ing a compliment that few women could withstand; | tion of the road where there is scarcely room for two and his conversation possessed that mingled sense carriages to pass abreast between the cliffs on one and gaiety which pleases old and young alike. Alto- side and the precipice on the other; but he had

his mercurial companion. "You look better than ever, only deucedly sunburnt. In good health, I suppose, except a little touched in the liver?"

"One wants breath to answer your questions as fast as you ask them. But, for the present, know I have just arrived from Canton, by way of Boston, and am in good health and spirits."

"And you've made a fortune. By George! I knew you would," exclaimed the other warmly.

scarcely halted when the rattle of wheels was heard, | ported. Egad! I am delighted," rapidly exclaimed and a light trotting wagon dashed up the hill. Tom had thoughtlessly stopped with his horse across the road. He turned the animal immediately, but not soon enough to prevent the other horse starting aside; and with horror he beheld the frightened beast dash toward the precipice, which in this place has a sheer descent of forty feet. The occupants of the wagon were a young lady and a still younger boy, the latter of whom now lost all presence of mind and dropped the reins. An instant only hung between the victims and eternity. Another bound of the maddened animal would carry him over the cliff. Tom felt the blood curdle at his heart, and for a second was paralyzed, but the imminency of the peril roused him, and dashing forward, regardless of almost certain death, he seized the head of the beast, and by an exertion of superhuman strength turned it up the road. In the struggle the carriage was upset; but the occupants gained time to leap out uninjured. The skill of Tom soon enabled him to calm the spirited animal; and he then, for the first time, bestowed a curious look on the persons he had so fortunately rescued.

The boy was apparently about thirteen, and seemed not yet recovered from his fright; but the lady, whom our hero took for a sister, had regained her selfpossession, and now advanced to thank her deliverer. Tom thought he had never seen any female half so beautiful. And when, in somewhat tremulous tones, and with an eye moist in spite of every effort to the contrary, she called him her preserver, our hero, for the first time in his life, became embarrassed, and was unable to reply. At length he stammered out something, he knew not what; and offering to lead the horse past all danger, begged her to resume her seat fearlessly. She seemed reassured by what he said; and when, as he assisted her to the carriage, she leaned on him for a moment, every nerve in him thrilled with ecstasy.

"You will call on us," she said, looking at him with her large, soft eyes. "Father will thank you as I cannot. Do come, and to-morrow!"

She handed him her card with an earnest frankness that bewitched him, yet which no one could have misconstrued. Tom colored and promised; and not until the carriage had disappeared did he remember he was to sail the next day. He then mentally resolved to call that evening; but looking at the card he saw only the name, and in the hurry of his emotions he had already forgotten the address.

CHAPTER II.

Three years after these events a young man stood in the portico of Head's hotel. He had a highly intellectual face, somewhat sunburnt, as if by exposure in a southern climate; but his coat was in Carpenter's latest style, and his boots (which, by the bye, are the true touchstones of gentility) were unexceptionable. "Ha! Hastings, as I live," exclaimed a young man who, that instant, came up.

"Ernest Moore !"

"When did you arrive? Haven't seen you re

"Not exactly," said Tom, smiling, "remember, I have been absent but three years. But I have made a little money. However, come to my room, where we'll have some champagne and talk of old times. It does one good to see a familiar face again."

The hours passed away rapidly. The young men had been schoolmates and subsequently chums; and so there were a thousand things to talk of. Who was married-what old companions had made fortunes— which of the former belles were still in the marketthese, and a score of others, were the questions asked and answered almost in the same breath.

"But what are you going to do with yourself? Your return will surprise our old set, where you were such a favorite. And, now I think of it, to-morrow will afford you a good chance to make your debût. They are to have a pic-nic on the Wissahickon, and if you come out there it will be quite a surprise." "Pshaw!" said Hastings, "I detest pic-nics." "Detest pic-nics! Say that before the ladies, and you'll be ostracized.”

"Well, let it be so; but I have no taste for them. I went to one before I left the country, and, what do you think? We were marched through town, two and two, in a long line, like charity children, or wild geese on the wing."

"You are too bad, Hastings," said his companion laughing, "but we are going in private carriages. And, hark 'ye, the wines will be good."

"That is a temptation; but, after all, it is a bore to have to play the agreeable all day."

"The ladies are the cream of our old set, with several new ones, who are angels." "Ah!"

"There's Ellen Cassel-"

"Oh! I know her. She's a blue, and they say vowed herself to perpetual virginity, lest the cares of a married life should interfere with her literary leisure."

Well, then, there's Mary Beaufort."

Keeps a lap-dog and lithpths. Good heavens!" "Caroline Seckel."

"I once caught her making cake, with her arms smeared with meal; and she pretended the servant was sick. I detest a lady who is too proud to be a housewife, much more one who will equivocate to escape the imputation of industry."

"But there's Isabel Conway-Belle Conway we call her neither a blue nor a fool, but beautiful, accomplished, amiable and rich. She's just your beauideal."

