University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
MISS FLORA BLOND'S MANSION IN NEW YORK—LUCY UNMASKS THE
SCOTCH EDITH-THE MILNORS—THE BLUE CARRIAGE.

The mansion in New York, occupied and owned by Miss
Flora Blount, was situated near the Battery, and was, half
a century before, considered one of the most stately and desirable
residences in the city. It had been the scene of many
gorgeous displays during the Revolution, and when Washington
was shivering among the snows of the Highlands. Its
halls and spacious chambers had resounded with British revelry,
while the stifled groans of the suffering Americans, exposed
to the inclemencies of a stormy winter, rose in effectual
appeals to the great Arbiter of human affairs; and it was decreed
that Sir Harry Clinton should ultimately relinquish not
only his comfortable quarters, but the city itself, and the entire
country, to their proper owners. All this, however, had
transpired years before the characters in this history were
born.

But the mansion itself had not changed. Since the death
of Maj. Blount, and the school days of Edith and Flora, the
house had not been repaired. There had been no paint bestowed
on the doors, the window shutters, or the iron railing
in front. There it stood just as it had done in the old colonial
days, a specimen of British architecture, and of the olden-time
ideas of comfort. Dust had accumulated on the sills,
above the windows, and in every place it was possible to find a
lodgment; and the spaces between the windows and the cornices
were festooned with cobwebs, just as many of the old
houses are in Parke street, London, and which are often occupied
by the nobility.

Within, however, the scene was different from the interior
of the Grosvenor square residences. The last occupant of the
Blount mansion seemed to have made no effort, or did not
possess the pecuniary ability, to vie in magnificence of furniture,
with the proud dames of the fashionable west end of
London. Within and without the scene was the same. Neglect
or dilapidation was observable wherever the eye might

rest. The old lion-headed knocker remained on the door; a
great glass globule, containing the oil-fed lamp, was still suspended
in the hall; in the parlors were retained the old high-backed
chairs, the carving worn smooth, and the wood turned
black with age, as was the case with all the furniture; and
the carpets, once luxurious and beautiful, were now threadbare,
with their figures nearly obliterated. There were, however,
mirrors, and fine paintings, which had not deteriorated,
except in the frames, from which the gilt had long since disappeared.

The old fire-places remained as they were originally built,
and no gas-pipes had invaded the premises. A pump was in
the rear yard, from whose spout Andre, and Agnew, and
Howe had quaffed the flowing water. The spirit of innovation
had passed harmlessly over the old Blount homestead,
and for some unexplained purpose, the last of the
name was permitted to escape the predominant mania of the
times.

Like many other ladies, Miss Flora Blount, having survived
the last decade of half a century, had neither talent nor taste
for business. But she had enjoyments, and so long as she
might not be molested in the indulgence of them, she was quite
willing the burden of the management of her pecuniary affairs
should be borne by another. And in her case, the one which
had been supplied by chance, was eminently adapted to the
purpose, both of relieving her principal of the cares of providing
the ways and means in an economical establishment, and
of providing for herself. This individual was the one already
introduced to the reader—Miss Edith McCrabbed. She had
been recommended by one of Flora's literary acquaintances,
when travelling abroad, and had been met with in Edinburgh.
She was the niece of an old lady of decayed fortune, who was
under the necessity of letting lodgings in a house she held on
a long lease in Duke street, and with whom had sojourned occasionally,
Sir Walter Scott, James Hogg, Jno. Wilson, and
other worthies famous in the world of letters. Miss Edith, although
she had acted in the capacity of a sort of upper servant
to her aunt, had nevertheless enjoyed the acquaintance of
the lodgers, and became familiar with many anecdotes relating
to their professional pursuits, etc. And she had read their
works, particularly those of Scott, and of the other writers of fiction,
and could readily sympathize with Flora in her appreciation

of romantic characters. She was a treasure, such as Flora
had often sighed to possess; and Edith soon perceived that
her lot had been cast with one exactly suited to her taste and
purposes.

