Hope Caldwell's childhood was passed amid scenes very unlike those amid which we first beheld her. Her father—a prosperous merchant—spared no pains in rendering his home not only comfortable, but elegant, and she was during her early years accustomed to every luxury. But his tenderness for his only child was not allowed to interfere with the discipline which he deemed necessary to her future welfare, and the intellectual tasks which she was required to perform, though not quite beyond her reach, were always sufficiently hard to render severe effort necessary to accomplish them. Naturally studious and ambitious, Hope scarcely deemed this a hardship, and when not over fourteen years old she was first in all her classes at school, bearing away prizes from those much older than herself. From the Academy near her home she was sent to a noted institution in another State, where her talent and industry promised her a high position among her schoolmates. Unfortunately for her, before she had been there many months her father failed in business and was unable to continue her at school after the present session was out. Indeed, his reduced circumstances did not justify him in giving her any advantages whatever. This was a bitter disappointment to her, but she bore up bravely under it. She continued her studies as best she could at home, devoting herself especially to drawing, which was her favorite study, and for which she had more than ordinary talent. But studying without a teacher was very unlike the routine of the school-room, and Hope felt the difference. She missed, too, the luxuries to which she had been accustomed from infancy, and altogether her life was sadly changed from what it had once been. It was about two years after her father's failure in business, and while she was still struggling on in this unsatisfactory manner, that Robert St. George first became acquainted with her. He was young, well-bred and handsome, and in a very short time after their first introduction he began to pay her marked attention, and finally addressed her. In an evil hour Hope listened to his vows of unchanging affection, and gave her heart to the charming stranger. In after years he would have never been her choice, but now, in her young girlhood, he seemed to her perfection. For a time she forgot ambition, forgot poverty, forgot her studies, ceased to remember everything except the blissful reflection that she loved Robert and was beloved by him. For six months she dwelt in a fool's Paradise, she lived for her lover, thought, dreamed and planned for him alone. They were betrothed in the winter, but did not expect to marry within a year after. At the expiration of the spring after their betrothal, Hope received a letter from one of her schoolmates, announcing her intention of spending the summer at Mr. Caldwell's. Had her father been in prosperous circumstances our heroine would have hailed these tidings with unalloyed pleasure. But in the present straitened condition of his affairs it must be owned that the whole family would have been better pleased at the absence of their expected guest than they were with the anticipation of her coming. Still there was nothing left for Hope to do except to urge her to pay the intended visit. Amelia Montcalm, for that was her name, had been somewhat of a favorite with Hope at school. She was beautiful, stylish and fascinating, and apparently a warm friend of our heroine's. Her parents were wealthy, and she had had many advantages. As, radiant with smiles, she alighted from the vehicle in which she had come from the depot, on the evening of her arrival at Mr. Caldwell's, she was, indeed, a vision of rare loveliness, more beautiful than ever, it seemed to her friend. Hope's parents were charmed with her, and welcomed her, with frank hospitality, to their home. Much care and pains had been bestowed upon their present humble residence to make it as pleasant as possible during her sojourn with them. Mrs. Caldwell and her daughter had worked hard to accomplish this object, and Mr. Caldwell had almost exhausted his slender resources in procuring little additional comforts for their guest. Yet a bitter pang of disappointment struck Amelia as she surveyed the home of her friend, with its humble appointments. She had imagined Mr. Caldwell very wealthy, and had anticipated having a gay time during the summer at some grand old country mansion. Great, indeed, was her chagrin at finding everything so different from what she had pictured it. Hope, in her frank way, told her of the change in Mr. Caldwell's fortune, and Amelia's apparent sympathy with her, and her show of delight at all of her surroundings, endeared her more than ever to the heart of her friend. Yet, in her own mind, even now, the selfish girl was planning some excuse to shorten her visit. Before she could invent any plausible one, however, Mr. St. George called upon Hope, and Amelia was introduced to him. Her acquaintance with him put an end to her thoughts of a speedy departure. She rather fancied Robert's looks and manner, and as she was an accomplished coquette, she thought it probable that she could make a conquest of him. She saw at a glance that he and her friend were lovers—were possibly betrothed—but this, so far from being an obstacle in her path, rather gave a zest to her little sport, for she was never better pleased than when she could win a young man away from another girl. She felt a little spiteful at Hope for