WOODCLIFF.

CHAPTER I.

THE SEA-SHORE.

It is a summer afternoon—the light fleecy clouds float lazily over the glowing landscape—the sun is shining brightly over the deep blue waves, gilding their crested foam with sparkling diamonds, and lighting up the golden hair of a little girl, who sits upon the beach, gazing out upon the wide-spread ocean. It is a graceful form which sits there, tapping her dainty little foot, and laying her hand caressingly, every now and then, upon the head of her favorite old dog, Hector.

Her hat is thrown down by her side, and leaves uncovered a head of remarkable beauty: the deep blue eyes, fringed with their dark lashes, express a world of feeling; the delicately arched nostril and curved mouth betoken pride, but a troop of dimples is playing around that expressive feature, lighting up the whole face with arch humor; the transparent complexion, through which glows, in rosy tints, the feelings of her sensitive nature, lends its finishing touch of enchanting loveliness to the sweet picture; and, as the sea-breeze lifts the flowing ringlets which lie in such rich profusion around her shoulders, seldom could be seen such a revelation of bright and happy childhood as the young being who sits there, singing one of her favorite songs.

A passer-by, who knows something of the thorny paths of life's pilgrimage, would scarce know which to do, to sigh or smile at the glimpse of such a beaming face; but the ever-changing expression and flitting color would be most likely to cause a sigh, as one might anticipate the discipline which such a spirit must taste in a rough and stormy world.

But we will not anticipate sorrows, sweet child!

Bright days of happy childhood are before thee!

She certainly dreams of nothing yet but joy, and hope, and love.

"You're a good dog, Hector—don't we love each other, old fellow?" and Madeline stooped down to rub her cheek against her pet's shaggy head.

Looking up in her face as though he understood all she said, he seemed proud of his little friend's caresses, and making a kind of pleasant growl, he put up his shaggy paw, as was his custom, when he wanted to be especially petted. Not far from where she sits, may be seen a group of children playing with their wheelbarrows.

A little girl of six, and two older boys are busily engaged in filling their barrows with shining white pebbles, and while pursuing their innocent play, they prattle merrily together about the riches which they supposed themselves to be gathering.

But little difference is there between these children and men of larger growth—for these are gathering pebbles, and men are gathering dust.

"Look here! Philip," said the little girl, "I am sure that this is a real diamond; don't you remember when John Stanley came from Cape May, what a heap of diamonds he brought with him, and sold them for ever so much money?"

"Yes, sis, but then you know that he said you might gather a great many pebbles, before you get one diamond?"

"But I'm sure, Philip, that I have found a great many; so clear and so big; I'm so glad, because I'll give 'em all to mother, and we shall be so rich; she won't have to work so hard any longer; I could work here all day if I could only see dear mother smile again."

"Well, you're a good little girl, sis, and I hope that we shall find that you are right," and as they continued their innocent employment, they sang cheerily, and little Susan, in her delight, would frequently stop to clap her hands, and dance with joy. Just then, a couple of boys came up, who had been watching the children for some time.

They were clad in the height of boyish fashion, and with a conceited air, approached our little speculators, tapping their pantaloons with their canes, and with a supercilious manner, accosted them.

"What are you about there, you little fools?" said Harry Castleton. "Do you call these stones that you have been wheeling up diamonds? they're nothing but common pebbles, and you're a set of fools for your pains—you'd better go home, and dig potatoes," and rudely snatching the wheelbarrow, Harry tumbled it down to the edge of the surf, and upset all the contents into the ocean; while Charles Davenport stood by snapping his fingers with malicious delight.

It was a dreadful loss to poor little Susan, who burst into a bitter fit of weeping, and Philip stood looking angrily on.

These were larger boys, and neither of Susan's brothers felt old enough to attack them, although they were boiling with anger.

Just at that moment, a poor boy who had seen the whole proceeding, stepped up.

'Tis true that he wore patched pantaloons, which were too short, and an old threadbare jacket; but his linen collar, though coarse, was white; and his shoes, though very old and worn out, were neatly tied with black strings—poverty was stamped upon his attire, but nobility upon his broad expansive brow.

A look of manliness which shot from his fine dark eyes, and the firmness which compressed the lip, rather overawed the boys who saw him advancing; but when their mean spirits perceived the poverty of his attire, contempt mastered their temporary fear, and they stood ready for the encounter.

"For shame! young gentlemen," said the boy, "couldn't you find your equals in size and age when you attempt such cowardly acts?"

"Who are you, sir?" said Harry Castleton, "that you dare speak to your betters in such a tone? take yourself off in a minute, or I'll lay the weight of my cane across your face."

"I'm a boy like yourself, young gentleman, but I scorn to attack weak little children in their plays, or to fight with puppies."

"Do you dare to call me a puppy?" shouted Harry Castleton, and flying at the boy, he dealt him a violent blow across the face, causing the blood to fly from his nose, and at the same moment, kicking the little wheelbarrow out into the ocean.

The little girl with the golden locks had been looking on the scene, but as soon as she saw the blow struck by the young upstart, she flew towards the boy.

"Oh, Harry Castleton! aren't you ashamed of yourself! first to disturb these poor little children, and then to make a coward of yourself by attacking a boy that won't fight?" and hastening up to the boy, she took her delicate handkerchief, and wiping his bleeding nose, she said kindly,

"I am afraid that you are hurt."

"Not much, miss, it's only a trifle;" but as she seated the boy, she perceived the blood gushing from a wound in the temple, that she had not seen before.

Running to the surf, she brought the handkerchief back again, and with the most tender, generous care, continued wiping the blood which still kept oozing from the wound.

Charles and Harry stood by sneering.

"Really, coz," said Charles, "you are making a fool of yourself, waiting upon a beggar boy, as if he were the son of a gentleman."

"I don't think that fine clothes always make the gentleman; for I'm sure I've learned this afternoon, that the feelings of a gentleman may lodge under a threadbare jacket; what is your name young gentleman?" continued the child.

"My name is Roland Bruce," was the answer.

"And mine is Madeline Hamilton," was the frank response. "Why didn't you knock Harry down! I should have been so angry that I'm sure I should have struck back again."

"I was very angry, miss, but I've been taught that 'He who mastereth his spirit, is better than he that taketh a city.'

"But when you are struck, I think that you ought to defend yourself."

