The school to which I was sent was half a day’s journey from the city of our residence, situated in a small but ancient town of Revolutionary notoriety. The river, very wide at that point, was shaded by willow-trees to some extent along its banks, immediately in front of the Academy of St. Mark’s, and beyond it to a considerable distance on either hand. The town itself was an old-fashioned, primitive village rather than burgh, quaintly built, and little adorned by modern taste or improvement; but the air was fine and elastic, the water unexceptionable, and bathing and boating were among our privileged amusements. Among other less useful accomplishments, I there acquired that of swimming expertly; and, as a place of exile, this quaint town answered as well as any other for the intended purpose.

For, notwithstanding my father’s assurances that Dr. Pemberton had recommended change of air to some degree true, of course and that he himself believed a public course of study would exhaust me less than my solitary lessons, to which I gave such undivided attention, and notwithstanding Evelyn’s professions of regret at the necessity of parting with me, and Mrs. Austin’s belief that the “baby was killing me by inches,” since she took it into her head to sleep with no one else, and to play half the night, and to stay with me all day besides, I felt myself “ostracized.”

The whole matter was so sudden that I scarcely knew what to make of it. Mr. Bainrothe alone let in a little light upon the subject by one remark, unintentionally, no doubt:

“The fact is, Miriam, you are getting too much wound up with that Stanbury family, and you would be perfectly entangled there in another year. The idea of putting the whole hardship of George Gaston’s education on your shoulders was worthy of diplomatic brains, and something I should scarcely have suspected that calm, quiet little woman to have been capable of conceiving. There is an old, worn-out plantation in the Gaston family, that your money would set going again, no doubt, with accelerated velocity. Did you never suspect anything of that sort?” he asked, carelessly.

“Never; nor did I suppose any one else was stupid or wicked enough to entertain such an idea. I, being tolerably acute, knew better, fortunately.”

“My dear little girl, you are entirely too chivalrous and confiding where your feelings are engaged. What if I were to assure that this plan had been agitated?”

“I should think you had been deceived, or that you were deceiving me, one or the other. I should not believe you, that would be all. You understand me now, Mr. Bainrothe; there are no purer people than the Stanburys I wish every one was half as good and true.”

“Old Gerald at the head of them, I suppose?” with a sneer and a kaleidoscopic glance.

“Mr. Gerald Stanbury at the head of them,” I reiterated firmly, adding: “These are friends of mine, Mr. Bainrothe; it hurts and offends me to hear them lightly discussed. If I am sent away from home to break off my affection for them, the measure is a vain one, for I shall returned unchanged.”

“Yes, but with enlarged views, I trust, Miriam,” he rejoined, pertinaciously. “See how Evelyn was improved by her two years at school; besides, how would you ever increase your circle of acquaintances here, studying alone, or even with your shy disposition, at a day-school?”

“I am sent from home, then, to make acquaintances it seems, and to prepare for my debut into society? Very well, I shall not forget that; but pray, what particular advantage in this respect does a country-school present?”

“Oh, the very first people send their daughters to St. Mark’s. If I were training a wife for my son, I should educate her there. What higher eulogium could I bestow, or” dropping his voice “what higher compliment pay you, Miriam?”

“If he were a king’s son, you could not speak more confidently,” I rejoined, with inexcusable rudeness. “Remember, too, you are not training a wife for your prince in disguise.” But I was annoyed and irritated by his patronizing manner, and the suspicion that took possession of me from that time, that he had aided Evelyn in this conspiracy against my peace for selfish views.

He laughed carelessly and turned away, but I saw triumph in his variegated eye; yet was I powerless to resent it.

“I am leaving my poor papa bound hand and foot,” I thought, “in designing hands, but I cannot help it. He has chosen for himself, I will not entreat his affection, his confidence, misplaced as they surely are. I cannot do this if I would; something stronger than myself binds me to silence. But O papa, papa! if you only knew how I loved you, you would not suffer these strangers to take my place, or banish your poor Miriam so cruelly!”

“Don’t let Mabel forget me,” were the last words I spoke to Mrs. Austin, as with a bursting heart I turned from the lovely child I had made perhaps too much an idol; “and George, let her see George Gaston every day; it will be a comfort to both.” So, choking, I went my way.

