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Emily was not well this evening. It was often the case, lately,
that headache, unwonted weariness, or a nervous shrinking from
noise and excitement, sent her to her own room, and sometimes led
her to seek her couch at an early hour. After Mrs. Garham and
her nieces had gone down stairs to await Mr. Graham's pleasure
and Mrs. Bruce's arrival, Gertrude returned to Emily, whom she
had left only a short time before, and found her suffering more
than usual from what she termed her troublesome head. She was
easily induced to seek the only infallible cure—sleep; and
Gertrude, seating herself on the bed-side, as she was frequently in
the habit of doing, bathed her temples until she fell into a quiet
slumber. The noise of Mrs. Bruce's carriage, coming and going,
seemed to disturb her a little; but in a few moments more she was
so sound asleep that, when Mr. and Mrs. Graham departed, the
loud voice of the latter, giving her orders to one of the servants,
did not startle her in the least. Gertrude sat some time longer
without changing her position; then, quietly rising and arranging
everything for the night, according to Emily's well-known wishes,
she closed the door gently behind her, sought a book in her own room,
and, entering the cool and vacant parlor, seated herself at a table,
to enjoy the now rare opportunity for perfect stillness and repose.

Either her own thoughts, however, proved more interesting than
the volume she held, or, it may be, the insects, attracted by the
bright lamp, annoyed her; or, the beauty of the evening won her
observation; for she soon forsook her seat at the table, and, going
towards the open glass-doors, placed herself near them, and, leaning
her head upon her hand, became absorbed in meditation.

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She had not long sat thus when she heard a foot-step in the
room, and, turning, saw Mr. Bruce beside her. She started, and
exclaimed, “Mr. Bruce! is it possible? I thought you had gone
to the wedding.”

“No, there were greater attractions for me at home. Could
you believe, Miss Gertrude, I should find any pleasure in a party
which did not include yourself?”

“I certainly should not have the vanity to suppose the reverse,”
replied Gertrude.

“I wish you had a little more vanity, Miss Gertrude. Perhaps
then you would sometimes believe what I say.”

“I am glad you have the candor to acknowledge, Mr. Bruce,
that, without that requisite, one would find it impossible to put
faith in your fair speeches.”

“I acknowledge no such thing. I only say to you what any
other girl but yourself would be willing enough to believe; but
how shall I convince you that I am serious, and wish to be so
understood? How shall I persuade you to converse freely with
me, and no longer shun my society?”

“By addressing me with simple truthfulness, and sparing me
those words and attentions which I have endeavored to convince
you are unacceptable to me and unworthy of yourself.”

“But I have a meaning, Gertrude, a deep meaning. I have
been trying for several days to find an opportunity to tell you of
my resolve, and you must listen to me now;” for he saw her
change color and look anxious and uneasy. “You must give me
an answer at once, and one that will, I trust, be favorable to my
wishes. You like plain speaking; and I will be plain enough, now
that my mind is made up. My relatives and friends may talk
and wonder as much as they please at my choosing a wife who
has neither money nor family to boast of; but I have determined
to defy them all, and offer, without hesitation, to share my prospects
with you. After all, what is money good for, if it does n't
make a man independent to do as he pleases? And, as to the
world, I don't see but you can hold your head as high as anybody,
Gertrude; so, if you've no objection to make, we'll play at cross

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purposes no longer, and consider the thing settled;” and he endeavored
to take her hand.

But Gertrude drew back; the color flushed her cheeks, and her
eyes glistened as she fixed them upon his face with an expression
of astonishment and pride that could not be mistaken.

The calm, penetrating look of those dark eyes spoke volumes,
and Mr. Bruce replied to their inquiring gaze in these words: “I
hope you are not displeased at my frankness.”

“With your frankness,” said Gertrude, calmly; “no, that is a
thing that never displeases me. But what have I unconsciously
done to inspire you with so much confidence that, while you defend
yourself for defying the wishes of your friends, you hardly give
me a voice in the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Bruce, in an apologizing tone; “but I thought
you had labored under the impression that I was disposed to trifle
with your affections, and had therefore kept aloof and maintained
a distance towards me which you would not have done had you
known how much I was in earnest; but, believe me, I only admired
you the more for behaving with so much dignity, and if
I have presumed upon your favor, you must forgive me. I shall
be only too happy to receive a favorable answer from you.”

