Chapter 13

CHRISTMAS DAY.

The worshippers at St. Mark's on Christmas morning heard the music of the bells as the Hetherton sleigh passed by, but none of them knew whither it was bound, or the scene which awaited the rector, when, his services over, he started towards home.

Lucy had kept her word, and, just as Mrs. Brown was looking at the clock to see if it was time to put her fowls to bake, she heard the hall-door open softly and almost dropped her dripping-pan in her surprise at the sight of Lucy Harcourt, with her white face and great sunken blue eyes, which looked so mournfully at her as Lucy said:

"I want to go to Arthur's room--the library, I mean."

"Why, child, what is the matter? I heard you was sick, but did not s'pose 'twas anything like this. You are paler than a ghost," Mrs. Brown exclaimed as she tried to unfasten Lucy's hood and cloak and lead her to the fire.

But Lucy was not cold, she said. She would rather go at once to Arthur's room. Mrs. Brown made no objection, though she wondered if the girl was crazy as she went back to her fowls and Christmas pudding, leaving Lucy to find her way alone to Arthur's study, which looked so like its owner, with his dressing-gown across the lounge, just where he had thrown it, his slippers under the table and his arm-chair standing near the table, where he sat when he asked Lucy to be his wife, and where she now sat down, panting for breath and gazing dreamily around with the look of a frightened bird when seeking for some avenue of escape from an appalling danger. There was no escape, and, with a moan, she laid her head upon the table and prayed that Arthur might come quickly while she had sense and strength to tell him. She heard his step at last, and rose up to meet him, smiling a little at his sudden start when he saw her there.

"It's only I," she said, shedding back the clustering curls from her pallid face, and grasping the chair to steady herself and keep from falling. "I am not here to frighten you, I've come to do you good--to set you free. Oh, Arthur, you do not know how terribly you have been wronged, and I did not know it, either, till a few days ago. She never received your letter--Anna never did. If she had she would have answered yes, and have been in my place now; but she is going to be there. I give you up to Anna. I'm here to tell you so. But oh, Arthur, it hurts--it hurts."

He knew it hurt by the agonizing expression of her face, but he could not go near her for a moment, so overwhelming was his surprise at what he saw and heard. But, when the first shock to them both was past, and he could listen to her more rational account of what she knew and what she was there to do, he refused to listen. He would not be free. He would keep his word, he said. Matters had gone too far to be suddenly ended. He held her to his promise and she must be his wife.

"Can you tell me truly that you love me more than Anna?" Lucy asked, a ray of hope dawning for an instant upon her heart, but fading into utter darkness as Arthur hesitated to answer.

He did love Anna best, though never had Lucy been so near supplanting even her as at that moment, when she stood before him and told him he was free. There was something in the magnitude of her generosity which touched a tender chord and made her dearer to him than she had ever been.

"I can make you very happy," he said at last, and Lucy replied:

"Yes, but yourself--how with yourself? Would you be happy, too? No, Arthur, you would not, and neither should I, knowing all I do. It is best that we should part, though it almost breaks my heart, for I have loved you so much."

She stopped for breath, and Arthur was wondering what he could say to persuade her, when a cheery whistle sounded near and Thornton Hastings appeared in the door. He had gone to the office after church, and not knowing that anyone but Arthur was in the library, had come there at once.

"I beg your pardon," he said when he saw Lucy, and he was hurrying away, but Lucy called him back, feeling that in him she should find a powerful ally to aid her in her task.

Appealing to him as Arthur's friend, she repeated the story rapidly, and then went on:

"Tell him it is best--he must not argue against me, for I feel myself giving way through my great love for him, and it is not right. Tell him so Mr. Hastings--plead my cause for me--say what a true woman ought to say, for, believe me, I am in earnest in giving him to Anna."

There was a ghastly hue upon her face, and her features looked pinched and rigid, but the terrible heart-beats were not there. God, in his great mercy, kept them back, else she had surely died under that strong excitement. Thornton thought she was fainting, and, going hastily to her side, passed his arm around her and put her in the chair; then, standing protectingly by her, he said just what first came into his mind to say. It was a delicate matter in which to interfere, and he handled it carefully, telling frankly of what had passed between himself and Anna, and giving it as his opinion that she loved Arthur to-day just as well as before she left Hanover.

"Then, if that is so and Arthur loves her, as I know he does, it is surely right for them to marry, and they must," Lucy exclaimed, vehemently, while Thornton laid his hand pityingly upon her head and said:

"And only you be sacrificed?"

There was something wondrously tender in the tone of Thornton's voice, and Lucy glanced quickly up at him, while her blue eyes filled with the first tears she had shed since she came into that room.

"I am willing--I am ready--I have made up my mind and I shall never revoke it," she answered, while Arthur again put in a feeble remonstrance.

But Thornton was on Lucy's side. He did with cooler judgment what she could not, and when, at last, the interview was ended, there was no ring on Lucy's forefinger, for Arthur held it in his hand and their engagement was at an end.

Stunned with what he had passed through, Arthur stood motionless, while Thornton drew Lucy's cloak about her shoulders, fastened her fur himself, tied on her satin hood, taking such care of her as a mother would take of a suffering child.

"It is hardly safe to send her home alone," he thought, as he looked into her face and saw how weak she was. "As a friend of both, I ought to accompany her."

She was, indeed, very weak, so weak that she could scarcely stand, and Thornton took her in his arms and carried her to the sleigh; then springing in beside her he made her lean her tired head upon his shoulder as they drove to Prospect Hill. She did not seem frivolous to him now, but rather the noblest type of womanhood he had ever met. Few could do what she had done, and there was much of warmth and fervor in the clasp of his hand as he bade her good-by and went back to the rectory, thinking how deceived he had been in Lucy Harcourt.

* * * * *

Great was the consternation and surprise in Hanover when it was known that there was to be but one bride at Prospect Hill on the night of the fifteenth, and various were the surmises as to the cause of the sudden change; but, strive as they might, the good people of the village could not get at the truth, for Valencia held her peace, while the Hethertons were far too proud to admit of being questioned, and Thornton Hastings stood a bulwark of defence between the people and their clergyman, adroitly managing to have the pulpit at St. Mark's supplied for a few weeks while he took Arthur away, saying that his health required the change.

* * * * *

"You have done nobly, darling," Fanny Hetherton had said to Lucy when she received her from Thornton's hands and heard that all was over; then, leading her half-fainting cousin to her own cheerful room, she made her lie down while she told of the plan she had formed when first she heard what Lucy's intentions were.

"I wrote to the doctor, asking if he would take a trip to Europe, so that you could go with us, for I know you would not wish to stay here. To-day I have his answer, saying he will go, and what is better yet, father and mother are going, too."

"Oh, I am so glad, so glad. I could not stay here now," Lucy replied, sobbing herself to sleep, while Fanny sat by and watched, wondering at the strength which had upheld her weak little cousin in the struggle she had been through, and, now that it was over and the doctor safe from temptation, feeling that it was just as well; for, after all, it was a _mésalliance_ for an heiress like her cousin to marry a poor clergyman.

* * * * *

There was a very quiet wedding at Prospect Hill on the night of the fifteenth, but neither Lucy nor Arthur were there. He lay sick again at the St. Denis in New York and she was alone in her chamber, fighting back her tears and praying that, now the worst was over, she might be withheld from looking back and wishing the work undone. She went with the bridal party to New York, where she tarried for a few days, seeing no one but Anna, for whom she sent at once. The interview had lasted more than an hour, and Anna's eyes were swollen with passionate weeping when at last it ended, but Lucy's face, though white as snow, was very calm and quiet, wearing a peaceful, placid look, which made it like the face of an angel. Two weeks later and the steamer bore her away across the water, where she hoped to outlive the storm which had beaten so piteously upon her. Thornton Hastings and Anna went with her on board the ship, and for their sakes she tried to appear natural, succeeding so well that it was a very pleasant picture which Thornton cherished in his mind of a frail little figure standing upon the deck, holding its waterproof together with one hand and with the other waving a smiling adieu to Anna and himself.

More than a year after, Thornton Hastings followed that figure across the sea, finding it in beautiful Venice, sailing again through the moon-lit streets and listening to the music which came so oft from the passing gondolas. It had recovered its former roundness and the face was even more beautiful than it had been before, for the light frivolity was all gone and there was reigning in its stead a peaceful, subdued expression which made Lucy Harcourt very fair to look upon. At least, so thought Thornton Hastings, and he lingered at her side, feeling glad that she had given no outward token of agitation when he said to her:

"There was a wedding at St. Mark's, in Hanover, just before I left; can you guess who the happy couple were?"

"Yes--Arthur and Anna. She wrote me they were to be married on Christmas Eve. I am so glad it has come round at last."

Then she questioned him of the bridal, of Arthur, and even of Anna's dress, her manner evincing that the old wound had healed and nothing but a sear remained to tell where it had been. And so the days went on beneath the sunny Italian skies, until one glorious night, when Thornton spoke his mind, alluding to the time when each loved another, expressing himself as glad that, in his case, the matter had ended as it did, and then asking Lucy if she could conscientiously be his wife.

"What, you marry a frivolous plaything like me?" Lucy asked, her woman's pride flashing up once more, but this time playfully, as Thornton knew by the joyous light in her eye.

She told him what she meant and how she had hated him for it, and then they laughed together; but Thornton's kiss smothered the laugh on Lucy's lips, for he guessed what her answer was, and that this, his second wooing, was more successful than his first.

* * * * *

"Married, in Rome, on Thursday, April 10th, Thornton Hastings, Esq., of New York City, to Miss Lucy Harcourt, also of New York, and niece of Colonel James Hetherton."

Anna was out in the rectory garden bending over a bed of hyacinths when Arthur brought her the paper and pointed to the notice.

"Oh, I am so glad--so glad--so glad!" she exclaimed, emphasizing each successive "glad" a little more and setting down her foot, as if to give it force. "I have never dared to be quite as happy with you as I might," she continued, leaning lovingly against her husband, "for there was always a thought of Lucy and what a fearful price she paid for our happiness. But now it is all as it should be; and, Arthur, am I very vain in thinking that she is better suited to Thornton Hastings than I ever was, and that I do better as your wife than Lucy would have done?"

A kiss was Arthur's only answer, but Anna was satisfied, and there rested upon her face a look of perfect content as all that warm spring afternoon she worked in her pleasant garden, thinking of the newly-married pair in Rome, and glancing occasionally at the open window of the library, where Arthur was busy with his sermon, his pen moving all the faster for the knowing that Anna was just within his call--that by turning his head he could see her dear face, and that by-and-by when his work was done she would come in to him, and with her loving words and winsome ways, make him forget how tired he was, and thank heaven again for the great gift bestowed when it gave him Anna Ruthven.

THE END.

* * * * *

AUNT HENRIETTA'S MISTAKE

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

"Before thy soul, at this deep lottery, Draw forth her prize ordained by destiny, Know that there's no recanting a first choice; Choose then discreetly."

"Heigh-ho! This is Valentine's day. Oh, how I would like to get a valentine! Did you ever get one, aunty?" said little Etta Mayfield.

"Yes, many of them. But not when I was a child. In my day children were children. You get a valentine! I'm e'en a'most struck dumb with astonishment to hear you think of such things. Go, get your doll-baby, or your sampler, and look on that. Saints of Mercy! It seems only yesterday you were a baby in long clothes," answered Miss Henrietta Mayfield, a spinster of uncertain age; but the folks in the village, who always knew everything, declared she had not owned to a day over thirty-five for the last ten years. This, if true, was quite excusable, for Miss Henrietta's little toilette glass reflected a bright, pleasant, and remarkably youthful face.

"I'm almost seventeen, aunty, and I'm tired of being treated like a child," said Etta, with a pout of her rosy lips.

"Ten years to come will be plenty time enough for you to think of such things. A valentine, indeed! I'd like to know who is to send one to you, or to any one else. There are only three unmarried men in our village; which of them would you like for your valentine; Jake Spikes, the blind fiddler; Bill Bowen, the deaf mail-boy, or Squire Sloughman? If the squire sends a valentine, I rather guess it will be to me. Oh, I forgot! There's the handsome stranger that boarded last summer with Miss Plimpkins. I noticed him at church Sunday. Come down to make a little visit and bring Miss Plimpkins a nice present ag'in, I guess. He is mighty grateful to her for taking such good care of him while he was sick. A uncommon handsome man. But 'taint a bit likely he'll think of a baby like you. He is a man old enough to know better--near forty, likely. He was monstrous polite to me; always finding the hymns, and passing his book to me. And I noticed Sunday he looked amazing pleasing at me. Land! it's ten o'clock. You'd better run over to the office and get the paper. No, I'll go myself. I want to stop in the store, to get some yarn and a little tea."

Miss Henrietta hurried off, and little Etta pouted on and murmured something about:

"People must have been dreadful slow and dull in aunty's young days," and then her thoughts wandered to that same handsome stranger.

She, too, had seen him in church on Sunday, and knew well how the rosy blush mantled her fair face when she saw the pleasant smile she had hoped was for her. But she might have known better, she thought; such a splendid man would never think of her. She would be sure to die an old maid, all on account of that dark-eyed stranger.

"Has Bill got in with the mail?" asked Miss Mayfield.

"Yes, miss; here's your paper what Bill brought, and here is a letter or valentine what Bill didn't bring. It's from the village," said the little old postmaster, with a merry laugh.

Yes, no mistaking, it was a valentine, directed in a fine manly hand to Miss Henrietta Mayfield. "From Squire Sloughman," thought Miss Henrietta. "He has spoken, or rather written his hopes at last." But, no, that was not his handwriting.

Miss Mayfield stepped out on the porch, carefully opened the envelope, and glanced hurriedly over the contents, and then at the signature--Arthur Linton.

"Well, well, who would have thought?" said she; "that is the name of the handsome stranger! Just to think of his really taking a liking to me. Stop! maybe he is a sharper from town, who has heard of my having a little property, and that's what he's after. I'll read his valentine over again:

Do not think me presumptuous, dear maid, in having dared to write you. No longer can I resist the continued pleadings of my heart. I have loved you ever since your sweet blue eyes, beaming with their pure, loving light, met my gaze. I have seized the opportunity offered by St. Valentine's day to speak and learn my fate. I will call this evening and hear from your dear lips if I shall be permited to try and teach your heart to love,

ARTHUR LINTON.

"Well, truly that is beautiful language. It is a long day since anybody talked of my blue eyes. They were blue once, and I suppose are so still. Well, he writes as if he meant it. I'll see him, and give him a little bit of encouragement. Perhaps that seeing some one else after me will make the squire speak out. For six years he has been following me. For what? He has never said. I like Squire Sloughman--(his name should be Slowman). I'll try and hasten him on with all the heart I've got left. The most of it went to the bottom of the cruel ocean with my poor sailor-boy. Ah! if it had not been for his sad end, I would not now be caring for any man, save my poor Willie. But it is a lonesome life I am living--and it's kind of natural for a woman to think kindly of some man; and the squire is a real good fellow, and, to save me, I can't help wishing he would speak, and be done with it.

"This valentine may be for my good luck, after all," Miss Henrietta's thoughts were swift now, planning for the future; her feet kept pace with them, and before she knew it, she was at her own door.

"Why, aunty, how handsome you do look! your cheeks are as rosy as our apples," said Etta.

"Is that such a rarity, you should make so much of it?" answered Miss Henrietta.

"No, indeed, aunty, I only hope I may ever be as good looking as you are always. Did you get your yarn and tea?"

"Land! if I hain't forgot them! You see, child, the wind is blowing rather fresh, and I was anxious to get back," she answered her niece; but said to herself, "Henrietta Mayfield, I am ashamed on you to let any man drive your senses away."

"Never mind, Ettie; you can go over and spend the afternoon with Jessie Jones, and then get the things for me," she continued, glad of an excuse to get Etta away.

Miss Henrietta was very particular with her toilet that afternoon, and truly the result was encouraging. She was satisfied that she was handsome still.

It was near dark when she saw the handsome stranger coming up the garden walk.

"Did Miss Henrietta Mayfield receive a letter from me to-day?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; walk in," answered Miss Henrietta, who, although quite flurried, managed to appear quite cool.

"This, perhaps, may seem very precipitate in me, and I have feared perhaps you might not look with any favor on my suit. Do, dear lady, ease my fears. Can I hope that in time I may win the heart I am so anxious to secure?"

"Ahem--well, I cannot tell, sure. You know, sir, we have to know a person before we can love him. But I must confess I do feel very favorably inclined towards you."

"Bless you, my dear friend; I may call you so now, until I claim a nearer, dearer title. If you are now kindly disposed, I feel sure of ultimate success. I feared the difference in our ages might be an objection."

"No, no; I do not see why it need. It is well to have a little advantage on one side or the other. But, my dear friend, should you fail to secure the affection, you will not think unkindly of your friend."

"No; only let me have a few weeks, with your continued favor, and I ask no more. Many, many thanks," and, seizing her hand, he pressed it to his lips.

"Will you not now allow me to see my fair Henrietta?" he asked.

"Oh, I have been a little flurried, and did forget it was quite dark. I'll light the lamp in a minute."

Etta's sweet voice was now heard humming a song in the next room. She had returned from her visit, and as Miss Henrietta succeeded in lighting the lamp, her bright face peeped in the door, and she said:

"Aunty, Squire Sloughman is coming up the walk."

"Bless her sweet face! There is my Henrietta now!" exclaimed the visitor, and before the shade was adjusted on the lamp, she was alone. The handsome stranger was in the next room with--Etta!

A little scream, an exclamation of surprise from Etta, followed by the deep, manly voice of Mr. Linton, saying:

"Dearest Henrietta, I have your aunt's permission to win you, if I can."

"Henrietta! Little baby Etta! Sure enough, that was her name, too. What an idiot she had been!" thought Henrietta, the elder. "Oh! she hoped she had not exposed her mistake! Maybe he had not understood her!"

But Squire Sloughman was waiting for some one to admit him, and she had no more time to think over the recent conversation, or to determine whether or not Mr. Linton was aware of her blunder.

Squire Sloughman was cordially welcomed, and after being seated a while, observed:

"You have got a visitor, I see," pointing to the stranger's hat lying on the table beside him.

"Yes, Etta's got company. The stranger that boarded at Miss Plimpkins' last summer. He sent Etta a valentine, and has now come himself," returned Miss Henrietta.

"A valentine! what for?"

"To ask her to have him, surely. And I suppose he'll be taking her off to town to live, pretty soon."

"And you, what will you do? It will be awful lonely here for you," said the squire.

"Oh! he's coming out now," thought Miss Henrietta. And she gave him a better chance by her reply:

"Well, I don't know that anybody cares for that. I guess no one will run away with me."

But she was disappointed; it came not, what she hoped for, just then. Yet the Squire seemed very uneasy. At length he said:

"I got a valentine myself, to-day."

"You! What sort of a one? Comic, funny, or real in earnest?" asked Miss Henrietta.

"Oh! there is nothing funny about it--not a bit of laugh; all cry."

"Land! a crying valentine."

"Yes, a baby."

"Squire Sloughman!" said Miss Henrietta, with severe dignity.

"Yes, my dear, Miss Henrietta; I'll tell you all about it. You remember my niece, who treated me so shamefully by running away and marrying. Well, poor girl, she died a few days ago, and left her baby for me, begging I would do for her little girl as kindly as I did by its mother."

"Shall you keep it?" asked Miss Henrietta.

"I can't tell; that will depend on some one else. I may have to send it off to the poorhouse!"

"I'll take it myself first," said his listener.

"Not so, my dear, without you take me, too. Hey, what say you, now? I tell you, I've a notion to be kind and good to this little one; but a man must have some one to help him do right. Now, it depends on you to help me be a better or a worse man. I've been thinking of you for a half-dozen years past, but I thought your whole heart was in little Etta, and maybe you wouldn't take me, and I did not like to deal with uncertainties. Now, Etta's provided for with a valentine, I'm here offering myself and my valentine to you. Say yes or no; I'm in a hurry now."

