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 270 ONLY A WOMAN AFTER ALL.

delicious notes of the serenade from ‘Don Pasquale” floated up from the river-bank, and, mingling in sweetest unity with John Greggerson’s clear tenor, came the rich, deep bass of his friend. I note this, for it was the first actual knowledge I had of his existence, and it softened my heart as nothing else would have done.

After the introductions were over, we placed ourselves in the boat, and at my request we were rowed up the river to the Pines, that we might drift down with the tide. Eliza sat in the bow dabbling her soft hands in the ripples; the gentlemen took the oars, and by tacit con- sent, I placed myself in the stern to manage the rudder.

We sailed on and on, and at last Eliza began to sing; the others joined her; but I could only sink to the floor, and leaning my head against the seat, weep restful tears. It was the first moment of peace I had known for weeks, cua in its comfort I forgot all else.

The river smooth as any lake; the paling loveliness of the sky; the young moon whose radiance was just mellowing the twilight; the rubbing of the oars against the row-locks; the sweet voices near me; all faded slowly away, and I slept. How long I know not, for I was suddenly wakened by an arm being passed quickly under my head, and the boat twitching violently in another direction.

Mr. Barrington, to whom the arm belonged, said, ‘‘I beg your pardon, but we were nearly on the pier.”

I started up, and discovered, to my horror, that we had only missed running against the bridge by a few inches, and that the fault was mine, for, in my sleep, I had lost my hold of the rudder, against which my head had fallen, and pushed in the wrong direction.

I was mortified, and annoyed, for I prided myself on my skill in steering.

All the way home I was speechless, and brought the boat up to the little wharf in good style. They all walked to Mrs. Lane’s with me—I cannot call it home—as I declined going ‘back with Eliza. We parted at the gate, and ‘since then I’ve been writing these pages. Why I have dwelt so much on the trifles of this evening I cannot tell. Perhaps—but it is of no use to speculate, and I’ll go to bed.

September 30th.—The next morning, after my last writing, brought Mr. Barrington to the door with an inquiry for me. I went down to the parlor, when he said, “I am the bearer of a message from Mrs. Greggerson. As we were going up the steps last night she slipped, fell, and sprained her ankle severely; and she begs you will come over to see her, prepared to stay, if you can. I suppose she thinks John and I are not sufficiently entertaining,” and he smiled.

“Oh! it’s not that, I am sure,” I answered, and blushed at my own earnestness. “But I dare say there are many things about the house which I can attend to for her; and then Eliza is accustomed to having me near her when she is ill. I'll get my hat immediately.”

I was glad to go if Eliza needed me; but it was another day passing without any effort to ‘‘do” something, which I had told myself yes- terday I must begin, or my little stock-of money would soon be gone. Perhaps, though, I would talk it over with my friend and decide the mat- ter; and it would be something to come to a conclusion. I thought I would not go to stay all night, but would leave a bag packed, which I could send for in case I found it necessary to remain. I ran down stairs, and we set out.

Mr. Barrington is a most agreeable talker, and we had reached the house before I realized we were half-way there.

I found Eliza in considerable pain, and spent the remainder of the forenoon in soothing her nerves, and looking after the household. In the afternoon Mr. Barrington came to know if we would be read to, for, John having gone away on business, he was alone. Eliza cried out, ‘Do, by all means. I was just wishing for it; and this poor child, here, looks so tired, I would not ask her;” and she patted my hand affectionately.

Mr. Barrington came in and sat down.

“What shall it be?” he asked. ‘Fact or fiction, prose or poetry?”

“Anything,” Eliza answered. ‘Take the paper, and see if there is anything new in it. I’ve not read it for two or three days.”

He opened the sheet and read for awhile. Very soon Eliza fell asleep. Looking up, he said, ‘You are feverish and tired, and she will rest better if we are not in the room. Suppose. we go into the garden;” and rising, he held the door open for me to pass through.

On the terrace the talk turned on woman's rights.

“I hope, Mr. Barrington,” I said, in answer to a remark of his, ‘‘that you are not one of those narrow members of your sex who believe that woman’s sphere is limited by the four walls of her home; and deny her right to work out- side of it, whether she has the necessity or not. If you are, we must ever be at variance.”

“I am not so narrow as you fear. I acknowledge woman’s right to work, while I deprecate