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1. No. 343.]

NEW YORK, OCTOBER 16, 1875.

[VOL. XIV.

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"THE LAND OF THE SKY;"

OR, ADVENTURES IN

MOUNTAIN

BY CHRISTIAN REID.

BY-WAYS.*

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parisons," says Charley. "I doubt whether we shall get rid of Dupont, however. He is so desperate that I think he will leave his own party to join ours."

"Perhaps you will exchange with him," says Sylvia. "I can't imagine how you will support life without Adèle."

"It will be difficult, no doubt," says Charley, serenely, "but in traveling, as in politics, it is best to stand by one's party. If Dupont joins us, I shall pot greatly object. He is a degree or two better than that fellow Lanier."

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it is only on the fourth day that the clouds disperse a little, the carriages are ordered, and we prepare to set forth.

The order of our going is soon arranged. Syl. via, Charley, and Mr. Lanier, are on horseback; Aunt Markham, Rupert, and I, together with John, fill the phaeton; Ericwho cannot endure that any one else should hold the reins while he sits by-drives the "jersey," which serves as a bag. gage - wagon, with Harrison (its nominal driver) by his side.

"So you have lent Charley your horse?" I say to him just before we start. "It is more than he deserves after having refused to bring his own."

"I thought it would be too cruel to sentence the poor fellow to the carriage, with Lanier by Sylvia's side," he answers, "but, of course, we will vary our modes

of travel. If it does not rain, I shall invite you to share my seat in the baggage-wagon, by way of relief from the carriage."

Much

The clouds, however, are determined that this pleasure shall be indefinitely deferred. As we drive down the long, muddy hill that leads out of Asheville, we observe that they hang low on the mountains-always a threatening sign-and, before we have traveled three miles, a white rain is upon us. to her disgust, Sylvia is forced to enter the carriage, while Rupert mounts her horse; there is a general enveloping in water-proof cloaks and coats, a consultation as to whether we shall turn back, a unanimous vote to go on, and a resolute setting forward in the teeth of the storm. It does not last very long; then there is a slight interlude: the clouds cease to rain, though they still curtain the sky in watery grayness. We are by this time immediately on the banks of the

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river, following that famous "Buncombe turnpike" which for fifty years was the great highway of travel between North Carolina and the Southwestern States. Originally an Indian trail, it has been and still remains the most picturesque road in the mountains. The fall of the river from Asheville to the Warm Springs a distance of thirty-six miles-is seven hundred feet, from which the rapidity of its current my be conceived, and the height of the hills that overshadow it. As the gorge deepens they tower higher and yet higher, these beautiful mountains, sometimes round and swelling, at other times broken into cliff-like escarpments, with great masses of rock overhanging the narrow pass, and tropical verdure feathering every ledge and point. What studies of form and color are here for a future generation of artists, no words can fitly say. The road, as it stretches before us, is a picture never to be forgotten. On one side the whirling, tumultuous river leaps and races over the rocks that strew its channel; on the other steep hill-sides hang, dark with shade, green with ferns, damp with trickling streams. The road turns, and lo! there is a fairy glen, down which a white cascade comes leaping over its rocks "to join the brimming river," or a narrow stretch of valley, planted generally in tall, rustling corn.

We are not allowed to enjoy this charming beauty with any satisfaction to ourselves very long. The clouds gather again, the rain begins once more-this time with a steady, settled persistence, that gives no hope of abatement; and presently Rupert rides up to the side of the carriage.

"Brother Eric says we shall have to stop at Alexander's. He declares it is impossible to go on to the Springs in such weather as this. It is disagreeable to us, and hard on the horses."

"Alexan

"What a bore!" says Sylvia. der's is no doubt a very pleasant place, but when one starts with an object in view, one likes to attain it. What must be, must be, however. We should certainly see little of the gorge in this deluge."

Consequently we make our first halt at Alexander's, ten miles below Asheville. No house of its kind is more widely known, or more deservedly popular, than this delightful hostelry. One secret of its charm is in the fact that there is no aping of the modern hotel about it. Nothing can be more quaint, more old-fashioned, more comfortable, and thoroughly unpretentions, than all its arrangements. A pleasant farm-house on a large scale, with a post-office and bowlingalley in front, a bridge crossing the river, and high, green hills rising abruptly around -this is Alexander's. Of the comfort of its lodging, the excellence of its table, thousands of travelers can speak. Withal it is a dreamy, restful place, where even the racing river grows tranquil, and, shut in by the great hills, one feels as if one might enjoy that repose of mind and body which is rare in this feverish age.

