CHAPTER SEVENTH.

IT was an old custom for school to be out on Friday afternoons at half-past three. Olive dressed for the society before she went to school, and Ruth was to call for her on her way. The two days since Wednesday had passed without any thing particular to mark them, except that one or two new scholars had entered.

The girls, for the most part, were quiet, orderly, and studious, and very ready to attend to her hints with regard to sitting, speaking, and standing. Julia, especially, was quiet and meek to a degree that astonished all her companions, and seemed particularly to delight her sister, a meek, gentle, little thing, over whom she was rather given to tyrannizing. She took so much pains with her ruled lines that she was advanced to the next step in Chapman without delay, and Olive promised her that after three or four more lessons, she should have something really pretty to do.

As Olive entered the dressing-room, she found one of the girls, named Melissa Tucker, waiting to speak to her. She was a pale-faced, pale-haired girl, with eyes of no particular color, and a disagreeable drawl to her speech.

"What is it, Melissa?" asked Olive.

"I think it my duty, Miss McHenry," said Melissa, solemnly, "to tell you that I saw Jane Ramsdell and Phebe Jones whispering twice this morning, and once yesterday."

"Indeed," said Olive, proceeding to take off her bonnet, without manifesting any vital interest in the intelligence.

"Miss Brown used to call them up and reprove them before the whole school, when they did so," persisted Miss Tucker, after waiting in vain for the commendation which she expected. Olive took no notice.

"They whisper a great deal. I often see them, and I shall think it my duty to tell you, Miss McHenry, every time the girls do any thing wrong. Miss Brown used to say she was very much obliged to me for doing so."

"I am not of Miss Brown's opinion," said Olive. "I do not want any one coming to me with stories of what the girls do. Any mischief which I can not see, I am willing to pass over. You would not have been very well pleased, I venture to say, Melissa, if Phebe had told me, this morning, when you were reading that story in school-time, though you knew very well that it was contrary to rules."

Melissa looked confounded.

"I saw you at the time," Olive continued, "but I did not see fit to notice it then. I beg, however, that you will remember the circumstance, when you give in your report to-night; and please to remember, also, that I will have no tale-bearers about me. You may have thought it your duty, as you say, to come and tell me, but as you see I do not wish you to do so again, it will be your duty in future to avoid it."

Melissa followed her teacher into the school-room with as much anger in her heart as could well dwell there, and she mentally resolved to be revenged before many hours. The consternation was great, when before the calling of the merit-roll, Olive rose and said:

"I have been told that one or two of the girls whispered this morning. I was sorry to hear it, and I hope, if it is true, that they will answer accordingly, and be careful not to offend again. I suppose you would all like to know who informed me." She paused, and a murmur of mingled expectation and indignation ran round the room. "I shall not tell you," she resumed, "nor in any way point out the offender. I presume she did what she thought was right. But once for all, I wish to say that I do not want any one coming to me with stories. I am tolerably clear-sighted myself, and moreover I trust to your honor not to try to deceive me. I hope I am safe in so doing," she said, looking round the room.

Every hand was raised in token of assent. "If you know of any large girl, tyrannizing over and tormenting a little one, and can not stop her yourselves, or if you find out that any one in the school is plotting to set the house or the river on fire, you may come and tell me, but I do not wish to hear of any thing else. Now we will let the matter drop."

She began to call the roll, and when she came to the name of Phebe Jones, Phebe answered with spirit:

"Yes, Miss McHenry, and I should have answered so, if you had not been told. I wanted very much to know where the lesson was, and you were busy with the new scholars, so I asked Jane Ramsdell. She did not hear the first time, and I asked her again."

"If that was all, Phebe, and I presume it was if you say so, I will excuse it this time," replied Olive. "But remember hereafter, I would rather you should wait a little than break a rule."

Ruth now entered—basket in hand, and the girls all rose—another ancient usage at the entrance of a stranger, which pleased Olive very much. "Don't you think that a very pretty custom?" she said to Ruth, as, school being dismissed, they walked towards Mrs. Dennison's.