"Pity but you had been so years ago," thought Miss Henrietta; but she said:

"Squire Sloughman, I think it the duty of every Christian to do all the good she can. So, for that cause, and charity toward the helpless little infant, I consent to--become----"

"Mrs. Sloughwoman--man, I mean," said the delighted Squire, springing up and imprinting a kiss on Miss Henrietta's lips.

"Sloughwoman, indeed! I'll not be slow in letting you know I think you are very hasty in your demonstrations. Wait until I give you leave," said the happy spinster.

"I have waited long enough. And now, my dear, do you hurry on to do your Christian duty; remembering particularly the helpless little infant needing your care," said the Squire, a little mischievously.

Miss Henrietta never knew whether her mistake had been discovered. She did not try to find out.

In a short time there was a double wedding in the village. The brides, Aunt Henrietta and little Etta, equally sharing the admiration of the guests.

Mrs. Sloughman admitted to herself, after all, it was the valentine that brought the squire out. And she is often heard to say that she had fully proved the truth of the old saying, "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good.

* * * * *

FALSE AND TRUE LOVE.

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

"Though round her playful lips should glitter Heat lightnings of a girlish scorn, Harmless they are, for nothing bitter In that dear heart was ever born; That merry heart that cannot lie Within its warm nest quietly, But ever from the full dark eye Is looking kindly night and morn."

"My son, I do not believe Valeria Fairleigh has ever a serious thought; nothing beyond the present enjoyment, or deeper than the devising of a becoming attire for some approaching dance or festive occasion. Believe me, she is not the girl for a minister's wife. You have chosen as your vocation the work of God; in this you should be sustained by your wife: one who would enter into your labor with energy of mind and body. She should have a heart to sympathize not only with her husband, but his charge. I tell you, David, a man's success and popularity in his ministry depends very much on the woman that he has chosen to be his helpmate. Had your mother been other than she is, I truly think I should have sunk under the many trials during the years of my work."

"But, father, if report speaks truly, my mother was not a very sedate maiden. I have heard many a tale of her wild days. Pardon me, but I do not think you are judging Miss Fairleigh with your usual benevolence and charity. I know she is a very gay, fun-loving girl, but I believe she has a warm, true heart. I have never known her to do a heartless action, or turn a cold ear on any needing her sympathy."

"Lovers are prone to see only the good and beautiful," replied his father, "Of course, my son, I do not wish or expect to decide this matter for you; only to influence you, for your happiness. Will you promise me this much--do not commit yourself until you have seen more of Valeria and in some degree test her worth. How is it that a man of such deep thought, hard study, and so earnest and devoted to his work, should place his affections on one so very dissimilar? It is very strange to me, particularly as in the same house is her cousin, Miss Bland--just the woman for you. A well-cultivated, thoroughly-disciplined mind, with great energy and industry. You know well, of charities her name is always among the first; ready with time and money to help in good works. Why could you not have loved her? Why did your heart wander from the right?"

"Oh, father! you ask why the heart wanders! I know too truly love cannot be tutored; but will drag away the heart--often against our better judgment, and wander with it where it will--sometimes dropping on the bosom of a calmly gliding river; again amid the turbulent waves of a dark and stormy sea. Heaven grant that this last may not be the fate of mine. The true reason, however, that I became attached to Miss Fairleigh I think is this: I was so accustomed to, so tired of, dignified, sedate and 'well-disciplined' young ladies, who always put on church behavior and talk only of church matters when the minister is near, that when I met her she was so different such a bright, merry child of nature, I was charmed! Yes, I may say, refreshed, rested. After the many sad and trying duties of our calling, father, we need some one like Vallie Fairleigh to call forth a reaction of the mind. But you shall have the promise, I will not advance a step further until I know her better."

A few days after this conversation David Carlton was sitting in his study, when his father entered, saying:

"David, I have a letter from home, hastening my return. So I shall have to cut my visit a little short. I would go away much happier, if my mind was relieved about Miss Fairleigh. I wish I could think her worthy of the position you would place her in. I have noticed you much since our conversation on that subject, and I am sure you are much attached to her. I have an idea to put her to a test, not only concerning her better feelings, but to prove the amount of influence you have over her.

"Listen: This evening is appointed for the meeting to raise funds and make arrangements relative to sending out a missionary to the ---- Indians. There has (you tell me) been but little interest awakened among your people on this subject. Now, if you can induce the young folks to take hold of this, it will be all right. This is also the evening of Monsieur Costello's grand masquerade and the opera of 'Maritana.' I called on Mrs. Fairleigh about an hour ago. The ladies were discussing these amusements. Miss Bland is very anxious to see that particular opera, and was trying to persuade Valeria to go with her. Mrs. Fairleigh positively forbade the ball; so when I left the arrangement was, Miss Bland, Mrs. Fairleigh and the gentlemen were going to enjoy the music, and Valeria is to remain home; but I very much fear this she will not do. Now, David, go and ask her to accompany you--urge her; tell her how much good her influence might exert, and so on. If she consents, I have not another word to say about your loving, wooing and marrying her, if you can. Should she not consent, then ask Miss Bland. I know how anxious she is to see "Maritana." Now, try if she will resign this pleasure for the sake of doing good. Of course, you must not let her know you have previously asked her cousin. Will you do it? It can do no harm, and may he productive of much good."

"Yes, father, I will put her to the test. But I will not promise that the issue shall decide my future course. I shall be grieved and mortified if she does not consent, but not without hope. I know she is good, and we will find it yet."

An hour more found David Carlton awaiting in the drawing-room the coming of Valeria.

Fortune favored him thus far.

"Miss Bland and Miss Fairleigh were out, but would be back soon. Miss Valeria was in," answered the servant to his inquiry, "If the ladies were home?"

In a few moments she came in smiling brightly, and saying:

"I am really glad to see you again, Mr. Carlton, for mamma and Julia said I had quite horrified you with my nonsense the last evening you were here. Indeed, you must excuse me, but I cannot possibly don dignity and reserve. Jule can do enough of that for both, and I think it is far better to laugh than be sighing."

"Indeed, I have never seen anything to disapprove of. I could not expect or wish to see the young and happy either affecting, or really possessing, the gravity of maturer years. My absence has no connection whatever with the events of that evening. I have been devoting my spare time to my father. This is his last evening with me. I came round to ask a favor of you. We are very anxious to get up some interest for the mission to ----, and father thinks if the young folks of the church would aid us, it would be all right. Will you go with us?" answered David. A look of deep regret, the first he had ever seen, was in the eyes of Valeria, when she answered:

"You will have to excuse me, I have an engagement for the evening, I am really sorry, I would like to oblige you." Then, breaking into a merry laugh, she said:

"Jule will go--ask her. She dotes on missions--both foreign and home, and all sorts of charity meetings. She has money, too; I've spent every cent of mine this month already, besides all I could borrow. Yes, ask her; I know she will, and give, too. I should be sure to go to sleep or get to plotting some sort of mischief against my nearest neighbor. I could do you no good, Mr. Carlton."

"Valeria! Excuse me, Miss Fairleigh--will you be serious and listen to me one moment?"

He urged, but in vain. Not even when his voice sank to low, soft tones and, with pleading eyes, he whispered: "Go for my sake," would she consent.

"At least tell me where you are going?" he asked.

"I am going to----. No, I dare not tell. Ma and Jule would not approve, and even dear, good papa might censure, if he knew it. Here they come! Julia, Mr. Carlton is waiting to see you."

"Well, David, you have failed! Your countenance is very expressive."

"Even so, sir--Miss Fairleigh not only declined, but I greatly fear she is going to the ball against her parents' wishes. If this be so, I must try to conquer this love. The girl who sets at naught the will of her kind, loving parents--acting secretly against their wishes--would not, I am sure, prove a good wife."

"Well spoken, my son. How about Miss Bland?"

"Of course she is going. We are to call for her."

"A good girl--resigning pleasure to duty. A rare good girl."

"Apparently, so, sir; but, indeed, I am impressed with the idea that there is something hidden about her. She does not seem natural," replied David.

Father and son had just arrived at Mr. Fairleigh's when the door opened to admit a middle-aged, poorly-clad woman. Showing them into the drawing-room, the servant closed the door. Very soon after seating themselves they heard the voice of Miss Bland in a very excited tone.

"My brother! How dare you ask me of him?"

"I dare for my child's sake. She is ill--perhaps dying."

"What is that to him or me? I told you and her I would have nothing more to do with either, since her name became so shamefully connected with my brother's. Will you be kind enough to relieve me of your presence?"

"My daughter is as pure as you. Her child, and your brother's is suffering from want. Will you pay me, at least, for our last work--the dress you have on?"

"How much?" was asked, in a sharp, quick voice.

"Five dollars."

"Outrageous! No, I will not pay that. Here are three dollars. Go, and never let me hear of you again."

"Julia Bland, I wish the world knew you as I do. You will grind to the earth your sister-woman, and give liberally where it will be known and said, 'How charitable--how good!' I say how hard-hearted--how deceitful!" said the woman, in bitter tones.

"Go!" came forth, in a voice quivering with rage.

Soon the hall door told the departure of the unwelcome guest.

Looks of amazement, beyond description, passed between the reverend gentlemen.

At length the younger one said:

"She does not know of our arrival. I will go into the hall and touch the bell."

"Oh! excuse me, sir. I thought Miss Bland was in the drawing-room. I will tell her now," said the servant.

Could this gentle, dignified woman be the same whose harsh, hard tones were still lingering in their ears?

Impossible! thought the elder man. Surely he must be in a dreadful, dreadful dream. Not so David; he clearly understood it all, and felt truly thankful that the blundering servant had enabled him to get this "peep behind the scenes."

The meeting was over, and they were just leaving the church, when:

"Please, sir, tell me where I can find the preacher or doctor--and I've forgot which--maybe both. They frightened me so when they hurried me off!" said a boy, running up to them.

"Here, my lad--what is it?"

"Mr. Preacher, please come with me. There is a young woman very ill--maybe dying. They sent me for somebody, and I can't remember; but please run, sir!"

"I will go. Excuse me, Miss Bland; father will take charge of you."

And he followed, with hasty steps, the running boy.

"Here, sir--this is the house. Go in, sir, please!"

"Now, my lad, run over to Dr. Lenord's office--he is in--and ask him to come. So, one or the other of us will be the right one."

David Carlton entered, treading noiselessly along the passage, until he had reached a door slightly open. Glancing in to be sure he was right, he beheld lying--apparently almost dying--a young woman. Beside the bed, kneeling with upraised head and clasped hands, was a strangely familiar form. Then came forth a sweet voice, pleading to the throne of Mercy for the sufferer. He gazed spellbound for a moment. Then slowly and softly he retraced his steps to the door. Then he almost flew along the streets until he reached Mr. Fairleigh's, just as his father and Miss Bland were ascending the steps. Seizing the former very unceremoniously, he said:

"Come, father, with me quickly--you are wanted."

In a few moments more, before the boy had returned with the physician, they stood again at the door of the sickroom. David whispered:

"Look there! listen!"

"Be still, Mary, dear! Do not worry. I shall not judge you wrongfully. How dare I? We are all so sinful. That you are suffering and in need is all the knowledge I want."

"Oh, where is William? Why does he not come? Why not speak and acknowledge his wife and child? Now that I am dying, he might! Oh, where is he? Why will not God send him to me?" moaned the sick girl.

"God is love, Mary. He does not willingly afflict or chastise us. Try to say, 'Thy will be done!'

"But, dear, do not be so desponding. I know you are very sick; but I think it more your mind than bodily illness. Try to bear up. Pray God to spare you for your baby's sake," softly said the comforter.

"Father, you go in and see if you can help her. I will await you outside," whispered David.

A slight knock at the door aroused the kneeling girl, who approached and said:

"Come in, doctor! Why, Mr. Carlton--I was expecting the doctor. This poor girl is very sick; she fainted a while ago. I was very much alarmed and sent a boy for a physician. She is somewhat better now. Come in; you may soothe her mind, and possibly do more good than the medical man."

"Miss Fairleigh? Is it possible I find you here? I thought you were at the masquerade."

"Heaven bless her, sir," said a woman, arising from a seat beside the sufferer, whom Mr. Carlton recognized as the woman he had seen enter Mr. Fairleigh's a few hours before. "But for her care, we should have suffered beyond endurance. She has comforted mind and body. Yes, when evil tongues whispered of shame! her pure heart did not fear, or shrink from us. When employers and friends deserted and condemned, she stayed and consoled."

"Hush! She has fainted again. Oh! why does not the doctor come?" said Valeria.

"Thank Heaven! Here he is now."

Mr. Carlton approached the physician (an old acquaintance), and explained to him as well as he could the trouble. The kind-hearted doctor raised the poor, thin hand, felt the feeble pulse, and, turning, answered the anxious, inquiring looks bent on him:

"It is only a swoon; yet she is very weak. However, I think we will bring her round all right in a little while."

"Indeed, she is an honest girl, doctor, although appearances are against her now," said the mother. "Her husband left her before she was taken ill, to remain a short time with his sick uncle. Mr. Bland was fearful of offending his aged relative, and so kept his marriage concealed. She had a few letters when he first left, but, for near two months, not a word have we heard. I fear he is ill. She has grown dreadfully depressed since the birth of her babe. The suspicion resting on her is killing her."

The suffering girl was showing signs of returning consciousness. Then a quick step was heard in the entry. She started up and cried out:

"Willie is come! Thank God!" and sank back, almost lifeless.

William Bland, for truly it was so, rushed forward and dropped on his knees beside the bed, saying:

"How is this? Why have you not answered my letters? Doctor, save her!"

Advancing, the doctor raised her head gently and gave her a little wine, saying:

"Speak to her, reassure her; that is all she needs now."

"Listen, Mary love, dear wife, and mother!" he whispered, in astonishment, as Valeria held before him the little sleeping babe, while a flush of paternal pride passed over his fine face. "There is no more need of silence; I am free and proud to claim you, darling. Uncle knows all, and bids me bring you to him. He was very ill. I nursed him and his life was spared. The fatigue, and more than all the worry of mind about you, brought on a severe nervous fever. I have been very ill. Julia knew it. Did you not hear? In my ravings I told all. Uncle has changed much since his recovery. He is no longer ambitious, except for my happiness, and is now waiting to welcome you."

The wonderful medicine had been administered, and already the happy effects were apparent.

With her hand clasped in her husband's she was slumbering peacefully, while a smile of sweet content lingered on the pale face.

The doctor soon bade adieu, saying:

"I see I shall not be needed any longer. She will very soon be strong again."

"Miss Fairleigh, I am awaiting your pleasure. Are you to return to your home to-night?" asked Mr. Carlton.

"Oh, yes. Bridget promised to come for me, but I must get back before mamma and Julia; yet I forget there is no further need of concealment: I am so very glad! I will be over in the morning. Good-night."

"God bless you, Vallie! you have been a ministering angel to my loved ones. You can tell Julia I have returned and am with my wife. I fear my sister has acted very wickedly in this matter. I have written many times and received no answer. Some one, for whom they were not intended, got those letters. Perhaps I judge her harshly. Good-night," said William Bland.

Vallie, accompanied by Mr. Carlton, was soon on her way home. They had gone but a short distance when they were joined by David.

"Why, Mr. Carlton! how strange to meet you, when I was just thinking of you, and on the eve of asking your father to tell you I was not at the ball this evening. I was so sorry I could not explain when you asked me. Your father will tell you all, I know. You thought me very wicked and willful," said Vallie.

David clasped the little hand held out to greet him, and whispered:

"With your permission I will come to-morrow, and tell you what I did think and do still."

Bidding her good-night at her father's door, David lingered a moment, to catch the low answer to his repeated question, "Shall I come?"

Fervently thanking God for the happy termination of the evening, he hastened to overtake his father--and said:

"Well, father?"

"Well, David! Very well. Go ahead, David, win her, if you can! She is a rare, good girl."

"Which one, sir?"

"Come, come! David, I am completely bewildered by this evening's discoveries. Do not bear too hard on me, for falling into a common error--mistaking the apparent for the real. This night has proved a test far more thorough than I imagined it possibly could. You may safely abide by the issue and never fear the stormy sea," answered his father.

A few months more and Vallie Fairleigh's merry voice and sweet smile resounds through, and brightens the minister's home.

David Carlton stands to-day among the best-loved and most popular of the clergy. Attributable most likely to his "wife's influence" (his father says). I well know she has soothed many an aching heart, cheered the long, weary hours of the sickroom, won the young from the path of evil, and now numberless prayers are ascending and begging God's blessing on the "minister's wife."

* * * * *

IN THE HOSPITAL.

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

In the autumn of 1862 my time was constantly employed in the various hospitals of Washington. At this period of our struggle the Sanitary Commission was in its infancy, and all attentions of the kind ladies were joyfully received by surgeons and nurses, as well as by our noble, suffering boys. Immediately after the wounded from the second battle of Bull Run were assigned to the different wards in the various hospitals, I was going my rounds in the "Douglas," and after bestowing the wines, jellies, custards and books to my old friends, I began to look up the new patients.

"Sister," I said to the kind Sister of Mercy, whose sweet, patient and motherly face was bending over a soldier to speak her words of comfort, "are there any Massachusetts boys in the new arrivals?"

"No, dear; I think not, in this ward." Then she bent lower to catch the whisper from her patient, and he pointed to the card at the head of his little bed. She looked, and answered again: "Oh, yes, here is one: Paul Ashton, 16th Mass., Co. B."

I approached the bed, and saw one of the noblest faces I had ever beheld, but not that of a Northern boy, I thought; so proud and dark--no, a true Southern face.

"You from Massachusetts?" I exclaimed.

A wan smile played around his pale lips for a moment. He saw my surprise, and answered:

"No, from Mississippi; but in that regiment," pointing again to the little card.

Here was a mystery, and one I could not solve just then. He was too weak to converse, but I made up my mind to devote myself to Paul Ashton from that time until he was convalescent, or, if God's will, relieved from his sufferings. After sitting by his side until the attendant came to dress his wounds, I bade him good-night, and promised to see him in the morning.

On my way out I met Dr. B. God bless him! for his kindness to our boys. No woman ever was more gentle and patient. "Doctor," I exclaimed, as he was hurrying by, "stop and tell me, how is Ashton wounded? Is he very ill? Will he die?"

"Ah, Mrs. H., three questions in one breath. Yes, he is very ill. Three wounds in the right side and shoulder, which are draining his life away. I fear he must die. Is he one of your boys? Do all you can for him."

"May I?" I replied.

"Yes, my dear madam; and try to keep up his spirits. I give you leave. Tell Sister L. He is a noble fellow--I am deeply interested in him."

The next day found me much earlier than usual at the hospital. To my great pleasure I found that Ashton had rested well, and was much easier than any one expected he would be. He smiled and put out his hand when I approached his bed, and motioned me to be seated. After talking to him a few moments I found him looking at me very intently, and soon he said:

"Are you from the Bay State?"

I replied: "Oh, no, I am a Southern woman. I am from Virginia."

"I thought you did not look or speak like a Northern or Eastern lady. Then, why are you interested in our boys? Are you with us in feeling? Can you be a Union lady?"

"Yes, my boy, I am with you hand and heart. I cannot fight, but I can feed, comfort and cheer you. Yes, I am a Southern woman and a slaveholder. Now, I see you open your eyes with wonder; but, believe me, there are many like me, true, loyal woman in the South; but my particular interest in our regiments is, my father is a native of Boston; but I love all our brave boys just the same."

A look of much interest was in his face, which I was so glad to see, being so different from the total apathy of the day before.

"You are the first lady from Virginia that I have met who was not very bitter against us Yankees--it is really amusing to be called so, to a Mississippi man. Do you not feel a sympathy for the South? Your interest is with them. You against your State and I mine--we certainly are kindred spirits," he smilingly said. "We think and feel alike. It is not politics but religion my mother always taught me. Love God first and best, then my country, and I have followed her precepts, at a very great sacrifice, too. Sometimes in my dreams I see her looking approvingly and blessing me."

