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I did not detect it then, and I was not quite | has cheered and comforted us all-I am com-
able to forgive our cousin for having caused it.
My father met us as we entered the house.
He had a letter in his hand, which he held out

to me.

"It's for your cousin," he said. "Take it to her. She is not well, I hear; but I'm mistaken if this doesn't prove a panacea even for being

pelled to acknowledge that first impressions are not infallible even at sixteen, and that early youth, with all its enthusiasm and generosity, is too apt sometimes to blend a good deal of injustice.

A SUMMER IDYL.

T was a moonlit summer night;

half-drowned. Your hair-brained scapegraces!" The heavens were drenched with silver rain;

He shook his head at us, but with his merriest smile. I ran up stairs with the letter.

Caroline looked miserable enough, even my sisterly jealously was compelled to own. But my father was right. At sight of the letter her face brightened, and when she had read two or three lines, she fairly burst into tears and buried her

face in the wonderful missive.

"He is in England; he will be here to-morrow," she said, in the first impulse of her relieved heart. I suppose I looked grim, for, after a little while, she drew me toward her, tak

ing fast hold of my hands, and looking straight into my face.

And frowning rose Katahdin's height
Above the murmuring woods of Maine.
Close by our resting-place, a stream

That seemed to long to kiss our feet
Sang, as it went, some faery theme-
Musical, low, and incomplete.

The world was hushed, but nothing slept.
The cricket shrilled amid the sheaves,
And through the mighty woods there crept
The mystic utterances of leaves.
Never had moon-beams shone so bright;

Never had earth seemed half so fair!
I loved the stream, the trees, the night,
The wondrous azure of the air!
And through my very finger-tips
I felt the full enjoyment thrill;
wished that I could with my lips
Kiss the sweet moon that crowned the hill!
Ah! why? Another moon I knew,

"Don't be unjust," she said, with resolved frankness; "and don't draw back and keep aloof from me as you have done. Partly it was my fault, doubtless; but remember, cousin, you were at home, and I was among strangers; and though I yearned to give you my confidence, II could not force it on you. My uncle knew. I wish he had told you."

She stopped, pained by my apparently unsympathizing silence I suppose.

"Arthur will-Arthur won't-Arthur is too brave," said I, incoherently.

"Arthur being ten years younger than I am," she remarked, gently, "may be reasonably expected to forget all that had best be forgotten. Yet for his generous kindness, his friendliness to me when friendliness was so needed, I shall

always be grateful, and always grieve that it cost him even a passing sorrow.'

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"A passing sorrow!" repeated I, indignant again on the other side.

However, since then I have been compelled to acknowledge I was mistaken in more things than one concerning our cousin from town. Even so early as next morning, when there dashed up a post-chaise to Abbott's Grange, and there entered a brown-bearded, brown-complexioned man, who looked to me quite as old as my father, and who, it seemed, was that "other man" of whom Arthur had spoken to me. Even then I began to allow that perhaps there were incongruities in my brother's first love that might prove fatal to eternal constancy, and perpetual misery thereanent, humiliating as was the conclusion.

Yes, and now, when the annual family gathering is held at Abbott's Grange, and happy Caroline, with her husband and children, sits talking with her old friend my brother Arthur, also happy with his wife and bairns (he married, I think, his fifth love); and when I remember how true and energetic her friendship has always been; how many times it has helped him, as it

Less luminous, but all as fair, Above my shoulder shining, through A wondrous haze of golden hair. Shining as once Diana shone

Upon the boy through Ida's grove; Her stooping face, no longer wan, Flushed in the harvest-time of love.

