PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.
THE ROMANCE OF CEDARVILLE.
BY ELLA RODMAN.
We had laughed until we could laugh not longer. Miss Flint had been unusually comical, and we now sat in the half exhausted state which followed a day of unbroken merriment.
Stout, fresh-looking, and utterly unfatigued, eat the cheerful maiden lady, whose mirth-provoking use of language had kept us all laughing so long.
“Did no one ever try to run away with you, Miss Flint?" asked a would-be facetious youth.
“Never!” she replied, in a tone of solemn conviction, that drew forth a fresh burst of laughter.
“Oh, Miss Flint!" exclaimed Lilla, just at home from boarding-school for the vacation, “do tell us something about, your offers! But no," she added, “don't tell us, either-write it, please, and give me the manuscript!"
“Exactly," replied Miss Flint, “that would? be ‘so romantic,’ you know; “blotted with tears at such a place'-‘deeply underlined at such a piled—dong blank at such a place,’ &c., etc."
Lilla was laughed at for her pains, but she continued, coaxingly, “Ah, please do. Here is a sheet of paper, and a pencil for you, now. There, begin.”
“I will begin and finish at once," was the reply, “if it is the history of my offers that you want.” And Miss Flint, to Lilla’s chagrin, and our amusement, drew a large, round on the paper, which she presented to the petitioner with mock politeness.
“Why, Miss Flint!” exclaimed the youth above alluded to, ‘you don’t meant to say that you never had an offer!”
“I don’t think I ever did, quite,” replied the ady, unconcernedly.
“Did you ever make any matches, Miss Flint?” was the next query.
Miss Flint reflected for a few moments, and then she began to smile.
“The only match that I ever really did make,” she began, “was one that I had no idea of making, but I have seldom meddled with such affairs, they are dangerous things to tamper with. I had always such an excess of spirits, that, as a girl, I was a perfect nuisance; a reckless, heedless, boisterous creature, who was continually defying propriety, and putting fastidiousness to the blush. Sober people looked upon me as a young tornado, and I was seldom quiet for two minutes together.
“But, notwithstanding this dreadful character, two quiet, elderly ladies, cousins of my father, who lived in a retired country village, became so infatuated as to suppose that it would be a pleasant variety to have a visit from me; and as I could enjoy myself anywhere, I accepted the invitation.
“Cousin Rachel and cousin Etta were perfect samples of well-meaning, elderly, maiden ladies, whose lives had been passed in seclusion on a moderate competency. They had one train of ideas, one style of dress, and one form of expression. If cousin Rachel conversed, she largely _ quoted ‘sister Etta,’ and deferentially referred to her opinion; and cousin Etta did the same thing for ‘sister Rachel.’ They were always ‘considering what was best;’ and I believe never even hemmed a pocket-handkerchief without holding a solemn consultation over it. They walked carefully through the house, and spoke in such subdued tones that one would suppose there was some indefatigable sleeper whom they were afraid of arousing. Their village home, which had been named Cedarville, for what earthly reason I never could ascertain, was the most monotonous of all country places; and had there not been a large dog on hand, I should have pined for want of a companion.
“When I was fairly established under the roof of my quiet relatives, and they were brought
