Chapter II: Part 2

Mrs. Merton continued to treat Olive with coldness all the next day, but by the morning of the third her face began to relax into its usual smiles. She was, in truth, a very kind-hearted woman, and anxious to do every thing in her power for her daughter and her nieces. But then she wanted to do it exactly in her own way, and to have them mere passive recipients of her favors. Any thing like contradiction, or having a will of their own, annoyed her extremely. For this reason, Abby had always been more her favorite than Olive; for Abby never contradicted any body if she could help it. It was too much trouble. Even Charlotte did not entirely satisfy her in this respect, for Charlotte was apt to have an opinion of her own, and to maintain it stoutly, too. But she had always intended to be just to Olive, though she did not particularly like her.

We have said, that in a gentle, lady-like way, she was something of a match-maker. It was her wish to introduce her into society, under the best auspices, and if possible, to settle her in life advantageously. That Olive should actually intend to renounce all these privileges, and give herself up to the laborious life of a school-teacher, seemed incredible, and at first her indignation knew no bounds.

But after calm reflection, she began to see certain alleviating circumstances. She honestly regretted that the girl should be so blinded to her own interests, but perhaps upon the whole it was just as well. It would be much less trouble to bring out two young ladies than three. Olive was very difficult to manage sometimes, and she had very romantic ideas upon certain subjects. A year's experience of the real hardships of life would probably do more towards bringing her to reason than all the lectures in the world, and she would be ready to return home and behave like a reasonable being, at least so far as could be expected from her father's daughter.

So reasoned Mrs. Merton, and by such reasoning, aided by the natural kindness of her heart, her wrath cooled apace. She gave Olive her formal consent to the plan, accompanying the same with an hour's lecture upon the folly of romantic ideas, and the absolute necessity of laying them aside, if she meant to succeed in life, concluding all with a kiss, and the injunction very kindly given, that she must always consider her uncle's house as her home, and an assurance that she would ever find it open to her, should she not find her occupation of teaching as agreeable as she expected. Olive was very grateful for the kindness, and took the lecture in excellent part, and so fair weather was once more established throughout the family, greatly to the delight of Mr. Merton, who never could endure any thing like a family dissension.

CHAPTER THIRD.

OLIVE'S vacation passed away pleasantly and quickly; she felt that she had never before spent one so agreeably.

Charlotte's jealousy seemed almost entirely subdued. She thoroughly respected her cousin for her independence, and felt ashamed of the many times she had taunted her with her unfortunate circumstances: moreover, she began to feel the real value of Olive's society, and now that she seemed likely to lose it, she felt a desire to make the most of what remained.

Mr. Merton saw, with pleasure, that a warm friendship seemed, at last, likely to grow up between his daughter and his favorite niece, and encouraged it by every means in his power. Mrs. Merton, who never did any thing by halves, exerted all her powers, which were by no means small, to make the time pass pleasantly. Rides and drives, short journeys and impromptu pic-nics, filled up the time pretty thoroughly. And when Olive ventured to remonstrate a little, she received this answer:

"You are going to begin a life of hard work, my dear. It is no more than right that you should play while you can. And mind, Olive, I will not have you spend your vacation in sewing. There will be time enough for that when you are away from home."

Upon this kind pretext, aunt Rebecca took the whole charge of Olive's clothes. And when she got ready to return to school, she found herself furnished with an entirely new and very handsome wardrobe, sufficient to last a long time. She remonstrated a little at being so far favored above the other girls.

"Your case is very different from theirs, Olive. As I said before, you are about entering upon a laborious life, and it is but fair that the commencement should be made easy for you. Abby and Charlotte will have plenty of time to play, and it would be no kindness to take their work out of their hands. Abby, especially, needs to be taught to sew. It is a knowledge which can not fail to be useful to her, however she may be situated in life."

Olive was fain to acquiesce in this reasoning, though she thought that Mrs. Merton would find she had taken upon herself more than she imagined, in trying to make Abby work. She well remembered all the entreaties and remonstrances, the coaxing and scolding that were necessary at school, to make her mend her stockings or keep her dresses in any decent order. She took an opportunity to say a few last words to her sister upon the subject.

"Do pray, Abby dear, try to keep your clothes in nice order. You know how much any slovenliness annoys aunt Rebecca, and I shall not be here to pick up your things after you, and take up your stitches for you!"

"Never fear," said Abby, lightly; "I am going to turn over a new leaf about that."

"But, Abby, you have turned over so many new leaves which did not seem to have any thing on them after all—"

"That you are afraid the whole book will be found to contain nothing but blank leaves, after all, eh, sister mine? But I shall arrive at the reading by and by, and then see how interesting it will be!"

"Pray what do you mean to have your book turn out?" asked Olive.

"Perhaps it may turn out a song,
Perhaps turn out a sermon,—"

sang Abby, in her skylark tones. "Perhaps a solemn tragedy—who knows?"

Poor Abby! Who knows, indeed!

"And, Abby, one other thing. You know I shall not be here for you to tell all your affairs to—and it takes a good while for a letter to come and go. Now won't you confide in aunt Rebecca, and take her advice about every thing? You know you are apt to be giddy sometimes," said Olive, with the air of one who makes an assertion which may seem doubtful to the hearer.

