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^Tjfe^sffii^ > — vc/r — .>pci-,iw:i3r •

-N

Ki:W ExNGLAND:

Handbook for Travellers,

WITH

THE WESTERN AND NORTHERN BORDERS, FROM
NEW YORK TO QUEBEC.

Nkw l',Nr,i.\.vri hns hitlierto liccn Imt cnsuiilly treated in bookH which cover wiihv
sections of coniitn' ; siieciiil lociilities within its holders have hecu de.scriheil with
more or less iidelity in local giiido-hooks ; hut the present vohiuie is the first de-
voted to its treatment, aecordiny' to tlie most approved jirineijiles of Kuropean works
of siniila)- rhaiaeter. The llandliook is desi^'ned to enable travellers lo visit all or
any of the notable places in New England, with the greatest possible ocoiioiny of
money, linu', and tenipei', by giving

Lists of the Hotels with their Prices, Descriptions of the various

Routes by Railway, Steamer, or Stage, and Maps

and Plans of the Principal Cities.

Among the lattei' ari' jdans of l>ost(ni, New York, I'rovidence, Xew])ort, Hartford,
New Haven, Portland, Nh)ntrcal, (.(nebec, and luajis of New England, flie luivirons
of lioston, the AVhite Mountains, the Hudson River, ('entral Park, Lake Winnepe-
sankee, .Momit Anbuin, and Nahant. The letter-press inchides complete epitomes
of ilie histories of the old New England towns, a statement of the ])rinci]ial scenic
attractions, descriptions of the art and architectin-e of the cities, biographical sketches
in connection with the birthplaces of eminent men. and statistics of the chief hi-
dustries of the included States.

THE NEW ENGLAND HANDBOOK

comprises the gi-eatest mmd)er of facts in the least space, and gives the information ;
most valuable to the traveller. The famous watcring-pl.accs and mountain-i'es(irts in
which New l-^ngland abounds, and which are thronged by visitors from rdl parts of
the country diu-ing the summer months, aie fully described, and all desirable infor-
mation concerning them is given in this book.

Price,

$itS.OO.

*,»* For sale by Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers,

JAIflElS R. OSGOOD & CO., BoMoii.

ellers.

S, FROM

wliich fovt'i' widiv
■en (lescrilicd witli
no is tliu first do-
if i'liirojiciiii WDi-ks
It'i's l<i visit all nr
ossiblu ocoiuiinv of

of the various
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Xt'\v])i)i't, lliirtff'vd,
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k, Laki? Wiiiiiope-
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of^rnpliicnl sketelies
^s of llie cliief ill-

DBOOE

los flic infiiriiiation
momitaii)-i'eK(]rfs in
•s from all parts of \,
all desirable infor-

! Publishers,

;;;0.. BoMon.

M i - ii m i« i if i

ROPES OF SAND:

AND OTHER STORIES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"WOVEN OF MANY THREADS," "A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR."

^'(^y-^.U.k (cgo4i^

"Then in Life's goblet freely press
The leaves that give it bitterness ;
Nor prize the colored waters less,
For in thy darkness and distress
f{ew light and strength they give."

LONGFELtOW.

EJnni.^SEM

BOSTON: 4
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,

(late TICKNOR * FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, * CO.,)

124 Tremont Street.
1873.

Entered according to Act of Congreu, in the jrear 1873,

By JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congreu at Wathington.

SUnotyftdandPrimttdiy Rand, Avtry, 6* Ce,

panrar»^.^..».n«v.

CONTENTS.

^'^ ROPES OF SAND.

I. nuiFTED ABHOUK

II. TOP'S HAfiY "

III. IlLUK-EYED VIOLET "

, IV. TUK OLD STOKY "

V. LOBT »

VI. TIIK niTTEU CUP ^

Vll. A TEUUIULE INJUSTICE

VIII. LEFT TO HIMSELF

IX. A LITTLE ANOEL • **

X. A WITIIEUED VIOLET *'

XI. ABEL'S SACRIFICE '"

/ n

'' A WOMAN'S STOUY

K MUS. QOUDON'S CONFESSION

^ EVERY STRING BROKEN

. 128
^A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY

136

r MR. JOHN

V DRINKERS OF ASHES.

1. INTRODUCTION

140

a. BYLVBRINB

y
^i>

'f<

1 "

u h

MwaaMMaaaWB

■i>^*ariMiM*»

ROPES OF SAND.

CHAPTER I.

DRIFTED ABIIORE.

Between Ilonnsditdi and Fcnchiirch
Streets is n narrow, <lin;jy iiUcy, known to
tho iiiUiiliitftnts of that jiart of fiomlon as
Black-cat Lano. Tho roar walls of'tlio };roat
win^luHises on Fenchnrch Street make a
dismal l)lank of one side, sliiitting out
every tiling but a narrow strip of cky from
tUoso who grovel in sqiiailor below. A
number of turablc-<lown sheds clin^ to those
wiudowlesa walls, like parasites to llu; stately
trunk of an oak ; tlicir poverty and decay
formin;^ a pitiful ('ontriwt to the massive and
indestructible blocks of stone a;^ainst which
they I'-an. On the other side, rows of
dilapidated timemcnt-houses, pressing; one
a:^ainst tho otlior like a file of tipsy
soldiers, present ('"'ir forbidtlin^ fronts,
their broken windows stulled with rags and
old hats, or roughly repaired with strips of
tin, leather, and oil-clotb, to keep out the
cold in winter, and the impure air in summer.
Dozens of half-nakeVl children wallow like
pigs in tho drains choked with all kinds of
refuse, or play with the happy indiflerenco
of childhood on tho broken and sloppy
paving, whore a ray of sunlight scarce over
falls ; while haggard and untidy women hang
about the doors, smoking and gossipping
with their ecjually haggard and untidy
neighbors. Though the pure air and the
lifb-giving sun seldom visit this squalid sink

of tho groat city, thnso poor llttlo weeds of
humanity seem to grow ami flourish in this
rank soil more abundantly than in healthier
localities: they run and laugh ami shout,
in tludr blissful i ^norance, as merrily as
though they were never dirty, col<l, or hun-
gry ; as though there were no griping want,
no pain, no sin, no sorrow, among this strug-
gling, suffering community. They are l)om
and live and die in this foul atuiosphono,
never knowing, that within tho distance of a
milo is another existence, another class of be-
ings, another world, better and hap[)ier than
theirs. Year after year, generation after
generation, these poor weeds spring into
life, flourish fur a brief day, fado and die,
and are plucked up by the hand of (lod to
leave room for another growth. The most
of them are poor, deserted waifs, who never
know to whom they owe their existence.
Chiinco adixes some namo to them by which
they are called during their lives : when
they die, it dies with them, and they are
remembered no more on earth.

One dreary night in November, how
many years ago it matters not, an old man
sat alone before his little firo in tho cellar
of one of tho most respectable of these ten-
ements, diligently repairing a much-worn
waistcojvt by the feeble light of a tin lamp
that hung from a hook in the smoky jamb
of the firepliico. He was a most singular
little figure, being scarce five feet tall, while
his head was unusually large, and covered

SkafeSSsS

sm uMimi a n ^SS

B0PE8 OF SAND.

with coarse, thick hair as white ns snow ;
his eyes, very small and close toj^etlier,
peered out from under a pair of shaggy
brows with an expression of uiiuglcd cun-
ning and good nature ; ills face, destitute of
beard save a iew straggling hairs under liis
chin, was covered with fine, deep lines tliat
crossed eacli otlier at every angle, making
his skin appear like closely (juilted parcli-
ment. Althougli his clothes denoted ex-
treme poverty, tliey were scrupulously clean,
and liad been patched and repatched with
the utmost care, showing as many colors as
did Joseph's coat. Every thing in the mis-
erable room was pitifully poor, yet as neat
and orderly as tliough some tlirifty liouse-
wife had just finislied her day's cleaning.
The tin lamp, that tlirew its dickering blaze
over his bent liead and large rough liands.
shone like jjolished silver; the deal table
and broken Uoor were scoured to a remark-
able whiteness; and the miserable bed
against the wall was neatly made, and cov-
ered witli a much-worn but clean coverlet.
There was notliiug in tlie room but tlic
table, bed, and three-legged stool on wliicli
he sat, besides a little common crockery on
a shelf, some tin measures scoured to the
same briglitness as llie lamp, a few pails and
baskets, and in one corner a lieap of clean
white sand.

The fire blazed cheerily, the flame of
the lamp flickered over the little old man,
who stitclied away industriously, his feet
on the high fender, and his nose al-
most touching his knees. From time to
time lie straightened himself, pushed up his
spectai;les, and very delibeiately took a
large brass pin from tlie lining of his jacket,
with wliich he knocked off" the black cap
that h:id gathered on the wick, and jiicked
it up to a brighter blaze ; then he wvped the
pin carefully on a bunch of wool that hung
under the lamp, quilted it again into las
jacket, and returned to his work as though
there had been no interruption. At last,
when the blue patch was placed upon tlie
brown garment to his entire satisfaction, he
helil it up admiringly, and said to himself
in a cheery, chirping voice, " It's good, as

good as new; an' I only paid a shillin' for
it. It was so dirty when I bought it, that I
thouglit it was black : now I've washed it,
it's a fine brown ; an' this bit o' blue cloth
covers the holes uncommon well. It's a' ex-
cellent thing that you're handy with your
needle. Top, so ; hat you can go well dressed,
while your neighbors are in rags." Then
he smootlied it out over his knees, clipped
oir some little frayed threads around the
edges, and tblded it carefully, patting it
with a loving hand, while he smiled fondly
as tiiough it were a living thing he caressed ;
after which he stood up, straightened hun-
self out of his cramped position, and held
it at arms' length, looking at it once more
approvingly before ho laid it on a shelf over
the fire[)lace, and covered it with a paper
to protect it from the dust. " Now, Toj),
make vour tea," he continued, addressing
himself in tlie same cheerful tone ; for, hav-
ing been alone all his life, lie made a com-
[janion of himself by fancying that he was
another person, and, under this hapi>y delu-
sion, he carried on long dialogues, person-
ating two voices, so that any one listening
would certainly have said that another be-
sides himself was talking in the little cellar.
'• Where's the tea ? " he questioned, bustling
around, and setting a bright kettle on the
hob. " Why, there's a pen'orth o' the best
(piality in a paper bag in the table drawer.
Top, you're stupid to-night." — "Yes: I'm
stupiil, 'cause I'm tired. It's hard work to
lug sand all day in two pails, an' stop here
an' there, at everybody's call, to measure
out a ha'peu'orth ; besides, I've sanded the
Uoor o' the Blue Dragon. It's the first
lime in my life that ever I was asked to
sand the floor o' the Blue Dragon. I've
supplied that inn with sand for more 'an
filty years, every day, an<l al'ays left my
measure at the door o' the bar-room with-
out bein' asked to sift it over the floor."
" Who told you to do it to-day. Top ? " —
" Why, the new bar-maid. Says she, as pert
as couhl be, 'Mr. Top, just take that sifter
an' give it a fling 'round : your arms is longer
an' stronger 'an mine, an' you ain't 'alf as
much to do as I 'ave.' Well, I did it;

will a shillin' for
I bought it, that I
w I'vu washed it,

bit o' blue oloth
u wfll. It's a' ex-
handy with your
in '^o well dressed,

in raj;s." Then
lis knees, clipped
eads around the
efully, patting it
! he smiled fondly
hing ho caressed ;
straigiitened hliu-
josition, and held
; at it once more

it on a shelf over
J it with a paper
ust. " Now, Top,
inucd, addressing
ful tone ; for, hav-
, ho made a com-
ity ing that he was
r this happy delu-
dialogues, person-
ally one listening
I that another lie-
in the little cellar,
ucstioned, bustling
ight kettle on the
an'orth o' the best

the table drawer.
;ht."_"Yes: Tin

It's hard work to
tails, an' stop here
j call, to measure
iS, I've sanded the
on. It's the first
!r I was asked to
lue Dragon. I've
sand for more 'an
nd al'ays left my
he bar-room with-
it over the floor."

to-day. Top?" —
. Says she, as pert
ist take that sifter
your arms is longer
i' you ain't 'alf as
Well, I did it;

DUIFTED ASHORE.

though mighty unwillin', an' all the while
she asked me (piestions as sa'cy as any
wench you over see. Says she, 'Wiiat's
your name 'sides Top ? ' Says 1, ' I've got
no other name that I knows of.' ' Well,"
gays she. 'how did you .get that? did your
daddy an' your mammy give it to you ? '
Says I, ' I never had any daddy an' mammy
as I can remember. A' old woman as lives
in the next collar, told me, that when I was
a wee thing, a toddlin' 'round, some one said,
' He's no bigger 'an a top ; ' an' so they al'ays
called me Little Top; now they call me Old
Top.' Then she laughs, an' says, 'It's a
good name for you ; an' I'll make you spin
'round, an' sand the floor for me every day.'
Don't you call that too bad? Here I've
lived more 'an sixty years, an' never been
out o' sound o' Bow Hells, never left off one
day carryin' sand with not a pebble nor
stick in it, an' al'ays heaped the measure
at the Blue Dragon extra high in the mid-
dle ; now I say it's too bad, at my time o'
life, to be drove by that sa'cy new bar-maid
to sift, it over the floor. Don't you say it's
too bad?" — '* Yes, I do: I wouldn't doit,
Top, I wouldn't do it."—" But if I refuse I'll
lose their custom, an' there's a penny ha'-
penny a day gone. Hark ! what's that ? Did
some one knock ?" — " Yes : some one
knocked ; " and, as he answered himself, he
replaced the hissing kettle on the hob, from
whence he had taken it, and turned toward
the rickety door, which was fastened with
two stout boards, propped slanting, and se-
cured by iron spikes driven into the floor.
" Who's there ? " he shouted, hollowing his
hands behind each ear, the better to hear the
' answer. But there was no answer, only a
slight rustling and sobbing which sounded
like the wind driving the black fog before
it. "I don't believe it's any one at all.
Do you. Top? " — " No, I don't." — " It's a
nasty gusty night as makes one's bones creep
in his body, an' the door rattles itself, or may
be it's a dog, or a child, or a — woman an'
a babby," he added, with sudden animation,
as a fiiint wail fell on his ear, mingled with
a pitiful, broken voice that entreated," Let
me in 1 let me in, for the love of God 1 "

" She's not the first poor crctur' you've
sheltered from the wind and rain ; is she.
Top?" he ((uestioned as he removed the
boards briskly, and threw o])en the creaking
door, before which stood the figure of a wo-
man, in strong relief against the darkness ami
dense vapors of the November night. She
looked more like a corjise than a living
thing, with her shrunk, hol.ow face, long,
dank hair, and naked, skeleton arms, from
which the tatters of a shawl had fallen,
revealing a babe a few w(^e)--s' old pressed
convulsively to her breast.

" Lord love you ! how dreadful you ilo
look ! But Top ain't afraid of you ; are you.
Top? Get in out o' the wind an' rain ; an'
don't stand there, starin' like a spirit come
to give a man his warnin'."

The miserable creature said nothing, but
tottered over the threshold, looking around
with a bewildered stare, while Top secured
the door carefully. Iler great hollow eyes
rested on the fire for a moment, and then
wandered about the room as though seeking
for some place of rest. Suddenly utteriii'^
a sharji cry, she staggered forward, and fell
in a heap on the pile of sand, clutching it
with her hands, while she gasped in broken
tones, " Sand I dry, warm sand 1 Ah, what
a welcome bed for me ! "

" She needn't fall down there all in a
heap, need she, when there's my bed ? "
said Top, drawing near her, and looking at
her pitifully. " Come, come, mistress, raise
up, an' give me the babby ; give old Top the
little one ; he'll warm it, an' feed it with
some good milk, while you take a nice
strong cup o' tea that'll set you up in a
minit. There's nothin' like a cup o' tea to
chirk a body up when they're weak like, an'
down t'the heel. It's all hot. It's just
ready. Give us your hand, mistress, and
I'll help you up."

" No, no ! " she sobbed out with passionate
tears drenching her haggard cheeks. " No :
let me be here. It's better 'an London mud.
I don't want no tea ; I don't want nothin'
now only to lay still on this sand an' die."

" Nonsense, nonsense, mistress ! the like
o' you don't die so easy; do they. Top?

ROPES OF SAND.

•Sides, that sand-heap's no place to die on,
when there's a bed which is fitter for a
human bciii*."

" It's a good enough bed for me. It's a
better than I've had i'or many a day. Tlie
smell o' tlic sand docs me good. When 1
was a' innocent child I played in the sand
away olf on the downs. I made palaces,
an' gardens, an' caves, an' mountains of it;
an' all the while I heard the sea roarin' an'
breakin' on tiie shore miles an' miles below.
I hear it now t " she cried, starting up wild-
ly, " [ hear it now 1 an' there's father's boat
a comiu' in on tlie top o' that big wave."

" Wliat's she talkin' of, Top V Does she
know what she says ? I tell you, mistress,
there's no sea here, nor no downs, nor no
waves, nor no boat. You're in Black-cat
Lane, huddled up on a heap o' sand in old
Top's cellar. Come, cheer up a bit 1 take a
drop o' tea, an' you'll know where jou arc
d'rectly," said the old man encouragingly,
forgetting for a moment to address his other
self, now that he had an actual body to talk
to, while he bent over her, and tried to raise
her head, with its tangled mass of hair, from
the clinging sand.

" It's no use. I can't move, an' I won't
move 1 Leave me here : I want to die here ! "
she cried, obstinately repulsing Top with
what little strength remained to her.

With a puzzled, worried expression, the
ohl man let the heavy head settle back again
on its shifting pillow, while he shook the
sand from the long hair that hung over his
arm. He did not know what to do with
this evidently starving creature, wlio refused
food and drink ; so he only knelt by her,
looking at her stupidly, while she muttered
incoherent sentences of which he occasion-
ally caught the words, " Downs, boats, and
sea." At last the poor baby struggled in its
mother's close embrace, and cried feebly.
Top attempted to take it; but she only
clasped it more tightly, and glared at him so
wildly, that, half afraid, he retreated to the
other side of tlie room. " What will you
do, Top ? what will you do with this cretur'
and her babby ? " ne (piestioned, scratching
his head violently with a comical e.xpression

of bewilderment on his broad face. " You're
not the man to turn her out o' door, are
you V No : I'm not the man to turn her out
o* door, nor to let her die on a heap o' sand
neither ; but she won't move, nor won't let
me give the poor starvin' mite nothin' ; an' I
b'lieve they'll both die, if they don't have a
snitl o' somethin'." Then a sudden inspi-
ration seemed to take possession of his puz-
zled brain ; i'or he turned nimbly toward tlie
fire, and, taking a little sauce-pan i'rom a
shelf, he poured some milk into it which
he warmed, and then sweetened. When
it was prepared to his taste, he crept softly
toward the woman, knelt down by her side,
and with a small, wooden spoon put some
of the sweet, warm milk to the lips of the
baby. The little creature swallowed it
eagerly, all the time struggling to free Itself
from its mother's close embrace 1 but the
wretched woman only clasped it closer, mut-
tering her broken sentences, while she
gazed into vacancy with fixed, glassy eyes.
When the child had satisfied its hunger,
Top tried the same experiment with the
mother ; but she set her teeth firmly, and
refused to swallow a drop,

" It's no use," he said grimly ; " the ere-
tur's determined to starve herself; an' I
can't help it. So I'll jest let her have her
way, as is mostly best with wiinmin ; an' I
shouldn't wonder, when she rests a bit, if
she'd come to her appetite." With this
conclusion he took the coverlet from his
bed, and spread it gently over the mother
and child. Then he stood with liis hands
ou his hips, watching both with an expres-
sion of mingled pity and curiosity, until the
baby slept, and the woman fell into a heavy
stupor,

" They'll wake up all right ; don't you
think they will. Top ? " he muttered softly,
as he crept back to his scat on the three-
legged stool. The lamp burned dimly : he
picked up the wick, knocked off the black
cap dexterously, and stirred the fire to a
bright blaze. Tlien he poured -out a mug
of tea ; and, taking a penny roll and a scrap
of cheese from the drawer of the table, he
munched them with evident relish, sipping

-XiiWu'j 'iiriiTihfrtr- ■-■■'■-'

sad face. "You're
r out o' door, arc
iian to turn her out

on a heap o* sand
lOve, nor won't let
mite nothin' ; an' I
[■ they don't have a
n a sudden inspi-
jsession of his puz-
ninibly toward tlie

pauee-pan i'roni a
nilk into it wliich
sweetened. When
ate, lie ercpt softly
t down by her side,
n spoon put sonic

to the lips of the
ture swallowed it
ggling to free Itself

embrace 1 but the ,
isped it closer, niut-
itences, while she
, fixed, glassy eyes,
tisfled its hunger,
periment with the
r teeth firmly, and
'p.

grimly ; " the cre-
\rve herself; an' I
!st let her have her
■ith wiinmin ; an' I

she rests a bit, if
)etite." With this
; coverlet from his
ly over the mother
X)d with ]iis hands
jth with an expres-
1 curiosity, until the
an fell into a heavy

1 right ; don't you
he muttered softly,
seat on the thrce-
) burned dimly : he
)cked off the black
;irred the fire to a
poured -out a mug
nny roll and a scrap
vcr of the table, he
ident relish, sipping

DRIFTED ASHORE.

now and then, from the mug, as he glanceil
over his shoulder at the (juiet heap on the
sanil. After he had finished his humble
meal, he moved about softly, making every
thing tidy, with the neatness and skill of a
woman. When the troublesome lamp was
trimmed again, the fire stirred up, and the
broken hearth swept, he took a pair of
coarse stockings from the table drawer which
seemed to contain all his worldly goods,
dove his hands into the capacious pockets
of his patched trousers, and fished out a
ball of blue yarn, then a needle-case made
of the leg-bone of a goose, and dosed with
a small wooden plug. From this he
selected a large darning-needle, and pro-
ceeded to darn his well-worn stockings,
while he carried on his usual dialogue in a
half-whisper, glancing from time to time at
the sleepers on the sand.

Just as Top was in the miilst of a very
animated discussion with himself in regard
to the history of the miserable woman
whom he thought to be sleeping peace-
fully, she started up wildly, and cried out
in ringing tones, —

" I see father's boat a comin' ; the sails is
white in the sunlight, an' the sea is blue
like the sky ; an' he's standin' on the bow,
a holdin' out his hands, an' he looks at me
kind and pitiful. lie was a good man
— do 3011 hear? — he was a good man;
an' he told me that my evil ways would
Iciid to ruin. He said that I was twistin'
ropes o' sand, that would break, an' leave
me a wreck on the shore. An' he was
right ; for he was a good man. His name
was Abel Winter. I've named my baby for
him : perhaps the name may save him from
sin anil sorrow. Poor little thing ! I've
never loved him till now, when I can't hold
him no longer. 1 hope the world'll be bet-
ter to him than it's been to me. Somc-
thin's gnawed at my heart ibr many a

laid her face on the shifting sands that
still smelt of the salt sea and the sunny
downs.

After that she was silent ; and old Top,
who had turned on his stool, pushed up his
spectacles, and wiped away a tear with the
toe of the stocking that he held on his
hand, saying, " Poor cretur', she's dreamin',
an' talkin' in her sleep."

AVhcn Bow IJelis sounded the hour of
nine, the old man always covered his dying
fire, ])Ut out his little lamp, and crept to his
bed ; lait to-night what could he doV The
wretched woman still slept, and showed no
signs of waking. At last, overcome by
weariness, and before lie was aware of it,
his head sank upon his breast, and he slum-
bered peacefully, sitting upon his three-
legged stool. When he awoke, his fire was
nearly out, and his lamp burned very
dimly.

'• Why, Top, you almost lost yourself,
didn't you? "he said, stretching and blink-
ing like a toad suddenly exposed to sun-
light. " It must be late, awful late ; an' you
mi'iht as well go to bed, an' sleep like U
Christian, as to sit here all cramped, up,
watehin' that poor cretur' that's sound as a
roach, an' won't talk any more in her
dreams." So, with the intention of retiring
lor the night, he covered the few embers
carefully, pulled off his heavy shoes, and
drew a red night-cap over his ears. Then,
before extinguishing the light, he crept
softly toward the sand-heap to see if all was
well with the sleepers ; but the child was
wide awake. Its great dark eyes shone
like stars out of the heavy shadow of the
mother's hair: its lips were parted in a
warm smile ; and, with one little finger, it
followed the track of a tear that rolled like
a pearl down the pale cheek of the wo-
man.

" (}od bh'SR the little angel 1 " said Top,

month. It's been more 'an I could bear ; 1 ben<ling lower to smile on the child.

an' it's never been easy, day nor night:
but now it seems to die away ; an' I
b'lievc I'm cured, 'cause father's comin'
for me." Then she sank back, and

Something in the mother's face startled
him ; and he took up one hand that lay
loosely enough now over the baby's neck.
It was cold and rigid. She was dead I

-ma

^«feifc<»!awafeit ' fe ' ti^ ' ^^"

ROPES OF SAND.

CHAPTER II.

top's haby.

The next niorninji, when the parish
umlortakiT, with liis assistant, came to take
away the body of tlio unknown woman, they
foiuiil To]) sitiinjr hclore tlic firii with his
fci't on the fender, and the l)ahy, wrapi)ed
in one of'iiis clean, well-patehed waisteoats,
lyin',' aiiosshis knees, cooing and hur^hinji,
all unconscious that its mother lay dead
upon the lied, with her hands folded peaee-
i'uily. and the penitential tears wiped away
I'loui lier eyes Ibrever.

" What you ^'oin' to do with the child ? "
questioned the undertaker, who stood look-
ini; with stony indiU'erenee upon the "ghast-
ly face of the mother.

'• Whv, keep it, to be sure. You're poin'
to keep it; ain't you. To])?" he said with
decision, as he ])ressed it, close to liis heart.
" It's a little an:j;el, a blessed little an;iel ;
ai\' I wou'dn't send it away ibr the whole
world!"

" IJut what can you do with it ? A
youn'^ one o' that ape needs a deal o' care :
an' vou've no woman about, hiive you ? "

'•i don't need no woman to take care of it :
I'm woman enoui;h myself 1 can wash an'
mend an' cook, an' that's all a mistress does ;
an' sonie of 'em don't do that. Now, mind
yon, Mr. Undertaker, give her a kind o' de-
cent burial ; an' I'll look out for the child,
and brin^ it u|) like a Christian."

'• Know the i>ariy V " asked the assistant,
twirling tlie screws out of the cover of tlie
pine-bo.\ that they had placed near the

bed.

'^ No," replied Top laconically: "never
saw her tilLshe came here to die."

" Drunk, wasn't sh') V " questioned the
undertaker.

" No," returned Top indignantly, " no
more chunk an' you are this blessed minif,
but all worn out. like a' old jrarnient, that
can't hold itself together. The doctorsaid she
died o' weaknc'ss an' starvation : but Lord
knows she needn't; for I tried hard enough
to have her eat, an' she wouldn't swallow a

mouthftd. It's my 'pinion as how slie was
kind o' tired like o' livin', an' didn't want
to have the life ke[)t in her."

" Likely ; tliey often do get tired, that
sort ; an' I 'magine she was a precious bad
lot. Didn't tell you lier name nor nothin' V "
continued the undertaker, as he lilted the
heavy head with its mass of black hair.
" Young, shoiddn't you say ? Not a day
over twenty. Lord 1 what tools these cre-
tur's arc to throw theirselves away like

that I "

Top covered the baby's face, and turned
his l)ack, while they laid the hapless woman
in her rndo coffin, and carried her away as
indiiferently as though their burden were
b<it a dumb animal, instead of a humf\
being who had sinned, and suffered, and
i died with a tear of penitence on her
I clieek.

After they had gone with their 8a<i bur-
den. To]) laid the child gently upon the
pile of sand, while he arranged the bed
liom which tliey ha<l removed the body of
the mother. He shook up the straw pallet
to a -sofl bundle, spread out the coverlet
so that there was no crease nor wrinkle,
and then lifted the baby on the palms of
his hands as carefully as though it were the
most delicate spun glass, and deposited it
with a sigh of happiness in the middle of
the bed, saying, with a lively chirp, " There,
there, chickey ! ain't that nice an' soft?
It's Top's bed, where he sleeps every night.
It's clean enough for a king ; an' you sha'n't
sleep no more on mud nor sand, but on
sweet, tiesh straw, with a good warm rug
over you."

The child looked at him intelligently,
with gniat, serious eyes, and cooed and
nestled, as though it were thoroughly con-
tented, and iuUy appreciated the comforta-
ble condition into which it had so suddenly
fallen. Then he bustled about, opening
the drawer, and searching for something,
with an anxious exinvssion on his comical
old face. "1 thought I had a little bit
somewhere. Top, don't you remember you
washed it the other day, and put it away to
mend your shirt with ? Ah I here it is,"

TOP'S BABY.

as how she was
an' didn't want
r."

get tired, that
IS a pre<'iims had
me nor notliin' V "

as he hi'ti'd the
a of hlacli hair.
!ay? Not a day
,t fools these cre-
selves away like

1 face, and turned
he hapless woman
rried lier away as
heir hurden were
toad of a humiT
and suiFered, and
leniteiice on her

rith their 8a<i hur-
gently tipon the
arranged the bed
noved the body of
lip the straw pallet
1 out the coverlet
rease nor wrinkle,
y on the palms of
!thou;4i it were the
s, and deposited it
s in the middle of
vely chirp, " There,
hat nice an' soft?
! sleeps every nif^ht.
;in!i ; an' you sha'n't
1 nor sand, but on
a good warm rug

; him intelligently,
us, and cooed and
ere thoroughly con-
ciated the comforta-
■h it had so suddenly
tied about, opening
hing for something,
ssion on his comical
; I had a little bit
I't you remember you
ly, and put it away to
? Ah I hero it is,"

and ho drew out from the bottom of the
drawer a small piece of old linen, from
which he cut a scrap carefully ; then he jiro-
ceeded to put a spoonCid of rather samly
sugar in the centre of it ; after which he
gathered it up into a little hall, and tied a
thread tightly around it. " There's a
sugar-teat for you," he said with great sat-
isfaction, as he introduced it into the rosy
mouth of the child, who tugged at it vigor-
ously.

Top stood watching this process of nour-
ishment, perfectly enchanted, his hands on
his hips, and his whole little hoily convulsed
with a chuckle of delight, when the door
opened, and an old woman entered uncere-
moniously. So absorbed was he, that he
did not hear her until she slapped him
smartly on the shoulder, and shouted in a
shrill voice, — for she was deaf, an<l so
thought every one else was, — " Top, Top,
what 'ave you got there ? "

The old man started, and looked around
crossly, then burst into a hearty laugh when
he saw who it was. " Ila ! ha ! It's you, is
it. Mother Birch ? so you've come to see
Top's baby. Well, now look 1 ain't it a
beauty V "

" That it is," piped the old woman ; " but
Where's the poor cretur' ? Have they took
her away a'ready ? "

" Yes," replied Top : " she's gone to her
long home ; an' it's the best place for
one o' them poor, sinniu', sufferiu' sonls.
But, thank God ! Top's got the baby safe : an'
you mean to keep it ; don't you. Top? "

" You mean to keep it 1 " cried the oLl
woman in surprise. " Why, good Lord !
man, you must be crazy. You don't know
what a trouble it'll be."

" A trouble ! not a bit of a trouble, if I can
only get bread an' milk for it," replied
Top wiih a eunningglance at his visitor.

" Perhaps you'll find that harder 'an
you think ; for these little cretur's do eat a
deal."

" Well, then, I'H go without my own crust
for it, if there's need. But, stars o' light !
Mother Birch, there's nine o'clock struck,
an' I ain't been out with my sand ; au' I can't

leave this little thing alone, can T, now?"
said Top, looking at the baby tbndly, but
with a jiuzzli'd anil anxious expression on
his poor old face. " 'Sides, it's got to have a
frock, an' sonu'thin' to be comfortable in.
I've saved a few shillin's, I have; an' I'll
go to the Jews in Iloundsdilch, an' hunt
uj) some little duds, if you'll stay an' watch
it while I'm gone."

" Oh I I'll do that for once in a way," jiiped
the old womiui ; " but you know I've got my
own livin' to earn ; an' I can't give my time
to you an' your baby tor long. There's a
great heaj) o' rags a waitin' to be picked
over ni>w."

Top scratched his head reflectively for a
few moments, and then looked up brightly
as a happy idea struck him. "I'll tell you
what I'll do, Mother Birch ; I've saved a lew
shillin's, I have ; an' I'll give you one an'
sixpence a week, if you'll stay here an'
minil the baby when I'm out, which isn't all
day, yon know ; an' you can bring your rags
here to sort, an' won't make no more mess
'an you can help, or won't let the chilc^
touch 'em, cause they're mostly nasty.
So you can't lose a deal o* time, an' you'll
get soinethin' into the bargain."

"I'll do it; I'll do it willin'ly," returned
the old woman, her eyes brightening, and
lier whole face expressing her full approval
of the arrangement.

Top bustled about, filled his pails with
sand, put on his patched jacket and
oil-clotli cap, and then lingered a moment to
look at the child, who had fallen asleep with
the collapsed sugar-teat hanging from one
corner of its little mouth. " Isn't it lovely ?
Isn't it sweet ? " he murmured, bending over
it, and brushing its solt cheek with his wrin-
kled old face. " Mind, now. Mother Bircli,
an' don't let it he hungry ; for there's plenty
o' milk, an' a fire to warm it, an' sugar to
sweeten it ; an' don't let a body 'sides your-
self jiut a finger on it, now mind you! If
you do, I'll bury you 'live in that sand-heap^
as sure's my name's Top!" ami with this
awful threat he hobbled oil', looking back
with I'll expression of niiir^lcd love and
anxiety at the sleeping child.

aij ai -V ii fcHW i l U M iii ' li" . ! i ;^W. i .'iU'y'

ROPE3 OF SAND.

Long boforc Mnthor Birch oxi)Pcti'(l liiin,
Top r(!-ap|ii'!iri'(l, hurried ami civicr, his
pails oiiiply of sand, and filled instead witli
'red (lannel and din|j;y linen. " How i.s the
little cretin-'?" he cried liefore he had
fairly closed the door. " What ! slept all the
time ? You don't say that it's never woke ! "

" Not nineh to speak of," returned Jlolher
Birch with a satisfied chuckle. " It nestled
a little once, an' I fed it with some milk,
an' turned it over. Then it went right otl'
asle(!p d'rcctly, an' ain't moved since. You
sec, Top, the poor mite's been dragged
about, an' been hungry an' cold likely,
ever since it was born ; now it's warm an'
comfortable, it wants to sleep a deal, which
is best for such wee things."

Toj) assented with a good-natured, " Yes,
yes : you're right ; no doubt, you're right.
But look a here, Mother Birch, an' sec
what I've got." Then he emptied the
contents of the pails on the table. Two red
flannel petticoats, a frock, two little caps,
and a pair of tiny socks, with some coarse
much-worn baby-linen, comprised his pur-
chases. "Now, ain't these here little duds
good enough (or the Prince o' Wales; now
ain't they Y " he questioned earnestly.

Mother Birch assured him that thoy
were good enough for any of the royal
family, adding, with a toothless grin of
delight, that " nothing was too good for
such a dear little thing, as slept all the
time, and wasn't no trouble to nobody."

" An' I got 'em for 'most nothiu' : three
shillin's for all. It's true, they're worn a
little ; but then, they'll last a while, for all o'
that," saiil Top, selecting a complete out-
fit, and fidgeting back and forth between
the table and the bed, comparing the size
of the clothes with the diminutive thing
wrapped in his old jacket.

At last the bundle stirred. Two little
pink hands struggled out from among the
blue and brown patches, and a sound, that
was as much a grunt of contentment as a
cry, proclaimed the baby to l)e awake.

" I'll dress it, Top," said Mother Birch,
officiously seating herself, and turning her
apron the clean side out.

" No, no ! that you don't, mistress,"
returneil Top, with an air of entire propri-
etorship : " it's my baby; an' I'm a goin' to
dress it the first time myself: an' you
needn't be so busy an' useful when there's
no need."

•' But a woman's more handier, you
know," suggested Mother Birch humbly,
her shrill voice wonderfully soft and com-
placent, in spite of Top's snubbing.

" I'm handy enough. I don't want to
be no handier 'an I am. Just stand by an'
see how lovely an' neat I'll dress the little
cretuV. There, there, chickcy I" he jiiur-
mured soothingly, as the child twisted its
little limbs, and nestled against his rough
jacket with the instinct that teaches a
baby where to seek for Us natural nourish-
ment.

" I'm 'fraid I'll break it, it's so little an'
delicate: I declare, I'm 'fraid I'll break itl"
said Top ruefully, as he vainly tried to
introduce its tiny pink feet into the little
socks.

Mother Birch watched with a sarcastic
smile bis awkward and inefii'ectual attempts,
until he looked up, and said with pathetic
humility, "You're right, mistress: you're
quite right. I ain't as handy as I thought.
I believe wiuiniiu is cleverer 'an a man
with babies; but I'll learn. Top'U learn
in no time, if you'll jist give him a lifb
now."

Tlie old woman could not resist this
kindly invitiition, especially when her fin-
gers were itching to get hold of the child ;
so, with an amiable grin that inq)lied full
p.ardon for Top's snubbing, she set to work;
and, in a few moments, the little creature
was as respectably and comfortably clothed
a baby as ever was seen, even in the most
aristocratic family of that neighborhood.

" There, now I " said Top, as soon as the
important toilet was completed,"! s'pose
you want to be about your work ; don't you,
Mother Birch ? an' I don't need you no
more to-<lay."

" I'm kind o' unwillin' to leave the
young one ; still, I must, or I sha'n't get
nothiu' done to my rags," said the old

I don't, mistress","
iiir of entire propri-
' ; an' I'm a }j;oin' to

myself: an' you
useful when there's

norc handier, you
Iier Bireh htiini)ly,
■fully soft and corn-
's sniihbing.

I don't want to

Just stand hy an'

I'll dress the little

chiekey!" he .niur-

le cliild twisted its

1 against liis rough
let that teaches a
Us natural nourish-

it, it's so little an'
'fraid I'll break it 1"
he vainly tried to

feet into the little

:d with a sarcastic
nefi'ectual attempts,
1 said with pathetic
it, mistress : you're
landy as I thought,
everer 'an a man
jarn. Top'll learn
ist give liim a lift

dd not resist this
ially when her fin-
hold of the child ;
n that implied full
ng, she set to work;
, the little creature
comfortably clothed
, even in the most
It neighborhood.
Fop, as soon as the
)mpletcd, " I s'pose
ur work ; don't you,
on't need you no

lin' to leave the
3t, or I sha'n't get
ags," said the old

BLUE-EYKD VIOLET.

woman, with a lingering look at the child,
as she turned toward the door.

Motlur Hirch wjis what they, in their
vulgar parlance, called a "bad lot." Her
coarse, wrinkled face bore the indelible
stamp of an evil life ; and those who knew
her l)e.-t <lechired that she had neither heart
nor soul, so depraved and vieiouR was she
in her conduct. But there nnist have been
some latent good under the crust of sin and
degradation, some sensitive spot that the
fires of i)assion had not seared, or that soft,
almost tender smile would never have
touched her lips as she turned away from
Top's baby.

Every one in the lane knew how the
little stranger had come among them ; for
the night before, when Top found that the
woman was dead, he had rushed out and
called in his neighbors, who had cared for
the ])oor body, and prepared it for its burial
as decently as their liumble means would
allow them to do. Now, as Mother liirch
emerged from the old man's cellar, all the
A women and children cried out, " How's

Top's baby V how's Top's baby ? "

" As well as can be, you rag-a-muffins,
you I Stop your noise, an' get out o* my
way I I don't want to answer none o' your
questions," replied the old creature as she
hurrieil along with an air of great impor-
tance ; while the women hurled taunts and
insults after her, and the children straight-
ened themselves up, puffed out their cheeks,
and, with their hands on their hips, imitated
her appearance, walking close behind her,
until she disappeared within her own door.

As soon as Top was alone, he turned
toward his treasure with an air of relief:
already it was so precious to him, that he
was jealous if anotlier touched it, or looked
at it ; besides, he felt a sort of awkward
shame, a kind of fear of showing his love
for it, of petting and caressing it before
strangers.

" I'm glad she's gone," he said, with a
great sigh of contentment, as he held the
child close to his heart, and swayed back
and forth gently. " She's a' old meddler, is
Mother Birch, an' I'm very sorry I've got to

leave you with licr, chiekey ; but I can't
help it: you ain't old enough to stay alone,
an' Top's got to sell his sand to buy bread
an' milk for your little stomach. Oh!
you're a beauty, you arc ; such soft little
hands an' feet, such little fingers an' toes !
An' you're mine, all mine. Top's never hud
much; an' he's al'ays been a lonely cretur',
witii no one but hisself to talk to. Now
he's got a baby that'll stay with him day
an' night, that'll laugh an' talk some day,
an' call him daddy. Yes : you'll say daddy
to |)oor old Top, won't you, deary ? 'cause
he's al'ays thought as how he'il like to have
a little cretur' to call him daddy. IIow
thankful I am that your poor n)ammy fell
dowir an' died on my sand-heap 'stead o'
any other ! 'cause it's better for me to have
her baby than to leave it to suHer like him-
dreils of poor little souls in this great city.
Top'll be good to you, little one : Top'll bo
real good," he said, with a smile full of ten-
derness, as he stroked his wrinkled old face
with its soft, warm hand. " Yes, Top'll be
good. He'll give you enough to eat, au*«
nice, clean clothes to wear; an' when you're
big enough, you'll go to school, an' learn to
read like a real gentleman. Y(ju've crcjjt
into my heart, baby, — my poor old heart
that's al'ays been kinil o' empty, a waitin'
for somethin'. Now God's sent you to fill it,
an' it'll never be hungry any more ; for you
crowd it full o' love, till it's ready to burst."
Here the old man's trembling voice broke
into a sob ; and, laying his face against the
silken hair of the child, he wept happy
tears for the first time in his dreary life.

CHAPTER HI.

MLUE-EVED VIOLET.

Before the dwellers in Black-cat Lane
were well aware of it, Top's baby liad
grown into a fine lad of twelve years. He
was a tall, straight, handsome boy, with
regular features, and serious brown eyes,
so calm and deep that they seemed al-

r«

ROPES OF SAND.

ready to have looked into the mysteries of
life. His I'l'ieili, maiineiN, nw\ cliarai-
ter were alto-ether superior to those
around him; and, as Top always kept h-m
clean and fairly well dresse.l, cM)u.i)anMl to
the othi-r dirty, ra--ed children, he looked
every inch a little aristocrat. Then he
knew how to read and write; for the oUl
man had kept the promise made to his haby.
and had tried to have him tau-ht like a
" real gentleman." llesides, he never exact-
ed any'labor from the boy, who was not idle
and indiflerent, but simply ignorant that
there was any need of his working. He
had always had a poor but clean bed,
coarse but abundant food, decent clothes,
and a warm (ire in winter ; therefore he did
not know how dilferent was pinchin;,' and
do'radin^ w.int from his comparatively com-
\l forUble iwsition. Old Top adore.l him as

Jlj gomeihin- infinitely superior tooiher chd-

^ dren. He was proud that his hands were

soft and white, his skin elean and smooth, his
beautiful black hair carefully eomlu^d, and
his clothes whole and neat. It was no
matter if he worked harder than ever,
tottering about all day under the heavy
weight of his s.and, e.irning a penny hon-
estly ; no matter how toilsome the means,
scheming, economizing, pinching, often
goin^r hungry hiniself, that his boy might
be w"ell fed ; working late into the night by
the feeble flame of his little lamp, while
the child slept peacefully in his warm bed.
It was seldom now that Top retired when
Bow Bells struck nine. There were little
socks to be mended, little trousers and
jackets to be patched, an<l little shirts to be
carefully darned. His poor old back oiten
ached, his eves were dim and watery, and
bis limbs trembled weakly under his bur-
den ; for he was growing old, —just how old
he did not know ; but he wiis certainly not
far from seventy. Yet he bore the labor
and privations of his life with sweet seren-
ity and patience, and no one ever heard a
murmur escape his lips- Mother Birch had
remonstrated with him more than once,
because he worked like a slave, and did so
much for the boy.

" Not a wonl. not a word ! " he would say
with an impatient jerk of the head. " Top
knows what he's about, an' don't want no
interferin'; Abel ain't like other boys, ho
iiin't. There's difference 'tween fisli an'
fowl. You never saw him a playin' in the
gutters, black an' dirty ; you never hear no
b;id lang'age out o' his mouth, nor rude,
nasty tricks like other young ones. ^ He
likes to go to his school, clean an' rcg'lar ;
an' when he's home, he likes to set by the
fire with his old daddy an' his books. He's
a rare boy, Mother Birch ; an' I count my-
self lucky if I can work my fingers off for

him."

In this Top did not the least exaggerate.
He would willingly and gladly have given
every limb of his poor old body for the boy,
if it would have served him in any way.
Labor for him was light, self-denial and
privation sweet. It did not matter how
tired lie was : his aching back and stiff limbs
were forgotten when, tlio <lay"9 labor over,
his boy stood at his side, one arm laid
fondly around his neck while he repeated
iv lesson, or read a simple story, which
seemed to him a remarkable aetiuirement
for one so young. Or sometimes he would
kneel at the old man's feet, leaning his
head against his kneo while ho looked
silent and thoughtful into the glowing fire.
Top, wondering what he saw there, would
remain perfectly quiet lest he should dis-
turb a reverie that seemed sacred. At last
he would look up, his great serious eyes full
of mysterious light, and say, " Daddy, don't
you see things in the fire, — cities an'
palaces an' mountains ? "

" No, sonny," Top would reply gravely :
" I can't say as I do. I don't see nothin' but
red coals an' black, an' bits o' white

ashes."

" Why, there, in the middle o' tho grate,
there's what looks like human beings a
struggling an' fighting together. Some-
timeTthe blaze makes them red an' mad ;
then it dies out, an' they're black an' solemn ;
an' at last they all go to smoke an* ashes.
It's like life some way, daddy, isn't it ? "
" Yes, yes : I s'pose it is," Top would an-

a . ^ l. mui i JAJ(».rt I ll "

w»i»iiiniinaiiB>iil»iWWM»M'.'!""

BLUE-EYED VIOLET.

1 ! " he would say
Ihe huiul. " Top
n' don't want no
;i' other hoys, ho
'twuen fish an'
n a playin' hi the
^oii neviT hear no
mouth, nor rudo,
youii^ ones. Ilo
L'lean an' rc^'lar ;
iki'8 to set by the
'his hooks. Hu's
; an' I count niy-
my fingers off for

a least exag'j;erate.
gladly have (^ivcn
d body for the boy,
him in any way.
lit, self-denial and
I not matter how
back and stitV limbs
J day's labor over,
lido, one ann laid
while he repeated
iinple story, which
rkable aeiiulrement
sometimes he would
•s feet, leaning his

while ho looked
to the glowing fire,
he saw there, would

lest he should dis-
ued sacred. At last
reat serious eyes full

1 say, " Daddy, don't
le fire, — cities an'
?"

vould reply sjravely :
don't see nothiu' but
, an' bits o' white

s middle o' the grate,
ike human beings a
ng together. Some-
s them red an' mad ;
sy're black an' solemn ;
» to smoke an' ashes,
r, daddy, isn't it?"
J it is," Top would an-

swer with grave reverence, and a l(X)k of
wonder, as though he were aHuenting to
the polemn |ir<>|ihe('y of a Hiiered oracle.
He had told the lH>y again and again the
sad story of his mother's death, always
throwing a mantle of charity over lier sins ;
and tlie child would li.sten with pale cheeks
and tearful eyes, won<lering if she really
heard the voices of tho sea, and saw the
downs, and the ships, and her father's boat
with sunlight on tho sails. Where were
those <lownH she played u])on when achihl V
Who was her father? and why had she wan-
dered so lar from him and the blue sea, to
die unknown in the very heart of London ?
These thoughts disturbed the dreamy brain
of the hoy, and awoke in him a vague curi-
osity to know something of his mother's
history.

•'You needn't puzzle yourself about it,
child," Top would say, in reply to Ids many
questions. " It don't make no matter who
your gran'daddy was, nor where he lived.
J?he said with 'most her last breath, that
he was a good man ; an' that's enough
to know. You've got his name, an' its
a fine one as ever a lad had. Abel is a
pious name, an' Winter sounds serious an'
good. Two names, my boy ; an' poor old
Top never had but one, an' he only got that
by chance. I don't find no fault, 'cause it
ain't no use now as I've gone through my
life with only one name. Still, it's a deal
more respectable to have two, an' you've
got 'em, my boy ; so be contented, an' don't
puzzle your brains a tryin' to find out what
the Lord never intended you to know."

Although the boy was still called Top's
baby by the greater part of the dwellers in
Black-cat Lane, Top never failed, when
speaking of him, to give him his full title ;
for to the simple-minded old man, whom fate
had defrauded of his birthright, it was the
proudest inheritance that he could possess.

Sometimes when Abel had a holiday, and
Top was away at his work, the boy would
wander off alone into Lcadenhall Street,
through Poultry and Cheapside to St. Paul's,
where he would remain ibr hours, looking
with a sort of awe at the solemn pile, think-

ing how near tho dome was to Iieaven, ami
how lie should like to be a bird with li^ht
win'jfs, that he might tly up abov(! the smoke
and fog, and sit and sing all day in ndd-
heaven, hnjipy and tree. Another place
that particularly pleased him was Christ's
lh)spital. From St. Paul's he would go
into Newgate Street, and stand for hours
with his earnest faci- pressed against llio
raiJlM'z, watching the scholart at their piny.
The Ultie-coat boys were very curiiMis and
interesting to him on account of their ipiaint
costume. Their blue gowns, yellow petti-
coats, red girdles, and white eler;:yiMiin's
band round their necks, seemed to distin-
guish them as something uncommon and
superior. lie looked at the lofiy, beautiful
hull, and the clean, smooth court where
they played, and sighed when he contrasted
it with Top's cellar, and the dirty, broken
paving in ISIack-cat Lane. Poor boy ! ho
was beginning to take life seriously, be-
ginning to leel, in the depths of his heart,
the dillerence between his surroundings and
that which he looked upon with longing,
admiring eyes. For some time he did not
know just what this institution was: until
one day a goo<l-na'i.ured gentleman, who was
watching the scholars at their play, noticing
his earnest, intelligitnt face, entered into
conversation with him, and, in reply to his
eager ({uestions, told him that it was a
school to educate poor boys. That many
great men, whose names would live always,
had there learned all they knew ; and that
knowledge could make people noble in
spite of lowly birth and poverty.

The boy went home more thoughtfiil
than usual, an<l applied himself to his hooks
with renewed /.eal. For days and days a
new desire filled every thought. Why
could he not be a IJlue-eoat boy, and learn
every thing, and become great through
knowledge ? At last one night, when he
stood by Top with his arm over his shoulder
in aifectiouate intimacy, he approached the
subject.

The old man looked at him in fear and
astonishment, and said, with a pitiful tremor
in his voice, " Whv, now, Abel, that am't

wmWWWiW.-

'-MJ'Jiiw^sEr''

KOI'ES OF SAND.

po.i,.l..! you .lon-t .nnt to «o an' .lu.t ; thin' ,.. -"• ^-•;;; ^^l" ^^^'']^

y„,„. poor ol.l .lu.Mv alo„.., .lo you V " oftcu want l.oy. o your a,o. lo .k

* :\; , , ,io„'t! Im.v.rll .rht oli>iroun.Uom...il you'll only vva.limu.ut. 1 11

':t'7::':r':l:iruu.uy..u..oui,.n-ti..a.u^^^^^

'fl

p,.| in, ynu .■(.uMu'i. Tlu.l sdioolV lor tin-
ivxpei'tiilili! iwor, not for the Ilk." o" ux. n.y
lail : wf «l<m't oxat'tly conu' uiu1<t that lu'a<l.
We've no Irii'UiU to lu'lp us, an' tho Lord
Mayor an' aliiernu^n ain't a (.'oiu' to liother
th.'irKelves with hun.lilo cn-lurV aa us.
Tlifii anollier thin}.', sonny, you're too old.
I've heard nay as no child eould net in there
atU'r lie's seven, ami you're twelve ; ho it
ain't no use to try. 'Sides, there's no nee.l
of it : you can reiul an' write, an' you're
uneoinmou clever with your 'rithnietic, an'
that's enoui^h ; you've learnt pUnty at rag-
ged school to take you throu-h decent.
Look at vourpoorold<laddy,he never knew
nothin', never could tell one letter from
another, an' never had no one to send hiui
to school. I hoi-c, sonny, you're not a i;oin'
to find fault 'cause I ain't done more for
you." This thought was more than the old
man coul.l hear: his voice was choked with
emotion, and somethiu;; like a sob broke
from his full heart.

" Find fault with you, daddy, dear I no,
no, imleed 1 " said Abel, lian<;in{,' round his
neck, and crying with liiin. "You've
always been <;ood to me, too ^ood : don't
think I complain; but l'<l like to be a
scholar, and know every tliin^;, for I'm sure
readin- and writing isn't all ; and I'd like to
be rich and "jreat, so that I could t;ive you
a fine house to live in with a t;ar.len, and a
hike, and a boat on the Thames. 1 won't
say any more about the Blue-coat School :
1 won't think any more about it; but,
daddy, 1 want to do something to earn my
own living. You're too old to work ibr me,
and I do nothing."

"liless my soul, boyl what ails you
now? I ain't a workin' for you, I'm a
workin' for myself; an' you ain't no extra

to defer the long-dreaded day that would
separat'! them in a measure. Uc could not
endure the thou-ht that his boy was no
longer a baby, that he was fast growing to
an age when ho must go out into the worhl
and struggle for himself. But, while the
old man procrastinated, Abel was busy
looking out Ibr his own interests. Ho
never passed a counting-iiouse into which ho
did not slip, ami ask modestly and respect-
fully, if Ih-y ncclcd a boy. Nearly every
„ne spoke kindly to him ; Ibr his handsome,
intelligent face and remarkable neatness
impressed them favorably. Although no
one wanted him at that moment, many
promised to give him the first vacancy ;
and, with this in prospect, he waited hope-
fully, with many strange dreams of the fu-
ture iloatirg through his restless brain.

When Abel promised T<.p that he would
think no more about the Blue-coat School,
lie tried very hard not to do so; yet he
could not drive it from his mind. Day after
day ho lingered around the double railing
on Newgrte Street, watching the happy
bovs, and envying them as much as it was
in his noble iitlle heart to envy any one.
As he was returning home from his visit,
late one afternoon, a little girl sitting on
the steps of the Mansion House attracted
his attention. Her face was covered with
her hands, and she was weeping bitterly.
Her Iroek was dirty and ragged ; and her
little bare feet were grimy and bruised, as
tliough she had walked over rough paths,
while her torn apron was full of crushed
and broken violets bound together with bits
of soiled ribbon wliich showed that they
had been tied up into small bouquets such
as gentlemen wear in their t'oats.

" What's the matter with you, little

u you aiu I no call. - . , ,. i „_

1 <r,\\ «mv vou're "et- "irl V " said Abel gently, bending over her,

,.~ v^^ii ' fm, -%'. u> r'^ '*^M. '' m!S^ . i i tn i w?3tfg *

* lots o' countiti'-
itri'ct, wlurc ilii'y
ir ii^ii!. I'll l'>"lt
ly wail imlii'iit ; I'll

I'll imtu'iitly. Top
|)iimii-i', or. /i'lu'il
ii!(l iliiy tliiit would
sure. liccouKl not
lit his boy was no
was I'ast lii-owin;^ to

out into tl"! world
i>lf. IJiit, while- the
■a, Alu'l was busy
own interests, llu
r-house into which ho
lodi'stly and respect-
boy. Nearly every

111 ; for his handsonu",
•eniarkablu neat:ies8
•ably. Aliliou|j;h no
that moment, many
n the first vacancy ;
lect, he waited hope-
;ire dreams of the fu-
lis restless brain,
id To]) that he would
he niue-coat School,
ot to do so; yet he

1 his mind. Day after
id the double railing
watchin;,' the happy
!m as much as it was
lart to envy any one.
hon\e from his visit,

little <;irl sitting on
ision IIousc attracted
ice was covered with
was weeping bitterly,
and ragged ; and her
<rriniv and bruised, as
ed over roiigh paths,
n was full of crushed
)und together with bits
ich showed that they
) small bouquets such
1 their t'oats.
itter with you, little
ntly, bending over her,
ids away from her face.

ULITK-KYRD VIOLKT.

Ills pleasant voice imothed her directly.
Swaliowiii'^ a great sob, she rai-ied ii pair
of wonderfu! Ii|iii> eyes ronfidingiy, and
sail], ill a very sweet, winning voicu, " Ii'm
nwfiil, it's re.d awful I "

" What's awful ? an' what are you prying
for? an' what's your violets all broken to
pieci's for '/ "

" It's that I'm cryin' aliont : my vi'Iets U
all riiiniMl. Some nasty, bail Iwys snatched
my board away, an' pulled them nil out of
the holes, an* tore 'era all in pieces, an'
throwcil 'cm in my lap, and run aw.iy as
fast as ever they could ; an' now I ain't got
none to sell, an* Mammy Flint'll beat me
awful if I go homi! without money. An'
I'm hungry an' tired." Here the poor
little soul broke into bitter sobs, and buried
her face again.

" Never mind," said Abel encouragingly :
" dim't cry so, an' I'll try an* help you.
Wiiy didn't you call a policeman before
they run away ? "

" Lor', Iwy, what a flat you are I " and she
looked at him with undisguised contempt
in her great blue eyes. « You don't 'spose
p'licemcn is ever round I Why, they're
never nowhere when you want 'em. I did
cry an' call ; but no one heard me, least
ways if they did, they didn't come. Oh I
oh ! Mammy Flint'll beat mo awful if I go
home without no money."

"Tliere, there, don't cry so I "said the
boy again ; for the passionate weeping of
the child moved him strangely. « 'Tell me
■where you live, an' what's your name."

" My name's Vi'lct," she replied : " they
call me Blue-eyed Vi'let, most al'ays ; an'
Mammy Flint lives in Duck's-foot Lane,
an' 1 stay with her when she don't beat me
an' drive me away."

" Haven't you no father, nor no mother ?"
questioned Abel, his little heart all aglow
with indignation against Mammy Flint,
and admiration for tlie beautiful child.

" No : I ain't none. Mammy Flint says
as how my mother sold flowers in Drury
Lane, an' how she was a real beauty, an'
a 'ansome actor fell in love with her, an'
how she died when I was born ; an' that's

all I know, which isn't mnih. P'rhnps if
she'll lived, .Maiiiiny Flint woiililu't a got
me, an* I wouldn't a iieen beat so."

"Poor little thing I" returned Abel;
" but what makes you j,'o back to M;iinmy
Flint again when she's so eriiel to you i"'

"'Cause I ain't got no other jilaee to yo;
an' I'm hungry an' tired," ,iaid Violet,
looking imploringly Into the face of her
little champion.

" Never mind, come along with mo. I've
got a good home with Uaddy Top. He's
real good, he's always real good to me ; an'
I know he'll give you something to eat, an'
p'rhaps lie'll let you stay with us."

Violet hung bac^k, drawing away from
Abel's prolTered hand, while her cheeks
suddenly Hushed crimson, and her great
blue eyes sought the ground with evident
ginlt and confusion. " I'm 'shamed to go
with you," she stammered out at last,
" 'cause I told you an awful lie 'Ixiut them
vi'Iets. I broke 'cm to pieces myself. Thiu'.s
a dodge Mammy Flint learnt us ; an' it pays
better 'an sellin' 'em whole. When they'
gets a little wilted, we tears 'em up ; an'
then we sets down, and cries like mad till
some one comes along as pities us, an' asks
us what's the matter. Tlien wo tells 'em the
same story as I just told you, when no boys
ain't been a near us; an' they most al'ays
give us a shillin', an' sometimes more.
When we've sold that party, wo goes to
another place, and plays the same game,
till a p'lieeman comes 'long an' spots us.
I'hen we have to run away an' keep out o'
sight, or else we'd get trapped, an' our fun'd
be spi'led."

Abel looked at her in profound astonish-
ment ; for, although he had lived all his life
in the midst of iniquity, owing to Top's
watchfulness and his own natural gcxidness,
he knew very little of such dark ways.
The coolness, and evident relish, with which
the little imp told her story at first fright-
ened and disgusted him ; and he was inclined
to run away and leave her to lier fate.
Then, on second thought, he felt that it
would be ignoble and cowardly to desert
her, as she was only the victim of Mamm/

ii y wiw i j i

I' 'Jmiiiiiiiiiiii .

MOH'.S OF HAND.

Flint, nn<l, likely. li;iil ncvor Ix'.'ii laii.;li'
any iii'tttT ; mul llu'U i-lif wan m> juiiii'^ iu»<l
Ml |.i'i'liy, it w.ii ilivaill'iil to l<iivu h«T to
thii ii'ii.lcr iinTiii"* 1)1' Hiiili a wretch a* lliii*
erwaiiiiH' who luul coiniittiMl her m) early.

Wiiilo Ahi'l wax thiiikiii,' this over,
icuree kmiwinn what to <1<>, Au: was wal( h-
In;; iiiin luixioiisly. " I r'|>om! you (hm't
want inn to «o with you now you know iiow
uwliil I lieV" cho siiil at h'Hirtli, willi iv
sort ortiuii.l itniile, wliilc thu tears gathercil
slowly in litT cyns.

" I'm sorry, I'm real sorry, you're ho
wieked." returneil Aliel ceriously. " I'm
nlVaid Daildy Top won't like, me to hriii;,'
home a little (;irl that tlon'l tell the truth."
" Yon needn't blamo ini-, you needn't,"
(laid Violet, a little sullenly. " It ain't my
i'ault : A\ii luiikes me do it. If I didn't, she'd
beat mo to death every day, dho would.
Oh, I'm awful 'Iraid of her ! An' I ean't
(TO hack to her to-day, any way, 'I'ause I've
tlirowed away my vi'lets, an' I ain't <,'ot no
money, an' I ca'i't get none now. It's
awlnl, it's real awful ! I wish I hadn't told
you, I do, then you'd a took me with you."
Here. ]iiissionato sobs ehoked her voice;
and, thniwin„' herself on the steps, she
bur.-t into a llooil of j,'enuino tears which
melted Abel's heart directly.

" Don't cry any more, don't, for pity's
Buke ! and I'll take you just the same. Of
coin-se it ain't your fault ; and you sha'n't
go back to that horrid old woman that
makes you do such wicked thin;^s. I'll tell
Daihly Top all about it, and he'll help you
to get an honest living."

The chilli spran;,' up readily, wiped off
the tears with her dirty apron, and gave
her little hand confidingly to Abel, who led
her away from the m\ and suffering of her
old life, to what might have been a beauti-
ful destiny, but for the fatal inheritance
left Iu;r by her mother.

" Where in the world did you get that
little crctur' ? "cried Top, who stood in the
door as Abel approached, still holding the
hand of the child.

» O daddy 1 I ibuud her a crying on the
Mansion-house steps I " and the boy told her

brief, Had history, with 'flowing cheeks and
sparklin,:; eyes. " Now give her «nmeihin;|
to eat, i'tr Aw't tired an' himjity, theru'n n
dear d.iddy."

" Yes, yes, Abel, o* course I will. Old
Top never refiiM'H nothin' you a-k him,
does he V I don't wonder you pity tli" poor
mite. It's awlul to he brought np iu such
sin an" wickedness, an' so dirty too! 1
b'lieve a little waler'll do her more good
'an vict'als at first. So your name's Vi'let ?
I hopi! you'll be a good Utile gal, 'eaiise
you've got a real sweet name as al'ays
'minds me o* spring," said 'lop, addressing
the child kindly, as he poured out a ba>in
of fresh water, and gave her some soap and
ft coarse, clean towel. " Now w.ish yourself
clean, mind, real clean ; for Top don't like
dirt, 'specially on children : " and, with this
injunction, he left the. child to her ablutions,
and went to the door-ste[) where Abel was
sitting in deep thought.

" Now, sonny, what's to be done with this
little crctur' you've brought home? We
can give her a crust to eat, that's true ; but
she can't sleep here, fieein' we've only one
room. She's (piite ft big gul, ten ye.irs old
I should think; so you see, she can't stay
hero o' nights."

" I never thought of that, daddy," said
Abel dejectedly, while Top scratched his
head and poi\dered dee])ly.

" I've got a plan at last," cried the old
man, briglitening up. " I'll go an' seo
Mother Hindi : I b'lieve she'll let her stay
with her nights, 'cause she's feeble-like now,
an" all alone, an' the child'll be company
for her. She's better an' more 'uinble 'an
she used to be ; an' she won't be bad to her,
if she ain't a goin' to cost her nothin'. I'll
go right off an' see her, belbre I give you
your "supper ; an' I'll bo back by the time
the little gal's washed."

Abel watched the old man hobble off on
his errand of kindne.«s, and then peeped into
the door to see if Violet had finished her
bath. She was rubbing her lace vigorously,
and shaking her abundant curly hair while
she laughed to see the water fall in showers
over her bare white arms.

■ j. i j ' j»ln.M. i u» i» «m"^"V ' t'> ' -i'.Ol i l » »'.W>»J» I W|l!'>«i«ljl&W ^

THE OLD STORY.

will;; clicik't nw\

VI' lll'l' •><>U|l-|lllll^

hiiiijiry, iheru'n ft

iiw I will. 0{(f
1* )oii ii-k liiiii,
yiiii |iilv ill" IMMit'
iii'^ht 111) ill Hiii'li
Ko ilirty III')! 1
II lnT iiHir'' «i«)il
iiir niiine'!* V'i'lct ?
Hull' Kill, 'ciiiinu
n;iiuc ii'< iil'iiyK
I 'I'op, iviMri-iHiiv^

lirml out 11 lill:<ln
u'l' dome fimp ivml
low Wiisli yoiirsi'lt'
titr Tup iliiii'l likii
I ; " mill, with this
il to lu'r;iljlution-<,
p whiTu A1h;1 was

I 1h! (loiHi with this
il;,'ht hoiiH'V NVe
it, that's trim ; hut
■In' wii'vi.' only ono
j^al, ti'ii yi'.irs old
seo, »Lo Oil n't stay

that, daihly," said
Top scratched bis
:ly.

ast," cried the old
" I'll i^o an' SCO
she'll let her stay
le's fecble-liko now,
liild'U be company
i' more 'iiinble 'an
won't be bad to her,
st her nothin'. I'll
r, belbre I tiive you

back by the timo

1 man hobble oflT on
nd then peeped into
■t had finished her
her iace vigorously,
,nt curly hair while
vater fall in showers

I!)

" SIki'k ever tm minli prettier now hUv'a
clean," thiiil^ht Abfj. •• I do hope duddy 'II
let her Hiay here alwayo, hIic'II In- hi niiicli
tof/ipiny Tor me; mid »<h<! diM'Kn't Keem a
wicked I'liild, aller nil, ' In the liili|<it of hit
»o!^''"<|iiy, Top letiirued to Niiy liial .MuiIut
Birili \v;|s [lerfcetly willin,' lli;it the Utile
yirl >liiiiild sh.iiv l(( rhiiiuble lied. "She's
old an' feeble now," said Tup coiiipaMHion-
aleli . " an' its Ix'tter for her to have Hoine
one with her »/ iii;;hl,s. "cause, if she's wor^-e,
Violet's hijif enou'^h to call in lhenei;,'lil)ors,
nn' f^o ,«Iii\ won't be the least in the way."

Tlii'ii the old iiiiiii biiNtliMl iiroiiiid iiiid
prepiireii the simple evening,' meal, while
Aiiel showed tlie ehiliHiis bonks, and opi'ned
to her, for the fust liiiie in her lile, the
beaiiiifiil new world of knowledge.

'I'he next morning Top boii;;ht a fresh
siip[»ly of (lowers fir Violet, ami sent her
out with miii'h K"ol advice, tellin;; her
seriously but kindly that she must work
lioiiestly to earn her llvin-,', as he wa.s ((ki
poor to feed and clothe her, and that she
must b(! a ttood child, and ivniember, if .she
did not sell her (lowers, that she must not
resort to falsehood, as she always had a
home ti) come to where there, was no
Miimmy Flint to beat her. Lon;f btfore
ni,dil, Violet retiirneil bri;;ht and happy.
She had snlii all her llowers and broui,dit Top
llio proceeds, which were three siiillin^s.
Wiih this lie boii.;lit jut a neat, second-
hand calico frock at his old friend's, the Jew
ill Ilomidsditeh. .So, clean and fresh, with
Imely fice and fragrant llower.s, IJhie-eyed
Violet became a ijreat favorite with the
gentlemen who passed in and out of the
Mansion Ilonse, scllin;,' her bouipiets so
re.idily, that, instead of being an extra ex-
pense to Top, she rather increased his small
iucoiae.

CHAPTER IV.

TIIK OLD 8TOBY.

Now that Violet was earning money,
Abel was not contented to be idle any
longer. So ho gave up his school, his dreamy

' wiinderln;{ round St. Paul'n Churrdiyard,

bis iile.isimt hours at the riiling of Cliiist's

llospiiiil, iiinl bis w.ilks to and fimn
j the Mansion House, wliere Violet sat on the

steps like II little ipieeii. her lap full of
I llowers, and her bine vyrs sparkling with
I pleasure as slxpenee aller nixpence fell

with a cheerful ring into her tin money.

l>OX. All llie<i, dear deli.^hts Abel ivli'ii.

ipiished to p(»s< his lioiirs from seven in
llie iiiornlug until wv« n at ni.dit in the
I'ountinjj-lioiise of Thiir|» k ^ii\, sliip-
ihanillers, on Lower Thames Street, when)
he reicived three shillings a week ll)r
running of errands, «wcepin.r, dustiie,', and
makiii',' hiiMself ;,'enerally useful.

.Mr. Thor|)e, who was the only one now
in the firm, his father having died a year
belld-e, was a pli ts.nit. kind-hearted ;;entle-
inaii. I-'iom the day when Abel had first
stood before lllli) with his line eyes raised
frankly to his face, he iiad been tiivorably
impressed with the boy ; *o lie often talked
with him as lie passed in and out of thk
clerk's odlee where he was always busv, nnd
sometimes he siuit fir him to come into his
own private room to receive some messaire,
or to pertbrm .soim^ little .service. In this
way he saw considerable of Abel, and began
to feel (piite ,111 interest in him. One day,
when they were alone, the boy .sorting and
arranging his pajicrs with defl hand, .Mr.
Thorpe (piestioned him about him-elf.
Thereupon Abel told him his little history
with such winning artlessuess that tho
kind-hearted merchant could scarce restrain
his tears.

" So you really wish to go into the Blue-
coat School?" he .saiil, when Abel toM liim
of his desire and disappointment. '• Well,
my lad, you're too old for that now ; but
there's nothing to prevent your .studying
alone. You shall have all the books you
need. Come to me tor what you want : I will
supply you. Devote your evenings, in fact,
all your leisure hours, to study; and ther(''s
no reason why you shouldn't become an
educated man. After all, the will's what's
required. Be attentive, <liligent, and honest
in your work ; and you shall remain with mo

wsii^S*^'" "" '

'^'' iS^ J .'m.i!i!& >,!k V ? 'fiiJ^;,>5 ^ i ^^;;

^a ^ ^ :,:^:- ^'^J,,i ;J a^i ^ g^; - ;^;.,;;a!a --.,^ ^^Ki^tl..t.^',viW:^

BOPES OF SAND.

as lon<^ as you wisli, and bo promottnl as
you deserve. Now, my boy, you have your
fortune in your han.ls ; only be industrious
and faithful to my interests, and you -hall
never ne(<l a friend." Then he told him,
with a fother'.s fond pride, that he had a son
at Eton who was nearly seventeen, and that
when ho linished his eoUeglatc course he
would enter the counting-house, .and a.'Ver-
wards become his partner; so that the stylo
of the firm might remain Thorpe & Son,
as it had been for more than a century.

All these promises .and little confidences
dcli'dited Abel, who studied to please his
employer in every way. He was always on
the alert to do any thing that was nee.led;
early and late at his post, watchful, quick,
and careful, ready to lend his hand to
assist any one, whether in his department
or not; s^howing remarkable skill and in-
tclli"encc (or one so young. Years after,
ho looked back on these days as the happi-
est of his life ; for his troubles had not then
bcTun. When his work was done, and well
done, he would hasten to his humble home,
with a step that was never weary, and a
heart that was never anxious, carrying with
him some new books, a ribbon for Violet,
some little rUl for Top. or a dainty for their
simple supper. How they enjoyed that
meal! the three seated round the pine
table. Top as much a chiM as either of
them, laughing with delight at Violet's
lively description of some little adventure,
counting with eager pleasure the proceeds
of her day's sales, planning for a new Irock
or hat with as much interest as the girl
herself, or listening attentively to Abel's
account of his work, his friends, his con-
versation with llv. Thorpe, his ardent boy-
ish plans and expectations, beautiful with
the -low of youth and hope. These were
moments in the old man's life that left him
nod.in ' to desire or regret. Instead ot one
child, he had two ; for Violet was very fond
of him, and had given him no trouble : so
llvr, she had been a good girl, had kept her-
self neat and clean, and had assisted Top
about his household affairs willingly and
skilfully. Every morning she went to sell

I her flowers on the steps of the Mansion
' House ; and every .:vening she returned
cheerfullv, with a merry he.art and light
step, to give old Top the proceeds of her
day's sales, which he carefully adde.l to a
little fund he was saving for her i'uture
needs. So Violet had nothing to comp.ain
of: she was well fed, well clothed, clean,
and healthy ; she ha.l almost Ibrgotten her
piist life and old Mother Flint; and there
was not a happier llower-girl in all London
than she ; and, besides all her other bless-
ings, Abel was teaching her how to read
and write, and how to bo good. The boy
was a guanlian angel, who stood between
her and evil ; and old Top was her faithtu
mentor, who never failed to point a moral
from the wretched girls and women who
filled the tenements around them. " Look
at her, Vi'let," ho would siiy, referring to
some poor sinner who was reaping the bit-
ter harvest of her folly, "1 can remember
her when she was young, an' as lov'ly as a
flower, with blue eyes like yours, an' cheeks
as red as .laraask roses I but she was vam
an' idle, an' went wrong. Dear Lord 1 sec
her now I what a wreck she is ! an' it s the
way you'll look if you ever follow in her
steps; mind what me an' Abel say to you;
keep tidy an' modest, an' tend to your work
an' books, an- one o' these days, who knows,
p'rhaps you'll be mistress o' your own house,
with a husband an' a baby that you'll be
as fond of as I was o' mine when he was a

wee thing."

In a year Abel had become so useful to
Mr. Thorpe, that he increased his wages,
and allowed him many favors unusual to a
1 boy in his position. The money he earned
seemed a small fortune to Top, who hoarded
it carefully, to the end that his chil-l, who
was Trowing tall and large, might bo better
clothed ; for he could no longer wear the
little patched jackets and trousers which the
old man picked up for him in lloun.lsditch.
Top was delighte<l when he saw him ar-
rayed for the first time in an entire now
suit, coarse and plain, to be sur3, but well
cut, and well made ; and Violet daneed
around him, like a bewildered sprite, clap-

t^iwtssttawi'g'ew * ! " » »" ■*'

asjja teisaat sggsStr'

3f tlio Mansion
c she retiirneil
heart and liglit
proce(!ils of her
ully added to a
fur her i'uturo
jing to conii»iain
I elothi'd, clean,
»st forj^otten her
^Unt; and there
irl in all London
her other bless-
ler how to read
good. The boy

stood between
was her faithful

to point a moral

and women who

d them. " Look

say, referrhij; to

reaping the bit-

1 can remember

an' as lov'ly as a

yours, an' cheeks

but she was vain

Dear Lord 1 see

he is ! an' it's tlie

ver follow in her

Abel say to you ;

tend to your work

■ days, wlio knows,

o' your own house,

iby that you'll be

ine when he was a

jcome so useful to
:reased his wages,
favors unusual '.o a
e money he earned
) Top, who hoarded
that his child, who
■"e, might be better
10 longer wear the

1 trousers which the
im in lloundsditch.
jn he saw him ar-

in an entire new
to bo sura, but well
ind Violet daneed
ildered sprite, clap-

THE OLD STORY.

ping her hands, laughing, and telling him
that he was "a deal ban'souier 'an the
Prince o' Wales."

It was on a Sunday, when Abel wore his
fine clothes for the first time, and Violet
had a new cambric frock, and a pretty straw
hat with a blue ribbon. Like all girls of
that age, she was anxious to display them :
therefore, she clamored to be taken some-
where ; and Abel joined her, crying at the
same time with her, " Take us somewhere,
daddy : take us somewhere."

" I would willin'ly, children ; but I ain't
fine enough to go out with you, I ain't,"
said Top, looking at himself ruefully. " I've
got only my old patched duds, that ain't
fit company for these new things."

" O daildy I don't say that," cried Aljcl,
bringing forward the old man's best jacket
and cap ; while Violet tied his neckerchief
into a smart bow. *' You're always nice
enough. We're proud of you any way ;
ain't we, Violet V "

" Well, then, if you don't mind, an' if
you ain't 'shamed o' your old daddy, I'll go
along an' take you both to the Tower.
Have you ever seen the Tower o' London,
Vi'let V "

"No, no, daddy, I never have. I've
never seen only the outside," cried the girl
eagerly. " Oh, oh ! won't it be jolly to see
the inside 1 "

" An' Abel'll tell us all about it, 'cause
he knows history," said Top proudly.

" Yes : Abel'll tell us," echoed Violet,
as they set out on each side of the quaint
old man.

It was a bright June day, for there are
bright days in London, and a happy day for
these three beings who envied no one.
Violet almost laughed under the noses of
the warders, who were so important in
their curious costume; but when they en-
tered the Lion's Gate, she became suddenly
grave, and clung closely to Abel's band.
The deep moat, the gloomy arches, the
warlike towers, frightened her a little ; and
her great blue eyes devoured Abel, while
he whispered, " This is the Traitors' Gate,
where prisoners, brought by the Thames,

entered never to go out again. This is the
Bell Tower, wl.>;re Queen Klizabeth was
imprisoned; aud this is the Bloody Tower,
where the lit»le Princes were murdered by
their cruel uncle."

" It don't look very wicked now," whis-
pered Top, as they followed the warder
into a room where the portcullis to one of
the inner tower gates was drawn up, un-
used and harmless enough. One of the offi-
cers lived in this tower ; his wife was wash-
ing dishes on a table near the massive iron-
barred portcullis, with its great crank and
rusty chain ; some scarlet geraniums blos-
somed in a window over it ; and a child
played on the floor with a broken painted
soldier. The woman was singing cheerfully
when they entered ; and the sun shone
bright on the flowers, and touched the ojjpo-
site wall with a patch of gold.

" It's innocent an ' peacefiil enough here
now," said Top with some surprise. " I
don't b'lieve its true that all them wicked
deeds was done here."

" True as gospel, my man," returned the
warder, as be stooped to pinch the baby's
cheek.

" Will you let us look under the stairs
where the bones of the little Princes were
found V " asked Abel of the pleasant-faced
woman.

" Yes, indeed I will, ray little man," she
replied, kindly patting the boy's handsome
bead. Then she threw a tin horse to the
child to amuse it while she was gone, and
led the way, while the warder stop[)ed to
take a drink from a bright pewter mug.

Violet would not look into the dark hole :
she disliked dreary places ; and her face was
quite pale and awestricken when Top and
Abel joined her at the door.

" Goodness ! child, you needn't be afraid.
There's nothin' there but an old closet, an'
some pots an' pans, common enough now,
even if the Princes was burled there, which
I don't much b'lieve, seein' as no one can
tell correct what happened so long
ago."

The armory Interested and pleased them
all much better than did the Towers. Violet

, .»iiwii^.>i; ;a: Hi3a^^a ^^^i' ~"

'''«^4 ^ r.si a ^»,j it!a.g J Siwsasi

^?-*'V.k.^i^i-^fr^;!:^^g3gjjiiif4^M-M^^JJ^^!»j^>*^^^ ' .w\M* '

MWito

•><>

ROPES OP SAND.

|t<'

(•ln|)|(('<l lior Imnds at tho linr?os all dressi'd
in till' hiiglite'st fti'cl, tliinkin:; at first that
they were real animals tliat would praiicf
and jiaw if those iirim wai'i-iofs, also in shin-
in.; ariniir, did not hold thcni so ti;j;ht]y.
TluMi slio wished that all theso (jiiiet figiiros
and iiroiid-lookin<i char^jers would suddenly
eonu- to lil'e, and rush at each oilier with
their laiiees tilted, and their searlet and
white plinnes wavinj;loand fro. And what
ii' all these gilded banners and badges and
])ennons should tlutterand (loat in tlie wind,
and the swords should elasli, and the can-
nons roar, and these brazen-mouthed triun-
pots shoidd ring out their loudest jieals ?
So absorbed was she in thinking of ail this,
that she scarcely heard Abel tell her she
must walk faster, as the warder w;\s impa-
tient at her lagiring steps. Although she
was delighted with the armory, she thought
the jewel-house the most beautiful of all.
The crowns and the royal sceptre with the
cross of gold, the rubies, emeralds, and
diamonds, the rodofeipiity with the golden
dove, and the orb baniled with ])recious
stones, all these made her eyes sparkle and
her cheeks glow. She loved bcautitiil
things ; and she showed her love so strongly,
that Top would not allow her to remain to
hxik at I hem as long as she wished.

" They're only temptations o' Satan," he
said, " to lead the poor astray. You mustn't
love jewels, chihl ; if you do, they '11 bo your
ruin. Many a girl has lost her soul for one
o' them sparklin' things. Don't love 'em,
don't covet 'em, don't think nothin' about
'em."

Abel could not help looking at them nny
more than Violet could ; for he was saying
to himselti " Her eyes are as blue as the
pajiphires, her teeth as white as the pearls,
her lips as red as the rubies; and, while we
have her, wc needn't envy tho queen her
jewels."

Tlicy were both unwilling to go, and
lingered a little as Top led them away : then
the old man, fearing that he had deprived
them of a pleasure, began to blame the
warder to excuse himself. " They al'ays do
hurry so," he said, when they were outside

the gate. " Wc ain't seen half our money's
worth, have we V "

" Oh, yes, we have, dixody I " cried Vio-
let cxciti dly : "them bcautitul jewels is
enough for one day. O Lor ' ! how I should
like to liave a brooch as big as that biyrest
oiie that sparkled so."

" Hush, husli, Vi'let," said Top sternly,
" don't go to admirin' jewels ; if you do,
you'll soon learn t'adniiro sin : don't think
o' finery if you want to be a virtuous, happy
girl."

" I only like them 'cause they're pretty,
that's all, dad<ly," returned Violet, glancing
slyly at Abel, who was walking thoughttiilly
at her side.

" You're not ponderin' on 'em, are you, my
boy V " (juestioned Top anxiously.

'' No. no, daddy ! I wasn't thinking of
them at all. It was something (juite dilfer-
ent: I was thinking that I should be con-
tented to be poor and humble, if I only
might be happy an<l peaceful all my lilc.
If I could, I shouldn't like to be rich and
great, and miss being happy."

" You're a g(xjd boy, Abel : you're al'ays
thinkin' o' somethin' good," said Top
approvingly ; '• an' so you can't fail to bo
happy. You've got a fair prospect before
you ; an' you'll be a blessin' to every one,
'specially your old daddy."

'■ But don't you b'lieve that every one
that's ricjj is happy ? " questioned Violet
with unusual thoughtfulness. " Seems to
me, if I liad silk frocks and pretty jewels
I'll be awful happy."

" O Vi'let, Vi'let I I'm sorry, I am, to hear
you say that. It's only good jieople that's
happy," replied Top severely. " You never
can have silk an' jewels honest, never ; an'
if you get 'em any other way you'll come to
dreadful misery."

The girl opened her great blue eyes, and
smiled a little disdainfully, but said nothing.;
(or the jewels seemed to Hash belbre her,
and the silken embroidered braners to
float in the air around her. From that
day a new passion took possession of her
heart. She thought constantly of silks
and jewels, and looked with silent contempt

« ■ . I'MJ-m'm , ^ »MlW^i n m ' ,-■.,^■-^iW « M f fe l ' .'.»(i.ilti !( > i B.'»BMfe^

LOST.

half

our money 8

'dy ! " crii'il Vio-
aiiiit'iil jewels is
jr ' ! liow I (ilioiild
ig as that bigrest

laid Top sternly,

ivels ; it' you <lo,

sin : don't think

a virtuous, happy

«o they're pretty,
I Violet, iflaiieiiig
king thoughtt'uUy

n 'em, are you, my
xiously.

asn't thinking of
thing (jnitu diller-
I should be eon-
umljle, if I only
eeful all my lile.
ce to be rich and
)y."

bel : you're al'ays
;ond," said Top
can't fail to be
r prospect before
isin' to every one,

c that every ona
rjuestioued Violet
less. " Seems to
ind pretty jewels

srry, I am, to hear
ood jieople that's
siy. " You never
onest, never ; an'
'ay you'll come to

eat blue eyes, and
, but said nothing.;
iiash betbre her,
iered bamners to
her. From tlvat
possession of her
nstantly of silks
th silent contempt

on the plain clothes Top bought for her.
She never saw an elegantly dressed lady
pass in her carriage but she envied her,
and wished that she could have the same.
Still she breatheil no word of her discon-
tent to Abel, who loved her more and more
as time passed away. During the still
happy ye.irs of their childhood. To]), liking
to make them happy, otlcn took them on
little excursions. In the winter they went
to the liritish Museum, to Kensington, and
the National Gallery, — for this poor old
man was naturally refined and intelligent,
enjoying even what ho did not understand ;
and in the summer, to Windsor, to Ilamj)-
ton Court by the Thames, to Kew Gardens,
to Greenwich, and to many other suburban
resorts. Often in the long twilights of
spring, they took an omnibus and rode to
Hyde Park, where they wandered about at
will among the crowd of pleasure-seekers.
There Violet saw much to strengthen her
love for finery and showy attire. In the
innocence of her heart she envied the guilty
women who flaunted in robes of shame, not
knowing at what a ruinous price they liad
bought them. Ollen when Top and Abel
thought hei* perfectly contented and happy,
she was making comparisons, complain-
ing silently of her hard lot in life, and wish-
ing she were oliler, tliat she might earn
money enough to buy handsomer dresses.

Almost before old Top was aware of it,
his children were no longer children : for
Violet was sixteen, and Abel eighteen.
Tlic boy had gone on steadily improving in
knowledge and goodness, having been pro-
moted from one position to another, until
he was now Mr. Thorpe's private secretary,
with a salary of forty pounds a year. Vio-
let still sold her flowers on the steps of the
Mansion House, a neat, graceful girl, whose
blue eyes and lovely face attracted far too
much attention ; yet her innocence and
youth had jirotected her till now, and Abel's
love and watchful care left her little to fear
in the future.

Old Top still continued to live in his
cellar, and carry his sand to his customers
as usual. Though he was very feeble now,

[ and tottered pitifully, nothing could induce
him to leave a jdace that had been his
I home for so many years ; but he liad hired
the floor above, and now had a little parlor
and two sleeping-rooms, one of which
Violet had occupied for some lime, ^lother
Birch having dropped olf suddenly about
i the time of Aiiel's first promotion. They
i were a very happy little family, an<l the
i old man w.as more than contented with his
lot. Sometimes, in thinking of all his bless-
ings, bis heart would soften until the tears
would run down his cheeks, and he would
s.ay in a voice of reverential gratitude, ad-
dressing himself after his old habit, '• Top,
you've never deserved half you've got. The
Lord's been too good to you to give you two
such children, an' four rooms to live in, an'
such a blessin' in Abel. If that poor cre-
tur' coulil see her boy now, wouldn't she
rejoice over him, he's so good, and such a
gentleman ! An' Vi'let, too, that'll be his
wife some day, he couldn't find a better nor
a fairer in all London."

So, while Top was rejoicing over his own
happiness, and the pleasant future of his
children, Abel and Violet were rehearsing
the first chapter of that sweet old story
that nearly all who have lived have lis-
tened to in the glowing morning of youth
and hope.

CHAPTER V.

LOST.

' " Isn't that beautifnl ? isn't that perfect ?
Won't you buy it for nie? I should so like
to have it 1 " said Violet, looking into Abel's
face with real entreaty in her lovely eyes.
" I haven't a single pretty thing ; and that
is so pretty 1 "

They stood before a jeweller's window in
the Strand ; and the object which she so
much coveted was a flashy brooch of fiilso
diamonils and emeralds, marked, " Only one
crown."

" Buy that for you, Violet ? Why, it's

Mm i \ iv irtmi i aaiBS*" '

,M^St}&m^kSHiimmi" . tmfm'Smii'j'>

AV,i i t ' iiift p yjai»iht''s » mw:j,?jfe^iu g ,iM^li<j^ < j ' -#

iiHi

B0PE8 OF SAND.

Ihti

HI
'I

ill

E III

only jjlass and pincbbeck," replied Abel,
laujjliin^.

" 1 don't care if it is : it's lovely, and you
might buy it for me."

" My dear Violet, you know I bate to
refuse you any tbinjr," said Abel, gently
pre8sin<r tbe band tbat lay on bis arm ;
" but be reasonable, and don't ask for what
is ini|K)ssible. In the first place, even if it
wasn't a waste of money to buy it, it's not
a suitable thing for you to have. Tliink
of the folly of your wearing such an orna-
ment as tbat in your present position.
One of these days, when you're my dear
little wife, and I have a salary of perbaps
two hundred pounds a year, you shall have
a brooi'h of real gold ; but now, pray don't
ask for such a bauble : it would add
nothing to your beauty."

" Indeed it would," returned Violet, pout-
ing and tearful. " I'd look ever so much
better if I bad that to fasten my collar in-
stead of this ugly bow. If you really loved
me as much as you siiy you do, you would
not refuse me such a little thing."

" Don't say tbat, dear," cried Abel, with
a troubled glance at the pretty, clouded
i'ace at his side : " I give you all I can. I'd
willingly give you more if I couhl ; but we
must save our money, and be very prudent,
tbat in a year we can furnish rooms in a
more respectable locality than Black-cat
Lane. Then, dear old daddy mustn't work
any longer. lie is very feeble, and we
must support him comfortably as long as
be lives. He has done so much for us, that
we can never half repay hiui."

" I know it, Abel : he's been good, and
we'll do every thing to make him happy ;
but still, I do want tbat brooch awfully."

" Don't look at tbe worthless thing any
longer. Forget such follies, and be liappy
with what you have," said Abel a little
sternly, as he drew tbe reluctant girl away
from tbe show window with its false glare
and glitter.

" Why don't you ever take me to a play ? "
persisted Violet. " Other young people, no
better off than we are, go sometimes."

" I dou't take you because I don't think

it best, in our position, to indulge in such
useless expense ; besides, it promotes a taste
for pleasure that is ruinous to sober con-
tentment."

"I can't see any barm in being happy
once in a while."

" Happy once in a while ! But ain't you
always happy witli me, Violet V " qi^estioned
Abel sadly and anxiously.

"I am happy enough, I suppose," re-
turned tbe girl. " But every one wants a
change now and then."

" Well, we often have a change. Didn't
we go to Battersea, and pass a delightful
dav, last week ? d<jn't we take charming
walks in tbe parks? don't we go to free
lectures and concerts ? and don't we have
plenty of books to read together ? How can
we be happier than we are ? We're young
and healthy, and have enough for our sim-
ple wants : then, why wish for what wo
can't have Y "

"I'm glad if you're contented," replied
the girl fretfully ; " but I'm not. It's no use.
I may as well tell you tbe truth : I do like
fine things. I should like to be rich, and
ride in the park, and go to plays ; to dance
and sing ; to have gay company around me,
and — and " —

" No more, Violet I that's enough I " cried
the young man sternly. "I know what you
would say : that you're not 8atis(fied with the
life I ofl'er you. In Heaven's name, think
what you are saying 1 and, if you have such
foolish desires, keep them in your own
heart, and smother and kill them there ;
tor they never can bo gratified lawfully.
Don't pain me, don't pain the good old
man who has done so much for you, by
giving expression to them."

'' O Abel I you're so cross, so awful
cross and unreasonable 1 " returned Violet
pettishly. " You know I love you dearly,
and Daddy Top too; still I can't help it if I
like pretty things : but dou't look no, don't
speak so, and I won't mention it again."