finding her poorer than she had anticipated, and it seemed to her but fair to avenge herself by winning the affections of Robert. But this she found a more difficult matter than she had at first imagined. Hope Caldwell's presence, the sweetness of her manners, her splendid intellect, and the childish innocence of her disposition, would seem sufficient to have saved her from the mortification of seeing any other woman usurp her place in her lover's affections. Under ordinary circumstances they would, but Amelia was fascinating to the last degree. Beautiful as a Peri, with a voice as sweet as a nightingale's, and possessed, too, in no common degree, of those bewitching ways which charm the hearts of men even more than beauty, few, indeed, could stay in her presence long and come away free from her chains. This was more especially the case with very young men. Robert St. George she found more intractable than her victims generally proved. For awhile he seemed steeled to all of her fascinations. But this only made her more determined to enslave him. She wished to have him bound, as it were, to her chariot wheels, a helpless captive. When she found that ordinary means failed to effect this purpose, she did not scruple to feign herself desperately, hopelessly in love with him. Not in so many words, of course, but by a thousand nameless evidences—the tender glances, the double meaning that she gave to the love songs which she sang, to the poetry which she recited, to the most trifling words that she spoke, her blushes and smiles—ah! who could resist them? Robert did resist them all for a long while, but at last he could withstand no more. He drifted away from truth, honor and from the girl whom he had once fondly loved. Innocent as Hope was, she was not so destitute of discernment as not to see the true state of affairs at once. When Robert became so absorbed in Amelia's conversation as almost to forget her presence, when he listened to Amelia's voice as though it was an angel's, and gazed upon her face with all a lover's tenderness, could Hope be so blind as not to notice it, so destitute of womanly feeling, as not to groan in the very depths of her heart that she had lost the first love of her life? She was neither blind nor unfeeling, but she was proud to her heart's core—too proud to avert, even had it been in her power to do so, the dreaded blow which was to destroy the happiness of her young life. Not by word or look would she seek to win her lover back to his allegiance to her. She gave him his freedom unfalteringly, heeded not his feeble apology for his conduct, but, shutting up her grief in her own heart, endeavored to seem her natural self, the more so that she felt that Amelia would triumph in any exhibition of weakness on her part. Suffer as she might she would suffer in secret; the world should not be the wiser for it. From that terrible summer a blight fell over the life of our heroine. She had realized the falsity of friend and lover; she had made “idols and found them clay,” and with her confidence in them had fled her trust in all earthly beings, save her own dear parents. The world was no longer the rosy-hued one of the past, but a dreary abode, overshadowed by leaden clouds, where one must of necessity live, but must live without hope or comfort. We have said that she had a talent for drawing. Under some circumstances it might have proved a source of profit, as well as of pleasure to her, but now it served only to help banish thoughts of the past from her mind. Her chief aim now was to procure oblivion of that episode in her life, whose memory she hated above all others. But to forget Robert and Amelia—his fickleness and her falsity—would be well worth the expenditure of much time and trouble. To this end she worked harder than she had ever done before, devoting every moment that she could spare from her household duties to her favorite study. And constant employment had the effect of deadening the pain of reflection, of causing the bitter memories of the past to wax fainter and fainter. By degrees she resumed some of her former cheerfulness. She was not quite the same—who could be under such circumstances?—but she was neither despairing nor melancholy. Yet the child-like trust of early youth had fled. She grew cold and reserved, and utterly indifferent to the society of the other sex. Ambition took the place of love in her heart. She planned off her future as a successful artist, winning both fame and fortune by her talent—wedded to her art, and indifferent to all else save that and the happiness of her father and mother. What bright air-castles she built, what gorgeous dreams of the future filled all her mental vision! A practical person could easily have foreseen the end of all this, could have easily told that ambition in this direction, and under the disadvantages which surrounded Hope, would only end in disappointment—would only prove a will-'o-the-wisp, leading her astray from the practical duties of life. In future years she might realize this, in after life might realize that her one talent had proved rather a curse than a blessing to her, and she might then bitterly regret the loss of much precious time that might have been better spent. But not now could she feel thus. For days, weeks and months she lived an ideal life, working hard, yet as one in a dream. A rude shock from the real, practical world, recalled her to herself and to misery again. Her father was taken