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The day for the dinner came, and Doctor Courtlandt
stood at the door of his open, hospitable mansion, welcoming
every one, as the vehicles of every description,
from the large family coach to the light one-seated curricle,
deposited their freights before the door. The large
carriages, roomy and luxuriously swung upon low-bending
springs, were affected by the elderly ladies and those
old “squires,” to use the rustic designation, whose figures
for long years nursed into corpulence and rotundity by
generous viands and an ample modicum of sherry daily,
would not consent to be incarcerated in narrower and less
spacious vehicles. But the young gentlemen and ladies
of the neighborhood, whose graces on the contrary courted
observation, made their appearance on fine and spirited
horses.

The Doctor was “all things to all men;” as perfectly
agreeable with his ready jests to the young damsels, as
he was with his cordial, neighborly bearing to the elderly
ladies and gentlemen. For a time nothing was distinguishable
but the incessant clatter of hoofs, and rattle of
wheels, mingled with the hum of voices—then the “arrivals
were complete” and the company was marshaled
into the great dining-room, wherein that worthy old gentleman,
father Von Horn, had often received his neighbors
in long past years.

The return of Doctor Courtlandt and his son, was quite
an event in the neighborhood—and to every one a pleasant
event. The reader may have observed in former
portions of this true chronicle, that Doctor Courtlandt

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even as a wild, headstrong boy, managed to conciliate the
goodwill of every person with whom he was thrown in
contact. Throughout his life this was certainly a very
observable circumstance; and now his return was hailed
by all those friendly hearts as a most welcome event.
There was much to interest a mere stranger even, in the
noble looking gentleman now seated at the head of his
broad board, and dispensing around him smiles and congratulations.
Intellect had written in unmistakable characters
its presence on the broad ample brow; and no one
who had watched the expression of the firm lips—so infallibly
the test of character—would have doubted that
the heart which corresponded to this intellect was as
noble and true.

Caroline and Alice were seated by Max and Mr. Robert
Emberton: and Miss Emberton was the centre of attraction
among the fair dames who bloomed in long rows on
the right and left hand of the host. At the foot of the
table—or more properly the head—sat Mrs. Courtlandt,
the Rev. Mr. Courtlandt and his wife.

Alice observed with pain that Max ate scarcely at all;
and this was only not observed by other persons from the
fact that the young man was kept very busily talking:
he and Doctor Courtlandt were the two centres to which a
thousand questions tended, throughout the whole banquet.
The young man seemed very listless and melancholy.

As for Caroline she was very busily engaged in laughing
at Mr. Robert Emberton's petit-maître airs, and at
his attempts to talk French with Monsieur Pantoufle, who
sat opposite them. Monsieur Pantoufle shrugged his
shoulders at Mr. Robert Emberton's extraordinary lingua
Franca—for this young gentleman had managed to mix
up with his French both Italian and German, in which
he fancied himself a proficient.

And so with the buzz of voices and the clatter of plates
the dinner, like all mortal things, came to an end.

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“Come, Mr. Emberton and you, cousin Max,” said
Caroline, “you must not stay drinking wine—you must
come and walk with us on the hill side.”

“Willingly,” said Mr. Robert Emberton, “drinking is
a great bore.”

And accompanied by Max, Alice, Caroline and a number
of young ladies, the unfortunate victim of ennui went forth.

The afternoon was beautiful; the sun just poised upon
the western forest, hung in the rosy sky like a great
shield on the flame-colored hangings woven of old by
Ingebord, that “Child of kings;” the bright trees waved
their long branches to the golden clouds; the fresh pure
air brought the most becoming color to every cheek.

Max was silent and even gloomy. Alice looked at him
timidly.

“Cousin Max, you do not seem well,” she said, bashfully.

“I am very well,” said the young man, sombre and
mournful.

“You must not be low spirited.”

“I am not.”

And then after these abstracted words he turned away.

Caroline's gay laugh rang out.

“And you pretend to say that you speak French, sir!
upon my word! I have never heard a more singular dialect
than that with which you were pleased to regale my
ears at table.”

“I did not address my French to you, Miss Caroline,”
said Mr. Robert Emberton, to whom these words were
directed.

“Well address me now, and tell me if that sky is not
beautiful?”

“Beautiful?”

“Yes, it is lovely. Look at the girls and the gentlemen
yonder, how sentimentally they are grouped admiring
it.”

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“They are young,” said Mr. Emberton, yawning.

“Young? what do you mean?”

“Unsophisticated.”

“Because they admire a beautiful sunset? How fine
your taste is!”

“I don't pretend to have any.”

“You have none, or you would admire those beautiful
woods.”

“You have harnessed that poor word beautiful too
often. It will break down the next stage.”

“Then lovely—the evening is lovely.”

“There's nothing in it.”

“Just listen. I think you and cousin Max are the
dullest beaux I have had for an age.”

Max, by a strong effort suppressed his gloom, and turning
to the young girl whose bright glance flashed like an
arrow to him:

“What did you say, cousin?” he asked, smiling sadly.

