The next day was Harry's birthday. He did not spend
the morning in the office, as usual, but absented himself in
the indulgence of his love of solitude. His father, when he
saw him, looked grave, but said nothing. For the first time
a cloud had come between them, and both were conscious
of it.

The dinner-hour at length arrived, and with it the company.
He was early in the drawing-room, and felt calmer
than usual, for his resolution was taken to go abroad, if not
with, then without his father's approbation. But few guests
were expected, and they punctually came. Mr. Emmerson
was among the first, who blandly made his congratulation.
He was speedily followed by Henderson, the brother of
Mrs. Lennox, and his wife. At length came Mr. and Mrs.
Elton, and with them, to the extreme astonishment of Harry—
for such an event had not once entered his thoughts—
Fanny!

Every one expressed surprise. She was received with
such a burst of affectionate welcome by all the family that
both her confusion, if she felt any, and that of Harry were
safe from observation.

“My dearest Fanny! this is so unexpected after your
severe illness yesterday.”

“She would come,” said her mother; “we did all we
could to keep her at home; but those young girls are such
unaccountable beings. The other day she would not come

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

when all persuaded her to do so; now, for my part, it reminds
me of—”

Mrs. Elton was a talker, and she went on with a much
longer series of observations, which, however, were only
collateral to the conversation of the rest of the company.
Mr. Elton and she, however, both came up to Harry to
shake hands with him, and to congratulate him upon the
occurrence of this happy festival, and to wish him a thousand
returns.

“A thousand would be rather more than my share!” said
he, with all the gayety he could assume.

And then Fanny came forward to the old friend of her
childhood, and frankly gave him her hand. He took it,
poor fellow, and held it a moment in his, while he listened
to the few words she said, all the rest being engaged talking
together.

“I also congratulate you, Mr. Lennox,” said she, “and
hope you may pass many and yet more happy birthdays,
surrounded by all who love you and whom you love.”

She was pale, and her face and voice betrayed debility
and illness; but her manner was full of its usual gentleness
and calmness.

“You have been ill, I fear, Miss Elton?”

“Yesterday and the day before, very.”

“And how could you venture out to-day?”

Their eyes met. That look was full of reproach, mingled
with the least possible scorn.

“But of course you do not go to the theatre this evening?”

“Oh yes. The party is made up. I feel much better,
and think it will do me good. You know I am as great an
admirer of Horn as you are.”

“I shall not be able, I fear, to hear him to-night,” said
Harry, in a low voice.

“Fanny! my dear Fanny!” said Mary, looking her tenderly
full in the face, and passing her arm around her waist
to press her to her bosom. “And did I dare to believe you
were not really ill? I shall never forgive myself.”

The dinner was announced. Frank led in Fanny. There
was a vacant seat next hers when Harry passed round; but
he went on, and took a place at the other end of the table,
between Mr. Henderson and Emmerson, more in love than

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

ever, hating and despising himself, yearning to pursue at
leisure the new thoughts which thronged on him, and yet
resolved to tear her from his heart, cost what it might, or
else to tear himself away; for this vicinity to her, these
exposures to interviews with her, this necessity of feigned
familiarity, so dangerous and enervating to his resolution,
he saw plainly were beyond his power to resist.

“So you're going to take Fanny to the theatre with you
this evening?” said Elton. “I don't half like it.”

“When your consent is asked, my good friend,” said
Mr. Lennox, “it will be time enough to express an objection.
I rather think it the present intention of the party
to take her, whether you like it or not.”

“My dear Mr. Lennox,” said Mrs. Elton, “I really admire
your address. I have been trying all kinds of ways
to persuade Mr. Elton to allow of her going, and I do not
think he had made up his mind; but you put the question
at rest. I had already—”

“Fanny is not looking well just now. I don't know
what's the matter with her,” said Mr. Elton; “the day before
yesterday she fainted: she never did such a silly thing
before in her life. I don't know what to make of it.”

Harry stole a glance at her—her eyes were drooped
thoughtfully down—he felt like a scoundrel.

“I shall take care she sha'n't faint again!” said Lennox.

“I should like to know how you'll do that; besides, you
know, I am no friend to theatres at all.”

