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"Major Grahame!" echoed the unseen listener-for the speakers were assembled on the porch beneath her chamber window. Major Grahame! Was it, indeed, the Ralph of old that had restored her darling to her arms, or was this all some strange, wild dream, born of her fevered fancy? "I would be most happy" -the clear, deep tone brought conviction of its truth-but at present urgent business renders my stay impossible. In a few days, however, I hope to call and pay my respects to-to-whose life on earth was passed. Mrs. Wharton."

Many other changes had taken place during the troubled years that had transformed the merry girl into the gentle woman. The brothers she had left roguish school-boys had become stalwart men, two of whom alone remained in the old homestead to share their father's labors. The bright-eyed little girls that made their début as her childish bride-maids were now the rosy belles of the "Mountain Ridge," regarding sister Nellie as some fair, exalted being

And "Mrs. Wharton," even in her glad gratitude, recognized the bitterness of the old heart history in the major's parting wordsrecognized it only as a faint shadow over her wondrous joy; for little feet came pattering up the stairway, little hands tapped softly at her door, and Teddy, rebelling against all restrictions, sprang into his mother's arms, and kissed away, with a tenderness touching in so young a child, the grateful tears that welled forth at sight of her lost darling. "Poor mamma! There, don't cry, mamma; I didn't get hurt. We had a real jolly time, Towzer, the major, and me; and we made a big fire, and I helped too, mamma; and we slept out in the woods, just like Robinson Crusoe. I'd like to live that way all the time if you could only be along too."

"My poor little darling out in the woods all night!" murmured the mother through her tears. "It is enough to kill you."

"But it was first-rate fun, mamma; the big fire blazed and cracked, and we were just as warm as Fourth of July. And then the major wrapped his soldier coat round me, and I went to sleep just so." And Teddy nestled, by way of demonstration, closer to his mother's breast. "But I said my prayers first, just like I do at home. And I lost my cap; Towzer ran off with it," continued the honest little penitent; "but I've got a great deal nicer one. It's got a tassel on the top-a lovely tassel on the top, mamma-and gold flowers all over it!" added Teddy, with eager pride.

Great was the glee of grandma, grandpa, and all the pretty young aunts, who had assembled to hear Teddy's adventures, when the muchprized article was produced, and it was discovered that the inexperienced major had purchased for his little protégé a handsome velvet smoking cap, heavily embroidered, and finished by the silken tassel that had taken Teddy's fancy.

"It was the prettiest one in the whole store, mamma," said the little owner, much disgusted at the peals of laughter that greeted its appearance. "I liked it best because it had a tassel, and the major said for me to take whichever I liked best."

Happy days followed, days filled with sunshine and gladness, made beautiful by affection and blessed by peace. The weary, sorrowing widow became again the Nellie of old, her father's confidante, her mother's solace.

They were a little shy with her, perhaps, this merry Rose and romping Kate, for not only had her widowhood given her a gentle dignity, but, as eldest daughter, she had received the advantages of a refined education, which these rustic beauties had neither sought for nor obtained.

So sister Nellie spent quiet, happy days in her mother's little sitting-room, while Kate scoured the country on her frolicsome pony, and Rose laughed and coquetted with the train of rural lovers that sued for her favor and her smiles. But for Teddy in particular-happy, loving little Teddy!-this was indeed a season of wonderful, unmixed delight. Had he been the veriest little despot he could not have ruled the entire household with more unlimited sway. From gentle old grandpapa, who bowed his gray head, smiling, to the yoke, down to the rudest farm hand on the place, Teddy was the veritable prince royal, whose will was law. In vain his mother remonstrated against this overindulgence.

It was a bright evening, nearly a month after his arrival at the farm, that Teddy was returning with Uncle Jack from the hay field, where all his small strength had been exerted in assisting the laborers. Armed with a long rake, and almost hidden by his broad-brimmed hat, he was the picture of a miniature farmer, and evidently regarded himself as no unimportant member of grandpapa's field corps. As Uncle Jack-a stalwart, good-natured young fellow of twenty-lifted his small assistant over the last stile Teddy uttered a joyful cry, and in a moment more flung his arms around the neck of a great black mastiff, that testified his recognition by a succession of short, joyful barks.

"Towzer, dear old Towzer! Oh, Uncle Jack, see, it's Towzer, and he knows me!"

"What, and has not my little comrade a word for me?" said a pleasant voice; and Teddy, whose range of vision had been somewhat limited by his capacious hat, sprang into Major Grahame's arms with a display of affection which that gentleman received with embarrassed good-humor.

