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IN the autumn of 1836, Maverick wrote to his friend,
the Doctor, that, in view of the settled condition
of business, he intended to visit America some time in
the course of the following season. He preferred,
however, that Adèle should not be made acquainted
with his expected coming. He believed that it would
be a pleasant surprise for his child; nor did he wish
her anticipations of his arrival to divert her from the
usual current of her study and every-day life.

“Above all,” he writes, “I wish to see her as she is,
without any note of preparation. You will therefore,
I beg, my dear Johns, keep from her scrupulously all
knowledge of my present intentions, (which may possibly
miscarry, after all,) and let me see, to the very
finest touch, whether of a ribbon or of a ringlet, how
far you have New-Englandized my dear girl. I form
a hundred pictures in my fancy; but every new letter
from her somehow disturbs the old image, and another
is conjured up. The only real thing in my mind is,
after all, a little child of eight, rosy and piquantly coquettish,
who slaps my cheek when I tease her, and

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who, as I bid her adieu at last upon the ship's deck,
looks through her tears at me and waves her little
kerchief.

“It is quite possible that I may manage for her return
with me, (of this plan, too, I beg you to give no
hint,) and in view of it I would suggest that any available
occasion be seized upon to revive her knowledge
of French, which, I fear, in your staid household, she
may almost have forgotten. Tell dear Adèle that I
am sometimes at Le Pin, where her godmother never
fails to inquire after her and call down blessings on
the dear child.”

Upon this the Doctor and Miss Johns take counsel.
Both are not a little disturbed by the anticipation of
Adèle's leave. The grave Doctor finds his heart
wrapped about by the winning ways of the little stranger
in a manner he could hardly have conceived possible
on the day when he first greeted her. On the score
of her religious beliefs, he is not, indeed, as yet thoroughly
satisfied; but he feels sure that she is at least
in a safe path. The old idols are broken: God, in His
own time, will do the rest.

The spinster, though she has become unconsciously
attached to Adèle to a degree of which she hardly believes
herself capable, is yet not so much disconcerted
by the thought of any violence to her affections, — for
all violence of this kind she has schooled herself to

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regard with cool stoicism, — but the possible interruption
of her ambitious schemes with respect to Reuben and
Adèle discomposes her sadly. Such a scheme she has
never given over for one moment. No plan of hers is
ever given over lightly; and she has that persistent
faith in her own sagacity and prudence which is not
easily shaken. The growing intercourse with the Elderkins,
in view of the evident devotion of Phil, has
been, indeed, the source of a little uneasiness; but
even this intimacy she has moderated to a certain degree
by occasional judicious fears in regard to Adèle's
exposure to the night air; and has made the most —
in her quiet manner — of Phil's exceptional, but somewhat
noisy, attentions to that dashing girl, Sophia Bowrigg.

“A very suitable match it would be,” she says some
evening, casually, to the Doctor; “and I really think
that Phil, if there were any seriousness about the lad,
would meet his father's wishes in the matter. Adèle,
child,” (she is sitting by at her worsted,) “are you sure
you 've the right shade of brown there?”

But, like most cool schemers in what concerns the
affections, she makes her errors. Her assurance in
regard to the improved habits and character of Reuben,
and her iteration of the wonderful attachment
which the Brindlocks bear to the lad, have a somewhat
strained air to the ear of Adèle. And when the

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spinster says, — folding up his last letter, — “Good fellow!
always some tender little message for you, my dear,”
Adèle thinks — as most girls of her age would be apt
to think — that she would like to see the tender message
with her own eyes.

But what of the French? Where is there to be
found a competent teacher? Not, surely, in Ashfield.
Miss Eliza, with grave doubts, however, suggests a winter
in New York with the Brindlocks. The Doctor
shakes his head: —

“Not to be thought of, Eliza. It is enough that my
boy should undergo the perils of such godless association:
Adaly shall not.”

The question, however, of the desired opportunity is
not confined to the parsonage; it has currency up and
down the street; and within a week the buoyant Miss
Bowrigg comes to the rescue.

“Delighted above all things to hear it. They have
a charming teacher in the city, Madame Arles, who has
the best accent. And now, Adèle, dear, you must come
down and pass the winter with us. It will be charming.”

It is, indeed, a mere girlish proposal at first; but,
much to the delight of Miss Eliza, it is abundantly confirmed
by a formal invitation from Mrs. Bowrigg, a few
weeks after, who, besides being attracted by the manners
and character of Adèle, sees in it an admirable
opportunity for the accomplishment of her daughters

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in French. Her demonstrative girls and a son of
twenty comprise her family. For these reasons, she
will regard it as a favor, if the Doctor will allow Miss
Maverick to establish herself with them for the winter.

Miss Eliza is delighted with the scheme, but fears
the cool judgment of the Doctor: and she has abundant
reason.

“It cannot be,” he said, and was quite inexorable.

The truth is, that Mrs. Bowrigg, like a good many
educated with a narrow severity, had expanded her
views under the city influences in directions that were
by no means approved by the good Doctor. Hers was
not only a godless household, but given over to the
lusts of the eye and the pride of life. It was quite impossible
for him to entertain the idea of submitting
Adèle to any such worldly associations.

