CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

DUTY AND INCLINATION;

OR,

The Orphan Nieces.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER FIRST.

LAYING OUT PLANS.

IT was the time of the noon recess in Mrs. Granger's school, and the long upper school-room was pretty well filled with her pupils, who were gathered as chance or inclination prompted, some walking up and down in pairs, or singly, talking and reading, others actively engaged in battledore graces, or the old and classic game of jack-stones, and a few at their desks, endeavoring, amid the babel of noises, to fix their attention upon their lessons. By far the largest group, however, was assembled around the piano, sitting, standing, lounging, in all sorts of attitudes, graceful and ungraceful, and engaged in discussing that never-failing subject of interest, the approaching examination.

"After all, girls," remarked Olive McHenry, after the matter had been reviewed in every aspect of which it seemed capable, "after all, there is something very pleasant about examinations."

"I should be glad to know what it is," remarked her cousin Charlotte. "I have never been able to see any thing agreeable about it, except that it comes just before vacation."

"I suppose that is one pleasure," said Olive, with something of a sigh, "but I think there are some others. It always causes a little excitement, the rules are relaxed, and all the teachers are in their best humor."

"To say nothing of the prizes," remarked Helen Monteith.

"Yes, the prizes are pleasant, too, but they are only for a few, so it is hardly fair to rank them among the pleasures of examination."

"But don't you think vacations are pleasant, Olive?" asked one of the little girls.

"Oh! Yes, of course," answered Olive, but somewhat indifferently.

"But it is so nice to think about going home," persisted little Anna, who was only eleven years old. "Think of the journey, and the arrival, and dear, dear mother!" Anna checked herself, and looked around, blushing, as though she feared having exposed herself to ridicule.

"You forget I have no mother, Anna," remarked Olive, gravely but gently.

"To be sure that makes a great deal of difference," assented Anna, in a sympathizing tone. "I should not care any thing about going home, if it were not for seeing father and mother."

"Perhaps, if you had some one at home who had done every thing they could for you, you might care something about seeing them, Annie," remarked Charlotte Merton, in the measured tone which was always a sign of excitement with her, "instead of feeling that no gratitude or affection was due them because they were 'only' uncle and aunt."

Olive colored extremely, and looked very much hurt. Several of the girls exchanged glances, and Anna looked from one to the other in surprise.

"I don't think Olive had any such meaning, Charlotte," said Helen Monteith, while Olive stooped to pick up some scattered bits of paper. "I am sure it is natural she should think of her parents, when we are all talking of going home, and seeing our friends."

"It may be very natural, too, for Olive to be constantly insinuating that she is not happy, or well-treated at home," returned Charlotte, "but I must say, it does not seem to me to be just the thing for a person in her situation."

"I did not mean or say any such thing, Charlotte," said Olive, looking up suddenly; "you know very well I did not. You have been angry all day, because I stood above you in history this morning, and you take this way to revenge yourself."

Olive stopped suddenly. She caught Helen's eye of warning fixed upon her, and biting her lip, she again attempted to busy herself with the bits of paper but it was in vain. She burst into tears, and retreated to her seat, while Charlotte looked after her with an expression of triumph, and the girls exchanged glances, some of sympathy and others of amusement.

"What is the matter with your sister, Abby?" asked one of the girls in another part of the room.

Abby McHenry looked up from the book she was reading, and in which she had contrived to be wholly absorbed, despite the noise and confusion around her. "Is any thing the matter with Olive?" she asked, as if she were only half-awakened.

"I presume so," said Maria Grey; "she seems to be crying, and she is not apt to cry for nothing."

"I suppose she has had some trouble with Charlotte," said Abby, closing her book, and preparing to go to her sister. "I do wish Charlotte would leave off teasing her, or that she would leave off caring for it. I think she might be used to her amiable cousin by this time. But I must go and stop her crying, or she will make herself sick: She does not cry as easily as I do."

Abby did not inquire of her sister what disturbed her, but she sat down by her, and by caresses and persuasions, finally induced her first to check her sobs, and then to retire to her room, and bathe her face and eyes before school. This accomplished, she returned to the school-room, and sought out Helen Monteith.

"Do take Olive out to walk after school, Helen, and keep her quiet," she said. "She gets into such a taking, and I can not manage her half as well as you do."

"You don't get into takings, yourself, Abby," said Helen, laughing at the oddity of the request.

"I don't allow Charlotte to disturb me, at any rate," returned Abby. "I know her too well, and what is the use? But do pray comfort Olive, if you can. I don't know what she will do when we go home for good," she continued; "for it is worse there than it is here. I really dread the close of the next half-year, not for myself, but for her."

"Come and walk in the grove with me, Olive," said Helen, accordingly, as soon as school was out. "I have obtained permission of Mrs. Granger, and the day is so cool that we shall have our favorite walks all to ourselves."

Olive assented, and the two friends were now to be seen passing up and down the long gravelled paths, which led through a thick grove of beech and maple, down to the water's edge.

"How tired you look, Olive," said Helen, at last.

"I am not so much tired as I am fretted and worried," Olive replied. "I do not see what it is to come to."

"What 'what' is to come to?" asked Helen.

"The times I have with Charlotte," replied Olive. "You saw how it was at noon. Because I said something about having no mother, she took it up, and made it appear that I was trying to insinuate that I was not well-treated at home. There is hardly a day of our lives that she does not get up some such scene, and she generally takes occasion, in the course of it, to put me in mind of the fact that I am dependent upon her father."

"But you are not entirely dependent, are you?" inquired Helen.

"Not entirely. We three girls, Abby, Laura, and myself, have almost three hundred dollars a year between us. That is enough to provide as with clothes, but it will not be quite as much when we finish going to school. So Abby and I stay at uncle Merton's, and my aunt Dimsden has adopted Laura, and educates her at home."

Olive paused a little, and then went on. "Uncle Merton is very kind, and I always get on nicely with him. Aunt is kind too, at least in all essentials, and I am very much attached to her. But she naturally sides with Charlotte, and never imagines that she can do any thing wrong. Then aunt is proud. She was very indignant at my mother, for marrying beneath her, as she thought, and she thinks I am just like my father. I hope I am," continued Olive, coloring with a justifiable pride; "I should not wish to resemble a better man."

"But in spite of all this I should do very well, if it were not for Charlotte. She renders my life miserable by her everlasting jealousy and suspicion. Even that I could put up with, but this feeling that I am only a dependent, and have no home of my own except upon sufferance—that I may be looked upon as an intruder and a burden—it is that which embitters every moment of my life."

"How does Abby bear it?" asked Helen.

"Why, Helen, you know how Abby is? Nothing ever disturbs her. I have heard aunt scold her half an hour at a time, so that if it had been me, I should have felt like drowning myself almost, and she would not care any more for it than though the old cat had mewed at her. It is just so when Mrs. Granger finds fault with her. I wish I had her temper, I am sure."

Helen had her doubts whether Olive would be, upon the whole, improved by having her sister's indifference, but she did not express them. "I wonder, Olive," she said, after a few moments' silence, "that you do not at once take measures to render yourself independent."

"How do you mean?" asked Olive. "How would I?"

"Very easily. You have had every advantage of education so far, and you say you expect to be in school at least half a year longer. What hinders you from preparing yourself thoroughly, and thus engaging in teaching?"

Olive looked as though she had received a perfectly new idea. "I never thought of that," said she; "I wonder if I could."

"Why not? A great many people undertake it, who are by no means equal to you in capacity or advantages, and are successful."

"But it is a great drudgery, Helen."

"That depends upon circumstances, my dear. That teaching must always be hard work, I allow, but it seems to me that it is very possible to raise it above the character of drudgery."

"How?"

"By putting one's whole heart and soul into it, as many teachers do. Witness Mrs. Granger and Miss Lee, and our good Professor De V. But, even allowing that it is hard work, is it not better to work hard, and be your own mistress, than to live in leisure and luxury, dependent upon another, however kind and considerate that other may be?"

