Certainly," answers Aunt Markham. "I went to Tennessee with your father thirty years ago, and we crossed the Hickory-Nut Gap in going, and Swannanoa in coming back."

"Let us go in that way," says Sylvia.
"Impossible," says Charley.
"The rail-

road takes you to Swannanoa."

"A fig for the railroad! We can go in our carriage, like the grandees of thirty years ago. Which is the finest gap, Swannanoa or Hickory-Nut?"

"There is no comparison," says Eric. Hickory-Nut is infinitely finer."

"Then we must see it," says Sylvia, decidedly. She is of a nature easily roused to enthusiasm, and it is evident that this enthu-| siasm is beginning to wake in the interest of the long-neglected beauty lying within our own borders. "Listen!" she says, sitting upright in her chair, "why can we not go by the railroad to Swannanoa Gap, and take the stage-coach from there to Asheville, leaving the carriage to follow us to the same place, so that we can travel where we like in the mountains, and finally return by HickoryNut Gap? Is not that a good plan, Eric?"

"Only open to the objection that the carriage will be likely to be broken to pieces," says Eric.

"Why, I have heard you say that the roads beyond the Blue Ridge are excellent."

"The turnpikes are generally excellent, but I humbly submit that all roads are not turnpikes; and, furthermore, that to reach the country beyond the Blue Ridge it is neoessary to cross the mountains-to do which is no joke."

"I don't know a more serious matter," says Charley. "You are jolted, and bumped, and thumped, until you do not care for any prospect that can be shown to you."

" Pray speak for yourself," says Sylvia. "I am quite sure that no one else would think of putting a few jolts and thumps in comparison with the grandest scenery—”

"In the Atlantic States!" says Charley. "I have heard that from Eric several times. I contemplated this scenery on many occasions, and from many different places, with no great degree of satisfaction; but the trout• fishing that is something which warrants enthusiasm!"

"And the hunting!" says Rupert, with an ecstatic smile on his sunburned face. "How many deer did you kill last season, Brother Eric?"

"About the carriage," says Aunt Markham, "I am inclined to think with Sylvia that it might be a good plan to send it to Asheville. The idea of traveling about the mountains in stage-coaches and hacks is insufferable!"

"But we are more than enough to fill the carriage," says Eric.

“Take two saddle-horses, also,” cries Sylvia, with a bright light springing into her eyes. "One for you, and one for me-how delightful!"

"And how economical!"

She makes a gesture signifying that this consideration is not worth a moment's atten

tion.

"People expect to spend money when they are traveling," she says, "and the cost of the whole expedition will be less than a month at a fashionable watering-place."

"And I'll take the horses along with the carriage," cries Rupert, eagerly. "The rest of you may go on the railroad if you like, but give me a horse forever!"

"Jackson will drive the carriage, and you can ride Cecil and lead Bonnibelle," says Sylvia, with the air of a general issuing orders for a campaign.

Eric, what do you say?" asks Aunt Markham, turning to her eldest son, who is autocrat of the household.

"What is left for me to say?" responds Eric, lighting his cigar. "The matter is apparently settled. I only desire that it may be clearly understood that I am not accountable for consequences.

upset and Bonnibelle breaks her own legs and Sylvia's neck, nobody is to blame me."

with its level meadow-lands, over which suddenly a white rain comes driving in a quick, sharp shower.

"I am sorry this gust has come up just now," says Eric. "I wanted to take you on the rear-platform of the car, and show you a very pretty view of the river-valley, with a glimpse of the Blue Ridge.”

But we are not sorry, for the rain is de lightful. It dashes in spray against our windows, peals of thunder sound above the clatter of the train, and flashes of lightning dart' hither and thither to frighten nervous trav. elers. It does not continue very long, however. As suddenly as it began, the vehemence of the storm abates, the thunder rolls away, the cloud is evidently passing. A minute later a ray of sunshine falls on the scene, and lo! the earth is enchanted. The shower, which is still falling, is lighted up with prismatic radiance; away in the south dark clouds: are piled, but around us all is freshness and beauty. Mists rise, like the white smoke of incense, from the gorges, and when we lift our windows a rush of odor enters a hun dred sweet scents of growing things mingled and exhaled by the dampness.

