PART II.

God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. Sterne.

Thank God, that yet I live. In tender mercy, heeding not the prayer I boldly uttered, in my first despair, He would not rashly give The punishment an erring spirit braved. From sudden death, in kindness. I was saved.

It was a fearful thought That this fair earth had not one pleasure left. I was at once of sight and hope bereft. My soul was not yet taught To bow submissive to the sudden stroke; Its crushing weight my heart had well nigh broke.

Words are not that can tell The horrid thoughts that burned upon my brain— That came and went with madness still the same— A black and icy spell That froze my life blood, stopped my fluttering breath, Was laid upon me—even “_life in death_.”

Long weary months crept by, And I refused all comfort, turned aside Wishing that in my weakness I had died. I uttered no reply, But without ceasing wept, and moaned, and prayed The hand of death no longer might be stayed.

I shunned the gaze of all. I knew that pity dwelt in every look. Pity e’en then my proud breast could not brook, Though darkness as a pall Circled me round, each mournful eye _I felt_ That for a moment on my features dwelt.

You, dearest mother, know I shrank in sullenness from your caress. Even _your_ kisses added to distress, For burning tears would flow As you bent o’er me, whispering “be calm, He who hath wounded holds for thee a balm.”

He did not seem a friend. I deemed in wrath the sudden blow was sent From a strong arm that never might relent. That pain alone would end With life, for, mother, then it seemed to me That long, and dreamless, would death’s slumber be.

That blessed illness came. My weakened pulse now bounded wild and strong, While soon a raging fever burned along My worn, exhausted frame. And for the time all knowledge passed away. It mattered not that hidden was the day.

—

The odor of sweet flowers Came stealing through the casement when I woke; When the wild fever spell at last was broke. And yet for many hours I laid in dreamy stillness, till your tone Called back the life that seemed forever flown.

You, mother, knelt in prayer. While one dear hand was resting on my head, With sobbing voice, how fervently you plead For a strong heart, to bear The parting which you feared—“Or, if she live, Comfort, oh, Father! to the stricken give.

“Take from her wandering mind The heavy load which it so long hath borne, Which even unto death her frame hath worn. Let her in mercy find _That though the Earth she may no longer see,_ _Her spirit still can look to Heaven and Thee_.”

A low sob from me stole. A moment more—your arms about me wound— My head upon your breast a pillow found. And through my weary soul A holy calm came stealing from on high. Your prayer was answered—I was not to die.

Then when the bell’s faint chime Came floating gently on the burdened air, My heart went up to God in fervent prayer. And, mother, from that time My wild thoughts left me—hope returned once more— I felt that happiness was yet in store.

Daily new strength was given. For the first time, since darkness on me fell, I passed with more of joy than words can tell Under the free blue Heaven. I bathed my brow in the cool gushing spring— How much of life those bright drops seemed to bring.

I crushed the dewy leaves Of the pale violets, and drank their breath— Though I had heard that at each floweret’s death A sister blossom grieves. I did not care to see their glorious hues, Fearing the richer _perfume_ I might lose.

Then in the dim old wood I laid me down beneath a bending tree, And dreamed, dear mother, waking dreams of thee. I thought how just and good The power that had so gently sealed mine eyes, Yet bade new pleasures and new hopes arise.

For now in truth I find My Father all his promises hath kept; He comforts those who here in sadness wept. “Eyes to the blind” Thou art, oh, God! Earth I no longer see, Yet trustfully my spirit looks to thee.

* * * * *

MY LOVED—MY OWN.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

Nor the hush of the shadowy night. Nor the glare of the busy day, Nor the many cares of the world, from thee Ever lure my thoughts away. In dreams thou art by my side, With thy babe, a rose unblown, And thy voice for me breathes melody, My loved—my own!

The page of the laureled bard Thrills me not, since thou art gone; And from earth below, and the sky above Is an olden charm withdrawn. Come back with thy beaming smile, For my heart is mournful grown— Fast the wild bird flies, when her sad mate cries, My loved—my own!

I have prayed for a spell whereby I might question the wind of thee, And learn if thy cheek is flushed with health, Or wan, while afar from me: And I start when the casement jars, And I hear a hollow moan, But the churlish gale will tell no tale, My loved—my own!

Not sooner the noon-parched flower Would revive in summer rain, Than a glimpse of thee and thy laughing boy Would my sick heart heal again. We have been, since wed, like leaves By the breath of Autumn blown; But home’s green bowers may yet be ours, My loved—my own!

* * * * *

THE DARKENED HEARTH.

BY HENRY G. LEE.

Escaped from the heat and noise of the city, I went, a few years ago, some fifty miles into the country, to spend a short time with a friend, who lived in a pleasant village, the quiet air of which had never been disturbed by rushing steamboat or rumbling car. There was to me a Sabbath stillness about the place that made the brief time I sojourned in Heathdale a period of rest to my spirit.

The scenery around the village was rather picturesque than bold. There were high hills, but no mountains; deep valleys, but no abrupt precipices. Far away along the distant horizon lay heavy blue masses, like clouds; but, though their shapes looked fantastic, they never changed.

My friend was a physician, and his practice lay for miles around the village of Heathdale. In order to have the pleasure of his society, as well as to enjoy the beautiful scenery, I usually went with him in all his country visits.

One morning he said to me, “I shall have rather a longer ride than usual to-day; but as it will be through some of the finest scenery we have, you must be my companion.”

I did not hesitate. Recreation of mind and body was my object in visiting the country, and in no better way could I find both. So, when the doctor’s light carriage drove up, I was ready to step into it.

In talking of the past, the present, and the future, as well as in remarking upon the various objects of interest around us, we spent an hour, by which time we were riding along an old, grass-covered road, winding in many a graceful sweep, and lined by tall poplars that had seen their palmiest days.

“Wealth and taste have left their marks here,” I said, as a fine old mansion, situated upon a gentle eminence, came in sight.

“Yes,” replied the doctor, “both have been here.”

“But are hardly present now, I should think.”

“No. They disappeared long since. Ten years ago a lovelier spot than this could hardly have been found; nor one in which were happier hearts. But now the hearth is desolate. ‘The bright fire quenched and gone.’ I never like to come here. Of the many who lived and loved in this sweet spot one only remains shivering by the darkened fireside.”

The doctor appeared to be disturbed. He was silent for some moments, during which time my eyes were marking all that was peculiar about the place. The house that we were approaching was a large, square-built, two-story edifice, with a portico, and handsome Corinthian columns in front. It stood, as just said, upon an eminence, one slope of which was in a beautiful green lawn, and the others terraced for gardens and shrubbery. Of the gardens, only the plan remained; and rank weeds grew where once had blossomed the sweetest flowers. The untrimmed shrubbery as strongly attested, by its wildness, tangled and irregular growth, the want of care and culture. Everywhere that my eye turned, I could see that the hand of taste had been—but not of late. The summer-house was in ruins; the fish-pond grown over with weeds; the statues that stood here and there, broken.

“To whom did this, or does this place belong?” I asked, rousing by my question the doctor from the musing mood into which he had fallen.

“To an English gentleman of fortune, taste, and intelligence, named Belmont,” he replied. “When a young man, he came to the United States for the purpose of seeing the country, with ample means and freedom from business. He lingered wherever he went as long as pleased his fancy. Something drew him to this part of our state, where he spent two or three months. In his rambles about he fell upon this spot, which had been cleared by a farmer, whose log-cabin stood upon the very site of that fine old mansion. Struck with its natural beauty, Belmont made the man a liberal offer for his farm, which was accepted. A year afterward he returned and commenced and completed as rapidly as possible, all the main improvements you now see. But, as we are at the door, I must defer this narrative until I have seen my patient.”

The doctor then left me in the carriage while he went into the house. He was gone nearly half an hour. When he returned he looked graver than when he went in.

