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 126 KNOWING ONE'S OWN MIND.

A month of this unrestrained intercourse had passed, when Miss Courtenaye returned to her city home, and Frank to the delights of -Wall street. All things would, probably, have gone on smoothly and successfully then, had not the evil genius of lovers stepped in, taking the form of Blanche’s mamma, and sundry well-meaning aunts.

These anxious relatives met her with a series of smiles, and nods, and hints, to the effect that dear Blanche was really going to make a sensible choice at last. Not one of those Tennysolic, Byronic, good-for-naught sort of men, for whom she had an unfortunate predilection, but a good, dutiful son—a man of property.

Now if there was one thing more than another that Miss Courtenaye abhorred, it was the idea of making a “sensible choice.”

No one had told her, when they were at Rushbanks together, that Mr. Stuyvesant was “a good match”——indeed, she had never thought of him as a “match” at all; and now, to be told that she was going to act like a prudent girl! it was altogether too much. So she perversely resolved that they should see that she was not the commonplace creature they wished her to be. Therefore, when Mr. Stuyvesant presented himself, sure of a blushing welcome, he was received with an air of indifference which Blanche assured herself was not in the least feigned.

Weeks passed by Blanche spent evening after evening at crowded assemblies, whilst receptions, calls, and the usual routine of a New York girl’s life occupied the days.

No matter where she went, Frank was never seen—insensibly she fell into the habit-of glancing around eagerly at each new festivity in search of his brilliant blue eyes. Mr. Goddard, the earnest and profound, in vain discoursed on narrow souls and contracted aspirations. Blanche thought some topics more lively would, perhaps, suit her taste better, and sighed, though she knew it net, for Frank’s ready wit and laugh. After an entertainment of unusual brilliancy, Miss Courtenaye sat before her toilet-table, removing slowly her pretty ornaments, in which, with her glittering silver gauze shining in billowy waves, she had danced and sparkled to the undoing of many a boastful heart. Blanche was thinking little enough of those hearts now, and resting her soft cheek upon her hand, she fell into a long, and somewhat dangerous reverie, when we consider that its subject was the man whom she had rejected a few weeks before.

Her room was furnished luxuriously, and strewn with various nick-knacks, which her fancy had, from time to time, placed there, Carvings and pictures without number; a wild coast scene, by Kensett, shaded her mantle; two clay statuettes of her favorite Rogers held a distinguished position; and for her peculiar satisfaction and comfort a cuckoo clock of delicate workmanship hung on the wall.

Blanche’s meditation was suddenly broken by her little cuckoo bouncing out of his box, and announcing three o’clock with startling distinctness. Perhaps the little bird thought his mistress dull company, for he darted back without a single unnecessary note.

“Well, there are more things in heaven and earth than falling in love!” ejaculated Miss Courtenaye, and, rising, she completed her preparations for the night, and, alas! that I should record it, was asleep in five minutes.

Broadway, we all know, is enchanting in the brilliant sunshine of a winter’s morning. A trifle muddy under foot, a trifle dangerous from the possible breaking of a derrick on one of the unfinished buildings, and the possible descent of fifty pounds, or so, of stone on your head; buf certainly bright and entertaining from the jostling throng of hurrying business men; younger ones in neat toilets hastening to their similar destinations, but taking time to give considerable attention to the pretty girls, who also had urgent business awaiting them; but within the vain precincts of Stewart's, among these last named was Blanche, sweet and fresh as usual, with just the smallest look of expectation on her face, as she bowed and smiled repeatedly at the acquaintances coming and going.

The little flower-girls in vain held up their violets for her notice—from some reason violets had lost their charm. They had been her favorite flower, and Frank’s offerings had many times garnished her belt. Perhaps the little blue blossoms recalled painful memories.

“Poor Frank!” thought Blanche, “I wonder where he is now; traveling, perhaps, feeling bitter to all the world. I should like to know—”

Just as she reached this point in her reflections, a quick step sounded behind her, and Mr. Stuyvesant himself went by, barely lifting his hat as he passed. In one moment he was gone, but not before Blanche had time, to observe that he never looked handsomer or more untroubled in his life. Half a square below, Miss Courtenaye saw her cousin, Lilian Dashwood, and—— Could it be? Frank, stopping, with an air of interest to join Miss Dashwood's morning sau her.

Could it have been with Lilian that he has