PART II.

“Love knows no rank—beauty

Is aristocracy—birth, lineage and blood.”

“Love ne’er broke a heart, love ne’er could mend.”

It was on a cold, bleak evening in autumn, that Leslie Pierpoint, as described in Part First of our tale, sat in his arm-chair in his comfortable library, with his feet buried in a thick rug of Angola fleece; a cheerful fire glowing in the grate; a round stand with the tea-tray at his left elbow; and a large table covered with magazines, papers, books, &c. &c., on his right hand. He was alone. The rich, crimson curtains drawn closely across the deep windows with the comfortable air of the whole room, gave indication that the occupant loved his ease, and was that evening disposed to enjoy it.

Twenty years had passed since Leslie’s affaire du cœur with Clara Clayton. With her treachery expired his confidence in the sex. In vain had the lovely, gay and fashionable women thrown their gilded nets. In every one of the fair fishers he but saw a cousin german to Clara, and warily shunned the danger. Thus had he reached forty-one years of age with the full consent of all his friends, male and female, that he should remain a bachelor for life. And to all appearances such seemed to be the settled destiny of Leslie Pierpoint. He himself had no more thoughts of committing matrimony than suicide. He never spake to any woman save his washerwoman and linen sempstress. His mother had been several years dead, and he lived alone—a bachelor! the victim of a heartless woman’s treachery.

He now sat gazing into the fire with a cup of tea in his hand, and which he seemed to have forgotten that he held. The state house clock tolled seven and he started, laid down his cup and saucer, and rang the bell. It was immediately answered by a very gentlemanly African servant in grey clothes with bright steel buttons, red cravat, and shoes with old fashioned paste buckles in them.

“Cato.”

“Sar, massa?”

“Have my new linens come home yet?”

“No, massa, not yit.”

“They were to be here at six. Go and see that they are sent in time to pack into my trunks to-night, for we must start for New York early.”

“Yes, massa,” said Cato, with a graceful bow, and was in the act of leaving the room to obey his master’s orders, when a ringing at the street door bell arrested him.

“I guess dem is de sharts now, massa.”

“Go and see, and show the woman up.”

Cato left the room, while Leslie took up the evening paper. Directly the servant reappeared, ushering in a very modest young girl, coarse in her dress, but of extraordinary beauty. She was scarcely seventeen, yet the womanly outline and youthful roundness of her sylph-like figure were perfect. Her complexion was very brilliant; her cheeks blushed with diffidence and beauty; her eyes were large, blue, and melting in their own cerulean heaven; her lips ripe and full, and her chin voluptuously rounded, yet most exquisitely turned. Native grace was in every movement she made. Her dress was of very plain calico, and she wore a common straw hat with a long green veil. In her hands she carried two bundles, very neatly done up in white paper.

“De sharts come,” said Cato, making a low bow to Leslie’s back. “Here de young woman wid ’em.”

“Very well, Cato; remove the tea-tray. I will ring for you to show the woman out soon as I have settled with her.”

“Yes, massa;” and the black, taking the tray in his hands, cast a glance, first at the beautiful face of the young girl, then over his shoulder at his master, and, gravely shaking his grey pate, left the library. Leslie completed the paragraph he was reading, and then, lifting his face and looking into the fire, but without turning round, said in the low, pleasant tone natural to him:

“So, my good woman, you have brought the shirts. They have come an hour later than you promised them, but I suppose you are very much hurried with work. They are in plenty time, however. Be so kind as to undo the package and let me see one of them.”

For a few moments there was no sound in the room but the snapping of strings, as they were untied by the busy fingers of the linen-draper’s maid, and the rattling of the strong paper covering the linens. At length a shirt, white as the drifted snow and beautifully done up, was hesitatingly advanced over his shoulder, so as to intercept his vision.

He took it, and after carefully examining it (old bachelors are very particular in this matter) with an appearance of satisfaction, admiring the stitching of the wristbands, the French style of the sleeves, and the neatness of the bosom folds, he laid it down beside him where the tea tray had stood.

“Well, my good woman, I am very much pleased with them. They are very neatly made. Please let me see your bill.” And he turned his head slightly back to receive it.

