 36 Believe in God, as in the sun, and lo, along thy soul's mourn, you three storage shall glow. As rest the earth, so rest, O troubled heart. Rest till the burden of the cloud depart. New timmon. Before they had passed through the dusty village and gained the road leading in the direction of the mountain house, they became painfully conscious of the vast difference between the temperature of the river and that of the inland country. And in being suddenly deprived of the refreshing breeze they had enjoyed on board the boat, they fully realized the extreme heat of the weather. For the first few miles Gertrude's whole attention was required to shield Emily and herself from the rays of a burning sun which shone into the coach full upon their faces. And it was a great relief when they at last reached the steep but smooth and beautifully shaded road which led up the side of the mountain. The atmosphere, being perfectly clear, the gradually widening prospect was most beautiful, and Gertrude's delight and rapture were such that the restraint imposed by stage coach decorum was almost insupportable. When therefore the ascent became so laborious that the gentlemen were invited to a light and relieve the weary horses of a part of the burden, Gertrude gladly accepted Dr. Jeremy's proposal that she should accompany him on a walk of a mile or two. Gertrude was an excellent walker, and she and the still active doctor soon left the coaches far behind them. At a sudden turn in the road they stopped to view the scene below, and lost in silent admiration stood enjoying the stillness and beauty of the spot when they were startled by a voice close beside them saying, a fine landscape certainly. They looked around and saw Mr. Phillips seated upon a moss-grown rock, against which Gertrude was at the moment leaning. His attitude was easy and careless, his broad brimmed straw hat lay on the ground where it had fallen, and his snow be sprinkled but wavy and still beautiful hair was tossed back from his high and expanded forehead. One would have thought, to look at him, leaning so idly and even boyishly upon his hand, that he had been sitting there for hours at least, and felt quite at home in the place. He rose to his feet, however, immediately upon being perceived, and joined Dr. Jeremy and Gertrude. "'You have got the start of us, sir,' said the former. "'Yes, I have walked from the village, my practice always when the roads are such that no time can be gained by riding.' As he spoke he placed in Gertrude's hand, without looking at her, or seeming conscious what he was doing, a bouquet of rich laurel blossoms which he had probably gathered during his walk. She would have thanked him, but his absent manner was such that it afforded her no opportunity, especially as he went on talking with the doctor, as if she had not been present. All three resumed their walk. Mr. Phillips and Dr. Jeremy conversed in an animated manner, and Gertrude, content to be a listener, soon perceived that she was not the only person to whom the stranger had power to render himself agreeable. Dr. Jeremy engaged him upon a variety of subjects, upon all of which he appeared equally well informed, and Gertrude smiled to see her old friend more than once rub his hands together, according to his well-known manner of expressing boundless satisfaction. Now Gertrude thought their new acquaintance must be a botanist by profession, so versed was he in everything relating to that department of science. Then again she was equally sure that geology must have been with him and absorbing study, so intimate seemed his acquaintance with Mother Earth, and both of these impressions were in turn dispelled when he talked of the ocean like a sailor, of the counting-room like a merchant, of Paris like a man of fashion and the world. In the meantime she walked beside him, silent but not forgotten or unnoticed, for as they approached a rough and steep ascent, he offered his arm, and expressed a fear lest she should become fatigued. She assured him there was no danger of that. Dr. Jeremy declared it was his belief that Gertrude could outwalk them both, and thus satisfied Mr. Phillips resumed the broken thread of their discourse, into which, before long, Gertrude was drawn almost unawares. Mr. Phillips was a man who knew how to inspire awe and even fear when such was his pleasure. The reverse being the case, however, he had equal ability to dispel such sentiments, awaken confidence, and bid character unfold itself at his bidding. He no longer seemed, in Gertrude's eyes, a stranger. He was a mystery certainly, but not a forbidding one. She longed to know more of him, to learn the history of a life which many an incident of his own narrating proved to have been made up of strange and mingled experience. Especially did her sympathetic nature desire to fathom the cause of that deep-seated melancholy which shadowed and darkened his noble countenance, and made his smile a sorrowful thing. Dr. Jeremy, who in a degree shared her curiosity, asked a few leading questions, in hopes to obtain some clue to his new friend's personal history. But in vain, Mr. Phillips' lips were either sealed on the subject, or opened only to baffle the curiosity of his interrogator. At length the doctor was compelled to give way to a weariness which he could no longer disguise from himself or his companions, much as he disliked to acknowledge the fact, and seating themselves by the roadside, they awaited the arrival of the coach. There had been a short silence, when the doctor, looking at Gertrude, remarked, There will be no church for us tomorrow, Gertie. No church? exclaimed Gertrude, gazing about her with a look of reverence. How can you say so? Mr. Phillips bestowed upon her a smile of interest and inquiry, and said, In a peculiar tone, there is no Sunday here, Miss Flint, it doesn't come up so high. He spoke lightly, too lightly, Gertrude thought, and she replied with some seriousness, and much sweetness. I have often rejoiced that the Sabbath had been sent down into the lower earth, the higher we go, the nearer we come, I trust, to the eternal Sabbath. Mr. Phillips bit his lip, and turned away without replying. There was an expression about his mouth, which Gertrude did not exactly like, but she could not find it in her heart to reproach him for the slight sneer which his manner, rather than his look, implied. For as he gazed a moment or two into vacancy, there was in his wild and absent countenance such a look of sorrow that she could only pity and wonder. The coaches now came up, and as he placed her in her former seat, he resumed his wanted serene and kindly expression, and she felt convinced that it was only justice to his frank and open face to believe that nothing was hid behind it that would not do honor to the man. An hour more brought them to the mountain house, and greatly to their joy, they were at once shown to some of the most excellent rums the hotel afforded. As Gertrude stood at the window of the chamber, allotted to herself and Emily, and heard the loud murmurs of some of her fellow travelers, who were denied any tolerable accommodation. She could not but be astonished at Dr. Jeremy's unusual good fortune and being treated with such marked partiality. Emily, being greatly fatigued with a toilsome journey, had supper brought to her own room, and Gertrude partaking of it with her, neither of them sought society that night, but at an early hour betook themselves to rest. The last thing that Gertrude heard before falling asleep was the voice of Dr. Jeremy, saying as he passed their door, take care, Gertie, and be up in time to see the sunrise. She was not up in time, however, nor was the doctor himself, neither of them had calculated upon the sun's being such an early riser. And though Gertrude, mindful of the caution, sprung up almost before her eyes were open, a flood of daylight was pouring in at the window, and a scene met her gaze which at once put to flight every regret at having overslept herself. Since nothing, she thought, could be more solemnly glorious than that which now lay out spread before her. From the surface of the rocky platform upon which the house was built, far out to the distant horizon, nothing was to be seen but a sea of snowy clouds, which wholly overshadowed the lower earth, and hid it from view. Fast, solid, and of the most perfect whiteness they stretched on every side, forming as they lay in thick masses, between which not a crevice was discernible, and unbroken curtain, dividing the heavens from the earth. While most of the world, however, was thus shut out from the clear light of morning, the mountaintop was rejoicing in an unusually brilliant and glorious dawn, the beauty of which was greatly enhanced by those very clouds which were obscuring and shadowing the dwellings of men below. A fairy bark might have floated upon the undulating waves which glistened in the sunshine like new fallen snow, and which, contrasted with the clear blue sky above, formed a picture of singular grandeur. The foliage of the oaks, the pines and the maples which had found root in this lofty region, was rich, clear, and polished, and tame and fearless birds of various note were singing in the branches. Gertrude gave one long look, then hastened to dress herself and go out upon the platform. The house was perfectly still. No one seemed yet to be stirring, and she stood for some time and tranced, almost breathless, with awe and admiration. At length she heard footsteps, and, looking up, saw a doctor and Mrs. Jeremy approaching. The former, as usual, full of life, and dragging forward his reluctant, sleepy partner, whose countenance proclaimed how unwillingly she had foregone her morning nap. The doctor rubbed his hands as they joined Gertrude. Very fine this, Gertie, a touch beyond anything I had calculated upon. Gertrude turned upon him her beaming eyes, but did not speak. Satisfied, however, with the expression of her face, which was sufficient, without words, to indicate her appreciation of the scene. The doctor stepped to the edge of the flat rock upon which they stood, placed his hands beneath his coattails, and indulged in a soliloquy made up of short exclamations and interjectional phrases, expressive of his approbation, still further confirmed and emphasized by a quick regular nodding of his head. Why, this looks queer, doesn't it? said Mrs. Jeremy, rubbing her eyes and gazing about her. But I dare say it would be just so an hour or two hence. I don't see what the doctor would make me get up so early for. Then catching sight of her husband's position, she darted forward, exclaiming, Dr. Jerry, for mercy's sake, don't stand so near the edge of that precipice. Why, are you crazy man? You frighten me to death. You'll fall over and break your neck, as sure as the world. Finding the doctor deaf to her entreaties, she caught hold of his coat, and tried to drag him backwards, upon which he turned about, and inquired what was the matter, and perceiving her anxiety, considerably retreated a few paces. The next moment, however, he was once more, in the same precarious spot. The same scene was re-enacted. And finally, after the poor woman's fears had been excited and relieved half a dozen times in succession, she grew so disturbed that, looking most imploringly at Gertrude, she begged her to get the doctor away from that dangerous place, for the poor man was so venturesome he would surely be killed. Suppose we explore that little path at the right of the house, suggested Gertrude. It looks attractive. So it does, said Mrs. Jeremy. Beautiful little shady path. Come, doctor, Gertie and I are going to walk up here. Come." The doctor looked in the direction in which she pointed. Ah, said he. That is the path the man at the office spoke about. It leads up to the pine gardens. We'll climb up, by all means, and see what sort of a place it is. Gertrude led the way. Mrs. Jeremy followed, and the doctor brought up the rear, all walking in single file, for the path was a mere foot-track. The ascent was very steep, and they had not proceeded far before Mrs. Jeremy, panting with heat and fatigue, stopped short, and declared her inability to reach the top. She would not have thought of coming, if she had known what a horrid hard hill she had got to climb. Encouraged and assisted, however, by her husband and Gertrude, she was induced to make a further attempt, and they had gone on some distance. When Gertrude, who happened for a moment to be some steps in advance, heard Mrs. Jeremy give a slight scream. She looked back. The doctor was laughing heartily, but his wife, who was the picture of consternation, was endeavoring to pass him and retrace her steps down the hill, at the same time calling upon her to follow. What is the matter? asked Gertrude. Matter, cried Mrs. Jeremy, why this hill is covered with rattlesnakes, and here we are all going up to be bitten to death. No such thing, Gertie, said the doctor, still laughing. I only told her there had been one killed here this summer, and now she is making an excuse for turning back. I don't care, said the good-natured lady, half laughing herself, in spite of her fears. If there's been one, there may be another, and I won't stay here a minute longer. I thought it was a bad enough place before, and now I'm going down faster than I came up. Finding her determined, the doctor hastened