Subscribe for ad free access & additional features for teachers. Authors: 267, Books: 3,607, Poems & Short Stories: 4,435, Forum Members: 71,154, Forum Posts: 1,238,602, Quizzes: 344

Tales for Fifteen

Tales for Fifteen or, Imagination and Heart (1823)
(Written under the pseudonym of "Jane Morgan")


PREFACE

WHEN the author of these little tales commenced
them, it was her intention to form a short series of
such stories as, it was hoped, might not be entirely
without moral advantage; but unforeseen
circumstances have prevented their completion,
and, unwilling to delay the publication any longer,
she commits them to the world in their present
unfinished state, without any flattering
anticipations of their reception. They are intended
for the perusal of young women, at that tender age
when the feelings of their nature begin to act on
them most insidiously, and when their minds are
least prepared by reason and experience to contend
with their passions.

"Heart" was intended for a much longer tale, and is
unavoidably incomplete; but it is unnecessary to
point out defects that even the juvenile reader will
soon detect. The author only hopes that if they do
no good, her tales will, at least, do no harm.

IMAGINATION.
---oOo---

I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:
Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note,
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;
And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me,
On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

{Shakespeare, "A Midsummer Night's Dream" Act
III, Scene 1, lines 137-141}

"DO--write to me often, my dear Anna!" said the
weeping Julia Warren, on parting, for the first time
since their acquaintance, with the young lady whom
she had honoured with the highest place in her
affections. "Think how dreadfully solitary and
miserable I shall be here, without a single
companion, or a soul to converse with, now you are
to be removed two hundred miles into the
wilderness."

"Oh! trust me, my love, I shall not forget you now
or ever," replied her friend, embracing the other
slightly, and, perhaps, rather hastily for so tender
an adieu; at the same time glancing her eye on the
figure of a youth, who stood in silent contemplation
of the scene. "And doubt not but I shall soon tire
you with my correspondence, especially as I more
than suspect it will be subjected to the criticisms of
Mr. Charles Weston." As she concluded, the young
lady curtisied to the youth in a manner that
contradicted, by its flattery, the forced irony of her
remark.

"Never, my dear girl!" exclaimed Miss Warren with
extreme fervour. "The confidence of our friendship
is sacred with me, and nothing, no, nothing, could
ever tempt me to violate such a trust. Charles is
very kind and very indulgent to all my whims, but
he never could obtain such an influence over me as
to become the depositary of my secrets. Nothing
but a friend, like yourself, can do that, my dear
Anna."

"Never! Miss Warren," said the youth with a lip that
betrayed by its tremulous motion the interest he
took in her speech--"never includes a long period of
time. But," he added with a smile of good-
humoured pleasantry, "if admitted to such a
distinction, I should not feel myself competent to
the task of commenting on so much innocence and
purity, as I know I should find in your
correspondence."

"Yes," said Anna, with a little of the energy of her
friend's manner, "you may with truth say so, Mr.
Weston. The imagination of my Julia is as pure as--
as-----" but turning her eyes from the countenance
of Julia to that of the youth, rather suddenly, the
animated pleasure she saw delineated in his
expressive, though plain features, drove the
remainder of the speech from her recollection.

"As her heart!" cried Charles Weston with
emphasis.

"As her heart, Sir," repeated the young lady coldly.

The last adieus were hastily exchanged, and Anna
Miller was handed into her father's gig by Charles
Weston in profound silence. Miss Emmerson, the
maiden aunt of Julia, withdrew from the door,
where she had been conversing with Mr. Miller, and
the travellers departed. Julia followed the vehicle
with her eyes until it was hid by the trees and
shrubbery that covered the lawn, and then withdrew
to her room to give vent to a sorrow that had
sensibly touched her affectionate heart, and in no
trifling degree haunted her lively imagination.

As Miss Emmerson by no means held the good
qualities of the guest, who had just left them, in so
high an estimation as did her niece, she proceeded
quietly and with great composure in the exercise of
her daily duties; not in the least suspecting the
real distress that, from a variety of causes, this
sudden separation had caused to her ward.

The only sister of this good lady had died in giving
birth to a female infant, and the fever of 1805 had,
within a very few years of the death of the mother,
deprived the youthful orphan of her remaining
parent. Her father was a merchant, just
commencing the foundations of what would, in
time, have been a large estate; and as both Miss
Emmerson and her sister were possessed of genteel
independencies, and the aunt had long declared her
intention of remaining single, the fortune of Julia, if
not brilliant, was thought rather large than
otherwise. Miss Emmerson had been educated
immediately after the war of the revolution, and at
a time when the intellect of the women of this
country by no means received that attention it is
thought necessary to bestow on the minds of the
future mothers of our families at the present hour;
and when, indeed, the country itself required too
much of the care of her rulers and patriots to admit
of the consideration of lesser objects. With the
best of hearts and affections devoted to the
welfare of her niece, Miss Emmerson had early
discovered her own incompetency to the labour of
fitting Julia for the world in which she was to live,
and shrunk with timid modesty from the arduous
task of preparing herself, by application and study,
for this sacred duty. The fashions of the day were
rapidly running into the attainment of
accomplishments among the young of her own sex,
and the piano forte was already sending forth its
sonorous harmony from one end of the Union to the
other, while the glittering usefulness of the
tambour-frame was discarded for the pallet and
brush. The walls of our mansions were beginning to
groan with the sickly green of imaginary fields, that
caricatured the beauties of nature; and skies of
sunny brightness, that mocked the golden hues of
even an American sun. The experience of Miss
Emmerson went no further than the simple
evolutions of the country dance, or the deliberate
and dignified procession of the minuet. No wonder,
therefore, that her faculties were bewildered by the
complex movements of the cotillion: and, in short,
as the good lady daily contemplated the
improvements of the female youth around her, she
became each hour more convinced of her own
inability to control, or in any manner to
superintend, the education of her orphan niece.
Julia was, consequently, entrusted to the
government of a select boarding-school; and, as
even the morals of the day were, in some degree,
tinctured with the existing fashions, her mind as
well as her manners were absolutely submitted to
the discretion of an hireling. Notwithstanding this
willing concession of power on the part of Miss
Emmerson, there was no deficiency in ability to
judge between right and wrong in her character; but
the homely nature of her good sense, unassisted by
any confidence in her own powers, was unable to
compete with the dazzling display of
accomplishments which met her in every house
where she visited; and if she sometimes thought
that she could not always discover much of the
useful amid this excess of the agreeable, she rather
attributed the deficiency to her own ignorance than
to any error in the new system of instruction. From
the age of six to that of sixteen, Julia had no other
communications with Miss Emmerson than those
endearments which neither could suppress, and a
constant and assiduous attention on the part of the
aunt to the health and attire of her niece.

{fever of 1805 = New York City had suffered a
major epidemic of yellow fever in the summer of
1805; tambour-frame = a circular frame used to
hold material being embroidered}

Miss Emmerson had a brother residing in the city of
New-York, who was a man of eminence at the bar,
and who, having been educated fifty years ago,
was, from that circumstance, just so much superior
to his successors of his own sex by twenty years,
as his sisters were the losers from the some cause.
The family of Mr. Emmerson was large, and, besides
several sons, he had two daughters, one of whom
remained still unmarried in the house of her father.
Katherine Emmerson was but eighteen months the
senior of Julia Warren; but her father had adopted a
different course from that which was ordinarily
pursued with girls of her expectations. He had
married a woman of sense, and now reaped the
richest blessing of such a connexion in her ability to
superintend the education of her daughter. A
mother's care was employed to correct errors that a
mother's tenderness could only discover; and in the
place of general systems, and comprehensive
theories, was substituted the close and rigorous
watchfulness which adapted the remedy to the
disease; which studied the disposition; and which
knew the failings or merits of the pupil, and could
best tell when to reward, and how to punish. The
consequences were easily to be seen in the
manners and character of their daughter. Her
accomplishments, even where a master had been
employed in their attainment, were naturally
displayed, and suited to her powers. Her manners,
instead of the artificial movements of prescribed
rules, exhibited the chaste and delicate modesty of
refinement, mingled with good principles--such as
were not worn in order to be in character as a
woman and a lady, but were deeply seated, and
formed part, not only of her habits, but, if we may
use the expression, of her nature also. Miss
Emmerson had good sense enough to perceive the
value of such an acquaintance for her ward; but,
unfortunately for her wish to establish an intimacy
between her nieces, Julia had already formed a
friendship at school, and did not conceive her heart
was large enough to admit two at the same time to
its sanctuary. How much Julia was mistaken the
sequel of our tale will show.

So long as Anna Miller was the inmate of the
school, Julia was satisfied to remain also, but the
father of Anna having determined to remove to an
estate in the interior of the country, his daughter
was taken from school; and while the arrangements
were making for the reception of the family on the
banks of the Gennessee, Anna was permitted to
taste, for a short time, the pleasures of the world,
at the residence of Miss Emmerson on the banks of
the Hudson.

{Gennessee = Genesee River, which flows north
through central New York State to Lake Ontario--at
the time of Cooper's story it was still on the
frontier of settlement}

Charles Weston was a distant relative of the good
aunt, and was, like Julia, an orphan, who was
moderately endowed with the goods of fortune. He
was a student in the office of her uncle, and being
a great favourite with Miss Emmerson, spent many
of his leisure hours, during the heats of the
summer, in the retirement of her country residence.

Whatever might be the composure of the maiden
aunt, while Julia was weeping in her chamber over
the long separation that was now to exist between
herself and her friend, young Weston by no means
displayed the same philosophic indifference. He
paced the hall of the building with rapid steps, cast
many a longing glance at the door of his cousin's
room, and then rested himself with an apparent
intention to read the volume he held in his hands;
nor did he in any degree recover his composure
until Julia re-appeared on the landing of the stairs,
moving slowly towards their bottom, when, taking
one long look at her lovely face, which was glowing
with youthful beauty, and if possible more charming
from the traces of tears in her eyes, he coolly
pursued his studies. Julia had recovered her
composure, and Charles Weston felt satisfied. Miss
Emmerson and her niece took their seats quietly
with their work at an open window of the parlour,
and order appeared to be restored in some measure
to the mansion. After pursuing their several
occupations for some minutes with a silence that
had lately been a stranger to them, the aunt
observed--

"You appear to have something new in hand, my
love. Surely you must abound with trimmings, and
yet you are working another already?"

"It is for Anna Miller," said Julia with a flush of
feeling.

"I was in hopes you would perform your promise to
your cousin Katherine, now Miss Miller is gone, and
make your portion of the garments for the Orphan
Asylum," returned Miss Emmerson gravely.

"Oh! cousin Katherine must wait. I promised this
trimming to Anna to remember me by, and I would
not disappoint the dear girl for the world."

"It is not your cousin Katherine, but the Orphans,
who will have to wait; and surely a promise to a
relation is as sacred as one to an acquaintance."

"Acquaintance, aunt!" echoed the niece with
displeasure. "Do not, I entreat you, call Anna an
acquaintance merely. She is my friend--my very
best friend, and I love her as such."

"Thank you, my dear," said the aunt dryly.

"Oh! I mean nothing disrespectful to yourself, dear
aunt," continued Julia. "You know how much I owe
to you, and ought to know that I love you as a
mother."

"And would you prefer Miss Miller to a mother,
then?"

"Surely not in respect, in gratitude, in obedience;
but still I may love her, you know. Indeed, the
feelings are so very different, that they do not at
all interfere with each other--in my heart at least."

"No!" said Miss Emmerson, with a little curiosity--"I
wish you would try and explain this difference to
me, that I may comprehend the distinctions that
you are fond of making."

"Why, nothing is easier, dear aunt!" said Julia with
animation. "You I love because you are kind to me,
attentive to my wants, considerate for my good;
affectionate, and--and--from habit--and you are my
aunt, and take care of me."

"Admirable reasons!" exclaimed Charles Weston,
who had laid aside his book to listen to this
conversation.

"They are forcible ones I must admit," said Miss
Emmerson, smiling affectionately on her niece; "but
now for the other kind of love."

"Why, Anna is my friend, you know," cried Julia,
with eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I love her,
because she has feelings congenial with my own;
she has so much wit, is so amusing, so frank, so
like a girl of talents--so like--like every thing I
admire myself."

"It is a pity that one so highly gifted cannot furnish
herself with frocks," said the aunt, with a little
more than her ordinary dryness of manner, "and
suffer you to work for those who want them more."

"You forget it is in order to remember me," said
Julia, in a manner that spoke her own ideas of the
value of the gift.

"One would think such a friendship would not
require any thing to remind one of its existence,"
returned the aunt.

"Why! it is not that she will forget me without it,
but that she may have something by her to remind
her of me-----" said Julia rapidly, but pausing as the
contradiction struck even herself.

"I understand you perfectly, my child," interrupted
the aunt, "merely as an unnecessary security, you
mean."

"To make assurance doubly sure," cried Charles
Weston with a laugh.

"Oh! you laugh, Mr. Weston," said Julia with a little
anger; "but I have often said, you were incapable of
friendship."

"Try me!" exclaimed the youth fervently. "Do not
condemn me without a trial."

"How can I?" said Julia, laughing in her turn. "You
are not a girl."

"Can girls then only feel friendship?" inquired
Charles, taking the seat which Miss Emmerson had
relinquished.

"I sometimes think so," said Julia, with her own
good-humoured smile. "You are too gross--too
envious--in short, you never see such friendships
between men as exist between women."

"Between girls, I will readily admit," returned the
youth. "But let us examine this question after the
manner of the courts--"

"Nay, if you talk law I shall quit you," interrupted
the young lady gaily.

"Certainly one so learned in the subject need not
dread a cross-examination," cried the youth, in her
own manner.

"Well, proceed," cried the lady. "I have driven aunt
Margaret from the field, and you will fare no better,
I can assure you."

"Men, you say, are too gross to feel a pure
friendship; in the first place, please to explain
yourself on this point."

"Why I mean, that your friendships are generally
interested; that it requires services and good
offices to support it."

{interested = not pure, having an ulterior motive}

"While that of women depends on--"

"Feeling alone."

"But what excites this feeling?" asked Charles with
a smile.

"What? why sympathy--and a knowledge of each
other's good qualities."

"Then you think Miss Miller has more good qualities
than Katherine Emmerson," said Weston.

"When did I ever say so?" cried Julia in surprise.

"I infer it from your loving her better, merely,"
returned the young man with a little of Miss
Emmerson's dryness.

"It would be difficult to compare them," said Julia
after a moment's pause. "Katherine is in the world,
and has had an opportunity of showing her merit;
that Anna has never enjoyed. Katherine is certainly
a most excellent girl, and I like her very much; but
there is no reason to think that Anna will not prove
as fine a young woman as Katherine, when put to
the trial."

"Pray," said the young lawyer with great gravity,
"how many of these bosom, these confidential
friends can a young woman have at the same
time?"

"One, only one--any more than she could have two
lovers," cried Julia quickly.

"Why then did you find it necessary to take that
one from a set, that was untried in the practice of
well-doing, when so excellent a subject as your
cousin Katherine offered?"

"But Anna I know, I feel, is every thing that is good
and sincere, and our sympathies drew us together.
Katherine I loved naturally."

"How naturally?"

"Is it not natural to love your relatives?" said Julia
in surprise.

"No," was the brief answer.

"Surely, Charles Weston, you think me a simpleton.
Does not every parent love its child by natural
instinct?"

"No: no more than you love any of your
amusements from instinct. If the parent was
present with a child that he did not know to be his
own, would instinct, think you, discover their
vicinity?"

"Certainly not, if they had never met before; but
then, as soon as he knew it to be his, he would
love it from nature."

"It is a complicated question, and one that involves
a thousand connected feelings," said Charles. "But
all love, at least all love of the heart, springs from
the causes you mentioned to your aunt--good
offices, a dependence on each other, and habit."

"Yes, and nature too," said the young lady rather
positively; "and I contend, that natural lore, and
love from sympathy, are two distinct things."

"Very different, I allow," said Charles; "only I very
much doubt the durability of that affection which
has no better foundation than fancy."

"You use such queer terms, Charles, that you do
not treat the subject fairly. Calling innate evidence
of worth by the name of fancy, is not candid."

"Now, indeed, your own terms puzzle me," said
Charles, smiling. "What is innate evidence of
worth?"

"Why, a conviction that another possesses all that
you esteem yourself, and is discovered by congenial
feelings and natural sympathies."

"Upon my word, Julia, you are quite a casuist on
this subject. Does love, then, between the sexes
depend on this congenial sympathy and innate
evidence?"

"Now you talk on a subject that I do not
understand," said Julia, blushing; and, catching up
the highly prized work, she ran to her own room,
leaving the young man in a state of mingled
admiration and pity.

CHAPTER II.

AN anxious fortnight was passed by Julia Warren,
after this conversation, without bringing any tidings
from her friend. She watched, with feverish
restlessness, each steam-boat that passed the
door on its busy way towards the metropolis, and
met the servant each day at the gate of the lawn
on his return from the city; but it was only to
receive added disappointments. At length Charles
Weston good-naturedly offered his own services,
laughingly declaring, that his luck was never known
to fail. Julia herself had written several long
epistles to Anna, and it was now the proper time
that some of these should be answered,
independently of the thousand promises from her
friend of writing regularly from every post-office
that she might pass on her route to the Gennessee.
But the happy moment had arrived when
disappointments were to cease.

As usual, Julia was waiting with eager impatience
at the gate, her lovely form occasionally gliding
from the shrubbery to catch a glimpse of the
passengers on the highway, when Charles appeared
riding at a full gallop towards the house; his whole
manner announced success, and Julia sprang into
the middle of the road to take the letter which he
extended towards her.

"I knew I should be successful, and it gives me
almost as much pleasure as yourself that I have
been so," said the youth, dismounting from his
horse and opening the gate that his companion
might pass.

"Thank you--thank you, dear Charles," said Julia
kindly. "I never can forget how good you are to me-
-how much you love to oblige not only me, but
every one around. Excuse me now, I have this dear
letter to read another time, I will thank you as I
ought."

So saying, Julia ran into the summer-house, and
fastening its door, gave herself up to the pleasure
of reading a first letter. Notes and short epistles
from her aunt, with divers letters from Anna written
slyly in the school-room and slipped into her lap,
she was already well acquainted with; but of real,
genuine letters, stamped by the post-office,
rumpled by the mail-bags, consecrated by the
steam-boat, this was certainly the first. This,
indeed, was a real letter: rivers rolled, and vast
tracts of country lay, between herself and its writer,
and that writer was a friend selected on the
testimony of innate evidence. It was necessary for
Julia to pause and breathe before she could open
her letter; and by the time this was done, her busy
fancy had clothed both epistle and writer with so
much excellence, that she was prepared to peruse
the contents with a respect bordering on
enthusiasm: every word must be true--every idea
purity itself. That our readers may know how
accurately sixteen and a brilliant fancy had qualified
her to judge, we shall give them the letter entire.

"My dearest love,

"Oh, Julia! here I am, and such a place!--no town,
no churches, no Broadway, nothing that can make
life desirable; and, I may add, no friend--nobody to
see and talk with, but papa and mamma, and a
house full of brothers and sisters. You can't think
how I miss you, every minute more and more; but I
am not without hopes of persuading pa to let me
spend the winter with your aunt in town. I declare
it makes me sick every time I think of her sweet
house in Park-place. If ever I marry, and be sure I
will, it shall be a man who lives in the city, and
next door to my Julia. Oh! how charming that would
be. Each of us to have one of those delightful new
houses, with the new-fashioned basement stories;
we would run in and out at all hours of the day, and
it would be so convenient to lend and borrow each
other's things. I do think there is no pleasure under
heaven equal to that of wearing things that belong
to your friend. Don't you remember how fond I was
of wearing your clothes at school, though you were
not so fond of changing as myself; but that was no
wonder, for pa's stinginess kept me so shabbily
dressed, that I was ashamed to let you be seen in
them. Oh, Julia! I shall never forget those happy
hours; nor you neither. Apropos--I hope you have
not forgot the frock you promised to work for me, to
remember you by. I long for it dreadfully, and hope
you will send it before the river shuts. I suppose
you and Charles Weston do nothing but ride round
among those beautiful villas on the island, and
take comfort. I do envy you your happiness, I can
tell you; for I think any beau better than none,
though Mr. Weston is not to my taste. I am going
to write you six sheets of paper, for there is
nothing that I so delight in as communing with a
friend at a distance, especially situated as I am
without a soul to say a word to, unless it be my
own sisters. Adieu, my ever, ever beloved Julia--be
to me as I am to you, a friend indeed, one tried
and not found wanting. In haste, your

"ANNA.

"Gennessee, June 15, 1816.

"P. S. Don't forget to jog aunt Emmerson's memory
about asking me to Park-place.

"P. S. June 25th. Not having yet sent my letter,
although I am sure you must be dying with anxiety
to hear how we get on, I must add, that we have a
companion here that would delight you--a Mr.
Edward Stanley. What a delightful name! and he is
as delightful as his name: his eye, his nose, his
whole countenance, are perfect. In short, Julia, he
is just such a man as we used to draw in our
conversation at school. He is rich, and brave, and
sensible, and I do nothing but talk to him of you.
He says, he longs to see you; knows you must be
handsome; is sure you are sensible; and feels that
you are good. Oh! he is worth a dozen Charles
Westons. But you may give my compliments to Mr.
Weston, though I don't suppose he ever thinks it
worth his while to remember such a chick as me. I
should like to hear what he says about me, and I
will tell you all Edward Stanley says of you. Once
more, adieu. Your letters got here safe and in due
season. I let Edward take a peep at them."

The first time Julia read this letter she was
certainly disappointed. It contained no descriptions
of the lovely scenery of the west. The moon had
risen and the sun had set on the lakes of the
interior, and Anna had said not one word of either.
But the third and fourth time of reading began to
afford more pleasure, and at the thirteenth perusal
she pronounced it charming. There was evidently
much to be understood; vacuums that the fancy
could easily fill; and, before Julia had left the
summer-house, the letter was extended, in her
imagination, to the promised six sheets. She
walked slowly through the shrubbery towards the
house, musing on the contents of her letter, or
rather what it might be supposed to contain, and
unconsciously repeating to herself in a low tone--

"Young, handsome, rich, and sensible--just as we
used to paint in our conversation. Oh, how
delightful!"

"Delightful indeed, to possess all those fine
qualities; and who is the happy individual that is so
blessed?" asked Charles Weston, who had been
lingering in the walks with an umbrella to shield her
on her return from an approaching shower.

"Oh!" said Julia, starting, "I did not know you were
near me. I have been reading Anna's sweet letter,"
pressing the paper to her bosom as she spoke.

"Doubtless you must be done by this time, Julia,
and," pointing to the clouds, "you had better hasten
to the house. I knew you would be terrified at the
lightning all alone by yourself in that summer-
house, so I came to protect you."

"You are very good, Charles, but does it lighten?"
said Julia in terror, and hastening her retreat to the
dwelling.

"Your letter must have interested you deeply not to
have noticed the thunder--you, who are so timid
and fearful of the flashes."

"Foolishly fearful, you would say, if you were not
afraid of hurting my feelings, I know," said Julia.

"It is a natural dread, and therefore not to be
laughed at," answered Charles mildly.

"Then there is natural fear, but no natural love, Mr.
Charles; now you are finely caught," cried Julia
exultingly.

"Well, be it so. With me fear is very natural, and I
can almost persuade myself love also."

"I hope you are not a coward, Charles Weston. A
cowardly man is very despicable. I could never love
a cowardly man," said Julia, laughing.

"I don't know whether I am what you call a coward,"
said Charles gravely; "but when in danger I am
always afraid."

