plan contrived beforehand! That girl had gone, and Paul had gone, to the camp-meeting, to meet each other! If he thwarted all her wishes and defied her this lawless son!-at least she would pour out upon him her wrath; and she did. Paul looked her in the eyes, and listened till she accused him of the precontrived plan for meeting Eirene at the camp-meeting. Then his face blanched, and, without a word in reply, he turned, walked out of the room, and out of the house.

A very few moments after, Tabitha Mallane, from the window, saw him mount Fleetfoot and ride rapidly away. Then she knew what she had done. She sat down and rocked the cradle for an hour, with what force you may imagine; for the baby screamed with the colic for the next twelve.

During the first half of his ride, Paul thought chiefly of his mother. With out knowing it, he was glad in his heart that she had given him an excuse for just what he was at this present moment doing.

"She made me," he said to himself, approbatively. "Does she suppose that a man is going to stand and be accused of what he is not guilty, and not reward himself for such injustice? I've tried hard enough to do what she thought best, and what I tried to think best; but, hang it, I'm doing what I know is best now! Yet, I might have kept from it, if she hadn't accused me in advance."

The momentum of his wrath was spent by the time he reached the summit of the Hilltop road. Here he inquired the way of Farmer Stave, sitting on the station-steps, waiting for the train. In a few moments he had struck into the mountain-road. Its grass-grown paths ran on smoothly to Hillside. Now his mother seemed far behind. Every step brought him nearer to her. Every plan and project of his busy brain was this moment as void as if it had never been. All his scheming youth had receded and vanished out of his consciousness. All his future, with its dazzling pictures of wealth and power, had faded

from his sight. The present possessed him. He loved her. He was near her. A few moments more, and he should see her, and tell her the truth-the whole truth. What the consequences of this truth-telling may be, he does not ask. Consequences" he has not even the power to remember. Young men of twenty-four, who, in defiance of their own many maxims of prudence, and in open revolt against their mothers, suddenly commit themselves to . an overmastering love-passion, seldom think of consequences, or inquire after them. Do they? Certainly, Paul Mallane did not. How could he minister to this life which he was seeking? If he wooed and won this girl, could he make her happy as his wife? Was he fit to be her husband? Were they together fitted, by temperament, education, and love, for harmonious, life-long companionship? These were afterthoughts. Paul had not reached the moment of after-thoughts. Youth, in the first ardor of love, never does. He was in love-utterly in love; that was all he thought or knew. That is about all most men think or know, when first struck into this blissful condition. Is it not?

Thus Paul pricked Fleetfoot's sides, and the thud of his hoofs in the soft turf grew more and more rapid. In a few moments the woods were passed, and there, in the wide space on the other side of the river, was Hillside farm!

As you already know, it was a lowly abode; yet it possessed two indispensable elements of beauty-fitness and harmony. It belonged to the landscape; it seemed to complete and perfect it. In a different mood, Paul would have pronounced it a "poor affair.” You may judge of the exaltation of his mental condition, by the fact that he never thought to compare it with Marlboro Hill. He only said, "How pleasant! I should think an innocent might have grown up in a spot like this." Meanwhile, our maiden still sits by the window, building beautiful palaces in her field of tobacco-following with her

eyes the sailing clouds, watching the lights and shadows which they drop along the mountain-sides and on the woods, heart and eyes overflowing with an unknown happiness. It is the story old as the earth-the maiden waiting for the man, the man coming to woo the maiden.

Here I feel inclined to stop, and tell you no more. Silence is never so golden as when it shuts from the world the supreme moments of life. Love, the sweetest ever uttered, seems to lose somewhat of its sacredness when its utterance is heard and repeated. This is why the love-scenes in novels are nearly always too hot or too cold. The lover says too much, or he says too little. The love-making never seems quite natural, quite perfect; and, while we read, we have something the feeling of a person who is listening to what was only meant for the ears of one. As for Paul, in his present mood, he is sure to say too much. I am sure that what he says will not sound well repeated.

