idder; but she died, and
nobody cared for me here, so I just joined the b'hoys, and learned how
to enjoy myself."

"I'll tell you what we'll do!" exclaimed Quirk, after another short
pause, "we'll just take the cars, and go to Carrolton. That's a fine
place, and it can't hurt your conscience any to visit it. Even the
ministers ride up there on Sundays sometimes."

"How soon could we return? By the time church is out?"

"Oh, we can come back any minute we like. Hurrah! Now hop in, or we'll
be left."

The cars were just on the point of leaving, and they were obliged to run
in order to catch their chance. The moment of reflection did not come to
Arthur till he had taken his seat, and was rapidly moving away. If there
came any pangs of conscience then, they were, from a dread of ridicule,
studiously concealed from his companion, and consoling himself with the
thought that it now was too late to repent, he gave himself up to the
full enjoyment of his ride.

After leaving the city, as the charming suburban retreats, one by one,
came out upon his view, Arthur eagerly regarded each one, appreciating
its brightness and freshness all the more from his recent confinement in
the city. The clear sloping meadows, the rural cottages, the fresh air,
all served to enliven and cheer him; and, as the cars were crowded with
pleasure-seekers, like himself, he forgot it was Sunday, and was happy
in his forgetfulness.

Near Carrolton a beautiful wood burst upon his sight, skirting either
side of the track, and casting soft deep shadows on the bright green
sward beneath the branches. The trees were of noble growth, and from
every limb hung pendant the tattered sheets of long gray moss, so common
in the South, and so solemn and sombre in their effect.

"Was there ever anything more beautiful, even on the banks of my own
Hudson!" exclaimed Arthur, enraptured at the scene. "Can we not persuade
the conductor to stop, and let us down? I would enjoy a stroll there."

"Nonsense!" returned his companion. "I can't go with you if you go
there. I have a horror of that swinging moss, and can't bear to be near
it. Those trees always make me think of ghosts, with rotten shrouds on
'em."

"That's a fine comparison, Charley," said a clear, sarcastic voice near
them; and a young man, bearing the unmistakable stamp of the genteel
loafer about him, stretched out a small white hand, with a large diamond
glittering on the little finger, and shook Charle