"I did not know I was any thing else," laughed her sister. "I feel complimented by that 'some times,' Olive."

"Well, then, if you know that you are giddy, won't you confide in aunt Rebecca?"

"Yes, of course, if I can think of any thing to confide. But you had better say uncle Merton. I could go to him with a story a great deal easier than I could to aunt Rebecca, for all people generally consider him so solemn and grave. I wonder why it is?"

"Because he spoils you, and never lectures you for your good, you little goose."

"Well, I don't like to be lectured for my good," with a little toss of her head, which set her golden curls dancing, so that they seemed to emit a light of their own. "It never does me any good, and makes me feel more like being cross than any thing else in the world. I don't mean you, of course," she added, fearful that she might seem unkind; "you never do lecture, you only talk."

"Then, if I only talk, will you mind what I say?"

"Yes, of course, if I can."

"And you will write to me very often, won't you, Abby? You know I shall be very lonely without you or Charlotte—"

"Without Charlotte, especially," said Abby, parenthetically.

"I like Charlotte better than I ever did before," said Olive. "But it is no trouble for you to write letters, and you will have so much to say. You must tell me all about your parties and going out, and all the new acquaintances you make. I wish you would keep a journal, and send it to me every week."

"Keep a journal, indeed! I would about as soon undertake to keep my uncle's books. I never expect to have perseverance enough to keep a journal."

"Perhaps it would be a good time to acquire that rather convenient quality," suggested Olive.

"Oh! No, I can not engage to keep a journal, but I will write as often as you wish to hear from me. Any thing else, my dear little Mentor?"

"Nothing, only—you will be going out a good deal, dear Abby, and perhaps you will meet temptations. Pray don't let any thing make you forget what we used to learn at our mother's knee when we were children."

"I shall never forget that Olive," said Abby, her bright face assuming the most serious expression of which it was capable. "It seems as though I remembered that more distinctly than any thing else about her. And for all you think I am so giddy, (and I know I am,) you never knew me forget to say my prayers night and morning."

"That is true," Olive admitted.

"Or laugh or whisper in church, did you?"

"I hope not. To say nothing of any higher motive, I do not believe you would ever do any thing so entirely vulgar and ill-bred."

"Well, Olive, I can tell you that I saw our very superfine aunt Dimsden and our very superfiner sister Laura, talking to the very super-finest Miss Eaton in service-time, at St. David's, last Sunday evening, and I know Dr. Eastman saw them, too, for he looked straight at them."

Olive laughed. "Do you know what aunt Rebecca thinks of aunt Dimsden, Abby?"

"Oh! Yes, I know. They are a pair of affectionate sisters-in-law, are they not? But I thought Laura ought to know better. I really was mortified for her."

"I am glad I did not see her," said Olive. "I don't think Laura has improved at all the last year, Abby."

"How can she improve, living as she does? Aunt Dimsden thinks of nothing but having a place in society, and making as much parade as she can, upon as small means. I believe her Bible reads, 'Whether ye eat, or drink, or whatever ye do, do all for a social position.'"

Olive shook her head reprovingly, but she could not help admitting the truth of what Abby said. "I am sure you will admit, Abby, that it might have been better for Laura, if she had always had the prospect before her of being obliged to earn her own living. It really makes me unhappy to think what sort of a woman she is likely to become."

"There is no use in making yourself unhappy about it, Olive; Laura likes it."

"So much the worse for her."

"And aunt Dimsden pretends to be a religious woman too," said Abby, thoughtfully. "How is it, Olive, that she says the same prayers and creed that we do, and that Mrs. Eastman and Mrs. Addiston do, and yet makes dress and company and outside show her chief objects?"

"I don't know," answered Olive, with a deep sigh; "I don't want to judge her, but I think such people do a great deal more mischief than they think for."

"Aunt Rebecca does not seem to bestow nearly as much thought and pains upon her dress and so on," continued Abby, "and yet she is always well-dressed, and appears like a lady, while Aunt Dimsden—" Abby paused.

"Aunt Rebecca would not do any thing mean for the sake of what aunt Dimsden calls society," said Olive. "She would never run after or court any one she did not respect, or slight any one who had been kind to her, however vulgar the person might be."

"She has no need of doing so," replied Abby. "She has plenty of such society as she likes without it. Sometimes I wonder, Olive, how such people as Miss Eaton, and—and others would act if there came up another persecution for the sake of Christianity."

"There is no telling," said Olive; "they might be as firm and resolute in dying for their faith as any one at all. They might realize then that faith is a real true thing, and not a fashion."

"I think if Miss Eaton should be burned alive, aunt Dimsden and Laura would go to the stake without flinching," said Abby, laughing.

"Poor Laura!" sighed Olive.

"Well, I know; I feel very sorry about her, too, and I wish things were different, but I can not make them so, and what is the use of fretting? I should rather be in your place than hers. But I don't want to be in either so long as I can stay as I am."

