phere of green, shadowy twilight-though we left the sun shining on the outside world, pervading every thing, we are enchanted by its loveliness.

"It is like a miniature of Linville," says Eric. "Fancy these walls of rock two thousand feet high, and this stream a river, and you have an idea of Linville Gorge."

"I wish I could go there," says Sylvia. "Is it quite impossible for us to do so this summer, Eric?"

"Quite impossible-according to our present plan of travel. Don't you know that it is an important part of sight-seeing to know what must be left unseen?"

"And this is Lovers' Retreat!" says Rupert, standing on a mossy, slippery rock in the middle of the stream. "If I were a lover, it seems to me I should select a retreat that was not so damp-or so snaky."

"What do you know about the sentiments of lovers?" asks Charley. "Let me tell you that, when one is a victim of the tender passion, one does not consider snakes."

"Unless you see them," says Eric. "And Rupert is right this looks as if it might be one of their favorite retreats."

"I wish that the people who name places

of this kind would consider some other class of the world's population besides lovers," says Sylvia.

"They are the most interesting class, are they not? asks Mr. Lanier.

"On the contrary, I think they are the most uninteresting," she answers, decidedly. "They are always selfish, absorbed in their own affairs—and silly!"

"Dear me! what a list of charges," says Miss Hollis, with an affected laugh.—“ Take warning, gentlemen! Miss Norwood will have little sympathy for you if you fall in love."

"Then we can come to this retreat and find some kindly rattlesnake to put an end to our pain," says Charley." Here's a pretty flower. Will you have it?"

It is Miss Hollis to whom he offers the flower-a delicate wild azalia-and she accepts it most graciously.

"I am so fond of flowers," she says. "I see a scarlet lobelia growing yonder on the rocks by the cascade. I wish-oh, I do wish I could get that!"

"But you can't!" says Rupert, looking at the indicated flower, which grows in an inaccessible place-on the face of the rock over which the cascade tumbles, with a deep pool below.

"Here is a lobelia," says Mr. Lanier, who has been prying about among bushes and stones. "Will it not do as well?"

"Oh, no," says Miss Hollis, shaking her head. "It is not that lobelia.-Mr. Kenyon, can't you find any way to get it for me? I should be so delighted, and would wear it in my hair to-night."

"With such an inducement, I must certainly make an effort to get it," says Charley, gallantly-but he looks doubtfully at the position of the flower.

Charley, don't be a fool!" says Eric, aside. "You can't possibly get it without risking a plunge-bath, and it will be no joke to fall into that pool. It must be six or eight feet deep."

"I feel as if I can never be satisfied if I don't have it," says Miss Hollis, with the prettiest air of appeal.

at once to the hotel and change your dress," I say, anxiously; "Miss Hollis will excuse you, since you have suffered such a misadventure in her service."

say.

What he is going to do is soon apparent. We hear him breaking through the bushes by the side of the stream, and presently he appears on the top of the fall. Lying down there, and holding by a laurel-shrub, he leans far over the rock, and tries to gather the flower. It is a most precarious position, and one which it is not pleasant to contemplate.

"Go back!" Eric, Rupert, and I cry in chorus. "You can't reach it - you'll certainly fall over. Go back!"

"O Mr. Kenyon, pray don't!" cries Miss Hollis. She turns away, and covers her face with her hands. "I can't look!" she says, "I really can't.-Please tell me if he falls." Sylvia looks on steadily-her color bright, her lips set.

"I hope he will fall!" she says. "He deserves it for such folly."

"He'll go over head-foremost in a minute," says Mr. Lanier, philosophically.

Meanwhile Charley, deaf to our warnings, leans farther and farther over the rock, reaches nearer and nearer the flower. At last his hand touches it.

"By George, he's got it!" cries Rupert, triumphantly.

The words are scarcely uttered before the laurel-bush, on which he has bent his whole weight, breaks suddenly. He tries to recover his balance, but the wet rock is too slippery. He catches desperately at another shrub-fails to reach it-and goes, all in an instant, down into the pool!

The tremendous splash which he makes informs Miss Hollis-even before our exclamations-what has occurred. She turns, and screams, of course-the women who make mischief are the women who always scream over it. Nobody heeds her. Eric and Rupert spring forward just as Charley's head rises like a cork. A stroke or two brings him to water where he can wade. Then the others assist him out and deposit him, dripping, on the rocks.

