Title: A Modern Cinderella
Author:  Louisa May Alcott



A Modern Cinderella
or The Little Old Shoe
And Other Stories





CONTENTS

A MODERN CINDERELLA: OR, THE LITTLE OLD SHOE
DEBBY'S DEBUT
BROTHERS
NELLY'S HOSPITAL




A MODERN CINDERELLA
OR,
THE LITTLE OLD SHOE

HOW IT WAS LOST
Among green New England hills stood an
ancient house, many-gabled, mossy-roofed, and
quaintly built, but picturesque and pleasant to the
eye; for a brook ran babbling through the orchard
that encompassed it about, a garden-plat stretched
upward to the whispering birches on the slope, and
patriarchal elms stood sentinel upon the lawn, as
they had stood almost a century ago, when the
Revoiution rolled that way and found them young.

One summer morning, when the air was full of
country sounds, of mowers in the meadow, black-
birds by the brook, and the low of kine upon the
hill-side, the old house wore its cheeriest aspect,
and a certain humble history began.

"Nan!"

"Yes, Di."

And a head, brown-locked, blue-eyed, soft-
featured, looked in at the open door in answer
to the call.

Just bring me the third volume of 'Wilhelm
Meister,' there's a dear.  It's hardly worth while
to rouse such a restless ghost as I, when I'm
once fairly laid."

As she spoke, Di PUlled up her black braids,
thumped the pillow of the couch where she was
lying, and with eager eyes went down the last
page of her book.

"Nan!"

"Yes, Laura," replied the girl, coming back
with the third volume for the literay cormorant,
who took it with a nod, still too content upon
the "Confessions of a Fair Saint" to remember
the failings of a certain plain sinner.

"Don't forget the Italian cream for dinner. I
depend upon it; for it's the only thing fit for me
this hot weather."

And Laura, the cool blonde, disposed the folds
of her white gown more gracefully about her, and
touched up the eyebrow of the Minerva she was
drawing.

"Little daughter!"

"Yes, father."

"Let me have plenty of clean collars in my
bag, for I must go at once; and some of you bring
me a glass of cider in about an hour;--I shall be
in the lower garden."

The old man went away into his imaginary
paradise, and Nan into that domestic purgatory
on a summer day, -- the kitchen.  There were
vines about the windows, sunshine on the floor,
and order everywhere; but it was haunted by a
cooking-stove, that family altar whence such varied
incense rises to appease the appetite of household
gods, before which such dire incantations are
pronounced to ease the wrath and woe of the priestess
of the fire, and about which often linger saddest
memories of wasted temper, time, and toil.

Nan was tired, having risen with the birds,--
hurried, having many cares those happy little
housewives never know,--and disappointed in a
hope that hourly " dwindled, peaked, and pined."
She was too young to make the anxious lines upon
her forehead seem at home there, too patient to
be burdened with the labor others should have
shared, too light of heart to be pent up  when
earth and sky were keeping a blithe holiday.  But
she was one of that meek sisterhood who, thinking
humbly of themselves, believe they are honored
by being spent in the service of less conscientious
souls, whose careless thanks seem quite
reward enough.

To and fro she went, silent and diligent, giving
the grace of willingness to every humble or distasteful
task the day had brought her; but some
malignant sprite seemed to have taken possession
of her kingdom, for rebellion broke out everywhere.
The kettles would boil over most obstreperously,--
the mutton refused to cook with the
meek alacrity to be expected from the nature of
a sheep,--the stove, with unnecessary warmth of
temper, would glow like a fiery furnace,--the
irons would scorch,--the linens would dry,--and
spirits would fail, though patience never.

Nan tugged on, growing hotter and wearier,
more hurried and more hopeless, till at last the
crisis came; for in one fell moment she tore her
gown, burnt her hand, and smutched the collar she
was preparing to finish in the most unexceptionable
style.  Then, if she had been a nervous
woman, she would have scolded; being a gentle
girl, she only "lifted up her voice and wept."

"Behold, she watereth her linen with salt tears,
and bewaileth herself because of much tribulation.
But, lo! Help cometh from afar: a strong man
bringeth lettuce wherewith to stay her, plucketh
berries to comfort her withal, and clasheth cymbals
that she may dance for joy."

The voice came from the porch, and, with her
hope fulfilled, Nan looked up to greet John Lord,
the house-friend, who stood there with a basket
on his arm; and as she saw his honest eyes, kind
lips, and helpful hands, the girl thought this plain
young man the comeliest, most welcome sight she
had beheld that day.

"How good of you, to come through all this
heat, and not to laugh at my despair!" she said,
looking up like a grateful child, as she led him in.

"I only obeyed orders, Nan; for a certain dear
old lady had a motherly presentiment that you had
got into a deomestic whirlpool, and sent me as a
sort of life-preserver. So I took the basket of
consolation, and came to fold my feet upon the carpet
of contentment in the tent of friendship."

As he spoke, John gave his own gift in his
mother's name, and bestowed himself in the wide
window-seat, where morning-glories nodded at him,
and the old butternut sent pleasant shadows
dancing to and fro.

His advent, like that of Orpheus in hades,
seemed to soothe all unpropitious powers with a
sudden spell. The Fire began to slacken. the
kettles began to lull, the meat began to
cook, the irons began to cool, the clothes began to
behave, the spirits began to rise, and the collar was
finished off with most triumphant success.  John
watched the change, and, though a lord of creation,
abased himself to take compassion on the
weaker vessel, and was seized with a great desire
to lighten the homely tasks that tried her strength
of body and soul.  He took a comprehensive
glance about the room; then, extracting a dish
from he closet, proceeded to imbrue his hands in
the strawberries' blood.

"Oh,  John, you needn't do that; I shall have
time when I've turned the meat, made the pudding
and done these things.  See, I'm getting on
finely now:--you're a judge of such matters;
isn't that nice?"

As she spole, Nan offered the polished absurdity
for inspection with innocent pride.

"Oh that I were a collar, to sit upon that
hand!" sighed John,--adding, argumentatively,

"As to the berry question, I might answer it with
a gem from Dr. Watts, relative to 'Satan' and
idle hands,' but will merely say, that, as a matter
of public safety, you'd better leave me alone; for
such is the destructiveness of my nature, that I shall
certainly eat something hurtful, break something
valuable, or sit upon something crushable, unless
you let me concentrate my energies by knocking
on these young fellows' hats, and preparing them
for their doom."

Looking at the matter in a charitable light,
Nan consented, and went cheerfully on with her
work, wondering how she could have thought
ironing an infliction, and been so ungrateful for
the blessings of her lot.

"Where's Sally?" asked John, looking vainly
for the functionary who usually pervaded
that region like a domestic police-woman, a terror
to cats, dogs, and men.

"She has gone to her cousin's funeral, and
won't be back till Monday.  There seems to be
a great fatality among her relations; for one dies,
or comes to grief in some way, about once a month.
But I don't blame poor Sally for wanting to get
away from this place now and then.  I think I
could find it in my heart to murder an imaginary
friend or two, if I had to stay here long."

And Nan laughed so blithely, it was a pleasure
to hear her.

"Where's Di?" asked John, seized with a
most unmasculine curiosity all at once.

"She is in Germany with 'Wilhelm Meister';
but, though 'lost to sight, to memory clear'; for
I was just thinking, as I did her things, how
clever she is to like all kinds of books that I don't
understand at all, and to write things that make
me cry with pride and delight.  Yes, she's a
talented dear, though she hardly knows a needle
from a crowbar, and will make herself one great
blot some of these days, when the 'divine afflatus'
descends upon her, I'm afraid."

And Nan rubbed away with sisterly zeal at
Di's forlorn hose and inky pocket-handkerchiefs.

"Where is Laura?" proceeded the inquisitor.

"Well, I might say that she was in Italy; for
she is copying some fine thing of Raphael's or
Michael Angelo's, or some great creatures or
other; and she looks so picturesque in her pretty
gown, sitting before her easel, that it's really a
sight to behold, and I've peeped two or three
times to see how she gets on."

And Nan bestirred herself to prepare the dish
Wherewith her picturesque sister desired to
prolong her artistic existence.

"Where is your father?" John asked again,
checking off each answewr with a nod and a little
frown.

"He is down in the garden, deep in some plan
about melons, the beginning of which seems to
consist in stamping the first proposition in Euclid
all over the bed, and then poking a few seeds
into the middle of each.  Why, bless the dear
man!  I forgot it was time for the cider.  Wouldn't
you like to take it to him, John? He'd love to
consult you; and the lane is so cool, it does one's
heart good to look at it."

John glanced from the steamy kitchen to the
shadowy path, and answered with a sudden assumption
of immense industry,--

"I couldn't possibly go, Nan,--I've so much
on my hands.  You'll have to do it yourself.  'Mr.
Robert of Lincoln' has something for your private
ear; and the lane is so cool, it will do one's heart
good to see you in it.  Give my regards to your
father, and, in the words of 'Little Mabel's'
mother, with slight variation,--

'Tell the dear old body
This day I cannot run,
For the pots are boiling over
And the mutton isn't done.'"

"I will; but please, John, go in to the girls and
be comfortable; for I don't like to leave you here,"
said Nan.

"You insinuate that I should pick at the pudding
or invade the cream, do you?  Ungrateful
girl, leave me!" And, with melodramatic sterness,
John extinguished her in his broad-brimmed
hat, and offered the glass like a poisoned goblet.

Nan took it, and went smiling away.  But the
lane might have been the Desert of Sahara, for
all she knew of it; and she would have passed
her father as unconcernedly as if he had been an
apple-tree, had he not called out,--

"Stand and deliver, little woman!"

She obeyed the venerable highwayman, and
followed him to and fro, listening to his plans and
directions with a mute attention that quite won
his heart.

"That hop-pole is really an ornament now,
Nan; this sage-bed needs weeding,--that's good
work for you girls; and, now I think of it, you'd
better water the lettuce in the cool of the
evening, after I'm gone."

To all of which remarks Nan gave her assent;
the hop-pole took the likeness of a tall
figure she had seen in the porch, the sage-bed,
curiously enough, suggested a strawberry ditto,
the lettuce vividly reminded her of certain vegetable
productions a basket had brought, and the
bobolink only sung in his cheeriest voice, "Go
home, go home! he is there!"

She found John--he having made a free-mason
of himself, by assuming her little apron--meditating
over the partially spread table, lost in amaze
at its desolate appearance; one half its proper paraphernalia
having been forgotten, and the other
half put on awry.  Nan laughed till the tears ran
over her cheeks, and John was gratified at the
efficacy of his treatment; for her face had brought
a whole harvest of sunshine from the garden, and
all her cares seemed to have been lost in the windings
of the lane.

"Nan, are you in hysterics?" cried Di, appearing,
book in hand. "John, you absurd man,
what are you doing?"

"I'm helpin' the maid of all work, please
marm." And John dropped a curtsy with his
limited apron.

Di looked ruffled, for the merry words were a
covert reproach; and with her usual energy of
manner and freedom of speech she tossed "Wilhelm"
out of the window, exclaiming, irefully.--

"That's always the way; I'm never where I
ought to be, and never think of anything till it's
too late; but it's all Goethe's fault.  What does
he write books full of smart 'Phillinas' and
interesting 'Meisters' for?  How can I be expected
to remember that Sally's away, and people must
eat, when I'm hearing the 'Harper' and little
'Mignon?' John, how dare you come here and
do my work, instead of shaking me and telling
me to do it myself?  Take that toasted child away,
and fan her like a Chinese mandarin, while I dish
up this dreadful dinner."

John and Nan fled like chaff before the wind,
while Di, full of remorseful zeal, charged at the
kettles, and wrenched off the potatoes' jackets,
as if she were revengefully pulling her own hair.
Laura had a vague intention of going to assist;
but, getting lost among the lights and shadows of
Minerva's helmet, forgot to appear till dinner had
been evoked from chaos and peace was restored.

At three o'clock, Di performed the coronation
ceremony with her father's best hat; Laura retied
his old-fashioned neckcloth, and arranged his white
locks with an eye to saintly effect; Nan appeared
with a beautifully written sermon, and suspicious
ink-stains on the fingers that slipped it into his
pocket; John attached himself to the bag; and the
patriarch was escorted to the door of his tent with
the triumphal procession which usually attended
his out-goings and in-comings.  Having kissed the
female portion of his tribe, he ascended the venerable
chariot, which received him with audible
lamentation, as its rheumatic joints swayed to and
fro.

"Good-bye, my dears! I shall be back early
on Monday morning; so take care of yourselves,
and be sure you all go and hear Mr. Emerboy
preach to-morrow.  My regards to your mother.
John.  Come, Solon!"

But Solon merely cocked one ear, and remained
a fixed fact; for long experience had induced the
philosophic beast to take for his motto the Yankee
maxim, "Be sure you're right, then go ahead!
He knew things were not right; therefore he did
not go ahead.

"Oh, by the way, girls, don't forget to pay
Tommy Mullein for bringing up the cow: he
expects it to-night.  And Di, don't sit up till
daylight, nor let Laura stay out in the dew.  Now, I
believe I'm off.  Come, Solon!"

But Solon only cocked the other ear, gently
agitated his mortified tail, as premonitory
symptoms of departure, and never stirred a hoof,
being well aware that it always took three "comes"
to make a "go."

"Bless me! I've forgotten my spectacles.
They are probablv shut up in that volume of
Herbert on my table.  Very awkward to find
myself without them ten miles away.  Thank you,
John.  Don't neglect to water the lettuce,
Nan, and don't overwork yourself, my little
'Martha.' Come--"

At this juncture Solon suddenly went off, like
"Mrs. Gamp," in a sort of walking swoon, apparently
deaf and blind to all mundane matters,
except the refreshments awaiting him ten miles
away; and the benign old pastor disappeared,
humming "Hebron" to the creaking accompaniment
of the bulgy chaise.