The young girl, embarrassed by his mode of addressing her, and abashed at his presence, timidly stretched forth her hand containing the bill.

“Nearer, woman, nearer. I cannot reach it.”

Agitated by his voice, she thrust her arm forward so quickly that he received in his grasp her hand as well as her bill. The sight and touch of the soft, white member, thrilled through him. He started, blushed, rose from his chair, and to his surprise discovered that he had been all the while talking to one of the loveliest girls of seventeen he had ever seen, instead of an old woman, whom he supposed was the bearer of his linens.

“Pardon me, miss—I beg pardon,” said the Major embarrassed, “I thought you were your mother.”

“I have no mother, sir,” answered the pretty maiden, with a drooping eyelid.

“I beg pardon! Sit down! No, you may stand! Upon my word you are very beautiful.” The Major hardly knew what he said.

“Sir, the bill if you please,” said the maiden confused, her bright intelligent face suffused with crimson.

“Oh, ah! sit down if you please! no—stand up; no, no, no! sit down!” Poor Major Pierpoint!

“No, I thank you, sir.”

“What a sweet voice,” soliloquized the Major to himself. “No mother?”

“No, sir,” with a musical sadness in her voice, touching as it was natural.

“No father?” asked the Major with as much delicacy as he could put the question.

“No, sir.”

“No brothers, neither, I dare say.”

“No, sir.”

“Nor sisters, either?”

“No, sir.”

“Ho! hah, hem!”

And the Major, having finished catechising her, put his hands behind his back and looked steadily in the grate for full a minute, his lips compressed, his brow set and thoughtful.

“If you please, sir, the bill is waiting.”

The Major started at the sound of the sweet voice as if he had been clapped on the shoulder.

“Oh, ah! I beg your pardon. Let me see—six linen shirts—five dollars each—thirty dollars—all right.” And the Major looked up from the bill into her face. He felt a delight he could not account for in gazing upon its sweet beauty. She was confused by his ardent look, and became still more beautiful from her sweet confusion. With instinctive delicacy he withdrew his gaze, and a sigh, the first he had felt for twenty years, escaped him. A gentle sadness at the same time overspread his fine features. Again he looked into her face, but with an expression that she did not shrink from, and said kindly, touchingly,

“So then, sweet child, you are an orphan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your name?”

“Mary Lee.”

“A pretty name.”

“Sir, I have another errand to go—if you will please pay the bill for my mistress.”

“Oh, ah! yes, the bill. Thirty dollars. Here is a check for the amount.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Mary, curtseying with a grace that charmed him, and turning to leave.

“Stay, Mary—that is, Miss Lee,” said Leslie, following her a step and speaking with amusing hesitation. The linen-draper maiden had, however, reached the door and placed her hand upon the lock. She was evidently alarmed and surprised, and seemed uncertain whether to take the gentleman’s manner as rudeness or as an uncommon degree of civility. She appeared to be a sensible, good natured girl, however, with all her charms, and probably with woman’s ready tact divined the true cause of his singular conduct. Yet with all a woman’s tact she pretended to be blind to the impression her beauty had made upon him. She could not help thinking that he was a very handsome man, if he was an old bachelor, and she felt pleased rather than offended at this evidence of the triumph of beauty. For Mary Lee well knew she had beauty, and what pretty miss of seventeen is ignorant of this possession?

“Stay, if you please, one moment, Miss Lee,” said Leslie.

“Indeed, sir, it is late.”

“But one moment. Are you an apprentice with Miss Phelps, the linen-draper?”

“Yes, sir;” and Mary turned the lock of the door.

The Major laid his hand lightly upon her wrist.

“Excuse me, Miss Lee! One more question!” But the maiden, with a pleasant laugh, threw off his hand and bounded through the open door into the hall. Cato was in waiting.

“Ah, Cato,” said the Major, with as much coolness as he could summon at this crisis, “you save me the trouble of ringing. Show this young woman out.”

“Yes, sar,” said Cato.

Major Pierpoint lingered an instant in his door to follow with his eye the receding form of the maiden, as with a light, graceful trip she followed the dignified Cato to the street door. He then re-entered his library, and after pacing his room two or three times as if his thoughts were in a tumult, he suddenly stopped before his mirror and looked at himself. After a brief and satisfied survey of his fine face and person he walked to the fire, folded his hands behind his back, and stood and looked into the grate with a very thoughtful brow.

