[Illustration]

 RECTOR OF ST. MARKS

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[Illustration]

 THE RECTOR OF ST. MARK'S

 BY

 MRS. MARY J. HOLMES

 AUTHOR OF "DORA DEANE, " "MAGGIE MILLER, " "LENA RIVERS, " "THE ENGLISH ORPHAN, " ETC. 

 M. A. DONOHUE & CO. , CHICAGO. 

 * * * * *

THE RECTOR OF ST. MARK'S

CHAPTER I. 

FRIDAY AFTERNOON. 

The Sunday sermon was finished, and the young rector of St. Mark'sturned gladly from his study-table to the pleasant south window wherethe June roses were peeping in, and abandoned himself for a fewmoments to the feeling of relief he always experienced when his week'swork was done. To say that no secular thoughts had intruded themselvesupon the rector's mind, as he planned and wrote that sermon, would notbe true; for, though morbidly conscientious on many points andearnestly striving to be a faithful shepherd of the souls committed tohis care, Arthur Leighton possessed the natural desire that those wholistened to him should not only think well of what he taught but alsoof the form in which the teaching was presented. When he became aclergyman he did not cease to be a man, with all a man's capacity tolove and to be loved, and so, though he fought and prayed against it, he had seldom brought a sermon to the people of St. Mark's in whichthere was not a thought of Anna Ruthven's soft, brown eyes, and theway they would look at him across the heads of the congregation. Annaled the village choir, and the rector was painfully conscious that fartoo much of earth was mingled with his devotional feelings during themoments when, the singing over, he walked from his armchair to thepulpit and heard the rustle of the crimson curtain in the organ loftas it was drawn back, disclosing to view the five heads of whichAnna's was the center. It was very wrong, he knew, and to-day he hadprayed earnestly for pardon, when, after choosing his text, "Simon, Simon, lovest thou me?" instead of plunging at once into his subject, he had, without a thought of what he was doing, idly written upon ascrap of paper lying near, "Anna, Anna, lovest thou me, more thanthese?" the these, referring to the wealthy Thornton Hastings, his oldclassmate in college, who was going to Saratoga this very summer, forthe purpose of meeting Anna Ruthven and deciding if she would do tobecome Mrs. Thornton Hastings, and mistress of the house on MadisonSquare. With a bitter groan at the enormity of his sin, and a ferventprayer for forgiveness, the rector had torn the slips of paper inshreds and given himself so completely to his work that his sermon wasdone a full hour earlier than usual, and he was free to indulge inreveries of Anna for as long a time as he pleased. 

"I wonder if Mrs. Meredith has come, " he thought, as, with his feetupon the window-sill, he sat looking across the meadow-land to wherethe chimneys and gable roof of Captain Humphreys' house was visible, for Captain Humphreys was Anna Ruthven's grandfather, and it was thereshe had lived since she was three years old. 

As if thoughts of Mrs. Meredith reminded him of something else, therector took from the drawer of his writing table a letter received theprevious day, and, opening to the second page, read again as follows:

 "Are you going anywhere this summer? Of course not, for so long as there is an unbaptized child, or a bed-ridden old woman in the parish, you must stay at home, even if you do grow as rusty as did Professor Cobden's coat before we boys made him a present of a new one. I say, Arthur, there was a capital fellow spoiled when you took to the ministry, with your splendid talents, and rare gift for making people like and believe in you. 

 "Now, I suppose you will reply that for this denial of self you look for your reward in heaven, and I suppose you are right; but as I have no reason to think I have any stock in that region, I go in for a good time here, and this summer I take it at Saratoga, where I expect to meet one of your lambs. I hear you have in your flock forty in all, their ages varying from fifteen to fifty. But this particular lamb, Miss Anna Ruthven, is, I fancy, the fairest of them all, and as I used to make you my father confessor in the days when I was rusticated out in Winsted, and fell so desperately in love with the six Miss Larkins, each old enough to be my mother, so now I confide to you the programme as marked out by Mrs. Julia Meredith, the general who brings the lovely Anna into the field. 

 "We, that is, Mrs. Meredith and myself, are on the best of terms. I lunch with her, dine with her, lounge in her parlors, drive her to the park, take her to the operas, concerts and plays, and compliment her good looks, which are wonderfully well preserved for a woman of forty-five. I am twenty-six, you know, and so no one ever associates us together in any kind of gossip. She is the very quintessence of fashion, and I am one of the danglers whose own light is made brighter by the reflection of her rays. Do you see the point? Well, then, in return for my attentions, she takes a very sisterly interest in my future wife, and has adroitly managed to let me know of her niece, a certain Anna Ruthven, who, inasmuch as I am tired of city belles, will undoubtedly suit my fancy, said Anna being very fresh, very artless, and very beautiful withal. She is also niece to Mrs. Meredith, whose only brother married very far beneath him, when he took to wife the daughter of a certain old-fashioned Captain Humphreys, a pillar, no doubt, in your church. This young Ruthven was drowned, or hung, or something, and the sister considers it as another proof of his wife's lack of refinement and discretion that at her death, which happened when Anna was three years old, she left her child to the charge of her own parents, Captain Humphreys and spouse, rather than to Mrs. Meredith's care, and that, too, in the very face of the lady's having stood as sponsor for the infant, an act which you will acknowledge was very unnatural and ungrateful in Mrs. Ruthven, to say the least of it. 

 "You see I am telling you all this, just as if you did not know Miss Anna's antecedents even better than myself, but possibly you do not know that, having arrived at a suitable age, she is this summer to be introduced into society at Saratoga, while I am expected to fall in love with her at once and make her Mrs. Hastings before another winter. Now, in your straightforward way of putting things, don't imagine that Mrs. Meredith has deliberately told me all this, for she has not, but I understand her perfectly, and know exactly what she expects me to do. Whether I do or not depends partly upon how I like Miss Anna, partly upon how she likes me, and partly upon yourself. 

 "Now, Arthur, you know, I was always famous for presentiments or fancies, as you termed them, and the latest of these is that you like Anna Ruthven. Do you? Tell me, honor bright, and by the memory of the many scrapes you got me out of, and the many more you kept me from getting into, I will treat Miss Anna as gingerly and brotherly as if she was already your wife. I like her picture, which I have seen, and believe I shall like the girl, but if you say that by looking at her with longing eyes I shall be guilty of breaking some one of the ten commandments--I don't know which--why, then, hands off at once. That's fair, and will prove to you that, although not a parson like yourself, there is still a spark of honor, if not of goodness, in the breast of

 "Yours truly, "THORNTON HASTINGS. 

 "If you were here this afternoon, I'd take you to drive after a pair of bays which are to sweep the stakes at Saratoga this summer, and I'd treat you to a finer cigar than often finds its way to Hanover. Shall I send you out a box, or would your people pull down the church about the ears of a minister wicked enough to smoke? Again adieu. 

 "T. H. "

There was a half-amused smile on the face of the rector as hefinished the letter, so like its thoughtless, lighthearted writer, andwondered what the Widow Rider, across the way, would say of aclergyman who smoked cigars and rode after a race-horse with such agay scapegrace as Thornton Hastings. Then the amused look passed away, and was succeeded by a shadow of pain as the rector remembered thereal import of Thornton's letter, and felt that he had no right tosay, "I have a claim on Anna Ruthven; you must not interfere. " For hehad no claim on her, though half his parishioners, and many outsidehis parish, had long ago given her to him, and said that she wasworthy; while he had loved her, as only natures like his can love, since that week before Christmas, when their hands had met with astrange, tremulous flutter, as together they fastened the wreaths ofevergreen upon the wall, he holding them up and she driving therefractory tacks, which would keep falling in spite of her, so thathis hand went often from the carpet or basin to hers, and onceaccidentally closed almost entirely over the little, soft, whitething, which felt so warm to his touch. 

How prettily Anna had looked to him during those memorable days, somuch prettier than the other young girls of his flock, whose hair wastumbled ere the day's work was done, and whose dresses were soiled anddisordered; while here was always so tidy and neat and the braids ofher chestnut hair were always so smooth and bright. How well, too, heremembered that brief ten minutes, when, in the dusky twilight whichhad crept so early into the church, he stood alone with her, andtalked, he did not know of what, only that he heard her voice replyingto him, and saw the changeful color on her cheek as she lookedmodestly in his face. That was a week of delicious happiness, and therector had lived it over many times, wondering if, when the nextChristmas came, it would find him any nearer to Anna Ruthven than thelast had left him. 

"It must, " he suddenly exclaimed. "The matter shall be settled beforeshe leaves Hanover with this Mrs. Meredith. My claim is superior toThornton's, and he shall not take her from me. I'll write what I lackthe courage to tell her, and to-morrow I will call and deliver itmyself. "

An hour later, and there was lying in the rector's desk a letter inwhich he had told Anna Ruthven how much he loved her, and had askedher to be his wife. Something whispered that she would not refuse him, and with this hope to buoy him up, his two miles walk that warmafternoon was neither long nor tiresome, and the old lady, by whosebedside he had read and prayed, was surprised to hear him as he lefther door whistling an old love-tune which she, too, had known and sungfifty years before. 

CHAPTER II. 

SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 

Mrs. Julia Meredith had arrived, and the brown farmhouse was in astate of unusual excitement; not that Captain Humphreys or his goodwife, Aunt Ruth, respected very highly the great lady who had soseldom honored them with her presence, and who always tried so hard toimpress them with a sense of her superiority and the mighty favor sheconferred upon them by occasionally condescending to bring heraristocratic presence into their quiet, plain household, and turn ittopsy-turvy. Still, she was Anna's aunt, and then, too, it was adistinction which Aunt Ruth rather enjoyed, that of having afashionable city woman for her guest, and so she submitted with a goodgrace to the breaking in upon all her customs, and uttered no word ofcomplaint when the breakfast table waited till eight, and sometimesnine o'clock, and the freshest eggs were taken from the nest, and thecream all skimmed from the pans to gratify the lady who came down verycharming and pretty in her handsome cambric wrapper, with rosebuds inher hair. She had arrived the previous night, and while the rector waspenning his letter she was holding Anna's hand in hers, and, runningher eye rapidly over her face and form, was making an inventory of hercharms and calculating their value. 

A very graceful figure, neither too short nor too tall. This she getsfrom the Ruthvens. Splendid eyes and magnificent hair, when Valenciahas once taken it in hand. Complexion a little too brilliant, but afew weeks of dissipation will cure that. Fine teeth, and featurestolerably regular, except that the mouth is too wide, and the foreheadtoo low, which defects she takes from the Humphreys. Small feet andrather pretty hands, except that they seem to have grown wide since Isaw her before. Can it be these horrid people have set her to milkingthe cows?

This was what Mrs. Meredith thought that first evening after herarrival at the farmhouse, and she had not materially changed her mindwhen the next afternoon she went with Anna down to the Glen, for whichshe affected a great fondness, because she thought it was romantic andgirlish to do so, and she was far being past the period when womencease caring for youth and its appurtenances. She had criticisedAnna's taste in dress--had said that the belt she selected did notharmonize with the color of the muslin she wore, and suggested that afrill of lace about the neck would be softer and more becoming thanthe stiff white linen collar. 

"But in the country it does not matter, " she said. "Wait till I getyou to New York, under Madam Blank's supervision, and then we shallsee a transformation such as will astonish the humble Hanoverians. "

This was up in Anna's room, and when the Glen was reached Mrs. Meredith continued the conversation, telling Anna of her plans fortaking her first to New York, where she was to pass through areformatory process with regard to dress. Then they were going toSaratoga, where she expected her niece to reign supreme; both as abeauty and a belle. 

"Whatever I have left at my death I shall leave to you, " she said;"consequently you will pass as an heiress expectant, and with allthese aids I confidently expect you to make a brilliant match beforethe winter season closes, if, indeed, you do not before you leaveSaratoga. "

"Oh, aunt, " Anna exclaimed, her brown eyes flashing with unwontedbrilliancy, and the rich color mantling her cheek. "You surely are nottaking me to Saratoga on such a shameful errand as that?"

"Shameful errand as what?" Mrs. Meredith asked, looking quickly up, while Anna replied:

"Trying to find a husband. I cannot go if you are, much as I haveanticipated it. I should despise and hate myself forever. No, aunt, Icannot go. "

"Nonsense, child. You don't know what you are saying, " Mrs. Meredithretorted, feeling intuitively that she must change her tactics andkeep her real intentions concealed if she would lead her niece intothe snare laid for her. 

Cunningly and carefully for the next half hour she talked, tellingAnna that she was not to be thrust upon the notice of any one--thatshe herself had no patience with those intriguing mammas who pushtheir bold daughters forward, but that as a good marriage was the_ultima thule_ of a woman's hopes, it was but natural that she, asAnna's aunt, should wish to see her well settled in life, and settled, too, near herself, where they could see each other every day. 

"Of course, there is no one in Hanover whom you, as a Ruthven, wouldstoop to marry, " she said, fixing her eyes inquiringly upon Anna, whowas pulling to pieces the wild flowers she had gathered, and thinkingof that twilight hour when she had talked with their young clergymanas she never talked before. Of the many times, too, when they had metin the cottages of the poor, and he had walked slowly home with her, lingering by the gate, as if loth to say good-by, she thought, and thelife she had lived since he first came to Hanover, and she learned toblush when she met the glance of his eye, looked fairer far than thelife her aunt, had marked out as the proper one for a Ruthven. 

"You have not told me yet. Is there any one in Hanover whom you thinkworthy of you?" Mrs. Meredith asked, just as a footstep was heard, andthe rector of St. Mark's came round the rock where they were sitting. 

He had called at the farmhouse, bringing the letter, and with it abook of poetry, of which Anna had asked the loan. 

Taking advantage of her guest's absence, Grandma Humphreys had gone toa neighbor's after a recipe for making a certain kind of cake of whichMrs. Meredith was very fond, and only Esther, the servant, andValencia, the smart waiting maid, without whom Mrs. Meredith nevertraveled, were left in charge. 

"Down in the Glen with Mrs. Meredith. Will you be pleased to waitwhile I call them?" Esther said, in reply to the rector's inquiriesfor Miss Ruthven. 

"No, I will find them myself, " Mr. Leighton rejoined. Then, as hethought how impossible it would be to give the letter to Anna in thepresence of her aunt, he slipped it into the book which he bade Esthertake to Miss Ruthven's room. 

Knowing how honest and faithful Esther was, the rector felt that hecould trust her without fear for the safety of his letter, sought theGlen, where the tell-tale blushes which burned on Anna's cheek atsight of him more than compensated for the coolness with which Mrs. Meredith greeted him. She, too, had detected Anna's embarrassment, andwhen the stranger was presented to her as "Mr. Leighton, ourclergyman, " the secret was out. 

"Why is it that since the beginning of time girls have run wild afteryoung ministers?" was her mental comment, as she bowed to Mr. Leighton, and then quietly inspected his _personnel_. 

There was nothing about Arthur Leighton's appearance with which shecould find fault. He was even finer looking than Thornton Hastings, her _beau ideal_ of a man, and as he stood a moment by Anna's side, looking down upon her, the woman of the world acknowledged to herselfthat they were a well-assorted pair, and as across the chasm of twentyyears there came back to her an episode in her life, when, on justsuch a day as this, she had answered "no" to one as young and worthyas Arthur Leighton, while all the time the heart was clinging to him, she softened for a moment, and by the memory of the weary years passedwith the rich old man whose name she bore, she was tempted to leavealone the couple standing there before her, and looking into eachother's eyes with a look which she could not mistake. But when sheremembered that Arthur was only a poor clergyman, and thought of thathouse on Madison Square which Thornton Hastings owned, the softenedmood was changed, and Arthur Leighton's chance with her was gone. 

Awhile they talked together in the Glen, and then walked back to thefarmhouse, where the rector bade them good evening, after casuallysaying to Anna:

"I have brought the book you spoke of when I was here last. You willfind it in your room, where I asked Esther to take it. "

That Mr. Leighton should bring her niece a book did not seem strangeat all, but that he should be so very thoughtful as to tell Esther totake it to her room struck her as rather odd, and as the practicedwar-horse scents the battle from afar, so Mrs. Meredith at oncesuspected something wrong, and felt a curiosity to know what the bookcould be. 

It was lying on Anna's table as she reached the door on her way to herown room, and, pausing for a moment, she entered the chamber, took itin her hands, read the title page, and then opened it to where theletter lay. 

"Miss Anna Ruthven, " she said. "He writes a fair hand;" and then, asthe thought, which at first was scarce a thought, kept growing in hermind, she turned it over, and found that, owing to some defect, it hadbecome unsealed and the lid of the envelope lay temptingly open beforeher. "I would never break a seal, " she said, "but surely, as herprotector and almost mother, I may read what this minister has writtento my niece. "

She read what he had written, while a scowl of disapprobation marredthe smoothness of her brow. 

"It is as I feared. Once let her see this, and Thornton Hastings maywoo in vain. But it shall not be. It is my duty as the sister of herdead father, to interfere and not let her throw herself away. "

Perhaps Mrs. Meredith really felt that she was doing her duty. At allevents, she did not give herself much time to reason upon the matter, for, startled by a slight movement in the room directly opposite, thedoor of which was ajar, she thrust the letter into her pocket andturned to see--Valencia, standing with her back to her, and arrangingher hair in a mirror which hung upon the wall. 

"She could not have seen me; and, even if she did, she would notsuspect the truth, " was the guilty woman's thought, as, with thestolen missive in her pocket, she went down to the parlor and tried, by petting Anna more than her wont, to still the voice of consciencewhich clamored loudly of the wrong, and urged a restoration of theletter to the place whence it was taken. 

But the golden moment fled, and when, later in the evening, Anna wentup to her chamber and opened the book which the rector had brought, she never suspected how near she had been to the great happiness shehad sometimes dared to hope for, or dreamed how fervently ArthurLeighton prayed that night that, if it were possible, God would grantthe boon he craved above all others--the priceless gift of AnnaRuthven's love. 

CHAPTER III. 

SUNDAY. 

There was an unnatural flush on the rector's face, and his lips werevery white when he came before his people that Sunday morning, for hefelt that he was approaching the crisis of his fate; that he had onlyto look across the row of heads up to where Anna sat, and he shouldknow the truth. Such thoughts savored far too much of the world whichhe had renounced, he knew, and he had striven to banish them from hismind; but they were there still, and would be there until he hadglanced once at Anna, occupying her accustomed seat, and quietlyturning to the chant she was so soon to sing: "Oh, come, let us singunto the Lord; let us heartily rejoice in the strength of Hissalvation. " The words echoed through the house, filling it with raremelody, for Anna was in perfect tone that morning, and the rector, listening to her with hands folded upon his prayer-book, felt that shecould not thus "heartily rejoice, " meaning all the while to darken hiswhole life, as she surely would if she told him "no. " He was lookingat her now, and she met his eyes at last, but quickly dropped her own, while he was sure that the roses burned a little brighter on hercheek, and that her voice trembled just enough to give him hope, andhelp him in his fierce struggle to cast her from his mind and thinkonly of the solemn services in which he was engaging. He could notguess that the proud woman who had sailed so majestically into church, and followed so reverently every prescribed form, bowing in the creedfar lower than ever bow was made before in Hanover, had played himfalse and was the dark shadow in his path. 

That day was a trying one for Arthur, for, just as the chant was endedand the psalter was beginning, a handsome carriage dashed up to thedoor, and, had he been wholly blind, he would have known, by thesudden sound of turning heads and the suppressed hush which ensued, that a perfect hailstorm of dignity was entering St. Mark's. 

It was the Hethertons, from Prospect Hill, whose arrival in town hadbeen so long expected. Mrs. Hetherton, who, more years ago than shecared to remember, was born in Hanover, but who had lived most of herlife either in Paris, New York or New Orleans and who this year haddecided to fit up her father's old place, and honor it with herpresence for a few weeks at least; also, Fanny Hetherton, a brilliantbrunette, into whose intensely black eyes no one could long look, theywere so bright, so piercing, and seemed so thoroughly to read one'sinmost thoughts; also, Colonel Hetherton, who had served in theMexican war, and, retiring on the glory of having once led a forlornhope, now obtained his living by acting as attendant on hisfashionable wife and daughter; also, young Dr. Simon Bellamy who, while obedient to the flashing of Miss Fanny's black eyes, still foundstolen opportunities for glancing at the fifth and last remainingmember of the party, filing up the aisle to the large, square pew, where old Judge Howard used to sit, and which was still owned by hisdaughter. Mrs. Hetherton liked being late at church, and so, notwithstanding that the Colonel had worked himself into a tempest ofexcitement, had tied and untied her bonnet-strings half a dozen times, changed her rich basquine for a thread lace mantilla, and then, justas the bell from St. Mark's gave forth its last note, and herhusband's impatience was oozing out in sundry little oaths, swornunder his breath, she produced and fitted on her fat, white hands anew pair of Alexander's, keeping herself as cool, and quiet, andladylike as if outside upon the graveled walk there was no wrathfulhusband threatening to drive off and leave her, if she did not "quither cussed vanity, and come along. "

Such was the Hetherton party, and they created quite as great asensation as Mrs. Hetherton could desire, first upon the commoners, the people nearest the door, who rented the cheaper pews; then uponthose farther up the aisle, and then upon Mrs. Meredith, who, attracted by the rustling of heavy silk and aristocratic perfumeemanating from Mrs. Hetherton's handkerchief, slightly turned her headat first, and, as the party swept by, stopped her reading entirely andinvoluntarily started forward, while a smile of pleasure flittedacross her face as Fanny's black, saucy eyes took her, with others, within their range of vision, and Fanny's black head nodded a quicknod of recognition. The Hethertons and Mrs. Meredith were evidentlyfriends, and in her wonder at seeing them there, in stupid Hanover, the great lady forgot for a while to read, but kept her eyes upon themall, especially upon the fifth and last mentioned member of the party, the graceful little blonde, whose eyes might have caught their huefrom the deep blue of the summer sky, and whose long, silken curlsfell in a golden shower beneath the fanciful French hat. She was abeautiful young creature, and even Anna Ruthven leaned forward to lookat her as she shook out her airy muslin and dropped into her seat. Fora moment the little coquettish head bowed reverently, but at the firstsound of the rector's voice it lifted itself up quickly, and Anna sawthe bright color which rushed into her cheeks and the eager joy whichdanced in the blue eyes, fixed so earnestly upon the rector, who, atsight of her, started suddenly and paused an instant in his reading. Who was she, and what was she to Arthur Leighton? Anna asked herself, while, by the fierce pang which shot through her heart, as she watchedthe stranger and the clergyman, she knew that she loved the rector ofSt. Mark's, even if she doubted it before. 

Anna was not an ill-tempered girl, but the sight of those gay citypeople annoyed her, and when, at she sang the Jubilate Deo, she sawthe soft blue orbs of the blonde and the coal-black eyes of thebrunette, turning wonderingly toward her, she was conscious ofreturning their glance with as much of scorn as it was possible forher to show. Anna tried to ask forgiveness for that feeling in theprayers which followed; but, when the services were over, and she sawa little figure in blue and white flitting up the aisle to whereArthur, still in his robes, stood waiting for her, an expression uponhis face which she could not define, she felt that she had prayed invain; and, with a bitterness she had never before experienced, shewatched the meeting between them, growing more and more bitter as shesaw the upturned face, the wreathing of the rosebud lips into thesweetest of smiles, and the tiny white hand, which Arthur took andheld while he spoke words she would have given much to hear. 

"Why do I care? It's nothing to me, " she thought, and, with a proudstep, she was leaving the church, when her aunt, who was shaking handswith the Hethertons, signed for her to join her. 

The blonde was now coming down the aisle with Mr. Leighton, andjoined the group just as Anna was introduced as "My niece, Miss AnnaRuthven. "

"Oh, you are the Anna of whom I have heard so much from Ada Fuller. You were at school together in Troy, " Miss Fanny said, her searchingeyes taking in every point as if she were deciding how far her newacquaintance was entitled to the praise she had heard bestowed uponher. 

"I know Miss Fuller--yes;" and Anna bowed haughtily, turning next tothe blonde, Miss Lucy Harcourt, who was telling Colonel Hetherton howshe had met Mr. Leighton first among the Alps, and afterwards traveledwith him until the party returned to Paris, where he left them forAmerica. 

"I was never so surprised in my life as I was to find him here. Why, it actually took my breath for a moment, " she went on, "and I greatlyfear that, instead of listening to his sermon, I have been roamingamid that Alpine scenery and basking again in the soft moonlight ofVenice. I heard you singing, though, " she said, when Anna waspresented to her, "and it helped to keep up the illusion--it was solike the music heard from a gondola that night, when Mr. Leighton andmyself made a voyage through the streets of Venice. Oh, it was sobeautiful, " and the blue eyes turned to Mr. Leighton for confirmationof what the lips had uttered. 

"Which was beautiful?--Miss Ruthven's singing or that moonlight nightin Venice?" young Bellamy asked, smiling down upon the little lady whostill held Anna's hand, and who laughingly replied:

"Both, of course, though the singing is just now freshest in mymemory. I like it so much. You must have had splendid teachers, " andshe turned again to Anna, whose face was suffused with blushes as shemet the rector's eyes, for to his suggestions and criticisms andteachings she owed much of that cultivation which had so pleased andsurprised the stranger. 

"Oh, yes, I see it was Arthur. He tried to train me once, and told meI had a squeak in my voice. Don't you remember?--those frightfullyrainy days in Rome?" Miss Harcourt said, the Arthur dropping from herlips as readily as if they had always been accustomed to speak it. 

She was a talkative, coquettish little lady, but there was somethingabout her so genuine and cordial, that Anna felt the ice thawingaround her heart, and even returned the pressure of the snowy fingerswhich had twined themselves around her, as Lucy rattled on until thewhole party left the church. It had been decided that Mrs. Meredithshould call at Prospect Hill as early as Tuesday, at least; and, stillholding Anna's hand Miss Harcourt whispered to her the pleasure itwould be to see her again. 

