Chapter IV: Preface (4)

"I will go directly and learn my lessons for to-morrow," said Emily, and taking up her bag of books she hastened into a little back parlour, in which she was in the habit of studying her lessons. For some time she kept her attention very steadily fixed on her work; but just as she had taken her geography and opened her map to trace the boundaries of North America, a lady who frequently visited her mother, and who sung very well, began at that moment in an adjoining room to sing a song of which Emily was very fond. The little girl had a very good ear for music, and was so exceedingly fond of it, that it was with great difficulty that she could keep her attention fixed upon what she was doing. Over and over again she was on the point of leaving her lessons, and going into the parlour where the musician was; but she recollected how soon it would be bed-time, and how little time there was whilst the mornings were so very short, to learn any lessons that had been neglected the evening before, and determined to persevere; and clasping her little hands, and laying them on the book before her, as if to hold fast her resolution, she repeated, North America is bounded on the north by the Arctic ocean, on the west and south by the Pacific ocean, and on the east by the Atlantic ocean. It is true that as she repeated this, and found answers to the rest of the questions which were contained in her lesson, her feet beat time against the chair, and her head moved in unison, whilst she sometimes found herself trying to make the words of her lesson accord with the measure of the music, as she spun out the words eighty-five degrees of north la-ti-tude, yet still she contrived to keep her mind fixed upon what she was doing till she had impressed it on her memory, so as to be sure of being able to call it forward, when required, the following day. "Now I know all my lessons perfectly," said she, as she replaced her books in her bag: "I am sure of not losing my ticket to-morrow on account of my lessons." So saying, she hastened into the other parlour, but the music was over, the lady was gone, and the room was empty. Emily, however, was seldom at a loss for means of amusement, and she skipped about the room, singing "I'll be a butterfly," as if she were indeed that light and airy creature of pleasure. Satisfied with herself for the resolution that she had exercised, the rest of the evening was spent in more than even her usual cheerfulness, and she laid her head down upon the pillow with repeated resolutions of attention the following day. When the little girl opened her eyes the next morning, it looked so gloomy and dark that she very willingly persuaded herself it was too soon to rise, and had just turned over to compose herself for another nap when the clock struck eight. In an instant she was out of bed. She had only a single hour in which to dress herself, to eat her breakfast, and go to school; she had not, therefore, a single moment to lose. Yet a strong temptation assailed her, for on a chair by her bed-side lay a small paper parcel, directed to her, which on opening she found to contain a cap, that her friend Julia had made for her baby, and which had been sent to her after she was in bed the night before, and placed by the servant near her bed-side, that she might see it as soon as she rose in the morning. "Oh! what a beautiful little cap," exclaimed Emily. "How sweet my baby will look in it. I must try it on directly. But no," added she, recollecting herself, "I must not stay to try it on now or I shall be too late for school, and then away goes my ticket for good conduct at once." And with an effort of self denial that would have done credit to a much older mind, Emily put the tempting cap into a drawer and hastened to finish her dressing. Her breakfast was soon swallowed, and she was in the school-room before the school bell rang. "I think now I am safe for to-day," said she, "only I hope Julia will not be in one of her funny humours and try to make me laugh." To the credit of our little heroine, however, though Julia was in a funny humour and did frequently try to make her laugh, and though Emily's gay and even volatile temper was ever ready to receive a lively impression, yet still she succeeded in keeping herself so far within bounds as to escape reproof, and she returned home in the evening with the wished-for ticket. "Here it is, mamma! here it is!" cried she, running to her mother, and holding out the testimony of her good behaviour. Her mother took the ticket, and congratulated her upon having got over half the time successfully. "More than half, mamma," returned Emma, "for to-morrow will be only half a day, and I have very few lessons to learn to-night."

"I am not sure that you are any more safe on that account, Emma," replied her mother, "for you know I have often remarked to you, that you generally prepare your lessons the worst when you consider them the easiest; as then you are apt, from the idea that they can be learnt in so very short a time, to put them off until you have no time for them at all, instead of learning them first and amusing yourself afterward." "But I will not do so to-night," said the little girl, and away she went directly to study them. And fortunate it was for her that she did so, for she had scarcely finished the last thing that she had to learn before her friend Julia came to play with her. She could now, however, play with safety, and the rest of the evening was passed in amusement. The new cap was tried on and found to fit beautifully, and the baby was dressed and undressed, put to bed and taken up again; declared to be very sick and obliged to take medicine; taken out to visit; sent to bed for being naughty; and, in short, passed through all the vicissitudes of a moderate life-time before the friends parted for the night.

"It is eight o'clock," cried Emily, capering about the room, half dancing and half jumping as she spoke; "I am safe for to-day, and I have only till twelve o'clock to-morrow, and then I shall get my ticket, and then I shall be safe; and then I shall go to Mrs. Cassy's."

"And then," rejoined her mother, "I hope you will have learned how much better it is to work first and play after, than to play first and run the risk of the work being neglected altogether."

