CHAPTER SIXTH.

OLIVE slept late the next morning, and when she awoke from a dream of home, she could hardly understand for a moment, where she was. It was some little time before she could arouse herself sufficiently to rise and put back the window-curtain. It was one of the softest mornings of early autumn. The window looked toward the east, across the not very wide valley in which the village lay, to a high, bold, rocky eminence, which bounded it on that side, while here and there she caught glimpses of the same sparkling and rapid stream, which they had seen so often the day before, now augmented to a considerable river. She could not see much of the village, though two or three large old-fashioned farmhouses were in sight around the edges of the valley.

She had finished dressing, and was standing at the open window enjoying the fresh air and the prospect, so different from any thing to which she had been accustomed, when a light tap was heard at the door and Ruth entered.

"I heard you stirring," she said, half-apologetically, "and came up to see if you wanted any help. We thought we would not wake you. I hope you feel rested?"

Ruth Felton had one of those faces which it is impossible to see without loving. She was far from handsome, being small and thin, with rather a sallow complexion, and no special pretensions to elegance or grace, but whenever she came into a room she seemed to bring sunshine with her. There was something in her expression so cheerful and bright, so thoroughly good and withal so earnest and full of helpfulness, that every one with whom she came in contact felt influence, and owned its power. She possessed moreover that not exceedingly common gift, a remarkably sweet voice; truly, an excellent thing in woman. Ruth was not young, and there were various signs and tokens about her which seemed to show that she was verging towards an old maid. Many people wondered why she had never married, but when questioned upon the subject, she always laughed her bright, cheery laugh, and said she never had had time.

"School begins to-morrow," said Ruth, as they went down-stairs together, "and I suppose you may expect a call from Mr. Prendergrass to-day."

"Who is Mr. Prendergrass?" asked Olive.

"Why, the principal of the Academy; is it possible you have had so little curiosity as not to ask the name of your associate?"

"I believe I have heard it before," replied Olive, coloring a little, "but I have had so many things to think of."

"Yes, I dare say," said Ruth. "But you will soon learn all about the things and the people with whom you have to do. I suppose you are ready for your breakfast?" she added, as they entered the dining-room.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked Olive, seeing only a small round table set by the window.

"Oh! Yes, two hours ago. We breakfast at half-past six in summer, and at seven in winter. I am afraid our hours will be too early for you."

"Oh! No; I was accustomed to early hours at school, but aunt Merton has spoiled me a little, since I have been at home. What a beautiful puss!" she continued, as the white cat she had seen the night before roused herself from a comfortable nap, and came gravely forward to pay her respects.

"I hope you like cats," said Ruth; "Jenny is a great pet, and to say the truth, a little spoiled. She is the descendant of a cat that my brother brought home from Bombay, and my mother values her on that account. But if you find her troublesome, you must drive her away."

Olive had no great fear of finding the pretty creature troublesome, for she loved pets of every description, and had more than once incurred aunt Rebecca's displeasure, by patronizing stray kittens and forlorn puppies.

Jenny was very ready to be taken up, and they were having a fine game at play, when Ruth entered with the breakfast, followed by Mrs. Felton with a work-basket.

"Ruth," said the latter, in a tone of mild remonstrance, which somehow made Olive feel nervous, "you shouldn't let that cat trouble Miss McHenry."

"She does not trouble me," said Olive; "I am very fond of cats."

"You are very kind to say so," returned Mrs. Felton, with an expression of gentle incredulity, "but a great many people don't like them, and I never want any thing belonging to me to be troublesome or intrusive. I never want to be myself. For that reason I did not go up to your room this morning. I felt that you would come down when you got ready, but Ruth thought differently."

Mrs. Felton never thought, she only felt; and she had no opinions, but only feelings.

Olive glanced at Ruth, expecting to see some signs of annoyance, but none were visible. She busied herself in setting the table in order. And inviting Olive to seat herself at it, she placed herself at the coffee-urn—a curious, little old-fashioned institution of plated ware with a gilded ivory pine-apple upon the top—and said grace in a very grave, unaffected manner. After which, she proceeded to pour out the coffee, Mrs. Felton murmuring away all the time, partly, as it seemed, to herself and partly to her companions.

