The town-clock was on the last stroke of twelve, the solitary candle measured but two inches from its socket, and, as the summer wind rushed through the half-closed shutters, the melted tallow dripped slowly into the brightly-burnished brazen candlestick. The flickering light fell upon grim battalions of figures marshalled on the long blue-lined pages of a ledger, and flashed fitfully on the face of the accountant as he bent over his work. In these latter days of physical degeneration, such athletic frames as his are rarely seen among the youth of our land. Sixteen years growth had given him unusual height and remarkable breadth of chest, and it was difficult to realize that the stature of manhood had been attained by a mere boy in years. A gray suit (evidently home-made), of rather coarse texture, bespoke poverty; and, owing to the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, the coat was thrown partially off. He wore no vest, and the loosely-tied black ribbon suffered the snowy white collar to fall away from the throat and expose its well-turned outline. The head was large, but faultlessly proportioned, and the thick black hair, cut short and clinging to the temples, added to its massiveness. The lofty forehead, white and smooth; the somewhat heavy brows, matching the hue of the hair; the straight, finely-formed nose, with its delicate but clearly-defined nostril, and full firm lips, unshaded by mustache, combined to render the face one of uncommon beauty. Yet, as he sat absorbed by his figures, there was nothing prepossessing or winning in his appearance; for though you could not carp at the moulding of his features, you involuntarily shrank from the prematurely grave, nay, austere expression which seemed habitual to them. He looked just what he was—youthful in months and years, but old in trials, sorrows, and labors; and to one who analyzed his countenance, the conviction was inevitable that his will was gigantic, his ambition unbounded, his intellect wonderfully acute and powerful. It is always sad to remark in young faces the absence of that beaming enthusiasm which only a joyous heart imparts, and though in this instance there was nothing dark or sinister, you could not fail to be awed by the cold, dauntless resolution which said so plainly, “I struggle, and shall conquer. I shall mount, though the world defy me.” Although he had labored since dawn, there was no drooping of the muscular frame, no symptom of fatigue, save in the absolute colorlessness of his face. Firm as some brazen monument on its pedestal he sat and worked on, one hand wielding the pen, the other holding down the leaves which fluttered, now and then, as the breeze passed over them.

“Russell, do you know it is midnight?”

He frowned, and answered without looking up—

“Yes.”

“How much longer will you sit up?”

“Till I finish my work.”

The speaker stood on the threshold, leaning against the door-facing, and, after waiting a few moments, softly crossed the room and put her hand on the back of his chair. She was two years his junior, and though evidently the victim of recent and severe illness, even in her feebleness she was singularly like him. Her presence seemed to annoy him, for he turned round and said hastily:

“Electra, go to bed. I told you good-night three hours ago.”

She stood still, but silent.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

He wrote on for some ten minutes longer, then closed the ledger and put it aside. The candle had burned low; he took a fresh one from the drawer of the table, and, after lighting it, drew a Latin dictionary near to him, opened a worn copy of Horace, and began to study. Quiet as his own shadow stood the fragile girl behind his chair, but as she watched him a heavy sigh escaped her. Once more he looked up with a finger still in the dictionary, and asked impatiently:

“Why on earth don't you go to sleep?”

“I can't sleep; I have tried my best.”

“Are you sick again, my poor little cousin?”

He stretched out his arm and drew her close to him.

“No; but I know you are up, hard at work, and it keeps me awake. If you would only let me help you.”

“Irene, your father will be displeased if he sees you in that plight.”

“Pray, what is wrong about me now? You seem to glory in finding fault. What is the matter with my ‘plight,’ as you call it?”

“You know very well your father can't bear to see you carrying your own satchel and basket to school. He ordered Martha to take them every morning and evening, but she says you will not let her carry them. It is just sheer obstinacy in you.”

“There it is again! because I don't choose to be petted like a baby or made a wax-doll of, it is set down to obstinacy, as if I had the temper of a heathen. See here, Aunt Margaret, I am tired of having Martha tramping eternally at my heels as though I were a two-year-old child. There is no reason in her walking after me when I am strong enough to carry my own books, and I don't intend she shall do it any longer.”

“But, Irene, your father is too proud to have you trudging along the road like any other beggar, with your books in one arm and a basket swinging on the other. Just suppose the Carters or the Harrisses should meet you? Dear me! they would hardly believe you belonged to a wealthy, aristocratic family like the Huntingdons. Child, I never carried my own dinner to school in my life.”

“And I expect that is exactly the reason why you are for ever complaining, and scarcely see one well day in the three hundred and sixty-five. As to what people think, I don't care a cent; as to whether my ancestors did or did not carry their lunch in their own aristocratic hands is a matter of no consequence whatever. I despise all this ridiculous nonsense about aristocracy of family, and I mean to do as I please. I thought that really well-bred persons of high standing and birth could afford to be silent on the subject, and that only parvenus—coarse, vulgar people with a little money—put on those kinds of airs, and pretended to be shocked at what they had been accustomed to in early life.”

“I do not see where you get such plebeian ideas; you positively make me ashamed of you sometimes, when fashionable, genteel persons come to the house. There is such a want of refinement in your notions. You are anything but a Huntingdon.”

