"You are getting quite serious, doctor," said Mrs. Hoadley. "I am sure, nobody wishes her any harm; but who would have thought Mr. Vernon would be the man to be attracted by a pretty face?" "You have seen her, then," said he; "you have the advantage of us." "Now, doctor, you know better," replied the lady, with some confusion. "O, your niece here, may have met her." 66 No, no; but we have all heard about her, from those who have seen her." 66 "I beg your pardon," said the doctor, rising; "to be young and pretty, one would think a crime." Several pairs of bright eyes were suddenly raised from their work. 'Well, well," added he, "if it is, I know of some others in the same condemnation ; and, squinting slyly with his grey eyes toward the corner of the quilt where sat Bessie and Carrie, he nodded a "good day, ladies," and departed. The needles were now plied with renewed diligence, as Mrs. Cook remarked that this room would be wanted to set the table in, and the quilt must come off before tea. Mrs. Ely called Leevy out to help her get tea; and, when they reached the pantry, she softly shut the door, and asked her niece "what she meant by making such an imprudent remark, and begged her, for her own sake, to keep still; people would be drawing inferences from her appearance, and she ought to be more careful;" with many like words of caution. To her surprise, Leevy let fall two or three large tears, and replied, "she was not aware she spoke so warmly till the words were out of her lips; she was sorry, and would try to do better." 66 "Yes," said her aunt;" and, when Mr. Vernon returns with his wife, I hope you will not be hackward, Leevy, in calling on her. You know, as well as I, how much has been said about your visiting him; now is your time to show people that they have had no reason for talking as they have done." To this Leevy made no reply, and her aunt, for once, was puzzled what to think of her. We will stay no longer at the quilting-party, for this is a wedding-day, and it should bring us into a more genial atmosphere. In a capacious parlour in Mayfield, 'mid the perfume of fading flowers, there linger yet the breath of warm hearts, and the fragrance of honeyed lips, and the dew of gentle tears, and the soft, faint echoes of the nuptial song, and the sweeter melody of farewell voices, and the far-off solemn rustling of angel wings. Yet, to a casual observer, the place wears the stillness of a deserted house. The owner of the mansion, with feelings that make leisure dreaded, has gone to visit a distant invalid. Two or three young theologues are retracing their steps to the seminary; while twice that number of blooming girls are wondering if they will ever find their way again to Mayfield. The young missionary-elect is, by this time, seated in a train of cars for "down-east," with a dark-eyed, thoughtful girl by his side. The New York brother and his gay wife are on the Sound. The maiden mistress of the establishment, whose head, and heart, and hands, have been so heavily taxed those many days, has found her first leisure moment for a crying-spell; and is now alone in her chamber, actually indulging the unwonted luxury of tears. As for the newly-married pair, they have, since nine o'clock, journeyed many a mile of carriage-road, over hill and dale, unwearied by the long, rough way,—with a joy in their hearts too deep for a constant flow of words, and a sympathy so perfect as to make a medium even of silence. Already has Edward pointed out the spires of his native town; and now they leave the dusty thoroughfare, for the narrow road, with its midway strip of green, that leads up to the farm-house. Nor is their visit unexpected, as the air of readiness, and the many eager faces in waiting, amply testify. Ere the carriage reaches the place, the new husband turns to look at his bride; he notices a sudden accession of colour to her cheek and a fluttering of the heart,—as what bride does not remember, who was presented a stranger to her husband's relatives? He tries to scan her with other eyes than his own, and the result seems quite satisfactory; for he whispers, “I know they will love you, Mary." Brother James is the first at the carriage-side, and has looked into his new sister's face, and smiled, and bowed, ere there is time for the formal words of presentation. She is quite at her ease, as she feels the warm, brotherly grasp of his strong hand, and responds to his cordial welcome with a kiss. The four boys are straggling down the path from the door to the gate,-all, but one, awkward and confused, in the vain attempt to recall what they were to say and do on this important occasion. Master Eddie alone is self-possessed; and, disappointed at seeing a large white horse before the carriage, he disregards all ceremony, and vociferates, "Uncle Ned, why didn't you come with black Pompey?—I say it's too bad." The aged father is on the step, and sister Laura in the doorway with the baby. But Edward makes his salutations brief till he gains the hall, and clasps his mother in his arms. Nor does he prolong his embrace, eager to consummate the meeting of the two beings whom he loves best on earth. And how does his own eye moisten as he sees the tears involuntarily start on either side,—the warm gush from the full cistern, the single bright drop from the fountain nearly spent! To the aged matron, the scene recalled her buried daughter; and, by a similar force of association, Mary's lips no sooner vibrated with the word "mother," than it awoke in her heart the old memories of childhood and of her one great sorrow. After a generous supper, which was waiting the arrival of the youthful pair, they spent a pleasant hour in the "old north room;" one on either side of mother's chair, alone with her. Mary had never seen Edward look so happy or so lovable as now, in the home of his childhood, by his mother's knee. Blessed place! where the man shakes off the dust and cares of life, and becomes a child again. An evening stroll in the glorious moonlight!-through the orchard, beneath the large old apple-trees; down the smooth green hill-side; under the willows by the river bank, where the boy angled for perch; to the moss-covered rock, in whose shaded niche the student was wont to con his book; back to the rustic porch, where the fragrant honey-suckle, so often trained by hands that will never train it more, is yet studded with blossoms; and the moon, looking through the lattice, makes mosaic of the sanded step. That same moon, on the eve of this wedding-day, far to the east, looks in through a muslin curtain to a homely, yet neat and comfortable chamber, where, kneeling beside her bed, a lowly maiden, alone with her Bible and her God, is striving to calm a fevered spirit, and struggling for victory over self in its most subtle guise. Poor Leevy!— "O, happiness! O, unrest!" CHAPTER VII. "She's a woman-one in whom The spring-time of her childish years "A thousand thoughts of all things dear, I leave my sunny childhood here, THE people at the homestead could not fail to admire and love Edward's young wife; yet, in the brief acquaintance of a few days, they did not come to appreciate her maturity and strength of character. Occasionally they betrayed to Edward that they regarded her rather as his pet than companion. The old gentleman caressed her, and called her his "little girl." Brother James would sometimes say, laughingly, "he should like to see her taking care of a house." Sister Laura ventured to ask her "what Salem people would say to a married lady -and their minister's wife, too—with her neck full of curls?" Mary quietly replied, "that she had worn her hair in this way ever since she could remember, and, of course, to her friends it looked most natural and becoming; but it was not stereotyped thus, and she could put up the curls any time. Indeed, she had tried it once, but". "Edward objected, I venture," interposed sister Laura. She looked over her shoulder. He was there to speak for himself. "O!" said he, "it was the morning of our marriage. The carriage was waiting. Mary came from the library, whither |