"I did, by trying to ward off the blow; but I should have made it no better by stooping to fight with such a boy as that."

"Well, I'm glad to see that you're a proud boy," continued the child, laughing, "and I'm sure that you made those upstarts ashamed of themselves—see how they're slinking off! I'm ashamed to call Charles Davenport cousin—do you feel better?" added the little girl.

"Yes, thank you, I'm much obliged to you for your kindness; and here, miss, is your pocket-handkerchief."

"I don't want it," said the child; "you must wear it home," and she tied it carefully over the wounded temple.

As the boy raised his cap to bid her good afternoon, looking after him, she said aloud, "I wonder what is meant by a nobleman, nature's nobleman? I guess that's one—I'd rather call him cousin, with his patched clothes, than that mean, contemptible pair."

Thus soliloquized Madeline Hamilton, the spoiled and petted child of rich Mr. Hamilton, of Woodcliff. Turning to little Susan, who still cried for her wheelbarrow, she said,

"Let us see if we can't find your barrow," and running down to the shore, she found that it had been washed up, and was fastened between a couple of large stones, from which she soon lifted it, and restored it to the poor child.

"Come over to Woodcliff to-morrow, and Aunt Matilda will give you something." Then giving the child particular directions, Madeline returned to the spot where she had left her flat, and calling Hector, hastened home. It was a tolerably long walk, and by the time that she reached home, it was late sundown.

She entered full of excitement. Throwing down her flat, and seating herself at the tea-table, she commenced telling her adventure.

"Aunt Matilda," continued the child, "what is a nobleman—nature's nobleman?"

"Why, a nobleman is one who is born of a noble family, to be sure," was the answer. "Our descent is English, and our ancestors were all nobles."

"Once I remember that you told me a nobleman was coming to dine with us, and I expected to see a very grand person; and when he came, he was only a little man, who took snuff out of a gold snuff-box, drank wine, and talked about hunting. I didn't see anything noble about him. Another time, our pastor said that Mr. Linwood would call upon us, who had divided a very large fortune equally among his brothers and sisters, though they had all been cut off by the father's will. Our pastor called him noble, because he had done a noble deed. Now, aunty, there is no use to try to make me believe anything else—everybody is noble who does noble acts; and I don't care how he is dressed, or where he lives. Now, aunty, don't be affronted, I can't help my feelings; I do love good people, and high-spirited people, even in rags; and I hate mean, low-minded people, even dressed in fine clothes. I can't act deceitfully; they make me mad, and I can't help showing it. Now, aunty, what is a gentleman?"

"One who is brought up with the manners of a gentleman, who dresses like a gentleman, and who belongs to a genteel family."

"Well, aunt, I suppose then that you call Charles Davenport a gentleman?"

"Why, to be sure I do."

"Well, I call him a vulgar, low-bred boy; and, aunt, I suppose that you would call Roland Bruce, with his patched clothes, short pantaloons, and old jacket, a common boy?"

"To be sure I would, child; why, what is he?"

"Why, I think he must be one of nature's noblemen, for he looked ever so much grander than Charles or Harry, as he stood on the beach, taking the part of poor little children, and wouldn't fight, either. They looked really mean in their fine dress, and he looked like a hero in his poor clothes. Give me nature's nobleman, after all, aunty."

"Brother, just listen to the child," said Aunt Matilda; "did you ever hear such horrid talk? I can't instil any proper pride into that girl."

Mr. Hamilton threw himself back in his chair, and laughed heartily at what he called "Madcap's spirit," and told his sister "not to be alarmed, for he was afraid that they'd find too much pride there some day, for either of them to manage."

Aunt Matilda loved her high-spirited little niece, and found it very easy to forgive her; but she was often sadly afraid that she would forget her rank, and disgrace her family, by improper connexions. Soon after tea was over, Charles and Harry made their appearance, but Madeline was still so indignant that she quickly left the room, and steadily refused all her aunt's entreaties to return.

"They're a mean pair, aunty, and I can't see either of them this evening," was all the response that she could obtain from her wilful little niece.

Before retiring, the warm-hearted child sought her father's study, and seating herself on his lap, laid her cheek softly against his, and said, "Papa, kiss me before I go to bed. If I've said anything wrong, forgive me, dear papa."

"No, little Mad-cap, you've done nothing wrong; only, dear, I don't want you to associate with all kinds of common people." And thus the impulsive child's faults were winked at by her indulgent father, and false worldly sentiments inculcated by her frivolous aunt. The next day, little Susan presented herself at Woodcliff, and Aunt Matilda, who was really kind-hearted, gave her some very nice garments for her mother and brothers; and Madeline, with the impulsiveness of her nature, was loading gifts upon her that were wholly unsuitable, until aunty came in to check the profuseness of the generous child; and Madeline was sadly disappointed as she carried back to her wardrobe a handsomely flounced pink lawn, and a pretty little jaunty hat trimmed with flowers.

"I'm sure they would have been very nice for Sundays," soliloquized the child; "at any rate, I wanted her to have them. Aunt Matilda is so stingy and so cross—dear me! I wish I was a young lady, just to do as I please. I'll have what I want, and give what I choose, then, that I will."

Many a nice garment found its way to Mrs. Grant, for Madeline regarded little Susan as her own particular protégé after the adventure by the sea-shore, and the child herself was never tired of telling her mother about the good boy that took her part so warmly, and the beautiful child that wiped his face with her fine linen handkerchief; and the mother could not help laughing as she mimicked the manner in which Harry and Charles sneaked away after her indignant rebuke; "and I am sure that they are no gentlemen, though they were dressed ever so grand," was the conclusion that little Susan always reached at the end of her story.

CHAPTER II.

A RIDE ON HORSEBACK.

Woodcliff is truly a pleasant home, where Mr. Hamilton has displayed his fine taste, and rendered it one of the most attractive residences in the whole neighborhood. It is a very elegant mansion, surrounded on the first floor by piazzas, while balconies from the second story command a fine view of the adjacent country. It stands majestically on the top of a high cliff, sloping down in grassy terraces to an artificial lake, where numerous goldfish enjoy their merry gambols, and where Madeline frequently sits dabbling her pretty white feet, and throwing crumbs of bread to the pets which she has tamed. At the back of the house may be seen a large conservatory, filled with rare and beautiful flowers, and at the opposite wing a fine library; both wings opening into gardens laid out with the most exquisite taste, adorned with every variety of rich and costly shrubbery.

