that seemed like the hearty voice of an
old-fashioned friend who seeks in his greeting rather cordiality than
discretion. Before her glass stood the beautiful, the virgin, the
glorious form of Madeline Lester; and Ellinor, with trembling hands (and
a voice between a laugh and a cry), was braiding up her sister's rich
hair, and uttering her hopes, her wishes, her congratulations. The small
lattice was open, and the air came rather chillingly to the bride's
bosom.

"It is a gloomy morning, dearest Nell," said she, shivering; "the winter
seems about to begin at last."

"Stay, I will shut the window. The sun is struggling with the clouds at
present, but I am sure it will clear up by and by. You don't, you don't
leave us--the word must out--till evening."

"Don't cry!" said Madeline, half weeping herself, and sitting down,
she drew Ellinor to her; and the two sisters, who had never been parted
since birth, exchanged tears that were natural, though scarcely the
unmixed tears of grief.

"And what pleasant evenings we shall have," said Madeline, holding her
sister's hands, "in the Christmas time! You will be staying with us,
you know; and that pretty old room in the north of the house Eugene has
already ordered to be fitted up for you. Well, and my dear father, and
dear Walter, who will be returned long ere then, will walk over to see
us, and praise my housekeeping, and so forth. And then, after dinner, we
will draw near the fire,--I next to Eugene, and my father, our guest,
on the other side of me, with his long gray hair and his good fine
face, with a tear of kind feeling in his eye,--you know that look he has
whenever he is affected. And at a little distance on the other side of
the hearth will be you--and Walter; I suppose we must make room for him.
And Eugene, who will be then the liveliest of you all, shall read to us
with his soft, clear voice, or tell us all about the birds and flowers
and strange things in other countries. And then after supper we will
walk half-way home across that beautiful valley--beautiful even in
winter--with my father and Walter, and count the stars, and take new
lessons in astronomy, and hear tales about the astrologers and the
alchemists, with their fine old dreams. Ah! it will be such a happy
Christmas! And then, when spring comes, some fine morning--finer than
this--when the birds are about, and the leaves getting green, and
the flowers springing up every day, I shall be called in to hel