"Oh! yes, mamma! I intend to remember that in future," said the little girl, and away she went to bed, singing as she went, to a tune of her own making,

"How pleasant it is at the end of the day,
Of no follies to have to repent."

"Emily!" said her mother, rousing her little girl from a sound sleep, as she spoke; "Emily! Do you know it is nearly eight o'clock?"

"Oh! it is time enough, mamma," said Emily, starting up as she spoke; "it struck eight o'clock before I was out of bed yesterday morning; and yet I was in the school-room some minutes before the bell rang."

"But if you trifle in that way, it will be nine o'clock before you are out of this room," continued her mother; as Emily, taking hold of her little night-gown, instead of a frock, began to practice her dancing steps. "You see, my dear, you have yet only got your stockings and shoes on; so, at this rate, it will certainly take you more than an hour to finish your dressing."

"Oh! indeed you are mistaken, mamma, you will see how soon I shall be out of the room," and roused to recollection by this remonstrance, the rest of her dressing was very quickly finished. Her breakfast too was despatched with equal rapidity. "Now I am ready," said she, starting from her chair, and putting on her little brown beaver hat as she spoke; "and now for my coat; but stop," she continued, throwing her coat carelessly over her arm; "I have not my bag: Where is it, I wonder? Oh! I remember! I left it in the piazza when I went to look what sort of a morning it was;" and off she went, dragging her coat, which still hung over her arm, after her; and on the piazza she found her bag, mittens, one of her books, and slate, all lying as she had thrown them out of her hand, to run after some trifle that had at the moment attracted her attention; but as she took up her bag with the intention of putting her book and slate into it, her favourite kitten, which had followed her to the piazza, running after her coat as it dragged after her along the floor, now caught at the bag, and tugged and scratched at it, as if it had been intended entirely for its amusement. This was too congenial with Emily's own frolicsome disposition to be resisted, and there she stood, at one moment drawing the bag away, and the next throwing it back again to the sportive little animal. And we must be permitted here to pause and describe our little friend, as she looked while thus engaged. It was one of those fine mild mornings, which of late years we have so often witnessed in the very depth of winter, and the sun, which had just risen, sent forth his beams to gild the landscape behind her, defining her figure more clearly by the contrast. To the eye of fancy and affection, that rising sun might have been thought to represent her whose orb like his own was just rising; and though a few mists yet obscured the bright rays of mind which had already begun to beam, yet no one could look at the face, which, though not formed according to any of the acknowledged rules of beauty, was bright with innocence, animation, and happiness, without feeling assured, that as it gained its meridian heights, it would shine forth with pure, unclouded lustre, and prepare the way for a clear and glorious evening. Though Emily, as she thus stood, presented a picture that a painter might study, it was but of short duration, for whilst she yet played with her favourite, the clock struck nine, and at once recalled the little girl to a recollection of her folly. "Oh! what shall I do?" she exclaimed. "It is nine o'clock, and I am not ready. Get away, kitty! do not come near me again," she continued, as the kitten, which had received no warning from the stroke of the clock, still tried to catch at the strings of the bag whilst she was putting in its usual contents; "get away! for if you had not come near me, I should not have staid so long. I should not have been tempted with any thing else. Oh! how hard my coat is to get on this morning. I cannot tell what is the matter with this hook and eye! it will not fasten. Yes! now it is fastened and I must run." But though poor Emily did run, and put herself into a most violent heat; and though she went into the school-room puffing and blowing, the words, as she entered, of "Miss Emily Osman--you are too late," told her at once that all chance of visiting her friend Mrs. Cassy was over.

A few tears chased each other silently down her cheek, as she took her seat at her desk, and for the rest of the day it was little effort to poor Emily to be silent and attentive. Julia tried a thousand ways to excite a smile, but in vain; for the idea that she had not only deprived herself of so much pleasure for the morrow, but had disappointed her mamma and appeared ungrateful to Mrs. Cassy for her kindness, weighed on her mind, and every now and then filled her eyes with tears. "Do not cry, Emily, I beg of you," said Julia, as they returned home together, after the school hours were over, "I am quite sure your mamma will let you go to Mrs. Cassy's, after all. I feel quite certain of it, for you know this is almost the last day we have to be together; and I am sure she could not find in her heart to deprive you of the pleasure for such a trifle."

"No! my mamma never changes her mind after she has promised me any thing," said Emily, "and I am glad she does not, because it always makes me sure that if I am good I shall get the reward I expect."

"Oh! well, but she may change her mind just about such a little trifle as that, after all," returned Julia.