And so the conversation ended, not very satisfactorily in all points to Olive, but more so, upon the whole, than such conversations between herself and her sister usually did. About Laura she felt less anxiety and no responsibility. They had been very much separated from early childhood, Laura having been adopted by Mrs. Dimsden immediately after her father's death—and their dispositions were entirely different. Laura, with all her apparent amiability, was too selfish to be very lovable.

They had been educated upon very different plans, and their whole system of ideas and theory of life were entirely dissimilar. Mrs. Merton thought Mrs. Dimsden a very vulgar woman: Mrs. Dimsden thought Mrs. Merton proud, set up, and disagreeable, at the same time that she courted her society, and made the most in all her conversation of the small degree of intimacy existed between them. Mrs. Dimsden talked of dear Rebecca and my sister Rebecca, and quoted her sayings and doings upon all occasions; while Mrs. Merton always spoke with great respect of Mrs. Dimsden, and treated her with as much distance as she could reconcile it to her conscience to assume towards the widow of her husband's half-brother. Mrs. Merton, in fact, though a very proud, and somewhat worldly woman, was neither mean nor vulgar, while Mrs. Dimsden was both.

Mrs. Merton, though she liked to see her young friends married and settled in life, and thought any romantic ideas of love and spiritual affinity very much out of place, would yet have scorned the idea of going out of her way to attract or entice gentlemen. While Mrs. Dimsden avowedly considered getting married the principal object in the life of woman—the very thing for which she was made, and failing which, she must necessarily miss the great object of existence. In this belief she devoted all her energies to marrying off whatever young lady might be under her charge for the time being. People laughed at her, but she carried her point; and having provided for her younger sisters and cousins, she was intent upon making a match for Laura—a match which should exceed all others in brilliancy and cause her sister-in-law to hide her diminished head.

Laura, on her part, fell in very well with all her aunt's schemes on her behalf. She was quite as beautiful as Abby, and almost as devoid of serious thought. But there was this difference, that while Abby had a kind and warm heart, and for the sake of any one she loved would sacrifice almost any thing, Laura, under a veil of amiable manners, was very selfish, and seldom bestowed a thought upon any one's peace or comfort except her own. She did not care for books except just so far as they could minister gracefully to her love of display, and she valued music and drawing upon the same grounds. In fact, she lived only upon the outside, and if she had a heart, she had never found it out, and was not very likely to do so under the tuition of aunt Dimsden. She liked Olive as well as she could like any body; she envied Abby her musical talent, and thought her much more reasonable than Olive. This last plan especially, she looked upon as preposterous to a degree.

"But Olive," she remarked sweetly, "had always been a strange, unaccountable creature, and there was no use in distressing one's self about her freaks."

Aunt Dimsden said she had given that up long ago, but at the same time she gave Olive some friendly advice as to marrying a minister or a professional man—a thing, she observed, which teachers are very apt to do.

Olive's last term in school was a very pleasant one. Her friend, Helen Monteith, was still there, and some others of her particular set; and there were several of the new girls whom she liked very much. She was very busy, for besides her regular business, she spent a good deal of time in learning what Mrs. Granger called the theory and practice of teaching, by hearing classes, assisting the younger girls in their lessons, and helping Miss Lincoln to correct compositions and exercises. She was surprised to find what an amount of labor was required in that department alone, and how little, after all this labor, certain of the girls contrived to learn.

"It reminds me," she said, upon one occasion, "of an old proverb I have heard many repeat,—That one man may lead a horse to water, but twenty men can not make him drink."

"And yet the poor teacher is blamed for not making him drink," replied Miss Lincoln.

"Yes. Many people can never be brought to acknowledge that their own children and their own management at home is in fault. What is one to do in that case?"

"Have patience," said the teacher, sighing: "I know of nothing else. But I think one great reason why scholars, especially girls, learn so little, is from the want of any adequate motive."

"One would think the mere pleasure of knowing ought to be enough," said Olive.

"Not with children. They have not knowledge enough to appreciate the value of more."

"But most of the girls here are not children, Miss Lincoln. There are very few under fourteen years old."

"True," replied Miss Lincoln, "but think how ignorant many of them are when they come, and when they go away, for that matter."

"What motive would you propose, then?"

"Why, they are several. One is, as you say, the desire of knowledge, but every one can not appreciate that. The next best is the desire of usefulness, and the best of all is the religious motive, which includes the others; 'Whether ye eat or drink, or whatever ye do, do all to the glory of God.'"

"But I think, Miss Lincoln, it is much easier to acquire knowledge with the idea of turning it to some account, besides the mere enjoyment of it one's self," said Olive; "I am sure I have studied much better this term than ever I did before. I never go over a single lesson without thinking, 'Now, how should I explain this, if I were called upon to teach it?' And I find my ideas much clearer for the process."

"Yes, you learn to analyze, and to see clearly what you know, and what you do not know."

"I have heard teachers say that it was very difficult to study while engaged in school," remarked Olive.

"It is so," admitted Miss Lincoln; with a sigh. "Their powers of mind and body are generally so over-taxed in their school duties that they are glad to rest themselves as thoroughly as possible when they are out of the school-room. Some are stronger than others, and some schools are better supplied with assistants, but as a rule, teachers, especially in the smaller schools, are very much over-taxed."

Olive sighed. "Not a very pleasant prospect for me," she said.