"Very," replied Ruth, "and it has the sanction of antiquity with us. One of the teachers not long ago, tried to abolish it on the ground that it looked old-fashioned, but the boys and girls stood out so stoutly for it that she was forced to give it up. I do not think myself that there is any great danger, at the present time, of young people's being too deferential to their elders."

When they arrived at Mrs. Dennison's, they found the room quite full, and all eyes were turned towards the new-comers. Olive felt her color rise a little, but she bore the battery of glances very well, and after speaking to Mrs. Dennison, who came forward to meet her, she followed her companion towards the centre-table, where sat the principal officers of the society, cutting out and arranging work, and marking patterns.

They seemed to have their hands very full indeed. One of them was Mrs. Dennison herself, and the other a lady in the deepest mourning, whom Olive knew at once must be Ruth's friend, Mrs. Augusta Tower. Olive thought she had seldom seen a more lovely woman.

Mrs. Tower was small and somewhat slight, with an exquisitely fair complexion, and a bloom as delicate as an infant's. Her eyes were large and well shaped, but their color was not so easily decided. Olive thought them like deep rills. All the features were clearly cut, and the eyebrows, especially, though not heavy, were remarkably well defined, not arched, but level, and turning a little down at the outer corner. Her soft brown hair was plainly dressed, under a widow's tucked crape cap of the simplest form. A chain and cross of beautiful brown hair were her only ornaments.

"Some work?" she said, in answer to Ruth's inquiries. "Oh! Yes, as soon as I finish this pattern: but we are really overburdened to-day, so much has been ordered."

"Can not I do that?" asked Olive. "I have a good deal of experience in drawing patterns."

Mrs. Tower gladly accepted the offer, and made a vacant space at the overloaded table, where Olive found herself employed most of the time till dark, in tracing scollops, wheels, eyelets, etc. Ruth sat near her, engaged on a child's cambric apron. There was a buzz of conversation in the room, now and then enlivened by a hearty laugh from some of the younger ladies.

It was really a very pretty sight. The parlors were large and neatly furnished, though in rather old-fashioned style, and opened together by folding doors. The back-room where there was a fire, seemed to have been taken possession of by the elderly ladies, half a dozen of whom were congregated around the windows, knitting and netting, and talking in subdued tones. Their conversation was not, perhaps, very deep or learned, but it was wholly kindly and good, and many times there dropped from the lips of these mothers in Israel, sentiments of wisdom and experience which many a learned man might lay to heart, and be the better for—yes, even that deeply-learned gentleman who lately declared in a lecture that no woman had ever added any thing to the sum of human intelligence.

Several of these ladies were mothers and grandmothers of some of Olive's pupils, and came forward to speak to her, and she felt herself strengthened and encouraged by their kindly greetings. In the front-room were the younger part of the company, young married ladies with their sisters and cousins, numbering, like all assemblies of American women, a large proportion of pretty faces, clear, straightforward, intelligent eyes, and thoughtful brows.

The murmur of talk, which had stopped for a little at Olive's entrance, soon began again, and Olive could not help fancying that she herself was sometimes the subject of conversation. She felt that if so, it was no more than natural, and strove not to feel any embarrassment. Two ladies near her, were talking about the Sunday-school. She listened with interest, and at last ventured to ask a question.

"Are you interested in Sunday-schools?" asked the elder of the ladies, after replying to the interrogatory.

"Very much theoretically, but practically, I know little about them. I have never taught at all."

"We shall be very glad of your assistance in our school," continued Mrs. Sands; "for teachers are not too numerous among us. But perhaps you are sufficiently burdened already."

"I have hardly tried it long enough to know," was Olive's rather embarrassed reply. "I shall be able to tell better after a few weeks."

"I hope you feel the importance of the trust committed to you, Miss McHenry," said the other lady, whom she now thought must be Melissa Tucker's mother. "It is a solemn responsibility."

"It is, indeed," said Olive, hardly knowing what to say.

"You must be sometimes quite weighed down with the awful account you will have to give of your labors."

"I try not to be weighed down," said Olive. "Do you not think it is possible to take too much responsibility upon one's self? After all, in this, as in many other things, we can only do our best, with all the light we can get, and leave the event to God." Olive spoke with some effort, and a slight blush.