Laura retired to take her siesta; Nan made a
small carbonaro of herself by sharpening her
sister's crayons, and Di, as a sort of penance for
past sins, tried her patience over a piece of knitting,
in which she soon originated a somewhat remarkable
pattern, by dropping every third stitch, and seaming
ad libitum.  If John bad been a gentlemanly creature,
with refined tastes, he would have elevated his feet
and made a nuisance of himself by indulging in a "weed;"
but being only an uncultivated youth, with a rustic
regard for pure air and womankind in general, he kept
his head uppermost, and talked like a man, instead of
smoking like a chimney.

"It will probably be six months before I sit
here again, tangling your threads and maltreating
your needles, Nan.  How glad you must feel
to hear it!" he said, looking up from a thoughtful
examination of the hard-working little citizens
of the Industrial Community settled in Nan's
work-basket.

"No, I'm very sorry; for I like to see you
coming and going as you used to, years ago, and I
miss you very much when you are gone, John,"
answered truthful Nan, whittling away in a sadly
wasteful manner, as her thoughts flew back to the
happy times when a little lad rode a little lass in a
big wheelbarrow, and never spilt his load,--when
two brown heads bobbed daily side by side to
school, and the favorite play was "Babes in the
Wood," with Di for a somewhat peckish robin
to cover the small martyrs with any vegetable
substance that lay at hand. Nan sighed, as she
thought of these things, and John regarded the
battered thimble on his finger-tip with increased
benignity of aspect as he heard the sound.

"When are you going to make your fortune,
John, and get out of that disagreeable hardware
concern? " demanded Di, pausing after an
exciting "round," and looking almost as much
exhausted as if it had been a veritable pugilistic
encounter.

"I intend to make it by plunging still deeper
into 'that disagreeable hardware concern;' for,
next year, if the world keeps rolling, and
John Lord is alive, he will become a partner, and then
--and then--"

The color sprang up into the young man's
cheek, his eyes looked out with a sudden shine,
and his hand seemed involuntarily to close, as if
he saw and seized some invisible delight.

"What will happen then, John?" asked Nan,
with a wondering glance.

"I'll tell you in a year, Nan, wait till then."
and John's strong hand unclosed, as if the
desired good were not to be his yet.

Di looked at him, with a knitting-needle stuck
into her hair, saying, like a sarcastic unicorn,--

"I really thought you had a soul above pots
and kettles, but I see you haven't; and I beg
your pardon for the injustice I have done you."

Not a whit disturbed, John smiled, as if at some
mighty pleasant fancy of his own, as he replied,--

"Thank you, Di; and as a further proof of the
utter depravity of my nature, let me tell you that
I have the greatest possible respect for those articles
of ironmongery.  Some of the happiest hours of my
life have been spent in their society; some of my
pleasantest associations are connected with them;
some of my best lessons have come to me among
them; and when my fortune is made, I intend to
show my gratitude by taking three flat-irons
rampant for my coat of arms.

Nan laughed merrily, as she looked at the burns
on her hand; but Di elevated the most prominent
feature of her brown countenance, and sighed
despondingly,--

"Dear, dear, what a disappointing world this
is! I no sooner build a nice castle in Spain, and
settle a smart young knight therein, than down it
comes about my ears; and the ungrateful youth,
who might fight dragons, if he chose, insists on
quenching his energies in a saucepan, and making
a Saint Lawrence of himself by wasting his life
on a series of gridirons.  Ah, if I were only a man,
I would do something better than that, and prove
that heroes are not all dead yet. But, instead
of that, I'm only a woman, and must sit rasping
my temper with absurdities like this." And Di
wrestled with her knitting as if it were Fate, and
she were paying off the grudge she owed it.

John leaned toward her, saying, with a look
that made his plain face handsome,--

"Di, my father began the world as I begin
it, and left it the richer for the useful years he
spent here,--as I hope I may leave it some half-
century hence.  His memory makes that dingy
shop a pleasant place to me; for there he made an
honest name, led an honest life and bequeathed
to me his reverence for honest work.  That is a
sort of hardware, Di, that no rust can corrupt, and
which will always prove a better fortune than
any your knights can achieve with sword and
shield. I think I am not quite a clod, or quite
without some aspirations above money-getting; for
I sincerely desire that courage that makes daily
life heroic by self-denial and cheerfulness of heart;
I am eager to conquer my own rebellious nature,
and earn the confidence of innocent and upright
souls; I have a great ambition to become as good a
man and leave as good a memory behind me as
old John Lord."

Di winked violently, and seamed five times in
perfect silence; but quiet Nan had the gift of
knowing when to speak, and by a timely word
saved her sister from a thunder-shower and her
stocking from destruction.

"John, have you seen Philip since you wrote
about your last meeting with him?

The question was for John, but the soothing
tone was for Di, who gratefully accepted it, and
perked up again with speed.

"Yes; and I meant to have told you about it,"
answered John, piunging into the subject at once.

"I saw him a few days before I came home, and
found him more disconsolate than ever,--' just
ready to go to the Devil,' as he forcibly expressed
himself. I consoled the poor lad as well as I could,
telling him his wisest plan was to defer his proposed
expedition, and go on as steadily as he had
begun,--thereby proving the injustice of your
father's prediction concerning his want of perseverance,
and the sincerity of his affection.  I told him
the change in Laura's health and spirits was silently
working in his favor, and that a few more months
of persistent endeavor would conquer your father's
prejudice against him, and make him a stronger
man for the trial and the pain.  I read him bits
about Laura from your own and Di's letters, and
he went away at last as patient as Jacob ready to
serve another 'seven years' for his beloved
Rachel."

"God bless you for it, John!" cried a fervent
voice; and, looking up, they saw the cold, listless
Laura transformed into a tender girl, all aglow
with love and longing, as she dropped her mask,
and showed a living countenance eloquent with
the first passion and softened by the first grief of
her life.

John rose involuntarily in the presence of an
innocent nature whose sorrow needed no interpreter
to him.  The girl read sympathy in his
brotherly regard, and found comfort in the friendly
voice that asked, half playfully, half seriously,--

"Shall I tell him that he is not forgotten, even
for an Apollo? that Laura the artist has not
conquered Laura the woman? and predict that the
good daughter will yet prove the happy wife?"

With a gesture full of energy, Laura tore her
Minerva from top to bottom, while two great tears
rolled down the cheeks grown wan with hope
deferred.

"Tell him I believe all things, hope all things,
and that I never can forget."

Nan went to her and held her fast, leaving the
prints of two loving but grimy hands upon her
shoulders; Di looked on approvingly, for, though
stony-hearted regarding the cause, she fully
appreciated the effect; and John, turning to the
window, received the commendations of a robin
swaying on an elm-bough with sunshine on its
ruddy breast.

The clock struck five, and John declared that he
must go; for, being an old-fashioned soul, he
fancied that his mother had a better right to his
last hour than any younger woman in the land,--
always remembering that "she was a widow, and
he her only son."

Nan ran away to wash her hands, and came
back with the appearance of one who had washed
her face also: and so she had; but there was a
difference in the water.

"Play I'm your father, girls, and remember
that it will be six months before 'that John' will
trouble you again."

With which preface the young man kissed his
former playfellows as heartily as the boy had been
wont to do, when stern parents banished him to
distant schools, and three little maids bemoaned
his fate.  But times were changed now; for Di
grew alarmingly rigid during the ceremony; Laura
received the salute like a graceful queen; and Nan
returned it with heart and eyes and tender lips,
making such an improvement on the childish fashion
of the thing that John was moved to support
his paternal character by softly echoing her father's
words,--"Take care of yourself, my little
'Martha.'"

Then they all streamed after him along the
garden-path, with the endless messages and warnings
girls are so prone to give; and the young man,
with a great softness at his heart, went away, as
many another John has gone, feeling better for the
companionship of innocent maidenhood, and
stronger to wrestle with temptation, to wait and
hope and work.

"Let's throw a shoe after him for luck, as dear
old 'Mrs.  Gummage' did after 'David' and the
'willin' Barkis!' Quick, Nan! you always have
old shoes on; toss one, and shout, 'Good luck!'"
cried Di, with one of her eccentric inspirations.

Nan tore off her shoe, and threw it far along the
dusty road, with a sudden longing to become that
auspicious article of apparel, that the omen might
not fail.

Looking backward from the hill-top, John answered
the meek shout cheerily, and took in the
group with a lingering glance: Laura in the shadow
of the elms, Di perched on the fence, and Nan
leaning far over the gate with her hand above her
eyes and the sunshine touching her brown hair
with gold.  He waved his hat and turned away;
but the music seemed to die out of the blackbird's
song, and in all the summer landscape his eyes saw
nothing but the little figure at the gate.

"Bless and save us! here's a flock of people
coming; my hair is in a toss, and Nan's without
her shoe; run! fly, girls! or the Philistines will be
upon us!" cried Di, tumbling off her perch in
sudden alarm.

Three agitated young ladies, with flying draperies
and countenances of mingled mirth and dismay,
might have been seen precipitating themselves into
a respectable mansion with unbecoming haste; but
the squirrels were the only witnesses of this "vision
of sudden flight," and, being used to ground-and-lofty
tumbling, didn't mind it.

When the pedestrians passed, the door was
decorously closed, and no one visible but a young
man, who snatched something out of the road,
and marched away again, whistling with more
vigor of tone than accuracy of tune, "Only that,
and nothing more."


HOW IT WAS FOUND.

Summer ripened into autumn, and something
fairer than

"Sweet-peas and mignonette
In Annie's garden grew."

Her nature was the counterpart of the hill-side
grove, where as a child she had read her fairy
tales, and now as a woman turned the first pages
of a more wondrous legend still. Lifted above
the many-gabled roof, yet not cut off from the
echo of human speech, the little grove seemed a
green sanctuary, fringed about with violets, and
full of summer melody and bloom.  Gentle creatures
haunted it, and there was none to make
afraid; wood-pigeons cooed and crickets chirped
their shrill roundelays, anemones and lady-ferns
looked up from the moss that kissed the wanderer's
feet. Warm airs were all afloat, full of vernal
odors for the grateful sense, silvery birches
shimmered like spirits of the wood, larches gave their
green tassels to the wind, and pines made airy
music sweet and solemn, as they stood looking
heavenward through veils of summer sunshine or
shrouds of wintry snow.

Nan never felt alone now in this charmed wood;
for when she came into its precincts, once so full of
solitude, all things seemed to wear one shape,
familiar eyes looked at her from the violets in the
grass, familiar words sounded in the whisper of
the leaves, grew conscious that an unseen
influence filled the air with new delights, and
touched earth and sky with a beauty never seen
before.  Slowly these Mayflowers budded in her
maiden heart, rosily they bloomed and silently they
waited till some lover of such lowly herbs should
catch their fresh aroma, should brush away the
fallen leaves, and lift them to the sun.

Though the eldest of the three, she had long
been overtopped by the more aspiring maids.  But
though she meekly yielded the reins of government,
whenever they chose to drive, they were soon restored
to her again; for Di fell into literature, and
Laura into love.  Thus engrossed, these two forgot
many duties which even bluestockings and inamoratos
are expected to perform, and slowly all the
homely humdrum cares that housewives know
became Nan's daily life, and she accepted it without
a thought of discontent.  Noiseless and cheerful
as the sunshine, she went to and fro, doing the
tasks that mothers do, but without a mother's sweet
reward, holding fast the numberless slight threads
that bind a household tenderly together, and
making each day a beautiful success.

Di, being tired of running, riding, climbing, and
boating, decided at last to let her body rest and
put her equally active mind through what classical
collegians term "a course of sprouts."  Having
undertaken to read and know everything, she devoted
herself to the task with great energy, going
from Sue to Swedenborg with perfect impartiality,
and having different authors as children have sundry
distempers, being fractious while they lasted,
but all the better for them when once over.  Carlyle
appeared like scarlet-fever, and raged violently
for a time; for, being anything but a "passive
bucket," Di became prophetic with Mahomet,
belligerent with Cromwell, and made the French
Revolution a veritable Reign of Terror to her
family.  Goethe and Schiller alternated like fever
and ague; Mephistopheles became her hero, Joan
of Arc her model, and she turned her black eyes
red over Egmont and Wallenstein. A mild attack of
Emerson followed, during which she was lost in a
fog, and her sisters rejoiced inwardly when she
emerged informing them that

"The Sphinx was drowsy,
Her wings were furled."

Poor Di was floundering slowly to her proper
place; but she splashed up a good deal of foam by
getting out of her depth, and rather exhausted
herself by trying to drink the ocean dry.

Laura, after the "midsummer night's dream "
that often comes to girls of seventeen, woke up to
find that youth and love were no match for age and
common sense.  Philip had been flying about the
world like a thistle-down for five-and-twenty years,
generous-hearted. frank, and kind, but with never
an idea of the serious side of life in his handsome
head.  Great, therefore, were the wrath and dismay
of the enamored thistle-down, when the father
of his love mildly objected to seeing her begin the
world in a balloon with a very tender but very
inexperienced aeronaut for a guide.

"Laura is too young to 'play house' yet, and
you are too unstable to assume the part of lord
and master, Philip.  Go and prove that you have
prudence, patience, energy, and enterprise, and I
will give you my girl,--but not before. I must
seem cruel, that I may be truly kind; believe this,
and let a little pain lead you to great happiness,
or show you where you would have made a bitter
blunder."

The lovers listened, owned the truth of the old
man's words, bewailed their fate, and yielded,--
Laura for love of her father, Philip for love of her.
He went away to build a firm foundation for his
castle in the air, and Laura retired into an invisible
convent, where she cast off the world, and regarded
her sympathizing sisters throug a grate of superior
knowledge and unsharable grief. Like a devout nun, she
worshipped "St. Philip," and firmly believed in his
miraculous powers. She fancied that her woes set her
apart from common cares, and slowly fell into a dreamy
state, professing no interest in any mundane matter, but
the art that first attacted Philip. Crayons, bread-crusts,
and gray paper became glorified in Laura's eyes; and
her one pleasure was to sit pale and still before
her easel, day after day, filling her portfolios with
the faces he had once admired. Her sisters observed
that every Bacchus, Piping Faun, or Dying
Gladiator bore some likeness to a comely countenance
that heathen god or hero never owned;
and seeing this, they privately rejoiced that she
had found such solace for her grief.