Eirene, from her window, sees horse and rider emerge from the road through the woods. This is not an unusual sight. Farmer Stave and Deacon Smoot may be seen jogging forth from it almost any day. But it is doubtful if any thing equal to the arch in Fleetfoot's neck had been ever seen before on any horse which has preceded him. It is this which attracts and fixes Eirene's gaze. She says, "It is!-No, it cannot be! Impossible! But it looks the very same! No-yes-it is!-it is Paul Mallane!" There can be no mistaking him now. Fleetfoot's quick feet are striking impatiently the loose boards of the bridge just below the house with that peculiar muffled ring which has made Eirene look up from her work so many times since she was a little girl. They come more slowly along the road under the maple-trees, as if hesitating or faltering a little upon such near approach to the house.

"Has he come to Hillside for a ride? Can he be coming here? No, he cannot be !-Yes, he must be!" said Eirene in the same instant to herself; yet she

moved not. Very soon she heard Fleet foot striking his shoes against the fence. She could not see the front gate, but she heard it click, and then quick steps along the garden-path and in the old porch; then the old iron knocker sent its loud ring through the silent house, and then for the first time she started with the recollection that there was not a soul below-that she herself must go and open the door. Her father and Win are out in the fields, and her mother and Pansy had gone in the buggy to Hilltop, to buy some extra sweets for the anticipated reunion tea. She kept him waiting scarcely two minutes, but they seemed fifty to Paul; yet she kept him waiting while she did what ninety-nine maidens out of a hundred would have done -she gave a little brush to her hair, and looked wistfully at herself in the little glass, for the first time in her life moved to such an act from the desire to seem not unlovely in the eyes of one.

Paul was just beginning to ask himself if it was possible any unthoughtof dragon could be lurking in the little habitation, when he heard a soft step; then, the door of her lowly home was opened to him by Eirene. Her lovely color came and went, as she frankly extended her hand and invited him to enter.

"I know you are astonished to see me here," began Paul at once; "but, Miss Vale-Eirene-my darling !-don't look frightened; I've called you so a hundred times to myself-I cannot live without you-I cannot even try to; and I have come to tell you so."

Seeing how very emphatic was Paul's first utterance, you see it is better to repeat no more that he said. Not that I am ashamed of it, nor that he had cause to be ashamed of it; for it was the first time in his life that he had uttered the words of an entire, disinterested affection-and it would be the last.

Experiences deeper, more holy, may come to the woman afterwards, but they can never repeat the rapture which runs through the maiden's heart, when for

the first time she is made conscious that she is beloved. Then her life suddenly takes on its complete meaning, and for the first time she knows why she was born. We must remember, outside of her home, how little had come into this girl's life—how barren it was-in order to realize how wonderful and delicious seemed the largess of human love now poured out to her. We must not forget that Paul, though neither morally nor intellectually the god which he appeared to her to be, nevertheless possessed that charm of person and of manner, that magnetism of mind, so potent with women.

We know that women possessed of all the opportunities which fortune and society give, had passed by better men to bestow their preference upon him, solely through this force of personality. Then, what must it have been to this girl, into the whole of whose life before nothing so bright or so strong had ever come! If he was attractive when all that was best in him had been held in abeyance, how much more so was he now, while every look and word of his were transfigured in intense and genuine emotion! What a story was that which fell upon her bewildered and enraptured ears! She listened in thrilling silence, tears and smiles passing over her clear eyes swift as the sunshine and shadow on the woods without, the eloquence of her face every instant increasing the eloquence of the story. What passionate entreaty! Would she love him, and wait for him? Another year, and he would be established in his profession. He could make his own home. Would she be the angel in the house? Would she be his wife? Would she make him what she pleased-noble and good, through his love for her?

It is hard that the retributive cherubim should always be near, and always ready to drive us out of paradise. This time the avenging angel was Muggins. Paul fell straight from heaven at the near rattle of wagon-wheels and the shrill cry of a girl-voice. Nothing could make Muggins lively but the sight of the barn after a little exertion;

and Pansy, seeing that her nose was again endangered, was wildly jerking the reins, and screaming to Muggins to "stop!"

