s just below, in the
boat. Will you not come with me and help her up the bank?"

But I hung back, bashful and frightened, while he called some of the men
to his assistance, and, hurrying down to the river, landed the boat, and
was presently seen walking toward the house with a lady leaning upon his
arm. I saw her from the window. A tall, dignified woman, with a
face--yes, beautiful, certainly, for there were the regular features,
the dark eyes, with their straight brows, the heavy, dark hair, parted
over the fair, smooth forehead, but so quiet, so cold, so almost
haughty, that my heart stood still with an undefined alarm.

She came in and sat down in one of the chairs without taking the least
notice of me. Mr. Hammond spoke,--

"This is Janet Rainsford, my little friend that I told you of, Esther. I
hope you will be as good friends as we have been. She will show you
every beautiful place around the country, and make you acquainted with
the people, too."

Miss Hammond looked at me with a steadiness of gaze under which my eyes
sank.

"I shall not trouble the young person much, since I shall only walk when
you can go with me; and as for the people, it is not necessary for me to
know them, I suppose."

George Hammond bit his lip.

"Janet has taken great pains to put everything in order for us here. I
should hardly know the room, it is so improved since I left it this
morning."

"She is very kind," said his sister, languidly; "but, George, how
horribly this furniture is arranged,--the sofa across the window, the
centre-table in the corner!"

"Oh, you will have plenty of time to arrange it, Esther. Come, let me
show you your own room; you will want to rest while your Dutch
girl--what's her name? Catrine?--gets us something to eat."

Miss Hammond followed her brother to her room, while, mortified and
angry with her, with myself, I escaped from the house, jumped into my
skiff, and hardly stopped to breathe till I had reached my own little
garret. I flung myself on my bed, and burst into bitter tears of
resentment and despair. So, after all my pains, after my endeavors to
improve myself, after all I had done, I was not worth the notice of a
real lady. I supposed I was an uncouth, awkward girl, disagreeable
enough to her; she would not want to see me near her. All I had done was
miserable; it would have been better to let things alone. I never would
go near her again,--that was certain,--she should not be troubled by