“Well, Leslie Pierpoint, after remaining bachelor twenty years, thou art made captive by a linen-draper’s ’prentice! ’Tis true, and pity ’tis, ’tis true! Leslie Pierpoint, thou art false to thyself! But what a soft, sweet hand! How could I help taking it if she would thrust it into mine? But, poor child, I suppose I had frightened her by calling her an old woman, and she scarcely knew what she was about! Old woman? A youthful divinity! What heavenly blue eyes! What a sweet round bust! What an exquisite waist, the charms of which even her coarse dress could not conceal! And her foot, so petite and delicately turned! How rich were the tones of her voice! How enchanting her smile! Ah, Leslie Pierpoint, thou art in love with a ’prentice maiden! At forty years thou art become a fool! Yes, I am a fool! What have I to do with the sex? Have I not a lasting feud with it? Ah, let me not forget Clara Clayton! Remember her, and so forget this pretty maiden, for she belongs to the same false hearted sex!”

Thus soliloquized Major Pierpoint, and, turning from the fire, he walked his room some time with a thoughtful brow. All at once he stopped and pulled his bell with an emphasis. Cato made his instant appearance.

“Sar, massa.”

“Bring me my boots.”

“What massa say?”

“Bring me my boots,” repeated Leslie, more decidedly.

The black left the room with an inquiring look, as much as to ask what could take his master out in such an evening.

“Yes, I will do it. I will learn all about her! Such beautiful teeth! Such a bright, intelligent, sensible face! Such innate high breeding!”

Cato brought the boots, and in a few minutes afterwards the Major had exchanged his evening home costume for boots, overcoat and hat.

“My stick, Cato.”

“Yes, sar,” answered the black with dilating eyes, as he handed the gold headed Indian cane.

“I shall return in an hour, Cato,” he said, as his wondering servant showed him out of the street door.

“Yes, sar,” and Cato closed the door on his master.

“Now, if massa Peerpount hant a loss his sebenteen senses, den heabenly marcy nebber gave Cato any. De firs’ time I ebber know him go out after him once take his boot off! Someting ’ticklar be goin’ to happ’n for sartain! No disordinary circumcasion take massa Peerpoun’ out dis col’ ebening. I mus’ feel werry pertickler distress if as how any ting surreptitious occur.”

Thus commented honest Cato upon this unusual step of his master’s, whose general habits were so regular that each day he went through the same routine of eating, sleeping, smoking, reading, and walking or riding. He had never gone out in an evening before. Cato had cause, therefore, for marvel; and leaving him to his conjectures on the motive for this strange movement on the part of his master, we will follow him on his expedition. The evening was clear but cold and windy, and he wrapped his coat closer about his person as he entered Chesnut street from Sixth, and took his way past the hotel and theatre which were brilliant with lamps, and gay and lively with the moving things about their doors. Heedless of these, he kept on until he came to Third street, which he followed north for a few doors, where he stopped beneath a lamp and turned back the cape of his surtout, arranged his slightly awry cravat, and made such other little toilet reparations as young gentlemen are accustomed to do before going into a house to pay a visit to ladies. Having fixed himself to his satisfaction, though without a mirror, (men of taste are a glass to themselves!) he walked more deliberately onward and entered a door over which hung a sign reading “Mrs. Phelps’ Gentlemen’s Linen Store.”

A very pleasant looking widow-like person presided in the brilliantly lighted shop behind the counter, while there were glimpses of two or three girls at their work in the rear room, and a little old woman in spectacles tying up bundles—doubtless the identical “old woman” whom the Major had imagined he was talking to as the bearer of his package.

“Good evening, Mrs. Phelps,” said the Major politely.

“Ah, Major Pierpoint, good evening, sir,” said Mrs. Phelps with very great respect, for the Major was a monied customer and never disputed bills! “Lord me! I hope you haven’t come after the shirts!” she said with apologetic volubility; “they have been gone this half hour! I was so hurried, Major, I couldn’t get them done at the precise hour you ordered them, though I know you are so very particular. But soon as they came into the shop, lest you should get impatient, as your black man said you were going out of town early in the morning, I despatched one of my apprentices right off with ’em, knowing she would go quicker than aunt Dolly here, who is always mighty slow in cold weather. If you come right from home you ought to had ’em there! If Mary has taken that bundle of hemmed handkerchiefs to Miss Clayton’s first, I shall give her a good scolding; for I told her, Major, pertickerlaly, to go and leave your package first.”