After this the run to Old Fort is very pleasant. The dust is laid, the heat is temIf the carriage ispered, the sunshine is still partly obscured by clouds that dapple the changing landscape with soft shadows, and now and then we have a glimpse of blue heights far away. We pass beautiful valleys glittering with the late rain; we glide by grassy meadows, and streams where old-fashioned mills stand embowered in trees. There is a shimmer over every thing—a mingling of mist and brilliance pe culiar to a mountain-scene. [1]

"Nobody will think of blaming you," says Sylvia. "You accompany us under protestand such trifles as broken legs and necks are to be exclusively our own affair."

The next two weeks are devoted to preparing wardrobes and studying maps. Then, on a particularly warm Monday in August, we set forth on our journey. Rupert and Jackson, with the carriage and horses, started the day before for Asheville, via Hickory - Nut Gap. We take the railroad, and turn our faces toward Swannanoa.

Our railroad-journey is uneventful, as railroad-journeys-unless varied by an accident-generally are. The cars are filled with the usual number of thirsty men and dusty women, of invalids, sight-seers, and pleasureseekers. During the long pauses at the sta tions, we learn where most of these travelers are bound, and receive a great deal of interesting information about their social and do. mestic affairs. Few things strike one more forcibly in traveling than the general garrulity and egotism of human nature. This is entertaining for a time, but finally-taken in connection with a choking amount of dust, and a simmering degree of heat-it becomes almost intolerable. At last over the blazing noonday a grateful shadow steals, and, for the first time since early morning, we lift our window-blinds and look out. We are between the villages of Morganton and Marion, and. fairly among the mountains. Already there is a greenness over the land, in striking contrast to the parched brownness of the lowcountry which we left behind; great hills roll up on all sides, and on our right the magnificent dark-blue masses of Table - Rock and Short-Off Mountain stand clearly defined against a lurid thunder-cloud. The road just here follows the lovely valley of the Cataw ba, and we see the river in the foreground,

Presently our leisurely rate of speed abates, and we find ourselves at the end of our rail road journey-Old Fort. This place which takes its name from an old fort that is sup posed to have existed in the days of Indian warfare-has only risen to comparative im portance since the railroad abruptly and un expectedly ended here. At least the railroad track ends here, but for many miles beyon the road-bed is graded, and a great deal of heavy work in the way of bridging and tun neling is done, the sight of which moves on to fierce aud futile indignation against th plunderers who have worked the people suc grievous wrong.

"Is Old Fort a town?" asks Sylvia, lool ing round as we descend from the train.

"It is before you," says Charley. “Jud for yourself."

What is before us is an hotel perched on hill. A few other houses are scattered wid ly and wildly around. Great wooded mou tains rise in the background. The hot piazza seems crowded as we approach—Au Markham and Eric in front, Charley escorti Sylvia and myself. We are the last of t straggling procession of passengers, and 1 ceive the concentrated stares of all the la guid ladies with yellow-backed novels in the hands and sundowns on their heads, all t open-eyed children, and lounging men.

Why on earth do these people st here?" asks Sylvia, struggling with a which she is trying to draw down. looks like a very uninteresting place."

"It is healthy, and the rates of board are, no doubt, cheap," says Charley. "Many of the people may also lack courage to cross the Gap-those being esteemed lucky who reach the other side whole of life and limb."

This appalling statement. is treated with the incredulous contempt which it deserves as we mount the hotel-steps.

Hamlet says that "there's nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so ;" and this remark applies with peculiar force to Old Fort. Some people think it a very good place in which to spend weeks and months. Others are averse to spending more time there than the necessary hour which elapses between the arrival of the train and departure of the coach.

We belong to the latter class. After dinner we assemble on the piazza and take a vote for going or staying; and it is nearly unanimous to go.

"Catawba Falls are in the neighborhood," says Eric, anxious to fulfill his duties as cicerone. "If you stay until to-morrow you may see them, and they are well worth a visit."

"Stay a night stay two nights-here!" says Aunt Markham.. "It is impossible to think of such a thing!"

"Are the Falls easily reached?" asks Charley, with his usual air of protest against any exertion.

"They are by no means easily reached," answers Eric; "but they can be reached, which is the point, I take it."

"By no means," says Sylvia. "The point is to cross the Blue Ridge as soon as possible. Who cares for falls and cascades on this side? They may be pretty enough, but we are bound to the land of the sky-and Jonder comes the coach to take us there. How splendid!"

It is not the coach which draws forth this commendation, but the six beautiful gray borses which are harnessed to it. We watch them admiringly, and Eric calls our attention to the manner in which they are controlled by their driver, who is no less a person than the renowned John Pence.

