Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 9, Number 5, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 27 July 1878 — Page 2

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A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERRE

HAUTE,

JULY 27,1878

Written for The XtlL

THE LINNET. BT KDWIH BAKL.

Hare yon never heard Our bonny brown bird

With little block necktie and gay yellow Jftckst No barrest could be

Complete without be

Waa ihere with hlf happy, melodious racket. He welcomes the dawn mm

Oe"r dew Jeweled lawn.

While deep In the grass shrills the dumberless cricket, And his merry Bote. -1

Is always afloat

Ere robins astir In tbe hazelnut thicket Above his sedate Most motherly mate, Asleep on her nest in the blossoming clover,

He swings to and fro With the breezes that blow

His dutiful matins the wide field over. Wherever you bide Tbe midsummer tide When daylight grows longer and sunsets grow mellow.

With bis "O hear me Sing seek a chlng cbee,"

YouH find him a most irrepressible fellow. Yet like all tbe rest Our brave little guest Is off with the robin, the martin and swallow.

Like blessings they be, So quickly they flee,

While vainly our eyes would their diocy flight follow.[ », ^.,f' And when o'er the bare

Brown meadows the air L-v

Is a threatening mist full of autumnal clatter, The sweeter spring time ..'''\

Of some other clime

Shall waken to welcome their musical chatter.

Harper's Magazine—August.

Aunt Eunice's Idea.

'Really, I don't like the idea at all,' said mamma, looking puzzled 'and yet, for the life of me, I can't see what else to do.' 'There is nothing else to do/1 said, resignedly. 'I don't like tbe idea either, bat 1 dare say I shall manage very well.1

I spoke dolefully, for all bnt the last clause of my speech was painfully, literally true. There was nothing else to do I didn't like the idea at all, but—I bad not the faintest hope that I should 'manage very well.' Nothing so wild entered my brain for a moment. On the contrary, I was quite sure that I should cover myself with shame and everlasting disgrace but what is tbe use of howling about a thing that can't be helped?

The case^ you see, was this: Mr. Robert Duncan, an intimate friend of toy mother's youngest brother, was on bis way to visit us, and must certalnlyarrive in the course of a few days. That was all very well, and bad not concerned me in the least until five minutes before, when mamma had received a telegram which announced tbe sudden illness of her sister in Philadelphia, and summoned ber thither imperatively. It was impossible to refuse to obey the summons it was impossible to notify Mr. Duncan, for he was to take us in the course of other travels, and nobody knew his precise whereabouts at the present moment. Obviously, th® only thing to be done was to let things take their course. But I?—only eighteen, just out of school, a spoiled child, with never an atom of housekeeping experience, with no idea of tbe duties of a hostess-Into what quagmires should I .not flounder before that terrible fortnight was up? 'After all, it will not be so bad,' said mamma, encouragingly. 'Mr. Duncan will be out most of the time,

Eaps

suppose.

We are so near the city that he will

robably spend all his time there. Perit is a good thing that I have invited Aunt Eunice, for she can matroniza you, and Bridget, will take all the care of tbe housekeeping off your hands. I am sure that you wlllne kind to Aunt Eunice, Marlon She is old and poor, you know, theugh of an excellent family. Her home is not very oongenial, for the nephew with whom she lives married very much beneath him, and I Invited the poor old lady here, thinking It would be a treat to her.'

Yes, I would be kind to Aunt Eunice and Bridget, who had lived with us ever since I could remember, was a host in herself but, all the same, my heart was very heavy as I watched mamma drive away, and thought of the burden that waaiald upon me.

The above con vorsation with mamma ooourred on a Thursday, the 7th of October it must htive been, and on the same evening begins the journal which I kept during mv period of martyrdom.

