Chapter III: Part 3

"I have a great mind to try it," said Charlotte, doubtfully. "This will be a good time to begin, because there will be no more parties. I wonder what mother would say. I do not believe she will like the idea of my studying Greek."

"Then take something else—Spanish or German. You have never learnt German, and there is nothing more interesting to study. But I do not believe she will have any objections to your learning Greek, if you wish to."

"I wish you were going to be here to study with me," said Charlotte.

"I wish I were, for more reasons than one," returned Olive, sighing, "but I have made an engagement, and I must keep it. Not that I am sick of the idea of teaching," she added, seeing Charlotte smile. "On the contrary, I like the prospect better than ever before, but I feel as if I were wanted here."

"You must not be too anxious about Abby," said Charlotte. "I do not believe any harm will come of it. She is a dear little creature, and always ready to do any thing one wants her to. I think she is willing to obey, from the very fact that it is less trouble than to have her own way. You know mother is very fond of her, and she will take excellent care of her."

"I know that, Charlotte, but I don't think you can tell how I feel towards Abby. She seems more like a child than a sister. I should never consent to leave her with any one else but aunt Rebecca."

Charlotte looked at Olive in her intent way, as though she meant to read her through and through. "I believe you are sincere," she said at last, "but I must say I wonder at your feeling so. I do not think my mother has ever treated you in a manner to attach you to her."

"Your mother has done a great deal for me, more than I have always appreciated at the time," said Olive, remembering how excessively jealous Charlotte used to be during their school-days, lest her mother's kindness should be undervalued. "She has never intended any thing but kindness, I am sure, and if she has sometimes said things that made me unhappy at the time, I should be very ungrateful to lay them up. I was sorry to disoblige her by the course I took, and I should not have decided as I did, had I not been perfectly certain that it was for the best."

"It is for the best," replied Charlotte, "and I have no doubt that mother will feel it so after a while, if she does not now. And do not distress yourself about Abby. As I said before, she is growing older every day. We will all take good care of her, and Mr. Forester will be out of the way, I presume, before long. I am sure no harm will come to her."

Olive felt a great deal of comfort from Charlotte's kindness and consideration, and only hoped it would be continued to her sister, while she was absent.

Abby herself seemed less capricious, and more inclined to be reasonable, than for some time past. She sought her sister's society constantly, and was even more affectionate and good humored than usual. Mr. Forester continued to be a frequent visitor, and Mrs. Merton began to raise her eyebrows and show signs of discontent when he appeared.

Once, when he came home with Abby about dusk, and it appeared accidentally that they had taken a long walk together, aunt Rebecca gave her youngest niece quite a serious lecture about encouraging such an idle young man, and giving occasion to gossip. As Abby listened in submissive silence, without any of her usual petty petulance and impatience, and before the discourse was half ended, burst into a flood of tears, Mrs. Merton thought she had said all that was necessary. So she kissed the little weeping beauty, assuring her that she was not angry with her, but merely wished her to be careful what she did, and that she should never suspect her of any thing really improper or underhanded.

Poor Abby cried more than ever, and as soon as she was alone, she threw herself upon the bed and cried herself to sleep.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

EVERY BODY knows how fast vacation-time speeds away. Olive could hardly tell what had become of hers, but the fact was plain that it was gone, and that only one week intervened before she was to enter upon a new and untried mode of life, in a new place and among entire strangers.

The only people in Basswoods that she had ever seen were Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, the pastor and his wife, who had called upon her at Mrs. Granger's after she had accepted the invitation of the trustees. Mr. Gregory was a very pleasant elderly man, apparently possessing a good deal of cultivation, and his wife seemed a very nice, lively little person. Olive thought she should like them very much.

But with all this, and with all the courage she could muster, her heart sunk not a little sometimes, as she thought of the prospects before her. The conviction that she was in the right course did not, however, vary a moment, nor did her faith in Him who giveth strength according to the day. For Olive's faith was neither a mental abstraction nor a vague feeling; if there was any one fact of which she felt absolutely certain, it was that God sitteth upon the throne of his mercy, always hearing, and invariably answering the prayer of humility and love, unless in cases where refusing is kinder than giving.

She felt no more doubt that he would give her the strength necessary for her duty, than she felt that he had given her duties to perform. She had always prayed much, but never so much as now, and in an especial manner did she commend her sister Abby to Him who is the father of the fatherless. By earnest devotion—by her consciousness that she was acting rightly, and by resolutely looking at the bright side of the picture, she was able to overcome all forebodings and to pack her trunks when the time came, with a cheerful though somewhat anxious heart.

She expected to leave early in the morning with a gentleman from Basswoods, who was to pass through on the cars. Her uncle had intended to accompany her himself, and see her comfortably settled in her new home, but an important law-suit called him in another direction a day or two before the time came. He bade Olive good-by with a great deal of affection, telling her that she must write very often, be sure to come home at once if she got sick, or if she did not find herself as comfortable as she expected, and at parting, put into her hands a little package, with requisitions not to open it till she reached her journey's end.