"I am quite sure she will not," was Emily's quiet reply, and the friends parted, as their roads now lay in different directions. As Emily entered the house, she felt almost ashamed of meeting her mamma, and she blushed at the idea of the reluctance which she felt; but she soon found that, for the present at least, she was saved the pain of seeing her, for she was told that a very short time after she went to school, her mother had been sent for to a very particular friend, who was dangerously ill, and that she was not yet returned. Emily always thought the house very forlorn and dull when her mother was not in it, but now that she was out of spirits herself, she felt it more so than ever, and she hung about listless and uneasy, and unable to enter into any of her usual amusements. She tried to sing, but her voice was husky and out of tune. She began to practise her steps, but it was impossible to dance without music, and Emily that day had no music in her soul. She took out her baby, with the intention of amusing herself with it, but it brought to her recollection the pleasure she had expected to enjoy in playing with Mrs. Cassy's baby the next day; and she put it aside, and forgot that she had expected entertainment from it. Even her little kitten, which, from its fondness for play, seemed to be so nearly allied to herself, played with a ball of cotton, or ran after its own tail, round and round the room, in vain; for Emily only recollected that it was it that had tempted her to the neglect of her duty in the morning. "I wonder when my mamma will come home," said she to herself, as the short winter's day began to draw to a close. "I wish she would come that I might see her, and hear her say that she forgives me, and will not punish me any further than by not letting me go to Mrs. Cassy's. I hope she will not look grave at me, for that will be worse than all. I wish she would come that I might know at once what she would say. Oh! perhaps that is she," added the little girl, starting up and running to the window at the sound of the door bell; but it was too dark for her to see who it was, and she was returning to the fireside, when the room door opened and the servant brought in a letter, which he said was for her. "For me!" cried Emily, in great surprise; "who can have written to me? I never received a letter in my life from any body." A lamp, however, was lighted, and the letter opened, which proved to be from Julia, and, after spelling and puzzling over it for a considerable time, Emily at length made out the following epistle:

"My dear Emily,

"I have just heard that your mamma is not at home; and I wanted
to come round to you, but my aunt would not let me. But I have
sent you the ticket for good conduct, which I got to-day, and
you may call it your own. It will not be cheating, you know,
because you did behave very well at school, and then we shall
meet at Mrs. Cassy's to-morrow, which will be delightful; for
you know it is almost the last day that we can be together,
before I go away.

"Your affectionate friend,

"JULIA."

Julia, who was nearly two years older than Emily, had written this letter with much more ease than her friend could read it. She, at last, however, succeeded in deciphering it; and, after having made herself fully acquainted with its contents, she took the ticket which was enclosed in it, and putting it very carefully by, as deliberately put the letter into the fire. From that moment Emily's face began gradually to brighten, her voice became less husky, and though she did not jump and skip about as she was in the habit of doing, yet she ceased to stretch and yawn, and wish the evening was over; and her countenance, though more thoughtful than usual, was expressive only of composure and satisfaction. The return of her mamma, which she had sometimes wished for and sometimes dreaded, now appeared to have become of less importance to her, so that on finding, by her usual bed-time, that she was not yet come home, she went very contentedly to bed, and was soon wrapped in a sound sleep. Her first object, on waking in the morning, was to ascertain whether her mother was yet returned, but finding that she was not, she prepared to spend some more hours alone. Emily, however, though a very little girl was able not only to read, but to understand what she read; so that she could easily find amusement from the variety of little books with which her mamma had supplied her; and this made the morning pass over very comfortably, till about twelve o'clock, when she began to feel very anxious for her mother's return. It seemed a long time since she had seen her; she did not remember, ever in her life having been so long absent from her before, and she sighed and wondered when she would come. At length she heard some one open the front door, and come along the entry; and her little heart began to beat at the idea of meeting her mother. The door opened, but instead of her mamma, Julia entered, very prettily dressed, and evidently prepared for her visit.

"Why, Emily!" she exclaimed, as she came forward, "not dressed yet! I expected to find you ready to go."

"Go where?" asked the little girl.

"Why, to Mrs. Cassy's to be sure. Where else could I mean?"

"You know I am not going to Mrs. Cassy's."

"Why not? has your mamma found out that the ticket was mine?"

"I have not seen my mamma since yesterday morning. She has never been at home yet."

"Then why are you not going? You have no need to wait for her to give you leave to go, when you know she said you should go if you could bring her a ticket for good conduct, each day; and you can show her one when she comes home."

"Yes! but not one of my own."

"Yes! it is your own, for I have given it to you."

"But it is not gained by my own good behaviour."