I bade Evelyn “good-by” gayly, Mr. Bainrothe superciliously, my father bitterly, for I felt his ingratitude to my heart’s core; and, under dear old Mr. Stanbury’s escort, went to the steamboat, there to find one of the lady principals of the academy ready to take charge of me on our brief voyage. It was not in my nature to cherish depression or to make complaints and sudden confidences, and we chatted very cheerfully all the way up the river on indifferent subjects chiefly; sharing fruit and flowers, and general observations and opinions, so that I felt quite inspirited on my arrival, and made, I have reason to believe, no unfavorable impression.

My school-girl experiences I shall not record here. They were pleasant and profitable on the whole, and I earned the esteem of my teachers, by my zeal and diligence in my studies, and made some few valued friends more or less permanent, but none so dear as those I left behind.

Laura Stanbury, quiet and uninteresting as she seemed to many, had a hold on my heart that no newer acquaintance could boast, and for dear George Gaston, where was there another like him? I have known no one so gifted, so spiritual, so simply affectionate, as this child of genius and physical misfortune, whose short but brilliant career is engraven on the annals of his country, I well believe, indelibly.

When I was fifteen years old, I was recalled suddenly and in the middle of a busy session to my home, by the severe and almost fatal illness of my father. He rallied, however, soon after my return, and I had the inexpressible satisfaction of hearing Dr. Pemberton, our good and skillful family physician, pronounce him out of danger a week later, but he would suffer me to go from him no more. The voice of Nature asserted her claim at last, and, feeling within himself that indescribable failure of vitality in which no one is ever deceived, and which can never be explained to or wholly understood by another, he desired me to remain with him through the remainder of a life which he foresaw would not be long.

It was in vain that Dr. Pemberton tried to rally him on the score of his old hypochondriacal tendencies, or that Evelyn quietly remarked: “I am sure, papa, I never saw you looking better! It is a pity to interrupt dear Miriam now in the full tide of her studies. I am sure that I am willing to devote every moment of my time to you if needful;” or that Mrs. Austin added: “Miriam is so well, and growing so fast, that I am afraid to see her take on care again, for fear of a check; and now that Mabel is partly weaned from her they are both happy to be separated;” or that Mr. Bainrothe carelessly interpolated: “Let the child go back, my dear Monfort, or you will spoil her again among you. She is developing splendidly at St. Mark’s, and you have twenty good years before you yet, with your unbroken English constitution.”

Not even the joy manifested by George Gaston and Mrs. and Miss Stanbury, or bluff old Mr. Gerald, at the good news of my return, could shake his resolution.

“Miriam shall leave me no more while life is mine,” he said, “be it long or short. When she marries, I will surrender every thing I possess, save a stipend, into her hands, and Evelyn and Mabel and I to some extent will be her pensioners thereafter. Until that time, matters will stand as they do now.”

“Folly, folly, Colonel Monfort! You talk like a dotard of eighty; you, a superb-looking man yet, younger than I am, no doubt; young enough to marry again, if the fancy took you, and head a second family.”

“Why not say a third?” asked my father, sadly. “Don’t you know, Bainrothe, I am a fatal upas-tree to the wives of my bosom? See how it has been already.”

“Better luck next time. Now, there is the Widow Stanbury, willing and waiting, you know, and a dozen others.”

I turned a flashing eye upon him that silenced him.

“You know better than that,” I said, in suppressed tones, hoarse with anger. “Better let that subject rest hereafter, unless, indeed, your object is feud with me. You shall not slander my friends with impunity, nor must you come any longer between me and them and my father.”

I spoke, for his ear alone, and waited for no reply. I understood his game by this time, as he did mine.

“His son, indeed!” I murmured, with a scornful lip, as I found myself alone. “I would cut off my right hand before I would give it to a Bainrothe,” and I scoffed at him bitterly in the depths of my resentful Judaic heart.

About this time I passed through a painful trial. It was autumn, and early fires of wood had been kindled in the chambers; more, so far, for the sake of cheerfulness than warmth. Mabel was playing on the hearth of her nursery preparatory to going to bed, and I was in the adjoining room, my own chamber, making an evening toilet, for Evelyn expected a party of young visitors that night, and my presence had been requested.

