And before Redbud could prevent him, the young man drew off his fur fringed coat and wrapped it round the girl's shoulders, with a tenderness which brought the color to her cheek.

Redbud in vain remonstrated—Verty was immovable; and to divert her, called her attention to the goings on of Ralph.

This young gentleman had no sooner seen Verty strip off his coat for Redbud, than with devoted gallantry he jerked off his own, and threw it over Miss Fanny; not over her shoulders only, but her head, completely blinding her: the two arms hanging down, indeed, like enormous ears from the young girl's cheeks.

Having achieved this feat, Mr. Ralph hurried on—followed Verty and Redbud over the log, treating Miss Fanny much after the fashion of the morning; and so in ten minutes they reached the house at the foot of the hill, and were sheltered.

Fanny overflowed with panting laughter as she turned and threw the coat back to Ralph.

"There, sir!" she cried, "there is your coat! How very gallant in you! I shall never—no, sir, never forget your devotedness!"

And the young girl wrung the water from her curls, and laughed.

"Nothing more natural, my dear," said Ralph.

"Than what?"

"My devotedness."

"How?"

"Can you ask?"

"Yes, sir, I can."

"Would you have me a heathen?"

"A heathen!"

"Yes, Miss Fanny; the least which would be expected of a gentleman would be more than I have done, under the circumstances, and with the peculiar relationship between us.

"Oh, yes, cousinship!"

"No, madam, intended wedlock."

"Sir!"

"Come, don't blush so, my heart's delight," said Ralph, "and if the subject is disagreeable, that is, a reference to it in this public manner, I will say no more."

"Hum!"—

"There, now—"

"I think that your impudence—"

"Is very reasonable," said Ralph, filling up the sentence; "but suppose you dry your feet, and yourself generally, as Miss Redbud is doing. That is more profitable than a discussion with me."

This advice seemed excellent, and Fanny determined to follow it, though she did not yield in the tongue contest without a number of "hums!" which finally, however, died away like the mutterings of the storm without.

The good-humored old woman to whom the humble mansion belonged, had kindled a bundle of twigs in the large fire-place; and before the cheerful blaze the young girls and their cavaliers were soon seated, their wet garments smoking, and the owners of the garments laughing.

The good-humored old dame would have furnished them with a change, but this was declared unnecessary, as the storm seemed already exhausted, and they would, ere long, be able to continue their way.

Indeed, the storm had been one of those quick and violent outbursts of the sky, which seem to empty the clouds instantly almost, as though the pent up waters were shut in by a floodgate, shattered by the thunder and the lightning. Soon, only a few heavy drops continued to fall, and the setting sun, bursting in splendor from the western clouds, poised its red ball of fire upon the horizon, and poured a flood of crimson on the dancing streamlets, the glittering grass, and drenched foliage of the hill-side.

Redbud rose, smiling.

"I think we can go now," she said, "I am afraid to stay any longer—my clothes are very wet, and I have not health enough to risk losing any."

With which the girl, with another smile, tied the ribbon of her chip hat under her chin, and looked at Verty.

That gentleman rose.

"I wish my coat had been thicker," he said, "but I can't help it. Yes, yes, Redbud, indeed we must get back. It would'nt do for you to get sick."

"And me, sir!" said Fanny.

"You?" said Verty, smiling.

"Yes, sir; I suppose it would do for me?"

"I don't know."

"Hum!"

"I can tell you, dear," said Ralph, "and I assure you the thing would not answer under any circumstances. Come, let us follow Miss Redbud."

They all thanked the smiling old dame, and issuing from the cottage, took their way through the sparkling fields and along the wet paths toward home again. They reached the Bower of Nature just at twilight, and entering through the garden were about to pass in, when they were arrested by a spectacle on the rear portico, which brought a smile to every lip.

Mr. Jinks was on his knees before Miss Sallianna there.



CHAPTER XLII.

HOW MR. JINKS REQUESTED RALPH TO HOLD HIM.

Our last view of Mr. Jinks was at Bousch's tavern, when, mounting in a manner peculiar to himself behind Ralph, the warlike gentleman set out to take revenge.

He had ridden thus almost to the Bower of Nature; but on reaching the belt of willows at the foot of the hill, requested to be placed upon the earth, in order to make his toilet, to prepare himself for the coming interview, and for other reasons.

Ralph had laughed, and complied.

Mr. Jinks had seated himself upon a bank by the little stream—the same which we have seen the picnic party cross higher up—upon a log, and then drawing from his pocket a small mirror, he had proceeded to make his toilet.

This ceremony consisted in a scrupulous arrangement of his artificial locks—a cultivation of the warlike and chivalrous expression of countenance—and a general review of the state of his wardrobe.

He soon finished these ceremonies, and then continued his way toward the Bower of Nature.

He arrived just as Ralph had proposed the excursion to the young girls—consequently, some moments after the young fellow's interview with Miss Sallianna—and entered with the air of a conqueror and a master.

History and tradition—from which, with the assistance of imagination, (nothing unusual,) our veritable narrative is drawn—history affords us no information in regard to what occurred at this interview between Mr. Jinks and Miss Sallianna.

That the interview would have been terrific, full of reproaches, drowned in tears, objurgations, and jealous ravings, is certainly no more than the words of Mr. Jinks would have led an impartial listener to believe. But Mr. Jinks was deep—knew women, as he often said, as well as need be—and therefore it is not at all improbable that the jealous ravings and other ceremonies were, upon reflection, omitted by Mr. Jinks, as in themselves unnecessary and a waste of time. The reader may estimate the probabilities, pro and con, for himself.

Whatever doubt exists, however, upon the subject of this interview—its character and complexion—no doubt at all can possibly attach to the picturesque denouement which we have referred to in the last lines of our last chapter.

Mr. Jinks was on his knees before the beautiful Sallianna.

The girls and their companions saw it—distinctly, undoubtedly, without possibility of mistake; finally, hearing the sound of footsteps on the graveled walks, Mr. Jinks turned his head, and saw that they saw him!

It was a grand spectacle which at that moment they beheld: Mr. Jinks erect before his rival and his foes—Mr. Jinks with his hand upon his sword—Mr. Jinks with stern resolve and lofty dignity in his form and mien.

"Sir," said Mr. Jinks to Ralph, "I am glad to see you—!"

"And I am delighted, my dear Jinks!" returned Ralph.

"A fine day, sir!"

"A glorious day!"

"A heavy storm."

"Tremendous!"

"Wet?"

"Very!"

And Ralph wrung the water out of his falling cuff.

"I say, though," said he, "things seem to have been going on very tranquilly here."

"Sir?"

"Come, old fellow!" don't be ashamed of—"

"What, sir! I ashamed?"

"Of kneeling down—you know."

And Ralph, smiling confidentially, made significant signs over his shoulder toward Miss Sallianna, who had withdrawn with blushing diffidence to the other end of the portico, and was gently waving her fan as she gazed upon the sunset.

"The fact is, I was arranging her shoe-bow," said Mr. Jinks.

"Oh!" said Ralph, "gammon,"

"Sir?"

"You were courting her."

"Courting!"

"Ah—you deny it! Well, let us see!"

And to Mr. Jinks' profound consternation he raised his voice, and said, laughing:

"Tell me, Miss Sallianna, if my friend Jinks has not been courting you?"

"Oh, sir!" cried Miss Sallianna, in a flutter.

"Did you say, no?" continued Ralph, pretending to so understand the lady; "very well, then, I may advise you, my dear Jinks, not to do so."

"Do what, sir?"

"Court Miss Sallianna."

"Why not, sir?" cried Mr. Jinks, bristling up.

"Because you would have no chance."

"No chance, sir!"

Ralph's propensity for mischief got the better of him; and leaning over, he whispered in the warlike gentleman's ear, as he pointed to Miss Sallianna.

"I say, Jinks, don't you understand?—desperately in love—hum—with—hum—Verty here; no doubt of it!"

And Ralph drew back, looking mysterious.

Mr. Jinks cast upon the quiet Verty a glance which would have frozen giants into stone.

"No, sir! all explained!" he said.

"It can't be, my dear fellow," said Ralph, in a low tone. "Verty has the proofs."

"Did you speak to me?" said Verty, smiling: he had been talking with Redbud during this conference.

"Yes, I did," said Ralph. Verty smiled, and said:

"I did not hear what you asked."

"No wonder," said Ralph. And turning to Mr. Jinks:

"Observe," he said, in a low tone, "how Mr. Verty is trying to make Miss Sallianna jealous."

"Perdition!" said Mr. Jinks.

"Oh, certainly!" replied Ralph, with solemn sympathy; "but here is Mr. Verty waiting patiently to hear what I have to say."

"Yes," said Verty, still smiling.

"It is Mr. Jinks who desires to speak," said Ralph, retiring with a chuckle, and leaving the adversaries face to face.

"Hum—at—yes, sir—I desired to speak, sir!" said Mr. Jinks, with threatening calmness.

"Did you?" said Verty, smiling.

"Yes, sir!"

"I can hear now."

"It is well that you can, sir! Mark me, sir! Some people cannot hear!"

"Ah?" said Verty, "yes, you mean deaf people!"

"I refer to others, sir!"

"Yes?"

"Nor can they see."

"Blind people," suggested Verty.

Mr. Jinks had an impression that Verty was trifling with him; and considering him too good-natured to quarrel, advanced toward him with a threatening gesture.

"I refer to people neither blind nor deaf, who cannot see nor hear insults, sir!" he said.

"I never knew any," said Verty, wondering at Mr. Jinks.

"You are one, sir!"

"I!"

"Yes!"

"Do you mean I am afraid of anything?"

"I mean, sir, that I have been wronged."

"I don't care," said Verty, "you are not good-natured."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"You are angry."

"I am, sir!"

"I advise you not to be; you don't look handsome," said Verty."

"Sir!" cried Mr. Jinks.

Verty's face assumed an expression of mild inquiry.

"Will you fight?"

"Yes," said Verty, "but you ought not to fight with that old sword. It's too long, and besides it would frighten old Scowley—"

"Sir!" cried Mr. Jinks, ferociously.

"And I know Miss Sallianna would scream," said Verty. "I would'nt mind that, though—I would'nt—for I don't like her—she told me a story!"

Mr. Jinks flashed out his sword, and brandished it around his head.

"Oh, me! you've been scrubbing it!" said Verty, laughing.

To describe the terrific rage of Mr. Jinks at this disregard of himself, his threats and weapon, would be utterly impossible.

