Chapter VI: Part 6

Olive obeyed like a child. She was, indeed, utterly worn out and exhausted. Augusta sat down beside her, and read in her soft voice, selections from Scripture. In a few minutes, Olive's sobs grew less frequent, her eyes closed, and her friend had the satisfaction of seeing her in a deep sleep, from which she arose composed and refreshed.

CHAPTER NINTH.

OLIVE'S heart sank as she approached home the next evening, and thought of the reception she was likely to meet with, and how sad it would be without Abby.

Mr. Merton had been very kind all day, but he had said little, and not one word about the matter that was clearly occupying both their thoughts. She dared not speak herself, for he had positively forbidden her to renew the subject till they reached home. She knew how Mrs. Merton would feel, very well. Not only her affections (and Abby had always been very dear to her) were wounded, but also her pride, and that in the tenderest point. Aunt Rebecca had very particular notions upon the subject of the education of young ladies. Her ideas of propriety were very strict, and she was often shocked by the freedoms indulged in by some of the young ladies in town. She prided herself upon the care with which her daughters and nieces had been educated, and more than one young girl, who had been secretly indignant at seeing Olive and Abby held up to them as models, would triumph greatly over this result of the boasted system.

As they rode up from the depot, Olive leaned back in the carriage, and shut her eyes, while her soul poured itself out in an earnest prayer for strength and patience.

"Be calm, Olive. You shall be cleared from suspicion," said her uncle, as he assisted her to alight.

Mrs. Merton stood at the door, and received her husband warmly, as did Charlotte, but neither of them took the least notice of Olive, till they entered the drawing-room, when Mrs. Merton said, in her most freezing tones:

"Your room is prepared, Miss McHenry. Perhaps you will have the goodness to retire to it at once."

Olive did not move from the attitude in which she had drawn herself up, but she turned her eyes to her uncle. He did not speak.

"Before I sit down in this house, Mrs. Merton," she returned, in tones as calm, though not so cold as her own, "I must demand to be freed from the unjust suspicion to which I have been subjected. My uncle, I believe, is convinced of my innocence. If he chooses to justify me, I shall be glad. If not, I shall be obliged to seek some other shelter for the night."

Charlotte's eyes flashed fire. Mrs. Merton turned to her husband.

"I fully believe Olive to be innocent," said Mr. Merton, with emphasis. "She has convinced me that though she knew of Mr. Forester's engagement, it was only the night before she left home that she was informed, and nothing but indecision respecting the best course of action prevented her from informing me immediately. I think she mistook her duty, but I fully believe that she acted from the best motives."

"I am very glad to hear you say so," replied Mrs. Merton, unbending at once. "Olive, I am sorry you met with such a cold reception, but you must remember that we have had great provocation. Let me untie your bonnet," she added, kissing her kindly; "it is a sad coming home foe you, my poor child, when we had hoped to be so happy together."

Olive struggled to repress her tears, and succeeded in doing so till she found herself alone in her own room—Abby's room. It was just as she had left it. The last book she had been reading was turned down upon the open writing-desk, and Abby's personal property was strewed about the room in the picturesque confusion usual with her, when she had no one to pick up after her. The key was in her trinket-box, and on opening it, Olive perceived that she had left all her ornaments. Nothing was missing from the room but the old Bible and prayer-book, her mother's gifts. Olive wondered how she could have the heart to take them.

The bitterness of her grief returned with ten-fold violence, and when Mrs. Merton herself came up to look after her, she was so alarmed at the state in which she found her usually composed and undemonstrative niece that she sent her to bed at once, administered ether and other restoratives, and sat by her till she fell asleep.

At breakfast next morning, Olive was treated just as usual by her uncle and aunt, but Charlotte did not relax in her stiffness at all. She treated Olive with ceremonious politeness, but exchanged no more words with her than were exacted by the courtesies of the table. Olive felt the coldness very much, for she had unconsciously relied a good deal upon Charlotte's sympathy and friendship.

The meal passed almost in silence, no one seeming inclined to talk. As they were about rising from table, a servant brought in the letters and papers: there were two letters for Olive, and her heart beat fast as she recognized on one of them Abby's well-known handwriting.

Mr. Merton saw it, too. "Where is she?" he asked, when he saw that Olive had finished reading it.

"She is at M.," replied Olive, handing him the letter, but he repelled her hand.

"That is all. You will please to pack up all her personal property, and I will see that it is forwarded, and then I require that all intercourse with her on the part of this family shall cease."

"Do you mean that prohibition to apply to me, uncle?" asked Olive.

"Certainly."

"I can not consent to it, sir," she replied, respectfully but firmly. "I can not promise to cease all intercourse with my poor Abby. That she has done wrong I do not deny, but I love her none the less, and I can never forget that she is my sister. She will need friends now more than ever, and I certainly shall not desert her."

"Olive McHenry, you greatly forget yourself," said Mr. Merton sternly. "Do you know to whom you are speaking?"