"But you deserved to have one, for you never behaved better in school, in your life, than you did yesterday morning. You only lost your ticket for being a very few minutes too late, and therefore, it will not be cheating at all, to tell your mamma that you behaved well." Happily, however, for Emily, there had been so much pains taken to impress upon her mind, from her earliest dawn of thought, a nice distinction between truth and falsehood, that she was not to be deceived by this false reasoning of her friend, whose mind having been less carefully guarded, had adopted the error, so common with young people, that equivocation is not falsehood. Julia imagined that she would be as unwilling to tell an untruth as Emily herself could be, but she did not consider that a habit of equivocation is as obnoxious as falsehood itself, to that nice sense of honour, which can alone preserve the mind pure and untainted. She had not been taught, with sufficient care, to know, that, though she told a part of what was true, she was yet equally guilty of the crime of falsehood, as long as what she said was dictated by a wish to deceive. Emily, though so much younger, had, therefore, arrived at much greater maturity in the art of reasoning, and had imbibed, even at that early age, an ardent love of truth, and a keen contempt for the meanness of deceit; and she replied, in a quiet but steady voice: "Though I did behave well in school, I should still be cheating, if I made my mamma believe that I got a ticket for good behaviour, and that would take away all the pleasure of the visit;" and, as she spoke, she took the ticket from the place in which she had deposited it, with the intention of giving it to its right owner; but, whilst she held it in her hand, the parlour door opened, and Mrs. Osman entered the room. The moment Emily saw her mother, the recollection of her own fault rose to her mind, and checked the pleasure with which she would otherwise have welcomed her return, and the constraint of her manner was immediately observed by her watchful parent. "What is the matter, Emily, my dear?" asked she anxiously. "I see by the ticket in your hand, that you have succeeded in gaining your promised reward, and yet you do not appear to be in your usual spirits." Emily's countenance became still more agitated, whilst the colour of her face and neck, the skin of which readily told, by its varying hue, the different fluctuations of her feelings, proved that a severe conflict was passing within. To allow her mother to remain in the error of supposing the ticket to be her own, was impossible: yet how was she to explain the fact of its being Julia's, without exposing the fault of her friend? for she knew that her mamma's first question would be, "what had she to do with Julia's ticket?"

"What is the matter, my dear?" again asked the anxious mother, "is there any objection, which I am ignorant of, to your going to Mrs. Cassy's to-day?"

"Mamma, I have no right at all to go," replied Emily, almost trembling with agitation as she spoke.

"Why not? You got your ticket yesterday I see."

"No, mamma, I did not! This is not my ticket."

"What ticket is it then? for I have all your others." Emily was silent, and her agitation increased to a degree that was very painful to observe; but Julia, who possessed a mind, which, though some noxious weeds had been permitted to spring up in it, was yet adorned with the rich and beautiful flowers of generosity and affection, saw and understood her distress, and determined to relieve her even at the pain of exposing herself; and therefore said, "I will tell you, ma'am, all about it; for, although it was not very good in me, it was so very good in Emily, that I know you will reward her for it." She then related the circumstance of the ticket very simply, without attempting either to excuse or extenuate her own conduct, though she did full justice to the integrity and honourable behaviour of her friend. Whilst Julia was speaking, Emily watched her mother's countenance with an expression of great anxiety, and the moment she had ceased, she turned to her and said, in a timid and supplicating voice, "Mamma, do not be angry with Julia!"

"As Julia is now to be so short a time among us, Emily, I will take no further notice of her conduct, but will leave it to the animadversions of her own breast," replied Mrs. Osman, gravely.

"But you will let Emily go to Mrs. Cassy's," said Julia eagerly. "You will surely, Mrs. Osman, reward her for behaving so well."

"I hope, Julia, that though Emily is so young a child, she yet knows too well that it is her duty to be honest, to expect any other reward for being so, than that which she has already secured to herself."

"But it is so trifling a fault that she lost her ticket for," remonstrated Julia.

"It was indeed a trifle, and her having so very nearly succeeded this time, gives me hopes that she will be wholly successful the next time."

"O! yes, I am sure, ma'am, if you will let her go to-day she will be more careful the next time."

"I am of a different opinion, Julia," replied Mrs. Osman, smiling; "and believe that this lesson, which I now hope will be of service to Emily as long as she lives, would be lost entirely, were she not to suffer the punishment for her fault that she knows it deserves."

"But ought she not to be rewarded for being good too? and if she is not allowed to go she will have no reward at all."

"Oh! yes, I shall," interrupted Emily, who read, in her mother's countenance, the approbation which she felt of her conscientious conduct, "I shall have reward enough."

"Yes, Emily," replied her mother, "you will have the best of all rewards, a self-approving mind; and I should be sorry to weaken its effects by seeming to think that any further reward is necessary for your having done your duty." But Emily showed that she did not consider any thing more necessary to reward her for the part which she had acted, and she saw her friend go to pay her visit to Mrs. Cassy without a sigh; for though exceedingly sorry not to accompany her, she felt an inward consciousness of having acted properly, that made every thing appear cheerful and pleasant around her. The day passed delightfully, therefore, though no particular pains were taken to amuse her; for her mother was afraid, if she indulged in any extraordinary expressions of approbation, she might lead her little girl to imagine that she had performed some wonderful act of virtue, instead of having merely done her duty. What Emily had done, however, had been done purely because she knew it to be right, and not for the sake of admiration or reward. The approbation of her own conscience was all that she required; and, with such a companion, she felt no difficulty in spending a delightful Christmas day. Her voice, when she sung, had never, to her own ear at least, sounded so well; nor had her feet ever before fallen so lightly on the floor, as they did when she skipped about; and as to her little kitten, though it had brought her into trouble, it was now forgiven, and they ran about the room together, as if trying to show, by their light and sportive movements, how graceful and beautiful a thing is the union of childhood and innocence.

