Did Auburn sleep that night? “To sleep—perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub”—for dream he did, when at length worn out with fatigue and a mind ill at ease, he sought his pillow. None but lovers were ever tormented with such fancies as that night haunted the half crazed brain of the artist. At one moment he was again walking Broadway, and gliding before him the sylph-like form of Emma—then within the holy walls of Trinity he listens to the solemn rites of marriage, but, O distraction! in the fair bride he discovers Emma—while beneath the reverend wig of the officiating priest, the roguish, wicked face of Kate Kennedy peeps out upon him—then the scene changes, and through the most beautiful groves he is wandering with Emma by moonlight—when suddenly the enraged Mr. Belden starts up before him and tears her from his arms! But Auburn awakes and finds only his friend Evans standing by his bedside, and the bright sunshine flickering through the sweet-briar at his window. Up with the birds, and singing as gayly, too, was Kate, and long ere the sun had parted the rosy curtains of the eastern sky, she was lightly tripping o’er the dew-begemmed grass toward the cottage where dwelt her friend. To enter the little gate, to spring with the lightness of a fawn up the walk, scattering the bright tinkling drops from the overhanging branches of the trees upon the flowers nestling below, to softly open the door, and through the hall, and up the stairs to the little chamber of Emma, arousing her from her gentle slumbers with a soft kiss upon her rosy lips, was but the work of a moment. “Why, Kate, what has brought you here thus early, sweet bird?” cried Emma, raising herself from the pillow, and drawing down the sweet mouth of Kate again toward her. “Come, my lady fair, up, up, and don your robes quickly,” was the reply—“We have a delightful plan in our heads—that is George and I—and you are to breakfast with us, George says, as also another person, so that no time may be lost—come, haste thee, haste.” “But where are we going?” cried Emma, springing quickly from her couch, and removing the little muslin cap which shaded her temples, letting escape her luxuriant raven tresses, which swept almost to the floor. “Oh, I have promised to be secret,” said Kate, laughing, “and what is more for a _woman_—I mean to be so. Now let me play the tire-woman,” and seizing the comb she began platting the beautiful hair of Emma, rattling on in her usual lively strain as she did so. “We are to have a sail on the lake, I presume—but who is the person you spoke of as our companion?” said Emma. “A painter and a poet—a sworn bachelor—a woman-hater—hating _you_ in particular—a—” “Why, Kate, you are crazy—who do you mean?” “_Nous verrons_, my dear—come, are you ready?” and throwing a light scarf over the shoulders of her friend, away they lightly tripped.