The expression of wounded pride vanished from Gertrude's
face. “He knows no better,” thought she; “I should pity his
vanity and ignorance, and sympathize in his disappointment;” and,
in disclaiming, with a positiveness which left no room for further
self-deception, any interest in Mr. Bruce beyond that of an old
acquaintance and sincere well-wisher, she nevertheless softened her
refusal by the choice of the mildest language, and terms the least
likely to grieve or mortify him. She felt, as every true woman
must under similar circumstances, that her gratitude and consideration
were due to the man who, however little she might esteem him,
had paid her the highest honor; and, though her regret in the matter
was somewhat tempered by the thought of Kitty, and the
strangeness of Mr. Bruce's conduct towards her, now rendered
doubly inexplicable, she did not permit that reflection, even, to
prevent her from maintaining the demeanor, not only of a

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perfect lady, but of one who, in giving pain to another, laments the
necessity of so doing.

She almost felt, however, as if her thoughtfulness for his
feelings had been thrown away, when she perceived the spirit in
which he received her refusal.

“Gertrude,” said he, “you are either trifling with me or yourself.
If you are still disposed to coquet with me, I desire to have
it understood that I shall not humble myself to urge you further;
but if, on the other hand, you are so far forgetful of your own
interests as deliberately to refuse such a fortune as mine, I think
it's a pity you have n't got some friend to advise you. Such a
chance does n't occur every day, especially to poor school-mistresses;
and if you are so foolish as to overlook it, I'll venture to
say you'll never have another.”

Gertrude's old temper rose at this insulting language, beat and
throbbed in her chafed spirit, and even betrayed itself in the tips of
her fingers, which trembled as they rested on the table near which
she stood (having risen as Mr. Bruce spoke); but, though this was
an unlooked-for and unwonted rebellion of an old enemy, her feelings
had too long been under strict regulation to yield to the blast,
however sudden, and she replied in a tone which, though slightly
agitated, was far from being angry, “Allowing I could so far
forget myself, Mr. Bruce, I would not do you such an injustice
as to marry you for your fortune. I do not despise wealth, for I
know the blessing it may often be; but my affections cannot be
bought with gold;” and as she spoke she moved towards the
door.

“Stay!” said Mr. Bruce, catching her hand; “listen to me
one moment; let me ask you one question. Are you jealous of
my late attentions to another?”

“No,” answered Gertrude; “but I confess I have not understood
your motives.”

“Did you think,” asked he, eagerly, “that I cared for that
silly Kitty? Did you believe, for a moment, that I had any
other desire than to show you that my devotion was acceptable
elsewhere? No, upon my word, I never had the least particle
of regard for her; my heart has been yours all the time, and I

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only danced attendance upon her in hopes to win a glance from
you,—an anxious glance, if might be. O, how often I have wished
that you would show one quarter of the pleasure that she did in
my society; would blush and smile as she did; would look sad
when I was dull, and laugh when I was merry; so that I might
flatter myself, as I could in her case, that your heart was won!
But, as to loving her,—pooh! Mrs. Graham's poodle-dog might
as well try to rival you as that soft—”

“Stop! stop!” exclaimed Gertrude; “for my sake, if not for
your own! O, how—” She could say no more, but, sinking into
the nearest seat, burst into tears, and hiding her face in her hands,
as had been her habit in childhood, wept without restraint.

Mr. Bruce stood by in utter amazement; at last he approached
her, and asked, in a low voice, “What is the matter? what have
I done?”

It was some minutes before she could reply to the question;
then, lifting her head, and tossing the hair from her forehead, she
displayed features expressive only of the deepest grief, and said,
in broken accents, “What have you done? O, how can you ask?
She is gentle, and amiable, and affectionate. She loves everybody,
and trusts everybody. You have deceived her, and I was
the cause of it! O, how, how could you do it!”

A most disconcerted appearance did Ben present at her words,
and hesitating was the tone in which he muttered, “She will get
over it.”