But looking up, she met Mrs. Tower's deep eyes raised to hers, with a sudden flash as it were, of approbation, and Mrs. Dennison too smiled an assent. Mrs. Tucker, however, looked doubtful, and a little annoyed.

"That doctrine gives great encouragement to carelessness," she said.

"I do not see how," Mrs. Tower replied. "Because, if we take ever so much responsibility, we can really do nothing without the will of God, you know."

"I think there is great comfort in the idea, too, that all the responsibility does not rest with us," remarked Mrs. Dennison, in her subdued voice. "I know, after my little Sammy died, I used to go over and over all his sickness, and say to myself, if this had been done, or if that had been tried, perhaps he might have lived, though I really knew, all the time, that every thing had been done that could be. But by and by it came to me, as it were, that after all, as you say, Miss McHenry, the event was in the hands of One that could not do wrong, or make a mistake, and then I felt quite reconciled."

Mrs. Tower bent over her work, and Olive heard a suppressed sigh.

"Then you think, I suppose," said Mrs. Tucker, sharply, "that you may be just as giddy and careless as you please, and let every thing go, because God can bring it out right in the end."

"That is hardly a fair construction, Mrs. Tucker," said Ruth, who had hitherto sat silent. "Miss McHenry said we were to do our best, and leave the event to God. That is, surely, a very different thing from being careless and giddy."

Mrs. Tucker said something about hair-splitting which Olive did not exactly catch, and she was not sorry when the entrance of half a dozen of the school-girls occasioned something of a move and interrupted the conversation.

Julia Goodrich, the leader in every thing, came up and asked for work—something easy, of course, for never was young girl at sewing society known to ask for any thing else. The rest soon gathered round, and at last came Melissa Tucker, with a countenance of melancholy, and rather an elaborate appearance of having been crying. Mrs. Tucker charged her with it at once, and with a faint smile, Melissa owned the soft impeachment.

"You are so quick-sighted, dear aunt," she said, in her drawling tones.

Olive was surprised, for the remarkable similarity in looks and tones had led her to think that they were mother and daughter.

"What has been the matter with you? I insist upon knowing," said Mrs. Tucker, with emphasis, and looking daggers at all the other girls.

"Nothing of much consequence," replied Melissa, mournfully, threading her needle.

"Have your feelings been hurt, Melissa?" with still more emphasis.

"I confess they have been deeply wounded, dear aunt, but I must submit. I know submission is our duty under trials. We must take it meekly when we are misunderstood and cruelly treated." And again she sighed deeply, with a significant glance at Olive.

But Olive was earnestly engaged in comparing the pattern she was drawing with one which a lady was working, and this speech was lost upon her.

Mrs. Tucker, however, followed the glance, and saw where it rested. She liked a scene, especially when she was able to take a prominent part, and she determined to get one up.

"Melissa," she said, solemnly, and in tones which drew upon her the attention of all in her neighborhood, "I will know what you have been crying about, and who has injured your feelings. I know very well how forgiving you are, and I won't have you trampled upon by any one. No one, whether teacher or any one else, need think she is going to tyrannize over you, because you are timid and retiring. Tell me at once."

Olive could not help hearing and understanding this, and she was beginning to feel painfully embarrassed as to what she ought to do, when she was unexpectedly relieved.

"Yes, Melissa, out with it," said a rich, manly, and somewhat jovial voice behind her. "Let us hear who it is that has sent you to the society, like a Niobe on private exhibition, with your eyes and nose as red as a beet. Let us hear the doleful tale."

Olive looked round with a feeling of inexpressible relief, to recognize her friend, Mr. Jones, who had come in with Mr. Gregory, in time to hear Mrs. Tucker's speech.

The young lady darted a wrathful glance at the unsentimental interlocutor and said, in soft tones, which, however, trembled with rage:

"You always will have your joke, dear uncle, but I don't mind it."

"I don't know why you should; you are used to it by this time, one would think. But you look at Miss McHenry as though you wanted to bite her. What has she done to you—shut you up in a closet or put a fool's cap on you, eh?"

"Not quite so bad as that," said Olive, laughing. "I never resort to extreme measures, except in extreme cases, and should hardly venture to proceed so far without a warrant from the trustees."