Mrs. Lord's keen eye had read a certain newly
written page in her son's heart,--his first chapter
of that romance, begun in paradise, whose interest
never flags, whose beauty never fades, whose end
can never come till Love lies dead. With
womanly skill she divined the secret, with motherly
discretion she counselled patience, and her son
accepted her advice, feeling that, like many a
healthful herb, its worth lay in its bitterness.

"Love like a man, John, not like a boy, and
learn to know yourself before you take a woman's
happiness into your keeping.  You and Nan have
known each other all your lives; yet, till this last
visit, you never thought you loved her more than
any other childish friend.  It is too soon to say the
words so often spoken hastily,--so hard to be recalled.
Go back to your work, dear, for another year; think
of Nan in the light of this new hope:
compare her with comelier, gayer girls; and by
absence prove the truth of your belief.   Then,
if distance only makes her dearer, if time only
strengthens your affection, and no doubt of your
own worthiness disturbs you, come back and offer
her what any woman should be glad to take,--
my boy's true heart."

John smiled at the motherly pride of her words,
but answered with a wistful look.

"It seems very long to wait, mother.  If I could
just ask her for a word of hope, I could be very
patient then."

"Ah, my dear, better bear one year of impatience
now than a lifetime of regret hereafter. Nan
is happy; why disturb her by a word which will
bring the tender cares and troubles that come soon
enough to such conscientious creatures as herself?
If she loves you, time will prove it; therefore, let
the new affection spring and ripen as your early
friendship has done, and it will be all the stronger
for a summer's growth.  Philip was rash, and has
to bear his trial now, and Laura shares it with him.
Be more generous, John; make your trial, bear
your doubts alone, and give Nan the happiness
without the pain.  Promise me this, dear,--promise
me to hope and wait."

The young man's eye kindled, and in his heart
there rose a better chivalry, a truer valor, than any
Di's knights had ever known.

"I'll try, mother," was all he said; but she was
satisfied, for John seldom tried in vain.

"Oh, girls, how splendid you are!  It does
my heart good to see my handsome sisters in their
best array," cried Nan, one mild October night,
as she put the last touches to certain airy raiment
fashioned by her own skilful hands, and then fell
back to survey the grand effect.

"Di and Laura were preparing to assist at an
event of the season," and Nan, with her own
locks fallen on her shoulders, for want of sundry
combs promoted to her sisters' heads and her dress
in unwonted disorder, for lack of the many pins
extracted in exciting crises of the toilet, hovered
like an affectionate bee about two very full-blown
flowers.

"Laura looks like a cool Undine, with the ivy-
wreaths in her shining hair; and Di has illuminated
herself to such an extent with those scarlet leaves.
that I don't know what great creature she resembles
most," said Nan, beaming with sisterly admiration.

"Like Juno, Zenobia, and Cleopatra simmered
into one, with a touch of Xantippe by way of
spice. But, to my eye, the finest woman of the
three is the dishevelled young person embracing
the bed-post: for she stays at home herself, and
gives her time and taste to making homely people
fine,--which is a waste of good material, and an
imposition on the public."

As Di spoke, both the fashion-plates looked
affectionately at the gray-gowned figure; but, being
works of art, they were obliged to nip their feelings
in the bud, and reserve their caresses till they
returned to common life.

"Put on your bonnet, and we'll leave you at
Mrs. Lord's on our way.  It will do you good,
Nan; and perhaps there may be news from John,"
added Di, as she bore down upon the door like a
man-of-war under full sail.

"Or from Philip," sighed Laura, with a wistful
look.

Whereupon Nan persuaded herself that her
strong inclination to sit down was owing to want
of exercise, and the heaviness of her eyelids a freak
of imagination; so, speedily smoothing her ruffled
plumage, she ran down to tell her father of the new
arrangement.

"Go, my dear, by alll means. I shall be writing;
and you will be lonely if you stay.  But I
must see my girls; for I caught glimpses of certain
surprising phantoms flitting by the door."

Nan led the way, and the two pyramids revolved
before him with the rapidity of lay-figures,
much to the good man's edification: for with his
fatherly pleasure there was mingled much mild
wonderment at the amplitude of array.

"Yes, I see my geese are really swans, though
there is such a cloud between us that I feel a long
way off, and hardly know them.  But this little
daughter is always available, always my 'cricket
on the hearth.'

As he spoke, her father drew Nan closer, kissed
her tranquil face, and smiled content.

"Well, if ever I see picters, I see 'em now, and
I declare to goodness it's as interestin' as
playactin', every bit.  Miss Di with all them boughs
in her head, looks like the Queen of Sheby, when
she went a-visitin' What's-his-name; and if Miss
Laura ain't as sweet as a lally-barster figger, I
should like to know what is."

In her enthusiasm, Sally gambolled about the
girls, flourishing her milk-pan like a modern
Miriam about to sound her timbrel for excess of
joy.

Laughing merrily, the two Mont Blancs bestowed
themselves in the family ark, Nan hopped
up beside Patrick, and Solon, roused from his
lawful slumbers, morosely trundled them away.
But, looking backward with a last "Good-
night!" Nan saw her father still standing at the
door with smiling countenance, and the moonlight
falling like a benediction on his silver hair.

"Betsey shall go up the hill with you, my dear,
and here's a basket of eggs for your father.  Give
him my love, and be sure you let me know the
next time he is poorly," Mrs. Lord said, when her
guest rose to depart, after an hour of pleasant chat.

But Nan never got the gift; for, to her great
dismay, her hostess dropped the basket with a
crash, and flew across the room to meet a tall
shape pausing in the shadow of the door.  There
was no need to ask who the new-comer was; for,
even in his mother's arms, John looked over her
shoulder with an eager nod to Nan, who stood
among the ruins with never a sign of weariness in
her face, nor the memory of a care at her heart.--
for they all went out when John came in.

"Now tell us how and why and when you came.
Take off your coat, my dear!  And here are the
old slippers.  Why didn't you let us know
you were coming so soon?  How have you been?
and what makes you so late to-night?  Betsey,
you needn't put on your bonnet.  And--oh, my
dear boy, have you been to supper yet?

Mrs. Lord was a quiet soul, and her flood of
questions was purred softly in her son's ear; for,
being a woman, she must talk, and, being a mother,
must pet the one delight of her life, and make a
little festival when the lord of the manor came
home. A whole drove of fatted calves were
metaphorically killed, and a banquet appeared
with speed.

John was not one of those romantic heroes who
can go through three volumes of hair-breadth
escapes without the faintest hint of that blessed
institution, dinner; therefore, like "Lady Letherbridge,"
he partook, copiously of everything."
while the two women beamed over each mouthful
with an interest that enhanced its flavor, and urged
upon him cold meat and cheese, pickles and pie, as
if dyspepsia and nightmare were among the lost
arts.

Then he opened his budget of news and fed
them.

"I was coming next month, according to custom;
but Philip fell upon and so tempted me, that
I was driven to sacrifice myself to the cause of
friendship, and up we came to-night.  He would
not let me come here till we had seen your father,
Nan; for the poor lad was pining for Laura, and
hoped his good behavior for the past year would
satisfy his judge and secure his recall.  We had a
fine talk with your father; and, upon my life, Philip
seemed to have received the gift of tongues, for he
made a most eloquent plea, which I've stored away
for future use, I assure you.  The dear old gentleman
was very kind, told Phil he was satisfied with
the success of his probation, that he should see
Laura when he liked, and, if all went well, should
receive his reward in the spring. It must be a
delightful sensation to know you have made a
fellow-creature as happy as those words made Phil
to-night."

John paused, and looked musingly at the matronly
tea-pot, as if he saw a wondrous future in
its shine.

Nan twinkled off the drops that rose at the
thought of Laura's joy, and said, with grateful
warmth,--

"You say nothing of your own share in the
making of that happiness, John; but we know it,
for Philip has told Laura in his letters all that you
have been to him, and I am sure there was other
eloquence beside his own before father granted all
you say he has.  Oh, John, I thank you very much
for this!

Mrs. Lord beamed a whole midsummer of delight
upon her son, as she saw the pleasure these
words gave him, though he answered simply,--

"I only tried to be a brother to him, Nan; for
he has been most kind to me.  Yes, I said my little
say to-night, and gave my testimony in behalf of
the prisoner at the bar; a most merciful judge
pronounced his sentence, and he rushed straight
to Mrs. Leigh's to tell Laura the blissful news.
Just imagine the scene when he appears, and how
Di will open her wicked eyes and enjoy the spectacle
of the dishevelled lover, the bride-elect's tears,
the stir, and the romance of the thing.  She'll
cry over it to-night, and caricature it to-morrow.

And John led the laugh at the picture he had
conjured up, to turn the thoughts of Di's dangerous
sister from himself.

At ten Nan retired into the depths of her old
bonnet with a far different face from the one she
brought out of it, and John, resuming his hat,
mounted guard.

"Don't stay late, remember, John!" And in
Mrs. Lord's voice there was a warning tone that
her son interpreted aright.

"I'll not forget, mother."

And he kept his word; for though Philip's happiness
floated temptingly before him, and the little
figure at his side had never seemed so dear, he
ignored the bland winds, the tender night, and set
a seal upon his lips, thinking manfully within himself.
"I see many signs of promise in her happy
face; but I will wait and hope a little longer for
her sake."

"Where is father, Sally?" asked Nan, as that
functionary appeared, blinking owlishly, but utterly
repudiating the idea of sleep.

"He went down the garding, miss, when the
gentlemen cleared, bein' a little flustered by the
goin's on.  Shall I fetch him in?" asked Sally, as
irreverently as if her master were a bag of meal.

"No, we will go ourselves." And slowly the
two paced down the leaf-strewn walk.

Fields of yellow grain were waving on the
hill-side, and sere corn blades rustled in the wind,
from the orchard came the scent of ripening fruit,
and all the garden-plots lay ready to yield up their
humble offerings to their master's hand.  But in
the silence of the night a greater Reaper had
passed by, gathering in the harvest of a righteous
life, and leaving only tender memories for the
gleaners who had come so late.

The old man sat in the shadow of the tree his
own hands planted; its fruit boughs shone ruddily,
and its leaves still whispered the low lullaby
that hushed him to his rest.

"How fast he sleeps! Poor father! I should
have come before and made it pleasant for
him."

As she spoke, Nan lifted up the head bent down
upon his breast, and kissed his pallid cheek.

"Oh, John, this is not sleep."

"Yes, dear, the happiest he will ever
know."

For a moment the shadows flickered over three
white faces and the silence deepened solemnly.
Then John reverently bore the pale shape in, and
Nan dropped down beside it, saying, with a rain
of grateful tears,--

"He kissed me when I went, and said a last
good-night!'"

For an hour steps went to and fro about her,
many voices whispered near her, and skilful hands
touched the beloved clay she held so fast; but one
by one the busy feet passed out, one by one the
voices died away, and human skill proved vain.

Then Mrs. Lord drew the orphan to the shelter of
her arms, soothing her with the mute solace of that
motherly embrace.

"Nan, Nan! here's Philip! come and see!"
The happy call re-echoed through the house,
and Nan sprang up as if her time for grief were
past.

"I must tell them. Oh, my poor girls, how
will they bear it?--they have known so little
sorrow!"

But there was no need for her to speak; other
lips had spared her the hard task.  For, as she
stirred to meet them, a sharp cry rent the air, steps
rang upon the stairs, and two wild-eyed creatures
came into the hush of that familiar room, for the
first time meeting with no welcome from their
father's voice.

With one impulse, Di and Laura fled to Nan.
and the sisters clung together in a silent embrace,
more eloquent than words. John took his
mother by the hand, and led her from the room,
closing the door upon the sacredness of grief.

"Yes, we are poorer than we thought; but
when everything is settled, we shall get on very
well.  We can let a part of this great house, and
live quietly together until spring; then Laura will
be married, and Di can go on their travels with
them, as Philip wishes her to do.  We shall be
cared for; so never fear for us, John."

Nan said this, as her friend parted from her a
week later, after the saddest holiday he had ever
known.

"And what becomes of you, Nan?" he asked,
watching the patient eyes that smiled when
others would have wept.

"I shall stay in the dear old house; for no other
place would seem like home to me.  I shall find
some little child to love and care for, and be quite
happy till the girls come back and want me."

John nodded wisely, as he listened, and went
away prophesying within himself,--

"She shall find something more than a child to
love; and, God willing, shall be very happy till
the girls come home and--cannot have her."

Nan's plan was carried into effect.  Slowly the
divided waters closed again, and the three fell
back into their old life.  But the touch of sorrow
drew them closer; and, though invisible, a beloved
presence still moved among them, a familiar voice
still spoke to them in the silence of their softened
hearts.  Thus the soil was made ready, and in the
depth of winter the good seed was sown, was
watered with many tears, and soon sprang up
green with a promise of a harvest for their after
years.

Di and Laura consoled themselves with their
favorite employments, unconscious that Nan was
growing paler, thinner, and more silent, as the
weeks went by, till one day she dropped quietly
before them, and it suddenly became manifest that
she was utterly worn out with many cares and the
secret suffering of a tender heart bereft of the
paternal love which had been its strength and stay.

"I'm only tired, dear girls.  Don't be troubled!,
for I shall be up to-morrow," she said cheerily, as
she looked into the anxious faces bending over
her.

But the weariness was of many months' growth,
and it was weeks before that "to-morrow " came.

Laura installed herself as nurse, and her devotion
was repaid four-fold; for, sitting at her sister's
bedside, she learned a finer art than that she had
left.  Her eye grew clear to see the beauty of a
self-denying life, and in the depths of Nan's meek
nature she found the strong, sweet virtues that
made her what she was.