"It is part of the price one must be content to pay for independence and usefulness," replied Miss Lincoln. "But some teachers are much more favorably situated than others in that respect. In this house, for instance, we should be very ungrateful if we complained. The only over-worked person in the establishment is Mrs. Granger."

"But, Miss Lincoln, think how many men have studied law and medicine, and even divinity, while teaching."

"Oh! Yes, I know it. There are many honorable exceptions, even among women. I studied chemistry myself, while I was teaching in a district-school."

Olive had anticipated one thing, in which she was pleasantly disappointed. She had supposed a good many of the girls would look down upon her, when they learned that she was to be dependent upon her own resources. But in this she found herself mistaken. Girls in a large school are apt to be very thorough democrats, and if there is an aristocracy, it is almost always one of talent and personal influence. Of this aristocracy, Olive had always been a prominent member, and she did not find her position at all changed. Her equals treated her with the same consideration to which she had always been accustomed, and with the younger girls, her influence was increased rather than diminished, from the fact that she sometimes heard their lessons, or assisted them in their exercises.

Still there were some few who took it upon them to pity her extremely, and among the number were Miss Lucretia Monroe, and her friend, Miss Jane Douglass, who had long enjoyed the proud preëminence of being the greatest dunces in the school. Either of these young ladies could miss question after question at a public examination with the greatest coolness; they cared nothing for prizes, to which, indeed, they never aspired. And they never considered themselves disgraced by being found out in any scrape whatever. Of course, they were not held in any high estimation by the aristocracy aforesaid. But, secure in the depths of their ignorance, they did not feel themselves in the slightest degree disturbed, by the not always concealed contempt of Misses Grey, Monteith, McHenry, and company.

"Poor Olive!" said Lucretia one day to Maria Grey, with a sweet air of amiability. "How much I pity her!"

"Do you?" said Maria, carelessly. "I dare say she would be very much obliged to you if she knew it."

"Yes, because she has got to teach for a living," continued Miss Monroe, elegantly. "I don't know what I should do if I were so reduced."

"I don't know what you would, I am sure," returned Maria. "You would be in a bad case certainly; I can not think of any thing you could possibly teach."

"You need not snap one up so, Maria. I do not expect to be a school-ma'am myself, and my papa never intended I should be educated for one. But any way, I am sorry for Olive, and I shall make a point of noticing her just as much as ever."

"'You' notice Olive McHenry!" exclaimed Maria Grey. "Upon my word, Miss Monroe, you are sublime in the extreme of your impertinence. Why, child, it is an honor to you, that she sometimes condescends to help you out of a scrape, when every one else is tired of you. The idea of your presuming to pity Olive McHenry, because she prefers independence gained by her own exertions, to idleness and uselessness! You would do much better if you would exert yourself to imitate her a little."

Nevertheless, Miss Monroe persisted in her charitable intentions, and proceeded to bestow a good deal of her society upon Olive, who could not help wondering what in the world had come over her.

She asked Maria one day. "She comes to my room, till I am tempted sometimes to tell her that I would rather have it to myself, and she seems to miss no opportunity of talking with me."

"Don't you understand it?" replied Maria, laughing. "She is pitying you for your hard fate. She told me that she was sorry for you, and meant to notice you as much as she could."

"I wish she would show her pity in some other way than by bestowing her society upon me," said Olive. "It becomes rather fatiguing, besides taking up a good deal of valuable time, which I don't very well know how to spare."

"Why don't you tell her so?"

"Oh! I don't want to make an enemy of the girl. Dunce as she is, it is better to have her good-will than her ill-will, and perhaps I may do her some good."

"The idea of doing good to Lucretia Monroe! You would be a good person to head a crusade, Olive; nothing short of a physical impossibility would stop you. But there is no harm in trying."

Indeed, Olive made a good many efforts to induce Lucretia to leave off abstracting cakes and cheese from the table, and pickles from the storeroom, and to give a little more time to her books. In which she succeeded so far that Miss Monroe actually presented herself at the class with a perfect lesson thrice in one week, to the amazement of all who heard her, and passed three days without breaking a single rule.

We regret to be obliged to add, that the improvement was not permanent: Miss Monroe relapsed into her old habits in the course of a week or two, and at the end of the year, left school as great a dunce as she entered it. Her father, a sensible, plain man, who had never received any thing but a district-school education, felt very much disappointed at the small improvement made by his daughter, and was much disposed to lay the blame upon her own idleness and want of principle.

But his wife informed him that it was solely the fault of the teachers, who had not made study interesting to Lucretia. Miss Monroe had been allowed to study what she liked, and to leave off as soon as she came to a hard place. In this way, she had acquired a little music, a little drawing, and less French; and she had learned to spell correctly, and to express herself in tolerable English, because no scholar who had been at Mrs. Granger's two years could very well help it. But history, natural science, and general literature, had passed through her mind like water through a sieve, leaving her no wiser.