“I am what God made me, Aunt Margaret. If the Huntingdons stand high, it is because they won distinction by their own efforts; I don't want the stepping-stones of my dead ancestry; people must judge me for myself, not from what my grandmother was.”

Irene Huntingdon stood on the marble steps of her palatial home, and talked with the maiden aunt who governed her father's household. The girl was about fourteen, tall for her age, straight, finely-formed, slender. The broad straw hat shaded, but by no means concealed, her features, and as she looked up at her aunt the sunshine fell upon a face of extraordinary beauty, such as is rarely seen save in the idealized heads of the old masters. Her hair was of an uncommon shade, neither auburn nor brown, but between gold and bronze; and as the sun shone on it the rippling waves flashed until their burnished glory seemed a very aureola. It was thick and curling; she wore it parted on her pale, polished forehead, and it hung around her like a gilded veil. The face was an oval; you might measure it by all the rules of art and no imperfection could be found, unless the height of the brow were considered out of proportion. The nose was delicate and clearly cut, and in outline resembled that in the antique medals of Olympias, the wife of Philip of Macedonia. The upper lip was short, and curved like a bow; the lower, thin, firm, and straight. Her eyes were strangely, marvellously beautiful; they were larger than usual, and of that rare shade of purplish blue which borders the white velvet petals of a clematis. When the eyes were uplifted, as on this occasion, long curling lashes of the bronze hue of her hair rested against her brow. Save the scarlet lines which marked her lips, her face was of that clear colorlessness which can be likened only to the purest ivory. Though there was an utter absence of the rosy hue of health, the transparency of the complexion seemed characteristic of her type, and precluded all thought of disease. People are powerfully attracted by beauty, either of form, color, or a combination of both; and it frequently happens that something of pain mingles with the sensation of pleasure thus excited. Now, whether it be that this arises from a vague apprehension engendered by the evanescent nature of all sublunary things, or from the inability of earthly types to satisfy the divine ideal which the soul enshrines, I shall not here attempt to decide; but those who examined Irene's countenance were fully conscious of this complex emotion, and strangers who passed her in the street felt intuitively that a noble, unsullied soul looked out at them from the deep, calm, thoughtful eyes. Miss Margaret muttered something inaudible in reply to her last remark, and Irene walked on to school. Her father's residence was about a mile from the town, but the winding road rendered the walk somewhat longer; and on one side of this road stood the small house occupied by Mrs. Aubrey. As Irene approached it she saw Electra Grey coming from the opposite direction, and at the cottage-gate they met. Both paused; Irene held out her hand cordially—

“Good-morning. I have not seen you for a fortnight. I thought you were coming to school again as soon as you were strong enough?”

“No; I am not going back to school.”

“Why?”

“Because Auntie can't afford to send me any longer. You know her eyes are growing worse every day, and she is not able to take in sewing as she used to do. I am sorry; but it can't be helped.”

“How do you know it can't be helped? Russell told me he thought she had cataracts on her eyes, and they can be removed.”

“Perhaps so, if we had the means of consulting that celebrated physician in New Orleans. Money removes a great many things, Irie, but unfortunately we have n't it.”

“The trip would not cost much; suppose you speak to Russell about it.”

“Much or little, it will require more than we can possibly spare. Everything is so high we can barely live as it is. But I must go in, my aunt is waiting for me.”

“Where have you been so early, Electra? I hope you will not think me impertinent in asking such a question.”

“I carried this waiter full of bouquets to Mr. Carter's. There is to be a grand dinner-party there to-day, and Auntie promised as many flowers as she could furnish. However, bouquets pay poorly. Irie, wait one minute; I have a little border of mignonette all my own, and I should like to give you a spray.”

She hurried into the garden, and returning with a few delicate sprigs, fastened one in her friend's belt and the remainder in the ribbon on her hat.

“Thank you, Electra; who told you that I love mignonette so well? It will not do for you to stay away from school; I miss you in my class, and, besides, you are losing too much time. Something should be done, Electra. Good-by.”

They shook hands, and Irene walked on.

“Something should be done,” she repeated, looking down fixedly yet vacantly at the sandy road. Soon the brick walls of the Academy rose grim and uninviting, and taking her place at the desk she applied herself to her books. When school was dismissed in the afternoon, instead of returning home as usual, she walked down the principal street, entered Mr. Watson's store, and put her books on the counter. It happened that the proprietor stood near the front-door, and he came forward instantly to wait upon her.

“Ah, Miss Irene! happy to see you. What shall I have the pleasure of showing you?”

“Russell Aubrey, if you please.”

The merchant stared, and she added:

“I want some kid gauntlets, but Russell can get them for me.”

The young clerk stood at the desk in the rear of the store, with his back toward the counter; and Mr. Watson called out:

“Here, Aubrey, some kid gauntlets for this young lady.”

He laid down his pen, and taking a box of gloves from the shelves placed it on the counter before her. He had not noticed her particularly, and when she pushed back her hat and looked up at him he started slightly.

“Good-evening, Miss Huntingdon. What number do you wish?”

Perhaps it was from the heat of the day, or from stooping over his desk, or perhaps it was from something else, but his cheek was flushed, and gradually it grew pale again.