The words were hardly uttered before a flash of
lightning, followed instantly by a tremendously
heavy clap of thunder, nearly stupified them both.
The suddenness of the shock had, for a moment,
paralyzed the energy of the youth, while Julia was
nearly insensible. Soon recovering himself,
however, Charles drew her after him into the house,
in time to escape a torrent of rain. The storm was
soon over, and their natural fear and surprise were
a source of mirth for Julia. Women are seldom
ashamed of their fears, for their fright is thought to
be feminine end attractive; but men are less easy
under the imputation of terror, as it is thought to
indicate an absence of manly qualities.

"Oh! you will never make a hero, Charles," cried
Julia, laughing heartily. "It is well you chose the
law instead of the army as a profession."

"I don't know," said the youth, a little nettled," I
think I could muster courage to face a bullet."

"But remember, that you shut your eyes, and bent
nearly double at the flash--now you owned all this
yourself."

"At least he was candid, and acknowledged his
infirmities," said Miss Emmerson, who had been
listening.

"I think most men would have done as I did, at so
heavy and so sudden a clap of thunder, and so very
near too," said Charles, striving to conceal the
uneasiness he felt.

"When apprehension for Julia must have increased
your terror," said the aunt kindly.

"Why, no--I rather believe I thought only of myself
at the moment," returned Charles; "but then, Julia,
you must do me the justice to say, that instantly I
thought of the danger of your taking cold and drew
you into the house."

"Oh! you ran from another clap," said Julia, laughing
till her dark eyes flashed with pleasure, and
shaking her head until her glossy hair fell in ringlets
over her shoulders; "you will never make a hero,
Charles."

"Do you know any one who would have behaved
better, Miss Warren?" said the young man angrily.

"Yes--why--I don't know. Yes, I have heard of one,
I think," answered Julia, slightly colouring; "but,
dear Charles, excuse my laughter," she continued,
holding out her hand; "if you are not a hero, you
are very, very, good."

But Charles Weston, at the moment, would rather
be thought a hero than very, very, good; he,
therefore, rose, and affecting a smile, endeavoured
to say something trifling as he retired.

"You have mortified Charles," said Miss Emmerson,
so soon as he was out of hearing.

"I am sure I hope not," said Julia, with a good deal
of anxiety; "he is the last person I would wish to
offend, he is so very kind."

"No young man of twenty is pleased with being
thought no hero," returned the aunt.

"And yet all are not so," said Julia, "I hardly know
what you mean by a hero; if you mean such men as
Washington, Greene, or Warren, all are surely not
so. These were heroes in deeds, but others may be
equally brave."

{Greene = Nathanael Greene (1742-1786),
Revolutionary General; Warren = Joseph Warren
(1741-1775), Revolutionary war hero, killed at the
Battle of Bunker Hill}

"I mean by a hero, a man whose character is
unstained by any low or degenerate vices, or even
feelings," said Julia, with a little more than her
ordinary enthusiasm; "whose courage is as natural
as it is daring; who is above fear, except of doing
wrong; whose person is an index of his mind, and
whose mind is filled with images of glory; that's
what I call a hero, aunt."

"Then he must be handsome as well as valiant,"
said Miss Emmerson, with a smile that was hardly
perceptible.

"Why that is--is--not absolutely material," replied
Julia, blushing; "but one would wish to have him
handsome too."

"Oh! by all means; it would render his virtues more
striking. But I think you intimated that you knew
such a being," returned Miss Emmerson, fixing her
mild eyes on Julia in a manner that denoted great
interest.

"Did I," said Julia, colouring scarlet; "I am sure--I
have forgotten--it must be a mistake, surely, dear
aunt."

"Very possibly I misunderstood you, my dear," said
Miss Emmerson, rising and withdrawing from the
room, in apparent indifference to the subject.

Julia continued musing on the dialogue which had
passed, and soon had recourse to the letter of her
friend, the postscript of which was all, however,
that she thought necessary to read: on this she
dwelt until the periods were lengthened into
paragraphs, each syllable into words, and each
letter into syllables. Anna Miller had furnished the
outlines of a picture, that the imagination of Julia
had completed. The name of Edward Stanley was
repeated internally so often that she thought it the
sweetest name she had ever heard. His eyes, his
nose, his countenance, were avowed to be
handsome; and her fancy soon gave a colour and
form to each. He was sensible; how sensible, her
friend had not expressly stated; but then the
powers of Anna, great as they undoubtedly were,
could not compass the mighty extent of so gigantic
a mind. Brave, too, Anna had called him. This she
must have learnt from acts of desperate courage
that he had performed in the war which had so
recently terminated; or perhaps he might have even
distinguished himself in the presence of Anna, by
some exploit of cool and determined daring. Her
heart burned to know all the particulars, but how
was she to inquire them. Anna, dear, indiscreet girl,
had already shown her letters, and her delicacy
shrunk from the exposure of her curiosity to its
object. After a multitude of expedients had been
adopted and rejected as impracticable, Julia
resorted to the course of committing her inquiries
to paper, most solemnly enjoining her friend never
to expose her weakness to Mr. Stanley. This,
thought Julia, she never could do; it would be
unjust to me, and indelicate in her. So Julia wrote
as follows, first seeking her own apartment, and
carefully locking the door, that she might devote
her whole attention to friendship, and her letter.

"Dearest Anna,

"Your kind letter reach'd me after many an anxious
hour spent in expectation, and repays me ten-fold
for all my uneasiness. Surely, Anna, there is no one
that can write half so agreeably as yourself. I know
there must be a long--long--epistle for me on the
road, containing those descriptions and incidents
you promised to favour me with: how I long to read
them, and to show them to my aunt Margaret, who,
I believe, does not suspect you to be capable of
doing that which I know, or rather feel, you can.
Knowing from any thing but feeling and the innate
evidence of our sympathies, seems to me
something like heresy in friendship. Oh, Anna! how
could you be so cruel as to show my letters to any
one, and that to a gentleman and a stranger? I
never would have served you so, not even to good
Charles Weston, whom I esteem so highly, and who
really wants neither judgment nor good nature,
though he is dreadfully deficient in fancy. Yet
Charles is a most excellent young man, and I gave
him the compliments you desired; he was so much
flattered by your notice that he could make no
reply, though I doubt not he prized the honour as
he ought. We are all very happy here, only for the
absence of my Anna; but so long as miles of weary
roads and endless rivers run between us, perfect
happiness can never reign in the breast of your
Julia. Anna, I conjure you by all the sacred delicacy
that consecrates our friendship, never to show this
letter, unless you would break my heart: you never
will, I am certain, and therefore I will write to my
Anna in the unreserved manner in which we
conversed, when fate, less cruel than at present,
suffered us to live in the sunshine of each other's
smiles. You speak of a certain person in your letter,
whom, for obvious reasons, I will in future call
ANTONIO. You describe him with the partiality of a
friend; but how can I doubt his being worthy of all
that you say, and more--sensible, brave, rich, and
handsome. From his name, I suppose, of course, he
is well connected. What a constellation of
attractions to centre in one man! But you have not
told me all--his age, his family, his profession;
though I presume he has borne arms in the service
of his country, and that his manly breast is already
covered with the scars of honour. Ah! Anna, "he
jests at scars who never felt a wound." But, my
dear creature, you say that he talks of me: what
under the sun can you find to say of such a poor girl
as myself? Though I suppose you have, in the
fondness of affection, described my person to him
already. I wonder if he likes black eyes and fair
complexion. You can't conceive what a bloom the
country has given me; I really begin to look more
like a milk-maid than a lady. Dear, good aunt
Margaret has been quite sick since you left us, and
for two days I was hardly out of her room; this has
put me back a little in colour, or I should be as
ruddy as the morn. But nothing ought ever to tempt
me to neglect my aunt, and I hope nothing ever
will. Be assured that I shall beg her to write you to
spend the winter with us, for I feel already that
without you life is a perfect blank. You indeed must
have something to enliven it with a little in your
new companions, but here is nobody, just now, but
Charles Weston. Yet he is an excellent companion,
and does every thing he can to make us all happy
and comfortable. Heigho! how I do wish I could see
you, my Anna, and spend one sweet half hour in
the dear confidence of mutual sympathy. But lie
quiet, my throbbing heart, the day approaches
when I shall meet my friend again, and more than
receive a reward for all our griefs. Ah! Anna, never
betray your Julia, and write to me FULLY,
CONFIDINGLY, and often.

"Yours, with all the tenderness of friendship that is
founded on mutual sympathy, congenial souls, and
innate evidence of worth.
JULIA."

"P.S. I should like to know whether Antonio has any
scars in his face, and what battles he was in. Only
think, my dear, poor Charles Weston was frightened
by a clap of thunder--but Charles has an excellent
heart."

This letter was written and read, sealed and kissed,
when Miss Emmerson tapped gently at the door of
her niece and begged admission. Julia flew to open
it, and received her aunt with the guileless pleasure
her presence ever gave her. A few words of
introductory matter were exchanged, when, being
both seated at their needles again, Miss Emmerson
asked--

"To whom have you been writing, my love?"

"To my Anna."

"Do you recollect, my child, that in writing to Miss
Miller, you are writing to one out of your own
family, and whose interests are different from
yours?"

"I do not understand you, aunt," cried Julia in
surprise.

"I mean that you should be guarded in your
correspondence--tell no secrets out"--

"Tell no secrets to my Anna!" exclaimed the niece in
a species of horror. "That would be a death-blow to
our friendship indeed."

"Then let it die," said Miss Emmerson, coolly; "the
affection that cannot survive the loss of such an
excitement, had better be suffered to expire as
soon as possible, or it may raise false
expectations."

"Why, dear aunt, in destroying confidence of this
nature, you destroy the great object of friendship.
Who ever beard of a friendship without secrets?"

"I never had a secret in my life," said Miss
Emmerson simply, "and yet I have had many a
friend."

"Well," said Julia, "yours must have been queer
friends; pray, dear aunt, name one or two of them."

"Your mother was my friend," said Miss Emmerson,
with strong emotion, "and I hope her daughter also
is one."

"Me, my beloved aunt!" cried Julia, throwing herself
into the arms of Miss Emmerson and bursting into
tears; "I am more than a friend, I am your child--
your daughter."

"Whatever be the name you give it, Julia, you are
very near and dear to me," said the aunt, tenderly
kissing her charge: "but tell me, my love, did you
ever feel such emotion in your intercourse with Miss
Miller?"

It was some time before Julia could reply; when,
having suppressed the burst of her feelings, she
answered with a smile--

"Oh! that question is not fair. You have brought me
up; nursed me in sickness; are kind and good to
me; and the idea that you should suppose I did not
love you, was dreadful--But you know I do."

"I firmly believe so, my child; it is you that I would
have know what it is that you love: I am satisfied
for myself. I repeat, did Anna Miller ever excite
such emotions?"

"Certainly not: my love to you is natural; but my
friendship for Anna rests on sympathy, and a
perfect knowledge of her character."

"I am glad, however, that you know her so well,
since you are so intimate. What testimony have
you of all this excellence?"

"Innate evidence. I see it--I feel it--Yes, that is the
best testimony--I feel her good qualities. Yes, my
friendship for Anna forms the spring of my
existence; while any accident or evil to you would
afflict me the same as if done to myself--this is
pure nature, you know."

"I know it is pleasing to learn it, come from what it
will," said the aunt, smiling, and rising to withdraw.

CHAPTER III.

SEVERAL days passed after this conversation, in the
ordinary quiet of a well regulated family.
Notwithstanding the house of Miss Emmerson stood
in the midst of the numberless villas that adorn
Manhattan Island, the habits of its mistress were
retiring and domestic. Julia was not of an age to
mingle much in society, and Anna had furnished her
with a theme for her meditations, that rather
rendered her averse from the confusion of company.
Her mind was constantly employed in canvassing
the qualities of the unseen Antonio. Her friend had
furnished her with a catalogue of his perfections in
gross, which her active thoughts were busily
arranging into form and substance. But little
practised in the world or its disappoinments {sic},
the visionary girl had already figured to herself a
person to suit these qualities, and the animal was
no less pleasing, than the moral being of her fancy.
What principally delighted Julia in these
contemplations on the acquaintance of Anna, was
the strong inclination he had expressed to know
herself. This flattered her tendency to believe in
the strength of mutual sympathy, and the efficacy
of innate evidence of merit. In the midst of this
pleasing employment of her fancy, she received a
second letter from her friend, in answer to the one
we have already given to our readers; it was
couched in the following words:

"My own dear Julia, my Friend,

"I received your letter with the pleasure I shall
always hear from you, and am truly obliged to you
for your kind offer to make interest with year aunt
to have me spend the next winter in town. To be
with you, is the greatest pleasure I have on earth;
besides, as I know I can write to you as freely as I
think, one can readily tell what a tiresome place
this must be to pass a winter in. There are,
absolutely, but three young men in the whole
county who can be thought in any manner as proper
matches for us; and one has no chance here of
forming such an association as to give a girl an
opportunity of meeting with her congenial spirit, so
that I hope and trust your desire to see me will
continue as strong as mine will ever be to see my
Julia. You say that I have forgotten to give you the
description of our journey and of the lakes that I
promised to send you. No, my Julia, I have not
forgotten the promise, nor you; but the thought of
enjoying such happiness without your dear
company, has been too painful to dwell upon. Of
this you may judge for yourself. Our first journey
was made in the steam-boat to Albany; she is a
moving world. The vessel ploughs through the
billowy waters in onward progress, and the soul is
left in silent harmony to enjoy the change. The
passage of the Highlands is most delightful. Figure
to yourself, my Julia, the rushing waters, lessening
from their expanded width to the degeneracy of the
stagnant pool--rocks rise on rocks in overhanging
mountains, until the weary eye, refusing its natural
office, yields to the fancy what its feeble powers
can never conquer. Clouds impend over their
summits, and the thoughts pierce the vast abyss.
Ah! Julia, these are moments of awful romance;
how the soul longs for the consolations of
friendship. Albany is one of the most picturesque
places in the world; situated most delightfully on
the banks of the Hudson, which here meanders in
sylvan beauty through meadows of ever-green and
desert islands. Words are wanting to paint the
melancholy beauties of the ride to Schenectady,
through gloomy forests, where the silvery pine
waves in solemn grandeur to the sighings of Eolus,
while Boreas threatens in vain their firm-rooted
trunks. But the lakes! Ah! Julia--the lakes! The
most beautiful is the Seneca, named after a Grecian
king. The limpid water, ne'er ruffled by the rude
breathings of the wind, shines with golden tints to
the homage of the rising sun, while the light bark
gallantly lashes the surge, rocking before the
propelling gale, and forcibly brings to the appalled
mind the fleeting hours of time. But I must pause--
my pen refuses to do justice to the subject, and
the remainder will furnish us hours of conversation
during the tedious moments of the delightful visit
to Park-Place. You speak of Antonio--dear girl, with
me the secret is hallowed. He is yet here; his whole
thoughts are of Julia--from my description only, he
has drawn your picture, which is the most striking
in the world; and nothing can tear the dear emblem
from his keeping. He called here yesterday in his
phaeton, and insisted on my riding a few short
miles in his company: I assented, for I knew it was
to talk of my friend. He already feels your worth,
and handed me the following verses, which he
begged me to offer as the sincere homage of his
heart. He intends accompanying my father and me
to town next winter--provided I go.

"Oh! charming image of an artless fair,
"Whose eyes, with lightning, fire the very soul;
"Whose face portrays the mind, and ebon hair
"Gives grace and harmony unto the whole.

"In vain I gaze entranc'd, in vain deplore
"The leagues that roll between the maid and me;
"Lonely I wander on the desert shore,
"And Julia's lovely form can never see.

"But fly, ye fleeting hours, I beg ye fly,
"And bring the time when Anna seeks her friend;
"Haste--Oh haste, or Edward sure must die.
"Arrive--and quickly Edward's sorrows end."

I know you will think with me, that these lines are
beautiful, and merely a faint image of his manly
heart. In the course of our ride, during which he did
nothing but converse on your beauty and merit, he
gave me a detailed narrative of his life. It was
long, but I can do no less than favour you with an
abridgment of it. Edward Stanley was early left an
orphan: no father's guardian eye directed his
footsteps; no mother's fostering care cherished his
infancy. His estate was princely, and his family
noble, being a wronged branch of an English
potentate. During his early youth he had to contend
against the machinations of a malignant uncle, who
would have robbed him of his large possessions,
and left him in black despair, to have eaten the
bread of penury. His courage and understanding,
however, conquered this difficulty, and at the age
of fourteen he was quietly admitted to an
university. Here he continued peacefully to wander
amid the academic bowers, until the blast of war
rung in his ears, and called him to the field of
honour. Edward was ever foremost in the hour of
danger. It was his fate to meet the enemy often,
and as often did "he pluck honour from the pale-
fac'd moon." He fought at Chippewa--bled at the
side of the gallant Lawrence-and nearly laid down
his life on the ensanguined plains of Marengo. But
it would be a fruitless task to include all the scenes
of his danger and his glory. Thanks to the kind
fates which shield the lives of the brave, he yet
lives to adore my Julia. That you may be as happy
as you deserve, and happier than your heart-
stricken friend, is the constant prayer of your
ANNA."

"P. S. Write me soon, and make my very best
respects to your excellent aunt. It was laughable
enough that Charles Weston should be afraid of a
flash of lightning. I mentioned it to Antonio, who
cried, while manly indignation clouded his brow,
'chill penury repressed his noble rage, and froze the
genial current of the soul.' However, say nothing to
Charles about it, I charge you."

{Highlands = the Hudson Highlands, a mountainous
region in Putnam and Dutchess Counties, through
which the Hudson River passes in a deep and
picturesque gorge; Eolus = God of the winds;
Boreas = God of the North wind; Seneca = one of
the Finger Lakes in central New York State; Grecian
king = both the Senecas of antiquity, the
rhetorician (54 BC-39 AD) and his son the
philosopher/statesman (4 BC-65 AD), were, of
course, Romans--in any case, Lake Seneca is named
after the Seneca nation of the Iroquois Indians;
Park-Place = already in 1816 a fashionable street in
lower Manhattan; Chippewa = an American army
defeated the British at Chippewa, in Canada near
Niagara Falls, on July 5, 1814; Lawrence = Captain
James ("Don't give up the ship!") Lawrence (1781-
1813) of the U.S. Frigate Chesapeake was killed on
June 1, 1813, as his ship was captured by H.M.S.
Shannon outside Boston harbor; Marengo = battle
won by Napoleon against the Austrians on June 14,
1800--"Antonio's" military career was truly an
amazing one!; pluck honor.... = slightly misquoted
from Shakespeare, "King Henry IV, Part I," Act I,
Scene 3, line 202; chill penury.... = slightly
misquoted from Thomas Gray, "Elegy in a Country
Churchyard" verse 13}

Julia fairly gasped for breath as she read this
epistle: her very soul was entranced by the song.
Whatever of seeming contradiction there might be
in the letter of her friend, her active mind soon
reconciled. She was now really beloved, and in a
manner most grateful to her heart--by the sole
power of sympathy and congenial feelings.
Whatever might be the adoration of Edward
Stanley, it was more than equalled by the
admiration of this amiable girl. Her very soul
seemed to her to be devoted to his worship; she
thought of him constantly, and pictured out his
various distresses and dangers; she wept at his
sufferings, and rejoiced in his prosperity--and all
this in the short space of one hour. Julia was yet in
the midst of this tumult of feeling, when another
letter was placed in her hands, and on opening it
she read as follows:

"Dear Julia,

"I should have remembered my promise, and come
out and spent a week with you, had not one of
Mary's little boys been quite sick; of course I went
to her until he recovered. But if you will ask aunt
Margaret to send for me, I will come tomorrow with
great pleasure, for I am sure you must find it
solitary, now Miss Miller has left you. Tell aunt to
send by the servant a list of such books as she
wants from Goodrich's, and I will get them for her,
or indeed any thing else that I can do for her or
you. Give my love to aunt, and tell her that,
knowing her eyes are beginning to fail, I have
worked her a cap, which I shall bring with me.
Mamma desires her love to you both, and believe
me to be affectionately your cousin,
KATHERINE EMMERSON."

This was well enough; but as it was merely a letter
of business, one perusal, and that a somewhat
hasty one, was sufficient. Julia loved its writer
more than she suspected herself, but there was
nothing in her manner or character that seemed
calculated to excite strong emotion. In short, all
her excellences were so evident that nothing was
left dependent on innate evidence; and our heroine
seldom dwelt with pleasure on any character that
did not give a scope to her imagination. In
whatever light she viewed the conduct or
disposition of her cousin, she was met by obstinate
facts that admitted of no cavil nor of any
exaggeration.

Turning quickly, therefore, from this barren
contemplation to one better suited to her
inclinations, Julia's thoughts resumed the agreeable
reverie from which she had been awakened. She
also could paint, and after twenty trials she at
length sketched an outline of the figure of a man
that answered to Anna's description, and satisfied
her own eye. Without being conscious of the theft,
she had copied from a print of the Apollo, and
clothed it in the uniform which Bonaparte is said to
have worn. A small scar was traced on the cheek in
such a manner that although it might be fancied as
the ravages of a bullet, it admirably answered all
the purposes of a dimple. Two epaulettes graced
the shoulders of the hero; and before the picture
was done, although it was somewhat at variance
with republican principles, an aristocratical star
glittered on its breast. Had he his birth-right,
thought Julia, it would be there in reality; and this
idea amply justified the innovation. To this image,
which it took several days to complete, certain
verses were addressed also, but they were never
submitted to the confidence of her friend. The
whole subject was now beginning to be too sacred
even for such a communication; and as the mind of
Julia every hour became more entranced with its
new master, her delicacy shrunk from an exposure
of her weakness: it was getting too serious for the
light compositions of epistolary correspondence.

We furnish a copy of the lines, as they me not only
indicative of her feelings, but may give the reader
some idea of the powers of her imagination.

"Beloved image of a god-like mind,
"In sacred privacy thy power I feel;
"What bright perfection in thy form's combin'd!
"How sure to injure, and how kind to heal.

"Thine eagle eye bedazzles e'en the brain,
"Thy gallant brow bespeaks the front of Jove;
"While smiles enchant me, tears in torrents rain,
"And each seductive charm impels to love.

"Ah! hapless maid, why daring dost thou prove
"The hidden dangers of the urchin's dart;
"Why fix thine eye on this, the god of love,
"And heedless think thee to retain thy heart!"

This was but one of fifty similar effusions, in which
Julia poured forth her soul. The flame was kept
alive by frequent letters from her friend, in all of
which she dwelt with rapture on the moment of
their re-union, and never failed to mention Antonio
in a manner that added new fuel to the fire that
already began to consume Julia, and, in some
degree, to undermine her health, at least she
thought so.

In the mean time Katherine Emmerson paid her
promised visit to her friends, and our heroine was
in some degree drawn from her musings on love
and friendship. The manners of this young lady
were conspicuously natural; she had a confirmed
habit of calling things by their right names, and
never dwelt in the least in superlatives. Her
affections seemed centered in the members of her
own family; nor had she ever given Julia the least
reason to believe she preferred her to her own
sister, notwithstanding that sister was married, and
beyond the years of romance. Yet Julia loved her
cousin, and was hardly ever melancholy or out of
spirits when in her company. The cheerful and
affectionate good humour of Katherine was
catching, and all were pleased with her, although
but few discovered the reason. Charles Weston
soon forgot his displeasure, and with the exception
of Julia's hidden uneasiness, the house was one
quiet scene of peaceful content. The party were
sitting at their work the day after the arrival of
Katherine, when Julia thought it a good opportunity
to intimate her wish to have the society of her
friend during the ensuing winter.

"Why did Mr. Miller give up his house in town, I
wonder?" said Julia; "I am sure it was inconsiderate
to his family."

"Rather say, my child, that it was in consideration
to his children that he did so," observed Miss
Emmerson; "his finances would not bear the
expense, and suffer him to provide for his family
after his death."

