distantly courteous, and as she had prophesied, met with at least the
semblance of respect. It was more than the semblance, it was the
reality. Mittie disdained dissimulation, and from the moment her
step-mother asserted her own dignity, she felt it. Mrs Gleason would
have lifted up her warning voice, but she knew it would be disregarded,
and moreover, she had pledged herself to neutrality, unless admonition
or counsel were asked.

"Let us go in and see Miss Thusa," said Louis, as they were returning
one evening from a long walk in the woods. "I must show Clinton all the
lions in the neighborhood, and Miss Thusa is the queen of the
menagerie."

"It is too late, brother," cried Mittie, well knowing that she was no
favorite of Miss Thusa, who might recall some of the incidents of her
childhood, which she now wished buried in oblivion.

"Just the hour to make a fashionable call," said Clinton. "I should like
to see this belle of the wild woods."

"Oh! she is very old and very ugly," exclaimed Mittie, "and I assure
you, will give you a very uncourteous reception."

"Youth and beauty and courtesy will only appear more lovely by force of
contrast," said Clinton, offering her his hand to assist her over the
stile, with a glance of irresistible persuasion.

Mittie was constrained to yield, but an anxious flush rose to her cheek
for the result of this dreaded interview. She had not visited Miss Thusa
since her return from school, for she had no pleasing associations
connected with her to draw her to her presence. Since her memorable
journey with her wheel, Miss Thusa had taken possession of her former
abode, and no entreaties could induce her to resume her wandering life.
She never revealed the mystery of the advertisement, or the result of
her journey, but a female Ixion, bound to the wheel, spun away her
solitary hours, and nursed her own peculiar, solemn traits of character.

The house looked very much like a hermitage, with its low, slanting,
wigwam roof, and dark stone walls, planted in the midst of underbrush,
through which no visible path was seen. There was no gate, but a stile,
made of massy logs, piled in the form of steps, which were beautifully
carpeted with moss. A well, whose long sweep was also wreathed with
moss, was just visible above the long, rank grass, with its old oaken
bucket swinging in the air.

"What a superb old hermitage!" exclaimed Clinton, as they approached the
door. "I feel perfectly su