Hesper disappeared, and was soon in her own little room arraying herself in all the bravery of her best attire. Her dress, of soft dark green material, fitted her pretty figure perfectly, and was finished at the throat and wrists with snowy ruffles, while at the throat a cherry-colored ribbon was tied in a shower of loops. Her dark ringlets were brushed back from the fair blueveined forehead, and kept in place by another piece of cherry-colored ribbon. As she stood before the glass giving the last touches to her dress she glanced for a moment at the reflection of her own bright, pretty face, and tossing her head defiantly, resolved to "make Harry Rayburn's heart ache that night, if, indeed, he had a heart!” And here the curly head gave a disdainful toss. "To think of how long he had been pretending to care for her, and now to be devoting himself to Fannie Lawson! It was too bad! She always thought Fannie was the prettier, but she did not know that Harry thought so too until now! He had carried Fannie to the fair first, and then actually came back for her, as if he thought she would go with him! No, indeed! And how glad she was to pass him in Joe Wentworth's buggy. Joe loved her, that she was sure of, for he had told her so that very day, and said such beautiful things to her, and told her that it would break his heart if she did not love him; but-Joe was small and ugly, and had such a squeaky voice, and she did not care for him; and Harry was so tall and handsome-the very handsomest man she ever saw--and he had such a beautiful voice, so deep and mellow, that when he said lovely things it sounded as if they were set to music. But she did despise him; he was so deceitful, so unlike the Harry she used to know!" And the bright eyes flashed through the tears that a moment before had softened their indignant light, and she renewed her resolve to give him a heartache if he had not grown absolutely indifferent to her, and if he had, why he would see that she too was indifferent.

Hesper gave an audible sniff-how girls luxuriate in that method of expressing disdain !—and they walked on in silence for a few moments. They had reached a dense part of the woods, and the moon was obscured by a cloud.

"It is very dark; won't you take my arm ?" said Harry gently.

66

No, thank you; I can see well enough!"

"But you might fall. I know the path so well-do lean on my arm."

66

"It would not be convenient," Hesper said coolly; you are too dreadfully tall.”

"Why, you never thought so before!"

"I never said so, perhaps," she answered dryly. "Hesper, what is the matter?" asked Harry, now thoroughly conscious of her intention of wounding him. "What makes you so cold and so changed?"

"If I am not pleasant it is a pity you insisted on walking with me," she replied with quiet indifference. "You had better have let Jacob come with me."

"I wish I had," he exclaimed passionately; "and I beg your pardon for forcing myself upon you. I was stupid enough not to know that it would be disagreeable to you, but I shall not annoy you any more than I can help."

They soon reached the house, and throwing open the door of a large, well-lighted room, in which Mrs. Rayburn sat, surrounded with eatables of every description, Harry said, "Mother, here is Hesper."

Mrs. Rayburn limped forward, and, heartily kissing the cheeks whose roses the frosty air had deepened, said: "I am mighty glad you have come, my dear. I have had the rheumatism all the week, and it has thrown me a little behind-hand with my work, and I wanted you to help me fix the table. I can't move about quick like I used to do, and the girl don't know about such things, besides being busy. I told Richard Rayburn that it's the first time since I married him-going on twenty-five years ago that I was ever behind-hand at husking

"Has Harry Rayburn come for you ?"

"No; father says that Jacob may go with me, it is such a short distance, and I shall not want for an escort coming back.”

"That you may be sure of," said Mrs. Carroll, looking fondly and proudly at the fair face of her child; "but I wonder that Harry did not come to walk over with you."

"He did, but I was not ready to go."

"But couldn't he have waited? You would not have kept him long, and he generally seems to mind no trouble if he can only be with you."

"I would not let him wait. Jacob will do just as well. Good-night, mother." And Hesper tripped away in the moonlight in charge of her humble esquire. The pathway wound across the field and into a belt of woodland, and it was after entering the shadowy woods that, hearing voices, Hesper looked up to see Harry Rayburn. Coming forward, he said as he joined

her:

"I happened to be coming along the path, and if you have no objections Jacob may go back and I will escort you the rest of the way."