With her daughter's want of proficiency in drawing, Mrs. Monroe was really annoyed, especially as their neighbor, and Lucretia's old friend and playmate, Miss Thorn, who had taken lessons of a professor in the place, had been able to decorate her mother's back-parlor with a great number of showy drawings in colored chalks, after only a quarter's instruction. To be sure, Miss Thorn never could do any thing after she left off taking lessons. And when she attempted, at home, and without assistance, to copy a portrait of her father, no one could have told whether the object produced was intended for male or female. But the pictures done under the eye of Professor B. were much more brilliant than the portfolio of pen and ink studies and crayon drawings, which was all that Lucretia had to show; and, while being entirely her own workmanship, certainly displayed less skill than Miss Thorn's, which had all been "touched up" by the accommodating professor.

For many weeks, Abby's letters came regularly, and were very interesting, giving full and most graphic accounts of the various parties, concerts, etc., which she attended under the chaperonage of aunt Rebecca. And many a laugh did Olive and her friends have over her descriptions and pen and ink sketches of the people she met in company, and at her aunt's house.

Charlotte wrote sometimes, but not very often. She did not seem to enjoy going into the world as much as her cousin, and said she often wished herself back at Mrs. Granger's. She spoke frequently of the attentions Abby received, and the admiration excited by her musical talents.

After a time, Abby's letters grew shorter, and less frequent. She did not seem to be quite as contented, and spoke rather pettishly of the constant watchfulness of her aunt, who, she said, treated her as though she were a baby. At one time, she seemed to be the happiest person possible, and perhaps her next letter would be a commentary upon the Arabic song quoted by Dumas—"The earth is vanity, and all in it is misery." Such extremes had never been common with Abby, whose cheerfulness was usually a steady stream, subject neither to drought nor freshet.

Olive became quite uneasy, and began to long for the time to come when she should be at home again. One thing, however, comforted her. Mrs. Merton was not a very great letter writer, but she wrote to Olive three or four times in the course of the term, and in neither of her letters did she express any disapprobation of Abby, nor did she seem aware of any change in her spirits or temper. This was quite a consolation, for aunt Rebecca was tolerably clear-sighted, and Olive thought if any thing had been wrong in Abby's conduct, she would have been pretty apt to speak of it.

Still, she was very glad when the time came for her to go home. An excellent situation had been procured for her by the kindness of Mrs. Granger, whose good offices to her pupils extended far beyond their school-days. She was to take charge of the female department of a school in Pennsylvania, which had long maintained an excellent reputation. The salary was to be five hundred dollars, and as much more as she chose to make by music and drawing lessons. She was to have an assistant, if she wished it, and the entire control of matters in her own department rested with her.

At first, Olive shrunk from assuming so much responsibility, and almost wanted to decline, but Mrs. Granger was very anxious that she should secure the place, and her uncle and aunt, to whom the plan was communicated, approved it highly: so she was fain to accept, though with a good many misgivings. Once decided, however, the prospect seemed to brighten; she began to look upon Basswoods as her future home, and built some castles in the air (even the most practical people erect such edifices sometimes) upon the little round dot which represented that place upon the map of Pennsylvania.

Olive felt very sadly at leaving school for the last time. She had been there so long, that it seemed more like home to her than her uncle's house. She had never experienced any thing but kindness from Mrs. Granger, or any of her subordinates. With her pleasant little room in the third story were associated all the great experiences of her young life, since her mother's death. Here she had taken her first peep into the boundless wealth of foreign literature, written her first verses, and sketched her first cottage. Here, too, she had experienced her first deep religious feelings, and here she had found that pearl of great price, which is not far from every one of us, though we pass it by again and again, without seeing it.

Moreover, Olive had many warm, and some deeply-attached friends, among the school-girls. It is very much the fashion to sneer at school-girl attachments, and the author has heard a popular lecturer declare that there never had existed, and never could exist, any such thing as female friendship. Possibly, the gentleman was not very well read in Scripture history, for he might have remembered the story of Ruth and Naomi. We have known intimacies formed at school which have continued through many and severe changes, and one case, where a close correspondence was continued through thirty years, the parties meeting only twice or thrice during the time.

There is often in the friendship of two cultivated and religious young women a simplicity and truthfulness—a disinterested admiration of each other's good qualities, and an unfeigned rejoicing in each other's good fortune, which it is pleasant to look upon. As for the assertion that women can not endure to hear each other praised, we leave such shallow sneers to boys with their first tail-coats, and brainless young men, who have nothing manly about them but a budding moustache.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

OLIVE arrived at home about seven in the evening, much wearied with her journey, and very glad to find herself once more with her friend. Abby seemed just as usual; she danced and clapped her hands, and danced around her, as much like a child as ever. Still Olive could not help fancying, as she looked at her, that there was a change—she could not exactly tell how.

There was a shade of womanliness, and even care, upon her bright face, which had never belonged there, and which Olive could not help feeling sorry to see. She said to herself that Abby was getting on in life—it was time for her to grow grave and womanly, perhaps. But she felt that she would rather have her remain what she always had been—a happy and careless child.

But Abby talked so fast, and Charlotte had so many questions to ask, that she soon forgot her anxiety in giving and receiving information about school-mates and teachers, friends and neighbors, in answering aunt Rebecca's searching interrogatories about the place where she was going, and in the enjoyment of that delightful feeling of home and comfort which one always feels on returning after even a short absence.