“It always gives me the heart-ache to visit here,” he said, as we rode away. “_My_ medicine can do no good.”

“Your patient has a disease of the mind?”

“Yes, an incurable one,” he replied. “Hers is a heart-sickness beyond my skill to heal. She needs a spiritual rather than a bodily physician. But to resume where I left off. Mr. Belmont was occupied about two years in building that handsome house, and in improving these grounds. A part of his time was spent in superintending these improvements in person; but the greater portion of it was passed in England. When all was completed, the house was elegantly furnished, and Mr. Belmont, with a lovely bride, retired from the world, to live here in beautiful seclusion. People wondered why a young couple, who had evidently mingled in the gayest circles, and been used to elegant and refined society, should hide themselves, as it were, in the vicinity of a small village in Pennsylvania, thousands of miles away from their old homes and country. For a while there was a great deal of gossip on the subject, and dozens of little stories afloat as to what this, that, or the other servant at the ‘white house’ had said about the young wife of Belmont. It was alledged that she was often seen weeping, and that she was not at all happy. This, however, was not generally believed; for Mrs. Belmont was seen every Sabbath at the village church, and looked so cheerful, and leaned so lovingly toward her husband, that all idea of her being unhappy was banished from the mind. Still, people continued to wonder why a young and wealthy Englishman, of noble blood, for aught they knew, should prefer the deep seclusion of an almost forest-life in America. Subsequent events threw light on this subject, and enables me to give you the history of this young couple.

“Belmont belonged to a wealthy English aristocratic family, and was the legal heir, on the death of his father, to a large estate. As is too generally the case where the law of primogeniture exists, Belmont, as the eldest son, was not left to consult his affections in a matter of so much importance as marriage. A bride was chosen for him, long before he was old enough to think of or care for a bride. But when the boy became the man, he felt little inclined to enter into so close a union as that of marriage with one for whom not a single affection stirred.

“Not long after the young man entered society, he met Catherine H——, the only daughter of Lord H——, a lovely young creature, who soon captivated all his feelings. Catherine, it happened, had, like him, been early betrothed by her parents. Her hand was not therefore free. He might admire, but not love her. Unlike Belmont, she was not indifferent toward her betrothed. As they grew up together from childhood, their young affections intertwined, until the friendship of youth became love at mature age.

“A year spent on the Continent, and particularly in the gayest circles of Paris, tended in no wise to elevate the moral sentiments of Belmont; nor did absence from home weaken the attachment he felt for Catherine H——, whose society he sought on his return at every favorable opportunity. Between the ardor of a lover who seeks to win a heart, and the quiet, gentle, unobtrusive attentions of one who believes that he has already made a love-conquest, there is and must be a marked difference. This was just the difference between the manner of Belmont and the lover of Catherine. The lady, not indifferent to admiration, found, ere long, the image of the former resting upon her heart, and hiding that of the latter. Belmont was quick to perceive this; but the lover of Catherine, who was not of a jealous temperament, remained altogether unconscious that any change had taken place in the feelings of his bride elect.

“From his false and delusive dream, something, not necessary to mention, awoke Belmont; and in the effort to break through the meshes of love in which he was entangled, he left England, and spent nearly twelve months in the United States. While here, the beautiful site upon which he afterward built himself an elegant residence, struck his fancy, and, in a moment of enthusiastic admiration, and with, perhaps, a half-formed resolution to attempt what was afterward done, he purchased it, and then went back to England. When he again met Catherine H——, he was struck with the change a year had wrought in her appearance; and he was also struck with the marked expression of pleasure with which she received him. The half-quenched fire which he had been endeavoring to extinguish in his bosom, again burst into a flame, and burned more brightly than ever. In a moment of passion, he avowed his love, and the maiden sunk in silent joy upon his bosom.

“Meantime, the betrothed of Belmont, as well as her friends, were fretted and angry with the coldness and indifference which he manifested toward her. A near relative, a young man of a fiery temper, undertook to ask explanations, and considering himself insulted by the answer he obtained, sent Belmont a challenge to fight. This was accepted; and at the hostile meeting which followed, the young man received a severe wound that came near costing him his life. Belmont took advantage of this circumstance to break off all intercourse with the lady, and to arm himself, ready to give any of her friends who chose to espouse her cause, whatever satisfaction they might desire. All this caused a good deal of excitement in the circles immediately affected by it, and a good many threats were made by the lady’s friends; but they amounted to nothing.

“Erskine, the lover of Catherine H——, at length saw cause for suspicion that all was not right. He had repeatedly urged her to consent to an early performance of the marriage rite; but she had as often evaded any direct response to his wishes. At length there was no disguising the fact that she was becoming colder toward him every time they met. He complained of this; but his complaint elicited no warm denial of what he alledged. Erskine, who was deeply attached to the lady, now became alarmed. It was too plain that she had grown indifferent. Why, he was for some time at a loss to understand. But at length his suspicions took the right direction. Just as he was about demanding from Belmont an explanation of his conduct toward Catherine, the father of the latter died; and before he could with any appearance of decency refer to the matter after this afflictive occurrence, Belmont left England, it was said, for America. His errand to this country you know. As soon as he had completed the improvements he had projected, he returned home to consummate the purpose that had been uppermost in his mind for nearly two years. He married Catherine H—— secretly, and left for the United States before the fact had transpired, bringing with him his lovely and loving young bride.

“I do not wonder that the servants sometimes saw Mrs. Belmont weeping. Smiles could not always rest upon her sweet face. And yet she was happy—that is, happy as she could be under the circumstances, for she loved devotedly her husband, and he in turn almost idolized her.

“Erskine, when the truth became known, was deeply afflicted at the infidelity of his ‘betrothed,’ and for a time suffered the severest pangs. The reaction upon this was angry indignation, and a final vow of retribution. The ardent lover was changed to a cruel hater and seeker for revenge.

“‘I’ll bide my time,’ he said, bitterly. ‘When they think I have forgotten all, my hand will find them out, and my shadow will fall upon them. When their fire burns brightest, I will extinguish it.’

“Year after year he nursed this bitter purpose in his heart. He had found no difficulty in learning where the young bride had retired with her husband, and from thence he managed to obtain frequent intelligence. All that he heard but made the fire of hate burn fiercer in his bosom. Catherine was represented as being happy amid her blooming children; and the lovely spot where she dwelt was described as a little paradise.

“Fifteen years were permitted to go by, and then Erskine sought to effect his fiendish purpose. An instrument by which this was to be done, came into his hands, as he felt, most opportunely, in a young man of fine exterior, elegant manners, intelligence, and varied accomplishments, but without honor or feeling. He was a perfect man of the world, and at heart an unprincipled villain. The name of this person was Edgerton. By loans of money and other favors, Erskine attached this man to him. The tie was, of course, that of self-interest. To him he unfolded what was in his mind. He told him of the wrong he had sustained, and the burning thirst for revenge that ever since had filled his heart. Then he described, in glowing language, the beautiful spot where Catherine dwelt, and the happiness that filled her bosom.

“‘Will you steal, as did the serpent of old, into this lovely paradise?’ he asked. ‘I have been your friend, but if you will serve me now, you may command me in every thing. The wife of Belmont you will find to be a lovely creature; and if you can win her from him, as he won her from me, you will gain possession of a magnificent woman. She is a prize, Edgerton—just the prize for a man like you. Gain it, and I will furnish you with all the means of flight and security.’

“An adventure like this just suited the debased, impure, heartless Edgerton; and he entered upon it with an ardor of feeling, and coolness of purpose, that too sorely foreshadowed success.