October 7.—Mamma left to-day about half an hour after she bad gone

iamma left to-day, and a

Aunt Eunice Singleton arrived. 'Aunt Kunloe' we have alwavs called her, though she is only a distant cousin of my father's. Such a droll little figure 1 She must have been pretty once, with that helpless pink and white prettiuesa which invariably fades into neutral tints as the yoars go on, until the golden hair and the peachy skin are all one uniform shade of dull wlilty-brown, and the soft blue eyes area pale, watery gray. A limp, pathetic figure in her gown of— what was her gown As I live, a brocade such as wo may sigh for in vain in these degenerate aays. A green and white brooade such as our grandmothers wore, 'thick enough to stand alone,' as the old saying goes. Originally It must have belonged to one of her ancestors, for, though a faiut attempt at modernising with tbe aid of a thin, shiny green •Ilk In evident, it still bears traces of its antique out In the skirt, which is short well as scant, and the curious model* ins of the bodioe. And the bonnet! My first idea was that it too had belonged to ber grandmother,-as I looked at the huge flaring brim, lined with silk of the brightest purple, but on dodging behind her to get afresh view of it 1 saw that it waa simply a Tuscan shade hat, turned op behind and set upon the back of her bead. And-this hat waa trimmed with the richest and rarest of old point lace, yellow as coffee and priceless as diamonds. Round her throat and wrists ahe told •had mm wv uvp.. yea. actually to starch it—until it stared and bristled and rustled with CTery motion of ber head or hands? An old^fashioned brock* shawl, which I found

she flattered herself might pass for Indian, and a pair ef oottcn gloves, completed her extraordinary array. 'You didn't expect to see such a line old aanty, did yon, dear?' said Aunt -Kantoe, complacently, as ahe laid aside her wonderful hat with the utmost care. •You see, when I first got your mamma's letter 1 thought I could not possibly ome, for I had not a thing fit to wear, ut Sarah Ellsa—that's my nephew's ifo, you know—ahe said, "Why,aunty,

SF. TERKB HAUTE

There

ttM*f'a your grandma*! Mo hevent opened for must be lots of th yon aa fine __ ndthis old matched it in a came lb and made You wouldn't guea^Jt was nearly hundred yearn old, would yon, now? Then,' wetttOH Aunt Eunioe, fortunatelv waiting for no reply, 'about my hat. 1 oooldirt put one of your new-fangled fly-awaya upon my old bead, and I couldn't get any thing else in town. My old one wasn't fit to wear but at last Sarah Eliza hit upon this, and we found this lace, and Sarah Eliza aald that would give It style, and it does, doesn't it? It does well enough tmahat, you see, but I couldnt put such dirty stun next to my skin, eo I just washed and starched enough for my neck and wrists, and I think it does look very nice and neat.'

that will S^we ilHn

Friable

in no time.

Poor old lady! Such a painful feeling of mingled absurdity and compassion took possession of me as I listened to ber innocent expose of ways and means, that my heart grew too big for my breast and forced the tears from my eyea aal stooped and kissed her withered old cheek*

Tbe time of Mr. Duncan's arrival had been very uncertain, but he arrived late this evening, after Aunt BUDice bid gone to bed, and while I was still writing the above entry. I saw him, of course, explained matters, and apolo-

Szed

as well aalcould, ana sent Bridget pilot him to his room. I wonder he is hungry? I never thongbt of before, but I cant help it now. Beaidc. even if I had thought of it, I don't know what I could have done Bridget had locked everything up and waa going to bed. and I should never have dared to ask her to go down again and get aupper at that hour so perhaps if just as well, though I don't like to think of his being hungry. Aunt Eunice and he haven't met yet. I pronder what he will think of her?

if it

Lee. n't

October#.'-*Oh dear one day is over at last, but if they are all going to be like this, whst shall I do? There's Aunt Eunice, in the first place. She came down to breakfast looking nioe and •lain brown cuffs and cap. When ahe saw Mr. Duncan she started and said 'I didn't know that your friend had come, my dear, or I would have put on my brocade. There'anothing like first impressions, yon know, and I do want to do credit to the family.',