"I've a great mind to say 'Serves you right!'" remarks Eric. "I hope you are satisfied."

"I believe I am," replies Charley, as soon as he can speak. "But I have the flower.You'll excuse my coming near you in my present moist condition, Miss Hollis-but here it is."

He gives it to Rupert, who presents it to the young lady.

"I can't tell you how much I shall prize it," she cries, "nor how much I am obliged to you for taking so much trouble to gratify me; but I would give any thing if you had not fallen into the water. I was horribly frightened, for I felt sure you would be drowned."

"Thanks," says Charley. "I might have been, perhaps, if I had struck my head against the rock. Luckily I had presence of mind enough to turn a somersault; so I escaped a fractured skull."

"You'll not escape a cold, if you don't go

You

"You are exceedingly kind," says Charley, "but I must deprive myself of the pleasure of your companionship, for once. would not fancy the rate at which I must walk-not to speak of my excessive dampness."

He rises as he speaks-a ludicrous figure, certainly and moves away. In reaching the bank he passes Sylvia, who has not uttered a word since he fell.

"I hope you were not very much startled," he says, pausing before her, with a laugh.

"Not at all," she answers, looking at him with a cool, bright glance. "You know my nerves are very good. I had no idea that you would be drowned."

"And would not have cared very much if I had been, I dare say," he remarks, carelessly. "Good nerves are capital things-in their way. Well, au revoir to you all!- Miss Hollis, I shall have the pleasure of seeing you in the ballroom to-night."

He disappears, shaking himself like a Newfoundland dog as he goes. When the last glimpse of his figure has vanished, we look at each other, and, yielding to an overmastering inclination, burst into a peal of laughter.

Miss Hollis appears in the ballroom with the lobelia in her hair that night, but Charley's devotion is by no means so excessive as it has been. Whether the plunge-bath has cooled his ardor, or whether he is alarmed by the melting glances with which the young lady favors him, it is impossible to say, but the change in his manner is very evident. I remark this when he comes down and sits by me.

"One can't keep a flirtation at high-water mark all the time," he says. "There must be ebbs in all tides. To tell you the truth, Miss Hollis is pretty, but insipid to an appalling degree."

"You must have made that discovery very recently."

"No, I have been aware of it for some time; but there are certain moods in which one is more intolerant of insipidity than in others."

"I am afraid you bear malice for your plunge in the pool; but you had your own folly to blame for that, as well as hers. Bythe-by, do you think you will suffer from it?"

"Suffer!" he laughs. "Not in the least. How well Sylvia is looking to-night! I suppose it is not worth while for me to ask her to dance-she would certainly be 'engaged.' Does she mean to marry that fellow Lanier?"

"You had better ask her if you are curious on the subject. I have no patience with men who try to obtain such information at second hand. A faint heart never yet won a woman, and never deserved to win one!" "Ah!" says Charley, calmly. "But suppose the woman is not to be won by any kind of a heart? If I asked Sylvia such a

question, she would tell me that it was no affair of mine."

"And that is all you know about it!" I think, as he saunters away. Puck's words occur to me with great force-"Lord! what fools these mortals be!"-and never such fools as in a matter that would seem to demand, above all others, the exercise of the soundest sense.

The next day is appointed for the excursion to Paint Rock-distant seven miles from the Springs, and consequently three miles over the Tennessee border. Several additions to our party make it quite large. Aunt Markham declines to go-seeing no attraction in rocks-but Eric fills both carriages with sight-seers, and two or three equestrians swell our number. Sylvia, as usual, is on horseback and looking her best-a best which quite extinguishes Miss Hollis, who also rides, but whose steed is poor, and whose horsemanship is very defective. Eric places his handsome Cecil at her service, but she is afraid to mount him, hence Charley has the satisfaction of riding him. A better horse than Cecil on which to "show off" graceful horsemanship it would be difficult to find. He has not a single vicious trait, but his spirit would turn the hair of a timid rider gray with terror. He dances as if he had been reared in a circus, and, if he is required to stand for a minute, will rear straight up on his hindlegs and paw the air with his front-feet. He repeats this performance several times before we start-varying it by waltzing on the same hind-legs; all of which makes Charley (who is a capital rider) appear to great advantageto such advantage, indeed, that I wickedly suspect him of inciting Cecil to some of the feats.

