before the window gazing forth on the dismal storm which debarred him from his accustomed diversion of skating on the frozen surface of the river. 

 While his children were occupied with the preceding conversation, Col. Malcome had donned his fur-lined overcoat and stepped across the yard to Deacon Allen's cottage. The good people were quite embarrassed to behold so smart a visitor in their unostentatious little parlor, but the colonel, by his gentlemanly grace, soon placed them at their ease. After a few moments' conversation on general topics, he asked, casually enough, who was the owner of the fine mansion he had noticed in his rambles about town, with the appellation "Summer Home" sculptured on its marble gateway? 

 "O, that is Major Tom Howard's!" answered Deacon Allen. "His family have made it their abode for six or eight months every season since they owned it; and I understand, after their next return, it is to become their permanent residence." 

 "'Tis a delightful location," remarked Colonel M.; "a very large mansion. Has Mr. Howard a family corresponding with its dimensions?" 

 "O, no, only a wife and one child—a beautiful girl." 

 "How old is his daughter?" inquired the colonel. 

 "Well, about fourteen I should say; but seems much older from her matured growth and manners." 

 "Has Mr. Howard no sister living with him?" asked the visitor, carelessly. 

 "No," answered the deacon. 

 "And has he not lost one?" 

 "Not since he came among us; though his wife, I have understood, always dresses in black. She is a confirmed invalid and seldom seen." 

 "Then the family do not mingle much in society?" said the colonel. 

 The deacon shook his head. 

 "Somewhat aristocratic, probably," remarked the visitor. 

 "I should judge so," said the deacon. "They don't send Florence to school, but keep three tutors for her at home. She is very accomplished, but rather wilful and proud, they say." 

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