Olive looked very thoughtful. "Yes," said she, at length, "I would rather work hard from year's end to year's end, if I could make enough to support myself comfortably. But how should I go to work to procure a situation?"

"Ask Mrs. Granger to find you one. You know she procured excellent places for Ann Browning and Elizabeth Hayes. She likes nothing better than to help the girls in this way, unless it is to see them married."

"What would uncle and aunt say, I wonder? I think it very doubtful whether they would hear of such a thing. Aunt said the last time we were at home that she hoped to have us settled in homes of our own before we were twenty-five."

"There is another thing to be taken into the account, Olive," said Helen. "Suppose your aunt undertakes to make up a match for you. If you are at all what I take you to be, you are not the girl to marry for a home or an establishment, whatever may be your circumstances. But suppose, as I said, she undertakes in all kindness to provide you with a husband. Your ideas and hers very probably would not agree. If you refused, out and out, your situation at home would not be rendered in the least degree more comfortable, while if you accepted, as you might be greatly tempted to do, there would be an end of all self-respect and happiness for the future."

"I have often thought of that, among the other discomforts of my condition," replied Olive, "though I never saw my way out of it before. I do not think that aunt Rebecca would ever intentionally do any thing ungenerous, though she does not like to be contradicted. But it will not do to decide hastily," she continued. "I must take the matter into consideration. I believe I will say that I will not try to come to any conclusion till after next Sunday."

"Why next Sunday?" asked Helen.

"Because it is Communion-Sunday," replied Olive. "I do not know but I am superstitious about it, Helen, but it does seem to me as though prayers upon communion-days were worth more than at other times."

"I do not see why they should not be," Helen said; "one would naturally pray with more faith and earnestness in presence of the memorials of the love of our Master and only Saviour, and it is said, 'According to your faith be it unto you.'"

"I have often thought it was wrong in me to be so discontented," continued Olive, after they had taken two or three turns in silence, "and I have struggled hard against the feeling, but it will come back."

"I think it would be wrong to be discontented, if you could help yourself," returned Helen, "but if we can better our condition by proper and lawful means, it appears to me that we have a right to do so. If I were you, I should make a great effort to be free, and not be discouraged by a good many hindrances. But if it should be shown to be clearly impossible, I should try to be contented, and make the best of it."

"I wonder what Charlotte will say?"

"Never mind what Charlotte says," returned Helen, with some little impatience in her tone. "I do wonder, Olive, that when you know her so well, you should constantly disturb and fetter yourself with a reference to her. You never appear to advantage where she is, because you always seem under such a constraint, and you hardly ever express an opinion before her, without looking as if you wondered how she would take it."

"It is foolish I know," said Olive, coloring, "but one reason is that she always seems upon the watch to turn me into ridicule, and if I say an unguarded word, she is sure to take advantage of it. Then if I show any signs of resentment, comes out something about my being dependent."

"Another reason for rendering yourself independent."

"Yes, and a very great one. If it were not for her, I should not care so much. For really aunt means to be very kind, though she does not always show it in the most agreeable way. And uncle is every thing that is good. I think if I decide upon this course, I will write to him before we go home. I can always speak my mind better in a letter than in any other way, and if I have his consent, I shall have little to fear; for he is most emphatically head of the house. Even Charlotte is afraid of him."

"You will have a strong motive for making the most of your time while you remain in school," said Helen. "If I were you, Olive, I would devote more time to Latin and mathematics. You are a good French and Italian scholar, and your standing in the other classes is excellent. But if you will allow me to say so, you are rather behindhand in these two branches, especially in algebra."

"I know I am," replied Olive; "I like them so much less than the others, and they are so much more difficult for me, that I have always felt a temptation to neglect them."

"But they are very necessary for a teacher," remarked Helen.

"I will begin to work at them this very night. I shall dislike to give up the French prize, too," she continued, with something like a sigh, "but it can not be helped. I must risk a less for a greater, as Mr. De V. says. Charlotte will think I am trying to take the mathematical prize from her. She regards it as hers already, you know, and I fear there is no chance of my coming up to it so late in the term."

"Charlotte again! Why should you wish to take it from her? Let her have that, and the French prize too, if she wants them. I should rather give them both up, than have any new cause of jealousy arise. You are working for a larger prize than a writing-desk, are you not?"

"She might have every one in the school if it would make her any better-natured," returned Olive. "Suppose I tell her that I will not try for any of them?"

"That would hardly answer the purpose. Just devote yourself to making up your own deficiencies and let things take their course. If you gain a prize, well and good; if not, you can afford to lose it. But there is the half-hour bell for tea; I had no idea we had been out so long."

When the bell rung for study at seven, Olive prepared to push her resolution into practice. Yet it was not without a sigh that she cleared her end of the table of dictionaries and grammars, and took down her slate and geometry. This was soon dispatched, and it was with a still deeper sigh that she turned to her algebra.

Abby intimated her surprise in humorous dumb-show, but did not speak; for both the sisters were very particular in observing the rules, Olive from principle, and Abby because she very well knew that there was no use in talking, to her sister, since she only lost her credit-marks, without getting any answers.

The lesson appeared uncommonly puzzling, and at first it seemed hopeless to try to understand it. Yesterday she would have contented herself with bestowing only just as much labor upon it as would save her from disgrace in the class, but she had a new and powerful motive for exertion. With a strong effort, she brought all her powers of mind to bear upon the task before her, and before nine o'clock she was able to lay down her slate with a sigh at once of fatigue and relief, and turn to her French lesson. She had hardly set about it, however, before the bell rang, which proclaimed that study was over for the night, and set free the hundred and twenty tongues that inhabited the building, Abby's among the number.

"How you have been fagging at that algebra!" she exclaimed, as the first stroke sounded. "Are you going to try to get Charlotte's prize away from her?"

"No," replied Olive, as she threw herself back in her chair; "I have no expectation of any such thing. She is too far before me for that. But I want to make up my deficiencies in mathematics if I can."

"What a pity you did not begin before! It is so near examination that every credit counts, and you will not have time to get any extras in French, if you give so much to algebra. I should not like to have you lose the French prize, after taking it so often."

"I own I should be sorry to lose it," said Olive, "but after all, Abby, the prize is not the principal thing."

"Perhaps not, but you must own it is a great help. Much as I love music, I don't believe I should have applied for an extra practice-hour, but for the hope of winning that beautiful copy of Dante."

"I am working for a prize, too," said Olive, "but it is not a school prize."

Abby looked at her in surprise. "Oh! Yes, of course," she said at last, "you always want to do just right, I know." Abby spoke in entire good faith. Perhaps the strongest feelings she ever had were admiration and love for her sister. She would for Olive's sake sacrifice even her dearly beloved laziness, which was the strongest proof of affection it was possible for her to give.

"That is not it, exactly, either," said Olive. "I have a plan in my head."

"Don't tell me, Olive, if you don't want Charlotte to know," interrupted Abby. "You know she always questions every thing out of me sooner or later. However, don't look so disappointed," she added; "if you want me to know very much, I will make an extra effort to keep my own counsel for once."

"I do want you to know very much," replied Olive, "and I do not want you to mention it to Charlotte, at least not till after I write to uncle." And she proceeded to unfold her plans.

Abby listened with a mingled expression of perplexity and astonishment. When Olive had finished:

"If you were the least bit like me, Olive, I should say it was the most absurd thing in the world. But being as you are, I don't so much wonder at it. I don't see why you can not be contented to go on as we have done, and as I always mean to do, enjoying the good and letting the evil go by. But if you can not, and I really suppose you can't, you would no doubt be more comfortable in a state of independence. But O Olive! Only think of the work! Think of having to teach all sorts of children six hours a day, from year's end to year's end all your life long."

