es; and often in my drives I used to
meet them coming home hand in hand from school, or from the woods with
berries and nuts, talking and laughing as if there were no scolding
step-mothers in the world.

"It so fell out that when Julia was in her sixteenth year there came
a famous writing-master to Peewawkin. He was a showy, dashing fellow,
with a fashionable dress, a wicked eye, and a tongue like the old
serpent's when he tempted our great-grandmother. Julia was one of his
scholars, and perhaps the prettiest of them all. The rascal singled her
out from the first; and, the better to accomplish his purpose, he left
the tavern and took lodgings at the Ensign's. He soon saw how matters
stood in the family, and governed himself accordingly, taking special
pains to conciliate the ruling authority. The Ensign's wife hated young
Barnet, and wished to get rid of her step-daughter. The writing-master,
therefore, had a fair field. He flattered the poor young girl by his
attentions and praised her beauty. Her moral training had not fitted
her to withstand this seductive influence; no mother's love, with its
quick, instinctive sense of danger threatening its object, interposed
between her and the tempter. Her old friend and playmate--he who could
alone have saved her--had been rudely repulsed from the house by her
step-mother; and, indignant and disgusted, he had retired from all
competition with his formidable rival. Thus abandoned to her own
undisciplined imagination, with the inexperience of a child and the
passions of a woman, she was deceived by false promises, bewildered,
fascinated, and beguiled into sin.

"It is the same old story of woman's confidence and man's duplicity.
The rascally writing-master, under pretence of visiting a neighboring
town, left his lodgings and never returned. The last I heard of him,
he was the tenant of a western penitentiary. Poor Julia, driven in
disgrace from her father's house, found a refuge in the humble dwelling
of an old woman of no very creditable character. There I was called to
visit her; and, although not unused to scenes of suffering and sorrow, I
had never before witnessed such an utter abandonment to grief, shame,
and remorse. Alas! what sorrow was like unto her sorrow? The birth
hour of her infant was also that of its death.

"The agony of her spirit seemed greater than she could bear. Her eyes
were opened, and she looked upon herself with loathing and horror. Sh