"Oh! Don't think to shift the responsibility upon us," replied Mr. Jones. "The only use of trustees in a school is to pay salaries and keep the building in repair."

"If you want any one locked up, you must put a lock upon the closet," said Julia Goodrich. "The lock has been broken ever since I can remember."

Mr. Jones promised to have the matter attended to at once, and professed his intention to provide a fool's cap at his own expense.

Mrs. Tucker and Melissa seemed to give up all idea of a scene as soon as he appeared, but they were silent and sulky.

And Olive was glad when a call to tea gave her an opportunity of changing her position. The tea-table, as usual upon such occasions, was bountifully spread, and to Olive's city eyes looked overloaded with its pyramids of hot biscuits and cold bread, and its baskets and plates of cake, cookies, crullers, etc. But she was very hungry, and she was glad to see every one make a business of eating. Three or four of the young ladies waited on the company, and every thing was accomplished with ease, and with no more confusion than served to provoke the smiles and laughter of the girls themselves, and the good humored raillery of Mr. Jones and Mr. Gregory.

As they left the supper-room, Mrs. Dennison managed to say to Olive:

"You must not mind Mrs. Tucker: we all know she is queer, but I think she is rather a well-meaning woman. As for Melissa, she is an affected little humbug, and always was, from the time she could talk. I dare say you served her right."

"I did nothing to her except to let her alone," said Olive.

"I presume not, and you need not fear that any one will blame you. She is pretty well-known by every one but her aunt, who thinks her a suffering angel."

Olive's mind was quite relieved, but she could not quite get over the unpleasant impression she had received.

Mr. Jones came up to her, as she was standing a little apart, and said the same thing as Mrs. Dennison, adding: "I suppose Melissa came to you with some of her stories, and you told her to hold her tongue. I am glad, if you did, for she bids fair to become the pest of the village, if she is not broken of this love of tale-bearing. The last teacher, Miss Brown, encouraged her in it, and more than half her trouble grew out of that very thing. Don't let it disturb you any more."

Olive did not mean to let it disturb her, but she could not help thinking of it a good many times afterwards.

A number of gentlemen, married and single, dropped in, in the course of the evening, and she was introduced to more people than she had any hope of remembering. For the most part, they were well-mannered, sensible men, and Olive liked them very well, except two or three of the younger ones, who, in trying to make fine gentlemen of themselves, had quite spoiled the original material, without succeeding in manufacturing any thing like a presentable article. They all appeared to be rather shy of her, and from some whispers which she overheard, she fancied that she was considered a very learned lady.

A Mr. Landon, to whom she was introduced by Mrs. Tower, and with whom she had some conversation, struck her as being a very intelligent person. He seemed quite young, not more than three or four and twenty, Olive judged. But he had very manly, serious manners, and showed no lack of cultivation. He was tall and stout, but not particularly handsome, though he had fine eyes, and an exceedingly firm, well-cut mouth, and his face, usually grave and somewhat stern in its expression, flashed now and then with a smile which was quite remarkable for its suddenness and brilliancy. He was evidently a great favorite with Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, with whom he had a long talk in the course of the evening.

"How do you like our society?" asked Mrs. Tower of Olive, as they were walking homeward under the convoy of Mr. Landon.

"That is hardly a fair question, Mrs. Tower," said Mr. Landon, anticipating Olive's reply, "since even if Miss McHenry does not like it, she can hardly in politeness say so to the president of the said society."

"Please to let Miss McHenry answer for herself: How do you like our society?"

"Very much, I can sincerely say," replied Olive, warmly. "If this is a specimen, I think they must be a public benefit."

"My father will tell you that he finds a great advantage in seeing his flock together once a fortnight in a sociable way," said Augusta. "And they offer another in another in affording a common ground upon which all the members of the church can meet each other; for even in a village like this, distinctions are apt to grow up. There are two or three families here, who will never come, and who have even tried to break up the meetings, but they do not exactly like to set their influence openly against my father's wishes. I am sorry they do so, for they are really pleasant people."

"I think one family will come around yet," remarked Mr. Landon. "The Vander Heydens have shown signs of relenting lately."

"And if they do, the Rusts will be sure to follow," said Ruth. "Anne Rust would be certain to do whatever Mrs. Vander Heyden did."

