Slowly the feeble light of a stormy morning broke
over the village of S—. Lucy's fears had been verified,
for Thanksgiving's dawn was ushered in by a fierce
driving storm. Thickly from the blackened clouds the

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feathery flakes had fallen, until the earth, far and near,
was covered by an unbroken mass of white, untrodden
snow.

Lucy had been awake for a long time, listening to the
sad song of the wind, which swept howling by the casement.
At length, with an impatient frown at the snow,
which covered the window-pane, she turned on her pillow,
and tried again to sleep. Her slumbers, however,
were soon disturbed by her sister, who arose, and putting
aside the curtain, looked out upon the storm, saying, half
aloud, “Oh, I am sorry, for Lucy will be disappointed.”

“I disappointed!” repeated Lucy; “now, Lizzie, why
not own it, and say you are as much provoked at the
weather as I am, and wish this horrid storm had staid in
the icy caves of Greenland?”

“Because,” answered Lizzie, “I really care but little
about the party. You know Harry will not be there,
and besides that, the old, ugly pain has come back to
my side this morning;” and even as she spoke, a low,
hacking cough fell on Lucy's ear like the echo of a distant
knell.

Lucy raised herself up, and leaning on her elbow looked
earnestly at her sister, and fancied, ('twas not all fancy,)
that her cheeks had grown thinner and her brow whiter
within a few weeks. Lizzie proceeded with her toilet,
although she was twice obliged to stop on account of “the
ugly pain,” as she called it.

“Hurry, sister,” said Lucy, “and you will feel better
when you get to the warm parlor.”

Lizzie thought so, too, and she accelerated her movements
as much as possible. Just as she was leaving the
room, Lucy detained her a moment by passing her arm
caressingly around her. Lizzie well knew that some

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favor was wanted, and she said, “Well, what is it, Lucy?
What do you wish me to give you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” answered Lucy, “but do not say
anything to father about the pain in your side, for fear
he will keep you at home, and, worse than all, make me
stay, too.”

Lizzie gave the required promise, and then descended
to the breakfast parlor, where she found her grandmother,
and was soon joined by her sister and father. After the
usual salutation of the morning, the latter said, “There
is every prospect of our being alone to-day, for the snow
is at least a foot and a half deep, and is drifting every
moment.”

“But, father,” said Lucy, “that will not prevent Lizzie
and me from going to the party to-night.”

“You mean, if I choose to let you go, of course,” answered
Mr. Dayton.

“Why,” quickly returned Lucy, “you cannot think of
keeping us at home. It is only distant a few rods, and
we will wrap up well.”

“I have no objections to your going,” replied Mr.
Dayton, “provided you dress suitably for such a night.”

“Oh, father,” said Lucy, “you cannot be capricious
enough to wish us to be bundled up in bags.”

“I care but little what dress you wear,” answered Mr.
Dayton, “if it has what I consider necessary appendages,
viz: sleeves and waist.”

The tears glittered in Lucy's bright eyes, as she said,
“Our party dresses are at Miss Carson's, and she is to
send them home this morning.”

“Wear them, then,” answered Mr. Dayton, “provided
they possess the qualities I spoke of, for without those
you cannot go out on such a night as this will be.”

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Lucy knew that her dress was minus the sleeves, and
that her father would consider the waist a mere apology
for one, so she burst into tears and said, rather angrily,
“I had rather stay at home than go rigged out as you
would like to have me.”

“Very well; you can stay at home,” was Mr. Dayton's
quiet reply.

In a few moments he left the room, and then Lucy's
wrath burst forth unrestrainedly. She called her father
all sorts of names, such as “an old granny,—an old fidget,”
and finished up her list with what she thought the
most odious appellation of all, “an old maid.”

In the midst of her tirade the door bell rang. It was
the boy from Miss Carson's, and he brought the party
dresses. Lucy's thoughts now took another channel, and
while admiring her beautiful embroidered muslin and rich
white satin skirt, she forgot that she could not wear it.
Grandma was certainly unfortunate in her choice of
words, this morning, for when Lucy for the twentieth
time asked if her dress were not a perfect beauty, the
old Quakeress answered, “why it looks very decent,
but it can do thee no good, for thy pa has said thee cannot
wear it; besides, the holy writ reads, `Let your
adorning —”'

Here Lucy stopped her ears, exclaiming, “I do believe,
grandma, you were manufactured from a chapter in the
bible, for you throw your holy writ into my face on all
occasions.”

