Chevillere seeing her distress, replied, "Madam, you do me too much honour; but I see you are distressed—let me say then, without any farther formality, that if there is any way in the world by which I can lighten that distress, command me."

"It is about these very emotions that I would speak," she answered; "I was afraid you might think the scene at the breakfast-table two days since was got up in some silly girlish affectation, in pretended disgust at the rudeness of the young men present; but believe me when I say, their conduct would at many times in my life have furnished me with an ample fund for laughter; it was not in their manners, it was in the subject of one of their discourses that I felt so much affected—I tried to subdue my feelings, but the more I tried the more they overcame me; the truth is, some painful recollections were awakened"—Here again she covered her face with her handkerchief, and seemed to be for a moment almost suffocated. The lady resumed; "Nor should I have thought it proper to offer this explanation to one who is apparently a perfect stranger; but, sir, I have known you for some time by reputation."

"Indeed, madam, I must be indebted to some most flattering mistake for my present good fortune; I am but just emancipated from college walls and rules, and have, of course, even a reputation to make for myself."

"No! no!" said the youthful lady (a beautiful smile passing swiftly over her sad countenance), "there can be no mistake about it," and drawing from her work-bag a small bit of paper, rolled up in the shape of a letter, she presented it to him; adding, "Do you know that hand-writing?"

He gazed upon the signature for an instant, and then exclaimed, "My honoured mother's! by all that's fortunate! then indeed we are old acquaintances—with your permission; and I am perfectly content with the reputation which you spoke of, when I know that it originated in such a source."

"Your mother was indeed a prudent and a modest, but still a devoted herald of your good qualities."

"Believe me, dear lady, that I shall be more proud than ever to appear in your eyes to deserve some small share of her maternal praise; it was always inexpressibly dear to me for its own sake, but now I shall endeavour doubly to deserve it. You saw her, I suppose, at the White Sulphur Springs?"

"We did, sir; and a most fortunate circumstance it was for me; for being an invalid, she did every thing for me that my own mother could have done. Oh! how I regretted that my mother did not come, merely to have made her acquaintance."

"Your mother! is your mother alive, madam?"

"I hope and trust she is—and well; she was both when we last heard from her, and that was but a few days since; but your agitation alarms me! you know no bad news of my mother?" laying her hand upon his arm.

"None, madam! none. I don't know what put the foolish idea into my head, but I thought that both your own parents were dead."

"You alarmed me," said she. "I conjured up every dreadful image—I imagined that you had been commissioned by some of our friends here, to break the painful intelligence to me—but you are sure she is well?"

Chevillere smiled, as he answered "You forget that I am a total stranger to her, and she to me."

"True! true! But tell me how you left your charming young cousin Virginia Bell, of whom I heard your mother speak so often. She told me, I think, that she was at some celebrated school in North Carolina?"

"At Salem. She is well, I thank you, or was well when I came through the town: my mother intends to take her home with her on her return."

"So she told me," said the lady.

"She did not tell you, I suppose, for I believe she does not know, that I have promised the hand of the dear girl in marriage, though she is scarcely sixteen yet. You must know that I had in college two dear and beloved friends—the one, Mr. Lamar, you have seen; the other is Mr. Beverley Randolph, of Virginia—we were both class and room-mates. Randolph has gone on a journey through the Southern States, as he pretends; but, I believe, in truth, to take a sly peep at his affianced bride. If he likes her looks, it is a bargain; and if not, he will pass it all off for a college joke." Here he was interrupted by the lady gasping; and on looking in her face, he found she was as pale as marble, and terribly agitated. She asked her father for water, which he handed to her instantly, while Chevillere rang violently at the bell.

"It will all be over in a minute," said she; "it is only a return of the suffering to which I am subject."

Many strange ideas flitted through Chevillere's mind during this interruption of the conversation. He now recollected that one of the subjects of discourse between the vulgar fops, at the breakfast-table the previous morning, had been some runaway marriage—and "the fearful marriage and more fearful death" still sounded in his ears, and now the same subject again introduced by himself produced like consequences,—he thought it strange and incomprehensible; he cheered himself, however, with the reflection, that his mother was not likely to form an intimacy with persons against whom there was any charge of crime; nay, more, he felt assured that they must have been well sustained by public opinion, or introduced to her acquaintance by some judicious friend.

"If I have unaptly said any thing offensive, I hope Miss St. Clair will believe me, when I say that such a design was the farthest from my thoughts."

"Rest easy on that score," said she; "I am now well again: you said nothing that it was not proper for you to say, and me to hear, had I not been a poor silly-headed girl."

"Well, Miss Frances, I am anxious to hear your opinion of Western Virginia."

"My opinion is not worth having; but such as it is, you are welcome to it, or rather to such observations as a lady might make. First, then, I was delighted with the wild mountain scenery, and the beautiful valleys between the mountains; such are those, you will recollect, perhaps, in which all of those springs are situated. I doubt very much, whether Switzerland, or Spain, could present as many rich and beautiful mountain-scenes, as we have passed between Lexington and the White Sulphur and Salt Sulphur springs. We have similar scenes along and among the highlands of the Hudson, it is true; perhaps they are more grand and majestic than these; but then, there is such a stir of busy life, such an atmosphere of steam, and clouds of canvass, that one is perpetually called back in spirit to the stir and bustle of a city life. But here, among the rugged blue mountains of 'old Virginia,' as these people love to call it, there are the silence and the solitude of nature, which more befit such contemplations as the scenes induce. We can seat ourselves in one of the green forests of the mountains we have just left, and imagine ours to be the first human footsteps, which have ever been imprinted upon the soil; and we can repose amid the shades and the profound and solemn silence of those scenes, with a calmness and a serenity, and a soothing, delightful, melancholy feeling, which no other objects can produce. The very atmosphere seems teeming with these delightful impressions; primitive nature seems to have returned upon us with all its balmy delights,—quiet and peacefulness. The profound solitude would become tiresome, perhaps, to those who have no resources in unison with such scenes, or to those who admire and feign to revel in them, because it is fashionable just now to do so. But to an educated mind, a natural and feeling, and I may say devout heart, they furnish inexhaustible food for