to accompany her. Calling to Gertrude as he went, however, ensuring her there was no danger, and begging her to keep on and wait for him at the top of the hill, where he would join her after he had left his wife in safety at the hotel. Gertrude, therefore, went on alone. For the first few rods she looked carefully about her and thought of rattlesnakes, but the path was so well-worn that she felt sure it must be often trod and was probably safe, and the beauty of the place soon engrossed all her attention. After a few moments spent in active climbing, she reached the highest point of ground and found herself once more on an elevated woody platform, from which she could look forth as before upon the unbroken sea of clouds. She seated herself at the root of an immense pine tree, removed her bonnet, for she was warm from recent exercise, and as she inhaled the refreshing mountain breeze, gave herself up to the train of reflection which she had been indulging when disturbed by doctor and Mrs. Jeremy. She had sat with us but a moment when a slight rustling noise startled her. She remembered the rattlesnakes and was springing to her feet, but hearing a low sound, as of someone breathing, turned her eyes in the direction from which it came, and saw, only a few yards from her, the figure of a man stretched upon the ground, apparently asleep. She went towards it with a careful step, and before she could see the face, the large straw hat, the long blanched, wavy hair, betrayed the identity of the individual. Mr. Philips was, or appeared to be, sleeping. His head was pillowed upon his arm, his eyes were closed, and his attitude denoted perfect repose. Gertrude stood still and looked at him. As she did so, his countenance suddenly changed. The peaceful expression gave place to the same unhappy look which had at first excited her sympathy. His lips moved, and in his dreams he spoke, or rather shouted, No, no, no! Each time that he repeated the word, pronouncing it with more vehemence and emphasis, then wildly throwing one arm above his head, he let it fall gradually, and heavily upon the ground. And the excitement subsiding from his face, he uttered the simple words, Oh, dear, much as a grieved and tired child might do, as he leans his head upon his mother's knee. Gertrude was deeply touched. She forgot that he was a stranger. She saw only a sufferer. An insect lit upon his fair open forehead. She leaned over him, brushed away the greedy creature, and as she did so, one of the many tears that filled her eyes fell upon his cheek. Quietly then, without motion or warning, he awoke and looked full in the face of the embarrassed girl, who started, and would have hastened away. But leaning on his elbow, he caught her hand, and detained her. He gazed at her for a moment without speaking, then said, in a grave voice, My child, did you shed that tear for me? She did not reply, except by her eyes, which were still glistening with a dew of sympathy. I believe you did, said he, and from my heart I bless you. But never again weep for a stranger. You will have woes enough of your own if you live to be of my age. If I had not had sorrows already, said Gertrude, I should not know how to feel for others. If I had not often whipped for myself, I should not weep now for you. But you are happy? Yes. Some find it easy to forget the past. I have not forgotten it. Children's griefs are trifles, and you are still scarce more than a child. I never was a child, said Gertrude. Strange girl, solola-quies her companion, will you sit down and talk with me a few minutes? Gertrude hesitated. Do not refuse. I am an old man, and very harmless. Take a seat here under this tree, and tell me what you think of the prospect. Gertrude smiled inwardly at the idea of his being such an old man, and calling her a child. But old or young, she had it not in her heart to fear him, or refuse his request. She sat down, and he seated himself beside her. But did not speak of the prospect, or of anything for a moment or two. Then turning to her abruptly, he said, So you never were unhappy in your life? Never, exclaimed Gertrude. Oh yes, often. But never long? Yes, I can remember whole years when happiness was a thing I had never even dreamed of. But comfort came at last. What do you think of those to whom it never comes? I know enough of sorrow to pity and wish to help them. What can you do for them? Hope for them, pray for them, said Gertrude, with the voice of feeling. What if they be past hope, beyond the influence of prayer? There are no such, said Gertrude, with decision. Do you see, said Mr. Phillips, this curtain of thick clouds now overshadowing the world? Even so many a heart is weighed down and overshadowed by thick and impenetrable darkness. But the light shines brightly above the clouds, said Gertrude. Above, well, that may be, but what avails it to those who see it not? It is sometimes a weary and toilsome road that leads to the mountaintop, but the pilgrim is well repaid for the trouble which brings him above the clouds, replied Gertrude, with enthusiasm. Few ever find the road that leads so high, responded her melancholy companion, and those who do cannot live long and so elevated in atmosphere. They must come down from their height, and again dwell among the common herd. Again mingle on the warfare with the mean, the base and the cruel. Thicker clouds will gather over their heads, and they will be buried in redoubled darkness. But they have seen the glory, they know that the light is ever burning on high, and will have faith to believe it will pierce the gloom at last. See, see, said she, her eyes glowing with the fervor with which she spoke. Even now the heaviest clouds are parting, the sun will soon light up the valley. She pointed, as she spoke, to a wide fissure which was gradually disclosing itself, as the hitherto solid mass of clouds separated on either side. And then turned to the stranger to see if he observed the change. But with the same smile upon his unmoved countenance, he was watching, not the display of nature in the distance, but that close at his side. He was gazing with intense interest upon the young and ardent worshiper of the beautiful and the true. And in studying her features and observing the play of her countenance, he seemed so wholly absorbed that Gertrude, believing he was not listening to her words, but had fallen into one of his absent moods, ceased speaking rather abruptly, and was turning away when he said, Go on, happy child, teach me if you can, to see the world tinged with the rosy coloring it wears for you. Teach me to love and pity, as you do, that miserable thing called man. I warn you that you have a difficult task, but you seem to be very hopeful. Do you hate the world, asked Gertrude, with straightforward simplicity? Almost was Mr. Philip's answer. I did once, said Gertrude musingly. And will again, perhaps. No, that would be impossible. It has been a good foster mother to its orphan child. And now I love it dearly. Have they been kind to you, asked he, with eagerness? Have heartless strangers deserved the love you seem to feel for them? Heartless strangers exclaimed Gertrude, the tears rushing to her eyes. Oh, sir, I wish you could have known my uncle true, and Emily, dear blind Emily, you would think better of the world for their sakes. Tell me about them, said he, in a low, unsteady voice, and looking fixedly down into the precipice which yawned at his feet. There is not much to tell, only that one was old and poor, and the other wholly blind, and yet they made everything rich and bright and beautiful to me, a poor, desolate, injured child. Injured, then you acknowledged that you had previously met with wrong and injustice. I, exclaimed Gertrude, my earliest recollections are only of want, suffering, and much unkindness. And these friends took pity on you? Yes, one became an earthly father to me, and the other taught me where to find a heavenly one. And ever since then you have been free and late as air, without a wish or care in the world? No, indeed, I did not say so. I do not mean so, said Gertrude. I have had to part from uncle true, and to give up other dear friends, some for years, and some for ever. I have had many trials, many lonely, solitary hours, and even now am oppressed by more than one subject of anxiety and dread. How, then, so cheerful and happy? asked Mr. Phillips. Gertrude had risen, for she saw Dr. Jeremy approaching, and stood with one hand resting upon a solid mass of stone, under whose protecting shadow she had been seated. She smiled a thoughtful smile at Mr. Phillips' question, and after casting her eyes a moment into the deep valley beneath her, turned them upon him with a look of holy faith, and said, in a low but fervent tone, I see the gulf yawning beneath me, but I lean upon the rock of ages. Gertrude had spoken truly when she said that more than one anxiety and dread oppressed her, for mingled with a daily increasing fear lest the time was fast approaching when Emily would be taken from her. She had a flake in her rest, and grieved by the thought that Willie Sullivan, towards whom her heart yearned with more than a sister's love, was fast forgetting the friend of his childhood, or at least ceasing to regard her with the love and tenderness of former years. It was now some months since she had received a letter from India. The last was short, and written in a haste which Willie apologised for on the score of business cares and duties. And Gertrude was compelled unwillingly to admit the chilling presumement that now that his mother and grandfather were no more, the ties which bound the exile to his native home were sensibly weakened. Nothing would have induced her to hint, even to Emily, a suspicion of neglect on Willie's part. Nothing would have shocked her more than hearing such neglect imputed to him by another. But still, in the depths of her own heart, she sometimes mused with wonder upon his long silence, and the strange diminution of intercourse between herself and him. During several weeks in which she had received no tidings, she had still continued to write as usual, and felt sure that such reminders must have reached him by every mail. What then, but illness or indifference, could excuse his never replying to her faithfully dispatched missives. She often tried to banish from her mind any self-questioning upon a subject so involved in uncertainty. But at times, a sadness came over her, which could only be dispersed by turning her thoughts upward with that trusting faith and hope which had so often sustained her drooping spirits. And it was from one of these soaring reveries that she had turned with pitying looks and words to the fellow sufferer whose moans had escaped him, even in his dreams. Dr. Jeremy's approach was a signal for hearty congratulations and good mornings between himself and Mr. Phillips. The doctor began to converse in his animated manner, spoke with hearty delight of the beauty and peacefulness of that bright Sabbath morning in the mountains, and Mr. Phillips compelled to exert himself and conceal, if he could not dispel, the gloom which weighed upon his mind, talked with an ease and even playfulness which astonished Gertrude, who walked back to the house silently wondering at this strange and inconsistent man. She did not see him at breakfast, and at dinner he took a seat at some distance from Dr. Jeremy's party, and merely acknowledged their acquaintance by a graceful salutation to Gertrude as she left the dining-hall. Still later in the day he suddenly made his appearance upon the broad Piazza where Emily and Gertrude were seated, one pair of eyes serving, as usual, to paint pictures for the minds of both. There had been a thundershower, but as the sun went down and the storm passed away, a brilliant bow and its almost equally brilliant reflection spanned the horizon, seemingly far beneath the height of the mountaintop, and the lights and shadows which were playing upon the valley and its shining river were brilliant and beautiful in the extreme. Gertrude hoped Mr. Phillips would join them. She knew that Emily would be charmed with his rich and varied conversation, and felt an instinct of hope that the sweet tones of the comfort-carrying voice which so many loved and blessed would speak to his heart a lesson of peace. But she hoped in vain. He started unseeing them, walked tasteily away, and Gertrude soon after aspired him toiling up the same steep path which had attracted them both in the morning. Nor did he make his appearance at the hotel again that night. The Jeremy's stayed two days longer at the mountain house. The invigorating air benefited Emily, who appeared stronger than she had done for weeks past, and was able to take many a little stroll in the neighborhood of the house. Gertrude was never weary of the glorious prospect upon which she gazed with ever-increasing delight, and an excursion which she and the doctor made on foot to the cleft in the heart of the mountain, where a narrow stream leaps a distance of two hundred feet into the valley below, furnished the theme for many a descriptive reverie of which Emily reaped a part of the enjoyment. They saw no more of their new acquaintance, who had disappeared without their knowledge. Dr. Jeremy inquired of their host concerning them, and learned that he left at an early hour on Monday, and took up a pedestrian