"I suppose you rested well, Miss McHenry? At least, I hope you did."

"Oh! Yes," replied Olive, smiling; "only I slept rather too long. I am quite rested this morning."

"You are a good sleeper, I suppose. I am not," said the lady, as she threaded her needle. "I never get any sleep till towards morning, and yet it is very singular how Mr. Felton will always insist that I sleep all night. I am sure I don't know how he can tell, for he never wakes up from the time he goes to bed till he gets up again. I suppose you have never been away from home before?"

"Oh! Yes; I have been at school a great deal," replied Olive, "though to be sure, I have always had my sister and cousin with me." And she sighed for the tenth time as she thought of poor Abby.

"No doubt you will miss them very much," continued Mrs. Felton. "It is a sad thing to have none of one's relations near one. I have never seen any of mine since I was married. Indeed, I haven't any nearer than second cousins, for my mother was an only child and my father had but one brother, who died at sea. I fear you will be very lonely here after what you have been accustomed to."

"Come, mother," said Ruth, cheerfully, "you must not go to making Miss McHenry home-sick. I think she will find our village a very pleasant one, and we have plenty of agreeable people, you know. We must not discourage her at the outset."

"I don't mean to discourage her, of course," returned the lady in an injured tone. "I suppose she may like sympathy, though you don't."

Olive thought she did not either, if this was a specimen. To turn the conversation, she asked hastily: "Is the Academy far from here?"

"Only a little way," replied Ruth; "you can see it from the front-door. It is a very pleasant building, and well fitted up, though one of the oldest in the place. It was built before the war."

"How large is the school?" asked Olive.

"There are usually about fifty in the girls' department, and twice as many in the other. You will find them pleasant enough for the most part, though there are a few black sheep, of course."

"I am sure poor Miss Brown had trouble enough," remarked Mrs. Felton.

"It was her own fault, mother," said Ruth. "She would go round, talking about the girls out of school, and telling the whole village of every little unpleasant circumstance. It is almost as unfortunate for a teacher to gossip, as for a minister."

"Is Mr. Gregory in town now?" inquired Olive.

"He is," replied Ruth. "Do you know him?"

"He called upon me at Mrs. Granger's, with his wife," said Olive. "I was very much pleased with him."

"Almost every body likes Mr. Gregory," remarked Ruth, as she put the dishes together upon the tray.

"Why, yes, I suppose they do," said Mrs. Felton; "and I dare say he is a good man. But I must say, he has very little feeling, and does not understand my case at all. Would you believe it, Miss McHenry, when I told him how much I suffered from low spirits and dolts and all sorts of distressing feelings about myself, instead of sympathizing with me, he told me he thought I did not take exercise enough, and advised me to teach a class in Sunday-school. He said he did not think it was a good thing for people to be always studying over their own feelings. And when I went to see Mrs. Tower—she is his daughter—at the time her child died, and was asking her all about little Henrietta's sickness and death, and telling her of the loss of my own children, and saying every thing I could think of, to show my sympathy—he as good as told me to hold my tongue, and let her alone."

Olive did not wonder at it, but she said nothing in reply, and only observed that Mrs. Gregory seemed a very pleasant person. Mrs. Felton allowed that she was, but thought her very gay and frivolous for a person of her age. She was clearly of the opinion that there was "nothing so dainty sweet, as lovely melancholy," and no one was approved by her who had the heartlessness to be gay in this world's woes.

Olive began to feel that such a perpetual presence might become very wearisome after a while, and she wondered how Ruth could preserve her cheerfulness under it. But Ruth seemed to mind her mother's murmurs no more than she did the purring of the cat. She again came up to Olive's room to show her the shelves and drawers, of which there were a great abundance, and then left her to herself till dinner-time.

Olive was not very long in unpacking and arranging her matters, though she lingered a little over her books and drawing materials which were nicely accommodated in the book-case. A small portrait of her mother, copied by herself, from the large picture at Mr. Merton's, and one or two favorite landscapes, found very good lights upon the walls. The table held her work-box and the new desk very nicely.