“Get over what?” said Gertrude; “her love for you? Perhaps
so; I know not how deep it is. But, think of her happy,
trusting nature, and how it has been betrayed! Think how she
believed your flattering words, and how hollow they were, all the
while! Think how her confidence has been abused! how that
fatherless and motherless girl, who had a claim to the sympathy
of all the world, has been taught a lesson of distrust!”

“I did n't think you would take it so,” said Ben.

“How else could I view it?” asked Gertrude. “Could you
expect that such a course would win my respect?”

“You take it very seriously, Gertrude; such flirtations are
common.”

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“I am sorry to hear it,” said Gertrude. “To my mind, unversed
in the ways of society, it is a dreadful thing to trifle thus
with a human heart. Whether Kitty loves you, is not for
me to say; but what opinion—alas!—will she have of your
sincerity?”

“I think you're rather hard, Miss Gertrude, when it was my
love for you that prompted my conduct.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Gertrude. “It is not my place to censure;
I speak only from the impulse of my heart. One orphan
girl's warm defence of another is but natural. Perhaps she
views the thing lightly, and does not need an advocate; but, O,
Mr. Bruce, do not think so meanly of my sex as to believe that
one woman's heart can be won to love and reverence by the
author of another's betrayal! She were less than woman who
could be so false to her sense of right and honor.”

“Betrayal!—Nonsense! you are very high-flown.”

“So much so, Mr. Bruce, that half an hour ago I could have
wept that you should have bestowed your affection where it met
with no requital; and if now I weep for the sake of her whose
ears have listened to false professions, and whose peace has, to say
the least, been threatened on my account, you should attribute
it to the fact that my sympathies have not been exhausted by
contact with the world.”

A short silence ensued. Ben went a step or two towards the
door, then stopped, came back, and said, “After all, Gertrude
Flint, I believe the time will come when your notions will grow
less romantic, and you will look back to this night and wish you
had acted differently. You will find out, in time, that this is a
world where people must look out for themselves.”

Immediately upon this remark he left the room, and Gertrude
heard him shut the hall-door with a loud bang as he went out.

A moment after, the silence that ensued was disturbed by a
slight sound, which seemed to proceed from the deep recess in the
window. Gertrude started, and, as she went towards the spot,
heard distinctly a smothered sob. She lifted a draperied curtain,
and there, upon the wide window-seat, her head bent over and
buried in the cushions, and her little slender form distorted into a

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strange and forlorn attitude,—such as might be seen in a grieved
child,—sat, or rather crouched, poor Kitty Ray. The crumpled
folds of her white crape dress, her withered wreath,—which had
half fallen from her head, and hung drooping on her shoulders,—
her disordered hair, and her little hand clinging to a thick cord
connected with the window-curtain, all added to the appearance
of extreme distress.

“Kitty!” cried Gertrude, at once recognizing her, although her
face was hid.

At the sound of her voice, Kitty sprung suddenly from her
recumbent posture, threw herself into Gertrude's arms, laid her
head upon her shoulder, and, though she did not, could not weep,
shook and trembled with an agitation which was perfectly uncontrollable.
Her hand, which grasped Gertrude's, was fearfully
cold; her eyes seemed fixed; and occasionally, at intervals, the
same hysterical sound which had at first betrayed her in her
hiding-place alarmed her young protector, to whom she clung as
if seized with sudden fear. Gertrude supported her to a seat,
and then, folding the slight form to her bosom, chafed the cold
hands, and again and again kissing the rigid lips, succeeded at
last in restoring her to something like composure. For an hour
she lay thus, receiving Gertrude's caresses with evident pleasure,
and now and then returning them convulsively, but speaking
no word, and making no noise. Gertrude, with the truest judgment
and delicacy, refrained from asking questions, or recurring
to a conversation the whole of which had been thus overheard
and comprehended; but, patiently waiting until Kitty grew more
quiet and calm, prepared for her a soothing draught; and then,
finding her completely prostrated, both in mind and body,
passed her arm around her waist, guided her up stairs, and,
without the ceremony of an invitation, took her into her own
room, where, if she proved wakeful, she would be spared the
wonder and scrutiny of Isabel. Still clinging to Gertrude, the
poor girl, to whose relief tears came at last, sobbed herself to
sleep; and all her sufferings were for a time forgotten in that
oblivion in which childhood and youth find a temporary rest, and
often a healing balm to pain.