Miss Eliza pleaded the exigencies of the case in vain;
and even Adèle, attracted by the novelty of the proposed
situation, urged her claim in the cheeriest little
manner conceivable.

“Only for the winter, New Papa; please say
`Yes'!”

And the tender hands patted the grave face, as she
seated herself with a childish coquetry upon the elbow
of his chair.

“Impossible, quite impossible,” says the Doctor.
“You are too dear to me, Adaly.”

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“Oh, now, New Papa, you don't mean that, — not
positively?” — and the winning fingers tap his cheek
again.

But for this time, at least, Adèle is to lose her claim;
the Doctor well knows that to suffer such endearments
were to yield; so he rises brusquely, —

“I must be just, my child, to the charge your father
has imposed upon me. It cannot be.”

It will not be counted strange, if a little ill-disguised
petulance appeared in the face of Adèle that day and
the next.

The winter of 1836-7 was a very severe one throughout
New England. Perhaps it was in view of its severity,
that, on or about New Year's Day, there came to
the parsonage a gift from Reuben for Adèle, in the
shape of a fur tippet, very much to the gratification of
Miss Eliza and to the pleasant surprise of the Doctor.

Rose and Phil, sitting by the fire next day, Rose says,
in a timid voice, with less than her usual sprightliness, —

“Do you know who has sent a beautiful fur tippet to
Adèle, Phil?”

“No,” says Phil, briskly. “Who?”

“Reuben,” says Rose, — in a tone as if a blush ran
over her face at the utterance.

If there was one, however, Phil could not have seen
it; he was looking steadfastly into the fire, and said
only, —

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“I don't care.”

A little after, (nothing having been said, meantime,)
he has occasion to rearrange the wood upon the hearth,
and does it with such preposterous violence that the
timid little voice beside him says, —

“Don't, Phil, be angry with the fire!”

It was a winter, as we have said, for fur tippets and
for glowing cheeks; and Adèle had now been long
enough under a Northern sky to partake of that exhilaration
of spirits which belongs to every true-born New
Englander in presence of one of those old-fashioned
snow-storms, which, all through the day and through
the night, sifts out from the gray sky its fleecy crystals,—
covering the frosted high-roads, covering the withered
grasses, covering the whole summer's wreck in one
glorious white burial; and after it, keen frosty mornings,
the pleasant jingling of scores of bells, jets of
white vapor from the nostrils of the prancing horses,
and a quick electric tingle to the blood, that makes
every pulse beat a thanksgiving. Squire Elderkin
never made better jokes, the flame upon his hearth
never danced more merrily, — the Doctor never
preached better sermons, and the people never listened
more patiently than in those weeks of the dead of
winter.

But in the midst of them a black shadow fell upon
the little town. News came overland, (the river being

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closed,) that Mrs. Bowrigg, after an illness of three
days, was dead; and the body of the poor woman was
to come home for burial. She had been reared, as we
have said, under a harsh regimen, and had signalized
her married escape from the somewhat oppressive formalities
of home by a pretty free entertainment of all
the indulgences accessible in her new life. Not that
she offended against any of the larger or lesser proprieties
of society, but she showed a zest for the pleasures
of the world, and for a certain measure of display,
which had been the occasion of many a sober shake of
the head along the streets of Ashfield, and the subject
of particular commiseration on the part of the good
Doctor.

Now that her brilliant career (as it seemed to many
of the staid folk of Ashfield) was so suddenly closed,
the Doctor could not forbear taking advantage of the
opportunity to press home upon his people, under the
influences of this somber funeral procession, the vanities
of the world and the fleeting character of its wealth
and pride. “We may build palaces,” said he, (and
people thought of the elegant Bowrigg mansion,) “but
God locks the door and assigns to us a narrower home;
we may court the intoxicating air of cities, but its
breath, in a day, may blast our strength, and, except
He keep us, may blast our souls.” Never had the
Doctor been more eloquent, and never had he so moved

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his people. After the evening prayer, Adèle stole into
the study of the Doctor, and said, —

“New Papa, it was well I stayed with you.”

The old gentleman took her hand in his, —

“Right, I believe, Adaly; but vain, utterly vain, except
you be counted among the elect.”

The poor girl had no reply, save only to drop a kiss
upon his forehead and pass out.

With the opening of the spring the towns-people were
busy with the question, if the Bowriggs would come
again to occupy their summer residence, that, with its
closed doors and windows, was mournfully silent. But
soon the gardeners were set to work; it was understood
that a housekeeper had been engaged, and the family
were to occupy it as usual. Sophia writes to Adèle,
confirming it all, and adding, — “Madame Arles had
proposed to make us a visit, which papa hearing, and
wishing us to keep up our studies, has given her an invitation
to pass the summer with us. She says she
will. I am so glad! We had told her very much of
you, and I know she will be delighted to have you as a
scholar.”

At this Adèle feels a thrill of satisfaction, and looks
longingly forward to the time when she shall hear again
from native lips the language of her childhood.

“Ma fille! ma fille!”

The voices of her early home seem to ring again in

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her ear. She basks once more in the delicious flow of
the sunshine, and the perfume of the orange-blossoms
regales her.

— “Ma fille!”

Is it the echo of your voice, good old godmother,
that comes rocking over the great reach of the sea, and
so touches the heart of the exile?

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