"Did you tell your mother why I could not come sooner ?" asked Hesper with quiet malice, determined to find out whether he had been home, or had, as she shrewdly suspected, been waiting to accompany her. "Yes-that is, no; not yet," replied Harry, startled by the unexpected question.

suppose a body can't always keep strong and spry as they were when they were young. I looked for you by dusk, dear; what kept you so late ?"

"The cows did not come in from the pasture until after sunset, and the milking was later than usual.” "And Harry waited for you, of course!" said the good dame mischievously.

"Yes, I waited for her," replied Harry doggedly, the color waving over his swarthy cheek as he saw the little red mouth set and the head give just a perceptible toss, as though that waiting had done him but small good!

"Here, my dear,” said Mrs. Rayburn, who was blissfully ignorant of this by-play, leading the way into an adjoining room where a long table covered with snowy, home-made linen stood on the floor, "this is the table, and Harry will help you bring the things to put on it. I must go now and look after the girl; she does not know anything, and is little better than no help." And Mrs. Rayburn limped away to "look after the girl" in part, and, as she thought to herself, "to be out of the way of the young folks' courting;" for having no daughter of her own, and being very fond of Hesper, she hoped some day to see her Harry's wife.

Hesper having laid aside her shawl and hat and tied on the daintiest ruffled white apron, was soon engaged in transferring the appetizing viands into the room where the supper was to be laid.

"What can I do for you?" Harry asked a little stiffly when they were alone.

"Bring in the heaviest dishes, please, and just put

them anywhere on the table; I can arrange them afterward." And Hesper tripped away to the other end of the room, where she was busy amidst pies, etc.

Of course, there was no talking done, but Hesper would now and then sing softly to herself tiny snatches of songs, as though utterly oblivious of Harry's presence. When he had brought in the dishes and arranged them in a row on the table, and could see nothing else to do, he went to where Hesper was arranging sundry delicious, green apple tarts and golden pumpkin pies, and asked in a tone half-piqued, half-pleading:

"Can I do anything else for you ?”

66

'Nothing at all, thank you," replied Hesper, so intent upon the exact relation that a pie should bear to a tart that she could not even glance up; and when the young man did not move, but stood irresolute for a moment, supposing, of course, that he had not heard her, she repeated: "There is nothing you can do now. You ean go if you wish. If I need your assistance any further I can call you."

"But suppose I wish to stay," he said in a tone of suppressed feeling, "and ask you to tell me what I have done that you should treat me as you are doing?"

"Harry! Where is Harry ?" called 'Squire Rayburn's voice, as he came hurrying toward the room in a state of mild excitement.

"Here I am, father," Harry replied, a trifle impatiently, and the next moment the door was thrown open and the 'Squire's bluff, good-natured face appeared.

"Oh, here you are. The boys are coming, my son. You had better go out to meet them, hadn't you? Why, how d'ye do, Hesper? You look as bright as a bunch of holly-berries!" And with the usual relish that elderly specimens of the genus homo develop for such diversion, the 'Squire imprinted a hearty kiss upon the fresh, red lips of the bright face smilingly upturned to his. "Busy as a bee, are you?" he continued, looking around upon the confusion that Hesper's deft hands had already begun to reduce to tasteful order. “You will make a jolly wife for some lucky fellow by-and-by. It almost makes an old man like me wish he was young again; but I am a better-looking man now than the most of them-eh, Hesper ?"

"A great deal better-looking than any of them," said Hesper quietly; and a moment afterward she glanced down the room as a pair of very emphatic boot-heels went ringing across the floor and out into the piazza, and Master Harry strode off in full receipt of as genuine a heartache as would have amply satisfied Hesper's most vicious desire.

THE great heap of corn had been husked, the bountiful supper dispatched, and the long room was cleared and ready for the dancers. Then came the tuning of violins--that sound which instantly "puts mettle in the heels" of the dancers. The bows were rosined from heel to toe, drawn with a ringing flourish across the instruments, and then they glided off into an old-fashioned reel. A set was formed, and in a twinkling the measured tread of dancing feet kept time to the inspiriting

strains.

