University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE PAST AND THE PRESENT.

Concerning Ruth's history before the night
of her first encounter with Stanford, I have
said but little. Her mother was the daughter
of a gentleman of large fortune, named Gordon,
who resided in Philadelphia, and owned
extensive coffee plantations in Cuba. She was
one of three children, of whom all were girls.
Unlike her sisters, she was beautiful and interesting;
and being, in addition, the youngest,
she was naturally the belle of the family. In
a city distinguished for its lovely faces, few
could compete in personal charms with May
Gordon; and yet it was not her symmetrical
shape, or the faultless contour of her features,
which constituted the witchery of her presence:
it was the soul that beamed through
all—the ever-shifting expression, which gave
to her countenance that “infinite variety,” of
which the gazer could never weary.

With such attributes, and the reputation of
an heiress, it was not surprising that there
should be numerous suiters for her hand. She
reached her twentieth year, however, with a
heart as free and unscathed as a young eagle's,
who is taking his first flight towards the sun.
But the hour of trial was approaching.

The Gordons were a musical family, and it
was the pride of the mother that the best private
concerts in the city were had at her house.
To compass this object of her ambition, it was
often necessary to invite foreigners, who, however
well versed they might be in the mysteries
of sol, fa, la, quavers, demi-semi-quavers,
crotchets, allegros, and adagios, were frequently
adventurers of rather questionable credit:
people, in short, whose vocal notes were more
likely to prove current than their notes of hand.
The inquiries she made in selecting the attendants
at her parties were not, “Is he respectable?
Is he a person fit to associate with my
daughters?” but, “Can he sing Italian music?
Can he accompany Isabella in the duet from
`Don Giovanni?' Does he play on any instrument?”

It chanced that among the English residents
in Philadelphia was a young man named Loveday,
the son of a curate of small means and
lowly origin. Poor as he was, however, the
father had managed to educate his boy at Eton,
and to send him a few years afterward to the
United States to seek his fortune.

Loveday had the manners and appearance of
a gentleman, and was a most accomplished performer
on the flute. He had not been in the
city a week before he was invited, through the
agency of a fellow-passenger in the ship in
which he left England, to a musical party at
Mrs. Gordon's, who, after hearing him execute
a solo accompaniment on the flute in a style
extremely acceptable to his hearers, gave him

a standing invitation to the house on the evenings
of Tuesday and Saturday. The curate's
son was not backward in expressing his acknowledgments.
His eyes had lighted on a
face which had affected him as he had never
been affected before; and was it vanity that
led him to believe that May Gordon's glances
had met his more than once, and not by accident?

The sequel has already been partly told. In
spite of the indignant opposition of her parents,
May Gordon consented to forsake home and
friends, and the prospect of a large inheritance,
to unite herself to him on whom she had lavished
the wealth of her pure and disinterested affections.
Loveday was young. He had but
recently arrived in the country, and was full of
hope. He soon found that the avenues to employment
were more crowded than he had anticipated;
and, after some unavailing attempts
to obtain a profitable situation as a clerk, he
resorted to the task of giving lessons on the
flute for a subsistence. An affection of the
chest soon drove him from this vocation. Having
some taste for drawing, and a knowledge
of the art of cutting designs on wood, he had
then removed to New-York, and adopted the
profession of an engraver, which he continued
until a trouble in the eyes shut him out from
all his resources for obtaining a livelihood.

Never, through all her vicissitudes and privations,
had Mrs. Loveday been heard to utter a
word of regret and repining at the step she had
taken. On her husband's account, she bitterly

lamented her father's inhumanity; but, in her
dreariest moments of destitution, the thought
of Loveday's attachment and gentleness—nay,
his very misfortunes—threw a halo around her
lot, which she would not have exchanged for
all the glare and glitter of affluence and fashion.
Her children claimed and received her tenderest
care. Upon Ruth's early education she expended
a degree of thought and labour such as
few mothers, even the most prosperous, are
wont to give. The qualities of the child's heart
were first trained and expanded, and a consciousness
of her spiritual nature, of its dignity and
worth, its responsibilities and its destiny, was
sedulously developed. The intellectual faculties
were then exercised. Little accomplishments
were imparted. A taste for reading,
and for all mental gratifications of a blameless
character, was cultivated with assiduity.