“Never mind all this, my good woman,” exclaimed the Major as soon as he could find an opening in her speech; “I have received the shirts, and am very well satisfied with them! They do you credit.”

“Oh, I am glad to hear it. I thought the child wouldn’t disobey me, for she is always so correct! Here she comes in now! Ah, Mary,” said Mrs. Phelps with a good natured smile, “you like to have had a scolding. So you took Major Pierpoint’s linens home safe?”

“Yes, aunt,” answered Mary, blushing and stammering at seeing Major Pierpoint in the shop, while the Major himself, taken by surprise at her sudden appearance, colored like a school-boy; and scarce conscious of what he did, respectfully lifted his hat, as with downcast eyes she tripped past him to the rear of the shop. She had let her bonnet fall carelessly back from her head as she entered the shop, and the bright light of the gas-burners flashing upon her forehead, revealed more clearly the radiant beauty of her complexion, and the exquisite loveliness of her features. Her hair, which was the richest shade of dark brown, was parted upon her smooth forehead and lay on either cheek, after the fashion of young maidens of her age; behind, it was gathered by her tasteful fingers into a neat braid, the number of whose silken folds showed the opulence and great length of this glorious ornament of woman.

She bent her head and blushed between pleasure and shame at this distinguished notice from Major Pierpoint, while Mrs. Phelps looked from one to the other, with a face on which wonder, curiosity and suspicion were as plainly written as they ever were on the face of woman. Leslie saw instantly the position in which he had placed himself, and with great presence of mind said, as if to excuse himself, while he pursued at the same time the main object he had in view—

“She is, I am told, an orphan, Mrs. Phelps. I feel deep sympathy for orphans, particularly for young unprotected females.”

Mrs. Phelps’ face immediately parted with its combined expression, which was replaced by that peculiar one which talkative women always put on when they have an opportunity of indulging their propensity. “Ah, yes,” she sighed, “ah, dear yes, Major Pierpoint, she is indeed an orphan. She is a good child, and has a face that will be either the making or the breaking of her. I feel towards her just as if she was my own flesh and blood; though, between you and I, Major, I am neither kith nor kin to her or hers, though I lets her call me aunt for affection-like.”

“Who were her parents?” asked Major Pierpoint, becoming deeply interested.

“Ah, me, it is a sad story! I never tell it but it makes me cry like a child;” and here Mrs. Phelps, in anticipation, applied the corner of her apron to her dry eyes.

“Be so kind as to relate it, madam, if you please. I shall listen to it with great interest.”

“Well, you must know when I was younger than I am now, and before dear Fritz, my husband, died, we were living in Boston, in quite respectable society, Fritz keeping a thriving store, and I living a lady, as it were, at home. But times is changed since then; ah, me! Major Pierpoint. Well, don’t you think, as I was waiting tea one winter’s night for Fritz, the bell rung, and, instead of my husband, a man left a basket of champaigne, as he said, telling the girl it was a present for our wedding day, which was to be on Saturday of the next week, sure enough, Major; we having then been married seven years. Well, I told her to set the champaigne basket down in the tea room, and soon afterwards Fritz came in. He was delighted when I showed him the present, and we both puzzled our heads to guess what friend it came from; but we sat down to the table intending to open it after we had finished tea. Mr. Phelps was taking his second cup when we both thought we heard a child cry right in the room. We started, and both asked ‘what is that?’ ‘It must be the cat,’ said Fritz, and so we sat down again. We had not taken two bites of toast before we were startled by the loud shrill scream of an infant. ‘The champaigne basket,’ exclaimed Fritz: ‘it is in the champaigne basket,’ I cried. ‘It is a baby in the champaigne basket,’ yelled the girl, letting fall the tea-kettle.