"I know I am going to like you. I can tell directly I can see aperson--can't I Arthur?" and, kissing her hand to Mrs. Meredith, Anna, and the rector, too, she sprang into the carriage, and was whirledrapidly away. 

"Who is she?" Anna asked, and Mr. Leighton replied:

"She is an orphan niece of Colonel Hetherton's, and a great heiress, Ibelieve, though I never paid much attention to the absurd stories toldconcerning her wealth. "

"You met in Europe?" Mrs. Meredith said, and he replied:

"Yes, she has been quite an invalid, and has spent four years abroad, where I accidentally met her. It was a very pleasant party, and I wasinduced to join it, though I was with them in all not more than fourmonths. "

He told this very rapidly, and an acute observer would have seen thathe did not care particularly to talk of Lucy Harcourt, with Anna foran auditor. She was walking very demurely at his side, pondering inher mind the circumstances which could have brought the rector andLucy Harcourt into such familiar relations as to warrant her callinghim Arthur and appear so delighted to see him. 

"Can it be there was anything between them?" she thought, and herheart began to harden against the innocent Lucy, at that very momentchatting so pleasantly of her and of Arthur, too, replying to Mrs. Hetherton, who suggested that Mr. Leighton would be more appropriatefor a clergyman. 

"I shall say Arthur, for he told me I might that time we were in Rome. I could not like him as well if I called him Mr. Leighton. Isn't hesplendid, though, in his gown, and wasn't his sermon grand?"

"What was the text?" asked Dr. Bellamy, mischievously, and, with atoss of her golden curls and a merry twinkle of her eyes, Lucyreplied, "Simon, Simon, lovest thou me?"

Quick as a flash of lightning the hot blood mounted to the doctor'sface, while Fanny cast upon him a searching glance as if she wouldread him through. Fanny Hetherton would have given much to know theanswer which Dr. Simon Bellamy mentally gave to that question, put byone whom he had known but little more than three months. It was notfair for Lucy to steal away all Fanny's beaux, as she surely had beendoing ever since her feet touched the soil of the New World, and truthto tell, Fanny had borne it very well, until young Dr. Bellamy showedsigns of desertion. Then the spirit of resistance was roused, and shewatched her lover narrowly, gnashing her teeth sometimes when she sawhis ill-concealed admiration for her sprightly little cousin, whocould say and do with perfect impunity so many things which in anotherwould have been improper to the last degree. She was a tolerablycorrect reader of human nature, and, from the moment she witnessed themeeting between Lucy and the rector of St. Marks, she took courage, for she readily guessed the channel in which her cousin's preferenceran. The rector, however, she could not read so well; but few men sheknew could withstand the fascinations of her cousin, backed as theywere, by the glamour of half a million; and, though her mother, and, possibly, her father, too, would be shocked at the _mésalliance_ andthrow obstacles in the way, she was capable of removing them all, andshe would do it, too, sooner than lose the only man she had ever caredfor. These were Fanny's thoughts as she rode home from church thatSunday afternoon, and, by the time Prospect Hill was reached, LucyHarcourt could not have desired a more powerful ally than shepossessed in the person of her resolute, strong-willed cousin. 

CHAPTER IV. 

BLUE MONDAY. 

It was to all intents and purposes "blue Monday" with the rector ofSt. Mark's, for, aside from the weariness and exhaustion which alwaysfollowed his two services on Sunday, and his care of the Sundayschool, there was a feeling of disquiet and depression, occasionedpartly by that _rencontre_ with pretty Lucy Harcourt, and partly bythe uncertainty as to what Anna's answer might be. He had seen thelook of displeasure on her face as she stood watching him and Lucy, and though to many this would have given hope, it only added to hisnervous fears lest his suit should be denied. He was sorry that LucyHarcourt was in the neighborhood, and sorrier still for her tenaciousmemory, which had evidently treasured up every incident which he couldwish forgotten. With Anna Ruthven absorbing every thought and feelingof his heart, it was not pleasant to remember what had been a genuineflirtation between himself and the sparkling belle he had met amongthe Alps. 

It was nothing but a flirtation, he knew, for in his inmost soul heabsolved himself from ever having had a thought of matrimony connectedwith Lucy Harcourt. He had admired her greatly and loved to wanderwith her amid the Alpine scenery, listening to her wild bursts ofenthusiasm, and watching the kindling light in her blue eyes, and thecolor coming to her thin, pale cheeks, as she gazed upon some scene ofgrandeur, nestling close to him as for protection, when the path wasfraught with peril. 

Afterwards, in Venice, beneath the influence of those gloriousmoonlight nights, he had been conscious of a deeper feeling which, hadhe tarried longer at the siren's side, might have ripened into love. But he left her in time to escape what he felt would have been a mostunfortunate affair for him, for, sweet and beautiful as she was, Lucywas not the wife for a clergyman to choose. She was not like AnnaRuthven, whom both young and old had said was so suitable for him. 

"And just because she is suitable, I may not win her, perhaps, " hethought, as he paced up and down his library, wondering when she wouldanswer his letter, and wondering next how he could persuade LucyHarcourt that between the young theological student, sailing in agondola through the streets of Venice, and the rector of St. Mark's, there was a vast difference; that while the former might be Arthurwith perfect propriety, the latter should be Mr. Leighton, in Anna'spresence, at least. 

And yet the rector of St. Mark's was conscious of a pleasurableemotion, even now, as he recalled the time when she had, at his ownrequest, first called him Arthur, her bird-like voice hesitating justa little, and her soft eyes looking coyly up to him, as she said:

"I am afraid that Arthur is hardly the name by which to call aclergyman. "

"I am not in orders yet, so let me be Arthur to you. I love to hearyou call me so, and you to me shall be Lucy, " was his reply. 

A mutual clasp of hands had sealed the compact, and that was thenearest to love-making of anything which had passed between them, ifwe except the time when he had said good-by, and wiped away a tearwhich came unbidden to her eye as she told him how lonely she would bewithout him. 

Hers was a nature as transparent as glass, and the young man, who fordays had paced the ship's deck so moodily, was fighting back thethoughts which had whispered that in his intercourse with her he hadnot been all guiltless, and that if in her girlish heart there was afeeling for him stronger than that of friendship he had helped to giveit life. 

Time and absence and Anna Ruthven had obliterated all such thoughtstill now, when Lucy herself had brought them back again with herwinsome ways, and her evident intention to begin just where they hadleft off. 

"Let Anna tell me yes, and I will at once proclaim our engagement, which will relieve me from all embarrassments in that quarter, " theclergyman was thinking, just as his housekeeper came up, bringing himtwo notes--one in a strange handwriting, and the other in thegraceful, running hand which he recognized as Lucy Harcourt's. 

This he opened first, reading as follows:

 Prospect Hill, June--. 

 "MR. LEIGHTON: Dear Sir--Cousin Fanny is to have a picnic down in the west woods to-morrow afternoon, and she requests the pleasure of your presence. Mrs. Meredith and Miss Ruthven are to be invited. Do come. "Yours truly, "LUCY. "

Yes, he would go, and if Anna's answer had not come before, he wouldask her for it. There would be plenty of opportunities down in thosedeep woods. On the whole, it would be pleasanter to hear the answerfrom her own lips, and see the blushes on her cheeks when he tried tolook into her eyes. 

The imaginative rector could almost see those eyes, and feel the touchof her hand as he took the other note--the one which Mrs. Meredith hadshut herself in her bedroom to write, and sent slyly by Valencia, whowas to tell no one where she had been. 

A gleam of intelligence shot from Valencia's eyes as she took the noteand carried it safely to the parsonage, never yielding to thetemptation to read it, just as she had read the one abstracted fromthe book, returning it when read to her mistress's pocket, where shehad found it while the family were at church. 

Mrs. Meredith's note was as follows:

 "MY DEAR MR. LEIGHTON: It is my niece's wish that I answer the letter you were so kind as to inclose in the book left for her last Saturday. She desires me to say that, though she has a very great regard for you as her clergyman and friend, she cannot be your wife, and she regrets exceedingly if she has in any way led you to construe the interest she has always manifested in you into a deeper feeling. 

 "She begs me to say that it gives her great pain to refuse one so noble and good as she knows you to be, and she only does it because she cannot find in her heart the love without which no marriage can be happy. 

 "She is really very wretched about it, because she fears she may lose your friendship, and, as a proof that she has not, she asks that the subject may never in any way, be alluded to again; that when you meet it may be exactly as heretofore, without a word or sign on your part that ever you offered her the highest honor a man can offer a woman. 

 "And sure I am, my dear Mr. Leighton, that you will accede to her wishes. I am very sorry it has occurred, sorry for you both, and especially sorry for you; but, believe me, you will get over it in time and come to see that my niece is not a proper person to be a clergyman's wife. 

 "Come and see us as usual. You will find Anna appearing very natural. 

 "Yours cordially and sincerely, "JULIE MEREDITH. "

This was the letter which the cruel woman had written, and it droppedfrom the rector's nerveless fingers as, with a groan, he bent his headupon the back of a chair, and tried to realize the magnitude of theblow which had fallen so suddenly upon him. Not till now did herealize how, amid all his doubts, he had still been sure of winningher, and the shock was terrible. 

He had staked his all on Anna, and lost all; the world, which beforehad been so bright, looked very dreary now, while he felt that hecould never again come before his people weighed down with so great aload of pain and humiliation: for it touched the young man's pridethat, not content to refuse him, Anna had chosen another than herselfas the medium through which her refusal must be conveyed to him. Hedid not fancy Mrs. Meredith. He would rather she did not possess hissecret, and it hurt him cruelly to know that she did. 

It was a bitter hour for the clergyman, for, strong and clear as washis faith in God, who doeth all things well, he lost sight of it for atime, and poor weak human nature cried:

"It's more than I can bear. "

But as the mother does not forget her child, even though she passesfrom her sight, so God had not forgotten, and the darkness broke atlast--the lips could pray again for strength to bear and faith to doall that God might require. 

"Though He slay me I will trust Him, " came like a ray of sunlightinto the rector's mind, and ere the day was over he could say with afull heart, "Thy will be done. "

He was very pale, and his lip quivered occasionally as he thought ofall he had lost, while a blinding headache, induced by strongexcitement, drove him nearly wild with pain. He had been subject toheadaches all his life, but he had never suffered as he was sufferingnow but once, and that was on a rainy day in Rome, when, boasting ofher mesmeric power, Lucy had stood by him, and passed her dimpledhands soothingly across his throbbing temples. 

Those little hands, how soft and cool they were--but they had notthrilled him as the touch of Anna's did when they hung the Christmaswreaths and she wore that bunch of scarlet berries in her hair. 

That time seemed very far away, farther even than Rome and themoonlight nights of Venice. He did not like to think of it, for thebright hopes which were budding then were blighted now and dead; and, with a moan, he laid his aching head upon his pillow and tried toforget all he had ever hoped or longed for in the future. 

"She will marry Thornton Hastings. He is a more eligible match than apoor clergyman, " he said, and then, as he remembered Thornton'sletter, and that his man Thomas would be coming soon to ask if therewere letters to be taken to the office, he arose, and, going to thestudy table, wrote hastily:

 "DEAR THORNE: I am suffering from one of those horrid headaches which used to make me as weak as a helpless woman, but I will write just enough to say that I have no claim on Anna Ruthven, and you are free to press your suit as urgently as you please. She is a noble girl, worthy even to be Mrs. Thornton Hastings, and if I cannot have her, I would rather give her to you than any one I know. Only don't ask me to perform the ceremony. 

 "There, I've let the secret out; but no matter, I have always confided in you, and so I may as well confess that I have offered myself and been refused. Yours truly, "ARTHUR LEIGHTON. "

The rector felt better after that letter was written. He had told hisgrievance to some one, and it seemed to have lightened half. 

"Thorne is a good fellow, " he said, as he directed the letter. "Alittle fast, it's true, but a splendid fellow, after all. He willsympathize with me in his way, and I would rather give Anna to himthan any other living man. "

Arthur was serious in what he said, for, wholly unlike as they were, there was between him and Thornton Hastings one of those strong, peculiar friendships which sometimes exist between two men, but rarelybetween two women, of so widely different temperaments. They hadroomed together four years in college, and countless were thedifficulties from which the sober Arthur had extricated the lucklessThorne, while many a time the rather slender means of Arthur had beenincreased in a way so delicate that expostulation was next toimpossible. 

Arthur was better off now in worldly goods, for, by the death of anuncle, he had come in possession of a few thousand dollars, whichenabled him to travel in Europe for a year, and left a surplus, fromwhich he had fed the poor and needy with not sparing hand. 

St. Mark's was his first parish, and, though he could have chosen onenearer to New York, where the society was more congenial to his taste, he had accepted what God offered to him, and been very happy there, especially since Anna Ruthven came home from Troy and made such havocwith his heart. He did not believe he should ever be quite so happyagain, but he would try to do his work, and take thankfully whateverof good might come to him. 

This was his final decision, and when at last he laid him down torest, the wound, though deep and sore, and bleeding yet, was not quiteas hard to bear as it had been earlier in the day, when it was freshand raw, and faith and hope seemed swept away. 

CHAPTER V. 

TUESDAY. 

That open grassy spot in the dense shadow of the west woods was justthe place for a picnic, and it looked very bright and pleasant thatwarm June afternoon, with the rustic table so fancifully arranged, thecamp stools scattered over the lawn, and the bouquets of flowersdepending from the trees. 

Fanny Hetherton had given it her whole care, aided and abetted by Dr. Bellamy, what time he could spare from Lucy, who, imbued with a mortalfear of insects, seemed this day to gather scores of bugs and wormsupon her dress and hair, screaming with every worm and bringing thedoctor obediently to her aid. 

"I'd stay at home, I think, if I was silly enough to be afraid of aharmless caterpillar like that, " Fanny had said, as with her own handsshe took from Lucy's curls and threw away a thousand-legged thing, thevery sight of which made poor Lucy shiver but did not send her to thehouse. 

She was too much interested and too eagerly expectant of what theafternoon would bring, and so she perched herself upon the fence wherenothing but ants could molest her, and finished the bouquets whichFanny hung upon the trees until the lower limbs seemed one mass ofblossoms and the air was filled with the sweet perfume. 

Lucy was bewitchingly beautiful that afternoon in her dress of white, her curls tied up with a blue ribbon, and her fair arms bare nearly tothe shoulders. Fanny, whose arms were neither plump nor white, hadexpostulated with her cousin upon this style of dress, suggesting thatone as delicate as she could not fail to take a heavy cold when thedews began to fall, but Lucy would not listen. Arthur Leighton hadtold her once that he liked her with bare arms, and bare they shouldbe. She was bending every energy to please and captivate him, and acold was of no consequence provided she succeeded. So, like somelittle fairy, she danced and flitted about, making fearful havoc withDr. Bellamy's wits and greatly vexing Fanny, who hailed with delightthe arrival of Mrs. Meredith and Anna. The latter was very pretty andvery becomingly attired in a light airy dress of blue, finished at thethroat and wrists with an edge of soft, fine lace. She, too, hadthought of Arthur in the making of her toilet, and it was for him thatthe white rosebuds were placed in her heavy braids of hair andfastened on her belt. She was very sorry that she had allowed herselfto be vexed with Lucy Harcourt for her familiarity with Mr. Leighton, very hopeful that he had not observed it, and very certain now of hispreference for herself. She would be very gracious that afternoon, shethought, and not one bit jealous of Lucy, though she called him Arthura hundred times. 

Thus it was in the most amiable of moods that Anna appeared upon thelawn, where she was warmly welcomed by Lucy, who, seizing both herhands, led her away to see the arrangements, chatting gayly all thetime, and casting rapid glances up the lane, as if in quest of someone. 

"I'm so glad you've come. I've thought of you so much. Do you know itseems to me there must be some bond of sympathy between us, or Ishould not like you so well at once? I drove by the rectory early thismorning--the dearest little place, with such a lovely garden. Arthurwas working in it, and I made him give me some roses. See, I have onein my curls. Then, when he brought them to the carriage, I kept himthere while I asked numberless questions about you, and heard from himjust how good you are, and how you help him in the Sunday-school andeverywhere, visiting the poor, picking up ragged children and doingthings I never thought of doing; but I am not going to be so uselessany longer, and the next time you visit some of the very miserablest Iwant you to take me with you. Do you ever meet Arthur there? Oh, herehe comes, " and with a bound, Lucy darted away from Anna toward thespot where the rector stood receiving Mrs. And Miss Hetherton'sgreeting. 

As Lucy had said, she had driven by the rectory, with no earthlyobject but the hope of seeing the rector, and had hurt him cruellywith her questionings of Anna, and annoyed him a little with heranxious inquiries as to the cause of his pallid face and sunken eyes;but she was so bewitchingly pretty, and so thoroughly kind withal, that he could not be annoyed long, and he felt better for having seenher bright, coquettish face, and listened to her childish prattle. Itwas a great trial for him to attend the picnic that afternoon, but hemet it bravely, and schooled himself to appear as if there were nosuch things in the world as aching hearts and cruel disappointments. His face was very pale, but his recent headache would account forthat, and he acted his part successfully, shivering a little, it istrue, when Anna expressed her sorrow that he should suffer so oftenfrom these attacks, and suggested that he take a short vacation and gowith them to Saratoga. 

"I should so much like to have you, " she said, and her clear, honesteyes looked him straight in the face, as she asked why he could not. 

"What does she mean?" the rector thought. "Is she trying to tantalizeme? I expected her to be natural, as her aunt laid great stress onthat, but she need not overdo the matter by showing me how little shecares for having hurt me so. "

Then, as a flash of pride came to his aid, he thought, "I will atleast be even with her. She shall not have the satisfaction ofguessing how much I suffer, " and as Lucy then called to him from theopposite side of the lawn, he asked Anna to accompany him thither, just as he would have done a week before. Once that afternoon he foundhimself alone with her in a quiet part of the woods, where the longbranches of a great oak came nearly to the ground, and formed a littlebower which looked so inviting that Anna sat down upon the gnarledroots of the tree, and, tossing her hat upon the grass, exclaimed, "How nice and pleasant it is here. Come, sit down, too, while I tellyou about my class in Sunday-school, and that poor Mrs. Hobbs acrossthe mill stream. You won't forget her, will you? I told her you wouldvisit her the oftener when I was gone. Do you know she cried because Iwas going? It made me feel so badly that I doubted if it was right forme to go, " and, pulling down a handful of the oak leaves above herhead, Anna began weaving together a chaplet, while the rector stoodwatching her with a puzzled expression upon his face. She did not actas if she ever could have dictated that letter, but he had nosuspicion of the truth and answered rather coldly, "I did not supposeyou cared how much we might miss you at home. "

Something in his tone made Anna look up into his face, and her eyesimmediately filled with tears, for she knew that in some way she haddispleased him. 

"Then you mistake me, " she replied, the tears still glittering on herlong eyelashes, and her fingers trembling among the oaken leaves. "Ido care whether I am missed or not. "

"Missed by whom?" the rector asked, and Anna impetuously replied, "Missed by the parish poor, and by you, too, Mr. Leighton. You don'tknow how often I shall think of you, or how sorry I am that----"

She did not finish the sentence, for the rector had leaped madly atthe conclusion, and was down in the grass at her side with both herhands in his. 

"Anna, oh Anna, " he began so pleadingly, "have you repented of yourdecision? Tell me that you have and it will make me so happy. I havebeen so wretched ever since. "

She thought he meant her decision about going to Saratoga, and shereplied: "I have not repented, Mr. Leighton. Aunt Meredith thinks itbest, and so do I, though I am sorry for you, if you really do care somuch. "

Anna was talking blindly, her thoughts upon one subject, while therector's were upon another, and matters were getting somewhat mixedwhen, "Arthur, Arthur, where are you?" came ringing through the woodsand Lucy Harcourt appeared, telling them that the refreshments wereready. 

"We are only waiting for you two, wondering where you had gone, butnever dreaming that you had stolen away to make love, " she said, playfully, adding more earnestly as she saw the traces of agitationvisible in Anna's face, "and I do believe you were. If so, I begpardon for my intrusion. "

She spoke a little sharply and glanced inquiringly at Mr. Leighton;who, feeling that he had virtually been repulsed a second time byAnna, answered her, "On the contrary, I am very glad you came, and so, I am sure, is Miss Anna. I am ready to join you at the table. Come, Anna, they are waiting, " and he offered his arm to the bewilderedgirl, who replied, "Not just now, please. Leave me for a moment. Iwon't be long. "

Very curiously Lucy looked at Anna and then at Mr. Leighton, who, fully appreciating the feelings of the latter, said, by way ofexplanation: "You see, she has not quite finished that chaplet, which, I suspect, is intended for you. I think we had better leave her, " and, drawing Lucy's hand under his own, he walked away, leaving Anna morestunned and pained than she had ever been before. Surely if love hadever spoken in tone and voice and manner, it had spoken when Mr. Leighton was kneeling on the grass, holding her hands in his. "Anna, oh, Anna!" How she had thrilled at the sound of those words and waitedfor what might follow next. Why had his manner changed so suddenly, and why had he been so glad to be interrupted? Had he really nointention of making love to her, and if he had, why did he rouse herhopes so suddenly and then cruelly dash them to the ground? Was itthat he loved Lucy best, and that the sight of her froze the wordsupon his lips?

"Let him take her, then. He is welcome, for all of me, " she thought;and then, as a keen pang of shame and disappointment swept over her, she laid her head for a moment upon the grass and wept bitterly. "Hemust have seen what I expected and I care most for that, " she sobbed, resolving henceforth to guard herself at every point and do all thatlay in her power to further Lucy's interests, "He will thus see howlittle I really care, " she thought, and, lifting up her head, she torein fragments the wreath she had been making, but which she could notnow place on the head of her rival. 

Mr. Leighton was flirting terribly with her when she joined the partyassembled around the table, and he never once looked at Anna, thoughhe saw that her plate was well supplied with the best of everything, and when at one draught she drained her glass of ice-water, he quietlyplaced another within her reach, standing a little before her andtrying evidently to shield her from too critical observation. Therewere two at least who were glad when the picnic was over, and variouswere the private opinions of the company with regard to theentertainment. Dr. Bellamy, who had been repeatedly foiled in hisattempts to be especially attentive to Lucy Harcourt, pronounced thewhole thing "a bore. " Fanny, who had been highly displeased with thedoctor's deportment, came to the conclusion that the enjoyment did notcompensate for all the trouble, and while the rector thought he hadnever spent a more thoroughly wretched day, and Anna would have givenworlds if she had stayed at home, Lucy declared that never in her lifehad she had so perfectly delightful a time, always excepting, ofcourse, "that moonlight sail in Venice. "

CHAPTER VI. 

WEDNESDAY. 

There was a heavy shower the night succeeding the picnic and themorning following was as balmy and bright as June mornings are wont tobe after a fall of rain. They were always early risers at thefarmhouse, but this morning Anna, who had slept but little, aroseearlier than usual and, leaning from the window to inhale the bracingair and gather a bunch of roses fresh with the glittering raindrops, she felt her spirits grow lighter and wondered at her discomposure ofthe previous day. Particularly was she grieved that she should haveharbored a feeling of bitterness toward Lucy Harcourt, who was not toblame for having won the love she had been foolish enough to covet. 

"He knew her first, " she said, "and if he has since been pleased withme, the sight of her has won him back to his allegiance, and it isright. She is a pretty creature, but strangely unsuited, I fear, to behis wife, " and then, as she remembered Lucy's wish to go with her whennext she visited the poor, she said:

"I will take her to see the Widow Hobbs. That will give her some ideaof the duties which will devolve upon her as a rector's wife. I can godirectly there from Prospect Hill, where, I suppose, I must call withAunt Meredith. "

Anna made herself believe that in doing this she was acting only froma magnanimous desire to fit Lucy for her work, if, indeed, she was tobe Arthur's wife--that in taking the mantle from her own shoulders, and wrapping it around her rival, she was doing a most amiable deed, when down in her inmost heart, where the tempter had put it, there wasan unrecognized wish to see how the little dainty girl would shrinkfrom the miserable abode, and recoil from the touch of the little, dirty hands which were sure to be laid upon her dress if the childrenwere at home, and she waited a little impatiently to start on hererrand of mercy. 

It was four o'clock when, with her aunt, she arrived at ColonelHetherton's and found the family assembled upon the broad piazza, thedoctor dutifully holding the skein of worsted from which Miss Fannywas crocheting, and Lucy playing with a kitten, whose movements werescarcely more graceful than her own, as she sprang up and ran towelcome Anna. 

"Oh, yes, I am delighted to go with you. Pray let us start at once, "she exclaimed, when, after a few moments of conversation, Anna toldwhere she was going. 

Lucy was very gayly dressed, enough so for a party, Anna thought, smiling to herself as she imagined the startling effect the whitemuslin and bright plaid ribbons would have upon the inmates of theshanty where they were going. There was a remonstrance from Mrs. Hetherton against her niece's walking so far, and Mrs. Meredithsuggested that they should ride, but to this Lucy objected. She meantto take Anna's place among the poor when she was gone, she said, andhow was she ever to do it if she could not walk such a little way asthat? Anna, too, was averse to riding and she felt a kind of grimsatisfaction when, after a time, the little figure, which at first hadskipped along ahead with all the airiness of a bird, began to lag, andeven pant for breath, as the way grew steeper and the path more stonyand rough. Anna's evil spirit was in the ascendant that afternoon, steeling her heart against Lucy's doleful exclamations, as one afteranother her delicate slippers were torn, and the sharp thistles, ofwhich the path was full, penetrated to her soft flesh. Straight andunbending as a young Indian, Anna walked on, shutting her ears againstthe sighs of weariness which reached them from time to time. But whenthere came a half sobbing cry of actual pain, she stopped suddenly andturned towards Lucy, whose breath came gaspingly, and whose cheekswere almost purple with the exertion she had made. 

