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"It is because I am too warm for such as they that call me so," said Gertrude to herself. She longed for kindness. Her mother was a coldhearted woman, all propriety. She felt no sympathy with the girlish youthfulness of Gertrude's feelings; and their hearts never warmed to each other. But Gertrude had her own happy moments! She was passionately fond of the beauties of nature, and she would steal out at sunset, and enjoy the luxury of the thoughts that press upon one at that hour, and would conjure up in contrast to the cold dull circle that bounded her existence, a dream world of fiction and romance. But that evening, as she gazed on the slowly sinking orb of day, her thoughts would revert to the student. She had seen him some hours before, for their eyes had met, and something, almost unconsciously to either of them, had passed from the blue of one to the blue of the other.

But she was stopped in these thoughts by a noise at the garden gate; and one of her sisters, with two or three laughing village companions, bounded across the grass.

"Are you here, Gertrude? Why, we have been looking for you everywhere."

"Have you? Well, come, let us go and sit on the stone steps that 'lead down to the water.'"

"Oh! yes, let us go and sit there. You can see the little fishes go by, and the spiders dart along. I love to sit there; don't you Sophia?"

"Yes! it is my favourite seat. I like to put the end of my foot in the water, and feel it come tingling through my shoe."

"Well! I don't like to spoil my shoes; but I have no objection to sit on the stone steps. What you think we came here to tell you, Gertrude?" "Indeed! I have no idea."

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"Yes! very often."

"And why not now, pray?"

"Because, I don't think you have any thing more important to tell me than that you have a new dress."

"A new dress! indeed; and why would not a new dress be a thing of any importance? Why, the fate of my whole life might depend upon the fit of a new dress. Suppose, for instance, I should buy a new dress, or we will say, suppose you should give me one, for friendship's sake."

"Thank you."

"Don't interrupt me. Well, and suppose it should be very becoming; and suppose, when I had it on, I should see and be seen by the--theI don't know-some Prince."

"Some old Prince, Sophy?"

"No! some young Prince. And, suppose he should admire the dress so much that he should think he was admiring me."

"Modestly put, at least."

"And, then, suppose he should send a deputa

tion to my father, requesting permission to pay his addresses to his daughter."

"And suppose the deputation should surprise you making bread."

"So much the better,--' modest virtue,' the Prince would say-humble usefulness.' Now take a skip, and look at me, a Princess covered with diamonds. What shall I give you, girls? You have only to name a wish, and it shall be immediately gratified. Begin, Maria, what will you have?"

"Oh! I want so many things,-must I have only one?"

"In strict justice, I cannot allow you more than one. My husband's fortune, though very large, has great claims upon it. What will you have, Maria?"

"Make me mistress of the robes, and give me all the cast-off ones."

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Very well! Mary, it is your turn."

"Give me rare birds, singing birds from all parts of the world."

"My aviary is at your disposal, and I will give you a new pincushion besides, for I think you want one. Gertrude, what will you have, as the donor of the dress, which shall have procured me all my honours. I shall owe you something very handsome."

"Give me a little country-seat on the Rhine, and a

"A student-were you going to say?" "No, I was not thinking of students." (She had been thinking of a student for three hours and a half.)

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'Well, my dear, don't blush. You shall have the country-seat, and the student too, if you wish it. I am sure one would greatly enhance the value of the other."

"But, talking of students, reminds me of what we came here for. We came to say, that Wilhelmina, down at the end of the street, is going to have a little dance to-morrow evening, and she commissioned me to ask you to come, all of you. Won't you go, Gertrude?"

"I should like to go very much. Have many of the students gone away yet?"

"Yes, more than half of them. Of course, they are in a hurry to go; but of those that are left you shall see some to-morrow night."

"That tall Frenchman, I suppose, will take up his residence here, for his treasure and his heart seem just now to lie in the smoky cottage on the hill side."

"Well! I must be going, the sun has been set this half hour, and it is beginning to get very dark. Come, Maria."

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STUDENT PAUL.

and scolding, and complaining that they were not there, and would very likely have scolded and complained just as much, if they had been there.

CHAPTER II.

We must now look after Paul, as he went on his solitary pedestrious journey. As we said before, Paul was an orphan. He had no relations living, that he knew of, except an old great-aunt, who lived on a little farm some hundred miles from the village we have spoken of. Paul thought he would go through the country in this manner, and look about him for some occupation which would procure him a subsistence, "and perhaps," thought he, "I will go some time or other and pay a visit to my old aunt. She may give me a kind reception, though I doubt it."