By an almost imperceptible process, Edith obtained the exclusive
direction of the affairs of her confiding employer, and
finally managed them in such a manner that the least possible
amount of the miseries of life should be endured by either of
them, while the greatest possible sum of profit should be realized
for herself. One after another the servants had been
dismissed, and Scotch substitutes were temporarily introduced
to perform the indispensable duties periodically occurring.
Last of all the cook had been dispensed with, and a contract
entered into with a Scotch restaurateur to furnish the table.
By degrees the guests entertained at Flora's board became
diminished in number, she could not tell how or why; and
finally they ceased altogether to enjoy her hospitality, such at
least as involved any expense. Upon the first symptoms of
dissatisfaction at such a result of the system of economy introduced
by her friend—she never called her otherwise—Edith
exhibited a statement of the income and expenditures of the
establishment, and thus silenced all objections.

And now the only guests that the circumstances of Flora
permitted her to entertain at the social hearth, or otherwise,
were the few surviving old maids or gay matrons who had
been her contemporaries in girlhood, and still remembered the
importance and high standing of the Blount family in former
days. These ancient friends, themselves mostly aristocratic in
their antecedents, and generally wealthy, from the increase in
value of old estates remaining in their families, which appreciation
their husbands, sons, or brothers, had the acuteness to
perceive, and to avail themselves of, still called at the Blount
mansion, and enjoyed the rhapsodies of Flora over the last
British novel. They came in their own coaches, while the economical
administration of Edith required their visits to be returned
in omnibuses.

The table was set in the breakfast room, before a diminutive
fire feebly blazing on the hearth; at one corner of which
was seated Lucy Winkle, in an old leather-covered arm-chair;
at the other Edith McCrabbed, enveloped in a thick shawl,
occupied a low stool.

“I am shivering with the cold,” said Lucy, putting down

the paper she had been reading, and placing on the fire a small
piece of wood. She then endeavored to assist its ignition by
means of the bellows.

“Pardon me, Miss Lucy,” said Miss McCrabbed, “but I
must warn you against any useless extravagance, if you would
not see your aunt brought to absolute destitution. If that wood
should burn as freely as you desire, it would be consumed before
your aunt comes down. She will be late this morning.
You know it was midnight when she left the opera; and after
she got to bed I read the piece to her in the English translation,
which was not finished until three o'clock this morning
—for the affecting scenes had to be repeated three or four
times—”

“That was not contrary to her habit, Miss McCrabbed,”
said Lucy, puffing away with the bellows—“but I don't see
why we should not be comfortable. I am sure my aunt would
be grieved to think we had been suffering. There; it is burning
now.”

“It would almost break her heart! Never, I beg of you,
insinuate such a thing in her presence. You know how delicate
her nerves are, and tender her sensibilities. It would be
cruel to wound her susceptible feelings.”

“True, indeed. But still it seems to me that it would
be cruel to ourselves to suffer from cold for the want of a
little wood. The boy, McIlhenny, when he comes again, ought
to fill the box.”

“You know I am willing to do any thing. I have no pride.
It is not that I object to going into the cellar myself. No,
indeed. There is no sort of labor or drudgery I am afraid of
putting my hands to. But I am afraid of putting them too
often and too deeply into your aunt's purse. Wood is eight
dollars per cord, and they charge two for sawing and piling it
in the cellar.”

“Well? Is not my aunt's income sufficient?”

“Sufficient! If it had not been for my economy—my
Scotch economy, as some of the extravagant friends of your
aunt sneeringly call it—this house would have been sold over
our heads long ago.”

“Is it possible? Why, does not my aunt own another
house?”

“Yes—that is the old store in Broadway—and it alone supplies

the means of subsistence. She has lived upon the rent
of it these thirty years.”

“What sum does it rent for, Miss McCrabbed?”

“It would be difficult to say,” said Miss McCrabbed, petulantly.
“The taxes increase every year, and must be paid out
of the next quarter's rent, which does not fall due for a week
yet. Then there are a hundred dollars for repairing the roof,
and other items—over five hundred dollars in all.”

“I am sorry to hear it. I am sure it will require a large
portion of the quarter's rent to pay the taxes and repairs.”

“You may be quite sure of that. But if it was all!
Only glance your eye at the bundle of bills on the side table.
The restaurateur's bill is another hundred, and the bookseller's
as much more; and there are twenty smaller bills, and
all must be paid on the first of the month. It is my duty to
show these bills to your aunt; but she never shocks her nerves
by undoing them and looking at the disgusting figures. And
when they are paid, she won't even examine the receipts. I
am astonished that a young lady of your delicacy,” continued
Miss McCrabbed, as Lucy approached the table and untied
the papers, “can have the patience and moral courage, or rather
the hardihood, to read the items; and particularly such items
as some of them contain. I would not look at them, Miss
Winkle. The cabinetmaker has put down so much for mending
an old piano leg, and repairing a sofa bottom; and his
charges are outrageous—but must be paid.”