As she opened the latter for the first time, her eye fell upon Mr. Merton's mysterious packet, which she had quite forgotten. She opened it, and found a very nice case, containing a handsome gold watch and chain, exactly such a one as he had presented to Charlotte on her birth-day, and two bright new twenty-dollar gold pieces, with a kind note, which, as it was very characteristic of the gentleman, we subjoin.

"You will want a watch, my dear, by which to regulate your hours, and I hope you will find this a good one. The gold pieces are to supply you with any little conveniences, of which you may feel the need. With regard to your course in your new home, I have but a few words of advice to give you. Mind your own business—never gossip nor let others gossip to you: do not be too set in your own way: have patience, but not mock patience: and look to God in all trials and difficulties."

Such was Mr. Merton's note, over which Olive shed a few tears. "Oh! If Abby would only be open with him," she thought, "how much misery it would save us all."

She did not dare permit her thoughts to dwell too long upon the subject, for she felt that she needed all her strength for what was before her. So she bathed her eyes, dressed herself neatly and becomingly, and had finished a letter to aunt Rebecca, and begun one to Abby, before the dinner-bell rung.

At dinner, she saw the hitherto invisible Mr. Felton—a mild, good-natured man, with a quiet, subdued manner. Olive thought his wife's sympathy must have affected him. He was cordial, and entered into conversation very readily, displaying considerable intelligence. They had hardly risen from the table, when Mr. and Mrs. Gregory were announced, and Olive entered the parlor to greet them, with a feeling that they were old friends.

Mr. Gregory was all kindness and cordiality. As Olive looked at him, she did not wonder at his not sympathizing very deeply in Mrs. Felton's troubles. He looked like a man who had passed through the furnace of affliction and come out unspoiled, but perhaps a little hardened by the fire. Suffering was written in every line of his face, but it was suffering past and gone.

Half an hour's conversation with him made Olive feel as though she had found a valuable friend. There was that about him which irresistibly attracted confidence, and she was almost startled, after he had gone, to find how freely she had expressed herself. Mrs. Gregory was a kindly, motherly woman, evidently proud of her husband, and enjoying full faith in his infallibility.

After they had gone, Mr. Jones came and brought his two daughters, pretty, shy girls of fourteen and sixteen, both evidently terribly afraid of the new school-mistress, who, on her part, was almost equally afraid of them, though she managed to conceal her trepidation. By some well-directed questions, she presently had them at their ease and talking quite fluently.

White Jenny opportunely walked into the room, suggesting a ready subject for conversation, and Phebe had grown quite eloquent in describing a Maltese cat that she had, and a terrier belonging to her brother, which slept, ate, and hunted rats together, when the door opened, and Ruth appeared, ushering in a tall gentleman, whom she introduced to Olive as Mr. Prendergrass.

The girls were hushed in a moment, and seemed as if looking around for some place of escape, while Olive rose in some confusion, and put down white Jenny, to greet her associate in the care of the youth of Basswoods.

Mr. Prendergrass was a tall man, very spare and upright. His iron-gray hair was arranged with mathematical precision, his whiskers ditto. He wore the neatest of black suits, and the neatest of black gloves, and his linen was got up to an extent that was quite alarming. There was a tradition current among the boys that he wore a tin shirt-bosom and collar, and had once nearly cut off one of his ears with the latter.

Mr. Prendergrass bowed a solemn bow, and then another, in reply to Olive's courtesy. Then he sat down, casting rather a nervous glance at white Jenny, who was amusing herself with the tassels of Miss Jones' parasol. "I am happy to see you, Miss McHenry," he said, in a tone as formal as the rest of his appearance. "I hope you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey?"

"Quite, thank you," said Olive, wishing she could think of something to add to it.

"Did you find your journey agreeable?" inquired Mr. Prendergrass again, precisely as though he was hearing a lesson.

"Very much so," replied Olive. "The route is very picturesque."