"I cannot go any farther until I rest, " she said, sinking down, exhausted, upon a large flat rock beneath a walnut tree. 

Touched with pity at the sight of the heated face, from which thesweat was dripping, Anna too sat down beside her, and, laying hercurly head in her lap, smoothed the golden hair, hating herselfcordially, as Lucy said:

"You've walked so fast I could not keep up. You do not know, perhaps, how weak I am, and how little it takes to tire me. They say my heartis diseased, and an unusual excitement might kill me. "

"No, oh, no!" Anna answered with a shudder, as she thought of whatmight have been the result of her rashness, and then she smoothed thewet hair, which, dried by the warm sunbeams, coiled itself up ingolden masses, which her fingers softly threaded. 

"I did not know until that time in Venice, when Arthur talked to meso good, trying to make me feel that it was not hard to die, even if Iwas so young and the world so full of beauty, " Lucy went on, her voicesounding very low and her bright shoulder-knots of ribbon tremblingwith the rapid beating of her heart. "When he was talking to me Icould almost be willing to die, but the moment he was gone the doubtsand fears came back, and death was terrible again. I was always betterwith Arthur. Everybody is, and I think your seeing so much of him isone reason why you are so good. "

"No, no, I am not good, " and Anna's hands pressed hard upon thegirlish head lying in her lap. "I am wicked beyond what you can guess. I led you this rough way when I might have chosen a smooth, thoughlonger, road, and walked so fast on purpose to worry you. "

"To worry me. Why should you wish to do that?" and, lifting up herhead, Lucy looked wonderingly at the conscience-stricken Anna, whocould not confess to the jealousy, but who, in all other respects, answered truthfully, "I think an evil spirit possessed me for a time, and I wanted to show you that it was not so nice to visit the poor asyou seemed to think; but I am sorry, oh, so sorry, and you'll forgiveme, won't you?"

A loving kiss was pressed upon her lips and a warm cheek was laidagainst her own, as Lucy said, "Of course, I'll forgive you, though Ido not quite understand why you should wish to discourage me or teaseme either, when I liked you so much from the first moment I heard yourvoice and saw you in the choir. You don't dislike me, do you?"

"No, oh, no. I love you very dearly, " Anna replied, her tears fallinglike rain upon the slight form she hugged so passionately to her, andwhich she would willingly have borne in her arms the remainder oftheir way, as a kind of penance for her past misdeeds; but Lucy wasmuch better, she said, and so the two, between whom there was now abond of love which nothing could sever, went on together to the low, dismal house where the Widow Hobbs lived. 

The gate was off the hinges, and Lucy's muslin was torn upon a nailas she passed through, while the long fringe of her fleecy shawl wascaught in the tall tufts of thistle growing by the path. In a muddypool of water a few rods from the house a flock of ducks wereswimming, pelted occasionally by the group of dirty, ragged childrenplaying on the grass, and who at sight of the strangers and the basketAnna carried, sprang up like a flock of pigeons and came troopingtowards her. It was not the sweet, pastoral scene which Lucy hadpictured to herself, with Arthur for the background, and her ardor wasgreatly dampened even before the threshold was crossed, and she stoodin the low, close room where the sick woman lay, her large eyesunnaturally bright, and turned wistfully upon them as she entered. There were ashes upon the hearth and ashes upon the floor, ahair-brush upon the table and an empty plate upon the chair, withswarms of flies sipping the few drops of molasses and feeding upon thecrumbs of bread left there by the elfish-looking child now in the bedbeside its mother. There was nothing but poverty--squalid, disgustingpoverty--visible everywhere, and Lucy grew sick and faint at the, toher, unusual sight. 

"They have not lived here long. We only found them three weeks ago;they will look better by and by, " Anna whispered, feeling that someapology was necessary for the destitution and filth visibleeverywhere. 

Daintily removing the plate to the table, and carefully tucking up herskirts, Lucy sat down upon the wooden chair and looked dubiously onwhile Anna made the sick woman more tidy in appearance, and then fedher from the basket of provisions which Grandma Humphreys had sent. 

"I never could do that, " Lucy thought, as, shoving off the littledirty hand fingering her shoulder-knots she watched Anna washing thepoor woman's face, bending over her pillow as unhesitatingly as if ithad been covered with ruffled linen like those at Prospect Hill, instead of the coarse, soiled rag which hardly deserved the name ofpillow-case. "No, I never could do that, " and the possible life withArthur which the maiden had more than once imagined began to look verydreary, when, suddenly, a shadow darkened the door, and Lucy knewbefore she turned her head that the rector was standing at her back, the blood tingling through her veins with a delicious feeling; as, laying both hands upon her shoulders, and bending over her so that shefelt his breath upon her brow he said:

"What, my Lady Lucy here? I hardly expected to find two ministeringangels, though I was almost sure of one, " and his fine eyes rested onAnna with a strange, wistful look of tenderness, which neither she norLucy saw. 

"Then you knew she was coming, " Lucy said, an uneasy thought flashingacross her mind as she remembered the picnic, and the scene she hadstumbled upon. 

But Arthur's reply, "I did not know she was coming, I only knew it waslike her, " reassured her for a time, making her resolve to emulate thevirtues which Arthur seemed to prize so highly. What a difference hispresence made in that wretched room! She did not mind the poverty now, or care if her dress was stained with the molasses left in the chair, and the inquisitive child with tattered gown and bare brown legs waswelcome to examine and admire the bright plaid ribbons as much as shechose. 

Lucy had no thought for anything but Arthur, and the subduedexpression of his face as, kneeling by the sick woman's bedside, hesaid the prayers she had hungered for more than for the contents ofAnna's basket, now being purloined by the children crouched upon thehearth and fighting over the last bit of gingerbread. 

"Hush-sh, little one, " and Lucy's white, jeweled hand rested on thehead of the principal belligerent, who, awed by the beauty of her faceand the authoritative tone of her voice, kept quiet till the prayerwas over and Arthur had risen from his knees. 

"Thank you, Lucy; I think I must constitute you my deaconess when MissRuthven is gone. Your very presence has a subduing effect upon thelittle savages. I never knew them so quiet before for a long time, "Arthur said to Lucy in a low tone, which, low as it was, reachedAnna's ear, but brought no pang of jealousy, or a sharp regret forwhat she felt was lost forever. 

She was giving Lucy to Arthur Leighton, resolving that by every meansin her power she would further her rival's cause, and the hot tearswhich dropped so fast upon Mrs. Hobbs' pillow while Arthur said theprayer was but the baptism of that vow, and not, as Lucy thought, because she felt so sorry for the suffering woman to whom she hadbrought so much comfort. 

"God bless you wherever you go, " she said, "and if there is any greatgood which you desire, may He bring it to pass. "

"He never will--no, never, " was the sad response in Anna's heart, asshe joined the clergyman and Lucy outside the door, the formerpointing to the ruined slippers and asking how she ever expected towalk home in such dilapidated things. 

"I shall certainly have to carry you, " he said, "or your blisteredfeet will ever more be thrust forward as a reason why you cannot be mydeaconess. "

He seemed to be in unusual spirits that afternoon, and the party wentgaily on, Anna keeping a watchful care over Lucy, picking out thesmoothest places and passing her arm around her slender waist as theywere going up a hill. 

"I think it would be better if you both leaned on me, " the rectorsaid, offering each an arm, and apologizing for not having thought todo so before. 

"I do not need it, thank you, but Miss Harcourt does. I fear she isvery tired, " said Anna, pointing to Lucy's face, which was so whiteand ghastly; so like the face seen once before in Venice, that, without another word, Arthur took the tired girl in his strong armsand carried her safely to the summit of the hill. 

"Please put me down; I can walk now, " Lucy pleaded; but Arthur feltthe rapid beatings of her heart, and kept her in his arms until theyreached Prospect Hill, where Mrs. Meredith was anxiously awaitingtheir return, her brow clouding with distrust when she saw Mr. Leighton, for she was constantly fearing lest her guilty secret shouldbe exposed. 

"I'll leave Hanover this very week, and so remove her from danger, "she thought as she arose to say good-night. 

"Just wait a minute, please. There's something I want to say to MissRuthven, " Lucy cried, and, leading Anna to her own room, she kneltdown by her side, and, looking up in her face, began--"There's onequestion I wish to ask, and you must answer me truly. It is rude andinquisitive, perhaps, but tell me--has Arthur--ever--ever--"

Anna guessed at what was coming, and, with a gasping sob which Lucythought a long-drawn breath, she kissed the pretty parted lips, andanswered:

"No, darling, Arthur never did, and never will, but some time he willask you to be his wife. I can see it coming so plain. "

Poor Anna! Her heart gave one great throb as she said this, and thenlay like a dead weight in her bosom, while with sparkling eyes andblushing cheeks, Lucy exclaimed:

"I am so glad--so glad. I have only known you since Sunday, but youseem like an old friend; and so, you won't mind me telling you thatever since I first met Arthur among the Alps I have lived in a kind ofideal world of which he was the center. I am an orphan, you know, andan heiress, too. There is half a million, they say; and UncleHetherton has charge of it. Now, will you believe me when I say that Iwould give every dollar of this for Arthur's love if I could not haveit without. "

"I do believe you, " Anna replied, inexpressibly glad that thegathering darkness hid her white face from view as the child-like, unsuspecting girl went on. "The world, I know, would say that a poorclergyman was not a good match for me, but I do not care for that. Cousin Fanny favors it, I am sure, and Uncle Hetherton would notoppose me when he saw I was in earnest. Once the world, which is avery meddlesome thing, picked out Thornton Hastings, of New York, forme; but my! he was too proud and lofty even to talk to me much, and Iwould not speak to him after I heard of his saying that 'I was apretty little plaything, but far too frivolous for a sensible man tomake his wife. ' Oh, wasn't I angry, though, and don't I hope that whenhe gets a wife she will be exactly such a frivolous thing as I am. "

Even through the darkness Anna could see the blue eyes flash and thedelicate nostrils dilate as Lucy gave vent to her wrath against theluckless Thornton Hastings. 

"You will meet him at Saratoga. He is always there in the summer, butdon't you speak to him, the hateful. He'll be calling you frivolousnext. "

An amused smile flitted across Anna's face as she asked: "But won'tyou, too, be at Saratoga? I supposed you were all going there. "

"_Cela dépend_, " Lucy replied. "I would so much rather stay here. Thedressing and dancing and flirting tire me so, and then, you know whatArthur said about taking me for his deaconess in your place. "

There was a call just then from the hall below. Mrs. Meredith wasgetting impatient of the delay, and, with a good-by kiss, Anna wentdown the stairs and out upon the piazza, where her aunt was waiting. Mr. Leighton had accepted Fanny's invitation to stay to tea, and hehanded the ladies to their carriage, lingering a moment while he saidhis parting words, for he was going out of town to-morrow, and when hereturned Anna would be gone. 

"You will think of us sometimes, " he said, still holding Anna's hand. "St. Mark's will be lonely without you. God bless you and bring yousafely back. "

There was a warm pressure of the hand, a lifting of Arthur's hat, andthen the carriage moved away; but Anna, looking back, saw Arthurstanding by Lucy's side, fastening a rosebud in her hair, and at thatsight the gleam of hope, which for an instant had crept into herheart, passed away with a sigh. 

CHAPTER VII. 

AT NEWPORT. 

Moved by a strange impulse, Thornton Hastings took himself and hisfast bays to Newport, instead of Saratoga, and thither, the first weekin August, came Mrs. Meredith, with eight large trunks, her niece andher niece's wardrobe, which had cost the pretty sum of eighteenhundred dollars. 

Mrs. Meredith was not naturally lavish of her money except where herown interests were concerned, as they were in Anna's case. Consciousof having come between her niece and the man she loved, she determinedthat in the procuring of a substitute for this man, no advantageswhich dress could afford should be lacking. Besides, Thornton Hastingswas a perfect connoisseur in everything pertaining to a lady's toilet, and it was with him and his preference before her mind that Mrs. Meredith opened her purse so widely and bought so extensively. Therewere sun hats and round hats, and hats _ŕ la cavalier_--there werebonnets and veils, and dresses and shawls of every color and kind, with the lesser matters of sashes and gloves and slippers and fans, the whole making an array such as Anna had never seen before, and fromwhich she at first shrank back appalled and dismayed. But she was notnow quite so much of a novice as when she first reached New York theSaturday following the picnic at Prospect Hill. She had passedsuccessfully and safely through the hands of mantua-makers, millinersand hairdressers since then. She had laid aside every article broughtfrom home. She wore her hair in puffs and waterfalls, and her dressesin the latest mode. She had seen the fashionable world as representedat Saratoga, and, sickening at the sight, had gladly acquiesced in heraunt's proposal to go on to Newport, where the air was purer and thehotels not so densely packed. She had been called a beauty and abelle, but her heart was longing for the leafy woods and fresh greenfields of Hanover; and Newport, she fancied, would be more like thecountry than sultry, crowded Saratoga, and never since leaving homehad she looked so bright and pretty as the evening after her arrivalat the Ocean House, when invigorated by the bath she had taken in themorning, and gladdened by sight of the glorious sea and the soothingtones it murmured in her ear, she came down to the parlor clad insimple white, with only a bunch of violets in her hair, and no otherornament than the handsome pearls her aunt had given to her. Standingat the open window, with the drapery of the lace curtain sweepinggracefully behind her, she did not look much like the Anna who led thechoir in Hanover and visited the Widow Hobbs, nor yet much like thepicture which Thornton Hastings had formed of the girl who he knew wasthere for his inspection. He had been absent the entire day, and hadnot seen Mrs. Meredith, when she arrived early in the morning, but hefound her card in his room, and a strange smile curled his lip as hesaid:

"And so I have not escaped her. "

Thornton Hastings had proved a most treacherous knight and overthrownhis general's plans entirely. Arthur's letter had affected himstrangely, for he readily guessed how deeply wounded his sensitivefriend had been by Anna Ruthven's refusal, while added to this was afear lest Anna had been influenced by a thought of him and what mightpossibly result from an acquaintance. Thornton Hastings had beenflattered and angled for until he had grown somewhat vain, and it didnot strike him as at all improbable that the unsophisticated Annashould have designs upon him. 

"But I won't give her a chance, " he said, when he finished Arthur'sletter. "I thought once I might like her, but I shan't, and I'll berevenged on her for refusing the best man that ever breathed. I'll goto Newport instead of Saratoga, and so be clear of the entire Meredithclique, the Hethertons, the little Harcourt, and all. "

This, then, was the secret of his being there at the Ocean House. Hewas keeping away from Anna Ruthven, who never had heard of him butonce, and that from Lucy Harcourt. After that scene in the Glen, whereAnna had exclaimed against intriguing mothers and their bold, shameless daughters, Mrs. Meredith had been too wise a maneuverer tomention Thornton Hastings, so that Anna was wholly ignorant of hispresence at Newport, and looked up in unfeigned surprise at the tall, elegant man whom her aunt presented as Mr. Hastings. With allThornton's affected indifference, there was still a curiosity to seethe girl who could say "no" to Arthur Leighton, and he had not waitedlong after receiving Mrs. Meredith's card before going down to findher. 

"That's the girl, I'll lay a wager, " he thought of a high-colored, showily-dressed hoyden, who was whirling around the room with NedPeters, from Boston, and whose corn-colored dress swept against hisboots as he entered the parlor. 

How, then, was he disappointed in the apparition Mrs. Meredithpresented as "my niece, " the modest, self-possessed young girl, whosecheeks grew not a whit redder, and whose pulse did not quicken at thesight of him, though a gleam of something like curiosity shone in thebrown eyes which scanned him so quietly. She was thinking of Lucy, andher injunction "not to speak to the hateful if she saw him;" but shedid speak to him, and Mrs. Meredith fanned herself complacently as shesaw how fast they became acquainted. 

"You do not dance, " Mr. Hastings said, as she declined an invitationfrom Ned Peters, whom she had met at Saratoga. "I am glad, for now youwill, perhaps, walk with me outside upon the piazza. You won't takecold, I think, " and he glanced thoughtfully at the white neck andshoulders gleaming beneath the gauzy muslin. 

Mrs. Meredith was in rhapsodies and sat a full hour with the tiresomedowagers around her, while up and down the broad piazza ThorntonHastings walked with Anna, talking to her as he seldom talked towomen, and feeling greatly surprised to find that what he said wasfully appreciated and understood. That he was pleased with her hecould not deny himself, as he sat alone in his room that night, feeling more and more how keenly Arthur Leighton must have felt at herrefusal. 

"But why did she refuse him?" he wished he knew, and ere he slept hehad resolved to study Anna Ruthven closely, and ascertain, ifpossible, the motive which prompted her to discard a man like ArthurLeighton. 

The next day brought the Hetherton party, all but Lucy Harcourt, who, Fanny laughingly said, was just now suffering from clergyman on thebrain, and, as a certain cure for the disease, had turned my LadyBountiful, and was playing the pretty patroness to all Mr. Leighton'sparishioners, especially a Widow Hobbs, whom she had actually taken toride in the carriage, and to whose ragged children she had sent abundle of cast-off party dresses; and the tears ran down Fanny'scheeks as she described the appearance of the elder Hobbs, who came tochurch with a soiled pink silk skirt, her black, tattered petticoathanging down below and one of Lucy's opera hoods upon her head. 

"And the clergyman on the brain? Does he appreciate the situation? Ihave an interest there. He is an old friend of mine, " ThorntonHastings asked. 

He had been an amused listener to Fanny's gay badinage, laughingmerrily at the idea of Lucy's taking old women out to air and clothingher children in party dresses. His opinion of Lucy, as she had said, was that she was a pretty, but frivolous, plaything, and it showedupon his face as he asked the question he did, watching Anna furtivelyas Fanny replied:

"Oh, yes, he is certainly smitten, and I must say I never saw Lucy sothoroughly in earnest. Why, she really seems to enjoy traveling allover Christendom to find the hovels and huts, though she is mortallyafraid of the smallpox, and always carries with her a bit of chlorideof lime as a disinfecting agent. I am sure she ought to win theparson. And so you know him, do you?"

"Yes; we were in college together, and I esteem him so highly that, had I a sister, there is no man living to whom I would so readily giveher as to him. "

He was looking now at Anna, whose face was very pale, and who presseda rose she held so tightly that the sharp thorns pierced her flesh, and a drop of blood stained the whiteness of her hand. 

"See, you have hurt yourself, " Mr. Hastings said. "Come to the waterpitcher and wash the stain away. "

She went with him mechanically, and let him hold her hand in hiswhile he wiped off the blood with his own handkerchief, treating herwith a tenderness for which he could hardly account himself. He pitiedher, he said, suspecting that she had repented of her rashness, andbecause he pitied her he asked her to ride with him that day after thefast bays, of which he had written to Arthur. Many admiring eyes werecast after them as they drove away, and Mrs. Hetherton whisperedsoftly to Mrs. Meredith:

"A match in progress, I see. You have done well for your charmingniece. "

And yet matrimony, as concerned himself, was very far from ThorntonHastings' thoughts that afternoon, when, because he saw that itpleased Anna to have him do so, he talked to her of Arthur, hoping inhis unselfish heart that what he said in his praise might influenceher to reconsider her decision and give him a different answer. Thiswas the second day of Thornton Hastings' acquaintance with AnnaRuthven, but as the days went on, bringing the usual routine of lifeat Newport, the drives, the rides, the pleasant piazza talks, and thequiet moonlight rambles, when Anna was always his companion, ThorntonHastings came to feel an unwillingness to surrender, even to ArthurLeighton, the beautiful girl who pleased him better than any one hehad known. 

Mrs. Meredith's plans were working well, and so, though the autumndays had come, and one after another the devotees of fashion weredropping off, she lingered on, and Thornton Hastings still rode andwalked with Anna Ruthven, until there came a night when they wanderedfarther than usual from the hotel, and sat down together on a heightof land which overlooked the placid waters, where the moonlight laysoftly sleeping. It was a most lovely night, and for a while theylistened in silence to the music of the sea, then talked of thebreaking up which came in a few days when the hotel was to be closed, and wondered if next year they would come again to the old haunts andfind them unchanged. 

There was witchery in the hour, and Thornton felt its spell, speakingout at last, and asking Anna if she would be his wife. He would shieldher so tenderly, he said, protecting her from every care, and makingher as happy as love and money could make her. Then he told her of hishome in the far-off city, which needed only her presence to make it aparadise, and then he waited for her answer, watching anxiously thelimp white hands, which, when he first began to talk, had fallen sohelplessly upon her lap, and then had crept up to her face, which wasturned away from him, so that he could not see its expression, orguess at the struggle going on in Anna's mind. She was not whollysurprised, for she could not mistake the nature of the interest which, for the last two weeks, Thornton Hastings had manifested in her. But, now that the moment had come, it seemed to her that she never hadexpected it, and she sat silent for a time, dreading so much to speakthe words which she knew would inflict pain on one whom she respectedso highly but whom she could not marry. 

"Don't you like me, Anna?" Thornton asked at last, his voice very lowand tender, as he bent over her and tried to take her hand. 

"Yes, very much, " she answered, and, emboldened by her reply, Thorntonlifted up her head, and was about to kiss her forehead, when shestarted away from him, exclaiming:

"No, Mr. Hastings. You must not do that. I cannot be your wife. Ithurts me to tell you so, for I believe you are sincere in yourproposal; but it can never be. Forgive me, and let us both forget thiswretched summer. "

"It has not been wretched to me. It has been a very happy summer, since I knew you, at least, " Mr. Hastings said, and then he askedagain that she should reconsider her decision. He could not take it asher final one. He had loved her too much, had thought too much ofmaking her his own to give her up so easily, he said, urging so manyreasons why she should think again, that Anna said to him, at last:

"If you would rather have it so, I will wait a month, but you mustnot hope that my answer will be different from what it is to-night. Iwant your friendship, though, the same as if this had never happened. I like you, Mr. Hastings, because you have been kind to me, and mademy stay in Newport so much pleasanter than I thought it could be. Youhave not talked to me like other men. You have treated me as if I, atleast, had common sense. I thank you for that; and I like youbecause----"

She did not finish the sentence, for she could not say "because youare Arthur's friend. " That would have betrayed the miserable secrettugging at her heart, and prompting her to refuse Thornton Hastings, who had also thought of Arthur Leighton, wondering if it were thusthat she rejected him, and if in the background there was another lovestanding between her and the two men to win whom many a woman wouldalmost have given her right hand. To say that Thornton was not alittle piqued at her refusal would be false. He had not expected it, accustomed, as he was, to adulation; but he tried to put that feelingdown, and his manner was even more kind and considerate than ever ashe walked slowly back to the hotel, where Mrs. Meredith was waitingfor them, her practised eye detecting at once that something wasamiss. Thornton Hastings knew Mrs. Meredith thoroughly, and, wishingto shield Anna from her displeasure, he preferred stating the factshimself to having them wrung from the pale, agitated girl who, biddinghim good night, went quickly to her room; so, when she was gone, andhe stood for a moment alone with Mrs. Meredith, he said:

"I have proposed to your niece, but she cannot answer me now. Shewishes for a month's probation, which I have granted, and I ask thatshe shall not be persecuted about the matter. I wish for an unbiassedanswer. "

He bowed politely, and walked away, while Mrs. Meredith almost trod onair as she climbed the three flights of stairs and sought her niece'schamber. Over the interview which ensued that night we pass silently, and come to the next morning, when Anna sat alone on the piazza at therear of the hotel, watching the playful gambols of some children onthe grass, and wondering if she ever could conscientiously say "yes"to Thornton Hastings' suit. He was coming toward her now, lifting hishat politely, and asking what she would give for news from home. 

"I found this on my table, " he said, holding up a dainty littlemissive, on the corner of which was written "In haste, " as if itscontents were of the utmost importance. "The boy must have made amistake, or else he thought it well enough to begin at once bringingyour letters to me, " he continued, with a smile, as he handed Anna theletter from Lucy Harcourt. "I have one too, from Arthur which I willread while you are devouring yours, and then, perhaps, you will take alittle ride. The September air is very bracing this morning, " he said, walking away to the far end of the piazza, while Anna broke the sealof the envelope, hesitating a moment ere taking the letter from it, and trembling as if she guessed what it might contain. 

There was a quivering of the eyelids, a paling of the lips as sheglanced at the first few lines, then with a low, moaning cry, "No, no, oh, no, not that, " she fell upon her face. 

To lift her in his arms and carry her to her room was the work of aninstant, and then, leaving her to Mrs. Meredith's care, ThorntonHastings went back to finish Arthur's letter, which might or might notthrow light upon the fainting fit. 

"Dear Thornton, " Arthur wrote, "you will be surprised, no doubt, tohear that your old college chum is at last engaged--positivelyengaged--but not to one of the fifty lambs about whom you oncejocosely wrote. The shepherd has wandered from his flock, and is aboutto take into his bosom a little, stray ewe-lamb--Lucy Harcourt byname--"

"The deuce he is, " was Thornton's ejaculation, and then he read on. 

"She is an acquaintance of yours, I believe, so I need not describeher, except to say that she is somewhat changed from the gay butterflyof fashion she used to be, and in time will make as demure a littleQuakeress as one could wish to see. She visits constantly among mypoor, who love her almost as well as they once loved Anna Ruthven. 

"Don't ask me, Thorne, in your blunt, straightforward manner if Ihave so soon forgotten Anna. That is a matter with which you'venothing to do. Let it suffice that I am engaged to another, and meanto make a kind and faithful husband to her. Lucy would have suited youbetter, perhaps, than she does me; that is, the world would think so, but the world does not always know, and if I am satisfied, surely itought to be. Yours truly, "A. LEIGHTON. "

"Engaged to Lucy Harcourt? I never could have believed it. He's rightin saying that she is far more suitable for me than him. " Thorntonexclaimed, dashing aside the letter and feeling conscious of a pang ashe remembered the bright, airy little beauty in whom he had once beenstrongly interested, even if he did call her frivolous and ridiculeher childish ways. 

