m up-stairs with
his cigar and his Spanish, I'll venture."

Reuben made his way up to Phil's chamber after the unceremonious manner
to which he has been used in that hospitable home, while a snatch of a
little songlet from Rose came floating after him along the stairs. It
was very sweet. But what were sweet songlets to him now? It being a mild
autumn day, Phil sat at the open window, from which he had many a time
seen the old Doctor jogging past in his chaise, and sometimes the tall
Almira picking her maidenly way along the walk with her green parasol
daintily held aloft with thumb and two fingers, while from the lesser
fingers dangled a little embroidered bag which was the wonder of all the
school-girls. Other times, too, from this eyrie of his, he had seen
Adele tripping past, with Reuben beside her, and had wondered what their
chat might be, while he had feasted his eyes upon her fair figure.

Yet Phil was by no means an idler; he had developed a great business
shrewdness, and two or three times in the week drove over to a
neighboring river-town to look after the shipments to the West Indies in
which he was now interested in company with the Squire. But this had not
forbidden a little cursory reading of a sentimental kind. There may have
been a stray volume of Pelham upon his table, and a six-volume set of
Byron in green and gold upon his limited book-shelf, (both of which were
strongly disapproved of by Mrs. Elderkin, but tolerated by the
Squire,)--besides which, there were certain Spanish ballads to which he
had taken a great fancy since his late visit to Cuba.

Reuben was always a welcome visitor, and was presently in full flow of
talk, and puffing nervously at one of Phil's choice Havanas (which in
that day were true to their titles).

"I'm off, Phil," said Reuben at last, breaking in upon his host's
ecstasy over a ballad he had been reciting, with what he counted the
true Castilian magniloquence.

"Off where?" said Phil.

"Off for the city. I'm weary of this do-nothing life,--weary of the
town, weary of the good people."

"There's nothing you care for, then, in Ashfield?" said Phil. And at
that moment a little burst of the singing of Rose came floating up the
stair,--so sweet! so sweet!

"Care for? Yes," said Reuben, "but they are all so good! so devilish
good!"--and he puffed at his cigar with a nervous violence. It was not
often that such an approach to profanity sullied the lips of Reuben, and
Phil