"And think of having to put up with Charlotte's impertinence, and aunt Dimsden's matchmaking, and aunt Rebecca's lectures all one's life long, never being able to spend a cent of money without having to account for it to some one, whose tastes are entirely different from your own. Think of—"

"Yes, I know all that," interrupted Abby, "but after all, we always have as much money as we want to spend, or nearly as much; for I don't believe any body had really ever as much as they wanted," she added laughing. "As for aunt's lectures, they need not worry you, if you would only take them in the right way. Charlotte is a nuisance sometimes, I allow, but then she has a right in her father's house, and we are there only upon sufferance; so we must not wonder if she sets herself up."

"Being there upon sufferance is the very thing I complain of," said Olive. "I would rather work ever so hard and feel that I had a right to be somewhere, than to live with the kindest persons in the world upon sufferance."

"So would not I," replied Abby. "But Olive, if you are really set upon this scheme, I would write to uncle about it before we go home, and get his consent: then you will know exactly what to expect and can act accordingly. I shall be sorry to have you go away from me," she added with a sigh, "but if you think you will be happier—and perhaps," she said with her birdlike laugh, which Olive could never resist, "I shall make a grand marriage by that time, and then you can come and live with me." And she forthwith began to place the prospective arrangements of Olive's bedroom.

Olive sighed and smiled. She knew her sister had almost no capacity for seriousness, and while she often felt painfully the want of sympathy which existed between them, she was thankful for her affection—an affection greater than Abby bestowed upon any other living creature.

CHAPTER SECOND.

BY the end of the week which Olive had set for consideration, her determination was firmly fixed upon the plan which Helen had proposed to her. The letter to her uncle was written and sent, and she composed herself to wait for an answer with what patience she might, applying herself meanwhile with all diligence to perfect herself in those studies wherein she felt herself most deficient.

Charlotte found, to her great surprise, that Olive was gaining upon her in mathematics, while they were more nearly upon an equality in French than they had ever been before; for Olive found it entirely impossible to keep up her ordinary standing in the latter class. She could not help feeling mortified the first two or three times she came to the recitation with only her regular lesson and a short translation. But the feeling passed off by degrees, and she was able to hear Charlotte commended with all due complacency.

Not so Charlotte. Every honor gained by Olive in algebra and geometry seemed an annoyance to her, and she actually turned pale when the credits were read at the end of the week, and Olive's name stood within one of her own.

Several of the girls smiled, and Abby laughed outright, despite her sister's reproving looks, all of which did not tend to make Charlotte feel any more amiably. Almost as soon as school was out for the afternoon, she came up to where Olive and Abby were standing, with several of the other girls.

"I wish to know, Olive," she said, in her measured tones, "whether you intend to dispute the mathematical prize with me?"

"I do not intend to dispute it with you, or any one, Charlotte," replied Olive, gently; "I should stand very little chance of success if I did. You know I have always been very deficient in mathematics, and I want to make it up while I have time. As for the prize, that is as it may happen. I shall be very much surprised if I do get it, and certainly your chance is much better than mine."

"I am to understand, then, that you mean to contend for the prize?"

"No," replied Olive, a little impatiently; "I do not. I only mean to learn my lessons as well as I can, and let the prize take its chance."

"If that is all you want, I think it would be just as well to learn your lessons without the key," said Charlotte, with a significant sneer.

Olive colored, while Abby exclaimed: "How perfectly absurd you are, Charlotte. I don't believe Olive ever looked at the key, and I am sure I should know it if she had."

"I do not believe there is any key," said Maria Grey. "Miss Lincoln," she asked of one of the teachers who was passing, "is there any key to the higher algebra?"

"Not that ever I heard of," answered Miss Lincoln; "why?"

"Nothing, only Charlotte thought she had seen one," said Maria, and Miss Lincoln passed on. "You see you are wrong, Charlotte," she continued; "I really think you owe Olive an apology for your uncivil insinuation."

"Perhaps I was wrong in 'this' instance," returned Charlotte, with peculiar emphasis. "I confess I am not so well acquainted with keys and counted exercises as some of you."

She turned round to mark the effect of this speech upon Olive, but Olive had left the room.

Olive learned to attach much less importance to her cousin's jealousy, since she seemed to have a prospect of escaping from it at some time or other. But she had a new source of uneasiness. It was two weeks since she had written to her uncle, and she had yet received no answer. She began to think that he was ill, or else that he was seriously displeased, and either idea was sufficiently unpleasant. About Mrs. Merton's opinion she felt less anxiety; for she felt that, however annoyed her aunt might be in the outset, she was sure to come round to her husband's side in the end.

The next morning, however, brought the much-desired answer, and it was with no little agitation that Olive retired to her room and broke the seal. A hasty glance told her that she had nothing to fear from her uncle's anger, and, that apprehension removed, she was able to read the letter more calmly from beginning to end.

Mr. Merton was not in the least displeased with his niece's desire for independence; on the contrary, he sympathized with her entirely, but he feared that she had not thoroughly counted the cost. Teaching, pursued as a means of support, was a laborious, and oftentimes a harassing occupation. It would probably be some time before she would be able to earn a high salary, or occupy any but a subordinate position, and she would find herself obliged to put up with a good many trials, of which she had very little conception. He did not, however, mean to discourage her from her undertaking, which he thought very praiseworthy, but he wished her to take the time which remained of the term for consideration. And if, when she came home, she continued of the same mind, he would cheerfully aid her by every means in his power. He mentioned at the end that aunt Rebecca sent her love, but he did not say whether she knew any thing of the matter in hand.

Olive's feelings had been wrought up to a pitch higher than she herself was aware of. While the matter was uncertain, she had made up her mind to be disappointed, but no sooner did she learn that there was every prospect of success, than she became aware of what a failure would have cost her, and, while she laughed at herself for the weakness, she could not help crying.

Abby surprised her before she had quite dried her tears. She snatched the letter from her sister's hands, and read it through.

"Why, what are you crying for?" she very naturally asked. "I do not see but uncle says every thing you could wish. You certainly can not think it unreasonable that he wants you to wait till vacation before deciding! Even I should not object to that."

"I don't know what I am crying for, that is the truth," said Olive, drying her tears and laughing, "only that I had made up my mind to be disappointed, and uncle's kind letter came upon me with a sort of surprise. I do not at all complain of his wanting me to take a longer time for consideration, you may be sure."

"I wonder what aunt Rebecca will say!"

"I rather think he has not mentioned the affair to her at all. I wish you would join me, Abby."

"Oh! No; it is entirely out of the question. To begin with, I don't know any thing well enough to teach it, but music, and I never should have the patience to teach that. Think of being obliged, day after day, to listen to all sorts of compositions, good and bad, drummed and thrummed, and thumped and pounded, out of all sorts of pianos, by all sorts of hands, with a running accompaniment of 'one,' two, three—'one,' two, three—mind the rests—one, two, three—take care of that accidental—and so on, to the end of the chapter."

"But you might learn other things, Abby."

"It is far too late for that, my dear, even if I had the capacity, which I have not. And besides, I am very well contented as I am. I shall be sorry to have you away, but if you think you will be happier, I shall not mind it so much. And perhaps, as I said, I shall be married to some rich man before you come back from your first term, and then you can come and live with me."

"You would not marry for an establishment, would you, dear?"

"Oh! Not really, you know! That would be worse than teaching, because it would be mean, us well as inconvenient. But then, I may take a fancy to a rich man as well as a poor one, may I not?"

"You may, to be sure," said Olive, smiling, "but I do not think it is very profitable to speculate upon such things."

"Well, then, if you won't be interested in my matrimonial projects, come and play battledore with me in the hall. That good-natured little Anna has lent me hers, and I am dying for some one to play with me. Come, you are getting as old as your great-grandmother, over those stupid figures. Who do you think will want a teacher looking like a Sphynx?"