So, not for me that orb serene,

That grandly crowned the mountain crest; And turning to my proper queen

I drew her down upon my breast.
"Oh! Amy," said I, "shine on me
Through all my life as that moon shines,
Shedding o'er each asperity

The light that softens and refines;
So mildly, that my eyes can rest

Yet not so distant, but my breast
Untiring on your gentle face,
May be your sweetest resting-place.
"Bestow that sweet attractive spell

That draws the sea toward the skies,
And let my tide of being swell

Beneath the lustre of your eyes. "And if some sullen cloud should sail

"Twixt you and me in social space, Why when 'tis passed I will inhale

A sweeter influence from your face. "Be changeful, too, like that sweet moon! Change is the law of earthly life, And Nature hums the varying tune

Of weal and woe, of peace and strife."

She ruffled all her yellow hair,

But answering not a single word, Veiled in the dusky twilight air, She nestled to me like a bird. And in the vague electric spark,

Felt only when cheek touches cheek, I knew through all the shadows dark The promise that she did not speak. Oh blessed moonlit summer night!

younger-stopped in our village for a few days to recruit the wearied boy. Infiuenced by the quiet beauty of the place, the healthfulness of the air, and the entreaties of the children, especially of the sickly one, who was heartily tired of wandering, she became the occupant of the Holbrook place. For the poor child it was time to rest. Traveling had only quickened the malady which his mother, with slow and reluctant conviction, at length perceived

When earth seemed drenched with silver rain, to be incurable. His disease was consum] And frowning rose Katahdin's height

Above the murmuring woods of Maine!

THE HOLBROOK HOUSE.

ONE of the most picturesque habitations in pect.

our neighborhood is the Holbrook Housean old-fashioned white structure, of moderate dimensions originally, but eked out piecemeal, until it occupies twice its former space. A rich growth of climbers, an arabesque of woodbine, English ivy, and jasmine, quite enveloping the pillars of the rustic porch, and stretching to the very summit of the steep roof, frames with foliage the antique dormer-windows. The sloping lawn in front is green as emerald, and on either side of the gravel walk stands a rank of superb old chestnut-trees. With a somewhat abrupt ascent from the rear of the premises rises Beech Hill, covered half-way up with a wood of hemlocks, firs, and the black birch, with its dark, glossy rind and graceful, pendent branches. Beneath these trees, some of which were standing when the first dwelling of the white man was erected in the vicinity of the Ashuelot River, the soil is covered with a mosaic of mosses, ivy, ground-pine, wood-violets, and the partridge vine, with its dark, shining leaves, and berries of vivid scarlet. The spicy winter-green, too, grows there in profusion; and in its season, that loveliest of northern wild flowers, the trailing arbutus, enriches the air with its peculiar, exquisite odor-thus revealing its presence before the eye discovers its lurking-place. It

is worth seeking; what a delicate flush it wears when at length you have found it! how prettily its broad, glassy leaves, spotted with brown, set off the faint pink petals! I do not know another flower "with look so like a smile." Just above the wood a spring of clear water issues from some mossy rocks, and singing to itself all summer long in a low, pleasant voice, threads downward its silver way till it reaches the Ashuelot, into whose waters it leaps eagerly, as glad to merge its sparkling life in the tranquil beauty of the broader stream.

For a long time the Holbrook House stood vacant. Its proprietor-the sole survivor of his branch of the family, and a sea-farer from boyhood-was an officer in our navy. There were occasional rumors of his return, but he never came. It was understood at length that the house was for sale or to be let.

One summer, half a score years ago, a stranger lady traveling with her two children-a drooping boy of twelve and a girl some years

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tion; and in him it assumed its least formidable type-a slow fever, which gave a glow to his cheek, intense brilliancy to his dark blue eyes, and an ethereal beauty to his whole asHe lingered through the ensuing winter; but when the spring suns had melted the snowwreaths from the hillside, he too had passed away. I remember well the bright, soft April day when he was laid in the village grave-yard. I remember his bright brown hair, the long lashes that lay on his fair cheek, and the pleasant smile on his lips. A simple grave-stone, with the inscription, "William Lyndhurst, Blantyre, Scotland," marked his resting-place.