So he went on, taking courage in his loneliness with the thought that he could not be forgotten or overlooked in the mass of creation, insignificant though he might be. He stopped that night at a small public house, where the hostess sat at the door spinning, and, while eating his humble supper, for humble it had to be, Paul's thoughts went back to the shady village he had left, and the little row of white houses he had passed on his way out of it, and the girl with blue eyes who sat at the window of the last one; but his reverie was disturbed by the noise of wheels, and a heavy carriage stopping at the door, a middle-aged man on crutches was assisted out by two obsequious servants, and led by them into the little parlour where our hero sat.

"Lead me to the window! the other window! I say; why don't you obey me, you rascals?"

When the gentleman was seated to his liking, he began to look about and complain, first, that it was too warm, and then too cool, and then called for a footstool. Every thing was attended to by the bowing hostess, who hastened to prepare the food unloaded by the servants from the carriage.

"Young man, I wish you would get out of my light!"

Paul replied that he was not at all in the gentleman's light, as the light came from the other side, but was willing to change his seat if the gentleman wished it.

"What have you been eating garlic for, when you knew I was coming here?"

Paul denied both propositions, and asserted the fact of his supper having consisted of the traveller's fare, bread and cheese.

"Well! I thought it was garlic, or cheese, or something."

Paul retreated to his little sleeping-room, where he enjoyed a night of peaceful slumber, adorned with dreams of windows, and blue eyes. The next morning he was up and on his journey early, his memory still laden with what he had now turned his back upon.

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We now lose sight of him for some months, during which time he travelled much, and was sometimes so fortunate as to make a little money. We again rejoin him, just as he is approaching his aunt's house. It was a warm afternoon in September, and Paul was panting along, asking his way at every cottage.

"How far is it to Frau Reiter's?"

"You are very near it. Just turn by that cornfield."

Paul turned by the cornfield, and found himself close upon an old-fashioned house, standing in the midst of a deserted looking field, without a single tree. The house itself had the appearance of being asleep, as every window was closed; but he knew that the good old lady was alive, from what he had heard from the cottagers. So he mounted the high steps which shook and rocked beneath him; and, as there was no bell or knocker, he applied his walking-stick stoutly to the old panels. The sound echoed within, but appeared to awake no one, in this apparently spell-bound castle. After waiting some time, it entered his head that he might as well open the door and walk in, which he did, and found himself in a wide brick paved hall. Having effected an entry, Paul was standing debating whether his first search should be for the family or the store-room, when a little old woman hobbled out of a side door, and confronted him.

"What do you want? you thief."

"Are you my aunt? are you Frau Reiter?" "You need not come begging here," and she raised her crutch with a menacing air.

"Aunt!"

"Aunt!"

"My dear aunt."

"Don't call me aunt! I'm nobody's aunt. Will you go. I'll call my bull-dogs."

"Let me speak to you, ma'am. You had a sister once''

"No! I have no sisters."

"You had one once."

"What's that to you. I had a pear-tree once, too, they are both dead now."

"I am your sister's son."

"No, you are not. Go, or my bull-dogs shall make you."

"If you will allow me to sit down for a few minutes, I am sure I shall be able to convince you that I am speaking the truth."

After a little more persuasion, the old lady hob. bled into a little sitting-room, bidding Paul follow her. Here she made him enter into a detail of his parentage, and when she found it agreed exactly with her own history of her own family, she shook hands with him, saying,

"You are welcome to my house, nephew, and not less so that I never heard of you till now. Still I would have been better pleased if you had gone round and come in by the kitchen in an orderly way. I remember, when I was a young girl, a young man came to our house once very much

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in the same way. I believe he came to sell buttons; but I know he very nearly frightened my mother into fits. Did you ever have a fit, nephew?" Paul denied any acquaintance with such com. plaints.

"Fits run in our family,-they are hereditary with us. You'll have them in time,-why, one of my bull-dogs had a fit only yesterday. But, maybe you are hungry. Will you have a cold lunch, or will you wait till tea-time. Suppose you take a walk over my grounds; you need not be afraid, my bull-dogs can go with you."

Paul spent some weeks here, walking over the grounds, as the two or three barren fields were called, (perhaps because there was no one green thing upon them,) and listening to the old lady's stories of her ancestry; but after some time it became very tedious; so he intimated to his aunt one morning that he should soon be obliged to take his leave.

