"I have told you what a splendid voice your grandfather had. Brother Barnes was the only one of the five children who inherited it, and with it a very quick ear for music. I remember hearing mother say, that when he was three and four years old, he was often called upon to sing for our friends, who not unfrequently rewarded his talent with presents; however, at the time when his voice changed, it completely lost its musical qualities, to our great regret.

"As he grew older, he developed a taste for argument, that would have done him good service had he been able to follow out his darling project of becoming a lawyer; indeed, as it was, he was always called upon, unprofessionally, to settle the neighbors' disputes, and was renowned for making all the love-matches of the neighborhood. In his reading he had rather a peculiar taste; he delighted in theological and controversial books, and I never knew any one who was more thoroughly acquainted with the Bible. He could not only give the precise chapter and verse from which any text was taken, but was able to detect the slightest verbal error in the quotation.

"He had a passion for preaching, and although unordained, was always ready to deliver a sermon whenever he could find a vacant church and an audience.

"Every one in America has heard of your papa's benevolent disposition, and the amount he used to spend in private charities. Your Uncle Barnes was, if possible, more generous. I have known him to part with his last dollar to relieve another from want or embarrassment, and this was not done through weakness or inability to refuse, but from a genuine impulse of sympathy with those in need.

"I am very proud to say of my only surviving brother, that although he has never had the advantage of a good education, he has lived to the age of sixty without indulging in tobacco, wine, or profane language, and has brought up his boys in the same temperate habits."

"How many children has Uncle Barnes, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida. "I have, I think, seen only three."

"There are ten living," replied mamma. "Brother Barnes, you know, has been twice married. His first wife was a woman of fine character, but became, soon after her marriage, a confirmed invalid, and brother Barnes' constant attention and care of her during her years of illness was almost unparalleled for devotion.

"Victoria is the oldest of the children: she was a very bright, clever little girl, and a great pet with mother, as she was the first grandchild born at home. Sister Arminda's children, living at some distance, were not so available for instruction, and in that occupation consisted mother's happiness. She taught Victoria to read when she was two years and a half old, and I remember seeing her stand, a few years later, at mother's knee, reading one of Hans Christian Andersen's stories, with the tears streaming down her cheeks at the pathos—a proof of appreciation that delighted mother's heart.

"Victoria is married, and lives in Kansas. She is a fine, intelligent woman, and since the loss of her little girl, last winter, has shown a strong disposition to write. She has the ability to do so, and if her health and her home duties permit, I am sure she will make a clever writer.

"Horace, whom you have seen, is next Victoria in age; he is also married, and lives in New Jersey.

"Two married daughters, Mary and Esther, follow. Mary's mind resembles mother's in her grasp for politics and history, but she inherits her own mother's feeble health, which unfits her for giving expression to her masculine intellect. Esther, who was named for me, is a sweet and lovely woman, and a devoted wife and mother.

"Poor Woodburn came next on the list—a sensitive, silent youth, more resembling his Uncle Horace than any of the other children. You all recollect his sad death three years ago.

"Oscar and Clarence are the youngest of Sally's, the first wife's, children. Clarence is the cleverest of the family among the boys. He is very well educated, and now supports himself as a land surveyor, although not yet twenty years old."

"Where does he live, Aunt Esther?" inquired Gabrielle, "With his father?"

"No; in Kansas with Victoria," was the reply. "I must not forget to tell you that he taught school in Indiana when only sixteen years old, and received a diploma from the State. His half-sister, Eugenia, who is only fourteen, has had very pretty verses published in different New York journals."

"Did Aunt Margaret receive as good an education as you did, when a young girl, mamma?" inquired Marguerite. "I remember hearing you say that you were sent away to school for two or three years."

"No," replied mamma, "her advantages for learning were not so good as mine; indeed, I was her principal teacher. As I have told you, I went to school very little as a child, and the village school at Vermont gave only the most meagre and elementary instruction, but I was always an eager reader of whatever came in my way, as well as an attentive listener, and thus I contrived while in the woods to pick up considerable information. I remember seeing at that time in a neighbor's house, a little, cheaply bound volume, 'Blair's Rhetoric,' which so interested me that I offered to take care of the owner's baby for two weeks, if she would give me the book. A bargain was accordingly made; I 'tended baby' for fifteen days, and received in exchange the precious volume, which I studied until I learnt it by heart.

"Then I saved pennies until I had collected a sufficient number to send to Erie and purchase a copy of Comstock's Natural Philosophy—the first one by the way that had ever been brought into our township—and these two books, together with my self-acquired knowledge, and my own experience of two years as a teacher, sufficed to fit me to enter the Fredonia Academy, and to compete fairly with the other girls whose instruction had not been so dearly bought.

"I spent four of the happiest years of my life in school at Fredonia, and only regretted that sister Margaret could not have shared my advantages.

"Meantime, Margaret commenced to teach school at the age of fifteen, and continued to do so, until she was married, when twenty years old, giving great satisfaction to every one. She has, you know, three children. Her two boys, Eugene and Arthur, are promising young men, and are both employed in The Tribune office. Arthur is married, and has several children. We all know how pretty his sister Evangeline is; she, you know, is to become Mrs. Dr. Ross this winter."

[1] Here a line is missing.



CHAPTER XX.

A Quiet Household—Absence of Marguerite and Gabrielle—Amusing Letters from them—A Gypsy Fortune-teller—Marguerite returns with a Visitor—The Harvest Moon—Preparing for Company—Arranging the Blue Room—Intense Anticipation—"'He Cometh Not,' She Said."

August 14.

Our little household has been unusually quiet for the past week, owing to the absence of the two lively members of the family, Marguerite and Gabrielle, who are visiting friends by the seaside and upon the shores of Seneca Lake. Their absence makes a great change in the ways of the household, for Ida and I have not the high spirits and constant flow of words that distinguish our sisters, and we spend our time as quietly and busily as two little nuns, not even dreaming of asking any one to come up from the city and pass Saturday with us. We miss them very much, especially at the table, and in the half hour after tea, when we always gather about mamma's sofa for a little chat, before separating for our evening's work—writing, practising, or whatever it may be.

Ida and I usually form the audience upon these occasions, and listen with great interest to Marguerite's entertaining stories of adventures at home and abroad, or Gabrielle's droll mimicry of the strongly marked characteristics of some one she has met or dreamed of. Sometimes the candles are extinguished, and a ghost story is told, for Gabrielle is fond of the supernatural, and her dramatic style of narration adds much to our enjoyment; indeed, chancing the other day to read in a magazine one of her pet stories, I was astonished to find how tame it sounded.

Ida and I find, however, some compensation for our sisters' absence in their sprightly letters, which arrive while we are at the tea-table. Marguerite writes every day, and her letters are inimitable in their humor and esprit, for she writes exactly as she talks. She is visiting some friends whose acquaintance we made in Paris, and who have a beautiful country-seat upon Long Island. Her letters are filled with accounts of drives, fishing-parties, and excursions in yachts and row-boats, and, lastly, of meeting a real gypsy encampment (not the time-honored one in "Trovatore") and having her fortune told.