“For sixteen years scarcely a cloud had rested upon the hearts of the happy family of Belmont. He had three daughters, between each of whom there was but little over a year’s difference in age. The oldest was a tall, exquisitely beautiful girl of fifteen, and her sisters gave the same promise of opening loveliness. Just at this time, and while Mr. Belmont was in search of a musical instructor for his children, Edgerton managed to fall in his way, and by the most perfect address and assumption of a false exterior, to win his good opinion. He showed credentials of ability from well-known personages in New York and Philadelphia; and also testimonials of character from eminent clergymen, and others. These represented him as highly educated, belonging to a good family, and distinguished for high moral excellence. They were, of course, spurious.

“When Edgerton was introduced to the family of Mr. Belmont, Mrs. Belmont shrunk from him with instinctive aversion. This was her first impression; but it slightly wore off during the interview; and she was rather inclined, after he had gone away, to think that she had permitted herself to feel prejudiced against him without a cause.

“After due deliberation, Edgerton was engaged as instructor of the young ladies in music and the modern languages—in all of which they had made some proficiency; and also to superintend their studies in other branches. To do all this Edgerton was fully qualified. He entered upon his duties with patience and assiduity. In all his intercourse with the family he was modest and unassuming, yet managed, in every conversation that passed between himself and either Mr. or Mrs. Belmont, to show that he possessed a discriminating, well-furnished mind. He had traveled throughout Europe and Asia Minor, and been an accurate observer. This made him an interesting and intelligent companion to both Belmont and his wife, who had been over the same ground. In short, Edgerton soon became the highly valued friend of the parents, as well as the instructor of their children.

“For two years Edgerton remained in the family of Mr. Belmont, during which time nothing occurred to awaken a suspicion, or to shake his confidence in the young man. About this time business required him to go to New York. He was absent over two weeks. Separation from his family was painful to him, and therefore he hurried home as quickly as possible. He had never, since his marriage, been so long absent from his wife, and he grew impatient to be with her again, and to hear her voice, which, in memory, was sweeter than it had ever seemed. He wrote her, during his absence, many times, each letter warmer in its expressions of tenderness than the one that preceded it. In the last letter, written three or four days before he reached home, he said,

“‘I do not think I shall ever venture to go away from home again without taking you with me. The separation has filled my heart with an indescribable sadness. I think of you all the while; I see you all the while; there is not a moment that I do not hear the sound of your voice. But I cannot press my lips to yours, glowing with love; I cannot take you in my arms—you are not really present. Dear Catherine! I shall soon be with you. Ah! how the idea will force itself upon me that the day must come when there will be a longer separation than this. But I will drive the cruel thought from my mind.’

“As Belmont approached his home, his impatient spirit chafed at what to him seemed the slow pace of the stage-horses, by which he was conveyed the last twenty miles. At last time and distance intervened between him and his earthly paradise no longer. As he sprung from the horse that had borne him with swift feet from the village, he felt a slight chill of disappointment at not seeing his wife at the door, with open arms, to meet him. In the hall he was met by his youngest daughter, in whose face there lighted up a smile, but it was not the free, glad, heart-smile that ought to have been there.

“‘Where is your mother?’ he eagerly asked.

“‘I do not know. She went away somewhere day before yesterday, before we were up in the morning.’

“‘Who did she go with?’

“‘I don’t know. But Mr. Edgerton went away at the same time. We think she went with him.’

“Belmont caught hold of the door, and leaned hard against it.

“‘Where are your sisters?’ he asked.

“‘Catherine has been sick ever since. I can’t tell what is the matter with her; but she cries all the time. Mary is in her room with her.’

“‘Does nobody in the house know where your mother is gone?’

“‘No, sir. She went away before any body was up. But there is a letter for you in your room.’

“Belmont tried to run up stairs, but his knees trembled so, and were so weak, that it was with difficulty that he could support himself. When he reached his room, he grasped the letter to which his daughter had referred, and sunk into a chair. It was sometime before, with his quivering hands, he could break the seal, and then many minutes passed before he could read a line. The blasting contents were as follows:

“‘My Husband,—How can I break to you the dreadful truth that must be told? Long and devotedly as I have loved you, and still love you, I am impelled to leave you, under the influence of a stronger, more fiery, and intenser passion. I am mad with the bewildering excitement in which I am whirling, as in the charmed circle of a fascinating serpent. I do not love you less, but I love another more. Forgive me, if you can forgive, and in mercy both to you and to your unhappy wife, forget me. You know not how I have been tempted and tried; you know not how, by the most imperceptible approaches, the citadel of my heart has been taken. God forgive him who has wronged you, and her who permitted herself to be made an instrument in that wrong. You will be far happier than she can ever be. As for my chil—’

“Here the paper was blotted and soiled, as if by a gush of tears. It contained no word more.

“An hour afterward, when Mary Belmont and her younger sister stole softly into their father’s chamber, they found him sitting motionless in a chair, with the letter he had read crumpled in his hand. His eyes were closed; and he did not open them as they drew near. They spoke to him in timid voices, but he did not look up, nor appear to hear them.

“‘Father! dear father!’ they said, coming up close to his side.

“Slowly he drew an arm around each, and pressed them tightly to his bosom—but he did not utter a word.

“‘Papa, where has mother gone?’ asked Mary, in a quivering voice.

“‘I do not know,’ was the low, mournful reply.

“‘Will she never come back?’

“‘No—never!’

“The children burst into tears, and wept for a long time bitterly. The agitation of Belmont’s mind now became agonizing. It was his first wish to conceal what he felt as much as possible from his children; he therefore asked to be left alone. Mary and her sister retired from the room, but with slow and lingering steps. When left to himself, the father sunk down again, like one paralized, not to think but to feel. An hour afterward, Ella, his youngest daughter, came quietly in, and said,

“‘Papa, I wish you would see Catherine. She does nothing but cry all the while.’

“Feeling the necessity, at least for his children’s sake, of rousing himself under this terrible affliction, for which there was no healing balm, Mr. Belmont arose, and taking the hand of Ella, went with her to the chamber of his eldest child, now a tall, beautiful young girl, in her eighteenth year. Her face was turned toward the door when he entered. At a single glance he saw that it was exceedingly pale, had a strange expression, and was full of anguish. In a moment after it was buried beneath the bed-clothes, while the whole body of Catherine shivered as if in an ague fit. Sobs and deep moans of anguish followed. To all that the father could say, not a word of reply was given. Suddenly there flashed through his mind a dreadful suspicion, that caused him to clasp his forehead tightly with his hands, and stagger a few paces backward. Soon after he left the chamber, and retired to his own room to make an effort to think. But it was a vain effort—all the elements of his mind were in wild confusion. At one moment he would start up with a fierce imprecation on his lips, resolved to pursue the fugitives; but before reaching the door of his room, a thought of the utter hopelessness of his condition would cause him to droop, nerveless, into a chair, or sink with a groan upon the bed.

“For nearly the whole of the night that followed, Belmont paced, with slow and measured tread, the floor of his chamber. Toward morning, his mind became calmer and clearer. He was like a man suddenly pressed to the earth by a burden that seemed impossible to be borne, who had re-collected his strength, and risen with the burden upon his shoulders, feeling that though almost crushing in its weight, he could yet bear up under it. The first clear determination of his mind was to ascertain, if possible, the cause of Catherine’s strange distress. He had a heart-sickening dread of something that he dared not even confess to himself. He felt that the specious villain who could draw his wife from virtue, would not be one to hesitate on the question of sacrificing his child, if by any means he could get her into his power.

“Late in the morning he left his bed, and had nearly completed dressing himself when some one knocked at his door. On opening it, he found Ella, with the tears raining over her cheeks.

“‘Oh, papa!’ she exclaimed, ‘Come, quick! and see Catherine. I don’t know what’s the matter with her, but she says she is dying.’

“A cold shiver passed through every nerve of the unhappy man. He sprung away at the last word of Ella, and was quickly at the bed-side of his daughter. A great change had taken place since he saw her on the day before. Her face, that was pale then, was now of an ashy whiteness, but her eyes and lips had a calm expression.

