AUNT HENRIETTA'S MISTAKE

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

"Before thy soul, at this deep lottery, Draw forth her prize ordained by destiny, Know that there's no recanting a first choice; Choose then discreetly."

"Heigh-ho! This is Valentine's day. Oh, how I would like to get a valentine! Did you ever get one, aunty?" said little Etta Mayfield.

"Yes, many of them. But not when I was a child. In my day children were children. You get a valentine! I'm e'en a'most struck dumb with astonishment to hear you think of such things. Go, get your doll-baby, or your sampler, and look on that. Saints of Mercy! It seems only yesterday you were a baby in long clothes," answered Miss Henrietta Mayfield, a spinster of uncertain age; but the folks in the village, who always knew everything, declared she had not owned to a day over thirty-five for the last ten years. This, if true, was quite excusable, for Miss Henrietta's little toilette glass reflected a bright, pleasant, and remarkably youthful face.

"I'm almost seventeen, aunty, and I'm tired of being treated like a child," said Etta, with a pout of her rosy lips.

"Ten years to come will be plenty time enough for you to think of such things. A valentine, indeed! I'd like to know who is to send one to you, or to any one else. There are only three unmarried men in our village; which of them would you like for your valentine; Jake Spikes, the blind fiddler; Bill Bowen, the deaf mail-boy, or Squire Sloughman? If the squire sends a valentine, I rather guess it will be to me. Oh, I forgot! There's the handsome stranger that boarded last summer with Miss Plimpkins. I noticed him at church Sunday. Come down to make a little visit and bring Miss Plimpkins a nice present ag'in, I guess. He is mighty grateful to her for taking such good care of him while he was sick. A uncommon handsome man. But 'taint a bit likely he'll think of a baby like you. He is a man old enough to know better—near forty, likely. He was monstrous polite to me; always finding the hymns, and passing his book to me. And I noticed Sunday he looked amazing pleasing at me. Land! it's ten o'clock. You'd better run over to the office and get the paper. No, I'll go myself. I want to stop in the store, to get some yarn and a little tea."

Miss Henrietta hurried off, and little Etta pouted on and murmured something about:

"People must have been dreadful slow and dull in aunty's young days," and then her thoughts wandered to that same handsome stranger.

She, too, had seen him in church on Sunday, and knew well how the rosy blush mantled her fair face when she saw the pleasant smile she had hoped was for her. But she might have known better, she thought; such a splendid man would never think of her. She would be sure to die an old maid, all on account of that dark-eyed stranger.

"Has Bill got in with the mail?" asked Miss Mayfield.

"Yes, miss; here's your paper what Bill brought, and here is a letter or valentine what Bill didn't bring. It's from the village," said the little old postmaster, with a merry laugh.

Yes, no mistaking, it was a valentine, directed in a fine manly hand to Miss Henrietta Mayfield. "From Squire Sloughman," thought Miss Henrietta. "He has spoken, or rather written his hopes at last." But, no, that was not his handwriting.

Miss Mayfield stepped out on the porch, carefully opened the envelope, and glanced hurriedly over the contents, and then at the signature—Arthur Linton.

"Well, well, who would have thought?" said she; "that is the name of the handsome stranger! Just to think of his really taking a liking to me. Stop! maybe he is a sharper from town, who has heard of my having a little property, and that's what he's after. I'll read his valentine over again:

Do not think me presumptuous, dear maid, in having dared to write you. No longer can I resist the continued pleadings of my heart. I have loved you ever since your sweet blue eyes, beaming with their pure, loving light, met my gaze. I have seized the opportunity offered by St. Valentine's day to speak and learn my fate. I will call this evening and hear from your dear lips if I shall be permited to try and teach your heart to love,

Arthur Linton.

"Well, truly that is beautiful language. It is a long day since anybody talked of my blue eyes. They were blue once, and I suppose are so still. Well, he writes as if he meant it. I'll see him, and give him a little bit of encouragement. Perhaps that seeing some one else after me will make the squire speak out. For six years he has been following me. For what? He has never said. I like Squire Sloughman—(his name should be Slowman). I'll try and hasten him on with all the heart I've got left. The most of it went to the bottom of the cruel ocean with my poor sailor-boy. Ah! if it had not been for his sad end, I would not now be caring for any man, save my poor Willie. But it is a lonesome life I am living—and it's kind of natural for a woman to think kindly of some man; and the squire is a real good fellow, and, to save me, I can't help wishing he would speak, and be done with it.

"This valentine may be for my good luck, after all," Miss Henrietta's thoughts were swift now, planning for the future; her feet kept pace with them, and before she knew it, she was at her own door.

"Why, aunty, how handsome you do look! your cheeks are as rosy as our apples," said Etta.

"Is that such a rarity, you should make so much of it?" answered Miss Henrietta.

"No, indeed, aunty, I only hope I may ever be as good looking as you are always. Did you get your yarn and tea?"

"Land! if I hain't forgot them! You see, child, the wind is blowing rather fresh, and I was anxious to get back," she answered her niece; but said to herself, "Henrietta Mayfield, I am ashamed on you to let any man drive your senses away."

"Never mind, Ettie; you can go over and spend the afternoon with Jessie Jones, and then get the things for me," she continued, glad of an excuse to get Etta away.

