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“Miss Gertrude,” said Mrs. Prime, opening the parlor-door,
putting her head cautiously in, looking round, and then advancing
with a stealthy pace, like that of a favorite family cat which is
venturing to step a little beyond its usual limits,—“my! how
busy you are! Lor's sakes alive, if you an't rippin' up them great
curtains of Miss Graham's for the wash! I wouldn't be botherin'
with 'em, Miss Gertrude; she won't be here for this fortnight,
and Miss Ellis will have time enough.”

“O, I have nothing else to do, Mrs. Prime; it's no trouble.”
Then, looking up pleasantly at the old cook, she added, “It
seems very cosey for us all to be at home again; doesn't it?”

“It seems beautiful!” answered Mrs. Prime, with emphasis;
“and—I hope there's no harm in sayin' it—I can't help thinkin'
how nice it would be, if we could all live on jist as we are now,
without no more intrusions.”

Gertrude smiled, and said, “Everything looks as it used to in
old times, when I first came here. I was quite a child then,”
continued she, with a sigh.

“Gracious me! What are you now?” said Mrs. Prime. “For
mercy's sake, Miss Gertrude, don't you begin to think about
growin' old! There's nothin' like feelin' young, to keep young.
There's Miss Patty Pace, now—”

“I have been meaning to ask after her,” exclaimed Gertrude,
resuming her scissors, and commencing to rip another window-curtain.
“Is she alive and well yet?”

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“She!” replied Mrs. Prime; “Lor, she won't never die! Old
women like her, that feels themselves young gals, allers live forever;
but I came a purpose to speak to you about her. The
baker's boy that fetched the loaves, this mornin', brought an
arrant from her, and she wants to see you the first chance she
can get; but I wouldn't hurry, either, about goin' there, or anywhere,
Miss Gertrude, till I got rested; for I believe you an't
well, you look so spent and kind o' tired out.”

“Did she wish to see me?” asked Gertrude. “Poor old
thing! I'll go and see her, this very afternoon; and you needn't
feel anxious about me, Mrs. Prime,—I am quite well.”

And Gertrude went. It was now her second day of suspense;
and this, like every other motive for action, was eagerly hailed.

She found Miss Patty nearly bent double with rheumatism,
dressed with less than her usual care, and crouching over a
miserable fire, built of a few chips and shavings. She appeared,
however, to be in tolerable spirits, and hailed Gertrude's entrance
by a cordial greeting.

The curiosity for which she was always remarkable seemed to
have increased, rather than diminished, with the infirmities of
age. Innumerable were the questions she put to Gertrude regarding
her own personal experiences during the past year, and
the movements of the circles in which she had been living. She
showed a special interest in Saratoga life, the latest fashions
exhibited there, and the opportunities which the place afforded
for forming advantageous matrimonial connections.

“So you have not yet chosen a companion,” said she, after
Gertrude had patiently and good-naturedly responded to all her
queries. “That is a circumstance to be regretted. Not,” continued
she, with a little smirk, and a slight wave of the hand,
“that it is ever too late in life for one to meditate the conjugal
tie, which is often assumed with advantage by persons of fifty or
more; and certainly you, who are still in the bloom of your days,
need not despair of a youthful swain. However, existence, I may
say, is two-fold when it is shared with a congenial partner; and
I had hoped that before now, Miss Gertrude, both you and myself
would have formed such an alliance. Experience prompts

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me, when I declare the protection of the matrimonial union one
of its greatest advantages.”

“I hope you have not suffered from the want of it.” said Gertrude.

“I have, Miss Gertrude, suffered incalculably. Let me impress
upon you, however, that the keenest pangs have been those of
the sensibilities; yes, the sensibilities,—the finest part of our
nature, and that which will least bear wounding.”

“I am sorry to hear that you have been thus grieved,” said
Gertrude. “I should have supposed that, living quite alone, you
might have been spared this trial.”

“O, Miss Gertrude!” exclaimed the old lady, lifting up
both hands, and speaking in such a pitiable tone as would have
excited the compassion of her listener, if it had been one grain
less ridiculous,—“O, that I had the wings of a dove, wherewith
to flee away from my kindred! I foundly thought to have distanced
them, but within the last revolving year they have discovered
my retreat, and I can no longer elude their vigilance.
Hardly can I recover from the shock of one visitation,—made,
as I am convinced, for the sole purpose of taking an inventory of
my possessions, and measuring the length of my days,—before
the vultures are again seen hovering round my dwelling. But,”
exclaimed the old lady, raising her voice and inwardly chuckling
as she spoke, “they shall fall into their own snare; for I will
dupe every one of them, yet!”

“I was not aware that you had any relations,” said Gertrude;
“and it seems they are such only in name.”

