"My name," said the young lady, smiling, t'other world; and I thought if they'd lived you, "is Rose-Miss Rose." and sent you back again, mebbe they would mother." "You misunderstood me," said Rose, gravely and kindly. "I said the other side of the world. I meant in England and France, not the world beyond the grave. Nobody comes back from there, you know." "Oh!" said the boy, sad and droopingly; "Is?" said Penny. "Well, you-you-you look just so. You're a master-pretty gal!" Miss Rose Tremaine scarcely knew how to receive this strange tribute to her charms. She could not be angry, and resent it as an impertinence, for she saw it was not intended as such; and the boy's evident admiration, though embarrassing, was not offensive; for she felt in-that-that-that's ony foreign parts. Is that stinctively that he regarded her exactly as he would have regarded a new flower, a brightwinged bird, or a shining stone. There was a moment's silence, and then the boy, who had been attentively regarding her, spoke again: "You-you-you ain't got no other name, have you?" 66 'Oh yes," said Rose. "My name is Tremaine-Miss Rose Tremaine." all?" "That's all," said Rose. "And now”—gathering up the folds of her dress-"I must go in." "No-no-no! don't ye-don't ye go; I like to look at you." "But I believe I must," said Rose; "my aunt will be waiting for me." "And-and-and won't ye come agin?" said the boy, following her wistfully. "Look-look tell!-look-a-here; do you love pond-lilies? Coz I know where there's a pond chock-full of 'um. I'll get you a lot of 'um any day, if you want giv-'um. And-and-and I know of a robin's-nest with four blue eggs in it; don't you want 'um? You jest wait a minite and I'll climb and get it for you." "One of what?" asked Rose, laughing. "One-one-one of them?" said the lad, ing his head a quick jerk toward the house. "Yes," said Rose; "I'm one of the family." "Be? I-I-I never see you before, did I? Are you Miss Mary's gal?" "Oh no!" said Rose. daughter, you know.” 66 "Oh no, thank you," said Rose, walking on; "Miss Mary has no "I'd rather hear the birds sing in the trees. Don't take away their nests, please." 'No-no-no," said poor Penny, thoughtfully. "Squire's gal, then-or the minister's?" "No," said the young lady; "neither of them. My father's name was Edward Tre "I-I-I won't, if you say so; Squire Tremaine says, 'Pull down all their nests'-they eat his cherries; but-but I won't, if you don't want me to." "Well, good-by now," said Rose, "I will see you again.” "Do-do-do,” said her humble admirer; "and-and I'll pick you some high blackberries when they're ripe; I know where there'll be a sight of 'um." And so they parted. Rose hurried in, intent on questioning her aunt regarding this strange individual, but she met a servant coming out to inform her of the arrival of company, and as the guests remained all day, it was not until the little home-circle had gathered together in the evening that she had a chance to speak of it. "Oh! Uncle James," she said, as she sat at her aunt's feet, holding the worsted she was winding, "I met with quite an adventure this morning, and I want to ask you about it. Who is Penny Dexter ?" "That is more than I can tell you, Miss Rose Tremaine," said the Squire. "Why, Uncle James! he says he works for And-and-and did you see you." "So he does, if you can call his feeble efforts "Your mother? No; I thought you said work," said her uncle. "But as to his history, she was dead?" I must refer you to your aunt—he is her protégé, "Yes, yes," said the boy; "and-and-and not mine." ain't you been dead too?" "Me?" said Rose, laughing. could have made you think so?" "Coz-coz-coz you said so." 66 'Oh, then, you tell me, Aunt Mary; so then "No. What there is a history. Do tell me; he is so queer." "I can not tell you much, my dear; I know very little, and much of that little is only con "I said so? You are mistaken. I didn't jectural." say so." "Well! tell me that little then, while we "Yes; you-yon-you said you'd been to wind all this worsted for your shawl." ners. "And did you never learn any thing more of her history?" asked Rose. "Nothing more with certainty," said Miss Tremaine. "All we knew was suggested by the name she gave her child; she called him Penitence,' which, in the vernacular of the neighbors' children, was soon shortened into 'Penny.' But she made no confidant-she uttered no complaints, no reproaches." "My dear Rose," said Miss Tremaine, sigh- | her, she