against the vital organs of the young, hollowing their chests, curving their backs, making leather-visaged, wizened-up mummies of them. Day after day she came home with bursting headaches and blood-shot eyes. Her seat had been close by the stove; and, to keep the little purple girl in the furthest corner from freezing, stove and pipe daily glowed red hot. Mrs. Grey dosed her with blue mass and vermifuge, saved the richest, daintiest morsels for her, let her take long pickles to school, and made a highly-seasoned catchup for her especial benefit.

Thanks to early privation, Mrs. Grey could have swallowed pebbles and nails without discomfort. It is but justice to say she did not know of her child's stove sufferings. Ellen was a timid, submissive creature in her own defense. She said to herself: "The school-room is small; somebody must sit there, and I am so used to it, I suspect I can bear the heat and head-ache better than the other girls." Several of her schoolmates she loved dearly; it might fall to their lot to sit there, she would sacrifice anything for their sake. She grew up a delicate, sensitive girl, so dependent upon love and sympathy that all isolated occupations were irksome to her. She could not enjoy reading unless she met a responsive look; and grew restless, when writing or sewing, if the room chanced to be empty. As one of her poetic admirers said, "she seemed born to be the shadow of another soul, an earthly symbol to it that the sun shone." All loved her, and, in the genial atmosphere of her home, she belied the saying, that the doom of highly-strung natures is sorrow.

They were a jolly family, and every day brought some pleasure, concocted together round the fire-side, or arranged in secret to surprise some loved one. Mr. Grey's father was a German, and had handed down to him many old customs, rendered still more sacred by the recollections of a tender parent and happy childhood. It was delightful to him, as the anniversary of his marriage approached, to see the scheming of his children, their frightened looks lest he should pop in upon their hidden preparations, the mysterious bundles huddled out of sight, and finally their heart-felt, innocent joy when he sat on the throne, beside his wife, looking out from his bower of cedar and roses to receive the

speeches, poems, and presents they had prepared with their own brains and hands. The neighbors said there was always a festival going on at the Greys'; and the young folks who did not visit them were really to be pitied. Marriages, births, anniversaries, Christmases, New Years, Thanksgivings, tableaux, and the like, kept them busy. Mrs. Grey would not let them stagnate, for if nothing better was proposed, she would sit down at the piano, and play, with her stiff, stumpy fingers, quadrilles, waltzes and polkas that she had had the courage and perseverance to learn late in life; or, if somebody else was there to play, she would lead off the dance, and show the spectators that both her soul and body had part in it. She said dancing was healthful and improving; for it kept her boys at home and made the girls less lazy.

II.

There must be immense preparations at the Greys' now; for Ellen is to be married. Many party dresses were made in anticipation of the event; many speculations indulged in as to the chances of an invitation, and all agreed it would certainly be the most brilliant soirée of the season. But to the wonder of everybody she disappeared one morning for the East; and rumor said there had been a family-wedding without any cake or wine-and that the bride wore a gray dress and bonnet. Some suggested that Mr. Grey had failed, or was going to; but Mrs. Tylor knew Mr. Brooks, the bridegroom; and said "she was sure it was his request that the wedding. should be private."

Why, was he a sensible young man who hated parade and show?"

"Yes," Mrs. Tylor supposed, "he was;" but thought "he did it more from principle."

"What principle?"

"Why, opposition to forms, my dear, to be sure; he woudn't have had any marriage-ceremony, if the Greys hadn't felt so dreadfully about it. He says it's all stuff, and he had rather swear to a tree than to the minister."

III.

Ellen has returned and is shedding bitter tears at the parting with parents, friends, and relations. Above all other grief-though she is ashamed to confess it to her own heart-is the parting with Rose Lea-the affection that has no tie

of blood or duty; that has sprung from free election, and been cemented by a goodness and worth rarely equaled. Rose differed from Ellen in force of character: she felt the necessity of exercising her own will, she revolted at injustice. The cheek that blushed in proffering a present, or conferring a favor, could burn with indignation; and the voice that tenderly consoled could speak out boldly against wrongs to herself or others. She was gentle and timid as a fawn; yet full of active goodness. Though surrounded by the luxuries of wealth, she dressed as simply as a quakeress, and left the mark of her hand all over the house. She did not confine her charities to money or influence; but served to clothe the naked; ran about to look for board or lodgings for friendless strangers; took the modest penniless into her home; helped to arrange the humble dwelling of some poor but cherished friend-and all with a pretty, awkward diffidence that spoke more of the obliged than of the obliger. She loved Ellen with an admiring, pitying love-admiration for her affectionate, disinterested nature, and pity for the want of self-resource that rendered her so entirely dependent upon the sympathy of others. She knew it came partly from her feeble health and physical weakness, and lavished on her the same tender care she would on a delicate plant that languished whenever the sun stole away from the window.