In the midst of her maternal offices, Mrs. Loveday
was called upon, by the sure voice of death,
to quit her fleshly tenement. With a soul purified
by affliction, confident in its immortality,
and in the efficacy of the Saviour's mediation,
and overflowing with human love and tenderness,
she bade her husband and children farewell,
and passed the boundary of this present
stage of being. But goodness, even on earth,
can never wholly perish. It lives and generates
in the hearts to which its sanative contagion
has been imparted. Ruth afforded a beautiful
instance of this encouraging truth. Every useful
lesson, every generous example, every ennobling
influence, which the mother's hand had

ingrafted from her own bounteous store, grew
and flourished in the daughter's heart as in a
congenial soil. It seemed as if nothing which
the voice of maternal love had communicated
was forgotten or disregarded.

Five months had now elapsed since Stanford's
departure. Spring, with its birds and blossoms,
its gentle showers and sunny hours, had come.
Ruth's plans, which were conceived with foresight
and carried out with energy, seemed to
result prosperously. Through a rigid obedience
to the rules of health, her little family had escaped
the myriad maladies which beset humanity.

By a frugal disposition of her means, she had
managed not only to send Frank and May to
school, but to purchase a goodly stock of cotton
clothing, so that a daily change in the essential
articles of attire next the skin might be effected.
This arrangement necessarily involved a
weekly bill for washing from Mrs. Bangs; but
Ruth preferred the luxury of cleanliness to every
other; and, so long as she did not overstep
her income, she saw no good reason why she
should not indulge in this species of extravagance,
if extravagance it could be called. How
far the remembrance of Stanford's parting advice
may have influenced her, I will not undertake
to say.

At school, Frank made a far more rapid progress
than Ruth had anticipated. He had come
to the conclusion that the best mode of escaping
the rod was not to merit it, and in this he
was successful, studying his lessons with care,

and never incurring a penalty for inattention or
bad deportment. In this creditable course he
received daily encouragement from his sister,
who hailed every new step that he made in
knowledge with sincere delight. She gradually
weaned him from his incipient taste for the
society of rude, unpolished boys, and, by operating
upon his ambition, induced him always to
aim at a respectable career in life. It was with
great difficulty that she overcame a habit he
had formed of always attending upon the fire-engines
when there was an alarm. For many
weeks Frank held out steadfastly; but, on learning
that there was a big dog in the city addicted
to the same propensity, who, the moment
the cry of “fire” was raised, ran to some engine-house
to superintend and accompany the
firemen, he resolved that he would set a good
example to his brute imitator, and abandoned
the practice.

Arthur still retained his fondness for books,
and Dr. Remington was so well pleased with
his fidelity and attention, that he lent him his
advice and assistance in the pursuit of a valuable
course of study. The hours which Arthur
employed in sitting in the doctor's wagon at
the doors of his patients were neither wasted
nor misapplied. He went diligently through
the Latin Grammar, and had made some inroads
into “Ovid” by the time at which our narrative
has arrived.

Nor were Ruth's musical studies neglected
amid her multifarious avocations. Monsieur
Mallet, though something of a “fanatic” in his

art, was thoroughly educated in all its branches;
and, becoming devotedly attached to his
“little pupil,” he took infinite pains in her instruction,
and was, with reason, well satisfied
with her progress. Ruth had a good natural
ear for music, and a clear, flute-like voice, and
she cultivated these faculties with her habitual
perseverance and strength of will. The good
Frenchman soon became justly proud of his pupil's
proficiency.