“Russell, I want to speak to you about Electra. She ought to be at school, you know.”

“Yes.”

“But she says your mother can't afford the expense.”

“Just now she can not; next year things will be better.”

“What is the tuition for her?”

“Five dollars a month.”

“Is that all?”

He selected a delicate fawn-colored pair of gloves and laid them before her, while a faint smile passed over his face.

“Russell, has anything happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is troubling you so?”

“Nothing more than usual. Do those gloves suit you?”

“Yes, they will fit me, I believe.” She looked at him very intently.

He met her gaze steadily, and for an instant his face brightened; then she said abruptly:

“Your mother's eyes are worse?”

“Yes, much worse.”

“Have you consulted Dr. Arnold about them?”

“He says he can do nothing for her.”

“How much would it cost to take her to New Orleans and have that celebrated oculist examine them?”

“More than we can afford just now; at least two hundred dollars.”

“Oh, Russell! that is not much. Would not Mr. Watson lend you that little?”

“I shall not ask him.”

“Not even to restore your mother's sight?”

“Not to buy my own life. Besides, the experiment is a doubtful one.”

“Still it is worth making.”

“Yes, under different circumstances it certainly would be.”

“Have you talked to Mr. Campbell about it?”

“No, because it is useless to discuss the matter.”

“It would be dangerous to go to New Orleans now, I suppose?”

“October or November would be better.”

Again she looked at him very earnestly, then stretched out her little hand.

“Good-by, Russell; I wish I could do something to help you, to make you less sorrowful.”

He held the slight waxen fingers, and his mouth trembled as he answered:

“Thank you, Miss Huntingdon. I am not sorrowful, but my path in life is not quite so flowery as yours.”

“I wish you would not call me ‘Miss Huntingdon,’ in that stiff, far-off way, as if we were not friends. Or maybe it is a hint that you desire me to address you as Mr. Aubrey. It sounds strange, unnatural, to say anything but Russell.”

She gathered up her books, took the gloves, and went slowly homeward, and Russell returned to his desk with a light in his eyes which, for the remainder of the day, nothing could quench. As Irene ascended the long hill on which Mr. Huntingdon's residence stood she saw her father's buggy at the door, and as she approached the steps he came out, drawing on his gloves.

“You are late, Irene. What kept you?”

“I have been shopping a little. Are you going to ride? Take me with you.”

“Going to dine at Mr. Carter's.”

“Why, the sun is almost down now. What time will you come home? I want to ask you something.”

“Not till long after you are asleep.”

He took his seat in the buggy, and the spirited horse dashed down the avenue. A servant came forward to take her hat and satchel and inform her that her dinner had waited some time. Miss Margaret sat crocheting at the front-window of the dining-room, and Irene ate her dinner in silence. As she rose and approached her aunt the door swung open and a youth entered, apparently about Russell's age, though really one year older.

“Irene, I am tired to death waiting for you. What a provoking girl you are! The horses have been saddled at least one hour and a half. Do get on your riding-dress. I am out of all patience.”

He rapped his boot heavily with his whip by way of emphasis, and looked hurriedly at his watch.

“I did not promise to ride with you this evening, Hugh,’ answered his cousin, seating herself on the window-sill and running her fingers lightly over the bars of a beautiful cage, where her canary pecked playfully at the fair hand.

“Oh, nonsense! Suppose you did n't promise; I waited for you, and told Grace Harriss and Charlie that we would meet them at the upper bend of the river, just above the Factory. Charlie's new horse has just arrived from Vermont—Green Mountain Boy he calls him—and we have a bet of a half-dozen pairs of gloves that he can't beat my Eclipse. Do come along! Aunt Margaret, make her come.”

“I should like to see anybody make her do what she is not in the humor for,” said his aunt, looking over her glasses at the lithe, graceful figure on the window-sill.

“Hugh, I would rather stay at home, for I am tired, but I will go to oblige you.”

Miss Margaret lifted her eyebrows, and as his cousin left the room Hugh Seymour exclaimed:

“Is n't she the greatest beauty in the United States?”

“She will be a belle when she is grown; just such a one as your mother was, only she lacks her gayety of disposition. She is full of strange notions, Hugh; you don't know the half of her character—her own father does not. Frequently I am puzzled to understand her myself.”

“Oh! she will come out of all that. She is curious about some things now, but she will outgrow it.”

“I am afraid she will not, for it is as much a part of her as the color of her hair or the shape of her nose. She has always been queer.”

Irene appeared at the door with a small silver porte-monnaie in her hand. She counted the contents, put it into her pocket, and, gathering up the folds of her habit, led the way to the front door. Hugh adjusted the reins, and laying one hand on his she sprang lightly to her saddle, then stroked her horse's silky mane and said:

“Erebus can leave Green Mountain Boy so far behind that Charlie would find it no easy matter to count the plumes in my hat. Are you ready?”

The beautiful jetty creature, as if conscious of her praise, tossed his head and sprang off in a canter, but, wheeling round, she called to the groom who stood watching them:

“Unchain Paragon!”