They wept long in each other's arms; and Ellen drove off, beside her husband, to her country home.

IV.

It lay in a deep valley; and as far as eye could reach the Brookses were monarchs of all they surveyed. Golden ryefields, waving wheat and oats, stately corn-stalks and verdant pastures indicate a well-stocked, well-kept farm. Mountain peaks, in gray and purple distance, set off the prospect like a dark frame around a gay summer landscape.

Ellen was delighted, and kept her husband laughing at her enthusiastic exclamations and orders to get out and gather her some of the bearded heads of grain, that she might see the difference, or a pretty weed that she threw quickly away on smelling it. Her knowledge of the country was confined to rides in the environs of the city and occasional visits to country town-resi

dences of her friends. The novelty of a real farm was intoxicating. She threw her arms round her husband's neck, said she was so happy, she hoped to become a strong country woman, and to learn to milk cows." There were plenty of them to milk, to judge from the dotted pastures; and as they drove up to the double, ample, white house, they were greeted by such loud, cracked, discordant crows from long-legged-tailless Shanghais, that Ellen held her ears, and asked if those were really chickens.

Mr. Brooks, her husband's father, stood on the steps to receive them. He was a stately, dignified gentleman, pleasant in countenance, and courteous in manner. Ellen had seen him at the wedding, and was sure she should love him; first, because he was Phil's father; and next, because he was polite and kind to her. He did seem a little cold, but that was the sign of a warm heart; and when he knew her better, he would be less reserved. The house was neat, and comfortably furnished. Phil's two brothers, one younger, one older than himself, were kissed and shaken hands with; and aunt Tabby-Mr. Brooks's maiden sister-hurried Ellen to her room, that she might dust herself before supper.

V.

Mr. Brooks, senior, is a wealthy philanthropist, who, having been made wretched by the vices and wrong doings of society, has retired to a farm, to bring up his boys under the sweet influence of nature, and himself. Mr. Brooks is a utilitarian, and has a keen eye to the uses of life; he is a reformer, abolitionist, socialist, and gives money and aid in every way to advance progress. But, above all, Mr. Brooks is a man of principles. They are an immense pair of spectacles astride of his nose, through which he inspects all the actions and aspects of life. Mr. Brooks's mother respected him when he was a lad; his brothers and sisters have respected him amazingly, and his children respect him awfully.

Ellen soon found this out, and her timid soul sank down in a quagmire of respect. There was an irresistible atmosphere about him, that even the strong and hardened felt. How could poor human nature look boldly into the face of a man who had no vices-whose voice never grew a whit louder in dis

cussion-who glared sternly at temptation, never yielded to weakness, and preserved his courtesy as intact at the domestic fireside as on state occasions?

VI.

Phil was occupied all day. He was the most intelligent and efficient of the boys-as Mr. Brooks always called his sons-and the chief management of the farm devolved upon him. If he had a spare moment, he was ashamed to spend it in gentle dalliance with his bride; for he was keenly alive to ridicule, and knew his father looked upon such follies with contempt. Phil had a frank, naturally genial nature; but the paternal hammer had beaten so unceasingly upon him since his birth, that it was only occasionally the original spirit gleamed forth. His mother died when he was four years old; and if he had ever been caressed or kissed by his father, it was so long ago that he had forgotten it. Mr. Brooks met the boys, after long absences, with a shake of the hand, and polite inquiries as to the state of their health. Phil, therefore, regarded a kiss as an effeminate Melinda Malvina romance, and any display of affection before the most intimate third, as a weakness that would render him superlatively ridiculous. In company he treated Ellen with a cold neglect, that stung to the quick her affectionate, demonstrative disposition. "Ah!" she thought, "if he loved me as I do him, he would not be occupied with what other people may observe; he would not sacrifice me to the fear of ridicule." And she began to doubt the depth of his love-the capacity of his affection.

ings, and break up the family circle; 'twont do, indeed, Ellen."