“My husband is too strict on that and a great many other
points,” said Mrs. Elton. “I am not of his opinion, however.
I think the mind that is pure is pure everywhere,
and certainly, were I to—”

“So thought your amiable ancestor Eve,” said Elton;
“yet it would have been quite as well for her, and us too,
if she had stayed by her husband's side, and not gone off
where she had no business to be.”

“As for me,” said Mrs. Elton, who always interrupted
everybody, and never stopped till she was interrupted herself,
and generally not even then, talking over her competitors
with the greatest good-humour in the world, and not
the least idea of what she was doing, “I think much may
be learned at the theatre, and there can be no reason to
fear anything. I know, when I was a girl—”

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

“Much may be learned everywhere,” said her husband,
gravely; “but sometimes the lessons cost too much.”

“And I know,” continued Mrs. Elton, without stopping,
“that when I was a girl, my father used to take me often
and often, and really, my dear Mrs. Lennox, I cannot discover
that I am any the worse for it. For why should—”
and she went on with her argument.

“She shall go to-night, as she and you wish it,” said her
father; “for she is a good girl, and I don't mean to disappoint
her; but, as a general thing, I think theatres objectionable.”

“Did any man ever hear such nonsense!” said Mr. Lennox.
“Theatres are a delightful recreation. The language
is improved, the mind restored to its good-humoured elasticity
after labour and chagrin, and home is never more delightful
than after returning from such pleasures abroad. I have
always brought up my children to—”

“And as for me,” interrupted Mrs. Elton, “I could never
be of the opinion that young people were better for being
kept in ignorance of life. If I had sons, I should send them
everywhere all alone, never mind, be as wild as they might.
Better let off their wildness in youth than have it when
they're old. Now, do you know, there's Mr. Franklin, our
excellent friend, you know, my dear Mrs. Lennox, they say,
when he was a young gentleman—”

“For to-day,” said Mr. Elton, “I yield; but, miss, hereafter
we shall be a little more strict.”

“I have got excellent seats,” said Harry, anxious to say
something; “you will have the Wilmingtons in the next
box.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” said his father, “that is an odd piece of
logic. You have got excellent seats, we shall have the
Wilmingtons in the next box; as if the vicinity of the Wilmingtons
made the seats any better, particularly the old
fellow, a sneaking, sly, creeping scoundrel, who would desert
his best friend in the hour of need, if he could save
sixpence by it.”

“My dear husband!” said Mrs. Lennox, in a deprecatory
tone of voice.

“Mr. Wilmington is a good man!” said Henderson.

“Good? Oh, excellent! in old Shylock's sense of the
word,” said Lennox, “but in that only. Why, sir?”

“My dear husband,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I won't have

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

you going on in this way about people whom you dislike
merely because they don't exactly act up to your idea of what
is right, and for the sake of his wife I always like him.”

“Yes, certainly, she's well enough; a nice little body—”

“Nice little body! She's a very sweet woman.”

“I'm sure,” said Mrs. Henderson, who seemed to be rather
a dry lady, with an expression of face as if she felt a sort
of malicious envy for every one and everything she saw,
“I'm sure I ought not to speak against her, for she's been
uncommonly polite and kind to me, but she is a very odd
person! I don't know what to make of her; she pleases
at first sight, but when you come to know her more—”

“Frank is saying the most extraordinary things to Miss
Elton,” interrupted Mary.

“What's the matter now?” said Lennox.

“We, like you, have been conversing on the merits of
Mrs. Wilmington, and on my saying, among various other
causes why I admired her, that I liked her because she was
so fond of Fanny, Mr. Frank takes it upon himself to exclaim,
in the most rude way, he thinks that must be allowed
to be among the least of her merits!”

“How, sir?” said his father; “I will thank you to explain
what you mean by that!”

“Really, Frank,” said his mother, laughing, “I don't
know how Miss Elton may take such a speech, but I should
demand a written apology.”

“Mary knows, and I hope Miss Elton also, perfectly
what I mean: I mean that it's no merit to admire Miss Elton,”
said Frank.

This lucid explanation produced a general laugh, and
even Miss Elton turned her eyes on him with a look of
amusement, not quite unmingled with surprise, which added
to the dilemma of the poor fellow.

“I hope you also do not pretend to misunderstand me,”
said he to Miss Elton.

“Upon my word,” said Fanny, “the only meaning I can
find is, you don't think better of any one for liking me.”

