far as possible from Mittie's
dagger tongue. Thus Mittie was left to the solitude she courted, and
which no one seemed disposed to disturb. She remained the most of her
time in her own chamber, seldom joining the family except at table,
where she appeared more like a stranger than a daughter or a sister. She
seemed to take no interest in any thing around her, nor did she seek to
inspire any. She looked paler than formerly, and a purplish shade dimmed
the brilliancy of her dazzling eyes.

"You look pale, my daughter," her father would sometimes say. "I fear
you are not well."

"I am perfectly well," she would answer, with a manner so cold and
distant, sympathy was at once repelled.

"Will you not sit with us?" Mrs. Gleason would frequently ask, as she
and Helen drew near the blazing fire, with their work-baskets or books,
for winter was now abroad in the land. "Will you not read to us, or with
us?"

"I prefer being in my own room," was the invariable answer; and usually
at night, when the curtains were let down, and the lamps lighted in the
apartment, warm and glowing with the genialities and comforts of home,
the young doctor would come in and occupy Mittie's vacant seat.
Notwithstanding the comparative coldness and reserve of Helen's manners,
his visits became more and more frequent. He seemed reconciled to the
loss of the ingenuous, confiding child, since he had found in its stead
the growing charms of womanhood.

Arthur was a fine reader. His voice had that minor key which touches the
chords of tenderness and feeling--that voice so sweet at the fireside,
so adapted to poetry and all deep and earnest thoughts. He did not read
on like a machine, without pausing to make remark or criticism, but his
beautiful, eloquent commentaries came in like the symphonies of an
organ. He drew forth the latent enthusiasm of Helen, who, forgetting
herself and Mittie's withering accusations, expressed her sentiments
with a grace, simplicity and fervor peculiar to herself. At the
commencement of the evening she generally took her sewing from the
basket, and her needle would flash and fly like a shooting arrow, but
gradually her hands relaxed, the work fell into her lap, and yielding to
the combined charms of genius and music, the divine music of the human
voice, she gave herself up completely to the rapture of drinking in

"Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held her breath to hear."

If Arthur lifted hi