Redbud lay here gazing with delight upon the landscape, and smiling pleasantly. The autumn hours were going to the west—the trees had grown more golden than on that fine evening, when, with sad mishaps to Fanny, the gay party had wandered over the hills, though not very far away, and seen the thunder-storm suck in the dazzling glories of the bannered trees. Another year, with all its light, and joy, and beauty, slowly waned away, and had itself decently entombed beneath the thick, soft bed of yellow leaves, with nothing to disturb it but the rabbit's tread, or forest cries, or hoof-strokes of the deer. That year had added life and beauty to the face and form of Redbud, making her a woman-child—before she was but a child; and the fine light now in her tender eyes, was a light of thought and mind, the mature radiance of opening intellect, instead of the careless, thoughtless life of childhood. She had become suddenly much older, the Squire said, since going to the Bower of Nature even; and as she lay now on her couch, fronting the dying autumn, the year which whispered faintly even now of its bright coming in the Spring, promised to make her a "young lady!"
And as Redbud lay thus, smiling and thinking, who should run in, with laughing eyes and brilliant countenance, and black curls, rippling like a midnight stream, but our young friend, Miss Fanny.
Fanny, joyous as a lark—and merrier still at seeing Redbud "down stairs" again—overflowing, indeed, with mirth and laughter, like a morn of Spring, and making old Caesar, dozing on the rug, rise up and whine.
Fanny kissed Redbud enthusiastically, which ceremony, as everybody knows, is, with young ladies, exactly equivalent to shaking hands among the men; and often indicates as little real good-feeling slanderous tongues have whispered. No one, however, could have imagined that there was any affectation in Fanny's warm kiss. The very ring of it was enough to prove that the young lady's whole heart was in it, and when she sat down by Redbud and took her white hand, and patted it against her own, the very tenderest light shone in Miss Fanny's dancing eyes, and it was plain that she had not exaggerated the truth, in formerly declaring that she was desperately in love with Redbud. Ah! that fond old school attachment—whether of boy or girl—for the close friend of sunny hours; shall we laugh at it? Are the feelings of our after lives so much more disinterested, pure and elevated?
So Miss Fanny chatted on with Redbud, telling her a thousand things, which, fortunately, have nothing to do with our present chronicle—else would the unfortunate chronicler find his pen laughed at for its tardy movement. Fanny's rapid flow of laughing and picturesque words, could no more be kept up with by a sublunary instrument of record, than the shadow of a darting bird can be caught by the eager hand of the child grasping at it as it flits by on the sward.
And in the middle of this flow of words, and just when Fanny makes a veiled allusion to an elderly "thing," and the propensity of the person in question, to rob more juvenile young ladies of their beaux—enter Miss Lavinia—who asks what thing Miss Fanny speaks of, with a smile upon the austere countenance.
Fanny declines explaining, but blushes instead, and asks Miss Lavinia where she got that darling shawl, which is really a perfect love of a thing; and so, with smiles from Redbud, the conversation continues until dinner-time, when the Squire makes his appearance, and after kissing Miss Redbud, affects to take Miss Fanny by the elbows and bump her head against the ceiling, baby-fashion. In this attempt, we need not say, the worthy gentleman fails, from the fact, that young ladies of seventeen, are, for some reason, heavier than babies, and are kissed with much more ease, and far less trouble, standing on their feet, than chucked toward the ceiling for that purpose.
Having dined and chatted pleasantly, and told a number of amusing tales for Miss Redbud's edification—and against the silent protest and remonstrance of said Miss Lavinia—the Squire declares that he must go and see to his threshing; and, accordingly, after swearing at Caesar, goes away; and is heard greeting somebody as he departs.
This somebody turns out to be Verty; and the young man's face blushes with delight at sight of Redbud, whom he runs to, and devours with his glances. Redbud blushes slightly; but this passes soon, and the kind eyes beam on him softly—no confusion in them now—and the small hand is not drawn away from him, but remains in his own.
And Fanny—amiable Fanny—knowing all about it, smiles; and Miss Lavinia, staidest of her sex, suspecting something of it, looks grave and dignified, but does not frown; and Verty, with perfect forgetfulness of the presence of these persons, and much carelessness in regard to their opinions, gazes upon Redbud with his dreamy smile, and talks to her.