constructed that the glass, formed in large, thick panes, could easily be taken out in summer and replaced at the approach of winter. The glass in the roof would remain permanently, and in warm weather would be covered with awnings. The glass roof of the arcades would be continued over the cross-streets, although the sides would necessarily be open for the passage of vehicles. Where the enclosed sidewalks opened upon cross-streets, there would be several light doors, so hung as to swing either way, thus permitting the tide of promenaders to flow through without hindrance. These doors could remain open, except on very cold or stormy days. It would be the duty of the police to regulate the temperature of the arcades by opening or closing the ventilators as occasion required. The reader can imagine in some degree the change that would attend a promenade, we will say on Tremont Street, if the sidewalks of that thoroughfare were enclosed as has been described. Ladies, even invalids, could do their shopping or visiting, or take their needful exercise during the most inclement weather. It admits of no question that any business street or block that first has glass arcades along its sidewalks will attract to itself trade enough to pay the cost of the glass and iron enclosures many times over. It needs no very ardent imagination to conceive the paradise a Northern city would become in winter if the sidewalks of all its principal streets were thus enclosed in crystal. The great annoyances of dust and cold, of wind and rain, would be reduced almost to a nullity. Our civilization is hardly worthy of the name till such a consummation is brought about. George A. Shove. IN HEARTBREAK HILL. N Ipswich town, not far from the sea, Is an old, old legend, known to all. The selfsame dreary, worn-out tale Still to be told till the ages fail, And there comes a pause in the march of Time. It was a sailor who won the heart Of an Indian maiden, lithe and young; And she saw him over the sea depart, For he cried, as he kissed her wet eyes dry, "I'll come back, sweetheart, keep your faith!" She said, "I will watch while the moons go by.”. Her love was stronger than life or death. So this poor dusk Ariadne kept Her watch from the hill-top rugged and steep: While she studied the changing face of the deep, 22 The Isles of Shoals loomed, lonely and dim, The low rock-heap of Boon Island lay. And north and south and west and east Stretched sea and land in the blinding light, Till evening fell, and her vigil ceased, And many a hearth-glow lit the night To mock those set and glittering eyes Fast growing wild as her hope went out. O, but the weary, merciless days, With the sun above, with the sea afar, No change in her fixed and wistful gaze From the morning red to the evening star! O, the winds that blew, and the birds that sang, Through the summer's heat and the winter's cold! The flash of the plunging surges white, In heaven or earth, and she longed to die. What was it to her though the Dawn should paint But the sweet, sad sunset splendors faint Drowning in sorrowful purple a sail In the distant east, where shadows grew, Like a slender statue carved of stone He never came back! Yet faithful still, She watched from the hill-top her life away, And the townsfolk christened it Heartbreak Hill, And it bears the name to this very day. Celia Thaxter. 1873.1 A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. IV. MR. ARBUTON'S INSPIRATION. THE HE next morning, when Mr. Arbuton awoke, he found a clear light upon the world that he had left wrapped in fog at midnight. A heavy gale was blowing, and the wide river was running in seas that made the boat stagger in her course, and now and then struck her bows with a force that sent the spray from their seething tops into the faces of the people on the promenade. The sun, out of rifts of the breaking clouds, launched broad splendors across the villages and farms of the level landscape and the crests and hollows of the waves; and a certain joy of the air penetrated to the guarded Inconsciousness of Mr. Arbuton. stinctively he looked about for the people he meant to have nothing more to do with, that he might appeal to the sympathies of one of them, at least, in his sense of such an admirable morning. But a great many passengers had come on board, during the night, at Murray Bay, where the brief season was ending, and their number hid the Ellisons from him. When he went to breakfast, he found some one had taken his seat across the table from them, and they did not notice him as he passed by in search of another chair. Kitty and the colonel were at table alone, and they both wore preoccupied