“He only came up from New Haven to pass a few months with Mrs. Tracy, and to pursue his studies with Dr. Heber—he is going back to college very soon, I suppose.” “Going back to college! Ah, I understand, I understand—some wild scapegoat, I’ll be bound, suspended for misdemeanor—never will be worth a straw—never will be good for any thing, not he—wasting the money which his father has toiled hard to earn, I’ll warrant you!” “No, indeed, father, Edward Bartine is no such person, indeed he is not!” eagerly interposed Lucy. “How do you know? I tell you he is. See here Lu—who is this from?” and putting his hand in his ample coat-pocket Mr. Leyton drew forth the letter, holding it up, however, at arm’s length. “O, dear, dear father, please give it to me, please do—that’s a dear father!” cried Lucy, springing up, her face radiant with joy, and extending her hand for the precious missive. “Not so fast, little Miss Lucy Leyton—sit down again—there is your letter—now open it and read it to me,” said Mr. Leyton, passing his arm around her waist to prevent her flight. “O, father, please let me go—indeed I cannot read it to you!” urged Lucy, the tears trembling like dew-drops on her long fringed eye-lids. “Well, then, I’ll read it myself—it must be very fine; I should like to read a letter from such a nice young man,” said Mr. Leyton, attempting to take it. “Father, please don’t, it is only about—about—” “Never mind, I will see what it is about. Lucy, you must either give me the letter or read me the contents—_I must know them_!” and this time Mr. Leyton spoke sternly. The poor girl dared not disobey. With a trembling hand she broke the seal, and, in a voice scarcely audible, read: “My dearest, sweet Lucy.” “Hum—puppy! go on.” “My dearest, sweet Lucy—To-morrow—to-morrow I leave for—for—” Lucy could proceed no further, but covered with blushes hid her face in her father’s bosom. “Well, well Lu, don’t cry; I don’t want to hear any more of such silly stuff. There give me the letter, it will serve nicely to light my pipe,” said Mr. Leyton, twisting it in his fingers. “Father, wont you let me have the letter—wont you, father?” pleaded Lucy. “No, Lucy. Now go and get pen, ink, and paper; this must be answered.” Quite pale and frightened, Lucy brought her little desk and placed it on the table. “Are you ready?” said Mr. Leyton, “well then, begin, Mr. Edward—what’s his name—Bartine—” “Yes, sir.” “You are a base designing young man—” “Must I say so, father? indeed, he is no such thing!” interrupted Lucy, looking up all in tears. “I say he is—go on—‘you are a base designing young man, so, although I am but a farmer’s daughter, never presume to address another letter to me.’ Have you wrote that—very well, now add, ‘My father desires his compliments, and would like to try the strength of his new raw-hide upon your shoulders.’” Lucy sobbed aloud. “Now, say, ‘Respectfully, very, Lucy Leyton.’”