Mrs. Austin, it seemed, had left the room for one moment, when a cry from Mabel brought me to her side. She had fanned the fire with her little cambric night-dress, and was already in a blaze. I caught Mrs. Austin’s heavy shawl from the bed, and promptly extinguished the flames, but not without receiving serious injury myself. The child, with the exception of a slight but painful burn on her ankle, was unhurt, but my left arm and shoulder and bosom were fearfully burned, and for some days my life hung on a thread.

Months passed before I was able to leave my own chamber, and the blow to my health was so severe as to induce a return of those lethargic attacks from which I had been entirely free for the last two years. It is true they were brief in duration compared to those of old, but that they should exist at all was a cause of anxiety and disquietude both to my father and physician.

By the first of March, however, I was again in glowing health, and no trace remained, except those carefully-concealed scars on my shoulder, of my fearful injury.

Soon after this accident had occurred, two circumstances of interest had taken place in our household and vicinity. One of these was the return of Claude Bainrothe from abroad, and the other the rather mysterious visit of a gentleman, young and handsome, but poorly clad, who had inquired for my step-mother, Mrs. Constance Monfort, and on hearing, to his surprise and grief, apparently, that she was dead, had gone away again without requesting an interview with any other member of the family.

He had met Evelyn at the door just as she was about to step into the carriage, dressed for visiting, and had said to her, merely (as she asserted), as he turned away, evidently in sorrow:

“I am the brother of Mrs. Monfort, once Constance Glen now, as you tell me, no more. What children did she leave?”

“One only a daughter,” was Evelyn’s reply. “Not visible to-day, however, since she was severely burned a few days since, and is still confined to her bed; not dangerously ill, though.”

“I passed on then, as quickly as I could,” said Evelyn, “for I saw no end to questioning, and had an appointment to keep. I said, however, civilly, ’Suppose you call another time, when papa is disengaged. To-day he could not possibly receive you,’ pausing on the steps for a reply. This was of course all that was required of me, but he merely lifted his hat with a cool ‘Thank you, Miss Monfort,’ and went his way silently. He evidently mistook me for you, Miriam, and I did not undeceive him. My greatest oversight was in forgetting to ask for his card; but his name was Glen, of course, as hers was, so it would have been a mere form.”

“The whole transaction seems to have been inconsiderate on your part, Evelyn,” I remarked, as mildly as I could. “Mamma’s brother! Oh, what would I not have given to have seen him! Did he never return, and where is he now?”

“No, never that I know of, and he has disappeared. He walked by here a few days later, Franklin says, when he was standing at the door with papa’s tilbury, still very poorly dressed, but neither stopped nor spoke. You could not have seen him in your condition, at any rate, Miriam, so you need not look so vexed; and I had no idea of having papa annoyed so soon after his severe attack. Besides, I want no such claims established over Mabel. She is ours, and need desire no other relations. The next thing would have been an application for money, or board and lodging, or some such thing, no doubt.”

“How old did he seem to be, Evelyn?” I asked, conquering a qualm of feeling at these words, and inexpressibly interested in her relation.

“I’m sure I can’t tell, Miriam; about twenty-five or six, I suppose; the usual age of all such bores. You know mamma was seven or eight and twenty when she died, and she said he was much younger than herself, you may remember.”

“Oh, yes, I recollect perfectly. Did he resemble mamma, Evelyn? Was he tall or short, fair or dark? Had he her lovely eyes? Do tell me about him.”

“None of these things. A sort of medium man; not at all like mamma, however, as far as I could see on such brief scrutiny, and as well as I remember; with fine eyes, however. Not as good-looking as Claude Bainrothe, by any means. Commonplace, very, with a seedy coat. By-the-way, Miriam, he will be back next week, I believe, and then you will see this phenomenon. You know Mr. Bainrothe and papa design you for one another.”

“Papa, indeed! I suppose you mean Claude Bainrothe,” and I laughed disdainfully, I fear. “Nay, it is you rather, Evelyn, who have captivated this piece of perfection, as far as I can learn. At least, this is the report that ” I hesitated colored.

“Finish your sentence, Miriam. The report that your faithful spies, Laura Stanbury and George Gaston, have brought to you in your solitude. They are very observing, truly,” she pursued. “Creatures that never penetrate beneath the surface, though. Self-deluders, I fancy, however, rather than story-tellers.”

“Do you pretend to deny it, Evelyn? Now, look me in the eyes and say ‘No’ if you dare,” and I grasped her slender wrists playfully. She opened her large, blue eyes and fixed them full on mine, responsively.