Abby was very desirous to know what was inside this mysterious parcel, and showed so much anxiety about it, that Olive put it away in her trunk, in order, as she said, to put temptation out of her way. Aunt Merton made her a present of a very handsome and commodious writing-desk, well supplied with all sorts of pretty stationery, and moreover filled a new work-box with a great store of pins, needles, tape, thread, every thing of the kind, in short, which she could be expected to want for a twelvemonth and more. Her wardrobe had again been put in complete order, by Mrs. Merton's directions, and in fact, no school-teacher ever left home, for the first time, under more favorable auspices.

To Olive's vexation, Mr. Forester came in, and spent the very last evening she was to have at home. He did not seem to have the least idea of being in the way, and made great efforts to be entertaining. Abby was alone in the parlor when he came in, and when Olive entered, they were standing by the window, very closely engaged in conversation: she even thought he had Abby's hand in his, but if so, it was very quickly withdrawn, and Mr. Forester, turning round, began talking with his usual ease and politeness.

Olive felt vexed both at him and Abby, and all her efforts could not make her as cordial as she wished. Abby was constrained and silent, but that perhaps was no more than was natural. Mr. Forester staid quite late, much to Olive's annoyance, and Mrs. Merton exclaimed against his want of tact. Contrary to her habit, Abby did not say one word in his defense, though she colored and looked very much disturbed: in fact, she had seemed upon the brink of a fit of crying the whole evening through.

As usual upon such occasions, every one declared that Olive ought to go to bed early that she might be quite fresh for her journey next day. And as usual, every one found so many last words to say, that it was full an hour later that common before the family retired.

When the sisters were alone together, Abby seemed still less inclined for conversation, and yet there appeared to be something upon her mind which she wished to express. She answered yes and no at random to Olive's remarks, curled and uncurled her hair half a dozen times, and was so absent that Olive exclaimed, half-amused and half-vexed:

"Why, Abby, I don't believe you know what you are doing."

"I don't," said Abby shortly and in a tone which made Olive look at her in surprise. She paused a moment, nervously folding a piece of paper in her fingers, and then proceeded abruptly:

"You may as well know the truth, Olive, first as last. I promised William I would not tell any one else, but I must tell you."

"Tell me what?" eked Olive in amazement and terror; for Abby's color varied every instant, from deep crimson to pale as ashes, and she shook in every limb.

"What is the matter with you?"

Abby made another effort, and succeeded in saying, though in a voice which did not sound the least like her own: "I am engaged to be married, Olive!"

Then as though the great difficulty were passed, she went on more calmly. "I meant to tell you before, but William was anxious it should be kept secret for the present. He would have preferred to have it remain so, till you came back at any rate, but I felt as though I could not have you go away—" She relapsed into silence again, busying herself aimlessly with her curls.

Olive had seated herself upon the side of the bed: she felt as though she could not stand. But she saw how agitated Abby was, and with a strong effort, she preserved her own calmness.

"Engaged to whom?" she asked quietly.

"To William Forester, of course," returned Abby pettishly; "who else should it be?"

"How long have you been engaged to him?" pursued Olive.

"Ever since the day aunt Rebecca made such a fuss about our walking together—the day we went to the cemetery," answered Abby, with a degree of impatience. In fact, the great effort Olive was making to preserve her composure, rendered her tone more severe than she was aware of.

"Why did you not tell me before?" she asked again.

"You had better ask why I tell you now," exclaimed Abby, angrily, throwing down her brush, and turning round. "William told me you would not have any sympathy with me, and advised me not to say a word to you, and I see he was right. I don't know why you should sit there and question me in that cold severe tone, as though you had authority over me for life and death. I am not accountable to you."

"Hush, Abby," said Olive, in a tone which now certainly trembled sufficiently; "do not let us make matters worse by quarrelling. I don't mean to be severe, but I am perfectly overwhelmed. Why, that is six weeks ago!"

"Yes, and I wondered at your not suspecting us, though I was very glad you did not."

"I have not been used to watching you in order find out your secrets, Abby," said Olive, more and more agitated. "You have always been as open as day before. Why should Mr. Forester be so anxious to have you conceal such a thing your best friends?"

"He does not want any one to know it at present," replied Abby evasively.

"But why? I should think the honorable way would have been for him to go at once to my uncle, mention the matter to him, and ask his consent, as he is your guardian, and has always been as kind as the kindest father to you."

"You don't know any thing about such things, Olive. You never were in love, and I don't believe you ever will be."

"Perhaps not," returned Olive, "but I know what is right, and straightforward, and gentlemanly, and the course which Mr. Forester has taken does not seem to me to be either."

"William says my uncle is prejudiced against him, and you know he is, yourself."

"I don't know any such thing. My uncle is not apt to be prejudiced against people, and if he were, it makes no difference in your duty. Why should he have a prejudice against Mr. Forester?"

