•life 
 
 
 
Class JI.>Z1-S d / 
 
THE 
 
 11 
 
 OEACLE OF EOMANCE: 
 
 OK, 
 
 YOUNG LADIES' MENTOE. 
 
 I 
 
 I BEING A 
 
 I 
 
 SERIES OF PICTURES, 
 I DESiaNED TO ILLUSTRATE LIFE. 
 
 i 
 iii . 
 
 BY A LADY. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO., 
 
 PUBLISHERS. 
 

 .Ai 01^ 
 
 Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 
 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts, 
 
 WRIGHT AND HASTY, PRINTERS, 3 WATER STREET, BOSTON. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Between the preface to a new book and the skillfully worded 
 placard whi^h nshers in some new medicine to the patronage of the 
 ■ic, there is this similitude — ^they are but seldom read. For most 
 ..ens receive a new book as they wonld some new medicament — if 
 it happen to please their taste and meet their present necessities, they 
 swallow it complacently. If not, they throw it aside with indifference, 
 perhaps disgust, reckless of the mental toil with which the writer, 
 like the pharmacentist with his medical arcanum, may have heralded 
 his freshly prepared compound of words. 
 
 To those however who may glance over these few prefatory lines, 
 the writer would say a few words. Of the number, there may be 
 those, to whom some of the following tales, illustrative of Life in 
 varied Phases, are familiar. To such, their merits, as their faults, are 
 already known. To those to whom they may at least possess the 
 charm of novelty, she would briefly say, that in these Pictures of Life 
 sketched both in the sunshine of gladness, and in the shades of afflic- 
 tion, it has been her aim to impress each with some pleasing moral, 
 and give to the play of Fancy, the beauty of virtue and truthfulness. 
 
 C. H. B. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER 9 
 
 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT 42 
 
 GAITY 77 
 
 THE POET Li. . 121 
 
 LITTLE WINNIE 142 
 
 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED 163 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 216 
 
 THE CURTAIN LIFTED 244 
 
 THE MAID OP CHE-KYANG 269 
 
ORACLE OF ROMANCE. 
 
 ■^« ♦ •^- 
 
 NELLY, THE E A G-Gl A T H E R E R. 
 
 Near where Canal street now extends its range of 
 fine ware-houses and commodious dwellings — where, over 
 the broad flaggings, youth and beauty trip so fleetly, and 
 the din of omnibus, cart, and cab is unceasing, there stood, 
 about the year 1809, a low, dark, dismal stone building, 
 which had more the air of a prison than any less 
 equivocal residence. Upon the ground floor there were 
 but two windows, and those were boarded over, excepting 
 one row of cracked and dirty panes at the top. The win- 
 dows on the second floor were always tightly closed by 
 heavy wooden shutters, once black, but now discolored 
 by time and rain to a hue even more dismal. The house 
 stood a few rods back from the street, and was inclosed 
 by a board fence, so high as entirely to prevent any one 
 from looking into the yard, which was one mass of tangled 
 weeds and filthy rubbish, where at every step the miry 
 soil yielded beneath the foot, or after a rain became as a 
 loathsome, stagnant pond. » 
 
 This part of New York was called the " Collect." It 
 was then aljiost a swamp, and so remained for many 
 years. Of course, it was deemed unhealthy — the hot-bed 
 of fevers and agues; and, for that reason probably, while 
 both above and below and on each side, the hand of 
 
10 NELLY, THE EAG-GATHERER. 
 
 improvement and wealth was rapidly extending streets 
 and erecting noble buildings, this, the " Collect," re- 
 mained almost an isolated spot — the rendezvous of thieves 
 and assassins — and rendered also even more famous by 
 many idle tales of superstition, so that this building stood 
 year after year apparently untenanted, growing more and 
 more gloomy as time wore on. But it was not so. Every 
 day there might be seen issuing from the narrow gate- 
 way, an old, miserable-looking woman, in perfect keeping 
 with this abode. Her di-ess, although clean, was of the 
 coarsest and most scanty materials, eked out with shreds 
 and patches of every shape and hue. An old tattered 
 shawl was thrown over her bosom, her arms were nearly 
 bare, she wore no stockings, and her slip-shod, ragged 
 shoes, were fastened around her ankles by twine or bits 
 of rags. A straw bonnet, of most unseemly shape and 
 color, was pinched down over her face and tied under the 
 chin by an old dingy black handkerchief. Over her 
 shoulders she always bore a greasy, brown bag, and in 
 her hand one of those long, wooden poles, with an iron 
 hook attached to either end, denoting her occupation as 
 Rag-gatherer. 
 
 Long used to stooping amid the dirt and rubbish, her 
 form had become bent nearly double, and day after day 
 she might be seen prowling around the principal streets, 
 sometimes about the dry goods stores, or scraping every 
 little rag and refuse from the gutter and drains near the 
 residences of the more wealthy citizens. So miserable 
 was her appearance, that frequently some charitable per- 
 son, touched by her decrepitude and poverty, would drop 
 
NELLY, THE RAG- GATHERER. 11 
 
 at her feet a few pennies, and even silver coin, which 
 Nelly, as she was called by the shop-boys and servants? 
 would greedily pick up, mumbling us she did so a few 
 almost unintelligible words of thanks. Only a few hours 
 of each day did Nelly devote to her strolls, she would 
 then return to that wretched, dreary dwelling, and in- 
 spect and arrange her filthy store. The rags she would 
 wash and hang over the tall, rank weeds, meet to bear 
 such fruit ; and if, perchance, any thing of more value 
 had fallen to her luck, as was often the case, it was care- 
 fully hoarded away. No one was ever admitted within 
 those walls, yet sometimes a beggar would waylay even 
 this poor wretch as she entered her gate, nor were they 
 refused aid : if but a penny or a crust, the Eag-gatherer 
 bestowed her mite. 
 
 Had she lived in the days of Salem Witchcraft, Nelly 
 would assuredly have been hung for a witch, nor did she 
 even now escape suspicion of belonging to that worthy 
 sisterhood. As no light, however dim, was ever seen 
 gleaming from those dingy panes, it was averred by cer- 
 tain knowing ones, that the nights of poor Nelly were 
 passed in the society of the " Old Scratch; " and more 
 than one person testified that she had been seen sitting 
 upon the top of the fence in the shape of a large, black 
 cat, glaring so frightfully, that the whole marsh became 
 illuminated by her fiery eye-balls. Others said the 
 *' Old Scratch.^' with proper politeness, occasionally re- 
 turned these visits incog., and might be heard in dark, 
 stormy nights, when the wind howled and the thunder 
 rolled, growling around the gate. That she had made 
 league with this same respectable gentleman, there was 
 no doubt ; her rags were assuredly transmuted to gold and 
 
12 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 silver, for the chink of the hard dollars and guineas was 
 said to be heard as plainly as the ten-pin balls of a 
 neighboring alley. Sportsmen affirmed that frequently 
 when they had come snipe-shooting in the vicinity of the 
 old Rag-gatherer's house, the snipes had acted as if they 
 were bewitched — paying no regard whatever to their shot, 
 but merely turning tail, with a hit-me-if-you-can air, 
 flew lazily over the old fence. As guilt is always more 
 or less superstitious, these very reports rendered the Rag- 
 gatherer probably more secure in her castle, for even if 
 she had the luck of changing rags to gold, the thief pre- 
 ferred knocking a gentleman genteelly upon the head in 
 Broadway or the Bowery, to venturing into the den of 
 one so near to the devil ; for, although performing his busi- 
 ness in the most faithful manner, he seemed to have a 
 strong repugnance to facing his employer. 
 
 It was a chilly day in Autumn, that, as Nelly was re- 
 turning from her daily toil, her attention was attracted by 
 a young woman who seemed nearly fainting upon the 
 damp ground, her head reclining against a rough stake or 
 post, while crouched shiveringly at her feet was a little 
 girl, apparently about six years of age. Nelly was not 
 unfeeling — the heart which beat beneath that wretched 
 covering was more alive to pity than many which throb 
 beneath a silken zone ; so she stopped, and in a kind 
 voice demanded the cause of the poor woman's distress. 
 In tones broken by grief and pain, her little story was 
 told in a few words. She was dying, she said, of want — 
 her husband, after a long sickness, had been buried only 
 a week before, leaving her friendless and forlorn — and 
 that, unable longer to pay the rent of a wretched cellar, 
 the cruel landlord had thrust her forth with her child into 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 13 
 
 the pitiless streets to die — for die she knew she must, 
 there was such a load upon her heart; and were it not 
 for her poor little child, she cared not how soon she was 
 laid at rest in the quiet grave-yard. Nelly spoke words 
 of comfort to her, and assisting her to rise, bade her lean 
 upon her, and then taking the little attenuated hand of 
 the child in hers, she led them to her miserable abode. 
 That shelter which the rich man denied, the Eag-gatherer 
 freely gave, and with it — kindness ! In her work of be- 
 nevolence, it seemed as if renewed strength and agility 
 were given her. She placed her on her straw pallet — 
 coarse, but cleanly, she chafed her hands, and poured her 
 out a cup of water, which she succeeded in getting her 
 to drink; nor, in the meanwhile, had she forgotten to 
 give into the hands of the famishing child a generous 
 slice of bread. How tenderly she smoothed the pillow of 
 the poor young creature, and bathed her throbbing tem- 
 ples ! But all would not do — life was evidently ebbing 
 fast away. Remembering there was a physician not far 
 off, she hastened with all her speed to summon him. 
 There was apparently a struggle with this disciple of 
 Galen, at crossing the threshold of one so miserable, for 
 on tip-toeing, careful steps he entered — just glanced 
 toward the bed — pronounced the patient '■'■ well enough ^^'' 
 and would have retreated, but the long fingers of Nelly 
 seized his arm with the grip of a tigress — her black eyes 
 flashed both with anger and contempt, as she said : 
 
 " S>tay I and fear not your services will go unpaid. 
 Here is gold for you ! Save this poor woman, if in your 
 power, for the sake of that helpless babe ! " 
 
 Although the eyes of the doctor suddenly opened wide 
 to the exigency of the case, and although he felt her pulse, 
 
14 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 and administered some soothing stimulant, it needed more 
 than the hand of man to strengthen anew the *' silver 
 cord." Ere morning she died, with her last breath com- 
 mending the orphan to the protection of the old woman. 
 " As God reads my heart, I promise you your child shall 
 be as my own," whispered Nelly, bending over the dying 
 woman. "I will protect her and keep her from harm. 
 All that one like me can do, I will !" 
 
 The mother fixed her eyes upon the good creature, 
 tried to speak her thanks, and then clasping her child to 
 her bosom, her wearied spirit sank to rest. With her 
 own hands Nelly straitened the body for its final bed — 
 from her hoarded gains she purchased a decent coffin, 
 and then, when all was ready, she called in a clergyman 
 to perform the last mournful rites. In an obscure corner 
 of " Potter's Field " the young stranger was buried — UU' 
 ivept — U7iknov)n I 
 
 As the hearse disappeared, Nelly again bolted her door, 
 and taking the weeping child upon her knee, strove to 
 comfort her. She gazed long and tenderly upon the sweet 
 face of the little orphan, and it was one which well repaid 
 the scrutiny. She was a gentle, timid child, with great 
 delicacy of form and feature. Light, golden hair, waved 
 in silken ringlets over a brow and neck of dazzling fair- 
 ness — eyes of beautiful deep blue, seeming, from their 
 mournful cast, to bespeak at once your love and pity, and 
 a rosy little mouth, inviting the kiss it so sweetly re- 
 turned. Her mother had called her Violet, and Nelly 
 had asked no other name. And now this poor old crea- 
 ture, so long an object of contempt, and even contumely 
 by the crowd, had found something upon which to lavish 
 her pent-up affections — a being more helpless than herself 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 15 
 
 to cherish — she so long friendless and unsightly to the 
 eye, received now the artless caresses of this pure, 
 lovely child. The walls of her dwelling, late so dismal 
 and desolate, were suddenly filled with life and music ! 
 From the day she had sworn to protect the little Violet, 
 old Nelly seemed a changed being. Her tones were now 
 low and gentle, her foot-step noiseless, as if she feared 
 her happiness all an illusion that the least rudeness might 
 dispel, or that the little being she had so learned to love, 
 was but a vision which a breath might dissolve ; and, old 
 and decrepit as she was, her goodness made her lovely in 
 the eyes of the child. 
 
 As Violet grew older, the old woman gradually with- 
 drew from her habitual rounds and devoted her time 
 more' to the instruction of her young charge. She taught 
 her to read and spell correctly — guided her little hand in 
 learning her to write, and was continually storing her 
 mind with lessons of truth and purity. Words of such 
 beauty seemed strange issuing from the mouth of one 
 whose life appeared to have been a scene of cruel toil' 
 and privation ! She instructed her in all branches of 
 needle-work, even to the finest embroidery — yes, those 
 fingers, used to plucking the rags and rubbish from un- 
 savory sewer's, now threaded the variegated worsteds, 
 and beauteous buds and flowers glowed beneath her hand ! 
 
 Allow a few years to pass unnoted, and Violet is again 
 before us. She had now reached her fourteenth year, 
 and still thought nor wished for other home than the roof 
 of the Rag-gatherer. Those four walls were the world 
 to her, and there her days had passed in peace and 
 happiness. Nelly was usually absent many hours in the 
 day, and rarely returned at night. Where those were 
 
16 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 passed was a mystery she never divulged even to Violet, 
 who was employed the mean-while contentedly with her 
 needle and in perusing the very few books which the old 
 woman had managed to procure. Day after day, as she 
 threw her bag over her shoulder to depart, Nelly would 
 enjoin upon Violet never to be seen at the windows above, 
 and on no account to open the gate, no matter how hard it 
 was assailed, and without a murmur Violet had strictly 
 obeyed. But one day, and a bright sunny one it was 
 too, when she could hear the birds singing, and the in- 
 sects chirping amid the grass, Violet, perhaps for the first 
 time, pined to be let loose from that dismal old building. 
 She tried to sew but the needle slipped away from her 
 heedless fingers. She opened her books. How tedious ! 
 She had read all that a thousand times. She then went 
 into the yard, where Nelly with her own hands had ar- 
 ranged a little garden for her darling, but the flowers 
 looked sickly and hung their heads, no more contented 
 with theif position than Violet. All at once, she found 
 herself close to the proscribed gate. Ah^ take care Violet ! 
 But what harm could there be in just unbolting it for a 
 moment? What harm in just looking into the street ? 
 She knew there could be none, and so she timidly drew 
 the bolt. The gate yielded to her touch, and, half afraid, 
 she stood within the dingy portal. It happened unfor- 
 tunately just at that moment, a party of gay young men 
 were passing. Struck by her uncommon loveliness they 
 stopped and gazed rudely upon her. Violet attempted 
 to retreat, but one of them, with consummate audacity, 
 seized her by the arm, and addressed her with the most 
 insolent language. In vain she struggled to free herself. 
 He swore he would have a kiss, and most probably would 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 17 
 
 have succeeded in his brave attempt, had not a smart 
 blow across the eyes with a rattan, nearly blinded him, 
 and obliged him to release the frightened girl. His com- 
 panions had stood by laughing at the distress of Violet, 
 and encouraging their comrade to persist, but there was 
 another spectator of the scene ; a youth apparently not 
 more than seventeen, who enraged at their brutality, dealt 
 the blow, and then quickly drawing Violet within the gate, 
 bolted it. Now gracefully lifting his hat, he bid her be 
 under no uneasiness, for he would protect her from all 
 insult. In the mean-while, smarting with rage and pain, 
 the party on the outside with furious knocks and gross 
 language demanded admittance, and at one time it seemed 
 as if the old gate must inevitably yield to their violence ; 
 but, tired at length of their fruitless efforts, they desisted, 
 and, with oaths of revenge, took their departure across 
 the ' Collect,' The brave lad would have waited the re- 
 turn of the old v^oman, but Violet begged of him to be 
 gone, while in her own artless manner she thanked him 
 again and again for the services he had rendered her. 
 Reluctantly, therefore, he took his leave — to Violet, it 
 was as if the sun had suddenly disappeared from the 
 heavens ! 
 
 As soon as Nelly came in she candidly related all that 
 had occurred, to which the former listened with much 
 agitation, making no reproaches, but for more than an 
 hour remained in deep thought, evidently distressed at 
 such an unlooked-for circumstance. Suddenly lifting her 
 head, she exclaimed : 
 
 " Violet, you must go from me ! " 
 
 " What, leave you — do you bid me leave you ? Ah, 
 
18 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 forgive your disobedient child. Never — never will I again 
 offend you ! " cried Violet. 
 
 " I am not offended, for you have but committed an act 
 for which my own foolish conduct must answer, I should 
 have known better than to have caged you here so long, 
 poor child, but my motives were good. Now we must 
 part — perhaps never to meet again, for, when once you 
 go forth into the busy world, when you leave these walls 
 behind you, the poor Rag-gatherer must no longer be re- 
 membered." 
 
 Violet burst into tears, and sobbed as if her heart 
 would break. 
 
 " Send me away, and tell me I must forget you, too ! 
 Oh, I cannot — I cannot." 
 
 Even Nelly herself shed tears, but her resolution was 
 unshaken. 
 
 " Listen to me, Violet," said she, " I know a lady 
 who is not only rich, but, what is far better, has the credit 
 of being charitable. Indeed, more than once have I 
 experienced her kindness. To her I will now go. I 
 will relate your little history. I will tell her that though 
 but the adopted child of a poor, lone woman like myself, 
 yet you are good and amiable, and your mind pure as 
 falling snow. I think she will at once receive you under 
 her roof, and for the rest I fear not. You would steal 
 into her heart were it of marble." 
 
 " But shall I never hear from you — never, never see 
 you again ? Oh, I had much rather stay with you." 
 
 " You may see me again, and you may not, but on 
 pain of my certain displeasure, never to a human being 
 speak of or relate your past life — you must forget it en- 
 
NELLY, THE EAG-GATHERER. 19 
 
 tirely ! Kemember this, and promise me you will not 
 again disobey my commands." 
 
 Violet gave the required promise, and the old woman 
 continued : 
 
 " You have never been called by any other name 
 than Violet — you must now have one. A precious and 
 a darling child have you been to my old heart, and in 
 remembrance, you shall be called ' Violet Darling.' " 
 
 The next morning Nelly came in bearing a bundle, 
 which she handed to Violet, saying : 
 
 " Here, my love, are clothes more suitable for you than 
 the coarse garments you have on. I have seen Mrs. 
 Ballantyne, the lady I spoke of, and, as I expected, she 
 is willing to receive you, not as a domestic, but as a 
 companion. One so new as you are to the world she 
 thinks she can mould according to her own fancy, but be 
 not led, my dear child, to forget the lessons of truth and 
 virtue I have endeavored to instill into your mind. This 
 afternoon, at four o'clock, you will be sent for." 
 
 Passing over the grief of Violet, at finding herself 
 about to be separated from the only friend she had on 
 earth, we find her, at the hour appointed, waiting the 
 messenger from Mrs. Ballantyne. 
 
 As her eye caught the figure reflected in the old 
 cracked looking-glass, it was no wonder she started with 
 surprise. A neat white cambric, now took the place of 
 the faded, coarse calico she had previously worn ; a blue 
 scarf vailed her bosom, and a little gipsy hat, tied under 
 her dimpled chin with blue ribbons, shaded her youthful, 
 modest face. Thus attired, poor Violet fluttering, trem- 
 bling, like a timid bird, shrank from offered freedom. 
 
20 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 Mrs. Ballantyne was a gay and handsome widow. 
 Her fortieth birthday had already passed, but so lightly 
 had time marked these mile-stones to the grave (as some 
 one has called them) that, to all appearance, she was as 
 youthful as at five-and-twenty. Her complexion, perhaps, 
 had suffered, but the brightness of her fine black eye 
 was undimmed; her raven hair, still unsilvered, rested in 
 rich glossy folds upon her lofty brow ; her mouth was 
 small — teeth superb, and her figure retained all its youth- 
 ful elasticity and grace. Left a widow at an early age, 
 Mrs. Ballantyne, for several years, secluded herself en- 
 tirely from the gay world. All her thoughts — all her 
 affections — centering in her only child, a lovely boy. 
 Report had said the married life of Mrs. Ballantyne 
 had been far from happy ; but, if so, she certainly evinced 
 all the grief of the most affectionate wife, for, even after 
 her son was old enough to be placed at school, she still 
 persisted in her seclusion, seeing none but her most inti- 
 mate friends, and only relieving the monotony of her 
 existence by daily habituating herself to the exercise of 
 walking, in which, however, she as constantly refused all 
 participants. These solitary walks, so regular, and in all 
 weathers, at last gave rise to many ill-natured and un- 
 feeling remarks, tending in thfe end to sully the pure fame 
 of the young widow. But even while the world whis- 
 pered and wondered, Mrs. Ballantyne suddenly gave a 
 new impetus to their tongues and conjectural organs, 
 by as suddenly renouncing her former manner of life, 
 and, casting aside her mourning weeds, stepped forth 
 from her darkened chamber a radiant, beautiful woman — 
 gay — enchanting — spiriticelle ! 
 
 With' a taste as novel as it- was exquisite, she furnished 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 21 
 
 her splendid mansion ; the elegance of her equipage was 
 the topic of the day ; while balls, suppers, and parties, 
 followed each other in rapid succession. 
 
 It was now the dashing Mrs. Ballantyne ! 
 
 Her saloon was thronged with the elite of learning and 
 aristocracy. She patronized the fine arts, befriended 
 the unfortunate, and ^gave liberally to every charitable 
 purpose. 
 
 The same mystery, to be sure, still attached itself to 
 her private affairs — certain hours of every day she was 
 invisible ; but now the world deemed it only an eccen- 
 tricity, and as such it passed. Nor was she without her 
 admirers. Statesmen and heroes would gladly have laid 
 their laurels at her feet, and many a youthful lover 
 worshiped at her shrine ; but maternal love shielded her 
 heart from all other ties. Under all the apparent frivolity 
 of her character, there was much, very much, that was 
 truly excellent and noble. Her son was never forgotten — 
 he was still the idol of her fondest hopes and affection. 
 With talents of high order brought into proper develop- 
 ment by judicious instruction, Eugene Ballantyne, at the 
 age of seventeen, had nearly completed his collegiate 
 course, and had already evinced a strong desire to enter 
 the ministry. His health, however, having suffered from 
 close application to study, it was deemed advisable for 
 him to make the tour of Europe ere he came to any defi- 
 nite determination. 
 
 Such then was the person who was to receive the hum- 
 ble protege of the Rag-gatherer. What a transition 
 from the wretched dwelling of the latter to the luxu- 
 riant abode of wealth and fashion, where the very air 
 seemed oppressed with its own fragrance ! Yet the mind 
 
22 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 of Violet, appeared fitted for this refined sphere — so 
 strangely had old Nelly even in all her obscurity and 
 poverty cultivated this lovely flower. She was like the 
 sweet lily of the vale opening its delicate petals in the 
 dark wild wood, yet when transplanted to the conserva- 
 tory of rare and choice exotics, then only appearing to 
 have found its proper sphere ! ♦ 
 
 It was the afternoon upon which Violet had taken a 
 last farewell of her childhood's home, with what sorrow 
 has been shown, that Mrs. Ballantyne, seated in her pri- 
 vate apartment waited the arrival of her protege. It was 
 the month of June, and it would seem Flora herself had 
 showered this little retreat of the widow with her most 
 beautiful offerings. Vases of the most tasteful designs 
 were scattered around filled with choice roses — wreaths 
 of fresh flowers were suspended over the mirrors, and 
 the transparent window curtains were looped with the 
 same. The floor was covered by an India matting, and 
 in the centre of the room stood a small Egyptian table 
 bearing an urn, also of antique model, in which the 
 rarest exotics united their fragrance with the less bril- 
 liant flowers of our own clime. Upon this table were 
 choice prints — rare medallions — etchings, and the walls 
 were also decorated with gems from the first masters. 
 Silken hangings of a pale rose color drooped in graceful 
 folds over a small recess, disclosing within the couch of 
 the fair mistress of this apartment, around which fell cur- 
 tains of snowy muslin looped here and there with the 
 same beautiful bands as confined those at the windows. 
 
 The dress of Mrs. Ballantyne was a pale green silk, 
 ornamented with double rosettes of pink satin. The 
 sleeves were of the finest lace falling just below the 
 
NELLY", THE RAG-GATHERER. 23 
 
 elbow, disclosing the beautiful contour of her arm, 
 clasped at the wrist by a rich bracelet of emeralds and 
 rubirs. Her glossy black hair was parted upon her fore- 
 head and gathered in one heavy mass upon the top of 
 her head, where it was confined by a shell comb of ex- 
 quisite workmanship. In her hand she held a miniature 
 of her son, who had that morning returned to college. 
 Upon this her eyes were fondly fixed, when a gentle rap 
 at the door aroused her from her pleasing employment. 
 
 Bewildered at the beautiful scene before her, so novel, 
 so enchanting; confused, abashed, at the presence of the 
 elegant woman who now kindly greeted her, Violet stood 
 trembling at the entrance, her cheeks suffused with 
 blushes rivaling the tints of the roses around her. One 
 hand rested upon the polished moulding, the other was 
 partly raised as if to shield her eyes from so much splen- 
 dor, and one little foot just poised upon the marble sill, 
 hesitating to bear its lovely young mistress into a spot so 
 strangely beautiful. Mrs. Ballantyne advanced and 
 gently taking the timid girl by the hand, led her into 
 the apartment, and seated her upon the tabouret at her 
 side. She then removed the little gipsy hat, and the 
 golden curls leaped gladly forth from their unwonted 
 thraldom, and nestled again around their sweet resting 
 place. 
 
 At length Violet dared to raise her eyes ; she met the 
 encouraging smile, and heard the gentle voice of that 
 lovely lady, and her agitation suddenly calmed, her fears 
 subsided ; she even smiled in return, and in a short time 
 felt she was no longer a stranger. Thus affable and kind 
 were the manners of Mrs. Ballantyne. 
 
24 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 In simple language, and with artless grace, Violet re- 
 lated her little history. 
 
 It was not an eventful one, nor had she tales of harsh- 
 ness to reveal, no complaints of suffering, her path 
 had been a lowly one but without thorns. The goodness 
 of poor old Nelly was her theme, and when told that 
 she was no more to see her and forbidden henceforth 
 even to speak of her, the tears so lately repressed again 
 burst forth, until even those of her listener mingled with 
 them. Suddenly her eyes rested upon the miniature of 
 Eugene. She started, blushed, and faltered forth : 
 
 " ' Tis himself! Oh, madam, 'tis the same who tore 
 me from the arms of that bad man ! " 
 
 It was now Mrs. Ballantyne's turn to be surprised. 
 
 " Are you sure ? Why, this is the miniature of my 
 son, of Eugene ! " 
 
 " Yes, madam, I am sure. Oh, I never can forget 
 that face, never ! " 
 
 Mrs. Ballantyne certainly evinced more feeling than 
 there was any necessity for, and at length said : 
 
 " Well, Violet, it may be so ; but you must never 
 speak of it again. Should you meet my son, on no 
 account betray your indentity with the Rag-gatherer's 
 child ! True, she is an excellent old person, but it is 
 fitting now you should forget her ; your station in life for 
 the future must preclude all allusion to the past ; you 
 are now Miss Darling, my ward, my niece, or any other 
 title I may claim for you ! " 
 
 The next news in the fashionable world was, that the 
 eccentric widow had adopted a beautiful young girl, lovely 
 as Juliet, artless as Ophelia, but ere more than one tantal- 
 izing glance had been obtained of her fair young face, she 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 25 
 
 was as suddenly removed to a distance from the city, and 
 placed at school for the next three years, during which 
 Mrs. Ballantyne partially withdrew from her gay career. 
 and devdted herself more to literary pursuits, awaiting 
 with great anxiety the return of her son from Europe. 
 At length the fond mother was made happy ; she once 
 more pressed her darling child to her bosom. He returned 
 to her in perfect health, and the beau-ideal of manly 
 beauty. She was not now for the first time to know that 
 his heart and disposition were right. Violet also re- 
 turned and met the same kind welcome. 
 
 For the first time, Eugene and the fair ward of his 
 mother met. No sooner did the eye of the former rest 
 upon the elegant girl presented to him, than a glow of 
 surprise and pleasure mantled his face. That sweet 
 countenance was strangely familiar to him — where had he 
 seen it ? Could it be ? No ! it was impossible — and 
 yet, how strangely like the poor girl, he once protected 
 from insult ; and Eugene stood for a moment in perfect 
 perplexity. Nor was Violet much less embarrassed, al- 
 though better prepared for the interview. When they 
 were left alone, Eugene said : 
 
 " Pardon my presumption, Miss Darling, but I cannot 
 divest myself of the idea that we have somewhere met 
 before. Your countenance is so like one which I never 
 can forget that I saw several years since in a remote part 
 of the city ; it seems to me there cannot be two such 
 faces ! " 
 
 Violet blushed deeply ; it was such a pleasure to know 
 
 he had not forgotten poor Nelly's child, and she would 
 
 immediately have confessed herself the same, when 
 
 suddenly the stern injunction of Mrs. Ballantyne never 
 
 2 
 
26 NELLY, THE RAG-aATHERER. 
 
 to betray herself to her son returned to her, and she 
 checked the words already upon her lips. An awkward 
 silence ensued, for she had not acquired the tact of coolly 
 shuffling off a mal-apropos subject, and as coolly taking 
 up another. Poor Violet was a novice in Belle-dom. 
 
 But had she forgotten the benevolent Rag-gatherer ? 
 She had ventured to ask Mrs. Ballantyne if she had seen 
 her, but was repulsed with no satisfactory reply ; and 
 many times she had stolen away from home and walked 
 around the city, hoping she might meet her early friend. 
 In her researches she had discovered the old dwelling in 
 the * Collect,' but as usual the gate was fast, and although 
 she waited as long as she dared, no one came out or en- 
 tered. At length one day as she was passing down 
 Beekman street with Eugene, they saw an old decrepit 
 woman busily gathering up rags just thrown from one 
 of the houses. Violet bounding from the side of Eugene, 
 rushed forward : 
 
 *' Look up, mother, look up, it is me, 7ne, Violet." 
 
 But the old woman without raising her eyes, mum- 
 bled : 
 
 " Go away, go away, I tell you, would you destroy 
 yourself! " 
 
 " I have looked for you so long, so long, mother — 
 must I never see you ? " 
 
 At this moment Eugene approached, and noticed with 
 surprise the distress of Violet. 
 
 " Do you know this good woman ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh yes, yes, she is my — she is — " 
 
 Nelly suddenly raised her head and fixed her keen 
 eye upon the agitated girl. Eugene caught the glance, 
 a glance so full of meaning. 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 27 
 
 " Woman, who are you? What are you?" he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 Nelly made no reply, but lifting her bag hobbled off 
 down the street. In silence the young couple proceeded 
 homeward. Eugene saw there was some mystery, but 
 had too much delicacy to press a disclosure, and in fact 
 he was himself so much agitated at the appearance of 
 the old woman, as gave his thoughts sufficient occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 Thrown almost constantly together as was Eugene 
 and Violet, no other result than a mutual affection could 
 be expected, prepared too as their hearts were by former 
 occurrences for love. Violet however was unconscious 
 of the deep interest E«gene had secured himself in 
 her affections, until one day being alone with Mrs. 
 Ballantyne, that lady gradually introduced the subject of 
 her son's marriage. 
 
 " It had become now," she said, " her greatest desire to 
 see him married ; married too, to one of birth, fortune 
 and education. Not mere amiability or beauty, or both 
 combined, would please her ; she never would consent, 
 notwithstanding he was so dear, to his uniting himself 
 with any one whose standing was beneath his own." 
 
 As she listened, the vail which had hitherto screened 
 her feelings even from herself was removed, the color for- 
 sook her cheeks, her lips quivered, her frame trembled, 
 and unable to reply to the solicitous inquiries of Mrs. 
 Ballantyne at her sudden paleness, she hastily retired 
 to commune with her heart upon this new and painful 
 disclosure. Happily, as she supposed, her secret was un- 
 known, it should remain locked in the innermost cham- 
 ber of her heart, for never would she be instrumental in 
 
28 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 inflicting one pang to her kind benefactress, and Eu- 
 gene — and here a crimson blush suffused her cheeks 
 — no, he never should suspect that her affections were 
 his unsought! 
 
 For several days she avoided Eugene, but her very 
 effort to appear at ease when in his presence, only made 
 her conduct seem the more strange. 
 
 One evening at an hour earlier than usual she rertired 
 to her chamber, and burying her face in the rich 
 cushions of the lounge, for some time remained in deep 
 and painful thought. Eugene loved her! yes, his own 
 lips had declared it ! But feigning an indifference she 
 did not feel for the mother^s sake, she had nobly refused 
 that love, and sacrificed her earthly happiness at the 
 shrine of gratitude ! Occupied with her own sad thoughts, 
 she scarcely noticed the opening of the door, until a 
 hand was placed lightly upon her shoulder. Violet 
 raised her head, and before her stood Nelly the Rag- 
 gatherer ! 
 
 To spring from her seat and throw her snowy arms 
 around the neck of the old woman was the work of an 
 instant. 
 
 " I told you, you might see me again, and I am 
 here," said Nelly. " Now tell me, child, what ails you, 
 for you have been weeping." 
 
 " Oh, nothing, nothing, dear mother," answered Violet. 
 
 "You never told me an untruth when you were a 
 child, Violet, don't begin now. Something ails you, 
 speak quick and freely, tell me all, for I must be gone, for 
 the first and only time I am allowed to speak with you." 
 
 In a low and broken voice, Violet related all her 
 distress and its cause. When she had finished, how 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 29 
 
 great was her astonishment, when instead of the sym- 
 pathy she had expected, a low laugh from the old woman 
 met her ear. 
 
 " Right, right, it is as I thought. Ha ! ha ! ha ! the 
 young man loves you then ! For all madam's fine 
 riches her son would consort with a beggar ; good, good ! 
 Marry him, yes, marry him, who knows but J may yet 
 sip my tea from as dainty a thing as this, ay, and my 
 wkie too ! " 
 
 Amazement for some moments kept Violet silent. 
 
 " Is it possible you can be serious ! " she at length 
 said. " Would you have^me repay all the kindness I have 
 received with such ingratitude ? " 
 
 " Ay, would I, if you call it ingratitude ! But who 
 took care of you when you were almost a baby ? Who 
 saved you from dying in the street ? Who placed you 
 here, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " Oh, I know you were very, very kind — never can I 
 be grateful enough ! But I cannot destroy the expec- 
 tations and blast the hopes of Mrs. Ballantyne by accept- 
 ing the hand of her son, even though he offer it ! " 
 
 " And you prefer that I — I who have toiled and worked 
 for you early and late — I, so old and so helpless — 7 who 
 ' have looked forward to this day as my reward ; you pre- 
 fer me to remain in wretched poverty rather than to dis- 
 appoint this fine proud madam by doing an act which 
 would give me comfort and a home ! " 
 
 "Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?" cried 
 Vio et, wringing her hands. " I cannot act as you 
 wish, and your displeasure is dreadful to me ? " 
 
 " Foolish, stubborn girl," exclaimed Nelly, angrily, 
 " take then the only alternative. I have a right to com- 
 
30 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 mand you, and / will ! Leave this house, leave all your 
 splendor, your fine carpets, your beds of down, and 
 dainty knick knacks ; leave all, I say and share with me 
 the bitter dregs of life. I am old, and your white hands 
 must become as sallow and shriveled as mine in my 
 service ! You must off with your satins and muslins, 
 and don my rags ! Ha, ha, ha, and a dainty beggar 
 she'll make I " added the old woman to herself. 
 
 No marble could be whiter than the face of Violet as 
 she listened. For some moments she remained immov- 
 able ; her stony gaze fastened upon the old woman. 
 Fetching a heavy sigh, she at length said : 
 
 " Yes, I will go with you ; I will work for you ; I will 
 contentedly resign all this splendor which should not 
 be mine, when you my kind and earliest friend are in 
 misery and want. Oh, why did you send me from you ! 
 But take me with you, I am ready." 
 
 " No, not to-night. Tomorrow at nine o'clock be at 
 the gate, you will find it unbolted, in the course of the 
 day I will be there," answered Nelly. She then turned 
 to depart, her hand was already upon the knob of the 
 door, when again she stopped : 
 
 " It is not too late yet to retain all these fine things. 
 Think before you again decide, will you accept the 
 offer of your lover ? " 
 
 " Never ! " replied Violet, firmly. 
 
 " Then you do not love him, or you would not give 
 him up so easily. I don't believe in all your fine talk 
 about gratitude ! " 
 
 " Not love him ! " exclaimed the poor girl, " not love 
 him ! Oh, heavens, may the sacrifice I am making atone 
 for my presumption." 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 31 
 
 *' Well, at nine o'clock then, since you will have it 
 so ! " added Nelly. 
 
 " At nine o'clock," replied Violet. 
 
 Violet was not alone in her trouble, for Eugene too 
 had sought his mother and disclosed his love. 
 
 " And does Violet know your attachment ? " asked 
 Mrs. Ballantyne, hastily. 
 
 " She does, my dear mother, but her conduct is in- 
 explicable, for while at one moment I think she returns 
 my affection, the next she avoids me — nay, she has even 
 refused my love, although my heart tells me I am not 
 indifferent to her. Why is it so, mother ? " 
 
 " Why, because Violet is a rational girl. She has 
 sense enough to understand how very unsuitable any 
 such thing would be ; it is a pity though ! " answered 
 Mrs. Ballantyne with more indifference than kindness. 
 
 " Why unsuitable ? Is she not all that is good and 
 lovely ? Oh, mother, I can never be happy unless she is 
 my wife ! " 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, Eugene ; this is a mere boyish fancy," 
 replied Mrs. Ballantyne, " or, if not a mere fancy, it 
 must be crushed at once, for you can never marry Violet 
 Darling ! " 
 
 " Mother ! " 
 
 " The daughter of a miserable rag-picker, a street 
 foundling — a — " 
 
 " Ha ! " interrupted Eugene, " it is the same — the same. 
 I was not mistaken, I knew it ! " 
 
 "Yes, she is the heroine of your boyish exploit, as 
 she seems to be also of your present folly," answered his 
 mother carelessly twisting a ringlet. 
 
 " Mother, mother, don't speak so coldly ; you should 
 
82 NELLY, THE KAG-GATHERER. 
 
 not have placed us together, for how could I refrain from 
 loving ! " 
 
 " Have you no pride," answered his mother, " or if you 
 can so far forget yourself, I cannot ! '' 
 
 " Mother, I care not who she is, I care not for what has 
 been, it is sufficient for me to know her as she is^ all that 
 is most excellent both in mind and disposition — all that is 
 lovely in person ! Dearest mother, if she consents, refuse 
 not my happiness ! " 
 
 " Leave me, Eugene ; your folly distresses me. To- 
 morrow we will talk again upon this subject." 
 
 The morrow arrived ; pale and agitated Eugene entered 
 the breakfast parlor ; Mrs. Ballantyne was somewhat paler 
 than usual, but Violet did not appear. Half an hour passed 
 and still she came not. 
 
 " Poor thing, she may be sick. I think she was look- 
 ing wretchedly yesterday," said Mrs. Ballantyne, " I will 
 go to her room." 
 
 So saying she hastily ran up stairs, but in a few mo- 
 ments returned in great agitation, exclaiming : 
 
 " Eugene, she has gone ! Violet has left us. Read 
 that. Oh, indeed, I did not think it would come to this ! " 
 
 As she spoke, she placed in the trembling hands of her 
 son a note, which addressed to herself she h|^ found on 
 the dressing-table. It simply contained a few incoherent 
 sentences, thanking Mrs. Ballantyne for her kindness, 
 with prayers for her happiness. " Make no inquiries for 
 me," it concluded, " but think of me as of one dead ! " 
 
 Seizing his hat, Eugene rushed to the door. 
 
 " Stop, stop my son ; where would you go ? " 
 
 "To the ends of the earth to find her; don't, don't 
 detain me." 
 
NELLY, THE EAG-GATHERER. 33 
 
 " I know of but one place," continued Mrs. Ballantyne, 
 *' where she can have gone, and thither I will accompany 
 you. Yes, it is not impossible she may have sought out 
 the old Rag-gatherer again for whom she seems to retain 
 as great a penchant as ever. How strange ! If not there, 
 I am sure I know not where to look for her." 
 
 The carriage w^as immediately ordered to the door, and 
 the mother and son set forth on their anxious search. 
 