“Well, that is exactly what I meant,” said Frank.

But the expression of politeness in his face so much contradicted
the apparent meaning of his words, that Miss Elton
could not herself help joining in the renewed mirth of
the table.

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

“Ah, Frank, my boy,” said Mr. Elton, “you are a bad
beau, but I don't think the worse of you for that.”

“If that's the way you pay compliments!” said his mother.

“You never heard a gentleman, or a person pretending
to be a gentleman, speak his mind so plainly to you before,
Fanny,” said Mary.

“Frank in name and frank in nature,” said Emmerson.

“You are all very dull if you really do not understand the
idea I meant to express,” said Frank.

“Nonsense,” said Harry, “they understand you very
well, Frank; they are only laughing at you for being so
unsophisticated.”

“No, upon my soul,” said his father, “I don't understand
at all, and I beg you to explain yourself at full. Come,
we're all attention.”

“They were praising Mrs. Wilmington,” said Frank,
“for a variety of virtues. She speaks the truth. Well!
that is a virtue. She is of a gentle disposition. Well! that
also is a virtue. She is charitable, graceful, handsome.
Well! it may be said we like her the better for all that sort
of thing. But her friendship for, her attachment to, her
admiration of, Miss Elton, is a thing which—since everybody—
who—as—”

The burst of laughter which greeted this regular breakdown
appeared to distress Frank as much as it offended
him. He coloured, pushed back the chair, and was apparently
about to leave the table.

“Frank!” said his father.

“Sir.”

“Stop!”

To that voice he had ever been taught implicit obedience.

“Sit still. Where are you going?”

“You can scarcely be surprised,” said Frank, forcing
himself into a sort of gayety, “if I withdraw from a circle
where I have not the power of making myself understood.”

“Hold your tongue. Sit still. You are not a boy.”

“I don't know,” said Fanny, archly, looking at him with
an expression of almost affection, which at least compensated
for her share in bringing down on him this reproof;
“I'm afraid—”

“How will you get through life,” said his father, “with
such a quick temper as that? Learn that it is the first duty

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

and the highest accomplishment of a gentleman always to
keep his temper, particularly in the presence of ladies.”

Frank did not appear altogether to relish this lecture, and
before Miss Elton, too; but there was something in his
father's manner at once playful and firm, which took off the
asperity of command without lessening its power.

“I tell you what, Frank,” said his mother, “we must lay
a penalty on you for this outrageous attack on Miss Elton.”

“Fifty years ago,” said Elton, “you would have been
obliged to drink a gallon of wine, or brandy perhaps; but
we are past that, I hope.”

“Let him explain his meaning to Miss Elton herself in
a poem,” said Harry, generously coming to the aid of his
successful rival, as he now considered him, for he had seen
the look cast on him by her.

“Excellent!” said Mary. “You are condemned to write
an impromptu.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Lennox; “an extempore-metaphysicotragico—”

“Comico—” interrupted Miss Elton, with another look.

“Explanatory poem,” continued Mr. Lennox, “before we
leave this house for the theatre. The company shall assemble
ten minutes earlier, to hear the document publicly
read.”

“By me,” said Mary; “for I suppose the repentant author
will be too much overcome to read it himself. There,
Frank, you can go into the next room; you will find my
desk, and pen, ink, and paper.”

“Decreed!” said Lennox.

“The punishment is severe,” said Frank, “if, indeed,
the terms are not impossible; but I have no alternative, and
if Miss Elton will accept such an expiation of my unfortunate
attempt at a compliment, I will do my best; only she
must pity and forgive me.”

“Do so,” said Miss Elton; “you have my forgiveness,
but not my compassion. I can never pity a gentleman in
any dilemma caused by attempting a compliment.”

“Why, what a horrible little tyrant you are!” said Mr.
Lennox, as the company rose, pinching her cheek, till one,
at least, wore its usual healthy colour.

“Oh! you hurt me,” said she. “You're worse than
Frank, a great deal.”

“And they have even had the impudence,” said Mrs.

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

Elton, who had been all this while talking away upon various
subjects not in the least connected with that which occupied
the rest of the company—“they have even had the
impudence, do you know, my dear Mrs. Lennox, to say that
he did not know how to spell.”