I was passing the grave-yard one afternoon in summer, and I paused to look at the white, gleaming stones and the waving grass, over which floated shadows from the moving boughs above, and I heard a child's voice singing. It was Rose Lyndhurst, who sate by her brother's grave, one little arm thrown across the headstone, and who sang in a low, sweet tone. I waited till she had done, and then joined her. "What is that you were singing, Rose?" I said.

"Just a hymn to Willie," she replied; that he always liked."

66 one

And she told me of her home in the Old World beyond the sea; of her father, his failing health, and then, in the hope that a change of climate might restore him, of their determination to come to America; of his death on the passage, and the burial at sea; of Willie's wild sorrow for his father, which yielded to no soothing until there came the certainty of a speedy reunion. I, too, had a brother and a little sister in the grave-yard; and we children lingered there, talking of the past, and of the pleasant time there would be when we should meet our friends again, till we knew by the long shadows that evening was near, and we must go home.

From that time Rose and I were friends; we were mutually delighted when our parents encouraged our intimacy, and we cheerfully accomplished our allotted tasks with the pleasant incentive of a walk together, a day in the woods, or even a quiet afternoon within doors.

Year after year Mrs. Lyndhurst continued to reside among us; with no fixed purpose, I suppose, of a permanent residence; but she saw her remaining child happy and buoyant, becoming every year firmer in health, and so, at length, they came to be considered as belonging to us.

There was no need to send the child away to

school. Mrs. Lyndhurst was a lady of rare en- |ing in the larch-tree that shaded the west windowments, and would not willingly have relin- | dow, and through the branches came red gleams

quished her daughter's education to others. After a while it was settled that I should share Rose's studies under her mother's oversight; Mrs. Lyndhurst overcoming my own mother's reluctance to receive so great a favor, by convincing her that the benefit to Rose of a companion in her lessons quite equaled any advantage which I could receive from the arrange

ment.

Thus we lived almost constantly together. Between our two houses were only the gardens of each, and of these a gate opened from one into the other. Even my mother, who rarely walked, because she was too ill, was sometimes tempted to go with my father, or with my brother Rolfe, when he was at home, through the garden walk to Mrs. Lyndhurst's.

For Rolfe used to come home from Cambridge in the vacations. What pride I had in him and so, I know, had our mother. He was so fine-looking, so manly, so courteous to every one, especially toward those who would most like it-old, poor people. When at last he went away for years, to pursue his studies in the schools of France and Germany-for he had high thoughts of a physician's duties-I do not believe there was one of them who did not miss him. This departure of his was my first great grief. A great grief it was to us all. I heard my father telling my mother, to comfort her, that as far as it was possible to rely on the uprightness of a human being, young though Rolfe was, he could trust in him.

from the sunset. Mrs. Lyndhurst had seemed stronger than usual that day; and with her chair drawn close to the window, looked out on the beautiful evening. The granite peak of Monadnoc was all aglow with the lovely crimson splendor; the boles of the forest trees up the hillside were transmuted into shafts of flame; all the air was full of soft purple light. Rose knelt by her mother, and looked out too. They both thought alike of the time when the eyes of one would see beauty fairer than this.

"Rose," said her mother, "you have been always a blessing to me, from the time when first I looked on your sweet baby face in our far-off home in Scotland, till now that you are grown so like your father-so like him, dear." She laid her wasted hand on Rose's head. "I bless you, darling, again and again-in God's name I bless you." They were the last words she ever spoke.

Rose came to us. She never turned from consolation; the weary dread that comes over some of us when our friends die never visited her. Not a shadow of doubt dimmed her serene faith that they whom she loved were "not lost, but gone before."

My father and mother grew to love Rose as if she had been their own child. It must have been a hard heart that did not love her-so gentle she was always, so thoughtful for others, so unmindful of herself. The years that she had lived with us are among the happiest of my happy life. Frequent letters came from Rolfe; he was well, hard at work, and full of eager, cheerful courage.