“‘Papa,’ she said, in a voice that thrilled through the heart of the unhappy man, it was so inexpressibly mournful, ‘I do not think I can live long. I have a strange feeling here,’ and she laid her hand upon her heart. ‘If I have done wrong in any thing; if I have been betrayed into evil, I pray you forgive the innocence that suspected no wrong, and the weakness that could not endure in temptation.’

“‘Catherine, my dear child! why do you speak thus? What is it that you mean?’ asked her father. ‘Has that villain dared—’

“Mr. Belmont checked himself for he saw that his daughter had become greatly disturbed. She raised up partly from her pillow, while a rapid play of the muscles agitated her whole face. Before, however, she was able to articulate a word, she sunk back paler than ever. Two or three deep groans struggled up from her heart, and then all was still—still as death. Mr. Belmont looked for some time at the young, white face of his first-born and dearly beloved child, upon which the great destroyer had so suddenly set his seal, and then, answering groan for groan, turned from the withered blossom that lay before him, and again sought the silence and solitude of his own room.

“Two months subsequently to this, Erskine received a letter from Edgerton. It was in these words:

“‘My Dear Sir,—The work is done—and well done. I have succeeded fully in my plans. Your old flame has been with me in New York for a month. But she takes the matter rather too hard, and weeps eternally. I can’t stand this; and if she does not improve very shortly, shall abandon her. If it had not been for my wish to follow your instructions to the letter, I should have taken the eldest daughter instead of the mother, who is much more to my fancy. I have not yet heard any thing from Belmont, though I look every day for him to pounce down upon me; but I am not afraid of him. I suppose this affair will drive him half mad, for he was exceedingly fond of his wife. This I mention for your particular gratification. You may expect to see me in England by the next arrival. Whether I shall bring my lady-love along or not, I cannot say. It is, however, doubtful. Addio.

Edgerton.’

“The death of his oldest daughter, under circumstances of so much doubt and distress, added to the desertion of a beloved wife, wrought a great and melancholy change in Mr. Belmont. I only saw him a few times afterwards, and then it was at his own house, where I was called to visit as a physician. A few months had made the impression of years. His face was thin, and marked with strong lines; his countenance dull and depressed; his eyes drooping and sad. He moved about slowly, and spoke in a low, quiet, pensive voice.

“One cold night in November, some six or seven months after the afflictive events just described had occurred, Mr. Belmont, after laying awake for hours, trying in vain to sleep, arose from his bed, and going to the window, stood there for some time. The moon was shining brightly through the clear, frosty air, making every object distinctly visible. After standing at the window for some time, Belmont was about turning away, when his eye was arrested by a figure that came slowly along the main avenue through which we drove up to the house a little while ago. Sometimes it would stop for the space of a minute, and then move on again, until at length it stood in the clear moonlight, directly under his window. He then saw that it was a woman. Her head was bowed down at first, but soon she looked up, and the moonlight fell strongly upon her face. Belmont started with a low exclamation, and retreated from the window, and staggering back, sunk with a groan upon the bed, where he lay for nearly five minutes. He then arose, dressed himself, and descended with a deliberate air. On opening the hall-door, he perceived that the woman had sunk down upon the steps. She did not move at his approach.

“‘Catherine!’ he said, in as firm a voice as he could assume.

“But there was no motion—no reply.

“‘Catherine!’ But she did not answer.

“Stooping down, he placed his hand upon her, and then she looked up, and the moonbeams fell upon her face. Her lips were thin and tightly compressed; her pale cheeks deeply sunken; her eyes tearless, but, oh! how full of mingled penitence, humility, and hopelessness. She uttered no word, but lay upon the cold marble, at the threshhold of her husband’s mansion, with her eyes fixed upon his face, that, if not stern and angry, betrayed no sign of affection.

“‘Catherine,’ he said at length, in a cold, steady voice, ‘you have returned to the old home that your conduct has made desolate. I do not see that you have been any happier than those you left behind. I forgive you, as I hope God will. I believe you were once worthy of all the love I bore you, and for the sake of what you then were, I will not spurn you back from the threshhold you now seek to pass.’

“He then took her arm, and raising her up, conducted her into the house, and up into her old chamber, where every thing remained as she had left it. The thoughts and feelings of other days came rushing upon his heart, but he sternly drove them back. It was too late. They could never again have place in his bosom. What she thought and felt is not known, and can hardly be imagined. In the old chamber Belmont left his fallen wife, with but a single word, and that a caution to remain where she was until he visited her in the morning.

“Belmont did not again retire that night. Until near day he was busily engaged in writing, and in evident preparation for a journey. About 5 o’clock the servants were aroused, and directed to prepare an early breakfast. The coachman was ordered to have the carriage at the door by 7 o’clock. Then Ella and Mary were awakened by their father, who desired them to dress immediately, and come to him in the library. When there, he informed them that it had become necessary for him to leave for England immediately, and that he wished them to accompany him. All necessary preparation could be made in New York, where he would remain two or three weeks. The girls were surprised, as may well be supposed, by this announcement; but their father was too much in earnest to leave them room to ask for a longer time to prepare for the journey than he had given them. Precisely at seven they entered the carriage and drove into Heathdale. On arriving there, Mr. Belmont said that he would have to return, and that while he was gone they must remain at the hotel. Mary wanted to go back with him for something that she had forgotten, but he said that he would rather have her remain where she was, in a tone that prevented her from saying any thing more.

“The object of Mr. Belmont in returning, was to have a parting interview with the mother of his children, for whom he could not but feel the deepest commiseration. But her own hands had placed the burden upon her heart, and it was not in his power to remove it. She had been false to her marriage vows, and false to those who had called her by the tender name of ‘mother.’ He could not again take her to his bosom, nor again bring her back among her children. He found her a sad wreck, indeed, and could scarcely keep back the tears when he met her again, with the searching light of day making visible all the marks of grief, crime, and suffering.

“‘Catherine,’ he said, in a voice that trembled, spite of all his efforts to be composed, ‘I meet you now for the last time. I shall return to England, never again, I hope, to visit this country. This is your home for life, if you wish to make it so. I have settled upon you an annuity; and these papers, which I leave here upon the table, will give you all necessary information in regard to the manner of drawing it. I will not upbraid you for what you have done, for I do not wish to add a single pang to the thousands you must suffer; I would rather mitigate than increase them.’

“‘My children,’ she said, in an eager voice, as he paused, ‘where are they—am I not to see them?’

“‘But two remain,’ Belmont replied, ‘and you cannot see them. You are dead to your children, and must remain so. Catherine is in heaven. She died, to all appearance, of a broken heart, a few days after you went away.’

“The whole frame of this wretched woman quivered.

“‘Dead!’ she ejaculated, in a deep, hoarse whisper; and then covering her face, wept for some moments violently.

“‘But Mary and Ellen,’ she at length said, looking up with streaming eyes. ‘May I not see them? They are my children, Edward, and, erring and sinful as I have been, I still love them. Do not, then, in mercy, deny me this, the only boon I will ever ask at your hands. Oh! Edward, let me see my children once before I die.’

“Belmont was deeply moved, but his purpose did not falter.

“‘You are dead to them, Catherine,’ he replied, with assumed coldness, ‘and must remain so.’

“Even on her knees the wretched woman prayed to see her children; but she prayed in vain. Hard as it was for Belmont to resist her agonized entreaties, he remained firm to his well-formed purpose.

“The moment of parting with her, and leaving her in loneliness and misery on the very spot where she had once been so happy, and with a thousand things around her to remind her of that happiness, was a most painful one. It was with difficulty that Belmont could restrain the desire he felt to take her in his arms, press her to his bosom, and forgive and forget all. But her sin had been too deep—she had fallen too low. He could not throw over the past the blessed mantle of forgiveness; and so he left her alone, to shiver by the cold ashes of a darkened hearth.”