Olive thought that Charlotte was rather pale and thin, and that she seemed grave and somewhat subdued. But Charlotte laughed at the idea of her being unwell, saying that she was only tired of going out, and she was glad the visiting season had almost come to a close.

"That is very ungrateful of you, Charlotte," said Abby. "Is it not, aunt Rebecca?"

"Why is it ungrateful?" asked Charlotte, rather sharply.

"Because you have received so much attention, and so many pretty compliments. I'll tell you, Olive, what Major Trimble said—"

"Major Trimble is an old goose, and you are not much better for troubling yourself to repeat his nonsense," interrupted Charlotte.

"Charlotte, Charlotte, for shame!" remonstrated Mrs. Merton. "How can you speak so of Major Trimble? He is a most excellent and respectable man."

"Mother, you laugh at him, yourself! Did you not have to go out of the room when he talked about the comedies of Dante, the great Roman poet, to Professor L.?"

"And engrossed all the conversation, so that Mr. L. could not say a word, though every one in the room was anxious to hear him," pursued Abby. "You know, aunt Rebecca, every one laughs at poor Major Trimble."

"Mr. Trimble is a very respectable man," repeated aunt Rebecca, "and it is wrong and unladylike to call any one an old goose."

"Well, I will not call him any thing, if Abby will leave off quoting him."

"I will not quote him if I can help it, Charlotte," said Abby, laughing; "but it is a great temptation. You do look so magnificent when you hear him mentioned."

"Come, girls," interposed Mrs. Merton, "you are keeping Olive up quite too late, considering that she has been riding all day. To rest, to rest, my children. You have eight weeks at least, of uninterrupted conversation before you, and can well afford to spare a few hours. And remember, Olive and Abby, no talking after you get to bed," she added, in her kindly authoritative tone.

Olive was very glad to obey the command, for she was very tired and had a bad headache.

She slept late the next morning, and breakfast was entirely over when she appeared, Mrs. Merton kindly excusing her by saying that it must be quite luxury for her to lie in bed for once. Mrs. Merton had no spite in her disposition. She never would say that approved of Olive's plans, and she heartily wished they had never entered her head. But now the matter was settled and could not be helped, she was above making her niece in any way uncomfortable on account of it.

The day was passed in unpacking and arranging, and in receiving company; for aunt Dimsden and Laura came over in the morning, and Mrs. Merton invited them to spend the day. Laura was even more affable and graceful than usual, but she seemed more than ever taken up with dress and company, and the admiration she had received. The same Major Trimble, whom Charlotte and Abby ridiculed so unmercifully, was apparently quite an oracle with her; and she indignantly repelled the idea that he was tiresome, declaring that she hated people like Professor L., who were always talking about such "grand things."

"What grand things?" asked Olive.

"Why Shakspeare and Dante, and—"

"Yes, Dante, the great Roman poet," interrupted Abby, but the joke was lost upon Laura, who continued, quite jealous in the defense:

"I am sure he knows as much as William Forester, and you are never weary of having him hanging about you, Abby."

"William Forester," exclaimed Abby, coloring: "William Forester's little finger knows more than Major Trimble thinks he does."

"That is saying a great deal, Abby," said Charlotte, gravely.

"What nonsense, Abby! Mr. Forester is well enough, but he is nothing remarkable, and he is as poor as poverty, besides being a coxcomb."

"I admire the elegance of your expressions, Miss Dimsden," said Charlotte, sarcastically. "I think both gentlemen would be flattered by what you say about them, if they knew it."

"You need not be so grand, Charlotte, you talk about people yourself."

"Not about young gentlemen," returned Charlotte.

"Well, now, isn't young Forester a coxcomb?" persisted Laura.

"No," said Abby, emphatically, "he is not a coxcomb, Laura, but a true gentleman, in every sense of the term. You have no more right to call him a coxcomb than he has to call you a coquette."

"Not quite so much, possibly," said Laura, significantly; "men are very apt to call women coquettes, who refuse them, you know!"

"Do you mean to say, Laura McHenry, that you refused William Forester?" asked Abby, with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes.

"In the first place, my name is not Laura McHenry, but Laura Dimsden, my dear; and secondly, it does not concern you whether I refused him or not. You know Mrs. Merton says there is nothing more unladylike than for a woman to tell of a refusal."

"And she is right," interrupted Olive, "whether she tells it out and out, or only implies it."

"And besides, Abby," continued Laura, disregarding the interruption, "if you are so warm in his defense, people will really begin to believe what they say about you."

"What do they say?" asked Abby, but Charlotte interposed:

"Do pray leave the gentlemen to themselves. I am sure we have heard enough of them, and I want you to hear Olive and Abby play that duet from Mendelssohn."

Laura muttered something about stupid, old-fashioned music, but she was, in her heart, rather afraid of pushing matters to extremities with her cousin; for though she herself excelled in light skirmishing, yet in a regular engagement, Charlotte was sure to conquer.

Abby's hand trembled, and, she made more than one mistake, a thing very unusual with her.