"Are not the mountains beautiful, Miss McHenry?" said Anna Jones, timidly, and coloring as she spoke.

"Extremely so to me, especially as they were the first I had ever seen. I longed to make sketches all the way."

"They are splendid in winter," said Anna, quite enthusiastically. "The pines look so grand, covered with snow, and the long icicles hanging from the rocks." She seemed quite frightened at having said so much, and relapsed into silence and stiffness again.

Mr. Prendergrass looked as though he thought mountains were frivolous things. Mr. Jones preserved a provoking taciturnity, and Olive was wondering what she ought to do or say next, when the youngest Miss Jones made a furtive poke with her parasol in the direction of the principal, accompanied by the least possible mischievous glance of her eye towards her sister.

Jenny sprang upon the parasol, and Mr. Prendergrass started.

"Do, do be pleased to dismiss that quadruped," he said, almost imploringly, to Miss Phebe. "Be quiet, cat, I entreat," he continued, as Jenny made another jump after the withdrawn parasol.

Olive caught up the offending animal, and carried her off, and Mr. Prendergrass appeared much relieved. "I have a great dislike to the feline race," he observed, reseating himself. "I believe it to be constitutional. My father was nearly killed by one—a panther, I mean," he added, looking resentfully at the young ladies, who betrayed some tendency to giggling.

Olive was much interested, and related several anecdotes of persons who were made ill, or otherwise unpleasantly affected by the presence of cats. Mr. Prendergrass unbent a little, and Olive was surprised to find that he could talk very well when he was not thinking of himself.

At last Mr. Jones proposed that they should step over to the academy. "I should like to have Miss McHenry's opinion of the arrangements in the girls' room," said he. "She may have some improvements to suggest."

"The rooms are exactly as they were arranged by the Reverend Mr. Snowden, sir!" said Mr. Prendergrass, solemnly.

"Very true, sir, but Miss McHenry may have ways of her own, you know."

Mr. Prendergrass looked as though the idea of Miss McHenry's having ways of her own was not agreeable to him, but he only bowed solemnly.

And the whole party proceeded to the academy.

It was a pretty, neat building, and Olive was surprised to see it looking so new and fresh, till she was informed that it had lately been put in complete repair. The date of 1775 still remained in iron letters upon each of the gables, and Mr. Jones pointed out, upon one of the windows, two or three bullet-marks which had been made in a skirmish with the Indians.

The upper school-room, appropriated to her use, was a very pleasant apartment, neatly fitted up with movable desks and chairs, set in rows across the room.

On being questioned, Olive admitted that she should prefer a different disposition. She thought it better that they should be arranged around the apartment, so that the girls might sit with their faces to the wall.

"Why, may I inquire, Miss McHenry, do you wish the 'young ladies' to assume such a position?" said Mr. Prendergrass, somewhat severely, and with an emphasis on the words "young ladies."

"I think that it is easier to overlook them, and there is less temptation to whispering," replied Olive, feeling quite alarmed at her own temerity. "But perhaps it is only because I am accustomed to such an arrangement that I prefer it."

"Very probably, ma'am. Many persons can only like what they are accustomed to."

"At the same time," interrupted Mr. Jones, "there is no reason whatever why Miss McHenry should not have the seats arranged in her own way. I will come over with the boys and make the alteration."

"My predecessor, the Rev. Mr. Snowden—" began Mr. Prendergrass.

"Was a very excellent man, sir, though rather too fond of the rod. But he has been dead at least fifteen years, and the school has gone on better without him than ever it did with him. Do you see any other alterations to suggest, Miss McHenry?"

Mr. Prendergrass looked on with lowering brows, while Olive went over the room, and seemed prepared to resign on the instant, if she should presume to recommend any other innovations. But she saw nothing else to change. She particularly admired the mat and commodious table and desk which had been provided for the teachers. It fortunately happened that this table and all its arrangements had been executed under the eye of Mr. Prendergrass himself, and from plans of his own. His eyebrows relaxed, and his manner grew more gracious, and by the time they had made the rounds of the boys' room, and he had discovered that Olive was a good Latin scholar, he was as amiable as possible.