Rose was to me like a sister. I had great delight in her uncommon beauty. To look at her was like listening to sweet music, or seeing Dr. Warburton was a friend of my father's a rare picture, or, better still, an exquisite from old college times. He rode over every flower. Her eyes were of the bluest, but very Sunday to breakfast with us, for he said there dark; with lashes, brows, and hair quite black. was no coffee, far or near-no bread and butter And such a wealth of hair! She was a little-no cream-no eggs-like those which Martha pale when silent, but speaking sent to her cheek a lovely, changing color; and to do her justice, she spoke a great deal, and in a voice singularly rich and clear; nothing could be sweeter, except her singing. She knew more old ballads than I had believed in existence; and to sing was as natural to her as to breathe. Alone at her needle-work, in her light tasks about the house or in the garden, away in the fields or woods, she sang in tones glad sometimes, sorrowful sometimes, but always sweet.

But a shadow crept slowly over that pleasant home. It was evident that Mss. Lyndhurst was no longer so well as she had been. Her place in church was often vacant. She grew paler; her strength diminished; herself, she felt that life was waning away from her. Dr. Warburton, the village physician, was summoned. Equally far-sighted and skillful, he perceived at once that she did not need to be made aware of her condition, nor to be deluded with the hope of recovery.

A few months more, and then she died. It was a calm, summer evening; birds were singVOL. XV.-No. 86.-P

Brent, our trusty handmaiden, set before him. Partly, I think, he came to see, in a quiet way, how my mother was doing, and partly because he loved to come and we loved to see him.

One day he announced that he found himself growing old-absolutely decrepit-and in urgent need of a partner.

"Did he want a lady," we inquired, "or a gentleman ?"

Oh, a lady, if he might have had one of us, but, in despair of that, it was a gentleman whom he had fixed upon, and with whom he had made arrangements. He did not wish us to tantalize him with offers, now that it was too late. But as to this gentleman whom he expected, it was one in whom he had entire confidence-who was sensible, skillful in his profession, and good-looking, too-who had studied in Cambridge, and then gone abroad to learn more-who, indeed, was abroad now, but coming home soon-here I began to watch himwhom he had known from childhood, and could answer for.

"Was it Rolfe ?" I asked that.

"And why Rolfe, Miss Olive? Is no other young man sensible or good-looking?"

Many a time I had thought of this as one of the most desirable things in the world, for I knew it would make my father and mother so happy; but I scarcely dared hope it, and now it was really going to take place!

There was a letter from Rolfe; he would take the very next steamer for home. How glad we all were, and how many things we discovered that must inevitably be done before his arrival, and so short a time in which to accomplish them! Rolfe's room must be nicely fitted up. A new matting must be had for the floor, and new book-shelves-Rosc and I had appropriated the old ones; my mother's pictureRose was doing that to be finished, and hung opposite the bed; the new slippers to be completed. Hardly ever did we work so busily and so cheerfully.

Saturday arrived; that afternoon he was to come. The dear mother-her sweet, pale face a little paler than usual-sate in her arm-chair by the window, and without her needle-work for once. I always secretly thought my mother handsome, and so must any one have thought that day. The pretty lace shading her soft brown hair was very becoming. A tremulous, subdued happiness shone from her clear eyes, giving them the look that never grows old. My father walked up and down from the gate to the door, pausing at every turn, now under the old elm at the entrance, and now by the lilacs at the window where sate my mother. There were flowers every where-in Rolfe's room, in my mother's, in the low parlor, where, indeed, they grew in at the windows; even in the kitchen, Martha Brent had been fain to group hollyhocks and great red roses, in default of her prime favorites, peonies and snow-balls, whose day for the nonce was over. Ourselves, too, were in gala-dress; Rose in pure white, with coral bands around her throat and wrists, and in her beautiful, shining hair some red fuschias. I thought she had never looked so lovely. Martha Brent, who had that morning risen an hour earlier than usual to get through with the Saturday baking betimes, wore her newest gingham and ample black silk apron, and fastened her collar with a stately bow of purple ribbon.