Abel's heart softened directly when she
raised her beautiful eyes, full of tears, to
his face with a timid, imploring glance.
They were iu tbe street, but it Wiw eveu-

II J) ». v!\-^»*wma i H'J u .!.m w

\ i t) f t! ■»?»: .m '.v%.i!--Jt/ : iis. ' :t^' :' -WM>Mm ' -ii ^J M«imm

I.UII II J miiUBII iiB|M«lSiii|il,>JJ«l#iaS-ltf!ifc •

in(lul<;c in 8iieh
t pruinutu!* u tasto
(US to sober con-

1 in buing liappy

D ! But ain't you
)let V " qiK'stioned

, I suppoM'," re-
cry one wants a

change. Didn't
pass a delightful
a take charming
't wo go to Tree
id don't we have
;ether ? How can
? We're young
)ugh for our sim-
lish for what we

itented," replied
1 not. It's no use.
truth : I do like
I to be rich, and
9 plays ; to dance
apai.y around me,

's enough ! " cried
I know what you
; satis^fied with the
ren's name, think
, if you have such
m in your own
kill them there ;
ratified lawfully,
tin the good old
iiuch for you, by

Q."

cross, so awful
" returned Violet
[ love you dearly,
I can't help it if I
n't look so, don't
ition it again."
irectly when she
!, fidl of tears, to
mploring glance.
, but it Wi»a even-

LG3T.

lag, and no one was near; so he put
his arm round her, and kissed her fondly.
Atler that they walked on in silence. At the
entrance into Ludgate Street, they were
met by a wretched looking man, who held
out the stumps of both arms, and asked (or
charity in a voice of pitiful entreaty.
There was an expression in his mournful
face that Abel could not resist; so he
stopped, spoke kindly to him, and gave
him a shilling.

" There," said Violet, when they were
out of hearing, " you gave that beggar a
shilling ; but you would not buy the brooch
for me. You are so generous to every
one else."

" What ! complaining again ? remember
the promise you just made me."

" Ah ! I forgot : I will remember it. For-
give me, Abel ; you're better than I am,"
replied the girl penitently.

When they reached home, they found
the lamp burning on the table, and their
books laid ready for them ; for it was a
rule with Abel never to go to bed until he
had read something useful. Top had re-
tired for the night, but called to them from
his little room to say that they would find
some currant-buns in the closet for their
supper.

" How thoughtful he always is I " said
Abel with a tender smile. " How much we
shall have to do for him to repay him for
all his loving care ! "

Violet made no reply, but silently laid
aside her hat and shawl.
" Shall we read a chapter of The Heart of
Mid-Lothian,' before we go to bed ? " ques-
tioned Abel, drawing a chair near to the
table.

"No: I don't want to read to-night,"
replied the girl, twisting a curl of her sod
brown hair idly round her finger.

" Are you vexed with me, Violet, dear ? "
said Abel at length.

" Vexed ? Oh, no I I was only thinking."

"Of what'/"

" Never mind : I sha'n't tell you ; because,
if I do, you'll only be cross and scold me.
I'm sleepy and tired, so I'll go to bed ; "

and, stooping overiiim, she touched her lips
lightly to his forehead, and they parted for
the night.

I^ng afler Violet retired, Abel sat at the
little table with "The Heart of Mid- Lo-
thian "open before him. But he was not read-
ing : he was thinking deeply ; and more than
once a silent tear rolled down his face,
and fell unnoticed on the pages of the
book. Tlie next morning ho awoke with
an unaccountable depression at his heart,
which ho carried with him to his work.
\Vhen he entered the ofli(;e, Mr. Thorpe
met him at the door, and introduced liiui to
his son, Mr. Robert Tliorpc. The young
man gave his hand to Abel pleasantly
and frankly, and said, that he was glad
to have a companion whom his father re-
spected so highly; that they were to be
together in the private office ; and he was
sure they would soon be good friends.

Abel replied simply and honestly, that
he should do all in his power to deserve his
esteem and confidence ; and that he should
be happy to be useful to him in any way.

" Then take him under your care, and
introduce him to business at once ; fur I'm
afraid he's an idle dog, and will find work
here rather dull afler his life at Eton," said
Mr. Thorpe good-naturedly. "Now I'm
going to Lloyd's fo^' an hour ; and I'll leave
you together to get better acquainted."

When Abel was alone with young Mr.
Thorpe, he studied hiin carefully ; for he
had seldom seen a handsomer face and fig-
ure. He had a broad, white forehead ; light,
curling hair ; brown eyes, womanly sweet in
their expression; a small mouth, with full
lips, shaded by a thin, silken mustache ; a
short chin a little receding ; round, white
throat ; broad, square shoulders ; small feet
and hands; and long, well-shaped limbs.
Although he was handsome, as Abel saw at
a glance, still there was something wanting
in his face : perhaps it was strength, perhaps
it was truth. His countenance was like an
unfinished sketch, full of beauties, and full
of impisrfections. " He is indolent," thought
Abel, making his mental estimation, " fond
of pleasure, generous, and weak, and be

MiMimiMnmsi. ' Ug'. ' Wtviimmif - ^Af'^tj'm.'

B0PE3 OP SAND.

will disappoint his r,oo<\ father. Still 1 know
I shall become attacheil to him in a very lit-
tle while ; and before a year I shall be
readv to make any sacrifice for him."

In'that, Abel had jiid;j;ed rightly : before a
month he was devoted to youn-,' Mr. Thorpe ;
and, before a year, ho loved him better than
any one besides VioKit and Top. And tlie
yoiin',' licntlemar. i'ked Aixd in a !j;ood-na-
tmvd, patronizing w.ay. He was very iilie,
and took bi-.L little interest in his father's
business, although he had the prosjiect of a
partnership after the first year. Mr. Thorpe
never knew how careless Mr. Robert wiw ;
for lately, being in bad health, he spent less
of his time in his oHice than formerly, leav-
a great [yart of his work to his son, whom
he" wished to bo thoroughly aecimunted
with the business of the house before he
represented it as q. partner. But Al)el did
the work of both manfully ; never com-
plaining if he was overtaxed, or if lie
worked" earlier and later than the other
clerks, so that Mr. Thorpe sliouM not dis-
cover liis son's unworthiuess.

"It's cursed dry work!" young Mr.
Thorpe would say sometimes, yawning over
the Imgc i>iles of letters that it was his
duty to open, " to sit here hour after hour,
bent over these papers, when one wants to
be in the park or on the 'J'liames."

Often he would come in late, flushed and
excited ; and, instead of taking his seat at
his desk, he would say, " Winter, you must
look over the letters to-day. I'm off to
Regent's for a game of cricket." Per-
haps it would be the match of " Gentle-
men" against" Players," or '• Kent" against
" All England," or " Eton " against " Har-
row ; " and he was an inveterate cricketer,
and could not deny himself the pleasure of
being present at every popular match.
Then ho would add, as he hurried away
alter selecting his own private letters, " If
the governor couies, don't tell where Vm ofl"
to ; "and, if there's more than you can do,
give it to some of »' "'bs ' in the outer
office."

After he was gone, Abel would tackle his
work resolutely, and never leave his post

until every thing was completed, lie liked
to labor hard ; he did not mind being over-
tasked; he was young and strong, and
withal, very ambitious, and anxious that his
employer should fiml him useful and faithful.
He hail often boasted that he never was tired
in all his lifij ; that at night he was as fresh as
in the morning ; that he could work like a
horse, and never exhaust his strength : but
now there were times when he liked to bo
inactive ; when his daily duties seemed to
weigh a little upon him ; when his step was
not so elastic, nor his heart so light. Was
it weariness, or anxiety V He did not know.
Perhaps it was disappointment ; for Violet
was very strivngo sometimes, anil ho could
not always find an excuso for her caprices.
Not long after the evening when he had
refused to buy the brooch for her at the
Strand, he happened to be near the Man-
sion House, returning from a commission for
Mr. Thorpe ; so he thought ho would stop
and walk home with her. The girl, looking
another way, did not sje him until he was
close beside her ; but the first thing ho no-
ticed, as he approached, was the hateful
gewgaw that ho had denied her, f\istened
into Uio front of her dress. His disappoint-
ment, and the thought that she should buy
it in spite of his advice to the contrary,
wounded him so deeply that he could scarce
conceal his trouble. The moment her eyes
fell upon Abel, she started violently, flushed
crimson, and, hastily tearing out the offen-
sive ornament, she tried to conceal it in her
pocket, while she stammered a confused
welcome.

•' Violet, how long have you had this
thing V" said Abel severely, intercepting
her hand on its way to her pocket.
" Three days," she stammei-ed.
"Then, why have I never seen it be-
fore?"

" Because — because — I don't know " —
" No equivocation 1 It's a little thing, but
it hurts me dreadfully. You know I didn't
wish you to have it ; yet you bought it,
and concealed the fiict from mo. Have you
worn it before to-day ? "
"Yes."

- , ;.J MHM U lll umU •mmm < MMJ , M,.M)ILmlimM l i;ar

LOST.

plotcil. lie liked
iniiiil huiii;; oviT-
nnil stron;;, and
il anxious that his
isft'iil anil faithful,
lie iR'vt-r was tired
he was as fresh as
soulil work like a
his »tri'n;;th: but
leu ho likid to ho
duties seemed to
when his step was
irt so lij^ht. Was
lie did not know.
tmeiit; for Violet
mes, and ho could
B for her caprices.
nin<^ when ho had
L'h for her at tho
be near the Man-
mi a commission for
^ht he would stop
The f,'irl, looking
ij him until he was

first tiling ho no-
1, was the hateful
mied her, listened
IS. His disap])oint-
hat she should buy
tx to the contrary,
that he could scarce
ho moment her eyes
ed violently, flushed
vring out the offen-

1 to conceal it in her
nmered a confused

have you had this

verely, intercepting

her pocket.

;ammei'ed.

; never seen it be-

. — I don't know" —
It's a little thing, but
You know I didn't
; yet you bought it,
from mo. Have you
?"

" Then, you've hidden it away when you
came home, so that I should not see
it."

" I was afraid that you'd bo cross, and
that D.iddy Top would scold me."

" And so you deceive<l us both V "

"I didn't deceive you; I didn't say any
tliiM'4 about it," she returned, looking at
Abel a little defiantly.

" Violet, where did you get the money
to buy it with ? You've broui;ht home your
usiiid amount every night : how, then, did
you get a crown ? "

She hesitated, turning ,)ale and crimson
by turns, and hanging her head in the
dee]K'st confusion.

'• Tell me : where did you get it? " urged
Abel with a determination to know all.

" A young gentleman gave mo a crown
for a bouipiet."

" Why did he give you a crown for a
boucpiet, when you sell them for sixpence
each Y "

" I don't know."

"And you kept it?" questioned Abul.
his eyes fi.\ed on her sternly, and his face
pale with anger.

'• Why, he wouldn't take it back ; so
what could I do but keep it ? "

" What did he say to you ? tell me qinck,
what did he say?" cried Abel, almost
beside himself with jealousy, which lie now
felt tor the first time in his life.

" How can I tell what he said ? I don't
just remember."

" Tell me the truth : I know by your
face that you remember every word."

" Well, he said — he said I was too
pretty to sell flowers."

" Was that all ? "

'♦ Tho last time he said that I ought to
he dressed like a lady, and have nothing to
do, instead of sitting here all day."

"Tho villain I did he say that? Then
you've seen him more than once? "

" Yes : he passes hero every day."

" And stops to talk with you, and you
listen to him ? "

" What can I do ? he always buys my
flowers."

" What sort of a man is he ? Do you
know his name ? "

"No: how should I know his name?
He's young and handsome, lias beautiful
eyes, and wears rings and chains, lie's a
gentleman, I'm sure of that."

" Violet, come homo with lue at once,"
said Abel, (piivering with anger, as he took
her by the arm, and led her away rapidly.
•' Your flowers are all gone, you'd nothing
more to sell : what were you waiting there
for? Toll me, what were you waiting
(or ? "

" I wasn't waiting. I was just going
when you came."

" O Violet, Violet ! how wicked you are t
how false to me when I trusted you so ! "
and Abel trembled so that ho could scarce
speak.

" Let me alone : you're real cruel, and
you hurt my arm ! " cried the girl, wrench-
ing herself from Abel's tight clasp. " You
ought to be ashamed to bully me in the
street, with every one hearing : I say, you
ou'^ht to be ashamed 1 " And she burst into
a fluoil of tears, whieli were more passionate
than [lenitent.

" Hush I For God's sake, don't say I
bullied you t It breaks my heart to speak
cross to you ; but this is more than I can
boar. Let us got home as quickly as we
can."

« And you'll tell Daddy Top?" sobbed
Violet.

" Yes : I'll toll him. I never keep any
thing from him."

" And he'll abuse me too."

" How can you be so unjust ? Has he
ever abused you ? "

" No ; but he will if you set him on."

" Violet, I sha'n't set him on : I shall
tell him the truth, and let him advise us
what to do ; for you can't go there again."

'• Can't go there again I then, what am I
to do ? " cried the girl, tho tears dry on her
hot cheeks, anil her eyes wide with aston-
ishment.

" Violet, you're my promised wife. In
less than nine months we're to bo married ;
then is it right that you should listen to

' I

HOPES OF SAND.

sucli tftllt ? thiit you slioiilil take money
from stniii^ern ? You'ru [wor ; (jimI knows
■we're all poor enough ; but tliat's no reason
wliy we can't be honest : and there must he
no secrets between us, nor no »usj)ic'ion.
You're too young," he said, soileninj^ as he
Idokeil at her, " ami too pretty, dear, to he
exjKJ.-ied to such temptation. You can't go
there agawj : you must either stay home
with (hiddy, or find sonic other occupation
more suitable ibr you."

When Top saw Abel and Violet enter
with such troubled faces, ho knew at once
that something was wrong, and questioned
theuj anxiously, Tlien Abel, trembling
and pidc, told the cause of his vexation ;
while Violet sat silent and sullen, neither
interrupting him nor excusing herself.

The poor old man's face clouded sadly ;
and, looking at Abel with infinite pity and
love, he said soothingly, "I'm surprised and
soiry ; but don't take it too serious, my boy.
Vi'let's only thoughtless. You're thought-
less, ain't you, Vi'let, an' not wicked Y
An* y(ju won't never do so again ? It's
the first time you've gone wrong, an' I'll
venture to say it'll be the last. It'll be the
last, won't it ? Why don't you speak, an'
answer me ? " he said a little impatiently,
as he waited for a reply.

"What's the use of my speaking when
you're both against me V "

" We're not against you, my girl," re-
turned Top severely ; " don't go to havin'
that talk. Me an* Abel's your best
friends in the world. I'm your lather, in a
manner ; an' Abel's to bo your husband in
less 'an a year, if you behave yourself.
Then, how in the world can we bo against
you ? liemember what I told you long ago
that a love 'o finery would lead to ruin. An'
the flattery an' fine words o' these dandy
jackanapes is a curse an' a blight, a livin'
blight, that'll blacken an' wither the
sweetest flower as ever blossomeil. Good
God, girl 1 ain't 1 seen 'euj V 'ain't I knowed
things as 'd make your heart ache
bitter enough ? " and he glanced compas-
sionately at Abel, who sat with his face cov-
ered, weeping silently. " I once heard a

poor, dyin' crctur' deplorin' her evil ways.
She was an outcast. She'd hail no bed tor
months but Loudon mud ; she was notliin'
but a skeleton, wasted with starvin' an'
sickness, an' so young, not more' an
twenty ; an' a most the last words she said
was that she'd twisted ropes o' sand, an'
trusted to 'em ; an* they'd broke, :in' lelUier
a wreck. I tell you, my girl, that's the way
it'll be with you, if you don't mind what
Abel an' me tell you."

" O dadily, stop I " cried Abel, springing
from his seat ; lor Violet, deadly pale, was
swaying to and fro, ready to fall from iier
chair. He put his arms round her, and
drew her hoad to his shoulder, saying ten-
derly, " You're Borry and suflering, dar-
ling ; and that's enough. It's all forgiven :
we won't think of it again."

" Yes, I'm sorry. O daddy, I did wrong !
Abel, I deceived you ; but I won't do so
again. I'll never do so again, only Ibrgive
me this once."

" You're forgiven, Vi'let ; " and Top
smoothed back the girl's beautiful hair, and
patted her cheek fondly, saying again, " It's
all over, an' you'll never hear any more
about it."

After that she did not return to her old
place. The Mansion -house steps knew no
more of Blue-eyed Violet. Abel procured
her a situation at a flower-shop in Holborn,
which was a more respectable way of
earning her living; and she seemed per-
fectly contented with the change, attended
diligently to her work during the day, and
passed her evenings preparing her simple
wedding outfit ; for in the early summer she
and Abel were to be married. In this way
the winter passed off quietly and happily ;
but when spring came there was a noticeable
change in Violet. She grew moo<ly and irri-
table, irregular in her hours of returning
home at night, and idle and listless when
she was there. Abel noticed this change
with anxiety ; and Top watched ker closely,
yet could discover no cause for her uncer-
tain behavior. Still the humble prepa-
rations went on for the expected marriage-
Abel had found four ueat rooms in a clean

LOST.

rin' her evil wny«.
u'tl had no bud for
; i>hu was nutliiii'
with 8tarviii' nii'
r, not more' an
ast words she said
ropes o' sand, an'

brolce, nn' lelUier
pr\, that's tlie way

don't mind what

id Abel, spriM<;ing
, deadly pale, was
\y to fall from her
» round her, and
oulder, sayinjj teu-
um\ 8uflering, dar-
It's all forgiven :
n."

laddy, I did wrong 1
but I won't do so
again, only Ibrgive

i'let; " and Top
beautiful hair, and
saying again, " It's
i!r hear any more

t return to her old
use steps knew no
it. Abel proeured
IP-shop in Holborn,
ispeetablo way of
1 she seemed pcr-

ehangc, attended
iring the day, and
sparing her simple
e early summer she
rried. In this way
lietly and happily ;
3re was a noticeable
new moo<ly and irri-
hours of returning

1 and listless when
loticed this change
ratched ker closely,
ause for her uncer-
jo humble prepa-
expected marriage*
3,1 rooms in a clean

court out of Little Kasfpheop, Graro-church
Street. It was near his jjlacc of business,
and could be made very nomforfablo and
cosoy ; and Top had promisi-d liiin, rathiT
reluctantlyhowever, togoanil live with luui,
nslie was now too feeble to work. So Abel
looked forward with honest pride and plea-
sure, to the moment wlien lie should have
a home of his own, where he eould protect
and care for the two beings ho loved best
on earth.

One night, about tt month before the day
fixed for their marriage, Abel went to the
shop in Ilollwrn to fetch Violet homo; for,
having finished his own work earlier than
tisual, he had an hour to devote to her.
While he was waiting for Violet to put on
her hat, Mrs. Burt, the mistress of the shop,
began to express her regrets to the young
man that she should lose her as!<islaiit so
soon. "She brings me a deal o* trade.
Her pretty face and nice ways ])lease my
customers amazin'. Why, there's one young
gentlemsin as spends a crown reg'lar every
d.ay for (lowers. I don't know whether it's
the roses or the vi'lets he likes best," this
with a sly glance at the girl, who stood
with averted face and burning cheeks.

" I'm glad she pleases you," replied Abel
very gravely, so gravely that the good
woman looked at him in some surprise;
" but I'ni not sorry that she will
have a home of her own soon : you can
underst.ind my reasons. Put on your
shawl, Violet," he added, turning to the
girl, who lingered, as though unwilling to
go.

She obeyed silently and reluctantly ;
and, taking Abel's arm, she left the shop
with a sullen good-night to her mistress.
The young man watched her face closely
while he talked on some indifferent subject.
Jlore than once she glanced back anxiously,
as though she were looking ibr some one,
while she talked r.apidly, and w.tlked hur-
riedly. At last, when they led Holborn,
and turned into Farringdon Street, her
manner changed suddenly ; and she said in
a harsh, angry voice, " Abel, you're watch-
ing nic."

" God forbid, Violet, that 1 >hr,nh\ watch
one w4io'll bo my wifo in less than a
month ! "

"Hut you do, nil the same: I see it in
your face. You don't trust me."

" Violet, darling, .sometimes whi-n people
do wrong, they're very suspicious."

" I don't understand you," she saiil sid-
lenly. " You have a strange way of saying
thing.i."

" Never mind, dear, don't let us disagree.
I'm too happy to notice trifles, and I don't
want you to either. If you're a little uncer-
tain sometimes, I think it's the way with all
girls : that some whim has entered your
pretty head, and to let you indulge it is the
best way."

" I don't have whims, Alwl : I've serious
things to think o(," r.!ie returned with a
heavy sigh, and a furtive glance at Jiis kind
face.

" Possible ! " ho said, laughing a little.
" I thought you were full of fancies, and as
careless as the wind." Then he chiingcjd
the conversation, and toM her how very
kind Mr. Thorpe had been to him ; how ho
had nifide him a present of ten poiinils
toward furnishing Ids rooms, an<l had
promised to increase his salary at the enil
of the year. All this Violet listened to
with little apparent interest, and Abel felt
it ; still he was too confident, and too huppy,
to be e.\acting. An hour after, while they
sat around their little supper-table, sudden-
ly the girl burst into tears, and soi)hed pas-
sionately, refusing to tell them the cause of
her trouble, and declining to answer their
anxious questions.

" She's tired and nervous," said Top,
in reply to Abel's mute look of inquiry.
" She's nervous, that's all ; to-morrow she'll
be better. (Jo to l>ed, Vi'let, dear, an' rest,
an' sleep; it'.s that you need."

The girl got up with a trembling step,
still holiiing her handkerchief before her
eyes, and went toward her bedroom d<K)r.
Then, as if some suilden impulse hiid
prompted her, she turned, and, throwing
her arms around Top's neck, she kissed him
fondly, and said in a choked voice, " You

nOPES OF 8AND.

liiive hcen piMwl to inc, diiiMy; nnd I'm!
(;riilf('iil mill tliiiiikl'iil. Ami yim, too,
Alicl," clii! ( ricil, with luiotlicr paHi-ioimtc *
burnt of li'arK, i\A nIic clim',' to tlie yomi^'
iiiiin, ami kism'il liliii with ii sorrowful fiT-
vor, "yoii'vi! lit'cn so iiationt ami ^viuW
with inc; ami I don't tU'scrve it." Tlion,
bi'forc Ahul coiiM ftpeak, shii broke away
from his iMicirLlin;,' aniin, ami, rushin;i into
her room, nho clocfd the door, mid locked
it behind ber. Both renu-mbered that
Heeiie and that embrace lonj; aAer. The
thought of it was a comfort to jmor old
Top on his death-bed; the memory of it,
a consolation to Abel in the dark hours
that followed.

The next night Abel was detained in (he
oflice to ilo some extra work for young Mr.
Thorpe, whom he had sca.vc seen for the
day; therefore it was late \.i en he reached
home. The first (pieslio'i from Top, ns
he entered the little parlor, was, " Where's
Vi'letV"

«' Why; isn't she home ? " cried Abel in
astonishment.

" No : cihe hasn't coiue, and I thought
she was with you."

" I h '.ven't seen her. I've just lefl
the ofTici-. She must be at the shop: I'll
go and fetch her ; " and, wiiliout another
word, he rushed out, leaving Top to wonder
why she was so late.

When Abel reached llolborn, Mrs. Burt
was just putting up her shutters ; ancl to
his anxious inquiries, she tcld him that
Violet had left earlier than usual, saying
that she had a headache, and must go
Lome.

" But she's not there," cried Abel in dis-
may.

" Not there I AVhere can she be,
then 'i "

"God only knows. What shall I do?
Where shall I go?" he said, trembling
with excitement.

" I'd kec]) calm ; I wouldn't worry : she's
no doubt all right. Perhaps she's met an
ac(|uaintaiice, and gone somewhere to
pass the evening."

" She has no accjuaintances ; she never

would do such a, thing : something has hnp-
pimeil to her."

"(io back home, an' likely you'll find
her there," said the woman kindly.

"Tell me, Mrs. Burl, have you noticed
any thing wrong? has Violet had any ic-
(piaintances that T don't know of? "

"I'm not sure, Mr. Winter; 1 it I am
afraid she lias. That handsome young
gentleman, as I s|><jke of the other niuht,
has been here lately more 'an was neces-
sary. Only to-day I spoke to Vi'let about it,
kimlly like, just as 1 would to one of my
own children. At first she was a l>it cross ;
then she laughed it oflT, and nolhin' more
was said. I'm sure somethin's been
troublin' her lati'ly. To-day she seemed
dull like, an' just before she went out I'm
sure I saw her a cryin'."

" I can't hear any more," said Abel
fairly (juivoring, ami pale as death. " I'll

•ro home and see if she's there yet ; for of
^ ..It,

course she'll come some time to-ni,ilit.

Scarce knowing what ho did, he ruslied

like the wind through the streets, and burst

into the little room where Top waited

anxiously, only to find that she was not

there. Without stojiping to listen to the

old man's trembling imptiries, he started

out again. Pale, wild-eyed, driven by

the demon of suspicion and doubt, ho

scoured the streets around IIollx)in, in the

hope that he might see her or hear from

her. At last, almost exhausted, ht^ Ieane<l

a"ainst a lami)-post and tried to think ; but

his brain was in a whirl, his senses seemed

leaving hiin. A policeman seeiii,' him, and

thinking he was intoxicated, spoke harshly

to him; but, hearing his story, he tried to

comfort him. "You'd better go- home tin'

go to bed. It's late, an' you can't do

nothin' till daylight. The gal's lost, that's

certain ; an' it's common enough in London :

but you can find her in no time, if you set

about it the right way, an' if she ain't gone

otr of her own free will. In that case it's

hard to find 'em. Wait till mornin', an' go

to Scotland Yard : they'll fix it up all right

for you there. Young an' pretty, you say ?

Well, then, it's not so strange that she's

TUtt. «1TTE* f^^9K

luthin;^ lm« linp-

ki'ly you'll find
kirxlly.

ivi! villi iioticotl
let liiul liny ic-
low ol'V "
iitiM-; l.tt I am
aiulsoiiiu young
tilt' otluT niulit,
I' 'an was iii't'i-s-
to Vi'let ultout it,
1(1 to one ol' my
' was ii l>it croHs;
inil iiolliin' iiioro
souu'tiiiii's lit'cn
-day dii- cfciiicil
shu went out I'm

loro," saiil Abel
• ns death. "I'll
there yet ; for of
me to-ni^iit."
10 did, hf nishcd

street.", and Imrst
lere Top waited
that she was not
'T to listen to the
|uiiies, he started
-eyed, driven hy
) and doubt, ho
id Ilollxiin, in the
I her or hear from
liaiisted, h(^ leane<l
tried to iliinlc ; but

his senses seemed
lan seein.; him, and
ited, spolvo harshly

story, he tried to
better jro-homu an'

an' you can't do
he gal's lost, that's
enou;.;h in London :
no time, if you set
m' if she ain't gone
. In that case it's
t till mornin', an' go
'II fix it ui) all right
in' pretty, you say ?
I stranjio that she's

logt. If she was old and u;;ly, ten to one
you'd find her lionie safe enough when you
got there.''

Abel did not wait to hear any more from
thu "guardian of the ni'^ht," hut dashed od'
wiih the Word "iDst" riii'^'ing in his ears
like a funeral knell. Neither did htt wait
for morning belLire hu went to Scotland
Yard, lie took a hansom, and paid the man
an extra shilling to drive him iheru as
quickly an jiossible.

The ollicer listened to his story with
what Abel thought stony indiHerence;
took the 'description of the girl, item by
item, even to the color of the ribl)oii she
wore on her hat ; and then said coolly, '- Hut
how <Io you know she ain't gone oil' of her
own accord 'I "

" I know sho would never do that," cried
Abel iles|)erately. " Why, we were to be
married in less than a month."

The odicer looked lit him with a sort of
sarcastic piiy ; ami, turning to a man half
asleep in a corner of the room, ho said
laconically, giving him the written descrij)-
tion, " Here, ,Jim, look this gal up."

Abel saw there was nothing more to be
learned there, and nothing more to be done
for the present ; so he dismisseil the hansom,
and walked away he scarcely knew whither.

It was daylight wlieii he reached home.
To]) was still up, waiting anxiously.
"Have you heard anything'/" he cried,
looking with fear at Abel's haggard coun-
tenance.

"Nothing, nothing, daddy: she's lost!
she's lost 1" and, throwing himself on the
floor at the ohl man's feet, he hid his face
against his knees, and sobbed aloud.

CHAPTER VI.

THE DITTEK CUP.

The first thing that Abel did the next
morning was to take a cab, and drive out
to Mr. Thorjie's at Brompton. He did not
go there with the intention of intruding his

i|it>4i 111'* «"»! fitj'i'r, Imt li.r ill'' |)ur-
jHHi I obtaiiiiiii; mvu of aliseiice for a
weci. iliat lie mip..u devote his whole timu
to lii« M ;inh tiir Viiiict. As soon a* ho
entered his preseuct-, Mr. Thurpc saw by
his dciwiirast, snrrowfiil face, that he was in
trouble; and, holding out his liatid, he said
kindly, " What is it, Abel '.' " This une.x-
jK'ctfd interest was too min h (i)r the pmir
Icllow, whose heart was ready In civcrdiiW
at thu first word of sym|>athy ; sn. with a
burst ol' tears, he told his ciiiployrr of the
sudden and strange disapiiraranic of Vio-
let, of his tears of tbiil play, and his wish
to devote his entire time to a seareh for
her.

Mr. Thorpe listened to him with the
deepi'st pity. He had his suspicions ; but
ho could not hear to discourage the poor
young man, by even hliiliii.; them. "So
you think there is some villainy at the bot-
tom of this ? you are sure that she hasn't
gone of her own will ? "

"No, no I I don't know. I'm sure of
nothing. O Mr. Thorpe I don't say that!
don't li)r (Jod's sake ! She was as good
and as ])nre-hearted a gii'l as ever lived,"
cried Abel, struggling desperately against
his own fears and suspicions.

"Yes : she may liavo been all that; and
I dare say she was: but still some villain
might have deceived her, and won lier eon-
fideiiee, and at last induced her to listen to
his [iroposals."

" I can't bear it, Mr. Thorpe ; indeed I
can't : pray don't think that of her."

" I know it hurts you, Abel ; you loved
the girl; yon trusted her; and you still
have faith in her : but bo prepared for the
worst, tlu! very worst, and try to bear it
like a man. You have my warmest sym-
pathy, and more than thiit, my assistance
in finding her. Advertise in all jlie news-
papers; employ any means you like, and
I'll defray the expense. It's a hard blow
for you; and you don't deserve it. You've
tried bravely to get on, and you're worthy of
a better fate ; but, in case of the worst, bo
patient and strong, and in time you'll get
over it."

V^P'

t ^-!-^-> ' -^^^tf^ ' ^.-VjVim'**^-j i '^w« ' .i ' .w"»- ' "ji.. ^..I ' j 'i uM 'i

nOPKB OF BAND.

"I noviT Klmll, Mr, TlwNrpo : 1 iu'v.t|
thnll. I I'lVf'l liir inoru tliiui my "wn

llfi',"

" AM, I RiM'iik to you nn rricinl to
frlcnil, ii« mini to in;in. I've llkiil you
from the fir!<t ; tluTi''.^ iihviiyi* tn'cn a «)rt
of !«ymi>iitliy lii'lwccn m\ ami now in your
tnitililf I <Mii li'''l t'"" y""' '>" ' •■""''' ''"* '"•'
own con. I'vi' liii'l comi' I'Sprrir ico. Tve
drunk of the Wtter cnp myxi-lf. Wlun
UolK'n'!" motliiT (lii'il, I tlion:;lnt. lifi' WHS
finislii'iMor mi' ; liiit I'vf oiitliviMl (Ifspiiir,
nml am rt-ni'^nt'il, ami i^vi'n Iniupy at times.
Onr first tronUlf U tliu hardest to hear.
Time cures, while it inurpH iw to our mis-
forlunes. IJe patient, and trust in God;
and you'll oullivo this, even at its worst."

" I iinpe I niay ; for it wcmn to me that
I eouM not endure life with «ueh a wei^jht
upon me," said Ahel, as l\v wipeil away his
fast llowiu'j; tears.

It was a lilossed thin;; for him that he
was youn,', and had not outlived his tears.
No matter how },'reat is tlio (;rief, wldle we
can weep, it does not hum and consume the
heart.

" Take a week, and lon;;er if you like ;
and rU do your work myself," said Mr.
Thorpe, pressing his hand kimlly anil cn-
Coura;;in^ly as he lell him.

From there, he went to Scotland Yard.
Of course nothiir^ had houn heard of the girl
in HO chort a tiuu-. Then he hastened to
the jiublishing houses of nil the prominent
London journals, and caused the following
B<lverti»enient to bo inserted.

" If Violet will return to her home, and

her unhappy friends, all will he Ibr^iven,

no matter ho^v 'neat the fault.

" AnEL."

Tills could only apply to her if she had
gone away of her own will : he was slow to
admit it, still, he would leave no stone un-
turned, if he might but win her back.
AiVerwaid he went to the flower-shop, in
Ilolboru, to learn if Mrs. Burt had heard
any thin;; of her.

"1 don't know as it's much to tell you,
Mr. Winter; but my little boy, as carries

out the doweri", sayn he's nure he- mw Vl'let
..;et into a cab, at the iwtii -f Oxfonl
Street, alKHit seven o'clirk last ni;ht; an*
that wan a few nilnutoii at\er the tlmo (ho

let> h.-re."

» Where is tho hoy ? It't tt». *oti him at
once;" and Ab.'l's fai'c c»iiim-. I suddenly
from thu liallor of despiur to the crimson
of hoiH-.

" Here he is. Now, Johnny, tell tho gen-
tleman all you know, as straight as a I k,"

saiil the mother, as the Ikiv spran,' over tho
coimter, an-l placed hiuiU'lf scpiarely before
the young man, eager to give any informa-
tion, in the hope of receiving a MXpenee.

" Are you stire it was she V " asked Abel,
fixing his eyes on tho boy, as though ho
would read his heart.

" Yes, sir, as sure's can bo. Wliy, I just
seed her an 'alf an hour afore, an' sho
'ad on the vi>ry self-same things. I can tell
you every one, sir. A grayish-like ealikur
gown, with tucks inter the bottom, a little
black apron with crinkly red braid ou it, a
brown shawl, an' a while straw hat with a
bluish-plaid ribbon. An' 'cr hair a kind
o' hangiu' down 'er back in curls. Ain't
that 'er, sir? "

" Yes : that is certainly the way she was
dressed," replied Abel, almost weeping at
tho exact description, as exact as ho had
given it the ni-ht before at Scotland Yard.
" Did you see her face ? " he incjuired ; for
the boy wtis burning to tell more.

" No, sir, I can't say as I did . 'cause when
I first popped 'er, she was a-puttiu' one foot
on ter the steps o' the cab, an' 'er back was
ter me, an' the driver he was a-leanin' for-
•ard to listen to someihin' she was a-sayin',
an' she was a-cryin' like a— like a — fish,"
ho blurted out, in dire extremity for a
comparison.

" How did you know she was crying, if
you didn't see her A\ce V " asked Abel stern-
ly, not caring for any elaborations, and only
requiring in his emergency tho simple,
unvarnished truth.

" Hush, hush, Johnny," interposed his
mother. " You didn't say afore as how she
was a-cryin'."

pt5-5rglPfSK'^^^^3S«B!!W

THK niTTKIl CUP.

.13

in" he Kiiw Vrict
ir«t., .f Oxlunl
; lust ni'jlit; nn'
lifr llio tliiio Am

t ivv *oo 111 in at
mmn' I Hiiilili'iily
r to iho irinison

inny, tdl tlio Rfin-
•ai(;ht us ii liDok,"
y sprun'^ over tho
ir wiiiurcly ln'li>ro
;;ivi! any iiirorma-
iiiS a fixpi'iici'.
Iiu V" iiski'il AIm'I,
DV, fts tlioii^h ho

bo. Wliy, I just ,
ur afort', iin' slie
tliinu'8. I can tell
rayish-like ciilikcr
he bottom, a littlo
' reil briiiilcii\ it, a

utraw hat with a
n' 'er hair a kind
c in curls. Ain't

y the way «ho was
[ilmost weeping at
s exact as ho liad
at Seotlaml Yard.
" ho iniiuired ; for
;cll more.

» I did . 'cause when
IS a-puttin' one foot
lb, an' 'er back was
u was a-leanin' for-
n' she was a-sayin',
, a— like a — fish,"
•0 extremity for a

she was crying, if
" asked Abel stern-
aborations, and only
geney tho simple,

ly," interposed his
say afore as how she

" Will, 'cause I didn't think of if," re-
turnt il the iiiipiTtiirlialilc infoiiu.iiit ; " an'

now I 'ill Inr MS how [ ihoiiijiit nho was.

'eauM' I fifil 'er'nnkcivlierin 'er'and when
she reai'hi'il out to fasten the door."

" \V:m 'hi' alone Y Now tell nie tho truth,
and I'll ;,'lve you a shillin;;."

" I flon't know, sir ; but I "'noso she were,
'cau-'c I didn't see ni. <n , .loii'^di I should
n't wonder if I here wero someone a-wnitin'
lor 'er in tlui cab ; 'eniiso thu (Mirtains was
down like as they al'ays is to u funeral."
" Wliiili way did the cub |,'oV"
" Wiiy, down Oxford like mad. So fast
that a p'liceinen batted at the "orses ; hut he
didn't hit 'cm, an' the driver just snick-
ered, an thiiiidied his noso at 'im."

In spite of I he seriousness of the occasion,
Mrs. Uiirt l,iii;,rhed at the facetious deserij)-
tlon of her oll'sprin},', and Abel si;;hed heav-
ily ; but (he boy nniintained his solemn
tjravity, his head thrown back, his thinnbs
in his trousers pockets, and his unwaverinf;
eyes fixed on the youn;? man's face, as un-
flinchingly as a statue of Truth,

" Did you notice the number of the cab 'i"'
cried Abel caf,'erly, as a sudden thought
made his heart bound with hope.

"No, sir, I didn't. How could I when
he drove ofl" like lii^htnin' ? but I'd know the
cabby anywhere if I set eyes on 'im, 'cause
he 'ad a noso as bi<r as — as big as a
— stove."

"Johnny, Johnny, bo c.ireful an* tell the
truth," mildly interposed Mrs. Burt again.

"Well ain't I a tellin' the truth, as
solemn as ihoujrh I was swore V " questioned
Johnny in an injured tone of voice.

" Well, I can't say as how you are ; "cause
no man's got a nose as big as a stove."

" Yes, them cabbies is. Lots of 'em's got
noses as big as little stoves ; an' I didn't flay
what size stoves," returned tho boy, deter-
mined to defend his word from imputation
by the most unanswerable logic.

" Never mind that," interrupted Abel,

driven to desperation by this nonsense.

" You think you'd know the man if you saw

him again 'I "

" Certain, 'cause 'o tho nose," replied

[.Johnny with nnnlrof the strongest convlc
lion.

" Well, then, Mrs. Hurl, will you hi the
Imiv CO with nie V perhiips with his help [
•■an find the calmian, ami may learn iVoiii liiiii
what I want to know."

"Certain, certain, Mr. Winli'r: kee[iliim
as long as ymi like, an' I'll bonow a iici.;h-
bor's little boy to ru'i errands while hc'n
gcuie," replied Mrs. Hurt kindly a.s Abel
hurried away.

.Johnny, delighted with the prospect of a
day among Lcmdoii cabs, expressed his
satisfaction wiili a double somerset, ami a
final exit on his hands, much to the diMiiay
of his mother, who declared that he would
turn his brains upside down.

It is needless to say that .Johnny's story
of the nose was a fabrication of his inven-
tive brain : there was no cabby to be f mnd
with a facial appendage larger ami more
striking than that of a hundred otiiers,
as Aliel began to susjieet; for, atler a day's
search among tho five thousand publi^
vehicles which eimstitute part of tin! rolaiy
motion of London, and iheir live tliousand
drivers, ho f.uled to find one with a nose as
largo as even the smallest of stoves, in spitu
of Johnny's constant prediction that they
would ('ome ujwn him somewhere when they
didn't exi)ect it, although he pretended to
bo looking for him every moment. Heforo
the day was over, the pwjr fellow, hoping
against hope, had asked hundreds of these
obdurate Jehus if they had driven a young
girl from Oxford Street the night before,
only to receive an indifferent and dis-
heartening negative. Nearly all tho week
he might have been seen at the differcuit
cab-stands, and around IloUjorn and Ox-
ford Streets, with .lohnny always at his side,
interested and attentive ; but still tho man
with the remarkable noso never made his
appearance, nor ever had been soon by any
one, that he could discover, except that
young disciple of Truth, who frequently
declared that" ho must a died sudden, or
else he'd a turned up afore."

It was not until a week was spent in this
useless search that Abel would acknowlodi'e

't/S!f!JfS~S&SSK:stEiCVIIKIiSi&^'\'ih

ROPE8 OP SAND.

to himself that he had been dcceivcl in
rcf^iird to Violet's haviiv^' Roiie away in a
cab. Slill, the lond mother had not the
bast donbt that her ollVpi-in:^ had seen the
girl driven olV in a vehicle whose eon.luctor
had an enormons nose, though, perhaps,
not .piite .as large as a small stove. At the
end of the week, after Abel had haunted
Seotland Yard, the cab-stands, and the
Btreets aroun.l Ilolborn, with no success, he
was obliged to confess to poor old Top, who
sat at home, weakly lamenting, that he had
but little hope of ever finding Violet, or of
even hearing from her. " She must have
gone of her own will, or else all my cflorts
wouldn't have been in vain," bo saul

gloomily.

" God forgive her, my boy, if she did .
for it'll be the means o' my death. It's a
blow I can't get over. Some way I feel ten
years older an' I di<l a week ago. I'm

tient like, and not lose your interest in life,
iin' get discouraged when you're all alone,
an' don't have me to talk to you."

'•• Don't have you, d.addy ? Why, what
do yon mean? You're not ill, are youV
Do you feel pain anywliero V T.'H me,
and I'll bring a doctor," said Abel anxious-
ly, as he looked with close scrutiny into the
pale, wrinkled face of the old num. His
trouble surely had blinded him, or he
would have noticed before how drea.lfully
this week of anxiety had told upon poor
old Top. His ciieeks, that had always a
healtliy flush, were now colorless and.
sunken. His bands trembled pitifully , ami
his voice, that had never lost its cheery
chirp, was now low and depressed. "I
believe you are ill, da.ldy, and won't tell
mc 1 I'll go at once for a doctor, ' he ex-
claimed, starting up, ami taking his hat.
» Now, Abel, dear, don't <lo no such a

iling in his
I'vi

trouble, an' not be able to comfort you.
I've al'ays been a comfort to you afore
Ain'tl, my boy?"

go. When God callh poor old Top, he's
ready ; an' all the doctors in tlic world can't
keep him a minit. So you see, it'd be a

uV' 'ves vouhave daddy, dear," sobbed pity to spend money for naMy drugs, as'd
a ^ ,,, J ,.s, > ou have, aaa ly, , i ^_^^^j ^^, ^ . ^^ ^j.^,^.

Abel ; '' and you are now."

" No : it don't seem as if I was now. I
know I kind o' fail to reach your case. It
ain't like your other little troubles; an'
none but God can comfort you. It's no use
for me to talk much about it to you. It's
no use to keep l^ tearin' open your wounds

only turn my stomach, an' spoil my ai)pc-
tite. Now, you don't s'pose poor old cre-
tur's like mc is a goin' to last al'ays, do
you? Why, look at my sand-pails: how
many times I've had to get new ones ! An'
people can't last al'ays, any more 'an sand-
pails. Don't talk any more 'bout my bein'

no use to keep l^ tearin open )our «uuu.= r ■ . ^.

that'll bled enough without. _ I was very su^k, but jus try an e ^^^^ U^^^^

fond o' Vi'let ; but o' course I didn't love
her as you did, that was to be her husband
Still, I loved her so much, that, if she
should come back penitent, I'd forgive her;
an' I hope you would too."

" Yes, I'd forgive her ; I have already :
but she'd never be the same to mc again.
I've lott ber; I know and feel it : even if
ehe should come back now, she wouldn't be
the same. I've lost Violet, and I never
shall find her."

There's a nice slice o' bacon, and some
muffins hot an' well buttered. I've got
your supper for you many a night when
you had such an appetite that you couldn t
get enough. Now you've got plenty, an'
j-ou ain't got the will to eat it."

Abel drew near the table, and tried to
force down a little food ; but Violet's place
opposite to his was empty, and he missed
her as he never had before. There seemed
to be a black shadow over the spot where

Mf:',':;;'.' .,■,• »»• be -e.i»„ed .„• ,.. \ U « .«» l.» ,0™., f.c. .» often. HI.

\ '

J 1 ^

■^-':/>^^irhi^-^-yJI^^'f^r^^^^'^<^'-^''^—

S»SS^2SES5W«S»"i+*S*WKffl

THE BITTER CUP.

interest in life,
u'ro all iildiio,
you."

? Why, what
t ill, are youV
•c V Tell nie,
, Abel anxiuiis-
.•rvitiny into the
old inaii. His
III hitn, or lie
how ilreadCnliy
told upon poor
t had always a
colorless aii'l
■d pitil'iilly , and

lost its cheery

depressed. " I
, and won't tell
I doctor, * he ex-
)king his hat.
't <lo no such a
, smiling in his
gently. '* I've

life, an' I never
,d a sick day, an'
ly time comes, I'll
jr old Top, he's
n the world can't
ou see, it'll be a
nafiy drugs, as'd
i' spoil my appe-
ase poor old ere-
to last al'ays, do
• sand-pails; how
jt new ones ! An'
ny more 'an sand-
ore 'bout my bein'

a bite o' supper.

bacon, and some
luttered. I've got
my a night when
B that you couldn't
ve got plenty, an'
eat it."

table, and tried to
1 but Violet's place
ity, and he missed
ore. There seemed
rcT the spot where
face BO often. His

heart was to<i full. A sob rose in his
throat and almost suffocated him. He
tried to drink the liot, strong tea that Top
had ])oured tor him; but he could not swal-
low ; his tears fell into his cup, and scorched
his lips. " It/s no use, daddy," he cried,
putting it down. "I can't eat, I can't
(b'ink ; my heart is broken." Then lie
wrung his hiuids, and moaned, " Oh, if she
were Init ilead ! If she were but dead ! I
could bear it, and thank God. Tm too
wretched ! My cup is too bitter, my bur-
den too heavy ! Let n>o go to uiy own
room. I'm better alone ; and I'm so tired,
periia])s I shall sleep a little, and forget my
sulVering."

" I shouldn't wonder if your bed was the
best place lor you," said Top encoura-
gingly, as he lit his candle. " But before
you sleep, just ask God to help you a bit,
an' he'll do it; tor ho al'ays gives us a lift
when our burden's too heavy for us to pull
through alone."

In his Utile room, Abel tried to lift his
heart to God, tried to draw strength from
the lijuntaiii of love and pity ; but, in lh(;
midst of his prayers and sobs, he saw only
the face of Violet, her blue eyes tearful,
her mouth quivering with sorrow and jieni-
teaee, and lier hands outstretched to him.
At last overcome by weariness, lor the first
time within a week, he sank into a dee[)
sleep, from which he did not awake until
the morning sun slicjne into his room.
That day he took his place again in the
ollice of Mr. Thorpe, and performi'd his
duty wilh his usual attention, though all
noticed that his liice was gloomy and down-
cast, and his manner more reserved and
serious than usual. Only Mr. Thorpe knew
Lis sad secret, and he respected it. Young
Mr. Thorpe came in late. He was silent
an<l pre-occui)ied, and Abel thought that he
looked jaded and ill : perhaps it was his
morbid imagination ; lor certainly every
thing seemed changed to him now. When
he returned home at ni^iht, with that
dreary dread which we feel on entering
for *lie first tiaie a house from whence the
mortal remains of some beloved one has

been carried, he found Top in bed, and
very weak. Again he expressed his anxi-
ety, and again the old man smilingly as-
sured him that it was nothing. At his time
of lil(! people needed more sleep : they were
babies tor the second time, and returned
again to the needs and habits ot'iiifanry.

About three weel's after \'iolet's disap-
pearance, anil the day belbre the ont^ fixed
for his marriage, Abel returned luiine to
find the poor old man very weak and drowsy.
"jIt's no use, my boy," he said, smiling
faintly, as the young man leaned over his
bed and smoothed his ])illow. " I've hated
to break it to you ; but I've got to now, seein'
as I've had my warnin', an" I ain't long to be
with you."

" Uon't say that, daddy, dear ; don't, I
pray," cried Abel, tis more than one tear
dropped on t\w jiinched, wrinkled face.

" But it's true, my child, an' you ought to
be glad to see a poor ohl cretin'' like me fin-
ish up his work, an' go to sleep in God's
cradle ; for the grave's his cradle, an', some
way, I'm longin' for it, an' ain't sorry, only
for leavin' you alone an' in trouble : that's
what grieves me now. I've thought of it,
a-lyin' here to-day with no one to speak to
but (;od."

" O daddy ! why didn't you let me stay
with you 'I "

" 'Cause, Abel, I wanted to be alone. 1
had business with my Maker, accounts to
settle; an' I didn't want no confusin' o' fig-
ures wilh others bein' round. We wanted
it all alone to otirselves, (iod an' Top, lor
the last reckonin'. I said to myself, loud
an' earnest, like them judges in court, ' Top,
confess wherein you've done wi'ung.' An' I
answered, alter I thought my lili; all over
like, ' Good Lord, I can't see if I've ilone
wrong al'ays, 'cause in my ignorance I don't
know ; but I've tried to do right. I've
never wrongeil any one knowin'ly. I've
al'ays give just measiu'eo' sand. I'vi' ])aid
to the utmost f'arthin' for all I've 1^1. I've
kept myself and all about ine CTean, an'
I've never refused a crust an' a cup to the
poor an' hungry ; but you know if in
thoughtlessness I've committed sins, been

MWL i i |ii uawii^-.j- i iJLWjJH..- i ..i. ' V>' ',i u ' ^Ji*.i i'

.■mm

i'i<

ROPES OF SAND.

over Imsty in my temper, an* misjudged
any one, an' spoke na.'^ty angry words, an'
been harsli an' unforgivin' ; you know it all,
Lord, an' I 'umbly crave your pardon.' Tlion
it seenu'd to me that a voice, clear and dis-
tinct, like water a tricklin' over stones,
said some words that I heard a minister
speak once in a meetin' at Sniithfield, long
ago, when I was a young man ; an' it was
this : ' Though your sins be as scarlet, they
shall be as white as snow.' By that I
know it's .all settled, an' I've nothin' more
to worry about ; now I've had my warnin',
an' I'm ready to go. I'll tell you about it,
Abel. Last night, just after Bow Bells
struck twelve o'clock, — I've heard 'em for
over ei'^hty years, an' soon 1 shall hear 'em
for the last time ; but they'll ring, an' ring
the same when I'm gone ; an' some other
poor cretur'll lay in this little room, an'
hear 'em ; an' Top'U be safe enough in his
Father's house a listenin' to 'em, i'aint-like,
way below, here on earth. Well, as I was
a savin', I heard Bow Bells ; an' they sounded
as they never did before , — as though angels
had rung 'em, an' then waited an' rung 'em
again. An' then all was still, an' I sort o'
slept, an' dreamed that your mother — your
poor mother, Abel, that died on my sand-
heap — come to me all in beautiful white, as
clean and fresh as a lily, with a face as inno-
cent an' peaceful as a baby, an' held out her
hands, an' said, ' I've come for you, good old
Top,' — think of that, she called mc ' good,'
— ' The dear Lord says I may bring you to
him.' Then I took her hand confidin'-like,
an' we seemed to be floatin' in the air,
away up above the cross on St. Paul's ; an'
as we went, leavin' the city an' all its noise
an' sin below us. she leaned toward me,
an' said so sweet an' saintly, ' Top, you've
Siived my child ; through you my boy will
come to mo. My sins are all washed away,
an' I shall look in his face holy an' pure.'
That is what she said, I remember every
word. 'Jijien it seemed as though a great
light sliOTC round us ; an' music like the
charity children a singin' in St. Paul's fdled
the air. ^Vith that I woke, an' found myself
here in my little room, an' the lamp out, an'

the moon a-lookin' in my window ; an' I felt
so peaceful an' liapiy that I knew I'd
had my warnin', an' my work was nigh
done."

" It was only a dream, a sweet, liappy
dream," said Abel, laying his face on the old
man's pillow, to hide his tears. " My poor
mother knows in the other world how good
you've been to her hoy ; and God sunt her
in a dream to tell you so. Daildy, dear,
I've been thinking a good deal of my mother
since Violet went .away ; and I've sometimes
thought that perhaps she was one of those
poor outcasts, whom the world never for*
gives, and whom God never refuses to pity."
"I'm 'fraid she was, Abel. I never
meant to tell you, but now p'rhaps it's best :
it may make you more gentle with Vi'let.
It was her that said as how she'd twisted
ropes o' sand. Poor cretur' 1 she'd suffered
an' was penitent, 'cause I saw the tear on
her cheek after she was dead. Remember
that, if ever you come across Vi'let; ibr no
matter what she's done, there was some-
thiu' good in the girl. I can't never forget
how she put her arras 'round my neck, the
night before she went away, an' kissed my
old fivce so lovin'. Her heart was full then ;
an', if we'd a knowd all, we might have
saved her. Abel, since I've laid here alone,
weak an' tired like, I've thought more 'an I
ever did in my whole life afore, an' I
b'lieve it ain't intended for us to be very
happy here on earth, 'cause our happiness ia
to come after this life, an', more 'an that, I
b'lieve God don't mean us to be harsh an'
condemn any one ; for we're all sinners in
his sight; an', if one's a little better an'
another, it's p'rhaps 'cause they ain't been
tempted an' tried : an', good or bad, we're all
his children, an' he loves us all. If that
poor, s'iled, crushed mother o' yours is
clean an' white in heaven, we musn'i turn
our backs on any one. That's why I don't
feel hard to'ard Vi'let, an' I could take her
in my arms an' forgive her, 'cause I know
(iod will. An', Abel, dear, I want you to,
if you ever find her. Be pitiful to her, an'
kind, just like the Lord's been to your
mother."

•

> f.

I
I

li »aj..a»J.t.i<Af'

THE BITTER CUP.

idow ; an' I fi-lt
t I knew I'd
fork was nigh

sweet, liappy
I face on the old
.rs. " My poor
vorld liow good
(I God Sunt lier

Daildy, dear,
[il of my mother
I I've sometimes
IS one of tliose
rorld never for-
refuses to pity."
ibel. I never
I'rhaps it's best :
ntle with Vi'let.
w she'd twisted
I she'd suffered
saw tlie tear on
ad. Remember
5S Vi'let ; ibr no
here was some-
in't never forget
id my neck, the
:, an' kissed my
rt was full then ;
we might have
e laid here alone,
ought more 'an 1
ife afore, an' I
ir us to be very
! our happiness is
more 'an that, I
to be harsh an'
re all sinners in
little better an'
B they ain't been
dor bad, we're all
I us all. If that
ther o' yours is
1, we niusn'l turn
'hat's why I don't
' I could take her
tir, 'cause, I know
u', I want you to,
pitiful to her, an'
I's been to your

" T will, I will," said Abel solemnly : " I
promise you tliat I will."

" An' I want you to try an' be strong, an'
patient, an' live to do all the good you can
to the poor an' sufferin'. P'rliaps God
intends that you ain't to be happy here :
I'm 'fraid he does. I'm 'fraid sorrow'll be
your portion, 'cause you've commenced so
young ; but you'll get your share o' happi-
ness in the end when God takes you home,
— that is, if you don't trust to ropes o' sand ;
an' I'm sure you won't, Abel. You've more
good in you than to turn to folly an' sin for
'comfort. I'm sure you'll do right, even if
it makes you suffer for the time. If you
have enemies, forgive 'em, an' do 'em a
good turn ; an' be just to every one. I
'don't know as I can say any more 'an that.
Now, my boy, I've got somethin' to give
you 'sides advice. AVhen I'm gone, you'll
fiml a box under my bed, an' here's the key
round my neck. There's near upon a hun-
dred pounds in that box, — I've been all my
life a savin' it, penny by penny, — an' six
pounds that belongs to Vi'let. It's her
money that I laid away for her to buy things
for her weddin.' If ever you find her, give
it to her with my love an' forgiveness.
P'r'aps some time that money that I've saved
scrap by scrap '11 be of use to you. Then,
dear, you'll think o' your oM daddy, an'
love him, won't you ? "

" I shall think of you always without
that, an' love you while my life lasts," said
Abel, tendei-ly smoothing the scanty gray
locks, and the closely-lined brow.

" I've been good to you most al'ays,
haven't I V "

" Yes, yes, better than I've deserved."

" If I've ever been a little harsh an' im-
patient to you, you'll forgive me, won't
you?"

" You've never been : I can't remember
an unkind thing."

" Thank God for that 1 I shouldn't like to
think that I'd made you unhappy when
you've been such a blessin' to me. The
only thing I'm sorry for is that you couldn't
a gone to Blue-coat School when you set
your mind on it. I don't think there w.is

ever any thing else that T didn't try to do
for you. Now I've finished nil, an' I'd like
to have dieil seein' you happy wiih Vi'let;
but that can't be, so I nnist go an' leave
you alone an' in trouble ; an' it's hard, but
God knows best when to take me."

Afler that he fell into a light slum!)er,
and Abel sat by his side holding the gentle
hand that had caressed him and toiled for
him so lovingly, with a heart too full for
tears. From time to time he awoke, and
talked calmly and cheerfully of some scene
in his boy's childhood, or some of his pretty
baby ways, the memory of which still had
the power to warm and cheer his heart.
Once, after a long silence, when Abel
thought him sleeping, he looked up and
said, " Do you mind that day, so long :igo,
when we'd been to the Tower, an' you said
you shouldn't like to miss bcin' hapi)y?
You was so young an' full o' life then that
you thought you couldn't bear it. Now I'm
'fraid you'll have to : I'm 'fraid sorrow an'
sacrifice '11 be your jwrtion ; an' the oijly
anxiety I have is that you'll sink under
it."

" Don't fear for me, daddy. I know
what my lot's to be : I know that my happi-
ness is all behind me ; but 1 shall try to
bear whatever's laid upon me. 1 shall try
to bear it like a man."

" That's right, Abel. I'm glad to hear
you say that ; but don't forget to look to
God for help."

When Bow Bells struck twelve, the old
man was sleeping like a child ; and Abel,
watching him, saw a smile of ineffable
peace steal over his face, — a still, holy smile,
while his lips parted in a few, low, broken
words : " I'm ready. Top's ready ; give me
your hand, mistress, an' Abel '11 come after
us." Then, without sighing or moving, he
ceased to breathe ; and the smile «cttle<l over
his kind old face, touching it into childish
calm and simplicity.

The dawn of the day, the da^^Rhat was
to have witnessed his marriage, tiiund Aljel
sitting motionless by the bed, holding the
gentle old hand in his, and looking with a
sort of stupor into the plain, wrinkled face

mt-

BOPES OF SAND.

that had always s>hono with love and kind- 1
ncss tor him. The ton It airuction, the )
really sympathy, the patient, unwaveriiij;
love i>l' his lite, was gone ; and he was alone
and in trouble.

CHAPTER Vir.

A TEURIDLE INJUSTICE.

The pleaaantest of all pleasant June
mornings ! The sun is turniu}? the smoke
into a ;;()l(len mist ; the fresh wind shakin<?
down showei-s of blossoms from every tree .
and shrub, the birds sin^'ing, the diildren
laujihin;,', the parks and gardens lull of
merry, lii.'lit-hearted strollers: the whole
city is alive with gayety and excitement ; for
it is the carnival of London ! it is " Derby

Dny!"

Ill a small, neatly-furnished room in a
clean court out of Little Eastcheap, near an
open window filled with geraniums and
loses, at a table covered with books, sits
Abel Winter, reading attentively, lie is
very thin and pale; and his face has an
expres.-i(m of patient seriousness which
cannot be called sorrow ; his dress of deep
mourning, though plain, is scrupulously ne.at
and precise, and his manner that of a man
■who lives within himself, asking little and
expecting little from those around him.
There are no signs of luxury in the room,
except in books and ilowers. The win-
dows, and two or three stands, arc filled
with choice plants, and pots of sweet
P.irma violets; and books are scattered
i'.round on shelves, tables, and chairs, in
that careless fashion which shows that they
are constant and ^miliar companions.
There is a tap at the door; and Abel lifts
his heaflknd shuts his book with a lingering
trlanee, as though unwilling to leave it, as
his landlady enters with his breakfast.

" I'm a little late this mornin'," she says,
in a pleasant, u-iarty voice; "but it's not

my fault in the least. It's the boy as is he-
hind time with the milk ; an' he said as how
it wasn't his fault neither, 'cause nothin's
reg'lar on Uarby Day."

" Never mind, Mrs. IJattle. I've an hour
yet be tore olliee-time ; and I'd rather read
before hreakfivst than alter: the brain's
more active Avhen the stomach's empty."

"Are they? AVell, 1 don't know as to
that; but 1 like to eat before I do much:
I'm iaint-like if I don't."

" Well, for jihysical labor you need to;
but lor mental, that's dilferenl," returned
Abel gravely, as ho seated himself at the
table with his book still in his hand.

" Lor ! now, Mr. Winter, I'm no scholard,
an' I don't undcrstaml half them big words
you've used; but do just put down your
book while you cat your breakfast. I've
heard as how it was the worst thing in the
world for the digesters to read when you're
eatin'."

Abel smiled a little, sad smile, and said
he belii'ved it was considered injurious,
but that ho had never felt any ill ellects
Irom it.

Mrs. Battle poured out his coffee, placed
the muffins and chops conveniently near
him, smoothed the table-cloth, and changed
the arrangement of his knife and fork sev-
eral times, and then lingered as if loath to
cTo; for she (piite depended upon a chat
with Abel while he was taking his break-
fast: but this morning he seemed less
inclined than usual to listen to her enter-
taining remarks ; for he divided his attention
pretty equally between his book and his
coffee.

"Your flowers is lookin' tine this
mornin' ; ain't they, Mr. Winter V " she said
at length, hovering round them, and i)ieking
off a dead leaf here and there. " I dusted
'em yesterday, an' drowned 'em with
water, which freshened 'em up amazin' : an'
them vi'iets, how sweet they do smell 1
Why, they scent the room like a garden."
" Yes : they're very fragrant, and grow
beautifully," replied Abel sadly and ab-
stractedly, as though he were thinking of
1 something else.

A TERRIBLE INJUSTICE.

iO boy Hs is be-
lie said as bow
cause nothin's

. I've an bour
a\ ralhiT real
: tbe lirain's
.li's empty."
I't know as to
)re I do niucb :

' you need to;
ent," returned
biinsulf at tbe
lis band.
I'm no Hcbobxrd,
tbein 1)1;; words
put down your
breaivfast. I've
rst tliin;; in tbe
!ad when you're

smile, and said
lered injurious,
t any ill elleets

is coffee, pbiced
nveniently near
lb, and clian;^ed
ifc and forlc sev-
ed as if loatli to
}d upon a chat
lining bis break-
be seemed less
ten to ber enter-
idedbisattencion
is book and bis

lokin' lino tbis
'inter V " she said
liem, and jueking
Iiere. "1 dusted
iwned 'era with
1 up amazin' : an'
tbey do smell 1
» like a garden."
grant, and grow
ul sadly anil ab-
wcre thinking of

I t

" Do you know, Mr. Winter, that it's
just fimr years ago to-day since you come
here ? " saitl Mrs. Battle, with tbe door in
ber fingers, as if it bad just occurred to
her as she was going out, when really she
h.id been thinking of it ever since she en-
tered the room.

" Yes : I remember it loo well," returned
Abel with a sigh.

" I don't forget it, 'cause it was a awful
day for me. First, in the mornin' early, I
hciiril as bow my Cousin Betsy's little lM)y
was drowned in a wash-tub down in Sus-
sex. Then straight upon that bad news
comes more, — for cats never die but kittens
do, — a' aunt o' my husband's mother had
to drop down sudden that very time, an'
never 'sjieak again ; an' it was a great dis-
appointment too, 'cause she had property,
an' died afore she bad time to make 'er
will, an' my poor man never got a penny ;
an' goodness knows ho needed it bad
enough ! Then, just as my eyes was as red
as a lobster with cryin', an' I burryin' like
mad to get your rooms ready for you an'
your bride," (Abel winced), — " tryin' to
make 'em neat an' pleasant-like, you come
all in deep mournin', pale as a sheet, an'
tells me that you'd lost her sudden, an'
shouldn't need four rooms, but would take
two all the same. I can't never (brget
what a shock it was, along of not lettin' all
ray rooms, and a-thinkin' that every one
was a-dyin' sudden ; for no one would never
a thought it of that young pretty cretur'
as come with you one evenin' to look at the
rooms."

" Please don't speak of it, Mrs. Battle :
I can't bear to be reminded of that dread-
ful time."

"Oh ! I beg your pardon, Mr. Winter.
I didn't mean to hurt your feelin's ; I was
only just a-lbinkin' bow long you'd lived
all alone an' in mournin' ! an' how much
happier you'd be if you had a wife to
keep you company, an' to dust your books,
an' tend to your flowers I ''

" Thank you, Mrs. Battle ; you're very
kind ; but I never shall have a wife. I'm
contented as I am. I'm sure you don't

mind taking care of my things ; and I'm
(piito satisfied."

" An' I am, too, Mr. Winter, for that mat-
ter. You're a' excellent lodger as ever wa,<i :
so quiet an' no trouble, as I've oflen told my
man, an' always wipes your feet, an' dim't
i'orget there's a scraper at tbe street-door:
still, it seems to mo you're kiml o' lonely-
like, for all."

" No, Mrs. Battle: I don't think I am.
Books and flowers are pleasant compan-
ions."

" Yes, I s'jKjse them are for scholars ;
but there's peo])le as needs human bein's
round 'em to sort o'chirk 'em up a bit. Now,
Mr. Winter, instead o' settiu' here alone,
an' puzzlin' over them books, which is like
deal men's bones, dry an' mouldy, why
don't you go to the Darby ? Everybody's
goin', an' it's a day like we don't often
have. It'd do you a deal o' good.
Me an' my man'll bo startiii' in a' bour.
We've a pickled tongue, a slice o' bam, an'
bread an' ale, with a 'alf of a cold chicken,
for a lunch. There's a plenty for you,
if you'd like to go an' take a bite along of
us."

"Thank you kindly, Mrs. Battle; but I
haven't a holiday : there's a deal to be done
in the oflice ; for young Mr. Tborjie goes to
the r.iees, and we're behindhand in our
work."

" Oh ! that's a pity to shut yourself up
to-day. Now, Mr. Winter, if you don't mind,
I'll pick up a bit," said Mrs. Battle,
clearing away the breakfast things before
Abel had fairly swallowed bis last cup of
coffee ; " for, you see, I must fly round to get
things tidied up before 1 go, an' my man's
so unpatient if I'm late."

" I'm going out directly, Mrs. Battle,"
said Abel, taking up his bat. " So you can
hurry all you wish. Good-morning, and a
pleasant day."

"He's always nice an' civil spoken,"
soliloiiuized Mrs. Battle, as the door closed
upon the young man ; " but I'm glad he's
gone, 'cause I can clatter the things as
much as I like, an' I can work a deal faster
when 1 caa make a noise. It's the only

ROPES OF BAND.

tliinj; lie's the least fiii«!iy about, is noise ;
an* he ilo Wkii to he still as well as any one
1 ever see. How awful pale he turned
•when I spoke of his trouVile I Lor I I
thought tiiere wasn't the inan born as'tl
remember a woman a month after she was
<lcacl. let alone four years, and never take
off his hat-band neithi-r. I've nl'ays won-
dereil what killed her, whether it was a fit,
or a turn o' fever, for she died awfid sudden ;
but I never can draw it ont o' him, he's so
dose-like. Yon mi;,'ht as well try to <;et
hair otf a' «•<:!:;. Any way, it was a' awful
stroke, I'm sure ; for I used to hear him
ni.dits a-walkin' an' walkin', 'till I thought
he'd wear the iloor throu<,di. Hut now lie's
pot (piii'ter, and reads and studies more, an'
tends his llowers, an' lingers round them
vi"lets tender-like. I know he loves 'em best
of all his plants 'eause her name was Vi'let ; I
heard him eall her that the ni^dit they eome
to'iether to look at the rooms. Though he's
calmer an' stiller now than he used to be«
still I believe he ain't cured yet; 'cause he
never smiles like a man as has much heart.
Goodness t there's my man a-bawlin' for
me to hurry, as thoujrh he thought I had a
do/en jKiir o" hands, :in' could do every tiling
in a iniiiit. I'm a-eomin', I'm a-c-omin' in
a Hash," she shouted, seizing the tr.ay, and
hastening ofl" with an awful clatter of
dishes and a slipshod sculRng.

^Vhat Mrs. Battle had said was, for the
greater ]iart, true. Abel, after having buried
jioor Old Top resi)eetably in Kensal Green,
had eome there dressed in deep mourning,
with eyes that looked as though they were
drained of tears, and a face so i)alo and
wan that Airs. Battle declared he seemed
more like a ghost than a living man. lie
had said very little, only giving her to
understand, that, instead of a happy bride-
prcKJUi, lie was a sorrow-stricken lover, who
had lost the object of his aireclion almost
on the eve of his marria-^e. The kind-
hearted woman pitied him, and respected his
grief, though she was aching with curiosity
to know all about it ; but Abel's reserve
and dignity baffled every eflbrt to draw him
out i so that after iour years she knew no

more of the particulars of his loss than sLo
did the first day that he came.

In less than a year afler her disappear-
ance, ho had seen Violet twice. The first
time was shortly afler Top's death, when
he caught a glimpse of her driving in Hyde
Park. She was dressed in silk and muslin,
and wore a fashionable blue bonnet. The
carriage, her dress, explained all : she had
deserted him to become the mistress of some
wealthy rival, w' o gave her rich dresses
and j'!wels. He had suspected and feared
it ; but now, when lie knew it beyond a <loubt,
ho was completely beside himself with rage
and indignation. Not knowing what he did,
he followed the carriage, running like a
madman in the hot July sun, until he at-
tr.acted the attention of the p.assers, who
turned and hjoked after him, saving that he
had escaped from an asyliiin ; this brought
him to a consciousness of his ioWy ; and, rush-
ing into the shrubbery, he sank exhausted
and (piiveriug with anguish on the grass
under a tree, where he lay with his face to
the ground <or hours, while those who no-
ticed him thought him either sleeping or
intoxicated. AVhen lie was calmer, he arose
and staggered home ; shutting himself in his
own ro(jm, he wept, and moaned, and raved
the night away, forgetting his courage, his
manliness, his dignity, his promises to poor
Old Top, in the one maddening thought, that
she had been false to him, and was happy,
living in sin, with another. After that
passionate outburst, with a feeling that the
inevitable must be endured, he becarao
calmer and more resigned. Still, with the
strange inconsistency of the human heart,
he haunted every place where he thought
that there was a possibility of seeing her,
until one night he caught another glimpse
of her in the crowd around the door of
Covent Garden Theatre. She was just
stepping into her carriage ; and .ill he saw
was her beautiful tticc and head, with a
cluster of pink roses in her brown curls.
Forgetting himself, tbrgetting the place and
the people, he darted forward, and cried out
in bitter distress, •' Violet, Violet ! " But
the crowd drove him back, scarce noticing

'¥'

A TERRIBLE INJUSTICE.

loss tlmn gko

er (lisa|»|)Oiir-
!u. The first

(k'iitli, when
iviiv^ in llvile
k and imi)<lin,
lioniu't. Tho
1 iill : iiliR liiid
istross ot sonio
r rich dresses
k>d and fi-ared
cyoml a <louht,
isclf with rage •
1^ whathiMlid,
uniiin.i; liiic a
1, until he at-
I passers, who
aayin'i that he
; this hroii<;ht
illy ; and, rush-
uik exhausted
on the grass
ritli his t'aee to
those who no-
ler sleejiin'^ or
aimer, he arose
; himself in his
ued, and raved
is eourai^e, his
roniises to poor
ig lhouy;ht, that
,nd was happy,
p. After that
reeling that the
d, he became
Still, with tho
I Imnian heart,
ere he thought
' of seeing her,
nother glimpse
id the door of
She was just
and all he saw

head, with a
■r brown eurls.
ig tho plaeeand
(1, and cried out
Violet ! " But
searce notichig

H 1 >

I !

his pathetic cry, so eager was each person
to extricate himself from the i)ress, while
the strong arm and menacing cliih of a po-
liceman prevented him from reaching her
in s[iite of the most frantic elVorts. While he
struggled in vain, the carriage drove away,
and was lost to sight among the hundreds
of otlier vehiiles that tilled tho throngeil
street. After tliat, ho went constantly to
the same places, hut he never saw her again.
In those two brief glances he had learned
that tho flesires of licr girliiood were grat-
ified, — that she had jewels, rich dre.sses,
and a carriage, and went to the play like a
fine lady. When ho thought of it all lie.
abliorred lier; and, grinding Ids teeth, he
woulil say with terrible vindictiveness,
" She's twisting her ropes of sand ! she's
twisting lier ropes of sand ! and by and by
they '11 break, and leave her a wreck. " I$ut
as time passed olF, and he did not see her
again, his feelings softened toward her ; and
he began to think of her as we think of
those who have sinned against us and are
dead, with pity and forgiveness, wishing
again that she would come back to hini
lienitont, that ho might show her the en-
durance of his love and tenderness.

The day after " Derby," Abel was at his
desk, when Robert Thorpe came in, look-
ing pale, heavy-eyed, and jaded. Only
noticing his companion with a curl " Goixl-
niorning," ho throw himself into his chair,
leaned his elbows on his desk, and, dropping
his head into his hands, he remained for a
long time in dee]) thought. At last ho
looked up with a weary sigh ; and, drawing
a pile of letters towards him, he began to
open them, glancing over them, and hastily
flinging them aside impatiently, as thougli
the least labor were unendurable.

" Are you not well this morning, Mr.
Thori>eV" said Abel, after watching him
for a few moments.

" Thank you, I'm well enough, as far as
my health goes ; but I'm awfully bothered
in my mind. To tell you tho truth, Win-
ter, I bet too heavy yesterday, anil lost : it's
like my cursed luck 1 and tho governor is
as hard as a mill-stone this morning. I've

been going over some little items with him;
and I swear if he (h)n't think I'm extrava-
gant, — says I'm too (lush, and spend more
than I ought to of the profits ; but what's
the use of being partner in a house like
this, and working like a dog, if one can't
spend a iiiuind without accounting li»r it.
I declare, I'd rather work on a salary as
you do: ilien I could dis{K)se of my money
as I liked."

Just then there was a tap at the door;
and a clerk, pulling in his head, saiil, •♦ A
man to see Mr. Itobert Tlior|)e."

*• Show him in," returned Robert griiflly.

Abel looked up, as a common, low-
browed, evil-eyed Jew entered ; but, under-
standing that ho h.id private business with
his employer, he bent over the invoice ho
was copying, and paid no attention to the
new-comer.

When Robert Thorpe saw who tho per-
son was, his lace flushed with anger and
niortilied priile. Rising, ho ojiened tho
door of a small cabinet, which was seldom
used by Mr. Thorpe, iw all his jirivate busi-
ne^s was transacted in the luesenco of
Abel, and desired the evidently unwelcome
visitor to enter. They remaineil closeted
for some time, in a very loud and stormy
interview ; for Abel occasionally heard the
words, "Derby," "betting," "interest,"
" security," and so on, bandied about be-
tween tho disputants.

At last the Jew came out with a cun--
ning glitter of satisfaction in his snaky
eyes, and glided away without a word;
while Robert took his seat at his desk,
pale, and trembling with angry excite-
ment.

Neither spoke for a long time. Abel
eojiied attentively ; and Mr. Robert read
and re-read iiis letters, without understand-
ing their contents, so confused was he by
the Jew's visit.

At last he started up, and said, "It's
no use : I can't do any thing to-day. That
infernal Jew's upset me. You'll have to go
over the correspondence. Winter; and, for
Heaven's sake I see that every thing's right;
because the governor'll be in to-morrow.

fcw i iii a i i riwr i r i wt i m i M »iiiiiiii'ii f i' M ph m n

ROPES OP SAND,

He's getting over liis attack, and lie's al-
ways cross-;,'rivine(l and I'nssy nftor ; bo
look out lliiit tiir^ straisjiht. I'm iioing to
the I'lub. to rest a while ; and I shan't Im
back to-day. If Lloyd's man comi's in, pay
him ninety-thn-o i)otnidH, seventeen >^liil-
l„,^s, — a private liill. I'll put it in the safe ;"
and, as he si)oke,he folded a nunildT of notes
in an cnvi'lopi'.and.openins a safe useil tode-
])0:<it»niall amounts, he placed tliepaekaj^e in
it, and closed the door with a nharp banj?.
Ahel was lookin<; at him ; and he remem-
bered the violence with which he shut the
door, and the expression of his face, lon;^
atU'r. Then, takinj^ his hat and cane, he
walked out, tellin;,' the clerks in the outer
oflice, as he passed, that he should not be
back ni.'ain for the day.

Alter he had gone, Abel sat fi)r a lon;^
time in deep thought. Something was
wrong with Mr. Uobcrt Thorpe : he had
feared it for some time ; but lie had liked
him so well, that he would not acknowledge
it, even to himself. Now the Jew's visit
liad confirmed liis worst susi)icions. He was
involved in debt, and his father knew noth-
ing of if. and, that he might not learn of
his folly, he had gone to tliis unprincipled

It was very lato when Abel left the oflTicc,
as he had double duty to i)erform. All the
other clerks had gone long before ; ami he
let himself out, as he always diil, by a small
rear door that led through the warehouse
into a narrow, covered passage, which -on-
ducted to the street. As ho passed out
some one was loaning against the wall near
the door, who, when ho approached, moved
toward him, and then drew back hastily,
and remained motionless. " It is some
houseless creature who has sought a shelter
here," ho thought, as lie hurried out into
the half light of Lower Thames Street.

The next morning Mr. Thorpe came
into town early. He was weak and thin
from a severe attack of gout; and Abel
thought that he had never seen him look-
ing so poorly. Mr. llobert was at his
diTsk working dilijiently when his father
entered. He got up, shook hands allection-
ately, and inquired about his health.

" I'm better, thank you," returned Mr.
Thorpe ; " but I'm weak, nuserably weak,
and fit for nothing. Why didn't you come
home last night, Robert? I was alono all
the evening."

" I'm sorry, sir ; but I stopped at my club,

his o IV, lie nail jioiie lu imo uin.i...-.| »■ -- ,

„.onev-i:.nder to Ixtrieate himself. Then, and went to bed early. I was so used up
his pale face and jailed air told of late and tired."

hours and dissipation. He had neglected
his bu^illess, injured his heallli, and sijuan-
dered his money ; and his father, in igno-
rance of it, triisti'd his most imjwrtant
interests to him. " How will this all end 'i "
thought Abel. " Perhaps it's my duty to
tell Mr. Thorpe my tears. But how can I,
how can 1 go to my employer, and com

"Tired, wore you? Why, was there
more to do yesterday than usual ? "

" Yes, sir," replied Robert, looking fur-
tively at Abel, who was bending over his
desk, apparently absorbed in bis work,
though in reality be heard every word of
the conversation.

" But you manage to keep every thing

how can i iro lo mv eiiiTn"y<^i, "••" >-"■" j ■= „.. ,- -, ,„,

plarof a so; that he loves to i.lolatiy ? straight between you?" said Mr. Thorpe,
1 eaii't do it. I must go on, as I've been glancing at Abel.

doing, working for him like a slave ; for I
j.iiy him, and like him, and I can't betray
him. For near five years I've devoted
myself to him, been patient enough, God
knows! under his exacting commands;
shielded him, and excused him, in a hun-
dred ways : and what have 1 got for it ? a
pleasant smile, a kind word now and then

" CerUinly, sir 1 Winter's invaluable in
an emergency; but I'm afraid he's over-
worked."

" Ah 1 you young men don't know what
work is," returned Mr. Thorpe a little fret-
fully. " Why, afler my fathec died, all the
business came upon lue ; and it was as large
then as it is now, for it hasn't increased

pleasant smile, a Kinu worn iiu« «"u I.-... - . „„ i i ,i;,i nlnnn

Ifs a m vsterv why 1 should like him, when any these last tour J'^'^" • ""'l J ""f,
Iknow heis'nnprincipled; but still I do." 1 as much work as you and Abel do together.

.l)(!l left the office,
pt'rf'oriii. All the
ij; bi'lliro ; iintl he
jH dill, by a onmll
:;h the waichimse
issii;;e, which "on-
^8 ho passed out
inst thi! wall near
pproaihed, moved
rew l)U(k hastily,
ss. " It is some
as sought a shelter
! hurried out into
riiaines Street,
ilr. Thorpe came
us weak and thin
f t;out; and Abel
ver seen liim look-
Lobert was at his
y when his father
jok hands aiVection-
it his health.
foa," returned Mr.
ik, miserably weak,
hy didn't you come
t V 1 was alone all

[ stopped at my club,
I was so used up

Why, was there
han usual ? "
Robert, looking fur-
as bending over his
arbcd in his work,
leard every word of

to keep every thing
?" said Mr. Thorpe,

'^inter's invaluable in
['m afraid he's over-

nen don't know what
r. Thorpe a little fret-
iiy fathec died, all the
e ; and it was as large
)r it hasn't increased
L-ars : and 1 did alone
ind Abel do together."

A TERRinLK INJUSTICE.

" Well. 1 don't understand it ; I'm sure
I'm not idle," .<ai(| Uobert, wiiii uninistiik-
al)le dissatisfaction; "and Winter works
like a horse."

Alii'l i(H>kediip f;ratefully, and was about
to speak, when there was a tap at the <UM)r,
niid a clerk enlerin;^, said, " A man from
I.lovil's with a bill."

'■ 'I'lien ho ilidn't come yesterday V " and
ItiljiTt imlo<-keil the safe as he spoke.

•• Xo, sir," replied Abel.

•• Where's the uioney V It is not liere,"
said Robert, lurnin;;; with a blanched face.

'• I don't know," replied Al)el, risin.:
from his seat. " I saw you put some money
there yestenlaj" before you went out, an<l
I've not seen it since. The man didn't come,
and I had no occasion to open the safe."

'• l$y Jove 1 that's strange," e,\clainied
Robert, ;^lancing from his father to AIm;!.
" There's no one that has a key to the sale,
but my father, you, and I."

" Tell the man to wait a moment," said
^Ir. Thorpe to the clerk, who still stood at
the door all eyes and mouth. " (iive him a
elieclc (or the amount, Robert, and send the
messenger away ; then we will look into
this matter," he aiMcd, turning toward his
sou a ])uzzled, troubled face.

While Robert Thorpe wrote his signa-
ture to the draft with a very unsteady
hand, Abel stood watchin'^ him in a dazed
sort of a way, scarce comprehending the
magnitude of the suspicion that had fallen
upon liim.

" Now pray explain this to me," said
Mr. Thorpe, when the man had finally
withdrawn with the check ; " for I must
coni'css I don't quite understand such an
irre;jular proceeding."

" It's very easy to explain, sir," returned
Robert, still very pale and nervous. " 1
owed a bill iit Lloyd's, a private bill ; and 1
cxpecte<l the man to call yesterdfvy. I put
the amount, which I happened to have by
me, into the safe, telling Winter if the man
eamu to pay it to him. He did not come
yesterday ; but this morning he comes. 1
open the safe : the money is gone. No one
has the key but you, myselll and Winter.

II<! was the last one In the office yesterday,
and the first one this mornin^t! vet he says
that he knows nothing about it."

" Do you dare to say tliat I do ? " cried
Abel, turning toward Robert Thorpe with
a face as white as marble, and eyes that
glowed like fire.

" Yes, certainly ; who else but you can
know any thing about itY "

" Vou are a liar I You know I've never
seen the money," shouted .Vbel at the top
of his voice, utterly forgetting himself in
his indignation.

Poor fellow ! he had not come from a
good stock ; so lie lacked the Jine.ise that
teaches better-bred people to (Control their
temper in every enieri;ency.

" Mr. Winter" (the" Mr. ' was ominous),
said Mr. Thorpe slowly and sternly, " that
will do. You have forgotten yoursi'lf : you
have insulted your employer, and my son."

" He insulted me first," returned Abel
angrily.

" Leave us alone, my son : we'll settle
this between us," and Mr. Thorpe motioned
to Robert to (juit the nxim.

As the young man went out ho looked
back with a strange expression on his f ice,
— an ex[)ression that Abel remembered long
after; and the remembrance of it .softened
his animosity wluin the first bitterness of
the wrong had passed away.

When his son h.td gone, Mr. Thorpe
turned a troubled face toward Abel, and
said, in a voice of mingled jiity aiul en-
treaty, " I'm sorry for this, Abel. For
God's sake 1 can't you explain it? If you
needed the money, and took it, say so at
once; and I'll overlook it. I'll promise you
I will."

" Do you believe me capable of such a
thing, Mr. Thorpe ?" asked Abel with a
strange calmness.

"I'm unwilling to; but what can I
think ? Robert put the money there : you
saw him. He went away, and left you
here ; and, when he returns, the money is
gone. No one else but you and he
have keys to the sat'*!, or even to the room.
Nothing else is disturbed : no other person

M j i i'WMIUJI.^ ■a. U-lgj ' m * ! W W

ROPES OF SAND.

cnn have taken It. You »eo It'n n-^aiiist i
you.

"Yc!"; luce it ic," ri'fiirtiiil llio poor fi'l-
Idw, tri'iiililiii'.! ill cvoiy iiinli an liix anijir
(Iiivi- wiiy to llic {iriff of licinv; mispi'ctcil
by tlic man wlio had tnislt'd liim imfj bi'-
fricndi'il him nlway.*. " Still, .Mr. Tlior[)o,
you know nm ko well, I iilionld liop(>, tlint
no HUHpiciouM circinns'fani'o coiilil i'lian;;i'
your i;o(>d opinion of inc."

" IJut wliiit can I do? It lies In'twcon
you and Uobcrt. I can't accuse my con :
it lies between you two.

" 'riien he is ;;uilly ; for I am not."
"How dare you say that in my pres-
ence Y " f<lioute(l the old gentleman furi-
ously. Then lie calmed hinmelfaiid said,
" But I'm an idiot to lose my temper with
you; there's no excuse for me. He reason-
able, Al)el, and think of tlie absurdity of
such a siipjiosition. What would induce
Mr. l^>llert 'I'hoipe to steal the pitiful sum
of ninety-three pounds from liimself? "

" I diin't know. I know nothiii'^ about it-
I never have sci'n the money. You know
it ; and lie knows it too. I've worked day
and iii<xbt for him. I've served him faith-
fully. I've made myself a slave to him,
and ibis is iht^ return. H** accuses me of
stealin;,' a paltry sum of money ! " here the
poor fellow broke down ; and, sinkinir into
a diair, be wept violently.

Mr. Thorpe wat<hcd him with a pain-
fully puzzh'd, pitying look, thinking; to him-
self, " I can't believe he's guilty : I really
can't."

At last Abel started up ; and, dashing
off the tears, lie cried out in iiard, angry
tones, " I'll never tbrgive him : I never will !
He shall suffer if he don't take that back."
" Calm j-oiir.self, Abel, and listen to rea-
son. I can't think you've done it. I really
can't, thouixh every thing's against you.
I'd rather lose a hundred times that sum
than to accuse you. I'll replace it. I'll
speak to my son, and you must apologize to
him ffir what you said ; you really must.
Tlien, I think, we can let every thing go on
as usual, and, perhaps, in time, the matter
will be explained."

•' What t You think I'll stay here and
go on the same with that siisjiicion resting
upon me'? And that I'll apoloyrize to Mr.
Hobert'? No, Mr. Thorpe : I'll ilo neither.
You've been good to me, sir ; once, when I
was in dreadl'iil trouble, you were kind to
me, and I don't forget it; liut now you ask
too much. No ; I'll not work for you an-
other <liiy. I'll starve first." With this
he took his hat and rushed out of t'r." rear

door, beibro Mr. Thorpe could say another
woid.

CHAPTER VIII.

I.EKT TO HIMSELF.

For several days after the unhappy
aH'air in Mr. Thorpe's office, Abel re-
mained at home in his room, shutting him-
self up, rcfufiiig food and the kindly atten-
tions of Mrs. Battle, who thought he was ill,
and declared it to be the result of his por-
ing over his liooks while ho was taking his
meals. She was not wrong in su()posing
that he was suffering, though the cause
was a very different one from what she
imagined; for in his deepest trouble he
had never been through darker hours than
these. The worst feelings in his nature
were .aroused : every vindictive, cruel pas-
sion, that until now had lain dormant,
started into action at this provocation.
\Vhatev(!r of evil his mother had be-
iiueathcd to him was stirred up against the
perpetr.ator of this bitter wrong. In his
other troubles ho had been gentle and pa-
tient, enduring all with a quiet courage
worthy of a superior nature. But now his
heart was seething hot with hate and re-
venge toward the man who had accused
him so unjustly, who had ruined him with
a word ; and the most unbearable 'part of it
was that lie had loved his enemy, had de-
voted bis best feelings to him, his most
earnest endeavors, the very treshness and
strength of his IjJ'e. Virtually he had been

LEFT TO HIMSELF.

dtny Ihtc antl
iHjiii'inn ri'ntln};
Kilovrizn to Mr.
I'll ilo rifiihiT.
• ; onci', wlicn I
1 yu'Vi' kitiil to
lUt now you link
)rk Cor you nn-
dt." With tliU

out of til" rciir
ul(i Bay anuthur

HI.

ELF.

r the unhappy
ofHce, AIk'I re-
in, sliuttin;^ liini-
;lic kindly atten-
uu;:;lit 111! vrna ill,
result of Ills por-

was taking Iiis
ng in 8U[)po8ing
ough the causo

from wliat sho
>pe9t trouble ho
arker hours than
;s in his nature
ictive, cruel pas-

1 lain dormant,
this provocation,
mother had be-
ud up against the
r wrong. In his
m gentle and pa-
a quiet courage
re. But now his
yith hate and re-
who had accused

ruined him with
)oarable'part of it
is enemy, had de-
to him, his most
ery Jreshncss and
ually he had been

hix !<lava, toiling for him day and night,
anil ri'cciving birt a scanty pittance in r(!-
turn, studying his interest more lliaii his
own, wearing out health and strength in
his service, making every I'llnrt to save
hiiu from censure, lilinding his own tUtlier
tu his tiiults, and enduring lilanu; patiently
that he might sutler no reproof. In short,
he had sacrificed himself day by day, night
by ni^lit, to be of service to this man who
had so cruelly accused him on the first oc-
casion for suspicion ; and for what motive
he coulil not divine. His anger against
his enemy made him see his faults in the
worst light, iind ho now encouraged con-
jectures which he never would have ad-
mitted before : he began to doubt liis honor.
Only Ilobert Thorpe himself could have
witliilrawn the money from the safe where
he hail placed it. Hut what reason had he
for doing so? the sinallness of the amount
made the very supposition absurd. If lie
was involved in debt, so pitiful a sum as
ninety-three ]>ounils could not e.Mrii.'ate
him ; besides, was he not a |)artner in a nour-
ishing, well-established house V and could
he not have raised ten limes the amount
in a hundred dilFerent ways? Therelbre
he could not have taken it simply to get
possession of the money, which had been
Abel's first impression . there must be an-
other and a deeper motive behind it all ;
and that could only be a determination to
disgrace him so that there should be a rea-
son to dismiss him from his service.

" I understand it all now," he cried
starting up, alter hours of deep rellcction,
and walking the floor r.apidly. '• He's a
greater villain thiin I thought him : he
fears that I suspect him, that I know too
miii'h, and that I will betray him ; he looks
uj)oii me as a spy, and has taken that base
means to banish me. After all I've done
for him, it is too cruel. It is more than I
can bear. I will not submit to it calmly.
I will not allow that man to ruin me. I
will go to him, and expose him before his
father, who .shall know all of his irregular
proceedings for the last four years. And
the Jew, how can he explain that ? Why

was he closeted with him ? What can ho
say when I tell his I'atlier of all these
things ? "

Full of this intention, and bcsidi' him-
selt' with exi'iti'iiiciU and anger, he did tho
very worst thing that he could have done :
he rushed into Mr. Thorpe's private ollice,
where he was sitting ipiietly with bis son,
and accused the yoiini; man bel'ore bis I'.i-
tlicr in the most immoderate and insulting
language. ItolM-rt, with fearful pallor and
llaming eyes, interrupted liiiii U'/ain iiiiil
again; while Mr. Thorpe treiiil)li'd so with
indignation that he could scarce speak;
but, when at last he rc'covered himself, ho
(i|>ened the door with a dignity that Abel
could not mistake, and, sayin'.; a ti'W low,
impressive words to him, which eoolcd him
directly, he bade him leave his prcseuco
ti>rever.