A gypsy woman, it seems, stopped the carriage as Marguerite was driving past, and expressed so strong a desire to "unveil the future for the young lady," that Marguerite consented, and held out her hand. Quite scornfully the gypsy said that her own palm must first be crossed with money. Marguerite accordingly gave her a dollar bill, thinking that would be the full value of any fortune she would receive from a wandering gypsy, but the money was indignantly returned—the oracle did not tell one-dollar fortunes.

Somewhat astonished at so extensive a demand upon her purse, Marguerite gave her another dollar, whereupon the gypsy at once declared that the young lady had a lucky face, and would never want for anything during her life. The usual dark and fair gentlemen figured largely in her fortune, and—with a glance at Marguerite's blonde complexion—she was to beware the treachery of a brunette rival; however, she was destined to triumph in the end, and would indeed succeed in all her undertakings. I am sure the gypsy could have promised no less, considering the high price she placed upon her predictions.

Gabrielle's experience is very different. She is visiting a former schoolmate, a young girl of her own age. Bessie is now a pupil of Vassar College, and enthusiastic over her studies: consequently the amusements of the two girls are of a very sedate nature: in Gabrielle's words, "A hermit in his cell, my dear Cecilia, never had a more quiet life than I at present enjoy."

She and Bessie had commenced, Gabrielle told me, to write a story together. The debut was most brilliant, and for a time they worked very harmoniously, but unluckily the two little authoresses had different views respecting the proposal (not drawn from life, I imagine, considering their years), and in Gabrielle's letter of yesterday no mention was made of the progress of the story.

The letter, which was very vivacious, was chiefly devoted to the girls' exploits while taking a buggy drive. Gabrielle, who is so fearless with her own ponies, quite scorned the lamb-like animal that was sent up from the livery stable, but she appears to have had much diversion, nevertheless, to judge from her letter. She says:

"Yesterday I tried to break the monotony of life at Seneca Lake by hiring a buggy and horse for Bessie and me to drive. You should have heard the shriek of horror that rent the air at the approach of the peaceful old nag. Miss Carpenter exclaimed:

"'Oh mercy, he points his ears!'

"Poor beast, his ears were pointed by nature, and he could not help it. Mrs. Brown burst forth to the astonished stableman:

"'Does he kick, roll, rear, bite, or shy? Tell me quick, for I know he must do some of them.'

"We did have our drive though, and an adventure too, for we were caught in the rain, and entered a barn where a handsome young man acted the part of host, and generously bestowed hay upon our horse."

August 16.

A telegram last night from Marguerite, saying, "Will come on the early train with the Honorable Francis"—a very pleasant surprise, for, knowing the habits of that gentleman, we had supposed him to be, if not at the Antipodes, at least in Europe; accordingly, we went down to meet the train in quite a flutter of excitement.

Mr. Colton is "honorable" from having represented his government for four years at Venice. In appearance he is tall and swarthy, with a foreign and picturesque cast of features not unlike the Italian type: a "lovely brigand" we sometimes call him. Notwithstanding his easy and somewhat nonchalant air, he is a true American in his active and restless disposition and his love for travelling. I would be afraid to state the number of miles he has travelled since we made his acquaintance in Paris four years ago, and I have known him to start at forty-eight hours' notice to make a tour of the world.

Mr. Colton made us a visit of two days, and was sufficiently enthusiastic over dear Chappaqua to satisfy even our exacting demands.

We had some sport over the probable speculations of the telegraph operators concerning our visitor. Out of mischief, Marguerite had mentioned him in her telegram merely as "the Honorable Francis;" for so deep an interest is taken in the messages we receive and send, that we enjoy puzzling the operators a little; indeed, we may say that our telegrams are common property here, for seldom do we receive them until they have been carefully read by the telegraph and railroad officials, and then handed to any interested outsider who may chance to be in the office. I will give a little scene that occurred not long ago, by way of illustration.

Our friend Mr. A—— alights from the morning train, and is welcomed by a friend of his who is stopping for a week or so in Chappaqua.

"Delighted to see you, A——. Knew you were coming up this morning, so thought I would run down to the train and meet you."

"How in the world did you know I was coming, my dear fellow?" inquires the astonished A——. "You don't know Mrs. Cleveland or her niece, do you?"

"No, I don't know them," is the prompt reply, "but I was in the telegraph office yesterday, and saw your acceptance when it arrived."

TABLEAU.

August 19.

I am not partial to Friday, as it is often an unlucky day for me—a superstition that has come down to me from grandmamma; but, although I try to think it absurd, our experience of yesterday proved a singular confirmation.

Ida and I had thought to celebrate the return of Marguerite and Gabrielle by inviting several friends from the city to enjoy the delicious moonlight with us. Mamma accordingly wrote the invitations, and we at once commenced our preparations. The fete we decided should last three days, and was to commence Friday afternoon—ominous day! We were to have moonlight walks and drives; we were to kindle a fire of pine cones and charcoal upon the beach at Rye Lake, and boil the kettle and make tea; a boat was to be placed upon our own little pond, and a tent pitched near by; and, last and most brilliant, Ida's lovely Southern friend, Miss Worthington, and Gabrielle, were to occupy the tent, dressed as gypsies, and tell the fortunes of the company.

We could scarcely wait for Friday to arrive, but there were many preparations to be made, so we curbed our impatience and worked very industriously. As we were now seven in the household, not counting the servants, and had invited quite a number of guests, the resources of our house were not extensive enough to stow them all away, consequently we spent a lively morning at the side-hill house fitting up three rooms, with Minna's assistance.

The blue room, with its pretty outlook upon the meadows, was our favorite, and upon it we bestowed the most attention. The carpet was gray and blue, of an especially pretty pattern, and the handsome marble-topped bureau, exhumed from the never-failing resources of the house in the woods, looked as fresh as though purchased yesterday. We made the bed with our own hands, touching with reverent care the superb blankets with their inscription:

"To Horace Greeley, the Protector of American Industry."

Then, when the blue silk eider-down counterpane was adjusted to our satisfaction, and one or two little ornaments added to the bureau and chimney-piece—"Cupid" in the Naples Gallery, and my dear Lela's portrait, both framed in blue velvet, and a beautiful Sevres vase which mamma calls "the one that Pickie didn't break" (his little hands destroyed its mate)—we congratulated ourselves upon the effect of the room.

Apropos of the Cupid, Ida sent it last winter with Annibal Caracci's "Magdalen" and one or two other religious pictures to be framed at Schaus'. When they were sent home, to our surprise, the frames were all surmounted by crosses—an emblem that, although quite en regle for the Holy Magdalen, was, we thought, singularly inappropriate for Cupid. Stopping in at Schaus' a day or two later, I inquired of young Mr. Schaus, to whose taste we had left the selection of the frames, his reason for this extraordinary innovation. His reply was as naive as unexpected:

"But, mademoiselle, does Cupid, then, never meet with crosses?"