At parting, Olive adverted to her own inexperience, and requested permission to apply to him in any emergency. Mr. Prendergrass was evidently highly flattered, and they parted on the best possible terms.

"He is a good creature, and really talented," said Mr. Jones, as they walked towards home, the girls having dropped behind, to communicate with some of their companions. "But you must hold your own with him. He is rather apt to be overbearing, and thinks every change from the customs of the Rev. Mr. Snowden must be wrong, of course."

"I am not sure, but that is better than thinking that every change must be an improvement," remarked Olive. "I am afraid he was very much offended about the desks."

"You need not distress yourself about that," replied her companion. "By next week, he will imagine the improvement to be his own. With all his faults, he is an excellent and conscientious man, and manages the school well. His great trouble is his overweening vanity, and his desire to have his own way. Every one laughs at him, but he seldom finds it out. If he does, he never forgives the laughter. I do not imagine you will have any trouble with him."

It was nearly tea-time when Olive returned home. She occupied her evening in finishing her letter to Abby, wherein she exerted all her eloquence to prevail upon her sister to take a right course. She sent a civil message to Mr. Forester, feeling that she owed him a little reparation for her plain speaking, and went to bed with an anxious yet a hopeful heart.

The next morning she was up before the sun. Never had she prayed with more fervor—never had the promises of Scripture been more full of comfort and encouragement to her. Her fears and tremors of the day before had almost vanished.

And when, after the school had been opened by prayers and singing in the large hall, she took her place upon her own estrade in the young ladies' room, it was with a degree of calmness and composure, that surprised herself. As she glanced over the assembled ranks of girls, all sitting demurely, with their hands before them, she thought her materials not unpromising. About half of the fifty were daughters of substantial people in the village, well-dressed pretty girls, all lady-like and proper; the rest were daughters of farmers in the neighboring country, who went home to help in the dairy and kitchen in summer, and attended school in the winter, often working for their board in some village family. As was to be expected, these were not all very polished, or dressed in the best taste, but many of them looked good and sensible.

The morning was spent in enrolling, examining, and classifying, looking over books, and ascertaining former progress. Olive wondered whether she should ever succeed in connecting their names with their faces, so as not to make perpetual mistakes—when she should distinguish Miss Julia Goodrich from Miss Sarah Goodrich, and both from the other Miss Goodrich, who was not related to them.

The girls appeared to have been tolerably well taught, so far as concerned book-learning, hitherto, but they were deficient in general knowledge, and those school-manners which she had been accustomed, under Mrs. Granger's vigilant eye, to consider as essential. They lounged on their desks, and in recitation they kicked their feet, bit their fingers, and played with their books. Olive saw a good many little things which needed reformation, but she was aware that all reform should be commenced with caution and gradually carried on.

In the afternoon, she organized a drawing-class, and this she found rather a difficult matter. A number of the girls had drawn a little: that is to say, they had copied a number of fancy castles and cottages, with their walls strikingly at variance with the recognized principles of gravitation, and shaded by trees, composed of a hard outline, filled up with little "M"s and "N"s; others had gone so far as to use colored chalks, and even to paint in oils. It had been a favorite maxim with the former drawing-master that in order to paint, it was not at all necessary to know how to draw, * and it may be imagined what sort of productions came out of the hands of his pupils.

* A literal fact.

Of course, all these young ladies had no mean opinion of their own abilities, and Olive foresaw that it would be a much more difficult matter to teach them than though they had never touched a pencil. She had herself been drilled through Chapman's inimitable method, with pen and ink, by an indefatigable and really scientific teacher. And she resolved, if possible, to pursue the same course with her own pupils, though she foresaw that some of them were likely enough to be restive under it. Accordingly, she sent Anna Jones to Mr. Prendergrass, for two or three quires of foolscap, and a box of steel-pens. The girls looked at each other with surprise, and the surprise increased, as she proceeded to lay before each half a dozen' sheets of ruled paper, and to distribute the pens.