“Fritz sprung to the basket and cut the cord with the table-knife, and sure enough, Major Pierpoint, there lay in the bottom the beautifullest little female baby eyes ever looked upon—the very same Mary Lee you just now took off your hat to! Well, to cut the story short, Fritz and I concluded, after making all inquiries, and advertising it in vain, to adopt it, seeing as how Providence had never blessed us with any children, neither before nor since. So we took the dear infant as our own, and to this day I have been as its own mother to it, and she has been as an own child to me. Ah me! the cruel parents that could desert such a sweet cherub. I have never been sorry to this hour we took the dear child. Oh, she has been a blessing to me!”

“She would be a blessing to any body,” said the Major warmly, his heart overrunning with emotion at her narration; and his eyes unconsciously wandered to the rear of the shop, where Mary sat quietly sewing. He sighed, and then turning to Mrs. Phelps, thanked her for her trouble in narrating Mary’s story.

“Not the least, Major, not the least! I could tell it fifty times a day if I had such a listener as you.”

“You may send me half a dozen pairs of gloves, handkerchiefs, and—and—” Leslie hesitated, and then hastily added, “any thing else in your shop you think I would like.”

“Oh, you are such a good customer, Major Pierpoint,” said the pleased landlady; “I have just got in some new style India cravats which I think will suit you. Shall I send them to-night?”

“No, to-morrow at twelve.”

“But you leave town to-morrow.”

“Oh, true—true, I had forgotten. But never mind, madam, send them up, I think I shall be at home—yes, I am sure, quite sure I shall be at home! I have postponed my departure till the next day.”

“I will certainly send them.”

The Major lingered an instant over the glass case, and then buttoning up his overcoat, prepared to go.

“Good evening, Mrs. Phelps.”

“Good evening, sir.”

“You will be sure and send them?”

“You shall not be disappointed, Major.”

“Very well.”

Major Pierpoint took three decided steps towards the door and then turned.

“Twelve o’clock, Mrs. Phelps.”

“Yes sir, they shall be there precisely.”

The Major still did not move. There was evidently something he wished to say more, but was at a loss how to say it. All at once he turned back to the counter.

“By-the-bye, Mrs. Phelps, you may, if you please, let the same young person bring them that took the linens. That old woman, the last time she came, like to have broke her neck by catching her foot in the brass stair band. Besides, she is deaf as a post.”

“I will send Mary, then,” said Mrs. Phelps, smiling.

“You are very obliging, my dear madam. Good evening.” And Major Pierpoint walked out of the shop with a free, light step, and a bland smile illumining his handsome features.

Mrs. Phelps followed him with her eyes, and then put on a very thoughtful look, and for a few moments seemed to be communing with her own mind. Suddenly she laid one fore-finger down upon the other with emphasis.

“Yes, ’tis clear as that gas-light! I can see as deep as some folks can. He is not above forty, rich, respectable, and kind and pleasant-hearted as a child, and Mary’s beauty has evidently made an impression upon him. He is a bachelor, and old bachelors often fall in love with young girls! I do believe, now I think it all over, he is in love with her. But then, he is so rich and respectable! But Mary isn’t my daughter; how does he or any body know but she is respectable as he is himself? Plainly, there is something at the bottom of all this. Major Pierpoint is too honorable and moral for me to apprehend any evil coming out of it. Mary shall go up to-morrow, looking her best. Who knows what may happen? The poor child is not mine, but then I wish her to do as well as she can. I wonder what he said to her this evening. Mary, dear, come here child.”

Mary came forward with a half finished linen collar in her hands.

“Well, dear, what did Miss Clayton say to the handkerchiefs you took to her?”

“She said they were very neatly done, but that the price was too high—and told me she could not pay the bill unless you took off the ‘nineteen cents!’ ”

“How close some people are, especially rich old maids that have once been beauties! They have no children or husband to pick or peck at, and so they must pick and peck on those that have to do work for um. She don’t care about the nineteen cents—its only to have something to find fault with. To-morrow, at half past eleven, you call there for the seventeen dollars, and let her have the nineteen cents, if it will do her temper any good. Did Major Pierpoint appear displeased because I didn’t get the shirts there by six o’clock?”

