any one else; consequently, it was slighted by people in general.

Zebedee was not a handsome man, and yet could not be called unimpressible in his exterior-an effect partly owing to his habiliments, and the way he wore them. His coat was invariably snuff color, and his-what shall we call them? by no name suggesting the idea of kneebuckles, or silken hose, for Zebedee Flint was not exactly an "old school gentleman "—neither would any modern tailor recognize in his outward man anything belonging to his professional calling. We must, therefore, delicately hint that these ambiguous moulds, in which he was run, were of indigo blue, always tight and short, giving his attenuated figure, a "fell away" expression.

Miss Betsey Washburn made his clothes, and either from some lack of skill, or some fanciful idea of airiness, she imparted to his coat tails a looseness, which ill accorded with the tightness below.

But Mr. Zebedee Flint and his apparel were as much incorporated as his soul and body; and no one who had accidentally seen the last, in a state of divorcement from their mortal part, could have been made to believe that he was not somewhere thereabouts. His hair was scant, and of a number of shades all darkening as he grew older, to iron grey; his skin, owing to pill taking, to which he was addicted, of a nankeen color. His mouth was "like the Flints';" grandma said, but its peculiarities the reader can best imagine. He could make it large to any extent, but ever failed to contract it; it was a mouth discernible and capacious, and a mouth full of teeth of all sizes and patterns; it was a mouth under his nose-nearly, and fell short of his ears, and whether twisted, open, or shut, was a mouth to be seen and not forgotten. Its expression seldom varied, and resembled that of a cat-fish. He was rarely

known to smile; though something approaching to a twinkle was seen in his eye; and a slight convulsion of the gills, when he felt himself in the atmosphere of the deacon's daughter.

Energy could not safely be called one of his characteristics, it being chiefly exhibited in his purposes. In action, he generally failed. For fishing and hunting he showed some zeal and perseverance; but for the former, he cared not whether he caught trout or pumpkin-seed; and preferred to shoot rats rather than any other game. He prided

himself on being a good shot-else he would not have aimed, if slily, at Jane.

He felt as sure of her, as if she was a bloody crow, coming over a corn-field-his spoil. He felt the strength of his ammunition, and confidence in his unerring aim; but he liked to watch his victim, to fancy her escaping from his trap, while he glided cautiously, softly after her, seeing her with his grey twinkling eyes, anticipating the time when he would clutch her.

It was his day and night dream, how he should catch Jane.

But this was Mr. Flint's private business; he did not talk of it publicly, as he did of making a fortune, despairing only to the old people, whom he kept in a state of lively sympathy, and had done for ten years, they hoping some day he would "turn to and work."

So year after year he vegetated at the farm, with uncertain prospects-often thinking, he would set up a tin store, or study law, where he could earn his salt, though Keturah knew he never would the pepper and mustard she put on his back. The bachelor was subject to lumbago.

Between Zebedee and Keturah there was ever an undeclared war in agitation, animosity perhaps engendered by their dissimilarity. Keturah being smart, voluble, and

demonstrative; and though the help of the family, was no small or inconsiderable personage in it. She could, she avowed, clear a ten-railed fence, with a live rooster under each arm, while Mr. Flint was wondering at the foot how he should get over, and "tackle every critter in the barn," while the old bachelor was heading the turkeys to get there, they generally taking umbrage at the red handkerchief that streamed from his somewhat luxurious coat tails.

Keturah too, professed to despise ailing people, being herself sound in bone and limb. She had no charity for complaints, much less for silent anguish, preferring, she said, yells and roars, to small whines and short grunts; and would rather hear Parson Longyarn preach to "ninthly," than to hear morning, noon, and night how Mr. Flint feltif his feelings wasn't agreeable," it was none of her business, and "to his own disgrace."

Mr. Zebedee Flint did not profess to have much bodily strength. Keturah did.

Keturah Sprunt was, by general consent, the main-stay of the family; doing the work, besides making butter and cheese for market. She was also ready to wait on the table, or sit down to it, as she liked best; she finished washing before breakfast; and was ready for a quilting or apple-fee in the afternoon. She could provide a dinner for any number of people, and entertain the company after arrival. She was all this, and more, besides being a buxom, red cheeked, good looking damsel of twenty-three. The old people depended upon her; and Jane, being used to her officiousness and garrulity, appreciated her good qualities, and paid respect to her "flesh and blood," which was not despisable, old Pharaoh Sprunt having been a “likely, wellto-do-butcher," and much thought of in killing time.

J

CHAPTER IX.

ANE SELDEN has been absent for a few days, but is

now on her way with little Jeanie Miller to the farm. The latter became quiet after parting with her mother, comforted with the promise of making her a visit the following season. She has ventured to take a peep out of her little French hat, at the beautiful hills, and at the sheep and cows the steam-engine has scared up, and sent galloping over hedges and through pastures, and at the clear streams, that looked to her like mighty rivers.

As yet, she has scarcely dared to look at Aunt Jane, as papa has bade her call her new protector, for she has not forgotten that she is a "prim old maid," and Jeanie thinks that is everything bad out of a menagerie.

But the prim aunt gave her an apple, with a smile. She then glanced at the figure beside her. The little neat body in a black dress and straw bonnet made upon her, altogether, an agreeable impression. She wondered, in her child-reverie, if, after all, "prim old maid" did not mean something very sweet and pretty. The smile had won her.

It was such a smile as a child loves; for it was born of the heart, and inspired Jeanie to ask many childish questions. But the cars were noisy, and Aunt Jane had not a loud or strong voice. She did not encourage little Jeanie to talk, but drew her head on to a soft cambric handkerchief, which she laid on her lap, telling her that her hair would look nicer if it was cut short.

Meanwhile, Jane Selden was trying to overcome her prejudice against the child, which she might not have had, but for her resemblance to her mother. She, as well as her parents, had suffered much grief from the unhappy marriage of Mr. Miller, and to assume the guardianship of the child of his wife cost her much effort.

But Jane was governed by a sense of duty rather than feeling. She had sensibility on some points, but one who knew her well would not ask her what she preferred to do, but what she thought was best.

Jeanie is glad to reach the farm, and gaily trips over the grass and stones, her big wondering eyes looking upon all objects about her. There is no need of an announcement, for the little black dog is barking (his daily duty, for salary indefinite), at which the little girl screams, and is hushed by the prim Aunt, who shakes her forefinger at "naughty, noisy Mink."

The ploughing in the fields was a novel sight to her, and the great staring oxen another; but when she looked through the woods, down the hill into an opening, she saw a brook, which gave her childish heart a leap; for it was like herself a dancing, merry thing. She felt an undefined sympathy for it; she wanted to play, skip with it, and sing like it, for it made childish, mirthful music-that laughing, glittering, silver, little brook.

It was full of bright stones, that sparkled in the sun, which, with the running water, fastened the attention of little Jeanie. The grass was green (it was the last of May), and the leaves were all out, fresh as if just varnished and painted, and the birds were singing, when the little girl went up the walk under the porch. She had made up her mind that she should like the country.

But when she came within doors, led by Aunt Jane, and an old lady took off her spectacles to look at her-kissing