We find the house, as usual, full of guests -so full that Mr. Alexander demurs about receiving us; but, moved to compassion by the lowering skies and our drenched condition, finally agrees to stretch a point and take

us in. This is something for which to be grateful, since there is no cessation in the steady down-pour for the rest of the day. The river-usually green as Niagara-sweeps by, a turbid flood, and sight-seeing is utterly out of the question. We play whist on the vine-draped piazza, go over to the bowlingalley under umbrellas, grow friendly with all the inmates of the house, study maps, and learn all about the great floods of the past spring.

"Almost all the bridges in this part of the country were swept away," says Mr. Alexander. "The bridge over Laurel went -you ford the river now-and the bridge at the Warm Springs over the French Broad."

"Do we ford there?" asks Aunt Markham, terrified at such a prospect.

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"One of the most inconvenient modes that ever was devised for crossing a stream," says Eric.

"I don't think we are likely to cross any streams in any manner very soon," says Charley. "The clouds look as if they had settled steadily to business, and meant to rain for a week."

This is depressingly true, yet, as we sit on the piazza late in the afternoon, there is a slight indication of breaking away. The rain "holds up," as country people say; a glow of some faint, indescribable kind begins to light up the vapory heavens and turbid river-stretch.

When we come out from

any one else made the same suggestion. "You'll find it rather damp, but if you have on overshoes-"

"Oh, yes, overshoes and a water-proof. Come! I don't want to go back to the house to play whist and be bullied by everybody round the table for not leading trumps."

She takes his arm, and they start, but Mr. Lanier in his anxiety cannot forbear entering a protest.

"You are surely not going to walk on the side of the river, Miss Norwood," he says. "You've no idea how wet it is-you will certainly take cold.-Kenyon, this is very imprudent-"

"Very good of you to consider my health," says Charley. "I am afraid I may take a sore-throat, or something of the kind; but when a lady gives an invitation, you know it is impossible to refuse."

"Aunt Markham will take my hand at whist, Mr. Lanier," says Sylvia's gay, mischievous voice. Then they walk away, and we soon see their figures strolling along the winding road by the river-bank.

Eric laughs at the vexed expression which, even in the dim light, we see on Mr. Lanier's face as he watches them.

"Give her line, Ralph," he says, goodnaturedly. "A fish like that is not landed at once-if, indeed, you are lucky enough to land her at all."

"I sometimes think, by Jove, that I never shall," says Mr. Lanier, with emphasis. “One minute she is as kind and gracious as could possibly be desired; the next she thrusts a fellow off at arm's length. I don't pretend to understand such women."

"They don't generally intend that you should understand them," says Eric, quietly.

tea the scene has become beautiful. Far down the river a primrose tint in the west shines through the green foliage, and the clouds are rolling away from the eastern heavens. Every thing is dripping with moisture; but, equipping ourselves with waterproofs and overshoes, we go out on the After this we return to the house and bridge. It is impossible to describe the play another game of whist-Aunt Markham fresh loveliness of the scene as we stand with taking Sylvia's hand, and calling Mr. Lanier the turbulent, swollen river flowing under-sharply to account for all the blunders which neath in long, swirling ripples, and watch the light die out of that portion of the west which we see through the river-gap. The clouds change their shapes and aspects momentlynow watery gray, as they have been all day, now white as snow-drifts against a dark-blue sky. Solemn and stately the great hills inclose us, with their aspect of eternal, melancholy calm, and from all the defiles white mists are rising.

Something in the picture touches Sylvia. She turns from Ralph Lanier to where Charley stands leaning over the wet railing and whistling softly; laying her hand on his

arm:

"You told me first about the French

Broad," she says, "but I did not fancy it was half so beautiful as this."

"As this!" repeats Charley. "Why, this is nothing. The grandeur of the gorge does not begin until four or five miles below here."

"Well," she says, with a laugh, "it is pleasant to think that something better is coming-but this is good enough. Charley, that looks like a very pleasant road along the river-bank yonder. Can we not walk a little?"

"Certainly," answers Charley, with an alacrity he would not be likely to display if

he makes, and which owe their origin to a distracted mind. Whist-players know what concentration of thought this game demands, and poor Mr. Lanier's thoughts are following Sylvia up and down the wet river-side.