“No! Now you have the unmitigated truth. Ah, Miriam, I have no wish to interfere with you,” and she leaned forward and kissed my cheek tenderly, disengaging her hands as she did so. Her manner had so changed to me of late that she was growing rapidly into my affections, and I returned her embrace cordially.

In the next moment we were laughing merrily together over the ridiculous schemes of the elder Bainrothe, so transparent that every one understood them perfectly, motive and all, and which my father winked at evidently, rather than favored or encouraged, as our charlatan thought he did “Cagliostro,” as we habitually called him.

“The fact is, prophetess, the person in question would not suit you at all, with your grand ways and notions and prospects. I have fathomed his depth pretty successfully, and I find him full of shoals and shallows. Pretty well for a flirtation, though, and to keep one’s hand in, but unavailable any further.”

“Having brought him to his knees, you are perfectly willing to pass him over to me as a bond-slave. Is that the idea, Evelyn?”

“Exactly, Miriam; you are always so penetrating! But don’t tell, for the world. Old Bainrothe would never forgive me; and, as I once before told you in one of my savage moods, his enmity is dire satanic!”

“I am not afraid of Cagliostro, or his animosity,” I answered; “never was, Evelyn, as you know. The best way to disarm him is to confront him boldly. He is like a lion in that alone. I wish, though, he would give me a little of his elixir of life, for dear papa; he has never looked himself since that attack, though better, certainly, oh, decidedly better, of course, than I dared to hope at one time ever to see him again. Yet I am very anxious.”

“Papa is well enough, Miriam; you only imagine these things. At fifty, you know, most men begin to break a little; then they rally again and look almost as well as ever in a few years, up to sixty or seventy. Look at Mr. Lodore! He looked older when we first knew him than he does now; and so did Dr. Pemberton.”

“That is because they have both filled out and grown more florid and healthy; but papa is withering away, Evelyn; shrinking day by day his very step has changed recently. Oh, I hope, I hope I may be deceived!” And I covered my face with my hands, praying aloud, as I did sometimes irresistibly when greatly excited. “God grant, God grant us his precious life!” I murmured. “Spare him to his children!”

“Amen!” said Evelyn Erle, solemnly.

A few evenings after this conversation I went to see and hear the opera of “Masaniello,” then all the rage, and at the zenith of its popularity, with Mrs. Stanbury, Laura, and George Gaston Norman had been recently placed in the navy and he was absent now, and Mr. Gerald Stanbury obstinately refused to accompany us to that “monkey-and-parrot show,” as he deliberately dubbed the Italian opera.

“When men and women who are in love or grief, or who are telling each other the news, or secrets, stop to set their words to music, and roar and howl in each other’s ears, the world will be mad, and the opera natural,” he said. “I will not lend my countenance before them to such a villainous travesty.”

As “Masaniello” had nearly had its run, and Evelyn was disinclined to see it again, having attended during the winter about twenty representations of this great musical spectacle, I was fain to go with our neighbors and their very youthful escort, or forego my opera.

As we entered the crowded lobby, Laura and I walked together behind George Gaston and Mrs. Stanbury, dropping later into Indian file as the crowd increased, in which order I was the last. I wore a rich India shawl, that had been my mother’s, caught by a cameo clasp across the bosom. Suddenly I felt the pin wrenched away and the shawl torn from my shoulders. In another moment there was a cry a scuffle a fall and a prostrate form was borne away between two policemen, while a gentleman, with his cravat hanging loose and his hair in wild confusion, came toward me eagerly, extending the shawl and clasp.

“These are yours, I believe, young lady,” he remarked, breathlessly, throwing the shawl about my shoulders as he spoke, and laying the broken clasp in my hand. “I am happy to restore them to you.”

The whole transaction had been so sudden and so public, that there had been neither time nor room for trepidation on my part. My own party, pressing steadily on, had not yet missed me, so that, even in that moment of excitement, I surveyed my champion with an eye capable of future recognition.

“Thank you,” I said. “I hope you are not hurt in my service?”

“No, no; not at all that is, very slightly, indeed. Pass on, I will attend you safely to your seat,” and, obeying the wave of his hand, I followed the direction of Mrs. Stanbury’s white plume as observingly as did the followers of Henry of Navarre, without turning again until I reached the box she had entered. I was shocked then, as I bowed my thanks, at the ghastly whiteness and expression of my escort’s face, but he vanished too quickly to permit of inquiry or remark at that season.

