HASTY WORDS.

BY KATE CAROL.

A SWEET girl, truly, was Edith Allen, the acknowledged belle of Ellingham. Nay, smile not so disdainfully, my fair and fashionable reader, as though it were a light matter to be the "bright particular star" of a mere country town, the very existence of which is unknown to nine-tenths of the inhabitants of our goodly land. Many unlovely qualities may be mingled with the charms of one who reigns supreme in Fashion's gayest circle, and the dazzling brilliancy that surrounds her may conceal every defect, but in a New England village, where every deed is known, and every word repeated, something more is requisite for her who would obtain an ascendency over her companions than a graceful manner or a punctilious observance of all the rules of etiquette. Therefore it is that I think it were greater cause for triumph, to occupy the place which Edith Allen held in the hearts of her Ellingham friends, than to stand as an unrivalled belle at the close of a fashionable "season" in any of our large cities.

Edith's parents had passed from earth to heaven while she was still a child, and with her sister Minie, four years younger than herself, she had come to reside with her uncle in Ellingham, when the sunlight of only eleven summers had passed over her head. James Allen, her father's only brother, was a wealthy farmer, who had lost his wife three years after his marriage, and whose childless home was cheered alone by the presence of a maiden sister. When, therefore, he heard of the heavy afflictions which had fallen upon his nieces, he went at once to New-York, arranged his brother's affairs as speedily as possible, and told the weeping girls that they must henceforth consider his house as their home, and let him supply, as far as he could do so, the place of their departed father. And well was he repaid for his kindness to the orphans. Young as she was, the lessons of a devotedly pious mother had not been lost upon Edith, and though she deeply felt the blow which had deprived her of those as dear to her as life itself, she strove to conceal her grief, and to forget her own sorrows, while cheering her sister, and performing every little act

of tenderness for her uncle which affection could suggest. Often, very often, did memory revert to the hours passed with the departed ones, and as the thought would come that those precious seasons had gone forever, that the eyes which had beamed upon her so gently, and with such heart-felt love, were closed in death, and that she was never more to hear those familiar accents which had blessed her from her cradle, she longed to give way to her emotions, and to weep over the past in unrestrained sorrow. But she had already learned that an indulgence in such grief unfitted her for every duty, and nobly she struggled with herself until she had conquered all morbid or selfish manifestations of feeling,and though the "loved and lost" were still as dear as ever, she could think and even speak of them with calmness and quiet composure. Gradually her mind and heart expanded, until at the age of seventeen, Edith Allen was the joy and pride of her uncle, the precious confidante and guide of her sister, and the favorite of all her village companions, who delighted to call her "the queen of Ellingham."

But though she was kind and courteous to all, Edith had formed a particular attachment for a young lady, residing near her uncle's house, and many were the happy hours she passed with her friend Annie Lyman, in rambling through the woods after wild flowers, or in sitting at work, conversing upon some of the thousand topics so pleasant to the youthful heart. Annie was the only sister of the village clergyman, and though there was a difference of five or six years in their ages, she had shared his every joy and sorrow-I had almost said his every thought— from her early childhood. Their parents were traveling in Europe at the time when our story commences, and Annie had been for some time domesticated in the Ellingham parsonage. Strange indeed did it seem that one so high spirited and impulsive as the ever-active Annie, should choose one outwardly so calm, and sometimes almost cold, as our friend Edith, for a bosom friend; but so it was, and Horace Lyman was rejoiced in his inmost heart as he saw the influence which she was already beginning to exert over his wayward sister. He had studied Edith closely, and every time he saw her, his confidence in the principles which formed the basis of all her actions, was strengthened, and his admiration of her character was increased. Annie had one great

fault-kind-hearted as she was and really ardent in her affections, she was apt to speak harshly without thinking of it, particularly if any thing occurred to vex her, and sometimes by a few hasty words, which she had forgotten the next moment, she would wound deeply those whom she best loved. Her brother had often entreated her to overcome this failing, and had represented to her how much needless pain she might frequently cause her friends by her unguarded words-but though Annie had again and again promised amendment, and had, for a time, really endeavored to improve, still she had by no means corrected the fault. Edith said little to her about it, but by the influence of her example, ever silently watching her own heart and lips, that she might not speak hastily or unadvisedly, she was gradually leading Annie to see how much better it was to return "a soft answer" when provoked, than to yield to the momentary feeling of anger which might arise in her mind.