Then remembering that these womanly attributes were
a bride's best dowry, Laura gave herself to their
attainment, that she might become to another household
the blessing Nan had been to her own; and turning
from the worship of the goddess Beauty, she gave
her hand to that humbler and more human teacher,
Duty,--learning her lessons with a willing heart,
for Philip's sake.

Di corked her inkstand, locked her bookcase,
and went at housework as if it were a five-barred
gate; of course she missed the leap, but scrambled
bravely through, and appeared much sobered by
the exercise.  Sally had departed to sit under a
vine and fig-tree of her own, so Di had undisputed
sway; but if dish-pans and dusters had tongues,
direful would have been the history of that crusade
against frost and fire, indolence and inexperience.
But they were dumb, and Di scorned to complain,
though her struggles were pathetic to behold, and
her sisters went through a series of messes equal to
a course of "Prince Benreddin's" peppery tarts.
Reality turned Romance out of doors; for, unlike
her favorite heroines in satin and tears, or helmet
and shield, Di met her fate in a big checked apron
and dust-cap, wonderful to see; yet she wielded
her broom as stoutly as "Moll Pitcher" shouldered
her gun, and marched to her daily martyrdom in the
kitchen with as heroic a heart as the "Maid of Orleans"
took to her stake.

Mind won the victory over matter in the end,
and Di was better all her days for the tribulations
and the triumphs of that time; for she drowned her
idle fancies in her wash-tub, made burnt-offerings
of selfishness and pride, and learned the worth of
self-denial, as she sang with happy voice among
the pots and kettles of her conquered realm.

Nan thought of John, and in the stillness of her
sleepless nights prayed Heaven to keep him safe,
and make her worthy to receive and strong enough
to bear the blessedness or pain of love.

Snow fell without, and keen winds howled
among the leafless elms, but "herbs of grace"
were blooming beautifully in the sunshine of
sincere endeavor, and this dreariest season proved the
most fruitful of the year; for love taught Laura,
labor chastened Di, and patience fitted Nan for the
blessing of her life.

Nature, that stillest, yet most diligent of housewives,
began at last that "spring cleaning" which
she makes so pleasant that none find the heart to
grumble as they do when other matrons set their
premises a-dust.  Her hand-maids, wind and rain
and sun, swept, washed, and garnished busily,
green carpets were unrolled, apple-boughs were
hung with draperies of bloom, and dandelions, pet
nurslings of the year, came out to play upon the
sward.

From the South returned that opera troupe
whose manager is never in despair, whose tenor
never sulks, whose prima donna never fails, and
in the orchard bona fide matinees were held, to
which buttercups and clovers crowded in their
prettiest spring hats, and verdant young blades
twinkled their dewy lorgnettes, as they bowed and
made way for the floral belles.

May was bidding June good-morrow, and the
roses were just dreaming that it was almost time to
wake, when John came again into the quiet room
which now seemed the Eden that contained his
Eve. Of course there was a jubilee; but something
seemed to have befallen the whole group, for
never had they appeared in such odd frames of
mind.  John was restless, and wore an excited
look, most unlike his usual serenity of aspect.

Nan the cheerful had fallen into a well of
silence and was not to be extracted by any
Hydraulic power, though she smiled like the June sky
over her head.  Di's peculiarities were out in full
force, and she looked as if she would go off like a
torpedo at a touch; but through all her moods
there was a half-triumphant, half-remorseful
expression in the glance she fixed on John.  And
Laura, once so silent, now sang like a blackbird,
as she flitted to and fro; but her fitful song was
always, "Philip, my king."

John felt that there had come a change upon
the three, and silently divined whose unconscious
influence had wrought the miracle.  The embargo
was off his tongue, and he was in a fever to ask
that question which brings a flutter to the stoutest
heart; but though the "man" had come, the
"hour" had not.  So, by way of steadying his
nerves, he paced the room, pausing often to take
notes of his companions, and each pause seemed to
increase his wonder and content.

He looked at Nan.  She was in her usual place,
the rigid little chair she loved, because it once
was large enough to hold a curly-headed
playmate and herself.  The old work-basket was at
her side, and the battered thimble busily at work;
but her lips wore a smile they had never worn be-
fore, the color of the unblown roses touched her
cheek, and her downcast eyes were full of light.

He looked at Di.  The inevitable book was on
her knee, but its leaves were uncut; the strong-
minded knob of hair still asserted its supremacy
aloft upon her head, and the triangular jacket still
adorned her shoulders in defiance of all fashions,
past, present, or to come; but the expression of her
brown countenance had grown softer, her tongue
had found a curb, and in her hand lay a card with
"Potts, Kettel & Co." inscribed thereon, which
she regarded with never a scornful word for the
Co."

He looked at Laura.  She was before her easel
as of old; but the pale nun had given place to a
blooming girl, who sang at her work, which was
no prim Pallas, but a Clytie turning her human
face to meet the sun.

"John, what are you thinking of?"

He stirred as if Di's voice had disturbed his
fancy at some pleasant pastime, but answered with
his usual sincerity,--

"I was thinking of a certain dear old fairy tale
called 'Cinderella.'"

"Oh!" said Di; and her "Oh" was a most
impressive monosyllable.  "I see the meaning of
your smile now; and though the application of the
story is not very complimentary to all parties
concerned, it is very just and very true."

She paused a moment, then went on with softened
voice and earnest mien:--

"You think I am a blind and selfish creature.
So I am, but not so blind and selfish as I have
been; for many tears have cleared my eyes, and
much sincere regret has made me humbler than I
was. I have found a better book than any father's
library can give me, and I have read it with
a love and admiration that grew stronger as I
turned the leaves. Henceforth I take it for my
guide and gospel, and, looking back upon the
selfish and neglectful past, can only say, Heaven
bless your dear heart, Nan!"

Laura echoed Di's last words; for, with eyes
as full of tenderness, she looked down upon the
sister she had lately learned to know, saying,
warmly,--

"Yes, 'Heaven bless your dear heart, Nan!'
I never can forget all you have been to me; and
when I am far away with Philip, there will always
be one countenance more beautiful to me
than any pictured face I may discover, there will
be one place more dear to me than Rome.  The
face will be yours, Nan, always so patient, always
so serene; and the dearer place will be this home of
ours, which you have made so pleasant to me all
these years by kindnesses as numberless and
noiseless as the drops of dew."

"Dear girls, what have I ever done, that you
should love me so?" cried Nan, with happy
wonderment, as the tall heads, black and golden,
bent to meet the lowly brown one, and her sisters'
mute lips answered her.

Then Laura looked up, saying, playfully,--

"Here are the good and wicked sisters;-where
shall we find the Prince? "

"There!" cried Di, pointing to John; and
then her secret went off like a rocket; for, with her
old impetuosity, she said,--

"I have found you out, John, and am ashamed
to look you in the face, remembering the past.
Girls, you know when father died, John sent us
money, which he said Mr. Owen had long owed
us and had paid at last?  It was a kind lie, John,
and a generous thing to do; for we needed it, but
never would have taken it as a gift.  I know you
meant that we should never find this out; but
yesterday I met Mr. Owen returning from the
West, and when I thanked him for a piece of justice
we had not expected of him, he gruffly told me
he had never paid the debt, never meant to pay it,
for it was outlawed, and we could not claim a
farthing.  John, I have laughed at you, thought
you stupid, treated you unkindly; but I know you
now, and never shall forget the lesson you have
taught me.  I am proud as Lucifer, but I ask you
to forgive me, and I seal my real repentance so--
and so."

With tragic countenance, Di rushed across the
room, threw both arms about the astonished young
man's neck and dropped an energetic kiss upon his
cheek.  There was a momentary silence; for Di
finally illustrated her strong-minded theories by
crying like the weakest of her sex.  Laura, with "the
ruling passion strong in death," still tried to draw,
but broke her pet crayon, and endowed her Clytie
with a supplementary orb, owing to the dimness of
her own.  And Nan sat with drooping eyes, that
shone upon her work, thinking with tender pride,--
They know him now, and love him for his generous heart."

Di spoke first, rallying to her colors, though a
little daunted by her loss of self-control.

"Don't laugh, John,--I couldn't help it; and
don't think I'm not sincere, for I am,--I am; and
I will prove it by growing good enough to be your
friend.  That debt must all be paid, and I shall
do it; for I'll turn my books and pen to some
account, and write stories full of clear old souls like
you and Nan; and some one, I know, will like and
buy them, though they are not 'works of Shakespeare.'
I've thought of this before, have felt I
had the power in me; now I have the motive, and
now I'll do it."

If Di had Proposed to translate the Koran, or
build a new Saint Paul's, there would have been
many chances of success; for, once moved, her
will, like a battering-ram, would knock down the
obstacles her wits could not surmount.  John
believed in her most heartily, and showed it, as he
answered, looking into her resolute face,--

"I know you will, and yet make us very proud
of our 'Chaos,' Di.  Let the money lie, and when
you have a fortune, I'll claim it with enormous
interest; but, believe me, I feel already doubly
repaid by the esteem so generously confessed, so
cordially bestowed, and can only say, as we used
to years ago,--'Now let's forgive and so forget."

But proud Di would not let him add to her obligation,
even by returning her impetuous salute;
she slipped away, and, shaking off the last drops,
answered with a curious mixture of old freedom
and new respect,--

"No more sentiment, please, John.  We know
each other now; and when I find a friend, I never
let him go.  We have smoked the pipe of peace;
so let us go back to our wigwams and bury the
feud.  Where were we when I lost my head? and
what were we talking about?"

"Cinderella and the Prince."

As she spoke, John's eye kindled, and, turning,
he looked down at Nan, who sat diligently ornamenting
with microscopic stitches a great patch
going on, the wrong side out.

"Yes,--so we were; and now taking pussy for
the godmother, the characters of the story are well
personated,--all but the slipper," said Di, laughing,
as she thought of the many times they had
played it together years ago.

A sudden movement stirred John's frame, a
sudden purpose shone in his countenance, and a
sudden change befell his voice, as he said,
producing from some hiding-place a little
wornout shoe,--

"I can supply the slipper;--who will try it
first?"

Di's black eyes opened wide, as they fell on
the familiar object; then her romance-loving nature
saw the whole plot of that drama which needs but
two to act it. A great delight flushed up
into her face, as she promptly took her cue, saying--

" No need for us to try it, Laura; for it wouldn't
fit us, if our feet were as small as Chinese dolls;
our parts are played out; therefore 'Exeunt
wicked sisters to the music of the wedding-bells.'"

And pouncing upon the dismayed artist, she swept
her out and closed the door with a triumphant
bang.

John went to Nan, and, dropping on his knee as
reverently as the herald of the fairy tale, he asked,
still smiling, but with lips grown tremulous,--

"Will Cinderella try the little shoe, and--if
it fits--go with the Prince?"

But Nan only covered up her face, weeping
happy tears, while all the weary work strayed
down upon the floor, as if it knew her holiday had
come.

John drew the hidden face still closer, and while
she listened to his eager words, Nan heard the
beating of the strong man's heart, and knew it
spoke the truth.

"Nan, I promised mother to be silent till I was
sure I loved you wholly,--sure that the knowledge
would give no pain when I should tell it, as I am
trying to tell it now.  This little shoe has been mv
comforter through this long year, and I have kept
it as other lovers keep their fairer favors. It has
been a talisman more eloquent to me than flower
or ring; for, when I saw how worn it was, I always
thought of the willing feet that came and went for
others' comfort all day long; when I saw the little
bow you tied, I always thought of the hands so
diligent in serving any one who knew a want or
felt a pain; and when I recalled the gentle creature
who had worn it last, I always saw her patient,
tender, and devout,--and tried to grow more
worthy of her, that I might one day dare to ask
if she would walk beside me all my life and be my
'angel in the house.' Will you, dear?  Believe
me, you shall never know a weariness or grief I
have the power to shield you from."

Then Nan, as simple in her love as in her life,
laid her arms about his neck, her happy face against
his own, and answered softly,--

"Oh, John, I never can be sad or tired any
more!"


DEBBY'S DEBUT.

On a cheery June day Mrs. Penelope Carroll
and her niece Debby Wilder, were whizzing along
on their way to a certain gay watering-place, both
in the best of humors with each other and all the
world beside.  Aunt Pen was concocting sundry
mild romances, and laying harmless plots for the
pursuance of her favorite pastime, match-making;
for she had invited her pretty relative to join her
summer jaunt, ostensibly that the girl might see a
little of fashionable life, but the good lady secretly
proposed to herself to take her to the beach and
get her a rich husband, very much as she would
have proposed to take her to Broadway and get her
a new bonnet: for both articles she considered
necessary, but somewhat difficult for a poor girl
to obtain.

Debby was slowly getting her poise, after the
excitement of a first visit to New York; for ten
days of bustle had introduced the young philosopher
to a new existence, and the working-day
world seemed to have vanished when she made her
last pat of butter in the dairy at home.  For an
hour she sat thinking over the good-fortune which
had befallen her, and the comforts of this life which
she had suddenly acquired. Debby was a true
girl, with all a girl's love of ease and pleasure;
it must not be set down against her that she
surveyed her pretty travelling-suit with much
complacency, rejoicing inwardly that she could use
her hands without exposing fractured gloves, that
her bonnet was of the newest mode, needing no
veil to hide a faded ribbon or a last year's shape,
that her dress swept the ground with fashionable
untidiness, and her boots were guiltless of a patch,
--that she was the possessor of a mine of wealth
in two of the eight trunks belonging to her aunt,
that she was travelling like any lady of the land
with man- and maid-servant at her command, and
that she was leaving work and care behind her for
a month or two of novelty and rest.

