"And don't you remember, Polly," cried Mrs. Manners, offering her snuffbox to her sister, "how they always used to play they was husband and wife?"

"Law! well! I guess I do!" replied the widow. "I remember the first time his pa ever got him a new pair of boots; high ones, you know, with legs to 'em like men's—I rec'lect- 19

"Oh! I never shall forget it," cried Mrs. Manners, interrupting; "he come right up to our house, and walked in as proud

"And, if you'll believe me," pursued the irresistible Mrs Manners, addressing John and Lucy, as if they were not themselves; "both them little creturs cried like babies, as they was, because Miss Graham, that was up to our house a tailorin', told 'em, real sort o' cross like, that they want nigh old enough yet."

"She was a spiteful cretur, that Miss Graham," said the widow.

"Indeed she was," replied her sister; "she went up that very night, and told the deacon's wife all about it, and Sally Blake, that was, Sally Bunn, that is now, told me afterwards, that a madder woman she never heerd scold. Actilly, she whipped Sally, and sent her to bed without any supper, when the poor little gal hadn't done anything out of the way."

After this manner, the two elder ladies continued their gossip, to the infinite edification and amusement of their juniors. It was very late, indeed; nay, almost ten o'clock, when Mrs. Manners, at the conclusion of a narrative of the adventures of Lucy's first school-day, under John's guardianship, quietly slipped out into the kitchen, whither the widow directly followed her, leaving Lucy with John and Ellen in the front room. Presently, Mrs. Dashleigh returned, and upon being enquired of by

Lucy, declared that Mrs. Manners, having looked at the clock, had departed in a great haste, apparently quite forgetful that she was leaving Lucy behind her. Of course, when Lucy got up from her chair, and said that she must hurry home too, John rose also, and offered to be her beau across the strect; and Ellen was going, too, but her mother told her it was too late, and that she must stay; at which, the little damsel was greatly dissatisfied.

It was a most lovely midsummer night; still, warm and fragrant. The moon, in a cloudless sky, was nearly at its full; and its rays, at this hour, almost vertical, came shimmering down through the dense foliage of the great elm that stood in the little lawn in front of Colonel Manners' house, and silvered the leaves of the lilacs and syringas which grew about the door. The clumps of shrubbery, and the fruit trees in the orchards, cast deep circular shadows upon the ground beneath them. The slender spire of the meeting-house steeple, in the village hard by, glistened like a silver needle, and stood up, strangely tall and far away into the deep blue sky. The intervale meadows, covered with a dense, low-lying mist, seemed like some broad river or wide arm of the sea; the nearer trees and copses looming up like islands, and the hills beyond, like the distant further shore. Even the sense of hearing aided the illusion; for the subdued murmur of the far off water-fall in the northern glen sounded to the ear so like the noise of surf upon a shelving sandy beach, that one suddenly set down upon the spot would have found it difficult to realize that he was in an inland district, many miles away from the sea. All else was breathlessly still, except the chirping of the crickets and katydids, and the hushed whisper of the zephyr among the leaves, that served only to make the silence audible.

Now, John Dashleigh, when he had deliberately made up his mind to do a thing, never dreamed of putting off, without good cause, the execution of his purpose; but proceeded at once to action, as soon as ever he was ready and had an opportunity. Though he had but little experience in love affairs, his common sense taught him that it was dangerous to be dilly-dallying and hesitating about declaring himself, and, withal, he had been by no means an

unobservant witness of the weekly recurrence of Joab's Sunday evening visits. He had, therefore, fully resolved to avail himself of the first favorable opportunity to tell Lucy that he loved her, and to ask of her the momentous question, whether there was any reason for him to hope that his love might be returned. I would not have it supposed, however, that John was confident of receiving a reply such as he wished to hear, for I firmly believe there was never in the world a lover more modest than he, or who was less sensible of his own merits. The hope that he cherished had just enough force to prompt him to avow his love. "There may be a chance for me," he would say to himself; and I assure you he was not the man to forego trying even one chance in a thousand, or to shrink with unmanly dread from learning thereby the fate in store for him.

John and Lucy had got no further than the gate of Colonel Manners' front yard, when he began. “Lucy," said he, with a tremor in his voice that he could not control, "before you go into the house, I wish to say something to you which, perhaps, may displease you-but until you bid me stop, or I see you are angry or annoyed, I shall speak on till I have finished."

