The storm had passed, and the sun was shining quite cheerily in the eastern recitation-room the next morning, when Miss Kate, whose seat was nearest the window, placing her hand pathetically upon her heart, affected to fall in bashful and extreme agitation upon the shoulder of Carry her neighbor. “HE has come,” she gasped in a thrilling whisper. “Who?” asked Carry sympathetically, who never clearly under stood when Kate was in earnest. “Who?--why, the man who rescued us last night! I saw him drive to the door this moment. Don't speak: I shall be better in a moment--there!” she said; and the shameless hypocrite passed her hand pathetically across her forehead with a tragic air. “What can he want?” asked Carry, whose curiosity was excited. “I don't know,” said Kate, suddenly relapsing into gloomy cynicism. “Possibly to put his five daughters to school; perhaps to finish his young wife, and warn her against us.” “He didn't look old, and he didn't seem like a married man,” rejoined Addy thoughtfully. “That was his art, you poor creature!” returned Kate scornfully. “You can never tell any thing of these men, they are so deceitful Besides, it's just my fate!” “Why, Kate,” began Carry, in serious concern. “Hush! Miss Walker is saying something,” said Kate, laughing. “The young ladies will please give attention,” said a slow, perfunctory voice. “Miss Carry Tretherick is wanted in the parlor.” Meantime Mr. Jack Prince, the name given on the card, and various letters and credentials submitted to the Rev. Mr. Crammer, paced the somewhat severe apartment known publicly as the “reception parlor,” and privately to the pupils as “purgatory.” His keen eyes had taken in the various rigid details, from the flat steam “radiator,” like an enormous japanned soda-cracker, that heated one end of the room, to the monumental bust of Dr. Crammer, that hopelessly chilled the other; from the Lord's Prayer, executed by a former writing-master in such gratuitous variety of elegant calligraphic trifling as to considerably abate the serious value of the composition, to three views of Genoa from the Institute, which nobody ever recognized, taken on the spot by the drawing-teacher; from two illuminated texts of Scripture in an English Letter, so gratuitously and hideously remote as to chill all human interest, to a large photograph of the senior class, in which the prettiest girls were Ethiopian in complexion, and sat, apparently, on each other's heads and shoulders. His fingers had turned listlessly the leaves of school-catalogues, the “Sermons” of Dr. Crammer, the “Poems” of Henry Kirke White, the “Lays of the Sanctuary” and “Lives of Celebrated Women.” His fancy, and it was a nervously active one, had gone over the partings and greetings that must have taken place here, and wondered why the apartment had yet caught so little of the flavor of humanity; indeed, I am afraid he had almost forgotten the object of his