1 to be oppressive, and, tempted by the beauty of the day, she wandered slowly down into the garden. confronted her-for one moment silently, then a strangely-sweet smile broke over his face, and, speaking in a quick but stammering, headlong manner, he said, almost breathlessly, "You-you-you-you're just as pretty as new paint!" The first words were uttered with hesitating difficulty; and then, as if some imperceptible barrier had been suddenly broken down, the words came tumbling out in a precipitous rush. Struck with the comic oddity of the compliment, Rose laughed gayly; and her innocent mirth, joined in, with a clear, musical laugh, and for one moment their young voices mingled in unchecked merriment; then, recall who was gifted with a good deal of natural dignity, checked herself, and supposing him to be an intruder, said, as soon as her recovered breath permitted, But we remember we have not yet introduced her to the reader in proper form and style; and that was wrong, for she was the prettiest figure in our little family group, and quite well worth sitting for her picture as either Mademoiselle de St. Loe or Dr. Summerville; and as the clear summer sunlight is full upon her now, it may be a good time to take her photograph. Miss Rose Tremaine, then, was about eight-strange companion, catching the infection of her een. She was fair and delicate, with all the beauty peculiar to youth. She had a clear, finely-grained complexion of pure red and white, mild hazel eyes, a profusion of bright browned to a sense of her childish impropriety, Rose, hair, and that attractive charm of youth (and which in this country rarely survives it), firm, white, regular, well-set teeth, which were disclosed to view by a sweet and innocent smile. Rose was not a decided beauty, judged by the conventional rules of art, but she had quite enough of personal charms to justify those who loved her in thinking her exceedingly lovely. She was dressed in a light silk, of that peculiar shade of green (doubtless the modistes have a distinctive name for it) which has a subdued, silvery, white lustre over it—such a green as we see in blocks of pure, transparent ice. This dress was flounced nearly to the waist; and around the delicate throat, when the dress was open, and from beneath the wide sleeves, fell a cloud of soft creamy-white lace; her only ornaments being an opal pin and bracelet, whose trembling, changeful rays flashed through the costly lace, and in her soft hair the spray of roses she had just gathered. "What were you doing, and how came you in here?" "I-I-I wasn't a doing no harm," stammered the boy. "It's noon hour; noon hour.” "Oh yes, I dare say," said the young lady, now understanding him to apologize for being found idle. "Then you work here, do you? and what is your name?” "My-my-my name is Penny-Penny Dex ter." 66 " said "And where do you live?" "We-we-we don't live nowhere now," the boy, sadly. Mother's dead.” Ah, indeed! But where do you live?" "I-I-I told you," said the boy, in mournful accents. "I-I-don't live nowhere. Mother's dead. I-I-stay at the gardener's, and work As she walked down the garden path with in Miss Tremaine's garden now. I can pull slow, undulating movement, the many flounces weeds, and pick up sticks, and rake up the of her dress rising and falling with light, billowy walks. Why, Miss Mary says I can rake up e'enmotion, the soft hue of her dress relieved by amost as well as the gardener can! But-butthe foamy whiteness of the lace, and her fresh I didn't use to work here 'fore mother died." young face brightening in the summer light, "Poor boy!" said the young listener, painshe suggested a sense of coolness and purity-fully struck by the mournful repetition of that like the grace of falling water, like some classic one sad note, which seemed to mark the salient fountain. Passing on, "in maiden meditation point in his history; "poor boy! I am very fancy-free," as she crossed the shrubbery her sorry for your loss." step was hastily arrested; she had nearly stepped upon the prostrate body of a boy, or young man, who lay sleeping on the grass. The figure, which was clad in the dress of a working-man, was thrown down in an attitude of careless grace, and might have served as a model; the eyes were closed, the face sunburned and bronzed by exposure, but the brow, from which the moist hair had been brushed back, was smooth and white. But the face, though beautiful, struck the gazer as peculiar: it was the face of a child, though the darkening shade round the too facile lips told of early manhood: and she noticed too, that the hand which was thrown above his head, although hardened and roughened by toil, was slender and shapely as the hand of a gentleman. Rose had but one moment to notice all this, for even as her foot paused he sprung up and lad. "Why-why-why be you?" said the poor "That's good of you; I thank you." "And how long has your mother been dead ?" "Ever-ever-ever so long-ever since last Thanksgiving. There won't be no more Thanksgivings now, you know, coz mother's dead. When-when-she was alive I did not use to work none then." "No? And what did you do then?" "Go-go-go pick nuts, and find birds-nests, and-and