"Hardly," replied Olive, almost involuntarily. "You are so unlike yourself that I might well be excused for forgetting it. But what if Abby has sinned?" she went on, rather surprised at her own courage. "What are we, that we should be unforgiving? Have we no need of mercy ourselves? No, I can never consent to give up my sister, till she gives me up. And then, she is such a child—so young in years, and so much younger in mind. It seems but yesterday that she was playing with her dolls, sitting on the floor by your side, uncle! Do you remember the first night you came to our house—the night after mother died, and how you found Abby lying on the bed by her, and could not coax her away, till you came and took her, and she cried herself to sleep in your arms? It seems such a very little while ago!"

"We will let the subject drop for a little, I think," said Mrs. Merton, rising. "You will have a good deal to do this morning. Have a little patience, my dear," she continued, when Mr. Merton had left the room. "Your uncle is deeply wounded, and feels as I do, that we ought to show our disapprobation of Abby's course, but I don't think he will apply that to you."

"Especially as Miss McHenry was in the secret from the beginning," said Charlotte, "and quite as much to blame as the poor child herself."

Mrs. Merton was leaving the room, and did not hear Charlotte's remark. "You are determined to suspect me, Charlotte," said Olive.

"I know you, Olive McHenry, as I knew you in school. You blinded me for a little time with your well-acted candor and friendliness, but my eyes are opened. I am sorry they are, for I thought I was going to have an intimate friend, for once in my life."

"You think—" Olive began.

"I know," said Charlotte, interrupting her, "that Abby, simple child that she is, would never have been able to carry on such a system of deception, unless some one had supported her in it. You thought, no doubt, that it would be a very nice thing for you to be my father's favorite niece, and to have one less to share the property and you imagined that an elopement would be a good way to get rid of Abby, and illustrate your own virtues. You may find yourself mistaken, as deep as you think yourself."

"I shall not reply to your insinuations, Charlotte," returned Olive. "They are too foolish and unreasonable to merit an answer. You yourself promised to watch over Abby while I was gone: how you have fulfilled that trust you yourself best know. But there is no use in talking. I thought you had outgrown your childish jealousy, but it seems not."

With these words, she left the room and went up-stairs, where she occupied herself in looking over Abby's clothes, to see if they needed any putting in order. Among them she found all the letters which she had written during the winter, and she was wondering at Abby's leaving them behind, when Charlotte entered, with her hands full of books.

"These are Abby's," she said, shortly.

"Thank you," Olive quietly replied; "please to lay them on the table."

Charlotte lingered a little, looking over the books. After a moment, she said, in the same abrupt way, "Can I help you?"

"No, thank you," replied Olive, surprised at the offer.

But Charlotte did not go; she seemed looking for something.

"Charlotte," said Olive, after a short struggle with her pride, "would you rather believe me innocent or guilty?"

"Innocent, if I could," was the reply.

"Here are all the letters I have written to Abby since I left home. If you wish, you can look them over, and satisfy yourself. I do not ask you to, but you can if you choose."

She laid the package down by her cousin, and busied herself with the drawers. But, glancing in the mirror a few minutes afterwards, she saw that Charlotte was deeply engaged in their perusal. Neither of them spoke for almost an hour. Then Charlotte said, laying down the last letter:

"Olive, you are innocent. I have done you great injustice, and I ask your pardon."

"It is granted," said Olive, taking the offered hand, and kissing her.

"What do you mean to do about corresponding with her?" asked Charlotte.

"What would you do yourself in such a case?"

"I am afraid I should be too angry with her to care much about it," replied Charlotte. "If my sister had acted as Abby has, I should never forgive her."

"Then you would make up your mind not to be forgiven yourself, I suppose?"

"What do you mean?"

"'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive your trespasses,'" Olive repeated. "Which of us can afford to cherish anger upon such conditions?"

"I never understand that sort of talk," said Charlotte; "it all sounds cant alike to me."

"Just because you don't understand it. If should call your pleasure in geology cant, you would consider that rather a narrow-minded view, I think."

"We won't dispute it now," returned Charlotte. "Don't some of these clothes need repairing? Abby's things generally do. Let me put the stockings in order."

Olive consented, and they busied themselves together all the morning. They were just about concluding their labors, when a light step came up-stairs, and Laura entered. She seemed quite subdued, and wept bitterly as she embraced her sister. Charlotte left the room.

"I have not been here before since she went," said Laura, after a little; "isn't it shameful?"

Olive assented silently.

"It seems almost worse than if she were dead," she continued. "To think she will be so near, and yet we can never see her, or even write to her."

"Don't you mean to write to her, Laura?" asked Olive.

"I can't. Aunt Dimsden declares I shall have nothing to do with her from this time. She says, if Abby were at the door, and it stormed ever so hard, she would not let her in."

"She ought to be ashamed of herself then," said Olive, indignantly. "Her own marriage was not so very proper, from all I have heard, that she need be the first to throw stones at poor Abby."

"That is the very reason, child! Don't you know that people who have done any thing questionable in that line themselves, are just the ones who think it necessary to be ferociously proper ever afterwards?"

"She may be as proper as she pleases, but I am not going to desert the poor child for any of them," said Olive. "I have told uncle that I mean to write to her, and moreover I shall stop a day in M. when I go back, on purpose to see her."