"Your mother, where is she?"

He pointed up, and said:

"Father, mother, both gone, I hope and trust to heaven. I am alone--yes, yes, all alone now."

I would not let him talk any more, and finding out from the attendant what he most relished, I promised to see him the next day.

I saw him almost every day for a fortnight. He grew no worse, but very little, if any, better. On one occasion Dr. B. said:

"I do not know what to make of Ashton. He ought to improve much faster. My dear madam, set your woman's wits at work; perhaps we may find a cure."

"I have been thinking I would try to gain his confidence. I know he has a hidden sorrow. I must, for his sake, probe the wound; but I fancy it is in his heart."

During my next visit I said:

"I wish you would tell me something of your life; how you came to enter the army; and, indeed, all you will of your Southern home."

His face flushed, and he replied:

"No, I cannot. Why should you want to know----"

Then he stopped, hesitated and said:

"I beg your pardon. You have been so kind to me; it is due I should comply; but not now; to-morrow; I must have time to consider and compose my mind. To-morrow, please God, if I am living, I will tell you; and you will see that I have a severer wound than good Dr. B. knows of--one he cannot use his skillful hand upon."

"Well, thank you--I would rather wait until to-morrow. I am anxious to get home early this afternoon."

On reaching his cot the next day, I saw Ashton was calm, but very pale. I said:

"Do not exert yourself this morning. I can wait."

"No; sit nearer and I will tell you all."

I give it to you, dear reader, as he gave it to me:

"I told you I was by birth a Mississippian. My mother was from Boston, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, who, failing in his business, soon fell in ill health and died, leaving his wife and two daughters almost entirely destitute. Mother, the youngest, was always very fragile, and, having been reared in luxury, was poorly calculated for a life of trial and poverty. However, she was urged by a wealthy Southern planter to return with him to his home, and take the position of governess to his little daughters, her friends all approving of this offer, knowing that a Southern climate would improve her health; so she became the inmate of Colonel Ashton's family, and soon was beloved by the father and mother, as well as her pupils. I have heard that neither the colonel nor his wife could bear her out of their sight. She had been with them nearly a year, when the young son and heir, Edgar Ashton, returned from his college. He soon followed the rest, and was deeply in love with the governess. My mother was very beautiful, possessing so much gentleness, with such a merry disposition, that I have heard them say that grandfather used to call her his Sunshine. The negroes said that she had a charm to make all she looked upon love her. But when the son, their pride, declared his intention of making May Everett his wife, it was met with a decided objection by both parents. Impossible! marry a Northern teacher; he, the son of Colonel Ashton--the heir of Ashton manor! preposterous! My mother then prepared to bid adieu to them and return to her home, never for a moment listening to the repeated petitions of her lover to marry him. She would not go into a family where she was not welcome. Her high-toned principles won for her additional love and respect. And when the hour of parting came, the old colonel opened his arms, and drew her to his heart, and exclaimed:

"'Wife, we cannot give her up. Welcome your daughter.'

"My mother, however, went home; but with the understanding that she would return in a few weeks--as the wife of their son.

"In two months she was again with them; and never a happier household! In the second year of their marriage I was sent to them. My grandparents made almost an idol of me, and from grandfather I used to hear of his father's adventures in the Revolution. He inspired me with a devotion to his country which was fostered by my mother. When I was sixteen, my father was thrown from his horse and brought home to us insensible, and lived with us but a few hours. My mother's health, naturally very delicate, sank under this great affliction. She lived only a year afterward, and I was left to comfort my grandparents, now quite advanced in years. They would not hear of my going away again to school, and engaged a private tutor--a young gentleman, a graduate of Yale. I had been under Mr. Huntington's instructions four years when the country began to be convulsed with the whispers of secession--one State after another passing that miserable ordinance--my grandfather said:

"'Paul, my boy, if Mississippi goes out, I shall go, too--not only out of the Union, but out of this world of sorrow and trouble. I cannot live. I have felt my tie to earth loosening very fast since your grandmother left me, and I feel I cannot live any longer if my State shall be classed with traitors.'

"I have failed to tell you grandmother died in my eighteenth year. Mr. Huntington, feeling sure of what was coming, left us for his home in Medford, never for one moment expressing to us any views on the subject now engrossing all minds; and, when parting with him, I whispered, 'If it comes, I am for my country! Look for me North within a few weeks.' It did come, as you know; and when one of my aunts--now both married--ran laughingly in, with a blue cockade pinned on her shoulders, exclaiming:

"'Father, we are out!'

"She stopped in horror, and looked upon the calm, cold face. But the spirit had fled. We know not if he had heard or not, but I trust he had passed to perfect peace before his heart had been so sorely tried.

Next to our plantation was the estate of one of the oldest, wealthiest, and proudest families of the State. The daughter and I had grown up together, and I loved her more than all and everything else on earth. Her brother and I were very intimate--both having no brother, we were everything to each other. He had mounted the Palmetto badge, and was all for war. My mind was no longer wavering, since my grandfather's death. I was going up North, and, after a short visit to my mother's sister--the wife of a very influential and patriotic man in Boston--I would offer myself to my government. Now, you will know my sorrow.

"I had expected to meet opposition, entreaties, reproaches, and everything of that sort. So, preparing myself as well as I could, I rode over to bid my idol good-by.

"I met Harry first, and telling him I was going North, to leave fortune, friends and everything for my country.

"'What, Paul, desert your State in her hour of need? Never! You, a Southern man? Your interests, your honor, are with us.'

"Much passed between us; when he, laughingly, said:

"'Go in and see sister; she will talk you out of this whim.'

"I cannot tell you how she first coaxed, then argued, then chided me with not loving her, and then came--oh, such contempt! You have no idea of the trial to me. She talked as only a Southern girl talks--so proud, so unyielding. And when I said:

"'Let us part at least friends. Say God bless me, for the sake of the past!'

"'No,' she said, 'no friend. With a traitor to his State, or a coward--no, I will never say God bless you! and never do you take my name on your lips from this day. I would die of shame to have it known that I was ever loved by an Arnold! Go! leave me; and if you raise your arm against the South, I hope you may not live to feel the shame which will follow you.'

"I met Harry again on the lawn, and he exclaimed:

"'Good-by, Paul. Give us your hand. You are honest, and will sacrifice everything, I see; but you are all wrong. God bless you!

"And he threw his arms round me, and so I left them.

"I cannot tell you how I suffered. It seems as if I have lived a century since then. Did I not know the unbounded pride of a Southern girl, I should doubt her ever loving me. I have never mentioned her name since that day, and never shall. Now, my friend, you see I have little to live for. Soon after my arrival in Boston the Sixteenth was forming. I enlisted, to the horror of my aunt, as a private. My friend would have procured me a commission, but I preferred to go in the ranks and work my way up if I lived, and here is my commission, received after you left yesterday. I brought my colonel off the field, and was wounded when I went to get him. It is a first lieutenant's; but I fear I shall never wear my straps."

"Yes, you will. You are getting better slowly, but surely; and, my friend, you must cheer up--believe 'He doeth all things well'--have faith--live for your country. I feel that all will be well with you yet. 'Hope on, hope ever.'"

I went and saw Dr. B.; told him it was as I had thought.

I gave him an idea of the trouble and left.

I had become so much interested in Ashton that I had almost ceased my visits to the other hospitals, except an occasional one to the "Armory Square," where I had a few friends. I thought I would go over and make a visit there this afternoon.

I went into ward C, and, after seeing how well my boys were getting on, I inquired after the lady nurse, Mrs. A., a widow lady, to whom I had become much attached for her devotion to the soldiers.

"She has gone home to recruit her health; has been away ten days; she left the day after you were here last," replied one of the boys. "But we have, just think, in her place a lady from the South--Miss or Mrs., indeed I do not know which, for I have never heard her spoken of other than Emma Mason. But here she comes."

I had time to look at her for several moments before she came to the patient I was sitting by. She might be seventeen or twenty-seven, I could not tell. She was dressed in the deepest black--her hair drawn tightly back from her face, and almost entirely covered by a black net. Her complexion was a clear olive, but so very pale. Every feature was very beautiful, but her greatest attraction was her large, dark blue eyes, shaded by long black lashes. She came up smiling sweetly on the wounded boy, and said:

"You are looking quite bright, Willie; you have a friend, I see, with you."

I was then introduced to Emma Mason. When she smiled she looked very young. I thought her as beautiful a girl as I had ever seen; but in a few seconds the smile passed off, and there came a look of sorrow--a yearning, eager gaze--which made her look very much older. I went round with her to visit the different patients, telling her of my great interest in the soldiers, and trying to win her confidence. I was very anxious to know something of her history, but I could gain nothing; and, giving it up in despair, I bade her good-evening, and was leaving the ward when she called me and said:

"Will you be kind enough to notice among the soldiers you may meet from Boston, and if you find this name let me know immediately?"

I took the card and read, "Paul Ashton, 16th Mass. Vol." I started, and was about telling her where he was, when I was stopped by seeing the deathly pallor of her face.

She said, scarcely above a whisper:

"Is he living?"

I said I was only about to tell her I felt sure I could hear of him, as I knew many of that regiment. I felt that I must not tell her then. I must find out more of her first.

She looked disappointed, and said:

"I heard that regiment was in the last battle. Have you seen any since that time? I am deeply interested in that soldier; he was my only brother's most intimate friend."

I told her I should go the next day, probably, to the "Douglas," and if I had any tidings I would let her know. And so I left her, anxious to be alone, to think over and plan about this new development in Ashton's history. Who was she? Could she be his lost love? Impossible! This nurse in a Union hospital! No, never! She must be down in her Southern home. What should I do? Go tell Ashton? No, that would not do yet. So I worried about it, and at last I decided I would sleep on it, and my mind would be clearer for action in the morning.

I could not divert my mind from the idea that it must be the girl whose name I had never heard.

Next morning my mind was made up, I went over to see Ashton; found him in poorer spirits than ever. I sat down and tried to cheer him up. He said:

"I feel more miserable this morning than ever in my life before. I have a furlough for thirty days, but I do not care to take it. I am as well here as anywhere."

I said: "I have often found that the darkest hours are many times followed by the brightest. Cheer up. I feel as if you would have some comfort before long, and see! Why, here you have a bouquet with so many 'heart's-eases' in it. Heaven grant it may be a token of coming ease and happiness. Who gave these to you? It is rarely we see them at this season."

"Sister L. gave them to me; they came from the greenhouse."

I told him I should see him again that afternoon, and taking my leave, went over to see the nurse at the armory. She came quickly forward to see me, and said:

"Have you any news----"

"I have heard of him; he was in the battle and very severely wounded, but living when my friend last heard of him."

"When was that? Where is he?" she exclaimed, hurriedly. "You know more, I can see; please tell me."

I answered her:

"I will tell you all, but I must beg of you a little confidence in return. I saw him myself, and helped to nurse him--was very much interested in him; he was terribly ill and is now very, very weak--his recovery doubtful. He has told me much of his past life. Now, will you not tell me what he is to you, for I see you are deeply moved?"

"Did he tell you anything of the girl who drove him off without a kind word--heaping upon him reproaches and wounding his noble heart to the core? If he did, it was I. Oh, how I have suffered since! Even when I accused him of cowardice and treachery, in my heart I was proud of him. Oh! tell me where he is, that I may go to him. I have been looking for him every moment since the battle. Take me, please?"

"He is at the 'Douglas,' but very sick; I saw him not two hours ago. I fear any sudden shock, even of joy. You are never absent from his mind: he has never mentioned your name, but he has told me much. Now, tell me, will you not, how it is you are here? And then we most devise a plan to take you to him without too great a shock."

She said:

"These black robes are for my brother. He bade me do what I could for the suffering and wounded on both sides, and find Paul. I will give you a letter I received written by him a few days previous to his death. After you have read it you will then understand better why I am here."

And leaving the ward for a few moments she returned and handed me the letter. The writing plainly told that the writer was very weak. I give it to you, my dear reader, every word; I could not do justice by relating in my own style:

SISTER--I am wounded, and must die. I have felt it for several days. The doctor and the kind boys try to cheer me up, but I've been growing weaker daily. The suffering in my breast is terrible. I had a Minnie ball pass through my left lung. I have been very much frightened about dying, and wanted to live; but last night I had a dream which has produced a great change. Now I feel sure I shall die, and am content. I am with the Union boys; they are very kind. The one next me fanned me and rubbed my side until I fell asleep last night, and slept better than I have since I've been wounded. Now, darling sister, here is my dream: I thought I had been fighting, and having been wounded, was carried off the field and was laid under a large tree; after being there a little while I felt some one clasp my hand; looking up, I found Paul, He also had been wounded.

He handed me his canteen, and while drinking I seemed to get quite easy. There seemed to be a great mist all over us; I could see nothing for a little while. Again I heard my name called, and looking up, found the mist had cleared away, and our great-grandfather (whom I knew well, from the old portrait, which we used to be so proud of, father telling us he was one of the signers of the "Declaration") was standing before me, but he did not look smiling like the face of the picture; but, oh! so sad and stern. In his hand he had a beautiful wreath of ivy, which he, stooping, placed on the brow of Paul, saying, "Live, boy--your country wants you;" and stretching forth his hand, he drew me to a stand near him on which stood our old family Bible, ink and pen. He opened to the births, and putting his finger on my name, he raised the pen and marked a heavy black line over the H, and was proceeding, when his hand was caught by our old nurse, Mammy Chloe, who has been dead years, you know, who pointed over toward the west of us, and there stood a large shining cross with these words over it, "Unless ye forgive men their trespasses, how can your Heavenly Father forgive you?" And coming up to me, put forth her hand and beckoned me to follow her. Then the old gentleman spoke and said, "Your blood will blot out your disgrace;" and turning the leaf, he pointed to the "Deaths," and I read, "On the 28th of September, 1862, Harry Clay Mason, aged 21;" and then I woke up. This is the 20th; I think I shall live until that day. Now I bid you go carry mother to somewhere North, to Paul's friends; they will be kind to her and try to comfort her, and go you and devote yourself to the suffering soldiers, and find Paul, if possible; he will live, I know; tell him how I loved him, yet, and honored him, although I thought him wrong. Tell him good-by. And to mother, try to soften this blow as much as possible. Tell her I am happy now. I think God will pardon me for my sins, for His Son's sake. There is a boy from my regiment expecting to be parolled, and he has promised to deliver this to you. Good-by. God bless you, darling. Lovingly,

HARRY. Fairfax, Va.

I was much affected. After a few moments I said: "How long did he live?"

"He lived, seemingly growing much better, until the afternoon of the twenty-eighth. He was then taken with hemorrhage and so passed away." And pushing her hair back from her temples, she said:

"These came the night I got that letter." And I saw the numberless white hairs gleaming amid her raven locks. I said:

"Come, we will go to him. I think you had better write a little note to him; you know best what to say, but do not tell him you are here just yet, but something to set his heart at peace; and I will tell him it was given me by a Southerner I found in the hospital."

"Yes," she said; "you are very thoughtful, that is just the thing."

And she went into the ante-room, and soon came out, and giving me the note, said:

"You know all; read it."

And I read: "Paul, forgive and love me again. I shall try to come to you soon."

So we proceeded to the "Douglas," and I went in, found Dr. B., told him and asked if we might venture in. He thought better to break it gently at first, and promising to stay near in case of being needed, laughingly said to Miss Mason:

"Now, if I was a doctor of divinity, I should be wishing to be sent for."

Leaving her in his charge, I went in.

"Back so soon?" Ashton said. "How bright and cheerful you look!"

I sat down and said, "Yes, I have some pleasant news; I have a letter for you; I met with a Southerner who knew a friend of yours, who gave me this for you. It may be from your aunt, and you may hear from your lady love, possibly."

He caught the letter, tore off the envelope, and read. I was frightened--he never spoke a word or moved. Then, "Thank God!" burst forth in heart-felt tones.

I saw he was all right. I said:

"You must now commence to think of her coming and being with you, for it is some time since that person left the South, and you may look for her any time. I was told that the family were intimate with Mr. Davis, and they were to have a 'pass' North to find 'the son.' I then told him I had wanted to prepare him, for she was really in Washington, and I had met her--she had given me the note for him. He seemed to divine all, and said:

"Bring her to me. I am strong and well now."

I sent the attendant to Dr. B.'s room, and in a few moments she was beside him.

"Forgiven!" she murmured; and, bending, pressed her lips to his pale forehead, and taking his hand, she sat on the cot beside him. There was little said, but

"Eyes looked love to eyes that spake again."

So they remained until the sun went down and it was getting quite dark, when Dr. B. came in and said:

"Ah, Ashton, you have a more skillful physician than I. She has done more for you in five minutes than I have for as many weeks, I guess you will take that furlough and commission now, Lieutenant Ashton."

He took Dr. B.'s hand, and said:

"Under God, doctor, by your skillful hand and great kindness, with the attentions of the good friends here, I have been kept alive for this day."

Emma Mason bade him good-night, saying she must go over to her boys again, and get her discharge from the surgeon in charge.

In three days Ashton bade adieu to his friends in the "Douglas," and with Miss Mason, Dr. B. and myself, he got into the carriage waiting, directing the driver to stop at the residence of the Rev. Dr. Smith. There they were united, and received our heart-felt congratulations, and proceeded to the cars, which soon bore them to their friends North.

A few days ago a servant came to my room, bringing a card.

I read: "Paul Ashton and wife."

I almost flew down to them. They were on their way South to settle up their property and provide for the old servants who remained there. Paul had returned to the army and remained until the close of the war, having reached the rank of colonel. He is looking very well. He has been offered a commission in the regular service, but his wife says his country had him when he was needed, but she must have him now. They are taking with them the remains of poor Harry, to place beside his father in their Southern home. His mother is now quite resigned, and says she is only waiting God's will to meet her friends above.

* * * * *

EARNEST AND TRUE.

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

But still our place is kept and it will not wait; Ready for us to fill it soon or late, No star is ever lost we once have seen, We always MAY be, what we MIGHT have been.

"You have never loved me, Constance, or you could not thus calmly bid me go, without one word of hope for the future. Only say that I may some day call you mine, and I will win a name that you will not blush to bear."

"Would to Heaven I could, Ernest; but I can see no hope of my father's relenting. You heard how determined he was never to consent to my union with any one save Gerald. You say I have never loved you! Believing this, it will not be so hard for you to leave me. It is useless prolonging this interview! Every moment brings an increase of agony, making it harder to part. Bid me good-by, say God bless me, and go quickly, if you have any mercy for me."

"Listen just for a moment more! Oh, my darling, forgive my hasty word; but, Constance, if your love was as devoted and single as mine you would not thus resign one who loves you only of all the world; no one shares my heart with you. I know you love me, but not as I would be loved, or you would leave father and mother and cling to me. What right has your father, or any other father, to blast his child's happiness? Heed him not, love, but come with me. I will never let you feel a single regret. I will love you more than all their love combined. Nay, do not turn aside--you must hear me. Think what you are doing! wrecking my happiness, casting me forth, without hope, to drag out a miserable, useless existence. I may be cursed with long life. Constance, darling, come with me! With your parents it will only be a short grief--disappointed ambition--and, at the most, only the thwarting of their proud hopes. They will soon get over it; but even if they should not, in all human probability they have not the length of days to suffer that we have. Bid me hope!"

"Ernest, Heaven only knows what a severe trial this is to me. Yet your words only strengthen me in my duty. It is true, as you say, my parents are old. Can I grieve and wring their careworn hearts? No, no! What recompense can a child make her parents for all their unselfish love, and constant watching over, and providing for, from the first feeble baby days, to the time when they could, if willing, return all this, by simple duty; obedience to their will. Think, Ernest, how, in my days of illness, my mother watched over and soothed me. The long, sleepless nights spent over my cradle--praying God to spare her child--for what? to prove an ungrateful one! Oh, no! I could look for no blessing on our union if I should be deaf to the pleading of my parents, and heedless of God's own command.

