“Then as soon as dinner, which is just ready, is over, go to Heath Hall, and offer your services to Mrs. Withers, Mr. May. God bless this poor boy!” said she, taking his head between her hands, “he thinks his sun has set, and left his world in darkness, and he thinks that his life is made a ‘howling wilderness,’ and he thinks a great many horrible poetical things besides, and he has a slight suspicion that if he could put all that he feels upon paper, he would make a great poet. Well, now, let me advise you to improve the time, master poet; it will be short—write while the fire is blazing in the heart, and the brain boiling over it like a pot—do, Gusty, for presently the fire will all be out, and the brain quiet, and the clouds will clear away from your sky, and the sun will rise upon your stormy night and convert it into a very humdrum forenoon, unsuggestive of anything but dinner.” * * * * * Sophie and Hagar were in conversation together in the chamber of the former, as Gusty rode into the yard. Sophie was trimming the white satin boddice of a beautiful dress that lay over the bed. “And now I shall not wear that!” said Hagar. “I do not like it, it does not suit me. I shall feel in borrowed plumes if I wear that; it no more suits me than the white feathers of the dove would suit the kite.” “But, Hagar, my love, you would not wear anything else than white, would you? I never heard of a bride, a young bride, wearing colors in her bride dress.” “But _I_ shall—I shall wear a black lace dress.” “Black! mercy, Hagar, you would make yourself so conspicuous, you would shock the whole neighborhood!” Hagar laughed wildly, “You know very well that _that_ is my besetting sin, Sophie; when this inane neighborhood is falling into an apathy, I feel a propensity to shock it into a little life!” “Oh! you will think more rationally of this, I know it, for I know you would not willingly shock Raymond—but tell me, does he seriously intend writing to Dr. Otterback to come down?” “Very seriously, for he _has_ gone to his room for that purpose now. You see, dear Sophie, that I wished it myself. I am like that poor fellow who was hanged at Churchill Point a year ago; who, you recollect, would not receive the services of a Jack Ketch in the arrangement of his toilet, but insisted that the high sheriff should officiate, exclaiming, with an expiring flash of self-respect, ‘If I _am_ to be hanged, I’ll be hanged by a gentleman!’[4] Now if a halter must be tied about my neck it shall be tied by a bishop!” Footnote 4: A fact. The girl’s manner was full of wild gaiety. Sophie gently rebuked her for speaking of sad and grave subjects with wanton lightness. But the girl’s eyes flashed more mirth and fire than before, as she said—