M. H.

THE LITTLE GIRL AND HER KITTEN.

Indeed ye are a happy pair,
Thyself and darling treasure--
With little heads unvexed by care,
And hearts brim full of pleasure.

Which spirit knows the least of grief,
'Tis very hard to say,--
The kitten jumping at a leaf,
Or she who joins the play.

Ye both are frisking, giddy things--
A play-ground earth before ye,
Where hours pass by with silken wings,
And fling no shadows o'er ye.

I wish it thus might always be,
My guileless little one:--
It makes me sad to look on thee,
And think what change may come.

Then freely pour thy young heart out,
And take thy fill of joy--
I love to hear thy merry shout,
And see thy blest employ.

THE KITTEN.]

THE QUILTING.

"Only think, Charlotte," said Marianne Glanvil, on entering the chamber where her sister was endeavouring to get through a warm afternoon in August, by lolling on the bed in a loose gown,--"Susan Davison has just been here with an invitation for us."

_Charlotte._--And pray, who is Susan Davison?

_Marianne._--The daughter of farmer Davison up the creek. We met her at Trenchard's the day we were obliged to drink tea there.

_Charlotte._--I wonder how you can remember their names, or theirselves either: I am sure I do not know one of these people from another, and I never wish to know.

_Marianne._--But this Susan Davison is really not so bad. She is diffident enough, to be sure, but is rather less awkward and uncouth than the generality of country girls.

_Charlotte._--To me they are all alike; I do not profess to understand the varieties of the species.

_Marianne._--Well, I was going to tell you, that after a sitting of half an hour, Susan Davison, as she rose to depart, uttered an invitation to her quilting to-morrow.

_Charlotte._--And what is a quilting?

_Marianne._--Now, I am sure you must have heard of quiltings. It is an assemblage of all the females in the neighbourhood, for the purpose of quilting, in one afternoon, a whole patch-work bed-cover.

_Charlotte._--I shall certainly not go. I never quilted any thing in my life, and I hate the sight of a patch-work bed-cover.

_Marianne._--But my father and mother were in the parlour, and promised at once that we should both go.

_Charlotte._--How vexatious! Was it not enough, after being educated at the most genteel boarding school in the city, and accustomed only to polished society, to be brought to live at this remote place, where my father has thought proper to purchase an iron-foundry, but we are required also to be civil to the country people, and interchange visits with them? I almost think my father intends being a candidate for the assembly next election, or he never would take the trouble to make himself agreeable to the farmers and their families.

_Marianne._--You know, he thinks it is always desirable to be popular with our neighbours.

_Charlotte._--That is what I shall never be, unless my neighbours are popular with me.

_Marianne._--Now, for my part, I like very well to astonish them by the elegance of my dress, and by my various accomplishments. I am going to put my lace sleeves in my new palmyrene frock, purposely to wear at this quilting.

_Charlotte._--It is well worth your while to take that trouble, when the worst dress you have is too good for such company. I shall do quite the contrary, to let them see how little I care for them.

_Marianne._--Then you will displease my father.

_Charlotte._--Is it necessary that he should know it? I am sure my mother will never tell him, and for her own part, she never opposes us in any thing. However, if I must be at this quilting, I shall take care to make the time as short as possible, for I will go late and come away early.

_Marianne._--Susan Davison said, she hoped we would be there by two o'clock, which I suppose will be the usual hour of assembling.

_Charlotte._--Two o'clock! Go to a party at two o'clock! Why the wild Indians could not be more uncouth on such an occasion!

_Marianne._--I doubt whether the wild Indians have any quiltings. But go we must, as my father and mother at once accepted the invitation for us.

_Charlotte._--How unlucky that they happened to be present!

* * * * *

The next day, between one and two o'clock, the Miss Glanvils saw numerous young girls ride by on horseback, on their way to Andrew Davison's which was about two miles from the iron works. "Now," remarked Marianne, "these poor girls must have hurried to get their dinners over before twelve, that they might have time to be drest and mounted by one o'clock."

"But why," asked Charlotte, "do they all wear striped linen skirts with silk bodies and sleeves?"

"Oh!" replied Marianne, "you surely know that those are their riding-skirts; a sort of petticoat made of thick homespun linen, which they tie on over the skirts of their silk frocks to keep them clean while riding."

"You seem to be well versed in all their ways," said Charlotte, contemptuously.

It was five o'clock, however, before the Miss Glanvils were ready to set out for the quilting, as Charlotte took her usual afternoon's nap, and Marianne occupied two hours in dressing; arraying herself in her straw-coloured palmyrene with lace sleeves, and ornamenting her hair (which was a mass of curls) with a profusion of yellow flowers and gauze ribbon. She put on all her jewels, and sewed her white kid gloves to her lace sleeves, which were confined at the wrists with three bracelets each. She had embroidered silk stockings, and white satin shoes, and threw over her shoulders a splendid scarf of various colours. This dress she had worn at a boarding school ball, shortly before the family removed into the country. Nothing could be a greater contrast than the appearance of the two sisters as they got into the carriage; for Charlotte persevered in going to the quilting in a pink gingham, her hair merely tucked behind her ears with two side combs.