Now, that little puss, Lucy, knew as well as John Dashleigh himself did what he was about to say; nevertheless, of course, as is the way with women at such times, when they are nothing loth to listen, she dissembled, and appeared to be unaware of John's intentions, and affected a cool surprise and faint wonder; though, if the truth were only known, it would appear that her heart was throbbing so wildly she was actually afraid John would hear its thumping. "Pray, cousin John," said she, as soon as she dared to trust her voice, "what can you be going to say to me that you think will displease me?" "I wish to tell you, Lucy," said John, replying to the question in the only manner that he was accustomed to use that is to say, in the most straightforward way in the world-"I wish to tell you that I love you so well, that I cannot find words to express myself."

"Why-y! John !" cried Lucy, as if she were very much surprised, and affecting a reproachful manner.

"I have offended you, I know," said John, who, in his simplicity, thought

he had shocked his fair cousin by his audacious avowal; and his heart grew so heavy that it came near weighing him to the ground. He looked down into her face. There was never any thing so beautiful as it was in the soft moonlight that shone upon it. She did not raise her eyes, and he felt sure that she was angry. The feeble hope that hitherto had sustained him died away in his heart, and the void it left ached with a torture so intense that, in spite of his manhood, he could not endure it without complaint. The words came to his lips without his consent, even against his will. "Oh! God! I cannot bear it!" said he, in a tone so full of despair that Lucy looked up in a sudden fright, and the roguish smile which he had not observed vanished from her lips. She saw the expression of keen agony apparent upon his pale features; and the instinct of coquetry-which I regret to say had a place in her heart-was at once shamed and subdued, by the sight of his distress. She felt almost appalled at finding herself loved with such a strength of passion; and the deep springs of womanly tenderness welled up in her heart with a sudden overflow. She had suspected herself, before, of loving John, though she had not been entirely certain; but from that moment she never doubted again that he was dearer to her than all the world besides.

It may not be fair, even for an author, to expose to the world the secrets of a maiden's heart, but the truth is that Lucy had been almost as strongly impressed by John's appearance on the occasion of meeting him on the street at Hartford, as he himself had been at seeing her. The young lady with whom she used to sleep at the Misses Primber's Seminary, and for whom she, at that time, entertained an undying affection, which was fully reciprocated-this young lady, I say, (who is, by the by, at the present time, a rosy matron with four chubby children,) can testify, that not long after the occasion which has just been alluded to, Lucy confessed to her, in a moment of confidence, that the Handsome Forester was her very beau-ideal of manly beauty; and that she wished "heaven had made her such a man," and had given him the means to dress a little more in accordance with the prevailing fashions. No small part of Lucy's surprise, when John dropped out of the pear tree, was due to her re

cognition of Robin Hood in the person of the youth prostrate at her feet, and at finding him to be the cousin John of whom she had always preserved so affectionate a remembrance. As I have already told you, the womanly instinct which so seldom errs, revealed to her that John was in love with her; and when she came to reflect upon this discovery, she found that it afforded her a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction; though she did not as yet suspect how nearly the condition of her own heart resembled that of her cousin's. It was not a great while, however, before she detected herself thinking that, if Joab were only like John, how much less strong would be her aversion to the proposed marriage. She was alone in her room, before the glass, striving to coax the rebellious curls into something like order, and at first she hardly dared to meet the glance of her own eyes in the mirror. She felt that she was blushing; and so she leaned her head on the little white dimity toilet table, and did not look up again for a long while. She asked her heart the question, whether it was not that it loved John which caused her to wish that Joab resembled him; and in reply her deceitful little heart told her a falsehood, and persuaded her that the sentiment in question was nothing more than merely a warm cousinly regard and affection.

"You are to marry Joab, you know," whispered the heart, "and of course it is not wonderful you should wish him to be more like John; for Joab-between ourselves-is anything but lovable; while John," continued the heart, throbbing violently, "is a handsome, agreeable, noble, manly young fellow, who, if he had had the one-half of Joab's advantages, would have made just the lover and husband we have dreamed about sometimes."

"Mere cousinly regard!" repeated Lucy; "and are you sure that this is all!"

"Perfectly sure," faltered the heart. "And ought I not to be somewhat careful of you, for fear lest I shall lose you?" says Lucy; "and should I not conduct myself towards John with a little more reserve?"