 At the appointed hour, poor Violet reached the gloomy 
 abode of old Nelly. She entered once more that desolate 
 apartment, and with the first glance into that darkened 
 room, all the scenes of her early life rushed upon her 
 mind with strange tenacity. Every thing was so like, 
 even to the little three-legged stool on which she had 
 eaten her bits of bread, and there in the self-same spot 
 was the torn primer from which she first learned to read. 
 There hung the same wooden dipper, and there placed 
 against the dingy wall was the cracked and jagged platter 
 used when Nelly could afford the luxury of meat. The 
 old straw-bottomed chair in which the Rag-gatherer re- 
 posed her jaded limbs occupied the same corner; and 
 above where she herself had pinned them, hung her 
 sampler, and a fiower wrought in worsteds. Was the 
 last few years then only some delightful dream, and had 
 she now awoke to the bitter realization of her unhappy 
 destiny? And poor Violet sat down and tried to calm her 
 emotion ere the old woman should arrive.. 
 
 An hour or more had passed, when she was aroused 
 from her revery by the sudden stopping of a carriage at 
 the gate, and the next moment Eugene was at her side, 
 and the arms of Mrs. Ballantyne thrown around her. 
 
 " My dearest Violet," she began ; "I cannot lose you, 
 
84 NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 never did I know before how inexpressibly dear you are 
 to me. Eugene, my son, I no longer oppose your wish- 
 es ; don't speak to me now, don't thank me yet, wait until 
 we get home — I feel choked here. We must not leave, 
 however, without seeing poor old Nelly ; I must try to 
 make her more comfortable. What a close room ! Horri- 
 ble ! I will just walk in the scarcely less horrible door- 
 yard until the old woman returns. Heavens, what a 
 miserable spot ! " 
 
 The conversation of lovers not being very interesting 
 usually to a third party, let us not listen. 
 
 It was only a few moments, at least so it seemed to 
 Eugene and Violet, when the door opened and old Nelly 
 appeared. 
 
 " Ha ! who have we here," she cried, dropping her bag 
 upon the floor, " what fine master is this? " 
 
 Eugene sprang to his feet. 
 
 " Who speaks ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Ay, and a carriage at the door, too," continued the 
 old woman, not heeding the interruption ; " Ah, great 
 honors these for a poor Rag-gatherer ! " 
 
 " Who are you, woman?' cried Eugene, seizing her 
 arm. " Speak, who are you ? " 
 
 The old woman raised her head — their eyes met. 
 " Good Heavens, my mother ! " 
 
 A young romantic girl I married your father. He was 
 very handsome — I fancied I loved him. He was rich 
 and of a high family. I was ambitious ; and thus, crown- 
 ing both my love and my ambition, at the age of seven- 
 teen I became mistress of one of the finest establishments 
 in the city. Time flew on rapturous wings for a season. 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 35 
 
 and then, too late, I found I had sacrificed m}?- happiness 
 to a man who had neither sensibility to appreciate my 
 love, nor even kindness to repay the sacrifice. I was not 
 a happy wife. He was gay and dissipated. I reproach- 
 ed ; this tended to alienate even the slight regard he 
 might have felt for me, and it ended in a total rupture. 
 Under our own roof we became as strangers ! 
 
 You were born, my dear son, and the dormant affec- 
 tions of my young heart sprang into action. I felt I had 
 not lived before ! I pressed you again and again to my 
 bosom. I bathed your little face with tears of joy. This 
 dear boy, my child, my sweet Eugene, was to be hence- 
 forth the world to me. I felt myself no longer a neglected 
 wife. I no longer regretted the love of my husband. I 
 devoted myself entirely to you, and weeks would pass 
 without beholding your father ; for strange as it may 
 seem, he appeared equally indifferent to the feelings of a 
 parent as he had proved to those of a husband. You were 
 about six years old when he died a sudden and a dreadful 
 death, leaving his affairs in a state of much embarrass- 
 ment. Still I doubted not his fortune would prove very 
 considerable ; but, alas, when all was settled, a mere pit- 
 tance only was my residue ! This news was like a thun- 
 derbolt to me. I have said I was ambitious, but not until 
 that fatal moment did I know how much so. What could 
 I do to avoid descending the ladder upon whose top- 
 most round my footing had hitherto been ? And you, my 
 fine, my noble boy, were you henceforth to grovel through 
 life a poor widow's son — toiling for your education, or 
 your hard earnings yielded up to support a helpless moth- 
 er ? No, my pride, and, let me add, my affection, would 
 not permit it ! I could not use my needle for a mainte- 
 
o6 NELLY, THE RAG-GATIIEEER. 
 
 nance — neither would I become a teacher, for the instant I 
 condescended to either my standing in society would be 
 lost, and from this my proud heart rebelled. 
 
 At length a bold and hazardous plan suggested itself. 
 I remembered to have read and heard of many instances 
 where people had become rich — nay, even excessively 
 wealthy, by gleaning the rags and rubbish cast into the 
 streets by careless house-keepers and servants. The 
 more I thought of this, the more I was impressed with 
 the certainty of success should I adopt ihis same odious 
 means of subsistence. For a time I acknowledge I strove 
 to waive an idea so inconsistent with my manner of life ; 
 but it haunted me night and day ; it became as it were a 
 vionomania — and at length I determined upon the under- 
 taking. Methought my greatest trial would be in parting 
 from my boy, for it was necessary to place you in some 
 safe hands, as, of course, I must now yield up that undi- 
 vided care which had been both my solace and delight. 
 I placed you, therefore, at a small select school a few 
 miles from ilie city, where at any time one hour would 
 carry me to you. This done, I set about my arrange- 
 ments. I engaged rooms in a highly fashionable board- 
 ing house, to keep up the appearance of wealth, and as 
 my widow's weeds of course precluded my mixing in 
 society, my time was consequently my own. With the 
 half nearly of my little fortune I then purchased this 
 miserable, isolated dwelling. 
 
 I found I could disguise my person without danger of 
 detection ; not even my nearest friend would have been 
 able to recognize me. A dark paint imparted a sallow- 
 ness to my complexion, and by using a liiile art in putting 
 it on, I made myself look a woman of seventy ! From 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 37 
 
 the hair-dresser I procured a gray wig, a few hairs of 
 which I allowed to escape from under my old torn bon- 
 net : indeed, so shocked was I at my appearance the first 
 time I saw myself in the glass, that I nearly fainted, and 
 was even then upon the point of throwing off my wretch- 
 ed rags, and renouncing forever a life so disgusting. 
 
 I commenced my hazardous career. In this city there 
 are many houses of elegant and genteel appearance, 
 where one can go with perfect freedom and do what, and 
 as they please — where for a bribe no questions are ever 
 asked, nor need you fear betrayal. I hired a small room 
 in one of these, kept by an old Jew. It was my custom 
 to leave my boarding house as if for a walk, and repair 
 to this dwelling ; neither had I any scruples at being 
 seen by any chance acquaintance entering a house of so 
 respectable an appearance. I was always admitted by 
 the old Jew ; here I put on my rags, and was let out 
 again through a dark alley opening into the adjoining 
 street. Suffice it to say that at my first initiation I 
 was so successful as to confirm me more strongly in my 
 purpose. Articles of value frequently rewarded my 
 gleanings of the sewers and drains — sometimes jewels, 
 trifling amounts of money, laces, ribbons, besides the 
 common filthy rags, of no value excepting to the paper- 
 maker. After a fire especially my profits were not un- 
 frequently over fifty dollars ; my wretched appearance 
 too, awoke the charity of the passer-by, so that a week 
 sometimes would bring me several dollars. I would not 
 have legged, but what shall I say, I refused not that 
 which was thrust upon me. I each day brought ray pack 
 of unseemly gains to this my castle. Here I would sepa- 
 rate and arrange them according to their value prior to 
 
 .y.:* 
 k 
 
oS NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 
 
 disposing of ihem to those who always stand ready to 
 receive such merchandise. 
 
 Strange as it may appear, in a few years I found 
 myself rapidly growing rich, and in my ojcji name was 
 able to invest the earnings of '^ Poor Xelhj'' in Bank 
 Stocks, &c. But I never felt secure. I had the mortifi- 
 cation to find that my frequent absence, so unaccountable 
 and so periodical, had awakened much suspicion, and I 
 therefore determined to renounce my seclusion of widow- 
 hood, and come forth again into the gay world, and re- 
 sume the station in society I had never lost, but from 
 which I had only withdrawn for a season ; and I now felt 
 my fortune was sufficient to keep vie there ! I hired a 
 splendid mansion — furnished it in the most elegant 
 style — threw off my weeds, and emerged from my chry- 
 salis the gay and dashing Mrs. Ballantyne — then still 
 young, and as may glass told me, still handsome ! I 
 thought now to avoid comment ; but where will not the 
 peering eye of curiosity reach, or the tongue of slander 
 defile I I found my mysterious conduct stillt he theme of 
 animadversion ; so I determined to make mystery my forte. 
 I surrounded myself with 77iystery ; I walked as it were 
 in a misty and now was only called eccentric ! No one 
 neglected my balls, my suppers, my fetes — I became more 
 distinguS than ever. 
 
 In the meanwhile I steadily pursued my vocation of 
 Rag-gatherer, and you can probably hardly credit me, 
 when I say that I became even attached to this manner 
 of life. It seemed to me I had two existences, and 
 those the very antipodes of society, and I delighted in 
 doing justice to both ! As Mrs. Ballantyne I surrounded 
 myself with every luxury and elegance ; as poor Nelly, 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 39 
 
 I fared worse than the street beggar. Without grimace 
 I drank the dingy water from the rough wooden dipper ; 
 in this I soaked the crust of stale bread to appease my 
 hunger, and stretched my limbs upon the hard straw 
 pallet. I need not have done this ; I might have fared 
 like a princess in my rags ; but I gloried in identifying 
 myself with poor Nelly. And in the evening my lips 
 pressed the exquisite China, or the richly chased goblet ; 
 delicate comfits were prepared for my fastidious taste, 
 and I reposed myself upon cushions of satin and down ! 
 I became again Mrs. Ballantyne. But you, my son, 
 were still my idol ; I saw you coming forward in life 
 all the fondest mother could wish, and I hugged the more 
 the pitiful calling which enabled me to place you where 
 your father had stood ! 
 
 Now a sudden fear seized me ; I found the passion of 
 avarice fast gaining upon me ; the very nature of my em- 
 ployment was conducive to its growth. I shuddered to 
 find myself actually gloating over any unexpected treasure 
 which fell to my hands, with the same delight I should 
 have felt were I in reality the poor wretch I personated. 
 To break from its thraldom required a vigorous effort. I 
 succeeded. As an atonement for the duplicity (for so I 
 must call it) practiced so long upon the public, I now gave 
 away large sums to charitable institutions, and sought out 
 the poor and miserable to relieve their wants, and in so 
 doing, I felt happier than I had ever done before. It 
 was at this time, my dear Violet, that the hand of Prov- 
 idence guided me to you, as if to confirm my good res- 
 olutions. When I closed the eyes of your unhappy 
 parent, I solemnly vowed within myself, and in the sight 
 of God, to take you to my heart as my own child, and 
 
40 NELLY, THE RAcM^ATIlEllER. 
 
 that you should share equally with my son the fortune 
 which my conscience told me I had surreptitiously ob- 
 tained. I soon loved you, yet you were a constant source 
 of anxiety to me. I formed the romantic resolution of 
 educating you entirely from the world; to keep your 
 mind pure as infancy ; and then, when I had led your steps 
 along- the perfect path my fancy had opened for yon, when 
 my work should be accomplished, the world should see my 
 prodigy — a perfect model of beauty, intelligence and vir- 
 tue ! 
 
 You were ever a gentle, obedient child, and without a 
 murmur sutiered yourself to be left alone all through the 
 dreary night, and sometimes entire days. As your mind 
 expanded, how I delighted in my air^^ scheme ! It was a 
 pleasure for me to insitruct you, and for a lime I relin- 
 quished entirely my street rambles, that I might pursue 
 your education. It was a wild chimera, of an imagina- 
 tion as wild, to suppose you were always to be as con- 
 tented in this dreary solitary dwelling until /chose to lift 
 the laich of fieedom ; it certainly proved so, for at the age 
 of fourteen the old garden could no longer content you. 
 Your own act destroyed the illusion, and it was for the 
 best. As Mrs. Ballantyne I now received you to my 
 arms ; but I trembled for my incognita. I found you ga- 
 zing upon me at times with looks so full of wonder ; at 
 the sound of my voice you would sometimes start, change 
 color, and appear so perplexed, that I found if I wished 
 to preserve my secret I must give my charge into other 
 hands. 
 
 How happy I felt, my dear Violet, when I found you 
 retained all your ati'ection and interest for the wretched 
 companion of your childhood — the poor rag-woman ; 
 
NELLY, THE RAG-GATHERER. 41 
 
 that your elevated sphere had not made you forgetful of 
 your humble home; and although you disobeyed my 
 injunctions by continually asking in your letters about 
 poor Nelly, it was an offence too dear to my heart not to 
 be overlooked. 
 
 Need I say,my children, how truly I rejoiced when you, 
 the two dearest objects of my love, were brought together 
 under my roof, to discover the mutual affection kindled 
 in your hearts ! But I wished to probe the sincerity of 
 your love, Eugene, for I would not wreck the happiness 
 of this dear girl as my own had been ; and I wished also 
 to discover if you, Violet, had sufficient strength of mind 
 — firmness of principle — to renounce your own happiness, 
 that you might not distress her whom you knew but as 
 Mrs. Ballantyne, and at the same time attest your grati- 
 tude to your early friend, poor Nelly. 
 
 The result has proved my expectations, and fulfilled 
 my dearest wishes. Take her, Eugene; she is indeed 
 a treasure. The good I have endeavored to do, will, I 
 trust, in some measure atone for the double part I have 
 enacted so many years. My future life shall be devoted 
 to deeds of charity. 
 
 I have sold this wretched dwelling. Tomorrow the 
 old walls will tumble down, and with them forever 
 disappears " Nelly the Rag-gatherer ! " 
 3 
 
42 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 A LESSON FOE, BACHELOR BOOKWORMS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive ; 
 They sparkle still the right Promethean fire, 
 They are the books — the arts — the academies 
 That show, contain, and nourish all the world." 
 
 Horace Mansfield was rapidly becoming a misanthrope 
 — yet stay, that may be too harsh a term to apply to my 
 young hero, for, although shunning society, 
 
 " He hated not his fellow-men. 
 While from their close companionship he shrank, <*'► 
 
 And in wrapt converse with the dead, forgot 
 To wave the mystic wand which must reveal 
 The sources, whence flow streams of deeper happiness." 
 
 For, with an almost hermit-like seclusion from the world 
 did he shut himself within the narrow limits of his study 
 — seldom going thence unless to stroll in meditative 
 mood, with folded arms and eyes downcast, through the 
 adjoining forest. Earthquakes might shake the globe — 
 thrones totter from their base, and kings bite the dust — 
 what then ? To him it was no more than the sighing of 
 the autumnal blast, sweeping in its course from the mon- 
 archs of the wood their gorgeous diadems I 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 43 
 
 Already at the age of twenty-three, he had never felt 
 the passion of love, nor looked with deeper emotion upon 
 any of Eve's fair daughters, that he did upon the painted 
 butterfly glancing in giddy circles before him, and should 
 either approach too near, he would probably have brushed 
 both from his path with the same stoical indifference — 
 pretty, harmless creatures, butterflies and maidens ! 
 
 Now this was a most unfortunate state of things for 
 Mr. Mansfield, Senior. A widower for many long years, 
 and too much attached to the memory of the departed to 
 think of marrying a second time, he had suffered himself 
 to look forward with pleased anticipation to the period 
 when Horace, his only child, should be old enough to 
 take a wife. Ah ! the presence of a young charming 
 bride, how it would change all things at the lonely old 
 Hall ! What magic would her sweet voice exert — how 
 would her lightest footfall thrill his heart with the glad- 
 ness of other days ! Bless her bright eyes and her sunny 
 smile — already the old gentleman doted upon this ignis 
 fatuus of his imagination. 
 
 How great then was his disappointment to find Hor- 
 ace, at the age of manhood, too deeply absorbed by the 
 Portias and Lucretias of ancient days, to bestow even a 
 thought upon living beauties — going back into the dim 
 ages of the past, and there falling in raptures over the 
 virtues of a Cornelia, or the charms of a Helen, and 
 would take to his arms an old, musty, black-letter folio 
 with more delight than he would clasp the fairest copy 
 of womankind. In vain the old gentleman preached to 
 his moody son — in vain tossing upon a sleepless pillow, 
 he, night after night, strove to devise some plan to draw 
 him from his studies — one day he would propose hunt- 
 
44 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 ing", another, fishing ; sometimes he would urge travel, 
 or suggest a winter in the city. But looking up with a 
 dreamy air, Horace would only shrug his shoulders, utter 
 something between a yawn and a groan, and then plunge 
 anew into the labyrinth of by-gone ages, or puzzle his 
 brains with some metaphysical question. Besides, 
 
 " He was in logic a great critic, 
 
 Profoundly skilled in analytic ; 
 
 He could distinguish and divide 
 
 A hair 'twLxt south and southwest side. 
 
 In mathematics he was greater 
 
 Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater, 
 
 Besides 'twas known he could speak Greek 
 
 As naturally as pigs do squeak !" 
 
 " Confound all books !" would the old gentleman ex- 
 claim. And indeed had books been as rare as in the 
 days of the worshipful Knight of La Mancha, how gladly 
 would Mr. Mansfield have emulated the zeal of the 
 worthy curate and barber, and consigned to the flames 
 those silent yet sorcerous enemies to his hopes. But 
 in these " latter days," when, with the swiftness with 
 which one wave chases another, as the speed of thought, 
 or the constant dropping of sand in the inverted hour- 
 glass, the teeming Press sends forth her offspring, well 
 he knew, that from the glowing mass, another. Phoenix- 
 like, would arise from its ashes, and its name be " Le- 
 gion !" Therefore smothering his fiery ardor, he once 
 more looked within his brain for some more effectual 
 counter-charm to their enchantments. 
 
 And no wonder the poor old gentleman was out of all 
 patience, for it did seem a thousand pities that such 
 a fine, handsome young fellow as Horace, should be thus 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 45 
 
 wasting the freshness of his youth, encased like a mummy 
 in a catacQmb ! 
 
 And so one day Mr. Mansfield suddenly broke into 
 this living tomb, making considerable bustle, too, as he 
 did so, by slamming the door, and kicking over a huge 
 Josephus — but bless you ! the student heeded it no more 
 than he would the dancing of a thistle-down through the 
 open window. Dragging a chair not very gently to the 
 table, the old gentleman seated himself facing his ab- 
 stracted son, where he might have sat unnoticed till 
 doomsday had he not taken a pretty sure way of mak- 
 ing his presence known, namely, by suddenly sweeping 
 his large bony hand over the open page, and hurling the 
 book under the table. It must be confessed Horace was 
 too well accustomed to this mode of salutation to express 
 any surprise, and, therefore, merely raising his head, 
 with a long-drawn sigh, he said — 
 
 " Well, father ?" 
 
 " Now I tell you what it is, Horace," exclaimed the 
 old gentleman, striking his fist upon the voluminous mass 
 of papers before him ; " I can't stand this any longer — 
 this sort of life won't do for me. I have borne it as 
 patiently as a saint for as many years as you can count 
 fingers and toes, and now there must be an end of it. 
 I ask you if you don't feel ashamed of yourself, — I 
 ask you if you are doing any thing to make your old 
 father happy, perched up there week in and week out, 
 like a piece of petrified clay, when you should be looking 
 out for a wife, and gladdening my old eyes, ere death 
 closes them forever, by the sight of your happiness." 
 
 " Why, my dear sir, I cannot conceive of greater hap- 
 
46 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 piness than these my silent friends afford me," replied 
 Horace. 
 
 " Nonsense — I know better ; but I'm not going to argue 
 the point with you, — it is only a waste of breath, and I 
 am tired of it. Only answer me one question, — will you 
 or will you not get married?" 
 
 Horace smiled, shook his head, and tracing a parallel- 
 ogram on the paper before him, replied : 
 
 "Methinks, my dear father, it would have been no 
 greater absurdity for old Thom'as Aquinas to have doffed 
 the cowl, and relaxed his stern visage into the soft simper 
 of a lover's smile, than for me to break from these rusty 
 fetters, only to yield allegiance to Love's rosy bondage." 
 
 ''Fiddle-de-dee ! — Then I tell you what I've a great 
 mind to do, — fall into the what-do-you-call-it bohdage of 
 Love myself," answered the old gentleman. " Now, 
 suppose / get a wife, Horace ?" 
 
 " No doubt, father, a woman would be very useful in 
 looking after the house, — really, I think you-r suggestion 
 most excellent." 
 
 " Look after the house, you iceberg ! — Mrs. Dimity 
 does that, don't she ? No, I want no wife that will be 
 forever bustling about in the kitchen and pantry — I want 
 society, I tell you — I am tired of sitting like an old soli- 
 tary badger, or of smoking my pipe with the 'gravity of 
 Robinson Crusoe, with only the cat at my elbow, and 
 for amusement counting the flies crawling over the ceil- 
 ing, — I am tired of it, I tell you !" 
 
 " Then, father, to be serious, why not get married ? 
 I really don't see how you can do better," said Horace. 
 
 ''You don't, well, I do, — for, after all, no pretty lass 
 would fancy an old fellow like me, and as for the elderly 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 47 
 
 damsels, they would prefer their snuff and tea ; — ^r.o, no, 
 I have a better plan than marriage in my head. Harkee, 
 young gentleman ! I am going to rejuvenate these old 
 walls ; I will fill them with beauty, with sparkling eyes 
 and beaming smiles, angels and sylphs shall glide amid 
 its lonely chambers, and the music of glad voices ring 
 like marriage bells through these old elms !" 
 
 " i)o you wield the wand of Prospero, my dear father, 
 that you can thus at pleasure summon such dainty 
 spirits ?" said Horace, smiling. 
 
 " You shall see, for tomorrow I start for New York, 
 from thence I shall take a trip into Jersey ; — 1 have 
 nieces by the dozen, young, glad creatures, as merry as 
 the birds, and it shall go hard but I will bring home such 
 a charming flock as shall make me young again. So, 
 Mr. Horace, revel among your old tomes like a book- 
 worm, as you are, while I cry ' Vive la bagatelle ." " 
 Saying which, the old gentleman leaped up from his 
 chair, cut the pigeon wing with a great flourish, snapped 
 his fingers in the face of Horace, and then fairly danced 
 out of the room with all the agility of a boy. 
 
 Sure enough it was no joke, the threat which Mr. 
 Mansfield had uttered, for, that very evening, Pete was 
 despatched to the village, three miles distant, to book the 
 old gentleman for the Albany stage, whence the steam- 
 boat would bear him to the city, and, at an early hour 
 the following morning, the quiet woods around the old 
 Hall echoed, not' with the merry peal of the huntsman's 
 notes, but with the doleful " Toot-toot-too-oo-ot-toot " of 
 the tin stage-horn, dolefully xe-tooted on every side, and 
 in a few moments the lumbering coach itself, with its four 
 lean, spavined attachees, appeared looming through the 
 
48 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 fog-, and wheeled up with a desperate attempt at display 
 to the door of the Hall. 
 
 " Well, good-bye, Mrs. Dimity," exclaimed the old 
 gentleman, slowly descending the steps, and drawing on 
 his gloves ; *' have an eye on the boy that he don't starve 
 upon his logical chips, and remember, too, to have every 
 thing in readiness, just as I told you, — see that the rooms 
 are all well aired, — keep Pete busy among the weeds, 
 and look out for the strawberry beds, for there will be 
 dainty fingers busy there by-and-by, — and don't forget 
 to send Pete down to the village for Treble to come and 
 tune up the old piano. There, good-bye to you." So 
 saying, he mounted to the roof of the stage, where he 
 seated himself comfortably by the side of the driver, then, 
 with a chuckle and a significant nod toward the still 
 closed shutters of his son, he gave the word, *' AlVs 
 rtady/' The wheels groaned and shrieked — the coach 
 grumbled — Jehu cracked his whip — the horses, looking 
 sideways at each other, as if to say, " if we must — 
 we must, that's all," stretched their sinews to the task 
 and the coach was set in motion. 
 
 Mr. Mansfield once more waved his hand to the house- 
 keeper, and then bracing himself to bear the jolting of 
 vhe crazy vehicle, was soon rattling over the turnpike, en 
 route for Albany. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Mr. Horace ! Mr. Horace ! — dear me, w^hat a boy ! I 
 say, Mr. Horace, don't you know your father is coming 
 home this very blessed day, with all those city girls, and 
 yet here you sit, although it is past five o'clock, in 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 49 
 
 your old dressing-gown and slippers ! — Dear me, Mr. 
 Hor-a-ce ! " and elevating her voice almost to a scream, 
 Mrs. Dimity, the housekeeper, approached close to the 
 elbow of the student, and placed her hand upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Ah, Mrs. Dimity, dinner is ready then, — very well, 
 don't wait, I will be down in a moment," said Horace, 
 without, however, raising his eyes from his book, 
 
 " Dear me ! dear me ! do pray shut up your book, 
 Mr. Horace ! " cried the good woman ; "why, bless me, 
 they will be here in an hour ! Do now, Mr. Horace, go 
 and shave yourself, and put on your new black coat and 
 your satin vest, — why dearee me, your beard is as long 
 as any old patriarch's in the book of Genesis ! — Come, 
 Mr. Horace, I have laid your clothes all out for you — 
 Mr. Horace ! Mr. Horace ! there, there ! — Mercy on me, 
 he don't hear no more than the dead ! " And poor Mrs. 
 Dimity made a second attempt to attract the attention of 
 the absent young gentleman, by pulling his sleeve. 
 
 " Ah, yes ; well, Mrs. Dimity, what were you say- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Why that it is time for you to make yourself decent 
 to appear before the company," replied the housekeeper. 
 
 " For shame, Mr. Horace ; why most young men 
 would have been dressed an hour ago, and all on tiptoe, 
 like Prince Chorazzin in the fairy tale, to see your beau- 
 tiful cousins, — come now, throw away your book, do ! " 
 
 " My good Mrs. Dimity," replied Horace smiling, " if 
 you ever read Shakspeare I would ask, ' What's Hecuba 
 to me or I to Hecuba ! ' Yet I thank you for reminding 
 me of these expected guests, whom I had indeed for- 
 gotten." 
 
50 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 " Forgotten ! dear me, did any one ever hear the like !" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Dimity, raising her hands in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " How many of these cousins of mine do you expect ? " 
 asked Horace. " Mere school-girls, I suppose." 
 
 *' All 1 know is, your father said he would bring home 
 a whole coach-load, if he could get them," answered 
 Mrs. Dimity, " and I have been all the week getting the 
 house in order for them — rubbing up the old furniture — 
 cleaning the brasses, whitening the linen, and filling the 
 store closet with plenty of plum-cake and ginger-nuts ! 
 I vow and declare, Mr. Horace, it is absolutely provoking 
 to see you take it so coolly, just as if your father was 
 only going to bring home a new brood of ducks or 
 chickens ! " 
 
 " They will gabble as fast, no doubt," said Horace. 
 " I shall be glad, however, if my father finds pleasure 
 from their society, Mrs. Dimity ; so far, their presence 
 will be a relief to me." 
 
 "Well, well, aren't you going to dress yourself? — 
 Mercy on me, if you appear before them in that dishabilly, 
 the poor things will think you are Valentine and Orson ! " 
 
 " Rest easy, Mrs. Dimity — I will be in readiness to 
 receive our guests. Don't stop longer on my account, 
 I beg," returned Horace. 
 
 *^A-hejn! hem! — ^just as sure as I live he will never 
 stir a step if I don't keep teasing him ! " said the old 
 housekeeper to herself, pretending to leave the room, but 
 stopping midway to watch the effect of her previous ad- 
 monition. 
 
 In another moment Horace had apparently forgotten 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 51 
 
 everything but the page before him, to which he now 
 gave his most rapt attention. 
 
 " How beautiful t " he exclaimed abstractedly — " as A 
 is to B, so is C to D — let me see — as X is to Y — so is 
 M to N — what harmony ! " 
 
 " Dear, dear, only hear him ! " cried Mrs. Dimity. 
 "What is the use of spending so much time if one can^t 
 learn? Poor boy, he is always puzzling over A, B, and 
 C — well, I don't know much to be sure, but thank 
 Heaven, I do know that AB spells ab, and CA spells ca I 
 Mr. Horace ! " and this time the vexed old lady shook 
 our hero not very gently. 
 
 " Ah yes, true — I had forgotten — well I will go now ; " 
 and most reluctantly the student rose from the table, 
 and casting ' a long lingering look behind,' proceeded 
 to the duties of the toilet. 
 
 Feeling that she had thus successfully acquitted her- 
 self of this responsibility, the housekeeper now hurried 
 to the kitchen to see if the supp2r was in progress — the 
 coffee boiling, and the rolls ready to put in the oven— 
 from theace she put her head into the dairy, to look after 
 the fine, fragrant butter, and the rich cream set apart for 
 the table. The tea-room next demanded her attention — 
 lifting the fine damask cloth spread over the tea equipage, 
 to discover if the flies had dared to crawl within any 
 chance opening, and were now, little thieves, feasting 
 upon the delicious cake, the dishes of ruby quince, or 
 the lumps of snowy sugar heaped so generously upon 
 the social board. Her next visit was to the parlor, sur- 
 veying for, at least, the twentieth time that day the 
 proofs of her neatness and taste, displayed in its ar- 
 rangement, and every time finding a little something to 
 
52 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 do — a chair to move half an inch to the right, a table to 
 wheel a little more to the left — the curtains to be looped 
 up or let down — books to move, and the little china vases 
 filled with pretty flowers to re-arrange, so as to exhibit to 
 greater advantage some favorite blossom ; and lastly, the 
 notable old lady took a hurried and satisfactory inspection 
 of the chambers, and then hastened to her own little room 
 to doff the homely dark chintz gown for a more becoming 
 attire, ere the arrival of Mr. Mansfield and his young 
 nieces. 
 
 A short time sufficed for her toilet, and Mrs. Dimity 
 came forth arrayed in a shining black silk petticoat, re- 
 lieved by a short gown or negligee of white cambric 
 falling just below the hips, and ornamented with a broad 
 ruffle neatly plaited, and her gray hair combed smoothly 
 back under a cap of the whitest and stiffest lawn'. But 
 of all her earthly possessions, that which the old lady 
 most prized was the gold spectacles which Mr. Mans- 
 field had presented her on Christmas, and these she had 
 now mounted, together with the large silver watch once 
 the property of her deceased husband. In this becoming 
 and tidy garb, she now paused before the door of Hor- 
 ace's chamber. 
 
 " I may as well give him a call," said she, " for just 
 as likely as not he is off in one of his absent fits again." 
 
 She listened a moment, — all was still — tap-tap-tap — 
 no answer — tap-tap — " Mr. Horace ! " — knock, knock, — 
 " Mr. Hor " — knock, — " ace ! — Come, are you ready, 
 Mr. Horace ?" And the good lady, now quite out of 
 patience, shook and pounded the door as if the house 
 was on fire, and unconscious of danger, the inmate of the 
 chamber calmly sleeping. 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 53 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Dimity, yes, yes, I am coming, I hear," 
 said the voice of Horace, aroused at length by the din. 
 
 Even as he spoke, the winding of the stage-horn 
 proclaimed the approach of the travelers. 
 
 " Mercy on me, here they come ! There — the coach 
 is now turning into the great gate, — do make haste, do, 
 Mr. Horace." And as rapidly as she could the old lady 
 descended the stairs, and throwing open the hall door, 
 stepped out on the piazza to receive them. Horace almost 
 mechanically followed close behind her, — but, to the 
 horror of the worthy housekeeper, all her labor of speech 
 had been thrown away, for there he stood in the full 
 glare of sunlight, still in robe-de-chambre and pantouffles, 
 his beard unshorn, his hair disordered. 
 
 "Good gracious, Mr. Horace! Do go back — you 
 look like a fright — pray go quick, — I will say you are 
 sick, or out, or any thing, only don't stand there in such 
 a trim." 
 
 But it was too late. The driver cracked his whip — 
 the horses bounded forward, and the crazy old coach 
 drew up to the door. 
 
 Merry peals of laughter met the ear, and the music of 
 young, girlish voices, — bewitching little straw bonnets 
 clustered together, and taper fingers and snowy wrists 
 rested upon the old brown sides of the coach — then sud- 
 denly these were withdrawn, and fluttering vails thrown 
 back, and out blazed a galaxy of the most brilliant orbs, 
 all fixed with mischievous glance upon the person of our 
 hero, standing ready to assist their egress from the 
 stage. 
 
 Agile as sylphs, out they sprang upon the bright green 
 turf, and gathered around poor Horace, whilst Mr. Mans- 
 
54 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 field, his good-humored face all in a glow of delight, 
 slowly dismounted. 
 
 " You need not laugh you little jades, I am not as 
 young as you are ! — Ah, Horace, my boy, how are you ? " 
 cried the old gentleman. " Bless me, why don't you sa- 
 lute your cousins ? Never be bashful, man, — here, this 
 is your cousin Kate, and this is her sister, Lucy Mans- 
 field, and here is my stalely Constance, and this, the 
 mirth-loving Gabriella Lincoln, and this is roguish 
 Bessie, and this little — hey, where is Meg ? — ah, there 
 she goes, the gipsy, skimming over the lawn like a lap- 
 wing ? " 
 
 And each fair cousin in turn presented a rosy cheek 
 to the salute of the embarrassed Horace. 
 
 " Well, girls, welcome to Mansfield Hall," continued 
 the old gentleman, as the gay party tripped up the steps 
 of the portico. "Here, Mrs. Dimity, I make over these 
 merry girls to you. Show them their rooms, if you 
 please, and then let's have supper, for this long ride over 
 the hills has given me a pretty sharp appetite. Hark ye, 
 girls, you need not stop to beautify yourselves ; there is 
 nobody here but your old uncle to see you, for as for 
 your cousin Horace, he will never look at you, or fall in 
 love with you." 
 
 There was more than one arch glance cast toward the 
 spot where Horace stood leaning against one of the pil- 
 lars, feeling, it must be confessed, a little foolish at this 
 blunt speech of his father, — and more than one little head 
 was saucily tossed, ere the fair girls disappeared with 
 Mrs. Dimity into the house. 
 
 " Nice girls, Horace, full of life and spirit ! " exclaimed 
 Mr. Mansfield, slapping him on the shoulder. " Bless 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 55 
 
 their sunny faces, why they have made me young again ! 
 — Hark, did you ever hear such music as that? "as a 
 joyous laugh rang oUt upon the summer air from one of 
 the upper windows. " Ah, I see you, minx ! " shaking 
 his cane at a mirthful face peeping down upon him 
 through the fragrant sweet-brier, which clustered around 
 the casement. 
 
 Horace quickly retreated into the hall, and passed on 
 to his chamber, his ears yet ringing with that happy, 
 merry laugh. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Tea was over ere Horace came down stairs, notwithstand- 
 ing the repeated summons of the housekeeper — and to 
 his credit be it said, his appearance was now much more 
 becoming the society of such charming young ladies, 
 than the negligent attire in which he paid his first devoirs. 
 As he drew near the open door of the parlor, a skillful 
 hand swept over the keys of the piano, as if to test its tone 
 and finish, and then, above the music of gay voices arose 
 the .enlivening air of a waltz, and by the time Horace en- 
 tered the room, the whole bevy of fair girls were tripping 
 it like so many fays to the lively music, — all, except the 
 charming musician, Gabriella, who, with her head bent 
 archly over one shoulder, while her fingers swiftly swept 
 the keys, nodded gaily to the dancers as they flew past 
 her in the giddy waltz. Round and round on twinkling 
 feet they airily glide — forms all lightness — arms entwin- 
 ing, and rosy lips parted with smiles that would vanquish 
 St. Anthony, — gently and lightly round and round they 
 float. For a moment or two the delighted old uncle con- 
 
56 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 tents himself with humming the air, and beating time 
 with hand and foot, then, skimming into the circle, he 
 throws his arm round little Meggiej and away they twirl 
 with the rest — twirling, whirling, rising, sinking, round 
 and round — and faster Gabriella touches the keys, and 
 faster fly the merry waltzers. Now they take a wider 
 circuit, and nearer — ever nearer to the spot where Horace 
 stands entranced, they come circling on, their floating 
 ringlets mingling with his breath, and bright eyes gazing 
 roguishly into his, as round and round they circle past — 
 while round and round in bewildering maze the brains of 
 Horace are circling too ! Are these beautiful forms real 
 he sees before him? Do such fair beings indeed exist; 
 and like the maidens of old who enticed the angels from 
 their pure abode, are these bewitching forms about to 
 turn him from the cloud-land in which he had so long 
 loitered ? But the gay measure suddenly ceases, — and 
 panting and laughing, each fair waltzer sank down. 
 
 " Whe-w-w — you good for nothing little rogues, you 
 have made my old head spin like a top — steady — steady 
 — take care — there I am safe ! " cried the old gentleman 
 plunging down upon a corner of the sofa. " Ah ! are 
 you there, Mr. Diogenes ? — why where's your tub ? " 
 addressing Horace. 
 
 And as if for the first time aware of his presence, six 
 pair of bewitching eyes turned full upon our hero. 
 
 " I have been a silent spectator of your enjoyment, fair 
 cousins," said Horace, bowing to the lovely circle. 
 
 "Indeed ; but not a participator, of course," remarked 
 Gabriella. 
 
 " Why of course not," added Kate * " our folly can 
 only be annoying to our cousin." 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 57 
 
 " You wrong me, Miss Mansfield," said Horace ; " I 
 assure you that in the present instance I believe the spec- 
 tator enjoyed even more than the performers." 
 
 " And you'll dance with me next time. Cousin Horace, 
 won't you ? " cried little Meg-gie, the youngest of the six 
 fair girls, not yet in her teens, tripping across the room, 
 and catching his hand. " Come, Constance is going to 
 play for us." 
 
 " For shame, Meggie ! " exclaimed Constance gravely, 
 lifting her finger in reproval — "how can you thus annoy 
 your cousin ! " 
 
 " Pray do excuse the child — she is very thoughtless — 
 I beg you will not heed her foolish request. Fie, Meg- 
 gie ! " added Gabriella. 
 
 " Never trouble yourselves, girls," exclaimed Mr. Mans- 
 field ; " not even the charmed fiddle I read about when a 
 boy, were it in the hands of old Orpheus himself, could 
 make our solemn scholar here cut a single caper ! " 
 
 Horace felt exceedingly annoyed. '♦ Is there not a 
 charm more potent here, my dear father ? " he said, 
 smiling at little Meg. 
 
 " Ah yes, you will dance — there, I knew you would. 
 Constance — Kate — Cousin Horace will dance ! " exult- 
 ingly cried the little gipsy. 
 
 Constance arose, and taking the little girl by the hand 
 drew her away, saying, at the same time, in a most grave 
 and earnest manner, which her laughing eyes more than 
 half belied, 
 
 " Cousin Horace, as we are to be the guests of my 
 
 dear uncle for some weeks, we trust you will not out of any 
 
 courtesy to us, neglect or forego those pleasures so much 
 
 more congenial to you — we know the study, not the draw- 
 
 4 
 
58 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 ing-room, is the spot where you most love to be, and 
 therefore to feel that our presence here compels you 
 through politeness merely, to forsake it, would cause us 
 all much chagrin — is it not so, girls ? " 
 
 " True, Constance — 1 am sure my visit instead of be- 
 ing a pleasure, will only be a vexation, if Cousin Horace 
 sacrifices his own enjoyment ! " said Kate. 
 
 " And so will mine — indeed it will ! " cried another. 
 
 " And mine," added a third, " and besides, our dear 
 uncle is so kind, and has so many plans for our amuse- 
 ment, that I really don't see any necessity for Cousin 
 Horace to waste a single moment upon us ! " 
 
 " You see how it is — so banish all restraint, and let 
 not another minute of your valuable time be thrown 
 away," said Constance in a grave and decided manner. 
 
 " And here," cried Kate, demurely handing him a little 
 silver candlestick, " is a light — and now do, dear cousin, 
 return to your books, and give yourself no trouble about 
 us." 
 
 In vain Horace tried to speak — in vain he essayed to 
 refute the charges they were heaping upon him — his 
 tongue refused all utterance. He looked to his father for 
 assistance — but just at that moment the old gentleman 
 was engaged in a desperate battle with a horned-beetle, 
 which with flying handkerchief he was chasing from 
 corner to corner — and so poor Horace suflfered himself to 
 be bowed and courtesied out, by his kind considerate 
 cousins ! 
 
 Then — such a peal of joyous mirth as followed him up 
 the study stairs ! what could it mean ? "'Ah, doubtless," 
 he thought, " they are laughing at some droll sally of my 
 father." 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 59 
 
 Poor Horace ! 
 