Mrs. Tower promised to come and see Olive very soon, and Mr. Landon expressed an intention of availing himself of her protection to pay his respects, and so they separated.

"You were not at the society last night," said Olive to Mr. Prendergrass, as they met in the hall next morning before school.

Mr. Prendergrass looked amazed at the very idea.

"No ma'am! I can not afford to spend my time so. Life is too precious to be wasted in visiting such assemblies. Is it possible, Miss McHenry, that you, with your cultivation and learning, can find enjoyment in such scenes?"

"Do you think the effect of cultivation ought to be to make us avoid intercourse with our fellow creatures, Mr. Prendergrass?"

"Really, ma'am, I can not say," replied the gentleman; "I do not know that I ever thought of it in that light. I have always considered it a waste of time to spend it in frivolous conversation and gayety."

"But gayety need not always be frivolous," said Olive, "and a little of it is very refreshing after a day of hard labor; at least, I find it so. Don't you think your health might be better if you allowed yourself a little more relaxation?"

"I do not know. Perhaps it might. I am obliged to you for the suggestion, Miss McHenry. I shall take it into consideration," he said, with his formal bow.

Olive felt as though she had gained quite a victory.

It is not our intention to give a detailed account of Olive's progress in school-teaching. Suffice it to say that she found her tasks growing easier, and herself gaining upon the confidence of her scholars, day by day. She had once or twice, a little trouble with Julia Goodrich, whose habits of domineering over her sister and of thinking herself wiser than any one else in the world were not to be overcome all at once.

But Julia was affectionate, truthful, and capable of thorough respect. And after a little time, she found a pleasure in looking up to one so decidedly her superior, as she was forced to confess Olive to be. Little Sarah felt that the change in her sister was a very pleasant one, and Julia began to be a great favorite with her companions.

Not so Melissa Tucker. That astute young lady, in calculating on the fine scene which she proposed to get up at the society, had quite forgotten that in so doing she was pointing herself out to her companions as the very person who had been the tale-bearer. She had been suspected before, and upon her entrance into the school-room the next morning, she was greeted by a peal of laughter, and many allusions more or less covert to her having carried her wares to an unprofitable market, etc., which did not fail to enrage her to the highest degree. At first she thought to gain sympathy by weeping, but being kindly but peremptorily desired to stop crying and learn her lessons, she gave that up, and took refuge in the most inveterate sullenness, which Olive did not notice at all.

It was almost two weeks before she received a letter from Abby, though Mrs. Merton and Charlotte had both written only a few days after her departure. Abby's letter was rather short and constrained, and she made no allusion to what Olive had urged upon her; only she mentioned that her uncle had returned, and said that Mr. Forester was going to M., and would be away for some time.

Mrs. Merton evidently had no suspicion of what was going on. She spoke of Abby with much affection, and though she mentioned that the child was somewhat low-spirited, she evidently ascribed it all to Olive's departure.

"I had no idea," she wrote, "that Abby could feel any one thing so long and so deeply."

Olive felt sick at heart when she thought of the time when her uncle and aunt should discover how shamefully they had been deceived. In a second letter written soon after the first, Charlotte said that Mr. Forester had really gone to establish himself in M., and expressed her pleasure thereat.

"He is forever coming here, and it annoys my father very much, for he has not a good opinion of the young man, as you know very well. Abby, poor child, really pines after you. I do not think she has slidden down the banisters more than twice since you went away, and she hardly ever sings about the house as she used to. I am trying to study Greek, and by dint of stubborn perseverance, really make out very well. But after all, it does not seem to satisfy me. I want some object more than the mere acquisition of knowledge."

In another letter, some time after, she wrote:

"Abby has taken to corresponding violently with those Miss Jennings from M. You will remember them. I never used to think she cared for them, but she seems to find great comfort in their letters."

"The Miss Jennings of M.! Why, they left M. long ago," said Olive to herself.

But upon a moment's reflection, the truth flashed upon her. It was a plan contrived between Abby and William Forester to conceal their correspondence. Deception upon deception! And she almost felt as though she were participating in it by being in the secret. Again with all the powers of her eloquence, she urged Abby to tell all, representing to her the inevitable consequence of the course she was pursuing.