And here has passed the childhood of Madeline Hamilton, the only and petted child of a father who idolizes her, and who will not cross her strong will, or deny any indulgence that wealth can purchase.

Having lost her mother in her infancy, her only female guide is a maiden aunt, whose weak character is entirely unable to control the strong will of her wayward little niece. Indeed, though often much provoked, a few cunning compliments, and a shower of warm kisses, could at any time disarm Aunt Matilda's anger; so that by flattering her aunt, by numerous blandishments, and by sundry coaxing ways with her father, Madeline pretty generally ruled the household. Though proud spirited and passionate, she had a warm and generous nature—a creature of storms, and tears, and smiles; and parlor and kitchen alike bent to the will of the spoiled child, for her witcheries had bound all to her little car. Her favorite amusement was riding about the country upon a pony, which her father had purchased for her two years before.

Mounted on Selim, away she would scamper up and down the lanes and hills of Woodcliff, sometimes attended by a groom; but if she could contrive to elude his vigilance, most frequently she took these rides alone.

Selim was very gentle, and they were great friends; but occasionally he had been known to run away when suddenly frightened.

Aunt Matilda often remonstrated against these wild rides, but all in vain.

"There she goes like a Mad-cap down the lane! I tell you, brother, that we shall have her brought home some day, either crippled or killed."

Just as Aunt Matilda concluded her speech to Mr. Hamilton, the child turned her beautiful face, beaming with mischief, back upon her father, and waving her little whip in defiance, she tossed her bright locks to the wind, and galloped off.

"I can't bear to restrain her, sister; nothing has ever happened yet, and it seems such a pity to check such a spirit as that."

Madeline was in high glee, and Selim was equally frolicsome. Taking the path with which they were both familiar, she rode gaily along, fearless and joyous, singing some merry song.

Passing a corner of the road, she was suddenly attracted by the sight of the boy of the sea-shore. As she passed, he took off his cap respectfully to the little girl, and she returned the salutation by reining up her horse, and inquiring about his injuries.

"They are quite well, miss," was the reply; "and mother is very thankful to the young lady, who so kindly lent me her handkerchief."

Just then Maddy perceived Harry and Charles riding rapidly up the road, and who started off at a quick pace as they passed her. Charles gave two or three cuts of his whip upon Selim's haunches, a liberty which he would not bear. He started in full gallop. Madeline kept her seat bravely, but with a pale cheek and quivering lip; for now she was really frightened, and found herself incapable of checking his speed. On he galloped, more and more fiercely, for the sight of the flying horses but increased the swiftness of his flight.

Roland saw her danger, and every moment expected to see her thrown as he perceived her swaying backward and forward. With lightning speed, he had started as soon as he saw the mean act of the boys, and by wondrous efforts succeeded in reaching the horse. Exerting all his strength, he headed off the animal at the risk of his life, and seizing the bridle, held on even while the horse was rearing.

"Hold tight, Miss Madeline," said Roland, with a firm voice; "men are coming."

At that moment he was thrown to the ground, but still held on to the bridle, though kicked severely by the frightened animal.

In another instant two men arrived, who succeeded in lifting Madeline from Selim's back; and extricating Roland from his perilous condition, found that he had severely sprained his ankle, and received several bruises.

Madeline was laid fainting upon the ground, and when the boys who had caused the accident rode up, their blanched countenances indicated the terror which they really felt.

"We did not mean to throw you, coz," said Charles; "all we meant was a little sport."

"You might have killed your cousin, young gentlemen," answered Roland.

"Hold your tongue, you low upstart! What right have you here?" was the rude reply.

"It was well that I was near, for Miss Madeline had not much to hope for from her manly cousins."

"Begone! you ragamuffin! We want none of your help."

"I shall not go, sir, until I have seen Miss Madeline safe in her father's house," was the quick reply; and with a firm step, Roland advanced towards the little girl, and after she was sufficiently recovered, succeeded, by the help of the men, in placing her upon Selim's back, who was now quite pacified. Roland, though suffering from a sprained ankle, taking the horse's bridle, led him quietly along.

Seeing Roland master of the field, the two boys sneaked away, and Madeline said,

"I'm glad that they are gone; a pair of mean cowardly fellows! I can't bear Charley Davenport; but I'm afraid that you are hurt, Roland," continued the child, "and I'm so sorry that those rude boys spoke so insultingly. But don't mind them, Roland; I only wish you were my cousin, instead of Charles."

"Don't think of me, miss; you were kind to me when I was hurt the other day; and I am so glad that I can be of any service to you. As to the boys, I pity them; they have never been taught what is true politeness."

"There is Woodcliff, Roland," said Madeline, as she turned into the avenue which led to the house.

Mr. Hamilton and Aunt Matilda ran hastily down to meet her; and soon they perceived her horse led slowly along.

"What is the matter, my darling?" inquired the father, lifting her from the horse, and alarmed at her pallid countenance.

"Not much, now, papa; but if it had not been for the bravery of this good boy, I might have been killed," and as soon as she was seated, she related the story of her rescue to her grateful father.

"Thank you, my brave boy," said Mr. Hamilton, as he wrung Roland's hand. "You have done me a favor which I shall never forget."

As Roland stood uncovered in Mr. Hamilton's presence, he thought that he had never seen a more noble boy, though clad in the garb of poverty. Taking out his pocketbook, he offered him a five dollar note, a great treasure for Roland Bruce. Drawing himself proudly up, while the color mounted to his very temples, he said:

"Excuse me, sir; I would not lose the pleasure of helping Miss Madeline, and poor as I am, I cannot receive anything for an act so simple."

"If I can serve you in any way, my boy, come to me freely; I should be most happy to aid you."

Just then the two cousins rode slowly up the avenue, and felt justly humbled at the sharp reproofs administered in the presence of Roland Bruce.

"Boys, I am heartily ashamed of you. When you practise jokes of this kind, let it be on some one beside a little girl; I am sorry that your cousin had to find a protector in a stranger."

"Papa, look at Roland, how pale he is!" exclaimed Madeline, just as he sank down exhausted on the step of the piazza.

"You are hurt, my boy," said Mr. Hamilton.

Roland tried to smile, but the pain of his ankle was so severe, that he could no longer conceal his sufferings. "I think that I have sprained my ankle," was the answer.