 Sleep was almost a stranger to his eyes that night — 
 his pillow, haunted by the strangest visions. Was he be- 
 witched ? for the room seemed filled with light airy figures. 
 
 " They stood beside Ms head, 
 Smiling thoughts, with hair dispread ! 
 The moonshine seemed disheveled." 
 
 Or, if he closed his eyes, he saw them still floating around 
 him, and bright eyes like shooting stars were continually 
 darting across his vision, while like the murmur of forest 
 brooks were the gentle voices whispering' in his ears. 
 And when at length he slept, he dreamed of the glitter- 
 ing harem of the Vailed Prophet — of the bewitching Ze- 
 Ijca, and of the still more fascinating indwellers upon Ca- 
 lypso's enchanted isle. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A SUNBEAM Stole a kiss from the brow of Horace and 
 awoke him, while at the same moment a chorus of merry 
 voices came up from beneath his window, reminding the 
 half-bewildered student that it was not all a dream — the 
 visions of the night. 
 
 Yes, there they were, the whole happy troop, in the 
 most bewitching morning dresses, enjoying to their bent 
 this lovely summer morning in the country. Without a 
 saddle, bonny Kate had sprung upon the back of his fa- 
 vorite pony, playfully patting his arched neck and coax- 
 ing him to a fleet gallop over the greensward — and now 
 away, away they bound across the lawn, shaking down 
 the glittering dew drops from the old elms, and the long 
 beautifi.il hair of Kate floating in luxuriant af/aiidon on 
 
60 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 the soft breezy air. Constance, the stately, dignified 
 Constance, mounted on the brink of the horse-trough, is 
 clapping her hands at the gambols of some half-dozen 
 little porkers in the pig-sty, and tossing green apples into 
 the voracious mouth of Madame Mere. Gabriella, with 
 her neat pink gingham carefully tucked up around her 
 cunning little ankles, has seated herself upon the milking- 
 stool, taking a lesson from the tall, laughing Irish girl, 
 while at a little distance Bessie and Lucy, surrounded by 
 a noisy chattering brood of fowls, from the stately turkey 
 to the tiniest unfledged chicken, are scattering among 
 them hand tills of the yellow grain, which they have just 
 brought ill their aprons from the corn-crib. A merry 
 shout — and from a little thicket out springs merry Meggie, 
 with a long fish-pole trailing after her, and in her hand 
 a bunch of shining trout, while with a loud "AaZZoo" 
 the old gentleman himself follows close behind her, cry- 
 ing out — 
 
 " Ah, you mischievous monkey, will you spoil my best 
 rod, and run away with my fish to boot ! " 
 
 "New times these, Mr. Horace!" said Mrs. Dimity, 
 close at the elbow of the student, ere he was aware of 
 her presence — for be it owned, his senses were all ab- 
 sorbed by the novel and beautiful scene from his window, 
 where concealed by a half-closed blind, he had been look- 
 ing out upon the cheerful abandon of his fair cousins. 
 *' Dear me, it makes me think of my young days, Mr. 
 Horace, just to see and hear them pretty creatures ! I 
 thought I'd just look in to see if you were fit to be seen, 
 for breakfast is almost ready. Now, don't go down in 
 that old dressing-gown again. Hark — ha, ha, ha, — well 
 I do declare, just hear them happy young things ! Oh, 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 61 
 
 Mr. Horace, look out there, and study them beautiful 
 works of God, and let your old books writ by men's 
 hands alone. Bless their hearts — well, well, I must go 
 down, or that careless Bridget will send in the broiled 
 chickens wrong side up. Now do pray put on your coat 
 like a Christian, and brush your hair — 6o, there ! " — and 
 suiting the action to the word, by pushing her own gray 
 locks on one side, the good lady hastily patted down 
 stairs. 
 
 When Horace entered the breakfast parlor, they were 
 all assembled around the table, and all busily discussing 
 their plans for the day's amusement. 
 
 A seat had been reserved for him between his father 
 and Meggie, and with a cheerful smile, his hair brushed 
 so, after Mrs. Dimity's model, Horace advanced to the 
 breakfast table. His morning salutation was returned 
 with the most bland politeness by each smiling girl, and 
 the conversation his presence had but slightly interrupted, 
 resumed. 
 
 " Uncle, I am of Kate's mind," said Constance. " A 
 sail on the lake this lovely morning will be perfectly en- 
 chanting. I will take my sketch-book, for I know there 
 must be some charming scenes for the pencil." 
 
 " Do you propose a sail this morning ? " asked Horace. 
 
 " We have thought of it," replied Constance, with a 
 slight bend of her queenly head. 
 
 " Now is it a very romantic spot, uncle ? " said Kate 
 with an arch face ; " is it a sweet place for lovers ? Are 
 there any melancholy willows sweeping the translucent 
 surface with their graceful branches ? " 
 
 " Plenty of them, you jade, and plenty of golden pick- 
 
62 TIIK TERPLKXED STUDENT. 
 
 erel and tine speckled trout, which is more to my fancy," 
 answered Mr. AlnnsfieUl. 
 
 "And mine too,'' cried Gabrielln ; " so while Con' 
 draws iVoni nature lor the enlertainnienl of the imagina- 
 tion, I will draw those same fish from the bosom of the 
 lake for the better entertainment of our appetites ! " 
 
 ** At what hour do we go ? " asked Bessie ; " for my 
 part, I am impatient to be ofi'! " 
 
 " About nine, I think," replied her uncle. " We will 
 row to the opposite shore, ramble about awhile, lunch, 
 and be back in lime for dinner. Put up some gimcracks, 
 ]\Irs. Dimity, for the girls, and something a little more 
 substantial for me." 
 
 ** Excuse me, father," interrupted Horace, '* if I suggest 
 the afternoon as the best time for the sail ; the shadows 
 which then rest upon the lake and the woody slope be- 
 yond are most beautiful, and will present more attraction 
 for my cousin's pencil than the hour you propose." 
 
 "Why, the girls prefer the morning, you see, Horace, 
 and it makes not a jot's ditierence to me," answered Mr. 
 Manstield. 
 
 " Nor to me certainly," continued Horace ; •* any hour 
 you prefer, lair ladies." 
 
 " 0, of course, it can make no ditierence to you ! " said 
 Gabriella twirling her spoon. 
 
 *' Not in the least," chimed in Kate ; " for you will 
 most probably be wandering amid the Pyramids, or 
 searching out the source of the Nile, or gliding down the 
 yellow Tiber, while we ' float merrily, merrily, merrily 
 float o'er the waters blue ' of this beautiful lake uncle 
 tells of!" 
 
 " But, mv dear cousin, I have no idea of such exten- 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 63 
 
 sive wanderings as you propose for me," replied Horace 
 smiling-, " for I intend to devote the morning to your 
 society." 
 
 " Oh, no — no — no ! " chimed in every voice ; " indeed 
 you must not think of it ! " 
 
 " Have you so soon forgotten our conversation of last 
 evening?" asked Constance reproachfully. 
 
 ** I assure you it will indeed be a happiness, a relief, 
 a—" 
 
 " No — not a word, not a word ; now really we will all 
 take the stage tomorrow morning and leave the Hall and 
 our dear uncle, if you still insist upon regarding us in 
 the light of strangers ! " exclaimed Kate with the greatest 
 earnestness. 
 
 " You mistake me entirely, I assure you — " 
 
 " No — no — no, we will not hear of it ! " 
 
 Again Horace looked to his father for help in this per- 
 plexing dilemma, but the nose and chin of the old gentle- 
 man were buried in his coffee cup, his head thrown back, 
 and his eyes most pertinaciously fixed upon the ceiling. 
 
 Up sprang the lively girls. " Come, away for our 
 bonnets, come ! " cried Gabriella. 
 
 " Dear cousin Horace," whispered little Meggie, com- 
 ing close to him, " do go with us, now won't you ? Do ! " 
 
 " Meggie, Meggie ! " said Kate, putting her head in at 
 the door, " come this moment, and don't be teasing in 
 this manner ; really you should have been left at home ! " 
 
 " Clever girls, Horace, and make themselves at home 
 just as I want to have them," exclaimed Mr. Mansfield. 
 " Now some silly conceited things would have taken airs 
 upon themselves, and not been contented with an old 
 fellow like me to beau them about, when such a nice 
 
6-4 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 young man as you were to be had ; no — no — these girls 
 understand themselves ; don't you enjoy it, eh ? " 
 
 " Perhaps, father, it will be more polite in me to make 
 one of your party this morning ? " 
 
 " Pooh, nonsense ! don't trouble yourself; you know 
 what Constance told you." 
 
 " True, but that was fastidiousness. I am sure you 
 would prefer my going." 
 
 " Not at all. I am convinced at last that society is 
 really irksome to you, and now, my dear boy, I am going 
 to let you do as you please. I have plagued your life 
 out for half a dozen years, urging you to marriage and all 
 that sort of thing, but henceforth, you are free to enjoy 
 your silent friends up stairs to your heart's content." 
 
 " Come, uncle, we are ready. Good-bye to you, cousin, 
 and a pleasant time ! " said Kate, with a mischievous 
 glance at Horace, who stood biting his lips with ill-con- 
 cealed vexation. 
 
 It was very ungrateful, doubtless, in Horace not to feel 
 himself perfectly free and comfortable, when his cousins 
 had taken so much pains to make him so ; but somehow, 
 he never found himself so ill at ease, and instead of go- 
 ing up into his study and sitting down to his books, as he 
 undoubtedly should have done, he strolled forth into the 
 garden, and from thence into the little grove beyond. But 
 go where he would, he could not get rid of his torment- 
 ing thoughts ; or, if for a moment they turned into their 
 wonted channel, his eyes were sure to rest upon some 
 dainty footprint in the moist gravel, and whew, they were 
 off again in a tangent! 
 
 Poor fellow ! it was no place for him where such 
 witching spells were cast on every side ; and so he once 
 
^t 
 
 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 65 
 
 more sought his study, where surely no such fantastic 
 visions could gain an entrance. Ah, it was quite a relief 
 to him to repose himself once more within its quiet 
 limits; and turning over the pages of Euclid, he en- 
 deavored to fix his attention once more upon his favorite 
 pursuit. And to prove the practicability of a course 
 which may seem so ^practicable, his progress shall be 
 faithfully reported. 
 
 " How perfectly absurd it is for those girls to act as 
 they do ! " he exclaimed, rapidly whirling over the leaves. 
 " Ah here it is — let me see, — let AGKQbe two similar — 
 there is something uncommonly interesting about Ga- 
 briella — parallelopipeds, of which AB and — what superb 
 eyes Kate has — and, and — fet me see — KL are two 
 homologous sides — the wife of Cassar could not have 
 been more haughty than the proud Constance — the ratio 
 of — of — and what a queenly step — ratio of — where was 
 I ? — AG, no — A — no — confound Euclid — away with it ! " 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " How far did you say it was to the Glen ? " asked Ga- 
 briella, as they rose from the dinner table. 
 
 " Only three miles," replied her uncle. " I will order 
 out the old carriage, and we'll be there just time enough 
 for a pleasant stroll among the rocks and' the babbling 
 brooks, as Kate would say, and drive home round by the 
 borders of the lake by moonlight — there will be romance 
 for you ! " 
 
 " It will be charming ! " cried Kate ; " dear, what a 
 
^H> THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 nice uncle you are ! " aiul clap|Mng her two lilile hands 
 upon his cheeks she gave the old gentleman a hearty kiss. 
 
 " Did you tiiul a subject worthy of your pencil this 
 morning ? " asked Horace, bowiiig to Constance. 
 
 '* 1 sketched one or two pretty views," she replied, 
 turning away. 
 
 " Will you allow me to look at them i " said Horace, 
 laying his hand on the porttolioshe had carelessly thrown 
 down. 
 
 " They are not worthy your notice, but such as they 
 are, you are welcome to inspect them," answered Con- 
 stance coldly, drawing forth one or two landscapes, and 
 placing them in his hand. 
 
 Horace started with surprise and pleasure as his eye 
 r«:\^ted upon those beautiful and vivid representations of 
 the scenery with which he had been familiar from child- 
 hood. They were the work of no unskillful hand, — taste, 
 genius, culture, were indicated in every line, and he was 
 about to express his pleasure, when Meggie, running in 
 from the piazza, cried — 
 
 " You are going with us to the Glen, are you not. 
 cousin ? Say yes, do ! " 
 
 " Well, y«," replied Horace, drawing her to his side 
 and kissing her; " certainly I will go with you, and I 
 will gather you some beautiful wild flowers which grow 
 high up among the rocks." 
 
 " Cousin Horace, you will spoil that child by allowing 
 her to tease j'ou in this manner. Meggie, be still ! I am 
 astonished at you, for you know very well the impropriety 
 of your request," said Constance. 
 
 " Why so, my lair cousin ? " replied Horace. '* Her 
 request is certainly a very flattering one to me, and with 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 67 
 
 your leave I will avail myself of it to join your party to 
 the Glen." 
 
 Constance hesitated, when Gabriella, with a half-pout- 
 ing air, exclaimed — 
 
 " Indeed, I see you are already wishing us away from 
 the Hall, Mr. Mansfield, for you continue to insist upon 
 that which you know would mar our enjoyment as much as 
 it would yours — ^is it not so, Constance, — girls, is it not 
 so ? — There, you hear they all agree with me ; and now, 
 unless you really wish us gone, never, never say another 
 word about going with us any where. Come, girls, that 
 we may not detain our cousin any longer, suppose we 
 adjourn to the parlor, and have a little music." 
 
 And gaily nodding a good-bye, each fair lady glided 
 past the more than half-angry student, leaving him alone 
 to " chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancies." 
 
 " This is ridiculous ! " he exclaimed aloud ; " however, 
 your wishes shall be gratified. I will no further trouble 
 you with my importunities, fair ladies ! " So sayifig, he 
 turned upon hfs heel and strode with a lofty air through 
 the long hall, unconscious of several pairs of wicked laugh- 
 ing eyes peeping at him through the half-open door of 
 the parlor. 
 
 Suddenly a strain of delicious music breathed around. 
 He paused. The very air seemed trembling with melody, 
 as a rich voice, modulated to the sweetest intonations, 
 warbled rather than sang, like a skylark on its upward 
 flight, one of Beethoven's most exquisite melodies. Ho- 
 race had no power to move ; he stood as if spellbound. — 
 
 " Right hard it was for wight which did it hear, 
 To weet what manner music that might be, 
 For all that pleasing is to living ear, 
 Was th^e consorted in one harmonie," 
 
68 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 Then the strain melted away "like the sweet south that 
 breathes upon a bank of violets." Another moment the 
 keys were swept with a rapid hand to a lively prelude, 
 and a gay Venetian barcarole was sung in the same sweet 
 accents, to which one or two other birdlike voices warbled 
 a merry chorus. 
 
 CHAP TEE VI. 
 
 A WEEK passed. Every day some party of pleasure was 
 arranged by uncle and nieces without the least reference 
 to Horace, who, true to his word, kept himself aloof from 
 the society of his cousins. 
 
 There were sailing parties, and rides, and rambles among 
 the hills, by day, while at evening, delicious music charmed 
 the ear of the student as it swept up to his desolate nook 
 — or the sprightly measure of waltz or cotillon told of 
 the gay scene going on below, in which he was forbid- 
 den, as it were, to join. 
 
 Not that he wanted to — oh no, not he — for he was 
 never more bent upon study ! Poor fellow ! how he 
 would pace the floor, book in hand, striving to fix his 
 thoughts upon its pages — how for hours would he sit 
 with head inclined, poring over all sorts of odd figures, 
 some of them the queerest things, for all the world like 
 the tiniest fairies — but then that must have been all fancy, 
 as of course no such " airy nothings " could find " habi- 
 tation " here. Then such a chattering, and laughing, 
 and constant tripping up and down stairs, and through 
 the long winding passages, and away out upon the lawn, 
 and under the grave old trees ; why it was as if a whole 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 69 
 
 flock of wild geese were for ever circling about the pre- 
 mises, and it was terribly annoying ! To make matters 
 worse, he was continually haunted by one particular pair 
 of dark melting eyes following him wherever he moved — 
 and one particular voice, whose gentlest intonation set his 
 heart in a perfect furor ^ — leaping, trembling, fluttering, 
 bounding, longing to escape from its prison, and fly all en- 
 raptured to bask in the light of those beautiful eyes — the 
 eyes of the queenly Constance. 
 
 One day little Meggie tapped at his door, and putting 
 her pretty face timidly within, asked if she might enter 
 and sit awhile with Cousin Horace. Dear little soul, her 
 presence was like a sunbeam to the moody scholar ; he 
 kissed her rosy cheek, and drew a chair for her close 
 beside his own, listened delighted to her childish prattle, 
 and brought forth all his store of pictures for her enter- 
 tainment. The morning passed pleasantly to both, and 
 from that day the little maid seemed to prefer the society 
 of the grave Horace to joining in the rambles of her sis- 
 ters and cousins. They soon grew very cosy together, 
 Meggie chatting continually, and whenever she made 
 her sister Constance the theme, it was wonderful how 
 patiently the student laid down his book and listened, 
 without once chiding the little chatterbox. When Meggie 
 was absent he devoted the most of his time to writing, 
 scribbling, and then tearing up whole sheets of closely 
 written blank verse or rhyme, and then beginning again, 
 and again destroying. He might have been writing a 
 poem of almost endless cantos, but as he always care- 
 fully locked within a little escritoire the labors of his pen, 
 the fact remains undecided to this day. 
 
 But one morning a mischievous zephyr flew in at the 
 
70 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 window and stole a stray leaf of the student's poetry, and 
 wafted it to the feet of little Meggie. She slyly seized it 
 and saw that it was addressed to her sister Constance. 
 Children are such matter-of-fact creatures ! she saw no 
 poetry at all in the matter, only as the paper was ad- 
 dressed to Constance, why of course it must belong to 
 Constance, so she said never a word, but slyly hiding it 
 in her bosom, took occasion to trip out of the room unob- 
 served by Horace. 
 
 But it was not long ere the poet missed the precious 
 document. In vain he sought among his papers, turned 
 over sheet after sheet, rummaged his books, under the 
 table, upon the shelves, — in vain, nowhere could he find it. 
 
 Now, if by chance he had about that time visited the 
 little summer-house at the foot of the garden, he would 
 have discovered that very paper in the fair hand of Con- 
 stance herself, who, with glowing cheek, was intently 
 perusing its hurried characters. Again and again she read 
 it, and then pressing it to her lips, and to her beautiful 
 eyes, all humid with tears, she placed it in her bosom. 
 
 Not many days after this, Mr. Mansfield and his nieces 
 in a joyous mood met in the little grove. 
 
 " Come, girls," exclaimed the old gentleman, " I think 
 our business is accomplished, and now we may give the 
 reins with a little more freedom ; yes, yes, I've watched 
 him, and I'll lay you a wager the poor fellow is as com- 
 pletely sick of his books as one could wish. Why he 
 is actually pining away into a very shadow for the plea- 
 sure of your society, you mocking little gipsies ! — And 
 now what say you, shall we withdraw our liege com- 
 mands, — shall we, Constance ? " 
 
 A crimfon blush mantled her f^'?*\j^<=-^ Tf ^y^s surely 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 71 
 
 a very simple question, but one which seemed very dif- 
 ficuh to answer. At length she replied — 
 
 " If you really think it would give our cousin Horace 
 pleasure, uncle." 
 
 " If it would — you know it would, minx ! Ah, I've 
 seen it ; you know he follows you with his eyes wherever 
 you move ; and don't he listen as if under some siren's 
 spell whenever you open your lips, — don't he, hey ? — ah, 
 110 wonder you blush ! " 
 
 " Yes, and he writes verses, too, uncle ! " exclaimed 
 naughty little Meg. 
 
 " Hush, hush, child, nonsense ! " said Constance 
 quickly, endeavoring to check her. 
 
 " Ah, Con' dear, and some other folks are given to non- 
 sense too ; let me see," and drawing from her reticule a 
 small folded paper, Kate, with an arch glance at her 
 cousin, cleared her voice and began 
 
 " Deem not the heart you — " 
 " Kate, Kate ! " cried Constance springing up, every 
 feature glowing with indignation. Then snatching the 
 paper from her hand, she tore it in pieces, and bursting 
 into tears fled from the group. 
 
 " Wk-e-w-w-w ! what's all this, hey, — why what's the 
 matter with my grave Constance ? " cried the old gentle- 
 man. 
 
 " nothing, nothing, uncle, only that your grave Con- 
 stance is in love with your grave son, and our phlegmatic 
 student fallen in love with Constance, that's all ! " replied 
 Gabriella with a merry laugh. 
 
 " Ha, I thought so ! Kiss me, you jades, every one of 
 you, for I am the happiest old fellow above ground," ex- 
 clainr-'d ^.Tr. Min'^Hcld cctchi : I^ate in his arms. 
 
72 THE PEEPLKX^ STUDENT. 
 
 Bat Meggie stooping down, slyly collected the frag- 
 ments which Constance had so indignantly scattered upon 
 the fresh, bright grass, and hid them in her bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The next morning almost at break of day, Mr. Mansfield, 
 wrapped in his dressing-gown, and his face swathed with 
 a large red handkerchief, knocked at the door of Horace's 
 sleeping-room. 
 
 " Horace, it is very provoking, and I am sorry to dis- 
 turb you, but I have a most tormenting toothache — zounds, 
 what a twinge ! — and I promised the girls last night that 
 I would go with them this morning before breakfast to 
 the Glen ; but this deuced tooth, ugh /—and I fear the 
 poor things will be sadly disappointed. Now, my boy, if 
 you could leave your studies just for an hour or so — ugh ! 
 — and take my place — " 
 
 " Certainly, my dear father," cried Horace, springing 
 out of bed with great alacrity. 
 
 " Constance, you see, has set her heart upon sketching 
 something or other which she thinks will be prettiest at 
 sunrise ; but it is a pity to disturb you ! " 
 
 '• Don't give yourself any uneasiness upon that head," 
 said Horace, rapidly throwing on his clothes. " I shall 
 be very glad to be of service to my cousins." 
 
 " Perhaps after all it will be better to postpone it until 
 tomorrow, only it is such a beautiful morning," said the 
 old gentleman in a husky voice, and drawing the hand- 
 kerchief still closer around his mouth. 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 73 
 
 " no, on no account should they be disappointed, and 
 it is as you say, such a beautiful morning ! " exclaimed 
 Horace with uncommon earnestness, drawing on his boots. 
 
 " Very well, my son, very well — then I'll make myself 
 easy and go to bed again, only I hate to break in upon 
 your, studies just to humor the whims of those giddy 
 girls. Well, give my love to them, and do, Horace, try 
 to be as agreeable as you can, and not be thinking too 
 much of your confounded books — zounds, I shall go 
 crazy ! — Well, well, cold iron will relieve me ! " 
 
 So saying the old gentleman withdrew, but had no 
 sooner closed the door, than he threw off the handker- 
 chief, and indulged in a hearty but silent laugh, while at 
 the same moment the roguish faces of Gabriella and 
 Kate peeped from an opposite chamber. Then placing a 
 finger significantly on their lips, with a knowing nod to 
 their uncle, they stole softly down stairs, when, no longer 
 able to repress their glee, their musical laugh mingled 
 with the morning song of the birds. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! there they go ! Caught at last, Mr. 
 Philosopher ! " exclaimed Mr. Mansfield as he saw the 
 party setting forth on their excursion. " Here, old lady ; 
 look out there ; what do you see ? " 
 
 " Why bless me if that ain't Mr. Horace ! " 
 
 " To be sure it's Mr. Horace ; and now let me tell you, 
 Mrs. Dimity, there will be a Mistress Horace ere six 
 months are come and gone. Now what do you think of 
 that ? " 
 
 " Well, well, now if that ain't a sight, to see Mr. Hor- 
 ace a talking and laughing with them pretty creatures ! 
 Dear me, dear me, I have lived most long enough ! " 
 cried the good woman. 
 5 
 
74 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 " No you haven't — what do you tell that story for ? I 
 tell you, you have got to dance at his wedding yet, you 
 silly old woman ! " 
 
 As Mr. Mansfield's toothache obstinately continued for 
 several days, why of course Horace was obliged to for- 
 sake his books entirely, and devote his time to his coiisins 
 — a necessity which on the whole, seemed very agreeable 
 all round ; and when at length the old gentleman thought 
 it prudent to join the circle, Horace still kept his place, 
 probably from right of possession, possibly from inclina- 
 tion. 
 
 Four weeks of this pleasant visit were already flown, 
 and in one more, the charming visitors were to bid fare- 
 well to Mansfield Hall and their kind old uncle. 
 
 To Horace this announcement seemed as the parting 
 knell to all his happiness. He loved Constance. His 
 soul was filled with her image. She was the idol before 
 whom all his thoughts bowed down, and for whose hap- 
 piness life itself were too slight a sacrifice. But he dared 
 not tell her this \ for in the lofty bearing of Constance, in 
 her reserve, and evident avoidance of his presence, he 
 read not only indifference, but scorn ! 
 
 Ah, little skilled was he in the heart of woman ! 
 
 It was the evening previous to the departure of the 
 cousins. Dell and dingle had been visited for the last 
 time, the last sail upon the beautiful lake had been taken, 
 the last ramble to the favorite Glen ; and now with sad- 
 dened hearts and countenances, the party once more as- 
 sembled upon the little portico to talk over past joys, and 
 to anticipate joys as bright in future visits to the old 
 Hall. 
 
 Turning suddenly to Horace, who was slowly and 
 thoughtfully pacing up and down, Gabriella said. 
 
THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 75 
 
 ♦'Now, Cousin Horace, just listen. Do you agree 
 with Kate that love can make a poet out of a dull, prosy- 
 scholar ? " 
 
 " Why not, coz, since ' Love can transform an 
 oyster? ' " replied Horace smiling. 
 
 " Ah ! but answer me seriously now. Do you believe 
 one of your prosaic scholars could be suddenly trans- 
 formed, through the power of Cupid, into a scribbler of 
 verses — a rhyming sentimentalist ? " 
 
 Horace was embarrassed, while Constance drew up her 
 beautiful head with an air of disdain, as if the subject in 
 debate were certainly a very foolish one, and unworthy 
 any one's attention. 
 
 " Why you know, dear Kate,'' said Horace, at length, 
 
 " what the greatest poet the world e'er saw has said — 
 
 * Never durst poet touch a pen to write, 
 Until his ink be tempered with Love's sighs ! ' " 
 
 " Ah, true ; well listen then, for here is proof conclu- 
 sive ! " And drawing from her bosom those very verses 
 for which Horace had so often and so vainly sought, and 
 which lately reposed so near the heart of Constance, 
 . Gabriella commenced reading them. 
 
 Imagine the consternation of the student ; vainly he 
 attempted to snatch them from her hand ; but springing 
 upon orje of the seats, the mischievous girl held them 
 above her head, while she continued to repeat them with 
 the most affected sentimentality. 
 
 Constance arose, and walked off with the step of a 
 Juno. 
 
 Horace was provoked — he was really angry — morti- 
 fied — and it was in no very gentle accents that he let his 
 displeasure be known. 
 
 " What must she think of me ! Good heavens, how. 
 
76 THE PERPLEXED STUDENT. 
 
 much she must despise me ! Fool, fool that I have been ! " 
 he exclaimed, as he strode rapidly back and forth the 
 portico. 
 
 *' Nay, dear cousin, never vex yourself about my proud 
 sister Constance," whispered Meggie, stealing his hand 
 and kissing it ; " here is your revenge," — and as she 
 spoke, she slipped into it the tell-tale fragments she had 
 so carefully gathered up. 
 
 It was yet light enough for Horace to recognize the 
 writing of Constance, and to see his own name traced in 
 the same delicate chirography ! 
 
 To the privacy of his own apartment did he hie with 
 speed of thought, and there patiently, no, rather impa- 
 tiently, dispose and arrange every tiny fragment, until he 
 had deciphered enough to fill his soul with rapture. 
 Leaning from the window he courts the gentle evening 
 breeze to fan his fevered brow, ere he again trusts him- 
 self to join the group below. He hears the cheerful, 
 happy voices of his cousins, and the hearty good-humored 
 laugh of his father — but afar down the winding path of 
 the shrubbery, he catches the gleam of a white dress, 
 slowly moving amid its deepest shades. Well did his 
 heart tell him to whom that fluttering robe belonged, and 
 in another moment he had joined Constance in her soli- 
 tary ramble. 
 
 We will not intrude upon this interview, but content 
 ourselves with the knowledge, that in the bright month 
 of September, just three months after this moonlight ram- 
 ble, a happy bridal party drove up to the door of the old 
 Hall, where stood the worthy housekeeper to welcome 
 them, her eyes filling with tears of joy as she pressed to 
 her honest heart, the happy bridegroom and his beautiful 
 bride. 
 
GAITY. 77 
 
 G AIT Y. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 It was already three o'clock, P. M., in the month of 
 November, 1769, that a party of four persons might be 
 seen riding swiftly along the beach, opposite the town of 
 Stonington. The afternoon was cold and gloomy, the 
 wind blowing almost a gale ; and the waves, as they 
 rolled and broke with violence upon the beach, seemed 
 threatening, in every receding surge, to sweep ofT both 
 horse and rider. The persons mentioned consisted of 
 three men and one female, the latter evidently a prisoner. 
 The elder of the party was a stout-built man, apparently 
 of some sixty years. His dress denoted him above the 
 common peasantry ; he wore a cloak with scarlet facings, 
 which, as the wind blew aside, it could be seen that he 
 was armed with sword and pistols. His countenance 
 was stern, his brow knit until the large eye-brows nearly 
 met ; and, as he now and then glanced upon the female, 
 he compressed his lips until the blood seemed ready to 
 start. The two others were much younger, and were 
 appareled after the fashion common to young men of 
 that period, and, like the elder, they were also armed. 
 The young female, who rode between the two last-men- 
 tioned persons, could not, from her appearance, be more 
 than eighteen years of age. Her face was the hue of 
 marble, her eyes downcast, and her whole bearing evinc- 
 
78 GAITY. 
 
 ing deep dejection. Her dress was a dark riding-habit, 
 fitting closely her slender figure, and a small beaver-hat 
 and plume. 
 
 The young men kept close to her side ; indeed one 
 held tightly her bridle rein, while the elder personage 
 rode on a few feet in advance. 
 
 Heedless of the wind and the dashings of the surf, the 
 party galloped swiftly along. For some time not a word 
 was spoken, until turning a rocky point, where all fur- 
 ther progress seemed impossible, and with nothing to im- 
 pede the view of the raging sea ; the young girl now, for 
 the first time, raised her head, and, in a voice of terror, 
 demanded : 
 
 " Father, dear father, where are we going ? Where 
 will you take me ?" 
 
 " That you will soon know," replied the person ad- 
 dressed ; then, suddenly reining in his horse, he said, 
 speaking to the young men : 
 
 " Here I shall leave you. Eemember, Walter ; and 
 you, too, Basil ; act no woman's part. As for you," 
 turning as he spoke to the trembling girl, " take your 
 father's last words — his curse .'" 
 
 " Father, father, curse me not!" she shrieked, spring- 
 ing from her horse, and clasping the knees of the speak- 
 er : " curse not your child ! " 
 
 " Off, serpent, off!" cried the old man, spurning her 
 with his foot; " kneel not to me — think of your poor, 
 distracted mother — of the disgrace and wretchedness you 
 have brought to our once happy fire-side ! Again I curse 
 you — yes, may the curse of an outraged father ever ring 
 in your ears /" 
 
 The girl uitered a piercing scream, and sank senseless 
 
GAITY. 79 
 
 upon the sands. For a few moments her father sternly 
 regarded her prostrate form ; gradually his features relax- 
 ed, he became much agitated, and at length large tears 
 rolled down his cheeks. 
 
 " Oh, my God," he ejaculated, " is it come to this ! My 
 daughter, my child, my child !" 
 
 Stooping down, he imprinted a kiss upon her marble 
 brow ; then, turning to his sons, he said : 
 
 " Walter, Basil, hear me ; forget my weakness ; re- 
 member, this erring child must not, shall nothe forgiven ! 
 Yet treat her kindly ; be not too rough with her gentle 
 nature. As for me, I shall never see her more !" 
 
 Thus saying, he turned his horse, and rode swiftly 
 away, in the same direction from which they came. 
 
 The two young men, in the meanwhile, appeared total- 
 ly unmoved by the scene they had just witnessed ; and, 
 notwithstanding their father's injunctions, were striving, 
 by rio very gentle means, to restore consciousness to the 
 unfortunate girl. 
 
 " Pest, she will never come to, as I see," said the one 
 addressed as Walter ; " one would think these drenching 
 sursfes would brino; her back." 
 
 " Perhaps it were belter she should never revive," re- 
 plied the other. " Minion ! but see, she opens her eyes. 
 Come, madam, rouse yourself! No more swooning, 
 if you please ! Come, get up," (seizing her rudely by 
 the arm,) " we have something of a journey yet to go 
 to-night, which may not prove quite so pleasing to your 
 fancy as the one you undertook with your Indian lov- 
 er." 
 
 The girl slowly arose ; her face became the hue of 
 
80 GAITT. 
 
 scarlet, and, turning her dark hazel eye upon the youth, 
 she said : 
 
 " Basil, is it from youl hear those cruel words? Do 
 you, too, cast me off? Do you no longer love me ?" 
 
 "Loye you," replied Basil, with a look of bitter scorn, 
 " love you ! No ! I hate you !" 
 
 " Fie, Basil, for shame," interrupted Walter ; " you are 
 too bad. Kemember, our father told us to treat this 
 wretched girl with kindness." 
 
 " Did he, did he !" cried the poor girl. " Bless you, 
 Walter, for those words. You, then, do not hate your 
 poor sister ?" 
 
 " No, Gaity, I do not hate you; yet still, for the dis- 
 grace you have brought upon us, I could plunge this dag- 
 ger into your bosom ! But come, Basil; see, the rain is 
 already beginning to fall, and the Sound looks too rough 
 for our paSl^age." 
 
 " The more fitting our errand," replied Basil. " Neith- 
 er thunder, rain, or old Ocean's self, though she chafe the 
 very skies in her fury, shall stop, me, until this dainty 
 lady is in security." 
 
 So saying, and lifting Gaity into the saddle, he seized 
 her bridle-rein, and the party once more galloped rapidly 
 forward for about a quarter of a mile. Here they halted, 
 and dismounting, led their horses a few yards from the 
 beach, where they fastened them to some rude stakes of 
 what had probably once been a fisherman's hut. They 
 next proceeded to unmoor a small boat, and then ap- 
 proached Gaity, who, with pale and alarmed features, had 
 watched their movements. 
 
 " Where will you take me ?" she cried, recoiling from 
 
•f 
 
 GAITY. 81 
 
 their approach. " 0, will you drown me ! Alas, I am 
 not fit to die !" 
 
 «* Drown you," interrupted Basil; "no, drowning'w 
 would be too good for you ! Come, step in ;" then rudely 
 pushing her into the boat, where Walter was already 
 seated, they put off upon the angry waters. 
 
 The rain, which had been threatening some time, now 
 poured in torrents, while the winds and waves tossed the 
 frail bark like an egg-shell ; every sea, as it came rushing 
 and roaring down, seemed ready to engulf them. After 
 two hours of hard labor they reached the shore of Fisher's 
 Island, and after some little difficulty effected a landing. 
 Securing the boat, they then each seized an arm of their 
 sister, who, speechless from terror, was passive in their 
 hands ; and, turning from the shore, plunged directly into 
 a narrow path which led into the interior of the island ; 
 now lifting Gaity in their arms over tangled%eaps of un- 
 derbrush, or pulling her swiftly forward over the level 
 ground. In this manner they proceeded for nearly an 
 hour 1 at length they stopped. Hejne, on the borders of 
 a thick forest stood a solitary house ; it was evidently 
 much decayed, part of the roof had fallen in, and most of 
 the windows appeared to have been newly boarded up. 
 On one side it leaned to a deep chasm, washed below 
 by a swift-running stream, whose hollow murmur struck 
 horror to the soul. 
 
 Leaving Walter and Gaity, Basil now approached the 
 house, and, passing his hand through one of the broken 
 sashes, drew forth a rusty key, which he applied to the 
 door ; it turned slowly on its hinges and the party enter- 
 ed. Nothing could exceed the desolation within but the 
 desolation without. The room was empty, not a vestige 
 
82 GAITY. 
 
 of furniture to be seen, while the rain beat in at the bro- 
 ken casement. 
 ^1^ On one side was a flight of rickety stairs ; up these 
 the young men groped their way, bearing the almost in- 
 sensible form of Gaity in their arms. With the aid of 
 flint, Walter now struck a light. It seemed, indeed, as 
 if Misery and Want might here have chosen their 
 'abode, so utterly desolate, so wretched did every thing ap- 
 pear. 
 
 Poor Gaity, pale with alarm, overcome with fatigue, 
 and her garments drenched with rain, had sunk into the 
 only chair the room contained, the very image of wo; 
 when Basil approached, and, with a low bow, said, in. a 
 voice of biting- sarcasm : 
 , "Welcome, mistress, to your future homey 
 
 Gaity raised her drooping head, looked from one to the 
 other of hepkcruel brothers ; no ray of pity beamed on 
 their dark features, and, with a shudder which convulsed 
 her whole frame, the miserable girl fell senseless to the 
 floor. 
 
 CHAPTER II. • 
 
 Before the wigwam had disappeared from the forest, 
 or the bow of the savage been unstrung", a few English 
 families had made their seillement near the borders of 
 the Mystic river, Connecticut. 
 
 On this very spot had been enacted one of the most 
 dreadful tragedies that ever occurred in that fierce strug- 
 gle with the Indians in the earlier settlement of the coun- 
 
GAITY. 83 
 
 try — ours for might, theirs for right ! Here it was, in 
 the darkness and silence of the night, Avhen the Indians 
 were all sleeping in fancied security, that a party of Eng- 
 lish soldiers, commanded by Captain Mason, stole sud- 
 denly upon the Pequot fort, bringing death and destruc- 
 tion in their van. No warning had the doomed savage, 
 save the dying howl of a faithful watch-dog, while, at 
 the same moment, a heavy fire was poured in upon them. 
 Then the cry of Owanux! Owanux ! (Englishmen! 
 Englishmen !) mingled with the terrific war-whoop, re- 
 sounded through the fort ; but it was too late ! On every 
 side they were surrounded, escape was impossible, a^f 
 horrible to relate, the order was at length given by the 
 English iojire the fort, and hundreds of men, women 
 and children perished in their wigwams ! 
 
 " And, indeed," says the historian, " such a dreadful 
 terror did the Almighty let fall upon their spirits, that 
 they would fly from us into the very flames." 
 
 But, at the period this tale commences, not a trace of 
 this cruel war remained. Small villages and clustering 
 cottages skirted the banks of this pretty stream, and fine- 
 ly-cultivated farms stretched far in the distance. Now 
 • and then a few solitary remnants of the Pequot tribe 
 would wander through the soil of their fathers ; for it 
 was then no rare thing to see these sons of the forest, who 
 were generally treated with kindness by the whites, al- 
 though that feeling of hostility and revenge, which |iad 
 burned so furiously in the breasts of both, was not at 
 that early period quite subdued, and occasional disputes, 
 together with many petty acts of pilfering committed by 
 the Indians, when under the influence of "^re water,''^ 
 (for which, as is well known, their thirst was in- 
 
84 ' GAixr. 
 
 satiable,) only served to keep alive the flame of dis- 
 cord. 
 
 Basil Trevor was from a noble family of England, but 
 being a younger son, was consequently dependent upon 
 the church, army or navy for his support. Preferring, 
 however, to seek a fortune in the new world to either, he 
 bade farewell to friends and country, and embarked for 
 America ; bringing with him all that pride of birth, and 
 high and lofty bearing which marked his descent. Dis- 
 appointed love might, perhaps, have somewhat influenced 
 his decision, as it is well known his final determination 
 to seek a foreign land was not made until the Lady 
 Edith had been forced into a marriage with a wealthy 
 baronet. 
 
 To America, then, came Basil Trevor at the age of 
 three-and-twenty. He landed at Boston, where, after 
 tarrying a few weeks in company with others who, like 
 himself, had left the shores of England to find a home in 
 America, he proceeded to the fertile region of the Con- 
 necticut. Pursuing his researches, he reached the neigh- 
 borhood of the Mystic, and delighted with its ro- 
 mantic scenery, and the promising aspect of the soil, 
 obtained a large tract of land on its borders. Here, 
 shut out from the world, careless for fortune, Trevor 
 resolved to seek for happiness amid the scenes of na- 
 ture. 
 