I had still time before the curtain rose to relate my adventure, which brought the blood hotly to George Gaston’s brow as he listened to it.

“There it is!” he muttered. “It is all very well with me in peaceful times, but, when it comes to battle, a poor, lame wretch is of little account. I might as well be a woman;” and the tears flowed down his quivering cheeks. “It was shameful, disgraceful, that any other man should have defended you, Miriam,” he added, in a broken voice, clinching his hands, “than I, your escort.”

“You did not even see the affair, George,” I remonstrated. “Had you been as strong as Samson, and I know you are just as brave, you could not have helped me, for there I was lagging away behind, through my own fault, and how could you, in front, between your aunt and Laura, possibly know what danger was in store for me? Now, I shall feel provoked if you show so much morbid feeling; besides, reflect, you are but a boy, dear. George. No youth of your age is ever very strong.”

“A boy! and what are you, Miriam Monfort, that you taunt me with youth! a woman, I suppose a heroine!” with bitter sarcasm in his voice and eye, for the first time in his life so directed to me. I gazed at him in mute surprise.

“My dear George, you are very unreasonable, indeed,” said Mrs. Stanbury. “What has Miriam done to deserve such a taunt? I never knew you to behave in such an uncourteous way before.”

“You must be crazy, George Gaston,” added Laura Stanbury, sharply. “Don’t you know you are attracting attention toward our box. Be still directly!”

“Oh no, it is only the magnificent Miss Monfort that every one is staring at,” he sneered. “The grown-up lady, the heroine, the heiress, who lingers behind in the lobby, in order to get up little melodramas of her own at the opera where such things are admissible, at the expense of her lame escort!”

I turned to him calmly; I had not spoken before. “George,” I said, “if you say another word I shall go home alone, or burst into tears on the spot, and disgrace myself and you, one or the other. I cannot bear another word like this. I warn you, George Gaston!”

“Dear Miriam, forgive me; I am a fool I know,” he said, as soon as he could recover himself. “Lend me your handkerchief, Laura, mine has mysteriously disappeared. There Richard’s himself again! (Sorra to him!) He ought to have a bullet through his head for his pains” (sotto voce).

This stroke of bathos brought about good-humor again, and soon our whole attention was absorbed in that magical music which to this hour electrifies me more than that of any other opera excepting “Norma.” “Bad taste this,” connoisseurs will say; but the perfection of human enjoyment is to pursue one’s own tastes independently of Mrs. Grundy, whether musical, or literary, or artistic, according to my mode of thinking. In all the pauses of the opera, however, I saw that handsome and agitated face, that had last caught my eye at the box-door, rise before me like a spell; and anxiety for the safety of my strange champion some curiosity too, mingled therewith, I do not deny, to know his name and lineage beset me during the whole of a sleepless night and the dreaming day that succeeded it.

We were sitting around a cheerful spring fire in the front parlor, our ordinary sitting-room, opening as this did into the dining-room beyond on one hand, and the wide intersecting hall of entrance on the other, on the opposite side of which lay the long, double-chimneyed drawing-room, less cheerful than our smaller assembly-room by half, and therefore less often used (there, you have our whole first-floor arrangement now, my reader, I believe, and I must begin over again, to catch the clew of my long sentence). We were sitting, then, around the cheerful fire in the parlor in question, when Morton, my father’s “own man,” announced “Mr. Bainrothe and son,” and a moment afterward the two gentlemen so heralded entered the room together. With one you are already somewhat familiar, reader mine, as a gentlemanly, handsome man, with deliberate movements and confident address. You have seen such men in cities frequently; but the word distingue, so often too hastily bestowed, was the chief characteristic of the appearance of his younger companion.

Tall, slender, graceful, strong for strength alone bestows such easy perfection of movement, such equipoise of step as belonged to him with a fine, clear-cut face and well-shaped head, nobly placed on his straight, square shoulders wide for a man so slight dark eyed, dark haired, with a mouth somewhat concealed by a long silken mustache, then an unusual coxcombry in our republic, yet revealing in glimpses superb teeth and the curve of accurately-cut lips, Claude Bainrothe stood before me, a young Apollo.

“I have brought my son here to-night, expressly to introduce him to you, Miriam, of whom he has heard so much.”