When these agreeable facts were fully realized,
and Aunt Pen had fallen asleep behind her veil,
Debby took out a book, and indulged in her favorite
luxury, soon forgetting past, present, and future
in the inimitable history of Martin Chuzzlewit.
The sun blazed, the cars rattled, children
cried, ladies nodded, gentlemen longed for the
solace of prohibited cigars, and newspapers were
converted into sun-shades, nightcaps, and fans;
but Debby read on, unconscious of all about her,
even of the pair of eves that watched her from the
Opposite corner of the car.  A Gentleman with a
frank, strong-featured face sat therin, and amused
himself by scanning with thoughtful gaze the
countenances of his fellow-travellers.  Stout Aunt Pen,
dignified even in her sleep, was a "model of deportment"
to the rising generation; but the student
of human nature found a more attractive subject in
her companion, the girl with an apple-blossom face
and merry brown eyes, who sat smiling into her
book, never heeding that her bonnet was awry,
and the wind taking unwarrantable liberties with
her ribbons and her hair.

Innocent Debby turned her pages, unaware that
her fate sat opposite in the likeness of a serious,
black-bearded gentleman, who watched the smiles
rippling from her lips to her eyes with an interest
that deepened as the minutes passed.  If his paper
had been full of anything but "Bronchial
Troches" and "Spalding's Prepared Glue," he
would have found more profitable employment;
but it wasn't, and with the usual readiness of idle
souls he fell into evil ways, and permitted curiosity,
that feminine sin, to enter in and take possession
of his manly mind. A great desire seized him to
discover what book his pretty neighbor;
but a cover hid the name, and he was too
distant to catch it on the fluttering leaves. Presently
a stout Emerald-Islander, with her wardrobe
oozing out of sundry paper parcels, vacated the
seat behind the two ladies; and it was soon quietly
occupied by the individual for whom Satan was
finding such indecorous employment.  Peeping
round the little gray bonnet, past a brown braid
and a fresh cheek, the young man's eye fell upon
the words the girl was reading, and forgot to look
away again.  Books were the desire of his life;
but an honorable purpose and an indomitable will
kept him steady at his ledgers till he could feel
that he had earned the right to read.  Like wine to
many another was an open page to his; he read a
line, and, longing for more, took a hasty sip from
his neighbor's cup, forgetting that it was a
stranger's also.

Down the page went the two pairs of eyes,
and the merriment from Debby's seemed to light
up the sombre ones behind her with a sudden shine
that softened the whole face and made it very
winning.  No wonder they twinkled, for Elijah
Pogram spoke, and "Mrs. Hominy, the mother
of the modern Gracchi, in the classical blue cap
and the red cotton pocket-handkerchief, came
down the room in a procession of one." A low
laugh startled Debby, though it was smothered
like the babes in the Tower; and, turning, she
beheld the trespasser scarlet with confusion, and
sobered with a tardy sense of his transgression.
Debby was not a starched young lady of the
"prune and prism" school, but a frank, free-
hearted little body, quick to read the sincerity of
others, and to take looks and words at their real
value.  Dickens was her idol; and for his sake she
could have forgiven a greater offence than this.

The stranger's contrite countenance and respecttul
apology won her good-will at once; and with
a finer courtesy than any Aunt Pen would have
taught, she smilingly bowed her pardon, and,
taking another book from her basket, opened it,
saying, pleasantly,--

"Here is the first volume if you like it, Sir.  I
can recommend it as an invaluable consolation for
the discomforts of a summer day's journey, and it
is heartily at your service."

As much surprised as gratified, the gentleman
accepted the book, and retired behind it with the
sudden discovery that wrongdoing has its compensation
in the pleasurable sensation of being forgiven.
Stolen delights are well known to be specially
saccharine: and much as this pardoned sinner loved
books, it seemed to him that the interest
of the story flagged, and that the enjoyment of
reading was much enhanced by the proximity of a
gray bonnet and a girlish profile. But Dickens
soon proved more powerful than Debby, and she was
forgotten, till, pausing to turn a leaf, the young
man met her shy glance, as she asked, with the
pleased expression of a child who has shared an
apple with a playmate,--

"Is it good?"

"Oh, very!"--and the man looked as honestly
grateful for the book as the boy would have done
for the apple.

Only five words in the conversation, but Aunt
Pen woke, as if the watchful spirit of propriety had
roused her to pluck her charge from the precipice
on which she stood.

"Dora, I'm astonished at you! Speaking to
strangers in that free manner is a most unladylike
thing.  How came you to forget what I have told
you over and over again about a proper reserve?"
The energetic whisper reached the gentleman's
ear, and he expected to be annihilated with a look
when his offence was revealed; but he was spared
that ordeal, for the young voice answered,
softly,--

"Don't faint, Aunt Pen: I only did as I'd be
done by; for I had two books, and the poor man
looked so hungry for something to read that I
couldn't resist sharing my 'goodies.' He will see
that I'm a countrified little thing in spite of my
fine feathers, and won't be shocked at my want of
rigidity and frigidity; so don't look dismal, and I'll
be prim and proper all the rest of the way,--if I
don't forget it."

"I wonder who he is; may belong to some of our
first families, and in that case it might be worth
while to exert ourselves, you know. Did you
learn his name, Dora? " whispered the elder lady.

Debby shook her head, and murmured, "Hush!"--but
Aunt Pen had heard of matches being made in cars as
well as in heaven; and as an experienced general,
it became her to reconnoitre, when one of the enemy
approached her camp. Slightly altering her position,
she darted an all-comprehensive glance at the invader,
who seemed entirely absorbed, for not an eyelash stirred
during the scrutiny. It lasted but an instant, yet in
that instant he was weighed and found wanting; for
that experienced eye detected that his cravat was
two inches wider than fashion ordained, that his
coat was not of the latest style, that his gloves
were mended, and his handkerchief neither cambric
nor silk.  That was enough, and sentence was
passed forthwith,--"Some respectable clerk,
good-looking, but poor, and not at all the thing
for Dora"; and Aunt Pen turned to adjust a
voluminous green veil over her niece's bonnet,
"To shield it from the dust, dear," which process
also shielded the face within from the eye of man.

A curious smile, half mirthful, half melancholy,
passed over their neighbor's lips; but his peace of
mind seemed undisturbed, and he remained buried
in his book Till they reached -----, at dusk.  As he
returned it, he offered his services in procuring a
carriage or attending to luggage; but Mrs. Carroll,
with much dignity of aspect, informed him that her
servants would attend to those matters, and, bowing
gravely, he vanished into the night.

As they rolled away to the hotel, Debby was
wild to run down to the beach whence came the
solemn music of the sea, making the twilight
beautiful.  But Aunt Pen was too tired to do
anything but sup in her own apartment and go
early to bed; and Debby might as soon have
proposed to walk up the great Pyramid as to make
her first appearance without that sage matron to
mount guard over her; so she resigned herself to
pie and patience, and fell asleep, wishing it were
to-morrow.

At five, a. m., a nightcapped head appeared
at one of the myriad windows of the ----- Hotel,
and remained there as if fascinated by the miracle
of sunrise over the sea.  Under her simplicity of
character and girlish merriment Debby possessed a
devout spirit and a nature full of the real poetry of
life, two gifts that gave her dawning womanhood
its sweetest charm, and made her what she was.
As she looked out that summer dawn upon the
royal marriage of the ocean and the sun, all petty
hopes and longings faded out of sight, and her
young face grew luminous with thoughts too deep
for words.  Her day was happier for that silent
hour, her life richer for the aspirations that uplifted
her like beautiful strong angels, and left a blessing
when they went.  The smile of the June sky
touched her lips, the morning red seemed to linger
on her cheek, and in her eye arose a light kindled
by the shimmer of that broad sea of gold; for
Nature rewarded her young votary well, and gave
her beauty, when she offered love.  How long she
leaned there Debby did not know; steps from below
roused her from her reverie, and led her back
into the world again.  Smiling at herself, She stole
to bed, and lay wrapped in waking dreams as
changeful as the shadows. ancing on her charnber-
wall.

The advent of her aunt's maid, Victorine, some
two hours later, was the signal to be "up and
doing"; and she meekly resigned herself into the
hands of that functionary, who appeared to regard
her in the light of an animated pin-cushion, as she
performed the toilet-ceremonies with an absorbed
aspect, which impressed her subject with a sense
of the solemnity of the occasion.

"Now, Mademoiselle, regard yourself, and
pronounce that you are ravishing" Victorine said
at length, folding her hands with a sigh of
satisfaction, as she fell back in an attitude of
serene triumph.

Debby robeyed, and inspected herself with great
interest and some astonishment; for there was a
sweeping amplitude of array about the young
lady whom she beheld in the much-befrilled gown
and embroidered skirts, which somewhat alarmed
her as to the navigation of a vessel "with such a
spread of sail," while a curious sensation of being
somebody else pervaded her from the crown of
her head, with its shining coils of hair, to the soles
of the French slippers, whose energies seemed to
have been devoted to the production of marvellous
rosettes.

"Yes, I look very nice, thank you; and yet I
feel like a doll, helpless and fine, and fancy I was
more of a woman in my fresh gingham, with a knot
of clovers in my hair, than I am now.  Aunt Pen
was very kind to get me all these pretty things;
but I'm afraid my mother would look horrified to
see me in such a high state of flounce externally
and so little room to breath internally."

"Your mamma would not flatter me, Mademoiselle;
but come now to Madame; she is waiting to behold
you, and I have yet her toilet to make "; and,
with a pitying shrug, Victorine followed Debby
to her aunt's room.

"Charming! really elegant!" cried that lady,
emerging from her towel with a rubicund visage.

"Drop that braid half an inch lower, and pull the
worked end of her handkerchief out of the right-hand
pocket, Vic.  There! Now, Dora, don't run about and
get rumpled, but sit quietly down and practice repose
till I am ready."

Debby obeyed, and sat mute, with the air of
a child in its Sunday-best on a week-day, pleased
with the novelty, but somewhat oppressed with the
responsibility of such unaccustomed splendor, and
uttefly unable to connect any ideas of repose with
tight shoes and skirts in a rampant state of starch.


"Well, you see, I bet on Lady Gay against
Cockadoodle, and if you'll believe me -- Hullo!
there's Mrs. Carroll, and deuse take me if she
hasn't got a girl with her!  Look, Seguin!"--
and Joe Leavenworth, a "man of the world,"
aged twenty, paused in his account of an exciting
race to make the announcement.

Mr. Seguin, his friend and Mentor, as much his,
senior in worldly wickedness as in years, tore himself
from his breakfast long enough to survey the
new-comers, and then returned to it, saying,
briefly,--

"The old lady is worth cultivating,--gives
good suppers, and thanks you for eating them.
The girl is well got up, but has no style, and
blushes like a milkmaid.  Better fight shy of her,
Joe."

"Do you think so?  Well, now I rather fancy
that kind of thing.  She's new, you,see, and I get
on with that sort of girl the best, for the old ones
are so deused knowing that a fellow has no chance
of a -- By the Lord Harry, she's eating bread
and milk!"

Young Leavenworth whisked his glass into his
eye, and Mr. Seguin put down his roll to behold
the phenomenon.  Poor Debby! her first step had
been a wrong one.

All great minds have their weak points.  Aunt
Pen's was her breakfast, and the peace of her
entire day depended upon the success of that meal.
Therefore, being down rather late, the worthy
lady concentrated her energies upon the achievement
of a copious repast, and, trusting to former
lessons, left Debby to her own resources for a few
fatal moments. After the flutter occasioned by
being scooped into her seat by a severe-nosed
waiter, Debby had only courage enough left to
refuse tea and coffee and accept milk.  That being
done, she took the first familiar viand that appeared,
and congratulated herself upon being able
to get her usual breakfast. With returning composure,
she looked about her and began to  enjoy
the buzz of voices, the clatter of knives and forks,
and the long lines of faces all intent upon the business
of the hour; but her peace was of short duration.
Pausing for a fresh relay of toast, Aunt
Pen glanced toward her niece with the comfortable
conviction that her appearance was highly creditable;
and her dismay can be imagined, when she
beheld that young lady placidly devouring a great
cup of brown-bread and milk before the eyes of the
assembled multitude.  The poor lady choked
in her coffee, and between her gasps whispered
irefully behind her napkin,--

"For Heaven's sake, Dora, put away that
mess! The Ellenboroughs are directly opposite,
watching everything you do.  Eat that omelet, or
anything respectable, unless you want me to die of
mortification."

Debby dropped her spoon, and, hastily helping
herself from the dish her aunt pushed toward her,
consumed the leathery compound with as much
grace as she could assume, though unable to
repress a laugh at Aunt Pen's disturbed countenance.
There was a slight lull in the clatter, and the blithe
sound caused several heads to turn toward the
quarter whence it came, for it was as unexpected
and pleasant a sound as a bobolink's song in a cage
of shrill-voiced canaries.

"She's a jolly little thing and powerful pretty,
so deuse take me if I don't make up to the old lady
and find out who the girl is.  I've been introduced
to Mrs. Carroll at our house: but I suppose she
won't remember me till I remind her."

The "deuse" declining to accept of his repeated
offers (probably because there was still too
much honor and honesty in the boy,) young
Leavenworth sought out Mrs. Carroll on the
Piazza, as she and Debby were strolling there an
hour later.

"Joe Leavenworth, my dear, from one of our
first families,--very wealthy,--fine match,--pray,
be civil,--smooth your hair, hold back your shoulders,
and put down your parasol," murmured
Aunt Pen, as the gentleman approached with as
much pleasure in his countenance as it was consistent
with manly dignity to express upon meeting
two of the inferior race.

"My niece, Miss Dora Wilder.  This is her
first season at the beach, and we must endeavor to
make it pleasant for her, or she will be getting
homesick and running away to mamma," said Aunt Pen,
in her society-tone, after she had returned his
greeting, and perpetrated a polite fiction,
by declaring that she remembered him perfectly,
for he was the image of his father.