climb up the tall trees, and rock in them all day," said the boy, communicatively, "and climb to the tip-top of Rummen Rock." "To do what?" asked Rose. "To-to-to lie on the grass and watch the clouds. Oh, that was prime! But I don't never go there now, since mother's dead. But-but but you, what's your name? I guess I don't know.” "My name," said the young lady, smiling, t'other world; and I thought if they'd lived you, "is Rose-Miss Rose." and sent you back again, mebbe they would mother." "Is?" said Penny. "Well, you-you-you look just so. You're a master-pretty gal!" Miss Rose Tremaine scarcely knew how to receive this strange tribute to her charms. She could not be angry, and resent it as an impertinence, for she saw it was not intended as such; and the boy's evident admiration, though embarrassing, was not offensive; for she felt instinctively that he regarded her exactly as he would have regarded a new flower, a brightwinged bird, or a shining stone. There was a moment's silence, and then the boy, who had been attentively regarding her, spoke again: "You-you-you ain't got no other name, have you?" "Oh yes," said Rosc. "My name is Tre maine-Miss Rose Tremaine." "Is?" said her companion. "Do-do You-you ain't one of 'um, be you?" "One of what?" asked Rose, laughing. "You misunderstood me," said Rose, gravely and kindly. "I said the other side of the world. I meant in England and France, not the world beyond the grave. Nobody comes back from there, you know." "Oh!" said the boy, sad and droopingly; "that-that-that's ony foreign parts. Is that all?" "That's all," said Rose. "And now"-gathering up the folds of her dress-"I must go in." "No-no-no! don't ye-don't ye go; I like to look at you." "But I believe I must," said Rose; "my aunt will be waiting for me." "And-and-and won't ye come agin?" said the boy, following her wistfully. "Look-look tell!-look-a-here; do you love pond-lilies? Coz I know where there's a pond chock-full of 'um. I'll get you a lot of 'um any day, if you want "One-one-one of them?" said the lad, giv-'um. And-and-and I know of a robin's-nest ing his head a quick jerk toward the house. 66 Yes," said Rose; "I'm one of the family." "Be? I—I—I never see you before, did I? Are you Miss Mary's gal ?" with four blue eggs in it; don't you want 'um? You jest wait a minite and I'll climb and get it for you." "Oh no, thank you," said Rose, walking on; "Oh no!" said Rose. "Miss Mary has no "I'd rather hear the birds sing in the trees. daughter, you know." Don't take away their nests, please." "No-no-no," said poor Penny, thoughtfully. "Squire's gal, then-or the minister's?" "No," said the young lady; "neither of them. My father's name was Edward Tremaine." "Oh! yes-yes-yes," said the boy, drawing nearer, and regarding her with a look of wondering interest. "I-I-I know. John Edward Hazelhurst Tremaine. Why, he died afore mother did!" "Yes," said Rose, surprised in her turn, "he has been dead many years. But did you know him ?" "No; I-I-I didn't know him; never see him, not to my knowledge; but-but I've heerd mother tell 'bout him. But why didn't I never see you afore?" "Because I have been away a great ways off." "Have? Why-why, where you been to?" "Oh!" said Rose, carelessly, "I've been to the other side of the world." "Do tell!" said Penny, a pale look of awe stealing over his handsome features. "Andand-and when did you come back?" "Only two days ago." "Possible! mother there?" And-and-and did you see "Your mother? No; I thought you said she was dead?" "Yes, yes," said the boy; "and-and-and ain't you been dead too?" "Me?" said Rose, laughing. “No. What could have made you think so?" "Coz-coz-coz you said so." "I said so? You are mistaken. I didn't say so." "Yes; you-you-you said you'd been to "I-I-I won't, if you say so; Squire Tremaine says, 'Pull down all their nests'-they eat his cherries; but-but I won't, if you don't want me to." "Well, good-by now," said Rose, "I will see you again." "Do-do-do," said her humble admirer; "and-and I'll pick you some high blackberries when they're ripe; I know where there'll be a sight of 'um." And so they parted. Rose hurried in, intent on questioning her aunt regarding this strange individual, but she met a servant coming out to inform her of the arrival of company, and as the guests remained all day, it was not until the little home-circle had gathered together in the evening that she had a chance to speak of it. "Oh! Uncle James," she said, as she sat at her aunt's feet, holding the worsted she was winding, "I met with quite an adventure this morning, and I want to ask you about it. Who is Penny Dexter?" "That is more than I can tell you, Miss Rose Tremaine," said the Squire. "Why, Uncle James! he says he works for you." "So he does, if you can call his feeble efforts work," said her uncle. "But as to his history, I must refer you to your aunt-he is her protégé, not mine." "Oh, then, you tell me, Aunt Mary; so then there is a history. Do tell me; he is so queer.' "I can not tell you much, my dear; I know very little, and much of that little is only conjectural." "Well! tell me that little then, while we wind all this worsted for your shawl." ners. her, she repelled