Mr. Hamilton instantly took off the shoe, and was shocked to see how much it was swollen.

"You must come in, my boy, and have remedies applied at once."

After bathing and bandaging the limb, much to the mortification of the two boys, Roland was sent home in the buggy, under the care of the coachman. Charles and Harry shrank away into the house, and Madeline cried because her friend was hurt.

"Won't you send over to-morrow, papa, to see how he is? He is such a good, brave boy."

"Yes, my child, all shall be done that is right; but you must not fret so much about a stranger."

With the careful nursing of a good mother, and the kind attentions of Mr. Hamilton, Roland soon recovered, and Madeline frequently stopped at the cottage door to inquire for her young protector.

Mr. Hamilton was sadly puzzled to know what to do with his wild little daughter.

She was now ten years old, with bright talents, but a wholly undisciplined mind; for nothing of importance had yet been done in the great task of education, unless we except a physical form of perfectly healthy development.

She had free access to her father's library, and devoured indiscriminately whatever came in her way—history, poetry, romance—and it was really amusing to see with what facility she personified her favorite characters; and how much she remembered of the wild legends of feudal days, and of the lords and ladies that graced the Courts of Queen Elizabeth and Mary Stuart.

Sir William Wallace and Robert Bruce, were, however, her great heroes, and were ever uppermost in her mind whenever she heard of a great man.

Fairy tales were her delight; and Madeline was never better pleased than when she could gather an audience of youthful listeners, to whom she could relate the wonderful doings of these little people.

Acting out in her fanciful costumes either the grandeur of Queen Elizabeth, the grace of Mary Stuart, or the changing fortunes of Cinderella, Madeline amused her father and Aunt Matilda by her witcheries part of the day, spending the remainder of her time in her wild frolics on the back of Selim, scouring the woods, or frequently attended by Hector, rambling on the sea-shore.

Two or more hair-breadth escapes by land and water, at last decided Mr. Hamilton that he must get a governess for his mad-cap daughter, and much to her disgust, she was told that papa had gone to Boston to bring back a lady, to take charge of her education.

"Now, I suppose, aunty, that I am to be tied down to old musty books, slate, pencil and pen, and everlasting thrumming on the old piano—good-bye to the wild woods, and the sea-shore. I know I shall get sick; I always get sick over school-books; and then papa will have to send. Miss Prosy away; we'll see, that we will," tapping her little foot impatiently on the velvet carpet, and darting a quick mischievous glance at her aunt, she continued, "I'll make this house too warm for Miss Prosy. I tell you, aunty, she'll be glad to get rid of Madeline Hamilton before long," and tossing aside her ringlets, she dashed out of the room, humming a lively tune.

Madeline sought her maid, Nanny, into whose ears she poured all her grievances.

"Nanny, is it not too bad? There's papa gone off to Boston, to bring back some horrid old teacher to spoil all my fun. I expect she is tall and thin, and yellow and cross. I know I shan't like her; I never did like a teacher yet."

"I'm real sorry, Miss Maddy, for I think you know more now than half of the little girls. You can say Cinderella, and can act Queen Elizabeth, and Queen Mary, and can make verses, and ever so much."

Madeline was a shrewd child, and knew very well that such foolish things were of no manner of use to any little girl.

She could not help smiling at Nanny's simplicity, and said,

"Why, you see, Nanny, these things only amuse me. I know that there is a great deal more to learn, but I don't want to take the trouble."

"Don't be afraid, miss; your papa won't make you learn if you don't want to; and if you don't like the teacher, I can help you to get her away."

"That is a dear good Nanny; I'll give you a new dress, and pretty collar, if you'll only be my friend."

"I know what to do, miss; if I tell your papa that you don't sleep well, and that you are getting pale, he'll think that you are going to be sick, and will send her away, I know."

"Well, Nanny, I am not sick now. I feel as merry as a lark. Do you want to hear my little song, Nanny?"

Dancing about the room, in a sweet clear voice, she commenced singing,

Away, away to the woods for me,
Away, away to the dear old sea;
Away up the hills, and down the lanes,
As I give to Selim the lightest reins.

Then away we scamper in many a race,
Giving old Hector a good wild chase;
Books and slates are very good things,
But Mad-cap would rather dance and sing.
        Away, away to the woods for me,
        Away, away to the dear old sea.

"Did you really make up that song, Miss Maddy?" asked the wondering Nanny.

Madeline burst out laughing as she replied, "Why, yes, Nanny, I often make up such little pieces."

"Why, how do you do it, Miss Madeline?"

"I don't know, Nanny; the words just come to me themselves."

"Why sure! what a wonderful child! What's the use of getting a teacher; I guess Miss Prosser can't make verses."

CHAPTER III.

MADDY'S TRIUMPH.

Late on Saturday evening, Mr. Hamilton arrived with a pale sad looking lady, whom he introduced as Miss Prosser.

Aunt Matilda received her as a lady, but wilful little Madeline, with a cunning glance of her eye, extended her hand reluctantly, and saluted her as Miss Prosy.

"Prosser, my dear," corrected the father.

"Oh, yes, I forgot—Miss Prosser; do you give hard lessons, Miss Prosy?" continued the child.

"I do not think that you will have any cause to complain, if you will only be diligent and obedient."

"Those are two words which I have never been taught yet, Miss Prosy."

"Prosser, my dear, Prosser," interrupted the father. "I hope that you will find Madeline all that you desire after awhile. She is a wild little girl now; lessons will be hard at first, and you must not keep her too close."

Monday morning arrived, and Madeline was summoned to the library, where her studies were to be pursued.

Miss Prosser was one of the rigid school of disciplinarians; and Madeline, with the quick instinct of a bright child, soon felt that there would never be any bond of union between herself and the sad lady, who appointed her daily tasks.

The first hour passed tolerably, the second wearily, but the third, which introduced her wild imaginative mind to the severe discipline of arithmetic, was insufferable; and throwing down her book impatiently, she said, "I'm tired of this stuff; I can't do any more this day; good-bye, Miss Prosy," and away started the wild child, ere her governess could express her surprise.

Running to her father, who was just going out to ride, she begged so bewitchingly to accompany him, that papa could not refuse her; and Miss Prosser had the mortification of seeing her out of the library window, galloping down the avenue on Selim, with her flat set jauntily upon her bright young head, and she, poor lady, mourning over her wilful scholar.