The great Jinks raved, swore, and executed such ferocious pirouettes upon his grasshopper legs, in the direction of the smiling Verty, that Ralph became alarmed at the consequence of his mischief, and hastened to the rescue.

"No, Jinks!" he cried, "there must be no fighting."

"No fighting!" cried Mr. Jinks, whose ferocity, as soon as he found himself held back, became tremendous,—"no fighting!"

"No," said Ralph.

"Release me, sir!"

"Never!" cried Ralph, pinning his arms.

"Hold me, sir! or I will at once inflict condign punishment upon this individual!"

"Certainly," said Ralph, beginning to laugh. "I will hold you; I thought you said release you!"

"I did, sir!" cried Mr. Jinks, making a very faint effort to get at Verty.

"Which shall I do?"

"I will murder him!" cried Mr. Jinks, struggling with more energy, from the fact that Ralph had grasped him more tightly.

"Jinks! Jinks! you a murderer!"

"I have been wronged!" said the champion, brandishing his sword.

"Oh, no."

"The respectable Mrs. Scowley has been insulted!"

"You are mistaken!"

"The divine Sallianna has been charged with falsehood!"

"A mere jest."

"Let me run the villain through!"

And Mr. Jinks made a terrific lunge with his sword at Verty, and requested Mr. Ashley to hold him tight, unless he wished to see the Bower of Nature swimming in "gory blood!"

The colloquy we have faithfully reported, took place in far less time than we have taken to narrate it.

Redbud had hastened forward with terror in her face, Fanny with bewilderment—lastly, Miss Sallianna had rushed up to the spot with a scream; the various personages came together just when Mr. Jinks uttered his awful threat in relation to "gory blood."

"Oh, Verty!" said Redbud.

Verty smiled.

"Alphonso!" cried Miss Sallianna, with distraction.

Alphonso Jinks made overwhelming efforts to get at his enemy.

"Please don't fight—for my sake, Verty!" murmured Redbud, with pale lips.

"Spare him, Alphonso!" cried Miss Sallianna, with a shake of agony in her voice; "spare his youth, and do not take opprobrious revenge!"

"He has wronged me!" cried Mr. Jinks.

"Pardon him, Alphonso!"

"He has insulted you!"

"I forgive him!" cried Miss Sallianna.

"I will have revenge!"

And Mr. Jinks brandished his sword, and kept at a distance from Verty, making a feint of struggling.

"Jinks," said Ralph, "you are tiring me out. I shall let you go in another second, if you don't put up that sword, and stop wrestling with me!"

This threat seemed to moderate Mr. Jinks' rage, and he replied:

"This momentary anger is over, sir—I forgive, that young man—Sallianna! beautiful Sallianna! for thy sake!"

But overcome with nerves, and the revulsion produced by this change in affairs, the beautiful Sallianna's head drooped upon one shoulder, her eyes were closed, and her arms were extended towards Mr. Jinks.

Before that gentleman was aware of the fact, Miss Sallianna had been overcome by nerves, and reclined in a faint state upon his bosom.

We need not detail the remaining particulars of the scene whose outline we have traced.

Verty, who had received all Mr. Jinks' threats and gesticulations with great unconcern, applied himself to conversation with Redbud again: and no doubt would have conversed all the evening, but for Ralph. Ralph drew him away, pointing to the damp clothes; and with many smiles, they took their leave.

The last thing the young men observed, was Mr. Jinks supporting Miss Sallianna, who had fainted a second time, and raising his despairing eyes to heaven.

They burst out laughing, and continued their way.



CHAPTER XLIII.

VERTY'S HEART GOES AWAY IN A CHARIOT.

Verty remained hard at work all the next day; and such was the natural quickness of the young man's mind, that he seemed to learn something every hour, in spite of the preoccupation which, as the reader may imagine, his affection for our little heroine occasioned.

Roundjacket openly expressed his satisfaction at the result of the day's labor, and hazarded a sly observation that Verty would not, on the next day, remain so long at his desk, or accomplish so much. They could not complain, however, Mr. Roundjacket said; Verty was a scion of the woods, a tamed Indian, and nothing was more natural than his propensity to follow the bent of his mind, when fancy seized him. They must make allowances—he had no doubt, in time, everything would turn out well—yes, Verty would be an honorable member of society, and see the graces and attraction of the noble profession which he had elected for his support.

Verty received these friendly words—which were uttered between many chuckles of a private and dignified character—with dreamy silence; then bowing to Mr. Roundjacket, mounted Cloud, called Longears, and rode home.

On the following morning events happened pretty much as Mr. Roundjacket had predicted.

Verty wrote for some moments—then stopped; then wrote again for one moment—then twirled, bit, and finally threw down his pen.

Roundjacket chuckled, and observed that there was much injustice done him in not elevating him to the dignity of prophet. And then he mildly inquired if Verty would not like to take a ride.

Yes, Verty would like very much to do so. And in five minutes the young man was riding joyfully toward the Bower of Nature.

Sad news awaited him.

Redbud had suffered seriously from her wetting in the storm. First, she had caught a severe cold—this had continued to increase—then this cold had resulted in a fever, which threatened to confine her for a long time.

Poor Verty's head drooped, and he sighed so deeply that Fanny, who communicated this intelligence, felt an emotion of great pity.

Could'nt he see Redbud?

Fanny thought not; he might, however, greet her as she passed through the town. Word had been sent to Apple Orchard of her sickness, and the carriage was no doubt now upon its way to take her thither. There it was now—coming through the willows!

The carriage rolled up to the door; Miss Lavinia descended, and greeting Verty kindly, passed into the house.

In a quarter of an hour the severe lady came forth again, accompanied by the simpering Miss Sallianna, and by poor Redbud, who, wrapped in a shawl, and with red, feverish cheeks, made Verty sigh more deeply than before.

A bright smile from the kind eyes, a gentle pressure of the white, soft hand, now hot with fever, and the young girl was gone from him. The noise of the carriage-wheels died in the distance.

Verty remained for some moments gazing after it; then he rose, and shaking hands with the pitying Fanny, who had lost all her merriment, got slowly into the saddle and returned.

He had expected a day of happiness and laughter with Redbud, basking in the fond light of her eyes, and rambling by her side for happy hours.

He had seen her with fevered cheek and hand, go away from him sick and suffering.

His arms hanging down, his chin resting on his breast, Verty returned slowly to the office, sighing piteously—even Longears seemed to know the suffering of his master, and was still and quiet.



CHAPTER XLIV.

IN WHICH THE HISTORY RETURNS TO APPLE ORCHARD.

Having devoted much space in the foregoing pages to those scenes, descriptive, grotesque, and sentimental, which took place at the Bower of Nature and Winchester, it is proper that we should now go back to the domain of Apple Orchard, and the inhabitants of that realm, so long lost sight of in the contemplation of the graces and attractions of Miss Sallianna, and the various planets which hovered in the wake of that great feminine sun of love and beauty. Apple Orchard, so long lost sight of, will not longer suffer itself to be neglected; and, fortunately, the return of our heroine, Redbud, affords an opportunity of passing away, for the time, from other scenes, and going thither in her company.

Redbud's sickness did not last long. The girl had one of those constitutions which, though they seem frail and delicate, yet, like the reed, are able to resist what breaks more robust frames. The wetting she had gotten, on the evening whose events we have chronicled, had not seriously affected her;—a severe cold, and with it some slight fever, had been the result. And this fever expended itself completely, in a few days, and left the girl well again, though quite weak and "poorly," as say the Africans.

Redbud, like most persons, was not fond of a sick-room; and after sending word, day after day, to our friend Verty—who never failed to call twice at least, morning and evening—that she was better, and better, the girl, one morning, declared to cousin Lavinia that she was well enough to put on her dressing-wrapper, and go down stairs.

After some demur, accompanied by many grave and solemn shakes of the head, Miss Lavinia assented to this view of the case; and accordingly set about arranging the girl's hair, which had become—thanks to the fact that she could not bear it tied up—one mass of curls of the color of gold; and this task having been performed with solemn but affectionate care, the Squire made his appearance, according to appointment, and taking his "baby," as he called our heroine of sixteen and a half, in his arms, carried her down stairs, and deposited her on a sofa, fronting the open window, looking on the fresh fields and splendid autumn forest.

Redbud lay here gazing with delight upon the landscape, and smiling pleasantly. The autumn hours were going to the west—the trees had grown more golden than on that fine evening, when, with sad mishaps to Fanny, the gay party had wandered over the hills, though not very far away, and seen the thunder-storm suck in the dazzling glories of the bannered trees. Another year, with all its light, and joy, and beauty, slowly waned away, and had itself decently entombed beneath the thick, soft bed of yellow leaves, with nothing to disturb it but the rabbit's tread, or forest cries, or hoof-strokes of the deer. That year had added life and beauty to the face and form of Redbud, making her a woman-child—before she was but a child; and the fine light now in her tender eyes, was a light of thought and mind, the mature radiance of opening intellect, instead of the careless, thoughtless life of childhood. She had become suddenly much older, the Squire said, since going to the Bower of Nature even; and as she lay now on her couch, fronting the dying autumn, the year which whispered faintly even now of its bright coming in the Spring, promised to make her a "young lady!"

And as Redbud lay thus, smiling and thinking, who should run in, with laughing eyes and brilliant countenance, and black curls, rippling like a midnight stream, but our young friend, Miss Fanny.

Fanny, joyous as a lark—and merrier still at seeing Redbud "down stairs" again—overflowing, indeed, with mirth and laughter, like a morn of Spring, and making old Caesar, dozing on the rug, rise up and whine.

Fanny kissed Redbud enthusiastically, which ceremony, as everybody knows, is, with young ladies, exactly equivalent to shaking hands among the men; and often indicates as little real good-feeling slanderous tongues have whispered. No one, however, could have imagined that there was any affectation in Fanny's warm kiss. The very ring of it was enough to prove that the young lady's whole heart was in it, and when she sat down by Redbud and took her white hand, and patted it against her own, the very tenderest light shone in Miss Fanny's dancing eyes, and it was plain that she had not exaggerated the truth, in formerly declaring that she was desperately in love with Redbud. Ah! that fond old school attachment—whether of boy or girl—for the close friend of sunny hours; shall we laugh at it? Are the feelings of our after lives so much more disinterested, pure and elevated?

So Miss Fanny chatted on with Redbud, telling her a thousand things, which, fortunately, have nothing to do with our present chronicle—else would the unfortunate chronicler find his pen laughed at for its tardy movement. Fanny's rapid flow of laughing and picturesque words, could no more be kept up with by a sublunary instrument of record, than the shadow of a darting bird can be caught by the eager hand of the child grasping at it as it flits by on the sward.