"O Mr. Kenyon, is that the horse you wanted me to ride?" cries Miss Hollis, pale with consternation. "Good Heavens! what should I have done!-He will break your neck-I am sure he will! Oh, pray don't ride him!"

Charley only laughs at this appeal.

66

"Soh, Cecil-steady, old boy!" he says, patting Cecil's beautiful arched neck. "He is gentle as a lamb," he adds. You could ride him without danger. He is only spirited and anxious to be off."

"I don't think I like so much spirit," says Miss Hollis, drawing her own steed away and looking askance at Cecil's curveting bounds.

Meanwhile, Sylvia's pretty mare has caught the contagion, and is champing her bit and pawing the ground.

66

"Sylvia can take care of herself," says Eric, gathering up the reins-he is to drive the phaeton-" and Charley is not likely to lead her into danger.-Now, are all ready?"

"All ready," answers a chorus of voices from the "jersey," which is filled to-day with other freight than trunks.

"No, no," cries Miss Hollis; "Mr. Kenyon has not come back."

"We must wait for Miss Sylvia," says Mr. Lanier. "Not at all necessary," says Eric. "We can follow them."

"But they, went a different road from ours."

"No-they took the right road. The turnpike on the other side of the river is badly washed by the late rains, so we keep on this side for two or three miles, then cross at a lower ferry."

"Neither of them likes to stand," says THE Charley, looking at her. 'Suppose we give them a run to keep them from pulling our arms off?"

Sylvia-not perceiving all that lies behind this suggestion-assents. The horses only need permission to go. Side by side they start, and, keeping pace admirably, sweep down the carriage-drive along the front of the hotel, and vanish around the corner of the building.

"I suppose they will be back in a minute," says Mr. Lanier, looking after them uneasily, "but it is very wrong of Kenyon to encourage Miss Sylvia in riding so recklessly. There is always danger of an accident."

LITTLE JOANNA.

A NOVEL.

BY KAMBA THORPE.

WHERE IS JOANNA?

POOR Joanna lay down upon Miss Caruthers's bed, and succumbed to the dose of chloral, vaguely conscious, ere she fell asleep, that Dr. Garnet, whose every word penetrated the crack of the door, was talking loudly to old Mrs. Paul Caruthers, and that he was talking about Miss Basil.

"News, ma'am? Why, yes, indeed, ma'am, the most astonishing. Middleborough will wake up to a sensation to-morrow, or I'm much mistaken. And who, now, do you think is going to astonish the natives this time?"

"Mrs. Stargold isn't dying, is she?" asked Mrs. Caruthers. "You say you came from her house."

"No; nor likely to die, bless you! I knew all the time that it was only worry of mind. It's that unaccountably queer cousin of old Judge Basil's, ma'am, that I've always associated in my mind with flannel and 'yarbtea.' Why, bless you, her story is a perfect romance!"

"I've often heard she wasn't so reticent for nothing," said old Mrs. Paul Caruthers, sagely. "But speak up, speak up, docter, do, or I can't understand you."

tor.

"Reticent for nothing!" shouted the doc"Well, no, I should say not, most decidedly. Who, now, do you suppose she turns out to be after burying herself all these years at Basilwood?"

At the mention of Basilwood, Joanna, in spite of indignation, in spite of anxiety, was unable longer to fix her attention beyond dreamily speculating upon what Anita might at that moment be doing; and, before she knew it, was in a profound slumber.

Anita was at that moment surprised by the entrance of Miss Caruthers, who had arrived alone during the raging of the storm; but exposure to the weather had not subdued her, by any means. She was in a state of excitement that fitted her for any arduous undertaking, so she said.

Anita, starting up, looked at her in consternation; but, before she could give expression to her thought, Miss Caruthers exclaimed, gayly:

"Henceforth name me the Indomitable! You may well look surprised to see me. Such a storm as we came through! But don't look so alarmed, my dear; it's all right, only we are under the necessity of changing the programme slightly."

"Joanna! Where is Joanna?" cried Anita, nervously.

"Preserve us!" ejaculated Miss Caruthers. "She isn't in hearing, is she?"

"Then you haven't seen her?" said Anita, falling back upon the pillows.