"Really, my dear, you must not do this again; Miss Prosser will be offended."

"I was so tired, dear papa; I felt as if I would smother in that warm room; and when she placed the multiplication table before me, I knew it was of no use to try; I shall never learn the horrid old thing, I know."

Day after day, Madeline wearied the patience of her teacher. Sometimes, when it was her whim, she would apply herself most earnestly to some favorite exercise, and surprise her at the quickness with which she mastered even difficult lessons; but as to regular, systematic study, it was out of the question.

Sometimes she would teaze Miss Prosser with endless questions.

"Miss Prosy, why did you not get married? you are very good-looking," inquired the teazing child.

"Miss Madeline, study that lesson, and don't spend your time in asking such foolish questions."

"I'm not in the humor, Miss Prosy; I feel lazy; I'd much rather talk; and papa says he don't like me forced to study."

"Don't you want to be an intelligent woman, Madeline?"

"I don't know, indeed; I am afraid I should be an old maid, if I think too much of learning. I can gain a great deal by reading, and that is what I like."

"Aren't you going to study this morning?" continued Miss Prosser.

"I don't think I shall; I don't feel very well; and if you have no objection, I'll lie down on the sofa, and read the Lady of the Lake."

Miss Prosser knew that it was in vain to enforce obedience; for in all cases, appeals to Mr. Hamilton ended in Madeline's victory, and generally she had to wait upon the young lady's whims.

"Why, Miss Prosser, I do believe that you are growing gray; and you always look as if you were going to cry."

Just then, perceiving that two large tears dropped upon the book which she was using, Madeline, with all the impulsive warmth of her nature, threw her arms around Miss Prosser, saying,

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings; I do so like a little bit of fun."

"You should learn, my child, to restrain your impetuous nature, for thoughtless words may wound as deeply as intended ones. I have known much of sorrow, Madeline. Once I was the centre of a happy home, where I was cherished as tenderly as you are now; but now I am all alone in the world—an orphan, and penniless."

"Do forgive me, dear Miss Prosser," replied the child; "I will never do so again," and she hid her face in her hands, bowed her head and wept.

"I do forgive you, Madeline, heartily: but do, my dear child, try to think always of the feelings of others."

Madeline was subdued all that day. At the table, she was careful to see that Miss Prosser had the nicest little delicacies, and when she went to her room at night, the warm-hearted child followed to see that she was comfortable, and kissing her, bade her good night.

Matters progressed very well for a few days. Madeline seemed as if she really meant to be a good child, and under the new impulse, the governess was hopeful.

The mornings spent in the library were all that she could desire. It was so pleasant to come into contact with such a fresh, original mind, as that of her bright little pupil; and then Madeline really appeared to be learning the art of self-control.

"There comes Hector!" she exclaimed one morning, as the sharp bark of her dog was heard at the door. Formerly, she would have thrown down her books, and rushed out to meet her favorite.

'Tis true that she did for one moment arise from her seat, but quickly returning, she said, "There, Hector, go away this time, that's a good dog;" and though he continued whining and scratching at the door, she remained resolute, and refused him admittance.

This was quite a triumph for Madeline, and Miss Prosser repaid her with a smile of encouragement, which impelled Madeline, with a heightened color, to renewed efforts of diligent study. Occasionally, there would be outbreaks of the old spirt of mischief, but generally, the progress was onward.

One morning, Madeline, full of excitement, met her teacher. "Only think Miss Prosser, my cousin is coming; Lavinia Raymond. Oh! what a nice time we shall have; she's the girl for fun; when she's here, we are out every day somewhere. I know papa will give me a holiday; I mean to coax hard, and he never refuses his little Mad-cap."

"But, my dear child, you certainly don't expect to give up your studies while Lavinia is here."

"Yes, indeed; I think I have learned enough now for the last month to last me all the time that she stays with us."

Mad-cap's spirits were fully aroused; it was almost impossible to bring her into any kind of composure, and Miss Prosser was compelled to shorten the exercises for that day at least.

Lavinia was expected late in the afternoon. As soon as dinner was over, Madeline commenced her visits to the window, the door, and even to the gate, which led to the avenue, backward and forward, until she was nearly tired out.

"Papa, I don't believe that she is coming at all," at length uttered the impatient child.

"Do you know, my dear, that it is only six o'clock," replied Mr. Hamilton, smiling, and taking out his watch; "they cannot possibly reach here before seven, so you had better run in, and amuse yourself at your piano."

Away ran Maddy—opening her instrument, she rattled away for about ten minutes; then calling Hector, and throwing on her flat, down the avenue, through the gate, and out into the open road she started at full speed. At length, after sundry races of the same description, she spied a distant carriage, but was bitterly disappointed when she found that it only contained a party of strangers. Seven o'clock came, but no cousin. Discouraged, she seated herself on the piazza, and when at length she found that the carriage had entered the avenue, standing tip-toe on the lower step, she awaited, with a glowing cheek, the letting down of the carriage step. In another minute, Lavinia was in her cousin's arms, and Mrs. Raymond warmly welcomed by her brother-in-law and Aunt Matilda.

She was a woman of the world, devoted to fashion, and training her daughter in all its follies. Lavinia was two years older than Madeline, but completely a spoiled child of folly—the only bond of sympathy between her and Madeline, was their mutual love of mischief.

"Take me to my room, Maddy, I want to make my toilet," was the first request of Lavinia; and accompanied by her maid, Madeline led her to her chamber.

Our natural little girl was greatly amused by the pains bestowed upon a child's toilet; for the utmost time that Madeline could spare, was to bathe thoroughly, twist her ringlets hastily around her fingers, put on her simple dress, and without another thought, her toilet was completed. But Lavinia, was washed and powdered, combed and pomatummed, her head dressed like a woman's, and after the indulgence of an hour's whims, Susette pronounced her "comme il faut." What a contrast between the affectation of Lavina Raymond, and the natural sportive grace of Madeline Hamilton!

At the table, Mrs. Raymond answered the polite bow of Miss Prosser with a supercilious stare, and Lavinia, imitating her mother's rudeness, scarcely noticed her presence.

After a few days of unrestrained license, Miss Prosser ventured to remonstrate with Mr. Hamilton, but he could not think of interfering with Mad-cap's pleasures; and all that he would consent to was, that Lavinia and Madeline should spend two hours daily at their studies, unless otherwise engaged. Two or three mornings of every week, they were off on some excursion of pleasure; the remainder of the time was broken in upon by every trivial excuse that could be invented. Indeed, since Lavinia's arrival, Miss Prosser's influence was at an end; lessons were to be excused, musical practice virtually had closed.