She was frivolous, too much so, by far, to be a clergyman's wife, andfor a full half hour Thornton paced up and down the room, meditatingon Arthur's choice and wondering how upon earth it ever happened. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

HOW IT HAPPENED. 

Lucy had insisted that she did not care to go to Saratoga. Shepreferred remaining in Hanover, where it was cool and quiet, and whereshe would not have to dress three times a day and dance every nighttill twelve. She was beginning to find that there was something tolive for besides consulting one's own pleasure, and she meant to dogood the rest of her life, she said, assuming such a sober nun-likeair, that no one who saw her could fail to laugh, it was so atvariance with her entire nature. 

But Lucy was in earnest; Hanover had a greater attraction for herthan all the watering-places in the world, and she meant to staythere, feeling very grateful when Fanny threw her influence on herside, and so turned the scale in her favor. Fanny was glad to leaveher dangerous cousin at home, especially after Dr. Bellamy decided tojoin their party at Saratoga, and, as she carried great weight withboth her parents, it was finally decided to let Lucy remain atProspect Hill in peace, and so one morning in July she saw the familydepart to their summer gayeties without a single feeling of regretthat she was not of their number. She had too much on her hands tospend her time in regretting anything. There was the parish school tovisit, and a class of children to hear--children who were no longerragged, for Lucy's money had been poured out like water, till evenArthur had remonstrated with her and read her a long lecture on thesubject of misplaced charity. Then, there was Widow Hobbs, waiting forthe jelly Lucy had promised, and for the chapter which Lucy read toher, sitting where she could watch the road and see just who turnedthe corner, her voice always sounding a little more serious and goodwhen the footsteps belonged to Arthur Leighton, and her eyes, alwaysglancing at the bit of cracked mirror on the wall, to see that herdress and hair and ribbons were right before Arthur came in. 

It was a very pretty sight to see her there and hear her as she readto the poor woman, whose surroundings she had so greatly improved, andArthur always smiled gratefully upon her, and then walked back withher to Prospect Hill, where he sometimes lingered while she played ortalked to him, or brought the luscious fruits with which the gardenabounded. 

This was Lucy's life, the one she preferred to Saratoga, and theyleft her to enjoy it, somewhat to Arthur's discomfiture, for much ashe valued her society, he would a little rather she had gone when theHethertons went, for he could not be insensible to the remarks whichwere being made by the curious villagers, who watched this newflirtation, as they called it, and wondered if their minister hadforgotten Anna Ruthven. He had not forgotten Anna, and many a time washer loved name upon his lips and a thought of her in his heart, whilehe never returned from an interview with Lucy that he did not contrastthe two and sigh for the olden time, when Anna was his co-workerinstead of pretty Lucy Harcourt. And yet there was about the latter apowerful fascination, which he found it hard to resist. It rested himjust to look at her, she was so fresh, so bright, so beautiful, andthen she flattered his self-love by the unbounded deference she paidto his opinions, studying all his tastes and bringing her own willinto perfect subjection to his, until she scarcely could be said tohave a thought or feeling which was not a reflection of his own. Andso the flirtation, which at first had been a one-sided affair, beganto assume a more serious form; the rector went oftener to ProspectHill, while the carriage from Prospect Hill stood daily at the gate ofthe rectory, and people said it was a settled thing, or ought to be, gossiping about it until old Captain Humphreys, Anna's grandfather, conceived it his duty as senior warden of St. Mark's, to talk with theyoung rector and know "what his intentions were. "

"You have none?" he said, fixing his mild eyes reproachfully upon hisclergyman, who winced a little beneath the gaze. "Then if you have nointentions, my advice to you is, that you quit it and let the galalone, or you'll ruin her, if she ain't sp'ilt already, as some of thewomen folks say she is. It don't do no gal any good to have a chap, and specially a minister, gallyvantin' after her, as I must say you'vebeen after this one for the last few weeks. She's a pretty littlecreature, and I don't blame you for liking her. It makes my old bloodstir faster when she comes purring around me with her soft ways andwinsome face, and so I don't wonder at you; but when you say you've nointentions, I blame you greatly. You orter have--excuse my plainness. I'm an old man who likes my minister, and don't want him to go wrong, and then I feel for her, left alone by all her folks--more's the shameto them, and more's the harm for you to tangle up her affections, asyou are doing, if you are not in earnest; and I speak for her just asI should want some one to speak for Anna. "

The old man's voice trembled a little here, for it had been a wish ofhis that Anna should occupy the rectory, and he had at first felt alittle resentment against the gay young creature who seemed to havesupplanted her; but he was over that now, and in all honesty of hearthe spoke both for Lucy's interest and that of his clergyman. AndArthur listened to him respectfully, feeling, when he was gone, thathe merited the rebuke, that he had not been guiltless in the matter, that if he did not mean to marry Lucy Harcourt he must let her alone. 

And he would, he said; he would not go to Prospect Hill again for twowhole weeks, nor visit at the cottages where he was sure to find her. He would keep himself at home; and he did, shutting himself up amonghis books, and not even making a pastoral call on Lucy when he heardthat she was sick. And so Lucy came to him, looking dangerouslycharming in her green riding-habit--with the scarlet feather sweepingfrom her hat. Very prettily she pouted, too, chiding him for hisneglect, and asking why he had not been to see her, nor anybody. Therewas the Widow Hobbs, and Mrs. Briggs and those miserable Donelsons--hehad not been near them for a fortnight. What was the reason? sheasked, beating her foot upon the carpet, and tapping the end of herriding whip upon the sermon he was writing. 

"Are you displeased with me, Arthur?" she continued, her eyes fillingwith tears as she saw the grave expression on his face. "Have I doneanything wrong? I am so sorry if I have. "

Her voice had in it the grieved tones of a little child, and her eyeswere very bright, with the tears, quivering on her long silken lashes. Leaning back in his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, aposition he always assumed when puzzled and perplexed, the rectorlooked at her a moment before he spoke. He could not define to himselfthe nature of the interest he took in Lucy Harcourt. He admired hergreatly, and the self-denials and generous exertions she had made tobe of use to him since Anna went away had touched a tender chord andmade her seem very near to him. 

Habit with him was everything, and the past two weeks' isolation hadshown him how necessary she had become to him. She did not satisfy hishigher wants as Anna Ruthven had done. No one could ever do that, butshe amused, and soothed, and rested him, and made his duties lighterby taking half of them upon herself. That she was more attached to himthan he could wish, he greatly feared, for, since Captain Humphreys'visit, he had seen matters differently from what he saw them before, and had unsparingly questioned himself as to how far he would beanswerable for her future weal or woe. 

"Guilty, verily, I am guilty, in leading her on, if I meant nothing byit, " he had written against himself, pausing in his sermon to write itjust as Lucy came in, appealing so prettily to him to know why he hadneglected her so long. She was very beautiful this morning, and Arthurfelt his heart beat rapidly as he looked at her, and thought most anyman who had never known Anna Ruthven would be glad to gather thatbright creature in his own arms and know she was his own. One long, long sigh to the memory of all he had hoped for once--one bitter pangas he remembered Anna and that twilight hour in the church and then hemade a mad plunge in the dark and said:

"Lucy, do you know people are beginning to talk about my seeing you somuch?"

"Well, let them talk. Who cares?" Lucy replied, with a good deal ofasperity of manner for her, for that very morning the old housekeeperat Prospect Hill had ventured to remonstrate with her for "runningafter the parson. " "Pray, where is the wrong? What harm can come ofit?" and she tossed her head pettishly. 

"None, perhaps, " Arthur replied, "if one could keep his affectionsunder control. But if either of us should learn to love the other verymuch, and the love was not reciprocated, harm would surely come ofthat. At least, that was the view Captain Humphreys took of the matterwhen he was speaking to me about it. "

There were red spots on Lucy's face, but her lips were very white, andthe buttons on her riding dress rose and fell rapidly with the beatingof her heart as she looked steadily at Arthur. Was he going to sendher from him, send her back to the insipid life she had lived beforeshe knew him? It was too terrible to believe, and the great tearsrolled slowly down her cheeks. Then, as a flash of pride came to heraid, she dashed them away, and said haughtily:

"And so, for fear I shall fall in love with you, and be ruined, perhaps, you are sacrificing both comfort and freedom, shuttingyourself up here among your books and studies to the neglect of otherduties? But it need be so no longer. The necessity for it, if itexisted once, certainly does not now. I will not be in your way. Forgive me that I ever have been. "

Lucy's voice began to tremble as she gathered up her riding-habit andturned to find her gauntlets. One of them had dropped upon the floor, between the table and the rector, and as she stooped to reach it hercurls almost swept the young man's lap. 

"Let me get it for you, " he said, hastily pushing back his chair, andawkwardly entangling his foot in her dress, so that when she rose shestumbled backward, and would have fallen but for the arm he quicklypassed around her. 

Something in the touch of that quivering form completed the work oftemptation, and he held it for an instant while she said to him:

"Please, let me go, sir!"

"No, Lucy, I can't let you go; I want you to stay with me. "

Instantly the drooping head was uplifted, and Lucy's eyes looked intohis with such a wistful, pleading, wondering look, that Arthur saw, orthought he saw, his duty plain, and, gently touching his lips to thebrow glistening so white within their reach, he continued:

"There is a way to stop the gossip and make it right for me to seeyou. Promise to be my wife, and not even Captain Humphreys will sayaught against it. "

Arthur's voice trembled a little now, for the mention of CaptainHumphreys had brought a thought of Anna, whose brown eyes seemed foran instant to look reproachfully upon that wooing. But Arthur had gonetoo far to retract--he had committed himself, and now he had only towait for Lucy's answer. 

There was no deception about her. Hers was a nature as clear ascrystal, and, with a gush of glad tears, she promised to be therector's wife, hiding her face in his bosom, and telling him brokenlyhow unworthy she was, how foolish and how unsuited to the place, butpromising to do the best she could do not to bring him into disgraceon account of her shortcomings. 

"With the acknowledgment that you love me, I can do anything, " shesaid, and her white hand crept slowly into the cold, clammy one whichlay so listlessly in Arthur's lap. 

He was already repenting, for he felt that it was sin to take thatwarm, trusting, loving heart in exchange for the half-lifeless one heshould render in return, the heart where scarcely a pulse of joy wasbeating, even though he held his promised wife, and she as fair andbeautiful as ever promised wife could be. 

"I can make her happy, and I will, " he thought, pressing the warmfingers which quivered to his touch. 

But he did not kiss her again. He could not, for the brown eyes whichstill seemed looking at him as if asking what he did. There was astrange spell about those phantom eyes, and they made him say to Lucy, who was now sitting demurely at his side:

"I could not clear my conscience if I did not confess that you are notthe first woman whom I have asked to be my wife. "

There was a sudden start, and Lucy's face was as pale as ashes, whileher hand went quickly to her side, where the heart beats were sovisible, warning Arthur to be careful how he startled her, so when sheasked:

"Who was it, and why did you not marry her? Did you love her verymuch?" he answered indifferently:

"I would rather not tell you who it was, as that might be a breach ofconfidence. She did not care to be my wife, and so that dream was overand I was left for you. "

He did not say how much he loved her, but Lucy forgot the omission andasked:

"Was she young and pretty?"

"Young and pretty both, but not as beautiful as you, " Arthur replied, his fingers softly parting back the golden curls from the face lookingso trustingly into his. 

And in that he answered truly. He had seen no face as beautiful ofits kind as Lucy's was, and he was glad that he could tell her so. Heknew how it would please her, and partly make amends for the tenderwords which he could not speak for the phantom eyes haunting him sostrangely. And Lucy, who took all things for granted, was more thancontent, only she wondered that he did not kiss her again, and wishedshe knew the girl who had come so near being in her place. But sherespected his wishes too much to ask, after what he had said, and shetried to make herself glad that he had been so frank with her, and notleft his other love affair to the chance of her discovering itafterwards at a time when it might be painful to her. 

"I wish I had something to confess, " she thought, but from the scoresof her flirtations, and even offers, for she had not lacked for them, she could not find one where her own feelings had been enlisted inever so slight a degree, until she remembered Thornton Hastings, whofor one whole week had paid her much attentions as made her driveround on purpose to look at the house on Madison Square where thefuture Mrs. Hastings was to live. But his coolness afterwards, and hiscomments on her frivolity had terribly angered her, making her thinkshe hated him, as she had said to Anna. Now, however, as sheremembered the drive and the house, she nestled closer to Arthur, andtold him all about it, fingering the buttons on his dressing-gown asshe told it, and never dreaming of the pang she was inflicting asArthur thought how mysterious were God's ways, and wondered that hehad not reversed the matter, and given Lucy to Thornton Hastingsrather than to him, who did not half deserve her. 

"I know now I never cared a bit for Thornton Hastings, though I mightif he had not been so mean as to call me frivolous, " Lucy said, as shearose to go; then suddenly turning to the rector, she added: "I shallnever ask you who your first love was, but I would like to know if youhave quite forgotten her. "

"Have you forgotten Thornton Hastings?" Arthur asked, laughingly, andLucy replied, "Of course not; one never forgets, but I don't care apin for him now, and, did I tell you Fanny writes that rumor says hewill marry Anna Ruthven?"

"Yes, no, I did not know--I am not surprised, " and Arthur stooped topick up a book lying on the floor, thus hiding his face from Lucy, who, woman-like, was glad to report a piece of gossip, and continued:"She is a great belle, Fanny says--dressed beautifully and in perfecttaste, besides talking as if she knew something, and this pleases Mr. Hastings, who takes her out to ride and drive, and all this after Iwarned her against him, and told her just what he said of me. I amsurprised at her. "

Lucy was drawing on her gauntlets, and Arthur was waiting to see herout, but she still lingered on the threshold, and at last said to him, "I wonder you never fell in love with Anna yourself. I am sure if Iwere you I should prefer her to me. She knows something and I do not, but I am going to study. There are piles of books in the library atProspect Hill, and you shall see what a famous student I will become. If I get puzzled, will you help me?"

"Yes, willingly, " Arthur replied, wishing that she would go beforeshe indulged in any more speculations as to why he did not love AnnaRuthven. 

But Lucy was not done yet, and Arthur felt as if the earth were givingway beneath his feet when, as he lifted her into the saddle and tookher hand at parting, she said, "Now, remember, I am not going to bejealous of that other love. There is only one person who could make meso, and that is Anna Ruthven; but I know it was not she, for thatnight we all came from Mrs. Hobbs' and she went with me up-stairs, Iasked her honestly if you had ever offered yourself to her, and shetold me you had not. I think you showed a lack of taste, but I am gladit was not Anna. "

Lucy was far down the road ere Arthur recovered from the shock herlast words had given him. What did it mean, and why had Anna said henever proposed? Was there some mistake, and he the victim of it? Therewas a blinding mist before the young man's eyes as he returned to hisstudy, and went over again, with all the incidents of Anna's refusal, even to the reading of the letter which he already knew by heart. Then, as the thought came over him that possibly Mrs. Meredith playedhim false in some way, he groaned aloud, and the great sweat dropsfell upon the table where he leaned his head. But this could not be, he reasoned. Lucy was mistaken. She had not heard aright. Somebody, surely, was mistaken, or he had committed a fatal error. 

"But I must abide by it, " he said, lifting up his pallid face. "Godforbid the wrong I have done in asking Lucy to be my wife when myheart belonged to Anna. God help me to forget the one and love theother as I ought. She is a lovely little girl, trusting me so whollythat I can make her happy, and I will; but Anna! oh, Anna!"

It was a despairing cry, such as a newly-engaged man should never havesent after another than his affianced bride. Arthur thought so, too, fighting back his first love with an iron will, and, after that firsthour of anguish, burying it so far from sight that he went that nightto Captain Humphreys and told of his engagement; then called upon hisbride-elect, trying so hard to be satisfied that, when, at a latehour, he returned to the rectory, he was more than content; and, byway of fortifying himself still further, wrote the letter whichThornton Hastings read at Newport. 

And that was how it happened. 

CHAPTER IX. 

ANNA. 

Through the rich curtains which shaded the windows of a room lookingout on Fifth Avenue, the late October sun was shining, and as its redlight played among the flowers on the carpet a pale young girl satwatching it, and thinking of the Hanover hills, now decked in theirautumnal glory, and of the ivy on St. Mark's, growing so bright andbeautiful beneath the autumnal frosts. Anna had been very sick sincethat morning in September when she sat on the piazza at the OceanHouse and read Lucy Harcourt's letter. The faint was a precursor offever, the physician said, when summoned to her aid, and in a tremorof fear and distress Mrs. Meredith had had her at once removed to NewYork, and that was the last Anna remembered. 

From the moment her aching head had touched the soft pillows in AuntMeredith's house all consciousness had fled, and for weeks she hadhovered so near to death that the telegraph wires bore daily messagesto Hanover, where the aged couple who had cared for her since herchildhood wept, and prayed, and watched for tidings from theirdarling. They could not go to her, for Grandpa Humphreys had brokenhis leg, and his wife could not leave him, so they waited with whatpatience they could for the daily bulletins which Mrs. Meredith sent, appreciating their anxiety, and feeling glad withal of anything whichkept them from New York. 

"She had best be prayed for in church, " the old man had said, and soSunday after Sunday Arthur read the prayer for the sick, his voicetrembling as it had never trembled before, and a keener sorrow in hisheart than he had ever known when saying the solemn words. Heretoforethe persons prayed for had been comparative strangers, people in whomhe felt only the interest a pastor feels in all his flock, but now itwas Anna, whose case he took to God, and he always smothered a sobduring the moment he waited for the fervent response the congregationmade, the "Amen" which came from the pew where Lucy sat soundinglouder and heartier than all the rest, and having in it a sound of thetears which fell so fast on Lucy's book as she asked that Anna mightnot die. Oh, how he longed to go to her, but this he could not do, andso he had sent Lucy, who bent so tenderly above the sick girl, whispering loving words in her ear, and dropping kisses upon the lipswhich uttered no response, save once, when Lucy said:

"Do you remember Arthur?"

Then they murmured faintly:

"Yes; Arthur, I remember him, and the Christmas song, and thegathering in the church; but that was long ago. There's much happenedsince then. "

"And I am to marry Arthur, " Lucy had said again, but this time therewas no sign that she was understood, and that afternoon she went backto Hanover loaded with testaments for the children of St. Mark's, andnew books for the Sunday-school, and, accompanied by Valencia, who, having had a serious difference with her mistress, Mrs. Meredith, offered her services to Lucy, and was at once accepted. 

That was near the middle of October; now it was towards the last, andAnna was so much better that she sat up for an hour or more, andlistened with some degree of interest to what Mrs. Meredith told herof the days when she lay so unconscious of all that was passing aroundher, never even heeding the kindly voice of Thornton Hastings, who, more than once, had stood by her pillow with his hand on her feverishbrow, and whose thoughtfulness was visible in the choice bouquets hesent each day, with notes of anxious inquiry when he did not comehimself. 

Anna had not seen him yet since her convalescence. She would rathernot see any one until strong enough to talk, she said; and so Thorntonwaited patiently for the interview she had promised him when she wasstronger, but every day he sent her fruit and flowers, and books ofprints which he thought would interest her, and which always made hercheeks grow hot and her heart beat regretfully, for she thought of theanswer she must give him when he came, and she shrank from woundinghim. 

"He is too good, too noble to have an unwilling wife, " she said, butthat did not make it the less hard to tell him so, and when at lastshe was well enough to see him, she waited his coming nervously, starting when she heard his step, and trembling like a leaf as he drewnear her chair. It was a very thin, wasted hand which he took in his, holding it for a moment between his own, and then laying it gentlyback upon her lap. 

He had come for the answer to a question put six weeks before, andAnna gave it to him. 

Kindly, considerately, but decidedly, she told him she could not behis wife, simply because she did not love him as he ought to be loved. 

"It is nothing personal, " she said, working nervously at the heavyfringe of her shawl. "I respect you more than any man I ever knew, butone, and had I met you years ago before--before----"

"I understand you, " Thornton said, coming to her aid. "You have triedto love me, but cannot, because your affections are given to another. "

Anna bowed her head in silence. Then after a moment she continued:

"You must forgive me, Mr. Hastings, for not telling you this at once. I did not know then but I could love you--at least I meant to try, foryou see, this other one----"

The fingers got terribly tangled in the fringe as Anna gasped forbreath, and went on:

"He does not know, and never will; that is, he never cared for me, norguessed how foolish I was to give him my love unsought. "

"Then it is not Arthur Leighton, and that is the reason you refusedhim, too?" Mr. Hastings said, involuntarily, and Anna looked quicklyup, her cheeks growing paler than they were before, as she replied:

"I don't know what you mean. I never refused Mr. Leighton--never. "

"You never refused Mr. Leighton?" Thornton exclaimed, forgetting alldiscretion in his surprise at this flat contradiction. "I haveArthur's word for it, written to me last June, while Mrs. Meredith wasthere, I think. "

"He surely could not have meant it, because it never occurred. Once, Iwas foolish enough to think he was going to, but he did not. There issome great mistake, " Anna found strength to say, and then she lay backin her easy-chair panting for breath, her brain all in a whirl as shethought of the possibility that she was once so near the greatesthappiness she had ever desired, and which was now lost to her forever. 

He brought her smelling salts, he gave her ice-water to drink, andthen, kneeling beside her, he fanned her gently, while he said: "Theresurely is a mistake, and, I fear, a great wrong, too, somewhere. Wereall your servants trusty? Was there no one who would withhold a letterif he had written? Were you always at home when he called?" Thorntonquestioned her rapidly, for there was a suspicion in his mind as tothe real culprit; but he would not hint it to Anna unless shesuggested it herself. And this she was not likely to do. Mrs. Meredithhad been too kind to her during the past summer, and especially duringher illness, to allow of such a thought concerning her, and, in a mazeof perplexity, she replied to his inquiries: "We keep but one servant, Esther, and she, I know, is trusty. Besides, who could have refusedhim for me? Grandfather would not, I know, because--because----"

She hesitated a little and her cheeks blushed scarlet, as she added:"I sometimes thought he wished it to be. "

If Thornton had previously a doubt as to the other man who stoodbetween himself and Anna, that doubt was now removed, and laying asideall thoughts of self, he exclaimed: "I tell you there is a great wrongsomewhere. Arthur never told an untruth; he thought that you refusedhim; he thinks so still, and I shall never rest till I have solved themystery. I will write to him to-day. "

For an instant there swept over Anna a feeling of unutterable joy asshe thought of what the end might be; then, as she remembered Lucy, her heart seemed to stop its beating, and, with a moan, she stretchedher hand toward Thornton, who had risen as if to leave her. 

"No, no; you must not interfere, " she said. "It is too late, too late. Don't you remember Lucy? Don't you know she is to be his wife? Lucymust not be sacrificed for me. I can bear it the best. "

She knew she had betrayed her secret and she tried to take it back, but Thornton interrupted her with, "Never mind now, Anna; I guessed itall before, and it hurts my pride less to know that it is Arthur whomyou prefer to me; I do not blame you for it. "

He smoothed her hair pityingly, while he stood over her for a moment, wondering what his duty was. Anna had told him plainly what it was. Hemust leave Arthur and Lucy alone. She insisted upon having it so, andhe promised her at least that he would not interfere; then, taking herhand, he pressed it a moment between his own and went out from herpresence. In the hall below he met with Mrs. Meredith, who he knew waswaiting anxiously to hear the result of that long interview. 

"Your niece will never be my wife, and I am satisfied to have it so, "he said; then, as he saw the lowering of her brow, he continued: "Ihave long suspected that she loved another, and my suspicions areconfirmed, though there's something I cannot understand, " and fixinghis eyes searchingly upon Mrs. Meredith, he told her what Arthur hadwritten and of Anna's denial of the same. "Somebody played her false, "he said, rather enjoying the look of terror and shame which crept intothe haughty woman's eyes, as she tried to appear natural and expressher own surprise at what she heard. 

"I was right in my conjecture, " Thornton thought, as he took hisleave of Mrs. Meredith who could not face Anna then, but pacedrestlessly up and down her spacious rooms, wondering how much Thorntonhad suspected and what the end would be. 

She had sinned for naught. Anna had upset all her cherished plans, and, could she have gone back for a few months and done her workagain, she would have left the letter lying where she found it. Butthat could not be now. She must reap as she had sown, and resolvingfinally to hope for the best and abide the result, she went up toAnna, who having no suspicion of her, hurt her ten times more cruellyby the perfect faith with which she confided the story to her thanbitter reproaches would have done. 

"I know you wanted me to marry Mr. Hastings, " Anna said, "and I wouldif I could have done so conscientiously, but I could not; for, I maynow confess it to you, I did love Arthur so much; and once I hopedthat he loved me. "

The cold hard woman, who had brought this grief upon her niece, couldonly answer that it did not matter. 

She was not very sorry, although she had wished her to marry Mr. Hastings, but she must not fret about that, or about anything. Shewould be better by and by, and forget that she ever cared for ArthurLeighton. 

"At least, " and she spoke entreatingly now, "you will not demeanyourself to let him know of the mistake. It would scarcely be womanly, and he may have gotten over it. Present circumstances would seem toprove as much. "

Mrs. Meredith felt that her secret was comparatively safe, and, withher spirits lightened, she kissed her niece lovingly and told her of atrip to Europe which she had in view, promising that if she went Annashould go with her and so not be at home when the marriage of Arthurand Lucy took place. 

It was appointed for the 15th of January, that being the day when Lucycame of age, and the very afternoon succeeding Anna's interview withMr. Hastings the little lady came down to New York to direct herbridal trousseau making in the city. 