course down the mountain. The doctor was surprised and disappointed, for he liked Mr. Philip succeedingly, and had flattered himself from some particular inquiries he had made concerning their proposed route, that he had an idea of attaching himself to their party. Never mind, Gertrude, said he, and a tone of mock condolence, I dare say we shall come across him yet, some time when we least expect it. CHAPTER XXXVII Led by simplicity divine, she pleased, and never tried to shine. Hannah Moore. From Catskill Dr. Jeremy proceeded directly to Saratoga. The place was crowded with visitors, for the season was at its height, and the improvident traveler, having neglected to secure rooms, they had no right to expect any accommodation. Where do you propose stopping? inquired an acquaintance of the doctors, whom they accidentally encountered in the cars. At Congress Hall, was the reply, it will be a quiet place for us old folks, and more agreeable than any other house to Miss Graham, who is an invalid. You are expected, I conclude. Expected? No, who should be expecting us? Your landlord, if you have not engaged rooms, you will fare badly, for every hotel is crowded to overflowing. We must take our chance, then, said the doctor, with an indifference of manner which wholly forsook him upon his fairly arriving at his destination, and learning that his friend's words were true. I don't know what we are going to do, said he, as he joined the ladies, whom he had left for a few moments while he made inquiries. They say every house is full, and if so, we'd better take the next train of cars and be off, for we can't sleep in the street. Carriage, sir? shouted a hackman, leaning over a rallying a few steps distant, and beckoning to the doctor with all his might, while another, and still bolder aspirant for employment, tapped his shoulder, and made a similar suggestion, in a most insinuating tone of voice. Carriage, repeated the doctor angrily, what for? Where would you carry us for mercy's sake? There isn't a garret to be head in your town, for love or money. Well, sir, said the last mentioned petitioner, a sort of omnibus attaché, taking off his cap as he spoke, and wiping his forehead with a torn and soiled pocket hinkerchief. The house is as pretty considerable foal just now, to be sure, but maybe you can get colonized out. Colonized out, said the doctor, still in a tone of extreme vexation. That's what I think we are already. What I want is to get in somewhere. Where do you usually drive your coach? To Congress Hall. Drive up, then, and let us get in, and mind, if they don't take us at Congress Hall, we shall expect you to keep us, until we find better accommodations. Mrs. Jeremy, Emily, and Gertrude were consequently assisted into a small omnibus, and closely packed away, among half a dozen ladies and children, who, tired, dusty, and anxious, were squilling themselves to patience, or encouraging themselves with hope. The doctor took a seat upon the outside, and the moment the vehicle stopped, hastened to present himself to the landlord. As he had anticipated, there was not a vacant corner in the house. Wishing to accommodate him, however, the officekeeper announced the possibility that he might be able, before night, to furnish him with one room in a house in the next street. One room in the next street? cried the doctor. Ah, that's being colonized out, is it? Well, sir, it won't do for me. I must have a place to put my ladies in at once. Why, in conscience, don't you have hotels enough for your visitors? It is the height of the season, sir, and why Dr. Jeremy exclaimed the youthful voice of Nettagrysworth, who was passing through the hall with her grandmother. How do you do, sir? Are Miss Graham and Miss Flint with you? Have you come to stay? Before the doctor could answer her questions, and pay his respects to Madame Griesworth, a venerable old lady whom he had known thirty years before, the landlord of the hotel accosted him. Dr. Jeremy, said he, excuse me, I did not know you. Dr. Jeremy of Boston? The same, said the doctor, bowing. Ah, we are all right, then. Your rooms are reserved, and will be made ready in a few minutes. They were vacated two days ago, and have not been occupied since. What is all this, exclaimed the honest doctor, I engage no rooms. A friend did it for you, then, sir, a fortunate circumstance, especially as you have ladies with you. Saratoga is very crowded at the season. There were seven thousand strangers in the town yesterday. The doctor thanked his stars and his unknown friend, and summoned the ladies to enjoy their good fortune. Why, now, ain't me lucky, said Mrs. Jeremy, as she glanced round the comfortable room allotted to herself. And then, crossing the narrow entry, took a similar survey of Emily's and Gertrude's apartment. After all the talk everybody made, too, about the crowd of folks that were here scrambling for places. The doctor, who had just come upstairs, having waited to give directions concerning his baggage, approached the door in time to hear his wife's last remark, and entering with his finger upon his lip, and a mock air of mystery, exclaimed in a low voice, hush, hush, don't say too much about it. We are profiting by a glorious mistake on the part of our good landlord. These rooms were engaged for somebody, that's certain, but not for us. However, they can't do more than turn us out when the right folks come, and until then we have a prospect, I see, of very good lodgings. But if the Jeremies were not the right folks, the right folks never came, and in the course of a week our party not only ceased to be conscious of their precarious footing in the house, but even had the presumption to propose, and the good fortune to obtain, a favourable exchange for Emily to a bedroom upon the first floor, which opened directly into the drawing-room, and saved her the necessity of passing up and down the often-crowded staircases. It was nearly tea-time on the day of their arrival, and Emily and Gertrude had just completed their toilet, when there was a light wrap upon their door. Gertrude hastened to open it, and to admit Ellen Griesworth, who, while she saluted her with southern warmth of manner, hesitated at the threshold, saying, I am afraid you will thank me an intruder, but Netta told me you had arrived, and hearing accidentally from the chambermaid that you had the next room to mine, I could not for bear stopping a moment as I passed to tell you how very glad I am to see you again. Gertrude and Emily expressed their pleasure at the meeting, thanked her for her want of ceremony, and urged her to come in, and remain with them until the gong sounded for tea. She availed herself of the invitation, and taking a seat upon the nearest trunk, proceeded to inquire concerning their travels and Emily's health, since they parted at West Point. Among other adventures, Gertrude mentioned they're having again encountered Mr. Phillips. Indeed, said Miss Griesworth, he seems to be a ubiquitous individual. He was in Saratoga a day or two ago, and sat opposite to me at her dinner-table. But I have not seen him since. Did you become acquainted with him, Miss Graham? I am sorry to say I did not, replied Emily. Then, looking smilingly at Gertrude, she added, Gertie was so anxious for an opportunity to introduce me that I was quite grieved for her disappointment. Then you liked him? said Miss Griesworth, addressing herself to Gertrude, and speaking with great earnestness. I knew you would. He interested me very much, replied Gertrude. He is very agreeable, very peculiar, and to me rather incomprehensible. Noncommittal, I see, said Miss Griesworth, archly. I hope you will have a chance to make up your mind. It is more than I can do, I confess. For every time I am in his company, I recognize some new and unexpected trait of character. He got so angry with one of the waiters, the day he dined with us in New York, that I was actually frightened. However, I believe my fears were groundless, for he is too much of a gentleman to bandy words with an inferior. And though his eyes flashed like coals of fire, he kept his temper from blazing forth. I will do him the justice to say that this great indignation did not spring from any neglect he had himself received, but from the man's gross inattention to two dowdy-looking women from the country, who had never thought of such a thing as feying him, and therefore got nothing to eat until everybody else had finished, and looked all the time as disappointed and ashamed as if they were just out of the State prison. Too bad, exclaimed Gertrude energetically. I don't wonder Mr. Phillips felt provoked with the mercenary fellow. I like him for that. It was too bad, said Miss Grisworth. I couldn't help pitying them myself. One of them, a young girl, fresh from the churn, who had worn her best white gown on purpose to make a figure in the city, looked just ready to burst out crying. I hope such instances of neglect are not very common, said Gertrude. I am afraid, if they are, Emily and I shall be on the crying list, for Dr. Jeremy never will fee the waiters beforehand. He says it is a mean thing, and he should scorn to command attention in that way. Oh, you need have no such fear, said Miss Grisworth. Persons in the least accustomed to hotel life can always command a moderate share of attention, especially in so well-regulated an establishment as this. Grandmama shares the doctor's views with regard to bargaining for it beforehand, but no one ever sees her neglected here. The case which occurred in New York was a gross instance of that partiality for which the public are partly to blame. The waiters can tell easily enough who will endure to be imposed upon, and the embarrassed faces of the two countryladies, who found so fierce an advocate in Mr. Phillips, were alone sufficient to lay them open to any degree of neglect. Another light tap at the door, and this time it was Netta Grisworth, who entered exclaiming, I hear Ellen's voice, so I suppose I may come in. I am provoked, added she, as she kissed Emily's hand, and shook Gertrude's with a freedom and vivacity which seemed to spring partly from girlish hoidenism, and partly from hybrid independence of manner. To think that while I have been watching about the drawing-room doors for this half-hour, so as to see you the first minute you came in, Ellen has been sitting here on a trunk, as sociable as all the world, enjoying your society, and telling you every bit of news. Not every bit, Netta, said Ellen, I have left several choice little morsels for you. Have you told Miss Flint about the foxes and the coxes that were here yesterday? Has she Miss Flint? Not a word about them, said Gertrude. Nor about the fright we had on board the steamboat. No. Nor about Mr. Phillips being here. Oh, yes, she told us that. Ah, she did, exclaimed Netta, with an arch-look, which called up her sister's blushes. And did she tell you how he occupied this room, and how we heard him through the thin partition, pacing up and down all night, and how it kept me from sleeping, and gave me a terrible headache all the next day? No, she did not tell me that, said Gertrude. You don't either of you walk all night, do you, asked Netta. Not often. Oh, how thankful we ought to be to have you for neighbors, replied Netta. If that horrible man had stayed here, and kept up that measured tread, there would have been a suicide either in his room or ours before many nights. Do you think he was ill, inquired Gertrude? No indeed, said Ellen. It was nothing very remarkable, not for him at least. All his habits are peculiar. But it kept Netta awake an hour or two, and made her fidgety. An hour or two, Ellen? cried Netta. It was the whole night. My dear sis, said Ellen, you don't know what a whole night is. You never saw one. A little sisterly discussion might have ensued about the length of Mr. Philip's walk, and Netta's consequent wakefulness. But fortunately, the gong sounded, and Netta flew off to her own room to brush out her puffs before tea. Saratoga is a queer place. One sees congregated there, at the height of the season, delegates from every part of our own, and from many foreign countries. Fashion's ladder is transplanted thither, and all its rounds are filled. Beauty, wealth, pride, and folly are well represented, and so too are wit, genius, and learning. Itemless reigns supreme, and no one, not even the most active, busy, and industrious citizen of our working land, dares, in this her legitimate province, to dispute her temporary sway. Every rank of society, every profession, and almost every trade, meet each other on an easy and friendly footing. The acknowledged bell, the bearer of an aristocratic name, the owner of a well-filled purse, the renowned scholar, artist, or poet, having all a conspicuous sphere to shine in. There are many counterfeits, too. The nobodies at home stand a chance to be considered somebody's here. And the first people of a distant city, accustomed to consider themselves somebody's, sit in corners and pout at suddenly finding themselves nobody's. All come, however, from a common motive. All are in pursuit of amusement, recreation, and rest from labour. And in the search after pleasure, a friendly and benevolent sentiment for the most part prevails. All are in motion, and the throngs of well-dressed people moving to and fro, on foot, on horseback, and in