"I am sure a little money might be spent now, to
indulge his children in society, and they would be
satisfied with less hereafter," continued Julia. "Mr.
Miller must be rich; and think, aunt, he has seven
grown up daughters that he has dragged with him
into the wilderness; only think, Katherine, how
solitary they must be."

"Had I six sisters I could be solitary no where," said
Katherine, simply; "besides, I understand that the
country where Mr. Miller resides is beautiful and
populous."

"Oh! there are men and women enough, I dare say,"
cried Julia; "and the family is large--eleven in the
whole; but they must feel the want of friends in
such a retired place."

"What, with six sisters!" said Katherine, laughing
and shaking her head.

"There is a difference between a sister end a friend,
you know," said Julia, a little surprised.

"I--indeed I have yet to learn that," exclaimed the
other, in a little more astonishment.

"Why you feel affection for your sisters from nature
and habit; but friendship is voluntary, spontaneous,
and a much stronger feeling--friendship is a
sentiment."

"And cannot one feel this sentiment, as you call it,
for a sister?" asked Katherine, smiling.

"I should think not," returned Julia, musing; "I
never had a sister; but it appears to me that the
very familiarity of sisters would be destructive to
friendship."

"Why I thought it was the confidence--the
familiarity--the secrets--which form the very
essence of friendship." cried Katherine; "at least so
I have always heard."

"True," said Julia, eagerly, "you speak true--the
confidence and the secrets--but not the--the--I am
not sure that I express myself well--but the
intimate knowledge that one has of one's own
sister--that I should think would be destructive to
the delicacy of friendship."

"Julia means that a prophet has never honour in his
own country," cried Charles with a laugh--"a
somewhat doubtful compliment to your sex, ladies,
under her application of it."

"But what becomes of your innate evidence of worth
in friendship," asked Miss Emmerson; "I thought
that was the most infallible of all kinds of
testimony: surely that must bring you intimately
acquainted with each other's secret foibles too."

"Oh! no--that is a species of sentimental
knowledge," returned Julia; "it only dwells on the
loftier parts of the character, and never descends to
the minute knowledge which makes us suffer so
much in each other's estimation: it leaves all these
to be filled by the--by the--by the--what shall I call
it?"

"Imagination," said Katherine, dryly.

"Well, by the imagination then: but it is an
imagination that is purified by sentiment, and"--

"Already rendered partial by the innate evidence of
worth," interrupted Charles.

Julia had lost herself in the mazes of her own
ideas, and changed the subject under a secret
suspicion that her companions were amusing
themselves at her expense; she, therefore,
proceeded directly to urge the request of Anna
Miller.

"Oh! aunt, now we are on the subject of friends, I
wish to request you would authorize me to invite
my Anna to pass the next winter with us in Park-
Place."

"I confess, my love," said Miss Emmerson, glancing
her eye at Katherine, "that I had different views for
ourselves next winter: has not Miss Miller a married
sister living in town?"

"Yes, but she has positively refused to ask the dear
girl, I know," said Julia. "Anna is not a favourite
with her sister."

"Very odd that," said the aunt gravely; "there must
be a reason for her dislike then: what can be the
cause of this unusual distaste for each other?"

"Oh!" cried Julia, "it is all the fault of Mrs. Welton;
they quarrelled about something, I don't know
what, but Anna assures me Mrs. Welton is entirely
in fault."

"Indeed!--and you are perfectly sure that Mrs.
Welton is in fault--perhaps Anna has, however, laid
too strong a stress upon the error of her sister,"
observed the aunt.

"Oh! not at all, dear aunt. I can assure you, on my
own knowledge," continued Julia, "Anna was
anxious for a reconciliation, and offered to come
and spend the winter with her sister, but Mrs.
Welton declared positively that she would not have
so selfish a creature round her children: now this
Anna told me herself one day, and wept nearly to
break her heart at the time."

"Perhaps Mrs. Welton was right then," said Miss
Emmerson, "and prudence, if not some other
reason, justified her refusal."

"How can you say so, dear aunt?" interrupted Julia,
with a little impatience, "when I tell you that Anna
herself--my Anna, told me with her own lips, here in
this very house, that Mrs. Welton was entirely to
blame, and that she had never done any thing in
her life to justify the treatment or the remark--now
Anna told me this with her own mouth."

As Julia spoke, the ardour of her feelings brought
the colour to her cheeks and an animation to her
eyes that rendered her doubly handsome; and
Charles Weston, who had watched her varying
countenance with delight, sighed as she concluded,
and rising, left the room.

"I understand that your father intends spending his
winter in Carolina, for his health," said Miss
Emmerson to Katherine.

"Yes," returned the other in a low tone, and
bending over her work to conceal her feelings;
"mother has persuaded him to avoid our winter."

"And you are to be left behind?"

"I am afraid so," was the modest reply.

"And your brother and sister go to Washington
together?"

"That is the arrangement, I believe."

Miss Emmerson said no more, but she turned an
expressive look on her ward, which Julia was too
much occupied with her thoughts to notice. The
illness of her father, and the prospect of a long
separation from her sister, were too much for the
fortitude of Katherine at any time, and hastily
gathering her work in her hand, she left the room
just in time to prevent the tears which streamed
down her cheeks from meeting the eyes of her
companions.

"We ought to ask Katherine to make one of our
family, in the absence of her mother and sister,"
said Miss Emmerson, as soon as the door was
closed.

"Ah! yes," cried Julia, fervently, "by all means: poor
Katherine, how solitary she would be any where
else--I will go this instant and ask her."

"But--stop a moment, my love; you will remember
that we have not room for more than one guest. If
Katherine is asked, Miss Miller cannot be invited.
Let us look at what we are about, and leave
nothing to repent of hereafter."

"Ah! it is true," said Julia, re-seating herself in
great disappointment; "where will poor Katherine
stay then?"

"I know my brother expects that I will take her
under my charge; and, indeed, I think he has right
to ask it of me."

"But she has no such right as my Anna, who is my
bosom friend, you know. Katherine has a right here,
it is true, but it is only such a right"--

"As your own," interrupted the aunt gravely; "you
are the daughter of my sister, and Katherine is the
daughter of my brother."

"True--true--if it be right, lawful right, that is to
decide it, then Katherine must come, I suppose,"
said Julia, a little piqued.

"Let us proceed with caution, my love," said Miss
Emmerson, kissing her niece--"Do you postpone
your invitation until September, when, if you
continue of the same mind, we will give Anna the
desired invitation: in the mean while prepare
yourself for what I know will be a most agreeable
surprise."

CHAPTER IV.

ALTHOUGH Julia spent most of her time with her
aunt and cousin, opportunities for meditation were
not wanting: in the retirement of her closet she
perused and re-perused the frequent letters of her
friend. The modesty of Julia, or rather shame,
would have prevented her from making Anna
acquainted with all her feelings, but it would have
been treason to her friendship not to have poured
out a little of her soul at the feet of Miss Miller.
Accordingly, in her letters, Julia did not avoid the
name of Antonio. She mentioned it often, but with
womanly delicacy, if not with discretion. The seeds
of constant association had, unknown to herself,
taken deep root, and it was not in the power of
Anna Miller to eradicate impressions which had
been fastened by the example of the aunt, and
cherished by the society of her cousin. Although
deluded, weak, and even indiscreet, Julia was not
indelicate. Yet enough escaped her to have given
any experienced eye an insight into the condition of
her mind, had Anna chosen to have exposed her
letters to any one. The danger of such a
correspondence should alone deter any prudent
female from its indulgence. Society has branded the
man with scorn who dares abuse the confidence of
a woman in this manner; and the dread of the
indignation of his associates makes it an offence
which is rarely committed by the other sex: but
there is no such obligation imposed on women, and
that frequently passes for a joke which harrows
every feeling that is dear to the female breast, and
violates all that is delicate and sensitive in our
nature. Surely, where it is necessary from any
adventitious circumstances to lay the heart open in
this manner, it should only be done to those whose
characters are connected with our own, and who
feel ridicule inflicted on us, as disgrace heaped on
themselves. A peculiar evil of these confidential
friendships is, that they are most liable to occur,
when, from their youth, their victims are the least
guarded; and, at the same time, from inconstancy,
the most liable to change. Happily, however, for
Julia's peace of mind, she foresaw no such dangers
from her intimacy with Anna, and letter and answer
passed between them, at short intervals, during the
remainder of the summer. We shall give but one
more specimen of each, as they have strong
resemblance to one another--we select two that
were written late in August.

"My own and beloved Julia,

"Your letters are the only consolation that my
anxious heart can know in the dreary solitude of
this place. Oh! my friend, how would your tender
heart bleed did you but know the least of my
sufferings; but they are all requited by the
delightful anticipations of Park-Place. I hope your
dear aunt has not found it necessary to lay down
her carriage in the change of the times: write me in
your next about it. Antonio has been here again,
and he solicited an audience with me in private--of
course I granted it, for friendship hallows all that is
done under its mantle. It was a moonlight night--
mild Luna shedding a balmy light on surrounding
objects, and, if possible, rendering my heart more
sensitive than ever. One solitary glimmering star
showed by its paly quiverings the impress of
evening, while not a cloud obscured the vast
firmament of heaven. On such an evening Antonio
could do nothing but converse of my absent friend;
he dwelt on the indescribable grace of your person,
the lustre of your eye, and the vermilion of your
lips, until exhausted language could furnish no
more epithets of rapture: then the transition to
your mind was natural and easy; and it was while
listening to his honied accents that I thought my
Julia herself was talking.

"Soft as the dews from heaven descend, his gentle
accents fell."

Ah, Julia! nothing but a strong pre-possession, and
my friendship for you, could remove the danger of
such a scene. Yes! friend of my heart, I must
acknowledge my weakness. There is a youth in
New-York, who has long been master of my too
sensitive heart, and without him life will be a
burthen. Cruel fate divides us now, but when
invited by your aunt to Park-Place, Oh, rapture
unutterable! I shall be near my Regulus. This,
surely, is all that can be wanting to stimulate my
Julia to get the invitation from her aunt. Antonio
says that if I go to the city this fall, he will hover
near me on the road to guard the friend of Julia;
and that he will eagerly avail himself of my
presence to seek her society. I am called from my
delightful occupation by one of my troublesome
sisters, who wishes me to assist her in some trifle
or other. Make my most profound respects to your
dear, good aunt, and believe me your own true
friend,

ANNA."

{Regulus = prince}

At length Julia thought she had made the discovery
of Anna's reason for her evident desire to spend the
winter in town--like herself, her friend had become
the victim of the soft passion, and from that
moment Julia determined that Katherine Emmerson
must seek another residence, in order that Anna
might breathe love's atmosphere. How much a
desire to see Antonio governed this decision, we
cannot say, but we are certain that, if in the least,
Julia was herself ignorant of the power. With her, it
seemed to be the result of pure, disinterested, and
confiding friendship. In answer, our heroine wrote
as follows:

"My beloved Anna,

"Your kind, consolatory letters are certainly the
solace of my life. Ah! Anna, I have long thought
that some important secret lay heavy at your heart.
The incoherency of your letters, and certain things
too trifling to mention, had made me suspect that
some unusual calamity had befallen you. You do
not mention who Regulus is. I am burning with
curiosity to know, although I doubt not but he is
every way worthy of your choice.

"I have in vain run over in my mind every young
man that we know, but not one of them that I can
find has any of the qualities of a hero. Do relieve
my curiosity in your next, and I may have it in my
power to write you something of his movements.
Oh! Anna, why will you dwell on the name of
Antonio--I am sure I ought not to listen as I do to
what he says--and when we meet, I am afraid that
he will not find all the attractions which your too
partial friendship has portrayed. If he should be
thus disappointed, Oh! Anna--Anna--what would
become of your friend--But I will not dwell an the
horrid idea. Charles Weston is yet here, and
Katherine Emmerson too; so that but for the
thoughts of my absent Anna, and perhaps a little
uneasiness on the subject of Antonio, I might be
perfectly happy. You know how good and friendly
Katherine is, and really Charles does all in his
power to please. If he were only a little more
heroical, he would be a charming young man: for
although he is not very handsome, I don't think you
notice it in the least when you are intimate with
him. Poor Charles, he was terribly mortified about
the flash of lightning--but then all are not brave
alike. Adieu, my Anna--and if you do converse more
with a certain person about, you know whom, let it
be with discretion, or you may raise expectations
she will not equal. Your own JULIA."

"P. S. I had almost forgotten to say that aunt has
promised me that I can ask you to stay with us, if,
after the 20th September, I wish it, as you may be
sure that I will. Aunt keeps her carriage yet, and I
hope will never want it in her old age."

About the time this letter was written, Miss
Emmerson made both of her nieces acquainted with
the promised project that was to give them the
agreeable surprise:--she had long contemplated
going to see "the Falls," and she now intended
putting her plan into execution. Katherine was
herself pressed to make one of the party, but the
young lady, at the same time she owned her wish
to see this far-famed cataract, declined the offer
firmly, but gratefully, on account of her desire to
spend the remaining time with her father and
mother, before they went to the south. Charles
Weston looked from Katherine to Julia during this
dialogue, and for an instant was at a loss to know
which he thought the handsomest of the cousins.
But Julia entered into the feelings of the others so
quickly, and so gracefully offered to give up the
journey, in order that Miss Emmerson might
continue with her brother, that, aided by her
superior beauty, she triumphed. It was evident,
that consideration for her niece was a strong
inducement with the aunt for making the journey,
and the contest became as disinterested as it was
pleasing to the auditors. But the authority of Miss
Emmerson prevailed, and Charles was instantly
enlisted as their escort for the journey. Julia never
looked more beautiful or amiable than during this
short controversy. It had been mentioned by the
aunt that she should take the house of Mr. Miller in
her road, and the information excited an emotion
that brought all her lustre to her eyes, and bloom
to her cheeks. Charles thought it was a burst of
generous friendship, and admired the self-denial
with which she urged her aunt to relinquish the
idea. But Julia was constitutionally generous, and it
was the excess of the quality that made her
enthusiastic and visionary. If she did not deserve
all of Charles's admiration, she was entitled to no
small share of it. As soon as the question was
determined in favour of going, Miss Emmerson and
Katherine withdrew, leaving Charles alone with the
heroine of our tale. Under the age of five-and-
twenty, men commonly act at the instigation of
sudden impulse, and young Weston was not yet
twenty-one. He had long admired Julia for her
beauty and good feelings; he did not see one half
of her folly, and he knew all of her worth; her
enthusiastic friendship for Miss Miller was
forgotten; even her mirth at his own want of
heroism had at the moment escaped his memory--
and the power of the young lady over him was
never greater.

"How admirable in you, Julia," he said, seating
himself by her side, "to urge what was against your
own wishes, in order to oblige your aunt!"

"Do you think so, Charles?" said the other simply;
"but you see I urged it feebly, for I did not prevail."

"No, for you mistook your aunt's wishes, it seems:
she desires to go--but then all the loveliness of the
act was yours."

At the word loveliness, Julia raised her eyes to his
face with a slight blush--it was new language for
Charles Weston to use, and it was just suited to
her feelings. After a moment's pause. however, she
replied--

"You use strong language, cousin Charles, such as
is unusual for you."

"Julia, although I may not often have expressed it,
I have long thought you to be very lovely!"
exclaimed the young man, borne away with his
ardour at the moment.

"Upon my word, Charles, you improve," said Julia,
blushing yet more deeply, and, if possible, looking
still handsomer than before.

"Julia--Miss Warren--you tear my secret from me
before its time--I love you, Julia, and would wish to
make you my wife."

This was certainly very plain English, nor did Julia
misunderstand a syllable of what he said--but it
was entirely new and unexpected to her; she had
lived with Charles Weston with the confidence of a
kinswoman, but had never dreamt of him as a lover.
Indeed, she saw nothing in him that looked like a
being to excite or to entertain such a passion; and
although from the moment of his declaration she
began insensibly to think differently of him, nothing
was farther from her mind than to return his offered
affection. But then the opportunity of making a
sacrifice to her secret love was glorious, and her
frankness forbade her to conceal the truth. Indeed,
what better way was there to destroy the unhappy
passion of Charles, than to convince him of its
hopelessness? These thoughts flashed through her
mind with the rapidity of lightning--and trembling
with the agitation and novelty of her situation, she
answered in a low voice--

"That, Charles, can never be."

"Why never, Julia?" cried the youth, giving way at
once to his long-suppressed feelings--"why never?
Try me, prove me! there is nothing I will not do to
gain your love."

Oh! how seductive to a female ear is the first
declaration of an attachment, especially when
urged by youth and merit!--it assails her heart in
the most vulnerable part, and if it be not fortified
unusually well, seldom fails of success. Happily for
Julia, the image of Antonio presented itself to save
her from infidelity to her old attachment, and she
replied--

"You are kind and good, Charles, and I esteem you
highly--but ask no more, I beg of you."

"Why, if you grant me this, why forbid me to hope
for more?" said the youth eagerly, and looking
really handsome.

Julia hesitated a moment, and let her dark eyes fall
before his ardent gaze, at a loss what to say--but
the face of Apollo in the imperial uniform
interposed to save her.

"I owe it to your candour, Mr. Weston, to own my
weakness--" she said, and hesitated.

"Go on, Julia--my Julia," said Charles, in an
unusually soft voice; "kill me at once, or bid me
live!"

Again Julia paused, and again she looked on her
companion with kinder eyes than usual--when she
felt the picture which lay next her heart, and
proceeded--

"Yes, Mr. Weston, this heart, this foolish, weak
heart is no longer my own."

"How!" exclaimed Charles, in astonishment, "and
have I then a rival, and a successful one too?"

"You have," said Julia, burying her face in her hands
to conceal her blushes.--"But, Mr. Weston, on your
generosity I depend for secrecy--be as generous as
myself."

"Yes--yes--I will conceal my misery from others,"
cried Charles, springing on his feet and rushing
from the room; "would to God I could conceal it
from myself!"

Julia was sensibly touched with his distress, and for
an instant there was some regret mingled with self-
satisfaction at her own candour--but then the
delightful reflection soon presented itself of the
gratitude of Antonio when he learnt her generous
conduct, and her self-denial in favour of a man
whom she had as yet never seen.--At the same
time she was resolutely determined never to
mention the occurrence herself--not even to her
Anna.

Miss Emmerson was enabled to discover some
secret uneasiness between Charles and Julia,
although she was by no means able to penetrate
the secret. The good aunt had long anxiously
wished for just such a declaration as had been
made to her niece, and it was one of the last of her
apprehensions that it would not have been
favourably received. Of simple and plain habits
herself, Miss Emmerson was but little versed in the
human heart; she thought that Julia was evidently
happy and pleased with her young kinsman, and
she considered him in every respect a most eligible
connexion for her charge: their joint fortunes would
make an ample estate, and they were alike
affectionate and good-tempered--what more could
be wanting? Nothing however passed in the future
intercourse of the young couple to betray their
secrets, and Miss Emmerson soon forgot her
surmises. Charles was much hurt at Julia's avowal,
and had in vain puzzled his brains to discover who
his rival could be. No young man that was in the
least (so he thought) suitable to his mistress,
visited her, and he gave up his conjectures in
despair of discovering this unknown lover, until
accident or design should draw him into notice.
Little did he suspect the truth. On the other hand,
Julia spent her secret hours in the delightful
consciousness of having now done something that
rendered her worthy of Antonio, with occasional
regret that she was compelled by delicacy and love
to refuse Charles so hastily as she had done.

Very soon after this embarrassing explanation, Julia
received a letter from her friend that was in no way
distinguishable from the rest, except that it
contained the real name of Regulus, which she
declared to be Henry Frederick St. Albans. If Charles
was at a loss to discover Julia's hidden love, Julia
herself was equally uncertain how to know who this
Mr. St. Albans was. After a vast deal of musing, she
remembered that Anna was absent from school
without leave one evening, and had returned alone
with a young man who was unknown to the
mistress. This incident was said, by some, to have
completed her education rather within the usual
time. Julia had herself thought her friend indiscreet,
but on the whole, hardly treated--and they left the
school together. This must have been St. Albans,
and Anna stood fully exculpated in her eyes. The
letter also announced the flattering fact, that
Antonio had already left the country, ordering his
servants and horses home, and that he had gone to
New-York with the intention of hovering around
Julia, in a mask, that she could not possibly
remove, during the dangers of their expected
journey. Anna acknowledged that she had betrayed
Antonio's secret, but pleaded her duty to her friend
in justification. She did not think that Julia would
be able to penetrate his disguise, as he had
declared his intentions so to conceal himself, by
paint and artifice, as to be able to escape
detection. Here was a new source of pleasure to our
heroine: Antonio was already on the wing for the
city, perhaps arrived--nay, might have seen her,
might even now be within a short distance of the
summer-house where she was sitting at the time,
and watching her movements. As this idea
suggested itself, Julia started, and unconsciously
arranging her hair, by bringing forward a neglected
curl, moved with trembling steps towards the
dwelling. At each turn of the walk our heroine threw
a timid eye around in quest of an unknown figure,
and more than once fancied she saw the face of the
god of music peering at her from the friendly covert
of her aunt's shrubbery--and twice she mistook the
light green of a neighbouring cornfield, waving in
the wind, for the coat of Antonio. Julia had so long
associated the idea of her hero with the image in
her bosom, that she had given it perfect identity;
but, on more mature reflection, she was convinced
of her error: he would come disguised, Anna had
told her, and had ordered his servants home; where
that home was, Julia was left in ignorance--but she
fervently hoped, not far removed from her beloved
aunt. The idea of a separation from this
affectionate relative, who had proved a mother to
her in her infancy, gave great pain to her best
feelings; and Julia again internally prayed that the
residence of Antonio might not be far distant.--
What the disguise of her lover would be, Julia could
not imagine--probably, that of a wandering harper:
but then she remembered that there were no
harpers in America, and the very singularity might
betray his secret. Music is the "food of love," and
Julia fancied for a moment that Antonio might
appear as an itinerant organist--but it was only for
a moment; for as soon as she figured to herself the
Apollo form, bending under the awkward load of a
music-grinder, she turned in disgust from the
picture. His taste, thought Julia will protect me
from such a sight--she might have added, his
convenience too. Various disguises presented
themselves to our heroine, until, on a view of the
whole subject, she concluded that Antonio would
not appear as a musician at all, but in some
capacity in which he might continue unsuspected,
near her person, and execute his project of
shielding her from the dangers of travelling. It was
then only as a servant that he could appear, and,
after mature reflection, Julia confidently expected
to see him in the character of a coachman.

Willing to spare her own horses, Miss Emmerson
had already sent to the city for the keeper of a
livery-stable, to come out and contract with her for
a travelling carriage, to convey her to the Falls of
Niagara. The man came, and it is no wonder that
Julia, under her impressions, chose to be present at
the conversation.

"Well then," said Miss Emmerson to the man, "I will
pay you your price, but you must furnish me with
good horses to meet me at Albany--remember that
I take all the useless expense between the two
cities, that I may know whom it is I deal with."

"Miss Emmerson ought to know me pretty well by
this time," said the man; "I have driven her
enough, I think."

"And a driver," continued the lady, musing, "who am
I to have for a driver?" Here Julia became all
attention, trembling and blushing with
apprehension.

"Oh, a driver!" cried the horse-dealer; "I have got
you an excellent driver, one of the first chop in the
city."

{first chop = first rank, highest quality}

Although these were not the terms that our heroine
would have used herself in speaking of this
personage, yet she thought they plainly indicated
his superiority, and she waited in feverish suspense
to hear more.

"He must be steady, and civil, and sober, and
expert, and tender-hearted," said Miss Emmerson,
who thought of any thing but a hero in disguise.

"Yes--yes--yes--yes--yes," replied the stable-
keeper, nodding his head and speaking at each
requisite, "he is all that, I can engage to Miss
Emmerson."