repelled me; I offered assistance, it ing, "his mother was a very pretty girl (he is was declined; her needle could maintain themvery like her, poor fellow!), who lived with my she needed no help. I noticed and praised the mother years ago as a seamstress; she was the beauty of her child; she caught him up and only daughter of old Dexter, the sexton of our hurried him out of my sight; but it seemed to church. She was very lovely, and of sweet man- me that if there was any feeling left in her it She had been well educated for a girl in was for her boy-it seemed to me he was at her position; and soon after she came to us I once her pride and shame." had a long and severe illness, and poor Lucy devoted herself to me. She was about my own age, and the intimacy begun in my sick-room gradually broke down the slight distinction of caste, never very strongly defined in this country, and became almost a friendship. Lucy had quick perceptions and a refined taste, and during my convalescence she used to read to me. I have sometimes feared the poems and romances I then put into her hands were not suitable reading "Ah! mon Dieu!" said Mademoiselle de St. for a girl in her station. The last summer she Loc, "dere sall be no doubt-it sall be ze ole lived with us we had a house full of company-story-ole as ze universe, and daily repeated your father, Rose, and his two sisters, and many others and occupied with them, I saw less of Lucy, and when I did see her, I thought she seemed depressed; and having the vanity to think she missed my society while so occupied by my cousins, I redoubled my kindness. Judge of my surprise when my mother told me Lucy wished to leave her service. I could not realize it. I felt a few words from me would set all right again. But I talked and reasoned, coaxed and scolded in vain. Lucy was resolute in her purpose even to obstinacy. She, who had been open as the day, was now shut up in an icy reserve; deaf to all my entreaties, she wept and trembled, but would assign no reason for her departure. The fact that she wished to go was all she would give. At last I became hurt and vexed by her obstinate self-will, and feeling myself aggrieved, I talked of her ingratitude and bade her go-and she went. "I learned from her parents she had gone to a town about fifty miles from here, and was working as a dress-maker, but I could learn nothing more. If they knew the reason of her con luct they kept the secret. "At the close of that summer my mother was taken sick; she lingered nearly two years, a prisoner to her room, and then died, and I was too much occupied by attention to her and by sorrow for her loss to inquire for or even remember Lucy. A year after my loss I heard of the death of Lucy's mother; and as the old man was nearly helpless, I went, at the request of your Uncle Arthur, to see what could be done for his comfort; then, to my surprise, I learned that Lucy had returned, bringing back with her her child (the boy you met), then a beautiful creature about three years old. But what a change had come over my poor Lucy! I had! known her, beautiful, loving, and confiding-a joyous-hearted girl, with frank, truthful eyes, and sunny temper. I found a cold, stern, passionless, self-contained woman, faded in beauty and withered in form, with cold, averted eyes and compressed lips, silent and reserved, neither giving nor asking sympathy. I tried to befriend | all de world over; jest de ole story-de voman's wrong, and de man's perfidie! from ze day of Eden's gloire until now-is it not so-hey ?" "Oh yes, I suppose so," said the Squire, laughing. "At least so the story goes. Man ate the apple and flung away the core, and thought no more about the matter; but when it began to oppress him he weakly faltered forth, 'The woman tempted me, and I did eat.'" "Yes," said the parson, musingly, as he walked up and down the room. "But woman scorns to fling back upon him the pitiful recrimination. If she faltered, it was before she plucked the fruit; but having dared the sin she can brave the penalty, and, clasping her hands upon her bosom, she stands in the grace of a magnificent silence, not defiant but expectant; not submissive to, but awaiting her doom. Oh, woman, woman! The first to sin-the first to lead others into sin! First sinner-first temptress! And then, and ever after, by a righteous and irrevocable sentence, the one to bear the heaviest consequences of sin (suffering, if