Having done our best for the blue room, we walked over the grounds to see that they were all in order, and when we had admired the pretty blue boat, the white tent, and the water-lilies in full bloom (planted that morning), and gone down to the express office to receive a package due by the ten o'clock train—a copy of the poems of one of the expected guests, which was to be left carelessly in his room with a mark at one of the ballads,—we congratulated ourselves that we had done all in our power to make the rooms look tasteful and pretty.

Lina was in her glory, having had an unrestricted order to do her best. I had a slight foreboding of disappointment, as it was Friday, remembering, too, that the dining-room was lighted by three candles the previous night (a French superstition); but we all dressed in good spirits.

The somewhat spectral appearance of five ladies in mourning was somewhat relieved by the recent addition to our little circle, Miss Worthington, whose dress, though black, was enlivened by a little dash of pale blue—a most becoming match for her fair complexion and golden curls.

We did not wish to ruffle our hair unnecessarily by playing croquet or walking, so we all sat very sedately in the music-room watching for the 5.15 train to arrive. It came at last. We rushed out on the piazza, but recognized no one among the few passengers who alighted.

Disappointment number one. However, they will surely come at half-past six, we argued, and taking up some books and work, we waited patiently until the next train arrived. Again we ran out upon the piazza. Papa was upon the platform at the depot, but we saw no other figure that looked familiar.

"What did I tell you, Ida," said I solemnly, "when, against my entreaties, three candles were lighted last night?"

Never before was papa so long in walking up from the station—I suppose for the reason that he came laden with messages, notes, and telegrams. His "young chief" was detained in the editorial rooms by affairs of great moment; another gentleman had been summoned to the bedside of his father, who was in a dying condition; two other gentlemen had plunged rashly into the preliminary steps to matrimony, and were, I suppose, engaged in serenading their fiancees, while the other two had apparently been made way with, for from them we had no message of any sort.

The crowning injury was the receipt of a book from a friend who is in the habit of supplying me with the latest novels. Usually I am pleased with the books she sends me, but a glance at the title, "'He Cometh Not,' She Said," made me hurl it to the farthest corner of the room; that was too much for any one to bear.

We sat down with small appetites to the elaborate dinner that Lina had prepared, and went gloomily to bed at an early hour.



CHAPTER XXI.

The Story of Mr. Greeley's Parents continued—He accompanies his Mother to New Hampshire—Her Sisters—Three Thanksgivings in One Year—Pickie as a Baby—His Childhood—Mrs. Greeley's Careful Training—His Playthings—His Death—A Letter from Margaret Fuller.

August 31.

"Mammi," said I, waking from a deep reverie as I sat beside our bright wood-fire (for we have had two days of dashing rain, and fires have not been at all disagreeable), "did grandpapa ever return to New Hampshire after he left it in 1821?"

"No, my dear," was the reply; "he never returned, nor did he manifest any desire to see his former home and his old friends again. I suppose that all of his pleasant recollections of New Hampshire were superseded by the thought that it was the scene of his bankruptcy, and his proud spirit shrunk from meeting those who might remember that he had left Amherst a fugitive. He was deeply attached to his forest home, and I do not think he ever had an hour of discomfort after he came there. Father always expressed the wish that he might be buried upon his farm. His old age was very serene and happy; he lived to see his 'hole in the forest' become an extensive farm, and the vast wilderness that had surrounded him disappear, while the little tavern and cluster of log-houses across the State line from us grew to be the village of Clymer.

"Father died in 1867, at the age of eighty-seven.

"As for mother, she had the happiness before her death of seeing her fondly loved relatives once more. In the autumn of 1843, mother and I went to New Hampshire to visit the old home and friends. Father was urged to accompany us, but he chose to cling to his Western home. For the third time I now travelled in a canal-boat, but this time it was a packet, and not one of the slow 'line-boats' that I described to you in speaking of our journey from Vermont to Pennsylvania.

"Brother Horace accompanied us from New York to New Hampshire, where we spent several weeks visiting mother's old friends and relatives. The meeting between mother and her sister, Aunt Margaret Dickey, was especially tender, for they had been separated many years, and did not expect to meet again.

"Aunt Margaret is still living, although now in her ninetieth year. I remember hearing that she read your uncle's 'Recollections,' as they appeared in the Ledger, with the liveliest interest. She was at that time eighty-four years old.

"In her youth Aunt Margaret was a decided beauty, with luxuriant hair of the real golden shade, neither flaxen, ash-color, nor red. She was naturally refined and amiable.

"From New Hampshire we went to Fitchburg, Massachusetts, where mother's half-sister, Sally, resided. Aunt Sally was doubly my aunt, having married father's brother, Dustin Greeley. She was a slender, handsome woman, with blue eyes and light hair, and possessed mother's happy temperament, which all the trials of her hard life had not been able to change.

"That year I celebrated three Thanksgivings within as many weeks."

"Pray how did that happen, auntie?" inquired Gabrielle, who had just entered the room.

"Thanksgiving Day was not then restricted to the last Thursday in the month," was the reply, "but was appointed by the Governor of each State at any time that he saw fit between harvest and the holidays; therefore, being in three different States within a month, I had three Thanksgiving dinners.

"When we returned to New York, we stopped for a short visit at Turtle Bay. Pickie was then eight months old, and as sweet and poetic-looking as one of Correggio's cherubs. Your mamma was then in the first flush of her maternal enthusiasm. She and your papa were desirous that mother should remain in New York and spend the winter with them; but fondly as she loved your papa, and dear as her daughter-in-law and her little grandson were to her, she felt that her duty and her strongest love recalled her to her husband and her home in the woods. She returned to Pennsylvania, and took up again her life of daily care, but she brought back little joy with her, although no word of discontent escaped her. Her favorite seat was by the window looking east, and there we often surprised her gazing with an intent look down the road. When we would ask her if she was expecting any one, or for whom she was looking, she would say with a startled expression, 'Oh, no one;' but we always fancied that she was thinking of her early home that she had now left forever.

"A year or two later, slowly, silently, and peacefully she passed away."

"I thought, auntie," said Gabrielle, "that you lived with mamma when Pickie was a baby. I am sure I have heard her say that you helped her to take care of him."

"That is true, dear," replied mamma, "but I did not remain in New York at the time of which we are now speaking. I accompanied mother home to Pennsylvania, and the following spring, when Pickie was a year old, your mamma wrote to ask me to come back, and assist her in the care of her beautiful boy. I remained with her until my marriage, consequently Pickie became very near to me, and his death was almost as great a shock to me as it was to his parents."

"Do tell us, mamma," said Marguerite, "about Pickie's childhood. I have always heard that he was brought up in a very remarkable way, but beyond the fact of Aunt Mary's great devotion to him, I know very little concerning him."

