needs the constant controlling influence of Christian principle. India Sutherland has never known another guide than her own good pleasure. 'Queen o'er herself" she is not, indeed, unhappily; but queen instead over father and lover, friends, relatives, and servants. In truth hers is a gentle and graceful reign. It could not be otherwise, over subjects so devoted as hers. All of them, from Mr. Sutherland her father, down to Oriole her bower-maid, deem it their best happiness to watch, anticipate, and prevent her wants; and she is pleased to repay such devotion with lovely smiles and loving words. She is, indeed, the tamest as well as the most beautiful young leopardess that ever sheathed claws and teeth in the softest down. She is no hypocrite; she is perfectly sincere; but her deepest nature is unawakened, undeveloped. She knows no more, no, nor as much, as you now do, of the latent strength, fire, and cruelty of those passions which opposition might provoke. There she lay, as unconscious of the seeds of selfishness and tyranny as Nero was, when, at seventeen years of age, he burst into tears at signing the first death-warrant. Awful spirits sleep in the vasty depths of our souls-awful in goodness or in evil-and vicissitudes are the Glendowers that can call them forth. There she lies, all unconscious of the coming struggle, "a perfect form in perfect rest." A rich dress of light material, yet dark and brilliant colours, flows gracefully around her beautiful figure. She reclines upon a crimson silken couch, her face slightly turned downwards, her head supported by her hand, and her eyes fixed upon a book that lies open upon the downy pillow; a profusion of smooth, shining, amber-hued ringlets droop around her graceful Grecian head; her eyebrows are much darker, and are delicately pencilled; her eyelashes are also dark and long, and shade large eyes of the deepest blue; her complexion is very rich, of a clear warm brown, deepening into a crimson blush upon cheeks and lips the brighter and warmer now that the book beneath her eyes absorbs her quite. The light through the golden-hued drapery of the window pours a warm, subdued effulgence over the whole picture. On a cushion below her couch sits a little quadroon girl, of perfect beauty, fanning her mistress with a fan of ostrich plumes; and while she sways the graceful feathers to and fro, her dark eyes, full of affection and innocent admiration, are fixed upon the beautiful epicurienne. When the rising of the evening breeze began to swell the gold-hued curtains, Oriole dropped her fan, but continued to sit and watch lovingly the features of her lady. When the purple shades of evening began to fall around, Oriole arose softly, and drew back the curtains on their golden wires, to let in more light and air, revealing the terrace of roses, the lawn and its groves and reservoirs, and the lovely rose and amber-clouded Pearl, rolling on between its banks of undulating light and shade; and giving to view, besides, the figure of a lady standing upon the terrace of roses, and who immediately advanced smiling, and threw in a shower of rose-leaves over the recumbent reader, exclaiming― "Will that wake you? Mon Dieu! What is it you are idling over? The breeze is up, and playing a prelude through the pine tops and cane-brakes, and the birds are about to break forth in their evening song. Will you come out?" The speaker was a lady of about twenty-five years of age, of petite form, delicate features, dark and bril liant complexion, and sprightly countenance, which owed its fascination to dazzling little teeth, and ripe lips bowed with archness, great sparkling black eyes full of mischief, and jetty ringlets in whose very intri cacies seemed to lurk a thousand innocent conspiracies. She was dressed in mourning, if that dress could be called mourning which consisted of a fine light black tissue over black silk, and a number of jet bracelets set in gold, that adorned the whitest, prettiest arms in the world, and a jet necklace that set off the whiteness of the prettiest throat and bosom. Mrs. Vivian, of New Orleans-Annette Valeria Vivian-spirituelle Valerie-piquant Nan!-the widow of a wealthy merchant, a distant relative of Mrs. Sutherland by her mother's side, and now with her step-daughter on a visit of some weeks here at "Cashmere." "Ciel! then do you hear me? What volume of birds or flowers do you prefer to the living birds and flowers out here? What book (pardieu !) of poetry do you like better than the gorgeous pastoral poem spread around us? Mon Dieu! she does not hear me yet! India, I say!" exclaimed the impatient little beauty, throwing in another shower of rose petals. Miss Sutherland, languid and smiling, rose from her recumbent posture, and handed her the volume. "Pope! by all that is solemnly in earnest! Pope's Essay on Man, by all that is grave, serious and awful! Why, I thought at the very worst it was some Flora's Annual, or Gems of the Aviary, or some other of the embossed and gilded trifles that litter your rooms. But Pope's Essay on Man! Why, I should as soon have expected to find you studying a work on tanning and currying!" "Oh, hush, you tease! And tell me what these lines mean. I have been studying them for the last half hour, and can't make them out." "You studying! Ha! ha! ha! You doing anything! By the way, I have been trying to discover what office I hold near the person of our Queen. I have just this instant found out that I am thinker in ordinary to her gracious majesty." “Well, dear Nan, do credit to your post-think me out these lines," said the beauty, languidly sinking back upon her couch. "But what lines do you mean?" แ Oriole, show them to her. Oh, never mind, you don't know them. Hand me the book, Nan! Here, here are the lines-now make out a meaning for them, if you can: And binding nature fast in fate, "Well," said Mrs. Vivian, laughing, "it sounds very like And it looks as if it might have been written by Uncle Billy Bothsides! Ah, by the way, here he comes. Talk of the evil one, and-you know the rest. Ah, I shall be amused to hear his opinion of the sentiment in question. It is just in his way." I am sure that I shall never be able to do justice to the gentleman that was now seen advancing from the lawn-Mr. William I. Bolling, as he called himself; Billy Bolling, as he was called by his brothers-in-law; Bolling Billy, as called by his boon companions of the bowling alley; Uncle Billy, by the young people; Marse Billy, by the negroes; and Billy Bothsides, by everybody else. He was a short, fat, little gentleman, of about fifty years of age, and clothed in an immaculate suit of white linen, with a fresh broad-brimmed straw hat, which as he walked he carried in one hand, while in the other he flourished out a perfumed linen handkerchief, with which he wiped his face and rubbed his head. His little head was covered with fine light hair, that did not shade, but curled itself tightly off from his round, rosy, good-natured face, full of cheerfulness, candour, and conceit. The damper or the warmer the weather, or the more excited state of Uncle Billy's feelings, then the redder grew his face and the tighter curled off his flaxen hair. Mr. Bolling was one of those social and domestic ne'er-do-weels of which every large family connection may rue its specimen-one of those idle hangers-on to others, of which almost every southern house does penance with at least one. He was a brother of Mrs. Mark Sutherland, but no credit to his sister or their mutual family; though, to use his own qualifying style, neither was he any dishonour to them. He was a bachelor. He said it was by his own free election that he led a single life, though he vowed he very much preferred a married life; that nothing could be justly compared to the blessings of celibacy, except the beatitude of matrimony. He compromised with |