She was brimming over with happiness, and her face was a perfect gleamof sunshine when she came next day to Anna's room, and, throwing offher wrappings, plunged at once into the subject uppermost in herthoughts, telling first how she and Arthur had quarreled. 

"Not quarreled as Uncle and Aunt Hetherton and lots of people do, butdiffered so seriously that I cried, and had to give up, too, " shesaid. "I wanted you for bridesmaid, and, do you think, he objected!Not objected to you, but to bridesmaids generally, and he carried hispoint, so that unless Fanny is married at the same time, as, perhaps, she will be, we are just to stand up stiff and straight alone, exceptas you'll all be round me in the aisle. You'll be well by that time, and I want you very near to me, " Lucy said, squeezing fondly the icyhand whose coldness made her start and exclaim:

"Why, Anna, how cold you are, and how pale you are looking! You havebeen so sick, and I am well. It don't seem quite right, does it? AndArthur, too, is looking thin and worn--so thin that I have coaxed himto raise whiskers to cover the hollows in his cheeks. He looks a heapbetter now, though he was always handsome. I do so wonder that you twonever fell in love, and I tell him so most every time I see him. "

It was terrible to Anna to sit and hear all this, and the room grewdark as she listened; but she forced back her pain, and, stroking thecurly head almost resting in her lap, said kindly:

"You love him very much, don't you, darling; so much that it would behard to give him up?"

"Yes; oh, yes. I could not give him up now, except to God. I trust Icould do that, though once I could not, I am sure, " and, nestlingcloser to Anna, Lucy whispered to her of the new-born hope that shewas better than she used to be, that daily interviews with Arthur hadnot been without their effect, and now, she trusted, she tried to doright, from a higher motive than just the pleasing of him. 

"God bless you, darling, " was Anna's response, as she clasped thehand of the young girl who was now far more worthy to be Arthur's wifethan once she had been. 

If Anna ever had a thought of telling Arthur, it would have been putaside by that interview with Lucy. She could not harm that pure, loving, trusting girl, and she sent her from her with a kiss andblessing, praying silently that she might never know a shadow of thepain which she was suffering. 

CHAPTER X. 

MRS. MEREDITH HAS A CONSCIENCE. 

She had one, years before, but, since the summer day when she sentfrom her the white-faced man whose heart she had broken, it had beenhardening over with a stony crust which nothing, it seemed, couldbreak. And yet there were times when she was softened and wished thatmuch which she had done might be blotted out from the great book inwhich she believed. 

There was many a misdeed recorded there against her, she knew, andoccasionally there stole over her a strange disquietude as to how shecould confront them when they all came up against her. 

Usually, she could cast such thoughts aside by a drive down gayBroadway, or, at most, a call at Stewart's; but the sight of Anna'swhite face and the knowing what made it so white was a constantreproach, and conscience gradually wakened from its torpor enough towhisper of the only restitution in her power--that of confession toArthur. 

But from this she shrank nervously. She could not humble herself thusto any one, and she would not either. Then came the fear lest byanother than herself her guilt should come to light. What if ThorntonHastings should find her out? She was half afraid he suspected hernow, and that gave her the keenest pang of all, for she respectedThornton highly, and it would cost her much to lose his good opinion. 

She had lost him for her niece, but she could not spare him fromherself, and so, in sad perplexity, which wore upon her visibly, theautumn days went on until at last she sat one morning in herdressing-room and read in a foreign paper:

"Died, at Strasburgh, August 31st, Edward Coleman, aged 46. "

That was all; but the paper dropped from the trembling hands, and theproud woman of the world bowed her head upon the cold marble of thetable and wept aloud. She was not Mrs. Meredith now. She was JuliaRuthven again, and she stood with Edward Coleman out in the grassyorchard, where the apple-blossoms were dropping from the trees and theair was full of insects' hum and the song of matin birds. She was thewealthy Mrs. Meredith now, and he was dead in Strasburgh. True to herhe had been to the last; for he had never married, and those who hadmet him abroad had brought back the same report of "a white-hairedman, old before his time, with a tired, sad look upon his face. " Thatlook she had written there, and she wept on as she recalled the pastand murmured softly:

"Poor Edward! I loved you all the while, but I sold myself for gold, and it turned your brown locks snowy-white, poor darling!" and herhands moved up and down the folds of her cashmere robe, as if it werethe brown locks they were smoothing just as they used to do. Then camea thought of Anna, whose face wore much the look which Edward's didwhen he went slowly from the orchard and left her there alone, withthe apple-blossoms dropping on her head and the wild bees' hum in herear. 

"I can at least do right in that respect, " she said; "I can undo thepast to some extent and lessen the load of sin rolling upon myshoulders. I will write to Arthur Leighton. I surely need tell no oneelse; not yet, at least, lest he has outlived his love for Anna. I cantrust to his discretion and to his honor, too. He will not betray meunless it is necessary, and then only to Anna. Edward would bid me doit if he could speak. He was somewhat like Arthur Leighton. "

And so, with the dead man in Strasburgh before her eyes, Mrs. Meredith nerved herself to write to Arthur Leighton, confessing thefraud imposed upon him, imploring his forgiveness and begging him tospare her as much as possible. 

"I know from Anna's own lips how much she has always loved you, " shewrote in conclusion; "but she does not know of the stolen letter, andI leave you to make such use of the knowledge as you shall thinkproper. "

She did not put in a single plea for the poor, little Lucy, dancingso gayly over the mine just ready to explode. She was purely selfishstill, with all her qualms of conscience, and thought only of Anna, whom she would make happy at another's sacrifice. So she never hintedthat it was possible for Arthur to keep his word pledged to LucyHarcourt, and, as she finished her letter and placed it in an envelopewith the one which Arthur had sent to Anna, her thoughts leapedforward to the wedding she would give her niece--a wedding not quitelike that she had designed for Mrs. Thornton Hastings, but a quiet, elegant affair, just suited to a clergyman who was marrying a Ruthven. 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE LETTER RECEIVED. 

Arthur had been spending the evening at Prospect Hill. The Hethertonshad returned and would remain till after the fifteenth, and since theyhad come the rector found it even pleasanter calling there than it hadbeen before, with only his bride-elect to entertain him. Sure of Dr. Bellamy, Fanny had laid aside her sharpness, and was exceedingly wittyand brilliant, while, now that it was settled, the colonel was toothoroughly a gentleman to be otherwise than gracious to his futurenephew; and Mrs. Hetherton was always polite and lady-like, so thatthe rector looked forward with a good deal of interest to the eveningshe usually gave to Lucy, who, though satisfied to have him in hersight, still preferred the olden time, when she had him all to herselfand was not disquieted with the fear that she did not know enough forhim, as she often was when she heard him talking with Fanny and heruncle of things she did not understand. 

This evening, however, the family were away and she received himalone, trying so hard to come up to his capacity, talking sointelligibly of books she had been reading and looking so lovely inher winter crimson dress, besides being so sweetly affectionate andconfiding, that for once since his engagement Arthur was more thancontent, and returned her modest caresses with a warmth he had notfelt before. He did love her, he said to himself, or, at least, he waslearning to love her very much; and when at last he took his leave, and she went with him to the door, there was an unwonted tenderness inhis manner as he pushed her gently back, for the first snow of theseason was falling and the large flakes dropped upon her golden hair, from which he brushed them carefully away. 

"I cannot let my darling take cold, " he said, and Lucy felt a strangethrill of joy, for never before had he called her his darling, andsometimes she had thought that the love she received was not as greatas the love she gave. 

But she did not think so now, and in an ecstasy of joy she stood inthe deep recess of the bay window, watching him as he went awaythrough the moonlight and the feathery cloud of snow, wondering why, when she was so happy, there could cling to her a haunted presentimentthat she and Arthur would never meet again just as they had parted. 

Arthur, on the contrary, was troubled with no such presentiment. OfAnna he hardly thought, or, if he did, the vision was obscured by thefair picture he had seen standing in the door, with the snowflakesresting in her hair like pearls in a golden coronet. And Arthurthanked his God that he was beginning at last to feel right--that thesolemn vows that he was so soon to utter would be more than a mockery. 

It was Arthur's work to teach others how dark and mysterious are theways of Providence, but he had not himself half learned that lesson inall its strange reality; but the lesson was coming on apace; eachstride of his swift-footed beast brought him nearer to the great shockwaiting for him upon the study table, where Thomas, his man, had putit. 

He saw it the first thing on entering the room, but he did not takeit up until the snow was brushed from his garments and he had warmedhimself by the cheerful fire blazing on the hearth. Then, sitting inhis easy-chair, and moving the lamp nearer to him, he took Mrs. Meredith's letter and broke the seal, starting as if a serpent hadstung him when, in the note inclosed, he recognized his ownhandwriting, the same he had sent to Anna when his heart was so fullof hope as the brown stalks now beating against his windows with adismal sound were full of fragrant blossoms. Both had died sincethen--the roses and his hopes--And Arthur almost wished that he, too, were dead when he read Mrs. Meredith's letter and saw the gulf hisfeet were treading. Like the waves of the sea, his love for Anna camerolling back upon him, augmented and intensified by all that he hadsuffered, and by the terrible conviction that it could not be, although, alas! "it might have been. "

He repeated the words over and over again, as stupified with pain, hesat gazing at vacancy, thinking how true was the couplet--

 "Of all sad words of tongue and pen, The saddest are these, it might have been. "

He could not even pray at once, his brain was so confused, but when, at last, the white, quivering lips could move, and the poor achingheart could pray, he only whispered, "God help me to do right, " and bythat prayer he knew that for a single instant there had crept acrosshis mind the possibility of sacrificing Lucy, who loved and trustedhim so much. But only for an instant. He could not cast her from him, though to take her now, knowing what he did, were almost death itself. 

"But God can help me to bear it, " he cried; then, falling upon hisknees, with his face bowed to the floor, the Rector of St. Mark'sprayed as he had never prayed before--first for himself, whose needwas greatest, and then for Lucy, that she might never know what makingher happy had cost him, and then for Anna, whose name he could notspeak. "That other one, " he called her, and his heart kept swelling inhis throat and preventing his utterance, so that the words he wouldsay never reached his lips. 

But God heard them just the same, and knew his child was asking thatAnna might forget him, if to remember him was pain; that she mightlearn to love another far worthier than he had ever been. 

He did not think of Mrs. Meredith; he had no feeling of resentmentthen; he was too wholly crushed to care how his ruin had been broughtabout, and, long after the wood fire on the hearth had turned to cold, gray ashes, he knelt upon the floor and battled with his grief, andwhen the morning broke it found him still in the cheerless room wherehe had passed the entire night and from which he went forthstrengthened, as he hoped, to do what he believed to be his duty. Thiswas on Saturday, and on the Sunday following there was no service atSt. Mark's. The rector was sick, the sexton said; "hard sick, too, hehad heard, " and the Hetherton carriage, with Lucy in it, drove swiftlyto the rectory, where the quiet and solitude awed and frightened Lucyas she entered the house and asked the housekeeper how Mr. Leightonwas. 

"It is very sudden, " she said. "He was perfectly well when he left meon Friday night. Please tell him I am here. "

The housekeeper shook her head. Her master's orders were that no onebut the doctor should be admitted, she said, repeating what Arthur hadtold her in anticipation of just such an infliction as this. 

But Lucy was not to be denied. Arthur was hers, his sickness washers, his suffering was hers, and see him she would. 

"He surely did not mean me when he asked that no one should beadmitted. Tell him it is I; it is Lucy, " she said with an air ofauthority, which, in one so small, so pretty and so child-like, onlyamused Mrs. Brown, who departed with the message, while Lucy sat downwith her feet upon the stove and looked around the sitting-room, thinking that it was smaller and poorer than the one at Prospect Hill, and how she would remodel it when she was mistress there. 

"He says you can come, " was the word Mrs. Brown brought back, and, with a gleam of triumph in her eye and a toss of the head, which said, "I told you so, " Lucy went softly into the darkened room and shut thedoor behind her. 

Arthur had half expected this and had nerved himself to meet it, butthe cold sweat stood on his face and his heart throbbed painfully asLucy bent over him and Lucy's tears fell on his face while she tookhis feverish hands in hers and murmured softly, "Poor, dear Arthur, Iam so sorry for you, and if I could I'd bear the pain so willingly. "

He knew she would; she was just as loving and unselfish as that, andhe wound his arms around her and drew her down close to him while hewhispered, "My poor, little Lucy; I don't deserve this from you. "

She did not know what he meant, and she only answered him withkisses, while her little hands moved caressingly across his foreheadjust as they had done years ago in Rome, when she soothed the painaway. There certainly was a mesmeric influence emanating from thosehands, and Arthur felt its power, growing very quiet and at lastfalling away to sleep, while the soft passes went on, and Lucy heldher breath lest she would waken him. 

"She was a famous nurse, " the physician said when he came, constituting her his coadjutor and making her tread wild with joy andimportance when he gave his patient's medicine into her hands. 

"It was hardly proper for her niece to stay, " Mrs. Hethertonthought, but Lucy was one who could trample down proprieties, and itwas finally arranged that Fanny should stay with her. So, while Fannywent to bed and slept, Lucy sat all night in the sick room with Mrs. Brown, and when the next morning came she was looking very pale andlanguid, but very beautiful withal. At least, such was the mentalcompliment paid her by Thornton Hastings, who was passing throughHanover and had stopped over one train to see his old college friendand, perhaps, tell him what he began to feel it was his duty to tellhim in spite of his promise to Anna. She was nearly well now and haddriven with him twice to the park, but he could not be insensible towhat she suffered, or how she shrank from having the projected weddingdiscussed, and, in his intense pity for her, he had half resolved tobreak his word and tell Arthur what he knew. But he changed his mindwhen he had been in Hanover a few hours and watched the little fairywho, like some ministering angel, glided about the sick room, showingherself every whit a woman, and making him repent that he had evercalled her frivolous or silly. She was not either, he said, and, witha magnanimity for which he thought himself entitled to a good deal ofpraise, he even felt that it was very possible for Arthur to love thegentle little girl who smoothed his pillows so tenderly and whosefingers threaded so lovingly the damp, brown locks when she thoughthe, Thornton, was not looking on. She was very coy of him and verydistant towards him, too, for she had not forgotten his sin, and shetreated him at first with a reserve for which he could not account. But, as the days went on, and Arthur grew so sick that hisparishioners began to tremble for their young minister's life, and tothink it perfectly right for Lucy to stay with him, even if she wasassisted in her labor of love by the stranger from New York, thereserve disappeared and on the most perfect terms of amity she andThornton Hastings watched together by Arthur's side. Thornton Hastingslearned more lessons than one in that sick room where Arthur's faithin God triumphed over the terrors of the grave, which, at one time, seemed so near, while the timid Lucy, whom he had only known as a gaybutterfly of fashion, dared before him to pray that God would spareher promised husband or give her grace to say, "Thy will be done. "

Thornton could hardly say that he was skeptical before, but any doubtshe might have had touching the great fundamental truths on which atrue religion rests were gone forever, and he left Hanover a changedman in more respects than one. 

Arthur did not die, and on the Sunday preceding the week when theusual Christmas decorations were to commence he came again before hispeople, his face very pale and worn, and wearing upon it a look whichtold of a new baptism, an added amount of faith which had helped tolift him above the fleeting cares of this present life. And yet therewas much of earth clinging to him still, and it made itself felt inthe rapid beating of his heart when he glanced towards the square pewwhere Lucy knelt and knew that she was giving thanks for him restoredagain. 

Once, in the earlier stages of his convalescence, he had almostbetrayed his secret by asking her which she would rather do--bury himfrom her sight, feeling that he loved her to the last, or give him toanother, now that she knew he would recover. There was a frightenedlook in Lucy's eyes as she replied: "I would ten thousand times rathersee you dead, and know that, even in death, you were my own, than tolose you that other way. Oh, Arthur, you have no thought of leaving menow?"

"No, darling, I have not, I am yours always, " he said, feeling thatthe compact was sealed forever and that God blessed the sealing. 

He had written to Mrs. Meredith, granting her his forgiveness andasking that, if Anna did not already know of the deception, she mightnever be enlightened. And Mrs. Meredith had answered that Anna hadonly heard a rumor that an offer had been made her, but that sheregarded it as a mistake, and was fast recovering both her health andspirits. Mrs. Meredith did not add her surprise at Arthur's generosityin adhering to his engagement, nor hint that, now her attack ofconscience was so safely over, she was glad he did so, having hope yetof that house on Madison Square; but Arthur guessed at it anddismissed her from his mind just as he tried to dismiss everyunpleasant thought, waiting with a trusting heart for whatever thefuture might bring. 

CHAPTER XII. 

VALENCIA. 

Very extensive preparations were making at Prospect Hill for thedouble wedding to occur on the 15th. After much debate andconsultation, Fanny had decided to take the doctor then; and thus she, too, shared largely in the general interest and excitement whichpervaded everything. 

Both brides elect seemed very happy, but in a very different way; for, while Fanny was quiet and undemonstrative, Lucy seemed wild with joy, and danced gayly about the house--now in the kitchen, where the cakewas making; now in the chamber where the plain sewing was done, andthen flitting to her own room in quest of Valencia, who was sent ondivers errands, the little lady thinking that, now the time was sonear, it would be proper for her to remain indoors and not showherself in public quite as freely as she had been in the habit ofdoing. 

So she remained at home, while they missed her in the back streets andbylanes, the Widow Hobbs, who was still an invalid, pining for a sightof her bright face, and only half compensated for its absence by thecharities which Valencia brought; the smart waiting-maid putting oninnumerable airs and making Mrs. Hobbs feel keenly how greatly shethought herself demeaned by coming to such a heathenish place as that. 

The Hanoverians, too, missed her in the street, but for this theymade ample amends by discussing the doings at Prospect Hill andcommenting upon the bridal trousseau which was sent up from New Yorkthe very week before Christmas, thus affording a most fruitful themefor conversation for the women and girls engaged in trimming thechurch. 

There were dresses of every conceivable fabric, they said, but nonewere quite so grand as the wedding-dress itself--the heavy whitesilk which could "stand alone, " and trailed "a full half-yard behind. "

It was also whispered round that, not content with seeing the effectof her bridal robes as they lay upon the bed, Miss Lucy Harcourt hadactually tried them on--wreath, veil and all--and stood before theglass until Miss Fanny had laughed at her for being so vain andfoolish, and said she was a pretty specimen for a sober clergyman'swife. 

For all this gossip the villagers were indebted mostly to MissValencia Le Barre, who, ever since her arrival at Prospect Hill, hadbeen growing somewhat disenchanted with the young mistress she hadexpected to rule even more completely than she had ruled Mrs. Meredith. But in this she was mistaken, and it did not improve hernever very amiable temper to find that she could not with safetyappropriate more than half her mistress' handkerchiefs, collars, cuffs, and gloves, to say nothing of perfumery, and pomades, and, asthis was a new state of things with Valencia, she chafed at theadministration under which she had so willingly put herself, and toldthings of her mistress which no sensible servant would ever havereported. And Lucy gave her plenty to tell. 

Frank and outspoken as a child, she acted as she felt, and did try onthe bridal dress, screaming with pleased delight when Valenciafastened the veil and let its fleecy folds fall gracefully around her. 

"I wonder what Arthur will think, I do so wish he was here, " she hadsaid, ordering a hand-glass brought that she might see herself frombehind and know just how much her dress did trail, and how it lookedbeneath the costly veil. 

She was very beautiful in her bridal robes, and she kept them on tillFanny began to chide her for her vanity, and, even then, she lingeredbefore the mirror, as if loath to take them off. 

"I don't believe in presentiments, " she said to Fanny; "but, do youknow, it seems to me just as if I should never wear this again, " andshe smoothed thoughtfully the folds of the heavy silk she had justlaid upon the bed. "I don't know what can happen to prevent it, unlessArthur should die. He was so pale last Sunday and seemed so weak thatI shuddered every time I looked at him. I mean to drive round therethis afternoon, " she continued. "I suppose it is too cold for him toventure as far as here, and he has no carriage, either. "

She went to the parsonage that afternoon, and the women in the churchsaw her as she drove by, the gorgeous colors of her carriage blanketflashing in the wintry sunshine just as the diamonds flashed upon thehand she waved gayly towards them. 

There was a little too much of the lady patroness about her quite tosuit the plain Hanoverians, especially those who were neither highenough or low enough to be honored with her notice, and they returnedto their wreathmaking and gossip, wondering under their breath if itwould not, on the whole, have been just as well if their clergyman hadmarried Anna Ruthven instead of this fine city girl with her Parisianmanners. 

A gleam of intelligence shot from the gray eyes of Valencia, who wasin a most unreasonable mood. 

"She did not like to stain her hands with the nasty hemlock more thansome other folks, " she had said, when, after the trying on of thebridal dress, Lucy had remonstrated with her for some duty neglected, and then bidden her to go to the church and help if she were needed. 

"I must certainly dismiss you, " Lucy had said, wondering how Mrs. Meredith had borne so long with the insolent girl, who wentunwillingly to the church, where she was at work when the carriagedrove by. 

She had thought many times of the letter she had read, and, more thanonce, when particularly angry, it had been upon her lips to tell hermistress that she was not the first whom Mr. Leighton had asked to behis wife, if, indeed, she was his choice at all; but there wassomething in Lucy's manner which held her back; besides which, shewas, perhaps, unwilling to confess to her own meanness in reading thestolen letter. 

"I could tell them something if I would, " she thought, as she bentover the hemlock boughs and listened to the remarks; but, for thattime, she kept the secret and worked on moodily, while theunsuspecting Lucy went her way and was soon alighting at the rectorygate. 

Arthur saw her as she came up the walk and went to meet her. 

He was looking very pale and miserable, and his clothes hung looselyupon him; but he welcomed her kindly leading her in to the fire, andtrying to believe that he was glad to see her sitting there with herlittle high-heeled boots upon the fender and the bright hues of herBalmoral just showing beneath her dress of blue merino. 

She went all over the house, as she usually did, suggestingalterations and improvements, and greatly confusing good Mrs. Brown, who trudged obediently after her, wondering what she and her masterwere ever to do with that gay-plumaged bird, whose ways were so unliketheir own. 

"You must drive with me to the church, " she said at last to Arthur, "Fresh air will do you good, and you stay moped up too much. I wantedyou to-day at Prospect Hill, for this morning's express from New Yorkbrought----"

She stood up on tiptoe to whisper the great news to him, but hispulses did not quicken in the least, even when she told him howcharming was the bridal dress. He was standing before the mirror and, glancing at himself, he said, half laughingly, half sadly:

"I am a pitiful-looking bridegroom to go with all that finery: Ishould not think you would want me, Lucy. "

"But I do, " she answered, holding his hand and leading him to thecarriage, which took him to the church. 

He had not intended going there as long as there was an excuse forstaying away, and he felt himself grow sick and faint when he stoodamid the Christmas decorations and remembered the last year when heand Anna had fastened the wreaths upon the wall. 

They were trimming the church very elaborately in honor of him and hisbride, and white artificial flowers, so natural that they could not bedetected, were mingled with scarlet leaves and placed among the massof green. The effect was very fine and Arthur tried to praise it, buthis face belied his words; and, after he was gone, the disappointedgirls declared that he acted more like a man about to be hung than oneso soon to be married. 

It was very late that night when Lucy summoned Valencia to comb outher long, thick curls, and Valencia was tired, and cross, and sleepy, handling the brush so awkwardly and snarling her mistress's hair sooften that Lucy expostulated with her sharply, and this awoke theslumbering demon, which, bursting into full life, could no longer berestrained; and, in amazement, which kept her silent, Lucy listenedwhile Valencia taunted her "with standing in Anna Ruthven's shoes, "and told her all she knew of the letter stolen by Mrs. Meredith, andthe one she carried to Arthur. But Valencia's anger quickly cooled, and she trembled with fear when she saw how deathly white her mistressgrew at first and heard the loud beating of her heart, which seemedtrying to burst from its prison and fall bleeding at the feet of thepoor, wretched girl, around whose lips the white foam gathered as shemotioned Valencia to stop and whispered:

"I am dying!"

She was not dying, but the fainting fit which ensued was longer andmore like death than that which had come upon Anna when she heard thatArthur was lost. Twice they thought her heart had ceased to beat, and, in an agony of remorse, Valencia hung over her, accusing herself asher murderer, but giving no other explanation to those around herthan: "I was combing her hair when the white froth spirted all overher wrapper, and she said that she was dying. "

And that was all the family knew of the strange attack, which lastedtill the dawn of the day, and left upon Lucy's face a look as if yearsand years of anguish had passed over her young head and left itsfootprints behind. 

Early in the morning she asked to see Valencia alone, and therepentant girl went to her prepared to take back all she had said anddeclare the whole a lie. But Lucy wrung the truth from her, and sherepeated the story again so clearly that Lucy had no longer a doubtthat Anna was preferred to herself, and sending Valencia away, shemoaned piteously:

"Oh, what shall I do? What is my duty?"

The part which hurt her most of all was the terrible certainty thatArthur did not love her as he loved Anna Ruthven. She saw it now justas it was; how, in an unguarded moment, he had offered himself to saveher good name from gossip, and how, ever since, his life had been aconstant struggle to do his duty by her. 

"Poor Arthur, " she sobbed, "yours has been a hard lot trying to actthe love you did not feel; but it shall be so no longer. Lucy will setyou free. "

This was her final decision, but she did not reach it till a day and anight had passed, during which she lay with her white face turned tothe wall, saying she wanted nothing except to be left alone. 