 Under his persevering industry and energies, the 
 " wilderness soon blossomed as the rose.^^ Fields of corn, 
 of waving wheat, rich clover-pastures, now flourished 
 where once the great Sassacus stepped in his pride and 
 might ; and, in due time, a neat cottage took the place 
 
GAITY. ^^r^ 85 
 
 of the rude log-hut which first sheltered the young ad- 
 venturer. 
 
 As if on purpose to requite his unwearied industry, 
 the obliging baronet broke his neck at a race-course, and 
 Edith became a widow ! This news was transmitted by 
 some kind friend in the first ship, and, in less than a week 
 after it was received, behold Basil Trevor a passenger in 
 a vessel bound for London ! He arrived safely in Eng- 
 land, and hastened, with the speed of thought, imbodied 
 in four post-horses, to the baronial castle of his dead ri- 
 val — a scream of delight, and Edith is fainting in his 
 arms ! The marriage ceremony was performed without 
 delay, and the lovely bride accompanied her husband to 
 his new home. 
 
 But, alas ! her tender nature was not suited to the hard- 
 ships, the privations of this new life. Reared in the 
 abodes of luxury, with every indulgence which wealth 
 could give, lavished upon her, she could illy meet the 
 trials she was now called upon to sustain. Fortitude, 
 affection, or kindness forsook not the pure temple of her 
 heart — but her health yielded. She pined gradually 
 away ; her foot lost its lightness, her form became al- 
 most ethereal; and, although the dark eye sparkled and 
 the rose tinted her cheek, after a few years she sank to 
 rest with the summer flowers, leaving one sweet bud to 
 shield, in its balmy beauty, the heart of the lone husband 
 against despair. 
 
 Bitter, indeed, was the grief of Trevor at this sad be- 
 reavement ; and yet, in one year after the death of Edith, 
 he become the husband of another. Deem him not heart- 
 less, inconstant, or ungrateful ; so soon to yield another 
 
86 •^ 
 
 m 
 
 GAITY. 
 
 the place where once the lovely Edith rested in her gen- 
 tleness and beauty ! 
 
 The rough nature of man was not suited to the nur- 
 ture of so fragile a plant as the little Edith. The gentle 
 hand of woman was required to cherish and defend the 
 frail blossom from the many ills of childhood. No kind 
 mother or sympathizing sister had the bereaved husband 
 to take the babe to their bosoms, and, therefore it was, he 
 offered his hand to the daughter of one who had emi- 
 grated from the mother country about the same time as 
 himself. 
 
 A kind and gentle being was Gaity, and in her the 
 sweet babe found indeed a mother; and, although as 
 years rolled on, other and closer ties were woven around 
 the heart of Mrs. Trevor, she never for a moment loved 
 the little Edith less fondly, or suffered those new ties to 
 weaken that chain of sympathy which bound her to the 
 motherless child. 
 
 A blooming family grew up around Mrs. Trevor, of 
 which the little bright-eyed Gaity was the youngest and 
 cherished favorite. Her slightest wishes were to her fond 
 parents as laws, while her two brothers and Edith were 
 never wearied of devising amusements for this dazzling^ 
 pet. Although as beautiful as the first blush of morn, 
 Gaity was a wayward and stubborn child, to which, un- 
 doubtedly, the extreme indulgence of those around her 
 was only adding new vigor. She was, however, kind 
 and affeclionate in her nature, to which feelings she yield- 
 ed with all the impetuosity of a spoiled child ; no matter 
 by what excited, a bird a flower, a pet lamb or kitten, all 
 in turn called forth her devotion. Dearly, too, did she 
 love her sister Edith, whose winning manners, and kind, 
 
• 
 
 GAITY. 87 
 
 persuasive words often possessed an influence over the 
 willful child, which naught else could effect. 
 
 As before mentioned, the Indians were then no stran- 
 gers to the soil. Often parties of from fifty to a hundred 
 would encamp in the adjacent woods, and there tarry- 
 sometimes for months ; their baskets, brooms, moccasins, 
 and other articles of traffic, finding a ready sale in the 
 houses of the whites. 
 
 Unlike most children of her age, Gaity fearlessly at- 
 tached herself to these dwellers of the forest, who, in re- 
 turn, manifested, by their uncouth gestures of delight, and 
 many little presents of ingenious fabric, their fondness 
 for the little white maiden, or, as they usually styled her, 
 " the little Sloe-blossom.''^ Springing like a fawn to the 
 arms of the savage, Gaity would cling fondly to them ; 
 sometimes passing whole days amid their wigwams, in 
 unrestrained freedom, playing with the little papoose, 
 weaving rushes with her small taper fingers, or learn- 
 ing to adorn the smooth bark with the quills of the por- 
 cupine. 
 
 This wandering tribe were generally accompanied by a 
 venerable Indian, claiming to be the son of the great Sas- 
 sacus himself. Whether this assertion might be consid- 
 ered as truth is uncertain ; but there was a quiet dignity 
 in the manners and bearing of the old chief, which might 
 well warrant the assumption. He mixed but little with 
 his tribe, his wigwam was remote from theirs, and his 
 time generally occupied in hunting the game, which, 
 even at that early period, was beginning to be considered 
 a rarity ; or in his birch canoe, accompanied by his 
 grandson, Onowahoo, a lad of twelve, would softly glide 
 where the umbrageous woods over-canopied the river, and 
 
88 GAITY. 
 
 there, with a composure which '*oId Izaak" might have 
 envied, ensnare the silvery trout which frequented its wa- 
 ters. The resuhs of these labors or pleasures often found 
 their way to the table of Mr. Trevor, being usually left 
 after nightfall upon the door-stone, in the most quiet man- 
 ner, by Monatahqua himself, who took this method to 
 manifest his gratitude. for various kindnesses received at 
 the hands of Mr. Trevor. 
 
 Between Gaity and the young savage Onowahoo there 
 had always existed the warmest friendship. He brought 
 her the most beautiful bird 's-eggs, the greenest moss, the 
 clearest pebbles, to adorn her little play-house ; and would 
 spend hours in weaving baskets and other ingenious arti- 
 cles to give her pleasure, while, in return, Gaity shared 
 with him her nicest treasures, and, with her own little 
 hands, knit gay comforters and leggins, to keep him 
 warm through the cold winter. 
 
 Twice had Onowahoo saved the life of Gaity. * 
 
 There was within a few miles of Poplar Grove, (the 
 residence of Mr. Trevor,) an extensive pond, which, at 
 certain seasons of the year, resembled a floating garden, 
 so thickly was it covered with that fragrant and lovely 
 flower, the pond-lily, resting in snowy purity so beauti- 
 fully in its light green shallop on the glassy surface of 
 the pond, peeping over, too, half-bashfuUy, as if to see 
 itself mirrored therein in graceful beauty. Gaiiy had 
 coaxed her father, by many well-timed hugs and kisses, 
 (which the little gipsy knew very well when to apply,) into 
 permission that she might accompany Monatahqua and 
 Onowahoo upon an excursion to this beautiful pond. 
 They accordingly set off* through the forest, Gaity hand 
 in hand with Onowahoo, laughing, chatting, and sing- 
 
GAITY. 89 
 
 ing her little songs, half-English, half Indian. When 
 the little " Sloe-blossom" seemed weary, Monatahqua 
 would bear her in his arms over the rough places ; and 
 the Indian boy, running at her side, pluck the ripest ber- 
 ries to allay her thirst, and occasionally the happy party 
 would rest together under some shady tree. In this man- 
 ner they reached the pond ; here they found a canoe, 
 secured at the water's edge, in which they were soon 
 seated, gliding gently to that part where the lilies seemed 
 in the greatest profusion. As they approached it, Gaity 
 clapped her hands in ecstasy, and exclaiming : 
 
 " Some for ma'ma — some for Edith," reached over too 
 hastily to pluck them ; she lost her balance, and sank 
 amid the lilies ; which first yielding gently to their love- 
 ly burthen, then formed a fragrant pall above her. An- 
 other moment, and she was safe in the arms of Monatah- 
 qua ; the next, a shower of lilies fell around her from the 
 hand of Onowahoo, who had again plunged in to divert 
 the terror of the trembling child. 
 
 At another time, when Gaity had been as usual ram- 
 bling for hours in the forest, she became weary, and, throw- 
 ing herself under a tree, lay for some time tracing pic- 
 tures in the light fleecy clouds as they floated above, and 
 in trying to count the green leaves frolicking and danc- 
 ing to the soft wind around her head. On a neighbor- 
 ing tree a golden oriole had perched himself, swinging, 
 with the most enviable security, upon the very extremity 
 of a large bough, pouring forth his rich notes in one de- 
 licious gush of melody; these, too, did the little maiden 
 try to imitate ; but at length the clouds floated dreamily 
 away, the leaves moved to a more gentle measure, and 
 6 
 
90 GAITY. 
 
 the song of the oriole grew ever fainter and fainter. The 
 child slept. 
 
 It being near noon, Mr. Trevor himself went in search 
 of his truant child. He soon discovered her, and ad- 
 vanced gently to awaken her ; but, conceive his horror, 
 on approaching nearer, to discover a large rattlesnake 
 coiled within a few feet of the sleeping innocent ! He 
 dares not advance — he fears to move, least he may arouse 
 the reptile — his very senses seem to be forsaking him, 
 from terror at the danger of his child ; when, suddenly, 
 he sees Onowahoo approach. The boy drops noiselessly 
 amid the deep grass, and glides to the spot where poor 
 Gaity, unconscious of danger, is so calmly sleeping. Al- 
 ready, with head erect and eyes glittering in Iris hues of 
 beauty, the snake seems about to dart upon its victim, 
 when at that instant, with a rapid bound, Onowahoo seiz- 
 es the venomous reptile by the neck ; it coils its length in 
 slimy folds around the naked arm of the brave boy, who, 
 nothing daunted, compresses the throat of his victim ever 
 tighter and tighter until death ensues ! 
 
 It is not strange, then, that Mr. and Mrs. Trevor were 
 much attached to the preserver of their darling child. 
 Earnestly did they entreat Monatahqua to leave Onowa- 
 hoo with them ; promising that he should be treated as a 
 child, and receive the same education as their sons. But 
 Monatahqua pointed to the woods : 
 
 " There is room for the red man there," he said ; " the 
 cabin of the pale face would fetter the limbs of the In- 
 dian. The foot of Onowahoo must be fleet as the deer 
 of the forest." 
 
 A period of six or eight months had elapsed since the 
 last visit of the old chief, when, one morning, he sudden- 
 
GAITY. 91 
 
 ly entered the sitting-room of Mr. Trevor, leading- Ono- 
 wahoo by the hand. He was attired in much splendor ; 
 a bright scarlet blanket, adorned with wampum, was 
 thrown over his shoulders ; his leggins were of many- 
 colored cloth, and fancifully embroidered ; and his brows 
 were decorated with a variety of variegated feathers. 
 
 With a cry of delight, Gaity sprang to his side, and 
 then, flinging her arms around the neck of Onowahoo, 
 pressed his dark cheek with her rosy lips. With a low, 
 guttural laugh, Monatahqua passed his hand over the 
 golden locks of Gaity, and then advancing to Mr. Trevor, 
 he said : 
 
 " Chief, Monatahqua goes to the spirit-land ; his Great 
 Father calls him. The ears of Monatahqua are open ; he 
 will go, for now the war path is hidden under the thick 
 smoke of the calumet ! Take, then, my son, that I may 
 depart in peace." 
 
 Without waiting for a reply, the old chief then turned 
 and walked with dignity from the room ; leaving Onowa- 
 hoo standing motionless as a statue, with Gaity still 
 clinging around him. 
 
 It was the last visit of Monatahqua. He was never 
 seen more. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The young Indian lad received a joyful welcome from 
 each member of Mr. Trevor's household, and was uni- 
 formly treated with kindness by all, save the two boys, 
 Walter and Basil ; who were, perhaps, envious of the 
 
92 GAITY. 
 
 superior strenofth and agfility displayed by trie Indian, 
 especially in all games pertaining to forest life. Ono- 
 wahoo, however, was ever taciturn and reserved, seldom 
 departing from the characteristic gravity of his race, and 
 never mixing in the sports of boyhood, except to please 
 the whims of4|ll^ittle wayward Gaity. The habits of his 
 fathers clang closely to him ; and, notwithstanding the 
 iiisiructions and earnest persuasions of his present triends, 
 *uhe Indian was an Indian still." 
 
 Hn the meanwhile the days of childhood flitted away, 
 now gay, now tearful ; as the lark soars to heaven, its 
 wings gemmed with the dews of morning, or as rose-leaves 
 scattered by rain ; and Gaily, now no longer a child, was 
 forced to ''put off childish things." 
 
 Edith had already been sent to Boston, to receive those 
 advantages of education which could not be obtained at 
 the Grove ; and the time had now arrived when it was 
 deemed advisable by her parents that Gaity also should 
 go from home for the same purpose. 
 
 Farewell, then, to frolic and mirth ! Poor Gaity I with 
 bursting heart, streaming eyes and pouting lip, was obliged 
 to clip down her buoyant spirits to the narrow contines 
 of a school-room. 
 
 From this time, for a period of two or three years, the 
 sisters only revisited their home at intervals of six or 
 eight months. Gaity retained all her wild impetuosity of 
 character ; and no bird, released from its wiry prison, 
 ever winged its way with more gladness to its native 
 woods than did Gaity upon these occasions fly back to the 
 well-remembered haunts of childhood. Every nook and 
 dell again felt the pressure of her light footstep ; the mea- 
 dow-brook again mirrored the bright, happy face of the 
 
GAITY. 93 
 
 maiden, and once more the woods resounded with her 
 merry, ringing laugh. 
 
 Upon these occasions Gaity was seldom unaccompa- 
 nied by Onowahoo ; for her brothers, Walter and Basil, 
 felt no sympathy in the feelings of the young girl, scorn- 
 ing those scenes in which the heart of their sister took 
 such delight ; while, at the same time, they taunted and 
 ridiculed her fondness for forest life, styling her the 
 " Indian Princess of the Grove !" Edith although justly 
 alive to the beauties of nature, found full occupation in 
 assisting her mother in the household duties. Thus 
 Gaity and Onowahoo were thrown much together. 
 
 High beat the heart of the young Indian at those traits 
 in Gaity's character, so similar to his own wild nature. 
 He watched her graceful form, bounding like a fawn 
 through the forest glades, and her speaking, animated 
 countenance with delight. Nor is it to be wondered at 
 that Gaity found a pleasure in his society, which, un- 
 known to her innocent heart, constituted more than half 
 the charm of her daily rambles. 
 
 Edith was the first to perceive the unhappy results of 
 this constant companionship and affinity of tastes. She 
 was inexpressibly shocked at the discovery, and gently 
 warned Gaity against indulging or encouraging feelings 
 so inimical to the happiness of both. 
 
 Crimsoned with blushes, Gaity, with a wild laugh, 
 kissed the pale cheek of her sister, assuring her she need 
 be under no uneasiness, and then added with a haughty 
 tone and sparkling eye, that if she did love Onowahoo, 
 she would rather have a lodge in the wilderness with 
 him than to reign queen of England's realm. 
 
 But this conversation with Edith removed at once the 
 
94 GAITY. 
 
 vail which had wrapped her heart in such blissful securi- 
 ty, and with true feminine modesty, she now absented 
 herself almost entirely from the society of Onowahoo. 
 
 This sudden change of conduct was to him as a death- 
 blow ; for he at once divined that she had discovered his 
 daring" love, and now avoided him from anger at his pre- 
 sumption. He hoped to have buried forever his fatal at- 
 tachment in his own breast, and thus been able to enjoy, 
 from day to day, the melancholy happiness of beholding 
 the object of his hopeless love ; for never, even in his 
 wildest dreams, had he for a moment indulged the thought 
 that the fair daughter of the proudest in the land, the 
 beautiful child of his benefactor, could love the lone Indi- 
 an, or feel other than pity for his degraded race ! Fear- 
 ing now he had drawn upon himself her indignation and 
 contempt, he resolved to depart silently from the Grove, 
 never to return. 
 
 It was but a few days after the painful discovery of the 
 true state of her feelings, that Gaity, pale and dejected, 
 stole out alone into the forest. She had not gone far, 
 when, through an opening in the trees, she perceived 
 Onowahoo approaching. His step was heavy, his eyes 
 downcast, and his whole manner plainly denoting the 
 wretchedness of his mind. He advanced slowly to within 
 a few paces of Gaity, when, suddenly raising his head, he 
 saw the object of his thoughts standing before him. He 
 would have turned, but Gaity advanced a step to meet 
 him, and, in a voice of kindness, said : 
 
 " Why is the countenance of my brother so sad ?" 
 
 Onowahoo for a moment gazed mournfully upon her, 
 then, pointing upward, he replied: 
 
 "As yonder cloud, now floating in the heavens, will soon 
 
GAITY. 96 
 
 fade and vanish away, so must Onowahoo depart from 
 the presence of the Sloe-blossom." 
 
 In a low, trembling voice, Gaity answered : 
 
 " Would Onowahoo leave the Sloe-blossom to droop 
 alone in the forest ? Where would her brother go that 
 Gaity might not follow ?" 
 
 A gleam of delight sparkled for an instant from the 
 eyes of the Indian ; he then rejoined : 
 
 *' Onowahoo goes beyond the homes of the pale-face, 
 that when his great Father calls him, he may go to the 
 happy hunting-grounds with his red brothers." 
 
 " What bird has sung in the ears of Onowahoo ?^ Is 
 the hand of my father closed ? Has the tongue of my 
 mother spoken false, or the Sloe-blossom turned away 
 from her brother, that he leaves her ?" 
 
 Onowahoo shaded his eyes with his handy and answer- 
 ed, with a low and mournful tone : 
 
 " Onowahoo must no longer look upon the Sloe-hloS' 
 som.^^ 
 
 In a moment Gaity now comprehended the motives of 
 the Indian. She made no reply, while Onowahoo turned 
 sadly to leave her ; then, with a quiet dignity, foreign 
 to her usual manner, and determination speaking in ev- 
 ery feature, Gaity held out her hand, saying, in a voice of 
 firmness : 
 
 " No, Onowahoo must not go alone ! See, the Sloe- 
 ■ blossom puts her hand in his /" 
 
 The happiness of these unfortunate lovers was a dream 
 too sweet to last ; and bitter, indeed, were the scenes to 
 which they finally awoke. 
 
 * It is said the Indians called tale-bearers, or those who spoke 
 falsely, " singing birds." 
 
5,6 GAITT. 
 
 Edith saw with grief her worst fears realized. Vainly 
 Ilid she warn her sister asfainst the wrath of her father 
 
 and brothers, should they discover her attachment for 
 Onowahoo. Him she urged to fly imm.ediately from the 
 Grove, to leave Gaity forever, and thus save her from the 
 terrible indignation which she knew w^ould await her ; 
 but, notwithstanding all her cautions, all her entreaties, 
 the lovers willfully shut their eyes to the danger they were 
 hourly incurring, and, in one unguarded moment, all was 
 discovered. 
 
 Gaity attempted no concealment of her feelings ; but, 
 with firmness and decision, at once openly acknowledged 
 her love for the Indian. 
 
 No words can paint the wrath of Mr. Trevor, as he 
 listened to this avowal. It seemed as if that deep affec- 
 tion which had ever been, as it were, the well-spring of 
 his existence, was at once suddenly and for ever dried up, 
 choked, obliterated ! The wretched mother and Edith 
 wept in agony, while Walter and Basil, with fury flash- 
 ing from their eyes, deeply reviled and insulted their sis- 
 ter, who, with cheeks flushed with indignation, her form- 
 raised to its full height, stood proudly in the midst, mak- 
 ing no reply to their insulting language, except by looks 
 of the most perfect defiance. At length, seizing her by 
 the arm, her father dragged her to her chamber, thrust her 
 rudely within, and locked the door. 
 
 They went in search of Onowahoo. 
 
 " Dog ! Indian ! Slave ! Away with you I" cried 
 Mr. Trevor, " Away ! If, at the setting of the sun, 
 you are found within the limits of my land, your scalp, 
 according to your own fashion^ shall hang from the near- 
 est tree !" 
 
GAITT. 97 
 
 Onowahoo was about to reply, when Basil suddenly 
 approached, and, raising his arm gave the Indian a blow 
 across the face. The next instant he was prostrate on 
 the ground, the knee of the savage on his breast, and 
 the knife already gleaming before his eyes. Mr. Tre- 
 vor and Walter rushed upon Onowahoo, who, shaking 
 them off with Herculean strength, threw down the knife, 
 and stood, with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils, con- 
 fronting his foes. , 
 
 " The knife of Onowahoo will not drink the blood of 
 a coward," he said; then turning to Mr. Trevor, he con- 
 tinued : 
 
 *' Chief, you were the friend of Monatahqua — you 
 have been the friend of Onowahoo — it is written on his 
 heart I There is now a cloud on the face of the chief; 
 but his words are laws to Onowahoo. His shadow shall 
 not be on the land at the setting of the sun." 
 
 So saying, he walked slowly away, and soon disap- 
 peared in the depths of the forest. 
 
 For weeks the unhappy Gaity was kept a close prison- 
 er in her chamber ; no person was allowed to see her. 
 Even the entreaties of her distressed mother or Edith 
 could not move the stern father to relent. 
 
 While thus, for the first time, the harmony of that hap- 
 py household was broken by the rough hand of discord, 
 Edith received a pressing invitation from a young friend 
 in Boston, that she would officiate as bridesmaid at her 
 approaching nuptials. She would gladly have declined, 
 but her parents both urged and insisted upon her going. 
 Hoping the void created by her absence might induce her 
 father to forgive her sister, she at last consented. With- 
 
98''*^»- GAITT. 
 
 out being allowed to bid poor Gaity farewell, Edith de- 
 parted, bearing a heart of sadness, to scenes where joy 
 and happiness reigned. 
 
 Edith judged rightly. Mr. Trevor did, indeed, miss 
 the society of his daughters — the gentle, lovely Edith, 
 and that other bright and joyous girl, whose presence had 
 ever been to him as the morning star ; and a few days 
 after the departure of the former, the door of Gaity's 
 chamber was unbarred, and she was led forth to freedom. 
 But it was such freedom as rendered the walls of her 
 prison a heaven in comparison ! 
 
 The cold and chilling looks of her father fell like a 
 blight upon her young heart, crushing the germ of duty, 
 which would have led her to have flown at once to his 
 arms, to implore his forgiveness. The countenance of 
 her mother, it is true, flushed with joy ; tears started to 
 her eyes, and she would have folded the pale, heart- 
 stricken girl to her maternal bosom, but a look from her 
 husband ^^ froze the ivarm current of her souly^^ and she 
 remained passive. There were her brothers also to greet 
 her — but how ! not with looks of pity and forgiveness, 
 but with 
 
 " Hard unkindness, altered eye, 
 That mochs the tear it forced to flow ;'* 
 
 and poor Gaity that night returned to her chamber, more 
 miserable than when she had left it. 
 
 She threw open the window, and looked forth, with 
 tearful eye, upon the scene now, like herself, so changed 
 from the bright spring-time of happiness — the sear and 
 yellow leaf had already fallen upon her young heart. It 
 was now November. The autumn leaves, whose bril* 
 
GAITY. 99 
 
 • 
 liant variegation had draped the forest with such gorgeous 
 
 magnificence, were now (fit epitome of the idle passions 
 of mankind) whirling rapidly past her window, soon to 
 mingle with the clods of the valley. The moon was at 
 her full ; — while, at a little distance, the river, gleaming 
 through the thick shrubbery on its banks, spangled the 
 dark outline of the forest. Heedless of the chilly night- 
 wind which blew around her, Gaity remained for some 
 time absorbed in mournful revery, when she was sud- 
 denly aroused by a slight rustling beneath her window, 
 and, almost at the same moment, an arrow fell at her 
 feet. Joy irradiated the face of the maiden, for well she 
 knew from whose hand it sped ! She hastily raised it — 
 affixed was the ring she had given to Onowahoo ! 
 She now leaned from the window and looked eargerly 
 around, and soon discovered the form of her lover re- 
 clining against a tree a few paces distant* Gaity re- 
 pressed the cry of delight which mounted from her heart 
 to her lips, but, clasping her hands together, tears of joy 
 fell over her pale face. 
 
 A second arrow was now thrown in ; around it was a 
 paper, on which was written : 
 
 " At midnight, Onowahoo, by the river-side, will 
 watch for the Sloe-blossom. The canoe floats empty in 
 the stream ; a horse, fleet as the wild deer, paws the 
 opposite shore. The ring will whisper * yes ' to the heart 
 of Onowahoo." 
 
 Alas ! not a moment did the wretched girl deliberate, 
 but, with trembling fingers, she once more fastened the 
 ring to the arrow, and dropped it from the window. 
 Onowahoo glided to the spot, and, as he recognized the 
 token of assent, he looked up to the pale, beautiful face 
 
100 GAITY. 
 
 of Gaity, bending over him in love and truthfulness ; 
 then, sinking for an instant upon his knee, the Indian 
 pressed the ring to his lips and disappeared. 
 
 It is not surprising that the reserve and apparent scorn 
 she now met from those in whose eyes she had ever 
 been worshiped as an idol, by whom she had been so 
 tenderly caressed, flattered, and indulged ; her every 
 wish, however trifling, gratified almost before it was ex- 
 pressed ; should have filled the undisciplined heart of 
 Gaity with mingled grief and indignation. At that 
 critical moment, when still writhing under the insulting 
 looks of her brothers, the feigned indifference of her 
 father, came Onowahoo, offering love — happiness — free- 
 dom ! 
 
 Her error loas great ! So was her temptation ! 
 
 Oh, parents, beware how you treat the first offences of 
 inexperienced youth ! Crush not the hearts of your 
 children with a brow of iron ; withhold not from their 
 repentant lips the kiss of forgiveness ; nor let the tongue 
 speak those " bitter words that kill!" No, rather take 
 them to your arms in pity ; whisper of love and pardon ; 
 and, as the gentle dew falls from heaven to enrich and 
 fructify the earth, so let the words of tender admonition 
 sink into the heart of your child, to nourish the seeds of 
 virtue and good resolves. 
 
 The heart of a child must, indeed, be formed of 
 " sterner stuff," which can resist the holy influence of 
 that pardon hallowed with tears from the lips of an ag- 
 grieved parent ! 
 
 Had such been the conduct of Mr. Trevor, what days 
 of anguish, of misery beyond description, would have 
 been spared ! 
 
GAITY. 101 
 
 Too much agitated to reflect upon the momentous step 
 she was about to take, Gaity hastily selected a few 
 articles from her wardrobe, changed her light dress for a 
 traveling-habit, and, at the appointed hour, stole softly 
 down stairs. As she reached the door of her mother's 
 bed-room, she stopped — her whole frame shook with 
 emotion ; then the pang of remorse shot through her 
 bosom. Alas ! was she about to leave for ever tnat kind, 
 affectionate mother, the tender nurse of her infant years; 
 that being from whose lips no words but those of kind- 
 ness had ever fallen ; and was she thus to leave her ! 
 Edith, too, that beloved sister ! should she never more 
 meet the glance of those mild eyes, ever beaming with 
 sisterly affection ! Gaity trembled, her purpose faltered, 
 and she would fain have returned to her chamber; but, 
 at that moment, the stern, reproachful look of her father 
 seemed fixed upon her ! Again her ears seem poisoned 
 with the contemptuous language of her brothers ! No 
 longer did she hesitate ; but, softly unbarring the door, 
 fled swiftly along the path which led to the river. 
 
 She had not proceeded far when she was joined by 
 Onowahoo. They spoke not — but one look, as their 
 eyes met, told all ! the pain and suffering they had 
 mutually endured, and the happiness of the present 
 moment. 
 
 They soon crossed the river, and sped swiftly on 
 through the night. Soon after daylight, they arrived at 
 the little village of Westerly, on the borders of Rhode 
 Island. Here the fugitives deetned it necessary to tarry 
 a short time, in order to recruit the almost exhausted 
 strength of their panting steed. 
 
 It happened, unfortunately, that Walter Trevor had left 
 
\ 
 
 102 GAITY. 
 
 the Grove late on the previous afternoon, to attend to 
 some law business in Stonington. A vi^itness residing in 
 Westerly was required ; and Walter, therefore, rode 
 over very early in the morning, (a distance of five miles,) 
 and arrived at the inn only a few moments after the 
 unfortunate lovers ! 
 
 Then the storm burst in fury over their heads ! 
 
 Walter, foaming with rage, instantly called upon the 
 authorities of the village for aid. Onowahoo was secured 
 and strictly guarded as a runaway Indian ; while Gaity 
 was conveyed to a small room in the upper story of the 
 inn, Walter himself keeping guard on the outside. 
 
 In the meanwhile, an express was sent off to inform 
 Mr. Trevor of the capture of the fugitives. In a few 
 hours the unhappy father, pale with rage and mortifica- 
 tion, arrived, accompanied by Basil. 
 
 A short time sufficed for their arrangements. Ono- 
 wahoo was immediately sent off, under a strong guard, 
 to Boston, from thence he was to be shipped to the West 
 Indies, and there sold as a slave. 
 
 At that time Fisher's Island was uninhabited, unless it 
 might be by the occasional visits of fishermen, and, for 
 their convenience, a few rude shelters had been thrown 
 up near the water's edge ; but, in the interior of the 
 island, stood the remains of a large building, said to 
 have been occupied by several families of whites, who 
 had fled thither for security during the Pequot war ; 
 they were, however, at length discovered by the savages, 
 and every soul inhumanly murdered. Since then it had 
 been uninhabited, and was fast crumbling to decay. To 
 this desolate spot did Mr. Trevor resolve to bear his 
 child! With a terrible oath, the infuriated father swore 
 
GAITY. 103 
 
 he would never forgive her ; she had disgraced herself 
 and her family; the proud name of Trevor was now in- 
 delibly stained; and there, then, far from the face of 
 man, from the sound of a human voice, should she 
 forever bury her shame ! 
 
 Having decided upon this cruel course, Walter and 
 Basil immediately left to ascertain the exact location of 
 this miserable building, and to furnish it with such 
 articles as might be necessary for bare existence, taking 
 with them, at the same time, an old, half-crazed woman, 
 who for years had roved at large in the neighborhood, 
 under the name of " Crazy Nell." Mr. Trevor procured 
 this woman to take charge of his daughter. As a re- 
 ward, he poured into her skinny hand more gold than had 
 ever yet met her greedy grasp, while, at the same time, 
 he so wrought upon the terrors of the miserable woman 
 should she refuse, or prove unfaithful to the trust, that, 
 cowed with fear, trembling as if she already felt the 
 knife at her heart, Crazy Nell was borne off by the 
 brothers, a companion for the young, beautiful, and noble- 
 minded, but misguided Gaity ! 
 
 On the afternoon of the second day all was prepared ; 
 the wretched Gaity was dragged from her prison, placed 
 on horseback, and, with Walter and Basil riding close to 
 her bridle-rein, the party set off to bear Gaity to her 
 future gloomy abode. Here the reader followed her at 
 the commencement of this veritable story. 
 
 When Gaity recovered from the swoon, into which it 
 will be remembered she had fallen, she found herself 
 alone. A few wet branches were smouldering in the 
 fire-place. A tallow candle flickered in fitful shadows 
 
104 GAITY. 
 
 # 
 
 upon the wall, rendering the darkness even more horrible. 
 The wind howled mournfully around, and the rain 
 still poured in torrents ; while, to add to the terrors of 
 the scene, a heavy peal of thunder now shook the 
 ruinous building to its foundation. 
 
 " Basil ! Walter ! " shrieked the poor girl. But there 
 was no answer. Her voice sounded strange in that lone 
 room. Again she called — still no answer. At last the 
 door slowly opened, and Crazy Nell, her form bent 
 nearly double, tottered into the room. With a sort of 
 half-dancing motion, she advanced to the bed, while 
 Gaity, affrighted, shrank to the wall. 
 
 " Did the little bird sing ? " cried the old woman, 
 fixing her glassy eye upon her. " What will the pretty 
 birdie have ? " 
 
 Reassured by the kindness of her tones, Gaity ex- 
 claimed, clasping her hands in entreaty : 
 
 "0, tell me where I am ? Where is Basil? Where 
 Walter?" ♦ 
 
 " Gone — gone — gone — the brothers are gone, 
 And the birdie is left in the cage all alone / " 
 
 sang, or rather screamed the hag. 
 
 " O, let me out quickly from this horrid place ! " 
 shrieked Gaity, now overcome with fear, springing from 
 the bed and rushing to the door. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed the old woman,, hobbling 
 
 after her, " fold your wings, pretty birdie ; 
 
 " Gone — gone — gone — the brothers are gone. 
 And the birdie is left in the cage all alone." 
 
 The wretched girl sank nearly senseless upon the 
 floor, and gave herself up to her misery. Crazy Nell 
 seemed somewhat moved by the heavy sobs which burst 
 
I 
 
 GAITY. 105 ^ 
 
 # 
 
 from her sorrowing heart, and, after watching her a few 
 moments with apparent wonder, she patted her gently on 
 the head, saying, " Poor bird — poor bird ! " and then, 
 hobbling away, seemed to busy herself in preparing 
 some refreshment for the exhausted girl. Her well- 
 meant kindness, however, was vain, and, after an attempt 
 to swallow the morsel of food the old woman placed 
 before her, with despair at her heart, Gaity threw herself 
 upon the wretched pallet. 
 
 At length sleep, that angel of peace, who in tender- 
 ness listens to the lamentations of the afflicted, took her 
 gently to her bosom, and she slept calmly until late the 
 following morning. When she awoke the sun was 
 shining brightly in ; hastily springing from the bed, she 
 flew to the window, and looked out upon the scene. 
 This window (and the only one) was boarded up, with 
 the exception of one solitary pane of glass, which was 
 directly over the deep ravine before-mentioned ; and the 
 stream, swollen by the late storm, now brawled furiously 
 over its rocky bed. On every side she was surrounded 
 by a deep forest. She attempted to open the window; 
 it was fastened ; she then tried the door — thai was also 
 secured. At that moment from some dark corner 
 emerged Nell, gibbering, and dancing as before. Throw- 
 ing herself at her feet, Gaity implored her to release her; 
 entreating her, while the tears rolled down her cheeks, 
 that she would suffer her to quit that abode of misery 
 and desolation ; but, although the old woman appeared 
 to comprehend, and even sympathize in her grief, she 
 only shook her head, saying: 
 
 " No, no, pretty birdie ! " and then, as if it might be a 
 means to frighten her from her wishes, added, in a voice 
 7 
 
^ 
 
 3' 
 
 106 GAITY. 
 
 % 
 
 of affected terror, pointing to the woods, " Indian in the 
 woods — take care / " 
 
 Gaity soon found all attempts at escape were im- 
 possible. What, then, was to be her lot? Was she 
 brought there to die ? No, it could not be ; her father 
 would relent ; she should be forgiven. Onowahoo, too — 
 yes, they should all be happy once more! Such were 
 the sunbeams which occasionally lit up the dark prison 
 of Gaity. . Alas, poor child ! 
 
 At the end of a week, Gaity one morning saw Basil 
 approach the house. Uttering a scream of joy, while 
 she beat the window with her little hand, she cried : 
 
 " O, Basil, dear brother, take me away ! Take me to 
 my mother ! Take me home — home — home ! " she 
 shrieked, louder and louder, as she saw him turn from 
 the house. 
 
 Yes, that cruel brother, after depositing a basket upon 
 the door-stone, walked rapidly away, without casting 
 even one look to where the pale despairing face of Gaity 
 was watching him ; and whose voice of agonizing en- 
 treaty reached his ears, even through the walls of her 
 prison. 
 
 He disappeared. Then hope forsook the heart of 
 Gaity ! 
 
 Every week either Basil or Walter would leave a 
 basket of the coarsest provisions at the door, never en- 
 tering the house, or bestowing either word or look upon 
 the unhappy sister. 
 
 The place at last was reported to be haunted. Shrieks, 
 groans, and horrid laughter were said to have been heard 
 issuing thence, by fishermen whom accident had led 
 thither. Some even went so far as to assert that those 
 
GAITY. ' 107 ^ 
 
 very witches, supposed to have been executed nearly a 
 century before, here assembled and held their midnight 
 orgies, in contempt of fire and faggots ! WhileJ^ others 
 it was believed a maniac was there confined in chains ! 
 
 At any rate, the island soon became deserted, no one , 
 caring to approach its shores after nightfall. 
 
 After leaving his daughter, as already described, Mr. 
 Trevor returned home ; but it was only to meet with a 
 new and more severe trial. He found his wife in the 
 agonies of death. She had been for some time gradually 
 sinking under that fatal disease so incident to our 
 climate — consumption ; and this sudden shock of her 
 darling child's elopement had caused the rupture of a 
 blood-vessel, and Mr. Trevor only arrived in time to 
 receive her last breath. 
 
 Great as was his grief at this sudden bereavement of 
 an amiable and beloved companion, it lessened not his 
 wrath against his disobedient child. On the contrary, 
 those feelings seemed only to be augmented, and again 
 and again he cursed her, as the destroyer of her mother ! 
 
 Edith was still in Boston. Who should break to her 
 these heavy tidings — a mother dead ! a sister banished ! 
 As soon, however, as the last sad rites were performed, 
 Mr. Trevor resolved to go himself and' bring Edith back 
 to her desolate home. Accordingly, the next week he 
 departed for Boston, and soon returned with his child, 
 now his only comfort. 
 
 Absorbed in grief at the death of her kind mother, and 
 at the uncertain fate of Gaity, Edith moved mournfully 
 around those walls once echoing with the merry laugh and 
 
108 • GAITY. 
 
 song, now so silent, so dreary, as if the shadows of the 
 tomb already darkened them. 
 
 W"ho Jkat has lost a near and dear friend by death but 
 has felt mat indescribable sickness of heart, which rends 
 the soul to agony, as they view those scenes once hallow- 
 ed by the presence of that loved form, whom now the 
 dark portals of the tomb enclose ! Scenes where the be- 
 loved one moved in health and gladness; the vacant 
 chair by the fireside, the seat left void around the family 
 board, the closed book, the favored flower, the thousand 
 nameless associations connected with those now lost and 
 gone ! Oh, does it not seem that the hand of death is 
 already tearing our heart-strings ; loosing our hold of this 
 world, so glorious in its grandeur and beauty, but where, 
 alas ! Death and sorrow stalk side by side, plucking the 
 choicest treasures from our garnered affections, and ruth- 
 lessly cutting down the lovely flpwers which adorn our 
 garden of happiness. 
 
 Pity, then, poor Edith ! 
 
 She mourned as an affectionate child, the death of a 
 kind mother, whom on earth she should see no more — 
 yet sainted, as she believed, in heaven. But not for her 
 did she weep those tears of bitterness ; not for her was 
 that silent grief gnawing at her heart ; no, it was for that 
 other ^ her only beloved sister, the discarded Gaity; cast 
 out in her youth and loveliness, an alien for ever from 
 her father's house ! 
 
 From neither her father nor brothers could Edith learn 
 any thing concerning her ; in vain she implored them to 
 tell her where the wretched girl might be ; on her knees 
 she begged to be allowed to go to her, but, with a frown, 
 and words, such as he had never before used to this 
 
GAITY. 109 
 
 gentle girl, Mr. Trevor forbade her ever again to mention 
 the name of her sister, or, on pain of his lasting dis- 
 pleasure, seek to know where she was. 
 
 Nothing daunted, however, from her purposejEdith re- 
 solved she would find her sister or perish in the attempt. 
 Feigning, therefore, the most perfect indifference as to the 
 fate of Gaity, (contradicted by her pale cheek and sunken 
 eye,) she no longer mentioned her name, but appeared to 
 giy^e all her atcention to the many household duties which 
 now devolved upon her. ^ 
 
 She soon noticed that, on a certain day of every week, 
 one of her brothers left the Grove and remained absent 
 during the day ; that no questions were ever asked, 
 either as to where they had been or of the business which 
 had called them thence. She was sure their absence 
 was in some way connected with her ill-fated sister, and 
 she resolved, difficult as it might prove, to follow them. 
 For that purpose, she obtained permission of her father to 
 pass the day with a young friend residing about a mile 
 from the Grove. This was the day she knew one of 
 her brothers would be absent. Instead, therefore, of go- 
 ing to her friend's, she hastened to the cottage of one of 
 her father's tenants, whom she knew to be strongly 
 attached to herself and Gaity. To him she unfolded 
 her plan, and found in honest Jacques a faithful assist- 
 ant. 
 