“He! Who?” said Mrs. Lennox.

“Why, General Washington, notwithstanding manuscripts
of his own, which certainly ought to put the question—”

They all retired, and the door closed upon the company,
till Mrs. Elton's voice was lost to Frank's ear, like the unceasing
gurgling of some persevering little mountain stream
which forever fills the wood with its music.

For to him it was music, not only because she was one
of the kindest-hearted, most excellent, and noble women in
the world, full of sunshine and love to every human creature,
and every other creature, too; and not only because
she talked well and always generously of every one, and
particularly of the absent, but because, still handsome and
stately in her person, and really beautiful in countenance,
there could be traced in her face some resemblance to the
young lady who just at this moment had nearly driven him
crazy.

As soon as his tormentors had fairly left him, and his gay,
audacious father had dared to touch that cheek—which, had
any one else done it, might have induced the enamoured
boy to throw him out of the window at least—and as soon
as he found himself in quiet and solitary possession of the
apartment, and had spent some moments envying the carpet
which had been pressed by her foot, wishing himself the
air she breathed, and other various matters, which all that
part of our readers who have actually felt true love in early
youth will understand without farther description, and all
that part who have not will set down as the most absurd
nonsense possible, and the mere idle invention of fancy—
he began to reflect that the sooner the poetry was commenced
the sooner it would be finished, and the sooner it was
finished, the sooner he would stand a chance of feeling to
his trembling heart one more of those looks which made it
ache with happiness so. Seizing, therefore, pen and ink,
and a sheet of paper, which happened to be at hand, without
waiting to go into the next room, which his sister had
designated, he began to rack his imagination to comply with

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

the conditions of his punishment. Harry knew he wrote
poetry with ease and sweetness, and had made the proposal
in the hope of at once extricating him from the rebuke of
his father and the merriment of the company, and of affording
him an occasion, if, indeed, he had not yet found one,
to declare to the object of his love something of the state of
his mind.

An impromptu would have been no difficult matter under
any other circumstances, or even now, perhaps, if it were
to be read by Fanny alone. But the desire to do something
particularly fine was a heavy drawback upon his inspiration,
and the wish to say something significant to her, and yet in
which the uninitiated should be able to find only a commonplace
piece of politeness—these were sad labours, before
which Hercules, Sisyphus, and other ancient gentlemen
might have paused.

He pressed his forehead between the thumb and finger
of his left hand, contracted his brow, threw himself back in
his chair with his eyes fixed, sometimes on the ceiling and
sometimes on the floor, and impatiently dipped his pen full
of ink, and shook it as impatiently out again, to the occasional
damage of his facetious papa's splendid mahogany
dining-table, and after the universal fashion of poets in the
composition of the flowing impromptu. It was, however,
for a long time in vain. He wrote—erased—wrote again—
tore off—chewed up and filliped out of the window, in the
shape of ingeniously-formed little balls, several invocations
of uncommon elegance and deep pathos, but whose merit
was impaired by the peculiarity of their not going farther
than the first two lines. Rather red in the face (for, if anything
can add to the sensations of a man publicly forced
upon an impromptu, it is being obliged to execute the same
immediately after a hearty dinner; an event so unusual in
the life of most true poets, that the muse seems to fly at the
very idea), he murmured over what he had written in a low,
declamatory tone.

“Ah, bah!”

He turned the sheet upside down, and commenced on the
top of the other page in a new metre.

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

Sweet maid—the look divine—the heavenly wine—immortal
wine—shine—refine—mine—whose soul once mine.

“Ah, bah! was ever anything so stupid?”

When mischief, and when malice, and—

Ah, ha!”

“Feeble poet indeed!”

Upon the trembling lyre—

“That'll never do—heighho! Let us try it again.”

And, as if caught by a new idea, he went on writing for a
few moments very fluently.

“There,” said he, after having finished something which
he liked better, “that'll do; but, bless me, the theatre commences
at seven: it's now six o'clock, and—hallo! what
the devil's that?”

The last exclamation was called forth by the discovery
of something on the floor. It was a glove. He rose and
approached it. He recognised it in a moment. It was
Miss Elton's, and it still wore the shape of her hand and
breathed the incense of her presence. With a not unnatural
impulse, he raised it to his lips and printed upon it an
impassioned kiss.