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What! getting tired? Well, may-be it's better. I'm getting tired, too, you have been a very good boy. Whenever you stand in need, come to me. I suppose you will be getting married some day-it is the way of the world. I can tell you one thing: I have a good deal of money, though perhaps you may not think it. I have made a great many wills, leaving it to different people. It always has been a great comfort to me to make a will, and many and many is the name has been down in them. Once we had a new parson in the village close by, where I go to church. He was a very gentlemanly man, and I was so much pleased with him one evening that he spent with me, that when he was gone I put him down for a great deal. But the next day was Sunday, and he gave out there was to be a collection. So, when I came home, I revoked the gift. So it has been with a great many-so it has been with you. The day you were very careful to wipe the mud off your feet, I went up stairs and left you every thing; when you upset your lamp, I altered it; when you cured my sick bull-dog, I put you in again; but, when I found you did not eat honey, I cut you off with very little. I think, now, you shall have it all."

Paul thanked the old lady, and left her. For two years he wandered about over the country, examining every place that was curious, and every historical relic of other days. At the end of that time, he received a hasty letter from his aunt's servants, enjoining him to come there as quickly as possible, for his aunt was dying, and longed to see him.

Paul obeyed the summons, but was too late, the old lady had died about an hour before. On searching for her will he found a closet full of these useful articles, of which the last, the very last, acknowledged him undisputed heir of all the old lady's possessions.

The old servant woman came in, and found him leaning against the mantel, lost in thought. He was far away back again in the little village, and

by the little window, busying himself with the blue eyes he had seen there nearly three years before.

Every moment seemed an age to him now, a new idea had come upon him. Instead of wandering from place to place, striving in vain to drown the thoughts that would rise to the surface and cling to him, he might now return and offer all his new found wealth to Gertrude.

When he had remained long enough after the funeral, to see that all was right, he eagerly bent his steps in the direction his heart led him, and it led him through noisy towns, one after another; but never allowed him to stop and mingle in their bustle. It led him on through forests, and over brooks and streams, till at last it showed him a shady lane opening into a village, and, like many a too impatient driver, urged him faster, as it got nearer home. Nor did it permit him to stop here. On-on-down the little street! How peaceful it all looked, and calm. It seemed to be the same evening as that on which Paul left it. The same setting sun illuminated the little church steeple and the rows of garret windows. Not a stone was removed, not a tree cut down. Here were the time-worn gray walls of the university, and the same shout of boisterous mirth came through the open windows as on that evening. He reached the little row of white houses-that row of precious memory. There they stood the same as ever-the same in outward appearance, but how different within; that three years had wrought changes upon the simple inhabitants, in the very first house, what changes! The fair little child, that had stretched out its arms to the student, as he passed, was dead. How quiet that house had become now, since the light of the young life was gone! If you had gone in that sunny afternoon, you would have seen a sorrow-stricken couple sitting down to their evening meal-not many words would have been spoken-not many words were spoken there now; but if you had been curious, and looked about much, you might have seen the end of a lock of baby's hair showing from between the leaves of the Bible, on the little stand by the fireplace.

The old woman who had sat at the window, looking for her son, sat there, still looking for him. People said there was no change there; and there was none except such as might have been made in a human heart by three years more of watching-three years more of disappointment and of tears-but what was that to the passers-by?

As to the girl, who saw the student pass, and compared him to her own loved one, she had in those three years seen that loved one acquire wealth and honour, far beyond either his or her ambition; but then he had forgotten her! but what was that either to the passers-by?

But, at the last window, as Paul, trembling with eagerness, walked on-at the last little window he saw no one; but he heard the low tones of a woman's voice, singing

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"MICHAEL has left the milk bill, ma'am," and Bridget (all Irish girls are named Bridget or Catherine, I always call them one or the other at a venture, and if either should fail, Mary brings it all right) placed in my hand, with a look of triumph, a square piece of paper, ruled and trimmed into shape by the scissors, and bearing certain marks for me to decypher as best I might. But there it was-a real bill made out in the handwriting of one of her own countrymen! Here was enough to justify the exultation of Bridget, and when she ventured to add, "Michael's a nice man, ma'am," I responded with a hearty good will.

Some are able to read the characters of individuals from an examination of their penmanship; I have a friend, some traits of whose character were admirably detailed in this way; no one could fail to read Michael from his. The bill was a picture complete. It not only presented himself in his well-adjusted, well-adapted habiliments, his frank, manly bearing, his straightforward honest simplicity, but the genuine taste of the man in the selection of his tidy, handsome wife.