It was Ruth's custom to attend church regularly,
with her little family, every Sunday.
They sat in the free seats, where they generally
found a plenty of room. She had bought a
hymn-book to take with her; and once, when a
familiar air was played on the organ, she almost
unconsciously joined in the singing of the
choir. Far was it from her thoughts to attract
any attention by the act. It was a spontaneous
impulse, partly of devotion, and partly of musical
feeling; but, as she sat down, she accidentally
looked around, and all at once became conscious
that the eyes of some ladies and gentlemen
in an adjoining pew were earnestly fixed
upon her. Poor Ruth at first felt as if she had
been guilty of some terrible crime: an idea
which her innocent heart speedily shook off.
She resolved, however, to avoid giving such
occasions for remark in future.

As she was leaving the church, hand in hand
with Frank, one of the gentlemen whose attention
she had excited came up, with the evident
object of addressing her. Her heart beat high.
“Now he is going to rebuke me for disturbing

the choir!” thought she to herself. No such
thing, my dear Ruth. The gentleman is Mr.
Alison, one of the board of trustees of the
church. He has been much pleased with your
voice, and he wants you to sit in the singing-seats,
and offers you for your musical services
the sum of two dollars a week through the year!

Strange as it may seem, Ruth's first thought
was to decline the offer, through a distrust of
her own abilities to give satisfaction. It occurred
to her, however, that she ought to consult
Monsieur Mallet before rejecting so advantageous
an arrangement, and she told Mr. Alison
that she would call and give an answer to his
proposition before the next Sabbath.

“Very well, my dear; you will find my address
on this bit of pasteboard,” said he, handing
her his card.

Ruth communicated the circumstance to Monsieur
Mallet, and, in accordance with his advice,
and the promise of his instruction, she accepted
Mr. Alison's offer, and the following Sunday
made her appearance in the singing-seats, while
May, Arthur, and Frank took up their positions
where they could look directly in her
face. She acquitted herself much to the satisfaction
of all good judges in the congregation,
and did justice to the preparatory drilling which
had been bestowed upon her by her instructer.
With what an honest pride did May and her
two brothers hurry to the gallery door to take
her hand after the service was over, and her
trial had resulted in complete success! And
with what satisfaction did Frank and Arthur

drink in, and treasure up the complimentary
remarks upon the new singer, which they had
heard drop casually from this one and that
among the departing audience!

June, the month of roses, had now arrived,
when, on a clear, purple Saturday morning,
the little family arose with the expectation of
carrying into effect a long-projected plan for
recreation and amusement. This momentous
scheme was nothing less than an excursion of
pleasure across the river to Hoboken. For
weeks and months it had been anticipated and
dreamed of, and at length there was a prospect
that the bright vision would result in a still
brighter reality. The orphans had read of
green fields and waving forests, but beyond the
little glimpses of woodland they could find in
the Park, in St. John's Square, and the Battery,
they had no definite idea of a rural scene. They
had all their lives long been doomed to a city
life, in the strictest sense of the phrase. They
were city children, and all their associations
were connected with brick walls, paved streets,
and rattling carts. Ruth had once seen a humming-bird
quaffing sweetness from the tube of a
honeysuckle, which grew in the front yard of
a mansion in the upper part of the city; and
Frank, in his winter visit to Providence, had
seen acres and acres of land covered with trees,
and dotted here and there only with the habitations
of men; but little knew they of that
pomp and affluence of verdure with which Summer
arrays our woods and fields; little dreamed
they of the sweetness of a clover-field newly

mown; of the melody of a wild bird's song,
and the delicious breath of the early woodland
flowers.

They had read of these things in prose and
in verse, and now, for the first time, was the delightful
hope of witnessing them to be realized.
Is it wonderful that there should have been
something intoxicating in the very anticipation?

Doctor Remington had, of his own accord,
offered Arthur a holyday. At Frank's school
there chanced to be a vacation of a week, so
that he would be a free man for the occasion.
May's school did not keep on Saturdays. As for
Ruth herself, by stealing a half hour daily from
that portion of time devoted to sleep during the
two weeks before, she had richly earned the
holyday to which they now looked forward.

