'It is time for you to go up-stairs and get ready to start, Abby,' suggested the only unmarried daughter of the widowed Mr. Mosby. 'If your sister had not been much worse she would not have sent for you, she is always so much afraid of discommoding any one on her own account. I noticed how racking her cough had become when I carried her down the quilted wrapper which, though faded, will be a comfort to her, she is all the time so cold since those night-sweats have set in. Don't forget to take the box I left on the kitchen-table. Tell her I made the jellies purposely for her; and those funny little drawings I picked out for her, she will like to look at, she must be so tired of seeing only the things in that one room. Give me the pan of apples-I can stew them as well as you.'

'But I have bread to mix yet, Miss.' 'Never mind that; I will attend to it, if you will go and get ready as I request.'

'It is n't many mistresses who would let a poor girl off in that way,' asserted the maid, rising with such a look on her face as servants but too rarely have occasion to bestow on their employers.

Miss Mosby, pan in hand, seated herself on the threshold of the door, and deftly accomplished her self-imposed task. Mr. Althorp had made several discoveries which had by no means lowered in his estimation the object of his scrutiny, as was proved by his saying to himself: 'She can feel for those who are in trouble; she is no mere ornamental piece of parlor furniture, and she looks twice as well, in that pink calico, as Parkhurst's wife does with all her trailing silks and showy headdresses. I can't see why women want to flaunt about in such finery; we don't like them any better for it.'

The apples were in the stew-pan, and the intruder once more on the verge of departure; but fate had decreed that he was not thus easily to escape the consequences of his underhanded mode of

procedure. Miss Sallie, her garden-hat on, in her hand a little basket looking as though it was made of twisted sticks of varnished molasses candy, was coming directly towards his place of concealment.

What was to be done? It was too late to retreat, for he could not cross the grass-plat between himself and the fence without the certainty of discovery; besides, his manly pride revolted at thought of such a cowardly piece of poltroonery as running away at sight of a pretty young woman. He effected a compromise between his pride of manhood and fear of detection, by turning his back on Miss Sallie and hurrying back to the cucumber hills, over which he was bending with the air of an agricultural connoisseur when she approached him.

'You here, Mr. Althorp!' was her surprised ejaculation.

'Your father called me over to prescribe for some ailing vines.'

'Your professional visits are long; father's train was due fifteen minutes ago. What have you been doing for your patients in all that time?'

'I have not been looking at them ever since the train went by, but at- at the syringa-bushes which need trimming badly, as the young shoots are taking the life of the old wood.'

She flashed at him a quick searching glance, and although it had in it nothing quizzical or incredulous, he was provoked to feel the hot flush which burned on his cheek. Miss Sallie marked his heightening color, and, being quite as apt at drawing inferences from given data as her companion, it was she who made a discovery in the present instance.

'I am very glad I remained, since it has given me the chance of meeting you,' said Mr. Althorp with a desperate effort to shake off his embarrassment.

'Thank you. I came out to see if I could find some grapes ripe enough for the table.'

'There may be a few on the top of the

trellis where the sun lies warmest, but you could never reach them; I will cut them for you.'

'And tell me, if you please, the name of the different varieties, as I am often asked and am forced to plead ignorance in reply. What are these dark purple bunches?'

ticed how much better he is looking than when we first came here?'

Mr. Althorp's vague reply was not particularly satisfactory to the affectionately solicitous sister; for, sooth to say, he had never given a second look, or the first thought, to the pale sickly lad whom he had occasionally seen, as

'And these paler clusters?'

'I am not quite sure, as I have none of that variety on my place.'

'Try them, and perhaps you can decide.'

'I'm obliged to you, but I never take fruit excepting for dessert. Let me look at them a little more closely.'

She took a cluster from the basket and offered it to him; but he carelessly took the hand holding the grapes, while critically inspecting them, and said a little absently: 'Muscadine

delicious!'

He had been looking at the pinktinted nails of the soft white fingers that slightly trembled in his light grasp. The brilliant glow that overspread her face made her positively beautiful, and his involuntary glance of admiration told her that he thought so.

With ready tact she broke the silence that ensued by remarking with the dignified air of one who has long since eschewed all youthful follies, (she was nearly out of her teens :) 'You must have thought it a very absurd exhibition I made of myself yesterday, polking to the tune of a hand-organ with such a partner, but it was more for his diversion than my own that I undertook the ridiculous feat. He studied too hard, all winter, in order to win the spring prize; but when the time for winning it came he could n't leave his bed. The recommendation of quiet and pure country air was the occasion of our removal here. I contrive for him as many outdoor amusements as I can, for they make him forget his disappointment, and keep him away from the books which do him no good. Have you no

sun or strolling about the garden; and on returning to his own domain, it was not of the younger brother he was thinking in the least.

