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Mrs. Warren's pleasant boarding-house was the place chosen
by Emily for her own and Gertrude's winter home; and one
month from the time of Mr. Graham's return from New York his
country-house was closed, he, with his wife, Isabel and Kitty,
were on their way to Havre; Mrs. Ellis gone to enjoy a little rest
from care with some cousins at the eastward; and Mrs. Prime
established as cook in Mrs. Warren's household, where all the
morning she grumbled at the increase of duty she was here called
upon to perform, and all the evening blessed her stars that she
was still under the same roof with her dear young ladies.

Although ample arrangements were made by Mr. Graham, and
all-sufficient means provided for the support of both Emily and
Gertrude, the latter was anxious to be once more usefully employed,
and, therefore, resumed a portion of her school duties at
Mr. W.'s. Much as Emily loved Gertrude's constant presence,
she gladly resigned her for a few hours every day, rejoiced in
the spirit which prompted her exertions, and rewarded her with
her encouragement and praise. In the undisturbed enjoyment of
each other's society, and in their intercourse with a small but
intelligent circle of friends, they passed a season of sweet tranquillity.
They read, walked and communed, as in times long
past. Together they attended lectures, concerts, and galleries of
art. As they stood before the works of a master's hand, whether
in the sculptured marble or the painted canvas, and Emily listened
while Gertrude, with glowing eyes and a face radiant with
enthusiasm, described with minuteness and accuracy the subject

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of the pieces, the manner in which the artist had expressed in
his work the original conception of his mind,—the attitudes of
figures, the expression of faces, the coloring of landscapes, and the
effect produced upon her mind and heart by the thoughts which the
work conveyed,—such was the eloquence of the one, and the sympathizing
attention of the other, that, as they stood there in
striking contrast, forgetful of all around, they were themselves a
study, if not for the artist, for the observer of human nature, as
manifested in novel forms and free from affectation and worldliness.

Then, too, as, in their daily walks, or gazing upon the glories
of a brilliant winter's night, Gertrude, enraptured at the work
of the great Master of the universe, poured out without reserve
her soul's deep and earnest admiration, dilated upon the gorgeousness
of a clear sunset, or in the sweet hour of twilight sat
watching the coming on of beautiful night, and lighting of Heaven's
lamps, then would Emily, from the secret fountains of her largelyillumined
nature, speak out such truths of the inner life as made
it seem that she alone were blessed with the true light, and all
the seeing world sat in comparative darkness.

It was a blissful and an improving winter which they thus
passed together. They lived not for themselves alone; the poor
blessed them, the sorrowful came to them for sympathy, and the
affection which they both inspired in the family circle was boundless.
Gertrude often recurred to it, in her after life, as the time
when she and Emily lived in a beautiful world of their own.
Spring came, and passed, and still they lingered there, loth to
leave a place where they had been so happy; and nothing at last
drove them from the city, but a sudden failure in Emily's health,
and Dr. Jeremy's peremptory command that they should at once
seek the country air, as the best restorative.

Added to her anxiety about Emily, Gertrude began to feel
much troubled at Willie Sullivan's long silence; no word from
him for two or three months. Willie could not have forgotten or
meant to neglect her. That was impossible. But why this
strange suspension to their correspondence? She tried, however,

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not to feel disturbed about it, and gave all her care to Emily, who
now began indeed to require it.

They went to the sea-side for a few weeks; but the clear and
bracing atmosphere brought no strength to the blind girl's feeble
frame. She was obliged to give up her daily walks; a continued
weariness robbed her step of its elasticity, and her usually equal
spirits were subject to an unwonted depression, while her nervous
temperament became so susceptible that the utmost care was
requisite to preserve her from all excitement.

The good doctor came frequently to see his favorite patient,
but, finding on every visit that she seemed worse instead of better,
he at last ordered her back to the city, declaring that Mrs. Jerry's
front chamber was as cool and comfortable as the little
stived-up apartments of the crowded boarding-house at Nahant,
and there he should insist upon both her and Gertrude's taking up
their quarters, at least for a week or two; at the end of which
time, if Emily had not found her health, he hoped to have leisure
to start off with them in search of it.

Emily thought she was doing very well where she was; was
afraid she should be troublesome to Mrs. Jeremy.

“Don't talk about trouble, Emily. You ought to know Mrs.
Jerry and me better, by this time. Come up to-morrow; I'll
meet you at the cars! Good-by!” and he took his hat and was
off.

Gertrude followed him. “I see, doctor, you think Emily is not
so well.”

“No; how should she be? What with the sea roaring on one
side, and Mrs. Fellow's babies on the other, it's enough to wear
away her strength. I won't have it so! This is n't the place for
her, and do you bring her up to my house to-morrow.”