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It was otherwise, however, with Gertrude, who, though of nearly
the same age as Kitty, had seen too much trouble, experienced
too much care, to enjoy, in times of disquiet, the privilege of
sinking easily to repose. She felt under the necessity, too, of
remaining awake until Isabel's return, that she might inform her
what had become of Kitty, whom she would be sure to miss from
the room which they occupied in common. She seated herself,
therefore, at the window, to watch for her return; and was pained
to observe that Kitty tossed restlessly on her pillows, and occasionally
muttered in her sleep, as if distressed by uneasy dreams.
It was past midnight when Mrs. Graham and her niece returned
home, and Gertrude went immediately to inform the latter that
her cousin was asleep in her room. The noise of the carriages,
however, had awakened the sleeper, and when Gertrude returned
she was rubbing her eyes, and trying to collect her thoughts.

Suddenly the recollection of the scene of the evening flashed
upon her, and, with a deep sigh, she exclaimed, “O, Gertrude! I
have been dreaming of Mr. Bruce! Should you have thought
he would have treated me so?”

“No, I should not,” said Gertrude; “but I wouldn't dream
about him, Kitty, nor think of him any more; we will both go to
sleep and forget him.”

“It is different with you,” said Kitty, with simplicity. “He
loves you, and you do not care for him; but I—I—” Here her
feelings overpowered her, and she buried her face in the pillow.

Gertrude approached, laid her hand kindly upon the head of
the poor girl, and finished the sentence for her. “You have such
a large heart, Kitty, that he found some place there, perhaps; but
it is too good a heart to be shared by the mean and base. You
must think no more of him—he is not worthy of your regard.”

“I can't help it,” said Kitty; “I am silly, just as he said.”

“No, you are not,” said Gertrude, encouragingly; “and you
must prove it to him.”

“How?”

“Let him see that, with all her softness, Kitty Ray is strong
and brave; that she has ceased to believe his flattery, and values
his professions at just what they are worth.”

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“Will you help me, Gertrude? You are my best friend; you
took my part, and told him how wicked he had been to me. May
I come to you for comfort when I can't make believe happy any
longer to him, and my aunt, and Isabel?”

Gertrude's fervent embrace was assurance enough of her cooperation
and sympathy.

“You will be as bright and happy as ever in a few weeks,”
said she; “you will soon cease to care for a person whom you
no longer respect.”

Kitty disclaimed the possibility of ever being happy again; but
Gertrude, though herself a novice in the ways of the human
heart, was much more sanguine and hopeful. She saw that
Kitty's violent outburst of sobs and tears was like a child's impetuous
grief, and suspected that the deepest recesses of her
nature were safe, and unendangered by the storm.

She felt a deep compassion for her, however, and many fears
lest she would be wanting in sufficient strength of mind to behave
with dignity and womanly pride in her future intercourse with
Mr. Bruce, and would also expose herself to the ridicule of Isabel,
and the contempt of her aunt, by betraying in her looks and
behavior her recent trying and mortifying experience.

Fortunately, the first-mentioned trial was spared her, by Mr.
Bruce's immediately absenting himself from the house, and in
the course of a few days leaving home for the remainder of the
summer; and, as this circumstance involved both his own and
Mrs. Graham's family in doubt and wonder as to the cause of his
sudden departure, Kitty's outward trials consisted chiefly in the
continued and repeated questionings from her aunt and cousin, to
which she was incessantly exposed, as to her share in this sudden
and unlooked-for occurrence. Had she refused him? Had she
quarrelled with him?—and why?

Kitty denied that she had done either; but she was not believed,
and the affair remained a strange and interesting mystery.

Both Mrs. Graham and Isabel were aware that Kitty's refusing
at the last moment to attend the wedding levee was owing
to her having accidentally learned, just before the carriage drove
to the door, that Mr. Bruce was not to be of the party; and, as

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they wrung from her the confession that he had passed a part of
the evening at the house, they came to the very natural conclusion
that some misunderstanding had arisen between the supposed
lovers.