Olive saw it, and smiled. "You will think my first lesson a simple one, young ladies," she said. "And yet I venture to say that not more than half of you will succeed at the first trial. It is only to draw a line from one side of the paper to the other, following the ruled line—so." She continued taking up a white chalk crayon, and drawing lines back and forth, from one side of the blackboard to the other.

The girls were mostly quite confident of success when they began, and there was a general laugh when upon examination not one of the attempts was found perfect. Olive was glad to see them take it so good-naturedly.

"You see," said she, "that it is not quite so easy as you thought. I do not know that I ever saw any one succeed at the first trial. It will require a great deal of patience, and some faith, for you to follow out this method, but I venture to promise, that you will never regret it."

"Can not we draw pictures at all?" asked Anna Jones.

"Certainly, my dear. I shall allow you to draw pictures every now and then, that you may judge of your own progress."

The girls seemed very very well-satisfied, and addressed themselves seriously to the work before them, with one exception. This was Miss Julia Goodrich.

Olive had discovered in the course of the day that this young lady was not wanting in self-conceit: she seemed to think that she knew enough already, and that it was something of a condescension for her to attend school at all. Olive foresaw that it would probably become necessary to set her down, but she did not expect the occasion would come quite so soon. Miss Julia was evidently offended at being put to such an exercise, and after three or four unsuccessful trials, she threw down her pen, and sat leaning on her elbow.

"Do not be discouraged, Miss Julia," said Olive kindly; "you will soon acquire a better method of holding your pen, and it will be easier for you."

"I am not discouraged," replied Miss Julia shortly.

"Then do not waste your time, as we have none too much to devote to drawing."

"I am not going to work at these things," said the young lady, pushing away the paper contemptuously. "I can draw well enough already, and only came into the class for practice. I want something pretty to do."

Miss Julia's manner was sufficiently insolent, and her tone, if possible, still more so. She had been the terror of two or three teachers, and, in fact, had ruled matters very much her own way. Olive's perfect good-breeding had awed her a little, but she was determined not to give up the victory without a struggle.

"What can you draw?" asked Olive, turning over her portfolio.

"Any thing," returned Julia, triumphantly, taking this mildness as a sign of yielding. She never was more mistaken in her life.

Olive left her portfolio open, and taking up a large white china inkstand, and sticking two or three pens into it, she set it on a book before her pupil, saying composedly, "Very well, draw that." And she turned again to her portfolio.

There was a subdued titter among the girls, which she was not very sorry to hear.

Julia looked annoyed and mortified. "Oh! I didn't mean 'that,'" she said. "Nobody could do such things as that."

"You are mistaken," said Olive, gently; "any body who has made much progress in drawing can do such things. But perhaps you would prefer a picture." And she placed before her an exquisite drawing of Powers' Proserpine which she had done from a cast while at school, and a delicately-finished landscape in pen and ink.

Worse and worse. The titter grew into a giggle, which Olive checked with a glance, and Julia's face grew redder and redder.

"I can't do them things," she said, sullenly.

"Those things," corrected Olive, still quite unruffled. "But I thought you said you could draw any thing."

"There isn't a girl in this school that could draw either of those pictures!" said Miss Goodrich, positively, but looking just ready to cry, from anger and mortification. "I know there ain't!"

"There are a great many in other schools, I assure you, and I presume most of those here would like to learn. But what can you do, then?"

Miss Goodrich produced from the depths of her portfolio a remarkable production, purporting to be a landscape, but so utterly out of any thing like perspective, as to be absolutely painful to the educated eye. Trees a mile distant were represented of the same color, and with the same minuteness, as those near at hand; while a lake, upon which was a boat about half a mile long, descended towards the foreground at an angle of forty-five degrees. This specimen of art she handed to Olive, but by no means so triumphantly as she had at first anticipated: she began to have a dawning perception that she had made herself very ridiculous.

Olive looked at it, making commendable efforts to keep the corners of her mouth in order. Then, taking a picture of about the same size and style from her own portfolio, she gently placed them side by side before her pupil.