"But they say—at least aunt Dimsden says that Abby has done so very wrong that she ought to be made an example of."

"I don't deny that she has done wrong: nobody feels it more than I do, and I do not think she ought to be treated as though she had not. But I do say, that it is quite too much, to require us, her sisters, to give her up, and so leave her to go more and more wrong."

"You are independent, Olive, and can do as you please," said Laura, sighing. "I wish I was."

"You can be, in the same way that I am."

"Oh! No. I never could make up my mind to teach school, or to work for a living. I could not consent to any thing which would lower my social position."

"Why, Laura, I never was of so much consequence in my life, as I have been since I went to Basswoods."

"Yes, in such a little country place as that, but not among stylish people."

"But you used to be very contented, Laura: you thought no one was as happy as yourself."

"Aunt Dimsden is not so kind as she was," said Laura. "She is very cross sometimes, and when she is vexed, or mortified, she bestows all her ill-temper upon me. She has been very angry with me, for presuming to refuse an offer without consulting her—some body that lives not a hundred miles from Berkley Square, you know."

"But, Laura—!"

"Oh! Yes, I know all you would say—that he is dissipated, and a fool besides, but you know they are rich and very fashionable, and his sisters paid me a great deal of attention. I think all the family were anxious for the match, but he was quite too bad. I suppose I am bound to make a rich marriage at last—indeed, it is the only way I see to escape from dependence, but this one was rather too much, and I dismissed him somewhat suddenly. They were all very angry, and aunt thinks I am almost as bad as Abby. She told me she expected I would go the same way, and it will not be for want of sufficient provocation if I don't."

"But you would not marry for money alone, would you?"

"Not perhaps for money alone; I would not marry a really bad, vulgar man, if he was ever so rich. But if he had position, and style, and so on, as well as money. I don't believe in all that silly, sentimental nonsense of love, and all that, it only makes fools of people, just as it has of Abby."

"But it is not absolutely necessary to marry at all," said Olive.

"I do not agree with you there, sister mine. I think it is necessary, if a woman wants to be any body that she should marry, unless she retires into a nunnery or something. I hope you don't mean to be an old maid, Olive."

"I think it most likely I shall," said Olive, sighing in spite of herself, "but I hope to be some body nevertheless. Will you let me come and stay with you, when I grow too old to work any longer?"

"Of course," said Laura, "if I have any home myself. But now tell me what you intend to do about Abby? Do you really mean to write to her?"

"I really do. I would obey uncle in almost any thing else, but in this I must follow my own conscience and my own feelings."

"You can afford it," said Laura, "because you are independent, but I dare not. Aunt has been very angry on account of the refusal, and she says, if I do not mind what she says about this, she will leave me to take care of myself. But if you write, give my love to Abby, and tell her I would write too if I could—and send her these ear-rings; Maria Lewis gave them to me, but I do not care any thing about them, and aunt has never seen them. I have no money to buy her any thing new, and I wanted to send her something.

"Did I tell you that aunt Dimsden is coming over to spend the afternoon? I believe in my heart, she is glad of Abby's marriage, and the triumph over aunt Rebecca, till I am ready to stone her. You know I never was very fond of aunt Rebecca myself, but I am sorry for her, and I think aunt Dimsden ought to be ashamed of herself. I can tell you, Olive, you think I am so well off—"

"I never thought so, Laura," interrupted Olive. "I would rather go out as a seamstress than live as you do."

"Well, every one else thinks so, at any rate, but I am sometimes tempted to say I will marry the first presentable man that comes along, to escape from it."

"Do give up that idea of marrying for money, Laura! I can not bear to think of it. You will repent as surely as you do."

"Well, I don't know," said Laura, lightly. "If you marry for money, you are pretty sure of getting it, at any rate, and if you marry for love, you may be deceived, you know. Now, if you have finished your packing, do dress, and come down-stairs. I dare not face them all alone."

"I am sure, Laura, uncle would not be angry at you for refusing Sam Lewis. You know there is nothing he detests like an idle, frivolous young man."

"I don't believe he knows any thing about that," returned Laura, "but I am always afraid of him."

After luncheon, Laura sat down to a handkerchief she was embroidering, and Olive to write.

She had almost forgotten Augusta's letter, till she saw it in her desk. It was just like Augusta herself, and Olive felt refreshed and comforted by it. Among other news of the place, she said:

"Jenny Vander Heyden is better, and the sickness is abating. Mr. Landon is going away, and he told me he meant to go and see you before his return."

Olive's heart beat somewhat faster at the thought, and she almost wished Augusta had not told her. After twice reading the letter, she put it carefully away, and began writing to Abby. She sighed, as she thought of the unsatisfactory intelligence she had to convey, but there was no help for it, at least at present. As Mr. Merton said, she had taken her own course, and she would have to abide by it.

She was just finishing, when Mrs. Dimsden came in. Olive greeted her as warmly as she could, and then asked to be excused, as she was anxious to close her letter in time for the post. As she placed it in the vase appropriated for the purpose, Mrs. Dimsden unceremoniously took it out of her hand, and read the direction: "Mrs. William Forester, Eagle Hotel, M."