"And his eyesight must be good," continued the
lady, deeply intent on providing well for her
journey; "we may ride late in the evening, and it is
particularly requisite that he have good eyes."

"Yes--yes, ma'am," said the man, in a little
embarrassment that did not escape Julia; "he has

as good an eye as any man in America."

"Of what age is he?" asked Miss Emmerson.

"About fifty," replied the man, thinking years would
he a recommendation.

"Fifty!" exclaimed Julia, in a tone of
disappointment.

"'Tis too old," said Miss Emmerson; "he should he
able to undergo fatigue."

"Well, I may be mistaken--Oh, he can't be more
than forty, or thirty," continued the man, watching
the countenance of Julia; "he is a man that looks
much older than he is."

"Is he strong and active?"

"I guess he is--he's as strong as an ox, and active
as a cat," said the other, determined he should
pass.

"Well, then," said the aunt, in her satisfied way,
"let every thing be ready for us in Albany by next
Tuesday. We shall leave home on Monday."

The man withdrew.

Julia had heard enough--for ox she had substituted
Hercules, and for cat, she read the feathered
Mercury.

CHAPTER V.

THE long expected Monday at length arrived, and
Miss Emmerson and Julia, taking an affectionate
leave of their relatives in the city, went on board
the steam-boat under the protection of Charles
Weston. Here a new scene indeed opened on our
heroine; for some time she even forgot to look
around her in the throng in quest of Antonio. As the
boat glided along the stream, she stood leaning on
one arm of Charles, while Miss Emmerson held the
other, in delighted gaze at the objects, which they
had scarcely distinguished before they were passed.

"See, dear Charles," cried Julia, in a burst of what
she would call natural feeling--"there is our house--
here the summerhouse, and there the little arbour
where you read to us last week Scott's new novel--
how delightful! every thing now seems and feels
like home."

"Would it were a home for us all," said Charles,
gently pressing her arm in his own, and speaking
only to be heard by Julia, "then should I be happy
indeed."

Julia thought no more of Antonio; but while her
delighted eye rested on the well known scenes
around their house, and {as} she stood in the
world, for the first time, leaning on Charles, she
thought him even nearer than their intimacy and
consanguinity made them. But the boat was famous
for her speed, and the house, garden, and every
thing Julia knew, were soon out of sight, and she,
by accident, touching the picture which she had
encased in an old gold setting of her mother's, and
lodged in her bosom, was immediately restored to
her former sense of things. Then her eye glanced
rapidly round the boat, but discovering no face
which in the least resembled disguise, she
abandoned the expectation of meeting her lover
before they reached Albany. Her beauty drew many
an eye on her, however, and catching the steady
and admiring gaze of one or two of the gentlemen,
Julia's heart beat, and her face was covered with
blushes.

She was by no means sure that Antonio would
appear as a coachman--this was merely a
suggestion of her own; and the idea that he might
possibly be one of the gazers, covered her with
confusion: her blushes drew still more attention
and admiration upon her; and we cannot say what
might have been the result of her fascinations, had
not Charles at this instant approached them, and
pointing to a sloop they were passing at the time,
exclaimed--

"See, madam--see, Julia--there is our travelling
equipage on board that sloop, going up to meet us
in Albany."

Our heroine looked as directed, and saw a vessel
moving with tolerable rapidity up the river, within a
short distance from them. On its deck were a
travelling carriage and a pair of horses, and by the
latter stood a man who, by the whip in his head,
was evidently the driver. His stature was tall and
athletic; his complexion dark to near blackness; his
face was buried in whiskers; and his employer had
spoken the truth when he said he had as good an
eye as any men in America--it was large, black, and
might be piercing. But then he had but one--at
least the place where the other ought to be, was
covered by an enormous patch of green silk. This
then was Antonio. It is true, he did not resemble
Apollo, but his disguise altered him so that it was
difficult to determine. As they Moved slowly by the
vessel, the driver recognised Charles, having had an
interview with him the day before, and saluted him
with a low bow--his salutation was noticed by the
young man, who slightly touched his hat, and gave
him a familiar nod in return--Julia, unconsciously,
bent her body, and felt her cheeks glow with
confusion as she rose again. She could not muster
resolution to raise her eyes towards the sloop, but
by a kind of instinctive coquetry dragged her
companion to the other side of the boat. As soon
as she was able to recover her composure, Julia
revolved in her mind the scene which had just
occurred. She had seen Antonio--every thing about
him equalled her expectations--even at the
distance, she had easily discerned the noble dignity
of his manners--his eye gave assurance of his
conscious worth--his very attitude was that of a
gentleman. Not to know him for a man of birth, of
education and of fortune, Julia felt to her would be
impossible; and she trembled lest others, as
discerning as herself, should discover his disguise,
and she in consequence be covered with confusion.
She earnestly hoped his incog. would ever remain
unknown, for her delicacy shrunk at the publicity
and notoriety which would then attend his
attachment. It was certainly delightful to be loved,
and so loved--to be attended, and so attended; but
the heart of Julia was too unpractised to relish the
laugh and observations of a malignant world. "No,
my Antonio," she breathed internally, "hover around
me, shield me from impending dangers, delight me
with your presence, and enchant me with your eye;
but claim me in the guise of a gentleman and a
hero, that no envious tongue may probe the secrets
of our love, nor any profane scoffer ridicule those
sensitive pleasures that he is too unsentimental to
enjoy." With these, and similar thoughts, did Julia
occupy herself, until Charles pointed out to her the
majestic entrance to the Highlands. Our heroine,
who was truly alive to all the charms of nature,
gazed with rapture as the boat plunged between
the mountains on either hand, and turned a wistful
gaze down the river, in the vain hope that Antonio
might, at the same moment, be enjoying the
scene--but the sluggish sloop was now far behind,
and the eye of Antonio, bright as it was, could not
pierce the distance. Julia felt rather relieved than
otherwise, when the vessel which contained her
hero was hid from view by a mountain that they
doubled. Her feelings were much like those of a girl
who had long anxiously waited the declaration of a
favourite youth, had received it, and acknowledged
her own partiality. She felt all the assurance of her
conquest, and would gladly, for a time, avoid the
shame of her own acknowledgment. The passage up
the Hudson furnishes in itself so much to charm the
eye of a novice, that none but one under the
extraordinary circumstances of our heroine, could
have beheld the beauties of the river unmoved. If
Julia did not experience quite as much rapture in
the journey as she had anticipated, she attributed
it to the remarkably delicate situation she was in
with her lover, and possibly to a dread of his being
detected. An officer of his rank and reputation must
be well known, thought she, and he may meet with
acquaintances every where. However, by the
attention of Charles, she passed the day with a
very tolerable proportion of pleasure. Their arrival
at Albany was undistinguished by any remarkable
event, though Julia looked in vain through the
darkness of the night, in quest of the fertile
meadows and desert islands which Anna had
mentioned in her letter. Even the river seemed
straight and uninteresting. But Julia was tired--it
was night--and Antonio was absent.

The following morning Miss Emmerson and her
niece, attended by Charles, took a walk to examine
the beauties of Albany. It did not strike our heroine
as being so picturesque as it had her friend; still it
had novelty, and that lent it many charms it might
have wanted on a more intimate acquaintance.
Their forenoon, however, exhausted the beauties of
this charming town, and they had returned to the
inn, and the ladies were sitting in rather a listless
state when Charles entered the room with a look of
pleasure, and cried "he is here."

"Who!" exclaimed Julia, starting, and trembling like
an aspen.

"He!--Tony," said Charles, in reply.

Julia was unable to say any more; but her aunt,
without noticing her agitation, asked mildly, "And
who is Tony?"

"Why Anthony, the driver--he is here and wishes to
see you."

"Show him up, Charles, and let us learn when he
will be ready to go on."

This was an awful moment to Julia--she was on the
eve of being confronted, in a room, for the first
time, with the man on whom she felt that her
happiness or misery must depend. Although she
knew the vast importance to her of good looks at
such a moment, she looked unusually ill--she was
pale from apprehension, and awkward and
ungraceful from her agitation. She would have given
the world to have got out of the room, but this was
impossible--there was but one door, and through
that he must come. She had just concluded that it
was better to remain in her chair than incur the risk
of fainting in the passage, when he entered,
preceded by Charles. His upper, and part of his
lower lip, were clean shaved; a small part of one
cheek and his nose were to be seen; all the rest of
his face was covered with hair, or hid under the
patch. An enormous coloured handkerchief was tied,
in a particular manner, round his neck; and his coat,
made of plain materials, and somewhat tarnished
with service, was buttoned as close to his throat as
the handkerchief would allow. In short, his whole
attire was that of a common driver of a hack
carriage; and no one who had not previously
received an intimation that his character was
different from his appearance, would at all have
suspected the deception.

"Your name is Anthony?" said Miss Emmerson, as
he bowed to her with due deference.

"Yes, ma'am, Anthony--Tony Sandford," was the
reply--it was uttered in a vulgar nasal tone, that
Julia instantly perceived was counterfeited: but
Miss Emmerson, with perfect innocency, proceeded
in her inquiries.

"Are your horses gentle and good, Tony?" adopting
the familiar nomenclature that seemed most to his
fancy.

"As gentle as e'er a lady in the land," said Tony,
turning his large black eye round the room, and
letting it dwell a moment on the beautiful face of
Julia--her heart throbbed with tumultuous emotion
at the first sound of his voice, and she was highly
amused at the ingenuity he had displayed, in
paying a characteristic compliment to her
gentleness, in this clandestine manner--if he
preserves his incognito so ingeniously he will never
be detected, thought Julia, and all will be well.

"And the carriage," continued Miss Emmerson, "is it
fit to carry us?"

"I can't say how fit it may be to carry sich ladies as
you be, but it is as good a carriage as runs out of
York."

Here was another delicate compliment, thought
Julia, and so artfully concealed under brutal
indifference that it nearly deceived even herself.

"When will you be ready to start?" asked Miss
Emmerson.

"This moment," was the prompt reply--"we can
easily reach Schenectady by sundown."

Here Julia saw the decision and promptitude of a
soldier used to marches and movements, besides
an eager desire to remove her from the bustle of a
large town and thoroughfare, to a retirement where
she would be more particularly under his protection.
Miss Emmerson, on the other hand, saw nothing but
the anxiety of a careful hireling, willing to promote
the interest of his master, who was to be paid for
his conveyance by the job--so differently do sixty
and sixteen judge the same actions! At all events,
the offer was accepted, and the man ordered to
secure the baggage, and prepare for their
immediate departure.

"Why don't you help Antonio on with the baggage,
Charles?" said Julia, as she stood looking at the
driver tottering under the weight of the trunks.
Charles stared a moment with surprise--the name
created no astonishment, but the request did. Julia
had a habit of softening names, that were rather
harsh in themselves, to which he was accustomed.
Peter she called Pierre; Robert was Rubert {sic};
and her aunt's black footman Timothy, she had
designated as Timotheus: but it was not usual for
ladies to request gentlemen to perform menial
offices--until, recollecting that Julia had expressed
unusual solicitude concerning a dressing-box that
contained Anna's letters, he at once supposed it
was to that she wished him to attend. Charles left
the room, and superintended the whole
arrangements, when once enlisted. Julia now felt
that every doubt of the identity of her lover with
this coachman was removed. He had ingeniously
adopted the name of Anthony, as resembling in
sound the one she herself had given him in her
letters. This he undoubtedly had learnt from Anna--
and then Sandford was very much like Stanley--his
patch, his dress, his air--every thing about him
united to confirm her impressions; and Julia, at the
same time she resolved to conduct herself towards
him in their journey with a proper feminine reserve,
thought she could do no less to a man who
submitted to so much to serve her, than to suffer
him to perceive that she was not entirely insensible
to the obligation.

Our heroine could not but admire the knowing
manner with which Antonio took his seat on the
carriage, and the dexterity he discovered in the
management of his horses--this was infallible
evidence of his acquaintance with the animal, and a
sure sign that he was the master of many, and had
long been accustomed to their service. Perhaps,
thought Julia, he has been an officer of cavalry.

In the constant excitement produced by her
situation, Julia could not enter into all the feelings
described by her friend, during the ride to
Schenectady. Its beauties might be melancholy, but
could she be melancholy, and Antonio so near? The
pines might be silvery and lofty, but the proud
stature of majestic man, eclipsed in her eyes all
their beauties. Not so Charles. He early began to
lavish his abuse on the sterile grounds they
passed, and gave any thing but encomiums on the
smoothness of the road they were travelling. In the
latter particular, even the quiet spirit of Miss
Emmerson joined him, and Julia herself was
occasionally made sensible that she was not
reposing "on a bed of roses."

{sterile grounds = the sandy "pine barrens"
between Albany and Schenectady were notorious for
their lack of scenic beauty}

"Do I drive too fast for the ladies?" asked Antonio,
on hearing a slight complaint and a faint scream in
the soft voice of Julia. Oh, how considerate he is!
thought our heroine--how tender!--without his care
I certainly should have been killed in this rude
place. It was expected that as she had complained,
she would answer; and after a moment employed in
rallying her senses for the undertaking, she replied
in a voice of breathing melody--

"Oh! no, Antonio, you are very considerate."

For a world Julia could not have said more; and
Miss Emmerson thought that she had said quite as
much as the occasion required; but Miss Emmerson,
it will be remembered, supposed their driver to be
Anthony Sandford. The hero, himself, on hearing
such a gentle voice so softly replying to his
question, could not refrain from turning his face
into the carriage, and Julia felt her own eyes lower
before his earnest gaze, while her cheeks burned
with the blushes that suffused them. But the look
spoke volumes--he understands my "Antonio,"
thought Julia, and perceives that, to me, he is no
longer unknown. That expressive glance has opened
between us a communication that will cease but
with our lives. Julia now enjoyed, for the remainder
of their journey to Mr. Miller's, one of the greatest
pleasures of love--unsuspected by others, she could
hold communion with him who had her heart, by the
eyes, and a thousand tender and nameless little
offices which give interest to affection, and zest to
passion.

They had now got half way between the two cities,
and Charles took a seat by the side of the driver,
with the intention, as he expressed himself, of
stretching his legs: the carriage was open and light,
so that all of the figures of the two young men
could be seen by the ladies, as well as their
conversation heard. Charles never appeared to less
advantage in his person, thought Julia, than now,
seated by the side of the manly and noble Antonio.
The figure of Charles was light, and by no means
without grace; yet it did not strike the fancy of our
heroine as so fit to shield and support her through
life, as the more robust person of his companion.
Julia herself was, in form, the counterpart of her
mind--she was light, airy, and beautifully softened
in all her outlines. It was impossible to mistake her
for any thing but a lady, and one of the gentlest
passions and sentiments. She felt her own
weakness, and would repose it on the manly
strength of Antonio.

"Which do you call the best of your horses?" asked
Charles, so soon as he had got himself comfortably
seated.

"The off--but both are true as steel," was the
laconic reply. The comparison was new to Julia, and
it evidently denoted a mind accustomed to the
contemplation of arms.

"How long have you followed the business of a
driver, Tony?" said Charles, in the careless manner
of a gentleman when he wishes to introduce
familiarity with an inferior, by seeming to take an
interest in the other's affairs. Julia felt indignant at
the freedom of his manner, and particularly at the
epithet of "Tony"--yet her lover did not in the least
regard either--or rather his manner exhibited no
symptoms of displeasure--he has made up his
mind, thought Julia, to support his disguise, and it
is best for us both that he should.

"Ever since I was sixteen I have been used to
horses," was the reply of Antonio to the question of
Charles--Julia smiled at the ambiguity of the
answer, and was confirmed in her impression that
he had left college at that age to serve in the
cavalry.

"You must understand them well by this time,"
continued Charles, glancing his eye at his
companion as if to judge of his years--"You must be
forty"--Julia fidgeted a little at this guess of
Charles, but soon satisfied herself with the
reflection that his disguise contributed to the error.

"My age is very deceiving," said the man; "I have
seen great hardships in my time, both of body and
mind."

Here Julia could scarcely breathe through anxiety.
Every syllable that he uttered was devoured with
eager curiosity by the enamoured girl--he knew that
she was a listener, and that she understood his
disguise; and doubtless meant, in that indirect
manner, to acquaint her with the incidents of his
life. It was clear that he indicated his age to be
less than what his appearance would have led her
to believe--his sufferings, his cruel sufferings had
changed him.

"The life of a coachman is not hard," said Charles.

"No, sir, far from it--but I have not been a
coachman all my life."

Nothing could be plainer than this--it was a direct
assertion of his degradation by the business in
which he was then engaged.

"In what manner did you lose your eye, Tony," said
Charles, in a tone of sympathy that Julia blessed
him for in her heart, although she knew that the
member was uninjured, and only hidden to favour
his disguise. Antonio hesitated a little in his
answer, and stammered while giving it--"It was in
the wars," at length he got out, and Julia admired
the noble magnanimity which would not allow him,
even in imagination, to suffer in a less glorious
manner--notwithstanding his eye is safe and as
beautiful as the other, he has suffered in the wars,
thought our heroine, and it is pardonable for him to
use the deception, situated as he is--it is nothing
more than an equivoque. But this was touching
Charles on a favourite chord. Little of a hero as
Julia fancied him to be, he delighted in conversing
about the war with those men, who, having acted in
subordinate stations, would give a different view of
the subject from the official accounts, in which he
was deeply read. It was no wonder, therefore, that
he eagerly seized on the present opportunity to
relieve the tedium of a ride between Albany and
Schenectady.

{equivoque = double meaning, a pun}

"In what battle," asked Charles, quickly; "by sea or
by land?"

"By sea," said Antonio, speaking to his horses, with
an evident unwillingness to say any more on the
subject.

Ah! the deception, and the idea of his friend
Lawrence, are too much for his sensibility, thought
Julia; and to relieve him she addressed Charles
herself.

"How far are we from Schenectady, cousin Charles?"

Antonio, certainly, was not her cousin Charles; but
as if he thought the answering such questions to be
his peculiar province, he replied immediately--

"Four miles, ma'am; there's the stone."

There was nothing in the answer itself, or the
manner of its delivery, to attract notice in an
unsuspecting listener; but by Julia it was well
understood--it was the first time he had ever
spoken directly to herself--it was a new era in their
lives--and his body turned half round toward her as
he spoke, showed his manly form to great
advantage; but the impressive and dignified
manner in which he dropped his whip towards the
mile-stone, Julia felt that she never could forget--it
was intended to mark the spot where he had first
addressed her. He had chosen it with taste. The
stone stood under the shade of a solitary oak, and
might easily be fancied to be a monument erected
to commemorate some important event in the lives
of our lovers. Julia ran over in her mind the time
when she should pay an annual visit to that
hallowed place, and leaning on the arm of her
majestic husband, murmur in his ear, "Here, on this
loved spot, did Antonio first address his happy,
thrice happy Julia."

"Well, Tony," said the mild voice of Miss Emmerson,
"the sun is near setting, let us go the four miles as
fast as you please."

"I'm sure, ma'am," said Antonio, with profound
respect, "you don't want to get in more than I do,
for I had no sleep all last night; I'll not keep you
out one minute after night"--so saying, he urged his
horses to a fast trot, and was quite us good as his
word. How delicate in his attentions, and yet how
artfully has he concealed his anxiety on my account
under a feigned desire for sleep, thought Julia.

If any thing had been wanting either to convince
Julia of the truth of her conjecture, or to secure the
conquest of Antonio, our heroine felt that this short
ride had abundantly supplied it.

CHAPTER VI.

THE following day our travellers were on the road
before the sun, and busily pursued their route
through the delightful valley of the Mohawk. It was
now that Julia, in some measure accustomed to her
proximity to her hero, began to enjoy the beauties
of the scenery; her eye dwelt with rapture on each
opening glimpse that they caught of the river, and
took in its gaze meadows of never-failing verdure,
which were beautifully interspersed with elms that
seemed coeval with the country itself. Occasionally
she would draw the attention of her aunt to some
view of particular interest; and if her eager voice
caught the attention of Antonio, and he turned to
gaze, to ponder, and to admire--then Julia felt
happy indeed, for then it was that she felt the
indescribable bliss of sharing our pleasures with
those we love. What heart of sensibility has stood
and coldly gazed on a scene over which the eye,
that it loves to admire, is roving with delight? Who
is there that has yet to learn, that if the strongest
bond to love is propinquity, so is its tenderest tie,
sympathy? In this manner did our lovely heroine
pass a day of hitherto untasted bliss. Antonio
would frequently stop his horses on the summit of
a hill, and Julia understood the motive; turning her
looks in the direction in which she saw the eye of
her lover bent, she would sit in silent and secret
communion with his feelings. In vain Charles
endeavoured to catch her attention--his remarks
were unnoticed, and his simple efforts to please
disregarded. At length, as they advanced towards
the close of their day's ride, Charles, observing a
mountain obtruding itself directly across their path,
and meeting the river, which swept with great
velocity around its base, cried aloud with a laugh--

"Anthony, I wish you would remove your nose!"

"Charles!" exclaimed Julia, shocked at his rude
familiarities with a man of Antonio's elevated
character.

"Poh!" said the young man, in an under tone,
conceiving her surprise to be occasioned by his
lowering himself to joke with an inferior, "he is a
good, honest fellow, and don't mind a joke at all, I
assure you."

Charles was right, for Antonio, moving his face,
with a laugh cried in his turn--"There, sir, my nose
is moved, but you can't see no better, after all."

Julia was amused with his condescension, which
she thought augured perfect good-nature and
affability. After all, thought Julia, if noble and
commanding qualities are necessary to excite
admiration or to command respect, familiar virtues
induce us to love more tenderly, and good temper
is absolutely necessary to contribute to our
comfort. On the whole, she was rather pleased than
otherwise, that Antonio could receive and return
what was evidently intended for a witticism,
although as yet she did not comprehend it. But
Charles did not leave her long in doubt. On the
north side of the Mohawk, and at about fifty miles
from its mouth, is a mountain which, as we have
already said, juts, in a nearly perpendicular
promontory, into the bed of the river; its inclination
is sufficient to admit of its receiving the name of a
nose. Without the least intention of alluding to our
hero, the early settlers had affixed the name of St.
Anthony, who appears to have been a kind of Dutch
deity in this state, and to have monopolized all the
natural noses within her boundaries to himself. The
vulgar idiom made the pronunciation an-TONY's
nose--and all this Charles briefly explained to Miss
Emmerson and her niece by way of giving point to
his own wit. He had hardly made them comprehend
the full brilliancy and beauty of his application of
the mountain to their driver, when they reached the
pass itself. The road was barely sufficient to suffer
two carriages to move by each other without
touching, being from necessity dug out of the base
of the mountain; a precipice of many feet led to the
river, which was high and turbulent at the time;
there was no railing nor any protection on the side
next the water--and in endeavouring to avoid the
unprotected side of the road, two wagons had met
a short time before, and one of them lost a wheel
in the encounter--its owner had gone to a distance
for assistance, leaving the vehicle where it had
fallen. The horses of Antonio, unaccustomed to
such a sight, were with some difficulty driven by
the loaded wagon, and when nearly past the object,
took a sudden fright at its top, which was flapping
in the wind. All the skill and exertions of Antonio to
prevent their backing was useless, and carriage and
horses would inevitably have gone off the bank
together, had not Charles, with admirable presence
of mind, opened a door, and springing out, placed a
billet of wood, which had been used as a base for a
lever in lifting the broken wagon, under one of the
wheels. This checked the horses until Antonio had
time to rally them, and, by using the whip with
energy, bring them into the road again. He certainly
showed great dexterity as a coachman. But,
unhappily, the movement of Charles had been
misunderstood by Julia, and, throwing open the
door, with the blindness of fear, she sprang from
the carriage also: it was on the side next the
water, and her first leap was over the bank; the hill
was not perpendicular, but too steep for Julia to
recover her balance--and partly running, and partly
falling, the unfortunate girl was plunged into the
rapid river. Charles heard the screams of Miss
Emmerson, and caught a glimpse of the dress of
Julia as she sprang from the carriage. He ran to the
bank just in time to see her fall into the water.