"When I can, I'll tell you, " she had said to Fanny and her aunt, whenthey insisted upon knowing the cause of her distress. "When I can I'lltell you. Leave me alone till then. "

So they ceased to worry her, but Fanny sat constantly in the roomwatching the motionless figure, which took whatever she offered, butotherwise gave no sign of life until the morning of the second day, when it turned slowly towards her, the livid lips quivering piteouslyand making an attempt to smile as they said:

"Fanny, I can tell you now; I have made up my mind. "

Fanny's black eyes were dim with the truest tears she had ever shedwhen Lucy's story was ended, and her voice was very low as she asked:

"And do you mean to give him up at this late hour?"

"Yes, I mean to give him up. I have been over the entire ground manytimes, even to the deep humiliation of what people will say, and Ihave come each time to the same conclusion. It is right that Arthurshould be released and I shall release him. "

"And you--what will you do?" Fanny asked, gazing in wonder and awe atthe young girl, who answered:

"I do not know; I have not thought. I guess God will take care ofthat. "

He would, indeed, take care of that just as he took care of her, inclining the Hetherton family to be so kind and tender towards her, and keeping Arthur from the house during the time when the Christmasdecorations were completed and the Christmas festival was held. 

Many were the inquiries made for her, and many the thanks and wishesfor her speedy restoration sent her by those whom she had sobountifully remembered. 

Thornton Hastings, too, who had come to town and was present at thechurch on Christmas-eve, asked for her with almost as much interest asArthur, although the latter had hoped she was not seriously ill andexpressed a regret that she was not there, saying he should call onher on the morrow after the morning service. 

"Oh, I cannot see him here. I must tell him there, at the rectory, inthe very room where he asked Anna and me both to be his wife, " Lucysaid when Fanny reported Arthur's message. "I am able to go there andI must. It will be fine sleighing to-morrow. See, the snow is fallingnow, " and pushing back the curtain, Lucy looked dreamily out upon thefast whitening ground, sighing, as she remembered the night when thefirst snowflakes fell and she stood watching them with Arthur at herside. 

Fanny did not oppose her cousin, and, with a kiss upon theblue-veined forehead, she went to her own room, leaving Lucy to thinkover for the hundredth time what she would say to Arthur. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

CHRISTMAS DAY. 

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

Lucy had kept her word, and, just as Mrs. Brown was looking at theclock to see if it was time to put her fowls to bake, she heard thehall-door open softly and almost dropped her dripping-pan in hersurprise at the sight of Lucy Harcourt, with her white face and greatsunken 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 nots'pose 'twas anything like this. You are paler than a ghost, " Mrs. Brown exclaimed as she tried to unfasten Lucy's hood and cloak andlead her to the fire. 

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

"It's only I, " she said, shedding back the clustering curls from herpallid face, and grasping the chair to steady herself and keep fromfalling. "I am not here to frighten you, I've come to do you good--toset you free. Oh, Arthur, you do not know how terribly you have beenwronged, and I did not know it, either, till a few days ago. She neverreceived your letter--Anna never did. If she had she would haveanswered yes, and have been in my place now; but she is going to bethere. 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 couldnot go near her for a moment, so overwhelming was his surprise at whathe saw and heard. But, when the first shock to them both was past, andhe could listen to her more rational account of what she knew and whatshe was there to do, he refused to listen. He would not be free. Hewould keep his word, he said. Matters had gone too far to be suddenlyended. 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, aray of hope dawning for an instant upon her heart, but fading intoutter darkness as Arthur hesitated to answer. 

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

"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 isbest that we should part, though it almost breaks my heart, for I haveloved you so much. "

She stopped for breath, and Arthur was wondering what he could say topersuade her, when a cheery whistle sounded near and Thornton Hastingsappeared in the door. He had gone to the office after church, and notknowing that anyone but Arthur was in the library, had come there atonce. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said when he saw Lucy, and he was hurryingaway, but Lucy called him back, feeling that in him she should find apowerful 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 myselfgiving way through my great love for him, and it is not right. Tellhim so Mr. Hastings--plead my cause for me--say what a true womanought 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 pinchedand rigid, but the terrible heart-beats were not there. God, in hisgreat mercy, kept them back, else she had surely died under thatstrong excitement. Thornton thought she was fainting, and, goinghastily to her side, passed his arm around her and put her in thechair; then, standing protectingly by her, he said just what firstcame into his mind to say. It was a delicate matter in which tointerfere, and he handled it carefully, telling frankly of what hadpassed between himself and Anna, and giving it as his opinion that sheloved 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 issurely right for them to marry, and they must, " Lucy exclaimed, vehemently, while Thornton laid his hand pityingly upon her head andsaid:

"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 withthe 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 neverrevoke it, " she answered, while Arthur again put in a feebleremonstrance. 

But Thornton was on Lucy's side. He did with cooler judgment what shecould not, and when, at last, the interview was ended, there was noring on Lucy's forefinger, for Arthur held it in his hand and theirengagement 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 furhimself, tied on her satin hood, taking such care of her as a motherwould take of a suffering child. 

"It is hardly safe to send her home alone, " he thought, as he lookedinto her face and saw how weak she was. "As a friend of both, I oughtto 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; thenspringing in beside her he made her lean her tired head upon hisshoulder as they drove to Prospect Hill. She did not seem frivolous tohim now, but rather the noblest type of womanhood he had ever met. Fewcould do what she had done, and there was much of warmth and fervor inthe clasp of his hand as he bade her good-by and went back to therectory, thinking how deceived he had been in Lucy Harcourt. 

 * * * * *

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

 * * * * *

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

"I wrote to the doctor, asking if he would take a trip to Europe, sothat 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 atthe strength which had upheld her weak little cousin in the struggleshe had been through, and, now that it was over and the doctor safefrom temptation, feeling that it was just as well; for, after all, itwas a _mésalliance_ for an heiress like her cousin to marry a poorclergyman. 

 * * * * *

There was a very quiet wedding at Prospect Hill on the night of thefifteenth, but neither Lucy nor Arthur were there. He lay sick againat 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, shemight be withheld from looking back and wishing the work undone. Shewent with the bridal party to New York, where she tarried for a fewdays, seeing no one but Anna, for whom she sent at once. The interviewhad lasted more than an hour, and Anna's eyes were swollen withpassionate weeping when at last it ended, but Lucy's face, thoughwhite as snow, was very calm and quiet, wearing a peaceful, placidlook, which made it like the face of an angel. Two weeks later and thesteamer bore her away across the water, where she hoped to outlive thestorm which had beaten so piteously upon her. Thornton Hastings andAnna went with her on board the ship, and for their sakes she tried toappear natural, succeeding so well that it was a very pleasant picturewhich Thornton cherished in his mind of a frail little figure standingupon the deck, holding its waterproof together with one hand and withthe other waving a smiling adieu to Anna and himself. 

More than a year after, Thornton Hastings followed that figure acrossthe sea, finding it in beautiful Venice, sailing again through themoon-lit streets and listening to the music which came so oft from thepassing gondolas. It had recovered its former roundness and the facewas even more beautiful than it had been before, for the lightfrivolity was all gone and there was reigning in its stead a peaceful, subdued expression which made Lucy Harcourt very fair to look upon. Atleast, so thought Thornton Hastings, and he lingered at her side, feeling glad that she had given no outward token of agitation when hesaid 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 onChristmas Eve. I am so glad it has come round at last. "

Then she questioned him of the bridal, of Arthur, and even of Anna'sdress, her manner evincing that the old wound had healed and nothingbut a sear remained to tell where it had been. And so the days went onbeneath the sunny Italian skies, until one glorious night, whenThornton spoke his mind, alluding to the time when each loved another, expressing himself as glad that, in his case, the matter had ended asit did, and then asking Lucy if she could conscientiously be his wife. 

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

She told him what she meant and how she had hated him for it, and thenthey laughed together; but Thornton's kiss smothered the laugh onLucy's lips, for he guessed what her answer was, and that this, hissecond 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 nieceof Colonel James Hetherton. "

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

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

A kiss was Arthur's only answer, but Anna was satisfied, and thererested upon her face a look of perfect content as all that warm springafternoon she worked in her pleasant garden, thinking of thenewly-married pair in Rome, and glancing occasionally at the openwindow of the library, where Arthur was busy with his sermon, his penmoving all the faster for the knowing that Anna was just within hiscall--that by turning his head he could see her dear face, and thatby-and-by when his work was done she would come in to him, and withher loving words and winsome ways, make him forget how tired he was, and thank heaven again for the great gift bestowed when it gave himAnna 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 avalentine! Did you ever get one, aunty?" said little Etta Mayfield. 

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

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

"Ten years to come will be plenty time enough for you to think ofsuch things. A valentine, indeed! I'd like to know who is to send oneto you, or to any one else. There are only three unmarried men in ourvillage; 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 withMiss Plimpkins. I noticed him at church Sunday. Come down to make alittle 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 hewas sick. A uncommon handsome man. But 'taint a bit likely he'll thinkof 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, andpassing his book to me. And I noticed Sunday he looked amazingpleasing at me. Land! it's ten o'clock. You'd better run over to theoffice and get the paper. No, I'll go myself. I want to stop in thestore, to get some yarn and a little tea. "

Miss Henrietta hurried off, and little Etta pouted on and murmuredsomething 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 rosyblush mantled her fair face when she saw the pleasant smile she hadhoped was for her. But she might have known better, she thought; sucha splendid man would never think of her. She would be sure to die anold 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 letteror valentine what Bill didn't bring. It's from the village, " said thelittle old postmaster, with a merry laugh. 

Yes, no mistaking, it was a valentine, directed in a fine manly handto Miss Henrietta Mayfield. "From Squire Sloughman, " thought MissHenrietta. "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 thesignature--Arthur Linton. 

"Well, well, who would have thought?" said she; "that is the name ofthe handsome stranger! Just to think of his really taking a liking tome. Stop! maybe he is a sharper from town, who has heard of my havinga little property, and that's what he's after. I'll read his valentineover 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 sinceanybody talked of my blue eyes. They were blue once, and I suppose areso still. Well, he writes as if he meant it. I'll see him, and givehim a little bit of encouragement. Perhaps that seeing some one elseafter me will make the squire speak out. For six years he has beenfollowing me. For what? He has never said. I like SquireSloughman--(his name should be Slowman). I'll try and hasten him onwith all the heart I've got left. The most of it went to the bottom ofthe cruel ocean with my poor sailor-boy. Ah! if it had not been forhis sad end, I would not now be caring for any man, save my poorWillie. But it is a lonesome life I am living--and it's kind ofnatural for a woman to think kindly of some man; and the squire is areal good fellow, and, to save me, I can't help wishing he wouldspeak, and be done with it. 

"This valentine may be for my good luck, after all, " Miss Henrietta'sthoughts were swift now, planning for the future; her feet kept pacewith 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 ourapples, " said Etta. 

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

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

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

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

Miss Henrietta was very particular with her toilet that afternoon, andtruly the result was encouraging. She was satisfied that she washandsome still. 

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

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

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

"This, perhaps, may seem very precipitate in me, and I have fearedperhaps 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 soanxious to secure?"

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

"Bless you, my dear friend; I may call you so now, until I claim anearer, dearer title. If you are now kindly disposed, I feel sure ofultimate success. I feared the difference in our ages might be anobjection. "

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

"No; only let me have a few weeks, with your continued favor, and Iask no more. Many, many thanks, " and, seizing her hand, he pressed itto 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. Shehad returned from her visit, and as Miss Henrietta succeeded inlighting 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 thevisitor, 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 thedeep, manly voice of Mr. Linton, saying:

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

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

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

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

"You have got a visitor, I see, " pointing to the stranger's hat lyingon 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 offto 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 abetter chance by her reply:

"Well, I don't know that anybody cares for that. I guess no one willrun 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?" askedMiss 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. Youremember my niece, who treated me so shamefully by running away andmarrying. Well, poor girl, she died a few days ago, and left her babyfor me, begging I would do for her little girl as kindly as I did byits mother. "

"Shall you keep it?" asked Miss Henrietta. 

"I can't tell; that will depend on some one else. I may have to sendit 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? Itell you, I've a notion to be kind and good to this little one; but aman must have some one to help him do right. Now, it depends on you tohelp me be a better or a worse man. I've been thinking of you for ahalf-dozen years past, but I thought your whole heart was in littleEtta, and maybe you wouldn't take me, and I did not like to deal withuncertainties. Now, Etta's provided for with a valentine, I'm hereoffering myself and my valentine to you. Say yes or no; I'm in a hurrynow. "

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

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

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

"Sloughwoman, indeed! I'll not be slow in letting you know I think youare 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 doyour Christian duty; remembering particularly the helpless littleinfant needing your care, " said the Squire, a little mischievously. 

Miss Henrietta never knew whether her mistake had been discovered. Shedid 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 theguests. 

Mrs. Sloughman admitted to herself, after all, it was the valentinethat brought the squire out. And she is often heard to say that shehad fully proved the truth of the old saying, "It's an ill wind thatblows 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 seriousthought; nothing beyond the present enjoyment, or deeper than thedevising of a becoming attire for some approaching dance or festiveoccasion. Believe me, she is not the girl for a minister's wife. Youhave chosen as your vocation the work of God; in this you should besustained by your wife: one who would enter into your labor withenergy of mind and body. She should have a heart to sympathize notonly with her husband, but his charge. I tell you, David, a man'ssuccess and popularity in his ministry depends very much on the womanthat he has chosen to be his helpmate. Had your mother been other thanshe is, I truly think I should have sunk under the many trials duringthe years of my work. "

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

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

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

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

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

"Listen: This evening is appointed for the meeting to raise funds andmake arrangements relative to sending out a missionary to the ----Indians. There has (you tell me) been but little interest awakenedamong your people on this subject. Now, if you can induce the youngfolks to take hold of this, it will be all right. This is also theevening of Monsieur Costello's grand masquerade and the opera of'Maritana. ' I called on Mrs. Fairleigh about an hour ago. The ladieswere discussing these amusements. Miss Bland is very anxious to seethat particular opera, and was trying to persuade Valeria to go withher. Mrs. Fairleigh positively forbade the ball; so when I left thearrangement was, Miss Bland, Mrs. Fairleigh and the gentlemen weregoing to enjoy the music, and Valeria is to remain home; but I verymuch fear this she will not do. Now, David, go and ask her toaccompany you--urge her; tell her how much good her influence mightexert, and so on. If she consents, I have not another word to sayabout your loving, wooing and marrying her, if you can. Should she notconsent, then ask Miss Bland. I know how anxious she is to see"Maritana. " Now, try if she will resign this pleasure for the sake ofdoing good. Of course, you must not let her know you have previouslyasked her cousin. Will you do it? It can do no harm, and may heproductive of much good. "

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

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

Fortune favored him thus far. 

"Miss Bland and Miss Fairleigh were out, but would be back soon. MissValeria was in, " answered the servant to his inquiry, "If the ladieswere 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 Juliasaid I had quite horrified you with my nonsense the last evening youwere here. Indeed, you must excuse me, but I cannot possibly dondignity and reserve. Jule can do enough of that for both, and I thinkit is far better to laugh than be sighing. "

"Indeed, I have never seen anything to disapprove of. I could notexpect or wish to see the young and happy either affecting, or reallypossessing, the gravity of maturer years. My absence has no connectionwhatever with the events of that evening. I have been devoting myspare time to my father. This is his last evening with me. I cameround to ask a favor of you. We are very anxious to get up someinterest for the mission to ----, and father thinks if the young folksof the church would aid us, it would be all right. Will you go withus?" answered David. A look of deep regret, the first he had everseen, was in the eyes of Valeria, when she answered:

"You will have to excuse me, I have an engagement for the evening, Iam really sorry, I would like to oblige you. " Then, breaking into amerry 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 spentevery 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 goto sleep or get to plotting some sort of mischief against my nearestneighbor. I could do you no good, Mr. Carlton. "

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

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

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

"I am going to----. No, I dare not tell. Ma and Jule would notapprove, and even dear, good papa might censure, if he knew it. Herethey 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 fearshe is going to the ball against her parents' wishes. If this be so, Imust try to conquer this love. The girl who sets at naught the will ofher kind, loving parents--acting secretly against their wishes--wouldnot, 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 thatthere is something hidden about her. She does not seem natural, "replied David. 

Father and son had just arrived at Mr. Fairleigh's when the dooropened to admit a middle-aged, poorly-clad woman. Showing them intothe drawing-room, the servant closed the door. Very soon after seatingthemselves 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 nothingmore to do with either, since her name became so shamefully connectedwith my brother's. Will you be kind enough to relieve me of yourpresence?"

"My daughter is as pure as you. Her child, and your brother's issuffering from want. Will you pay me, at least, for our last work--thedress 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, andnever let me hear of you again. "

"Julia Bland, I wish the world knew you as I do. You will grind to theearth your sister-woman, and give liberally where it will be known andsaid, 'How charitable--how good!' I say how hard-hearted--howdeceitful!" 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 reverendgentlemen. 

At length the younger one said:

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

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

Could this gentle, dignified woman be the same whose harsh, hard toneswere 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 felttruly 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--andI've forgot which--maybe both. They frightened me so when they hurriedme 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 veryill--maybe dying. They sent me for somebody, and I can't remember; butplease 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 himto come. So, one or the other of us will be the right one. "

David Carlton entered, treading noiselessly along the passage, untilhe had reached a door slightly open. Glancing in to be sure he wasright, he beheld lying--apparently almost dying--a young woman. Besidethe bed, kneeling with upraised head and clasped hands, was astrangely familiar form. Then came forth a sweet voice, pleading tothe throne of Mercy for the sufferer. He gazed spellbound for amoment. Then slowly and softly he retraced his steps to the door. Thenhe almost flew along the streets until he reached Mr. Fairleigh's, just as his father and Miss Bland were ascending the steps. Seizingthe 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 needis all the knowledge I want. "

"Oh, where is William? Why does he not come? Why not speak andacknowledge 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. Tryto say, 'Thy will be done!'

"But, dear, do not be so desponding. I know you are very sick; but Ithink it more your mind than bodily illness. Try to bear up. Pray Godto 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 yououtside, " whispered David. 

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

"Come in, doctor! Why, Mr. Carlton--I was expecting the doctor. Thispoor girl is very sick; she fainted a while ago. I was very muchalarmed 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 themedical man. "

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

"Heaven bless her, sir, " said a woman, arising from a seat beside thesufferer, whom Mr. Carlton recognized as the woman he had seen enterMr. Fairleigh's a few hours before. "But for her care, we should havesuffered beyond endurance. She has comforted mind and body. Yes, whenevil tongues whispered of shame! her pure heart did not fear, orshrink from us. When employers and friends deserted and condemned, shestayed and consoled. "

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

"Thank Heaven! Here he is now. "

Mr. Carlton approached the physician (an old acquaintance), andexplained to him as well as he could the trouble. The kind-hearteddoctor 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 willbring her round all right in a little while. "

"Indeed, she is an honest girl, doctor, although appearances areagainst her now, " said the mother. "Her husband left her before shewas taken ill, to remain a short time with his sick uncle. Mr. Blandwas fearful of offending his aged relative, and so kept his marriageconcealed. She had a few letters when he first left, but, for near twomonths, not a word have we heard. I fear he is ill. She has growndreadfully depressed since the birth of her babe. The suspicionresting on her is killing her. "

The suffering girl was showing signs of returning consciousness. Thena 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 hisknees 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 littlewine, saying:

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

"Listen, Mary love, dear wife, and mother!" he whispered, inastonishment, as Valeria held before him the little sleeping babe, while a flush of paternal pride passed over his fine face. "There isno 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. Inursed him and his life was spared. The fatigue, and more than all theworry of mind about you, brought on a severe nervous fever. I havebeen very ill. Julia knew it. Did you not hear? In my ravings I toldall. Uncle has changed much since his recovery. He is no longerambitious, except for my happiness, and is now waiting to welcomeyou. "

The wonderful medicine had been administered, and already the happyeffects 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 strongagain. "

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

"Oh, yes. Bridget promised to come for me, but I must get back beforemamma 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 lovedones. You can tell Julia I have returned and am with my wife. I fearmy sister has acted very wickedly in this matter. I have written manytimes and received no answer. Some one, for whom they were notintended, 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 hadgone but a short distance when they were joined by David. 

"Why, Mr. Carlton! how strange to meet you, when I was just thinkingof you, and on the eve of asking your father to tell you I was not atthe ball this evening. I was so sorry I could not explain when youasked me. Your father will tell you all, I know. You thought me verywicked 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 didthink 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, hehastened to overtake his father--and said:

"Well, father?"

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

"Which one, sir?"

"Come, come! David, I am completely bewildered by this evening'sdiscoveries. Do not bear too hard on me, for falling into a commonerror--mistaking the apparent for the real. This night has proved atest far more thorough than I imagined it possibly could. You maysafely abide by the issue and never fear the stormy sea, " answered hisfather. 

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

David Carlton stands to-day among the best-loved and most popular ofthe clergy. Attributable most likely to his "wife's influence" (hisfather says). I well know she has soothed many an aching heart, cheered the long, weary hours of the sickroom, won the young from thepath of evil, and now numberless prayers are ascending and beggingGod'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 varioushospitals of Washington. At this period of our struggle the SanitaryCommission was in its infancy, and all attentions of the kind ladieswere joyfully received by surgeons and nurses, as well as by ournoble, suffering boys. Immediately after the wounded from the secondbattle of Bull Run were assigned to the different wards in the varioushospitals, I was going my rounds in the "Douglas, " and after bestowingthe wines, jellies, custards and books to my old friends, I began tolook up the new patients. 

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

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

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

"You from Massachusetts?" I exclaimed. 

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

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

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

On my way out I met Dr. B. God bless him! for his kindness to ourboys. No woman ever was more gentle and patient. "Doctor, " Iexclaimed, as he was hurrying by, "stop and tell me, how is Ashtonwounded? 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 hislife away. I fear he must die. Is he one of your boys? Do all you canfor 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 mygreat pleasure I found that Ashton had rested well, and was mucheasier than any one expected he would be. He smiled and put out hishand when I approached his bed, and motioned me to be seated. Aftertalking 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 canfeed, comfort and cheer you. Yes, I am a Southern woman and aslaveholder. Now, I see you open your eyes with wonder; but, believeme, there are many like me, true, loyal woman in the South; but myparticular interest in our regiments is, my father is a native ofBoston; 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 verybitter against us Yankees--it is really amusing to be called so, to aMississippi man. Do you not feel a sympathy for the South? Yourinterest is with them. You against your State and I mine--we certainlyare kindred spirits, " he smilingly said. "We think and feel alike. Itis not politics but religion my mother always taught me. Love Godfirst and best, then my country, and I have followed her precepts, ata very great sacrifice, too. Sometimes in my dreams I see her lookingapprovingly and blessing me. "

"Your mother, where is she?"

He pointed up, and said:

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

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

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

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

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

During my next visit I said:

"I wish you would tell me something of your life; how you came toenter 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 shouldcomply; but not now; to-morrow; I must have time to consider andcompose my mind. To-morrow, please God, if I am living, I will tellyou; 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 toget home early this afternoon. "

On reaching his cot the next day, I saw Ashton was calm, but verypale. 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 fromBoston, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, who, failing in hisbusiness, soon fell in ill health and died, leaving his wife and twodaughters almost entirely destitute. Mother, the youngest, was alwaysvery fragile, and, having been reared in luxury, was poorly calculatedfor a life of trial and poverty. However, she was urged by a wealthySouthern planter to return with him to his home, and take the positionof governess to his little daughters, her friends all approving ofthis offer, knowing that a Southern climate would improve her health;so she became the inmate of Colonel Ashton's family, and soon wasbeloved by the father and mother, as well as her pupils. I have heardthat neither the colonel nor his wife could bear her out of theirsight. She had been with them nearly a year, when the young son andheir, Edgar Ashton, returned from his college. He soon followed therest, and was deeply in love with the governess. My mother was verybeautiful, possessing so much gentleness, with such a merrydisposition, that I have heard them say that grandfather used to callher his Sunshine. The negroes said that she had a charm to make allshe looked upon love her. But when the son, their pride, declared hisintention of making May Everett his wife, it was met with a decidedobjection by both parents. Impossible! marry a Northern teacher; he, the son of Colonel Ashton--the heir of Ashton manor! preposterous! Mymother then prepared to bid adieu to them and return to her home, never for a moment listening to the repeated petitions of her lover tomarry him. She would not go into a family where she was not welcome. Her high-toned principles won for her additional love and respect. Andwhen the hour of parting came, the old colonel opened his arms, anddrew 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 shewould return in a few weeks--as the wife of their son. 

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

"'Paul, my boy, if Mississippi goes out, I shall go, too--not only outof the Union, but out of this world of sorrow and trouble. I cannotlive. I have felt my tie to earth loosening very fast since yourgrandmother left me, and I feel I cannot live any longer if my Stateshall 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 inMedford, never for one moment expressing to us any views on thesubject now engrossing all minds; and, when parting with him, Iwhispered, 'If it comes, I am for my country! Look for me North withina few weeks. ' It did come, as you know; and when one of my aunts--nowboth married--ran laughingly in, with a blue cockade pinned on hershoulders, exclaiming:

"'Father, we are out!'

"She stopped in horror, and looked upon the calm, cold face. But thespirit had fled. We know not if he had heard or not, but I trust hehad 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 hadgrown up together, and I loved her more than all and everything elseon earth. Her brother and I were very intimate--both having nobrother, we were everything to each other. He had mounted the Palmettobadge, and was all for war. My mind was no longer wavering, since mygrandfather's death. I was going up North, and, after a short visit tomy mother's sister--the wife of a very influential and patriotic manin Boston--I would offer myself to my government. Now, you will knowmy sorrow. 