Mary blushed, she knew not why, at this common-place question, and looking up and seeing her ‘aunt’s’ eyes fixed inquiringly upon her face, she became too confused to speak in reply—and, after one or two attempts to answer, dropped her head over the collar in her hand, as if sewing it.

“What is the matter with the child? What did Major Pierpoint say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yes, m’m, here is the check he gave me.” Mrs. Phelps glanced at it.

“It’s all right! Prompt pay—no nineteen cents to be cut off. But didn’t he say any thing to you?”

Mary appeared still more confused. Her adopted mother looked at her steadily though without displeasure for a few seconds, then shook her head affirmatively, with a slight smile of self-satisfaction. “Humph,” she said to herself, “I see how it is! It has gone further than I thought. He came here to-night for nothing else in the world! Well, Mary, to-morrow, at twelve precisely, you must be at Major Pierpoint’s with them gloves, and handkerchiefs, and silk stockings. You must start at half past eleven, so as to call on the way on Miss Clayton for the money for her bill. Why do you blush so—are you afraid of Miss Clayton?”

“No, aunt.”

“Are you afraid of Major Pierpoint?”

“No, aunt.”

“Very well, child, go to your sewing.”

Mary bounded away lightly, and Mrs. Phelps looked after her with a prideful glance; “yes, if she is not foolish she has her fortune made. I will say nothing to her of my suspicions, but let her have her own way. To talk to young girls on such a subject and try to guide and advise them, only makes puppets of them, and destroys the natural character. Leave Mary to her own native good sense and unbiassed feelings and she will be more likely to please such a man as Major Pierpoint than if she practised the most consummate artifices.”

With these sensible reflections, Mrs. Phelps dropped the subject for that night.

At a few minutes before half past eleven, Mary Lee made her appearance in the shop from her little chamber over it, arrayed in a neat black silk dress, with a pretty straw cottage, trimmed with delicate blue ribbon, and her beautiful brown hair arranged with elegant simplicity. It had not been ten minutes since she left the shop to make this change in her appearance. Yet it was as complete as if five hours had been wasted before her little mirror. Can any female reader tell me why Mary paid such attention to her appearance? Mrs. Phelps on seeing her, lifted up both hands, and an exclamation of surprise and displeasure was on the tip of her tongue! But some sudden reflection checked it on the verge of utterance, and dropping her hands, she said quietly and as if not noticing it—

“So, Mary, you are ready. Take the bundle and stop on the way at Miss Clayton’s. Be sure you are at Major Pierpoint’s when the clock strikes twelve.”

“Yes, aunt,” said Mary, hastening from the shop on her two-fold errand. As she passed up Chesnut street with her little bundle, the sparkling beauty of her face, her buoyant step and graceful motion, drew after her many admiring eyes. It so chanced that Leslie was returning from the Exchange reading-room, whither he walked every morning, and was standing on the corner of Sixth and Chesnut, conversing with several bachelor gentlemen, when Mary passed. She looked up, and seeing him, coloured and dropped her head. Leslie did the same.

“A lovely creature,” said one of the gentlemen; “I seldom have seen a sweeter face or figure. You know her, Major, by your mutual blushes,” added he, smiling.

“I, gentlemen? oh, no,” said the Major, confused.

“She is certainly extremely beautiful. See how free and light her step is!”

“Some pretty milliner, I dare say,” said the Major, laughing. “Good morning, gentlemen;” and Leslie took his way home more than ever enchanted, deeper than ever in love! The quick, bright, eloquent, yet unintended glance he had received from her as she passed, kindled an imperishable flame in his bosom. He hastened homeward with anticipations of the delightful visit he was to receive at twelve o’clock.

Was Leslie Pierpoint really in love? did he resolve to pay his addresses to this beautiful girl? did he intend to ask her hand in marriage? did she fill the place in his heart which Clara Clayton had left void?

Yes.