It was May-and one of the loveliest days of that "merry month." The sky wore that deep, heavenly blue, which methinks is no where so beautiful as in dear New England; and a slight shower which had fallen on the previous night, had cooled the atmosphere, at the same time that it had scattered thousands of pearls and diamonds upon the trees and shrubs, now glistening in the bright rays of the morning sun. The clock was striking eight as a merry party, some on horseback and others in carriages, issued from Ellingham, and taking one of the bye-roads leading from the village, were soon concealed from view by the shade of a thick grove. It would be a tedious and an unnecessary formality to introduce my readers to each of the sixteen young ladies and gentlemen who composed the cavalcade-with Edith and Annie they are already acquainted, and I will detain them, therefore, only long enough to say a few words about the respective cavaliers of each. Herbert Winslow, a pale and slender youth of nineteen, was Annie Lyman's cousin, and very dearly was he loved by herself and her brother. His parents had removed, soon after their marriage, to the West Indies, where Mr. Winslow held a government office. For fourteen years they enjoyed uninterrupted prosperity; wealth flowed in upon them, and every earthly blessing seemed to have fallen to their lot. But sorrow came at last an unfavorable season nearly destroyed the crops-for Mr.

Winslow had purchased a large plantation, and derived much of his wealth from that-the blighting hand of death was laid upon the happy household band; and of eleven children, who had formed the light and joy of the fireside circle, Herbert and his twin sister Lillie alone remained. The broken-hearted father soon followed his children to the tomb, and Mrs. Winslow, with her two surviving darlings, left the graves of her departed ones, and returned to find a home again in her native New England. A moderate competency was all that was left of her husband's large fortune, but it was enough to support and educate her children, and she asked for nothing more. Three years had elapsed since her return to the city of N., when the destroyer came once. more, and the little Lillie was taken to join her angel brothers and sisters. Mrs. Winslow was crushed almost to the earth by this new blow, but for Herbert's sake, she roused herself from her lethargy of grief, for he, her only child, was violently attacked by the same illness which had borne his sister to the "silent land." For weeks she watched by his bed-longing for, yet dreading the crisis of his disease--but still he lay in a state of apparent unconsciousness, and the physicians well nigh gave up all hope of his life. At length the mother's prayers were answered; the fearful hour came and went, and Herbert was pronounced out of danger. Slowly but surely health returned, but the repeated sorrows he had been called to endure, had left their impress on his spirit.Lillie had been every thing to him—almost his guardian angel, and the loneliness which her departure caused, seemed for a time insupportable. Remembering, however, that it was his heavenly Father who had chastened him, and who had but taken again to himself, the treasure he had lent to earth for awhile, Herbert strove to be submissive to the Hand that had removed his earthly idol ; and he rested not, till from the depths of his soul, he could say, "Not my will, but Thine be done."

At the time of which we speak, he was passing a college vacation with his cousins in Ellingham, striving to recover the health which his intense application to his studies for two years, had materially impaired. Here he had been joined the previous week by a favorite classmate, Melville Grey-a tall and handsome youth, who was Annie's present companion, while Herbert had taken Edith under his especial care for the day.

Merrily the hours flew by, as the happy company pursued their way, now pausing a moment, while the gallant knights alighted to gather wild flowers for their "ladyes fayre," and now hurrying onward to the place selected for their pic-nic. It was a wild spot which they had chosen; a narrow streamlet, rushing down a deep ravine, sometimes leaping twenty or thirty feet perpendicularly, and then broken in its fall by the rocks in its bed, furnished them with music—while a small dell near its base, cleared from underbrush, and shaded by several magnificent oaks, formed what Annie laughingly called "the drawing-room of the day." It was reached at length-and the party, having secured their horses and carriages at a little distance, seated themselves to discuss the various plans which might be suggested for the enjoyment of the succeeding hours. Edith and Annie were voted the committee for preparing a repast—and Herbert declared his intention of assisting them. Mr. Grey begged to be added to the committee, and after several amusing objections had been raised, all of which he answered in the same gay strain, his request was granted, and the remainder of the company dispersed in various directions to while away the time till one o'clock, which had been agreed upon as the dinner hour. Edith now began to spread the snowy napkins upon the green sward, while Herbert unpacked for her the various hampers and baskets which had been brought in the carriage; and in the meantime, Annie and her companion gathered wild flowers to make boquets for the adornment of the table, or hung wreaths of ground-pine in graceful festoons from the overhanging branches of the trees. Young Grey, happening to find a very beautiful blossom among the flowers-the only one of the kind, tastefully arranged it with two or three tiny sprays of hemlock, and fastening them together with a blade of grass, begged his fair friend to wear them for the rest of the day. Blushing deeply, Annie took the little gift, and placed it in her belt with unusual care. A moment after, as Herbert passed her, he playfully threw a handful of cowslips over her-and she, determined, as she said, to repay her saucy cousin, began to pelt him with them in return. The mimic skirmish continued; Annie besought Mr. Grey to come to her assistance, and Herbert declared that Edith should come forward in his behalf. As he caught up a fresh supply of flowers, he accidentally threw with them a small