Olive laughed, but suffered herself to be drawn away from her books, and at the end of an hour's active exercise, she certainly felt better, and inclined to take a brighter view of life. She gave Charlotte her father's message, without, however, showing her the letter, at which Charlotte was very angry, and at once concluded that Olive had been writing something to her disadvantage.

Examination-time came, and, to the wonder of every one, Olive took but one premium, and that was for the higher mathematics—considered the highest prize in the school. No one stood any where near her but Charlotte, and she was twenty behind, though she took the second honor in French, and the first in history.

Olive was as much astonished as any one else: she had not kept the run of her own credits, and could hardly believe her ears when the account was read. It was with any thing but a feeling of unmixed pleasure that she went forward to receive the prize—a beautifully-fitted writing-desk.

As soon after school as she could get an opportunity, she went up to Mrs. Granger's private room, where she found Charlotte, apparently in a state of much excitement, and she caught her own name as she entered.

"Mrs. Granger," said Olive, "are you sure there is no mistake about the prize?"

"What mistake could there be, Olive?"

"I did not think—I had no idea of gaining the prize in mathematics," replied Olive. "I supposed Charlotte would like it of course."

"I presume Charlotte thought so too, and that may be the way she has lost it," said Mrs. Granger. "She has taken it so many times that she felt herself perfectly secure, and relaxed her efforts, while you have improved very much. Charlotte has taken two prizes, and that ought to content her."

"I should hive taken this too, if I had had a fair chance," burst forth Charlotte, the violence of her feelings causing her to forget the respect due to Mrs. Granger's presence. "If the trial had been half fair, I should have had nothing to fear."

"What am I to understand by that, Miss Merton?" asked Mrs. Granger, with stately dignity.

"That Olive has been helped and favored in every way, while I have been left to depend upon my own efforts," returned Charlotte, far too angry to consider what she said. "Miss Lincoln has always been ready to assist her, and so has Miss Smith. As long as the partiality extended only to French, I was willing to put up with it, but to be cheated out of my just dues by a poor relation—a dependent upon my father's bounty."

"Charlotte Merton, hold your peace!" said Mrs. Granger, in her very sternest tone of authority, before which the boldest rebel quailed. "Your conduct is disgraceful in the extreme. In charging Miss Lincoln with favoritism, you at once insult me, and make an accusation which you can not sustain, for I venture to say that there is not another girl in the class, beside yourself and Olive, who is the least surprised at the result. As for your saying that Olive has cheated you, the very fact of her coming here at once to ascertain whether there was not a mistake—to say nothing of her established character for purity and honor—gives the lie to that assertion.

"For shame, young lady! Have you so little magnanimity that though you have taken two premiums yourself, you grudge your cousin another, besides taunting her with her misfortunes? I am very much disappointed in you, Charlotte! I knew your temper was in many respects faulty, but I never saw any littleness in you before. No, Olive, my dear, there is no mistake about the prize. You have fairly earned it, and we all rejoice that your efforts have been crowned with success. Yet I venture to say that the honor has not been your object in these efforts—is it not so?"

"Yes ma'am," replied Olive, whose first indignation against Charlotte had subsided into something like pity. "I hardly thought at all of taking the prize. I had another object in view."

"I think I partly guess what that object is," said Mrs. Granger, "and if you choose, you shall tell me this evening, when I shall be at leisure. Come, Charlotte, I am sure you must regret your hasty words and unjust suspicions. Let me see you give your cousin your hand, and say so."

"If you think Olive has been perfectly fair, and she says so, Mrs. Granger, I am willing to believe it," replied Charlotte, who began, in truth, to see that she was not appearing to advantage. "I confess I was hasty, Olive," she added, offering her hand. "I hope you will forget what I said. No doubt you are perfectly entitled to the prize."

Olive took the hand, and offered a kiss in return, which was accepted, and the two cousins went down-stairs, and entered the school-room together, with an appearance of more cordiality than was usual with them.

Some of the girls were glad to see it, others wondered, and many prophesied that it would not last long. In this they were so far mistaken, that it lasted all next day, and through the journey home; for Charlotte had become more and more sensible that her anger at losing the prize would very naturally be attributed to envy at her cousin's success, and she had at the bottom of her heart a great respect for Olive's good opinion.

Before they left school, Olive had laid open all her plans and desires to Mrs. Granger, and received that lady's cordial approval. Mrs. Granger furnished her all the assistance in her power towards obtaining a situation whenever she should desire it, but strenuously advised her to spend another half-year in school, more, she was pleased to say, to acquire the routine of school business, than to add to her accomplished merits.

Owing to a slight accident, the girls did not arrive at home until so late an hour of the night that they could think of nothing except taking a hearty supper and going directly to bed. The next morning, however, the whole subject was brought up by the usual inquiry about prizes.

"Olive and I have changed this time," remarked Charlotte, with tolerable good humor. "She has carried off the mathematical honors, and left the French to me."

"Olive taken the mathematical prizes!" said aunt Rebecca, with evident astonishment. "I thought you always reckoned upon that with certainty, Charlotte, and I see your French is only second. How does it happen, Olive, you have taken such a sudden start?"

"I don't know, aunt, unless it is because I have studied harder than usual," replied Olive, coloring a little under her aunt's scrutinising glance.

"I suppose you have taken the first French, too," continued Mrs. Merton. "Really you have come home covered with honors."

"Maria Grey took the first French," said Abby, who had heretofore been occupied in slyly feeding the cat under the table. "Olive has given more time to algebra and Latin than to any thing else this term."

"Why was that, Olive?" asked Mrs. Merton, rather sharply.

"Olive has been quite mysterious about the matter," Charlotte remarked, unable to resist the temptation to tease her cousin a little. "She has assured us that she had another object in view besides the mere writing-desk. I believe Mrs. Granger is in the secret, but Abby and myself are shut out."

"Speak for yourself," interrupted Abby, gayly. "You think I never can know any thing without telling or it, but you are mistaken for once; I have known it all along."

"I do not approve of secrets," said Mrs. Merton, looking a good deal displeased. "I can not conceive of any good motive Olive could have for concealment in this case, I am sure."

"I believe I am in this mighty secret, eh, Olive?" said Mr. Merton, smilingly.

"Yes, uncle," replied Olive, glad of her uncle's protection. "You know more about it than any one."

Mrs. Merton waited in dignified silence. Mr. Merton helped himself to another piece of toast, buttered it, took a hot egg, and breaking it, said, quietly:

"The reasons that Olive has been so earnestly devoting herself to mathematics this term are, first, that she felt she had neglected them before; and secondly, because she has, as I understand, made up her mind to engage in teaching, as soon as she leaves school, and she justly thinks that this branch is a very important one to her success."

"In teaching!" exclaimed Charlotte.

And then there was an awful silence. Olive dared not look up. She felt her aunt's glance of offended majesty fastened upon her. She knew if she met it, she should certainly either laugh or cry, and she did not want to do either.

Abby's head was down under the table to look after the cat; and if it was Minny that mewed, her voice sounded uncommonly like a giggle.

At last Mrs. Merton spoke:

"May I ask, Miss McHenry, what are the motives which have led to this extraordinary decision? Do you not consider that you have been well-treated in this house?"

"No, aunt," replied Olive, meekly.

"Then, permit me to ask, once more, why you wish to quit us, and engage in the occupation of 'teaching?'" with an emphasis upon the word, as though Olive had proposed to engage in the occupation of street-cleaning.

"Because I do not wish to be dependent any longer, aunt Rebecca," replied Olive at last, in a voice which trembled at first, but which gathered firmness as she proceeded. "You have been very kind to me, and I have never felt otherwise than grateful for it, but I would, rather earn my own living if I can."

"And how long has this precious project been in agitation?"

"I first thought of it at the beginning of last term," replied Olive. "I wrote to uncle upon the subject immediately, and as he did not disapprove, I considered myself at liberty to entertain the idea."

Mrs. Merton turned to her husband: "Do you mean to say, Mr. Merton, that this young lady is aided and abetted by you in this matter?"