“Has her husband never returned?” I asked.

“Never! Five years have passed since he left, but no one has seen him in this region. There came a rumor a few years ago, that he had met Edgerton, and made him account with his life for his crime. But I know not whether this be so.”

A year afterward I received a letter from my excellent friend, the doctor, in which he mentioned that death had given the unhappy Mrs. Belmont a kind release; “and, we may hope,” he remarked, “that through much suffering she was purified and forgiven.”

* * * * *

THE WAYSIDE DREAM.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

The deep and lordly Danube Goes winding far below;— I see the white-walled hamlets Amid his vineyards glow, And southward, through the ether, shine The Styrian hills of snow.

O’er many a league of landscape Sleeps the warm haze of noon; The wooing winds come freighted With fragrant tales of June, And down amid the corn and flowers I hear the water’s tune.

The meadow-lark is singing As if it still were morn; Sounds through the dark pine forest The hunter’s dreamy horn; And the shy cuckoo’s plaining note Mocks the maidens in the corn.

I watch the cloud armada Go sailing up the sky, Lulled by the murmuring mountain-grass, Upon whose bed I lie, And the faint sound of noonday chimes That in the distance die!

A warm and drowsy sweetness Is stealing o’er my brain; I see no more the Danube Sweep through his royal plain— I hear no more the peasant-girls Singing amid the grain!

Soft, silvery wings, a moment Seem resting on my brow: Again I hear the water, But its voice is deeper now, And the mocking-bird and oriole Are singing on the bough!

The elm and linden branches Droop close and dark o’erhead, And the foaming forest brooklet Leaps down its rocky bed; Be still, my heart! the seas are passed— The paths of home I tread!

The showers of creamy blossoms Are on the linden spray, And down the clover meadow They heap the scented hay, And glad winds toss the forest leaves All the bright summer day.

Old playmates! bid me welcome Amid your brother band! Give me the old affection— The glowing grasp of hand! I worship no more the realms of old— _Here_ is my Fatherland!

Come hither, gentle maiden, Who weep’st in tender joy! The rapture of thy presence Overcomes the world’s annoy, And calms the wild and throbbing heart Which warms the wandering boy.

In many a mountain fastness— By many a river’s foam, And through the gorgeous cities, ’Twas loneliness to roam, For the sweetest music in my heart Was the olden songs of home!

Ah! glen, and foaming brooklet, And friends, have vanished now! The balmy Styrian breezes Are blowing on my brow, And sounds again the cuckoo’s call From the forest’s inmost bough.

Veiled is the heart’s glad vision— The wings of Fancy fold; I rise and journey onward. Through valleys green and old, Where the far, white Alps reveal the morn And keep the sunset’s gold!

* * * * *

SONNET.

Sun of the new-born year! I hail thy light; As bursting through the dark clouds that so long Had veiled the glories of each morn and night, Thou pourest over all thy radiance strong; Bidding the chilling rains their fury cease, And smiling on the drenched and languid earth, That, all exulting in her glad release, Puts on the beauty of a second birth, And joys to greet thee. Type art thou, O Sun! Amid the parting clouds thy bright path making, Of that clear Star—the never setting One! That through the pall of darksome ages breaking, With healing beams, still moves, eternal on! And lights the living soul when life’s dim day is gone!

* * * * *

SOPHY’S FLIRTATION.

A COUNTRY SKETCH.

BY MRS. M. N. M‘DONALD.

“Well, to _my_ mind, a nicer young man doesn’t live any where than Archie Harris. So pleasant spoken, so good tempered, so civil as he is. You ‘may go farther and fare worse,’ I can tell you, Sophy. It’s all very well for girls to be dainty and particular about looks, when they are young and handsome themselves, and think they may catch anybody, but it’s no joke for a girl to settle herself with a man who may be unkind to her by and bye. Archie Harris has that in him which will last in dark days as well as sunshine; something that wont wear out in old age, like your grandfather here, that I’ve lived with forty-five years come next Christmas, and found him just the same, winter and summer. So, as I said before, ‘you may go farther and fare worse,’ Sophy.” And having delivered her sentiments, old Mrs. Middleton took a pinch of snuff, drew her chair a little nearer the fire with an emphatic “hem,” and then resumed her knitting, while she glanced over her spectacles to observe what had been the effect of her speech upon her pretty granddaughter, who was seated on the opposite side of the little round table, engaged in sewing.

Sophy Middleton plied her needle with something of a petulant air, while her grandmother spoke, and answered with a slight tone of vexation—“Everybody can’t think alike, that is certain. Archie Harris is well enough in his way, but he isn’t the only man in the world, that is one comfort.”

“And why don’t you like him?” pursued the old lady, resolved not to give up the point. “Tell me of one in the whole place that is better, or kinder, or cleverer. _I_ never saw such a one at any rate, and once upon a time, Sophy, you thought Archie a little better than most folks yourself, and have only changed your mind since Philip Greyson came home, I’m thinking.”

“Philip Greyson, indeed!” exclaimed Sophy, with a toss of her head, while her cheeks crimsoned in spite of herself.

“Yes, Philip Greyson,” said the old lady. “I suppose you think, Sophy, because I wear spectacles, I am half blind, and can’t see as far as I used to do. But I have my eyes about me, and maybe spy a little farther for my glasses, and I fancy that Philip, with his spruce uniform and navy buttons, will make you forget poor Archie altogether.”

“I am sure,” said Sophy, whose thread at that moment had got into such a knot that her undivided attention was necessary to disentangle it. “I’m sure Philip Greyson is nothing to _me_.”

“I hope he never may be, indeed,” said Mrs. Middleton emphatically. “These young midshipmen are wild blades, my dear, and I should never know a minute’s peace if you were to marry one. But Archie Harris, ah! Sophy, he is the husband for you; such a good son and brother—so quiet, and steady, and—”

“Stupid,” said Sophy, supplying with a laugh the word for which her grandmother paused. “Why, last night at Mrs. Morgan’s he scarcely said ten syllables, and say what you will, grandmother,” she continued, roused by the recollection of her last evening’s visit, “everybody likes a merry, talkative beau, who has seen something of the world, better than a fellow who sits by with a long face, and can do nothing to amuse one.”

“And that fellow isn’t Philip Greyson, I guess,” said her grandfather, who, on the opposite side of the fire, was calmly knocking the ashes from his pipe. “Phil is one of those chaps that have no lack of words in any company, if I may judge from the way in which I have heard him chatter at his own father’s table.”

“Chatter! that he can, like a magpie, and with but little more sense, to my mind,” said the old lady. “If Archie Harris speaks but seldom, his words are always to some purpose, and he doesn’t think it amiss to be civil to old people either. Philip has enough and enow to prate about to young folks, but if an elderly person comes by, he is at no pains to entertain him. Times have changed since my day, when young men and women were taught to reverence their betters. Ah! well,” and Mrs. Middleton drew a long deep sigh, and shook her head significantly as she leaned over to mend the fire.

It was in the prettiest, neatest white house, in the main street of a pretty village, somewhere in the Empire State, that Sophy Middleton and her grand-parents resided. Samuel Middleton, who from his silvery hair, and general knowledge of past events, together with the melancholy fact that he is totally blind, has long been dignified with the title of “the oldest inhabitant,” which title, by the way, the old gentleman particularly glories in, being fond of relating anecdotes of the place, which happened when he was a boy, and adventures with persons long since dead, and though Brookville has not improved materially during the last twenty years—being off the rail-road—yet the old man imagines in his blindness that great changes have taken place, because the Episcopalians have built a church, and Squire Edgewood a new house and barn, and descants largely upon the good old times, when Brookville was just settled, and “no folly or fashion had got into it.”

