very opposite pupils, both of whom she guided with equal ability.

My father was not unaware of her sufferings, I think, indeed, this community of sorrow first attracted him toward her, and later he was confirmed in his admiration of her womanly self-control and beauty of character, by the development he saw in his children, the work of her hand. That he was ever profoundly in love with her I do not believe, nor did she pretend to any passionate regard for him. Respect, friendship, confidence, mutual esteem, were the foundations of their union, which certainly promised enduring happiness to all concerned, and which was looked on with favor by the whole household, not excepting Mrs. Austin herself.

"If any successor of your dear mother must come, Evelyn," I heard her say one day to my sister, "we had better have her we know, to be sure, than a mere stranger, but I must say I can't see why your papa does not content himself as he is. I am sure he seems very happy in his library and his greenhouse, and driving out in his Tilbury, or with you two young ladies in the coach of afternoons, and chatting and smoking of evenings with Mr. Bainrothe or old Mr. Stanbury. I should think he might have had enough of marrying by this time, and funerals and all that. Your own precious mamma first, an earl's own daughter (Evelyn Erle, never forget that, if your father was a poor soldier! you have grand relations in England, child, if you are not as rich as some others I could name), and then your mother and Miriam's, Miss Harz that was, such an excellent woman for all her persuasion, to be sure; better than some Christians, I must say; and she just three years and a half laid in her grave!" A doleful sigh gave emphasis to this remark. "I was never more surprised, I must confess, than when he sent for me last night to tell me he was to marry Miss Glen next week! Who is she, I wonder, Evelyn; did you ever hear her speak of her kinfolks? Not a soul except two or three of her church-people has been near her since she has been here, and Franklin says she very seldom gets letters." A pinch of snuff emphasized this remark.

"I heard her say she had only one brother, Mrs. Austin, and that he was in some distant part of the world, in India, or New Orleans, or some such place, she does not know herself exactly where. He is a young lad, and she grieves about him; his picture is most beautiful, I think. He ran off and went to sea, and it almost killed her. That was some years ago, and since then she has been teaching in a great school until she came to us, and was never so peaceful before, she says, as she is now. I think she will make papa happy too, and keep him in his own family, since she has none of her own. I was so afraid it was Mrs. Stanbury at one time."

"I never thought of that," said Mrs. Austin, starting. "What put it into your head, Evelyn, and what made you so close-mouthed about it? Child, you have an old head on young shoulders—I always said so; as like your own precious mother as two peas. Yes, that would have been a nice connection truly! The two young Stanburys forsooth, to divide every thing with you and Miriam, and her rigid economy the rule in the house, and Norman riding over every one on a high horse, and that lame brat to be nursed and waited on! Any thing better than that, Evelyn. You are right, my dear." And she tapped her suggestive snuffbox.

My elder sister was about thirteen years old when she uttered those oracular sentences which elicited Mrs. Austin's commendations, and her own clear-sighted prévoyance; and I, at eight, whose mind was turned to any subject save that of marrying and giving in marriage, stood confounded by her superior wisdom and discretion. I gazed upon her open-mouthed and wide-eyed as she spoke, drinking in every word, yet very little enlightened, after all, by her remarks. She turned suddenly upon me, and tapped my cheek slightly with her fan. It was a way she had of manifesting contempt.

"Now run and tell Mrs. Stanbury every word I have spoken, just as soon as you can, Miriam, do you hear? Don't forget one syllable, that's a darling. Come, rehearse!"

"Won't it do after dinner, sister Evelyn?" I asked, gravely and literally. "I want to go and see about my mole, now—my poor mole that Hodges wounded with his spade this morning. It suffers so dreadfully!"—clasping my hands in a tragic manner, not unusual with me when excited.

"There! what did I tell you, Mrs. Austin? You will believe my report of Miriam another time—little blab! There is nothing safe where she is, and as to keeping a secret, she could not do it if her own life were at stake, I verily believe."

"I can keep a secret," I said, fiercely, "you know I can! You burnt my finger in the candle to make me tell you where the squirrel was, and I would not do it; Now, miss, remember that, and tell the truth next time!"

"What a little spit-fire," said Evelyn, derisively. "You see for yourself, Mrs. Austin."

"O Evelyn, Evelyn, did you, do that?" moaned the good woman. "Your little sister's hand! To burn it so cruelly, and in cold blood. I would not have believed it of you, my Evelyn—that was not like your mamma at all," and she shook her head dolefully. "Miriam is a brave child, after all." A wonderful admission for her to make.

"If you believe every thing that limb of the synagogue tells you, Mrs. Austin, you will have a great deal to swallow, that is all I shall say on the subject," and she turned away derisively.

"Do you mean to deny it, then, Evelyn Erle?" asked Mrs. Austin, earnestly, laying her hand on her arm, and shaking her slightly as she was about to leave the room. "Come back and answer me. I hope Miriam is only angry—I hope you did not do this thing."

"I will not be forcibly detained by any old woman in America," said Evelyn, struggling stoutly, "nor questioned either about a pack of fibs. Miriam knows better than to tell such stories—or ought to be taught better."

"It was no story," I said, solemnly. "It was true. You did burn my finger, and begged me not to tell Constance or papa afterward, and I never told them, because I never break my word if I can help it, and I wouldn't have told Mrs. Austin (but I didn't promise about her, you know), only you twitted me so meanly, and made me so mad—and it all came out. For I can keep a secret! I know where that squirrel is now, Evelyn Erle, but I will never tell any one—never—not even Constance Glen. I promised myself that, and crossed my heart about it when you tried to cut off its tail—its pretty, bushy tail that God gave it to keep the flies off with."

Mrs. Austin was shedding tears by this time; Evelyn's insolence and duplicity had stung her to the quick, and she saw, with real concern, that I had justice on my side. She had relinquished her hold on Evelyn, who stood now sullenly glaring at me, pale as a sheet, her eyes white with rage, looking like heated steel, her lips trembling with passion.

"You shall tell me where that squirrel is, or I will appeal to papa," she said, sharply. "It was mine. Norman Stanbury said so when he brought it here and gave it to me. You heard him, little cheat!"

"He told me to feed it, and take care of it, and not let it get hurt, if he did give it to you," I replied, doggedly, "and I did what he told me. You are a born tyrant, Evelyn. Constance told you so a month ago, when you twisted Laura Stanbury's arm for not teaching you that puzzle; and there is a wicked word I know that suits you to-day, only I am afraid to say it—Constance would be angry—but it begins with an L and ends with an R, and has only four letters in it. There, now!"

I well deserved the slap, no doubt, that rang down with such lightning speed and force on my cheek, and, fortunately, Mrs. Austin arrested my panther-like spring toward Evelyn, or the nails I held in rest might have brought blood from her waxen face, and marred its symmetry for a season. As it was, I screamed wildly, until Miss Glen came