faces. After breakfast he sought them out and asked for Mrs. Ellison, who had shared in most of the excitements of the day before, helping herself about with a pretty limp, and who certainly had not, as her husband phrased it, kept any of the meals waiting. “Why," said the colonel," I'm afraid her ankle's worse this morning, and that we 'll have to lie by at Quebec for a few days, at any rate." Mr. Arbuton heard this sad news with a cheerful aspect unaccountable in one who was concerned at Mrs. Ellison's Kitty promised to bear her trials with firmness, and Mr. Arbuton said, “ I had been planning to spend a few days in Quebec, myself." "Indeed!" said Kitty, not thinking this very consequent. "So the delay will-give me the opportunity of inquiring about Mrs. Ellison's convalescence. In fact," he added, turning to the colonel, "I hope you'll let me be of service to you in getting to a hotel." And when the boat landed, Mr. Arbuton actually busied himself in finding a carriage and putting the various Ellison wraps and bags into it. Then he helped to support Mrs. Ellison ashore, and to lift her to the best place. He raised his hat, and had good-morning on his tongue, when the astonished colonel called out, "Why, the deuce! You're going to ride up with us? There's only one decent hotel, and you 'll have to go there! Mr. Arbuton thought he had better get another carriage; he should crowd Mrs. Ellison; but Mrs. Ellison protested that he would not at all; and, to cut the matter short, he mounted to the colonel's side. It was another stroke of fate. At the hotel they found a line of people reaching half-way down the outer steps from the inside of the office. "Hallo! what's this?" asked the colonel of the last man in the queue. "O, it's a little procession to the hotel register! We've been three quarters of an hour in passing a given point," said the man, who was plainly a fellow-citizen. "And have n't got by yet," said the colonel, taking to the speaker. "Then the house is full?" "Well, no; they have n't begun to throw them out of the window." "His humor is degenerating, Dick," said Kitty; and "Had n't you better go inside and inquire?" asked Mrs. Ellison. It was part of the Ellison travelling joke for her, a very inefficient person, to prompt the colonel in his duty. "I'm glad you mentioned it, Fanny. I was just going to drive off in despair." The colonel vanished within doors, and after long delay came out flushed, but not with triumph. "On the express condition that I have ladies with me, one an invalid, I am promised a room on the fifth floor some time during the day. The other hotel is crammed." Mrs. Ellison was ready to weep, and for the first time since her accident she harbored bitterness against Mr. Arbuton. They all sat silent, and the colonel on the sidewalk silently wiped his brow. Mr. Arbuton, in the poverty of his invention, wondered if there was not some boarding-house where they could find shelter. "Of course there is," cried Mrs. Ellison, beaming upon her hero, and calling Kitty's attention to his ingenuity by a pressure with her well foot. "Richard, we must look up a boardinghouse." "Do you know of any good boarding-houses?" asked the colonel of the driver, mechanically. "Plenty," answered the man. "Well, drive us to twenty or thirty first-class ones," commanded the colonel; and the search began. The colonel first asked prices and looked at rooms, and if he pronounced any apartment unsuitable, Kitty was despatched by Mrs. Ellison to view it and refute him. As often as she confirmed him, Mrs. Ellison was sure that they were both too fastidious, and they never turned away from a door but they closed the gates of paradise upon that afflicted lady. She began to believe that they should find no place whatever, when at last they stopped before a portal so unboarding-house-like in all outward signs, that she maintained it was of no use to ring, and imparted so much of her distrust to the colonel that, after ringing, he prefaced his demand for rooms with an apology for supposing that there were rooms to let there. Then, after looking at them, he returned to the carriage and reported that the whole affair was perfect, and that he should look no farther. Mrs. Ellison replied that she never could trust his judgment, he was So careless. Kitty inspected the premises, and came back in a serene enthusiasm that alarmed the worst fears of Mrs. Ellison. She was sure that they had better look farther, she knew there were plenty of nicer places. Even if the rooms were nice and the situation pleasant, she was certain that there must be some drawbacks which they did not know of yet. Whereupon her husband lifted her