Lavinia would not study, and even when Madeline was so disposed, she would not allow her to do anything but play. Weary were the hours of the sad governess, and once more the prospect of another change began to loom up gloomily in the distant horizon. She had hoped that she was at least for years at rest; but the orders to march rang daily in her ears.

After many trials and disappointments, Miss Prosser, utterly discouraged, was contemplating the perplexity of her situation. Seated one morning in the library, waiting for her wayward pupils, she was suddenly surprised by the entrance of Mr. Hamilton. Her sad weary expression of countenance touched him for a moment, and he said, "I am sorry, Miss Prosser, that my little girl is so wilful, but I have not the heart to deny her anything, and when Lavinia has gone, we shall return to the old order of things."

"I fear, by that time, my dear sir, that I shall find it impossible to bring Madeline into any kind of subjection; I am greatly perplexed, for I cannot bear to receive a salary for doing nothing."

"You need not mind, Miss Prosser, if I do not complain."

"I do object, sir, to receive a salary without giving the equivalent, and seriously conclude that I cannot do so much longer."

"Do have a little patience, Miss Prosser; Lavinia will leave in about a month, and then we shall be regular once more."

Poor Miss Prosser was still severely tried; practical jokes were frequently played upon her, and although she was certain that Madeline had not taken an active part in them, still it pained her to see that even she could be amused at her expense. Matters grew worse instead of better; Madeline was impatient, and Lavinia indifferent.

The month rolled on; Lavinia and her mother took their departure; and Miss Prosser endeavored once more to regain her influence over her pupil.

"Come, Madeline, aren't you tired of play?" asked the governess.

"No, indeed; I hate books and study, and long, sad faces; Lavinia don't go to school but half the year, and I am going to coax papa to let me stop until next winter."

"Just come, now, Madeline, and let us read a little together; you have not said one lesson for three weeks."

"Well, I suppose I must, just to please you, Miss Prosser; but let it be a short one."

Maddy soon commenced yawning, and as soon as the lesson was over, brought out her favorite volume of Shakspeare, and really did manage to spend another hour in searching for beauties in her pet author; but one hour was sufficient, and, begging to be excused, she was gone. And thus the patience of the poor lady was taxed daily, her spirits sank, and too conscientious to hold such a position, she fully made up her mind to resign. Accordingly, on the next day, Madeline's father was summoned to the library.

"I have sent for you, Mr. Hamilton, to resign my charge; I have tried it for six months, but in vain. Your child has the brightest talents, but the system of indulgence pursued towards her, precludes entirely the possibility of improvement. I must have my pupils advance, or I cannot be happy. I have nothing else to complain of; my quarter will expire next week, and then I feel that I ought to leave."

"I am sorry, Miss Prosser; but I suppose that it cannot be helped."

The lady smiled at this acknowledgment of weakness; but her resolution was taken.

The sad, pale teacher took her leave on the following Saturday, and when Madeline found that she was really going, with the perverseness of such wayward natures, she was actually sorry; she had learned to respect her governess, and really liked her better than any who had ever taught her before.

"Good-bye, Miss Prosser; I am sorry that I have been so naughty, but I can't help it. Papa says so; and I know it is so. Here's a breastpin, with some of Mad-cap's hair in it; will you show that you forgive me by wearing it?"

"Thank you, my dear child; I shall always remember your warm little heart; and if ever you change your ways, and desire to hear from your friend, write to Messrs. Wood & Co., Boston. I think that you will, Madeline; but some one else must be the teacher. I have tried my utmost, and failed."

Strange to say, Madeline shed some natural tears as she saw the carriage vanish with her governess; but in a few days, the feeling of perfect liberty in which she revelled, obliterated all the regret, and Hector and Selim were again her constant companions.

"Dear me, brother," said Aunt Matilda, "what shall we do with the child; she is now nearly eleven, and scarcely any education."

"Time enough yet, Matilda; she'll be all right; don't be afraid of Mad-cap, she is bright as a diamond."

CHAPTER IV.

TOO PROUD TO BEND.

"I wish I had something to do; I am tired of playing, tired of riding, tired of everything—I have nobody to speak to but papa, and Aunt Matilda, and Selim, and my other pets." Thus soliloquized Madeline, as, with a weary yawn, she threw herself upon the sofa in the library. "I get so tired of Aunt Matilda, she never talks any sense: nothing but head-dresses, and her complexion, her white hands, and the days when she was young. Miss Prosser did talk sense, and I wish she were back again; I always liked her when she made me do what she commanded. I did not let her know it, though; I am too proud for that." And Madeline tapped her little foot upon the carpet, her usual way of expressing a chafed, impatient spirit. "I think I heard the bell ring," and running to the window, she peeped through the thin curtains, to see who was there. "Oh! dear, if there isn't Roland Bruce—what's that he has got in his basket?" Just then a servant entered.

"Miss Madeline, a poor boy wants to see you at the door."

"O, yes, I know; I am so glad to see him," and away she flew.

Roland took off his cap as soon as he saw the little girl, and with a modest air, he said:

"I thought, Miss Madeline, that you would like these pretty doves," uncovering his basket.

Madeline peeped in, and there lay the sweetest little ring-doves, with their soft eyes looking up in her face.

"Oh, Roland, what a good boy you are! they are so pretty; it's just what I have wanted so long."

"Here's some chickweed, too, Miss Madeline, for your canary; we have so much in our garden; and I thought you would like some lilies of the valley."

"O, thank you, Roland, how good you are to remember me! Now let us run out into the garden, and you shall plant the lilies."

Leaving her doves in the care of Nanny, her own maid, away scampered the child, hair flying, and eyes beaming with innocent delight.

"Here, Roland, this is my garden," said the child, pointing to a corner of the grounds which bore many marks of careless culture. "Here I come to dig and weed, but I get tired of it; I get tired of everything, Roland."

"If you'll let me, I'll come, Miss, and look after your flowers; I know something about them, for we raise them and sell them to our neighbors. I have not forgotten your kindness, Miss Madeline."

"I wish you were my brother, or my cousin, Roland, what nice times we should have! I have a boat, a pony, and a dog, and so many things; but for all that, I get so tired."