She comes in late, with wet boots and draggled skirts, but a pretty flush on her cheeks and light in her eyes. "We have been watching the moon rise," she hastens to assure Aunt Markham. "There is a bluff about a quarter of a mile down the river, which is perfectly lovely.-Are my feet wet? Well, yes-slightly so, but I am going to bed, so it does not matter. Good-night."

"One moment, Miss Sylvia!" cries Mr. Lanier, springing after her; but she flits away with a laugh and is gone.

The first sound I hear next morning is that of rain heavily falling, but by breakfasttime a few faint gleams of sunshine have appeared, and after breakfast we decide to order the carriages and make another effort to reach the Warm Springs. Half a dozen amateur weather-prophets assure us that it will be a clear day. "The mists are rising, the clouds are breaking," they say. "By twelve o'clock you will have as much sun as you want, and perhaps a little more."

Cheered by these assurances we start. Eric and I in the wagon lead the way, the

carriage and horsemen follow. But for the heaviness of the road the day would be delightful-a perfect day for traveling. Light veils of cloud obscure the sun, though now and then a burst of sunlight breaks forth and Three lights up the world with splendor.

or four miles below Alexander's we enter on that part of the road which leads below the cliffs. They rise over our heads hundreds of feet, these beautiful, majestic heights, broken ledges and masses of rock, in every interstice of which great pines grow, and thickets of rhododendron flourish. In the dark shade, ferns, flowers, and mosses abound, together with trees of every variety, while down the hill-sides and over the rocks countless streams come leaping in foam and spray.

We make slow progress here. It is impossible not to pause and linger at every step. The road, flecked with shadows, stretches before us, bounded on one side by the tumultuous river, overshadowed on the other by these inexpressibly picturesque escarpments. Sylvia descends from her horse, and, looping up her habit, climbs the rocks with almost childlike delight-followed by her two attendants, who do not probably enjoy the scrambling so much. Yet a change has evidently come over Charley. Despite his indolence he has a genuine love of Nature, and it begins to assert itself. Lanier, on the contrary, would be plainly content to sit on his horse and say, "Really, very beautiful!"

"How little idea most people have of the grandeur of this country!" says Eric. "The pass of the Trosachs is nothing to this gorge of the French Broad-yet compare the renown of the one with the obscurity of the other."

"Yet the scenery of the French Broad is tame compared to some that is to be found in these mountains-and which is absolutely unknown," says Charley.

"Tame!" repeats Sylvia. "Are we always to remain below in the scale of comparison? Shall we never see any thing which has the distinction of being superlative?

"Yes, you will stand on the Black Mountain and you will see Hickory-Nut Gap," Eric answers. "Those two things are superlative."

Since the day is wearing on, we cannot linger so long as we should like. Though our road is bounded by the narrow walls of the gorge through which the river forces its way, there is no monotony in the scenery. Every curve of the winding stream gives us a picture of new beauty-a picture essentially unlike any that we have seen before. As we advance, the mountains on each side rise higher, the stream grows wilder, the masses of rock which strew its channel are larger, sometimes piled in fantastic shapes with the water surging around and boiling under them, or forming islands covered with greenness.

Toward the middle of the day the sun shines out hotly-making our noonday rest, while we eat our luncheon, very pleasant. It is while we are engaged in this manner, scattered over the rocks by the river-bank, under the shade of the trees, that to our surprise the stage, which we expected to meet much later in the day, comes driving past. Two or three voices hail the driver:

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Then the lumbering vehicle rattles on, and day," he responds, "but the stage came back we look at each other.

"By George! here's a promising state of affairs!" says Mr. Lanier, twisting the ends of his black mustache.

"I've had my doubts about Laurel from the first," says Charley, taking another sandwich. "It's a dangerous-looking stream even at low water."

"O Eric," cries Aunt Markham, with perturbation on her countenance, "let us go back to Alexander's."

"I'm opposed to turning back," says Rupert, who is balancing himself in a precarious manner on a tree which hangs over the water. "If we can't cross Laurel, we can camp out."

"Well said, Rupert!" cries Sylvia. "I have always desired two things ardently-to camp out all night, and to be lost in the mountains. If we can compass the first, I shall have hopes of the last."

"Sylvia, how can you talk so foolishly!" says Aunt Markham.-" Eric, what do you mean to do?"

