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It was two or three days before the time appointed for
Nina's marriage, when one evening that young lady was
seated at the supper table, from which her father had
just risen.

In truth there seemed some foundation for the general
opinion, that Nina was one of the prettiest maidens of the
whole borough of Martinsburg. It is undeniable that
her dress was negligent and her hair disordered; but as
she sat there at the broad board, with the rich red sunlight,
streaming through the open window upon her curls,
turning them into waves of molten gold—upon her white
forehead, her bright eyes, her rosy cheeks—lighting up
all with its warm autumn radiance—one might have
been pardoned for concurring in the above-mentioned general
opinion. Certainly, Nina was a beauty—and though
none of the gentlemen of her acquaintance had hung
themselves, or fought duels, or written poetry, or done
any other dreadful thing in honor of her charms, yet that
beauty had not been without effect upon the hearts of
many:—a fact of which Nina was perfectly cognizant.

After scolding aunt Jenny, and nearly running crazy
a small negro boy, hight Sallust, by the number of orders
given him in rapid succession; and treading on the cat's
tail; and pinching the ear of the old superannuated dog
Bugle, who lay stretched beside the table; and bowing
coquettishly through the window to an acquaintance, who

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at the moment chanced to pass:—when Nina had dispatched
these household duties and pleasures, she betook
herself with the key-basket on her round bare arm, to the
door, where her father sat smoking his immense meerschaum
and quietly reflecting on the events of the day,
which was about to close. From time to time, the old
man's eyes would wander to the portrait over the fire-place,
distinctly visible from the place where he was sitting—
the portrait of old Courtlandt Von Horn his father,
that hero of so much military renown, upon the border,
long ago, who now lay like a valiant German Ritter taking
his rest in the church-yard on the opposite hill. From
time to time, too, his eye would fall on a German book
lying open on his knee, in which he seemed to have been
reading.

“Nina, darling,” said father Von Horn to his daughter,
“come, read me a chapter in my new book. You will
like it much, for it is beautiful and genial, like every
thing from Fatherland.”

Nina pouted: and the reader must not think too hard
of her, for doing so. She was in one of her bad humors,
such as we have seen her betray on the morning when
this true history commenced: and further, she had no
desire to pass the beautiful evening with her eyes upon a
page full of black, German characters, when the cloud-characters
of orange and gold in the blue sky were so
much more attractive.

“What is it, father?” she asked.

“`Nicholas Margraf.' Jean Paul's last work: as far
as I have perused it, it is well worthy of him.”

Nina took the book.

“Commence at the seventh chapter daughter,” said
father Von Horn.

“It looks so dull,” said Nina, turning over the leaves
listlessly.

“It is not dull, daughter.”

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“Oh me! I'm mighty tired!” groaned Nina, “these
servants will run me distracted!”

“Don't read, then, my child,” said her father, “don't
make a duty of what I meant for a pleasure.”

But Nina knew that her father would be hurt if she
failed to read, and as she loved her father this would
afflict her. Therefore, she turned duly to Chapter VII.,
and commenced, reflecting that after all her attitude in
the little wicker chair, with one white arm supporting her
head the other across the book, was not so ungraceful
should visitors approach.

It was a pleasant sight to see the old German and his
daughter, thus side by side in the quiet, beautiful evening,
under the broad old golden leaved oaks, fronting the setting
sun. It was amusing too, to witness the difficulty
with which Nina—only half comprehending the meaning—
enunciated the guttural diphthongs of that strange language
which Jean Paul delighted in making, more wild
and rugged than it naturally was. As to the old German,
he seemed much pleased, and often interrupted the reading
with a subdued laugh which was the very music of
hearty enjoyment.

The sun sank behind the blue mountains, and father
Von Horn took the book from Nina.

“What a wonderful writer—what a striking humor!”
he said, “Herr Richter is a good, as well as a great man.”

“It's so strange, father.”

“Yes; so it is. But it is not too strange to teach us
how great and commendable, are content and love in this
world.”

Nina turned the leaves, carelessly glancing at an approaching
visitor.

“If we are amiable and contented, daughter, and love
our neighbor,” said father Von Horn, “we are not only
living a more holy and God-fearing life, but are happier
here below.”

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Nina's good humor began to return; she was a somewhat
fiery young lady, but not what is called moody.

“Content is an excellent thing, father,” she replied;
“but every body can't be contented.”

“Are you discontented?”

“Oh, no,” said the young girl, slightly blushing; “but
you know, father, how aunt Jenny and Sallust try me.
They almost drive me crazy!”

This was said with a laugh. Father Von Horn's
echoed it.

“Pshaw! these are trifles,” he said, “you have a
warm, good heart, daughter—don't mind them.”

“I don't, much.”

“You are not an irritable person; you love, not hate,
most people, I am sure;—as is right.”

“I dearly love you, father,” replied Nina, bending
over, and laying her hand trustingly on the massive
shoulder.

“Not a doubt of it, child,” said father Von Horn,
cheerily; “still you are going to leave me, you little
witch.”

“Oh, father,” said Nina, laughing and blushing.

“At what time did he say he would be able to return?”

“William from Alexandria, sir? He said nine o'clock
this evening.”

“Ah, I don't think I can spare you!”

“Father!” said Nina, beginning to cry. The old man
drew her to him and kissed her. She rose to go in, seeing
a gentleman approach whom she did not care to see;
but her father laughingly restrained her.

The gentleman was Mr. Huddleshingle.

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