The good lady adjusted her spectacles, and replied,
“How thee talks! I never thought of throwing my bible
at thee, Lucy!”

Grandma had understood her literally.

Nothing more was said of the party, until dinner time,
although there was a determined look in Lucy's flashing

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eye, which puzzled Lizzie not a little. Owing to the
storm, Mr. Dayton's country cousins did not, as was their
usual custom, come into town to dine with him, and for
this Lucy was thankful, for she thought nothing could be
more disagreeable than to be compelled to sit all day and
ask Cousin Peter how much his fatting hogs weighed;
or his wife, Elizabeth Betsey, how many teeth the baby
had got; or, worse than all the rest, if the old maid,
Cousin Berintha, were present, to be obliged to be asked
at least three times, whether it's twenty-four or twenty-five
she'd be next September, and on saying it was only
twenty-three, have her word disputed and the family bible
brought in question. Even then Miss Berintha would
demur, until she had taken the bible to the window, and
squinted to see if the year had not been scratched out
and rewritten! Then closing the book with a profound
sigh, she would say, “I never, now! it beats all how
much older you look!”

All these annoyances Lucy was spared on this day, for
neither Cousin Peter, Elizabeth Betsey, or Miss Berintha
made their appearance. At the dinner table, Mr. Dayton
remarked, quietly, to his daughters, “I believe you
have given up attending the party!”

“Oh, no, father,” said Lucy, “we are going, Lizzie
and I.”

“And what about your dress?” sasked Mr. Dayton.

Lucy bit her lip as she replied, “Why, of course, we
must dress to suit you, or stay at home.'

Lizzie looked quickly at her sister, as if asking how
long since she had come to this conclusion; but Lucy's
face was calm and unruffled, betraying no secrets, although
her tongue did when, after dinner, she found herself
alone with Lizzie in their dressing-room. A long conversation
followed, in which Lucy seemed trying to

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persuade Lizzie to do something wrong. Possessed of the
stronger mind, Lucy's influence over her sister was great,
and sometimes a bad one, but never before had she proposed
an open act of disobedience toward their father,
and Lizzie constantly replied, “No, no, Lucy, I can't do
it; besides, I really think I ought not to go, for that pain
in my side is no better.”

“Nonsense, Lizzie,” said Lucy. “If you are going to
be as whimsical as Miss Berintha, you had better begin
at once to dose yourself with burdock or catnip tea.”
Then, again recurring to the dress, she continued, “Father
did not say we must not wear them after we got
there. I shall take mine, any way, and I wish you would
do the same; and then, if he ever knows it, he will not
be as much displeased when he finds that you, too, are
guilty.”

After a time, Lizzie was persuaded, but her happiness
for that day was destroyed, and when at tea time her father
asked if she felt quite well, she could scarcely keep
from bursting into tears. Lucy, however, came to her
relief, and said she was feeling blue because Harry would
not be present! Just before the hour for the party, Lucy
descended to the parlor, where her father was reading, in
order, as she said, to let him see whether her dress were
fussy enough to suit him. He approved her taste, and
after asking if Lizzie, too, were dressed in the same manner,
resumed his paper. Ere long, the covered sleigh
stood at the door, and in a few moments Lucy and Lizzie
were in Anna Graham's dressing-room, undergoing the
process of a second toilet.

Nothing could be more beautiful than was Lucy Dayton,
after party dress, bracelets, curls, and flowers had all
been adjusted. She probably thought so, too, for a smile
of satisfaction curled her lip as she saw the radiant vision

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reflected by the mirror. Her bright eye flashed, and her
heart swelled with pride as she thought, “Yes, there 's
no help for it, I shall win him, sure;” then turning to
Anna Graham, she asked, “Is that Mr. St. Leon to be
here to-night?”

“Yes, you know he is,” answered Anna, “and I pity
him, for I see you are all equipped for an attack; but,”
continued she, glancing at Lizzie, “were not little Lizzie's
heart so hedged up by brother Hal, I should say your
chance was small.”

Lucy looked at her sister, and a chill struck her heart
as she observed a spasm of pain which for an instant contracted
Lizzie's fair, sweet face. Anna noticed it, too,
and springing toward her, said, “What is it, Lizzie? are
you ill?”

“No,” answered Lizzie, laying her hand on her side;
“nothing but a sharp pain. It will soon be better;”
but while she spoke, her teeth almost chattered with the
cold.

Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie!

For a short time, now, we will leave the young ladies in
Miss Graham's dressing-room, and transport our readers
to another part of the village.