The poor fellow tottered out throii;.;li lliu
warehouse into the dark passage, so faint
and dizzy that be was obli'^cd to lean tor
support against the wall. .\ great sob broke
from his trembling lips, and a convulsion of
gi'ief shook him like a leaf. Mr. Thorpe,
the man he had so loved and reverciu'cd,
the man tin* whose esteem and confideneo
he had laliored all his life, had threatened
to have liiin arrested like a common crim-
inal I had ordered him to leave his ollice, or
he would send for an officer to take him to
prison on a charge of theft ! Was there
ever a more cruel wrong done an iiino<-cnt
man ? The first shock had cooled him,
now the numbness had pa.ssed away ; and
the sting that remained maddened him.
r-iill of a terrible resolve, alone in that dark
I)assage, but a few steps from God's blessed
sunlight and tho hurrying feet of men,
women, and children, he took a lisarful oath,
clutching his hand, and fdiaking it in the di-
rection of the office where Mr. Thorpe sat
with his son, silent and gloomy, neither
daring to accuse or excuse the rash young
man who had insulted them in such an
unwarrantable inanncr. Then he hurried
home, rushing blindly through the crowds '
of ])eople who stared at him woiideringly.
Fires and tempests had slumbered in hia

ROPKB OF SAND.

jK)()r KOiil until MOW ; nml lu' liiul lu-vcr
Im'cii iiwiirc III' ilirir cxisti'iii'i'. It w.it tin'
iiijiii'iirf, tilt' ti'iTiltlr iiiiuilii'c, that iinmni'd
tlii'iii III Ik wliirlwiii'l. 'I'lioKi- wliii ilii«k
tlioy iiiuliTKiiiiiil liiiiiiaii iKitiii-i- wi'll tell ut
thitt It ciiiiHi'iimMni'iiN nf innni'uiu'u iiiiikcM um
milMiiit t((iifi'ui.;itioiic:iliiily. 'I'liiit will |>iis?<
iiH a lliciiry nl' i<iiiii(' |i<'ri<iiiiH who li.ivi! Iiuil
but littlu t'X|n'rl»'nfo in llm wopkiir^H of ilio
liciirl ; fell', if lliiTc U oiii' njiitrk of |iHK!'Ioii in
tlif Kiiiil, it will \h'. al)la/u at ttiicli an injury,
or wt> arc not liiiinan.

Wlii'u Alit'l ri'achcil IiIm rfM)m, lie threw
hiniHt'lt' iijioii his Ih'iI, and hiy lor lioiirn in ii
Btiipor of ilcopnir anil (li,<coiini;:rnii'iit.
" What is thf <«*i'," ho thiti|i;ht. " to strii;,",'lc ]
any liMv^cr 'I I've trii-il, il'cvcr any <Mvaiiiri'
dill, to keep my lii'ad ahovc wati'r. Since I
lost lier and dear old daddy, I've had as little
heart as n man ever had ; and yt t I've trieil
mil to sink. I've devoted invself to these
two men. I've lived on lli 'if approval,
their kindnesf). I had no other niui in my
desolate lilt! than to serve them I'aitlifillh .
I've lived titr them and my hooks, I've
studied hard, when I haven't lieeii woikin'/,
to raise iny.self up to an intellectual level
with them ; to make myself more worthy of
their esteem and friendsliip. I've never
wronged any one in my life, and I never
meant to ; for four years my heart has hied
filently, and I haven't distiirlied others
with my ^rief. I've tried to live a hlame-
less, uiiolilrusive life, satisfied with enough
f(jr my daily bread, and my other small
needs ; and I've jjiven what I could spare to
those poorer than myself. I couldn't do
much (or others; but (Jod knows I've done
what I eoiild. My confidence in them was
the link that bounil ine to humanity. After
my dreadful disappointment, their friend-
ship made lile endurable. I've been un-
happy enou'jih ; I've had my share of
trouble, yet this seems to be the hisiviest of
all. Pour old daddy was ri^ht : I was born
for sorrow and sacrifice. There's always been
a sad si'^hiii'.; in my ears : perhaps it is the
old mom of the ocean that my mother heard,
or the iiilieritan<'e she gave me Ijelbre I saw
the li 'ht. What a lot mine's been I —

never to know n filher, to lie born of an
ditfast, to lie reared in |ioverly and i'.<no-
rani'e, with ii »oiil thirstiu'j liir kmnvled'^'o
as the dry earth liir rain ; to love but ono
wmiian, to be deceived and doerti'd ; and
now to be crushed witii this cruel wnm^'I
Wlial is there to be ihinkliil liir in such a
di'siiny ? Fate is a'.;aiiiit me. It isnoiise:
I shall sti'U'iK'e no more I '" Then, )()r;.'etting
p lor old Tup's ilyiu'^ wiirniii'„', he beran tu
twist his ropi's of sand : he bejaii lo accuse
(to<l of injustice, and all mankind of mis-
chievous irileiiiions toward him; he exa;;-
licrated the evil by eiicoura','iii'i it, and
ihinkin'^' of it. until he worked hiiiisrll' up to
a frenzy of passion and revcii'^c. He wan
liurnin;; with li'ver, .i scurchini thirst tor-
lured him ; 111' drank water by the i|ii:ni, but
that did not appease it. Then he did
another foolish tliiii'.;: ho sent Mrs. Ilatlie
for a bottle of brandy, and drank a ;.'lass liir
the lirst timi' in his lilii.

The i^iiod woman was an.sioiis and
alarmed when she looked at his ha'jr'.'ard
face and blood-shot eyes. " You're ill, you
are, Mr. Winter; an' you must have a doc-
tor. You're leverish an' thirety, \vlii(di is
the way they're took with siiiall-po.\ an'
yallcr fever; lioth's )iO\n' about I.iinilnn,
and you've eome across 'cm some v he re,"
^he said with melancholy decision, referrin;;
to the diseases in a way that corresponded
with the fijfiirative lani;uafj;o of the Ilible,
" of phv'iues thit stalk by noonday ! ''

" You're mistaken, Mrs. Battle ; I'm not
ill, and I don't want a doctor," ri'iiirncd
Abel in such a loml, cross tone, and so
unlike his usual polite, fiuiet way, that his
landlady I'll the room in terror, ileclurin^
to her husband that their lod;jer had fiot
the ''delirium treml)lers instead ol'ihc small-
pox, which was caused, no doubt, by them
books."

All the remainder of the day, Abel
drank brandy, and raved and tossed,
swcariii;^ liitter vengeance against Robert
Thorpe, so that by night he was in a fit
condition to commit almost any iiiadness.
When Bow Bells, that had made such
music in poor Old Top's dying ears, rang

ji\

LKKT TO HIMBRLP.

!)(> horn of nn
iTiy iiiiil iuiio
t for kiiiiwlfil'.'o
I) liivt' lint iiiut
(I'M'rti'il ; iiii(l
H criii'l wrun;.' !

ll till' 111 Nllrll a

It is rill iisi' ;
riii'ii,fi>r;.'i'ttins
ii'„', lif Ill-rail to
lii'iilii lo in ril>ii'
i;iiikinil iif mi.*-
Iiiiii ; lie I'xa;;-
ir:i','iii'i it, lUid
n<l liimNrlt'iip to

ell','!'. Ill' WHS

liiiij tliii-ftt tor-
ly tlx' i|ii:n'l, lillt
' Tlicii Ik. .lid
I'nt iMi's. Iliiitlo
Iniiik ii ;.'ia(<.'< lor

anxious anil
lit liis li,i;j:'.'ar(l
" You're ill, you
iiist hiivf a (loc-
liirs-ty, which is

Miiiall-po.\ an'
uhoiit Loiiilon,
in some vliuru,"
I'ii'ioii, rcH'i-rini^
it corrc-ponili'cl
ro of till' llible,
)oiiilay ! ''
BattU' : I'm not
R'tor," ri'i iirnt'd
IS tone, and so
L't way, thiit his
error, ileclai-in;^
lod'.rer had not
:(!ad ol'ihe Miiall-
donht, liy them

the d.iy, Abel
d and tossed,
against Robert
he was in a fit
it any iiiadness.
lad made sueh
lying ears, rang

f\ ^

• <:

J^A

nine, he was prepannn to ;;o nut. lie ar-
ran'.'e<l Ids disordered dress with treiiibliii.;
hands, drank another ^lass of brandy, and
then, taking; a small revolver from his
drawer, whieh he had used to praiitise in
a sh(K)tin(;-'.;allery, he loadeil it carefully,
with a sti'ady hand, ami put It resolutely
Into his breast-|)oeket. As he took his hat
ihiin the tahltt, hu (!aii;;ht n ^"■np<**^ of hiiii-
lelf ill a ;,das.s, and looked with a va^iie
wonder at the ha;,"^ard face and wild eyes,
whieh seemed bill a spirtral relleution ol
his own. Then he stole out of the house
like aei'iminal, sayiir.', " He shall ri'j;ht me,
or I'll- take his lite;" and he repeated it
over and over in his heart, as ho went
throUL,di the street, until ho reaehed Lon-
don Urid^e, where he eould seu through
the (b:; the dim li.dit in iIk! window of the
oflii'O on Lower Tlianies Street. It was
as he had expected : llobert Tliorpo was
wriiing there, doiii.; the work that he had
always dono ; and later ho would leave by
the rear exit, throu.fh the warehoiiso and
covered way, as was the custom with those
who remained late.

The iii'^dit was very dark ; and a sou^li-
inn wind drove the dense foi^ into the
gloomy passa'^e where Abel waited with
the instriiinent of revenge clasped firmly
in his hand, re[)eatiii:^ over and over to
himself, '• lie shall right me, or I'll shoot
him liko a do^." It seemed to hiin that
ho had waited there for hours, pressed
against the door, listening for the steps
that did not come, his soul a whirlwind of
fierce passion, his heart full of burning
Late and revenge, when suddenly he be-
came conscious tliat some one was there
besides himself; that another human bein^
was watching in the darkness with him ;
for a soft, rustling .sound told him that a
woman's drapery was brushing against
the damp wall. Turning his head, the faint
light from Lower Thames Street struck
across his face, and revealed it in all its
ghastly pallor to the person, who sighed
heavily, and withdrew again into the
shadow.

" Who is here ? " ho said in a voice of

ill-eontrolied anger, fur he feared that this
intruder would baillo liiiii in his scheiuu
liir extorting reparalimi Iroiii Robert
Tlior|K'', but ilu'i'e was no n-ply, only a
low, broken sob which toudied liis heart
directly. " My (iod I It's a woman, and
slut's ill trouble. What can I doy llow
can I get her away before he conies',' "

Holding out one hand in the ilark, while
with the oilier he clasped the wea[ioil of
death <'liise to his heart, he said liioro
kindly, and with a sofiMtied voice," What's
the matter',' are you liiin,'ry? Do you
want money to get a night's lodging V ll'
you do, Here it is : taki^ it, fur (iod's sake !
and goto a more comfortable place tlian
this." lint still tliere was no answer, only
llie low, brok(!n sob. Then lie lell his
post, and went softly toward lint tl irk
mass huddled against the wall. She was
draped in black from head to foot, and not
one fi'ature of her face was visilile in the
obscurity. As ho approiudied her, trem-
bling with excitement and a nameless fear,
she advanced toward him, uid held out a
dark bundle with a weary, di'oopiic^ motion,
as thoii'j;!! she could no longer retain it in
her grasp.

Instinctively, scarce knowing what ho
did, with the pistol still clenched in his
hand, Abel reached out his arms, and
received into them what he knew directly
to be a child, wrapped in a tliick garment.
Before ho was well aware of what he had
done, before he h.ad tiini! to refuse the
little creature so strangely thrust into his
keeping, the woman glideil by him out of
the passage into the street, and he saw
her no more lor he made no cU'ort to
follow lier, but stood stupidly holding the
bundle at arms' length, A moment after,
a slight niovetiient and a iiitifiil cry re-
called him to himself; and, galhering the
child close to his breast with the first
instinct of the human heart, he tried to
soothe it, and silence its plaintive wail.
The instant that the little living thing
nestled to his bosom, the warmth anil life
seemed to penetrate to his very soul, driv-
ing out the demon of darkness that reigned

BOPES OF SAND.

I i

there. " My God ! " he cried, like one
awakened suddenly from a horrible dream,
" Where am I ? Why am I here Y " Then,
as the thought of the erime ho had medi-
tated iiiirst upon iiim in all its horror, he
j;roaned aloud ; and, (Iin;jing the pistol as
I'ar from him as he eould, he elasped the
child closer, and rushed trom the ])laee,
just as llobert Thorpe's advancing steps
fell upon his ear.

CHAPTER IX.

A MTTLE ANGKL.

WiiKN Abel fled from the advaneinct
steps of llobert Thorpe, his one desire was
to escape from temptation. In an instant
his feelin^is had entirely changed ; and he
now looked upon the crime he had been
about to connnit with the j;reatest horror.
lie did not stop until he was snlficiently
far from his enemy to insure his safety ; then
he turned ilito a dark court ;r,led with
bales of j^oods, where unobse.-v-.il he eould
pause a moment to recover himself. Sink-
ing down on one of the boxes, an<l still
holding the child to his heart a? a shield
against the tempter, he tried to think of
what had taken place during the last few
days; but he could remember nothing
clearly since the hour that Robert Thorpe
had accused him of a crime he had never
committed. Ail the intervening time was
like the confusion of a troubled drea:"i
that left, no distinct impression, only fear.

" Father in heaven ! " he cried with
anguisii, "I was about to commit a
dreadful crime : I was about to stain my
soul with another's blood. Ilowcan I ever
expect mercy from thee ? How can I ever
raise my eyes to thy face ? IIow can I
walk ujirightly and fearlessly before my
fellow-men with the memory of this awful
intention haunting me ? I wixs insane.
I was deserted by my good angel. I was

left to myself. O daddy t dear daddy ! did
you know what your hoy was about doing ?
Did you entreat Christ to interpose and
save him? Ilowcan 1 ever meet you in
the other world with my sin and ingratitude
ever betbre me ? I forgot all my promises
to you, — promises that comforted you in
your last hour. I forgot my resolution tO
do light, to be patient in trouble!, to be
faithful to your advice. I forgot all; and
how can I hope for mercy and l(:)rgiveness
from God V "

There alone, in the darkness and dreari-
ness of night, utterly broken in spirit, and
crushed, with remorse and peniti'nce, ho
prayed as he never liad prayed before, witli
the child clasped to his heart, a saving
angel that had come between him and sin.
After that he was calmer : a great agony
seemed to have been lifted from him ; and
he walked out thankfully into the street
with the feeling of one who had been saved
from sudden destruction. He stojjped for
a moment under the nearest lamp; and,
drawing back the shawl from the face of
the infant, he looked at it for the first time.
It was fast asleep : two little pink lists were
doubled close under its dimpleil chin, long
curled lashes lay on its cheeks, and little
rings of golden hair clustered round its
white forehead. Its frock was fine and
white : it was warm, clean, and sweet, and
did not look like the neglected child of an
outcast. Tliere was a mystery about it.
AVho had thrust it into his arms? AVas it
some poor creature who wishe<l to abandon
the fruit of her shame, and had not the
courage to leave it in the street, or at a door
'.7 here charity could not refuse it? Or was
it sent to him by God to save him from
himself? Was it a little angel clothed in
human flesh that had been put into hia
arms to drive the demons of hate and
revenge from his heart? While these
thoughts were passing in his mind, he had
formed no plan as to what he should do
with it. Its very helplessness appealed to
him for protection. The warmth of its
little body penetrated his heart. It had
saved him from a fearful sin : he could not

A LITTLE ANQEL.

(lour daddy ! diil
iViis about doing ?
to intorpose and
ver nuut you in
n and iii<rratitudo
, all my promises
'ouitbrted you in
my I'L'solutiou to
in trouble, to be
I forgpf all ; and
y and ibrgivencss

mess and drcari-
en in spirit, and
id ponitimt'e, ho
ayi'd before, witli

heart, a saving
iicn him and sin.
: a great agony
[1 from liim ; and
• into the street
ohad boon saved

He stojjped for
rest lamp ; and,
rora the face of
for the first time.
le pink lists were
npled chin, long
heeks, and little
Uered round its
k was fine and
, and sweet, and
L'ted child of an
ystery about it.

arms? AVas it
she<l to abandon
nd had not the
;reet, or at a door
fuse it? Or was
D save him from
ivngel clothed in
:cn put into hia
IS of hate and
? While these
is mind, he had
it he should do
less appealed to

warmth of its

heart. It had
[i: he could not

abnrtdon it, even thou;,'h a policeman was I falseluMxl. " I felt feverish and poorly ; so

at that m )ment walking towards him, and
he had only to tell him the story, which
was a ciiinMion one, and put, the child into
his arms to be relieved of it and all further
responsibility ; but be could not do that, —
no, lie could not. It nestled again in his
arms; iind he clasped it closer to his heart,
as he turned into Little Eastcheap, and
liurrieil toward his own home.

When Mrs. Battle discovered that Abel
had Stolen (piietly out of the house, from,
wha* she supjiosed to be a sick bed, she
declared to hi'r man, with the most ominous
solemnity, that his boily would be found in
the Tliauies next morning, as he was '■ as
crazy as a Marcli hare. lie had slipped
away to drown liisself, an' it was a' awful
misiortune, besides bein' a loss, as they'd
never in the world let their rooms when it
was known that a lodger had drowned his-
self out of 'em ; " but when she saw him
enter her little back jjarlor, after she had
given liiiu up entirely, damp, pale, disor-
dered, but alive, with a large bundle
wrapped in a blue and green plaid, her
anxiety was changed into joy ; and, scarce
knowing what she did, she accumulated
question upon question. '■ Why, Mr. Win-
ter, how could you do so? You don't
know what a' awful start I got when I
found you'd gone out. You seemed so sick
and strange-like this afternoon, that I was
afrai<l you was light-headed, and had
kind o' wandered off, an' might come to
harm. I've been into a dreadful state,
a-fidgittin' to the door every minit to see if
you'd come. Why, what possessed you to
go out when you was so knocked up?
Wliere have you been ? an' what 'ave you
got in that shawl ? "

" Don't get excited, Mrs. Battle ; pray,
don't. There's nothing at all the matter.
I'll tell you all about it, if you'll only give
me time," said Abel, sinking into a chair,
and smiling a sickly sort of a smile, to re-
assure the good woman, who was (puvering
with curiosity and surprise. '• I went out
to get the air," he continued, feeling obliged
under the circumstances to resort to a

I thought I'd take a turn " —

Just then the child nujved and cried a
little; and .Mrs. B.ittio threw u|) her hands
and exclaimed, " Good Lord, Mr. Win-
ter ! you've got somethin' livin' in that i)un-
dle. Is it a baby, or a <log? "

" It's a baby, Mrs. Battle ; and, if you'll
be calm a moment, I'll tell you the strangest
thing of all. I'd stopped a moment to rest,
and was leaning against a wall ; or, rather
I saw a woman leaning against a wall, —
excuse mo if I'm a little confused, my
head's not just right yet, — I saw a woman
leaning against a wail, in a very dejected
and feeble sort of a way ; and so 1 went
toward her to see if I could l)e ,i" any
assistance, when she held out this tjiindle ;
an' I, not knowing what it was, took it froui
her; th(!n, before I fairly knew what I had
done, she disappeared in the darkiie.<s, and
I couldn't see her anywhere."

" O Mr. Winter ! is it j)0ssible that you
are so innocent as that? Why, it'.s an old
trick in London, for them miserable cretur's
to get clear o' their babies that way. I
must say as how you was took in nicely.
What kind of a, thing is it? Ii you've no
objections, I'll take a peep; " and Mrs. Battle
began to untold the shawl with averted
face, saying, " I'm a'lnost afraid to touch it :
I da' say it's pison with dirt."

" No," returned Abel, giving it into her
hands with a sigh of relieK " I've looked at
it: it's like all babies, but it seems neat
enough."

" I do declare if it ain't as clean as wax,
and as lovely too," exclaimed Mrs. Battle,
dropping off its cocoon-liko wrappings, and
holding it up to the light, — a tiny, little,
white creature, as pure and sweet as a
rosebud. "Mercy alive I Mr. Winter,
don't it puzzle you to know how them
mothers can 'bandon a child like this — an'
a cambric frock with lace, an' 'broidery
on its petticoat 1 It ain't no common
child."

Tho little creature winked and blinked
under the strong light, rubbed its tiny
nose with its pink fists, and whined, sjrew-

t «
I

HOPES OF SAND.

ing up its little face to an unintelligible |

knot. 1 1 1 •

"Is'poseil's hungry. If you'll hold it
a niiuit, I'll ;:et it some milk," suid Mrs.
Battle, reaching it out like a roll o.

hnen.

Abel took it, awkwardly enough to be
sure; but a warm thrill, common to all
humanity, went through his heart when it
nestled its little head against hnn. It
had beautiful blue eyes ; and, as he looked
into their depths, his own grew misty and
tender.

" What are you going to do with the
mite, Mr. Winter ?" questioned Mrs. Bat-
tle, as she fed it handily, patting it i very
now and then on its back when it choked

a little and caught its breath.

" 1 don't know, Mrs. Battle," returned

Abel thoughtlully : "I've 'not decided.

What do you think we'd better do with

itV"

" Why, I should say to call a p'liceman,
an' let 'im take it to Guildford Street, to the
fondlin' 'oapital."

•' Oh, I can't do that 1 " cried Abel, remem-
bering at what a moment it had been put
into his arms, and what it had saved him
Irom. '• It would be cruel to send it to
such a place."

" Well, I don't see no other way. A
child like this is a heavy charge, an' no
small expense."

" Yes, that's true, Mrs. Battle ; but you
can take care of it to-night, can't youV
and by to-morrow I'll decide what I am to
do with it. Now I'll go to bed ; lor I'm tire.l
and not feeling well, and I know you'll take
the best of care of it." Before he went out,
he stooped over the child, and looked into
its beautiful eyes, smoothiug its sofl check
gently. A little hand struggled from the
folds of the towel that Mrs. Battle had
placed under its chin when she fed it, and
twining itself round one of Abel's fmgers,
it held fast with a clinging, detaining
grasp, lie could not resist.that : it appealed
to him more forcibly than language. Snatch-
i„T it up in his arms, he kissed it over and
over, and then laid it down, blushing like

a girl. " Good-night, Mrs. Battle, pood-
night," he said almost cheerfully. " Take
gwd care of it, and we'll decide iu the
morning what to do."

When Abel entered his room, he sat down
quietly among his books and flowers. It
was not yet midnight ; still it seemed to him
that he had been away for weeks, so stni .ge
had been the experience through which ho
had passed. In thinking of what Had hap-
pened during the last few days, he seemed
not to have been himself, but another i.erson.
Now that he had returned to his normal
state, he could look upon«very thiug calmly
and reasonably; and his thoughts went
back to his past life, to his babyhood, to •
poor Old Top, who had taken him, a waif
thrown upon his charity, as this little one
had been thrust ui)on him, and reared him,
iind loved him faithfully all his life. I'hen
how could he refuse to do the same fbr this
little abandoned creature V Besides, had
it not been sent to him in a moment of ter-
rible temptation, to save him from a crime
that would have ruined him forever. Was
it not a gift of (' ■■ a little angel laid into
his arms to con ibi ' », ^o soften his heart,
and to cheer . ' "HI not cast it

away," he resolvi ... keep it and care

fbr it. It's my duty, and I'll do it." Then
he began to think again of his troubles, — of
Robert Thorpe, and the wrong ho had
done him, — and was surprised to find how
much his feelings had changed and softened
towards him. Instead of wishing for re-
venge, he almost pitied him, and even
thought that in time he might forgive him.
Wh °n Bow Bells struck twelve, he retired
for the night ; and, being completely ex-
hausted by all he luid experienced, he
soon fell asleep, and dreamed of .lear Old
Top, — thought that he came to him with
a face full of tender peace, and, laying his
hand on his head, ho said sweetly, " Abel,
give thanks to God, and never forget his

mercy ! "

The next morning he was up early, and
waiting anxiously fbr Mrs. Battle, who was
later than usual with his breakfast. When
at last she made her appearance, she ex-

mmt^M*-»iidti/mtiBm^

i^uiiliiiiiliiHiiiii^

B. Battle, pood-
jrl'ully. '• Take

I decide in tUc

lom, be sat down
mil flowers. It
t seemed to liim
veeks, sostni-.!j;e
irou^h which he
f what wad hiip-
ilays, he seemed
t another person,
il to his normal
rery thinj; calmly
i thou;;his went
his babyhood, to •
iken hiui, a waif
as this little one
, and reared him,

II his lite. Then
the same for this

i'l Besides, had
a moment of ter-
liim from a crime
im forever. Was
Ic an;4el laid into

soften his heart,
" I'll not cast it

i keej) it and caro
I'll do it." Then
f his troubles, — of
le wrong ho had
rprised to find how
inged and softened
of wishing for re-
id hiui, and even
mii^ht Ibrgive him.
twelve, he retired
ing completely ex-

1 experienced, he
earned of dear Old

came to him with
aee, and, laying his
x\d sweetly, " Abel,
id never forget his

le was up early, and
Irs. Battle, who was
is breakfast. When
ippearanco, she ex-

A LITTLE ANGEL.

ciised herself a little crossly, on the ground
that the baby had hindered her.

'•How is it, and how did it sleep?"
inquired Abel eai^erly.

" Oh, it's well enough ! but it's a deal o'
trouble. It kept me an' my man awake all
ni',dit."

" I'm sorry for that, Mrs. Battle ; because
I've (leciiled to keep it, if we can make some
arrangement."

" As to that, Mr. Winter, I've nothin' to
say. You've a right to keep it if you want
to; but you don't expect me to take care
of it, do you V "

" No, certainly not, Mr?. Battle ; unless
I pay you to attend to it. 1 thought, as you
had no children of your own, you might
like to keep the little thing, for a considera-
tion; ami it would be a ileal of company
for me when I'm in the house."

'• Well, I don't know as I'd mind. It's a
nice little thing ; an' my man's took quite a
notion to it," retm-ned Mrs. Battle, liright-
euinu' up at the thought of the " considera-
tion." " I'll do the l)est I can for it ; but it'll
need clothes and things."

"Yes: I've thought of that. Here's
five pounds ; lay it out for it to the best ad-
vantage,"' said Abel, oi)ening his desk, and
lianding her a note.

" Now, I declare, this is real handsome of
you, Mr. Winter ! I'll fit her up nice for
that : she'll be as neat as a pin."

"Oh! it's a girl, is it? I never thought
whether it was a girl or a boy."

"And another thing, Mr. Winter: we
must have a name for lier."

"Yes: 1 suppose we must; but I can't
think of one. Never mind it now : we'll
wait a while, and peih;ips one will come to
us. Bring the little thing up, Mrs. Battle :
I'd like to see it before I go out."

Mrs. L.ittle brought the baby. It was as
clean and fresh as a rose, its mouth dim-
pled with smiles, and its blue eyes wide and
sparkling.

Abel held it for more than an hour ; awk-
wanlly at first, but s<x)n be became acciis-
touieil to the delicate liitie bundle, ami
handled it more gracefully. She cooeil

and laughed, and held out her chubby
hamls H)r his flowers; and he allowed her
to clutch her little fingers full of blossoms;
but, when she crammed them into her rosy,
wet mouth, he became alarmed, and called
lor Mrs. iJattle to take them out. Every
movement seemed perfect, every smile and
glance wonderful. She had brought a new
interest and ho|)e into his life, to take the
place of the old ; and, while he looked at
her, he found himself thinking. '• She is a
little angel, sent by Goil to sooiIk! my
troubled heart, and to brighten my dreary
life."

It wiis some months before Abel could
find any new emi>loyment : but he did not
suffer, because he had saved (juite a little
sum liom his own earnings, and lie hail in-
vested the hundred pounds that Top had left
him, to good advantage; therel()rc, he had a
small income bo defray his expenses and
provide for the child. But, as month :dlcr
month passed away, he began to get dis-
couniged, and feared that he should never
find a situation, not having any reference;
as he could not mention Mr. Thorpe, for
reasons that can be easily understood. At
last, one day, when he was almost in de-
spair, he chanced to enter a counting-house
on Fleet Street, where they were in need
of a co])yist. Judging favorably of liim
from his liieeand appearance, they engnged
him for a fair salary, without re(iuiring
reference. It was a long time helbre he
could li;el at home in his new jtosition : he
missed the faces and surroundings among
which he hail passed the greater part of
his lilij ; but at last he became accustomed
to the change, and settled down patiently
to his new work. There he displayed the
same fine (juality that had won Jlr.
Thorpe's euulidence : so that his new em-
ployer began to look upon him as a valua-
ble actjuisition, and treated him with so
much consideration, that he had nothing to
com|)lain of. IVrh;ips his condiaon was
even bettered ; for, alter a year, he received
a larger salary, and had less work to do
than before.

So the time passed off; month followed

ROPES OF SAND.

month, and year followed year, until the
baby, who had never ruceived any other
name than Pet, had f;rown into a lovely
child of five years. She was alleetionate,
docile, and intellijient ; and Abel loved her
to idolatry. Mrs. Battle lia<l been an ex-
cellent nurse, had kept her clean and neat,
and had not spoiled her with injudicious
j)ettin;4; so that Abel, in his hours at home,
had not found it dillicult to train her mind,
in the right direction. Besides his busi-
ness, he had no thought, desire, or aim,
that was not connected with the child.
Every shilling lie saved from his wages
was hoarded for her; every plan was in
refL'reiice to her i'uture ; he forgot himself
in his love for her, or he united his life so
closely with hers, that ho confounded one
with tlie otlier. Sometimes he would look
at her, as she lay asleep in his arms ; and
thinking of her beauty, which he felt was
a dun'.;eroiis gift, he would wish she were
less attractive and lovely, trembling as he
remembered the unhappy fate of poor Vio-
let. Had he ceased to regret Violet, in
this new love ? Oh, no ! there were hours
when he thought of her with anguish, —
liours when the stone would suddenly be
removed from the grave of his love, and
she would stand before iiim- in all the fresh-
ness and beauty of those early days. But
in nine years the heart changes ; and some
tell us, that even the systinn undergoes a
complete transformation once in seven
years, — that every drop of the original
ichor passes away, and a new takes its
place. If that be so, then we cannot won-
der if we transfer our sentiments, our de-
sires, our hope, to some new object. Violet
was gone forever out of his life : for nine
years he had not looked into her face ; for
nine years he had not heard the sound of
her voice. She was no more to him than
a |)hantom of the past, a memory, a dream.
111! had long thought upon her as dead,
long ceased to look for her in the streets.
It was years since his heart had leapt to
his throat at a glimpse of a face or figure
that resembled hers. There was a time
when ho could not turn a corner without

thinking tliat ho might meet her fiiee to
face ; but at last he began to feel that Lon-
don was large, that the world was large,
and that their paths might run forever one
on each side of life's river ; and that the
river woulil broaden and deepen, until it
reached the ocean of eternity, and tbey
who had comraen(!ed their jimrney side by
side would meet no more on earth.

CHAPTER X.

A WITHKRKD VIOLET.

It was Sunday morning. Mrs. B.ittlo
was tying a pretty blue bonnet over Pet's
golden curls. Abel was leaning back in his
chair by the open window, with a copy of
the " Times " in his hand ; but he was not
reading, he was watching the child, while
Mrs. Battle dressed her that he might take
her for a walk. Slie was such a lovely
little creature, that; in spite of his better
judgment, he was very proud of her, and
bought her pretty, dainty things, — kid shoes,
embroi<lered frocks, and little silk bonnets,
that she might be as neatly dressed as other
children in the park. There lias been no
notable cliange in the room since we peeped
into it. The flowers bloom as brightly, the
violets are as fragrant, the breakiiist-table,
witli its clean cloth, and remnants of chops
anil muflins, presents the same appearance ;
only that now there is, beside Abel's chair,
a child's chair, and, beside liis plate, a
child's bright pewter plate and mug : and
perhaps there are not quite so many books
strewn round as formerly ; but, instead of
them, arc headless dolls, broken toys, col-
ore<l blocks, and illustrated primers. A
child's presence is visible c. :;rywhere ; and
Abel finds no fault. He likes to sec her
things lying about ; for Pet is a part of liim-
self, and what she likes he likes also.
While be was fondly watching her, stand-
ing docile uniler tiie hands of Mrs. Battle,
who turned her round like a top, giving

A WITHERED VIOLET.

ot licr fiiee to
3 fuel thiit Loll-
jrlil Wits lar<;e,
•UM (brevur ono
' ; iinil that the
U'cpen, until it
■nity, ami tbey
iouniey side hy
earth.

OLET.

;. JMi'8. Biittle
iinet over Pet's
niiii; bauk in his
with a copy of
but he was not
the child, while
t he inii;ht take
! such a lovely
to of his better
ud of her, and
Qgs, — kid shoes,
tie silk bonnets,
dressed as other
re has been no
since we peeped
as brightly, the
break!iist-table,
nn.-vnts of chops
ine appearance ;
de Abel's chair,
le his plate, a
and niii<T : and
so many books
but, instead of
roken toys, col-
cd primers. A
. :;ry where ; and
likes to 50C her
is a part of him-
hc likes alsO'
ling her, stand-
of Mrs. Battle,
e a top, giving

her a twitch here, and a pull there, he
fjlanced from time to time at the journal he
held in his hand; suddenly he uttered a
cry of astonishment, the paper fell to the
floor unnoticed, and ho said, as though he
were thinking aloud, " How strange, aRer
all these years, to read of their ruin t "

"What's ruined, Mr. Winter?" ex-
claimed Mrs. Battle, who had caught the last
word of his remark. " I hope it ain't all the
fruit a? is dropped off the trees along with
them nasty caterpillars."

" Oh, no, I^Irs. Battle 1 It's nothing to do
with fruit and caterpillars. It's the failure of
a house I once worked for, — the house of
Thorpi! & Son. They were considered very
reliable ; and it gives mc quite a shock,
as their liabilities are unconuuonly large."

" Well, that's a pity," returned Mrs. Bat-
tle, who was a clever business woman, and
understood the terms he had used. " It's a
pity for them, if they're honest, which looks
very doubtful ; an' a greater for them that
they owes. I hope you didn't have any
thing with them, Mr. Winter ? "

" Oh, 1 ' I drew out what little I had at

the time 1 left their employ, five years ago."

" What's been the cause of it, do you

s'pose ? " continued Mrs. Battle, who always

wanted the particulars of every thing.

" I don't know, unless young Mr. Thorpe
has been very extravagant, and managed
affairs badly. You see, Mrs. Battle, his
father's health was poor ; and I fancy every
thing was left to him at the last. It's given
me quite a shock : it's very sad, really. I'll
go out and take a turn in the air, as soon as
you have Pet ready."

" She'd been ready a' 'our ago, if she
wasn't the troublesoraest little mite in the
world to dress. She's so small, that \'.r
things is al'ays a-droppin'off; an' I do want
'er to look tidy-like."

« She'll do nicely, Mrs. Battle; she's very
well as she is," said Abel, taking his hat,
and holding out his hand to the child, who
danced down the stairs, delighted to be free
from Mrs. Battle's fussing fingers.

" Where would you like to go, * ot V " he
asked, looking into her sweet face.

" Oh, to St. James's Park, papa I I've got
some biscuit for the ducks, an' they do wad-
dle so cunnin', an' eat out n' my hand as
tame as kittens."

He never denied her any thing reasona-
ble, so of course they went to St. James's ;
and Pet enjoyed a perfect morning, feeding
the ducks, and following them from ])lace
to place ; while Abel sat near, on a bench,
watching her graceful little figtire flitting
here and there, her golden curls blowing in
the wind, and her blue eyes sparkling with
health and happiness. While he was look-
ing at the child, and mentally comparing
his present peace and prosperity wiih the
mislbrtunes that had Allien on his old enemy,
he saw a gentleman apjiroach her and speak
to her. At first he did not pay much atten-
tion to it, as it was not an uncommon thing
for peoi)le to notice Pet, and it rather
pleased than disturbed him ; but as he
glanced again at the stranger, who stood
with his back toward him, he was struck
with something familiar in his appearance.
Those fine shoulders, that curling brown
hair, he had seer, before. At last he turn«d
in his direction ; and Abel saw, for tlie first
time in five years, the face of Robert Thorpe.
For a moment, something of the old anger
stirred in his heart ; but, when he noticed
how changed he was, his feelings softened,
and he pitied him deeply, in spite of all.
His face was thin and pale, his eyes sunken
and dull, his handsome mouth drooping and
sad, and his air weary and dejected. He
looked like a man who had sufi'ered deeply,
who had striven and struggled, but who
had been at last defeated in the battle of life.
If Abel had seen him happy and prosperous,
he would have passed him with pride and
indifference ; but, as it was, ho lelt sin-
cerely sorry for him, and almost forgave
him the wrong he had endured for so
long.

He seemed to be deeply interested in Pet,
who stood with her sweet face raised to his,
her blue eyes full of innocent light, her
long golden curls falling away from her
flushed cheeks, —

" A sight to make an old man young."

11'

B0PK8 OF SAND.

AIUt a f(!W iiioiiu-ntH, at somo remark of
the cliild'H, Uoljert Thdi/i^ looked toward
Al)el, and caw liiiii Hittin;^ tliere, (or thu
first time, lie started with surprise; a
vivid (liisli erimsoiied liis t'aee ; and tiirnin;»
snildi'niy. witiiout anotlier word to I'et, he
oll'ered his arm to a i'eeiile old (rentleniah,
will) sat on a bench, halt' liidden by a elns-
ter of laurel ; then thu two walked hastily
away, wiili a backward jinnee in Abel's ili-
reciiuM. The old, siekly man was ]\Ir.
Thorpe. He scarce reeo:,'ni/e(l him in
the shrunk face, tlio stoopinj; hotly, and
trembling limbs. Mislbrtune had left ter-
ril)ie traces upon him, as well as upon his
son.

As soon as Robert Thori)e turned aw.ay,
Pet came rnnniiig to Alu'l, all doli^lit and
animation. " What was that <;tmtleman
savin;.; to you, dear ? " he asked, drawing
her to his side.

" Oh, nolin' much ! he said, What was my
name Y "

«' And you told him ? "

" Yes, sir : I said it was P(!t."

" Was that all he asked you V "

" No, sir : he said, Where did I live ? an'
did I like the ducks V an' did I think the
park was nice ? an' who was with me V An'
I said my papa, an' I showed you ; and
then he went away. An' — an' — that was
all."

Abel gave but a passing thought to the
circumstance of Robert Thorpe's having
spoken to the child, supposing that he had
been attracted by her beauty, as others
were, and luid talked with her, not knowing
that she belonged to him ; but he could not
banish from his mind the image of the fee-
ble, tottering father, clinging to the son who
had ruined him. " They are bitter toward
nie yet," he thought. " They've not out-
lived their old inilignation and anger. If
they knew what I had sulfered for them,
of niy per'tence and remorse, tbey would
pity and forgive me, even as I do them."

One evening, not long after that, Abel
went home, and found a letter lying on his
table. It was addressed in a woman's
hand, scrawling and irregular ; and it sur-

prised him gre.itly, an he hail no correspond*
ents, especially feminine. With a present-
iment of trouble, he turned it over an^l
looked at it, not daring to br«ak the seal.
At last he summoned courage ; and, tearing
it open with a nervous hand, he reiid the
following : —

" Dkau Ahkl, — I wouldn't troi'I)Ie you,
but! know I haven't long to live : therelbro
I ask you to come to me, as I have thin.;9
of importance to say to you. Forget all
the trouble I've made you, and remem-
ber oidy when I was good. Don't be long
aflcr you receive the letter, in eoniing, oT
perhaps I sha'n't be here. You'll find mo
at No. 3, Cottage Place, Pimlico. Ask ti)r
Mrs. Watson, which is the name I'm
known by. Vioi-kt."

With a face of marble, Abel thrust the
letter into his pocket, sei/.ed his hat, and
rushed out, almost pushing over Pet, who
was hurrying up stairs to see him. Stoop-
ing, he caught the child in his arms, kissed
her wiih a strange fervor, and bade her sco
to Mrs. Hattle, as he was obliged to go out,
and would not be back for some time.
Then he hastened into the street ; and, hail-
ing a fly, he told the man to drive him to
Cottage Place, Pinilieo, as quickly as possi-
ble. Arrived there, ho knocked at the
number designated in Violet's note. A
neat, elderly woman answered his summons.
To his iiujuiry, " If Mrs. Watson lived
there Y " she replied, " Yes, sir ; and I sup-
pose you're the gentleman she's expecting.
She said, when you came, I was to show
you up directly."

A moment aller, Abel stood, pale and
trembling, at Violet's door. The woman
tapped lightly : a weak voice said, " Come,"
and he was alone in the presence of his
lost love. She was propped up with i)il-
lows on a low bed before an open window.
Some woodbine and honeysuckle trained
over the casement filled the roem with
fragrance ; the last beams of the sun lay in
I level rays over the bed, and the thin white
! hands folded patiently on her breast

I r •

/ I >

1 IK) corrc'ipoiiil-

Witll 11 plH'SlMlt-

cil it DVLT an. I
l)r«iik the ci'iil.
'^f ; iuiil, Iciiriir^
111, liu rc'it<l thu

In't troi'hic v<ni,
o live : thuri-loru
i 1 have tliiiv^s
'Oil. Forget all
)ii, and rcMiiiMii-

Don't 1)0 loni^
\r, in coiiiiii;;, oT

You'll rniil mo
mlico. Ask ti)r
thu namu I'm

ViOLKT."

Abel thrust tbo
zed his hat, ami
'r over l\'t, wlio
lee him. Stoop-

his arms, kissed
»nd bade Ikt sco
bli;j;ed to <so out,

for some time,
street ; and, hail-
to drive him to
quickly as poasi-
knoeked at the
iolet's note. A
•ed his summons.
I. Watson lived
1, sir ; and I sup-
she's expecting.
!, I was to show

stood, palo cand
ir. The womaa
ce said, " Come,"
presence of his
ed up with i)il-
in open window,
jysuckle trained
the ro«m with
of the sun lay ia
id the thin whito
on her breast

/ • \

A WITHEEED VIOLET. *'*

I • r„:„* W..1 I •' What ? " oried Abel, bewildered and

to hear, " Abel 1 Abel ! "

In a moment he was on his knees by her
side, his arms round her, and she wcepin;;
passionarely with her face pressed close to
his. lie never could remember distinctly
what passed in that moment ; for his emo-
tion i)aralyzed him. In thinkinji; of it after-
ward, he could only recall a lew broken
sentences in which she implored him to
forgive her, and he, in a voice choked with
Boks had assured her that she was for;,'iven
Ion;; a'„'o. It was not much, but it was
enou;jl 1? There are some fcelin;;* too deep
for words. Then, exhausted by her ^yw\y
ing, she threw herself back on her pillow,
ami lay with closed eyes, like one in a
swoon. Abel leaned over her, clasping
her hands in his, and weeping bitterly, his
Boul full of sorrow and pity at seeing her
but the wreck of herself. Her wan, sunken
face showed the ravages of a terrible dis-
ease, and w.as already stamped wiih the un-
mistakable signs of approaching dissolution.
He had found her after nine long years ;
but, as he had said to poor Old Top before
his death, he had not found the iresh,
sweet Violet that he had lost : she was but
the shadow of his early love, — a crushed,
scentless, withered flower.

While he hung over her, noting every
change in her beloved countenance with
an a''nguish too deep for expression, she
opened her still beautiiul eyes -, and, looking
at hiin imploringly, said with a gasi)ing,
broken voice, " Abel, tell me something of
my child. I'm longing to hear from her.
Tell me of her."

"Your child, Violet?" then a sudden
conviction struck him like a blow. " Your
- child 1 Is she yours ? Was it you who guve
her to me 1 "

" Yes, Abel : I gave her to you."
" Why were you there alone in the
darkness of night with your child ? "

face, shrinking from the blow which ho felt
he was about to receive.

" Aliel," she said in a weak, excited
voice, "try and be calm while 1 tell you
all. I'm so feeble that you luusln't agitato
me too much, or I can't never say what I
want to. It was llobert Thoriie who " —
Abel clenche.l his hands, anil groaned aloud
— '< though, as God is my witness. I didn't
know his true name until long aller. I
don't want to excuse myself, and I won't :
I'll tell you the whole truth, Aliel. I loved
him, — yes, I loved him so well that I
would willingly have died for him. I •lidn't
count myself as any thing besi.le him. I
worshipped him from the first day he
bought my flowers on the Mansioii-liouso
step's. Then you took me away, an 1 I
didn't see him for a long time. 1 tried to
forget him, and be happy with you, — yos, I
tried hard, Abel, to be happy wiih you
and dear old daddy. I know what you
would say : you think I don't know that
he's dead, but I do. It was a long time
a. -o, just after I went away, that he died ;
and jierhaps I helped kill him. I've been
many a tinv. since to the old cellar. Just to
see the place where we were cliildrtsn to-
gether, and so happy with him. When
you took me away, I thought IM never see
liobert lliorpo again. I didn't even
know his name, who he was, nor where ho
lived ; but still, though I tried hard enough,
I was sure that I could never forget him.
It was toward spring, when, one day, he
hapjieued to be passing the shop in Hol-
born, and saw mo. It's no use to tell you
all that followed. Abel, I've been wick-
eder than you ever thought ; and even then
1 deceived you time and time again."

" O Violet! don't tell me that : you break

my heart. I thought you good then,"criod

Abel,his pale features working ctmvulsively.

" Ko, Abel : I wasn't good even before I

.. I was there many times before. I was | left you. I deceived you imd met him
waitlgibr a chance'to see its father." 1 over and over when you didn't susi>oct .t.

-..J

mmismi^m^sim^^imm^

R0PK8 OP BAND.

Wliili' you were soiirdiiiv.; for nic, ami
advurtioin;;, I wiiH in lod^iii^H not tlir from
you. It WiiH all vt'ry (iiuiply pluiiiii'd : I
walki'il out of till! (iliop as usual, — al-
tliou^^h my lifart was lu'arly l)reakiu;; at tliu
tliou;,'lit of your anil daddy's sorrow when
you would find mi' jjoiio ; and, at t\w corni-r
of tlu! street, I met Uobert. I ditln'l
know where I was j;oii)};: I didn't eare,
BO tliat I was with him. He sliowt^d me
your adverti.xement : we reail it to^ietlier ;
anrl he. knew tlien who you were, tiiou;;h I
didn't suspeet. 1 fhouj^ht him to be t'harles
AVatson, — that was wliat lie ealled himself
nt that lime. I took that name, and siiiee
have always been known as Mis Watson.
It was more than two years alVer that I aeei-
di^ntally found out his real name was Robert
Thorpe. Then I pitied you more than ever,
beeausc the one you still trusted as your
friend had wron-jed you so. For a long
time we were happy toj^elher " —

" And poor oltl daddy was dying, and my
heart was breaking for you," interrupted
Abel bitterly.

'• Yes, I know it : I've felt it all sinee ; but
' still I was happy then, — so hajipy that to
think ot it reeoneiles me to all that followed.
Ho was very jjroud of my beauty, — 1 was
vain then, Abel; but I'm not now, beeause
I've learned the true value of good looks ;
they're a poor inheritance for one like me,
— and he bou;^ht me jiretty dresses, bonnets,
and jewels, and hired a carriage tor me that
I nii;^bt ride in the park like a lady while
Le was at his business. You know, I always
wanted fine things ; so I enjoyed them
when I got iheiii : and I suppose you'll feel
sorry, Abel, when i tell you that I never
regretted what I'd done. Sometimes I
used to think of poor old d.addy's warning,
and his rojies of sand, and laugh to iiiy-
gelf, and call it all nonsense, because I didn't
see the end. When we're so happy we
never can feel that we can come to be
wrelehcd. llobert loved me so that I never
thought he'll change ; and he was so proud
of nil- 1 He delighted to have me make
myself as pretty as possible. Then he
would take me to the play, and be perfectly

happy when all tho glasses were turned
toward our box. Yes : he loved me then
I'm 8uru of it; and I worshippeil him.
You mustn't think, Abel, that 1 ever loved
you as I loved him. Now I know [ only
loved you as a brother. We were brought
up together, and how could it ever have been
any thing else'^ "

" Uon't, Violet, don't, for God's sake ! "
groaned AIhjI.

" It isn't because I want to hurt you,
indeed it isn't," she returned, with a strange
mixtiiru of heartlessness and pity ; " but I
want to be truthful to you now, beeause
I've been false enough all niy life. I wish
I could let it end here, and not tell you any
more ; but, if I should, you'd think me bet-
ter than I am, and there mustn't be any
deception when we're going into eternity.
I must say solemnly, Abel, that, though I've
much to blame llobert Thorpe for, I believe
he loved me then ; and, if I'd been a good
woman, I believe he'd love me now. I
don't lay all that has happened to me at his
door. It was partly my f lult, — my vanity
and weakness; and perhaps, also, the
thought of what I had sprung from. With-
out doubt I inherited evil from the unhap-
py creature who gave me being. I don't
think Goil can e.xpect (juite as much from
we poor weeds who grow out of vile soil."

" But, Violet, remember the best old man
that ever lived brought you up from a child,
and taught you only good : and he was one
of the jioor unfortunates. Think of his lift',
and don't say lliat it isn't possible lor us to
be virtuous."

"I've thought of it all, Abel. I've
thought of you and daddy, how good you
both were ; but I never could have been
like you. He and you were exceptions.
You never had any temptations to do differ-
ent ; but I was tainted ii-om the first. I
was always devoured with the desire for
finery and pleasure ; and it was only you
and dear dailily that restrained uie so
long. If I'd luarried yon, Abel, deny, you
wouldn't have been hapjiy : I should have
tormented your life. It was best as it was ;
and I've nothing to reproach myself with

\ ly '

A WITHERED VIOLET.

9 wciv liirncd
1()V(mI inc then
rHliippi'iI liiiii.
t I (^vor lovt'd
1 know I unly
li were brou^rht
ever havo bt-en

God's 8!ikc ! "

t to hurt you,
witliii stnu)<^e
pity ; " but I
now, bi'causo
r Mi'ti. I wish .
ot tell you any
think uie bet-
lustn't 1)0 any
into eternity,
at, tlioujih I'vb
)e tor, 1 believe
1 been a yood
I inu now. I
ud to nie at his
, — my vanity
pis, also, the
: i'roui. Wiih-
jni the unhafH
eiii<:;. I don't
iis niueh from
of vile soil."
le best old man
p iVoui a ehild,
nd he was one
link of his lite,
sible lor us to

, Abel. I've
jow good you
ild havo been
re exceptions,
as to do diU'er-
i the iirst. I
he desire lor
was only you
mined mo so
,U1, deny, you
I should havo
best as it was ;
li niyi^elf with

on that nccount. But T must po on, nntl pot '
this miserable contension oil' my mind, or I
sha'n't have strength to finish. I was as ,
happy as I cotdd be for three years. We
lived a <::\y life. Uol)ert brought a preat
many younp men to see me; for he was
prouil to display liis property. I was ad-
mired and flattered, and oflTered many heau-
til'ul presents, whieh I reeeivcd seeretly,
beeaijse he was proud and jealous, and
didn't like me to tiike things from others.
Do you reniend)er that u;;ly brooeh I want-
ed 80 mueh, Abel, and how you wouldn't
buy it for me, and I was determined to
have it, and pot it slyly V That was my first
deception, and the beginning of all. And
such a worthless thing too ! since then I've
had real emeralds and diamonds almost as
beautiful m those we saw at the Tower that
day when wo were children."

" () Violet I how can you ? Pray don't
recall those things ! It tears my heart to
hear you speak of them."

" Why should it, Abel ? why should it
hurt you to recall them? I like to think
of them sometimes : I like to think that I
was innocent once. But, as I was saying,
Robert didn't like me to receive presents,
and I did all the same ; besides, I was very
imprudent and foolish ; I encouraged visit-
ors when ho was away, until at last he
discovered it, and was dreadfully angry
and jealous. Then he watcheil, and sus-
pected, and blamed me even when I was
innocent. Just before my baby was born,
we had a final quarrel. Ho declared the
child was not his, though I swore solenmly
before God that it was ; for I was true to
him, Abel, until ho deserted me. Alter
ho loft me, I quitted my expensive lodgings,
sold some of my jewels, and took cheap
but respectable rooms, where my child was
born. You might think that my being a
mother would havo changed me, and made
me better ; but it didn't : my heart was too
full of pride and anger, and I never sought
a reconciliation with Robert. In fact, 1
•didn't Wiint to : I was tired of his jealousy
and suspicion ; and, besides, I knew he was in
debt, and that there must be a change soon ;

and I wasn't contented to live humbly, even
with him. I thought of this all : lor, owing
to poor old daddy's excellent teaching, I
was |irudent in managing t'or my own in-
terest ; and I was determineil, as I liail lost
all else, to sell myself fo the highest bidder.
Hut my chihl was a drawback lo my ''itnro
suocess. I loved it in a way, — yes. Abel, nuw
I know I loved it; and, if thert^ had been
enough good in me, it might have saved me.
I was angry and imbittered against Hoi)-
ert : the ehild was his, and he had deserted
mo just when I needed his care and ten-
derness most. lie alone had the right to
provide for it, and ho had left it to mu. I
thought it all over for a long time, and at
last I resolved to see him by some means,
put the child into his arms, and leave him
to su[>port and care for it. I had not tlio
courage or boldness to go into Ids olliee,
and ccJnfront him ljefi)re his father; so, as I
had heard him say that he worked some-
times until late, ami came out through a
side passage into Thames Street, I deter-
mined to go there, and wait for him. For
several nights I watched lor hours, but I
didn't see him. One night I heard somo
one, and I thought it was he ; but, instead,
you came out. I knew you instantly, and
was frightened, and drew back in the shad-
ow of the wall. A few nights after I went
again, and had only been there a little
while, when you came, and leaned against
the door, as if you, too, were waiting for
somo one. I saw your face once in a ray
of light from Thames Street ; and it was
ghastly pale, and full of anger, and I caught
the glitter of somo instrument in your
hand : thou I thought you had learned all,
and had come to be revenged on Robert
Tlior[)0. I was in dreadful agony, for
even then 1 loved him enough to wish to
save him. While I leaned against the
wall, almost fainting with fear, you spoke,
and your voice touched my heart. Some-
thing of the old feeling of those iimocent
days returned ; and it seemed as though
dear daddy came to me, and said soltly,
" Give the child to Abel." Then you
spoke again, and came toward me ; and,

\ ;

I '

I -

>:ffiB(Wrar;

-.;«i«sr*ssr:^sswfs?as53=w«sf^'"

HOPES OF BAND.

ioarco knnwliia wimt I iM, I r.-nclu-.l it to ]
you ; you took If, uiul I liiirrU'il nwiiy, l'«-<'l- 1
111'.' tliat I lia.l Hitv.-il yon liolli, im wt-ll n*
my liiil'v. I knew you woiilil not (•oiiiiiit
a iTlnii' Willi tliiit inixK'uiit in your iniiiH ;
nuil, .\l»'l. I kn.^w you ho well, lliat I wiis
Hur.' von wonl.l iu'v.t iil)anilon it, anil that
yon would tiwli it to 1m! virlnons ami

liapps"

'•6 VioU^t, Violet! wliy <li<ln't you
upcak to Ml.- Y wliy ilidn't yon t.-ll in.! wlio
yonw.n'V I wonl.l liavi- Ihmu y..in' Irii'lul,
yo.nl.rotlur. 1 wonl.l Invu huvc.I you IWmi
furtliiT sin," cri.-.l Alu-l rt'in-oai'lilully.

« It'.s no UK.! to think ..f that, my poor
Abel. It wouliln't have lii'.-n lliu luni't
pood. Yon .'onl.ln't hav.! naveil ,nu-. 1
wouldn't 1k! wive.l: 1 like.l my >*inlul lite
too well. It wad only after my h.-allh
pave wav. ami I ktu-w I mni»t die, that I
rei)cnte.ran.l felt s.H-ry for it all ; an.l even
now gomeiime.H I'm afraid I'm not i.enilent
cn.ai'^h, an.l I think that perhaps, if I
Bhonld live, I nii-ht S" ''■^'-'k to it a;^ain.
Oh. it's dreadful to he »o wi.-ked and nneer-
tain when I'm so near death ! " Here h.'r
voiee waH broken with f.ol.i', ami she we|.t
passionatidy for a tew moments. Aliel
cootheil h.-r a» well as lie eoul.l, tor his
own soul was sinartint; under iho torture.
At last she rejraiiie.l her ealinness, and
resumed her .ml story. '-I m'Vi-r lost
8i;;llt of you, Aliel, IWini the luiur I lett you.
1 knew of dear old da.l.ly's .lealli, ami how
atU'rward you wont to live in the rooms in
Little Easteheap that we looke.l at to-elh-
er. Lamb, the faithiul ereatnrc who let yon
in, an.l who has been with nic tor years,
knew a cousin of Mrs. liattle, your land-
la.ly, ami ihrontih her I learne.l that you
iut.uded to keep the child : then I was
,,uile easy almut it, because 1 knew it
wonl.l bo well cared tbr. I've seen her
Al,cl, — I've, often seen her in the jiark with
you ; an.l I've so longed to take her in my
arms and kiss her. but I di.ln't dare to.
She's beautiful, isn't she V ami I'm sure
she's a sood child. Wli;- do you call her
Pet ? Mrs. Lamb found out that she bad
no other name." «

" She was always oalle.l that frcnn tho
first. 1 wante.l lo name her tiir y.m ; but I
hadn't the coura^je to hear it eonstanlly,"
i-etiirm-d Abel, averting his fa.e lo liiilo
the tears that tilled his I'yes.

"Poor soul!" sai.l Viol.-t, laying; her
feverish han.l on his. " Hav.'n'l y.m not
over that yet Y I thoujiht you'.l forjjottcn
me Ion}? a(io, and hated in.', too, bilte-ly."

"I've never hated y.m, Viol.t. I'hero
was a time when I felt hard towar.1 yon;
but I siHin <;.>t over it, an.l Ibrgavo yon, and
lon^e 1 to see you."

"Ah, Abell you were jroo.l, too fi.Kid
for me. If IM been dillerent I niinht have
been hai>|)y with y.JU to-day, instea.l of
lyin^ here r.-penlinj,' of my sins. Ooil
knows I'm thankful that one linnian being
has remained faithful t.) me 1 Unt tell mo
how did you know that it was Robert
Thorpe Y"

" 1 never knew it, Violet, until I heard it
this in.mient from your lips."

"Then why di.l yo" tiuarrel with him,
and leave his emphiy V "

" It was another matter entirely ; and I'm
thankful I .li.ln't know this then, because
it wonl.l have maddened me beyond all
...ntrol." Tlien Abel told her brietly of his
trouble with Ilobert Thorp.!, of his terrible
t.'iniitation, an.l of his salvation throujrh
the child that she ha.l put into his arms.

" How thankful I am now that I listened
to that voice in my heart ! Isn't it a proof
that those who love us watch over us after
ileath Y I told you I thought daddy was
near me. Now I know that Go.l sent him
to save you. Dear, dear, old dadtly, — he's
often been with me since I've lain here
al.me, thiiikin;r of every thin^' ; an.l I know
by that he tbr^ave me lietbre he dit!d."

"He (lid, Violet: hu sjmke of you sO
swe.!ily, and made me promise to be kind
to you if I ever tbnn.l yon ; and he MX you
six pounils, that he had saved tor you, with
his love and lor^iveness."

" O Abel I I'm so thankful that he didn't
die feeling angry against me. 1 woul'ln't
have courage to meet him in another world
if 1 know it ; but the money, — 1 don't want

A withkuki) violkt.

r>\)

lit rroin tlio

)r you ; liiK I

ciiiistanllv,"

fan! to lildo

Invln;^ luT
■n't you j;ot

tl liir^otttn
(1. l)itfi'-ly."

)li't. riicro
tiiwaril ynu ;
^avt! yon, and

1, too };iM)(l

I iMfiht have '

y, iiistcatl of

' hiriH. (lod

liiinian hoinir

Hut ti-ll mo

was Uoburt

intil I huard it

I'R-I with him,

tirt>ly ; and I'm
tlirn, becauso
lie beyond all
LT briefly of his
, of his terrible
vatioii through
nto his arms.
' that I listened
Isn't it a i)roof
h over us after
^ht daddy was
, God sent him
1 daddy, — he's
I've lain hero
t\'^ ; and I know
e he died."
oke of you so
lise to be kind
and he lert you
ed lor you, with

il that he didn't
lie. I woul'ln't
n another world
, — I don't want

it ; I've more than I should need it' I lived i
tor liKinibs, whieh I !-hii'ii't. I sold all my
jewels that I li>>U);ht ut such a |irie(<, and '
hired ibis little (ilta^'e todle in. I've been
here nine iiniiill.'<, and I've been very eoni-
Ibrtable with Lanili. There's enciiii;h to
bury nie when I'm ;;i)ne, and someibiirj; for
her. I floii't want to pive my elilM any
lliiii'.'. Miiiiey f^ot in an evil way would
only lie a eiirKe."

" .She d<in't iieeil it, Violet. I shall pro-
vide tlir her as loie^ as I live."

" Now, Abel, I've! told you all but the
parlieiilars of the last five years. They've
been bud enou'jfh, and it's no use to harrow
your leeliii'^s iiy dwellinj; on tlieiii, (iod
don't require it of me. I've been a J.'^eMt^in-
lier, and I've suifered ; Imt perhaps I've not i
snlVered half enough, liir it's more mercy
than I deserve to be taken away yonn;;. It's
what I've hoped and prayed lor, and (lod's
been';^K)<l to listen to nw. Now I've made
my ])«'aee with every one, and I don't e.ire
how soon I j;o. Yesterday I wrote to
Kobert Thorpe, telliu'^ him that i was
dyiiiu'. I want him In know that I was in-
noi'eiit when he ae<Mised me; ami now,
surely, on my death-bed, lie won't disbelieve
me. I tolij him about Pet, — how beaulil'tll
she is, and how kind you've been to her."

" O Violet, Violet I why di<l \ou tell him
that 1 have his child? He'll take her from
me : lie'il rob me of my only treasure, my
only liappiness I I've loved her always as
tlioiii^h she were riiy own ; and, now that I
know she's yours, I love her a thousand
times more. He'll elaim her, aa<l I shall
have to give her up," cried Abel, in extreme
distress.

" Don't blame me : she's his child. When
you think of it calmly, you'll see that I did
i'i;j;ht in tellin<^ him. Besides, Abel, which
is the most unhappy, — he or you V He's a
poor, ruined youn^ man, with nothing in
the world. Perlmps he needs the child
more than you do. And then, she's his:
il' he wants her, he certainly has a ri;;ht to
her; but don't fret. I'm sure he won't
take her : he can't proviile I'or her now. and
she'd oidy be a burden on him." i

" 'Hiat may be he may not take her
away at present, but I'll iu'ver li'cl any
surely. 1 shall never leel a^ain as tliiiu;;h
•he beloii'.'ed to me, I shall never know
anollier happy day with her. Violet, you
ini^ht Inive spareil me this. You mi);la
li.ive led him In ignorance re-peciiiii; a
child he disowneil beliire it wa'< born."

" lie reasonablt^, Abel," slw returned
with somethin}{ of her old obsiina<'y and
sellishness, *' and look ut it as you ou;;lit to.
You're better than I am, and you ou;;bt to
see that it was my duty to clear myself
beliire I died ; and how could I s])eak of
the child, without tellin;; him where she
was '( It makes no ilill'erence if you blame
me : I think I did i i;;ht. Ihit that's not nil,
.\bel," she added, bursting into tears, ami
clin^iin;^ to his hands. " I <'an'l jjet over
my habits of deception. Mammy Flint's
lessons clinix to me yet. My real reason is,
that I still love him, and want him to tijiiik
of me sometimes. I know if he lias the child
she'll remind him of me ; and I'll never bo
(piite liir^otten. U Abel I I love him yet. I'd
;ii\e worlils, if 1 had tbciii, to see him but
Ibr one hour, — to lay my head on his shoul-
der a^rain, to leel his hand smooih my hair.
It seems as though I couldn't die without
seeiii'^ him, and yet I must; ii)r if I see liiin
I'll want to live, and I'll he an|j!ry against
God it' he takes me away. Now 1 must bo
calm and |ieniteiit ami patient, that I may
cleanse and purity my soul for the last
jjrcat (hankie. There's notliin;^ more in
this world that I desire, but a si;;ht of
Hobert; and it's required of me as ])art
of my penance to deny myself that happi-
ness ; so 1 must, or Christ will never let mo
sit at his feet with the other Magdalen."
Then she covered her face with her hands,
and remained lorn Ion-;; limeiiideeplhou;^ht,
while Abel watched her silently. At last
she luoki'd up, and said, with a patient
entreaty in her voice, " 1 thou'jlit that was
all : but there's another tbinj:, Abel. I
w,.af to see my chilil. You must bring
lier to me. I must hold her in my arms.
She must see her mother oiu-e, so that she
will remember her ; tor 1 don't want to bo

■5?

6»

IIOPK8 OF SAND.

ftirtrolli'ii. () Aljil ! I don't wiint to bu fi-ntcil it' I don't spc Iut. I'vo [{ivon up

for;lolli'ii liy every oiii'." ' liiU-rt, liut lot iiu- H'e liis cliilil."

" Ycm'll nt'vtT lie tiir'^dttrn, Vii)lt't, hy " Ymi uliall we Iht, Violet: !»• ciiliii, ami

0(i<' : llif only one yoii'vi- lu'vcr lovi-il will yon rliall mm- Iut. I'll hrin;; Iht I'lirly

rrrni'inbcr you iilwayii. Yon tliink of liiin, to-niorrow, I'd no tlion^lit Hnrli as yuu

i>nt yon ticvcr tliink of my a;jony. My iircnxc uw of: I wax unly tliinkin;^ of iliu

iii'url'N l.ri'akin<{; and yim liavr not ii word
of romli)rt for mr," fried Aliel, for;{etlin;{
the )>tern eompoFiire lie liiul t'oried ti|Min
liinicejl', while he wept pa^iHioiialely over
lier, welting her face with hii hot teant.

The poor, weak, MelfiNh mini wiin liinched
to ilN deptliK hy Ihi"; ami, putting her
feeble arniH ronml bin neck, die drew hi-i
face ilown toiler", and kiHxed him with nor-
rowfiil fervor. Then nIiu mild, witii Inux-
lilvMnlble jialbon In her voice, " AIh-I, dear,
r>e ({iven yon the very bent I had to (?ive.
I'vi) loved yon with iho only pnni love of
>ny lite. I've loveil yon lu ii hlitter lovew a
brother."

That wnn enough: it reachc<l the, very
dcptliH of IiIh heart, and comfurted him an
nothiii'^ else conld. " Tliiink you, darlini;,"
lie replied. Htru;.';ilin^{ hard ((>r eompoHure.
'• Y'oii've (jiven me Homethini; to live on. I
ehall bear it all belter now."

"Try to be calm and happy, .Vbd ; don't
Waste any Ic'clin;^ on uie; imleeil, I'm not
worth it. I've made you siill'ur ciion^h
already, and you've been s-o ^ood to me.
1 don't deserve such a friend. There's
only one thin<; more you can ilo; and that
is to brinn I'et ns soon as possible, lor I've
not Ion;; to wait for her."

Abel niivdo no reply : he was thinking of
the ed'eet such a, sad scene would have
upon the sensitive vhiUl. Violet noticeii
his liesitation, and, mistaking' its cause, cried
passionately, " Yon won't, brin;; lier 1
you're afraid her own mother will pollute
her. \'ou don't want such an iniKxient to be
clasped in the arms of a sinner. Abel, that's
cruel I Haven't 1 earned thu ri^jht to see her
now 'i* For nine months I've been purifying
myself to be lit to touch her. I've shed j

sad lm|ires!<i(in it will make on lier happy
little iieart ; but I'll brin<{ lu-r ; you sliall
H»'«' her."

"Tliank you, Abel," ghe replied ^Tate-
fully; "now I'm <'ontented; but biiii;^ lier
early, for I'm so exhausted perhaps I
slia'n't last thron^li the day. I'll try and
be patient until hIk^ comes. Call I>amb,
pleas(>. U'h time I had my tonic ; and I
need it."

Tiie old woman came In sufHy and sad-
ly, at Abel's Mummona, and leaned over the
bed.

" Ah, Lamhy dear, it's you," she said,
raisin;{ her beautiful eyes and smilin;j
;;ently, "it's all settled. This is Abel, my
brother Abel, tliat I've told you of «o
ollea. II(?'s |)romised to brin^ the child
to-morrow, ami I've nothin;{ niori\ to ask.
Now jiive me my tonic, and try to keep
lite in me until site comes."

Then Abel, seeing how exhausted she
was, and how much she needed rest, kissed
her tenderly, and went away promisin;^ to
return early the next day. The ibllowln;^
morning he obtaineil leave of absence from
lii§ desk ; and by tellin;r Mrs. liattle that
lie was )!oin;r to take I'el to visit a lady
whom he hail known since childhood, and
who was very ill, her curiosity was satis-
fieil, and she dressed the child without
overwhelming; him with ((uestions which
he was in no mood to answer.

When he reached No. 3, Cottage I'lace,
Mrs. Lamb met him at the door; and to his
an.\ious iiKpiirics, she re|>lied that Mrs.
Watson was comlbrtable, had rested well
all ni<;ht, and was waitin;; patiently to see
the little ^irl.

Now, darling," said Abel, bctbre ho

tears enough to wash me clean. Christ' took the child into the room, "this' poor
won't refuse me no more than he did that lady is very ill ; and you're not to disturb
other sinner; then, don't you be hard on her. You must be good and gentle, and go
mc, Abel ; don't, I pray. I sha'n't die con- to her directly she asks you "

« ■ '

•axRsss^amataSMHMM

A WITII'CIIKI) VIOLKT.

vc ^ivon up
It

lit- calm, mill
^ licr I'lirlv
tiii'li us yi'M
iklii;^ III' tliu
1 liiT Iwppy
r ; yiiii .•.hall

splictl jiratc-

llt liliri;^' her

peril. ipM I

I'll try ami

Call Luiiii),

tuiiiu ; ami I

IHy mill sail-
iiL'il over tho

I," hIh! saiil,
1111(1 Miiillinij

is Al)i;l, my
1 yoii of no
iir tlu! I'hild
iiiorc to nuk,

try to kei'p

KliausU'il hIio
J rust, kisjiuil
prumiMii);r to
liu iullowiii;^
iibseiiue from
Huttlu tlmt
vinit a lady
lililhooil, and
ty was satis-
liilil without
»tions wliich

otta^c I'lace,
)v; and to Ills
id that Mrs.
1 rusted wull
tiuntly to see

3l, bcl'ore ho
i, "this' poor
lOt to disturb
gentle, and go

.'.-ynj....,.....j.,nyi!,aj!. ' i i .i'S'-^

" Yfs. papa : I'll bu vewy nood," npliud
Pi't nirckiy.

Then hi! wont in, lioldin;: hi-r liy the
band. VIoU'l's larni', bright I'jcs wiTi- lixcd

on ihe liiior; and ll mment ilio i<aw tin-

fhild, dhc utlcred a biilo cry of ji>y, and
held out her arms. Abfl led IVt riirwanl ;
her mother chmped her, and drew her close
to her heart; then there was a moment's
nilenee, liroken only by stilled snlis. Alter
the first violent burst of emotion was some-
what calmed, she held theUttle ^irl at arms'
len;{lh, and h)oked at her limdly ami
proudly, with threat tears brimmiie^ over
lier eyes, and trieklin;; ilown her i>ale
cheeks.

" She's like him," she said at len;;tli ; " ohe
has his brow and mouth, and my eyes.
Haven't you noticed it, AbelT'

'• I've always tlmuuht her like you, Vio
let : her eyes have always rcmlndiMl me nt
yours; but I don't see his looks, and 1
don't want to."

" I'm <^\.i<\ she's like me, Abel. He'll nev-
er for^^et me while he has her lieliire him."
The poor fellow had a spasm of j)aln at
these thoiiiihlless words, but ho said noth-
ing : he would not cloud that moment ol
happiness with his own sorrow.

" Put her on the bed by me, so that I
can hold her close, and give her some
grapes, lit you like grapes, darlin;.; 'I "

" Yes, I do, thank you," replied Pet
sweetly.

Then Abel went away for a little while,
and lell the mother alone with her child,
for her first interview, and her last sad
farewell. He went out into the street. The
morning sun shone brightly, dozens oi"
liappy mothers passed him with their chil-
dren Then his heart was filled willi bit-
terness. She, still so young and beautiful,
lay there dying, holding in her arms, for
the lir>t and last time, the child she had
alwndoned years before. How her sad
fate had overshadowed and crushed him !
What a grievous destiny had led hiin
years before to the weeping child, ])laying
her first game of deception. How that early
inlluence had blighted her whole liiij, and

ruined what ml^hl have been a lieautiful
character I lie had already sullired much,
liut still he felt that the wor^t wis to

, ic. Through his love for her child, ho

had yet to drain the dregs nf the bitter

cup.

When he entered, alb'r a half-hour's
absence, he liiund Violet weeping loiuul-
^ively with her face buried in the pillow;
while the child's little hands caressed her
head lovingly, and smoothed the long, soil
hair that clung round her neek.

"'n»o lady cries, papa; an' I've been
weal iU)od. I've kissed her, an* told her all
my 'ittle stories, and said I'd be a dood dill
al'ays, an' love her, an' — an" she won't stop
at all," said I'et pitifully, with a little sad,
puzzled face.

" () Abel I take her away, fake her away I
I can't bear it!" cried Violet, litliug her
tear-stained face, " I can't bear it ! She's
so good and sweet, that it bre;iks my he.irt
to listen to her innocent prattle: every
word she says stabs me like a knll'e. Tako
her away, or I sha'n't have coin-age to die.
Let me kiss her oiifU more, and then tako

her."

Abiil turned away his he.ad, while the
poor mother took her last farewell of tho
little unconscious thing. Then, when ho
heard a sharp cry of anguish, and a liitlo
frightened sob from Pet, he knew the bit-
terness of death was over ; and, tmnini:, he
took the child from the relaxing clasp of
the mother, and hurried from the room.
Mrs. Lamb went to her, when Aiiel came
down with the little girl, and found her in
a deathlike swoon, from which she did not
recover for hours. " It was the keenest
sulFering I ever felt," she said to her laith-
ful servant, who was crying near her pillow.
'• Every word the sweet innocent spoko
was a terrible reproach to me. I've never
had a harder punishment, than to hold her
in my arms, and teel that I was as far re-
moved from her as earth is from heaven. If
I'd lived, Lamb, she couldn't have ever
been any thing to me. There an; stains
that can't be wiped out. There's no place
on earth for such as we : we need to bo

..A-.-- ' ,j«m ' JHJ»,M ' # B ',l..-- g>^8aB3g^

ill

lit

i*!

BOPES OF SAND.

clcanswl hy death, beforo we're fit to touch ^ insciiplion, " To the memory of a good

man." There is nothing to marii the spot
where she sleeps, but a mound tliickiy cov-
ered with tui'ts of fragrant, deep-bhie vio-

the pure."

AVhen Abel had taken Pet home, he re-
turned again to the bedside of Violet, to
remain with her what little lime she lived, lets.
All through the afternoon and evening, he
Bat near her, holding her hand in his, silent
and sorrowful, watching her beloved face,
while she slept peacefully. Onec she
awoke, and spoke of Robert Thorpe, as
though she had dreanird of him ; and then,
seeing Abel by her bed, with his sad eyes
fixed on her, she clasped his hands, and
said entreatingly, " You'll Ibrgive him, dear,
you'll forgive him, even as God will forgive
you ; and, if he wants his child, you'll let
him have her. Promise me, Abel, that
you'll let him have her."

" I promise you," he said in a scarce au-
dible voice : " he shall have her, even though
it breaks my heart." A faint glimmer of a
Buale stole over her face, as slu; sank again
huo a peaceful sleep. About midnight,
Abel ielt that lie could not endure a longer
vigil ; so, telling Mrs. Lamb that he would
return again early in the morning, he
stooped over her, and, brushing back the
thick curling hair from her transparent
temples, he kissed her again and again
with a despairing tenderness. She half
opened her eyes, smiled, and murmured
" Robert," then closed them again, and sank
into a heavy sleep.

" Her last thought will be for him," said
Abel bitterly, as he went away, and left
Mrs. Lamb watching her. When he re-
turned in the morning, the faithliil servant
met him at iLe door, with pale face and
swollen eyes.

" It's all over, sir," said she. " Her sor-
rows are ended. She never woke after
you left her, but dropped off in her sleep
without a sigh or a word."

Abel could hear no more; turning, he
rushed fiom the house, and wandered he
eared not whither : he could not look upon
her dead. The next day they buried her
in Kensal Clreen, by the side of poor Old
Top, over whose grave Abel had placed a
neat stone, with the simple but touching

CHAPTER XL

Abel's sacrifice.

Aktku Violet's death, Abel tried to re-
sume his duties as though nothing had oc- •
curred to disturb the even stream of his life,
— tried to renew liis hopes and plans for
Pet's future, without fear or anxiety. But
it was in vain ; things did not seem as they
had before ; there was no secin-ity in his
present, no confidence in las future. He
felt like a man in mid-ocean, upon a sink-
ing ship, who knows not at wliat moment
the threatening waves may close over him
forever. It was a moral torture to him, to
feel that he was resting his whole hajipi-
ness on so frail a ibundation ; that he was
worshipping something that diil not belong
to liim, something that he might lo-^e at
any moment. When the child hung round
his neck with fond caresses, he felt a sort
of cuilt at appropriating an all'ection which
was only his through circumstances.
Every kiss, every touch of her soft,
little hands, were stabs, that bled constant-
ly. He loved her so well, and felt that she
was so necessary to his existence, shat, if
he should lose her, he could not.eii<luie his
life ; and so he looked upon himself, as a
kind of felo de se, to encourage such an ex-
clusivJ^ passion. "I must wean myself," he
would say. "I must gradually unloose ihe
cords that slie has wound around mo, so
that, when the time comes, 1 can give lier
up without its killing me." Therefore he
felt no real enjoyment in her society, see-
ing that every natural impulse was gijaixled
under a protest of self-denial.

Sometimes she would talk to him grave-
ly of the lady who had kissed her and cried

r of a good
irk the spot
thickly cov-
up-bhie vio-

tried to re-
liiiii» had Of- •
im of his life,
lul plans for
nxii'ty. But
suein as tiicy
ciirity in his

futuru. Ilii
upon a sink-
fhat moment
ose over him
ire to him, to
whole happi-

that he was
id not belong
iii<!;ht lose at
1 hung round
le felt a sort
flection which
ircumstances.
of her soft,
jled constant-
1 felt that she
itence, that, if
iotien<luie his

himself, as a
;e meh an ex-
tn niyselti" he
ly unloose iho
round mo, so
can i.dve her
Therefore he
r society, see-
13 was gijai-ded

to him grave-
1 her and cried

ABEL'S SACRIFICE.

over her; and say she was pretty and kind,
an.l be-r to be taken to her ajjam. 1 k'..
Abel told her that she was dead, and that
Bhe could no to her no more. ^_

"What is it to be dead, papa ^ she
asked with a puzzled, serious iiice.

» To be at rest when one is tired, and to
have no more fear."

» Oh, no 1 It's to RO away for ever anU
ever. Mrs. Battle says so."

" Yes, that is one kind of death," he re-
turned musingly.

" Will you ever be dead, papa f > i"
vou ever go away, and leave Pet ? "

"God only knows, dear." Thsn he pu
the child ii-om oir his knee, strugghng '---.rd
to keep back the tears.

She saw his trouble in his eyes ; and, taK-
his face between her little hands, she said,
"What makes you cry, papa? Is it be-
cause the lady's dead V "

" No, no, darling : it's not that, he re-
plied, as if thinking aloud. "I'm thank ul
that she's dead ; for now I know where she
is I searched for her years and years.
At last I've found her, and I never can lose
her again. But go away. Pet; run to Mrs
Battle, I've something to do."

After she had gone, he went to his bed
room and wept freely, feeling that his
heart would break if he did not find some
relief in tears. The time had not yet come
when he could not weep, but it was draw-
in"- nearer than ho thought.

One afternoon Abel came home earlier
than usual, and found that Mrs. Battle had
taken Pet to the park. Shortly after, the
good woman came in greatly excited, her
face extremely red, and her breath coming
in short gasps. " Such a strange thing has
, happened, Mr. Winter!" she exclaimed,
dropping into a chair, and fannmg herseli
vigorously. " Such a strange thing, — m a, i
my life I never met a more curiouser."

" What was it V " hiquired Abel, with a
Bud.len fluttering at his heart.

" Why, I was a settin' on a bench with
my work, an' Pet was a play in' round, when
all of a suddent a gentleman comes up to
her, an' begins to talk to her. 1 kind o

kep' my eye on him, though he .lidn't look
like one o' then men as steals .■hildren.
Well, he talked to her, an' the stui.wl httle
cretur' seeme.l mighty pleased with us
chat. By aiul by he took some sugar-barley
out o' his i.ocket, an' otVered .t to her
a-sndlin' like a angel, which she took, the
.rvcedy little mite ! an' swallowed all -lown
r„ a wink. Then he held out his han.l.
and she put hers in it, jest like a bird as is
charmed by a sariient, an' was actally
■roiii' off with him. I supiiose he ili.ln t
nrink 1 was a watchin' him, 'caasc I was
behind a tr.- with my head b.nt as if 1
was busy with my work. Well, I jest let
him -et oir a little way, like a cat does a
mousx., all the while ready to clap my paw
on him when I see what he intended to do
Tlien I started, an', afore he knew it, 1
was there, an' had the child by the han.l
ready to carry her off. An' I did want to
shake her awful, for the first time since I
have had her in my care. He looked at
me as though he would eat me with his
eyes, bones an' all, an' asked me what I
wanted. Says I, as proud as the fiueen,^^ 1
want my child, if it pleases your honor. .
" What reply did he make '\ " (luestioned
Abel with trembling anxiety.

" Why, he turned as white as a stone,
an' says", aiigrv-Uke, ' She's not your chiUl ;
an' you've no" right to her.' - ' Sb;'s mine,
sir, I told him, ' while I've the care of her.
Mr. Abel Winter put the little girl m my
char-e, an' you've no right to me.idle with
her.'" Then he come close up to me, an
said, low and confidential-like, ' See here,
,„y <,ood woman, the child belongs to me:
Iw^nther; an' if you'll let me 'ave er
peaceable, PU give you somethin and-
soine' OLord! Mr. Winter, you ought
to have seen how mad I was 1 Tl.evilla.nl
to try an' buy me that way! But I didn t
ka him know i. : so I s.ays, cool-hk.^
< Thai's all very well ; but what can 1 tell
Mr. Winter when I uo home without the
child V— -Oh, that's easy enough to ar-
n-n-e: you can invent something. Say
you' lost her, or she was stolen.' - ' Hiank
you' I says, sort of sarcastic, ' thank you,

•I

raiHiaB>;^ »jWte 'Jg i»B i»S»^«» *^

ROPES OF SAND.

sir. You're a vory 'oncst mmi, an' I like
your manners niiicli lor a cliilil-sU-aler ; but
you've fxot to liml a (latter party 'an me to
"swallow your nonsense. You l(X)k like a
fTcntlenian, that's true ; but you're not; an'
it' you're Pet's father I'm sorry for her.
Still, 1 <lon't believe it. You're more like
one o' them eircus fellows as wants to >;et
Vr to ihiiKe the tij^ht rope.' Then he
turned awful mad, an' white, an* looked
round as if he didn't know what to do, like
as if he wished he had win^s, an' could take
the child an' lly ott" with 'er. An', would
you believe it, tlie little meek mite was a
boldin' his haml fast, as if she'd. like to go
too."

Abel sighed, and looked at the child
reproaehfnlly.

" Well, 1 didn't know just what to do,
till 1 see a i>'licemiin in the BirdcaRe Walk :
then I says, as bold as eoultl be, ' Now, sir,
you may be the child's father or not, I'm
sure I tion't know, as that isn't easy to tell ;
but, if you are, you've got to prove it to
Mr. Wi'nter, an' get 'er in a 'onest way.
You can't buy her or steal 'er from me;
an', if you don't let 'er go 'ome peaceable,
I'll call that holHeer yonder, an' tell 'im the
whole story.' With that he jest wilted-like
an' settled down onto a bench, an' dragged
the child up to 'im an' hugged 'er like a
bear, a sayin' sometbin' low, as I didn't
hear only the last words; an' them was.
She's nunc, an' I'll 'ave 'er.' I did pity

liim, Mr. Winter, spite o' all; an' if he was

not a thief he was a hactor, 'cause no one

but a hactor could work their face an' leign

to feel bad as he did; an' he was 'andsonie

too, an' '.veil .Iressed for that matter,

though a bit thin an' p.de, an' sad-lookin'.

At last, I felt as though my own feelin's

w;is a givin* way, an' my heart a ri^in' u[)

in my throat, so I just took the child and

says, ' Come, Pet. come home and see

papa.' Then he lla>h.^d up like a ilame.

an' says he, ' By God 1 he's not her father.

An' I'll prove it, an' have her. Tell him

so if you like. Abel Winter 'as no right to

the child.' Then he kisseil Pet over and

over, an' says, ' Will you go with me, dar-

lin' ? • An' the wicked, ongrateful little cre-
tur', she sort o' clung to bis hand, an'
looked at him as though she didn't know.
So I just led her otV and brought her 'ome ;
though I do verily believe she'd a' gone
with 'im in a minute."

"Woulil you have, PetV" said Abel,
taking her on his knee with a sinking
heart, " would you have gone with the
strange gentleman, and left your poor

papa"? "

" He did give me nice barley-sugar, an'
said, if I'd go with him, he'd buy me a
great doll with eyes to open and shut, an'
pink shoes, an' — an' — lots o' things."

" Oh, you wicked little girl 1 " cried Mrs.
Battle indignantly, " to leave your good
jiapa for barley-sugar, an' pink shoes, an' a
stranger that p'rhaps 'd break your back,
and make you stand on the tips o' your
toes all day long."

'•Don't scold her, Mrs. Battle," said
Abel calmly. " The child's not to blame.
Her little heart recognized the author of
her being; for without doubt it was her
father. I've lately learned who he is : he
knows that I have his child, and he'll likel-
claim her."

" O love alive I " exclaimed Mrs. Battle
in real terror. "You can't mean it, Mr.
Winter 1 he'll claim her, an' you'll give her
up, an' we'll lose Pet? Why, that can't
be. AVe can't live without her, me an' my
man, let alone you."

" It's hard, I know, Mrs. Battle. I don't
see how we can bear it. It seems to mo
as if I hadn't strength to go through with
it ; but, if it comes, I suppose I must," said
Abel with sad resignation. " He's her fa-
ther ; and he alone has a right to her."

" Do tell me, Mr. Winter, how did you
finil it out? an' is he a hactor, or a gentle-
man ? "

" It's too long a story to tell you, how I
discovered it ; and, besides, there are other
reasons why I can't explain it to you : but
I'm convinced that this person js her
father; and he's no actor, Mrs. Battle.
We won't talk about it any more, only
you're not to take Pet to the park again :

--'1

ABEL'S SACEIFICB.

fill little cre-
is hand, an'
lidn't know.
;ht her 'ome ;
lie'J «■ gone

' said Abel,
h a sinking
inc with the
t your poor

ley-sugar, an'
'd buy ine a
;ind shut, an'
' things."
1 " criL'd Mrs.
ve your good
k shoes, an' a
k your back,
> tips o' your

Battle," said
not to blame,
the author of
bt it was her
who he is : he
,nd he'll like)/

a Mrs. Battle
mean it, Mr.
you'll give her
hy, that can't
ler, me an' my

Battle. I don't
t seems to mo
I through with
e I must," said

" He's her fa-
ht to her."
, how did you
or, or a gentle-
tell you, how I
there are other

it to you : but
person is her
r, Mrs. Battle,
vny more, only
te park again:

he mustn't have a chance to get her in that
way. If ho wants her he must come to me
like a gentleman, and say so. Now bring
us our suppers ; for the poor little thing
must be hungry and tired."

After Pet had eaten heartily, •while Abel
watched her, scarce tasting a mouthful, he
un(lresscd her, as ho often did, and then
li'Hcn'Ml to her prayers, while she knelt
b-fon him with sweet, demure face, and
clasped hands. Then he took her in his
arms ; and, pressing her close to his heart,
be leaned his cheek against her curls, and
fell into a deep reverie. The weight of his
destiny crushed him I His past sorrows
and disappointments sank into nothingness
compared with this present trial ; but with
it all he felt a strange calm and resigna-
tion, -»- a consciousness that the worst had
come, and that nothing more could be
added to his already brimming cup.
There was no vindictive passion, no re-
venge, no hate in his heart against Robert
Thorpe : ho was the faher of the child
he held in his arms, — the child he
loved with a mother's tenderness. Noth-
ing could exceed the charity, pity, and
kindness that filled his heart. Pet slept
on his breast, her warm, soft cheek pressed
to his, her sweet breath floating over his
face, her smooth, silken hair clinging to his
hands. He looked at her closely, so that
every feature might be prinfed upon his
memory in tints that never could be
dimmed only by the effacing finger of
death. She would spring up a slender, love-
ly maiden. Under other fond eyes, the flower
of her beauty would unfold. She would
grow from grace to grace, and he would
not be there to see her. To him she would
be only Pet, little, golden-haired Pet. He
would lose her soon, lose her as he had
lost her mother, and never find her again,
save in his memory. Then his lips
parted close to her ear, and he talked
softly, as though she could hear him; as
though the voice of his love could pp; ^-
tratc''the dull car of sleep. "Darling,
I've done the best I could for you.
Pve tried to make you happy ; I've tried

to make you good. If misfortune and
sorrow come to you in the future, God
knows it will not bo my fault. If ho had
left you to me, I would have guarded you
day and night. I woulil have watched
over you as a miser does his gold. I would
have given the last drop of my heart's
blood for you ; but now he will take you,
and I can do nothing more, only to give you
into the hands of God. It's not my fault,
little one. I would rather have parted
with every limb of my body than to part
with you. I don't give you up without
giving the greater half of my life. What
can I do ? There's no compromise that I
can make between love and duty. I'm
spared temptation in the matter. He knows
all : he will come and demand you ; and I
must yield you up, far more reluctantly
than i would my life. Yes, fiir more : be-
cause life is nothing, — at thirty years I've
finished it. I've no more to hope, to de-
sire, to expect : beyond you there is only a
blank. I commenced life full of unshaken
faith in the future. I believed in friendship,
in love ; and I was deceived in both. Why
did they not tell me that all was false,*
that only the hereafter was true ? Why
did they leave me to buy my experience
at such a price ? I've searched into the mys-
tery of sorrow, and fcund in it nothing but
grievous chastening. I've asked why it
has come so thick and fast upon me, and
the only answer I receive is that God has
willed it; therefore I must be resigned.
But you, darling, how will it bo with you ?
What fate awaits you, my precious one ?
O my angel I who will love you as I have ?
who will count thee more precious than
life or happiness ? " Then he carried her
gently, and, laying her in her bed, he
smoothed her pillows, and pressed his lips
to her flushed cheeks with mournful ten-
derness. After that he went back to his
chair before the fire; and instead of
taking a book, as had been his habit, his
head sank dejectedly upon his breast, and
he fell into a profound reverie. Suddenly a
knock at his door, and steps mounting the
stairs, startled him.

BOPES OF SAND.

" A gentleman to sec Mr. Winter," said
Mrs. Battle's little maid, " an' lie's followed
me up. Shall I let him in ? "

" Certainly," replied Ahcl rising, and
trembling so that he could scarce speak,
irhile he turned away his head to hide the
anguish in his face. When he heard the
door close he looked up, and Robert Thorpe
stood before him, serious, sad, and almost
humble. Abel bowed mechanically, and
pointed to a chair; for his lips refused to
utter a word. His visitor sank into the
proiTered seat, put his hat upoa the table,
and, drawing his handkerchief from his
pocket, he wiped the beaded drops from his
face with a nervous hand ; and yet neither
spoke.

Abel was the first to break the painful si-
lence : he had conquered his emotion, and
regained his calmness in the face of this ter-
rible trial, which he knew reiiuired all his
courage to go throu;.;h with unfalteringly.
One thought was uppermost in his heart :
there could be but one object in this visit ;
and so he said, addressing Robert Thorpe
with quiet dignity, " You've come to take
your child. Am I not right ? "

" No, Mr. Winter : I've not come to take
her ; I've come to ask for her."

" And you expect me to give her up ?
Remember, her mother put her into my
arms when she was but a few weeks old ;
and I've loved her ever since. She's as
dear to me as my life. Think what you
ask, Mr. Thorpe, and be merciful."

" Don't speak of mercy, for God's sake,
don't I If you could know what was pasr-
ing in my heart at this moment, you would
see that I was the one to be pitied, not
you," cried Robert Tliorpe, still wiping the
great drops from his face, with a hand t)iat
trembled in spite of every effort at self-
control.

" You are thinking of Violet," said Abel
with painful calm. " We will not speak of
that. I saw her before she died ; I forgave
her ; I've nothing more to say."