And in the middle of this flow of words, and just when Fanny makes a veiled allusion to an elderly "thing," and the propensity of the person in question, to rob more juvenile young ladies of their beaux—enter Miss Lavinia—who asks what thing Miss Fanny speaks of, with a smile upon the austere countenance.

Fanny declines explaining, but blushes instead, and asks Miss Lavinia where she got that darling shawl, which is really a perfect love of a thing; and so, with smiles from Redbud, the conversation continues until dinner-time, when the Squire makes his appearance, and after kissing Miss Redbud, affects to take Miss Fanny by the elbows and bump her head against the ceiling, baby-fashion. In this attempt, we need not say, the worthy gentleman fails, from the fact, that young ladies of seventeen, are, for some reason, heavier than babies, and are kissed with much more ease, and far less trouble, standing on their feet, than chucked toward the ceiling for that purpose.

Having dined and chatted pleasantly, and told a number of amusing tales for Miss Redbud's edification—and against the silent protest and remonstrance of said Miss Lavinia—the Squire declares that he must go and see to his threshing; and, accordingly, after swearing at Caesar, goes away; and is heard greeting somebody as he departs.

This somebody turns out to be Verty; and the young man's face blushes with delight at sight of Redbud, whom he runs to, and devours with his glances. Redbud blushes slightly; but this passes soon, and the kind eyes beam on him softly—no confusion in them now—and the small hand is not drawn away from him, but remains in his own.

And Fanny—amiable Fanny—knowing all about it, smiles; and Miss Lavinia, staidest of her sex, suspecting something of it, looks grave and dignified, but does not frown; and Verty, with perfect forgetfulness of the presence of these persons, and much carelessness in regard to their opinions, gazes upon Redbud with his dreamy smile, and talks to her.

So the day passes onward, and the shades of evening take away the merry voices—the bright sunset shining on them as they go. They must come again without waiting for her to return their visit—says Redbud smiling—and the happy laughter which replies to her, makes Apple Orchard chuckle through its farthest chambers, and the portraits on the wall—bright now in vagrant gleams of crimson sundown—utter a low, well-bred cachinnation, such as is befitting in the solemn, dignified old cavaliers and ladies, looking from their laces, and hair-powder, and stiff ruffs, upon their little grandchild.

So the merry voices become faint, and the bright sunset slowly wanes away, a rosy flush upon the splendid sky, dragging another day of work or idleness, despair or joy, into oblivion!

Redbud lies and gazes at the noble woods, bathed in that rosy flush and smiles. Then her eyes turn toward a portrait settling into shadow, but lit up with one bright beam—and the dear mother's eyes shine on her with a tender light, and bless her. And she clasps her hands, and her lips murmur something, and her eyes turn to the western sky again. And evening slowly goes away, leaving the beautiful pure face with evident regret, but lighting up the kind blue eyes, and golden hair, and delicate cheek, with a last vagrant gleam.

So the dim cheerful night came down—the day was dead.



CHAPTER XLV.

HOURS IN THE OCTOBER WOODS.

In a week Redbud was going about again: slowly, it is true, and taking care not to fatigue herself, but still she was no longer confined to the house.

She rose one morning, and came down with a face full of happy expectation.

That day had been appointed for a holiday in the woods, and Fanny, Verty and Ralph were coming. Soon they came.

Ralph was resplendent in a new suit of silk, which he had procured after numerous directions from our friend Mr. O'Brallaghan; Verty resembled the young forest emperor, which it was his wont to resemble, at least in costume;—and Fanny was clad in the finest and most coquettish little dress conceivable. After mature deliberation, we are inclined to believe that her conquest of Ralph was on this day completed and perfected:—the conduct of that gentleman for some days afterwards having been very suspicious. We need only say, that he sat at his window, gazing moonward—wrote sonnets in a very melancholy strain, and lost much of his ardor and vivacity. These symptoms are sufficient for a diagnosis when one is familiar with the disease, and they were exhibited by Mr. Ralph, on the occasion mentioned. But we anticipate.

The gay party went out in the grove, and wandering about in the brilliant October sunlight, gathered primroses and other autumn flowers, which, making into bunches, they topped with fine slender, palm-like golden rods:—and so, passing on, came to the old glen behind, and just beneath the acclivity which made the western horizon of Apple Orchard.

"Look what a lovely tulip tree!" said Fanny, laughing, "and here is the old lime-kiln—look!"

Ralph smiled.

"I am looking,"—he said.

"You are not!"

"Yes—at you."

"I asked you to look at the old kiln—"

"I prefer your charming face, my heart's treasure."

Redbud laughed, and turning her white, tender face, to the dreamy, Verty said:

"Are they not affectionate, Verty?"

Verty smiled.

"I like that," he said.

"So do I—but Mr. Ralph is so—"

"What, Miss Redbud?" said Ralph, laughing, "eh?"

"Oh, I did'nt know—"

"I heard you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, at least I did. I don't see why I should not be affectionate to Fanny—"

"Humph!" from Fanny.

"She is my dearest cousin—is Miss Fanny Temple; and we have been in love with each other for the last twenty years, more or less!"

Fanny burst into laughter.

"Twenty years!" she cried.

"Well?" said Ralph.

"I'm only seventeen, sir."

"Seventeen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Seventeen—three from seventeen," said Ralph, thoughtfully calculating on his fingers, "ah! yes! you are right—you have been in love with me but fourteen years. Yes! yes! you have reason to say, as you did, that it was not twenty years—quite."

After which speech, which was delivered in an innocent tone, Mr. Ralph scratched his chin.

Fanny stood for a moment horrified at the meaning given to her exclamation—then colored—then cried "Humph!"—then burst into laughter. The party joined in it.

"Well, well," said the bright girl, whose dancing eyes were full of pleasure, "don't let us get to flirting to-day."

"Flirting?" said Ralph.

"Yes."

"I never flirt."

"No, never!"

"There, you are getting ironical—you fly off from—"

"The subject, I suppose—like that flying squirrel yonder—look!"

Indeed, a mottled little animal, of the description mentioned, had darted from the tulip toward a large oak, and falling as he flew—which we believe characterizes the flight of this squirrel—had lit upon the oak near the root, and run rapidly up the trunk.

"Did you ever!" cried Fanny.

"I don't recollect," said Ralph.

"Why how can he fly?"

"Wings," suggested Verty,

"But they are so small, and he's so heavy."

"He starts high up," said Verty, "and makes a strong jump when he flies. That's the way he does."

"How curious," said Redbud.

"Yes," cried Fanny, "and see! there's a striped ground squirrel, and listen to that crow,—caw! caw!"

With which Fanny twists her lips into astonishing shapes, and imitates the crow in a manner which the youngest of living crows would have laughed to scorn.

Redbud gathered some beautiful flowers, and with the assistance of Verty made a little wreath, which she tied with a ribbon. Stealing behind Fanny, she placed this on her head.

"Oh, me?" cried Miss Fanny.

"Yes, for you," said Ralph.

"From Redbud? Oh! thank you. But I'll make you one. Come, sir,"—to Ralph,—"help me."

"To get flowers?"

"Yes."

"Willingly."

"There is a bunch of primroses."

"Shall I get it?" said Ralph.

"Yes, sir."

"I think you had better," said Ralph.

"Well, sir!"

"Now, Fanny—don't get angry—I will—"

"No, you shan't!"

"Indeed I will!"

The result of this contention, as to who should gather the primroses, was, that Fanny and Ralph, stooping at the same moment, struck their faces together, and cried out—the young lady at least.

Fanny blushed very much as she rose—Ralph was triumphant.

"I've got them, however, sir," she said, holding the flowers.

"And I had a disagreeable accident," said Ralph, laughing, and pretending to rub his head.

"Disagreeable, sir!" cried Fanny, without reflecting.

"Yes!" said Ralph—"why not?"

Fanny found herself involved again in an awkward explanation—the fact being, that Ralph's lips had, by pure accident, of course, touched her brow.

It would, therefore, have only complicated matters for Fanny to have explained why the accident ought not to be "disagreeable," as Ralph declared it to be. The general reply, however, which we have endeavored, on various occasions, to represent by the word "Humph!" issued from the young girl's lips; and busying herself with the wreath, she passed on, followed by the laughing company.

From the forest, they went to the mossy glen, as we may call it, though that was not its name; and Verty enlivened the company with a description of a flock of young partridges which had there started up once, and running between his feet, disappeared before his very eyes. Redbud, too, recollected the nice cherries they had eaten from the trees—as nice as the oxhearts near the house—in the Spring; and Fanny did too, and told some very amusing stories of beaux being compelled to climb and throw down boughs laden with their red bunches.

In this pleasant way they strolled along the brook which stole by in sun and shadow, over mossy rocks, and under bulrushes, where the minnows haunted—which brook, tradition (and the maps) call to-day by the name of one member of that party; and so, passing over the slip of meadow, where Verty declared the hares were accustomed to gambol by moonlight, once more came again toward the locust-grove of "dear old Apple Orchard,"—(Fanny's phrase,)—and entered in again, and threw down their treasures of bright flowers and bird's-nests—for they had taken some old ones from the trees—and laughed, sang, and were happy.

"Why! what a day!" cried Ralph; "if we only had a kite now!"

"A kite!" cried Fanny.

"Yes."

"An elegant college gentleman—"

"Oh—suspend the college gentleman, if I may use the paraphrase," said Mr. Ralph; "why can't you permit a man to return again, my heart's delight, to his far youth."

"Far youth."

"Ages ago—but in spite of that, I tell you I want to see a fine kite sailing up there."

"Make it, then!"

"By Jove! I will, if Miss Redbud will supply—"

"The materials? Certainly, in one moment, Mr. Ralph," said Redbud, smiling softly; "how nice it will be!"

"Twine, scissors, paper," said Ralph; "we'll have it done immediately."

Redbud went, and soon returned with the materials; and the whole laughing party began to work upon the kite.

Such was their dispatch, that, in an hour it was ready, taken to the meadow, and there, with the united assistance of gentlemen and ladies, launched into the sky.



CHAPTER XLVI.

THE HAPPY AUTUMN FIELDS.

The rolling ground beyond the meadow, where the oaks rustled, was the point of departure of the kite—the post from which it sailed forth on its aerial voyage.

The whole affair was a success, and never did merrier hearts watch a kite.