Paul, looking out, saw a plainlydressed woman and little girl drive frantically up to the house, in a very forlorn buggy, with a very remarkablelooking horse. Then for the first time he realized the disagreeable fact that Eirene had relations; and immediately he felt injured that it was possible she could belong to any body but himself. A moment before, it had seemed to him that he and she were alone on the earth-as if he could gather her into his arms and bear her away to be his own, alone, forever. And here was a mother and sister, and no telling how many more relatives, to be consulted! And what a looking horse! He was very much in love, but he could not help seeing Muggins. He forgot her, however, a moment after, when he had been introduced, and was looking into the face of Eirene's mother. She was so like her daughter! The large, soft eyes, with their tender smile and suggestion of tears, won the better Paul directly, and so entirely, that he forgot altogether that her dress was very unfashionable, and her bonnet many seasons old. It was not at all difficult to ask this mother for her child-not for to-day or to-morrow, but when he had proved himself worthy of her, and when he could offer her a home fit for her to adorn and crown.

As Mary Vale listened to Paul, it seemed to her that the enchanting pictures of her youth were all to be made real in the life of her child. She knew Paul well and favorably, through his family name. Of the world in which Paul lived, of its influences and temptations, she knew absolutely nothing. But she knew that she saw before her a handsome, earnest, and eloquent face; that the owner of this face was pleading for the privilege of making the life of her beloved child happy. She believed every word that he said-which is not remarkable, for Paul himself believed every word he said.

It was not thought necessary to introduce Pansy at once; thus she avenged herself by softly peeping through the door. "Oh!" her busy little brain exclaimed, "Oh, what a handsome man! He looks like the Prince in the fairy tale. He has come for Eirene! I know he has, by the way he looks! Why didn't he come for me? I'm so tired of this old place! If somebody don't come for me, I'll run away. I read about a girl who did."

A few moments afterwards, Paul saw this little damsel, and was made acquainted with her. "What a remarkable combination!" he said to himself; "such yellow hair, and such dark eyes -purple-black! What a beauty she'll be, some day! We'll bring her out, and she'll make a great match."

It was a fair picture that Paul saw, as he mounted his horse and looked back: the mother, the maiden, and the little girl-the head touched with gray, the head of auburn-brown, and the head of gold.

"I've seen beauty before-never beauty like this," said Paul, as he looked once more with a smiling adieu, and rode reluctantly away. But it was Eirene's face that went with him, and the touch of her hand as she had given it to him in parting. Fleetfoot paced through the woods with a slow, meditating step, so unlike that of his coming. He had taken on the mood of his rider, whose rein had dropped upon his neck. Paul felt that every step was taking him from the joy of his heart. He could think of nothing but how she had looked-how she had spoken-how incomparably lovely she was, and that, after all, in defiance of every thing, she was to be his! This condition lasted till the Hilltop station was passed. Then it was no longer Hillside, but Busyville, that he was near. Busyville! Why must he go back to Busyville-to Dick Prescott-to the world-above all, to his mother? The face that he had left behind belonged to neither. The heart that he had won beat like a captive's in his father's shop. After all, he had done it done just what his moth

er, what Dick Prescott, had said that he would. He had wooed and won a shop-girl! All these together could not make him regret it. He would stand by her. He would marry her in spite of them all. He had not yet lived to the hard moment of the after-thought.