carriages. Together with the gay assemblages crowded upon the piazzas of the hotels, constitute a lively and festive scene, and he who loves to observe human nature may study it here in its most animated form. It was a wholly new experience to Gertrude. And although, in the comparative retirement and privacy of Congress Hall, she saw only the reflection of Saratoga, Gaiety, and heard only the echo of its distant home. There was enough of novelty and excitement to entertain, amuse, and surprise one who was a complete novice in the ways of fashionable life. In the circle of high-bred, polished, literary, and talented persons, whom Madame Grisworth drew about her, and into which Dr. Jeremy's party were at once admitted as honoured members, Gertrude found much that was congenial to her cultivated and superior taste, and she herself soon came to be appreciated and admired as she deserved. Madame Grisworth was a lady of the old school, one who had all her life been accustomed to the best society, and who continued, in spite of her advanced years, to enjoy and to adorn it. She was still an elegant-looking woman, tall and stately, and though a little proud, and to strangers a little reserved, she soon proved herself an agreeable companion to people of all ages. For the first day or two of their acquaintance, poor Mrs. Jeremy stood much in awe of her, and could not feel quite at ease in her presence. But this feeling wore off wonderfully quick, and the stout little doctor's lady soon became exceedingly confiding and chatty towards the Auguste Dame. One evening, when the Jeremy's had now been a week at Saratoga, as Emily and Gertrude were leaving the tea-table, they were joined by Netta Grisworth, who, linking her arm in Gertrude's, exclaimed in her usual gay manner, Gertrude, I shall quarrel with you soon. Indeed, said Gertrude, on what ground? Jealousy. Gertrude blushed slightly. Oh, you needn't turn so red. It's not on account of any grey-headed gentlemen's staring at you all dinner-time from the other end of the table. No, I'm indifferent on that score. Ellen and you may disagree about Mr. Philip's attentions, but I'm jealous of those of another person. I hope Gertrude isn't interfering with your happiness in any way, said Emily, smiling. She is, though, replied Netta. My happiness, my pride, my comfort. She is undermining them all. She would not dare to conduct so, Miss Graham, if you could see her behavior. Tell me all about it, said Emily coaxingly, and I will promise to interest myself for you. I doubt that, answered Netta. I am not sure, but you are a co-agitor with her. However, I will state my grievance. Do you not see how entirely she engrosses the attention of an important personage? Are you not aware that Peter has ceased to have eyes for anyone else? For my own part, I can get nothing to eat or drink until Miss Flint is served, and I am determined to ask Papa to change our seats at the table. It isn't that I care about my food, but I feel insulted. My pride is essentially wounded. A few days ago I was a great favorite with Peter, and all my pet dishes were sure to be placed directly in front of me. But now the tune has changed, and this very evening I saw him pass Gertrude the Blackberries, which the creature knows I delight in, while he pushed a dish of blues towards me in a contemptuous manner, which seemed to imply, Blueberries are good enough for you, Miss. I have noticed that the waiters are very attentive to us, said Emily. Do you suppose Gertrude has been secretly bribing them? She says not, replied Netta. Didn't you tell me so yesterday, Gertrude, when I was drawing a similar comparison between their devotion to you and to our party? Didn't you tell me that neither the doctor nor any of you ever gave Peter a scent? Certainly, answered Gertrude. His attentions are all voluntary, but I attribute them entirely to Emily's influence, and his desire to serve her. It's no such thing, said Netta, emphasizing her remark by a mysterious little shake of the head. It's sorcery, I'm sure of it. You've been practicing the Blackart, Gertrude, and all worn Peter this very day. As she spoke, they reached a corner of the drawing-room where the old ladies Griceworth and Jeremy were sitting upon a sofa, engaged in earnest conversation, while Ellen, who had just returned from a drive with her father, stood talking with him and a Mr. Pentrencourt, who had that evening arrived from New York. The ladies on the sofa made room for Emily, and Netta and Gertrude seated themselves nearby. Occasionally, Madam Griceworth cast glances of annoyance at a group of children on the other side of the room, who by their noisy shouts continually interrupted her remarks and prevented her understanding those of her neighbor. Gertrude's attention soon became attracted by them also to such a degree that she did not hear more than half of the lively and gay sallies of wit and nonsense, which Netta continued to pour forth. Do go and play with those children, Gertrude, said Netta, at last. I know you're longing to. I'm longing to stop their play, exclaimed Gertrude, an apparently ill-natured remark, which we are bound to explain. Some half-dozen gaily and fancifully dressed children, whose mothers were scattered about on the piezas, and whose nurses were at supper, had collected around a strange little newcomer whom they were subjecting to every species of persecution. Her clothes, though of rich material, were most untidily arranged, and appeared somewhat soiled by traveling. Her little black silk frock, for the child was clad in mourning, seemed to be quite outgrown, being much shorter than some of her other garments, and her whole appearance denoted great negligence on the part of her parents or guardians. When Madam Griceworth's evident disturbance first led Gertrude to notice the youthful group, this little girl was standing in their midst, looking wildly about her, as if for a chance to escape. But this the children prevented, and continued to ply her with questions, each of which called forth a derisive shout from all but the poor little object of attack, who on her part looked ready to burst into tears. Whether the scene reminded Gertrude of some of her own experiences, or merely touched the cord of a universal spirit of sympathy for the injured, she could not keep her eyes from the little party. And just as Netta was fairly launched upon one of her favorite topics, namely Mr. Phillips and his unaccountable conduct, she sprung from her sea, exclaiming, They shant torment that child so, and hastily crossed the room to the rescue. Netta burst into a hearty laugh at Gertrude's excited and enthusiastic manner of starting on her benevolent errand. And this, together with the unusual circumstance of her crossing the large and crowded room, hastily and alone, drew the inquiries of all the circle whom she had left. And during her absence, she unconsciously became the subject of discussion and remark. What is the matter, Netta? asked Madam Grisworth, where has Gertrude gone? To offer herself as a champion-grandmama for that little rowdy-dowdy-looking child. Is she the one who has been making all this noise? No indeed, but I believe she is the cause of it. It isn't every girl, remarked Ellen, who could cross a great room like this so gracefully as Gertrude can. She has a remarkably good figure, said Madam Grisworth, and knows how to walk, a very rare accomplishment nowadays. She is a very well-formed girl, remarked Dr. Grisworth, who had observed Gertrude a ton ofly as she crossed the room. And now, hearing her commented upon, turned to take his part in the criticism. But the true secret of her looking so completely the lady lies in her having uncommon dignity of character, being wholly unconscious of observation and independent of the wish to attract it, and therefore simply acting herself. She dresses well, too. Ellen, I wish you would imitate Miss Flint's style of dress. Nothing could be in better taste. Or a greater savings to your purse, Papa, whispered Netta. Gertrude dresses very simply. Miss Flint's style of dress would not become Miss Grisworth, said the fashionable Mrs. Pentracourt, who approached in time to hear the doctor's remark. Your daughter, sir, is a noble, showy-looking girl, and can carry off a great deal of dress. So can a milliner's doll, Mrs. Pentracourt. However, I suppose, in a certain sense, you are right. The two girls are not sufficiently alike to resemble each other, if their dresses were matched with Chinese exactness. Resemble each other? You surely would not wish to see your beautiful daughter, the counterpart of one who has not half her attractions. Are you much acquainted with Miss Flint? Not at all, but Netta pointed her out to me at the tea table as being a particular friend. Then you must excuse me, ma'am, if I remark that it is impossible you should have any idea of her attractions, as they certainly do not lie on the surface. You confess, then, that you do not thank her handsome, sir. To tell the truth, I never thought anything about it. Ask Pentracourt, he is an acknowledged judge, and the doctor bowed in a flattering manner to the lady who had been the belle of the season at the time her husband paid his addresses to her. I will when I can get a chance, but he is standing too near the blind lady. Miss Flint's aunt, is she not? Particular friend, not her aunt. This conversation had been carried on in a low voice, that Emily might not hear it. Others, however, were either more careless or more indifferent to her presence, for Madame Griesworth began to speak of Gertrude without restraint, as she was at this moment saying, One must see her under peculiar circumstances to be struck with her beauty at once. For instance, as I did yesterday, when she had just returned from horseback riding, and her face was in a glow from exercise and excitement. Or as she looks when animated by her intense interest in some glowing and eloquent speaker. Or when her feelings are suddenly touched, and the tears start into her eyes, and her whole soul shines out through them. Why, Grandmama, cried Netta, you are really eloquent. So is Gertrude at such times as those I speak of. Oh, she is a girl after my own heart. She must be a very agreeable young lady from your account, said Mr. Pentricourt. We must know her. You will not find her at all the same stamp as most of the agreeable young ladies whom you meet in the gay circles. I must tell you what Horace Willard said of her. He is an accomplished man and a scholar. His opinion is worth something. He had been staying a fortnight at the United States Hotel, and used to call here occasionally to see us. The day he left, he came to me and said, Where is Miss Flint? I must have one more refreshing conversation with her before I go. It is a perfect rest to be in that young lady's society, for she never seems to be making the least effort to talk with me, or to expect any attempt on my part. She is one of the few girls who never speak unless they have something to say. How she has contrived to quiet those children. Mr. Pentricourt followed the direction of Madame Grisworth's eyes. Is that the young lady you are speaking of, asked he, the one with great dark eyes, and such a splendid head of hair? I have been noticing her for some time. Yes, that is she, talking to the little girl in black. Madam Grisworth, said Dr. Jeremy, threw the long open window, and stepping inside as he spoke. I see you appreciate our Gertie. I did not say too much in praise of her good sense, did I? Not half enough, doctor. She is a very bright girl, and a very good one, I believe. Good, exclaimed the doctor, I didn't know that goodness counted in these places. But if goodness is worth speaking of, I should like to tell you a little of what I know of that girl. And without going closely into particulars, he commenced dilating enthusiastically upon Gertrude's noble and disinterested conduct under trying circumstances, and warming with his subject had recounted, in a touching manner, her devotion to one old paralytic, to another in firm imbecile and ill-tempered old man, and his slowly declining daughter, and would have proceeded, perhaps, to speak of her recent self-sacrificing labors in Emily's service. But Miss Graham touched his arm, spoken a low voice, and interrupted him. He stopped abruptly. Emily, my dear, said he, I beg your pardon. I didn't know you were here. But what you say is very true. Gertrude is a private character, and I have no right to bring her before the public. I am an old fool, certainly. But there, we are all friends. And he looked around the circle, a little anxiously, cast a slightly suspicious glance at the pentacourts, and finally rested his gaze upon a figure directly behind Ellen Grisworth. The latter turned, not having been previously aware that any stranger was in the neighborhood, and to her surprise found herself face to face with Mr. Phillips. Good evening, sir, said she, unrecognizing him. But he did not seem to hear her. Madame Grisworth, who had never seen him before, looked up inquiringly. Mr. Phillips, said Ellen, shall I make you acquainted with Mrs. Grisworth, my? But before she could complete the introduction, he had darted quickly through the window, and was walking across the piazza with hasty strides. He drew forth his handkerchief, wiped the moisture from his brow. And unseen and unsuspected, brushed away a tear. It was not thus in other days we met. Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget? Mrs. Hemons. Later in the evening, when Gertrude, having resigned her little charge to the nurse who came to seek her, had again joined her party, the attention of everyone assembled in the drawing-room was attracted by the entrance of a beautiful and showily dressed young lady, attended by two or three gentlemen. After glancing round the room for the person whom she came to seek, she advanced towards Mrs. Pentracourt, who, on her part, rose to receive her young visitor. Unexpected as the meeting was to Gertrude, she at once recognized Isabelle Clinton, who, however, passed both her and Emily without observing them, and there being no vacant chair near at hand, seated herself with Mrs. Pentracourt on a couch a little farther up the room, and entered into earnest and familiar conversation. Nor did she change her position or look in the direction of Dr. Jeremy's party, until just as she was taking her leave. She would have passed them then without noticing their presence, but accidentally hearing Dr. Griesworth address Ms. Flint by name. She half turned, caught Gertrude's eye, spoke a careless, how do you do, with that sort of indifference which once eludes a very slight acquaintance, cast a look back at Emily, surveyed with an impertinent air of curiosity the rest of the circle to which they belonged, and without stopping to exchange words or inquiries, walked off whispering to her companions some satirical comments both upon the place and the company. Oh, what a beauty! exclaimed Netta to Mrs. Pentracourt. Who was she? Mrs. Pentracourt related what she knew of Ms. Clinton, told how she had travelled with her in Switzerland, and met her afterwards in Paris, where she was universally admired. Then turning to Gertrude, she remarked, You are acquainted with her, I see, Ms. Flint. Gertrude replied that she knew her before she went abroad, but had seen nothing of her since her return. She has but just arrived, said Mrs. Pentracourt. She came with her father in the last steamer, and has been in Saratoga but a day or two. She is making a great sensation at the United States I hear, and has troops of bows, most of whom are probably aware, remarked Mr. Pentracourt, that she will have plenty of money one of these days. Emily's attention was by this time attracted. She had been conversing with Ellen Grisworth, but now turned to ask Gertrude if they were speaking of Isabel Clinton. Yes, said Dr. Jeremy, taking upon himself to reply, and if she were not the rudest girl in the world, my dear, you would not have remained so long in ignorance of her having been here. Emily forbore to make any comment. It did not surprise her to hear that the Clintons had returned home, as they had separated from the Grams soon after the letter went abroad, and she had since heard nothing of their movements, nor was she astonished at any degree of invincibility from one who sometimes seemed ignorant of the most common rules of politeness. Gertrude was silent also, but she burned inwardly, as she always did, at any slights being offered to the gentle Emily. Gertrude and Dr. Jeremy were always among the earliest morning visitors at the spring. The doctor enjoyed drinking the water at this hour, and as Gertrude was an early riser and fond of walking before breakfast, he made it a point that she should accompany him, partake of the beverage of which he was himself so fond, and afterwards join him in a brisk pedestrian exercise until near the hour of the morning meal, which was as early as Mrs. Jeremy or Emily cared to have their slumbers disturbed. On the morning succeeding the evening of which we have been speaking, they had as usual presented themselves at the spring. Gertrude had gratified the doctor, and made a martyr of herself, by imbibing a tumbler full of a water which she found very unpalatable, and he, having quaffed his seventh glass, they had both proceeded some distance on one more walk around the grounds, when he suddenly missed his cane, and believing that he had left it at the spring, declared his intention to return and look for it. Gertrude would have gone back also, but as there might be some difficulty and delay in recovering it, he insisted upon her continuing her walk in the direction of the circular railway, promising to come round the other way and meet her. She had proceeded some little distance, and was walking thoughtfully along, when at an abrupt winding in the path she observed a couple approaching her, a young lady leaning on the arm of a gentleman. A straw hat partially concealed the face of the letter, but in the former she at once recognized Bell Clinton. It was equally evident, too, that Bell saw Gertrude and knew her, but did not mean to acknowledge her acquaintance. For after the first glance she kept her eyes obstinately fixed either upon her companion or the ground. This conduct did not disturb Gertrude in the least. Bell could not feel more indifferent about the acquaintance than she did. But being thus saved the necessity of awaiting and returning any salutation from that quarter, she naturally bestowed her passing glance upon the gentleman who accompanied Ms. Clinton. He looked up at the same instant, fixed his full gray eyes upon her, with merely that careless look, however, with which one stranger regards another. Then turning as carelessly away made some slight remark to his companion. They pass on. They have gone some steps, but Gertrude stands fixed to the spot. She feels a great throbbing at her heart. She knows that look, that voice, as well as if she had seen and heard them yesterday. Could Gertrude forget Willie Sullivan? But he has forgotten her. Shall she run after him and stop him and catch both his hands and hers and compel him to see and know and speak to her? She started one step forward in the direction he had taken. Then suddenly paused and hesitated. A crowd of emotions choked, blinded, suffocated her, and while she wrestled with them and they with her, he turned the corner and passed out of sight. She covered her face with her hands, always her first impulse in moments of distress, and leaned against a tree. It was Willie. There was no doubt of that, but not her Willie, the boy Willie. It was true. Time had added but little to his height or breadth of figure, for he was a well-grown youth when he went away. But six years of eastern life, including no small amount of travel, care, exposure, and suffering, had done the work that twice that time would ordinarily have accomplished. The fresh complexion of the boy had given place to the pallor, beard darkened, and somewhat sun-browned tints that mark a ripened manhood. The joyous eye had a deeper cast of thought, the elastic step, a more firm and measured tread, while the beaming, sunny expression of countenance had given place to a certain grave and composed look, which marked his features when in repose. The winning attractiveness of the boy, however, had but given place to equal, if not superior qualities in the man, who was still eminently handsome and gifted with that inborn and natural grace and ease of deportment, which win universal remark and commendation. The broad open forehead, the lines of mild but firm decision about the mouth, the frank fearless manner were as marked as ever, and were alone sufficient to betray his identity, to one upon whose memory these, and all his other characteristics, were indelibly stamped, and Gertrude needed not the sound of his well-known voice. Though that, too, at the same moment fell upon her ear, to proclaim at once to her beating heart that Willie Sullivan had met her face to face, had passed on, and that she was left all alone, unrecognized, unknown, and to all appearance, unthought of, and uncared for. For a time this bitter thought, he does not know me, was alone present to her mind. It filled and engrossed her entire imagination, and sent a thrill of surprise and agony through her whole frame. She did not stop to reflect upon the fact that she was but a child when she parted from him, and that the change in her appearance must be immense. Far less did it occur to her to congratulate herself upon a transformation every shade of which had been to her a proportionate improvement and advantage. The one painful idea that she was forgotten and lost, as it were, to the dear friend of her childhood, obliterated every other recollection. Had they both been children, as in the earlier days of their brother and sisterhood, it would have been easy, and but natural, to start forward, overtake, and claim him. But time, in the changes it had wrought, had built up a huge barrier between them. Gertrude was a woman now, with all a woman's pride, and delicacy and maiden modesty deterred her from the course which impulse and old affection prompted. Other feelings, too, soon crowded into her mind, and confused and mingled a ray. Why was Willie here, and with Isabel Clinton leaning on his arm? How came he on this side of the ocean? And how happened it that he had not immediately sought herself, the earliest, and, as she had supposed, almost the only friend he had left to welcome him back to his native land? Why had he not written and warned her of his coming? How should she account for his strange silence, and the still stranger circumstance of his hurrying at once to the haunts of fashion, without once visiting the city of his birth, and the sister of his adoption? Question after question, and doubt following doubt, rushed into her mind so confusedly that she could not reflect, could not come to any conclusion in the matter. She could only feel and weep, and giving way to her overpowering emotion, she burst into a flood of tears. Poor child, it was so different a meeting from what she had imagined and expected. For the six years that she had been growing into womanhood, it had been the dream of her waking hours, and had come as a beautiful, though transient reality to her happy sleep. He could hardly have presented himself at any hour of the day or night, scarcely in any disguise, that would not have been foreseen and anticipated. He could have used no form of greeting that had not already rung in the ears of her fancy. He could bestow upon her no look that would not be familiar. What will he would say when he first saw her? What he would do to express his delight, the questions he would ask, the exclamations he would utter, and the corresponding replies on her part. The happiness of them both, lately sobered and subdued to her imagination by the thought of the dear departed ones, they had both loved so well. All this had been rehearsed by Gertrude again and again in every new instance taking some new form, or varied by some additional circumstance. But among all her visions there had been none which in the least approached the reality of this painful experience that had suddenly plunged her into disappointment and sorrow. Her darkest dreams had never pictured a meeting so chilling. Her most fearful forebodings, and she had of late had many, had never prefigured anything so heart-rending as the seemingly total annihilation of all the sweet and cherished relations that had subsided between herself and the long absent and exiled wanderer. No wonder, then, that she forgot the place, the time, everything but her own overwhelming grief, and that, as she stood leaning against the old tree, her chest heaved with sobs too deep for utterance, and great tears trickled from her eyes and between the little taper fingers that vainly sought to hide her disturbed countenance. She was startled from her position by the sound of an approaching footstep, hastily starting forward without looking in the direction from which it came, and throwing a lace veil, which, as the day was warm, was the only protection she wore upon her head, in such a manner as to hide her face, she wiped away her fast-flowing tears and hastened on, to avoid being overtaken and observed by any of the numerous strangers who frequented the grounds at this hour. Half-blinded, however, by the thick folds of the veil, and her sight rendered still dimmer by the tears which continued to fill her eyes, she was scarcely conscious of the unsteady course she was pursuing, when suddenly a loud whizzing noise, close to her ears, frightened and confused her so she knew not which way to turn, nor had she time to take a single step, for at the same instant an arm was suddenly flung round her waist, she was forcibly lifted from her feet, with as much ease and lightness as if she had been a little child, and before she was conscious of what was taking place, found herself detained and supported by the same strong arm, while just in front of her a little hand-car containing two persons was rolling by at full speed. One step more and she would have reached the track of the miniature railway, and been exposed to serious, perhaps fatal injury from the rapidly moving vehicle. Flinging back her veil, she at once perceived her fortune to escape, and being at the same moment released from the firm grasp of her rescuer, she turned upon him, a half-confused, half-grateful face, whose disturbed expression was much enhanced by her previous excitement and tears. Mr. Phillips, for it was he, looked upon her in the most tender and pitying manner. Poor child, said he, soothingly, at the same time