It was beautifully made—of beautiful paper, all red, and blue and yellow—and the young girls had completely surrounded it with figures of silver paper, and decorated it, from head to foot, with flowers.

Thus, when it ascended slowly into the cerulean heavens, as said the poetical Ralph, its long, flower-decorated streamers rippling in the wind, it was greeted with loud cries of joy and admiration—thunders of applause and enthusiastic encouragement to "go on!" from Ralph, who had grown very young again—from Fanny, even more exaggerated cries.

That young lady seemed to be on the point of flying after it—the breeze seemed about to bear her away, and she clapped her hands and followed the high sailing paper-bird with such delight, that Ralph suggested she should be sent up as a messenger.

"No," said Fanny, growing a little calmer, but laughing still, "I'm afraid I should grow dizzy."

And looking at the kite, which soared far up, and seemed to be peeping from side to side, around the small white clouds, Fanny laughed more than ever.

But why should we waste our time in saying that the gay party were pleased with everything, and laughed out loudly for that reason?

Perhaps a merrier company never made the golden days of autumn ring with laughter, either at Apple Orchard, where hill and meadow echoed to the joyous carol, or in any other place. Sitting beneath the oaks, and looking to the old house buried in its beautiful golden trees, the girls sang with their pure, melodious voices, songs which made the fresh, yet dreamy autumn dearer still, and wrapped the hearts of those who listened in a smiling, calm delight. Give youth only skies and pure fresh breezes, and the ready laughter shows how happy these things, simple as they are, can make it. It wants no present beyond this; for has it not what is greater still, the radiant and rosy future, with its splendid tints of joy and rapture?

Youth! youth! Erect in the beautiful frail skiff, he dares the tide, gazing with glorious brow upon the palace in the cloud, which hovers overhead, a fairy spectacle of dreamland—real still to him! Beautiful youth! As he stands thus with his outstretched arms, the light upon his noble face, and the young lips illumined by their tender smile, who can help loving him, and feeling that more of the light of Heaven lingers on his countenance, than on the man's? Youth! youth! beautiful youth!—who, at times, does not look back to it with joyful wonder, long for it with passionate regret—for its inexperience and weakness!—its illusions and romance!—its fond trust, and April smiles and tears! Who does not long to laugh again, and, leaning over the bark's side, play with the foaming waves again, as in the old days! Beautiful youth! sailing for Beulah, the land of flowers, and landing there in dreams—how can we look upon your radiant brow and eyes, without such regret as nothing taking root in this world can console us for completely! Ah! after all, there is no philosophy like ignorance—there is no joy like youth and innocence!

The shouts and laughter ringing through the merry fields, on the fine autumn morning, may have led us into this discourse upon youth: the very air was full of laughter, and when Fanny let the kite string go by accident, the rapture grew intense.

Verty and Redbud sitting quietly, at the distance of some paces, under the oaks, looked on, laughing and talking.

"How bright Fanny is," said Redbud, laughing—"Look! I think she is lovely; and then she is as good as she can be."

"I like her," said Verty, tenderly, "because she likes you, Redbud. I like Ralph, too—don't you?"

"Oh, yes—I think he is very pleasant and agreeable; he has just come from college, and Fanny says, has greatly improved—though," whispered Redbud, bending toward Verty, and smiling, "she says, when he is present, that he has not improved; just the opposite."

Verty sighed.

The delicate little face of Redbud was turned toward him inquiringly.

"Verty, you sighed," she said.

"Did I?" said Verty.

"Yes."

Verty sighed again.

"Tell me what troubles you," said Redbud, softly.

"Nothing—nothing," replied Verty; "I was only thinking about college, you know."

"About college?"

"Yes."

And Verty repeated the sigh.

"Tell me your thoughts," said Redbud, earnestly.

"I was only thinking," returned her companion, "that there was no chance of my ever going to college, and I should like to know how I am to be a learned man without having an education."

Redbud sighed too.

"But perhaps," she said, "you might make yourself learned without going to college."

Verty shook his head.

"You are not so ignorant as you think," Redbud said, softly. "I know many persons as old as you are, who—who—are not half as—intelligent."

Verty repeated the shake of his head.

"I may know as much as the next one about hunting," he said; "and ma mere says that none of her tribe had as much knowledge of the habits of the deer. Yes! yes! that is something—to know all about life in the autumn woods, the grand life which, some day, will be told about in great poetry, or ought to be. But what good is there in only knowing how to follow the deer, or watch for the turkeys, or kill bears, as I used to before the neighborhood was filled up? I want to be a learned man. I don't think anybody would, or ought to, marry me," added Verty, sighing.

Redbud laughed, and colored.

"Perhaps you can go to college, though," she said.

"I'm afraid not," said Verty; "but I won't complain. Why should I? Besides, I would have to leave you all here, and I never could make up my mind to that."

("Let it go, Ralph!" from Fanny.

To which the individual addressed, replies:

"Oh, certainly, by all means, darling of my heart!")

Redbud smiled.

"I think we are very happy here," she said; "there cannot be anything in the Lowlands prettier than the mountains—"

"Oh! I know there is not!" exclaimed Verty, with the enthusiasm of the true mountaineer.

"Besides," said Redbud, taking advantage of this return to brighter thoughts, "I don't think learning is so important, Verty. It often makes us forget simple things, and think we are better than the rest of the world—"

"Yes," said Verty.

"That is wrong, you know. I think that it would be dearly bought, if we lost charity by getting it," said the girl, earnestly.

Verty looked thoughtful, and leaning his head on his hand, said:

"I don't know but I prefer the mountains, then. Redbud, I think if I saw a great deal of you, you would make me good—"

"Oh! I'm afraid—"

"I'd read my Bible, and think about God," Verty said.

"Don't you now, Verty?"

"Yes; I read."

"But don't you think?"

Verty shook his head.

"I can't remember it often," he replied. "I know I ought."

Redbud looked at him with her soft, kind eyes, and said:

"But you pray?"

"Sometimes."

"Not every night?"

"No."

Redbud looked pained;

"Oh! you ought to," she said.

"I know I ought, and I'm going to," said the young man; "the fact is, Redbud, we have a great deal to be thankful for."

"Oh, indeed we have!" said Redbud; earnestly—"all this beautiful world: the sunshine, the singing of the birds, the health of our dear friends and relatives; and everything—"

"Yes, yes," said Verty, "I ought to be thankful more than anybody else."

"Why?"

"You know I'm an Indian."

Redbud looked dubious.

"At least ma mere is my mother," said Verty; "and if I am not an Indian, I don't know what I am. You know," he added, "I can't be like a deer in the woods, that nobody knows anything about."

Redbud smiled; then, after a moment's thought, said:

"I don't think you are an Indian, Verty."

And as she spoke, the young girl absently passed the coral necklace, we have spoken of, backward and forward between her lips.

Verty pondered.

"I don't know," he said, at last; "but I know it was very good in God to give me such a kind mother as ma mere; and such friends as you all. I'm afraid I am not good myself."

Redbud passed the necklace through her fingers thoughtfully.

"That is pretty," said Verty, looking at it. "I think I have seen it somewhere before."

Redbud replied with a smile:

"Yes, I generally wear it; but I was thinking how strange your life was, Verty."

And she looked kindly and softly with her frank eyes at the young man, who was playing with the beads of the necklace.

"Yes," he replied, "and that is just why I ought to be thankful. If I was somebody's son, you know, everybody would know me—but I aint, and yet, everybody is kind. I often try to be thankful, and I believe I am," he added; "but then I'm often sinful. The other day, I believe I would have shot Mr. Jinks—that was very wrong; yes, I know that was very wrong."

And Verty shook his head sadly.

"Then I am angry sometimes," he said, "though not often."

"Not very often, I know," said Redbud, softly; "you are very sweet tempered and amiable."

"Do you think so, Redbud?"

"Yes, indeed," smiled Redbud.

"I'm glad you think so; I thought I was not enough; but I have been talking about myself too much, which, Miss Lavinia says, is wrong. But, indeed, Redbud, I'll try and be good in future—look! there is Fanny quarreling with Ralph!"

They rose, and approached the parties indicated, who were, however, not more quarrelsome than usual: Fanny was only struggling with Ralph for the string of the kite. The contention ended in mutual laughter; and as a horn at that moment sounded for the servants to stop work for dinner, the party determined to return to Apple Orchard.

The kite was tied to a root, and they returned homeward.



CHAPTER XLVII.

DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.

"Oh!" cried Fanny, as they were again walking upon the smooth meadow, in the afternoon, "I think we ought to go and get some apples!"

"And so do I," said Ralph.

"Of course, I expected you to agree with me, sir."

"Naturally; I always do."

This observation was remotely satirical, and Miss Fanny resented it.

"You are the most contentious person I ever knew," she said.

"Am I?" asked Ralph.

"Yes, sir."

"That is fortunate."

"Why?"

"Because, difference of opinion is the soul of conversation, and as you never disagree with anybody, we could not converse. Observe how the syllogism comes out?"

"Fine logician!"

"Lovely damsel!"

"Mr. College-Graduate!"

"Miss School-Girl!"

"School-girl!"

"College-graduate!"

And after this exchange of compliments, the parties walked on, mutually pleased with each other.

Redbud and Verty followed them, and they soon arrived at the old orchard.

Behind the party followed Longears, whose presence, throughout the day, we have very improperly neglected to mention; but as that inquisitive animal was, during the whole morning, roaming, at his own wild will, the neighboring fields—prying into the holes of various wild animals, and exchanging silent commentaries with the Apple Orchard dogs—this omission will not appear very heinous.

Longears had now regaled himself with a comfortable dinner, the last bone of which he had licked—and having thus, like a regular and respectable citizen, taken care of the material, was busily engaged again in the intellectual pursuit of his enemies, the squirrels, butterflies and bees, at which he barked and dashed at times with great vigor and enthusiasm.

"Look at him," said Redbud; "why does he dislike the butterflies?"

"Only fun," said Verty; "he often does that. Here, Longears!"

Longears approached, and Verty pointed to the ground. Longears laid down.

"Stay there!" said Verty.

And smiling, he walked on.

Redbud laughed, and turning round made signs to the dog to follow them. Longears, however, only moved his head uneasily, and wagged his tail with eloquent remonstrance.

"Let him come, Verty," said the girl.

Verty smiled, and made a movement of the hand, which, from the distance of a hundred yards, raised Longears three feet into the air. Returning from this elevation to the earth again, he darted off over the fields after the bees and swallows.