" Would to God that I could have seen
her also t " exclaimed Robert with a burst
of emotion. " I loved her : I'm not ashamed

to say it. I loved her dearly, but I lost
confidence in her."

" I know it all," interrupted Abel.

" Since she has written to luu with her
dying hand, I believe her to be innocent.
The child is mine : she is her living image.
After I received her letter, I tried to find
her. I longed to throw myself at her feet,
and implore her pardon before she died ;
but 1 sought in vain, until yesterday, when
I accidentally met Lamb, her old servant ;
and she told me all, — how you brought the
child, and how contented and peaceful you
made her last moments."

" Say no more of it, Mr. Thorpe. You must
know how I have suflered. Spare me the
pain of referring to her. It is the child that
occupies all my thoughts now : let us settle
that matter. You want her, and you are
determined to have her : am I right ? "

" I want her, and I am determined to
have her," returned Robert with some of
his old authority.

" Are you aware that you cannot claim
the child legally, unless you legitimize her ?
that yoi< cannot compel me to give her up,
unless i choose to relinquish her ? "

" I trust to your honor in the matter,"
said Robert, dropping his eyes beneath the
steady gaze of Abel. "You surely will
not keep the child from her father."

" No, I'll not ; but first you must do me
justice; you must make a sacrifice for me.
You must acknowledge that you believe me
innocent of the crime you accused me of
five years ago."

Robert changed color, and turned his
head, trying to evade Abel's searching eyes.

" You know, as God is our witness, that I
never removed the money from the safe.
You knew it at the time, Mr. Thorpe, and
yet you let me suffer. Now is your time to
right me."

It was evident from the convulsive work-
ing of Robert's) face, that a terrible struggle
was going on in his heart. Pride and re-
morse, good and evil, were in arms together ;
and the moment was agonizing.' At last
he started up, and exclaimed, as though the
words were forced from him ajjoinst his

ABEL'S SACRIFICE.

r, but I lost

Abel.

uu with hor
innoocnt.
iviiig image,
tried to fmil
at her feet.,
re she died ;
iterday, when
old servant ;
lU brought the
peaceful you

pc. You must
S|)aro me the
> the child that
: let us settle
and you are
I right ? "
leterrained to
with some of

II cannot claim
legitimize her ?
;o give her up,
her?"

the matter,"
fes beneath the
'ou surely will
father."

ou must do me
lacrifice for me.
; you believe me
accused me of

and turned hia
s searching eyes.
ir witness, that I
from the safe.
VIr. Thorpe, and
r is your time to

convulsive work-
, terrible struggle
Pride and re-
in arms together ;
mizing.' At last
ed, as though the
him against his

will by an interior power: " By Heavens!
Winter, you are ri;^iit : I know you never
took the money. It wn:t not there for i/nu to
take; and I was a cursed villain to aci-use
you. You know what such a confession
costs me, but I'll do it. ril make a clean
breast of it. I wanted to get rid of you.
Not that F had any thing against you per-
sonally. No : I always likeil you, and you
were very useful to me ; but at that time I
was in dreadful complications, and did not
dare .acknowledge it to my father. I
thought if I only had time, that I mi'j;iit
work out of them, and lie know nothing
about it. The slightest suspicion on his
part would hnve ruined me ; and I feared
that you would discover somethinj;, and ex-
pose me. It was al>out the time 1 1 |uarrelled
with Violet ; and she threatened to disclose
all to you. I knew if she did, that you
would malre my father acquainted with my
wickedness ; and I fe.ired the consequences
of his anger. Besides, j-our knowledge of
our private affairs enabled you to discover
how badly I was managing in my father's
absence. I knew you suspected mu after the
Jew's visit; and I thought that you would
act the part of a spy, and denounce me to my
father. I had tried for some time to think
of a plan to get you discharged ; when sud-
denly the Uevil put that into my head, and I
acted upon it at once. It is true that I put
the money in the envelope before your eyes ;
but, instead of placing it in the safe when 1
stooped to do so, I slipped it into my pock-
et. I knew the man would not come until
the next day, as I had told him to call then.
You sec, I was safe from being suspected ;
but I sulFered tortures. Don't think I did
it coolly, and without pity for you." Abel
made a gesture of ineffable contempt.
" The consequences might have been worse
than they were. Your immoderate temper
almost forced my father to resort to harsh
means, although I believe he never really
thought you guilty."

" Now you must right me with him,"
said Abel quietly."

" How can I, Winter? Good Grod t my
father's dead : he died two weeks ago."

Tlien Abid noticed, for the first time, his
deep mourning. " 1 regret that more than
any tiling. I should have wished Aim, of
all others, to have been certain of my inno-
cence ; but now I must wait until it is de-
clared before the Judge of all."

llobert Thorpe regarded him with .aston-
ishment. He had expected a l)urst of
piussionatc anger ; but, instead, he had re-
ceived his avowal calmly and almost
indifferently. It touched the not entirely
ignoble heart of his old enemy as nothing
else could, and forced from his lips an <'.\-
clamation of surprise and .admiration. " By
Jove, Winter, you take it coolly ! You're
a dilFerent man from me ; for, although I'm
jiretty well down by misfortune, I couldn't
listen to the confession of such a wrong
without boiling over."

"Mr. Thorpe," returned Abel, in a
solemn, still voice, " I had my hour of pas-
sion, my temptation of revenge, long ago.
It passed over, and left us both unharmed.
Thank God for it, not me. Your full for-
giveness you owe to the mother of your
child. I don't complain, nor accuse you :
let the dead p.ost bury its dead."

Aflcr a few moments of deep silence,
during which Abel seemed to be plunged
in a profound reflection, he looked up, and
said, '• In regard to the child, if you take
her, are you able to provide for her and
educate her properly ? "

A flush of pride burnt for a inoin^mt on
Robert's pale cheek, as he replied, " Certain-
ly. If I were not com|)ctent to dj so,
I would scarce undertake the charge.
Through the influcii'.-e of a friend of my
father, I have a situation, ami a salary tl'.at
will enable me to live coujfortably. i have
entirely changed my habits, Winter. My
past experience has taught me a bitter
lesson. In the future I shall avoid the shoals
that wrecked me before. *'Ty plan is to put
the little girl in a good school ; and, when
she is grown up, she will keep house for
me, and be a great comfort to me." Abel
shivered from head to foot, and clasped his
hands with a gesture of pain. " I shall never
marry," continued liobert in a cold, philo-

ROPES OF SAND.

pophkiil tono. " I've lost all confidence in
wuiucn. In fact, 1 can never cnro for
anulhcr as I cared for lier " —

"The child has never been baptized,
never rcceive.l any name," interrupted Abel
suddenly. " It's my wish that she should
be called Violet : 1 hope you'll regard it."

"I've thought of that," rei)lied K<3bert:
" it's been my intention from the first. It's
the only reparation I can make the poor
thin.;, to give her name to the child."

Abel sprang up, anil paced the fioor
rapidly ; then with a heavy sigh he subsi.led
again into his chair, and waited, with his
eyes fi.\ed on vacancy, ibr his visitor to
gpcak.

" When may 1 take her ? " Robert com-

nienrcd. . , ., ,

" When may yon take her ? " cricil Al)el
with Hashing eyes. "I've never said yet
th:it vou coulil take her. I've not made
up nn" mind." Then he pressed his hands
over ills eyes as if striving for self-control,
ami added more cahnly. " Give me time,
Mr. Thorpe; give me one week. This
d,u- week you shall have her : come for
her tlwn, and she 'will be ready to go
with you. 1 must have a little time : she's
wound herself so rouml my heart, that 1
can't tear her olf sud.lenly. You know, one
gets so fond of a cliiUl at that age," he ex-
plained with a sickly smile.

" I don't doubt it, Winter : I'm sorry for
you ; but, if it's got to be, it's better now
than later. It's better to break this up
before her tastes are formed."

Abel replied not a word, llobcrt Thorpe
took his hat, and turned towards the door
saying, " Very well, then ; this night week
I'll come for her."

'• This night week," repeated Abel vaguely,
and added! with a mechanical motion of the
head, " Good-evening. Mr. Thorpe, good-
evening." Then he sank back into his
ch:dr, treinbling and exhausted.

Aller a few moments he got up, took a
cnndle, and went into Tet's room. She was
sleeping sweetly, one little hand under her
check, the other thrown over her head, and
tan-'led fast in her silken hair. He stooped,

and pressed his lips gently to her forehead.
To-night she seemed more than ever like
her mother; and he murmured sotlly close
to her ear, '• Violet, Violet," She partially
awoke and nestled to him. One little hand
sought his face, and lay soil and warm on
his cheek, cold and damp with the dews of
emotion. The touch went to his heart.
It seemed as though her tender fmge. s had
opened the flood-gates of his soul ; and,
bowing his head, he wept abundantly, let-
ting Ids hot tears fall over the golden curls
of the child.

Four days after ho sent for Mrs. Battlo
to come to his room. It was evening : Pet '
had gone to bed ; and he was alone, pacir.g
the Hoor rapidly, his cheeks unnaturally
flushed, and his eyes wide and bright, like
one sufTering from some terrible mental
excitement.

The pood woman looked at him with
some surprise ; but he plunged at once into
the object of his summons, without giving
her time to make her usual intiuisitive
remarks.

" Good-evening, Mrs. Battle. I've sent
for you to tell you that I'm going away."

" Good Lord, Mr. Winter ! Going away !
an' without givin' me a month's notice 1 "
she cried indignantly, her own interest be-
ing uppermost in her mind.

" Yes : I'm obliged to go at once, day
after to-morrow ; but I'll pay you the month's
rent all the same, and you can find another
lodger in the mean time."

Satisfied pecuniarily, Mrs. Battle began
to quiver with curiosity to know all about
it. " Going away, Mr. Winter 'i Why, it's
so sudden-like that I can't realize it.
Where are you goin', an' what are you
goin' for'; An' Pet, arc you a-goin' to
Uikeher,the little dear that I've had so
long V ' and up went her apron to her eyes,
whUe a sort of explosive sob struck Abel's
car most unpleasantly.

" Pray, be calm," he said, though he was
more excited than his landlady. " Pray, be
calm, and I'll explain it in a few words;
and you must assist me all you can, and be
as quiet about it as possible, for I've a great

ABEL'S SACRIFICE.

lier forclicud.
;in ever like
I sotUy (.'lopo
She partially
inc Utile hand
nd warm on
;» the dews of
to his heart.
L-r fin;^e. 3 had
is soul; and,
undantly, Ict-
! golden curls

r Mrs. BattlQ
evening: Pef
alone, paeir.g
[9 unnaturally
id bright, like
rrilile mental

. at him with -
ed at once into
without giving
lal imiuisitive

tile. I've sent
^oing away."
I Going away !
nth's notice 1 "
wn interest be-

) at once, day
you the month's
an find another

3. Battle began
know all about
Iter? Why, it's
an't realize it.
' what are you
you a-goiu' to
hat I've had so
pron to her eyes,
3b struck Abel's

d, though he was
lady. " I'ray, be
in a few words ;
i you can, and be

e, for I've a great

N I '

deal to think oA In the first ph,ce, you're never find -U,er like you , "and ..p went

not to mention it to any one ; it's strictly
private. Tlio hoiisc I'm with is obliged to
send a clerk to South America. I am of-
fered the chance; my passage is taken: .
the shin sails Wednesday, an.l 1 have a most conflicting en.ol.ons
great deal to do. You must prepare f et
for a long cea-voyage ; comfortable clothes,
you \inderstand."

" What makes you take her, Mr. Winter ?
You can leave her with me : I'll be like a
mother to her ; an' I'll look out that that

liactor-man don't get a sight of 'er. Do

leave her with mo till you come back ! "
" I've no <loubt that you'd take the best

of care of her, Mrs. Battle, but I don't

know as 1 shall ever come back ; and I have

decided to take her. It's cost me enough

to decide, so don't try to change my reso-
lution; but get her ready, and I'll pay you

the apron, while Mrs Battle made her exit,
weeping bitterly.

After she had gone, Abel walked the
floor like one poisessed, a prey to the

' I've dfciil-
ed now, and I cWt recall it. I must take
her with me : I can't leave her," he groiineil,
heavily oppressed with his burdened con-
scienco. " I've a right to her, — the divine
right of love. He'll never caro for her as I
have : ho never will, he never can. She'll
be every way better with me. She loves
mc. I'll train her carefully. I'll make her
a good woman ; and what guaranty have I
that he won't go back to his old ways, and
neglect her, and leave her to ruin ? It's my
duty to take her. Yes, it's my duty ! " but
the very persistency with which he said
it showed that he doubted it. " I thought

but act ner reauy, hiki ^ " i"v .'"" , , . ^ • i , .,,.

.ell- said Abel, so finnly and harshly I'd have courage at the last to give her up
.'Mrs. Battle was a little frightened. but this temptation's too great for me o

..Oh! I'll do all I can to help you, for resist I can take her away out of the
that matter, but it's hard for me to lose the country, and he w. 1 never ^^^^^J^
.,.d. I love 1^ like my own," and ^V^
^Mlt;:'rArBaUle,Iknowyou are It may be that Providence ordered this s.

fond of her," said Abel, softening :" but it
can't be helped ; there are very hard things
in life, and we have to endure them the
best way we can. It'll make no difference :
for, if 1 wasn't going away, we'd lose her all
the same ; her father would take her. It
was he who came the other night to tell me

so."

" I knew it was him, the villain. I was
a-peekin' out o' the parlor door, an' I knew

that i may keep her with me. Yes, I'll
take her. Wednesday night he'll come for
her, but he'll find her gone. The shij) will
sail in the morning : at night she'll be out
to sea, and he cannot ollow us. Then she
will be mine forever."

Suddenly he stopped in his hurried walk :
a dreadful pallor passed over his face ; and
he sank back in a chair like one who had
received a mortal blow ; for it seemed to

zz -, r:n;; ziz, ;„■ ,.. .» .... p»-, ^,-^ - -

a mind to tell Betty to slap the door to in

his face."

« You musn't feel that way, Mrs. Battle :
she's his child, and no one else has a right
to her : but I shall take her nevertheless, —
I can't give her up. However, we won't

and said distinctly, " Abel, give the child
to her father ; don't go to twistin' ropes o'
sand ; remember, they'll break, an' leave you
a wreck. Give the child to her father, and
trust in God for the future." Then all was
silent. He looked round wildly : the room

airanymore boutVt:getherr:ady,that's was empty ; but still he seemed to sec
laiKan; "'"" = . , . , ../•__.».•..„ .i,„ bin.l linmplv. wrinkled face.

all. My books I'll have packed to take
with me. The flowers you may have:
they'll make your room pretty for your new
lodger."

« Oh I don't speak of it, Mr. Winter : 1 11

before him the kind, homely, wrinkUid flice,
sublime with truth and justice, — he seemdl
to see it as it had looked upon him so many
times; and yet he knew that it had been
hidden under the sod for nine years.

mti t »i mt>

L.,11 1 _JiB| l 'l' l lllLg"

ROPES OF SAND,

" Daddy, daddy I " ho criuil, " I hear you ; I
listen U> you ; I'll f;ive' lit i- to lior father ;
I'll leave the future to (^lod ; I'll do what's
right. Hear what I say, ami let it he rejjis-
tered in heaven ! " Then ho tottered to
the child's room ; and, throwin;^ himself on
the little hed by her side, he elasped luif
in his arms, as ho had onue before, to siiield
himself from the tempter, and j)rayed be-
tween his Bobs, asking God to help him.
At last calmness came, and with it sleep.
All througli the night ho slumbered peace-
fully, with tho child folded to his heart;
and, when ho awoke, tho morning sun shone
into tho room. Then, atVer bathing his
face, and arranging his disordered dross, ho
sat down, and wrote tho following : —

" Mr. Thorpe, — I've decided to give up
the child to you. To-morrow morning I sail
for America, never to return. Let mo siiy a
word to you that comes from my heart. I
love her ; she is dearer to me than my own
life ; yet I leave her because it seems to mo
to be right. She is naturally a good child :
if she turns out badly, I do not hesitate to
say that it will bo your fault. Think of her
mother's unhappy fate, and watch over her
as a choice treasure committed to your care
which I shall require from your hands, pure
and unstained, at the day of final judg-
ment. In giving her up, I give up all
that can make life endurable. Remember
that, and value my sacrifice according to
what it has cost me. I have but little to
give her, — in all, three hundred pounds,
the half of which is the fruit of years of
self-denial on the part of the good old man
who cared for her mother. The remainder
I have saved from my own wages. It is
not much ; but, if properly invested, it may
be of some use in educating her. Enclosed
you will find a draft for the amount on the
Bank of Engliind, payable to you. I give
you no advice in regard to it. I trust to
your lovo for your child, and the bitter les-
son taught you by your past experience.
Pet is young : she will soon forget me ; and
I wish it to be BO. I would not have her
sweit life marred with one regret. Let

tho thought of what it has cost me to give
her up induce you to bo faithful to her,
and I shall bo contented with my sacrifice.
"Abel Winter."

When he finished his letter to Rcjbert
Tliorpe, ho rang for Mrs. Battle, who
answered his summons with red eyes and a
dejected air. " You'll think me very uncer-
tain," ho said in a voice of ibrced resolu-
tion ; " but I've changed my mind in regard
to Pot: I've decided that it will not bo
right tor mo to take lier away from her fa-
ther. He will come lor her tivmorrow even-
ing, when you will give her to him with
this," and ho handed her tho letter he
had sealed and addressed. " Tonlay you
must pack, and get my things ready for me.
Tlio ship sails early to-morrow morning,
and I shall go on board to-nij^ht. Dun't
say any thing to Pet alwut my going away :
I don't want her little heart saddened.
Her father will tako her : she's already dis-
posed to love him. Among new sienos
she'll soon forget mo, and porhai)s it'll bo
better for her in tho end. I sha'n'c bo in
through the day ; put her to bed to-night,
and, after she's asleep, I'll come in and tako a
good-by kiss." Here Mrs. Battle covered
her face and sobbed aloud : tho anguish in
his voice affected her beyond control.
" Don't, my good woman, lor Heaven's sake,
don't weaken me with a sight of your tears I
for I need all my strength. I'm going out
directly before Pet wakes. You needn't
prepare any breakfast for me. Amuse tho
child, and bo very gentle with her. Hero's
your month's rent, and a little gift for you.
I wish it could bo more ; " and he pressed
a roll of notes in tho hand of the subdued
and weeping Mrs. Battle. Then he took
his hat and went out, never as much as
glancing in the direction of Pet's room.

About nine o'clock in the evening he
returned. Mrs. Battle always remembered
it as long as sho lived ; and she told Robert
Thorpe how he had crept up stairs tb take
a last look at the child, as weak as a dying
man, — so weak that ho was obliged to
cling to the railings for support; bow he

V I '

, nn! to j^ivo
iful to hur,
ly Huciifit'c.

VlNTEn."

r to Rijlx^rt
iliittlu, who
I oyt's and a
very uiicer-
rtied reaolu-
ntl ill rc;^anl
■will not bo
from her fa-
iiorrow even-
to him with
he letter ho
To-diiy you
•eatly for mo.
ow morning,
ii;,'ht. Don't
going ivway :
rt saddened.
1 already dis-
new Hceues
rhajis it'll bo
sha'n't be iu
bed to-night,
\ in and take a
attle covered
lu anguish in
ond control,
leaven's sake,
of your tears 1
I'm going out
You needn't
. Amuse the
her. Here's
e gift for you.
id he pressed
f the subdued
Fhen ho took
r as much as
'et's room.
B evening he
's remembered
le told Robert
stairs tb take
jak as a dying
as obliged to
pport; bow he

\ I '

ABEL'S BACRIFIOB.

bad come down pale as death, with wide,
tearless eyes that seemed to be looking
beyond this world ; how ho had wrung her
hands without speaking, and gone away
like one walking in his sleep.

The child slumbered peacefully. Perhaps
bcr guardian angel fanned her pure brow
with its soft wings ; for no dark shadow of
parting crept over her sweet, smiling face,
as Abel Winter knelt by her bed like a
statue of stone, his elbows resting on hei-
pillow, his hands pressed against his tem-
ples, his wide, tearless eyes devouring ".ler
face. How long he knelt there he never
knew J for he seemed to have changed into
a being capable only of one sense, and that,
intense suffering. He had sunk below the
region of tears, or risen to a sublimity of
grief that could find no expression in out-
ward emotion. At last, the clear, musical
chime of Bow Bells struck upon his ear,
and recalled him to himself. It seemed
like a summons to his martyrdom. With

one heroic effort he struggled to his feet,
clasped the sleeping child in a long, fren-
zied embrace, pressed kiss after kiss u|ion
brow, lip, and cheek ; and then, laying her
back half awake on her pillow, without
another glance, ho rushed from the room,
leaving her to sink back into peaceful
slumber.

The next morning, in the early dawn,
the ship sailed away. Tlie rising sun
gilded her full sails ; and, like a joyous bird
that spreads its wings toward heaven, she
went out into the great unknown, bearing
with her, her freight of human happiness
and woo. She sailed away ; and, alas 1 no
eager, watchful eye ever greeted her return.
She sailed away, and the world knew noth-
ing more of her fate.

Top and Violet sleep side by side in
Kensal Green, but only the ocean with its
ceaseless sobbing was wide enough to en-
tomb the great heart of Abel Winter.

■'-.WjSsWPS"

g r i i iiimfnif'T''''"'''''-- "'"•''' '""""" ' """"""

TT"

X ■ '

^ ■ '

A WOMAN'S STORY.

"Ton louventr eit toiijoura Ik,
O tol qui no peux plui m'cntendre I "

My poor lliioul, whi-n ho furnished this
pretty npartinent in the Avenue Montaigni-,
did not tliink that I should one day sit
alone at tlio writing-table he bought for me,
sad and desolate, dressed in widow's weeds,
striving to find some di-traction in making
this llUle sketch; though for wlw-.o eyes
besides my own I cannot tell, since the
only eyes I should care to read it have
been closed for nearly two years. I

It was a long while belbro wo could
marry. Raoul was «oiM-lieutenant in the
Garde Nalionale ; an<l I, the orphan of a
poor physician, had not a relative in the
world besides an uncle, who was both father
and guardian to me. I had only a slender
dot, and Rioul had nothing but his small
pay. Therefore, although we loved caclf
other devotedly, it was thought best by
older and wiser heads than ours, that we
should not unite our lives until something
had been put aside toward beginning our
little menage.

We were both young and ardent, and at
first it seemed hard to comply with those
practical restrictions to ofar happiness.
However, time went on. Raoul was almost
alvays absent with his regiment in some of
the provincial towns, while I passed my
dull days in the peaceful house of my
uncle, situated in the pretty suburbs of
Passy. It is true that there were a few
gala days to brighten my seven years of
waiting ; and these were when my hand-
some soldier obtained leave of absence to

pass a week in Paris, or, perhaps, I should
say, In Passy ; for ho spent the moat of Ins
time with us, ami a happy time it was. My
uncle was very fond of ILioul ; and I was
so much like a daughter to him, that 1 .lon't
belicvo the dear old .gentleman ever
thought that he was a bachelor and child-
less. Gentle heart ! he had had lii." romance
belbro 1 was born ; and there was nothing
Icll of it but a grave in the cemetery of
Montmartro, with the name, " Silvio, aged
18," cut upon a simple stone. From my
earliest childh.xwl, the first day of every
June I went with him to cover the spot .
with roses, and I might say witli tears
also ; for I always cried with him to see him
sobbing over her grave.

As I was saying, ho liked to see us
happy ; for ho remembcrc<l how death had
robbed him of his future, and, therefore,
he trusted only the present. Looking back
to-night, frdm ray desolate heart, from my
silent room, those sweet days that cheered
my seven years of waiting seem like a ten-
der, pcacciul dream of childhood. Though
often dull, I was never unhappy, while pre-
paring mv simple trounseau with my own
hands", and attending to the uninteresting
affairs of our household. At last the day
camo when my soldier rushed into our little
salon with glowing cheeks, happy and
handsome, and, throwing into my lap his
papers of promotion, ho cried in a glad
voice, " Now, ma che'rie, I am captain ; and
wo can marry." A few days after, that
long-looked-for event was qinetly solem-
nized. Wo passed a very happy week to-
gether; then Raoul went back to Lyons to

nt^nRwatMMmMMHMi

A WOMAN'S BTOBY.

(

join liiri rt'^'linont, nml I ri>mi»lncil Htlll with
my iiiH'lf, only wi-iiv^ i»y liiMlmn'l imtji-
■lonally, whldi wan c'lTtiiinly it ({roat trial
to nil'; lint t'nr rn;iny ri-aHoiin lin conlil ruti
P't I'xcliiiM^'cd to I'arin; niicl my uncif
llioii;;lit it l)oiit tliiit I hhoiild remain wiili
liini until Il'ioiil vtix* |H'rnianfntly Ht'ltlcij
HOMicwIicri'. So outwnrilly llit-ro was vi-ry
litilii iliU'crunfii in my lil'o, cxtM-pt tliat. I
wiiM calliMl " niailanif," and itoinctinii!!* went
uiit williont onr maid.

Oni' niorniii'.'i niori! than two yearn after
our marria'^e, Atar^ot, onr maid, rnsthed into
my room, cryin;^, " Momtieiir Henri Id
(leiwl I "

I followed her into tho nalnn ; and there,
just as I had lell him tho iiiij;ht hefore, »at
my dear nncle, hi.s head leaning a^ainHt
tho liaek of his chair, a smilo of jrroat con-
tentment on his face, and liis thin cold
finders ela«<])ini? a lo<!k of brown hair.
Yes, lu! was dead, llaoul came, and we
hurled him hy Silvit;, and put up another
»tono, with tho name. ' Henri, njjed 00,' in-
leribed nimn it. Ki^hleun nnd sixty I
AViiat a ehn!<m of years l)otweon to bridj^e
over with tears and si;;h» t

After my uncle's chsath, I was so misera-
ble that llaoul would not leavo mo, with
only Mar;{ot, in tho dull houso in Passy.
\\\i was then cxpectin;; to be exchan<TC'd
to Paris at once ; and as his pay, with what
my uncle left; rac, fully authorized a little
cxpondituro beyond our usual economical
way of living, be hired this apartment
where I am now writing, and arrangeil it
quite elegantly, by adding a few luxuries
to the neat furniture which had been famil-
iar to me from childhood, and which I
loved too well to change for newer.

I have passed the same number of j'cars
since my marriage that I pa88e<l in waiting
for my Raoul, — seven years ; and I now am
thirty-two, and wearing widow's weeds,
with God only knows how many more
years to wait before I shall be united to
him again. Those seven years wore very
long when I had hope to uphold me ; now
what am I to do with, perhaps, six times
that number to live, and nothing to look

forwanl to? But should I say nnthintjf
1 am ungratufid and sinful to speak so
vaguely of the future. Altlioii'.;h I have
not always Iteen as giMxl and ])atient ai
one should Iw, yet I am sure I shall see my
darling again, — only the sorrow ii in tho
long waiting.

You all know of tho dark days that full
u[)on us, during which a nation was
drenched in blood and tears, and beaten
|)ittless into the very mire ; but, thank (Sod I
she is rising up again, and shaking oil' tho
stain of lior defeat. My France, cleansed
with Iier own blood, is still a nation for tho
world to envy ; ancl I am proud to havd
given my all toward the cleansing.

llaoul was in Lyons with his regiment
when the trouble began ; and, fearing I
should bo anxious, he came to me for a
hasty visit. In the evening wo had a few
friends, as we always did when he came
home ; and some one sang the Marseillaiiie.
My woman's lieart was faint with fear for
him. With eyes full of tears, and my
hands cold and trembling, 1 drew him into
our bedroom, and said, while my soul was
shrinking with shame, " llaoul, mon ami,
give up your commission before war is de<
clarod. You must not go to fight, and die
away from me 1 I have no courage to beur
it."

" Lache I " he cried sternly, putting my
clinging bands from his neck, while be
looked at me with dry, burning eyes. " You I
a soldier's wife I You I a Frenchwoman I
Quelle honte I"

" Pardon, pardon," I implored, falling
on my knees at bis feet, for in that moment
I adored him as I never bad before. He
seemed to me a king, and I a disgraced
subject, a traitor to my country. " Go, mon
dme, go ; and if you die for France, I shall
rejoice in my widowhood, even though my
heart breaks." Then I pressed my lips
to his feet, and wet them with my tears.
He raised me gently, and hold me close to
his heart, kissing my eyes, and whispering,
" I shall go; I shall 6ght like a man ; and, if
I die for my conntry, I shall die like a sol-
dier. Have no fear for me, cherie, think

miy nothlnfjf

to Kjll'ltk (0

Iii>ii.;1i I hiivo
)(1 piiticnt M
I hIiiiII Hfo my
TdW in ill tho

Inyn that full
nut ion w»R
•«, iiml lu-aten

t, tilllllk (iiMll

iiikin;^ olV tho

iiKH', eli'uniuHl

iiiilion tiir tho

proiiil to have

lllHill;^.

h liii* ro'^imont
nmt, renrin<; I
iii to mu for a
{ wo hiid a fow
whtm ho came
ho Mar8c-iliui!<o.
nt with fi-ar for
tears, ami my
I (Irvw him into
ilo my soul wai
iiuiul, mon ami,
Kiforo war i» do-
to fijjht, and die
) courage to bear

rnly, putting my

neck, while he

jingcyes. "You I

i Frenchwoman!

implored, falling
r in that moment
had before. He
id I a disgri^ced
intry. " Go, mon
or France, I Bhall

even though my

pressed my lips
m with my tears.

hold me close to
!, and whispering,
ike a man; and,if
all die like a sol-

me, cherie, think

A WOMAN'S BTORY.

only of oiir Frnnci', nrnl pray for Iiit a*
woiiit-n pray who luvo honor nioru than
Ilfo."

It win I'liiiii'jli. I liiul inivli' my nacrlfirc.
I wipcil iiwity my tcarx, and followod my
husband into the nalnn whcru tlicy still
sail';. TIhti', for tlio firxt time, I Joincil
ill I lid Miirsi'iliairu with a clour voico ami n
stron'^ heart. But do you siipposio I nuvcr
rc;;rct? Ah, la, /A / I am a woman; ami
tiicrc arc times when I ijn not iico France
for wccpiiv^. Ni;;lits when I turn on my
pillow, and put out my h iml for a warm
fiicc! that iiKcd to lie close to iiiiiic, and,
inslcad, I cecin to touch a cold, wia wound,
and I sliiidder and think that I, too, am
drenched with his blood ; ami I am alone,
niid the ni'^lit U no ctill and dark I () (iod.
how drcaiy, with no liiiman heart to weep
upon 1 Then I wi>h — but perhaps I
should not say it — that my R.ioul had
been any thin;? rather than a HoMier, ami
that France had not needed his life. Well,
ns I said before, our nation has Inu-n puri-
fied with her own bloo 1 ; and .xlioiilil I feel
BO proml to-day of my country if I had
escHfied the criinHon biptlini '!"

Tho next nioriiiii;^ Raoiil bade nio a
tender but hurried au rcvoir ; he did not
think it was adieu no more than I ; nor did
the faintest furebodin<; tell ine that I had
seen him for the last time, as I watched liiiii
turn from my 8i;;ht into the Cours-la-Ilcinc,
with his (piick, soldierly stop, and tall, up-
right figure. I could not see his face ; yet
sometimes I think that perhaps it was wet
with tears, and dark with the shallow of com-
ing sorrow, for I remember how ho told me
once that ho never wept until ho was out
of my siijlit. Poor darling I we had to part
so often during the few years of our mar-
ried life, that ho began to look upon it as a
part of his lot, and seldom ever complained ;
still, I know that his lieart ached each time
as much as mine did. Although my eyes
were full of te'ars as I turned from watching
him, still I had no premonition that he had
gone from my sight forever. I did not
know that his regiment would be ordered
to the frontier in a few days, and that I

sliiiiild hoar nntlilmx of It until aOcr lie Ii:id
'.;oiie. I may be wron.;; but I like to think
that perhaps (iod in lii.^ pity ordered it so,
to i<[iare us the pain of parting'.

I did not bei;iii tills simplu story with
the intention of telling you only of my own
troubles ; but iinknowiiii;ly one iicioii'ilcal,
and it is ho naturit.1, when one ol>i«>ct (ills
the memory, to i<peak €>f «hi»», ratlicr than
annilu'r. Althuinyh ' i,ave been •>• iifrii ken,
and although (»rav5-loffe aad S ilan are
burned ii[K)n my lu.-'^rv and briiim, iMid I
am haunted ''.rxv.'r with a Imrriiti red
wound acrosN the wl>ito torchi'iiml oif' iiiy
Raoill, and a wider, redder won I ■ i tlio
earth, where lie was thrown wiik _.iit Ireils
of others, yet with it a.11 rheire coiuos
before iiio tho beaiitifiiil luir« of omn il loved
like a sister, and ivitli it ammiier face,
darker and more brilliant, that I ^imetimes
wish I had never seen; not tliii I loved it
less than hers, not because df my own
regrets, but tor her dear sake who was
hidden away from my sight only yesterday.

I did think that my own history, unevent-
ful though it had been until tlut last few >
years, would have lengthened out to a
number of pages ; but now it seems to mo
that I have told it all in these very few,
and that I must introduce my other char-
acters at once to make any thing of a
story. Certainly, any one will know that,
though tho greater p.irt of my life was
passed in dull tran(|uillity, the last few years
must liave been tragic and stormy enough,
and that I might fill almost volumes by
describing minutely my own feelings ; but,
if I should do so, the pa|>or on which I
write would be so wet with tears as to
make the characters entirely illegible.
Therefore I prefer to speak as little as pos-
sible of myself, while I tell, as intelligently
as I am able to do, something of the
romance of Aglad Thevdnot's life. Indeed
I could not write more particularly of tho
dreadful scenes through which I have
passed, of my bereavement, of the misery
which fell ujion our country, without speak-
ing of her, so closely has she been inter-
woven with it alL

A WOMAK'S S- ORY.

'i f:

On the very day when Raoul brought
me to look at my new apartment, as we
ascended the stairs slowly, — for it sfcmed
very hiij;h to me after our cottage in Passy,
— the door of the entresol opened, and a
lady came out, followed by her servant.
Her lovely, intelligent face, and sweet
smile, interested us both ; and, as soon as we
were well out of hearing, we said in the
same breath, " I wonder who she is." A
few days after we were established, Margot
informed me that the lady, with an aged
aunt, occupied the entresol, and that she
was called Madame Aglae Tiicvenot. So
much for Margot's ability in discovering
who our neighbors were. After that, we
met often on the stairs, going in and out ;
and her graceful salutation was always
returned by me with one as cordial as her
own. Gradually we fell into speaking ;
and one day, feeling emboldened by her
kindness, I asked her if I might come ; nd
make her a little visit sans ceremonie. She
seemed delighted with my jiroposal, and
told me with the nioft winning smile, that;
as I was the elder, she had been waiting
for me to make the first advances toward a
friendship. It is true I was her senior, but
not by iis many years as she thought ; for
she was twenty -six she told me, and I was
not then thirty : yet I am so serious and
plain, that I appear much older than I am.
AVhen Raoul came home at the end of
the month, he found us fast friends ; and
he soon learned to like her as much as
I did. During that time, we had had many
confidential talks; and I had learned from
her that she was an orphan, as well as my-
self. Oh 1 how I pitied her when she added,
" And a widow 1 " She noticed my naive
expression of Eorrow, and said with a 'ittle,
sad laugh, " Why, my dear, you should con-
gratulate me ; for my four years of married
life were the saddest yea's I have 'ever
known. I was married at seventeen, and
my husband was more than sixty."

" Then you did not love him ? " I asked,
with a feeling of trouble that I could not
conceal.
'• Oh, no 1 not in the least. I never saw

him but three times before the day of our
marriage. Aunt arranged it while I was in
school. You see I bad no dot; and so I
could not expect to marry for love. IIo
was rich, and it was thought to be a very
fortunate thing for me ; but the worst of all
was, that he was not kind to me. He was
as jealous and as cruel as a Turk ; and so
miserly, he never allowed uie a son that I
did not account to him for. I can lau;;h
even now at the ridiculous rage he went
into when I once spent a franc for 'vn-bons.
I don't think our personal nnnoyant 's and
disappointments are the worst features in
our system of marriage. What I despise
most are the deception and sin which iire
so often hidden under a form of duty. Per-
haps, had I been of a difierent character, I
might have consoled my aching heart as
other poor women have done; but, as it
was, I struggled tl^ough with no serious self-
condemnation. However, it was a great
relief when he died. I received with the ut-
most propriety the condolence of my Irienils,
wore widow's weeds the prescribed time,
and erected a handsome monument to his
memory in Pere-la-Chauie. What more
could I do ? A few months ago I laid
aside my mourning with a feeling of free-
dom I never before experienced. There-
fore I am not at all a subject for your gentle
pity, although I have had my disappoint-
ment."

" But you are young, lovely, and rich," I
said, still feeling very sorry for her : " you
can now make a marriage of affection."

" Oh, no I " and she sighed sadly. " I
must always remain his widow : his jealousy
and avarice fetter me to hiu: yven now.
He left his fortune in such a way, that, if I
marry again, it will all go to a distant rela-
tive, whom he always hated and neglected ;
but, as much as he disliked him, he would
rather he should have it, than that I should
be happy with another after his death.
What a contemptible character he had 1 I
dislike even to speak of him. But don't
think that I am dissatisfied with my present
condition, or ever wish to marry again. Oh,
no I I have never yet seen the man for

Ix.

A WOMAN'S 8T0EY.

le (lay of our
while I was in
'ut ; and so I
'or love. IIo

to be a very
he worst of all

inc. He was
Turk ; an'l so

a son that I

I can luu;4h

rage he weui.
nc for !'on-bons.
nnoyant>'s and
rst features in
Hiat I di-spisd

sin which j'.re
I of duty. Per-
■nt character, I
L'hing heart as
sne; but, as it
J no serious self-
t was a great
ived willi the ut-
je of my friends,
)rescribed time,
lonumcnt to his
!. What more
[iths ago I laid

feeling of free-
•ienced. Therc-
ct for your gentle
. my disappoint-

ely, and rich," I
•y for her : " you
of affection."
ghed sadly. "I
(low : his jealousy

bin: uvcn now.

a way, that, if I
to a distant rela-
id and neglected ;
id him, lie would
than that I should

after bis death,
•acter he hadl I

him. But don't
id with my present
marry again. Oh,
een the man ibr

whom I would resign my dearly-bought I
freedom."

" lie is in the world, and he will come,"
I said wiih a strong conviction. "I have
aljyays believed that there is some one cre-
ated for every person, if they are only so
fortunato as to meet; and it is not at all
impossible to find the right one, since I
with my few attractions secured such a
prize as Raoul."

She laughed, and replied, " I am so fas-
tidious, that any one in the least inferior to
him would not suit me ; and he is so excel-
lent that I am sure I shall never find his
like."

It was early in the month of June, two
years after we went to live in the Avenue
Montaigne. I remember the time perfectly,
because it was the eve of Raoul's /ete, and
he had come to pass it with mc, as he always
did before and after our mariiage. The
weather was very warm for the season, and
after dinner Aglae ami I sat on the balcony.
The windows were all open, and the salon
was full of flowers ; our Iriends had brought
a great many ; and the others Aglae had se-
lected that morning at the Madeleine, and
arranged with such skill that the room
looked like a bower of roses. I thought it
all very pretty, and I was so happy because
it was done for Kaoul : but, as much as I
admired the flowerp, I admired Aglad still
more; she looked unusually lovely, ui a
soft, while dress, a cluster of scarlet ceillet
mixed with reseda (listening the broad col-
lar that turned gracefully away from her
throat, llaoul had gone to invite a brother
officer to dinner with us the next day ; and
we two chatt'"' alone until the soft twilight
giithcred around us, and the music from the
Champs-Flyse'es sounded clear and sweet,
mingled with the voices of the passers.
Murgot was bringing in the lamps, and the
salon door was open. I turned, and saw
Raoul entering with a gentleman whom I had
never seen before. Somewhat surprised, I
came in from the balcony, followed by
Aglae; and my husb;;nd ])resciited " M.
lihadi Effendi, attache prh I'amhassadcur
de Turquie." 1 was very much impressed

with the foreign title, as well as with the
appearance of the young man who stood
before us, bowing low in the Oriental fash-
son, all eyes and teeth, as I said afterward.
I had never seen such a brilliant face as his ;
its beauty quite startled me. Ikfore he
had well finished his salutation to me, his
s])lcndid d.irk eyes fell upon Aglae with a
look of unmistakable admiration, llaoul
then presented liim to our friend ; and I
livncicd a flush passed over his clear olive
cheek as he turned toward her.

" Is it possible," I whispered to my hus-
band, while our visitor was talking with
Aglae on the balcony, — " is it possible
that he is the Turk of whom I have heard
you speak,— tile one who watched poor Vic-
tor through his last illness ? Victor was a
cousin who had died of a malignant iiver
that spring ; and I had often heard R loul
speak of this young man's devotion to him
during his dreadful sickness,

" The very same," rci)lied my husband,
while he assisted me with the tea to drown
ourconversation.which otherwise might have
been heard on the balcony ; and don't yon
think him very elegant, as well as remark-
ably handsome ? As I was walking up the
Champs-Elyscea \vi was walking down : wo
stopped to speak a mcmcnt, when he re-
minded me of a promise thut I had made
him to introduce him to you; so I brought
him up. Invite him for dinner to-morrow,

cherie."

I gave M. Rhadi a cup of tea with my
own hands. He took it, thanking me very
prettily; and while he gii)ped it. talking
gayly at the same time, in excellent French,
to Aglae, i studied him a little. He v.'as
considerably above the inediiiin htight;
slight, with well-shaped, mus..'ular limbs,
small feet, and slender, nervous hands ; his
shoulders were scjuare, and rather broad ;
his neck and head finely shaped ; his beau-
tiful dark eyes looked out steadily and
frankly from under a pair of heavy brows ;
his skin was of a pale, clear olive; and his
' mouth, perfect in form, smiled as sweetly as
a woman's, with a little expression of bash-

fulness that was very winning. 1 am aware

iit

A woman's story.

.» r

A }>

f i'l

that this Imperfect description can give you
but a feeble idea of his brilliant and strik-
ing beauty ; still it is the best I can do, as
I never had any gift for word-painting, and
the most expressive terms I can use seem
pale and poor when I think of him as I first
saw him ; therefore I will leave it to your
imagination to fill out the faint outline I
have given you. The more I studied hiin,
the more I wondered that he could be a
Turk ; and the old saying, '■ Cruel as a Turk,"
the same that Aglac had used in speaking
of her husband, came into my mind. " He
does not look cruel," I thought ; " and yet
I should scarcely like to see him angry." I
glanced at Aglad. She was lovely : some
new emotion beautified her. What if she
should learn to love himY The possibility
filled me with forebodings of sorrow ; and I
pressed llaoul's hand with such a strong
clasp that he looked at me inquiringly.
Perhaps if I had told him of my fears then,
that which happened afterward raiglit have
been prevented ; for I am sure, if we could
have looked into the future, we never would
have encouraged an acquaintance by asking
him to dine with us the next day.

After tea the conversation became gen-
eral ; and some remark led M. llhadi to
speak of himself. " I am a Persian," he said ;
" or, rather, I was born in Persia, of Turkish
parents. When I was a child, my father,
through the force of events, became an
officer under the Sultan ; and I was edu-
cated a Mahominedan, or a^ nearly as one
can be who believes in God, and does not
believe that Mahomet was his prophet."

" Tlien you are a Christian?" said Aglad
with sudden interest.

" I profess no creed, madame," he replied
with a low bow. " I worship God ; I wor-
ship the sun, the moon, and the stars, and
all that he has made beautiful."

While he s]>oke, his face was so brilliant
with animation and intelligence, that one
given to fine language would describe him
as an Eastern Apollo, a child of the sun, a
passionate Persian, overflowing with the
romance and poetry of the Orient. To me,
simple as my f'uncies are, he seemed like a

I irince who had stepped for a moment out
of some Arabian tale into the homely real-
ity of our every-day life.

After he had gone, Aglad remained silent
for some time, apparently lost in thought,
while Riioul and I watched her with inter-
est. Suddenly she started from her reverie,
and said with some confusion, " A Turk !
' Cruel as a Turk ' cannot apply to al! Turks ;
for he does not look cruel, <loes he i "

" Not at all," replied Rtioul, smiling.
" What an idea to associate with hiin ! " I
know he was thinking of poor Victor when
he added," I iim sure he has a kind heart."

" One would think so," she said absent-
ly, as Raoul opened the door for her to go
down ; for it was late. Then, as she went
out, she looked back, smiled, and kissed her
hand to me, but without saying a word ;
which was strange, seeing she had been so
animated all the evening.

My husband laughed, and said, " She is
pleased with Rhadi, iind he is pleased with
her. It is easy to see how that will end."

I did not like him to speak so lightly, for
something told me that there was a fatality
in their meeting. Although I have been
much ridiculed by sensible people, I still
believe with the jioet in —

" A illvlnlty that Bhapco our cnd«,
Bough'bcw them how wo wlU."

and now, knowing their sad fate, I am more
than ever impressed with the belief that
some influence other than that of ordinary
events brought about the meeting between
Rliadi EfTendi and Aglae Thcvenot.

The next day our guests were all wait-
ing in the salon some time before A ;lae
camo up. She was late: whether Tom
capriciousness, or whether from t-.king
more tiiiin ordinary pains with her toilet, I
do not know ; however, it was past the time
announced for dinner, and I noticed that
M. Rhadi's eyes sought the door anxiously,
while a shadow of disappointment passed
over his expressive face. At last, when
even I, as much as I loved her, had grown
impatient at the delay, she entered the
salon as indifferently as though she had

iimm'. ' ^ Hyig« i ! e ^-j<tivJ . a jw n w. ': ■' rm*v

moment out
le homely real-

emnint-d silent
St in tliouglit,
ler with iriter-
11) her reverie,
on, " A Turk !
ly to al! Turks;
es lie •? "
loul, smiling.

Iwith him I " I
r Victor when
a kind heart."
u siiiil ab.senN

r for her to go

in, as she went
and kissed her

aying a wonl ;

le had been so

said, " She is
is pleased with
that will end."
ik so lightly, for
re was a fatality
;h I have been
3 people, I still

t our ends,
we wiU."

fate, I am more

the belief that

that of ordinary

leeting between

lievenot.

were all wait-

e before i\ ;lae

whether 'roin

r from t .king

'ith her toilet, I

as past the time

I noticed that

door .inxiously,

•intment passed

At last, when

her, had grown

he entered the

bough she had

A woman's story.

been the first to arrive instead of the last.
She looked exceedingly pretty, but a little
paler and graver tlian usual. M. Rhadi
saluted her with a profound reverence,
while his face changed as suddenly as does
a dark cloud when a ray of sunlight (lashes
upon it. She bowed to him a little coldly,
but greeted our other guests with more
than usual effusion. His expression of
delight turned instantly to one of chagrin ;
and, drawing haughtily back, he looked out
of the window in moody silence. I, seeing
that he was annoyed, and wishing all my
guests to be at ease, very injudiciously
asked him to take Madame Thdvcnot in to
dinner. He did so, and they certainly
seemed veiy well satisfied with the ar-
rangement; for they laugbed and talked
with the freedom of two happy children.
I think it was a pleasant dinner to all ex-
cepting myself; for there was one little
incident that marred my enjoyment, — so
little, that perhaps I should not mention it.
Bha<li EiTendl had filled a very delicate
Venetian glass, and was raising it, with a
compliment (or Aglac upon his lips, when
suddenly it fell (i-om his fingers, and shiv-
ered to atoms on his plate, spattering the
wine right and left. His hands, as well as
R loul's, who sat next to him, were covered ;
and it looked like blood. There was some-
thing disagreeable in the sight ; and I fairly
turned cold when I saw a large splash
crimson Aglae's white dress just over her
heart. I suppose we were all too polite to
show any confusion. M. Rhadi excused
himself gracefully, while he wiped the wine
from Aglae's dress with his own handker-
chief. Jean removed the plates, and served
the next course as though nothing had hap-
pened ; but I, — I could not keep my eyes
off the red stain on Aglae's dress. Besides,
I felt very sorry for the loss of my glass,
which had belonged to my dear uncle ; and,
it being the only Venetian glass I owned,
I had placed it for M. Rhadi, as he was
our most di!<tinguished guest.

We took our coffee in the salon: the
evening was very warm again, and the win-
dows were open. Our guests were all

friends of long- standini? except M. Rhadi
and Aglac. Some attraction seeincd to draw
them together, away from the others ; and
they stood side by sidi' on the balcony, en-
gaged in earnest conversation. I wish I
were a jioet, or an artist, so that I could de-
scribe them as they appeared to iiie at that
moment. I am sure 1 have never seen any
thing more lovely in art; but why should
IV for is not nature always more beautiful
than art 'I Tlie dark trees in the Cluimps-
Elysees, the clear sky, and the full iii<K)n,
made a very pretty background for the
white figure of Aglae, who stood with her
face turned towards us : as she leaned
against the railing of the balcony, her fin-
gers were idling with the leaves of an
exquisite rose that had adorned the button-
hole of M. Rliadi's coat a few moments
before. Her eyes were cast down, until the
long lashes ahnost rested on her slightly
flushed cheeks, while a smile that spoke
elofjuently of entire contentment played
around her mouth, and sol'teneil her face
into almost childish beauty. Her compan-
ion leaned over her, a itriking contrast to
her fairness, — graceful, persuasive, ele-
gant : his splendid eyes seemed to devour
her face.

" What if they should love one another? "
I whispered to Raoul.

" How can they help it ? " he rej)lied, I
hoped he would say something more, for I
was full of uneasiness ; but just at that mo-
ment Madame Aubert began to sing, and
of course we were silent.

That happy evening came to an end, as
all happy evenings must. I often wonder
why time seems so much shorter when we
are happy. Without doubt hap;iiuess is
only an emotion, the same as is s( . row ;
and I cannot understand why one should
make the hours fly, and the other make them
drag. 1 am no philosopher, neither am I
the least clever in finding out reasons for
things; yet I have thought much on this
subject, and have come to a conclusion,
which, after all, may not be the right one, —
that sorrow is only selfishness ; that, while
we are unhappy, we are thinking of

A woman's story.

ourRulvcc ; and that while \re arc hapi>y,
wc arc thinkin;j; of some one, else Aglad
did not know she had hetraycd her
sceret, nor (.'onfirmt'd mo in my sim-
ple theory, when she sail.' afterward, " I
never knew so .^^hort and so hap|iy an even-
ing in all n)y life before." ]t was as
thou;j;h she had said, " I tiioii;;ht only of
M. Rliadi, and never of myself." Poor
eliild ! it was the beginning of a happiness
that she had better never have known.

Well, to go on with ray story : from that
day, Rhadi ElTcndi became an almost
constant visitor ; and, as Aglae was with
mo a great deal, she saw him very often.
I believe I have not mentioned before, that
her aunt, on aeeount of a lameness, never
left her room : therefore the poor girl was
very much confined, not having an older
person to go out with her. 1 call her a girl ;
for she still seemeil so young, although she
had made that marriage, which I, with my
old-fashioned notions, could never think
any thing but unfortunate. You eannot
wonder, then, that my cheerful salon, and
the eharining society of Ilhadi EfTendi, was
a most welcome distraction to her, when
she had so little to amuse her : not because
she could not receive in her own home ; for
being rich and young, as well as handsome,
she could have furroundcd herself with
visitors, which would have been quite nat-
ural under the circumstances. Still, she
often told me that she did not like
general society ; and that she did not en-
courage attention, because she did not wish
for it. In that respect, she had a superior
characti'r, tor, although she was so lovely,
she was not in the least coquettish ; and for
that reason, I was certain that her evident
liking i(jr Rhadi EfTendi was not a mere
capricious fancy. Week after week passed
away, until I began to count by months
the time since their first meeting ; and yet
a word had never been said by either ex-
planatory of their true feelings; still I saw,
as plainly as two eyes can sec, that M.
Rhadi was deeply, passionately, devoted to
Aglae. Indeed, it did not need words ; for
every changi) in his expressive face told it

more clearly than the most eloquent lan-
guage. His sudden clouds, his equally
sudden smiles, his nervous restlessness
when she was absent, his excited joy when
she was present, were all first symptoms of
his absorbing passion. Then succeeded
strange abstractions, gloomy broodings, ten-
der, almost tearful regards, a slavish devo-
tion to her slightest wish, a watchfulness, a
patience and gentleness, that were quite
pathetic. lie grew pale and thin; his
eyes glowed under his contracted brows
like smouldering fires; his mouth seemed
drawn and sad, and sometimes I fancied
his white teeth looked almost cruel, t^ntil
he smiled : there was something wonderful
in his smile ; it seemed to illuminate hia
whole faeo with a sort of divine light,
driving away instantly every shadow that
rested there. At other times he would be
haughty, defiant, sceptical, scornful, almost
brutal, in his remarks, until, suddenly, a
strange expression would pass over his
face ; and he would clasp his hands, and cry
out, '^ Mon Dieu! I hato myself!" then,
rushing impetuously from the room, he
would leave Aglae and I looking at each
other in astonishment. Often she would say
with a sigh, " I almost fear him : in these
moods he seems possessed with a demon;
and yet how sweet and gentle he is at other
times I Ah me ! how will this end ? "

I had often asked myself the same ques-
tion, therefore I wa« unable to answer
hers ; and perhaps I was even more per-
plexed than she with it all. Because I
was not blinded by love, I saw more plain-
ly the danger, and yet could discover no
way to avert what had jvlready arrived.
Aglad too, about this time, was most uncer-
tain in her behavior. For several days in
succession she would be feverishly gay;
and this unnatural frivolity was sure to be
followed by a period of gravity that was
almost solemnity; when she would go
about like one smitten with a heavy grief,
absorbed in her own serious thoughts, from
which all my little devices were powerless
to arouse her. Again she would be as
fretful and capricious as a child, weeping

iJlL

ost eloquent lan-
luds, his equally
vous restlessness
excited joy when
first symptoms of
Then succeeded
nv broodinss, ten-
a slavish devo-
a watchfulness, a
that wcro quite
Ic and thin ; his
ontractcd brows
8 mouth seemed
letimes I fancied
Iraost cruel, ijntil
nothing wonderful
to illuminate his
; of divine light,
?vcry shadow that
imes he would be
il, scornful, almost
until, suddenly, a
Id pass over his
his hands, and cry
ite myself!" then,
om the room, he
I looking at each
)flen she would say
fear him : in these
led with a demon ;
;cntle he is at other
ill this end ? "
self the same ques-
unable to answer
as even more per-
it all. Because I
, I saw more plain-
could discover no
1 already arrived,
le, was most uncer-
For several days in
be feverishly gay;
ility was sure to be
f gravity that was
in she would go
with a heavy grief,
ious thoughts, from
;es were powerless
she would be as
IS a child, weeping

A woman's story.

sullenly, and refusing all my efforts to con-
sole her. I pitied them both, and waited
ptitieiitiy, hoping that she, at least, would
voluntarily make nio a confidant of her
feelings. The time came at last. One
afternoon Ilhndi had been sitting with us.
He had brought a volume of poems written
by Jaini, a Persian poet of the fourteenth
century ; and, to give us some idea of the
literature of his country, ho had read one
aloud, in his own musical and majestic
language ; and afterwards had graccfuHy
translated it, — so gracefully, that I think it
did not lose any of the beauty of the senti-
ment, which was a regret for a lost love ;
not a dead love, but a living lost love,
'which to me is the most pitiful of all losses.
The harmony, glowing color, passion, and
pathos of the complaint softened my feel-
ings, so that I, unsentimental as I am, almost
wept, while the tears rolled slowly over
poor Aglad's face. She had grown suddenly
pale, — paler than I had ever seen her.
Rhadi did not notice her emotion ; for before
he had finished the poem, she had regained
her usual composure : and when he closed
the book, she told him with a smile, that he
had read it so exquisitely as to make her for-
ever in love with Persian poetry. He bowed
low, with his hand on his heart, and went
away directly, more silent and grave than
ever. When he had gone, suddenly — so
suddenly that it startled me — she clasped
my neck, and cried out in a voice I shall
never forget, " I love him, I love him I and
in that poem he bus read his fate and
mine."

" But why," I asked, trying to soothe
her, " why his fate and yours ? You arc
both free, you love him, and there can be
no doubt of his love for you : then, what
cause is there for unhappiness ? "

" It is because he loves me," she said
between her sobs, " that wo must part. I
cannot marry him : every thing is against
it. My position, his religion, bib ■■■ery
nature ; for I fear him as much as I love
him. No, no : I would not dare to become
his wife, for I should only be his slave ;
and I cannot sacrifice the liberty that I

have bought at such a price. It is impos-
sible : we can never marry, and Platonic
love will not satisfy such a nature as his.
I must be all to hiui or nothing. I have
known it for some time, and I have sulfered
so much ; and yi.'t I have no strength to
deny myself the dangerous pleasure of
seeing him."

Before giving her any counsel, I tried to
calm her; for she was very much excited,
and very wretched at the dismal thou<iht
of giving him up forever. I must confess
that I did not see the necessity of it ; for I
believe that love should overcome every
obstacle, and make every sacrifice, to attain
its end : this I told her as clearly as I
could, at the same time advising her to
listen entirely to the dictates of her own
heart and conscience, instead of the
promptings of worldly interest. Before I
had said half to her that I wished to say, a
visitor was announced; and she left me,
and went down to her own room. In the
evening I went to her, and was told by her
maid that she had gone to bed with a
severe headache. I did not disturb her, but
sat alone all the evening, thinking sadly of
both; and perhaps I felt more pity for
Rhadi than for her : for to me her conduct
seemed inexplicable, if not selfish. If
Riioul had only been there, that I could
have talked it over with him, I should have
felt better ; but as it was, I went to bed
with a very heavy heart.

The next day M. Rhadi came ; and, not
finding Aglat with me, he went down
to ask after her health. He came back
almost directly ; and, throwing himself
into a chair, he said with a heavy sigh,
" She is ill, confined to her room. I
could not see her, and she did not even
send me a kind message. She might
have sent me a kind word : I know nothing
at all of what this means." He spoke
impatiently, and there was an ugly shadow
on his face which I did not like to see
there. I had grown to love him dearly : he
seemed like a brother t/ me. There was so
muc-li sweetness and .rankness in his na-
ture, in spite of its uiystery and contradic-

i •

A WOMAN'S STORY.

tioii, that no one could be inditTurcnt to
liiiii ; and, bcvsides, Uacjul lovud liiiu. I
watc'la'il liiin fioinu tiinu, while he sat with
hid uriiis toldL-d, and hisi eyes fixed upon the
fluur, wonderin<r what was |>assin;r in \i\a
soul, when suddenly he utarted like one
aroused iroui a dream, and cried out in the
same way as A;;lae had done the day
betbre, '"I lovo her, I love her!" 'Hien,
covering; his face with his hands, he burst
into tears, and wept so passionately that I
was f'ri;;hteni"d as well as surprised. Ah,
nie ! I can sec him now sitting there, his
pride completely crushed, his handsome
head bowed, and the great tears falling in
drops between his fin;;ers. I never saw
Kiuml weep ; and I am thankful I never
did, (or the thou|^ht ot' it would break my
heart now. I loved jwor Khadi too well
to see him so distressed without tryinjj; to
comfort him, and in that way I became
hln confidant also. During an earnest con-
versation ol' more than an hour, h« told me
of all his struggles and anxieties, — how he
hadloved Aglae, from the first moment that
he had seen her, with the only lovo of his life,
— a life that had been any thing but happy.
lie spoke sa(Hy and briefly of his father's
death, his lonely, neglected childhood, his
conflicts with destiny, that seemed at first
all against him, his ellbrts to gain the posi-
tion that he had at last secured through
the kindness of the ambassador, who had
been like ca father to him, and to whom he
owed every thing. " At first," he said,
" although ! knew I loved Madame Thdvd-
not, T could not decide to ask her to become
my wife, because such a step would be
ruin to my future prospects ; and I had not
the strength and courage to resign all for
love, 4'ven to the affection and patronage of
my pitsha, who wishes to marry his only
daughter to me, as soon as she is of age,
and in that way to stivn.'then the bond
of interest already estabi' i'yd between us.
I love him ; I owe him every duty ; he will
be deeply, and perhaps justly, indignant
at my ingratitude, and will cast me olT
without the least hope of reconciliation ;
y(!t I have decided to ondure it all for her

lovo, to resign for her an honorable and
brilliant future, an alliance with the daugh-
ter of one of the most j)owerful ])rinces in
the Ottoman Empire, and, more than all,
the love and confidence of the man who
has been a father to me. Now you can
understand a little what this decision
has cost me, — what a strife there has been
between my heart, my duty, and my
worldly interests : my nights have been
sleepless, my <lays a torture. I have been
torn to pieces by conflicting feedings. The
honor and wealth that has been my life-
long desire, on one hand ; her love, her
beauty, her goodness, on the other. Ah,
dear inadame I how could I decide but in
favor of n>y own heart, my own life, and
hap|)iness ? and hers also ; for she loves me,
— am I not right ? "

He stopped speaking, and looked at me
anxiously, while he wij)ed his fbrelicad ;
for he had told his story with so much
feeling, so earnestly and so rapidly, that
great drops of 'sweat had gathered like
rain on his face. I pitied him beyond
expression : he seemed almost exhausted
with his mental conflict, and I knew it was
not over ; for I remembered my conversa-
tion with Aglad the day before, and saw
tliat an obstacle, perhaps more serious
than any, was still to be overcome. I ad-
mired him for his noble sacrifice, and in
my heart I blamed her for what seemed to
me only selfishness ; yet I was sure she
loved him. So what could I say other than
to give him that assurance ? As lie went
away, after a little more conversation, he
said, " To-morrow I shall come to know
my fate. I can sacrifice every thing for
her ; but does she love me with the same
demotion? "

I could not answer ; and so I said nothing,
but pressed his hand encouragingly.

The next day Aglae came up looking
pale and very sad ; and I thought I detected
an expression of firm resolve aroun<l lier
mouth that did not predict a favorable re-
ception of llhadi EfTendi if he came. She
did not speak of him ; neither did she refer
to the conversation of the day before, but

XI f

^iai3MS(assmsrrs:n!^i5r^^S^''^5S5^'^«?:-

A woman's 8TORT.

honorable and
ith the (liuii;li-
rful princes in
uoro than all,
the man who
Now you can
this decision
thi're has been
liity, and my
hts have been
. I have been
feelin<;s. The
been my lil'o-
her love, her

10 other. Ah,

I decide but in
y own life, and
:br she loves me,

d looked at me
(1 his forehead;
with so much
so rapidly, that
d gathered like
ed him beyond
most exhausted
id I knew it was
ed my conversa-
belbre, and saw
s more serious
)vcrcome. I ad-
sacrifice, and in
what seemed to
I was sure she

1 1 say other than
e ? As he went

conversation, he

II come to know
I every thing for
ae with the same

so I said nothing,
uragingly.
came up looking
thought I detected
solve around her
:t a favorable re-
if he came. She
ither did she refer
e day before, but

talked absently on indifferent subjects. Wo I
heaid tlic bell. She turned drcadlully pale. ,
and Idoked around as though siie would like
to es('a[)e ; but at the moment Margot nn-
noiiuiod M. Uliadi Etl'endi. lie entered :
with a '^rave almost stern face, more |
elegant in Ids dress than ever, and it seemed
to me more refined in every way, even to
the faultless linen, pale gray gloves, and
linnt Oriental perfume which always be-
trayed his i)resenee. (To-day, while looking
over a desk of Aglae's, I came upon a pack-
age wrapped in Turkish paper which emit-
ted that same perfume. I will not inter-
rupt my story to speak of its contents now :
later, when all is finished, I will tell you
why I wept over it, and then laid it away
reverently.) I welcomed him warmly, but
I think my face was not free from anxiety ;
and Aglae half rose up, extended her hand
a little fearfully and coldly, and then sank
back into her chair without a word.

After the usual commonplace remarks,
M. Uliadi turned to her, and said, very
> J ' slowly and seriously, " Madame, I have some-

thing to say to you of the greatest impor-
tance. It must be said todiiy. Will you
do me the favor to hear it '( " She bowed
slightly in reply to his question ; and he went
on, in the same formal way, to make his ex-
planation. " As I came up, I stopped at your
door : your maid told me that you were here.
Will you do me the favor to descend? or will
you allow me to speak in the presence of
madamc, if she will kindly permit it ? "

I did not wish to be present at a moment
so trying to both : therefore I arose to leave
the room, when Aglae seized my hand, and
said in a voice that betrayed much uneasi-
ne«s, " Remain, remain ! What can M.
lll.adi have to say that you caitnot hear ?
Whatever it be, I prefer that you should
hear it."

That was how I came to be a witness o
the interview that decided their whole des-
tiny. It makes me tremble even now to
think of it. Ah ! if I had had the power to
arrest the fatal words that destroyed their
happiness forever ; but, if it had been given
me, would I have dared to use it ? Per-

haps not; fori could not have been sure
that I shoidd have savtMl her ; one knows so
little of what is for the best.

Ilhadi looked at Aglae earnestly, (lushing
and paling while she spoke ; and when she
said to me, " I preti^T tliat you should hear
it," he exclaimed impetuously, " Madame
has already heard it. I have told her of my
love for you, my adoration, my consuming
passion. It is useless to repeat it to you
who already know it. I only wish to ask
you whether you love me in return, and
whether you are willing to become my wife
at once."

Aglad turned very pale, and I put my arm
around her, thinking that she was about to
faint ; but, after a little trembling, she re-
covered her composure, and said firmly, " I
love you : you must have known it Ibr some
time."

Before she had fairly finisheil the sen-
tence, he sprang toward her with such an
expression of joy as I had never before seen
on any face ; and, clasping her hands, he
pressed them over and over to his lips, call-
ing her his angel, his soul, his life, in tones
that must have gone deep into her heart.

She looked at him with a warm, sweet
smile, — a smile that seemed to transfigure
her into a divine loveliness, but only tor an
instant ; then a cold, hard stillness settled
over her face. Struggling to withdraw her
hands, she said rapidly. " Yes, yes, I love
you: God knows I love you! my aching
heart tells me I love you I but it is of no
use to repeat it ; for I can never, never be
your wife."

Suddenly, as suddenly as though he had
been smitten helpless, he let her hands fall,
and started away from her with such a louk
as I can imagine Lucifer casting at the niigei
who hurled him from the battlemenis of
heaven. It was terrible. I was trembling
with fear ; and Aglad cowered under it aa
though it were a scorching blast. At length
he spoke, but his voice was so changed that
I should never have known it for his. '* Is
your decision irrevocable, madamc ? "

" It is," replied Aglae in a scarcely artic-
ulate voice.

- im^^.^mi0i»emmmmt 4

1' •

A WOMAN'S STORY.

'• I will a«k for no reasons : it is onou^li
thiit tiiuro aru reasons. I'anlon niu tor
bavin;; tr(jiil)lo(l you : I will trouhlo jou no
more," and, Irowiii;; almost to the flwr, lie
turneil to leave the room.

I could not endure to have him leave
A'r\ii6 without any further explanation : so I
laid my hand upon his arm, and said gently,
" Do not }j;i) away angry : there is muili to
be said yet, much to soften the bitterness
of this moment."

" No, no : nothing can soften it. I am not
a child to be soothed with sweet words :
there is nothing to bo said. Allow mo to
go in peace."

" Listen to me," implored Aglad, taking
his hand and pressing it to her tear-wet
face ; " listen to nie, Uhadi. Do not leave
me in anger; do not condemn me un-
heard I I love you , — you know 1 love
you ! "

A scornful, sceptical smile flickered over
his face, while he said coldly and cruelly,
" No more, no more falsehood, I entreat,
unha|)py woman. Do not attempt to play a
farce. I understand you too well : you cannot
impose your lollies upon me." Aglae drew
away, frightened by his violence, while he
continued, more fiercely than before : " I
have lieard your profession of love ; but
something within me refuses to believe you.
You swear you love me ; you are free : and
yet you will not became my wife, ha, ha ! "
his sharp, mocking laugh thrilled me
through and through ; and his teeth gleam-
ed like an angry tiger. " I must confess 1
am more surprised at your folly than at
your wickedness, if you think you can im-
pose a caprice upon me, and make me be-
lieve it to be love. Be truthful, and say
that your heart is of very little value ; that
one can easily touch its depths ; that, when
you have won your victim, you weary of
him and desire another ; that you bestow
your preference on the first who comes, and
withdraw it as easily ; that you amuse your-
self by deluding the confident, — in short,
that you are a heartless coquette, and not
the exceptional woman I thought you to be.
Say any, or all, of these things ; but do not

profane love by giving its name to your
vanity."

" Mon Dieul" I cried, aroused to indig-
nation at his injustice and cruelty to Aglad,
who had fallen on the floor, abnost at his
feet, with raised hands, as if to ward off a
heavy blow. " llememlier to whom you
are speaking ; brutality is useless ; yo ir
taunts and insults are misplaced : un-
h.appily she loves you too much to defend
herself with the same weapons. You will
not listen to her explanation ; there are
obstacles " —

" Oh, yes, there are obstacles ! " ho inter-
rupted passionately ; " but what are obsta-
cles when one loves V I lell you they are
nothing. Have 1 not overcome the great-
est? You know what 1 have put under
my feet, and yet you talk coldly of obsta-
cles. I am disappointed, — bitterly disap-
pointed ; my heart is bleeding, my head is
troubled. Say no more. In pity allow me
to go, that I may recover myself. I shall
strive to bo a man. 1 shall live ; I shall
eat and drink and laugh ; but there will be
a frightful void here ; " and he laid his hand
on his heart, while ho smiled a ghastly,
unnatural smile.

I did not like him then — no, I absolutely
feared him ; for in that moment ho looked
like a man capable of any thing ; and I did
not wish to see Aglad abase herself to no
purpose ; so, whispering to her, I bade her
rise, but she seemed neither to hear nor to
heed me ; there was a dreadful grief in her
face, a longing and a fear in her eyes that
I could not understand.

"You will not leave me forever," she
sobbed at length, " O Rhadi 1 have pity :
I sufier more than you. Come to me
when you are calmer, and I will explain
all."

" There can be no explanation," he inter-
rupted harshly. " A word from you would
have made me happy, — only a word : I
asked no more. A thousand now can be of
no avail. The wound is here in my heart,
nothing but death can cure it. I love you.
I shall never see you again : adieu 1 " And
before either Aglad or I could say another

A WOMAN'S STOKY.

aine to your

ised to indlg-
I'lly to AgliwS,
tliiiost iit his
to waril off a
.() whom you
U!*t'h'»s; yo'ir
sphtcud : un-
u;h to defend
)n8. You will
n ; theru are

es ! " he intcr-
luit arc obsita^ ,
, you thoy are
liny the great-
ve put un(hir
oldly ol" obsta-
■ i)ilterly diHap-
ni^, u>y head is
1 pity allow mo
nysulf. I shall
U live ; I shall
ut thoru will bo
lie laid his hand
ilcd a ghastly,

no, I absolutely
nent he looked
ling ; and I did
c herself to no
[jer, 1 bade her
to hear nor to
Iful grief in her
her eyes that

e forever," she

,di 1 have pity :

Come to me

I will explain

lation," he inter-
froni you would
only a word; I
d now can bo of
ere in my heart,
it. I love you.
: adieu 1" And
}uld say another

word, he rushed from tho room, leaving us
in blank dismay.

For a moment there was silence ; an<l
then A^^'lae laid her hand on mine, and
said calmly, " I told you he was cruel, —
do you remember, — cruel as a Turk. I
said it after I had seeu him for the first
time. I knew it was his nature ; still I did
not think he coidd be cruel to me, and
accuse uie so unjustly. But he has betrayed
his true character, and I li-ar him more
than ever. It is over: ho has gone; and
now all that remains for mu is to for^^et
that I have ever seen liiin, to banish him
from my heart entirely, liut how? but
liow V " then her imnatural calm breaking
down before a Hood of memories, she sank
into a chair, and sobbed bitterly.

I tried to comfort her by telling her that
perhaps when he was calmer he would
return, and that matters could be arranged,
with a bettor feeling on both sides. Still,
like a foolish woman, I added, " I wish you
had never seen him."

" It is too late now," she said, with a
wan sndle; and then she fell a-weeping
again, at the thought of all the happy hours
that she had passed with him, hours which
she well knew could never be restored to
her as beautiful as they had been, with the
freshness, the romance, the confidence, the
grace, of a fii*st love.

I cannot tell you in detail of the sorrow-
ful days that followed this sudden and pain-
ful parting, — of the feverish, restless days
when Aglad wanderud about from room to
room, like an uneasy spirit, pale, silent, and
tearless. Sometimes she would sit absorbed
in long reveries from which I could only
arouse her by suddenly pronouncing the
name of Rhadi. Again she would lie for
hours on the sofa in my room, her eyes
closed, her hands clasped over her heart,
while from time to time she uttered a sharp
moan that seemed to come from the very
depths of her suffering soul ; or she would
talk calmly, but in a pitiful, 'plaining voice,
of the scenes in which Rhadi had been an
actor with her. Recounting minutely each
little event, dwelling fondly on every evi-

dence of his love, she would say, " Do you
remember when he said this? or did that ?
Have you for^;otten the evening; when we
sat and watched the moon rUi'. bcliiiiil the
trees in the ClimpiM-Eli/sdes ; how he said ho
would rather look ai me than at the moon '.'
All I his flattery was tixj sweet to me. I
knew he was proud and sensitive ; but I
thought him so tender, so very tender.
How (juickly he woulil detect llie slif;hU'st
shadow on my face, the fuintest i'lian;j;e in
my voice I How careful he was of my health !
He feared the winds of heaven would
touch me too roughly. He said ofteu he
envied the sunlight that caressed my hair,
the earth under my feet. Every thing I
touched seemed siicrcd to him. How ol'ien
I had smile<l ut delectiii;.; hiiii in the act of
concealing some worthless thing that I had
cast aside ! A withered flower, a I'adecl
libbon, a torn glove, a shred of silk froiii
my embroidery, were all precious to hiiu.
What devotion, what care, what sweet and
graceful attention I How can I live without
him ? how can I live to know that I havo
lost him forever ? " .

She seemed to have no thought beyond
the time in which he had loved her ; those
few months comprised her life : before she
had known him she had only half lived ;
after she lost him she seemed like a body
without a soul, a pale shadow, a dead leaf
driven by the restless wind of passion. " I
am nothing," she would say, when I begged
her to take some interest in life : " all is over
for me ; I have no aim, no desire, no hope."
She never left tho house : any society, save
mine, seemed hateful to her ; tho noise of
the streets worried her beyond endurance,
the glare of the sunlight made her shiver.
She wept freely at a glimpse of the sky,
beautiful with moon and stars ; the per-
fumes of the flowers they had loved and
worn turned her pale and faint; music
alTected her to such a degree that I dared
not touch my piano, or sing one note of a
familiar song when she was present. AU
though she did not speak of it, I knew she
was constantly expecting something; for,
whenever the bell sounded, she would start

A WOMAN'S STORY.

up with pnrttMl lips and oh«imi- pyi'!«, only
to HUik l)ii<k with a lunvy sigli "f ilUiii>-
poiiiliiu'wl. Neiirly a month pii««'«l awiiy
in lliirt »u\U\ of min«k'il cxiK'ctiitloii iiiid
doHpalr. In the inoininj; she would say,
" Perhaps to-day I hIhiH m") l'""- "i" •"^'*'*
fi-oui him." At ni'^ht -he would xob and
moan, " I chall nee him no moio : he i* gone
forever."

Noticing she looked very 111 one day, I
questioned her about her heavy eyes, (lushed
cheokd, anil languid movements; and nhe
confessed that fho did not sleep ; that she
had not slept since that dreailful day, only
at short and rare intervals ; that a f ver
was eonsumiuR her, a weakness gaininj^
Ui)on lier to whieh she felt that she must
loo-i sueeuuil). At times the old pride and
gelfishuess would flame up lor a moment,
and she would cry out rc(;retfully, " I am
insane to think of him ! I am worse ; 1 am a
poor, fe<-l)le creature to sutler fiir one so cruel
and severe. It it not better to be free ? I
am fri'e; and that should sufliie." At
other times, especially when she lay alone
in the lon;^ sjiring twilight, — for it was
spring again, and nearly a year since
Raoul's birthday dinner, — she would sigh,
and murmur as though she feared to have
mo hear her confession, " I am so ired 1 I
am so wretched 1 If tears and prayers
could give me back his love, I would go on
my knees at his feet; but he is cruel and
unrelenting : ho does not love me now ; for,
. if he loved me, ho would not leave mo to
die. I am so young to diol 1 have no
desire for death ; and yet I cannot live
without him."

I had written to Raoul, begging him to
come homo as early in the month as possi-
ble ; lor I thought that perhaps his presence
might divert her a little from her sorrow,
lie came as soon as he could obtain leave,
and was more shocked than was I at the
change in Aglae. " She will die," ho said,
overhand over, "unless a reconciliation
can bo arranged. She is foolir<h, and
more, — she is to blame for her selfishness.
If she loves him so, why does she not
renounce all, and become his wife? I

must coi\(''8» 1 do not understand such a

love."

" Neither do 1." I remarked, thinking
how easily I could make any sacrilice for
llaoul.

" And, Uhadi, it seems so unlike him : I
thought him ail gentleness. Why, he was as
tender as a woman Ui Victor."

"His pride is woundfd, his (•(mfideneo
abiis''d, and he has an untbrgivin,' n iture ;
besides, he does not Iwliovo in a love ihiit
is not entire abnegati,>n," I sni>l ; for I
likeil him still so well that I eould lu.ike
excuses for him. " 1 i)ity Agl.ie as nin. h as
I blame her; and I am sure, if he knew
Hhe was ill and sull'i 'ring, his feeliiii< would
Botten, and all might yet be well."

'■ It is unaccountiiiile," continued Uaonl,
lifter a few moments of thou-ht, " suili an
entire separii lion between two pco|tk' who
lovo each other to distract icm, and for no
cause that I can see. I will go this very
moment, and talk Uhadi into reason; and
you, c/itVie, bring Aglae to her senses ; for
she must bo a little insiine to let trifles
keep her from a man she is dyiu:: fin-." lie
took his hat, and went out, singing cheer-
fully, "Zo Donna e Mobile." Dear soul I
he thought he could arrange it all so ea>ily,
and make them both happy by his media-
tion.

Before I had time to go down to Aglae,
ho came in more sadly than ho had gone
out, saying with an air of great dissatisfac-
tion, "I went to the Krabassy to fmd
Rhadi ; and Uustan EH'endi tells mo that In;
is at Ems, taking the waters for his health."
"What I is ho ill?" I cried in surprise.
" It appears so ; although no one seems to
know what has happened, yet all speak of
tho frightful and sudden change in his
appearance."

" When will he return ? "
" I could not learn. They h.avc heard
nothing from him. Ho does not write,
although his Iriend has asked for news of
his hoiUth. All seem surprised, and say
that he has turned into a savage within a
month."
I thought it best to tell Aglae of what

stand fiK'li a

oil, iliiiikiiij^
diicrilU'c lor

iiilikf liim ; I

HlV, 111' w:i8«!»

lis (•(tnfiili'ni'O
iviii.: nitiii-i';
n ii li>v>' ili:it
I xiii'l ; for I

I ooiild lu.ike
.\6 as iiiiuli ii*
■c. it' lie Kiiinv
t'ci'liir^'* would'

itimH'd UmoiiI,
Liht, " siK'li an
ro i)('n|>k' who
m, mill lor no

II go tills vnry
;o reason ; und
lev Ki-n^os ; for
J to li'l trilli'g
,yin:j for." Ho
sini^iu'^ clii't'r-
" Dour fonl I
it all so i'a>iiy,
by his nieilia-

iown to AiTlad,
liu liad '^ono
•cat dissiitisfac-
iWassy to find
;ells me that lie
for his health."
led in surprise.
no one seems to
et all spenk of
change in liis

cy have heard
oes not write,
cd for news of
)rised, and say
lavage within a

Aalae of what

»'ff>

A woman's story.

Raoul hud loarned n'iip«'nlini; Rhadi; »n |
that she should not he worried any lons;.r
with constant expectation and di» >pi»oint-
inent, KtrauRe to say, it seemeil some
consoKuion to lier to know tlnit I'.? .vas ill;
for from thai moment she seemed to rally
frarn her utiir ilespimilenuy, so much so as
to give ns the hope that witli time she
might overeomoher unhappy piv.ssion. For
myself another and a nuire intimate sorrow
liiled my lieart. One day llaoiil came in
all e.xfited. It was the day of \m fete ;
and he told mo that trouble was hrewinB
between Franee and Prussia, — tionhlo of a
BeriouH nature, which would end in wai.
During the same evening the little scene
occurred of which I have spoken before,
when the Marseillaise was sung, and I was
go base ;is to wish him to resign his com-
mission. Thank I Jod I that lie did not
listen to my shameful request ; for li>day,
instead of lieing his widow, I might be the
wife of a coward, and a traitor t ' his coun-
try. Our dinner that day w.-js a very dif-
ferent afl'air trom that of a, year before.
We had a few friends, but it passed oil"
eaiily enough; lor all were pre-occui.ied
with their own fears and anxieties, and all
foresaw dark and sorrowful daysforour poor
country. Ah, me I out of the eight odicers
who dined with us on llaoul's thirty-second
birthday, there are but two left; and one
of them lost an arm at Sarrbriick, and the
other is blind from a shot at Mar«-la-tour,
Nothing would induce Aglad to make one
of our party on that day. *' No, no," she
Baid: "it will remind me of too much; anil
I cannot expose my folly to strangers."
After dinner I went down to her for a mo-
ment. It was almost such an evening as
that of a year before, very warra^and pleas-
ant; but she lay wra[)ped in a heavy
shawl, weeping, with a faded rose crushed
in her fingers.

As I told you before, Raoul went back to
his regiment next morning, and I was left
alone with nothing but Aglatj's sorrow and
my own anxious thoughts for company.
Every day the political horizon became
more clouded, and tlie warm summer air

was heavy with ominous shadow*. People
talked of nothiii^' but war; bands of nd-
capped revohiiionists filled the stri'et", and
till Marseillaise wiis shouted in every key,
from the shrill treble of childlnxMl lo tho
croaking bass of age 1 knew tin time was
drawing near when my saerilirt- would be
retiuired of me ; and my soul ached with-
in me. Still I made iiu complaint; |!)r I
had jjromi-ed hiiii to be brave and strong,
and I did not mean that he should fmd me
weaker than my word.

Aglae was in my room one day, when Mar-
got brought in the journal ; and among the
items I was reading aloud, I chaneii! to
stumble upon the name of llliadi Kll'endi.
It was a brief notice that he had resigned
his position in the ambassador's umlf, and
was then taking the waters of Kins in order
to re-establish his health before entering
upon his duties as secretary In the minister
of fbi-ieign affairs at Constantinople. I ex-
pecleii Aglae would make .some exclama-
tion licfore I finished, but she did not ; and
the only sign of emotion she showed was a
sudden and death-like pallor, which never,
left her from that day. It seems to me,
that, although she lived for so long after,
she was struck with death then. It was
certainly death to whatever hope she might
have had ; and she was not the one to live,
as another could, when there was nothing
to live for.

" You aro very calm," I said a few mo-
ments afler.

" It is not calmness," she answered, " it
is despair."

Tho next day she did not leave her bed,
nor for many days after ; and I was wearied
and worn beyond expression, not only with
watching, but with my anxieties about
llaoul, from whom I could not bear to be
separated at thafmoment.

On the loth day of July, a day that Franee
will never forget, I went alone into the
Champs-^lyseea for a little rest and a breath
of fresh air. Walking slowly and languid-
ly toward one of the most retired spots, — it
was tho place where, one sweet night a year
before, wo had watched the moon rise be-

A woman's btory.

Iilml llui tnH«», — 1 camo imMi'iily upon

Ulimli I'lliiiili fitiiii'_'<»n Diic (if till' cliuli's,
hit iini,:^ liilili'd, lii-i lu'Uil ln'iit.iuiil his <'yt'M
llxcd ii|)(m 11 <lii>tfr of M'iiili-t (tillel llial
IiIds-miiuciI at liiK (i'ft. 'I'lif I linii'.'c in liiiii
WiiH K'l ti'irililt^ liiKt it iiliiici>t Mtartii'ii iiic
iiilu nil I'Xclaniiitioii. Ill' Idcilii'il twciiiy
j'i'iii'H oilier. lliH llu-i! v;,iH (it'll ;rniy iiiillor,
lii» I'ycH » nki'n unci luKtrcli'i's, liin iiuniili
ilniwii iiii'l forniwl'ui, ami his wlmlo ii|i-
]a'ariiiii'c ti-.i' ol' oiii- who lui'l been wcll-
iiiuli killf'l in ii I. iTililt' «'onlli(;t. So lont
was he in tii')n,'lit, that he did not si'o nif
.aiili I Htood hfllirc him imd niiiil, " i1/»n
ami, I am «lad to find yoii liore."

Ilf Ktarii'd iVoni his mtat with tri'inhiin'.'
mycrin'^s ; and hoini'thiii'^ of his olil Hinili'
cnruo to his lips an hi! Mui/ed my hamlH, and
])ri'!<sud tlu'iii in his with ii ('onvulslvc
clasp,

I too!; ir.s chair ; and liu drew another to
my side, t\ in;;, " I siaiccly know whclher
to remain or to ff)."

•' Yoi! niiist ri'iiiaia,"' I said firmly. "1
Lavu sninethiii;; to say to you."

" For the love of God, spare nic," he
cried, eoverim; his face with his liands.

'• 1 eannol," I replied, tir^cd to sjieak hy
the thoii'.dit of Aglac's pale face. " Yon
mast. li>ten to me calmly, llliadi. A^lae is
very ill ; she cannot live long; slie is dyin;^
for a sij^lit of you."

His hands lell ti-oiii his face, and a spasm
ol' pain contracted every feature; but he
B.iid coldly, " If Madame Thevenot is ill,
slie must find some other euro. I cannot
see her to save her from a dozen deaths."

The cruel, almost brutal reply allocked
and disgusted me ; and, not knowing what
1 saiil, 1 poured out all the strength of my
indignation upon him. lie listened, smil-
ing haughtily from time to time ; but he
never interrupted me until I said, "^You
are cruel : it is your nature to be cruel. It
is a saying, ' Cruel as a Turk : ' you arc a
Turk, and you are more cruel than any
other of your nation."

I had scarcely finished these harsh words,
betbro 1 regretted having said them ; for
Buch an expression ol anguish passed over

Ills face that it iihiiost made mo weep beforo
him.

" () iiimlamn, madaine! bo just in yimr
anger. Who has lieeii cruel 'I AVlm lit
erutl 'I Am I cruel liecauso I will not
pinnae niysel. in tlio finim » atler having
Ihmii (iiice afniot eonsumed'i' Of what use
to see lier'i' She ciuinol save me from tor-
ment and despair. Is it just to ask mo to in-
crease my misery to culten hers'' loH'ci il
her all a man has to'^iK',— luy heart, i.y
soul, my lifu : she refused iliein ; uud, *'< am
that moment, somelhln'/ was broken i"i bin
mil which is as irrepaiablii .'.i di-aili. I am
hopi'l'jgsly ruined: there is nothing to bis .
dill", nothing to bo said. There is no
healing such a wound. She must bear her
siillering lis i bear mine, while waiting for
death to eini it."

" 'llien a rciMnciliution is hopeless?" I
asked tearfully.

" A'l liiipeless as ii>j.«i-i\ir. In a few days
I luavo I'aris forever."

" I !'.'. iiiglit von had a!iv e'.y gone. A'.'lad
thought you had gone; and since she has
failed rapidly."

" I had led, not intending to return ; but
something brought me back : perhajis it was
a desire to see this spot again. I regret the
fate that led you here at this moment ; ibr
dearly as I love you, deeply as I reverence
you, I would rather have suli'ertd tortures
than to have seen you. Ab, my God ! if I
could separate you from her, I might still
have a friend ; but I cannot. Y'ou both are
so connected in my memory, that I cannot
think of you without thinking of her. I
cannot see you without seeing iier. For-
give mo if I am harsh and brutal: I ain
mailB so by pain. Do not try to attach mo
again to you, — try rather to forget mo.
Adieu 1 adieu 1 " And taking my hands in
a tight clasp ho pressed them to his lips,
and wet thein with the tears that covered
his face. 1 never saw such tears : they fell
from his eyes like the great drops of a sum-
mer rain. Poor Uhadi 1 my heart ached for
him, yet I could say nothing to comfort
him : his passionate defence had silenced
me. • Ho made a convulsive effort at uelf-

•v^r.

wi'i'|) lii'fi)ro

just ill yiiiu-

\t Who i«

I will not

nt\t,T Imvliiji

Orwimt (ISO

1110 iVinii tor-

iwk nil! to lii-

k' lollV-vd

uy luurt, i.y

1 ; uiiil. *'' am

rokfn 1"! !ilti

Km 11. I iiin

(

Otll'll'^ to 1)1', .

riii'it.' is no

met luiiir litT

• .:

) vvitiiiii;! for

lopelcss ? " I

n a few iliiys

f^ono. A'iliid

iiicu hIiu has

) ri'tuin ; but

urli.k|),s it waa

moment ; ibr
i I roverenco
iTid tortures
uiy God ! il" I
, I nii'^lit 8till
You liotli are
:hat I cannot
ig of lier. I
ig lier, For-
brutal : I am
' to attach me
to forget mo.
g my liands in
n to his lips,

that covered
jars : they fell
rops of a sum-
leart ached for
Ig to comfort
I had silenced

utfort at self-

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'»iSS*5ii*«:

^4«Si**«^*ai'

A woman's story.

control, dashed the tears from his fuce, gave
Lis iiiustaclie a savage twist, and, Ijowing
low witli a forced and haggard smile, he luit
mo, as I thought, forever, and walked
doiwn the flower-bordered path with his
usual prouil, firm step.

I sat there in deep thought until the
lengthening shadows warned me that night
was drawing near ; then, unmindful of the
signs of some unusual event, I drew my
veil over my tiice, and turned sadly toward
home. Two olUcers were just in advance
of me ; and their loud voices and half-fran-
tic gesticulations attracted my attention. J
listened to their words, and heard, " At the
last he was unwilling; but the Chand)er
forced him to make the declaration. Now
•we will march straight to Berlin." Then I
knew war was declared, and what I had
feared was actually come. T felt cold and
faint, and scarcely had strength to reach
my room. When there, I closed my door,
and prayed as I never had prayed before, all
the while struggling with niy tears and my
own weak heart. At last I arose from my
knees calm. My trouble was lifted from me
like a great cloud that dissolved and drilled
away, mingling with the other prayers that
■went up to God that night from the anxious
heart of a nation.

In a little while I went do\yn to Aglae ;
but I did not think it best to tell her of my
meeting with llliadi Eilendi. She was very
weak and nervous, and I knew she had no
strength to lose in useless excitement. I
did not even like to startle her with what I
had heard ; but knowing that she must learn
it soon, I said as calmly as I could, " Chcrie,
my trouble is coming. War is declared.
Raoul will go, and 1 shall lose him."

She did not speak, but put her arms
round my neck, and we wept silently to-
gether.

That same evening I wrote a long letter
to my poor darling, often turning my
head, that the tears might not fall upon the
paper. I tried to write hopefully and en-
couragingly. I knew that he did not wish
for war ; but I also knew that when he saw
it was inevitable he would be among the

first to give his life for our France. I poured
out my whole soul in that letter. I em])tied
my heart into his : I told him how good and
patient I should be, no matter what hap-
pened. I am sure it would have southed
his poor heart, v-hich must have ached ter-
ribly at that moment : but I have no reason
to think that he ever received it ; fur, be-
fore it coidd have reached him, his regiment
was already en route for the frontier, and
(he first news I had of it was from a few
hurried lines written an hour before he left.
It was the last letter I ever received j)enned
by his hand; for he was wounded in the
arm, during a skirmish at Gcrsweiler, which
prevented him from using his pen. Still
from time to time I had news from him
written by one of his oflicers. lie was ear-
nest, active, courageous ; always at the head
of his men in spite of his Wound, which
must have tormented him constantly. I
never had one moment of peace, I never had
a night of sleep, after I knew he had been
wounded again through the shoulder at the
terrible battle of Gravelotte, where the
French stood their ground and died, and the
Prussians stood their ground and died, both
l)y himilreds; and he never flinched nor
failed, uniil, fainting from lossof blood.lie fell
from his hor8(s and was dragged to the rear
by one of his faithful soldiers. O my God 1
and 1 not there. How long he lay ill, I
never knew. When I heard from him again,
he was still fighting, although his right arm
was useless, beside General de Wimpllen at
Sedan. I did not learn, until months after,
how my Raoul died. I knew he was killed
at Sedan, and I never doubted that he dieil
bravely ; but I never knew how bravely
until an officer who had survived that
dreadful day said, " Ah, madame, your hus-
band was a hero ! It was he who followed
General de WimpfTen when he rallied his
tbrlorn hope, and rode out of the burning
town against the serried ranks of the en-
emy, although he know that he rode into tlio
jaws of <leath. I shall never forget him,
as he looked back at me and smiled just be ■
fi)re a volley of Prussian balls : he smiled
bravely, but his eyes were full of tears. I

A WOMAN'S STORY.

never saw him again : lus was swept away
in that horrible teiupcst of shot, l)lood, and

despair."