Their mother slightly disapproved of both their dresses, but as soon as they were gone thought of something else.

In a short time the Miss Glanvils arrived at Andrew Davison's, and found the quilting going on in the vast stone barn, which had been put in order for the purpose. They were conducted to the barn by young Davison, the farmer's eldest son, who had assisted them out of the carriage, and were met at the entrance by Susan, who received them with much respect, as being the two greatest strangers of the party. The guests were all sitting round the quilting frame busily at work. They looked with some surprise at the two sisters so very differently habited, but no remark was made, even in a whisper.

Charlotte declined taking a chair at the frame, saying, she knew nothing about quilting, and seated herself in a most inconvenient place at the head of the quilt, very much in the way of a young girl that could not draw out her arm in consequence of the vicinity of Miss Glanvil, who saw that she incommoded her, but made no offer to move. Marianne, however, advanced to the frame, and dislodging three or four girls, who rose to make room for her and her immense frock, which was flounced far above her knees, she took out of her reticule an elegant little ivory work box, and laying down beside it a perfumed and embroidered cambric handkerchief, and a tortoise-shell fan, she most pompously set to work with her gloves on. She found this way of quilting very inconvenient, and as her gloves could only be taken off by ripping them from her sleeves, she begged, with an air of the most condescending affability, to be excused from the quilting; and then removed to a seat beside her sister. Charlotte threw herself back in her chair, and putting her feet on the bars of another, sat drumming with her fingers on the quilt and humming a French song.

The other guests, though they all had too much civility to stare as steadily as the Miss Glanvils expected, stole occasional glances of surprise and curiosity at the sisters; one so overdrest and affecting so much condescension, the other insulting them by coming in dishabille, and setting at defiance even the most common rules of politeness.

There sat at the quilt a very pretty young girl, with her dark hair curling on her temples in natural ringlets. She wore a white muslin frock, with a worked cape, and a broad pink ribbon on her neck, which was beautifully white. Her figure was very good, though rather plump than otherwise, and her cheeks had the bloom of roses. She seemed to be acquainted with all the company, and talked pleasantly and sensibly to every one, without any air of superiority, or any affectation of graciousness. She quilted assiduously and neatly, and assisted with great skill in the various operations of rolling, stretching, and pinning the quilt. The sisters did not distinguish and did not ask her surname, but they heard every one call her Fanny.

Shortly after the arrival of the Miss Glanvils, the two younger daughters of farmer Davison, on a signal from their sister Susan, went to a table which stood in a corner of the barn, and removing a cloth which had been lightly thrown over it, disclosed several large custards and three sorts of fruit pies, peach, plum, and apple. The pastry being already cut up, was very soon transferred to as many plates as there were guests, every plate containing a piece of custard and three slices of pie, one of each sort.

These plates were handed to the company on small waiters, by Jane and Mary Davison, while Susan remained near the quilt and invited her guests to eat; every one being expected to taste all the varieties on their plate. The Glanvils exchanged significant looks.

"Is it puff-paste?" said Charlotte, speaking for the first time, and touching a piece of pie with the point of her knife.

"I believe not," replied Susan, colouring, "none of our family understand making puff-paste; but I know mother did her best to have this as short and crisp as possible. Please to try some of it."

"I thank you," answered Charlotte, coldly, "I am very careful of my teeth, and I am afraid to risk their coming in contact with hard substances."

She commenced on a piece of the plum pie, but pointedly avoided the paste, eating out all the fruit, and conspicuously laying aside the crust. Marianne, however, found the pastry so palatable, that she could scarcely refrain from eating the whole that was on her plate, and she was not surprised to overhear the young girl they called Fanny, praising it to another who sat next to her.

The presence of the Miss Glanvils evidently threw a restraint on the whole company, except Fanny, who, to the great surprise of the sisters, appeared perfectly at her ease all the time, and not in the least awed by their superiority.

"Who can that girl be?" whispered Marianne to Charlotte.

"Some vulgar thing like the rest," answered Charlotte.

"I do not think her vulgar," said Marianne.

"I know no reason for supposing her otherwise," rejoined Charlotte. "You know the proverb, 'Birds of a feather flock together.' See how familiar she is with all of them. She knows every one of their names. She must have been born and brought up with them. By their talk she has been here since two o'clock."

About sunset the quilt was completed. The chalk-marks, and the clippings of thread, were then carefully brushed off; a dozen scissors were employed in ripping it from the frame, and two dozen hands afterwards spread it to the full size, and shook it till the lofty roof of the barn echoed the sound; which sound brought in near twenty young men who had been lingering about the barn-door for the last half hour, none of them having courage to venture within, except Susan Davison's two brothers. They were all clean shaved, and in their best clothes; some even had their hair curled, and the Miss Glanvils now found occasion to whisper and titter at the costume of the country beaux, particularly at their very fine waistcoats.

