nity where caste is practically ignored. His independence, however, had not degenerated into impudence: he knew his deficiencies of nature and education, and did not attempt to off-set them by a vulgar assertion of equality. He could sit at Mr. Woodbury's table (using the knife a little too freely) without embarrassment, and could take his dinner in the kitchen without being conscious of degradation. His horses, cattle, and crops occupied the first place in his mind-himself-no, another person had the second place—and his own personality gave him the least trouble. He was a general favorite in the neighborhood, and his position was, perhaps, more fortunate than he knew, though the knowledge of it would not have made him happier than he was. He was honestly respected by those below, and not looked down upon by those above him. This consideration was won by his thorough frankness, simplicity, and kindness of heart. His face was too broad and his nose too thick, to be called handsome; but there were fewer eyes into which men looked with more satisfaction than the pair of large blue-gray ones, divided by the nose aforesaid. His forehead was rather low, but open and smooth, and his yellow hair, curling a little at the ends, grew back from the temples with a sturdy set, as if determined that they should not be hidden. Add to these traits a voice mellow in spite of its volume-the cattle understood its every inflection—and it is easy to perceive that Bute was in especial favor with the opposite sex. From head to foot, Nature had written upon him: This man is a male.

Bute had climbed the rise beyond Roaring Brook, when his reveries, whatever they might have been, were interrupted by the sight of a woman, walking towards Ptolemy, a short distance in advance of him. Although no other person was near, to play the spy, he felt the blood creeping up to his ears, as he looked keenly and questioningly at the little figure, in its dark-blue merino dress, tripping forward with short, quick steps. Dick noticed the change in his master, and broke into a trot down the gentle slope. At the sound of hoofs, the figure

turned, disclosing a bunch of brown ringlets and a saucy little nose, then drew to one side of the road and stopped.

"Good-morning, Miss Carrie!" cried Bute, as he drew rein, on approaching: "I thought it was you. Goin' to Ptolemy? So am I. Git up on the bank, and I'll take ye on behind me. Dick'll carry double-he's as quiet as a lamb. Here, I'll jerk off my coat for you to set on." And he had his right arm out of the sleeve before he had finished speaking.

"Ah!" cried the lady, affecting a mild scream; "No, indeed, Mr. Wilson! I am so afraid of horses. Besides, I don't think it would look right.”

It suddenly occurred to Bute's mind, that, in order to ride as he had proposed, she would be obliged to clasp him with both arms. Heaving a sigh of regret, he drew on his coat and jumped off the horse.

"Well, if you won't ride with me, I'll walk with you, any how. How's your health, Miss Carrie ?" offering his hand. "Very well, I thank you, Mr. Wilson. How's Mrs. Babb? And I hear that Mr. Woodbury has come to live with you."

Miss Caroline Dilworth was too well satisfied at meeting with Bute, to decline his proffered company. She was on her way from the house of a neighboring farmer, where she had been spending a fortnight as seamstress, to the cottage of the widow Thurston, who lived on the edge of the village. The old lady's health was declining, and Miss Dilworth occasionally rendered a friendly assistance to the daughter. They were both always glad to see the lively, chattering creature, in spite of her manifold weaknesses and affectations. She was twentyfive years of age, at least, but assumed all the timidity and inexperience of a girl of sixteen, always wearing her hair in a mesh of natural ringlets which hung about her neck, and talking with a soft childish drawl, unless-which rarely happened-she was so very much in earnest as to forget herself. Her nose was piquantly retroussé, her mouth small and cherry-red, and her complexion fair (for she took great care of it); but her eyes inclined to pale-green rather than blue, and she had

an affected habit of dropping the lids. Perhaps this was to conceal the unpleasant redness of their edges, for they were oftentimes so inflamed as to oblige her to suspend her occupation. Her ambition was, to become a teacher-a post for which she was not at all qualified. Hannah Thurston, however, had kindly offered to assist her in preparing herself for the coveted career.

What it was that attracted Bute Wilson to Miss Dilworth, he was unable to tell. Had the case been reversed, we should not wonder at it. Only this much was certain; her society was a torment to him, her absence a pain. He would have cut off his little finger for the privilege of just once lifting her in his strong arms, and planting a kiss square upon the provoking mouth, which, as if conscious of its surplus of sweetness, could say so many bitter things to him. Bute had never spoken to her of the feeling which she inspired in him. Why should he? She knew just how he felt, and he knew that she knew it. She played with him as he had many a time played with a big trout at the end of his line. Over and over again he had been on the point of giving her up, out of sheer worriment and exhaustion of soul, when a sudden look from those downcast eyes, a soft word, half whispered in a voice whose deliberate sweetness tingled through him, from heart to fingerends, bound him faster than ever. Miss Dilworth little suspected how many rocks she had sledged to pieces, how many extra swaths she had mowed in June, and shocks of corn she had husked in October, through Bute Wilson's arm. If Mr. Woodbury were a cunning employer, he would take measures to prolong this condition of suspense.

