n their future years, was
rudely broken by a ranting bustle and confusion. Philanthropy was
sweeping past.

Mrs. Pimble, in nankin bloomers, with pert Susey clinging to the hem of
her brief skirt, stalked on with angry stride, vociferating at the top
of her voice.

Mrs. Lawson towered indignantly at her side, joining in wrathful
denunciations of the tyrant man; and fair, persecuted Dr. Simcoe's
assenting voice was faintly heard amid the fiendish shrieks of those
pestiferous younglings, Simcoe's children.

We knew by their ireful aspects some dreadful peril had menaced the
cause of Woman's Rights, and while we gazed, their clamor increased to
furious yells of rage and defiance, and a dark, descending cloud hung
threateningly over their wrathful heads as they passed along.

On their vanishing shadows Mr. Pimble clappered his heelless slippers,
with the long skirts of his palm-figured wrapper streaming on the air
behind him; like the grim ghost of manhood pursuing its flying
aggressors.

Then Florence, like a beam of light, danced past on the arm of Edgar,
and a merry, laughing group followed quickly in their rear, among which
we recognized the tall, portly form of Major Howard, smiling benignly on
the happy faces around him.

But we looked in vain for the thin, bowed figure of his grief-stricken
sister. There were two willow-shaded graves in the grass-grown
church-yard, and o'er them bent the spectre-like form of the Hermit of
the Cedars, his gray locks moistened by the falling night-dews, and his
pale face turned upward to the midnight stars with an expression of
mournful resignation.

As the clock in the ivy-hung steeple tower rang forth its echoing chimes
on the odorous air, we cast one glance toward the swiftly-vanishing
groups, and silently turned away.

Cold and bitter on our long-wrapped senses strike the harsh, blunt-edged
realities of every-day existence. The multiplied images which but
yesterday peopled our brain and thronged on our notice, have "departed
thence, to return no more."

The last sound of their multitudinous voices has died in the distance,
and Wimbledon is to us as if it had never been.

SCRAGGIEWOOD;

A

TALE OF AMERICAN LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

"Sweetly wild
Were the scenes that charmed me when a child;