The dancing continued for hours, and Hesper Carroll, the belle of the evening, had been on the floor repeatedly. She was besieged with partners, and even the old 'Squire insisted on "treading at least one measure " with her. "I like to cut the young fellows out," he said, with a merry twinkle of his eye. "It astonishes them so, and then I always had a taste for pretty girls ever since I fell in love with my buxom wife. set will not weary you, will tease the boys-Master

One

Harry most especially, to judge by his looks—and is just about as much as my two hundred and sixty pounds and sixty-five years can stand !"

Harry, who had danced repeatedly with Fanny Lawson and paid her a great deal of attention, had not been near Hesper. Joe Wentworth, on the contrary, was devoting himself to her, and she, it must be confessed, had received his devotion and treated him with bewitching sweetness. When, therefore, the gathering broke up, just as the gray east was tinted with the rose flush of early dawn, and she walked away across the the fields leaning on Joe's arm, he found himself pleading his cause with a hope born of the impassioned love which had met with such unexpected encouragement.

In the early morning, when its chill has cooled the fevered pulse, and one is looking at things by the gray, cold light, and is weary withal, things that were worth the accepting a few hours before grow worthless and are but added weariness! A keen remorse smote Hesper, for she was conscious how much she had hurt Joe in trying to pique Harry, and she repented the selfish disregard of his feelings. But to further encourage him by even the slightest hope would be but to wound him the deeper. When, therefore, his appeal ended, and he awaited her answer, it came in a passion of

tears.

"Oh, Joe, forgive me; I was cruel and selfish to trifle with you as I have done, because I knew that I did not love you and never could."

I doubt if Harry's voice would have sounded sweeter or more manly than Joe's did when he answered gently:

"Don't cry, Hesper; it hurts me. Never mind about me; if there was anything to forgive, I could not help forgiving you, because I love you. Now, good-by, and don't grieve over me any more, sweetheart; I am not worth those tears." And, lifting her hand to his lips, he turned and was gone.

The weeks that followed were dreary ones to Hesper, though no one knew that aught had come to cloud the sunshine of her days.

Joe Wentworth was very gentle and considerate of her whenever they met, but that made her all the more regret the ungenerous way she had treated him. Harry she seldom saw, and their intercourse was very cold and indifferent. She still imagined herself very indignant at his apparent trifling, and he seemed to avoid her as much as possible.

It was only after Will Rayburn returned from the West, about a month later, that it became known that he and Fanny Lawson were engaged, and that Harry had only been taking care of her in Will's absence. Hearing this Hesper begun to reproach herself for having judged too hastily, and been so quick to resent Harry's supposed indifference. "But," she thought, "it was in part his fault; had he only told her at first, she would have understood and would not have minded it in the least. Now everything seemed so changed. No doubt that he despised her. He could not know why she had changed so to him, and very probably thought she had been trifling with him. He had been so cold to her since the night of the husking, and she could see that he tried to avoid her whenever he could. Of course she could do nothing but feel miserable. She could not show him that she was not indifferent to him because he might have ceased to care whether she was or not, and she would rather die than have him know that all the world seemed weariness without him.”

Several months passed thus, and at length came Will Rayburn's wedding; and as soon as the merry-makings

were over he was to take his young wife and emigrate to the West, which held out glowing inducements to new settlers, and where Will's imagination pictured the speedy realization of dreams which had lured him to broader fields than the old homestead offered. Unexpectedly to every one, at the last, Harry announced his determination to go also. Though bitterly opposed to it, his parents said nothing to dissuade him. He had been so unlike himself-so strangely restless-that they thought an absolute change might benefit him; at all events, they would not oppose what seemed to be so earnest a desire.

'TWAS the night before they were to leave, and Harry, having made his hurried preparations and walked restlessly up and down the long piazza, at length strode off across the fields and down the well-known path that he had not trod now for four months.

"Good-evening, Hesper," he said, as he came up the steps of the porch where Hesper sat alone in the moonlight.

Good-evening, Harry," she answered, rising and offering him her hand.

He grasped it, looking at her earnestly for a moment, then released it, saying with repressed emotion:

"I have come against my will to tell you good-by. I am going away to-morrow, and I am such a weak fool that I could not go without one more sight of your face !"