At every one Laura smiled significantly, and Charlotte looked as though she would like to box Miss Dimsden's ears. They kept up a regular snip-snap all day, and Olive was not sorry when the arrival of company from out of town, called Mrs. Dimsden and her adopted daughter home before tea. She could not help fearing that something was wrong with Abby, and she longed to find out what it was, but there seemed to be no opportunity. The parlor was full of company all the evening. They were up quite late, and Abby did not seem inclined for conversation after they retired to their own room.

The next evening, as the girls were busily engaged over some new books in the garden-arbor, Olive suddenly felt Abby start. She looked up in surprise, and saw a tall, handsome young gentleman approaching them.

Abby at first seemed inclined to go to meet him, but checked herself and waiting till he came up, introduced him to her sister as Mr. Forester.

He bowed politely, offered his hand to Charlotte, and seating himself without farther ceremony, he took up one of the books, and entered into conversation about it with graceful ease. He was unquestionably a very handsome man, though there was a certain want of strength and firmness about his mouth, which showed itself especially when he spoke, through his well-trimmed and handsome beard.

Charlotte did not seem to like him very particularly, and they disagreed rather sharply several times, Mr. Forester sustaining his opinion politely and well, despite the keenness of his opponent's wit.

There was nothing to find fault with, in what he said, and yet Olive noticed a lightness—a want of earnestness—which did not please her.

Abby seemed at first constrained and uncomfortable, but the feeling wore off apparently, and she was soon talking and laughing more merrily than Olive had yet heard her.

When they went into the house, singing and playing took the place of conversation, and Mr. Forester joined a fine and cultivated voice to those of the girls. It came out incidentally, that he drew and painted, and he was evidently quite at home in foreign literature. Other gentlemen coming in, he devoted himself exclusively to Abby.

Olive thought her uncle did not seem to look upon him with any particular favor. When he had taken his departure, and the girls were alone together, Abby, after sundry unfinished sentences, asked Olive what she thought of Mr. Forester.

"Why, I hardly know," said Olive. "I should have to see more of him before I could decide."

"But you must admit that he is very agreeable!"

"Oh! Yes, very pleasant, and well-bred, and all that, but—"

"But what?" asked Abby impatiently.

"I hardly know what. As I said, I do not know enough of him to form any judgment about him."

"I don't believe he ever offered himself to Laura, at any rate," said Abby after a pause, during which she had curled and uncurled her hair several times.

"That is nothing if he did. It is no disgrace to a man to be refused."

"No, but—"

"But what?" asked Olive, in her turn.

"Nothing as regards him, but if you were engaged to a man, you would not like to know that he had offered himself to any one else first."

"I do not think it would be pleasant, perhaps," said Olive, "but I do not see why you should have called Laura so sharply to account for what she said. To be sure it was not a very wise or lady-like speech, but from the way you took it up, any one might think you were personally interested in the matter. I would be more careful if I were you, especially before Aunt Dimsden."

"There it is!" exclaimed Abby, petulantly. "Lectures, nothing but lectures, from morning till night. I do wonder whether I am such a fool as every one seems to believe me. If I am, I think it is a pity I could not die at once and be out of the way."

"Abby!" exclaimed Olive, perfectly astonished. In all her experience, she had never before such an outbreak from her sister.

"I thought when you came home, you would have a little patience with me, and treat me kindly," continued Abby, beginning to cry. "It is bad enough to be watched by Aunt Rebecca, and checked and interfered with by Charlotte, without your joining in. I—" But Abby's voice became quite lost in her hysterical sobs.

Olive tried her best to quiet her, and to persuade her to tell what was the matter, but in vain.

For though her ill-humor seemed to dissolve with her tears, and she embraced and kissed her sister warmly, she still wept, and at last cried herself to sleep.

Next morning, the cloud seemed to have passed away, and Abby was as gay and cheerful as ever, lavishing all sorts of caresses on her sister, as though trying to make her forget the scene of the night before.

But Olive could not forget. It was so very different from Abby's usual habits—so utterly foreign to any thing she had ever known of her—that she was completely puzzled.

The next day was Sunday, and according to the inflexible rule of Mr. Merton's household, they all went to church, both morning and evening. Mr. Forester sat directly behind them at the latter service, and walked home with them, or rather with Abby, for they lagged so far behind that Aunt Rebecca twice stopped and waited for them to come up.

Monday evening, they were at a small party, together, and on Tuesday he called again. Olive was beginning to like him better. She thought him very modest and unaffected, and quite took herself to task for her first prejudice against him. She improved an opportunity one day, when they were alone together, to ask Charlotte about him.

"Who is he, and where did he come from? What are his antecedents, and what does he do with himself?"

"He is Mr. William Forester, and he comes from H. His antecedents are Mr. and Mrs. Jackson Forester who were old acquaintances of my father's, and very nice people, I believe," was Charlotte's cunning reply.

"Very satisfactory thus far," said Olive, smiling, "but you have not answered the most important of all. What does he do with his time?"

"He amuses himself, and entertains other people."

"And is that all? I should think at his age, he ought to be doing something more profitable."

"A good many people think so," said Charlotte, "and my father among the number. I believe, to do the young man justice, he does pretend to study law, but I do not know when he accomplishes it. He is always busy with some picture or translation, or getting up an amateur concert, or a military display, not to mention the hours he spends in dangling after different young ladies—Abby, for instance."