"To go on, mother," answers Eric. "These mountain-streams run down as fast as they rise. We can't reach Laurel before late afternoon, and it will be low enough to cross by that time."

Two things which are very essential in a leader Eric possesses-coolness and resolution. Many men under such circumstances would say to the party, "What shall we do?" and endless discussion would be the result. Eric simply announces what he means to do, and even Aunt Markham submits. "You'll promise that if there is any danger you won't take us in!" she says; and, when he says, "I promise that most positively," she is content.

Our luncheon over, we start again. A few miles brings us to Marshall, the seat of Madison County. A more singularly-located village cannot well be imagined. It is situated immediately on the river, in a valley not more than a quarter of a mile wide, with sheer, steep hills rising abruptly behind, and the river in front.

"The streams in this part of the country cannot rise like ours," I say to Eric," or else Marshall would be submerged twice a year at least. Think of the Yadkin, that rose last spring forty feet!"

"The French Broad never rises like that," he answers; "it runs off too rapidly. A bridge has been swept away here, but I doubt if the river came up to the town. We'll ask."

We do ask, and are told that it came up to the first row of houses-about ten feet above its usual level-but rose no farther. The bridge went like a thread, and a pretty, cultivated island lying in the middle of the stream was entirely overflowed. We try to obtain some information about Laurel here, but nobody knows any thing. As we drive

last night without crossing. If it hasn't rained any more on the head-waters, the river may be down by this time. There's an old man living there that'll show you the ford. Travelin' fur?"

"Down to the Springs," answers Eric, touching the horses; and on we go.

Just below Marshall the river makes a magnificent curve, sweeping with a bold and beautiful stretch around the base of the wooded cliffs that rise abruptly from its verge, and from this point the grandeur of the gorge is unmatched, and absolutely beyond description. The scenes grow wilder with every mile. Our ears are filled with the roar of the tumultuous river that lashes itself to fury among the rocks of every conceivable form that seem trying to bar its way. Much of the road is made in the bed of the stream, and, as we wind around the cliffs that jut out here and there, it is always with the devout hope that we may not come face to face with some other vehicle. In such a case it is impossible to see what either party would or could do. We are spared any thing of the kind, however, and so we go on, feeling as if we were leaving civilization altogether behind, and plunging deeper and deeper into the heart of primeval Nature. The fact that we meet no travelers strikes us.

"I am afraid Laurel is up," Eric says, doubtfully, "else we should have met somebody from beyond there."

One feature of the day's travel also im

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curiosity is roused at last. Why should the whole population of the French Broad be devoting themselves to fishing on this special day? We ask two or three, but receive little satisfaction. Unless approached with some tact, your mountaineer is apt to prove sulky and non-committal.

The road is so rough and so muddy that it is impossible to travel fast, and the afternoon is more than half gone before we hear that we are nine miles from Laurel, of the state of which we have not yet received any definite information.

"Eric," says Charley, riding up to the side of the phaeton which Eric is driving, "I have grave doubts about that river ahead of us. If we can't cross it, where do you propose to spend the night? There is not a tolerable place between the Springs and Alexander's."

"We can camp out," says Sylvia, riding up on the other side.-" Eric, pray let us do that.-Aunt Markham, wouldn't you rather sleep in the carriage than in such houses as we have passed?"

"I think I should," says Aunt Markham, "but I would rather cross Laurel than do either."

Charley shakes his head as he falls back. He is plainly not sanguine about Laurel. The case is desperate now, however; it is too far to go back-we must go on. Two or three showers have passed over us, but we are inured to wettings by this time, and do not mind them; massed clouds are before and behind, but we scarcely glance at them. On we drive for three miles farther, rugged cliffs hanging over us, a rocky road below, the rushing river by our side. Every thing around is so wild that unconsciously our spirits begin to fail a little. What if Laurel should be up! where and how shall we spend the night?

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"I think there is a storm coming over, Eric," says Aunt Markham, presently, from the back of the phaeton. "Had we not better put up the top?"

Eric turns, partly to look at the clouds, partly to assist in pulling up the top. In doing so, he fails to avoid one of the rocks of which the road is full. Crash against it goes the phaeton-wheel, there is a loud snap under our feet, and, as Eric pulls up the horses, he says:

By George, there goes a spring!" The equestrians are lingering in the rear, but, seeing our abrupt halt, Charley comes up at a canter.