“This at least,” murmured he, “sweet girl! I will bear
away in spite of fate.”

A slight rustling behind him caused him to turn suddenly,
and Miss Elton herself stood before him, fully betraying, by
her look of embarrassment and surprise, that she had been
the witness of this tender folly. She would have withdrawn
hastily, but the bold and ardent boy placed himself between
her and the door, and seized her hand with the gentleness
of a lover, but the firm determination of a man.

“Stay! dear Fanny, stay!”

“I beg you, Frank—what nonsense is this? Give me my
glove and let me go. They are waiting for me.”

“No, Miss Elton; why should you avoid what I wish to
tell you? and why should I conceal what you have already
discovered?”

“My dearest Frank, what a child you are! Give me the
glove and let me go. You don't wish to make me angry, I
hope?”

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

“Fanny, I love you. I am serious—I am sincere. Be
so yourself. I love you to distraction, and can never be
happy without you.”

“What folly! what a freak is this? Frank! Mr. Lennox!
indeed, let me go—”

“One moment, Fanny, hear me; and, as you value my
happiness, answer me, can you love me? will you be
mine?”

“My dear Frank! love you? Let me go! to be sure I
do, most sincerely. No friend, no brother, could ever be
dearer.”

“No brother! you cruel girl! can you trifle with me at
a moment when—”

“You astonish and distress me, Frank. Consider, if any
one should come; what do you mean by detaining me so?”

“I mean that I love you, seriously, passionately—that I
am about leaving New-York for many years, and that I
will not go without learning from your lips whether the
long and ardent attachment I entertain for you is, or can
ever be, requited.”

“Frank, this is foolish—ridiculous—impossible. I request
you to release me.”

The blush faded from her cheek, and she lifted her eyes
gravely, almost coldly upon his. Startled by her tone, the
reserve, the dignity of her manner, and the expression of
her face, the young man released her hand, and bent his
eyes inquiringly and reproachfully upon her.

“Let me leave you, Mr. Lennox, and forget this moment,
as I shall.”

“No, Miss Elton,” said Frank, firmly, “I shall neither
forget this moment nor suffer you to leave me willingly
without at least once earnestly repeating the declaration I
have made and the question I have asked.”

“You are a foolish boy,” said Miss Elton, “and have
been taking too much wine, I believe!”

“I have told you I love you,” said Frank, very seriously.
“I am not trifling, and I request a reply. It is important
I should know. I have no right to coerce your affections,
but I have a right to ask if they are mine. As for your accusation
of having taken too much wine, I presume you
are jesting. I am not.”

“I feel for you so much friendship, such a sister's love,
my dear Frank,” said Fanny, “that I cannot, without both

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

pain and embarrassment, answer you seriously, or believe
at all that a demand so unexpected is intended to be seriously
answered.”

And then she added in a different tone, and extending her
hand, while moisture glistened in her eyes,

“You foolish—foolish boy! how came you ever to have
such a thought in your head? You are too young, ardent,
and susceptible to know what will ultimately be your choice.
Leave this subject forever. Your friend I hope always to
remain; your wife I can never be.”

“Miss Elton,” said Frank, haughtily, but tears gushed to
his eyes and grief choked his words, and he murmured in
accents of deepest tenderness,

“Dearest Fanny, do not inflict upon me the agony you
are now doing, without an unalterable cause. If you have
never felt towards me any return for the enduring and tender
love I shall never cease to entertain for you, wait and
see whether time and my devotion may not inspire you with
it. Answer me, but pause before you do so. I am young,
I know, but who, capable of loving, will count a few months?
You have several times called me a boy. I am not one, believe
me. If years can ever bestow upon me strength to
love or passion to suffer, believe me—believe me, I possess
them now.”

“Mr. Lennox,” replied Fanny, after a pause, “you take
this too seriously. Hear me calmly.”

“I will, I will; but whatever you have to say of the
present, oh leave the future to decide for itself. Give me
one beam of hope that you may hereafter become my wife,
when, at least, I shall have made myself worthy of you.”

“You are worthy of me now, more than worthy,” said
Fanny, greatly affected; “but I never can be your wife,
and I have listened so long, dear Frank, only to end forever
all such thoughts. I sincerely value your friendship.
Do not withdraw it because I reply firmly, and without appeal,
to your love. Hope nothing from the future. I never
can love you. I never will—I never can become your wife.”