guilty, for thyself; if innocent, for the guilt of others). Take heart; there is hope for thee yet, since He whose eye read the deepest recesses of all human hearts could say of thee, O woman, great is thy faith!'" "The Defense of Woman;' a sermon without notes, by the Reverend Arthur Tremaine," laughed the Squire. "Hush, hush! James. Don't!" said his sister, entreatingly. "Why, Mary, the parson should not practice his undigested sermons upon us here, poor defenseless creatures! He has a fair chance at us Sundays; has it all his own way then. But I don't think we're called upon to stand it here." "Well, auntie," said Rose, "I have not quite done with you yet; tell me a little more." "My dear Rose, what can I tell you? Lucy's whole interest seemed to centre in her child, whom she appeared to regard as a creature every way superior to herself. She kept him always dressed with a delicacy and taste far beyond their station, though she worked day and night to do so. But the child, though he developed | cold had produced hemorrhage. "He has bled profusely," said the Doctor, "and it has weakened him prodigiously. He has never rallied since; indeed he seems to have no strength of constitution to fall back upon, great fellow as he is. I suppose he inherits a tendency to such complaints, for he tells me his father died in that way." "So did mine," said Rose, her eyes filling with tears at the recollection. "He seemed desirous of seeing you, Miss Rose," said the Doctor; "and I promised to ask you to come and see him." in strength and stature, was deficient in some way, I can not tell in what. I have thought it might be owing partly to his mother's moody state of mind, and to his having no other companions than this stern, silent woman, whose love, however intense, was never demonstrative in caresses, and his imbecile, doting old grandfather. But poor Lucy would not see it; she kept him at school, though successive teachers told her he would not learn, and though class after class rose progressively on the rounds of the ladder of learning, and left poor Penny still idling at its foot. At last, when his physical growth "Certainly I will," said Rose, promptly. had outstripped and overtopped all his instruct-"And is there any thing else I can do for him, ors, she had to remove him; and from that time poor fellow? Can he take jelly or broth? What he led a wandering, out-of-door life, finding fel- can I do for him?" lowship with birds and beasts, and playthings in flowers, and clouds, and stars. When his mother died suddenly, less than a year ago, his means of support were at an end, and it was proposed to put him in the alms-house; but I requested your uncles to give him a home at the gardener's lodge, and try to keep him occupied in light labor in the garden; for I felt he could not live shut up from the open air. He has been here two or three months. And now, dear Rose, you know all I do about him." "Nothing that I know of, except to gratify him by going to see him. I do not think now that he will live to need jellies and broths. If he should, I will let you know. But his time is very short, I apprehend. Can you go now?" "This moment," said Rose; "but my Uncle Arthur is in his study. May I ask him to go too? He will know what to say to the poor boy far better than I shall." "You are right, my dear young lady; that's a good idea. Ask the parson, by all means." "And Rose," said Miss Tremaine, "as I can not go with you, you had better ask Mademoiselle to go." From this time a strange sort of friendship— ardently proffered on his part, tacitly accepted on hers grew up between Rose and her strange admirer. Every time she went into the garden he In a very few moments Rose came back met her with some simple offering of fruit, or flow-equipped for her walk, and was followed by the ers, or some slight but warmly-pressed offer of parson and Mademoiselle. service, for which a kind smile or gentle "Thank you" seemed to be a sufficient recompense. When she walked, he followed her steps with the patient satisfaction of a faithful dog; and when at evening she played and sang, poor Penny, who had a quick ear for music, would lie on the grass beneath the open window and weep in the very excess of nervous and intense delight. But this did not last long. One day Rose said to her aunt, in evident concern, "Aunt Mary, did you know that Penny was very sick?" When the little party entered the sick-room poor Penny was