Oil, inv husband 1 I loved him as well as
any woman ever loved. I loved him so
wJll, that I would have suiVvroA a thousand
deaths to have saved him irom one. I
loved him so well, that life is one long night
without him; and yet I would not have
saved him from so glorious a triumph, j
Tliank God ! that wlwn he fell into the
hands of the Prussians he was not their
prisoner, as too many of our soldiers were.
No: his brave, sweet sold was free for-
ever.

During the terrible days that followed,
God and^Aglae were my only consolations.
His pitying love sustained me ; and she for-
got her own sorrow to eomfort me. Day
after day, night after night, while the siege
guns roiled out their ominous warnings, we
sat together before the scanty fire in our
desohue house, where our only guests were
cold and hunger. Aglae might have left
Paris before the gates were closed; hut
nothing would induce her to leave her
aunt, whose lameness confined her to her
bed, and whose weakness was so great
that the least exertion might have been
fatal to her. Besides, I think we were both
too enfeebled by our troubles to make the
necessary exertion for our safety. So, be-
fore we were aware of our dreadful posi-
tion, we found ourselves shut up with thou-
sands of others, to endure privations that
have few parallels in the records of history.
At first we di<l not believe, more than
did others, that the siege could last so
long; while fears of cold and hunger were
the^last an.xieties that disturbed us. Still
they came, slowly but surely ; and there i
was a day toward the last of December, j
when we sat and looked hopelessly, each
into the face of the other, so cold, so faint
and weary, that life seeme.l to hang by a
very feeble threa.l. Poor Margot, as well
as Aglae's servant, remained faithful almost
to the last ; going each day for their scanty
rations, which they divided generously
with us and the feeble old lady who was

dying for nourishing food. For ourselves,
Agl.ac and I, at first we did not care to eat
meat ; we were (piite satisfied with rice and
the little bread we could get: b\it at Inst
nature asserteil itself, and our emi)ty stom-
achs craved animal food incessantly. I
grew v.-ry selfish, being so hungry ; and I
am ashamed to confess it, 1 sometimes ate
the little morsels that belonged t.. Aglae,
with the eagerness of a starving dog.

One morning Margot came in weeping
bitterly, her cap and gown torn, her face
scratched and bleeding, and her whole ap
pearance most deplorable. As soon as she
could calm herself sufficiently to speak, she
said, " O madamc ! if we all starve, I shall
go no more to the bureau for our rations.
The canaille set upon me, beat me. and
drove me away, calling me a servant of the
aristocrats. I thought they would murder
me, before a guard came to my assistance.
We must starve, for I cannot go again. O
Mon Dieu! when will this end?"

"God only knows, Margot," I replied,
with a sinking heart. " We have borne it so
long, we wiil bear it still longer without
complaining. I, for one, would rather die
than surrender." Although I was so hun-
.rrv that there seemed to be a tiger gnaw-
Tn-' at ray stomach, although Aglae was
.rrowing more feeble each day, and the poor
old aunt down stairs was literally dymg
for nourishment, yet I could not say that I
was willing to take food from our cneuues.
Margot had returned with an empty bas-
ket ;°and all we had in the house between
us and starvation was a little rice and
chocolate, against which our stomachs re-
volted. There seemed to be nothing but
death before us; and to that eventuality, I
[ was resigned ; but something within my
poor weak frame resisted, fiercely, the very
thought of surrender. So I looked at
I Agla'd as encouragingly as I could, and
! said, " We will die together, darling, and it
will not be long before."

" No, it will not be long," she replied,

in a tone of such patient resignation, that

1 it touched my heart to the quick; and. I

I wept more weakly than a stoic who had

For onrselvos,
i not care to oat
I'd with rice ami
yd: but at last
our eiiii)ty stoin-

incessantly. I

hun|j;ry ; am' I
I sometimes ate
longed t., Aglae,
irvin^ dog.
ame in >veeping
n torn, her lace
d her whole aj)-
Aa soon as she
itly to epeak, she
dl starve, I shall

for our rations,
le, beat me. and

I a servant of the
.>y would murder
to my assistance,
not go again. O
send?"

irgot," I replied,
c have borne it so

II longer without
Avould rather die
igh I was so hun-
be a tiger gnaw-
liough Aglae was

day, and the poor
as literally dying
)uld not say that I
from our enemies,
th an empty bas-
,he house between
a little rice and
our stomachs rc-
to be nothing but
that eventuality, I
cthing within my
I, fiercely, the very
So I looked at
y as I could, and
her, dariing, and it

long," she replied,
nt resignation, that
I the (piiek ; ami . I
m a stoic who had

A woman's story.

just resolved to die should weep. After a ' reached Aglad and brought her hastily to
moment she said soothingly, " Let us be the stairs. " Here is meat ! hei-e is meat ! "
calm : bodily sull'ering is not so terrible. I j and, scarcely knowing what I did, 1 tore off
Lave lived through greater pain : and I have ' a mouthful of the raw horse-meat that lay
one thin" to be' thankful for, that is, that on the top, and devoured It eagerly.

Rhadi is not suffering with us ; he is safe,
and he will never know of our distress.
And perhaps when he learns I am dead, he
will forgive mo, and think kindly of me."
Then she burst into tears, and we wept
passionately together. She had not spoken
hia name for a long while ; neither had I,
for my terrible anxieties and sorrows had
driven him almost from my thoughts ; still,
I knew by that outburst, that death was a
consolation she desired as much as I did.
There would have been nothing dreadful
in death then ; but one cannot die of hun

Aglae seized the basket, and explored its
contents, crying and laughing like a child,
while she enunerated them, — one-half of a
chicken, a length of sausage, a box (if sar-
dines, a pot of beef extract, a slice of bacon,
and the cut of horse-meat I still held tender-
ly in ray hands. Ah, my God! these little
things '.,'ave us life and hope. What treas-
ures ! what joy ! We had wished to die :
we had thought we could die rather than
vield. But in that moment we did not see
our bleeding eoiuitry : we saw before U9
food ; we were starving, and we thought

ger while there is the least thing left to only of eating. The poor old aiuit found
sustain life ; and the rice and chocolate, ! strength to take a large basin of the beef

which we could not resist, did that, much to
our regret.

Aglae's servant had gone with tlip ambu-
lance corps ; it was useless to remain and die
with us ; Margot was too weak and fright-
ened to leave the house ; our last resources,
the rice and chocolate, were gone ; and yet
we could not die.

One morning, driven by the keenest
pangs of hunger, I went down to the jwrte,
which had not been opened for some days,
thinking I might see a guard who would be
willing to sell his rations for the last hun-.
dred francs wc had in the house. As I
approached the door, some one rang the
bell : it was a strange sound then ; and I
undid the bolts with eager, trembling fin-
gers, thinking always that relief had come.

Almost before I was visible, a hungry-
looking man thrust a small basket into my
hands, and, turning, ran swiftly toward the
Champs-El i/sc'es, without having said a
word. I was so surprised, that, instead of
opening the basket, I stood staring after
the man, who I was sure joined some one
standing behind a fountain on the rond-
point. At that momenta faint odor of

extract economically diluted, and a slice
of the chicken, which she devoured,
although she was so weak, with the eager-
ness of a hungry laborer. Margot made
a delicious ragout of the horse meat ; an<l
we feasted sumptuously, forgetting in our
selfishness those who were starving around
us. Neither did we fjuesiion as to where
it came from : we only knew we had it, and
that was enough.

There was something in that process of
slow starvation that hardened and brutal-
ized the best. Can we, then, wonder that
the degraded and ignorant became like
savage animals during that dreadful ordeal ?

We were bo hungry that we were not
prudent, and devoured almost in one day
the food which must have cost a small for-
tune, besides no end of trouble, to procure ;
so in a little while wo were suffering again,
and worse than belbre, because of the sud-
den stimulant our systems had received
from the (piantity of meat we had eaten in
so short a time. In the very depths of
our distress another basket came from the
same mj-sterioiis source ; and although the
meat was of the poorest quality, and tho

meat from the basket attracted my atten- \ smallest quantity, we welcomed it as a sal-
tion ; and, tearing off tho cover, I cried, i vation from the keenest suffering. I often
" Mon Dieu, mon Dieu ! " in a voice that i thought the most foolish things in regard

A WOMAN'S STORY.

to this titnelv md. Every one wax moru or
Ics suporstit'ious then ; and tlic feelin-^' that
the dear spirit of my llaoul interceded
with (Jod in my behalf, twk the firmest
possession of my mind ; for from what other
source could assistance come ? who was
there in that doomed city who cared
whether we lived or died? and how was it
possible at such a time for any one to pro-
cure more than enou-h for his own needs?
Three times life and hope came to us in
this mysterious way ; three times we were
saved 'from the keenest an;j;uish by this]
An^el of Mercy, and still it seemed that
we "were set apart for the sacrifice, with
hundreds of others who fell uneomplainingly
at that harvest of woe ; for one morning
A.rlac came up at <lawn of day with wild
eves and drawn lips, crying in piercing
tones "Aunt is dead 1 she died alone,
while I slept like a beast. She died from
hun<'er ; and I shall go insane, or die before
ni-ht, if I do not have food." We ha.l
caU'u nothing but a little bread for six
d.iys. Ulargofs hunger had overcome her
fid'elitv, and she too had joined the ambu-
lance 'corps; so we two women were alone
in this great, desolate house with our dead.
AH I could do was to pray silently while I
said, " Be patient, dear 1 perhaps God will
send us something to-day." Then, crying
like a sick child, I followed her down to
the room of her aunt, who now lay so
placid and smiling, — she who had hungered
and suffered but a few moments before.
Already she had eaten of the bread of
life ; and her shrunken old face was full of
contentment and satisfaction. While I
looked at her, something sublime entered
iny soul ; and I felt how little are the ills
of lii'e when a moment of death can cure
them forever. So I drew Aglac to my
heart, and sat down patiently beside the
dead, waiting for the desired consoler, who
reiused to come to us. We were ready,
we were willing ; and yet we could not die.
Then one of those dreailful spasms of hun-
ger came upon me, and I started up with a
new strength born of my pain ; drawing
Acrlao after me,l cried, " Come, we will go

into the streets, wo will go to the bureau ; the
people will pity us ; we are women; we are
starving: let us go while we have strength.

"No, no," moaned Aglae, clinging to the
c.ld hand of her aunt. '' 1 am too weak :
let me die here in peace."

Our misery had stupefied us : we had sat
all these hours by the dead woman, and
had made no preparation for her Surial.

«' It is useless to refuse : you must go with
me to find an undertaker," 1 said with de-
termination ; "we cannot leave the poor
ibody unburied; let us make the elfort. 1
I am too miserable for fear; and we may as
well die in the streets as to die here alone.
She followed me reluctantly ; and, wrapping
ourselves in our thickest mantles, we crept
out shiveringly into the desolate streets.
The cold wind pierced us through ; the
wild-eyed men and women appalled us ; but
still we struggled on with other starving
creatures toward the barrier that kept the
frenzied crowd away from the bureau. 1
shall never Ibrget the curses, the cnes, the
moans, of hun.lreds of poor beings whoso
endurance had reached the last lunit.
Death was written on the skeleton forms
of the women, dogged determination on the
sullen faces of the men. « We must sur-
render," 1 said at last, "or the Prussians
will have only a city of dead for their con-

*^"" My God, my God I " cried a poor wretch
close in my car, "two of my children have
starved, and I shall lose my last if I cannot
iret a morsel of meat to-day." The crowd
pressed closer and closer to the barrier;
and, in spite of ourselves, Aglae and 1 were
carried on with the others, only to be dnv-
en back by the stern-faced guards. As the
morsels of meat were passed out to those
who were fortunate enough to be near, the
si.dit of it seeme<l to iuturiate those who
could not reach it, »« the smell of
blood is said to atlect wild aniuials. Uowls,
shrieks, yells, and groans arose from a bun-
dred throats, and a hundrv^d emaciated
hands were stretched forth, some iinplor-
UvAy, some threateningly. Suddenly a voice
1 that sounded like the shrill ring of a clar-

tothoburean; the
•1! w onion; wc are
wi! liiive 8twnt;th."
at', clini^ing to tlio
" 1 am too weak :

etl us : wc hail sat
(lead woman, and
1 for her Surial.
; you must '^o with
r," 1 said with dc-
ot leave the poor
nake the effort. I
ir ; and we may as
3 to die here alone."
itly -, and, wrapping
; mantles, wc crept
le desolate streets.
d us throu'^h; the
icn appalled us ; but
vith other starving
irrier that kept the
i-oni the bureau. I
lurses, the cries, the

poor beings whoso
cd the last limit.

the skeleton forms
letermination on the
in. " We must sur-
t, "or the Prussians
f dead for their con-

" cried a poor wretch
of my children have
se my last if I cannot
to-day." The crowd
loser to the barrier;
ves, Aglae and 1 were
liers, only to be driv-
aced guards. As the
3 passed out to those
nough to be near, the
3 iuturiate those who
, as the smell of
wild animals. Howls,
,ans arose from a hun-
a hundriid emaciated
d forth, some implor-
a|rly. Suddenly a voice
i shrill ring of a clar-

A woman's story.

ion, shoute<1, " En avant 1 " A strange
thrill went through me as I turned and saw,
at the head of a frantic mob, the haggard
face, wild eyes, and fierce white teeth of
Rhadi Effendi. llefore I was fully con-
scious of what I had seen, before 1 could
express my astonishment, he had leaped
the barrier, and seized the hamper from
which an oflicur was dispensing the rations ;
then with a triumphant cry, and a wild
bound, he sjirang forward almost into the
arms of Aglae. A guard darted afler him :
there was a gleam of steel, followed by a
red stream, a cry of pain, a deathly pallor;
he looked around like a tiger at bay, the
food he had risked his life to obtain fell
from his relaxing hold, and he sank help-
less into our outstretched arms. The con-
fusion, the struggles, the shrieks, were
appalling. A dozen guards surrounded us,
and forced back the mass of human beings
who were fighting frantically for possession
of the hamper that had fallen in their
midst. Aglae never released her hold on
Khadi. She had Ibrgotten her weakness and
hunger ; and her face was full of courage,
as she said to an olHcer, " For the love of
Christ, do not let him die I " Something in
her voice touched the heart of the man :
he ordered a stretcher, and they laid Rhadi
on it. Aglae held one cold hand and I the
other, the guard surrounded us, the crowd
fell back, and we turned toward the Avenue
Montaigne. Ghastly forms carried by on
stretchers were a common spectacle then,
and attracted but little attention. Indeed,
the sight of death was rather welcome
than otherwise, because there remained
one less to feed.

The night that followed seems to me
now like a ghastly dream. The guards
were full of pity for us, showing their sym-
pathy by sending us a surgeon, an under-
taker, and what food they could procure.
Ah 1 how terrible was our condition when
these were our greatest needs I

All through the night Aglae held the un-
conscious form of Rhadi in her arms, and
the blood from his wound stained the
whiteness of her breast. I think hunger

and fear had turned her brain ; for she did
not seem to understand that ho had been
wounded, and was dying. She talked to
him incoherently of the past, never sfieiik-
ing of the dreadful present. She smiled
on liim, she I'.isscd his closed eyes and cold
lips; she buricil her face in his h;iir, and
wet it with her tears ; an<l then, se<.'ing how
motionless he was, she implored him to
smile, to speak : but there was no smile, no
speech ; and yet he lived.

There was no iire on the hearth, there was
but the faintest liglit in the solemn room.
The winter wind screamed and moaned
around the windows, making a fierce treble
to the hoarse bass of the cannonade, as the
bombardment was continued without inter-
mission. The skies rained shot and shell.
Famine and despair preyed upon the
doomed city, while I sat there looking with
dull anguish on the ghastly ftiee of Khadi, the
insane gesticulations of Aglae. Suddenly
there started up before me, in iiitiful
contrast, a picture of that radiant night
when they stood together on the balcony,
slie looking at the rose in her fingers, ho
looking at her, his brilliant face iieaming
with happiness ; and my llaoul was near
me, full of tenderness, cheerful and con-
tented ; the voices and laughter of our
friends, the bright light, the soft summer
air, the flowers, the music from the gardens
below, — my God I my God I how all have
changed 1 My husband dead, my Franco
dying, my friends dying ; no light, no fire,
no hope I Was it the same world V was I
the same woman who had loved, who had
been loved, and who had been happy Y
There was no hunger gnawing at my heart
then ; and yet I wept, and wished that I
were dead.

When the dawn came, pale with fear at
the sight of death and despair, Rhadi raised
his heavy lids, and, recognizing the face
bending over him, he smiled that rare, sweet
smile, that makes sunlight in my memory
even now, and murmured softly, " My dar-
ling, my adored ! am I with thee at last? "
Then, as his mind cleared, a slight shade
passed over his face, and he said, " I have

■ mm^^i

A woman's story.

never loft you ; 1 Iwvc watchod over you

tlirou-li :ill ; 1 wi^^lu-il to ifuttW with you ;

I rravc nil to profun! tooil i'oi- you ; I trii-il by

every iiiei\iis, every Hiierilke, but at the last

I i';ule(l. 1 knt.'W you were starving, mid the

8iy,ht of the i'oo.i luiKllened me. Ah ! 1

reineniher: I leaped the barrier; T seized

it for you ; 1 hehl life for you in my hand ;

then 8()uiethin;,' jiiereed me through the

Iwart, anil I fell ; but it is over now ; the

siege is ended ; wo are no lon;^er hungry •,

wu^iire happy, my beloved, we are hajipy ! "

Aglae pressed him tightly to her heart,

and said over and over, " Yes, yes, we are

happy : there is no hunger no pain ; we are

happy."

Then I heard him fay, like one talking
in sleep, " Cruel 1 she said 1 was cruel ; and
jot I have given my life. 1 loved her as
a Turk loves, — onee anil former ; through
pain, through death. How long the night
has been ! but now my sun t^hines, my glo-
rious Sim that shone upon my birth ; ami he
will set no more. I see his light, and 1 am
happy." After that all was silent. The
guns had ceased their sullen roar;- the wind
had sunk to rest ; and 1 slept, overeonie by
weakness and livtigue. When I awoke, the
sun was shining into the room. It was
high noon. Jlhadi slept, but never to
awaken. Aglae slept with her cheek
presHcd against his hair, and her .awakening
was terrible.

On the 2Sth of January, while all Paris,
relieved by an armistice just signed and
the prospect of speedy peace, buried the
wounds in their hearts and the dead in
their graves, I Ibllowed all that remained of
Rhadi EtVcndi to the cemetery of Pere-la-
Chaise. Can you wonder that 1 was a real
mourner, as 1 thought of what had passed
since the night when Kaoul brought him to
us. so haiulsomo, so strong, so brilliant, so
lull of life and hope V The dull gray face,
in the coflin. that I had looked upon for the
last time, bore little resemblance to the ex-
pressive features that fairly dazzled me on
that happy evening. He must have suf-
fered terribly beibre death came to his
relief; for his beautiful hair was almost

white, and his face was ploughed with line!'.
I think his pmir heart was broken Ion j be-
fore it was pierced with the cold steel of
the brutal guard. It must have been ii
welcome stroke that healed the deeper
wound, and gave him jieace at last.

AllhoM-h it has been nearly two years

since Aglae awoke to find Uhadi dead in
her arms, she has never left her room, never
ceaseil to weep for him, never ceased to
pray for the peace of his soul ; until four
days ago, the last pr.ayer was said, the last
tear wiped away, and the penitent, purified
spirit went to join his. Only yesterday I
saw her laiil by his side, not far from the
tomb of Abelard and lleloise ; and, in spite
of my sorrow, there wont up from my heart
a prayer of thanksgiving that her waiting
was over, that they were united forever.

I am very lonely now she is gone : my
rooms seem full of shadows and sighs.
Already scarcely a trace rem-ains of the
terrible conlliet through which we have
passed; The trees, replanted, wave in the
Cliamps-Eli/ae'es the flowers blossom, the
sun shines, the voice of strangers, mingled
with the strains of gay music, are heard as
of yore ; only here and there stands a black-
ened ruin, a mutilated statue, a crumbling
wall. The heedless passers, the triumph-
ant conquerors, the careless strangers, do
not see the graves in the green bosom of
our country, nor the graves in the sad hearts
that beat under the black robes of many
mourners who go about the streets.

Outwardly with me nothing is changed.
I still sit in my room that Raoul arranged
for me, listening for a voice and a step that
I shall hear no more. Strangers are mov-
ing already into Aglac's vacant apartment.
They will eiit and drink and laugh in the
rooms where the poor old aunt starved,
where Rhadi died, where Agla6 mourned,
and will know nothing of what has passed
there. It is well that walls are mute, and
can never tell what they have seen.

All that remains to me of the dear friend
who shared my bitter sorrows is a small
desk she put into my hands an hour before
she died. It contains a miniature painted

ighed with line?,
irokon hn\i Ix-
10 cold stL'i'l vil'
!<t havo been a
lud the ilecpcT
i> at last.
K'ai-ly two years

Uhadi (K'ait in

her rooiii, never
never eeased to

soul; until four
vas said, llio last
penitent, purified
Only yesterday I
not far from the
)ise ; and, in spite
up from my heart
that her waiting
united forever,
she is gone: my
idows and sij^hs.
i remains of the

which we havo
nted, wave in the
vers hlossoui, the
strangers, min;;led
usic, are heard as
•re stands a black-
atue, a crumbling
icrs, the triumph-
less strangers, do
) rrreen bosom of
is in the satl hearts
ck robes of many
he streets.
)thin<5 is changed.
It Raoul arranged
ice and a step that
Strangers are mov-

vacant apartment.

and laugh in the

old aunt starved,
•e Aglad mourned,
)f what has passed
alls are mute, and
r have seen.
le of the dear friend
sorrows is a small
mds an hour before
i miniature painted

A woman's story.

for Uhadi, some jewels, a faded rose, and a
package of which I havo spoken before.
Therein* nolliingof value in that crumpled
paper ; but the wealth of the whole world
could not buy it from me, — a small, white
glove, a plain hanilkerchief, a sprig of with-
ered aillet, these are all ; but they are
stained with his heart's blood. The sur-
geon ii)und them on his breast when he
dressed his wound. The glove and alllet
Aglad wore the night of our dinner ; the
handkerchief was the one Rhadi used to
wipe the wine-stains from her dress. Ah,
mo 1 how the faint Oriental odor about them
reminded me of that moment when the
glass fell from his fingers, scattering its crim-
son fluid on the three who are now gone.
I felt then that it was an omen of ill. I
am sure of it now ; for did not the cup of
his happiness tall and shatter l)eti)re it
reached his lips? and did not the red wine
of his life stain her heart ? I pressed those
mournful relics of the saddest and sweetest
scenes I had ever known to my lips with
many a sigh, and laid them away reverent-
ly among my dearest treasures.

There are times when I regret bitterly
that I ever saw Rhadi f^tfendi, or, .-ather,
I should say, that Aglad ever saw him ;
for, had it not been for that fatal passion,

she might have lived many hapjiy years,
allliough her |)liysician says that liiT sys-
teni was so weakened iiy the pi'ivalinns >he
snU'ered during the siege, that nothing could
prolong her life. They talk well, and
sometimes wif'ly ; but I believe, if Rliiidi
had lived, she would have bei'n here to-day,
and I should not be alone. After the ])nii]f
she had of his love and devotion, I lliink
she would havo married him without fear;
lor he nuist have had a noble heurt an I a
faithful nature to love as lie loved, ami to
endure what ho endured by reuiainiiig in
Paris through the siege, that he might be
near her to save her from suH'ering. He
must havo gone hungry himself to have li'd
lis ; and he must have made almost super-
human efforts to procure the food which I
thought could only have come from (Ind.
Well, did it not come from (lod ihrou.di
him V and was not Raoul glad in heaven to
know that some one on earth was caring
for usV

Poor Rliadi Etfendi ! to-day the grass
grows greiMi on his grave; and already the
vines creep from it, ami spread their licntle
shade over the sod that covers Aglae. He
was passionate, proud, and unrelenting.
He was a Turk ; but was ho cruel '/ I
leave you to be his judge.

fc^a^

JiiA^Vimi

MRS. GORDON'S CONFESSION,

<♦>

" What ! eleven o'clock, and I still sitting
hero (lrc!iiiiin<j V Why, I am inHane, when
I have no end of work beforo me," said
the Uuv. John Henediet, as he started from
his conif'urtable chair before n <;lowin^ ^Vate,
and looked around his luxurious study
with a most irresolute j^lanee. It is true
that he had much to do ; but the brij,dit fire,
the quiet room, and his own reverie, were
more inviting than the chilly vestry where
the wardens of the church were then assem-
bled to debate a matter of imjjortance that
required his attendance.

For some reason this usually active pas-
tor was very indolent on this bright Octo-
ber morning ; and instead of starting off, as
he sjiould have done after his exclamation,
he dreamily let his watch slip into his
pocket again, and himself settle back into
his chair, while a pensive and thoughtful
expression, that betokened some interior
pro-occupation, fell again over his fine face.
It was his thirty-fifth birthday; and, inter-
mingled with his other thoughts and mem-
ories, many scenes of his past life came
vividly before him. It seemed to him less
than twenty years beforo that he had been
a boy in a New-England village, guiding
the plough with one hand, while he held a
hook in the other ; or, lying under the elms
during the harvost^noons, he had studied
while the other laborers slept, — a delicate,
thoughtful boy, orphaned and friendless,
bound to a hard master, who had no sym-
pathy for his hungry, craving heart. Loving
knowledge, and thirsting for it as a flower
thirsts for rain, he had drunk greedily every
drop that he could obtain, no matter from
7

what source. What a drurlgery his youth
had been I None but God hail known of
his sorrows, his privations, his poverty, his
stru^'glcswith " low birth and iron fortune."
Hut he ha<l conipiered most noi)]y. Self-
taught and sell-made, he now stood (irmly
on the topmost height that his ambition
had always aspired to. Entirely through
his own e.xertions, ho had gone through
college, and graduated with every honor.
lie had passed his theological examination
with marked success, and directly after his
confirmation had been called to a thriv-
ing church in a small but wealthy town in
one of the New-England States. There
he had labored successfully for several
years. Then a trip througli Europe, and
a year in a German University, had fitted
him for a wider sphere, which was soon
opened to him. A natural eloquence, a
sincere nature, a fervent piety, a profound
intelligence, and a tender, generous heart,
united to an almost faultless person, a
manner dignified, refined, and gentle, made
him one of the most popular men of his
time. He was the friend of the poor and
suffering, the fearless defender of the
oppressed, the eloquent denouncer of
hypocrisy and gilded vice, as well as the
welcome guest in the most refined and
elegant circles. For three years he had
presided over one of the wealthy and fash-
ionable churches of New York. His salary
was almost princely; and, in comparison
with the poverty of his youth, his present
prosperity seemed magnificent. His house
was furnished richly, liis servants were
devoted and faithful, his congregation
97

"I^SaSgJBS

iJ^^'^MJstj S ijjS.w-^^fei^^-^JiJSl '"

MUR. OOnnoN'S CONFKaBIOV.

i r

adorcil liiiii, ami h\* rliiiiih was iiIwuvk
fillcil witli iiitcHi,'cnt,alt('iiilvi' wornlilpiMT!*.
Whiil iiKirf coiilil lie ilcNirc V Siinly lii^
lini'H liiul lallfii ill |ili':wiiil pliU't'H, ami lie
hail a ^(Hxlly licrita'^t'. Yot on tliln OrtobtT
inoriiiii',', an lu^ nat niti-inir licfiirc Ii'im fire, In-
WHS not altdHctliiT (•(Hitciitcil ; ami lor
wliat rcnKon? IIo wan not roiiscioiii) of
liaviii^i lifi'ti r<'mi»H in any iliity. Ilisncr-
nion of till- pri'vioiiH day li.nl lii-iiii liHtciicil
to with tliu ciosi'dt nttt-ntion ; h« hail
prviU'litMl tVoin his hoii! to hi" linmlnMld ol"
iioaii-rs ; he hail cniplii'il IiIh lu-art into
thcirH, ami ho knew liy tin- oarnctit faces
and rajit divotion of many, that his
words had not fallen on insensible ears.
lie had been very aetive iltninf^ the jiast
week in his eharitable work. He could
renieiiiber with iileasiiro tho gratituile of
deveral ))o<)r siiflirers whom he had raised
from the depths with his timely aid and
encoiira'^enient. A volume f)f his sermons
which had just been published had met
with marked siicecss. The most captions
critics had dealt gently with him, and the
most just had found nothiii';; to condunin in
the dainty little Iwok that lay on nearly
livery study table. The day before he had
asked two thousand dollars of liis con;j;re^n-
tion for mission-work, and they hail given
him three. Every thing that ho had under-
taken prospered; success crowned every
effort. Then, what cause had he for dissat-
isfaction ? One might naturally think that
he had none, and yet his thoughts were not
entirely of a pleasant nature. In the first
place he was discontented with himself.
He feared that his prosperity was spoiling
him, that he was becoming less earnest,
lees 8elf-<lenying, less active in his Master's
work. Was he not one of those who had
come out from the world? Then, was it
right that he should spend so many hours
in fashionable circles, listening too often to
the senseless twaddle of manffiuvering
mothers and ambitious daughters, when
there were human woes to relieve, weeping
eyes to dry? Was it not his duty to
spend that time in seeking for his Master's
lost sheep ? Was it right for him to live

in luxury when thousands were hiinsTV ?
In fact, was it ri;.'ht for him to ppeml hin
youth, his hcallli, his sfien'.'th.in the feeble
and encrviiliiig routine of a fashinniiblu
church, when then! were wide Ken* to lie
sailed, wildernesses to be pcni'tratcd, biirn-
ingsands tobetrixldcii.ihat, the Lord's truth
might be sounded in the ears of all nations?
Was it not his dream onci-, — the dream of
his siidering boyhood, — to become a mis-
sionary, a pioneer of the gosfM^l.ii staiidard-
beuriM- in (Jod's army '! And here he wasi
at thirty-five, settleil down in silken ease, in
gilded jirosperity, tiie tlatteri'd leader of a
l'a^hionablu religion, — a thing that in his
younger days he would not have believed;
yet he had drifted into it, he had thought
that it was his placid : this morning he felt
that it was not. Something stirred within
his heart, the memory of his boyhood came
strong u]ion liim ; he felt a<iain the damp
air of (he early dawn when he leaned from
his window to catch the first rays of light
upon his book ; the hot breath of the suin-
mei' nixjn, while he lay under the trees and
read; the free, wild winds that frolicked
about him as he drove the cattle over the
hills; the scent of the sweet hay that ho
had mowed, and turned, and raked, drifted
across his face, and with it the vision of a
little blue-eyed girl, the only thing that ho
had ever loved, that had ever loved him in
those dreary days. His eyes filled with
tears when he remembered how he had
carried her home in his arms from tho hay-
field one hot July noon, her feverish cheek
pressed close to his, her little, hot hands
clinging around his neck. And then the
great loneliness in l\is life when she
sickened and died. He had loved nothing
so well since. " If she had only lived," he
had said so many times; and this morning
he said it again with a he.'ivy sigh. "Ah ! I
was better and stronger then. What am 1
now ? What sliall I become in a few years,
if I live this life of ease and luxury?"
Tlien another subject intruded itself, not a
new one, for he had often thought of the
same thing before. Why he had never
married. There were dozens of lovely

.-..iiiiii a I - 11 ^-js^— ^. •

iiiKiinitK wort! liiincrry V
lor liiin U> p|)(>iii| hiH
s ctl-cii'.'tli, ill till! (ccMu

itilH- lit' It t!l»llil)||||lllu
WiT(^ Wirlo I<CIIH to llO

to 111' iicni'tr^iti'ij, liiirn-
■M.iliiii, llic Lonrw truth
iliccars lit" 111! iiiitic»n(i?

II diici', — thi^ ilrniiiii (if

— to llCCOIIKt II llliM>

t' lilt! (^osfM'i, II MtamluriU
And liiTi' lit! wiiK)
liown in ."ilkrii uiihi-, in
11- IIiUtiTi'd Ic.uiur of a
, — a thinij thiit in Inn
iilil not Imvo l)(«lii'V(Ml ;
nto it, lio liiid tlioiii^lit
' ; this luornin;^ ho felt
imctliinj; Ntirrt.il within
ry of his lioyhooil (•uin«
lu felt a'iiiin tlie dump
i'n when he ii-ancd fi-oin
1 thu first riivs of lij^ht
hot Iircath of thu sum-
lay iind«!r tlio triM's and
d winds that frolickiMl
»ve the rattli! over the
tho sweet hay that ho
rned, and raked, drifted
1 with it the vision of a
, the only thin'^ that ho
t had ever loved liiin in
His eyes filled with
nembered how he had
I his arms from the liay-
oon, her feverish eheek
s, her little, hot hands
i neck. And then the
n l^is life when she
He had loved nothin;.'
she had only lived," ho
mes; and this morning
1 a heavy 8ij;h. "Ah ! I
i^er then. AVhat am I
I become in a few years,
)f ease, and luxury? "
:t intruded itself, not a
1 often thought of tho
Why he had never
nrere dozens of lovely

Mn». oonnoN'8 coNFRsaiov. 99

Ijirlii in liin church, rich, ac('om|ili'<h<'d, and i Mr. Kencdict' heart had never liernrn

lasliionalily jiioiis, who imiki'd at him with beat iiiori' ijiiirkly in the pretence nf a wo-

piil't, bcscecliiiii; eyes, and nho iiirl him man : now it Hceiiied as tlmu'.di he wiiiiM

with delicate and tiallerin.; nitcntioii ; but siillbcate; and he could s<arcii control lilni-

none of tlii-m had toiU'lu'il bis ht'art, where si'lf cnou'jh to say calmly, " I am very ^lad

dwelt always iiii ideal wijmaii, the reality if my advice can be of any use to voii ;

of which he miitlit never liiul, — a stiinii,' but first tell nie, pray, wlioiii I have the

noble coul, a stately fiiturc, with the iiino- hon if iiddressin;;."

cent face of a child. "My name is (iordim, — Mrs. rmrd'in.

Tlii-re was a tap at the stiuly-clnor, and I am a straic^cr in Ni'w York. Yi^sterdav.

liis servant, cnterin;;, said, " .\ lady to see by chance, I drilleil into your church : yo;ir

you, sir: shall I fliow her in?" sermon interested nie, and awoke in my

Mr. Heneilict started like one from a heart a lunfi-sliimbcriii'i desire to do some-
dream, and rcplie'l inditl'erently, '• A lady: thing for others. I havi' plenty of leisure;

what name ? "

" She didn't give her name, sir; she said
yon didn't know her."

"Very well, iho may come In." He
glanced at his watch, and thought of his

and I can spare something from my income,
if you will kindly tell me how I am to he-
gin."

" With pleasure ; but flrnt, if it is not
presuming, may I ask you a few (pies-

vestrymen waiting impatiently for him. " I tioiis V "
hope she will not detain nie long," ho said, " Certainly," with a little touch of grave
pushing back his hair, and raising hinisidf : reticenee in her voice which Mr. Heneilict
to a more dignified position. Then his ' did not fail to notice. Still ho was pos-
cyes wandered toward an cxipiisite boii- , sessed with as strong a ilesire to know
(piet of rare flowers that stood near him ; something of this woman as though his
a rosebud was drooping, it did not touch ' whole destiny was to be left in Ikt hands,
the water; he leaned forward to arrange it, ! "Pardon me, if I am too curious. Aro

thinking still of the little (lower that had
perished so early, when the door opened
and the visitor entered. Rising, he went
toward her. Something in her face star-
tled him, and, almost trembling, he gave
her a chair. It was his ideal woman who
stood before him, — a beautiful, stately fig-
ure, with the innocent face of a child. At
a glance he understood that she was rich-
ly but simply dressed, and that she had
the ease and self-possession of one accus-
tomed to the refinement of life. She took
the offered chair, bowing gracefully, and
said with a slight tremor in her voice,
" Pardon my intrusion : my errand is a very

you an American by birth ? "

" I am, but I have liverl for a long time
abroad."

"I thouaht so from your manner and
speech. Did I understand you to say that
you were a stranger here ? "

" I have no acquaintances," she replied
a little sadly. " I am living at ," men-
tioning a jirivate hotel of the greatest re-
spectability ; " but I have not met any of
the ftimilies residing there. I suppose they
look with some distrust on an entire stran-
ger."

" I am sorry to say that it is often so,"
he replied hesitatingly, for he scarce knew

simple one, and will not detain you long, what to say; "but you must not remain

I have a small amount to use in charity : I
wish you to tell me how I may expend it
to the best advantage." Tlie soft, gray-
blue eyes looked at him steadily as she
spoke ; and there was a grave earnestness
about the mouth that had appeared so
childishly sweet when she entered.

without friends : your life will be very lone-
ly. Cannot I introduce you to some whom
I prize very highly, and who are most at-
tentive to strangers Y "

"But you know no more of me than
others do," she said, with a faint smile; " and
I have no credentials of respectability."

i i

100

MRS. GORDON'S CONFESSIOX.

A puddcn fear seizpil his heart. After
all, who was this woman that interested
him in such an unusual manner? She
was married. Was she a widow V lie
was <leterinined to know, ?o ho said rather
awkwardly, " And your husband? "

' I have no husband." She rci)lie(l so
coldly and curtly that Mr. Benedict felt
that lie had touched an uni)leasant subject,
and he could have punished himself for
his want of tact. " I am a rude brute to
(luestion her in this way," he thought;
"but I am determined to know, and I must
know."

There was a moment's silence ; then she
raised her eyes, and, looking him in the
face, she said earnestly and frankly, " Mr.
Benedict, I have come to you because I
need a friend. I am respectable ; there is
not the slightest stain upon my character;
but circumstances over which I have no
control have isolated me somewhat from
society. 1 feel that I must say this to you
to explain my lonely position. I need
friends : will you take me on my own rec-
ommendation, and present me to your fam-
ily, your church ? "

"I have no liimily, madam; but my
church, I am sure, will welcome you warm-
ly-"

« No family," she repeated, with some

surprise in her voice; then a faint flush
spread over her face, and she arose to leave.
« Perhajis, when you know of something in
which I can be of use, you will be kind
enough to inform me," she said, giving him
her card. " I fear I have intruded too long ;
thanks for your kindness," and she turned
toward the door.

Mv. Benedict followed her in a tremor
of agitation. He did not wish her to leave
so abruptly; he had a great many more
things to say, but he could not detain her ;
so, as he opened the door, he only murmured
the usual conventionalities aboui being
very happy to be of use ; and, before he was
(juite conscious of what he was saying, she
had bowed her " Good-morning," and was
gone. For a moment he stood quite still
where she had left him, thinking, " I have

always dreamed of such a woman : how
lovely ! what a soul in her face ! what truth
in her eyes, and yet a mystery 1 Who is
she ? I nuist see her again : I must know
more of her. Then he took his hat me-
chanically, for the vestry meeting intruded
itself into his dazed mind. He '.new it was
long past the hour, an<l that nothing could
be determined until his arrival: but ho
might as well have remained in his study ;
for his usually clear mind was incapable of
frrasping the most simple detail. So, after
an hour lost in useless discussion, the mcet-

.ng adjourned until another day.

Mrs. Gordon hastened down the steps,
into the clear October sun*liglit, with a very
heavy shadow on her face. " Heavens ! " she
thought. " What a mistake I have made !
What will he think of me ? AVhy did I
take it upon myself to suppose ho was mar-
ried ? Because clergymen at his age al-
most always are ; and so I thought he was.
Now see what my desire for action has 1('<1
me into! Why was I not contented to sii
in my room alone, and let my lifi; llowon as
it would, without any effort to change its cur-
rent? I feel the need of friends: I thought
that I might find them in his church. I
thought he was a great, noble soid, above
the httle suspicions and follies of society,
who would accept me for what I appeared,
and take me into his family and church as
a lonely, sorrowful woman should be re-
ceived by those who profess to follow
Christ's example. But he has no wife, no
family 1 What will he Uiink of me ? To say
the least, it was most indelicate to present
myself in that manner to an unmarried man.
And he will never know that I thought him
married. Perhaps he will think it was a
plan of mine : but I am foolish ; he is too
noble for that ; I will think no more of it. I
presume by to-morrow he will scarce remem-
ber that he ever saw me. He will not need
me : there must be plenty to do his charity
work. I will go back to my lonely life that
this absurd idea has disturbed for a little
while. Ah, my God, what a destiny 1 no
home, no friends, wandering from place to
place ; treated with suspicion and indiffer-

such a woman : how
1 lii>r face ! what truth
a mystery ! Who is
r ii<^ain ; I must know

he took his hat me-
3try niL'cting intruded
iiind. He '.now it was
id that notliiiij; could

his arrival : but ho
Mnained in his study ;
iiind was incapable of
nple detail. So, after
s discussion, the meet-
nother day.
encd down the steps,
r sun*liglit, with a very-
face. " Heavens ! " she
iiistake I have made !
: of me? Why did I

suppose ho was niar-
Tyinen at his a^a al-
d so I thought he was.
isire for action has led

1 not contented to sii
id let my life (low on as
effort to change its eur-
l of friends : I thought
liem in his church. I
reat, noble soul, above

and follies of society,
e for what I uppeared,

I family and church as
woman should be rc-

ho profess to follow
But he has no wife, no
le til ink of me ? To say
St indelicate to present
er to an unmarried man.
:now that I thought him
he will think it was a
[ am foolish ; he is too

II think no more of it. I
)w he will scarce remem-
r me. He will not need
plenty to do his charity
ck to mjf lonely life that
18 disturbed for a littlo
)d, what a destiny ! no
andering from place to
I suspicion and indiffer-

MR8. OOUDON'S confession.

101

ence, if not with cruelty and scorn ; and for
no fault of Miy own. Grace Gordon, lliere
is nothiu',' for you but [)atienee anil coura'^e."
She had intended to banish the recollec-
tion of this visit ; to think no more of it ; to
forget that she had been so foolish as to
present herself before this stranger, with
the double hope that she might do somi'
{{ood to others, and receive some gooil for
herself: but she coidd not, slie was so
angry ami mortified in thinking of the
wrong construction that might b'j put ujion
an act in itself most innocent of any sche-
ming. Sne was very proud, this ])oor, lone-
ly, friendless woman ; and her isolation
was owing, in a measure, to her pride. Tlie
second day after calling on Mr. IJenedict,
she sat alone in her room, copying with ex-
quisite skill the " Melancholy " of Uomenico
Feti tVoni an ivory miniature. It represents a
woman kneeling, her left hand supporting
her head, while she considers a skull atten-
tively ; at her feet is a palette, brushes, and
the fragment of a statue ; behind lier, on a
stand, are a globe and a clepsydra; in tlic
back-ground, ruins are seen. Whether it
was the subject of her picture, which was
certainly suggestive, or hi r vexed feelings,
I know not ; but more than once she wiped
away the hot tears as she continued her work.
She was surrounded with the evidences of a
rare and refined taste ; copies made by her
own hand of Rapliael, Fra Angelico, and Pe-
rugino, with carved Florentine frames, or-
namented the walls. The wing-footed
Mercury floated from a bronze pedestal ; a
marble copy of the Farnese Minerva, and
another of the bcautilul Capua Psyche,
rested on antique brackets ; a vase of choice
flowers stood near lier ; and books bound
in old Roman and Venetian lay on the
tables. A cabinet piano stood open, and one
of Beethoven's sonatas lay upon it as
though she had just left it. It was evident
this morning that her heart was not in licr
work. It did not seem to please her ; for
she corrected it impatiently here and
there, and then looked at it critically with
knitted brows. At last she laid down her
palette, went to her piano, played a few

bars, and then walkecl restlessly around the
room, taking up dill'cn'nt ulijecisand laying
them down again witii no deliniie ])iir{Mi>c.
Finally she selected a book, and sen led
herself to read, when a tap at the diMir
startled her, and a servant entered wiili a
card. She took it, and read, " IJev. ,Im1iii
Benedict." "Ah!" she said with a litlj.'
surprise in her voicis "you may show hiiu
in."

Mr. Bf'.'dict entered her presence willi
more diseoaiposure than he liked to ac-
knowledge to himsell'. Siie reei'iveil him
kindly, but he thought a little coldly, and
said, when he was seated, " I am very glad
to see you. I feared you would not have
time to comply with niy reipiest so soon ; lor
I may conclude, may I not, that you have
found something for aie to do V "

"I have," he replied, smiling; " l)ut to
tell you so is not entirely the object of my
visit. I wish, if you will allow me, to
become better ae(|uainted with you."

" Yon are very kind," she returned with
a slight flush. " It is |)ieasant to find any
one who desires my aetpiaintance."

" Are you not a little in fault yourself? "
he inijuired gently, as he glanced round
the room. " Do you not find these com-
panions more interesting and absorbing
than your fellow-creatures V You are an
artist ; you live in an ideal world of your
own ; you keep aloof from the common
interests of life, and then complain because
they do not come to you."

" Oh, no I you arc mistaken," she returned
warmly. " I am not morbid nor exclusive.
I love my fellow-creatures, and court their
society. They have wounded me cruelly
sometimes, yet I love them all the same.
My books, my music, my jiaintings, are dear
to me, it is true ; but I should devote the
smaller portion of my life to them, if I had
some human interest to occupy the other
part."

Mr. Benedict remained silent for a few
moments. His heart was full of the desire to
know all of this woman's history, to have
her whole past laid before him ; but lie dared
not question her, and he felt that her con-

r IT -TfTM-tttm-TI «»i M-Bly

102

MRS. GORDON'S CONFESSION.

fidence would not be voluntary. At last make friends when one ia situated as I am

ho said, noticinj^ that her face was very
sad and anxious, " I hope later, when you
know nie better, you will speak more ireely
of your sorrows."

" Perhajjs so, when I have proved your
friendship ; but at present you must accept
me without e.\planation."

" I will do 80 Ireely," he replied wilh
deep earnestness in his tones, " contented
to wait if I may hope in time to win your
confKlence. I have known what it is to be
friemUess, misundertooil, and neglected. Do
not fear to trust me : if you are unhappy
let me try to make you happier."

The tears started to her eyes ; and she
said in a voice tremulous with emotion,
" It is a long time since I have spoken so
freely to any one, a long time since I have
listened to such kind words ; and I have
been so hungry for sympathy." Then
she made an etfort to regain her composure,
and added, with forced animation, " But
tell me, please, what am I to do ? When
am I to begin my work, and where V "

" I have thought over the matter seri-
ously," replied Mr. Benedict; "and it
seenjs to me that the most feasible plan is
for vou to become a member of our Char-
itable Association. In that way you can
make the ac(iuaintance of the ladies of my
congregation. The society meets once a
week in the vestry of the church. To-mor-
row is the day. If you will come, I will
introduce you to some of my best friends,
anil bespeak a warm welcome for you."

" Th»nk you," she said gratefully.
"You are kind to think of that; but are
you sure that I can be of any use there,
where so many are interested ? Would not
some work alone be belter for me? One
poor family, for example, whose children I
might teach and clothe."

"Under the circumstances, I think not;
because in that case you will be as friend-
less and isolated as now. I want that
you should make friends who will under-
stand and appreciate you."

" Yotn- intention is kind," she said with
some hcBitatioti ; " but it is not so easy to

Women do not receive each other with
open arms when there is the least mystery
or circumstance unexplained."

" But I shall present you ; and I hope
the confidence they have in me will estab-
lish you on the right footing."

" You are very good. You mean to do
what is best for me ; and you think this
is best because you do not know what I
have suttered before iu trying to win the
confidence of society : therefore I pray you
to be careful how you ex])ose me to fresh
insults." She spoke rapidly, with Hushed
cheeks and angry eyes; then she added
more gently, after a short silence, " But I
will trust you ; I will make one more ellbrt ;
and if I fail now I shall never try again."
" Let us hope for the best," said Mr.
Benedict kindly. " Say you i/ill come to-
morrow, and that will be the first step to-
ward a better state of things."

" I will come, then, with the determina-
tion to put aside my pride, which is a ter-
rible enemy to my peace ; and I will be
verv gentle and patient, and submit to be
suspected at first if I may but win confi-
dence afterward."

" I am glad to hear you speak so sensi-
bly. Weil, thuii, at one o'clock : I shall be
there to meet you."

"I shall not fail," she replied. Then
they shook hands like old iriends ; and Mr.
Benedict went away more interested and
more puzzled than before. She is young and
lovely ; she is alone and needs friends. I
would stake my life on her goodness,
on the purity of her character, and I am
seldom deceived : then why should 1 not
befriend her ? " Suddenly his own. years,
his celibacy, his position, the construction
that the world might put upon his conduct,
all came into his mind. " Nevertheless," he
thought, " if I can do any thing to make
her happier, I shall do it."

The next day Mr. Benedict entered the
vestry-room, where the ladies were assem-
bled, chattering like magpies over a table
covered with garments of every size, color,
and material that could be used for charita-

malu

MRS. GORDON'S CONFESSION.

103

lie 18 situated as I am.

live each other with

■e is the least mystery

[plained."

ent you; and I hope

have in me will estab-

footing."

)od. You mean to do
I ; and you think this

do not know what I
J in trying to win the
: therefore I pray you
DU ex])ose me to fresh
3 rapidly, with Hushed
syes ; then she added

short silence, " But I

make one more ellbrt ;
shall never try again."
)T the best," said Mr.

Say you ■».'ill come to-
ill be the first step to-
rf things."
n, with the determina-

pride, which is a ter-

peace ; and I will he
lent, and submit to be
' I may but win conii-

2ar you speak so sensi-
; one o'clock : I shall bo

1," she replied. Then
ke old friends ; and Mr.
ly more interested and
lefore. She is young and
e and needs friends. I
life on her foodness,
ir character, and I am
:hen why should 1 not
uddenly his own. years,
isition, the construction
it put upon his conduct,
ind. " Nevertheless," he

do any thing to make
I do it."
r. Benedict entered the

the ladies were assem-
ce magpies over a table
jnts of every size, color,
ould be used for charita-

ble purposed. Singling out an elegant-
looking elderly lady with a sensible benev-
olent face, lie said, bowing smilingly to all
as he spoke, " Will you come with me for
a moment, Mrs. Wynton? I should like
to introduce you to a friend."

Mrs. Wynton, who was president of the
society, laid down the report she was about
to read, and followed her handsome pastor
willingly.

As they crossed the vestry, Mr. Benedict
said, " The lady for whom I wish to be-
speak a kind welcome is a friend of mine,
and an entire stranger, having lived abroad
for a number of years. She wishes to en-
gage in charity work. I hope you will
receive her cordially, and make her feel
quite at home among you."

" How can you doubt it, Mr. Benedict ?
Are not your Iriends always welcome to
me?"

Mr. Benedict thanked her warmly, as he
opened the door of his study where Mrs.
Gordon was waiting.

Nothing could be more friendly and cor-
dial than was Mrs. Wynton's reception of
the stranger. Much to the satisfaction of
Mr. Benedict, she at once took Mrs. Gor-
don by the hand ; and, leading her to the
vestry, she presented her to every one as a
friend of Mr. Benedict's who had just re-
turned from Europe.

The lonely woman was somewhat aston-
ished when she found herself " taken up "
at once. Every one paid her the most
marked attention, she was so stylish, so
elegant, so refined, there was such an Old-
World air about her ; and, besides, she was
a friend of their dear pastor. Was she a
widow ? No one knew ; but they left that
quLstion for the future to answer. It was
a new and not unpleasant experience to
her : she watched with interest these ex-
travagantly dressed women, who scarce
ever took a needle into their jewelled fin-
gers to work for their own families, sewing
80 industriously on these coarse charity
garments, and listening with the deepest
attention to the details of some new case
of poverty. Mr. Benedict glanced at her

from time to time : she was sitting between
two ladies, her head was bent over the
work which seemed to absorb all her atten-
tion. The lady who sat on her right, lan-
guidly stitching a Uannel petticoat, was
the widow of Mr. Van Ness, " ont! of our
old families, you know," whispered Mrs.
Wynton, as she introduced her. She was
clotheil in crajie, the depth of the most pro-
found grief; yet she cast sorrowfully long-
ing glances at Mr. Benedict, who, she said,
had been a great comfort to her in her
affliction. " He is just perfect ; and my
dear husband was so fond of him," she
whispered confidentially to Mrs. Gordon,
whereupon Miss Laselle, who sat on the
other side, a dashing beauty, whose active
benevolence deceived no one, drew u|) her
moutl, and smiled significantly. Mrs. Gor-
don did not like either of these women.
TTie widow was too soft and cat-like ; the
young lady too bold and flippant. " Still
they are of the best society," she thought ;
"and I must not presume to criticise
them."

Once Mr. Benedict came to her, and
said pleasantly, " You see I was right : you
are already quite at home."

" Yes, for the present," she replied ; " but
it will not last long." Yet from that day a
new life opened before her. The church
received her. Tlie ladies visited her, invited
her, consulted her, and envied her. The gen-
tlemen admired, praised, flattered her, and
overwhelmed her with attention. She had
work enough to do, —charity-visits to
make, committees to consult, fairs to attend,
concerts to patronize, — in fact, every thing
that a lady of wealth and leisure engages in.
She sang, she painted ; and her talents were
always in requisition for some charitable
object. Then there were dinners and
soirees and receptions and assemblies ; and
she was so popular, so much the fashion, all
the season, that such success as hers would
have completely turned any other head :
but she went on her way serenely, not too
much pufled up by her triumph ; for she
felt that to a certain extent she was sailing
under false colors. Sometimes she said

104

MRS. GORDON'S CONFESSION.

' i

!l S

sorrowfully to Mr. Benedict, when he con-
gratulatud her on her changed life, " Yes,
1 nm too happy: it cannot last. It is
always so: I allow myself to bo happy;
and then I suffer terribly after." The
winter was almost gone, and these two per-
Bons had met somewhere nearly every day.
They had had many long and earnest con-
versations which had approached closely
to confidences ; but yet no woi-d had been
spoken that could throw .any light on her
past history.

One day Mr. Benedict called upon her,
and surprised her with red eyes and sad
face. " Are you not happy ? " he inquired ;
and she replied, " No, not altogether. One
cannot forget the past, and live only in the
present."

" The past is dead," he returned ; " and it
may be folly to rera>^mbcr too much. Your
present life must satisfy you: you have
friends in abundance."

" Friends I " she said scornfully. " I
have h.ad just such friends as the most of
these before ; and I know what they are
worth. Wait until something liappens,
and then see who will stJind by me."

" But nothing will happen," he returned
encouragingly.

" Yes, there will : I know it. I am sure
some trouble is approaching : I am never
happy long ; but you, my best friend, you
will never desert me, no matter what
comes V " Then she covered her face with
her hands, and burst into tears.

Mr. Benedict was more distressed than
surprised ; and his tender soul was full of
love and pity for her. In that moment he
felt that nothing could separate them ; so,
taking her hands in his, he said firmly, •' I
promise you, by the God I love, that I will
never forsake you." Tlien he would have
saitl more : the words were on his lips that
he had been longing to speak for some
months ; but she drew her hands away,
crying earnestly and imperatively, " Go,
Mr. Benedict ; go, or I shall lose my only
iriend I "

He looked at her imploringly, bis heart
too full to speak ; but she only insisted the

more,
bio.

and he went

away very misera-

It was Miss Laselle who first said to Mrs.
Van Ness, " I'll bet my new saddle-horse
against your phaeton, that Mr. Benedict
will marry Mrs. Gordon. My Kate has a
sister who is a servant in the house where
she lives, and she says that Mr. Benedict
is there half of his time."

Mrs. Van Ness turned as white as her
widow's cap, and then laughed a little soft
laugh, "Oh, my dear I you are late with
your news. I saw how that would end
from the first, and told Mrs. Wynton so. I
believe they were engaged in Europe.'?

" Tlien some of my friends have wasted
their time in fishing for him all winter,"
returned Miss Laselle spitefully.

" Yes, I have thought so," said Mrs. Van
Ness, with treacherous calm. " However,
she has secured the prize : nothing suc-
ceeds so well as a little mystery. Who of
us know any thing of this Mrs. Gordon,
who she is, where she came from, and
whether she ever was man-ied or not?
She never speaks of her husband, when ho
lived, or when ho died. No one knows any
thing of her except Mr. Benedict, and he
is as impenetrable as a sphinx."

" I have wondered, more than once, at our
set taking up a person we knew so little
of. In my opinion Mr. Benedict is no bet-
ter acquainted with her past than we are.
I had it from the best authority, — Miss
Laselle's coachman got it from Mr. Bene-
dict's servant, — that Mrs. Gordon pre-
sented herself at the rectory an entire
stranger."

" Oh, dear ! " cried Mrs. Van Ness, full of
righteous indignation, " how we have been
imposed upon, and by Mr. Benedict
too t I must go and tell Mrs. Wynton at
once, so she will not waste her kindness on
an adventuress."

"Bah!" said Miss Laselle scornfully,
" she knows it. I told her my opinion ; but
she thinks her perfect, and won't believe
a word without proof. For Heaven's sake,
Fanny Van Ness t don't say a word until
after to-morrow evening. I want her to

m' trni

VMpn

I
i

kway very misera-

lio first said to Mrs.
r new sadille-ljorse
that Mr. Benedict
1. My Kate lias a
n the house where
tliat Mr. Bi-oedict

'A as white as her
aughed a little soft
you are late with
w that would end
^Irs. Wynton so. I
;ed in Europe.'?
I'iends have wasted
)r him .a'.l winter,"
litefuliy.

so," said Mrs. Van
calm. " However,
rize : nothing suc-
mystery. Who of
this Mrs, Gordon,
3 came from, and
man'ied or not?
• husband, when he
No one Itnows any
•. Benedict, and he
iphinx."
re than once, at our

I we knew so little
Benedict is no bet-
past than we are.
authority, — Miss
it from Mr. Bene-
Mrs. Gordon pre-
rectory an entire

•8. Van Ness, full of
how we have been
jy Mr. Benedict

II Mrs. Wynton at
ite her kindness on

Laselle scornfully,
er my opinion ; but
and won't believe
?or Heaven's sake,
t say a word until
g. I want her to

MRS. GOnDON's CONFESSION.

105

/■,

sinff at my reception : after that the expose
may come, for all I <^m. She slia'n't im-
pose upon us, even if Mr. Benedict <loes
marry her,"

The next evening Mrs. Gordon, all un-
conscious of the storm that was brewing,
walked serenely tlirouj^h Miss Lasellc's re-
ception-rooms to the liostess, who stood
with her father, receiving their guests.
" How lovely she is this evening ! " was whis-
pered on all sides; and indeed she was
lovely. She wore a dress of amethyst-
colored velvet, trimmed with rich white lace ;
amethyst and pearl ornaments ; and a heavy
coronet of purple and white pansies on lier
hair. Mr, Benedict felt a thrill of pain as he
looked at her : she was lovely, she was pale
and sad, and she wore colors of purity and
sorrow. Why had she selected that drass
for such an evening ? Was it accident, or
was it design ? She sang more exquisitely
tlian ever ; unconscious that it was the last
time she should sing to these hypocritical
flatterers, who gathered around her, charmed
in spite of themselves. Later in the even-
ing, she stood quietly talking to Mr. Bene-
dict, who, almost forgetting the argus eyes
of society, had hovered around her all the
evening. She was very happy for the mo-
ment: she had floated away from her old
sorrows, and now resigned herself to this
new breeze and tide of happiness. Mr.
Benedict loved her, — his every act, look,
and tone told her so. And she ? A woman
must be silent until a man speaks. He had
just said softly, " May I come to-morrow,
at three ? I must speak with you alone,"
when Mrs. Van Ness led up a gentleman,
saying, " Mrs. Gordon, may I introduce my
friend ? " Their eyes met : the man
flushed crimson ; she turned deathly white,
and instinctively put out her trembling
hand for Mr. Benedict, who had turned
away at that moment, without noticing her
emotion. So she stood alone in the face of
her enemies ; and, knowing it, she called up
all her pride and courage, drove back her
trembling and pallor, and addressed the
disagreeable intruder calmly. Mrs. Van
Ness's snaky eyes were fixed upon her ; but

she bore their gaze without flinching; talk-
ing with her usual grace and case, as Ion"
as eti(|uette demanded.

A half hour later Mr. Benedict looked
among the crowd for Mrs. Gordon ; but she
had gone, anil gone without a word to bur
host and hostess.

It was Mrs, Van Ness, who, the next
morning, said curtly and cruelly to Mis.
Gordon, while she looked her full in the
face, " How long since you lost your hus-
band ? "

Mrs, Gordon started like one who had
received a blow, turned pale and red by
turns, hesitated, and then replied in a hard,
constrained voice, " Eight years."

" Eight years I you were a widow very
young."

" I was married at seventeen."

" AVliere did your husband die ? " contin-
ued Mrs. Van Ness, looking triumpliantly
at the face that seemed to be settling into
stone under her gaze,

Mrs. Gordon did not reply to this refine-
ment of cruelty ; but, rising suddenly and
haughtily, she said, " Excuse me, Mrs. Van
Ness: I believe our business is finished. I
wish you good-morning;" and before the
widow had recovered from her surprise, she
had left the room.

" It is true ; yes, it is true," exclaimed
Mrs, Van Ness joyfully, as the door closed
upon her visitor : " I knew she was an ad-
venturess,"

Poor Mrs, Gordon walked out into the
sunlight like one blind. She had expected
this ; yet, when it came, it shocked her as it
always did. She was one of a purchasing
committee with Mrs, Van Ness ; and some
days before, she had made the appointment
with her for that morning, which she did
not fail to keep, in order that she niiulit
know the worst. If this man had betrayed
her secret, she would know it at once. She
did not remain long in doubt ; for Mrs. Van
Ness's manner, when she entereil the room,
told her more plainly than words that she
knew ail. They had arranged their ac-
counts, and finished their business, before
Mrs. Van Ness put the questions that shat-

^ff1gg0fit i&tmt

!-"!i»"l ' . W

106

MR8, GORDON'S CONFESSION.

tt'i-ed nil her hopes at one Wow. She went t" " Calls herself— ! do not understand
home, and went to hed with a siek and sore ' you," and he looked*in(iuirin;,'ly from ono
heart. Mr. Benedict eanie at three : she | to the other.

could not see liini. What ri^ht had she to " Coine with me, Mr. Benedict," said
sec him V How dare .xhc love him V Sliepira. Wynton, turning' towards the door,
could not see him a'^'ain. Her happiness i He followed her, filled with surprise, to a
was over. Kvery thing was over. Sht; ' small room known as the pastor's study.

must go away, just as she had gone aw.iy
from so many other jdaees. So she wept
and moaned through the day, and scarce
slept until dawn. It was late when she
arose, and the morning of their charity-
school. She would go as usual, and see if
they all knew her secret. But she had not
been there ten minutes before she was sure
that every lady who had been her friend
was intbrmcd of her past history. Mrs.
Van Ness turned her back upon her ; Miss
Laselle looked her steadily in the face,
without making the least sign of recogni-
tion ; and the others drew away trom her,
and whispered apart, as though she were in-
fected with some contagious disease. She
had ii class of little German girls whom she
taught to sew : they loved her dearly, and
gathered around her with kisses and smiles.
This morning she drew them closer, an<l
tried to get some comfort from their inno-
cent art'ection. " Ah, little Gretchen, how
haiijiy you are ! " she said to a llaxen-haired
child. The pretty creature leaned lovingly
against her shoulder. Mrs. Gordon laid
her cheek on the soft curls, and almost
sol)bed in her distress. Mr. Benedict was
not there : perhaps he would not come ; per-
haps she would never see him again. How-
ever, she was too uidiappy to stay ; so she
kissed the rosy little faces, and went away^
leaving a tear on more than one soft cheek.
But she had scarce gone, when Mr. Bene-
dict came. Looking around, and not seeing
lier, he feared she was ill ; so he went straight
to a side room, where Mrs. Van Ness sat with
a grouj) of ladies, and asked rather excit-
edly, " Has Mrs. Gordon been here this
morning V "

Mrs. Van Ness drew herself up haugh-
tily, and rei)lied, " Yes, Mr. Benedict : the

There Mrs. Wynton closeil the doo> ; and,
looking him full in the face, she said, "Did
you know any thing of this woman when
you presented her to us as your friend ? "

" If you refer to Mrs. Gordon," lus re-
l)lied sternly, " I did : I knew that she was
a noble, good woman, who had suflered for
no fault of her own ; and she w my friend,
— a friend whom I love and esteem deeply."
" O Mr. Benedict ! how you have been
deceived ! " cried Mrs. Wynton wrathfuUy.
" Slie is an impostor, an adventuress. Her
name is not Gordon, and she is not a
widow."

" How do you know this ? How can
vou prove it ? " said Mr. Benedict, almost
beside himself.

" A friend of Mrs. Van Ness, who knew
her years ago, recognized her last night at
Miss Laselle's reception. He spoke to her,
and she almost fainted. Mrs. Van Ness
could not get the whole story from him,
but he told her enough. He says she is
deceiving us all " —

" I cannot believe it, I will not believe
it," interrupted Mr. Benedict. " I will
stake my life on her goodness, on her truth.
You are a noble-hearted woman, Mrs.
Wynton: do not condemn her until you
know all. Wait until I hear her history
from her own lips. I pray, I entreat, that
you will remain her friend until you heai
from me. I am sure she is innocent ; and
I will convince you, if you will only stand
by her in this trial.''

Mrs. Wynton loved her pastor dearly:
besides she was, as he had said, a noble-
hearted woman ; so, seeing him in such a
terrible state, she tried to soothe and com-
fort him, telling him that she would believe
every thing he wished, and that in any case

person who calls herself Mrs. Gordon has ' she would stand by the poor thing.

been here." I The ai'ternoon of the same day, Mrs.

«pi Ti"~ - J ! I J |M . W»*WiM

■Mta

tlo not understand
ntjuirin^ly I'roin oiio

Jr. Benedict," saiil
towards the door,
1 with surprise, to a
1 the pastor's study,
losed the doo' ; and,
fiiee, she said, " Did
if this \voinan when
s as your iViimd ? "
[rs. Gordon," ]w rc-
I knew that she was
who had sudered for
ind she w my friend,
? and esteem deeply."
how you have been
. Wynton wrathfuUy.
in .idventuress. Iler
, and she is not a

w this? How can
Mr. Benedict, ahnoi^t

/"an Ness, who knew
.zed her last nir;ht at
tn. He spoke to her,
ed. Mrs. Van Ness
hole story from him,
igh. He says she is

it, I will not believe
Benedict. " I will
oodncss, on her truth,
iarted woman, Mrs.
ndemn her until you
il I hear her history
[ pray, I entreat, that
friend until you heai
! she is innocent ; and
if you will only stand

id her pastor dearly:
he had said, a noble-
seeing him in such a
ed to soothe and com-
that she would believe
i, and that in any case
;he poor thing,
the same day, Mrs.

MRS. GOUDON'8 CONFESSIOX.

lOT

) t

Gordon lay on her sofa, pale, sorrowful,
and anxious, trying to arrive at some de-
cision respecting her future. " In any
case," she rcpeateil over and over, " I
must go away. I cannot remain here : I
can never sec these people again. Oh,
what folly for me to imagini^ that I might
be happy ! My misfortunes follow me every-
where ; and there is no real friendship in
the world. All those who appeared to love
me, who flattered and atlmircd me, have
turned their backs upon me as though I
were a criminal." Then she thought of
Mr. Benedict, and an unbidden tc^ar rolled
down her pale cheek. " Will he remain
true ? Will he keep the promise he made ?
1 ihink he will ; but to retain hlui as my
friend will injure him in the estimation of
these ])eople whom I have deeeiveil. It is
true I have deceived them ; but how could
I help it? how could I help itV" Then
she burst into tears, and wept freely ; after
which she was calmer. She had asked
herself twenty times through the day, if he
would come; and at last, when she had
almost ceased to hope, he came. He was
very grave, and resolved to know all, even
a little severe in his determination ; but
when she raised her soft blue eyes to his,
with their childish, innocent expression, a
thrill of tenderness went through his heart.
A smell of new-mown hay, the dreamy
languor of a July noon, a hot little cheek
pressed to his, smote him to weakness ; and,
before he well knew what he was doing, he
had seized her hands, and was vehemently
pouring out the story of his love. • He
called her Grace, his adored, his cherished ;
the only woman he had ever loved, the
only woman he ever could love ; and sl.o
listened pale and terrified. At last she
wrenched her bands away from his clasp,
and cried, " O Mr. Benedict 1 stop, I im-
plore you ! You must not speak these words
to me: 1 must not hear them. I have
deceived you ; for aught I know, my hus-
band is still living."

Mr. Benedict started up, stunned, con-
fused, almost stupid, and stood looking at
her as though he scarce understood her

words. At last, sighing heavily, ho turned
toward tlii^ door.

" Ah, you will go ! " she cried, " my con-
fession will drive you away; you, too, will
desert mc, as all the others have, — reuu-m-
ber you ])romised by the (loil you love."

He stood irresolute, terrified by the
strength of his emotions. " It was a sol-
emn promise," he thought: "no, I will
never desi^rt her." Then ho sat down
near her, ami saiil as calmly as he could,
" No, Grace, I will never forsake you : I can
still be your friend. Now tell me all."

" I must go back," she said with a gasp,
" a long way back. I was so young when I
married, only seventeen, and neither father
nor mother 1 " she looked at him appealing-
ly. "You know what it is to be without
father and mother. Besides, I had a little
fortune, and you know also how that
attracts. I met my husband at a ball. Ho
was older than T, but so handsome 1 so ele-
gant 1 I loved him : yes, 1 am sure 1 loved
him then. In less than a month after I met
him, we were married. I lived with him two
years, — two years of fashion, luxury, and
folly, and I only a child. My fortune was se-
cured to me in charge of a guardian until I
was twenty-five. My maiden name was
Grace Gordon Barrett. My husband's name
was Edward Tremlett."

" Edward Tremlett, the bank defaulter !
Is it possible?" cried Mr. Benedict in
astonishment.

"I see you remember the sensation of
eight years ago. You know how he dis-
appeared with his ill-gotten gains, no
trace of him ever having been discovered.
Then he died to me; and I, deserted,
heart-broken, and ruined, died to all my
former friends. My only uncle, who was
my guardian, took me abroad ; and we
lived for four years in Germany. There I
adopted my middle maiden name, that
I might the better conceal myself from all
who had ever known mc. While my
uncle lived, I was as hapi)y as one could bo
alter such a terrible experience ; but when
he died, four years ago, and left me alone,
my troubles began. I was too young to

,:i#?aag^jij.'s

ran'-^- « ~ii-Xit-

108

MRS. GOHDON'8 CONFESSION.

wander nlioiit tlio wnrM, with no ono to
pmtopt luo ; anil wIktcvit I wi-nt I crcatcil
BMs|iicii)ii. Even my diaiv^c ol' name told
a;;ainst mc ; l)iit how could I retain a name
that liad been so diMlionored ? In the
most imexpi'ctcil jilacesi, at tho most unex-
pected times, some one would appear hefure
me who recojinized me as Miss IJarrett.
A;,'aiii another who knew me as Mrs.
Tremlett. For that reason, I could not
remain lon|4 in one place. 1 grew weary
■with wandering, and at last decided to
return liome. I hoped that ei-^ht years
liad chau;j;ed me so that 1 would not be
easily recognized. I Bhunned the society
that I hail associated with as Mrs. Tremlett,
and tried to make friends in another set.
You must not think me better than I am.
When 1 went to you, it was not so niueli
from a desire to en;^agc in some charitable
work as to make friends through your inlhi-
cnce. I have been very hajjpy since I
knew yon, until night before last, when I
met face to face an intimate friend of my
husbanil, who recognized me at once, but
who was pitiful enough not to ex])ose me
on the spot. I felt instinctively that Mrs.
Van Ness, in spite of her kindness, was atl
enemy. I saw her silent exultation when
she discovered my confusion, and I knew
that my secret was in bad hands. Now I
am convinced of it; and the others, not
knowing the circumstances, look upon me
as a criminal. They, and perhaps you,
will accuse me of falsehood, because I left
the impression that I was a widow. I told
you that I had no husband. I have none :
he died when he deserted me with an odious
Btain upon his name. M;s. Van Ness
asked me impertinently, bow long a time
it had been since I lost my husband. I
replied ' Eight years ; ' and that also was
true. I lost him more entirely than
though the grave had hidden him from me.
But perhaj)s you will see only equivocations
in all that. Now I have nothing more to
confess. You arc the first person to whom 1
have laid bare my heart since I lost my
uncle. Explanations often are of little usjj.
Each one prefers his own construction to

tho most lucid information ; but T believe
J cm to be an exi'ej)tion. I have told you all
because I still desire your friendship, your
esteem ; but love, — there can be no love for
me ; you must never speak of it .again."
Then she covered her face, and sobbed bit-
terly.

Mr. Benedict took her trembling hands
in his, and said very gently and ealndy,
though his heart was bleeding within him,
'' My dear child, I thank you for your con-
fidence, it might liiivo been better if you
had told me all before. I believe in you,
and trust you, as I have done from the first
moment I saw you. There is but one thing
to blame, — the mistake which you have
allowed because you thought it best. Had
I known your true position, I never should
h.ave encouraged a passion which I fear I
shall find it dillicult to conipier. However,
with God's help, I hope to do it in time, — to
become only your friend, your true friend,
your father, your brother, — what you will.
I shall never change towards you ; but out-
wardly I cannot be the same. I cannot
see you at present as often as I hivve done :
1 cannot expose myself to the j)leasure of
your society."

" I know it, I know it," she interrupted.
" What shall I do ? Where shall I go ? "

" Nowhere : remain here, and live this
down."

" That is impossible. I Lave not a friend
besides yourself."

" Mrs. Wynton will be your friend : she
h.as promised."

"Put of kindnpss to you : that cannot be.
I must go where I am not known."

" Do nothing rashly. Remain here for
the present; and I will explain whiit is
necessary. There are some who will be
kind to you."

" No, no," she cried passionately. " I
have done no wrong ; I will not be the object
of their commiseration."

Mr. Benedict talked with her for some
time, trying to strengthen and encourage
her. When he left her, promising to see her
again in a few days, she appeared calmer,
and more resigned to her position.

tion ; l))it T hplicvc
I liavi' told yini all
ur lVii'ii(l>liii>, your
•f I'iin 1)0 MO love for
peak of it a;fiiiii."
ICC, and wibbcMl liit-

■r tri'iiiblin;; hands
fi-ntly and calndy,
'udin^ within him,
: yon for your eoii-
bui-n belter if you
I believe in you,
done from the first
uro is but one tliin;^
e which you liavo
lu^^ht it best. Had
ion, I never should
lion which I fear I
onquer. However,
odoit in time, — to
, your true friend,
r, — what you %vill.
'ards you ; but out-

same. I cannot
en as I have done :
to the j)leasure of

t," she interrupted,
here shall I go ? "
here, and live this

1 have not a friend

le your friend : she

ou: that cannot be.
ot known."

Remain here for
11 explain what is
some who will be

passionately. " I
dll not be the object

with her for some
len and encourage
)romising to see her
I appeared calmer,
r position.

MRS. OOUDON'S CONFF.asioy.

ino

The ni;:ht that followed was a nii;ht of
severe conflict to the nobli'-hoartccl man.
lie loved this woman with the first, the
only love of his life ; and shi' was separated
from him by an insnrmoimtable l)arrier.
It was a sin to think of her with love. The
necessity of giving her up, of crushing his
new-l)orn hope to (U'alh, was not the most
])ainful thing to him. It was the thou<j;ht
of her loneliness, her suffering, her great
ni'i'd of friends ; and he could not even offer
her the sympathy that filled his heart be-
cause of the wicked and suspicious world.
II(' thought of her with infinite sorrow and
jiity. He thought of liis own disappoint-
ment with regret, of his future struggle
with anxiety. " After all," ho said, " com-
pareil with the lofty aim of my lift-, a disap-
pointed love is but a little thing. I will
try to do my duty, and leave the result to
God."

Tlic next day he had a long conversation
with his friend, Mrs. Wynton, during which
he explained all the peculiar circumstances
of ^Irs. Gordon's life; and she was satisfied
with the explanation : having no selfish
motive in her affection for her pastor, she
was prepared to be just toward the friend-
less woman. " Trust all to me," she said
kindly to Mr. Benedict as he was leaving :
" I will see that all mistakes arc rectified.
She shall never need a friend while I live."
Mr. Benedict pressed her hand gratefully,
and went away happier.

Mrs. Wynton was not idle. In three
days she made quite a revolution in Mrs.
Gordon's favor ; put Mrs. Van Ness down,
and silenced Miss Laselle so effectually,
that both were almost ready to receive her
as they had done.

" Ah I you are a powerful champion,"
said Mr. Benedict thankfully to Mrs. Wyn-
ton, who had come to the rectory to impart
her success to him. " I must see the poor
child, and tell her of your goodness: it will
comfort and encourage her." While no
spoke, a servant handed him a note. He
opened it, and read with a blank face the
following lines from Mrs. Gordon : —

" I cannot go away without thanking you

for your kindness, without saying good-by.
Your ailvice for me to remain here was,
l)erhaps, ^ood ; but I cauni>t feel so at pres-
ent. It is best for both that we should
meet no more. I go to hi(U' my sorrow and
disgrace iimong strangers. If, in the future,
I know myself free, I will come to you
again ; until then, think kindly of me, and
]im\ for me." Without a word he gave
the note to Mrs. Wynton ; an<l, sinking into
a chair, he ))urst into tears.

A year passed away, — a long, weary year
to Mr. Benedict, bringing no news of Mrs.
Gordon, no cure for his love, no forgctfiil-
ness of her. He thought of her constantly
when alone and unoccupied. He had tried
in vain to discover her retreat. He longed
intensely to see her again, if only once. Ho
had grown so thin, pale, and melancholy,
that his church, not knowing his secret,
thought him overworked, and proposed a
trip abroad for the next summer. Mrs.
{Jordon had already dropped out of the
memory of nearly all who had known her ;
but she still reigned supreme in his heart,
and he had no power to banish her. Ho
worked with more zeal, more energy,
preached with deeper meaning and force ;
went less into fashionable society, and more
among the poor ; was as poi)ular as ever,
as successful, as prosperous : but something
had gone out of his life. He felt as he diil
afler he lost the little blue-eyed darling of
his boyhood, — an inexpressible loneliness
and dreariness. One evening, late in
March, he sat before his study-fire, dream-
ing, as he of\cn did, of his lost happiness,
when a servant came to say that ho was
called to see a dying man at a neighboring
hotel. The person who had como for
him was waiting in the hall as he
went out. " I could not go, sir," he said,
" until you went with me ; for I prom-
ised the poor gentleman not to come back
without a minister."

" Has he been ill long ? " inquired Mr.
Benedict, as he hurried into the street.

" I can't say, sir. He was brought to
the hotel yesterday from a South-Ameri-
can steamer."

'ammwj.

i uim.'J | 'ji'jul.Aju 3g

110

MU9. OOnnON'S CONFKSSIOy.

.. II„, hP no fn..n.l« >vith Imn ? " I rcmaiu.-l, .....k forfilvcncHS of God, ami .li«

. N 1 : 1. Havs he has not a friend in ' in ...u.. 1 .l.on.l.t to have liv.l lon,..r

.. ' I than lliii* : now 1 l«now nnotlu-r honr will

^r' IW^li... ..n,or...l .h. Hilont, .lin.ly- ' .m,! all. In my trnnks an- pap.Ts that will

,y .,...1 roon. .aaiy ; .or a lon.^y .loath. In-.l | ox,Iain every thin, = .ee that J^-.-v -c

hail a norrowl'nl niranin'^' for him

The dyiri'/ man, who was emaciated to a
fri;:littiil deL'ree, and jrhactly jiale, tinned
his dull eyes toward Mr. Benedict as he
npiiroached the lied, ami said in a weak,
but thankful voice, " I am ho i^lad you have
come t I suiniose it'.s ehildi^h, l)Ut I can't
bear to die alone." Tlien lie motioned the
servant to leave the room, and added,
" Come nearer : 1 want to tell you who I
am ; hut first take my hand, an<l promise
me that you will stay with mo until all is

over."

Mr. Benedict did as ho requested.
" Now," he said, " hold my hand tightly
in yours, and jiray to (Jod lor nic ; for I am
a great sinner, and I want to be forgiven :
but how am I to ask for it V "

"If you had oiTended a dearly-loved
father, you woul<l know how to approach
hlra. Go to God in the same way," replied
Mr. Benedict gently.

" 1 liave so little time 1 I am cold : my
Bi-rht is failing. O God ! can you hear
meV But first I must confess all to you.
l)o you remember the hank defiiulter, who,
oi'dit years ago, ruined hundreds?"
l^lr. Benedict bowed his head silently.
"1 urn he, — Edward Tremlett. Can
there be mercy for one who wronged and
ruined so many V "

Mr. Benedict was almost overcome by
this revelation ; liut he said with calmness,
" Yes : there is mercy for you, <br all. You
are weak, you arc helpless, you need
strength ; then lean hard on God."

" I have tried to find forgiveness. I have
suffered and repented. I have longed all
these years to return, to give myself up, to
restore my ill-gotten wealth ; but fear and
pride have prevented me. At last I knew
I had but a little time to live, —the fever of
remorse has consumed mo ; and I felt that
I must return, throw myself on the mercy
of those 1 have wronged, restore what

given into proper hands. I hope those
whom I have injureil will forgive me when
I am dead, and pity me for what I have
snll'ered. My memory is leavin,' me ; there
are other thin;;s that I would say, but 1 can-
not think now. Oh I show me how to find
(iod before it is too late."

" I will pray for you ; pray with mo for
yourself; " and sinking on his knees, while
iie still held fast to the damp, cold hand,
Mr. Benedict poured out his soul in plead-
ing for the (lying man. All night, alone
and silent, he sat by his bed, the thin fingers
clutching his tightly. Ho slept. Would
he ever awake? Would he be conscious
again? Would he sjieak of his wile?
Would no memory of her disturb or bless
his last moments, — the woman who had
loved him, and whoso life he had ruined ?
Toward daylight there was a change, an<l
Mr. Benedict knew that the last moment
was drawing near : for he startetl out of his
long stupor ; and looking up with wide-open
clear eyes, and a smile that made him
almost beautiiul, he said, "Forgive me,
Grace." Then he sank back on his pillow ;
and great tears welled slowly from under
his lids, and rolled down his face. He tried
to speak again, looked thankfully at Mr.
Benedict, clasped his hand tighter, and
dropped away without a sigh.

It is needless to say that Mr. Benedict
did all the dying man had requested, — saw
him laid peacefully in the family tomb at
Greenwood, and then took such measures as
were necessary in regard to the restitution
he had intended to make, managing every
thing so quietly, that the public knew noth-
ing of the death of the man whose defalca-
tion, eight years before, had caused such a
sensation throughout the country.

It was some time before Mr. Benedict
allowed himself to think of Mrs. Gordon as a
widow, — as a woman whom he might mai-ry.
But when at last he admitted the thought, he

MUS, OORPON'S COXFF.aHrOK.

Ill

iH of (lod, nnil dio
iiivc liviMl lonjier
motliiT lidur will
re jaiuTs tlwit will
[«o that tilt")' nro

1h. I liopi! tllOXO

I tin'^ivc nil' tvhfti

tiir wliiit 1 Imvo

leaving mi' ; tlicro

uulil siiy, I'lit lean-

jw me how lo fiiul

pray with mo for
oil his l;iu'('», while

(laini), cold hand,
t liiH soul ill jdead-
All ni;;ht, alone
1)0(1, thu thill finj;i'r9
IIo 8U'i)t. Would
Id he he conscious
leak of his wife?
ler disturh or bless
e woman who had
ifo he had ruined V
was a chanj^e, an<l
it the last moment
he started out of his
ir up with wide-open
lie that made him
said, "For^^ive me,
. back on his pillow ;

slowly iVom under
n his face. He tried
I thankfully at Mr.

hand ti;;hter, and
a sigh.

y that Mr. Benedict
lad requested, — saw
the family tomb at
took such measures as
ird to the restitution
ake, managing every
,hc public knew noth-
e man whose detiilca-
e, had caused such a
;he country,
before Mr. Benedict
k of Mrs. Gordon as a
whom he might maiTy.
initted the thought, he

was pofi-oKxed wiili the desire to dUooverhor
r.ti-eat. r.Thaps she had ^oiie again to Ku-
rotic. He caused the regislrrsof the steam-
ship eomimnies to he examined ; Imtamon,'
the names of passengers who had sailed
(luring llie year, hers was not to he found.
He aiUertised eautiou-ly in the dilVerent
journals of the princii-nl cities. He wn.te to
j„„minent clergymen in every part of the
eountry,axking information ; to physicians :
,.ven t() State registrars and police olUcials ;
Imt ill vain : such a person did not seem to
Ik- in the country. Then his hope failed,
and with it his health. He lost his interest
in his Master's work. Study was impossi-
ble : his sermons were badly prepared, and
badly delivered. Nevertheless his church
was most indulgent, attributing the change
to overwork and ill health. " He must have
n vacation," they said : " he must go abroad,
and travel until he is better." So a meeting
was ('ailed, and a fund was raised which he
was begged to accept with his dismissal for
a year!" He did not refuse the dismissal,
altiiough he did the money ; for he had in-
tended to resign at the end of the year,
feeling that he required a new sphere of la-
bor, new scenes, and new interests, to dis-
tract his mind from the one absorbing
subject. He had long desired to visit Pal-
estine, the theologian's Mecca ; now he was
rcfolved to go ; but, before he went, he felt
an ardent longing to sec again the New-
Kn'rland village where he had passed his
ho)diood, and where the blue-eyed little girl
had fallen asleep.

It was late at night when he reached

p^ The landlady of the little inn gave

him a comfortable bed, where ho slept more
peacefully than he had done for a long time.
When he arose the sun was shining
into his window, and the swallows were
beating the blue air with light wings. He
leaned^from his casement: the sweet scent
of new-mown hay drif\ed across his face,
dew drops sparkled on every leaf and shrub ;
the songs of the birds, the tinkling of the
bells, and even the mower whetting his
scythe, sounded like the sweetest music to
him. " Oh, how lovely the country is 1 " he

said. " Perhaps I should have been happier,
if I had staid here and li>ll.>vv('d the
plough." Then he felt a pang of remorse
ill his ingratitude for all th(,' blessiirgs show-
ered upon his life. Ih^ had received even'
thing but this.>negif> of love. " And yet."
he said, " without that all the rest are
worililess." H(^ knelt down at his open
window with his face toward the rising sun.
The soft air touched his forehead as gently
lis a niotlier's kiss. Ciod's sweet day
beamed (Ui him. Was not life glorious and
iK'autiful V Thinking this, he bowed his
head, and prayed for one thing only, and
that was resign.ation. All through the sum-
mer day he wandered over the old farm
where he had toiled and studied and strug-
gled through his boyhood. Lay at noon
under the elms, and watched the mowers
swinging their glistening scythes, listened
to the drowsy hum of the insects, and the
murmur of the wind among the leaves, until
he felt as though all the intervening years
were blotted out; and ho was again the
farmer's boy waiting under the trees for the
blue-eyed child to bring him his homely
dinner. It was nearly night when ho
started to walk back to the inn, — one of
those calm, sweet nights that fill the soul
with gratitude and peace. The road was
lonely and deserted, save now and then a
few cattle driven by a tired boy. Here and
there a white cottage gleamed from its ein-
bowering foliage ; and the sound of a child's
voice, or^a mother singing her baby's lul-
laby, came softly to his ear. A pretty little
dog ran down a shady garden walk, and
leaped among the flowers. He looked up,
and the spot was so lovely that he looked
again. The house was small and low, ami
almost covered with climbing roses. The
windows were open; and he caught a
glimpse of white curtains waving to and fro,
pictures, flowers, and books that Beemc(l
strangely familiar to him. On a balcony of
one window, nearly hidden by a trellis of
vines, sat a lady; her elbow on the railing,
her chin resting on her open palm, and her
eyes fixed steadily on the distant heavens.
' There was no mistaking her profile, the

- i

112

Mns. OOItI)ON'8 CON'FKSSrOX,

UTiKM.fiil turn of. li.T li.'Mil. Ft wnn Mrn.

<ionll)tl, Willi I.IM' Im.111,,1 li,. ,.|,.;„.,„| III,.

l"w linn', iiml nI I iivmbli,,,,, almo.t lliiut-

ill.', lit her li'ct,

Wlicii luT cyt.M (;.1I uiMiM liiiii, sh,. wtiirtcil
MtKliitt.Tr.lalittl.'cry; aii.l tli..n nm ,|„wii
111. ^-t.'i.M.) iiHTt liiin. " () Mr, Jk-ncMli,.t,
1 iiin f'o ;;lii(l ! " Aw iiliiioMt hi.MhmI.

" (Jriicc, my Gni.f, liow cruel you have
been ! " wii^ill h,. f;,iil.

'I'licn he IimI her to n ^'iirili'n-!<oat ; nnd
tlu'iv. li(.|ilin;f lu'r Immirt in ],U, l„, t„|,i l,,,,.
I.rirdy cf till ilcilli „f IvhvanI Tiviiilctt.

Ml.' li-tfiu'il Willi ^i.l tiur, liiit ilry ,.v..m ;
nn.l when he liiuj fiiilKJied, she wniil ;.'ravelv.
"I r.-iret his iiiiha|)|.y fat,'; l.ui I cannof
iiioiirii for him, lor 1 have never loved him
niiii'f I lost him."

" We will speak oC iiiin no tiinre. Th(>
(ioil that has taiieii him has leii nic to you.
Yon are i'rce, and I liavo I'oiind you: are
you mine fon^verV "

" Forever," she aiiiwered softly ; and the
Hoft evenin;,' wind echoed again and again,
'• Forever."

Then they talked together in tlic moonlit
dimmer evening, with grateful, happy
liearts.

" Why did you come here ? " inquired Mr.
Benedict.

" He. nil,,. It wnn the pla.e whorp your

''".*■•' ' "••■'" l'"^-'"l. I wished t.> !.e.-|„de

inyselnroin the wnrl.l that had tfiited me
K'l I'rilelly. I kmw you loved 'his spot ; and

r Im'II.'v.mI that you wouM n'tum hi j',- to' (Ind
"I" it' living, t.) we.'i, over niv grave if
dead."

Then Mr. Iten.Mliet toM her of all his
sorrow, all his ellorts to fiii.l her, all his h.ne-
liness an.i liopeleKsnesd. " H,u now, thank
<iod!itisende.l. You are mim-, an.l we will
w.irk to-ether for the lovin- Mast.T who
liMs united us at hist. IFerelhrntlhesweet
little girl who was all my happiness in tlioso
"I'ld.iys: here Hin.l the .lear woman who
will he nil my happiness in tlio future.
(i<A is good. Life is sweet. Look up,
dear love, to the h..aveiis Oiled with stars,
like angels' eyes.tlmt beam on ur tender-
ly."

Mr, Benodiet sailed th.' appointed dnv,
as iie ha.l inten.le.l, on his h.n- pn.posJd
visitto the Holy Lan.l; hut he did m.t go
iildic. When some of his most intimnte
li-i.'u.ls went to the steamer to see him olf,
they were greatly astonished to find Mrs.
Gordon leaning on his arm, whom he intro-
duced as his wiie.

till' pinpo whore ymir
I wIhIiuiI to set-'lutle
il ilmt hud tn-afi'.l mo
■nil IdvciI rlusspot [iiiid
i>iilil return iiw>v to find
■p over my grjivi. If

•t (ol.l her of all his
to find lit«r, all his lnn«-
*»< " Hilt now, thiink
I an! mine, ami wc will
loviri',' MiiKtiT who

HtTc I lost the sweet
invhappiiicHs ill tho^o
till' ili'ur woman wlio
liiiess in the riitiiru.
is sweet. I-ook up,
VMS filled with starx,

beam on us temler-

1 tlie appointed ilay,

n his ]()Il;r pri)]„,.si.(l

; Imt he (lid nut ^o
>t' Ills most intimate
amer to see iiim oil",
mislied to find Mrs.

arm, whom hu iutro-

\ /

EVERY STRING BROKEN.