He bowed low and silently, then tossed his curled head suddenly back again.

“We have met before, I believe, Mr. Bainrothe,” I observed, when his eye rose to meet mine. “You were good enough to restore me my shawl and clasp last night at the opera, if I am not strangely mistaken.”

“Ah! were you that lady?” he asked, with a slight yet somewhat embarrassed laugh. “Forgive me, if in the confusion of the moment I failed to remark your appearance. I only knew an outrage had been committed, and naturally sought to repair it.”

“Now, that was really romantic,” said Evelyn, who had caught the idea. “Miriam related her adventure, but was sorely puzzled to know to whom she was indebted for such chivalrous aid.”

“I am glad to have been of service to Miss Monfort,” he rejoined, deferentially, “but I merely obeyed an impulse strong with me. I should have been wanting to myself to have done otherwise than defend a helpless woman.”

“There could not have been a more favorable opening to your acquaintance, certainly,” observed Evelyn significantly; then, turning away and crossing the apartment, she applied herself to the entertainment of the elder Mr. Bainrothe, “Mr. Basil,” as we called him after his son came, by way of distinction between the two, since the word “old” seemed invidious in his case, and we characterized them as we would have done two brothers.

Indeed, in manner, in bearing, in something of quiet repose entirely wanting in the father, and which usually seems the accompaniment of age or experience, the son seemed the elder man of the two. I had yet to learn that there is an experience so perfect and subtle that it assumes the air of ignorance, and triumphs in its simplicity over inferior craft itself.

When the mind has worked out the problems of life to its own satisfaction, like the school-boy who has proved his sums, it wipes the slate clean again and sets down the bare result the laborious process it effaces. All is simplified.

“I was fearful that you had been hurt last night, Mr. Bainrothe,” I hazarded, “from the expression of your face as I caught it at the box-door. I am glad to see you well this evening.”

“I was hurt,” he said, “to be frank with you. The scoundrel gave me a severe blow on the chest, which brought a little blood to my lips, and for the time I suffered. Had it not been for the faintness under which I was laboring I could not have failed to identify you. But you are generous enough to forgive this oversight I am convinced.”

“Oh, surely! it was most natural under the circumstances. I have a habit of fixing faces at a glance that is rather uncommon, I believe. I never forget any one I have seen even for a moment, or where I have seen them, or even a name I have heard.”

“A royal gift truly, one of the secrets of popularity, I believe. It is not so with me usually, though when my eye once drinks in a face” (and he looked steadily at mine while he spoke those words slowly, as if wrapped in contemplation), “it never departs again. ’A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’ you know, Miss Monfort.” He sighed slightly.

“Yes, that line has passed into an axiom, the only sensible one, I believe, by-the-by, that Keats ever wrote,” I laughed.

“Oh, you do Keats injustice. Have you studied him, Miss Monfort?”

“Studied poetry? What an idea! No, but I have tried to read him, and failed. I think he had a very crude, chaotic mind indeed; I like more clearness.”

“Clearness and shallowness most often go together,” he observed. “When you see the pebbles at the bottom of a stream, most likely its waters are not deep.”

“Yet, you can stir up mud with a long pole in the pool more readily than in the river. Keats wanted a current, it seems to me, to give him vitality and carry off his own mental impurities. His was a stagnant being.”

“What a queer comparison,” and he shook his head laughingly, “ingenious, but at fault; you are begging the question now. Well, what do you say to Shelley?”

“I have nothing to say to him; he has every thing to say to me. He is my master.”

“An eccentric taste for so young a girl; and Byron? and Moore? and Mrs. Hemans? and Leigh Hunt? and Barry Cornwall?”

“Oh, every one likes them, but one gets tired of hearing lions roar, and harps play, and angels sing; and then one goes to Shelley for refreshment. He is never monotonous; he was a perennial fountain, singing at its source, and nearly all was fragmentary that he wrote, of course, wanting an outlet. The mind finishes out so much for itself, and the thought comes to one always, that he was completed in heaven. No other verse stirs me like his. You know he wrote it because he had to write or die. He was a poet, or nothing.”

“You ought to write criticisms for Blackwood, really, Miss Monfort, and give a woman’s reason for every opinion,” with ill-concealed derision.

