Harry Gay was not a native of our village; he came from one of the eastern cities to spend a summer there; and Aunt Martha said he was too well-bred to have any patience with the hoydenish manners of her romping niece. But Kitty insisted that her manners were not hoydenish; and if her heart overflowed, it was not her fault, she could not shut up all the glad feelings within her, they would leap back to the call of their kindred, gushing from other bosoms, and to all the beautiful, beautiful things of creation, as joyous in their mute eloquence as she was. Besides, the wicked little Kitty Coleman was always very angry that Aunt Martha should attempt to govern her conduct by the likings of Harry Gay; she would not be dictated to by him, even though his opinions received the sanction of her infallible aunt. But the lady made a trifling mistake on the subject matter of his interference. He did not slander her, and always waived the theme of her follies when her Aunt Martha introduced it; indeed, he never was heard to speak of the belle but once—once he swore she had no soul—(the shameless Mohammedan!) a remark which was only five minutes in reaching its object. But Kitty Coleman, though shockingly indignant, was not cast down by it. She called Harry Gay more names than he, scholar as he was, could have thought of in a month, and wound up with a remark no less formidable than the one which had excited her ire. And Kitty was right. A pretty judge of soul he, to be sure—a man that never laughed! how on earth can people who go through the world cold and still, like the clods they tread upon, pretend to know any thing about soul?