"He says William is idle," returned Abby, "because he does not choose to pin himself down to the office, and let all his fine talents wither away, while he is poring over stupid law-books. When he brought up those beautiful outline drawings the other night, uncle just asked him how much time they had taken from Blackstone. As though a man of his genius were going to be fettered in that way. Besides, he has no need to apply himself as the rest of the young men do, when he is so much quicker than they are. But there is no use in talking to you," she added, turning away. "You do not understand William nor me. We understand each other, that is our comfort, and it is about the only one I have."

"No doubt," said Olive bitterly, "this stranger, whom you have not known six months at the outside, understands you much better than your sister, who has been with you, and cared for you, ever since you were born. It does seem to me that my affection is likely to be as disinterested as his."

"You have never been in love," Abby repeated, "and you can not understand the matter."

"Very well, we will take that for granted. I have never been in love, and therefore can not enter into your feeling, but I am none the less able to see what is right, and I can never believe it is an honorable proceeding, to gain the affections of a young girl, hardly seventeen years old, and entangle her in an engagement, which is to be kept secret from her friends for an indefinite length of time."

"Please to remember, Olive, that you are speaking of my affianced husband," said Abby, with flashing eyes, "and that I will not listen to one word to his disadvantage."

"Very well," said Olive, after a moment's reflection, "I will say no more about him. It may be that he has only erred in judgment. But how long is this secrecy to continue, Abby?"

"I don't know—I have never thought."

"Then pray, my dearest child, do think before this affair goes any farther. You know how clear-sighted uncle and aunt Merton are."

"I can not compliment aunt Rebecca upon being very clear-sighted," said Abby, laughing. "If she had been, she might have seen before this time that there was something in the wind. How gravely she lectured me that night," she continued, with an amusing imitation of Mrs. Merton's impressive manner. "I must be careful, or people would make remarks about me. It would be very unpleasant, and a great disadvantage to me to have any report of an engagement get abroad. I should think she would have seen then, that something unusual was the matter."

"I presume the possibility of your wishing to deceive her, never entered her mind," said Olive gravely, vexed almost beyond endurance by Abby's unreasonable levity. "But you must know, Abby, that things can not go on so. There are aunt Dimsden and Laura always upon the watch too. Suppose her suspicions are aroused, and she speaks to uncle Merton, or tells the story to every one, till it gets to his ears from some other quarter. What will you do when he calls you to account about it? You know he can not endure any thing like slyness, even in the smallest matters."

"I don't know," said Abby lightly, but sighing at the same time. "I must trust William to get me out of the scrape, some way or other. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

"Quite sufficient, I should think. Just consider how you will be situated, with your mind burdened with a secret which you are constantly afraid of having found out, obliged to resort to all sorts of subterfuges: you may even be driven to downright untruth before you know it."

Abby sighed deeply. She was conscious of having transgressed in this respect more than once already. Olive hoped she had gained a little advantage.

"I am sure, Abby, you can not be happy living in this way," she said.

"I don't expect to be happy, except when I am with William," replied Abby. "Then I forget that there is any thing like discomfort or misery, in the world; he is so kind and good. He makes me feel like another being—so elevated. I feel above all earthly cares and trammels."

"And duties too," thought Olive, but she did not say so. As she became cooler, she saw that she had made a great mistake in speaking so severely of Mr. Forester. It was necessary, above all things, for her to gain Abby's confidence, and this was not the way to do it. Abby continued:

"When I am away from him, I expect to be more or less unhappy, of course; 'the course of true love never did run smooth,' you know. But for all that, I would not give him up; No, not if every friend I have in the world should set himself against him."

Olive sighed at the infatuation as it seemed to her, of her sister. "I do wish you would tell uncle all about it," she said earnestly.

"I dare not," replied Abby, turning pale at the very idea. "He would be so angry!"

"What will he be if he finds it out for himself, and discovers that you have been deceiving him all the time?"

"How you do harp upon deception," said Abby. "It is not deceiving him to tell him nothing about it."

"O Abby! You would not have made that distinction a year ago."

"I was a child, and afraid to say my soul was my own, a year ago—but, at any rate, I shall not tell him."

"Then let me—he will not be at home, but I can write to him."

"Indeed you must not!" returned Abby, in great alarm. "William would be very angry. It was as much as I could do, to gain his consent for telling you. Promise me that you will not say a word about it!"

"I can not make such a promise," said Olive; "It does not seem right. Mr. Forester ought to tell uncle Merton himself."

"Do you suppose, Olive," asked Abby, "that it would be very pleasant for a man of William's delicate feelings and exquisite refinement, to expose himself to the questionings and reproofs of such a cold, practical, middle-aged man as my uncle, who judges of every thing in the world by two touchstones—common-sense and duty?"

"And very good touchstones I consider them," returned Olive. "But pleasant or not pleasant, it is the part of an honest man to do it. I can not give my consent to any such secret arrangement, Abby; it is altogether wrong. I am sure your own conscience can not approve of it."

