a peerless woman. Often Mrs. Clifton invited Catherine to bring her work and sit with her through the afternoon, and seldom did she let the girl return without placing in her hand some book just suitable to her very age, and the stage of progress of her mind. And oh! did not the heart of the maiden kindle and glow with love and admiration for the noble lady, who, without one particle of pride, or the least pretension to condescension—condescended so much. And so Catherine grew to understand and appreciate Mrs. Clifton, and to look upon her with a feeling amounting almost to worship. How happy were those afternoons spent with her in the cool and breezy parlor. How deeply grateful was Kate for all her benefits—how anxious to prove her gratitude—to do something for her benefactress. But Kate was very shy, and her love only spoke in the stealthy look of affection fixed upon the lady, and withdrawn with a deeply blushing cheek if discovered. But by these tokens sure did Mrs. Clifton know the sweetness and the tenderness, the modesty and the sincerity of the maiden’s hidden heart. And all this time was Catherine wishing for the ability to tell her friend how much she thanked and loved her. One afternoon she mustered up the courage to tell the lady that she should like to read to her any time that it would be agreeable; also, that she had some skill in doing up laces and such things and that she should be happy if she could assist Mrs. Clifton in such matters. Mrs. Clifton placed her hand affectionately on Catherine’s head, and declined all her offers of service except that which related to the reading—which she accepted—hoping thereby to improve her protégé in many ways—to direct her choice of books, to correct her elocution, and to awaken her understanding of what she read by questions and comments. So they began a course of historical reading with Rollin’s Ancient History. And that which this excellent lady commenced as a duty of kindness soon became a matter of daily recreation. It was indeed a rare intellectual pleasure to arouse, cultivate and hold communion with a fresh, vigorous, original enthusiastic mind like that of Catherine. And those afternoons were almost as happy for the lady as for her protégé—happier for Catherine they could not have been. Once, the shy girl was entirely carried out of herself and her reverie by the following circumstance: The lady had inadvertently let fall that she was a descendant of Oliver Cromwell, when Kate, hurried beyond her consciousness, clasped her hand and gazed fervently up in her face, exclaiming— “Descended from Oliver Cromwell! Descended from Oliver Cromwell, that friend of man? that friend of freedom? Oh! it is no wonder, lady, that you are so noble, so superior to all the world!”