"So you have been writing to Abby, have you?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Olive, coolly.

"I have forbidden Laura to do any thing of the kind," said Mrs. Dimsden, drawing herself up: "I will not allow any young person in my family to have any intercourse with a girl who has no more sense of propriety than Abby. I have never thought it necessary to make as much fuss as some people," with a glance at aunt Rebecca, "but I do think my girls generally turn out well."

Mrs. Merton had a way of looking at a forward or impertinent person, as though he or she were a superfluous chair, or an intruding cat, which she sometimes brought to bear upon her sister-in-law with great effect.

She was silenced for a moment, and replaced the letter.

At this moment, Charlotte entered, and looked into the vase as she passed.

"Charlotte," said her mother, "have I not often told you that it was very rude to look at the direction of another person's letter?"

Now Charlotte knew very well that this reproof was not in the least intended for her; she took it very coolly, and sat down by Laura to admire her work.

Mrs. Dimsden colored furiously. "Perhaps, if you had kept a more careful watch over your young ladies' letters, sister Merton, some things might not have happened that have happened. I know my mother always looked out for me."

"Was that the reason you never did any thing improper when you were young, aunt Dimsden?" asked Charlotte carelessly.

It was a home-thrust, for Miss Ashly had been considered rather an eccentric young lady, and there were some circumstances in her career, and in the way she became Mrs. Dimsden, which were more curious than edifying. That lady did not like to provoke a contest with Charlotte, who was not in the least afraid of her, and by superior coolness usually came off conqueror. She turned her head, and murmured something about impertinence, but did not venture upon a retort.

Mrs. Merton conversed as politely as possible with every one in the parlor, and was especially gracious to Olive.

Charlotte, very contrary to her usual custom, devoted herself to Laura, with whom she very seldom condescended to talk when she could help it. Laura was very low-spirited, and hardly said a word, though she seemed grateful to Charlotte for her kindness, and clung to Olive in a way very uncommon with her. Mrs. Dimsden contradicted her at every word she said, and seemed out of all patience with her.

When Mr. Merton came in to tea, he looked into the vase as usual, and took out the two or three letters it contained.

"Your letter is over weight, Olive," he said, balancing it on his finger: "you must add another stamp."

He smiled kindly as he handed it to her, and she received it with a glad heart, rightly judging that it was a tacit concession of the point.

"Thank you, uncle," she said in a voice too low to be heard by Mrs. Dimsden, who was anxiously watching the scene, in the pleasing anticipation of an explosion.

He smiled again, and walked away, putting the letter in his pocket.

But Charlotte had not finished yet. She was, as we know, not at all an amiable young lady, and she was extremely jealous of any affront offered to her mother. She felt that her debt to Mrs. Dimsden was not quite discharged.

"Papa," said she, "do you know Sam Lewis?"

"Yes, I know him. Why?"

"What is he like?"

"Like a fool!" replied Mr. Merton, who was not particularly well disposed toward idle young men just then.

"A great many young men are that," said, Charlotte sententiously. "Is that all there is remarkable about him?"

"No," said Mr. Merton: "he is remarkably idle, remarkably dissipated, and a remarkable torment to every one who ever tried to do any thing with him."

"That seems a pity," remarked Olive. "They used to be quite nice people, especially Mrs. Lewis. I liked her very much."

"They were nice people. It is the ambition to be fine and fashionable that has spoiled them—that is, the younger part of them, for Mrs. Lewis is just as gentle and pleasant as ever. I often feel sorry for her, when I see how unceremoniously she is treated by her children. I tried, for his father's sake, to do something with Sam, but it was useless. He has not even sense enough to be governed. I heard the other day that he was going to be married, but I hope it is not true. I should be sorry to think that any girl could throw herself away upon such an apology for a man."

Charlotte's triumph was now complete, but she had too much sense to parade it openly. And for the rest of the evening, she was as polite to her victim as Mrs. Merton herself.

"How could you have the heart to annoy aunt Dimsden so?" said Olive, half-reprovingly, half-laughing, as they went up-stairs together, after the guests had departed. "You are downright revengeful."

"If Mrs. Dimsden annoys my mother when I am by, she may make up her mind to be paid in her own coin," replied Charlotte. "Besides, I felt sorry for Laura, who I saw was very uncomfortable. I really pity the poor girl."

"I feel very anxious about Laura," said Olive, sighing; "she is, as you say, very uncomfortable, and she does not seem to have any thing to sustain herself upon. I am afraid she is acting upon a wrong principle."

"How do you mean?"

"She thinks she must certainly marry some body, in order to be independent and have a position in the world, and that is all she lives for. She has, or seems to have, no idea of any higher motive in life, nor has aunt Dimsden for her that I can see. Think of her wanting Laura to marry Sam Lewis!"

"Did not my father give him a charming character?"