The young men and their companions smiled, and strolled on. They reached the old orchard, and ran about among the trees picking up apples—now the little soft yellow crab apples—then the huge, round, ruddy pippins—next the golden-coat bell apples, oblong and mellow, which had dropped from pure ripeness from the autumn boughs.

Verty had often climbed into the old trees, and filled his cap with the speckled eggs of black-birds, or found upon the fence here, embowered in the foliage, the slight nests of doves, each with its two eggs, white and transparent almost; and the recollection made him smile.

They gathered a number of the apples, and then strolled on, and eat a moment with the pleasant overseer's wife.

A number of little curly-headed boys had been rolling like apples on the grass as they approached; fat-armed and chubby-legged, and making devoted advances to Longears, who, descending from his dignity, rolled with them in the sunshine. These now approached, and the young girls patted their heads, and Mr. Ralph gave them some paternal advice, and the good housewife, spinning in her cane-bottom chair with straight tall back, smiled pleasantly, and curtsied.

The baby (there always was a baby at the overseer's) soon made his appearance, as babies will do everywhere; and then the unfortunate young curly-heads of riper age were forced to return once more to the grass and play with Longears—they were forgotten.

To describe the goings on of the two young ladies with that baby is wholly out of the question. They quarreled for it, chucked it in their arms, examined its toes with critical attention, and conversed with it in barbarous baby language, which was enough, Ralph said, to drive a man distracted. They asked it various questions—were delighted with its replies—called its attention to the chickens—and evidently labored under the impression that it understood. They addressed the baby uniformly in the neuter gender, and requested to know whether it was not their darling. To all which the baby replied with thoughtful stares, only occasionally condescending to laugh. The feet having been examined again—there is much in babies' feet—the party smiled and went away, calling after baby to the last.

"Now, that's all affectation," said Ralph; "you young ladies—"

"You're a barbarian, sir!" replied Fanny, with great candor.

"I know I am."

"I'm glad you do."

"But," continued Ralph, "tell me now, really, do you young girls admire babies?"

"Certainly I do—"

"And I," said Redbud.

"They're the sweetest, dearest things in all the world," continued Fanny, "and the man who don't like babies—"

"Is a monster, eh?"

"Far worse, sir!"

And Fanny laughed.

"That is pleasant to know," said Ralph; "then I'm a monster."

Having arrived at which highly encouraging conclusion, the young man whistled.

"I say," he said, suddenly, "I wanted to ask—"

"Well, sir?" said Fanny.

"Before we leave the subject—"

"What subject?"

"Babies."

"Well, ask on."

"I wish to know whether babies talk."

"Certainly!"

"Really, now?"

"Yes."

"And you understand them?"

"I do," said Fanny.

"What does 'um, um,' mean? I heard that baby say 'um, um,' distinctly."

Fanny burst out laughing.

"Oh, I know!" she said, "when I gave him an apple."

"Yes."

"It meant, 'that is a very nice apple, and I would like to have some.'"

"Did it?"

"Of course."

"Suppose, then, it had been a crab-apple, and the baby had still said 'um, um,' what would it then have meant?"

"Plainly this: 'that is not a nice apple, and I would not like to have any.'"

"That is perfectly satisfactory," said Ralph;"'um, um,' expresses either the desire to possess a sweet apple, or the objection to a sour one. I have heard of delicate shades of language before, but this is the sublimity thereof."

And Ralph laughed.

"I never saw such a person," said Fanny, pouting.

"By the bye," said Ralph.

"Well, sir?"

"What was there so interesting in the toes?"

"They were lovely."

"Anything else?"

"Beautiful."

"That all? Come, now, tell me the charm in those feet which you young ladies designated, I remember, as 'teensy,' and expressed your desire to 'tiss.' Shocking perversion of the king's English—and in honor of nothing but two dirty little feet!" said Ralph.

The storm which was visited upon Ralph's unhappy head for this barbarous criticism was dreadful. Fanny declared, in express terms, that he was a monster, an ogre, and with a stone in his breast instead of a heart. To which Mr. Ralph replied, that the best writers of ancient and modern times had nowhere designated as a monster the man who was not in raptures at the sight of babies;—whereupon Miss Fanny declared her disregard of writers in general, and her preference for babies—at which stage of the discussion Ralph began to whistle.

Why not catch the laughter of those youthful lips, and tell how the young men and maidens amused themselves that fine autumn day? Everything innocent and fresh is beautiful—and there are eyes which shine more brightly than the sun, voices which make a softer music than the breezes of October in the laughing trees. Redbud's face and voice had this innocence and joy in it—there was pleasure in the very sound of it; and such a delicate kind of light in the soft eyes, that as they went, the young men felt more pure, and bowed to her, as something better than themselves—of higher nature.

The light of Fanny's eyes was more brilliant; but Redbud's were of such softness that you forgot all else in gazing at them—lost your heart, looking into their lucid depths of liquid light.

One heart was irremediably lost long since, and, gone away into the possession of the young lady. This was Verty's; and as they went along he gazed so tenderly at the young girl, that more than once she blushed, and suffered the long lashes to fall down upon her rosy cheek.

Fanny was talking with Ralph;—for these young gentlemen had made the simple and admirable arrangement, without in the least consulting the ladies, that Verty should always entertain and be entertained by Redbud, Ralph quarrel with, and be quarreled with, by Fanny.

Each, on the present occasion, was carrying out his portion of the contract; that is to say, Verty and Redbud were quietly smiling at each other; Ralph and Fanny were exchanging repartees.

They came thus to the knoll which they had stopped upon in the forenoon.

The fine kite—tied to a root, as we have said—was hovering far up among the clouds, swaying and fluttering its streamers in the wind: the various colors of the paper, and the flowers almost wholly indiscernible, so high had it ascended.

"Look!" said Fanny, "there it is up among the swallows, which are flying around it as if they never saw a kite before."

"Female swallows, doubtless," observed Ralph, carelessly.

"Female? Pray, why?"

"Because they have so much curiosity; see, you have made me utter what is not common with me."

"What, sir?"

"A bad witticism."

Fanny laughed, and replied, gazing at the kite:

"Your witticisms are, of course, always, fine—no doubt very classic; now I will send up a messenger on the string. Redbud, have you a piece of paper?"

Redbud drew the paper from her apron pocket, and gave it to Fanny, with a smile.

Fanny tore the yellow scrap into a circle, and in the centre of this circle made a hole as large as her finger.

"Now, Mr. Ralph, please untie the string from the root."

"With pleasure," said the young man; "for you, my heart's delight, I would—"

"Come, come, sir! you make an oration upon every occasion!"

With many remonstrances at being thus unceremoniously suppressed, Mr. Ralph knelt down, and untied the string.

"Does it pull strongly, Mr. Ralph?" said Redbud, smiling.

"Oh, yes! you know it was nearly as tall as myself—just try."

"The messenger first!" cried Fanny.

And she slipped it over the string.

"Now, Miss Redbud, just try!" said Ralph.

Redbud wrapped the string around her hand, and Ralph let it go.

"How do you like it!" he said.

"Oh!" cried Redbud, "it is so strong!—there must be a great wind in the clouds!—Oh!" added the girl, laughing, "it is cutting my hand in two!"

And she caught the string with her left hand to relieve the afflicted member.

"Give it to me!" cried Fanny.

"Yes, give it to her; she has the arm of an Amazon," said Ralph, enthusiastically.

"Humph!"

And having entered this, her standing protest, Fanny laughed, and unwound the string from Redbud's hand, on whose white surface two crimson circles were visible.

"I can hold it!" cried the young girl, "easily!"

And to display her indifference, Fanny knelt on one knee to pick up her gloves.

The consequence of this movement was, that the heavy kite, struck, doubtless, at the moment by a gust of wind, jerked the lady with the Amazonian arm so violently, that, unable to retain her position, she fell upon her left hand, then upon her face, and was dragged a pace or two by the heavy weight.

"By Jove!" cried Ralph, running to her, "did anybody—"

"Oh, take care!" exclaimed Redbud, hastening to her friend's assistance.

"It is nothing!" Fanny said; "I can hold it."

And to prove this, she let go the string, which was cutting her hand in two.

The poor kite! loosed from the sustaining hand, from the earth, which, so to speak, held it up—it sees its hopes of elevation in the world all dashed with disappointment and obscured. It is doomed!

But no! A new friend comes to its rescue—deserted by the lords and ladies of creation, the lesser creature takes it under his protection.

Longears is the rescuer. Longears has watched the messenger we have mentioned with deep interest, as it lays upon the string and flutters; Longears imagines that it is a bee of the species called yellow-jacket challenging him to combat. Consequently, Longears no sooner sees the string dart from Fanny's hand, than believing the enemy about to escape him, he springs toward it and catches it in his mouth.

Longears catches a tartar; but too brave to yield without a struggle, rolls upon the ground, grinding the yellow enemy, and the string beneath his teeth.

His evolutions on the grass wrap the string around his feet and neck; Longears is taken prisoner, and finds himself dragged violently over the ground.

Brave and resolute before a common enemy, Longears fears this unknown adversary. Overcome with superstitious awe, he howls; endeavoring to howl again, he finds his windpipe grasped by his enemy. The howl turns into a wheeze. His eyes start from his head; his jaws open; he rolls on the grass; leaps in the air; puts forth the strength of a giant, but in vain.

It is at this juncture that Verty runs up and severs the string with his hunting-knive; whereat Longears, finding himself released, rubs his nose vigorously with his paws, sneezes, and lies down with an unconscious air, as if nothing had happened. He is saved.

The kite, however, is sacrified. Justly punished for wounding Redbud's hand, throwing Miss Fanny on her face, and periling the life of Longears, the unfortunate kite struggles a moment in the clouds, staggers from side to side, like a drunken man, and then caught by a sudden gust, sweeps like a streaming comet down into the autumn forest, and is gone.

Fanny is wiping her hands, which are somewhat soiled; the rest of the company are laughing merrily at the disappearance of the kite; Longears is gravely and seriously contemplating the yellow enemy with whom he has struggled so violently, and whose conqueror he believes himself to be.

This was the incident so frequently spoken of by Mr. Ralph Ashley afterwards, as the Bucolic of the kite.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE HARVEST MOON.

The day was nearly gone now, dying over fir-clad hills; but yet, before it went, poured a last flood of rich, red light, such as only the mountains and the valley boast, upon the beautiful sloping meadow, stretching its green and dewy sea in front of Apple Orchard.

