'Well.'

'The same girl, grown up into a young lady, a beautiful young lady.'

'But is there any thing surprising in that?'

'Wait till you hear me through. Yes, grown up into a very, very beautiful young lady; only the eyes were just the same, just as fierce, just as cruel, and she looked at me so.'

Mrs. Havens here nearly gave way to hysterics, but somehow, I could not feel any great alarm on her account. I sat calmly waiting to hear if she had any thing more to add.

At that moment a pretty little child, just beginning to walk, toddled into the room, followed by its nurse.

'The dear little creature. That's my Hetty, Mr. Parkinson,' exclaimed Mrs. Havens, rising. 'She is a little angel. What could I do without her?' and she caressed the child. 'Now you can take her, nurse.'

'The fact is,' she continued, 'I was so nervous I did not sleep a wink all night.'

'But really I am at a loss to discover the reason of so much excitement.' 'I cannot tell, and that's what distresses me so. It has excited me - I am excited, and I cannot help it,' and she began to cry.

It seemed very extraordinary, that scene. Of course I was now certain that it was Matilda Hitchcock whom Mrs. Havens had encountered. But how extraordinary the effect on her!

'I do not know, my dear Mr. Parkinson,' she continued, 'what is the matter with me. I never shall be as happy as I was in old times. You have no idea how miserable I am—indeed you have not.'

I was desirous to avoid any confidential communication, but I began to suspect that Mrs. Havens was not so happy in her domestic relations as she had anticipated; that, coupled with some such misfortune, she was experiencing the usual heart-vacancy which her wealth and consequent inactivity of mind and body sensibly increased. In this way I accounted for her fits of nervous depression and susceptibility. In one of these moods she had seen Matilda and recognized her. That was a little extraordinary to be sure, but I had myself discovered the identity, which was just as remarkable. The fact is, it was not

easy, after seeing Matilda once, to forget her. On this particular occasion she had doubtless thrown the whole force of her passionate nature into the look she gave to the fashionable denizen of the avenue, and this seemed to me a natural explanation of the matter.

Mrs. Havens rallied. 'Excuse me, Mr. Parkinson, but you seem to be such an old friend - such a good friend — that I feel relieved to tell you about this, I see so little of you. Why does n't Alice come and see me? Anna has grown up now, I suppose? Charley, my little favorite, is almost a man by this time?'

She ran on in this style a few minutes, until I rose to leave. I really did not know what to say to her. Fortunately, she talked so fast it was not necessary for me to say any thing.

Just as I was going, she rang the bell.

'Not quite yet, Mr. Parkinson. You will taste a glass of sherry. I recollect Madeira used to be your favorite, but Frederick says Madeira is a myth now, and I can only offer you sherry.'

I stopped and drank wine with this spoiled child of fortune, this nervous, fidgety, handsome woman. Glad to make my escape, I murmured a few words about not permitting herself to be excited. I could see nothing to cause alarm, and so forth. The atmosphere inside sickened and oppressed me. Outside I breathed freely, and hurried on my way, grateful that Alice and Anna had not grown up like Mrs. Havens. Yet wealth, or a foolish application of it, would have made them like her.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

WE were all seated that same evening around our large table. I was reading the paper. Charley sat occupied with a book, Matilda was sewing, Alice was at the piano, and Anna teasing Warren, who was turning over the leaves of a volume which he was not permitted to read. Presently he laid it aside.

'There, now,' said Anna, 'you need not take it up any more. I don't want you to read when you come here; I want you to talk.'

It was evident that Robert Warren was preoccupied, for he only smiled in an absent manner, without saying a word.

Presently he looked up and said: 'Matilda Hitchcock.'

'Well, Sir.'

'Do you know what was the Christian name of Mr. Walden, your father's

uncle?'

'James.'

'How long ago did he die?'

'He died about six months before I was born; I suppose you know how old I am?'

'He died after your father?'

'The week after. He never heard of pa's death.'

