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LETTERS FROM

POPLAR

II I L L.

LETTER FOURT II.

Poplar Hill, August, 18

DEAR EMILY: I am at home alone; mother, her friends, and the children, having gone to Warren to make a few purchases. When you and Harold were here last night, I expected to accompany them, but was disappointed. I longed to take you into my own room, and tell you all that had occurred during the last week, but could not on account of the visitors. My only resource is a pen and paper; and now that I am wearied with reading, and have partaken of an early dinner, I am delighted to seat myself in the shadows of the east porch, and bring you near me in thought, at least.

I am anxious to know what you think of our visitors. Aunt Eliza, as I have familiarly called mother's maiden sister, is insufferably amiable to me. When I enter her presence, she is pleased and affable, takes an astonishing interest in my opinions. I sometimes think she desires to be rejuvenated, not only in costume- - for her French milliner has admirably accomplished that—but in her thoughts and manners. She was a profound mystery to me at first, but circumstances have revealed a depth of astuteness in her character, that I little suspected. I meet her in obscure parts of the house, in long-closed rooms, but never fail to receive the same unembarrassed smile and repartee. She says little to my father, but has long conversations with mother behind closed doors. She is dignified and austere before strangers, but at home quite different; goes all over the barn with Elfie, swings with her under the willows, crowns the child with garden-flowers, and brings her home to us, exulting in the fright her absence has caused. Her niece, Helen Yarrell, is more prepossessing. Her face and figure are pleasing, her suavity of manner fascinating. Her disposition is good, and we agree very well, although our habits and tastes are widely at variance. Her conversation is pedantic. I always feel when she speaks, as though she were making an effort to select the most unpronounceable words for the simplest themes. I find some amusement in noticing her precise ways, and have learned, when remarking her, the detestability of afectation.

Since they have been here, I have been much occupied. I have not, however, taken care of the parlors for the last week. The servant was sent in the room every morning to put the furniture in the old places, and I would not endure the interference.

Yesterday morning we were in the garden later than usual. When we went into the house, Helen and the children repaired to mother's room, while I ran up stairs for my work. When I came down, I met mother crossing the hall, carrying some refreshments for the ladies. Helen saw me, and spoke to me through the open door. Mother did not turn, but walked into her apartment and closed the door behind her. I stood aghast! I could not summon courage to enter. Must I wait an invitation to partake of refreshment in my father's house? My

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heart swelled in my breast; I turned away slowly, and retraced my steps. How wearily my feet moved up the stairs; I clung to the bannister, and reached my room feeling tired and in the way. I reviewed every occurrence of the morning, strove to recall any hasty act of which I had been guilty, but could find none. My irritated feelings were not calmed in the solitude of my own room, and readily fired at the slightest remark.

After you rode off in the evening, Helen remarked that your brother Harold was a splendid looking man, and of very agreeable manners. Granted,' said mother, but, Helen, you would never think of a man in his position. He is only a minister's son.'

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He seems very pleasant. Is his father worth any thing?' asked aunt Eliza.

‹ His father is pastor of the church in Beverley,' replied my mother, and supports two daughters on a small salary. I do not know that this young man has an occupation; his father brought him up in idle habits. The family are respectable!'

'Respectable!' I exclaimed, indignantly, any lady in the land might be proud of his attentions!'

It is very evident, Bertha,' said mother, 'that you know nothing of the world. You have a naïveté of expression quite fresh.'

She laughed as she concluded, which stung me to the quick.

Later in the evening, Helen was speaking of an ornamental pastry she had recently learned to make, and mother asked if Helen would teach her the process. She then complained of her failing health, saying she was fond of household occupations, but feared she must soon give them up altogether.

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Why don't you let Bertha do such things for you?' suggested aunt Eliza.

My patience was almost exhausted, and when mother said, ‘Bertha never has time, she cannot even dust the parlors,' I could control myself no longer, and exclaimed:

'You know that is false, mother. I have several times assisted you; and when I have attempted to make cake, you have watched me as you would a child. It was only day before yesterday that you told the cook to take the biscuits from my hands or I would spoil them. And as for the parlor, I dusted it regularly until you ordered Susan to do over what I had done.'

I was frightened when I ceased. The pause seemed so long and deep. I could hear the beatings of my own heart, and feared the rest heard them, too. So I went up stairs, cried until I was calm, and with hearty resolutions to redeem my character on the next day, I went to bed, sad and humbled.

This morning, at breakfast, nothing was said about the ride to Warren. The carriage was at the door, and the ladies dressed when I came from the garden where I go every morning for flowers.

"What portion of creation have you favored with your presence this morning?' Helen asked, as I came up the avenue; and mother coming out, said I was very dilatory, and they could not wait for me to dress.

So they went off without me; and as father went early to Sparrow

bush to spend the day with old Stephen, I have been alone all day. The solitude is very pleasant, after so many exciting scenes. It is a luxury to sit here and think. I have just been looking at the serene Catskills, and the clear undulations have, by their similitude, brought vividly before me the cemetery at Beechnuts, and a dear grave on the brow of the hill. Oh! pure and quiet sky, bending so lovingly over it, weeping calm tears from out thy holy eyes at nightfall, how I envy thee! There are who feel consoled with the thought that the departed are hovering near them, but to me the idea is repellent. It would sorely grieve me to know that my aunt Mary witnesses all my weakness, all my error, all my sin.

I hear a horse coming up the road; it has turned into the avenue; I must know who it is.

NIGHT. When I stopped writing this afternoon, I went round the house, and had scarcely turned the angle before I met Harold. He had a book for father, and merely stopped to leave it, but finding me alone, concluded to stay awhile. He fastened his horse, and we sat down on the steps. He was interested to know of my pursuits; and in answering his kind questions, I lost my timidity and conversed naturally. Then we wandered to the garden, and, when wearied, to the grapearbor, where Harold took a copy of Virgil from his pocket, and asked if he should read to me. I was delighted. Its perusal had long been my ambition. I had read Cæsar, but had not confidence to attempt this exquisite poem. Harold translates beautifully. The deep, mellow tones, and smooth, flowing lines, stole like sweet music to my soul. Every sense was wrapt in the thrilling tale. I was on that beautiful southern sea; I heard Juno plead with the mighty Æolus; I entered that tranquil bay where the waters 'lay safe and silent.' I had no thought for the flying moments; I became too much absorbed to follow the translator, and sitting down at his feet, looked up into his face and drank in the glowing words. In a subdued voice Harold was reading how Eneas, by dint of stratagems, sought to inspire the Carthagenian queen with the flame of love; and when he pronounced the words 'Occultum inspires ignem, fallasque venens,'

I asked in a clear, although suppressed voice:

the

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The leaves beside me rustled as I spoke, and looked around to meet eyes of mother and Helen.

'A very unfortunate intrusion!' exclaimed the former, as I started to my feet; shall we retire?'

Harold was not in the least embarrassed; he addressed them cordially, and said he was so interested in the book he had not heard their approach. Helen asked the name of the volume, called it her favorite, saying she had read the twelve books, and how many had Mr. Monteath read? Harold had read but eight; so Helen tossed her head triumphantly, and we went back to the house. It was seven o'clock. Harold declined an invitation to supper, and took a hurried leave of us. Father found opportunity before retiring to tell me he wished I would henceforth receive your brother's visits in the house. Mother

must have told him what she overheard. Was it wrong to sit at Harold's feet and listen so attentively to his reading? I cannot believe it. The attitude expressed earnestness only. But those words of the poet still haunt me, and I mentally ask, 'Is love a poison?' Good-night, Emily dear. Your own

BERTHA ELLICOTT.

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