She said no more, but went down with Phil to the sitting-room, to endure another Brooks evening. No pictures on the walls; no books on the table; no musical instrument but the dinner-horn, on the wide domain. Mr. Brooks argued that natural landscapes were better than artificial; and you had nothing to do but to look out at the window, to get your fill. As for statues, he had rather see a plump Dutch woman, any day. Literature was wish-washy trash; it did not advocate any great principle, but rather pegged people down tighter to old sins and forms. The tables were laden with reform and progressive newspapers and pamphlets, and the family were always in distress for a bit of waste paper, as all were religiously preserved on a shelf, in Mr. Brooks's own room, never to be referred to in his life. Music, he said, tickled the ear. He liked to hear a ballad, or a mother singing to her baby; but cultivated music did more harm than good; a high state of art always accompanied a high state of corruption: witness Rome, Greece, and modern Europe.

Ellen was a cultivated singer; she had a fine voice, and great musical sentiment. How could she ever sing before him? He would certainly call it squalling; so she told Phil she did not care to have a piano. Phil had never heard a musical note in his home; he could not whistle "Yankee Doodle" straight through, and, therefore, for his own part, he was quite indifferent in regard to the piano. He did not perceive how easily Ellen was discouraged by the want of sympathy in others, nor how fast she was falling into the same slavery of deference that enthralled him.

Mr. Brooks reads the paper, and nods; Jim lies fast asleep on the sofa; Phil casts up accounts, and nods; Sam ties up seeds, and nods; aunt Tabby knits, and nods; and Ellen sews, fearfully wide-awake, in the midst of the oppressive silence. The Brookses are noted as a sleepy family; and there is even an anecdote of their having instituted evening readings, and been found by a friend, just after tea, all asleep, reader included, at the first page. Sometimes, in the shock of bobbing backwards or forwards, Mr. Brooks's eye lights on an article that pleases him, or-his moral responsibility being always present-that may

be of service to the boys. He asks Sam to read it aloud. Sam is a dismal reader, never enunciates, or changes the tone, or stops, or looks up; even a lamb-like, droning article would feel that it was overdone in monotony; and the fiery, denunciatory words, that expected to burst forth in thunder-claps, fall faint and mangled victims on the listener's ear. Ellen gathers the sense of it, and tries to like it; but it is too savage to suit her mild spirit. She only knows it is invectives, vituperation, and calling of names of some party, sect, or individual. A little discussion, perhaps, follows the article; but as the boys have been modeled on the father, the differences are so slight, they soon meet on common ground.

VIII.

Mr. Brooks sees Ellen is not happy, but not an inch will he bend to her. His views of life are the right and Christian ones. She must bend to him. He continues to inveigh against the town, its follies, luxuries, superfluities, frivolities, forms, filth, vices, and winds up by pronouncing it a beastly place. Ellen loves the very smoke that grims it; the theatre, where she has often shed tears at thrilling scenes; the concert-halls, filled with recollections of floating melody and happy faces; the lecture-rooms, that opened to her noble thoughts and literary tastes; the long, gay streets, garnished with pictures, vases, all that human ingenuity can invent; the dear, old church, hallowed by saintly preaching and the kind face of the aged minister who had christened her, joined in her childish sports, sat by her bed of sickness, soothing it with sacred truths, and married her to dear Phil; the house where she was born, with the seeds she planted, now grown into trees, shrubs and flowers around it; the warm hearts that cherished her with tender love, and the merry spirits ever gushing over in vivacious streams around her father's fireside. And was that a false, frivolous existence and her yearnings after it promptings of the devil? It must be so. Mr. Brooks was wise and exemplary, devoted to the welfare of humanity. She would try to change; to like the country and solitude; to get up some interest in milk and chickens; in fine, to imitate Aunt Tabby-unruffled Aunt Tabby, who worked at everything, everywhere, darned and patched garments of such hopeless condition that VOL VII.-6

one would have supposed the Brookses the poorest of creation, and who never seemed to have a desire beyond the routine of her daily life. So she followed Aunt Tabby to the dairy, the kitchen, the cellar, the smoke-house, the wash-room, the chicken-coops, the barn and the stable. Aunt Tabby, kind soul, was delighted; she had thought Ellen "a pretty, loving creetur, but of no born use;" and she gave her the lightest labors to perform.