"Seen her! No," answered Miss Caruthers, rather bewildered. "Why, you are as nervous-come, come, this will never do! I tell you, it is all right. Not a soul knows of it, and the carriage will be here at eight o'clock. I do not know what new arrangement Mr. Redmond will make, under the circumstances, but you may count upon his being punctual" (laughing); "he hurried me away in spite of the storm; and it was well he did, or there would have been an end of every thing; for Middleborough bridge is gone!"

"Gone!" cried Anita, starting up with a scream and wringing her hands. "What, then, has become of Joanna ?"

"For Heaven's sake, what has Joanna to do with it?" said Miss Caruthers, rather impatiently.

"She has every thing to do with it!"

cried Anita, wringing her hands in an agony of terror and grief. "I sent her to you to tell you not to come. I have changed my mind. I will not go. Oh, how could I risk the child's life in such a storm as this!"

"Well," said Miss Caruthers, coolly, "Mr. Redmond said that was Joanna on the bridge."

Anita caught at a chair, and saved herself from falling.

Why do you torture me?" she said, faintly. "Tell me at once that Joanna went down with the bridge."

"Now, you dear creature," cried Miss Caruthers, running toward her with the cologne-bottle, "you torture yourself. Joanna did not go down with the bridge, I'm sure. We met her just half-way, in crossing, and we saw her safe on the other side, after we were safe on this side. It was so dark, we shouldn't have known our own grandmothers had we run against them. The old bridge rocked so, we thought we were gone, and we ran for dear life. And, sure enough, we hadn't come as far as Chancellor Page's before little Harry Jordane overtook us and told us that the bridge was blown away. Aunt made a great fuss about my coming out in the storm; but I was just wild about the success of our scheme. Now, don't give way, just when success is within your

grasp."

“But Joanna—” Anita urged, anxiously, pashing away Miss Caruthers's hands; "what if she should have attempted to come back over that bridge?"

"My dearest creature, calm yourself. Joanna is safe, you may be sure. She must have arrived at my aunt's before the bridge went down; and, since she cannot get back, of course she'll stay there all night."

"What will my aunt say? What will Miss Basil say? I deserve their deepest cou-demnation," said Anita, despairingly.

"As for Miss Hawkesby, she needn't know it until to-morrow; and then what matter what she says? And Miss Basil is away for the night, with some sick person or other; Mr. Redmond himself told me so. There! what bell is that?"

under those circumstances, until the last gasp."

'Well, well, we'll make a very pleasant party without her. Miss Basil never contributes much to conversation; and here we have Miss Caruthers to fill her place. Miss Caruthers always has plenty to say. She will give us an account of all the little spites and jealousies Mrs. Carl Tomkins has been so busy soothing and conciliating this past week-to my mind the most amusing feature of charades, tableaus, concerts, and all amateur performances. And so the storm puts an end to it all? Joanna-but where is Joanna?"

Anita gave a gasp that had nearly betrayed her; but, fortunately, Mrs. Basil interposed in time.

“Oh, Joanna, in all probability, has become uneasy about Miss Basil, and started out to find her."

"In this storm?" cried Miss Hawkesby, with a horrified expression.

"Do let me help you to some of this pickle," said Miss Caruthers, hastily, to Anita." My dear Miss Hawkesby, the storm is not so severe as you think; I came out in it."

"I've

"Then you did a very unbecoming thing, allow me to tell you," said Miss Hawkesby, severely. She didn't like Miss Caruthers, and she would not hesitate to express her mind, with or without permission. lived long enough in this world to learn that only a very excellent woman like Miss Basil can defy a storm like this with any propriety."

"Thurston saw Joanna go out, more than an hour ago," said Mrs. Basil, querulously. "I don't approve, but I am not responsible for Joanna's conduct. She is my husband's granddaughter; I never forget that; but I've no authority over her. If I had-" and Mrs. Basil's head and hands began shaking strangely.

"Oh, but you must, you must!" cried Miss Caruthers, peremptorily. "We can't have Miss Hawkesby coming up here making inquiries, you know. Bathe your face in cologne; drink some of it. Heavens, how pale you are! Pinch some color into your cheeks, for pity's sake, and remember to eat with appetite and talk with ease."