"Why, yes; I must say that I thought the idea a good one," replied Mr. Merton deliberately. "Olive has talents, and a good education, and if she is willing, for the sake of independence, to undergo the labor of teaching, she has my full consent to try the experiment, at the same time that she knows she is as welcome as possible to stay here, and make our house her home for life, or until she gets a home of her own."

"Thank you, uncle," replied Olive warmly.

Mrs. Merton leaned back in her chair. "I have no more to say," she remarked in a resigned tone of voice; "I really can say no more. I have always feared, from Olive's extreme resemblance to her father, that some of his peculiarities might appear in her. But I hoped a good education might overcome the advantages of a low origin. I see it was in vain."

"Aunt," said Olive, with some indignation in her tone, "you have no right to speak so of my father. Whatever may have been his birth, he was an honest and honorable man, and deserve nothing but good of any one. His losses of property might have come from error in judgment, but no one ever accused him of one speck of dishonesty or selfishness. My dear mother always spoke of him as the kindest of men; and my own recollections of him tell me the same thing. You are welcome to say what you please to me, but spare my father's memory."

"You are right, Olive," said her uncle, gravely. "Your father was one of the most honorable of men; and if his birth was not high, it was honest, and such as no republican need be ashamed of. But we will drop this subject for the present. And you, 'my little dunce,'" he added, turning round to Abby, "what are you going to do?"

"Stay at home and play for you, uncle," replied Abby, returning her uncle's pull of the hair by a most impish pinch. "You don't know how much new music I have learned since I was at home last. I took the first prize."

"I hope that you, Abby, are going to appreciate the advantages of your position sufficiently to remain at home," said aunt Rebecca with dignity. "I hope you will display more sense than to go running away after some Quixotic idea of independence."

"I am quite ready to stay here as long as you want to keep me, aunt," returned Abby lightly. "It would be nice to be independent, I dare say, but it would be quite too much trouble for me."

If the look Charlotte turned upon her cousin was one of contempt, it was quite lost upon Abby, who, having fed the cat with all that remained upon her own plate, was slyly abstracting morsels from her uncle's, when her aunt put a stop to the process by rising from the table.

All day long, Mrs. Merton showed her displeasure, by treating Olive with marked coldness, and bestowing an extra amount of petting upon Abby and Charlotte.

Abby took it very quietly, as she was accustomed to do all her aunt's moods, but Charlotte rather withdrew from it. She felt very uncomfortably. She could not help being aware, now that there was a prospect of losing it, how much she valued Olive's society, and many of the expressions which she had been in the habit of using towards her cousin came back to her mind with unpleasant force. She respected Olive's decision, and felt that, in similar circumstances, she herself would have done the same. And yet, this very respect made her feel annoyed with herself for according, and with Olive for deserving it.

At last, as they were sitting together in the twilight, Charlotte broke out abruptly: "Olive, I am glad you are going away, and yet I am sorry."

"How can you be both?" asked Olive, rousing herself from a reverie.

"I am sorry we are going to lose your society," replied Charlotte. "And I am glad you are going to be more pleasantly situated, and that you prefer working for yourself to being supported by others."

"I should always have preferred it, if I could have seen my way clear," said Olive, coloring little. "I only hope I may be able at some time to repay uncle for what he has spent on my education."

"You need not think of that. I am sure he considers himself more than repaid for any thing he has done for you. But we shall all miss you very much. I am sure I shall for one."

"I never imagined that," said Olive. "I really supposed you would be glad to have me out of the way."

"That is a great mistake," replied Charlotte. "I have always been attached to you."

"You have taken a strange way of showing it, I must say," remarked Olive, not without some bitterness. "I never could have guessed that you had any other feeling for me than dislike and jealousy."

Charlotte colored in her turn. "I can not blame you for thinking so," she said, "and yet it is not true. Jealous I confess I always have been, ever since you came here. I was prejudiced against you before, and I wanted something to justify me in it; so I tried to believe that you were ungrateful, and that you wanted to injure me in my father's esteem. But I could not really dislike you, though I tried very hard, and though I gave you just cause for disliking me. Come, shall we let by-gones be by-gones, and try to have fair play for the future?"

As she spoke, she sat down by Olive, and laid her hand on her shoulder, a wonderfully near approach to a caress for her.

"Very willingly, I am sure," replied Olive, returning the movement by a much warmer one. "I can not bear to think that any one dislikes me, and I have often wished that we could agree better. It will be much pleasanter being in school as friends than as foes."

"But I am not to return to school," said Charlotte. "Have you not heard? Mother means that Abby and I should stay at home this winter. She says we can have music and Italian masters here, and she wants to have us go out a little. So if you go back, it will be alone."

"But why Abby?" asked Olive in surprise. "I do not wonder that she wants you at home, but certainly Abby would bear a good deal of education still, though I fear the poor child will never be a wonderful scholar in any thing but music. You must allow, Charlotte, that she plays and sings splendidly."

"Better than any one else I ever heard, of her age," replied Charlotte; "and that is one reason why mother wants her at home. She says her musical talents and graceful manners will make such a sensation that it's a shame they should be lost to the world any longer, and besides," she added, laughing, "I suspect she thinks it will be very becoming for a fair belle and a dark belle to come out together."

Abby, be it remarked, was brilliantly fair, with an immense profusion of wavy hair, of a peculiar paly-gold tint. Charlotte, on the contrary, was dark, with a good deal of color, and with hair, eyes, and eyelashes all of an intense blackness. Olive was rather pale, inclining to be sallow, and her hair, though excellent in quality and quantity, was of a dull, unreflecting brown. Her only really beautiful features were her eyes, which were of a dark-gray, with long black lashes, and even, level eyebrows—a trifle too heavy for the rest of her face. Olive could not be called pretty, which might be one reason that she did not stand as high in her aunt's favor, as her eminently beautiful sister.

"Does Abby know of this arrangement?" asked Olive.

"I don't know that she does," said Charlotte; "I rather think mother has said nothing to her yet; and if I were you, Olive, I would not tell her. You know mother likes to have the first notice of her plans come from herself; and Abby will never be able to help saying, 'Oh! Yes, I knew!'"

"Poor Abby is such a child," said Olive, with something of a sigh. "I sometimes feel as though it were wrong to leave her to herself."

"Oh! She will do well enough. You know how fond mother is of her, and I suppose you do not doubt that she will take the best care of her." Charlotte said this with a little of the old jealousy in her tone.

"Of course I know that," Olive hastened to say, "but I am afraid Abby will stand too much in awe of her to confide in her as she does in me. But she will not hear of my giving up my plan upon her account, and so I can only hope all will be for the best. So it is settled that you are not to go back with me. I am afraid I shall be rather lonely, but I suppose I may as well get used to it," she added, with something of a sigh.

Charlotte pressed her hand, and sighed too. She began to feel that in losing Olive, she should lose much more than she had been aware of.

Mrs. Merton continued to treat Olive with coldness all the next day, but by the morning of the third her face began to relax into its usual smiles. She was, in truth, a very kind-hearted woman, and anxious to do every thing in her power for her daughter and her nieces. But then she wanted to do it exactly in her own way, and to have them mere passive recipients of her favors. Any thing like contradiction, or having a will of their own, annoyed her extremely. For this reason, Abby had always been more her favorite than Olive; for Abby never contradicted any body if she could help it. It was too much trouble. Even Charlotte did not entirely satisfy her in this respect, for Charlotte was apt to have an opinion of her own, and to maintain it stoutly, too. But she had always intended to be just to Olive, though she did not particularly like her.

We have said, that in a gentle, lady-like way, she was something of a match-maker. It was her wish to introduce her into society, under the best auspices, and if possible, to settle her in life advantageously. That Olive should actually intend to renounce all these privileges, and give herself up to the laborious life of a school-teacher, seemed incredible, and at first her indignation knew no bounds.