{St. Anthony's Nose = this incident probably
occurred at a place on the Mohawk River called
today The Noses, between Fonda and Palatine
Bridge; there is another St. Anthony's Nose on the
Hudson River}

"Oh, God!" he cried, "Julia!--my Julia!"--and, without
seeming to touch the earth, he flew down the bank,
and threw himself headlong into the stream. His
great exertions and nervous arms soon brought him
alongside of Julia, and, happily for them both, an
eddy in the waters drew them to the land. With
some difficulty Charles was enabled to reach the
shore with his burthen.

Julia was not insensible, nor in the least injured.
Her aunt was soon by her side, and folding her in
her arms, poured out her feelings in a torrent of
tears. Charles would not, however, suffer any delay,
or expressions of gratitude--but, forcing both aunt
and niece into the carriage, bid Anthony drive
rapidly to a tavern known to be at no great
distance.--

On their arrival, both Julia and Charles immediately
clad themselves in dry clothes--when Miss
Emmerson commanded the presence of the young
man in her own room. On entering, Charles found
Julia sitting by a fire, a thousand times handsomer,
if possible, than ever. Her eyes were beaming with
gratitude, and her countenance was glowing with
the excitement produced by the danger that she
had encountered.

"Ah! Charles, my dear cousin," cried Julia, rising and
meeting him with both hands extended, "I owe my
life to your bravery and presence of mind."

"And mine too, Charles." said Miss Emmerson; "but
for you, we should have all gone off the hill
together."

"Yes, if Anthony had not managed the horses
admirably, you might have gone indeed," said
Charles, with a modest wish to get rid of their
praise. But this was an unlucky speech for Charles:
he had, unconsciously presented the image of a
rival, at the moment that he hoped he filled all the
thoughts of Julia.

"Ah, Antonio!" she cried, "poor Antonio!--and where
is he?--Why do you not send for him, dear aunt?"

"What, my love, into my bed-chamber!" said Miss
Emmerson, in surprise; "fear has made the girl
crazy!--But, Charles, where is Anthony?"

"In the stable, with the horses, I believe," said the
youth--"no, here he is, under the window, leading
them to the pump."

"Give him this money," said Miss Emmerson, "and
tell him it is for his admirable skill in saving my
life."

Julia saw the danger of an exposure if she
interfered, yet she had the curiosity to go to the
window, and see how Antonio would conduct in the
mortifying dilemma.

"Here, Anthony," said Charles, "Miss Emmerson has
sent you ten dollars, for driving so well, and saving
the carriage."

"Ah! sir, it is no matter--I can ask nothing for that,
I'm sure."

But Charles, accustomed to the backwardness of
the common Americans to receive more than the
price stipulated, still extended his hand towards
the man. Julia saw his embarrassment, and
knowing of no other expedient by which to relieve
him, said, in a voice of persuasion--

"Take it for my sake, Antonio--if it be unworthy of
you, still, take it, to oblige me."

The man no longer hesitated, but took the money,
and gave Julia a look and a bow that sunk deep
into the tablet of her memory--while Charles
thought him extremely well paid for what he had
done, but made due allowances for the excited
state of his cousin's feelings.

"You perceive," said Miss Emmerson, with a smile,
as Julia withdrew from the window, "if Charles be a
little afraid of lightning, he has no dread of the
water."

"Ah! I retract my error," cried Julia; "Charles must
be brave, or he never could have acted so coolly,
and so well."

"Very true, my love," said Miss Emmerson,
excessively gratified to hear her niece praise the
youth; "it is the surest test of courage when men
behave with presence of mind in novel situations.
Those accustomed to particular dangers easily
discharge their duties, because they know, as it
were instinctively, what is to be done. Thus with
Tony--he did well, but, I doubt not, he was horribly
frightened--and for the world he could not have
done what Charles did."

"Not Antonio!" echoed Julia, thrown a little off her
guard--"I would pledge my life, aunt, that Antonio
would have done as much, if not more, than
Charles!"

"Why did he not, then?---It was his place to stop
the carriage---why did he not?"

"It was his place," said Julia, "to manage the
horses, and you acknowledge that he did it well.
Duties incurred, no matter how unworthy of us,
must be discharged; and although we may be
conscious that our merit or our birth entitles us to a
different station from the one we fill, yet a noble
mind will not cease to perform its duty, even in
poverty and disgrace."

Miss Emmerson listened in surprise; but as her
niece often talked in a manner that she did not
comprehend, she attributed it to the improvements
in education, and was satisfied. But Julia had
furnished herself with a clue to what had
occasioned her some uneasiness. At one time she
thought Antonio ought to have left carriage, horses,
every thing, and flown to her rescue, as Charles had
done; but now she saw that the probity of his soul
forbade it. He had, doubtless, by secret means,
induced the owner of the horses to entrust them to
his keeping---and could he, a soldier, one used to
trust and responsibility, forget his duty in the
moment of need? Sooner would the sentinel quit
his post unrelieved---sooner the gallant soldier turn
his back on his enemy---or sooner would Antonio
forget his Julia!

With this view of the propriety of his conduct, Julia
was filled with the desire to let him know that she
approved of what he had done. Surely, if any thing
can be mortifying to a lover, thought our heroine, it
must be to see a rival save the life of his mistress,
while imperious duty chains him to another task.

Young as Julia was, she had already learnt, that it
is not enough for our happiness that we have the
consciousness of doing right, but it is necessary
that others should think we have done so too.

Accordingly, early the following morning she arose,
and wandered around the house, in hopes that
chance would throw her lover in her way, and give
her an opportunity of relieving his mind from the
load of mortification under which she knew he must
be labouring. It was seldom that our heroine had
been in the public bar-room of a tavern--but, in
gliding by the door, she caught a glimpse of
Antonio in the bar; and, impelled by her feelings,
she was near him before she had time to collect her
scattered senses. To be with Antonio, and alone,
Julia felt was dangerous; for his passion might
bring on a declaration, and betray them both to the
public and vulgar notice.--Anxious, therefore, to
effect her object at once, she gently laid her hand
on his arm--Antonio started and turned, while the
glass in his hands fell, with its contents, untasted,
on the floor.

"Rest easy, Antonio," said Julia, in the gentlest
possible tones; "to me your conduct is satisfactory,
and your secret will never be exposed." So saying,
she turned quickly, and glided from the room.

"As I hope to be saved," said Antonio, "I meant
nothing wrong--but should have paid the landlord
the moment he came in"--but Julia heard him not.
Her errand was happily executed, and she was
already by the side of her aunt. On entering the
carriage, Julia noticed the eye of Antonio fixed on
her with peculiar meaning, and she felt that her
conduct had been appreciated.--From this time until
the day of their arrival at the house of Mr. Miller,
nothing material occurred. Antonio rose every hour
in the estimation of Julia, and the young lady
noticed a marked difference in her lover's conduct
towards her. A few miles before they reached the
dwelling, Miss Emmerson observed

"To-morrow will be the twentieth of September;
when I am to know who will be my companion for
the winter, Miss Miller or Katherine."

"Ah! aunt, you may know that now, if I am to
decide," said Julia, "it will be Anna, my Anna,
surely."

Her manner was enthusiastic, and her voice a little
louder than usual. Antonio turned his head, and
their eyes met. Julia read in that glance the
approbation of her generous friendship. Miss
Emmerson was a good deal hurt at this decision of
her niece, who, she thought, knowing her
sentiments, would be induced to have been
satisfied with the visit to Anna, and taken
Katherine for the winter. It was with reluctance that
the aunt abandoned this wish, and, after a pause,
she continued--

"Remember, Julia, that you have not my permission
to ask your friend until the twentieth--we can stay
but one night at Mr. Miller's, but if Anna is to spend
the winter in Park Place, we will return this way
from the Falls, and take her with us to the city."

"Thank you, dear aunt," cried Julia, kissing her with
an affection that almost reconciled Miss Emmerson
to the choice--while Charles Weston whistled "Hail,
Columbia! happy land!"

Julia saw that Antonio pitied her impatience--for
the moment he arrived in sight of Mr. Miller's
house, he put his horses to their speed, and
dashed into the court-yard in the space of a few
minutes. For a little while all was confusion and
joy. Anna seemed delighted to see her friend, and
Julia was in raptures--they flew into each other's
arms--and if their parting embrace was embalmed
in tears, their meeting was enlivened with smiles.
With arms interlocked, they went about the house,
the very pictures of joy.--Even Antonio, at the
moment, was forgotten, and all devoted to
friendship. Nay, as if sensible of the impropriety of
his appearance at that critical instant, he withdrew
himself from observation--and his delicacy was not
lost on Julia. Happy are they who can act in
consonance with their own delicate sentiments, and
rest satisfied with the knowledge that their motives
are understood by those whom it is their greatest
desire to please!---Such, too fortunate Antonio, was
thy lot--for no emotion of thy sensitive mind, no act
of thy scrupulously honourable life, passed
unheeded by thy Julia!--so thought the maiden.

It has been already mentioned that the family of
Mr. Miller was large; and amid the tumult and
confusion of receiving their guests, no opportunity
was afforded to the friends for conversation in
private. The evening passed swiftly, and the hour
for bed arrived without any other communication
between Julia and Anna than whisperings and
pressures of the hands, together with a thousand
glances of peculiar meaning with the eyes. But Julia
did not regret this so much as if Antonio had been
unknown--she had been in his company for four
days, and knew, or thought she knew, already, as
much of his history as Anna herself.--But one
thought distressed her, and that was, that his
residence might be far from the house of her aunt.
This reflection gave the tender-hearted girl real
pain, and her principal wish to converse with Anna
in private was to ascertain her future lot on this
distressing point. No opportunity, however, offered
that night, and Julia saw that in the morning her
time would be limited, for Miss Emmerson desired
Mr. Miller to order her carriage to be in readiness to
start so soon as they had breakfasted.

"When, dear aunt, am I to give Anna the
invitation," said Julia, when they were left alone, "if
you start so early in the morning?"

"The proper time will be, my child, immediately
before we get into the carriage," said Miss
Emmerson, with a sigh of regret at the
determination of her niece; "it will then be more
pointed, and call for an immediate answer."

This satisfied Julia, who knew that it would be
accepted by her friend, and she soon fell asleep, to
dream a little of Anna, and a great deal of Antonio.

The following morning Julia arose with the sun, and
her first employment was to seek her friend. Anna
had also risen, and was waiting impatiently for the
other's appearance, in the vacant parlour.

"Ah! dear Julia," said she, catching her arm and
dragging her to a window, "I thought you would
never come.--Well, are we to spend the winter
together--have you spoken to your dear, dear aunt,
about it?"

"You shall know in good time, my Anna," said Julia,
mindful of the wishes of her aunt, and speaking
with a smile that gave Anna an assurance of her
success.

"Oh! what a delightful winter we will have!" cried
Anna, in rapture.

"I am tongue-tied at present," said Julia, laughing;
"but not on every subject," she continued, blushing
to the eyes; "do tell me of St. Albans--of Regulus--
who is he?"

"Who is he?" echoed Anna--"why, nobody!--one
must have something to write about, you know, to
a friend."

Julia felt sick and faint--her colour left her cheeks
as she forced a smile, and uttered, in a low voice--
"But Antonio--Stanley?"

"A man of straw," cried Anna, with unfeeling levity;
"no such creature in the world, I do assure you!"

Julia made a mighty effort to conquer her emotion,
and wildly seizing Anna by the arm, she pointed to
her aunt's coachman, who was at work on his
carriage at no great distance, and uttered--"For
God's sake, who is HE?"

"He!" cried Anna, in surprise, "why, your driver--and
an ugly wretch he is!--don't you know your own
driver yet?"

Julia burst from her treacherous friend--rushed into
the room of her aunt-and throwing herself into the
arms of Miss Emmerson, wept for an hour as if her
heart would break. Miss Emmerson saw that
something had hurt her feelings excessively, and
that it was something she would not reveal.
Believing that it was a quarrel with her friend, and
hoping at all events that it would interrupt their
intercourse, Miss Emmerson, instead of trying to
discover her niece's secret, employed herself in
persuading her to appear before the family with
composure, and to take leave of them with decency
and respect. In this she succeeded, and the happy
moment arrived. Anna in vain pressed near her
friend to receive the invitation--and her mother
more than once hinted at the thousand pities it was
to separate two that loved one another so fondly.
No invitation was given--and although Anna spent
half a day in searching for a letter, that she
insisted must be left in some romantic place, none
was ever found, nor did any ever arrive.

While resting with her foot on the step of the
carriage, about to enter it, Julia, whose looks were
depressed from shame, saw a fluid that was
discoloured with tobacco fall on her shoe and soil
her stocking. Raising her eyes with disgust, she
perceived that the wind had wafted it from the
mouth of Antonio, as he held open the door--and
the same blast throwing aside his screen of silk,
discovered a face that was deformed with disease,
and wanting of an eye!

Our travellers returned to the city by the way of
Montreal and Lake Champlain; nor was it until Julia
had been the happy wife of Charles Weston for
more than a year, that she could summon
resolution to own that she had once been in love,
like thousands of her sex, "with a man of straw!"

=================================
=

HEART.
---oOo---

"Some live in airy fantasies,
And in the clouds do move,
And some do burn with inward flames--
But few know how to love."
ANON. BALLAD

CHAPTER I.

ON one of those clear, cold days of December,
which so frequently occur in our climate, two very
young women were walking on the fashionable
promenade of New-York. In the person of the elder
of these females there was exhibited nothing more
than the usual indications of youth and health; but
there were a delicacy and an expression of
exquisite feeling in the countenance of her
companion, that caused many a plodding or idle
passenger to turn and renew the gaze, which had
been attracted by so lovely a person. Her figure
was light, and possessed rather a character of
aerial grace, than the usual rounded lines of earthly
beauty; and her face was beaming more with the
sentiments of the soul within, than with the
ordinary charms of complexion and features. It was
precisely that kind of youthful loveliness that a
childless husband would pause to contemplate as
the reality of the visions which his thoughts had
often portrayed, and which his nature coveted as
the only treasure wanting to complete the sum of
his earthly bliss. It truly looked a being to be loved
without the usual alloy of our passions; and there
was a modest ingenuousness which shone in her
air, that gently impelled the hearts of others to
regard its possessor with a species of holy
affection. Amongst the gay throng, however, that
thoughtlessly glided along the Broadway, even this
image of female perfection was suffered to move
unnoticed by hundreds; and it was owing to the
obstruction offered to the passage of the ladies, by
a small crowd that had gathered on the side-walk,
that a gentleman of uncommon personal
endowments enjoyed an opportunity of examining it
with more than ordinary attention. The eldest of
the females drew her companion away from this
impediment to their passage, by moving towards
the opposite side of the street, and observing, as
they crossed, with an indifference in her manner--

"It is nothing, Charlotte, but a drunken man; if
people will drink, they must abide the
consequences."

"He does not seem intoxicated, Maria," replied the
other, in a voice whose tones corresponded with her
appearance; "it is some sudden illness."

"One that, I dare say, he is accustomed to," said
Maria, without having even taken such a look at the
sufferer as would enable her to identify his colour;
"he will be well enough after he has slept."

"But is the pavement a place for him to sleep on?"
rejoined her companion, still gazing towards the
miserable object; "and if he should be ill!--why do
they not raise him?--Why do they suffer him to
injure himself as he does?"

The speaker, at the same time that she shrunk in a
kind of sensitive horror from this exhibition of
human infirmities, now unconsciously stopped, with
an interest in the man that she could not controul,
and thus compelled Maria to pause also. The crowd
had withdrawn from the man, giving him sufficient
room to roll over, in evident pain, while they yet
stood gazing at him, with that indefinable feeling
of curiosity and nerveless sympathy, which
characterises man when not called on to act, by
emulation, vanity, or the practice of well-doing. No
one offered to assist the sufferer, although many
said it ought to be done; some spoke of sending for
those who monopolized the official charity of the
city; many, having satisfied their curiosity, and
finding that the moment for action was arriving,
quietly withdrew from a trouble that would interfere
with their comforts or their business--while a few
felt an impulse to aid the man, but hesitated in
being foremost in doing that which would be
honourable to their feelings, but might not accord
with their condition, or might seem as the
ostentatious display of unusual benevolence.
Where men are congregated, conduct must be
regulated by the touchstone of public opinion; and,
although it is the fashion of New-York to applaud
acts of charity, and to do them too in a particular
manner--it is by no means usual to run to the
assistance of a fellow creature who is lying in
distress on a pavement.

{those who monopolized the official charity = in
1821 the only officially supported charitable
organization in New York City was the City
Dispensary -- municipal aid to others having been
cut off in 1817 on the grounds that charity to the
poor only made them lazy and improvident}

Whatever might be the impulses of the gentleman
whom we have mentioned, his attention was too
much absorbed by the conversation and manner of
the two ladies to regard any thing else, and he
followed them across the street, and stopped also
when they paused to view the scene. He was
inwardly and deeply admiring the most youthful of
the females, for the natural and simple display of
those very qualities that he forgot himself to
exercise, when he was roused with a feeling of
something like mortification, by hearing Charlotte
exclaim, with a slight glow on her cheek--

"Ah! there is George Morton coming--he surely will
not pass the poor man without offering to assist
him."

The gentleman turned his head quickly, and noticed
a youth making his way through the crowd,
successfully, to the side of the sufferer. The
distance was too great to hear what passed--but an
empty coach, whose driver had stopped to gaze
with the rest, was instantly drawn up, and the man
lifted in, and followed by the youth, whose
appearance had effected these movements with the
silence and almost with the quietness of magic.

George Morton was far from possessing the elegant
exterior of the uneasy observer of this scene, yet
were the eyes of the lovely young woman who had
caught his attention, fixed in evident delight on his
person, until it was hid from view in the carriage;
when, drawing a long breath, as if relieved from
great uneasiness, she said, in a low voice--

"I knew that George Morton would not pass him so
unfeelingly--but where are they going?--not far, I
hope, on this cold day--and George without his
great coat."

There was a plaintive and natural melody in the
tones of the speaker's voice, as she thus
unconsciously uttered her concern, that impelled
the listener to advance to the side of the carriage,
where a short conversation passed between the
gentlemen, and the stranger returned to the ladies,
who were yet lingering near the spot, apparently
unwilling to depart from a scene that had so deeply
interested one of them. Raising his hat, the
gentleman, addressing himself to the magnet that
had attracted him, said--

"Your friend declines the offer of my coat, and says
that the carriage is quite warm--they are going to
the alms-house, and I am happy to inform you that
the poor man is already much better, and is
recovering from his fit."

{The New York City Almshouse, at Bellevue on the
East River, housed over 1,500 inmates at a time
(with annual deaths approaching 500), and served
as a last refuge for the destitute of all ages}

Charlotte now for the first time observed the
speaker, and a blush passed over her face as she
courtesied her thanks in silence. But her
companion, aroused from gazing at the finery of a
shop window, by the voice of the stranger, turned
quickly, and with very manifest satisfaction,
exclaimed--

"Bless me! Mr. Delafield--I did not observe you
before!--then you think the poor wretch will not
die?"

"Ah! assuredly not," returned the gentleman,
recognizing the face of an acquaintance, with an
animation he could not conceal: "but how
inadvertent I have been, not to have noticed Miss
Osgood before!"--While speaking, his eyes rested
on the lovely countenance of her friend, as if, by
their direction, he meant to explain the reason of
his remissness.

"We were both too much engaged with the
sufferings of the poor man, for until this moment I
did not observe you," said the lady--with that kind
of instinctive quickness that teaches the fair the
importance of an amiable exterior, in the eyes of
the other sex.

"Doubtless," returned the gentleman, gravely, and
for the first time withdrawing his gaze from the
countenance of Charlotte; but the precaution was
unnecessary:--the young lady had been too much
engrossed with her own sensations to notice the
conduct of others, and from the moment that the
carriage had driven out of right, had kept her eyes
on the ground, as she walked silently and
unobtrusively by the side of her companion.

"Miss Henly--Mr. Seymour Delafield," said Maria.
The silent bow and courtesy that followed this
introduction was succeeded by an animated
discourse between the gentleman and his old
acquaintance, which was, but seldom interrupted by
any remark from their more retiring companion.
Whenever she did speak, however, the gentleman
listened with the most flattering attention, that
was the more remarkable, from the circumstance of
his talking frequently at the same time with Maria
Osgood. The trio took a long walk together, and
returned to the house of Mr. Henly, in time for the
necessary arrangements for the coming dinner. It
was when within a short distance of the dwelling of
Charlotte that the gentleman ventured to allude to
the event that had made them acquainted.

"The fearless manner in which you predicted the
humanity of Mr. Morton, would be highly gratifying
to himself, Miss Henly," he observed; "and were I of
his acquaintance, it should be my task to inform
him of your good opinion."

"I believe Mr. Morton has not now to learn that,"
said Charlotte, simply, but dropping her eyes; "I
have been the next door neighbour of George all my
life, and have seen too much of his goodness of
heart not to have expressed the same opinion
often."

"But not to himself," cried Maria; "so, Mr. Delafield,
if you wish to apprise him of his good fortune, you
have only to attend my music party to-morrow
evening, and I will take particular care that you get
acquainted with the humane hero."

The invitation was gladly accepted, and the
gentleman took his leave at the door of the house.

"Well, Charlotte, you have seen him at last!" cried
Maria, the instant the door had closed; "and I am
dying to know how you like him!"

"To save your life," said the other, laughing, "I will
say a great deal, although you so often accuse me
of taciturnity--but who is HIM?"

"Him! why, Delafield!--Seymour Delafield!--the
pattern for all the beaux--the magnet for all the
belles--and the delight of all the parents in town!"

"His own, too?" inquired Charlotte, a little archly.

"He has none--they are dead and gone--but their
money is left behind, and that brings him fathers
and mothers by the dozen!"

"It is fortunate that he can supply their loss in any
way," said Charlotte, with emphasis.

"To be sure he can; he can do more than you or I
could, my dear; he can pick his parents from the
best in the city--and, therefore, he ought to be well
provided."

"And could he be better provided, as you call it, in
that respect, than ourselves?" asked Miss Henly, a
little reproachfully.

"Oh no, surely not; now if he were a woman, how
soon would he be married!--why, child, they say he
is worth at least three hundred thousand dollars!--
he'd be a bride in a month!"

"And miserable, perhaps, in a year," said Charlotte;
"it is fortunate for him that he is a man, by your
tale, or his wealth might purchase misery for him."

"Oh! no one can be miserable that is well married,"
cried Maria; "Heigho! the idea of old-maidism is too
shocking to think about!"

"Why does not Mr. Delafield get married, then, if
marriage be so very desirable?" said Miss Henly,
smiling at the customary rattle of her companion:
"he can easily get a wife, you say?"

{rattle = trivial chatter}

"It is the difficulty of choosing--there are so many
attentive to him--"

"Maria!"

"Mercy! I beg pardon of female delicacy!--but since
the young man has returned from his travels, he
has been so much--much courted--nay, by the old
people, I mean--and the girls beckon him about so-
-and it's Mr. Delafield, have you read Salmagundi?--
and, Mr. Delafield, have you seen Cooke?--and, Mr.
Delafield, do you think we shall have war?--and
have you seen Bonaparte? And, in short, Mr.
Delafield, with his handsome person, and three
hundred thousand dollars, has been so much of all-
in-all to the ladies, that the man has never time to
choose a wife!"