If she had only known what a relief it was to me to see her in her plain morning dress! I am sure Mr. Duncan heard her speech, for all he looked so grave and abstracted, but that was nothing to what came afterward. don't know whether people would call Mr. Duncan a handsome man. Tor my part, I think him one of the handsomest I ever saw. but then I am not a

someat ever saw. out men am uub a judge.. He la tall, but not overpoweringly so, with brown hair and mustache,a dear pale complexion, and eyes—no,

pes—no, I

don't think I like hia eyes. They are of

uwu .uiu» -Jiey are of a blear gray, shaded and black around the edge of the iris, which gives them richness and depth. They are beautiful eyes, I suppose, but they frighten me, tbey are so clear and stesdy and penetrating theyaeem to look through you if you were a pane of glass. And they look as if they could be merciless if they detected one shade of meanness or duplicity in all your soul merciless in their satire, slightly rldict ken. But there! if I

too, If anything ever so

ridiculous came under their ion frightening

myself this way I shall make a greater gooee of myself than ever. Well, after Aunt Eunice had expressed her regrets about her brocade, 1 introduced Mr. Duncan to her,, and we all sat down to breakfast. Luckily everything was very good, the steak done to a turn, the potatoes golden brown, the coffee 'clear as amber, fine as musk.' Aunt Eunice was rather silent and subdued. Mr. Duncan did his best in the way of talk, but I was too much frightened and too much absorbed by my new duties to be capable even of understanding him, Aunt Eunice takes sugar but no cream in her oofiee, and he takes cream but no sugar and while I was trying to enraVe these two facta upon my mind, tow could 1 attend to what he was saying? He Is a lawyer, and has been traveling in Europe with Uncle Jack for the last six months, and his conversation naturally turned upon his travels. He must think me a perfect dunce, for after 1 bad located the Tyrol in Russia, and confounded the Mosque of St. Sophia with St. Peter's, and expressed my oonviotion that Venice waa situated upon the Golden Horn, he turned his attention to Aunt Eunice. She, poor lady, was evidently in a mortal fright leet he should attack her on the same subject, and, I suppose by way of turning the conversation, she broke in with: 'Did I understand Marion to say that rour name ia Duncan? That is a very Jamlliar name to me. There are many Duncana in our place. Our butcher is named Duncan.'

I glanced at him In diamay, but not a muscle of his face moved, not even an eyelash quivered, as he replied, gravely: 'Some connection of mine, no doubt. We h$ve relation* in every rank of life.'

Obviously Mr. Duncan is a gentleman, but, all tbe aame, It was a great relief to me to hear him say, as'we rose from tbe table, for which I gave the signal rather irecipitately, Mat he had business in few York which would detain him the greater part of the day, and that he must ask me to excuse him if he did not return much before dinner time. Excuse I—and I.could have fallen on hia neck at the prospect of nine hours of relief from my duties as hostess.

Aunt Eunice sat lost in silent pondering forsome time after Mr. Duncan had gone. Suddenly, just as I waa about to speak, she burst out: •A butcher! Did he say that Duncan the butcher was an uncle or a oousinof his? Really, my dear, I am not proud, but a butcher does seem rather low down. 'Ibe Nortons always held their beads

Marion?' 'Neither, Aunt Eunioe,' I said. 'Probably he la no relation at all to Duncan the butcher. He only said it to spare your feelings.' •To spare my feelings?' said Aunt Eunice, looking up in surprise. 'Why, he never could nave thought that Duncan the butcher ia a connection of mine! And how could it spare my feelings to acknowledge hia relationship to his own under No, no, my

dear that

wont do. After all, I am glad he had oourage enough to tell the truth though if you come to sparine feelings, a lie would have been much more likely to do that. But I honor a man who isnt aahamed or hia relations—though a butcher doesasem so very lot* down*'

I could not atay to combat Aunt Iget waslmpresence in liged to make my escape to give orders for luncheon ami dinner—or rather to meekly adopt Bridget's views upon tbe subject. Then want un again to Aunt Eunice, and spent the rest of the day with her. I talked with her, took her out to walk,

tbhereld-time 4 to rush up Mainland and fly down again toeee jle waa properly^eet* and to, in It upsa Httle with afewlat*

flowers and scarlet berriea. I waa a little more at my eaae by this time, and could listen to what Mr. Duncan

Mid,

and even reply after a faahion. The only thing thai distressed me was Annt Eunice's extraordinary behavior. I am really afraid that Mr. Duncan will think her insane, auchan utterly Inexplicable aeries of nods and winks did she keep up. I remarked "that the meat was tough, only to be rebuked by a volley of warning glances. I asked Mr. Duncan If the carving-knife waa sharp enough, and ahe coughed me into silence. But when I aaked him if he liked to carve, she very nearly shook her head off in her efforts to hush me. Of course Mr. Dofican saw it all, and was as much amacad by it aal, and liar more diverted, or so I judged by the spasmodic manner in which he buried as much offcis face as he well could in hia napkin, and broke into audden and uncalled-for fits of coughing, which left him red in the face and "teary round the lashes."

