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CHAPTER II.
'Tis night in a boarding-school. The doors of many small rooms open on the dreary hall, and the glimmering light through the key-holes tells of the fair students within. One is partly open, and through it we see two young girls standing near a toilet: one is drawing a comb through a mass of rich brown curls, which stray in playful wantonness about her snowy shoulders. The other is rummaging amid the elegant trifles which decorate the table.
"Alice," she began, "many, many times have I seen this beautiful little glove among trumpery, and often thought I'd beg of you its history, but always forgot it. Tell me now whose hand it once imprisoned."
"Mine, Kate, mine. When a little child of eight years old I lost the fellow, and put this one away until I should find it. Years have rolled away; but it speaks so eloquently of a happy May-day I then enjoyed, that I have never been able to part with it, and still treasure it as an index to the bright scenes of the past."
CHAPTER III.
Again I beg the reader to pass over two years—short to you who possess health and plenty, long to those in disease and want—and come with me to the heights of the Alleghanies, crowded with stately trees all covered with snow and ice, with here and there thick clambering evergreens, looking all the richer for their bright unsullied winter caps. Slowly and laboriously do the wheels of a heavy traveling carriage wind along the rugged ascent, while the heaving flanks and dilated nostrils of the noble steeds bear witness to the toilsome pathway. Muffled in cloaks and furs, we scarcely recognize, in the inmates of the coach, our two school-girls, lately emancipated from their narrow cell and the thraldom of school-laws. We would willingly linger to admire with them the grandeur and sublimity of these props of heaven; but we will not attempt a description of that which was among the mightiest works of Him, the Almighty; so we pass over the perilous and impressive journey, nor pause until, again in her own village, again on the steps of her dearly loved home, Alice Clayton is pressed to her mother's bosom.
Now under her father's roof, she has become the glad child again. We see her first with her companion, Kate Earle, wandering about the spacious drawing-rooms, now tastefully arranging the folds of the heavy satin curtains, or decorating the tables with rich bouquets; then trying the full, clear tones of the piano; and at last, taking a delighted survey of the whole, she trips away into the long dining-hall, contemplates a moment the iced pyramids, foamy floats, transparent jellies, &c., then, arm in arm, they seek their chamber, and are soon busily engaged in the witching duties of the toilet.