Of this famous character I have heard so much that I regard him with great interest. My knowledge of stage-drivers in real life being limited, I had drawn a fancy picture of portly figure in top-boots and a "sprigged Teskit;" instead, I see a spare, sinewy man, dark as an Indian, with the eye of a hawk, who wears a pair of the brownest and dirtiest of corduroy trousers, a striped shirt, the aleeves of which are rolled up above the elbows showing thin, muscular arms, and a hat slouched rakishly over his brow. This is John Pence, who for twenty years has driven back and forth over Swannanoa Gap, and thom his admirers declare to be the best Iriver on the continent. If success is the est of merit, merit certainly must be his; or during these twenty years no accident as ever happened to a coach driven by him; nd those expert in such matters say that one ardly realizes the art of driving until one as seen him handle the ribbons.

That we have such a charioteer is a matr for congratulation, since the appearance the coach is not calculated to fill us with onfident hopes of a safe journey. It is evi

dently old and much dilapidated. It is also heavily loaded. The boot is full of trunks, and as many are piled on top as can possibly be put there. Besides which, Aunt Markham has the anguish of beholding her largest and most valuable one standing on the ground,

JOHN PENCE.

while the proprietor of the house informs her that Mr. Pence says he is overloaded, and that trunk cannot possibly "go over the Gap this trip."

My

"Mr. Pence!" repeats the lady, indignantly. "Who is Mr. Pence, pray? trunk shall go !—Eric, do you hear this?"

"I hear, mother," replies Eric, "but I don't think there is any redress. The coach is overloaded, and I should not consent to have you enter it as it stands if anybody but John Pence was going to drive. When you see the precipices past which that top-heavy vehicle must pass-"

"Oh!" she says, turning pale, "if that is the case, tell him to take off my other trunk, and Sylvia's and Alice's also."

But Sylvia and Alice protest against this, and a Babel of confusion follows. It is Eric who summarily ends it.

"Let me put you in the coach," he says. "Leave the trunks to me. I will arrange for them to be sent over safely to-morrow."

Then the labor of stowing us away begins. There are already an old lady, a middle-aged lady, two children, and an elderly gentleman, within the coach. By the united efforts of Eric, Charley, and the host, Aunt Markham is lifted and deposited inside. She sinks into her seat with an apoplectic "How fearful!"

I am lifted in next; but, when it comes to Sylvia's turn, that young lady declines to

enter.

"I am going up aloft-like the cherub that watches over poor Jack," she says. "I know you don't want me, Charley-you want to smoke. But Eric will take me with him -won't you, Eric?"

"I wonder if you think Eric doesn't want to smoke?" says Charley.

"He can if he chooses, and you, too, for

that matter-so don't look so disconsolate, but help me over this wheel."

She is assisted over the wheel, and elevated to the deck-seat. Charley sits down by her side, Eric springs to a place by the driver, that illustrious person cracks his long whip, the six horses start with one accord, the heavy coach sways. We are off.

"Over the Mountains of the Moon,
Down the valley of shadow,

to scale rise in towering masses before ussplendid heights that seem to defy the locomotive at their base. The gentleman who is our fellow-passenger points out some of the unfinished railroad-work. Aunt Mark. ham looks at it regretfully.

"If only the road were finished to Asheville!" she says.

"No railroad in the country has been so mercilessly plundered, madam," says the gentleman, sternly. "Ever since the war, it has been in the hands of rogues and swindlers, who have stolen every thing but the road-bed-which could not conveniently be made away with."

"I should not be surprised if you were one of the defrauded contractors," I think; but there is not much opportunity for conversation on the great grievance of Western North Carolina. We have begun the ascent of the mountain, and to say that the road is stony would convey but a poor idea of its actual state. It is my settled conviction that no one knows what stones really are until he or she has traveled from Old Fort to the top of the Blue Ridge. The road is covered with them, of every size, shape, and variety, and the constant rolling, jolting, and pitching of the coach baffle description. A ship at sea in a stiff gale is steady compared to it. We settle ourselves grimly to our fate; endeavor to keep ourselves steady by straps or any thing else that is convenient; gasp a brief "Excuse me!" when we are hurled against each other; and, in the intervals of being tossed about the coach, lean out of the windows to admire the wild beauty which sur rounds us. At least I do. Nobody else pays much attention to it. Aunt Markham resigns herself to martyr-like endurance, and preserves a martyr-like silence, until a tremendous lurch, which knocks her bonnet out of shape, also exhausts her patience.