Ellen went egg-hunting, first in the stable, where she stood looking a quarter of an hour at the horses' heels, and then rushed past them with a beating, sinking heart. The barn was nearly half a mile off. There was the bull, that snorted at her, and looked so redeyed and fierce that she quivered in every limb. Then she had such a time getting the hens off their nests! Mrs. Pekin, Mrs. Nankin, and many others of similar kin, were determined to set. They had been cheated into laying over a hundred eggs, to be set on by common hens, and they would not stand it any longer. They could see their downy offspring now, being brooded and fed by false mothers, while they sat in wronged maternity over two eggs, and one of them porcelain at that. As Ellen poked at them with a long stick, their sullen eyes and swelled breasts said, as plainly as could be, that those two eggs should come into chickens, if they died for it. So they pecked the stick furiously, and when they got a hard rap on the head, sat stiller and squeaked, to give vent to their feelings. Ellen tried to pry them up, but their bodies were so heavy and slippery, and they scrabbled so hard to get on the eggs again, that she did not often succeed. She was afraid to walk up boldly, throw her apron over them, capture them, and lift them out as Aunt Tabby did. They looked so big and formidable, and she had vague story reminiscences of hens pecking people's eyes out. After much open and concealed warfare and stratagem, scraping her legs in falling through the loft beams, choking over hay-dust, and getting her feet saturated in the stable-yard, Ellen reached homo-hot, nervous, and exhausted, with a low back-ache that kept visions of beds, couches, sofas, anything horizontal with a pillow on it, floating in her brain.

She did some house-work, and was

At the dinner table Mr. Brooks said: "Phil, I've had a letter from your cousin John. He says his wife's sick again. I don't wonder; she'll always be sick, as long as she lives in town and doesn't work. I guess it wouldn't be much of a loss if she should die; she's a useless, ailing creature, and doesn't earn the salt that's in her bread."

"She can't work much when she is sick," suggested Phil.

"But she wouldn't be sick if she worked," retorted the father. "I guess her kitchen girl isn't sick. She fancies she has got an ache, and lies right down. Now, if her girl has an ache, she's got to work; and the consequence is, the girl gets well, and the mistress is bed-ridden, with a doctor pottering over her. There's nothing like work to strengthen and cure people. John's wife has been brought up in an idle, artificial way, and she won't be worth a fig till she changes."

"It's rather late for her to alter her constitution now," said Phil.

'Nonsense, she's only thirty; and there are cases of people having lived to be a hundred and fifty. If you treat yourself right, there's no necessity of being sick, till the final death illness. God knows what's best for us, and he made work a sacred duty to every Christian soul. There should be no drones in the human hive-no shirking off of a mite of our work, upon our brother. Labor should be equally divided; and as long as we are able to stand in the traces, we should perform our share."

Ellen ventured to say, that if we were brought up so from infancy, perhaps we might be able to do it. But Mr. Brooks contended that God was merciful, and we could regenerate our bodies as we could our souls: in proof of which he pointed to Aunt Tabby, whom he said he recollected as a very delicate, complaining girl, and who had become the tough, iron spike she was, by dint of work.

Ellen understood the lesson; she had received many such over the shoulders of a third. She knew, by secret divination, as well as if he had said it, that he thought her a gilded toy-a delicate lady, of no fixed principles-a misguided creature from the charnel-house of the past, transplanted into the hot-bed of the present. It was a terrible misfortune that Phil had not selected a strong country girl; but he must make the best of it, educate her in their views, and try to inspire her with zeal in the immense questions of the day. Mr. Brooks, therefore, talked unceasingly upon these subjects. He served them up at breakfast, dinner, supper, and through the long winter evenings. Ellen could not help admiring the ingenuity with which he would turn the most common-place remark into that great channel. He evidently considered himself a progressive delegate from God, accountable for every moment that was not spent in the cause. Blind Mr. Brooks! He did not see the satiety that filled the silent faces around him. Deaf Mr. Brooks! He did not hear the boys confess to each other that they wished progress were in the bottomless pit. And narrow-minded Mr. Brooks! he did not perceive that, to advance, one must be as universal as the God it was his secret boast to imitate.

Old Willet said of Barnaby, that "the lad needed imagination." If he had applied it to Mr. Brooks, he would have hit the right nail on the head. There was not a spark of poetry in his virtuous breast-not a gleam of sentiment in his Christian brain. If he had had any when young, it had vanished in his grim battles with sinful humanity. He was the apostle of wrath and indignation, and his tongue, a flaming sword, hacked mercilessly at the enemy. Not that he believed in war. Far from ithe was a peace advocate, and tender of the bodies of his brethren; but war upon souls-souls that did not look from the same point of view with his elevated humanity-was another thing!

X.

Ellen is in a flutter of happiness; she is making secret preparations to receivo Rose Lea during the Christmas holidays. Everything has been scrubbed and bleached-pies made, turkeys and chickens cooped and crammed-and all inside the house, as Aunt Tabby remarked, is in apple-pie order. Ellen