"Perhaps some time hence they may think differently. Then, if you have not sought and won another, we may be happy. One thing you may rest assured of, I shall never wed Gerald Moreton, or any other. I obeyed my father in resigning you, but cannot perjure myself by taking the marriage vows, even at their command. Do not leave me in anger, Ernest. Let your last look be of kindness and forgiveness for the sorrow I cause you. Now, a long look into your eyes, to engrave them forever on my heart. Good-by--God bless you, Ernest."

She held out her arms, and was clasped in a long, last embrace. Breaking away, she was soon lost to view among the deep shadows of the garden.

"And this is the end! This is woman's love! Mere filial duty, I should say. Well, well, a final adieu to all thought of love. In future I devote myself to ambition, wedded only to my profession, in hope that in this I shall not meet with another such reward."

Constance Lyle was the only child of wealthy parents. Ever since her infancy her father had cherished the hope of uniting her with his ward, Gerald Moreton, the son of a very dear friend. Gerald was left an orphan before he had reached his tenth year. When Mr. Moreton, on his deathbed, placed his son under the care of his old friend, he intimated his desire that some time in the future, the little Constance (scarcely then four years old) should bear the name of Moreton. To this Mr. Lyle readily agreed. The little Gerald was truly a noble boy, and he was much attached to him, years before having lost a son of the same age; this child of his dearest friend had, in some degree, served to fill the aching void. Again, Gerald's prospects were very brilliant; but, to do Mr. Lyle justice, more than all this was the desire to please his friend, to make some amends for the past. In years gone by these two men had been rivals for the love of Constance's mother.

Moreton was a high-minded, noble fellow, and when he became sure that young Lyle was the favored one, not a thought of ill-feeling entered his heart against his friend; but going to him, with his usual candor and generosity, he said:

"I shall go away for a while. It will be rather too much for me to bear witnessing your happiness, just yet. I shall get over it in time, though. Heaven bless you, dear friend, and grant you happiness and prosperity. No one will pray for your welfare more sincerely than myself. Bid her good-by for me. After a while I'll be back, to stand god-father to some of your little ones, perhaps."

He remained away three years; and then returned home, bringing with him a fair, fragile little creature, who remained with him scarce two years; leaving the little Gerald to comfort and console the bereaved man, and be a loving reminder of the gentle little dove, who had loved him so dearly, and then winged her flight above, to watch over and pray for the coming of her loved ones.

So it was that Mr. Lyle would look with no favor, or even patience, on any suitor. Even when Constance herself pleaded for Ernest Ellwood, telling him she could never love Gerald other than as a brother; and if he would not give her to the one she loved, that she would remain with them, but would never wed where she could not love.

Still he remained firm in his determination to give her to his friend's son or no one.

Years passed by--but she continued as firm and determined in her resolve as her father in his.

Gerald, like his father, was a noble fellow. He loved Constance, but when he found his love was a source of grief to her, he began to set himself to work to devise means of rendering her path in life rather more pleasant. She did not murmur at her self-sacrifice; this she considered her duty; but the constant and continual entreaties for the marriage wore upon her, and made her life almost miserable.

Gerald told Mr. Lyle he must beg to resign all pretensions to Constance; that upon examining his heart, he found out that it was as a sister he loved her, and was not willing to render her unhappy by making her his wife. If his father were living he would not wish it. That he thought a promise, made to the dead, had much better be broken, than kept by making the living miserable.

So, to carry out his views, he left home for a summer trip. After being absent three months, he wrote to Constance that he had decided to remain a while longer; and at the end of another month came a letter to Mr. Lyle, saying that he was about to be married--desiring certain business arrangements to be made--and ending by the remark, that he knew this marriage would not meet with the cordial approval of his kind guardian, and for this he was truly sorry; but was more than compensated for this by the knowledge that he had the best wishes of his dear sister, Constance, and begged Mr. Lyle to try and render her happy, in return for her unhappiness during the last ten years.

This was a dreadful blow to Mr. Lyle, and he declared that if Ernest Ellwood had not crossed their path that his dearest hopes would not have been thwarted. Not for a moment did he relent.

Constance had heard nothing from Ernest since she parted from him, except once, about five years after. She picked up a Western paper, and saw his name mentioned as one of the rising men of ---- State--an extract from a political speech made by him--and finally the prediction of a brilliant career for this young man, whose talents and eloquence were placing him before the people, who, even now, in so young a man, recognized a master-spirit; and in all probability very shortly he would speak for his adopted State in the halls of the national Capitol.

This slip was cut out and treasured by her--and once when her father was grumbling and predicting bad luck to his evil genius, as he called him, she brought forth and displayed, with a grateful heart, this notice to prove she had not loved unworthily.

Her father listened with interest to the extract from the speech and the comments relative to the speaker. He had been considerable of a politician, and as Ernest was of the same party as himself, he felt really glad of his brilliant prospects.

"In all probability he is married long ago, and has almost, if not quite, forgotten you, Constance. At any rate, you see your sending him off did no hurt. Men are sensible; they don't die of love. Something more formidable, in the way of disease, must attack to carry them off, or affect their minds, either. Yes, yes, child, be sure he has transferred his affections long ago," remarked the father.

"I cannot tell, father. Perhaps it is so; you can judge of man's constancy better than I. If I judged him, it would be by my own heart, then I should be sure he is not married. I think that when alone, and freed from the care and toil of business, or, at rest from his studies, that his mind wanders back to the girl of his love. No! no! he has not forgotten me."

One after another of the joyous new years rushed into the world, passing on to maturity, growing older, and finally passing out, leaving the gentle, submissive girl, as they had found her, devoting herself to her father.

Now disease had settled on Mr. Lyle. For years he had been an invalid, nervous, fretful and impatient. No one but Constance could suit him. Not even his wife. Her gentle hand, only, could soothe his suffering. Her soft, loving tones alone would quiet his paroxysm of nervousness.

Time passed on, and Death entered the home of Constance, not to disturb the long-suffering father, but taking the apparently healthy mother. Swiftly, quietly, and without suffering, she passed from her slumbers to the home of her Maker.

This was a terrible trial for the poor girl. She almost sank under it; but in a little while she rose above her own sorrows. Bowing with submission to the will of God, she now felt why it was her young hopes had been blasted. Before, all was dark; now, she saw plainly. She alone was left to cheer and solace the stricken father. No longer a single regret lingered in her heart. All was well. A holy calm broke over her, and she became almost happy, blessed with an approving conscience.

Suffering at last softened the stern nature of Mr. Lyle, and opened his eyes to the value of his child. He knew her devotion, her patient, untiring attendance on him, and he felt what a blessed boon she had been to him, and how illy he had merited so much loving kindness!

On one occasion he said:

"My daughter, I do not deserve such a blessing as you are to me. I have been very harsh and relentless, and caused you much sorrow; would that I could call back the past, and act differently. Heaven only knows how grieved I am for my mistaken views and actions."

Going up, and putting her arms around him, she replied:

"Do not worry about the past, father dear, nor about your daughter. Believe me, I am happy with you; and have no regrets. I would not be absent from you during your suffering, even to be with him."

"Where is Ernest? Do you love him still?" he asked.

"I only know (through the papers) that he has been elected to Congress. About my still loving him, depends entirely on whether I have the right to do so; he may have given that to another," she replied, and called to her beautiful lips a sweet smile, to try to convince him, more than her words would, that she was content, whate'er her lot should be.

It is a few weeks after the meeting of Congress. All Washington is on the _qui vive_ about the passage of the ---- Bill, and the appeal to be made in its favor by the new member from ----.

Constance Lyle stands before her mirror. More than usual care has she bestowed on her toilet.

We will play eavesdropper, dear reader, just for once, and peep over her shoulder, to view the changes time has made. No longer the fresh, brilliant beauty of her youthful days. Constant confinement in the sickroom, care, and anxiety have faded the roses that used to bloom on her cheeks; but to us she is more charming, this pale beauty, with her gentle dignity, and sweet, patient look, than the bright, merry girl of years ago.

There is something about her which makes us think we would like ever to be near her, side by side, to pass on life's pathway, feeling sure her beauty would never wane, but wax purer and brighter as she neared her journey's end. Listen! She says:

"How strange my birthday should be the one for his speech! This day I shall see him for the first time for fifteen years. Yes, I am thirty-three to-day, and this is the anniversary of our parting!"

Leaving her room she is soon by her father's side.

"I'll have to go early, father, dear. It will be very crowded, and Gerald is waiting. His wife is going to stay with you during my absence."

"How well you look, my daughter! Why, really, you are getting young again!"

"This is my birthday, father. I am a maiden of no particular age to the public, but I whisper in your ear privately," she joyously said; and, suiting the action to the word, bent down, whispered, kissed him, and was gone.

"How time flies! But she is still very beautiful. Heaven grant my prayers may be answered. She deserves to be happy; and when I am gone she will be very lonely, and then feel keenly my harsh treatment," he murmured.

Wearily passed the hours until he heard her light step on the stairs. She came in. He thought there seemed a shadow on her face, but she came forward, and said, pleasantly:

"Well, father, you are likely to keep your daughter. I heard Ernest. I had not expected too much; he was grandly eloquent. He has altered in his looks; he seems much older, and is quite gray; mental work and hard study, he says."

"Then you saw him, and spoke to him! What do you mean by saying I shall keep you? Is he mar----"

"Yes," she replied, before he had finished his question. "He introduced me to his daughter, a little miss of about twelve; so you were right when you said that men were too sensible to suffer for or from love. He must have married in two years after he left us. Gerald left little Constance and me in the library, and went and brought him to see us. We were with him only a very short time, when he was sent for. He excused himself, and bade us good-day. Now, father, I will remove my wrappings, and order dinner."

Day after day passed on, and Constance had schooled herself to think of Ernest only as a happy husband and father. She did not blame him for taking a companion. He was away from all kindred and friends, and she had given him no hope to induce him to wait through all these years for her.

One day, just a week after their meeting at Congress, she was sitting reading to her father, when a servant entered, and handed a card. She read, Ernest Ellwood!

Paler for a few moments, and tightly pressed were the sweet lips. She did not rise from her seat, until she had communed with her heart. Now, she thought, I must call up all my fortitude and self-control, and prove to Ernest, to my father, and, more than all, to myself, that my heart is not troubled!

"Father," she said, "Ernest is below. He is waiting, probably, to inquire after you. I told him you had long been an invalid. Will you see him?"

"I would rather not, darling, unless you wish it. Go down a while, and if he must come up, let me know first."

Slowly she descended the steps, passed through the long hall, and entered the drawing-room, advancing with quiet dignity to welcome the distinguished representative.

He listened a moment to her words, so calm and cold; then, clasping her in his arms, he drew her down beside him, and said:

"Oh, my darling! thank Heaven, I find you still Constance Lyle!"

She tried to draw herself away from his side, but his arms held her tightly, and his hand clasped hers. His eyes were gazing so earnestly and lovingly in hers, as in by-gone days. She tried to speak, but he said:

"Nay, my beautiful love, you must not move or speak until you have heard me through, and then I shall await your verdict. I know you think it so strange that I have not been to you before. I have been the victim of a miserable mistake. The day I entered this city I walked past here to catch a glimpse of you, perhaps. As I neared the door, I beheld seated on the steps that pretty little girl that I afterward saw with you. I stopped, spoke to her, and asked her name. Constance, she told me, and her father's, Gerald. Oh, my love, the long years of suspense were ended to me then! I cannot tell you how dark the world seemed to me then. I struggled on, however, with my sorrows. Then I met you. Your being with Gerald and having the little one with you only too truly proved that my conjecture was right. I saw you, as I believed, the happy wife of Gerald, and knew no difference until this morning. When I met him then, he stopped and urged me to come and see him. I asked after his wife, and remarked that time had changed her but very little, when, to my amazement, he said he did not know I had ever met Mrs. Moreton. Then came the explanation. I parted with the noble fellow only a few moments ago, and here I am now. Tell me, love, that all my waiting--never wandering from my love for you for an hour, has not been in vain. Speak, love!"

"Ernest Ellwood, what mean you by speaking to me thus? Allow me to rise. Your mind is certainly very much affected. Nothing but insanity can excuse this language to me. I will order the carriage to convey you home to your wife and daughter."

"My wife--oh, yes, now I know. Gerald told me. We have all been very busy blundering. My darling, I have no wife or daughter. Louise is only mine by adoption. Her father was my dearest friend. This little one was placed in my arms, an orphan, when only three years old--and she knew no parent but myself. Can I go to your father, love?"

She no longer tried to release herself from his arms. Lower and lower drooped the beautiful head until it was pillowed on his breast. He felt her heart throbbing against his own, and almost bursting with its fulness of joy. He was answered--rewarded for all the years of waiting.

At length she raised her head. In her eyes he saw all the love of years beaming there.

"At last, my Ernest," she said. "I must go to father first and prepare him to see you."

Springing lightly up the stairs, she entered the room and stood beside her father's armchair.

He saw her beaming look, and said:

"What is it, Constance? What has brought this great joy to you? You look so happy."

"Father, we have all been under a great mistake. Ernest has never been married. That was his adopted daughter. He is waiting to see you; may I bring him up?"

"Yes, yes. Thank God! my prayers are answered."

In a few moments she stands before him, with her hand clasped in Ernest's.

"Here I am again, Mr. Lyle, as in years gone by, pleading for your blessing on our love. May I have her now, after all these years of waiting?"

"Ernest Moreton, I am profoundly thankful to Heaven for sparing me to see this day. Welcome back to your home and old friends, and welcome to the hand of my daughter. Take her; she has been a loving, patient, dutiful child. She has brightened and cheered my path for a long, weary time, and now I resign this blessing to you, and beg your forgiveness for these long years, lost to both, which might have been passed happily together."

"Not resign, but only share with me, this blessing; she shall never leave you, sir," replied Ernest.

"Father, do not speak of years lost; they have not been. Ernest would not have gone away, and devoted himself to study, if we had been united then; just think then what his adopted State would have lost! and I have been cheering you--think what you would have lost without your little Constance! Nay, there is nothing lost; all is gain, and simply by keeping God's command, 'Honor thy father and thy mother.'"

"Let me come in to rejoice with you all, and make my speech," exclaimed the noble Gerald, grasping the hand of each. "I say that they are worthy of each other. He by his earnest, unwavering love for his lady fair, and earnest, untiring endeavors to serve his State--who has now won the respect and confidence of his countrymen--he alone is worthy of the woman ever constant to her early love, yet never faltering in her chosen path of filial duty."

* * * * *

WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL.

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord--its various tone; Each spring--its various bias; Then at the balance let's be mute-- We never can adjust it; What's done, we partly may compute-- We know not what's resisted.--ROBERT BURNS.

"How is it, my old friend, that you are so very lenient to these young thieves? Your sentence was very unexpected. Every one thought you would, at least, send them to the State's prison for three or four years. The young rascals were amazed themselves. The House of Correction for six months has not much terror for them. Do you know that it has become a common saying among the members of the bar that our venerated and respected judge has a strong sympathy--in a word, a fellow-feeling--for all young thieves! I think you will have to commit a few of those gentlemen for contempt."

"I do not wonder, at all, Mr. Archer, at any, indeed, every one, thinking and saying as much," said Mrs. Morley, the wife of the judge, just entering the room in time to hear the concluding part of Mr. Archer's remarks. "Only a few months ago the judge could not possibly help sentencing a boy to the State's prison; but, before the time for entry came, he succeeded in getting his pardon; and, more than this, he has brought him here, into his own home-circle, with the idea of reforming him."

"My dear wife, have you any cause, so far, to think I shall fail? Has not the boy proved grateful and worthy?" asked the judge, in a mild, though very sad, voice.

"Yes, yes; but how you can have any patience with such characters, I cannot imagine," answered his wife.

"Sit still, Archer, if you have no engagement; I am going to tell my wife a little story, which will probably explain my charity toward those unfortunate youths that you have spoken of; and, indeed, all such. You, as my oldest and most valued friend, shall share the hearing, if you wish."

"Many thanks for the privilege, with my deep appreciation for your kindness in thinking of me thus," returned Mr. Archer, warmly, at the same time resuming his seat.

"The story I have to tell you came under my immediate observation. I was quite well acquainted with the principal character.

"Very many years ago, and not far distant from this city, lived an orphan boy, scarce fifteen years of age--bereaved, at one cruel blow, by a prevailing epidemic, of both parents, and left to the care of an uncle (his father's brother), a hard, cruel man.

"A few hundred dollars, quite sufficient, however, to support and continue the boy's studies, for a few years, was left in the hands of the uncle. But of this there was no proof--no will or last testament was left.

"Death came so swiftly there was little time for aught save an appealing look from son to brother, and the pleading voice murmured:

"'Be a father to my boy, Oh! deal justly, kindly towards him!'

"In a very few days the sensitive mind of the poor boy too truly perceived that he was not a welcome inmate. Before a month had passed he was withdrawn from school; his love of study was discouraged; in fact, made a source of ridicule; and his time so completely taken up with hard work on the farm, there was no chance for aught else.

"On one occasion George (we will call him) ventured a remonstrance with his uncle--alluding to the money in his possession to be used for George's education and support. Judge of his amazement and indignation when the bad man denied having one dollar in trust for him, and ended by calling him a pauper, and saying he would have to work for his bread.

"The future, there, was very plain to George; a life of ignorance--nothing higher than a mere farm drudge. His mind was determined against that. Privation, suffering, death, even, were preferable. The next day found him a fugitive from injustice and dishonesty--a lonely traveler on the path of life. Seeking Fortune, to find and be treated by that whimsical goddess with good or ill. To be smiled or frowned upon, to be mounted upon the triumphing waves, rising higher and higher, until he had reached the pinnacle of Fame, or drifted about, sinking lower and lower in the dark waters, at last reaching the pool of Dishonesty, Despair, Death!

"Ah! who could tell which fate would be his?

"Oh, how I can sympathize with all such! looking back on my own pathway to manhood; remembering the dangers, temptations and numberless snares that youths have to encounter. In fact, to pass through a fiery furnace! And how very few are they, that come forth, unscarred, and purified!

"Remembering this, I exclaim, 'How was I saved?' And then my heart, almost bursting with gratitude, forces the words to my lips--by God's mercy alone!

"Taking with him a few favorite books--a change of linen--he bade adieu to the home so laden with bitter memories.

"A day's weary travel brought him to the city of L----. Here, for many days, until the autumn came on, he managed to subsist--doing little chores, carrying a carpet-bag or bundle--earning enough to sustain life merely, and sleeping in the depot or market-house.

"At length the cold days and colder nights came on; work was very hard to find, and our poor boy's fortitude was severely tried.

"The day of his trial, his direst temptation, came! For twenty-four hours he had not tasted food. A cold, bleak night was fast approaching. One after another of his books had gone to get a piece of bread. Now nothing was left but starvation or--the boy dare hardly breathe it to himself--or dishonesty!

"He must have food somehow. Loitering about the depot, watching a chance to earn a few pennies, he saw a gentleman alight from a carriage, take out his pocketbook, pay the driver, and return it, as he supposed, to his pocket.

"It was almost dark, yet the eager eye of the hungry boy saw what had escaped the driver's.

"There, in that gutter, lay the surety against suffering for that and many coming nights.