But after calm reflection, she began to see certain alleviating circumstances. She honestly regretted that the girl should be so blinded to her own interests, but perhaps upon the whole it was just as well. It would be much less trouble to bring out two young ladies than three. Olive was very difficult to manage sometimes, and she had very romantic ideas upon certain subjects. A year's experience of the real hardships of life would probably do more towards bringing her to reason than all the lectures in the world, and she would be ready to return home and behave like a reasonable being, at least so far as could be expected from her father's daughter.

So reasoned Mrs. Merton, and by such reasoning, aided by the natural kindness of her heart, her wrath cooled apace. She gave Olive her formal consent to the plan, accompanying the same with an hour's lecture upon the folly of romantic ideas, and the absolute necessity of laying them aside, if she meant to succeed in life, concluding all with a kiss, and the injunction very kindly given, that she must always consider her uncle's house as her home, and an assurance that she would ever find it open to her, should she not find her occupation of teaching as agreeable as she expected. Olive was very grateful for the kindness, and took the lecture in excellent part, and so fair weather was once more established throughout the family, greatly to the delight of Mr. Merton, who never could endure any thing like a family dissension.

CHAPTER THIRD.

OLIVE'S vacation passed away pleasantly and quickly; she felt that she had never before spent one so agreeably.

Charlotte's jealousy seemed almost entirely subdued. She thoroughly respected her cousin for her independence, and felt ashamed of the many times she had taunted her with her unfortunate circumstances: moreover, she began to feel the real value of Olive's society, and now that she seemed likely to lose it, she felt a desire to make the most of what remained.

Mr. Merton saw, with pleasure, that a warm friendship seemed, at last, likely to grow up between his daughter and his favorite niece, and encouraged it by every means in his power. Mrs. Merton, who never did any thing by halves, exerted all her powers, which were by no means small, to make the time pass pleasantly. Rides and drives, short journeys and impromptu pic-nics, filled up the time pretty thoroughly. And when Olive ventured to remonstrate a little, she received this answer:

"You are going to begin a life of hard work, my dear. It is no more than right that you should play while you can. And mind, Olive, I will not have you spend your vacation in sewing. There will be time enough for that when you are away from home."

Upon this kind pretext, aunt Rebecca took the whole charge of Olive's clothes. And when she got ready to return to school, she found herself furnished with an entirely new and very handsome wardrobe, sufficient to last a long time. She remonstrated a little at being so far favored above the other girls.

"Your case is very different from theirs, Olive. As I said before, you are about entering upon a laborious life, and it is but fair that the commencement should be made easy for you. Abby and Charlotte will have plenty of time to play, and it would be no kindness to take their work out of their hands. Abby, especially, needs to be taught to sew. It is a knowledge which can not fail to be useful to her, however she may be situated in life."

Olive was fain to acquiesce in this reasoning, though she thought that Mrs. Merton would find she had taken upon herself more than she imagined, in trying to make Abby work. She well remembered all the entreaties and remonstrances, the coaxing and scolding that were necessary at school, to make her mend her stockings or keep her dresses in any decent order. She took an opportunity to say a few last words to her sister upon the subject.

"Do pray, Abby dear, try to keep your clothes in nice order. You know how much any slovenliness annoys aunt Rebecca, and I shall not be here to pick up your things after you, and take up your stitches for you!"

"Never fear," said Abby, lightly; "I am going to turn over a new leaf about that."

"But, Abby, you have turned over so many new leaves which did not seem to have any thing on them after all—"

"That you are afraid the whole book will be found to contain nothing but blank leaves, after all, eh, sister mine? But I shall arrive at the reading by and by, and then see how interesting it will be!"

"Pray what do you mean to have your book turn out?" asked Olive.

"Perhaps it may turn out a song, Perhaps turn out a sermon,—"

sang Abby, in her skylark tones. "Perhaps a solemn tragedy—who knows?"

Poor Abby! Who knows, indeed!

"And, Abby, one other thing. You know I shall not be here for you to tell all your affairs to—and it takes a good while for a letter to come and go. Now won't you confide in aunt Rebecca, and take her advice about every thing? You know you are apt to be giddy sometimes," said Olive, with the air of one who makes an assertion which may seem doubtful to the hearer.

"I did not know I was any thing else," laughed her sister. "I feel complimented by that 'some times,' Olive."

"Well, then, if you know that you are giddy, won't you confide in aunt Rebecca?"

"Yes, of course, if I can think of any thing to confide. But you had better say uncle Merton. I could go to him with a story a great deal easier than I could to aunt Rebecca, for all people generally consider him so solemn and grave. I wonder why it is?"

"Because he spoils you, and never lectures you for your good, you little goose."

"Well, I don't like to be lectured for my good," with a little toss of her head, which set her golden curls dancing, so that they seemed to emit a light of their own. "It never does me any good, and makes me feel more like being cross than any thing else in the world. I don't mean you, of course," she added, fearful that she might seem unkind; "you never do lecture, you only talk."

"Then, if I only talk, will you mind what I say?"

"Yes, of course, if I can."

"And you will write to me very often, won't you, Abby? You know I shall be very lonely without you or Charlotte—"

"Without Charlotte, especially," said Abby, parenthetically.

"I like Charlotte better than I ever did before," said Olive. "But it is no trouble for you to write letters, and you will have so much to say. You must tell me all about your parties and going out, and all the new acquaintances you make. I wish you would keep a journal, and send it to me every week."

"Keep a journal, indeed! I would about as soon undertake to keep my uncle's books. I never expect to have perseverance enough to keep a journal."

"Perhaps it would be a good time to acquire that rather convenient quality," suggested Olive.

"Oh! No, I can not engage to keep a journal, but I will write as often as you wish to hear from me. Any thing else, my dear little Mentor?"

"Nothing, only—you will be going out a good deal, dear Abby, and perhaps you will meet temptations. Pray don't let any thing make you forget what we used to learn at our mother's knee when we were children."

"I shall never forget that Olive," said Abby, her bright face assuming the most serious expression of which it was capable. "It seems as though I remembered that more distinctly than any thing else about her. And for all you think I am so giddy, (and I know I am,) you never knew me forget to say my prayers night and morning."

"That is true," Olive admitted.

"Or laugh or whisper in church, did you?"

"I hope not. To say nothing of any higher motive, I do not believe you would ever do any thing so entirely vulgar and ill-bred."

"Well, Olive, I can tell you that I saw our very superfine aunt Dimsden and our very superfiner sister Laura, talking to the very super-finest Miss Eaton in service-time, at St. David's, last Sunday evening, and I know Dr. Eastman saw them, too, for he looked straight at them."

Olive laughed. "Do you know what aunt Rebecca thinks of aunt Dimsden, Abby?"

"Oh! Yes, I know. They are a pair of affectionate sisters-in-law, are they not? But I thought Laura ought to know better. I really was mortified for her."

"I am glad I did not see her," said Olive. "I don't think Laura has improved at all the last year, Abby."

"How can she improve, living as she does? Aunt Dimsden thinks of nothing but having a place in society, and making as much parade as she can, upon as small means. I believe her Bible reads, 'Whether ye eat, or drink, or whatever ye do, do all for a social position.'"

Olive shook her head reprovingly, but she could not help admitting the truth of what Abby said. "I am sure you will admit, Abby, that it might have been better for Laura, if she had always had the prospect before her of being obliged to earn her own living. It really makes me unhappy to think what sort of a woman she is likely to become."

"There is no use in making yourself unhappy about it, Olive; Laura likes it."

"So much the worse for her."

"And aunt Dimsden pretends to be a religious woman too," said Abby, thoughtfully. "How is it, Olive, that she says the same prayers and creed that we do, and that Mrs. Eastman and Mrs. Addiston do, and yet makes dress and company and outside show her chief objects?"

"I don't know," answered Olive, with a deep sigh; "I don't want to judge her, but I think such people do a great deal more mischief than they think for."