"Have you any books, Miss Madeline?" continued the boy.

"Books! why I have more than I can count—all kinds of books."

"Do you never study, Miss Madeline?" inquired Roland, with a look of surprise.

"Study! no, indeed, I hate study. I like to read stories, and poetry, and fairy tales, and accounts of great men—did you ever hear of Robert Bruce? he's my hero; wasn't it nice when the spider taught him such a lesson?"

"I've read about him, Miss Madeline, for my mother has told me so much about Scotland—both my parents were Scotch."

"Were they, Roland? may be you're some relation to Robert Bruce; why I do believe you are."

Roland smiled at her simplicity, and stooping down, planted his modest flowers in a shady corner.

"Wouldn't you like to go to our school, Miss Madeline? Mr. Norton is such a good teacher."

"Where is your school, Roland?" asked the child.

"It is about a mile from here, in Maple Lane, and such a pleasant walk in fine weather."

"Is Mr. Norton cross, Roland?"

"No, indeed; he's the best friend that I ever had."

"Have they more teachers than one?"

"Yes—Mr. Norton the principal, Miss Adams the first assistant, and Miss Corning second."

"Are there many scholars, Roland?"

"I think we have sixty, Miss Madeline; Mr. Norton makes everything so pleasant, and learning so easy."

"I'll coax papa to let me come; you'll help me to learn, won't you, Roland?"

Madeline was sorry when Roland turned to go home.

"Good-bye," said the child, "you'll see me at your school; if I take it into my head, I can go;" and running back to the house, once more she visited her little pets, and named them Patty and Jim. Impatiently she awaited papa's arrival from his ride. As soon as he was seated, jumping on his lap, she threw her arms around his neck, and looking up in his face with her own bewitching way, she said:

"Now, papa, I want you to promise me something."

"What is it, Maddy? It is not much that I can refuse you."

"Well, it's something good, papa; you'll like it, I know. I want you to let me go to the school in Maple Lane. Mary James, Minnie Scott, Lizzie Belton, and Ellen Taylor all go; and I think it will be much better than school all alone, and no one to speak to but the teacher."

"I must make some inquiries first, Mad-cap," answered her father.

"Won't you go to-morrow, papa? I want to go right off, and I promise you that I'll study hard; just let me go, that's a dear papa."

"Well, I'll see about it to-morrow, Madeline, and if all is right, you shall go; I will do anything to make you learn."

Next morning Mr. Hamilton made the necessary calls upon the parents of the children named by Madeline, saw the principal, entered her name, and all being satisfactory, his consent was fully given.

"Well, Maddy, all is settled; you will go on Monday to Maple Lane. I hope that you will be a good little girl, and not get tired of it in a week or two."

"I hope, my dear niece," said Aunt Matilda, "that you will show some proper pride, and not make an acquaintance of everybody that you meet. You must remember that there are many very common people who go to school there; no associates for Madeline Hamilton, the heiress of Woodcliff."

Madeline put on her mischievous air as she replied, "I'm afraid I shall often forget that I must act the little princess; for when I meet a right funny little girl, I don't often stop to ask who she is, but I just play with those I like."

Monday morning came round; papa's summer carriage was brought up, and Maddy, with a glowing cheek and dancing step, seated herself by her father's side. A neat little satchel, and a basket with a nice lunch pleased our little girl mightily, for she had never seemed like a scholar before.

Maddy was now about eleven years old—a bright animated being; and when Mr. Hamilton took her by the hand, and led her up to the desk of the principal, all eyes were turned towards the shy little creature, who was really abashed by the gaze of so many young faces, all looking with curious eyes upon the young stranger.

"I have brought you my little girl, Mr. Norton; she is my only child, and quite a darling at home. She has been so much petted, that I fear you will find her sadly deficient."

"We have excellent teachers, Mr. Hamilton, but strict discipline; I fear that you may think it too much so for your little daughter."

"We can try it, Mr. Norton, and if too strict, there is an easy remedy. May I ask in what class she will be placed?"

"I presume in Miss Corning's; she has the youngest children."

By this time, Madeline had gained courage enough to look around her, and was delighted to greet Roland Bruce on the opposite side of the room. Finally, papa took leave; Madeline underwent examination, and was placed under Miss Corning's care. Her chief study for the first day was faces and characters, for she was a quick little one at the latter.

Maddy was much amused at the pretensions of some of the purse-proud in the neighborhood, and inwardly resolved that none of these would-be-ladies should be among her friends.

During the intermission, Lizzie Belton, a young miss of fourteen, anxious to cultivate the acquaintance of a Hamilton, stepped forward with rather a patronizing air, to take Madeline out to the play-ground; but the proud little girl declined the honor, and looked eagerly around for Roland.

"I'm so glad that you have come, Roland," said the child. "I don't know any of these girls except by name, and I don't care for them. They all seem to think themselves so grand, because they are dressed fine. I don't care for clothes that are too good for a brisk race."

Roland had seen that the child was even rude to some of the girls, and said,

"Miss Madeline, don't you think it would be better to be a little sociable with them? You will have enemies among them if you do not."

"If I can find one real little girl, who likes me for myself alone, that is the playmate for me. Bring your sister, Roland; I'd rather play with Effie, than any of the rest of them."

"She is not here to-day, Miss Madeline!"

"What do you think of Miss Corning, Roland? I don't think I shall like her very much; she has such a stern, cross way of speaking, She need not order me about; I can be led, but I can't be driven!" and the proud spirit flashed in Madeline's expressive eyes.

"Just obey the rules, and study well, Miss Madeline, and you'll have no trouble with Miss Corning; but if you don't, you'll have a hard time. Every one has to mind her, and you must not try to have your own way here."

"Who is that queer-looking boy sitting under the tree, Roland?" asked the child.

Roland smiled as he said, "Poor fellow! he is not very smart; his name is Tony Willikins; he is an only son, and his father is a very rich man, and gives him everything he wants."

Just then Tony came near where Madeline was seated, and being an admirer of pretty little girls, he stopped before her, and making an attempt to bow by pulling his cap suddenly from his head, and clapping it under his arm, he said,

"How do you do, Miss? Please tell me your name."

Madeline burst out laughing at the grotesque figure that stood before her, twisting his watch-chain, and simpering in such an unmeaning manner.