"He was about to rush forward and secure the prize--the lost pocketbook--but caution whispered, 'Be sharp! you may be seen.' And then, with the cunning and slyness of an old thief--thus suddenly taught by keen suffering--he sauntered along, crossing the gutter, stumbled and fell; then put out his hand, covered and secured his treasure, slowly arose, and feigning a slight lameness, he retraced his steps towards the depot, entered the waiting-room, which he felt sure would be unoccupied at that hour. Getting behind the warm stove and close to the dim lamp, he opened the pocketbook--gold! notes! tens, twenties! over a hundred dollars met his gaze! When had he seen so much? His--all his! Had he not found it? Possibly he might have overtaken the owner and restored it, but what was the use of throwing away good luck! But already Conscience was at work. Turning over the notes he found a little silken bag. Opening it, he drew forth a miniature painting of a beautiful little girl, and on the back was written:

"'Our darling! three years old to-day.'

"It was a lovely, angelic face. The boy was fascinated, spellbound by it. Long he gazed. He grew very uneasy. His bosom heaved convulsively. There were signs of violent emotion, and then burst forth the words:

"'I have not stolen it. Who says so? I found it!'

"Again he looks almost wildly at the picture; then whispers hoarsely:

"'She says, "Thou shall not steal!" Can this be stealing? No--no, it is not. It is luck. I am growing nervous from long fasting. Oh, Heavens, how hungry I am! Bread, bread! I must have bread or die!'

"Taking out a few small coins, he closed the pocketbook, putting the little miniature in his bosom; then walked as swiftly as his failing strength would allow; reached, and was about to enter, an eating-house. At the door, he hesitated; and, drawing forth the little picture, looked again at the baby-face. Now, to his eye, she has grown older; and the face is so sad, with such an appealing look, which speaks to his inmost heart.

"The blue eyes were no longer the laughing ones of childhood; but, oh! yes, it was really so--his mother's lovely, sad face was before him! The same sweet, quivering lips, which seemed whispering so earnestly:

"'Thou shalt not steal!'

"Thrusting the picture back to its hiding-place, he sank exhausted from violent emotion and extreme weakness down on the stone steps.

"Oh, the terrible struggle that was going on in that young breast!

"The tearing pangs of hunger, the sharp stinging thrusts of conscience were warring for the victory. Oh, those who have never known the pangs of hunger can but poorly imagine that fearful struggle. At last, thank God! Conscience triumphed. Honesty was victor.

"Bursting into tears, he murmured:

"'God forgive, and have mercy! Mother--little angel-girl smile on me!'

"He returned the coin to the book, and clasping it tightly, replaced it in his pocket.

"'I will not touch one cent; and in the morning, if I live so long, I will find some means to restore it to the owner--all but the little picture--that angel-child has saved me, and I must keep her to watch over me in the future.'

"Slowly he arose, and was proceeding along the street, thinking he could at least return and sleep in the depot, when a loud noise attracted his attention.

"A horse came dashing furiously along the street, drawing after him a buggy in which was crouching a lady almost lifeless with terror. Thoughts as swift as lightning flashed through his mind; he might save her--what though he was trampled to death. Then he surely would be relieved from suffering!

"Summoning up all his little strength--then wonderfully increased by excitement and manly courage--he rushed forward, faced the frightened little animal, seized the reins, and was dragged some distance, still holding firmly on--sustaining no injury save a few bruises--until he succeeded in checking the wild flight. He saw his advantage; then, with a kind voice, he spoke to the horse, patting and rubbing his head and neck, until he became quite gentle. George knew the poor fellow was not vicious but frightened at something he had seen or heard.

"In a few moments he was joined by a crowd--among whom came a gentleman limping and wearing a look of great anxiety.

"George knew his thoughts, and said:

"'The lady is not at all hurt, sir, only frightened.'

"Several had seen the boy's action, and the owner of the horse soon understood all about it. Many were his words of grateful acknowledgment, and warmly shaking the boy's hand, he pushed into it a half-eagle.

"Looking at this a moment, again tempted by hunger, he hesitated--then exclaimed:

"'No, thank you, sir, I cannot take it. I am amply rewarded by having succeeded in helping the lady.'

"'Oh, do let us do something to prove our thanks. You look so weary, and indeed, almost sick. Tell us how can we serve you,' said the lady, who had not spoken until then.

"These kind words brought tears to the boy's eyes; he tried to speak, but his voice failed.

"'There, my boy,' said the gentleman, 'it is growing very cold. We live only a short way from here. I shall lead my horse, and you must follow on. Supper is waiting for us; and after we have been refreshed by a cup of hot coffee and something substantial, I shall insist on being allowed to prove my thankfulness in some way or other.'

"This kindness, George had neither the strength nor the will to refuse.

"Following on, he soon reached with them, the house of Dr. Perry. Such a supper the famished boy had not seen since his parents' death, and he did full justice to it.

"The doctor's delicate kindness and cordial manner so won the boy, that during the evening he told him his whole story, of his hard struggles and dreadful temptation, and ended by producing the pocketbook, and asking the doctor's advice as to the manner of restoring it.

"His kind friend suggested that there might be some clew to be found inside as to whom it belonged.

"Opening it, George carefully examined every part, and sure enough, found a card with the probable name and address of the owner.

"'Now, my boy, it is too late to-night, but in the morning you can go find the place, inquire for the lady, and then ask "if her husband left last night in the train for ----." If he did, then you may know you have found the right person. Now about yourself, your future. What are your ideas?'

"'Oh! sir, if I could only earn enough to support me and get into the City Academy, I should be the happiest boy alive. But it is so hard to get a permit. I know I am quite far enough advanced to be able to keep up with the boys. I could live on bread alone to be able to acquire knowledge,' said the boy, with great earnestness.

"'I am thankful, my young friend, I can now find a way to serve you. I am one of the directors of that institution. You shall be entered, and obtain all the advantages it offers.

"'I see you are a proud boy and must feel that you are earning your living. Come here to me every morning before, and after school has closed in the afternoons. I wish you to take care of my office, and keep my things in perfect order for me. What say you to this, and then getting your meals with us?'

"Oh! what joy was in that hitherto sorrowful heart.

"Words could not express it; but clasping the doctor's hands, he pressed them to his heart, and pointed upward.

"His friend knew how grateful he was, and how very happy he had made him.

"Oh! had not God heard his prayer and speedily answered it. Mercy! how freely, how bountifully, it was bestowed on him.

"At last the words burst from his lips: 'Oh, God! I thank Thee.'

"Early the following morn the pocketbook was restored; everything save the miniature. This he kept, yet all the while feeling keenly that he was guilty of a theft. Yet in this he did not feel that God was offended. And often as he gazed at his little 'guardian angel,' as he called her, he would say, smilingly:

"She does not look reproachfully or seem to say, 'Thou shalt not steal me.'

"His mind was determined on the purpose to work every spare moment, night and day, denying himself in every way, until he had secured money sufficient to get the picture copied, and then return the original.

"Months passed on, prosperity smiled on him. His best friend, the doctor, had full confidence in him. His teachers encouraged and approved. All was well.

"His miserable lodgings were before long resigned for a comfortable room in the happy home of Dr. Perry, who insisted on this arrangement, saying:

"'George, your services fully repay me. My little son loves you dearly, and has wonderfully improved in his studies, since he has been under your charge. We want you with us as much as possible.'

"Now, only one thing troubled him. The stolen picture.

"At length he accomplished what once seemed an almost impossible thing. The picture was copied and paid for; and George started to return the original, the one that had rested in his bosom so long. How he loved it!

"It was a great sacrifice for him to give up that, and retain the copy. However, he was somewhat compensated by the result of his errand.

"'Twas the fifth birthday of the little girl, and well he knew it. Ascending the steps of her father's house, he rang the bell, which was soon answered by a servant, and behind him came a bevy of little girls, the foremost being the original of his picture, his little 'guardian angel.'

"'More presents for me?" she asked, as he handed the precious parcel into her tiny hands, extended for it.

"'No, little one, for your father! Will you tell me your name?' he asked.

"'Oh, yes! My name is----'"

"What was it?" eagerly asked Mrs. Morely.

"Why are you so anxious? I'll punish you a little for interrupting me, by not telling you," answered the judge, playfully.

"Well, well, no matter; only go on," answered his wife, showing plainly how deeply she was interested in his story.

"The little one held her hand, saying:

"'I am five years old to-day. Shake hands with me, Mr. ----I do not know your name. Every one shakes hands and kisses me to-day.'

"The youth clasped the dear little hand (held forth with the sweet innocence of childhood and combined with a dignity well worthy of a maid of twenty), and pressed on it a pure kiss, at the same time breathing to himself the vow that, with God's blessing and help, to win such a position that should enable him to seek and know this child in her home. To try and make himself worthy of her; to win her love, and in years to come to have her as his 'guardian angel' through life.

"Often he would get a glimpse of her at the window or the door, this giving him encouragement to work on.

"Another year he was taken as assistant in the primary department of the academy, this giving him a small income.

"In two more years he had graduated with the highest honors.

"His mind had been determined in favor of the law. His most ardent wish to get in the office and read with the father of 'his little love,' then a very distinguished lawyer.

"This desire he made known to Dr. Perry, who readily encouraged it, saying:

"'I have no doubt, George, that you can succeed, backed by such letters as we can give you. This gentleman is very kind and courteous, and I think has no one with him at present. If I am not very much mistaken, after you have seen and talked with him a short time, it will be all right.'

"And so it proved. In a few days more George was studying under the same roof with the child of all his dearest, highest aspirations, daily seeing and speaking to her.

"Very soon the little maid of eight years became very fond of him.

"George rose rapidly in the respect and esteem of his instructor, and in a few months a deep and sincere attachment existed between them. Subsequently our young friend entered the Bar, and was looked upon as a man of fine promise; his career upward was steady, and finally, after eight or ten years' practice, he was among the best of his day.

"All these years of toil and study were for laurels to lay at the feet of the one who had so unconsciously saved him and encouraged him 'onward.' Nothing now prevented the fruition of all his hopes. A little while longer, and the living, breathing, speaking guardian angel was all his own--blessing his heart and house, filling his very soul with the purest love, the most profound gratitude to God, by whose infinite mercy he was thus almost miraculously saved. And to prove his gratitude and thankfulness, he has endeavored constantly to win the erring from sin, to encourage and sustain the penitent, to try and soften the hardened heart, and finally, as much as possible, to ameliorate the suffering and punishment of the guilty and condemned, truly knowing how very many are tempted as much and more than the hero of my story, without the interposition of such a special Providence."

The judge had finished. Mrs. Morely arose, and, passing her arm around her husband, pressed her lips to his, earnestly and with deep emotion, saying:

"I long since recognized the noble, suffering boy of your story. My husband, forgive my having ever questioned your actions or motives. In the future I will try to prove my worthiness of your love by aiding you in all your works of mercy."

"My old friend, and of all the most respected and honored, if it were possible your story would increase my veneration," said Mr. Archer, grasping and pressing the judge's hand.

"I would to Heaven there were more like you. If so, the temptations and snares which surround the path of youth would be less terrible and frequent--in a word, our whole community a little nearer, as God would have us be."

* * * * *

MEMORABLE THANKSGIVING DAYS.

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.--TENNYSON.

"Draw near me, William; I have so much I want to say, and now I feel too truly how rapidly I am drifting away. When I close my eyes I see so many happy, familiar faces, just a little way above, in the clouds. They are beckoning me away. Tell me, what day is this?"

"Thanksgiving, dear. But, pray, do not talk so. You are not going to leave me yet, Mary. You will be, you are better," said her husband, bending sorrowfully over her.

"Yes, I will be well, soon. I shall not see to-morrow's sun. Promise me, my husband, to try and make our boy feel as little as possible his loss. Be to him what I have been. He is a strange, shy child, and reminds me much of my own childhood. You scarcely know him, you have been so completely absorbed in your business all the time. Be with him, have him more with you. There is no need now of your being such a slave to business. You are prospering, you will be rich. Oh! do not let your heart become so encased in gold as to render it inaccessible to all higher, better feelings. In years to come another will occupy my place, but, oh! William, do not let those new ties come between you and your first-born. Give me your hand, and with it the pledge to make his welfare your first thought.

"Thank you, dear! you have lifted a great weight from my heart. The only doubt is cleared away. Here put our wedding ring on your finger! How tight it fits. It will be a constant reminder of your pledge. Now bring Willie to me."

She gradually faded away during the afternoon, murmuring constantly words of love and hope, the last intelligible being, "Love each other for my sake."

As the Thanksgiving sun went down the spirit of the gentle, long-suffering Mary Archer joined the waiting ones above.

William Archer truly loved his young wife, and sincerely mourned her loss. Much of his time was spent with his son in trying to comfort and divert the attention of the sorrowing boy from his great loss.

Willie grew to love very dearly his father, hitherto almost a stranger to him.

Mary's words were soon verified. Riches grew rapidly around him, and in less than two years he had filled her vacant place by another.

With what an acute ear, jealous eye and aching heart he listened for every word of endearment, watched every action of love that his father bestowed on his new wife. Willie was not a boy to win the heart of a stranger. Retiring, silent and sad, but possessing a brave, grateful heart, he had to be known to be loved. The new mother did not care to take the trouble to win the love of her husband's child.

Years rolled on. Bright, cheerful, happy boys and beautiful, loving girls grew round the father's heart, claiming and winning his love, until poor Willie was almost forgotten, or only remembered when in sight, and then always compared so unfavorably with the merry ones around him.

On one occasion some temporary ailment caused the father's hand to become very much swollen, until the little wedding ring became very tight and pained his finger much. His wife suggested its being filed off. While debating on the necessity of so doing, there came memories of the past. The long-forgotten pledge, the reminder of which was making him feel it so keenly then. How had he fulfilled that promise?

He would not have the ring removed. The swelling gradually passed away. And William Archer determined to make amends for his past neglect by future care and attention to his motherless boy.

But these good intentions were put to a speedy flight by an unfortunate accident which occurred that afternoon.

Constant difficulties and childish quarrels arose between the little ones, Willie always being the erring one, both with the mother and nurses. If a child fell and was hurt, "Willie did it." In a word, the poor boy was the "scapegoat."

The children were playing in the large ground surrounding their future elegant home. Willie was just twelve years old then. The nurse was attending the younger ones. A little way from the house was a large pond with a rustic bridge. Mr. Archer had frequently warned the nurse of the danger in allowing the children to play about there. Little Eddie, a merry, willful boy of six years, disregarding all Willie's entreaties to come away, would amuse himself by "riding horseback," as he called it, on the railing of the frail bridge, and tossing up his arms with a shout of defiance and laughter, he lost his balance and fell into the water, quite deep enough to drown a much larger boy.

A scream from the little ones brought the nurse to a knowledge of the truth.

"Eddie's in the water! Eddie's drowned."

In a moment Willie's jacket was off, and he plunged in, and, before the terrified nurse could collect her thoughts, brought out and placed the insensible boy on the grass before her.

Catching up the child, she rushed to the house, and, placing him in his mother's arms, declared, to screen her own negligence, that:

"Willie had pushed his brother in the pond."

Willie, following on with the other children, entered the house, his young heart proudly glowing with the knowledge of having done a good, brave action, and saying to himself:

"Now, this will surely please papa and make Eddie's mother love me a little."

Poor boy! He was met by stern eyes and harsh, upbraiding words, which for a moment quite bewildered him.

"You have killed your brother! You cruel, unnatural child," cried the mother.

"Out of my sight, boy," said his father, in low, threatening tones.

"Oh, father! what do you mean? Let me tell you how it was."

"Begone, sir!" and the enraged man gave poor Willie a blow which sent him reeling into the hall.

Staggering up to his room and throwing himself on the bed, he wailed forth, in heart-rending tones:

"Oh, mother, mother! I wish I was with you! Others can die, why not I? No one loves me! Oh, I wish I were dead!"

Tired and exhausted by the exertions in the water, he soon fell asleep, and remained so until the sun was just rising next morning.

All his sorrow, all the injustice of the night before came rushing back to his mind.

Hastily dressing himself, and then taking from his desk paper and pen, he wrote:

You have told me to get out of your sight, father. I shall. You will never see me again. You need not search for me. I am going to try and find my mother. When Eddie is better, you will hear the truth, and feel your injustice to WILLIE.

Folding this, and leaving it on his table, he stole down and made his way into town, not quite determined what to do. His first thought was to seek the river, and in its quiet waters end his sorrows. Oh! why would not death come to him?

How quiet the city was! Usually so many were stirring about at that hour. No market wagons or bread carts about. Oh, now he remembered, it was Thanksgiving Day.

On he walked, and then came in sight of the church where his mother used to go, and then memories of all her holy teachings. Should he find her if he attempted self-destruction?

What could he do? He could not live on! Surely God would forgive him!

Then he thought he would go once more into that church, and then--Heaven only knows what next. Waiting in the park until church time, he retraced his steps and reached the door just as the beautiful hymn, "Come, ye disconsolate," rose into the air.

Going in while the words

"Here bring your wounded hearts"

filled his ear, he crept up into the gallery and seated himself near the choir.

He grew somewhat calm, and his mind was, for the time, diverted from his sorrows by the sight of a little girl seated beside one of the singers--her mother, he thought.

The happy, beaming face of the little one interested him very much.

The services over, he followed close behind her, endeavoring to get another look at her, wondering if she was ever sad! And, standing at the church door as she was about to enter a carriage waiting, in which a lady and gentleman were already seated, he thought:

"Oh, what kind, loving parents she must have to make her look so joyous!" His face wore a very sad expression. The little girl turned, caught the sorrowful look bent on her, then stepped suddenly back, went up to our Willie, and said, with the winning grace and perfect simplicity of a child of six:

"Here, little boy, you look so sad, I am very sorry for you. Take my flowers."

What angel-spirit, prompted by the will of its Divine Master, was it that whispered to the little child to go comfort the sorrowing boy, and with her kind sympathy and sweet offering to draw him back from the dreadful precipice on which he stood, and lift him from darkness and despair? His mother's, perchance. A bright light shone in the boy's eye. His face was losing its despairing expression. The flowers were speaking to his heart, whispering of Trust, Faith, Hope! Yes, he must live on, brave all sorrows, trample down difficulties, and with God's blessing try to live to be a good and useful man.

"Why, Minnie! what do you mean? Why did you give those beautiful flowers to that strange boy? I never saw such a child as you are!"

"Mamma, I gave them to him because he looked so sad, just as if he had not a happy home, or loving papa and mamma like I have. I felt so sorry for him, and I wanted to tell him so. I'm sure he hasn't got any mother, or he would not look so."

"Never mind, Laura, my dear. Do not worry about Minnie. She is all right. Let her act from the dictates of her kind, innocent heart," returned the little one's father.

"Oh, yes! let her alone, and in years to come she will from the dictates of her kind heart, be giving herself away to some motherless, fameless and moneyless young man, I fear!" said the worldly and far-seeing mother.

"But not senseless man, I'll warrant you," was the laughing reply.

* * * * *

"Why, William, my dear boy, why can you not be satisfied to remain here with me? Why do you wish to go away? 'Idle life!' 'Making a living and do some good!' Humph, sir! you need not be idle. Read to me; ride with me. As for your living, sir, I made that for you before you were born; and now I intend you shall enjoy it. Now, my boy, my son in all my heart's dearest affections, stay with me. Wait until the old man is gone; then you will have time enough to be useful to others."

"Mr. Lincoln--uncle, father!--yes, more than father--your wish must be mine. Did you not, fifteen years ago, take in a poor, wretched, friendless, homeless boy--bless him with your care and protection, educate, fulfill all his brightest hopes by giving him a profession, which will not only make him independent, but enable him to help and comfort others. Let me prove my gratitude in any way."

"Come, come, do not talk of gratitude. Oh, my boy, if you only knew what deep joy it has afforded me, having you here. I will tell you now, William, why it was I so readily opened my heart and home to the little wanderer I found that Thanksgiving afternoon so long ago. When I first looked into your eyes there was a strange, familiar expression about them that aroused my interest. Upon questioning you I found that the son of the only woman I had ever loved was before me! My heart yearned to help you; otherwise I should have relieved you from present want, and then informed your father of your whereabouts. Yes, my boy, the love I bore your mother was never transferred to another woman. Your father and myself were her suitors at the same time. He proved the fortunate one. Having you with me all these years has been a great solace; and now say no more about gratitude. Just love me, and stay with me."