"Alice," she says, severely, "if I had entertained an idea of any thing like this,. nothing would have induced me to come."

"There's worse than this afore us," remarks the old lady, placidly. "I've been over the Gap times and times-for my daughter's married and living in Buncombe-and my bones always ache for about three weeks afterward."

"If nothing happens worse than a few jolts," says the gentleman, we can stand them well enough, but I don't like the look of this stage. I told Burgin before we left Old Fort that it was a shame to send travelers

cliff leaning over us, the green abyss on the other side, beyond which mountains hem the gap. "I wonder if Mr. Pence would not stop long enough for me to sketch it?" "Impossible," auswers Eric.

"We have been so much delayed that I doubt if we shall reach Asheville before midnight."

Aunt Markham groans at this. "I shall be dead!" she says. "I cannot endure this terrible jolting much longer."

Despite this dismal prophecy, we go onhigher and yet higher. Now and then, glancing backward, we catch glimpses of the world below-an azure sea broken into a hundred giant billows-and feel that it is pleasant to be exalted so far above it. These glimpses, however, are very brief. We struggle upward. for another weary hour. Then comes a sudden halt, and Eric cries: "Look!"

Presently Sylvia's voice is heard asking if we do not want some information. "Eric

is a walking guide-book," she says, "and he has been telling me all about the country. We have crossed the Blue Ridge and left it behind, you know. These mountains on each side of us now are spurs of that chain-those on the left are called the hills of the Swannanoa, these on the right belong to the Black Mountain range. Eric says that in a little while we shall see the Black itself."

"Vive le roi!" I answer. "The Black is the monarch of mountains'-at least the monarch of Atlantic mountains. One cares nothing about those enormous and no doubt ugly peaks in the West."

"There is very good philosophy in valuing what we have, and despising what we have not," says Eric. "Yonder is the Black now! Look, what a fine peak!"

"Very fine, indeed!" says Aunt Markham, gazing out of the wrong side of the coach and nodding approvingly at one of the hills of the Swannanoa.

But I see what Eric means. Indeed if he had not spoken I think I should have known that the magnificent crest upthrust against the evening sky could only be the chief of Appalachian mountains. Shall I ever forget that first sight of its majestic beauty? Its splendid peaks were outlined with massive distinctness, and its dark-blue sides were purpling in the light of a luminous sunset. Round the pinnacle a few light clouds were floating, which caught the golden radiance of

We look. For one golden minute we grasp such a perfect pleasure as does not often come in this imperfect world. The arduous part of our journey is over; we are on the top of the Blue Ridge; looking back down the mountain up which we have for three hours so laboriously climbed, we see the country we are leaving spread out in the beauty of blue, misty distance. The afternoon is clear and golden, the air of this great altitude inexpressibly pure and fresh. The shower at noon has left the day like crystal; and turning eastward the glance sweeps over an infinite expanse of broken country, range after range of mountains melting into each other, high, cultivated valleys lying between, soft cloud-shadows falling in patches here and there, bold outlines against the farthest distance, the graceful line of heavenly-looking hills melting into the horizon, and over all Besides the Black, there are other mounthe refulgent glory of the sapphire sky. tains part of the same range-in sight. We are now on the summit of Swannanoa Nothing can be more superb than the great Gap, and from this point begins that gradual lines of Craggy as they trend westward. Its descent which will bring us to the elevated peaks, to the unscientific eye, look as high as basin in which Asheville lies. At "Curley's "the cloud-girt pinnacle of its mighty neigh

e change horses and drivers, and not far

from here meet the coach from Asheville. It is obtrusively bright and new in appearpance. The inside is lined with crimsoned plash-in contrast to our faded leather-and on the seats three fresh and cheerful-looking ladies sit. Two gentlemen are on the top. They all stare at us-we return the complimeat. The driver jeeringly tells our driver that he is not likely to reach Asheville before morning-to which the latter replies that be will be there by ten o'clock. With this interchange of civilities we part. "How odiously complacent those people ooked!" says Sylvia. "I am glad they have o go down that steep mountain."

As we advance, the path widens, the mountains recede; dells, and coves, and weeps of cultivated land appear; now and hen we see a farm-house in some sheltered Book, looking very diminutive in the shadow f the hills. Already the aspect of every bing is changed. A greenness like that of rly spring is spread over the land; there is

the west.

"Those form the monarch's crown," says Eric. "It is rare to see the peaks of the Black free from clouds."

their hues with the changing light. Finally a soft mist, neither blue nor purple, but something between the two, begins to steal oyer them, and deepen in all the clefts and gorges, as if they were drawing their robes about them for the night.