"Aunt Rebecca does not seem to bestow nearly as much thought and pains upon her dress and so on," continued Abby, "and yet she is always well-dressed, and appears like a lady, while Aunt Dimsden—" Abby paused.

"Aunt Rebecca would not do any thing mean for the sake of what aunt Dimsden calls society," said Olive. "She would never run after or court any one she did not respect, or slight any one who had been kind to her, however vulgar the person might be."

"She has no need of doing so," replied Abby. "She has plenty of such society as she likes without it. Sometimes I wonder, Olive, how such people as Miss Eaton, and—and others would act if there came up another persecution for the sake of Christianity."

"There is no telling," said Olive; "they might be as firm and resolute in dying for their faith as any one at all. They might realize then that faith is a real true thing, and not a fashion."

"I think if Miss Eaton should be burned alive, aunt Dimsden and Laura would go to the stake without flinching," said Abby, laughing.

"Poor Laura!" sighed Olive.

"Well, I know; I feel very sorry about her, too, and I wish things were different, but I can not make them so, and what is the use of fretting? I should rather be in your place than hers. But I don't want to be in either so long as I can stay as I am."

And so the conversation ended, not very satisfactorily in all points to Olive, but more so, upon the whole, than such conversations between herself and her sister usually did. About Laura she felt less anxiety and no responsibility. They had been very much separated from early childhood, Laura having been adopted by Mrs. Dimsden immediately after her father's death—and their dispositions were entirely different. Laura, with all her apparent amiability, was too selfish to be very lovable.

They had been educated upon very different plans, and their whole system of ideas and theory of life were entirely dissimilar. Mrs. Merton thought Mrs. Dimsden a very vulgar woman: Mrs. Dimsden thought Mrs. Merton proud, set up, and disagreeable, at the same time that she courted her society, and made the most in all her conversation of the small degree of intimacy existed between them. Mrs. Dimsden talked of dear Rebecca and my sister Rebecca, and quoted her sayings and doings upon all occasions; while Mrs. Merton always spoke with great respect of Mrs. Dimsden, and treated her with as much distance as she could reconcile it to her conscience to assume towards the widow of her husband's half-brother. Mrs. Merton, in fact, though a very proud, and somewhat worldly woman, was neither mean nor vulgar, while Mrs. Dimsden was both.

Mrs. Merton, though she liked to see her young friends married and settled in life, and thought any romantic ideas of love and spiritual affinity very much out of place, would yet have scorned the idea of going out of her way to attract or entice gentlemen. While Mrs. Dimsden avowedly considered getting married the principal object in the life of woman—the very thing for which she was made, and failing which, she must necessarily miss the great object of existence. In this belief she devoted all her energies to marrying off whatever young lady might be under her charge for the time being. People laughed at her, but she carried her point; and having provided for her younger sisters and cousins, she was intent upon making a match for Laura—a match which should exceed all others in brilliancy and cause her sister-in-law to hide her diminished head.

Laura, on her part, fell in very well with all her aunt's schemes on her behalf. She was quite as beautiful as Abby, and almost as devoid of serious thought. But there was this difference, that while Abby had a kind and warm heart, and for the sake of any one she loved would sacrifice almost any thing, Laura, under a veil of amiable manners, was very selfish, and seldom bestowed a thought upon any one's peace or comfort except her own. She did not care for books except just so far as they could minister gracefully to her love of display, and she valued music and drawing upon the same grounds. In fact, she lived only upon the outside, and if she had a heart, she had never found it out, and was not very likely to do so under the tuition of aunt Dimsden. She liked Olive as well as she could like any body; she envied Abby her musical talent, and thought her much more reasonable than Olive. This last plan especially, she looked upon as preposterous to a degree.

"But Olive," she remarked sweetly, "had always been a strange, unaccountable creature, and there was no use in distressing one's self about her freaks."

Aunt Dimsden said she had given that up long ago, but at the same time she gave Olive some friendly advice as to marrying a minister or a professional man—a thing, she observed, which teachers are very apt to do.

Olive's last term in school was a very pleasant one. Her friend, Helen Monteith, was still there, and some others of her particular set; and there were several of the new girls whom she liked very much. She was very busy, for besides her regular business, she spent a good deal of time in learning what Mrs. Granger called the theory and practice of teaching, by hearing classes, assisting the younger girls in their lessons, and helping Miss Lincoln to correct compositions and exercises. She was surprised to find what an amount of labor was required in that department alone, and how little, after all this labor, certain of the girls contrived to learn.

"It reminds me," she said, upon one occasion, "of an old proverb I have heard many repeat,—That one man may lead a horse to water, but twenty men can not make him drink."

"And yet the poor teacher is blamed for not making him drink," replied Miss Lincoln.

"Yes. Many people can never be brought to acknowledge that their own children and their own management at home is in fault. What is one to do in that case?"

"Have patience," said the teacher, sighing: "I know of nothing else. But I think one great reason why scholars, especially girls, learn so little, is from the want of any adequate motive."

"One would think the mere pleasure of knowing ought to be enough," said Olive.

"Not with children. They have not knowledge enough to appreciate the value of more."

"But most of the girls here are not children, Miss Lincoln. There are very few under fourteen years old."

"True," replied Miss Lincoln, "but think how ignorant many of them are when they come, and when they go away, for that matter."

"What motive would you propose, then?"

"Why, they are several. One is, as you say, the desire of knowledge, but every one can not appreciate that. The next best is the desire of usefulness, and the best of all is the religious motive, which includes the others; 'Whether ye eat or drink, or whatever ye do, do all to the glory of God.'"

"But I think, Miss Lincoln, it is much easier to acquire knowledge with the idea of turning it to some account, besides the mere enjoyment of it one's self," said Olive; "I am sure I have studied much better this term than ever I did before. I never go over a single lesson without thinking, 'Now, how should I explain this, if I were called upon to teach it?' And I find my ideas much clearer for the process."

"Yes, you learn to analyze, and to see clearly what you know, and what you do not know."

"I have heard teachers say that it was very difficult to study while engaged in school," remarked Olive.

"It is so," admitted Miss Lincoln; with a sigh. "Their powers of mind and body are generally so over-taxed in their school duties that they are glad to rest themselves as thoroughly as possible when they are out of the school-room. Some are stronger than others, and some schools are better supplied with assistants, but as a rule, teachers, especially in the smaller schools, are very much over-taxed."

Olive sighed. "Not a very pleasant prospect for me," she said.

"It is part of the price one must be content to pay for independence and usefulness," replied Miss Lincoln. "But some teachers are much more favorably situated than others in that respect. In this house, for instance, we should be very ungrateful if we complained. The only over-worked person in the establishment is Mrs. Granger."

"But, Miss Lincoln, think how many men have studied law and medicine, and even divinity, while teaching."

"Oh! Yes, I know it. There are many honorable exceptions, even among women. I studied chemistry myself, while I was teaching in a district-school."

Olive had anticipated one thing, in which she was pleasantly disappointed. She had supposed a good many of the girls would look down upon her, when they learned that she was to be dependent upon her own resources. But in this she found herself mistaken. Girls in a large school are apt to be very thorough democrats, and if there is an aristocracy, it is almost always one of talent and personal influence. Of this aristocracy, Olive had always been a prominent member, and she did not find her position at all changed. Her equals treated her with the same consideration to which she had always been accustomed, and with the younger girls, her influence was increased rather than diminished, from the fact that she sometimes heard their lessons, or assisted them in their exercises.

Still there were some few who took it upon them to pity her extremely, and among the number were Miss Lucretia Monroe, and her friend, Miss Jane Douglass, who had long enjoyed the proud preëminence of being the greatest dunces in the school. Either of these young ladies could miss question after question at a public examination with the greatest coolness; they cared nothing for prizes, to which, indeed, they never aspired. And they never considered themselves disgraced by being found out in any scrape whatever. Of course, they were not held in any high estimation by the aristocracy aforesaid. But, secure in the depths of their ignorance, they did not feel themselves in the slightest degree disturbed, by the not always concealed contempt of Misses Grey, Monteith, McHenry, and company.