Five minutes later the cousins were galloping on, with a superb greyhound following close at Erebus heels, and leaping up now and then in obedience to the motion of Irene's hand. The road ran through a hilly country, now clad in stern ancestral pines, and now skirted with oak and hickory, and about a mile beyond the town it made a sharp angle and took the river bank. The sun had set, but the western sky was still aglow; and near the bank, where the current was not perceptible, the changing tints of the clouds were clearly mirrored, but in the middle of the stream a ledge of rock impeded its course and the water broke over, with a dull roar, churning itself into foam and spray as it dashed from shelf to shelf of the stony barrier. Just opposite the Fall Irene checked her horse and paused to admire the beauty of the scene; but in another moment the quick tramp of hoofs fell on her ear, and Hugh's young friends joined them. Green Mountain Boy was flecked with foam, and as Irene measured his perfections at one hasty glance, she patted her favorite's head and challenged Charlie for a trial of speed.

“No; Charlie and I must have the race. Miss Grace, you and Irene can take care of yourselves for a few minutes. We will wait for you on the edge of town, at the graveyard. Now, Charlie, I am ready.”

They took their places in front, and were soon out of sight, as the road followed the curves of the river. Erebus plunged violently at first, not being accustomed to lag behind Eclipse, but by much persuasion and frequent kind touches on his head, Irene managed to reconcile him to the temporary disgrace.

Grace looked at his antics rather fearfully, and observed that no amount of money could tempt her to mount him.

“Why not?”

“He will break your neck yet.”

“He is very spirited, but as gentle as Paragon. Come, Grace, it is getting late; they will be waiting for us. Quicken your sober, meek little brownie.”

“So Electra is not coming back to school. It is a great pity she can't have an education.”

“Who told you anything about her?”

“Oh, everybody knows how poor her aunt is; and now, to mend matters, she is going blind. I would go to see Electra occasionally if the family had not been so disgraced. I like her, but no genteel person recognizes Mrs. Aubrey, even in the street.”

“That is very unjust. She is one of the most refined, elegant women I have over seen. She ought not to be blamed for her husband's misfortune. Poverty is no crime.”

If she had been treated to a Hindostanee proverb Grace could not have looked more stupidly surprised.

“Why, Irene! Mrs. Aubrey wears a bit-calico to church.”

“Well, suppose she does? Is people's worth to be determined only by the cost or the quality of their clothes? If I were to give your cook a silk dress exactly like that one your uncle sent you from Paris, and provide her with shawl and bonnet to match, would she be your equal, do you think? I imagine you would not thank me or anybody else who insinuated that Mrs. Harriss' negro cook was quite as genteel and elegant as Miss Grace herself, because she wore exactly the same kind of clothes. I tell you, Grace, it is all humbug! this everlasting talk about fashion, and dress, and gentility! Pshaw! I am sick of it. When our forefathers were fighting for freedom, for a national existence, I wonder whether their wives measured each other's respectability or gentility by their lace collars or the number of flounces on their dresses? Grace Harriss, your great-grandmother, and mine, and probably everybody's else, spun the cotton, and wove the cloth, and cut and made their homespun dresses, and were thankful to get them. And these women who had not even bit-calicoes were the mothers and wives and sisters and daughters of men who established the most glorious government on the face of the broad earth! The way the women of America have degenerated is a crying shame. I tell you, I would blush to look my great-grandmother in the face.”

Grace shrugged her shoulders in expressive silence, and, soon after, they reached the spot where the boys were waiting to join them.

“Eclipse made good his name!” cried Hugh, triumphantly, while Charlie bit his lip with chagrin.

Whether the general rule of implicit obedience to parental injunction admitted of no exceptions, was a problem which Irene readily solved; and on Saturday, as soon as her father and cousin had started to the plantation (twenty-five miles distant), she put on her hat and walked to town. Wholly absorbed in philanthropic schemes, she hurried along the sidewalk, ran up a flight of steps, and knocked at a door on which was written, in large gilt letters, “Dr. Arnold.”

“Ah, Beauty! come in. Sit down, and tell me what brought you to town so early.”

He was probably a man of fifty; gruff in appearance, and unmistakably a bachelor. His thick hair was grizzled; so was the heavy beard; and shaggy gray eyebrows slowly unbent as he took his visitor's little hands and looked kindly down into her grave face. From her infancy he had petted and fondled her, and she stood as little in awe of him as of Paragon.

“Doctor, are you busy this morning?”

“I am never too busy to attend to you, little one. What is it?”

“Of course you know that Mrs. Aubrey is almost blind.”

“Of course I do, having been her physician.”

“Those cataracts can be removed, however.”

“Perhaps they can, and perhaps they can't.”

“But the probabilities are that a good oculist can relieve her.”

“I rather think so.”

