and lovable. A nature powerful for good as for evil. My daughter! when the crisis in your life shall arrive—for there is a turning-point in every human life—hesitate long and pray earnestly that you may be directed into the right path. If you take the wrong, great woe will ensue to yourself and others."
Then, with the grave simplicity that ever invested the quaint little man with dignity at which the most irreverent could not mock, he laid his withered hand upon her head:
"The Lord bless thee and keep thee; make the light of His countenance to shine upon thee and give thee peace!"
After which he kissed her between the great, solemn eyes, and wished her "sound slumbers and happy dreams."
Too much excited by this little episode, or other events of the evening, to sleep, Jessie sat down by her chamber-fire, when she had donned her dressing-gown, and unbound the hair that oppressed her head by its weight of braids. She had kept up her parsonage habit of reading a portion of Scripture before retiring each night, and her Bible lay on her knee now—but unopened. She was heavy-hearted, notwithstanding Mrs. Baxter's congratulations and predictions.
Was it home-sickness that reproduced the images of her father and Eunice in the fiery bed of coals filling her grate? that showed her in the violet-tinted flames quivering above the ignited mass, her chamber in the country-house among the hills; her mother's portrait over the white tent bedstead; her mother's escritoire between the windows, that contained the letters Roy had written to her before they were engaged? Was she already tired of the life that had been so pleasant four hours ago? Was this dissatisfaction with herself and those with whom she had talked and laughed within that time, satiety or chagrin? She had enjoyed every moment of her visit heretofore; the rides with her cousin; the walks with Orrin and the Hamilton girls who had extended to her a welcome so hearty and generous; the parties, lectures, and concerts she had attended; the German and music-lessons; the books she had read aloud to Mrs. Baxter, and those Orrin had read to them both on the enchanting stormy nights that kept other callers away; had caught eagerly at Fanny Provost's offer to teach her billiards, and Orrin's proposal that she should learn to skate. In fact, the day and evening had been so crowded with delights as to leave her scanty space for letters to Beechdale, and to oblige her to steal hours from sleep that she might live her enjoyments over again in describing them to Roy. She had studied faithfully, too, and successfully, under Orrin's direction and spurred by his encouragement. She was sure she could never learn so rapidly and zestfully again. Life seemed such hard and dreary labor.
She wished herself back in the quiet parsonage, where the evening's talk, practice, or reading, was seldom interrupted by neighbors or strangers; where one day went by like another, within doors; where, on snowy afternoons, the ticking of the hall clock could be heard all through the house—by Patsey in the kitchen; by Mr. Kirke in his third-story study; by Eunice, sewing in her room overlooking the churchyard; most distinctly by herself, as she read, drew, or wrote, in her favorite oriel, or in the twilight walked up and down the parlor, dreaming visions that put winter and gloom to flight—of Roy's return, and their united lives. Wished herself back, if she could be once more the girl who had left home six weeks ago. She verily believed, after the fashion of young and ignorant dreamers, who take to misanthropic reverie at the first blast of disap-