very ill, and after one week of suffering died, leaving her mother and herself to bear, not only the anguish of bereavement, but the hardships of poverty. A house and lot in Tradeville, the same which we have already described, and a life insurance policy for just a sufficient sum to keep them above actual want, was their all. So the years had gone by, bringing with them no new misfortunes and no new pleasures. Hope saw those inferior in natural endowments to herself living in comfort and luxury, and sometimes she rebelled bitterly, but secretly, against her lot. “Why,” thought she, in anguish of spirit, “should other girls, in nowise my superiors, enjoy their lives, be fortunate in all their plans, while every aim of my life has been thwarted? I believe an unlucky star presides over my destiny.” Had she been more thoughtful she would have perceived that she in part governed her own destiny, as does every one. Her reserve, her exclusiveness, and the singularity of her disposition, tended to repel those who might otherwise have admired and loved her. But for a long time she was unconscious of this. Out of her study hours she took recreation by long strolls, sometimes accompanied by her mother, at others by a little child of one of the neighbors, and at rare intervals she went visiting or to church. In her walks she studied nature in all of its varied phases, and enriched her cabinet and herbarium by many a gathered treasure. Of course this kind of a life had the effect of rendering her entirely different from other young ladies. She knew less of the world, less of gossip and more of the lore of the past, and though not happy, she was at least free from those tumultuous emotions which agitate the bosoms of many who mingle freely in society. Still, with one so young, a life like this was not likely to last. So long as she was sanguine of success in the future, Hope could content herself with this hermit-like seclusion; but when, after the lapse of five years from the time when she had left school, she had never, in a single one of her sketches, attained to her ideal of perfection, she began to lose heart. Forms of beauty flitted before her eyes, wanting but the labor of her hand to embody them, yet ever did the attempt prove delusive. She lacked opportunity; unaided talent seldom accomplishes any great result; the best of artists have generally been assisted and instructed in their art. Hope was no genius, but she possessed talent enough to fill her whole soul with yearnings after the perfect, and to cause others to admire the paintings and drawings whose deficiencies she bemoaned to herself. After working hard for several hours one day on a sketch, without succeeding as she wished, she threw down her pencil for the time completely discouraged. “Would to Heaven,” she soliloquized, “that I had not been cursed with this fatal gift; would that I had been a good seamstress, or housekeeper, or had loved some practical duty, instead of being so passionately devoted to what seems destined to allure me on to wretchedness!” For a short time after this she gave herself exclusively to household duties; she cooked, milked, churned and sewed, and, as she confessed to her mother, she really felt better contented. She began, too, to visit a little oftener, and thus learned to form a different estimate of others. She found herself striving to interest and please others, and was not only successful in her object, but found that the effort gave her real pleasure. People were glad to have her visit them, the more so that she had heretofore been a little exclusive. An occasional gleam of mirth beautified her face wonderfully, and many persons remarked on her loveliness who had hitherto not regarded her as pretty. It was at this period of her life, when she was about twenty-one years old, that she received Mr. Watkins' letter. Strange to say, it had never occurred to Hope that she could teach, and thus earn her own money. Her time had been so absorbed in her favorite pursuit that this idea had not once suggested itself to her mind. But Mr. Watkins' letter was like a revelation to her. She could teach and earn money, she could make herself useful, she could go among different scenes and among different people; she would strive to render herself just as pleasant as possible, and she would succeed. She could buy new books and new furniture, she could add to her mother's comfort, and possibly in a year or two she could make money enough to send herself to school one session more, where she could take drawing lessons again, under a good master, and as time elapsed she would realize all of those longings after fame and fortune which had long been hers. She saw herself in the near future a successful artist, not only renowned, but in prosperous circumstances, happy in gratified ambition and in the society of her beloved mother. All of these delightful visions passed rapidly through her mind after the reception of Mr. Watkins' letter. It was the “open sesame” to a region of enchantment. A slender foundation, it would appear to others, on which to base such sanguine expectations, but it must be remembered that Hope was young and a stranger to worldly wisdom. She did not look on the difficulties in her path just now; she thought only of the pleasure which even a small addition to her very limited means would afford her. She was in such high spirits, as she reflected upon it, that her mother mildly rebuked her for her gayety:

“I believe you like the idea of leaving home, Hope, and of bidding me adieu.”

“No, no, mother,” she exclaimed, impulsively, flinging her arms about her mother's neck, “but I have suffered in my past life, God only knows how much, and I am glad to change it.”

Mrs. Caldwell kissed her again and again. “Poor Hope,” she said, “I did not dream that you were so discontented. I thought you comparatively happy in the midst of your quiet employments.”

“I did try to be, but Oh, mother, it was so hard to bear it all resignedly.” She burst into a flood of tears—the first that she had shed in her mother's presence since her return from her father's funeral.

Mrs. Caldwell soothed her with gentle caresses and with words of holy cheer, and she soon had the satisfaction of seeing her not wildly gay, but with a contented smile resting on her countenance. And during the remainder of her stay at home she appeared contented and happy.

It was the night before Hope's departure from home to take charge of her school. Her preparations for her journey were all complete, her trunk packed and a way engaged to convey her to the depot early on the morrow. She expected to take the train there and to proceed on her journey alone. Mrs. Caldwell and Mary, who were much fatigued, retired at an early hour, but Hope was too sad and excited to fall asleep at once. She sat at her window and looked out on the glories of the summer night, but beheld them with gloomy, discontented feelings. Never had she before realized what a charm invests even the humblest home. Just as she was about to leave hers it suddenly became the dearest place on earth to her. The old, shabby furniture, the sickly flowers, the antiquated volumes in the old-fashioned book-case, the faded-out pictures around the room, the tabby cat, the cow that she milked every night and morning, the lofty pines in sight of her home—all the little mementoes of other and happier days—now seemed to her as so many friends, to whom she was bidding adieu, perhaps for the last time. Yet what were these to the society of that dear mother, whose tender care had been hers all of her life? For a brief while she almost blamed herself for ever even thinking of separating from her mother. But this regret was but momentary. Would not her mother as well as herself be benefited by their brief absence from each other? Could she not secure some comforts to her by the sacrifice? And of what avail would regret now be? No! come what might, her resolve was taken, and she would not swerve from it. “No such word as fail,” she murmurred to herself; but even as she spoke the sound of music was wafted to her ears, and sweet as was the sound, it served, just now, to touch a discordant chord in her nature. She knew the performers well. They were a young gentleman and lady, supposed to be lovers, who were playing the violin and piano in unison. The thought of their happiness, though no mean envy nestled in her heart, seemed to intensify her gloomy feelings by sheer force of contrast. Other girls, not more richly endowed by nature than herself, were blessed, having pleasant homes and some one to love and care for them, while she was poor and unnoticed, having no one, save her mother, to take any interest in her. She leaned her head down on the casement and wept bitterly. Tears relieved the burden at her heart, but she reproached herself for being so foolish:

“I am getting really envious,” she exclaimed to herself, “I must not give up, but endeavor to conquer such feelings, or my disposition will be utterly ruined. I will not give up to gloom and discontent. I will look on the bright side of life, come what may.”

She listened to the music until a late hour—listened with rather softened feelings—yet was still far, very far, from being contented with her lot. Ambition is a foe to happiness, and in the heart of our heroine it had long reigned supreme. Until it was exorcised she could never enjoy lasting peace nor satisfaction.

The morning came, and she rose up from a pillow steeped in tears to begin her journey. There was a sad parting between her and her mother, though she crushed back her tears in that mother's presence—a kindly good-bye to Mary, a caressing touch of the hand even to the house-cat, a momentary farewell glance at each familiar object of her home, and Hope turned her steps from its threshold to go forth into the world alone. Alone! yet not alone, for who can be really alone when followed by the prayers of a pious mother? Ah! who, indeed! She had a disagreeable ride to the depot, which was about twenty miles distant. Her route lay over sandy roads, crossed by black, sluggish creeks, and bounded on either side by interminable forests of pine. There were a few scattered farm-houses along the way; aside from these the prospect was extremely monotonous. Her escort—an unlettered country lad, was by no means entertaining; her reflections were rather gloomy, and it was with a feeling of intense relief that she saw the railroad, and felt that this, the first part of her journey, was at an end. The train was not yet in hearing; she had plenty of time to buy her ticket, and was beginning to be a little impatient waiting at the depot, when the shrill shriek of the locomotive was heard, and her escort got on the track and signaled for the train to stop. In a minute it had come to a halt, her baggage was deposited safely on board, and she herself snugly ensconced in the ladies' car near a window. Once fairly on her way, and speeding along swiftly, farther and farther from home and mother, she felt indescribably lonely. She was going among strangers, going, too, to engage in a profession for which she thought she had no special turn, and one which was entirely new to her. Her heart grew sick and faint at the reflection. For one moment she regretted the step that she had taken, on the next the proverb, “nothing venture nothing have” crossed her mind, and she felt sure that she had acted right in trying to better her condition, even though it cost her present sacrifice. At least, she reflected, it will make home seem dearer to me, and I shall be better contented upon my return; and, anxious to banish disagreeable thoughts, she began to amuse herself by looking out of the car window at the swiftly-moving panorama without. But there was too much monotony in the scenes for them to prove very attractive. Stretches of meadow land, dotted with wild flowers and an endless succession of chipped pine trees, their bodies looking white and ghastly in the summer sunlight; such were the prominent features of the landscape, varied occasionally by the transient glimpse of a winding stream or a fleeting view, sometimes of a lowly hut, at others of a comfortable farm-house. At every depot there was a crowd of loafers, both white and colored, waiting the arrival of the train, as some relief to the monotony of a thriftless existence. Weary of a prospect which had but little interest for her, Hope took a magazine from her valise and began to read. A piece by an author whose nom de plume was familiar to her, attracted her attention. She had read a volume of poetry by the same person, which, though seemingly unappreciated by the public, was fancied by her for its singularity. She had seen but one copy of the book, but retained that in her own possession, wondering why others could not feel its charm as she did. The piece she now read was entitled:

“PASSING THOUGHTS; OR, THE VANITY OF LIFE.”

It ran as follows:

It was with an interest, not at all excited by any beauty of style or display of talent in the author, that Hope read the piece which we have just quoted. The writer seemed to be so like herself, and expressed in words so nearly the thoughts which had often arisen in her own mind, and there was, too, such an outburst of utter wretchedness depicted in his description of himself, that she felt a strange sympathy for him. That there was much egotism in it was excusable only in the miserable. She could understand perhaps better than most others the composal of a poem in which self figured so largely. It was like the cry of one racked by physical pain and in too much agony to think of aught but self and selfish needs. She found herself wondering if the author's life had been like hers, and if not, of what grief was gnawing like a worm at his heart. She felt a vague, dreamy wish that she could in some way “minister to a mind diseased,” and “with some sweet, oblivious antidote” charm away the pain that was weighing the spirit down to earth. While she was thinking the train was speeding on its way, and two hours' travel brought her to the town where she was to change cars. There was the usual amount of bustle and confusion at the depot; friends crowding around the train to meet returning friends, boys with fruits, confectioneries, or newspapers for sale, porters anxious for a job, and the inevitable crowd of loafers, with no business save to kill time.

Hope was but little accustomed to travelling, and it was a relief to her when she found herself safe out of the crowd and in the parlor of the hotel, where she had to wait for the arrival of the train which she was to take next. She procured her ticket and amused herself as best she could watching the shifting crowd on the street; but felt, “Ah! so alone!” Since morning it seemed to her that she had drifted away from all that she had ever known or cared for. Home was only a few hours travel from her, yet it seemed immeasurably distant. A great gulf appeared to yawn between her and all that she loved. No matter what might happen, she was among strangers now—no one knew or cared for her. The coming of the train roused her from her reverie. Hastily gathering up her book and lunch basket, and giving her valise and bundles to a servant to carry, she hurried to the cars, and was not many minutes too early.

The country through which she now passed was a little different from that which lay along her morning's route. There were fewer chipped pine trees, more farming land; altogether it was a more attractive-looking section than that over which she had just travelled. It had none of the grand scenery of a mountain region, yet it was pretty and picturesque.

With a beating heart Hope thought of her meeting so soon with her strange employer. Though he was an old acquaintance of her father's and stood well in society, yet how could she tell whether she would fancy his ways or he hers? And even if he was perfection, his family might be quite different from him. Revolving these thoughts in her mind, and getting every moment more and more excited, she felt that she would give much if the dreaded encounter was over. The train blew as a signal to stop—the conductor assisted her down the step, where a kindly-looking, blue-eyed, middle-aged gentleman stood waiting for her, who introduced himself to her as Mr. Watkins, and in a minute all of her fears were set at rest, so cordial and friendly was the manner of her employer. Whatever the future might bring forth, Hope felt assured that she would never be deceived in one with such an open, honest countenance as that of Mr. Watkins. A mountain of suspense seemed lifted from her heart; she felt almost happy.

“Wait just one moment, Miss Caldwell,” said Mr. Watkins. “I will have my buggy round here directly; meanwhile I will introduce you to my little son Willie, and he called a little, fair-skinned, blue-eyed boy, who was standing off a short distance from him, and said:

“Willie, this is your new teacher, Miss Caldwell. I want you to stay here with her until I go to the house after my horse and buggy.”