Among the invited guests on this grand occasion
were William Bangs and his cousin, little
Lucy Marvell. Early on the morning assigned,
they all breakfasted together in Ruth's room.
A nice tin pail was then filled with materials
for a dinner: bread and butter, some thin slices
of cold salt beef, a parcel of buns, and a paper
full of almonds and raisins, which had been contributed
by Mr. Bibb on hearing of the projected
excursion. Shawls, bonnets, and caps
were then eagerly put on. Frank was at first
disposed to wear his formidable old hat; but,
upon the whole party's exclaiming against it, he
contented himself with his “patent leather,” as
he was wont to call the cap that had been presented
to him at the period of his visit to Providence.

All being equipped, Ruth locked the door, and
taking Lucy's hand, while William Bangs took
that of May, and Frank and Arthur carried the
tin pail by turns, they sallied forth into the
street. It was that sweet hour just after sunrise,
when the stillness and repose of night seem
to be lingering in the air, though its darkness
has fled. The sidewalks and paving-stones
were yet moist, and the gray, narrow streets
looked even fair and cheerful beneath the rosy
light that was flushing the sky and streaming
over the earth.

“Isn't it a first-rate morning, Ruth?” cried
Frank.

“Ask me rather, Isn't it a beautiful one?” she
replied.

“I say, Bill Bangs, were you ever in a steamboat?”
asked Frank.

“I went to Brooklyn once in the ferry-boat,”
answered Bill.

“Crossing the river is nothing,” continued
Frank, with the air of a man who has seen the
world. “You were never off Point Judith, were
you?”

“I never heard of such a place.”

“It is a good way out at sea. You pass it in
going to Providence. Such fun as it was to see
the people sea-sick as we were rounding it!
But I wasn't sick at all. Mr. Lawrence told me
I was a first-rate sailor.”

“How high were the waves, Frank?” asked
Lucy Marvell.

“About as high as the Astor House, sometimes,
I should think,” said Frank.

“Merciful me! we sha'n't meet such high
waves going to Hoboken, shall we?”

“Nonsense, Lucy! It is nothing at all going
to Hoboken. We shall not be on the water
more than fifteen minutes. But I guess, if you
were to see Point Judith, it would frighten
you.”

“There have been greater travellers than you,
Frank—for instance, Captain Cook and Captain
Riley,” said Ruth.

“Yes,” replied Arthur; “but they merely fell
into the hands of Otaheitans and Arabs. Now
Frank, you know, had to encounter a gang of
news-boys.”

Finding that he was likely to be “quizzed,”
Frank changed the subject, and remarked that
there were not many people in Broadway yet
a while; to which Master Bangs replied, that
the omnibuses didn't begin to run till seven
o'clock.

Arriving at the head of Barclay-street, the little
party at length reached the ferry between
the city and Hoboken. Here a friendly altercation
arose between Bill Bangs and Arthur
Loveday as to who should pay the fare across.
But Ruth settled the question by reminding Bill
that he and Lucy were their guests for the day,
and that it was contrary to all rule for him to
bear any portion of the expense. This assurance
proving satisfactory, Arthur was allowed
to negotiate undisturbed with the toll-keeper for
the passage of the whole party. I must not linger
with them too long in their voyage across
the river. They chanced to be the only passengers

in the boat; and I doubt if it ever carried
six happier beings.

Everything was fresh and novel in their
eyes. The glittering bay—the ships moored at
the wharves—a United States frigate at anchor
off the Battery—Staten Island emerging through
the purple mist in the distance—Long Island,
with its villages and villas, stretching out towards
the Narrows; and then the view up the
river: the city, with its steeples and stately
buildings sparkling in the sun, on one side—
Hoboken, Weehawken, and the distant Palisades
on the other—all seemed to them like enchantment.

But when they touched the longed-for shore,
and, passing through the gateways and walks
that lead to the “Elysian Fields,” entered that
beautiful strip of woodland, and stood beneath a
canopy of leaves and waving branches, through
which they could see patches of bright
blue sky, their delight knew no bounds.

“Look, Ruth! There's a bluebird!” exclaimed
Frank, pointing to one of the topmost
boughs of a young hickory-tree.

“And here's a blue flower!” cried Lucy Marvell.
“Only look here, May Loveday! Isn't
it pretty?”