Abby's answer was short and decisive.

"It is too late now. I wish with all my heart that the matter had never been carried so far—that is, the concealment, for of my engagement I shall never repent. But now it is too late. William will not tell uncle, and I dare not. I must abide the issue; and after all, I hope it will turn out well. Do not fret about me, dear Olive; I am sure shall be quite happy in the end. Enjoy yourself in your new path, and leave me to mine."

What should she do? The more she thought, the more unable she was to come to a decision.

Mrs. Felton, who was a keen observer of faces, remarked to Ruth that Miss McHenry's letters did not seem to do her much good; for she always looked sad after every one that she received. Ruth had observed the same thing, and wondered at it, but she was possessed of too much delicacy to say a word.

Between Olive, Ruth, and Augusta Tower there had grown up a very earnest and thorough friendship, and Olive often wished for Helen Monteith, between whom and the upright and downright Ruth, she often noticed a resemblance.

Ruth was not at all accomplished, except that she had learned French by herself, at odd times, as she said. But she had read and re-read all the best English books in Mr. Gregory's library, and was almost as familiar as himself with the writing of those great fathers of the Church, whose voices find echoes in the hearts of all Christians, and will find them to the end of time. She had studied a great deal of history, too, and could give date and place to all the great events of the world, a thing which Augusta meekly confessed her inability to do.

"I remember 1492," she was wont to say, "and 1649, and 1776, and I remember 1689, but I never can tell what happened then." To which Ruth was sure to reply, "The English Revolution, you goose."

Ruth had read a great deal of poetry too, but it was chiefly among what are called the English classics. And many a lively discussion did she have with Olive and Augusta concerning the merits of ancient and modern English verse, wherein the "Morte d'Arthur" was arrayed against "Alexander's Feast," and "In Memoriam" against "Lycidas," and even—frightful to relate—The "Drama of Exile" against "Paradise Lost." They always came together, however, on Spenser—dear, religious, chivalrous, pure-minded Spenser—and the beloved and quaint George Herbert, dear to every earnest heart that ever found him out.

Mrs. Gregory sat by with her knitting or sewing, kindly smiling upon the earnest disputants, and now and then putting in a plea in favor of Cowper's "Task," Young's "Night Thoughts," and Thomson's "Seasons."

Augusta Tower was as different as possible from Ruth. In the first place, her personal beauty was very remarkable, but of this she appeared to have very little consciousness. She was very accomplished, drawing beautifully, playing and singing as well as Abby herself, and having a very general acquaintance with all sorts of books. She loved music, and practised a great deal, at which Mrs. Felton wondered greatly, thinking that a widow ought not to care for such things.

"You are very happy in loving music so well, I am sure, Mrs. Tower," she said, one evening, after Augusta and Olive had been playing a brilliant duet together. "If I should lose my husband, I am certain I should never care for any of the amusements of the world again. Indeed, I don't now. I have renounced all such things."

It was difficult to see how Mrs. Felton could have renounced music, inasmuch as she had never known one note from another. Augusta made no reply to her, but she afterwards said to Olive: "Do you, too, think it very strange that I should keep up my music?"

"No," replied Olive; "I am extremely glad you do."

"I never played very well till after I was married," she continued, "but Mr. Tower was extremely fond of music, and to please him, I set to work in earnest to make myself a good performer. It is from the same feeling that I keep it up now. It 'was' hard, at first, but I persevered, and I find my reward. Then, too, it gratifies my father, and I often win him to an hour or two of the rest he so much needs, by playing and singing to him."

But after all, the great and surpassing charm of Augusta's character was her piety. It enveloped her like a golden halo, and every one who approached her felt its influence. Not that she ever put forth any claims to superior sanctity, for she felt none. But it was impossible to talk to her for fifteen minutes without knowing that love to God was the crowning motive of her life, and influenced all she said and did. Those who were favored with an intimacy with her felt themselves elevated and ennobled by the influence of it, and better prepared to meet the storms and waves of this troublesome-world.