"Ride on and stop those fellows in front," says Eric, as he comes abreast of us, "and tell John to bring a rope here.-I am sorry to say you must all get out of the carriage. -Rupert, come and unharness the horses."

We alight, and Aunt Markham seats herself on a rock with an expression of countenance that might move a statue to amusement. Disgust, despair, consternation, unutterable resignation to any thing that may occur all this is so plainly visible on her face that I go to the river-bank-about two feet distant-to enjoy a private laugh.

Meanwhile, Sylvia and her escort appear on the scene.

"Spring broken?" says Mr. Lanier, look

ing almost as much concerned as Aunt Mark- is more decided and intelligent than any othham. "What luck!" er native of the region we have met-glances at her, and then points to the tossing, turbu lent current of the French Broad.

"I've been 'feard of that spring all along, Mass Eric," says John, coming up with a coil of rope over his shoulder.

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"Well, the worst has come," says Eric, so now let us go to work and remedy it.— Charley, lend a hand here."

While Rupert holds the horses-which have been taken out of the carriage-and Eric, Charley, and John, bandage the broken spring, Mr. Lanier sits on his horse and contemplatively pulls his mustache. He is evidently of the opinion that misfortune has marked us for its own, and that traveling on the French Broad has its disadvantages.

Suddenly Aunt Markham extends her hand like a tragedy-queen, and points up the river.

"The rain is coming," she says. somebody bring me a water-proof?"

"Will

Mr. Lanier springs from his horse, and goes in search of this garment-not an instant too soon. We have scarcely time to envelop ourselves before the rain is upon us. There comes a blaze of lightning, a volleying peal of thunder, then the clouds empty themselves in a white, blinding sheet that almost takes away our breath, and promises to soak us to the skin.

"O Alice, isn't this dreadful?" says Sylvia, whose taste for adventure begins to be a little damped. As for Aunt Markham, she thinks that forbearance has ceased to be a virtue, and she cries that she must and will get into the carriage.

"I cannot sit here in a pool of water!" she says. "Eric, I shall take my death of cold-I am sure of it."

"We'll be ready for you in a minute, mother," says Eric, working like a Trojan.

In the midst of all this, a horseman unexpectedly appears, riding around a cliff just ahead of us, where the river makes a bend. He pauses-naturally surprised at the scene before him. It is by no means common to find parties of our description on the French Broad in a pouring rain. We hail him with our usual question:

"Can you tell us how far we are from Laurel?"

"Four miles," he answers, staring harder. "Broken a spring?"

"Yes. Is Laurel up?"

"Pretty high. You are not thinking about crossing it?"

"We are thinking exactly that," says Eric, turning round, "if the stream isn't too high. Have you crossed it?"

"No-it's beyond crossing, except in a canoe. "I'm just from there, though. I live on Laurel, five miles from the mouth. The river has been past fording for five days. It is running eight or ten feet deep now, and will swim a horse."

"By Jove!" says Mr. Lanier. Nobody else utters a word. We are all stunned, and we gaze at the messenger of evil tidings with a mixture of indignation and appeal.

"It can't be!" cries Sylvia, entreatingly. They say mountain-streams run down very fast-oh, don't you think we might cross it if we went on?"

The new-comer-who in face and manner

"You could just as soon drive to that rock yonder," he says, indicating a black, jagged point two-thirds of the distance across the river. "Laurel is fully that wide, and fully that swift."

We look at each other in dismay. What is to be said, what is to be done? Torrents of rain are pouring on us, lightning is flashing around, and thunder bellowing above. We are in the wildest part of the wild rivergorge, with Laurel "deep enough to swim a horse" in front, and Alexander's eighteen miles behind!

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MISS HAWKESBY'S CREED.

ANITA could not have given her sister a more congenial task than the unpacking of her trunks. The little Joanna, who never before had had the privilege of handling so much finery, laid the various dainty articles in their proper places with many an admiring, but never one envious sigh. If not the rose herself, was it not at least an honor to live near the rose? No thought of arraying her self in Anita's adornments crossed her innocent, unselfish mind; but Joanna was human and feminine, and, the more she looked at all this brave attire, the stronger grew the hope that in Anita she might find a guide and assistant to all those little arts and mysteries of dress that so baffled her efforts. But this hope Miss Basil, without knowing any thing about it, contrived to chill.