"Oh! I'm so glad, I'm so glad! Run home, Uncle Jack," commanded the young autocrat, "and tell mamma and grandmamma and every body that my major has come, and we must have strawberries and cream for supper. Why didn't you come before? I wanted to see you and Towzer more than any bodies in the world."

"So you have not forgotten our night in the Alleghanies?" said the major, looking down

with a smile at the bright little face. you are as rosy as a plow-boy, the out' did not hurt you a bit."

"Why, | still, with the pretty imperiousness of rustic 'camping belles, felt themselves privileged to command attention from the entire masculine creation.

"Oh no!" replied Teddy, eagerly. "Wasn't it jolly fun? Let's make a big fire and do it all over again."

"But you are going to take me to mamma, you know," said the major, quietly.

"Oh yes, I forgot; come along, then, for there she is in the porch waiting for us."

Yes, there indeed she was-she who had been the man's one dream for the past few weeks, his bitter memory for the past ten years -there, in the snowy robes that in this quiet retreat she had substituted for her widow's garb, with a few white flowers twined in her rippling hair, a bright smile of welcome on her lips, a faint blush mantling her cheek-she stood once more in her father's house awaiting the welcome guest.

Ralph Grahame's heart throbbed loudly as he approached the house; brave soldier as he was, he would have retreated even then, but the prattling little innocent holding his hand rendered retreat impossible. And, after all, the meeting that seemed to him so momentous, was quiet and pleasant as friendly meeting well could be, for it was "Teddy's mother" that slipped forward so graciously to welcome her child's protector; "Teddy's mother" whose eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she spoke of her anxiety and his kindness; "Teddy's mother" whose cheek flushed with depth of feeling as she thanked him for his tender care of her boy. "All the past is forgotten," murmured Ralph Grahame to himself, with unreasonable bitter

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But Teddy, more than all, was made the happy recipient of the major's kindness; Teddy, who always welcomed him with irrepressible glee, and who declared undauntedly that he loved him better than any one in the world, with a saving exception in favor of mamma. Many were the walks, rides, and sailing excursions planned for Teddy's (?) delectation; many the baskets of dainty fruit, the packages of tempting bonbons, that found their way mysteriously to Teddy's little room; many the guns, tops, balls, and other boyish treasures of which the major's "little comrade" became the unwonted possessor.

With innate delicacy the major abstained from presents of any value, though he often gazed wistfully at the broad white brow and sparkling eyes of his childish friend, and sighed as he thought how well certain Mexican dollars that he knew of could be employed in cultivating the uncommon intellect of this "fatherless one."

For the bright hopes that had trembled into existence beneath the tender moonbeams of that night of promise he believed that he must abandon them entirely. An impalpable reserve had arisen like a barrier between Mrs. Wharton and himself—a reserve that seemed increased instead of lessened by his kindness to her boy.

Graceful, gentle, and dignified at all times, there was nothing in her manner which the most critical observer could construe unfavorably, and yet it was this very calm dignity which Major Grahame so unreasonably resented. Memory drew a far different picture of this fair, placid woman—a bright face beaming with hope and affection; soft eyes, by turns sparkling or dewy; rosy lips tremulous with every emotion; a snowy brow unwritten by sorrow or care. With a half sigh, tribute to "what might have been," the major would turn again to gaze on the pale face, so calmn in its gentle sweetness, on the clear eyes beaming with such a chastened light, on the quiet lips around which the old smile sometimes played with all its wonted gladness, and felt that to the woman in the dig

that his girl-love had never claimed.

And "Nellie," the Nellie that of old had claimed his every look and smile, sat in the shadow of the vine-clad porch, gentle, thought-nity of her womanhood he yielded a homage ful, but almost silent, watching her boy-her boy, who, seated astride of the major's knee, played with his long silky beard, toyed with his glittering watch chain, and finally fell asleep with his curly head resting on the ma-man, in his impatience, would fain rend asunjor's breast.