Restless with joyful expectation, I was every where; now in the kitchen, admiring Martha's snowy loaves and airy pastry; now in the garden, gathering another rose, or more violets and carnations-Rolfe did not like odorless flowers; now in his room, brushing invisible dust from the books. How golden the sunshine was, and how soft and delicious the air, and how full of fragrance! And then came one of those fearful thoughts which, like shadows, haunt great happiness" What if some dreadful thing had happened, and he should never come?" But there was a sound of wheels, they stopped at the gate-no more doubts or fears, Rolfe was there!

"Changed!" he repeated; he should never have guessed it was Rose or Olive-the girls had grown so much. But no one else in the dear old home had changed; he thanked God for that. I saw him look steadily at my mother, and she met his look with one as earnest, and then both smiled-such a loving, trusting smile. I suppose she read in his that her son was not changed, and he knew that she read it.

Ours was a fervent thanksgiving that night. Once in the midst of it I sobbed outright, but it was pure happiness.

And the next day, at church, it may have been entirely my own imagining, but it seemed as if every one felt glad in our delight. After service there was a great shaking of hands, and deaf old Polly Wheelock answered Rolfe's inquiry about her health with "Yes, Sir, I see that you are, and I venture to say there's many a one rejoiced at it; myself, I am, indeed, Sir." And well she might be, for as I have said before, he was always good to the old and the poor.

In the midst of all our comfort something befell which caused us great fear of losing one very dear to us. An elderly gentleman came to our house one morning, announcing himself as Mr. Home, of Edinburgh, Scotland, and the cousin of our Rose's mother. He had come to America hoping to find his young relative, and to take her home with him. He had, he said, a wife and children, who would gladly welcome her as daughter and sister. Apparently he had no doubt that she would willingly go. It was his present plan, he said, to spend a few weeks in traveling through the States, and on his return he should hope to find her in readiness to accompany him. Friends with whom he was to travel waited for him in New York, so that he could not now at all delay his journey. When he came again he would willingly remain longer. Quite needlessly, almost unkindly, I could not help thinking, he gave her the very item of information which had been most carefully reserved from her; namely, that the banking-house of Brotherson & Welles, of Montreal, in which was invested Rose's little fortune, had totally failed. This had occurred soon after Mrs. Lyndhurst's death, and my father and mother, though averse to family secrets, thought best for several reasons to say nothing at all about it.

Why, Rose, I thought, belonged to us. The possibility that she would go away had never entered my mind. The evening after Mr. Home had gone away-and he went the same day that he came-Rose and I talked it over, in our pleasant little room.

They had little right to her, I said, they were at best such far-off relatives.

As to right, Rose replied, it was rather a question of kindness. What right had she to the warm, unvarying love that my father and mother had bestowed on her ever since she had needed it? If they were not the kindest and

most generous persons in the world-besides, | mouth, and once or twice she sobbed, like a she had seen, herself

Some

"And what had she seen?" I asked. "Oh, Olive, have I not seen, dear? times your mother has quietly put aside the handsome dress, or the nice shawl, which should have been hers, to buy something instead for the two daughters. I have seen how the old garments were turned and mended, by fingers that would not grow weary, and the old furniture was repaired, while there was no stinting about books for the girls. Do not you remember, Olive, the handsome oleander which Mr. Calton wanted her to buy, and whose fragrance and beauty brought back to her so vividly her old southern home? Yet she would forego the purchase, and the next week came our copy of Goethe. And all was done so thoughtfully and carefully, Olive, that I might never guess there was one too many!"