"I hope she will be satisfied, and not torment Laura any more about him," said Olive. "But what is the child to do? Either aunt Dimsden is angry with her about something, or else she is getting tired of taking care of her—perhaps both. Laura feels as uneasy as possible under her state of dependence, and yet she has a fixed idea that it would be a terrible degradation for her to do any thing towards supporting herself; and she feels as though a certain amount of luxury and a certain position were absolutely necessary to existence. Only look at all this and think what a temptation it places in her way, to marry the first tolerably respectable man with a large fortune who presents himself, and you will understand why I am so full of trouble about her."

"But does Laura think you have degraded yourself?" asked Charlotte.

"Aunt Dimsden does, I know," replied Olive. "As for Laura, I think she considers me an exception to all general rules, a sort of oddity. She went so far to-day, as to say she envied me."

"I am sure I do," said Charlotte, sighing; "not that I am not perfectly well off at home, and as happy as those around me can make so perverse a person as I am, but I never can feel as though I was working to any purpose."

"I am sure your Greek and drawing come on nicely," said Olive. "I never saw any one improve so much as you have. If you were a pupil of mine, I should be proud of you. That copy of your father's portrait is beautiful. I wish you would give it to me, to take back to Basswoods."

"I meant it for you, as well as one I begun of my mother, and I am very glad you like them. But Olive, I am not contented with the acquisition of knowledge merely for the sake of knowledge. I want to do something with it. In short," said she, smiling rather bitterly, "I am, without any particular reason for it, about as discontented as any body can be. I wish some one would tell me what I want."

"I think I can tell you," said Olive, "but I rather doubt whether you will believe me."

"May I come and sleep with you?" asked Charlotte.

"I shall be glad to have you," replied Olive, "if you will let me do just as I would if I were alone."

"Of course," said Charlotte, "we will each take our own way."

Charlotte occupied herself with a book, while Olive went through with her usual reading and prayers. She had herself given up even the semblance of prayer, ever since she left the nursery.

"Now Olive," said she, as they were curling their hair afterwards, "tell me what I want."

"I think you want the two sacraments, as Mr. Gregory says—the baptism of duty and the communion of love. Are you as much in the dark as ever?"

"No; I think I partly understand you, but please explain."

"First, then, you want to do every single thing because it is right do it. This rule applies to all actions, great as well as small. Moreover, you need to have such a love to God, and such a desire to promote his glory that you will do every thing that is right because it is pleasing to him, and avoid every thing that is wrong for the same reason. Are not these two motives which cover all things?"

"Perhaps so, if one could understand them. I confess I can not. I do not know what you mean by love to God. Can you tell me, for I suppose you think you love him?"

"I know I do."

"What sort of a feeling is it?"

"It is the same feeling that we have toward our best earthly friends, though as much higher and purer in its character, and greater in its degree, as the object is greater and purer. There is no selfishness mixed with it, and no distrust, since the object is absolutely perfect in goodness and truth. If there is happiness in loving a fallible mortal, who may change or die at any time, must there not be much more in loving and being loved by one in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning, and who has the will and the power to order all things as is best for us?"

"I can not understand such a love for God. He is too far off."

"He is not far off. His name is Emmanuel—God with us!"

"I have no feeling towards the Supreme Being," said Charlotte, after a little pause, "except one of terror when I think how helpless we are—bond slaves in his hands."

"If you loved and trusted him, you would find pleasure instead of terror in the idea that your destinies were in the hands of one who could do no injustice and no wrong. Then every thing you did would be sanctified by the thought that you were doing it for him, since he is served by every one of our duties, whatever it is. I know you always take pleasure in working for people. I never saw you so happy, as when you were straightening and going over those long accounts for your father, when I was at home before. If in addition, you had had in your mind the thought of pleasing your Father in heaven, you would have been still happier."

"But, Olive, do you not think there is danger of losing one's reverence for the Supreme by thus mixing him up with all the common and daily concerns of life?"

"If there is," replied Olive, "we are not answerable for it, since he himself says that not a sparrow falls to the ground without him, and that whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, we must do all to the glory of God."

"And does this feeling really comfort you, Olive, when you are in trouble? I have heard people talk about religious consolations, but I always took it all for cant."

"Take care," said Olive, "that in dreading and avoiding cant, you do not fall into it yourself, and that of the worst kind—that of condemning as cant all that you do not understand. Yes, I have found, more than ever before, the great comfort of having such a trust and confidence in God, as I have described. But for that, I do not believe I could have lived through this last week. It is all that gives me any hope about Abby. She has been so well taught, and the child of so many prayers, that I can not but think she will come right at last."

"I wish I felt so," said Charlotte sighing, "but I can not, and I do not know how to attain to it."

"Prayer and repentance are the only ways I know," replied Olive. "The bitter comes before the sweet; and the godly sorrow that worketh repentance must precede the love of Christ which passeth knowledge. We must repent in sackcloth and ashes, before we can rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory. Do try, Charlotte—I know you will be so much happier, not only here but hereafter."

"I will make no promises," said Charlotte, "but I will think of what you have said, and I am very much obliged to you for speaking so freely, and not being shocked at me. You do not know how miserable I was at the thought that I had been deceived in you after all. If you did, you would not wonder that I was so savage when you first came home."