drawing her arm through his. You were very much frightened. Here sit down upon this bench, and he would have drawn her towards a sea. But she shook her head, and signified by a movement, her wish to proceed towards the hotel. She could not speak. The kindness of his look and voice only served to increase her trouble, and rob her of her power to articulate. So he walked on, in perfect silence, supporting her, however, with the greatest care, and bestowing upon her many an anxious glance. At last, making a great effort to recover her calmness, she partially succeeded. So much so that he ventured to speak again, and asked, Did I frighten you? You replied she, and a low, and somewhat unsteady voice. Oh, no, you are very kind. I am sorry you are so disturbed, said he. Those little cars are troublesome things. I wish they'd put a stop to them. The car, said Gertrude, in an absent way. Oh yes, I forgot. You are a little nervous, I fear. Can't you get Dr. Jeremy to prescribe for you? The doctor? He went back for his cane, I believe. Mr. Phillips saw that she was bewildered. Obtuse he knew she never was, for within the last few days his acquaintance with her had grown and ripened by frequent intercourse. He forebore any attempt at conversation, and they continued their walk to the hotel without another word. Just before leaving her, however, he said, in a tone of the deepest interest, as he held her hand for a moment at parting. Can I do anything for you? Can I help you? Gertrude looked up at him. She saw at once, from his countenance, that he understood and realized that she was unhappy, not nervous. Her eyes thanked him as they again glistened behind a shower of tears. No, no, gasped she, but you are very good. And she hastened into the house, leaving him standing for more than a minute in the spot where she had left him, gazing at the door by which she had disappeared, as if she were still in sight, and he were watching her. Gertrude's first thought, after parting from Mr. Phillips, and gaining the shelter of the hotel, was, how she might best conceal from all her friends, and especially from Miss Graham, any knowledge of the load of grief she was sustaining. That she would receive sympathy and comfort from Emily, there could be no doubt. But in proportion as she loved and respected her benefactress, did she shrink with jealous sensitiveness from any disclosure which was calculated to lesson Willie Sullivan in the estimation of one in whose opinion she was anxious that he should sustain the high place to which her own praises had exalted him. The chief knowledge that Emily had of Willie was derived from Gertrude, and with a mingled feeling of tenderness for him, and pride on her account, did the letter dread to disclose the fact that he had returned after so many years of absence, that she had met him in the public walks of Saratoga, and that he had passed her carelessly by. The possibility naturally presented itself to her mind that he had indeed visited Boston, sought her, and learning where she might be found, had come hither purposely to see her. Nor on calm reflection did this supposition seem contradicted by his failing, on a mere casual glance, to recognize her. For she could not be ignorant or insensible of the vast change which had taken place, both in her face and figure. But the ray of hope which this thought called up was quickly dissipated by the recollection of a letter received the previous evening from Mrs. Ellis, now acting as housekeeper at Dr. Jeremy's, which would certainly have mentioned the arrival of so important a visitor. There was, however, the still further possibility that this arrival might have taken place since the day of Mrs. Ellis's concise epistle, and that Willie might have but just reached his destination, and not yet had time to discover her temporary place of abode. Though the leisurely manner in which he was escorting Ms. Clinton on her morning walk seemed to contradict this supposition, Gertrude clinging fondly to this frail hope, and believing that the rest of the day would not pass without his presenting himself at the hotel, determined to concentrate all her energies and the effort to maintain her usual composure, at least until her fears should become certainties. It was very hard for her to appear as usual, and elude the vigilance of the affectionate and careful Emily, who always deeply conscious of her responsibility towards her young charge, and fearful lest, owing to her blindness, she might often be an insufficient protection to one of so ardent and excitable a temperament, was keenly alive to every sensation and emotion experienced by Gertrude, especially to any fluctuation in her usually cheerful spirits. And Gertrude's spirits, even when she had armed herself with confidence and hope by the encouraging thought that Willie would yet prove faithful to his old friendship, could not but be sorely depressed by the consciousness now forced upon her that he could no longer be to her as he had once been, that they could never meet on the same footing on which they had parted, that he was a man of the world now with no relations, new cares, new interests, and that she had been deceiving herself, and laboring under a fond delusion, and cherishing the belief that in their case the laws of nature would be suspended, and time have no power to alter or modify the nature and extent of their mutual affection. There was something in the very circumstance of her first meeting him in company with Isabel Clinton, which tended to impress her with this conviction. Isabel of all people, one so essentially worldly, and with whom she had so little sympathy or congeniality? True, she was the daughter of Willie's early and generous employer, now the senior partner in the mercantile house to which he belonged, and would not only be likely to form his acquaintance, but would have an undoubted claim to every play attention he might have it in his power to pay her. But still Gertrude could not feel it but a greater sense of estrangement, a chilling presentiment of sorrow, from seeing him thus familiarly associated with one who had invariably treated her with scorn and incivility. There was but one thing for her to do, however, to call up all her self-command, bring pride even to her aid and endeavor in any event, to behave with serenity and composure. The very fear that one keen and searching pair of eyes had already penetrated her secret so far as to discover that she was afflicted in some form or other, served to put her still more upon her guard, and she therefore compelled herself to enter the room where Emily was awaiting her, bid her a cheerful good morning, and assist, as usual, in the completion of her toilet. Her face still bore indications of recent tears, but that Emily could not see, and by breakfast time even they were effectually removed. Now again new trials awaited her, for Dr. Jeremy, according to his promise, had, after recovering the missing cane, gone to meet her in the direction agreed upon, and finding her false to her appointment, and nowhere to be found among the grounds, was full of inquiries as to the path she had taken, and her reasons for giving him the slip. Now for the first time she recollected the doctor's promise to rejoin her, and the stipulation that she should proceed in the path she was then following. But having, until these questions were put to her, quite forgotten the old gentleman, she was unprepared for a reply, blushed, and became very much confused. The truth was that when Gertrude heard Mr. Phillips approaching, in the direction she should have taken, she, and her eagerness to avoid meeting anyone, took the contrary path that she had been pursuing, and after he joined her, retraced her steps to the hotel in the same way she had come, consequently eluding the search of the doctor. But before she could plead any excuse, Netta Grisworth came running up, evidently full of pleasantry and fun, and leaning over Gertrude's shoulder, said in a whisper loud enough to be heard by all the little circle, who were being delayed on their way to breakfast by the doctor's demand for an explanation. Gertrude, my dear, such affecting partings ought to be private, I wonder you did allow them to take place directly at the doorstep. This remark did not lessen Gertrude's disconfiture, which became extreme on Dr. Jeremy's catching Netta by the arm as she was about to run off, and insisting upon knowing her meaning, declaring that he already had suspicions of Gertrude, and wanted to know who she had been walking with. Oh, a certain tall young bow of hers, who stood gazing after her when she left him, until I began to fear the cruel creature had turned him into stone. What did you do to the poor man, Gertrude? Nothing, replied Gertrude. He saved me from being thrown down by the little rail-car, and afterwards walked home with me. Gertrude answered seriously. She could have laughed and joked with Netta at any other time, but now her heart was too heavy. The doctor did not perceive her growing agitation, however, and pushed the matter still further. Quite romantic, imminent danger, providential rescue, ta-ta-ta walk home, carefully avoiding the old doctor who might prove an interruption. I understand. Poor Gertrude, blushing scarlet and pitiably distressed, tried to offer some explanation, and stammered out, with a faltering voice, that she did not notice. She didn't remember. Ellen Griesworth gave her a scrutinizing glance. Emily, an anxious one, and Netta, half pitying, half enjoying her confusion, dragged her off towards the breakfast-hall, saying, Never mind, Gertrude, it's no such dreadful thing after all. She made a pretense of eating breakfast, but could not conceal her want of appetite, and was glad, when Emily had finished her light repast, to accompany her to their own room, where, after relating circumstantially her escape from accident, and Mr. Phillip's agency in that escape, she was permitted by her apparently satisfied hearer, to sit down quietly, and read aloud to her in a book, lent them by that gentleman, to whom, however, owing to unfriendly fortune, no opportunity had ever yet occurred of introducing Emily. The whole morning passed away, and nothing was heard from Willie. Every time a servant passed through the entry, Gertrude was on the tiptoe of expectation, and on occasion of a tap at the door, such as occurred several times before dinner, she trembled so that she could hardly lift the latch. There was no summons to the parlor, however, and by noon the feverish excitement of alternate expectation and disappointment had brought a deep flesh into her face, and she experienced, what was very unusual, symptoms of a severe headache. Conscious, however, of the wrong construction, which would be sure to put upon her conduct, if upon any plea she on this day absented to herself from the dinner table. She made the effort to dress with as much care as usual, and as she passed up the hall to her seat, it was not strange that, though suffering herself, the rich glow that mantled her cheeks, and the brilliancy which excitement had given to her dark eyes, attracted the notice of others beside Mr. Phillips, who seated at some distance, continued during the short time that he remained at the table, to observe her attentively. CHAPTER XXXIX O'er the rung heart, from midnight's breathless sky, Lone looks the pity of the eternal eye. NEW TIMON When Gertrude went to her room after dinner, which she did, as soon as she had seen Emily comfortably established in the drawing-room, in conversation with Madame Grisworth, she found there a beautiful bouquet of the choicest flowers which the chambermaid assured her she had been commissioned to deliver herself. She rightly imagined the source from whence they came, divined at once the motives of kindness and sympathy which had prompted the donor of so sweet and acceptable a gift, and felt that, if she must accept pity from any quarter, Mr. Phillips was one from whom she could more easily bear to receive it than from almost any other. Notwithstanding that as intimations, she did not for a moment suspect that any other motives than those of kindness and compassion had instigated the offering of the beautiful flowers. Nor had she reasoned to do so. Mr. Phillips' manner towards her was rather fatherly than lover-like, and though she began to look upon him as a valuable friend, that was the only light in which she had ever thought of viewing him, or believed that he ever regarded her. She placed the flowers in water, returned to the parlor, and constrained herself to talk on indifferent subjects, until she was happily relieved by the breaking up of their circle, part to ride on horseback, part to take a drive, and the rest a nap. Among these last was Gertrude, who availed herself of her headache as an excuse to Emily for this unwanted indulgence. But she could not sleep, and the day wore wearily on. Evening came at last, and with it an urgent invitation to Gertrude, to accompany Dr. Grisworth, his daughters, and the pentacourts, to a concert to be given at the United States Hotel. This she declined doing, and persisted in her refusal, in spite of every endeavor to shake her resolution. She felt that it would be impossible for her to undergo another such encounter as that of the morning. She should be sure to betray herself. And now that the whole day had