Willie obeyed this command so cheerfully as to render himself very entertaining to Hope during Mr. Watkins' brief absence. He informed her that “the house where Mr. Watkins had gone was his cousin's; that they had been waiting nearly an hour for her; that the shoes he had on were all that he had; that his brother Jamie, however, had two pair; that his mother had raised one hundred and fifty chickens that year, and that his father had sold thirty dollars worth of watermelons; also that their grapes were ripe and he would give her some as soon as they got home. Hope, though unaccustomed to children, had a natural tact for pleasing them, and the two seemed on such friendly terms upon Mr. Watkins' return that he exclaimed: “Well, I declare, you are fast friends already. I am glad of it;” then, addressing himself to Hope, he said:

“Now, Miss Caldwell, I will just assist you in the buggy and tie your trunk on behind, and then we will start.”

On the way he pointed out various objects of interest to her. On one side of the road a little battle had been fought during the late civil war, and relics of the struggle might still be found. Hope admired the country. It was certainly more attractive looking than Tradeville, and her first ride through it was quite pleasant, though she was wondering all the time what kind of a woman Mrs. Watkins would prove to be, and whether she would like her as well as she did her husband and child. She pictured to herself a staid, matronly lady of forty or thereabouts, possibly pleasant, but not her companion in point of age or feeling. When they reached Mr. Watkins' place, which, though small, was pleasant looking, and which had a lovely flower-garden in front of the house, a girlish-looking, blue-eyed little woman was standing at the gate waiting for them, and before Hope could decide whether she was the child or wife of Mr. Watkins, she was introduced to her by that gentleman as Mrs. Watkins. With a winning smile the lady bade her welcome, invited her in the house, and contrived in so short a time to make our heroine feel entirely at home, that she lost all thought of the shortness of their acquaintance, and chatted away so merrily as almost to surprise herself. The two children whom Hope had not yet seen soon entered the room. The eldest was a manly little fellow, some ten years old, who had had the misfortune to lose his left eye; the youngest a fair-skinned, blue-eyed, golden-haired darling—a cherub seldom seen out of a picture. Hope fell in love with her at once.

At supper she was introduced to the last member of this pleasant family circle. He was an employe of Mr. Watkins—a young man who clerked for him—a brown-eyed, curly-haired youth, some eighteen years old, whom Hope thought rather handsome and pleasant in manner.

She spent an agreeable evening with her new friends, and when, after the regular family worship was over, she was shown to her room, she could not possibly realize that she had just known them for a few short hours. Though much fatigued, she did not at once fall asleep. The past day seemed so strange to her, the morning so far removed from the night, the various incidents of the day so mingled in her mind, that it required an effort on her part to believe that it was all real, and not a creation of her own imagination. When at last she sank to sleep, the events of the last twenty-four hours haunted her dreams, and Mr. and Mrs. Watkins and the little clerk were strangely confounded with the author of “Passing Thoughts,” whom she fancied in dreamland, she had met in one of her new friends—she could not tell which.

Hope, though generally rather reserved, was too kind-hearted herself, and too grateful for kindness in others, to withstand the interest which her new friends seemed to take in her. She thanked them for their good wishes, and said that “she did not doubt but that she would enjoy herself if all the people of the neighborhood were as pleasant as those she had already met.”

“You are a young-looking teacher, Miss Caldwell,” remarked Mary Stuart; “I presume this is your first experience in that line of business, is it not?”

“Yes,” answered Hope, “and you cannot imagine how I dread the first day of school. If that were over, I do not think I should mind the rest.”

“Yes, I can imagine your feelings,” said Hattie Stuart, laughing. “Believe me, I would not be a teacher for all the world contains. I would sooner hoe corn and collards for a living. I can remember too well how we girls used to contrive plans to provoke our teachers, and alas! too often our efforts in that direction proved a brilliant success. I would shudder at the bare thought of having my patience so tried.”

“Yes,” said Hope, thoughtfully, “I believe myself it requires patience to succeed in teaching; but does it not to succeed in everything else of importance?”

“I suppose so,” replied the girl, “but I never stick at anything long enough to get tired of it.”

“I think we have the same motto, Miss Hattie,” said Daniel Young. “Let us eat, drink and be merry, and leave others to toil as much as they see fit.”

“That may do,” said Hope, “for those who can afford it, but some are bound to work in order that others may enjoy ease.” It was as much as to say, “the honey bees must work for the drones.”

Hattie Stuart laughed, as she did at nearly everything that was said, but Daniel Young winced a little at Hope's speech, as unintentional as was any personal hit or allusion on her part. She was merely looking at the world in a practical point of view—at the toiling masses wearing out soul and body for the ease-loving few to enjoy the fruits of other's labor and hardship.

Nathan Alison, sturdy young farmer that he was, took Hope's side of the question:

“You are right, Miss Caldwell,” he said, some are compelled to work and endure privation that others may enjoy themselves, and yet I think that those who are employed are the happier. The rust of idleness is worse than the wear of toil.”