Isabel was too well acquainted with Kitty's sentiments to
believe she had voluntarily relinquished an admirer who had evidently
been highly prized; and she also saw that the sensitive girl
winced under every allusion to the deserter. One would have
thought, then, that common affection and delicacy would have
taught her to forbear any reference to the painful subject. But
this was not the case. She made Mr. Bruce and his strange disappearance
her almost constant topic; and, on occasion of the
slightest difference or disagreement arising between herself and
Kitty, she silenced and distressed the latter by some pointed and
cutting sarcasm relative to her late love affair. Kitty would
then seek refuge with Gertrude, relate her trials, and claim her
sympathy; and she not only found in her a friendly listener to her
woes, but invariably acquired in her society greater strength and
cheerfulness than she could elsewhere rally to her aid, so that she
became gradually dependent upon her for the only peace she
enjoyed; and Gertrude, who felt a sincere interest in the girl
who had been on her account subjected to such cruel deception,
and whose drooping spirits and pensive countenance spoke touchingly
of her inner sorrow, spared no pains to enliven her sadness,
divert her thoughts, and win her to those occupations and amusements
in which she herself had often found a relief from preying
care and vexation.

A large proportion of her time was necessarily devoted to her
dearest and best friend, Emily; but there was nothing exclusive
in Emily's nature; when not suffering from those bodily afflictions
to which she was subject, she was ever ready to extend a
cordial welcome to all visitors who could find pleasure or benefit
from her society; and even the wild and thoughtless Fanny never
felt herself an intruder in Emily's premises, so sweet was the
smile with which she was greeted, so forbearing the indulgence
which was awarded to her waywardness. It can hardly be supposed,
then, that Kitty would be excluded from her hospitality,

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especially after Emily, with a truly wonderful perception, became
aware that she was less gay and happy than formerly, and had
therefore an additional claim upon her kindness.

Many a time, when Isabel had been tantalizing and wounding
Kitty beyond what her patience could endure, and Gertrude had
been vainly sought elsewhere, a little figure would present itself
at the half-open door of Miss Graham's room, and was sure to
hear the sweetest of voices saying from within, “I hear you,
Kitty; come in, my dear; we shall be glad of your pleasant company;”
and once there, seated by the side of Gertrude, learning
from her some little art in needle-work, listening to an agreeable
book, or Emily's more agreeable conversation, Kitty passed hours
which were never forgotten, so peaceful were they, so serene, so
totally unlike any she had ever spent before. Nor did they fail
to leave a lasting impression upon her, for the benefit of her mind
and heart.

None could live in familiar intercourse with Emily, listen to
her words, observe the radiance of her heavenly smile, and breathe
in the pure atmosphere that environed her very being, and not
carry away with them the love of virtue and holiness, if not something
of their essence.. She was so unselfish, so patient, notwithstanding
her privations, that Kitty would have been ashamed to
repine in her presence; and there was a contagious cheerfulness
ever pervading her apartment, which, in spite of Kitty's recent
cause of unhappiness, often led her to forget herself, and break
into her natural tone of buoyancy and glee. As week after week
passed away, and her sufferings and regrets, which at first were so
vehement and severe, began to wear off as rapidly as such hurricane
sorrows are apt to do, and the process of cure went on silently and
unconsciously, another work at the same time progressed, to her
equally salutary and important. In her constant intercourse with
the pure heart and superior mind of Emily, and her still more
familiar intimacy with one who had sat at her feet and learned of
her, Kitty imbibed an elevation of thought and a worthiness of
aim quite foreign to her quondam character.

The foolish child, whose heart was ensuared by the flatteries of
Mr. Bruce, learned—partly through the example and precepts

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of her new counsellors and friends, and partly through her own
bitter experience—the vanity and emptiness of the food thus
administered to her mind; and resolving, for the first time in
her life, to cultivate and cherish her immortal powers, she now
developed the first germs of her better nature; which, expanding
in later years, and through other influences, transformed the
gay, fluttering, vain child of fashion, into the useful, estimable
and lovely woman.

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