From early childhood Irene had experienced a sensation of loneliness. Doubtless the loss of her mother enhanced this feeling, but the peculiarity of her mental organization would have necessitated it even under happier auspices. Her intellect was of the masculine order, acute and logical, rather deficient in the imaginative faculties, but keenly analytical. It is an old predicate that women are deductionists—that womanly intuitions are swift and infallible. In richly-endowed female minds it not unfrequently happens that tedious, reflective processes are ignored; but Irene was a patient rather than brilliant thinker, and with singular perseverance searched every nook and cranny, and sifted every phase of the subject presented for investigation. Her conclusions were never hasty, and consequently rarely unsound. From the time her baby-fingers first grasped a primer she became a student; dolls and toys such as constitute the happiness of most children had never possessed any attraction for her, and before she was eight years old she made the library her favorite resort. She would climb upon the morocco-covered table where stood two globes, one celestial, the other terrestrial, and spend hours in deciphering the strange, heathenish figures twined among the stars. When weary of studying the index of the thermometer and barometer, and wondering why the quicksilver varied with sunshine and shower, she would throw herself down on the floor and fall asleep over the quaint pictures in an old English encyclopedia, numbering thirty volumes. She haunted this room, and grew up among books centuries old. Thus until her tenth year there was no authority exerted over her, and the strong, reflective tendency of her mind rapidly developed itself. This was an abnormal condition, and indisputably an unfortunate training, and perhaps in after years it might have been better had she spent the season of careless, thoughtless childhood in childish sports and childhood's wonted ways, for anxious inquiry and tedious investigations come soon enough with maturity.

She was not an enthusiastic, impulsive nature, fitful in moodiness or ecstacy, inclined to passionate demonstrations of any kind; but from infancy evinced a calm, equable temperament, uniformly generous and unselfish, but most thoroughly firm, nay obstinate, in any matter involving principle or conflicting with her opinions of propriety. How she obtained these notions of right and wrong in minor details, was a subject of some mystery. They were not the result of education in the ordinary acceptation of that term, for they had never been instilled by anybody; and, like a wood-flower in some secluded spot, she lived, grew, and expanded her nature, without any influences to bias or color her views. In her promiscuous reading she was quite as apt to imbibe poisonous as healthy sentiments; and knowing that she had been blessed with few religious instructions, her father often wondered at the rigidness of her code for self-regulation. Miss Margaret considered her “a strange little thing,” and rarely interfered with her plans in any respect, while her father seemed to take it for granted that she required no looking after. He knew that her beauty was extraordinary; he was proud of the fact; and having provided her with a good music-master, and sent her to the best school in the county, he left her to employ her leisure as inclination prompted. Occasionally her will conflicted with his, and more than once he found it impossible to make her yield assent to his wishes. To the outward observances of obedience and respect she submitted, but whenever these differences occurred he felt that in the end she was unconquered. Inconsistent as it may appear, though fretted for the time by her firmness, he loved her the more for her “wilfulness,” as he termed it; and despotic and exacting though he certainly was in many respects, he stood somewhat in awe of his pure-hearted, calm-eyed child. His ward and nephew, Hugh Seymour, had resided with him for several years, and it was well known that Mr. Huntingdon had pledged his daughter's hand to his sister's son. The age of infant betrothals has passed away, consequently this rare instance gave rise to a deal of gossiping comment. How the matter became public he never knew; probably Sparrowgrasse's “carrier-pigeon” migrated southward, for it is now no uncommon thing to find one in our cities and country towns; and at all events Mr. Huntingdon soon found that his private domestic affairs were made an ordinary topic of conversation in social circles. Irene had never been officially apprised of her destiny, but surmised very accurately the true state of the case. Between the two cousins there existed not the slightest congeniality of taste or disposition; not a sympathetic link, save the tie of relationship. On her part there was a moderate share of cousinly affection; on his, as much love and tenderness as his selfish nature was capable of feeling. They rarely quarrelled as most children do, for when (as frequently happened) he flew into a rage and tried to tyrannize, she scorned to retort in any way, and generally locked him out of the library. What she thought of her father's intentions concerning herself, no one knew; she never alluded to the subject, and if in a frolicsome mood Hugh broached it, she invariably cut the discussion short. When he went to college in a distant state she felt infinitely relieved, and during his vacations secluded herself as much as possible. Yet the girl's heart was warm and clinging; she loved her father devotedly, and loved most intensely Electra Grey, whom she had first met at school. They were nearly the same age, class-mates, and firm friends. That she was beautiful, Irene of course knew quite as well as her father or any one else; how could she avoid knowing it? From her cradle she had been called “Queen” and “Beauty;” all her acquaintances flattered her—strangers commented on her loveliness; she no more doubted it than the fact of her existence; and often, stopped before the large parlor mirrors and admired her own image, just as she would have examined and admired and enjoyed one of the elegant azaleas or pelargoniums in the greenhouse. I repeat it, she prized and enjoyed her loveliness, but she was not vain. She was no more spoiled by adulation than a meek and snowy camellia, or one of those immense golden-eyed pansies which astonish and delight visitors at the hothouses on Long Island. God conferred marvellous beauty on her, and she was grateful for the gift—but to the miserable weaknesses of vanity she was a stranger. In the midst of books and flowers she was happy, and seemed to desire no companions but Erebus and Paragon. She rode every day when the weather permitted, and the pretty horse, with its graceful young rider, followed by the slender, silky greyhound, was a familiar spectacle in the vicinity of her home. She knew every hill and valley within ten miles of the town; could tell where the richest, rarest honeysuckles grew, where the yellow jasmine clambered in greatest profusion, and always found the earliest sprays of graybeard that powdered the forest. Often Mr. Huntingdon had ordered his horse and gone out in the dusky twilight to search for her, fearing that some disaster had overtaken his darling, and at such times met Erebus laden with her favorite flowers. These were the things she loved; and thus, independent of society, yet conscious of her isolation, she grew up what nature intended her to be.