Mr. Leavenworth brought the heels of his varnished
boots together with a click, and executed the latest
bow imported, then stuck his glass in his eye and stared
till it fell out, (the glass, not the eye,) upon which
he fell into step with them, remarking,--

"I shall be most happy to show the lions: they
are deused tame ones, so you needn't be alarmed.
Miss Wilder."

Debby was good-natured enough to laugh; and,
elated with that success, he proceeded to pour
forth his stores of wit and learning in true collegian
style, quite unconscious that the "jolly little thing"
was looking him through and through with the
smiling eyes that were producing such pleasurable
sensations under the mosaic studs.  They strolled
toward the beach, and, meeting an old acquaintance,
Aunt Pen fell behind, and beamed upon the
young pair as if her prophetic eye even at this early
stage beheld them walking altarward in a proper
state of blond white vest and bridal awkwardness.

"Can you skip a stone, Mr. Leavenworth?
asked Debby, possessed with a mischievous desire
to shock the piece of elegance at her side.

"Eh? what's that? " he inquired, with his
head on one side, like an inquisitive robin.

Debby repeated her question, and illustrated it
by sending a stone skimming over the water in the
most scientific manner.  Mr. Joe was painfully
aware that this was not at all "the thing," that his
sisters never did so, and that Seguin would laugh
confoundedly, if he caught him at it; but Debby
looked so irresistibly fresh and pretty under her
rose-lined parasol that he was moved to confess
that he had done such a thing, and to sacrifice his
gloves by poking in the sand, that he might indulge
in a like unfashionable pastime.

"You'll be at the hop to-night, I hope, Miss
Wilder," he observed, introducing a topic suited
to a young lady's mental capacity.

"Yes, indeed; for dancing is one of the joys of
my life, next to husking and making hay"; and
Debby polked a few steps along the beach, much
to the edification of a pair of old gentlemen,
serenely taking their first constitutional."

"Making what? " cried Mr. Joe, poking after
her.

"Hay; ah, that is the pleasantest fun in the
world,--and better exercise, my mother says, for
soul and body, than dancing till dawn in crowded
rooms, with everything in a state of unnatural
excitement.  If one wants real merriment, let him go
into a new-mown field, where all the air is full of
summer odors, where wild-flowers nod along the
walls, where blackbirds make finer music than any
band, and sun and wind and cheery voices do their
part, while windrows rise, and great loads go
rumbling through the lanes with merry brown faces
atop.  Yes, much as I like dancing, it is not to be
compared with that; for in the one case we shut
out the lovely world, and in the other we become
a part of it, till by its magic labor turns to poetry,
and we harvest something better than dried buttercups
and grass."

As she spoke, Debby looked up, expecting to
meet a glance of disapproval; but something in the
simple earnestness of her manner had recalled
certain boyish pleasures as innocent as they were
hearty, which now contrasted very favorably with
the later pastimes in which fast horses, and that
lower class of animals, fast men, bore so large a
part.  Mr. Joe thoughtfully punched five holes in
the sand, and for a moment Debby liked the expression
of his face; then the old listlessness returned,
and, looking up, he said, with an air of
ennui that was half sad, half ludicrous, in one so
young and so generously endowed with youth,
health, and the good gifts of this life,--

"I used to fancy that sort of thing years ago,
but I'm afraid I should find it a little slow now,
though you describe it in such an inviting manner
that I would be tempted to try it, if a hay-cock
came in my way; for, upon my life, it's deused
heavy work loafing about at these watering-places
all summer.  Between ourselves, there's a deal of
humbug about this kind of life, as you will find,
when you've tried it as long as I have."

"Yes, I begin to think so already; but perhaps
you can give me a few friendly words of warning
from the stones of your experience, that I may be
spared the pain of saying what so many look,--
'Grandma, the world is hollow; my doll is stuffed
with sawdust; and I should 'like to go into a
convent, if you please.'"

Debby's eyes were dancing with merriment;
but they were demurely down-cast, and her voice
was perfectly serious.

The milk of human kindness had been slightly
curdled for Mr. Joe by sundry college-tribulations;
and having been "suspended," he very naturally
vibrated between the inborn jollity of his
temperament and the bitterness occasioned by his wrongs.

He had lost at billiards the night before, had been
hurried at breakfast, had mislaid his cigar-case,
and splashed his boots; consequently the darker
mood prevailed that morning, and when his counsel
was asked, he gave it like one who bad known
the heaviest trials of this "Piljin Projiss of a
wale."

"There's no justice in the world, no chance
for us young people to enjoy ourselves, without
some penalty to pay, some drawback to worry us
like these confounded 'all-rounders.' Even here,
where all seems free and easy, there's no end of
gossips and spies who tattle and watch till you feel
as if you lived in a lantern. 'Every one for himself,
and the Devil take the hindmost'; that's the
principle they go on, and you have to keep your
wits about you in the most exhausting manner, or
you are done for before you know it.  I've seen a
good deal of this sort of thing, and hope you'll get
on better than some do, when it's known that you
are the rich Mrs. Carroll's niece; though you don't
need that fact to enhance your charms,--upon my
life, you don't."

Debby laughed behind her parasol at this burst
of candor; but her independent nature prompted
her to make a fair beginning, in spite of Aunt
Pen's polite fictions and well-meant plans.

" Thank you for your warning, but I don't
apprehend much annoyance of that kind," she said,
demurely.  "Do you know, I think, if young
ladies were truthfully labelled when they went into
society, it would be a charming fashion, and save a
world of trouble? Something in this style:--
'Arabella Marabout, aged nineteen, fortune
$100,000, temper warranted'; 'Laura Eau-de-Cologne,
aged twenty-eight, fortune $30,000,
temper slightly damaged'; Deborah Wilder,
aged eighteen, fortune, one pair of hands, one head,
indifferently well filled, one heart, (not in the
market,) temper decided, and no expectations.'
There, you see, that would do away with much of
the humbug you lament, and we poor souls would
know at once whether we were sought for our fortunes
or ourselves, and that would be so comfortable!"

Mr. Leavenworth turned away, with a convicted sort
of expression, as she spoke, and, making
a spyglass of his hand, seemed to be watching
something out at sea with absorbing interest.  He
had been guilty of a strong desire to discover
whether Debby was an heiress, but had not expected
to be so entirely satisfied on that important
subject, and was dimly conscious that a keen eye
had seen his anxiety, and a quick wit devised a
means of setting it at rest forever.  Somewhat
disconcerted, he suddenly changed the conversation,
and, like many another distressed creature, took to
the water, saying briskly,--

"By-the-by, Miss Wilder, as I've engaged to
do the honors, shall I have the pleasure of bathing
with you when the fun begins?  As you are fond
of hay-making, I suppose you intend to pay your
respects to the old gentleman with the three-
pronged pitchfork?"

"Yes, Aunt Pen means to put me through a course
of salt water, and any instructions in the art
of navigation will be gratefully received; for I
never saw the ocean before, and labor under a
firm conviction, that, once in, I never shall come
out again till I am brought, like Mr. Mantilini, a
'damp, moist, unpleasant body.'"

As Debby spoke, Mrs. Carroll hove in sight,
coming down before the wind with all sails set, and
signals of distress visible long before she dropped
anchor and came along-side.  The devoted woman
had been strolling slowly for the girl's sake, though
oppressed with a mournful certainty that her most
prominent feature was fast becoming a fine copper-
color; yet she had sustained herself like a Spartan
matron, till it suddenly occurred to her that her
charge might be suffering a like

"sea-change
Into something rich and strange."

Her fears, however, were groundless, for Debby
met her without a freckle, looking all the better
for her walk; and though her feet were wet with
chasing the waves, and her pretty gown the worse
for salt water, Aunt Pen never chid her for the
destruction of her raiment, nor uttered a warning
word against an unladylike exuberance of spirits,
but replied to her inquiry most graciously,--

"Certainly, my love, we shall bathe at eleven,
and there will be just time to get Victorine and our
dresses; so run on to the house, and I will join you
as soon as I have finished what I am saying to
Mrs. Earl,"--then added, in a stage-aside, as she
put a fallen lock off the girl's forehead, "You are
doing beautifully!  He is evidently struck; make
yourself interesting, and don't burn your nose, I
beg of you."

Debby's bright face clouded over, and she
wakked on with so much stateliness that her escort
wondered " what the deuse the old lady had done
to her," and exerted himself to the utmost to recall
her merry mood, but with indifferent success.


"Now I begin to feel more like myself, for this
is getting back to first principles, though I fancy I
look like the little old woman who fell asleep on
the king's highway and woke up with abbreviated
drapery; and you look funnier still, Aunt Pen,"
said Debby, as she tied on her pagoda-hat, and
followed Mrs. Carroll, who walked out of her
dressing-room an animated bale of blue cloth
surmounted by a gigantic sun-bonnet.

Mr. Leavenworth was in waiting, and so like a
blond-headed lobster in his scarlet suit that Debby
could hardly keep her countenance as they joined
the groups of bathers gathering along the breezy
shore.

For an hour each day the actors and actresses
who played their different roles at the ----- Hotel
with such precision and success put off their masks
and dared to be themselves.  The ocean wrought
the change, for it took old and young into its arms,
and for a little while they played like children in
their mother's lap.  No falsehood could withstand
its rough sincerity; for the waves washed paint and
powder from worn faces, and left a fresh bloom
there.  No ailment could entirely resist its vigorous
cure; for every wind brought healing on its wings,
endowing many a meagre life with another year
of health.  No gloomy spirit could refuse to listen
to its lullaby, and the spray baptized it with the
subtile benediction of a cheerier mood.  No rank
held place there; for the democratic sea toppled
down the greatest statesman in the land, and
dashed over the bald pate of a millionnaire with
the same white-crested wave that stranded a poor
parson on the beach and filled a fierce reformer's
mouth with brine.  No fashion ruled, but that
which is as old as Eden,--the beautiful fashion of
simplicity.  Belles dropped their affectations with
their hoops, and ran about the shore blithe-hearted
girls again. Young men forgot their vices and
their follies, and were not ashamed of the real
courage, strength, and skill they had tried to leave
behind them with their boyish plays.  Old men
gathered shells with the little Cupids dancing on
the sand, and were better for that innocent
companionship; and young mothers never looked so
beautiful as when they rocked their babies on the
bosom of the sea.

Debby vaguely felt this charm, and, yielding
to it, splashed and sang like any beach-bird, while
Aunt Pen bobbed placidly up and down in a
retired corner, and Mr. Leavenworth swam to and
fro, expressing his firm belief in mermaids, sirens,
and the rest of the aquatic sisterhood, whose warbling
no manly ear can resist.

" Miss Wilder, you must learn to swim.  I've
taught quantities of young ladies, and shall be
delighted to launch the 'Dora,' if you'll accept me
as a pilot.  Stop a bit; I'll get a life-preserver
and leaving Debby to flirt with the waves, the scarlet
youth departed like a flame of fire.

A dismal shriek interrupted his pupil's play, and
looking up, she saw her aunt beckoning wildly with
one hand, while she was groping in the water with
the other. Debby ran to her, alarmed at her
tragic expression, and Mrs. Carroll, drawing the
girl's face into the privacy of her big bonnet,
whispered one awful word, adding, distractedly,--

"Dive for them! oh, dive for them! I shall be
perfectly helpless, if they are lost!"

"I can't dive, Aunt Pen; but there is a man,
let us ask him," said Debby, as a black head
appeared to windward.

But Mrs. Carroll's "nerves" had received a
shock, and, gathering up her dripping garments,
she fled precipitately along the shore and vanished
into her dressing-room.

Debby's keen sense of the ludicrous got the better
of her respect, and peal after peal of laughter
broke from her lips, till a splash behind her put an
end to her merriment, and, turning, she found that
this friend in need was her acquaintance of the day
before.  The gentleman seemed pausing for permission
to approach, with much the appearance of a sagacious
Newfoundland, wistful and wet.

"Oh, I'm very glad it's you, Sir!" was Debby's
cordial greeting, as she shook a drop off the end of
her nose, and nodded, smiling.

The new-comer immediately beamed upon her
like an amiable Triton, saying, as they turned
shoreward,--

"Our first interview opened with a laugh on my
side, and our second with one on yours.  I accept
the fact as a good omen.  Your friend seemed in
trouble; allow me to atone for my past misdemeanors
by offering my services now.  But first let me introduce
myself; and as I believe in the fitness of things, let
me present you with an appropriate card"; and, stooping,
the young man wrote "Frank Evan" on the hard sand at
Debby's feet.

The girl liked his manner, and, entering into the
spirit of the thing, swept as grand a curtsy as her
limited drapery would allow saying, merrily,-
-
"I am Debby Wilder, or Dora, as aunt prefers
to call me; and instead of laughing, I ought to be
four feet under water, looking for something we
have lost; but I can't dive, and my distress is
dreadful, as you see."

"What have you lost?  I will look for it, and
bring it back in spite of the kelpies, if it is a human
possibility," replied Mr. Evan, pushing his wet
locks out of his eyes, and regarding the ocean with
a determined aspect.

Debby leaned toward him, whispering with
solemn countenance,--

"It is a set of teeth, Sir."

Mr. Evan was more a man of deeds than words,
therefore he disappeared at once with a mighty
splash, and after repeated divings and much
laughter appeared bearing the chief ornament of Mrs.
Penelope Carroll's comely countenance.  Debby
looked very pretty and grateful as she returned her
thanks, and Mr.  Evan was guilty of a secret wish
that all the worthy lady's features were at the
bottom of the sea, that he might have the satisfaction
of restoring them to her attractive niece;
but curbing this unnatural desire, he bowed, saying,
gravely,--

"Tell your aunt, if you please, that this little
accident will remain a dead secret, so far as I am
concerned, and I am very glad to have been of
service at such a critical moment."