But it came: it was not possible that it would not come to Paul Mallane. We love as we do every thing else— according to our nature. The defects of temperament, the infirmity of temper, the partial insight, the clouded judgment, the unreasonable prejudice, which distorts so much that is good in us, which mars so many of the fair actions of our daily life, extend no less to our affections. The fault of our character is visible in our love. Paul loved Eirene, but he was no less Paul. In the very glow of his passion, he saw that Muggins was a very ridiculous horse; and, as he came again and again to Hillside, he saw each time more distinctly something which the glamour of his feelings had made imperceptible to him before. It is true, he was too much in love to be moved from his purpose by any thing that he saw. Yet his cool brain asserted itself more and more, in defiance of his passionate heart. His forecasting judgment, on which he had prided himself so long, retaliated for the slight he had shown it, by perpetually tormenting him with suggestions of expediency, amid all his ardor of tenderness. He forgot them while looking into her eyes and taking into his heart the sweet tones of her voice, while walking with her along the voiceful river, or sitting with her in some sheltered nook by its side, ostensibly waiting for the fish which were so deliciously slow to bite. In all his life, Paul had never been so true a Paul as in these moments. He was delicate and chivalric. He would sooner have cut off his hand than to have taken advantage, even by a word, of the innocent and absolute trust of the creature by his side. She was to be his wifehis beloved wife! This was the beginning and end of the sweet story, told over and over in glowing words. Paul

His

builded and furnished the house in which they were to dwell; he even fashioned the ponies and the phaton, which were to be especially her own. He surrounded her with music and flowers, with poetry, beauty, and love; and, as she listened more and more, she breathed in a realm of enchantment. This was life, and life was love, and Paul was its creator and king! It seemed so possible, so real, so very near, this story told to the maiden in white, amid the green leaves' flickering shadows, beside the laughing waters. But how remote, if not impossible, it became the moment Paul sat down in the little house! In that moment his romance suffered a fearful collapse. The thought came to him then, as a possibility, that his bearing Eirene off to his fairy palace might involve the taking with her of her entire family. judgment assured him that he, Paul Mallane, considering the wealthy match that he might have made, had reached a state of perfect magnanimity in love, in that he was willing and glad to marry a girl without a cent; but marrying her family in addition was quite another thing, and more than could be expected even of such a magnanimous man. He knew nothing of the mortgage on Hillside, but, every time he came, he saw more and more clearly the extreme poverty of its inmates. It was written all over the little parlor in which he sat with Eirene, though there was nothing in it which offended his taste, like the parlor in Busyville. But the cheap chintz covers on the lounge and stools and chairs, and the carpet on the floor, had been made by the hands of Eirene and her mother, in their attempt to cover the poverty that would not be hidden. The effect of every thing was refined and scrupulously neat; but oh, how poor! The same story of lifelong poverty was stamped in the patient hopelessness of Lowell Vale's face, in the gentle sadness of his wife's, in the restlessness of Win's, and the peevish discontent of the little Pansy's. It was a great advance on his pleasure-loving life, when Paul Mallane

resolutely made up his mind to work hard in his profession, to marry a poor girl, and to support her by his own efforts in accordance with his position. When we take into consideration Paul's antecedents and habits, it is not surprising that he was appalled at the prospect of any additional burden which might possibly devolve upon him through this marriage. His tormenting head kept reminding him of it, and asking him how he could bear it. Yet, he was so much in love, it made not the slightest difference in his actions. Almost every day, for four bright weeks, Tabitha Mallane saw him mount Fleetfoot and ride away-whither, she knew too well; but the look on his face, so like his father's when he had "made up his mind," compelled her to silence. She asked no questions, made no remonstrance. She knew that it was too late.

For Paul, all the poetry of his life was concentrated in this single month. He had never known its like before; he would never know its like again. The world of planning and of scheming and of ambition was far behind him. He lived in the benign world of nature, and in his truest affections. He uttered more words of love, created more in this little time, than a man under ordinary conditions would in years. He lived more in rich experience and in keen delight in this one month, than do many mortals in a lifetime. Perhaps he felt instinctively that its wonder of joy could never be repeated, and this was why he gave himself entirely to the bliss of the present.

The dreaded parting came. The beautiful tryst ended one starry September night. As Paul looked into the eyes of his darling, and then irresolutely set his face toward the world, he felt himself to be a very miserable fellow, and, as he couldn't have any thing as he wanted it, romantically wished himself dead. Before that extreme moment came, however, caution and prudence had reminded him that some practical arrangement must be made even by a man desperately in love, while he loved