“Hullo! There's a squirrel! There he goes!
Look! Look! Up that oak-tree!” exclaimed
William Bangs.

“Where? Where? I don't see him—yes I
do—now don't say a word, while I find a stone,”
said Frank.

“Stop, Frank,” interposed Ruth. “Why do

you want to harm that merry little fellow in
gray?”

“Well, it is wrong to kill him, isn't it, Ruth?”
returned Frank, abandoning his search.

“To be sure it is. Do you not remember
the lines by Coleridge which I read to you the
other day from a newspaper?

“I should like it, though, consumedly, to have
a squirrel in a cage,” said Frank, shaking his
head.

“That is a very silly desire, Frank. For my
part, I could never bear to see either birds or
squirrels shut up in a cage. Nor could I ever
imagine what pleasure it could give people to
confine three or four gold-fishes in a glass globe.
I do not believe that the birds, the squirrels,
and the fishes relish such treatment any more
than you would.”

“I see a bird's nest! By George, I must
have that,” cried Frank, as, throwing down his
cap with an air of great excitement, he rushed
towards the trunk of a tall chestnut-tree, and began
climbing it nimbly.

“You will tumble, Frank!” said Arthur.

“No I will not,” replied Frank, mounting to
the nearest branch. “Here I am! Huzza!”

By dint of great exertion, and after several
times hazarding his neck, Frank reached the
coveted nest, which turned out to be old and
dried up.

“I thought that birds' nests always had eggs
in them!” said he, as, vexed and disappointed,
he threw down the worthless trophy.

“Let it teach you, Frank, to be always sure
that your game is worth the getting before you
risk your neck for it,” said Arthur.

It was nearly half an hour before Frank could
get safely down to the ground from the fork
of the tree, and then he would not have succeeded
had he not been aided and encouraged
by Arthur and William.

“Now, girls and boys,” cried Ruth, “now
that Frank is safe, let us have a good game of
hide and seek.”

“Agreed!” exclaimed all concerned; and
the “alleys green” of the forest were soon
made to ring again with their laughter and their
shouts.

After they had rested from this sport, they
strolled in the direction of the river's edge, and
visited the grotto, where a limpid spring has
its source, and watched the steamboats as they
sped along, lashing into furrows of foam the
surface of the noble Hudson.

Time fled more rapidly than they could have
conceived; and, as it drew near to one o'clock,
Frank began to throw out some very significant
hints as to the propriety of having dinner.

“Now, then,” said Ruth, “let us see who
will select the best spot for our pic-nic. What
a sweet, balmy day it is! I see a place where
we may spread our repast. Follow me!”

Ruth led the way towards a level, moss-grown
rock, that overhung the river's bank, and from

which a fine view of the surrounding scenery
might be obtained. It was sufficiently shaded
by a tall oak, that towered at one extremity,
and there were knobs or cushions of earth
around, upon which the party might sit or recline
in comfort. The opinion was unanimous,
that a better spot for their purpose could not
be selected. There, then, was the tin pail deposited,
while its contents were neatly spread
upon a large clean napkin by Ruth.

“I tell you what, Ruth, I feel hungry,” said
Frank. “Are we all ready?”

“Stop a moment,” she replied. “We surely
cannot look around on this beautiful earth, and
breathe this delicious air, and see these evidences
of the bounty and goodness of our Father
in heaven, without giving a few moments to
thoughts of adoration and of gratitude. Let
us, then, silently, but devoutly, offer up our
thanks.”

The suggestion did not fall upon cold or reluctant
hearts. The children knelt in impressive
silence for a full minute, until Ruth set the
example of rising.

“Now I am sure,” said she, looking round
upon her little party with a smile, “we shall
take our meal with spirits more cheerful than
ever; and cheerfulness is better than all the
sauces in the world to make a dinner relish.
Do you not think so, William?”

“Somehow or other, I always think what you
say is right,” replied William.

“Then allow me to say that a piece of this
salt beef between these slices of bread and butter
will do you no harm.”

“Thank you, Ruth; my appetite doesn't need
much coaxing. You are right again.”