"Has he been long attentive to Abby?" asked Olive, glad that her cousin had introduced the subject.

"Why, yes, for three months perhaps. Before that, he was quite devoted to Laura. You heard what she said about refusing him."

"Yes. I did not know what to think about it."

"It is like enough to be true. She would certainly refuse him if he did offer himself, for she is bent upon marrying a rich man. William has about five or six thousand of his own, so he is not what one would call poor, but that is not enough to meet her views. I wish her would not come here quite so much, for I do not think either father or mother like him very well, and mother thinks it would be a disadvantage to Abby to have any idle story set afloat."

"But you do not think," said Olive alarmed, "that there is any thing—any engagement between them?"

"Oh! No!" replied Charlotte. "Abby is giddy enough sometimes, but I can not think she would enter into any engagement without father's knowledge and consent. I hope not, I am sure, for I fear he would never forgive her. But if I may speak quite plainly, Olive?"

"Of course. That is just what I want."

"I am afraid Abby likes him."

"I have thought so myself sometimes," said Olive, after a moment's painful thought, "but I can hardly believe it. She has always been so perfectly open with me, and so ready to tell me every feeling that I can not think she would conceal this," she concluded, thereby betraying the very small amount of her knowledge of human nature.

"Perhaps I am mistaken: I hope I am," said Charlotte, kindly. "I am not very good at observing and watching people."

"Do you think your mother notices Mr. Forester's attentions to Abby?" asked Olive, after another pause.

"Sometimes I have thought she did," said Charlotte. "She never seems very well pleased at his coming here. I know my father thinks him idle and trifling, a character with which, you know, he has very little patience. I hope Abby does not care for him, for I do not believe he has any stability of character, and that is something which she, of all people, needs in a husband."

"She is so young, too. I do hope she has no such idea."

"If you have any influence with her, Olive, pray persuade her to be open with my father. You know nothing annoys him so much as any concealment. But do not worry yourself; we may be entirely mistaken, you know. It seems rather odd, does it not," she added, smiling, "that we should be taking counsel together about her affairs? Do you remember how we used to quarrel in school?"

"No, I have been forgetting it as fast as possible," replied Olive. "I think the fault was, perhaps, as much mine as yours."

"You are very charitable to think so, but I can not agree with you. I was too unboundedly provoking. I have been angry with myself, many a time since, to think how I used to insult you."

"Do not let us talk of it," said Olive; "it is one of the things that is past and gone. After all, Charlotte, school-days are pleasant days. I don't believe we shall ever be much happier than we were at Mrs. Granger's."

"I do not believe I shall ever be so happy again," replied Charlotte, with a sigh. "I have wished myself back there twenty times a week, this winter. When I was in school, I had an object. Every morning I thought, now here is just so much to be accomplished before night. Almost all my duties were such as I had pleasure in, and at night I would look back and think that I had really brought something to pass."

"Yes, that is very pleasant," said Olive. "But can not you do so now?"

"No," replied Charlotte, abruptly.

"Excuse me, but I do not see why."

"You would see why, if you would consider. Just think how it has been since you came home. Nothing but going out, or having company at home, day after day, and night after night, and what does it amount to?"

"I think it is pleasant enough for a little while," said Olive. "I have really enjoyed myself very much, since I came home this time."

"Yes, because you have been hard at work all winter, and need recreation. But you would not enjoy it to go on so, day after day, and week after week, without seeming to bring a single thing to pass. I should really enjoy going back to school, and timing my employments by the bell and the hour-glass again."

"But it seems to me—I do not know by experience, to be sure—that you might contrive to do something more than that, Charlotte. You might study a good deal."

"When?"

"You know no one calls here before twelve o'clock. You might be tolerably certain of having the time to yourself from half-past eight to eleven."

"But supposing I should, what could I accomplish in that time?" asked Charlotte, half-incredulously, but with an appearance of considerable interest.

"A great deal, I think," replied Olive. "You never gave as much time as that to any one lesson in school. Suppose you undertake some new language, Greek, for instance, which you were always desirous of learning. I think you could easily get a teacher, if you wanted one. If you would give two hours a day to that, and the other hour, when you had it to spare, to natural history or chemistry, I think you would find at the end of the year that you had accomplished a good deal."

"It looks very pretty," said Charlotte, "but I am afraid it would not work very well. I should be liable to so many interruptions. There is always shopping and sewing to be done and a hundred things to break up one's plans."

"Well, then, when it is necessary, you must be content to give way for a little, and begin again. Half a loaf is better than no bread, as the proverb says."

"Lord Chesterfield says it is vulgar to use proverbs," observed Charlotte.

"It is very convenient," returned Olive, laughing.

"And besides, I don't believe I should ever have perseverance enough to carry out such a plan, without some one to make me," continued Charlotte.

"'Lead thine own captivity captive, and be Caesar unto thyself.' There is a grand quotation for you to set off against the vulgarity of the proverb. You would gain a great deal more by disciplining yourself, than if some body did it for you. And besides, Charlotte, system ought to be a means, and not an end. There is no particular use in being systematical for the mere sake of system."