Anita, recognizing the wisdom of this advice, roused herself with an effort, and followed Miss Caruthers's direction. She appeared to eat with appetite; and fortunately there was little need for her to speak, as Miss Hawkesby was in a talkative mood, and left few pauses that Mrs. Basil or Miss Caruthers could not fill.

"So Miss Basil is not come home yet?" said Miss Hawkesby. "I wonder what keeps her?"

"Oh," said Mrs. Basil, in an injured tone, 'they tell me that one of the Griswolds is at the point of death, and Pamela will stay,

'No, aunt," said Anita, with a firmness that surprised and encouraged Miss Caruthers, you will not scold Joanna; she is not to blame for-for doing what she thinks is right."

"Don't dictate to me," said Miss Hawkesby, shortly. "You know, Miss Anita, that you yourself deserve my displeasure in some things."

Miss Caruthers changed color, but Anita looked charmingly serene. She knew very well that her aunt alluded to a great battle they had fought the day before about the gentleman Anita called "the venerable Mr. Merwin." It was that battle that had decided Anita to run off with Basil Redmond.

But Anita's serenity forsook her the moment she was up-stairs again, alone with Miss Caruthers. "I must have my sister back again!" she cried, passionately. "I cannot endure this suspense. My poor lit

Upon my word," said Miss Caruthers, beginning to lose her temper, "these are great thanks to me! All because that flighty Joanna must go posting off in the storm! Come, now, my dear," added she, coaxingly, "think of Mr. Redmond."

"If I have not Joanna safe again, I can never see him. I tell you I will not go with him," said Anita. "Don't you understand my misery? It was I that sent the child out in this pitiless storm, to tell you not to come -to put a stop at once to this unseemly business."

"You don't mean to say that you've changed your mind?" Miss Caruthers asked, staring in blank amazement.

"I do mean to say just that," answered Anita. "I will not go. I was in a rage with my aunt, or I never should have consented. I was mad ever to confide in you."

"Thank you thank you!" said Miss Caruthers, angrily. "I am infinitely obliged!"

"Forgive me," said Anita, with hysterical laughter. Perhaps I am mad now."

"You are overwrought," said Miss Caruthers, relenting. She had her own little spite against Miss Hawkesby, and she was loath to give up so fine an opportunity of gratifying it, to say nothing of the distinction of assisting in a runaway match. "Why, I thought you had more nerve, you poor dear; now you shall lie down and rest, and, when eight o'clock comes, all will be right.”

"I will not go!" said Anita. "Do you think I draw back because I am afraid? I will not do it, because it is wrong-Joanna has made me feel that it is wrong."

"You surely never told that little fool? Then you were mad indeed!" cried Miss Caruthers, furiously. So she was to be balked of her revenge for Miss Hawkesby's slighting speeches, by that child Joanna.

"She is my sister, please to remember," said Anita, in her cool, soft way. The prospect of measuring swords with this girl, whom she knew she could excel in the art of fence, had a tonic effect upon her excited nerves.

"I suppose it was natural," said Miss Caruthers, recovering herself, and unwilling to resign the hope of ultimately carrying her point. She felt encouraged by Anita's calmer tone; and, remembering with satisfaction the serene firmness with which Anita had opposed, at dinner, her aunt's determination to scold Joanna, she assured herself that there was a fund of strength, after all, behind this intense excitement. "It was natural; you

wished, of course, to take leave of your sister; and happily she is now out of the way of trouble-and safe, be sure of that-oh, be sure of that," she reiterated, eagerly, for Anita was becoming excited again.

Poor Anita!-the words "out of the way of trouble-and safe," had for her disturbed mind a ghastly significance, reminding her of those prudent phrases by which the dread announcement of a death is evaded. She began to moan and wring her hands.

Miss Caruthers, mentally anathematizing Joanna, strove to turn Anita's thoughts into another channel by talking of Basil Redmond. But in vain she dwelt upon his devotion, in vain she painted his despair and disappointment; Anita, when she said any thing at all, said only:

"I will not see him; I will not go with him."

"Well, it is very nearly eight o'clock," at last said Miss Caruthers, with a sigh in acknowledgment of her defeat; "I may as well go down and tell him to give it up."

Then, to her surprise and joy, Anita started up.

"I will see him!" she cried. "I will go down with you."