Julia looked from one to the other: her face grew redder and redder, and her eyes filled with tears. She took up Olive's sketch and examined it. Then looked again at her own, and, at last quite overcome, she burst into tears and sobbed aloud.

Olive now really pitied the girl.

"You had better go out into the air a little, Julia," she said, kindly; "Laura, my dear, go with your sister."

The two left the room, and Olive, turning to the class, said, gravely: "I trust to your honor, girls, never to mention this little affair again, either to Julia or any one else. You will see the reason for what I say, if you think how you would like to be treated yourselves under such circumstances."

The girls looked at each other with some surprise, but with evident approbation, and Olive saw that, so far as they were concerned, she had gained a complete victory. But she felt rather anxious about the effect upon Julia. She was, however, soon set at rest.

"What did Miss McHenry say after I went out?" Julia asked of Anna Jones, in the short recess that Olive allowed them.

"She said we were not to say any thing about the matter, to you or any one else, because we would not like it ourselves," replied her friend.

Julia hesitated a moment, and then said:

"Anna, do you think I made a fool of myself?"

"I think you did," said the straightforward Anna; "and if I were you, I would tell Miss McHenry so, and ask her to overlook it. That will be the best way to make every one forget it."

Julia meditated a moment, and then marched straight up to the drawing-table, where Olive was standing, surrounded by all the older girls.

"Miss McHenry," she said, resolutely, but with a slight tremor in her voice. "Anna Jones says I made a fool of myself this afternoon—at least, I asked her if I didn't, and she said yes, and I am come to ask your pardon. I see that you are right, and that I don't know any thing about drawing. If you will let me come into the class again, I will do just what you want me to."

"I am very glad to hear you say so, my dear," said Olive, kissing her; "it is always an excellent sign, when a girl is ready to acknowledge that she has been in the wrong. I shall be very glad to teach you all I know, and I have no doubt that you will soon learn to draw very well."

Thus ended Olive's first contest in school, wherein, by the exercise of a great deal of forbearance, and a little ready wit, she put her opponent entirely in the wrong, and drew the sympathies of the whole school to herself. Julia was possessed of a great many good qualities, but she had been badly managed, both at home and in school. She was really very quick, and easily kept at the head of almost all her classes, and she had been put forward to think herself a good deal more talented than she was, by the injudicious praises of parents and teachers. Her strong will had never happened to have a stronger one opposed to it, and thus she had carried all before her. Olive foresaw a good many mortifications in store for her, but she hoped they would all end as well as the first had done.

School was dismissed at half-past four, and Olive walked a little way down the street, hoping that the fresh air would cool her hot forehead, and quiet its throbbing. But she soon became conscious that she was being stared at from almost every house that she passed, and turned back again. Ruth met her at the door.

"How tired you are," she said, kindly, "but you will soon get used to it. How did you get on?"

"Very well, I believe," said Olive, wearily, "but really I hardly know."

"You had better go up-stairs, and lie down till tea-time," said Ruth compassionately. "You will find it easier to-morrow, and still more so the next day, till by and by, you will hardly mind it at all."

Olive was very glad of the encouragement, and still more of the rest. She threw herself upon the lounge, and closed her eyes without thinking of slumber, but by degrees her thoughts mingled themselves confusedly together, and she slept soundly, till she was aroused by the tea-bell, and rose feeling quite herself again.

Mrs. Felton had prepared herself to sympathize with Olive's trials, and seemed quite provoked to think she had not had any. Mr. Felton inquired whether she had found the school pleasant, and on being answered in the affirmative, mildly remarked that some people found things agreeable, and others made them so, after which he finished his supper without another word, and then betook himself to his newspaper.

"There has been a piano sent here for you to-day," said Ruth as they adjourned to the parlor.

"A piano! From whom?" asked Olive, very much surprised.

"Mr. Gregory sent it," replied Ruth. "It is one that Augusta Tower had before she was married. Mr. Tower bought a much finer one for her, and when she went home to live, she took it with her. So as one was enough in the house, and you had none, they thought you might as well use this."