me; I offered assistance, it was declined; her needle could maintain themshe needed no help. I noticed and praised the beauty of her child; she caught him up and hurried him out of my sight; but it seemed to me that if there was any feeling left in her it was for her boy--it seemed to me he was at once her pride and shame." "And did you never learn any thing more of her history?" asked Rose. 66 "Nothing more with certainty," said Miss Tremaine. All we knew was suggested by the name she gave her child; she called him 'Penitence,' which, in the vernacular of the neighbors' children, was soon shortened into 'Penny.' But she made no confidant-she uttered no complaints, no reproaches." "Ah! mon Dieu!" said Mademoiselle de St. Loe, "dere sall be no doubt-it sall be ze ole all de world over; jest de ole story-de voman's wrong, and de man's perfidie! from ze day of Eden's gloire until now-is it not so-hey?" "My dear Rose," said Miss Tremaine, sighing, "his mother was a very pretty girl (he is very like her, poor fellow!), who lived with my mother years ago as a seamstress; she was the only daughter of old Dexter, the sexton of our church. She was very lovely, and of sweet manShe had been well educated for a girl in her position; and soon after she came to us I had a long and severe illness, and poor Lucy devoted herself to me. She was about my own age, and the intimacy begun in my sick-room gradually broke down the slight distinction of caste, never very strongly defined in this country, and became almost a friendship. Lucy had quick perceptions and a refined taste, and during my convalescence she used to read to me. I have sometimes feared the poems and romances I then put into her hands were not suitable reading for a girl in her station. The last summer she lived with us we had a house full of company-story-ole as ze universe, and daily repeated your father, Rose, and his two sisters, and many others and occupied with them, I saw less of Lucy, and when I did see her, I thought she seemed depressed; and having the vanity to think she missed my society while so occupied by my cousins, I redoubled my kindness. Judge of my surprise when my mother told me Lucy wished to leave her service. I could not realize it. I felt a few words from me would set all right again. But I talked and reasoned, coaxed and scolded in vain. Lucy was resolute in her purpose even to obstinacy. She, who had been open as the day, was now shut up in an icy re-ination. If she faltered, it was before she pluckserve; deaf to all my entreaties, she wept and ed the fruit; but having dared the sin she can trembled, but would assign no reason for her brave the penalty, and, clasping her hands upon departure. The fact that she wished to go was her bosom, she stands in the grace of a magnifiall she would give. At last I became hurt and cent silence, not defiant but expectant; not subvexed by her obstinate self-will, and feeling my-missive to, but awaiting her doom. Oh, woman, self aggrieved, I talked of her ingratitude and woman! The first to sin-the first to lead othbade her go-and she went. ers into sin! First sinner-first temptress! And then, and ever after, by a righteous and irrevocable sentence, the one to bear the heaviest consequences of sin (suffering, if guilty, for thyself; if innocent, for the guilt of others). Take heart; there is hope for thee yet, since He whose eye read the deepest recesses of all human hearts could say of thee, 'O woman, great is thy faith!'" "I learned from her parents she had gone to a town about fifty miles from here, and was working as a dress-maker, but I could learn nothing more. If they knew the reason of her conduct they kept the secret. "At the close of that summer my mother was taken sick; she lingered nearly two years, a prisoner to her room, and then died, and I was too much occupied by attention to her and by sorrow for her loss to inquire for or even remember Lucy. A year after my loss I heard of the death of Lucy's mother; and as the old man was nearly helpless, I went, at the request of your Uncle Arthur, to see what could be done for his comfort; then, to my surprise, I learned that Lucy had returned, bringing back with her her child (the boy you met), then a beautiful creature about three years old. But what a change had come over my poor Lucy! I had known her, beautiful, loving, and confiding-a joyous-hearted girl, with frank, truthful eyes, and sunny temper. I found a cold, stern, passionless, self-contained woman, faded in beauty and withered in form, with cold, averted eyes and compressed lips, silent and reserved, neither giving nor asking sympathy. I tried to befriend "Oh yes, I suppose so," said the Squire, laughing. "At least so the story goes. Man ate the apple and flung away the core, and thought no more about the matter; but when it began to oppress him he weakly faltered forth, The woman tempted me, and I did eat.'” 6 "Yes," said the parson, musingly, as he walked up and down the room. "But woman scorns to fling back upon him the pitiful recrim "The Defense of Woman;' a sermon without notes, by the Reverend Arthur Tremaine," laughed the Squire. "Hush, hush! James. Don't!" said his