A youth of industry—for it was not until advancing years that darkness fell upon him—had secured for Samuel Middleton a moderate competency, and at the old homestead, with the kind partner of his joys and sorrows, and the orphan child of an only son, he had learned to bear with patience and fortitude the sore trial which it had pleased God to send him; thankful for the past, contented with the present, and fearless of the future.

Sophy, so early orphaned as scarcely to remember any other care than that of her grand-parents, was the life and light of the old man’s home. Her cheerfulness beguiled very many of his wearisome hours, and her merry voice, and mirth-inspiring laughter, seemed to cheat him of half his sorrow. He knew her step upon the gravel walk when she came in from school, as readily as if his sightless eyes could have looked upon her face, and felt only too proud and happy when his friends said “that Sophy was growing up a comely girl, and would be a beauty one of these days.” As his beloved child grew older, this prophecy seemed likely to prove true. Sophy’s blue eyes were full of vivacity, and her oval cheeks and sweet lips were colored with Nature’s pure carnation. By degrees the scrawny figure of the school girl was moulded to the grace of early womanhood, and we introduce Sophy Middleton to our readers, at this particular moment, a blooming country maiden of nineteen summers, very much petted at home, sufficiently admired abroad, and therefore a little, very little bit _spoiled_.

But who is Archie Harris, that we find the old lady eulogizing so warmly? Why, Archie Harris and our Sophy went to the same school; sat on the same bench; learned out of the same book, and were friends from the time they were “no bigger than a midge’s wing.” Being next door neighbors, this friendship had strengthened with their years rather than diminished. Sophy had found a sister in Mary Harris, and, in the natural course of things, a lover in Archie; and although no positive engagement existed between them, it seemed such a matter of course that they should love each other, and so desirable a connection on both sides, that everybody—that wise person found in all villages—said it would certainly be a match at some future day.

Philip Greyson, too, was a Brookville boy, and had been a schoolmate of Sophy’s years ago. But Philip’s ambition soared higher than a life of usefulness at home. He longed to see the world; to brave the ocean; to tread on foreign shores; and when, through the influence of friends at Washington, he procured a midshipman’s warrant, and left Brookville to join his vessel at Norfolk, what cared he for aught he was leaving, when the future stretched so brightly before him? His parents, teachers, school-fellows, he bade them good-bye without a moment’s regret; and as to Sophy Middleton, if he thought of her at all, it was but as an unformed girl, rather more indifferent to him than his own sisters, and whom he might perhaps never see again. On his return, however, after a three years’ cruise, Philip found, to his surprise, this same little Sophy grown a young lady, and a pretty one, too; and, charmed at the sight of so much beauty where he least expected it, renewed his acquaintance with delight, while Sophy, pleased and flattered by his attentions, and dazzled by the glitter of his gilt buttons, danced and flirted with the young midshipman to her heart’s content, exciting the envy of sundry other damsels to whom nature had denied bright eyes and rosy lips, and vexing poor Archie, by her unwonted vanity, in the most uncomfortable degree.

Had Sophy related to her grandmother what passed between Archie and herself on the previous night, as they walked home from Mrs. Morgan’s tea-party, the old lady would have been inexpressibly distressed, for Archie, in the warmth of his feelings, upbraided Sophy for her coquetry and coldness, which Sophy’s high spirit would not brook. She bade him remember that no engagement had taken place, and therefore she was free to choose for herself, though everybody seemed to think—why she could not tell—that because they lived next door to each other, they were “as good as married.” Philip Greyson, she said, was an old friend as well as he, and she would not give up the pleasure of talking to him, if she liked, for _anybody_, and so at the garden-gate they parted, with a cold “good-night.” Archie to mourn over the fickleness of the girl he dearly loved, and Sophy to dream of—Philip Greyson.

Probably Mrs. Middleton suspected something of this, however, from her urgent appeal to her granddaughter in behalf of their neighbor’s son, and might, perhaps, have gone on still further to expostulate, had not a knock at the outer door interrupted the conversation; and Sophy, who had risen to answer the summons, returned in a few minutes with a letter directed to her grandfather.

“A letter for you, grandfather,” she said, placing it in the old man’s hand. “Mr. Norris sent it up from the post-office. It came by the late mail.”

“For me?” said Mr. Middleton, turning it over, and placing his finger upon the large, red seal. “I did not expect any letters just now. Read it, wife.”

Mrs. Middleton, who had been adjusting her spectacles, eagerly seized the mysterious letter, and carefully cutting it open, read the signature aloud. “Henry Willetson.”

“I don’t know such a person,” said the old man, leaning forward to catch every word. “Go on, Hannah.”

The letter was a brief one; and the old lady glanced her eye over it before she began—but that glance was sufficient to tell the whole story. There it was, written down in few but fearful characters; and suddenly throwing the paper upon the table, she exclaimed, “Merciful Father! we are ruined! All swept away! Oh! Samuel, Samuel, what shall we do in our old age? All gone, all gone!”

“Tell me what it is. Let me know the whole truth,” said the old man, groping his way to the table, and stretching his hand over it to find the letter. “Tell me what has happened, Hannah—I can bear it.”

“All gone, all gone!” murmured poor Mrs. Middleton, as if deprived of the power to say more.

“What is gone? Tell me, Hannah?” said the agitated old man. “Oh, this awful blindness! Sophy, where are you? Do you read it for me.”

Pale and trembling, Sophy obeyed. The letter was from the agent of a mercantile house in New York, in which Mr. Middleton had been persuaded to invest the bulk of his small property, announcing the entire failure of the concern, which would not, in all probability, at the winding up of its affairs, pay five cents on the dollar; and thus the fruits of patient industry, during the best years of Samuel Middleton’s life, were swept away by the reckless speculation of others, and nothing remained to him, save the pretty cottage in which he lived, and the good name which no dishonest act had ever tarnished.

Had the old man been in the possession of his eye-sight, the blow had not, perhaps, fallen so heavily; but unable by personal exertion of any kind to repair the mischief, with no children to lean upon, his bark seemed stranded among the breakers, and Samuel Middleton bowed his head upon his hands, and sought for strength, in this hour of darkness, from the source whence alone he felt certain of obtaining it. There was silence for a few moments in the little apartment, disturbed only by the stifled sobs of poor Sophy, and the moans of Mrs. Middleton, as she rocked backward and forward in her arm-chair, till the old man spoke.

“We have received good at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?” he said. “Hannah, this is a sore trial—but it comes from God, and we must submit. If He sends poverty upon us in our old days, depend upon it, He will send strength to bear it. The trouble and the comfort always seem to go hand-in-hand. Let us be thankful it is no worse.”

“It seems the worst that _could_ have happened, Samuel,” said the old woman, her voice choked with sorrow.

“The worst!—oh, no! Think if we had been parted by death, Hannah; or if Sophy had gone off with some wild, idle fellow, or many another thing that might befall us. Don’t cry, Sophy, darling, grandfather specially grieves on your account. But it’s all for the best, dear child. I feel as sure of that as I do that I sit here this moment. Wife, don’t moan so; it isn’t Christian-like to despair. God’s will be done.”

“Ah! husband, if I had your faith; but it comes so sudden, I can’t seem to bear it.”

“Bring the Bible, Sophy,” said her grandfather, “and read to grandmother and me how Job bore the loss of all his possessions.”

Sophy brought the Bible, and read with trembling voice, as Mr. Middleton directed. When she had finished, the old man knelt down, and reverently clasped his hands. He prayed for the patience of the patriarch of old; for faith to believe it was in love as well as wisdom they had been afflicted; for entire and cheerful submission to the Divine will; and strengthened by this near approach to the Great Chastener of his children, the little family lay down to rest that sorrowful night, tranquil at least, if not altogether resigned.