"Your Aunt Mary," mamma replied, "looked upon Pickie's birth as much in the light of a miracle as if no other child had ever before been born. He was Heaven-sent to her, and she sacrificed herself completely for the better development of Pickie's individuality, or, to use the language of the reformers of those days, in 'illustrating the independence of the child's self-hood.' Nothing could have been more boundless than her enthusiasm for her baby; and it was night and day her study to guard his health, and to watch and cherish his opening intellect. No child prince could have been more tenderly and daintily nurtured than he was; as his father often said, 'Pickie is a dear boy in every sense of the word;' for nothing was too rare or too costly for him.

"You have heard of the brilliancy of his complexion: this was owing in part to his mother's watchful care of his diet, and to his bathing. An hour was allowed for his daily bath, and for brushing out his luxuriant, silken hair. This was one of my duties, and no doubt it was that scrupulous care that gave it so rare a shade.

"As for his food, it was quite peculiar. He never ate baker's bread, nor indeed any bread prepared by other hands than his mother's or mine, and he was not given meat or cake—with the exception of oatmeal cake—while candies, or indeed sugar in any form, butter, and salt were rigidly excluded from his diet; but white grapes, and every choice fruit that this or foreign markets afforded, he was allowed to eat in abundance, and the result of this system was a sturdy constitution, and a complexion unparalleled for beauty.

"I said that he never ate butter; but cream and milk were given him instead."

"What sort of toys did he have, mamma?" I inquired. "I can never imagine him playing with dolls like an ordinary child."

"He never did," replied mamma; "his toys, like his meals, were peculiar. One of the largest rooms in the house was chosen for his nursery, and as his mother would not have a carpet upon the floor, it was scrubbed daily. Here his playthings were kept—a singular assortment one would think them, but your aunt seldom gave him what would simply amuse him for the moment, but sought rather to surround him by objects that would suggest ideas to his mind—on a plan somewhat like that of the Kindergarten system, but more poetic, and entirely original with herself. He had lovely pictures, and a real violin, while the shops were constantly searched for whatever was curious, instructive, or beautiful.

"Pickie's mind and conversation were very unlike those of the children even of our best families, for he never had children for playfellows, and those friends whom his mother permitted to be near him were of the most cultivated and noble character. His language consequently was as choice as that of the minds who surrounded him, and very quaint it sounded from a child's lips. At this time Margaret Fuller was with us, and Pickie lived in most intimate relations to this pure, high-minded woman.

"In her care to prevent Pickie from knowing of the existence of wickedness and cruelty in this world, your Aunt Mary would rarely permit him to converse long with any save the chosen few that I have mentioned, lest the innocence of his child-mind should be shocked by hearing of war, or murder, or cruelty to animals, while she was ever guarding him lest his eyes might rest upon some painful or disagreeable object."

"Don't you think, mamma," said Marguerite, "that that letter of Margaret Fuller's upon Pickie's death shows remarkable feeling for a child unrelated to her?"

"Which letter?" inquired Ida.

"The one that is copied in the 'Recollections,'" was the reply.

"I think," returned Ida, "that the one she wrote to papa which has never been published is much finer."

"Oh, do read it to us," said Marguerite. So, unlocking a little box, Ida took out a sheet quite yellow and worn, and read it to us:

"RIETI, August 25, 1848.

"MY BELOVED FRIEND:—Bitterest tears alone can answer those words—Pickie is dead. My heart has all these years presaged them. I have suffered not a few sleepless hours thinking of our darling, haunted with fears never again to see his sweet, joyous face which on me, also, always looked with love and trust. But I always thought of small-pox. Now how strangely snatched from you, oh poor mother; how vain all your feverish care night and day to ward off the least possible ill from that fair frame. Oh, how pathetic it seems to think of all that was done for dear, dear Pickie to build up strong that temple from which the soul departed so easily.

"You say I left him too soon to know him well, but it was not so. I had spiritual sight of the child, and knew his capacities. I hoped to be of use to him if he lived, for sweet was our communion beside the murmuring river, and when he imitated the low voices of the little brook, or telling him stories in my room, which even then he well understood. A thousand times I have thought of the time when he first said the word Open to get into my room, and my heart always was open to him. He was my consolation in hours sadder than you ever guessed—my spring-flower, my cheerful lark. None but his parents could love him so well; no child, except little Waldo Emerson, had I ever so loved. In both I saw the promise of a great future: its realization is deferred to some other sphere; ere long may we follow and aid it there.

"Ever sacred, my friend, be this bond between us—the love and knowledge of the child. I was his aunty; and no sister can so feel what you lose. My friend, I have never wept so for grief of my own, as now for yours. It seems to me too cruel; you are resigned; you make holy profit of it; the spear has entered and forced out the heart's blood, the pure ichor follows. I know not yet how to feel so; I have not yet grieved away the bitter pang.

"My mother wrote me he said sometimes he would get a boat and carry yellow flowers to his Aunty Margaret. I suppose he had not yet quite forgotten that I used to get such for him. I often thought what I should carry him from Europe—what I should tell him—what teach? He had a heart of natural poetry; he would have prized all that was best.

"Oh, it is all over; and indeed this life is over for me. The conditions of this planet are not propitious to the lovely, the just, the pure; it is these that go away; it is the unjust that triumph. Let us, as you say, purify ourselves; let us labor in the good spirit here, but leave all thought of results to Eternity.

"I say this, and yet my heart is bound to earth as never before; for I, too, have a dearer self—a little son. He is now about the age sweet Pickie was when I was with him most; and I have thought much of the one in the dawning graces of the other. But I accept the lesson, and will strive to prepare myself to resign him. Indeed, I had the warning before; for, during the siege of Rome, when I could not see him, my mind, agonized by the danger of his father, as well as all the overpowering and infamous injuries heaped upon the noble, sought refuge in the thought of him safe, in his green nook, and, as I thought, in care of worthy persons. When at last we left, our dearest friends laid low, our fortunes finally ruined, and every hope for which we struggled, blighted, I hoped to find comfort in his smiles. I found him wasted to a skeleton; and it is only by a month of daily and hourly most anxious care (in which I was often assisted by memories of what Mrs. Greeley did for Pickie) that I have been able to restore him. But I hold him by a frail tenure; he has the tendency to cough by which I was brought so low.

"Adieu. You say, pray for you; oh, let us all pray together. I hope we shall yet find dear Pickie where he is; that earthly blemishes will be washed out, and he be able to love us all. Till then, God help and guide us, dear friend. Amen.

"M. F. O.

"You may address me in future as Marchioness Ossoli."



CHAPTER XXII.

The Friends' Seminary—The Principal Chappaqua Residences—Reminiscences of Paris during the War—An Accomplished Lady—Her Voice—Festivities—A Drive to Rye Lake—Making Tea on the Beach—A Sail at Sunset—Fortune-telling by Firelight—The Drive Home—Sunday Morning—A Row on the Pond—Dramatic Representations in the Barn—A Drive to Lake Wampas—Starlight Row.

August 24.