"Conscience, conscience, Olive! How you do go over that word. I can tell you, sister mine, that there are instincts and feelings in the human soul, which will not be chained down by old-fashioned trammels of conscience and duty, and such catch-words. Once for all, I tell you that you can not understand my feelings, because you have never been in love yourself, and so there is no use talking to you. I am sorry you feel hurt at my silence, and I should have told you before, if William had been willing, but he was not. He wishes the affair to be kept still till he shall have finished his studies, or else till he gets engaged in some other business; for he begins to think the law will never suit him, it is so confining. Then, you know, he is not dependent on his profession entirely: his father left him ten thousand dollars."

"But that was some time ago, and in the way he has lived, he must have spent a good deal."

"Of course, he does not intend to depend entirely upon that. He means to do something, and he does not wish to have this matter talked of till he is settled. Then, of course, he expects to ask my uncle in form. Oh! You will see it will all come out right, if you will only let us have our own way about it: we shall be nicely fixed by and by, in a house of our own, with pictures and books, and every thing delightful inside and out; and you shall come and live with us, instead of drudging at school-teaching. And there," said Abby, catching at any shade of self-justification, "when you took up this notable school-keeping scheme, you acted as much for yourself as I am doing."

"But in a very different way, Abby," replied Olive. "Before I took one single step in the matter, or even made up my own mind, I wrote to uncle about it, and I have not done a single thing, from first to last, without his knowledge and consent. If he had opposed it, I should have given it up, or at least have waited till I was twenty-one. Besides, teaching is not like getting married. If I find that I can not be useful or happy in it, I can stop."

"What are you talking about, girls?" asked aunt Rebecca's voice of authority, at the door. "You ought to have been asleep an hour ago. Olive, do not let me hear another word to-night."

There was nothing for it to obey, and where was the use of talking? Nothing that Olive could say, seemed to make any impression. She had always pleased herself with the idea that Abby's disposition was so easy and yielding that there would be no difficulty in guiding her aright, and that she was naturally so open, that no secrets could exist between them. Now she found out her mistake. The yielding disposition was only yielding in matters which Abby did not care any thing about, or which she thought not worth the trouble of a contradiction. Her frankness was only a habit and not a principle, and yielded to the first temptation. She was completely bewildered and dazzled by the sentimental sophistry of her accomplished admirer, with whom she was really as much in love as a girl of seventeen is capable of being.

Of course, she could see nothing save perfection, in Mr. Forester. He was really an interesting and agreeable man, and, as is the case with almost every girl who falls in love, she invested him with all those attributes of manly excellence which existed only in her own mind. Olive's arguments made but little impression upon her. She took refuge in the idea, which indeed had some truth in it, that Olive had never been in love, and therefore could not understand her feelings. When she was absolutely driven into a corner, and forced to reflect, she could not but acknowledge to herself that she occupied an unpleasant and somewhat undignified position, and that the course she was pursuing was not likely to end in any thing desirable. But she comforted herself with the idea, "that it would all come right in the end—that she should get through with it some way."

Olive, on her part, was thoroughly perplexed, and almost for the first time in her life, could not see her duty plain before her. If her uncle had been at home, she almost thought she should have gone straight to him, and told him the whole story. And yet—she had properly no authority over Abby, and what right had she to betray her secret? If she had had more time, she would have talked to Mr. Forester, and endeavored to prevail upon him to take an open and manly course. But she had no time—there was the great trouble. Her uncle was not at home. Even should she think it best to speak to Mrs. Merton, there would be no opportunity, and moreover, she was very doubtful of the expediency of such a step.

What could she—what ought she to do? She thought it over and over, and prayed for light, but she could see none, except that she felt more and more as though Mr. Merton ought to be informed, but then—could she betray her sister? She knew her uncle well, and she felt sick as she thought how angry he would be with Abby. She could not sleep, and was so restless, that she awoke her companion, who asked what was the matter.

"I am thinking about this miserable business, Abby. Do promise me that you will tell uncle all about it when he comes home, or persuade Mr. Forester to tell him. I am sure it is the only right way."

"Dear me, are you worrying over that yet?" said Abby sleepily. "I wish I had not told you, since you are so distressed about it."

"But will you tell uncle?"

"Yes, if I can, or I will get William to. Now do go to sleep, like a dear child."

Olive turned and tossed, and finally fell into troubled slumber, which seemed to have lasted about five minutes, when she was awakened by Mrs. Merton's hand and voice.

"I have allowed you to sleep just as long as I dare, my dear. You will have no more than time to dress, and get your breakfast comfortably. I will finish your packing myself."

Olive sprang up, and was soon dressed. She meant to have risen early, but her restless night had defeated her plans, and before she had finished her prayers, Mrs. Merton's voice was again heard at the door. The breakfast was very inviting, but she could take nothing except a cup of coffee.

Aunt Rebecca busied herself in putting a provision of sandwiches and cakes into her travelling-bag, and in looking to see that nothing had been left. Charlotte sat by, grave and silent, except when she sharply reproved Abby for crying, and making Olive cry too.