It is not long that we have this view. The road turns, other mountains intervene, and we find ourselves facing a great pomp. of sunset. In the midst of it rises, like a dream of the celestial country, a glorified azure peak of exquisite symmetry, and Eric says, "Pisgah!"

Presently the sunset fades, and twilight softly melts into moonlight. All along their dark crests the mountains are touched with silver, while the pearly radiance bathes valley, and rock, and stream, with a flood of enchantment. The coach and the hours drag slowly on, but the night grows more and more beautiful. We cross again and again a swift, bright stream, which we are told is the Swannanoa, and at last we find ourselves journeying along its banks. Is this an enchanted land of pastoral delight to which we have come? It is impossible not to believe so. Fertile fields and softly swelling hills surround us; houses gleam in the moonlight; the level road over which even the coach rolls smoothly is immediately on the river-bank. We see the current rippling and swirling over its rocky bed with a music which fills all the lustrous night with sweetness. Lovely depths of foliage drooping trees and tangled vines

fringe its banks. Nothing can be conceived more fairy-like than this charming river. Undine herself in watery form could not be fairer. Though I am growing very sleepy, I cannot refrain from expressing my admiration, and the gentleman by my side begins to explain that "Swannanoa" does not mean "beautiful," but " great road, or pass, over the mountains." I listen with disgusted incredulity, and before he concludes have fallen asleep, indifferent to the fact that

pose in the pure air. It is Arcadia which

e have entered, and which lies around us,

we see this beautiful range at sunset seems to us a very gracious boon of Fate. Magical

derene and peaceful in the long, golden light shades of color melt and blend into each oth

my head rests.

When I wake we are entering Asheville. The coach is rattling up a long, stony street,

ROSES HAVE THORNS.

"I Do not like roses so very much," said Joanna, cautiously putting aside the interwoven branches. "I never did; they have such thorns. They tear my clothes and scratch my fingers. But I do love appleblooms. They are roses without thorns, and their perfume is—is intoxicating. When I inhale the odor of apple-blooms, I can't help fancying how pleasant it would be to live in a world of apple-blossoms; for then one might be in the sunshine all day, and flutter in the wind, and never, never work! And yet," she added, penitently, "Pamela says work is a blessing."

"A dreadful task-mistress Pamela must be," said Arthur.

Joanna had begun to gather the roses, clipping them rapidly with a pair of shears, and dropping them into the basket which she had placed upon the ground.

"No," she answered, simply; "it is that I am so very idle." She did not remind Arthur now that he should not call Miss Basil "Pamela."

"But you do not realize that you are now in the very apple-blossom world you were wishing for," said Arthur, waving his hand oratorically. Why should you not sometimes be idle in order to enjoy it? Some day you will find it gone forever; even now, it is slipping from you day by day."

Joanna colored vividly, dropped her shears, and clasped her hands with a sigh.

"Ah, me!" she said, "when I speak of my fancies to Pamela, she tells me not to be silly; but you seem to understand me. I think it must be, perhaps, because you are yet in the apple-blossom world yourself?"

Arthur was pleased. A compliment of this nature was far more gratifying to his vanity than the just commendation she had passed upon his French; for that praise which implies the bestower's right to sit in judg ment on our acquiréments is rarely so acceptable as the involuntary recognition of some natural quality, however trivial, that compels admiration. If Arthur had felt humiliated by the tone of calm superiority, unconscious though it was, in which Joanna had expressed her favorable opinion of his French accent, he now felt soothed by the artless delight she showed at his commentary on her childish wish. It is the privilege of human nature to find consolation in trifles, and young Hen

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

dall was not a little elated by the flattering conceit that he possessed the rare power of interpreting the human heart.

But he did not feel obliged to exercise his gift of interpretation upon his own heart else might be have asked himself what magic had suddenly transformed this little Jounna from an amusing child to a study of absorb. ing interest? He vexed his vanity with no such question; not being wise beyond his years, he only congratulated himself upon the prospect of an agreeable relief to the monotony of Basilwood, where, for the present, he was compelled to stay. Yet he would bave scorned the suggestion that a mere desire to escape ennui influenced his determination to develop the dormant powers of this fledgling of the Basilwood thickets. It was but ordinary benevolence, he told himself, to wish to improve, by his conversation and advice, this little, untaught girl, thrown on his hands as it were, to whom, while Fortune had been adverse, Nature had been prodigal, if only in bestowing upon her so keen a perceptive faculty. How should it occur to him, in the full tide of gratified vanity, that the perceptive faculty can discern defects as well as merits? Arthur Hendall was very young.