 As soon as Walter passed the cottage, Edith, disguised 
 in a large cloak and bonnet, mounted behind the old man, 
 and started in pursuit ; keeping, however, as far behind 
 as was practicable. The same dreary road was passed 
 over with which the reader is already acquainted. Wal- 
 ter fastened his horse as before, while Edith and her 
 
110 ^, GAITY. 
 
 companion, passing behind the shelter of some large 
 rocks, watched his proceedings, the noise of their 
 horses' feet being happily drowned by the roaring of the 
 surf, flp 
 
 Walter unmoored the boat, and put off in the direction 
 of Fisher's Island. It was if^ere, then that the unfortu- 
 nate girl was a prisoner. It was, however impossible for 
 them to proceed further ; Ihey, therefore, returned with 
 all speed. 
 
 Happy that her plan had so far proved successful, Edith 
 determined, that, if possible, not another day should pass 
 without renewing the search, and confident that her 
 sister was on the island, she retired that night to rest, 
 with the blissful anticipation that on the moriow she 
 should fold her beloved Gaity to her bosom. 
 
 Again she asked permission for a day's absence, and 
 her father, delighted to find her once more evincing a 
 disposition to mingle in society, gladly consented. 
 
 With the faithful Jacques, Edith was soon traveling 
 the route of the preceding day. Arriving at the beach, 
 they found the boat concealed among the rocks. It was 
 soon launched, and trembling with anxiety for the result, 
 filled with evil forebodings, Edith seated herself by the 
 side of Jacques, and they were soon rapidly nearing the 
 Island. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was now May. The long, dreary winter had passed ; 
 once more the trees put forth their leaves ; gaily the birds 
 warbled amid their branches, filling the air around with 
 
GAITY. ^ 111 
 
 their sweet melody. The beautiful flowers, too, sprung 
 up with the bright green grass, and all nature rejoiced in 
 the glad presence of spring. 
 
 But alas ! there was no spring in the heart %the poor 
 forsaken Gaity. Her slender form had wasted away un- 
 til it seemed too frail to support its lovely burthen ; her 
 cheeks were sunken and colorless as marble ; her beauti- 
 ful hair had lost its brightrifegs, save where the silver 
 thread already gleamed unnaturally among the tresses of 
 the doomed girl. Her eye, too, now shone with a strange 
 and terrible brilliancy. 
 
 Whether it was the mental suffering she ever endured 
 for her wretched lot, uncertainty as to the fate of her lov- 
 er, the reflection, too, that she was an outcast from her 
 family, with a parent's curse ever ringing in her ears ; 
 whether it was this, or the constant companionship of that 
 most hideous old crone whom her father had placed about 
 her, which harrowed her soul to madness, is difficult to 
 determine — but the fatal reality was accomplished — 
 Gaity was a maniac ! 
 
 Much physical suffering, too, had the poor girl en- 
 dured. Compelled by hunger to eat food from which 
 her father's menials would have turned away in scorn ; 
 at times almost perishing with cold, and shut out from 
 that pure air where, like a bird, she had ever roved in 
 freedom ; alas ! it is no wonder that Reason forsook her 
 throne. 
 
 For hours now would the poor girl pace with rapid 
 steps around the walls of her prison ; shrieking wildly, 
 and calling, with the most piteous lamentations, on her 
 father — on Onowahoo to release her. Again, with wild 
 dance and song, she would exhaust her feeble strength. 
 
112 ^ GAITY. 
 
 Sometimes she would fancy herself again flying with 
 Onowahoo from her father's roof; or that she was list- 
 ening to that heavy curse ; for on her knees, while she 
 would be^ her breast and weep, she would pray her fa- 
 ther not to curse her. It was not always thus ; there 
 were times when, for a few hours, Reason resumed her 
 empire ; yet who can tell whether the mental struggles 
 she then endured were not more dreadful than even the 
 raving paroxysms of insanity ! 
 
 It was during one of these lucid intervals that Gaity 
 one morning saw two persons approaching the house, 
 and one a female. With what eagerness she watched 
 them ! as they drew near her heart throbbed tumultu- 
 ously ! 
 
 " Edith ! Edith J** she shrieked, as she recognized the 
 light step of her sister. 
 
 Edith eagerly raised her head to that solitary window, 
 revealing the spectral face of Gaity, glued, as it were, to 
 the glass. With a joyful wave of the hand, and a cry 
 of delight, Edith now flew to the door. It yielded not. She 
 knocked ; again and again, and shook the latch convul- 
 sively. No answer was given, but she could hear the 
 sobs and prayers of Gaity, beseeching some one to unbar 
 the door. The sturdy Jacques, however, waited for no 
 permission, but, seizing a billet of wood, he soon beat in 
 the boarded casement, and springing through the open- 
 ing, he drew Edith carefully within. The next moment 
 Gaity had fainted on the bosom of her sister ! 
 
 It were a vain attempt to describe the feelings of Edith, 
 at the situation in which she found her sister. 
 
 " father, cruel father, is it you have done this ?" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
GAITY. 113 
 
 ■ 
 
 Pressing the insensible form to her breast, she kissea 
 that pale, altered face, while tears of pity and indignation 
 streamed down her cheeks. 
 
 At last, with a low moan, Gaity opened he^^eyes, and 
 fixed them upon her sister. 
 
 " Gaity, dear Gaity, have I found you at last !" sobbed 
 Edith. 
 
 " Who calls Gaity ?" she i^lied, springing from the 
 arms of her sister, her eyes fl^hing with insanity. " Who 
 calls Gaity ? Gaity is dead. They buried her with 
 Onowahoo under the dry leaves. Ha — ha — ha ! You 
 are late to the bridal." Then, advancing on tip-toe to 
 Edith, she said — " Come, I am ready ! Hush ! tread 
 softly ! Don't awaken mother , she sleeps. There, now 
 row quickly ! See ! the Sloe-blossom will gladden the 
 lodge of Onowahoo !" 
 
 She then seized the hand of Edith, and hurried her 
 up the creaking stairs. 
 
 " Here is another birdie, Nell," she cried in evident 
 delight. " Ha — ha — ha ! She is caged too .'" 
 
 " Oh, my God, this is indeed terrible ! Gaity, dearest 
 Gaity, don't you know me ?" cried Edith ; " have you 
 forgotten me !" 
 
 But Gaity made no answer ; apparently, her mind now 
 wandered to the scene of her capture, for, with a horrible 
 shriek, she now called on Walter for mercy. 
 
 " Bind me — bind me — but, ! Walter, take off that 
 chain from him — from Onowahoo. Have you no mercy ? 
 No— no— no !" 
 
 In this manner her ravings continued for more than an 
 hour, when at length, perfectly exhausted, she sobbed her- 
 self to sleep in the arms of Edith, who, as she became 
 
\ 
 
 11^ % , GAITY. 
 
 more quiet, had folded her to her bosom, and wept over 
 her in agony. 
 
 She now endeavored to obtain some information from 
 the miserable old woman ; but it was in vain. Apparently 
 alarmed at the sight of Edith, she had crouched down in 
 a corner, and to all her questions only answered : 
 
 " Go away — go away^^^ 
 
 Long did the heart-sti^Bti Edith watch by the side of 
 the poor manaic, and the "shades of night were already 
 falling when the sufferer opened her eyes. 
 
 The fit had passed off, and Gaity, now bursting into 
 tears, threw her arms around the neck of Edith, murmur- 
 ing, in a low, tremulous voice : 
 
 " It is no dream, then, dearest Edith ? You have come 
 to take me away ? You will carry me to my mother ? 
 (Alas, she knew not that dear mother was dead !) " Dear 
 Edith, take me home .'" 
 
 " Yes, dearest Gaity, you shall go home, but not to- 
 night. Tomorrow, dearest, I will come for you." 
 
 " To-night, to-night," interrupted Gaity, " let me 
 go to-night. Do not leave me again," she cried, clinging 
 tightly around her. " O no, let us go — now — this mo- 
 ment !" 
 
 Edith, at length succeeded in calming the agitation of 
 Gaity, and, after assuring her that the next day sh§ would 
 return, and that she should go with her to her own dear 
 home, she tore herself away from her embraces, and with 
 a bleeding heart left the island. 
 
 On reaching home, Edith went immediately to her 
 father's room, where he usually spent his evenings 
 alone. 
 
GAITY. * 115 
 
 Concealment was vain. Throwing herself into his 
 arms, she cried : 
 
 " Forgive me, father, but I have seen her — I have seen 
 Gaity !" 
 
 Speechless with astonishment, Mr. Trevor gazed 
 into the pale face of Edith, now bathed in tears, who, 
 sinking on her knees and clampi ng his hand in hers, con- 
 tinued : Ijj^B 
 
 " 0, father, father, forgivener ! I conjure you, by the 
 memory of my own dear mother, whose name I bear, and 
 of that kind and gentle being who now looks down from 
 heaven upon the sufferings of her child ; 0, I beseech 
 you to forgive her. She is dying, father — yes, Gaity is 
 dying! Father she. is a manaic ! O, bring her home, 
 she can no more offend ; bless her and forgive her, ere 
 she dies. 0, father, bring her home, or let me go and 
 die with her !" 
 
 The heart of Mr. Trevor was melted ; he folded his 
 child to his breast, mingling his tears with hers. 
 Edith again urged her suit, and related every circum- 
 stance of her visit to her sister, only interrupted by the 
 heavy groans which now burst from the bosom of the re- 
 pentant father. 
 
 " Your brothers have deceived me," he said ; " they 
 have ^Iways assured me the poor child was well, and 
 that in all their conversations with her she had never 
 manifested any repentance for her misconduct." 
 
 "Alas ! father," interrupted Edith, " they have never 
 seen her — have never spoken with her !" 
 
 Basil and Walter were immediately summoned, and 
 after vainly attempting to equivocate, at length confessed 
 the part they had acted. 
 
116 GAITT. 
 
 " Out upon you !" exclaimed the miserable father. 
 " What ! are you human ? Did I not entrust that wretch- 
 ed girl to your charge, bidding you treat her with 
 kindness ? Inhuman brothers ! you have murdered your 
 sister /" 
 
 There was no sleep at the Grove that night, and ere 
 the dawn of day, Mr. Trevor, accompanied by Edith and 
 Jacques, had set out for tlie island. 
 
 Swiftly now was the boat propelled to the shore, and 
 with rapid step Edith flew along the path conducting to 
 the lone abode of Gaity, followed by her father, trembling 
 with agitation at the thought of so soon meeting the vic- 
 tim of his pride. As they approached the house, Edith 
 looked up at the window where she had before seen the 
 pale face of Gaity. She was not there. They entered 
 the house — the silence of the grave rested upon it. Edith 
 now rushed up the ruined staircase. The room was 
 empty. In vain she called her beloved sister — echo 
 alone replied. Filled with apprehension they now left 
 the house and entered the forest, calling distractedly up- 
 on the name of Gaity. For some time their search 
 proved fruitless, when, suddenly, the faint sound of a 
 voice reached their ears. Hastening eagerly in the di- 
 rection from which it proceeded, Edith soon distinguished 
 the tones of Nell, as if in entreaty, saying: 
 
 " Come home, pretty bird ; come home, birdie !" 
 
 Gently now, lest she might alarm her sister, Edith ad- 
 vanced. Seated on the ground, her head reclining against 
 a tree, was Gaity. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep, 
 while a sweet smile rested on her lips. Wreathed amid 
 her long hair, which fell around her as a pall, was a 
 
GAITY. 117 
 
 garland of wild-flowers, and her lap was full of these 
 frail blossoms, just as in happy days of childhood she 
 had plaited and woven them into garlands. One arm 
 hung listless at her side ; the other lay across her lap, 
 the long slender fingers still grasping the flowers. Over 
 her bent the old woman, as if trying to awaken her. 
 
 " Gaity, dear Gaily, we have come," cried Edith, 
 springing to her side — but tlfCTe was no answer. 
 
 She was dead I 
 
 Oh the agony of that moment ! The grief and des- 
 traction of the faithful sister ! The horror and remorse 
 of the father ! repenting, now too late — the victim was 
 far beyond his cruelty or his kindness ! 
 
 From what incoherent words they could gather from 
 the old woman, it appeared that Gaity had stolen out 
 early that morning through the broken casement left by 
 Jacques. When the poor girl found herself once more 
 inhaling the pure air of heaven, with her foot again press- 
 ed on the green-sward in freedom, she screamed with 
 delight. Like a bird, she flew from spot to spot, singing 
 the songs she used to warble in childhood, clapping her 
 hands in ecstasy, and stooping to gather the wild flowers 
 which sprung up in her path. In this manner she reach- 
 ed the forest; and now the image of Onowahoo was 
 brought, by association, to her v/andering mind. With 
 child-like glee she called him to her, and then, as if car- 
 ried back to those scenes where so much of her early 
 life had been spent, she laughed and chatted as though 
 the companion of her youthful sport was even now at her 
 side. After awhile she appeared to weary, and, calling 
 Onowahoo to sit beside her, she threw herself under a 
 
118 GAITY. 
 
 tree, and for some time, laughing and singing by turns, 
 amused herself in entwining the wild flowers she had 
 gathered amid her hair. 
 
 Death came now in mercy, disarmed of all his terrors. 
 Gently he laid his hand upon her innocent brow, and she 
 sank into his arms as a tired child on the breast of its 
 mother, happy in the delud^ that her lover was at her 
 side ; and that the trees, tSrbirds, and the flowers were 
 the same that had surrounded her in infancy. 
 
 Her remains were borne from the island, and placed at 
 the feet of her mother. The flowers she had loved so 
 well sprung up around her grave, nourished by the tears 
 of her mourning sister, who daily visited the spot where, 
 released from all suffering her beloved Gaity reposed. 
 
 Nearly a year had passed since the death of the ill- 
 fated Gaity, when, one morning, Edith as usual bent 
 her steps to the spot so sacred to her affections. She 
 started, as she drew near, to perceive some person al- 
 ready there, kneeling by the grave of Gaity ! She softly 
 advanced — 
 
 " Onowahoo !" she exclaimed, springing to his side. 
 
 He raised his head slowly, revealing indeed the fea- 
 tures of Onowahoo, but so worn with care and suffering 
 that it was almost impossible for another than Edith to 
 have recognized him. 
 
 *' The Sloe-blossom sleeps," said he, in a low, musical 
 tone ; " she hears not the voice of Onowahoo !" 
 
 " She is in heaven," replied Edith ; " she hears you 
 there." 
 
 The Indian raised his head, and looking upward, as if 
 
GAITY. 119 
 
 he really saw the angel form of Gaity bending over him, 
 remained for a few moments silent, then turning to Edith, 
 he said : 
 
 " Onowahoo departs for ever. He has seen the spot 
 where the Sloe-blossom lies withered, and the heart of 
 Onowahoo is crushed beneath." 
 
 Stooping and plucking a violet from the grave, he was 
 about to depart, when, with all the kind sympathy of a 
 woman's heart, Edith took from her neck a little chain, 
 woven from the hair of Gaity, and, placing it in his hand, 
 said : 
 
 " The tress of the Sloe-blossom wmII bind the wounds of 
 Onowahoo." 
 
 He made no reply, but, pressing the chain to his lips, 
 waved his hand to Edith, and turned into the path which 
 led to the forest. 
 
 Mr. Trevor never recovered from the shock sustained 
 by the death of Gaity, and lived out the remainder of his 
 days a prey to remorse and wretchedness. 
 
 To such as may be interested in the fate of Edith, it 
 may give pleasure to learn that she afterwards became the 
 wife of one who held a high office under Washington, 
 and who distinguished himself nobly in the war of the 
 revolution, and that the devoted sister was recompensed, 
 by many years of happiness, for the sorrows she had en- 
 dured in early life. 
 
 Walter and Basil Trevor, although they openly espous- 
 ed the cause of the Americans in the great struggle for 
 liberty, were detected in several nefarious transactions 
 
120 GAITY. 
 
 with the British fleet, which for some time lay off and 
 on the harbor of Stonington. Held up to the scorn 
 of their own countrymen, they were compelled to join the 
 British, and soon met the death they merited. 
 
THE POET Li. 121 
 
 THE POET hi. 
 
 A FRAGMENT FROM THE CHINESE. 
 
 Do not draw npon you a person's enmity, for enmity is never ap- 
 peased — injury returns upon him who injures — and sharp words recoil 
 against him who says them. — Chinese Proverb. 
 
 On the green and flowery banks of the beautiful Lake 
 Tai-hoo, whose surface bears a thousand isles, resting 
 like emeralds amid translucent pearl, dwelt Whanki the 
 mother of Li. The mother of Li ! Ah, happy distinc- 
 tion — ah, envied title ! For where, far or near, was the 
 name could rank with Li on the scroll of learning — re- 
 ceiving even in childhood the title of the " Exiled Im- 
 mortal," from his skill in classic and historical lore ! 
 
 Moreover, he was of a most beautiful countenance, 
 while the antelope that fed among the hills was not 
 more swift of foot. Who like Li could draw such music 
 from the seven silken strings of the Kin ! or when with 
 graceful touch his fingers swept the lute, adding thereto 
 the well-skilled melody of his voice, youths and maidens 
 opened their ears to listen, for wonderful was the ravish- 
 ing harmony. 
 
 Yet although the gods of learning smiled upon this 
 youthful disciple of Confucius, poverty came also with 
 her iron hand, and although she could not crush the ac- 
 tive mind of Li, with a strong grip, she held him back 
 8 
 
122 THE POET Li. 
 
 from testing his skill with the ambitious literati, both old 
 and young, who annually flock to the capital to present 
 their themes before the examiners. For even in those 
 days as the present, money was required to purchase the 
 smiles of these severe judges. They must read with 
 golden spectacles — or wo to the unhappy youth who, 
 buoyant with hope and — empty pockets, comes before 
 them ! With what contempt is his essay cast aside, not 
 worth the reading ! 
 
 Sorely vexed, therefore, was poor Li — and what won- 
 der — to know that he might safely cope with any candi- 
 date in the " Scientific Halls," yet dare not for the lack 
 of sycee (silver) enter their gates, lest disgrace might fall 
 upon him. 
 
 Yet Li was of a merry heart — and, as all the world 
 knows, there is no better panacea for the ills of fortune 
 than the spirit of cheerfulness. Thus, although poverty 
 barred the way to promotion, it could not materially affect 
 his happiness — no more than the passing wind which for 
 a moment ruffled the surface of the lake, yet had no 
 power to move its depths. 
 
 Now it happened that one day taking his nets Li went 
 down to the lake, and as he cast them within the waters, 
 not knowing any one was near, he broke forth into a 
 merry song, which sent its glad burthen far off to the lips 
 of mocking Echo, like Ariel, seeming to "ride on the 
 curled clouds." Now it also chanced, that within a grove 
 of the graceful bamboo, which skirted the path down 
 which Li had passed on his way, walked the great Man- 
 darin Hok-wan. 
 
 " Hi ! by the head of Confucius the fellow sings well !" 
 he exclaimed, as the song met his ear, (for, as we have 
 
THE POET Li. 123 
 
 said, Li had a voice of rare melody,) and forthwith issu- 
 ing from his concealment, Hok-wan seated himself upon 
 the bank and entered into conversation with the young- 
 fisherman. 
 
 If the mere melody of the voice had so charmed the 
 mandarin, how much more was he captivated by the wit 
 and learning of the youth, who, thus poorly appareled, 
 and humbly employed, seemed to share wisdom with the 
 gods ! Hok-wan stroked his eye-brows in astonishment, 
 and then bidding Li leave his nets, he bore him off as a 
 rare prize to his own house, where he that day feasted a 
 numerous company. 
 
 First conducting Li to an inner apartment, he present- 
 ed him with a magnificent robe richly embroidered, to- 
 gether with every article necessary to complete the toilet 
 of a person of distinction, and when thus appareled, in- 
 troduced him into the presence of his guests. And truly 
 Li walked in among them with all the stateliness and 
 hauteur of a man who feels that he is conferring an hon- 
 or instead of being honored, as no doubt Li should have 
 considered himself, in such an august assemblage of 
 grave mandarins. With what an air he seated himself 
 at the sumptuously loaded table ! where, according to 
 Chinese custom of the higher classes, the various dishes 
 of meats, soups, fish, preserves, etc., were all nearly hid- 
 den by large bouquets of beautiful flowers, and pyramids 
 of green leaves. 
 
 And now no sooner had Hok-wan delivered with all 
 customary formality the speech of welcome, and drained 
 to the health of his guests the tiny goblet of crystal, em- 
 bossed with gold, than rising to his feet, and joining his 
 hands before his breast, in token of respect to his host, 
 
124 THE POET Li. 
 
 Li called a servant, and bidding him take a part from all 
 the good things spread before him, said : 
 
 " Carry these to the dwelling of Whanki, the mother 
 of Li. Say to her that as the sands on the lake shore, 
 countless are the blessings of the gods, who have this 
 day smiled upon her son. Bid her eat — for although 
 from hunger he should gnaw his flesh, and from thirst 
 drink his blood, yet not one morsel of this banquet shall 
 pass the lips of Li unless his aged mother be also sus- 
 tained by the same delicacies." 
 
 At hearing which, all the mandarins, and Hok-wan 
 himself, loudly expressed their admiration. Such is the 
 esteem which the Chinese entertain for filial piety. 
 
 This duty discharged, Li attacked the dainties before 
 him like a hungry soldier, yet seasoning all he said and 
 did with so much wit and humor, that the guests laid 
 down their chop-sticks and listened with wonder. With 
 the wine, Li grew still more merry — his wit cut like hail- 
 stones wheresoe'er it lighted, and at his jovial songs the 
 grave dignitaries forgetting their rank, (somewhat washed 
 away by copious draughts of sam-shu,^) snapped their 
 fingers, wagged their shorn heads, and even rising from 
 the table embraced him familiarly. At length, when af- 
 ter an interval of a few hours their hilarity was some- 
 what abated, during which the guests walked in the 
 beautiful gardens, or reclining upon luxuriant cushions, 
 regaled themselves with their pipes, or in masticating 
 their favorite betel-nut, Li made bare his bosom before 
 them, and to their astonishment they found it was only 
 a needy scholar whose praises they had been shouting. 
 
 * A deleterious liquor distilled from rice. 
 
THE POET Li. 125 
 
 A needy scholar ! 
 
 How firmly they clutched their fobs, lest a canda- 
 reen^ might jump into the pocket of the needy scholar. 
 But of advice they were as profuse as grasshoppers in 
 August. 
 
 " Go to the capital — go to Kiang-fu" (Nankin the an- 
 cient capital of the empire,) " thou wilt perplex the learned 
 — thou wilt bewilder the ignorant !" said one. 
 
 ^^Hi ! this fellow Li will yet stand with honor before 
 the emperor," cried another. 
 
 " Appear boldly in the ' Scientific Halls' before the 
 Examiners," said a third, " and never fear but thy name 
 shall be cried at midnight from the highest tower in the 
 city,t as the successful Li with whom no other candi- 
 date can compete !" 
 
 " When the wind blows over the field does not the 
 grass bend before it !" said Hok-wan. " When the great 
 Ho speaks will not inferiors obey ! the learned academi- 
 cian Ho is my brother — ^to him then you shall go — one 
 word from him, and even the judges themselves shall cry 
 your name." 
 
 " Ivory does not come from a rat's mouth, nor gold 
 from brass clippings," thought Li, as he listened to these 
 remarks — " a few candareens now would be better for 
 me than all this fine talk — truly I must be a fool not to 
 know all this stuff before. Yet by the sacred manes of 
 my ancestors, I will go to the capital, and that, too, ere 
 another sun ripens the rice-fields — furnished with a letter 
 to the illustrious Ho, I may dare admittance." 
 
 * A Chinese coin. 
 
 t The custom of announcing the name of the successful candidates 
 at the examination. 
 
126 THE POET Li. 
 
 Giddy with wine, and with the excitement of high 
 hopes for the future, at a late hour Li was borne in a 
 sumptuous palankeen to the humble dwelling of Whanki. 
 
 The poor old soul at first knew not the gay gallant 
 who stood before her, so much had the gift-robes of the 
 mandarin changed his appearance. 
 
 " Heigh-yah ! but, Li, thou art as fine as a magpie," 
 quoth she, raising her head from the pan of charcoal, 
 over which she seemed to be simmering something in a 
 small dish — " Heigh — and now I look at you again, I see 
 you have drank of that cursed sam-sku — forever abhorred 
 be the name of I-tih !^ With all thy wit dost thou not 
 know the wise saying of Mencius — ^Like a crane among 
 hens is a man of parts among fools /' (It may be in- 
 ferred, I think, that the good old Whanki was something 
 of a scold.) And while thou hast been guzzling, see 
 what I have prepared for thee — what had I to do with 
 birds-nest soup, and with shark's fins, and with pigeon's 
 eggs from the table of Hok-wan ! My poor Li will be 
 too modest to eat with the great company, I said to my- 
 self, and I will not eat them, but warm them up to com- 
 fort him when he comes back — look, here they are," 
 (lifting the dish from the fire) " and yet thou comesthome 
 like a well-fed, stupid swine !" 
 
 " Now tush, mother," answered Li, " if thy son 
 has been drinking with fools, they wore fine feathers — 
 and now embrace me, for I am going to the capital." 
 
 " Li, thou art drunk — go to bed — the capital in- 
 deed ! Ah, cursed, cursed I-tih ! " exclaimed the old 
 woman. 
 
 But when at length Li convinced her that he was 
 
 * The god of intoxicating liquors. 
 
THE POET hi. 127 
 
 neither drunk nor crazy, but in reality about to start for 
 Nankin, as a candidate for honors in the Scientific Halls, 
 and with a letter to the great Ho in his pouch, Whanki 
 knocked her head reverently before the shrine of the 
 household gods in token of gratitude. 
 
 The remainder of the night was passed in preparations 
 for the journey, and just as the golden ripples of the lake 
 danced in the rays of the rising sun, Li tenderly embrac- 
 ed his aged parent, and set forth on foot for Nankin, more 
 than a hundred miles distant. 
 
 " Ah, the blessed bug," quoth the old woman, gazing 
 after him so long as she could catch a glimpse of his large 
 bamboo hat, " he will n6t want for rice any day — no sycee 
 has he in his pockets, but such a tongue in his head, as 
 will bring him food and honors." 
 
 Whanki was right. In every hamlet he passed through* 
 — in every cottage by the wayside, Li found a shelter 
 and a welcome — the good people considering themselves 
 amply repaid for their hospitality if the young stranger 
 would but touch the strings of the pipa, or recite to them 
 odes from the Shoo-king. 
 
 In this manner he reached the capital, and crossing the 
 marble bridge over the great canal, upon the eastern side, 
 entered the city at the Gate of Extensive Peace. Going 
 into the first barber's shop which offered, Li carefully 
 plucked out his beard, (hear this, ye exquisites of modern 
 days !) shaved his head anew to the crown, and platted 
 his long black hair with red ribbons. Then entering an 
 adjoining tavern, he exchanged his dusty, travel-worn 
 garments for the rich dress presented him by Hok-wan, 
 which he had preserved with great care for the occasion, 
 and holding up his fan, to shield his eyes from the sun. 
 
128 THE POET Li. 
 
 stepped forth into the busy streets, to look for the dwell- 
 ing of the illustrious Ho. 
 
 And next, within the Hall of Ceremony, in the elegant 
 mansion of Ho, behold Li in the presence of the great 
 man himself — for with the same audacity which marked 
 his behavior at the dinner of Hok-wan, had Li given the 
 door-keeper a vermilion card, leading Ho to expect a 
 visitor of rank. Advancing three steps to meet him. Ho 
 bows low to his stranger guest — then with graceful ease 
 Li also advances three steps, and bows still lower — Ho 
 again gravely steps forward and makes another saluta- 
 tion — upon which Li again does the same — with a still 
 lower bending of the body, Ho once more advances — 
 "whereupon Li, nearly touching the marble pavements 
 with his forehead, steps forward yet another three steps ! 
 By this time their united and solemn paces had brought 
 them near the couch upon which visitors are expected to 
 repose themselves. And here again the same formali- 
 ties were gone through with, as to who should first be 
 seated thereon. But 3ezw^ seated, Li at once burst forth, 
 with such a flow of wit and fancy, that Ho was completely 
 captivated ere he knew the name or business of the dar- 
 ing youth ! 
 
 Now this was a capital stroke of Li. For the academi- 
 cian cared not so much for any dignitary under the Em- 
 peror Supreme, as he did for a man of learning, or even 
 for one who could tickle the moments as they flew with 
 witty jests, provoking laughter. Ho saw at once that Li 
 not only possessed this recommendation, but that his 
 knowledge could also ring on as many topics as there 
 were bells to the Porcelain Tower. When, therefore, he 
 had perused the letter of Hok-wan, which, after securing 
 
THE POET Li. 129 
 
 his ground, Li put into his hand, and after having listen- 
 ed to the history which the youth gave of his hard strug- 
 gles, of his poverty, and earnest desire to come before 
 the judges on the day of examination, than Ho, embracing 
 him, bade him be of good cheer. 
 
 " Now, by the sacred Budha!" he exclaimed, " learn- 
 ing like thine shall win its crown without the aid of pro- 
 pitiatory gifts, save to the gods themselves. Know, O 
 Li, that Yang and Kau, who enjoy the smiles of the great 
 emperor, are this year the examiners. To them shalt 
 thou go, with no favor but my name — humble as it is, it 
 shall cause thine to be enrolled among the literati of the 
 Imperial Academy. 
 
 No doubt Ho manifested great vanity in this, in so 
 much as hinting that his " humble'^ name could balance 
 with gold in the scales of avarice ! Nevertheless 
 Li was delighted, and immediately set about piling up 
 such a cloud castle as spread over his whole heaven of 
 glory. 
 
 And now the day of examination approached, and 
 
 confident of success, Li boldly presented himself for ad- 
 mission. 
 
 Offering the memorial of Ho, which was to insure him, 
 as he supposed, the favor of the judges, he was much 
 surprised to see those great men, Yang and Kau, after 
 turning over the missive with elevated noses, expressive 
 of their contempt, cast it from them with scorn. 
 
 " Heigh ! the academician Ho thinks to cheat us with 
 bubbles ! He sends us a scrawl devoid of meaning, 
 to bespeak our favor for an upstart without degree or 
 title ! Yes — we will remember the name of Li /" Saying 
 which they cast looks of bitter disdain upon the needy 
 scholar. ^ 
 
130 THE POET Li. 
 
 Then commenced the tedious formula of the examina- 
 tion. The candidates, hundreds in number, were all 
 obliged to undergo the strict search of the officers in at- 
 tendance. Their robes, pockets, shoes, and even their 
 nicely platted queues were examined, to see they had not 
 secreted some essay or composition of some kind, which 
 they might substitute for one written on the spot without 
 preparation, when the examiners should command them. 
 This done, they were all seated on long benches with 
 their paper and pencils ready for the trial — the doors 
 and windows in the meanwhile being closely barred 
 and guarded, that no one from without should have the 
 power of smuggling any written paper into the hands of 
 the students. 
 
 At a signal gun the theme for composition was given 
 out, and like the velvet feet of butterflies, the pencils of 
 the rival candidates glided smoothly and fleetly over the 
 tinted paper. With perfect composure and ease, Li wrote 
 off* his essay in the most beautiful characters, without 
 a single erasure or omission — handling the subject with 
 great skill and judgment, and gave it into the hands of 
 Yang. 
 
 " Heigh /" said Yang, without giving himself even 
 the trouble to glance over it, but drawing his pencil deri- 
 sively over the fair and beautiful characters, " I remember 
 the name of Li ! What stuff' is here — why the fellow is 
 only fit to grind my ink !" 
 
 " To grind your ink !" quoth Kau, " say rather he is 
 only fit to lace my buskins !" 
 
 And laughing loudly at their own wit, the great judges 
 Yang and Kau turned their backs upon the unfortunate 
 Li. 
 
THE POET Li. 131 
 
 Overwhelmed with mortification and rage, he rushed 
 to the lower end of the hall, and there was obliged to 
 remain until evening, as not until then could the doors 
 be thrown open to give egress to any one. Here he had 
 the vexation of listening to the jibes and sneers of those 
 around him, and of seeing others promoted to honors, 
 who were as far inferior to him as owls to eagles ! What 
 a bitter day for poor Li ! and when at length dismissed 
 with renewed contumely from the Scientific Hall, he 
 rushed into the presence of Ho, swearing loudly that he 
 would one day ride over the necks of the proud Yang 
 and Kau, " and by the head of Confucius when I do — 
 Yang shall grind my ink, and Kau lace up my buskins!" 
 he cried with bitterness. 
 
 Ho was terribly indignant at the treatment of his prO' 
 tege, as well as incensed for the insult he imagined his 
 own dignity had received. But, although he was him- 
 self high in favor with the emperor, Yang and Kau stood 
 still higher, therefore he dissembled his anger, lest his 
 head might pay the forfeit, should those two powerful 
 courtiers incense the emperor against him. 
 
 When he found Li preparing to return home, he em- 
 braced him kindly, and bade him tarry yet another year 
 in the capital. 
 
 " In the end thou wilt surely succeed, Li. The 
 next year the examiners will not be the same, and thou 
 may'st then be certain of success," said Ho. " Remain 
 with me until the time comes round — thy days and nights 
 shall roll oflf bright and rosy as morning clouds — wine, 
 wit, and music, yes, and the smiles of women, shall make 
 thee forget the insults thou hast received." 
 
 But Li remembered his aged mother, sitting solitary in 
 
132 THE POET Li. 
 
 her humble home by the side of the lake, and his resolu- 
 tion strengthened. 
 
 " Know, Ho, that an old mother waits for Li afar 
 off. Summer and harvest will come, but Whankihasno 
 one to sow her rice, and desolation will sit in her dwelling. 
 The fish sport and gambol amid the waters of the lake — 
 Whanki has no strength to draw them forth, therefore 
 hunger and death will await her ! What profit, wise 
 Ho, should I gain if my aged parent suffered ! Would 
 not the gods curse the race of Li !" 
 
 " Noble youth, take this purse — it is heavy," exclaimed 
 Ho — "hasten to relieve the necessities of thy mother — a 
 happy mother in so dutiful a son — then return without 
 delay and await the examination. I promise thee, thou 
 shalt not this time lack a present for the greedy judges — 
 though by Budha, I would like to give it them at the 
 dagger's point !" 
 
 Accordingly Li bade farewell to his generous friend, 
 promising to return as speedily as possible. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 A man who has a tongfue may go to Eome. — Chinese Proverb. 
 
 Within the " Tranquil Palace of Heaven," Hwant-sung 
 sat upon the Dragon's Throne, with all his court pros- 
 trate before him. 
 
 There was evidently " something rotten in the state 
 of Denmark," for the clouds which vailed the august fea- 
 tures of the Celestial Monarch were black as night — 
 thunder might soon be expected, and low in the dust his 
 
THE POET Li. 133 
 
 humble courtiers awaited the outpouring of his terrible 
 wrath. 
 
 Before his footstool knelt the Premier Yang, bearing 
 in his hand an official document inscribed with curious 
 hieroglyphics. 
 
 " By my ancestors," exclaimed the emperor, with a 
 wrathful look from one to the other of his trembling cour- 
 tiers, *'a wise court is sustained by the bounty of Hwant- 
 sung ! say rather a pack of idiots, asses, dolts, fatted 
 dogs ! What ! shall we become a jibe in the mouths of 
 foreign nations ! Shall barbarian kings mock the court 
 of Nankin ! Hi ! Is there not one then of my learned 
 counselors — not one of my renowned warriors can deci- 
 pher me this scroll ! Tremble, then, ye hounds ! Yang, 
 I command thee to make known to us the purport of the 
 missive which the foreign ambassadors have brought to 
 our court." 
 
 At this order well might Yang turn pale — for there 
 was no more meaning to him in the characters on which 
 his eyes were fixed, than in the slimy trail which the 
 green lizard draws upon the sand. Over and over he 
 turned it — now on this side, now on that — watched nar- 
 rowly and jealously meanwhile by all around — for when 
 was one high in favor with princes also the favorite with 
 the mass ! At length, nine times reverently knocking his 
 head before Hwant-sung, Yang said : 
 
 " Let not the displeasure of Earth's Glory, before whose 
 frown the whole world stands affrighted, annihilate his 
 slave that the gods have not granted him power to do the 
 will of his majesty in this thing. He cannot read." 
 
 Then did Hwant-sung call up one after another of those 
 whose scholastic lore was famed throughout the empire. 
 
134 THE POET Li. 
 
 In vain. Not one could understand the mysterious scroll. 
 At which becoming exceeding wroth, H want-sung swore 
 that unless within three days his ministers could make 
 known to him the signification of the embassy, their offi- 
 ces and salaries should all be taken from them — and if 
 in six days they were still in ignorance, their death 
 should release the empire from so many stupid owls ! 
 
 Then did the academician Ho humbly present himself 
 at the foot of the throne. 
 
 " Will the emperor deign to open the ears of gracious- 
 ness while the humblest of his slaves speaks ? Know 
 then, mighty sovereign, there arrived last night at my 
 house a man in whom all knowledge seems to centre. 
 His mind, keen as the lightning, penetrates the most hid- 
 den mysteries — ihere is no science, no art, which he hath 
 not already mastered. Command then that he appear be- 
 fore thee to make plain that which doth perplex thy maj- 
 esty's servants." 
 
 Hwant-sung rejoiced greatly at this information, and 
 bade Ho bring the learned scholar at once into his pres- 
 ence. 
 
 But when Ho, eager with joy, related to Li the good 
 fortune he had secured him, that audacious youth posi- 
 tively refused compliance with the commands of the em- 
 peror ! offering as an excuse, that as he was but a poor 
 scholar, without title or degree, he dared not presume to 
 appear before so much majesty. 
 
 With this answer then the unhappy Ho returned to 
 the palace, not doubling but the r&ge of Hwant-sung 
 would vent itself not only upon Li, but also upon him- 
 self. 
 
THE POET Li. 135 
 
 Kneeling before the monarch, Ho exclaimed rever- 
 ently — 
 
 ♦' Will your majesty once more graciously listen. At 
 the last examination, this man of whom I have spoken was 
 turned from the Scientific Halls in disgrace — his essay 
 rejected by the Premier Yang and the General Kau. 
 Will it then please thee to bestow some favor upon Li, 
 that he may with more propriety come into this august 
 presence ?" 
 
 " It shall be done," exclaimed the emperor. " We con- 
 fer upon Li the title of Doctor of the first degree, together 
 with the purple robe and yellow girdle. Go bring him 
 before us." 
 
 With this mark of royal patronage. Ho retraced his 
 steps with all the alacrity of a lover, and made known to 
 Li the gracious favors of the emperor, supposing, doubt- 
 less, that the student would rejoice as one long blind now 
 suddenly restored to light, or as a famished man at a 
 feast. But lo ! coolly putting on the robes of office, as if 
 he had just cast them aside, with the air of a prince, Li 
 signified to the great academician Ho his readiness now 
 to obey the mandate of the emperor. 
 
 Entering the hall of audience with all the grace and 
 ease of a man bred in courts, Li advanced to the throne, 
 and after paying the customary homage, rose to his feet 
 and looked proudly around upon the assembly of grave 
 men and gallant courtiers. 
 
 The knees of the Premier Yang smote each other as 
 he recognized the youth he had treated with so much 
 contumely now suddenly brought into notice — and well 
 did Kau now remember the name of Li — and it seemed as 
 
136 THE POET Li. 
 
 if hot pins tore his flesh, into such agitation did that name 
 now throw him. 
 
 Hwant-sung- received the new doctor with condescen- 
 sion, and placed in his hand the document which he was 
 required to make plain. 
 
 But Li, casting a meaning glance upon Yang and Kau, 
 Said : 
 
 " Can an indifferent scholar like myself presume to 
 know more than these learned men ! Know, O mighty- 
 emperor, thy servant was deemed unworthy of favor by 
 thy commissioners Yang and Kau — surely, then, they 
 must be more wise than Li." 
 
 Charmed with the boldness of the youth, the emperor 
 graciously smiled upon him, and motioned the two mor- 
 tified examiners to withdraw. 
 
 Then standing erect, his head thrown back, yet in an 
 attitude of careless ease, Li opened the important missive, 
 and without even glancing his eye over it to understand 
 more fully its nature, read it aloud from beginning to end, 
 in a clear, melodious voice. 
 
 It proved to be a demand from the king of Po-Hai, 
 couched in the most insulting language, requiring the 
 emperor to restore a part of Corea, consisting of no less 
 than a hundred and eighty towns, and also demanding 
 tribute from the time of its " usurpation^^ (as the memo- 
 rial expressed it) by the emperor of the Tang Dynasty. 
 Thus, but for the skill of Li, the empire would have been 
 plunged in irretrivable disgrace through the ignorance of 
 its ministers. 
 
