and yet be unconscious that he had uttered a beautiful comparison.” “So, too,” said Fred, “any one who has ever cooked a certain kind of shell-fish before sunrise, could not help saying, as the light broke upon him, “‘Like lobsters boiled—the moon From black to red begins to turn.’” “Come,” said Hattie, when our laugh had subsided, “it is getting dark, and as I promised to be at home in time to see Sally dressed for her bridal, I fear if we don’t go now, she will remind me of the pouting dame who sits at home, “‘Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.’” After we had left Hattie at her own door, and were proceeding homeward, Fred broke out in his most earnest tone. “That Miss Atherton is a very nice girl; what an intellectual face she has—have you seen any of her poetry—does she write much?” “Oh, yes—you have read some of it, which she has published anonymously, (but this is a great secret, remember,) and her motive in doing so is as honorable to her heart as the verses are to her poetical powers. You know Mr. Atherton lavishes his wealth upon his children without bounds, and Hattie says it does not seem very benevolent for her to give away her father’s money, so she devotes the proceeds of her literary labors to purposes of charity. She is very kind to the poor; I wish you could see how their faces brighten at her approach.” “Well done! that is what I like in a woman. She is really a very sensible girl,” replied my brother. “Even if she does write her name H-a-t-t-i-e,” said I, with a sly glance. Fred pinched my arm, but said nothing. Time passed on, and I was satisfied that my brother had found out “what there was to like in Hattie Atherton;” but a proud man deeply in love is the most timid of mortals, and he sped but slowly in his wooing. His favorite books were offered for her perusal; and long evenings were spent in arguments upon questions of metaphysics and philosophy, and though Hattie had sufficient strength of intellect to sustain her share of the conversation creditably, she was too much impressed with awe of Fred’s menial abilities to feel perfectly at ease while he was thus drawing forth the powers of her mind; and, mistaking her dignity and slight reserve of manner for indifference or aversion, he dared not betray the strong affection with which she inspired him. One evening, late in the summer, as I was sitting alone in the twilight, Fred entered hastily, and throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed, “I have just heard very bad news—do you know—have you seen Harriet to-day?” “No—what has happened? Tell me, for mercy’s sake,” said I, half frightened out of my wits at the sight of his pale face. “Mr. Atherton has failed.” “Oh, is that all,” replied I, with a feeling of relief on knowing that nothing dreadful had befallen my friend.