CHAPTER TENTH.

ALREADY half the time allotted to Olive's vacation had passed, and she was beginning to think with mingled pain and pleasure of a speedy return to Basswoods, and her duties there. She knew that she was sure of a very warm welcome, not only from Ruth and Augusta, but also from her pupils, who were almost all very much attached to her. She liked the place and the people; perhaps too, she enjoyed the idea of being a person of a good deal of consequence; she liked the quiet and regular employment, and there was a great pleasure in witnessing the gradual improvement of the girls under her charge, not only in book-learning, but also in manners and in those minor morals which affect so much the comfort of our daily lives.

Sadly as the matter had resulted, she felt as though a mountain's weight was removed from her mind in getting rid of her secret, and she could not help whispering to herself that the marriage might after all turn out better than they feared—that William might settle down, now that he had the responsibility of a wife upon his hands, and become an industrious man, after all. She intuitively felt that this consolation would not bear much examination, but it comforted her for the time.

She had rather reluctantly given up her plan of stopping in M. to make Abby a visit, at Mr. Merton's urgent advice.

"You had better defer your visit, at least till your return, Olive," he said, when she mentioned her desire to him. "Abby will be in no state to bear reason just now. She has not had time to find out her mistake yet. Moreover, I do not believe you will be very welcome—at least to Mr. Forester. He will not be likely to forgive your plain speaking to him and to Abby, and especially your bringing him out in a downright falsehood. Abby is altogether under his influence, and sees through his eyes. I shall not forbid your going, but if you will be advised by one who has seen much more of the world than you have, you will defer your visit for the present."

So Olive wrote to her sister to say she was not coming, and had the mortification to perceive by the tone of Abby's next letter that it was a great relief to her. For the first time, Mr. Merton asked to see the letter.

"You see I was right," said he, briefly, as he handed it back to her, "but do not be grieved, my dear. The time will come when Abby will be glad enough to have you with her."

Of Laura, Olive saw very little. Aunt Dimsden had never encouraged their intimacy to any great degree, and she now told Olive plainly that she filled Laura's head with notions very unfit for a girl in her circumstances. "Your romantic ideas of disinterestedness and independence sound very well, but let me tell you, you will find out their fallacy when it is too late."

"When will that be, aunt?" asked Olive.

"When you see Miss Dimsden at the head of society, mistress of a fine establishment, and surrounded with every luxury, while Miss McHenry is still a drudging school-mistress, and a faded old maid, or at best, the wife of some country parson, obliged to struggle the year round to make both ends meet, and darning her children's ragged stockings, while her sister is spending her hundreds a day."

"I don't think I shall ever marry a minister," said Olive, "though I know some ministers' wives who are very happy people."

"Well, a school-master, then—perhaps the other teacher in the academy."

Olive gave way to incessant laughter at the idea of exchanging her maiden name for the style and title of Mrs. Simon Prendergrass. "I might do worse," she said, endeavoring to compose her risibles. "Mr. Prendergrass is a very nice man, and has quite a good little property, only he invests it all in books that nobody can read but himself."

"You had better set your cap for him," was the elegant reply. "I don't believe you will ever do any better. But be that as it may, I will not have you filling Laura's head with romantic notions. I have brought her up, and I have the best right to her, and I will agree to give up," ("what" she did not state,) "if she does not turn out better than any of you. As for Charlotte, she is an impertinent little hussy. I only wish I had her. I'd bring down her spirits, I'll engage."

True to her word, Mrs. Dimsden contrived to keep the sisters apart, and Olive hardly saw any thing of Laura, except in presence of others. Even when they were together, she could not help feeling very painfully how very little they had in common. Charlotte was much more of a companion for her, for though, as we have seen, almost entirely irreligious, she was not frivolous, and she utterly despised that dependence for happiness upon fashion and position in which poor Laura had been educated.

Mrs. Merton was, perhaps, almost as worldly as Mrs. Dimsden, but it showed itself in a different way. Having been for many years at the head of society, in the place where she resided, and needing no struggle to maintain her position, she was quite too firm to care much about being fashionable. She gave parties when and how she pleased, and was always sure of as many people as she chose to invite. She was not at all afraid to dress as she liked, or to say that she could not afford this or that, nor was she ashamed of having her carriage seen standing in an unfashionable street, at the doors of unfashionable people. Regarded in a religious point of view, her worldliness was, perhaps, no better than that of her sister-in-law, but it must be admitted that it was less destructive to every thing like integrity and solidity of character.

There was one subject of contemplation which was constantly presenting itself to Olive's mind, and from which she as constantly turned her thoughts, as far as she could, and that subject was Walter Landon. Would he come and see her? she wondered. Augusta had said nothing more about him, though she spoke of the Vander Heydens several times, and Ruth had never mentioned his name.

"And why," she proceeded to ask herself with severity, "should she wish him to come? What was he to her, more than any other acquaintance in the world? Would not—ought not all his thoughts and affections to be buried in Annette's grave?"

