Beadle's Dime Novels No. 35: East and West — page 24: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

24 THE BEAUTY OF WILLARD’S MILL. bringing us our niece; you must, at the least, stay for dinner. Just leave your horse there and come in; I'll have him sta- bled directly.” Fletcher accepted the invitation, and promised to come in after a few moments ; but he had too much tact to intrude on the first meeting of Constance with her uncle’s family. It required no ceremony to approach them, for once the door was opened, the visitor confronted not only all the inmates, but every thing that made up the menage of that simple establishment. And it must be confessed that our city- bred guest experienced more embarrassment at the unaccus- tomed abruptness of this introduction, than if she had been ushered through any number of princely halls, lined with obsequious servants. If the corresponding embarrassment of her aunt and cousin were from exactly opposite causes, it was none the less apparent, and the meeting was constrained in spite of the mutual efforts of each to seem and fee] at ease. But Mrs. Willard was too sensible a woman to be startled from her sense. of hospitality by the vision of beauty, ele- gance and fashion, which she was so unexpectedly called upon to entertain. She gently removed the plumed hat, and unfastened the riding-skirt, smoothed down with her motherly hands the wind-frayed, silken hair, and bestowed all those little attentions which go so far toward mgtise friends of new acquaintances. “ And how is my sister Amy ?” asked Mr, Willard, who had lingered to help along the first more formal talk. Poor Constance ! the question came upon her like an elec- tric shock, bringing with it the vivid remembrance of past bitter sorrows. Gazing at her uncle with speechless emotion, she could think of no word of answer for some moments. “Did you not get our letters?” she at length found yoice to say. “We have not heard from you for three years,” replied Mr. Willard, his accents broken by a sudden apprehension. “ Poor mamma died two years ago,” was all that Constance could say, before tears came to her relief. Mr. Willard jumped up and left the house precipitately. He was not the man to endure a witness to his grief; nor the man to refer to it ever afterward. ‘ comiclooks.corn