Contrary to Olive's expectations, they had some time to spare at the dépôt, and the first person they saw was Mr. Forester, who was evidently waiting for them. She would have given a great deal to have been able to say a few words to him in private, but there seemed to be no opportunity.

At last he contrived to get between her and her aunt, and said in the same moment, in a low tone: "I suppose Abby has told you?"

"Yes," returned Olive.

"I hope her course has your approval," he said carelessly.

"I can not say—I think you should have spoken to my uncle," replied Olive. And then, seeing that Mrs. Merton's attention was still occupied, she added, earnestly: "Do be open with him, and allow Abby to be so: it is the only right—the only honorable way."

Mr. Forester colored deeply, and his eyes flashed fire; he seemed about to make an angry reply, but controlled himself, and merely said in a tone of hauteur: "Pardon me, if I esteem myself the best judge of that matter, Miss McHenry. But as your sister's confiding disposition has foolishly placed her secret in your hands, you will no doubt use it as suits your purpose; and Abby will find out her folly too late."

"Late!" said Mrs. Merton catching the last word. "Are we late?"

"No, ma'am, the cars are late—ten minutes behind time at least. Ah! Here they come at last."

"Miss McHenry here?" said an elderly gentleman entering the ladies' room. "Ah! Good morning, ma'am. Mrs. Merton I presume I have the pleasure of addressing—and which of these young ladies am I to take in charge?"

Mrs. Merton presented Miss McHenry. Jones bowed and shook hands.

"We have no time to lose, Miss McHenry. Have you your checks and tickets? All right—come then, bid good-by all—good morning, Madam—" And almost before Olive knew where she was, she was out of the dépôt, and whirling along at lightning speed through the country.

Mr. Jones was a kindly, fatherly sort of man, one of those old gentlemen who always call all young girls "my dear," and take pleasure in petting them. He was very kind to Olive, provided her with a new magazine from a small library of such things which he seemed to have with him, left her to herself for a while, as he saw that her heart and eyes were full to overflowing; and when he perceived that she was becoming more composed, pointed out all the objects of particular interest on the road, talked to her about the place she came from, and the one she was going to, and made himself so agreeable that she several times found herself forgetting her great trouble for as much as ten minutes together.

She found considerable amusement in watching the people in the cars, who presented the usual variety. There was a returned Californian going home with his wife, who had evidently been down to the seaboard to meet him. He was a great rough six-footer of a man, bearded like the pard, and full of strength and spirits; and it was quite touching to see the way in which he caressed and petted his delicate little wife, something as though he was afraid of breaking her by too rough handling. There were of course two or three bashful and blushing brides, and still more bashful and awkward grooms, looking as though they thought all the world must know that they were just married. Then there were a thoughtful father and mother, with a tribe of handsome boys and girls going to settle at the West, all merry, good-natured, and full of spirits.

And finally, a couple of would-be fine ladies from some Western city, full of second-hand airs, and last year's finery, who amused themselves the whole way, in talking over their own and their neighbors' family quarrels—how Rebecca Coleman made a party, and did not ask the speaker, though she invited George's wife; and what she said to George about it, and what George said to her; how the refreshments were poor and scanty, and Rebecca only attended to those that she liked; how the minister's wife wore feathers in her bonnet, and made a great many visits, and how the minister himself encouraged pauperism by relieving the poor; how easy it was to deceive him, and how he had spoken of a clergyman of another denomination as an intelligent and gentlemanly man—it was even reported that he said 'fellow.' Olive thought the minister was to be pitied, who numbered such a party of ill-natured detractors among his flock.

As it drew towards night, Olive began to think less of those she had left behind, and to feel a little anxious respecting the people she was soon to meet, and among whom her hope was to be, for the next five months at least. A boarding-place had been provided for her by the care of Mr. Gregory, and she tried to find out something about it from Mr. Jones, but without much success. He could or would tell her nothing more than they were very nice people, and lived in one of the pleasantest places in Basswood. Upon farther questioning, she discovered that the family consisted of an elderly man and his wife, and one daughter, who was too old to go to school. In fact, it soon became obvious to her, that while Mr. Jones was delighted to give her descriptions of the situation, scenery, and manufactures of Basswoods, he was resolutely determined to say nothing about the people, and Olive could not help admiring his prudence and discretion, at the same time that she felt a little vexed at it.

At the last station, Mr. Jones informed her that they had only thirty miles father to go, and her eyes were soon abundantly occupied in studying the picturesque and beautiful valley through which they were passing. By and by, the train came to a full stop—then backed—then went on, and finally stopped again.

Olive looked out; there seemed nothing to stop for. They were in a deep, narrow valley, shut in by high mountains, and nothing like a settlement was visible.

Mr. Jones got up and went to the door, but he could see nothing to account for the delay, so he sat down again.

By and by the conductor came along, and, on being interrogated, informed them that they were behind time, and must wait for another train.

"How long?" inquired several gentlemen, anxiously.