At a sick-bed, in the house of mourning, peace and consolation followed her steps like attendant angels, and those who suffered and wept felt the influence of her presence. In the Sunday-school, she was almost worshipped by the class of girls that she taught, and the worst child in the room was ashamed to be naughty under the gentle sorrow of her eye. Augusta had never been gay, in the ordinary society acceptation of the word. She felt that she could not be so, and keep wholly unsullied the white robe of her discipleship; and even when exposed to great temptations during her short married life, she had steadfastly adhered to her resolution of avoiding dissipation, large parties, and late hours. Happily for her, Mr. Tower was, in most things, like-minded with herself. He was one of the excellent of the earth; and when he was taken from her, after three short years, she was able to be thankful, amid all her desolation, that she had loved such a man.

Ruth's piety, though perhaps as fervent, was of a different cast. She had much more to contend with in herself, being naturally hasty in temper and speech, and prone to dwell upon and magnify injuries and griefs. Augusta's faith had been implanted and nourished in her earliest years by the most religious and consistent of parents, and had grown with her growth and strengthened with her strength, while Ruth's had only arrived through the medium of bitter and aching sorrow.

Very, very hard was it for her to bring every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ—to rule rebellious feelings and bitter murmurings, and to guard the hasty tongue—long and long before she tasted, save at very rare intervals, the exceeding great joy of loving God in all and before all, and trusting all things great and small, to him. Thus her religion had a certain vein of sternness in it, which did not at all belong to Augusta's; and this continued even after she had found happiness—real happiness, as well as peace in believing. Though kind and sympathizing in real sorrow, she had, in general, but little patience with weak complaints and fretful murmurs, and oftentimes it was hard for her to bear her mother's continual low spirits and repinings, like a continual dropping in a very rainy day. Duty, with Ruth, was all in all. I can because I ought, was her motto, and well she carried it out.

She was not so universally admired as Augusta, but she had a great many warm friends, especially since she had learned to rule her tongue. She was invaluable as a member of the church, the society, and the Sunday-school, and it was her own fault if she was not married. Certain it is that more than one farm, besides a flourishing law business, had been laid at her feet, but she rejected them all—some kindly, some sharply, according to the degree of assurance manifested by the profferers, and continued to live on quietly with her mother.

With two such friends, Olive might have been very happy, if she had had no outside disturbing cause. She liked the place and the people, who, on their part, were all very kind to her, calling upon her, and inviting her to more tea-drinkings and parties than she knew what to do with. Late hours, happily, were not the fashion in Basswoods, and though some of these reunions were rather stiff, others were pleasant enough to make up. For Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Jones she formed a warm attachment. They were not very cultivated women, but they were truthful, warm-hearted, and Christian, and besides, they liked her. Mrs. Tucker was not to be brought round. She continued sullen and distant, but luckily, she and her amiable niece had but little influence. Mr. Prendergrass, distant and grim at first, had evidently been won over. He lent her his books, of which he had a choice collection, he came to see her oftener than she cared to have him, and always seemed perfectly happy while listening to her playing. Nay, he astonished the small world of Basswoods by making his appearance at sewing society, and though he did nothing the whole time but stand bolt upright in a corner, he professed to have passed a very pleasant evening.

Mrs. Felton's mind was very much exercised to know whether the Vander Heydens would come to call on Miss McHenry, and opined that it would be downright shameful if they did not. Miss McHenry cared very little indeed about the matter. She had been upon terms of intimacy with a great deal grander people than the Vander Heydens, and she did not think they looked particularly agreeable as she had seen them in church. They came, however, and Mrs. Felton's heart was set at rest.

Olive thought Miss Vander Heyden a pretty, rather affected girl, and her mother a nice sort of person. But she could not imagine upon what they founded their claims to extra gentility, till she found that they prided themselves upon the fact of their family's having lived in the same place since the old French war. They invited her to tea to meet Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, and she called once afterwards, and then the intercourse ended. She sometimes heard of them from Mr. Landon, whom she saw frequently, and who was distantly connected.