Soon after, one of the little girls came to announce that supper was ready, which intelligence was repeated by Susan to the Miss Glanvils; and her two brothers now came forward, each with a low bow, and offered their arms to conduct the young ladies to the house, as they had been previously tutored by their sister. The Miss Glanvils, however, took no notice of the offered arms, and the young men, much abashed, walked silently beside them. Fanny, escorted by the old farmer, who had accosted her at the barn-door with great cordiality, joined about midway in the procession, and they all walked to the house, where supper was set out in the largest room.

The table was of immense size, with at each end a waiter, containing an equipage for tea and coffee; Mrs. Davison presiding at one and Susan at the other. The centre ornament was a roast pig, flanked by dishes of stewed fowls, and the rest of the table was covered with plates of pound cake, gingerbread, short cakes, doughnuts, rusk, preserves, apple-sauce, fried ham, cream-cheese, and sage-cheese; there being always four plates of each particular article, that a share of all the various good things might be within the reach of every one at table. William and Thomas Davison, assisted by several others of the least bashful and most alert of the young men, stood behind the chairs with waiters in their hands, and helped the females; their father being the only man that took a seat at the table.

The Miss Glanvils sat together in solemn state; Marianne carefully employed in defending her finery from the expected inroads of the various things that were handed about in her neighbourhood; but very much inclined to eat heartily of many of the tempting viands that were before her, had she not been checked by the disapproving looks of her sister.

It was with difficulty that Charlotte consented to be helped to any thing, and uniformly after tasting it laid each article on the side of her plate, as if unfit to eat. After she had taken a sip of tea she drew back with a look of horror, and declaring it to be green tea, and that she would not drink a cup of it for the world, she pushed it away from her as far as possible.

She then requested some black tea, but unluckily there was none in the house; and Mrs. Davison, much disconcerted, apologized in great confusion, saying, that as black tea was not used in the neighbourhood, she did not believe there was any to be had at the store, or she would send and get some. She then asked if Miss Glanvil would take a cup of coffee, but Charlotte replied that though extravagantly fond of coffee in the morning, (always drinking three cups,) she could not possibly touch it at night.

"Did you never drink green tea?" asked the farmer. "Certainly," she replied in a disdainful tone, "I drank it always till black tea became fashionable."

"Then," said the farmer, smiling, "if you have been drinking it all your life till very lately, perhaps you might, if you were to try, make out once more to swallow a cup of it on a pinch, and be none the worse for it."

Charlotte looked much displeased, and sat back in her chair, obstinately determined not to touch the green tea. Of course all the Davison family felt and looked extremely uncomfortable, and they would have been glad when the Miss Glanvils finally rose from table, which they did shortly after, only that the rest of the company thought it necessary to follow their example, and the feast prepared with so much care and trouble was concluded in half the usual time. The female guests were conducted to an adjoining room, while the supper table was cleared away and then re-set exactly as before for the young men.

Singing being proposed, Fanny was invited "to favour them with a song." She consented at once, and inquired which of her songs they would have. The simple and beautiful Scotch air of the Bonnie Boat was named, and she sung it with a sweet clear voice and excellent taste, though no attempt at ornament. The Miss Glanvils exchanged glances and whispers.

The two young ladies were then respectfully requested to sing. Charlotte refused at once, declaring that it was impossible to sing without an instrument: but Marianne, eager to display her knowledge of fashionable music, complied readily, and gave "Una voce poco fa," with what she considered wonderful execution. As soon as she had finished, Charlotte perceiving that the company, though greatly amazed at first, had become much fatigued by this unseasonable exhibition of Italian singing, and that it had not given the least pleasure to any one, ill-naturedly proposed to her sister to try "Di piacer," which she also got through, to the great annoyance of the young men who had long before come in from the supper room, and who were certainly not of a class to relish such songs as are unintelligible to all but the initiated.

A black man now appeared with a fiddle, and took his seat in one of the windows; there was a reinforcement of beaux, and the Miss Glanvils found that a dance was to be the next amusement. Marianne remarked, in a group of young men that had just entered the room, one of remarkably genteel appearance and extremely handsome. "Charlotte," said she, "look at that young gentleman in black, talking to Tom Davison."

"I see no _gentleman_ in the room," replied Charlotte, "and I do not know Tom Davison from the other clowns."

"Oh! but this, I am certain, is really a gentleman," said Marianne, "I wish he would ask me to dance."

"What!" exclaimed Charlotte, "would you actually join in a dance with these people? Could you stand up with them and give them your hand? And above all things, would you make one in a _country-dance_, for of course they know nothing about cotillions?"

"Yes I would," answered Marianne, "with such a partner as that young gentleman in black. And then, when they see _my_ French steps, how ashamed they will be of their own shuffling and prancing."