 The countenance of Hwant-sung grew black as mid- 
 night as he listened to this insulting claim, and but for 
 
THE POET Li. 137 
 
 the bold remonstrance of Li, he would have ordered the , 
 bearers of the embassy to instant death. 
 
 *' May it please your majesty to summon the boorish 
 ambassadors before us," cried Li boldly, " I will myself 
 confer with them, and teach them how to respect the 
 mighty Emperor Hwant-sung." 
 
 Immediately, therefore, the ambassadors were brought 
 before Li, who conversed with them in their own language 
 with the same haughty bearing as if he himself were em- 
 peror, interpreting as he did so to the indignant Hwant- 
 sung. At length Li dismissed them, saying : 
 
 " Tomorrow his sovereign majesty, to whom your 
 prince is but an earth-worm, will indite an answer lo 
 your insulting embassy. Retire — and tremble as ye walk ! 
 Thank the gods that the gracious emperor deigns ye to 
 live." 
 
 The audience chamber rang with acclamation, as the 
 ambassadors obsequiously withdrew in compliance to the 
 orders of Li, and all the courtiers pressed forward to 
 compliment the young doctor — while the emperor, em- 
 bracing him, conferred upon him at once the rank of 
 academician, and ordered apartments to be prepared for 
 him in the palace of the Golden Bell. 
 
 With continued graciousness, he also directed a sump- 
 tuous banquet to be got in readiness, and at which all ihe 
 learned men and wits of the court were expected to ap- 
 pear. Wine was poured for the guests by beautiful 
 young girls of the " golden lilies^'^ — ravishing music 
 swept around them, while at intervals of the feast, the 
 emperor sent from his own apartments a choice theatrical 
 corps for their entertainment. 
 
 9 * SmaU feet. 
 
138 THE POET Li. 
 
 Now did it seem that all the trials of Li were over, his 
 poverty bat a dream long past, and that now upon the 
 pinnacle to which his ambition had pointed from early 
 youth, he stood ready to hurl back in the teeth of his en- 
 emies the disgrace which, only a few months before, they 
 had heaped upon the name of Li. 
 
 The feast wore on even into the night — the wine cir- 
 culated freely, and in the same breath the courtiers exalt- 
 ed the name of the emperor and of the young academician. 
 What wonder that under the attendance of such charming 
 cup-bearers Li should have drank more freely than was 
 consistent with his new dignity ! How from such hands 
 could he resist the tempting goblet ! 
 
 The result was, that when the next morning the em- 
 peror repaired to the Hall of Audience to treat with the 
 embassy from Po-Hai, the academician Li was not in 
 attendance — nay, did not make his appearance until after 
 being twice summoned by royal mandate ! 
 
 The courtiers whom Li had feasted the night previous, 
 shook their heads and looked significant. The Premier 
 Yang and the General Kau resumed their usual boldness 
 of demeanor, for no doubt this upstart, this vagabond Li, 
 would find the anger of their Celestial Monarch more 
 than his head was worth — decapitation would certainly 
 follow such contempt of royalty ! 
 
 To be twice summoned — what audacity ! 
 
 At length Li walked carelessly into the hall — his dress 
 somewhat disordered, and his feet thrust negligently 
 into slippers. But for those who were hoping his ruin, 
 what rage to see the emperor not only extend his own 
 royal hand in signification that he would raise him from 
 
THE POET Li. 139 
 
 the ground, but also condescend to inquire after his 
 health ! 
 
 " I think, learned doctor, the wine was to thy fancy, 
 yet meihinks the fumes are still troubling thee ! Ere 
 we proceed to our public duties I would have thy wits 
 clearer." 
 
 Saying which, Hwant-sung ordered a plate of hot- 
 spiced fish-broth to be brought from the royal kitchens, 
 that its effects might dissipate the evils of last night's 
 debauch. 
 
 And when with unprecedented condescension their sov- 
 ereign even took the chop-sticks, and himself cooled it 
 for the palate of Li, amazement almost turned them to 
 marble. 
 
 When his majesty deemed the senses of his new favor- 
 ite sufficiently restored, the ambassadors were summoned 
 into the hall. 
 
 Upon the top of the platform, near the foot of the 
 " Dragon's Throne," was placed, by the order of Hwant- 
 sung, a cushion or divan of the Imperial Yellow, em- 
 broidered with gold and silver, and upon a tablet formed 
 of mother-of-pearl, and richly set in a band of emeralds, 
 was a cake of perfumed ink — a sheet of flowery paper — 
 a hair-pencil set in a gold tube, together with a small 
 jade stone, with which to rub the ink. 
 
 Waving his hand condescendingly to Li, the emperor 
 spoke : 
 
 " Ascend the platform, learned doctor, and repose thy- 
 self upon the cushions at my feet, while I indite to thee 
 our answer to these slaves." 
 
 " May it please your majesty," replied Li, " my feet 
 are not in proper dress to approach so near the ' Glory of 
 
140 THE POET Li. 
 
 the earth.' Will it please thee to command new buskins 
 to be brought thy servant, that he may with decency as- 
 cend the platform." 
 
 This bold request was no sooner proffered than it was 
 granted. And then, with a significant glance to the spot 
 where stood Yang and Kau, pale with rage and envy, 
 the audacious Li again addressed the emperor : 
 
 " The humblest of thy slaves would not be officious — 
 but he has one more request to lay at the feet of his gra- 
 cious sovereign. At the examination this year, thy ser- 
 vant was repulsed by Yang, and turned from the Scien- 
 tific Halls in disgrace by Kau ! Will it therefore please 
 thee to command the Premier Yang to grind my ink, and 
 the General Kau to lace my buskins .'" 
 
 Never, perhaps, was an audience-chamber so insulted ! 
 even the awe which, in the presence of the Celestial 
 Monarch, rendered the courtiers less men than jackals, 
 failed in this case to suppress a murmur of indignation 
 which passed from one end of the hall to the other. 
 
 But Hwant-sung, well pleased to punish the injustice 
 of his commissioners, immediately ordered them both to 
 approach and do the bidding of Li ! 
 
 To disobey was death. They wanted courage to die, 
 therefore preferring disgrace, they obsequiously advanced. 
 Kneeling, Kau laced the buskins of Li, who then ascend- 
 ed the platform, and while reclining at his ease upon the 
 soft cushion at the feet of the emperor, Yang stood at his 
 side assiduously rubbing his ink ! 
 
 Thus did Li accomplish his revenge, and triumph over 
 his enemies ! 
 
 Taking the pencil, he now, with rapid and easy strokes, 
 proceeded to indite the answer, which the emperor vouch- 
 
THE POET Li. 141 
 
 safed to the Po-Hai embassy, and while he did so, Hwant- 
 sung bent over him in astonishment, beholding the char- 
 acters which he traced with so much rapidity to be iden- 
 tical with those which had so perplexed his court. 
 
 Then standing erect upon the right hand of the " Drag- 
 on's Throne," in clear distinct tones, Li read aloud the 
 imperial answer — the ambassadors trembling with fear as 
 they listened. 
 
 " And now return," exclaimed Li, "and teach your 
 king that foxes may not war with lions, nor the cuckoo 
 steal into the eagle's nest ! He is like a vexed grasshop- 
 per striving to combat the mighty chariot about to crush 
 him, or like a fly in the jaws of the dragon ! When 
 the mighty Hwant-sung, at whose name fear sits in the 
 hearts of all nations, shall send a handful of men to seize 
 upon the petty territory of Po-Hai, blood shall flow a 
 thousand li /"^ 
 
 Kneeling reverently before the throne, and knocking 
 their heads in token of submission, the ambassadors then 
 withdrew to relate to their king that the " Celestial Em- 
 pire was upheld by an Immortal from the skies !" who 
 stood ever by the throne of the Dragon, and to whom all 
 men did reverence. 
 
 From that day the star of Li was in the ascendant, and 
 for many years he enjoyed the undivided confidence of 
 the emperor, and attained a rank in the scale of letters, 
 which renders the name of Li celebrated in Chinese lit- 
 erature. Many volumes of his beautiful poems and 
 other works are still preserved in the Imperial Libraries. 
 
 ^ Leaarues. 
 
142 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 Everybody said little Winifred Orne never would be 
 married ; for she was too poor, too homely, and too wild 
 — and of course what everybody says must be true, as we 
 shall endeavor to prove. To account for this wonderful 
 prevision, it must be owned the doom of single-blessed- 
 ness did seem as it were shadowed forth in the person of 
 little Winifred. Everybody said she was poor, and she 
 was so — solely dependent from her earliest years upon 
 the begrudged charity of a step-aunt, and no sooner was 
 she old enough to run up and down stairs, go of errands 
 and wipe dishes, than she was made to feel that the 
 bread of dependence was ground in a species of tread- 
 mill, upon which she was ever employed. I am wrong 
 to say she was made to feel so — for so cheerful was the 
 sunshine of the breast, which the Almighty had im- 
 planted within her — so light and merry her little heart, 
 that the idea of hardship never occurred to her — but at 
 every call, every bidding, away flew little Winifred, as 
 light as the humming-bird — all smiles, all brightness. 
 
 Then everybody said she was so homely — true enough, 
 unlucky little sprite ! Her complexion could not be 
 compared to tlie rose, or the lily — it more resembled the 
 saflron flower ; and then her eyes — mercy upon me, 
 what large gray eyes ; And her mouth — and those 
 great white teeth. Certain it is, no one could see them 
 
LITTLE WINNIE. 143 
 
 without involuntarily thinking of poor little Red-Riding 
 Hood's apostrophe to the disguised wolf — " Granny, 
 Granny, what great mouth — what great teeth you've 
 got ! " and then answered the sly wolf — " So much the 
 better to eat you, my dear ! " And that obstinate little 
 nose of hers would turn up as if in such scorn, no one 
 ever saw such an impudent nose — that of the famed 
 Roxana, which overturned the Turkish empire, was no 
 nose at all in comparis*on ! If there was any thing 
 which could redeem all this — it was her hair ; which fell 
 around her as some thick golden fleece, so soft — so 
 silky — but then it was the most rebellious hair ever 
 tormented poor damsel ! Did she subject it to the con- 
 finement of ribbon or braid — it was sure to make its 
 escape ; or if she gathered it up with her little comb, 
 like rich golden tassels glittering in the sunlight, some 
 part of it was sure to fall dancing over her shoulder as 
 she tripped away upon her many duties. Her foot, too, 
 was so very small, that when her beautiful cousin 
 glanced down upon it at times with a look of scorn — 
 poor Winifred would look, and say too, as if in apology, 
 " Dear me, I wish it vjas larger ! " and many a tap on 
 the ears, and many a shake by the shoulder did she 
 receive from her kind aunt, because her little hands 
 were not able to hold the same weight as a young 
 giantess. And then her little, short, chubby, round 
 figure, always reminded one of a Dutch doll, dressed 
 after the fashion of the ancient belles of New- Amsterdam ! 
 Ag3.in, everybody said she was so wild! and so she 
 was. Never was there such a romp, especially for a 
 girl of thirteen ! Only to think of her walking into the 
 parlor one evening and saying : 
 
144 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 " Please, aunt, may I go to training tomorrow ? " 
 
 She, thirteen years old, to training ! The look of 
 dismay with which her aunt regarded her at that awful 
 question — the pushing back of her spectacles ! and then 
 the horror of her fastidious cousin — letting fall, in her 
 propriety-shocked-nature, the elegant double cut Cologne ! 
 
 " Farmer Smith is going tomorrow morning with 
 Betsey and Nancy in his wagon — please, aunt, let me 
 go ! " continued the persevering gipsy. 
 
 There was no answer vouchsafed — but there was a 
 rush, a rustle, a sound assimilating to the idea of a pair 
 of boxed ears, and then, sinking back in the chair, Mrs. 
 Orne exclaimed : 
 
 '* Oh, that girl will ruin my temper ! " 
 
 She could not even step without first giving those little 
 feet of hers a twist and a shake which would have called 
 forth the admiration even of the most inveterate Folka-r ; 
 and then she was a perfect mocking-bird — the first sound 
 in the morning was the voice of Winifred, mingling with 
 the lark and the robin, and the last notes at eve, as the 
 little songsters folded their plumed crests under their 
 bright wings, were trilled in cadence with those of the 
 merry maiden. But she was not content with mimic- 
 ing the more sweet warblers of the grove — not she — for 
 even the crow, and the cat-bird, and the owl, found 
 a scholar ! in short, her little voice was ever ringing like 
 the dew-drops tinkling among the bells of the lily of the 
 valley. 
 
 But it will never do to spend any more time upon the 
 portrait of such an elf — as the Daguerreotype man says : 
 '* Miss, that loill do !'' 
 
 But there were two Winifred Ornes. And not more 
 
LITTLE WINNIE. 145 
 
 dissimilar the beautiful garden-rose and the most humble 
 wild-flovver, than were these two cousins. At a very 
 early age they had both been consigned to the kindness 
 of a paternal uncle ; but under very different auspices. 
 The rose was an heiress and a beauty — the wild-fiower a 
 dependent and ill-favored ! 
 
 (We will call the latter Winnie^ to distinguish her 
 from the elegant and lofty Winifred, who was six years 
 her senior.) 
 
 The figure, the movements of Winifred were all grace- 
 fulness, which, with the dazzling purity of her complex- 
 ion, her brilliant, dark, hazle eyes, superb teeth, fairy 
 mouth, and luxuriant brown hair, combined to render her 
 one of the most lovely girls, not only in the village where 
 her aunt, (now a widow) resided, but, even the most 
 fashionable and elite circles of the metropolis seldom dis- 
 play a more brilliant belle than was Winifred Orne. Pity 
 that one so fair and lovely should have lacked those at- 
 tributes which would'have rendered her beloved ! for as 
 the beautiful waxen fruit, which at first sight is so tempt- 
 ing and pleasing to the eye, she was as deceitful and 
 heartless. She was as proud as she was^ charming — 
 peevish as she was graceful — haughty and overbearing 
 to every one as she was rich ; and especially to her little 
 cousin Winnie, who seemed destined for her peculiar 
 amusement, exactly as some poor kitten for the torturing 
 hands of a spoiled child. 
 
 Both orphans — it would have seemed more natural that 
 Winifred with all the means she possessed for doing good, 
 would have delighted to share her wealth with her pov- 
 erty-doomed cousin ; or at least that her helpless situa- 
 tion, the perfect abandon of her lot, subjected as she was 
 
146 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 to the taunts, caprices, and over-exacting duties of her 
 harsh, ill-natured aunt, would have elicited some pity, 
 some kindness. But it was not so — she looked upon her 
 as something even below a servant ; and perhaps it was 
 partly owing to the sly insinuations, the bitter taunts of 
 the beautiful Winifred, that the heart of the aunt grew 
 so cold and unfeeling ; and in proportion as she was cruel 
 to the unfortunate little Winnie, she lavished every indul- 
 gence, all her love, upon the rich heiress. But it was 
 the hand of Winnie which swept and arranged the large 
 commodious chamber of the beauty, and decked it with 
 the foirest and freshest flowers — her hands which pre- 
 pared the delicious breakfast of ripe berries and cream 
 for the delicate palate of her cousin — her nimble little 
 fingers that plaited the luxuriant tresses — arranged the 
 toilet, and adjusted the wardrobe of the indolent girl — 
 never rewarded by pleasant word or smile ; but if, on the 
 contrary, she ventured upon any lively remark, or allowed 
 her buoyant spirit to break forth in song, she was always 
 checked with : 
 
 " Do, pray, shut that ugly great mouth of yours, and if 
 you have linished, go about your work." 
 
 ^^ Here, Wimiie ! '' screamed Mrs. Orne from the 
 kitchen, and " Here, 1]l?i?iie .'" cried Winifred from the 
 parlor, and from parlor to kitchen flew the cheerful girl 
 never sullen, though weary, never impatient, though 
 continually thwarted. If ever she thought of riches, it 
 was when she saw the beggar driven from the door ; or, 
 sometimes, as she looked upon the beautiful dresses and 
 splendid ornaments the cousin often received from the city, 
 and then down upon her own faded, patched and scanty 
 calico, she would think it must be a fine thing to be 
 
LITTLE WINNIE. 147 
 
 rich — but no shadow of envy darkened her brow, and 
 in a moment the little gipsy was off amid the flowers and 
 birds. 
 
 She was a sly little witch, too ! Very well did she 
 know where the old coverless volume of Shakspeare was 
 hidden — or where Ivanhoe and Kenilworth lay perdu 
 amid a heap of old meal-bags ; and, when seated in her 
 little garret-room, with a heavy task before her, how nim- 
 bly flew her fingers up and down the tedious seam ; her 
 eyes now and then glancing with a peculiar, meaning 
 smile, upon some odd corner or basket, or upon her own 
 little cot-bed, from which she knew she could slily draw 
 forth the Sketch-book, or some other favorite volume, if 
 she only finished her task before ^^HereyWinnie /" sound- 
 ed in her ears. 
 
 Poor child I her reading was all done by stealth, and 
 hours when she should have been recruiting her over- 
 wrought frame by sleep, she might be seen perched up 
 in her little bed, her elbow resting on the pillow, her 
 small hand supporting her head ; her beautiful hair, 
 which nearly swept the floor, pushed away from those 
 great eyes, pouring by the light of a miserable candle 
 over the enchanting page ; while her little white foot, 
 escaping from the scanty bed-covering, beat a pas-seul to 
 the throbbings of her delighted heart. 
 
 Naughty girl ! what would aunt say if she should 
 chance to catch you ! 
 
 In the chamber of Winifred all the new novels of the 
 day, the magazines, annuals, books of beautiful paintings 
 and engravings were scattered around in profusion ; but 
 sly, indeed, must be the peep which poor Winnie ob- 
 tained ! Luckily, her eyes were large, and the hurried 
 
148 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 glance she now and then caught of flowers, landscapes 
 and beautiful faces, were delineated, according; to her 
 self-taught skill, within a little book of coarse, white pa- 
 per, which she managed to obtain from old sweetmeat 
 covers and discarded wrappers. 
 
 But Time never stands still, and, with but little varie- 
 ty to tlie inmates of Mrs. Orne's dwelling, he brushed 
 the years caivlossly behind him as he flew, until he 
 brought round the period when the heiress had attained 
 her twenty-third, and Winnie her seventeenth year. — 
 The sparkling beauty of the one was in no degree im- 
 paired by this lapse of time, while truth compels the ad- 
 mission, that everyhodij said poor Winnie was just as 
 plain as ever ; those great eyes and that large mouth 
 still remained ! She had grown tall, however, and the 
 buoyancy of childhood subsided into a more quiet cheer- 
 fulness; and could any one have fathomed that depth of 
 feeling which lay hidden, as in a well, in that pure heart 
 of hers, what truthfulness, what unaflected goodness was 
 there ! But no one ever took that trouble; and, for any 
 thing her aunt knew or cared, provided she fulfilled the 
 routine of her daily tasks, she might as well belong to 
 the Maelzel as the human family. 
 
 It was rather strange, too, that the lovely Winifred, 
 with her great personal attractions, rendered, doubtless, 
 in many eyes so much the more brilliant for the gold 
 they commanded, should have remained thus long un- 
 sought, unloved ; and in this opinion there is no doubt 
 she herself perfectly concurred, for her mind was now 
 continually wandering to a future of single blessedness ; 
 and, to the exclusion of her prayers, she might now be 
 often heard repeating : 
 
LITTLE WINNIE. 149 
 
 " They don't propose — they wont propose, 
 For fear, perhaps, I'd not say ' yes ' — 
 Just let 'em try — for, heaven knows, 
 I'm tired of sinr/le-blessedness !^^ 
 
 But about this time Mrs. Orne received a letter from 
 a distant relative, residing in or near New Orleans, 
 stating, in true mercantile phrase, that he had consigned 
 to her care, not a bale of goods, but a nice young man, 
 his invalid son, who, being recommended by his physi- 
 cians to try the climate of the north, was booked and 
 shipped for the port of Boston, and, provided his kind 
 kinswoman could receive him, would come to hand [acci- 
 dents excepted] in a very few days. 
 
 Receive him ! to be sure they would, for was he not 
 five-and-twenty, and sole heir to one of the most valua- 
 ble estates at the south, including scores of wooly-heads ! 
 Indeed, as Winifred observed, hard, indeed, must be the 
 heart which could resist such an affecting appeal to sym- 
 pathy ! 
 
 The best chamber in the house was, therefore, imme- 
 diately prepared, Winnie ordered to keep out of the way, 
 (for it is always difficult to account for the taste of a 
 young man,) and, in due time, pale and languid, Sydney 
 Cleveland arrived, was met at the door with the utmost 
 cordiality by Mrs. Orne, while Winifred, blushing like a 
 half-blown carnation, suffered herself to be surprised by 
 the interesting invalid in arranging a vase of the sweet- 
 est flowers upon his snowy toilet. The large black eyes 
 of Cleveland beamed with sudden animation, as he fol- 
 lowed her graceful retreat from his chamber, and a flush 
 of pleasure suffused his pale countenance as he learned 
 this most lovely girl was to be his daily companion. 
 
150 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 From this time there was nothing left undone which 
 could contribute to the comfort and amusement of the 
 invalid. There were delightful little rides, in which 
 Winifred, with her delicate, gloved hands, performed the 
 graceful charioteer ; and quiet and shady walks, while 
 the nicest and most dainty comfits, jellies and syllabubs 
 were continually tempting the fickle appetite of the 
 young southerner ; all of which, as Mrs. Orne assured 
 him, were prepared through the kindness and skill of 
 Winifred. It surely would have been very ungrateful 
 in Cleveland not to have been happy in his present situa- 
 tion, where his comfort alone seemed to form the sole 
 anxiety of his hospitable friends. 
 
 And all this time he had never once seen Winnie ! 
 although she was ever occupied in preparing those very 
 delicacies for his comfort, (as the reader has probably 
 surmised,) for which her beautiful cousin received such 
 full and ample credit. Nor yet was Cleveland in love 
 with Winifred ; an omission on his part for which he 
 himself could not refrain from surprise ; for when, like 
 some beauteous sylph, she first appeared before his 
 entranced vision, he had placed himself in Cupid's calen- 
 dar, for several days at least,. as " fathoms deep in love." 
 But these first impressions soon passed away. That she 
 was beautiful he could but acknowledge, and very kind 
 also he believed; yet there was something more than 
 beauty required to touch such a heart as his, and he 
 very soon discovered that this was all the claim which 
 she possessed to his admiration. 
 
 It happened one afternoon that Cleveland strolled forth 
 for a solitary ramble in the adjoining woods. For some 
 time he sauntered leisurely along, absorbed in the quiet 
 
LITTLE WINNIE. 151 
 
 beauty of the scene, listening to the divine melody of 
 nature uplifted from every blade of grass, from every 
 flower, and swelling in delicious cadence through the 
 forest trees, when his ears were suddenly saluted by one 
 of the sweetest voices he thought he had ever heard, 
 reading aloud with the most graceful and correct intona- 
 tion. Softly advancing in the direction from which the 
 voice proceeded, and cautiously putting aside the branch- 
 es of a large sycamore, who should he behold but our 
 wild, thoughtless Winnie ! Yes, seated like a little dove 
 amid the tall brake, and nodding star-flowers, partially 
 reclining against the mossy trunk of an aged tree, was 
 Winnie ! her golden hair unfettered by comb or ribbon, 
 sporting with the soft wind among the wild flowers and 
 fragrant herbage ; a volume of Shakspeare in her hand, 
 and at her feet a little wicker basket lay upset, from 
 which, as if glad to make their escape, rolled forth the 
 rich, ripe blackberries, hiding themselves under the 
 mushrooms and broad-leaved clover, as if for a fairy 
 banquet ; or rolling merrily down the flowery bank, 
 swam ofl' triumphant on the bright dancing waters of the 
 little brook. No doubt Winnie had been sent in a hurry 
 to gather those very berries for supper ; and was this 
 despatch ! — careless girl, sitting under a tree, and, like a 
 young Siddons of nature's own teaching, declaiming from 
 Shakspeare ! 
 
 She had just finished Portia's eloquent appeal to the 
 Jew, when a golden oriole perched himself upon the top- 
 most bough, of the very tree that concealed Cleveland ; 
 and, as if he felt himself called upon to contribute his 
 share for the general entertainment, plumed his little 
 wings, smoothed his downy breast with his bright bill, 
 
152 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 and after a low trill of the sweetest notes, gushed forth, 
 into a strain of the most enchanting harmony. No 
 sooner had the last note fainted on the balmy breeze, 
 than Winnie, throwing back her head, and lifting those 
 great eyes to the giddy perch of the oriole, echoed every 
 note, every thrill of his beautiful song, with a truth and 
 melody almost startling. Master Oriole seemed not in 
 the least offended at this liberty, but hopping back and 
 forth a moment on one leg, nodded his bright crest to 
 Winnie, as if to say, " Try it again, will you ?" and 
 once more, his little breast, swelling with pride, poured 
 forth his delicious notes. 
 
 But now, other notes, less " linked in dying sweet- 
 ness," were added to this agreeable concert. 
 
 " Winnie, Winnie !" screamed a shrill voice, and Mrs. 
 Orne herself appeared upon the scene. 
 
 Did not Winnie spring to her feet ? and did not she 
 hasten to raise the careless basket, and recover the truant 
 blackberries ? 
 
 " What have you been doing, I should like to know ?". 
 said Mrs. Orne ; " here it is almost sun-down, and you 
 are wasting your time like this, when you have those 
 rice-cakes to prepare for Mr. Cleveland's supper." 
 
 " Indeed, aunt, I am very sorry," answered Winnie, 
 " I had no idea it was so late. But I have every thing 
 ready for the biscuits, and Mr. Cleveland shall have them 
 in time." 
 
 " What is this — a book ! Oh-ho, this is the way you 
 spend your time, is it, Miss Winifred ?" and snatching 
 it from her hand, Mrs. Orne tossed it into the brook, 
 saying : 
 
LITTLE WINNIE. 153 
 
 " There, I wish I could drown all the hateful play- 
 writers in the same manner." 
 
 Winnie looked long and wistfully at her treasure, as 
 it floated over the glistening white pebbles and mossy 
 boulders, then, with a heavy sigh, turned and followed 
 her aunt along the shady path leading directly to the 
 house. 
 
 Wrapped in amaze, had Cleveland witnessed the fore- 
 going scene. He had listened, entranced, to the fine 
 reading — watched the animated countenance of Winnie, 
 and felt every nerve thrill with delight at her bird-like 
 notes of surpassing mimicry ; and, then, like some ugly 
 screech-owl, the voice of Mrs. Orne had dissolved the 
 charm. He heard her address the unknown girl, not 
 only as a menial, but as an inmate of her house and 
 kitchen, while she, in return, had called Mrs. Orne 
 " Aunt.'''' What could this mean ? He had seen the 
 vehemence with which the book had been thrown into 
 the stream; and it was the recollection of this which 
 first recalled him to himself. Hastening to the brink of 
 the little brook, he soon succeeded in recovering this 
 (doubtless) priceless treasure of the young girl ; and, 
 wet as it was, he could not refrain from pressing it to his 
 lips ; then carefully wiping it with his handkerchief, he 
 placed it in his bosom, determined if possible to solve the 
 mystery, and restore the book to its rightful owner. 
 
 Curiously did Cleveland pry in at the back windows 
 and doors, as he returned to the house, and with an air 
 of great abstraction did he take his seat at the neatly- 
 spread supper-table. But there were those promised 
 rice-biscuits, whiter than snow, and there those identical 
 blackberries, sprinkled over with fine powdered sugar ! 
 10 
 
154 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 For some reason they were the sweetest and the best, 
 both biscuit and berries, he had ever tasted, nor could he 
 refrain from descanting upon their merits with true epi- 
 curean fluency. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Orne, looking at her lovely niece, 
 " our dear Winifred excels in making these little 
 niceties." 
 
 " And these berries," continued Cleveland, fixing his 
 eyes upon Winifred, " is it possible you ever scramble 
 among hedges and briars, at the risk of wounding those 
 delicate fingers ?" 
 
 " As you see," interrupted Mrs. Orne, pointing to the 
 dish, " she considers the risk as only adding to the 
 pleasure of catering for the tastes of her friends." 
 
 Cleveland made no answer — a peculiar expression 
 passed over his countenance, and then, as if determined 
 to probe their falsehood to the utmost, he said, taking the 
 Shakspeare from his breast : 
 
 " By the way, my dear madam, the nymphs and 
 naiads of your groves and streams, must be more than 
 usually intellectual ; for, see what some of these elfin 
 sprites left floating on the silvered surface of their foun- 
 tain home. I found it near to a beautiful water-lily, 
 probably the canopied throne of some naiad queen ; who, 
 summoning her beauteous elves around her, had just 
 been charming their ears with the history of Titania and 
 her ' gentle changeling.' " 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Orne lost her self-possession — but 
 it was only for a moment — then turning to Winifred, she 
 shook her finger at her playfully, saying : 
 
 " Ah, ha, little book-worm, you are caught ! Now, of 
 what, or whom were you thinking, that you should thus 
 
LITTLE WINNIE. 155 
 
 have abused poor Shakspeare — sending him adrift among 
 the lilies and water-cresses ?" 
 
 Cleveland turned quickly, to witness the effect of this 
 speech upon the party addressed. 
 
 Perfectly calm, and without the least pertubation, she 
 replied : 
 
 " Why, my dear aunt, I suppose I must have dropped 
 the book into the stream, unconsciously, in my musings ; 
 although, as to whom my abstraction was owing, I must 
 retain as my own secret." And here a gentle sigh, and 
 a glance upon Cleveland, at once solved the riddle. 
 
 " Then you — you like Shakspeare ; and you — you 
 have — been reading in the woods to-day ?" stammered 
 Cleveland, as if, in reality, he was the guilty one. 
 
 " Oh, I dote on Shakspeare !" cried Winifred, " and 
 always take his delightful muse with me in my solitary 
 rambles ; I have been thus indulging to-day. I am so 
 glaa you have found the precious volume ! I feared, 
 through my carelessness, I had irrecoverably lost it !" 
 Ana here she reached forth her snowy hand for the 
 booiv. 
 
 *' Permit me to retain it," said Cleveland ; " after this 
 conversation, it is of peculiar value in my eyes !" 
 
 Winifred blushed, and after a few pretty little coquet- 
 ries, suffered her lover (as she now felt assured he was) 
 to replace the volume next his heart. 
 
 It is a copy-book maxim, but yet not the less true, that 
 " Patience and perseverance overcometh all things ;" and, 
 therefore, by patience and perseverance, Cleveland, at 
 length, formed an acquaintance with the poor, despised 
 Winnie ! 
 
 And now, was it not really ridiculous, that the elegant 
 
156 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 Cleveland, the rich Southerner, the accomplished man of 
 talent and education, should have steeled his heart 
 against the charms of the beautiful heiress, only to fall in 
 love with such a girl as Winnie ? passing by the magni- 
 ficent bird of paradise, as it were, to take to his bosom 
 the humble little brown thrush ! 
 
 Nor did he conceal from Mrs. Orne and Winifred, his 
 admiration (although he spoke of no warmer sentiment) 
 for their lowly relative ; but their sordid minds, could 
 not, for a moment, imagine that one so poor could be 
 more than as a passing shadow in his thoughts. Health 
 again revisited the frame of the young Southerner ; 
 sparkled in his eye, and glowed upon his cheek ; and it 
 was with regret that, as the autumn advanced, he pre- 
 pared to leave the quiet village for the bustling scenes of 
 New Orleans. 
 
 The morning of his departure, he found himself for a 
 moment alone with the unsuspecting object of his aflfec- 
 tion. Taking her hand, he said : 
 
 " I shall write you, dearest Winnie, immediately upon 
 my arrival at New Orleans, and make known to you all 
 my hopes and projects; then, if, as I trust, I am not 
 indifferent to you, by the blessing of God, I will soon 
 return and claim you as my bride. Do not forget me, 
 dear Winnie !" 
 
 Winnie made no answer, but timidly raised those eyes, 
 now positively beautiful, swimming in tears to his. He 
 read their language aright. For one moment, he held 
 her to his heart ; the next, she had vanished, and Cleve- 
 land turned to receive the farewell of Mrs. Orne and 
 Winifred ; upon which affecting occasion, the latter 
 
LITTLE WINNIE. 157 
 
 chose to resort several times to her smelling-bottle to 
 sustain her fainting frame. 
 
 How frail the promises, the oaths of man ! 
 
 Poor Winnie ! Weeks and months rolled away, each 
 succeeding the other in melancholy tediousness : but no 
 letter, no message ever came from him who had won the 
 treasure of her young heart's pure affection. Too guile- 
 less herself to suspect guile in others, she ever pardoned 
 and exculpated his negligence. There were a thousand 
 unforeseen circumstances, she was aware, which might 
 have prevented the speedy fulfillment of his promises. 
 She should yet hear from him ! 
 
 What then must have been her feelings when Mrs. 
 Orne one day informed her that her perjured lover, the 
 faithless Cleveland, had months since made proposals of 
 marriage to her cousin Winifred — that ihey were ac- 
 cepted — and that the preparations for so happy and 
 desirable a union must commence immediately. And 
 what a show of triumph flashed from the eye of the 
 haughty heiress, as she glanced upon the pallid features 
 of her cousin ; and what importance stood forth starched 
 and stiff in the folds of Mrs. Orne's turban, and in the 
 shining gold spectacles, as she made the announcement I 
 
 And how did Winnie bear it — do you ask ? 
 
 Why bravely — and like a sensible girl as she was ! 
 True — her step became less fleet — and that happy ex- 
 pression which had ever beamed on her features, seemed 
 somewhat subdued. The rescued Shakspeare was laid 
 aside, and all the birds of the forest might have warbled on 
 un-imitated by her once sportive voice — yet was she ever 
 cheerful — ever ready and willing to assist in preparing 
 the costly trousseau of the happy bride elect. She it 
 
158 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 was who made the rich loaves of wedding-cake — her pure 
 taste which suggested the ornaments for the same ; and 
 not until all the arrangements for the wedding were per- 
 fected, even to the placing of the chair for the officiating 
 clergyman, did Winnie with faltering voice, in the dusky 
 twilight, make known her one only request — viz : that 
 she might absent herself from the festive scenes. This 
 being exactly what her aunt and cousin most desired, she 
 received a ready permission to do as she pleased. 
 
 Bright rose the sun the morning the bridegroom was 
 expected to arrive — like fairy jewels wrought by moon- 
 light, the dew-drops hung glittering on leaflet and flower 
 — bright, glancing butterflies shared with the golden- 
 dusted honey-bee the sweet nectar from the heart of the 
 rose, and the lily's cup — and the birds gaily rustled 
 among the branches, sending forth from their leafy 
 bowers their heart-cheering notes. 
 
 At length a carriage passed rapidly down the street, 
 and drew up at the door of Mrs. Orne ; while from it, 
 elate with love and happiness, young Cleveland sprang 
 eagerly forth. With bridal favors most becomingly 
 arranged, and her new lace cap phalanxed by triple rows 
 of white satin bows, Mrs. Orne met him at the door with 
 open arms, and in the most afiectionate terms bade him 
 welcome. 
 
 " My dear aunt, (for so I may now call you,) this is 
 indeed kind," exclaimed Cleveland — " I almost feared 
 the result of my application. But where is my sweet 
 Winifred ?"" 
 
 There was a visible perturbation in Mrs. Orne's man- 
 ner, as she replied : 
 
 " She was so much overcome by your arrival, that she 
 
LITTLE WINNIE. 159 
 
 was obliged to retire for a few moments — she is all sensi- 
 tiveness, dear child ! but I will hasten and send the little 
 trembler to you." 
 
 Mrs. Orne now left the room, and in a few moments, 
 rustling in white satin and blonde, (for the ceremony was 
 to be consummated almost immediately,) Winifred 
 tripped blushingly into the room. 
 
 " My dear cousin," cried Cleveland, advancing to 
 meet her and raising her little hand to his lips, " and 
 you, then, are the first to greet me ! Thank you, thank 
 you, but where, where is our dear Winnie ?" 
 
 " Winnie ! Winnie !" replied Winifred, turning even 
 paler than the pearls which clasped her beautiful throat, 
 *' I really don't know." 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Orne returned. 
 
 " Ah, you are here, little coquette ! but I will not dis- 
 turb such halcyon moments — only to beg of our dear 
 Sydney to partake of some slight refreshment after his 
 ride ; eating, however common-place, I believe is not 
 yet banished from the code of lovers." 
 
 Winifred blushed and turned her eyes languishingly 
 upon Cleveland, who, in evident perplexity, looked from 
 one to the other, and then again demanded : 
 
 " Surely Winnie must know of my arrival ! where 
 shall I find her. Miss Orne ?" 
 
 *' Indeed I know not that I am accountable for her 
 freaks," replied Winifred, and with a toss of her pretty 
 head she left the room, followed in dignified silence by 
 her aunt. 
 
 " What can this mean !" thought Cleveland, and after 
 waiting a few moments, eagerly listening to every step 
 that approached the door, he strolled out into the garden. 
 
160 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 but no Winnie made her appearance, and continuing his 
 walk he soon found himself near the wood where he had 
 first seen her. As if confident he should here find the 
 object of his search, he hastily advanced, and there in- 
 deed in the very spot where he had first beheld her, pale 
 and tearful, knelt Winnie ! Her hands were clasped as 
 if in prayer, and with an emotion it were difficult to 
 describe, Cleveland heard his own name pronounced in 
 the most tremulous accents ; as if she was interceding 
 for his happiness. 
 
 "Winnie, dearest Winnie," he cried, rushing to her, 
 and clasping her to his bosom — " what means this — why 
 are you so sad ?" 
 
 "Mr. Cleveland, sir, let me go, I beg of you," an- 
 swered Winnie, trembling in every limb, " why do you 
 insult me ?" 
 
 " Insult you, dear Winnie ! what mystery is here ! 
 are you not my own, my promised bride ! then why 
 these tears ? why shun me thus ? do you repent of your 
 engagement ?" 
 
 " This is more than cruel," cried Winnie, bursting 
 from him, her face glowing with indignation — " such 
 language from you — from you^ in a few moments to 
 become the husband of another, is too contemptible." 
 
 " The husband of another ! do I hear aright ! for God's 
 sake, Winnie, dearest Winnie, explain your words !" ex- 
 claimed Cleveland. 
 
 And perhaps while we leave the perplexed Cleveland 
 listening to the tremulous words of our Winnie, we may 
 as well solve this apparent mystery. We must do it 
 quickly, however — for already the eyes of Winnie are 
 sparkling with love and happiness, and her cheek glows 
 
LITTLE WINNIE. 161 
 
 like the rose, as reclining on the arm of Cleveland he 
 leads her to the house where the bridal guests are already 
 assembling. 
 
 That Cleveland had written to Winnie as he promised 
 is true, and very well did Mrs. Orne and Winifred know, 
 as they took it from the hands of the postboy, for whom 
 this letter was intended ! At first their rage and morti- 
 fication prevented all action — but growing more calm, 
 these worthy relatives determined to destroy the happi- 
 ness of Winnie by a bold act, and build that of the 
 deceitful Winifred upon the ruins ! And this too could 
 be done with perfect safety for the present at least ; for 
 although she knew the Winifred Orne thus addressed 
 had no allusion to Aer, she resolved to take the advantage 
 of owning the same name I And what if a storm did 
 arise at the denouement I They flattered themselves the 
 net would then be too secure for their victim to escape, 
 and that in spite of Cupid and justice, the heiress would 
 find herself at length Mrs. Sydney Cleveland. 
 
 And thus the plot was woven. The most affectionate 
 letters were returned to New Orleans, both from Wini- 
 fred and Mrs. Orne ; and, perfectly unconscious of the 
 gross deception passed upon him, Sydney Cleveland at 
 the appointed time departed for the North to claim his 
 bride. 
 
 How he was received the reader already knows. 
 
 But the results ! 
 
 Why, that Mrs. Orne and the treacherous Winifred, 
 even in the presence of the gray-haired minister, and 
 the assembled guests, were forced by the resolute and 
 indignant Cleveland to acknowledge the base part they 
 had acted ; and that then, even as she leaned on his arm, 
 
162 LITTLE WINNIE. 
 
 in her neat gingham dress and plain muslin cape, the 
 lioly man blessed and made them one ! 
 
 The cake remained uncnt, the guests departed — Mrs. 
 Orne raved ; and, buried in her superb blonde vail, reck- 
 less of satin and jewels, Winifred had the pleasure of 
 performing several hysteric and fainting fits solely for 
 her own amusement, while far on their route to the city.. 
 Cleveland and his dear Utile bride were borne happily 
 along. 
 
 And now everybody said, they always knew Winnie 
 would be married before that proud and haughty beauty ! 
 