"Nor was there ever one too many, Rose! And if you come to that, and count expense so nicely, how came it to be unnecessary for me to go away to school? Who taught me all that I know of German and Italian, and music, too, and drawing? And then, Rose, who has made the whole house, every one in it, the happier by her presence? Besides," I said, "now that Rolfe has just come home, and we had all thought to be so happy together, I know it would go to his heart to have the family broken up."

child that has cried itself asleep; and there was that holy look on her forehead which, I think, may be the mark of our Saviour.

"Has

But an expression came over Rolfe's face that I did not understand, a look of alarm. she been ill to-day, Olive ?" he asked.

She had not said so; but I remembered that she had been very pale-I thought from excitement.

"And she has far too much color now," he said. He took her hand; I felt it too; it was burning with fever.

And thus suddenly came on a long and fearful illness. For three weary weeks and more she recognized no one around her. Dr. Warburton was summoned, and he used to come often. But Rolfe watched her night and day. | She called him Willie; and sometimes, when he left the room, her eyes followed him with a wistful look, as if she did not like him to be out of sight. Sometimes she would talk, incoherently indeed, but in a low, sweet voice, and in a way that showed her heart to be full of guileless, beautiful thoughts. One day Rolfe brought her in some flowers-a branch of daphne, which she particularly liked. Taking it in her thin, warm hand, "Thank you, Willie," she said, “and the next time you come, dear, bring me some leaves from the Tree of Life, which grows fast by the river of God; the leaves are for healing, you know." The tears stood in Rolfe's eyes, as was but natural. Rose saw them in a moment. "Are you ill?" she asked; "shall I do something for you? Last night the gates stood ajar, and I looked in; stoop low, Willie

per the walls were, shining jasper-stone, and the rainbow like glittering emerald; beautiful, beautiful! Where is my mother? Oh, mother! I am sick-sick." And for the first time since her illness, she wept, herself. I think there was no one else in the house but had wept for her many times. And we all prayed for her. One day, inadvertently opening the door of Martha Brent's room, I saw Martha, her face all blistered with tears. I would have retreated, but she bade me come in. "I was feeling badly," she said, "about Miss Rose, so we all do; I have been praying for her with all my might, and if that is no use I may just as well give up. I don't see that I can do any thing more;" and then she broke down again.

To this she did not reply. It was growing late, but there was a bright moon, and looking out, I saw Rolfe, who had been away all day, coming up the walk, and I went down to make tea for him. Mr. Ways, the clergyman's neph--I saw the sea of glass mingled with fire; jasew, was with him, and remained to tea; but at last he went, and then I could tell Rolfe all that had occurred during his absence. He said little in reply, and when I said, "Why, Rolfe, I thought you would care about it!" he only answered, "So I do, Olive," but his voice sounded quite different from usual. Finding him indisposed to talk with me, I bade him goodnight, and went up to our room. There I found the dear child, with her head laid on the sofa pillow, fast asleep. As I stood looking at her I felt sure, sure, that no one in all the world could care for her like ourselves, who had known her so many years, and I knelt and asked God to keep her, if it were His will, among us who so loved her. In truth, to think of her going to another country was much the same as to think of her dying. I heard Rolfe's step coming up the stairs, and going to the door beckoned him in. I feared he did not yet quite comprehend what it would be to lose her. A little while he stood looking at her, and I alternately at him and at her. I knew well he had never looked on any thing lovelier. Her long silken hair had fallen from the comb, her cheeks were flushed with a rich, beautiful crimson, and some tears that had fallen from the thick, dark lashes looked just like rain-drops on roses. Now and then a quivering motion came over her red

The fear that Rose would go away to Scotland was effectually displaced by a darker fear. How gloomily silent it had suddenly become in our home! Every voice was subdued to an undertone; the doors were opened and shut noiselessly; the front gate was effectually closed, that no chance comer might unawares break the stillness. The plash of the little waterfall, the soft rustling of the leaves, and the singing of birds, rather deepened than disturbed the hush.

A thunder-storm was gathering. For a week the air had been sultry; to-day the western sky was piled to the zenith with dense blue

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