As totally different in character as appearance was Electra Grey. Rather smaller and much thinner than Irene, with shining purplish black hair, large, sad, searching black eyes, from which there was no escape, a pale olive complexion, and full crimson lips that rarely smiled. The forehead was broad and prominent, and rendered very peculiar by the remarkable width between the finely-arched brows. The serene purity characteristic of Irene's features was entirely wanting in this face, which would have seemed Jewish in its contour but for the Grecian nose; and the melancholy yet fascinating eyes haunted the beholder with their restless, wistful, far-reaching expression. Electra was a dreamer, richly gifted; dissatisfied because she could never attain that unreal world which her busy brain kept constantly before her. The child of Genius is rarely, if ever, a happy one— “Heaven lies about us in our infancy.” If so, its recollections cling tenaciously to those who, like Electra, seek continually for the airy castles of an ideal realm. Her vivid imagination shaped and painted, but, as too often happens, her eager blood and bone fingers could not grasp the glories. The thousand cares, hardships, and rough handlings of Reality struck cold and jarring on her sensitive, highly-strung nature. She did not complain; murmuring words had never crossed her lips in the hearing of any who knew her; she loved her aunt too well to speak of sorrow or disappointment. Fourteen years had taught her an unusual amount of stoicism; but sealed lips can not sepulchre grief, and trials have a language which will not be repressed when the mouth is at rest. She looked not gloomy, nor yet quite unhappy, but like one who sees obstacles mountain-high loom between her and the destined goal, and asks only permission to press on. Hers was a passionate nature; fierce blood beat in her veins, and would not always be bound by icy fetters. There was no serene plateau of feeling where she could repose; she enjoyed keenly, rapturously, and suffered acutely, fearfully. Unfortunately for her, she had only Himalayan solitudes, sublime in their dazzling height, or valleys of Tophet, appalling with flame and phantom. She knew wherein she was gifted, she saw whither her narrow pathway led, and panted to set her little feet in the direction of the towering steeps crowned with the Temple of Art. To be an artist; to put on canvas the grand and imperishable images that crowded her brain, and almost maddened her because she could not give them tangible form—this was the day-dream spanning her life like a bow of promise, but fading slowly as years thickened o'er her head and no helping hand cleared the choked path. “Poverty! poverty!” Many a night she buried her face under the pillow and hissed the word through closed teeth, fearful of disturbing the aunt who slumbered at her side. Poverty! poverty! What an intolerable chain it binds around aspiring souls! And yet the world's great thinkers have felt this iron in their flesh, and, bursting the galling bonds, have carved their way to eminence, to immortality. It is a lamentable and significant truth that, with a few honorable, noble exceptions, wealth is the Cannæ of American intellect. Poverty is a rigid school, and the sessions are long and bitter; but the men and women who graduate therein come forth with physical frames capable of enduring all hardships, with hearts habituated to disappointment and fortified against the rebuffs of fortune, with intellects trained by patient, laborious, unbending application. The tenderly-nurtured child of wealth and luxury very naturally and reasonably shrinks from difficulties; but increase the obstacles in the path of a son or daughter of penury, inured to trial, and in the same ratio you strengthen his or her ability and determination to surmount them.

Electra's love of drawing had early displayed itself; first, in strange, weird figures on her slate, then in her copy-book, on every slip of paper which she could lay her hands upon; and, finally, for want of more suitable material, she scrawled all over the walls of the little bedroom, to the great horror of her aunt, who spread a coat of whitewash over the child's frescos, and begged her to be guilty of no such conduct in future, as Mr. Clark might with great justice sue for damages. In utter humiliation Electra retreated to the garden, and here, after a shower had left the sandy walks white and smooth, she would sharpen a bit of pine, and draw figures and faces of all conceivable and inconceivable shapes. Chancing to find her thus engaged one Sunday afternoon, Russell supplied her with a package of drawing-paper and pencils. So long as these lasted she was perfectly happy, but unluckily their straitened circumstances admitted of no such expenditure, and before many weeks she was again without materials. She would not tell Russell that she had exhausted his package, and passed sleepless nights trying to devise some method by which she could aid herself. It was positive torture for her to sit in school and see the drawing-master go round, giving lessons on this side and that, skipping over her every time, because her aunt could not afford the extra three dollars. How longingly the eyes followed the master's form—how hungrily they dwelt upon the sketches he leaned over to examine and retouch! Frequently during drawing-hour she would sit with her head bent down pretending to study, but the pages of the book were generally blistered with tears which no eye but the Father's looked upon. There was, however, one enjoyment which nothing could steal from her: the town contained two book-stores, and here she was wont to linger over the numerous engravings and occasional oil-paintings they boasted. The proprietors and clerks seemed rather pleased than otherwise by the silent homage she paid their pictures, and, except to tender her a seat, no one ever interfered with her examinations. One engraving interested her particularly: it represented St. John on Patmos, writing Revelations. She went as usual one Saturday morning for another look at it, but a different design hung in its place; she glanced around, and, surmising the object of her search, the proprietor told her it had been sold the day before. An expression of sorrow crossed her face, as though she had sustained an irreparable loss, and, drawing her bonnet down, she went slowly homeward. Amid all these yearnings and aspirations she turned constantly to Russell with a worshipping love that knew no bounds. She loved her meek, affectionate aunt as well as most natures love their mothers, and did all in her power to lighten her labors, but her affection for Russell bordered on adoration. In a character so exacting and passionate as hers there is necessarily much of jealousy, and thus it came to pass that, on the day of Irene's visit to the cottage, the horrible suspicion took possession of her that he loved Irene better than herself. True, she was very young, but childish hearts feel as keenly as those of maturer years; and Electra endured more agony during that day than in all of her past life. Had Irene been other than she was, in every respect, she would probably have hated her cordially; as matters stood, she buried the suspicion deep in her own heart, and kept as much out of everybody's way as possible. Days and weeks passed very wearily; she busied herself with her text-books, and, when the lessons had been recited, drew all over the margins—here a hand, there an entire arm, now and then a face, sad-eyed as Fate.

