depth and justness of thought, displayed by this recluse lady upon subjects apparently so foreign to her daily experience. They made quite a long morning visit, and before their departure, Captain Clifton took an opportunity—while Mr. Fairfax was walking around the room and staring at some old family pictures, among which hung a portrait by ——, of Oliver Cromwell, as Lord Protector of England—to draw his mother aside, and say to her— “Madam, I have a proposition to make to you, or a favor to ask—as it may turn out.” “What is it, my son?” gravely inquired the lady. “You heard Mr. Fairfax speak of the young mountain-girl whom we met just before the storm, and who kindly conducted us to her grandfather’s cabin?” “Yes.” “It is of her that I would speak, and for her that I would enlist your sympathy and protection—” “Go on, I attend, my son.” “You have given me some credit for insight into character. If my judgment is worthy of your consideration, this young girl is deserving of your kindest offices.” “Does she deserve them?” “Madam, she impressed me as being a child of high moral and mental endowments, and the trying experience of one night proved the truth of that impression.” “Does she need my good offices?” “Mother! with the finest intellectual capacities, she is nearly destitute of all opportunities of intellectual culture. That is bad—but not so deplorable as what follows. Kate Kavanagh—that is her name—is far removed from all of her own sex. Her young brother, her only protector, is absent from home from earliest dawn till late at night. Her only companion is an old man, an habitual drunkard, subject to frequent and furious fits of _mania-a-potu_. Her case, upon my showing, may not be so exigent. But if you had seen her as I did, it would seem so. Her brother being best acquainted with the circumstances, is the best judge in the premises, and is very anxious upon his sister’s account, and wishes to get her a place at service.” “But if she is a girl of so excellent a nature as you have supposed, will she leave her aged relative?” “Not willingly, certainly—but—I wish the opportunity of improving her condition afforded her, indeed, I promised her brother Carl that it should be presented.” “I know Carl Kavanagh—he worked for me during the last year. I formed a good opinion of him. If his sister is equal to him she must be a meritorious girl.” “She is very superior to him, madam.” The lady was mistress of great promptitude and decision of action. With her eyes fixed upon the ground she reflected for a few moments, then lifting them, said— “Write to your friend Carl Kavanagh—” “Not my _friend_, dear madam, an’ it please you!” haughtily interrupted her son. A slight shade of disapproval or of displeasure clouded the lady’s brow for a moment, and she said—