{Salmagundi = a series of comic essays (1819-
1820) by New York City writer James Kirke Paulding
(1778-1860), emulating an earlier series by
Washington Irving and others; Cooke = probably
Thomas Potter Cooke (1786-1864), a noted English
actor; Bonaparte = Napoleon Bonaparte died on St.
Helena in 1821}

"I really wonder that you never took the office upon
yourself," said Charlotte, busied in throwing aside
her coat and gloves; "you appear to have so much
interest in the gentleman."

"Oh! I did, a month since--the moment that he
landed."

"Indeed! and who was it?"

"Myself."

"And have you told him of your choice?" asked the
other, laughing.

"Not with my tongue: but with my eyes, a thousand
times--and with all that unspeakable language that
female invention can supply:--I go where he goes--
if I see him in the street behind me, I move slowly
and with dignity; still he passes me--if before me, I
am in a hurry--but{"}--

"You pass him?" interrupted Charlotte, amused with
her companion's humour.

"Exactly--we never keep an equal pace; this is the
first time that he has walked with me since he
returned from abroad--and for this honour I am
clearly indebted to yourself."

"To me, Maria?" said Charlotte, in surprise.

"To none other--he talked to me, but he looked at
you. Ah! he knows by instinct that you are an only
child--and I do believe that the wretch knows that I
have twelve brothers and sisters--but you had
better take him, Charlotte; he is worth twenty
George Mortons--at least, in money."

"What have the merits of George Morton and Mr.
Delafield to do with each other?" said Charlotte,
removing her hat, and exhibiting a head of hair that
opportunely fell in rich profusion over her shoulders,
so as to conceal the unusual flush on her,
ordinarily, pale cheek.

This concluded the conversation; for Charlotte
instantly left the room, and was occupied for some
time in giving such orders as her office of assistant
in housekeeping to her mother rendered necessary.

Charlotte Henly was the only child that had been
left from six who were born to her parents, the
others having died in their infancy. The deaths of
the rest of their children had occasioned the
affection of her parents to center in the last of their
offspring with more than common warmth; and the
tenderness of their love was heightened by the
extraordinary qualities of their child. Possessed of
an abundance of the goods of this world, these
doating parents were looking around with intense
anxiety, among their acquaintance, and watching
for the choice that was to determine the worldly
happiness of their daughter.

Charlotte was but seventeen, yet the customs of
the country, and the temptations of her expected
wealth, together with her own attractions, had
already placed her within the notice of the world.
But no symptom of that incipient affection which
was to govern her life, could either of her parents
ever discover; and in the exhibitions of her
attachments, there was nothing to be seen but that
quiet and regulated esteem, which grows out of
association and good sense, and which is so
obviously different from the restless and varying
emotions that are said to belong to the passion of
love.

Maria Osgood was a distant relative, and an early
associate, who, although as different from her
cousin in appearance and character as black is from
white, was still dear to the latter, both from habit
and her unconquerable good nature.

George Morton, the youth of whom such honourable
mention has been made, was the son of a
gentleman who had long resided in the next
dwelling to Mr. Henly in the city, and who also
possessed a country house near his own villa.
These circumstances had induced an intimacy
between the families that was cemented by the
good opinion each entertained of the qualities of
the other, and which had been so long and so often
tried in scenes of happiness and misery, that were
known to both. Young Morton was a few years the
senior of Charlotte; and, at the time of commencing
our tale, was but lately released from his collegiate
labours. His goodness of heart and simplicity of
manners made him an universal favourite; while the
peculiarity of their situation brought him oftener
before the notice of Charlotte than any other young
man of her acquaintance.--But, notwithstanding the
intimation of Maria Osgood, none of their friends in
the least suspected any other feeling to exist
between the youthful pair than the natural and very
obvious one of disinterested esteem. As the family
seated themselves at the dinner table, their guest
exclaimed, in the heedless way that characterised
her manner--

"Oh! Mrs. Henly, I have to congratulate you on the
prospects of your soon having a son, and one so
amiable and attractive as your daughter."

"Indeed!" returned the matron, comprehending the
other's meaning intuitively, "and what may be the
young gentleman's name?"

"You will be the envy of all the mothers in town,"
continued Maria, "and deservedly so. Two such
children to fall to the lot of one mother!--Nay, do
not shake your head, Charlotte; it must and shall
be a match, I am determined."

"My friendship for you would deter me from the
measure, should nothing else interfere," said
Charlotte, good humouredly.

"Ah! I have already abandoned my pretensions--
twelve brothers and sisters, my dear, are a dreadful
addition to bring into a family at once!"

"I am sure I do not think so," returned Charlotte,
timidly glancing her eye at her mother; "besides, I
feel bound in honour to remember your original
intention."

"I tell you I have abandoned it, with all thoughts of
the youth."

"And who is the youth?" asked Mrs. Henly, affecting
an indifference that she did not feel.

"You will have the handsomest son in the city,
certainly," said Maria; "and, possibly, the richest--
and the most learned--and, undeniably, the most
admired!"

"You quite excite my curiosity to know who this
paragon can be," said the mother, looking at her
husband, who returned the glance with one of equal
solicitude.

"I do not think he is more than four and twenty,"
added Maria; "and his black eyes would form a
charming contrast to your blue ones."

"To whom does Miss Osgood allude?" asked Mrs.
Henly, yielding to a solicitude that she could no
longer controul.

"To Mr. Seymour Delafield," said Charlotte, raising
her mild eyes to the face of her mother, and
smiling, as she delicately pared her apple, with a
simple ingenuousness that banished uneasiness
from the breast of her parent in an instant.

"I know him," said Mr. Henly; "but I did not think
you had ever seen him, Charlotte."

"We met him in our morning walk, sir, and Maria
introduced him."

"He is thought to be very handsome," continued her
father, helping himself to a glass of wine while
speaking.

"And very justly," returned the daughter; "I think
him the handsomest man that I have ever seen."

"Have I your permission for telling him so?" cried
Maria, with a laugh.

"I have not the least objection to his knowing it, on
my own account, except from the indelicacy of
complimenting a gentleman," said Charlotte, with
perfect simplicity; "but whether it would be
beneficial to himself or not, you can best judge."

"You think him vain, then?" observed her mother.

"Not in the least; or, rather, he did not exhibit it to
me"--was the answer, with the same open air as
before.

"He has also a great reputation for good sense,"
continued her father, avoiding the face of his child.

"I thought he had wit, sir."

"And not good sense?"

"Am I a judge?" asked Charlotte, rising, and holding
a lighted paper to her father, while he took a new
segar.

Her clear blue eyes resting on him in the fulness of
filial affection, as she performed this office, and the
open air with which she bent forward to receive the
kiss he offered in thanks, removed any
apprehensions which the name of their morning's
companion might have excited.

Mr. Henly knew nothing concerning this young man
that would induce him at all to avoid the connexion,
but still he had not yet examined his character with
that searching vigilance that he thought due to the
innocence and merit of his child. Determining within
himself, however, that this was a task that should
no longer be neglected, he rose, and telling the
ladies that he left the bottle with them, withdrew
to his study.

The door had hardly closed behind Mr. Henly, when
George Morton entered the dining parlour, with the
freedom of an old and favourite friend, and telling
Mrs. Henly that, in consequence of his family's
dining out, and his own engagements, he was
fasting, and begged her charity for a meal. From
the instant that he appeared, Charlotte had risen
with alacrity, and was no sooner acquainted with
his wants, than she rung to order what he required.
She brought him a glass of sparkling wine with her
own hands, and pushing a chair nearer to the fire
than the one he occupied, she said--

"Sit here, George, you appear chilled--I thought you
would miss your coat."

"I thank you," returned the youth, turning on her an
eye of the most open affection; "I do feel unusually
cold, and begin to think, that with my weak lungs it
would have been more prudent to have taken a
surtout."

{surtout = overcoat}

"And how was the poor man when you left him?"

"Much better, and in extremely good quarters," said
George; but, turning quickly to Miss Osgood, he
added, "So, Miss Maria, your beau has
condescended to walk with you at last?"

"Yes, Mr. Impudence," said Maria, smiling; {"}but
come, fill your mouth with food, and be silent."

He did as requested, and the conversation changed.

CHAPTER II

NOTWITHSTANDING the plenteous gifts which
Providence had bestowed on the parents of Maria in
the way of descendants, Fortune had sufficiently
smiled on his labours to enable him to educate
them in what is called a genteel manner, and to
support them in a corresponding style. The family
of Mr. Osgood exhibited one of those pictures which
are so frequent in America, where no other artificial
distinctions exist in society than those which are
created by wealth, and where obscurity has no
other foe to contend with than the demon of
poverty. His children were indulged in luxuries that
his death was to dissipate, and enjoyed an
opulence that was only co-existent with the life of
their parent. Accordingly, the music party that
assembled on the following evening at the house of
Mr. Osgood, was brilliant, large, and fashionable.
Seven grown-up daughters was a melancholy sight
for the contemplation of the parents, and they both
felt like venders of goods who were exhibiting their
wares to the best advantage. The splendid
chandeliers and lustres of the drawing-room were
lighted for the same reason as the lamps in the
glittering retail stores of Broadway; and the
brilliant effect of the taste of the young ladies was
intended much like the nightly lustre of the lottery-
offices, to tempt adventurers to try their chances.
>From this premeditated scheme of conquest we
ought, in justice, however, to except Maria herself,
who, from constitutional gayety and
thoughtlessness, seldom planned for the morrow;
and who, perhaps, from her association with
Charlotte, had acquired a degree of
disinterestedness that certainly belonged to no
other member of her family.

Whatever were the views of the family in collecting
their friends and acquaintances on this important
evening, they were completely successful in one
point at least; for, before nine, half the dilettanti of
the city were assembled in Greenwich-street, in a
most elaborate state of musical excitement.
Charlotte Henly, of course, was of the party,
although she was absolutely ignorant of a single
note, nor knew how to praise a scientific execution,
or to manifest disgust at simple melody. But, her
importance in the world of fashion, and her friend
Maria, obtained her a place. There was a reason
that secretly influenced Charlotte in electing her
evening's amusement, that was not known,
however, even to her friend.--George Morton played
on the German flute in a manner that vibrated on
her nerves with an exquisite thrill that she often
strove to conquer, and yet ever loved to indulge.
His musical powers were far from being generally
applauded, as they were thought to be deficient in
compass and variety; but Charlotte never
descended to criticism in music. She conceived it to
be an enjoyment for the senses only, or, rather,
she thought nothing about it; and if the rounds
failed to delight her, she unhesitatingly attributed
the circumstance to an absence of melody. It was
to listen to the flute of George Morton, then, that
the drawing-room of Mrs. Osgood was adorned with
the speaking countenance of Miss Henly.

Among the guests who made an early appearance
in this "Temple of Apollo," was the youth who had
attended the ladies in their walk. Seymour Delafield
glanced his eye impatiently around the apartment,
as soon as he had paid the customary compliments
to the mistress of the mansion and her bevy of fair
daughters; but a look of disappointment betrayed
the search to be an unsuccessful one. Both the look
and the result were noticed by Maria; and, turning a
glance of rather saucy meaning on the gentleman,
she said--

"I apprehend your flute, which, by the by, I am glad
to see you have brought, will be rather in the
PENSEROSO style this evening, Mr. Delafield."

{penseroso = melancholy}

"Unless enlivened by the contagious gayety of your
smile," returned Delafield, endeavouring to look
excessively unconcerned; "but"--

"Oh! my very laugh is musical, I know," interrupted
Maria; "but then it is often shockingly out of time."

"It seldom fails to produce an accompaniment,"
said the gentleman, now smiling in reality; "but"--

"Where is Charlotte Henley?" said the young lady,
again interrupting him; "she has a perfect horror of
the tuning of fiddles and the preparatory
thrummings on the piano; so endeavour to preserve
the harmony of your temper for the second act."

"Well! it is some relief to know she is coming at
all," cried Seymour, quickly; and then, recovering
himself with perfect breeding, he added--"for one
would wish to see you as happy as all your friends
can make you, on such an occasion."

"I am extremely indebted to your unbounded
philanthropy," said Maria, rising and courtseying
with great gravity; "do not doubt of its being
honourably mentioned at"--

"Nay, nay," cried the youth, colouring and laughing,
"you would not think of mentioning my remarks to"-
-

"At the next meeting of the Dorcas Society, of
which I am an unworthy member," continued Maria,
without listening to his remonstrance.

{Dorcas Society = lady's group at a church, devoted
to making and providing clothes for the poor}

Seymour Delafield now laughed without any
affectation--and exchanging a look of perfect
consciousness of each other's meaning, they
separated, as the preparations for the business of
the evening were about to commence. For a short
time there was a confusion of sounds that perfectly
justified the absence of Miss Henly, when the music
began in earnest. Within half an hour, Mr. Delafield,
who had suffered himself to be drawn to the back
of the chair of a professed belle, turning his head
to conceal a yawn that neither the lady's skill nor
his good manners could repress, observed Charlotte
sitting quietly by the side of her friend. Her
entrance had been conducted with such tact, that
had she possessed the most musical ear
imaginable, it were impossible to disturb the party
less; a circumstance that did not fail to impress
Seymour agreeably, from its novelty. He moved to
the side of the fair vision that had engrossed all his
thoughts since the moment they had first met, and
took the chair that the good nature of Miss Osgood
offered to his acceptance between them.

"Thank fortune, Miss Henly," he said, the instant he
was seated, "that bravura has ceased, and I can
now inquire how you recovered from the fatigue of
your walk?"

"I suffered no fatigue to recover from," replied the
lady, raising her eyes to his with an expression that
told the youth he had better talk straight forward at
once; "I walk too much to be fatigued with so short
an excursion."

"You came here to favour us with your skill on the
harp, Miss Henly?"

"No."

"On the piano?"

"On neither--I play on nothing."

"You sing, then?"

"Not at all."

"What! not with that voice?" exclaimed the young
man, in surprise.

"Not with this voice, and surely with no other."

Seymour felt uneasy, and, perhaps, disappointed.
He did not seem to have roused a single sensation
in the breast of his companion, and it was seldom
that the elegant possessor of three hundred
thousand dollars failed to do so, wherever he went,
or whatever he did. But, in the present instance,
there was nothing to be discerned in the
countenance or manner of Charlotte that indicated
any thing more than the sweetness of her nature
and the polish of her breeding. He changed the
subject.

"I hope your friend did not suffer yesterday from his
humanity?"

"I sincerely hope so too," said Charlotte, with much
simplicity, and yet with a good deal of feeling.

"I am fearful that we idle spectators," continued
the gentleman, "suffered in your estimation, in not
discovering equal benevolence with Mr. Morton."

Charlotte glanced her mild eyes at the speaker, but
made no reply.

"Your silence, Miss Henly, assures me of the truth
of my conjecture."

"You should never put a disagreeable construction
on the acts of another," said Charlotte, with a
sweetness that tended greatly to dissipate the
mortification Mr. Delafield really felt, at the same
time that he was unwilling to acknowledge it, even
to himself.

They were now again interrupted by the music,
which continued some time, during which George
Morton made his appearance. His coat close
buttoned to his throat, and an extra silk
handkerchief around his neck, which he removed
only after he entered the apartment, immediately
arrested the attention of Charlotte Henly. Turning
to Maria, she said, in those tones of real interest
that never can be mistaken for manner--

"I am afraid that George has suffered from his
exposure. Do not ask him to play, for he will be
sure to comply."

"Oh! the chicken has only taken cold," cried Maria;
"If he does not play, what will you do? you came
here to hear him only."

"Has Miss Henly ears for no other performer, then?"
asked Seymour Delafield.

"Miss Henly has as many ears as other people,"
said Maria, "but she does not condescend to use
them on all occasions."

"Rather say," cried Charlotte, laughing, "that the
want of taste in Miss Henly renders her ears of but
little use to her."

"You are not fond of music, then?" asked the youth,
a little vexed at thinking that an accomplishment
on which he prided himself would fail to make its
usual impression.

"Passionately!" exclaimed Charlotte; then, colouring
to the eyes, she added, "at least I sometimes think
so, but I believe I am thought to be without taste."

"Those who think so must want it themselves," said
Seymour, in a low voice; then, obedient to the beck
of one of the presiding nymphs, he hastened to
take his share in the performance.

"Now Charlotte, you little prude," whispered her
friend, the instant he withdrew, "is he not very,
very handsome?"

"Very," said Charlotte; "more so than any other
gentleman I have ever seen."

"And engaging, and agreeable, and gentlemanlike?"

"Agreeable, and gentlemanlike too."

"And graceful, and loveable?"

"Graceful, certainly; and, very possible, loveable, to
those who know him."

"Know him!--what more would you know of the
man? You see his beauty and elegance--you
witness his breeding--you listen to his sense and
information--what more is necessary to fall in love
with him?"

"Really, I pretend to no reasoning upon the subject
at all," said Charlotte, smiling; "but if you have
such an intention, indulge in it freely, I beg of you,
for you will not find a rival in me.--But, listen, he is
about to play a solo on his flute."

A man with three hundred thousand dollars may
play a solo, but he never can be alone where there
are any to listen. The hearts of many throb at the
very breathings of wealth through a flute, who
would remain callous to the bitterest sighs of
poverty. But Delafield possessed other attractions
to catch the attention of the audience: his powers
on the instrument greatly exceeded those of any of
his competitors, and his execution was really
wonderful; every tongue was silent, every ear was
attentive, and every head nodded approbation,
excepting that of our heroine. Delafield, perfectly
master of his instrument and the music, fixed his
eye on the countenance of Charlotte, and he
experienced a thrill at his heart as he witnessed her
lovely face smiling approbation, while his fingers
glided over the flute with a rapidity and skill that
produced an astonishing variety and gradation of
sounds. At length, thought he, I have succeeded,
and have made an impression on this charming girl
that is allied to admiration. The idea gave him
spirits for the task, and his performance exceeded
any thing the company had ever witnessed before.
On laying down the instrument, he approached the
place where the friends were sitting, with an
exultation in his eyes that was inferior only to
modesty in the power to captivate.

"Certainly, Mr. Delafield," cried Maria Osgood, "you
have outdone your own outdoings."

"If I have been so fortunate as to please here, then
I am rewarded indeed," said the youth, with a bow
and an expression that rendered it a little doubtful
to which of the ladies the compliment was
addressed. At this instant, George Morton
approached them.

"Mr. Delafield, let me make you acquainted with Mr.
Morton," said Maria, glancing her eye at the former
in a manner that he understood.

"I have great pleasure in taking Mr. Morton by the
hand," said Seymour, "if he will excuse the want of
ceremony in this company. The lesson that you
gave to me yesterday, sir, will not soon be
forgotten."

"In what manner, sir?" inquired George, with a little
embarrassment and a conscious blush.

"In teaching me, among others, Mr. Morton, the
difference between active and passive humanity--
between that which is satisfied with feeling, and
that which prompts to serve."

To this unexpected compliment young Morton could
do no more than bow in silence, for it was too
flattering for a reply--and too true to deny. As
Delafield turned his eye, at a little loss to know
whether to be pleased or not with his own humility,
he met a look from Charlotte that more than
rewarded him for the effort. It was a mild,
benevolent, pure glance, that spoke admiration and
heartfelt pleasure. He forgot his solo, and the
expected compliments; and, for the rest of the
evening, that thrilling expression floated in his
brain, and was present to his thoughts; it was
worth a thousand of the studied glances that were
continually aimed at him from all sides of the room,
and with every variety of eye--from the piercing
black, to the ogling gray. It was a look that came
directly from, and went to, the heart. If young
ladies always knew how nicely nature has qualified
the other sex to judge of their actions, what
multitudes of astonishingly expressive glances, and
artfully contrived gestures and movements, would
sink down into looks, that indicated feelings and
motives, that were adapted to the occasion! What
trouble in creating incidents that might draw out
charms would be avoided! And, in short, how much
extra labour, both of body and mind, would be
spared!

This agreeable contemplation of Mr. Delafield was
soon interrupted by the cheerful voice of Maria
Osgood, who cried--

"Bless me, George, you really do look ill."

"It is seldom that I have much health to boast of,"
replied the youth, in a feeble voice, and with a still
feebler smile.

"But," said Maria, without reflecting, "you look
worse than usual."

There was so much truth in this remark, that the
young man could only smile in silence, while
Seymour, surveying the very plain exterior of his
new acquaintance, turned his eyes with additional
satisfaction towards a mirror that reflected his own
form from head to feet.

"You will not attempt the flute to-night, George?"
said Charlotte.

"I believe I must, or not fulfil my engagement to
Mrs. Osgood."

"Surely," continued Charlotte, in a low tone to her
friend, "George had better not play, looking so ill as
he does."

"Certainly not; besides, his performance would not
shine after that of Mr. Delafield."

Seymour overheard this speech, which was really
intended only for the ear of Charlotte, and he was
instantly seized with an unaccountable desire to
hear the flute of Mr. Morton. Seymour was
conscious that he played well, and could he have
forgotten the indifference that Miss Henly exhibited
to his performance, would have been abundantly
flattered with the encomiums that were lavished on
his skill.

A request from the mistress of the mansion now
compelled George to make his appearance among
the musicians, and in a few minutes his flute was
heard alone. There was a vacancy in the looks of
Charlotte, during the scientific execution of the
different individuals who had been labouring at the
several instruments in the course of the evening,
that denoted a total indifference to the display.
But, the moment that George was called on to take
his part in the entertainment, this restlessness
disappeared, and was succeeded by an expression
of intense interest and deep anxiety. The melody of
George was simple and plaintive; he aimed at no
extraordinary exhibition of skill, and it was difficult
to compare his music with that of Seymour. The
latter, however, studied the countenance of the
young lady near him as the best index to their
comparative merit, and he was soon able to read
his own want of success. For the first few minutes,
anxiety was the principal expression portrayed in
her lovely face, but it was soon succeeded by a
deep and powerful emotion. There is something
contagious in the natural expression of our
passions, that insensibly enlists the sympathies of
the beholder--and Seymour felt a soft melancholy
stealing over him as he gazed, that was but a faint
reflection of the tenderness excited in the breast of
Charlotte, while she listened to sounds that
penetrated to her very soul. There is no mistaking
the effect of music that depends only on its
melody. Its appeal to the heart is direct end
unequivocal, and nothing but callous indifference
can resist its power. The most profound silence
pervaded the apartment, and George was enabled
to finish his piece with a spirit that increased with
the attention. As the last breathing notes died on
the ear, Delafield turned to meet those eyes which
had already secured an unconscious victory, and
saw them moistened with a lustre that added to
their natural softness. Beauty in tears is
proverbially irresistible--and the youth, bending
forward, said in a voice that was modulated to the
stillness of the room--

"Such melody, Miss Henly, captivates the senses."

"Does it not touch the heart?" asked the young
lady, with a little of unusual animation.

"The heart too. But Mr. Morton looks exhausted
after his labours."

All the pleasure which had shone in the
countenance of Charlotte, vanished instantly, and
gave place to deep concern.

"Oh! it is unjustifiable, thus to purchase pleasure at
the expense of another," said she, in a tone that
Seymour scarcely heard.

How tenderly would the man be loved, thought the
youth, who succeeded in engaging the affections of
this young creature! how disinterested is her
regard--and how considerate are her feelings! Here
will I trust my hopes for happiness in this life, and
here will I conquer, or here will I die!