Olive felt a loss of self-respect every time she suffered her mind to dwell upon these topics, and invariably told herself that Mr. Landon was nothing to her, and that it was very wrong and foolish to think of him at all. But, though all this was undoubtedly true, it did not prevent her from reading Augusta's first letter several times over, nor hinder her heart from beating faster every time the door-bell rang, and sinking sadly when the person who was nothing to her did not make his appearance.

One night, during the last week of her vacation, there was a ring at the door, and a strange voice was heard, inquiring whether Mrs. Merton lived there, and secondly whether she was at home.

"I wonder who that is?" said Charlotte.

Olive did not answer, though she had recognized the first tone of his voice. Her heart was beating inconceivably fast just then.

A tall, gentlemanly personage entered the room, with a bow which even Laura might have approved.

"Mr. Landon," announced Edward, the Black Prince, approvingly; for Edward was an excellent judge of a gentleman.

Mr. Landon was greeted with perfect composure, and a proper degree of warmth by Miss McHenry, and then presented to her uncle and aunt. Mr. Merton remembered having seen the young lawyer in court, and was quite prepared to like him, and Mrs. Merton was evidently pleased by his manners and address.

Olive was provoked at herself for feeling anxious about the impression he was likely to make, and asked herself again, severely, what he was to her.

He was very glad to see her that was certain, and replied with warmth to her inquiries about Basswoods and its people. The sickness had almost disappeared, the society had resumed its meetings, Mr. Prendergrass was well, but melancholy and lonely—with a mischievous glance at Olive, who blushed, of course, to the roots of her hair, thereby provoking Charlotte to make various inquiries about that gentleman.

Olive could not help thinking Mr. Landon was in remarkably good spirits for a young gentleman who had so lately passed through such a severe affliction.

She had refrained from making any inquiries about the family on the hill for fear of wounding his feelings, but it seemed really quite unnecessary.

"You have not inquired for the Vander Heydens," said Mr. Landon, himself, turning from Charlotte to Olive.

"Augusta wrote that Jenny was out of danger," replied Olive, more and more surprised, and somewhat hurt; for the idea of doubting Dr. Gordon's intelligence never entered her mind.

"Yes, they are all well, now, but very sad. The joy and life of the household is gone."

"Annette seemed an interesting girl," remarked Olive, hardly knowing what to say.

"You did not know her, Olive—Miss McHenry," he said, correcting himself. "Annette never did herself justice with strangers, and the absurd family pride with which her mother's head is filled, though she had less of it than the rest, often made her appear at a disadvantage. She had many excellent qualities, more than she herself was aware of. I think she would have made a splendid woman."

Olive wondered more and more. Was it possible that Walter could speak so of a woman to whom he had been engaged, dead only two weeks?

"You were more intimate with them than most people in the village," she said, without exactly knowing why.

"We were cousins, you know, and Louise has always been with them a great deal since my mother died. I believe the good people of Basswoods were so kind as to give us to each other, at one time, but they were quite mistaken. We were more like brother and sister than cousins."

"I was told that you were engaged," said Olive, feeling that she must say something. "Dr. Gordon thought so."

"Dr. Gordon was mistaken," replied the gentleman, with more warmth than seemed exactly necessary. "I was very much attached to Annette, but I should think that any one who knew us well might have seen that we were not at all suited to each other."

Why did her mother look so amused? Charlotte wondered.

She certainly did look amused, and perhaps Mr. Landon saw it; for he colored, and rather hastily turned the conversation by asking Mr. Merton some questions about the courts in M. Henceforth the conversation ran upon law and lawyers. Mr. Merton was enthusiastic in his profession, and of course was delighted to find Mr. Landon the same.

Mrs. Merton and Olive sat by, apparently much interested, though it is doubtful whether either of them could have repeated a word of the conversation five minutes after it ceased.

By and by, music was proposed. Olive played, whether well or ill she could not have told, and then she and Charlotte sang a duet together.

"Do you sing, Mr. Landon?" asked Charlotte.

"Sometimes, in church and Sunday-school," said Mr. Landon, smiling; "and I know a few old ballads." And being farther pressed, he sang without accompaniment, one of Burns's inimitable songs.

"That is charming. That is the sort of music that I like," said Mrs. Merton, quite enthusiastically, for her. "I confess I do not find half the pleasure in modern music that I do in those old songs. Pray sing something else if you are not tired."

Mr. Landon was not tired, and he sang "Molly Bawn," much to the amusement of Mr. Merton, who had never heard it before.

"I wonder you do not cultivate your musical talents," observed Charlotte; "there are so few gentlemen that sing."

"I did at one time, Miss Merton, but to tell you the truth, I found it too engrossing. It was present to my mind a great many times when I knew very well that I ought to be occupied with something else. It took time from more important studies, and so I dropped it."

"And very rightly, too," said Mr. Merton, approvingly. "Accomplishments are often very dangerous things to one who has his own way to make in the world. They may do for a man who has no business but to amuse himself."

"A man who has nothing to do but to amuse himself is a very poor creature, in my estimation," said Mr. Landon.