'You are going away ?" Hesper said, growing pale in the moonlight. "How long shall you be gone ?" "Forever, possibly; certainly for years!"

"Why

"Why?" he asked with a short laugh. shouldn't I go; what is there here to stay for ?" "Your father and mother, at least," she answered gently; "it must distress them bitterly to give you up; they will be so lonely!"

"I suppose they will," he said, breathing quick, "but I also am lonely and miserable. Why do I go? You to ask me that when you know so well that it is you who are driving me away. Do you suppose that, loving you as I do, I can be content to go on in this way any longer? To live so near you and yet be so far away-to be worse than nothing to you; I am not the same man that I was four months ago. Why, the very world looks different. I will go where I can forget you, for that at best is as near happiness as I can ever hope to reach. But forgive me for intruding thus upon you; I longed to see you again, and only meant to say good-by, but the sight of you completely unmans me, and I have said what I had no right to say to you. I did not mean to be unkind. Good-by, little Hesper." He held both of her hands close in his, looking at the sweet, downcast face with yearning, love-lit eyes. For one brief moment the face was lifted to meet his glance; then, with a little cry, "Oh, Harry, do not leave me !" Hesper was gathered

close to the broad breast that was heaving with strong emotion.

“And did you love me all this while ?" he whispered a moment later, as he bent low over the nut-brown head and listened for the answer.

"Yes; and, oh, I have been so unhappy!"

"Then, my darling, why did you treat me so coldly ?" "Because I was jealous. I thought you did not care for me as you used to do!"

Harry Rayburn laughed a low, sweet laugh, and lifting the flushed face gently and kissing the trembling lips, asked, smiling, "Jealous of whom, Hester ?"

"Of Fanny Lawson. I thought you loved her best !" "Oh! silly little girl. Not to know that I could not love any one else in the whole world as I love you. I was only taking care of Fanny while Will was away, and this has been the cause of my long heartache, has it ?” "But Harry, you took her to the fair first!"

"So I did, sweetheart, but I started early, so that I could return in time to take you, meaning to tell you that morning that Will had put her in my care, though I never for one moment thought it possible that you could misunderstand my attentions to her. When I returned for you I met you with Joe Wentworth, and from that day you have been so changed that I have been miserable. I could not imagine at first what could be the cause of it, but afterwards I thought that you did not care for me, and so meant to show me your indifference. The night of our husking you were so cold, so unlike what you had been before, that I made up my mind it would be useless to say anything to you. I thought then that you loved Wentworth, and I was a wretched man. When Will said he was going West I determined to go too. I could not have stayed here believing that you cared for another man; but now I am the happiest man alive! Will can go West if he wishes; I cannot imagine anything that would induce me to go now. But Hesper, sweetheart, one thing more "-Harry smiled mischievously-" and then I think the clouds will all have been swept away: am I so dreadfully tall' now, and is father 'a great deal handsomer than I am ?"

"Oh! Harry, why do you recall those spiteful speeches that I have been so sorry for, and that were not true; for there is no one in all the world half so handsome or so good as you are. Forget all of that dreadful time, and I promise that I will never give you another heartache, and forgive an unkindness that has cost me as much sorrow as it has done you.”

The moon peeped down curiously into the porch—the moon has not a particle of manners, and is just as curious about lovers to-day as she was about their ancestors hundreds of years ago!-doubtless she was grieved that she had not sped westward sooner, for looking in through the climbing roses and honeysuckle vines that wreathed the porch she only saw a man's arm around the slender figure of the woman whose sweet face lay hidden on his breast, while his bearded cheek rested lovingly against her soft chestnut hair.

IN the year of our Lord, 1702, when Anne ascended the throne, the pleasure-seeking, gossip-loving society of London was in full pursuit after every kind of novelty and excitement. The gaming tables at White's, the chocolate and coffee-houses, the lotteries and clubs were crowded. Duncan Campbell, the deaf and dumb fortune teller, held levees at which people of the highest rank assisted. Wits were discussing Addison and laughing over Swift's caustic satires. Congreve and Wycherly filled the theatres, and there was a rumor afloat of a permanent Italian opera.

