"Come hither, Priscilla," said Zenobia. "I have something to say to

you."

She spoke in little more than a whisper. But it is strange how

expressive of moods a whisper may often be. Priscilla felt at once

that something had gone wrong.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked, rising slowly, and standing before

Zenobia in a drooping attitude. "What have I done? I hope you are not

angry!"

"No, no, Priscilla!" said Hollingsworth, smiling. "I will answer for

it, she is not. You are the one little person in the world with whom

nobody can be angry!"

"Angry with you, child? What a silly idea!" exclaimed Zenobia,

laughing. "No, indeed! But, my dear Priscilla, you are getting to be

so very pretty that you absolutely need a duenna; and, as I am older

than you, and have had my own little experience of life, and think

myself exceedingly sage, I intend to fill the place of a maiden aunt.

Every day, I shall give you a lecture, a quarter of an hour in length,

on the morals, manners, and proprieties of social life. When our

pastoral shall be quite played out, Priscilla, my worldly wisdom may

stand you in good stead."

"I am afraid you are angry with me!" repeated Priscilla sadly; for,

while she seemed as impressible as wax, the girl often showed a

persistency in her own ideas as stubborn as it was gentle.

"Dear me, what can I say to the child!" cried Zenobia in a tone of

humorous vexation. "Well, well; since you insist on my being angry,

come to my room this moment, and let me beat you!"

Zenobia bade Hollingsworth good-night very sweetly, and nodded to me

with a smile. But, just as she turned aside with Priscilla into the

dimness of the porch, I caught another glance at her countenance. It

would have made the fortune of a tragic actress, could she have

borrowed it for the moment when she fumbles in her bosom for the

concealed dagger, or the exceedingly sharp bodkin, or mingles the

ratsbane in her lover's bowl of wine or her rival's cup of tea. Not

that I in the least anticipated any such catastrophe,--it being a

remarkable truth that custom has in no one point a greater sway than

over our modes of wreaking our wild passions. And besides, had we been

in Italy, instead of New England, it was hardly yet a crisis for the

dagger or the bowl.

It often amazed me, however, that Hollingsworth should show himself so

recklessly tender towards Priscilla, and never once seem to think of

the effect which it might have upon her heart. But the man, as I have

endeavored to explain, was thrown completely off his moral balance, and

quite bewildered as to his personal relations, by his great excrescence

of a philanthropic scheme. I used to see, or fancy, indications that

he was not altogether obtuse to Zenobia's influence as a woman. No

doubt, however, he had a still more exquisite enjoyment of Priscilla's

silent sympathy with his purposes, so unalloyed with criticism, and

therefore more grateful than any intellectual approbation, which always

involves a possible reserve of latent censure. A man--poet, prophet,

or whatever he may be--readily persuades himself of his right to all

the worship that is voluntarily tendered. In requital of so rich

benefits as he was to confer upon mankind, it would have been hard to

deny Hollingsworth the simple solace of a young girl's heart, which he

held in his hand, and smelled too, like a rosebud. But what if, while

pressing out its fragrance, he should crush the tender rosebud in his

grasp!




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