Much affected by her gentleness, her beauty, her grace,
and her tears—subdued, overmastered—he lifted his pale
face to hers, and presented her his hand.

“I bow to your decision, Miss Elton. I will never address
you as a lover again. Simple friendship I cannot
certainly render you; but, while I shall always love you

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

devotedly, you shall find me as careful of the feelings which
you have now made me acquainted with, as if you were”—
and his voice trembled as he spoke—“already the wife
of another.”

“Noble, generous Frank!” said she, giving her hand,
“you merit a better and a happier heart.”

“Go, then, Miss Elton! for I check the terms of endearment
which rise to my lips; go! may God bless you! I
shall never cease to love and respect you; and should you
ever stand in need of a friend to shed his life's blood in your
cause—”

“I should not hesitate a moment, dear Frank, to call on
you. And be sure, on my part, no recollection of this scene
shall remain but the admiration of your noble magnanimity
and manly self-government. Good-by, dear Frank.”

She left the room; but the moment she was gone, relieved
from the sense of her beauty and the enchantment of
her manner, Frank began to feel indignation and wounded
vanity come to his aid.

“She's a little, impertinent, unfeeling coquette, who has
gained all and given nothing in return. A capricious, insufferable
jilt!—that's what she is. I have not the slightest
doubt she's laughing at me heartily at this very moment.
What a simple shepherd I am, to be sure. By Heaven! I
wonder I did not see through her. But if she thinks she's
going to break my heart, she shall find herself finely mistaken.
She shall never see the shadow, no, not the shadow
of a shadow on my brow.”

He sat down, lighted a cigar, and lost himself in reflections
which, notwithstanding his stoical resolution, brought
a very black shadow to his brow. At length, puffing away,
his eyes occasionally full of tears, which glittered through
heavy clouds of smoke, he brought his cigar to a premature
conclusion just as Harry came in.

“Hallo!” said Frank.

“Well, what's the matter?”

“The deed is done.”

“What deed?”

“My deed! I have offered myself to Miss Fanny Elton.
like an ass.”

“Well?”

“And am rejected, as if I had, indeed, been that elegant
and long-enduring animal.”

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

“You don't mean to say,” cried Harry, with a singular
feeling, not joy, but certainly not grief, “that Miss Elton
has refused you?”

“No! I don't mean to say it, if I can help it, at least to
any one but yourself; but I mean to say it to you, and I
hereby make the satisfactory disclosure, in return for the
little, polite confidence you have been so obliging as to
make me, somewhat in the same line. It seems Miss Elton
is difficult. By heavens! she not only rejected me, but
she wound me round her finger as if I had been a child of
six, scolded me for my folly and impertinence, and explained
the impropriety of my conduct in the clearest manner. I
think we've been rather jilted, Harry. Why! where the devil
is the fellow? He's off too! agreeable family I've got into!
No matter: I'm young, as she very correctly observed.
But there's an old adage she did not repeat, though I swear
I thought once she was going to do so, viz., `There's as
good fish in the sea as ever came out of it!' and—ah, Fanny!”
said he, as the affectation of this flippancy became too much
for him, “I'm a villain to wrong you with one light thought.”

While the poor fellow, who had sat down in an attitude
of deep reflection, was thus agitated with a (to be sure,
somewhat miniature) tempest of love and despair, the door
of the adjoining drawing-room was suddenly burst open, and
in came Mrs. Elton, talking as hard as she could possibly
talk, followed by Mr. Lennox and Mrs. Lennox, laughing
heartily at something which appeared to have been already
said by somebody, and Elton, exclaiming with a benevolent
harshness, “Now, sir, we've come to arrest you for your
debt,” and Emmerson, gliding in softly behind the rest, with
an uneasy expression on his brow, and the only silent one
in the company, and Mary, actually dragging in the blushing
and yet (if any one had taken the trouble to observe her,
they might have seen) obviously distressed Fanny, and Mr.
Henderson, saying something to his wife, who, without listening
to him in the least, was saying something to him.
Such a noise, to be sure! and so sudden was the irruption,
and they all made so quickly for Frank, as he sat leaning
his elbows on the table and his face on his hands, with the
inkstand and pen significantly beside him, and two or three
sheets of paper, all scribbled over with broken lines and
great black erasures, scattered about, and one sheet lying
before him, which he had quite forgotten, with a small
poem fairly written out, headed, in large, flowing letters,

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

“To Miss Elton.” As this clamorous apparition broke
upon his solitary meditations, Frank started up with such
a look of serious amazement, that those who had not laughed
before laughed now, and those who had, laughed yet
louder.