Mr. Landon had become rather a frequent visitor at Mrs. Felton's, and Olive was getting to like him very much. He was a grave, serious, hard-working man—so different from William Forester! Mr. Landon had not very long ago finished the study of law, and was succeeding to what promised to be a very lucrative practice in Basswoods, which was the county-town of E. He had begun to be noted as a speaker already, and older lawyers treated his opinions with respect, and pronounced him a rising young man. He loved his profession, he himself said, better than any thing else in the world, except his sister, a nice little girl of nine, who had been a great favorite with Olive from the first. They were orphans, and each possessed of a comfortable fortune.

"I wonder you work so hard, Walter, when you and Louisa have plenty enough to live upon," said Annette Vander Heyden to him, one day. "Why don't you spend more time in company, and in indulging your taste for music and drawing?"

"Because I want to be some body, Annette," returned Mr. Landon. "What is a man worth that spends his time in amusing himself?"

"You are too ambitious," said Annette, gravely. "What would become of you if you were to lose your eyesight, or your voice, so that you could not practise?"

"I should find something else to do, I suppose," was the reply. "I do not believe I shall ever be placed anywhere where there will not be work for me. Ambitious as you think me, and as I know I am, law is not the first thing with me, though I confess it is next to the first."

Between Walter Landon and Olive there grew up, by degrees, a very warm and intimate friendship—friendship they called it, and neither of them dreamed of any thing else. Ruth and Augusta used to speculate, sometimes, upon this intimacy, and wondered whether it would grow into any thing serious, but there seemed to be no very great likelihood of it. Other people, of course, had their say about it, but Olive was not much in the way of hearing reports, and perhaps would not have cared if she had. Almost every one agreed that it would be a very good match, and an excellent thing, inasmuch as it would keep Miss McHenry among them.

Olive was sorry that there was no vacation between Christmas and New-Year's—she wanted very much to go home and see how they were getting on. Her aunt was very indignant, and wanted her to come at any rate, but Olive knew that would not do at all, and prepared, with rather a heavy heart, to spend her Christmas as happily as she could at Basswoods.

It passed very pleasantly, despite her homesickness. There was no school on Christmas-day, of course. Olive had ventured, supported by Mr. Jones, to introduce the daring innovation of decking her own room with evergreens, and it looked so pretty, that the young gentlemen, smitten with admiration, did the same, not only by their own peculiar territory, but also by the great hall, which they ornamented in beautiful style.

Mr. Gregory preached one of his best sermons on Christmas-day, and the church was filled. All the Felton household went to the parsonage to dine, where they met Walter and Louisa Landon, and two or three of the school-girls, who lived too far away to go home.

When they returned, at night, Olive found a large parcel and two or three letters awaiting her, which latter, much to Mr. Felton's amusement, were opened first. Aunt Rebecca's and Charlotte's were, as usual, kind, and filled with good wishes.

Abby's was short, and very sad. She did not know what to do, she said, but she almost felt as though she could not live so any longer. Her uncle seemed as though he began to suspect something wrong, and she thought he watched her. Mrs. Dimsden kept dropping all sorts of hints and insinuations, and Laura was always prying about. She did not know what to do, but she felt that she must do something very soon.

Olive felt distressed and sick at heart. She feared very much that Abby might take some hasty step, which would make matters ten times worse. One sentence, especially, alarmed her:

"If I were independent in money matters, like you, it would not be so bad, but now I must give an account of every penny I spend, and uncle complains that I am extravagant, and spend money foolishly. It is not for myself; entirely, if I do, but that I can not tell him, even if it would do any good. I used to think that the troubles and difficulties of people in love were all nonsense, but I know better now."

Olive wondered whether she could be lending Mr. Forester money. Abby had never intimated to her that she held any correspondence with him, but she had inferred as much from what Charlotte had said about her writing to the Misses Jennings, at M. All her discomfort was renewed, and increased ten-fold.

"I do hope," she said inwardly, with some degree of impatience, "that I shall never be in love, if it always makes people act so like fools." Poor Olive!

The parcel, on being opened, was found to contain a variety of pretty remembrancers and a jar of West-India preserved oranges, of which Mrs. Merton, in a very polite note, begged Mrs. Felton's acceptance.

Mrs. Felton was very much pleased. She said she had never seen any since she married, and promised herself the pleasure of sending Mrs. Merton some preserved apricots, which she had great skill in preparing, when Olive returned home in the summer.