This was but the first of many visits, for their guest had family affairs commanding his presence in the neighborhood, and some strange subtile attraction seemed to draw him to Brook Farm. Sometimes his excuse would be the need of Mr. Elliott's sound practical advice, sometimes a hunting or fishing excursion with one of the boys, or some playful commission from Miss Kate or Rose, who, although regarding him as far too old to rank as an admirer,

"But her heart is dead-dead to all but that boy," he would murmur, bitterly. Ah, blind! blind! Could he have lifted that veil which

der- the veil that hangs before the sacred shrine of woman's heart-how different would have been his verdict! Could he have seen the glad light kindle in the downcast eyes when a certain martial tread crushed the gravel on the pathway; could he have caught the happy smile that hovered on her lip when a deeptoned voice echoed cheerily in the hall; could he have heard the music in her voice at nightfall, when at her knee Teddy lisped in his prayers the name of his "kindest friend," the major

would have been content. As it was, weary, restless, and heart - sick, he lingered around Brook Farm, hoping in spite of his conviction that hope was vain, anathematizing his folly, yet encouraging all the while his fancied dream. It was left for Teddy to wield Ithuriel's spear with the unconscious hand of innocence; to touch these long-severed hearts with a knowledge of the happy truth.

"The fish won't bite this evening," said Teddy one day, as, perched on the end of a long log, he held his miniature rod patiently over the brook. "I guess their mothers have told them not to come near the hook. Mamma read me a story yesterday.about a bad little fish that would not do as it was told.

""Dear mother," said a little fish,
"Pray is not that a fly?
I'm very hungry, and I wish
You'd let me go and try.""

That's the way it commences," said Teddy, evidently proud of his new accomplishment. "Did you ever hear it before, major?"

"Never," replied the major, pleasantly. "You see I have no mamma to read to me," he added, with a smile.

"Have you got a papa, then?" asked Teddy, compassionately. "Uncle Jack is as big as you, and he's got a papa; and I'm only a little, little boy, and I haven't one; I wish I had," continued the unconscious Macchiavelli, knitting his little brows reflectively. "Could my papa ever come back, do you think?"

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of his own to live and care for, and ask you to come and be his son, and let him take the place of your papa, what would you say?"

"And mamma! would mamma go too?" asked Teddy, earnestly. The major smiled half sadly. "I don't know," he replied. "Shall we ask her, Teddy?"

"It's you-is it you?" exclaimed his little comrade, with a child's quick intuition. "Because if it's you, I'll say yes, and so will mamma."

The major drew the little prophet to his side, and for the first time bent down and kissed the child's fair brow. His resolution was taken; be it for weal or woe, that very hour he would "ask mamma."

"Come, Teddy," he said, abruptly; "it is getting late; we must go home now."

"But we've left the lines and rods and hooks and baskets," exclaimed the young fisherman, in utter dismay at this wholesale sacrifice.

"Never mind, never mind; we'll come back for them to-morrow." And then the thought of what a desolate morrow it might be smote the major's strong heart with dread. "Is that your mamma waiting at the gate?" he asked, as through the drooping woodbine he caught a glimpse of a snowy robe.

"Yes, yes; mamma; she is waiting for me, and I'll have a swing on the garden gate,” exclaimed Teddy, bounding forward gleefully. "Come, major, come, give me a swing on the gate." And, happily forgetful of all but the moment's pastime, Teddy was soon mounted on the moss-grown bars of the garden gate. The major followed his "little comrade” slow

"Never," replied the major, with a great deal of decision; and then, seeing the cloud on the childish brow, "such things are impossible, my boy," he added, kindly. "Your father"-ly and thoughtfully. It was a beautiful sumsomehow the thought of Teddy's father was not altogether palatable-"is in a better world than this."

"I don't know," said Teddy, seriously. "I thought maybe papa could come back, for Aunt Rose said-"

"Well," said the major, twisting his line attentively, "what did Aunt Rose say?"

"She asked me if I would like to have a papa. I told her my papa was in heaven, but she laughed and said he would come back some day. I s'pect she was only foolin' me," added Teddy, with a quivering lip. "She is a giddy girl anyhow, for grandpapa said so," he concluded, indignantly.

ness.

"Come here, Teddy." The major threw away his cigar, and addressed his disappointed "little comrade" in tones of unwonted tender"Come sit down here beside me; I want to talk with you a little while. Your papa is indeed in heaven, and can never come back to you; but suppose that some one loved you, and-and -had loved mamma since she was as little as you are now; suppose he were a great, strong man, able to work for you, to care for you, to live for you; suppose he had a nice little home, with trees, flowers, and every thing beautiful around it, and he should tell you that he was *so lonely, so unhappy, that he had no little boy

mer eve; the western sky glowed with the opal hues of sunset; a faint breeze rustled amidst the boughs of the ancient oak, and wafted the rich perfume of roses and syringa down the shadowy lane.