asleep, sleeping the dull, heavy sleep of exhaustion, the great beaded drops of extreme weakness moistening the cold white brow; and as they gathered silently around his bed they were shocked to see how the outline of the pale high features had already become sharpened and shrunken. They stood a moment regarding him in melancholy interest, and then, with a deep, tremulous sigh, he unclosed his eyes. He seemed surprised, but not startled, at see "No," said Miss Tremaine. "I have noting them; and when his eye fell upon Rose a heard of it. How did you?" "I have missed him for two days," said Rose, "and to-day I asked Murphy where he was, and he told me he was very sick indeed." quick bright smile trembled on his lips. "I-I I'm real glad you've come," he said, speaking in low, thick, husky tones. "I-I-I wanted to see you agin. I-I-I am going to the oth"And did you go to the lodge, or ask what er world now, and I wanted to bid you good-by ailed him?" "No, aunt; I have just heard it, and I thought you would prefer to make inquiries yourself." "You are right, my dear. I will get you to write a note for me to Dr. Summerville, and ask him to visit Penny, and then report to us. In that way we shall know the true state of the case. Murphy may exaggerate; persons in his station often do so, ignorantly." first." Rose did not speak, but her quick tears told her interest and pity. "Why-why-why are you sorry, Miss Rose?" he asked, as if surprised at her concern. "Why, don't you know? Mother's there, ain't she?" "Yees, mon poor boy!" said Mademoiselle, kindly, seeing Rose could not speak; "dare, in dat 'appy vorld, de poor orphelin sall find fader and moder, and de exile sall not to be lonely no more!" In about two hours the Doctor made his appearance. He looked grave; he had found the case much worse than they expected. Penny had had a bad fall some months before, and "Don't-don't-don't you cry, Miss Rose," had injured his chest and side, and a neglected' said the boy, feebly (for Rose, to whom the dread solemnities of death were new, was weeping nervously); “you-you-you've been real good to me, and I'll tell mother so." "Can we do any thing for you, my poor boy?" asked Mr. Tremaine, kindly. "Raise-me-up a little;" and the Doctor and Mr. Tremaine raised him. "Miss Rose," he said, in a voice scarcely audible, and reaching out his thin hand to her, "you-you-you looka-here-say-Our father-" He was stopped abruptly by a fit of coughing. When it was over, and he was quiet again, Rose, who had understood him to ask her to pray with him, controlling herself with a strong effort, knelt by the bedside, and, with clasped hands and lifted eyes, commenced devoutly the beautiful prayer so universally known among children as "Our Father." "No-no-no!" said the sick one, with a look of disappointment, just lifting his feeble hand from the bed, and dropping it with a deprecatory gesture; "I-I-I didn't mean that." Rose stopped. Would you like to have me pray for you, my poor lad?" said Mr. Tremaine. "No," said the boy, sadly; "I dunno as I care nothing 'bout it. I-I-I wanted to tell Miss Rose-" But a violent fit of coughing here stopped his utterance. The paroxysm was long and severe, and when it was over he lay spent, exhausted, and breathless. The Doctor raised him again in his arms, and Mademoiselle bathed his brow and lips, while Rose fanned him, and Mr. Tremaine chaffed his cold hands. But even while they thus ministered to him the unchallenged spirit made its escape-so gently passing from the midst of them that not until the Doctor and let the light more fully in upon the pale, still face, which the hand of Death was already investing with a new and strange dignity. "Look at him now; family resemblances often come out at such an hour with startling accuracy; notice the outline of the brow and chin, and you will agree with me that we, who remember Miss Rose's father, have need to ask no farther questions." "Is it possible? What, my cousin, Edward Tremaine? You are right," said Mr. Tremaine. "Strange it never occurred to me before! When did you make the discovery?" "Not until within the last hour." "And do you think he knew it ?" "Undoubtedly he did. That was probably what he wanted to say to Miss Rose when she understood him to ask her to repeat the Lord's Prayer." "And does she know it, do you think-Rose?" "I am sure she does not, and it is far better she should not." "Of course. And my sister?" "Of that I can