“But how much per quarter does my aunt receive for the
store?” repeated Lucy, whose quick eye soon comprehended
the rather startling sum total of the demands to be met at the
end of the month, then on the eve of expiring.

“Oh, it was rented by your aunt herself, before I left Scotland,
to the Messrs. Milnor & Co.; you can ask her. I have,
it is true, collected the rent for many years, and paid all the
bills.”

“Then you know exactly the amount of her income and
expenditures?”

“How curious you are! If some of your aunt's acquaintances
were to hear you, they wouldn't hint any more that
poor Edith was laying plans to fall heir to Miss Flora's fortune,
such as it is.”

“My object, Miss McCrabbed, is to learn if my sojourn
here is a burden that ought not to be imposed on my aunt.”

“I am sure of it, if any extravagance is indulged. You
must not be offended at my plain speech, which means nothing.
You may rely upon it, your kind aunt never knows what she
can afford, or what she has to pay with, but from me. Be
economical, as I am, and don't startle her by any allusions to
her pecuniary affairs, and the expense of your living shall
never enter her mind. You may rely upon me for that.”

Lucy mused in silence, while pretending to resume the
perusal of the paper, and Miss McCrabbed, turning away her
face, employed herself in separating the sticks of wood in such
a manner as to prevent them from being too quickly consumed.

Miss Flora Blount came down at length, holding a volume
in her hand. There were traces of tears on her cheeks, evidences
of the power of the gifted novelist.

Miss Flora's age has been already hinted at sufficiently
near. But, being fat, and somewhat rotund in outline, she
bore her years very lightly, and still preserved a fulness of
cheek, and smoothness of skin, not often possessed by others
twenty years her junior. And her hair was still of a glossy
blackness, which was sufficiently indicative of the fact that
her sensitive nerves had not been often assailed by the miserable
shocks incident to age. Poor as her Scotch companion
represented her, it was nevertheless quite evident that apprehensions
of future destitution and misery had not been permitted
to prey too deeply upon her tender life. Inroads of
that nature upon her spirits, might have caused an investigation,
and the adoption of a new system of finance.

“My dear Lucy,” said Flora, “why do you neglect your
toast? Is not the coffee good?”

“Excellent, dear aunt—it is always good. But, for
some cause, and I am sure I cannot describe it, my appetite
does not appear to be so voracious this morning as usual.”

“You alarm me! Edith, what do you suppose it is?
You can always tell what ails me, and find a remedy. I wish
you would learn the habits and wants of Lucy. She must
not grow melancholy, or I shall be very unhappy.”

“She has been allowing her mind to dwell upon pecuniary
matters, and dull affairs of business,” said Miss McCrabbed.

“Oh, don't do that, my dear child—it will spoil your face.
If I had undertaken to manage my own business, no doubt I
should have been in the grave long ago. I owe my life to
Edith. Dr. McGab has told me so a hundred times. And

he assures me I shall never go to the poor-house, so long as
his countrywoman can be induced to stay with me. You must
give me at least a ten years' notice, Edith, before you leave,
so that I may put my house in order, for I shall not survive
your loss. Don't shed tears, dear Edith, or I shall be unnerved.
I am sure you won't desert me. But if Lucy would
get you to think for her on the subject of her mother's affairs,
I am certain you would be able to devise a plan by which my
poor sister might live in comfort on the little estate she has
remaining.”

“I would do so with pleasure,” said Miss McCrabbed, “if
it were not that Miss Lucy has a brother. The men think
our sex should not meddle with matters of business. They
deem us incapable of such duties. But—bless me, how loud
somebody rings! Excuse me—it must be the postman.”
And she arose and went to the street door.

“She was mistaken, aunt,” said Lucy. “I was not dwelling
upon my dear mother's affairs at all—but upon yours.”

“Mine? Oh, leave that to Edith. She understands
every thing, and her face is already spoiled by the cares of
business.”

“But I am afraid my living with you will add too much
to your expenses.”

“Not so! You will soon get accustomed to Edith's ways.
She'll find the means of paying the bills. See what a number
of them she has placed on the table for my inspection. The
honest creature really supposes I may some time or other be
disposed to examine them!”

“I have been examining some of them, aunt; and I wish
you would permit me to go and settle them for you.”