Miss Hawkesby, after the unpacking was over, had, with much good advice and wise admonition, excited Joanna's liveliest gratitude by the gift of a white French organdie and a leghorn hat. The organdie was yet in the piece; but the hat, the exquisite hat that made Joanna's very lungs expand, was trimmed with a Spanish lace scarf, fastened with an arrow of mother-of-pearl, and tucked up at the side with a pink rose; and Joanna, when she realized that it was her very own, felt that she had come into a noble inheritance.

When she had arranged her sister's pos sessions in order due, she went down to Miss Basil, to whom she declared enthusiastically that Anita was as lovely as an angel, and had dresses like the fashion-plates, and that her aunt had given her (Joanna) a beautiful dress and a perfect hat.

"I dare say they were things of Anita's," said Miss Basil, with a sniff.

"Indeed, no!" answered Joanna, indignantly; "they are quite new. I did not bring them down, 'Mela, because you never take an interest"—with a great sigh—“ but this dress

*ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by D. APPLETON & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

is French organdie, that has never even been unfolded, and all pure white."

"Do you mean to say that she didn't have it made up for you?" interrupted Miss Basil, resentfully.

“Now, 'Mela," remonstrated Joanna, ready to cry, "would you teach me ingratitude?"

"To be sure," said Miss Basil, dexterously evading this charge, "if you hadn't spent that five-dollar piece so recklessly and uselessly, Anne Amelia Griswold might make it—”

"Indeed she shouldn't touch it!" said Joanna, wincing a little at the unwelcome reference to her extravagance about the picture. "Anne Amelia? No style whatever!"

"She makes my dresses," said Miss Basil, in an injured tone. "However, you are never likely to need a white organdie, that I can see."

"We don't know what occasion may arise," said Joanna, with a grand air, thinking of Mrs. Carl Tompkins's aptitude for charadeparties. "And really, 'Mela, why should you wish to to disparage my nearest relations?"

"Oh, yes," said Miss Basil, with covert jealousy, "Miss Hawkesby has done so much more for you than any one else ever has done!"

"'Mela, if you mean that I care for her more than for you, you do not know my heart!" cried Joanna, passionately. "Else you would surely trust me, 'Mela." Joanna had resolved that she would never again reproach Miss Basil with her carefully-guarded secret; and she did not know that she was breaking this resolve now; but, of all that Anita had said that morning, nothing made so deep an impression as that passing allusion to Miss Basil's being a woman with a history. "It haunts me everywhere," thought poor Joanna. "It is not I that seek it, but it seeks me."

Miss Basil understood her readily enough. "Oh," said she, confused, "don't-don't get excited, Joanna; it is very bad for the digestion; and all our regular habits are to be broken into, now that your relations have come. We are all to breakfast and dine together at Mrs. Basil's own house, and Heaven alone knows what is to become of the time by such an arrangement. But it is all for your advantage, Mrs. Basil is pleased to say. I only hope it may not be for your disadvantage."

"O) Pamela!” cried. Joanna, joyfully, "how glad I am! Disadvantage? What disadvantage can there be in such an opportunity to-to-acquire the-usages, and all that? And you've always said the grandmamma took no interest in me?" (reproachfully).

"There!" exclaimed Miss Basil, flushing. "Just as I expected, poor, blind little mortal that you are! carried away by worldly vanities. It's little use, my striving to imbue you with a proper sense of your responsibility in that station of life to which it has pleased God to call you. Mrs. Basil upsets all my hopes of you, Joanna."

"Yes, 'Mela-I'm very sorry," said Joanna, meekly; "but, you see, I can't help being glad."

And, as often happens, the attractions of the pomps and vanities lost nothing by this chilling opposition. Joanna did but turn a more ready ear to Anita's doctrines.

"Time to dress, is it, Joanna?" said | Anita, with a yawn of pretended indifference, when Joanna called her. "Well, I suppose I must make the effort to get myself up in style, since I am to meet Mr. Arthur Hendall. All men are my lawful game, and I must have my ammunition and artillery in proper trim. And this wisdom I can teach you, Joanna "— rising, with animation-"I am older than you, so take heed to this axiom: beauty is nothing, absolutely nothing, without dress. Men talk trash about beauty when unadorned, and all that; you need never believe their words. It is the language of the eye alone that can be relied on, and men's eyes always rest approvingly on the pretty woman that is well dressed. Be fashionable, be stylish, or die! There's wisdom for you." And she sank down in a graceful attitude upon the lounge, glancing furtively at her young sister to note the effect of her acting, for Anita must always have some one to practise upon.

