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Nearly three years had Julia Brand passed in Mr. Coddington's
family; years, for the most part, of quiet happiness and
continual improvement. No care had been omitted by her kind
friends to make her all that a woman should be; and Julia had
imbibed instruction eagerly, and repaid all their efforts by her attachment
and her increasing usefulness. To Martha she was as
a dear younger sister, whose buoyant spirits had always the
power to cheer, and whose kind alacrity could make even the
disadvantages of ill-health appear less formidable. Yet the untamed
quality of her earlier nature broke forth sometimes in
starts of strange fierceness, which struck the gentle invalid with
dismay. These flashes of passion almost always originated in
some unpalatable advice, or some attempt at judicious control on
the part of Mrs. Coddington, who had learned to feel a mother's
love for the beautiful orphan; and, although such storms would
end in showers of tears and promises of better self-government,
they were a source of much grief to both Martha and her mother,
who felt the dangers of this impetuosity when they reflected that
no one but the imbecile grandfather possessed a natural right to
direct the course of Julia's actions.

These, however, were but transient clouds. Peace and love
reigned in this well-ordered household, and the old man, now

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reduced to absolute second infancy, received from the family all
the attention that would have been due from his own children
Every fine morning saw his easy chair wheeled into the orchard,
and there, in the pleasant shade, and with Julia at his side, he
would hum fragments of his ancient ditties, or touch, with aimless
finger, the old violin held up for him by Robert Coddington, a boy
about Julia's age, who shared with her much of the care of her
helpless charge. The old man's life was certainly prolonged by
the circumstances of ease and comfort which attended its setting;
to what good end, we might perhaps be disposed to inquire, were
it not that he was, in his present condition at least, so like a human
grasshopper, that we may suppose he was allowed existence
on the same terms. His dependent state afforded certainly most
ample opportunity for the exercise of kindly feeling in those
about him; and we must believe this to be no unimportant object,
since one part of the lesson of life is to be learned only by such
means.

Julia, loved and cherished, full of ruddy health, and exalted
by intellectual culture, opened gradually into splendid womanhood;
her eye deepened in expression by a sense of happiness,
and her movements rendered graceful by continual and willing
activity. Even in the country, where such beauty and grace as
hers are but little appreciated, she could not pass unnoticed.
Though necessarily much secluded, both by the requisite attendance
on her aged relative, and by the habits of the family of
which she formed a part, her charms were a frequent theme with
the young people of the neighbourhood, and it was sometimes
said, half jest, half earnest, that the Coddingtons kept her shut up,
lest she should “take the shine off their sickly daughter.” The
Blanchards in particular, took unwearied pains to have it understood
that poor Julia was a mere drudge, and that all their own
efforts to lighten the weary hours of their fair neighbour were repelled
by her tyrants, who evidently feared that Julia might be
induced to throw off their yoke if she should have an opportunity
of contrasting her condition with that of other young persons.
There seems to be in the forming stages of society, at least in this
Western country, a burning, restless desire to subject all habits
and manners to one Procrustean rule. Whoever ventures to

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differ essentially from the mass, is sure to become the object of unkind
feeling, even without supposing any bitter personal animosity,
such as existed in the case before us. The retired and
exclusive habits of the Coddington family had centered upon them
almost all the ill-will of the neighbourhood.

As a proof of this we may mention, that when a large barn of
Mr. Coddington's, filled to the very roof with the product of an
abundant harvest, chanced to be struck by lightning and utterly
consumed, instead of the general sympathy which such occurrences
usually excite in the country, scarce an expression of regret
was heard. Mr. Blanchard, who was not averse to “making
capital” of his neighbour's misfortunes, declared his solemn
belief that this loss was a judgment upon the Coddingtons, and
one which their pride richly deserved. He even went so far, in
private, before his own family, as to wish it had been the house
instead of only one of the barns. The tone of feeling cultivated
in that house may be judged by this specimen. Evil was the
seed, and bitter the fruit it was destined to produce!