'What did you ever learn about his will?'

'Nothing, except that he left all his property to a distant relation.'

'What more did you hear?'

'Now, Robert Warren, please do n't be a fool. What more did I hear, you ask. I've just said all this happened before I was born.'

'Oh! I thought your mother might have told you something about it.'

'Well, that was all there was to tell, I suppose. Uncle died and left us nothing.'

'So your mother told you?'

เ

So my mother told me.'

'And you were born six months afterward.'

'I was born six months afterward. My mother told me that, too.'

'You are sure his name was James?'

'If by 'his,' you mean my father's uncle, Mr. Walden, I am sure his name was James.'

'Very strange.'

'What, the name?'

'Now, Robert Warren, tell me why you ask these questions?'

'Oh! nothing; just to satisfy my curiosity.'

'About what?'

'Why, about the matter generally.'

'Well, I hope it is satisfied.'

'Not altogether, but I suppose I have got all that I can out of you.' 'What do you mean?' chimed in Anna.

Warren smiled.

‘Make him tell, papa,' said Anna.

I confess I was wondering quite as much as she. I smiled, too, and said nothing.

'Come here, Alice, and make him explain,' cried Anna.

'Oh! he's only rehearsing,' said Matilda; 'pray let him alone. If the fellow thinks he can learn how to examine and cross-examine a witness by practising on me, I am quite willing he should.'

This provoked no reply from Warren. He continued silent and abstracted, and in a little while took his leave.

'Really, what could he mean?' continued Anna, as Warren left the room. 'How can I tell?' said Matilda, pettishly, 'unless it means he's a fool.' 'Well, I shall not give it up so. I will have it out of him next time he comes, and Alice shall help me. Charlie, do n't you feel interested?'

'Oh! yes,' said Charlie, looking up from his book; but then you know I am not quite so excitable as you are, and I am willing to wait.'

'Bravo! Charlie,' cried Matilda. 'There's a philosopher for you.'

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

ANOTHER month passed away. We now come to the middle of October. Within a few days, several persons had called to see the house. I had paid the landlord forty-five dollars on account of the rent. It was the semi-annual interest on the fund of the two younger children invested by the court. There was still more than two quarters' rent due, and the proprietor said he could not let it run on any longer in arrear. Every day I expected to hear that the house had been let and we must go. Go where? The little debts due in the neighborhood began to annoy me. By that species of prescience which creditors so often exhibit, it was now very generally understood I was reduced to extremities.

It was Saturday morning, and several little sums had to be paid that afternoon, or we must go without our Sunday's marketing. As I was leaving the house, Alice told me that the servant-girl wanted a part of her month's wages. I hurried to my office. I hoped I should find some calls already on my desk. There were none. I went to half a dozen different places where I thought I should be most apt to find something to do, but no one just then required my

services. The sky seemed made of brass. Never had I been in such utter perplexity.

As the day began to wear away, my anxiety increased. At length this idea came into my head. I would go to Mr. Frink and ask him to lend me five dollars! I had rendered him many little services, for which I received no compensation. Beside, he always appeared friendly. It was not unusual for me to go and spend a few minutes with him, even if I had no note to take in, for he sometimes gave me valuable information about paper. So I clambered up to his little room to try the experiment.

After a few

Mr. Frink was in, engaged as usual with his check-book. minutes he looked up at me over his spectacles and said: 'How do you do?' Thereupon a rather pleasant conversation ensued, for Mr. Frink, when he had nothing else to do, was fond of hearing himself talk, especially as his listeners were very sure to agree with him, whatever he said.

The usurer had no commands for me on the present occasion, and as the longer he talked the more unready I felt to broach my subject, I determined to do so abruptly.

Taking advantage of a pause in his remarks, I said: 'Mr. Frink, I have been unfortunate to-day in my attempts to make a little money, and I want you to lend me five dollars.'