As the sun went away in royal splendor, bounding over the rim of evening, like a red-striped tiger—on the eastern horizon a light rose gradually, as though a great conflagration raged there. Then the trees were kindled; then the broad, yellow moon—call it the harvest moon!—soared slowly up, dragging its captive stars, and mixing its fresh radiance with the waning glories of the crimson west.

And as the happy party—grouped upon the grassy knoll, like some party of shepherds and shepherdesses, in the old days of Arcady—gazed on the beautiful spectacle, the voices of the negroes coming from their work were heard, driving their slow teams in, and sending on the air the clear melodious songs, which, rude and ludicrous as they seem, have yet so marvellous an effect, borne on the airs of night.

Those evening songs and sounds! Not long ago, one says, I stood, just at sunset, on the summit of a pretty knoll, and, looking eastward, saw the harvesters cutting into the tall, brown-headed, rippling wheat. I heard the merry whistle of the whirling scythes; I heard their songs—they were so sweet! And why are these harvest melodies so soft-sounding, and so grateful to the ear? Simply because they discourse of the long buried past; and, like some magical spell, arouse from its sleep all the beauteous and gay splendor of those hours. As the clear, measured sound floated to my ear, I heard also, again, the vanished music of happy childhood—that elysian time which cannot last for any of us. I do not know what the song was—whether some slow, sad negro melody, or loud-sounding hymn, such as the forests ring with at camp-meetings; but I know what the murmuring and dying sound brought to me again, living, splendid, instinct with a thoughtful but perfect joy. Fairyland never, with its silver-twisted, trumpet-flower-like bugles, rolled such a merry-mournful music to the friendly stars! I love to have the old days back again—back, with their very tints, and atmosphere, and sounds and odors—now no more the same. Thus I love to hear the young girl's low, merry song, floating from the window of a country-house, half-broken by the cicala, the swallow's twitter, or the rustling leaves;—I love to hear the joyous ripple of the harpsichord, bringing back, with some old music, times when that merry music stamped the hours, and took possession of them—in the heart—forever more! I love a ringing horn, even the stage-horn—now, alas! no more a sound of real life, only memory!—the thousand murmurs of a country evening; the far, clear cry of wild-geese from the clouds; the tinkling bells of cattle; every sound which brings again a glimpse of the far-glimmering plains of youth. And that is why, standing on this round knoll, beneath the merrily-rustling cherry-trees, and listening to the murmurous song, I heard my boyhood speak to me, and felt again the old breath on my brow. The sun died away across the old swaying woods; the rattling hone upon the scythe; the measured sweep; the mellow music—all were gone away. The day was done, and the long twilight came—twilight, which mixes the crimson of the darkling west, the yellow moonlight in the azure east, and the red glimmering starlight overhead, into one magic light. And so we went home merrily, with pleasant thoughts and talk; such pleasant thoughts I wish to all. Thus wrote one who ever delighted in the rural evenings and their sounds;—and thus listened the young persons, whose conversation, light and trivial though it seem, we have not thought it a loss of time to chronicle, from morn till eve.

They gazed with quiet pleasure upon the lovely landscape, and listened to the negroes as they sang their old, rude, touching madrigals, shouting, at times, to the horses of their teams, and not seldom sending on the air the loud rejoiceful outburst of their laughter.

The moonlight slept upon the wains piled up with yellow sheaves—and plainly revealed the little monkey-like black, seated on the summit of the foremost; and this young gentleman had managed to procure a banjo, and was playing.

As he played he sang; and, as he sang, kept time—not with the head alone, and foot, but with his whole body, arms, and legs and shoulders—all agitated with the ecstacy of mirth, as—singing "coony up the holler," and executing it with grand effect moreover—the merry minstrel went upon his way. Various diminutive individuals of a similar description, were observed in the road behind, executing an impromptu "break down," to the inspiring melody; and so the great piled-up wagon came on in the moonlight, creaking in unison with the music, and strewing on the road its long trail of golden wheat.

The moon soared higher, bidding defiance now to sunset, which it drove completely from the field; and in the window of Apple Orchard a light began to twinkle; and Redbud rose. She should not stay out, she said, as she had been sick; and so they took their way, as says our friend, "in pleasant talk," across the emerald meadow to the cheerful home.

The low of cattle went with them, and all the birds of night waked up and sang.

The beautiful moon—the very moon of all the harvest-homes since the earth was made—shone on them as they went; and by the time they had reached the portico of the old comfortable mansion, evening had cast such shadows, far and near, that only the outlines of the forms were seen, as they passed in through the deep shadow.

They did not see that Verty's hand held little Redbud's; and that he looked her with a tenderness which could not be mistaken. But Redbud saw it, and a flush passed over her delicate cheek, on which the maiden moon looked down and smiled.

So the day ended.



CHAPTER XLIX.

BACK TO WINCHESTER, WHERE EDITORIAL INIQUITY IS DISCOURSED OF.

Busy with the various fortunes of our other personages, we have not been able of late to give much attention to the noble poet, Roundjacket, with whose ambition and great thoughts, this history has heretofore somewhat concerned itself.

Following the old, fine chivalric mansion, "Place aux dames!" we have necessarily been compelled to elbow the cavaliers from the stage, and pass by in silence, without listening to them. Now, however, when we have written our pastoral canto, and duly spoken of the sayings and doings of Miss Redbud and Miss Fanny—used our best efforts to place upon record what they amused themselves with, laughed at, and took pleasure in, under the golden trees of the beautiful woods, and in the happy autumn fields—now we are at liberty to return to our good old border town, and those other personages of the history, whose merits have not been adequately recognized.

When Verty entered Winchester, on the morning after the events, or rather idle country scenes, which we have related, he was smiling and joyous; and the very clatter of Cloud's hoofs made Longears merry.

Verty dismounted, and turned the knob of the office-door.

In opening, it struck against the back of Mr. Roundjacket, who, pacing hastily up and down the apartment, seemed to be laboring under much excitement.

In his left hand, Roundjacket carried a small brown newspaper, with heavy straggling type, and much dilapidated from its contact with the equestrian mail-bag, which it had evidently issued from only a short time before. In his right hand, the poet held a ruler, which described eccentric circles in the air, and threatened imaginary foes with torture and extermination.

The poet's hair stood up; his breath came and went; his coat-skirts moved from side to side, with indignation; and he evidently regarded something in the paper with a mixture of horror and despair.

Verty paused for a moment on the threshold; then took off his hat and went in.

Round jacket turned round.

Verty gazed at him for a moment in silence; then smiling:

"What is the matter, sir?" he said.

"Matter, sir!" cried Roundjacket—"everything is the matter, sir!"

Verty shook his head, as much as to say, that this was a dreadful state of things, and echoed the word "everything!"

"Yes, sir! everything!—folly is the matter!—crime is the matter!—statutory misdemeanor is the matter!"

And Roundjacket, overcome with indignation, struck the newspaper a savage blow with his ruler.

"I am the victim, sir, of editorial iniquity, and typographical abomination!"

"Anan?" said Verty.

"I am a victim, sir!"

"Yes, you look angry."

"I am!"

Verty shook his head.

"That is not right," he replied; "Redbud says it is wrong to be angry—"

"Redbud!"

"Yes, sir."

"Consign Miss Redbud—!"

"Oh, no!" said Verty, "don't do that."

"I have a right to be angry," continued Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler; "it would be out of the question for me to be anything else."

"How, sir?"

"Do you see that?"

And Roundjacket held up the paper, flourishing his ruler at it in a threatening way.

"The paper, sir?" said Verty.

"Yes!"

"What of it?"

"Abomination!"

"Oh, sir."

"Yes! utter abomination!"

"I don't understand, sir."

"Mark me!" said Roundjacket.

"Yes, sir."

"That is the 'Virginia Gazette.'"

"Is it, sir?"

"Published at Williamsburg."

"I think I've heard of it, sir."

"Williamsburg, the centre of civilization, cultivation, and the other ations!" cried Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler savagely, and smiling with bitter scorn.

"Ah!" said Verty, finding that he was expected to say something.

"Yes! the Capital of Virginia, forsooth!"

"Has Williamsburg made you angry, sir?"

"Yes!"

"But the 'Gazette'—?"

"Is the immediate cause."

Verty sat down.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, smiling; "but I don't understand. I never read the newspapers. Nothing but the Bible—because Redbud wants me to: I hope to like it after awhile though."

"I trust you will never throw away your time on this thing!" cried Roundjacket, running the end of his ruler through the paper; "can you believe, sir, that the first canto of my great poem has been murdered in its columns—yes, murdered!"

"Killed, do you mean, sir?"

"I do—I mean that the illiterate editor of this disgraceful sheet has assassinated the offspring of my imagination!"

"That was very wrong, sir."

"Wrong? It was infamous? What should be done with such a man!" cried Roundjacket.

"Arrest him?" suggested Verty.

"It is not a statutable offence."

"What, sir?"

"Neglecting to send sheets to correct."

"Anan?" said Verty, who did not understand.

"I mean that I have not had an opportunity to correct the printed verses, sir; and that I complain of."

Verty nodded.

"Mark me," said Roundjacket; "the publisher, editor, or reviewer who does not send sheets to the author for correction, will inevitably perish, in the end, from the tortures of remorse!"

"Ah?" said Verty.

"Yes, sir! the pangs of a guilty conscience will not suffer him to sleep; and death only will end his miserable existence."

Which certainly had the air of an undoubted truth.

"See!" said Mr. Roundjacket, relapsing into the pathetic—"see how my unfortunate offspring has been mangled—maimed—a statutory offence—mayhem!—see Bacon's Abridgment, page ——; but I wander. See," continued Roundjacket, "that is all that is left of the original."

"Yes, sir," said Verty.

"The very first line is unrecognizable."

And Roundjacket put his handkerchief to his eyes and sniffled.

Verty tried not to smile.

"It's very unfortunate, sir," he said; "but perhaps the paper—I mean yours—was not written plain."

"Written plain!" cried Roundjacket, suppressing his feelings.

"Yes, sir—the manuscript, I believe, it is called."

"Well, no—it was not written plain—of course not."

Verty looked surprised, spite of his own suggestion.

"I thought you wrote as plain as print, Mr. Roundjacket."

"I do."

"Why then—?"

"Not do so in the present instance, do you mean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Young man," said Roundjacket, solemnly, "it is easy to see that you are shockingly ignorant of the proprieties of life—or you never would have suggested such a thing."

"What thing, sir?"

"Plain writing in an author."

"Oh!" said Verty.