“Miss Lucy Marvell, permit me to help you
to a sandwich. To you the same, Miss May
Loveday. Arthur, shall I have the pleasure?
Frank, can I not persuade you?”

“I tell you what, Miss Loveday, I don't require
much persuasion. I feel hungry enough
to relish a piece of old shoe.”

“Well, Frank, before you seriously begin
upon that beef, just take this bowl, and fill it at
the fountain.”

“I'll do it, Ruth; but if I meet any bullocks
by the way, I won't be answerable for their
lives.”

Frank hastened to fulfil his sister's request,
and in a few minutes returned with a large
bowl full of clear cold water, into which they
all dipped their mugs, as their thirst impelled
them.

It was a memorable feast, under that big oak-tree,
with the soft summer wind rustling the
leaves, the river flashing in the pure sunlight,
the perfume of wild flowers and forest shrubs
filling the air! The repast was followed by a
song or two from Ruth, and then the little party
dispersed through the woods, to gather such
blossoming trophies as they could find to bear
home.

It was nearly five o'clock before they reached
the ferry-boat to recross the river on their return
to the city. One of the first persons they
encountered on board was Mr. Bangs, William's
father. In conversation with him was a young

man of a handsome exterior, plainly but elegantly
dressed in a black frock-coat, white pantaloons,
and vest. He carried a riding whip; and
in the forward part of the boat, tied to the railing,
stood a glossy blood horse which belonged
to him. He seemed to be discussing with Bangs
the relative merit of certain horses, whose speed
they had been testing at the race-course.

“Depend upon it, Mr. Dangleton, I am right,”
said Bangs, “in my opinion of that beast. He
has ten times the speed and strength of Duane.”

“I am disposed to agree with you, Bangs,”
replied the young man; “but, at the same time,
I cannot help remembering how you misled me
in regard to Holloway's Black Jane. There
you missed it confoundedly. I lost fifteen hundred
dollars through my foolish confidence in
your judgment.”

“But didn't I show my sincerity by losing
too?” asked Bangs.

“Yes; but what consolation was that to me,
Bangs, for the dwindling of my pocket-book?”

“I was right, after all, Mr. Dangleton. It was
entirely that little rascal's fault who rode her,
that she didn't win. I shall always believe that
he was bribed to make her shy in the last heat.”

“It may be so, Bangs. I have always esteemed
you a good judge of horse-flesh, and
will not discard you for making a mistake
once.”

“Thank you for your good opinion, Mr. Dangleton.
We will make up our losses on the next
race, and no mistake.”

At this moment the eye of Mr. Bangs fell on

his son, and, calling to him, he said, “How,
now, you young rascal? How came you here?
Who gave you permission to come?”

“I did up all my work yesterday, father,”
replied William; “and so, as Ruth Loveday and
her brothers were going over to Hoboken to
have a good time, mother consented to let me
and Lucy go with them.”

“So you came over with the Lovedays, did
you?”

“Yes, father,” replied William, trembling
with the anticipation of a cuff in the ear.

At the first mention of the name “Loveday,”
the attention of the young man who had been
conversing with Bangs was visibly excited; and
on its repetition, he said, half musingly, “Loveday!
Loveday! Was that the name, Bangs, I
heard from your lips?”

“Yes; I was only speaking of the children
who are sitting on the bench yonder. Their
name is Loveday.”

“Children! Loveday! This way a moment,
Bangs.”

Glad to be let off without a blow, William
hurried back to his friends; and Mr. Dangleton,
taking Bangs aside, remained with him a few
minutes in earnest conversation, during which
the former was so interested as to allow a cigar
which he had lighted to drop unnoticed from
his fingers. The communications of Bangs,
whatever they were, seemed to astonish, and, at
the same time, to gratify the young man. In a
state of nervous excitement, as if hardly knowing
what he was about, he took the arm of his

vulgar companion, and paced the deck with him,
directing piercing glances at Ruth: a condescension
at which Bangs was evidently amazed,
for Mr. Dangleton had never before treated him
as an equal.