In the eighteenth century we enter into the presence of women whose ghosts are still understood to hold the brevet rank of Queens of Beauty and Wit. The court of George the First was completely under the influence of women. Bolingbroke secured his return from exile through the Duchess of Kendal. Carteret relied upon the Countess of Platen. Chesterfield intrigued against Newcastle with the Duchess of Yarmouth, and even Pitt secured his position in the Cabinet through the influence of the same lady.

One of the most erratic of its early stars of fashion was Miss Chudleigh, afterwards Duchess of Kingston. Her father, Colonel Chudleigh, died while she was an infant, and her mother was very slenderly dowered. But the Earl of Bath took a lively interest in the beautiful girl, and obtained her the position of a maid of honor, a position she held, through good and evil report, until she became Duchess of Kingston; for she bewitched, in spite of their better judgment, every one who came within her influence.

While very young a promise of marriage passed between her and the Duke of Hamilton, but during his absence on the continent her aunt induced her to marry the Hon. Augustus Hervey, grandson of the Earl of Bristol. The marriage was, of course, kept a secret, and she tried-not always successfully-to laugh and brave off the rumors which were whispered about her. "Do you know, my lord," she said to Chesterfield, "the world insists I have twin sons?" 66 Does it ?" re

Her

plied the witty nobleman. "I make a point of believing only half of what the world says." She had married Mr. Hervey out of pique, believing the Duke of Hamilton false to her, and she soon bitterly repented the step. Then she tore the entry of her marriage from the church register, though afterwards-when her husband was likely to become Earl of Bristol-she replaced it. dress and manners soon began to exhibit an indelicacy so reckless that Chesterfield wondered what arts she used to obtain toleration. Horace Walpole, describing her at a masquerade, says: "Miss Chudleigh was 'Iphigenia,' but so naked you would have taken her for 'Andromeda';" and referring to the same occasion, Mrs. Montagu writes: "Miss Chudleigh's dress, or rather undress, was remarkable. The maids of honor (not of maids the strictest at that time) were so offended they would not speak to her ;" and it was doubtless on this occasion that her too indulgent mistress gave her cutting and dignified reproof by throwing her own veil over her.

Harassed by her unhappy position and the importunities of numerous lovers, she went abroad, and was received with almost royal pomp by the King of Prussia and the Electress of Saxony. Yet her favor at the English Court was undiminished on her return, and the wisest statesmen marveled at the arts and fascinations which could command her such a reception in Dresden and make her life connived at in London. Her husband was now Earl of Bristol, but she had infatuated the Duke of Kingston, and he, being anxious to marry her, applied to Bristol to aid their views. The despised husband seems to have readily consented, and when she applied to the ecclesiastical court in a suit of jactitation of marriage, the Earl of Bristol-as it had been agreed he should do-failed in substantiating his claim, and his wife was declared "a spinster free to marry." Immediately afterwards she became Duchess of Kingston, the wedding being one of great pomp and the king and queen wearing their favors on the occasion.

Five years afterwards the Duke died, bequeathing to her every rood of his immense unentailed estates and every guinea of his personal property. The heirs at once sought for proofs of her first marriage, and, in consequence, she was summoned to appear in Westminster Hall on a charge of bigamy. The scene is thus described by Mrs. Hannah More, who was visiting Garrick at the time: "Garrick would have me to take his ticket to go to the trial of the Duchess of Kingston, a sight of which, for beauty and magnificence, exceeded anything which those who were never present at a coronation or a trial by peers can have the least notion of. Mrs. Garrick and I were in full dress by seven. You will imagine