sister, entreatingly. "Why, Mary, the parson should not practice his undigested sermons upon us here, poor de-. fenseless creatures! He has a fair chance at us Sundays; has it all his own way then. But I don't think we're called upon to stand it here." “Well, auntie,” said Rose, “I have not quite done with you yet; tell me a little more." "My dear Rose, what can I tell you? Lucy's whole interest seemed to centre in her child, whom she appeared to regard as a creature every way superior to herself. She kept him always dressed with a delicacy and taste far beyond their station, though she worked day and night ened him prodigiously. He has never rallied since; indeed he seems to have no strength of constitution to fall back upon, great fellow as he is. I suppose he inherits a tendency to such complaints, for he tells me his father died in that way.' "So did mine," said Rose, her eyes filling with tears at the recollection. "He seemed desirous of seeing you, Miss Rose," said the Doctor; "and I promised to ask you to come and see him." to do so. But the child, though he developed | cold had produced hemorrhage. "He has bled in strength and stature, was deficient in some profusely," said the Doctor, "and it has weakway, I can not tell in what. I have thought it might be owing partly to his mother's moody state of mind, and to his having no other companions than this stern, silent woman, whose love, however intense, was never demonstrative in caresses, and his imbecile, doting old grand- | father. But poor Lucy would not see it; she kept him at school, though successive teachers told her he would not learn, and though class after class rose progressively on the rounds of the ladder of learning, and left poor Penny still idling at its foot. At last, when his physical growth had outstripped and overtopped all his instructors, she had to remove him; and from that time he led a wandering, out-of-door life, finding fellowship with birds and beasts, and playthings in flowers, and clouds, and stars. When his mother died suddenly, less than a year ago, his means of support were at an end, and it was proposed to put him in the alms-house; but I requested your uncles to give him a home at the gardener's lodge, and try to keep him occupied in light labor in the garden; for I felt he could not live shut up from the open air. He has been here two or three months. And now, dear Rose, you know all I do about him." "Certainly I will," said Rose, promptly. "And is there any thing else I can do for him, poor fellow? Can he take jelly or broth? What can I do for him?" "Nothing that I know of, except to gratify him by going to see him. I do not think now that he will live to need jellies and broths. If he should, I will let you know. But his time is very short, I apprehend. Can you go now?" "This moment," said Rose; "but my Uncle Arthur is in his study. May I ask him to go too? He will know what to say to the poor boy far better than I shall." "You are right, my dear young lady; that's a good idea. Ask the parson, by all means." "And Rose," said Miss Tremaine, "as I can not go with you, you had better ask Mademoiselle to go." From this time a strange sort of friendship— ardently proffered on his part, tacitly accepted on hers-grew up between Rose and her strange admirer. Every time she went into the garden he. In a very few moments Rose came back met her with some simple offering of fruit, or flow-equipped for her walk, and was followed by the ers, or some slight but warmly-pressed offer of parson and Mademoiselle. service, for which a kind smile or gentle "Thank you" seemed to be a sufficient recompense. When she walked, he followed her steps with the patient satisfaction of a faithful dog; and when at evening she played and sang, poor Penny, who had a quick ear for music, would lie on the grass beneath the open window and weep in the very excess of nervous and intense delight. When the little party entered the sick-room poor Penny was asleep, sleeping the dull, heavy sleep of exhaustion, the great beaded drops of extreme weakness moistening the cold white brow; and as they gathered silently around his bed they were shocked to see how the outline of the pale high features had already become sharpened and shrunken. They stood a moment re But this did not last long. One day Rose garding him in melancholy interest, and then, said to her aunt, in evident concern, with a deep, tremulous sigh, he unclosed his eyes. "Aunt Mary, did you know that Penny was very sick?" "No," said Miss Tremaine. "I have not heard of it. How did you?" "I have missed him for two days," said Rose, "and to-day I asked Murphy where he was, and he told me he was very sick indeed." He seemed surprised, but not startled, at seeing them; and when his eye fell upon Rose a quick bright smile trembled on his lips. "I-I I'm real glad you've come," he said, speaking in low, thick, husky tones. "I-I-I wanted to see you agin. I-I-I am going to the oth“And did you go to the lodge, or ask what er world now, and I wanted to bid you good-by ailed him ?" "No, aunt; I have just heard it, and I thought you would prefer to make inquiries yourself." "You are right, my dear. I will get you to write a note for me