Mrs. Aubrey's eyes became so blurred that finally she could not leave the house without having some one to guide her, and, as cold weather had now arrived, preparations were made for her journey. Mr. Hill, who was going to New Orleans, kindly offered to take charge of her, and the day of departure was fixed. Electra packed the little trunk, saw it deposited on the top of the stage, in the dawn of an October morning saw her aunt comfortably seated beside Mr. Hill, and in another moment all had vanished. In the afternoon of that day, on returning from school, Electra went to the bureau, and, unlocking a drawer, took out a small paper box. It contained a miniature of her father, set in a handsome gold frame. She knew it had been her mother's most valued trinket; her aunt had carefully kept it for her, and as often as the temptation assailed her she had resisted; but now the longing for money triumphed over every other feeling. Having touched the spring, she took a knife and cautiously removed the bit of ivory beneath the glass, then deposited the two last in the box, put the gold frame in her pocket, and went out to a jewelry-store. As several persons had preceded her, she leaned against the counter, and, while waiting, watched with some curiosity the movements of one of the goldsmiths, who, with a glass over one eye, was engaged in repairing watches. Some had been taken from their cases, others were untouched; and as her eyes passed swiftly over the latter, they were suddenly riveted to a massive gold one lying somewhat apart. A half-smothered exclamation caused the workman to turn round and look at her; but in an instant she calmed herself, and, thinking it a mere outbreak of impatience, he resumed his employment. Just then one of the proprietors approached, and said politely, “I am sorry we have kept you waiting, Miss. What can I do for you?”

“What is this worth?”

She laid the locket down on the counter and looked up at him with eyes that sparkled very joyously, he thought. He examined it a moment, and said rather drily:

“It is worth little or nothing to us, though you may prize it.”

“If I were to buy another just like it, would you charge me ‘little or nothing?’ ”

He smiled good-humoredly.

“Buying and selling are different things don't you know that? Come, tell me what you want to sell this for?”

“Because I want some money.”

“You are Mrs. Aubrey's niece, I believe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, how do I know, in the first place, that it belongs to you? Jewellers have to be very particular about what they buy.”

She crimsoned, and drew herself proudly away from the counter, then smiled, and held out her hand for the locket.

“It is mine; it held my father's miniature, but I took it out because I want a paint-box, and thought I could sell this case for enough to buy one. It was my mother's once; here are her initials on the back—H. G., Harriet Grey. But of course you don't know whether I am telling the truth; I will bring my cousin with me; he can prove it. Sir, are you so particular about everything you buy?”

“We try to be.”

Weeks and months slipped away, and total darkness came down on the widow. She groped with some difficulty from room to room, and Electra was compelled to remain at home and watch over her. Russell had become a great favorite with his crusty employer, and, when the labors of the office were ended, brought home such books as he needed, and spent his evenings in study. His powers of application and endurance were extraordinary, and his progress was in the same ratio. As he became more and more absorbed in these pursuits his reserve and taciturnity increased, and his habitually hasty step and abstracted expression of countenance told of a strong nature straining its powers to the utmost to attain some distant, glimmering goal. His employer was particularly impressed by the fact that he never volunteered a remark on any subject, and rarely opened his lips except to ask some necessary information in connection with his business. Sometimes the silence of the office was unbroken for hours, save by the dull scratching of pens, or an impatient exclamation from Mr. Campbell. Respectful in deportment, attentive to his duties, never presuming upon kindness, constantly at work from morning until night, yet with an unmistakable sorrow printed on his face—a sorrow never obtruded on any one, never alluded to—he won first the rigid scrutiny of the lawyer, then his deepest, most abiding affection. Naturally cold and undemonstrative in manner, Mr. Campbell gave little evidence of feeling of any kind, yet the piercing blue eye lost its keenness when resting on the tall, stalwart form of the clerk, and once or twice the wrinkled hand sought his broad shoulder almost caressingly. He had not married; had neither mother nor sisters to keep his nature loving and gentle; and, though he occasionally visited his brother, who was a minister in the same town, he was held in awe by the members of that brother's family. He comprehended Russell's character, and quietly facilitated his progress. There was no sycophancy on the part of the young man; no patronage on that of the employer.

