The day came at last, a beautiful one in June. The house was filled with lovely flowers which Cynthia had arranged--Edith would have nothing to do with it--and the supper-table was decked with the finest China and the old silver service and candelabra of their great-grandmother. The servants, who had lived with them so long, could scarcely do their work. They peered from the kitchen windows for a first sight of their new mistress, and wondered what she would be like. "These are sorry times," said Mary Ann, the old cook, as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. Outside the place had never looked so peacefully lovely. It was late, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows from the few trees on the lawn. In the distance the cows were heard lowing at milking-time. At one spot the river could be seen glinting through the trees, and June roses filled the air with fragrance. All was to the outward eye just as it had always been, summer after summer, since the Franklins could remember, and yet how different it really was. Jack had gone to the station to meet the travellers. Edith, Cynthia, Janet, and Willy were waiting on the porch, all in their nicest clothes. The children had been bribed to keep their hands clean, and up to this moment they were immaculate. Ben and Chester lay at full length on the banking in front of the house; they alone did not share the excitement. The sound of wheels was heard. "They are coming," whispered Cynthia. As for Edith, she was voiceless. And then the carriage emerged from the trees. [TO BE CONTINUED.] STORIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE. BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. In the old seaport town of Salem, with its quaint houses with their carved doorways and many windows, with its pretty rose gardens, its beautiful overshadowing elms, its dingy court-house and celebrated town pump, Hawthorne passed his early life, his picturesque surroundings forming a suitable setting to the picture we may call up of the handsome imaginative boy whose early impressions were afterward to crystallize into the most beautiful art that America has yet known. Behind the town stood old Witch Hill, grim and ghastly with the memories of the witches who had been hanged there in colonial times. In front spread the sea, a golden argosy of promise, whose wharves and store-rooms held priceless stores of merchandise. [Illustration: ONE OF THE BOY'S FAVORITE OCCUPATIONS.]