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Accordingly, when Gertrude entered the room half an hour
afterwards, there was no evidence in her appearance of any
unusual distress of mind. Mrs. Bruce nodded to her good-naturedly
from a corner of the sofa. Mr. Bruce rose and offered
his chair, at the same time that Mr. Graham pointed to a vacant
window-seat near him, and said, kindly, “Here is a place for you,
Gertrude.”

Declining, however, the civilities of both gentlemen, she withdrew
to an ottoman which stood near an open glass door, where
she was almost immediately joined by Mr. Bruce, who, seating
himself in an indolent attitude upon the upper row of a flight of
steps which led from the window to the garden, commenced conversation
with her.

Mr. Bruce—the same gentleman who some years before wore
a velvet smoking-cap, and took afternoon naps in the grass—had
recently returned from Europe, and, glorying in the renown acquired
from a moustache, a French tailor, and the possession of
a handsome property in his own right, now viewed himself with
more complacency than ever.

“So you've been in Boston all day, Miss Flint?”

“Yes, nearly all day.”

“Did n't you find it distressingly warm?”

“Somewhat so.”

“I tried to go in to attend to some business that mother was
anxious about, and even went down to the dépôt; but I had to
give it up.”

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“Were you overpowered by the heat?”

“I was.”

“How unfortunate!” remarked Gertrude, in a half-compassionate,
half-ironical tone of voice.

Mr. Bruce looked up, to judge, if possible, from her countenance,
whether she were serious or not; but, there being little
light in the room, on account of the warmth of the evening, he
could not decide the question in his mind, and therefore replied,
“I dislike the heat, Miss Gertrude, and why should I expose
myself to it unnecessarily?”

“O, I beg your pardon; I thought you spoke of important
business.”

“Only some affair of my mother's. Nothing I felt any interest
in, and she took the state of the weather for an excuse. If I had
known that you were in the cars, as I have since heard, I should
certainly have persevered, in order to have had the pleasure of
walking down Washington-street with you.”

“I did not go down Washington-street.”

“But you would have done so with a suitable escort,” suggested
the young man.

“If I had gone out of my way for the sake of accompanying
my escort, the escort would have been a very doubtful advantage,”
said Gertrude, laughing.

“How very practical you are, Miss Gertrude! Do you mean
to say that, when you go to the city, you always have a settled
plan of operations, and never swerve from your course?”

“By no means. I trust I am not difficult to influence when
there is a sufficient motive.”

The young man bit his lip. “Then you never act without a
motive; pray, what is your motive in wearing that broad-brimmed
hat when you are at work in the garden?”

“It is an old habit, adopted some years ago from motives of
convenience, and still adhered to, in spite of later inventions, which
would certainly be a better protection from the sun. I must
plead guilty, I fear, to a little obstinacy in my partiality for that
old hat.”

“Why not acknowledge the truth, Miss Gertrude, and confess

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that you wear it in order to look so very fanciful and picturesque
that the neighbors' slumbers are disturbed by the very thoughts
of it? My own morning dreams, for instance, as you are well
aware, are so haunted by that hat, as seen in company with its
owner, that I am daily drawn, as if by magnetic attraction, in the
direction of the garden. You will have a heavy account to settle
with Morpheus, one of these days, for defrauding him of his rights;
and your conscience too will suffer for injuries to my health,
sustained by continued exposure to early dews.”

“It is hard to condemn me for such innocent and unintentional
mischief; but, since I am to experience so much future remorse on
account of your morning visits, I shall take upon myself the
responsibility of forbidding them.”

“O! you would n't be so unkind!—especially after all the
pains I have taken to impart to you the little I know of horticulture.”

“Very little I think it must have been; or I have but a little
memory,” said Gertrude, laughing.

“Now, how can you be so ungrateful? Have you forgotten
the pains I took yesterday to acquaint you with the different
varieties of roses? Don't you remember how much I had to say
at first of damask roses and damask bloom; and how, before I had
finished, I could not find words enough in praise of blushes, especially
such sweet and natural ones as met my eyes while I was
speaking?”

“I know you talked a great deal of nonsense. I hope you
don't think I listened to it all.”

“O, Miss Gertrude! It is of no use to say flattering things
to you; you always look upon my compliments as so many jokes.”

“I have told you, several times, that it was the most useless
thing in the world to waste so much flattery upon me. I am glad
you are beginning to realize it.”

“Well, then, to ask a serious question, where were you this
morning?”

“At what hour?”

“Half-past seven.”

“On my way to Boston, in the cars.”

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“Is it possible?—so early! Why, I thought you went at ten.
Then, all the time I was watching by the garden wall to get a
chance to say good-morning, you were half a dozen miles away.
I wish I had not wasted that hour so; I might have spent it in
sleeping.”

“Very true, it is a great pity.”

“And then half an hour more here this evening! How came
you to keep me waiting so long?”

“I?—When?”

“Why, now, to-night.”

“I was not aware of doing so. I certainly did not take your
visit to myself.”

“My visit certainly was not meant for any one else.”

“Ben,” said Mr. Graham, approaching rather abruptly, and
taking part in the conversation, “are you fond of gardening? I
thought I heard you just now speaking of roses.”

“Yes, sir; Miss Flint and I were having quite a discussion upon
flowers,—roses especially.”

Gertrude, availing herself of Mr. Graham's approach, tried to
make her escape and join the ladies at the sofa; but Mr. Bruce,
who had risen on Mr. Graham's addressing him, saw her intention,
and frustrated it by placing himself in the way, so that she
could not pass him without positive rudeness. Mr. Graham
continued, “I propose placing a small fountain in the vicinity of
Miss Flint's flower-garden; won't you walk down with me, and
give your opinion of my plan?”