It was the same old scene that had been painted by torturing memory for half a score of years. The old stone wall wreathed with fragrant blossoms; the moss-grown gate bounding the broad white path; the hoary oak-happy trysting-tree of auld lang syne.

And there, as if in fulfillment of the vows of long ago, stood "Teddy's mamma," in all the calm beauty of her perfect womanhood, yet smiling with something of the old-time brightness upon the little one swinging by her side.

"Major Grahame"-a slight blush dyed the pale cheek with a delicate rose tint as Mrs. Wharton turned to greet the new-comer—“I fear this little boy of mine trespasses too much upon your kindness." For Teddy, mounted on the gate, was demanding his promised swing. "You must not hesitate to deny him his too troublesome requests."

"He can never trouble me," was the low reply, as the major, leaning carelessly against the old oak, kept the gate in motion by a slight movement of his foot. "It takes little to make a child happy."

"True," was the gentle answer; "but even

that little must be prompted by kindness; and [ Teddy, child as he is, appreciates his good friend."

"Yes," replied the major, gravely-all hesitation was gone now, and he spoke frankly and earnestly-"I would be his friend, and his mother's too if she would permit it, for we were old friends, Nellie." A vivid blush crimsoned the listener's cheek and brow at this unwonted household name. "Is the past," continued the speaker, sadly—“that past that has been to me an ever-present memory-so wholly forgotten, so entirely effaced, that Major Grahame can not even claim remembrance as the Ralph of 'auld lang syne?'"

For a moment there was no answer; only the rustling of the leaves as the wind breathed through the tree-tops, the twitter of a bird hidden in the ancient oak, the creak of the timeworn gate as Teddy gleefully swung to and fro. Then, with a gentle dignity more fascinating than all her girlhood's blushes, Mrs. Wharton spoke:

"To the Ralph of old, since he claims my remembrances, I would say forgive and-forget. The blow that wounded him far too deeply was dealt with childish ignorance; the heart that was denied him he valued far beyond its worth. We have grown older and wiser since those thoughtless days. Life has brought such cares, such sorrows, such changes, that Ellen Wharton feels she is pleading almost a stranger's cause when she says Major Grahame must forgive the willful Nellie of old."

Teddy's laugh broke in silvery accents upon the major's earnest tones; the warble of the hidden bird swelled into a song of triumph; the last sunbeam flung an aureole around the golden head bent so sadly, so silently-the major deemed so hopelessly.

My

"Nellie! Nellie ! Is there no hope for me, for the Ralph who loved you when you were a lisping child; who only asks now to stand between you and the storms of a heartless world? Ah! you are silent-you turn from me. God! how can I bear this second blow! Nay, then, your boy shall plead for me; you can not refuse to hear your child." And Teddy was caught from the garden gate into the major's arms, who whispered something quickly in his ear.

"Mamma! dear mamma!" pleaded the little fellow, springing to her side, and twining his arms tenderly around her; "say yes, mamma; let us go with our dear major, for I love him so much, and so do you-don't you, dear mamma?"

Mamma's blushing face was hidden in Teddy's shining curls; mamma's lips trembled into a smile, though her eyes still sparkled with tear-drops.

"Ralph!"-the old name fell like music on the listener's ear—“ah, Ralph, impatient, impetuous as of old, must Teddy teach you to woo?"

"And to win?" he asked, eagerly, bending with tender reverence over the hand she held out to him: "can he teach me to win, Nellie ?"

"Nay," she replied, and the playful smile of her girlhood broke over the blushing face, "the little traitor guessed rightly-mamma's heart was already won."

Great was Teddy's triumph a few months later, when mamma, fair, blushing, and more beautiful than of yore, stood arrayed in her shining robes, again a bride. The soft golden curls played again around neck and brow; the rose met the lily on the delicate cheek; the bright smile hovered upon the dewy lips; the lustrous eyes beamed with trustful happiness. "Teddy's mamma" had borrowed something of the witchery from the Nellie of old.

"Isn't she beautiful?" exclaimed Teddy, "Major-papa," for the new title was still rather unfamiliar, "did you ever see any one so lovely as my mamma?"