A visit last night from Mr. Collins, the Principal of Chappaqua Institute. This gentleman is one of our neighbors; so when the duties of school hours are over, he frequently calls in to play a game of croquet, or to join in the evening rubber of whist, of which Marguerite and Gabrielle are so fond. I had often heard his name before he was introduced to us, and imagined, from his responsible position, that he must be some staid, gray-haired Quaker; but, upon meeting him, I was surprised to discover that, although Principal of the "Friends' Seminary," he belonged to the "world's people"; and was quite young enough to impress the more susceptible among his young lady pupils.

August 27.

In speaking of the handsome residences about and near Chappaqua, I have unintentionally overlooked one of the finest among them. It is situated about half-way between Chappaqua and Mount Kisco; and so far as I can judge by a view from the road, the grounds are both extensive and well cultivated. The house stands back from the road, and is quite imbedded in trees, and the lawn and flower-beds are very prettily laid out.

Upon asking Bernard one day, as we were driving to Mount Kisco, to whom this place belonged, he said that he had forgotten the owner's name, but believed he was now in Europe; and it was not until quite recently that I ascertained it was the property of Mr. Elliott O. Cowdin, of New York City, Paris, or Westchester County. I really do not know which place to accredit to him as his residence.

Yesterday Mr. Cowdin dined with us, and we had quite a merry time recalling our adventures upon leaving Paris in 1870. It was only three days before the battle of Sedan, when every one was rushing away from the doomed city, that we also decided to leave; and Mr. Cowdin was very kind in helping us off. We had many tribulations and delays in procuring our tickets, and having our luggage registered, for thousands were waiting in the Gare St. Lazare to escape from the range of Prussian shells; but between the energy of Mr. Cowdin and his servant Harry, and the talismanic name of Washburne (for our ambassador had kindly given us his card to present at the ticket and freight offices), we succeeded in running the blockade much easier than we had anticipated. Once in the waiting-room, we seated ourselves upon our bags, for every chair had been taken hours before, and waited for the twelve o'clock train. We sat patiently for an hour, and were then informed it would not start until six, for what reason we could not learn; for French officials can never be induced to give you any information.

At the close of another hour, we were not only white with alarm, supposing the Prussians were at the city gates, but were also in a starving condition, having eaten nothing since our eight o'clock breakfast of chocolate and rolls. What to do we did not know; the doors of the waiting-room were closed, and despite the shrieks and frantic kicks of the terrified and penned-up passengers, no egress was permitted. Finally, our party of five helpless women decided to appeal to Mr. Cowdin, feeling confident that he would devise some means to relieve our forlorn condition. A piteous note was accordingly written, informing him that we should be prisoners until six o'clock, and appealing to his American chivalry to come and share our confinement with us, and to fetch some bread and butter, of which we stood sorely in need.

Among the employees of the station a messenger was found, and in less than an hour Mr. Cowdin's friendly face was seen, as he made his way through the crowd, followed by the invaluable Harry with a basket. An impromptu table-cloth, consisting of newspapers, was spread upon the floor, and we gathered about our feast, the other passengers meantime eying us hungrily, as roast chicken, Bordeaux, and a four-pound loaf appeared from the basket.

That was my last meal in Paris, and although the circumstances appeared very amusing as we talked them over with Mr. Cowdin yesterday, they were anything but entertaining at that time, expecting momentarily as we did that a shell would explode among us.

August 31.

I have just returned from a walk to the station to meet our friend, Mrs. George Gilman, whom we expected would spend the day with us, but found instead a note from her saying that ill-health would prevent her from visiting us at present.

Mrs. Gilman is a dear friend of ours, and a charming and accomplished woman. Her elegant drawing-rooms upon Lexington Avenue are a resort for not only the fashionable world, but a favorite rendezvous for the principal vocalists and pianists of the city, for Mrs. Gilman is perhaps the only amateur in New York society whose voice equals Carlotta Patti's in extent, and the ease with which her flute-like tones reach G in alt. Her voice has been carefully trained by many of the great New York masters, and has also had the advantage of Paris instruction. Therefore we may congratulate ourselves that we possess in private life, one who would make so admirable a prima donna.

September 6.

My journal, about which I am usually so conscientious, has been neglected for nearly a week, for we have had a succession of visitors, and my time has been entirely taken up with drives, games of croquet, and starlight walks.

On Saturday, several friends came up with papa in the morning train; some merely to pass the day, and others to make a longer stay with us. Mr. James Parton, the well-known author, had not visited dear Chappaqua in twenty years, and was desirous of seeing the changes that time had effected in this lovely spot. Others, too, were visiting us for the first time, and preferred to see the wild, picturesque beauties of the place, rather than to drive, ride, or play croquet; consequently the company soon divided. One party strolled off through the woods, and followed the course of the brook up to our tiny cascade—now, however, swollen by the heavy rains we have recently had into quite a noisy and impetuous waterfall, while others who had earlier in the season spent long mornings with us under the pines and beneath the oaks on the side-hill, now enrolled themselves in Gabrielle's regiment, confident that she would lead them to a glorious victory on the field of croquet.

We did not assemble again until our two o'clock dinner, and as soon as that meal was over, we started upon the long-contemplated picnic to Rye Lake. A large six-seated carriage and a pair of stout horses had been hired, and Ida's own phaeton and ponies were also at the door to convey our party to that most romantic sheet of water.

Every seat in the two conveyances was occupied, and all the available corners were filled with tightly packed baskets, containing charcoal and pine-cones to kindle a fire upon the smooth beach, tea-kettles and teapots, table linen, dishes and provisions. The drive was one of the most delightful that we have yet had, and was heightened by the dreamy haze of autumn, that is now faintly perceptible.

The lake is private property, and picnics are frowned upon; however, the most attractive gentleman in our party was sent to ask permission for us to pass the afternoon there, and a cordial assent was quickly granted.

A well-trimmed sward, shaded by fine old oaks, was selected as the most suitable place to lay the cloth, and then, to pass away the time until six o'clock, several of the party went out in a row-boat.

"We were absent an hour or more, playing cards, singing, and drifting about; now and then grazing a rock, or narrowly escaping an upset, owing to the disproportion of weight among the passengers, and at sunset returned to our encampment. Here we found a blazing fire, and the tea-kettle singing joyously. An extensive meal was spread upon a neat white cloth, and we grouped about it upon our bright carriage rugs, so like leopard skins with their black spots upon a yellow ground. Hot tea was a very agreeable substitute for the lemonade that generally forms the beverage at picnics, and as we all had excellent appetites, the meal passed off very pleasantly.

"What are we to do now!" inquired one restless being, as we walked down to the beach, leaving Bernard to consume the debris of the feast and collect the dishes.

"I think this fire so comfortable," said one of the young ladies, "that I mean to remain beside it, as it is now dark and rather chill."

"Let us play whist by the firelight," was suggested by those who had not been out in the boat.

"Or, better still, have our fortunes told by its light," said Ida, throwing a couple of branches upon the burning coals.

"Delightful!" exclaimed Marguerite. "I have not forgotten that we have among us a Gypsy Queen, whose predictions are always realized;" turning to a pretty blonde, whose delicate features and sunny curls testified that she was only a gypsy through her talent for unveiling the future to her friends.