"If once she sees Basil Redmond, she must go with him," Miss Caruthers thought; but she did not know Anita; she did not understand the loathing of self that made the girl shudder as they stole down the backstairs; she thought she was a support, morally and physically, to this slight, trembling creature whose arm she held, and into whose ear she kept repeating words of good cheer and encouragement, to which Anita deigned no reply.

The fury of the storm had abated somewhat, but the rain was still falling heavily, and it was so dark that when they arrived at the gate they would not have known the carriage was there had they not run against Basil Redmond in the walk.

"Anita!" he cried, joyfully. "You will not disappoint me?"

He attempted to take her hands; but Anita drew back.

"I have come to tell you that I cannot go with you," she said, gently.

"Anita!" he cried, in consternation. "What does this mean?"

"She has been talking that way this entire evening," said Miss Caruthers, volubly. "Don't listen to her." And she attempted to urge the two forward. Anita resisted.

"I cannot go with you," she repeated. "Don't reproach me; I am miserable and unhappy enough. I tried to send you word not to come; I have risked my sister's life in this storm, and I know not what is become of her."

Her voice rose in a wail of anguish. "I never heard the like!" exclaimed Miss Caruthers, impatiently. "I tell you she is safe enough."

"Oh, yes, Anita," said Redmond; “you distress yourself for nothing. Joanna is safe enough."

I cannot go away with you," Anita persisted. "I cannot do this underhand thing; I cannot let you do it. It is unworthy of

you and of me. If you knew how degraded I felt as I crept down those stairs-" But, Anita-"

"I tell you I cannot, I will not go with you while I am uncertain about my sister's fate. But bring her back to me-oh! if, indeed, you love me, bring her back to me, and I promise you devoutly I will brave my aunt's displeasure openly for your sake."

It was vain to argue with her. To Miss Caruthers she was coolly obstinate; but Redmond she resisted with such passionate pleading that at last he said:

"She will make herself ill; we must carry her back to the house."

It was carrying her indeed; for, when she found she had gained her point, she trembled so she could not walk.

"My poor Anita," said Redmond, "promise me, promise me that you will cease to distress yourself, that you will believe in Joanna's safety."

"I promise, oh, I promise!" said Anita, hysterically; and then, as they had arrived at the house, she signed to Miss Caruthers to go in first. When she was alone with Redmond, she turned to him and said, with something of that mocking air peculiar to her:

"Is it not a bitter thing to have confided in that girl?"

you betray them; and perhaps I ought to tell you finally that you'd better not have any thing further to do with me, as I am sure to incur my aunt's displeasure."

It wasn't nice in Anita to say all this, considering the service Miss Caruthers had been so willing to render her; but Miss Caruthers received it with an amiable giggle.

"You are so funny," she said; but, indeed, she hadn't the independence to quarrel with Anita.

Then Miss Hawkesby came in, and turned the conversation.

"Anita," she said, sharply, "what are you doing shut up here all the evening? You might bring your company down-stairs and entertain us. Mrs. Basil and I have been dull enough, and now she's gone to bed."

"Ah, yes, any thing wrong would come to be bitter to us in time," said Anita. "The dear, the good little Joanna taught me this when she made me see the folly of running away to be married. She thinks people should be married respectably at home. Poor little Joanna!" And then Anita burst into bitter weeping.

"I see," said Redmond, "Joanna is dearer than I," and he sighed bitterly.

Ah, no! no!" said Anita, as she clung to him. Ah, you do not know what a struggle I bave been through. Bid me goodnight, but not farewell, or my heart must break."

Redmond's indignation melted at this. He bade her good-night with many assur ances that Joanna must be safe, that he himself would bring her back, and that all would yet be well; and Anita went up-stairs comforted somewhat.

"Well!" said Miss Caruthers, "what kind of a girl are you? I've a great mind to quarrel with you."

Anita almost wished that she would; she was beginning to find this ready friend detestable.

"I am this kind of a girl," she said, "that when I make up my mind to a thing I cannot be moved."

"By anybody except Joanna," amended Miss Caruthers, with a sneer.