"Her cheeks are like strawberries smothered in cream," looking as if exactly fitted for her condition, with her clear blue eyes, her rich and roguish lips, and her faultless complexion; and then her good-nature so inexhaustible, and her aspect so safe, where acidity might be fatal.

But we ask Michael's pardon, and Michael's wife too, for as he comes every morning with his tin can scoured to the last point of brightness, and his linen jacket with the recent gloss of the iron fresh upon it, nothing can look less like a desire for notoriety, for he brings his milk round in his own hands to his few customers, as yet guiltless of Croton water, chalk, or still fodder.'

Oh, Michael, I wish thee all sorts of prosperity, but indeed it would ill beseem thee to be mounted upon a rickety wagon, labelled " pure milk," thereby suggesting the existence of the thing, and thy well-arranged features distorted

by the yell that belongs to thy compeers. Distant be the day that shall transform thee thus.

But to Michael's chirography. Every letter was large, distinct, and exceedingly well made in itself. The failure, if failure there be, consists in the making up. Good letters, but imperfect words.

Many a one, Michael, that might shame thee in written words, would have to yield to thee in the elements. They make up a fair-looking result, but lack thy analysis. Their minds are of a like stamp, opinions imbibed from others, conclusions "jumped" at, not reached after, a fair external brought into shape by the attrition of society. Specious but unsound, shrubs not oaks, plants with pith, but devoid of fibre.

That M and S, how well they are turned. Bold, strong lines, and the curves quirled in to a nicety. Every letter is an index of thyself, Michael. There is thy bold, manly integrity, thy robust, unflinching grapple with the world, and there withal thy placid sobriety of demeanour, disdaining pretence and show.

I remember that one day thou didst most modestly ask the use of my pencil, in order to note down the name of an inconsiderate customer, who thus laid unnecessary exactions upon thy memory; and when it was granted with a like modesty, thou didst beg me to the office. I see now that thou didst shrink from the slow process of construction in the presence of one supposed to be skilled in the cabalistic art. Michael, it would make thee blush to look upon this sheet. Not one letter upon it can equal thine. Never shrink again, man, from the hearty, best use of thy powers in the presence of any one. Thou hast skill enough for all thy purposes, and this should inspire confidence in the presence of any one, confidence, not arrogance.

"Received payment in full." I like the explicit, triumphant close. It tells much in times like these, of slippery credit, and uncertain deposits. It looks like a sense of peril escaped, like a

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positive good occurred, like hope that did not delude, like faith not misapplied.

But let the bill and its contents pass; the glory of the thing lies in the signature. Here it is. No, Michael, I won't give thy name in full, I will not accelerate the period of the pony and the wagon, the yell and other horrors of a milkman; I will be content with saying, that in signing thy name as I behold it here, thou hast allowed me to look into the arcana of thy very mind. I read all, and the process of completing this, to thee, important document.

I see the little white table, upon which thy pretty wife has just placed from its receptacle in the cupboard, beside the red-and-white flowered crockery, the pen and ink, unwonted instruments in thy hands, and preserved therefore with the greater care. She has spread thereon a newspaper in addition to the white napkin, for she is well aware of the hazards incurred in the use of weapons like these, as is evident from the size of the dot upon the i in thine own name, and the extra cross upon the t, to say nothing of the apt illustration of the Society Islands, where the pen became unmanageable in its spattering, and the well defined New Holland, corresponding to the size of thy thumb.

It takes thee some time to get well seated, Michael, to an operation of this kind; it is too miminy-piminy for thy powers, requires a close

ness of action ill adapted to the massiveness of thy movements. I see it all by the hesitancy visible in the date. But thy confidence grew with thy progress, every letter being better and better defined, till the " Received payment in full," is thrown off with something of a flourish, sitting half erect in thy chair, and thy lips having ceased their sympathetic motion.

Now comes the signature. Michael, thou art great here. Thy own sense of manhood came back to thee in full. It isn't written as well as the rest of thy chirography, that is, the letters are not as well made. All undue care was thrown aside in the execution. It was the summing up of the whole matter; it was the impress of the man. Here are no separate well made letters; it is a continuous whole. The result of thyself. Thou didst not think once of separating Michael-he is to thee one and entire, and such dost thou appear in the bond."

Thy name looks half like a challenge, as who should impeach Michael's, and the finale hath a firm-set touch, a consciousness of dignity, an utterance as of one who had shaken off a momentary feeling of inferiority produced by the necessity of appeal to a rarely needed accomplishment, and who cried within himself,

"A man's a man for a' that."

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