passed, and Willie had made no attempt to see her, she felt that she would not, for the world, put herself in his way, and run the risk of being discovered and recognized by him in a crowded concert-room. No, she would wait. She should see him soon, at the latest, and under the present circumstances, she should not know how to meet him. She would preserve her incognito a little longer. So they all went without her, and many others from their hotel. And the parlor, being half deserted, was very quiet, a great relief to Gertrude's aching head and troubled mind. Later in the evening, an elderly man, a clergyman, had been introduced to Emily, and was talking with her. Madam Grisworth and Dr. Jeremy were entertaining each other. Mrs. Jeremy was nodding, and Gertrude, believing that she should not be missed, was gliding out of the room to go and sit awhile by herself in the moonlight, when she met Mr. Phillips in the hall. What are you here all alone for, asked he. Why didn't you go to the concert? I have a headache. I saw you had, at dinner. Is it no better? No, I believe not. Come and walk with me on the piazza a little while, it will do you good. She went, and he talked very entertainingly to her, told her a great many amusing anecdotes, succeeded in making her smile, and even laugh, and seemed very much pleased at having done so. He related many amusing things he had seen and heard, since he had been staying at Saratoga in the character of a spectator, and ended by asking her if she didn't think it was a heartless show. The question took Gertrude by surprise. She asked his meaning. Don't you think there is something very ridiculous in so many thousand people coming here to enjoy themselves? I don't know, answered Gertrude, but it has not seemed so to me. I think it's an excellent thing for those who do enjoy themselves. And how many do? The greater part, I suppose. Pasha! No, they don't. More than half go away miserable, and nearly all the rest dissatisfied. Do you think so? Now, I thought the charm of the place was seeing so many happy faces. They have nearly all looked happy to me. Oh, that's all on the surface. And if you'll notice, those who look happy one day are wretched enough the next. Yours was one of the happy faces yesterday, but it isn't today, my poor child. Then perceiving that his remark caused the hand which rested on his arm to tremble, while the eyes which had been attentively raised to his suddenly fell, and hid themselves under their long lashes, he continued, however, we will trust soon to see it as bright as ever. But they should not have brought you here. Catskill Mountain was a fitter place for your lively imagination and reflecting mind. A sensitive nature should not be exposed to all the shafts of malice, envy, and ill-will. It is sure to encounter in one of these crowded resorts of selfish, base, and cruel humanity. Oh! exclaimed Gertrude at once comprehending that Mr. Philip suspected her to be smarting under some neglect, feeling of wounded pride, or perhaps serious injury. You speak harshly. All are not selfish. All are not unkind. Ah, you are young and full of faith. Trust whom you can and as long as you can. I trust no one. No one is there none, then, in the whole world whom you love and confide in? Scarcely, certainly not more than one. Whom should I trust? The good, the pure, the truly great. And who are they? How shall we distinguish them? I tell you, my young friend, that in my experience, and it has been rich, I very rich, and he set his teeth and spoke with bitterness. The so-called good, the honorable, the upright man, has proved but the varnished hypocrite, the highly finished and polished sinner. Yes, continued he, his voice growing deeper, his manner more excited as he spoke. I can think of one, a respectable man, one of your first men, yes, and a church member, whose hardness, injustice, and cruelty made my life what it has been. A desert, a blank, or worse than that. And I can think of another. An old, rough, intemperate sailor, over whose head a day never passed that he did not take the name of his God in vain. Who had, nevertheless, at the bottom of his heart, a drop of such pure, un-sullied essence of virtue as could not be distilled from the souls of ten thousand of your polished rogues. Which, then, shall I trust, the good, religious men, or the low, profane and abject ones? Trust in goodness wherever it be found, answered Gertrude. But, oh, trust all rather than none. Your world, your religion, draws a closer line. Call it not my world, or my religion, said Gertrude. I know of no such line. I know of no religion, but that of the heart. Christ died for us all alike, and since few souls are so sunk in sin that they do not retain some spark of virtue and truth. Who shall say, and how many a light will at last spring up, by eight of which they may find their way to God? You are a good child, and full of hope and charity, said Mr. Phillips, pressing her arm closely to his side. I will try and have faith in you. But see, our friends have returned from the concert. Let us go and meet them. They had had a delightful time. Elboni had excelled herself, and they were so sorry Gertrude did not go. But perhaps, whispered Netta, you have enjoyed yourself more at home. She half-repented of the sly intimation, even before the words had escaped her, for Gertrude, as she stood leaning unconcernedly upon Mr. Phillips' arm, looked so innocent of confusion or embarrassment that her very manner refuted Netta's suspicions. Miss Clinton was there, continued Netta, and looked beautifully. She had a crowd of gentlemen about her. But didn't you notice, and she turned to Mrs. Pentracourt, that one seemed to me with such marked favor, that I wonder the rest were not discouraged. I mean that tall, handsome young man, who waited upon her in the hall, and went out soon after. She devoted herself to him while he stayed. It was the same one, was it not? asked Ellen, who afterwards, towards the close of the concert, came in and stood leaning against the wall for some minutes. Yes, answered Netta, but he only waited for Elboni to finish singing, and then approaching Miss Clinton leaned over and whispered a word or two in her ear. After that she got up, left her seat, and they both went off, rather to the mortification of the other gentleman. I noticed them pass by the window where we sat, and walk across the grounds together. Yes, just in the midst of that beautiful piece from Lucia, said Ellen, how could they go away? Oh, it is not strange, under the circumstances, said Mr. Pentracourt, that Miss Clinton should prefer a walk with Mr. Sullivan to the best music in the world. Why, asked Netta, is he very agreeable? Is he supposed to be the favored one? I should think there was no doubt of it, answered Mr. Pentracourt. I believe it was generally thought to be an engagement. He was in Paris with them during the spring, and they all came home in the same steamer. Everybody knows it is the wish of Mr. Clinton's heart, and Miss Isabelle makes no secret of her preference. Oh, certainly! interposed Mrs. Pentracourt. It is an understood thing. I heard it spoken of by two or three persons this evening. What became of Gertrude all this time? Could she, who for six years had nursed the fond idea that to Willie she was, and should still continue to be, all in all, could she stand patiently by, and hear him thus disposed of, and given to another? She did do it, not consciously, however, for her head swam round, and she would have fallen but for the firm support of Mr. Phillips, who held her arm so tightly that, though he felt, the rest could not see how she trembled. Fortunately, too, none but he thought of noticing her blanched face, and as she stood somewhat in the shadow, he alone, fully aware of her agitation, was watching the strained and eager eyes, the parted and rigid lips, the deathlike pallor of her countenance. Standing there with her heart beating like a heavy drum, and almost believing herself in a horrid dream, she listened attentively, heard and comprehended every word. She could not, however, have spoken or moved for her life, and in an instant more accident might have betrayed her excited and almost alarming condition. But Mr. Phillips acted, spoke, and moved for her, and she was spared an exposure from which her delicate and sensitive spirit would have shrunk indeed. Mr. Sullivan, said he, ah, a fine fellow, I know him. Ms. Gertrude, I must tell you an anecdote about that young man, and moving forward in the direction in which they had been walking when they met the party from the concert. He made as if they were still intending to prolong their promenade. A promenade, however, in which he was the only walker, for Gertrude was literally born upon his arm. Until the rest of the company, who started at the same moment for the parlor, were hid within its shelter, and he and his companion were left the sole occupants of that portion of the pieza. Until then he proceeded with his story, and went so far as to relate that he and Mr. Sullivan were, a few years previous, traveling together across an Arabian desert, when the latter proved of signal service in saving him from a sudden attack by a wandering tribe of Bedouins. By the time he had thus opened his narration he perceived that all danger of observation was past, and hesitated not to stop abruptly, and without ceremony or apology place her in an armchair which stood conveniently near. Sit here, said he, while I go and bring you a glass of water. He then wrapped her mantle tightly about her, and walked quickly away. Oh, how Gertrude thanked him in her heart for thus considerably leaving her, and giving her time to recover herself. It was the most judicious thing he could have done, and the kindness. He saw that she would not faint, and knew that left alone she would soon rally her powers. Perhaps be deceived by the idea that even he was only half aware of her agitation, and wholly ignorant of its cause. He was gone some minutes, and when he returned she was perfectly calm. She tasted the water, but he did not urge her to drink it. He knew she did not require it. I have kept you out too long, said he. Come, you had better go in now. She rose. He put her arm once more through his, guided her feeble steps to a window which opened into hers and Emily's room. And then, pausing a moment, said in a meaning tone, at the same time enforcing his words by the fixed glance of his piercing eye. You exhort me, Ms. Gertrude, to have faith in everybody. But I bid you, all inexperienced as you are, to beware lest you believe too much. Where you have good foundation for confidence, abide by it if you can, firmly and bravely. But trust nothing which you have not fairly tested. And especially rest assured that the idle gossip of a place like this is utterly unworthy of credit. Good night. What an utter revulsion of feeling these words occasioned Gertrude. They came to her with all the force of a prophecy and struck deep into her heart. Was there not wisdom in the Strangers' Council? It was true, she thought, that he spoke merely such simple axioms as a long experience of the world might dictate. But how forcible, in her case, was their application? Had not she, blindly yielding to her gloomy presentiments and fears, been willing to lend a too-ready ear to the whisperings of her own jealous imagination, and a too credulous one to the idle reports of others? Well, in reality, she had proved a traitor to a more noble trust. Who, during the many years she had known him, could have proved himself more worthy of confidence than Willie? Had he not, from his boyhood, been exemplary in every virtue, superior to every meanness and every form of vice? Had he not, in his early youth, forsaken all that he held most dear, detoiled labour beneath an Indian son, that he might provide comforts and luxuries for those who support he eagerly took upon himself? Had he not ever proved honourable, high-minded, sincere, and warm of heart? Above all, had he not been imbued from his infancy with the highest and purest of Christian principles? He had indeed been all this, and while Gertrude called it to mind, and dwelt upon each phase of his consistent course, she could not fail to remember, too, that Willie, whether as the generous, kind-hearted boy, the adventurous, energetic youth, the successful respected, yet sorrow-tried man, had ever manifested towards her the same deep, ardent, enthusiastic attachment, the love which he had shown for her in her childhood, and during that period when, though still a child, she laboured under the full-grown care and sorrow entailed upon her by Uncle True sickness and death, had seemed to grow and deepen in every successive day, month, and year of their separation. During their long and regular correspondence, no letter had come from Willie that did not breathe the same spira of devoted affection for Gertrude, an exclusive affection in which there could be no rivalship. All his thoughts of home and future happy days were inseparably associated with her. And although Mrs. Sullivan, with that instinct of reserve which was one of her characteristics, never broached the subject to Gertrude, her whole treatment of the letter sufficiently evinced that to her mind the event of her future union with her son was a thing certain. The whole declaration on Willie's part conveyed in the