Before noon the next day, everybody in Brookville had been made acquainted with the misfortune of the Middletons; and neighbors came with kind offers, which the old man could not accept. He had settled what to do, he told them, and thought it was the best plan. The white cottage must be sold or rented, and, indeed, he had already dictated a letter, which Sophy had written, to a gentleman in New York, who was looking for a summer residence, and had once expressed himself pleased with the situation of Mr. Middleton’s house, and the scenery about Brookville. The income accruing from this would enable him to hire an old broken-down tenement, about five miles off, where they would remove without delay, and with strict economy, and good use of a little garden-plot, become as contented, he hoped, if not as happy, as they once were.

To this arrangement, reasonable as it appeared, everybody objected, and suggested, of course, something else. One would take Sophy to live with him; another would help to pay the rent of a better place; and a third proposed some other grand expedient; but the old gentleman was firm.

“I thank you, my friends,” he said, “but I would keep my independence if I can. Let me feel that I still eat my own bread, though it be coarser and harder than it once was, and pray for a contented heart, which seems to lighten almost any burden.”

A purchaser for the neat homestead was easily found, in the gentleman to whom Sophy had written by her grandfather’s dictation; and at the appointed time, Samuel Middleton and his family removed to their new abode, not, however, until kind hearts and willing hands had contributed to make the old place tolerably comfortable; to lay out and improve the garden, long run to waste, and even to plant a few rose-bushes and flowering shrubs about the door-way, that Sophy’s eyes, if not her grandfather’s, might find some pleasant memento of Brookville and its inhabitants, in these silent marks of their affection and respect.

When moving-day came, everybody came to help. Squire Edgewood’s men and fine team, and Mr. Harris, with his strong market cart, to transport the furniture, and when these were fairly off, arrived neighbor Maynard’s light wagon, to carry Sophy and her grandmother down, with sundry small baskets and boxes, while the minister himself drove the old gentleman in his gig; and it was sad, though soothing, to catch the kind farewell words as they passed down the village street, when many a one pressed forward to shake hands, and to wish “good health, and God’s blessing on their new home.”

And over this new home, in answer, perhaps, to these good wishes, some benevolent brownie seemed already to preside; for when Mrs. Middleton unpacked her valuables, she found, stored away in cupboards, supposed, of course, to be entirely empty, such loaves of cake, and jars of butter, with preserves, pickles, eggs, et cætera, as to excite her astonishment in the highest degree; nor could any inquiries or surmises detect the mysterious donors; and the old lady, amid her sighs and bemoanings at their altered condition, could not but smile as she surveyed the kind remembrances; and Sophy, poor girl, would have smiled too, since she duly estimated the kind feelings which had induced them, but that she was too miserable for any thing to interest her now—so home-sick and lonely, that she cared for nothing, save the luxury of shedding tears, when she could steal away from her grandmother’s side, and, unobserved, weep over the change which had so suddenly befallen them.

But all this time, amid these adverse circumstances, where were Sophy’s admirers? Was she to find them only _summer_ friends, who, like migratory birds, flew off in darker weather? Alas! it seemed too true. Once or twice after their removal Philip Greyson rode down to Mr. Middleton’s, and then Sophy resumed her smiles, and was happy; but his visits were few and far between, and she learned that a pretty girl in the midst of plenty and prosperity was very different from a pretty girl fallen in fortune, and obliged to perform all sorts of menial offices for her grand-parents. But Archie Harris, the companion of her childhood, surely _he_ might have come to offer consolation, where he knew it was so much required. Was it altogether right in _him_ to stand back under such circumstances? Sophy felt it was unkind, “unbrotherly,” as she mentally termed it, yet could scarcely blame him either, when she remembered their last conversation, the indifference she had evinced toward him, and the decided preference she had given to Philip; and while her heart smote her for this, she felt more inclined to forgive a coldness which she had herself so entirely provoked.

Our friend Archie, however, despite his seeming indifference, had not forgotten. He had been wounded to the quick by her preference for his rival; and the manner in which she appeared to rejoice that no previous troth-plight would prevent her accepting Philip, made him feel how little she valued true affection, when compared with a dashing exterior, or a greater share of personal beauty. “Let her go! the vain, cold-hearted girl!” he mentally ejaculated, as they parted on that eventful night. “Let her try if he _can_ love her half so well as I do—as I _have_ done,” he added more bitterly. “Fool that I was, to believe she ever cared for me. That conceited peacock! I wish—” and Archie, the best-tempered, kindest-hearted creature in the world, conceived from that moment such an unutterable dislike and contempt for all navy officers, and navy buttons, as to wish, in his awakened ire, that Philip Greyson was on the coast of Africa, or the deep waters of the Pacific.

But when misfortune came, Archie’s resentment at once gave way. Sophy was in sorrow, and he longed to go and assure her that his love was brighter than any skies could darken. But had she not rejected his love? Then why should he urge it now? Philip was still at Brookville, and might follow up the advantage he had gained; and Archie would not for the world have interposed his own wishes. Pride, therefore, more than anger, kept him back from any other attention than common civility required; and he resolved by every means in his power to drive away the remembrance of the past, and wait as calmly as he might the issue of future events.

While such was the state of affairs with Archie, Sophy Middleton, in her new home, was learning many valuable lessons, which, perhaps, she had never gained but for these untoward circumstances. Lessons of patience and submission, of industry, activity, and economy; and though she did not recover her usual flow of spirits, still, as the months rolled on, and her employments increased, a tolerable degree of cheerfulness returned also. She found pleasure in her garden-beds and flower-borders; pleasure in leading her good old grandfather about through the house and ground, making him familiar with every thing, and instructing him how to find his way, unaided, to the arm-chair in the porch; pleasure, too, in devising plans with her grandmother for the better arrangement of their little household, that pleasure which ever comes with the faithful discharge of duty; and if Sophy could not forget, if she still remembered Archie’s slighted love with bitter self-reproach, or Philip’s short-lived admiration with mortification and disdain, she was still calm, and patient, and resigned; less gay, perhaps, but not less loveable or lovely.

The first year of their misfortunes had passed away, and during that time Archie and our heroine had met but seldom, when the calm current of the blind man’s life was ruffled by the intelligence that Mr. Wilson had “sold out,” and the white cottage at Brookville gone into other hands.

That the beloved home of his early years, and of his married life, should belong to another, had always seemed to Samuel Middleton but as an unpleasant dream, from which he vainly tried to rouse himself, and believe that it was, indeed, a reality. He could not discern the changes around him, or miss the familiar objects which still lingered on his memory; and this news, communicated rather abruptly by his wife, on her return from a visit to Brookville, appeared to awaken all his past regrets, and remind him anew of other and happier days.

“Why did Wilson sell, I wonder?” he said. “Dear me, I’m very sorry for it. I’m afraid somebody may get there who will abuse the place.”

“It will make no difference to us _now_, grandfather,” said Sophy, quietly.

“I don’t know as to that,” replied the old gentleman, rather testily. “I don’t know as to that. Wouldn’t it make you feel badly, Sophy, to walk past there, and see every thing going to rack and ruin? And if I can’t see it, I can remember just how it all looked when we came away. If any one should cut down those two elm trees in front of the house, it would go nigh to break my heart, I think. Why, my father planted those elms with his own hands when I was a boy; and I do hope nobody will cut them down while _I_ live.”

“I hope not, indeed,” said Sophy, in a soothing tone, “but I don’t suppose there is much danger of that, grandfather, they shade the house so pleasantly.”

“Maybe not,” said Mr. Middleton, fidgeting in his chair, as if the very idea had made him nervous, “but there is no telling how it will be. People are so crazy to make money now-a-days, that nothing is safe. Who did you say had bought it, wife?”