“There he is! There's the lieutenant!” said his father.
“Ha! ha! ha! reposing after his toils.”

“Now then!” exclaimed his mother, “for the `warrior
bard!”'

“Come, Frank, produce! bring forth! which is it?” cried
Mary, laughing.

“Which is it?” echoed Elton. “Here are a dozen at
least.”

“This is the one,” cried Mrs. Elton. “See! look! To
Miss Fanny Elton.”

“He really has done sixteen lines,” remarked Henderson.

“I'll read it,” said Mrs. Elton.

“No, I”—“No, let me,” cried several voices.

But Frank had snatched up the paper when he recollected
himself.

“I beg your pardon,” said he, with dignity, which seemed
to amuse every one wonderfully; “it is not finished. I
beg—I request another time.”

“Read it, then, yourself,” said his mother.

“No.”

“Frank,” cried his father, “give it up this moment. Do
you dare to back out—to trifle with the feelings of the public
in this way?”

“It is not fit to read.”

“Give it me, sir.”

Frank obeyed.

“We'll forgive your blushes; in a young lieutenant,
with such a furious pair of whiskers as yours, they're rather
interesting than otherwise. But the penalty must be
paid; it's a debt of honour to a lady. Odds hearts and
darts, as Bob Acres would say, the thing's inevitable.”

“Well, let me go out, then,” said Frank, blushing deeply.

“Not a step. Elton, mind the door. I declare military
law. See that Miss Elton does not escape, some of you.
She seems also disposed to desert. Attention! now, in the
court. Officer, keep silence.

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

“That's the wrong one,” said Frank, with something very
like drops of perspiration on his forehead.

“What! are there two?”

“I've no doubt the poor fellow has written twenty,” said
Mary.

“Well! let us see. He shall have only justice and his
bond.”

“Please to let me off,” said Frank, earnestly.

“No, sir. Officer, keep silence there,” cried Mr. Lennex.

“To pour the glowing line—”

“Pour a line? Why, what sort of a process is that,
Frank? You might as well say `write a glass of punch!”'

“Read the other one,” said Mrs. Lennox, observing
Frank's embarrassment.

“Well, here it is. Hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! A
flowing impromptu, composed by a young lieutenant of the
great North American standing army, of five thousand men,
to the eyebrow of the most beautiful, young, blushing, blueeyed
lady that ever was seen. Done, after a hearty dinner,
in the mansion of his distinguished parent, and read, by the
delighted latter gentleman, to a select circle of the New-York
nobility and gentry, in the year of our Lord one thousand
eight hundred and—”

“Do, for Heaven's sake, read!” said Mrs. Lennox.

“In order to explain what he meant,” continued Mr. Lennox,
“by declaring that it was no merit to like the blueeyed,
bewitching young lady, as aforesaid”

The peal of laughter with which this
Frank to get the better
which he did with a very
looks and gesture
the noisy merriment of the
to a delighted but complete silence, passed his hand
over his own good-humoured countenance, as if to bring
down to the tone of dignified gravity required in a public
reader, and proceeded as follows:

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

“Now, what are you to do with such a young villain as
that?” said Mr. Lennox.

“Really, he has made it out admirably,” said Mary.

“Admirably?” exclaimed his father. “Why, Moore's
nothing to him!”

“I never heard of virtues shining in anybody's breast,”
whispered Mrs. Henderson to her husband. “Besides, the
word charm occurs twice in the first stanza.”

“Poor Frank!” said his mother. “The lines are really
beautiful.”

The whole company broke out into exclamations of admiration
and delight very complimentary to the poet; but,
on looking around to find where he had hidden himself, it
was perceived that, taking advantage of Mr. Elton's attention
to the reader, he had quietly made his escape.

“No matter,” said his father; “I shall insist upon criticising
them before him to-morrow!”

And he pinned them up in full sight against a curtain.