“Have you no aversion for such things, my dear Lucy?”

“Not the least. I have been accustomed to paying my
mother's bills, when Walter was absent.”

“If you could relieve poor Edith—for she has run herself
down to a mere shadow—but then she would not consent to it.
She don't mind trouble. If she had not dissuaded me from
having Walter along with you, he might have attended to
such things—but, really, she convinced me there was no chamber
fit to lodge him, without additional furniture were purchased;
and there was no money to spare.”

“Aunt Flora, can you tell me the exact sum you derive
from the rent of the store?”

“Not exactly—but Edith knows. I leased it for $2,000
per annum, many years ago. The lease has been renewed
every three years, Edith having my authority to let it. I
have not seen Mr. Milnor for a great while, nor been in the
store since it was altered, and the marble front added. I
suppose the expense was taken out of the rent; but I don't
know; and I have an utter aversion to bills and figures.”

“I have never known which store it was, aunt: and I
should like to see it when I pass up the street. Do you know
the number?”

“I declare I don't remember. But you can find it by looking
in the directory at the apothecaries'.”

“I will do so. I understand all these bills are due, aunt;
and Edith told me they couldn't be paid until the next quarter's
rent fell due. Suppose I try my hand at this business
for you?”

“If you have any taste for it, child, and will not let Edith
know any thing about it, I am sure I can have no objection.
You know Dr. McGab said you ought to walk at least two
hours every day.”

“I think so, and I was always fond of walking. But I
dislike going alone. Will you not go with me? The doctor
said you ought to walk to avoid a plethora with which you
are threatened.”

“I am too indolent. I don't care what the doctor says.
My health is nearly always good. But what is the matter
with Edith? Do you not hear her sobbing?”

“I do, indeed.”

Edith entered the room with an open letter in her hand,
and tears were streaming over her sallow cheeks.

“I'm ruined!” said she; “all my savings and earnings for
ten years are gone!”

“Why, what do you mean? You frighten me, Edith!”
said Miss Blount.

“Oh, my dear Miss Flora, bear with me, and don't suffer
your dear nerves to be unhinged. It is all my loss; you are
fortunately no sufferer. Read it, Miss Blount—read the
terrible letter. But I beg you will be composed!”

It was a letter from Mr. McCrabbed, her brother in Philadelphia,
informing her that the money remitted him had been
placed in the hands of a clergyman of their country for investment,
and had been lost by his failure.

“Edith!” exclaimed Miss Blount, “you know I have
a horror of figures. But I have never paid you any wages
yet, as I intended to provide for you in my will, if you survived
me. How, on earth, then, could you have lost $3,000
by this dishonest countryman of yours, and a clergyman, too?
I am sure you had no money when you left Scotland, for I remitted
the funds to pay your passage. But never mind, poor
thing—see how she weeps—any other time will do to explain.
I hate such things. Go into your room and become composed.”

Edith made her escape, her usually pale face glowing
with rage—for, acute as she was, she had inadvertently made
an exposure of her gains which had not been at all necessary.

“Does it not seem to you, aunt, that there is something
very extraordinary in this discovery?”

“I confess it seems inexplicable, Lucy. But I have a
great repugnance to such things. I am in a tremor now,
and can hear the palpitations of my heart. I must lie down.
You can go, Lucy, and have your walk. Edith will not think
of the bills any more to-day; and if you could contrive to
have them paid by the Milnors, I am sure it would save Edith
a deal of trouble.”

Lucy soon after descended the dingy marble steps, and
passing through the old iron gate which creaked on its hinges,
and required all her strength to open, joined the ever-moving
throng of pedestrians flowing into the great thoroughfare of
the city. Wrapped in her furs, and radiant with health, the
fine form and handsome face of Lucy could not fail to attract
attention in any city; but in New York the curious glances
were really oppressive. Nevertheless she was a brave girl,
and had resolved to rescue her aunt from what she believed
to be an iniquitous thraldom.

Glancing over the bills in her hand as she walked along,
she was struck with the fact that a majority of her aunt's
creditors were Macs, and Cummingses, and Campbells; for
it had never occurred to her before, that the foreigners who
flourish in our country, when once they obtain a foothold, are
extremely clannish; and proscribing the natives, bestow their
patronage on their own countrymen.