not judge; but I would not name it to her or any one. Let us respect the veil of secrecy which his poor mother enshrouded herself in, and which she evidently bequeathed to him. The disclosure could do no good to the dead, and could only pain the living." "I believe you are right," said Mr. Tremaine. "We will let the dead bury the dead.' It can not harm him, poor fellow! Let him be known in death, as he was in life, only as Penny Dexter." MY BRIER-WOOD PIPE, AND WHAT IT COST ME. SMOKE. Not having the fear of King said, quietly, "It is over-he has gone!" did Smes before my eyes, I may say I "drink" they realize the world-wide separation which had come between them and the object of their cares. tobacco; for when he wrote his "Counterblast" the enjoyment of the burning weed was regard"Poor boy! he is at rest," said Dr. Summer-ed as potation, not fumigation. To be in the ville, gently replacing his pale burden upon the fashion, I smoke a pipe. But not only to be in pillows. "Appy boy!" ejaculated the Frenchwoman, as she bent down and kissed reverently the pale cold brow of the dead; “'appy boy! he 'av found fader and moder now, and dere sall not be no more of tears, of parting, of death!" Silently Rose drew near and followed her friend's example, bestowing a tearful kiss, and turned away; and then the two ladies retired, leaving the Doctor and Mr. Tremaine to give the necessary orders. When this was over, and the two gentlemen were about leaving the room, Mr. Tremaine said, looking back upon its lonely occupant, "Well, poor lad! he was faithful to the last. He has kept the secret intrusted to him by his poor mother." "Yes," said Dr. Summerville, meaningly, "he has kept it in life faithfully; but I think Death has revealed it." "How do you mean?" asked Mr. Tremaine. "Go up and look at him now," said the Doctor; and as he spoke he drew aside a curtain, the fashion. The pipe pleases me as a work of art, and it gives me something to care for and become attached to. Your cigar-smoker is an unhappy, solitary creature, compared to me. He enjoys only what he consumes, and flings away, into the fire or into the kennel, that which he has just pressed delightfully to his lips. But I always have a cherished companion in my soothing pleasure. My pipe is with me. It is not merely so much clay, and wood, and amber. It has assumed an individuality, and is a partner of my musing hour. We have got used to each other's ways, and thoroughly understand one another; are tolerant of each other's peculiarities, and accommodate ourselves to each other's moods. Sometimes, indeed, my companion seems coy and reluctant at the most interesting moment; but a little attention, half compulsory, half enticing, almost always puts matters upon their natural footing again. At other times, I must confess I am ill treated, and my attendant minister, instead of burning incense before me, will coldly go out, and sullen ly refuse any response to my most importunate wooing, just when it ought to be aglow with warmth and fragrant with perfume. But I am able to trace these little miffs, in almost all cases, to some neglect on my part. I have been remiss in proper care, or have allowed other affairs to divert my attention more than suits the views of my jealous companion. Matters, however, very rarely come to this pass between us; a little judicious coaxing generally brings about an understanding, to our great mutual satisfaction. I have spoken of my pipe: I have two. That is, two of principal importance. Of these, one is the pipe par excellence, but the other is a prime favorite; and there are, besides, three or four that are well enough in their way when the whim takes me to enjoy them; but they have no particular and recognized position. Pipe-smoking is a Turkish habit. The pipe, that is, the one which I always mean when I ask Jenny about my pipe, is, of course, a meerschaum. It is of such fine quality and so exquisitely carved that I am the envy of at least a dozen of my friends, who have not been able, for love or money, to compass such a marvel. The bowl is in the form of a Turk's head, and is decorated with two small dark carbuncles by way of eyes. The tobacco is, of course, put through the top of the turban into the place of the skull; and I derive consequence in the eyes of some people from appearing to consume the brains of one of my fellow-creatures for my passing pleasure. I have already the serene joy, only to be