to Dr. Summerville, and ask him to visit Penny, and then report to us. In that way we shall know the true state of the case. Murphy may exaggerate; persons in his station often do so, ignorantly." In about two hours the Doctor made his appearance. He looked grave; he had found the case much worse than they expected. Penny had had a bad fall some months before, and had injured his chest and side, and a neglected first." Rose did not speak, but her quick tears told her interest and pity. "Why-why-why are you sorry, Miss Rose?" he asked, as if surprised at her concern. "Why, don't you know? Mother's there, ain't she?" "Yees, mon poor boy!" said Mademoiselle, kindly, seeing Rose could not speak; "dare, in dat 'appy vorld, de poor orphelin sall find fader and moder, and de exile sall not to be lonely no more!" "Don't-don't-don't you cry, Miss Rose," said the boy, feebly (for Rose, to whom the dread solemnities of death were new, was weeping | and let the light more fully in upon the pale, still nervously); "you-you-you've been real good to me, and I'll tell mother so." "Can we do any thing for you, my poor boy ?" asked Mr. Tremaine, kindly. face, which the hand of Death was already investing with a new and strange dignity. "Look at him now; family resemblances often come out at such an hour with startling accuracy; notice the outline of the brow and chin, and you will agree with me that we, who remember Miss Rose's father, have need to ask no farther ques "Raise-me-up a little;" and the Doctor and Mr. Tremaine raised him. "Miss Rose," he said, in a voice scarcely audible, and reaching out his thin hand to her, "you-you-you look-tions." a-here-say-Our father-" He was stopped abruptly by a fit of coughing. When it was over, and he was quiet again, Rose, who had understood him to ask her to pray with him, controlling herself with a strong effort, knelt by the bedside, and, with clasped hands and lifted eyes, commenced devoutly the beautiful prayer so universally known among children as "Our Father." "No-no-no!" said the sick one, with a look of disappointment, just lifting his feeble hand from the bed, and dropping it with a deprecatory gesture; "I-I-I didn't mean that." Rose stopped. "Would you like to have me pray for you, my poor lad?" said Mr. Tremaine. "Is it possible? What, my cousin, Edward Tremaine? You are right," said Mr. Tremaine. "Strange it never occurred to me before! When did you make the discovery?” "Not until within the last hour." "And do you think he knew it ?" "Undoubtedly he did. That was probably what he wanted to say to Miss Rose when she understood him to ask her to repeat the Lord's Prayer." "And does she know it, do you think-Rose?" "I am sure she does not, and it is far better she should not." "Of course. And my sister?" "Of that I can not judge; but I would not name it to her or any one. Let us respect the veil of secrecy which his poor mother enshrouded herself in, and which she evidently bequeathed to him. The disclosure could do no good to the dead, and could only pain the living.' "I believe you are right," said Mr. Tremaine. "We will let the dead bury the dead.' It can not harm him, poor fellow! Let him be known in death, as he was in life, only as Penny Dexter." "No," said the boy, sadly; "I dunno as I care nothing 'bout it. I-I-I wanted to tell Miss Rose-" But a violent fit of coughing here stopped his utterance. The paroxysm was long and severe, and when it was over he lay spent, exhausted, and breathless. The Doctor raised him again in his arms, and Mademoiselle bathed his brow and lips, while Rose fanned him, and Mr. Tremaine chaffed his cold hands. But even while they thus ministered to him the unchallenged spirit made its escape-so gently passing from the midst of them that not until the Doctor said, quietly, "It is over-he has gone!" did they realize the world-wide separation which had come between them and the object of their tobacco; for when he wrote his "Counterblast" the enjoyment of the burning weed was regard"Poor boy! he is at rest," said Dr. Summer-ed as potation, not fumigation. To be in the ville, gently replacing his pale burden upon the fashion, I smoke a pipe. But not only to be in pillows. cares. "Appy boy!" ejaculated the Frenchwoman, as she bent down and kissed reverently the pale cold brow of the dead; "appy boy! he 'av found fader and moder now, and dere sall not be no more of tears, of parting, of death !” Silently Rose drew near and followed her friend's example, bestowing a tearful kiss, and furned away; and then the two ladies retired, leaving the Doctor and Mr. Tremaine to give the necessary orders. When this was over, and the two gentlemen were about leaving the room, Mr. Tremaine said, looking back upon its lonely occupant, "Well, poor lad! he was faithful to the last. He has kept the secret intrusted to him by his poor mother." "Yes," said Dr. Summerville, meaningly, "he has kept it in life faithfully; but I think Death has revealed it." "How do you mean?" asked Mr. Tremaine. "Go up and look at him now," said the Doctor; and as he spoke he drew aside a curtain, MY BRIER-WOOD PIPE, AND I Smes before the fashion. The pipe pleases me as a work of We have got |