'Oh! come,' urged Mr. Sandford, 'never mind your shirt-sleeves--it's no time to be particular about trifles.' Still he didn't move. 'Oh! come, dear Carl!' said Mary. And her lover sprang to her feet! * * * * * What immediately followed was not told me. But there was no after-coldness or reluctance on the part of the good father. His heart was melted and fused in affection and gratitude for his daughter's lover. His prejudices were vanquished, and he was just as well satisfied as if they had been overcome by the slower processes of reason and conviction. The truth was, the old gentleman was not to be outdone in magnanimity. Mary's filial devotion had prepared him to yield his opposition, and he confessed that he had, in his own secret counsel with himself, determined to recall Heiner at the end of another year, if he proved constant and half as deserving as his foolish girl thought him. But Prospero--as Mary called the Old Man of the Mountain--had seen fit to take the business into his own hands, and setting his magic to work, had stirred up a tempest in his Punch-Bowl, just to bring these young romancers together. But by what spell had he conjured up the lover, just at the critical moment? Heiner confessed, that not being able to get off in the steamer of the twenty-ninth, as he had purposed, he had delayed his embarkation for ten days, and the magic of love--really the only magic left in our prosaic world--had drawn him to the White Mountains, where he might have the happiness (a lover, perhaps, only could appreciate it) of breathing the same atmosphere with Mary, and possibly of now and then getting a glimpse of her. Thus he had stood on the summit of Mount Washington when, by some mysterious magnetism, she was gazing through the glass; thus he narrowly escaped detection near the Willey Slide; and preceding her by a few hours on Mount Willard, he was in time at the Echo Lake to signalize her, and by a good providence had been present at her hour of need on the magic domain of 'The Old Man of the Mountain.' It was flood-tide in the old gentleman's heart. Mary's affairs ripened rapidly. They seemed to me well typified by one of my Malmaison rose-buds that I have watched slowly growing through the ungenial May-days, drooping under a cold rain, suddenly expand into luxurious perfection with a half-day's June sunshine. The happy future was already arranged. The thrice-blessed October sun was to shine upon the bridal festival, and then Mary was to go with her husband, and accompanied by her father, to pass a year in Europe. 'Mary and I are already wedded,' said he to me, with a smile of complete satisfaction; 'we only take this young fellow into the partnership.' * * * * * It was a bright day in the outer and inner world when we separated. And thus ended our October visit to the White Hills of New-Hampshire, but not our gratitude to Him who had held us