"Poor Olive!" said Lucretia one day to Maria Grey, with a sweet air of amiability. "How much I pity her!"

"Do you?" said Maria, carelessly. "I dare say she would be very much obliged to you if she knew it."

"Yes, because she has got to teach for a living," continued Miss Monroe, elegantly. "I don't know what I should do if I were so reduced."

"I don't know what you would, I am sure," returned Maria. "You would be in a bad case certainly; I can not think of any thing you could possibly teach."

"You need not snap one up so, Maria. I do not expect to be a school-ma'am myself, and my papa never intended I should be educated for one. But any way, I am sorry for Olive, and I shall make a point of noticing her just as much as ever."

"'You' notice Olive McHenry!" exclaimed Maria Grey. "Upon my word, Miss Monroe, you are sublime in the extreme of your impertinence. Why, child, it is an honor to you, that she sometimes condescends to help you out of a scrape, when every one else is tired of you. The idea of your presuming to pity Olive McHenry, because she prefers independence gained by her own exertions, to idleness and uselessness! You would do much better if you would exert yourself to imitate her a little."

Nevertheless, Miss Monroe persisted in her charitable intentions, and proceeded to bestow a good deal of her society upon Olive, who could not help wondering what in the world had come over her.

She asked Maria one day. "She comes to my room, till I am tempted sometimes to tell her that I would rather have it to myself, and she seems to miss no opportunity of talking with me."

"Don't you understand it?" replied Maria, laughing. "She is pitying you for your hard fate. She told me that she was sorry for you, and meant to notice you as much as she could."

"I wish she would show her pity in some other way than by bestowing her society upon me," said Olive. "It becomes rather fatiguing, besides taking up a good deal of valuable time, which I don't very well know how to spare."

"Why don't you tell her so?"

"Oh! I don't want to make an enemy of the girl. Dunce as she is, it is better to have her good-will than her ill-will, and perhaps I may do her some good."

"The idea of doing good to Lucretia Monroe! You would be a good person to head a crusade, Olive; nothing short of a physical impossibility would stop you. But there is no harm in trying."

Indeed, Olive made a good many efforts to induce Lucretia to leave off abstracting cakes and cheese from the table, and pickles from the storeroom, and to give a little more time to her books. In which she succeeded so far that Miss Monroe actually presented herself at the class with a perfect lesson thrice in one week, to the amazement of all who heard her, and passed three days without breaking a single rule.

We regret to be obliged to add, that the improvement was not permanent: Miss Monroe relapsed into her old habits in the course of a week or two, and at the end of the year, left school as great a dunce as she entered it. Her father, a sensible, plain man, who had never received any thing but a district-school education, felt very much disappointed at the small improvement made by his daughter, and was much disposed to lay the blame upon her own idleness and want of principle.

But his wife informed him that it was solely the fault of the teachers, who had not made study interesting to Lucretia. Miss Monroe had been allowed to study what she liked, and to leave off as soon as she came to a hard place. In this way, she had acquired a little music, a little drawing, and less French; and she had learned to spell correctly, and to express herself in tolerable English, because no scholar who had been at Mrs. Granger's two years could very well help it. But history, natural science, and general literature, had passed through her mind like water through a sieve, leaving her no wiser.

With her daughter's want of proficiency in drawing, Mrs. Monroe was really annoyed, especially as their neighbor, and Lucretia's old friend and playmate, Miss Thorn, who had taken lessons of a professor in the place, had been able to decorate her mother's back-parlor with a great number of showy drawings in colored chalks, after only a quarter's instruction. To be sure, Miss Thorn never could do any thing after she left off taking lessons. And when she attempted, at home, and without assistance, to copy a portrait of her father, no one could have told whether the object produced was intended for male or female. But the pictures done under the eye of Professor B. were much more brilliant than the portfolio of pen and ink studies and crayon drawings, which was all that Lucretia had to show; and, while being entirely her own workmanship, certainly displayed less skill than Miss Thorn's, which had all been "touched up" by the accommodating professor.

For many weeks, Abby's letters came regularly, and were very interesting, giving full and most graphic accounts of the various parties, concerts, etc., which she attended under the chaperonage of aunt Rebecca. And many a laugh did Olive and her friends have over her descriptions and pen and ink sketches of the people she met in company, and at her aunt's house.

Charlotte wrote sometimes, but not very often. She did not seem to enjoy going into the world as much as her cousin, and said she often wished herself back at Mrs. Granger's. She spoke frequently of the attentions Abby received, and the admiration excited by her musical talents.

After a time, Abby's letters grew shorter, and less frequent. She did not seem to be quite as contented, and spoke rather pettishly of the constant watchfulness of her aunt, who, she said, treated her as though she were a baby. At one time, she seemed to be the happiest person possible, and perhaps her next letter would be a commentary upon the Arabic song quoted by Dumas—"The earth is vanity, and all in it is misery." Such extremes had never been common with Abby, whose cheerfulness was usually a steady stream, subject neither to drought nor freshet.

Olive became quite uneasy, and began to long for the time to come when she should be at home again. One thing, however, comforted her. Mrs. Merton was not a very great letter writer, but she wrote to Olive three or four times in the course of the term, and in neither of her letters did she express any disapprobation of Abby, nor did she seem aware of any change in her spirits or temper. This was quite a consolation, for aunt Rebecca was tolerably clear-sighted, and Olive thought if any thing had been wrong in Abby's conduct, she would have been pretty apt to speak of it.

Still, she was very glad when the time came for her to go home. An excellent situation had been procured for her by the kindness of Mrs. Granger, whose good offices to her pupils extended far beyond their school-days. She was to take charge of the female department of a school in Pennsylvania, which had long maintained an excellent reputation. The salary was to be five hundred dollars, and as much more as she chose to make by music and drawing lessons. She was to have an assistant, if she wished it, and the entire control of matters in her own department rested with her.

At first, Olive shrunk from assuming so much responsibility, and almost wanted to decline, but Mrs. Granger was very anxious that she should secure the place, and her uncle and aunt, to whom the plan was communicated, approved it highly: so she was fain to accept, though with a good many misgivings. Once decided, however, the prospect seemed to brighten; she began to look upon Basswoods as her future home, and built some castles in the air (even the most practical people erect such edifices sometimes) upon the little round dot which represented that place upon the map of Pennsylvania.

Olive felt very sadly at leaving school for the last time. She had been there so long, that it seemed more like home to her than her uncle's house. She had never experienced any thing but kindness from Mrs. Granger, or any of her subordinates. With her pleasant little room in the third story were associated all the great experiences of her young life, since her mother's death. Here she had taken her first peep into the boundless wealth of foreign literature, written her first verses, and sketched her first cottage. Here, too, she had experienced her first deep religious feelings, and here she had found that pearl of great price, which is not far from every one of us, though we pass it by again and again, without seeing it.

Moreover, Olive had many warm, and some deeply-attached friends, among the school-girls. It is very much the fashion to sneer at school-girl attachments, and the author has heard a popular lecturer declare that there never had existed, and never could exist, any such thing as female friendship. Possibly, the gentleman was not very well read in Scripture history, for he might have remembered the story of Ruth and Naomi. We have known intimacies formed at school which have continued through many and severe changes, and one case, where a close correspondence was continued through thirty years, the parties meeting only twice or thrice during the time.

There is often in the friendship of two cultivated and religious young women a simplicity and truthfulness—a disinterested admiration of each other's good qualities, and an unfeigned rejoicing in each other's good fortune, which it is pleasant to look upon. As for the assertion that women can not endure to hear each other praised, we leave such shallow sneers to boys with their first tail-coats, and brainless young men, who have nothing manly about them but a budding moustache.