And Uncle Lincoln added, humorously:

"Perhaps I may be doing some good by preventing some harm. I'll keep you from practicing and experimenting on some poor creature. Oh, you young doctors are always very anxious to make a beginning. 'Pon my word, I have quite forgotten to open my little Minnie's letter. Coming here to see her uncle, and will be with us to-morrow. I'm glad, very glad. Well, it is rather strange that the two I love best in the world should not know each other. It has happened that you have been off at college or attending lectures each time she has been here. Guard well your heart, boy. Every one loves her, and she no one better than her parents and old uncle. Much to her mother's regret, she has refused the finest offers in town. She does not care a mote for the title of 'old maid' with which her mother often threatens her. She is twenty-one, and has never been in love, she says."

"I think I am quite safe, sir. I am not at all susceptible, and it is not likely that a young lady of her position in society and of such beauty will cast a thought on me."

The next day the old gentleman had the pleasure of introducing those he loved so well; and, to his infinite delight, saw his darling Minnie had certainly made a desired impression on his young _protégé_.

"Here he is, Minnie! the boy who stole half my heart away from you. I do not know how you will settle it with him, unless you take his in pay."

Often during the evening Uncle Lincoln noticed Will's gaze lingering on his niece, and there was a softer light than usual in his fine eyes; but, to his great regret, his boy did not appear to his usual advantage. He was very silent, and his mind seemed absent--far away.

And so it truly was. In the lovely girl before him William Archer beheld the joyous child who, on that dark day, spoke so kindly and saved him from--he dreaded to think what!

Uncle Lincoln rubbed his hands and chuckled merrily to himself. Everything was working to his entire satisfaction. These two impenetrable hearts were growing wonderfully congenial, he thought.

A few days before Minnie's visit was concluded, William brought out and placed in her hands a bunch of withered flowers; told his story of how, long years ago, her sweet sympathy had cheered his desolate heart and made him feel that there was still love in the world, then so dark to him; that her kind action had awakened in his almost paralyzed mind better thoughts, and let him know the only way to gain peace and happiness, and, finally, meet his mother, was in living on--putting his trust and faith in God's goodness and mercy!

And then he told his love and gained hers; and, with her dear hand clasped in his, stood waiting Uncle Lincoln's blessing!

"Minnie might do very much better," said the aspiring mamma; "but it was Uncle Lincoln's wish."

So the next Thanksgiving was to be the wedding day.

* * * * *

In a luxuriously-furnished apartment, surrounded by everything that contributes to make life pleasant, sat an old man.

Every now and then he would raise his bowed head from the clasped hands, gaze anxiously around the room, and then, with a deep sigh, relapse again into his attitude of grief and despair. At last he speaks:

"Thanksgiving night again, and, for the first time in fifteen years, she has failed to hover round me, and I have not heard the sighing voice inquire: 'Where is my boy? How did you keep your promised word?' Oh! perhaps the mother has found her child. He may be with her now. Oh! I would give everything--my poor, miserable life--to recall that terrible day's injustice. My brave, noble boy! and how were you repaid? Oh! I have suffered terribly for all my neglect and wrong of my motherless boy! All gone from me, all the healthy, beautiful children; all taken away! We were not worthy of those precious gifts. God took them to himself. Now, what comfort do all these riches bring me? Nothing! nothing! and my poor, childless wife! How bitterly she has repented her wrong!

"Oh, Willie! Willie, my boy! Where are you now?"

"Here, father, here! kneeling, and waiting for your love and blessing."

"Am I dreaming? Oh! cruel dreams! I shall awaken, as often before, and find how false you are!"

"No, it's no dream, father! Give me your hand. Now, you feel your erring boy is back beside you, praying your forgiveness for all these years of silence--causing you so much sorrow!"

The old man was clasped to his son's bosom. Long he held him thus, while a sob of joy burst from the father's thankful heart.

"Father, speak to my wife; you have another child now. She it was who brought me back to you this blessed day. This, the anniversary of my mother's death! also of the day of my greatest peril, is now the happiest of my life--my wedding day, and restoration to my father's heart!

"Where is my stepmother? I would see and try to comfort her. Oh! let this day be one of perfect reconciliation. Let us make it a thanksgiving from the inmost heart."

And now may we all, who have aught of ill dwelling in our hearts, go and be of kindly feeling one toward the other again. Let not the coming Thanksgiving's sun go down on our wrath. Let it not be merely a thanksgiving in words--a day of feasting--but a heart's feasting on peace and good will.

THE END.

* * * * *

THE IRISH REFUGEE.

The only son of his mother, and she was a widow.--Luke vii. 12.

Long years shall see thee roaming A sad and weary way, Like traveler tired at gloaming Of a sultry summer day. But soon a home will greet thee, Though low its portals be, And ready kinsmen meet thee, And peace that will not flee.--PERCIVAL.

It was a lovely morning, that last Saturday in July, 1849. The sun had not yet risen when our family party, consisting of Aunt and Uncle Clive, Cousin Christine and myself, took seats at an early breakfast-table. A capacious carriage, well packed with presents for country cousins, stood at the door, ready to convey us to Virginia, to spend the month of August. We, a merry set of grown-up children, were too delighted with our prospective pleasure to eat anything, and so we soon left the table and put on our bonnets and hats, preparatory to a start. We entered the carriage.

"Now, then, are we all ready?" asked Uncle Clive.

"Yes," replied aunt.

"Has nothing been forgotten?"

"No--but stay! Where is Cousin Peggy's cap, Chrissy?"

"There--pinned up in that paper to the roof of the carriage. Don't hit your head against it, uncle."

"Clive, where did you put the basket of bread and butter and cold chicken?"

"There--in the bottom of the carriage. Be careful, now, my dear, or you will get your feet into it."

"No, I shan't. But hadn't you better put the bandbox with Martha's bonnet inside here?"

"Indeed, mother," interposed Miss Chrissy, "there is no room for it; for Cousin Peggy's bundle is on one side and the keg of crackers on the other; my feet are resting on the caddy of tea, and the loaf of sugar and paper of coffee are in my lap!"

"There! let's get along," said Uncle Clive, impatiently. "I declare, the sun is already half an hour high, and a ride of forty-five or fifty miles before us. We shall not reach Willow Glade before ten o'clock to-night."

"Yes, and about nine o'clock we shall be going down Bloody Run Hill, and I never can go through the piece of woods between that and Gibbet Hill after dark without horror."

"Ever since the peddler was murdered."

"Yes, ever since the peddler was murdered, and before, too."

Uncle Clive now jumped into his seat, and, taking the reins, we set off at a pretty brisk rate.

"Clive, don't that horse look a little vicious? See how he pricks up his ears!"

"Pooh! Nonsense! He's as safe a horse as ever drew."

"What o'clock is it, now?"

"Humph! half-past five. I think the next time we wish to get off at sunrise, we had better arrange to start at midnight; then, perhaps, we may succeed."

Turning the corner of the street at this moment the sudden sight of the river, and the wood on the opposite bank, glimmering and glistening in the light of the morning sun, elicited a simultaneous burst of admiration from our travelers. Then the prospective pleasures of the rural visit were discussed, the family and friendly reunions, the dinner parties, the fish feasts upon the river's banks, the oyster excursions and crab expeditions; and in such pleasant anticipations the cheerful hours of that delightful forenoon slipped away; and when, at last, the heat of the sun grew oppressive, and our sharpened appetites reminded us of the dinner-basket, we began to cast around for a cool, dry and shady spot on which to rest and refresh ourselves. The road here was wide and passed through a thick forest. A few more turns of the wheels brought us to a narrow footpath, diverging from the main road into the forest on the left-hand side.

"Let's get out here, Clive, and follow this path; I know it. It leads to a fine spring, with an acre or two of cleared land about it, on which there was once a dwelling."

This was agreed upon, and we all alighted and took the path through the wood. We had not gone many yards ere a scene of woodland beauty opened to our view. It presented an area of about four acres of open land in the midst of the forest. From the opposite side a little rivulet took its rise, and ran tinkling and splashing, in its pebbly bed, through the centre of this open glade, until its music was lost in the distance in the forest. But the most interesting object in sight was a ruined cottage. It was very small. It could not have contained more than two rooms. In front there had once been a door, with a window on each side; but now both door and windows were gone.

The solitary chimney had fallen down, and the stones of which it had been built lay scattered around. A peach tree grew at the side of the cottage, and its branches, heavy with the luscious fruit, drooped upon the low roof. A grapevine grew in front, and its graceful tendrils twined in and out through the sashless windows and the broken door. A bird of prey was perched upon the house, and, as we approached, with a fearful scream it took its flight.

"Be careful, Christine, where you step; your foot is on a grave!"

With a start and a sudden pallor, Christine looked down upon the fragment of a gravestone. Stooping and putting aside the long grass and weeds, she read: "The only child of his mother, and she a widow."

"Whose grave could this have been, mother? The upper part of the stone, which should bear the name, is gone. Oh, how sad this ruined cot, and this lonely grave! I suppose, mother, here, in the heart of the forest, in this small cottage, lived the widow and her only child. The child died, as we may see, and she--oh! was the boon of death granted to her at the same moment? But, who were they, mother? As your early life was passed in this part of the country, you surely can tell us."

Aunt Clive, who had been gazing sadly and silently on the scene since giving the warning to Christine, said:

"Yes, I can tell you the story. But here comes your father, looking very tired and hungry; and, as it is a very sad tale, we will defer it until we have dined."

We spread our repast upon the grass, and, seating ourselves upon the fragments of the broken chimney, soon became engrossed in the discussion of cold chicken, ham and bread. As soon as we had dispatched them and repacked our basket, and while we were waiting for the horses to feed and rest, Aunt Clive told us the following tale of real life:

THE IRISH EMIGRANTS.

A short time previous to the breaking out of the Rebellion in Ireland a family of distinction came from that country to America and purchased and settled upon a handsome estate near the then flourishing village of Richmond. Their family name was Delany. With them came a Dr. Dulan, a clergyman of the established church. Through the influence of the Delanys, Dr. Dulan was preferred to the rectorship of the newly established parish of All Saints, and subsequently to the president's chair of the new collegiate school of Newton Hall. This prosperity enabled him to send for his son and daughter, and settle with them in a comfortable home near the scene of his labors.

It was about the fifth year of his residence in Virginia that the rebellion in Ireland broke out, and foremost among the patriots was young Robert Dulan, a brother of the doctor. All know how that desperate and fatal effort terminated. Soon after the martyrdom of the noble Emmet, young Dulan was arrested, tried, condemned, and followed his admired leader to the scaffold, leaving his heart-broken young wife and infant boy in extreme penury and destitution. As soon as she recovered from the first stunning shock of her bereavement, she wrote to her brother-in-law, soliciting protection for herself and child. To this the doctor, who, to great austerity of manners, united an excellent heart, replied by inviting his brother's widow to come to Virginia, and inclosing the amount of money required to supply the means. As soon as the old gentleman had done that he began to prepare for her reception. Knowing that two families seldom get on well beneath the same roof, and with a delicate consideration for the peculiar nature of her trials, he wished to give her a home of her own. Selecting this spot for the beauty and seclusion of its position, as well as for its proximity to his own residence, he built this cottage, inclosed it by a neat paling, and planted fruit trees. It was a very cheerful, pretty place, this neat, new cottage, painted white, with green window shutters; the white curtains; the honeysuckle and white jessamine, trained to grow over and shade the windows; the white paling, tipped with green; the clean gravel walk that led up to the door, the borders of which were skirted with white and with red roses; the clusters of tulips, lilies and hyacinths--all contributed to make the wilderness "blossom as the rose;" and every day the kind-hearted man sought to add some new attraction to the scene.

One evening the doctor had been over to the cottage, superintending the arrangement of some furniture. On his return home, a servant brought a packet of letters and papers. Glancing over one of them, he said:

"Elizabeth, my daughter."

A prim young lady, in a high-necked dress, and a close-fitting black net cap, looked up from her work and answered in a low, formal voice:

"My father."

"Your aunt and cousin have at length arrived at the port of Baltimore. They came over in the _Walter Raleigh_. I wish you to be in readiness to accompany me to-morrow when I go to bring them down."

"My father, yes," were the only words that escaped the formal and frozen girl.

A week after this conversation the still life of the beautiful cottage was enlivened. A lovely boy played before the door, while a pale mother watched him from within. That pale mother was not yet thirty years of age, yet her cheeks were sunken, her eyes dim, and her hair streaked with silver. Truly, the face was breaking fast, but the heart was breaking faster. But the boy! Oh, he was a noble child! Tall for his age (he was but five years old), his dark hair, parted over a high, broad forehead, fell in sable curls upon his shoulders; his large black eyes, now keen and piercing as the young eagle's, now soft and melting as the dove's. His dark eyes wore their softest shade as he stole to his mother's side, and, twining his little arms around her neck, drew her face down to his, saying, with a kiss: "Willie is so sorry?"

"For what should Willie be sorry?" said the mother, tenderly caressing him.

"Because mamma is sad. Does she want Willie to do anything?"

"No, sweet boy, she wants nothing done that Willie can do."

"If mamma's head aches, Willie will hold it."

"Her head does not ache."

"If mamma wants Willie to stop teasing her and go to bed, he will go."

"You are not teasing me, dear Willie, and it is rather too early for you to go to bed."

The widow strove to chase the gloom from her brow, that she might not darken by its shadow the bright sunshine of her child's early life, and with an effort at cheerfulness she exclaimed: "Now go, Willie, and get the pretty book Cousin Elizabeth gave you, and see if you can read the stories in it."

Willie ran off to obey with cheerful alacrity.

The doctor was not able to do more for his sister-in-law than to give her the cottage and supply her with the necessaries of life; and to do this, he cheerfully curtailed the expenses of his own household. It was delightful to see the affectionate gratitude of the widow and child toward their benefactor. And that angel child, I wish I could do justice to his filial devotion. He seemed, at that early age, to feel as though he only lived to love and bless his mother. To be constantly at her side, to wait upon her, even to study her wants and anticipate her wishes, seemed to be the greatest joy of the little creature.

"Willie, why don't you eat your cake?" asked his uncle one day, when Willie had been sent over to the doctor's on an errand, and had been treated to a large slice of plumcake by his Cousin Elizabeth.

Willie silently began to nibble his cake, but with evident reluctance.

"Why, you do not seem to like it! Is it not good?"

"Yes, sir, thank you."

"Why don't you eat it, then?"

"My father," said Elizabeth.

"Well, Miss Dulan?"

"I think that Willie always carries every piece of cake he gets to his mother."

"But why not always prevent that by sending her a piece yourself?"

"Because, my dear father, I think it may be wrong to restrain the amiable spirit of self-denial evinced by the child."

"Then you are mistaken, Miss Dulan; and recollect that it is very irreverent in a young lady to express an opinion at variance with the spirit of what her father has just said."

Elizabeth meekly and in silence went to the pantry and cut a piece of cake, which she carefully wrapped up and gave to Willie for his mother. Willie received it with an humble and deprecatory look, as if he felt the whole responsibility and weight of the reproof that had fallen upon his cousin.

One Christmas eve, when Willie was above seven years old, the widow and her son were sitting by the cottage hearth. The closed shutters, drawn curtains, clean hearth and bright fire threw an air of great comfort over the room. Mrs. Dulan sat at her little work-table, setting the finishing stitches in a fine linen shirt, the last of a dozen that she had been making for the doctor.

The snowstorm that had been raging all day long had subsided, though occasionally the light and drifted snow would be blown up from the ground by a gust of wind against the windows of the house. "Poor boy," said the widow, looking at her son, "you look tired and sleepy; go to bed, Willie."

"Oh! dear mamma, I am not tired, and I could not sleep at all while you are up alone and at work. Please let me stay up--but I will go to bed if you say so," added he, submissively.

"Come and kiss me, darling. Yes, Willie, you may stay up as long as you like. I will go to bed myself," added she, mentally, "so as not to keep the poor boy up."

"Well, Willie, I will tell you a story, darling, which will amuse you, while I sew."

Just at this moment the sound of carriage wheels, followed immediately by a jump from the box, and a smart rap at the door, caused the widow to start hastily from her seat. The door was opened, and Jake, the big black coachman of the old doctor, made his appearance, a heavy cloak and a large muffling hood hanging over his arm.

"Marm," said he, "it has clarred off beautiful, and massa has sent the carriage arter you, and he says how he would have sent it afore, but how the roads was blocked up with snowdrifts. Me and Pontius Pilate, and Massa John, has been all the arternoon a clarring it away, and I thinks, marm, if you don't come to-night, how the road will be as bad as ever to-morrow morning, with this wind a-blowing about the snow. Miss Lizzy has sent this hood of hern, and massa has sent this big cloth cloak of hizzen, so that you needn't ketch cold."

Mrs. Dulan did not immediately reply, but looked at Willie, and seemed to reflect.

Jake added:

"I hopes you'll come, marm, for massa and Miss Lizzy and Massa John has quite set their heads on having you with them to spend Christmas, and Massa John told me to tell you how he had bagged a fine passel of waterfowl and wild turkeys, and I myself has made a trap for Massa Willie to catch snowbirds."

"Yes, we will go," said Mrs. Dulan. "Do me the favor, Jacob, to pour a pitcher of water on that fire, while I tie on Willie's cloak and mittens."

In twenty minutes more, Willie was seated on his uncle's knees, by his bright fireside, and his mother sat conversing with John and Elizabeth, and a few neighbors whom the inclemency of the weather had not deterred from dropping in to spend Christmas eve. The old housekeeper stood at the buffet, cutting up seedcake, and pouring out elder wine, which was soon passed round to the company.

That Christmas was a gorgeous morning. The sun arose and lit up into flashing splendor the icy glories of the landscape. From every roof and eave, from every bough and bush, dropped millions of blazing jewels. Earth wore a gorgeous bridal dress, bedecked with diamonds. Within the doctor's house everything was comfortable as you could wish. A rousing fire of hickory wood roared upon the hearth, an abundant breakfast of coffee, tea, buckwheat cakes, muffins, eggs, wild fowls, oysters, etc., etc., smoked upon the board. The family were all gathered in the breakfast-room. The doctor was serving out eggnog from a capacious bowl upon the sideboard.

"Cousin Elizabeth," said little Willie, taking her hand and leading her away to the sofa, "what do ladies love?"

"What do ladies love? Why, Willie, what a queer question."

"Yes, but tell me what do ladies love?"

"Why, their papas, of course, and their brothers, and their relations; it would not be decorous to love any one else," said the prim maiden.

"Oh, you don't know what I mean; I mean what do ladies love to have? You know boys like to have kites and marbles, and traps to catch snowbirds, and picture books, and half-pence and such things. Now what do ladies love to have?"

"Oh, now I understand you. Why, we like to have a good assortment of crewels and floss to work tapestry with, and a quantity of bright-colored silk to embroider with, and----"

"Oh, that's what you like, Cousin Elizabeth; but mamma doesn't work samplers," said the boy, with a dash of pettish contempt in his tone. "Uncle has given me a bright new shilling for a Christmas gift, to do what I please with, and I want to get something with it for poor, dear mamma."

"La! child, you can get nothing of any account with a shilling."

"Can't I?" said he, and his little face fell for an instant, but soon lighting up, he exclaimed: "Oh, ho! Cousin Elizabeth, I am brighter than you are, this time. A silver thimble is a very little thing, and can be bought with a shilling, I am sure; so I will buy one for mamma. Poor mamma has an old brass one now, which cankers her finger."

"Here, Willie," said Elizabeth, "I have not paid you my Christmas gift, and you caught me, you know; take this shilling, and now run and ask your uncle to take you to the village with him when he goes, and then you can buy your thimble. You have enough to get one now."

