been made happy for a week by a bow from him, and would have given her new gipsy-hat, plume and all, for a call from one so distingué.

ex

Miss Harden just slipped in half a minute (i. e. half an hour) to see if her dear friend Adeline Mitchell was still alive pressing her conclusion as she fondly embraced her, that she must not only be dead, but comfortably buried, as she had not seen her in an age, two days at least! Where had she kept herself?

A similar response from the lady under question, ended with the declaration, that she had been dying to see Harriet all day, and had expected her every moment. Why had n't she been in? had she heard the news?

Miss Harriet had heard a great deal in the last twenty-four hours - she acknowledged that she had, but was not sure that this particular piece of intelligence was included. What was it

Miss Harriet uttered something between a groan and a sigh; and by a peculiar motion of the head intimated that perhap, she knew more about it than her friend.

"Go on!"

"Well, it's all over town"-continued Miss Mitchell. "Every body's talking about it. I took tea at Mrs. Smith's last night (why was n't you there, Harriet) and two ladies (I won't mention names) said, that they had seen her out in the evening with him; though Miss Smith-you know they live right opposays he never goes into the house, but leaves her before

site

they get to the hotel. It was only night before last she had seen it happen, just in that way."

Miss Harden was not so much astonished at this intelligence as her friend intended, and evidently expected her to be; for with a low and impressive whisper, she assured the speaker that she had seen it with her own eyes.

"No! then that's four times they've been out together. Was there ever such imprudence?"

Miss Harriet returned home in the course of an hour, during which time it had been settled between the fair ladies, that Mary Butler ought to be ashamed of herself that some one who knew her ought to speak to her about it, and advise her as a friend to cut Mr. Jorden henceforth and forever. Every one knew how wild he'd been! Thank Heaven, she was not among the list of their acquaintances. Brother John had said her name was brought up at the whist party at the hotel only last night; and when girls were discussed by a lot of young men in that way, there was no knowing where it would end: they should die-positively they would never hold up their heads again, if they thought their names had ever been thus profaned.

2*

ARY BUTLER tied on her neat little hood, and drew the thick Highland shawl more closely about her form. It was a happy face that the little mirror reflected, for content and high health

spoke plainly in every feature, and in the soft bloom that mantled the dimpled cheek. And had she not reason to be happy? Since her father's death, had she not everywhere found kind friends? What good was there in dwelling on those brighter days—when she need not have touched her needle unless it so pleased herwhen her mother was mistress of a luxurious home, in her far away native city-and where she, the darling, the light of the household, was petted and caressed by those who saw in the beautiful child but the future heiress of a proud fortune! Could dwelling on these careless happy days recall them? Pshaw! after all, they were not so happy-so she reasoned with herself. there were ever so many things to vex them; only one was then her guide whose face was now hidden-and then she would check the tears that rose with that dear remembrance, and think that his care still smoothed life's pathway, even though the blessed ministry was unseen. True, her mother and herself were now almost entirely dependent on their own industry- but if their income

was small, their wants were few, and Mary sang like a bird, "as the shining needle flew," while her mother sat by, and silently blessed the daughter whose devotion and constant cheerfulness helped her to bear the bitter sorrow that sometimes clouded her pale face; for at times Mrs. Butler still dwelt upon the wealth and position that had made her youth a dream of delight, and that now was hers only in remembrance. She sighed,-when she fancied that her fair child was looked coldly upon-for the power that should of right have been hers; and when she dwelt on the plain neat dress which Mary ever wore, she contrasted it with rich fabrics that gave added beauty to her own early loveliness, forgetting that Mary had a charm over all this" the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit."

In such hours of despondency, her daughter's musical voice and cheerful smile alone could restore her to anything like hope. While thus fulfilling a sacred duty, how could Mary be sad, or indulge in murmuring regrets! Besides, she had of late a new cause for happiness. A kind friend, who had been their guest in affluence, and who still loved them for themselves, had come to reside in Rivertown, and had opened a new source of pleasure and hope. She remembered Mary's early talent for music, and suggested that she could more pleasantly increase her income, as a music-teacher, kindly offering her own piano for practice, and her services as instructor: as Mrs. Jackson was an accomplished pianist, this was no little kindness. This, then, was the secret of her daily walk past the window of Miss Harriet, for Mrs. Jackson resided a few doors above, and her being out so often ceases, with us at least, to be a wonder.

"A quick step tells of a light heart," says the old proverb; then surely no heart could have been lighter than Mary's as she

commenced her walk; but as she saw a group of young friends coming down the street, she slackened her pace that she might have a little chat with them. What was her astonishment when they passed with but a slight nod, leaving her to pursue her walk alone! "It could not be intentional," was her second thought, and, quite undisturbed, she went on as gaily as before.

How strangely every one acted that afternoon! Her friend Mrs. Jackson did not seem at all happy to see her; but perhaps the troubles of house-cleaning had clouded her temper, and the lesson over, Mary was once more in the street.

All at once her face, thoughtful before, was lighted with a smile, as if she was about to meet some pleasant acquaintance; but her cordial greeting received a very distant bow in return, and Mr. Jorden "passed by on the other side." It cannot be denied that her heart sank within her as she once more entered her home, and her mother missed her happy song, as she plied her needle in a sad silence through the whole of that long evening.

Day by day the change grew more marked. One friend after another looked coldly upon her, and though she had ever before watched with impatience the hour of her daily walk, she now almost dreaded to enter the street, lest she should be saddened by cold greetings and averted faces. Even Mrs. Jackson was strange in manner, and gave her lessons as if it were no longer a pleasure, but a hurried, disagreeable task. Suspense, a dread of some evil, we know not what-is often far worse than the evil itself; and it was with a desperate resolve, that Mary at last begged Mrs. Jackson to tell her how she had offended, and why her acquaintances were friends no longer. She had struggled against the depression of spirit which all this had caused, but in vain. Her