The evening panned off better than expected* witnmuaic and talk,- Then Mr. Duncan apoke of a volume of poems which had recently come out, and finding that I had not seen it, repeated one or two of them for me and then it was time to separate for the night. Aunt Eunice beckoned me into ber room mysterioualy aa I went up stairs, after a consultation with Bridget on tbe subject of breakfast. •My dear,' said Aunt Eunice, solemn ly,'I know you don't mean any harm by it, and young things are always thoughtless but if I were you, I wouldn't talk so much about butchers before Mr. Duncan. Depend upon it he won't like it.' 1 'But, Aunt Eunice,' I cried, in amazement and horror, 'I never mentioned butchers—never once. What on earth should I talk about butchers for?' 'That's just it,' said Aunt Eunice, calmly 'why should you But to ask him if bis knife is sharp, and if he is fond of cutting up meat—why, it was juBt tbe samp as asking him if he inherits his father's tastes, and no man would like that, under the clrcum stances.' 'Why, Aunt Eunice-!-?' I began, but ahe interrupted me. 'There, there, my dear, that will do. I rather wonder at your family, I must say but, after all, be is a very, clever and intelligent young man—quite wonderfully so, indeed, for a butcher's son.'

I would have exclaimed, expostulated, denied the allegation, but I had ,no time, for, with a hasty kiss and an exhortation to run away to bed and keep my roses fresh, Aunt Eunice closed her door upon me.

October 10.—I am getting used to my new position, 1 think. Thanks to Bridget, I have no trouble about ordering meals. My only duties in that line are decorating the table, and concocting nice little dishes for dessert, eto., in

rashly undertook were much harder than orthodox lemon pies should be, owing to my ignorance of the proper amount of beating to be bestowed upon them. But just as Aunt Eunice was •lunging me into tbe lower depths of Jespalr by her commiseration, Mr. Duncan suggested that though they might, be rather a failure as pies, they were unexceptionable if regarded as caramels, and thus turned the whole thing into a Joke. He is so kind and thoughtful! I believe it is because he appreciates the difficulties of my position that he spends the whole day in tbe city, returning onlv in time for the six o'clock dinner. What should I do with both bim and Aunt Eunice upon my hands for an entire day As it is, I am afraid that she is bent upon deepening the oonviction of my utter idiocy which I succeeded in impressing upon bis mind the first day. Last night, for instance. During the day we had some* how stumbled upon natural history in the course of our talk, and I said something about turtle's eggs. 'Turtle's eggs?' cried Aunt Eunice, with an air of lively interest. 'Do turtles lay eggs Why, I never knew that before! But bow do they hatch them? Do tbey sit upon them

The notion of a turtle Hitting upon its eggs nearly convulsed me, but Icontrolled myself, and explained the mode which they adopt, as well as I could. AUnt Eunioe appeared quite satisfied at the time, but I begin to perceive that a subject is never done with when you think it is, where Aunt Eunice is concerned. Hardly were we seated at the dinner table when she broke forth: 'Mr. Duncan, what idea do you think this ridiculous child has got into her head? She has been trying to convince

that turtles sit upon their eggs like bens!

Turtles—with

Poor Mr. Duncan! poor me! In the midst of my wrath and mortification I could not help laughing until I cried at his puzzled face. Clew to her meaning, of course, he had none, and though be must have considered her demented and me an idiot, there was nothing worse than commiseration in the look he bent upon me: People do pity idlota, I suppose but I wonder whether it ia worse to be an idiot and not know it, or to be considered one and have' no chance of disproving the charge

October

12.—Things

Ca^Bringme

have

their hard shells

—just think of it! 1 told her that they bury them in tbe sand and let the sun hatch them but no! she sticks to it that they make nests in the reeds-and rushes, and sit upon tbem. Do tell ber that it is nonsense, that it stands to reason it can't be. I have tried to convince her, but I can't. Not the green turtles, you know,' added Aunt Eunioe, with a audden rush of recolleotion. •They are the only kind that I have ever seen in front of a—a—market I wouldn't mention tbem for tbe world. But the common little mud-turtles, you know. Tbey are not good to eat, and it cant hurt anybody's feelings to mention tbem.'

go on in much the

same way here. Mr. Duncan breakfasts with usk then takes himself oft, and I see no more of him until near dinner-time. Yesterday 1 waa obliged to leave Aunt Eunioe to her own devices moat of the morning. Tbe night before.