letter received by Gertrude soon after his mother's death, that his hopes, his prayers, his labours were now all for her, was not a more convincing proof of the tender light in which she regarded her than all their previous intercourse had been. Should Gertrude then distrust him? Should she at once set aside all past evidences of his worth, and give ready credence to his prompt desertion of his early friend? No, she resolved immediately to banish the unworthy thought, to cherish still the firm belief that some explanation would shortly offer itself, which would yet satisfy her aching heart. Until then she would trust him, bravely and firmly too would she trust, for her confidence was not without foundation. As she made this heroic resolve, she lifted up her drooping head and gazed out into the night. The moon had gone down, and the sky was studded with stars, bright, clear, and beautiful. Gertrude loved a starry night. It invigorated and strengthened her. And now as she looked up, directly above her head, stood the star she so much loved. The star which she had once fondly fancied, it was Uncle True's blessed privilege to light for her. And, as in times long past, these heavenly lights had spoken of comfort to her soul. She seemed now to hear ringing in her ears, the familiar saying of the dear old man, Cheer up, birdie, for I'm of the pinion, to all come out right at last. Gertrude continued through the short remainder of the evening, in an elevated frame of mine, which might almost be termed joyful. And thus sustained, she was able to go back to the drawing-room for Emily, say good night to her friends with a cheerful voice, and before midnight she sought her pillow and went quietly to sleep. This composed state of mind, however, was partly the result of strong excitement, and therefore could not last. The next morning found her once more yielding to depressed spirits, and the effort which she made to rise, dress, and go to breakfast, was almost mechanical. She excused herself from her customary walk with the doctor, for to that she felt quite unequal. Her first wish was to leave Saratoga, she longed to go home, to be in a quiet place, where so many eyes would not be upon her. And when the doctor came in with the letters which had arrived by the early mail, she looked at them so eagerly that he observed it, and said, smilingly, none for you, Gertrude, but one for Emily, which is the next best thing, I suppose. To Gertrude this was the very best thing, for it was a long expected letter from Mr. Graham, which would probably mention the time of his return from abroad, and consequently determine the continuance of her own and Emily's visit at Saratoga. To their astonishment he had already arrived in New York, and desired them to join him there the following day. Gertrude could hardly conceal her satisfaction, which was, however, if noticed by her friends, merely attributed to the pleasure she probably felt at the return of Mr. and Mrs. Graham. And Emily, really delighted at the prospect of so soon meeting her father, to whom she was fondly attached, was eager to commence preparations for leaving. They therefore retired to their own room, and Gertrude's time until dinner was fully occupied in the business of packing. Throughout the whole of the previous day she had been anxiously hoping that Willie would make his appearance at their hotel. Now, on the contrary, she as earnestly dreaded such an event. To meet him in so public a manner, too, as must be here inevitable, would, under her present state of feelings, be insupportable. She would infinitely prefer to be in Boston when he should first see and recognize her. And if she tormented herself yesterday with the fear that he would not come, the dread that he might do so was a still greater cause of distrust to her today. She was therefore relieved when after dinner Mr. Phillips kindly proposed a drive to the lake. Dr. Grisworth and one of his daughters had, he assured Gertrude, agreed to take seats in a carriage which he had provided, and he hoped she would not refuse to occupy the fourth. As it was an hour when Emily would not require her presence, and she would thus be sure to avoid Willie, she gladly consented to the arrangement. They had been at the lake nearly an hour. Dr. Grisworth and his daughter Ellen had been persuaded by a party whom they met there to engage in bowling. Mr. Phillips and Gertrude had declined taking part, but stood for some time looking on. The day, however, being warm, and the air in the building uncomfortably close, they had gone outside and seated themselves on a bench at a little distance, to wait until the game was concluded. As they sat thus, surveying the beautiful sheet of water, now rosy red with the rays of the descending sun, a couple approached, and took up a position near them. Mr. Phillips was quite screened from their observation by the trunk of a huge tree, and Gertrude sufficiently so to be unnoticed, though the sudden paleness which overspread her face as they drew near was so marked as clearly to indicate that she saw and recognized William Sullivan and Isabelle Clinton. The words which they spoke also fell distinctly upon her ear. Shall I then be so much missed? asked Isabelle, looking earnestly into the face of her companion, who with the serious air was gazing out upon the water. Missed, replied he, turning towards her, and speaking in a slightly reproachful voice. How can it be otherwise? Who can supply your place? But it will be only two days. A short time, under ordinary circumstances, said Willie. But an eternity. Here he checked himself, and made a sudden motion to proceed on their walk. Isabelle followed him, saying, But you will wait here until my return. He again turned to reply, and this time the reproachful look which overspread his features was visible to Gertrude, as he said, with great earnestness. Certainly, can you doubt it? The strange, fixed, unnatural expression which took possession of Gertrude's countenance as she listened to this conversation, to her so deeply fraught with meaning, was fearful to witness. Gertrude exclaimed Mr. Phillips, after watching her for a moment. Gertrude, for heaven's sake, do not look so. Speak, Gertrude, what is the matter? But she did not turn her eyes, did not move a feature of that stony face. She evidently did not hear him. He took her hand. It was cold as marble. His face now wore an appearance of distress, almost equal to her own. Great tears rushed to his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. Once he stretched forth his arms, as if he would gladly clasp her to his bosom and soothe her like a little child. But with evident effort he repressed the emotion. Gertrude said he, at length, leaning forward and fixing his eyes full upon hers. What have these people done to you? Why do you care for them? If that young man has injured you, the rascal, he shall answer for it, and he sprung to his feet. The words and the action brought Gertrude to herself. No, no, said she. He is not that. I am better now. Do not speak of it. Don't tell. And she looked anxiously in the direction of the bowling alley. I am a great deal better. And to his astonishment, for the fearful rigid look on her face had frightened him, she rose with perfect composure and proposed going home. He accompanied her silently, and before they were half way up the hill where they had left the carriage, they were overtaken by the rest of their party, and in a few moments were driving toward Saratoga. During the whole drive and the evening which followed, Gertrude preserved the same, rigid, unnatural composure. Once or twice before they reached the hotel, Dr. Griesworth asked her if she fell ill, and Mr. Phillips turned many an anxious glance towards her. The very tones of her voice were constrained. So much so that Emily, on her reaching the house, inquired at once, What is the matter, my dear child? But she declared herself quite well, and went through all the duties and proprieties of the evening, bidding farewell to many of her friends, and when she parted from the Griesworths, arranging to see them again in the morning. To the careless eye, Emily was the more troubled of the two, for Emily could not be deceived, and reflected back, in her whole demeanor, the better concealed sufferings of Gertrude. Gertrude neither knew at the time nor could afterwards recall one half of the occurrences of that evening. She never could understand what it was that sustained her, and enabled her, half unconsciously, to perform her part in them. How she so successfully concealed the misery she was enduring, she never could comprehend or explain. She remembered it only as if it had all been a dream. Not until the still hours of the night, when Emily appeared to be soundly sleeping by her side, did she venture for an instant to loosen the iron bands of restraint which she had imposed upon herself. But then the barrier removed, the pent-up torrent of her grief burst forth without check or hindrance. She rose from her bed, and burying her face in the cushions of a low couch, which stood near the window, gave herself up to blessed tears, every drop of which was a relief to her aching soul. Since her early childhood, she had never indulged so long and unrestrained a fit of weeping, and the heaving of her chest, and the deep sobs she uttered, proved the depth of her agony. All other sorrows had found in her a great deal fortified and prepared, armed with a religious trust and encouraged by a holy hope. But beneath the sudden and unlooked-for-blow she bent, staggered and shrunk, as the sapling of a summer's growth heaves and trembles beneath a wintery blast. That willy was faithless to his first love, she could not now feel a shadow of a doubt, and with this conviction she realized that the prop instay of her life had fallen. Uncle True and Mrs. Sullivan were both her benefactors, and Emily was still a dear and steadfast friend. But all of these had been more or less dependent upon Gertrude, and although she could ever repose in the assurance of their love, two had long before they passed away come to lean wholly upon her youthful arm, and the other, the last one left, not only trusted her to guide her on certain steps, but those steps were evidently now tending downwards to the grave. Upon whom, then, should Gertrude lean, to whom should she look as a staff of her young and inexperienced life, to whom could she, with confidence, turn for counsel, protection, support, and love, to whom but willy, and willy had given his heart to another, and Gertrude would soon be left alone. No wonder, then, that she wept as the broken-hearted weep, wept until the fountain of her tears was dry, and she felt herself sick, faint, and exhausted. And now she rose, approached the window, flung back from her forehead the heavy folds of her long hair, leaned out, and from the breath of the cool night breeze drank in a refreshing influence. Her soul grew calmer, as with her eyes fixed upon the bright lights which shone so sweetly and calmly down, she seemed to commune with holy things. Once more they seemed to compassionate her, and as in the days of her lonely childhood, to whisper, Gertrude, Gertrude, poor little Gertrude, softened and touched by their pitying glance, she gradually sunk upon her knees. Her uplifted face, her clasped hands, the sweet expression of resignation now gradually creeping over her countenance, all gave evidence that, as on the occasion of her first silent prayer to the then unknown God, her now enlightened soul was holding deep communion with its maker. And once more her spirit was uttering the simple words, Here I am, Lord. A blessed religion which can sustain the heart in such an hour as this. O blessed faith and trust, which when earthly support fails us, and our strongest earthly stay proves but a rope of sand, lifts the soul above all other need, and clasps it to the bosom of its God. And now a gentle hand is laid upon her head. She turns and sees Emily, whom she had believed to be asleep, but from whom anxiety had effectually banished slumber. And who, with fears redoubled by the sobs which Gertrude could not wholly repress, is standing by her side. Gertrude, said she, in a grieved tone, are you in trouble and did you seek to hide it from me? Do not turn from me, Gertrude. And throwing her arms around her, she drew her head close to her bosom, and whispered, Tell me all, my darling, what is the matter with my poor child? And Gertrude unburdened her heart to Emily, disclosing to her a ten of ear the confession of the only secret she had ever kept from her. And Emily wept as she listened. And when Gertrude had finished she pressed her again and again to her heart, exclaiming as she did so, with an excitement of tone and manner, which Gertrude had never before witnessed in the usually calm and blessed blind girl. Strange, strange, that you, too, should be thus doomed. Oh, Gertrude, my darling, we may well weep together, but still, believe me, your sorrow is far less bitter than mine. And then, in the darkness of that midnight hour, was Gertrude's confidence rewarded by the revelation of that tale of grief and woe which twenty years before had blighted Emily's youth, and which, notwithstanding the flight of time, was still vivid to her recollection, casting over her life a dark shadow of which her blindness was but a single feature.