“I didn’t hear his name,” replied Mrs. Middleton; “but I was so busy with other matters, that maybe I didn’t ask. However, we can hear all about it to-morrow, Samuel, for to-morrow is election-day, you know, and Mr. Harris says he must have your vote, and they’ll send down their wagon for you and me in good season, so that we can take a dish of tea with them, if Sophy don’t mind being alone _one_ afternoon.”

Sophy expressed her entire willingness to remain at home, and, indeed, was rejoiced at the prospect of so doing; and at the appointed hour next day, when Mr. Harris’s wagon came rattling down the lane, gladly assisted her grand-parents to prepare for their visit, and saw them drive away with, it must be confessed, a feeling of relief, somewhat difficult, perhaps, to analyze.

Instead, however, of setting about the various little tasks which, to beguile her loneliness, Mrs. Middleton had suggested, Sophy sat down by the window, and was soon lost in deep thought. What was the subject of her meditations, I think I _would_ not tell, even if I could, because I do not choose to betray all the weaknesses of my sex; but I am sure her eyes were wet, and her face very sorrowful, when who should come trotting to the door but Archie Harris himself, the very last person in the world one might have expected on election-day, when everybody, young or old, was, or ought to have been, busy at the Brookville poll. Be this as it may, however, here, as I said, came Archie, who threw the bridle of his pretty bay pony over the gate-post, and walked into the sitting-room, saying, “I met your folks just now going to the village, and hearing you were at home, called to see you.”

Sophy received him with a mixture of reserve and cordiality quite unmistakable, and a blended shower of tears, smiles, and blushes, which Archie interpreted favorably, I suppose, for he said, “Then you _are_ glad to see an old friend once more, Sophy.”

“Certainly I am, and it is a long time since you were here.”

“Long! let me see—six weeks, I guess. You don’t call that a great while, do you?”

“Oh, yes, I do,” replied Sophy, blushing. “We are so lonely now that we have learned to think much of our friends.”

“Have you?” said Archie, regarding her with a look half pleased, half sorrowful, as if some painful recollection at that moment crossed his mind; “that is enough to make _some_ of us almost glad that you have left Brookville.”

“Oh! never say you are glad of _that_!” cried Sophy, earnestly, “when it made me so unhappy.”

“Not glad on some accounts, certainly,” said Archie, “not that you should have met with misfortune, but only because you think more of old friends here than there.”

“True! real friends are the same everywhere,” said Sophy, not exactly knowing what to say.

“Sometimes—not always,” replied Archie, significantly. “But if friends bring bad news, are they less welcome?”

“I don’t believe you have any _bad_ news to tell me this afternoon,” said Sophy. “You look very well pleased.”

“Oh! it is not disagreeable news to _me_, but perhaps it may be to _you_,” said Archie, smiling.

“Let me hear it, then,” said Sophy, “or maybe I can guess it. Mr. Wilson has sold the old place.”

“Yes, the old place has changed hands again, and _I_ think for the better; but that is not the news I mean.”

“Do tell me, then,” said Sophy, impatiently, “for I cannot guess.”

“Perhaps,” said Archie, suddenly becoming grave, “it may make you sorry; and if so, I had rather not be the one to tell it; but—Philip Greyson is married.”

“Is that all?” asked Sophy, blushing to the very eyes at the mention of Philip’s name. “I thought your news was _bad_.”

“And don’t you _really_ care about it?” said Archie. “Let me look in your eyes, Sophy, and see if you are in earnest—if you really do not care.”

“No, indeed, I _do not_,” said Sophy, looking in Archie’s face with a smile which spoke entire truth. “I should not care if he had married all the girls in Brookville.”

“You thought differently once,” said Archie, “and I am not sure, Sophy, that you will care to hear an old story of true love over again, after the last talk we had on the subject.”

“Oh, Archie! will you never forget that foolish business!” exclaimed Sophy, bursting into tears.

“People forgive easier than they forget, sometimes,” said Archie; “and I can’t, for my life, forget any thing that concerns you. I may be mistaken, but I think, that, after Philip Greyson, you care more for me than any one else; and now that he is married—”

Sophy answered him with a glance, which told a whole story of penitence, and a world of reproach.

“And if you think I could make you happy, as I would try to do, dear Sophy,” he continued, “why then, perhaps, you wont object to go back to Brookville, and live with me at the ‘old place,’ and take grandfather and grandmother with you, hey, Sophy?”

Poor Sophy was crying so heartily, from a mingled feeling of joy and sorrow, that she could not answer, and so Archie proceeded.

“I have been very fortunate this last year. I suppose, because I had nothing to draw me off from business, and have been able to buy the place from Mr. Wilson. I will put it in good order again, and we shall be _so_ happy there—shan’t we, Sophy, darling? But you don’t speak.”

“Because I am so happy that I have no words to tell it,” replied Sophy, smiling through her tears. “But will you really forgive all my foolishness and vanity, dear Archie? And shall we really go back to Brookville; to the ‘old place’—and with _you_, too? Oh! it seems like a blessed dream.”

“A dream that will last, I hope,” said Archie, “and pay us for all the sorrow we have had the past year—for you haven’t been sad alone, Sophy; I have thought of you, and loved you just the same; and longed to come and tell you so, often and often, only I thought if you did like Phil Greyson best—”

“Please don’t name him again,” said Sophy. And Archie, nothing loth to discard a disagreeable topic, promised—I believe with a kiss—that he would not. Unfortunately for grandmother Middleton’s little jobs, Sophy found the time pass so rapidly that she quite forgot them—since Archie stayed all the afternoon, while his poor horse stood, kicking off the flies, at the garden-gate—wondering it may be, at his master’s unusual delay, or sudden love of gossiping.

The old gentleman and his wife came home in excellent spirits, having heard who had become the purchaser of their former abode, and Mr. Middleton’s mind quite at ease respecting his favorite elm trees; and when they learned further of all that had occurred during their absence, and how their darling Sophy—now so smiling and happy—was to become the mistress once more of the dear ‘old place,’ their cup of joy and contentment seemed full to overflowing. Grandmother reminded Sophy that “she had told her a year ago that Archie Harris would make the best husband in the world—always excepting _her_ old man;” while grandfather could only clasp his withered hands, and raise his sightless eyes in silent ejaculations of gratitude and love.

Genuine lovers of love stories like to hear of that devoutly wished-for consummation—a wedding; but editors, and some other people, best fancy jumping at the conclusion at once. So, most kind reader, whoever you may be, please to imagine Archie Harris and his bride quietly settled at Brookville before the autumn commenced—the happiest people in the wide world; while grandmother is busiest of the busy, all day long, in her accustomed haunts; and grandfather sits under the shadow of his beloved elms, almost forgetting his misfortunes, or their year of exile, in the added happiness of his darling Sophy.

* * * * *

THOU’RT NOT ALONE.

Written on hearing a young lady exclaim, “Alas! I’m all alone!”

BY N. CURTISS STINE.

Thou’rt not alone—the greenwood’s shades are round thee, When summer comes, with all her joyous train; And playful winds at eve have often found thee, And murmured in thine ear Hope’s sweetest strain. Thou’rt not alone—each gaily tinted flower, That smiling greets us on the dewy lea, The painted clouds at sunset’s golden hour, To me are friends, and should be so to thee.

Thou’rt not alone—the red stars gleaming o’er thee, At midnight lone, with whispering voices tell, Old tales of those who passed away before thee, In brighter lands beyond the sun to dwell. And when the robe of Autumn gaily shining, With rainbow hues is o’er the forest thrown, Go, list the winds among their boughs repining, And learn on earth thou ne’er can’st dwell alone.

Thou’rt not alone—the shades of the departed, On radiant wings are soaring softly by— Thou can’st not see them, but the gentle hearted To visit thee oft leave the azure sky. What though the world in chasing flying Pleasure, With icy heart should past thee coldly hie? Look—look on high—thou hast a richer treasure, Than all its gems and glittering dross can buy.

* * * * *

THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.