Whereupon Mr. Evan marched again into the
briny deep, and Debby trotted away to her aunt,
whom she found a clammy heap of blue flannel
and despair. Mrs. Carroll's temper was ruffled,
and though she joyfully rattled in her teeth, she
said, somewhat testily, when Debby's story was
done,--

"Now that man will have a sort of claim on us,
and we must be civil, whoever he is. Dear! dear!
I wish it had been Joe Leavenworth instead.
Evan,--I don't remember any of our first families
with connections of that name, and I dislike to be
under obligations to a person of that sort, for
there's no knowing how far he may presume; so,
pray, be careful, Dora."

"I think you are very ungrateful, Aunt Pen;
and if Mr. Evan should happen to be poor, it does
not become me to turn up my nose at him, for I'm
nothing but a make-believe myself just now. I
don't wish to go down upon my knees to him, but
I do intend to be as kind to him as I should to that
conceited Leavenworth boy; yes, kinder even; for
poor people value such things more, as I know very
well."

Mrs. Carroll instantly recovered her temper,
changed the subject, and privately resolved to
confine her prejudices to her own bosom, as they
seerned to have an aggravating effect upon the
youthful person whom she had set her heart on
disposing of to the best advantage.

Debby took her swimming-lesson with much
success, and would have achieved her dinner with
composure, if white-aproned gentlemen had not
effectually taken away her appetite by whisking
bills-of-fare into her hands, and awaiting her orders
with a fatherly interest, which induced them to
congregate mysterious dishes before her, and
blandly rectify her frequent mistakes. She survived
the ordeal, however, and at four p.m. went to drive
with "that Leavenworth boy" in the finest turnout
----- could produce.  Aunt Pen then came off guard,
and with a sigh of satisfaction subsided into a peaceful
doze, still murmuring, even in her sleep,-

"Propinquity, my love, propinquity works
wonders."



"Aunt Pen, are you a modest woman?" asked
the young cruisader against established absurdities,
as she came into the presence-chamber that evening
ready for the hop.

"Bless the child, what does she mean? " cried
Mrs. Carroll, with a start that twitched her
back-hair out of Victorine's hands.

"Would you like to have a daughter of yours
go to a party looking as I look?" continued her
niece, spreading her airy dress, and standing
very erect before her astonished relative.

"Why, of course I should, and be proud to own
such a charming creature," regarding the slender
white shape with much approbation,--adding,
with a smile, as she met the girl's eye,--

"Ah, I see the difficulty, now; you are disturbed
because there is not a bit of lace over
these pretty shoulders of yours.  Now don't be
absurd, Dora; the dress is perfectly proper, or
Madame Tiphany never would have sent it home.
It is the fashion, child; and many a girl with such
a figure would go twice as decolletee, and think
nothing of it, I assure you."

Debby shook her head with an energy that set
the pink heather-bells a-tremble in her hair, and
her color deepened beautifully as she said, with
reproachful eyes,--

"Aunt Pen, I think there is a better fashion
in every young girl's heart than any Madame
Tiphany can teach.  I am very grateful for all
you have done for me, but I cannot go into public
in such an undress as this; my mother would never
allow it, and father never forgive it. Please don't
ask me to, for indeed I cannot do it even for you."

Debby looked so pathetic that both mistress
and maid broke into a laugh which somewhat
reassured the young lady, who allowed her
determined features to relax into a smile,
as she said,--

"Now, Aunt Pen, you want me to look pretty
and be a credit to you; but how would you like to
see my face the color of those geraniums all the
evening?"

"Why, Dora, you are out of your mind to ask
such a thing, when you know it's the desire of
my life to keep your color down and make you
look more delicate," said her aunt, alarmed at the
fearful prospect of a peony-faced protegee.

Well, I should be anything but that, if I wore
this gown in its present waistless condition; so here
is a remedy which will prevent such a calamity
and ease my mind."

As she spoke, Debby tied on her little blonde
fichu with a gesture which left nothing more to be
said.

Victorine scolded, and clasped her hands; but
Mrs. Carroll, fearing to push her authority too far,
made a virtue of necessity, saying, resignedly,--

"Have your own way, Dora, but in return
oblige me by being agreeable to such persons as I
may introduce to you; and some day, when I ask
a favor, remember how much I hope to do for you,
and grant it cheerfully."

"Indeed I will, Aunt Pen, if it is anything I
can do without disobeying mother's 'notions' as
you call them.  Ask me to wear an orange-colored
gown, or dance with the plainest, poorest man in
the room, and I'll do it; for there never was a
kinder aunt than mine in all the world," cried
Debby, eager to atone for her seeming wilfulness,
and really grateful for her escape from what seemed
to her benighted mind a very imminent peril.

Like a clover-blossom in a vase of camellias little
Debby looked that night among the dashing or
languid women who surrounded her; for she possessed
the charm they had lost,--the freshness of
her youth.  Innocent gayety sat smiling in her eyes,
healthful roses bloomed upon her cheek, and
maiden modesty crowned her like a garland. She
was the creature that she seemed, and, yielding to
the influence of the hour, danced to the music of
her own blithe heart. Many felt the spell whose
secret they had lost the power to divine, and
watched the girlish figure as if it were a symbol
of their early aspirations dawning freshly from the
dimness of their past. More than one old man
thought again of some little maid whose love made
his boyish days a pleasant memory to him now.
More than one smiling fop felt the emptiness of his
smooth speech, when the truthful eyes looked up
into his own; and more than one pale woman
sighed regretfully with herself, "I, too, was a
happy-hearted creature once!"

"That Mr. Evan does not seem very anxious
to claim our acquaintance, after all, and I think
better of him on that account.  Has he spoken to
you to-night, Dora?" asked Mrs. Carroll, as
Debby dropped down beside her after a "splendid
polka."

"No, ma'am, he only bowed.  You see some
people are not so presuming as other people
thought they were; for we are not the most
attractive beings on the planet; therefore a gentleman
can be polite and then forget us without breaking
any of the Ten Commandments.  Don't be offended
with him yet, for he may prove to be some
great creature with a finer pedigree than any of
your first families.' Mr. Leavenworth, as you
know everybody, perhaps you can relieve Aunt
Pen's mind, by telling her something about the
tall, brown man standing behind the lady with
salmon-colored hair."

Mr. Joe, who was fanning the top of Debby's
head with the best intentions in life, took a survey,
and answered readily,--

"Why, that's Frank Evan.  I know him, and
a deused good fellow he is,--though he don't
belong to our set, you know."

"Indeed! pray, tell us something about him,
Mr. Leavenworth.  We met in the cars, and he
did us a favor or two.  Who and what is the
man?" asked Mrs. Carroll, relenting at once
toward a person who was favorably spoken of by
one who did belong to her "set."

"Well, let me see," began Mr. Joe, whose
narrative powers were not great." He is a
bookkeeper in my Uncle Josh Loring's importing
concern, and a powerful smart man, they say.  There's
some kind of clever story about his father's leaving
a load of debts, and Frank's working a deused
number of years till they were paid.  Good of him,
wasn't it?  Then, just as he was going to take
things easier and enjoy life a bit, his mother died,
and that rather knocked him up, you see.  He fell
sick, and came to grief generally, Uncle Josh said;
so he was ordered off to get righted, and here he
is, looking like a tombstone. I've a regard for
Frank, for he took care of me through the smallpox
a year ago, and I don't forget things of that
sort; so, if you wish to be introduced, Mrs. Carroll,
I'll trot him out with pleasure, and make a proud
man of him."

Mrs. Carroll glanced at Debby, and as that
young lady was regarding Mr. Joe with a friendly
aspect, owing to the warmth of his words, she
graciously assented, and the youth departed on his
errand.  Mr. Evan went through the ceremony
with a calmness wonderful to behold, considering
the position of one lady and the charms of the
other, and soon glided into the conversation with
the ease of a most accomplished courtier.

"Now I must tear myself away, for I'm engaged
to that stout Miss Bandoline for this dance.
She's a friend of my sisLer's, and I must do the
civil, you know; powerful slow work it is, too, but
I pity the poor soul,--upon my life, I do;" and
Mr.  Joe assumed the air of a martyr.

Debby looked up with a wicked smile in her
eyes, as she said,--

"Ah, that sounds very amiable here; but in five
minutes you'll be murmuring in Miss Bandoline's
earm--'I've been pining to come to you this half
hour, but I was obliged to take out that Miss
Wilder, you see--countrified little thing enough,
but not bad-looking, and has a rich aunt; so I've
done my duty to her, but deuse take me if I can
stand it any longer."

Mr. Evan joined in Debby's merriment; but
Mr. Joe was so appalled at the sudden attack that
he could only stammer a remonstrance and beat a
hasty retreat, wondering how on earth she came
to know that his favorite style of making himself
agreeable to one young lady was by decrying
another.

"Dora, my love, that is very rude, and 'Deuse'
is not a proper expression for a woman's lips.
Pray, restrain your lively tongue, for strangers may
not understand that it is nothing but the sprightliness
of your disposition which sometimes runs away with you."

"It was only a quotation, and I thought you
would admire anything Mr. Leavenworth said,
Aunt Pen," replied Debby, demurely.

Mrs. Carroll trod on her foot, and abruptly
changed the conversation, by saying, with an
appearance of deep interest,--

"Mr. Evan, you are doubtless connected with
the Malcoms of Georgia; for they, I believe, are
descended from the ancient Evans of Scotland.
They are a very wealthy and aristocratic family,
and I remember seeing their coat-of-arms once:
three bannocks and a thistle."

Mr. Evan had been standing before them with
a composure which impressed Mrs. Carroll with a
belief in his gentle blood, for she remembered her
own fussy, plebeian husband, whose fortune had
never been able to purchase him the manners of a
gentleman.  Mr. Evan only grew a little more
erect, as he replied, with an untroubled mien,--

"I cannot claim relationship with the Malcoms
of Georgia or the Evans of Scotland, I believe,
Madam.  My father was a farmer, my grandfather
a blacksmith, and beyond that my ancestors
may have been street-sweepers, for anything I
know; but whatever they were, I fancy they were
honest men, for that has always been our boast,
though, like President Jackson's, our coat-of-arms
is nothing but 'a pair of shirt-sleeves.'"

From Debby's eyes there shot a bright glance
of admiration for the young man who could look
two comely women in the face and serenely own
that he was poor.  Mrs. Carroll tried to appear at
ease, and, gliding out of personalities, expatiated
on the comfort of "living in a land where fame
and fortune were attainable by all who chose to
earn them," and the contempt she felt for those
"who had no sympathy with the humbler classes,
no interest in the welfare of the race," and many
more moral reflections as new and original as the
Multiplication-Table or the Westminster Catechism.
To all of which Mr. Evan listened with
polite deference, though there was something in
the keen intelligence of his eye that made Debby
blush for shallow Aunt Pen, and rejoice when the
good lady got out of her depth and seized upon a
new subject as a drowning mariner would a hen-coop.

"Dora, Mr. Ellenborough is coming this way;
you have danced with him but once, and he is a
very desirable partner; so, pray, accept, if he asks
you," said Mrs. Carroll, watching a far-off individual
who seemed steering his zigzag course toward them.

"I never intend to dance with Mr. Ellenborough
again, so please don't urge me, Aunt Pen; "
and Debby knit her brows with a somewhat irate
expression.

"My love, you astonish me!  He is a most agreeable 
and accomplished young man,--spent three years in
Paris, moves in the first circles, and is considered
an ornament to fashionable society.

"What can be your objection, Dora?" cried Mrs.
Carroll, looking as alarmed as if her niece had
suddenly announced her belief in the Koran.

"One of his accomplishments consists in drinking
champagne till he is not a 'desirable partner'
for any young lady with a prejudice in favor of
decency.  His moving in 'circles' is just what I
complain of; and if he is an ornament, I prefer
my society undecorated.  Aunt Pen, I cannot
make the nice distinctions you would have me,
and a sot in broadcloth is as odious as one in rags.
Forgive me, but I cannot dance with that silver-
labelled decanter again."

Debby was a genuine little piece of womanhood;
and though she tried to speak lightly, her
color deepened, as she remembered looks that had
wounded her like insults, and her indignant eyes
silenced the excuses rising to her aunt's lips.  Mrs.
Carroll began to rue the hour she ever undertook
the guidance of Sister Deborah's headstrong child,
and for an instant heartily wished she had left her
to bloom unseen in the shadow of the parsonage;
but she concealed her annoyance, still hoping to
overcome the girl's absurd resolve, by saying,
mildly,--

"As you please, dear; but if you refuse Mr.
Ellenborough, you will be obliged to sit through
the dance, which is your favorite, you know."

Debby's countenance fell, for she had forgotten
that, and the Lancers was to her the crowning
rapture of the night.  She paused a moment, and
Aunt Pen brightened; but Debby made her little
sacrifice to principle as heroically as many a greater
one had been made, and, with a wistful look down
the long room, answered steadily, though her foot
kept time to the first strains as she spoke,--

"Then I will sit, Aunt Pen; for that is preferable
to staggering about the room with a partner
who has no idea of the laws of gravitation."

"Shall I have the honor of averting either calamity?"
said Mr. Evan, coming to the rescue with
a devotion beautiful to see; for dancing was nearly
a lost art with him, and the Lancers to a novice is
equal to a second Labyrinth of Crete.

"Oh, thank you!" cried Debby, tumbling fan,
bouquet, and handkerchief into Mrs. Carroll's lap,
with a look of relief that repaid him fourfold for
the trials he was about to undergo.  They went
merrily away together, leaving Aunt Pen to wish
that it was according to the laws of etiquette to
rap officious gentlemen over the knuckles, when
they introduce their fingers into private pies
without permission from the chief cook.  How the
dance went Debby hardly knew, for the conversation
fell upon books, and in the interest of her
favorite theme she found even the "grand square"
an impertinent interruption, while her own deficiences
became almost as great as her partner's;
yet, when the music ended with a flourish, and her
last curtsy was successfully achieved, she longed
to begin all over again, and secretly regretted that
she was engaged four deep.

"How do you like our new acquaintance, Dora?" asked
Aunt Pen, following Joe Leavenworth with her eye,
as the "yellow-haired laddie" whirled by with the
ponderous Miss Flora.