"Pooh!" replies the heart, "thank you for nothing; let me take care of myself; and do you treat John as he deserves; for he is a kinsman, worthy of your best cousinly love. But," con

tinued the heart, with a flutter, "do as you please; I am not at all interested in the matter."

"But on John's account;" persisted Lucy. "Will not he get to loving me too much, and so be miserable when I am finally married to Joab?"

"You are a vain, conceited creature," replies the heart; concealing a pang of sudden pain, by retorting in this way; "how do you know that John loves you any more than he ought to love a cousin and an old playmate? And even if he does love you a little more warmly than this, he will forget you easily" (and here there was another keen pang,) "and marry somebody else;" and here there came a third pang, so violent that Lucy burst into tears, and cried with her head still on the table, until at last she put out her light in a hurry, and got into bed, where, after a while, she sobbed herself to sleep.

Now, though the heart caused itself a deal of distress by suggesting this notion of John's marrying some other girl, it could not have done a thing which would have aided, to a greater degree, the deception of which it had been guilty. For Lucy was thereby persuaded to fancy herself thinking of John, as if he were already the lover and suitor of this imaginary mistress; and her heart kept on assuring her that of course there could be no danger of loving him too well. Besides, this idea prevented her from feeling for John that tenderness which would have alarmed her, and put her upon her guard. Indeed, there were sometimes. when this fancy was uppermost in her mind, that she carried herself towards him with a coolness and reserve which caused him no little pain. However, these occasions were unfrequent; for, as I have told you, in obedience to the impulses of her heart, she usually treated him with the kindness and distinction due to so near and worthy a kinsman. But when, on the night that John declared his love, Lucy was forewarned by his manner of his intention to do so, her treacherous little heart began to beat with such a tumultuous delight and sweet alarm, that it was no longer able to deceive its mistress; and, as I have already related, the emotion which filled her soul at the spectacle of John's anguish, caused by her supposed indifference, testified so plainly, with respect to the condition of her own feelings,

that she could not help being convinced. She acknowledged to herself that she loved him with all her heart; and then she hastened to relieve the pain that he was suffering. She took his hand, and without thinking of herself, or giving heed to the proprieties of maidenly reserve, she looked up straight into his face.

"John," said she, "dear John; if it will give you pleasure to know that

love you

I

When Lucy had got as far as this she hesitated, and then paused; for she saw that she had said enough for her purpose; and, besides, it is somewhat of an enterprise, for a lady to tell a gentleman, for the first time in the world, that she loves him, except in a whispered monosyllable, by way of reply to an urgent and oft repeated question. But, notwithstanding the incompleteness of the sentence, John thought he had never before heard anything so perfect. He could hardly believe his senses, and he would have doubted the evidence of his ears, but that this testimony was corroborated by the soft and bewitching confusion of Lucy's manner; for, no sooner had she ceased speaking, than she dropped her eyelids, and looked down upon the ground, her head drooping with modest concern, at the boldness of her speech; while her face was suffused with a charming blush, that could be perceived even by the moonlight.

For a single moment John stood still and uncovered his head. I am not not ashamed to confess, that during this brief pause he uttered a fervent thanksgiving to the good God. The impulse of every man's heart prompts him, when suddenly made conscious of the gift of a great blessing, or when first assured of deliverance from great peril, to do what John Dashleigh did; but it is not every one who, like him, would obey his good impulses at such a time. Lucy observed this emotion of gratitude, and its devout expression; and I assure you that she loved him none the less, but rather the more, for that the first impulse of his adoration had been, not towards her, but to the great Giver of all good gifts.

I shall not relate further what was said and done by John and Lucy, during the remainder of the time they were together that memorable evening; because, as they talked mostly in whispers, and low murmurs, audible only to

themselves, it is plain enough that they did not wish to be overheard and reported. Let it suffice, then, to say that when, an hour afterwards, they parted at the, step-stone of the front door, and he took advantage of the shadow of a lilac-bush to press a prolonged kiss upon her lips, he had a perfect and indefeasible right so to do. She was entirely willing to be bidden good-night in that pleasant fashion,—as well, indeed, she might be-for she had promised to marry John, and he had promised to marry Lucy.