And Joanna, clipping the roses heedlessly, thought, with exultation, that at last some one heard her with indulgence, and understood her. And in her simplicity she asked her heart why it was that Pamela, who, doubtless, loved her well, could not enter into the spirit of her harmless fancies as this stranger did? It was as though some invisible hand had lifted for a moment the veil concealing that enchanted world of which she was ever dreaming, and in which she firmly believeda world where bright fancies had leave to grow into brighter realities; a world where contradiction was unknown, where hope was never deferred, where trust was never betrayed, and where was never heard Pamela's doleful dirge, declaring that "beauty is a fading flower," and that "all flesh is grass."

Bewildered by a rush of incomprehensible emotions, she was incapable of distinguishing between the fresh and the withered roses, and she gathered indiscriminately all that came to her hand, nor dreamed of the mortification she was preparing for herself against that hour when she should have to sit down soberly to count over her store. How should she divine, half-giddy as she was with the glimpse of that enchanted world, upon the threshold of which she seemed to stand, that she saw only a beautiful vision of impossibilities conjured up by her own idle fancy? The uncompromising Pamela would have told her so without mitigation or remorse; but would she have believed Pamela? Joanna's sensitive, imaginative nature shrank appalled from that grim and bald and naked thing Miss Basil reverenced as truth.

A well-known voice, softened somewhat by distance, but shrill and penetrating still, broke the spell of silence that had fallen upon the dreaming pair.

"Jo-an-na!" Miss Basil called, or rather wailed, and Joanna started guiltily.

66 Ah, me!" she exclaimed, not in fear, but in contrition, while she struggled to extricate herself from what young Hendall,

with an execrable attempt at a pun that was unintelligible to his auditor, termed the Briareus; "how I have wasted the morning!'

"Never mind," said Arthur: "I suppose it is only that horrid Pamela; you need not heed."

"But I must! I must!" cried Joanna. "These old roses should have been in the Louse long ago. Oh, dear! To think that I should have wasted time so ! Go away!" she exclaimed, with sudden irritation. "You only impede me. I am not-concerned for my dress; let it tear!" In spite of her annoyance, Joanna must still be select in speech.

Arthur, smiling at her ambitious language, desisted from his efforts to aid her; and she, having extricated herself at the expense of ber dress, ran down the walk, fleet and graceful as a fawn, and dropping roses at every step.

Young Hendall stood and watched her out of sight, smiling at the pleasing picture she made. Young and handsome, he was apt to flatter himself that he could be irresistible when he chose to be so; but, to do him jus-tice, no thought of conquest entered his head now; and he would have resented indignantly the imputation of trifling with the little Joanna. In his opinion, there was no more possibility of his trifling with her than of her trifling with him. She was only a clever little thing, in whose company be could pass away the time, without incurring thesuspicion of serious intentions.

Miss Basil was in the large store-room, as Joanna knew, packing the baskets of vegetables, eggs, butter, and so forth, to send into the town for sale; for this indefatigable woman gave personal attention to every department of the management of Basilwood with which she could have any thing to do. Mrs. Basil, though she chose to ignore the fact that her orchards and gardens furnished supplies to the people of Middleborough, put no restraint upon these financial expedients; for the little sums that Miss Basil's energy and industry accumulated were not to be despised; but, had she issued her decree against sending vegetables to market, Miss Basil could not have looked more morose and woebegone. Joanna, peering in at the open window, saw that her countenance boded no good, and hesitated to speak.

There was, however, no need to speak, for Miss Basil, as if with an intuitive perception of her presence, looked up and said, "O child!" conveying both in voice and eyes a volume of reproach that immediately put the little Joanna on the defensive.

What, 'Mela?" said she, depositing the basket on the window-ledge, and assuming a most innocent air, though her conscience reproached her keenly; for Joanna was well aware that she had been idle, and that idle ness in Miss Basil's estimation was a sin, but she had no suspicion of the real cause of Miss Basil's displeasure.

"Come in, child, I must speak to you," said Miss Basil, in a milder tone. She was almost disarmed by Joanna's innocent air. "You stay too much in the garden; you'll be getting in Mr. Hendall's way, and that is not becoming."

"I get in Mr. Hendall's way!" exclaimed