In raWiM

aome of the memories of his childhood, Mr. Duncan expressed a desire to taste once more such gingerbread as bis mother used to make, and I determined to gratify him. I began to be so conceited about my housewifely accomplishments that I might have known .hat pride would have a fall aooner or later. How In the world Bridget ever aame to make such a blunder I cant tell: but the moat trusted will fail aometimes. The gingerbread waa all mixed, and I was dmng in the flour slowly and

EVENING MAIL.

lb Bridget, andfrou* Bridget back to the '•But what istobedone?' I cried. •Maybe there's enough, mm darling,' cries Bridget, lh hottest tribulation. "I am afraidJiot*'I say, ruefully 'but it will have t8go In as it la, Isuppoae. I dont know how Jtwlll come out/

And hastily watiUng my hands and doffing_my apron, 1 ran np Stairs to Aunt Jffiunlce. She, however, was nowhere to be found. High and low I aeaK&ed, but In vain, -and as her bon? net and ahawl were mlasing, I was forched to the conclusion that ahe had out alone. But for the anxiety I could not help feeling, this would have been a moat welcome reprieve. It waa not that I minded Aunt Eunice In heraelf, but I was beginning to feel for the first time In my life the necessity of weighing my words when I talked to her. Even with all the caution that it waa poasible forme to exercise, how was it possible to'foresee what curious twist ahe would give to my worda In repeating them, or to guard against the distortions which facts underwent in their nanrtgr through her mind Aunt Eunice and Mr. Duncan together were becoming too heavy a load for my vlender shoulders to carry, though alone I felt that neither of them would nave been specially formidable.

Tbe day wore on,, and Aunt Eunice did not appear. When luncheon-time came and passed, and atlll I saw no signs of. her, I became thoroughly alarmed. I would have gone to search for her, but what would have been the use of that when I did not know where to search? Mr. Duncan came back at on,unusually early hour, and I was just confiding my troubles to blm, when a confused noiee in the street called us both to the window. A rabble of small boya was the first thing that we saw— email, ragged boys, dancibg, shouting, and yelling in a very ecstacy of enjoyment, after the manner of gamins the world over. At first I saw no reason for their triumphant demonstrations in the prosaic butcher's cart Which they surrounded, and gazed in simple wonder at their antics. Another moment, and horror rushed over me, as I saw the glisten of a green frock on the front seat, as a mild, faded face surrounded by a purple halo bent forward and nodded a cheerful greeting to me, and a hand in a baggy cotton gleve waved its salutation. •AUnt Eilnice,'I cried, rushing to the door to receive her, 'where have you been? why did you go out alone? and, oh! what possessed you to come home in this style?'

I never waa blessed with much control of my feelings, and, as I spoke, I sank down on the stairs in a fit of hysterical laughter. Aunt Eunice gazed at me calmly. 'It was a very good way,' she said, with an air of mild remonstrance. 'You see, I thought that as you were busy, I thought I would go without bothering you, for once. I aid not say anything about it, for I knew that you would insist upon going with me. Well, I went to New York, found my way to the ferry without any trouble, but when I got on the other side, what with the noise and the confusion, I fairly lost my head, and wandered about for I dont know how long, without an Idea of where I was. I was getting very much discouraged, when suddenly I caught sight of this man, and remembered that I had seen his cart at your door. I had some trouble to make bim hear me, but when he did be stopped at once, and a most civil spoken young man be proved to be. He offered to call a cab for me, but I said, "No, if he would just take me himself in thccourse of his round, that would do very well." People stare Well, a little, perhaps but you see no one could mistake me for anything but a ladv—wasn't it lucky I put on my brocage?—so it dldnt much matter.' 'Did you—did you stop at many houses?' I asked, falterlngly. 'A dozen or so,'replied Aunt Eunice, cheerfully. 'It is singular what a commotion such a simple-thing as the stopping of a butcher's cart at the door makes. Every one rushed to the front windows as if they bad never seen one before.' •Oh, Aunt Eunice! how could you?' I ied, in irrepressible horror. „ow could I what?' asked Aunt Eunice, innocently. "If it's riding in a butcher's cart that you mean, I might