 And everybody was right. 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 163 
 
 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Mr. Oakly was a rich man. Stately dwellings and no- 
 ble warehouses were his ; he owned large and flourishing 
 farnns, and the sails of his ships whitened the ocean. No 
 man enjoyed a higher reputation on change ; no mer- 
 chant's opinion was more quoted or depended on ; no man's 
 integrity considered more spotless. Blest, too, w^ith an 
 excellent wife, the world pronounced Mr. Oakly a very 
 happy man. But where the mere surface of things forms 
 the criterion of judgment, the world, wise as it is, is very 
 apt to be mistaken. Mr. Oakly was not a happy man. 
 Neither was he a favorite with the multitude ; and had 
 not the magic of riches surrounded him, he would have 
 had fewer professed friends, and many more open ene- 
 mies — for his manners were arrogant and repulsive, while 
 his deeds of charity were but as a feather in the scale 
 with his power of being charitable. 
 
 Mr. Oakley had paid a great price for his riches — no 
 less a jewel than his own peace of mind. He might 
 count over his heaps of gold, and talk about the just re- 
 ward of long y6ars of industry and economy, and try to 
 cheat even himself into the belief that his prosperity was 
 but his deserts, yet well he knew that the foundation of 
 his fortune was based on crime. Flatter himself, then, 
 as he would, the whispers of conscience told him louder 
 than the jingling of coin that it was mockery all ! His 
 
164 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 only child, too, was miserably deformed and lame ; thus 
 it proved, with all his great wealth, he was neither an en- 
 viable or a happy man. 
 
 Mr. Oakly, with his family, were spending the warm 
 months at his delightful country-residence on the banks 
 of the Susquehanna ; and there our story takes us on a 
 sultry August morning. Breakfast is just over, and now, 
 while Mr. Oakly breaks the seals of various letters which 
 the postman has just brought to the door, Mrs. Oakly 
 listlessly looks over the city journals. 
 
 ^' So John is dead at last !" exclaimed Mr. Oakly, with 
 something of relief in his tone, and throwing down upon 
 the table a dirty-looking letter, with a huge black seal. 
 " Died a pauper ! Well, I expected it, and so might he, 
 when he refused compliance with the wishes of his 
 friends." 
 
 Mrs. Oakly looked up with some surprise. 
 
 " Of whom were you speaking, my dear — a relative of 
 yours ?" she inquired. 
 
 " Only my brother," replied her husband coolly. 
 
 " Your brother — and died a pauper ! You amaze me ! 
 Pray how did it happen ?" 
 
 " It happened, and justly, too, through his own folly 
 and imprudence," cried the cold-hearted man — for even 
 had his brother been the basest of criminals, he was his 
 brother still. Death should have inspired some faint 
 shadow of grief, if no more. 
 
 " The fact is," continued Mr. Oakly, " John was too 
 much favored in early life. He was my father's idol, 
 and, to my disadvantage, favor after favor was heaped 
 upon him. Although younger by several years than my- 
 self, he was sent to college, I was kept at home — he had 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 165 
 
 choice of a profession, I was forced to measure off tape 
 and calico by the yard. He became dissipated, was 
 wounded in some rowdy frolic, fell in love with, and 
 married a girl of low family, who took care of him dur- 
 ing his illness. Such conduct highly exasperated my 
 father, who vowed that unless he would abandon this low 
 connection forever, and return home, he not only would 
 disinherit him, but would never see him more. John re- 
 fused the terms ; the consequences were as my father had 
 said, who shortly after died. I was his only heir, and, 
 of course, as such, was bound to hold all my father's 
 views sacred ; and as he never forgave my ungrateful 
 brother, consequently, neither did I." 
 
 So much for Mr. Oakly's version of his brother's his- 
 tory. We shall see, bye and by, how far it may be de- 
 pended upon. 
 
 " But were you not aware of your brother's desti- 
 tute situation ? " said Mrs. Oakly, somewhat reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 " Why, not exactly — at least I — I did not know it for 
 z.fact. But, what then — suppose I did ; he chose his 
 own path — what had 1 to do with it ?" 
 
 Mrs. Oakly shook her head and sighed. 
 
 " Did your brother leave any family ?" 
 
 " Yes, so it seems — for here comes a begging letter 
 from some country scribe, whereby it appears he has 
 left a widow and two children — girls, too ; but read it 
 yourself." 
 
 Mrs. Oakly took the letter. 
 
 " Sir, — Your brother, Mr. John Oakly, was buried 
 yesterday at the expense of the parish. Upon his death- 
 bed he requested that notice should be forwarded you of 
 
166 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 the event, and some assistance solicited on behalf of his 
 destitute family. He leaves a widow, in delicate health, 
 and two small children, both girls. As they are without 
 any means of support save the little which the mother 
 can earn by labor, I trust this appeal to your sympathy 
 will not be in vain." 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Mrs. Oakly, looking inquiring- 
 ly at her husband, as she finished reading. 
 
 " Well !" echoed her husband, " what concern is it of 
 mine if ihey do starve ! It was all owing to his connec- 
 tion with this same woman that his misfortunes fell upon 
 him ; and now do you think I am going to encourage 
 her arts by aiding her in her justly deserved poverty — 
 no, not I, Mrs. Oakly." 
 
 " Kevoke that cruel sentence, I beseech you, Alfred," 
 said his wife ; " you surely will not let this appeal to 
 your sympathy pass without notice ; do not, I entreat 
 you, let the poor little ones suffer for their parent's 
 fault ! " 
 
 " Keally, Mrs. Oakly," cried her husband sarcastical- 
 ly, " really, I hope I may do as I please with what is 
 mine. Those who have no money of their own, and 
 never had a cent in their lives, may well cant upon char- 
 ity." 
 
 There was evidently a bitter meaning couched under 
 these words, for Mrs. Oakly colored deeply, and tears 
 filled her eyes, though she made no reply, but throwing 
 open the window upon the lawn, was about to step forth, 
 when the nurse entered the room, leading by the hand a 
 poor deformed little girl apparently about two years of 
 age. The sight of his only and unfortunate child ap- 
 peared to awaken a new train of ideas in the mind o 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 167 
 
 Mr. Oakly. For some moments he walked the room in 
 deep thought, now looking at the child, now at his wife, 
 and then again resuming his measured tread. At length 
 motioning the nurse, with her charge, to leave the room, 
 he approached his wife, and in a much less arrogant 
 manner, said : 
 
 " My dear, a new idea has occurred to me, which, if I 
 mistake not, may be productive of much good, not only 
 to ourselves, but also to those for whom your sympathy 
 appears so foolishly urgent. The more I consider of my 
 purpose, the better I think of it. My brother, it seems, 
 has left two little girls — very well. Now I propose tak- 
 ing the youngest of these children as our own — " 
 
 " This is indeed noble of you my dear husband !" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Oakly. 
 
 " In lieu of our own poor Agatha," said Mr. Oakly. 
 
 Mrs. Oakly screamed, and clasping her hands, sat pale 
 as marble, looking up into the face of her husband. 
 
 " Nay, my dear," said he, taking her hand with some 
 tenderness, " I dare say you will feel very badly at first, 
 but only consider the benefits which will arise from the 
 exchange. Agatha is a poor, unhappy object, and as long 
 as she lives, will be a sorrow and reproach to us. It 
 will be very easy for me to induce this woman, my 
 brother's widow I mean, to yield up one of her own chil- 
 dren to me, upon the condition that if she will take all 
 future charge of our poor Agatha, her own shall be brought 
 up in every tenderness and luxury. There is one provi- 
 so, however, to which I shall require oath — that is, the 
 transaction is to remain forever secret — she is never to 
 claim her own child, but on the contrary, to acknowledge 
 Agatha as hers." 
 
168 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 Mr. Oakly paused, but his wife made no reply. It 
 seemed as if surprise and grief had deprived her of 
 speech. 
 
 " We can pursue our plan the better," he continued, 
 " as we have always kept Agatha secluded from observa- 
 tion. It will be very easy for us now to give out word 
 that she is under skillful treatment. By degrees we can 
 report of her wonderful improvement, until at the end of 
 some months or even a year, we can produce our adopted 
 child in proof of our assertions." 
 
 " But why is it necessary to do this ?" cried Mrs. Oak- 
 ly, falteringly, "why not keep our own poor unfortunate, 
 and at the same time adopt one or both of your brother's 
 children ? God knows, Alfred," she added earnestly, " I 
 will be a mother to them — I will cherish and love them ; 
 but, oh, not so tenderly as my own poor Agatha !" 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense !" interrupted Mr. Oakly, hastily, 
 *' don't you see how much disgrace and trouble you will 
 save yourself by my arrangement." 
 
 " Disgrace, Alfred ! and from our innocent babe !" 
 
 " Hear me, if you please. You will have the double 
 satisfaction of knowing that she will be well provided for, 
 and kindly treated, while at the same time she can never 
 trouble you by her agitating presence." 
 
 " And to such a woman as you have described your 
 brother's wife to be, would you confide so precious a 
 trust?" said Mrs. Oakly, hoping this appeal might arrest 
 her husband's views. 
 
 " Why not ? She may be well enough for our pur- 
 pose ; her kindness I can secure by money. As to any 
 refinement, or education, it will never be of much impor- 
 tance to Agatha. She will never be called upon, it is 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 169 
 
 likely, for any display of accomplishments, poor thing — 
 to eat, sleep, and read verses in the Bible, will fill up the 
 measure of her days better than any thing else." 
 
 This cutting and cruel remark aroused all the mother. 
 Rising to her feet, she said, slowly and emphatically, 
 
 " Alfred Oakly ! can you speak thus lightly of your 
 own flesh and blood ! Now, shame upon you ! God has 
 given us this unhappy child ; she is our own to love and 
 protect. Were she the loveliest babe that ever fond moth- 
 er circled to her heart, I could not love her more. I might 
 be proud of such an one ; but love — oh, I could not so 
 deeply, so tenderly !" 
 
 " Well, there we differ, Mrs. Oakly ; it is precisely be- 
 cause she is such a child that I am anxious to be rid of 
 her," replied the heartless father. " Understand me, my 
 dear, I wish no harm to poor Agatha; it is for her good, 
 I assure you, that the change should be made. What 
 answer, then, have you to my plan ?" 
 
 " That I will never consent to it," she replied, firmly. 
 
 " Very well — you will not. Then it must be done with- 
 out your consent. I am fixed ; neither your refusal, or 
 your tears, will avail any thing ; so you may as well 
 make up your mind to yield, madam, without further ar- 
 gument." So saying, Mr. Oakly turned coolly on his 
 heel and left the room. 
 
 Now wo to the poor wife — for well did she know her 
 husband's unfaltering determination. If it was possible 
 for a woman to be too amiable, Mrs. Oakly was so ; 
 while her husband, far from appreciating such a charac- 
 ter, ruled over her like some petty despot. Her only hope 
 now rested upon the belief that the widow could never be 
 11 
 
170 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 induced to give up one of her children for the unfortu- 
 nate Agatha. 
 
 *' 0, would she were ten times more repulsive ! — my 
 poor child !" cried the unhappy mother, " / should 
 still love her, but she would shrink from an object so 
 unsightly." 
 
 It was at the close of a chill, rainy day, near the mid- 
 dle of September, that a handsome traveling-carriage 
 drew up at the door of a small inn, in a retired country 
 town. Such an occurrence was rare ; and no sooner, 
 therefore, was it seen entering the long street of strag- 
 gling houses, than it was followed by a noisy set of bare- 
 footed urchins, yelping dogs, and idle loungers, so that 
 by the time it reached the inn, a motley assemblage was 
 formed around it. 
 
 As the carriage stopped, the glass was let down ; a 
 thin, sallow face looked sharply forth, and a voice not 
 the most gentle, demanded, 
 
 " Here, some of you — can you tell me where one 
 Widow Oakly lives ?" 
 
 The landlord, who by this time had reached the scene 
 of wonder, imperatively thrust aside all other aspirants 
 to the honor of answering the stranger, and himself 
 began. 
 
 " The Widow Oakly— ah, yes. The Widow Oakly 
 you said, sir ?" 
 
 " To be sure I did. I ask you to direct me to her 
 residence." 
 
 " Certainly, sir. Well, you see the widow lives in , 
 that small house yonder, on the bank of the creek — that 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED, 171 
 
 is, she has a room there ; an honest little woman, but 
 poor — very poor !" 
 
 "Drive on!" cried the gentleman, sternly, without 
 deigning further notice of the loquacious landlord. 
 
 The driver cracked his whip, and the spirited horses 
 obeying the impulse, dashed through the crowd at the 
 imminent risk of trampling some of the throng under 
 their feet. 
 
 " There, I told you," cried the landlord, " there was 
 something uncommon about them Oaklys, poor as they 
 are ; and now you see what a grand coach comes after 
 them. Run down there, Jimmy, my boy, and find out 
 what it means." 
 
 And not only Jimmy, but a dozen others set off on full 
 trot in the rear of the carriage. 
 
 In the meantime the object of so much curiosity had 
 reached the house pointed out as the residence of the 
 widow ; and carefully mincing his steps across the 
 muddy pathway, Mr. Oakly rapped loudly at the door 
 with his gold-headed cane, for knocker there was none. 
 After several repetitions of the same, each more vehement 
 than the last, the door was finally opened by a middle- 
 aged woman, whose red face, and scowling brows told 
 she was in no very pleasant frame of mind. Around her 
 head was tied an old black handkerchief, through which, 
 in several places, her grizzly hair shot up like " quills 
 upon the fretted porcupine." She was slip-shod, and 
 stockingless — her dress drabbled and torn. 
 
 "Well," she exclaimed, not at all daunted at sight 
 either of the carriage or its owner, " what's all this rum- 
 pus — what do you want, that you knock a body's house 
 down about their ears ?" 
 
172 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 " Is there a Mrs. Oakly lives here ?" inquired the gen- 
 tleman, involuntarily retreating a step or two. 
 
 " "Well, if there is — what do you want ?" said the 
 woman, surlily. 
 
 '' That is my business," answered Mr. Oakly, looking 
 daggers. " If there is such a woman here I must speak 
 wuih her." 
 
 " Then go round to the other door, and knock that 
 down too," replied the waiman. " Eh, maybe you are 
 one of her husband's relations. I've heard tell he had 
 powerful rich ones." 
 
 Mr. Oakly turned away w^ithout deigning reply to this 
 half interrogatory. 
 
 " £/i," she continued, her voice becoming shriller and 
 shriller, " and a plaguy proud set you are. Til be bound. 
 You can ride in your coach, can you, and let your brother, 
 as maybe he was, die on straw. Ho-oo-t /" she shrieked, 
 her face inflamed with anger, as she found her taunts 
 unnoticed, " ho-oo-t away with you oti' my door-steps — 
 did you ever hear of Dives and Lazarus ? Your gold 
 wont keep your back from scorching, old Dives. Faith 
 I should like to have the basting of you myself!" Say- 
 ing which she boxed the ears of the nearest unlucky 
 wight -who stood grinning with the rest at her eloquence, 
 and then giving him a shake, which nearly sent his head 
 off, she slammed the door, and retreated. 
 
 Her last words were inaudible to the person they were 
 intended for. Glad to escape from such a s'irago, he had 
 hastily bent his steps around to the back entrance of the 
 domicil. Here he knocked several times, but as no 
 answer was given, he ventured at length to lift the latch, 
 and enter. 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 173 
 
 It was a low, dark room in which he found himself, 
 little better than a cellar. I fancy it would have been 
 impossible even for those who dwell upon the charms 
 and romance of poverty, and who, with well-fed 
 stomachs, in slippered ease, on Turkey carpets, descant 
 so eloquently upon this theme, to have found aught 
 charming here. The floor was broken and uneven ; two 
 low windows, which could only boast of three whole 
 panes between them, the rest being patched with paper, 
 or their places supplied by rags, through which the rain 
 had forced its way, and now trickled in long streams 
 across the floor. There were two chairs, a low bedstead, 
 miserably furnished, a pine table, and some few articles 
 of crockery and cooking utensils of the poorest kind. 
 
 Upon an old quilt, thrown down upon the floor in one 
 corner of the'room, two little children, entwined in each 
 other's arms, were sleeping. At this sight the knees of 
 Mr. Oakly trembled, his teeth chattered, and for a mo- 
 ment he leaned for support against the wall — for a voice 
 seemed whispering in his ear, " Look, wretch! thy broth- 
 er's children — this is thy woric .'" 
 
 And perhaps it will be as well here as elsewhere, here, 
 in the scene of that brother's death, to relate the events 
 which led to so sad an end. 
 
 In Mr. Alfred Oakly's summary of his brother's life, 
 there was some truth, but not the whole truth. John 
 was the favorite of his father ; for beside that his mind 
 was of a much higher order than his brother's, his dispo- 
 sition and deportment were also far more amiable and 
 respectful. Mr. Oakly preferred not sending both his 
 sons to college, so he very wisely resolved it should be 
 the younger, as one whose talents would most honor the 
 
1T4 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 expense. This excited the envy and jealousy of Alfred, 
 and from that moment he resolved to work his brother's 
 undoing. It happened that at the same college — and in 
 the same class with John Oakly, was a wild, dissipated 
 fellow of the same name, who was continually getting 
 into disgrace. Accident furnished Alfred with this clue, 
 which he determined should lead to his desired wishes. 
 By degrees whispers of misconduct began to reach the 
 father's ears. Then came letters to corroborate these 
 rumors, filling the heart of Mr. Oakly with sorrow. Let- 
 ters, too, were continually being received, demanding 
 money, which, if forwarded, it is unnecessary to say 
 never reached its destination. Mr. Alfred took good care 
 of that; for, of course, the letters his father received, 
 purporting to be from his brother, originated in his own 
 wicked mind, while those actually penned by John, as 
 also his father's, were suppressed by the same crafty 
 power. 
 
 When Alfred first originated this scheme, it is proba- 
 ble he had no idea its success would result in so much 
 misery ; his desire was as much to be revenged on his 
 father, for his partiality to his brother, as upon his 
 brother for being the object of that partiality ; but when 
 once he had entangled himself in the meshes of deceit, 
 he could not break through without sure detection of his 
 wickedness. The father and son met but once after the 
 latter went to college. He was then received with cold- 
 ness and reproaches. Conscious of his innocence, John 
 was too proud to make any explanations, and left his 
 father's roof in bitterness. Soon after Mr. Oakly went 
 abroad, as wretched as his son, leaving Alfred, in sole 
 charge of his business. The constitution of John was 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 175 
 
 never strong; and no doubt the unmerited treatment of 
 his father hastened the work of disease. He commenced 
 the practice of the law, but in pleading his first cause, 
 unfortunately ruptured a blood-vessel, and was borne 
 from the court-room to his lodgings in apparently a 
 dying state. Through the kindness and careful nursing 
 of the lady with whom he boarded, he at length partially 
 recovered ; or it may be that the beauty and gentleness 
 of Louisa, her only daughter, contributed somewhat to 
 his restoration. Certain it is, a mutual affection sprang 
 up between them, and, though in no situation to marry, 
 the death of her mother a few months after, by which 
 Louisa was left alone and destitute in the world, brought 
 the event about. 
 
 And now love and poverty were henceforth to bear 
 them company on their life-journey — for a final blow 
 was put to any expectation which John might have 
 indulged secretly of a reconciliation with his father, 
 through the machinations of his brother. It seems the 
 other John Oakly had, in the meanwhile, absconded with 
 a girl of low character. Of this fact Alfred availed him- 
 self, and communicated the same to his credulous father, 
 who immediately wrote to his youngest son, that unless 
 he renounced at once, and forever, the disgraceful con- 
 nection, he would disinherit him. This letter, as refer- 
 ring to his darling Louisa, the most amiable and lovely 
 of wives, filled John with indignation, and anger. He 
 answered the letter in terms which nothing but his feel- 
 ings as a husband could excuse — and the rupture was 
 complete. Mr. Oakly soon after returned home in mise- 
 rable health, and died, cutting off John entirely in his 
 will, and leaving the whole of his property to Alfred. 
 
176 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 This event the latter communicated to his brother, gen- 
 erously enclosing a ffty dollar note, with the assurance 
 that as his father had died so incensed against him, out 
 of respect to that father's memory he must decline all 
 further intercourse with him. 
 
 AVhen sickness and poverty meet, the path of life's 
 pilgrimage is hard. Too unwell to practice his profes- 
 sion, John attempted writing, but this at best was preca- 
 rious, beside that the exertion again brought on pain in 
 the side, and difficulty of breathing. He had fine talents, 
 and had health permitted, no doubt might have succeeded 
 as a writer. Sometimes he would dictate, and his faith- 
 ful Louisa commit his ideas to paper ; but this could not 
 continue. New and precious cares were added, which 
 required all her time, so that this resource was aban- 
 doned. He soon grew so feeble as to be unable to leave 
 his room. A kind physician recommended country-air, 
 and through his assistance the unfortunate couple, with 
 their two little ones, were enabled to reach a small 
 country town. Here living would be cheaper, and hope 
 whispered to Louisa that by industry and economy, she 
 might support comfortably her dear husband and little 
 ones. Poor girl! on offering herself as a seamstress, the 
 good people looked at her vvrith surprise — they did all 
 their own sewing. She oflered to teach painting or 
 music, at very low rates ; but they laughed at her, and 
 wondered what she thought they wanted of such foolish 
 fashions. At last she was thankful, for her children's 
 sake, to be employed even in the most menial offices, if 
 thereby she might get them bread. Once did John 
 Oakly address a letter to his brother, in which he stated 
 his ill-health and destitution. It was never answered. 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 1T7 
 
 Again, on his death-bed, did he give to the clergyman 
 who attended his last moments his brother's address, re- 
 questing him to write when he should be no more, and 
 crave that assistance for his babes, which, while he lived, 
 was refused to him. 
 
 The result of this appeal is already known. 
 
 The unfortunate widow met with little sympathy from 
 her rough neighbors. Not that they meant unkindness 
 or uncharitableness, but each one was too busy with 
 their ow:n affairs to give more than a chance thought to 
 a poor widow and a stranger. They were themselves 
 industrious and frugal ; and it was difficult for her even 
 to get a day's work from such economical, thrifty people. 
 
 And hither now had the rich man come — and on what 
 errand ? Not to sympathize — not to succor or relieve, 
 but to prosecute his own selfish views, both cruel and 
 unnatural. 
 
 But to return. We left Mr. Alfred Oakly gazing 
 upon his brother's sleeping babes. The opening of a 
 door aroused him ; he turned, and the wan countenance 
 of the widow met his view. She did not look to be more 
 than three-and-twenty. She was tall, and her figure 
 slender and delicate, but her small feet were bare, her 
 garments coarse. On her sunken cheeks there was no 
 trace of color, and the lines of suffering too plainly drawn 
 around her beautiful mouth. Her dark eyes were large, 
 but their brilliancy dimmed by tears of sorrow, and her 
 long, raven hair — that splendid hair that had once been 
 the admiration of all — was now combed carelessly back 
 from her high brow, and concealed by a plain muslin 
 cap. The man of the world was abashed, and the widow 
 the first to break the silence. 
 
178 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 " I presume I speak to Mr. Alfred Oaldy," she said. 
 
 The gentleman bowed, but had his life depended upon 
 utterance, he could not have spoken. Their mother's 
 voice, though low, at once aroused the sleeping inno- 
 cents, and springing from their hard couch, they bounded 
 to meet her. At sight of a stranger, however, the 
 youngest, not two years old, hid her face in the folds of 
 her mother's dress, but the elder looked up inquiringly 
 into his face, and then raising herself on her little toes, 
 and putting back her sunny ringlets, said, " Me will tiss 
 you." 
 
 Mr. Oakly did stoop to those little rosy lips, and even 
 lifted the little creature for a moment in his arms ; but 
 that was all — he placed her on the floor again, as cold, 
 as unimpassioned as ever. 
 
 This little scene overcame the fortitude of the mother ; 
 folding both little ones to her bosom, she burst into tears, 
 and for many moments wept bitterly. This gave Mr. 
 Oakly time to recover himself. He would fain have 
 believed the tears of the widow called forth more for 
 effect than for real grief; but there was something too 
 lofty and pure in her pale countenance to encourage such 
 base thoughts. At length feeling himself ^bound to say 
 something by way of consolation, in a husky, faltering 
 voice, he began. The words " we must all die — sorry — 
 death — unfortunate — in heaven — " being alone intelligi- 
 ble. 
 
 As if indignant with herself for having given way to 
 her feelings in the presence of one so heartless, Mrs. 
 Oakly instantly dried her tears, and with something of 
 scorn on her features, listened to this lip-language — for 
 well she knew the heart had little to do with it. 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 179 
 
 " I have come here," he continued, " as the near rela- 
 tive of your late husband, to remove you from this miser- 
 able spot. You must leave this place, madam ; it is 
 entirely too poor and wretched for you." 
 
 " Wretched and poor as it is, on that bed your brother 
 died !" said the widow, pointing as she spoke to the low, 
 miserable bedstead. 
 
 Mr. Oakly was evidently put down. After a moment's 
 silence he added, 
 
 " It is my intention, as my brother's widow, to treat 
 you with every kindness." 
 
 " Your kindness, sir, comes late," replied Mrs. Oakly, 
 " and will prove but thankless. He whom it should 
 have rescued from the grave, is now beyond your cruelty; 
 and to me, therefore, your kindness, as you term it, is 
 little else than cruel." 
 
 The brow of Mr. Oakly contracted with anger, but the 
 object he had in view was too important to be thwarted 
 by a woman's reproaches ; so, dissembling his mortifica- 
 tion, he continued. 
 
 *' I wish you to remove from here at once to a pleasant 
 town which I shall name to you ; and it is also my desire 
 and intention to adopt your youngest child as my own." 
 
 " Separate me from my children ! No, that you shall 
 never do ! " cried the widow, pressing them to her 
 bosom. 
 
 " Do not be so hasty in your decision, my dear 
 madam," said Mr. Oakly, blandly, "but listen to me 
 with reason. This child shall be most tenderly and care- 
 fully brought up. My wife will love her as her own ; 
 and her education shall be the best which the city can 
 give. You yourself shall not only live in comfort, but 
 
 I 
 
180 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 also have ample means to educate your other daughter 
 as you could wish. Nay, more; I do not ask you to 
 give me your daughter without an equivalent. Now," 
 continued he, drawing his chair still closer to Mrs. 
 Oakly, and taking her hand, " P want you to listen to 
 me — neither do I wish you to give me an answer to- 
 night; you shall have time to reflect upon my proposi- 
 tion, and to consider well the immense benefit which will 
 result to yourself from conceding to my wishes, or, in 
 case of refusal, the poverty and wretchedness which will 
 still surround you and these poor babes, aggravated, per- 
 haps, by the thought that you might have spared their 
 tender frames, but would not." 
 
 The countenance of the widow flushed with indigna- 
 tion ; she spoke not, however, but turning her full dark 
 eye upon him, prepared to hear what further this man 
 had to say. 
 
 " It has pleased the Almighty," he continued, " to 
 give me one child, now nearly three years of age ; but 
 this child he has blasted with the most hopeless deformi- 
 ty. You have two beautiful children — then give me one, 
 and receive to your maternal care my poor, blighted 
 Agatha." 
 
 " And are you 2i father ! and can you talk thus easily 
 of severing the holy bond of parent and child !" inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Oakly. "Have you not a wife — is there no 
 mother to be consulted in your most unnatural scheme !" 
 
 " Yes — an unhappy mother; but she has already con- 
 sented. Aware that in perfect retirement her poor child 
 can alone know happiness, she is willing to yield her up 
 to your gentle treatment, and will in return bestow her 
 love and tenderness upon your own babe. Reflect, you 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 181 
 
 will still have one lovely child to console you, while the 
 future welfare of both your children will be secured by 
 the sacrifice ; furthermore, there will be the heartfelt 
 pleasure of knowing that through your watchful care an 
 unfortunate being is made happy." 
 
 "Do you know aught of the pleasures of duty^ that 
 you talk so feelingly ?" said the widow, scornfully. 
 
 " Nay, reproach me not thus ; look at your two chil- 
 dren, those little beings confided to your care — can you 
 see their little frames wasted by hunger, or sinking 
 through toil ; or, should you die, what then is there for 
 them but a cold and bitter lot of poverty and death — or 
 maybe a fate worse than death. You shudder; then 
 why hesitate, when by simply yielding to my wishes 
 you are all made comfortable and happy. I see you are 
 moved. I have but one stipulation to make, should you 
 consent, as I think you will ; it may alarm you at first, 
 but upon reflection you will see its propriety. It is this 
 — you are to promise solemnly never to claim your child, 
 but to acknowledge poor Agatha to be yours, and never, 
 on any account or any emergency, divulge this important 
 secret. Do not answer me," said he, hastily, as he saw 
 the widow was about to speak; " take time to consider 
 my views — I will call at an early hour in the morning 
 for your reply. Good night !" Then kissing the half- 
 frightened children, the plausible brother of poor John 
 Oakly softly closed the door, and once more entering his 
 carriage, returned to the inn. 
 
 It is difficult to conceive the pain and agitation with 
 which this interview filled the breast of the poor widow. 
 Doubts distracted her ; and decision either way filled her 
 with dread. One moment she resolved to spurn the 
 
182 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 offered ransom from pov^erty, the next, as her eyes dwelt 
 on her helpless little ones, doomed by such decision to 
 years of toil and want, she wavered, and almost con- 
 sented to part forever with her darling Louisa, if by the 
 sacrifice their comfort might be secured. Then her 
 mind wandered to the poor, cast-off Agatha, whom, per- 
 haps, cruelty and harshness might destroy. She had 
 well divined the father's selfishness, and should she 
 refuse the charge, he might entrust her to other hands 
 less faithful — for already she felt her heart warm toward 
 the unfortunate. 
 
 Unconscious of their mother's distress, the children had 
 once more fallen asleep. Softly removing the little arm 
 of the youngest from her neck, she carefully placed them 
 on her humble bed, and then kneeling down beside them, 
 she prayed that strength and resolution might be given 
 her that she might decide justly and wisely. Mournfully 
 the wind sighed around that dismal dwelling ; the rain 
 beat against the shattered windows — but she heard it not, 
 knew it not. Through that long, long night, without 
 lamp or food, unto the dawning of another dismal day, 
 the widow remained on her knees by the bed-side of her 
 beloved children. Years seemed added unto her by the 
 sufferings of that night. 
 
 Her decision was made — made with an anguish which 
 mocks at consolation. 
 
 Blame her not, fond mother, as, surrounded by all the 
 comforts of life, you fondly circle your own dear babes to 
 your bosom, and think no power but death can separate 
 you from them. Blame her not, that in poverty and 
 destitution, in forlornness and widowhood, to save her 
 poor infants from a lot so wretched, she at length with 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 183 
 
 grief too deep for tears, decided to yield up forever to 
 another^ her youngest born — her darling Louisa. 
 
 To a pleasant seaport town, many miles distant from 
 the scene of the preceding chapter, and still further 
 removed from the residence of Mr. Oakly, our story now 
 takes us. We must allow, too, for a flight of years, 
 which shall be as noiseless as those circling so swiftly 
 around the head of the young and happy. 
 
 With the exception of one long street, consisting 
 mostly of mechanics' shops, a few stores, a ropewalk, 
 and a tavern, the dwellings, clustered here and there in 
 a most picturesque and delightful manner. The land 
 rising rather abruptly a few rods from the shore, and 
 slightly undulating, gave to each little cottage a distinct 
 and pretty appearance, each with its little garden-plot 
 of bright-green vegetables and brilliant flowers, some 
 half-hidden behind the huge brown trunks of forest- 
 trees, others mantled with the vine or honey-suckle. 
 To the south and west, the horizon rested upon the 
 bosom of the majestic ocean ; northward towered hill on 
 hill until the blue sky kissed their dark summits ; 
 while to the east stretched a beautiful vista of finely 
 cultivated fields, and glowing orchards, with the spires 
 of distant villages proclaiming — God above all ! 
 
 It was the hour of noon, on a bright June day. A 
 band of happy, sportive children were just let loose 
 from school, and with whoop and huzza, with careless 
 laugh, and merry song, away bounded the gay young 
 things, happy that the four brick walls of A B C-dom 
 were behind them, yet now and then glancing back with 
 a look of fondness to their school-mistress, as she slowly 
 
184 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFOEMED. 
 
 crossed the play-ground to her own residence. In the 
 path before her gayly frolicked a beautiful girl of per- 
 haps ten summers, the very embodiment of health and 
 innocence, skipping, dancing onward, light as any fairy, 
 or with sunny smiles bounding back with a flower and a 
 kiss for the child her mother was so tenderly assisting. 
 This poor little creature was not only very lame, but 
 was terribly hunchbacked, and otherwise deformed. Al- 
 though really older than little Ruth Oakly, (for in the 
 school-mistress the reader finds the widow,) she was not 
 taller than most children at five. One little hand was 
 clasped in her mother's, (she knew no other mother,) 
 who, with the most tender care, guarded her steps, now 
 and then, as the eyes of the child were lifted to hers, 
 stooping down to kiss her, and encouraging her in the 
 most endearing terms. The other hand held a wreath 
 of flowers, which she had woven for her dear sister 
 Ruth. 
 
 As they entered the gate opening upon the nicely 
 graveled walk leading up to the cottage-door, Ruth ran 
 and brought a little arm-chair on rollers, softly cushioned, 
 and placed it on the grass beneath the shadow of a large 
 apple-tree, whose pendant branches, nestling down amid 
 the sweet clover, thus formed a beautiful bower for the 
 children's sports. 
 
 " There, Gatty," cried Ruth, flinging herself down at 
 her feet among the clover, " now let's play the story you 
 were reading this morning. You shall be queen, and I 
 will be the little girl that was never happy ; would it be 
 wrong, Gatty, to play you were never happy — would it 
 be telling a lie ; for you know, Gatty, dear, I am very, 
 very happy — are n't you ? " 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 185 
 
 "Yes — very happy," said Agatha, thoughtfully, "but, 
 Ruth, I cannot be queen, you know — how I should look ! 
 No, you must be queen ; and see, I have made this 
 pretty wreath on purpose for you. I will be the ugly 
 old fairy, and ma'rna shall be Leoline, that was never 
 happy — for, Ruthy, do you know I think dear ma'ma is 
 sometimes very miserable. I wonder what makes her 
 cry so ; for every night when she kneels down by our 
 bedside I can feel the hot tears on my cheek as she 
 kisses me." 
 
 " Ah ! and so can I — poor ma'ma ! " said Ruth, and 
 both children remained sad and thoughtful, the arm of 
 Ruth^-thrown across the lap of* her sister, whose little 
 hand, still clasping the wreath, rested on Ruth's shoulder. 
 At length Agatha spoke, but her voice was low and 
 broken. 
 
 " Ruth," said she, " maybe ma'ma weeps for me, be- 
 cause — because — I am not more like z/ow." 
 
 " How like me ? " said the little girl, raising her eyes 
 to the sad face bent over her. 
 
 " Why you know, Ruth, you are so straight and so 
 pretty, and can walk so nicely, while I — I — " 
 
 " You are a thousand times better than me, dear 
 Gatty," cried Ruth, springing up and throwing both 
 arms around her weeping sister — for it was almost the 
 first time she had ever heard Agatha allude to her de- 
 formity; "indeed you are a great deal prettier and 
 better. Oh ! how many times I have heard dear ma'ma 
 say she wished I was as good as you." 
 
 " Ruth," said Agatha, laying her hand on her sister's 
 arm, and looking earnestly in her face, " I atw a frightful 
 looking child, am I not? " 
 12 
 
186 THE "WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 " You, Agatha ! " exclaimed little Ruth, " yozt fright- 
 ful ! " O, no ; don't everybody love you, Gatty, dear ?'* 
 
 " Everybody is very kind to me," said the child, un- 
 consciously making the distinction — " but then, Ruth, 
 sometimes I hear people say, ' O, what an ugly little 
 thing ! ' ' Did you ever see such a fright ? ' and then 
 sometimes the children call me a spider, and say I have 
 arms like an ape, and cry, ' Hunch-Bunch, what^s in 
 your pack ? '" 
 
 " 0, stop, dear Agatha!" said Ruth, tenderly kissing 
 her, " don't talk so — pray don't ! it is only rude stranger 
 children that say so ; it is because they don't know what 
 a sweet, dear child you are." 
 
 " I pray to God every night," continued Agatha, " to 
 forgive them, for they don't know what it is to be lame, 
 deformed, and helpless; and I pray God to make m% 
 good and amiable, too, that J may forgive them." 
 
 *' Don't cry, Gatty, dear," sobbed Ruth, and then both 
 little heads sunk lovingly together in a paroxysm of tears. 
 
 When Mrs. Oakly came to call the children to dinner, 
 she was surprised to find them both weeping and sobbing 
 bitterly. There was never any concealment from their 
 mother; so Ruth, in a simple, earnest manner, related 
 the conversation between Agatha and herself. Mrs. 
 Oakly was grieved to find the mind of her hitherto 
 happy child dwelling on a subject so hopelessly calam- 
 itous. Raising the poor little girl in her arms, she 
 fondly kissed her. 
 
 " My darling," said she, " is it not better to be good 
 and lovely in your heart, than to possess the most beau- 
 tiful form, and yet be wicked, and have no love for God 
 and his commandments ? My dear little girl, listen to 
 
THE WIDOW Al^D THE DEFORMED. 187 
 
 me ; it was the will of the Almighty to strike you wiih 
 lameness, and to render your frame less pleasing to the 
 sight than that of other children ; but reflect how many 
 blessings he has also granted you. Suppose you were 
 blind; suppose you could never look upon the face of 
 your dear little sister Ruth, or your ma'ma's ; could not 
 see the beautiful flowers, nor the grass, nor yonder 
 ocean, which you now so much love to look upon, or the 
 beautiful blue sky above you ; or, Agatha, what if you 
 were deprived of speech and hearing. Ah ! my child, 
 do not sorrow any more, for you see how good God has 
 been ; you must not let the speech of thoughtless chil- 
 dren thus disturb you — will you promise me, Agatha ? " 
 
 " I will try, dearest ma'ma — I must not promise, for 
 I may be wicked again, and forget that God is so good," 
 answered the child. 
 
 Mr. Alfred Oakly had so far fulfilled the promises he 
 made the widow as to remove her from the wretched 
 spot where he had first sought an interview with her to 
 the home she now occupied. He had purchased the 
 cottage, which was pleasantly located, and presented her 
 with the title deed. He had furnished it neatly, adding 
 also a piano, and a small collection of books, to the 
 other equipments. Half yearly she recived a stipulated 
 amount of money, which, though small, would, with 
 economy, have been sufficient for her support, had she 
 chosen to avail herself of its uses. But this sum she 
 considered sacred to Agatha. In case of her own death, 
 she saw how utterly hopeless and dependent her situa- 
 tion would be, and she nobly resolved not to encroach 
 upon it any more than was absolutely necessary, for the 
 first six months. She therefore exerted all her energies 
 
188 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 to support herself and the children, independent of this 
 allowance. In this laudable endeavor she found the 
 piano one great resource. She gave lessons in music, 
 also in drawing and painting, and was engaged as 
 teacher in the village school, in which capacity she was 
 much beloved and respected both by parents and children. 
 Thus years rolled on. Although she still grieved for 
 her darling Louisa, and wept in secret those tears of 
 which none but a mother may know the bitterness, still 
 she was most fondly attached to the unfortunate little 
 Agatha, while the affection subsisting between Ruth and 
 the poor deformed was truly lovely to witness. There 
 could not be a much greater contrast than in the looks of 
 these two children, although their dispositions were in 
 perfect harmony. Kuth possessed a rich olive complex- 
 ion, with cheeks which might vie with June roses, they 
 w^ere so bright and glowing; her eyes were black and 
 sparkling ; and her raven hair closely cut to her beauti- 
 fully rounded throat, was parted on top of her finely 
 formed head, and waved over each temple in one rich, 
 glossy curl. Her figure, tall for her age, was light and 
 graceful. The complexion of Agatha, on the contrary, 
 was dazzlingly fair, save where dashed by the small, 
 violet veins ; her large, deep-hazel eyes possessed that 
 peculiar brightness and intensity which usually desig- 
 nates those who suflfer from like causes ; long ringlets of 
 light-brown hair, fell around her almost to the ground as 
 if to hide within their beautiful redundance the mis- 
 shapen form of their little mistress. But it was the 
 expression of her innocent face which called forth the 
 pity and kindness of every one ; that look, so gentle, so 
 confiding, as if pleading with every one to love her 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 189 
 
 though she knew how hard it would be to take to their 
 hearts a helpless deformed little object such as she was. 
 