“I said you and Mr. Emberton were very bad company.”

“Well,” said Max, “I will endeavor to behave better.
Come now, make me laugh, cousin Caroline. I am in
one of my fits of dullness.”

“He would not speak to me,” thought Alice, “and
turned away from me saying that he was not low spirited;
plainly because he did not expect any pleasure in my
society. Now he is very ready to talk to sister, and in
five minutes will be laughing. Well, I hope she will
make him laugh;” and mortified tears came into the
young girl's eyes.

“Now, Miss Alice,” said Mr. Emberton, offering his
arm to the fair girl to help her over the steep rocks they
were clambering, “I begin to feel in a better humor with
you upon my arm. I confess I have been in a wretched
humor all day—before I left home, understand: for by
this time I should have done something dreadful, but

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for Doctor Courtlandt's brilliant conversation and your
pleasant society.”

Alice glanced at Max and Caroline who were talking
gayly—Caroline at least. Max seemed already to have
thrown off much of his gloom.

“You are as much in earnest about uncle's `brilliant
conversation' as about my `pleasant society,' I suppose,
Mr. Emberton,” the young girl said.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Emberton bending down to her
ear gallantly, and taking the opportunity to throw a
glance upon Max and Caroline, “I was never more sincere
in my life.”

“Sincerity is your forte, you know.”

“My forte?”

“I mean it is not.”

“I am always sincere with you,” said Mr. Emberton,
tenderly.

“And I with you; for I always tell you your faults,
you know.”

“My faults?” said her companion, glancing at Caroline
and her cousin.

“Yes,” said Alice, with the same wandering of the eyes.

“Have I faults?”

“Yes, sir,” said Alice, “and one of them is looking at
other people when you are talking to a lady.”

“Other people!”

“Yes, you were looking at sister and cousin Max while
you were answering me; and scarcely knew what you
were saying.”

Mr. Emberton smiled.

“You were doing the same,” he said.

“Well, if we are not society for each other—though
you say mine is so pleasant,” Alice replied, with some
feeling and a perceptible tremor in her voice, “suppose
we join them, sir.”

“A quarrel on my hands, by Jove!” muttered Mr.

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Emberton. “On my word, Miss Alice,” he continued
more seriously, “I had no intention of being guilty of
discourtesy. I am exceedingly dull, I feel; and ask your
pardon. Don't refuse it.”

Alice smiled, and granted the wished for pardon; but
insisted on joining the party. And so they approached.

“Oh, cousin Max has been giving me such a nice
description of Italy and Rome!” cried Caroline.

“Has he?” said Alice in a low voice, “I could not get
you to talk with me, cousin Max.”

“I have talked very little,” said Max, with a long look
at Alice, “and indeed very prosily. You were much
better employed.”

“Flirting with Mr. Emberton,” said Caroline, with an
affected laugh, “oh fie, a preacher's daughter!”

Alice turned away to hide her tears, and with her companion
approached a large rock which was covered with moss
and afforded a delightful seat. They sat down—Robert
Emberton bending over the young girl intent on removing
all traces of ill-humor from her mind.

“There they go,” said Caroline to Max, with a somewhat
ironical look, “I am very glad you secured me from
that fine gentleman, cousin Max, with his eternal talk of
being bored—he is excessively disagreeable.”

“Do you dislike him, cousin?”

“No,” said Caroline, indifferently, “he will do very
well in his way—he is very affected.”

“Is he intelligent?” asked Max, looking at the person
he alluded to.

“So-so—yes, I won't be insincere; quite intelligent,
but the most ridiculous—”

“Do you like him?”

“No, not a bit.”

“I thought he visited you and Alice very constantly.
Does Alice like him?”

“I don't know, but it is plain he likes Alice,” said the
young girl, ponting.

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“They seem to be admiring the sunset; see how beautiful.
There is now just a very small remnant of the
disc upon the horizon. There, it is gone.”

“Yes, gone,” said Caroline, with her eyes fixed on
Alice and Mr. Robert Emberton, as they sat in friendly
proximity side by side upon the beautiful moss-clad rock.

“There are no sunsets in the world equal to our mountain
ones here,” said Max, going through the same ceremony
as his cousin.

“Not in Italy?” asked Caroline, absently.

“No—none as beautiful.”

“I have heard so much of the Italian sunsets—are they
not superb.”

“Yes, the sky is very fair.”

“Very few clouds, I believe?” said Caroline, still absently,
and feeling a very violent dislike for Mr. Robert
Emberton who was fixing her sister's bracelet affectionately
upon the beautiful arm.

“I observed none, scarcely,” said Max, asking himself
why he had not before observed how fond Alice was
of Mr. Emberton, upon whom she was at that moment
sweetly smiling.

Caroline burst into a merry laugh.

“You are not thinking of me that's plain, cousin Max,”
she said.

“Not thinking of you?”

“You are looking all the while at Alice, at least!”