“You are laughing at me now, of course, but I don’t regard good-natured raillery. I am sure I should not enjoy poetry as I do were I a better critic. I love flowers far more than many who understand botany as a science, and pull them to pieces scientifically and analytically.”

“And paintings; do you love them?”

“Oh, passionately!”

“I confess I am blase with art,” he said, quietly; “I have seen so much of it, I like nature far better;” adding, after a pause, “now, that is your chief charm. Miss Monfort.”

“What, being natural?”

“How well you divine my meaning!” with a little irony in the voice and eye. The tendency of his mind was evidently sarcastic.

“Ah! true. Papa thinks me too natural; he often checks my impulses. Your father, too, coincides with him, I believe, in this opinion; but don’t talk about me. Tell me of your sojourn in Germany. How delightful it must have been to have lived in Heidelberg, and felt the very atmosphere you breathed filled with wisdom! Did you ever go to Frankfort? Did you see the statue of Goethe there? Can you read ‘Faust’ in the original? Oh, I should like to so much, but I know nothing of German. I never could learn the character, I am convinced. French and Italian only. There was such a beautiful picture of ‘Margaret’ in the Academy of Fine Arts last year, I wanted papa to purchase it, but Evelyn and he did not fancy it as much as I did. They prefer copies from the old masters. I don’t care a cent for Magdalenes and Madonnas and little fat cherubs. I prefer illustrations of poetry or fiction; don’t you, Mr. Bainrothe?”

“Very frankly, Miss Monfort, I don’t care for pictures at all, unless for good landscapes. I am cloyed with them. And as to German books, I never want to see another. The old ‘Deer-Stealer’ was worth all they have ever written put together, in my opinion. I love the vernacular.”

“Oh, of course, Shakespeare and the Bible; there is nothing like them for truth and power. But to leave poetry for its sister art, you must have enjoyed the music in Germany. Do you love music, Mr. Bainrothe?”

“Not very much, except in opera; then the scenery and lights and people are half the charm. I don’t care for science. Such an adventure as I had last night,” he murmured low, “was worth a dozen operas to me;” and again I met his admiring, steady gaze, almost embarrassing, fixed upon me.

“What are you two talking about?” asked Evelyn, coming suddenly behind us. “Papa and Mr. Bainrothe are carrying on a little quiet flirtation, as usual, and have quite turned their backs on me, so I came hither, asking charity. I declare, Miriam’s face is scarlet! What mischief are you two hatching?”

“I have been running on at a most unconscionable rate,” I replied, “covering up my ignorance with many questions that have bored, rather than proved, Mr. Bainrothe, I fear. Take up the dialogue, dear Evelyn, for a few moments, while I go to superintend that elderly flirtation you speak of, and keep papa in order,” and I left them abruptly.

“It will all be paid in before then,” I heard Mr. Bainrothe say, as I approached them, “and you could not have a safer investment. It is as sound as the Federal Government itself. Indestructible as the solar system.”

“I will bring the papers,” papa said, rising. “Excuse me for ten minutes,” and I dropped into his empty seat by Mr. Bainrothe.

“I hope I shall not interrupt your business meditations while papa is gone,” I observed, breaking the silence first.

“Business is my pastime, and no food for meditation, my dear girl; for, like the Pontic monarch of old days, ’I live on poisons, and they have no power, but are a kind of nutriment.’ Now, talking to a pretty young girl is far harder and more unusual work to me than transacting mercantile or financial affairs.”

“Then I will not oppress you with my society,” I said, with a feint to rise.

“Sit still, Miriam, and don’t be foolish. You know what I mean, very well. Now, how do you like my son?”

“Oh, very much indeed; he is a little satirical, though, now and then; intolerant of youthful greenness, I perceive, and enthusiasm.”

“All affectation, I assure you. He is as verdant himself as the Emerald Isle. Just from college, and very young; what can he know of life? As to enthusiasm, he is full of it.”

“True, what can he know of life,” I mused, and I glanced at him, as I questioned, sitting in front of Evelyn in a sort of humble, devoted way, very different from his easy, knightly air with me. She wore a cold, imperious expression of face not unbecoming to her haughty style of beauty, and fanned herself gently as she listened carelessly to his evidently earnest words, bowing superciliously in answer from time to time.

“The desire of the moth for the star,” burst from my lips involuntarily.

“Nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Bainrothe, quietly. “If Evelyn Erie were the last of her sex, he never could fancy her. She is much too old for my son, much too artificial; and, beautiful as she is, she wants some nameless charm, without which no woman ever secures the abiding love of man;” adding, abruptly, after a little pause, “That charm is yours, Miriam.”

“How strangely you talk, Mr. Bainrothe!” I replied, with evident embarrassment, which he pretended not to perceive.

“Had you remained one year longer at school, there would have been no grace, no perfection wanting. I am sorry to see you thrown so young, so unprotected, on the waves of society, as you must be soon.”

“Oh, not necessarily. I rarely come into the parlor when Evelyn receives, rarely go to parties, and my studies are as dear to me as they ever were. Besides, Mabel absorbs much of my time, and I am quite infatuated with my new accomplishment.”

“What is that, Miriam?”

“I am studying elocution, learning to read with Mr. Mortimer you have heard of him and he is pleased, so far, with my success. It is a very delightful resource.”

“Yes, you have a good voice, an impassioned face and manner all very suitable, no doubt; but what will it amount to, after all? You will never have to earn your bread in that way, and for a home circle you have always read well enough. It is time wasted, I imagine.”

“But the reading is not all. I learn to know and comprehend so much that was sealed from me before; in this way, Shakespeare, Milton, Scott, all acquire new beauties. By-the-by, this is what your son meant by studying poetry, perhaps.”

“The puppy! Has he been lecturing you, too? Really, there is no end to his presumption;” and he smiled, benignly, upon him.

“I must defend him from such a charge,” I said, earnestly. “I find him very deferential he has the courteous European manner, which, when high-bred, is so polite. Americans never learn to bow like foreign gentlemen. It is a great charm.”

“Do you hear that, Claude? Miss Monfort approves of your bow. This is all I can extort from her; but she is very hard to please, very censorious by nature, so don’t be entirely discouraged.”

A bow of the approved sort, and wave of the hand across the room, in addition, were the only rejoinder elicited by this sally, and again the downcast head, the clasped hands, the low, entreating voice denoted the character of his conference with Evelyn. He was pleading a desperate cause, it seemed to me.

Mr. Bainrothe became unreasonably nervous, I thought. He fidgeted with his hat, and gloves, and cane, which he took from the table near him, dropping the last as he did so; he glanced impatiently at the door through which my father was to enter, and, when finally his friend came, after a brief conference in a corner with regard to the papers he had gone out to seek, probably, summoned his son abruptly and darted off in true Continental style, followed by his more stately junior.

“Mr. Bainrothe amuses me,” observed Evelyn after we were alone again. “He is so transparent, dear old butterfly! He need not be alarmed! I have put a quietus on all presumptuous hopes in that quarter forever, and now, Miriam, I hand him over to you signed and sealed ’Claude Bainrothe rejected and emancipated by Evelyn Erie, and ready for fresh servitude apprenticed, in short.’”

“Thank you,” I rejoined, dryly, speaking with a tightness at my throat.

“He thinks you quite good-looking, Miriam, I assure you; he was agreeably disappointed, even after what he had heard of your appearance from the Stanburys, I suppose and observed that there were fine elements in your character, too, if properly shaped and combined a great deal of ‘come out.’”

“He is truly gracious and condescending,” I replied, “I thank him humbly.”

“It was very plain that you admired him, Miriam. Any one could see that. I noticed his internal amusement at your fluttered manner.”

“Did he tell you what his thoughts were, Evelyn, or do you merely interpret them after your own fashion?” I asked, sternly.

“Oh, of course he said nothing of the kind; I would not have permitted it, had he wished to. Poor fellow! I hope you will be kinder to him than I have been,” and she sighed heavily. “He is yours now to have and to hold, you know.”

“You have not shown your usual good taste, Evelyn,” I remarked, coolly, “in rejecting so handsome and fascinating a man, and making him over to another, unsolicited. Claude Bainrothe would suit you exactly, I think; and, as to money, he will have enough, no doubt, for both. If not” I hesitated colored sighed.

“If not, what, Miriam?” she urged, stamping her little foot impatiently as my answer was delayed. “If not, what then, Miriam? Speak out!”

“If not, dear sister, I will try to make up the deficiency,” I said, embracing her. “Now you understand my intentions.”

I was learning to love my sister, and happy in the power to please her, unconscious that an invisible barrier was rising from that hour, never to be put aside.