“Is n't it too dark, sir, to—”

“No, no, not at all; there is ample light for our purpose; this
way, if you please;” and Mr. Bruce was compelled to follow
where Mr. Graham led, though, in spite of his acquaintance with
Paris manners, he made a wry face, and shook his head menacingly.

Gertrude was now permitted to relate to Mrs. Bruce the results
of the shopping which she had undertaken on her account, and
display the buttons, which proved very satisfactory. The gentlemen,
soon after returning to the parlor, took seats near the sofa,

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and, the company forming one group, the conversation became
general.

“Mr. Graham,” said Mrs. Bruce, “I have been questioning
Emily about your visit to the south; and, from the route which
she tells me you propose taking, I think it will be a charming
trip.”

“I hope so, madam,—we have been talking of it for some
time; it will be an excellent thing for Emily, and, as Gertrude
has never travelled at all, I anticipate a great deal of pleasure
for her.”

“Ah! then you are to be of the party, Miss Flint?”

“Of course, of course,” answered Mr. Graham, without giving
Gertrude a chance to speak for herself; “we depend upon Gertrude,—
could n't get along at all without her.”

“It will be delightful for you,” continued Mrs. Bruce, her eyes
still fixed on Gertrude.

“I did expect to go with Mr. and Miss Graham,” answered
Gertrude, “and looked forward to the journey with the greatest
eagerness; but I have just decided that I must remain in Boston
this winter.”

“What are you talking about, Gertrude?” asked Mr. Graham.
“What do you mean? This is all news to me.”

“And to me, too, sir, or I should have informed you of it
before. I supposed you expected me to accompany you, and
there is nothing I should like so much. I should have told you
before of the circumstances that now make it impossible; but
they are of quite recent occurrence.”

“But we can't give you up, Gertrude; I won't hear of such a
thing; you must go with us, in spite of circumstances.”

“I fear I shall not be able to,” said Gertrude, smiling pleasantly,
but still retaining her firmness of expression; “you are
very kind, sir, to wish it.”

“Wish it!—I tell you I insist upon it. You are under my
care, child, and I have a right to say what you shall do.”

Mr. Graham was beginning to get excited. Gertrude and
Emily both looked troubled, but neither of them spoke.

“Give me your reasons, if you have any,” added Mr. Graham,

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vehemently, “and let me know what has put this strange notion
into your head.”

“I will explain it to you to-morrow, sir.”

“To-morrow! I want to know now.”

Mrs. Bruce, plainly perceiving that a family storm was brewing,
wisely rose to go. Mr. Graham suspended his wrath until
she and her son had taken leave; but, as soon as the door was
closed upon them, burst forth with real anger.

“Now tell me what all this means! Here I plan my business,
and make all my arrangements, on purpose to be able to give up
this winter to travelling,—and that, not so much on my own
account as to give pleasure to both of you,—and, just as everything
is settled, and we are almost on the point of starting, Gertrude
announces that she has concluded not to go. Now, I
should like to know her reasons.”

Emily undertook to explain Gertrude's motives, and ended by
expressing her own approbation of her course. As soon as she
had finished, Mr. Graham, who had listened very impatiently, and
interrupted her with many a “pish!” and “pshaw!” burst forth
with redoubled indignation.

“So Gerty prefers the Sullivans to us, and you seem to encourage
her in it! I should like to know what they've ever done
for her, compared with what I have done!”

“They have been friends of hers for years, and, now that they
are in great distress, she does not feel as if she could leave them;
and I confess I do not wonder at her decision.”

“I must say I do. She prefers to make a slave of herself in
Mr. W.'s school, and a still greater slave in Mrs. Sullivan's family,
instead of staying with us, where she has always been treated
like a lady, and, more than that, like one of my own family!”

“O, Mr. Graham!” said Gertrude, earnestly, “it is not a
matter of preference or choice, except as I feel it to be a duty.”

“And what makes it a duty? Just because you used to live
in the same house with them, and that boy out in Calcutta has
sent you home a camel's-hair scarf, and a cage-full of miserable
little birds, and written you a great package of letters, you think
you must forfeit your own interests to take care of his sick

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relations! I can't say that I see how their claim compares with
mine. Have n't I given you the best of educations, and spared no
expense either for your improvement or your happiness?”

“I did not think, sir,” answered Gertrude, humbly, and yet
with quiet dignity, “of counting up the favors I had received,
and measuring my conduct accordingly. In that case, my obligations
to you are immense, and you would certainly have the
greatest claim upon my services.”

“Services! I don't want your services, child. Mrs. Ellis can
do quite as well as you can for Emily, or me either; but I like
your company, and think it is very ungrateful in you to leave us,
as you talk of doing.”

“Father,” said Emily, “I thought the object, in giving Gertrude
a good education, was to make her independent of all the
world, and not simply dependent upon us.”

“Emily,” said Mr. Graham, “I tell you it is a matter of feeling,—
you don't seem to look upon the thing in the light I
do; but you are both against me, and I won't talk any more
about it.”

So saying, Mr. Graham took a lamp, went to his study, shut
the door hard,—not to say slammed it,—and was seen no more
that night.

Poor Gertrude! Mr. Graham, who had been so kind and
generous, who had seldom before spoken harshly to her, and had
always treated her with great indalgence, was now deeply offended.
He had called her ungrateful; he evidently felt that she
had abused his kindness, and believed that he and Emily stood in
her estimation secondary to other, and, as he considered them,
far less warm-hearted friends. Deeply wounded and grieved, she
hastened to say good-night to the no less afflicted Emily, and,
seeking her own room, gave way to feelings that exhausted her
spirit, and caused her a sleepless night.

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