AFTER AWHILE.
BY HELEN M. RUSSELL.
A little white cottage enclosed by a neat picket fence, and half concealed from view behind tall maples, the walk leading to it from the narrow gateway, bordered on either side with lovely flowers, and standing near the front-door, on the left as you approach the house, a large white rose bush now in full bloom, is the scene to which I wish to present you, kind reader. The door stands wide open to admit the cool, summer breeze, and near the door are seated two ladies, one apparently somewhere in the vicinity of forty years of age, the other not yet twenty.
The elder lady is dressed in a suit of gray, made very plainly, with snow white linen collar, fastened with a small gold pin. The nut brown hair, with here and there a thread of silver, is combed smoothly back from the high forehead, and coiled at the back of the head. The blue eyes look mournfully away toward the distant hills, which arise on all sides as far as the eye can reach.
Those dear old New Hampshire hills! There is nothing on earth so dear to my heart, as those same old hills, amid which I have watched the sun rise in the east, and go out of sight behind lofty mountains in the west, so many, many times. The beautiful forest of maples interspersed with hemlock, spruce or poplar, or the tall, majestic pines, which send forth their melancholy, dirge-like music, are to be seen on either hand, while afar off in the distant pastures can be heard the occasional lowing of cattle or bleating of lambs.
Everything is very quiet just now — so quiet that the younger lady growing weary of the monotony, rests her golden head against the back of the arm chair in which she is seated, and closing her blue eyes, settles herself for a quiet nap.
She is very lovely, perhaps not what one would style beautiful, but sweet and modest, reminding one of some wayside flower.
Her hair I have already said, was of the color of gold, and it was drawn back from the child-like face as plainly as possible, which was not very plainly, it must be confessed, for it would curl and wave about the forehead, in spite of comb or brush, and it was confined at the back of the head by a blue ribbon, where it fell, a golden shower of ringlets, down over her shoulders. Her dress is of pure white, with a knot of blue here and there, and she looks very lovely as she sits there, all unconscious of the pretty picture she is making.
Alice Merton is the name of the little lady, and the sad-faced woman by her side is her aunt Lizzie Merton, a maiden lady and owner of the pretty cottage. Two years previous, Alice's mother had died and her father soon afterward took his only child, Alice, or as she was usually called, Allie, to his sister Lizzie's snug little home, and leaving her, had set out on a journey to Europe where he still remained.
Although Allie had always lived in a large city, she was very happy here, and had no desire to leave the quiet country home where we now find her.
Through the trees you can see the spires of two churches, and also the academy, which Allie had attended the greater portion of the time since her arrival in L. It is vacation now, and she is prepared to enjoy it in earnest, for the young people of the village have planned picnics, parties and rides innumerable.
After a time, with a yawn, she rises from her seat, and says to her aunt:
"Aunt Lizzie, what are you dreaming about? I believe I have been sound asleep for I don't know how long, and
