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��THE GRANITE MONTHLY.
��like a mist upon her heightened form.
" Ah, if men could be heroes, and women stars to shine beside them, we should not have to wait for the golden age. There are good qualities enough ; but no one is all good. Oh could I but see the man who stands in the front of the battle, fighting victoriously for truth and for every thing great, for- getting himself and living alone with his heart, how I should worship him, and be readv to sacrilice myself to the glory of his greatness until — "
They had reached the gate, and the fair enthusiast, who had entirely for- gotten her companion, turned and saw him standing with a dejected counte- nance at her side. Her heart smote her. and she added more gentlv : "And yet I know it is not the part of many to lead, and even those who follow may do their own work nobly. ^Vill you come into the parlor for a little while, Mr. Somerton?"
'• No, I thank you," he replied ; "' it is late, and I have yet to call upon Widow Thompson, whose little Norah is very sick." And indeed, Edgar Somerton was almost glad to go away. Miss Walker's distance from him was so great, and her condescension, though unconscious, was so plain.
•' I shall see you to-morrow night at Mr. Sparhawk's May-party, I hope," said Miss Walker, as he was about to turn away.
"If you hope to see me there, I shall be present, though I had intended to remain at home. I will go, if I may expect to find you there."
" Such holidays keep the heart light, and I think every one should do his ut- most to chase away the shades of mel- ancholy."
II.
The candles flashed brightly from the windows of the old Livermore house on the night of the first of May. This house, which was built in I 786, by Major Daniel Livermore, was at the time of this narrative occupied by Samuel Sparhawk, the banker, who
��having a wide acquaintance through New Hampshire and elsewhere, had proposed that this party should be the event of the season. All the wor- thy ])eople of the town, old and young, thronged the brilliant rooms, trimmed in their gayest plumage. There were the Kents, and the Thompsons, and the Walkers ; the /Vbbotts, the Bradleys, the Ayers, and the Kimballs ; the Hutchinses, the Eastmans, the Dows, and the F^lliotts : — Yes, yes, they were all there, and a host beside. But to Ed- gar Somerton there was only one, — and where was she? Here was her Aunt Betsey, with whom no doubt Mis-> Walker had come. Mr. Somerton in- ([uired of Mrs. Betsey, who said that Lucretia was somewhere about, but she did not know just where, and be- fore Edgar had time to take the alarm. Aunt Betsey, who was famous as a talker, had begun a history of the Walker family for his questionable pleasure. Edgar gave small heed, though he had to make a show of at- tention, and his ear caught more read- il\' a remark made by Lizzie Ayer to her friend Caroline Kent, who stood close at his elbow : — "Just look at 'Cre- tia Walker, will you ? Did }'0U ever see the like ? She need n't be so airy, if she is the best looking girl in town."
"Who is that gentleman that she is with?" returned Miss Kent.
"That ! — don't you know ////// ? Why, he is the lion of the evening. That is Mr. Morse, the artist. You ought to know him ; he talks like a book."
Edgar heard no more ; but he coukl see Miss Walker now, over .Vunt Bet- sey's shoulder. Her gloved hand rested upon the arm of a gentleman, who, from his distinguished and easy bearing, Edgar Somerton judged at once to be the Mr. Morse in (question. Mr. S. F. B. Morse, afterward flimous the world over as the inventor of the electric telegraph, was at this time well known through New Englaiid as an artist and portrait painter. After cross- ing the Atlantic with Washington AU- ston, and studying in England under the guidance of Benjamin West, he
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