She called on several of the mechanics and tradespeople,
and exhibiting their bills inquired if they did not seem a
little exorbitant, remarking that she should obtain a list of

prices from others so as to enable her aunt to institute a
comparison. In every instance there was an abatement of
some twenty per cent., and she was informed that a similar
reduction had always been made at the solicitation of Miss
McCrabbed, although the bills were receipted in full as they
were made out and presented.

Promising to attend to the settlement of their demands,
Lucy proceeded next to the apothecary's, to ascertain the
address of the Messrs. Milnor, her aunt's tenants. As she
was entering the shop, she beheld Miss Bell Arum and Miss
Susan Crudle standing near one of the counters, and luxuriating
in a draught of soda water. She did not speak to
them. She did not know whether they could recognize her
features through her veil, which was down; and she did not
desire to renew her acquaintance with them unless quite certain
she had been recognized. At all events, if they desired
to hold any conversation with her, they should be the first to
speak. While she was looking into the directory, the young
ladies withdrew, but not without casting several glances in
her direction. She felt rather relieved than annoyed that
they had purposely avoided a recognition, or had not observed
her particularly.

But a moment after she was appalled at beholding Roland
descending from a blue carriage near the apothecary's shop
and he was waving a salute to the Misses Arum and Crudle,
on the opposite side of the street. While his attention was
attracted in that direction, Lucy hastily mingled with a
party of ladies and gentlemen passing briskly along, and thus
escaped his observation.

The store occupied by the Messrs. Milnor & Co. was
found without difficulty. It was one of the most imposing
business edifices in the street, and the firm of Milnor & Co.
was one of the most reputable in the country. The senior
partner was a millionnaire, and had accumulated his gigantic
fortune in that location. He was an importer, and one of the
partners of the house constantly resided in Europe. It was
the business of the establishment to fill the orders of lesser
merchants, who again sold to the consumer.

Lucy with difficulty pushed open the great glass door
between the marble columns, and entered with a timid step,
for she immediately perceived that it must be an unusual
thing for ladies to enter an establishment where the merchandise

was only disposed of by the entire piece, or package, and
where nothing was to be seen on the counters but samples
and pattern cards. There were some ten or a dozen well-dressed
young men standing about in various directions, exhibiting
samples to their customers; but no ladies were
present.

The appearance of Lucy attracting the attention of the
young men, which it could not fail to do, there was some
whispering, and a great many intelligent and curious glances
exchanged between the salesmen. Soon one of them approached,
and with the utmost politeness and an ingenuous
face, begged to be permitted to know the nature of the young
lady's demand.

“I desire to see Mr. Milnor,” said Lucy.

“My father is in the office, and I will conduct you to him
with pleasure,” said the young gentleman.

Reassured by the announcement that the young gentleman
was the son of the principal of the firm, Lucy followed
without hesitation, and they passed through another large
glass door and entered a spacious office, handsomely carpeted,
and containing sofas, mahogany chairs, and several fine paintings,
and divers magnificent prints, by the best artists.

“Father, here is a young lady who desires to speak with
you on business,” said Henry Milnor, and at the same time
placing a chair for Lucy. After which he withdrew.

The father was a tall handsome man, with beautiful silver-gray
hair, an erect form, and a placid eye. He arose immediately
from the table where he had been writing, with a smile
on his lip, and said he would be happy to receive the commands
of the lady.

“I called, sir,” said Lucy, “with a message from my aunt,
Miss Flora Blount—”

“Miss Flora Blount! And you are her niece! I am
very, very happy to see you,” exclaimed Mr. Milnor, proffering
his hand to Lucy, and in such a cordial, parental manner, it
was impossible to think of refusing it. “Why, my dear Miss,”
he continued, sitting down in one of the luxuriously cushioned
chairs, “you can hardly be aware of the delight I experience
on meeting one of the family of that lady. Here have I
been some twenty or thirty years her tenant—and have really
made my fortune on her premises, and yet have never had the
pleasure of beholding her, or any of her kindred, more than

once or twice. It is true she has had a punctual representative,
a business-like agent, as the Scotch people generally are;
but I have repeatedly wished to meet with my landlady herself,
and could never venture to call at her dwelling.”

“I am sure my aunt will be rejoiced to hear of your prosperity.”

“No doubt—everybody is. It is the universal practice.
Would to heaven it were as common a thing to sympathize
with the unfortunate! And perhaps your aunt would have
done so. No doubt of it. But I should be happy to have
known her more familiarly. She has an important estate in
my custody, and I might impart information and advice in relation
to it, of some value to her.”