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

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

"'What, Paul, desert your State in her hour of need? Never! You, aSouthern 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 mewith not loving her, and then came--oh, such contempt! You have noidea of the trial to me. She talked as only a Southern girl talks--soproud, so unyielding. And when I said:

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

"'No, ' she said, 'no friend. With a traitor to his State, or acoward--no, I will never say God bless you! and never do you take myname on your lips from this day. I would die of shame to have it knownthat I was ever loved by an Arnold! Go! leave me; and if you raiseyour arm against the South, I hope you may not live to feel the shamewhich 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 sacrificeeverything, 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 acentury since then. Did I not know the unbounded pride of a Southerngirl, I should doubt her ever loving me. I have never mentioned hername since that day, and never shall. Now, my friend, you see I havelittle to live for. Soon after my arrival in Boston the Sixteenth wasforming. I enlisted, to the horror of my aunt, as a private. My friendwould have procured me a commission, but I preferred to go in theranks 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, myfriend, you must cheer up--believe 'He doeth all things well'--havefaith--live for your country. I feel that all will be well with youyet. '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 myvisits to the other hospitals, except an occasional one to the "ArmorySquare, " where I had a few friends. I thought I would go over and makea visit there this afternoon. 

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

"She has gone home to recruit her health; has been away ten days; sheleft the day after you were here last, " replied one of the boys. "Butwe 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 otherthan Emma Mason. But here she comes. "

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

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

I was then introduced to Emma Mason. When she smiled she looked veryyoung. I thought her as beautiful a girl as I had ever seen; but in afew seconds the smile passed off, and there came a look of sorrow--ayearning, eager gaze--which made her look very much older. I wentround with her to visit the different patients, telling her of mygreat interest in the soldiers, and trying to win her confidence. Iwas very anxious to know something of her history, but I could gainnothing; and, giving it up in despair, I bade her good-evening, andwas leaving the ward when she called me and said:

"Will you be kind enough to notice among the soldiers you may meetfrom 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 seeingthe 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 sincethat time? I am deeply interested in that soldier; he was my onlybrother's most intimate friend. "

I told her I should go the next day, probably, to the "Douglas, " andif I had any tidings I would let her know. And so I left her, anxiousto be alone, to think over and plan about this new development inAshton'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 herSouthern home. What should I do? Go tell Ashton? No, that would not doyet. 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 girlwhose name I had never heard. 

Next morning my mind was made up, I went over to see Ashton; foundhim 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. Ihave a furlough for thirty days, but I do not care to take it. I am aswell here as anywhere. "

I said: "I have often found that the darkest hours are many timesfollowed by the brightest. Cheer up. I feel as if you would have somecomfort before long, and see! Why, here you have a bouquet with somany 'heart's-eases' in it. Heaven grant it may be a token of comingease and happiness. Who gave these to you? It is rarely we see them atthis 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 tosee 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 knowmore, I can see; please tell me. "

I answered her:

"I will tell you all, but I must beg of you a little confidence inreturn. I saw him myself, and helped to nurse him--was very muchinterested in him; he was terribly ill and is now very, very weak--hisrecovery doubtful. He has told me much of his past life. Now, will younot 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 akind word--heaping upon him reproaches and wounding his noble heartto the core? If he did, it was I. Oh, how I have suffered since! Evenwhen I accused him of cowardice and treachery, in my heart I was proudof him. Oh! tell me where he is, that I may go to him. I have beenlooking 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. Ifear any sudden shock, even of joy. You are never absent from hismind: 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 devisea 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 forthe suffering and wounded on both sides, and find Paul. I will giveyou a letter I received written by him a few days previous to hisdeath. After you have read it you will then understand better why I amhere. "

And leaving the ward for a few moments she returned and handed me theletter. The writing plainly told that the writer was very weak. I giveit to you, my dear reader, every word; I could not do justice byrelating 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 helive?"

"He lived, seemingly growing much better, until the afternoon of thetwenty-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 numberlesswhite hairs gleaming amid her raven locks. I said:

"Come, we will go to him. I think you had better write a little noteto him; you know best what to say, but do not tell him you are herejust yet, but something to set his heart at peace; and I will tell himit 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 thenote, said:

"You know all; read it. "

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

So we proceeded to the "Douglas, " and I went in, found Dr. B. , toldhim and asked if we might venture in. He thought better to break itgently 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 sentfor. "

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 letterfor you; I met with a Southerner who knew a friend of yours, who gaveme this for you. It may be from your aunt, and you may hear from yourlady love, possibly. "

He caught the letter, tore off the envelope, and read. I wasfrightened--he never spoke a word or moved. Then, "Thank God!" burstforth 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, forit is some time since that person left the South, and you may look forher 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 toldhim I had wanted to prepare him, for she was really in Washington, andI had met her--she had given me the note for him. He seemed to divineall, 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 wasbeside him. 

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

 "Eyes looked love to eyes that spake again. "

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

"Ah, Ashton, you have a more skillful physician than I. She has donemore for you in five minutes than I have for as many weeks, I guessyou 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 theattentions of the good friends here, I have been kept alive for thisday. "

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

In three days Ashton bade adieu to his friends in the "Douglas, " andwith 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 friendsNorth. 

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 uptheir 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 hasbeen offered a commission in the regular service, but his wife sayshis 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 besidehis 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 bidme go, without one word of hope for the future. Only say that I maysome day call you mine, and I will win a name that you will not blushto bear. "

"Would to Heaven I could, Ernest; but I can see no hope of my father'srelenting. You heard how determined he was never to consent to myunion 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 isuseless prolonging this interview! Every moment brings an increase ofagony, making it harder to part. Bid me good-by, say God bless me, andgo quickly, if you have any mercy for me. "

"Listen just for a moment more! Oh, my darling, forgive my hastyword; but, Constance, if your love was as devoted and single as mineyou would not thus resign one who loves you only of all the world; noone shares my heart with you. I know you love me, but not as I wouldbe loved, or you would leave father and mother and cling to me. Whatright has your father, or any other father, to blast his child'shappiness? Heed him not, love, but come with me. I will never let youfeel a single regret. I will love you more than all their lovecombined. Nay, do not turn aside--you must hear me. Think what you aredoing! wrecking my happiness, casting me forth, without hope, to dragout a miserable, useless existence. I may be cursed with long life. Constance, darling, come with me! With your parents it will only be ashort grief--disappointed ambition--and, at the most, only thethwarting of their proud hopes. They will soon get over it; but evenif they should not, in all human probability they have not the lengthof days to suffer that we have. Bid me hope!"

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

"Perhaps some time hence they may think differently. Then, if youhave not sought and won another, we may be happy. One thing you mayrest assured of, I shall never wed Gerald Moreton, or any other. Iobeyed my father in resigning you, but cannot perjure myself by takingthe marriage vows, even at their command. Do not leave me in anger, Ernest. Let your last look be of kindness and forgiveness for thesorrow I cause you. Now, a long look into your eyes, to engrave themforever 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 thegarden. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gerald told Mr. Lyle he must beg to resign all pretensions toConstance; that upon examining his heart, he found out that it was asa sister he loved her, and was not willing to render her unhappy bymaking 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 bebroken, than kept by making the living miserable. 

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

This was a dreadful blow to Mr. Lyle, and he declared that if ErnestEllwood had not crossed their path that his dearest hopes would nothave 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--anextract from a political speech made by him--and finally theprediction of a brilliant career for this young man, whose talents andeloquence were placing him before the people, who, even now, in soyoung a man, recognized a master-spirit; and in all probability veryshortly he would speak for his adopted State in the halls of thenational Capitol. 

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

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

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

"I cannot tell, father. Perhaps it is so; you can judge of man'sconstancy 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, andfreed from the care and toil of business, or, at rest from hisstudies, 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, devotingherself 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 todisturb the long-suffering father, but taking the apparently healthymother. Swiftly, quietly, and without suffering, she passed from herslumbers 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 withsubmission to the will of God, she now felt why it was her young hopeshad been blasted. Before, all was dark; now, she saw plainly. Shealone was left to cheer and solace the stricken father. No longer asingle regret lingered in her heart. All was well. A holy calm brokeover her, and she became almost happy, blessed with an approvingconscience. 

Suffering at last softened the stern nature of Mr. Lyle, and openedhis 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 hadbeen 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. Ihave been very harsh and relentless, and caused you much sorrow; wouldthat I could call back the past, and act differently. Heaven onlyknows 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 beabsent 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 toCongress. About my still loving him, depends entirely on whether Ihave the right to do so; he may have given that to another, " shereplied, and called to her beautiful lips a sweet smile, to try toconvince 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 onthe _qui vive_ about the passage of the ---- Bill, and the appeal to bemade in its favor by the new member from ----. 

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

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

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

"How strange my birthday should be the one for his speech! This day Ishall see him for the first time for fifteen years. Yes, I amthirty-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, andGerald is waiting. His wife is going to stay with you during myabsence. "

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

"This is my birthday, father. I am a maiden of no particular age tothe 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 myprayers may be answered. She deserves to be happy; and when I am goneshe will be very lonely, and then feel keenly my harsh treatment, " hemurmured. 

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 shecame forward, and said, pleasantly:

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

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

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

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

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

Paler for a few moments, and tightly pressed were the sweet lips. Shedid 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, thatmy heart is not troubled!

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

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

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

He listened a moment to her words, so calm and cold; then, claspingher 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 hertightly, and his hand clasped hers. His eyes were gazing so earnestlyand lovingly in hers, as in by-gone days. She tried to speak, but hesaid:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He saw her beaming look, and said:

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

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

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

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

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

"Ernest Moreton, I am profoundly thankful to Heaven for sparing me tosee this day. Welcome back to your home and old friends, and welcometo 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 yourforgiveness for these long years, lost to both, which might have beenpassed happily together. "

"Not resign, but only share with me, this blessing; she shall neverleave you, sir, " replied Ernest. 

"Father, do not speak of years lost; they have not been. Ernest wouldnot have gone away, and devoted himself to study, if we had beenunited then; just think then what his adopted State would have lost!and I have been cheering you--think what you would have lost withoutyour little Constance! Nay, there is nothing lost; all is gain, andsimply 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 thatthey are worthy of each other. He by his earnest, unwavering love forhis lady fair, and earnest, untiring endeavors to serve his State--whohas now won the respect and confidence of his countrymen--he alone isworthy of the woman ever constant to her early love, yet neverfaltering 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 youngthieves? Your sentence was very unexpected. Every one thought youwould, at least, send them to the State's prison for three or fouryears. The young rascals were amazed themselves. The House ofCorrection for six months has not much terror for them. Do you knowthat it has become a common saying among the members of the bar thatour venerated and respected judge has a strong sympathy--in a word, afellow-feeling--for all young thieves! I think you will have to commita 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 possiblyhelp sentencing a boy to the State's prison; but, before the time forentry came, he succeeded in getting his pardon; and, more than this, he has brought him here, into his own home-circle, with the idea ofreforming him. "

"My dear wife, have you any cause, so far, to think I shall fail? Hasnot 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, Icannot imagine, " answered his wife. 

"Sit still, Archer, if you have no engagement; I am going to tell mywife a little story, which will probably explain my charity towardthose unfortunate youths that you have spoken of; and, indeed, allsuch. You, as my oldest and most valued friend, shall share thehearing, if you wish. "

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

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

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

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

"Death came so swiftly there was little time for aught save anappealing 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 trulyperceived that he was not a welcome inmate. Before a month had passedhe was withdrawn from school; his love of study was discouraged; infact, made a source of ridicule; and his time so completely taken upwith hard work on the farm, there was no chance for aught else. 

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

"The future, there, was very plain to George; a life ofignorance--nothing higher than a mere farm drudge. His mind wasdetermined against that. Privation, suffering, death, even, werepreferable. The next day found him a fugitive from injustice anddishonesty--a lonely traveler on the path of life. Seeking Fortune, tofind and be treated by that whimsical goddess with good or ill. To besmiled 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 lastreaching 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 ownpathway to manhood; remembering the dangers, temptations andnumberless snares that youths have to encounter. In fact, to passthrough 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'smercy alone!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It was a lovely, angelic face. The boy was fascinated, spellbound byit. 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, itis 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 thelittle miniature in his bosom; then walked as swiftly as his failingstrength would allow; reached, and was about to enter, aneating-house. At the door, he hesitated; and, drawing forth the littlepicture, looked again at the baby-face. Now, to his eye, she has grownolder; and the face is so sad, with such an appealing look, whichspeaks 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 beforehim! The same sweet, quivering lips, which seemed whispering soearnestly:

"'Thou shalt not steal!'

"Thrusting the picture back to its hiding-place, he sank exhaustedfrom 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 consciencewere warring for the victory. Oh, those who have never known the pangsof hunger can but poorly imagine that fearful struggle. At last, thankGod! 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, replacedit in his pocket. 

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

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

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

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

"In a few moments he was joined by a crowd--among whom came agentleman 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 soonunderstood all about it. Many were his words of gratefulacknowledgment, and warmly shaking the boy's hand, he pushed into it ahalf-eagle. 

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

"'No, thank you, sir, I cannot take it. I am amply rewarded by havingsucceeded 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. Welive only a short way from here. I shall lead my horse, and you mustfollow on. Supper is waiting for us; and after we have been refreshedby a cup of hot coffee and something substantial, I shall insist onbeing allowed to prove my thankfulness in some way or other. '

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

"Following on, he soon reached with them, the house of Dr. Perry. Sucha supper the famished boy had not seen since his parents' death, andhe 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 hardstruggles and dreadful temptation, and ended by producing thepocketbook, and asking the doctor's advice as to the manner ofrestoring it. 

"His kind friend suggested that there might be some clew to be foundinside 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 gofind the place, inquire for the lady, and then ask "if her husbandleft last night in the train for ----. " If he did, then you may knowyou have found the right person. Now about yourself, your future. Whatare your ideas?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! had not God heard his prayer and speedily answered it. Mercy! howfreely, 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 savethe miniature. This he kept, yet all the while feeling keenly that hewas guilty of a theft. Yet in this he did not feel that God wasoffended. And often as he gazed at his little 'guardian angel, ' as hecalled her, he would say, smilingly:

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

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

"Months passed on, prosperity smiled on him. His best friend, thedoctor, had full confidence in him. His teachers encouraged andapproved. All was well. 

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

"'George, your services fully repay me. My little son loves youdearly, and has wonderfully improved in his studies, since he has beenunder 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 impossiblething. The picture was copied and paid for; and George started toreturn the original, the one that had rested in his bosom so long. Howhe loved it!

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

"'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 wassoon answered by a servant, and behind him came a bevy of littlegirls, the foremost being the original of his picture, his little'guardian angel. '

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

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

"'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, showingplainly 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 notknow your name. Every one shakes hands and kisses me to-day. '

"The youth clasped the dear little hand (held forth with the sweetinnocence of childhood and combined with a dignity well worthy of amaid of twenty), and pressed on it a pure kiss, at the same timebreathing to himself the vow that, with God's blessing and help, towin such a position that should enable him to seek and know this childin 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, thisgiving him encouragement to work on. 

"Another year he was taken as assistant in the primary department ofthe 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 ardentwish to get in the office and read with the father of 'his littlelove, ' 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 suchletters 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 muchmistaken, after you have seen and talked with him a short time, itwill be all right. '

"And so it proved. In a few days more George was studying under thesame 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, andin a few months a deep and sincere attachment existed between them. Subsequently our young friend entered the Bar, and was looked upon asa 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 feetof the one who had so unconsciously saved him and encouraged him'onward. ' Nothing now prevented the fruition of all his hopes. Alittle while longer, and the living, breathing, speaking guardianangel was all his own--blessing his heart and house, filling his verysoul with the purest love, the most profound gratitude to God, bywhose infinite mercy he was thus almost miraculously saved. And toprove his gratitude and thankfulness, he has endeavored constantly towin the erring from sin, to encourage and sustain the penitent, to tryand soften the hardened heart, and finally, as much as possible, toameliorate the suffering and punishment of the guilty and condemned, truly knowing how very many are tempted as much and more than the heroof my story, without the interposition of such a special Providence. "

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

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

"My old friend, and of all the most respected and honored, if it werepossible 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 temptationsand snares which surround the path of youth would be less terrible andfrequent--in a word, our whole community a little nearer, as God wouldhave 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 feeltoo truly how rapidly I am drifting away. When I close my eyes I seeso 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 toleave 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. Promiseme, my husband, to try and make our boy feel as little as possible hisloss. Be to him what I have been. He is a strange, shy child, andreminds me much of my own childhood. You scarcely know him, you havebeen so completely absorbed in your business all the time. Be withhim, have him more with you. There is no need now of your being such aslave to business. You are prospering, you will be rich. Oh! do notlet your heart become so encased in gold as to render it inaccessibleto all higher, better feelings. In years to come another will occupymy place, but, oh! William, do not let those new ties come between youand your first-born. Give me your hand, and with it the pledge to makehis welfare your first thought. 

"Thank you, dear! you have lifted a great weight from my heart. Theonly 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. Nowbring Willie to me. "

She gradually faded away during the afternoon, murmuring constantlywords of love and hope, the last intelligible being, "Love each otherfor 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 herloss. Much of his time was spent with his son in trying to comfort anddivert the attention of the sorrowing boy from his great loss. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catching up the child, she rushed to the house, and, placing him inhis 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, hisyoung 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 alittle. "

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

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

"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 senthim reeling into the hall. 

Staggering up to his room and throwing himself on the bed, he wailedforth, 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 fellasleep, and remained so until the sun was just rising next morning. 

All his sorrow, all the injustice of the night before came rushingback 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 hisway into town, not quite determined what to do. His first thought wasto seek the river, and in its quiet waters end his sorrows. Oh! whywould not death come to him?

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

On he walked, and then came in sight of the church where his motherused to go, and then memories of all her holy teachings. Should hefind 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, andthen--Heaven only knows what next. Waiting in the park until churchtime, he retraced his steps and reached the door just as the beautifulhymn, "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 nearthe choir. 

He grew somewhat calm, and his mind was, for the time, diverted fromhis sorrows by the sight of a little girl seated beside one of thesingers--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 getanother look at her, wondering if she was ever sad! And, standing atthe church door as she was about to enter a carriage waiting, in whicha lady and gentleman were already seated, he thought:

"Oh, what kind, loving parents she must have to make her look sojoyous!" 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 perfectsimplicity of a child of six:

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

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

"Why, Minnie! what do you mean? Why did you give those beautifulflowers 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 hehad not a happy home, or loving papa and mamma like I have. I felt sosorry for him, and I wanted to tell him so. I'm sure he hasn't got anymother, or he would not look so. "

"Never mind, Laura, my dear. Do not worry about Minnie. She is allright. 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 thedictates of her kind heart, be giving herself away to some motherless, fameless and moneyless young man, I fear!" said the worldly andfar-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 remainhere with me? Why do you wish to go away? 'Idle life!' 'Making aliving and do some good!' Humph, sir! you need not be idle. Read tome; ride with me. As for your living, sir, I made that for you beforeyou were born; and now I intend you shall enjoy it. Now, my boy, myson in all my heart's dearest affections, stay with me. Wait until theold man is gone; then you will have time enough to be useful toothers. "

"Mr. Lincoln--uncle, father!--yes, more than father--your wish must bemine. 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 andcomfort others. Let me prove my gratitude in any way. "

"Come, come, do not talk of gratitude. Oh, my boy, if you only knewwhat deep joy it has afforded me, having you here. I will tell younow, William, why it was I so readily opened my heart and home to thelittle wanderer I found that Thanksgiving afternoon so long ago. WhenI first looked into your eyes there was a strange, familiar expressionabout them that aroused my interest. Upon questioning you I found thatthe son of the only woman I had ever loved was before me! My heartyearned to help you; otherwise I should have relieved you from presentwant, 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 provedthe fortunate one. Having you with me all these years has been a greatsolace; and now say no more about gratitude. Just love me, and staywith me. "

And Uncle Lincoln added, humorously:

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

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

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

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

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

And so it truly was. In the lovely girl before him William Archerbeheld the joyous child who, on that dark day, spoke so kindly andsaved 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 twoimpenetrable hearts were growing wonderfully congenial, he thought. 

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

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

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

So the next Thanksgiving was to be the wedding day. 

 * * * * *

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

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

"Thanksgiving night again, and, for the first time in fifteen years, she has failed to hover round me, and I have not heard the sighingvoice 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 thatterrible day's injustice. My brave, noble boy! and how were yourepaid? Oh! I have suffered terribly for all my neglect and wrong ofmy motherless boy! All gone from me, all the healthy, beautifulchildren; all taken away! We were not worthy of those precious gifts. God took them to himself. Now, what comfort do all these riches bringme? Nothing! nothing! and my poor, childless wife! How bitterly shehas repented her wrong!

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

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

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

"No, it's no dream, father! Give me your hand. Now, you feel yourerring boy is back beside you, praying your forgiveness for all theseyears 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 whobrought me back to you this blessed day. This, the anniversary of mymother's death! also of the day of my greatest peril, is now thehappiest of my life--my wedding day, and restoration to my father'sheart!

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

And now may we all, who have aught of ill dwelling in our hearts, goand be of kindly feeling one toward the other again. Let not thecoming Thanksgiving's sun go down on our wrath. Let it not be merely athanksgiving in words--a day of feasting--but a heart's feasting onpeace 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 hadnot yet risen when our family party, consisting of Aunt and UncleClive, Cousin Christine and myself, took seats at an earlybreakfast-table. A capacious carriage, well packed with presents forcountry cousins, stood at the door, ready to convey us to Virginia, tospend the month of August. We, a merry set of grown-up children, weretoo delighted with our prospective pleasure to eat anything, and so wesoon left the table and put on our bonnets and hats, preparatory to astart. 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 hityour head against it, uncle. "

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

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

"No, I shan't. But hadn't you better put the bandbox with Martha'sbonnet 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 onthe other; my feet are resting on the caddy of tea, and the loaf ofsugar 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 orfifty miles before us. We shall not reach Willow Glade before teno'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 GibbetHill 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 setoff at a pretty brisk rate. 

"Clive, don't that horse look a little vicious? See how he pricks uphis 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 atsunrise, we had better arrange to start at midnight; then, perhaps, wemay succeed. "

Turning the corner of the street at this moment the sudden sight ofthe river, and the wood on the opposite bank, glimmering andglistening in the light of the morning sun, elicited a simultaneousburst of admiration from our travelers. Then the prospective pleasuresof the rural visit were discussed, the family and friendly reunions, the dinner parties, the fish feasts upon the river's banks, the oysterexcursions and crab expeditions; and in such pleasant anticipationsthe cheerful hours of that delightful forenoon slipped away; and when, at last, the heat of the sun grew oppressive, and our sharpenedappetites reminded us of the dinner-basket, we began to cast aroundfor 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 moreturns of the wheels brought us to a narrow footpath, diverging fromthe main road into the forest on the left-hand side. 

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

This was agreed upon, and we all alighted and took the path throughthe wood. We had not gone many yards ere a scene of woodland beautyopened to our view. It presented an area of about four acres of openland in the midst of the forest. From the opposite side a littlerivulet took its rise, and ran tinkling and splashing, in its pebblybed, through the centre of this open glade, until its music was lostin the distance in the forest. But the most interesting object insight was a ruined cottage. It was very small. It could not havecontained 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 hadbeen built lay scattered around. A peach tree grew at the side of thecottage, and its branches, heavy with the luscious fruit, drooped uponthe low roof. A grapevine grew in front, and its graceful tendrilstwined in and out through the sashless windows and the broken door. Abird of prey was perched upon the house, and, as we approached, with afearful 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 thefragment of a gravestone. Stooping and putting aside the long grassand weeds, she read: "The only child of his mother, and she a widow. "

"Whose grave could this have been, mother? The upper part of thestone, which should bear the name, is gone. Oh, how sad this ruinedcot, and this lonely grave! I suppose, mother, here, in the heart ofthe 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 deathgranted to her at the same moment? But, who were they, mother? As yourearly life was passed in this part of the country, you surely can tellus. "

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

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

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

THE IRISH EMIGRANTS. 

A short time previous to the breaking out of the Rebellion in Irelanda family of distinction came from that country to America andpurchased and settled upon a handsome estate near the then flourishingvillage of Richmond. Their family name was Delany. With them came aDr. Dulan, a clergyman of the established church. Through theinfluence of the Delanys, Dr. Dulan was preferred to the rectorshipof the newly established parish of All Saints, and subsequently to thepresident's chair of the new collegiate school of Newton Hall. Thisprosperity enabled him to send for his son and daughter, and settlewith them in a comfortable home near the scene of his labors. 

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

One evening the doctor had been over to the cottage, superintendingthe arrangement of some furniture. On his return home, a servantbrought a packet of letters and papers. Glancing over one of them, hesaid:

"Elizabeth, my daughter. "

A prim young lady, in a high-necked dress, and a close-fitting blacknet 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 readinessto accompany me to-morrow when I go to bring them down. "

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

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

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

"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 foryou to go to bed. "

The widow strove to chase the gloom from her brow, that she might notdarken by its shadow the bright sunshine of her child's early life, and with an effort at cheerfulness she exclaimed: "Now go, Willie, andget the pretty book Cousin Elizabeth gave you, and see if you can readthe 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 giveher the cottage and supply her with the necessaries of life; and to dothis, he cheerfully curtailed the expenses of his own household. Itwas delightful to see the affectionate gratitude of the widow andchild toward their benefactor. And that angel child, I wish I could dojustice to his filial devotion. He seemed, at that early age, to feelas though he only lived to love and bless his mother. To be constantlyat her side, to wait upon her, even to study her wants and anticipateher wishes, seemed to be the greatest joy of the little creature. 

"Willie, why don't you eat your cake?" asked his uncle one day, whenWillie had been sent over to the doctor's on an errand, and had beentreated 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 hismother. "

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

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

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

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

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

The snowstorm that had been raging all day long had subsided, thoughoccasionally the light and drifted snow would be blown up from theground 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 tobed, Willie. "

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

"Come and kiss me, darling. Yes, Willie, you may stay up as long asyou like. I will go to bed myself, " added she, mentally, "so as not tokeep 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 immediatelyby a jump from the box, and a smart rap at the door, caused the widowto start hastily from her seat. The door was opened, and Jake, the bigblack coachman of the old doctor, made his appearance, a heavy cloakand a large muffling hood hanging over his arm. 