On the present occasion, the affected little minx was unusually gracious towards her victim. She had a keen curiosity to gratify. "Now, Bute," said she, as they started together towards Ptolemy, Bute leading Dick by the bridle; "I want you to tell me all about this Mr. Woodbury. What kind of a man is he?"

"He's only been with us three or four days. To be sure, I

knowed him as a boy, but that's long ago, and I may have to learn him over ag'in. It won't be a hard thing to do, though: he's a gentleman, if there ever was one. He's a man that'll always do what's right, if he knows how."

He a'n't
Tall, you

"I mean, Bute, how he looks. Tall or short? Is he handsome? Isn't he burnt very black, or is it worn off?" "Not so many questions at once, Miss Carrie. blacker 'n I'd be now, if I was complected like him. might call him-nigh two inches more'n I am, and a reg'lar pictur' of a man, though a bit thinner than he'd ought to be. But I dunno whether you'd call him handsome: women has sich queer notions. Now, there's that Seth Wattles, that you think sich a beauty-"

"Bute Wilson! You know I don't think any such thing! It's Seth's mind that I admire. There's such a thing as moral and intellectual beauty, but that you don't understand."

"No, hang it!-nor don't want to, if he's got it!" I believe in a man's doin' what he purtends to do-keepin' his mind on his work, whatever it is. If Seth Wattles lays out to be a tailor, let him be one: if he wants to be a moral and intellectual beauty, he may try that, for all I keer-but he can't do both to once't. I wish he'd make better trowsus, or give up

his business."

Miss Dilworth knew her own weakness, and carefully avoided entering into a discussion. She was vexed that one of the phrases she had caught from Hannah Thurston, and which she had frequently used with much effect, had rattled harmlessly against the hard mail of Bute's common sense. At another time she would have taken-or have seemed to take-offence, at his rough speech; but she had not yet heard enough of Mr. Woodbury.

"Well, never mind Seth," she said, "you've not finished telling me about your new master."”

If she had intended to prick Bute with this word, she utterly failed. He quietly resumed the description: "Every man that I like is handsome to me; but I think any woman would

admire to see Mr. Max. He's got big brown eyes, like them o' the doe Master Harry used to have, and a straight nose, like one o' the plaster heads in the libery. He wears a beard on his upper lip, but no whiskers, and his hair is brown, and sort o' curlin'. He's a man that knows what he's about, and can make up his mind in five minutes, and looks you straight in the face when he talks; and if he'd a hard thing to say (though he's said nothin' o' the kind to me), he'd say it without flinchin', a little worse to your face than what he'd say behind y'r back. But what I like best in him, is, that he knows how to mind his own business, without botherin' himself about other folks's. You wouldn't ketch him a pitchin' into me because I chaw tobacco, like Seth Wattles did, with all his moral and intellectual beauty."

"Oh, but, Bute, you know it's so unhealthy. I do wish you'd give it up."

"Unhealthy! Stuff and nonsense-look at me!" And, indeed Bute, stopping, straightening himself, throwing out his breast, and striking it with a hard fist until it rang like a muffled drum, presented a picture of lusty, virile strength, which few men in the neighborhood of Ptolemy could have matched. "Unhealthy!" he continued; "I s'pose you'd call Seth healthy, with his tallow face, and breast-bone caved in. Why, the woman that marries him can use his ribs for a wash-board, when she's lost her'n. Then there was Absalom Merryfield, you know, killed himself out and out, he was so keerful o' his health. I'd ruther have no health at all, a darned sight, than worry my life out, thinkin' on it. Not that I could'nt give up chawin' tobacco, or any thing else, if there was a good reason for it. What is it to you, Carrie, whether I chaw or

not ?"

Miss Dilworth very well understood Bute's meaning, but let it go without notice, as he knew she would. The truth is, she was not insensible to his many good qualities, but she was ambitious of higher game. She had not attended all the meetings held in Ptolemy, in favor of Temperance, Anti-Slavery