My friend Horatio savs that these three
leaves IVoiii my jdiiriinl, with liie MS, oC
poor (liiiiio I'alri/.in, will make ii verv
pretty little story, i'li'ttyl what a word
to use! Tragic, I should say was the
proper expression; Imt llori'tio is some-
thiiiu' of a '•spoon," allhoii'ih he is :_'ray,
iiiid uses the' tamest ami softest wor<Is to
rwpresent tlie most strikiii;;; ihinjjs. llotf-
uver, I won't find fault with my chum ; but
I'll coiiy the three payes from my diary,
and lend you the MS., written in little,
cramped, nervous, Italian rliaraeters, which,
with the had Kn.;li'<h. you may find dillieiilt
to ili'ciplicr. When you have done with
it, 1 hope you will return it safely to me,
so that 1 may keep it always in the ease
with the '' Stradivariiis ; " lor one would he
of no value without the other.

COPIED FROM MY JOURNAL.

Jan. -20. — There goes that confounded
violin iv^ain 1 Is the man mad that he
makes that horrible instrument scream and
trroan in tliat way V Is there simie demon
imprisoned in it, or is that little ugly
Italian jiossessed with the Devil V I don't
wonder they thought I'a^'anini in lea;;iie
with the Evil One, if he evoked such sounds
from his '• Cremona." I came to this house
to find peace. 1 thou.;ht because it was
down town, not fashionable, and not dear,
that I never should hear music. 1 don't
like music., — I never did: I've lived too
much in boarding-houses, ami heard too

much privctishk;; on iiie^dinu pianos. When
I eiiine here I asked the lanillady if ib'fe
was a piano in the house; and she said
"no," an if she were sorry; but when I
remarked that I was j;lad, she added ili:it
she didn't like them herself, tlioie.dit them
Ihlrty, di»turbill',' lliill'^'s ; yet a week alter
she pllf liiis mad fiddler ri^lit over my head,
nml he practises eternally. Simetimes he
fairlv drives intf out of the hoilsi' with his
inlernal elllerwauliic,' — yes, caterwauliu^'s
the word, altliotigh it's vulvar; llir 1 de-
clare, if any (uic didn't know, they'd cei-
tainlv say there was a convention of catH
in the room over my head. <:oin:z throu.;li
every tone of tlieir diabolical i,'am.-.t .^' once.
I don't think I'd mind it so much tlii(.f»,'h
the day, if he didn't keep il up half tho
nijiht. Often I I'an't sleep ; and, if I do fall
into a doze for a few minutes, when he
seems to have (ini«lied scrapin;:, suddenly
he wakes me witli the most unearthly yell-
iii" that ever was heard out of I'alidenio-
ninm. I'd complain, and have him tinned
away; only my lanillady's told me a pitiful
story about his bein;^ poor, and in Jeelile
health, and havin'4 to get his living by
playing oil' nights in the orchestra at
Niblo's. I suppose he has to praeti.se ; and
it wiHild be confoundedly mean in me to
prevent the jioor ilevil i'rom earning his
daily bread. Still, it's hiird to bear pa-
tiently; and these last few nights he's
been worse than ever. I could swear that
he's been playing lately on oidy one string,
and that stretched to the utmost tension,
and worn to the finest attenuation. It

• ^a a aaaaa iaaili aas a s BSt B ai

is'te ' i i ja j goi. '. li ' u^

US: ' a 4 l ' a^-jgftg^Sa) | gU)Jj|.«^Wg^| rig Nl;^JM I MB! B ^.J ^ »^y^J,4J^»;

k-imimmmik-inat-i

' I

114

EVERY STRIKG BROICEX,

must III' ii wondcvfnl violin to make so inuuh
.uiisf. I slioiiMn't lu! sur|)ri?c'il if it was a
iviil " CiviiKiiiii." All I tluTf he ;:oi's a<,'ain ;
anil tliorc's soinutliiiif; in it that 1 can't
bciir to-nii^ht as well as usual. It seems as
thiiir^h a liunian soul, imprisoned in it, was
wiiirni;4 ami entreating to l<e iVee. Good
(Jod ! it's like the voice of some one in
agony. If it wasn't fiji- the fearful storm,
I'd rush out of the house, and never coi;5e
back. I'm afraid of the diabolical thing.
I believe the Evil One stands at his elbow,
and urges him on. .Midnight, a January
tempest beating at my window, shaking the
sa-hes,and screaming down the chimney; my
lire out ; and that awful music in the room
above, — that wild, weird, unearthly music.
Now he produces the most discordant notes ;
now succeeds a gush of delicious melody
that laps mo in Elysium. What is be try-
in,' to do? I've never heard any thing
like this: it surely can't be fiddling.
Angels, instead of demons, stand at his
elUiw now, and 1 could cry like a child ; but
I won't : no, I declare I won't be a fool.
Ha I ha ! ha ! this is a carnival of mirth :
1 am convulsed with laughter. I think the
D'vil is trying to bewitch me. I must get
out of tljis, or I'll lose my senses. Now his
violin bellows like an enraged bull. Is he
playing on one string, or a hundred?
■\Vbat a temi)est! What groans, sobs,
roaring tlwinder, screaming wind ! What
a clashing of combatants ! armies are con-
tending, and above all I hear shrieks of
lauijhter like mocking fiends rejoicing over
the ruin of a world. The armies tlee, the
fiends pursue, the winds rush after ; and this
tornado of sound fades away into silence
and distance. Now it changes, and
resembles a jjlacid,. rolling river, which dies
into a thin transparent tinkle, mystical
and sweet as the silvery tones of a lute.
Again it rises, wild, beautiful, passionate,
pleading, — the outcry of a longing, hungry
soul, a reaching up to the Infinite, the
Eternal ; a current of melody, bearing the
unresisting sjjirit up, up, into the divine
ether, the limitless expanse of heaven.
What am I ? Where am I ? Have I been

in a trance? Have I been bewitched, and
by music too ? I believe I liave ; but don't
tell me that I've writlcn all this trash
while I've been listening to that horrible
violin. I've a good miml to tear it out :
no, I won't. I'll leave it, because the
whole impression was so curious. I think
I was half asleep. I iloii't know vvhether
I was or not; but any way, I lost myself
in the midst of that unearthly fiildling, and
went through all sorts of fantastic s^ensa-
tions. I'm absurd : I dare say my dinner
hasn't digested, and it's that instead of the
music. However, I ha<l a new experience.
I wonder if people who are music-mad feel
as I did. I thought I was going straight
up to God, sins and all ; and I wasn't afraid
either. That smooth, clear stream of
sound seemed to carry me away into infi-
nite space. I was as light as a bird, and as
free as air; when suddenly the one string
he was playing upon snappe<l with a noise
like the report of a pistol, and I came back
to earth as heavily as an old lead block
di'oppe<l from the steeple of Trinity Church.
It's nearly two o'clock : there is a lull in
the storm, and a deathly silence in the
room above. Poor tool 1 he's broken every
string: ho can't scrape any more, and so
he's gone to bed ; and I'll go too, though I
don't believe I'll sleep a wink after having
ray nerves so worked upon.

Jan.2\. — Tliis morning my landlady
rushed into my room, without her teeth
and back-hair, as pale as parchment, and
as wild as a maniac, crying, " O Lord ! O
Lord! he's dead." — "Who's dead?" I
inquired in a very unsympathetic way ; for
I thought she meant her nasty pcjodle, that
always barked at me when I came in, and
I was secretly glad. " Why, that fiddler,
that poor man up stairs : he's sitting in his
chair stone-dead." I must say her words
gave me a shock, a fearful shock ! and,
scarce knowing what I did, I followed her
up stairs. The morning sun shone into
the dingy little room with wohderful bril-
liancy, and lay like a golden halo on the
upturned forehead of the dead miin. I had
always thought him an ugly, insignificant

en bewitched, nnil

1 Imve ; but don't
en all this trash
5 to tluit horriblo
nd to tear it out :
! it, becauso tho

eurious. I thiiilc
)ii't know wliether
vay, I lost myself
irthly fiddling, and
of lUntastie s^ensa-
aru say my diTiner
that instead of tlie

a new experience,
are music-mad feel
ivas '^oiny; straight
and I wasn't afraid
clear stream of
me away into infi-
lit as a l)ird, and as
;idy th(! one string
i[)pe<l with a noise
A, and 1 eame back
an old lead block
1 of Trinity Church.
: : there is a lull in
hly silence in the
! he's broken every

any more, and so
'11 go too, though I
, wink after having
ion.
•ning my landlady

without her teeth

as parchment, and
■ying, " O Lord ! O
^ Who's dead?" I
mpaihetic way ; for
:r nasty poodle, that
hen I came in, and
■' Why, that fiddler,

: he's sitting in his
uust s.ay her words
['earful shock ! and,

did, I followed her
ing sun shone into
ivith wonderful bril-
l|olden halo on the
le dead man. I had
n uglv, insignificant

EVERY STRING BROKEN.

115

i-^

creature, when 1 hail met him on the
stairs, going in and out ; but, now, ennobled
by death, there was something positively
sublime in the expression of his face. His
head was thrown back against his chair ; his
wide-open eyes looked up with infinite long-
ing and passion in their fixed gaze; his Wps
were parted in an enraptured smile ; and
his long, thin fingers held in their rigid
clasp the wonderful instrument that worked
such a spell upon me last night. As I
looked at him, I could not but feel that
there was an awful mockery in that cold,
still face ; those sightless eyes staring into
vacancy, with their eager (juestioning; the
glowing sun kissing his brow ; the parted
lips smiling at death ; tho violin clenched
in his powerless hand, silent and tuneless,
with every string broken. In a moment of
ecstasy, death must have touched him into
painless repose. With tho mystery of
another existence close upon him, he had
played himself into eternity. AVhcn tho
last string broke, the last cord of his life
snapped asunder ; and master and instru-
ment became silent forever. I took the
violin from his rigid grasp : it Avas an
antique of exquisite workmanship. On
the back was the name, " Stradivarius,"
and the date, — 1782. Being frightfully
emaciated, he was as light as a child ; so I
took him in ray arms, with a strange chok-
ing in my throat, laid him on his bed, and
tried vainly to close his wide-open eyes with
their haunting, inquiring gaze. Then I sent
the landlady for a doctor, although 1 knew
it was useless ; and, while she was gone, I
looked around the room to see if I couhl
discover any thing to explain the mystery
that seemed to surround this strange man.
The attic was poor and dingy, with not a
comfortable article of furniture in it ; there
were no clothes in closet or drawers, and
those he had on were much worn ; he had
no watch, no jewelry, no money about him ;
and there did not seem to be a thing in the
room of the least value, except this almost
priceless " Stradivarius." On the table lay
a few sheets of music, an English diction-
ary and grammar, and a sealed paper,

addressed, strange to say, " To the gentle-
man in till' room below." I took possession
of this document, so unexpectedly thrust
tipim me ; and, when the landlady returned
with the doctor, I came down to my room
anil read it with a feeling of awe and
pity.

TIIK MS. OF GTULIO PATRIZIO.

When I am dead, some one will bury
me, some one will take possession of my
" Stradivarius ; " and I wish it to be one
who will understand the value of the treas-
ure I leave to him. Therefore I take the
lilicrty of addressing this to iny fellow-
lodger, whoso benevolent and intelligent
face has impressed me tavorably in the few
times that I have had the honor to meet
him passing in and out.

My name is Giulio Patrizio. I was
born in Cremona. My father was a violin-
maker, and his fathers before him were
pupils of the Auiatii and Stradivarii. At
an early ago I displayed (juitc a remarka-
ble talent for music ; and my father allowed
me to quit the workshop and study with
Savori. For a while I made very good pro-
gress, but I never cared to study closely :
what I learned, I learned with very little
trouble. I lacked application ; and, without
that, one can never reach real excellence.
Before I was twenty I grew discontented
with my home, which was very unhappy,
owing to a domestic trouble, and jiined tho
.army without my father's permission. I
served with a savage energy for three years :
then peace was restored, and I received an
honoralile discharge ; but my career as a
musician was ruined. My father, disap-
pointed, poor, and unhappy, died of .a broken
heart, leaving hi? " Stradivarius," which
was an heirloom, and all he possessed, to
me his only child. With my treasure, and
nothing besides, I left my country, deter-
mined to see the world. I playeil in differ-
ent parts of Germany, in Paris, and Lon-
don, but met with little success, owing to
the popularity of Vieuxtejnps, who was

!l !

110

EVERY STRING BROKEN.

then lit tlic zenith of his fame, and my own
lack of inlliience, hesiiles my iirnornnce, and
the (li(!id('iic(^ wliieli I eoiiM never over- ,
come. SdiiK! years passed away in the nil- j
snecessful strn'jfile ; and at last, tlioroil'.'hly |
disenaraieil witji my ICiiropean experience,
broken in liealtli and spirit, I cU'cided to
visit America, which I looiced npon as tlie
artist's KIdorado.

Less tlian a year a^';o I arrived in New
Yoric, alone, friendless, and witli very littiu j
besides my violin, wliicli sliould have l)een a
fortune to ine, i)Ut. insleail, I jiave almost ,
starved; ilirwitii my talent, the insiriiction
of tiie divine Savori, and my matchless in- ,
strument, 1 liave never suceei.'ded in }j;ettin^
an en;rai;emenf, hut have only existed as
second or third violin in the orchestras of i
the different theatres. |

.\ few inontlis a<;o I was j)laying off
ni,:^hts at Niljlo's; and a new actress was
turning the heads of all the orchestra with
her talent and boatily. T sean'i; ever
noticed the ditrerent women who played
their ])arts more or less badly, decked with
paint and tinsel as false as their roles.
Neither did I visit the green-room, nor as-
sociate with the artists; because I never was
liked, not being of a social or convivial
character. And no one ssemed to notice
me, unless it were to laugh at my bad Eng-
lish, odd looks, and awkward manners ;
therefore 1 oidy got through my parts indif-
ferently enongli, ti)r T had no inspiration, no
motive, to call forth the soul of music that
still slumbered within me. This eveninir,
which decided my destiny by conducting
me at last to the end of all things, T sat in the
orchestra, scraping away gloomily enough at
my part. Almost hidden by the instruments
and players,! could not see the stage tlii-ce
feet beyond the footlights ; still, I knew that
the new actress had ai)peared by the storm
of apj)lause that greeted her. It was som(!
time before I saw her; and, when I did, she
was standing .almost over me in a full blaze
of light, the most glorious, the mo.st divine
beauty I had ever seen, or dreamed of:
not the false, glaring beiiuty of the stage,
but Nature's own matchless perfection. As

she first ajjpeared to me, she appears to me
now, here in the darkness and silence of
night. A\'heu I close my eyes sIk? stands be-
fore me, as she stooil before nie then: her
great passionate iilue eyes, like violets wet
with dew; h(;r matchless brow, lier smiling
mouth, her sparkling teeth ; her wr.ves of
golden-brown hair, such as our old artists
loved to paint ; her neck and arms of pei'li'ct
shapif and dazzling whiteness; the shim-
mer of her pale blue robe ; the regal light of
the gems that decked her brow and bosom, —
madi! her a vision too glorious l()r me to
look npon face to face. I forgot where I
was, I f()rgot every thing, and gazed at her
entranced, with the wide-open eyes and
rapt expression of one who suddeidy sees
something supernatural l)ef()ri' him. There
was a pause in the orchestra; but, uncon-
sciously, I ])layed several bars after every
other instrument was silent. The eircct of
those single shrill strains was electric. The
audience burst into a roar of laughter; the
musicians were convulsed witli niirtli, as I
dropjHMl my violin in tin; greatest confusion,
and kK)ked wildly around. Tlieii her sweet
eyes fell n])on me, and I fancied there was
an expression of pity in their gentle glance.
I could have wept te.irs like rain ; I coidd
have knelt at lua- feet, and kissed the dust
under them ; I coidd have worshipjjed her
as devout Catholics worship th(! mother
of God. From that moment I adored her ;
my soul went out from my own keeping,
and lay trembling before her ; I saw nothing
beyond her ; she was light and life to me.
I was no longer a sullen, impassive man,
void of desire and hope : a new lite awoke
within my veins, and tlirobbed in every
pulse. "My geidus, that had loiei lain dor-
mant, stirred and quickened into a glorious
resurrection. Jly violin spoke to me in
new and wonderful tones. I poured out
my soul to it, and it answered me in impas-
sioned floods of melody. I longed to play
before her, that she might recognize the
divine hidden under my forbidding exterior.
She seemeil to me the embodiment of every
perfection, an angel shrined in flesh, a sa-
cred thing, the hem of whose garment I

i <&;

HHMi

EVERY STRING BIIOKKN.

117

', sli(! appi.'ai's to me
less anil silt'tipu ol'
V fycH sli(^ stamls lio-
clore 1110 llii'ii : her
;vi's, like violets wet
ss l)n)w, her sinilinj;
i'ftli ; luT wr.vi's of
li as our old artists
c ami ar.iis of ptTlt'i't
liiteiii'ss; the ^hilll-
le ; the rej;al li;^ht of
rlii'ow and liosom, —
glorious lor me to

. I tbl'liOt wluTC I

IJ, and jfazed at her
idc-open eves and
who siiddt'iilv sees
lielbre him. There
.•hestru ; but, uneon-
ral bars after cvcrv
lieiit. The I'lFeet of
IS waseleetiie. Tlie
liar of lau;j;hter; the
■ed with inirtli, as I
e greatest confusion,
id. Tlien her sweet
[ fancied there was

I their gentle glaiiee.
! like rain ; I eould
anil kissed the dust
lave worshipiied her
'orship the mother
meat 1 adored her ;

II ni}' own keeping,
e her ; I saw nothing
ght and lifij to me.
len, impassive man,
•i : a new lite awoke

tlirob!)ed in every
t had lori'i lain dor-
ieiied into <a glorious
in spoke to me in
jnes. I poured out
<wered me in iiiipas-
'. I longed to play
light recognize the
• forbidding exterior,
'inbodiment of every
fined in flesh, a sa-
if Avhose garment I

dared not hope to touch. T only lived when
she was betiire me. I followed her like a
shadow, that I might not lose the least
glimpse of her. I resigned my place in the
orchestra, that I might hang around ihe
door of the green-room to be near her when
she passed in and out, to feel the air Irom I
her dress, to ealeh the faint perfume from ;
her waving hair. Sometimes her lovely j
eyes turned upon me for a moment, indiller- ,
futly, carelessly, it is trm;; for what eould ,
that' radiant, happy creature see in iht! little, j
dark, shabby man who lingered in the path j
where she walked triumphantly, followed
by a crowd of adorers. One night she
passed very near to me ; and I heard her
say to tlu! gentleman upon whose arm she
leaned, " What glorious eyes ! " Whose
eyes did she mean V Not mine, surely ; and
yet she looked at me. For more than two
months I haunted her steps, consumed with
this anient passion. I eould not sleep ; I
could not eat ; I eould only count the slow
moments until night, when I eould go and
worship her ; and my only consolation dur-
ing these hours of waiting was my violin.
I poured out all the story of my love, my
adorati.m, upon its sympathetic string,
until I had a composition perfect enough to
express to her what I felt, when the time
came that I should play in her presence.
Sometimes I was tortured with jealousy.
I envied the actors who jilayed with her :
every fibre of my being resented the neces-
sary familiarities of the stage. I trembled
and grew cold when the mock lover knelt
at her feet : when he pressed her hands to
his lips, when he poured his passion into
her listening ear, my blood ran like liipiid
fire through my veins. In every part she
acted, I was with her, and went through
every gradation of feeling even as she did.
I*Iy heart wept when tears fell from her eyes ;
when she represented mental suffering, my
whole being was in agony, not imaginary,
but real ; when she smiled, I was softened
to tears; when her face wore a shadow,
black darkness settled around me. I lived
but in the light of her eyes. I showered
flowers upon her in a single night that cost

the labor of weeks; and. when T had spent
all, I sold everything I possessed, to earjiet
the stage with roses. Onee she droplied
her ^love almost at my feet. Si'veral^
stooped to pick it up ; but I th-ew myself'
upon it with such violence that I attracted
the attcnlion of all, and made myself the
butt of their ridicule. Again, one ev(Miing,
while 1 waited in the dimly-li-hted corri-
dor, two gentleman came out of the green-
room, and one of them spoke insolently of
her as he jiassed. In an iiist.iiit I was
I upon him, lashing him fiercely with my cane.
I Then both turned ; one said, " It is the
I crazy fiddler ; " and the other, a tall, power-
' fill man. struck me between the eyes, and
I knocked me senseless against the wall. I
' lay there for some time unconscious ; but
at last I returm^d to myself, remembered
where I was, and stru'j;i;led to my feet just
in time to see her pass leaning on the .arm
of the man whom I had struck ; ami he
looked at her, and spoke to her, in a way
that made me mad with jealousy. That
little adventure cost me a very ugly mark
on my face, which lastod for some days, and
I)revented me from appearing before her,
though I watched her in secret. Anotlu!r
night I stood near the door when she came
oiit. It had rained ; and the pavement be-
tween her and her carriage was dam[), — too
damp for her satin-shod feet to touch. I
saw her glance of perple.Nity ; and, (piiek as
thought, I threw my mantle on the ground
for her to step upon. She looked at me
with the swe(!test expression of gratitude,
and thanked mo cordially, bowing, and
bowing again, as the carriage drove away.
Then I was inexpressibly hajjpy. I was
encouraged. I even dared to hope that I
might yet be allowed t(j play in her pres-
ence. I felt confident, that, if she only knew
of my desire, she would grant it. I was
sure that she was so kind she would not
refuse me. All night I lay awake thinking
it over ; and at dawn I eominenced a care-
fully-worded letter, telling her of my past
I disai)pointments and sorrows, my jn-esent
! experience, and my ardent desire that she
I should hearme play; and finished by im-

<ll

118

EVERY STRING BROKEN.

plovinj; lier that she would Ri-aiit me per-
mission at her earliest convcnienee. This
note I coiK'eak'd in an ex(iui»itc l)ou(iuut
which I sunt her that nij^ht. Then I
waited (Uiy after day for iin answer, but
none came. At last I could endure my
suspense no lon<;er, and resolved to make
one hold stroke — to succeed or die, to speak
to her, to receive either permission or re-
fusal fron\ her own lips. I was sure, if I
could but ff\h\ her ear, I could make my
" Stradivarius " speak to her heart, and
compel her to acknowled<;o the divine
superi(jrity of genius. At last my chance
came, after mwh waiting and watehin;.'.
The door of the green-room was partially
open ; and she sat quite alone, with a half
pensive smile on her lips, waiting her call.
Holding my heart in a tight grasp, and
struggling hard for composure, I entered
quietly. She did not see me until I stood
before her. Then she rose up haughtily,
and looked at me with stern inquiry ; hut
mv agitation evidently disarmed her, and
moved her heart to pity, for she said
gently, " Are you aware that you are
intruding?"

" Yes, madame," I stammered ; "but some-
times unfortunate subjects are obliged to
resort to stratagem to present a petition to
sovereignty."

She smiled half compassionately, half
scornfully, and said, « Well, what is your
petition V"

" That I may be allowed to play in your
presence."

" Ah 1 I rcnunnber : you are Signor
Tatrizio, the violinist who scut me a letter
in a bouquet."

I couhl only bow : my emotion choked
my voice. Still she looked at me with
clear, searching eyes, and a smile of min-
gled pity and curiosity. " Sit ilown," she
said at last, pointing to a chair, " and don't
look as though you were afraid of me.
Am I so dreadful that you should tremble
in my presence V "

" No, madame," I almost sobbed : " you
are too good."

" Do you, then, play so well that you

think it will be a pleasure for me to hear
you ? "

" You must judge of my merit yourself:
that your judgment may be favorable is
my only hope."

<' Perhaps you wish for an engagement
through my inlluence."

" No," I replied, gaining courage from
her gentle tone. " I wish to speak to your
heart through my violin."

" Ah ! " she said, smiling softly, '• then
you are a troubadour as well as a knight-
errant Y "

I started with astonishment. How liad
she learned of the mad attack that had
resulted so disastrously for ine 'I She no-
ticed my confusion, and smiled indulgently.
" Your motive was good, no doubt ; but
you are too impulsive : don't expose your-
self to ridicule. We nmst all submit to
many things we can't avoid."

" 6 madame ! I would give my life lor you,
and count it a joy," I cried, looking into
her eyes with all my passion concentrated
in a glance.

She returned my jraze fixedly, while an
inexplicable expression flickered over her
face, and ended in a light laugh, as she
said, " Nonsense, my poor enthusiast 1 the
days of chivalry are passed ; and it is no
longer necessary to die to show your devo-
tion. Be reasonable and prudent ; that is
the better way to i)rove it."

A great ball seemed to rise in my throat;
rushing waters surged in my ears; my
heart iroze with fear and suspense. Would
she refuse me ? All my destiny depended
on that moment, all my future weal or woe.
At last my strength failed, something
seemed to break within me ; and I was on
the point of falling at her feet, when the
door opened, and a call-boy entered.

" I must go," she said, rising, while her
glance still lingered upon me.

" Then I cannot see you again V I may
not play for you V " I cried desperately.

" Yes, yes I be calm," she said softly :
"you may come to my house Sunday even-
ing at nine o'clock ; but learn to control
yourself, and don't act like a madman,"

e for me to hear

\y merit yourself:
' be favorable is

r an engagement

ng eouragc from
, to speak to your

ing softly, "then
veil as a knight-

ment. How had
attack that had
jr me ? She no-
nilcd Indulgently.
.1, no doubt ; but
on't expose your-
lust all submit to
.id."

ive my lite ibr you,
Tied, looking into
sion concentrated

fixedly, while an
lliekered over her
;ht laugh, as she
)r enthusiast 1 the
«sed ; and it is no

show your devo-
i prudent ; that is
t."

rise in my throat;
in my ears ; my
suspense. Would
destiny depended
iture weal or woe.
failed, something
ne ; and I was on
ler feet, when the
loy entered.
, rising, while her

1 me.

ou again? I may
ed desperately.
" she said softly :
)use Sunday even-
t learn to control
like a madman,"

EVERY STRING BKOKEN

119

then she held out her little \»hite hand as
she turned away. I seized it almost sav-
agely, and [jtessed it over and over to my
burning lips. O my God I even now, in
the cold and darkness, struck with a mor-
tal chill, at the thought of that soil warm
hand touching mine, the blood rushes
through my brain with the force of seetli-
inff lava. For a moment she allowed it to
reniaiu in my clasp, like a trembling, im-
jirisoned bird; then she drew it gently
away, with a look that left me blind, dizzy,
and faint, and passed through the door
without another word. For a moment I
gazed after bcr stui)idly ; then I turned, and
nished wildly out? making my way through
the crowd in the corridor almost at a bound.
Iklany looked after me, and many cried,
" He is mad ; " but I did not hi-ed tliein. In
an instant I was in the almost deserted
streets. I do not know what passed that
night between the wind and me : my i'eet
did not touch the earth, my body seemed
to mount to the sky, and turn, and float in
a whirlwind of bliss. Tlie stars looked at
me as though they knew my secret, and re-
joiced with me. I saw the promise of my
happiness written upon the heavens in
letters of fire. All night long 1 drank in
the vapors and the wind to cool my fever.
1 bared my head to the cold dews, and
wandered I know not whither. When the
dawn came, chill and gray, 1 found myself
at my door, and in my room, where 1 threw
myself on my bed, and slept stujjidly tor
hours, exhausted by my emotion. When 1
awoke I was cool and calm ; my frenzy was
subdued, and reason asserted itself; yet I
never asked whether this woman had a
heart or not, whether she felt, or acted a
part toward me. In fact, I did not stop to
think, I only knew that I adored her : the
delicious tones of her voice, the transpar-
ency of her color, the dreamy shadows
that floated in her lovely eyes, her smile
full of mysterious sweetness, enchanted me
to such a degree that I saw and felt noth-
ing beyond ; and to merit my happiness,
J was capable of any thing, — any madness,
any folly. I felt an imperious need to

serve her, to perform some impossiitility to
show my devotion, to die fur her if I iiii.dit :
tiir, from the moment wlien 1 loved licr lor
the first time, I lelt that I was no l()M'j:<'r
master of iiiVM'lf; that I was coiii|Uen'd and
t'nslaveo. fallen into a servitude from which
I could never again be Iree.

She had said that I could come on Sim-
day evening, and this was Friday. Wliat
an eternity it seemed until then I Howi-vei',
I passed the time in rehearsing over and
over the composition that I was to play, — tiie
song without words, that was to express all
my adoration, all my ])assion. At last the
moment came when I stood trembling belbre
her door, with my violin jm-ssed close to my
heart, that it might listen to its wild beating,
and interpret it aright. She was alone, and
how lovely, — how angelically lovely, in
the subdued light of her room ! Flowers
bloomed around her, and filled the air with
their intoxicating perfume ; soft carpets
deadened the step ; golden silk ami creamy
lace covered dooi-s and windows ; and she,
the saint of that (juiet shrine, smiled upon me
as I entered, — I tht; poor, ugly man, pale,
embarrassed, and shaking like an aspen
with suppressed emotion. For a moment 1
thought my agitation would overcome me ;
but she said sweetly, " Do not fear," and I
was strong in an instant. At first tin)idly
and hesitatingly my instrument confessed my
admiration, tlien my devotion, then my ad-
oration : it expressed every shade of feeling
from the moment when I had first seen her,
until, beside myself with joy, I had rushed
I'rom her presence to pour out my rapture
to the winds of night. I went through
every phase of passion, pensive, tender,
dreamy, voluptuous, sweet and delicate as
a silver rivulet flowing through wind-shaken
reeds ; then, rising and gathering strength
and force, I concentratetl all my soul, my
heart, my desire, my life, into one frenzied,
passionate outburst that left me weak and
trembling before her. Through all. my gaze
was fixed upon her face; and with every
change, every gra<lation of sound, I saw hei
eyes grow dreamy, or light up with enrap-
tured fires, her lips quiver, her bosom heave

120

KVERY STIllNG BROKKN.

licv color ('Diiu' ivml fro. until at liitit licr
lifiiil SMiik tl)i'waiil on licf hiviist, her hands
ti'll lan;,'ni(ll_v, tin- liils ilroopiMl ovi'v Ikt
swi'i't I'ji's, U'iirs rolli'd :<l()wly down lii-r
clucks, and a (hint, snppivssi'd sob tell on
my far. I had \rorkid my spell : thi' mys-
tiTions ])owcr (il';:;i'nnis had con(|UC'ri'd. I
had spoken to her heart, and she was mine.
In an instant I was on my knees hel'ore her,
kis>in;; lur l'eet,her c're:s, her hands wildly.
In a I'mit ot'raptnre. I clasped her unresist-
in" form to mv lieart : I (uinld have stilli^d
her with my kisses. I could have crushed
her in my cmhraec. I was mad to con-
lunuil her with myself, her breath with my
l)re;i|h, her lite with mine. Shu lUd not re-
cist ; sho loved me ; and the truth was more
fhiin my (('eble mind could endure. Sudden-
ly the violence of my transi)ort i^avo place
to a sorrowful tenderness. My Hlee|)in;^
reason awoke with a terrible bound, and 1
saw myself as I was : her an;;elic good-
ness overwhelmed me. What was I thai she
should love me 'j Humiliated and crushed
beneath my uuworthiness, I fell at her feet,
and, leaning my head upon her knees, I
buried my face in lier robe and sobbed aloud.
At that moment a harsh, mocking voice
cried close to my ear, "Ha! ha! ha!
another llizzio. By my faith, Helena, when
will you bo done with this cursed lolly V "
Before I couhl turn my head, a strong liand
jerked me violently to my t'eet ; and I stood
face to fiice with the man I bad struck in
the lobby of the theatre.

'• What pantomime is this ? " he cried in
a voice hoarse with rage. " What are yon
doing at this lady's feet, you black, foreign
rascal ? Do you see the door l' Then take
yom- devilish liddle, and march, or I'll
bi-eak every bone in your body with it."

Then a voice as nmsical as a crystal bell,
broke!! with a ripple of laughter, said half
imiiloringly, half scornfully, " For Heaven's
sake, Charles, let the poor fellow al(jne ! he's
doing no harm, and he plays like an angel.
His nmsic made ">'■ (brget where I was. I
declare, I don': 'new whether he was at
niv feet or not."

as loni' as vou have vour fot)t or some one's
neck: it's all the sanm to you whether it's
a mad fiddler oi' a ])rince. if he only has a
heart t(>r you to crush. I am tired of thiu
fidly : 1 swear, I am."

Then that mocking laugh smote my
eara"ain, and a fren/y took po.ssession of
my soul : mad, blind with rage, I threw my-
self upon the man, and dashed him to the
floor as though he were a wisp of straw,
siezed my violin, |)ressed it to my heart
with a crushing embrace; and crying at
the top of my voice, " Come, my oidy mis-
tress, let us leave this accursed jilac.e :
death and damnation to the false-hearted
and cruel!" 1 rusheil Irautieally from the
room, and never stopped until I reached
the open air.

After that, I cannot tell clearly what
hap|)ened. I have a vague recollection of
tearing wildly through the streets, my
violin pressed to my heart, without seeing,
without knowing, where I was or whither
I was "oing. Some one called, '■ Stop
thief! " and grasped me by the skirt of my
coat. I broke away, and 3i)ed on, hearing
but not understanding. I thought only of
that woman, whose kisses still rested upon
my lips like a smarting burn : neither frost,
nor wind, nor rain, could cool them. And I
cried with piercing tones, in a sort of sav-
age transport, " I lield her in my arms, 1
kissed her lips, and I have had enough of
poison : her tears were poison, her kisses
were poison." T'hc sound of my voice re-
stored me to consciousness. I paused, and
leaned against a wall. Accidentally I
touched a string of my violin : it wailed
pitifully, as though 1 had hurt it, and then
died away into silence with a lingering
'plaint like a human being in pain. Where
was I ? Who was I ? There was once a
Giulio Patrizio who had worshipped music
and fame and countr}-, — who had loved a
woman with a divine love ; but I was not
he. This man had hoped with the eternal
courage of a man's heart, had trusted with
a hoi}' trust ; but I, who stood alone under
the night, did neither. I was not he: I was

^;o : you never know, nor care, Helena, ! a black shadow, hurled here and there by

KVEKY STIUNO liUOKKN.

121

I'cKJt or (ioiiic r)iii''s

you whctlier it's

. if lie only lias «

. iiiii tirud of tUiu

iiui^li sinoto my
)ok jHi.-isoMsiou of
riigf, I threw iiiy-
aslied him to llio
11 wisp of straw,
1 it to my heart
' ; ami eryin;^ at
juie, my only mia-
aecurseil jihice :
the false-hearted
intieally from the
1 until I reached

tell clearly what
ue reeollectiou of
the !-treets, luy
i-t, without seeing,
I was or whither
ine called, '■ Stop
by the skirt of my
1 3i)ed on, hearing
I thought only of
s still rested upon
urn : neither frost,
I cool them. jVnd I
I, in a sort of sav-
Lier in my anus, 1
ve had enough of
poison, her kisses
id of my voice re-
:ss. I paused, and
i. Accidentally I
' violin : it wailed
1 hurt it, and then
; with a linifcrinir
ig in pain. Where
There was once a
1 worshipped music
— who had loved a
>ve ; but I was not
ud with the eternal
't, had trusted with
I stood alone under
[ was not he : I was
here and there by

a tempi'st of passion. Somethin- passed '
in the air : a voice seemed to say, •' Your ,
country! vou have still a country." And:
1 answered aloud, looking at the stars,
" (iiulio ratrizio is dead." A windmill
seemed to turn ever and I'ver before me, !
and its sails were tresses of golden hair;j
and, looking at it, I said again, "(linlio
Patrizio is dead," I cannot be he : it is
impossible. The streets, the passers, the
skv, the stars, my thoughts, my recollec-
tions, — all sei'uied impossible ; and nothing
that 1 saw wiinin or beyond myself seemed
real. The world was but a hideous harle-
(uiin, that changed shape and color each
moment. Then 1 laughed loudly and bit-
terlv, and said again, '^ am not (Jiulio
Patrizid." A few nights before, I had wan-
dered until <lawn, wild with joy, restless
with a new-born hope, believing that the
iiromise of mv happiness was written upon
the heavens in letters of fire. Now the
glowing characters are blotted out. and a
pall hau'is between me and the stars. A
j„an cannot change in a moment; the
world cannot change in an hour; and, after
all, 1 am not he : I am not Giulio Patrizio.
It has been three days since, and 1 have
walked and talked like other men. I have j
remembered all with a wonderful distinct-
ness, even to the minutest emotion that
has stirred my heart. I have written this
clearly and calmly, without a Haw or break
in mv memory ; and yet I am not myself.
I am'not Giulio Patrizio : his soul is in his
violin ; and it has wept, and moaned, and
ra.'ed with sorrow. It has throbbed with
such passion, that every string but one is

broken, and on that l.«t .•..id han-s my
life: when tliiil snaps, my iieart will bivak,
iin.l all will eii.l. You will say tliat it was
afoUvt.. l..veher: if s.., it was a sublime
folly; for il was hi'r beauty I worsliii)pe<l,
an.i that .vas real an.l .livin... I was not
more untijrtunate than others in b.hig «le-
ceive.l: the misfortune was in knowing it;
for all the world is decepli.m. ami all man-
kind self-deceivers, inasniu.h as lliey be-
lieve in such a sentim.nt as truth. Tlwy
tlunmht I was ma.l : 1 m;iy bav.' b.'.'n ; Ibr
who can t.'U whether he himself, or all the
worl.l besi.les, is ma.!'.' Surely I was i„.t
like others. Is it. tbeii. a pn.of that I was
mad? IdonotkiDw; I .■ami.. t say ; and,
alter all, I am not (iiulio Patrizio.

COPIED FUOM MY JOURNAL.

Jan. 21. — 1 have just retnrn.'.l from
following that unhappy man (.) his burial,
ami my heart is sa.l.ler than I like it to be
at the death of a stran-er. I have given
hun a most respectable funeral, — a rose-
w...)<l casket, (lowers, and carriages; II.)-
ratio and I as mourners; an.l a grave in
„,y own lot at Green W00.1. I have d.,ne
th'is, not only out of pity ibr the poor fel-
low, but because I felt obli-ed to in i^e-
turn for the " Stra.livarius," whi.'h I shall
always keep just as he left it, with every
string broken. It seems to me too sacred
lor other hands to profane with a touch.
To-morrow I shall move. I cannot remain
here any longer ; for every night I fancy I
hear that strange, unearthly music in the
room above.

- .dW > iSjWWIMIl"-W>tf" . l'"^*" '

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY.

Dii. Warden sat in Jano Herbert's
coacy l)ruaktlist-room, waiting; tt>r her to
come down. It was early, the mornin- was
dan.i. Hu.l eol.l, and he was a little cross :
therefore lie did not like to l)e detaine.l,
althon-h the lire was bright, and the
" Times " lav temptingly near. " 1 thought
Bhe was an early riser," he said solilo.iuiz-
i„.rly ; "and here it's nine o'eloek, my pa-
tients wailing, and my lady not yet out of
her chamber. I would have come after
dinner, and prol)al)ly it would have done
just as well, if she hadn't sent for me to be
here the first thing this morning. Mary
savs she isn't sick; then, what in the worl.l
can she want of me so early ? " Ju-st then
the object of his thoughts entered the
room, — a little plain, pale woman; with
yellow hair, {j^ntle blue eyes, and long,
li.rht lashes : she was dressed in a gray
wrapper, with a white breakfast-shawl
folded around her as though she were cold
Although she was plain, she was not uniu
teresting, - a mild, delicate creature, with a
sweet voice, and timid, appealing glance.

" Ah, doctor 1 how good of you to come
80 early ! " she said, giving him her httle
thin hand, which he crushed like a rose-
leaf in his strong clasp. " I'm very sorry to
have kept you waiting: I didn't intend to,
gbc continued deprecatingly ; "but Mary
didn't wake me, because I had rather a
sleepless night, thinking gf it all. 1 hope
you won't mind : you can take your break-
fast while I tell you."

"Thank you. I breakfasted nearly two
hours ago," replied the doctor gruffly. " It's
my patients I'm thinking of: they suffer

from my waiting, not me. But what in tho
worl.l w the important news ? Tell me as
(piickly as possible, for 1 must lie off."

"You could never imagine," she said
with a little shy smile. " It's s.uh good
news, so very g.K.d 1 1 had a letter last
ni.'ht. It was ten o'clock when it came :
that's why I sent so late lor you to come

this morning." , , , ,

" Strange 1 very strange," grumbled the
doctor, "for you to get a hotter; and
stranger still, to send at eleven o'clock at
night" to tell me to come here this morning
to be informed of the fact."

" O doctor I don't laugh at me," she said
imploringly; "but you won't, when you
know who it's irom. It's Iroui Allen, she
added triumphantly: "he's got his dis-
charge, and he's coming home."

« A— h 1 " and the doctor's countenance
fell suddenly : " you call that good news, do

" Certainly," she sahl with a little sur-
prise. " Why, I've not seen him for six
years; and I've not heard from him since

father died."

"More shame to him, then, the good-tor-
nothing scapegrace ! "

« O doctor 1" cried Jane, holding up her
hands, " pray don't 8[)eak so of him."

" It's the truth : it's (iod's truth ! " re-
turned the doctor wrathfully. " I say his
very silence and indillerence helped kill
your father. I know more about it than
you do. Didn't he take that boy, only a
cousin's child, and bring him up as though
he were his own son ; educate, and care for
him with a most remarkable interest : and

123

124

A DOMRSTIC TUAOKnY.

> Hit

wlicn 111- L">t iilil I'nniiuli to he !ui honor iiiul
foiiilnri to liiiii, wliiit iliil 111- iloY"

"lie wa.-i !<o \;nw^ llifii!" i)liMilt'il

Jiini'.

'• So voiiiii ! I iIom'I cull iitniin (if twi'iity-
onc a .liiM liy Miiy iiiiMn-". II>'. was too
(,li| to Ifiiil 11 lill' of (li^^<i|^allon, lo s.|iiiiii-
(liT money lis llioiiili it wen; dirt, uiul to
jfcl into nil f^ort^ of mtmiics. 1 siiy, if he
was iKhiM. lit' >lioiiM liavc lia.l tin! tastt•^<
of a iliil'l. Tliink of wliiit it cost your
fatlu'r to i.ay lis ilfl.ts, -.'I't liis dislioiioralili-
(IcimIs covi'ri'.l ii]). anil start liiiii fair iiillio
navy. You don't know wlutlicr liis lif.-'s
bi'iMi lionoiahli" or not ilii'Sf last six years,
bi'eanse lie's tu'on in forei^^Mi nervici! all the
time. However, as we'vi! heard notliin'.'
B'.'ainst him, we'll give him tho benefit of
the d(inl)l."

" 1 know he's . tianired." cried .Tane
easerly: "he's been very dilferent since
that last serajM!."

"You know a crrcat deal about it," re-
turned till' doctor Mivindy, " vdien he hasn't
even taken the troulilo to write K) you since
vour father died; and didn't write to him
"when he was liviiej;, which made the poor
8oul miserable in his la*t hours. Didn't he
It- ov your fatlier was breaking uji, and
th.-.t his letters wouhl have been a comfort
to himV I declare, it made me hale him,
when I used to hear the poor dyinj; man
ask until th.' very last, ' Any letters from
Allen?' then his pathetic look of disap-
pointment, when he was told ' No ' over and
over. 1 never can for-i't it, and I don't
want to. I want to remember such ingrati-
tude and heartlessness."

" Please, don't say he was heartless,"
cried Jane imploringly: "he never was
heartless: he was only thoughtless; and he
was so far away, that he didn't undcrstaml
how ill lather was."

" Yes : you can make excuses for him, as
you always did. You have a tender spot
in vour heart for him even yet."

" Oh, no ! pray, don't say that. .Tt's all
over : it was over long ago. I love Allen
as a — as a brother now."
"Jane Ilerliert. I'll tell you the truth.

It's a duty I owe to you and to your dead

father, it's a soleinii duly to tell you the

truth before il's too late. That s.anip

is eoniin.; Iiack to wheedle yoin- Ibrliiiie out

of you. Now your father's ._'"ne, he's sure

that it's all yours; ami he remeniljcrs what

a soil heart you had for him. <iod ki'ows,

I had hard enou-li work to kee|i ii from

him. If I hadn't watched youi faiher as

sharp as a cat watches a mouse, he would

hive ciian','ed his will at the last, and left

him the half Allliou.rh he s(iuandered more.

than you have, before ho was twenty-one, I

am convinced that your fuller had Hiich a

weakness for him, that he would have ;;iveii

him the remainder if 1 hadn't looked out

for your interest."

"I think he should have hail somethhvi,"
said Jane stoutly; tliou-h she was frbiht-
eneil the next moment at having dared to
disagree with the doctor.

" You do, do you V Well, then, jiive him
all ; and the sooner he spends it, the sooner
vou'lV get rid of him. <iive him your
money, and marry him besides, if you like ;
you're yotu- own mistress; but don't say I
didn't warn you."

" () doctor ! how can you be so cruel ? "
cried Jane pitifullv. '-.You know I will
never marry him now : once, when I was
younger, I might, if he hadn't been so wild ;
but now I'm too old, — I'm thirty-live in a
month, and he's only twenty-seven."

" No more dillerence in your ages than
there ever was : you're older, he's older ;
you're wiser, you're richer; he will take
that instead of youth. If he can't get
your fortune into his hands in any other
way, he'll want you to marry him : you
love him as well as ever, and you'll do

it."

"No, no: you're mistaken, you're un-
kind ; you don't like Allen ; you never did ;
and you're prejudiced iigainst him," re-
turned Jane hotly. "What would you
have nie do? close my doors against one ]
love like a brother, and atler six years'
absence too? llemember how father loved
him. Why, he would be angry in heaven,
1 if he knew 1 did such a thing ; and, besides,

mill ti> your ilfii'l
ly til till villi tlio
If. Tiiiit i<i'iiiii|>
I! your t'cirtiine out
r'* ijdiic, lii''.s Hiiro
I' ri'iiu'iiilifr.-' wliiit
liin. (loil l>i'i>ws,
k to kri'|i ii I'liiiii
fil yiiiii liiilii'r !H
II inou-i', lie would

till' hist, mill Ift't
(' s(|1iiiiu1*'1'imI iniiro
1 wiiH twi'nty-onc, I

liiilii-r li;iil Hiicli !i
!• wdiilil liiivi! ;:ivrii
hiidn't looki'il out

VI' hail Houu'thiivi,"
^li j-lii- w;is I'riixlit-
iit liiiviiiL? (iiiruil to

k'cll. tlicii, ^ivc him
puiiils it, till' Soulier
(iive him your
ii'xiili'!!. il' you liki' »
ss; but tloii't siiy I

you bo so crunl ? "
•.You know I will
; onei', when I wiw
ladii't lii.'1'u M»wil(l;
- I'm thirty-live in a
^ciity-seven."

ill your ajies than
• older, he's older;
eher; ho will take
. If lie can't <;et
Hands in any other

inarry him : you
;ver, and you'll do

istaken, you'ro un-
llen ; you never diil ;

1 against him," rc-
" What would you
doors against one ]

md atU-r six years'
her how father loved
be angry in heaven,
, thing ; anil, besides,

iW^MBSTIO TnAOF.OY.

1'2«

I rnn-ld.T tlmt Allen lm« i\ rinl" '>••'•'•
fathrr'^ adiipli'd koii."

'•Just ll'* yoii iili-iice," "iii'l '!"' '"
r.ildly. IIS he' took up his hut mid -lnves.

What an l.iiikin..' of.' liy Jove t wliero
ar«mv (.. .enl^'.' 'riiey'lh.ll die before I

,shetoo.upnismum ..^ . " - _ , ,„„^, ,-. .,„ ,; ,.„„„„

j^::::;;i;'."'i;t;;;:nJ;::s-^^^ ^v^■-■•>^"- -''-• '•^'

h.'r to .i-iarrel with her best frieinl. her

f.itliev's best friend. li«'r tried .'oiiiisell.ir
and "Hide. Tliev had never ilisa.Jtreed mi
any mibieet save thi^. Allen was .'omiiv.'
liome. Allen must enme ; bill Jmie did not
wish hiin to eome in the very teeth of the
doelor's opposition. She wished to snioolli
the way. to si.ften bis pi-ejinliees, to -et his
t'onseni. if not hi" approiiatinn. No^v she
naw that she bad -one too far in di'lendii",'
her eoiisin so warmly ; that the doetor was
seriously displeased, and that she. mii^t use
a little" feminine tact to cmiciliati' him.
So, as he was tinnlii},' to go, she laid her
haml on his arm. mid said, while sfie looked
into his face appeaiin'.dy. "You're not
unioL' without telliil'.; ine what to do .>
You've only blamed me, and I wanted your
advice."

more lime;" ami, ernsliiii'.' her binds until
die almost cried with pain, he nisbed oiir
of the room, h'aviie.' her fn wnmler at bis
sudden and siran^'e ileparlnre.

It was early moniiie.', aluint a month
niter the conversation reeonled iibiive. and
Jane Herbert sat alone in her breakfast-

, 1,1. She held till' '•rimes " in her list-

less fni'.'crs, but she was not reading'; Ibr
her mild eyes were fixed rclleclively lipoU
the ulowhl'i coals in the jirale. and a sniilo
hallCad, half-happy, Imseied round her
penile niimili. Tiie table was spread fir
breakfast. It was nearly ten n'elnek. and
yet Jane had eaten nothiii;,'. W.is she
'wallin'.;V or was she absorbed in a pleasant
•everie? She was wailiii'i and tbinkin^
iiitb. Wailiu',' tbr Allen, who never eamo
liiwn early, and tliinkiii',' bow happily the

^^; Jane: I've not blamed you. ami, by time had passed s nee he had been wu
Heav ' 1 ' never will, let what may come." her. Just as the clmc was on the, s, oke,
he t r in a strangely agitated of ton, the door was thn.wn open, and my

voice. " It's because I don't want to sei
you wreteheil that I speak so strongly. 1
Jell von. if be comes here, he will rob you
.,„d" break your heart. My advice would
be to close your doors against him, and
never see him'; but I can't reasonably expect
vou to do that, lor, alter all, he's your
cousin. Still. I warn you against —doiii'j;
anv thing tbr him, .a'iainst marrying him."

•' I shall never marry him." interrupted
J,,ne resolutely. -'I shall never marry
him. Now are you satisfied V "

The doctor smiled sce|lli(^'llly : then,
taking her hands in his, he looked at her
long "and tenderly, while something like
tears dimmed his eyes. " Poor Jane, poor
little woman 1 " he said at length : " you
mean it now, no doubt ; but you'll not be
proof aiainst his hamlsomc face, his fasci-
nating tricks. You know my interest in you
ia sincere : don't blame me because I want to

.gentleman entered briskly,

' Jmie looked 111) wiih a sweet, warm smile

as he eaiiie behind her chair. •' I/.it.<' again,

you naughty boy."

"Yes: 1 am always late, Jennie; but

don't scold ; " and, leaniiv,' over her. he took

ber fice between bis hands, ami kissed her

aU'eetionati'ly.

Jane looked like any thin.' but scolding,
us she let her little hand rest on bis head
with a caressing toui-h. " The rolls are
colli, and the colfee is spoiled,"

••.Never mind; I can't, eat, ami I won't
eat tiiilil you've answered ibe ciiiestion I
asked you last eveniic.'. I've not slejit
all night thinking of it. Jane, why will
you torment me when I'm so anxious.
'Coine, dear, say ' Yes ' at once ; " and he
slipped down on the stool before her. and
took her hands tightly m his. '• See, here,
I am at vour feet; and here I shall remain

U sincere : don t ) ame me oecausu i "....>■ ^^ , .,

"av °you: O Jane. J;u.e ! if you only cared I until you say you wdl be my wde. Now,

V2(\

A DOMKrtTIO TIIAUKDY.

do uny it nt miri', Ji-nnli', Jut-uim) I w:iiit
my lirt'iiklii^l."

I'lior.Iaiu'! llic Iniv^ lijjlit IaAu-h Ii'hI llic
iiiilil cyc^* ; till' littli' tliiii liamli tri'iiilili'il
like t'i'i;{lit)Mii'il liiriU ill his liolil ('lan|i.
Slic lovfd liiin; hIii' hail iiIwuvh IhvimI him ;
iiiiii liii) fvU'* of hiT hi'iirt ilniwiu'il tin-
(l('i'|t, (|iiii't wiiniin;^ of ri'iimiM. IIi- w;is j-o
liaililMimr, W) |iri!*lllll«ivc, III) aHi't'linillltO ;

ln' wiw nil f>hi' hull in the worM ; )ht icmhT
lii'iirt li)ii;:i'il tlir smiii lUU' tn hivl-li itx

Wi'llllh 1)1' liiVi- ll|liill, ''illrr IliT t'ltllfr ilii'il

t]u> hiiil I Ml'- AiUii WMx cvrry thiri'^

fi) hiT. Slu> li;iil told till- iliM tiir llmt nIm-
lnvi'il him iiM a lii'otlici' : r<hi' IimiI tili'il to
think ulie iliil ; hiil now hIiij km^w that xhc
lovfil him wiih tln' "love of love." Hit
liiMft caiil " Yis ; " hiT ri'itMim, " No ; " Imt,
lookin}r into liin liiinilfiotnt' liit'i', Aw cloricil
hi'iM'ai-8 to ihi'ih'rp., ijuict voii'i'.anil li.tti'iicil
to this IouiUt crii < of hiT hfiirt. "Speak,
Jaiu'," lio m';;i'il, |ircnsing hur hanils mill
niori! closi'Iy.

" What fan I say, AUimV" she Haiil at
k-n^tli, in a Ininlilinir, irri'soliito voin-.
" You know I love you iloarly, that I've
always lovuil you ; nnil I hi'liovu you love
nif : hm is it lii'st that we should marry?
Think of till' ililVerenee in our ages, in our
tastuB and hahits."

" These are weak oxeuscs, Jane. What
does a few v ears more or less matter to me V
It's all the sanio whether you are older or
younger. 1 love jou as you are. Si.\ years
ago there was the same disparity. You did
not think of it then: why should you
now ? "

" Hut I'vo changed so since then. I've
grown so old, so very insignificant and
plain."

" You're not plain : you never were plain ;
and you never will be jilain to me." Jane
looked at liim gratefully. " Haven't I
loved you faithfully? Think how many
years I've loved you. And you know it
was your father's dearest wish."

" Yes," said Jane earnestly, " it was :
even when you were so wild, he thought it
might be : he thought if you were married
you might settle down."

" I've willed ili»im iviihoiit, Jennto. I'm
a rhaiiiied mini, %'liire I didn't kno>f
what an angel vimi were ; now I know how
to appreeiate yoii. and I swuar I'll maku
you happy."

" I don't doiilil "♦. Allen ; I'm always
happy with you: hut can't w«) Ix; happy as
lirotlier and sUter .' "

" No, we ciin't. The world won't let us.
\Ve don't want to be lirother and slsfi-r;
anil, by .Fove ' I'm glad we're not. IIo\r
loll'.', do you -iiippose, before peojile wiiulil
Ih' gossippiiiL: aUint US if we don't marry?
No : I ean'i stay here unless you're my wil'i- ;
and you don't want to si'iid me oil' again
to wander about the world alone, do
yon ? "

" No, Allen, I don't, and I won't," »lio
said, her eyes filiiie/ with tears as she bent
over him. " I'm a poor, little, plain thing,
to be the wife of n s[>h>ndid fellow like
you : but, if I ean make you happy, myself,
and all I have, is yciiirs."

Poor little woman ! she didn't suspect
that it was "all she had," and not "her-
self," that he wanted. When this sent for
Dr. Warden, and told him with fear nnil
trembling, that, in sjiite of her promise,
she had resolved to marry her cousin, the
doctor turned very pale, like one who hail
received a mortal blow ; and, sinking into
a chair, he covered his face, and remaineil
silent tor a long time.

Jane looked at him greatly troubled.
" Arc you angry ? " she said at last.

" No, no, Jane ; I'm not angry : I'm hurt.
Rut I'm a fool to feel it so, when I knew it
would come ; though I suppose a blow
doesn't hurt any the less because we're
[irepared for it. It's the end of you. It's
the end of every tlung for me. But don't
say I didn't warn you. God knows, I'd
have saved you if I could."

" O doctor I " cried Jane entroatingly :
" pray, don't speak so I one would think I
was about to sacrifice all my future happi-
ness."

" That's it ; th.it's just what you're going
to dx I Ic'll you if you marry him your
future's ruined. But I said, before, all I

.-^

wiiliDiit, Ji'nnlc. F'rii
I'li-i' F iliilii'f knit\r
: iiiiw I kiiDtv liowr
I I swc:ir 111 miiku

Alliii ; I'm nlwnyg
•an't WK Iw liuppy nst

ic world won't iut ii».
roiInT iiiul xiifcr ;
u\ wcVi' not. IIo\r
lii'lorc pcci|(l(' woiilil
if We (liiri't iimrry?
iiiIi"<'<yoii'n' my wil'o j

scnil iiK' oil' a'^'iiiii
11' worjil iiloiii', do

't, ftiid I won't," ftjio

vitli ti'iirs us slin bi>nt

r, littlo, plain thin;^,

[iK iidid ti'ilow lik(!

<ii yon liappy, myHi'lf,

I'X."

1 hIic didn't xn^pcct
liad," and not " licr-

Wlmn t\w. sent for
d Idni with fear and
)it(! of Irt [iromisi',
narry Iicr cousin, tho
ilu, lik(! onu who had
)w ; and, .^inking into
s fiR'C, and reniainuil

im greatly troubled,
lu said at last,
not an^'ry : I'm hurt.
it 80, when I knew it
l> I supposo a blow
less because wo'ro
the end of you. It's
; for nw. Hut don't
ou. God knows, I'd
uld."

1 Jane cntroatingly :
I one would think I
all ray future happi-

ist what you're going

you marry him your

I said, before, all I

A nOME«TIO TRAOKDY.

I'JT

coiiM nay; and It wa« unfli'-<. Von will
ll.>l('n til yi>nr heart, Jane, and not to rea-
son. Sii thi're'H iiidy one tiling for ine to
do. I sha'M't liiithiT you with any roiiven-
tional wishes for your ha[>pinesii ; lint, my
t'hlld, if ever you're in tmubU! you'll know
where to ninie, won't yon? Xow, lillli'
woman, (jood-by, and kis^ inc onre lii'liire
I In^i' yon llirevcr J for you'll never be the
Kunie Id me a;,'ain."

.lane was about to reply; but ho cla»|m(|
her tightly in IiIm arniH, and kissed her over
and over with pa^slonati' fervor. Then,
betbre she coiild spe.ik, In^ was ^one, and
■he was alone. Lon^ after she remem-
bered that moment, — how bri;;hlly the sun
shone into ilii> rcMim, the si.'ent of the mig-
nonette that Allen hail piled into a vase
un the niaiille, the eraekling of the lire,
the song of a rubin outside, telling that
spiing had rome, mingled with the voiee of
her cousin who sang a tew bars of "The star-
spangled banner," in the adjoining room, —
ii straieje medley of color, sound, and feel-
ing, that smote her overburdened heart,
until it aclied beyond emluranee I Shu
could bear no more ; and, throwing herself
on a sofa, she burst into tears, and wept
long and bitterly.

Till' beaiilit'id flays of suminer had come.
It was now the last of June, and they had
been married nearly three months. How
like a dream of ha[)piness the days had
passed to Jane I Not that shi; had been
entirely free from fears and anxieties ; not
that she was entirely confident in her
future ; but because she had been always
with Allen, and ho had been kind to her,
she had been more than contented. He
had not grown cold, nor had ho been less
devoted ; but perhaps his love was a little
spasmodic, a little like one who, suddenly
remembering that he has a part to act, in
his haste rather overdoes it. He was less
inclined to be frank and confidential, nnrc
inclined to reserve and thoughtfulness.
" He is married now," said Jane excus-
ingly, " and married to an old wife ; so he
must be more dignified, more serious."
Still, sometimes she sighed, though she

woidd not acknowledgp It to lientelf, for
a little of the liovish eageriii'ss and
demonstratlvi'uess that had been so win-
ning in the lirsf davs alter bis return.
Nor had she ipiite as much of liis siniety
as tiirmei-ly ; but perhaps a woman mIiouIiI
not exjiect a husband to !»• conslantly at

'her side. It was not reasiitiable, and she
had determined to lie riMisonabht from tho
first. A few days at\er her marriage she

I had said to Allen, " Now, dear, we will
begin with every thing fair and sipiare,

I Vol! are my Inisband, and I have bound-
los conlidence in you. I'm at best but a

[ poor liu-iiiess woman, and lliere are many

tliini's that II 1 looking into: so I want to

I . . .

give every thing into your hands. Now

that I am your wile, all 1 have is yours;
' though, for that matter, I've always eonsiil-
] ered that half belonged to you. Father
I never would have cut you oil', if he liadn't
I been iniliienced " — she had scarce said the
words when she was angry with herself
! for allowing a hard thought against Dr.
I Warden, — "but he knew he cimld trust to
me to make it all right liir you ; and, if I
hadn't married you, dear, I always intenil-
ed to give you your share just the same."
" Good littlo soul ! " said Allen, pressing his
lips to her faded cheek with well-assumeil
fondness. Jane looked at him worshi|it'iilly,
and then went on with her plans. " Now
we will arrange it once and for all, and
never speak of it again ; fiir I hate business,
anil you must take all the eare from mo.
All is yours, — houses, lands, bank-stock,
railroad bonds, government securities, and
all. In that desk are all father's books and
papers : my lawyer made the transfer be-
fore we were married. I would have it
so : it's all there ; and here's the key."

Allen hesitated ; but she thrust the kcya
into his fingers, and patted him, and kissed
him, and was tho proudest and happiest
of women. She never knew nor felt that
she had made any sacrifice. Innocent
and trustinir, she thought ho loved her,
and not her fortune. Then, if she belonged
to him, was not all she had his ? Perhaps
her confidence might have been a little

128

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY.

J i

shaken, if slio could Imvo known tlio true 1 iike to run down to New York on busi-
fitato of tliiiii;s. — of till' lirx'x list of di'l)ts. | ness."

di'lits oflionor, he called tlu'in; of llu'shiiino-i "You're very good, Allen ; T shall be
fill record of his last six years of filly and I '_dad to have yon •^n ; and I hope you'll like
reckless dissipation. Hut "he. suspected | Ethel," continued Jane, as she glauce<l
nothin" : her own soul was so white and

pure, that she could not iinaj;iiie another's
to l)e so dark and stained. If slui had
known half the poor infatuated father
knew, she never would have desi'j;nated
that time of his \i\c thoughtless and wild,
whicli was little less than criminal ; and
the last six years liad i)een almost a rep-
etition of his iiiriuer sins. Then, I'ow could
sugh a man settle down quietly and con-
tentedly as tlie devoted husband of a
woman older and less attractive tlian him-
self? As soon as her fortune was firmly
within his grasp, he began to consider hia
true position ; his marriage bonds pressed
upon him like chains; he constantly wished
lor chau'ie, treedom, amusement, any thing
to break the monotony of his too-peaceful
life; but Jane, so happy herself, thought
him equally so, and suspected noth-
ing.

As T said before, the long days of sum-
mer had come. Dinner li.ad been over an
hour. Allen sat on the balcony smoking,
his handsome head resting against the well-
cushioned back of a lounging chair, and
his legs extended to the full length of
that comtlirtable piece of furniture, enjoy-
ing the cool of the evening in indolent ease,
when Jane came out from the drawing-
room with an open letter in her hand."
" It's from Ethel," she said, " and she's
coming."

" Ah ! How soon ? " incjuired Allen,
with mcn-e interest than he h.ad shown in
any thing for some days.

" She will be in New York to-morrow.

over the letter with a thoughtful air.

.Mien watched her lor ii (ew i.ionn'nfs
curiously ; then he threw away his ci'iar,
and drew her to his side. " Sit, here. .Tennic,
a little while," he said, " and tell me aliout
this girl. Although you've spoken of her
so ollen, T know nothing of her history."

" It was my finishing year at Maple
Grove, and I was nearly ei;;hteen. when
she was brought there, i 1-vc',.. little
thing of four years, in deep mourning for
the mother she had just lost. She was
from New Orleans, and spoke French as
well as English. From the first she
called meher;7e/(7e mamnn, and I loved her
dearly. She slept with me; I dressed,
and combed, and bathed her: in fact, I
took nearly iill the care of her ; for she
was so sweet and gentle, and seemed to
cling to me as though I were indeed her
mother. Before she had been there six
months, the dreadful news came that her
father, in a fit of despair at the suihlen loss
of his fortune, had taken his own life.
No one came forward to provide for the
child : she seemed to be left .alone in the
world, friendless and destitute ; and I <!0uld
not desert her, she loved me an<l clung to
me so. I wrote to papa, telling him the
pitiful story, and asking him to allow me
to do something for the dear little thing
out of my own small income left me by
mamma. He at once consented ; and the
principal of the school, who was very fond
of her, agreed to keep her until she was
sixteen, if I would defray h.alf the ex-
penses of her tuition, iind provide her with

You must go down in the morning train, . clothes. This papa allowed nie to do.

She finished her education, and came to
me about a year after you went away.
We were all so fond of her, papa loved her
dearly, and Dr. Warden petted her like a
child. She was a great comfort to us, and
we really needed her ; when most unexpect-
cdlv a letter came from an aunt in New

and bring her uj). She conies as far as
there with friends, and expects some of us
to meet her; but if 30U don't care to go,
Allen, I will send Tlumias for her."

" You needn't send a servant, Jane, when
you've a husband ready to wait upon you
and your Mr prolt'gte ; and, besides, I should

!»

)Jt'W York on busi-

, Allen ; T sliiill be
lid I hopu you'll like
lie. as she glanced
lu)n,j:litt'iil air.
for a (ew i.ionn'iifs
row away his ci'iar,
e. " Sii, hero. Jonnic,
" and tell me ahoiit
)u've spoken of her
ig of her history."
ing year at Maple
3.arly ei ;;liteen. when

3re,

I,..,-,

ittle

I deep mourning for

just lost. She was
id spoke French as
from the first she
man, and I loved her
nih me ; I dressed,
;hed her: in fact, I
lare of her ; for she
ntle, and seemed to
1 I were indeed her
had been there six
news came that her
Liir at the sudden loss
aken his own life,
d to provide for the
be left .alone in the
lestitute ; and I could
ved me and clung to
papa, telling him the
ing him to allow mo
the dear little thing
,11 income left; me by
e consented ; and the
3l, who was very fond
3ep her until she was

defray half the ex-
and provide her with

allowed nie to do.
kication, and came to
ifter you went aw.ay.
of her, papa loved her
•den petted her like a
reat comfort to us, and
; when most unexpect-
frora an aunt in New

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY.

129

Orleans, who had not made herself known
when Kthel was a heljjlesa child, a.-^kiiij;
her to come and live with her. Dearly as
we loved her, we could not keep her from
a relative; so she went, unwillingly at first,
thou.;lj now she is quite contented with
her lilb there. Ilcr aunt is very gay, and
she meets more society than she could in
oiu- (piiet home. Every sununcr she sjiends
three months with me ; with that exception,
I have lost her altogether."

" Uather selfish of her to go off just as
soon as she was old enough to be a com-
paniou for you," yawned Allen.

" I have thought so myself soractiraes,"
returned Jane sadly. " I made a great many
sacrifices for her ; and I loved her so dearly
that I hoped she would never leave rae.
Still, I must not blame the dear girl : I am
sure she loves me as well as ever ; and, of
course, her relatives had the first claim upon
her."

Allen remained silent; and Jane
leaned her head against his shoulder and
looked into his face with tender, tearful eyes.
" "What are you thinking of, little woman ? "
he said at last.

" O Allen ! I am ashamed to tell you,
my happiness has made me so selfish !
I don't like to feel so ; but I can't bear that
there should be any change, any break, in
our life. I am so contented, so pe-fectly con-
tented, with you, that I don't want a third
person to disturb our peace."

" Then, you don't want her to come ? "
asked Allen bluntly.

" Yes : oh, yes, I do I It's not that. You
don't understand me, dear; and I'm very
foolish."

" It seems to me you are a trifle, Jane.
I think it'll be very pleasant to have a
bright, cheerful girl in the house."

" Why, Allen I you're not dull, you're
not discontented, are you ? " cried Jane
wiih a sharp ring of ' trouble in her voice.
' I hope you're not tired of your quiet life
already. I hope you're not tired of me."
Then, overcome by a terrible thought, she
covered her face, and hurst into tears.

Alien looked at her almost angrily : then

he said fretfully. "This is too much, Jane!
I thought you were a woman of sense.
Tired of you V how absurd! If I were tired
of you, I needn't stay here at your elbow
all the time, need IV How unjust and
childish .o speak so ! "

"I know it, dearest; pray forgive me!
I am very nervous and tbolish to-night : a
Ibreboding of trouble haunts me ; but don't
scold me, Allen," cried Jane in a pitil'ully
imploring voice.

" I don't scold you ; I won't scold you ; only
be reasonable," returned Allen, as he arose
had paced the balcony. lie diil not caress
her : th«re was no tenderness in his voice.
Jane was woimded and disa]t|)ointed : her
heart ached ; but she was silent, and Ibrced
back her tears resolutely.

" He shall not see rae cry," she said. " I f
I am unhappy, he must not know it."

The next day she dressed herself with
imusual care, struggled out of the sadness
that still hung over her, crushed every re-
gret and disappointment ; and, thinking only
of her husband and her joy at seeing him,
even after so short a parting, she went to
the station to meet him with an expres.sion
of contentment on her placid face. The
train arrived a few moments after she
reached the platform. She ran to her hus-
band, kissed him fondly, and clasped Ethel
in her arms, almost weeping with joy.
" How well you're looking ! how tall you've
grown ! how pretty you are ! O Allen ! isn't
she a darling ? " she cried, hurrying them
to the carriage. During the drive home,
she held a hand of each. Allen was in
excellent spirits. Jane looked at him
proudly. Was there ever another such a
noble, handsome man as her husband ? and
Ethel, she was very lovely, a dark, queenly
girl, with lustrous eyes, and full, rosy lips.
What a contrast to her ! For a moment a
pain pierced her heart : she seemed so old,
so faded, so plain, beside this glorious
creature 1 but she would not allow a shadow
to cloud this evening. No : her two dear
ones should be happy, very happy. It did
not matter whether she were young and
pretty : they loved her, and that was enough.

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY.

130

The dinner passed off in almost childish
merriment. Dr. Warden w«stl.ere. I. only

ean.e occ.ionally, and Ethel was the x-
cusc for his presence this even.n;r. In the
twilight, they pac.l up and down the jr-

window, watehlnK the rising moon, as pale
and.puetasaspirit;andthron,l.herbva.n

and thro«.4h her heart, minified with Al e s
voice and the sonj; of Ethel, soun.ledtlio
prophetic words of the doctor, " But the end

den walks. Ethel, leanin, on the arm ol . - J^^ ; ,^^„^,^ , ,,,ay slowly

Allen, talked and la„,hed with g.rl.sl.c^^ Jane, swiftly and joyously

dom ; and Jane, happy but qu.et, l.=t u.d .„c^wea > ^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^^^.^ ,^

toDr.Warden-smoreseriousc<M.v.rsaU .. to ^^^^ ^^^^^ ,

Ever sinee her n.ama.^e, Allen had l^^?" M j; ^^ ^hc first they had made a

prohibited ,uestion between the.r. ^M;^:l,, of sharin, their time with her; but
doctor never spoke ot lum but «^^ ^'^J ,„„„ ,,,v that she was ra her a

he dislike<l him none the less, ^l^'""'^' ^"^^1,4 ,i,,„ otherwise to their happi-
hc treated him with the utn^st pohtene s, ' -;^-\^^„^^,„,„,, ja„e did not ride
he was always formal and cold towanllnn-«a^^^^ l^orsewoman, and

At first Jane had used all her em.n.ne tact Lthe wa p ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ . ^^

to brin, about a better ieehng ^^ ^^ I t^;;,", d alf their mornings in the sad-
them; but she had faded, and she now ey p ^^^ delicate, and

allowed nuuters to take their own course dl • Jane ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^

without interference. Several tune «^ ^^ Z^,'!^^ ,, ^..^ the country, so she was
hadbeenontheln-inkoftelm,the doc^ o .^^^^^^^ ^^^^ ^„,.,_ „, to wander

how mistaken he had been m regard her left a o ^^^^^^ ^_^^^ ^.^^ ^^^

position as Allen's wife; ^^^ V"'' ^""''^ '^" P^^ ,ome distraction for her unqmet
son, she had never found the ^^''f .H ^^^^ There were picnics ami croquet-
approach the interdicted subject : but his Uf ■ „^. i^^,,.i,oo,l. Sl.e had never
ellnin,, emboldened by the hour, the doc- P^^^; '\j^^,, ;„, ,,,did not care to now ;
tor's ,entle mood, and her own con dence attended ^^^^^^^ ^^^_^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^

i,. her happiness, she said -f- >f ryol^Jd to, accompanied by Allen Some-
lusion, alter a few moments of sdence. You hou , ^^^^ ^ j.^^j^ ^^j^^^j^

see, doctor, your fears were groundless, or t.m^^^^^^^^^ .^^^ J^^^,^^ ^,^.„ ,^ ,,

I am perfectly contented. Allen ^s so go d to Je v ^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^

so very good, that I have never regretted f^^^^^^^^i,,, confidence, she made excuses

for a moment." „

The doctor did not reply at once, lie
turned his head away, and looked resolutely

her boundless confidence, she made excuses
for them. They were young and lull ot
Ufo, they were congenial to each o^e.

av, and looked resolutely me, mey «.- ^" = ^j^^^^j^

into the distance, i- waited a^^ U-eha^-^|he.^
Was he convinced, or was he evading an ^«. dcs y \ ^^^^^jj. i,,, .instant

answer? At last he cleared his throat, and gam «hc rep ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^^^ ^ ^^^^
gasped out, like one choking down a «ob, Ic^so", ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^,^

fyls: you're happy enough now ; "1^^^ Ln -uld follow the prophetic
end is not yet. However, don't speak of l^e a ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^

that You know my opinion. ^^^'^^ f ,, Sometimes she would be restless,

in:it'sgettingtoodamptoryouhere. Ihe e j ,i,„t, and inclined to lee

laughter of Ethel and Allen jarred upon us nuserab , P^ ^^^ ^^^^ . ^„,

nei'ves, and worried him : he could not h.ten uro^ Al ^^^ ^^ ^.^^^^_ ^^,^ ,, ,

to it any longer; so, saying he had a pau^nt hew .^^^^^ ^^^,j good-natured,

to visit, he wishe.1 them a turned ' good- ahva) 9 ^^^ ^^^^jj^, ^^^j^^^g

nigh ," and went away. Ethel seated herself ha^on^ ^^ j^^^, j^^,^ ,,, „,ver

atWpiano,andsanginaclea.,sw^tvo..jto^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^,^^, ,,, ^,t

Allen turned the music: Jane sat bytaei

■

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY.

131

r moon, as pale
roui^li lirr brain,
;le(l with Allen's
lel, sounded t\iO
>r, " But the end

ged away slowly
ly and joyously
were always to-
ren tliuni entire
icy had made a
mi) with her; but
ihc was rather a

to their happi-
ane did not ride,
lorscwonian, and
that exercise; so
rnings in the sad-
jeen delicate, and
cl and Allen liked
untry ; so she was
sofa, or to wander

and silent garden,
II for her unquiet
nics and croquet-
od. Slie had never
.id not care to now ;
ral than that Ethel

by Allen. Some-
were a little selfish
much ; then in the
lad the stren-th of
c, she made excuses

young and full of
tiial to each other,
er; then, why should
asure? Again and
herself her constant
reasonable : I must
And close upon it,
follow the prophetic
" But the end is not
e would be restless,
, and inclined to lec-
only the chance ; but
Lttle, and then ho was
te and good-natured,
he had really nothing
J loved her, she never
why should she fret

■

because, he did not show it in the way she
preOrn-d. And Ethel was so sweet, so
carc?sing, so loving, that she could find no
fault with her. Still, she was not satisfied ;
"she was iinluippy, and she could not tell
why. " Patience, patience," she would say
to soothe herself. " I am wicked and scKish.
In a few weeks Ethel will be gone, llie fine
weather will ho over, and Allen will be
with me always; then wc shall return to
our old, intimate Wfe, and all will be as it
was before." Inasmuch as she was sad
and depressed when alone, she tried to be
cheerful and happy when she was with
tlieiii ; and they, too much absorbed in their
own pleasure, did not notice how forced
and unnatural it was. In the beginning
of September she grew languid and weak,
remaining in her room for entire days.
Then Alien had, sp.asuiodic fits of tender-
ness that almost re-assured her, and drove
away hi'r gloomy forebodings. Dr. War-
den came occasionally, looked at her piti-
fully, held her thin wrist between his fin-
gers, and counted her languid pulse with
most ilepressing gravity. Tlien he would
prescribe a tonic, and go away, without her
reailiiig any thing in his impassive face.
One (l:iy she felt very poorly, and Allen
and Ethel reuiained with her all the morn-
ing. She slept during the afternoon while
they rode, and when dinner was over both
ha<l come into her room and talked a half-
hour affectionately and cheerfully; then
Allen proposed a walk to Ethel.

'• Lie still and try to sleep until we
return," said he to Jane, as he leaned over
her, and touched his lips lightly to her
foreheail.

Ethel had left the room : some sudden
emotion stirred Jane's poor heart to its
very depths ; and, throwing her arms around
her husband's neck, she drew his face close
to hers, and sobbed, " I love you, dear : I
love you so much ; and I am so unhappy."
Allen turned dreadfully pale : something
ia her voice struck his heart like a blow ;
but he drew away from her clinging arms,
and said sternly, -'What childishness, Jane !

this way." Then, kissing her again m ire
coldly than before, he went out and left her
alone. Her hands fell helplessly ; and she
turned her face to the pillow, sighing
heavily, " It's no use : I will be reasonable.
I will not make him unhappy." Then
came the refrain, " The end is not yet, the
end is not yet." She tried resolutely to
compose herself to sleep, but she could not ;
then she arose and looked from the win-
dow. The sun was setting : she watihcd
it with slow, intense gaze. " Would she
see it set iigain ? To-morrow would she be
living and suffering ? or would she be lying
cold and dead? There was mignoni^tte
on the table. Allen was so fond of it.
" When she was dead, would he stoop over
her coffin, and lay it upon her bre.ast, and
drop a tear upon her fiice ? " She leaned
forward, and looked down the avenue.
Allen and Ethel were returning from their
walk. They were talking earnestly, and
never raised their eyes to the pale face at
the window. Smiling and happy, full of
life and joy, they passed out of si.;ht and
entered the house. " Will they come ii|) 'I "
she wondered. She waited a long time,
and they did not come ; so she resolved to
iro down. " Yes," she thought : " I will
make the effort. I will dress myself and
iro down. I will spend another hajipy
evening with them. I am dreadfully ner-
vous : all these morbid feelings are a part
of my disease ; and I cannot ih-ive them
away." She arranged her hair with trem-
bling hands, and put on a white dress.
Allen liked her best in white, but how
•diastly pale she was I " Would she look so
when she was dead ? " she ftjund herself
thinking again. " Would they dress her
in white, and put myrtle and pansies on
her breast? What folly 1 was she going
mad ? She must go down to save herself
from such dreadful thoughts. The doctor
had told her not to leave her room : Allen
had told her the same ; yet she must go,
and she would go. The drawing-room
was silent and dark. " They are on the
balcony," she said, and walked straight

you'll make yourself worse if you fret in I toward her sad destiny. Her own name

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY.

132

fell dear and sharp upon her car. It was
Ethel ^vho .poke ; and she said, " But Jnno,
po.,r Jane 1 when she Las been so good to
!ne,what a return to rob her of her hus-
ban.l's love." Then Allen replied distinct-
ly and passionately, " For God's sake!
Ethel, don't say you've robbd her of my j
love. It never was hers. I hcver loved

her, never 1 " , , , .

Jane thought she cried out sharply, but
she was n.istaken ; for her white lips made
no sound : neither could she hear; a ieariul
rin.^ins in her ears drowned their voices,
and black darkness settled upon her. blie
reached out her arms for some support, but
there was nothing to lean upon. "I must
«ot fall l.ere," she thought; and, struggling
to overcome her mortal weakness, she
reached the door, and groped blindly back
to her room. There she was safe from in-
trusion ; there she could look her nun in
the face undisturbed. She clasped both
han.ls over her heart, to still its heavy
beatin-r. Above all she must be calm.
No one must know what had happened,
not even they : they must never know that
Bhe ha.l overheard them ; there was some-

thin- humiliating in the very thought,
eeemed to her that she stood for hours in the
middle of her room, outwardly (luiet as a
statue, doing battle with an army of interior
emotions. " First of all," she said, '« I must
calm myself before I can see clearly into
my own heart, before I can be just to
them." At last some one knocked gently.
It was her maid, who asked if she nee.led
any thing. Jane opened the door, and said
softly, "Nothing: don't disturb me again
to-night. I think I shall sleep, for I am
very dred." Afterward the woman remem-
bered how strangely her mistress's voice
had sounded. She lit her night-lamp,
pliced it near her bed, and shaded it so
that the room was nearly dark. Then she
sat down by a table, and took her Bible :
she had used it from childhood, and had
always fbuiid comfort in its blessed pages;
now slie held it in her fingers for a few
moments, and then laid it down, seeing
noihiag to console her. She was ship-

wrecked, with not even a plank to clini to ;
an<l the one thing only tbat she understood
elearly was her utter desolation. She was
alone in the world, utterly alone. Allen
did not love ln'.r, ha.l never loved her;
neither had Ethel; and she had .lone so
1 muc.h for both 1 " Why have they .le.eivcd
me ? why have they deceived me i" " she
I repeated over an<l over. " How could they
have the heart to deceive me? Have I
not loved them both, as a mother loves
her children? Why, then, have they
deceived me so cruelly? Why did Allen
profess to love me? Why .lid he wish to
marry me ? And why has Ethel loaded me
with affection and caresses?" In her in-
finite h.ve, in the generosity of her noble
heart, she even tried to find excuses for
both. '• Poor Allen 1 " she thought : '• he must
have suffercl so much, and he will sutler
so, to be boun.l to a woman he .Iocs not
love ! And Ethel, what a fate for her to be
separated from him by such a barrier!
The. she began to blame herself lor allow-
in- him to make 8u<;h a sacrifice. '• I might
ha've known that he was mistaken when he
thought he loved me. Poor boy! he im-
agined it; and now, in the constant society
of a young and lovely woman, he has dis-
1 eovered his delusion. What am I to do I
I lomred to make them both happy; and 1
havclnade them miserable. I am an obsta-
cle ; and how shall I remove myself from
their path?" She imagined a hundred
impossible projects, that afforde.l her no
comfort; for, in spite of herself, she always
returned to the old thought, of her utter
desolation. She had no husband, no love,
nothin-. She had stripped herself of every
thin-, to give all to Allen ; and now she lay
crushed and broken, like a poor weed, torn
up by the roots, and lcf\ to die. Hasty
steps approached her door : she knew it was
her husband. It was late, and he was corn-
in- to his bed. How could she meet him i
Her heart stood still, and the cold sweat
lav in drops on her ilice. She was thank-
fu"l for the friendly shade of the room, that
hi.1 her b^rrible pallor. There was an ex-
pression of triumph on Allen's face, and a

A DOMESTIC TBAQEDY.

1S8

plank toclini to;
liat sliu unilor?lo()tl
solation. Slic was
>rly alone. Allen
never loved her;
1 tihe had done so
have they dei^eivcd
;ceived mc ? " she

" How could they
ive nie? Have I
as a mother loves
, then, have they
■ ? Why did Allen
,Vhy did he wish to
lias Ethel loaded me
■?ses ? " In her in-
3rosity of her noble
to find excnses for
lu tho>i'i;ht : " he must
1, and he will suA'*?'"
woman he does not
it a fate for her to be
by such a barrier ! '*
mo herself for allow-
i saerifiee. " I nii;.'ht
-as mistaken when he
, Poor boyl he im-
1 the constant society
y woman, he has dis-

What am I to do?
m both hai>py ; and I
rable. I am an obsta-
I remove myself from
imagined a hundred
that afforded her no
of hers'-<lf, she always
thoui^ht, of her utter
1 no husband, no love,
ripped herself of every
lUen ; and now she lay
like a poor weed, torn
,d left to die. Hasty
r door : she knew it was
is late, and he was com-
w could she meet him ?
ill, and the cold sweat
face. She was thank-
shade of the room, that
lor. There was an ex-
1 on Allen's face, and a

V I '

certain excitement in his voice, as he said,
"What, Jane 1 not in bed yet;" then he
cried in a ditfcrent tone, for her strant,'C
manner startled him, " Are you worse ? In
Heaven's name 1 what is the matter with

you .■* „

" Nothing is the matter : I'm no worse,
replied Jane calmly, turnin-; away her head
as she spoke, "but I should like to bo alone
to-ni._d.t. Will you sleep in the m-xt cham-
ber?"

" Certainly, if you wish it. Can I do
any thin;j;for you?"

" Nothing', thank you;" and with these
indiiferent words, they parted forever on
earih, without either having the slightest
premonition of it.

Jane's eyes followed him as he walked
coldly li-om the room : a wild light spark-
led in them, — a flame of longing love,
that flickered a moment, an<l went out, leav-
ing bcr lace as pale and fixed as a corpse.
" fr he had but kissed inc. If he had but
spoken kindly to me," she said with a dry
sob. " O Allen, Allen ! you will live to re-
gret it." Then a convulsion of grief shook
her frail form, and she wrung her hands
wildly, and looked around, as though she
would fly somewhere for shelter. " If Dr.
Wiirdeu were here," she cried, " he would
savemc. Where shall I go? What shall
I do? I am alone, with nothing in earth
or heaven to lean upon. I cannot live : uiy
heart is breaking, my biain is on fire. If

■ I could but sleep, and sleep forever." A
bottle on the table near her bed caught her

■ half-frenzied glance. It was an opiate,
that Dr. Warden had given her that morn-
ing, when she complained of insomnia.
" Take ten drops," he had said, " and no
more." Now she forgot his directions, she
forgot every thing; and, scarce knowing
whit she did, she put the bottle to her lips,
and drank the contents eagerly ; then she
fell on her knees before her bed, and tried
to pray. Perhaps it was from habit, \)<ir-
haps it was her great need of help, that led
her to God in that last moment. Still it
was Allen that was first in her thoughts.
" Forgive him, and make him happy," she

repeated over and over, until her voice
.lied away in a confused mm-rnur. A
strange drowsiness and nundmess crept
over her : she reached out her arms, and
tried to raise them upward ; but tlity tell
heavily on the bed, lier head drooped, her
eyes (closed, a smile of ciiildish sweetness
settled around her lips, and she slept peace-
fully.

That night Dr. Warden dreamed that
Jane called him. He awoko cold and
trembling, while a voice seemed to say
close to his ear, " The end has come." Af-
ter that he could not sleep, but tossed
restlessly on his bed until daylight. Then
he rose, dressed himsfilf, and waited pa-
tiently for the proper hour to visit Jane.
When he reached the house, Mary was
dusting the hall ; and she opened the door
lor him. " How is your mistress ? " he
said anxiously.

" I don't know, sir : I've not been to her
yet this morning."

"Is Mr. Alien down?"

" Yes, sir : he's in the garden with Miss

Ethel."

" Go up to y"ur mistress, and say I am
waiting to see her, when she is ready to
receive me."

A moment after a loud scream from
Mary rang through the house. It was an
ominous summons that lell no time lor delay.
When he entered the room, the shaded
night-lamp still burned upon the table.
Slanting rays of sunshine struggled throu-h
the half-open curtains, and rested warm and
bright on the floor where Jane still knc'lt in
the°attitude of prayer, her head bowed on her
clasped hanils, silent, cold, dead ! With a
cry of an-iuish he lifted her in his arms, and
laid her upon her bed as .en-lerly as though
she had been a sleeping infant. " Go find
your master," he said to the half-f.antic
maid. She left the room, weeping bitterly.
Then he leaned over Jane, and pressed a
long kiss on her placid brow. " You called
melast night, darling : you called me, and I
did not come. If I had been here, I might
have saved you." Looking around, his eye
fell ui)on the empty bottle ; and the truth

^•Jkit&^um z -- •

134

A DOMESTIC TUAOEDY.

burst upon liiin in all its force. " Oli, my
Go.1 ! n.y <Joil ! " lu' ctI'mI : " it !« as 1
feiirtil ; iind 1 uiu'onsciously furnislii'd luT

till- nit-aii!'. I'ow •':>"'' ' I"""'' ''''^'''''■' '"'"■
turod woman ! your uiisi'ry was too much for
you ; but, thank (io.l 1 yon arc at rest; and
no one shall ever know the secret of your
death." A half-honr later he came out of
the room, howe.l and ii-ehle like one smitten
sud.lenly with old a;je. At the door he met
Allen, pale and horror-stricken. He ha.l
just learned of the dreadful event, and was
hastenin;^ wildly to Jane's room.

" () doctor 1 " ho cried, " is it true ? Is

she dea<l V "

» Yes," returned the doctor sternly, " yes :
she is dead ; and I thank God for it."

"What? How? Tell me the cause of
her death," questioned Allen with trem-
bling;, broken voice.

" Ask your own heart, and it will answer
you better than I can," replied the doctor

with a look of deep si;:;nificance, as ho
turned away, and rushed from i he house
like one berel't of reason.

Neither Allen nor Kthel ever kn.-w tho
direct cause of .Jane's sudden death ; lor
, later the dm-tor pronouueeil it h.'art dis-
! oase, which, after all, was not far from tho
i truth. Aft.-r the funeral, Kihel ret urnod to
' her aunt. Allen also left the p'.iee : tho
' house was closed, and no one except Dr.
I Warden ever knew of the sad tra-edy that
ended the life of Jane Herbert.

Before the violets bloomed the secmd
time over Jane's -rave, Allen and Kihel
were married ; but they never returned to
their old home. Perhaps they had a va-ue
fear of a hauntinj;; presence there. 'I he
house was sold, and Ur. Warden h-^. i.ne its

owner.

Is poor Jane forgotten ? I think not ; for
some one keeps the llowers fresh and beau-
tiful upon her grave.

nifioancp, as ho
Irom I lii; liou^o

1 ever km-w the
l.K'ii (U'Mth; for
cil it hi'iirt dis-
not Car IVoni tho
ICihi'l rctiifnodto
't tho i>!.K'f : tho

one I'xcc'.pt Dr.

sad tragedy that
rbert.

iiuod tho socrond
Allen and Kihel
lever retnrned to

tlu'y had a va^ue
.Mice there. The
Vanlen l.'Oi imo its

' I think not ; for
rs fresh and beau-

MR. JOHN.

I AM thirty years old, and a painter :
that is, a worshipper of hi-h art; a disciple
of Kaphael, Mi.diael An-elo, Tintoretto,
Leonardo, Paul Veronese, and a host ot
other Old-World divinities. I read Uuskin
from principle, Eastlake from curiosity, an('

chance have I with my homely New-En<;-
lan.l ori-inality V for 1 maintain that it is
„ri;,dnality, though not of tho markolablo

kind. , ,

I was born in Boston, — set that down in
niv favor; and my father was poor,— as

V . • ..11... t .Mi^lr I'k

Vasari from lo^e. 1 look upon uit. i t j j common with

masters as standards, the modern as teach- ^J^/^^ i„k, ni.ht-work, an.l
ers; and try to imitate the --»--- °' j 1^:;^^:: I",. nld what little vitality
Kaulbach, Zainacois, Rousseau, and Uau-
bi<rny. I dabble in landscape, still-life, and
ge"nre compositions. Sometimes I am de-
cided that the only style worth copying is the
gray melancholy of Troyon ; ajjain the senti-
mental delicacy of Hamon, or the ex(pn-
gite lenderness of Merle. 1 have no settled
school, no settled method. There is so
much good in every age, every style, m fact
almost every artist, as far as I can see, that
I don't know just how to condemn any.
When I think I have decided on one, before
I am aware of it 1 am admiring another
still more. I am a shuttlecock of every
form and color, balancing between four -^'en-
erations of battlodoors. I often regret this
indecision, because I think it is the only
thing that has prevetited mc from becoming
a great artist. ARer confessing my weak-
nesses, I may leave the impression that I am
not original in my subjects : but that is not

had air consumed what little vitality
there was in him. I was four years old
when he died, leaving my mother, a delicate
woman of twenty-five, with just nothing but
Miy«elf, as cross and troublesome a httle
creature as ever was. I don't think mother
lasted more than three years atler lather.
I know she sewed, and sewed ; and then we
were both often hungry. At last her poor
eyes -ave out, " From over use," the oculist
who "examined them kindly said, and
char-Tcd her ten dollars for saying it. Poor
«ouir her last ten dollars which she had
.,ive.l from the sale of lather's watch. 1
think that ten dollars, paid for fifteen min-
utes of time, and no good from it, broke her
heart ; ibr she talked of it constantly untd
she died. Well, he was a rich man, and of
course his time was valuable ; but I laid it
up a-ainst him in my childish heart, always
intending to be even with him by making

the Boston literati, ship-owners, and doc-
tors, the New York merchants and railroad

spet'ulators, will have the modern French

and perhaps I shall some time. If ever 1
do, every cent of it goes into gravestones

speculators, will have the moaern .renc. f-X';;„^ J ^ d,' what became of me 7
school, - Bouguereau, Meissonter, Frere AfU^ mother cUc ^ ^^ ^

Diaz, and others equally popular. So what I Let me try to remc ^

136

MR. JOHN.

newsboy, then an errand-boy, tlien a prin-
ter's <lcvil in die •' lIeruia"ollii:e, iben aeoni-
pos-iloron the "Ji)nrnal," wbiclioeeiipiition I
followed nnlil I eoiniuenced my prolefsion.
When I was twelve ye:ir» old, I be;,'an my
art stndies nnder the favorable auspices of
the Lowell Institute. How well I remember
my cveninjjs in that low, gassy studio!
The over-heated boys ami youn'„' men, the
plaster models, the grave, kind face of Mr.