the bustle of five thousand people getting into one hall! Yet in all this hurry we walked in tranquilly. When they were all seated and the King-at-arms had commanded silence on pain of imprisonment-which, however, was very ill-observed-the Gentleman of the Black Rod was commanded to bring in his prisoner. Elizabeth, calling herself Duchess-Dowager of Kingston, walked in led by Black Rod and Mr. La Roche, courtesying profoundly to her judges. The peers made her a slight bow. The prisoner was dressed in deep mourning, a black hood on her head, her hair modestly dressed and powdered, a black silk sacque with crape trimmings, black gauze, deep ruffles and black gloves. The counsel spoke about an hour and a quarter each. Dunning's manner is insufferably bad, coughing and spitting at every three words, but his sense and expression were pointed to the last degree. He made her grace shed bitter tears. The fair victim had four virgins in white behind the bar. . . . The Duchess has but small remains of that beauty of which kings and princes were once so enamored. . . . I forgot to tell you the Duchess was taken ill, but performed it badly." As to her acting, Mrs. More did not certainly judge fairly, for Garrick said that at her trial "she so much outacted him that it was time for him to leave the stage."

In a subsequent letter Mrs. More says: "I have the great satisfaction of telling you that Elizabeth, calling herself Duchess of Kingston, was this very afternoon undignified and un-Duchessed, and very narrowly escaped being burned in the hand. If you have been half so much against this unprincipled, artful, licentious woman as I have, you will be rejoiced at it, as I am. Lord Camden breakfasted with us. He is very angry that she was not burned in the hand. He says, as he was once a professed lover of hers, he thought it would have looked ill-natured and ungallant for him to propose it, but that he should have acceded to it most heartily, though he believes he should have recommended a cold iron." The description is doubtless a truthful one, but has a very unwomanly spice of ill-nature in it. Her persecutors also entirely failed in their chief object-the restitution of the property-for the Duke had so worded the bequest that it was hers under any title, she being called in it "my dearest wife, Elizabeth, Duchess of Kingston, alias Elizabeth Chudleigh, alias Elizabeth Hervey." "Did you ever," asks Horace Walpole, "hear of a Duchess inscribed in a will as a harlot is indicted at the Old Bailey?"

Her last exploit was a visit to the court of Russia, whither she went en princesse, sending magnificent gifts before her. The Empress appointed a palace for her residence, and received her in a royal manner. During her residence there, she purchased an estate near St. Petersburg worth £12,000. Then she returned to France, where also she had great possessions, but receiving some news that displeased her, she fell into a violent passion and broke a blood-vessel. Against all orders she persisted in rising. "My heart feels oddly; I will have a glass of Madeira." It was brought her; she drank it, and pronounced herself "charmingly indeed"-but in a few minutes she was dead.

The world knew all her faults; her excellences were not so well known. Yet she was splendidly generous in nature, and unostentatiously charitable. She remembered favors gratefully, and was capable not only of forgiving but of assisting a fallen foe. She was a woman of great courage, never traveled without pistols, and never feared to use them, if necessary. Her whole life and character indeed was a romance, and if fully written would doubtless be condemned as too improbable a fiction.

Duchess of Queensberry, and not seldom called "the mad Duchess." Eccentricity was her delight, and Lady Bolingbroke gave her the title of "La Singularité," a name which greatly pleased her. She was, however, a good wife and a good woman and a most sincere friend. To the poet Gay she was as constant a patron as her husband; and was, indeed, forbidden court because of her exertions in his behalf after the prohibition of "The Beggars' Opera."

Prior's description of her is not only very characteristic, but was also at one time very popular. In it he tells us how "Kitty, beautiful and young," pleaded for permission to go into the world and try her fortune, and how, having prevailed, "Kitty, at heart's desire, "Obtained the chariot for a day

And set the world on fire."

Half a century after Prior wrote, Horace Walpole said: "The Duchess of Queensberry is still figuring in the world, not only by giving frequent balls, but really by her beauty. Reflect that she was a goddess in Prior's days. I could not help adding these lines to his description of Kitty, beautiful and young':

"To many a Kitty, Love his ear
Will for a day engage;

But Prior's Kitty, ever fair,
Obtained it for an age."

Walpole's impromptu brought a reply in the Gentleman's Magazine, in which Kitty is made to account for Walpole's admiration thus:

"Guess why,' she cried, his praise I share
With Roman and with Greek?
Such connoisseurs admire the rare

And prize the true antique.""

Walpole has spoken of being at her balls; at one of them she gave him a characteristic reproof for having retired with Lord Lorn and George Selwyn to a snug little room for a comfortable, selfish chat. She sent a