"Not even by Joanna," said Anita, coolly. "It wasn't my mind, but only my temper, that was made up to this step, because I was in a fury with my aunt. Now let me tell you something for your future guidance: never have any thing to do with a runaway match; it's a very ridiculous position to occupy, that of defeated confidante; never receive confidences, they are mortally troublesome, whether you keep them or whether

66

"Anita, Anita, for mercy's sake," said Miss Hawkesby, tremulously, compose yourself! She's with Miss Basil, you know.— It's nerves, poor thing! she added, turning appealingly to Miss Caruthers. "Get me a glass of water for her, my dear.-Now you go to bed and calm yourself, Anita.-We had a quarrel yesterday, but I'm sorry for it. Never mind, we'll make it all up."

And so, coaxing and caressing, she undressed Anita and put her to bed as if she had been a baby.

"She's a good girl, Anita is," she whis pered, apologetically, to Miss Caruthers, laying aside, for the nonce, all prejudice. "She doesn't often act in this way; if she did, she'd rule me with a rod of iron. But I wish that Basil Redmond was hanged."

"Go to bed, aunt," said Anita, feebly. "I would much rather have Miss Caruthers with me; you know you snore."

"Yes, my darling, I know I do," said old Miss Hawkesby, pathetically. "I'll just leave my door open, and Miss Caruthers shall call me if you need any thing."

But, long before Miss Hawkesby was awake next morning, Anita was up and gone, and Miss Caruthers with her.

CHAPTER XXX.

WHAT WILL MISS HAWKESBY SAY? WHEN Joanna awoke the next morning her limbs felt stiff, her head confused; she knew not where she was, she could not re

member what had happened; but gradually, as her eyes wandered around the unfamiliar room, recollection returned; the dread certainty that Anita was gone renewed her anguish, and, with a cry of despair, she rose from the bed. She had not undressed, and she did not care-or, rather, she did not think-to stay to arrange her toilet. Her one object now was to see her aunt, to confess every thing, and to plead for her sister. There was comfort in the thought that she herself could not appear entirely blameless in Miss Hawkesby's eyes: might not her aunt, therefore, be the more easily won to forgive Anita? This was rather an instinct than an argument with Joanna, but her faith therein was strong, and she was eager to act upon it without delay. Utterly regardless of the claims of hospitality, she was about to leave the house, when she encountered Miss Caruthers coming in.

The two looked at each other with no friendly regard. Joanna, though she had lived apart from the Middleborough world, was not ignorant that the public voice pronounced Miss Caruthers "fast;" and she bitterly resented this enterprising young lady's influence over Anita.

"You evil genius!" she cried, with fierce denunciation. "Away with you! Out of my sight! I never wish to see you again!"

"So!" said Miss Caruthers, with a withering sneer. "You are safe enough. Oh, I made sure of it; naught's never in danger. A pretty mess you've made, meddling in this business. Why couldn't you stay quietly at home, and hold your tongue, as becomes a child? Then all would have been well; as it is, you may thank yourself."

This was a bitter reproach to poor Joanna, who had persuaded herself that had she remained at home she might have prevailed with Anita against Miss Caruthers and Basil Redmond combined; and, inasmuch as she had disobeyed Pamela's injunction, it was an added bitterness to feel that the reproach was deserved; but this feeling did not soften her heart toward Miss Caruthers.

"If you had staid at home, where you belong, you might justly censure me," she said, hoarsely. "Where is my sister?"

"You go find her," said Miss Caruthers, contemptuously, drawing her skirts around her as if to avoid contamination. "May Heaven preserve me from such a termagant spirit!"

But to this Joanna made no reply. She had resolved that she would never speak to Miss Caruthers again, and the moment her passage was clear she rushed like a whirlwind out of the door.

"What on earth is all this fuss about?" cried old Mrs. Paul Caruthers, peering over the baluster in her nightcap and flowered dressing gown. "Upon my word, it is enough to raise the dead!"

"Only that child Joanna, ma'am," replied Miss Caruthers. "She won't stay to breakfast."

"Let her go! A good riddance!" said old Mrs. Paul Caruthers. "She scorned the house that gave her shelter last night; she'd only scorn our humble board this morning. How did you get back? They told me, last

night, the bridge gave way. In a skiff, eh? Well, I'm glad you're safe. Run up-stairs, and I'll tell you the news Dr. Garnet told me."