II , with his large shirt collar, and the

long, di^liuvelled locks of i^ood Mr. C .

They were fine teachers; and, without
doubt, I owe all my anticipated success to
them. 1 am sure it was thought that 1 had
some talent; ibr, after si.\ years of drilling,
1 could make as clever an oiV-hand sketch
as any of the artists who have graduated at
that famous institution. Then I went into
the " lile-school," and struggled through
every possible position of the brawny black-
smith who served as a model. Ho must al-
ways remeud)er me ; ibr there was no other
scholiir as anxious as I was that he should
twist himself into impossible contortions,
which I gloried in producing in the boldest
and most angular manner.

One evening, I think it was the begin-
ning of my seventh year there, I entered
with the nonchalant air of an old habitue, to
take my usual place, when I was conironted

bv Mr. II , who looked at me sternly,

alid said very cavalierly, " It seems to me.
young man, that you've been here long
enough. We can't teach you any thing
more : you must leave your place to others
who haven't had a chance yet." Then he
added dryly, " All you nee<l is practice to
make a second Benjamin West." I went
away from this temple of high art, a rejected
devotee, turned out because I could do
something ! It was a dreadful blow ; and
the only consolation I hatl was, that they,
the Alpha and Omega of art, couM teach
me no more, and that in lime I might be-
come a second Benjamin West. On the
strength of that encouraging prediction, I
took 'an eigbt-by-ten studio, with a very
poor light; and, with twenty-ei.iht dolhirs
and twenty-nine cents in my pocket, I com-

menced my career. It's no use to give the
details of two years of misery, during which
I only existed by giving a few hours now
and then to my old occupation, drawing n
crayon portrait when I cimlil get a sitter
whi<;h I believe was two in as many years,
or retouching jiictures for photograi)liefs.

Was there ever such a mistake in the
choice of a profession 'I Yes : there has
been many, and even more fatal ones than
mine ; for I always had, and still have, the
hope of success to lead me on to victory.
One only neetls to succeed a little to suc-
ceed a great deal ; and now that Mr. John
has given mo the golden key I shall open
the door easily.

I don't know whether it was a fiend or
an angel, in the shape of a great hulking
sculptor, that said to me one d;iy when I
was awfully hungry and blue, " Why don't
you go abroad and study a while ? It would
be a sure fortune to you. All you need is
a few years of foreign t(!acliing to become
one of the greatest painters of the time."
lVrhai)s he was making fun of me ; but I

didn't suspect it then, although I have
since. However, whether he was jesting
or not, his words put a new idea into my
head; and I thought upon it night and day.
It was so pleasant to know that a tbrtnne
could be made in any honest way, lor I
must confess 1 had about given up the hope
of making mine legitimately ; but h..w could
I take advantage of this prelimiaary step
of going abroad, when 1 had not a dollar in
Iht" world, and owed fifteen ibr my rent ?
At last I hit upon a plan, if it only succeed-
ed. I had an uncle, mother's only brother,
somewhere in the wilds of Maine. He was
rich, but a thorough old curmudgeon ; and
I hated him heartily because he had retuscl
to help mother after father died. " It will
do no harm to try him," I said : " at the
worst, he can only refuse me." So I spent
a whole day in composing a letter, in which
I told him of my tmdoubtcd genius, that
required a little ibreign cultivation to make
my fortuiu' ; of my inabliity to take advan-
tage of this rare chance, because 1 lacked
the one thing needful ; and 1 entreated hiiu

MR. JOHN.

137

10 ufo to give tlio
ury, (luriii',' wliidi
a i'cw lioiirs now •
latioii, (Iniwiii;^ n
)iilil ^I't iv fitter
I us iiiiiny yiMrn,
|)liot();4rii[)lii'i's.
I luistuki! ill tliu
Yes : '.lierc, li:i«
u fatal oiu's tliaii
,11(1 still liavo, tlio
le on to viilory.
Ill a little to suc-
i)w that Ml'. John
key I shall o|ien

it was a fiend or
f a ^^reat hulking?
; one d;iy whi'U I
blue, " Why tlon't
X while ? It would
All you need is
aeliinLj to becomo
ters of the lime."
fun of nie ; hut I

although I have
er he was jesting
new idea into my
a it ni;;ht and day.
low that a ibrtune

honest way, for I

given up the hope
tely ; but In nv could
is preliuiinary step
had not a dollar in
I'teen ibr my rent 'i
1, if it only ^ueceed-
ilher's only brother,
of Maine. He was

curmudgeon ; and
ause he had refused
her died. " It will
1," I said : " at the
e me." So I spent
iig a letter, in which
oubted genius, that
cultivatton to make
liity to take advan-
.', because I lacked
ind 1 entreated hiiu

/ V

by the sacred memory of my mother, who
died from poverty, to give the aid to her
sou that he had refuse.l to her. In short, I
wrote tt letter that would have melted the
heart of an English oak. Alter two months
of alternate hope ami fear I receiveil an
• answer. I knew it wa.s from him before 1
opened it ; because my name was eomineuced
with small letters, — he was too stingy to use
largo ones. I came very near dying of
surprise, when I opened that yellow envel-
ope, and saw a eheek — yes, actually a
check, for live hundred dollars ! I danced
for the first time in my life : I cried, I fairly
howled for joy ; and then I read the charm-
ing epi.stle. If space permitted, I would
give it verbatim ; but, as it will not, I can
only say that the first part was devoted to
abuH«, ill whieli he ealle.l me" a lazy, gude-
fur-nothiu' doag," who wanted to live off of
his rel.itions, instead of working like an
honest man. The second part was full of
advice of a religious nature. The third
was practical ami business-like. Ho said
that he had always intended to leave me
five hundred tloUars when he was "dun
with thiu'.'s airthly ; and it didn't make eiiy
grate dilVerenee whether I had it now or
later." How thankful I was that I had it
now instead of later! In conclusion, he
said that I " needn't expect another cent,"
from him "never;" that I could use that
sura that he had " aimed " by the " swet " of
his brow in " riotus livin" if I pleased:
that was " nothin " to him ; he had " dun "
bis duty to his sister's child as " beseamed
a Christen." And then he added that he
hoped I would make good use of the talents
God had given me, and not paint " nakeil
wimmen, and statues, and sich-like abomi-
nations, but copy natur', fields, and trees,
and cattle and sheep."

1 can assure you that I didn't spend
much time over the soiled, blue-line<l letter.
The clean white check was what pleased
me most; and, fearing that the bank might
« suspend " before I could get it cashed, I
rushed down to State Street with the im-
portant air of a heavy financier about to
" tijihten " the market.

I think 1 was the bapplest man living,
the day I sailed frmu New York with my
ticket and three hundred dollars in gold
In my pocket. Never having had so much
money, 1 thought it an almost inexhausti-
ble fund ; however, it was not, as 1 found
to my se)rrow, alter I had lin-eri'd a few
weeks ill I'aris. When I reached Rome,
my iiiteiide.l destination, I had i)ut twenty
Niipoleons and a few sous; and no letter
of credit to back the amount that now
seemed proportionately small when I com-
pared it with the sum that I had started
with. IJut what ilid I care ? I was young
ami str.mg; and my fortune awaited me.
So I hired a little attic in the Via IJ.ibiii-
no, for whiih I paid three scudi a monili,
iind commenced my career in earnest.

After all my Boston training, I found
that I was lainentai)ly ignorant and stupid ;
for I thought I had only to paint the hand-
some conladini, the picturescpie children, tho
grand and inollow-tinted ruins, tho broad .
sweeps of campn'ina, to sell them at onco.
In my self-conceit, I thought that I was tho
only artist in Home, and that all the It.d-
ian nobles, the Knglish lords, and Ameri-
can nabobs, were waiting with open purses
and impatient hearts to buy my i.ielures as
fast as I finished them. Fool that I was !
I didn't stop to think that Uonie was a
city of painters. I didn't know that there
was more genius hidden in one narrow
street than ever existed in our great re-
public. It took almost a year to unde-
ceive me, and teach me that I knew nearly
nothing. Until I arrived at that point, of
coursell had learneil very little; ami as, .at
the same time, I ibuud myself reduced to
abject poverty, my condition was not ono
of the most enviable. Sometimes I laugh
and cry together in thinking of the ciwe.'* I
resorted to, the better to hide my true
situation from my pwlrona lU casa. Sho
was. a good old soul, and very careful of
my comfort, — almost too careful. Ono
morning she would say, " Will the signor
have his coll'ee and roll at eight? " And 1
would reply carelessly, although my stomach
appealed to me pitifully at the word coHee,

...i j^masi^ semsfr

138

MR. JOHN.

"No. tlmnk you, Simiora Tita: 1 fhall
biviiklUHt out lliiH ii>')rniiv.'." 'ri"'" I
woul<l wiiiidfr forlh with »n iiwliil iippiMilt' :

nn.l ill ll>«' '•"""•^'' "'■ '">■ """^ ' ""'"'''
pcrlmiis |>i'k up n raw I'lirrnt at « ftull,
wl.irli I woul.l wiif.li <l'>wn with a .Iran-lit
of water at n nri-lil)<>ri"H I'oMiitain; alli'r
wliich I would ri.'turn to my work, appa-
ri'iilly as nuicli rcrn'slu'il m tlioii'^li I Ii.kI
l.riMklUHH'.l lu-arlily at tlio" (;ivco." Anoili-
.T day Aw woul.l ask polit.-ly, " At wliat
liour will 111.' M^nor <liiie '.' " I woiil.l pivtend
i„pt lo liciir lur, wlii.h siave im- time to in-
vent an answer; then, when she repeated
the .piestioii. I would say, with the air of
one eniin-lv ahsorluMl in his work, "Oht
it's you. Si-nora Tita. What did you ask
ine? Wliiit hour will I dineV Let me
see : I think it'« to-day I dine with friends,
at the llot.'l de lloma." Ajiain, allo;,'ellier
too niixioua lor my welfare, " Will the
M;.nor leave hia soile.l linen? Tlie wash-
woman has been several times." — " Ah, I
have fnr-olten it !" I would answer blan.lly.

'• You niiiy tell her not to come aj,'ain. I
have (ound another who is better: she it
lame, and I earry the elothes to her."

Poor old Si^iiora Tita! she lhou-;ht me
the best and most tru'hful of bein-s.
Thank (lod ! she never knew how I lie.l to
her; slie never knew that I washe.l my
clotlies in my little attie, and dried them
on the roof fastened to nn old canvas-
fVauie; she never knew that my shirts
wen- without stareh, thanks to the artist's
blouse wliieh 1 wore continually.

Well, two years passed away in this
wearisome stmsisle ; ami I I'^-gan to feel,
niter having been thoroughly unlearned,
that 1 was at last learninj; a little of true
ait : vet no one came to buy my pictures,
or evi'ii to see them, unless ihey stumbled, i
throie^h a mistake, into my studio, as 1 ,
insisted upon uallin- my attic. I declare |
to (lod that no poor soul was ever so neg-
leete.l as I was during those two years!
1 >hould have dii'.l 'it;'"" an>l ^^S^'" °^
gtaivation, if a kind-hearted dealer in the
I'ia/.za di Spa-giia had not bought a picture
now and then iroiu sheer pity, affixed an

Italian name to it, and sold It to fomo nu-
Hiispeeting compatriot of mine for nix
'.lines the amount he gave for it.

Hut you will naturally womler why I
coul.i not sell my i.ietures, as well as other
American artists who live in Home. I
will explain to you why I I'oiild not ; be-
cause an explaiiali.m is ilue to myself, lest
you shoul.l tliink that my p'etures wero
either very bad, or that I have overcoloreil
uiy story, which is a sluiiile statemiiiu of
facts. In the lirst place, I was poor ; and,
l)ein.„' poor, I could not give dinners, and
invite strau'.'ers to eat them, while 1 told
thi-m that Lord Knglish, or Lady Russia, or
the Countess of Fran.'.-, or Mrs. Colonel
America, had bought my " Star of Hethle-
liein," or my " Kvander and iEneas," or
some other eipially interesting subject ;
nor could 1 have a large studio ilecked
with brie-a-l.rac. where I could give weekly
reccpti.ms, anil invite people to m-et all
the eelel.rilies; nor had I a .Iress-eoat,
white tie, and lavender gloves, with which
to make my appearance at bankers' balls,
and resi.l.Mit tea-parties. I was wily a
hard-working young man, who shut himself
up in a din'iy attic, aixl devoted his lile to
his art, instead of ogling hidii's on the
I'incio, or promenading the Corso. So
what chance was there lor me V Although,
as you perceive, I did not live luxuriously
in the Eternal City, I lived wisely, and
much as did the old philosophers, whom
we admire and hold up as examples of
lieroic fortitude and self-denial, though we
despise an<l neglect their prototypes of the
present day.

Well, time went on. I was without money ;
and the dealer in the Piazza di Spagna
had closed his heart against me, because I
su-'gested that he might give me one-fourth
of" what ho received for my pictures.
Again ruin stared me in thei'ace; and I
dt"spaired, and shut myself up, and wept
until hunger drove me out to seek a carrot,
my staple article of tbo.l, — it is astonish-
in.r how much nourishment there is in a
carrot. At last 1 grew homerick (how
absurd I), when 1 had no home, and began

««^»»«**r*s!*»!««»

jixin'n»i ii ia r< i » ir«»

MR. JOHN.

139

solil It to fomo Hii-
()(■ iniiu! for Hix
vc tor it.
illy woniltT why I

iTf, ns well ;is "tliiT
live in IIdiiU'. I
ly I ('((iilil nut ; be-
1 iliii' to inyt-i'lf, Wst
t my i.'i'tuivH wore
t I Imvi! ovcri'olDroil

(Implt! HtlltClllCIU of

•f, I w;is |M)()r ; imd,
[)t liive diiini'rf, and
t tlifin, wliim 1 told
h, or Laily Kusciii, or
ii'(!, or Mrs. Colonel
my "Star of Uftlile-
k-r and ^Ent-aK," or
inttTi'ittin^' Hnliji'ct;
lur^i.' studio dt-rkcd
e I could give wwkly
! jH-ople to mi'i!t all
had I a drfss-coat,
er gloves, with which
\w. at hankers' halls,
■ties. I was only a
nan, who shut Idmself
nd devoted his lile to
iv'liiv ladies on the
lin'^ ihu Corse. So
re tor n»e V Although,
1 not live luxuriously
, I lived wisely, and
il philosophers, whom
I up as examples of
self-denial, though we
iheir prototypes of the

1. 1 was without money ;
he Piazza di Spagna
against me, because I
ight give me one-fourth
,ed for my pictures,
me in the iace; and I
t myself up, and wept
ne out to seek a carrot,

tbod, — ' it is astonish-
irishment there is in a

grew homerick (how
ad no home, and began

'»

to think that after all my fortune wa.« behind
nie, in ilial land across tlie si'a, — dear, gen-
erous, appreeialive America ; but how could
I •'ct tlu'i-eV I had no •^ood uncle down in
Maine to apply to; for he was dout^ \yitli ;
"tbin-s aiillily." ami hail letl his properly
toliMiia a toNvndionne as a monnnicnt of his
g.'iierosity ; and I had notliin',' in the world
to convert into immey Hrtvo about a hun-
dred canvasses covered, more or less
thickly, Willi paint.

One day, when I was more than ever
disgusted" with carrots ami water, with
wasliiie.' and drying, and lying to my land-
huly, a liappy accident occnrrcil. A good-
natured Kn.;lishman came pullhi',' ami
blowing into my ilen. He was looking tin-
a celebrate.l French artist, whose name
mine resemlilcd, and never doubled lor a
moment that I was lie. I supjiose, virtuous
reader, you think it would have been nior.'
honest if I had undeceived him; but, good
Lordl 1 was starving, ami I had no notion
of losing a chance to save my lilc. Well,
he looked around, asnired me in very bad
French that he was charmed with my
•'sketcbe-;" selected one of the best, and
oifeicd 1111^ fifty pounds for it; which 1
accejited witli a readiness that almost
frightened him into suspicion. Do you
suppose he would have bought it if he had
known how poor I was, and that I was uoi
the iMviichman he had heard of; or if he
had undiTstood the language he murdered
•well enough to know that mine wascipially
bad, and theielbre I could not be any thing
but an ignorant, vulgar American ? How-
ever, without an ida^f how he Wiw being
sold, he gave me a check for lifty pounds ;
ordered tlie picture done up, — it was m.t
Ijir^e, — and trudged oil' with it, fearful lesl
it might be changed tor a copy if he left it
to.be sent. 1 can imagine that iiicture
adorning the wall of a stately Knglish
mansion, and the jwmpous, self-satislied

owner showing it as an "original of II ,

immensely clever, but very eccentric, as
most Frenchmen are." 1 am thankful that
my si'^nature, wliich I always make as illegi-
ble as possible, will never betray me.

You can naturally suppose that I wa- not
lim.; ill rolling I'j' "'>' cinvasses, and start-
lug" for the " 1-and of the fiee." I'oor
Si^'uoraTital I'oor oM attic in the Via
ilabiiino, wlioso every spot of lloor I have
washed with my tears ! Wai in, sunny roof

that dried my clothes I Hard idi where

1 rested my lon;i, tired limbs 1 Juicy ear-
rots and >]) irkling water ! Adieu ; for I shall
see you no more. 1 have fifty pounds ; 1 am
rich"; and I am starting for America, for
Boston, where my Ibrtiine awaits me.
Such were the thoii-hts that lloaled through
mv mind as I drove triunipliantl.v away
from the grim door that had opened tin- me

so mauv limes. What a sc to enlarge

„p„„! ■ Hi.t here I am half ibrongli my
storv. and I have not yd begun to tell you
h,)w I found my wife, Mr. .John, and all the
good things that have lately (alien to my

lot.

Well, to go on with this Irh n'riliqn'' bin-
/oire, 1 aiTiveil in Uoston one drin/ly
mm-ning iu October, by the night-train
from New York, after three years' absence,
sleepv, tired, and hungry, with a shabby
valise somewhat collapsed, an immenso
roll of canvas done ui) in a tin liox, ami a
one-dollar giT'en-lwck in iny pocket.
Where was I to goV I had no friends to
welcome me, no home awaited me ; so I
letl my treasures in the charge of a depot
clerk.'took a check lor them, and then wan-
dered into the dirty " saloon." where a
crimpy girl dispensed muddy coll'ee and
(labbv biscuit. I invested twenty-tive cents
in "ix'frcshments," and then started out to

find a studio.

It was scarce sunrise: nevertheless I
.lire-.'ted my steps toward that modern tem-
ple of art, the Studio liuilding, where I
found a yawning porter dragging the dirt
over the rope-carpeted stairs with a stubby
broom. " Are there any studios to let 'I "
I iufiuired with as foreign a drawl as I
could produce. It commanded immediate
attention. " Yes, sir," he said respectfully :
" there is a small one just vacated : the
artist has gone South, and lett il to be let
furnished." 1 looked at it: it was an

140

MU. JOHN.

liiiiuov.-menl .m my Houmn Htili", mvI 1h-

li„V tw..lv .••.In.k. I WUi.-t.ll.li4*.Ml »vltli
my nlvn.ler \m:iVvh- ieu<ly lu UH.ive lh.'
Ion line lh.it wa< Kiir.i to <m>iiii' to m: Hut '
ha.l l.iti-mM li-'Mii I'ii^'l •■xi'i-rl'iif" tl"H •>"''
iiUMl l.avo liH.ll wl.il.- hi- wall-., M. I ..■l.rt.MJ
u U.M..1 i.irliin- u( ii [lU'iiHluiJ miKj.'.'t, ami

.lurit.l il I" II 'l»'i'l''<' "«"'■ ''>> *" **'""" '
oIUto.I il r..r wli;it.-vci- luir.- lio (iUmm-'I t.i
j,„y im-. Ill- Kiivi- 111.- iliiity .Lillui-fi (it
was woilh two liuii.ln-.l), wliidi I iim'l.t.-.l
tlianktullv ; tin- at last I lia.l i-t)im- t.. nii.l.-r-
mau.l tli.it the ri-al valii.- ..t' my l'i<tui(-J'
wa!. wUt tlo-y woul.l l.i-in.^,<.tUfi'wiHi! ih.-y
wi-io ....•; V .•aiiva^ ami Iiaint. 'Hiat im-a-iv
KUiu ..I thirty .lollwH ki'i.t lh.- w..ir from
ti,.. il.M.r wliiUi I i.wk.-il arotiml, ami ma.h-
th.- i.ivli.irm.iry arran^'.-uH-nts that hh..iil'l
h.ii.l lilt- to Hii.Tfus ami I'orimii). For Houm
n-miuM that I t-ainiot uxplain, I oxpi-.-t.-.l
my arrival w.)iiKl en-ate a Uttlo Mir in tla-
w.'.il.l of art. I th.m.^ht it would sjradually
h-ak ...It that I ha.l ivtiiriu-.l with nm.ilu-r..
of htmlics ; that all the artists wv.iihl llofk
to Hoe them, then all the people ; that my
Mu.lio wo.il.l he nile.l with appr.-.-iativ.'
visitors, that my pi.ttircs w..iil.l Hell, aii.l
that ill a little while I shouM be on the
hi-h roa.l t.) prosperity. My first xtep.
which 1 now know w.is a li.olish one, was to
make tViemls with the artists. They came,
luokeil at my pi.lares, praise-l them to my
iaee. ami then w.-nt away, ami tonml i'ault
with them. I pla.e.l several of tlu^ best on
i...\hil.llion in the various j^alleries; hut
th. y atiraeie.l little or no attention. Who
ha.l heard ..I' me? I eoul.l not be a eele-
brated artist, or Mime one would have km.wn
of me. 1 don't suppose they ever stoiipe.l to
think whether lliiui.u'l or i.cimard.) eame
into ]>ul<lic favor with their lirst pictur.-.
Hut what else could I expect of Boston.
It is such a hi.i;h-t(me.l city, it has such a
lofty standard ..f art ami liu-raiure, such
finely eultivatiMl tastes, such precise dis-
t-rim'iiiation ! of course it could mjt decide
at once in f.ivor of a new-comer. My suc-
cess mi;:ht be slow in comin;.'; still, I never
d.mbted but that it woul.l come in the eiul.
Aceordin-ly 1 waited patiently six montlis,

ih.-n impatiently kU morn, ami at ihe oml
„( that limo 1 bewail to itu»p.-.t tint my
fortmm was no nearer limn it wan at Iho
f„.,t .I..V ..f my arrival. My ph-tnres dhl
mitpleiwe: m) one e..uhl tell win : nu.l I
wa« not Mire myself wh..ih.'r ih.-y w.-ro
.M,o.l or ha.l. ILwevei-, I .li.l mana-e to
sell en.mzh to ke.'p m.ul au.l body l.. M-ih.-r,
ami that w.is somelliin;.,'. I'erhaps il wai
as mu.-h as I eouhl rea*.mahly expect, see-
in^ t la-re were so many belter p.iinti-m

than I.

At last some otio su;;';e»te.l that I
sh..ul.l paint autumn s.-enery, - s..m.-lhin-^'
f.imiliar au.l homelike, smnethin- bri;ilit
and cheerful, instead «)f those sa.l, ^ray
lan.lseapes that l ha.l put all my s.ml into.
It was a new i.lea: perhaps, after all, tlu-re
lay the s..urce of my success. So, with
hi^h h..p.-s, I pa.ke.l my traps, t.)..k my
c,unp-slo.)l, sk.-fhin-,' easel, ami bi-^ (.Tceii
umbrella, au.l starte.l for New Hampshire.
il was a warm, dreamy aftern..ou, late
ill Sepi.-mber ; the trees wens bc^rinnin-,'
to turn from -^rei-n to vivi.l sjold an.l re.l ; a
violet ha/e hun- over the hills, and the
valleys were full of silver mist. I'.-rch.-d
bi-h up..n a woo-ly hill, my e.asel sim-lc
fn-mlv into the groun.l, my eamp-sKiol
prop'peil up with stones, and my H'een
umbi-ella sprea.l over me, I was tryiiv,' to
.rive the (inishin;,' tou.-lics to a long
stretch of landscape, mountains in the per-
spective, -real, beetling precipices in the
ini.ldle dist.ince, ami a lan-uid, reedy
river in the for.-'^round, ereepin;,' betw.-en
clumps of scarlet and gol.l elms. I had
lai.l on the color thick and warm, with a
free, Iwhl touch ; yet for some reason it .lid
not s.-e.n so tender, and still so brilliant, as
the cviuisite tints of nature which I was
trviu',' to copv. Thrne was something
ermiraml tawdry in the eflect that i)leased
me less than any thin:,' I bml done.
A.uunm scenery is beautiful, with its f..liagO
of a thousand womlrous shaiies ami tones,
its sweet harmony, its strikin- contrasts,
its -or.,'e.ous .lecay, but what human haml,
with the i.osiiive m.-.lium of canvas and
paint, can imitate that which the mystio

Mil. JOHN.

Ill

ivnil i»t llie pnil
MiK|M'(t ili.it my

,11 it WliM lit tilt)
My plrtlirr't <licl
It'll wli\ : nii'l I

ll'liuT 111'')' W.MO

dill mikimu'ti til
ml Idcly lo.'i'llii'r,

I'. rliii|c* It w;i«
iilily i'X|K'i't, Kt'iv
■ bi'iti'i' ii.ilntiTH

Ul^'^l'Htl'il lli:it I
ii'i'y, — hoiiiclhin'^
(i(>iiietliiii;j> l)ri;»lit
' ihoHo Hiiil, uniy
, 111! my MDiil ii'to.
ips, iil'H'r nil, tliiTO
iiici'i'sK. So, with
iv trup'', tiHik my
H'l, ami Itig ^reua

Nt^w lliiiuiMliiii).
,iy iit'lcniooii, lato
•H wep! bi'^iiniiing
il fjolil mill It'll; a
the hillH, iiml ihn
er mi!*t. I'lTclu'il
1, my p.isi'l siiH'k
il, my oanip-alool
g, anil my ntv^^n
ic, I WII8 tvyiii'.; to
lUi'lics to a long
luiitains ii» tlu; per-

preciiiices in the

a lan:^niil, recily
, en!t'I)iii;f hflwci-n
(Told olms. I had

and warm, with a
• some reason it did

still so brilliant, as
lature which I was
re was something
) efl'eet that pk-ased
hin:^ I had done,
tit'ul, with its t'oliago
s shiidea and toni'S,
! strikin*; contrasts,
t what human hand,
inn of canvas and
t which the mystic

n„„..r. of the f.o.t.kln.,' have ton.ln'd ... that over mad.- n.y Iwa-t st,.p l-'itln,' wa.
i!VNo no-inHpiteofn.y dcHire to be M.dd.nly addre I by a pr-t.y

, .t .Lost blinded me, as, lor the and lank, with a hatchet taee. and a «. t

n dawned npon ,ne that this bnndl.. of h.dr and b-ard ; bn. tny eves a

I. m not n.y>W«. and that I rather ,ood 1 the bnc o, "./"-'-'

1.1 her- as I had In every thin, very bad. It -nust have been my t„n b.y

eU T li ron.ddy diseonra,e,l. I leaned and awkwardness that tnade ,ne .so r.^l e„-
t heai lej.retedly upon n.y hand, and ! loi.s ....d stnpid when I ene.mnte.vd
r.!k vav ,.to the nlysterious distance, woman. Now. as I looked ..p and .

"" , •, , , ,,,,.,, ,11, I wi-l. V For the ' those beantifnl ey»'s tJi/.m; stead.ly at me,

w..sl..n,.-l.ut -'■''-" ,;";,^ w n.v-land the p.-etty ...onth jnst parted In a little

t nw t -li.lla bill-, lor a. that .,.o,ne..t sink into the ea.-th. «reen ;-.->'-;

Ided it .no.-o than a.,y tl.i... el-e. My all. There was -;--; ;,";"-

financial ..flairs were a^am In a most '1'^" :':;"'::;;'"..;,',..^.,; , „,,..„ ^_

t'oiiraj;.!.'^

,,„..r..ion. .mil that was ahvays lollow.n',' eonve.-sat.on took i

a eai.^e of depi'e^sion and di-salislaetion
I never was pleased with any ihiiej; when
I was out of mo.iey. For nearly th.re
nionlhs 1 had been wanderiii;,' about the
country, r.vin;; in the woods, and workin;,'
like a'slave, only to.be disappointed at
hist with what 1 had done. This little
village in Northern New ll.impsliire, wheie
I h;ul pitched my tent lor a few days,
otlei-ed ve.-y little attraclio.i to pleas.n-e-
seekers; still, it was a eharinin',' spot for an
artist, a.id I was loath to leave it until I
had consi^rned some of its slrikin- points
to canvas; but how could I remain when
I had not enough money to pay a week's
board ut the lly-iidiabited little inn V Lost
in these painli.l reflections, I did not hear
appioachin- steps, nor did I look up, until
a shadow was thrown across my canvas
and a sweet, clear voice said, '• Oh, what
a pretty picture ! " 1 raised my eyes, and,
Htandin;' between me and the level rays
of the siin, was what 1 mi-ht have thou,;!.!
a vision, only for her speakin:^ ; but.
althou-h I was dazzled and sui'prised, I

"How in the world can yon eoi)y all
thi'-e lbin'.,'s so exact? "

" I don't think they are very exact, and
that tronldes me."

" Cioodness Kraeions ! why it's as natural
„^ lii;., _ Farmer .Jones's mill, Mr. John's
meadow. Cherry lliU, and Aimmw Creek,
— why, I should know it all ni.ywl.ei-e."

"Should you? I'm ve.-y «lad."

"Do tell' me how you ^'o to work to
make such a picture. Of all thiii-s, I

,hoiild like to "know how to draw. Is it
verv dillieult ? "

" Not vei-y. when one has a talent for

it."

" Oh, a talent t but can't you learn unless

you have a talent?"
"Not isily."

» Is that so ? Well, don't you get lone-
son e here all alone?"
" Soi.ieti.nes."

» I suppose. thou;,di, that when you're at
wo.-k, you'd rather be alone, just as I
would when I read. I like to come here,

. „,.,,„... it's so still 1 I can think better. I like this

.oon discovered that it was .,o a,.,el, only so nn.ch - " J-^in, at_ a book in her hand,
a pretty ,irl in a eand^= ^^ ;.v. s.aw ;; . > -n. J ^ ^ ^ ^^d it amon, Mr.

i;ri:::;i::::;::e^:;;;:::=aaoh.t.sb.^

than 1 wan ; lor the only thing in the world | so well.

".jsi^^f^Si^s

■ IH i .i !i 4 'i -l.-^ ' ll- Ju^L-.

142

MB. JOHN,

" Then you like to read ? "
" Very iiurU, bfcuiise I've nothing else
to do. Ml-. Juhn won't let me work, nor >ro
to the vinii;j;e, nor got ac(iuiunted with peo-
ple ; so I should be awful dull if it wasn't
for hooks."

» Who is Mr. John ? "

"Mr. John? why he's the gentleman I
live with : he's the same as a father to me."

" Then you have no father nor mother ? "

" No."

» Nor I either : I lost both when I was a

very little boy."

" And you had no one, like Mr. John to
take eare of you V "

" No one : I've always taken care of my-
self." The lovely eyes were full of pity, and
the sweet mouth looked very sorry for me,
so I thou;4ht I would chanijje the subject.
"])o you live near here ? " I said.

» Just behind the hill, on the other side
of the road, in the great stone house."

'• Ah ! a very pretty place ; and is Mr.
John's wife kind to you V "

She lau^died a short, musical laugh. "Mr.
John's wiib ! Why, he nev.r had any.''
" And you live there alone with him V "
" No, not alone : there's Ben and Tom,
the hired men; and Mrs. Smith, the house-
keeper -, and Sallie, the kitchen-girl."

It was astonishing how comfortable I was
beginning to feel in the presence of this
simple cliild of nature. I even had the
courage to ask her in the boldest manner
by wliat name she was called ; to which she
frankly replied, "Kate: Mr. John calls ine
Kate, and the servants Miss Kate."
" Well, may I call you Miss Kate."
" I don't know — just as you like," with a
little confusion. '• But perhaps Mr. John
wouldn't be pleased if he knew I was talk-
ing to a stranger. He's very particular
about it : he never lets me talk to any one ;
so I think I must go."

" Ob, no! not just yet. Wouldn't you like
to be painted in a picture 'I See, here is a
little canvas; if you will stand still jiist as
you are I will make a drawing of you."

She was delighted, and promised to stand
very still. I had almost finished an exqui-

site little sketch of her, into which 1 had
l)Ut a great deal of life and feeling, when
a sudden crash in the underbrush startled
me ; and a great dog leaped out from among
the trees, followed by an elderly man, with
a kind though sad face. He was dressed
in a hunting-suit, and carried a gnu and
game-bag.

« O Mr. John ! " cried Kate, rushing
toward him eagerly. " Look, do look 1 I ain
having my picture painted 1 "

Mr. John seemed very angry as he
glanced from one to the other in surprise;
but perhaps something in my homely, stui)id
face re-assured him, for he drew near, and
looked over my shoulder.

" By Jove ! " he cried, bringing his hand
heavily down on my knee, " it's like herl
Imt what in the Devil are you <loiiig here,
Kate V What are you doing here with this
stranger ? "

I didn't like to see him angry with the
poor girl ; so I explained gently how she had
accidentally come upon me, and how I asked
her to stand for a sketch.

" It's the first time ? You're sure it's the
fn-st time ? " he said, looking suspiciously
from one to the other. " Tell mo the truth,

Kate."

" Of course," she replied, laughing and
blushing a little, " I have never seen him
before."

This seemed to appease Mr. John ; for ho
patted heron the head, called her a good
girl, and then told Jier to run away home.
She looked lingeringly at the picture, and, I
thought, lingeringly at me, as she turned
away, followed by the great dog. After she
hadgonc, Mr. John came, and sat down near
me. pushing over my umbrella and color-box.
" See here, young man," he said, " I want to
have a litde talk with you. I like yoiw face :
I believe you're honest. You're the first man
Kate has ever talked with alone. She's
romantic and silly, and it would be just like
her to fall in love with some otie. Now, I
don't want any of that nonsense, you under-
stand. I brought her uj), and educated her
to be with me, and to take care of me when
I'm old ; and I don't intend to lose her.

'jmB#j...iil'<lli«'***'^'-" '

ftw w i.MiNWHW-^-U'-J'"' ''*-"-" ' ' '"*"

Wtrrtmm

MR. JOHN.

143

to wliich 1 had
1 luiUliij;, whi!Q
jrbriish stiivtled
out t'rom iiiiiong
Mcrly iniin, with
llo was dressed
riud a guii and

I Kati', rushing
}k, ilo look 1 I am
1"

•y aw^vy as he
Lher in surprise ;
iiy homely, stupid
i drew near, and

(ringing his hand
e, " it's like herl
1 you (loiii'i here,
ing liere with this

n ani^ry with tlie
;ent!y how she had
e, and liow I asked

i'ou're sure it's the
oking suspiciously
■ Tell mo the truth,

ied, lau;^hing and
c never seen him

e Mr. John ; for he
called her a good
o run away home.
: the picture, and, I
me, as she turned
eat dog. After she
!, and sat down near
)rella and color-box.
he said, "I want tD
u. I like your face :
You're the first man
with alone. She's
itwoulil be just like
some one. Now, I
nonsense, you under-
1]), and educated her
ake care of me when
intend to lose her.

Now, I'd like to have her portrait painted
ri'.'ht well ; but I've never had it done, be-
cause I'm afraid of Artists. They're a
precious bad lot, the most of them. See
here, are you married Y " — " No," I stam-
mered out; i'or the very thought frightened
me. " I'm sorry for that," he returned.
*' However, if you will promise me that you
won't encourage Kate to fall in love with
you, nor won't fall in love with her yourself,
I'll let you paint her portrait ; and you may
come to the house to-morrow, and begin it.
But first you must promise me."

How could I do that ? I was sure alrea-
dy that if I saw her again I might fall in
love with her ; but I needed money, so I tried
to resolve that I would not. Though I gave
the desired promise rather unwillingly, I
was honest enough in my intention.

That night I put a few questions to the
landlor.1 of the inn about Mr. John, which
elicited the following remarks : —

" No one knows notliin' about him ; he
came here ten year ago, an' bought that
place of Curnel Simpson's, an' paid ready
cash down : then he went oft"; an' in a few
weeks he cum back with a little gal eight
or nine years oki, an' an old woman to take
care of his house, an' another servant-gal,
an' two men. Then lots of furniture cum
by rail to the town below, an' was carted
up here, — cheers, an' sophys, an' a grand
piany, an' Lord only knows what else!
They say it's most like a palace up there :
though I've never seen it ; an' I don't
know who has, for that matter, for no one
never sets loot in his door ; an' he never
■was in a house in this district ; an' the
men an' the servant-gal don't speak to
any one, more'n to say 'good-day,' the
same as their master ; an' they never any
of 'em come to church, no more'n a pack o'
heathens. The little gal never went to
school to the 'cademy ; an', now she's grown
up, she never comes to the village. They
say that he's edicated her himself, an' that
she's a i)rop(.'r pretty gal ; but no one thinks
she's his child, an' they do say queer things
about her," — Here I interrupted the old
gossip with such a sudden "Good-night,"

that I left him, his mouth wide open and
his eyes staring wilh surprise.

The next morning I pri senti'd myself
at the stonli houses with canvas, Ciiscl, and
]taint-box, ready to begin my jileasant
labor. Kate and Mr. John receiveil me in
a large, hiindson-ely-fin-nished room which
they called the library, and which was to
to be my stud'o while I was painting the
portrait. My charmiu'^ sitter was full of
delight at the thought of any break iu the
monotony of her life. She took a dozen
dilTerent, graceful positions, arran'zing her
simple dress and blueril»bons with bewitch-
ing coipietry. I don't think any one was
ever so happy as 1 during those (irst days.
I didn't quite understand how happy I was,
or perhaps I might have been conscience-
smitten to find that it was perlc-ct bliss
only to be able to look at Kate, with Mr.
John sitting by, regarding her with pathet-
ic tenderness. I knew bcliire the third
day that I was in love with her, desper-
ately, di.-honestly in love ; but I was detcr-
nuned that neither she nor Mr. John should
suspect it. Almost before I was aware of
it, Mr. John had gained my confidence,
and I had told him of all my past struL'gles
and sorrows. Sometimes he would listen
to me quietly and tearfully, then again ho
would break into a furious tirade against
the injustice of the world and the cruelty
of fate. One day, when I had finished
telling of my trials in Rome, he slapped
me heartily on the shoulder, and said
cheerfully, though there was an undertone
of sadness in his voice, " Never mind, ray
boy : don't think any nr>re of it. Keep
your promise to me, and I will see that you
sell your pictures. I lost all my chance in
lile when I was your age, through poverty.
I might have been happy i but I tell you
I lost the chance then, and, by Heaven I
it was a wrong that nothing else can com-
pensate me for." Then his voice choked,
and he fairly broke down. The next morn-
iii" he n-avc me three hundred dollars,
which, he said, was a prei)ayinent on the
portrait.
1 I think I had been there ci^jht or ten

114

MR. JOHN.

asain.

dav«, an<l niv work was ^oinR on finely;
v..t I was not sati^fR•.l with mysolf. I'or
ihe fn'.t thnc in ,ny life-, I Ml that I vvas
reallv dishonest, that I was stealm- the
treaMue of n.y henoliu'tor un.ler h.s very
eyes; Ibi-in >,,itc -f my honor, in spite ot
n'y resolve, I was in love with Kate, an.l
the dear ehil.l, m"eh to my astonishment,
^v-as beeomin^ too ibn-l of me. I saw U ...
eveiv tender ^lanee, I felt it in every inno-
cent' wor.1. 1 was a sreat, lank, awkwanl
fallow, poor and unfortunate; but I was the
onlv .nan she had ever known heside Mr.
■ John,andshefaneied that 1 was the l.e.4,,

and the handsomest in ll.c world. One
luornin;; wc were alone for a few moments :
Kate was more lovely, more gentle, than
ever, and I was eonipletely heside myselt
I l,ad oeeasion to ehan-e the position ol
iKT hands; and, before I knew what 1 was

ahont, 1 pressed them to my hp- ^^he
drew them awav, looked at me a little snr-
pvised, then sn.ldenly threw her arms]
round u.y neek, and burst into tears.
There was a po-ition for an honorable man.
who had iiiven his word to bis benefaetor.
Ahnost crushed with shame and remorse,
1 held her to my heart until she broke
away iiom my elasp, and rushed from the

'Tr. John ean.c in peaceably. "Where
is Kate •! " he said. I cowered beneath his
glance. AVhat could 1 say V What excuse
could I make? He had been noble and
generous to me: I had broken ...y prom. -
and betrayed his confidence, and 1 lelt akc
a criminal. He looked at me gently,
waitin,' lor my an.wer. I could not
sneak : my shame made me dumb.
^^Ah 1" he said at last," 1 see how It .s."

Then I threw down n.y palette and l).-ushes,
andtohlhimall. " >W I cried " I .«-
.ot Ican'tstayheretoseehert Hove
ter: I can't help it ; and there's nothm.^
...oretosay! The sooner I get away, the

better ! " , ^ -t •> »

" And without finishing the portrait .

said Mr. John ruefully. , .^ .. i

u Yos without finishing the portrait, J

returned decidedly. "1 must not see her

a-au.. I ha.l never forgotten myself, ...y
dWlidence, mv awkwardness, so completely.
For the first time in my life I was sure ot
,„vself. 1 knew I had the strength to go
then; but, if I hesitated, I felt that I was

lost '■ I will return you the money you
paid me," I said, picking up n.y things
rapidly; "keep what there is^ of the por-
trait : it's better than nothing."

Mr. .Tohn looked at me pityingly. "Its
true vou've broken your promise; but per-

' 1 . •!• «rt nrtiir I Inn t

haps'ifs not too late if you go now. Don t
sneak of returning the money : the portrait,
even as it is, is worth double the sum.
Sen.l mc some pictures, and I will pay you
la good price lor them. Perhaps you 11
think I'm hard : may be 1 am : but I cr.n t
lose Kate; she's all .ny life. You cant
love her half as well as I do."

I had a"there<l up n.y thin-s with aburst-
in.r heart" gave my han.l to Mr. John, and
1 turned toward the door. 1 had been in
paradise for a little while; now I was
leaving it iorever. As I stood on the
thresh' n' listening to Mr. John's "Im
,orrv •. "■ •• I"'" sorry," the door was
throV ' '. '-iolently, and Kate burst in
with fi...-c.i taco and red eyes. Looking
from one to the other, and noticing Mr.
John's agitation, ami my preparat.ons for
departure, she divined th. truth, and
crie.l out sharply. " Where .are you going .
Then, springing at Mv. John like an angry
little ti-er, she sei/.ed him by the arm, and
demanded what it all meant. " You are
sending him away because I love h.m and
you think ni never see him again ; but 1
will ! I will ! " Then, coming to my side, she
put her hand on my arm, and said gently,
" If you go, I'll go too."

That was more than Mr. John could
bear. He trembled, turned deadly pale,
an<l at last sobbed out, " O Kate, Kate 1
is that the way you return my love i "

In a moment the impulsive girl was ^at
his side, with her arms roun.l his neck. " I
love you, vou know I love you ; but I love
him too, and you want to sen.l him away.
Let him stay here, and I can love you
both."

■»Tr-

for^ottcn mysflf, my
rihiL'ss, so compk'tt'ly.
iiy lite I w:is suro of
,r the stron;^lh to go
ited, I felt that 1 was
1 yoii the money you
)ickiiv4 up n.y things
t there 19 of the por-
n nothing'."

at me pityingly. " It's
'our promise ; hut per-

I if von go now. Don't
le !noney : the portrait,
orth double the sum.
ires, and I will p:vy you
them. PiThaps you'll
ly he 1 am : but I cr.n't

II my life. You can't

11 as i do."

p my thin'zs with a burst-
hand to Mr. John, and
: door. 1 h:id been in
tie while; now I was
As I stood on the
T to Mr. John's "I'm
'm sorry," the door was
mtly, and Kate burst in
and red eyes. Looking
other, and notieing Mr.
and my preparations for
livined the truth, and
"Where are you •^oin;! ? "
,t lilr. John like an angry
ized him by the arm, and
it all meant. " You are
y beeause I love him ! and
rer see him again ; but I
lien, eoining to my side, she
my arm, and said gently,

ro too."

,re than Mr. John could
bled, turned deadly pale,
hed out, " O Kate, Kate 1
you return my love ? "
the impulsive <?'••• '■"^^ "*
r arms round his neck. " I
now I love you ; but I love
,u want to semi him away,
here, and I can love you

MR. JOHN.

145

«(jlWft-.4J(!M.'4^"-J5**^'"

" Child, child," said Mr. John, srently
Btrokini; her hair, " you don't know what
you ask : you don't know how hard it is to
give you to another. How can I live if I
lose you 'I "

" You won't lose me," she said earnestly ;
" that is, if yon will let us both stay with
you and love you; but if you send him
away, I will go too, — remember what I say,
I wi'u go."

I stood during this touching conversation,
silent, embarrassed, guilty, yet very happy,
because the dear girl loved me, and had
deilured her intention to go with me.

At last Mr. John said sadly and almost
reluctantly, " Put down your box, boy, and
let's talk this over. Perhaps we can ar-
range it. Go away, Kate : when we have
finished talking, I'll call you."

" You won't go without seeing me ; prom-
ise me," and she looked me imploringly in
the face.

" I promise you," I said, pressing my lips
to her Ibrehead ; then she went away and
left me alone with Mr. John.

I was full of contrition at seeing the
good man in such trouble. " Forgive me,"
I said with a broken voice. "It's my
fault, I know ; but I never meant to make
trouble. I love her : she's the only creature
besides mother that ever loved me. I'm
BO poor and unfortunate, such a miserable
man for a sweet girl like her to love 1 I
worship her ; but don't fret, Mr. John : even
if she wants to go, I won't take her away
from you. No : 1 can't marry lier, as dearly
as I love her ; I can't marry her, for she
would starve with me. No, no, I never
can drag her down to my misery."

"But you won't drag her down, — by
Heaven you won't. I've money enough
for all. I'm a selfish brute to stand be-
tween the poor girl and her happiness.
I've sufTered all my life because cursed
poverty stood between me and the only
■woman I ever loveil. I did a great wrong
to her mother. Now's my chance to atone
for it. If you really love her, and she loves
you, take her ; and I will make every thing
easy for you, even if it breaks my heart."
10

Before I knew it, I was on my knoes cry-
ing like a child, while I thanked Mr. John
between my sobs; and he cried too. wring-
ing my hand until it adied, and calling me
over and over his boy, his dear boy.

" But wait, wait a little: don't go crazy
with Joy until I tell you all ; for, by Heav-
en ! I won't deceive you in the least ;
but remember, you're to keep it from her.
She's my own child, and I never was mar-
ried. Do you understand ? Iler motluT
was the sweetest, the truest. O my (jod I
what an angel she was I but she was a poor,
humble girl ; and my father, a [inrse-iproud
old Jew, swore that he would disiidierit mo
if I married her ; and I was a coward, a
weak coward, and afraid to make her my
lawful wife in the face of it all. She loved
me, poor girl I she gave uj) all for me : but
shame and remorse broke her heart ; and
she died when Kate was born. I've never
known a hap[)y day since. If she had lived
to share the fortune that my father left mo
a few years after, how different all would
have been ! It did me no good tlien : my
heart was buried in her grave. I hated
the world, and determined to leave it and
devote my life to her child. I've watched
over her and guarded her as a miser does
his treasure. I've kept her away from
every one, because I wanted all her ! love all
her life, for myself. Good God I how her
mother's face comes before me to-day I No,
no : I won't make her unhappy. I believe
you're a good, honest man, and she loves
you : that's enough. You shall have her, if
it breaks my heart."

I thanked him over and over, and assured
him that it never would break his heart,
and. that Kate would love him iione the
less because she loved me a little.

"But you don't think any the less of
the girl after what I've told you."

[ assured him that nothing could change
my love for her.

" Remember, she's never to know it : she
must think, as she always has, that she's
only an adopted child."

I promised him every thing he asked
with the happiest heart that ever beat in

1 .

146

MB. JOHN.

any man's breast. Kate was deli-l.te(
wl.on Hh.. loavniMl of the course events luvl
taken; and I believe she lovea Mr. John

better than she ever had before. W ell, we
were married very quietly, an.l my wife and
I remaine.1 with Mr. John until nearly
Christmas. Now wc have come to Boston
for a little while. It's no use to take a
house, because we shall pass the greater
part of the year with Mr. John. But Kate
Lists that I shall have an elegant stmlio.
So I've abandoned my little hole in the
temple of art, and have taken a lar-e, airy

room on Street, No.-, where my

former works, autumn scenery and all, are
handsomely framed, and hun? in the
best possible li-ht ; and the public are
respectfully invited to call an.l see them,
at any hour between ten and three. You

know, I told vou that I only had to succeed
a little to succeed a fjrcat deal ; and now
I've proved it, tor I've already several or-
ders from studies made abroad ; and yester-
day the very .loctor who robbed my poor
mother bousht a picture from me, ior
which he paid five hundred dollar., ^ot
as much as I intended to get : not as
much as I will get in the future ; but stil
it's not a bad interest on ten dollars. 1
shall double the amount without any delay,
and buy those grave-stones, which have
been the dearest wish of my life. So you
see that my iortune is in a fair way to come
to me at last. Not from having been
abroad ; not from painting autumn scenery ;
not even from my profession: but through
I the love of my dear Kate and good Mr.
I John.

only hail to succeed
•i.ut (Iciil ; and now

already several or-
abroail ; and yester-
ho robbed my poor
:nre I'roin nie, ibr
ndred dollars. Not
led to get : not as
the future ; but still
; on ten dollars. I
it without any delay,
-stones, which have
; of my life. So you
in a fair way to come
from having been
iting autnmn scenery ;
ifession: but through

Kate and good Mr.

THE DRINKERS OF ASHES.

[translated from the "revue des deux mondes."]

>•»

INTRODUCTION.

Ai-Tiioufsii every one knows that Savo-
narola, exconnnunicated by Poj)e Alexander
VI., was burnt at Florence the 23d of
Miv, 1498, but few persons are auiu.unted
with the strange events that immediately
Ibl lowed his martyrdom.

It was not for having overthrown the
jiower of the Medici, and in its stead sub-
stituted his own authority, that Fra Giro-
lomo, so dear to the Florentines, was torn
from the convent of San Marco where he
had taken refuge, endured torture, and at
last perished by the flames : it was for hav-
ing shaken the all-iK)werful of the Court of
Rome, — ibr having declared that the Borgia
could neither be considered a bishoj}, nor
yet a Christian.

In spite of the terrible re-action against
the poor monk, he had nevertheless, until
hJs last hours, many secret disciples, who re-
mained faithful to his cause, and who tried
in vain to save him. Those who were
present at his death divined his thoughts
when he cried to his two companions, Uom-
inico da Pesuhia, and Silvestro Marussi,
" In miinus 'uas Dominie, comendo spiriium
mmm ! " In effect, these words were less a
prayer addressed to God, than a last injunc-
tion to his disciples, to continue the strug-
gle, even to the thres! d of death, against
that powerful opponent, who triumphed
over his enemies only by torture and fire.

The Court of Rome, fearing that they
would make relics of the remains of the
martyr, ordered his aslii-s to be thrown
into the Arno ; but the people broke
throuifh the line of guards, in spite of
the blows of their pikes, rushed upon
the still burning remains, and carried them
away, crying that they had murdered a
saint.

Three of the disciples of SavonaroLn,
those to whom his last words were addressed,
took possession of the charred head and
heart of their master ; and, baffling the pur-
suit of the guards by traversing the narrow
lanes of Florence, they were enabled, with-
out being detected, to take refuge in a
ruined hut near the convent of Sant' Ono-
frio. During the fray one of them was
wounded in the shoulder by the blow of a
halberd. Once in security, they adored the
shapeless remains of him whom they had
loved so much, as if they were the relics of
a saint. Then followed a strange scene :
they mixed with wine some of the martyr's
ashes, and added to it the blood of the
wounded man ; then all three, having par-
taken of these new sacramental elements,
swore to avenge their master, and to com-
bat then and always, until they had effaced
from the earth the power of the sacred
throne, and all the strength that flowed from
it. Th(^y swore to be apostles to all the
world, to raise up enemies against Rome, to
be ready for battle in the light of day, ia
147

MS«(Sli»!*J.i!'"

i
I

148

THE DRINKEna OF ASHES.

the darkness of ni^'ht, by swonl und liy
Bpeoch, iinil as tliey saiil in theiroaih, "/»«/•
/as,per nefas. In ii word, all was pitimUlcmI
fxcei)t assassiiiaiion ; for it- was the author-
ity itself they would overthrow, instead of
its ri'presentatlves.

Thus was formed a secret society, that
rai)i(lly developed. At that epoeh reform
■was ill the air : John IIuss was dead, leav-
ing' numerous disciples ; and Luther, alreaily
born, was not loi"^ in raising the cry of re-
volt. The friends of Savonarola, re-united
as understood between them, (.Mthered
around those who had communed with the
remains of the martyr ; establishing their
ramillcations indiscriminately among lay-
men and priests, frequenting the courts of
Italian princes, fomenting opposition against
the monks; and, as much to bewilder the
curious, as to be recognized by them as a
common rallying word, they took the name
Tt'/ihnijtotus, composed of two (Ireek
words which signify Drinkers of Ashes.
Tliey then elected seven chiefs, to whom
they gave the names of the first seven
Kings of Edoin, predecessors of the Kings
of Israel. As at that time many were well
versed in the, lore of the Cabala, their tradi-
tions were derived from the Zuhar, which
no one will ignore as its universal code.

These seven chiefs of the Drinkers of
Ashes transmitted their names to their suc-
cessors in such a manner that one would
almost believe the founders of this singular
society to have been immortal. During a
conspiracy that was discovered ic Rome in
tlie beginning of the eighteenth century,
one of these Tephrapoles was arrested:
•when interrogated, he replied that his name
was Bela, sou of Beer.

" Who has induced you to conspire
against our Holy Father the Pope? "
" Bela, son of Beor."
" .Vhat is the name of your father ? "
" Bela, son of Beor."
" And your grandfather ? "
" Bela, son of Beor."
" llow old are you V "
" Three hundred and twelve years."
" Do you try to persuade us that you

have lived always, — that you are a man
who has existed for three centuries? "

He replied simi)ly, " I have."

They believed hiin insane, and that saved
his life. He was imprisoned in the castlo
of Sant' Angelo, from which hu escaped by
the aid of other Drinkers of Ashes, who
had watched over him in secret.

The Roman government, so well instruct-
eil in every thing, thanks to the cijules-

sional, was not long in discovering the exist-
ence of a society inimic.ll to its interests.
At first It was little troubled ; but, seeing
the number of its adherents increasing rap-
idly, an'l believing that the death of Savo-
narola was the only cause of their hate, it
would use mildness, withdraw the former
(•ondemnatit)n, and at least rehabilitate the
martyr. Paul III. declared any one who
attacked his memory a heretic; Paul IV.
determined, after examination, that his
writings were irreproachable ; and at last
Benoit XIV. no longer hesitated to rank
him among the .lercitnts of God who merited
healificaliun. Such measures, however, were
not sufficient to disarm the men who de-
sired, not only vengeance, but also the
entire destruction of an order of things the
most complete and most solid that had ever
existed.

The scene of action of the Drinkers
of Ashes was not confined to Italy. They
en>'aged in the struggle against the house of
Austria. They took an important part in
the Reformation, the Thirty Years' War, the
creation of the kingdom of Prussia, that,
with its new Protestant power, seemed to
demand an overthrow of the old edifice of
Ilapsbnrg. During the French Revolu-
tion, one of the chiefs of the Drinkers of
Ashes was a member of the Convention : he
voted the death of Louis XVI., held impor-
tant offices under Napoleon, endeiivoring
with all his influence to overthrow the tem-
poral power. At the time of the Restora-
tion, the Ttphrapotes, who contended that
kings had no divine right, were in commu-
nication with the French Carbonari, and,
above all, with the various retreats of the
Dauphin. Dispersed in other times over

-ii

* .} i ^..i'^J\t "k- ' :^.^^^ ^ V i ' » ,.! '

SYLVRUINK.

149

you nro a man
L-entiirics ? "

ilVC."

I', and that saved
ed in the castle
•h hu oscapetl by
8 of Ashes, ivho
iccret.

, so well instruet-
s to the eijiilcs-
i)verin<; the exist-
I to its interests,
bled ; but, seeing
s inereasini; ra[)-
c death of Savo-
j of their hate, it
draw the iornier
t rehabilitate the
ed any one who
jretic ; Paul IV.
nation, that his
l)le; and at last
iiesitated to rank
'■ God who merlled
•es, however, were
the men who de-
ce, but also the
rder of things the
olid that had ever

of the Drinkers
d to Italy. They
;ainst the house of
juportant part in
ty Years' War, the
, of Prussia, that,
power, seemed to
the old edifice of
French Rcvolu-
the Drinkers of
le Convention : he
XVI., held impor-
ilcon, endeavoring
)vert]irow the tem-
iie of the Ilestora-
lio contended that
t, were in eommu-
h Carbonari, and,
)us retreats of the
. other times over

N 1 /

Europe, and even the New World, the
force of the work within liirty years sfcined
concentrated upu.i three principal points.
— the destruction of the temporal power, the
■overthrow of the empiri; of Austria, and
the annihilation of the Turkish empire of
the Occident. To these tende<l all the elforts
of the Tt'iihrripo/es. God alone in his un-
fathoniable secrets knows to what destiny
they are reserved.

The oath of 1408 is sworn .to-day ; but
* the mystic formula of the compact, im-
printed with the confused ideas of the Mid-
dle Ai^es, has expired, and it can find no
place iiere. It is enough to know that each
Drinker of Ashes is i)ledged never to risk
his life but ibr the work to which he is j^iven,
and under no pretext to fail to obey ; for,
if he refuses obeilience, he is punished by
death. In short, no matter what power is
vested in one member, he is never to use it
to arrive more surely or more (piickly to
the supreme end, unless the chiefs and the
association approve of it. TIte eldest chief
dwells beyond Jordan. By these words is
understood the territory of the power with
which there is no temptation to affiliate.
The six others reside ordinarily in the cen-
tre of the same country, ollen living two
and two together, or, at least, not far fiom
each other, so that they may be able to
take promptly any position that cu-cum-
stances demand.

These explanations, which I have given
as briefly as jiossible, seem necessary for the
comi)rehen8iou of the true story I am about
to relate.

BfLVERINE.

Between the end of the Oriental crisis
in 1840, and the first Italian commotion of
1847, a great calm seemed to reign over
the world. A profound silence enveloped
the ordinary political conspirators: kings

] seemed to sit traiuiuilly upon their thrones,
I and niimarchs the must ccmstitutional
I i)elieved tlieniselvi's al)sulute soverei'.'US.
During that period, the Drinkers of A>h('S
seemed to have vanished entirely, so pro-
found was their silence. The supreme
chief residiiil sometimes in Paris, .some-
times in London. His six associates were
scattered over Euroi>e, —two in Italy, two
others in Austria, and the two last lived
sometimes in Serbia, sometimes in Con-
stantinople. They olK'u held secret coun-
cils between them, when one would agitato
some new (juesi ion; for the initiative was
allowed to each one, especially for the
si)hero of action in which he moved. The
society re-united usually in Switzerland, a
free country, undisturbed in circulation,
and bordering on the scene of action.
They resembled birds of passagi!, who,
guideil by their instinct, sometimes arrive
in the same country froui all four corners
of the world. They gave the fraternal kiss
to those, who, without personal ambition,
worked for a common good; saluted each
other as in the time of Alexander VI., " /;»
nomine fratris Hicronfimi ;" discus»i»d
eagerly the question most important, dis-
playing the strongest airection in and confi-
dence for each other; parting, not only
with the hope of ai)proaching triumph, hut
armed with an unshaken faith, and a per-
sistent courage in spite of delay and defeat.
At that epoch one of the chiefs, who, in
his order, was styled Johab, son of Zerdi,
king of Edom for the tribes of llomagna,
lived in Ravenna, the centre of his action
in the Papal Stales. He had dissimulated
so cleverly, and had concealed his opinions
80 well, that he was left to live tran(iuilly
in the midst of the serious occupations
that seemed to fill his life. He was very
gentle, very affable, and not proud. I!o
talked voluntarily with the fishermen on
the coast ; and if by chance he had needed
a boat to have taken him even to Corfu, I
am convinced, so well was he liked, that
he would have found one without search-
ing long. He was called Flavio Masterna,
I and belonged to a very old Tuscan family.

150

THK DKINKEBS OF ASHES.

Conipliiisiint <;t'm'alo,'Hl^ fvi'ii triwl to
trivet' it, l)ii(k to llu" Ktriixi'an Masturnii,
who rci'jiicil in Uoium uiiiUt tli(! iiiinic of
S(!rviiis TiiUiiis. Flavio was tlu; fivft to
liiiijjh at the iihi!<trioiis origin they would
thrust upon hiui. He was a count or a
inar(|uis, I know not which ; l)ut hi; had
neviT taken any title, believin;,' that siieh
puerilities appertain liy rij^ht to those who
are lijreed to rtttrace the course of time to
Uiseover a merit, or to seareli a distinetion
anionj; the generations that arc for;i0tten.
He remained, then, particularly simiile;
intelligently attached to the work that re;;-
ulated his iilb ; beloved by those who sur-
rounded him. devoted, ready, and anxious
to please him ; and that sidlieed him. lie
lived beyond the city, on the border of
the celebrated forest of pines, in a small,
isolated house, covered with verdure, and
filled with books. He seemed to pass his
life ill a very simple fashion, between read-
in;4 and the few friends who visited him.
At least outwardly, there was nothing
stran'.'e in liis life. Ho accomplished reg-
nlarly, but without excess of zeal, the re-
li'j;ious duties imposed in the States of the
Church ; <;ave voluntary alms ; never spoke
of poUtics ; was friendly with the officers
who commande<l and tlie soldiers who held
the -garrison in tlie city ; but was never
Been in the cafeii, knowing well that they
are the refuge of idleness and fanaticism.
Soni'itimes he took long, solitary walks,
Ibllowed by a great dog, alert and watch-
ful, that was usually seen lying in the sun
on the door-stone of the house. Sailors
returning late from fishing had sometimes
encountered him on the shore, sitting upon
an upturned boat, as though hu waited for
some one ; but they had not paid much
attention to him, merely remarking, " Oh,
he is an original 1 " In spite of his extreme
sweetness ; in spite of his caressing man-
ners, peeidiar to the men of the Tuscan
race ; in spite of the dreamy sadness that
floated in his dark eyes.— when one regarded j
attentively his tall figure, already a little |
bent, his vigorous thinness, his olive tint, [
the energetic arch of his brows, his large, j

. full forehead, that a premature balducsB
made more striking, one li'lt in seeing the
' gravity that predominated in the expres-
si(m of this man of thirty-five years, that
iu him was something implacable and ab-
■ struse, — an interior life hidden from al'.of
' which he alone possessed the secret.
" Bah 1" said they, not icin'_' how grave he
was, ''he thinks of some old love sorrow."
|{ut they were mistaken : he lived in the
dilfiuulties of his double existence, con-
tbrming to the device, in the ba<l f.aiiu of
the Middle Age. betpiealhed to him by his
ancestors: '^ Alque wile itawm, juslillh"
(Kvcn belbre bread, justice.) He had no
family; his father had died in exile; his
brother had been shot at Jlodeua in the
course of a fruitless insurrection ; his
mother he hardly knew ; when he thought
of her, he remeuibered vau'Uely a large,
thin woman, who, each evening at her de-
votions, mingled prayers lor the carbonari
with imprecations against those she called
princes of the cursed alliance. Being ar-
rested at Milan fa- having insulte.l an
Austrian ollicer, when interrogated, she
declined to give her name and title ; then
added, Schiaua ! (slave). The police under
this foreign government not being merci-
ful, the Marchesa Masterna, of the dukes
of Montcspertoli, was treated as a woman
of abandoned life. She became insane
from humiliation, and died soon alter in a
mad-house.

Flavio was then alone, without any of
those natural ties which retain a man
within the circle of his own family. His
need of affection was nevertheless impe-
rious; and he had concentrated all ujwn
two persons, who formed what he called,
smiling to himself, his sentimental hori/on.
One of these persons lived not far from
him, in a modest liouse, hidden among the
pines that separate Ravenna from the sea.
II<'r name was Sylverine, and she was
very beautiful. She was a woman of
about thirty, and had been connected with
Flavio for somj years. Her origin seemed
doubtful: some s|)oke vaguely of a hus-
band abandoned in a strange country, of

mnttiro baliliicgii
•It ill »criii'4 the
1 ill ihi( I'xpri's-
•fivi.' yeiirs, that
|)liu'!il)lii iiml ab-
lidi'ii iVoiu ill', of
•(I'd tlie ^'la•l•et.
)'_' how (jravc he
jlil love sori'ow."
ho livfil ill the
cxisteiU'f, t-'cm-
llie hail Laliii of
lod to him liy hin
/xinem, Jitsiill'a "
ii'i'.) He liad no
ied in exile; his
t Modeiia in tho
iisurrcction ; his
when he thoujjht
va'jTUcly a lar'»e,
treiiiii'4 at her do-
lor the carhonari
: those Am called
iance. Beiiij^ ar-
vin<^ insfulte.l an
interro;4ated, she
e and title ; then
The police under
not beiii;4 merci-
jrna, of the dukes
iated as u woman
e became insane
id soon after in a

e, without any of
.h retain a man

own family. Ilis
levcrtheless impe-
lentrated all nixin
d what he called,
ntiinental hori/on.
lived not far from
hidden among the
;nna from the sea.
ine, and she was
was a Woman of
en connected with

Her origin seemed
vaguely of a hus-
trange country, of

RYLVKIUNE.

161

fliglit. of alidiiction ; but romance, without
doubt, coii^'lituled a ^rcat part of tlie'<e ,
vuiiiors. Sonic time before, she had come ,
to Uaveiina, under the jiretext of taking i
sea-baths. 'Hie country scciiu^d to |)lea!<c \
ber: she had hired a Iiouko, and installed j
herndf with two old domestics, who com- i
posed her whole family. She received
Flavio tamiliarly every day, and seldom
made visits in the city. That was all aliy
one knew ; but tliey were not slow in re-
marking that lier absences otlen coincided
with those of Flavio, and they were very
quick to divine that there existed between
these two persons more than the siiiiiile
relations of i'riendship. Without any
doubt they loved one another ; but there
was, in tlieir respective allections, diifereiit
essentials, of which it is well to take notice.
Wounded by the deception of life, hav-
ing crossed the fire and water of events,
associated from childhood with the various
eoni[)lications of a political career, Flavio
lacked that outward tenderness of sentiment
so agreeable to women, yet whicli so often
hides the emptiness of the heart. He was
a man solid in the lull acceptation of the
word, and lie found no need to repeat what
he felt each day. He loved Sylverine,
it is trui!, with a love unutterable and
devoted ; and, owing to the excessive matu-
rity of his nature, he seemed also like a
father to her.

" I ask but one thing," he said once to
Sylverine. " Never tell me a falsehood :
never deceive me. I am always strong
enough to liear the truth."

" Bah ! " she replied, laughing. " You
speak like an old tutor." In effect, slie
considered him a little as such, but she loved
him none the less. She was intelligent, and
understood with what a superior soul she
had to deal. She wept over the dangers
and trials of a Hie of which she alone knew
the secret. She understocl his most hidden
thoughts, when he recounted to her his
hopes and fears ; and even once in Sicily she
was associated with his perils during an
insurrection which was quickly suppressed.
She crossed with him mountains on foot

wiihoiit complaining, forgot the fecbleneis
of her sex, slept oil the bare earth, or took
refuge in the huts of the half-famished
herdsmen, playing tho riVr of heroine with
a simplicity that was the a^liniration of all
who saw lier. Hut inasmu; i as she was
invincible and resolute in the face of peril,
in herself she was wavering and uncertain :
she had strau.'e imaginations, reveries with-
out end, inexiilicalile abandcmments to
tears. She was not a virago, as one ini>;ht
think after such adventures, but a woman
sulVering i'rom all feminine weaknesses, to
which she succumbed without courage. In
the secret of her heart, she knew she was de-
voured with a need of tenderness that noth-
ing couhl satisfy. The emotion, whatever
it was, had for her a power that she knew
not how to conquer. She was all expansion,
all enthusiasm. The cold, sure, and severe
Flavio was not the man to entirely satisfy
the cravinus of such a nature. Sometimes,
in default of the love which she would have,
she played at the comedy ot love. Throw-
ing herself in the arms of Flavio, and leaning
her head upon his breast, she would remain
tor a long time, recounting to herself an
imaginary romance in which she and Flavio
played the first role. But, when she raised
her eyes, she could understand by his fiAcd
and absent regard that he was plunged in
far-off speculations that engrossed his
spirits entirely. Often she would hurst
into laughter, and say, " What a menage
we make, my Flavio I I sing, and you calcu-
late : I am a romance married to a theorem."
Then, seeing him Siuldened by these remarks,
she would throw herself on his neck, and cry,
" My Flavio, knowest thou not that I jest ?
I am a poor fool, that thou art too good to
love."

In saying this she was sincere ; for when
she accused lierself she spoke but the truth ;
knowing she was capable of "any rash act,
she distrusted her own heart. In fact, she
was an Italian, and had light ideas of
women's virtue, and estimated still less that
of men.

A celebrated Italian monk came to
I Ravenna to preach during Lent. He tbun-

152

THK DUINKKKS OF A8IIE8.

d.rcil nnfilnKt woiih'M. — pmIIoiI llicin clmi'^h- 1 'viml'l cay, " Lfuvf iiic niolu' : I am ncrt-r
tfin (if Satan, vt-»i'l!< ol' iiiii|uiiy; riirKcil • inihtiikoii."

the llfnh ivml its cins ; <in'il tliti Siriptiiri-H ; At lunt oik- uvi'iiin>:. wlicii Flavio wan nt
anil, ill chort, <>|M'iu'il to tlicm lM)tl» »i<k'J« of' tlic lioiici- of Sylvi'iini', lln'y huard Htcpn

the iloors of hell.

" What an iiifnifliTiihlL- piMhint ! " »niil
Sylvt'r'nui to Flavio.

" IVrhaiw he li convini'eil," roplii'il
Flavio.

.Sylvciine fihni;;;:»'il her Hhonl'U^rc, but

ra|(iilly mounting; llu- ctiiir-i, th(^ lioor
oprtifi! wilh a '^rcal noise, and riiovaii threw
hiniNeh' into th(^ arms of liis friend. He
tool* tlie hand of Sylverine fraterTialiy, rntl
tlieii l)e.;an to opejilt with a voliihility that
i)on' little rettMuliltiiue to the hal)itual ealui

made no reply. Alh-r that, she was so kiml of Flavio,

to th(! ]toor monk that he eoinpletely lost iiis
senses: one ilay, fallin<^ on the lloor at her
li'et, and embracin;,' them in his eoarse robe,
he deelanMl that lie. atlored her. " Pnilrc,
padre," said she, laui^hinj;, " yon must not
be no severe on the ptK)r women." And lie
never wasn'^ain.

It was then near to her in reality that
Flavio passed his life. She listened to him,
loveil him, ealmed liim, looked with resi;.'-
nation on the terrible eventualities that sur-
rounded his life, and was resolved to tiillow
him wherever he went. He ofk-n spoke
to her o.' (iiovan Seo^jlia, who, with her,
shared all his alFt'eiions. Tliis Uiovan
Seo^ilia, also Drinker of Ashes, and Kin^
of Edom tor the Neapolitan tribe?, under
the name of Balhenane son of Aehl)or,
had ibr a lon;j; time inhabited Naples,
from whieh plaee ho had been oblij^cid
to rtee, followed by a too clairvoyant
poliee. At that time he had been all over
Europe, visitin;:; the faithful, and strength-
onini; everywhere the eonls that de-
feat had weakened. When his journey
terminated, he was to come to llavenna and
nettle near Flavio, who felt Ibrhiin a friend-
ship so tender that it was almost a weak-
ness. Flavio rejoiced at the approaching
arrival of his friend ; and Sylverine, who had
heard so much of liiin, awaited him with
impatience. " When Giovan comes," was
a sacramental [)hrase of the lovers : all
seemed suspended until that arrival so
aiuiously expected. Sylverine had never
seen him ; but she imagined how he would
look, pretendinjito know him much better
than Flavio. Sometimes, when he would
correct her nii^taketi on the subject, she

Sylverine regarded the new-comer; Im
was not at all what she <'xp('t'ted. Inste.'td
of the man, absorbed, sc^rious, and uvon a
little sullen, that she had ima|.;ined, she
saw a yoim'^ man of nlmut twenty-five,
blomle, sli',dit, but of an elegant fi'.:ure,
showiu'i with coinplaceney hands womanly
white; while on his lips, a little too red,
was an expression of seornlul ]iride, that
seemed to contradict the extreme sweetness
of liis blue eyes. His manner toward
Flavio was that of a s])oil(Ml child, — a sort
of timid respect mixed with a wheedliiii;
resistance. Then! was in him an exuber-
ance of life that escaped in s))ite of his
eflurts to repress it, while he heaped ipies-
tion upon ipiestion.

"What do you do liere ? Are there
any amusements ? Have you any horses V
Is there n theatre ? Are the women
pretty ? Where do you go in the evening ?
Can one hunt about here ? "

Sylverine listeneiJ a little confused to the
flood of words. " At least, he is full of
life," she thought.

Flavio himself seemed disconcerted by
so much non.sense. " It is T, nevertheless,
who have raised such a rattle-brain, "said he.

" You have an astonished air," said Syl-
verine, "like a hen who has hatched a
duck."

They did not separate until late in the
night, for they had much to recount.

" How do you like him ? " said Flavio to
Sylverine.

" He is charming," she replied.

Ho put the same question to Giovan,
respecting Sylverine. " I don't know," he
said : '* I have scarcely looked at her."

on«> : I am m^rer
rn Flavio w;in at

lll'y lu'ill'll Htl'pH

iiiiii'", tlio iloor

iiiil (fidvaii threw

Ills trii'iul. IIu

rratcniiilly, mil

a viiliihilitv that

till- Imliitual calm

iu'w-comor : ho

iM'ti'd. Inittend

iitiH, ami (;vt>n a

il iiiia;{inoil, tiliu

iKiiit twi!iity-fivo,

1 I'lc'^ant fi','iiru,

y liaiiils voiimiily

il little too roil,

oriiliil priili', that

?xtr<'nu? sweetness

niaiiner towaril

li'il child, — a sort

iviili a wheeijliiii^

I him mi exiilicr-

'd ill spite of hid

i liti heaped (jiios-

here? Are there
J you any horses ?
Are the women
ro in the eveiiin;^ ?
'! "

tie confused to the
last, he is lull of

1 disconcerted by
is I, nevertheless,
;tle-brain,"8aid he.
led air," said Syl-

has hatched a

until late in the

to recount.

? " said Flavio to

a replied.

estion to Giovan,

1 don't know," he
loked at her."

8YLVKUINE.

153

He lied, for II.' had n>j;nriU'd her with
much niM'iitiiin ; hut he liinl the singular
(.'ift thai leloli;^'* to the doiihle nature of the
Italian and conspirator, tu asioiii:<h people
hy a (low of wonis, by precipitate u.'ive-
ment^, Ity an appearance of Itliisteriii^'
frankness, that ilcccived the host advised ;
while he tiillowed iin|)erluiiialily the iln'cad
of his secret thou;;hts, and ohserveil with a
marvellous perspicuity all that [lassed
nroiiiid him. He had often put that science
to the service of his own jiassions ; tor he
fiutVered the tyrnnny of a (lery impetu-
osity.

'• I have tempests in me," he often said.
At times Im fci'.;ned violence, and his vio-
lence served his dissiinnlation. lie turned
nway suspicion iiy force of iiliandon, hy
vivacity ami l)oyi:<hnes;<, as I'Mavio did by
reserve and di;,'nily. While talkin;.^ freely
to Flavio. he watched Sylverine. In the
pure lilies of her lieautiful face, in the
veiled glances of her lar;^e eyes, of a blue
so deep as to appear black, in the sparkliiii.;
liiuiih that >howed her whit*! ti'cfli, he
fancied hi; detected somethiii;.; of weari-
ness and inditl'crence, that indicated a
native weakness ; and he did not hesitate
to say to Fl.ivio afterwards, " I will bet my
ca)) a<rainst n carilinal's hat, that you, with
your Fententions and (loji;matie love, weary
her enough to make her weep."

In that he was mistaken. Sylverine sut-
fered, it is true ; but it was because she be-
lieved she was not loved enough.

As to Flavio, he needed nothing : he lived
in the plenitude of happiness, with the two
beings he loved best in the world. He
listened to their conversation with pleas-
ure, laughed at their follies, and sometimes
softened almost to tears on seeing them so
hapjiy together. They scarcely parted
during the day ; they read or walked under
the shadows of the pines ; and their even-
ings were spent with Flavio, who, olU-n lost
in his own thoughts, left them to a tele-a-ti^r.
They did not intend to abuse his confi-
dence, certainly not ; but their conversa-
tion became more intimate, and glided
gradually down the declivity of confidence

from which it is imponsible to reiiirii as
intact as one has ileM'einleil.

Xeiiher .Sylverine nor (iiovan coldly

conceived the thought to ih ive Flavio,

The iiliM gave birth to itself. It was the
result of their meeting, their const.int coiih
paiiionship, their youth, in fact, a thousand
circiinistanccs against wliich only those
could striig'.'le who were cold, selt-con-
tained, and invincibly armed with virtue.
They did not go toward the limit, if I may
so speak : the fault came to tlnin. They
Were young and congenial to each other;
and, having no solid Ibiiiidation on whicii
to stay their resistance, they gradually
drifted toward the sad result.

Very often Sylverine, looking at Gioraii
and Flavio, and compariiit; their diverse
characters, would think witli an iiiex|iressi-
hie Jiaiig, •' My (iod I these poor, dear beads
will, jierhaps, fiill on an obscure scallbld.
I will keep them with me, and hide them
from all danger; or I will accompany them
in their enterprise, share their p(!rils, and
die in their anus."

Had (iiovan, then, taken such a place in
her heart? It seems so. In any case, she
was the most clear-sighted, and the first to
feel that the situation was becomiiig dan-
gerous. She was very severe with herself
in the calm of her reflections, making no
cowardly excuses. " Wilt thou, then, leave
thyself to bi; bewitched with Giovan?" she
wouhl-say. " Wiltthoudeceive Flavio? " It
was not because she believed it to be a sin, —
1 have said that abstract virtue had no great
hold upon her mind ; but she feared to dis-
tress the man whom she loved .so much, who
had for her an extreme aftection, and who
had treated her so long wi'th the greatest
kindness. In any other circumstances, she
would not have hesitated to have given her
hand to (iiovan, and said, " I love you ; "
but, arrested by the thought of the good
Flavio. she dared not advance a step on
the way that attracted her to the new-comer.
'• We can, perhaps, save ourselves," she
said, but without much conviction ; for
she could not count upon herself to accom-
plish guch a miracle.

154

TFTR imiNKERfl «>P ASFfKH.

On Iii« "iiK'. riio\,ui wim no hm^ji-r trim*
<|i)il. Till' I'niii that liiiii'."* on it ti rbiilili-n
Iri'i* iill'ct'x II r>iii'jill.'ir iiltriuMioii In riTtiill)
iiiiiiiri's. Ui'<«i|iiii', |iriiiii|, mill iicrnUtfiit,
III- liml i|iiii'kly I'ljiiiiii'ii till! oii!itiU'lu!t tliiit
Hi'|iui'<iii'i| liim Iriiiii HvlvrrliKV, lint llicxi-
tili.'ttai'li'n ii'iiialcil, r:illii'i' lliaii riHili'ij, liji
piMNJiii. KiMiinrHi- lillc'il liiH heart, wla-n liu
tlion.'ht ut' liin frii'inl; ami iu; trit-il to rv
uiii<iiri' liiiifi'ir wiili wi':ik iii%;uiii''iil<i ; oHi-ti
Kiiyin'^, wlii'ii ill- fiiw liiitv culin w:ih the iit-
luctiim tliiil Flavin ilMplaycil tiir Hylverlno,
" Hah t it ii imt Invi', it i" only lialiit."
Iti-a^iiiiu'.' loiili>h anil wick' il, tliiit lu>
(U>H|iii<ci| hiinKt'lt' Cor cviT toii-riii iii'^. What
woiiM \u\ liavo ? He wan not contcntcil
with liiin-ii'll'. ilis coiiscicni'i! was not at
ruHt ; Miini'tiiin'4 wiiliin him ('oiii|ilaintMl
iiiL'(':<i<ani!y, that hi* rmilil not <|Mii't : that
iiili'rior voiri' was heanl ahovi- all the noisii'
of the worlil ; it raticiii'ii him with itn jicr-
Histi'ni'y, yt't gave him no (^trcni^th to make
a jtimmI iuhI tlelinitc ri'!«olntion. "Alter
III!," he saiil, ■' I love her: ami it is not my
limit." He lieeaine sail ; aiKJ to llie exeess of
gayety that during the first diiys disturbed
the serious lite of Flavio, siieieeiled a sort
of irritation, the uaiitic of wliieh he would
not avow.

" Al'ter such a life of exeitement," thouj^ht
Flavio, " he fiiiils it dilliriiil to nceustoui
himself to our too peaeealilo existence."

He could not deceive Sylveiine, who felt
that a crisis !i|iproaelie(l ; yet she had re-
wilved notliinj^ within herself; she regarded
Flavio with sudnesH, and Giovan with uax-
iety.

It was on the shore of the sea that the
important words escaped their lips. They
had gone out together, and crossed the for-
est of pines, where forever moans the
monotonous breeze that resembles the con-
fused and perpetual 'plaining of sorrow.
Walking side by side, they had reached the
sandy shore of the Adriatic. ISotli wure si-
lent. Giovan, uneasy, and irritated by his
interior struggle, never raised his eyes to
Sylveriiie, whose affected calm betrayed her
inr{uietude. They sat down under tuo
shadow of u iishermun's hut, and looked out

I on lite tnini|iiil iiuii, whoMt an-vn pl.mc
Heenieil to reach the horixon. (iiovnn
drew to_'elher with his cane sonic •.lidU
and dried sea-weed; .Sylverine mechani-
cally traced undeciileil lines in the mo\ in^
sand. In u moment, as if he had taken a
Hiidden resoliiiion, (iiovaii said to iier,
"Can you write on the sand where the

i waves will ellaeu it, tint name of him you

' love ? "

" Of what giMid to write, if the waven

I must efface it? " replied Sylverine. " .Viid

I yoii," added she, looking at him lixcilly^
" will you write the name of her you

I love V "

lie arose from his seat with iin|ietuosity,

'mid cried, "Yes: by (iod! I will write it,
thiiiigh the heavens crush mi! t " and, with

; the aid of his stick, he traced in lar<;u
letters the name of Sylverine.

iSilentlv. with the end of her parasol, sho

I ell'accd the letters slowly one by one : then,
without raising her eyes, she said, " You are
insane."

, Ciiovan's passion broke all l)ound» ; and,

I forgetting all prudence, he told her how ho

' had loved her trom the first day that Iw had
seen her ; that he was invincibly drawn

I toward her ; that l»o was not guilty for
yielding to a jiassion he could not resist.

' That his will, usually so strong, was as

I nothing when he would place it as an ol)-
staele against his overwhelming love. IIo
spoke with ardor, and said more than
he intended. " I love you : I love none but
you," cried he, taking her hands. " If you
refuse me, if you laugh at me, it' you treat
me as a child or a fool, I will go away, and
rush into danger where I will find death."
"And Flavio 1 " cried Sylverine.
It was the drop of water that cooled tho
ebullition. Giovan sank into his seat ; and,
covering his face with his hand, he groaned,
" 1 am miserable, I am miserable ! "

At that moment, Sylverine perhaps
might have saved all, if there had been in
Giovan a strength that she had the right
to invoke. A man of sacrifice in his pub-
lic lite, she could have shown him the
grandeur of a sacrifice made to gratitude

?KaKWis«r

11 ({ri:«'n 1>1 «no
i/,iiii. (li'ivan
If Hiimr -lit'll^
•riiu" nii'il>'*i""
1 ill ill.' iii..\in'^
HI liail t;ik.'n n
I Hlllll I" ^'^'i''
511(1 wlllTC lilt'

imi- ot liiix y"

!(., it' tlic waves

^Ivi'i'iiu'. " '^'>''

ul him (ixi'illy,

mi. of hor )uu

with iiniu'tiiosity,
I! 1 will writo it,
I mill" ami, with
iratc.l ill large
rinc.

)i" hiT iinrasol, nho
one by "lie '• ll>i'n»
<hc naiil, " You uro

1 all Ixmnils ; and,
liu tohl her iiow ho
rst (lay that he had

invincihly drawn
rAi not 'guilty ibr
,e could not rc^ist.
so Btronjr, was as

pi lice it as an ob-
rhclmiii;; love. He
1 i^aid more than
■ou ; I love none but
ler hands. " If you
I at me, if you treat

I will so away, and
. I will find death."
d Sylverinc.
rater that cooled tho
»k into liis seat ; and,
his hand, he groaned,
I miserable 1 "

Sylverine perhaps
if there had been in
lat she had the right
1 siicrifiee in his pub-
lave shown him the
,ce made to gratitude

BYLVEUINK.

1»

nnd f..l..nd.hi,.; .h« .•■"«M have entreated |

him to leave her. and. profiiln- by hi. real ,

.orrow. havo »e.ured fn.u. him a proml.o

tnilepart at one,. ; Imt nhe was enchained ,

hvihe power ofthi. m-w all-eetlon ; and,

ftiihoii di she knew she was pli.n-m,' her-

»,.lf into dreiullul .•omplleations, tar Irom

bein' .liMuaved, she was attrivted by the

neeifof strong emotions, which slui d.'sned

without ceasinjl. M'S alter a moments

eiU.nce, .he exclaimed.^ " Alas ! and what

Kliidl 1 say of myself? "

It was an avowal. Giovan seized her
hands, ami covered them with kisses.

The ni-lit had come: they arose to
reliirn U. llaveuna. Slowly, step by step,
they crossed the obscure forest, and mvol-
„„„,ilv ,hcv subsided into the reaction
that follows such a crisis. It seemed as
thou-h they were arrested on the very
threrhold of what they called happiness,
but what was in reality treason. They
.poke little, ami in a low voice Then,
thinkini,' of tlie honest man they had de-
ceived, they said. '• Poor Flavio I "

" I have not the courage," said Sylvenne,
«• to ti'll him the truth."

" Neither have I," replied Giovan.
"Tlien he must remain in i'^noranco
always," returned Sylverine.

Giovan did not answer, but inclined his
head in Bi^n of aciiuiesence.

One might say that Sylverine, who loved
these two men, and who did not understand
her own diseased anil troubkd heart, had
„b..yed a double insti,iet,-alas! too cotu-
mon,- fragility and perlidy. But or
Giovan, accustomed to the loyalty ot a hie
where sacrillee demanded the greater part,
one may readily believe that>he did not
re.i.'n himself to the sad rvle which was
reserved for him without many interior
combats. There would have been a cer-
tain nobility in seeking Flavio, and saying
tohim,"! love Sylverine 1 How shall it
be settled between us ? " But Giovaii was
afraid of his friend- He feared to blush
belbre him who alone knew how great was
his ingratitude. So he preferred to enter
into the labyrinths of an intrigue where he

would be rchiccd to unworthy ni.e* to
a.-reivti the man under whose root he lived,
,u,.l who had opem.d to him the d.H.r of

Sylverine with such I idless illden.'O.

Ill spite of the revolts of cimsciemc he le-
Mi.M.ed himself u. the unworthy poMtion
tliat became day by day more dilUciilt to
Hustain. In f.U't, the love of Giovan lor
Sylverine was m.t a caprice .puckly satis-
tiiMl l'osses^ion only exaggerated it, until
it became an ardent passion, exclusive and
tryannical. which im'reased in spite ot all
obstacles and would only siippcrt with In-
finite trouble the restraints imposed.

It was no l.mger Flavio that Sylvrino
feared. It was Giovan ; for he had reached
Huch a state of jealousy that he would break
through all reserve, ami iutHic.'e every
right. " Vim will make nm hate Flavio,
Haid he to Sylvcrluo.

.'Alas!" replied she, nearly weeping,
•«lt is Flavio I have deceived Ibr you, and
not you for him. What more woul.l you

bave V " , r 1 1

"If he w.as but your husband I woiilU
support it, for I should be obliged to ; but
he is not. and I am right to exact that yoii
break absolutely every tie with hiiu. Ah 1
1 will seek him, ami tell him all, and then
_ to the nier(7 of God 1 "

" Uo what thou wilt, my poor Giovan.
1 I am prepared for the woyst.^^ The heart
' of Flavio is greater than thini'."

(iiovan fell into indecision. He loved
liis frienil; he adored Sylverine ; yet some-
times he felt like cursing both. The vio-
lence of his nature was revealed lu the
struggle, ill which he was always van-
(piished, never having the strength to con-
nuer himself. He sullered dee|.ly i and
Flavio anxiously interrogated him as to the
cause of his apparent illness. Giovan was
on the point of throwing himself on his
friend's neck, and of telling him all the
lamentable history, but a mistaken shame
retained the confidence on his lips : he pre-
tended a nervous disease, and said nothing.
Outwardly, .at least, nothing was changed
in their existence. They lived as unitedly
as before. They passed their evenings to-

raasT'

156

THE DPJNKKRS OF ASHES.

gfther with Sylverinc. Toward ini(liii:j;lit
they l)otli siiitl lulicii, iuul re'urnud to the
house of Flavii>, who, tnmiiiiilly (Ireiuniii;;
anil relh'ctin'j. played his part in the <h-nnia
without suspicion. How could he divine V
was not his confi(h'nco absolute ?

Svlverine, who loved emotion, had more
than she wished i'or. The siru;^:,'le in-
creased nevertheless, until often she was
ready to abandon all. The violent and
incessant reproaches of Oiovan wearied her
beyond measure. Flavio, in his paternal
ailection, always had a mild, indul'^ent
kindness for her. Now there was nothin','
but tempests : she had desired them, it is
true ; but she had more than enou^'h. Some-
times, playin;; upon the name, of Scojrlio,
which si;;nilies clilFor rock, she would say,
" Ah ! thou art well-named. I shall be
wrecked a;_'ainst thee." Nevertheless, she
closed her eyes, and drifted with the cur-
rent, not havinj^ streni^th to return. Often
she asked herself, " How will thi.s end V "
then she fell into depths of sadness when
the tenilerness of Flavio only seemed a re-
proach. She loved Giovan : she loved
Flavio ; which did she love the best ? She
could not say. " In short," she thought,
" if both were in the perils of death, if both
were drowning under my eyes, which would
I save ? " She rellecteil a long time upon
the question she addressed to herself; then,
bursting into tears, she cried, " Alas 1 I
would save him who was nearest me, and
pass the remainder of my life in regretting
the other." Beyond these obscurities, she
could find no light to guide her : she was
lost in the confusion of her own sentiments.
But, by a contradiction that existed with-
out the power of explanation, she often
thought of Giova:i when with Flavio, and
of Flavio when near Giovan. If one had
asked her which she preferred, she would
have replied in all sincerity, " He who is
not here."

Nevertheless, life went on; day fol-
lowed day, and the three persons in the
drama moved in the same circle. Flavio
always calm; Giovan forever meditating
Bome new violence that he dared not cxe-

I cute ; Sylverine resigned to the catastro-
phe that she foresaw without power to
avert.