Conversation on this subject soon flagged, however, and turned on other themes, and after spending quite a pleasant evening, the visitors took their departure, with promises of calling again soon, and with many solicitations to Hope to visit them.

“I will send brother after you any time you will promise to come,” said Hattie. “Come some Saturday or Friday evening and stay till Monday morning, and we will have a nice time. I am very anxious for father and mother to see you.”

“Thank you,” replied Hope, “I should be most happy to see them, and certainly intend visiting you if I possibly can.” Then they made their adieus, and the new acquaintances separated mutually pleased with each other. When they had left and Mr. Watkins and his wife had gone off to their respective employments, Hope was alone and in deep thought. She reviewed all the events of the past day—her unexpected meeting with her father's old pastor, her acquaintanceship with her newly-found friends, all of the pleasures of this pleasant Sabbath, and she felt thankful for the mercies of the day, and caught herself building up air-castles for the future. All of the agreeable occurrences of the day seemed like a resurrection of a small part of that happiness which she had firmly believed laid in the grave forever, and encouraged her to hope that in the far future there might still be some joy in store for her. What if, after all, every fond dream of the past might be realized, all at least of her anticipations in regard to wealth and fame. As for love, she felt assured that never for that could there be a resurrection in her heart. Its very ashes had grown too cold for the breath of mortal ever to kindle that sacred flame again. But if wealth, fame, friends were hers she would be perfectly contented. So, at least, she thought, and the September sun sank below the horizon, and “twilight grey had in its sober livery all things clad,” ere she ceased indulging in the delightful employment of castle-building and rejoined the family at supper.

The reader may well believe that she did not enforce this rule without self-sacrifice. It cost her an effort to compel others to obedience, partly from being young and inexperienced herself, but more because she had no natural love of governing. With some it is a pleasure to rule; with others it is not. But duty and her ambition to become a good teacher prompted her to exact implicit obedience to all of her rules.

Mr. Watkins' two children, who had to wait for Hope during her extra hour in the school room, informed their parents of the cause of their delay. Mr. Watkins laughed heartily at their recital of it.

“Never mind your lack of experience, Miss Hope; if you can enforce your rules thus quietly with such children as Helen Hartwell and Sam and Joe Liggins, there is no fear of failure on your part. You have taken a different course from any teacher we have had yet. Some have scolded, some have beaten, some have contented themselves with giving demerit marks to the scholars for disobedience to rules; but while I approve of all these punishments, scolding excepted, I really believe you have chosen the wiser course. Some children do not mind whipping, some laugh at demerit marks, but there are few indeed who do not hate to be confined in the house after school hours. Let them see, too, that every sin carries its own punishment with it, and the lesson will not be lost on them. Above all though, it weakens the authority of a teacher to be capricious in governing, allowing a rule to be violated with impunity to-day and punishing its violation to-morrow. Let a child once see that it is for his own good, and not to gratify angry feelings that you punish him, and he will be the better prepared to obey you cheerfully.”

Hope hearkened to all this good advice, but her patience was put sorely to the test on the morrow. The parents of some few of the children not only refused to buy the books she had ordered, but the scholars told her little things which were said at their homes concerning the books which were positively exasperating.

“Mama says,” said Helen Hartwell, “that if we ever write as good a hand as the teacher who sot these copies that she'll be perfectly satisfied.”

“Pa says,” said Sam Liggins, “that these books is good enough for us, and that we'll be smart men if we ever learn all that's in them.”

“Aunt Rachel says,” said Euphemia Tyler, “that she ain't in favor of new-fangled ways of teaching, and she believes that the people in old times was better than they is now, any way.”

What could Hope say or do? A torrent of indignant blood rushed to her cheeks, words of withering sarcasm to her lips; but she choked back the words and strove desperately for calmness. It was sometime ere she could feel at all composed, but she spoke not a syllable until she was so, to the utter astonishment of the children, who had diverted themselves with the idea of seeing her angry. She taught on as best she could that day, listening to the sing-song reading of the children which she could not at once correct; hearing spelling lessons “in the book and by heart;” asking questions in arithmetic and overlooking sums wrought out on the slate; hearing recitations in some three or four different grammars and as many geographies, and filling up six hours with continual labor without any adequate result of her toil. For Hope was not one to content herself with merely working for wages; she was anxious that her scholars should reap the benefit of that labor. That night she informed Mr. Watkins of her morning's experience and also unfolded her plans for the future to him.