'I should like to know,' thought he, 'who that tall young officer was, that came out in the train with Mosby, yesterday afternoon; and if he had any special object in coming. A woman's fancy is so easily caught in the glitter of a handsome uniform! which she is sure to believe enrobes a hero, until she is old enough to know better; and, O me! Miss Sallie is young and inexperienced I would not have her otherwise. How do I know but that while I have been debating all the pros and cons for and against her becoming the future Mrs. Althorp, she has been making up her mind to become Mrs. Somebody else? Such insufferable coxcombs as it does make of some men if they can get velvet facings, bullion buttons, and scarlet sashes to strut about in! What business have these popinjays of captains and majors to be loitering round on furlough, when a wounded private in hospital cannot obtain leave of absence to come home and be nursed by his family? and when men are so much needed that a draft is enforced to procure them? I hope young Shoulder-straps, whoever he is, may receive an order, and that speedily, to report for duty.'

With this benevolent aspiration in behalf of the young officer who had never done him a shadow of harm, Mr. Althorp returned to the superintendence of his walk.

About a week later, he sat once more on a rustic bench; but this time it was on one screened by a crimson-leaved

creeper, and quite near the high board fence previously mentioned. His eyes were bent, not too approvingly, on a couple of papers he held in his hand; one a printed notice to tax-payers, the other a written schedule.

'There was the internal revenue tax, that gorged itself on my income, and now here comes the local tax to feast on my outgo as well. After all I've spent in repairs on those two houses just beyond Mosby's, not the first cent in the way of rent have I collected on them this whole blessed year, and here they have been and taxed me on an amount far exceeding what they would bring if I should put them up at auction tomorrow. I wish the assessors would take them off my hands at their own rate of valuation, for they are only a bill of expense to me. Not that I would n't rather see them standing empty than to have my temper kept on edge as it was by my last tenants. Such aggravating youngsters as there were amongst them, the smaller fry firing stones at the barn windows and into my mowing, digging cellar-holes in the flower-plots, and whittling down the shrubs and currant-bushes for sticks to play horse with; while the larger boys foraged on my fruit-trees, my garden vegetables, my corn and potato-fields.

'I do wish somebody would make me a fair offer for both houses; as, standing on low springy ground, without a tenant in either, they are losing rather than gaining in value; the paper hangings moulding and falling off from dampness; the paint discoloring; the doors warping; the roof leaking; the ceilings softening; the grates rusting; and the premises going to the dogs generally, for want of occupation and care.'

Mr. Althorp was roused from this somewhat gloomy train of reflection by the sound of voices in the adjoining garden, and he instantly recognized the tones of both speakers; one as that of

Honoria Clayton, whom, years before, he had watched as closely as of late his fair neighbor; the other as belonging to the object of his recent engrossing observation.

He could not distinguish the words of the former, but those of the latter came distinctly to his ear, branding themselves as deeply thereon as though they had been stamped with a red-hot iron.

'Mr. Althorp does very well as a gallant; one must have somebody to come home from a fair or a party with, you know,' carelessly avowed Miss Mosby. 'It is dull out here, and a person must do something to pass the time away; if he thinks of any thing more serious, it isn't my fault; I've given him no encouragement. You do not suppose I am going to say 'Yes' to the first wooer who falls captive to my charms; not a bit of it; I intend breaking a half-score of hearts or so to keep as trophies, so you need not worry on my account, for there is not the slightest occasion, I do assure you.'

The speakers passed out of hearing, and for a brief period Mr. Althorp sat transfixed in amazement. Then a hot flush came to his face, a fiery gleam to his dark eye, and he said to himself with lips firmly compressed:

'If I can't love her, I'll hate her, and make her feel my power, too. She shall learn, to her cost, that a strong man's hatred is no light thing for any woman, least of all a slight girl scarcely out of her teens, to wantonly provoke. It is only scalps the savage secures as trophies of his prowess; but it is at the citadel of life civilized woman strikes when she has lured you within striking distance. But fore-warned is fore-armed, and now that she has shown her hand, it shall go hard with me but I will win the game. Have a care, my fair queen of hearts, or you will find you have made a mistake in the deal, and that clubs are trumps after all.'

THERE is nothing we enjoy more in a quiet way when leisure favors us, than untying certain old bundles of private letters which we keep by us, and reading their varied contents, conjuring before our mind's eye the while those pictures of the past which they never fail to recall. It is a common pleasure and a hackneyed theme, but one of which we never tire, and therefore the perusal of any thing discoursing of old letters and old times is refreshing. We trust it is so with all, and that our readers will read with us the following from a correspondent on the subject:

Old Letters and Old Times.