"Mark me," continued Roundjacket, with affecting gravity, "the unmistakable evidence of greatness is not the brilliant eye, the fine forehead, or the firm-set lip; neither is the 'lion port' or noble carriage—it is far more simple, sir. It lies wholly in the hand-writing."

"Possible, sir?"

"Yes; highly probable even. No great man ever yet wrote legibly, and I hold that such a thing is conclusive evidence of a narrowness of intellect. Great men uniformly use a species of scrawl which people have to study, sir, before they can understand. Like the Oracles of Delphos, the manuscript is mysterious because it is profound. My own belief, sir, is, that Homer's manuscript—if he had one, which I doubt—resembled a sheet of paper over which a fly with inked feet has crawled;—and you may imagine, sir, the respect, and, I may add, the labor, of the old Greek type-setters in publishing the first edition of the Iliad."

This dissertation had the effect of diverting Mr. Roundjacket's mind temporarily from his affliction; but his grief soon returned in full force again.

"To think it!" he cried, flourishing his ruler, and ready to weep,—"to think that after taking all the trouble to disguise my clear running hand, and write as became an author of my standing—in hieroglyphics—to think that this should be the result of all my trouble."

Roundjacket sniffed.

"Don't be sorry," said Verty.

"I cannot refrain, sir," said Roundjacket, in a tone of acute agony; "it is more than I can bear. See here, sir, again: 'High Jove! great father!' is changed into 'By Jove, I'd rather!' and so on. Sir, it is more than humanity can bear; I feel that I shall sink under it. I shall be in bed to-morrow, sir—after all my trouble—'By Jove!'"

With this despairing exclamation Roundjacket let his head fall, overcome with grief, upon his desk, requesting not to be spoken to, after the wont of great unfortunates.

Verty seemed to feel great respect for this overwhelming grief; at least he did not utter any commonplace consolations. He also leaned upon his desk, and his idle hands traced idle lines upon the paper before him.

His dreamy eyes, full of quiet pleasure, fixed themselves upon the far distance—he was thinking of Redbud.

He finally aroused himself, however, and began to work. Half an hour, an hour, another hour passed—Verty was breaking himself into the traces; he had finished his work.

He rose, and going to Mr. Rushton's door, knocked and opened it. The lawyer was not there; Verty looked round—his companion was absorbed in writing.

Verty sat down in the lawyer's arm-chair.



CHAPTER L.

HOW VERTY DISCOVERED A PORTRAIT, AND WHAT ENSUED.

For some time the young man remained motionless and silent, thinking of Redbud, and smiling with the old proverbial delight of lovers, as the memory of her bright sweet face, and kind eyes, came to his thoughts.

There was now no longer any doubt, assuredly, that he was what was called "in love" with Redbud; Verty said as much to himself, and we need not add that when this circumstance occurs, the individual who comes to such conclusion, is no longer his own master, or the master of his heart, which is gone from him.

For as it is observable that persons often imagine themselves affected with material ailments when there is no good ground for such a supposition; so, on the other hand, is it true that those who labor under the disease of love are the last to know their own condition. As Verty, therefore, came to the conclusion that he must be "in love" with Redbud, we may form a tolerably correct idea of the actual fact.

Why should he not love her? Redbud was so kind, so tender; her large liquid eyes were instinct with such deep truth and goodness; in her fresh, frank face there was such radiant joy, and purity, and love! Surely, a mortal sin to do otherwise than love her! And Verty congratulated himself on exemption from this sad sin of omission.

He sat thus, looking with his dreamy smile through the window, across which the shadows of the autumn trees flitted and played. Listlessly he took up a pen, nibbed the feather with his old odd smile, and began to scrawl absently on the sheet of paper lying before him.

The words he wrote there thus unconsciously, were some which he had heard Redbud utter with her soft, kind voice, which dwelt in his memory.

"Trust in God."

This Verty wrote, scarcely knowing he did so; then he threw down the pen, and reclining in the old lawyer's study chair, fell into one of those Indian reveries which the dreamy forests seem to have taught the red men.

As the young man thus reclined in the old walnut chair, clad in his forest costume, with his profuse tangled curls, and smiling lips, and half-closed eyes, bathed in the vagrant gleams of golden sunlight, even Monsignor might have thought the picture not unworthy of his pencil. But he could not have reproduced the wild, fine picture; for in Verty's face was that dim and dreamy smile which neither pencil nor words can describe on paper or canvas.

At last he roused himself, and waked to the real life around him—though his thoughtful eyes were still overshadowed.

He looked around.

He had never been alone in Mr. Rushton's sanctum before, and naturally regarded the objects before him with curiosity.

There was an old press, covered with dust and cobwebs, on the top of which huge volumes of Justinian's Institutes frowned at the ceiling; a row of shelves which were crammed with law books; an old faded carpet covered with ink-splotches on his right hand, splotches evidently produced by the lawyer's habit of shaking the superfluous ink from his pen before he placed it upon the paper; a dilapidated chair or two; the rough walnut desk at which he sat, covered with papers, open law volumes, and red tape; and finally, a tall mantel-piece, on which stood a half-emptied ink bottle—which mantel-piece rose over a wide fire-place, surrounded with a low iron fender, on which a dislocated pair of tongs were exposed in grim resignation to the evils of old age.

There was little to interest Verty in all this—or in the old iron-bound trunks in the corners.

But his eye suddenly falls on a curtain, in the recess farthest from the door—the edge of a curtain; for the object which this curtain conceals, is not visible from the chair in which he sits.

Verty rises, and goes into the recess, and looks.

The curtain falls over a picture—Verty raises it, and stands in admiration before the portrait, which it covered.

"What a lovely child!" he exclaims. "I have never seen a prettier little girl in all my life! What beautiful hair she has!"

And Verty, with the curtain in his left hand, blows away the dust from the canvas.

The portrait is indeed exquisite. The picture represents a child of two or three years of age, of rare and surpassing beauty. Over its white brow hang long yellow ringlets—the eyes dance and play—the ripe, ruddy lips, resembling cherries, are wreathed with the careless laughter of infancy. The child wears a little blue frock which permits two round, fat arms to be seen; and one of the hands grasps a doll, drawn to the life. There is so much freshness and reality about the picture, that Verty exclaims a second time, "What a lovely little girl!"

Thus absorbed in the picture, he does not hear a growling voice in the adjoining room—is not conscious of the heavy step advancing toward the room he occupies—does not even hear the door open as the new comer enters.

"Who can she be!" murmurs the young man; "not Mr. Rushton's little daughter—I never heard that he was married, or had any children. Pretty little thing!"

And Verty smiled.

Suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a gruff, stern voice said:

"What are you doing, sir?"

Verty turned quickly; Mr. Rushton stood before him—gloomy, forbidding, with a heavy frown upon his brow.

"What are you prying into?" repeated the lawyer, angrily; "are you not aware, sir, that this is my private apartment? What has induced you to presume in such a manner?"

Verty was almost terrified by the sternness of these cold words, and looked down. Then conscious of the innocence of his action, raised his eyes, and said:

"I came in to give you the copy of the deed, sir,—and saw the curtain—and thought I would—"

"Pry into my secrets," said Mr. Rushton; "very well, sir!"

"I did not mean to pry," said Verty, proudly; "I did not think there was any harm in such a little thing. I hope, sir, you will not think I meant anything wrong," added Verty—"indeed I did not; and I only thought this was some common picture, with a curtain over it to keep off the dust."

But the lawyer, with a sudden change of manner, had turned his eyes to the portrait; and did not seem to hear the exclamation.

"I hope you will not think hard of me, Mr. Rushton," said Verty; "you have been very good to me, and I would not do anything to offend you or give you pain."

No answer was vouchsafed to this speech either. The rough lawyer, with more and more change in his expression, was gazing at the fresh portrait, the curtain of which Verty had thrown over one of the upper corners of the frame.

Verty followed the look of Mr. Rushton; and gazed upon the picture.

"It is very lovely," he said, softly; "I never saw a sweeter face."

The lawyer's breast heaved.

"And what ringlets—I believe they call 'em," continued Verty, absorbed in contemplating the portrait;—"I love the pretty little thing already, sir."

Mr. Rushton sat down in the chair, which Verty had abandoned, and covered his face.

"Did you know her?—but oh, I forgot!—how wrong in me!" murmured Verty; "I did not think that she might be—Mr. Rushton—forgive my—"

The lawyer, with his face still covered, motioned toward the door.

"Must I go, sir?"

"Yes—go," came from the lips which uttered a groan—a groan of such anguish, that Verty almost groaned in unison.

And murmuring "Anna! Anna!" the lawyer shook.

The young man went toward the door. As he opened it, he heard an exclamation behind him.

He turned his head.

"What's this!" cried the lawyer, in a tone between a growl and a sob.

"What, sir?"

"This paper."

"Sir?"

"This paper with—with—'Trust in God' on it; did you write it?"

"I—I—must—yes—I suppose I did, sir," stammered Verty, almost alarmed by the tone of his interlocutor.

"What did you mean?"

"Nothing, sir!"

"You had the boldness to write this canting—hypocritical—"

"Oh, Mr. Rushton!"

"You wrote it?"

"Yes, sir; and it is right, though I did'nt mean to write it—or know it."

"Very grand!"

"Sir?"

"You bring your wretched—"

"Oh, I did'nt know I wrote it even, sir! But indeed that is not right, sir. All of us ought to trust in God, however great our afflictions are, sir."

"Go!" cried the lawyer, rising with a furious gesture—"away, sir! Preach not to me—you may be right—but take your sermons elsewhere. Look there, sir! at that portrait!—look at me now, a broken man—think that—but this is folly! Leave me to myself!"

And strangling a passionate sob, the lawyer sank again into his chair, covering his face.



CHAPTER LI.

A CHILD AND A LOGICIAN.

To describe the astonishment of Verty, as he hastily went out and closed the door, would be impossible. His face passed from red to pale, his eyes were full of bewilderment—he sat down, scarcely knowing what he did,

Roundjacket sat writing at his desk, and either had not heard, or pretended that he had not, any portion of the passionate colloquy.

Verty could do nothing all day, for thinking of the astonishing scene he had passed through. Why should there be anything offensive in raising the curtain of a portrait? Why should so good a man as Mr. Rushton, address such insulting and harsh words to him for such a trifling thing? How was it possible that the simple words, 'Trust in God,' had been the occasion of such anger, nay, almost fury?

The longer Verty pondered, the less he understood; or at least he understood no better than before, which amounted precisely to no understanding at all.