Mary soon reached Miss Clayton’s door in the upper part of Chesnut street, near Ninth. It was one of the most imposing mansions in the street. Miss Clayton lived there with her old father—the two alone! For several years after freeing herself from Leslie, she lived in hopes of marriage, but in vain. The men were afraid of her. Her mortification when she found Leslie restored to perfect health, knew no bounds. She had a secret hope that he would yet re-address her; but from that period she never received more than a cold and civil bow from him. She could have poisoned herself with vexation. But as years passed away, and she saw that he still remained unmarried, she consoled herself with the idea that she was the cause—and that he could never love any one as he had loved her. This devoted bachelorism was Clara’s only and greatest consolation. It was a healing balm to her wounded spirit. So he married not, she felt she could forgive herself for her folly in not marrying him. It is true, she watched his course to forty with some anxiety, lest he might yet marry; but when he had passed that climax, she gave herself no farther uneasiness, and rested in the conscious assurance of his eternal celibacy. This idea was the rainbow that spanned her darkened skies—the sweet in her bitter cup of life. But, alas! she was soon to see the rainbow disappear, and her horizon become dark with storms! Alas! she was to drink the remainder of the cup with additional bitterness mingled with its dregs.

She was seated in her usual sitting room when Mary arrived. Her hair was drawn back above her ears and tied untidily with a dirty yellow ribbon; she wore a loose wrapper, and her stocking feet were thrust into red slippers. Her fingers were loaded with rings, and ear drops hung from her ears. Her complexion was something coarser for the wear and tear of time, and had very plain traces of being now indebted to white paint and rouge, for whatever pretensions it claimed. Her forehead was crossed by horizontal impatient wrinkles, and a deep frown was cut between her eyebrows. She was thin about the breast and shoulders, and very slender in the waist, more so than in her youthful prime. The general expression of her face was querulous and sour—precisely such an expression as she might have been expected to wear. As Mary was shown in she looked up with a sharp, impatient gesture.

“So, Miss, you have come for the amount of your bill!”

“Yes, m’m, if you please.”

“Don’t mem me as if I was fifty, Miss.”

“No, m’m.”

“Did I not forbid your saying marm to me—what is the amount of the bill?”

“You have it, m’—— I mean Miss.”

“That is better. Ah, yes, here it is, $17 19, What did your mistress say about the 19 cents?”

“That she would take it off.”

“Very well; here is seventeen dollars. Receipt it.” Mary took a pen from an inkstand on the table and acknowledged the payment.

“Humph, you write too pretty a hand for an apprentice girl,” said Miss Clayton, glancing contemptuously at Mary’s beautiful chirography. “I dare say you can dance too?”

“Yes, Miss,” said Mary slightly smiling.

“And sing and play,” more contemptuously still.

“Yes, Miss.”

“Humph. Read Byron, Moore, Scott, doubtless, and perhaps the French poets?” she continued with a contemptuous smile of incredulity.

“Yes, Miss.”

“Yes, Miss. I suppose if I should ask you if you read French and sung Italian, you would reply with your parrot phrase, ‘yes, Miss.’ ”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Upon my word! Ha, ha, ha! here’s a linen-draper’s apprentice for you! I suppose you look to marry some nobleman at the least, with all them accomplishments, if you can! What package is that beneath your arm, my pretty minx,” for Miss Clayton had conceived a sudden and unaccountable (save that her youth and beauty were the cause,) dislike for Mary. And without waiting for a reply she snatched it from her.

“For Major Leslie Pierpoint,

No. 27, South Sixth St.”

“You are sent with this to Major Pierpoint’s, are you?” she asked sharply and with a suspicious look at the young and guileless girl.

“Yes m’m,” answered Mary quietly.

Miss Clayton let her eyes rest on the superscription for a few moments, and then lifted them steadily to the face of the maiden.

“You had best return directly to your shop with the amount of your mistress’ bill, lest you lose it on the way. I will dispatch my footman with this package to his lodgings.”

“I thank you, but I am ordered to take it there myself,” said Mary firmly.

“Indeed; but it would not be prudent for so young a person as you to go to a bachelor’s rooms alone. I will send it for you. Do you know Major Pierpoint?”

“No, m’m,” answered Mary with embarrassment.

“Have you never seen him?”

“He was in the shop last evening,” answered Mary evasively.

“Did he speak to you?”

“If you please I will take the package and go,” said Mary, half angry at this singular inquisition upon her affairs.

“Take it, trollop,” said Miss Clayton, flinging it towards her, “and tell your mistress when she has occasion to send any one to me again, she will oblige me by sending some civil person.”

Mary stared with surprise, at a loss to account for the lady’s humor, and gladly took her departure.