The rugs were accordingly spread out upon the beach, and we gathered about the fire whilst the cards were being shuffled and cut for the past, present, and future. A weird sight it was, and one that the great Rembrandt would have delighted to paint: a background of dark, silent trees, before us the motionless lake, illumined by the silver crescent then setting, while the faint glimmer of starlight, and the fiery glow of the burning wood, lit up the face of our young seeress, as with a puzzled brow, but a pretty air of faith, she bent over the talismanic cards.

In turn our fortunes were all told, and not a little wonder was excited when some hidden page of the past, as a former engagement, or a never-mentioned marriage, was disclosed.

One young man was told that he would live happily, but always be poor—a destiny that he received with a droll air of resignation and philosophy; while another was warned to beware of a blonde enemy, causing him to recoil with a look of mock terror from the fair-haired Philippe Hubert who sat beside him.

An elegant young Englishman was alternately inspirited and depressed, by hearing that an uncle in India was about to leave him a legacy, and that a tailor's bill of many years' standing was now upon its way to him, whilst for all the young ladies a brilliant future was predicted.

My fortune was, however, quite mysterious. I was told to beware of a male enemy, and two rivals, a blonde and a brunette, and was in imminent danger of poison. I was soon to be engaged to a poor man, but was to marry a millionnaire, who would leave me a widow at the end of five years' time. Whether I was then to

"—marry my own love,"

the oracle did not disclose.

Then ensued the long drive home. The air was chill but exhilarating, and we sung and told ghost stories, and were astonished, when at last we dashed through a white gate, to find ourselves at home once more. It was ten o'clock the next morning before we were all assembled at the breakfast-table, and we had scarcely risen from our last cups of coffee, when a couple of friends arrived upon the slow Sunday train. How we were now to amuse ourselves was the question for the proximity of a church compelled very quiet demeanor. Finally we had a brilliant idea: the stone barn which had been filled only a few days previous with fresh, sweet hay, would be just the place to spend the morning. Accordingly we walked up there, pausing, however, on the way for a row on the pond in our pretty blue boat, and then ensued two charming hours. We mounted the hay-loft, and nestled down in the soft mounds (to the detriment of our black dresses, by the way, for upon emerging we were covered with burrs and straws), and being far from reproving ears we sung both sacred and secular music, and laughed at a droll impersonation, of Fechter's Claude—

"Ah! false one, It is ze Prince zow lovest, not ze man," etc.,

and an equally comic burlesque upon Forrest, and were very sorry to learn that the carriages were waiting to take us to Lake Wampas.



"A new lake?" inquired a friend who had already accompanied us to Rye and Croton Lakes; "pray how many does Westchester County possess?"

Each new one is of course the prettiest, and beautiful as Rye Lake had been the previous night under the influence of the setting sun, and starlight, we all decided that Lake Wampas was simply perfect.

Dinner was ready upon our return, and before the dessert was placed upon the table a warning whistle was heard, and several of our friends were obliged to bid us a hasty adieu, and rush through Bischoff's garden to catch the train.

In the evening we walked up to the pond for a row among the water-lilies by starlight. There we found the bonny blue boat awaiting us, but the oars had disappeared. Whether Bernard disapproved of water-parties on Sunday, or had merely put the oars away for safety, we could not tell, but having gone so far, we were determined not to be disappointed, so we embarked, and with an old garden-rake, and a long pole to propel the boat, we succeeded, at all events, in having a very laughable row.

The next morning our friends left us; the play-days were over, and we once more settled ourselves to study.



CHAPTER XXIII.

Marriage of a Cousin—A Pretty Bride—Letters—Home Circle Complete—A Letter of Adventures—Wedding Cards—A Musical Marriage—Housekeeping under Difficulties—Telegraphic Blunders—A Bust of Mr. Greeley—More Visitors.

September 10.

A letter yesterday from our cousin Estelle Greeley, signed, however, by a new name, for she was married last week. Estelle is Aunt Arminda's youngest daughter, and although not yet eighteen, was before the death of Theresa's children a great-aunt. She sent us her picture, taken with her husband. She is a very pretty girl, with large, dreamy, blue eyes, and lashes so long and dark as to cast deep shadows—a languishing effect often produced on city belles by artificial means. Her hair is of that sunny brown shade peculiar to so many of our cousins, and she has hitherto worn it floating over her shoulders a la belle sauvage; but now I suppose she thinks so negligee and girlish a coiffure incompatible with her new dignity as a married woman, for I observed in her picture that it was wreathed into an imposing diadem braid.

Although Estelle is rather young to have married, the match has received the cordial approbation of tho entire family. She was married at home, but has now gone to live at Columbus, Pennsylvania, where her father-in-law is a prominent merchant. Her letter was full of enthusiasm over her happiness, but I was glad to learn that she did not intend, like so many young brides, to give up her music in the excitement of her new married life.

Our mail was not large this morning, for our friends are now returning to the city, and are busy with the demands of upholsterers and dress-makers in anticipation of the gayeties of the coming season; some few, however, are still enjoying this delicious September weather by the seaside or inland.

Our friend, Mrs. Cutler, the pretty Virginia novelist and society star, is now in Westchester County, and promises us a visit very soon. She speaks with deep feeling of the pleasure it will afford her to visit dear uncle's loved home, and in conclusion sends many kind messages to mamma's "bouquet of girls."

One of my most intimate friends, Marguerite Aymar, after having visited several watering-places, and contributed sparkling letters to different New York journals this summer, has now come to Westchester County to pass away quietly the remainder of the season, and gather up strength for her literary labors during the coming winter. I learn by a letter received from her yesterday, that she is boarding within driving distance of Chappaqua—a very agreeable prospect for me, for Marguerite and I are much given to long talks together, and are very fond of an exchange of ideas over our many literary plans.

Miss Aymar is a clever young writer, by no means confining herself to the graceful poems, stories, and sketches that she dashes off with such ease, but evincing talent and tact in her more thoughtful magazine articles. She is now, she tells me, at work upon a novel.

September 13.

Our home circle is once more complete, for Mrs. Lamson, who left us some weeks ago to visit friends in Connecticut, has now returned to remain with us until we go down to the city.

Mrs. Lamson was one of dear uncle's earliest friends, their acquaintance dating back indeed to the days of Poultney—and we are all deeply attached to her.

September 15.

Arthur's name, I believe, has not yet been mentioned in my journal since he left us early in August. He is a very tormenting correspondent, for he never writes with the promptitude that would be agreeable, but his letters when they do come are always entertaining, and one that arrived this morning, detailing his adventures since his departure from Chappaqua, we found especially so. Before making some extracts from it, I must explain that he left us to join a number of young men from Chappaqua, headed by our neighbor, Mr. Carpenter, who were to camp out at Rye Beach, and indulge in unlimited fishing parties. This out-of-doors life delighted Arthur, accustomed as he had been to foot journeys in Europe, and when the party broke up he bought a waterproof suit, hired a boat and a tent, and rowed up the Sound to Boston, where he lives, sleeping meantime on land or in his boat, as best suited his caprice. I will now give his exploits in his own words.

