It is a rather pleasant thing to tell a poor young woman, whom one has contrived to win without showing his rent-roll, that she has found what the world values so highly, in following the lead of her affections. That was an enjoyment I was now ready for. I began abruptly:—Do you know that you are a rich young person? I know that I am very rich,—she said.—Heaven has given me more than I ever asked; for I had not thought love was ever meant for me. It was a woman’s confession, and her voice fell to a whisper as it threaded the last words. I don’t mean that,—I said,—you blessed little saint and seraph!—if there’s an angel missing in the New Jerusalem, inquire for her at this boarding house!—I don’t mean that! I mean that I—that is, you—am—are—confound it!—I mean that you’ll be what most people call a lady of fortune. And I looked full in her eyes for the effect of the announcement. There wasn’t any. She said she was thankful that I had what would save me from drudgery, and that some other time I should tell her about it.—I never made a greater failure in an attempt to produce a sensation. So the last day of summer came. It was our choice to go to the church, but we had a kind of reception at the boarding-house. The presents were all arranged, and among them none gave more pleasure than the modest tributes of our fellow-boarders,—for there was not one, I believe, who did not send something. The landlady would insist on making an elegant bride-cake, with her own hands; to which Master Benjamin Franklin wished to add certain embellishments out of his private funds,—namely, a Cupid in a mouse-trap, done in white sugar, and two miniature flags with the stars and stripes, which had a very pleasing effect, I assure you. The landlady’s daughter sent a richly bound copy of Tupper’s Poems. On a blank leaf was the following, written in a very delicate and careful hand:— Presented to . . . by . . . On the eve ere her union in holy matrimony. May sunshine ever beam o’er her! Even the poor relative thought she must do something, and sent a copy of “The Whole Duty of Man,” bound in very attractive variegated sheepskin, the edges nicely marbled. From the divinity-student came the loveliest English edition of “Keble’s Christian Year.” I opened it, when it came, to the _Fourth Sunday in Lent_, and read that angelic poem, sweeter than anything I can remember since Xavier’s “My God, I love thee.”—I am not a Churchman,—I don’t believe in planting oaks in flower-pots,—but such a poem as “The Rosebud” makes one’s heart a proselyte to the culture it grows from. Talk about it as much as you like,—one’s breeding shows itself nowhere more than in his religion. A man should be a gentleman in his hymns and prayers; the fondness for “scenes,” among vulgar saints, contrasts so meanly with that— “God only and good angels look Behind the blissful scene,”— and that other,—