to rush into the streets, for I had her to think about.  When the clock struck eleven, and my cousin, with his peculiar “phew!” commenced another letter, I looked on quite calmly, and began the construction of another cottage.  Of course there were rainy days, and Thursdays that were ages to me; and there were Christmas holidays, and long, hot vacations, that she did not come; but September brought back the radiant face, and I worshiped on.

Gradually I noticed a change in her dress.  She wore little lace collars, and bright ribbons I had not seen before; and sometimes she carried a little bouquet of violets, with a white rosebud in the center.  As she grew older, I had many rivals.  Gallant youths, brave in broadcloth and beavers, followed by dozens the Picciola I had watched so tenderly.  How proudly I passed them by! and how I sneered at the thought of their understanding her!

I saw her form grow fuller and expand into a more queenly beauty.  I saw her eyes sparkle with a diviner light, and her bosom swell with new and strange emotions.  I watched her until she became a woman, and gloried in her matchless loveliness.

At last the end came.  One morning, the brown calico frock was changed for an India silk, and the little school bonnet, with its blue veil, for a new one, covered with artificials.  She was accompanied by an elderly lady, and looked nervous and excited.  I was troubled at the tremulous, uncertain expression of her face.  The next day I read her name in the list of graduates.

It does generally rain at picnics; but this time it didn’t.  When shall I ever forget that picnic?  I stole a holiday to attend it.  It was late when I arrived:  the dinner was over, and I had one prepared expressly for me.  Would you believe it? my fair attendant was the little Blue Veil.  She was so kind and so gentle, and treated me in such a confiding, sisterly way.  There was a tenderness in the soft depths of her eyes, a purity in the dazzling loveliness of her face, that my heart yielded to with the blind fervor of a devotee.  When shall I ever forget that evening walk under the trees?  Oh! those buttercups and daisies, and little Quaker ladies! what recollections they bring back to me!  The pressure of that soft little hand on my arm, the timid grace of her manner, the sound of her clear, girlish voice, with what emotions have they stirred my soul!  Heaven bless her!  Thank God for that one glorious picture!  It was years ago; she is married now, and the mother of children; yet even now I sometimes catch myself standing on the corners and gazing wistfully down the street for the bright image that stole into the morning of my young life like a soothing dream in a long, troubled sleep.

Leaf the Second.