objected to that a month ago but if you have no scruples on that point, fhy

w*-

should I? I have no doubt that Mr. Duncan himself drove a cart when be first went into the business, though I (suppose that be has got beyond it now.'

Mr. Duncan, who had been out to settle with tbe man and dismiss tbe boys, re-appearod at this juncture. I glanced at him in dismay. Had he neard? I reially could not tell. His eyes were dancing, while the reat of his face was preternaturally grave but there was quite enough in the circumstances of the case to account for that, without making it necessary to suppose that he had caught Aunt Eunice's last words I might at least hope that be was still in ignoranoe of the horrora which Aunt Eunice bad seen fit to thrust upon him.

My gingerbread I had forgotten all about

and

in the anxiety of tbe afternoon,

did not return to my mind udtll we sat down to table. 'How did the gingerbread bake, Bridget?' I aaked. 'Sure, ma'am,' said Bridget, eompoeed 'It didn't bake at all it boiled'—proucin of wh

in proof of her worda a cake-pan, cb bottom and sides were thickly incrusted with a substance closely resembling the 'taffy' dear to childish hearts. In the laughter which this episode caused, our embanasement melted away: Indeed, I am ceasing to be afraid of Mr. Duncan. We bad a delightful evening after Aunt Eunice's fatigue bad got the better of her and banished ber to her own room.

October 14.—Aunt Eunice baa not distinguished herself in any special way of late. Yesterday she waa too much exhausted by her adventures of the day before to be any thing but quiet and meek. What should I do if any one but Mr. Duncan were staying here I like bim more and more every day. It see ma impossible that I have only known him for a week. He is so kind and thoughtful toward me, and Aunt Eunice he treats with a remect which la wonderful. He seee, aa I do, that the dear old lady is-what shall I aay?-a little shaky in her

WIUL

der

ings,

some flour, Bridget,' I aald,

'Here isnt half enough.' Bridget turned upon me a face of dieIBtyt •Sure, Mlas Marion. there's never a bit more,' ahe cried—'and me that forgot to tell you about it this morning!'

No more flour! I atared from the pan

le waa tbe worat. and choked, and in the atin

on fire. Thr 1 though. We oou„r aneesed and wept, stifling atjnoapbere. We sat aronnd the dinner table a mournful trio, while *he tears, Unoalled-for, poured down our burning eheeka. 'Why,'' I asked, quoting an old conumdrum—' 'why la a smoky chimney Ukeaawaljow?"

King, idthe

No one replying, I was obliged to anawerrny own queatlon. 'BeoaAaelt naa a crooked flue.''

Mr. Duncan laughed, but Aunt Eunice only stared in rigid disapprobation. "A crooked flew," she repeated, with a puzzled air. 'But, my dear, that's not correct—not at all correct. A swallow basntaflew. Flew is a verb, and you can't put an article before it. You oouldn't parse such a sentence aa that. A crooked flight, it ahould be. A swallow may have a crooked flight—indeed. I believe he baa—but *a crooked flew!'' •But, Aunt Eunice,' I said, stifling my langhter aa beet I could, 'a chimney haan't a flight.' 'Certainly not,' retorted Aunt Eunice, severely. 'A chimney baa a flue, but not a flight and a swallow has a flight, but not a flew. That Is just what I say. You see that it is Incorrect altogether. There ia no wit In such a thing aa that— not even aenae.'