from the carriage, and bore her, without reply or comment of any kind, into the house. Throughout the search Mr. Arbuton had been making up his mind that he would take leave of his friends as soon as they found lodgings, give the day to Quebec, and take the evening train for Gorham, thus escaping the annoyances of a crowded hotel, and ending at once an acquaintance which he ought never to have let go so far. As long as the Ellisons were without shelter, he felt that it was due to himself not to abandon them. But even now that they were happily housed, had he done all that nobility obliged? He stood irresolute beside the carriage. "Won't you come up and see where we live?" asked Kitty, hospitably. the hotel parlor. But I don't quite like to leave you here, after bringing this calamity upon you." "O, don't mention that! I was the only one to blame. Besides, we shall get on splendidly here.” Mr. Arbuton suffered a vague disappointment. At the bottom of his heart was a formless hope that he might in some way be necessary to the Ellisons in their adversity; or if not that, then that something might entangle him further and compel his stay. But they seemed quite equal in themselves to the situation; they were in far more comfortable quarters than they could have hoped for, and plainly should want for nothing; Fortune put on a smiling face, and bade him go free of them. He fancied it a mocking smile, though, as he stood an instant silently weighing one thing against another. The colonel was patiently waiting his motion; Mrs. Ellison sat watching him from the sofa; Kitty moved about the room with averted face, a pretty domestic presence, a household priestess ordering the temporary Penates. Mr. Arbuton opened his lips to say farewell, but a god spoke through them, inconsequently, as the gods for the most part do, saying, “I suppose you've got all the rooms here." "O, as to that I don't know," answered the colonel, not recognizing the language of inspiration, "let's ask the landlady." Kitty knocked a photograph-book off the table, and Mrs. Ellison said, "Why, Kitty!" But nothing more was spoken till the landlady came. She had another room, but doubted if it would answer. It was in the attic, and not very desirable, being a back room, though it had a pleasant outlook. Mr. Arbuton had no doubt that it would do very well for the short time he was going to stay, and took it hastily, without going to look at it. He had his valise carried up at once, and then he went to the post-office to see if he had any letters, offering to ask also for Colonel Ellison. Kitty stole off to explore the chamber given her at the rear of the house; that is to say, she opened the window looking out on what their hostess told her was the garden of the Ursuline Convent, and stood there in a mute transport. A black cross rose in the midst, and all about this wandered the paths and alleys of the garden, through clumps of lilac-bushes and among the spires of hollyhocks. The grounds were enclosed by high walls in part, and in part by the group of the convent edifices, built of gray stone, high gabled, and topped by dormerwindowed, steep roofs of tin, that, under the high morning sun, lay an expanse of keenest splendor, while many a grateful shadow dappled the full-foliaged garden below. Two slim, tall poplars stood against the gable of the chapel, and shot their tops above its steep roof, and under a porch near them two nuns sat motionless in the sun, black-robed, with black veils falling over their shoulders, and their white faces lost in the white linen that draped them from breast to crown. Their hands lay quiet in their laps, and they seemed unconscious of the other nuns walking in the garden-paths with little children, their pupils, and answering their laughter from time to time with voices as simple and innocent as their own. Kitty looked down upon them all with a swelling heart. They were but figures in a beautiful picture of something old and poetical; but she loved them, and pitied them, and was most happy in them, all the same as if they had been real. It could not be that they and she were in the same world: she must be dreaming over a book in Charley's room at Eriecreek. She shaded her eyes for a better look, when the noonday gun boomed from the citadel; the bell upon the chapel jangled harshly, and those strange maskers, those quaint blackbirds with white breasts and faces, flocked indoors. At the same time a small dog under her window howled dolorously at the jangling of the bell; and Kitty, with an impartial joy, turned from the pensive romance of the convent garden to the mild comedy of the scene to which his woful note |