It was a plain but handsome instrument of good tone, and perfectly in tune. Olive was delighted. She was fond of music, and played very well, though she had not Abby's splendid talents, and she had sighed more than once over the prospect of being without a piano of her own.

"A good many people thought Mrs. Tower ought to have sold her handsome piano, after her husband died," said Mrs. Felton, in her sighing voice, "but she hardly sold any of her things. It looks rather singular to see the minister's parlor the handsomest furnished of any in town."

"I don't know why she should sell her things, mother," said Ruth. "They can not be in debt, and she had enough to support herself, though not as much as people generally thought she would have."

"Ruth never will allow that Mrs. Tower can do any thing wrong," said Mrs. Felton, appealing to Olive. "Even when, the third Sunday after her child died, she played the organ just as usual, Ruth defended that."

"We should not have had any music at all, if she had not, mother, and you know the Bishop was here. Augusta did not think she ought to give up all her duties because she was in affliction. I know she was blamed for going into Sunday-school so soon too, but I must say, I think she did right."

"But she is always doing such queer things," persisted Mrs. Felton. "Do you know, Miss McHenry, she was married on Tuesday morning, and she went to church the Sunday before, though the invitations were all out."

"I do not see any thing wrong in that," remarked Olive. "It seems to me that would be the very time I should want to go."

"Especially as it was the Communion," added Ruth.

"Well, my dear, very likely you are right and I am wrong. I always am, you know," said Mrs. Felton, in deeply resigned tones. "I only know, it would have been thought very strange when I was young, but people have improved since then, no doubt. I don't think I am quite a fool, however." And with these words, Mrs. Felton returned to the dining-room.

Ruth suppressed a sigh and asked Olive to play something.

"Mother thinks Augusta is very odd," she said, after a while, "but I hope you will like her. She goes out very little, but I think she will come and see you."

"Did I understand you that she was a widow?" asked Olive.

"Yes, her husband died five years ago—just two years after they were married. He was a cultivated, agreeable man, and was supposed to be very rich. But after his death, it was found that there was only about a thousand a year, for Augusta and her child. They lived rather expensively, I suppose, but they had no debts, and so Augusta kept most of their furniture and all her books and pictures. She furnished the Parsonage, which needed it very much, and she has lived at home ever since. Her child, a most lovely little creature, died last summer very suddenly. I was always fond of Augusta, when we were school-girls. But since her widowhood, I have loved her more dearly than ever."

"Is she an only child?" asked Olive.

Something passed across Ruth's face, like a sudden gust of wind across a still piece of water, but almost before it could be noticed, it was gone.

"She had one brother, but he is dead," she said quietly.

At this moment, the door-bell rang, and a Mrs. Dennison entered. She was a pretty, matronly woman, one of those "mothers in Israel," a certain proportion of whom are to be found in almost every church, efficient helps to the minister, faithful in their own families, and ready to lend a helping hand to every good work, but so quiet and undemonstrative that they are hardly appreciated till they are dead and gone. And then every one says on every occasion when assistance is needed: "How we do miss Mrs. Dennison!" She had come to call upon Miss McHenry, and invite her to the sewing society next day, at her house.

Ruth advised Olive to go.

"You will find yourself a little stared at, perhaps, but the meetings are very pleasant, and it is a good way to become acquainted with the people."

"I never attended a society in my life," said Olive. "There was none connected with our church, and I believe aunt Rebecca had a prejudice against them. She thought they promoted scandal."

"If scandal-loving people meet together, they will be likely enough to talk scandal," replied Ruth, "whether it be at a society or a party. But it has never been my fate to hear very much of it at society. I suppose they may be different in different places. Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Gregory have been at the head of ours for a good many years, till the latter resigned in favor of Augusta, and they are neither of them people likely to encourage gossip. But I leave you to judge for yourself."

Other callers came in, and Olive was introduced to several ladies and gentlemen, all well-bred, pleasant people. And when at rather an early hour, she laid her head on her pillow, it was with a very pleasant feeling of encouragement and thankfulness that the lines had fallen to her in such pleasant places. If she could have forgotten her great anxiety about Abby, she would have been quite happy.