“Name!” said Miss Pace, emphatically. “I am animated
with gladness at the thought that they are not honored with a
cognomen which not one of them is worthy to bear. No, they pass
by a different name; a name as plebeian as their own coarse souls.
There are three of them, who stand to each other in a fraternal
relation, and all are alike hateful to me. One, a contemptible
coxcomb, comes here to overawe me with his presence, which he
conceives to be imposing; calls me aunt—aunt; thus testifying
by his speech to a consanguinity which he blindly fancies makes
him nearer akin to my property!” The old lady, excited to wrath,

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almost shrieked the last word. “And the other two,” continued
she, with equal heat, “are beggars! always were,—always will
be,—let'em be,—I'm glad of it!

“You hear me, Miss Gertrude; you are a young lady of quick
comprehension, and I avail myself of your contiguity; which,
although you deny the charge, may shortly be interrupted by
some eager lover, to request at your hands a favor, such as I
little thought once I should ever feel compelled to seek. I want
you—I sent for you to write (Miss Patty lowered her voice to a
whisper) the last will and testament of Miss Patty Pace.”

The poor woman's trembling voice evidenced a deep compassion
for herself, which Gertrude could not help sharing; and she
expressed a willingness to comply with her wishes as far as was
in her power, at the same time declaring her utter ignorance of
all the forms of law.

To Gertrude's astonishment, Miss Patty announced her own
perfect acquaintance with all the legal knowledge which the
case demanded; and in so complete and faultless a manner did
she dictate the words of the important instrument, that, being afterwards
properly witnessed, signed and sealed, it was found at the
end of a few months,—at which time Miss Patty was called upon
to give up her earthly trust,—free from imperfection and flaw, and
proved a satisfactory direction for the disposal of the inheritance.

It may be as well to state here, however, that he who was
pronounced sole heir to her really valuable property never
availed himself of the bequest, otherwise than to make a careful
bestowal of it among the most needy and worthy of her relatives.
Notwithstanding the protestations of several respectable individuals
who were present at the attestation of the document, all of
whom pronounced Miss Patty sane and collected to her last
moments, he never would believe that a sound mind could have
made so wild and erratie a disposal of the hardly-earned and
carefully-preserved savings of years.

This sole inheritor of her estates was William Sullivan, the
knight of the rosy countenance; and the same chivalrous spirit
which won Miss Patty's virgin heart, and gained for him her
lasting favor, prompted him to disclaim and utterly refuse the

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acceptance of a reward so wholly disproportioned to the slight
service he had rendered the old lady.

Though he could not fail to be amused, he was nevertheless
deeply touched, by the preamble to the will, in which Miss Patty
set forth in a most characteristic manner the feelings and
motives which had influenced her in the choice of an heir to her
possessions.

“A gentlewoman, of advanced years, who has clung to life and
its hopes, and, in spite of many vexatious vicissitudes, feels something
loth to depart, has been forcibly reminded by her relations
that ere another smiling spring-time she may have a call to join
the deceased line of Paces,—a family which will, on her
departure, here become extinct. With the most polite of courtesies,
and a passing wave of the hand, Miss Patty acknowledges
the forethought of her relations of the other branch, in reminding
her, before it be too late, of the propriety of naming the individual
for whose benefit it is her desire to make a testamentary provision.

“She has looked about the world, viewed all her fellows in the
glass of memory, and made her final election. The youth himself—
the most gallant young gentleman of his day—will open
his eyes in astonishment, and declare, `Madam, I know you
not!' But, sir, Miss Patty, old, ugly and infirm, has a heart
which feels as keenly as it did in youth. She has not forgotten—
she means now to signify, by her last deeds, how vividly she
remembers—the rosy-cheeked youth who once raised her from
the frosty earth, took her withered hand, placed it within his
vigorous young arm, and, with sunny smiles and cheering words,
escorted the rheumatic old woman to a refuge from the wintry
elements. Miss Patty has a natural love of courtesy and the
deference offered by gay and beautiful youth to helpless and
despised old age has touched a sensitive chord. Miss Patty—
it is no secret—has some little hoarded treasures; and, since
she cannot be on the spot to superintend their expenditure, she
has, after some struggles, resolved to secure them from pollution
by awarding these savings of years to one possessed of such true
gentility as Master William Sullivan, confidently assured that he

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will never disgrace the former owner of the property, or permit
her wealth to flow into vulgar channels.”

Then followed an inventory of the estate,—a most remarkable
estate, consisting of odds and ends of everything; and finally a
carefully and legally worded document, assigning the whole of the
strange medley, without legacies or encumbrances, to the sole use
and disposal of the appointed heir.

Gertrude found it no easy task to gather and transfix in writing
the exact idea which the old woman's rambling dictation was
intended to convey; and it was two or three hours before the
manuscript was completed, and the patient and diligent scribe
permitted to depart.