"I remained on the beach some time after Mr. Carpenter and the others left, caught and made food of many fishes, and came near making myself food for them, for in hauling up anchor in a rough sea I tipped out of the boat, but luckily saved myself by clutching its side, and lifting myself in at imminent risk of turning the whole concern bottom upwards.

"Being wrapped in slumber on the rocks one night with a big fire burning beside me, my bed of dry seaweed caught fire, and woke me by its fierce breath; but escaping an evil fate for the present, I came safely home to Boston, which I felt keen joy to see once more.

"I have gone into the office of a lawyer here, and am engaged in the delightful occupation of 'sooing folks' (as the old fellow pronounces it). You may imagine me seated on the extreme top of a high stool, forging like a young Cyclops with malignant pleasure, the writs and summonses which are presently to be flourished by the Sheriff in the face of the astonished Defendant."

Among our other letters this morning was a package from London containing the dainty wedding-cards of a beautiful young American pianist (Teresa Carreno) and her handsome violinist husband, accompanied by a long letter from the bride. The letter was overflowing with happiness, and the naivete with which she described all the little annoyances of her new married life, and especially the trials of a young housekeeper, was quite delicious. Her furniture had not yet come from Paris, and there were but two chairs in the parlor; consequently, when a visitor came, her husband was obliged to stand, she said, with the greatest ceremony. She sat by the kitchen table to write to me, and the cook overturned her ink, making a blot upon the page: all of these little details made up a perfect picture of her life. Of course the letter was full of "my husband," and the signature was no longer the impulsive, girlish—"With a thousand kisses, my darling, ever your own Teresita," but a decorous and matronly ending: "Yours affectionately, Teresa Carreno Sauret."

Two more letters by the evening mail; one having the features of the "Re Galantuomo" upon the postage stamps, is from a young American music student in Florence, a pupil of Hans Von Buelow, who will, upon her return to her own country, be known as one of our finest amateur pianists.

There is also a letter from our estimable friend, Miss Booth, the accomplished Editress of Harper's Bazar. She will spend next Saturday with us, accompanied by her friend, Mrs. Wright.

September 20.

Ida went down to the city yesterday, to see both her lawyer and dress-maker, saying that she would return by the half past six o'clock train. We went down accordingly to meet the cars, but she did not arrive upon them; a telegram, however, was shortly sent up to the house, announcing that she would come on the eight o'clock train, accompanied by Mrs. and Miss Wiss.

"Mrs. Wiss!" exclaimed mamma, upon reading the telegram, "who can she be? I do not know any such person."

Gabrielle could not remember any one by the name of Wiss among Ida's friends, and suggested that the ladies might be old friends of her father's, whom Ida had never before seen; so remarking that the eight o'clock train was a late one for ladies to travel upon alone, mamma rang for Minna, and told her to delay our tea an hour and a half longer.

When we heard the footsteps of the travellers upon the piazza, we all went out with some curiosity to meet our unknown visitors. For a moment we were speechless, as we recognized in the matron of the party, Ida's charming Southern friend, Mrs. Ives, and in the tall young man (her son) who accompanied her, the supposed Miss Wiss. How the telegraph operator could have so confused the names, no one could imagine.

Mrs. Ives is a brilliant talker, and a woman of great polish and high family connections. She has lived North for several years, but will return to Baltimore this winter to our great regret, for her picturesque home near the Manhattanville Convent was a most delightful place to spend an hour, while listening to the entertaining conversation of the hostess, and the exquisite harp-playing of her sister.

September 25.

A letter this morning from the little sculptress, Vinnie Ream. She is at Washington, and writes me that she has sold her bust of dear uncle to the Cornell University. I have not seen the bust since it was put into marble, but when I saw it in clay at her New York studio two years ago, I considered it a spirited and excellent likeness. Vinnie is full of the high courage that never deserts her through all of her trials from public and private criticism, and she has my best wishes for a bright and successful future.

September 28.

Two arrivals by the morning train: Mrs. Gibbons, a friend of many years of dear uncle, Aunt Mary, and mamma, and a lady at whose hospitable residence uncle often found a pleasant home, when his family were absent, and Lucy White, an intimate friend of Ida and myself.

Miss White has just returned from a three months' visit to Europe, and she gave us a very lively account of her gay season in London, and her visit to Paris. I was glad to learn from her that my favorite Italian and Spanish pictures again occupied their accustomed places in the Salon Carre at the Louvre, and that the diadem mode of dressing the hair, so becoming to my tiny figure, was by no means out of style in Paris, but was, on the contrary, more fashionable than ever.

September 30.

A letter this morning from Katie Sinclair. I rejoice to learn that her health is improving, for, when we visited her some weeks ago, her cheeks were almost as white as the pillows upon which they rested.

We were disappointed that we could not hear Katie sing that day, for we had anticipated quite a little musical matinee; but her sister Mary, who is an enthusiastic pianoforte student, made amends by playing with much taste and expression, a dreamy "Melody," by Rubenstein.



CHAPTER XXIV.

"All that's Bright must Fade"—Departures—Preparing the House for the Winter—Page's Portrait of Pickie—Packing up—Studious Habits of the Domestics—The Cook and her Admirers—Adieu to Chappaqua.

October 1.

"All that's bright must fade."

This long, delightful summer is now over, and the time approaches for us to return to the din and whirl of city life.

Miss Worthington left us this morning to return to her beautiful Southern home, and Gabrielle, too, has gone back to the quiet of her convent school, guided by the Protestant Sisters of St. Mary.

Ida is busily counting, and packing away the dainty china and silver, suggestive of so many pleasant gatherings of friends that we have had this summer, and Minna has brought down from the store-room large chests to contain the heavy linen sheets with Aunt Mary's initials beautifully embroidered in scarlet.

The guest-room and the parlors commence to wear a dismantled look, for one by one the pretty trifles that ornamented them are being removed, and although many of the pictures still hang upon the walls, dear little Pickie's portrait stands in an unoccupied bedroom swathed in linen, and ready to journey to the city when we do, for Ida prizes it so highly that she will not box it up and send it by express, but intends to have one of the servants carry it under her supervision, lest some harm may befall it. I do not wonder that it is priceless to her; I also think it of inestimable value, for not only is it a portrait of the beautiful little cousin whom I never saw, but even one uninterested in Pickie would, I am sure, be attracted by it as a rare work of art. It is a full-length picture: the child holds in his hands a cluster of lilies—a fit emblem of his spotless purity, and his undraped limbs are perfectly moulded as those of an infant St. John. His hair, of the line that Titian and Tintoretto loved to paint, falls upon his shoulders like a shower of ruddy gold, and for depth of tone and richness of color the picture more resembles the work of one of the old Venetian Masters than a painting by modern hands.

Whilst in town the other day, I called in the Tenth Street Studio Buildings to ask Mr. Page when he could give a few days of his time to restoring Pickie's portrait, as it has been somewhat affected by the dampness during the years that it has stood in the house in the woods. Mr. Page gave me a very amusing account of the difficulty he experienced in obtaining sittings from Pickie.

