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KNOWING ONE'S OWN MIND.

BY MARGARET MEERT.

“THERE can be but one answer, Mr. Stuyvesant—I beg that you will not think it necessary to pursue the subject,” and the speaker, Blanche Courtenaye, turned her pretty head resolutely away with rather too studied disdain upon her features.

“Assuredly not, Miss Courtenaye; it seems that I have already been too long the sport of your caprice.”’

He paused for a moment, and resumed with repressed emotion,

“I had thought, Blanche——”

“Thought,” interrupted Miss Courtenaye, “thought, I suppose, that Mr. Frank Stuyvesant’s irresistible smiles had had their proper effect, so that he had only to make known his wishes to be promptly accepted.”

Now this was so nearly what he had thought, that Mr. Stuyvesant had nothing to do but take up his hat and depart, with outward composure, but extreme inward dejection.

Blanche stood for a moment where he had left her, then walked quickly up and down the room.

“He thought I was to be easily won,” she said, under her breath. “I am thankful for,the strength of mind which enabled me to overcome that foolish fascination. Poor Frank! he loves me, I believe, but he has not the intense and concentrated nature which must win my love. He wanted me to think it over, he said, as if I did not know what I was doing—fancy not knowing one’s own mind!” and her color rose at the bare idea of such imbecility.

She stopped before the mantle, unlocked a tiny gilded casket which stood there, and took from it a little faded bunch of violets. She gazed long and thoughtfully on them, then tossing them abruptly upon the burning coals, left the room.

Truth compels me to state that Miss Courtenaye was much spoiled, but not, by any means, as cross and unreasonable always as we have seen her today. The only daughter of wealthy parents, with not a wish ungratified, she was disposed to underrate those very satisfactory possessions, and imagined that perfect happiness resided only in a diminutive house, kept, however, with that “exquisite taste and simplicity” which we all know is so easily attained, even with the most limited income. Blanche wished for, of course, the necessary accompaniment of a hero, poor, proud, but of an ‘intense and concentrated nature.”

Poor Frank, unfortunately, had none of these desirable endowments, as his misfortune was to be rich, and of an unusually bright and happy temperament, not in the least resembling the sombre individual whom alone Blanche considered worthy of a young girl’s fancy.

“Mr, Stuyvesant paid a long call,” said Mrs. Courtenaye, as her daughter took her seat at the luncheon-table.

“Yes,” replied Blanche, shortly.

“What a universal favorite he seems to be,” continued her mother; “so different from that uninteresting Goddard.”

Mr. Goddard was a man after Blanche’s own heart, melancholy and romantic enough to please any young lady who had seen Booth play Hamlet.

“Mr. Goddard is a man of decision and character, while Frank Stuyvesant thinks of nothing but his ties and his curls,’ replied Blanche.

It was rather an effort to abuse Frank, and ungrateful, to say the least.

Mrs. Courtenaye glanced curiously at her daughter, but said no more; and Blanche went off to prepare for her usual long afternoon walk.

Mr. Stuyvesant and Miss Courtenaye were no recent acquaintances. They had met, during the autumn, at one of those fascinating country houses, which are such well-known snares to unsuspecting youths and maidens; that careless mingling of light-hearted idlers, the informal breakfast, followed by a lounging morning. All the walks, rides, and drives, which fill up the hours, possess fatal allurements.

These country amusements had not failed to work their charm upon our two young people. Among the groups scattered over the lawn, lazily enjoying the midday autumnal sunshine, you would be sure to see two very much absorbed individuals under some spreading evergreen, or frost-touched poplar. Blanche invariably crowned with scarlet maple-leaves, or decked with fantastic garlands, the spoil of the morning’s ramble. Or, if a madcap riding- party scampering over the hills and dales, the two horses which bounded abreast bore the same joyous pair.