Mr. Frink immediately commenced again at his check-book, saying at the same time, in his ordinary monotonous tone: 'I never go into any such transactions.'

'I know you do not,' I replied; 'but I thought, under the circumstances,

you might possibly accommodate me with this small sum.'

'Oh! it's out of my line; I don't do any of that sort of business.'

'I suppose not. Good morning.'

I went back to my desk. Alice was standing by it as I entered.

'Papa,' she whispered, 'Mr. Hoyt has sent in word that he has rented the house, and will want possession on Monday.'

'Very well, I will see to it. Now go right home again, my child.'

She departed, and I sank into a chair stunned and helpless. After a few minutes I rose and proceeded with uncertain steps as far as Broadway. I then turned and walked slowly the whole length of Wall-street to the river. There I entered a ferry-boat, crossed and recrossed, while I stood against the railing where I might be exposed to the full sweep of the air. Landing, I retraced my steps, entered my office again, and sat down, leaning my head upon my hand. It was past three o'clock. All the other inmates of the office had left for home. Suddenly the door opened with a jerk.

'Charles E. Parkinson!'

I looked up. It was the post-man, already standing near me. 'Two cents.'

He left a letter, received the money, and was off in a twinkling.

I took the letter in my hand and looked at it carefully. The post-mark was illegible, the hand-writing unfamiliar. I suppose I held it five minutes before I opened it. Then, not without some tremor, I broke the seal.

A PILGRIMAGE TO JOHN BROWN'S MOUNTAIN.

WHILE John Brown was planning his 'Attack upon the Virginians,' the writer was intent upon his yearly pilgrimage to the peak of the loftiest mountain that overlooks Brown's grave. His excursion and that of Brown occur ring about the same time, the one from and the other to the mountain, has induced the present writer to make an effort to link his name with that of the Hero of Harper's Ferry. He hopes that while Brown and his fame find rest in a grave, at the mountain's foot, his own reputation, starting from that point, may not there find its grave. The attempt is a bold one, having no other reason for itself than such as a quiet walk through the woods in autumn, and a view from the best stand-point of the Adirondack mountains affords. To the reader the attempt may indicate an over-confident spirit; yet if he goes not to the mountain with the writer, he may allow the mountain to come to him.

Achates and I started from a point sixty miles north of Whiteface mountain, where the Northern New-York Rail-road cuts a lane through the woods. We had a compass and a rifle; and Achates carried under his arm a small valise, in which were packed a few pounds of flour, a lump of tallow, a little salt, and a piece of tin. The tin was our kitchen furniture, and in the hands of Achates a good master of the camp-very serviceable.

Our first day's march was ten miles, through the woods, guided by compass; and, although August had not yet left us, we found it cool camping without a blanket.

Before sun-rise next morning we reached a small circular pond, from which the white fog was raising, and on which we floated out upon a raft, which some wanderer had left in this solitude. At the inlet, we found the trout very hungry, and collected in such numbers that several were caught by my hook, without baiting. In the afternoon we crossed a rugged chain of hills to Ingraham Pond, where by good fortune stood a small shanty, from which a foot-path led toward the west. We resolved to spend a day at this shanty, wishing to rest on Sunday. It was a good place for a good day. A small boat near by, like the shanty, seemed not to have been disturbed since the previous year.

A Sabbath in the woods in summer is ever so still and calm, that it seems the only place to spend it well. Hardly a breath rippled the lake, or waved the dark forest that rose upon the hill-side beyond. Only the cry of the loon, as he floated past our camp, disturbed the Sabbath stillness.

I never felt more fully than on the evening of this golden day, as the sun went down, the meaning of that line of Gray's:

'And all the air a solemn stillness holds.'

Next morning I was roused by a whisper in my ear, telling me there were 'deer in the lake!' Taking my rifle, I went carefully to the shore. The fog was rising into an atmosphere, pure as the purest; and I could only sit and watch the fleecy vapor rising from the water, and resting against the black