appreciated by the meerschaum smoker, of seeing my Turk's full and lightly-flowing beard turning so gradually a rich brown under my fumigations. But although I contemplate the present aspect of his countenance with the greatest satisfaction, I must confess that I have some misgivings in regard to the certainly-approaching period when the line of demarkation shall invade the face proper, and the finely-cut nose of my Turk shall be divided horizontally across the bridge into a cream-colored section and a tawny-brown section. Then, however, I shall build my hopes upon the time when this line shall have risen to the very turban's edge, while the hue in the lower part has deepened, so that I shall have my tawnyskinned Oriental with a dark, chestnut-brown beard and a white turban; and then I shall stop smoking this pipe, and lay it away in a little cabinet-a peaceful trophy. confess, is capricious and exacting, like all prima donnas of well-established reputation. I can enjoy it when I please, and as I please-taking no thought whether it is too hot or too cold, or whether it is in a condition to be handled. Its very form is at once graceful and convenient. The stem is made with a double curvature, which conforms to the position of my thumb and fingers as I hold it, and to that of my chin as I let it carelessly hang from my mouth. It is mottled beautifully, and the bowl is lined with the finest meerschaum, which shows itself above the edge like the creamy foam upon rich ale. But, alas! one evening I discovered that it had a defect; and I am of such an exacting disposition that I never tolerate any faults that can be remedied, except those in my own character. Mrs. Maddox has often said that she "never found hany gentleman as was so 'ard to please as Mr. Robinson." Mrs. Maddox is my landlady. She describes herself as "a Hinglish lady in rejuiced circumstances," and is fond of occasional reference to her "connection with the harrystocracy." It is more than suspected that the particular form of harrystocracy with which she was connected was a certain Harry, Lord W- and that the nature of the alliance may be best learned from the columns of the London Times, among the reports of trials before Sir Creswell Creswell for divorce. Mrs. Maddox frets at my exactions; but Jenny, who is the maid that takes care of my room, says, “To be sure Mr. Robinson is a bit partic'ler; but then there's a comfort in doing any thing for him, 'cause you can see he knows when it's well done." The fact is that Jenny is a very excellent and intelligent person. I found out that she understood and appreciated me very soon after I took my present apartments. She has continued to do so ever since; so that it has come to be an understood thing in the house, that if Mr. Robinson wants any thing done, it will be done if Jenny can do it. Mrs. Maddox tosses her welloiled black curls-in which I detected a gray hair the other day—and has more than once insinuated that "the hussy" has particular reasons for her attention to Mr. Robinson. let me tell you that Jenny is not only prettier and better behaved than her mistress ever was, but one who, if she lived in London, would never become acquainted with Sir Creswell Creswell, unless, indeed, through the instrumentality of a brute of a husband. What might be Jenny's views and feelings, were it not for certain differences of social position which must obtain under all forms of government, I, of course, am not called upon to say. But But although I worship with all loyal devotion at my meerschaum shrine, I confess to a great fondness for a little brier-wood pipe-the second in order of precedence among my favorites-so great that, if the meerschaum knew it, it would, I fear, breed permanent trouble be- But the defect in my brier-wood pipe. It was tween us. This brier-wood beauty is no mere a scratch on the stem, made accidentally with knot of wood with a hole in it, but the daintiest some tool or other, and which escaped the nolittle pipe that ever was made. Its chief charm, tice of the maker, and also mine when I bought however, is that it gives me no trouble what-it. Touch-touch in fine organizations always ever, and always accommodates itself to my convenience and my temper. It requires no solicitous looking after, like the other; which, I must so much more delicate a sense than sight, with all men so much more to be relied upon as evidence of fact-revealed it to me. I was sitting |