University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

“Oh, I do hope it will be pleasant to-morrow,” said
Lizzie Dayton, as on the night before Thanksgiving she
stood at the parlor window, watching a dense mass of
clouds, behind which the sun had lately gone to his nightly
rest.

“I hope so, too, said Lucy, coming forward, and joining
her sister; but then it is n't likely it will be. There has
been a big circle around the moon these three nights,
and, besides that, I never knew it fail to storm when I
was particularly anxious that it should be pleasant;” and
the indignant beauty pouted very becomingly at the insult
so frequently offered by that most capricious of all
things, the weather.

“Thee should n't talk so, Lucy,” said Grandma Dayton,
who was of Quaker descent, at the same time holding
up between herself and the window the long stocking
which she was knitting. “Does n't thee know that when
thee is finding fault with the weather, thee finds fault
with Him who made the weather?”

“I do wish, grandma, answered Lucy, “that I could

ever say anything which did not furnish you with a text
from which to preach me a sermon.”

Grandma did not reply directly to this rather uncivil
speech, but she continued: “I do n't see how the weather
will hurt thee, if it's the party thee is thinking of, for Mr.
Graham's is only ten rods or so from here.”

“I'm not afraid I can't go,” answered Lucy; “but you
know as well as I, that if the wind blows enough to put
out a candle, father is so old-maidish as to think Lizzie
and I must wear thick stockings and dresses, and I
should n't wonder if he insisted on flannel wrappers!”

“Well,” answered grandma, “I think myself it will be
very imprudent for Lizzie, in her present state of health,
to expose her neck and arms. Thy poor marm died with
consumption when she was n't much older than thee is.
Let me see,—she was twenty-three the day she died, and
thee was twenty-two in Sep—”

“For heaven's sake, grandmother,” interrupted Lucy,
“don't continually remind me of my age, and tell me how
much younger mother was when she was married. I can't
help it if I am twenty-two, and not married or engaged
either. But I will be both, before I am a year older.”

So saying, she quitted the apartment, and repaired to
her own room.

Ere we follow her thither, we will introduce both her
and her sister to our readers. Lucy and Lizzie were the
only children of Mr. Dayton, a wealthy, intelligent, and
naturally social man, the early death of whose idolized,
beautiful wife had thrown a deep gloom over his spirits,
which time could never entirely dispel. It was now seventeen
years since, a lonely, desolate widower, at the
dusky twilight hour he had drawn closely to his bosom
his motherless children, and thought that but for them he
would gladly have lain down by her whose home was

now in heaven. His acquaintances spoke lightly of his
grief, saying he would soon get over it and marry again.
They were mistaken, for he remained single, his widowed
mother supplying to his daughters the place of their lost
parent.

In one thing was Mr. Dayton rather peculiar. Owing
to the death of his wife, he had always been in the habit
of dictating to his daughters in various small matters,
such as dress, and so forth, about which fathers seldom
trouble themselves. And even now he seemed to forget
that they were children no longer, and often interfered in
their plans in a way exceedingly annoying to Lucy, the
eldest of the girls, who was now twenty-two, and was as
proud, selfish, and self-willed as she was handsome and
accomplished. Old maids she held in great abhorrence,
and her great object in life was to secure a wealthy and
distinguished husband. Hitherto she had been unsuccessful,
for the right one had not yet appeared. Now, however,
a new star was dawning on her horizon, in the person
of Hugh St. Leon, of New Orleans. His fame had
preceded him, and half the village of S— were ready
to do homage to the proud millionaire, who would make
his first appearance at the thanksgiving party. This, then,
was the reason why Lucy felt so anxious to be becomingly
dressed, for she had resolved upon a conquest, and
she felt sure of success. She knew she was beautiful.
Her companions told her so, her mirror told her so, and
her sweet sister Lizzie told her so, more than twenty
times a day.

Lizzie was four years younger than her sister, and
wholly unlike her, both in personal appearance and disposition.
She had from childhood evinced a predisposition
to the disease which had consigned her mother to an early
grave. On her fair, soft cheek the rose of health had

never bloomed, and in the light which shone from her
clear hazel eye, her fond father read, but too clearly,
“passing away,—passing away.”

If there was in Lucy Dayton's selfish nature any redeeming
quality, it was that she possessed for her frail
young sister a love amounting almost to adoration.
Years before, she had trembled as she thought how
soon the time might come when for her sister's merry
voice she would listen in vain; but as month after month
and year after year went by, and still among them Lizzie
staid, Lucy forgot her fears, and dreamed not that ere
long one chair would be vacant,—that Lizzie would be
gone.

Although so much younger than her sister, Lizzie, for
more than a year, had been betrothed to Harry Graham,
whom she had known from childhood. Now, between
herself and him the broad Atlantic rolled, nor would he
return until the coming autumn, when, with her father's
consent, Lizzie would be all his own.