“I have not the least doubt of it, sir,” replied Lucy, “and
I regret exceedingly that my aunt should have so great a repugnance
for the details of matters so deeply involving her
interest. I am sure if she would avail herself of your counsels,
there could hardly be any necessity for the adoption of
so rigid a system of economy in her household—”

“Rigid economy! and in her household!” exclaimed
Mr. Milnor, in unaffected astonishment. “My dear Miss
Blount—”

“Miss Winkle, if you please, sir.”

“True—true—her sister married a Winkle, and you are
her daughter. Then, my dear Miss Winkle, what you have
just spoken fills me with amazement. Your aunt has no one
to support but herself—she is certainly rich—and yet having
to use economy! And with such a keen-sighted Scotch
agent—”

“That agent, sir—I may impart my suspicious to you
in confidence.”

“Most assuredly.”

“Then during the few months I have dwelt with my aunt,
I think I have ascertained that her agent, Miss McCrabbed,
has acted improperly, very improperly, sir—”

“Speak on, Miss Winkle—you need not hesitate to disclose
any thing of that nature to me.”

“I believe, sir, she has acted dishonestly, and defrauded
my aunt.” Lucy then described the mode of her aunt's living,
the matter of the bills, and the contents of the letter McCrabbed
had received from Philadelphia, and which had been so
injudiciously exhibited.

“She is a rogue—no doubt. But she understands business.
No real estate agent in the city could have managed this property
better. I have expended ten thousand dollars on it, and
still paid a heavy rent—”

“Pardon me, sir—but may I inquire how much my aunt,
or rather Miss McCrabbed, has been receiving from you?”

“Six months ago the improvements and alterations were
paid for, as per agreement, and the rent, according to the
terms stipulated by Miss McCrabbed, remained, until that
time, precisely what it was originally, $2,000. But since
then, Miss Winkle, it has been materially increased, for it is
a large lot, and in one of the best situations. In short, since
the time specified, I am to pay for all repairs, for insurance,
the taxes—”

“The repairs, sir?”

“Yes, it is so in the bond, and I was under the necessity
of signing it.”

“The taxes too?”

“Yes, truly. They are paid. I have the receipt here, a
month old.”

“Then my aunt has been most egregiously imposed on,
for Miss McCrabbed told me this morning she would have to
pay the taxes out of the next quarter's rent! And after defraying
all these expenses, my aunt is still to have $2,000
per annum?”

“Two thousand? Yes, and four added to it. She is to
receive $6,000, Miss Winkle; and I must say it is not an extravagant
rent for a property which would sell for $100,000.”

“Is it possible? Then my poor aunt need not be distressed—”

“Distressed? She is rich! Tell her I say so! And the
lot she lives on would bring $50,000! Just to suppose any
one, and especially a single lady, whose income might be some
$10,000 per annum, fearing to be distressed!”

“Unfortunately,” said Lucy, smiling, “the ladies are not
generally very skilful in the management of business. I mean
the America ladies. But still, I fear it will be no easy matter
to convince my aunt of the culpability of Miss McCrabbed,
who has so long enjoyed her confidence.”

“And abused it,” said Mr. Milnor. “Such proteges contrive
to make themselves agreeable, and often indispensable,
and then pillage their benefactors without stint.”

“I fear, sir, my aunt has been a victim; but fortunately
not to the extent she might have been if these developments
had been postponed a few years longer. But really I had forgotten
my aunt's message. She desired to ascertain whether
you would oblige her by anticipating the day of the next payment—or
rather advance her a sufficient sum to discharge
these demands.”

“With twenty per cent. off, you know. Most assuredly!
She shall have a check for $1,500 and—”

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir! It has just flashed across my
mind, that inasmuch as you have never seen me before—”

“No, no, no! I know what you would say. I knew your
mother. You have her face exactly, and a most beautiful—I
beg your pardon! But you are taller than she was—”

“Still, Mr. Milnor, you must permit me to have my own
way in this matter. I have reasons for it. And I assure you
it would be a great favor if you would bring the checks yourself
to my aunt's house, and take her receipt. And you may
perhaps be disposed to substantiate what I mean to tell her in
relation to the conduct of Miss McCrabbed.”

“Then leave the bills with me, Miss Winkle. I will first
cause them to be paid. My son shall attend to it himself—
and—perhaps, if my engagements prevent me from going to
your aunt's house, Henry might answer the purpose?”

