of smoke, which rose like blue and golden staves of olden banners, then were flattened, and so melted into air.

Winchester itself had slowly sunk into gloom, for the evening was coming on, and a storm also. The red light streamed from a mass of clouds in the west, which resembled some old feudal castle in flames; and the fiery furzes of the sunset only made the blackness of the mass more palpable.

Then this light gradually disappeared: a murky gloom settled down upon the conflagration, as of dying fires at midnight, and a cool wind from the mountains rose and died away, and rose again, and swept along in gusts, and shook the trees, making them grate and moan.

Verty rose to his feet.

"In five minutes we shall have a storm," he said. "Come, Redbud—and Miss Fanny."

Even as he spoke, the far distance pushed a blinding mass toward them, and a dozen heavy drops began to fall.

"We cannot get back!" cried Ralph.

"But we can reach the house at the foot of the hill!" said Fanny.

"No time to lose!"

And so saying, Verty took Redbud's hand, and leaving Fanny to Ralph, hastened down the hill.

Before they had gone twenty steps, the thunder gust burst on them furiously.

The rain was blinding—terrible. It scudded along the hill-side, driven by the wind, with a fury which broke the boughs, snapped the strong rushes, and flooded everything.

Redbud, who was as brave a girl as ever lived, drew her chip hat closer on her brow, and laughed. Fanny laughed for company, but it was rather affected, and the gentlemen did not consider themselves called upon to do likewise.

"Oh, me!" cried Verty, "you'll be drenched, Redbud! I must do something for your shoulders. They are almost bare!"