The heavy tocsin of the State House had struck the last stroke of twelve, as Mary timidly pulled the bell at Major Pierpoint’s handsome residence. It was opened by Cato.

“Massa says de young woman will please walk up and wait,” said Cato, as Mary offered to leave the bundle in his hand. Mary hesitated an instant, and then, trembling, (she could not tell why,) she followed him to the library. The door was opened, and Cato ushered her in with one of his best bows. Leslie pretended to be very busily engaged in a book as she entered, though he had been walking his room, or watching through the blinds with ill-concealed impatience till he heard the street door bell. He permitted Cato to leave the room, and Mary to advance half way to the table, before he gave signs of her presence. He then suddenly rose up and turned round.

“Ah, Miss Lee,” he said, with tender respect, “you have brought the gloves.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mary, without lifting her eyes.

“Sit down, if you please, while I examine the package.”

Mary quietly took a seat, and Major Pierpoint began to look over the parcels. But evidently his thoughts were not with this pursuit. His fingers trembled—he shockingly rent several pairs of gloves; put six of the handkerchiefs, one after another, into his pocket; blew his nose on a pair of silk hose, and at length sprung from the table in the most admirable confusion of mind in which a bachelor, at such a moment, could well be. After thrice striding the room to gather courage, he approached the surprised, embarrassed, yet not unexpecting Mary. No woman of any sense, or feeling, or mind, could be blind at such a time. He approached and seated himself beside her.

“Miss Lee——”

Mary trembled and remained silent. The Major gazed upon her tell-tale face, and then furtively sought her hand. She withdrew it instinctively, and half rose.

“Nay, my dear Miss Lee! pardon me! I meant no injury to your delicacy. Pray be seated!” and he took her hand and gently drew her to the chair which she had left. “I beg you to listen to me one moment. I have conceived for you a deep and respectful passion. Your beauty, grace and intelligence have made an impression upon my heart no time can ever efface. It is true you are young and full of life and beauty—I have passed half the allotted life of man. But the disparity is in years only. My heart is as young as your own, my feelings as buoyant, my hopes as bright. I have sought to meet you to-day to make a confession of the sentiments with which you have inspired me, to tell you how intimately my happiness is involved in your existence, to throw myself upon your generosity. You are an orphan, alas! and a cold, unpitying world is before you! Your loveliness and helplessness claim protection. Permit me to fill that delightful position near you while life lasts. I offer you my heart, my hand, my fortune, and promise to devote my life to the promotion of your happiness.”

The Major, after ending his eloquent appeal, gazed upon her downcast face several moments in silence. She made no reply! He still continued to hold her hand. Slowly he lifted it to his lips. There was no resistance. He again sought her eyes. Tears were silently gushing from them, and rolling in sparkling globules down her lovely cheeks.

“Good God, Miss Lee, have I offended you?”

“No, sir,” said Mary, lifting her eyes, the lashes dewy with tears, and sweetly smiling.

“Why these tears, then?”

“I do not know, indeed, unless it be that they flow from gratitude,” she answered, looking into his face with a radiant smile, like sunshine in an April shower.

The Major’s eyes filled also, and the next moment he pressed the happy girl to his heart.

Yes, Mary Lee became Major Leslie’s wife through gratitude. They were married, for he well knew gratitude would grow to love, and a brief time proved that he judged rightly. One month from the day on which he confessed his passion he led to the altar his charming bride. They were married publicly in church.

“Ah, Major, so you—don’t know her—some milliner’s apprentice, eh?” laughingly said a gentleman present, after the ceremony was over.

Clara Clayton, hearing that Leslie Pierpoint was to be married, went to the church, disguised in a strange bonnet and long green veil—but Leslie recognised her by her taper waist, and felt that his triumph and (if such a feeling really existed in his breast) his revenge were complete. Yes, Clara Clayton witnessed the ceremony, and when she saw it and recognised the bride’s face as she turned from the altar, she could scarcely suppress a shriek of mingled anger and disappointed malice. She went home and died the same year, the victim of her own selfishness.

Leslie Pierpoint and his beautiful lady are now travelling in Europe. Mary makes him an excellent wife, proving to be as good as she is beautiful.