Willie thanked his cousin with a hearty embrace, and ran off to do as she advised him. The family now sat down to breakfast, after which they all went to church, where the doctor performed divine service. A large party of friends and neighbors returned with them to dinner, and the remainder of the day was spent in hilarity and innocent enjoyment.

The next day the thimble was purchased, as agreed upon, and little Willie kept it a profound secret from his mother, until the first evening on which they found themselves at home, in their little parlor, when the candle was lit, and the little stand drawn to the fire, the workbox opened, and the old brass thimble put on. Then little Willie, glowing with blissful excitement, put his hand in his pocket to find his present. It was not there. He searched the other pocket, then his cap, then shook his cloak and looked about the carpet. Alarmed now, he opened the door and was going out, when his mother called to him.

"What is the matter, Willie? Where are you going? What have you lost?"

"Nothing much, mother; I am only going out a minute," and he closed the door, and began an almost hopeless search by the moonlight for his lost treasure. Up and down the walk he searched without finding it. He opened the gate, and peeping and peering about, wandered up the road, until his little feet and limbs got wet in the soft snow, and his hands became benumbed; when, feeling convinced that it was lost, he sat down and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. Let no one feel surprise or contempt at this. In this little affair of the thimble there had been disinterested love, self-sacrifice, anticipated joy, disappointment and despair, though all expended on a cheap thimble. Yet, Willie was but seven years old, and "thought as a child, felt as a child, understood as a child." I am a grown-up child now, and have had many troubles, but the most acute sorrow I ever felt was the death of my pet pigeon, when I was seven years old.

It was long before the storm in his little bosom subsided, but when at last it did, he turned to go home; he would not go before, lest he might grieve his mother with the sight of his tears. At last, weary and half-frozen, he opened the cottage gate and met his mother coming to look for him, and she, who always spoke most gently to him, and for whose dear sake she was suffering, now by a sad chance, and out of her fright and vexation, sharply rebuked him and hurried him off to bed. "If dear mamma had known, she would not have scolded me so, though," was his last thought as he sank into a feverish sleep. The next morning when Mrs. Dulan arose, the heavy breathing, and bright flush upon the cheek of her boy, caught her attention, and roused her fears for his health. As she gazed, a sharp expression of pain contracted his features and he awoke. Feebly stretching out his arms to embrace her, he said:

"Oh, mamma, Willie is so sick, and his breast hurts so bad."

The child had caught the pleurisy.

It was late at night before medical assistance could be procured from a distant village. In the meantime the child's illness had fearfully progressed; and when at last the physician arrived, and examined him, he could give no hopes of his recovery. Language cannot depict the anguish of the mother as she bent over the couch of her suffering boy, and, if a grain could have increased the burden of her grief, it would have been felt in the memory of the few words of harsh rebuke when he had returned half-frozen and heavy-hearted from his fruitless search after the thimble, for the kind Elizabeth had arrived and explained the incident of the night.

* * * * *

It was midnight of the ninth day. Willie had lain in a stupor for a whole day and night previous. His mother stood by his bed; she neither spoke nor wept, but her face wore the expression of acute suffering. Her eyes were strained with an earnest, anxious, agonized gaze upon the deathly countenance of the boy. Old Dr. Dulan entered the room at this moment, and looking down at the child, and taking his thin, cold hand in his own, felt his pulse, and turning to the wretched mother, who had fixed her anxious gaze imploringly upon him, he said:

"Hannah, my dear sister---- But, oh, God! I cannot deceive you," and abruptly left the room.

"Elizabeth," said he to his daughter, who was sitting by the parlor fire, "go into the next room and remain with your aunt, and if anything occurs summon me at once; and, John, saddle my horse quickly, and ride over to Mrs. Caply and tell her to come over here."

Mrs. Caply was the layer-out of the dead for the neighborhood.

How tediously wore that dreary night away in the sickroom, where the insensible child was watched by his mother and her friend! The flickering taper, which both forgot to snuff, would fitfully flare up and reveal the watchers, the bed, and the prostrate form of the pale, stiff, motionless boy, with his eyes flared back with a fixed and horrid stare. In the parlor, a party equally silent and gloomy kept their vigil. Dr. Dulan, his son and the old woman, whose fearful errand made her very presence a horror, formed the group. The old woman at last, weary at holding her tongue so long, broke silence by saying: "I always thought that child would never be raised, sir--he was so smart and clever, and so dutiful to his ma. He was too good for this world, sir. How long has he been sick, sir?"

"Little more than a week; but I beg you will be silent, lest you disturb them in the next room."

"Yes, sir, certainly. Sick people ought to be kept quiet, though perhaps that don't much matter when they are dying. Well, poor little fellow; he was a pretty child, and will look lovely in his shroud and cap, and----"

"Hush!" exclaimed John Dulan, in a tone so stern that the woman was constrained to be silent.

Daylight was now peeping in at the windows. The doctor arose, put out the candles, opened the shutters, stirred the fire, and went into the next room. The widow was sitting in the same place, holding one of the boy's hands between her own, her head bowed down upon it. The doctor looked at the child; his eyes were now closed, as if in sleep. He laid his hand upon his brow, and bending down, intently gazed upon him. The child opened his eyes slowly. Passing quickly round the bed, the doctor laid his hand upon the recumbent head and said: "Look up, Hannah, your child is restored." With an ecstatic expression of gratitude and joy, the mother started to her feet, and gazed upon her boy.

"Kiss me, mamma," said Willie, opening his gentle eyes, in which beamed a quiet look of recognition and love. The mother kissed her child repeatedly and fervently, while exclamations of profound gratitude to Heaven escaped her. The doctor went to the window, and threw open the shutters. The rising sun poured its light into the room, and lit it up with splendor.

I must transport you now, in imagination, over a few years of time and a few miles of country, and take you into a splendid drawing-room, in the handsome courthouse of the Delany's, which, you remember, I described in the first part of this story, situated near the town of Richmond. On a luxurious sofa, in this superb room, reclined a most beautiful woman. Her golden hair divided above a high and classic brow, fell, flashing and glittering, upon her white bosom like sunbeams of snow. Her eyes--but who can describe those glorious eyes of living sapphire? Sapphire! Compare her eloquent eyes to soulless gems? Her eyes! Why, when their serious light was turned upon you, you would feel spellbound, entranced, as by a strain of rich and solemn music, and when their merry glance caught yours, you'd think there could not be a grief or a sin on earth! But the greatest charm in that fascinating countenance was the lips, small, full, red, their habitual expression being that of heavenly serenity and goodness.

Bending over the arm of the sofa, his head resting upon his hand, was a young man; his eyes earnestly, anxiously, pleadingly fixed upon the face of his companion, in whose ear, in a full, rich, and passionate tone, he was pouring a tale of love, hopeless almost to despair. The girl listened with a saddened countenance, and turning her large eyes, humid with tears, upon his face, she spoke:

"Richard, I am grieved beyond measure. Oh, cousin, I do not merit your deep and earnest love. I am an ingrate! I do not return it."

"Do you dislike me?" "Oh, no, no, no, indeed I do not--I esteem and respect you; nay, more, I love you as a brother."

"Then, dear, dearest Alice, since I am honored with your esteem, if not blessed with your love, give me your hand--be my wife--and ultimately perhaps----"

"Horrible!" exclaimed the young girl, leaving the room abruptly.

"What the d----l does that fool mean?" exclaimed Richard Delany, as an angry flush passed over his face. "One would think I had insulted her. Colonel Delany's penniless dependent should receive with more humility, if not with more gratitude, an offer of marriage from his heir. But I see how it is. She loves that beggarly Dulan--that wretched usher. But, death--death to the poverty-stricken wretch, if he presume to cross my path!" and the clenched fists, livid complexion, and grinding teeth gave fearful testimony to the deadly hatred that had sprung up in his bosom.

At this moment Colonel Delany entered the room, and taking a seat, said:

"Richard, I have somewhat to say to you, and I wish you seriously to attend. You know that I am your best, your most disinterested friend, and that your welfare lies nearer to my heart than aught else earthly. Well, I have observed, with much regret, the increased interest you seem to take in your cousin--your passion for her, in fact. These things are easily arrested in the commencement, and they must be arrested. You can do it, and you must do it! I have other views for you. Promise me, my son, that you will give up all thoughts of Alice."

Richard, who had remained in deep thought during his father's address, now looked up and replied:

"But, my father, Alice is a very beautiful, very amiable, very intellectual----"

"Beggar!"

"Father!"

"Unbend that brow, sir! nor dare to address your parent in that insolent tone! And now, sir, once for all, let us come to the point, and understand each other perfectly. Should you persist in your addresses to Alice, should you finally marry her, not a shilling, not a penny of your father's wealth shall fall on an ungrateful son."

Richard reflected profoundly a moment, and then replied:

"Fear of the loss of wealth would not deter me from any step. But the loss of my father would be an evil, I could never risk to encounter. I will obey you, sir."

"I am not satisfied," thought the old gentleman, as he left his son, after a few more moments of conversation. "I am not satisfied. I will watch them closely, and in the course of the day speak to Alice."

An opportunity soon offered. He found himself alone with Alice, after tea.

"Alice," he commenced, "I wish to make a confidant of you;" and he proceeded to unfold to her, at some length, his ambitious projects for his son, and concluded by giving her to understand, pretty distinctly, that he wished his son to select a wealthy bride, and that any other one would never be received by him as his daughter.

"I think I understand, although I cannot entirely sympathize with you, my dear uncle," said Alice, in a low, trembling tone. "All this has been said for my edification. That your mind may be perfectly at rest on this subject, I must say what may be deemed presumptuous: I would not, could not marry your son, either with or without your consent, or under any circumstances whatever."

"Alice! my dear Alice! How could you suppose I made any allusion to you? Oh! Alice, Alice!"

And the old man talked himself into a fit of remorse, sure enough. He believed Alice, although he could not believe his son. The old gentleman's uneasiness was not entirely dispelled; for, although Alice might not now love Richard, yet time could make a great change in her sentiments.

Alice Raymond, the orphan niece of Colonel Delany, was the daughter of an officer in the British army. Mr. Raymond was the youngest son of an old, wealthy and haughty family in Dorsetshire, England. At a very early age he married the youngest sister of Colonel Delany. Having nothing but his pay, all the miseries of an improvident marriage fell upon the young couple. The same hour that gave existence to Alice, deprived her of her mother. The facilities to ambition offered by America, and the hope of distracting his grief, induced Mr. Raymond to dispose of his commission, and embark for the Western World. Another object which, though the last named, was the first in deciding him to cross the Atlantic. This object was to place his little Alice in the arms of her maternal grandmother, the elder Mrs. Delany, then a widow, and a resident under the roof of her son, Colonel Delany. A few weeks after the sailing of the ship in which, with his infant daughter, Mr. Raymond took passage, the smallpox broke out on board and he was one of its earliest victims.

With his dying breath he consigned Alice to the care of the captain of the ship, a kind-hearted man, who undertook to convey the poor babe to her grandmother. On the arrival of the infant at the mansion of Colonel Delany, a new bereavement awaited her. Mrs. Delany, whose health had been declining ever since her settlement in her new home, was fast sinking to the grave. Colonel Delany, however, received the orphan infant with the greatest tenderness. Sixteen years of affectionate care had given him a father's place in the heart of Alice, and a father's influence over her. Within the last year the sunshine of Alice's life had been clouded.

Richard Delany, the only son and heir of Colonel Delany, had been sent to England at the age of fifteen to receive a college education. After remaining eight years abroad, the last year of his absence being spent in making the grand tour, he returned to his adopted country and his father's house. He was soon attracted by the beauty and grace of Alice. I say by her beauty and grace, because the moral and intellectual worth of the young girl he had not the taste to admire, even had he, at this early period of his acquaintance with her, an opportunity to judge. The attentions of Richard Delany to his cousin were not only extremely distressing to her, but highly displeasing to his father, who had formed, as we have seen, the most ambitious projects for his son. Richard Delany was not far wrong in his conjecture concerning the young usher, who was no other than our old friend William Dulan, little Willie, who had now grown to man's estate, the circumstances of whose introduction to the Delany family I must now proceed to explain.

To pass briefly over the events of William Dulan's childhood and youth. At the age of ten years he entered, as a pupil, the collegiate school over which Dr. Dulan presided, where he remained until his nineteenth year. It had been the wish of William Dulan and his mother that he should take holy orders, and he was about to enter a course of theological study under the direction of his uncle when an event occurred which totally altered the plan of his life. This event was the death of Dr. Dulan, his kind uncle and benefactor. All thoughts of the church had now to be relinquished, and present employment, by which to support his mother, to be sought. * * * It was twelve o'clock at night, about three months after the death of Dr. Dulan. The mother of William, by her hearth, still plied her needle, now the only means of their support. Her son sat by her side, as of old. He had been engaged some hours in reading to her. At length, throwing down the book, he exclaimed:

"Dearest, dearest mother, lay by that work. It shames my manhood, it breaks my heart, to see you thus coining your very health and life into pence for our support; while I! oh, mother, I feel like a human vampire, preying upon your slender strength!"

The widow looked into the face of her son, saw the distress, the almost agony of his countenance, and, quickly folding up her work, said gently:

"I am not sewing so much from necessity, now, dear William, as because I was not sleepy, being so much interested in your book."

The morning succeeding this little scene, William, as was his wont, arose early, and going into the parlor, made up the fire, hung the kettle on, and was engaged in setting the room in order, when his mother entered, who, observing his occupation, said:

"Ever since your return from school, William, you have anticipated me in this morning labor. You must now give it up, my son--I do not like to see you perform these menial offices."

"No service performed for my mother can be menial," said Willie, giving her a fond smile.

"My darling son!"

After breakfast William took up his hat and went out. It was three hours before he returned. His face was beaming with happiness, as he held an open letter in his hand.

"See, mother, dear, kind Providence has opened a way for us at last."

"What is it, my son?" said the widow, anxiously.

"Mr. Keene, you know, who left this neighborhood about three years ago, went to ---- County and established a school, which has succeeded admirably. He is in want of an assistant, and has written to me, offering four hundred dollars a year for my services in his institution."

"And you will have to leave me, William!"

These words escaped the widow, with a deep sigh, and without reflection. She added in an instant, with assumed cheerfulness:

"Yes, of course--so I would have you do."

A month from this conversation William Dulan was established in his new home, in the family of Mr. Keene, the principal of Bay Grove Academy, near Richmond.

The first meeting of William Dulan and Alice Raymond took place under the following circumstances. On the arrival of Richard Delany at home, his father, who kept up the good old customs of his English ancestors, gave a dinner and ball in honor of his son's coming of age. All the gentry of his own and the adjoining counties accepted invitations to attend. Among the guests was William Dulan. He was presented to Miss Raymond, the young hostess of the evening, by Mr. Keene. Young Dulan was at first dazzled by the transcendent beauty of her face, and the airy elegance of her form; then, won by the gentleness of her manners, the elevation of her mind, and the purity of her heart. One ball in a country neighborhood generally puts people in the humor of the thing, and is frequently followed by many others. It was so in this instance, and William Dulan and Alice Raymond met frequently in scenes of gayety, where neither took an active part in the festivities. A more intimate acquaintance produced a mutual and just estimation of each other's character, and preference soon warmed into love.

From the moment in which the jealous fears of Richard Delany were aroused, he resolved to throw so much coldness and hauteur in his manner toward that young gentleman as should banish him from the house. This, however, did not effect the purpose for which it was designed, and he finally determined to broach the subject to his father. Old Colonel Delany, whose "optics" were so very "keen" to spy out the danger of his son's forming a mésalliance, was stone blind when such a misfortune threatened Alice, liked the young man very much, and could see nothing out of the way in his attentions to his niece, and finally refused to close his doors against him at his son's instance. While this conversation was going on, the summer vacation approached, and William made arrangements to spend them with his mother.

One morning William Dulan sat at his desk. His face was pale, his spirits depressed. He loved Alice, oh! how madly. He could not forego the pleasure of her society; yet how was all this to end? Long years must elapse before, if ever, he could be in a situation to ask the hand of Alice. With his head bowed upon his hand, he remained lost in thought.

"Mr. Dulan, may our class come up? We know our lessons," said a youthful voice at his elbow.

"Go to your seats, boys," said a rich, melodious, kind voice; "I wish to have a few moments' conversation with Mr. Dulan," and Dr. Keene, the principal, stood by his side.

"My dear Dulan," said he, "you are depressed, but I bring you that which will cheer your spirits. I have decided to give up my school here into your sole charge if you will accept it. I have received, through the influence of some of my political friends, a lucrative and permanent appointment under the government, the nature of which I will explain to you by and by. I think of closing my connection with this school about the end of the next term. What say you? Will you be my successor?"

Dulan started to his feet, seized both the hands of his friend, pressed them fervently, and would have thanked him, but utterance failed. Dr. Keene insisted on his resuming his seat, and then added:

"The income of the school amounts to twelve hundred dollars a year. The schoolhouse, dwelling-house, with its outbuildings and numerous improvements upon the premises, go into the bargain. Yes, Dulan, I have known your secret long," said he, smiling good-humoredly, "and sincerely, though silently, commiserated the difficulties of your position; and I assure you, Dulan, that the greatest pleasure I felt in receiving my appointment was in the opportunity it gave me of making you and Alice happy. Stop, stop, Dulan, let me talk," laughed Keene, as William opened a battery of gratitude upon him. "It is now near the end of July. I should like to see you installed here on the first of September. The August vacation will give you an opportunity of making all your arrangements. I must now leave you to your labors."

Every boy that asked to go out went out that day. Every boy that said his task got praised, and every boy that missed his lesson got blamed. The day was awfully tedious for all that, but evening came at last, and the school was dismissed. William, after spending an unusually long time in the "outward adorning," hastened with a joy-beaming countenance to the home of his Alice. In the full flow of his joy he was met by a sudden disappointment. The servant who met him at the door informed him that Colonel Delany, Miss Raymond and Mr. Delany had set off for Richmond, with the intention of staying a couple of weeks. Crestfallen, William turned from the door. This was only a momentary disappointment, however, and soon his spirits rose, and he joyfully anticipated the time of the Delany's return. They were to be back in time for the approaching examination and exhibition at Bay Grove Academy; and in preparing his pupils for this event, William Dulan found ample employment for his time and thoughts. I will not weary you with a description of the exhibition. It passed off in that school pretty much as it does in others. The Delanys, however, had not returned in time to be present, nay, the very last day of William's stay had dawned, yet they had not arrived. William had written to his mother that he would be home on a stated day, and not even for the delight of meeting the mistress of his heart, the period of whose return was now uncertain, would he disappoint her. William was engaged in packing his trunk, when Dr. Keene, again the harbinger of good tidings, entered his room.

"My dear Dulan," said he, "I have come to tell you that the Delanys have arrived. You will have an opportunity of spending your last evening with Alice."

William shuffled his things into his trunk, pressed down the lid, locked it, and, hastily bidding his friend good-evening, took his hat and hurried from the house. Being arrived at Colonel Delany's, he was shown into the drawing-room, and was delighted to find Alice its sole occupant. The undisguised joy with which she received him left scarcely a doubt upon his mind as to the reception of his intended proposals. After a few mutual inquiries respecting health, friends, and so forth, William took her white hand in his, and said, or attempted to say--I know not what--it stuck in his throat--and he remained merely silent, holding the hand of Alice. There is something so extremely difficult about making a pre-meditated declaration of love. It is much easier when it can be surprised from a man. William knew the moments were very precious. He knew that Colonel Delany or his son might be expected to enter at any moment, and there would be an end of opportunity for a month or six weeks to come; yet there he sat, holding her hand, the difficulty becoming greater every minute, while the crimson cheek of Alice burned with a deeper blush. At length footsteps approached. William heard them, and becoming alarmed, hastily, hurriedly, but fervently and passionately exclaimed:

"Alice, I love you with my whole heart, mind and strength. I love you as we are commanded only to love God. Dearest Alice, will you become my wife?"