The attempt at enlightening her in regard to the pun was palpably hopeless, and I gave it up in despair. It is singular that she should be so totally devoid of Imagination on aome points, while in other respects it is so vivid. I do wonder what idea ahe has taken Into her head lately? She seems full of some project which forces sighs from her breast and incoherent W9rda from her lips every time she looks at me when we are alone together. Yesterday we had a very mysterious conversation—at least it waa mysterious to me I suppose she understood it. •My dear,' she said, after several false starts, 'are you quite sure that your mother knows all about Mr. Duncan?' 'All about him?' I said, somewhat puzzled. 'I dont exactly know what you mean. She knows tnat he is here, of course, and she knows all that Uncle Jack has told her but "all about him" ia a very wide phrase.' 'About his profession, I mean,' said Aunt Eunioe. •Oh yes!' I replied, in temporary for getfulness of her hallucination. 'She knows all about that, of course.'

Aunt Ennice shook her head slowly. •Well, it's all a puzzle to me. The Nortons alwaya held their heads so lrigh and that your mother ahould be willing —I can't help thinking that there is some mistake somewhere, and I've just been thinking whether it isn't my duty to write to your mother.' 'I have no doubt that she will be very glad to hear from you,' I said, laughing ^but I hardly think you cAn tell her any thing about Mr. Duncan that she doee not know already.' 'I don't know,'said Aunt Eunioe. 'I am beginning to have my doubts and

Just here Bridget appeared to claim my attention, and the subject dropped. October 17.—Ob, Aunt Eunice! Aunt Eunice! Mamma haa oome home. I dont know whether te laugh or to ory when I think of her face as I first saw it. Such a dear, puzzled, anxious, unhappy face as it was but I must begin at the beginning to write it all down.

Just as we were sitting down to din ner last night mamma came home, without having sent us a word of hint or warning. I waa too much delighted to see her to inquire very closely into tbe reason of her coming, but supposed that Aunt Amy had suddenly become so much better that she could dispense with mamma's presence. That was the truth, it appeared afterward, but not all tbe truth. When I went to bed, mamma followed me up stairs. •Marion, my dear.' were her first words, 'what trouble have you been getting yourself into?' •Trouble, mamma?' I said. 'Why, it has been nothing but trouble from the beginning to tbe end—only for Mr. Duncan. Aunt Eunice has been too abBurd and this idea of hers about tbe butcher—'

I broke down here, and went into one of my hysterical fits of laughter, while mamma stood looking at me with a face of grave perplexity. •What about the butcher, Marion?' she said, when I bad in some degree succeeded in controlling myself. 'That is just what I want to know. Aunt Eunice has been writing to me in a way which would have frightened me out of my senses, only that I oouldn't make head or tall of it—about "butchers," and "entanglements" and "rides in butchers carts," and goodness knows what besides. Have you been running in debt to the butcher, Marion, or what does it all mean?' 'Writing to you? Aunt Eunice!' I gasped, as well as 1 could for laughing. 'Oh, mamma! dont you see? Its Mr. Duncan. Aunt Eunice haa taken it into ber bead that he is a butcher, and I do hope that you will be more successful than I in disabusing her mind of the impression.'

And then I told her the story as nearly as possible as I have written it down here, until, between horror and laughter, mamma waa nearly In convulalona. •You poor child!' she said, 'I had no idea what I was leaving you to. Aunt Eunice always waa a little eccentric, but I bad no idea that ahe waa like this, or I never would have done it.'

Well, mamma ia

and fee to ten

of even ber worst fteaka and blunders. Of course he can not help lMgh•nobody could—buttbe laughter to uui of a kind which could tort berfeal-

even If she knew of It, which ahe

which struck to the very ®*irowof vour bones, ao, toward evening, I venSSwS iridjpt to lbd* unto oace fixe. I think I would have let

KS. £.lSSt bi.1 ss

E&dSsinafog: The cellar waa ftaU of amoke too, which buret oat In great nufb through the grated windows, until the paasera-by stopped and atared, under the lmpresskm that the house was

here

again, and it's

all right. Nothing very bad can happen now. I will copy Aunt Eunice's letter here as a memento: "MT DEAB FRANCES,—I think it my duty to write and tell you bow things are going on here, and bow yon could do it passes my comprehension. Only a common butcher, and she your only daughter and though tbe Norton's have never been rich, tbey have always held their heads high. Never one of the family has been in trade, and now this butcher! I'll not deny that he ia a bandaome young man, and very clever for his atation, ana butchers may be very civilapoken young men, andf butchers', carta are not ao bad as you might think to ride in, but still tla butanglement does aeem rather a coming down for a Norton and my opinion la that both you and Marlon had better think seriously what you are about, and that you had better come home and see after ber. She ia a good girl, but young and giddy, and I ahould be sorry to see her in trouble. I hope you will take this aa It ia meant, and believe me