"And a nuisance to society, besides," observed Charlotte. "There is our old acquaintance, Major Trumbull, for instance, Olive. What a bore he is, with his everlasting prattle about art and architecture, and the æsthetic, and so on. And after all, he does not know a good picture from a bad one, unless he hears some one else give opinion beforehand."

Mr. Landon discovered that it was growing very late, and took his leave, after accepting an invitation from Mrs. Merton to dine with them the next day, which was Sunday.

"A very well-informed, unassuming, well-mannered young man," was Mr. Merton's verdict, after the visitor had departed, "and pretty sure to rise in his profession. We shall see him a distinguished lawyer, one of these days."

"What connections has he in Basswoods?" asked Mrs. Merton, of Olive.

"None nearer than the Vander Heydens, and one sister," was the reply.

"What is she like?"

"A very nice little girl—one of my best scholars. Her health is not strong, and I have to watch and see that she does not work too hard; for she is as fond of study as her brother."

"How came Mr. Landon to know your Christian name?" was the next question.

"From hearing it at the rectory, I presume," said Olive. "Mr. Gregory's family all call me Olive, and he is there a great deal."

Mrs. Merton seemed satisfied, but she had one question more. "What do you suppose brought him to M., Olive?" she asked, with something of a smile.

"I don't know; perhaps he had business," replied Olive, vexed at feeling the color rise in her cheeks.

Perhaps he had—we all know that lawyers travel a great deal. But why should Olive blush at that? And why, after going up-stairs, should Olive sit for an hour, looking out of the window, when, even if it had not been very dark, there was nothing to be seen but Mr. Watson's highly respectable mansion over the way? Why, to be sure?

When they went to church, the next morning, Mr. Landon was standing in the porch. Of course Mr. Merton invited him to sit with them, and of course he accepted. He was very attentive and devout, thereby winning still more of Mr. Merton's approbation. Olive thought she had never felt the beauty of the service so deeply. Mrs. Merton guessed, in her own mind, that her niece's thoughts might be wandering a little: but for once she was mistaken. Olive had left all earthly thoughts at the church-door, and her mind was filled with one absorbing desire—that she might be reconciled to the will of God, whatever that will might be. She had never felt so much at peace with herself since she first discovered that she loved Walter Landon.

Charlotte, who for the most part went to church only to please her mother and had nothing to do but to use her eyes, thought she had never seen Olive look so nearly beautiful.

Some one else in the church was using her eyes and that was Mrs. Dimsden who had discovered the genteel stranger with the Mertons the moment he entered. For the first time in her life, she thought well of the free-church system, as it enabled her to take a seat directly behind them, instead of the one she usually occupied. She did not take much by her motion, however, for Mr. Landon sat with his back to her, and never looked round once during the whole service.

"I wonder who that is!" she said to Laura, as they were coming out of church. "I never saw him before."

"Some country friend of Olive's, probably," answered Laura, carelessly, "or some office acquaintance of my uncle's. He looks like a young lawyer."

Mrs. Dimsden was not satisfied. She thought the stranger had something distinguished in his appearance, and she was immediately anxious to find out all about him.

"You had better go over and see Olive this afternoon," she said, after luncheon; "you know she is going in two or three days."

"It will look just as though I want to see this person, whoever he is," objected Laura.

"Never mind that; I will be answerable for appearances, if you do as I bid you. You can stay to dinner, and come to church with them this evening."

Laura was vexed, but there was nothing for it but to obey.

"I did not come of my own accord, Olive," she said, as she went up-stairs with her sister to take off her bonnet. "Aunt Dimsden sent me, so you need not think I want to steal your beau from you."

"I do wish you would not use that word," replied Olive, rather impatiently. "Why should you not come over here if you choose? There is nothing in it to need an apology."

"I thought you would all think I came over to see who your visitor was," said Laura; "and, to tell the simple truth, I suppose that was what aunt sent me for. Don't tell me any thing about him, and then I shall have the pleasure of disappointing her."

"Laura, Laura, how perverse you are! If she had not told you to find out, you would never have rested till you knew all there is to know."

"Maybe so. Is he coming to dinner?"

"I believe aunt invited him."

"Then I suppose she will depart from her rule of giving the servants their Sunday. She would not ask a stranger to a cold dinner."

"I do not believe she has made any difference," said Olive. "I know all the servants went to church this morning."

So it proved. Mrs. Merton made no apology for the cold fowl and ham, except to say that it was one of her rules never to have unnecessary cooking done on Sunday.

"So much for being above the fashion," thought Laura. "I wonder whether the Eatons would dare to do such a thing."

The conversation was cheerful enough, though somewhat serious in its character. Mr. Landon was interested in hearing an account of the different charities of the city, in almost all of which Mr. and Mrs. Merton were more or less engaged. Free churches, homes for old people, parish schools and Sunday-schools, were discussed in all their bearings and relations. Laura thought it all very stupid, and Mr. Landon something between a Puseyite and a Methodist. He spoke of a certain Mr. Dennison, who was his particular friend. And after a little, it came out that he was a hatter, but no one seemed at all shocked. Aunt Merton was a good deal of a riddle to Laura: she was so very fashionable, and yet seemed to care so little about it.