One afternoon Irene tapped lightly at the cottage-door, and entered the kitchen. Mrs. Aubrey sat in a low chair close to the fireplace, engaged in knitting; her smooth, neat calico dress and spotless linen collar told that careful hands tended her, and the soft auburn hair brushed over her temples showed broad bands of gray as the evening sun shone on it. She turned her brown, sightless eyes toward the door, and asked in a low voice:

“Who is it?”

“It is only me, Mrs. Aubrey.”

Irene bent down, laid her two hands on the widow's, and kissed her forehead.

“I am glad to hear your voice, Irene; it has been a long time since you were here.”

“Yes, a good many weeks, I know; but I could not come.”

“Are you well? Your hands and face are cold.”

“Yes, thank you, very well. I am always cold, I believe. Hugh says I am. Here are some flowers from the greenhouse. I brought them because they are so fragrant; and here, too, are a few oranges from the same place. Hush! don't thank me, if you please. I wish I could come here oftener. I always feel better after being with you; but I can't always come when I want to do so.”

“Why not, Irene?”

“Oh, because of various things. Between school and music, and riding and reading, I have very little time; and, besides, father wants me with him when he is at home. I play chess with him, and sometimes we are three or four days finishing one game. Somehow, Mrs. Aubrey, though I don't mean to be idle, it seems to me that I do very little. Everybody ought to be of some use in this world, but I feel like a bunch of mistletoe growing on somebody else, and doing nothing. I don't intend to sit down and hold my hands all my life, but what can I do? Tell me how to begin.”

She lifted a large tortoise-colored cat from a small stool and drew it near the hearth, just at the widow's feet, seating herself and removing her hat.

“That is more easily asked than answered; you are a great heiress, Irene, and in all human probability will never be obliged to do anything. For what is generally denominated work, you will have no occasion; but all who wish to be really happy should be employed in some way. You will not have to labor for your food and clothes like my Russell and Electra; but you will have it in your power to do a vast deal more good. In cultivating your mind, do not forget your heart; it is naturally full of very generous, noble impulses but all human beings have faults; what yours may be you know best, and you should constantly strive to correct them. Read your Bible, dear child; not now and then, but daily and prayerfully. Oh, Irene! I have had some bitter, bitter sorrows, and frequently I thought that they would crush out my life. In those times of trial, if I had not had my Bible and my God I believe I should have lost my reason. But I read and was comforted. His promises sustained me; and in looking back I see many places which should be called Jehovah-Jireh, for the Lord saw and provided. Your Bible will teach you your duty much better than I possibly can. You owe your father a great deal; his hopes and joys centre in you, and through life he will look to you for his happiness. When you are grown, society, too, will claim you; you will be sought after and flattered; and, Irene, under these circumstances—with your remarkable beauty and wealth—you will find it a difficult matter to avoid being spoiled. Your influence will be very great, and a fearful responsibility must attend its employment. Let it be for good. Try to keep your heart free from all selfish or ignoble feelings; pray to God for guidance that you may be enabled through His grace to keep yourself ‘unspotted from the world;’ those words contain the whole: ‘unspotted from the world.’ You have not been spoiled thus far by luxury and life-long petting, and I hope and believe that you never will be; but remember, we must be continually on the watch against temptation. Irene, have I spoken too plainly?”

“No; I thank you for your candor. I want you to advise me just as you would Electra. I don't read my Bible as often as I ought, but there are so many things in it which I do not understand that I hardly ever open it now. I have nobody to explain the difficulties.”

“It is very clear on the subject of our duty; God left not the shadow of mystery in his laws for the government of the heart and regulation of the life. He commands us to receive certain rules, to practice certain principles, and to abstain from certain sinful things, all of which are specified, and not to be mistaken by even the most obtuse. Melvill has said, in one of his beautiful and comforting sermons: ‘God breathed himself into the compositions of prophets and apostles and evangelists, and there, as in the mystic recesses of an everlasting sanctuary, he still resides, ready to disclose himself to the humble and to be evoked by the prayerful. But in regard to every other book, however fraught it may be with the maxims of piety, however pregnant with momentous truth, there is nothing of this shrining himself of Deity in the depths of its meaning. Men may be instructed by its pages, and draw from them hope and consolation, but never will they find there the burning Shekinah which proclaims the actual presence of God; never hear a voice as from the solitudes of an oracle pronouncing the words of immortality.’ ”

“How then does it happen, Mrs. Aubrey, that different churches teach such conflicting doctrines? Why are there so many denominations? If the teachings of the Bible are so plain, how can such various creeds arise?”

“Because poor human nature is so full of foibles; because charity, the fundamental doctrine of Christ, is almost lost sight of by those churches; it has dwindled into a mere speck, in comparison with the trifles which they have magnified to usurp its place. Instead of one great Christian church holding the doctrines of the New Testament, practising the true spirit of the Saviour, and in genuine charity allowing its members to judge for themselves in the minor questions relating to religion—such for instance as the mode of baptism, the privilege of believing presbyters and bishops equal in dignity or otherwise, as the case may be, the necessity of ministers wearing surplices or the contrary, as individual tas