The gaze of the young man became so constant
and intent, that Ruth at length was embarrassed,
and turned away, pointing out some
object of interest on the water to Lucy Marvell.
Before she could resume her former position,
she heard Bangs, in a tone of voice unusually
respectful, say, “Miss Ruth, here is a gentleman
who wishes to speak with you. Let me
make you acquainted with Mr. Dangleton.”

Ruth rose, bent her head slightly, and, lifting
her eyes, turned a look of inquiry upon the
young man.

Bowing gracefully, Mr. Dangleton took her
hand. She withdrew it in an instant. Her dark
eyes flashed, and the rosy blood streamed up
her neck and face to her forehead.

For a moment the handsome stranger was
silenced, struck partly with confusion at her
manner, and partly with admiration at her
charms. Quickly recovering his self-composure
and promptitude of address, he said, in a
sweet, low, and respectful tone, and with a look
of winning softness, “Do not think me impertinent,
young miss, in thus intruding myself
upon your acquaintance. But, having accidentally
heard from Bangs—I employ Bangs to buy
my horses,” added he, as he read a passing expression
of distrust in Ruth's features—“Hearing
from Bangs, I say, the story of your orphan

position—your industry and good management
—your judicious care of your brothers and sister—I
became, and very naturally, you must admit,
so much interested, that I could not forego
the opportunity of expressing my approbation
of your conduct, and, at the same time, of inquiring
if there is nothing I could do for yourself
or your brothers, in behalf of so much worth,
and, I may add,” continued he, lowering his
voice, “so much loveliness.”

The last word was an unfortunate one for
Dangleton, for it immediately put Ruth upon
her guard; and she coldly replied, “I thank you,
sir, for your offered kindness, but can assure
you that we do not need it. This very holyday
excursion, from which we are just returning, is
a proof.”

“True. I did not imagine that you required
any charitable aid; but I knew that a man in
my circumstances has it often in his power, by
a word of recommendation, to obtain a good
place in a store, for instance, for a lad in whose
welfare he may chance to take an interest. Believe
me, I was anxious to avoid giving you offence.”

“You have given none,” said Ruth, looking
him calmly in the face.

“I rejoice to have your assurance that it is
so,” resumed the young man, in his blandest
tones. “You will at least leave me the satisfaction
of knowing that, in case I should hear
of any situation which would be an advantageous
one for one of your brothers, I may call and
inform you respecting it? Surely you will not
say nay to this?”

“Neither of my brothers,” replied Ruth, “at
present desires any change of situation. One
is at school, and the other pursuing his studies
in a manner the most agreeable to him.”

Mr. Dangleton bit his lip, and, turning away,
muttered to himself, “She is shy as a bird—
beautiful, however, and well worth the snaring.
What will Mr. Dangleton senior say to this
discovery? For the present, the secret is mine,
and I'll hold on to it. How fortunate! It can
be accomplished, of course—nay, it must and
shall.”

What the young man's reflections had been,
it was impossible to judge from his face, as,
again approaching Ruth, he said, with an air in
which benignity and respect seemed mingled,
“We must part friends—that I insist upon, Miss
Ruth; for, believe me, I had no other feeling
than one of kindness towards you and yours in
addressing you.”

“I do not doubt you,” said Ruth, her features
lighting up with a smile. “I have no
disposition to quarrel.”

“Your hand upon it!” exclaimed the young
man, gayly, at the same time extending his
hand.

Ruth frankly gave hers in return, and bade
Mr. Dangleton “good-day.”

The boat touched the wharf—the bell was
rung—the drawbridge lowered—and the children,
jumping on shore with their bundles of
wild-flowers, fern, and blossoming boughs, proceeded
up Barclay-street, talking, laughing, and
reminding one another over and over again of

the beautiful sights they had seen and the joys
they had tasted.

Mr. Dangleton, before quitting the boat, was
seen to stop five minutes, and enter into an
earnest conversation with Bangs; then mounting
his horse, he followed the Lovedays at a
slow pace as far as Broadway, when he waved
his hand in token of farewell to Ruth, and,
turning off in the direction of the Battery, proceeded
on his course at a fast trot.