[TO BE CONTINUED.]

PROBATIONER LEONHARD;

OR, THREE NIGHTS IN THE HAPPY VALLEY.

CHAPTER I.

OUR HERO.

Young Mr. Leonhard Marten walked out on the promenade at the usual hour one afternoon, after a good deal of hesitation, for there was quite as little doubt in his mind as there is in mine that the thing to do was to remain within-doors and answer the letters—­or rather the letter—­lying on his table.  The brief epistle which conveyed to him the regrets of the new female college building committee, that his plans were too elaborate and costly, and must therefore be declined, really demanded no reply, and would probably never have one.  It was the hurried scrawl from his friend Wilberforce which claimed of his sense of honor an answer by the next mail.  The letter from Wilberforce was dated Philadelphia, and ran thus: 

“DEAR LENNY:  Please deposit five thousand for me in some good bank of Pennsylvania or New York.  I shall want it, maybe, within a week or so.  I am talking hard about going abroad.  Why can’t you go along?  Say we sail on the first of next month.  Richards is going, and I shall make enough out of the trip to pay expenses for all hands.  You’ll never know anything about your business, Mart, till you have studied in one of those old towns.  Answer.  Thine,

“WIL.”

When I say that Leonhard had, or had had, ten thousand dollars of Wilberforce’s money, and that he was now about as unprepared to meet the demand recorded as he would have been if he had never seen a cent of the sum mentioned, the assertion, I think, is justified that his place was at his office-table, and not on the promenade.  What if the town-clock had struck four? what if at this hour Miss Ayres usually rounded the corner of Granby street on her way home?  But, poor fellow! he had tried to think his way through the difficulty.  Every day for a week he had exercised himself in letter—­writing:  he had practiced every style, from the jocular to the gravely interrogative, and had succeeded pretty well as a stylist, but the point, the point, the bank deposit, remained still insurmountable and unapproachable.

Once or twice he had thought that probably the best thing to do was to go off on a long journey, and by and by, when things had righted themselves somehow, find out where Wilberforce was and acknowledge his letter with regrets and explanations.  He was considering this course when he destroyed his last effort, and went out on the promenade to get rid of his thoughts and himself and to meet Miss Ayres.  The present contained Miss Ayres; as to the future, it was dark as midnight; for the past, it was not in the least pleasant to think of it, and how it had come to pass that Wilberforce trusted him.