Just then, Tom Davison, observing Marianne's eyes fixed with evident approbation on the stranger in black, brought him up and introduced him to her as Captain Selman; and on his requesting the pleasure of dancing with her, she immediately consented with great satisfaction. Tom Davison then, with a low bow and a look of much embarrassment, ventured to make the same request of Charlotte, who refused with an air of such unequivocal contempt, that the youth determined in his own mind to leave her to herself for the remainder of the evening.

The musician made three scrapes on his fiddle as a signal for every one to take their places. "Of course," said Marianne, "we go to the top," and Captain Selman led her to the head of the country dance that was forming, while she lamented to him the sad necessity of being obliged to join in such a dance, saying that she must depend on him to give her some idea of the figure; and adding that he would find her an apt scholar, as she was always considered very quick at learning every thing.

The musician gave a loud stamp with his foot, and then struck up New-Jersey; but observing that Charlotte stopped her ears in horror, Marianne begged of her partner to go and ask the man if he could not play something less barbarous. The man replied that New-Jersey was the dancing tune he was most used to, but that he could play the Morning Star and Fisher's Hornpipe quite as well. Marianne said that she had heard her mother speak of dancing these things when she was a girl, and therefore she was sure they must be abominable.

At last, after much sending of Captain Selman backwards and forwards, and proposing tunes which she knew the poor fiddler had never even heard of, it was ascertained that he thought he could play "The Campbells are coming," having _catched_ it, as he said, the last time he was in town.

Captain Selman undertook to instruct the company in the figure, which he did with great good humour, and they actually learnt it with a quickness that surprised Marianne. She went down the dance exhibiting all her most difficult steps, and affecting a wonderful gracefulness in every motion. However, when she got to the bottom, suspecting that this display had not excited quite as much admiration as she had expected, she professed great fatigue, and threw herself into a chair, declaring she could not dance another step; and knowing that in consequence Captain Selman could do no less than stand by and converse with her till the set was over.

"I do not see Susan Davison dancing," said Marianne, "she has been sitting all the time beside my sister. She is rather a pretty girl; I wonder none of the young men have taken her out."

"I made my bow to her soon after I came in," replied the Captain, "but she declines dancing this evening, alleging that, being in her own house, she is unwilling to take a place that might be occupied by one of her friends."

"I suppose," said Marianne, abruptly, "your next partner will be the young person they call Fanny, as she is certainly rather well-looking. There she is, about the middle of the dance, with a broad pink ribbon round her neck. Indeed, though my sister is of a contrary opinion, I should be almost inclined to think this Fanny something of a lady, only that she is so sociable with these people. To be sure, I have tried myself to be affable this evening, but I find it such an irksome task that I believe it will be my last attempt. Now it seems quite natural to this said Fanny, which proves, as my sister Charlotte says, that she is in reality no better than the rest. We think she must be the daughter of one of these country store-keepers, and that she has now and then had the benefit of a fortnight's polishing in the city, while her father was buying his spring goods."

Captain Selman smiled, and was going to reply, when Charlotte joined them, saying in a most peevish voice, "Marianne, do you intend staying here all night? If you do, you must stay by yourself. I have just heard our carriage drive up, for I charged William to come for us early, and I am dying to get away."

Marianne, who would willingly have stayed longer, was about to remonstrate, but finding that the Captain had escaped from her side, she felt less reluctant to go. Charlotte made her exit without ceremony, but Marianne purposely loitered till the dance was over, that she might make her departure the more conspicuous, and produce a great effect by her elegant manner of taking leave. She then walked up to Mrs. Davison, and overwhelming the good woman with curtseyings, bowings, compliments and flourishes, she left the room, accompanied by Susan, to the chamber in which their shawls and calashes had been deposited.

They were put into the carriage by Tom Davison, as his last effort of civility. And it was resolved next day by the family in council, that the Miss Glanvils should on no future occasion be invited; for, as Mrs. Davison remarked, they held their heads quite too high, and their airs were unbearable.

As they drove home, Charlotte, in the most unqualified terms, expressed her disgust at the quilting-party, and every thing connected with it. Marianne acknowledged that the whole concern, as she called it, was very ungenteel, but still not quite so bad as she had expected. She said that in her opinion Captain Selman would be presentable even in good society, and expressed her surprise at finding an officer at a quilting.

"Pho," said Charlotte, "he is only a militia captain, of course."

"No," replied Marianne, "I am very sure he is no such thing. If he were a militia officer, he would undoubtedly have come to the party in full uniform, booted and spurred, with epaulette, and chapeau and feather, his sword at his side, and his sash spread out over his body as broad as possible, and pinned up in a peak before and behind, as I have heard my mother describe their costume. No, no; this officer is in the regular army, and from something he said, I know he was educated at West Point."

"Well," said Charlotte, "I doubt his being a man of fashion after all. I observed him, after he left you, speaking familiarly to that Fanny as if they were well acquainted. However, he did not seem to ask her to dance, but he paid that compliment to one that sat near the door, a poor bashful-looking girl, the worst dressed and least attractive in the room."