It was a chance, or an imprudence, of
(Jiovan, that revealed at a single blow, to
his friend, the truth of which he had no
suspicion. As nearly always in such cir-
cumstances, fate uses the mer as the most
simi)le to enlighten the darkness.

Flavio had known for a long time that
the Drinkers of Ashes meditated a move-
ment in Southern Italy. He had calcu-
lated the chances, — they were di>ubtfid, if
not contrary; but he had judged that even
an imsuccessful insurrection was necessary,
if but to awaken the interest of ()ub!ic
opinion. During forty years, Ein-ope had
been surprised at the failure of all tiie ellbrts
in Italy, which seemed often only to tend
to the shooting, hanging, or imprisoning of
some poor creature, generous (!ven to iblly.
The insiu'rection with which Flavio was
occupied at that time had been i)repared
in silence. At the last moment, when all
should be ready, a chief of the Drinkers of
Ashes must, according to the custom in
su<'h a case, be on the spot where the first
blow was to be struck, hiding his identity
under the disguise of a /(V/dm/i/, re-uniting
under his hand all the secret threails of
the adventure, arranging and directing all
without exciting the least suspicion. The
movement had been devised and conducted
almost to the point of disclosure during
the absence of Giovan, who scarcely sus-
pected it. His friend had spoken of it
vaguely, waiting until all was concluded
to show him the complete plan.

Flavio was then much engaged with the im-
portant arrangements ; for, if the insurrec-
tion succeeded in the Neapolitan States, he
would immediately stir up Romagna, and
recommence the fruitless campaign of 1831.
He passed his time meditating upon this
project, and often remained entire hours
studying the map of Calabria, searching
the points of landing, and the roads most
sin-e to arrive at Cosenza, from which
place they had intelligence, and which
they hoped to make the centre of supplies

1 to the catastro-
witliout power to

an iinpriidenoe, of
,t a siiv^Ie blow, to
' wliii'h he hail no
Iways in such cii'-
,e uicius the most
darkness.

a long time that
meditated a niove-
y. He had calcii-
■y were doubtful, if
il judged that even
tion was necessary,
interest of public
years, Eiu'ope had
are of'all tiie ellbrts
often only to tend
f, or iin[)risoninp; of
eroiis (!ven to folly,
wliich Flavio was
liad been i)repared
t moment, when all
of the Drinkers of
; to the custom in
?pot where tlio first
hiding his identity
fiflurnnU re-uniting
! secret tlireads of
ig and directing all
;ast suspicion. The
i'ised and conducted
f disclosure during
I, who scarcely sus-
1 had spoken of it
all was concluded
etc plan.

engaged with the im-
for, if the insurrec-
leapolitan States, he
r up Romagna, and
ss campaign of 1831.
leditating upon this
nained entire hours
Calabria, searching
and the roads most
isenza, from which
Jigence, and which
le centre of suppliea

SYLVEEINE.

157

for the insurrection, as well as the centre
from which the revolt would spread to the
neighboring jjrovinces. One night ho sat
until bite, searching for a landing-place.
Should it be on the eastern side, toward
Cotrone, where the Bandieri brothers had
stranded? Or should it be on the west-
ern side, near Sapri, where, later, Tiscane
came to dieV lie lelt liitigued with med-
itation, anil a prey to the cruel insomnia
familiar to those who overtask the brain.
Needing some one to speak to, to distract
his thoughts from himself, he went into
the chamber of Giovan to talk with him.
The room was emi)ty; the bed :iad not
been used. Flavio made a gesture of sur-
prise, and then began to laugh. " Ah 1 "
said he, " he seeks adventure in llavenna,
and says not a word to me. What child-
ishness ! "

He descended, and left the house. The
moon, at its full, illuminated with pearly
tints the heavens sown with stars. Reach-
ing the house of Sylverine, he thought,
" Perhaps she has not retired," and rapped
lightly at her window. He repeated it sev-
eral times, but no one replied. "She
*8leei>s," he said, and turned away to take
one of those long, nocturnal walks, that
calmed and soothed him after his mental
fatigue. Scarcely had he taken a dozen
steps when a sudden suspicion wrung his
heart. " Giovan absent ! the door of Syl-
verine closed 1" He strove to shake off
tlio cruel thought. "I am insane," he
said. Nevertheless, he sat down at the foot
of a tree, and surveyed the route atten-
tively. For more than an hour, he re-
mained plunged in retlections that tortured
him. Then suddenly ho heard a window
open softly, and Sylveriue, putting out her
bead, regarded carefull> the road. Flavio,
lost in the shade, was invisible. Some
moments after a door opened, and a man
descended the st.eps. It was Giovan,
who walked away peacefully in the di-
rection of his dwelling.

Flavio started up with a bound, and
iaughed with dreadful bitterness. " Ah 1 "
said he, " that is it."

Then, turning his

back upon the house that, revealed the
odious secret, he rushed away with rapid
steps. To his first burst of rage, succeed-
ed a deep dejection at finding himself sud-
denly face to face with his interior ruin ;
then a profound commiseration filled his
heart when he thought of the treason hid-
den with such care. "Ah!" said he,
" how they must sulfer to deceive me so ! "
His great soul, his unselfish soul, was up-
permost in the conilict ; and little by liitle
it calmed the finiipi-st that raged with such
fury. Still he returned often to the thought,
" Why have they deceived me ? Why
have they been so false ? Am I, then so
cruel and severe that they must dupe me
by the deepest hypocrisy?" He suifered
much in his friendship for Giovan, in his
love for Sylverine, and his confidence for
both. " Who, then, can one trust? "demand-
ed he ; and the grave voice of his own
experience answered, " No one." He re-
flected on his life, the great aim ho pursued,
the important matters that occupied him ;
and, in comparison with these, a disappoint-
ed love was but a little thing. Still his
philosojjhical reasoning did not comfort
liim. " My life is sad, tormented, misera-
ble : Sylverine was my only light and joy.
Why, then, has she deceived me? And
Giovan, the child who has grown up
under my eyes, and who is as my own son."
Then he repeated his eternal question,
" Was she not free ? Why, then, have they
both deceived me? Their only excuse,
if they have one, is that they were invinci-
bly attracted towards each other by a
passion too strong for them to resist ; and
they have hidden it ii-om me because they
feared to distress me 1 " He held fast to
that thought : it gave him something real
to seize upon ; and in it ho found almost an
excuse for them. Although he accepted the
idea, he knew it was but false coin. He
paid it, neviirtheless, for her. Giovan and
Sylverine, were they not as his own chil-
dren ? and if he had for them that inex-
haustible indulgence that survives every
thing in the heart of a parent, how could
he reproach and despise them ? Certainly*

158

THE DRINKERS OP ASHES.

in an explanation, he coulil have played
the siiiicrior role, that of juil'^e ; but to hun
till! thought of such an explanation was hu-
niiliatin;^ bi'yoiid expression. " Fight on,
old gladiator!" he said at last with a
smile "that contained many tears, "and
learn how to die with courage."

AVhen the day dawned pale and cold
over awakening nature, it revealed Flavio
leaning against a tree, watching the waves
that broke tremblingly on the shore. I
know not why ; but the movement always
repeated, and the murmur always the same,
Beemed to irritate him. " O brutal and
perfidious!" he cried, throwing a sharp
stone against the advancing wave : " why
do you complain without ceasing V "

That niuht of anguish and contradiction
— a night more terrible than that of Jacob ;
for Flavio had to struggle, not only with his
good, but also with his bad angels — purified
his heart already so noble, and strength-
ened it in its sorrow. It was not without
great ami painful convulsions of feeling that
he took his resolution ; but at last he took
it, and he kept it. " And sc." said he, " I
have but two friends."

When the three met again, the face of Fla-
vio had resumed its habitual impassibility ;
and Sylverine.iii spite of her inquietude, read
nothing there. " I knocked last night," he
said to her; " but you did not hear." She
•was not re-assured. Was Flavio as ignorant
as he appeared ? She believed not. What
•was then passing within his heart? a de-
crease of love, or an excess of generosity ?
She knew not. In any case, she would have
preferred his reproaches ; for she felt ill at
ease before the Sphinx, who would not pro-
nounce tlie word of his enigma.

From that day there was a certain change
in the habits of Flavio : he came less often
to the house of Sylverine ; and sometimes
in the evening he did not appear with Gio-
van as had been the custom.

" What is the matter, my Flavio ? " she
said to him : " 1 scarcely see thee now."

'• I have much to do at present," he re-
plied. She was ast(mishe(l and distressed
at his excessive reserve. He was no longer
t

the same to her, and she was as irritated as
though it were treason. She was tossed be-
tween two contrary currents, anil knew not
where to rest. At times she said, '• What
have I done that he should no Itmger love
ine ? " At other times she understood her
guilt; and, looking into the very depths of
her heart, she knew how odious was her
crime. Then she asKed herself, " Why do
I complain ? has he not the right to desi)iso
me ? " Still, she could not accustom her-
,^elf to the thought that she had lost the es-
teem and tenderness of Flavio. At times
she blamed Giovan, forgetting that she was
as much in fault as he ; and that it was
her own will that had plunged her into such
dreadful complications. And so she re-
volved in this bewildering circle, at times
resolved to tell all to Flavio, and entreat
him to take her away from Giovan : again
she thought of his despair, and ima.;iiied
that he also was necessary to her happiness.
In this way she was something as a needle
between two magnetic poles, sorely bailliMl
and perplexed. She had believed that love
consists in loving much ; and, in spite of her
sorrows and her struggles, she did not yet
understand that love consists in loving but
one. Giovan understood it, for he desired
to tear every thought from her heart that
was not for him : his love — the love that
at first had appeared so resigned — had now
become a permanent fury. " As long as we
two are together near thee," said he to Syl-
verine, " there can be no happiness for us."
She had spoken to him of the reserve of
Flavio : he did not believe it, or at least his
jealousy would not allow hi in to. " Love
is a repose," she said, " and not a combat."
Still he was none the less aggressive and
violent : obeying his nature, which was ex-
clusive even to injustice, he made Sylverine
suflPer because he sutfered himself.

Flavio, who lived impassibly in the secret
of his own sorrows, read upon the pallid fea-
tures of Giovan the too visible traces of his
ceaseless struggle. All was explained to him
now: the irritability of his friend, the
unquiet sadness of Sylverine. Looking at
himself, and comparing his own sorrow with

■s a i a.a'jijti^-i^

W!i9 as irritated as
Slu! was tossud i)L'-
nts, anil k\w\v not

slie itaid, '• Wliat
lid no lon'^or lovo
he understood luT
tlie very dejitlia of
w odioi's was her

liLT-seli', " Why (lo
tlie ri^lit to despiso
not accustom hor-
she h:ul lost the es-

Flavio. At times
jetting that she' was
1 ; and that it was
lun<^ed her into such
And so she re-
•in^ circle, at times
Flavio, and entreat
rem Giovan : again
pair, and ima'^incd
iry to herhap[)iness.
iiething as a needle

poles, sorely baiUiMl
ad believed that lovo
; and, in spite of her
les, she did not yet
Hisiats in loving but
o<l it, for he desired
from her heart that
love — the love that
resigned — had now
iry. " As long as we
;hee," said he to Syl-
no happiness for us."
n of the reserve of
ieve it, or at least his
ow him to. " Love
' and not a combat."

less aggressive and
ature, which was ex-
e, he made Sylverine
red himself,
ipassibly in the secret
,d upon the pallid fea-
3 visiblo traces of his
I was explained to him

of his friend, the
Iverine. Looking at
g his own sorrow with

SYLVERINE.

ir>9

the "re.atneas of his sacrifice, he said, " And i have neither strength nor virtue : neverihe-

" . . __ . . . -r , t . .1 •_ 1 :* :.. *1

they are not even hapjiy ! " He knew the
character of (iiovan ; and he expected every
day to see hiin enter, furious, not knowing
that he had learned all, and to hear him ile-
niand in his impetuous manner, '• By what
right do you love Sylverine V " As much
to escape from himself as to force his obtru-
sive thoughts to silence, he worked with
ardor, and prepared, without relaxation,
the movement that the Drinkers of Ashes
intended to make in the Neapolitan prov-
inces.

The day that he feared airived. One
nioruing, being alone in his room, occupied
with writing an important letter in cipher,
he saw Giovan enter. At the first glance,
he knew that the decisive moment had ar-
rived. Giovan, his eyes on fire, his lips pale
and trembling, advanced rapidly toward
him, saying excitedly, " I love Sylverine,
and she loves me. I wish thee to know it."
" I know it," replied Flavio calmly.
The blow was sudden for Giovan, who
felt his anger soften in the presence of his
friend ; but he quickly recovered himself,
and cried angrily, " If you know it, why do
you allow itV"

" Because I love thee," replied Flavio
with a smile that brought the tears to his
eyes ; " because 1 am the only judge of my
renouncements ; and perhaps, also, because
it is more sweet for me to suffer, than to
know that thou art unhappy."

Giovan could contain his feelings no
longer ; throwing himself upon the breast
of Flavio, he burst into tears. " Ah 1 " he
cried, " tliou art truly our dear Masterna ;
thou art truly he whom we call heart of dia-
mond, the greatest of us all ! Curse me, beat
me, driveme from thee; but do not in pity
kill me with thy kindness 1 Thou makest me
hale myself. What ! wilt' thou say noth-
ing V Thou knowest all, and hath not mur-
dered me like a dog V I adore I.; •. I am
dying ■.'. ith jealousy ; I am maa at the
thought of her loving thee ; I despise my-
self beyond expression, but I cannot help
it. I am bewitched ; I am possessed ; I can-
not recover myself, an<l I am miserable. I

less I must do soinetliini : and it is tlioii
who must aid me. It is Ihoii who hast ever
assisted me. Tliou hast tau'iht me what
I know ; and, if I have not fallen into the
gulf of debauchery, it is because tliou hast
always upheld me and restrained me. In
spite of all. thou art calm and indulgent.
Why dost thou not reproach me ? "

" Thou reproachest thyself," replied Fla-
vio. " I have nothing to say."

Giovan had a spasm : he held his heart
in both hands. " What wilt thou do ?
What wilt thou do ? " he cried.

" What wilt thou that I do, my child ? "
demanded Flavio. " Canst thou not enjoy
thy happiness in peace, without disturbing
that of others ? "

'' Thou lovest her no longer, then V "
cried Giovan.

" Ah 1 why should 1 show it ? " returned
Flavio. " I love her still, and more than

ever.

" Thou tearest my heart in shreds,"
cried Giovan, falling into a chair, and cov-
ering his face with his hands.

Flavio, hearing him sob, took him in his
arms, and caressed him as mother would a
sick child. But Giovan discn'j:ag(Ml him-
self by a sudden movement from his gentle
embrace ; and, raising toward him his fiice
disfigured with anger, he cried, " Ah, thou
art my evil genius ! Thou hast entangled
me in political impossibilities, and the only
woman I can ever love thou lovest also."

Flavio made a gesture of inefiable pity.
" Poor child ! " said he : " how thou must suf-
fer to be so unjust 1 I am sorry for thee, from
the bottom of my heart."

" I will not have thy pity," cried Giovan.
His tears were dried: passion had taken
possession of hun, and he overwhelmed
Flavio with reproaches ; he heaped injustice
upon injustice with rudeness and insult.

Flavio looked at him with sorrow. He
was grieved that such a soul should so for-
get and dishonor itself. At last he took
his hands ; and, turning his calm face full
upon him, he said, " Compose thyself,
young volcano, and mistake not anger lor

160

THE DRINKERS OF ASHES.

strength. We are men I remeinbor that,
anil leave all violences to sick cliililren.
AVhy dost thou come to reproach me in this
manner? And what wilt thou have of

meV"

" 1 will finish this at once ami foi^ever,"
cried Giovan, " for I cannot live in such
an-^uish. One of us is one too many under
Leaven. Let us go to the shore, and fi.;ht
until death comes to relieve one; and Syl-
verine shall he the reward of the other."

" Enou;4h 1 " replied Flavio with a smile.
« Wh.at kniu'ht-errantry I Thou forgettest
that the time of Ariostes has passed."
Then all his features sollcned with an ex-
pression of infinite sadness, and he added,
" And thou fori^ettest .above all, that the
survivor would die of grief at having mur-
dered his friend. And thou forgettest
many other things, my poor Giovan : thou
forgettest that we do not belong toourselves,
and aiat we have no right to dispose of our
lives arbitrarily ; thou foi-gertest our old
friendship ; and I understand it, for passion
hath made thee insane ; but remembcv the
oath that thou hast sworn, and sealed with
the ashes and the blood."

Giovan cried out in despair : his heart
was like a field of battle whereon contended
three armies of equal force. " Have pity
on me ! " said he to Flavio : " I can do no

more."

There was a long silence. Flavio walked
the leniTth and breadth of the chamber.
And Giovan, extended upon a sofa with
his face buried in the cushions, struggled
■with all his strength against the passions
that overwhelmed him, passing from one
extreme to the other, without the power of
taking any decided step. At last he arose.
« Come with mo to her," he cried.

« Of what use? " said Flavio, "of what
use to make her the witness of our violence,
and to afflict her with our discords? "

" Come to her house," continued Giovan.
"Come, I pr.ay and entreat you. And
whatever she pronounces will be as the
judgment of God. 1 will accept it, and
Bubmit to it." ^^

They lell the house togetoer, "Ah I

said Giovan, walking by the side of his
friend, "If tliou couMsi know what I sutfer,
and what I hiive suH'cred."

" ITiou hast not sullered alone," returned
Flavio; "but the cries of thine own sorrow
hath so deafened thee that thou hast not
heard the moaning of others."

Tliey entered the presence of Sylvin-ine.
She appeared calm; but her heart beat
violently, ibr it was not dilUcult to read
their emotion in their f.ices. However, she
restrained herself, and said, " What good
fortune t "

Giovan walked rapidly tow^vrd her.
'• Listen 1 " cried he. " Flavio knows all ;
we have both come : we love thee ; which
dost thou love ? speak quickly."

Sylverine arose pale and trembling ; and,
regarding the two men who disputed for
her heart, she placed a hand on the shoul-
der of each, and dared to say, " I love
you both." Then, as if crushed by the
avowal, she hurst into tears.

« O misery 1 " cried Giovan : " is it not
better to die, than to live thus ? "

Flavio approached Sylverine, took her in
his arms, and kissed her forehead; and,
holding her to his heart, he said, " My dar-
liu'T child, you must not demand of men
what gods could not endure. I am an old
soldier. I have had so many wounds that
I know not even the nubmer of my scars. I
believe I love thee ; but I will cure myself
of this weakness. Thou lovest life, and I
regard it not ; (or I know what it is worth.
I am an obstacle to thy happiness, — thee
whom I consider with the tenderness of a
mother ; to Giovan, who is as my child. I
will retire from thy path, and trouble thee
no more. Be happy, then," added ho with
some bitterness, " and speak of me when
thy tendernesses leave thee the time."

" In the name of Heaven, do not leave
us 1 " cried Sylverine.

" I will not have thy sacrifice," said Gio-
van with anger.

" Whether thou wilt or not, I will accom-
plish it. Thou wouldst have accepted it if
it had been imposed by Sylverine. Then,
by what right dost thou refuse it because it

8YLVEUINE.

IGl

\';r by the siilo of liis
1. 1st know what IsulTer,
Il-ro.l."

illcruil iiloiic," returned
ies of thine own sorrow
ee that thou liast not
of others."

presence of Sylverinc.
1 ; but her heart beat
vs not (lilUeult to read
iir faces. However, she
and said, " What good

rapidly tow;vrd her.
ic. " Flavio knows all ;
; we love thee; which
•ak (iiiickly."
)a!e and tremblinj; ; and,

men who disputed for
cd a liand on the shoiil-
dared to say, " I love
, as if crushed hy the
nto tears.

ried Giovan : " is it not
to live thus 'I "
B(l Sylverine, took her in
fed her tbreliead ; and,
heart, lie said, " My dar-
ust not demand of men
at endure. I am an old
id so many wounds that
le nubmer of my scars. I
; ; but I will cure myself

Thou lovest life, and I
I know what it is worth,
to thy happiness, — thee
with the tenderness of a
a, who is as my child. I
ly path, and trouble thee
)py, then," added he with
" and speak of me when
leave thee the time."
of Heaven, do not leave
•ine.
'e thy sacrifice," said Gio-

1 wilt or not, I will accom-
rouldst have accepted it if
ised by Sylverine. Then,
St thou refuse it because it

is voluntary ? Learn to look into thine [ Imvin.; repudiated all probity, swrifice the
own heart, and take care that thy intolera- liappiness of olliers to their own .sellishness.

4>>

ble pri'le does notcauseto otiiers niori! sor-
row than they can bear." lie extenile(l liis
haiiils to (liovan and Sylverine. '• God
bless you both ! " said h(!. Then he went
aw:iy without turning! his head. He did
not u'o to his own house, but walked on until
he reached the shore of the Adriatic : there
he remained a lon;^ time, lost in thou;j;hta
more soni!)re and more profound than the
sea that beat at his teet. When, toward
evenin.', he returned to his house, he no
longer ibund (iiovan there. He had hired
an apartment in a little villa near that in-
habited l)y Sylverine.

Flavio rarely went out, only during the
evening ; then he wandered through the
great l()rest of pines which hid iiim in its
shadows. He evaded Giovan, and Giovan
evaded liim. After all, neither of these
three persons was happy, nor could tluiy
be : they thought constantly of each other
with aorrowfid anxiety. " She loves him
yet," said (iiovan. '• Is it true that ho no
longer loves me?" demanded Sylverine.
" I love her always," thought Flavio.

It was, however, not Flavio who had the
most to regret. He had a solid basis on
whieh to support his sorrow. Though the
revelation that camo so unexpectedly
had been terrible, the sacrifice that fol-
lowed had been free and spontaneous,
given bv himself, and of his own free will.
The only one of these three unhappy be-
ings who had acted according to the dic-
tates of a better nature, he preferred his
suifering to a pitiful compromise which
nothing could induce him to make. He re-
gretted Sylverine as one regrets an absent
love ; he thought of Giovan as of a sick
friend ; but at least he reposed upon the con-
viction that he had done his duty without
hesitating.

Giovan was not satisfied. Irritated
against himself, irritated against others,
ready to burst into a rage at the slightest
contradiction, he could not find a place in
his heart that was not full of sorrowful
regrets : it is the fate of those, who, not
U

.Ml th:it should liave remlereil him h:i[)py
made hlni sull'er ; the absolute submission
of Sylverini! was to him a e(inst:int and in-
su|)portable reproach. " Of whom does she
think ? " he said, when often, immnhile and
dreamy, she kept long sili'iiees whieh he re-
spected in spite of himself. Sometimes,
when a gleam of reason came to clear the
shadows that enveloped him, showing him
Flavio, .so devoted, so generous, who for so
many years had had (or him the tenilerness
of a fuller, he fiilt the deepest remorse min-
gliMl with desire to go to him, to entreat his
pardon, and to restore to him all he had
taken. But of what good were these im-
pressions? He lelt that he was enslaved,
bewitched, as he had said to Flavio; nnd,
if in the evening he had made the sacrihce,
the !U!,xt morning he would have cursed
himself tor having done it. At other times,
more docile to his imperious nature, he
meilitated quitting Ilavenna, and taking
refuge in some otiier part of Tuscany, car-
rying Sylverine with him, and so separating
her from ELavio, whoso presence — so dis-
creet, so absent, dare I say, tlwugh it was —
only enraged him.

As to Sylverine, never ship without com-
pass, driven by the tempests, was more cru-
elly tossed than that poor soul, who for a
long time had found no star to guide
her. She regretted Flavio witi; a fervor
that would have caused her to think
.she loved him aione, if she had not
known how much .she loved Gio'-an. Un-
certain between those two soatiments, she
lived a life without happiness, dignity, or
satisfaction. She passed long hours in
dreaming of the execution of impossible
projects. She regarded with affright the
gordian knot thai she had not the courage
to cut, asking often, " Will it unravel it-
self? " Weakness is sometimes as much a
sin as is perversity. Flavio had never
appeared at her house since the scene I
have recorded, and she desired to see him
beyond expression. She could not under-
stand his sacrifice, neither could she ac-

Rwa.WBjWk^-;jkwrtNWJ^y ?pf^ggy^ siWi<*iWM^v.j^ ' .itft^> ^^

c.ou,.t for -lul .he styk..l an "excess of,
virtue." Tlu.,vw.sa,.vull.ckoli.nn.Mple,
in l.er, but Flavio was in lau t there.
-1 «.lfli liis i( ea (iltecuia-
tions, l>eha.l not taken care to ashumhu
Boul to .generous sentiments. Ihe soil was
rich, but he had sown nolhin:, : therelore
r^ had no ri,ht to complain that there ^v.s

notlnn.^toveap. Sylverine, >vo cat. t nb
Ty thought not of, hat. She Hearehe.l or
Fhvio, she followed him, .he waited ior
bin,. One evening, unexpectedly, .he met
hh„;a„d,run,.in;^.oldn..Bhep«therarm
S;inhi;andsaidjoyiully,-'AtlastUee

''nrreco,ni^ed quickly hi. peril, but l.ad
the strength to jest in .pi,e 01 Ins trouble,

an.l, .lisen-a-in- his arm, he s'"'l' "

"Dost thou romcnbcr the words of the
French son- the children sing

those secret .neans which ,he Drinkers of

• Wo will go no '"«'•'' Into ,110 wood.
The iBurcle ftU are cut.' '

..Why dost thou fly from mc, dear
Flavio? Why hast thou left .nc ? Is .,ot
,he best place in my heart lor thee t

..llni:" said he, placing h.s fingers

upon her lips. "An ^^V^^^'^';^'^^
. Thou thallnot tempt the saints; at^I^u
buta,nan." The.i feeling, pe.haps.thalus
coura-^e failed, and his en.otion gained, he
k3 her hands, and rushed away with

hurried steps. .

Shelookedaftevhimwithout making a

gesturetovetainhlin;butasnnlec^joy
trembled on her lips, and lighted up lu^i
eyes. " Ah 1 " she said, "he loves me

''yL certainly, he loved her still; for he
J n't one of those who know how to take

back what they have once given.

II.

Two months had passed, without bring-
• Tin-e to their sorrowful situation,

ing any change to t ^ . ^ ^ne of

when Giovan received Buaaeniy, u;r

those secret. iii>.v"= •

Ashes employ f..r their comn.nn.cat.ons,
orders to leave «ave,.na within .i^\M days,
an.l to preset Imnself at a point des.g-
nated on the bo,-ders of Calabria, to take
,be inune.liate direction of a movement
,vhich ha.l been preparing tor son- ,,m3
These instructions ad,n,tted ol .,ei her
,,„„bt nor delay. It was a thunderbolt ,o
(Jiovan; who, instead of accepting h.s »W6
with resignation, if not with eag.-rness, .as
was his du,y, declare.1 that the f.reler was ab-
surd, and impossible of execulnm. 51. -vi-
ed by the passion that overwhelmvd h> m,
be saw nothing clearly beyond; and so ho

bna'incd that this s.uhlen order was a
scheme invented by F hivio to tree Sylver-
ine from his presence, that he might repos-
sess her love. "It is he who has done this.
Why does he not go himselt .' lie '"i
not reflect that it was for bin. espec.ally
that this task had been reserved : as he had
lived so long in the Neapolitan provinces,
all the means of action were known to h.m.

Let what may come," said he, "Tsha
not be taken in so clmusy a, let; and I will
not -o." Then he wrote to the ch.et of the
Drinkers of Ashes, notifyb.g him of h.s
refus..l to engage in an enterprise wWh he

considered inopportune. I.i that case .is
in many.others, Giovan was u.ijust ; tor ho
truth was, that Flavio, desirous ol rush ng
into action to escape Ins trouble, h.td
asked to direct the expedition h.msell ; and
they had replied that his presence was in-
disiLsable in the Papal States, us he would
have to rise, in case of success, to g.ve aid

to a Neapolitan movement. 1< lavio knew
l.owtoobey,because he was accustomed

to command, and was resigned without a

murmur. . ^ , . „

Giovan had consulted no one m taking

bis resolution. He said nothing to bylver-

ine; and, as he never saw Flavio, naurally

be had not spoken to him. Nevertheless,
what he feared was not long inarming.
About eight days after he had sent the let-
ter announcing his refusal one evening
toward the hoar of midnight, he walked
hurriedly along the seashore, until he

c;h lUc Driiikci-s of
ir ooiiuunuuMl '•'>"'>
a within (•i:^lit <liiy:*,
t' iit ii liniiit (lo^i;^-
of Ciiliiliriii, to t;»l;o
on of a iiiDvemunt
iriii'j; I'or sdim! tiiii3.
..linittod of luitliiT
IAS 11 thunilcrl)olt to
ol" iU'iTiitiii'j; hi* '''''"^
,t, witli I'lViiTin'SH, as
that the r>nliM-w:i-^ilb-
jf cxufUlinn. 15!iml-
it ovfrwlii'linvil '"'">
y iH-yoiiil ; ii"'l so ho
siidd'cn onkT was a
i'lavio to t'rc(! Sylver-
, tliat ho \wih^ I'^'l'os-
i be wlio has done this,
ohim.ein" lie '1'>1
vas I'oi- him csiwcially
en reservod : as lie had

Neapolitan provineus,
ion were known to hira.
,„o," said he, '•! ^hall
luuisy a net ; and I will
,vrote to the ehiet' of the
, notityin-j; him of his
I an enterpvi^^e which ho
tune. In that case, as
,van was unjust ; for the
ivio, desirous of rushin<;
icape his trouble, had
expedition himself; and
liat his presence was in-
Papal States, as he would
sc of success, to ^ive aid
novcraent. Flavio knew
luse ho was accustomed

was resigned without a

nsulted no one in taking
le said nothing to Sylvcr-
ever saw Flavio, naturally
.n to him. Nevertheless,
was not long in arriving.
, after he had sent thelet-
his refusal, one evening,
r of midnight, ho walked
r the seashore, until he

BYLVERINK.

163

reached a siwt where there were neither | <le:-[teiate enterprise. No one can know
tre.'s nor houses : he stoppeil and listened ; lii'tter than myself (he comliiinii of the
a man rominjj from the opiiosite direction ! Southern provinces; and 1 allirni lliaf they
apiiroache.l liim ; and, hy the (loiil)tfiil j are not ready; that the counti-y, crushed

li'lit of tiie stars, he recognized Flavi

Art thou, then, called '.' " said Giovan. king, will not echo a response to the cries

under the double despotism of clcr','y and

" I am called," replied Flavio.
They remained without speaking again,
until a boat api)roached the shore, an<l left
rapidly, after a man had Icapcil upon the i 'rii.ii," adij.d 1
sand.

The now-comcr walked straight toward
the two, who, enveloped in the darkness,
awaited him at some distauct!. St(i|ipiug
within a few steps of them, lio said, —

"Jnfi-dlrU lliintmim! nnmbie, salee ! To
which llicy liotli rcplieil at the same time,
"In nomine frill ri.i FJieroiiiimi. vale!"

Giovan and Flavio gave the fraternal
kiss to lh(! othei', who, tiirowing his mantli^
upon the ground, desired them to sit
down.

This mysterious |)erson was no o;her
than the chief of the Drinkers of Ashes.
liis name is of little importance. We will
only say that ho was knoivu among the

T('j)liriij)oles, under the Edomiteai)pellation.
as S.unla. lie entered at once into the

f;iibject, as one who knows the value of

time.

"There can be no secrets between us,"

saiil he to Giovan : " here is Flavio ; here

am I, — I, who am come expressly to know

the reason why, in scorn of your oatli, you

refuse the post confided to you ? "

Giovan, in spite of his stubbornness, knew

himself guiliy. Fearing to liave it known

that he repudiated a peril jus mission, in

order to remain with Sylvoriae, he com-
menced to excuse himself with political

reasons, hoping in that way to escape the

avowal he dreaded. "Is it not folly at

this moment, when all Europe sleeps in

profound peace, to arouse a country where

the Drinkers of Ashes have met only do-
feat, since CampancUa, who submitted

seven times to torture, to the Bandie-i

brothers who were sliot ; " and he went on

more warudy, "I am resolved as well as

another not to throw away my life in a

for deliverance ; lliat the prqiected expedi-
tion is ali^ui'd. iuipossible ; and that ihe
best thin'.i to do is to al)audoii it at oiicc.

iv d ) we go to Cala-
bria, or even to Naples? Is the enemy
we have sworn to combat tliere '.' Of what
Use to decimate our forces, and reveal our
projects in badly arranged operations.
The enemy is not there; the cneuiy is at
Iliiiii'. Once overihiow the [lower there,
ami all will liill as if by enchantmeni. If
you inlend si'riously to eslaiilish liberty in
the world, destroy the principli^ that is cim-
trary to it. Begin at the source from
which II iws all authority ; for where it
springs Ibith, the world will go to drink."

"ll'voii knew how to play at chess,"
responded S.iinla, " you woiilil not speak
so. To take the king, you must first re-
move all the pawns that surround him.
You have taken the wrou'j way instead of
the right; and you refuse to go, not only
U'cau.so you judge tin; cxjiediiion b.idly
conceived, but because you are in love
with a woman you have stolen fi-oni Flavio,
and yiki fear to leave her."

" Has Flavio told you that? " cried Gio-
van in fury.

" Rest in peace : it was not Flavio.
Why do you pretend to suspect one whom
you know to be incapable of a doubtful
action? I am acquainted with the history
of both : it is of little importance how.
Giovan, all the wrong pertains to you ; and
you have singularly aggravated it in refu.s-
ing the work that has the right to claim
you. Into what miserable clay have you
then been turned, to let a woman arrest
you on the road to duty ! Every other
object is absolutely secondary in the pres-
ence of the great aim wo follow. Each
one of us must remember that he has
sworn to say to those who would retain
him, 'Woman, what is there in common

•«B^!^^S(8^^8»!»S«a»s

.i. i unjM. i M Kj mUiwJlii.a i l.MWWiim'.i.iiiii-aKiwa! ' - 1 ' ' iwnyUJ i "-

164

THE DR1NKEU8 OF ASHES.

;

botwiHsn thco anil incV Wo imiHt n-miiiii
holitiiry : ncvur lor'j;i't that. Seo where
that LTeaturo I'or whom you iiro nisane hiis
emuUiutL'tl you ! Look at yoursi'lf, (iiovaii.
You, oiu" man of action /iiir inxellviice, our
staii(l,u'il-l)earer, have Iweouie more (h'l)ili-
tated than an old i)riL'st who fears hell !
Soe Flavio, our most brilliant li^^ht, our
projector of tlie nioi>t profounil iileis: what
has 80 bewildered and thtrkened his mind
that lie has no power to dincern elearly in
the midst of liis troubled thou;;ht8 V If you
must bo children, take the Bible, and learn
from it to recite each ni'^ht before goin^
to your beds the history of Samson and
Delilah, lie men 1 you aro not made to
be either lovers or husbands : amuse your-
selves if you please ; but, in the name of
Heaven I <;ive notliing of your hearts, noth-
iw^ of your brains, to these feeble creatures.
Do you know what you resemble with
your sad amourelles ? those tamers of lions
vrht) at last are eaten by the ferocious
boasts. Our work is a work of justice,
and remember the words of wisdom, ' Wo-
man is the desolation of the just.'"

"You are wrong, S.imla!" said Flavio,
in a grave vo'ice : " the woman of whom
you speak has not a weak heart. She was
•with me at one time in Sicily, and she is
capable of foUowin.; (iiovan to Calabria."

" Ah ! she is a Clorinda, then," returned
Samla, makin;^ a disdainful jresture that
•was lost in the darkness. " It may be that
she has all tlie. virtues and all the charms,
— I a-^ree to it if you will ; but she is nont^
the less dangerous to you both, and you
know that wo aro accustomed to remove
obstacles from our path. She has set you
at variance; and that is already a crime :
we know how to prevent her from commit-
ting another. It is necessary that the in-
surrection in Calabria have a chief: Giovan
is designated ; he would go if it were not
for thit woman who opposes it."

" How can she oppose it? "' said Giovan :
"slio is in entire ignorai'ce of our [)roject."

" Tlien," roi»lied the inllexible Samla,
" you rel'usc to go because of her, wliich
amounts to the samo : in any case, she is

the obstacle. IJe yt^ reconciled : it is ne-
cessary, (iiovan, '^ive Flavio llic kiss of
peace. Flavio, remain in coiuinunicatiou
with {Jiovan, in (jrder to bo ready to assist
him at n('e(l. That woman comes between
you : have the courage of great hearts, and
renounce lier. If you will not, why, •hen,
remain near her, but live united : that is
indispensable. There are two beings iii
yon, never forgot that, — the man ami the
IJrinker of Ashes. If the man Hiillers, it is
best that the Drinker of Ashes know noth-
ing of it. Give the hand I " continued he
with authority, "and swear to me, who am
the invested chief, to live in friendsliip, one
with the other, — far from that woman or
near her ; to cease your dissensions, and to
act but lor the furtherance of our work."

"1 swear it!" said Flavio, grasping the
hand of Giovan. " I swear it ! " said Gio-
van, " oven if I die of madness."

" Well ! I accept your i)roinise, and I
know that you will keep it. (Jiovan, it is
you who have the weak head in this matter.
Listen to Flavio : lie is your elder ; ami his
intelligence is greater than yours. You
have eight days to arrive at the place
designated, to i)Ut yourself at the head of
the men who await you. Will you go 'I "

" Yes," replied (Jiovan.

" Flavio," continued Samla, "if, in eight
days, (iiovan is not at his jwsit, }0U will
take liis place, and march straight upon
(vosenza."

" It is well," replied Flavio.

They remained together until dawn, talk-
ing over their projects, discussing and
modifying thoui according to the possible
eventualities. When the rays of morning
whitened tho heavens, Saiula arose, and
embraced his two friends. " It is well ! "
he said to them. " You can be men in your
spare moments; but, before all, you are
Drinkers of Ashes."

" Yes ; and God guide us I " responded
Giovan and Flavio.

S.imla gave a vigorous whistle, the boat
re-appeared, ho sprang in, and soon it was
lost to sight on the coast of Commacchio.

Giovan was much softened toward Flavio:

infili'il : if in nu-
liivio lilt' kiss of

I I'oiiiiniiiiiiMtioii
ic ri!ii(ly ti) assist

111 t'OlllL'S Im'IWI'I'II

i;reiit in'iil'ts, iiml

II not, "liy, 'iii'ii,
uniU'il : tliiit ia

L" two Ih'IiI^S ill

:he nuin anil tliu
man siiU'i'rs, it is
Ulii's know iiulli-
I" eoiiliiiiii.'(l liu
ir ti) 111!', wlio iuu
in Irioiiilslii]), one
» lliitt woman or
issensions, am) to
I of our work."
vio, <;rasi)'M);^ tlio
ir it ! " said Gio-
Iness."

■ i)roinist', and I
it. (liovan, it is
lad in tliis iiiattur.
iir elder; and his
lan yours. You
vu at tlic place
f at tlie head of
Will you go?"

nila, " if, in eight
is jx)st, >ou will
.•h straight upon

ivio.

• until dawn, talk-
disuussiiig and
5 to the possible
rays of morning
samla arose, and
s. " It is well ! "
vn be men in your
lore all, you are

) us I" responded

1 whistle, the boat
, and soon it was
of Commacchio.
itid toward Flavio:

•■»

BYLVRUIKE.

166

the memory of hi« old friendship filled his
heart, and excluded all anger; still, he
was distracted l>y sorrowful contradictions.
At that moment, moved liy the stern
autluiiity of Samla, ho was decideil to go.
Hut he knew himself, and lie feared his
resciliitiiin might aliandon hiiii at the last.
Besides, the idea of leaving Sylveriiie, and
of leaving her with I'Mavio, was insiipport-
ahle. "If I go,"' though, he, "she must
leave Ilayenna." Neverthe';'ss, he wished
to perform an act of courage and self-abne-
gation ; yet it was not without an ellbrt over
himself, that he said to Flavio, betbre leav-
ing him," Let us pass the evening together
with Sylverine."

" We will," replied Flavio. " Samla is
right ; a woman must not come between us."

That evening they met at the house of
Sylverine. She, happy to see Flavio, and
hoping that all dissensions were ended (br-
cver, abandoned herself to the joy that
reconciliation (^ivuscd. Hut there occurred
what neither of them expected: inasmuch
as they regained their (iirmer intimacy, the
old contradielions filleii each heart. Syl-
verine, more in doubt than ever of herself,
fell into an interior contemplation, while
she tried to decide which of the?e two men
she loved the best.

Very soon Giovan felt his anger and jeal-
ousy ready to burst all bounds : he made
of Flavio a redoubtable rival, whom he
feared would displace him in the heart of
Sylverine.

.As to Flavio, a nameless sadness over-
wlielmed him when he found himself sitting
in the place where he had passed so many
happy evenings near tho woman whom
ho adored and regretted always, and
whom, in spite ot his disappointment, he
could never entirely and hopelessly resign.
Then there arose in his heart sentiments,
not unknown, but severely restrained until
that hour. He regarded Giovan with envy ;
he accused him ; he forgot the tacit pardon
he had pronounced ; he retracted, one
might iay, his indulgence, and repeated
olteu to himself, " It is too much 1 It is
more than I can bear 1 "

They talkoil, nevertiielenn, all three, —
Sylverine with a tlirced abandon that de-
ceived no one, (iiovaii with a scarcely dis-
simulated viiilenee, Flavio with a gravity
that resembled despair. The hours passed
away ; midnight had long since Hounded ;
but m'ither seemecl to think of retiring,
Sylverine, who understood plainly what was
passing within them, was more llattered
than disturbed ; for she well knew they
remained in her presence less to be togeth-
er, than to watch and guard her.

At last Sylverine arose, and, extending
a hand to each, she said " Good-night."

'Ilio two men clasped her hands with
apparent calmness, and then went away
together. For a long time they walked
side by side without speaking. Flavio
was the first to break the silence. " 1 can-
not endure this," he said : " I was wrong to
accompany thee to the house of Sylverine.
I telt all my old tenderness spring to lite
within me. I have been jealous of thee,
and I suH'ered to see thee near her."

" Thou art right," replied (Jiovan : " the
situation is intolerable ; there will be no
repose until one of us is far from her."

" It must be ended : one of us must make
the sacrifice."

'• Which '{ " demanded Giovan with
terror.

Flavio did not reply : they walked on in
silence, crushing beneath their icet the pine
cones that had fiillen from the trees. 'I'he
sun appeared above the horizon : the city
was awake. They passed women and
chilflren gathering dead wood in the forest.
Flavio stopped to look at them : seeing tho
misery that had no other care than the hard
occupation to gain their daily bread, a feel-
ing of envy passed through his heart, and
lie cried, " Ah ho..' happy they are 1 "

Then he shook offhis reverie ; and, turning
to Giovan, he said, " It is necessary that one
of us should go to Calabria, Thou lovest Syl-
verine, and thou dost not wish to leave her :
I love her, and I have the right to remain,
But that is of little importance : we alone are
the judges of our rights and duties. If we
go to her and interrogate her again, she

niw

160

THR imiNKKUS OF \HHK8.

will ri'ply as lii-Corc, ' I l"V« yoti 1m. th.' aivl
we will Hiiik Mtii-w iiit.i llif itiimt' iiiisiTV.
Let liitf (li'iiili- lii'twfcn iih. My lU'ar
(JidVMii, wilt llioii fon.ciit to it? "

" 1 will," rcplii'il Ciioviin. " Ah. llii^ i*
tcvrll.l.' I "

•■ Whit fJoil ilix'^ is wi'll ilimc," <on-
tiuiuid Flavid. " This cvfiiinv' wcwiU ■;<>
tDiii'thcr to Sylverine ; iind tin- ono to whom
»ln' iul.lrcsM's till' first woril will tfiivc to-
morrow Ibi- Calahriii. Wilt thou liiivu it
no?"

" Yes," rcl>lit'il (]ioviin.
Thry imssc'l thu (liy to'j;clluT at tllf
house of Fl.ivio, who instructfil his iriciul in
all till' lnrpariMl projects, iiidieiniiv^ the
point in till' (Julf of Taiviila where they
were to eiubaik, explainiii j to him what re-
Bourees lie eonld count upon, ami where the
luom'y anil anus were. When the ni'jht
hail fome, there was nothing mmv to le.ivn.
They went out to'j;ether : the nioinent was
grnvc. The Benteme that fate slioulil
pronounee upon them Kfi ihein little to
hope. 'I'he one who went woulil iloubtless
find death in his adventure. In any case,
dhl he not renoiinee her he loved V

When they reached the door, they
stopped and wrun;,' each other's hands with
force. " Coiira;4e ! " they said in the same
breath, as il ihey were in the face of an inev-
itable ilan|,'er.

•' Good-evening to both," said Sylverine,

as they entered.

They rei)lied to her by a sign of the head,
and sat down.

She was emb'-oidering a p-"ce of dainty
nlu^lin, and, without raising her eyes, eon-
tinued, '• Why havi; you i>ot been to see me
through the day ? "

Neither rejilied. Astonished at their
silence, s-ho regarded alternately Giovan
ftiid-Flavio; and, noticing their jjallor, she
said, "What is the matter with you?"
Then, not obtaining any reply, she cried,
"In the name of Heaven! are you

dumbV"

Both turned their heads, as if to evade a
direct (luestion. Then she arose, went to
Flavio, and, taking his hand, said, " See

rnv Flavio, I havo rwiragc, Answer jno.
Wliv do yon not speak? "

FlavioU'lt iiponhii fiieo that iinpereep-
tilile moisture which is the dew of violent
emotion, as he rcplicl in achoked voice, " A
inoveinoiitis ])repared at Cosen/.a ; one ol
us must go and take the direction."

" Which will go V " cried she ; " for I nhall
go with him."

" What lolly ! " said Flav> .. " There will
be innumerable fatigues to support. I will
not have ihee go."

'• I wi>h to go, and 1 will jio." reiilicd
Svlverine. •' You have seen me in the
work, and you know what I can do. It is
decided : I shall go. Is it thee, (Tiovan V la
it thee, Flavio."

(iiovaii bowed his head, wilhoiit daring
to reply. Flavio made a sU|)reineelVorl, and
said, " It is Giovan : he will leave in a
month."

(jiovan remained immovable, as if
crushed upon his chai'-. Sylverine put her
hand upon his head. " I will .^o with thee,
my p(,,a- Giovan." she ^aid; " and thou shalt
see that I am not a had companion."

"Yes," added Flavio, coniinuing his
thou'ilits : " (Jiovan will leave in a moii;li:
the expeilition will be short, and there aro
chances of success. If all goes well, I will
join you; but at present I have no time to
lose, li)r I must [irepare all. I leave tomor-
row fur the coast of Tuscany lo or.;.inize a
navy, and to make the last arrangemcutB.
When all is finished I will return here, and
Giovan will leave."

A susi>ieion crossed the mind of Sylver-
ine : she looked Flavio fixedly in the iiice,
and said, "Thou dost not deceive meV
Thou wilt go away for a month, and atVer
return here Y "

"Have I ever deceived theeV" replied
Flavio, lowering his eyes.

Giovan arose as if to speak ; but, wanting
1 coura'ie, sat down without a word. His
heart was full of pity for Flavio. " Wretch
that I am 1 " he sighed.

They passed a part of the night in talk-
ing of the projected expedition. Sylver-
ine, delighted to leav« her monotonous life,

•mm*-

Au.twci' mo.

hat Impi'iTc-p-

li'W of violfiit

)kc(l voict", " A

»i'i\/.ii ; Dili: of

crioii."

lio ; " for I hIijiU

,. " Th.n' will
iiipport. I will

ill i;o," ri'ijlii'tl

•\'n WW ill till!

can tlo. It is

u'l', (tii)vanV Is

witliimt duiiii'^
)riMii(' clVoi'l, ;inil
,vill Kmvi! in ii

novnUlc, iis if
lylvi'i'iiic pill Iilt
vill i^o witli ilii'L',

" iinil thou ."halt
inpaiiion,"

coniinuiim his
avi! in a month:
•t, an<l thiTu aro

jiOi'S well, I will

have no tiinu to

Heave to- nioi--

ny lo oi"i.iiii/e a

ist arrangement*.

return hero, and

miiiil of Sylver-
iceilly in the I'ace,
not deceive me?

month, and after

d theeV" replied

eak; but, wanting
)ut a word. His
Flavio. " Wretch

the nii^ht in talk-
])edition. S\'h",r-
•r monotonous life,

SYLVKIUNK.

107

olapprd her hands, hui^thed, and said to i wiitcheil it diuMppear, dreamily roek.d hv

liie iiiciiiotdiKPils iiioliiiii. An aliy^ ol Kor-
row (teemed to open liefore him. Hi-* heart
notK-ned, and he wept freely. Two limirs
after lii(t departiir., tin- fori'st of It.ivcnnii
— that tltiest that threw its shadow over
all he liived — appeared to him a warco
preceplilile line, iilixni'e, and nearly con-
loiindi d wiih the heavens.

Sylverine was very nad after the depart-
ure of I'Mavio. She snllered ii va'.'iie in-
(liiietilde that (iiovan had no power to
relieve; for he was liimself the jirey lo con-
tinual aniiiish. His reason, firm and clear
when iJasKJon did not hlind him. chowed
him to what an extent his selli>hiie'<s liad
made him c iminal. 'I'o console hiim-elf,
and to drive away his own remorse, he
often rejieated, thai, if the expedition suc-
ceeded, all the jjiloiy woulil appertain to
Flavio : yet he could not re-assuie himself
with such a reason; for he knew, belter
than any erne, with how miieli danu'er such
a veiiliire was menaeed. Ho lell into a
deep melancholy; and he, usually so ex-
pansive, kept Ion;; and profound silences,
from which it was impossible to arouse him.
At any price, he would not leave Sylverine;
and yet he wished to he with Flavio. The
thou^lht of his absent friend ])ossessed him :
ho could not drive him from his mind.
This pertinacity wearied and irritated liiin
b«yond measure. He thoie.'ht of him, a
dij'esa lit Deo ! perche pur glacif ' (O justice j fii;;itive upon the mountains ; living' at
of Ciod 1 why dost thou sleep V) He | ha/.ard, from the water sources and wild

fruits; repulsed by the shepherds from
whom he demanded shelter ; tracked as a
lerocious beast by the peasants armed with

Giovan, " Thou wilt see Imw well I march,
BmI that I am not afraid of the carbines."
The two frienils went away to;»ether.
" ,\li ! what hast thou done Y " said
Giovan.

" That which was ii;;reed upon. He to
whom she spoke the (irst, was he not tofioV
and what woiildst tlinu think of me, if I
•hould take her with meY"

III the nioriiin',' Flavio went to say adieu
to Sylverine : he had the couiay;e not lo
appear moved, though his heart was torn
within him.

" in three weeks at the latest, 1 will re-
turn." be siud.

(iiovan and Flavio had a last conlerence.
At the moment of separation, perhaps
never tomeet a;,'ain, Oiovan's compunctions
overcame liim. "Stay!" cried he: "it is
1 who on-.'bt to go; ami I will not accejit
tliy sairiiice 1 "

" It is my destiny," replied Flavio. " I
never return when the route is once taken.
I leave .Sylverine to thee. Adieu, brother,
and be liapjiy. "

"If thou need inc, send, and I will
come," said (iiovan. " What shall bo the
word if thou .-end an emissary ? "

Flavio extended his hand toward the
table, and took therefrom a volume of
Dante. He opened it, and read a verse of
the twentv-ninth song of the PurUlko. " '

who comes from me shall repeat the first
part of the verse, and thou shalt repeat the
second."

They embraced each other. "If thou
die," said Giovan, " it is I who have killed
thee."

" Rest in peace," replied Flavio. " Is not
destiny the mistress of all V lleturn to
Sylverine, and leave me .-vlone ; for I need
strength. God bless thee I "

" And thee al.-o 1 "

After they parted, Flavio hastened
toward the shore. A boat awaited him :
lie went on board, they raised the sails,
and swiftly left the coast behind. He

scythes; sold by his host of an hour;
arresteil, imprisoned, condemned, hung.
All this tortured him until ho yielded to his
anguish, and, making that sellish return
u])on himself that we all make when we
sull'er a merited misfortune, he would cry,
"Am I not unhappy enough ? " He could
not remain (piiet in any place ; repose was
odious to him ; he went out, he returned, ho
was restless in his inaction ; he wished to
go, and yet he remained. Ho lieaped
strange reproaches upon Sylverine, of

ii.mj w MW i"* u i i«wi<Liw»im i' .i* i - 'i

I
I

108

Tin: DIIINKKUS or ASHES.

which nho iimltTntoiiil nolhin;,'. Olh-ii lie
wuiit tu llic «hiirc, ami icmiiiui'il ihi-ro Iciii,'
hour*, Iciokiii;; towiinl tho itoiith, im if mmw
hrco/.c ('inti'm'i t'lDiii Caliil)ri;i foiilil toll him
Ol' tllC lUlC 1)1' lii^ iViciicl.

Mori! limn liiroo vn-vkn liml panrtcii, und
Sjlvi'iiiiu jirt'w unxiim-*. " It is Hiniiii^c,"
»ui<l flif III Oloviui, "llmt WD i-ucuivo nu
ni'WH ol' Kliivio."

lie Iti'w into ft |)ftsnion to cviidu ft n'\i\y.
At liiht, to ciilia liiiii, Sylvcriiio npolvu of
tlii'ir projiM'iutl i'X|)(!iliiion, in wliicii Mii-
conntcd to a(.'com|iany liiiu. " WIk.'H will
wo UmvoV" she iii(|iiiri'.l.

(iiov.iii could contain hiniMi'lf no lon'.'<'rJ
ho nir-hod I'loni the houno, and clio Haw liini
no moro tliat diiy.

"What have I done, that ho.ftvoidn mo
in lliirt manner '.•"• She iamnined thiit
Flftvio liad Homothin;; to do with ihe troii-
l.le of {;iovaii ; l)nt hIio conchided it wan
ft new lit of jealou.ty, ftnd so did not sus-
pect the truth.

Travelleis wlio passed thron!;h Italy at
tlie epoch of our story will easily believe
that an insurrection could liavo taken jilaee
in Calahria, ami the neii;hl)orin|4 I'rovinces
know nolhinif of it fur some time. In
ell'ecl, the journals were mute, the ])oliee
exorcised a pitiless inspection. The post
had no respect lor iho secrets of letters,
and they arrested without mercy the
bearers of evil tidin;?s. One can under-
stand very easily the radical alisenco of com-
munication, when it is reinemherod, that in
H, nu)re recent epoch, durin;;; the war of the
Crimen, the ojjlcial Gazelle, of the king-
dom of Ihe Two Sicilies, the only journal
then in all the Neai)olilan provinces, pub-
lished not one lino that could lead any one
•o suppose that a Ion;; war in which live
powers took part, one of which was Italian,
was then occnrrin;; in the EJlst.

Calabria luul been a^ritated some days
before Ravenna knew any thin^i of it: at
, last, a coast in;; vessel comin;; from Brin-
di?i brou^iht the news, which soon circu-
lated, and incresisod in spreading.

One mornin:^ a servniit of Sylverine,
• who had just returned from the town, en-

tered llm room of her mWtre^n, and »aiiJ,
•• .Si.;uora, do you know that ile'y aro
fiijhtin.; in C.ilabria uinl tlio l)order of
Ci>sen/a 'I "

It wan ft llmli of ll'^ht to Hylvertno : kUo
understood all. While she clrl'■^^el| in iLUte,
the servant told her what she had learmd.
That thu insur;{ent» had been beaten by
the royal triHips; thiit the chief hid lieeu
taken ; that ho was a very brave and hand-
some man ; and that he had been sent to
Naples, to bo sentenced and exeeiilecl.

Sylverine made no ri'ply; but, from liino

to time, she moaned, •' My (Jod I my (iud 1 "

Then sill) ran wildly to the bouse of (Jio-

van. As soon as she saw him, she cried,

'• Wretch I where is Flavio 't "

He trembled out an evasive reply.

" Ilu>h I " rospondi'd she with pission.

" I know all. Thou art a coward 1 Thy

place is at his side, lie is in Calabria:
I p

what ait thou doin;; here '.' "

(iiovan threw himself at her feet.
" Crush me," he said : '• I deserve thy con-
tempt ; but I love thee ; I adoro thee ; and I
could not resolve to leave thee. We letl
it to chance, my Sylverine; Flavio lost,
and therefore ho went." Ho then recount-
ed all their stru^r^^le ; the visit of Samla,
their last resolution, and the departure of
Flavio. He wept bitterly. " Ah ! I
know loo well that 1 merit neither compas-
sion nor i)ardoii ; but thou hast made mo
insane ; and, tor love of thee, I know not
what crime I would not eounnit."

" '^'hey say that ihey are defeated, that
he is taken," cried Sylverine. " Our place
is where he sull'ers. He is our Flavio : wo
must save him. All this news may be ex-
an'iorated, — who knows the truth in this
country of falsehood '? L'.'t us go at once :
[)erhaps there is yet time."

" Yes, we will go. If I perish, I will go
straight to him. In an hour I am ready.
We will go direct to Leghorn : there 1 will
take a boat that will carry us to Tola. It
is the shortest route, and the most sure."

" If we do not save him," said Sylverine,
— "listen well to my words, Giovan, — I
will never see thy face again in all my lil'e."

iotri'im, aixl miiil,
r til, it ilii'y iiro
I till) l)i)rili'r of

to Hylvi-rlno : nho
iilri'XM'd ill ll;l!<t(',

nIiu liail Icai'iii'il.
I liwm iM'iitL'ii by

(• cllil't' lll'l lll'CIl

V lir.ivit ami liaml-
iiad lii'i'ii trnt to

■ III I'XCl'lltcll.

\y\ lull, Irom lime
f (juil ! iiiy G<»il I "

In) lloUKi! of (iio-

.w liiiii, hUu eriuJ,
io ■/ "

aAvu reply,
sliu with pission.
II cowan 1 1 Thy

u Ih ill Calabria :
, ■) «

■It' nt Ikt foot.
I dosoi'vt! thy coii-

adore tlicu ; mid I
vt) ihco. Wo lotl
riiu! : Flavid lost,

llo thon roooimt-
u! visit of Sainia,

tho (lo|)artiiro of
tterly. " Ah I I
rit lU'iihor coiiijias-
011 hast iiiado me

thoo, 1 know not
uoniinit."

nro dofuatod, that
iriiie. " Our plaoe
I is our Flavio : wo
I nuws may bo ex-
s the truth in lliia
L'.'t us 150 at onoo :
0."

' I porish, I will go
I hour I am ready,
i^horn : there 1 will
rry us to I'ola. It
1 the most sure."
lUi," said Sylverine,
words, (iiovaii, — I
ijjaiu in all my life."

SVr.VKRINE.

109

Thoy wore Hoparatiii;; to hasten their
depart iiro, when humio oiiu knoekud at thu
door, (iiovnn opciieil it, ami timnd hiin-
Belf fai'o to lace with a man dresseil us a
■ailor.

" (Jiovan Seo^liaV" impiired tho man.

*' I am he," replied (iiovan.

" O ilij'r.id iti JJeo!"inin[ tho itrangur,
in a low voiee.

" I'enlm pur ijiiwi f " responded Glovnu ;
then, tiiriiiiig to Svlvurinu, hu cried, " News
of Flavio."

The man took olT oao of \\\a heavy
shoes; anil, t(e[iaratin'^ tlio sole with the aid
of his knil'e, he drew from it a sealeil letter,
whieh lie ){avo to (iiovan. Ho broke tho
8oal : the envelope contained a letter lor
Sylveiiiie, and a note l()r himself. The note
comprised but tliroe words, " All is lost I "

There was a moment of stupor : (Iiovan
and Sylverim^ lo'iked at eacli other iii si-
lence, Tho man hid seated himself, and
was trying to repair his shoe.

" llead thou (piickly I " cried Giovan,
wlio was the lirst to recover himself.
Instinctively, Sylverino regarded tho un-
known, who understood hor look of dis-
trust.

" Aht am I a restraint? " said he. "It
is not eight days since I was assistant
jailer at tlie |)rison of Cosenza. I know
all the history: you can speak boiiire nie
without fear,"

Sylverino opened Flavio's letter, and
read, —

" I have deceived thee; but pardon mo,
my darling child I Giovan will tell to thoo
all our sad history ; and thou wilt see that
I could not do otherwise than hide from
thee tho end of my journey. I knew too
well tho courage of thy heart I I know
that thou wouldst accompany me, if thou
knowost to what destiny I inarched ; and
that could not be. One of us must lose
thee. I accepted the will of fate, and I loll
thee. But why complain? There is in
all this a profound wisdom, before which I
am constrained to bow. Each man, in this
life, has his share of hajipiness. Thou wort
mine : could I, then, [lossess thee always ?

I Alan I no: the laws of Gml ndmit of no

{exception; and I would be iiii.;riiti-l'ul to

I aeeu^e de<liliy. I lo<t thee vvIumi llic hour

to lo.se thee sound' 'd ; but still I have lor

thee a tenderness without equal, and in

my heart there is iiotlihi'^' fiir tlice but

ihiiilglits ijif inlillite sweettii'ss. AluHo all,

do not w?[>r(i !■ \\ 1 hsH'W. Wi' are of those

who Jiitii ...irn for tjfe-feat. I obeyed my

jdesilny: ttnoii i\;»>rt thu i«iii»tr«.inient, that in

all. Tli'm ;\i» innocwnt, uiidl never aeeiiso

tliyseli.

" It is the prison of C<*»en«n from which
I write. I iiave Uien liit»>«< "(tir tlircf dii\s,
under a rigomii* jfUjiT'l, in i.» true; liui they
leave me, mnui 'jlw l iiiii. nibi> possibility of
wriling. and endlinjf to t^tiftr my last adieu.
All is liiiislved ! [ ain noit tho man to bo
allured by vain hopes. I know my diiy.i
are eoiinted, and the I.lsI will bo welcome.
■' I'erhiips, by giviii'j; niiuh trouble, and
compromising many [joople, 1 might f;ain
my liberty; but of what good t.) rerom-
meiico my life of other times? to renew
that enervating struggle in which I have
always been defeated? to roll a'^ain the
rock of Sysi|)lius, tiiat always and always
returns? No: I am weary, and I need rest.
Dost thou remember the words ot' Luther,
when ho looked uiion tho tombs in the
cemetery (jf Worms, ' I envy them, l)ecauso
they repose.' Thanks be to God ! 1 i-liall
soon have nothing to envy tlieiii. lie
calm, Sylverine: and, (iiov/in, de.s|)air not.
I am the eldest : I must have gone lirst ; so
it is but ai<ling nature a little, and that is
not a s;iH'at evil. And neverihidess, as thy
poor Flavio loved thee; as he would joy-
ously have given his life for thee ; as he
rested in confidence, — and what a hard
awakening thou didst prepare fijr him I —
in short, in short, — I will speak no iiioro
of that : of what good to reflect ? Are wo
not already unhajjpy enough ? I know
thou wilt never forget me, and that thought
consoles nie.

"Take every precaution at Ravenna.
It is possible some one may discover a
thread that will lead to you : that would
astonish me nevertlieloss, lor who knows

170

THE DUISiCEBS OP ASHE3.

our secret? Myself only hero; ami I
need not say, tliiit never mine of a ser:i;,'lio
was more impenetrable than I. MyJu(l;^eH
are exasperated to sec me so indiil'erent.
Yesterday, after my exandnation, the ])res-
ident of the eourt-niarlial eame into my
chand)er, and there mysteriously oilered
me a lart,'(! sum of money if I would expose
to him the true euljjrits. ' For,' said he, ' I
see in you hut a passive instrument saeri-
ficed to the aud)itioa of others.' I iuiniedi-
atelv named to him Kin-j; Ferdinand and
all his ministers. That tolly has cost me
a new auuoyanei!. Last n>i;ht I was given
for my supper dry bread and water, like a
scholar who has not learned his lesson.
All this is very pitiful, AVhen I see l)y
V'hat means these men are governed, in
what subjection thiy iire kept, and with
what arguments they ure satisfied, I ask
myself by what irony God has endowed
such aiumals with si)eeeh? bjinetimes
we imagine naturally that humanity aspires
to the light; but the greater part of men,
wallowing iu.-eiisibly in their viee and
i^niorauee, return to it eag(!rly, if, by
chance, they have been rescued from it for
a while. God lias made man of clay, and
he forgets not his origin. I may be unjust :
but these dregs of humanity stir my soul
with indignation.

" In our first engagement, we were very
few. ^V'e had tlefeated the royal troops,
who flew at our attack like a flock of
pigeons, and marched straiglit upon Coseti-
za ; but they were not long in discovering
the nuaibin' of our forces, and consequently
our weakness. We were surroimded and
overwhelmed, but died bravely, shouting,
' Vim Italia ! ' I had forceil a passage, at
the head of fifty men, by which we gained
the moimtains, directing our march towards
Poliehoi'o, where we hoped to embark ; but
enraged wolves were never hunted as wo
were. Day and night we were on the
alert; but we were captiu'cd, and, conse-
quently, we were criminals. It was then
natural that each one should turn against
us. A band of peasants and (jemlurmes
ariested ns. I believed that I had already

drunk all the bitterness of life ; but I was
mistaken. Tho.se whom we had come to
deliver rushed upon us with the greatest
fury. But perhaps they were just with-
out knowledge, and crushed us i)ecauso we
were defeated in our enterprise, and still
delayed their hopes. 1 have asked, myself
if it were not folly to endeavor to save
such men in spi^e of themselves ; and if,
under the pretext of duty, we did not
instinctively obey the su >tle needs of a
personal ambition 'i .'Jut ni. w, when all is
finished for me, and I have no i'urther
interest in the things of life, I reply. No, no!
It is not a folly to save a man in spite of
himself. It is a duty, an absolute duty ;
and, Tiovan, never forget to guide the
flock toward the light. Before, in sjjeak-
ing of th'MU, I was bitter, 1 was unjust, I
was resentful, because of my defeat. I was
wrong: liiey are enveloped in obscurity,
they are conducted and retained in tho
brutalizing road of servitude. It ajjper-
tains to us to carry the light, — the torch
of need. It is our duty, our only duly, and
he who fails is guilty, llememberest thou
the words of the dying Goethe, which thou
hast often heard me repeat? Light, light,
still more light 1 There are shadows that
hinder mankind from discovering the true
path. At any price they mu^it be dissi-
pated. I speak myself of what I believe,
but whom do I doubt? Uave I not
searched history ? and do I not know that
in some jjlace there is always a vestal
who watches over the sacred fire ? That
suffices ; for it will never be extinguished,
and one day it will illuir'uo the world. I
die, then, in peace, secure in my unshaken
fiiith. Giovan, my well-beloved child,
continue thy work imperturbably ; and
thou shalt have in thy soul the peace
promised to men of good-will.

" Will all be finished soon ? I know not,
and 1 am not anxious. Life is a mortal
malaily : each d ly that passes conducts us
toward the healing; and the essential is to
heal, no matter how or when. I believe,
nevertheless, that it will not be long : they
are expeditious here, and haste to finish.

!S of life ; but I was
in wc had cuiiie to
s witli the greatest
ley were just with-
isheil us l)eeausc we
enterprise, and still
[ have aske'l myself
o endeavor to save
theiuf'i.'Ives ; and if,
duty, we did not
su 'tie needs of a
Jut IK w, wlien all is
I have no further
' life, 1 reply, No, no I
) a man in spite of
, an absolute duty ;
ijr;^et to i^uiJe the
I. Before, in speak-
tter, I was unjust, I
of my deiiiat. I was
lo[)ed in obseurity,
nd retained in tho
urvitude. It aj)per-
le light, — tho torch
y, our only duly, and
lleineinberest thou
; Goethe, which thou
jpeatV Light, light,
jre are shadows that
discovering iho true
they niu^it be dissi-
If of wliat I believe,
jbt ? Have I not
do I not know that
is always a vestal
sacred fire ? That
^er be extinguislied,
um'ue the world. I
sure in my unshaken
well-beloved child,
imperturbably ; and
;hy soul the peace
od-wiU.

J soon ? I know not,
3. Life is a mortal
t passes conducts us
nd tlie essential is to
or when. I believe,
ill not be long : they
and haste to finish.

8YLVERINE.

171

AVhen the Angel of Death, comes she will
be welcome ; and she will give the kiss of
peace to him wiio loves her.

" \h) not imagine that I suffer here. No,
I am comparatively well-treated. My
chamber is large; and from my window 1
see the city, and the amphitheatre under
tlie liill, and I can even perceive the place
where the s^oldiers of Alaric tm-iied the river
to inter their general. Yesterday I was
at the casement : a woman passed carrying
a cliild. She saw me, and knew, without
doubt, who F was. Falling on her knees,
she raised her infant to war 1 me, as if to
demand my blessing upon it. Tliat hurt
ine : 1 threw inysclt' on my bed, and wept
freely in ihiiikiiig of thee.

" The man who comes to thee is sure.
lie has Ijcloiiged to us for some lime, (iio-
van will send him to Saaila, wlio will do
iijr him what is necessary.

'•My darling child, I would ein1)race
thee, and iiolil thee once more tJ the heart
that adores thee; but that cannot be.
The will of (lod be done ! If, during the
hajjpy years 1 have lived near thee, 1 have
caused thee some pain, Ibrgive me, and
guard my memory as of one who has loved
thee much. Tliou kuowest that I shall
die witli thy name upon my lips. Adieu,
Giovan I Adieu, Sylverine ! Be happy,
and ibrget not

" Youu Flavio."

Her face bathed with tears, Sylverine
turned toward the man. " Teii me all : I
will know all,'' she said.

" 1 will 'rll you all I know," he replied.
" When I left, he was not yet condemned.
The tentence was to be pronounced the
next day, or the day after. Ah I he has a
great heart : at the last tho judge could
scarcely sjjeak to him."

" But all Is not yet finished," cried Syl-
verine : " there is yet some hope. O my
Gou 1 to be so lar fi-om hiin I Tell me,
cannot we save him yet ? "

The man shook his head doubtfully.

" When once the sentence is pronounced,
they will forward, without doubt, the pro-

ceedings to Naples. In that case there
will ])ass some days before the sentence
will be executed. But how to s;ivt! him Y
Do you believe they will ever release
such prey V "

" No matter," replied Sylverine. " I
will go to Naples. I am a woman, and
they will allow me to enter everywhere. I
will y;o to the king. I will throw myself
at his feet. Giovan, wo must leave imme-
diately, this instant."

" We will go," said Giovan in a voice
so choked that one could scarcely hear
him ; " and, if the king refuses liis mercy,
I will send him to entreat his own par-
don of God ! "

An hour alter, they were rolling rapidly
along the road ii-oin liaveiina to Leghorn,
by the way of Florence. Tliey scarcely
sjjoke : sometimes Sylverine wept, moaned,
and wrung her hands; Giovan, silent and
sullen, resembled a chained lion. Once or
twice he (lew into a fearlul rage widi the
postilion, who drove as fast as ho could,
urging his horses at their utmost spc-ed.

They- arrived at Leghorn, a mai-itiine
city, in constant relation with oilier ])arts
of Italy, always ready lor emancipation,
and listening eagerly to the revoluiionary
news that came from the other provinces.
There, no doubt could remain. Flavio w;is
dead. The sentence of the court-marti::!
had been executed in twenty-four Iiours.
Covered with the black clotli of the par-
ricide, his head veiled in crape, his bands
bound behind his back, he had been con-
ducted beyond the city, near to the chapel
of Santa Maria, where he ollered calmly
his breast to the soldiers, and fell on his
face dead, without prtuioiiiieing a word.

Sylverine, with both hands pressed to
her heart, listened to the sad recital, her
eyes fixed, and her face paler than death.
When it was ended, she was seized with a
sort of spism of rage ; and, turning toward
Giovan, she cried, " Cain '. Cain ! Cain ! "
Then a Hood of tears calmed the storm,
and she fell into a chair exhausted.

Giovan kuelt betbre her, and ;oi)bed
with the sharp anguish of those who know

172

THE DRINKERS OP ASHES.

not how to weep. "I have murtlured
him ! I liiive munlered him ! "

"Yes, thou haat mm-dered him!" s;iiil
Svlverine, re'^ariling him with a eontempt
eo deep that it teirilied liim. " Yes, tliou
hast murdered thy tVieiid. It was tliy
selfislmess. and thy cowardice, that sent
him to aplaee of (h\n-;er to. which thou
didst not dare go. I will see thee no more."
He tried to stammer a reply, but she
would not hear him.

" Go," she cried : " I am afraid of thee.
I have been insane to love thee, or, more,
to believe I loved thee. It is ho that I
have loved. It is the dear dead, that I
shall see no more. Ah 1 the misery of life.
"What a wretched heart I had wiihin me,
to deceive him, and to deceive him for
thee 1 "

Giovan extended his hands toward her,
and cried, " Sylverine ! Sylverine ! "

She arose impetuously, opened the door,
and, poiniin'^' to it with a <:esture that
expressed her hatred, she said, " Go, thou!
and may I never, never see thee again.
There is now between us an abyss thou
canst not cross. It is the bloody grave
where Flavio lies with ten balls in his
breast. Speak, not 1 Go, thou ! "

She pushed him outside the door with an
astonisliin;^; violence, and closed it upon him.
" O Flavio, Flavio ! " she cried," I deceived
thee in lile, but now I swear to be faithful
to thee until death."

Giovan wandered all night, driven by a
tempest of passion and gi-ief. He rushed
over fields and through forests as one
insane : sometimes he fell on his face beneath
the trees and wept ; then he arose and hur-
ried on with rapid steps, crying with fury,
and clenching Ids hands at the heavens as
though he would insult and defy God. The
strongest contradictions passed through his
mind. He would go to JSIai)les, raise the
people, barn the palace of the king, slaugh-
ter the soldiers, hang the ministers, and
make fur Flavio frightful obsequies. Or he
would reject the oath of the Drinkers of
Ashes, reconipier Sylverine, take her with
him to some other country, to a house in a

forest, where no one would coino to disturb
them. In the morning, as he passed a farm-
house, a dog ran toward him and barked. lie
threw himself upon the animal, and, seizing-
it by the hind legs, served it as a club, crush-
ing its head against the wall at a single blow.
The brutal stui)idity of the action r.called
him to himself. "Have I, then, become
insane ? " lie thought. Toward the middle
of the day, worn out, soiled, and ghastly, ho
returned to the inn where he had left Syl-
verine. She had gone, leaving a letter for
liim.

"I fly from thee," she wrote, "for I
know thy violence. I go to hide my shame
at having thought I loved thee, and my
desjjair at losing him whom I loved. Why
didst thou come into our life ? Belbre thy
arrival we were happy. Do not search tor
me : thou wilt never find me. I care for
nothing, I love nothing, I desire nothing. I
._ro to await death, that it may rid ine of a
lile that thou hast rendered insiipiiortable.
Adieu. That thou wilt forget ine, is the
only fiivor I demand of thee ! "

Giovan rushed through the city. He
interrogated the captains of shi[)S. the con-
ductors of diligences, he searched the hotels,
he questioned the officers in the service of
the port, the gcndaiines who guarded the
gates. It was in vain : he could not discover
Sylverine.

" At daybreak," said the landlord, " the
lady paid her bill, and left that letter lor
you : then she went out alone, and on foot,
and has not returned since."

Nevertheless, ailer much searching, he
found that she had taken a ( iriiage to
t"lorence. He hastened after h(.'r ; l)Ut
there lie lost all trace, and wa'^ n(!ver able
to gain the slightest intelligence afterward.
He searched none the less for an entire
month. He was wretched without her, and
longed ardently to see her, if but ibr once.
He even tried to put in movement the
secret means which the Drinjcers of Ashes
had at their disposal. Whereupon Samla
wrote liim.

» We are not m.idc to calm the despair
of love. That woman is your evil genius,

■ » L.' l lH»J . I>.IJ I

1(1 coino to disturb
s he [lassi'd a I'arin-
iin iiiid harked. IIo
nnnal, and, wilziii^
I it as a cduh, crusli-
all at a siii^de hlnw.
the action r.calK'd
e I, then, become
Toward the middle
ed, and jjha^tly, ho
re hi! had left 8} I-
leaving a letter for

she wrote, "for I
3 to hide my shame
ived thee, and my
lom I loved. Why
r life ? Belbre thy
Do not search for
[id me. I care for
I desire nothing. I
it may rid ine of a
cred insiipiiortable.
It forget me, is the
thee ! "

ugh the city. He
us of shi[)S. the con-
! searched the hotels,
irs in the service of
IS who guarded the
ic could not discover

1 the landlord, " the
left that letter lor
t alone, and on foot,
ince."

much searching, he
aken a ( iriiage to
ned aftev h(.'r ; but
and wa*- ni;ver able
telligence afterward,
le less for an entire
hed without her, and
her, if but tor once.
it in movement the
e Drinjcers of Ashes
Whereupon Sanda

to calm the despair
n is your evil genius,

SYLVEEINE.

178

It is because of her that Flavio i.") dead.
Keep that in remumbrance 1 and take
care that wo do not demand of you, in
the future, a severe account of your con-
duct."

Siicli a letter was not of a nature to calm
Giovan in his state of revolt and anxiety ;
and he replied to Sanda, —

*' If I nmst not be human, tear from my
heart the passions that torture it, and I
will devote myself to our work ; but first
thert is a motive that urges me onwaril,
though the heavens crush me. I must
find Sylverine, and 1 will find her."

He then continued his search with the
energy that charpcterized him. He ex-
plored the neighboring cities of Florence,
went to llavenna in the hope that she had
returned there, and even d.ared to go into
the city of Cosenza. thinking that perhaps
she had hidden herself where Flavio had
perished. It was in vain : he could not di^^-
cover her. 'I'hen he imagined, that, to
conceal herself the letter, she had gone to
Home, tlie very camp of the enemy, the
place to him especially perilous, where ho
could not venture without risking his head.
One believes easily what one wishes. He
took a false j)asspnrt, and arrived in Home
at the time wlien the ceremonies of Holy
Week attract so many strangers. He visited
all the hotels, demanded impudently of the
police to examine the register of names ;
and, instead of evading the suspicion that
his ])resence might excite, lie seemed to take
pleasure in braving it. He attended all the
ceremonies of St. Peter's, for there he itoped
to find Sylverine. He laughed under the
noses of thi; Swiss Guards, dressed like
knaves of diamonds. And he did not
hesitate to make in public observations the
least favorable to the government of the
Pope. One day, in the gallery of the
Vatican, while looking at the picture, too
much praised, of the Commumon of St.
Jerome, he heard a voice behind him which
said, " The communion of St. Jerome
should make those who h:ive partaken of
it more prudent." He turned, and saw
an unknown man, who regarded him stead-

ily, and added, " We must never forget St.
Jerome."

The unknown man went away; and Gio-
van, always accustomed to mystery, Ibund
no dilUculty in understandiu.; that the
phrase, stripped of its apparent meaning,
played upon the name of Jerome., that is to
say, upon the nanie of Savonarola, and was
a conuntnucation from the Drinkers of
Ashes. He nevertheless persisted in his re-
searches. He went to Tivoli, lo Rocca ill
Papa, to Castel Gondolfo, to FrascatI, — in
short, everywhere where he supposed Syl-
verine could have concealed herself. One
morning, while walking through the shaily
road that borilers the Like of Albano, ho
found himself lace to face with the uian
who had spoKen to him in the gallery of the
Vatican. Tlie unknown stepped lieroio
(iiovan, and said to him, '• She whom thou
seekest is not here. It is useless to search :
thou wilt not find her."

"Where is she, then ?'' demanded Gio-
van.

" I cannot tell you that," replied the man ;
" but I have come to warn you. They i)e-
gin to suspect you ii. U)me. It is time tor
you to leave if you would not stay here
always."

'• Ah ! Who has sent you V "

" Tbo«e with wlwm you have partaken
the communion."

" Well, go to them, and say that I dety all
Rome, and that I shall remain here as
as long as it pleases me to do so."

The man t miled pityingly, saluted Giovan,
and went away.

Three days after the nnhapt, young man
returned to Rome. One everdng, as he
walked solitary along the deserted space
that borders the Tiber, beyond M juat .Vven-
tine, three men rushed upon him, enveloped
him in a mantle, and forced him into a car-
riage that rolled away swiftly toward the
Campitfjita. Before the Ijreak of day they
had arrived at the little |)ort of Fiumicino.
There, on the deck of a vessel that awaited
them, one of his captors gave him a letter
from San^la.

" Knowinjj that thou wilt never over

174

THE DRINKEliS OV ASHES.

come thysulf," wrote he, " necessity com- ]
pels us to use such inoiiiis to recall thee
to tliy senses, ami to save thee. The
hour will soon ari-ive when we shall
need all the energy which thou expendest
so badly. Couio to ; le ininiediiitely ; and
later thou shall iierhaps know where she is
whom thou hast so vainly sou;^ht."

Always watcheil, hut treated as a master
by his attendants, Giovan arrived at
Genoa; and from there he hastened to
Sauila, whom 1 have said lived beyond Jor-
dan. On seeing him his first words were,
" Where is Sylverine V "

" Thou shalt know later," replied Samla ;
and then he added, with an expression not
habitual on his impassive face, " the time
when thou canst see her will come all too
soon tor thee."

In spite of his rebellion, Giovan was
curbed hetijro that will of iron which none
could resist. He commenced to work with
a fiery energy, thinking it would distract his
thoughts from the one maddening remem-
brance, but it had no effect ; and, although
the name of Sylverine never passed his lii)s,
he thought of her continually. She reigned
tyrannically over his heart, thereby remind-
ing him of Flavio, and kee|)ing alive a fire
of remorse that nothing could extinguish.

Two years had passed, — two long and
wearisome years. No action had taken
place to occupy the mind of Giovan, neither
had any news arrived to him of Sylverine ;
yet he was no more accustomed nor resigned
to his sorrow. One day Samla, more serious
than usual, entered his room and gave him
a letter. " Thou canst go to her now," he
said : " at last thou art about to be I'rtsa."

Giovan took tlie letter, and opened it with
a beating heart ; for he at once recognized
the writing of Sylverine. It contained but
a line, that seemed traced by a feeble hand.
" I am at I'isa. I am dying, and I would
see thee."

Giovan was not long in reaching Pisa,
and hastening to the house of Sylverine.
When he saw her, he started with terror ;
for she vtiw only the ghost of herself. Her
sunken eyes, surrounded by purple shadows

seemed to (loat in sockets too large for them ;
the transparent temples showed the violet
veins ; an opa([iie jjallor gave to her com-
plexion the whiteness of wax ; her lips, thin
and parched, showed her discoloreil teeth ;
and her long, emaciated hands had the
vague gestures of an incomi)arable languor.
She had said truly ; she was dying, — wast-
ing away slowly and without ouHering, con-
sumed by one of those mysteri(uis maladies
where the mind and the body n!-act one
upon the other. A doctor would have
said, " She is dying of dyspepsia ; " a phi-
losopher w^iild have said, " She is dving of
sorrow:" and neither would have been
wrong.

A feeble smile lighted her face, and a
fugitive Hush passed over her thin cheek,
when she saw Giovan enter.

" 1 am glad to see thee," she said ; " for I
could not go to Fhivio until 1 had clasped
thy hand once more."

Her hours were numbered : each one that
passed increased her weakness. Giovan
never left her. He remained near her,
tender, anxious, almost womanly in his
gentle care, watching with terror the rapid
proiiress the disease made from day to day.
She" sull'ered no i)ain. The sjjirit seemed
to leave little by little the exhausted body.
They spoke seldom, but always of Flavio.
Shelovcd to recall the first happy days of
her acquaintance with the regretted dead.
The time seemed so long to her since she
lost him, and she was so near death, that
she believed herself to be old. Sometimes
she said to Giovan, " Dost thou remember
when we were young V " Often she remained
for hours, immobile, silent, her eyes closed,
her head turned away, and her hands tbld-
ed serenely, giving no sign of lilt: save a
sort of mechanical moan that wrung the
heart of Giovan. One ilay a low sob tell
upon her i;ar : she raised her eyes with
eilbrt, and saw Giovan leaning over her
bed, weeping to see her die. She had no
convulsions, no agony, none of the terrible
combats, where life and death seem to
} struggle with each other. She spoke of
I Flavio, extended her damp hand to Gio-

SYLVERINE.

175

ts too liifiTC for them ;
■s showi'd the violet
ai" gave to her eoiii-
af wax; her lips, thin
lu'r (liaeoloreil teeth ;
ited hands had the
iiuomparable lan;^iior.
le was dying, — wast-
nthout Bulleriiig, con-
i mysterious maladies
the body rti-act one
doctor would have
r dyspepsia ; " a phi-
laid, " She is dving of
iv would have been

hted her face, and a
over her thin cheek,
1 enter,
hee," she said ; " for I

io until I had clasped

f»

mbei-ed : each one that
,'r weakness. Giovan
! remained near her,
nost womanly in his
■r with terror the v;i\n<l
made fi'om day to day.
in. The si)ii-it seemed
lo the exhausted body,
but always of Flavio.
the first hajjpy days of
ilh the regretted dead.
3 long to her since she
ras so near death, that
to be old. Sometimes
'■ Dost thou remember
r V " Often she remained
silent, her eyes closed,
-ay, and lier hands fold-
no sign of HIl: save a
moan that wrung the
One day a low sob fell
i raised her eyes with
iovan leaning over her
e her die. She had no
ny, none of the terrible
le and death seem to
I other. She spoke of
ler damp hand to Gio-

van, breathed a light sigh, and died. II(!
watched over iier while a priest murmured, i
in a low voice, the consecrated orisons,
regarding, without power to move his eyes,
the form innnovaide forever. It seemeil
impossible that she was dead. Once he
called aloud, " Sylverine ! Sylverine I " in
a voice broken with fatigue, grief, and sobs.
Then a heavy stupor fell upon him, and he
slept, overcome by watching and weariness.
When he awoke, day had already dawned.
He looked from his window : the swallows
floated in the blue heavens ; the Arno
flowed peacefully, with a sad, monotonous
'plaint. When he returned to the funeral
chamber, and saw Sylverine, u|)on whom
death had already strewn its pale (lowers,
he cried, " All 1 how can day dawn alter
such a night Y "

During the religious ceremony, which
was held in the cathedral, Giovan had
only a confused consciousness of the sad
event. He suffered in an intolerable man-
ner, thinking of Sylverine and Flavio; of
j> the work of the Drinkers of Ashes, their

efforts always frustrated, always deleated ;
of the great motive that had directed all
their actions, and tor which Flavio had been
sacrificed; and regarding the great bronze
lamp that is suspended to the ceiling by a
long cord, and whose oscillations revealed
to Galileo the theory of the pendulum, he
said, as did the great Pisan, " Nevertheless,
it moves I "

Sylverine reposes in the Campo Santo,
not far from the fresco Orgagna painted of
Christ, showing his wounds, to teach men
that life is but one long scene of siiiferiug.
Beside the spot where she sleeps forever,
Giovan bought two burial places. One can
understand for whom they were intended.

At last free, as Samla had cruelly said,
be returned to his post, that is to say, Kaven-
na. Gloomy, sullen, and s".ent, ho lived
among men like one in a desert. In 1848
he threw himself into action with a blind
fury, as though he had something per-
sonal to avenge. He was everywhere.
At Naples, at Cortonc, at Milan, upright
uncovered, always in the front rank, he as-

toidslied the most hardy by liis recklessness.
They called him " the invulnerable," tor
death seemed to avoid him in spite of the ad-
vances lie made. When he knew that many
of their hopes were vanishing bctbre the
counter revolution, — that in Italy, Hun-
gary, and everywhere, the cause he loved
would return again to silence and shadows,
— he conceiveil with Samla the project of
bringing into Italy, /ev uniK'e.i AJar/i/wcs
attacked on the Danube by the Ausirians.
In spite of perils without number, and ad-
ventures usi'li;ss to recount, he reached
Transylvania, and entreated Bern to block-
ade Venice, ami to conunetice a strug-
gle between the Adriatic and Mincio; but
he was too late. The destiny of Ilimgary,
fixed by the ca|)itulation of Villagos, forced
Bem to seek a ref\ige in Tui'key.

Wlien Giovan returned to Venice, there
also all was over. Hushing insanely to
Ferrara, then occup:e<l by the Austrians,
he endeavored to renew the combat. He
was taken, judged, and condemned, not to
be shot as a soldier, but to be hung as a
bandit. The sentence pronounced in tli.'
morning was to be executed the same even-
ing. At sunset Giovan was in his cell,
sitting upon the bundle of straw that served
for his bed, calm, immobile, absorbed in
the retrospective contempluion of his life,
which seemed to pass betore him with won-
derful distinctness in the last hour. The
door opened, and an Ilieronymite monk
entered, — one of those whose rules are so
austere that the people of the Ucubrias
take them for sorcerers.

" I do not wish a confessor," said Gio-
van sternly.

The monk made a sign for the jailer to
leave. Then, raising the hood from his
eyes, he walked toward the prisoner and
said, —
" In nominejratri^ Hieronymi, salve ! "
" Samla," cried Giovan, recognizing his
voice. Then,thvowlng himself in hisfriend's
arras, he said ■' I will not be saved."

" I have Mot come to save thee," replied
Samla , who, having fled from Uonie, had
found an asylum in a convent near Ferrara.

1T6

THE DrjNKERS OF ASHES.

«' I have not come to 8:ive thee ; for I know
well that thou hiist thirst of deiUh. 1 have
come to know tliy hist wishes, and to uxe-
cilte them il i)()ssii)ic."

In th(! i)resen<'e of the >:rim monster,
(;ic)van lhoii;j;lit hut of Sylverine. " There
is one thin^i," said he, " which thou must
promise me; and that is, that thou wilt re-
move my hody to the Camiio Santo, at I'isa.
and place it beside Sylverino."

A smile of jiity passed over the face of
Sanila, as he replied, " I promise it ; but is
there nothin;; else 'I "

" Nothini,'," saiil Giovan : " all my life
was engrossed in that passion ; and I have
cared ibr nothing else since 1 lost her."

They sat side by side on the bundle of
straw, and talked toi^ether as thou'^h death
did not wait at the <loor. Samla spoke of
his jjrojects ; lor, with him, hoi)e was inde-
structible, as well as conviction. " This is
but another delay," said he: "we must
know how to await our time." Then, after
a short silence, he said to Giovan, " Art
thou very sure there is nothing more thou
desircst Y "

" Whatever I may desire, amounts to
nothing," replied Giovan. "In an hour I
shall be hung. It is very foolish, I know,
to dispute upon the outward form of death;
but to make gnmaces on a scaffold belbre
people who will clap their liands, I avow
that tortures and humiliates me. I would
have died as Flavio died, by and before
the carbines."

» I cannot give thee carbines," said Sam-
la, " but I can tell thee how to evade the
rope. Take this," said he, giving a little

bottle. " See my provision of deliverance. I
have kept it for a solemn occasion. Use it
dear child; and ilie with the consolation
that thou wilt not be a spectacle for the
curious and iudill'crcnt."

An hour after, when they entered the cell
of Giovan to comluct him to tho plice of
execution, they found him extended upon
the floor, cold and dead, and around hint a
strange perfume of bitter almond.

A doctor, called in haste, declared that
ho was poison(Hl by a powerful dose of
cyanhydriiiue acid. The body was, never-
tiieless, hung as an example.

Tho last wish of (Jiovan has been exe-
cuted. He reposes near to Sylverinc ; and
Flavio also has been united to them. In
the first days of the month of SeptembiT,
IHGO, after Garibaldi had taken the city of
Cosenza, the body of Flavio was removed
from the little chapel of Sauta Maria,
where it had been placed, and brought to
tho Metropolitan Church. There it was
recttived with military honors, to the sound
of bells and the report of cannon ; then it
was placed upon a caisson of artillery, and,
accompanied by an escort, it was carried
to Pola, embarked to Leghorn, and from
thence to Pisa.

Those who wore separateil in life are to-
day forever uniteil in death. Upon their
tombs one reads simply their names, —

GIOVAN. 8YLVF.RINE. FLAVIO.

which crosses an epitaph of a single line, —
Eccl. vii. 26, " And 1 find more bitter than
death the woman whose heart is snares,
and whose hands are chains."

THE EKD.

I .III | H |i nn «

on of deliverance. T
» OLHMsioii. Use it
ith the eonsoliition
a spectacle for tlic

licy entered the cell
ill! to the plice of
liin extended iipnn
1, and around hint a
r almond.

laste, declared that
])iiwcrftil dose of
10 body was, never-
nplo.

)van lias been exe-
r to Sylverine ; and
inited to theni. In
lonth of SepteinbiT,
id takon the city of
<'lavia was rouioved
1 of Santa Maria,
[;ed, and brought to
•ch. There it was
honors, to the soiuid
of cannon ; then it
son of artillery, and,
scort, it was carried
Leghorn, and from

arated in life are to-
death. Upon their
f their names, —

BINE. FLAVIO.

[)h of a sin;;le line, —
hid more bitter than
ose heart is snares,
;hains."

m^v