Poor little Joanna, when she rushed out of Mrs. Caruthers's door, had no definite idea as to what she would do about returning home; but reasoning, almost unconsciously, that, if Miss Caruthers had crossed from the other side, she could cross from this side, she hastened away to "THE SCENE OF THE DISASTER," as the Middleborough Daily Messenger put it, in capitals. Here a dense crowd was already assembled, which, after the manner of crowds, jostled and pushed the poor child about until her native courage was utterly routed. She had no fear of the rushing current; she was as ready as ever to brave the dangerous passage of the river; but receiving for all reply, to every timid inquiry she made for a boat to ferry her over, only a rude stare or a curt denial, she lost faith in mankind. At last, finding herself disentangled from the throng, she sat down upon a broken barrel, her heart full of sorrow and anxiety, to ponder the situation.

"I say ma'am, don't you b'long on t'other side?" asked a shock-headed young athlete, who espied her there.

"Yes," answered Joanna, rising promptly-" yes; and I want a boat to take me across."

Why, no," stammered poor Joanna, who had not yet learned enough of the world to appreciate the force of King Solomon's admirable mot, "Money answereth all things" -"no; I haven't any money."

"Pity," said the boy; "its worth money to row across this river." And he turned away indifferent.

Just then Joanna recognized Aleck Griswold emerging from the crowd, and hailed him with joy.

"Aleck! Aleck! what are you doing here? Are you going back?"

66

"Laws! Miss Jo-an-na!" said Aleck, every feature expressive of astonishment. 'What on airth-" Then, with sober gravity: "Luke, he died 'bout daybreak, and I come across with his measure. Do you want to git back?"

"Oh, I'm very sorry," said Joanna, striving to look properly sympathizing, and failing utterly, in her eagerness about her own concerns. "Oh, yes, indeed! I do want to get back, Aleck. If you will take me acrossI've no money-but I'll give you something or other."

"All right," said Aleck. "I don't need no pay after all Miss Basil has done for us.'

He then led the way down the bank to a rickety little bateau, into which Joanna stepped eagerly, and without a shadow of misgiving." They that know nothing, fear nothing," says the proverb; and Joanna, though she had lived upon the bank of this rushing river all her life, had never been upon the water before, and little knew the grave danger she incurred. The current was swift and strong, the boat was leaky, and the pilot unskillful; but Joanna sat serenely in her place, though a piece of timber from the broken bridge, becoming disengaged, bore down upon the adventurous navigators and

nearly capsized them. And Joanna never knew that in escaping from this peril the wretched little craft was very near being carried over the falls.

Those on shore knew, however, and looked upon her escape almost as a miracle. Little Mr. Leasom, the clergyman, who was among the crowd of excited spectators, offered up a silent prayer for the safety of these two unknown children; and the moment the boat touched the bank he lifted Joanna out with a devout ejaculation of thanksgiving. "Were you mad," he said, trembling violently, "were you mad, to risk your life so recklessly? Do you know that you have come back from the very gates of death?" He was a very nervous man, and it would have been a great relief to his feelings to shake this reckless Joanua well; but Joanna burst into tears, and his next action was to turn and collar the daring youth that had brought her safely

"I wish I had died!" sobbed Joanna. "It would have been all over now, and an end of trouble."

"Oh, oh! don't say that, my child, that's wicked. When the good God spares a young life out of such imminent risk, be sure he has work for you to do in this world. Go home and prepare to live for something."

These words sank deep in Joanna's heart; and, pondering on them as she hastened homeward, she said to herself that she would live for forgiveness and reconciliation. Her immediate care must be to see her aunt, and plead Anita's cause; but she sought her own room first; for Joanna remembered that she had not said her prayers that morning.

She was still on her knees when Miss Hawkesby entered the room, her head tied up in the silk bandkerchief Anita called her battle-flag. The old lady had overslept herself, and, awaking with the mortifying consciousness that she had rather given in to Anita the night before, she determined to redeem her character for inflexibility of purpose.

Her first care had been to ring for the servant, and send to inquire about Anita, who, she had no doubt, was still sleeping soundly; for, of all things in the world, Anita hated early rising.

Candace, the airy, officious maid, was gone long; and, when at last she returned, she brought no tidings of Miss Anita.

"I've looked for her high and low, and not a trace can I find, ma'am. But there's a great tramping of horses and carriage-.racks down to the futher gate; and here's what I found in the walk." And Candace held up by the corners a soiled handkerchief, which she had picked out of the mud, and in the corner of which Miss Hawkesby read the name Basil Redmond.