“The babies don't usually cry as much as they have to-day,”
said Gertrude, smiling; “and as to the ocean, Emily loves dearly
to hear the waves rolling in. She sits and listens to them by the
hour together.”

“Knew she did!” said the doctor. “Shan't do it; bad for
her; it makes her sad, without her knowing why. Bring her up
to Boston, as I tell you.”

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It was full three weeks after the arrival of his visitors before
the popular physician could steal away from his patients to enjoy
a few weeks' recreation in travelling. For his own sake he would
hardly have thought of attempting so unusual a thing as a journey;
and his wife, too, loved home so much better than any other
place, that she was loth to start for parts unknown; but both
were willing, and even anxious, to sacrifice their long-indulged
habits for what they considered the advantage of their young
friends.

Emily was decidedly better; so much so as to view with pleasure
the prospect of visiting West Point, Catskill and Saratoga, even
on her own account; and when she reflected upon the probable
enjoyment the trip would afford Gertrude, she felt herself endowed
with new strength for the undertaking. Gertrude needed
change of scene and diversion of mind almost as much as Emily.
The excessive heat of the last few weeks, and her constant attendance
in the invalid's room, had paled the roses in her cheeks,
while care and anxiety had weighed upon her mind. The late
improvement in Emily, however, and the alacrity with which she
entered into the doctor's plans, relieved Gertrude of her fears,
and, as she moved actively about to complete the few preparations
which were needed in her own and her friend's wardrobe, her
step was as light, and her voice as gladsome, as her fingers were
basy and skilful.

New York was their first destination; but the heat and dust
of the city were almost insufferable, and during the one day which
they passed there Dr. Jeremy was the only member of the party
who ventured out of the hotel, except on occasion of a short
expedition which Mrs. Jeremy and Gertrude made in search of
dress-caps, the former lady's stock being still limited to the old
yellow and the lilac-and-pink, neither of which, she feared, would
be just the thing for Saratoga.

The doctor, however, seemed quite insensible to the state of
the weather, so much was he occupied with visits to some of his
æsculapian brethren, several of whom were college class-mates
whom he had not seen for years. He passed the whole day in
the revival of old acquaintances and associations; and, a number

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of these newly-found but warm-hearted friends having presented
themselves at the hotel in the evening, to be introduced to Mrs.
Jeremy and her travelling companions, their parlor was enlivened
until a late hour by the happy and cheerful conversation of a
group of elderly men, who, as they recalled the past and dwelt
upon the scenes and incidents of their youthful days, seemed to
renew their boyish spirits, so joyous was the laughter and excitement
with which each anecdote of former times received as
it fell from the lips of the spokesman,—an office which each filled
by turns. Dr. Jeremy had been a great favorite among his circle,
and almost every narrative of college days (save those which he
himself detailed) bore reference to some exploit in which he had
borne a spirited and honorable part; and the three female auditors,
especially Gertrude, who was enthusiastic in her own appreciation
of the doctor's merits, listened triumphantly to this corroborative
testimony of his worth.

The conversation, however, was not of a character to exclude
the ladies from participating in as well as enjoying it; and Gertrude,
who always got on famously with elderly men, and whom
the doctor loved dearly to draw out, contributed not a little to the
mirth and good-humor of the company by her playful and amusing
sallies, and the quickness of repartee with which she responded to
the adroit, puzzling, and sometimes ironical questions and jokes
of an old-bachelor physician, who, from the first, took a wonderful
fancy to her.

Emily listened with delighted interest to a conversation which
had for her such varied charms, and shared with Gertrude the
admiration of the doctor's friends, who were all excited to the
warmest sympathy for her misfortune; while Mrs. Jeremy, proud,
smiling and happy, looked so complacent as she sat ensconced in
an arm-chair, listening to the encomiums pronounced on her husband's
boyhood, that Gertrude declared, as they separated for the
night, that she had almost come to the conclusion that the old
yellow was becoming to her, and her new caps altogether superfluous.

Upon hearing that Dr. Jeremy's party were going up the Hudson
the next morning, Dr. Gryseworth, of Philadelphia, who had

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many years before been a student of our good doctor's, expressed
his satisfaction in the prospect of meeting them on board the
boat, and introducing to Gertrude his two daughters, whom he was
about to accompany to Saratoga to meet their grandmother,
already established at Congress Hall for the summer.

It was midnight before Gertrude could compose her mind, and
so far quiet her imagination (which, always lively, was now keenly
excited by the next day's promise of pleasure) as to think of the
necessity of fortifying herself by sleep; and Emily was finally
obliged to check her gayety and loquacity by positively refusing
to join in another laugh, or listen to another word that night.
Thus condemned to silence, she sunk at once to slumber, unconscious
that Emily, usually an excellent sleeper, had, in this
instance, acted solely for her benefit, being herself so strangely
wakeful that morning found her unrefreshed, and uncertain
whether she had once during the night been lulled into a perfect
state of repose.