"Very much; and I'm glad we met as we did,
for it makes things free and easy, and that is so
agreeable in this ceremonious place," replied
Debby, looking in quite an opposite direction.

"Well, I'm delighted to hear you say so, dear,
for I was afraid you had taken a dislike to him,
and he is really a very charming young man, just
the sort of person to make a pleasant companion
for a few weeks.  These little friendships are part
of the summer's amusement, and do no harm; so
smile away. Dora, and enjoy yourself while you
may."

"Yes, Aunt, I certainly will, and all the more
because I have found a sensible soul to talk to.
Do you know, he is very witty and well informed,
though he says he never had much time for self-
cultivation? But I think trouble makes people
wise, and he seems to have had a good deal,
though he leaves it for others to tell of.  I am
glad you are willing I should know him, for I
shall enjoy talking about my pet heroes with him
as a relief from the silly chatter I must keep up
most of the time."

Mrs. Carroll was a woman of one idea; and
though a slightly puzzled expression appeared in
her face, she listened approvingly, and answered,
with a gracious smile,--

"Of course, I should not object to your knowing
such a person, my love; but I'd no idea Joe
Leavenworth was a literary man, or had known
much trouble, except his father's death and his
sister Clementina's runaway-marriage with her
drawing-master."

Debby opened her brown eyes very wide, and
hastily picked at the down on her fan, but had
no time to correct her aunt's mistake, for the real
subject of her commendations appeared at that
moment, and Mrs. Caroll was immediately absorbed
in the consumption of a large pink ice.

"That girl is what I call a surprise-party, now,"
remarked Mr. Joe confidentially to his cigar, as
he pulled off his coat and stuck his feet up in the
privacy of his own apartment. "She looks as mild
as strawberries and cream till you come to the
complimentary, then she turns on a fellow with
that deused satirical look of hers, and makes him
feel like a fool.  I'll try the moral dodge to-morrow
and see what effect that will have; for she is
mighty taking, and I must amuse myself somehow,
you know."

"How many years will it take to change that
fresh-hearted little girl into a fashionable belle,
I wonder?" thought Frank Evan, as he climbed
the four flights that led to his "sky-parlor."

"What a curious world this is!" mused
Debby, with her nightcap in her hand.  "The
right seems odd and rude, the wrong respectable
and easy, and this sort of life a merry-go-round,
with no higher aim than pleasure.  Well, I have
made my Declaration of Independence, and Aunt
Pen must be ready for a Revolution if she taxes
me too heavily."

As she leaned her hot cheek on her arm,
Debby's eye fell on the quaint little cap made
by the motherly hands that never were tired of
working for her.  She touched it tenderly, and
love's simple magic swept the gathering shadows
from her face, and left it clear again, as her
thoughts flew home like birds into the shelter of
their nest.

"Good night, mother! I'll face temptation steadily.
I'll try to take life cheerily, and do nothing that
shall make your dear face a reproach, when it looks
into my own again."

Then Debby said her prayers like any pious
child, and lay down to dream of pulling
buttercups with Baby Bess, and singing in the
twilight on her father's knee.



The history of Debby's first day might serve
as a sample of most that followed, as week after
week went by with varying pleasures and increasing
interest to more than one young debutante.

Mrs. Carroll did her best, but Debby was too
simple for a belle, too honest for a flirt, too
independent for a fine lady; she would be nothing
but her sturdy little self, open as daylight, gay as
a lark, and blunt as any Puritan.  Poor Aunt
Pen was in despair, till she observed that the girl
often "took" with the very peculiarities which
she was lamenting; this somewhat consoled her,
and she tried to make the best of the pretty bit
of homespun which would not and could not become
velvet or brocade.  Seguin, Ellenborough,
& Co. looked with lordly scorn upon her, as a
worm blind to their attractions.  Miss MacRimsy
and her "set" quizzed her unmercifully behind
her back, after being worsted in several passages
of arms; and more than one successful mamma
condoled with Aunt Pen upon the terribly defective
education of her charge, till that stout matron
could have found it in her heart to tweak off their
caps and walk on them, like the irascible Betsey
Trotwood.

But Debby had a circle of admirers who loved
her with a sincerity few summer queens could
boast; for they were real friends, won by gentle
arts, and retained by the gracious sweetness of her
nature.  Moon-faced babies crowed and clapped
their chubby hands when she passed by their
wicker-thrones; story-loving children clustered
round her knee, and never were denied; pale invalids
found wild-flowers on their pillows; and
forlorn papas forgot the state of the moneymarket
when she sang for them the homely airs their
daughters had no time to learn.  Certain plain
young ladies poured their woes into her friendly
ear, and were comforted; several smart Sophomores
fell into a state of chronic stammer, blush,
and adoration, when she took a motherly interest
in their affairs; and a melancholy old Frenchman
blessed her with the enthusiasm of his nation, because
she put a posy in the button-hole of his
rusty coat, and never failed to smile and bow as
he passed by.  Yet Debby was no Edgworth heroine
preternaturally prudent, wise, and untemptable;
she had a fine crop of piques, vanities, and
dislikes growing up under this new style of cultivation.
She loved admiration, enjoyed her purple
and fine linen, hid new-born envy, disappointed
hope, and wounded pride behind a smiling face,
and often thought with a sigh of the humdrum
duties that awaited her at home.  But under the
airs and graces Aunt Pen cherished with such
sedulous care, under the flounces and furbelows
Victorine daily adjusted with groans, under the
polish which she acquired with feminine ease, the
girl's heart still beat steadfast and strong, and
conscience kept watch and ward that no traitor should
enter in to surprise the citadel which mother-love
had tried to garrison so well.

In pursuance of his sage resolve,  Mr. Joe tried
the "moral dodge," as he elegantly expressed it,
and, failing in that, followed it up with the tragic,
religious, negligent, and devoted ditto; but acting
was not his forte, so Debby routed him in all; and
at last, when he was at his wit's end for an idea,
she suggested one, and completed her victory by
saying pleasantly,--

"You took me behind the curtain too soon, and
now the paste-diamonds and cotton-velvet don't
impose upon me a bit.  Just be your natural self,
and we shall get on nicely, Mr. Leavenworth."

The novelty of the proposal struck his fancy,
and after a few relapses it was carried into effect
and thenceforth, with Debby, he became the
simple, good-humored lad Nature designed him
to be, and, as a proof of it, soon fell very sincerely
in love.

Frank Evan, seated in the parquet of society,
surveyed the dress-circle with much the same
expression that Debby had seen during Aunt Pen's
oration; but he soon neglected that amusement
to watch several actors in the drama going on
before his eyes, while a strong desire to perform a
part therein slowly took possession of his mind.

Debby always had a look of welcome when he
came, always treated him with the kindness of a
generous woman who has had an opportunity to
forgive, and always watched the serious, solitary
man with a great compassion for his loss, a growing
admiration for his upright life.  More than
once the beach-birds saw two figures pacing the
sands at sunrise with the peace of early day upon
their faces and the light of a kindred mood shining
in their eyes.  More than once the friendly ocean
made a third in the pleasant conversation, and its
low undertone came and went between the mellow
bass and silvery treble of the human voices
with a melody that lent another charm to interviews
which soon grew wondrous sweet to man
and maid.  Aunt Pen seldom saw the twain together,
seldom spoke of Evan; and Debby held
her peace, for, when she planned to make her
innocent confessions, she found that what seemed
much to her was nothing to another ear  and
scarcely worth the telling; so, unconscious as yet
whither the green path led, she went on her way,
leading two lives, one rich and earnest, hoarded
deep within herself, the other frivolous and gay
for all the world to criticize.  But those venerable
spinsters, the Fates, took the matter into their own
hands, and soon got the better of those short-sighted
matrons, Mesdames Grundy and Carroll;
for, long before they knew it, Frank and Debby
had begun to read together a book greater than
Dickens ever wrote, and when they had come to
the fairest part of the sweet story Adam first told
Eve, they looked for the name upon the title-page,
and found that it was "Love."

Fight weeks came and went,--eight wonderfully
happy weeks to Debby and her friend; for
"propinquity" had worked more wonders than poor
Mrs. Carroll knew, as the only one she saw or guessed
was the utter captivation of Joe Leavenworth.
He had become "himself" to such an extent that a
change of identity would have been a relief; for
the object of his adoration showed no
signs of relenting, and he began to fear, that, as
Debby said, her heart was "not in the market."
She was always friendly, but never made those
interesting betrayals of regard which are so
encouraging to youthful gentlemen "who fain would
climb, yet fear to fall." She never blushed when
he pressed her hand, never fainted or grew pale
when he appeared with a smashed trotting-wagon
and black eye, and actually slept through a
serenade that would have won any other woman's
soul out of her body with its despairing quavers.
Matters were getting desperate; for horses lost
their charms, "flowing bowls" palled upon his
lips, ruffled shirt-bosoms no longer delighted him,
and hops possessed no soothing power to allay
the anguish of his mind.  Mr. Seguin, after
unavailing ridicule and pity, took compassion on
him, and from his large experience suggested a
remedy, just as he was departing for a more
congenial sphere.

"Now don't be an idiot, Joe, but, if you want
to keep your hand in and go through a regular
chapter of flirtation, just right about face, and
devote yourself to some one else.  Nothing like
jealousy to teach womankind their own minds,
and a touch of it will bring little Wilder round in
a jiffy.  Try it, my boy, and good luck to you!"
--with which Christian advice Mr. Seguin slapped
his pupil on the shoulder, and disappeared, like
a modern Mephistopheles, in a cloud of cigar-smoke.

"I'm glad he's gone, for in my present state of
mind he's not up to my mark at all.  I'll try his
plan, though, and flirt with Clara West; she's
engaged, so it won't damage her affections; her
lover isn't here, so it won't disturb his; and, by
Jove!  I must do something, for I can't stand this
suspense."

Debby was infinitely relieved by this new move,
and infinitely amused as she guessed the motive
that prompted it; but the more contented she
seemed, the more violently Mr. Joe flirted with her
rival, till at last weak-minded Miss Clara began to
think her absent George the most undesirable of
lovers, and to mourn that she ever said "Yes"
to a merchant's clerk, when she might have said it
to a merchant's son.  Aunt Pen watched and approved
this stratagem, hoped for the best results,
and believed the day won when Debby grew pale
and silent, and followed with her eyes the young
couple who were playing battledoor and shuttle-cock
with each other's hearts, as if she took some
interest in the game. But Aunt Pen clashed
her cymbals too soon; for Debby's trouble had a
better source than jealousy, and in the silence of
the sleepless nights that stole her bloom she was
taking counsel of her own full heart, and resolving
to serve another woman as she would herself be
served in a like peril, though etiquette was outraged
and the customs of polite society turned upside down.



"Look, Aunt Pen! what lovely shells and moss
I've got! Such a splendid scramble over the rocks
as I've had with Mrs. Duncan's boys! It seemed
so like home to run and sing with a troop of
topsy-turvy children that it did me good; and I wish you
had all been there to see." cried Debby, running
into the drawing-room, one day, where Mrs. Carroll
and a circle of ladies sat enjoying a dish of
highly flavored scandal, as they exercised their
eyesight over fancy-work.

"My dear Dora, spare my nerves; and if you
have any regard for the proprieties of life, don't go
romping in the sun with a parcel of noisy boys.  If
you could see what an object you are, I think you
would try to imitate Miss Clara, who is always a
model of elegant repose."

Miss West primmed up her lips, and settled a
fold in her ninth flounce, as Mrs. Carroll spoke,
while the whole group fixed their eyes with
dignified disapproval on the invader of their refined
society.  Debby had come like a fresh wind into
a sultry room; but no one welcomed the healthful
visitant, no one saw a pleasant picture in the
bright-faced girl with windtossed hair and rustic
hat heaped with moss and many-tinted shells; they
only saw that her gown was wet, her gloves forgotten,
and her scarf trailing at her waist in a manner no
well-bred lady could approve.  The sunshine faded out
of Debby's face, and there was a touch of bitterness
in her tone, as she glanced at the circle of fashion-plates,
saying with an earnestness which caused Miss West to
open her pale eyes to their widest extent,--

"Aunt Pen, don't freeze me yet,--don't take
away my faith in simple things, but let me be a
child a little longer,--let me play and sing and keep
my spirit blithe among the dandelions and the
robins while I can; for trouble comes soon enough,
and all my life will be the richer and the better for
a happy youth."

Mrs. Carroll had nothing at hand to offer in
reply to this appeal, and four ladies dropped their
work to stare; but Frank Evan looked in from
the piazza, saying, as he beckoned like a boy,--

"I'll play with you, Miss Dora; come and make
sand pies upon the shore.  Please let her, Mrs.
Carroll; we'll be very good, and not wet our
pinafores or feet."

Without waiting for permission, Debby poured
her treasures into the lap of a certain lame Freddy,
and went away to a kind of play she had never
known before.  Quiet as a chidden child, she
walked beside her companion, who looked down
at the little figure, longing to take it on his knee
and call the sunshine back again.  That he dared
not do; but accident, the lover's friend, performed
the work, and did him a good turn beside.  The
old Frenchman was slowly approaching, when a
frolicsome wind whisked off his hat and sent it
skimming along the beach.  In spite of her late
lecture, away went Debby, and caught the truant
chapeau just as a wave was hurrying up to claim
it. This restored her cheerfulness, and when she
returned, she was herself again.

"A thousand thanks; but does Mademoiselle
remember the forfeit I might demand to add to the
favor she has already done me?" asked the gallant
old gentleman, as Debby took the hat off
her own head, and presented it with a martial
salute.

"Ah, I had forgotten that; but you may claim
[text missing in original copy]
do something more to give you pleasure;" and
Debby looked up into the withered face which
had grown familiar to her, with kind eyes, full
of pity and respect.

Her manner touched the old man very much;
he bent his gray head before her, saying,
gratefully,--

"My child, I am not good enough