He got through his day after a very poor fashion; and, going along under the evening skies, cudgelled his brains, for the thousandth time, for some explanation of this extraordinary circumstance. In vain! the explanation never came; and finding himself near Apple Orchard, the young man determined to banish the subject, and go in and see Redbud.

The young girl had been imprudent in remaining out so late, on the preceding evening, and her cold had returned, with slight fever, which, however, gave her little inconvenience.

She lay upon the sofa, near the open window, with a shawl over her feet, and, when Verty entered, half-rose, only giving him her hand tenderly.

Verty sat down, and they began, to talk in the old, friendly way; and, as the evening deepened, to laugh and mention old things which they both remembered—uniting thus in the dim twilight all the golden threads which bind the present to the past—gossamer, which are not visible by the glaring daylight, but are seen when the soft twilight descends on the earth.

Redbud even, at Verty's request, essayed one of the old Scottish songs which he was fond of; and the gentle carol filled the evening with its joy and musical delight. This was rather dangerous in Verty—surely he was quite enough in love already! Why should he rivet the fetters, insist upon a new set of shackles, and a heavier chain!

Verty told Redbud of the singular circumstance of the morning, and demanded an explanation. Her wonder was as great as his own, however; and she remained silently gazing at the sunset, and pondering. A shake of the head betrayed her want of success in this attempt to unravel the mystery, especially the lawyer's indignation at the words written by Verty.

They passed from this to quite a grave discussion upon the truth of the maxim in question, which Redbud and her companion, we may imagine, did not differ upon. The girl had just said—"For you know, Verty, everything is for the best, and we should not murmur,"—when a gruff voice at the door replied:

"Pardon me, Miss Redbud—that is a pretty maxim—nothing more, however."

And Mr. Rushton, cold and impassable, came in with the jovial Squire.

"So busy talking, young people, that you could not even look out the window when I approach with visitors, eh?" cried the Squire, chuckling Miss Redbud under the chin, and driving the breath out of Verty's body by a friendly slap upon that gentleman's back. "Well, here we are, and there's Lavinia—bless her heart—with an expression which indicates protestation at the loudness of my voice, ha! ha!"

And the Squire laughed in a way which shook the windows.

Miss Lavinia smiled in a solemn manner, and busied herself about tea.

Redbud turned to Mr. Rushton, who had seated himself with an expression of grim reserve, and, smiling, said:

"I did not hear you—exactly what you said—as you came in, you know, Mr. Rushton—"

"I said that your maxim, 'All is for the best,' is a pretty maxim, and no more," replied the lawyer, regarding Verty with an air of rough indifference, as though he tad totally forgotten the scene of the morning.

"I'm sure you are wrong, sir," Redbud said.

"Very likely—to be taught by a child!" grumbled the lawyer.

Redbud caught the words.

"I know I ought not to dispute with you, sir," she said; "but what I said is in the Bible, and you know that cannot contain what is not true."

"Hum!" said Mr. Rushton. "That was an unhappy age—and the philosophy of Voltaire and Rousseau had produced its effect even on the strongest minds."

"God does all for the best, and He is a merciful and loving Being," said Redbud. "Even if we suffer here, in this world, every affliction, we know that there is a blessed recompense in the other world."

"Humph!—how?" said the skeptic.

"By faith?"

"What is faith?" he said, looking carelessly at the girl.

"I don't know that I can define it better than belief and trust in God," said Redbud.

These were the words which Verty had written on the paper.

The glance of the lawyer fell upon the young man's face, and from it passed to the innocent countenance of Redbud. She had evidently uttered the words without the least thought of the similarity.

"Humph," said the lawyer, frowning, "that is very fine, Miss; but suppose we cannot see anything to give us a very lively—faith, as you call it."

"Oh, but you may, sir!"

"How?"

"Everywhere there are evidences of God's goodness and mercy. You cannot doubt that."

A shadow passed over the rough face.

"I do doubt it," was on his lips, but he could not, rude as he was, utter such a sentence in presence of the pure, childlike girl.

"Humph," he said, with his habitual growl, "suppose a man is made utterly wretched in this world—"

"Yes, sir."

"And without any fault of his own suffers horribly," continued the lawyer, sternly.

"We are all faulty, sir."

"I mean—did anybody ever hear such reasoning! Excuse me, but I am a little out of sorts," he growled, apologetically—"I mean that you may suppose a man to suffer some peculiar torture—torture, you understand—which he has not deserved. I suppose that has happened; how can such a man have your faith, and love, and trust, and all that—if we must talk theology!" growled the bearish speaker.

"But, Mr. Rushton," said Redbud, "is not heaven worth all the world and its affections?"

"Yes—your heaven is."

"My heaven—?"

"Yes, yes—heaven!" cried the lawyer, impatiently—"everybody's heaven that chooses. But you were about to say—"

"This, sir: that if heaven is so far above earth, and those who are received there by God, enjoy eternal happiness—"

"Very well!"

"That this inestimable gift is cheaply bought by suffering in this world;—that the giver of this great good has a right to try even to what may seem a cruel extent, the faith and love of those for whom he decrees this eternal bliss. Is not that rational, sir?"

"Yes, and theological—what, however, is one to do if the said love and faith sink and disappear—are drowned in tears, or burnt up in the fires of anguish and despair."

"Pray, sir," said Redbud, softly.

The lawyer growled.

"To whom? To a Being whom we have no faith in—whom such a man has no faith in, I mean to say—to the hand that struck—which we can only think of as armed with an avenging sword, or an all-consuming firebrand! Pray to one who stands before us as a Nemesis of wrath and terror, hating and ready to crush us?—humph!"

And the lawyer wiped his brow.

"Can't we think of the Creator differently," said Redbud, earnestly.

"How?"

"As the Being who came down upon the earth, and suffered, and wept tears of blood, was buffeted and crowned with thorns, and crucified like a common, degraded slave—all because he loved us, and would not see us perish? Oh! Mr. Rushton, if there are men who shrink from the terrible God—who cannot love that phase of the Almighty, why should they not turn to the Saviour, who, God as he was, came down and suffered an ignominious death, because he loved them—so dearly loved them!"

Mr. Rushton was silent for a moment; then he said, coldly:

"I did not intend to talk upon these subjects—I only intended to say, that trusting in Providence, as the phrase is, sounds very grand; and has only the disadvantage of not being very easy. Come, Miss Redbud, suppose we converse on the subject of flowers, or something that is more light and cheerful."

"Yes, sir, I will; but I don't think anything is more cheerful than Christianity, and I love to talk about it. I know what you say about the difficulty of trusting wholly in God, is true; it is very hard. But oh! Mr. Rushton, believe me, that such trust will not be in vain; even in this world Our Father often shows us that he pities our sufferings, and His hand heals the wound, or turns aside the blow. Oh, yes, sir! even in this world the clouds are swept away, and the sun shines again; and the heart which has trusted in God finds that its trust was not in vain in the Lord. Oh! I'm sure of it, sir!—I feel it—I know that it is true!"

And Redbud, buried in thought, looked through the window—silent, after these words which we have recorded.

The lawyer only looked strangely at her—muttered his "humph," and turned away. Verty alone saw the spasm which he had seen in the morning pass across the rugged brow.

While this colloquy had been going on, the Squire had gone into his apartment to wash his hands; and now issuing forth, requested an explanation of the argument he had heard going on. This explanation was refused with great bearishness by the lawyer, and Redbud said they had only been talking about Providence.

The Squire said that was a good subject; and then going to his escritoire took out some papers, placed them on the mantel-piece, and informed Mr. Rushton that those were the documents he desired.

The lawyer greeted this information with his customary growl, and taking them, thrust them into his pocket. He then made a movement to go; but the Squire persuaded him to stay and have a cup of tea. Verty acquiesced in his suggestion that he should spend the evening, with the utmost readiness—ma mere would not think it hard if he remained an hour, he said.

And so the cheerful meal was cheerfully spread, and the twigs in the fire-place crackled, and diffused their brief, mild warmth through the cool evening air, and Caesar yawned upon the rug, and all went merrily.

The old time-piece overhead ticked soberly, and the soft face of Redbud's mother looked down from its frame upon them; and the room was full of cheerfulness and light.

And still the old clock ticked and ticked, and carried all the world toward eternity; the fire-light crackled, and the voices laughed;—the portrait looked serenely down, and smiled.



CHAPTER LII.

HOW MR. JINKS DETERMINED TO SPARE VERTY.

Ralph stretched himself.

Mr. Jinks sipped his rum, and ruminated.

Ralph was smiling; Mr. Jinks scowling, and evidently busy with great thoughts, which caused his brows to corrugate into hostile frowns.

It was the room of Mr. Jinks, in Bousch's tavern, which saw the companions seated thus opposite to each other—the time, after breakfast; the aim of the parties, discussion upon any or every topic.

Mr. Jinks was clad in his habitual costume: half dandy, half militaire; and when he moved, his great sword rattled against his grasshopper legs in a way terrifying to hear.

Ralph, richly dressed as usual, and reclining in his chair, smiled lazily, and looked at the scowling Mr. Jinks. The apartment in which the worthies were seated was one possessing the advantages of dormer windows, and an extensive prospect over the roofs of Winchester; the furniture was rough; and in the corner a simple couch stood, whereon Mr. Jinks reposed himself at night.

While the various events which we have lately adverted to have been occurring, Mr. Jinks has not forgotten that triple and grand revenge he swore.

Mr. Jinks has un-christian feelings against three persons, for three reasons:

First, against Verty: the cause being that gentleman's defiance and disregard of himself on various occasions; also his rivalry in love.

Second, against Miss Sallianna: beautiful and perfidious; the cause: slights put on his youthful love.

Third, against O'Brallaghan; the cause: impudence on various occasions, and slanderous reports relating to cabbaged cloth since the period of their dissolving all connection with each other.

Mr. Jinks has revolved, in the depths of his gloomy soul, these darling projects, and has, perforce of his grand faculty of invention, determined upon his course in two out of the three affairs.

Verty annoys him, however. Mr. Jinks has ceased to think of a brutal, ignoble contest with vulgar fists or weapons ever since the muzzle of Verty's rifle invaded his ruffles on the morning of his woes. He would have a revenge worthy of himself—certain, complete, and above all, quite safe. Mr. Jinks would wile the affections of Miss Redbud from him, fixing the said affections on himself; but that is not possible, since the young lady in question has gone home, and Apple Orchard is too far to walk. Still Mr. Jinks does not despair of doing something; and this something is what he seeks and ruminates upon, as the mixed rum and water glides down his throat.