His diary in those days, if he had found time to keep a diary, must have run somewhat on this wise: "Monday morning. Rose at eight.

office about ten, or pretty soon after.

Got to the

's

Mr. J. looked a little dry. Went with Cora at twelve to see pictures. Took us a long time. Dined at uncle Phil's -and found all in bed but Pa when I came home.

Vex

Tuesday. Overslept. Office at ten, or perhaps a little after. Mr. J. asked me if I was not well. ed to think how I coloured as I said "not very." Cora and I were engaged to make a bridal call with Mrs. L. Carriage called for me at the office. Dined at uncle Phil's and went to the theatre with aunt Charlotte and the girls. Cora grows prettier. Henry Tracy says she is handsomer than the great beauty Miss

Boston.

of

Wednesday. All dined with us, and company in the evening. Did not get to the office at all.

Thursday. Rose early. Walked with the girls on the battery, and breakfasted at uncle Phil's. Felt quite ill. Rising early never did agree with me. Obliged to lie on the sofa and have my forehead bathed with Cologne till it was too late to go to the office. Dined at uncle Phil's, and rode with girls afterwards," &c. &c.

And what were uncle Phil and aunt Charlotte think. ing of all this time? Why, that Everard and Cora were but children; and that by-and-bye, when the fitting time should come, a marriage would be just the very thing most agreeable to all concerned.

When spring came-delicious tempting days of warm sun and bright skies, both families prepared for

their usual summer flight to their rural palaces on the North River, not far from town; and Everard pleaded so hard for one single summer, or part of a summer, that his father, who was too indulgent by half, gave way and suffered him to postpone his studies; hoping of course that Everard would gain studious habits by sauntering in the woods with his cousins. "T is pity parents can so seldom stop at the juste milieu between weak compliance and severe requisition; but then I should have had no story to tell, so it is better as it is. "How fond the children are of each other! said Mrs. Hastings to Mrs. Mansfield.

What parent ever thought that a child had arrived at maturity?

I have heard of an octogenarian who declined staying two days with a relative because he was afraid "the boys" could not get along without him; one of the "boys" a bachelor of fifty, the other a grandfather. But to return.

Wandering one afternoon over the woody hills which make so charming a part of those elegant places on the Hudson, Cora and Everard, by one of those chances which will occur, spite of all one can do, were separated from their companions.

"Everard," said the fair girl, stopping short and looking around her with delight, "only see! it seems now as if we were in a lonely wilderness without a single trace of man but this little path. Would n't it be charming if it were really so? if there were nobody within, oh! ever so many miles, but just ourselvesshe stopped and blushed.

"Ah Cora!" said Everard, passionately, "if you only

loved me half as well as-——————— "but he had not time to finish, for the little hand which had lain quietly within his arm, was snatched away, leaving the glove behind it, and Cora, running away from her own blushes, was at the river-side quick as lightning.

Love had not blinded Everard's eyes when he called Cora a beauty. She was a beauty, and of the most bewitching style too; with eyes of all sorts of colours, just as as she happened to feel, but the fringing lashes were always silky-black, and the eyes seemed so too, to the unconcerned spectator. She might have passed for one of "Spain's dark-glancing daughters," if one looked at her elastic form, and her tiny hands and feet, but her skin was too exquisitely white to warrant the supposition, and besides, she had mind enough in her face to have furnished forth a dozen Senoras.

Imagine such a being, graceful as a sylph, and withal,

Ruby-lipp'd and tooth'd with pearl

And you have Cora Mansfield before you, as she stood on the beach, every charm heightened by the sudden exertion, and the confusion into which Everard's last speech, (of which I gave only an inkling,) had thrown her.

There had long been a tacit understanding between the young lovers; but after all, the first words of love will, whatever may have been the preparation, inevitably overset a woman's philosophy.

Cora was almost sixteen, reader, and thought herself a woman at least, though her mother-but that's quite another thing.

It was sunset before Everard and Cora found their

way back to the house; but they did not stop on the lawn as usual, to talk about the western sky. Cora's little heart throbbed audibly, as a heroine's ought; and as for Everard, he walked with his eyes fixed on the earth, though he thought only of the bright being beside him. Both looked most terribly conscious, but nobody thought of noticing them, and Mrs. Mansfield, whom they found in the parlour, only said, "Cora, child, you are very imprudent to be running about after sunset without your bonnet."

Now Cora did hate, above all other things, to be called "child," and it was quite a comfort to her that evening to reflect, "Mamma would not be always calling me child, if she knew

It was not long before Mamma knew all about it, for there was no motive for concealment, except the extreme youth of the parties. Everard said three years would soon pass away, which is very true, though he did not think so.

I forgot, when I was describing Cora, to say she was even more deeply tinged with romance than Everard himself. She lived entirely in an ideal world. Her mind was her kingdom or her cottage-her ball-room or her dungeon as the imaginary drama shifted the unities. Everard's reveries had in them nothing defined. There was always a beautiful creature, just like Cora, but the inferior parts of fancy's sketch were usually rather dim. With his fairy mistress the case was different. The first poem her Italian master, the Marquis had put into her hands, had been the Pastor Fido; and the "Care beate selve" of Amaryllis had been ever since the fa

vourite theme of her musings. And then the sweet little enchanting "Isola Disabitata" of Metastasio, proved, just as young ladies like to have things proved that people, nay, women alone, can live in a wilderness, and even in a desert island; and oh! what a pretty variety of paradises she wove out of these slight materials. She was always herself the happy tenant of a cottage; so happy in herself that even Everard did not always find a place in the dream. She had her books, her needle-work, and her music; a harp of course, or a guitar at the very least; ever-smiling skies and ever-rippling rivulets; the distant murmur of a water-fall, or perhaps a boat upon a deep-shaded lake ; and a fair hill-side with some picturesque sheep grazing upon it.

"No sound of hammer or of saw was there."

no thought of dinner, no concern about "the wash," no setting of barrels to catch rain-water-oh, dear! only think of coming to Michigan to realize such a dream as that!