When Lucy went into the house she found her mother sitting up and waiting for her. As soon as she took off her bonnet, looked up at the clock, and, in a whisper, began to stammer excuses for staying out so late, her mother laid down her knitting work, and looked up into her blushing face with such a shrewd, kind, knowing, enquiring smile, that Lucy was persuaded by it not to put off the confession which she had resolved to defer until the morning, but to tell at once what had happened. She was a little embarrassed, and at a loss how to begin; but when her mother put her arm about her waist, and kissed her head, as she leaned it against her bosom, and whispered softly, “tell me all about it, my child," the words came of themselves, right out of her full heart.

They sat there together until the candle burned down to its socket, talking in whispers; while in the bedroom hard by, the good Colonel, against whose cherished project they were plotting, tired with his afternoon's labor in the hayfield, slept, oblivious of the danger and his cares. Once in a while his sonorous, measured snoring would cease for a moment, and the two women would listen with bated breath, until, with a vigorous puff and snort, the sleeper would start off again upon another heat, and the whispered conference would be resumed. At last, when the tall, old-fashioned clock in the corner began to splutter its warning, before striking the hour of two, Mrs. Manners kissed the glowing cheek of her daughter, and with another low murmured assurance that she herself would manage to bring everything to a happy result, bade her good-night; and Lucy, after returning her mother's kiss, lit her candle and tripped up stairs, with a heart as light as love and hope could

make it, and her eyes as sparkling and wide awake as they had ever appeared of a morning, after a long, sound night's slumber. When she got up into her chamber, she put her light down upon the table, and went to the open window, to look out upon the bench under the big elm tree; a spot evermore to be endeared to her by having been the place where she and her lover had plighted faith to each other.

The moon was still shining brightly, and she was not a little startled at beholding John Dashleigh, standing with Boatswain in the shadow of the tree. He was not so far off but that she could hear him speak, in a low, quick tone, as she came to the window. "Don't be afraid," said he, advancing towards the house as he spoke, until he came and stood among the thick lilac-bushes that grew before the parlor windows. "It's me," said John, again looking

"Ah! that's the worst of it, John. She says that I must let Joab continue his horrid visits, though I may tell him that I don't like either him or his visits, and will never be willing to marry him. After that, she says, he can have no reason to complain whatever may happen."

"Well," said John, in a doubtful tone, "for my part I must own that I think the plainest and most straightforward way is, usually, the best way. However, Aunt Betsy is a very wise and sensible woman, and-"

At this moment, Boatswain, upon

whose doggish nature and sensibilities the moonlight had been exercising its wonted influence, and who, besides, though evidently unwilling to entertain ill-natured suspicions, concerning John's motives in lurking about the house at midnight, had, nevertheless, in secret, been greatly disturbed in his mind thereby, Boatswain, I say, suddenly threw back his head, stuck his nose into the air, and through the wide calibre of his capacious throat gave vent to an obstreperous howl, which was intended partly as a serenade to the man in the moon, and partly by way of respectful, but earnest remonstrance against the further continuance of John's singular and ill-timed proceedings.

"Heavens! what a noise!" cried Lucy, who had been at first almost scared out of her wits by Boatswain's outcry.

66

Hush-sh, hush up! get out, you brute!" cried John, stamping on the ground.

"Ow-ow-00-0-0-0-woo," howled the dog, still with his muzzle pointing towards the zenith, but looking sideways at John with an intelligent leer, as if he would say, "I'm right, and you know it. You ought to be a-bed at this time o' night, and not be here under Lucy's window. You're a young man, and a friend of mine, and probably don't mean any harm; but your conduct isn't proper, can't help saying so-ow ow-00

O-Woo."

John's conscience was smitten by this reproof, which was as intelligible as if it had been uttered in the plainest English. So he threw up a kiss to Lucy, and she dropped one down to him, and they bade each other goodnight. Then Lucy pretended to draw the curtains close, but left a peep-hole through which she watched John as he went along down the gravel walk, accompanied by Boatswain, who appeared to be exceedingly gratified at his retreat; though, to be sure, when John turned to latch the wicket after him, the dog came up and licked his hand, snuffing and wagging his tail with an apologetic manner; as if to express a hope that no offense whatever would be taken at his well-meant outcry, but that the cordial friendship, which ever since the affair of the pear-tree had subsisted between them, might, notwithstanding, continue unbroken.