“I believe we have both been looking in that direction,”
said the young man, smiling, “suppose we go and see
what they are examining so attentively.”

“With pleasure!” said Caroline, making a mock
courtesy, and taking the offered arm with a laugh. It
was a flower that Alice and Mr. Emberton were examining—
one of those fair autumn flowers which glitter like
stars all over our beautiful mountains.

“What is that?” asked Caroline taking it, with an
ironical laugh, “what Shakespeare calls Love-in-idleness?”

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“I profess my entire ignorance, Miss Caroline,” said
Mr. Robert Emberton, “I never studied botany;—it
bored me.”

“Oh, that is nothing extraordinary, sir,” said Caroline,
satirically, “botany does not monopolize the privilege.”

“Now you are going to cut me up as usual, Miss
Caroline. Really, Mr. Courtlandt will think me a most
unfortunate individual.”

“You are very fortunate I think, sir,” said Max, “you
are in good spirits and amuse cousin Alice. I can not.”

“Oh, Cousin Max!” said Alice, reproachfully.

“I only mean that I am really very low-spirited and
dull,” said Max, grieved at the hurt expression of the
little tender face, “Indeed I am always, and am a poor
entertainer.”

“You seemed to be entertaining Miss Caroline very
agreeably, sir,” said Mr. Emberton, “she always laughs
at instead of with me.”

Caroline, as if to verify this charge against her, burst
into a merry laugh.

“Upon my word!” she cried, “I think we ought to
have arranged differently. You, cousin Max, with Alice
and I with Mr. Emberton; thought I know I should have
got the worst of the bargain.”

“You flatter me: you are really too good to me,” said
Mr. Emberton, bowing ironically.

“Well, I will not undervalue you so much,” said
Caroline merrily, “for when I have bored, and bored, and
bored you still more, perhaps I shall discover the vein of
gold, now hidden. But come let us go back!”

And they all returned to the mansion. They found
the company about to separate for their different homes,
and soon in the joyous and gay clatter of those friendly
voices they lost sight of the comedy of errors they had
just enacted. The scene passed away like a momentary
cloud floating across the sunlight—but still that scene

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was more important to this history than a thousand dinners.
We might have detailed for the amusement of our
readers, the jests, the laughter, the merry speeches of the
ladies in the drawing-room, of the elderly gentlemen over
their wine when these fair ladies had departed for a time,
but our duty was to abandon all this brilliant company
and busy ourselves with the four personages whose phases
of character, and changes of feeling must enter chiefly
into this chronicle. This duty pointed to the most difficult
of two matters: for it is mere pastime to catch idle
momentary words and laughter, and note the footprints
of the march of incident; but far more difficult to truthfully
outline, even, the characters of human beings. The
first is easy sport, the latter a very different matter.

This trifling scene was the means of developing clearly
to their own eyes in those four hearts, a fact which
hitherto they had not given thought to.

The company separated with many expressions of good
will, and soon there was nothing in this large room, where
so many voices had but now resounded, but silence.

The Doctor had been much grieved at Max's melancholy
in the earlier part of the day. But when the young
man returned from his walk with the fair girls his cousins,
this melancholy had disappeared, and there was life again
in his large blue eyes.

“Ah,” murmured the astute observer of human nature,
“the change has, God be thanked, commenced. What
would they not deserve of me if they did away with his
sombre thoughtfulness.”

The Rev. Mr. Courtlandt and his wife with the young
girls departed last.

“Good-by, uncle,” said Caroline, “oh, I have had
such a delightful day. Such pleasant company.”

“Whose the most so, pray?”

“Yours of course—you're such a nice old fellow.”

“Old indeed—at forty!”

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“Well, `young fellow,' then.”

“I distrust your compliments, you witch; now I am
quite sure you found Mr. Robert Emberton's society
enough to occupy you for the whole day.”

Caroline laughed ironically.

“No,” she said, “he was `bored' as usual.”

“As usual?”

“He always is; but he says he will come and see us
to-morrow or the next day, and not complain of dullness
for once.”

“And you, Alice—have you had an agreeable time?”

“Very agreeable, dear uncle,” said the young girl,
looking at Max.

Max smiled and sighed; the Doctor caught the sigh in
its passage.

“Max,” he said, “how has it been with you?”

“I am always in good spirits when I am with cousin
Carry and cousin Alice.”

“Oh,” cried Caroline, “what a gallant speech Monsieur
le Voyageur.”

“And very sincere,” said Max, looking at Alice, “that
is its only merit.”

“Well, now it strikes me,” the Doctor said, laughing,
“that you might be in good spirits oftener.”

“How, sir?”

“The Parsonage is not far.”

“Oh, I am going over to-morrow.”

“Yes,” said Alice with a bright smile, “cousin Max
promised to bring me something—though I had to tease
him for it.”

“What sort of a something?”

“Oh, that's our secret, sir,” said Alice, in her soft
musical voice which was the very echo of tenderness and
joy, “the secret which is known to three people is no
secret, you know.”

“I promised—” began Max.

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