"Conway-Conway-I do n't know the name, and yet it seems familiar. She was not in our set?"

"No, she is a new comer, a Bostonian. All the "Mr. Hastings!" was the general exclamation of men are in love with her, but no one can make an surprise, as our hero appeared on the ground, and impression on her heart. She has a voice like an many a bright eye grew brighter as the favorite acangel. You used to be a favorite with the sex, sup-quaintance of other days so unexpectedly appeared; pose you try to conquer this unconquerable one. She is a prize worth taking."

'By Jove! I'll go," said Hastings. "And now

let us uncork the other bottle."

CHAPTER III.

It was the beginning of June, and the trees were all in leaf; while thousands of wild-flowers, the violet, anemone, and quaker lady, spangled the hillside and blushed in the meadows. A fresh breeze rippled the calm waters of the Wissahickon; birds caroled gaily overhead, and every thing promised a day of pleasure. At an early hour the party began to repair to the place of rendezvous, and soon a crowd of carriages had congregated. The old woods echoed with laughter from gay and happy hearts, as they had not done for years before.

for Ernest Moore had faithfully kept the secret of his friend's arrival.

Congratulations crowded on him; the dance, for a few moments, was postponed; and all joined in welcoming back one whose departure had been felt as such a loss to their circle. Perhaps, too, more than one heart began to form expectations of what might be the result of a renewal of the acquaintance between her and the handsome and now wealthy Hastings.

"Let me introduce you to a partner-pray take a side in the cotilion," said half a dozen, and our hero soon found himself vis-a-vis to a very beautiful girl whom he did not recollect to have seen before. But the grace of her motion and the witchery of her smile made the eyes of Hastings follow her, until the raillery of his partner recalled him to himself.

"Where is your paragon, this Belle Conway?" said Hastings to his friend, Ernest Moore, when the dance was over.

"I really do not know. I have been looking for her for an hour. But I believe some one said she had strolled off with young Harcourt; he is rich, you know, and I hear whispers to-day that they are engaged. I thought she was heart-whole. I hope what I said yesterday has not made you fall in love, though it would be characteristic of your romantic turn, my dear fellow.”

"Pshaw!" said Hastings, but he felt strangely interested to make the acquaintance of Belle Conway, for he had a presentiment they had met before.

In a short while Ernest Moore returned. "Why, Hastings," he said, "you have been dancing vis-a-vis with Miss Conway and never knew it. She has since gone off with Harcourt, as I told you. It looks suspicious."

Hastings had determined to ride out on horseback, and instinctively he chose the route he had pursued when he last visited the spot. Before he was aware of it, a bend in the road brought him in sight of the place where he had rescued the fair stranger three years before. He drew up his horse, while a crowd of emotions swept over him. We will not say that he had constantly dwelt, during his absence, on the image of the unknown; but certainly, in his hours of reverie, her memory had strangely haunted him, and his bosom had thrilled with wild hope, when he painted her unmarried on his return. By the lonely watch at sea, on the shores of the distant Ganges, in sickness and health, one thought had cheered his desolation and spurred him on to renewed energy. And now he had returned. But where was she? Perhaps the wife of another. The thought chilled his bounding spirits, and he rode on sad and dispirited. As he wound down the rocky road the beauty of the landscape gradually opened before him. Perhaps there are few rivers more romantic than the Wissahickon. The stream steals along at the foot of high, wooded hills, whose almost precipitous sides seem lost in the clouds. Here and there strips of level land intervene between the precipice and the water, and on one of these the pic-nic party had now assembled. Fair forms, chastely attired in white, were flitting to and fro among the willows. here a pair, perhaps lovers, had wandered off arm in arm; there a group was embarking in a boat; some were fishing, others were strolling after flowers, and the enlivening music of Johnson's band, at this moment striking up, gave notice that the dance on the green-raillery of some of her friends, and moved to a posisward was about to begin. The whole scene presented a gay and stirring picture. The groups sitting under the trees, the voyagers on the water, and the parties hurrying to the cotilion, filled up the foreground, while in the rear the wooded hill soared to the sky, crowned with a stately mansion on the extreme top, whose white walls glistened in the morning sun, like the fabled palaces of the genii.

The day wore on. The dinner hour approached. Slowly the absent members of the party dropped in from their various excursions, and most of them were now gathered around the table, which was spread on the greensward and covered with all the delicacies of the season. Conversation became general; and for awhile Hastings amused himself with the various characters of the group. There were blues and coquettes, beauties and belles, girls of sense and mere fashionable automatons, as usual on such excursions; but our hero felt interested in none of them. He began to be annoyed at the continued absence of Miss Conway. At length she appeared, leaning on the arm of Harcourt. She replied with vivacity to the

tion which brought her near to Hastings. At this instant their eyes met, for the first time. A look of inquiry, gradually changing to one of recognition, showed that she had seen our hero before. She extended her hand, with the sweetest of smiles. All at once the truth broke upon him. It was the beautiful stranger whom he had rescued from death, near this very spot, three years before.