The sky was overcast, and a drizzling rain beginning to fall, as
she commenced walking towards home; but the distance was not
great, and the only damage she sustained was a slight dampness
to her garments. Emily perceived it at once, however. “Your
dress is quite wet,” said she. “You must go and sit by the parlor-fire.
I shall not go down until tea-time, but father is there,
and will be glad of your company; he has been alone all the
afternoon.”

Gertrude found Mr. Graham sitting in front of a pleasant
wood-fire, half dozing, half reading. She took a book and a low
chair, and joined him. Finding the heat too great, however, she
soon retreated to a sofa, at the opposite side of the room.

Hardly had she done so when there was a ring at the front-door
bell. The housemaid, who was passing by the door, opened
it, and immediately ushered in a visitor.

It was Willie!

Gertrude rose, but trembling from head to foot, so that she
dared not trust herself to take a step forward. Willie advanced
into the centre of the room, then looked at Gertrude, bowed, hesitated,
and said, “Miss Flint!—is she here?”

The color rushed into Gertrude's face. She attempted to
speak, but failed.

It was not necessary. The blush was enough. Willie recognized
her, and, starting forward, eagerly seized her hand.

“Gerty! is it possible?”

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The perfect naturalness and case of his manner, the warmth
and earnestness with which he took and retained her hand,
reassured the agitated girl. The spell seemed partially removed.
For a moment he became in her eyes the Willie of old, her dear
friend and playmate, and she found voice to exclaim, “O,
Willie! you have come at last! I am so glad to see you!”

The sound of their voices disturbed Mr. Graham, who had fallen
into a nap, from which the ringing of the door-bell and the
entrance of a strange step had failed to arouse him. He turned
round in his easy-chair, then rose. Willie dropped Gertrude's
hand, and stepped towards him. “Mr. Sullivan,” said Gertrude,
with a feeble attempt at a suitable introduction.

They shook hands, and then all three sat down.

And now all Gertrude's embarrassment returned. It is not
unfrequently the case that when the best of friends meet after a
long separation they salute or embrace each other, and then, notwithstanding
the weight of matter pressing on the mind of each, —
sufficient, perhaps, to furnish subjects of conversation for weeks to
come, — nothing of importance presents itself at once, and a pause
ensues, which is finally filled up by some most trivial and unimportant
question concerning the journey of the newly-arrived
party, or the safety of his baggage. But to these latter questions,
or any of a similar nature, Gertrude required no answer. She
had seen Willie before; she was aware of his arrival; knew even
the steamer in which he had come; but was anxious to conceal
from him this knowledge. She could not tell him, since he seemed
so ignorant of the fact himself, that they had met before; and it
may well be imagined that she was at an utter loss what to do or
say, under the circumstances. Her embarrassment soon communicated
itself to Willie; and Mr. Graham's presence, which was
a restraint to both, made matters worse.

Willie, however, first broke the momentary silence. “I should
hardly have known you, Gertrude. I did not know you.
How — ”

“How did you come?” asked Mr. Graham, abruptly, apparently
unconscious that he was interrupting Willie's remark.

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“In the Europa,” replied Willie. “She got into New York
about a week ago.”

“Out here, I meant,” said Mr. Graham, rather stiffly. “Did
you come out in the coach?”

“O, excuse me, sir,” rejoined Willie; “I misunderstood you.
No, I drove out from Boston in a chaise.”

“Did any one take your horse?”

“I fastened him in front of the house.”

Willie glanced out of the window (it was now nearly dusk) to
see that the animal was still where he had left him. Mr. Graham
settled himself in his easy-chair, and looked into the fire. There
was another pause, more painful than the first.

“You are changed, too,” said Gertrude, at last, in reply to
Willie's unfinished comment. Then, fearing he night feel hurt at
what he must know to be true in more ways than one, the color,
which had retreated, mounted once more to her cheeks.

He did not seem to feel hurt, however, but replied, “Yes, an
Eastern climate makes great changes; but I think I can hardly
have altered more than you have. Why, only think, Gerty, you
were a child when I went away! I suppose I must have known
I should have found you a young lady, but I begin to think I
never fully realized it.”

“When did you leave Calcutta?”

“The latter part of February. I passed the spring months in
Paris.”

“You did not write,” said Gertrude, in a faltering voice.

“No, I was expecting to come across by every steamer, and
wanted to surprise you.”

Conscious that she had probably seemed far less surprised than
he expected, she looked confused, but replied, “I was disappointed
about the letters, but I am very glad to see you again,
Willie.”

“You can't be so glad as I am,” said he, lowering his voice,
and looking at her with great tenderness. “You seem more and
more like yourself to me every minute that I see you. I begin to
think, however, that I ought to have written, and told you I was
coming.”

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