"To the Nellie of old there is much to forgive," replied the major, gravely, though his eyes beamed with earnest feeling. "For years her memory has been bitter to me-how bitter, only God, who knows the secrets of hearts, can tell. That memory drove me into the wilderness, far from the haunts of men; it made me a wild, reckless, adventurous man; like some poisonous blossom it blighted all the freshness and beauty of my life, and left it a waste and desolation. Ay, to the Nellie of old, unconscious little culprit that she was, I owe years of bitterness, of exile, sin, and sorrow; but" and his voice grew low and melodious-rapturously. "to Ellen Wharton, in her noble womanhood, only the reverence due to that womanhood in its loftiest form. Do not misunderstand me, beloved-ay, beloved!" he repeated, tenderly, for the long lashes drooping on the burning cheek were now gemmed with tears. "There is no past casting its darkening shadow between us; we meet as though the past had never been; and thus meeting on that higher ground to which your life of earnest love, of patient fortitude, of womanly devotion, has elevated you, I scarcely dare to look up to you and say I love. Rough, stern soldier that I am, you have conquered me; voiceless, you have taught me through the lips of your child. Ay, I love you with a love deeper, purer, holier than that of our youthful days-with a love that sorrow has taught you to pity, even if you can not bless."

The major looked tenderly at his beautiful bride, and then at the noble boy seated beside him. He was thinking of that day, a year ago, when a restless, weary man was thrown by chance, or, as he now felt, by Providence, within hearing of that childish voice. Under God those lisping accents had been the angel's tone wakening his better nature, his nobler selfarousing him to hope, to life, and love.

"God bless my 'little comrade,'" murmured the happy bridegroom, as he bent forward to kiss Teddy's broad, fair brow. "On this most blessed day I can only echo the first prayer that passed my lips since boyhood, the prayer Teddy taught me in the Alleghany wilds, 'God bless mamma's son!""

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BURLINGTON

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MILFORD

BRIDGET ON

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GEORGE T.

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ROHESTER

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DOWN THE EASTERN SHORE.

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of these districts is the long, irregular peninsula bounded by the Chesapeake and Delaware bays and the Atlantic, including the State of Delaware, the amputated nose of Virginia, and that part of Maryland which is called the Eastern Shore. Here is a tract 200 miles in length, varying from five to eighty in breadth, cloven by deep bays, fringed with islands, penetrated by broad, deep estuaries, with interesting peculiarities of climate and vegetation, and with the oldest atmosphere of life which can now be breathed any where in the republic. Yet, except to certain Baltimore families or tradesmen, or a chance Philadelphia sportsman, the greater part of the peninsula is a ground never trodden by the tourist. I confess myself that although my home is within twenty miles of the point where it may be said to commence, I have been an entire stranger to the region until this summer; and, moreover, that although much indirect information concerning it had reached me-the faint outside ripples of events or changes-yet the land and its life proved to be as fresh and individual as if I had gone directly to them from the farthest mountain of Maine.

It was a holiday excursion, and the president of the two main lines of railway which cross Delaware in both directions was its commander. We met in Wilmington, not far from that quaint church built by the Swedes in 1698, as the iron numerals on its gable declare -a better starting-point for a journey still farther into the past than the bustle of machine and car and ship building in the level below it. Several promised guests had failed to arrive, and we were but four when we came together in the drawing-room of our traveling home-a scholarphysician of Philadelphia and a landscapeartist of Boston, in addition to the president and myself. The beds in the second car and the crates and hampers in the third seemed to offer a superfluity of comfort; but we were not destined to steal through the country without other society than our own.

ANY of the oldest settled portions of our country are least known to us. Our interests travel westward on the parallels of emigration, and we were familiar with the scenery and life of the Pacific before we knew half the Atlantic coast. A hundred correspondents had described Minnesota before Thoreau explored the Cape Cod peninsula. What little romance there may be in our American travel clings like a parasite to the sturdy plants of enterprise and speculation. The grandeur of the Rocky Mountain masses would move us less if there were not gold and silver in their bowels; the great plains and lakes of our northern frontier would hardly attract us at all but for the whisper of a short-glish character of the scenery-old farm-houses er route to Japan and China. In the breadth and extent of these new fields of interest we have hitherto overlooked many regions lying at hand-regions which keep the traces of their older life and former provincial character, and still live under the spell of a past which has long been banished elsewhere.

Wilmington sits upon the last ridge of the soft hill country of Pennsylvania, which rolls across Mason and Dixon's Line seven miles to the north, and keeps company with the Brandywine to its very mouth. The prevailing En

of stone or brick, spacious gardens and orchards, frequent hedges, smooth, rich fields, and the lush, billowy green of deciduous woods-is still retained in the low country of Delaware, but it is like the change from Bucks to Kent. There are still undulations of the soil, but no longer a valley of distinct outline; and the streams, inOne of the nearest, yet the least known, stead of a rapid, busy flow, loiter along their

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