No two persons could possibly be actuated by
sensations more different than Charlotte and
Seymour Delafield. He had been so long palled with
the attentions of managing mothers and designing
daughters; had seen so much of female
manoeuvring, and had so easily seen through it,
that the natural and inartificial loveliness of
Charlotte touched his senses with a freshness of
delicacy that to him was as captivating as it was
novel. Upon unpractised men, the arts of the sex
are often successful, but generally they are allies
that increase the number of the assailants, without
promoting the victory. It is certain that many a fair
one played that evening in order that Mr. Delafield
might applaud; that some sighed that he might
hear, and others ogled that he might sigh: but not
one made the impression that the quiet, speaking
eye, and artless but peaceful nature of Charlotte
produced on the youth. While this novel feeling was
gaining ground in the bosom of Mr. Delafield,
Charlotte saw nothing in her new acquaintance but
a gentleman of extraordinary personal beauty,
agreeable manners, and graceful address--qualities
that are always sure to please, and, not unusually,
to captivate. But to her he was a stranger; and
Charlotte, who never thought or reasoned on the
subject, would have been astonished had one
seriously spoken of her loving him. The road to
conquest with her lay through her heart, and was
but little connected with her imagination.

"Heigho! George," cried Maria, as he approached,
"you have given me the dolefuls."

"And me both pleasure and pain," said Charlotte.

"Why the latter?" asked the youth, quickly.

"Surely it was imprudent in you to play, with such a
cold."

The lip of the youth quivered, and a smile of
mournful and indefinable meaning passed over his
features, but he continued silent.

"It is to be hoped it had one good effect at least,"
continued Maria.

"Such as what?"

"Such as putting the little dears to sleep in the
nursery, which is directly over our heads."

"It is well if I have done that little good," said
George.

"You have brought tears into eyes that never
should weep," cried Delafield, "and melancholy to a
countenance that seems formed by nature to
convey an idea of peaceful content."

Morton looked earnestly at the speaker for a
moment, when a painful feeling seemed suddenly
to seize on his heart--for his cheek grew paler, and
his lip quivered with an agitation that apparently he
could not control. Charlotte alone noticed the
alteration, and, speaking in a low tone, she said--

"Do go home, George; you are far from being well--
to oblige me, go home."

"To oblige you, I would do much more unwelcome
biddings," he replied, with a slight colour; "but I
believe you are right; and, having discharged my
duty here, I will retire."

He rose, and, paying the customary compliments to
the mistress of the mansion, withdrew. With him
disappeared all the awakened interest of Charlotte
in the scene.

In vain was Seymour Delafield attentive, polite, and
even particularly so. That devotedness of
admiration for which so many sighed, and which so
many envied, was entirely thrown away upon
Charlotte. She listened, she bowed, and she
smiled--and, sometimes, she answered; but it was
evidently without meaning or interest, until,
wearied with his fruitless efforts to make an
impression, and perhaps with a hope of exciting a
little jealousy, he turned his attention to her more
lively companion.

"Your mother's nursery, Miss Osgood," he cried,
"ought on such an occasion to be tenantless."

"You think there are enough of us here to make it
so," returned the lady, with an affected sigh.

"I really had not observed the number of your
charming family--how many are there of you?"

"A baker's dozen." Charlotte laughed, and the youth
felt mortified. The laugh was natural, and clearly
extorted, without a thought of himself.

"When you are all married," he said, "you will form
a little world in yourselves."

"When the sky falls we shall catch larks."

{When the sky.... = an old proverb, found in
English, French, and even Latin, meaning that the
idea or proposal is absurd}

"Surely, you intend to marry?"

Maria made no reply, but turned her eyes on
Delafield, with an affected expression of
melancholy that excited another laugh in her friend.

"You certainly have made no rash vow on the
subject," continued Seymour, pretending to a slight
interest in her answer.

"My troth is not yet plighted," said the lady, a little
archly.

"But there is no telling how long it will continue
so."

"I am afraid so--thirteen is a dreadful divisor for a
small family estate."

A general movement in the party was gladly seized
by Charlotte as an excuse to go, and Delafield
handed her to her carriage, with the mortifying
conviction that she was utterly indifferent to every
thing but the civility of the act.

CHAPTER III.

IT was quite early on the following morning, when
Mr. Delafield rung at the door of the house in which
the father of Miss Henly resided. The gentleman
had obtained the permission of the young lady, the
preceding evening, to put himself on the list of her
visiting acquaintance, and a casual introduction to
both of Charlotte's parents had smoothed the way
to this intimacy. It is certain, that, much as Mr. and
Mrs. Henly loved their child, neither of them
entertained the selfish wish of monopolizing all of
her affections to themselves during life. It was
natural, and a thing to he expected, that Charlotte
should marry; and among the whole of their
acquaintance there appeared no one so
unobjectionable as her new admirer. He was
agreeable in person, in manners, and in temper; he
was intelligent, witty, and a man of the world; and,
moreover, he was worth--three hundred thousand
dollars! What parent is there whose judgment
would remain unbiassed by these solid reasons in
favour of a candidate for the hand of his child? or
what female is there whose heart could be steeled
against such attractions in her suitor? Many were
the hours of care that had been passed by the
guardians of Charlotte's happiness, in ruminating
on the event that was to yield their charge to the
keeping of another; frequent were their discussions
on this interesting subject, and innumerable their
plans to protect her inexperience against falling
into those errors that had blasted the peace of so
many around them; but the appearance of Seymour
Delafield seemed as the fulfilment of their most
sanguine expectations. To his refinement of
manners, they both thought that they could yield
the sensitive delicacy of their child with confidence;
in his travelled experience they anticipated the
permanency of a corrected taste; nor, was it a
disagreeable consideration to either, that as the
silken cord of paternal discipline was to be
loosened, it was to be succeeded by the fetters of
hymen cast in polished gold. In what manner their
daughter regarded the evident admiration of Mr.
Delafield will appear, by her conclusion of our tale.

On entering the parlour, Delafield found George
Morton seated in a chair near the fire, with his
person more than usually well guarded against the
cold, as if he were suffering under the effects of a
serious indisposition. The salutations between the
young men were a little embarrassed on both sides;
the face of George growing even paler than before,
while the fine colour on Delafield's cheek mounted
to his very temples. After regarding for a moment,
with much inward dissatisfaction, the apparent
ease with which George was maintaining
possession of the apartment by himself, Mr.
Delafield overcame the sudden emotion created by
the surprise, and spoke.

"I am sorry that you appear so ill, Mr. Morton, and I
regret that you should have suffered so much in the
cause of humanity, when one so much better able
to undergo the fatigue, by constitution, should have
remained an idle spectator, like myself."--

The silent bow of George might be interpreted into
a desire to say nothing of his own conduct, or into
an assent with the self-condemnation of the
speaker. Delafield, however, took the chair which
the other politely placed for him, and continued--

"But, Sir, you have your reward. The interest and
admiration excited in Miss Henly, would
compensate me for almost any privation or hardship
that man could undergo."

"It is no hardship to ride a few miles in a
comfortable coach," said George, with a feeble
smile, "nor can I consider it a privation of
enjoyment, to be able to assist the distressed,"--he
hesitated a moment, and a flush gradually stole
over his features as he continued, "It is true, Sir,
that I prize the good opinion of Miss Henly highly,
but I look to another quarter for approbation on
such a subject."

"And very justly, George," said the soft voice of
Charlotte, "such applause as mine can be but of
little moment to one who performs such acts as
yours."

The gentlemen were sitting with their faces towards
the fire, and had not heard the light step of Miss
Henly as she entered the apartment, but both
instantly arose and paid their salutations; the
invalid by a silent bow, and by handing a chair, and
Delafield with many a graceful compliment on her
good looks, and divers protestations concerning the
pleasure he felt at being permitted to visit at her
house. No two things could be more different than
the manners of these gentlemen. That of the latter
was very highly polished, insinuating, and although
far from unpleasantly so, yet slightly artificial;
while that of the former was simple, ingenuous,
and in the presence of Miss Henly was apt to be at
times a little constrained. Charlotte certainly
perceived the difference, and she as certainly
thought that it was not altogether to the advantage
of George Morton. The idea seemed to give her
pain, for she showed several little attentions to her
old friend, that by their flattering, but unstudied
particularity, were adapted to put any man at his
ease and assure him of his welcome, still the
embarrassment of George did not disappear, but he
sat an uneasy listener to the conversation that
occurred, as if reluctant to stay, and yet unwilling
to depart. After a few observations on the
entertainment of the preceding evening, Mr.
Delafield continued--

"I was lamenting to Mr. Morton, as you entered,
that he should have suffered so much from my want
of thought, the day before yesterday; it requires a
good constitution to endure exposure--"

"And such I often tell you, George, you do not
possess," said Charlotte, kindly and with a little
melancholy; "yet you neither seem to regard my
warnings on the subject, nor those of any of your
friends"--

"There is a warning that I have not disregarded,"
returned the youth, endeavouring to smile.

"And what is it?" asked Charlotte, struck with the
melancholy resignation of his manner.

"That I am not fit company, just now, for hearts as
gay as yours and Mr. Delafield's," he returned, and
rising, he made a hasty bow and withdrew.

"What can he mean!" said Charlotte, in amazement,
"George does not appear well, and latterly his
manner is much altered--what can he mean, Mr.
Delafield?"

"He is ill," said Delafield, far from feeling quite
easy at the evident interest that the lady
exhibited; "he is ill, and should be in his bed,
instead of attending the morning levees of even
Miss Henly."

"Indeed, he is too regardless of his health," said
Charlotte in a low tone, fixing her eyes on the
grate, where she continued gazing for some time.
Every effort of Seymour was made to draw off the
attention of the young lady from a subject, that,
however melancholy, seemed to possess peculiar
charms for her. In this undertaking the gentleman
would not have succeeded but for the fortunate
appearance of Miss Osgood, who came into the
room very opportunely to keep alive the discourse.

"What, tete-a-tete!" exclaimed Maria; "you should
discharge your footman, Charlotte, for saying that
you were at home. A young lady is never supposed
to be at home when she is alone--with a
gentleman."

"I shall then know how to understand the servant of
Mr. Osgood, when I inquire for his daughter," cried
Seymour gayly.

"Ah! Mr. Delafield, it is seldom that I have an
opportunity of hearing soft things, for I am never
alone with a gentleman in my father's house"--

"And is Mrs. Osgood so rigid?" returned the
gentleman; "surely the gravity of her daughter
should create more confidence"--

"Most humbly I thank you, Sir,{"} said Maria,
courtseying low before she took the chair that he
handed; "but it is not the caution of Mrs. Osgood
that prevents any solos in her mansion, unless it be
on a harp or flute, or any possibility of a tete-a-
tete."

"Now you have excited my curiosity to a degree
that is painfully unpleasant," said Delafield, "I
know you to be too generous not to allay it"--

"Oh! it is nothing more than a magical number, that
frightens away all applicants for such a favour,
unless indeed it may be such as would not be very
likely to be successful were they to apply; and
which even would render it physically impossible to
have a tender interview within the four walls of the
mansion"--

"It is a charmed number, indeed! and is it on the
door? is it the number of the house?"

"Oh! not at all--only the number of the family, the
baker's dozen, that I mentioned last evening; now
in visiting Miss Henly there is no such interruption
to be apprehended."

Charlotte could not refrain from smiling at the
vivacity of her friend, who, perceiving that her wish
to banish the look of care that clouded the brow of
the other had vanished, changed the discourse as
abruptly as she had introduced it.

"I met George Morton at the door, and chatted with
him for several minutes. He appears quite ill, but I
know he has gone two miles in the country for his
mother this raw day; unless he is more careful of
himself he will ruin his constitution, which is none
of the best now."

Maria spoke with feeling, and with a manner that
plainly showed that her ordinary levity was
assumed, and that she had at the bottom, much
better feelings than the trifling intercourse of the
world would usually permit her to exhibit. Charlotte
did not reply, but her brightening looks once more
changed to that pensive softness which so well
became her delicate features, and which gave to
her countenance an expression such as might be
supposed to shadow the glory of angels, when,
from their abode of purity and love, they look down
with pity on the sorrows of man.

The quick glance of Delafield not only watched, but
easily detected, both the rapid transitions and the
character of these opposite emotions. Under the
sudden influence of passions, that probably will not
escape our readers, he could not forbear uttering, in
a tone in which pique might have been too
apparent.

"Really, Mr. Morton is a happy fellow!"

The blue eyes of Charlotte were turned to the
speaker with a look of innocent inquiry, but she
continued silent. Maria, however, not only bestowed
a glance at the youth from her laughing hazel ones,
but found utterance for her tongue also.

"How so?" she asked--"He is not of a strong
constitution, not immensely rich, nor over and
above--that is, not particularly handsome. Why is
he so happy?"

"Ah! I have discovered that a man may be happy
without one of those qualifications."

"And miserable who has them all?"

"Nay, nay, Miss Osgood, my experience does not
extend so far--I am not quite the puppy you think
me."

Maria, in her turn, was silent; but she arose from
her seat, and moved with an absent air to a distant
part of the room, and for a short time seemed to be
particularly occupied in examining the beauties of a
port-folio of prints, with every one of which she was
perfectly familiar. The conversation was resumed by
her friend.

"You have mortified Miss Osgood, Mr. Delafield,"
said Charlotte; "she is too good natured to judge
any one so harshly."

"Is her good nature, in this particular, infectious?"
the young man rather whispered than uttered
aloud--"Does her friend feel the same indulgence
for the infirmities of a frail nature to which she
really seems herself hardly to belong?"

"You compliment me, Mr. Delafield, at the expense
of truth, if it really be a compliment to tell me that
I am not a girl--a female; for if I am not a woman,
I must be something worse."

"You are an angel!" said Delafield, with
uncontrollable fervour.

Charlotte was startled by his manner and his words,
and unconsciously turned to her friend, as if to seek
her protecting presence; but to her astonishment,
she beheld Maria in the act of closing the door as
she was leaving the room.

"Maria!" she cried, "whither in such a hurry? I
expected you to pass the morning with me."

"I shall see your mother and return," replied Miss
Osgood, closing the door so rapidly as to prevent
further remark. This short speech, however, gave
Charlotte time to observe the change that
something had produced in the countenance of her
old companion, where, in place of the thoughtless
gaiety that usually shone in her features, was to be
seen an expression of painful mortification; and
even the high glow that youth and health had
imparted to her cheeks, was supplanted by a death-
like paleness. Delafield had been endeavouring to
peruse the countenance of Miss Henly in a vain
effort to discover the effect produced by his warm
exclamation; and these observations, which were
made by the quick eye of friendship, entirely
escaped his notice.

"Maria is not well, Mr. Delafield," Charlotte said
hastily. "I know your goodness will excuse me while
I follow her."

The young man bowed with a mortified air, and was
somewhat ungraciously beginning to make a polite
reply, when the door opened a short space, and the
voice of Miss Osgood was once more heard, saying
in a forced, but lively manner--

"I never was better in my life; I shall run into Mrs.
Morton's for ten minutes; let me find you here, Mr.
Delafield, when I return." Her footstep was heard
tripping along the passage, and in a moment after,
the street door of the house opened and shut.
Charlotte perceiving that her friend was
determined, for some inexplicable reason, to be
alone, quietly resumed her seat. Her musing air
was soon changed to one of surprise, by the
following remark of her companion:

"You appear, Miss Henley," he said, "to be
sensitively alive to the ailings of all you know but
me."

"I did not know that you were ill, Mr. Delafield!
Really, sir, I never met with any gentleman's looks
which so belied him, if you are otherwise than both
well and happy."

As much experience as Delafield possessed in the
trifling manoeuvres of managers, or perhaps in the
manifestations of feelings that are exhibited by
every-day people, he was an absolute novice in the
emotions of a pure, simple, ingenuous female
heart. He was alive to the compliment to his
acknowledged good looks, conveyed in this speech,
but he was not able to appreciate the single-
heartedness that prompted it. Perhaps his
handsome face was as much illuminated by the
consciousness of this emotion as by the deeper
feeling he actually experienced, while he replied,--

"I am well, or ill, as you decree. Miss Henley; it is
impossible that you should live in the world, and be
seen, be known as you are, and must have been
seen and known, and not long since learned the
power you possess over the happiness of
hundreds."

Though Charlotte was simple, unsuspecting, pure,
and extremely modest, she was far from dull--she
was not now to learn the difference between the
language of ordinary trifling and general
compliment, and that to which she now listened,
and which, however vague, was still so particular as
to induce her to remain silent. The looks and
manner of the youthful female, at that moment,
would have been a study to those who love to dwell
on the better and purer beings of creation. She was
silent, as we have already remarked, because she
could make no answer to a speech that either
meant every thing or nothing. The slight tinge that
usually was seated on her cheek spreading over its
whole surface like the faintest glow of sunset
blending, by mellow degrees, with the surrounding
clouds, was heightened to richness, and even
diffused itself like a reflection, across her polished
forehead, because she believed she was about to
listen to a declaration that her years and her
education united to tell her was never to approach
female ears without slightly trespassing on the
delicacy of her sex. Her mild blue eyes, beaming
with the glow on her face, rose and fell from the
carpet to the countenance of Delafield, but chiefly
dwelt in open charity, and possibly in anxiety, on
his own. In fact, there was thrown around her whole
air, such a touch of exquisite and shrinking
delicacy, so blended with feeling benevolence, and
even tender interest, that it was no wonder that a
man, handsome to perfection, young, intelligent,
and rich, mistook her feelings.

"Pardon me, Miss Henley," he cried, and the
apology was unconsciously paid to the commanding
purity and dignity of her air, "if I overstep the rules
of decorum, and hasten to declare that which I
know years of trial would hardly justify my saying;
but your beauty, your grace, your----your----where
shall I find words to express it?--your loveliness,
yes, that means every thing--your loveliness has
not been seen with impunity."

This might have done very well for a sudden and
unprepared declaration; but being a little indefinite,
it failed to extract a reply, his listener giving a
respectful, and, at times, a rather embarrassing
attention to what he was to add. After a short
pause, the youth, who found words as he
proceeded, and with whom, as with all others, the
first speech was the most difficult, continued--

"I have known you but a short time, Miss Henley;
but to see you once is to see you always. You
smile, Miss Henley, but give me leave to hope that
time and assiduity will enable me to bring you to
such a state of feeling, that in some degree, you
may know how to appreciate my sensations."

"If I smile, Mr. Delafield," said Charlotte in a low
but distinct voice, "it is not at you, but at myself. I,
who have been for seventeen years constantly with
Charlotte Henley, find each day something new in
her, not to admire, but to reprehend." She paused a
moment, and then added, smiling most sweetly as
she spoke, "I will not affect to misunderstand you,
Mr. Delafield; your language is not very intelligible,
but it is such that I am sure you would not use to
me if you were not serious, and did not feel, or
rather think you feel what you utter."

"Think I feel?" he echoed. "Don't I know it? Can I
be mistaken in my own sentiments? I may be
misled in yours--may have flattered myself with
being able to accomplish that at some distant day,
which your obduracy may deny me, but in my own
feelings I cannot be mistaken."

"Not where they are so very new; nay, do not start
so eagerly--where they MUST be so very new.
Surely your fancy only leads you to say so much,
and to-morrow, or next day, your fancy, unless
encouraged by you to dwell on my unworthy self,
will lead you elsewhere."

"Now, Miss Henley, what I most admire in your
character is its lovely ingenuousness, its simplicity,
its HEART; and I will own I did not expect such an
answer to a question put, like mine, in sincerity and
truth."

"If I have failed to answer any question you have
put to me, Mr. Delafield, it is because I am
unconscious than any was asked; and if I have
displayed disengenuousness, want of simplicity, or
want of feeling, it has been unintentional, I do
assure you; and only proves that I can be guilty of
errors, without their being detected by one who has
known me so long and so intimately."

"My impetuosity has deceived me and distressed
you," said Delafield--"I would have said that I love
you ardently, passionately, and constantly, and
shall for ever love you. I should have asked your
permission to say all this to your parents, to
entreat them to permit me to see you often, to
address you; and, if it were not impossible, to hope
that in time they would consent to intrust me with
their greatest treasure, and that you would not
oppose their decree."

"This is certainly asking many questions in a
breath," said Charlotte smiling, but without either
irony or triumph; "and were it not for that word,
breath, I should experience some uneasiness at
what you say; I find great satisfaction, Mr.
Delafield, in reflecting that our acquaintance is not
a week old."

"A week is time enough to learn to adore such a
being as you are, Miss Henley, though an age would
not suffice to do justice to your merits. Say, have I
your permission to speak to your father? I do not
ask you yet to return my affection--nay, I question
if you can ever love as I do."

"Perhaps not," said Charlotte; "I can love enough to
feel a great and deep interest in those who are
dear to me, but I never yet have experienced such
emotions, as you describe--I believe, in this
particular, you have formed a just opinion of me,
Mr. Delafield; I suspect such passions are not in
the compass of my feelings."

"They are, they must be, Miss Henley: allow me to
see you often, to speak to your father, and at least
to hope--may I not hope that in time you will learn
to think me a man to be trusted with your
happiness as your husband?"

The quiet which had governed the manner of
Charlotte during this dialogue, was sensibly
affected by this appeal, and for a short time she
appeared too much embarrassed to reply. During
this interval, Delafield gazed on her, in delight; for
with the sanguine feelings of youth, he interpreted
every symptom of emotion in his own favour.
Finding, however, that she was distressed for a
reply, he renewed his suit--

"Though I have known you but a few days, I feel as
if I had known you for years. There are, I believe,
Miss Henley, spirits in the world who commune with
each other imperceptibly, who seem formed for
each other, and who know and love each other as
by instinct."

"I have no pretensions to belong to that class,"
said Charlotte; "I must know well to love a little,
but I trust I feel kind sentiments to the whole
human race."

"Ah, you do not know yourself. You have lived all
your life in the neighbourhood of that Mr. Morton
who just went out, and you feel pity for his illness.
He does indeed look very ill--but you have yet to
learn what it is to love. I ask the high favour of
being permitted to attempt the office of--of--of--"

"Of teaching me!" said Charlotte with a smile."
{sic}

"No--that word is too presumptuous--too coarse--"

"Hear me, Mr. Delafield," said Miss Henley after a
short pause, during which she seemed to have
experienced some deep and perhaps painful
emotions--"I cannot undertake to give you a reason
for my conduct--very possibly I have no good one;
but I feel that I should be doing you injustice by
encouraging what you are pleased to call hopes--I
wish to be understood now, as saying that I cannot
consent to your expecting that I should ever
become your wife."

Delafield was certainly astonished at this refusal,
which was given in that still, decided manner that
admits of little opposition. He had long been
accustomed to apprehend a sudden acceptance, and
had been in the habit of strictly guarding both his
manner and his language, lest something that he
did or said might justify expectations that would
have been out of his power to fulfil; but now, when,
for the first time, he had ventured a direct offer, he
met with a rejection that possessed all the
characteristics of sincerity, he was, in truth, utterly
astounded. After taking a sufficient time to collect
in some degree his faculties, he came to the
conclusion that he had been too precipitate, and
had urged the suit too far, and too hastily.

"Such may be your sentiments now, Miss Henley,"
he said, "but you may alter them in time: you are
not called on for a definite answer."

"If not by you, I am by truth, Mr. Delafield. It would
be wrong to lead you to expect what can never--"

"Never?" said Delafield--"you cannot speak so
decidedly."

"I do, indeed I do," returned Charlotte firmly.

"I have not deceived myself in believing you to be
disengaged, Miss Henley?"

"You have a right to require a definite answer to
your questions, Mr. Delafield; but you have no right
to exact my reasons for declining your very
flattering offer--I am young, very young--but I know
what is due to myself and to my sex--"

"By heavens! my suspicion is true--you are already
betrothed!"

"It would be easy to say NO to that assertion, sir,"
added Charlotte, rising; "but your right to a reason
in a matter where inclination is so material, is
exactly the same as my right would be to ask you
why you did not address me. I thank you for the
preference you have shown me, Mr. Delafield. I
have not so little of the woman about me, not to
remember it always with gratitude; but I tell you
plainly and firmly, for it is necessary that I should
do so--I never can consent to receive your
proposals."

"I understand you, madam--I understand you," said
the young man with an offended air; "you wish my
absence--nay, Miss Henley, hear me further."