“If he knew the circumstances—”

“He shall know them, and also my opinion in the case.
Your aunt will find him an intelligent boy—although he has
resided abroad half of his life. Henry!” he continued,
opening the figured glass door, and admitting his son—“this
is Miss Winkle, the niece of Miss Flora Blount. You will
conduct her to your mother's carriage, if it is still standing on
the opposite side of the street, and order the coachman to
drive to her aunt's house—that is if it be her purpose to return
directly home—and if not, direct him to go whithersoever
she pleases.”

“By no means! But I thank you!” said Lucy, smiling,
and slightly blushing, as the tall handsome figure of the
young man bowed before her. “I shall prefer to walk. In
the village where my mother dwells, I have been accustomed
to much walking, and my physician says it is necessary.”

The young man, however, conducted her with deferential
politeness into the street, assuring her repeatedly that his

mother would not return to the carriage for an hour, and perhaps
two, as she was sitting to an artist in the opposite building.
Lucy, however, did not yield to his entreaties, but signified
her gratitude for his kind attentions.

Again, when arrived in view of her aunt's dwelling the hated
blue carriage of Roland met her view. It was just starting
away from in front of her aunt's door, and she did not
doubt now, that Miss McCrabbed was capable of plotting with
her persecutor against her peace. The blue carriage had been
seen in front of the house almost every day; and Miss McCrabbed
had in all probability informed Roland of her place
of abode. She had certainly mentioned his name more than
once in her presence, and in terms of praise, which she recollected
with a painful distinctness. She was now somewhat
relieved on seeing the carriage move off in an opposite direction,
so that she did not have to meet it when approaching the
dwelling.

The door was opened by Miss McCrabbed, who suddenly
seized Lucy's arm, when it closed.

“Give me the bills!” cried she. “Why did you take
them? Did I not say you must never meddle with my business?
You shall leave here, or I will! And we'll see who
your aunt will be the most willing to part with!”

“I have not got the bills. But they are paid by this
time. Release my arm!”

“I will not! The bills—who is to pay them?”

“No matter. Release my arm!”

“I will not.”

“You shall!” said Lucy, burning with indignation, and
hurling the slight form of the enraged woman away from her.
Lucy was young and strong, and McCrabbed was thrown in
contact with the wall, and slightly stunned by the collision.'

“Wretch!” cried she, recovering, “I'll be revenged!”

“Dishonest woman!” said Lucy, “your frauds have been
discovered! The money remitted your brother did not belong
to you. There will be a gentleman here presently to enlighten
my aunt in regard to your sordid practices. Justice
at last must always overtake the transgressor.”

Without pausing to mark the effect of her words, Lucy
hastened into the parlor, where she found her aunt re-perusing
certain chapters of the “Children of the Abbey,” perhaps
for the fiftieth time.

“Lucy!” said Miss, Flora, with a deep sigh, “do you
think there really ever existed such a wretch as the Marquis of
Rosline's housekeeper?”

“Indeed I do, my dear aunt; there are many such who
would appropriate to themselves the money intrusted with
them for the benefit of others, and who would not hesitate to
introduce such villains as Belgrave—”

“Oh, horrible!”

“Dear aunt, my persecutor, Roland, has found out my
place of abode; and I am sure it must have been by means of
treachery. The blue carriage, which has been so often noticed
by us, belongs to him.”

“Is it possible? Why I saw the coachman speaking to
Edith a little while ago! How did she know any thing about
Roland?”

“It is impossible for me to say. But you know she has
frequently mentioned his great wealth, and his honest love, &c.”

“True. What could have been her meaning?”

“She is one of the Rosline housekeepers.”

“Lucy! Surely you do not think so!”

“I surely do. Listen to me, aunt.” She then detailed
all she knew in relation to the speculations of McCrabbed.

“Listen to my heart beating! Oh, my dear Lucy, what
shall I do! You will not desert me, will you?”

“Certainly not, if you dismiss McCrabbed.”

“She shan't stay an hour, if she has been guilty of these
things, even if it breaks my heart! But how shall I manage
without her!”

“I will undertake to see that nothing shall be wanting,”
said Lucy. “Mr. Milnor will send one or two of his servants
until you can procure proper ones of your own. Remember
you are rich, aunt, rich.”

“True, I had forgotten it. Why, Lucy, I shall be able
“to keep a coach of my own!”