"My name is Mad-cap Hamilton," answered the child.

"That's a queer name! I don't like it much, Miss. My name is Anthony Willikins; my pop lives in a great big house; we have six horses and two carriages, and three dogs, and a big garden, and ever so many books, but I can't read any of 'em yet; and I've got a boat all to myself, and one carriage and two horses. Wouldn't you like to take a ride with me, some day? I'd like to take you; pop would let me, I know; won't you ask your pop to let you go?"

All this time Madeline was convulsed with laughter, and could scarcely answer.

"I don't think papa would let me go, Tony; he does not like me to go with strangers."

Just then the bell rang, and after a short afternoon session, the school was dismissed, and Madeline went home with her tasks for the next day.

While the novelty lasted, duties progressed very well; but the old habits of indolence returned, and then came the warfare between Madeline, the self-willed, and Miss Corning, the determined.

"Madeline, how is it that you now come daily unprepared with your lessons?" inquired the lady.

"I had something else to do," was the quick reply.

"Do you expect to go home without reciting them?"

"Certainly, Miss Corning! I cannot learn them all in school."

"We will see, Madeline! for you can't leave the room at recess, or go home until they are learned perfectly."

Madeline threw her books aside, and sat with burning cheek and flashing eye, while the tapping of her little foot betrayed the tempest within. Miss Corning said no more at that time.

Roland saw the storm that was brewing, and seating himself near his little friend, he whispered:

"Do not act so, Miss Madeline; it is very wrong. God sees you, and you are sinning against him, by not obeying those who have the rule over you."

Madeline looked up surprised at Roland, wondering how a poor boy could dare so boldly reprove her. But he was not at all abashed; he knew that he was right, and Madeline wrong, and he returned the look of indignant scorn with one of pity.

"How dare you pity me, Roland Bruce? Don't you know that I am Madeline Hamilton?"

"Yes, miss, I know all that, and I'm very sorry for it, for my Bible says that 'To whom much is given, of him much will be required;' Madeline Hamilton, therefore, is bound to be a better, wiser, holier child than Bessie Carter, because she has more advantages."

Though Mad-cap was so angry, she inwardly respected the boy, who though so far beneath her in social rank, had the courage to lay her faults plainly before her.

She sat however, still sullen and silent, and Roland said no more; recess had passed, and the school duties were resumed.

Miss Corning glanced occasionally towards her refractory pupil, not at all disposed to yield one inch. Madeline's reflections were of the most mortifying character. She liked and respected Roland Bruce, and now she feared that she had lost his friendship by her bad conduct; then the inward conviction that she was wrong, and must at last own it, was deeply humbling to her pride.

The afternoon passed by, school was dismissed, and Roland still lingered. Walking directly up to Madeline, he said in a manly tone:

"Miss Madeline, you are all wrong; just say so; give up this rebellion, and recite your lessons. I can't go home and leave you here; I would not leave Effie, and I cannot leave you."

Madeline was melting; for one moment she hesitated, and then turning with swimming eyes, extended her little hand to Roland, as she said:

"You are a true friend; you have dared to tell a spoiled child how bad she is, and I honor you for it. I will study all my lessons, if you will only hear me say them."

Miss Corning nodded assent, and Madeline set to work with a good will to accomplish her task. Soon she mastered it, and it was a curious sight to behold the flattered and petted child subdued and penitent, looking in Roland's face so timidly, for approval and encouragement. Such is the force of a strong character, even in a boy.

"Forgive me, Miss Corning," said the humbled little girl, "you don't know how I have been spoiled; but I will try to be better in future."

"You will always find me a friend, Madeline, when you do right, but a severe judge when you persist in wrong," was the immediate response.

"Good-bye, Roland," said the child, as she left the school-room; "don't think me so dreadfully bad. I am so sorry," and she wept bitterly.

"Good-bye, Miss Madeline, I am so glad that you confessed that you were wrong; it has raised you so much in my regard; try to do right, and God will help you, Miss Madeline."

Maddy had learned two valuable lessons on that day: one, that there were two in the world stronger than she, to whom she must submit; and the other, that happiness follows a conquest over the natural evils of a sinful heart. Her path was smooth and pleasant for some time; she was studious, and improved rapidly. Roland was her fast friend; aiding her in every difficult lesson, and keeping a constant watch over the outbreaks of her passionate nature.

Miss Adams was one of Roland's teachers, and had a brother in school about his age. George Adams was a bright boy, but could not compete with Roland Bruce; and feelings of jealousy, both on the sister and brother's side, were often manifested. A written examination was to take place, which was to decide the question of promotion. George Adams and Roland were in the same class, and had an equal number of questions to answer in grammar, geography, and algebra. Their desks were side by side. Roland had carefully written out all his answers; and, as he folded up his manuscripts, he said, with a bright look: "There, I have not one blank, nor one blot," and, closing his desk, he prepared to go home. George Adams remained behind, and Madeline, having something to do, tarried also. They left the school-room together, and the child, with her accustomed shrewdness, observed that George avoided her eye, and passed out without speaking.

Next morning was examination-day—when Roland's turn came, his manuscripts were nowhere to be found. Diligent search was made, but in vain. Miss Adams arose and said:

"It is very strange, Roland; no one would take them from your desk; it looks very much like deception."

Roland's eye flashed, as he replied:

"I wrote them all out, and placed them in my desk, yesterday afternoon."

In an instant, Madeline Hamilton was on her feet; regardless of the presence of Mr. Norton, the assistants, and some of the directors, she exclaimed, as she pointed her finger towards the guilty boy:

"I saw him open Roland's desk—Roland Bruce is not a deceiver; there is the deceiver! I know that he was always jealous of him. I watched him as he passed along the road; he scattered pieces of paper, I picked them up, there they are," and she handed them to Mr. Norton. Madeline's cheek and eye were burning; but fearless, in the defence of her friend, she thought of no one else.

"Madeline has always been the champion of Roland Bruce," said Miss Adams; "she certainly forgets who he is; a son of a poor huckster woman, who takes truck to market."

"No, I do not forget, Miss Adams, that he is the brightest boy in school, has always been a mark to shoot at, and that there is not one boy in this school, half as wise and good as Roland."

"Sit down, Madeline," said Mr. Norton; "this matter shall be looked into."

The excitement had passed, and the little advocate, over-powered, bowed her head upon her desk, and wept convulsively.