"No further, Mr. Delafield," interrupted Charlotte,
advancing to him with a kind, but unembarrassed
air, and offering her hand--"we part friends at least;
but I think, now we know each other's sentiments,
we had better separate."

The gentleman seized the hand she offered, and
kissed it more with the air of a lover, than of an
offended man, and left the room. A few minutes
after he had gone, Miss Osgood re-appeared.

CHAPTER IV.

NOTWITHSTANDING the earnest injunction that
Maria had given to Mr. Delafield to continue where
she left him, until her return, she expressed no
surprise at not finding him in the room. The
countenance of this young lady exhibited a droll
mixture of playful mirth and sadness; she glanced
her eyes once around the apartment, and perceiving
it was occupied only by her friend, she said,
laughing--

"Well, Charlotte, when is it to be? I think I retired
in very good season."

"Perhaps you did, Maria," returned the other,
without raising her face from the reflecting attitude
in which she stood--"I believe it is all very well."

"Well! you little philosopher--I should think it was
excellent--that--that is--if I were in your place. I
suspected this from the moment you met."

"What have you suspected, Maria?--what is it you
imagine has occurred?"

"What! why Seymour Delafield has been
stammering--then he looked doleful--then he
sighed--then he hemmed--then he said you were an
angel--nay, you need not look prudish, and affect to
deny it; he got as far as that before I left the
room--then he turned to see if I were not coming
back again to surprise him--then he fell on his
knees--then he stretched out his handsome hand--
it is too handsome for a man's hand!--and said take
it, take me, take my name, and take my three
hundred thousand dollars!--Now don't deny a
syllable of it till I tell your answer."

Charlotte smiled, and taking her work, quietly
seated herself at her table before she replied--

"You go through Cupid's exercise so dexterously,
Maria, one is led to suspect you have seen some
service."

"Not under such an officer, girl! Ah! Colonel
Delafield, or General--no, Field Marshal Delafield, is
an officer that might teach"--as Miss Osgood spoke
with short interruptions between her epithets, as if
in search of proper terms, she dwelt a moment on
the last word in such a manner as to give it a
particular emphasis--Charlotte started, more
perhaps from the manner than the expression, and
turning her glowing face towards her friend, she
cried involuntarily--

"Is it possible that you could have overheard--"

"What?"

"Nothing--what nonsense!"

"Let me tell you, Miss Prude, it is in such nonsense,
however, that the happiness or misery of us poor
sports of fortune, called women, in a great measure
blooms or fades--now that I call poetical!--but for
your answer: first you said--indeed, Mr. Delafield,
this is SO unexpected---though you knew well
enough what was coming--then you blushed as you
did a little while ago, and said I am so young--I--
am but poor seventeen--then he swore you were
seventy--no, no,--but he said you are old enough to
be his ruling star--his destiny--his idol--his object
of WORSHIP--ha! I do hit the right epithet now and
then. Well--then you said you had parents, as if the
poor man did not know that already, and that they
must be consulted; and he desired you to ask the
whole city--he defied them all to say aught against
him--he was regular at church--subscribed to the
widow's society, and the assembly; and in short,
was called a 'good' young man, even in Wall-
street."

"All this is very amusing, Maria--but--"

"It is all very true. Then he was pressing, and you
were coy, until finally he extorted your definitive
answer, which was--" Maria paused, and seemed to
be intensely studying the looks of the other--Miss
Henley smiled as she turned her placid, ingenuous
features to her gaze, and continued the
conversation by repeating,

"Which was?"

"NO; irretrievable--unanswerable--unalterable NO."

"I have not authorized you to suspect any part of
this rhapsody to be true--I have not said you were
right in a single particular."

"Excuse me, Miss Henley, you have said all, and
Seymour Delafield told me the same as we passed
each other at the street door."

"Is it possible!"

"It could not be otherwise. His mouth was shut, it
is true, and his tongue might have been in his
pocket, for any thing I know: but his eyes and his
head, his walk, and even his nose were downcast,
and spoke mortification. On the other hand, your
little body looks an inch higher, your eyes look
resolute, as much as to say, 'Avaunt, false one!
your whole appearance is that of determined denial,
mingled--"

"Mingled with what, trifler?"

"Mingled with a little secret, woman's pride, that
you have had an opportunity of showing your
absolute character."

"You know these feelings from experience, do you?"

"No child, my very nature is charity; if the request
had been made to me, I should have sent the
desponding youth to my father, and if he refused,
to my mother--"

"And if she refused?"

"Why then I should have said, two negatives make
an affirmative."

Charlotte laughed, and in this manner the serious
explanation which, between friends so intimate
might have been expected, was avoided. Maria, at
the same time, that she fell and manifested a deep
interest in the TETE-A-TETE that she had promoted,
always avoided any thing like a grave explanation,
and we have failed in giving the desired view of the
character of Miss Henley, if our readers deem it
probable that she would ever touch on the subject
voluntarily.

The winter passed by in the ordinary manner in
which other winters pass in this climate, being a
mixture of mild, delightful days, clear sky, and
invigorating sun, and of intense, cold, raw winds,
and snow storms. The two latter seemed to try the
constitution of poor George Morton to the utmost.
The severe cold that he took in his charitable
excursion lingered about him through the cold
months, and before the genial warmth of May
occurred to relieve him, his physicians pronounced
that his lungs were irremediably affected. During
the period of doubt and apprehension which
preceded the annunciation of this opinion, and of
distress and agony which succeeded it, the family
of Mr. Henley warmly sympathized in the feelings of
their neighbours. The long intimacy that had
existed between George and Charlotte and their
parents, removed all superfluous forms, and the
latter passed a great deal of her time with Mrs.
Morton, or by the side of the invalid. Her presence
gave him such manifest and lively pleasure, that it
would have been cruel to have denied him what the
other appeared to grant spontaneously. Charlotte
had gradually withdrawn herself from society as the
illness of George increased, and his danger became
more apparent; and at the expiration of the month
of April, she was seldom visible to those who are
called the world, with the exception of the
immediate connexions of her family, and her friend
Maria 0sgood. In the beginning of May both Mr.
Morton and his neighbour withdrew to their country
houses, and thus the retirement from the world and
the intercourse between the two families became
more complete.

Delafield had made one or two efforts to renew his
addresses to Charlotte, but finding them in every
instance firmly, though mildly rejected, he
endeavoured to discover such imperfections in the
object of his regard as might justify him in disliking
her. The more he reflected on her conduct, however,
the more he became sensible of the propriety and
simplicity of her deportment; and had not the
impression she had made on the young man
proceeded rather from the effect on his fancy, than
from having touched his heart, the consequences of
his conviction of her purity and truth might have
been more lasting and deplorable. As it was, his
heated imagination gradually ceased to glow with
the beauties of an image that was, however perfect
in itself, extravagantly coloured by his own youthful
imagination, and in time, if he thought at all of
Charlotte Henley, he thought of her as a beautiful
object, it is true, but as of one that brought
somewhat mortifying reflections along with it. This
might not have been manly or generous, perhaps,
but we believe it is the manner in nine cases out of
ten in which such sudden emotions expire,
especially if the ardour of the youth has
precipitated a declaration that the more chastened
feelings of the damsel are not yet prepared to
reciprocate. While the image of Charlotte was still
lingering in his mind, he was in the habit of visiting
Maria Osgood almost daily, to ask questions about
her, and perhaps with a secret expectation of their
meeting her at the house of her friend. The gay
trifling of Miss Osgood aided greatly both in cooling
his spleen and removing his melancholy, till in the
course of a month he even proceeded so far as to
make her the confidant of what she already knew,
though only by conjecture and inference. Delafield
at this time was so urgent, and secretly so
determined to prevail, in order that his pride if not
his affections might be soothed, that in an
unguarded moment he induced the inconsiderate
Maria to betray, we will not say the confidence of
her friend, but such facts as could only have come
to her knowledge by the intimacy of unaffected
association. If there were any thing to extenuate
this breach of decorum by Maria, it was the manner
in which it was effected. Miss Osgood had just
returned from one of her frequent visits to the villa
of Mr. Henley, when Delafield made his customary
morning call: the absence of Maria, and the object
of her visit, had been well known to him, and as it
was a time when he began to speak of Miss Henley
without much emotion, and but little love, he could
not avoid yielding so far to his pique as to express
himself as follows:

"So, Miss Maria, you have just returned from paying
another visit to your beautiful little friend without
any heart."

"My little friend without any heart! Of whom do you
speak? and what do you mean!"

"I speak of Miss Charlotte Henley, the nun,--she
who has all of heaven about her but its love--that
brilliant casket without its jewels--that woman--
yes, that YOUNG woman without any heart."

"Upon my word, sir, this is a very pretty poem you
have been reciting! but in my opinion, your
conclusion is wrong. As she refused to give you her
heart, it is the more probable that she has it yet in
that brilliant casket you speak of--"

"No--she never had one. She wants the greatest
charm that nature can give to a woman--a warm,
grateful, and affectionate heart."

"And pray, sir," said Maria, bending her eyes
inquisitively toward the youth, "if she want it, what
has she done with it!"

"She never had one, Miss Osgood. I will grant you
that she is lovely, exquisitely lovely! pure, gentle,
amiable, every epithet you may wish to apply, that
indicates nothing but acquired excellence: but as to
natural feelings, she is as cold as an icicle--in short
she is destitute of HEART--the thing of all others I
most prize in a woman, and for which I admire you
so much."

Maria laughed, but she coloured also. It had long
been obvious to herself, and to the world too, that
Delafield sought her society, now that he was not
admitted at Mr. Henley's, much more than that of
my other young woman in the city; but she thought
that she well understood the secret reason for this
preference, though the world might not. How
gratifying this speech was to the feelings of the
gay girl, the sequel of our tale must show. The
young man however did not judge her too
favourably, when he supposed her to possess those
kindred sensations that unite us with our fellow-
beings, and he might have added a good deal of
generosity to the catalogue of her virtues. After a
pause of a moment she replied--

"I suppose I must thank you, Delafield, for the
pretty compliment you have just paid me, but I am
so unused to this sort of thing, that I really feel as
bashful as sweet fifteen, though I am at mature
twenty."

"That is because you DO feel, Miss Osgood; I might
have said as much to Charlotte Henley without
exciting the least emotion in her, or of even
bringing one tinge of that bright blush over her
features which makes you look so handsome."

"Mercy! mercy! have mercy, I entreat you," cried
Maria, averting her face, "or I shall soon be as red
as the cook. But I cannot, I will not consent to hear
my friend traduced in such a manner; so far from
wanting feeling, Charlotte Henley is all heart. To
use your own language," she added, turning her
eyes towards him archly, "it is for her heart that I
most love her."

"You deceive yourself. Early attachment, and long
association, and your own generous, warm feelings
deceive you. She is accustomed to show gentle and
kind civilities to all around her, and you mistake
habit for affection."

"She is accustomed to do all that, I own; but to do
it in a manner that adds to its value by her simple
unaffected feelings. She is not, I must
acknowledge, like certain people of my
acquaintance, a bundle of tinder to take fire at
every spark that approaches, but she loves all she
should love, and I fear she loves one too well that
she should not love."

"Love one that she should not love?" cried
Delafield: "what, is her heart then engaged to
another! Is it possible that Miss Henley, the cold,
prudish Miss Henley, can indulge an improper
attachment after all?"

"Mr. Delafield," said Miss Osgood, gravely, "I am
not apt to betray what I ought to conceal, although
I am the giddy creature that I seem. But I have
spoken unguardedly, and must explain: in the first
place, I would not have you suppose that Charlotte
Henley and I talk of our hearts and our lovers to
each other, like two girls at a boarding school. If I
know that she has such a thing as a heart at all, it
is not from herself but from my own observation;
and as for lovers, though she may have had dozens
for any thing I know, to ME they are absolutely
strangers.--Don't interrupt me, I am not begging
one. After this explanation I will say, trusting,
Delafield entirely in your honour, which I do believe
you to possess in a high--"

"You may--you may," interrupted the young man
eagerly: "I will never betray your confidence--you
might trust yourself to my honour and good faith--"

"I wish you would not be bringing yourself and
myself constantly into the conversation," said the
lady, compressing her lips to conceal a smile; "we
are talking of Charlotte Henley, and of her only. She
was brought up in the daily habit of seeing much of
George Morton, who, I believe, even you will own
has a heart, for it will cost him his life."

"His life!"

"I fear so; nay, it is without hope. The cold he took
in carrying the poor sufferer to the hospital last
winter has thrown him into a decline. I do believe
that Charlotte Henley is fond of him; but mind, I do
not say that she is in love--if appears to be less of
passion than of intense affection."

"Yes, such as she would feel for a brother."

"She has no brother. I do not intend to define the
passions: but I do believe that if he were to live
and offer himself, she would marry him, and make
him such a wife as any man might envy."

"What! do you think she loves him unasked, and
yet refuse me who begged her hand like her slave."

"It is not unasked; he has known her all her life--
has ever shown a preference for her--has been kind
to her and to all others in her presence--he has
long anticipated her wishes, in trifles, and--and--in
short, he has done just what he ought to do, to
gain her love."

"Then you think I erred in the manner in which I
made my advances?"

"Your advances, as you call them, would have
succeeded with nine girls in ten, though not with
Miss Henley--besides, you are too late."

"Certainly not too late when no declaration had
been made by any other."

"I am not about to discuss the proprieties of
courtship with you, Mr. Delafield," cried Maria,
laughing and rising from her chair. "Come, let us
walk; it is a sin to shut ourselves up on such a
morning. The subject must now he changed and the
scene too."

He accepted her challenge, and they proceeded
through the streets together; but she evaded every
subsequent attempt he made to renew the
discourse. Perhaps she felt that she had gone too
far--perhaps there was something in it that was
painful to her own feelings.

The explanation, however, had a great tendency to
destroy the remains of what Delafield mistook for
love. Instead of having his affections seriously
engaged in a short intercourse with Miss Henley,
our readers may easily perceive that it was nothing
but his imagination that was excited, and which
had kept his brain filled with images still more
lovely than the original: but now that the wan
features of George Morton were constantly brought
into the picture by the side of the deity he had
worshipped, the contemplation of these fancied
beauties become hourly less pleasant, and in a
short time he ceased to dwell on the subject
altogether.

A consequence, however, grew out of his short-lived
inclination, that was as unlooked for by himself as
by the others interested in the result. He became
so much accustomed to the society of Maria
Osgood, that at length he fell it was necessary to
his comfort. To the surprise of the whole city, the
handsome, rich, witty, and accomplished Mr.
Seymour Delafield declared himself in form before
the spring had expired to one of the plain
daughters of Mr. Osgood, a man with a large family,
and but little money. Maria had a difficult task to
conceal the pleasure she felt, as she listened to,
not the passionate declaration of her admirer, but
to his warm solicitation that she would unite her
destinies to his own. She did conceal it, however,
and would only consent to receive his visits for a
time, on the condition that he was not to consider
her as at all engaged by the permission.

CHAPTER V.

WHILE such happy prospects were opening on the
future life of her friend, the time of Charlotte
Henley was very differently occupied in the country.
There is, however, a tendency in youth to rise with
events that does not readily admit of depression,
and the disorder of George Morton was one of all
others the most flattering when near its close. Even
the more mature experience of his parents was
misled by the deceptive symptoms that his
complaint assumed in the commencement of
summer. They who so fondly hoped the result,
began to believe that youth and the bland airs of
June were overcoming the inexorable enemy. That
the strength of the young man lessened with every
succeeding day, was an event to be expected from
his low diet and protracted confinement; but his
brightening eyes, and the flitting colour that would
at times add to their fiery radiance, brought to the
youthful Charlotte the most heartfelt, though
secret, rapture. This state between reviving hope
and momentary despondency had prevailed for
several weeks, when the affectionate girl entered
an apartment that communicated with George's own
room, where she found the invalid reclining on a
settee apparently deeply communing with himself.
He was alone; and his appearance, as well as the
heavens and the earth, united to encourage the
sanguine expectation of the pure heart that
throbbed so ardently when its owner witnessed any
favourable change in the countenance of the young
man. The windows were raised, and the balmy air
of a June morning played through the apartment,
lending in reality an elastic vigour to the decaying
organs of the sick youth. The tinge in his cheeks
was heightened by the mellow glow of the sun's
rays as they shone through the medium of the rose-
coloured curtains of the window, and Charlotte
thought she once more beheld the returning colour
of health where it had been so long absent.

"How much better you appear this morning,
George," she cried, in a voice whose melody was
even heightened by its gaiety. "We shall soon have
you among us once more, and then, heedless one,
beware how you trifle again with that best of
heaven's gifts, your health. Oh, this is a blessed
climate! our summer atones with its mildness for
the dreariness and perils of our winter; it has even
given me a colour, pale-face as I am--I can feel it
burn on my cheek."

He raised his head from its musing position at the
first sounds of her voice, and smiled faintly, and
with an expression of anguish, as she proceeded;
but when she had ended, and taken her seat near
him, still keeping her eyes on his varying
countenance, he took her hand into his own before
he replied. A good deal surprised at his manner,
and at this act, which exceeded the usual
familiarity of even their affectionate intercourse,
the colour, of which Miss Henley had been so
playfully boasting, changed once or twice with rapid
transitions.

"Seem I so well, dear Charlotte?" he at length said
in a low, tremulous, and hollow voice, "seem I so
well? I believe you are right, and that I shall
shortly be better--much better."

"What mean you, George? feel you any worse? have
I disturbed you with my presence and my
thoughtless gaiety?"

The young man smiled again, but the expression of
his face was no longer mingled with a look of
anguish; it was a kind benevolent gleam of
gratitude and affection which crossed his ghastly
features, like a ray of sunshine enlivening the
gloom of a day in winter.

"You disturb me, Charlotte!" he answered, his very
voice trembling as if in sympathy with his frame: "I
do believe but for you I should have been long
since in my grave."

"No, no, George, this is too melancholy a theme for
us both just now; let us talk of your returning
health."

He pressed her hand to his heart before he replied--
"My health will never return; I am lost to this world;
and in fact at this moment I properly belong to
another in my body: would to God that I was purely
so in feelings also."

"Surely, George, you are alarming yourself
unnecessarily."

"I am not alarmed," he replied; "I have too long
foreseen this event, to feel alarmed at my
approaching dissolution--no, for that, blessed be
my God and my Redeemer, I am in some degree
prepared; but I feel it impossible to shake off the
feelings of this life while the pulse continues to
beat, and yet the emotions I now experience must
be in some measure allied to heaven; they are not
impure, they are not selfish; nothing can partake of
either, dear Charlotte, where your image is
connected with the thoughts of a future world."

"Oh, George! talk not so gloomily, so cruelly, this
morning--your whole countenance contradicts your
melancholy speech, and you are better--indeed you
are;--you must be better."

"Yes, I am better, I am nearly well," returned the
youth, pausing a moment, while a struggle of the
most painful interest seemed to engross his
thoughts. As it passed away, he drew his hand
feebly across his clammy brow, and, smiling faintly,
resumed his speech,--"on the brink of the grave, at
a moment when all thoughts of me must be
connected with the image of death, there can no
longer be any necessity for silence. You have been
kind to us, dear Miss Henley, as you are kind to all;
but to me your sympathy has been trebly dear, for
it has brought with it a consolation and pleasure
that you but little imagine."

Miss Henley raised her tearful eyes from the floor to
his wan features, that now appeared illumined with
more than human fires, and her pale lips quivered,
but her voice was inaudible.

"Yes, Charlotte, I may now speak without injustice,
or the fear of being selfish: I have long loved you--
how tenderly, how purely, none can ever know; but
could I, with a certainty of my fate before my eyes,
with the knowledge that my days were numbered,
and that the sun of my life could never reach its
meridian, woo you to my love, to make you
miserable! No, dearest! your gentle heart will
mourn the brother and the friend too much for its
own peace; it needed not the sting of a stronger
grief."

"George, George," sobbed the convulsed girl, "think
not of me; speak not of me--if it can cheer you at
such a moment to know how much you are valued
by me, no cold reserve shall be found on my part."

The young man started, and fastened his eyes on
her face with an indefinable look of delight mingled
with sorrow.

"Charlotte!" he exclaimed, "do I hear aright? am I
so miserable! am I so happy! repeat those words--
quick--my eyes grow dim--my senses deceive me."

"Live, George Morton," said Charlotte firmly: "you
are better--your whole face bespeaks it; and if the
tender care of an affectionate wife can preserve
your health, you shall long live a blessing to all
who love you."

As Charlotte uttered, thus ingenuously, her pure
attachment, the youth extended his hand towards
her blindly. She gave him her own, which he drew to
his heart, and folded to his bosom with a warm
pressure for an instant, when his hold relaxed, his
form dropping backward on the sofa, and in that
attitude he expired without a struggle.

We shall not dwell on the melancholy scene that
followed. At the funeral of George Morton Miss
Henley was not to be seen, nor was it generally
understood that the young people had been
connected in the closest ties of feeling. She made
no display of her grief in her dress, unless the
slight testimonials of a few bright ribbands on the
virgin white of her robe could be called such, and
the rumour that was at first propagated of their
being engaged to each other was discredited,
because the traces of sorrow were not particularly
visible in the attire of Miss Henley. When the
season of gaiety returned, she appeared as usual in
her place in society. Though her cheeks were
seldom enriched with the faint glow that once
rendered her so beautiful, and she was less
dazzling in her appearance, yet, if possible, she
was more lovely and attractive. In the course of the
winter, several gentlemen approached her with the
evident intention of offering their hands. Their
advances were received with great urbanity, but in
most instances with that unembarrassed manner
that is fatal to hope. One of her admirers, however,
persevered so far as to solicit her hand: the denial
was mild, but resolute; like most young men who
think their happiness dependent on a lady's smile,
he wished to know if he had a successful rival. He
was assured he had not. His curiosity even went so
far as to inquire if Miss Henley had abjured
matrimony. The answer was a simple, unaffected
negative. Amazed at his own want of success, the
youth then intimated his intention of making a
future application for her favour.

In the mean time, Seymour Delafield, after casting
one longing, lingering look at Miss Henley, became
the husband of her friend, and made the fourteenth
in the prolific family of the Osgoods, where his
wealth was not less agreeable to the parents, than
his person to the daughter.

Many years have rolled by since the occurrence of
these events, and Miss Henley continues the same
in every thing but appearance. The freshness of her
beauty has given place to a look of intelligence.
and delicacy that seems gradually fitting her for her
last and most important change. The name of
George Morton is never heard to pass her lips. Mrs.
Delafield declares it to be a subject that she never
dares to approach, nor in her repeated refusals of
matrimonial offers has Charlotte ever been known
to allude to the desolation of her own heart. Her
father is dead; but to her mother Miss Henley has
in a great measure supplied his loss. With her
friends she is always cheerful, and apparently
happy, though the innocent gaiety of her childhood
is sensibly checked, and there are moments that
betray the existence of a grief that is only the more
durable, because it is less violent. In short, she
lives a pattern for her sex, unfettered by any
romantic and foolish pledges, discharging all the
natural duties of her years and station in an
exemplary manner, but unwilling to incur any new
ones, because she has but one heart, and that was
long since given with its purity, sincerity, and truth,
to him who is dead, and can never become the
property of another.

When Charlotte Henley dies, although she may not
have fulfilled one of the principal objects of her
being, by becoming a mother, her example will
survive her; and those who study her character and
integrity of feeling, will find enough to teach them
what properties are the most valuable in forming
that sacred character--while her own sex can learn
that, though in the case of Miss Henley, Providence
has denied the full exercise of her excellences, it
has at the same time rendered her a striking
instance of female dignity, by exhibiting to the
world the difference between affection and caprice,
and by shewing how much imagination is inferior to
Heart.

James Fenimore Cooper