"Perhaps five minutes—perhaps an hour. As soon as the up-train has passed, we shall be able to go on, but we must wait an hour for them; after that, we shall have a right to the road."

Various opinions now made themselves heard. Mr. Jones said that they should not get to their destination till late, but considered that even that was better than running any risk. The Californian thought the whole thing rather "slow," but was not disposed to grumble at any thing, and having made acquaintance with the boys opposite, began telling them bear-hunting and gold-digging stories, with infinite good-nature, and a vast amount of odd expressions and California slang. The Western ladies looked at him and the whole party, as though they had been their natural, born enemies, especially when the boys laughed, which, it must be confessed, they did somewhat uproariously.

Their husbands thought the conductor ought to go on at any rate, even at the imminent risk of being run over, which would be incomparably less of an evil than waiting an hour.

"Would you not like to go to the end, and look out, my dear?" said Mr. Jones to Olive. "It will be less fatiguing than sitting still, though there is not much to see."

Olive could not agree that there was very little to see, when she stepped out upon the platform. They were in a very narrow valley, between two high, rocky ridges, which almost deserved the name of mountains. There seemed hardly more than room for the road and the stream, which murmured and foamed along, as though hurrying to escape from such confined quarters. The sun was just dropping behind the western hills, which were very steep, and clothed with dark evergreens, made still more sombre by the deep shadows. While the eastern mountains, glowing with all the magnificent coloring of beech, maple, and graceful birch, with here and there a sumach burning like a living fire, was lighted by the whole blaze of sunset.

Mr. Jones smiled at Olive's exclamations of delight.

"You are an enthusiast about such things," he said. "I used to be myself when I was young, but I have had it a good deal driven out of me, I am sorry to say. But I am glad you are fond of mountains, for you will see enough of them. I love them like old friends, for I was born among them."

Olive found the hour pass very pleasantly in watching the changes of light and shade on the hill-tops and in the valley, and in listening to her companion's reminiscences of the early settlement of the country. She felt almost sorry when the train went on again, and she began to feel that every moment brought her nearer to her journey's end.

At last came the long whistle which announced that the station was in sight. The people who were going to stop began to gather up their shawls and bags, and to look out their checks. And those who were going on felicitated themselves with the idea of a hot supper.

She soon found herself in a carriage with her kind companion, who insisted on going with her to the house, and introducing her to her host and hostess. Olive was very thankful: she was vexed to find herself trembling and agitated, when she meant to be very calm and composed. The carriage stopped at the gate of a very pretty two-story brick house, a good deal shaded, which was all she could see by moonlight.

A light streamed out from the hall-door, and two or three figures appeared at it, showing that she was expected.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Felton," said Mr. Jones; "I have brought your new inmate, you see, and I hope you have some supper for her. I am sure she must be starving."

Mrs. Felton came forward, and shook hands kindly with Olive, introducing her to her husband at the same time—a ceremony from which that gentleman received but little benefit, as he was out at the gate, superintending the removal of the baggage. Mrs. Felton was a middle-aged, meek-looking woman, with mild hazel eyes, and a certain nervous, undecided expression.

"Supper—yes, certainly. So you have had no supper, but we waited so long, I am afraid every thing is quite spoiled. I guess I had better get something fresh. Ruth!"

"Pray do not take any trouble for me," said Olive, who did not feel very much like eating, being conscious of a certain hysterical feeling in her throat; "I am not hungry."

"But you must be hungry, because you have been travelling all day," insisted Mrs. Felton, argumentatively; "people are always hungry when they have been travelling."

And, having asked Mr. Jones to stay to supper, and telling her husband, who was still invisible, to take the trunks up-stairs, Mrs. Felton led the way into the dining-room—a very cheerful apartment, furnished with easy-looking, odd-shaped, rush-bottomed, and closely-wound chairs and sofas; a tall, old-fashioned mahogany clock, with a marvellously painted and gilded face, ticked in the corner; some curious old prints and paintings upon glass ornamented the walls; and a beautiful large white cat sat composedly on a chair at the corner of the supper-table, as though she had taken her usual place, and was waiting for the rest of the company.

"I kept the table standing because I thought you might not have had your supper, you see," pursued Mrs. Felton, in a mild, purring kind of voice. "There! Sit down in the rocking-chair, and let me take your bonnet. Your room is all ready for you, but perhaps you will not like it. I thought the front-chamber was the pleasantest, because you can see every one that passes, but Ruth liked the back one the best—Ruth!"

"Yes, mother," replied the individual so often called, in a cheerful voice, entering at the same time, with a waiter full of smoking dishes, "I only waited to fry two or three eggs, and get out the hot biscuits—I laid some by on purpose. How do you do, Miss McHenry?" she continued, without waiting for an introduction. "Tired enough, of course! Don't move," she continued, setting down her dishes; "I will push the table up to you." And she suited the action to the word, before Olive had time to remonstrate, and handed her a cup of fragrant tea, begging her to help herself to an egg and a piece of ham.