"Marm, " said he, "it has clarred off beautiful, and massa has sent thecarriage arter you, and he says how he would have sent it afore, buthow the roads was blocked up with snowdrifts. Me and Pontius Pilate, and Massa John, has been all the arternoon a clarring it away, and Ithinks, marm, if you don't come to-night, how the road will be as badas 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 bigcloth cloak of hizzen, so that you needn't ketch cold. "

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

Jake added:

"I hopes you'll come, marm, for massa and Miss Lizzy and Massa Johnhas 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 ofwaterfowl and wild turkeys, and I myself has made a trap for MassaWillie to catch snowbirds. "

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

In twenty minutes more, Willie was seated on his uncle's knees, by hisbright fireside, and his mother sat conversing with John andElizabeth, and a few neighbors whom the inclemency of the weather hadnot deterred from dropping in to spend Christmas eve. The oldhousekeeper stood at the buffet, cutting up seedcake, and pouring outelder wine, which was soon passed round to the company. 

That Christmas was a gorgeous morning. The sun arose and lit up intoflashing splendor the icy glories of the landscape. From every roofand eave, from every bough and bush, dropped millions of blazingjewels. Earth wore a gorgeous bridal dress, bedecked with diamonds. Within the doctor's house everything was comfortable as you couldwish. A rousing fire of hickory wood roared upon the hearth, anabundant breakfast of coffee, tea, buckwheat cakes, muffins, eggs, wild fowls, oysters, etc. , etc. , smoked upon the board. The familywere all gathered in the breakfast-room. The doctor was serving outeggnog from a capacious bowl upon the sideboard. 

"Cousin Elizabeth, " said little Willie, taking her hand and leadingher 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 catchsnowbirds, and picture books, and half-pence and such things. Now whatdo ladies love to have?"

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

"Oh, that's what you like, Cousin Elizabeth; but mamma doesn't worksamplers, " 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 dowhat I please with, and I want to get something with it for poor, dearmamma. "

"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 soonlighting up, he exclaimed: "Oh, ho! Cousin Elizabeth, I am brighterthan you are, this time. A silver thimble is a very little thing, andcan 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 Christmasgift, and you caught me, you know; take this shilling, and now run andask your uncle to take you to the village with him when he goes, andthen 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 asshe advised him. The family now sat down to breakfast, after whichthey all went to church, where the doctor performed divine service. Alarge party of friends and neighbors returned with them to dinner, andthe remainder of the day was spent in hilarity and innocent enjoyment. 

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

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

"Nothing much, mother; I am only going out a minute, " and he closedthe door, and began an almost hopeless search by the moonlight for hislost treasure. Up and down the walk he searched without finding it. Heopened the gate, and peeping and peering about, wandered up the road, until his little feet and limbs got wet in the soft snow, and hishands became benumbed; when, feeling convinced that it was lost, hesat down and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. Let no one feelsurprise or contempt at this. In this little affair of the thimblethere 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 asa child, understood as a child. " I am a grown-up child now, and havehad many troubles, but the most acute sorrow I ever felt was the deathof my pet pigeon, when I was seven years old. 

It was long before the storm in his little bosom subsided, but whenat last it did, he turned to go home; he would not go before, lest hemight grieve his mother with the sight of his tears. At last, wearyand half-frozen, he opened the cottage gate and met his mother comingto look for him, and she, who always spoke most gently to him, and forwhose dear sake she was suffering, now by a sad chance, and out of herfright 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 nextmorning when Mrs. Dulan arose, the heavy breathing, and bright flushupon the cheek of her boy, caught her attention, and roused her fearsfor his health. As she gazed, a sharp expression of pain contractedhis features and he awoke. Feebly stretching out his arms to embraceher, 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 froma distant village. In the meantime the child's illness had fearfullyprogressed; and when at last the physician arrived, and examined him, he could give no hopes of his recovery. Language cannot depict theanguish 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 wouldhave been felt in the memory of the few words of harsh rebuke when hehad returned half-frozen and heavy-hearted from his fruitless searchafter the thimble, for the kind Elizabeth had arrived and explainedthe incident of the night. 

 * * * * *

It was midnight of the ninth day. Willie had lain in a stupor for awhole day and night previous. His mother stood by his bed; she neitherspoke nor wept, but her face wore the expression of acute suffering. Her eyes were strained with an earnest, anxious, agonized gaze uponthe deathly countenance of the boy. Old Dr. Dulan entered the room atthis moment, and looking down at the child, and taking his thin, coldhand 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, " andabruptly left the room. 

"Elizabeth, " said he to his daughter, who was sitting by the parlorfire, "go into the next room and remain with your aunt, and ifanything 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 theinsensible child was watched by his mother and her friend! Theflickering taper, which both forgot to snuff, would fitfully flare upand reveal the watchers, the bed, and the prostrate form of the pale, stiff, motionless boy, with his eyes flared back with a fixed andhorrid stare. In the parlor, a party equally silent and gloomy kepttheir vigil. Dr. Dulan, his son and the old woman, whose fearfulerrand made her very presence a horror, formed the group. The oldwoman at last, weary at holding her tongue so long, broke silence bysaying: "I always thought that child would never be raised, sir--hewas so smart and clever, and so dutiful to his ma. He was too good forthis world, sir. How long has he been sick, sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

I must transport you now, in imagination, over a few years of timeand a few miles of country, and take you into a splendid drawing-room, in the handsome courthouse of the Delany's, which, you remember, Idescribed in the first part of this story, situated near the town ofRichmond. On a luxurious sofa, in this superb room, reclined a mostbeautiful woman. Her golden hair divided above a high and classicbrow, fell, flashing and glittering, upon her white bosom likesunbeams of snow. Her eyes--but who can describe those glorious eyesof living sapphire? Sapphire! Compare her eloquent eyes to soullessgems? Her eyes! Why, when their serious light was turned upon you, youwould feel spellbound, entranced, as by a strain of rich and solemnmusic, and when their merry glance caught yours, you'd think therecould not be a grief or a sin on earth! But the greatest charm in thatfascinating countenance was the lips, small, full, red, their habitualexpression being that of heavenly serenity and goodness. 

Bending over the arm of the sofa, his head resting upon his hand, wasa young man; his eyes earnestly, anxiously, pleadingly fixed upon theface of his companion, in whose ear, in a full, rich, and passionatetone, he was pouring a tale of love, hopeless almost to despair. Thegirl 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 yourdeep 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 andrespect you; nay, more, I love you as a brother. "

"Then, dear, dearest Alice, since I am honored with your esteem, ifnot blessed with your love, give me your hand--be my wife--andultimately perhaps----"

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

"What the d----l does that fool mean?" exclaimed Richard Delany, asan angry flush passed over his face. "One would think I had insultedher. Colonel Delany's penniless dependent should receive with morehumility, if not with more gratitude, an offer of marriage from hisheir. But I see how it is. She loves that beggarly Dulan--thatwretched usher. But, death--death to the poverty-stricken wretch, ifhe presume to cross my path!" and the clenched fists, lividcomplexion, and grinding teeth gave fearful testimony to the deadlyhatred 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 toattend. 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 youseem to take in your cousin--your passion for her, in fact. Thesethings are easily arrested in the commencement, and they must bearrested. You can do it, and you must do it! I have other views foryou. 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, veryintellectual----"

"Beggar!"

"Father!"

"Unbend that brow, sir! nor dare to address your parent in thatinsolent tone! And now, sir, once for all, let us come to the point, and understand each other perfectly. Should you persist in youraddresses to Alice, should you finally marry her, not a shilling, nota 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 theloss of my father would be an evil, I could never risk to encounter. Iwill 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 willwatch them closely, and in the course of the day speak to Alice. "

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

"Alice, " he commenced, "I wish to make a confidant of you;" and heproceeded to unfold to her, at some length, his ambitious projects forhis son, and concluded by giving her to understand, pretty distinctly, that he wished his son to select a wealthy bride, and that any otherone 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 hasbeen said for my edification. That your mind may be perfectly at reston this subject, I must say what may be deemed presumptuous: I wouldnot, could not marry your son, either with or without your consent, orunder any circumstances whatever. "

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

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

Alice Raymond, the orphan niece of Colonel Delany, was the daughterof an officer in the British army. Mr. Raymond was the youngest son ofan old, wealthy and haughty family in Dorsetshire, England. At a veryearly age he married the youngest sister of Colonel Delany. Havingnothing but his pay, all the miseries of an improvident marriage fellupon the young couple. The same hour that gave existence to Alice, deprived her of her mother. The facilities to ambition offered byAmerica, and the hope of distracting his grief, induced Mr. Raymond todispose of his commission, and embark for the Western World. Anotherobject which, though the last named, was the first in deciding him tocross the Atlantic. This object was to place his little Alice in thearms of her maternal grandmother, the elder Mrs. Delany, then a widow, and a resident under the roof of her son, Colonel Delany. A few weeksafter the sailing of the ship in which, with his infant daughter, Mr. Raymond took passage, the smallpox broke out on board and he was oneof its earliest victims. 

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

Richard Delany, the only son and heir of Colonel Delany, had beensent to England at the age of fifteen to receive a college education. After remaining eight years abroad, the last year of his absence beingspent in making the grand tour, he returned to his adopted country andhis father's house. He was soon attracted by the beauty and grace ofAlice. I say by her beauty and grace, because the moral andintellectual worth of the young girl he had not the taste to admire, even had he, at this early period of his acquaintance with her, anopportunity to judge. The attentions of Richard Delany to his cousinwere not only extremely distressing to her, but highly displeasing tohis father, who had formed, as we have seen, the most ambitiousprojects for his son. Richard Delany was not far wrong in hisconjecture concerning the young usher, who was no other than our oldfriend William Dulan, little Willie, who had now grown to man'sestate, the circumstances of whose introduction to the Delany family Imust now proceed to explain. 

To pass briefly over the events of William Dulan's childhood andyouth. At the age of ten years he entered, as a pupil, the collegiateschool over which Dr. Dulan presided, where he remained until hisnineteenth year. It had been the wish of William Dulan and his motherthat he should take holy orders, and he was about to enter a course oftheological study under the direction of his uncle when an eventoccurred which totally altered the plan of his life. This event wasthe death of Dr. Dulan, his kind uncle and benefactor. All thoughts ofthe church had now to be relinquished, and present employment, bywhich to support his mother, to be sought. * * * It was twelve o'clockat night, about three months after the death of Dr. Dulan. The motherof William, by her hearth, still plied her needle, now the only meansof their support. Her son sat by her side, as of old. He had beenengaged some hours in reading to her. At length, throwing down thebook, he exclaimed:

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

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

"I am not sewing so much from necessity, now, dear William, as becauseI 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 thekettle on, and was engaged in setting the room in order, when hismother entered, who, observing his occupation, said:

"Ever since your return from school, William, you have anticipated mein this morning labor. You must now give it up, my son--I do not liketo 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 threehours before he returned. His face was beaming with happiness, as heheld 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 yearsago, went to ---- County and established a school, which has succeededadmirably. He is in want of an assistant, and has written to me, offering four hundred dollars a year for my services in hisinstitution. "

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

These words escaped the widow, with a deep sigh, and withoutreflection. 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 hisnew home, in the family of Mr. Keene, the principal of Bay GroveAcademy, near Richmond. 

The first meeting of William Dulan and Alice Raymond took place underthe 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 thegentry of his own and the adjoining counties accepted invitations toattend. Among the guests was William Dulan. He was presented to MissRaymond, the young hostess of the evening, by Mr. Keene. Young Dulanwas at first dazzled by the transcendent beauty of her face, and theairy 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 acountry 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 ofgayety, where neither took an active part in the festivities. A moreintimate acquaintance produced a mutual and just estimation of eachother's character, and preference soon warmed into love. 

From the moment in which the jealous fears of Richard Delany werearoused, he resolved to throw so much coldness and hauteur in hismanner toward that young gentleman as should banish him from thehouse. This, however, did not effect the purpose for which it wasdesigned, and he finally determined to broach the subject to hisfather. Old Colonel Delany, whose "optics" were so very "keen" to spyout the danger of his son's forming a mésalliance, was stone blindwhen such a misfortune threatened Alice, liked the young man verymuch, and could see nothing out of the way in his attentions to hisniece, and finally refused to close his doors against him at his son'sinstance. While this conversation was going on, the summer vacationapproached, and William made arrangements to spend them with hismother. 

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

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

"Go to your seats, boys, " said a rich, melodious, kind voice; "I wishto 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 thatwhich will cheer your spirits. I have decided to give up my schoolhere into your sole charge if you will accept it. I have received, through the influence of some of my political friends, a lucrative andpermanent appointment under the government, the nature of which I willexplain to you by and by. I think of closing my connection with thisschool about the end of the next term. What say you? Will you be mysuccessor?"

Dulan started to his feet, seized both the hands of his friend, pressed them fervently, and would have thanked him, but utterancefailed. 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 numerousimprovements upon the premises, go into the bargain. Yes, Dulan, Ihave known your secret long, " said he, smiling good-humoredly, "andsincerely, though silently, commiserated the difficulties of yourposition; and I assure you, Dulan, that the greatest pleasure I feltin receiving my appointment was in the opportunity it gave me ofmaking you and Alice happy. Stop, stop, Dulan, let me talk, " laughedKeene, as William opened a battery of gratitude upon him. "It is nownear the end of July. I should like to see you installed here on thefirst of September. The August vacation will give you an opportunityof 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 saidhis 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 unusuallylong time in the "outward adorning, " hastened with a joy-beamingcountenance to the home of his Alice. In the full flow of his joy hewas met by a sudden disappointment. The servant who met him at thedoor informed him that Colonel Delany, Miss Raymond and Mr. Delany hadset off for Richmond, with the intention of staying a couple of weeks. Crestfallen, William turned from the door. This was only a momentarydisappointment, however, and soon his spirits rose, and he joyfullyanticipated the time of the Delany's return. They were to be back intime for the approaching examination and exhibition at Bay GroveAcademy; and in preparing his pupils for this event, William Dulanfound ample employment for his time and thoughts. I will not weary youwith a description of the exhibition. It passed off in that schoolpretty much as it does in others. The Delanys, however, had notreturned in time to be present, nay, the very last day of William'sstay had dawned, yet they had not arrived. William had written to hismother that he would be home on a stated day, and not even for thedelight of meeting the mistress of his heart, the period of whosereturn was now uncertain, would he disappoint her. William was engagedin packing his trunk, when Dr. Keene, again the harbinger of goodtidings, entered his room. 

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

William shuffled his things into his trunk, pressed down the lid, locked it, and, hastily bidding his friend good-evening, took his hatand hurried from the house. Being arrived at Colonel Delany's, he wasshown into the drawing-room, and was delighted to find Alice its soleoccupant. The undisguised joy with which she received him leftscarcely a doubt upon his mind as to the reception of his intendedproposals. After a few mutual inquiries respecting health, friends, and so forth, William took her white hand in his, and said, orattempted to say--I know not what--it stuck in his throat--and heremained merely silent, holding the hand of Alice. There is somethingso extremely difficult about making a pre-meditated declaration oflove. It is much easier when it can be surprised from a man. Williamknew the moments were very precious. He knew that Colonel Delany orhis son might be expected to enter at any moment, and there would bean end of opportunity for a month or six weeks to come; yet there hesat, holding her hand, the difficulty becoming greater every minute, while the crimson cheek of Alice burned with a deeper blush. At lengthfootsteps 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 youas we are commanded only to love God. Dearest Alice, will you becomemy wife?"

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

"Farewell, Mr. Dulan, " said Alice, kindly, "if we should not meetagain 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'scottage gleamed in the dark bosom of the wood like a gem in thetresses of beauty. Everything wore its brightest aspect. The windowsof the little parlor were open, and the songs of birds and the perfumeof flowers were wafted through them. But the little breakfast-table, with its snowy cloth and its one plate, cup and saucer, looked almostpiteous from its solitude. Upon the clean white coverlet of the bedsat the widow's little black bonnet and shawl, prayer-book, and cleanpocket handkerchief, folded with its sprig of lavender. It wasCommunion Sunday, and the widow would not miss going to church on anyaccount. She dispatched her breakfast quickly--poor thing! she had notmuch appetite. She had sat up half the night previous, awaiting thearrival of William, but he had not come; and a man from the villagehad informed her that the mail-stage had arrived on the night previouswithout 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 lengthof time. After putting away her breakfast things, she donned herbonnet and shawl, and, taking her prayer-book, opened the door to goout. What a pleasant sight met her eyes. A neat one-horse carriage, orrather cart, stood at the door--her son was just alighting from it. Inanother instant he had clasped his mother in his arms. 

"Oh! my William! my William! I am so glad to see you, " exclaimed thedelighted mother, bursting into tears. "Oh, but this is so joyful, sounexpected, 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 megive something to the horse, first, and you sit in the door, dearmother--I do not want to lose sight of you a moment, while waiting onRosinante. "

"Never mind, William, old Jake can do that. Here, Jake, " said she, asthe old servant approached, "take charge of Master William's horse. "Then turning to William, she said: "John sends old Jake over everymorning 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 theytook their seats at the breakfast table, "because I had purchased thislight wagon and horse for you to ride to church in, and I came down init. I reached the river last night, but could not cross. The oldferryman had gone to bed, and would not rise. Well, after breakfast, dear mother, I shall have the pleasure of driving you to church inyour own carriage!" added William, smiling. 

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

"Ah, mother, I was selfish after all, and deserve no credit, for Ilaid the money out in the way which would give myself the mostpleasure. 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 toyou some excellent news, which I am dying to deliver. " So saying, heplaced his mother carefully in the little carriage, and seatinghimself beside her drove off, leaving old Jake in charge of the house. 

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

William then proceeded to relate, at large, all that had taken placeduring his residence at Bay Grove--not omitting his love for Alice, ofwhom he gave a glowing description; nor the bright prospects which thekindness of Dr. Keene opened before him. Then he described thebeautiful dwelling which would become vacant on the removal of Dr. Keene's family, which was expected to take place some time during thecoming autumn. To this dwelling, he intended to remove his mother, andhoped 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 expressedtheir delight at the meeting and insisted that William and his mothershould return with them to dinner. This, however, both mother and sondeclined, as they wished to spend the day at home together. 

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

"Now, dear mother, cheer up! This parting is so much better than ourlast parting. Now, I am going to prepare a beautiful home for you, andwhen I come at Christmas, it will be for the purpose of carrying youback 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, mybest son, " they parted. They parted to meet no more on earth. 

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

 * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

"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 examinewith us some of these papers. Ah, I crave your pardon, Mr. Reynard--Lady Hilden, this is Mr. Reynard, late solicitor to yourdeceased grandfather, the Baron----"

Great was the excitement in the neighborhood when it was noised abroadthat Alice Raymond had become a baroness, in her own right, and thepossessor of a large estate in England. And when, for the first timesince her accession to her new dignities, she appeared at church, indeep mourning, every eye was turned upon her, and she almost sankbeneath the gaze of so many people. 

In the height of the "nine days' wonder, " William Dulan returned, andwas 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 littleroom. "Oh, my mother, if it were not for thee, I should pray that thiswretched heart of mine would soon be stilled in death. "

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

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

He actually loved her ten times as much as formerly. The "beggar" wasbeautiful, but the baroness was bewitching! Spurred on, then, hedetermined to move heaven, earth and the other place, if necessary, toaccomplish his object. He beset Lady Hilden with the most earnestprayers, and protestations, and entreaties, reminding her that heloved and wooed her before the dawn of her prosperity, and appealed toher for the disinterestedness of his passion. But all in vain. He evenbesought 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 delicatehesitation, 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 ofspirit! Alice Raymond was now Lady Hilden. Her once holy, loving, meekblue eyes were now splendid with light and joy. Upon cheek and lip, once so delicately blooming, now glanced and glowed a rich, brightcrimson. Her once softly falling step had become firm, elastic andstately. "A peeress in my own right, " was the thought that sent aspasmodic joy to the heart of Alice. I am sorry she was not morephilosophical, more exalted, but I cannot help it, so it was; and ifAlice "put on airs, " it must not be charged upon her biographer. 

Time sped on. A rumor of an approaching marriage between Mr. RichardDelany and Lady Hilden was industriously circulated, and became thegeneral topic of conversation in the neighborhood. To avoid hearing ittalked of, William Dulan sedulously kept out of company. He had neverseen Alice since she became Lady Hilden. Dr. Keene had removed withhis family from Bay Grove, and the principal government and emolumentof the school had devolved upon young Dulan. The Christmas holidayswere at hand, and he resolved to take advantage of the opportunityoffered by them, to remove his mother to Bay Grove. On the lastevening of his stay, something in the circumstance brought backforcibly to his mind his last conversation with Alice--thatconversation had also taken place on the eve of a journey; and theassociation of ideas awakened, together with the belief that he wouldnever again have an opportunity of beholding her, irresistiblyimpelled him to seek an interview with Alice. 

Twilight was fast fading into night. Lady Hilden stood alone, gazingout from the window of her uncle's drawing-room. She had changedagain, since we saw her last. There was something of sorrow, orbitterness, in the compressed or quivering lip. Her eye was bright asever, but it was the brightness of the icicle glancing in the wintersun--it was soon quenched in tears, and as she gazed out upon thegloomy mountain, naked forest, and frozen lake, she murmured: "I usedto love summer and day so much; now----" [A servant entered withlights. "Take them away, " said Alice. She was obeyed. ]--"the dark soulin 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 aperiod?" said William Dulan, with a respectful bow. 

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

"I was about to leave this neighborhood for a short time; but couldnot do so without calling to bid you farewell, fearing you might begone to England before I return. " William Dulan's voice was beginningto 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 thesorrow-stricken visage of the young man. 

A desultory conversation ensued, after which William Dulan arose totake his leave, which he did in a choking, inaudible voice. As heturned to leave the room, his ghastly face and unsteady step attested, in language not to be misunderstood, the acuteness and intensity ofhis 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 hisface, eloquent with all a maiden may not speak. 

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

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

 * * * * *

It was a cold night on the shores of the ice-bound Rappahannock. Astorm of wind and snow that had been fiercely raging all day long, atlength subsided. At a low cabin, which served the threefold purposesof post-office, ferry-house and tavern, an old gray-haired man wasnodding over a smoldering fire. His slumbers were disturbed by theblast of a stage horn and wheels of the coach, which soon stoppedbefore the door. 

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

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

"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 takingthe coach across. 

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

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

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

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

"The gentleman can try it, if he likes, " continued the old man, with agrin, "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, MasterWilliam--'specially as it's a long, dark, slushy road between here andthe widow's. "

"Why, Uncle Ben, do you think I am a young chicken, to be killed bywetting my feet?" asked William, laughing. "Besides, at this verymoment, my good mother is waiting for me, and has a blazing fire, apot of strong coffee, and a bowl of oysters, in readiness. I would notdisappoint her, or myself, for a good deal. "

"If it were not for this confounded lameness in my feet, I would notstop at this vile hole to-night, " said the elder traveler, who was noother than Richard Delany, whom imperative business had called to thispart of the country, and who had thus become, very reluctantly, thetraveling companion of William Dulan. 

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

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

The old man turned away, aghast with horror, and his eyes fell uponthe countenance of Richard Delany, which was now lit up with demoniacjoy, 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 wasturned with its back to the fire, and on it a dressing-gown, andbefore it lay a pair of soft, warm slippers. The restless, joyous, anxious mother was reading over, for the twentieth time, her son'slast letter, in which he promised to be home, punctually, on thatevening. Hours flew on, but he did not come. At length, one o'clockstruck, and startled the widow from her meditative posture. "I must goto bed--I must not look pale with watching, to-morrow, and alarm mygood son. It is just as it was before--he cannot get across the riverto-night. I shall see him early to-morrow. " Removing the things fromabout the fire, and setting the room in the nicest order, the widowretired to bed. 

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

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

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

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

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

"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 thewidow brushed past him, and caught to her bosom--old Ben, theferryman. 

"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 myson 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 atrembling 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 isnot----"

She could not finish the sentence, but turned a look of agonizinginquiry 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 thedeath-throe of a breaking heart, arose upon the air, and echoedthrough the woods, and the widow sunk, fainting, to the ground. Theyraised her up--the blood was flowing in torrents from her mouth. Theybore her to the house, and laid her on the bed. John Dulan watchedbeside her, while the old man hastened to procure assistance. 

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

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

"The betrothed bride of your son. "

The young girl approached the bed, and, taking the hand of thesufferer, exclaimed: "Mother, mother, you are not alone in yoursorrow! 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 eitherwere shed together. 

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

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

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

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

I have told you a true story. Had I created these beings fromimagination, I should also have judged them--punished the bad andrewarded the good. But these people actually lived, moved, and hadtheir being in the real world, and have now gone to render in theiraccount 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 ofour cheery set of travelers, I may, on some future occasion, gratifytheir laudable desire after knowledge; only informing them at presentthat we did reach our destination at ten o'clock that night, insafety, although it was very dark when we passed down the dreadedGibbet Hill and forded the dismal Bloody Run Swamp. That Aunt Peggy'scap was not mashed by Uncle Clive's hat, and that Miss Christine didnot put her feet into Cousin Kitty's bandbox, to the demolition of herbonnet; but that both bonnet and cap survived to grace the heads oftheir respective proprietors. The only mishap that occurred, dearreader, befell your obsequious servitor, who went to bed with a sickheadache, caused really by her acute sympathy with the misfortunes ofthe hero and heroine of our aunt's story, but which Miss Christinegrossly attributed to a hearty supper of oysters and soft crabs, eatenat twelve o'clock at night, which, of course, you and I know, hadnothing at all to do with it. 

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

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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.