"Miss Raymond," said Richard Delany, entering at this moment, "my father desires your presence instantly in his study on business of the utmost moment to yourself. Mr. Dulan, I hope, will excuse me, as we have but just arrived, and many matters crave my attention. Good-evening, sir," and, bowing haughtily, he attended his cousin from the room. William Dulan arose and took his hat to go.

"Farewell, Mr. Dulan," said Alice, kindly, "if we should not meet again before your departure."

"Farewell, sweet Alice," murmured William Dulan as he left the house.

* * * * *

It was a glorious Sabbath morning early in August. The widow's cottage gleamed in the dark bosom of the wood like a gem in the tresses of beauty. Everything wore its brightest aspect. The windows of the little parlor were open, and the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers were wafted through them. But the little breakfast-table, with its snowy cloth and its one plate, cup and saucer, looked almost piteous from its solitude. Upon the clean white coverlet of the bed sat the widow's little black bonnet and shawl, prayer-book, and clean pocket handkerchief, folded with its sprig of lavender. It was Communion Sunday, and the widow would not miss going to church on any account. She dispatched her breakfast quickly--poor thing! she had not much appetite. She had sat up half the night previous, awaiting the arrival of William, but he had not come; and a man from the village had informed her that the mail-stage had arrived on the night previous without any passengers. As the stage would not pass again for a week, the widow could not expect to see or hear from her son for that length of time. After putting away her breakfast things, she donned her bonnet and shawl, and, taking her prayer-book, opened the door to go out. What a pleasant sight met her eyes. A neat one-horse carriage, or rather cart, stood at the door--her son was just alighting from it. In another instant he had clasped his mother in his arms.

"Oh! my William! my William! I am so glad to see you," exclaimed the delighted mother, bursting into tears. "Oh, but this is so joyful, so unexpected, dear William! I looked for you, indeed, last night; but, as you did not come, I gave you up, unwillingly enough, for a week. But come in, darling; you've not breakfasted, I know."

"No, dear mother, because I wished to breakfast with you; but let me give something to the horse, first, and you sit in the door, dear mother--I do not want to lose sight of you a moment, while waiting on Rosinante."

"Never mind, William, old Jake can do that. Here, Jake," said she, as the old servant approached, "take charge of Master William's horse." Then turning to William, she said: "John sends old Jake over every morning to help me."

"Ah! How are Cousins John and Elizabeth?"

"Oh, very hearty. We shall see them this morning at church."

"I did not come in the stage yesterday, mother," said William, as they took their seats at the breakfast table, "because I had purchased this light wagon and horse for you to ride to church in, and I came down in it. I reached the river last night, but could not cross. The old ferryman had gone to bed, and would not rise. Well, after breakfast, dear mother, I shall have the pleasure of driving you to church in your own carriage!" added William, smiling.

"Ah! William, what a blessing you are to me, my dear son; but it must have taken the whole of your quarter's salary to buy this for me?" And she glanced, with pain, at his rusty and threadbare suit of black, and at his napless hat.

"Ah, mother, I was selfish after all, and deserve no credit, for I laid the money out in the way which would give myself the most pleasure. But, see, here is old Jake to tell us the carriage is ready. Come, mother, I will hand you in, and as we go along I will unfold to you some excellent news, which I am dying to deliver." So saying, he placed his mother carefully in the little carriage, and seating himself beside her drove off, leaving old Jake in charge of the house.

"There is plenty of time, dear mother; so we will drive slowly, that we may talk with more comfort."

William then proceeded to relate, at large, all that had taken place during his residence at Bay Grove--not omitting his love for Alice, of whom he gave a glowing description; nor the bright prospects which the kindness of Dr. Keene opened before him. Then he described the beautiful dwelling which would become vacant on the removal of Dr. Keene's family, which was expected to take place some time during the coming autumn. To this dwelling, he intended to remove his mother, and hoped to bear his bride.

To all this the mother listened with grateful joy. At the church, William Dulan met again his cousins, John and Elizabeth, who expressed their delight at the meeting and insisted that William and his mother should return with them to dinner. This, however, both mother and son declined, as they wished to spend the day at home together.

William Dulan spent a month with his mother, and when the moment arrived that was to terminate his visit, he said to her:

"Now, dear mother, cheer up! This parting is so much better than our last parting. Now, I am going to prepare a beautiful home for you, and when I come at Christmas, it will be for the purpose of carrying you back with me."

The widow gave her son a beaming look of love.

With a "Heaven be with you, my dearest mother," and "God bless you, my best son," they parted. They parted to meet no more on earth.

Let us now return to the mansion of Colonel Delany, and learn the nature of that "matter of the utmost moment to herself," that had summoned Alice so inopportunely from the side of her lover.

* * * * *

On reaching the study of her uncle, Miss Raymond found him in deep consultation with an elderly gentleman in black. Various packets of papers were before him--an open letter was held in his hand. He arose to meet Alice, as she advanced into the room, and taking her hand with grave respect, said:

"Lady Hilden, permit me to congratulate you on your accession to your title and estates."

"Sir! uncle!" exclaimed Alice, gazing at him with the utmost astonishment, scarcely conscious whether she was waking or dreaming.

"Yes, my dear, it is true. Your grandfather--old Lord Hilden--departed this life on the sixth of last March. His only living son survived him but a few weeks, and died without issue, and the title and estates, with a rent-roll of eight thousand pounds per annum, has descended, in right of your father, to yourself!"

"I shall have so much to give to William!" involuntarily exclaimed Alice.

"Madam!" exclaimed Colonel Delany in surprise.

Alice blushed violently at having thought aloud. "Dear sir," said she, "I did not know what I was saying."

"Ah, well, I suppose you are a little startled with this sudden news," said the Colonel, smiling; "but now it is necessary for you to examine with us some of these papers. Ah, I crave your pardon, Mr. Reynard--Lady Hilden, this is Mr. Reynard, late solicitor to your deceased grandfather, the Baron----"

Great was the excitement in the neighborhood when it was noised abroad that Alice Raymond had become a baroness, in her own right, and the possessor of a large estate in England. And when, for the first time since her accession to her new dignities, she appeared at church, in deep mourning, every eye was turned upon her, and she almost sank beneath the gaze of so many people.

In the height of the "nine days' wonder," William Dulan returned, and was greeted by the news from every quarter.

"Oh, Alice--lost! lost! lost to me forever!" exclaimed he, in agony, as he paced, with hurried strides, up and down the floor of his little room. "Oh, my mother, if it were not for thee, I should pray that this wretched heart of mine would soon be stilled in death."

If any human being will look candidly upon the events of his own life, and the history of his own heart, with a view to examine the causes of suffering, he will be constrained to admit that by far the greater portion of his miseries have originated in misapprehension, and might have been easily prevented or cured by a little calm investigation. It was so with William Dulan, who was at this moment suffering the most acute agony of mind he ever felt in his life, from a misconception, a doubt, which a ten minutes' walk to the house of Colonel Delany, and a ten minutes' talk with Alice, would have dissipated forever.

If Richard Delany was anxious before to wed his cousin for love, he was now half crazy to take that step by which both love and ambition would be gratified to the utmost.

He actually loved her ten times as much as formerly. The "beggar" was beautiful, but the baroness was bewitching! Spurred on, then, he determined to move heaven, earth and the other place, if necessary, to accomplish his object. He beset Lady Hilden with the most earnest prayers, and protestations, and entreaties, reminding her that he loved and wooed her before the dawn of her prosperity, and appealed to her for the disinterestedness of his passion. But all in vain. He even besought his father to use his influence with Alice in his favor. Colonel Delany, his objections being all now removed, urged his niece, by her affection, by her compassion, and, finally, after some delicate hesitation, by her gratitude, to accept the proffered hand of his son. But Alice was steadfast in her rejection.

"A change had come o'er the spirit of her dream!"

Alas, alas! that a change of fortune should work such a change of spirit! Alice Raymond was now Lady Hilden. Her once holy, loving, meek blue eyes were now splendid with light and joy. Upon cheek and lip, once so delicately blooming, now glanced and glowed a rich, bright crimson. Her once softly falling step had become firm, elastic and stately. "A peeress in my own right," was the thought that sent a spasmodic joy to the heart of Alice. I am sorry she was not more philosophical, more exalted, but I cannot help it, so it was; and if Alice "put on airs," it must not be charged upon her biographer.

Time sped on. A rumor of an approaching marriage between Mr. Richard Delany and Lady Hilden was industriously circulated, and became the general topic of conversation in the neighborhood. To avoid hearing it talked of, William Dulan sedulously kept out of company. He had never seen Alice since she became Lady Hilden. Dr. Keene had removed with his family from Bay Grove, and the principal government and emolument of the school had devolved upon young Dulan. The Christmas holidays were at hand, and he resolved to take advantage of the opportunity offered by them, to remove his mother to Bay Grove. On the last evening of his stay, something in the circumstance brought back forcibly to his mind his last conversation with Alice--that conversation had also taken place on the eve of a journey; and the association of ideas awakened, together with the belief that he would never again have an opportunity of beholding her, irresistibly impelled him to seek an interview with Alice.

Twilight was fast fading into night. Lady Hilden stood alone, gazing out from the window of her uncle's drawing-room. She had changed again, since we saw her last. There was something of sorrow, or bitterness, in the compressed or quivering lip. Her eye was bright as ever, but it was the brightness of the icicle glancing in the winter sun--it was soon quenched in tears, and as she gazed out upon the gloomy mountain, naked forest, and frozen lake, she murmured: "I used to love summer and day so much; now----" [A servant entered with lights. "Take them away," said Alice. She was obeyed.]--"the dark soul in the dark scene--there is almost repose in that harmony."

"Mr. Dulan," said the servant, reappearing at the door, and Mr. William Dulan followed the announcement.

"You may bring in the light, now," said Alice.

"Will Lady Hilden accept congratulations, offered at so late a period?" said William Dulan, with a respectful bow.

Alice, who had been startled out of her self-possession, replied only by a bow.

"I was about to leave this neighborhood for a short time; but could not do so without calling to bid you farewell, fearing you might be gone to England before I return." William Dulan's voice was beginning to quiver.

"I have no present intention of going to England."

"No? Such a report is rife in the neighborhood."

"One is not chargeable with the reports of the neighborhood."

Alice said this in a peculiar tone, as she glanced at the sorrow-stricken visage of the young man.

A desultory conversation ensued, after which William Dulan arose to take his leave, which he did in a choking, inaudible voice. As he turned to leave the room, his ghastly face and unsteady step attested, in language not to be misunderstood, the acuteness and intensity of his suffering. Alice did not misunderstand it. She uttered one word, in a low and trembling tone:

"William!"

He was at her side in an instant. A warm blush glowing over her bosom, cheek and brow, her eyes were full of tears, as she raised them to his face, eloquent with all a maiden may not speak.

"Angel! I love! I adore thee!" exclaimed the youth, sinking at her feet.

"Love me, William, only love me, and let us both adore the Being who hath given us to each other."

* * * * *

It was a cold night on the shores of the ice-bound Rappahannock. A storm of wind and snow that had been fiercely raging all day long, at length subsided. At a low cabin, which served the threefold purposes of post-office, ferry-house and tavern, an old gray-haired man was nodding over a smoldering fire. His slumbers were disturbed by the blast of a stage horn and wheels of the coach, which soon stopped before the door.

Two travelers alighted and entered the cabin. The old ferryman arose to receive them.

"Any chance of crossing to-night, Uncle Ben?" inquired the younger traveler.

"He-he! hardly, Mr. William; the river has been closed for a week," chuckling at the thought that he should be saved the trouble of taking the coach across.

"Oh, of course, I did not expect to go on the boat; I was thinking of crossing on the ice."

"I think that would scarcely be safe, Mr. William; the weather has moderated a great deal since nightfall, and I rather think the ice may be weak."

"Pooh! nonsense! fiddle-de-dee!" exclaimed the other traveler, testily; "do you think, old driveler, that a few hours of moderate weather could weaken, effectually, the ice of a river that has been hard frozen for a week? Why, at this moment a coach might be driven across with perfect safety!"

"I shouldn't like to try it, though, sir," said the driver, who entered at this moment.

"The gentleman can try it, if he likes," continued the old man, with a grin, "but I do hopes Mr. Dulan won't."

"Why, the ice will certainly bear a foot-passenger safely across," smiled William Dulan.

"I dare say it may; but, at any rate, I wouldn't try it, Master William--'specially as it's a long, dark, slushy road between here and the widow's."

"Why, Uncle Ben, do you think I am a young chicken, to be killed by wetting my feet?" asked William, laughing. "Besides, at this very moment, my good mother is waiting for me, and has a blazing fire, a pot of strong coffee, and a bowl of oysters, in readiness. I would not disappoint her, or myself, for a good deal."

"If it were not for this confounded lameness in my feet, I would not stop at this vile hole to-night," said the elder traveler, who was no other than Richard Delany, whom imperative business had called to this part of the country, and who had thus become, very reluctantly, the traveling companion of William Dulan.

"Nobody asked you, sir," exclaimed the old man, who did not seek popularity.

William Dulan, who by this time had resumed his cloak, and received a lighted lantern from the old ferryman, took his way to the river, accompanied by the latter. Arrived at its edge, he turned, shook hands with the old man, and stepped upon the ice. Old Ben remained, with his eyes anxiously strained after the light of the lantern as it was borne across the river. It was already half-way across--suddenly a breaking sound, a fearful shriek, a quenched light, and all was dark and still upon the surface of the ice; but beneath, a young, strong life was battling fiercely with death. Ah! who can tell the horrors of that frightful struggle in the dark, cold, ice-bound prison of the waters?

The old man turned away, aghast with horror, and his eyes fell upon the countenance of Richard Delany, which was now lit up with demoniac joy, as he muttered between his teeth:

"Good, good, good! Alice shall be mine now!"

* * * * *

It was night in the peaceful cottage of the widow. All the little _agremens_ her son had pictured were there. A little round-table, covered with a snowy cloth, stood in readiness. An easy-chair was turned with its back to the fire, and on it a dressing-gown, and before it lay a pair of soft, warm slippers. The restless, joyous, anxious mother was reading over, for the twentieth time, her son's last letter, in which he promised to be home, punctually, on that evening. Hours flew on, but he did not come. At length, one o'clock struck, and startled the widow from her meditative posture. "I must go to bed--I must not look pale with watching, to-morrow, and alarm my good son. It is just as it was before--he cannot get across the river to-night. I shall see him early to-morrow." Removing the things from about the fire, and setting the room in the nicest order, the widow retired to bed.

She rose early in the morning, to prepare a good breakfast for her son. "He shall have buckwheat cakes this morning; he is so fond of them," said she, as she busied herself in preparation.

Everything was in readiness, yet William came not. The morning passed on. The mother grew impatient.

"It is certainly high time he was here now," said she; "I will go through the woods, toward the high-road, and see if he is coming," and putting on her bonnet and shawl, she set out. She had just entered the wood when two advancing figures caught her attention. The path was so narrow that they were walking one behind the other.

"Ah! there he is--and John Dulan is with him," exclaimed the mother as they drew near.

The foremost man was indeed John Dulan, who held out his hand as they met.

"Ah! how do you do, John? How do you do? This is so kind of you! But, stand aside--excuse me--I want to see that youth behind you!" and the widow brushed past him, and caught to her bosom--old Ben, the ferryman.

"My gracious! I thought you were my son! Dear me, how absurd!" exclaimed the widow, releasing him.

"Let us go on to the cottage, aunt," said John Dulan, sadly.

"Yes, do. I am looking every minute for William. Oh, you can tell me, Uncle Ben--did he reach the ferry last night?"

"Yes, madam," groaned the old man.

"Why, you alarm me! Why didn't he come home, then?"

"He did try--he did try! I begged him not to--but he would! Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"Why, what in Heaven's name is the matter? What has happened? Is my son ill?"

"Tell her, Mr. Dulan--tell her! I could not, to save my life!"

The widow turned very pale.

"Where is William? Where is my son? Is he ill? Is he ill?"

"My dearest aunt, do try to compose yourself!" said John Dulan, in a trembling voice.

"Where is my son? Where is he?"

"You cannot see him to-day----"

"Yet he was at the ferry-house last night! Great God! it cannot be!" cried the mother, suddenly growing very pale and faint, "Oh, no! Merciful Providence--such sorrow cannot be in store for me? He is not----"

She could not finish the sentence, but turned a look of agonizing inquiry on John Dulan. He did not speak.

"Answer! answer! answer!" almost screamed the mother.

John Dulan turned away.

"Is my son--is my son--dead?"

"He is in heaven, I trust," sobbed John.

A shriek, the most wild, shrill and unearthly that ever came from the death-throe of a breaking heart, arose upon the air, and echoed through the woods, and the widow sunk, fainting, to the ground. They raised her up--the blood was flowing in torrents from her mouth. They bore her to the house, and laid her on the bed. John Dulan watched beside her, while the old man hastened to procure assistance.

The life of the widow was despaired of for many weeks. She recovered from one fit of insensibility, only to relapse into another. At length, however, she was pronounced out of danger. But the white hair, silvered within the last few weeks, the strained eyes, contracted brow and shuddering form, marked the presence of a scathing sorrow.

One day, while lying in this state, a traveling carriage drew up before the door, and a young, fair girl, clad in deep mourning, alighted and entered. Elizabeth, who was watching beside her, stooped down and whispered very low:

"The betrothed bride of your son."

The young girl approached the bed, and, taking the hand of the sufferer, exclaimed: "Mother, mother, you are not alone in your sorrow! I have come to live or die by you, as my strength may serve!"

The widow opened her arms and received her in an embrace. They wept. The first blessed tears that had relieved the burdened heart of either were shed together.

Alice never left her. When the widow was sufficiently recovered, they went to England. The best years of the life of Alice were spent in soothing the declining days of William Dulan's mother. The face of Alice was the last object her eyes rested on in life; and the hands of Alice closed them in death.

Alice never married, but spent the remainder of her life in ministering to the suffering poor around her.

I neglected to mention that, during the illness of Mrs. Dulan, the body of her son was found, and interred in this spot, by the request of his mother.

"What becomes of the moral?" you will say.

I have told you a true story. Had I created these beings from imagination, I should also have judged them--punished the bad and rewarded the good. But these people actually lived, moved, and had their being in the real world, and have now gone to render in their account to their Divine Creator and Judge. The case of Good _versus_ Evil, comes on in another world, at another tribunal, and, no doubt, will be equitably adjudged.

* * * * *

As I fear my readers may be dying to know what farther became of our cheery set of travelers, I may, on some future occasion, gratify their laudable desire after knowledge; only informing them at present that we did reach our destination at ten o'clock that night, in safety, although it was very dark when we passed down the dreaded Gibbet Hill and forded the dismal Bloody Run Swamp. That Aunt Peggy's cap was not mashed by Uncle Clive's hat, and that Miss Christine did not put her feet into Cousin Kitty's bandbox, to the demolition of her bonnet; but that both bonnet and cap survived to grace the heads of their respective proprietors. The only mishap that occurred, dear reader, befell your obsequious servitor, who went to bed with a sick headache, caused really by her acute sympathy with the misfortunes of the hero and heroine of our aunt's story, but which Miss Christine grossly attributed to a hearty supper of oysters and soft crabs, eaten at twelve o'clock at night, which, of course, you and I know, had nothing at all to do with it.

* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

1. Obvious printer's errors have been corrected without comment.

2. Text which was in italics in the original is surrounded by '_'.

3. The stories in the original scans had page numbers in three blocks.

The Rector of St. Marks pages numbered 1-131

Aunt Henrietta's Mistake } False and True Love } In the Hospital } pages numbered 171-243 Earnest and True } Memorable Thanksgiving Days }

The Irish Refugee pages numbered 166-212

This version reflects the order of the images from the digital library, and has not been checked against a physical copy of any edition.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Rector of St. Mark's, by Mary J. Holmes