Suddenly a strain of delicious music broke the stillness. It aroused Auburn from his revery; he paused, and found himself near a small cottage, standing at some little distance from the street, the peculiar beauty of which at once attracted him. An avenue of horse-chestnuts and other ornamental trees led up to the entrance, while for some distance the road and enclosures were lined with the tall, silvery poplar. Clusters of beautiful flowers nodded their fragrant heads in the moonlight, while the soothing murmur of a brook winding through a grove of willows, shadowing one end of the cottage, fell pleasantly upon the ear. Still the music floated around him—now pensive, now gay. Well known airs brought back the memory of other scenes; one voice, too, was strangely familiar—he could almost fancy he was listening, as of old, to the sweet notes of his cousin, Kate Kennedy. The music ceased, yet still Auburn lingered. Two ladies, accompanied by a gentleman, now appear in the piazza which encircles the cottage. Arm in arm they saunter down the walk, talking and laughing gayly. When near the gate, they pause for a moment; an affectionate good-night is interchanged—one lady returns slowly to the house, while the other two persons continuing their walk are in a moment close to Auburn. “Harry!” “Kate!” were simultaneous exclamations, and the next instant the cousins affectionately embraced. “My husband, Harry,” said Kate, disengaging herself; and to add to the surprise of our hero, his friend Evans claimed that happy privilege—and a warm, cordial greeting was exchanged. “How singular we should have thus met! I must have had some prescience there was pleasure in store for me!” exclaimed Auburn. “This half hour, dear Kate, have I been listening to the songs you used to sing me, with a strange conviction that it was your voice I heard.” “But you surely must have known of my intended marriage, Harry?” said Kate. “And that reminds me that you never even answered my letter inviting you to the ceremony; and here is George, too, who also wrote, requesting you to act upon the interesting occasion conjointly with my dear friend—but I forget—you do not like to hear about _her_—the more _your_ loss. Say, why did you not answer?” “Simply because I never received your letter. The fact is, I have been a rover since I left the city—to no place ‘constant ever.’ How long have you been here?” continued Auburn—“I trust I have not arrived just as you are about leaving?” “Oh, no, we have been here but a few days, on a visit to George’s parents. That same annoying friend of mine also dwells here, and possibly we may remain to attend her wedding—but what brought _you_ here?”