New misfortunes, however, awaited poor Arabella, for scarcely was Mildred gone to her southern home when the red flag of the auctioneer waved from the windows of Mr. Greenleaf’s luxurious house, which, with its costly furniture, was sold to the highest bidder, and the family were left dependent upon their own exertions for support. When the first shock was over, Mr. Greenleaf proposed that his daughter should teach, and thus bring into use her boasted accomplishments. For a time Arabella refused, but hearing at last a situation which she thought might please her, she applied for it by letter. But alas, the mistake she made when she abandoned the spelling book for the piano, again stood in the way, for no one would employ a teacher so lamentably ignorant of orthography. Nor is it at all probable she will ever rise higher than her present position—that of a plain sewer—until she goes back to first principles, and commences again the despised column beginning with ‘baker!’ THE END. DIAMONDS. ‘The boys mustn’t look at the girls, and the girls must look on their books,’ was said at least a dozen times by the village schoolmaster, on that stormy morning when Cora Blanchard and I—she in her brother’s boots, and I in my father’s socks—waded through drift after drift of snow to the old brown school-house at the foot of the long, steep hill. We were the only girls who had dared to brave that wintry storm, and we felt amply repaid for our trouble, when we saw how much attention we received from the ten tall boys who had come—some for fun—some because they saw Cora Blanchard go by—and one, Walter Beaumont, because he did not wish to lose the lesson of the day. Our teacher, Mr. Grannis, was fitting him for college, and every moment was precious to the white-browed, intellectual student, who was quite a lion among us girls, partly because he never noticed us as much as did the other boys. On this occasion, however, he was quite attentive to Cora, at least, pulling off her boots, removing her hood, and brushing the large snow-flakes from her soft wavy hair, while her dark brown eyes smiled gratefully upon him, as he gave her his warm seat by the stove. That morning Cora wrote to me slily on her slate:—‘I don’t care if mother does say Walter Beaumont is poor as poverty—I like him best of anybody in the world—don’t you?’