DEAR KNICK: The other evening, being alone, for the sake of amusement I unpacked a bundle of my old letters, and, as you may well imagine, was easily coaxed into many pleasant recollections of the past. I know of nothing that can retouch the images of memory so effectually and so surely as the perusal of old letters. I am yet a young man, but am thereby made to feel old and wish again for the rose-tinted past. Ten years ago I was first enamored with a pretty, plump, brown-haired, blue-eyed young girl, and now I find her ten years older and the mother of my little boy. Who would wish to deny me the pleasant recollections I at present have of our first acquaintance, of our courtship as reflected from the regiment of letters that I have looked over? My mind's eye is made to gleam again over many a glowing picture of innocent and blissful enjoyment, which I can safely say was only clouded here and there by those petty annoyances which jealousy is always sure to cause. How keenly do I now realize that they are past from me forever! Ten years have rolled their silent length along, and the landmarks of old associations are fast becoming obliterated by the increasing crowd of family cares which strive to take their place. But, thanks to these remembrancers, I can live once more in youth; can picture the rustic footpath in all its original

TABLE.

freshness and inviting seclusion; can once more see the moon filter its silvery light through the stately trees and checker the good old turnpike; and, best of all, can call to mind the blooming features of my blueeyed MARY with her trim basque and her saucily decked bloomer; I can laugh and be sober, can plan and counterplan with her and live over all my little enjoyments and sorrows. And I can meet face to face with

many of our companions who long ago have passed silently away. Yet coupled with all these pleasures there is a painful yearning to grasp after what I must never obtain, an uncontrollable, almost overwhelming, desire to live through in reality the pleasant past, to preserve unbroken the charmed circle of my boyish associations, that I may once more be really happy. But each year in its turn, like so many valves shut relentlessly down upon us, more and more defies it to return.

Old correspondences, after all, are the only links which hold our memories fast against forgetfulness, and why should we not sacredly preserve and cherish them? The chirography may be indifferent, the paper may be soiled, and the composition may even be silly; but who is there so lost to recollections of good old times who does not derive a melancholy pleasure from reading them over?

There is something, too, peculiarly affecting associated with the handwriting of a friend who is now no more. The keenest kind of sorrow and regret couples with the thought that the hand which once rested upon that identical paper, which penned each word, made each line, and dotted each i, has forever ceased to work.

With each passing year these little mementoes increase in their value, and teach

us more and more to realize the stern uncompromising realities of life, while they entreat us to profit by an experience which many times we may have dearly earned.

Dear KNICK, I have taken so much pleasure in looking over my old file of letters, that, in the spirit of a philanthropist, I feel like recommending it as a profitable pastime to your many readers.

OUR fair correspondent 'NELLIE SINCLAIR' suggests that we should try the irons once more and go skating, and we have serious intentions of profiting by the hint, for just now skating is sharing honors with sleighing, and the winter carnival is at its height. The Central Park pond is populous with brave and fair participators in the poetry of motion, while the air is musical with the tinkling of sleigh-bells. The ground is coated with ermine, diamonds hang pendant from the tree branches, and the sun is brightly shining over the frozen scene- and this the coldest of our four last winters is the merriest of them all.

were enjoying a sort of cold comfort by themselves. It gave me a new idea of the wonderful ingenuity of man adapting itself to every emergency. So it seemed to me that here was a new reason why all should engage in so favorite a pastime. Therefore, for the sake of exercise and the pleasurable emotions which it excites, I would say to all, Skate! Even you, dear KNICK, might find it to your advantage to leave your easychair and try the irons once more. My own experience commenced upon a lake in the country entirely surrounded by woods, and I have never had occasion to regret the result there obtained.

letter:

DEAR KNICK: Have you never observed how kind and generous Dame Nature is to us all, providing for enjoyment in every season of the year? 'Summer brings us fruits and flowers, Autumn sends us friends and wine.' But what does Winter present us with? Snow, ice, and a frosty atmos

phere which always reminds one of clear and sparkling wine. Poor Winter always

seems to me to be a much-abused old man

whose frosty exterior only conceals a heart full of latent heat. And then again how much like a good man's death is his end, melting away into the balmy Spring, fit type of a glorious immortality. One of the many pleasures which he offers to our embrace is skating, cheap, healthful, and within the reach of all. But the health

is only an incident, not by any means the great end to be kept in view. There is an art in skating which should not be lost sight of among the other emotions which occupy the mind. I am an enthusiastic skater myself, and could not help, the other day, thinking how different was the scene a month since when I walked to the brink of the now congealed lake. Then all was cold and cheerless, the swans were dipping their bills deep down in the water, and the only sound which broke in upon the stillness was the echo of the workman's hammer from the

opposite shore. But what a satisfaction it was now to skim over the same surface, to dodge under the bridges and then look back upon the shore black with spectators who