"Young children," he said, "are always averse to having their portraits painted, and there is usually a struggle to induce them to submit to the confinement of posing for me; but in Master Pickie's case, the child was so full of life that I might almost as well have tried to obtain sittings from a butterfly as from him."

Pickie's rapid illness and sudden death occurred before the picture was completed, and although Mr. Page worked upon it for some time from memory and from daguerrotypes of the child, a few finishing touches remain to be added.

October 3.

This morning I at last realized what I have been endeavoring to banish from my mind—that the day of our departure from dear Chappaqua is at hand. This fact was brought home to me in a very practical manner by the arrival of our immense French trunks from the side-hill house, where they have been stored this summer, and the necessity of packing them, coupled with an intimation from mamma that it would be as well to put my books and music in the bottom, and my dresses in the top of my trunk. I am somewhat of a novice in packing, for during the preparations for our eight ocean voyages that duty never once fell to my lot; however I flatter myself that such very elementary instructions were not necessary.

Quite tenderly I took down from the shelves the books that I had brought from New York for summer reading, for mingled with every page was some pleasant association. One chapter in Kohlrausch's "Germany" seemed still to retain the faint perfume of the pale primroses that I gathered in the meadow that day to mark my stopping-place, and my little volume of Voltaire's "Charles Douze" recalled an interesting argument upon the relative claims to greatness of that hero, and my hero par excellence, the first Napoleon.

My ponderous volumes of Plato brought before my mind Arthur's reading, and the life with which he invested the words of these old-time philosophers that had so keen an interest for him; while Madame de Stael's "Allemagne," and my little copy of Ehlert's "Letters on Music" were associated with almost every hour of the day. They had lain upon my writing-table the entire summer, and it was my habit whenever I laid down my pen for a moment to take up one book or the other, and glance at a page of Ehlert's criticisms upon opera, symphony, or song, or Madame de Stael's profound essays upon art, morals, and politics.

This long summer has been one of great sweetness and content to us all. A tinge of sadness has, it is true, been mingled with our daily life, but we have felt the spiritual presence of our loved ones always near us, urging and encouraging us to persevere and fit ourselves to join them hereafter. With this feeling we have worked constantly and closely, and our record of improvement has been somewhat satisfactory—to ourselves at least. We have gone through the weighty volumes that we had given ourselves as summer tasks; we have written and practised; and, although Minna constantly exclaims upon our close attention to study, a desire for improvement has extended (unconsciously to ourselves) from the parlor to the kitchen. Going down there one night to give some orders for the next day, I was amused by overhearing Lina say, "It is time to go to school now." Immediately Minna's bright-colored knitting was laid aside, and the two women drew up to the table with their books. After studying their English lesson, they recited it to each other, followed by a brief reciprocal lesson of Swedish and German.

Bernard also had his book, and was studying with great apparent industry, although in what foreign tongue he was accomplishing himself I do not know. Perhaps he was trying to master the intricacies of the German language, that he might offer himself to Minna through the medium of her own tongue. I was amused to see that he occupied what might be called the neutral ground, at a table lighted by a flickering candle, and at an equal distance from his sweetheart and his foe; for since Bernard has commenced to take moonlight strolls with Minna, Lina has taken deadly umbrage, which she manifests by giving him candle-ends, cutting off his supply of coffee, and reducing his comforts generally.

At first I felt quite sorry for Lina, so completely excluded as she was at one time from the society of the other two, especially as she was much older than Minna, and not at all prepossessing in appearance; but since I have learned that she has in the village four Swedish admirers who make her weekly visits, I have ceased to waste any sympathy upon her. We were quite amazed one Sunday afternoon to see four stalwart blond men wending their way kitchen-wards, and inquiring in broken English for "Swedish girl;" for of all places our quiet little Chappaqua is the last one where we would have thought of seeing any of Lina's compatriots. These men, it seems, are employed in repairing the railroad track; and learning that they had a countrywoman in the village, called to make her acquaintance; so Lina can now triumph over Minna. I have heard from Minna that each one of the four men has already offered himself to Lina, and that she refused them, remarking, however, that she knew a girl in New York who would like to marry one of them. The men thanked her, but thought the distance rather too great to go for a wife.

Despite their little difference over Bernard, the two women have lived together quite amicably this summer; and it has been a great relief to dear Ida, while so gracefully presiding as mistress of the house, to feel that harmony reigned in the kitchen.

October 5.

Our last day in dear Chappaqua; we go down to the city to-morrow morning. How dread is the thought of leaving the poetic quiet of our country home, to return to the confusion and excitement of city life; that city, too, that will be fraught with such sad memories for us during the last days of October and November.

How quickly it has gone, this long, sweet summer. I cannot realize that near five months have passed since that bright May morning that we arrived here, and found dear Chappaqua in all her tender spring freshness. Imperceptibly the days have flown; the delicate hues of leafy May have deepened and gone; the summer is over, and autumn with her glowing tints has stolen upon us. Now in vain do we hunt for daisies to pull apart petal by petal with the old French rhyme that every schoolgirl knows,

"Il m'aime un peu—beaucoup, Passionement,—pas du tout!"

The daisies have gone with the sweet double violets and roses, and the fragrant heliotrope and mignonette, of which we used to make bouquets to dress the table and adorn the rooms; whilst brilliant, scentless flowers now fill our garden beds, and the maples with their aureolas of flame color and molten cold tell the same sad story—summer has fled.

For the last time I have walked up to the pine grove, and have taken leave of that spot where dear uncle's feet have so often trodden, and said farewell, too, to the forest trees whose trunks still bear the impress of the axe once wielded by that hand now forever at rest; I have drunk once more from the spring that Aunt Mary so dearly loved, and which is far sweeter to me than the vaunted waters of Trevi, and entered for the last time her loved home in the woods over whose threshold her weary feet will never pass again.

"Tempo passato, perche non ritorni a me?"

Adieu to Chappaqua and to my journal. My daintily bound volume, so large that I feared not easily to fill its pages, is closely covered, and only a few blank lines remain whereon to take leave of it forever. Adieus are always saddening, and I close it with the words unspoken.

And for dear, dear Chappaqua, I can find no words more fitting to express my love than those verses written, it is true, in honor of another Westchester Home, but so appropriate that I will insert them here, trusting their author, Mr. JOHN SAVAGE, will pardon me for so doing.

OUR DEAR WESTCHESTER HOME.

Where'er my hopeful fancy dares, Or toiling footstep falls— Through ancient cities' thoroughfares Or Fortune's festal halls; O'er mountains grand, through forests deep, Or crest the yielding foam, I find no spot Like that dear cot, My own Westchester Home!

* * * *

Bedecked with every sylvan charm, By loving Nature blest, Embraced between the ocean's arm And Hudson's bounteous breast, Westchester, in her beauty smiles To Heaven's protecting dome, For all the good. By field or flood That crowns our happy home!



THE END