Ever your sincere friend and well wisher, EtmicE Snraurroft." •October 18.—When mamma came home I thought that all my troubles were over, when in reality tbey had only begun. I can never bold up my bead again—never! Mamma talked to Aunt Eunice, and reasoned with her, and tried to convince her that Mr. Duncan ia no butcher, buta lawyer who ia rising rapidly In hia profeeaion, and bids fair to beoneof the first men of tbe day. What lathe use of arguing with a—well, with Aunt Eunice, though? Instead of convincing ber on that point, sheonlvsuoceeded in driving another Idea deeper Into ber head. Aa neither mamma nor I bad ever suapected the exiatence of this idea—we couldnt it waa too absurd—we never thought of assuring her

of ita falsity. If we had, I dont auppoM It would have done anyjpod, though. That I am In love with Mr. Duncan, or v, that he is in love with me!—I dont know which is the wildest or the worst. That he had oome-here In the character of an accepted lover, When, until the' day hedia come, we bad never event met! The one idea which Aunt Eunice' retained in her mind of all that mamma, had said was that she had no objections to Mr. Duncan, and this she translated Into a perfect willingness to aocept him as her .son-in-law. is

Thereupon Aunt Eunice conaidered her duty to congratulate him upon the.- .... engagement tbe next time she saw bim.' What must he think of us—of me? Sherry went on enlarging upon the fact that aa the Nortons bad autiK their family pride so far as to accept bim, she could nave nothing to say agalnat it, though it waa* a thing that ahe would never have looked for etc., etc. And I waa in the back room and heard every word. I couldn't »t out, becauae the door In the hall happened to be locked upon the outaide, "g., and I would

have

October SI.—At last we have succeeded in getting through Aunt Eunice's bead tbe idea that Robert Is a lawyer. She pondered tbe subject for a while, and 4 then sbe said: •Well, my dear, if the young man haa decided to give up his profession and take to tbe study of tbe law, it does put rather a difi'erent face upon the matter. It you are satisfied, I am. Only, Marion,

my dear, if I were you I would never tell any one that when I engaged my self tp my husband he was only a butch er.

No, Aunt Eunice, decidedly I shall not, Better than Gold.

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St W:-

stayed in the room

until doomsday rather than confront them. He, poor |nan, was utterly dazed and well

mgh

speechless. At first

hoped that he had not caught her moaning but aa ahe went on to make It clear, horribly dear, clearer .-than ahe ever made anything In her life before, he seemed about equally divided between laughter and amazement. I can not remember what they said It waa too dreadful.

only know that, after ahe

had finished her tirade, he came into the back room to get a match or something, and fbund me there, with my face in aflame and my eyea blazing. He started, and would have spoken but

could not stand any more. I could only fly out of the room and up to my own, where

could cry to my heart'a con

tent. Oh!

hope ne will go away, for

can never look him in tbe face again, never! October 25.—Well, he has not gone, and I am not sure that I want him to, now. Indeed, I am very sure that I don't. This is how it all happened: I waited that day until I heard him go out, and when, a few minutes afterward I beard mamma come in, I went down stairs. She was not in her own room, so I kept on to the parlor, and the first if person I saw was Mr. Duncan. It was he whom I had heard come in, for he had only gone out to post a letter. I started back, and would have run away •.£ again, but he called 'Miss Marion!' so imploringly that I was obliged to stop. And then— No, I can not write down what he said, even here. It was all Aunt Eunice's doing, after all. He would never have dreamed of speaking so soon but for her. Be said that he fell In love with me before he ever saw me, from the picture which Uncle Jack showed him of his 'favorite nieco,' and tbe letters which be always shared with hi him.

Uncle Jack is much younger than mamma, and Robert is younger than Uncle Jack, so that the disparity between us is not so great as one would suppose. I am muoh too young to dream of being married yei, mamma aays, and I think so too. As for Robert —well, it's the woman's place to dictate before marriage. His turn comes fater.

I'd

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