Olive had really believed that she was not hungry, but every thing was so very nice and inviting, that she felt her appetite return, and ate a hearty supper, to the evident delight of her hostess.

As soon as she had finished, Ruth asked her if she would not like to go to her room. "It is all ready, and I am sure you will be glad to be quiet," she said, as she lighted a candle in a queer little old-fashioned silver candlestick; "I will show you the way."

Every thing looked inviting in the room whither Olive was conducted. It was large and high, but full curtains and a warm-colored carpet gave it an air of comfort. An old-fashioned toilet and glass stood between the windows: an equally antiquated book-case filled up one recess of the chimney, and a commodious table and chair the other.

Ruth set down the candle, and sweeping a comprehensive glance around the room to see that all was right, bade Olive good-night, begging not to hurry herself in the morning, as the school did not begin till the next day, and she would have plenty of time for unpacking.

Olive certainly did not feel inclined to any extra exertion. She took out what she wanted for the night, and unpacked her Bible and prayer-book, and, despite all the varied excitements of the day, she was asleep before her head touched the pillow.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

OLIVE slept late the next morning, and when she awoke from a dream of home, she could hardly understand for a moment, where she was. It was some little time before she could arouse herself sufficiently to rise and put back the window-curtain. It was one of the softest mornings of early autumn. The window looked toward the east, across the not very wide valley in which the village lay, to a high, bold, rocky eminence, which bounded it on that side, while here and there she caught glimpses of the same sparkling and rapid stream, which they had seen so often the day before, now augmented to a considerable river. She could not see much of the village, though two or three large old-fashioned farmhouses were in sight around the edges of the valley.

She had finished dressing, and was standing at the open window enjoying the fresh air and the prospect, so different from any thing to which she had been accustomed, when a light tap was heard at the door and Ruth entered.

"I heard you stirring," she said, half-apologetically, "and came up to see if you wanted any help. We thought we would not wake you. I hope you feel rested?"

Ruth Felton had one of those faces which it is impossible to see without loving. She was far from handsome, being small and thin, with rather a sallow complexion, and no special pretensions to elegance or grace, but whenever she came into a room she seemed to bring sunshine with her. There was something in her expression so cheerful and bright, so thoroughly good and withal so earnest and full of helpfulness, that every one with whom she came in contact felt influence, and owned its power. She possessed moreover that not exceedingly common gift, a remarkably sweet voice; truly, an excellent thing in woman. Ruth was not young, and there were various signs and tokens about her which seemed to show that she was verging towards an old maid. Many people wondered why she had never married, but when questioned upon the subject, she always laughed her bright, cheery laugh, and said she never had had time.

"School begins to-morrow," said Ruth, as they went down-stairs together, "and I suppose you may expect a call from Mr. Prendergrass to-day."

"Who is Mr. Prendergrass?" asked Olive.

"Why, the principal of the Academy; is it possible you have had so little curiosity as not to ask the name of your associate?"

"I believe I have heard it before," replied Olive, coloring a little, "but I have had so many things to think of."

"Yes, I dare say," said Ruth. "But you will soon learn all about the things and the people with whom you have to do. I suppose you are ready for your breakfast?" she added, as they entered the dining-room.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked Olive, seeing only a small round table set by the window.

"Oh! Yes, two hours ago. We breakfast at half-past six in summer, and at seven in winter. I am afraid our hours will be too early for you."

"Oh! No; I was accustomed to early hours at school, but aunt Merton has spoiled me a little, since I have been at home. What a beautiful puss!" she continued, as the white cat she had seen the night before roused herself from a comfortable nap, and came gravely forward to pay her respects.

"I hope you like cats," said Ruth; "Jenny is a great pet, and to say the truth, a little spoiled. She is the descendant of a cat that my brother brought home from Bombay, and my mother values her on that account. But if you find her troublesome, you must drive her away."

Olive had no great fear of finding the pretty creature troublesome, for she loved pets of every description, and had more than once incurred aunt Rebecca's displeasure, by patronizing stray kittens and forlorn puppies.

Jenny was very ready to be taken up, and they were having a fine game at play, when Ruth entered with the breakfast, followed by Mrs. Felton with a work-basket.

"Ruth," said the latter, in a tone of mild remonstrance, which somehow made Olive feel nervous, "you shouldn't let that cat trouble Miss McHenry."

"She does not trouble me," said Olive; "I am very fond of cats."

"You are very kind to say so," returned Mrs. Felton, with an expression of gentle incredulity, "but a great many people don't like them, and I never want any thing belonging to me to be troublesome or intrusive. I never want to be myself. For that reason I did not go up to your room this morning. I felt that you would come down when you got ready, but Ruth thought differently."

Mrs. Felton never thought, she only felt; and she had no opinions, but only feelings.

