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PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXII.

"SWEET SIXTEEN."

BY ANNIE ARNOLD.

Mr. Hepburn was a clergyman and a widower, who lived in the parsonage of the village of Irving. Here he had been married, here his three children were born, here he had lost his wife, and here he hoped himself to lay down the weary burden of his life. His children were all girls, Margaret, Lucy and Lizze, at the time my story opens, of the respective ages of eighteen, fourteen and six. Maggie had been almost a mother to her sisters since they lost their own mother, three years before, and they loved and respected her as her devoted affection deserved they should. She was housekeeper, teacher and friend, the companion of her fathers lonely hours, the confidant of the children, sympathiz ing in all their joys and sorrows, and the darling of all her father's poor parishioners for miles around. Lucy was a bright sunny-haired blonde, full of grace and ease, with a tall, and, for her age, remarkably well- developed figure, a lady like manner, and fine intellect; Lizzie, also a blonde, was the pet of the whole household ser vants, horse and dog included. I must give you some idea of my friend Maggie's appearance, for she was my pet, coming to me, dear, motherless child, in all her difficulties, for advice and sym pathy, and depending with pretty, child-like confidence on my older, if not wiser judgment. She was of medium stature, and very slight, with delicate, pretty hands and feet. Her fea tures were not perfectly regular, yet not by any means ugly; her eyes were large and of a deep hazle; and her hair, glossy and abundant, was of a soft, pretty brown color; her complexion was fair, but, excepting when she was excited, very pale. The care of her father's house and the responsibility of the training of her sisters, had given to her face a grave, thoughtful ex prcssion, suited to an older person. My darling Maggie. In sorrow or gladness always keeping the same cheerful manner, never excited either to passionate grieving or boisterous mirth, yet always ready with gentle sympathy for either. One morning I was sitting with my pet, chat ting and sewing, when her father opened the door, and handed her a letter, saying,

"Havana! Whom do you know there, Maggie?"

"It must be from Mr. Graham," said Maggie, in a low, constrained voice.

Mr. Hepburn left us, apparently satisfied, and Maggie opened the letter. I watched her whilo she read it, saw the dear face grow whiter and whiter, the dark eyes grow more and more mournful in their expression, till as she finished she drooped her head, saying, in a low, heart broken tone, " What shall I do ?" I was amazed. Mr. Graham I knew was a friend, a dear friend of the family, but I never suspected that a letter from him could effect Maggie so powerfully. "Oh, aunt Hetty, what shall I do?" she re peated. I drew her close unto my arms, and asked her what troubled her. For several moments she could not gain sufficient composure to answer me, then she said, "It has been my only secret from you, dear aunty, because it troubled me so much I could not talk of it, but now I will tell you all about it. You have met Harry Graham here; you know how grand and noble he is, how highminded, intellectual, and yet how kind and gentle. From the first time I ever met him I loved him, but it was with a reverential, wor shiping love that never looked for a return. He seemed to me too far above me, too much my superior ever to dream of loving poor little me. Last summer when he stayed here he was very kind to me, and when the. doctor's said his health required a change of climate, and ordered him to go South for the winter, then I knew 233