Gertrude, who slept soundly until wakened by Miss Graham,
started up in astonishment on seeing her dressed and standing by
the bed-side,—a most unusual circumstance, and one which reversed
the customary order of things, as Gertrude's morning kiss
was wont to be Emily's first intimation of daylight.

“Six o'clock, Gerty, and the boat starts at seven! The doctor
has already been knocking at our door.”

“How soundly I have slept!” exclaimed Gertrude. “I wonder
if it's a pleasant day.”

“Beautiful,” replied Emily, “but very warm. The sun was
shining in so brightly, that I had to close the blinds on account
of the heat.”

Gertrude made haste to repair for lost time, but was not quite
dressed when they were summoned to the early breakfast prepared
for travellers. She had, also, her own and Emily's trunks
to lock, and therefore insisted upon the others preceding her to
the breakfast-hall, where she promised to join them in a few
moments.

The company assembled at this early hour was small, consisting
only of two parties beside Dr. Jeremy's, and a few gentlemen,

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most of them business men, who, having partaken of their food
in a business-like manner, started off in haste for their different
destinations. Of those who still lingered at the table when Gerty
made her appearance, there was only one whom she particularly
observed, during the few moments allowed her by Dr. Jeremy for
the enjoyment of her breakfast.

This was a gentleman who sat at some distance from her, idly
balancing his tea-spoon on the edge of his cup. He had concluded
his own repast, but seemed quite at his leisure, and previous
to Gertrude's entrance had won Mrs. Jeremy's animadversions
by a slight propensity he had manifested to make a more critical
survey of her party than she found wholly agreeable. “Do,
pray,” said she to the doctor, “send the waiter to ask that man
to take something himself: I can't bear to have anybody looking
at me so when I'm eating!”

“He isn't looking at you, wife; it's Emily that has taken his
faney. Emily, my dear, there's a gentleman, over opposite, who
admires you exceedingly.”

“Is there?” said Emily, smiling. “I am very much obliged
to him. May I venture to return the compliment?”

“Yes. He's a fine-looking fellow, though wife, here, doesn't
seem to like him very well.”

At this moment Gertrude joined them, and, as she made her
morning salutation to the doctor and his wife, and gayly apologized
to the former for her tardiness, the fine color which mantled her
countenance, and the deep brilliancy of her large dark eyes, drew
glances of affectionate admiration from the kind old couple, and
were, perhaps, the cause of the stranger's attention being at once
transferred from the lovely and interesting face of Emily to the
more youthful, beaming and eloquent features of Gertrude.

She had hardly taken her seat before she became aware of the
notice she was attracting. It embarrassed her, and she was glad
when, after a moment or two, the gentleman hastily dropped his
tea-spoon, rose and left the room. As he passed out, she had an
opportunity of observing him, which she had not ventured to do
while he sat opposite to her.

He was a man considerably above the middle height, slender,

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but finely formed, and of a graceful and dignified bearing. His
features were rather sharp, but expressive, and even handsome;
his eyes, dark, keen and piercing, had a most penetrating look,
while his firmly-compressed lips spoke of resolution and strength
of will.

But the chief peculiarity of his appearance was his hair,
which was deeply tinged with gray, and in the vicinity of his
temples almost snowy white. This was so strikingly in contrast
with the youthful fire of his eye, and the easy lightness of his
step, that, instead of seeming the effect of age, and giving him a
title to veneration, it rather enhanced the contradictory claims of
his otherwise apparent youth and vigor.

“What a queer-looking man!” exclaimed Mrs. Jeremy, when
he had passed out.

“An elegant-looking man, isn't he?” said Gertrude.

“Elegant?” rejoined Mrs. Jeremy. “What! with that gray
head?”

“I think it's beautiful,” said Gertrude; “but I wish he
didn't look so melancholy; it makes me quite sad to see him.”

“How old should you think he was?” asked Dr. Jeremy.

“About fifty,” said Mrs. Jeremy.

“About thirty,” said Gertrude, and both in the same breath.

“A wide difference,” remarked Emily. “Doctor, you must
decide the point.”

“Impossible! I wouldn't venture to tell that man's age
within ten years, at least. Wife has got him old enough, certainly:
I'm not sure but I should set him as low even as Gertrude's
mark. Age never turned his hair gray—that is certain.”

Intimation was now given that passengers for the boat must be
on the alert; and all speculation upon the probable age of the
stranger (a fruitless kind of speculation, often indulged in, and,
sometimes a source of vain and endless discussion) was suddenly
and peremptorily suspended.

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