Olive glanced at Ruth, expecting to see some signs of annoyance, but none were visible. She busied herself in setting the table in order. And inviting Olive to seat herself at it, she placed herself at the coffee-urn—a curious, little old-fashioned institution of plated ware with a gilded ivory pine-apple upon the top—and said grace in a very grave, unaffected manner. After which, she proceeded to pour out the coffee, Mrs. Felton murmuring away all the time, partly, as it seemed, to herself and partly to her companions.

"I suppose you rested well, Miss McHenry? At least, I hope you did."

"Oh! Yes," replied Olive, smiling; "only I slept rather too long. I am quite rested this morning."

"You are a good sleeper, I suppose. I am not," said the lady, as she threaded her needle. "I never get any sleep till towards morning, and yet it is very singular how Mr. Felton will always insist that I sleep all night. I am sure I don't know how he can tell, for he never wakes up from the time he goes to bed till he gets up again. I suppose you have never been away from home before?"

"Oh! Yes; I have been at school a great deal," replied Olive, "though to be sure, I have always had my sister and cousin with me." And she sighed for the tenth time as she thought of poor Abby.

"No doubt you will miss them very much," continued Mrs. Felton. "It is a sad thing to have none of one's relations near one. I have never seen any of mine since I was married. Indeed, I haven't any nearer than second cousins, for my mother was an only child and my father had but one brother, who died at sea. I fear you will be very lonely here after what you have been accustomed to."

"Come, mother," said Ruth, cheerfully, "you must not go to making Miss McHenry home-sick. I think she will find our village a very pleasant one, and we have plenty of agreeable people, you know. We must not discourage her at the outset."

"I don't mean to discourage her, of course," returned the lady in an injured tone. "I suppose she may like sympathy, though you don't."

Olive thought she did not either, if this was a specimen. To turn the conversation, she asked hastily: "Is the Academy far from here?"

"Only a little way," replied Ruth; "you can see it from the front-door. It is a very pleasant building, and well fitted up, though one of the oldest in the place. It was built before the war."

"How large is the school?" asked Olive.

"There are usually about fifty in the girls' department, and twice as many in the other. You will find them pleasant enough for the most part, though there are a few black sheep, of course."

"I am sure poor Miss Brown had trouble enough," remarked Mrs. Felton.

"It was her own fault, mother," said Ruth. "She would go round, talking about the girls out of school, and telling the whole village of every little unpleasant circumstance. It is almost as unfortunate for a teacher to gossip, as for a minister."

"Is Mr. Gregory in town now?" inquired Olive.

"He is," replied Ruth. "Do you know him?"

"He called upon me at Mrs. Granger's, with his wife," said Olive. "I was very much pleased with him."

"Almost every body likes Mr. Gregory," remarked Ruth, as she put the dishes together upon the tray.

"Why, yes, I suppose they do," said Mrs. Felton; "and I dare say he is a good man. But I must say, he has very little feeling, and does not understand my case at all. Would you believe it, Miss McHenry, when I told him how much I suffered from low spirits and dolts and all sorts of distressing feelings about myself, instead of sympathizing with me, he told me he thought I did not take exercise enough, and advised me to teach a class in Sunday-school. He said he did not think it was a good thing for people to be always studying over their own feelings. And when I went to see Mrs. Tower—she is his daughter—at the time her child died, and was asking her all about little Henrietta's sickness and death, and telling her of the loss of my own children, and saying every thing I could think of, to show my sympathy—he as good as told me to hold my tongue, and let her alone."

Olive did not wonder at it, but she said nothing in reply, and only observed that Mrs. Gregory seemed a very pleasant person. Mrs. Felton allowed that she was, but thought her very gay and frivolous for a person of her age. She was clearly of the opinion that there was "nothing so dainty sweet, as lovely melancholy," and no one was approved by her who had the heartlessness to be gay in this world's woes.

Olive began to feel that such a perpetual presence might become very wearisome after a while, and she wondered how Ruth could preserve her cheerfulness under it. But Ruth seemed to mind her mother's murmurs no more than she did the purring of the cat. She again came up to Olive's room to show her the shelves and drawers, of which there were a great abundance, and then left her to herself till dinner-time.

Olive was not very long in unpacking and arranging her matters, though she lingered a little over her books and drawing materials which were nicely accommodated in the book-case. A small portrait of her mother, copied by herself, from the large picture at Mr. Merton's, and one or two favorite landscapes, found very good lights upon the walls. The table held her work-box and the new desk very nicely.

As she opened the latter for the first time, her eye fell upon Mr. Merton's mysterious packet, which she had quite forgotten. She opened it, and found a very nice case, containing a handsome gold watch and chain, exactly such a one as he had presented to Charlotte on her birth-day, and two bright new twenty-dollar gold pieces, with a kind note, which, as it was very characteristic of the gentleman, we subjoin.

"You will want a watch, my dear, by which to regulate your hours, and I hope you will find this a good one. The gold pieces are to supply you with any little conveniences, of which you may feel the need. With regard to your course in your new home, I have but a few words of advice to give you. Mind your own business—never gossip nor let others gossip to you: do not be too set in your own way: have patience, but not mock patience: and look to God in all trials and difficulties."