LOUISA'S DELUSION.
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��higher than John Andrews or Andrews' Mills, but she says, 'sometimes folks fly high and light low.' I told her you would never light low, for you'd rather not light at all." her mother wrote. "Emily is dead set after John since you went away, but I don't believe he'll ever marry her in the world. He seems sort of down hearted all the time and I pity him dreadfully."
Louisa travelled with the Endicotts, not three but four years. They visited the gray ruins and gay vine-clad hills of Italy; they passed leisurely through France, stopping nine months in bright, beautiful Paris ; they explored the cul- tured cities of the Fatherland, and gazed with delight on the wild grandeur of Switzerland. England was left till the last, and Louisa liked it best of all. the home-like English landscape of rich woods and glowing pastures, and pictur- esque ancient villages, contrasting so pleasantly with the wildness shehadjust left and the rough aspect of her own country.
Mrs. Endicott had been ill much of the time during their absence, and Louisa, by her kind care and bright companion- ship, had become very dear to the gentle woman who ardently approved of her son's choice, for one evening when the dear shores of home were dimly seen, Howard Endicott asked Louisa to be his wife. "I thought when Alice died that no one should ever take her place." he said, '"but now I know that I should be very happy to have you always with me, Louisa, so what have you to say to me?"
During all the years of her absence, there had been in Louisa's mind the thought of going back to Andrews' Mills and finding JohniAndrews grown into a realization of her wishes. As the con- verted heathen reverts to his abandoned idols, so amid her pleasant congenial sur- roundings, she had thought of the "•Mills," and had almost grown to believe she could marry John and be happy there. The thought of atonement to him had had much to do with this, for she fancied his heart must still be aching as when they parted that night in the dark- ening, fern-scented wood.
So now, feeling keenly how hard it was
��to push the brimming cup of happiness from her lips, Louisa told the story of her early sorrow, told it in such a man- ner that her companion understood far more than the mere words implied. "I have always felt that I had no right to marry as long as he remains unmarried. I have outgrown many of my ambitious fancies, and I am still partly pledged to him," she said, feeling the sunset glory of the sky and sea grow pale as she spoke.
"Louisa, tell me, if this had never hap- pened, would you say yes to me?"
She turned her head and let him look in her earnest eyes. There was no need to ask more.
'•And have you never heard from him
all these years?"
"Only through mother," she answered.
"He did not go away as you wished?"
"No, but he is a good, an honorable
man, and mother thinks he is unhappy
all the time about me."
Her companion smiled quietly. "We will talk no more of this now. You are going home when you leave us at New York, and perhaps by and by you will change your mind. When I come down to fish in June. I shall expect my final answer."
In a few days Louisa said good bye to her friends, Alice, now a tall, handsome young lady, weeping profusely, and turned her feet towards home — "Home, dearest and sweetest place in the world after all," she thought.
Every thing seemed unchanged. Her parents, robust as ever, were overjoyed at her return, and very proud of the daughter,grown from an angular girl into a graceful and exceedingly beautiful woman.
"How is John Andrews?" she asked the first evening.
"O, John is well, but somehow he isn't so smart as we all thought he'd be. Your father is dreadful disappointed in him ; he goes looking kind of slack, and they say he's going to marry Emily Jones after all. I'm thankful you didn't havehiin."
Poor Louisa; how glad she would have been if her mother had held similar opinions years ago, but now, her con-
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