Miss Henrietta was very particular with her toilet that afternoon, and truly the result was encouraging. She was satisfied that she was handsome still.

It was near dark when she saw the handsome stranger coming up the garden walk.

"Did Miss Henrietta Mayfield receive a letter from me to-day?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; walk in," answered Miss Henrietta, who, although quite flurried, managed to appear quite cool.

"This, perhaps, may seem very precipitate in me, and I have feared perhaps you might not look with any favor on my suit. Do, dear lady, ease my fears. Can I hope that in time I may win the heart I am so anxious to secure?"

"Ahem—well, I cannot tell, sure. You know, sir, we have to know a person before we can love him. But I must confess I do feel very favorably inclined towards you."

"Bless you, my dear friend; I may call you so now, until I claim a nearer, dearer title. If you are now kindly disposed, I feel sure of ultimate success. I feared the difference in our ages might be an objection."

"No, no; I do not see why it need. It is well to have a little advantage on one side or the other. But, my dear friend, should you fail to secure the affection, you will not think unkindly of your friend."

"No; only let me have a few weeks, with your continued favor, and I ask no more. Many, many thanks," and, seizing her hand, he pressed it to his lips.

"Will you not now allow me to see my fair Henrietta?" he asked.

"Oh, I have been a little flurried, and did forget it was quite dark. I'll light the lamp in a minute."

Etta's sweet voice was now heard humming a song in the next room. She had returned from her visit, and as Miss Henrietta succeeded in lighting the lamp, her bright face peeped in the door, and she said:

"Aunty, Squire Sloughman is coming up the walk."

"Bless her sweet face! There is my Henrietta now!" exclaimed the visitor, and before the shade was adjusted on the lamp, she was alone. The handsome stranger was in the next room with—Etta!

A little scream, an exclamation of surprise from Etta, followed by the deep, manly voice of Mr. Linton, saying:

"Dearest Henrietta, I have your aunt's permission to win you, if I can."

"Henrietta! Little baby Etta! Sure enough, that was her name, too. What an idiot she had been!" thought Henrietta, the elder. "Oh! she hoped she had not exposed her mistake! Maybe he had not understood her!"

But Squire Sloughman was waiting for some one to admit him, and she had no more time to think over the recent conversation, or to determine whether or not Mr. Linton was aware of her blunder.

Squire Sloughman was cordially welcomed, and after being seated a while, observed:

"You have got a visitor, I see," pointing to the stranger's hat lying on the table beside him.

"Yes, Etta's got company. The stranger that boarded at Miss Plimpkins' last summer. He sent Etta a valentine, and has now come himself," returned Miss Henrietta.

"A valentine! what for?"

"To ask her to have him, surely. And I suppose he'll be taking her off to town to live, pretty soon."

"And you, what will you do? It will be awful lonely here for you," said the squire.

"Oh! he's coming out now," thought Miss Henrietta. And she gave him a better chance by her reply:

"Well, I don't know that anybody cares for that. I guess no one will run away with me."

But she was disappointed; it came not, what she hoped for, just then. Yet the Squire seemed very uneasy. At length he said:

"I got a valentine myself, to-day."

"You! What sort of a one? Comic, funny, or real in earnest?" asked Miss Henrietta.

"Oh! there is nothing funny about it—not a bit of laugh; all cry."

"Land! a crying valentine."

"Yes, a baby."

"Squire Sloughman!" said Miss Henrietta, with severe dignity.

"Yes, my dear, Miss Henrietta; I'll tell you all about it. You remember my niece, who treated me so shamefully by running away and marrying. Well, poor girl, she died a few days ago, and left her baby for me, begging I would do for her little girl as kindly as I did by its mother."

"Shall you keep it?" asked Miss Henrietta.

"I can't tell; that will depend on some one else. I may have to send it off to the poorhouse!"

"I'll take it myself first," said his listener.

"Not so, my dear, without you take me, too. Hey, what say you, now? I tell you, I've a notion to be kind and good to this little one; but a man must have some one to help him do right. Now, it depends on you to help me be a better or a worse man. I've been thinking of you for a half-dozen years past, but I thought your whole heart was in little Etta, and maybe you wouldn't take me, and I did not like to deal with uncertainties. Now, Etta's provided for with a valentine, I'm here offering myself and my valentine to you. Say yes or no; I'm in a hurry now."

"Pity but you had been so years ago," thought Miss Henrietta; but she said:

"Squire Sloughman, I think it the duty of every Christian to do all the good she can. So, for that cause, and charity toward the helpless little infant, I consent to—become——"

"Mrs. Sloughwoman—man, I mean," said the delighted Squire, springing up and imprinting a kiss on Miss Henrietta's lips.

"Sloughwoman, indeed! I'll not be slow in letting you know I think you are very hasty in your demonstrations. Wait until I give you leave," said the happy spinster.

"I have waited long enough. And now, my dear, do you hurry on to do your Christian duty; remembering particularly the helpless little infant needing your care," said the Squire, a little mischievously.

Miss Henrietta never knew whether her mistake had been discovered. She did not try to find out.

In a short time there was a double wedding in the village. The brides, Aunt Henrietta and little Etta, equally sharing the admiration of the guests.

Mrs. Sloughman admitted to herself, after all, it was the valentine that brought the squire out. And she is often heard to say that she had fully proved the truth of the old saying, "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good."