“To be sure you will. I hear the bell—it is Mr. Milnor, no
doubt. Again! Why don't Edith open the door? I will do it.”

When Lucy threw open the door, she was startled by the
appearance of Mr. Henry Milnor, when she had been expecting
his father. Without delay, however, she conducted him
into the parlor, and introduced him to her aunt. He delivered
the bills he had paid, and showed where twenty per cent
of the amount had been deducted. And he confirmed what

Lucy had said in regard to the misrepresentations of Miss
McCrabbed. The taxes and repairs he assured Miss Blount
were to be paid, and really had already been paid by his father;
and besides, he was to make her the quarterly payment of
fifteen hundred dollars. That sum he was now prepared to
place in her hands, the amount of the bills he had just discharged
deducted.

“Edith never informed me of this!” said Miss Flora.
“And is it possible I have been so egregiously deceived by
one in whom I placed such unlimited confidence?”

Mr. Henry Milnor said he had no doubt of it, and Lucy
repeated her convictions of the treachery and ingratitude of
the Scotch minion.

Mr. Milnor, before departing, informed Miss Flora, that
his father had authorized him to say he would be happy to
become the purchaser of the property in Broadway, at the
price named to her niece.

“And what was that, Lucy?” asked Miss Blount.

“I believe it was $100,000.”

“That was the amount,” said young Milnor.

“Can it be possible?” cried Miss Blount. “Why, it was
valued at just $20,000 when it came into my possession; and
this house and lot at $10,000.”

“My father,” continued young Milnor, “says this property
would sell for $50,000.”

“Really, I never supposed such prices could be obtained.
But this is the old family mansion, and I could never think of
selling it. The other was purchased by my father of some
one who owed him, and was never occupied by any of the
family. But I never sold any thing in my life. I wonder
what Edith—”

“Edith, aunt!”

“I forgot, child! Edith is fallen. But what would you
advise, Lucy?”

“I think I would not sell it, aunt, since it brings you an
ample income.”

“My niece would not like to sell it, sir, and I have no
doubt her notion is a very correct one.”

Mr. Milnor rose to depart. But before taking his leave,
said he had been charged by his father to make a tender of
his services, and to beg that Miss Blount, or any member of
her family, would never hesitate to apply to him for counsel,

or for any assistance, should it be desirable to make use of a
friend. And, while bowing gracefully, the young gentleman
added his own solicitations to those of his father, remarking
that it would make him happy to be enabled to render any
species of service.

He was thanked very earnestly by both the ladies, and
charged with kind acknowledgments to his father, of whom,
Lucy remarked, she had determined to ask a favor that day,
if it had been convenient for him to appear in person.

The young gentleman lingering on the threshold, as if
bound by an irresistible fascination, assured her he would use
his utmost endeavors to accomplish whatever might have been
requested of his father. After some hesitation and blushing,
Lucy mentioned her aunt's destitution of servants; and intimated
that inasmuch as Miss McCrabbed had been detected
in one moral delinquency, she was fearful it might not be safe
to trust her any farther. In short, her aunt and herself might
not be able to partake of any food of Edith's preparing or
procuring, with the confidence necessary to their ease and,
perhaps, their health. She had intended, therefore, to ask the
favor of him to permit one of his servants to stay at her aunt's
dwelling, until she could procure one or more of her own.
The young man bowed again, and assured Lucy there would
be no difficulty in obtaining his mother's assent to the arrangement;
and he asked and obtained permission to call
again that very evening.

After the departure of Mr. Henry Milnor, Miss Flora
Blount, bracing her nerves for a stormy interview with Miss
McCrabbed, proceeded to the usual sitting-room, where the
greater portion of her housekeeper's time was spent, accompanied
by Lucy, who, impressed with the belief that Roland had
received intelligence from the treacherous Edith, resolved to
encourage and support her aunt in the trying scene which she
supposed was about to be enacted.

But no McCrabbed was there; nor was she to be found in
any part of the house, and every room in it was searched in vain.
Undoubtedly she had fled, under the supposition that her offences
might subject her to the pains and penalties of the law,
and not knowing the difference between the practice of our
government and that of Great Britain. The idea of transportation
filled her with terror. And so, after overhearing the conversation
in the parlor, she had noiselessly brought down her

trunk, and summoning her boy McIlhenny, who preceded her
to the depot, set off for Philadelphia to join her brother, and
seek an asylum under his protection.