Mr. Coddington felt the loss as any farmer must; and he
would still more keenly have felt the unkind sentiment of the
neighbourhood if he had become aware of it. But he was on the
point of revisiting his native State with his family; and in the
bustle of preparation, and the anxiety that attended Martha's
declining health, which formed the main inducement to the journey,
the venomous whispers were unheard. He left home supposing
himself at peace with all the world, always excepting his
nearest neighbour, whose enmity had evinced itself in too many
ways to pass unregarded.

Julia and her grandfather were left in possession of the house,
with the domestics necessary to carry on the affairs of the farm;
and she prepared for a close attention to the household cares, and
a regular course of intellectual improvement, which should make
the long interval of comparative solitude not only profitable, but
pleasant. Mrs. Coddington had learned such confidence in Julia,
that she scarcely thought it necessary to caution her as to her
conduct during her absence. Far less did she exact a promise
as to the long-settled point of free intercourse with the Blanchard
family. She gave only the general advice which a mother's

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heart suggests on such occasions, and bade farewell to her blooming
pupil in full trust that all would go on as usual under Julia's
well-trained eye.

But the Blanchard family, one and all, had settled matters far
otherwise. The very first time that old Brand's chair was wheeled
into the orchard after the departure of the Coddingtons, a
bunch of beautiful flowers lay on the rude seat beneath the tree
where Julia usually took her station. When she snatched it up
with delight and wonder, she was still more surprised to find under
it a small volume of poetry. Julia loved flowers dearly, but
poetry was her passion; and she not only read it with delight,
but had herself made some not ungraceful attempts at verse, which
had elicited warm commendations from her kind protectors. Here
was a new author, and one whose style gave the most fascinating
dress to passionate and rather exaggerated sentiment. Julia's attention
was enchained at once. When she first opened the volume
her only feeling was a curious desire to know whence it
had come; but when she had read a page she thought no more
of this. The poetry to which alone she had been accustomed,
was not only of a high-toned and severe morality, but of an abstract
or didactic cast; calculated to quicken her perceptions of
right, rather than to call forth her latent enthusiasm of character.
Cowper and Milton, and Young and Pollok had fed her young
thoughts. But here was a new world opened to her; and it was
not a safe world for the ardent and unschooled child of genius,
who found in the glowing picturings of a spirit like her own, a
power which at once took prisoner her understanding, aroused
her sensibilities, and lulled that cautious and even timid discrimination,
with which it had been the object of her friends to inspire
her. She finished the reading at a sitting, and as she returned to
the house with her grandfather, the excitement of her imagination
was such that the whole face of nature seemed changed. A new
set of emotions had been called into play, and the effect was proportioned
to the wild energy of her character. Poor Julia! she
had tasted the forbidden fruit.

In the afternoon she repeated the pleasure; and it was only
when she laid the volume under her pillow before she retired for
the night, that the question as to the appearance of the book

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recurred to her. It surely could not have been any of the Blanchards,
she thought; yet who else had access to the orchard,
which divided the two domains? The next day solved the doubt.

Julia was sitting by the side of her charge, holding with one
hand the old violin, and clasping in the other the source of many
a fair dream, in the shape of the magic volume, when a step
broke the golden meshes of her reverie. She looked up, and
young Blanchard stood before her. She started and blushed, she
knew not why, for she had seen the young man a thousand times
with no other emotion than a vague feeling of dislike.

“Have you been pleased with the book my sisters took the liberty
of sending you, Miss Brand?” he said; “they wished me to
offer you another, knowing you were fond of reading.”

Julia expressed her pleasure eagerly, and received the new
volume with a thrill of delight; accompanied, however, with some
misgiving as to the propriety of obtaining it just in that way.

Blanchard, encouraged by her manner, proceeded to say that
his sisters would have brought the books themselves, if they had
supposed a visit would be agreeable. Having accepted the civility
in one shape, Julia felt that she could not decline it in another,
and the invitation was given, and the visit made.