“Sooner than be perplexed and troubled as I am by such an endless round of recitations to no good purpose, I will procure the books myself for all who will not get them, and if they pay me well and good; if not, I will only lose money, not heart and temper.”

Thus she spoke, and Mr. Watkins informed her that he had all the books she required at his store and would sell them to her at cost if she wished it.

“Still, Miss Hope,” said he, I cannot say I approve of your plan. People should pay for books for their own children. That which costs them nothing they do not appreciate, and will not thank you for.”

“I know that very well,” she replied. I am not working for thanks either, but simply to please myself in this matter.”

“Very well, you shall have the books on the terms I promised, and at the end of the session you can settle with me.”

So the books were gotten, the children arranged into such classes as Hope deemed best, and she began to feel that her school was at last fairly started. The first week passed away quickly enough, though it was a new era in her life. It was with a sigh of relief that she dismissed the children on Friday evening. Never had she looked forward to a day of leisure as she now did to the morrow. She sympathized with the children, who expressed their joy at the prospect of a day's holiday by shouts, which were audible to their teacher when she was half way home.

The evening, which was superlatively beautiful, seemed like a foretaste of Elysium, and, released from the trials and vexations of the school-room, Hope's spirits went up like a balloon. Her week of toil had given an exquisite charm to this respite from daily labor.

“Perhaps, after all,” she said to herself, “the pleasure was worth the sacrifice.”

When she arrived at Mr. Watkins' she found a letter there awaiting her. It was from her mother, the first that she had received since she left home. She read it eagerly, rapturously—her cup of joy seemed full, as she read again and again the words of love penned by a mother's hand, dictated by a mother's heart. Never had that mother seemed so dear to her. Mrs. Caldwell wrote “that she was well, that cousin Mary was with her, and was not only a very pleasant companion, but also a great help to her. Still she missed her daughter, though she was glad that she had independence enough to wish to earn something for herself. She felt convinced that it was all for the best; if it had no other good effect, it would be apt to make home dearer to her upon her return.” There was also a box for Hope, containing some unfinished drawings, which she wished to work on during her leisure moments. At the sight of them all the ambitious dreams which for one short week had been almost banished from her mind, “came thronging back again” with even more than wonted power, and she longed for the coming of Saturday, that she might have one day to work at her favorite employment. But scarcely had she begun her task the next morning when Willie knocked at her door, and on being admitted informed her that “Mr. Daniel Young was in the parlor and wished to see her.” It was with intense regret that Hope was forced to relinquish her loved employ, even to entertain as handsome a fellow as Daniel Young, but she strove to conquer this feeling, and succeeded so well, in at least not letting it betray her into discourtesy or absentmindedness, that Mr. Young never dreamed of her experiencing aught save pleasure at his coming. She greeted him pleasantly, and crocheting in hand, took a seat opposite to him. As she sat there, with fingers busy with her work, conversing quietly, and lending a listening ear to all that her companion said, he would never have thought of her cherishing any ambition save that of a pleasant settlement in life. Her manner on this occasion especially pleased him. He was no great lover of talkative women, and admired her way of conversing, speaking just the right thing at the right time, leaving no gaps in the conversation, yet equally as ready to listen to others as to talk herself. It was this last trait which particularly pleased him. Their chat this morning was quite interesting. He was a finished scholar, a great reader, a thorough man of the world, and Hope did not hesitate to ask him any question she wished concerning any subject of which she was ignorant. By thus appearing to acknowledge him as her superior in some respects, the young girl touched the master chord of his nature—vanity—and he became more interested in her than was his wont with the majority of girls. He said to himself that “Hope Caldwell was decidedly the most interesting girl he had met with for a long while, as well as one of the prettiest.” He exerted himself to be entertaining to her, and in spite of her first regretful feelings at being taken from her cherished work, Hope found herself really and thoroughly interested in his chat. After the lapse of an hour he said:

“Miss Caldwell, time has flown so rapidly since I came here that I have almost forgotten the object of my visit, but I came to see if you would accompany me to Mrs. Stuart's. Your young friends are very anxious to have you come.”

It required a very vivid recollection of her original intention of finishing her drawing to-day for Hope to refuse this invitation. She pictured to herself all the pleasure she would see with her young friends, and it did seem unreasonable to deny herself of every enjoyment for that which after all might not profit her. Then came the recollection of other duties which would be neglected by her absence, the neglect of which would make her feel uncomfortable all through the coming week. Thinking over the matter in this light, she came to her decision.