Among the first letters I received was one with the news of the death of my grandfather, John Morgeson.  He had left ten thousand dollars for Arthur, the sum to be withdrawn from the house of Locke Morgeson & Co., and invested elsewhere, for the interest to accumulate, and be added to the principal, till he should be of age.  The rest of his property he gave to the Foreign Missionary Society.  “Now,” wrote father, “it will come your turn next, to stand in the gap, when your mother and I fall back from the forlorn hope—­life.”  This merry and unaccustomed view of things did not suggest to my mind the change he intimated; I could not dwell on such an idea, so steadfast a home-principle were father and mother.  It was different with grandfathers and grandmothers, of course; they died, since it was not particularly necessary for them to live after their children were married.

It was early June when I went to Rosville; it was now October.  There was nothing more for me to discover there.  My relations at home and at school were established, and it was probable that the next year’s plans were all settled.

“It is the twentieth,” said my friend, Helen Perkins, as we lingered in the Academy yard, after school hours.  “The trees have thinned so we can see up and down the streets.  Isn’t that Mr. Morgeson who is tearing round the corner of Gold Street?  Do you think he is strange-looking?  I do.  His hair, and eyes, and complexion are exactly the same hue; what color is it?  A pale brown, or a greenish gray?”

“Is he driving this way?”

“Yes; the fore-legs of his horse have nearly arrived.”

I moved on in advance of Helen, toward the gate; he beckoned when he saw me, and presently reined Nell close to us.  “You can decide now what color he is,” I whispered to her.

“Will you ride home?” he asked.  “And shall I take you down to Bancroft’s, Miss Helen?”

She would have declined, but I took her arm, pushed her into the chaise, and then sprang in after her; she seized the hand-loop, in view of an upset.

“You are afraid of my horse, Miss Helen,” he said, without having looked at her.

“I am afraid of your driving,” she answered, leaning back and looking behind him at me.  She shook her head and put her finger on her eyelid to make me understand that she did not like the color of his eyes.

“Cassandra is afraid of neither,” he said.

“Why should I be?” I replied coldly.

We were soon at the Bancrofts’, where Helen lived, which was a mile from the Academy, and half a mile from our house.  When we were going home, he asked: 

“Is she your intimate friend?”

“The most in school.”

“Is there the usual nonsense about her?”

“What do you mean by nonsense?”

“When a girl talks about her lover or proposes one to her friend.”

“I think she is not gifted that way.”