Joanna, who could not suspect that this was mere acting for her astonishment, and who did not wish to be thought altogether ignorant of the world, assented with a gravity that made Anita laugh.

"You delicious little bit of simplicity!" cried she. "But, mind you, don't take all I say too literally, my Joanna. If I unbend in your presence, you are not to fancy that I am speaking my precise sentiments."

"No, surely, Anita," answered Joanna, rather bewildered, but also rather relieved. Worldly wisdom was very useful, no doubt; but she didn't wish to see Anita hardened by it.

"The truth is," cried Anita, springing up, and making ready for her toilet with an alacrity one seeing her but now stretched on the lounge would hardly have thought her capable of-" the truth is-get me my blue grenadine, Joanna, please; and the mother-of-pearl pin for my hair-dress is a necessity of the age-my slippers, please—dress is powermy fan, and my white fichu-that's a dear child. Dress is individuality. Buffon, when he said, 'Le style, c'est l'homme,' surely intended to say, 'Le style, c'est la femme !' Dear me! what nonsense am I talking!" she exclaimed, checking herself, suddenly, at sight of Joanna, standing in rapt attention.

"Oh, pray go on, Anita; I mean-continue," said Joanna, earnestly; "it does not sound like nonsense to me, for I understand French, and all this is so very improving!"

"That may be, child, but I've no time for philosophy now; I'm in a crisis," said Anita, as she began to fasten up her redundant locks in a way that baffled Joanna's comprehension.

"I don't see how in the world you manage that," said she, after a silent study of the complicated operation.

"Hand your head over here," said Anita, good-naturedly, "and, though I can't promise to do as much for it as I've done for mine, I'll give it a touch-and-go style you'll be sure to like. Another time, my little one, you shall have regular instructions, and then you can do my hair for me. I dearly love to have my hair dressed."

"O Anita," said Joanna, joyfully submitting her head to her sister's manipulations, "only teach me how, and I'll gladly dress your beautiful hair every day."

"There, you goose!" said Anita, "admire yourself, and then move out of my way. I must study effects a little. I'm never selfish when I'm thoroughly satisfied with myself. When I'm perfected in loveliness I'll give you a few transforming touches."

"O Anita, how have I done without you so long?" Joanna said, with an ardent sigh. "How can I do enough for you?"

"You've done very well without me," said Anita; "you're a nice little thing, you know how to admire, but you don't know what to do with yourself, that's evident. Away with this pink bow, it's atrocious! And this ruff-it's out of style-you shall wear one of mine. Now remember: you are under my tutelage. You must respect my opinions and obey my directions."

"Yes-oh, yes!" sighed Joanna. "Listen now, and answer truly. Has Mr. Hendall pretended to admire you?"

"How could that be, Anita," said Joanna, with a quick flush, "when he had already seen you?"

"Well, you are a clever child," said Anita; "I have great hopes of you. And now we'll go down; but go quietly, my child -never allow yourself to be hurried. Walk behind me, Joanna, and then you will learn to walk well."

There was so exquisite a naïveté in Anita's belief in her own perfections that it could hardly be called vanity, and Joanna was too thoroughly imbued with the same belief to see any thing amusing in it, not being gifted by Nature with any sense of the ludicrous. As she walked behind that slight, graceful figure, utterly unconscious that she herself walked with the very same movements, she felt ready to immolate herself, in any way, for Anita's sake.

When they came into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Basil, Miss Hawkesby, and Miss Basil, were assembled, Anita immediately ran up and threw her arms around Miss Basil, saying, in her soft, insinuating voice:

"I am so glad to see you again, after all these years of separation. But I have never forgotten you. I was a wretch of a child, and called you Miss Pam-what am I to call you now?" And then Anita, not at all abashed by Miss Basil's stiffness, kissed her on both cheeks.

"I am called Miss Basil," was all the recognition she received; and Joanna was provoked to see that the kisses were submitted to with almost an air of offense.

Anita, however, not at all affected by this chilling reception, sank smilingly, in a graceful pose, upon a sofa commanding the door; whereupon Mrs. Basil, as if with an instinctive perception of her purpose in sitting there, turned to Miss Hawkesby, saying:

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