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One year has passed away since Mrs. Van Vechten departed
for the South, and up the locust lined avenue which
leads to Riverside, the owner of the place is slowly riding.
It is not pleasant going home to-night, and so he lingers
by the way, wondering why it is that the absence of a
child should make so much difference in one's feelings!
During the year Rosamond had recited her lessons to him,
but with many others he fancied no girl's education could
be finished unless she were sent away—and two weeks
before the night of which we write he had taken her himself
to Atwater Seminary, a distance of more than two
hundred miles, and then, with a sense of desolation for
which he could not account, he had returned to his home,
which was never so lonely before. There was no merry
voice within the walls,—no tripping feet upon the stairs,—
no soft, white hand to bathe his forehead when suffering
from real or fancied headaches,—no slippers waiting by
his chair,—no flowers on the mantle,—no bright face at
the window,—no Rosamond at the door.

Of all this was he thinking that November afternoon,
and when at last he reached his house, he went straight
to his library, hoping to find a letter there, telling him of
her welfare. But letter there was none, and with a feeling
of disappointment he started to the parlor. The door
was ajar and he caught glimpses of a cheerfully blazing

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fire within the grate. The shutters, too, were open and
the curtains were put back just as they used to be when
she was there. It seemed like the olden time, and with
spirits somewhat enlivened he advanced into the room.
His favorite chair stood before the fire, and so near to it
that her head was leaning on its arm, sat a young girl.
Her back was turned toward him, but he knew that form
full well, and joyfully he cried, “Rosamond, how came
you here?”

Amid her smiles and tears, Rosamond attempted to tell
him the story of her grievances. She was homesick, and
she could not learn half so much at the Atwater Seminary
as at home—then, too, she hated the straight-jacket rules,
and hated the lady-boarder, who pretended to be sick,
and wouldn't let the school-girls breathe, especially Rosamond
Leyton, for whom she seemed to have conceived a
particular aversion.

Pleased as Mr. Browning was to have Rosamond with
him again, he did not quite like her reasons for coming
back, and he questioned her closely as to the cause of her
sudden return.

“I shouldn't have come, perhaps,” said Rosamond, “if
that sick woman hadn't been so nervous and disagreeable.
She paid enormous sums for her board, and so Mrs.
Lindsey would hardly let us breathe for fear of disturbing
her. My room was over hers, and I had to take off my
shoes and walk on tip-toe, and even then she complained
of me, saying I was rude and noisy, when I tried so hard
to be still. I made some hateful remark about her in the
hall, which she overheard, and when Mrs. Lindsey scolded
me for it, saying she was a very wealthy lady from Florida,
and accustomed to every attention at home, I said back

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some pert things, I suppose, for she threatened to write
and tell you, and so I thought I'd come and tell you myself.”

There was a dizzy whirl in Mr. Browning's brain—a
pallor about his lips—for a terrible suspicion had flashed
upon him, and leaning forward, he said in a voice almost
a whisper, “What was the Florida lady's name?”

“Potter, or Porter—yes, Miss Porter, that was it. But
what is the matter? Are you sick?” Rosamond asked,
as she saw how white he was.

“Only a sudden faintness. It will soon pass off,” he
said. “Tell me more of her. Did she see you? Were
you near her?”

“No,” answered Rosamond. “She was sick all the time
I was there, and did not leave her room. The girls said,
though, that she was rather pretty, but had big, black,
evil-looking eyes. I don't know why it was, but I felt
afraid of her—felt just as though she was my evil genius.
I couldn't help it—but you are sick, Mr. Browning—you
are pale as a ghost. Lie down upon the sofa, and let me
bring the pillows, as I used to do.”

She darted off in the direction of his sleeping-room,
unconscious of the voice which called after her, asking if
it were not dark in the hall, and bidding her take a light.

“But what does it matter?” he said, as he tottered to
the sofa. She is not here. Atwater Seminary is two
hundred miles away. She can't harm Rosamond now.”

By this time Rosamond came with the pillows, which
she arranged upon the sofa, making him like down while
she sat by, and laid her hand soothingly upon his burning
forehead.

“We will have tea in here to-night,” she said, “I told

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Mrs. Peters so, and I will make it myself. Do you feel
any better?” and she brought her rosy face so near to his
that he felt her warm breath upon his cheek.

“Yes, I am better,” he replied, “but keep your hand
upon my forehead. It assures me of your presence, when
my eyes are shut.”

So Rosamond sat beside him, and when Mrs. Peters
came in to lay the cloth, she found them thus together.
Smiling knowingly, she whispered to herself, “'Nater is
the same every where,” and the good lady bustled in
and out, bringing her choicest bits and richest cake in
honor of her pet's return. That night, freed from boarding-school
restraint, Rosamond slept soundly in her own
pleasant chamber, but to Ralph Browning, pacing up and
down his room, there came not a moment of unconsciousness.
He could not forget how near he had been to one
who had embittered his whole life—nor yet how near to
her young Rosamond had been, and he shuddered as if
the latter had escaped an unseen danger. Occasionally,
too, the dread thought stole over him, “suppose she
should come here, and with her eagle eyes discover what,
if it exist at all, is hidden in the inmost recesses of my
heart.”

But of this he had little fear, and when the morning
came he was himself again, and, save that it was haggard
and pale, his face gave no token of the terrible night he
had passed. But what should he do with Rosamond?
This was the question which now perplexed him. He had
no desire to send her from him again, neither would she
have gone if he had—and he at last came to the very sensible
conclusion that the school in his own village was
quite as good as any, and she accordingly became an

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attendant at the Granby Female Seminary. Here she
remained for two years and a half, over which time we
will pass silently and introduce her again to our readers,
when she is nearly eighteen—a graduate—a belle—and
the sunshine of Riverside.

p592-260

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