sprightly heroine who changed all by her vivacity and piquant sayings, and immediately commence springing down three stairs at a time, teazing all the children, and making some reply to everything that was said, which sometimes passed for wit but oftener for impudence—­and then again some noble, self-sacrificing character would excite my admiration, and oh! how I longed for some opportunity to signalize myself!  A bullet aimed at some loved one, whom I could protect by rushing forward and receiving it myself; but I was not to be killed, only sufficiently wounded to make me appear interesting—­disabled in the arm, perhaps, without much suffering, for bodily pain never formed a prominent feature in my ideas of the romantic and striking—­I was too great a coward; or else a plunge into the waves to rescue some drowning person from perishing, when I wished just to come near enough to death to elevate me into a heroine for after life.

I looked in the glass, and seeing large, dark eyes, a healthful bloom, and rather pretty features, I concluded that I need not belong to the plain and amiable order, and began to wish most enthusiastically for some romantic admirer; some one who would expose himself to the danger of a sore throat and influenza for the sake of serenading me—­who would be rather glad than otherwise to risk his life by jumping down a precipice to bring me some descried wild flower, and who, when away from me, would pass his time in writing extravagant poetry, of which I was to be the bright divinity.  Old as I am, I feel almost ashamed to repeat this nonsense now; and had I then possessed more sense myself, or made by mother the confidant of these flights of fancy, I need not now relate my own silly experience to warn you from the effects of novel-reading.

Charles Tracy did not at all realize my romantic ideas of a hero; and one bright day the dissatisfaction which had been gradually gathering in my mind expressed itself in words.  I had gone down to a lake at the bottom of the garden to indulge in high-flown meditations; and Charles Tracy stood beside one of the boats which were always kept there.

“Come, Amy,” said he, as I drew near, “it is a beautiful day—­let us have a row across the lake.”

“No,” said I, twining my arm around one of the young trees near, “I prefer remaining here.”

“You had better come with me,” rejoined Charles, “instead of keeping company there with the snapping-turtles.  Well,” he added after a short pause, “if you will not come with me, why I must go alone.”

“Go, then!” said I, bitterly, “you love your own pleasure a great deal better than you do me!”

“Why Amy!” he exclaimed, coming close to me as though doubtful of my sanity, “how very strangely you talk!  You know that I love you very much,” he continued, “for haven’t we been together and quarrelled with each other ever since I can remember?  And do I not now bear the marks of the time when you threw the cat in my face to end our childish dispute?  And the scar where you stuck the pen-knife in my arm?  And don’t you remember how you used to pull my hair out by handfuls?  How can I help loving you when I call to mind all these tender recollections?”