 Incapable of joining" in the sports of other children, 
 Agatha devoted a great portion of her time to reading, of 
 which she was passionately fond ; and possessing a 
 retentive memory, she was better informed, perhaps, at 
 ten years of age than most children at fourteen. She 
 had a great taste for drawing and for music ; these Mrs, 
 Oakly had assiduously cultivated, knowing what a 
 source of comfort and amusement they would afford her, 
 and also contribute to draw her from dwelling too much 
 upon herself and her misfortunes, which would only 
 tend to sour and destroy her happiness. 
 
 From its proximity to the sea, and consequently ad- 
 vantages of sea-bathing, the village in which Mrs. Oakly 
 resided was, in the summer season, a frequent and 
 favorite resort for invalids. 
 
 There was a certain wealthy bachelor of the name of 
 Sullivan, who, for two successive seasons, had made this 
 his place of residence. Every one granted his claim to 
 invalidism the first season, but when with robust frame, and 
 fresh, healthy countenance, he appeared the second, people 
 shook their heads, and talked of hypochondriacs. By and 
 bye, it began to be whispered about that Mr. Sullivan 
 was often seen coming from the little cottage of the 
 Widow Oakly ; and at last it was asserted that he was 
 soon to bear off their good school-mistress as his bride. 
 This was all true. Mr. Sullivan was talented, agreeable, 
 good looking, and rich ; one who, in his youthful days, 
 need not fear the frown of any damsel, and who now, in 
 the prime of manhood, might still have won the fairest. 
 But the heart of the handsome bachelor seemed invul- 
 
190 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 nerable, for nearly forty years resisting all the charms 
 of beauty. He came to the sea-shore to restore his head, 
 and lost his heart. 
 
 " When I said I should die a bachelor, 
 I did not think I should live to be married," 
 
 thought he, blushing like a school-girl at his ridiculous 
 plight. 
 
 The acquaintance between Mr. Sullivan and Mrs. 
 Oakly commenced by means of the children. He one 
 da}'- met them on the beach as they were gathering 
 shells, and being always interested in children — a sure 
 sign that his heart was good — he stopped to speak with 
 them. The beauty and vivacity of Ruth charmed him, 
 while her unfortunate little companion filled him with 
 deep sympathy and pity. By and bye he found himself 
 thinking less of the children and more of the mother, 
 until in fact he made the astonishing discovery that he 
 was in love. 
 
 Mrs. Oakly, now in her thirty-eighth year, had pre- 
 served her beauty through all the troubles and vicissi- 
 tudes of her life. There are some forms and faces we 
 see, upon which time appears unwilling to lay his 
 withering hand — and Mrs. Oakl^^ was one of these. 
 The rose yet lingered on her cheek ; her eyes were still 
 soft and brilliant ; her mouth had not lost its freshness, 
 nor her teeth their pearly hue, while the dark hair 
 folded over her fine brow was as thick and glossy as in 
 the days of girlhood. 
 
 You may be sure the bachelor was not for any long 
 delay in the matter — that " Happy's the wooing that's 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 191 
 
 not long a doing," was precisely his idea — so he made 
 proposals at once, and was accepted. 
 
 The evening previous to her marriage, Mrs. Oakly 
 addressed a' letter to Mr. Alfred Oakly, informing him of 
 the event, though she entered into no particulars, not 
 even giving the name of her intended husband. All the 
 request she made was, that he would continue to place 
 the same amount of money which he had previously 
 forwarded to her, in some safe deposit, for the benefit of 
 Agatha; that should she survive those whose happiness 
 it was now to do for her, she might not be entirely 
 thrown upon the cold charity of the world. Not one 
 word did she breathe of her yearning for her own 
 precious Louisa ; she felt he would not understand her 
 if she did, so she coldly bade him farewell. 
 
 The marriage was solemnized in the widow's own 
 little parlor; after which, amid the tears and blessings of 
 the villagers, Mrs. Sullivan departed with her happy 
 husband for his beautiful residence near Lake George. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 We will now return to Mr. Alfred Oakly, and learn how 
 the world in the interim has fared with him. Pros- 
 perity at the helm, his richly freighted vessels careered 
 over the wide ocean, no devastating fires destroyed 
 his dwellings, no whirlwinds uprooted his forests, no 
 blight or mildew stole over his fields to nip the golden 
 harvest, and yet, with all this, there was many a beggar 
 who gleaned the refuse from his kitchen, who knew 
 more of happiness than did this cold, selfish man. In 
 the first place his wife had never recovered from the 
 
192 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 shock to her affections in being forced to yield up her 
 unfortunate child — not only her health but her temper 
 suffered severely. Toward her husband in particular this 
 change seemed pointed, and as much as she had loved 
 him previously her coldness Mras now proportionate. 
 Unhappily, too, for Louisa, the innocent cause of this 
 rupture, it extended itself even to her, and thus child- 
 hood, that rainbow-tinted period of life was to her 
 clouded and joyless. Her father, stern and morose, 
 secluding her from playmates of her own age — her 
 mother seldom greeting her with a word of affection or a 
 smile of encouragement — her caresses met by both with 
 coldness, and all the winning graces of childhood frowned 
 down with disfavor. Her education, however, went on 
 as though her frame were formed of iron. There was a 
 stiff governess, whose cold gray eye was ever on her, to 
 watch that she did not loll in sitting or stoop in walking 
 — that her toes turned out and her elbows turned in — 
 that she neither spoiled her mouth by laughing (little 
 danger !) nor her eyes by crying. Then came the music? 
 master with commands for six hours daily practice for 
 those little fingers — and the dancing-master, saying 
 " Ma^amselle, you must be very gay — you cannot never 
 learn de dance ven you do look so vat you call fat-i- 
 gued." Then came the drawing-master, and the pro- 
 fessor of languages ; nor were these all to which her 
 mind was tasked, for besides, were those branches which 
 her governess professed to teach — her governess, Miss 
 Pinchem, with whom in comparison Miss Blimber of 
 Blimber Hall would have shrunk into insignificance ! 
 
 Poor little Louisa ! 
 
 She would sometimes wonder if the little children she 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 193 
 
 read of in the Bible had to learn all such things to make 
 them good — for Miss Pinchem was great on goodness — 
 always beginning and ending her exhortations with, 
 " Now, Miss Louisa, you must be good, and not raise 
 eyes from your book " — " You must play that tune with 
 more scientific grace, Miss 'Louisa, or you will not be 
 good " — " You must turn out your toes if you want to be 
 good^'' — "You will never be good if you don't pro- 
 nounce better " — in short there was a great deal of good- 
 ness on Miss Pinchem's wiry tongue, let people say 
 what they would, and though Louisa wondered what 
 made Miss Pinchem good ! " 
 
 No sooner had Mr. Oakly accomplished his object in 
 ridding his sight of the poor deformed, than he would 
 fain have held himself excused from all obligation to the 
 widow — but he dared not act out his wishes, fearful in 
 such case that she would claim her own, and thus betray 
 his disgraceful secret. When he received Mrs. Oakly's 
 letter informing him of her intended marriage, his ap- 
 prehensions were anew awakened. Could it be possible 
 she would keep the secret from her husband ? Doubt- 
 less she V70uld scorn the intimation that so unsightly a 
 child as Agatha was her own offspring, and thus to 
 preserve her maternal pride forfeit her word ! ! a 
 thorny pillow was that Mr. Oakly nightly pressed ! 
 How often in his dreams did the pale corse of his injured 
 brother rise up before him, and ever in its fleshless arms 
 it bore the shrunken form of Agatha ! But as month 
 after month rolled on, swelling finally to years, and 
 hearing nothing further from the late Mrs. Oakly, he 
 felt more at ease, so much so that he entirely forgot her 
 
194 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFOKMED. 
 
 request relative to tlie future advantage of his discarded 
 child ! an oversight very natural to such a man ! 
 
 Louisa reached her seventeenth year, and as the bud 
 gave promise so proved the flower, beautiful indeed and 
 lovely. Mr. Oakly was really proud of this ! He 
 mentally contrasted her light elegant figure with the 
 probable appearance of Agatha, and congratulated him- 
 self that he had not to bear about the shame of acknowl- 
 edging the latter ! Still, he did not love Louisa — strange 
 that he almost hated her for possessing those very attri- 
 butes of loveliness for which he had preferred her above 
 his own oti'spring ! 
 
 When Louisa emerged from the seclusion of the 
 school-room to the brilliant circles of fashion, she was 
 caressed, flattered, adored. Wealth and beauty tripping 
 hand in hand seldom fail to win favor, and brought a 
 throng of admirers to the feet of the heiress, who, how- 
 ever, did not seem easily moved ; and many were the 
 suitors to her favor who met with a kind but firm refusal. 
 But, beware, Louisa, your aflections will be held by 
 your tyrant father just as much enslaved as your person ; 
 and now, wo to you, should they centre where he does 
 not approve. 
 
 Moonlight, golden, twinkling stars, fragrant zephyrs, 
 sweet from the lip of the lily, soft music from tinkling 
 leaves, a murmur from the rippling river, and through the 
 winding shrubbery, slowly along the path tesselated by the 
 moonbeams, which glist through the leafy curtain, Louisa 
 is straying — but not alone. A youth is by her side, one 
 whose arm her own encircles, who clasps her willing hand 
 in his ; one whose whispers are of love, and to whom her 
 
THE WIDOW AND TEE DEFORMED. 195 
 
 own voice, gentle and low, speaks of hope and happiness 
 in return. 
 
 Ah ! foolish, foolish Louisa ! what are you thinking 
 of? Only a poor painter — and you in love ! True, he 
 has talent, worth, grace, refinement, but — no money ! 
 And you, unfortunate youth, why did you love this 
 beautiful maiden. Know you not that man of heartless- 
 ness and pride, her father, would gladly crush you to the 
 earth for lifting your eyes heavenward to his daughter ; 
 that he would sooner buy her winding-sheet than that 
 she should don her wedding-robe for thee! And yet, 
 even now, closer and closer are you both riveting the 
 chain, drawing heart to heart, which no hand but death 
 can loose. 
 
 It was the second summer after Louisa's initiation 
 into the gay world that the Oakly family were once 
 more assembled at Oak Villa, their annual resort during 
 the warm months of July and August. With no taste 
 for reading, a mind not attuned for meditation, and the 
 querulousness of an ungraceful old age gradually steal- 
 ing upon him, Mr. Oakly found the time drag most 
 wearily on amid those quiet groves. In this extremity 
 an idea suddenly flashed across his brain, which he 
 eagerly caught at, as it promised to relieve somewhat of 
 that tedious vacuum between those hours when such a 
 man and happiness may alone be said to look each other 
 in the face : viz., the hour of meals — and this was to 
 summon an artist to the villa, for the purpose of de- 
 corating the walls of the saloon with the portaits of its 
 inmates. He had not thought of it before, but, quite 
 luckily, it now occurred to him that he already had the 
 address of a young artist in his pocket, for whom some 
 
196 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 friend of struggling genius had solicited patronage. 
 Now he could kill two birds with one stone, as it were, 
 secure the plaudits of the world by taking the artist by 
 the hand in so flattering a manner, and at the same lime 
 pull away the drag from the wheels of time. He looked 
 at the card — " Walter Everison," — and to Walter E vert- 
 son did he immediately address a letter, requesting his 
 presence at the villa. 
 
 He came — a fine, handsome youth of three-and-twenty, 
 with an eye like an eagle, and hair dark as a starless 
 night — a dangerous companion, we must allow, for the 
 gentle Louisa. He was met with condescending af- 
 fability made most af^parent by the master of the house, 
 and by Mrs. Oakly, who seldom manifested much in- 
 terest in any thing, with cool indifference. No wonder, 
 then, that he turned with a thrill of pleasure tingling his 
 heart-strings, to the gentle Louisa, whose manners, at 
 once so courteous and refined, offered so agreeable a 
 contrast. 
 
 There are some, perhaps, whose hearts have never yet. 
 felt the power of love, who rail about love at first sight 
 as a theory too ridiculous to dwell upon — a chimera only 
 originating in the heads of romantic school-girls and 
 beardless shop-boys ; very well, let them have it so ; I 
 only assert that both Louisa and the artist, at that first 
 interview, were favorably impressed ; and that a brief 
 intercourse under the same roof cemented their young 
 hearts with all the strength of a first and truthful affec- 
 tion. Love (himself a sly artist) traced each on the 
 other's heart in fadeless tints. Sincere and unselfish 
 was the love which Walter Evertson had conceived for 
 Louisa ; a love which he intended to bury within his 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 197 
 
 own throbbing breast — for he dared not flatter himself 
 that it would be returned — she, the heiress of thousands 
 — he, the poor, unfriended artist. Vain resolve ! It 
 was the evening with which this chapter commences, 
 that, in an unguarded moment, he had revealed to her his 
 love, and received the blest assurance of her own in 
 return. But their cup of joy was even then embittered 
 by the consciousness that her father, in his cold, selfish 
 nature, would tear their hearts asunder, even though he 
 snapped their life-strings. 
 
 In the meantime the business which had brought him 
 to the villa was being accomplished. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Oakly saw themselves to the life on canvas, and now it 
 only remained to consummate his work by portraying 
 the features of Louisa. Delightful, yet difficult task ! 
 Mrs. Oakly had so far aroused herself from her usual 
 lethargy, as to insist that the figure of Louisa herself 
 should be but secondary in the picture about to be ex- 
 ecuted. She was tired, she said, of those stiff, prim 
 figures on sombre-tinted ground, looking out from gilded 
 frames with eye-balls ever coldly glaring upon one, and 
 would have a large painting of rare design and skill — 
 woods, fountains, birds, and flowers, to relieve the form 
 and face of Louisa from this dull sameness. Various 
 were the sketches brought forward for her approval ; and 
 whole days, which Evertson wished might never end, 
 were spent in vain endeavors to settle upon some one of 
 them for the purpose. Accident, however, at length 
 furnished the desired tableau — although it would be 
 doing injustice to Evertson to imply that he lacked 
 talent or originality — fine as were his sketches, they 
 
198 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 failed to please Mrs. Oakly, because — she would not be 
 pleased. 
 
 One morning Louisa strolled out alone, and uncon- 
 sciously pursued her ramble until she reached a beautiful 
 meadow fringed with fine old trees, whose branches bent 
 down to meet their dark, leafy shadows in the bright 
 waters of the Susquehanna. Birds were singing merrily, 
 butterflies sported their golden wings, and the grass- 
 hopper chirped, blithely leaping through the tall grass. 
 Here and there, where the rays of the sun had not yet 
 penetrated, were the gossamers of elfin broidery — mantles 
 dropped by fairies on their merry rounds in the check- 
 ered moonlight beneath those old trees ; there was a drop 
 of bright nectar, too, left in the cup of the wild-flower, 
 and the large, red clover-tops were sparkling with dew- 
 gems. I cannot assert that Louisa saw all the beauties 
 of this fine morning ; for, absorbed in pleasing thoughts, 
 upon which we will not intrude, satisfied as we ought to 
 be that the artist occupied a full share, she seated herself 
 beneath one of those shadowing trees, and resting her 
 chin within the palm of her little hand, most likely, I am 
 sorry to say, heard neither the warble of the birds, the 
 cheerful chirping insect, or saw the bright glancing river, 
 with the little boat which was just then dancing over its 
 silver ripples. 
 
 The sound of voices approaching in the opposite direc- 
 tion suddenly broke in upon her trance, and she then, 
 for the first time reflected that she had passed the bound- 
 aries of her father's land. The estate adjoining had 
 lately been purchased by a wealthy Englishman, it was 
 said. For many weeks repairs had been going on in the 
 old mansion, which for several years had been tenant- 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 199 
 
 less ; and the family were daily expected to arrive. 
 That they had now done so was Louisa's conclusion. 
 The voices drew nearer ; but, trusting to the thick foliage 
 for concealment, she remained perfectly still ; when ap- 
 parently within but a few paces of her the party stopped. 
 
 " What a lovely view !" exclaimed a soft female voice. 
 " I wish ma'ma had not turned back, she would have 
 been so delighted." 
 
 " It is truly fine," was the reply, in a masculine tone ; 
 "it is even more beautiful than the view from the lawn 
 we so much admired last evening ; what if you were to 
 sketch it." 
 
 " If I had only brought my crayons, I would do so 
 now. How lovely it is !" answered the lady. 
 
 " If you have strength for it after your long walk," 
 was the reply, " I will return for your portfolio ; here is 
 a nice shady seat for you — I will soon be back, but do 
 not ramble away from this spot." 
 
 Louisa heard the retreating footsteps, and was about to 
 make good her own, when a beautiful Scotch air, very 
 sweetly warbled, arrested her attention. The song 
 ceased abrubily, giving place to a scream so loud and 
 shrill, as blanched the cheek of Louisa with the hue of 
 death. She sprang to her feet, and panting with terror, 
 emerged from her shelter into the open meadow just as 
 the scream was again repeated. She now almost breath- 
 lessly looked around to detect the cause of alarm. In a 
 moment she saw it all. A noble stag, having probably 
 leaped the park-palings, came bounding swiftly across 
 the meadow directly toward the spot where Louisa was 
 now standing, no doubt with the intention of slaking his 
 thirst at the tempting stream. The terrors of Louisa 
 
200 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 were at once allayed ; and she now hastened to the spot 
 whence the screams issued, to soothe, if possible, the 
 fears of the unknown. 
 
 Trembling with fright, and clinging to a tree for sup- 
 port, was a female, dwarf-like in stature, and deformed 
 in shape. Her countenance was deadly pale, and her 
 eye-balls, almost fixed with terror, were strained upon 
 the animal, as he came leaping onward. Ere Louisa 
 could speak he had approached within a few paces, and 
 as if now first aware of their presence, he suddenly 
 halted, arched his beautiful, glossy neck, and bending his 
 antlered head, stood at bay. Seeing how utterly helpless 
 was the poor unknown, Louisa sprung forward, and tell- 
 ing her not to be alarmed, quickly placed herself before 
 her ; but the noble stag, as if disdaining to war with 
 women, after gazing upon them a few seconds with his 
 wild eyes, suddenly turned, and tossing his head proudly, 
 trotted off in another direction. 
 
 At that moment how rejoiced was Louisa to see her 
 lover rapidly approaching, — for the stranger had already 
 fainted. 
 
 " Water ! water !" she cried, " quick, or she will die !" 
 
 Without speaking, Evertson rushed to the river, and 
 filling his hat with its cooling waters, was in a second at 
 her side. 
 
 " Poor girl ! she will die with terror, I fear. What 
 fine features, and what beautiful hair !" said Louisa, as 
 she swept back the long tresses from her neck and brow, 
 purer than alabaster. 
 
 In a few moments the object of their solicitude opened 
 her eyes. She could not speak, but pressing the hand of 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 201 
 
 Louisa to her lips, pointed toward a mansion just dis- 
 cernible through a dense shrubbery at some distance. 
 
 " Shall I bear you home ?" inquired Evertson. 
 
 The stranger looked her thanks ; and lifting her in 
 his arms as tenderly as if she were a babe, he proceeded 
 with his almost lifeless burthen in the direction pointed 
 out. 
 
 Thus met, for the first time, the discarded Agatha and 
 the innocent usurper of her rights. 
 
 The fancy of Walter Evertson seized at once upon a 
 scene so interesting as the one he had just witnessed. 
 No sooner did he part with Louisa at the door of the 
 saloon, than, hastening to his studio, he began sketching 
 the outlines of his truthful conceptions. Rapidly did he 
 hasten on his own misery — blissfully unconscious the 
 while of the sad termination of his labors. Never had 
 he wrought so well and so rapidly — not a stroke but told. 
 There was the beautiful meadow, with its brave old trees, 
 and the river gleaming through their branches ; the fine 
 stag, his antlered front bent toward the two females ,* the 
 graceful form of Louisa standing beneath the old oak, 
 shielding the terrified stranger, one arm thrown around 
 her, the other slightly raised as if motioning the animal 
 away. Love surely guided his hand ; for, without a 
 sitting, the artist had transferred from his heart to the 
 canvas the gentle features of Louisa with an accuracy 
 undisputable. Strikingly, too, had he delineated the 
 form and face of the deformed — her long, waving tresses 
 — her pale countenance — her large eyes fixe4 in terror 
 upon the stag, and her small, mis-shapen figure. Some- 
 thing, too, had he caught, even in that short interview, 
 of the features of Agatha. He could not, however, 
 13 
 
202 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 proceed in his task until it had received the approbation 
 of the master and mistress of the mansion. He had 
 purposely requested Louisa to be silent respecting the 
 morning's adventure, that he might, by surprise, obtain 
 the mastery over the whims of Mrs. Oakly, so hard to 
 be gratified. They were now respectfully invited to the 
 picture-room, together with Louisa, to pass judgment 
 upon his (to him) beautiful sketch. 
 
 To depict the scene which followed the withdrawal of 
 the curtain he had placed before it would be impossible. 
 Mrs. Oakly gave one look, and with a dreadful shriek, 
 exclaiming, " 3Iy child .'" fell senseless to the floor. Mr. 
 Oakly, foaming with rage, his face livid and distorted, 
 rushed upon the astonished artist, and in a voice choked 
 with passion, cried, 
 
 " Out of my house, villain ! Ha ! do you beard me 
 thus ! Who are you, that have thus stolen my secret, 
 and dare to show me that picture — dare to place that 
 hateful image before me ? Out of my house, I say, ere 
 I am tempted to commit a worse crime !" 
 
 Astonished, bewildered, confounded, Evertsori for a 
 moment could not speak, nor would the enraged man 
 hear him when he did. In vain Louisa, while striving 
 to restore animation to her mother, interceded, explained, 
 expostulated — alas ! her tears and agitation only betray- 
 ing to her father a new source of anger. Seizing her by 
 the arm, and bidding her seek her chamber, he thrust 
 her from the room, and then turning once more to the 
 artist, as h© raised the still inanimate form of his wife, 
 
 " I give you half an hour to make your arrangement^ 
 for leaving my roof — beware how you exceed that time ; 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 203 
 
 when you are ready, you will find the sum due you in 
 this cursed room — begone, sir !" 
 
 Without any attempt to see poor Louisa again, and 
 trusting he might be able to communicate with her in a 
 few days, Walter Evertson left the villa. 
 
 When Mr. Oakly next entered the painting-room the 
 money of the artist was still there — but the fatal picture 
 had disappeared. 
 
 A few years after his marriage, Mr. Sullivan took his 
 family to Europe, where they remained until within a 
 few months previous to the singular meeting of Louisa 
 and Agatha. 
 
 In a beautiful cottage on the borders of Loch Katrine, 
 their lives had been one uninterrupted scene of happi- 
 ness — always excepting the yearning of a mother's heart 
 for her lost child. The education of Ruth and Agatha 
 had formed their chief care, and was such as a kind- 
 hearted, intelligent man like Mr. Sullivan was proud to 
 give them, sparing neither money nor precept, and aided, 
 too, by the superior judgment and example of their ex- 
 eellent mother. Ruth had grown up lovely and amiable, 
 and at the time the family returned to America, was 
 affianced to a fine young Scotchman. Poor Agatha had 
 become even more unsightly in figure, yet retained all 
 the simplicity and amiableness of her childhood. What- 
 ever may have been her own private feelings upon her 
 unfortunate deformity, it was rare, indeed, that she ever 
 made allusion to it. When she did, it was with meek- 
 ness and resignation to her Maker's will ; for early in 
 life had Agatha given herself to Him whose love is more 
 precious than all earthly advantages. She seldom mixed 
 
20-i THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 with society, yet when she did, even strangers, after a 
 slight acquaintance, thought no more of her unshapeli- 
 ness. The sweet expression of her countenance inter- 
 ested, her intelligence charmed them. 
 
 When Mrs. Sullivan took possession of her new resi- 
 dence on the Susquehanna, little did she dream how 
 short the distance which separated her from her youngest 
 born ; and when Agatha related the fright she had 
 received during her morning ramble, and spoke with 
 such enthusiasm of the beautiful girl who had so nobly 
 come to her assistance, how little did she think whose 
 arms had encircled the trembling Agatha, whose voice it 
 was had tried to soothe her fears. 
 
 Mr. Sullivan avowed his determination of calling im- 
 mediately upon their neighbors to express his thanks to 
 the fair maid, and the gallant young gentleman who had 
 so opportunely come to the assistance of dear Agatha, 
 his pet and favorite. He did so the next day, but he 
 was too late — the house was deserted. 
 
 Agatha evinced much regret at the circumstance, 
 
 " How sorry I am !" said she ; " 0, I do hope we 
 may hereafter meet again ; the countenance of that 
 charming girl haunts me like a dream — so lovely, and 
 somehow so familiar to me — a stranger, and yet not a 
 stranger. Sometimes, ma'ma when you look at me as 
 you do now, I almost fancy her eyes are on me ; and 
 then again, only for being a blonde, it appears to me she 
 greatly resembled dear Kuth." 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan changed color, and evidently much 
 agitated, she inquired of her husband if he knew the 
 name of their late neighbor. 
 
 " I do not," was his reply, " and our servants are as 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 205 
 
 ignorant as ourselves. Ah ! here comes an honest lad 
 with berries to sell — and a fine tempting load, too. I 
 will ask him while I purchase the fruit." 
 
 As the boy measured out the berries, Mr. Sullivan 
 said, 
 
 " Well, my son, can you tell me who lives in the fine 
 old stone house just at the bend of the river ?" 
 
 " Oakly, sir — Squire Oakly we call him here." 
 
 " Quick, quick, father, ma'ma is fainting !" screamed 
 Ruth, springing to her side. 
 
 For a moment all was alarm and confusion ; but at 
 length Mrs. Sullivan slowly opening her eyes desired to 
 be led to her chamber. 
 
 " I will lie down a few moments — I shall soon be 
 better ; it is nothing — nothing," she answered to their 
 affectionate solicitude. 
 
 When alone, then did she give way to her joy. What 
 happiness ! her dear Louisa — her long lost was found. 
 She was good, too, and lovely ; her kindness to a stranger 
 proved the former, and the assertions of the grateful 
 Agatha the latter. She might now hope by some fortu- 
 nate chance to see her — they might now meet. 0, how 
 could she keep down her throbbing heart ; how would 
 she be able to refrain from clasping her to her bosom, 
 and avowing herself her mother. When she thought 
 she had recovered sufficient composure, she again joined 
 the family ; but it was almost as soon dissipated by the 
 conversation which followed her entrance into the sitting 
 room. 
 
 " My dear," said Mr. Sullivan, " do you know these 
 foolish girls are for making out a relationship between 
 themselves and our runaway neighbors — claiming a 
 
206 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 courtship, even if several degrees removed, to the fair 
 heroine of Agatha's story — can it be so, think you ?" 
 
 *' This Mr. Oakly may possibly have been some con- 
 nection of their father's," faltered Mrs. Sullivan. 
 
 " Had papa no brothers ?" said Agatha. 
 
 " Yes, one ; but some unhappy family disagreement, 
 however, prevented any intercourse. They were as 
 strangers to each other." 
 
 " What if this Mr. Oakly should prove our uncle. 
 Had he any family, ma'ma ?" asked Ruth. 
 
 " I believe — one — one daughter," was the almost in- 
 audible reply. 
 
 " Do not say any more," whispered Agatha to her 
 sister, " don't you see how it distresses ma'ma ?" 
 
 Mr. Sullivan had observed the same thing, and the 
 subject was dropped. 
 
 In a few days the papers announced among the list of 
 passengers sailed for Havre, the name of Mr. Alfred 
 Oakly, lady and daughter. 
 
 Another flight of years, and behold what changes in 
 the fortunes of Mr. Oakly. Adversity had at last seized 
 its victim, gorging to the full its revenge for those years 
 when its existence had been but as a phantom to the 
 wealthy merchant; he now felt its iron clutches to be 
 something more tangible than shadows. The sea had 
 swallowed his vessels ; flames had greedily swept over 
 his warehouses; blight had devastated his fields; failures 
 of firms he considered as good as the bank — nay, even 
 the bank itself failed ; and in the short space of one year,> 
 Mr. Oakly found himself stripped of all save a mere 
 pittance, which, with the most scrupulous economy, 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 207 
 
 could hardly support his family. The teachings of ad- 
 versity upon the cold, selfish heart, are sometimes blessed 
 with happy fruits. And thus it proved with Mr. Oakly. 
 
 True, the change was not instantaneous ; he lost not 
 his property to-day, to become a Christian, a philosopher 
 tomorrow. But as a drop of water will in time wear 
 away the hardest rock, so, little by little, were the flinty 
 feelings of his heart softened and purified. The wicked 
 and selfish deeds of his past life arose up before him, 
 each with its own accusing tongue. That fortune, for 
 which he had risked his soul, had crumbled away, but 
 these stood out plain and distinct, only to be effaced 
 through the mercies of One whose most sacred obliga- 
 tions he had violated. 
 
 Mrs. Oakly met this reverse of fortune humbly and 
 uncomplainingly. Happily, she was ignorant of the sin 
 of her husband, in having, like a second Cain, destroyed 
 his brother. Yet she felt that for another crime — the 
 disowning of his own offspring — the punishment was 
 just. Her own conscience, too, reproached her for the 
 unjust feelings in which she had indulged toward the 
 innocent Louisa ; and now, almost for the first time in 
 her life, she treated her as a daughter. 
 
 Kind, gentle, affectionate Louisa ! only that she saw 
 her parents deprived of many comforts which would 
 have soothed their declining years, she would have 
 rejoiced in a change of fortune which had brought with 
 it their love. In her heart there was a secret sorrow 
 which she might breathe to none — it was her love for 
 Walter Evertson. Never, since that fatal day, had she 
 seen or heard again from him ; but that he was faithful, 
 and vvould be faithful unto death, her trusting heart 
 
208 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 assured her. "When ease and affluence surrounded her, 
 this sudden separation from her lover, and under such 
 afflicting and inexplicable circumstances, had seemed to 
 paralyze her energies. Books, music, travel, all failed 
 to excite more than mechanical attention : but now, in 
 the sorrows of her parents, she lost the selfishness of her 
 own, and strove in every way to comfort them. 
 
 What now had become of the once proud merchant. 
 His name was no longer heard on 'change, unless coupled 
 with a creditor's anathema ; and summer friends, like 
 the sun on a rainy day, were behind the cloud. 
 
 It was a cold, cheerless day in December ; one of those 
 days when one hugs close to the fire-side, and when even 
 a glance at the dull sombrous out-of-door atmosphere 
 makes, or ought to make, one thankful for the blessings 
 of a pleasant fire, to say nothing of the society of a friend, 
 or the solace of a book. With all these comforts com- 
 bined, the family of Mr. Sullivan had assembled in the 
 breakfast parlor. There was the grate, heaped to the 
 topmost bar of the polished steel, with glowing anthracite ; 
 the soft carpet of warm and gorgeous hues; luxuriant 
 plants of foreign climes, half hiding the cages of various 
 little songsters, whose merry notes breathed of spring- 
 time and shady groves ; and the face of grim winter shut 
 out by rich, silken folds of crimson drapery. 
 
 The pleasant morning meal was already passed, and 
 the breakfast things removed, with the exception of the 
 beautiful cofiee-set of Sevre's china, which Mrs. Sullivan 
 was so old-fashioned as to take charge of herself, in pre- 
 ference to trusting it with servants. Seated at the head 
 of the table, a snowy napkin in her hand, she was now 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 209 
 
 engaged in this domestic office. Mr. Sullivan and Mr. 
 Danvers (the husband of Ruth) had just gone into the 
 study, to talk over some business affairs. Ruth had taken 
 the morning paper, and upon a low ottoman by the side 
 of her mother, was reading the news of the day — now to 
 herself, or, as she found a paragraph of peculiar interest, 
 aloud for the general entertainment. Agatha was re- 
 clining upon the sofa, and nestling by her side was a 
 beautiful boy of two years old, playing bo-peep through 
 the long, sunny curls of " Aunt Gatty," his merry little 
 shouts, and infantile prattle, quite overpowering raa'ma's 
 news. 
 
 " Why what can this mean ? " suddenly exclaimed 
 Ruth ; " do hear this ma'ma. ' If the former widow of 
 Mr. John Oakly (the name of her present husband un- 
 known) be still living, or the children of said John Oakly, 
 they are requested to call at No. 18 street, and in- 
 quire for A. 0., or to forward a note to the same address, 
 stating where they may be found.' What can it mean, 
 ma'ma?" 
 
 Without answering, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair; 
 she trembled in every limb, and her countenance was 
 deadly pale. 
 
 " Ruth, dearest," said she, " ring the bell, and order 
 the carriage immediately to the door." 
 
 " Ma'ma, you surely will not go out alone," said Ruth. 
 
 " Yes, alone ! do not disturb your father," answered 
 Mrs. Sullivan; " alone must I meet this trial. My dear 
 girls," she continued, " ask me no questions. God knows 
 what I am about to learn, whether tidings of joy or sor- 
 row; but I trust all may be explained when I return." 
 
 In a few moments the carriage was at the door, and 
 
210 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 tenderly embracing Ruth and Agatha, she departed upon 
 her anxious errand. 
 
 After passing through so many streets that it seemed 
 they must have nearly cleared the city, the carriage 
 turned into a narrow street, or rather lane, and stopped 
 at No. 18, a small two story wooden building. Mrs. 
 Sullivan alighted and rang the bell. The door was 
 opened by a little servant-girl, to whom she handed a 
 card, on which she had written with a trembling hand, 
 " A person wishes to speak with A. O." 
 
 In a few moments the girl returned and ushered her up 
 stairs into a small parlor. Her fortitude now nearly for- 
 sook her, and it was with difficulty she could support 
 herself to a chair. As soon as she could command her- 
 self, she looked around to see if she could detect aught 
 which might speak to her of her child. Upon the table 
 on which she leaned were books. She took up one, and 
 turned to the title-page ; in a pretty Italian hand was 
 traced " Louisa Oakly." Several beautiful drawings 
 also attracted her eye — they, too, bore the name of 
 " Louisa Oakly." But before she had time to indulge 
 in the blissful hopes this caused her, the door opened, and 
 Mr. Oakly, with an agitation nearly equal to her own, 
 entered the room. 
 
 Many years had flown since they met, and time on 
 both had laid his withering hand ; but while Mrs. Sulli- 
 van presented all the beautiful traits of a peaceful, happy 
 decline into the vale of years, the countenance of Mr. 
 Oakly was furrowed and haggard with remorse, and all 
 those evil passions which had formerly ruled his reason. 
 Quickly advancing, he extended his hand, and attempted 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 211 
 
 to speak, but emotion checked all utterance, while the big" 
 tears slowly rolled down his cheek. 
 
 " 0, speak — speak ! tell me — Louisa ! " cried Mrs. Sul- 
 livan, alarmed at his agitation. 
 
 " Compose yourself," replied Mr. Oakly, '* Louisa is 
 well. I have sought this interview, that I may make all 
 the reparation now left me for my injustice and cruelty. 
 You see before you, madam, a miserable man, haunted 
 by remorse, and vain regrets for past misdeeds. From 
 my once proud and lofty standing," he continued, glanc- 
 ing around the apartment, " I am reduced to this. Yet 
 think not I repine for the loss of riches. No ! were mil- 
 lions now at my command, I would barter all for a clear, 
 unaccusing conscience. Wealth, based on fraud, on un- 
 charitableness, must sooner or later come to ruin. I once 
 despised poverty, and cherished a haughty spirit toward 
 those I arrogantly deemed my inferiors. Have I not my 
 reward ? " 
 
 " But my child — tell me of my child ! " interrupted 
 Mrs. Sullivan, scarce heeding his remarks, " where is 
 she ? May I not see her ? " 
 
 " Bear with me a little while longer," said Mr. Oakly, 
 " in half an hour she shall be yours forever ! " 
 
 " My God, I thank thee ! " exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, 
 bursting into tears of joy. 
 
 " Yes, 1 yield her to your arms," continued Mr. Oakly, 
 " the loveliest daughter that ever blessed a mother, and 
 relieve you forever from the charge of an unfortunate, to 
 whom my conduct has been both brutal and unnatural. 
 Listen to me, madam, for a few moments." 
 
 He then as briefly as possible made confession of the 
 base part he had acted toward his brother, and the means 
 
212 THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 employed to ruin him with his father ; the selfish motives 
 which led to the exchange of the children ; related the in- 
 cident of the picture, and consequent removal from Oak 
 Villa — for well did he divine who the deformed was. He 
 then spoke of Louisa ; of her uniform loveliness of char- 
 acter, and the gentleness with which she had borne, as he 
 acknowledged, his oft repeated unkindness. 
 
 " She knows all," said he in conclusion, " and waits 
 even now to receive a mother's embrace. I will send 
 her to you, and may her tears and caresses plead my for- 
 giveness ! " so saying, Mr. Oakly quickly withdrew. 
 
 A moment — an age to Mrs. Sullivan — the door gently 
 unclosed and mother and child were folded in each 
 other's arms. 
 
 There are feelings which no language can convey — 
 and which to attempt to paint would seem almost a sacri- 
 lege. 
 
 In a short time Mr. Oakly re-entered, accompanied by 
 his wife. The meeting between the mothers was pain- 
 ful — for each felt there was still another trial for them ! 
 Mrs. Oakly now really loved Louisa, and that Mrs. Sul- 
 livan was most fondly attached to poor Agatha the reader 
 already knows. 
 
 " O she has been a solace and a comfort to me ! " said 
 she to Mrs. Oakly, " a more noble-minded — a more un- 
 selfish, pure being never lived than our dear Agatha I 
 believe me, to part from her will cause a pang nearly as 
 great as when I first gave my darling Louisa to your 
 arms ! " 
 
 Another hour was spent in free communion, and then 
 tenderly embracing her new found daughter, the happy 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 213 
 
 mother returned home — the events of the morning seem- 
 ing almost too blissful to be real ! 
 
 It was sometime ere she could command herself suffi- 
 ciently to the task before her. At length summoning all 
 her resolution she made known to her astonished hus- 
 band and Ruth the strange secret she had so long buried 
 in her breast. 
 
 Mr. Sullivan undertook to break the intelligence to 
 Agatha. 
 
 Poor Agatha was very much overcome, and for several 
 hours her distress was such as made them almost tremble 
 for her reason. Although the circumstances were related 
 in the most guarded and delicate manner, nor even a 
 hint given as to the motives of an act so unnatural as her 
 father had been guilty of toward her — her sensitive mind 
 too well divined the cause. 
 
 " Yet how can I blame them," said she, glancing in a 
 mirror as she spoke, " who could love such a being ! Ah, 
 forgive me," s*he cried, throwing her arms around the 
 neck of Mrs. Sullivan, who now joined them — " forgive 
 me — you — you received me — my best, my dearest, my 
 only mother — you took the little outcast to your arms — 
 you could love even the mis-shapen child whom others 
 loathed ! " 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan strove by the most gentle caresses to 
 soothe her agitation, and at length succeeded so far that 
 Agatha listened calmly to all she had to say, and ex- 
 pressed her desire to be guided by her in every thing 
 relating to this (to her) painful disclosure. 
 
 Almost in a fainting state was Agatha given to her 
 mother's arms, and at sight of her father she shuddered 
 and buried her face in her hands. 
 
214 THE WIDO^Y AND THE DEFORMED. 
 
 O the pang that went to the soul of her wretched 
 father as he witnessed this ! 
 
 " Agatha, my cJiiid, will you not then look upon me ! 
 will you not say you forgive me ? " 
 
 She extended her hand wet with tears : 
 
 " Father, I have nothing to pardon. I am not now 
 less hideous in form than when to look upon me caused 
 you shame and sorrow. In giving me to my dearest aunt 
 you gave me every blessing, every happiness, which this 
 world has for me — but do not, do not now tear me 
 from her ? " 
 
 *♦ O God ! I am rightly punished I " exclaimed Mr. 
 Oakly — '' my own child in turn disowns me ! " 
 
 '' Agatha," said Mrs. Oakly, " will you not love 7?i€ — 
 love your mother, Agatha ? " 
 
 Agatha hesitated, and her beautiful eyes streamed with 
 tears — 
 
 '• Mother 1 I can give that name to but one ! — ^ere 
 here is my tnother ! " turning and throwing her arms 
 around the neck of Mrs. Sullivan. 
 
 Not so was it with Louisa. Like a dove long panting 
 for its rest, she had at last reached that haven of 
 love — a mother's heart ! 
 
 Indeed so much distress did the thought of being sep- 
 arated from her more than mother cause poor Agatha, 
 that, fearful for her health, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan pre- 
 vailed upon her parents to take up their residence with 
 them for a few months, to which request they finally 
 acceded. 
 
 Soon after her first interview with Mr. Oakly, Mrs. 
 Sullivan presented him with a deed of the cottage, which 
 so many years before he had given her, little dreaming 
 
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED. 215 
 
 that any reverse of fortune would ever make him grateful 
 for so humble a shelter ! 
 
 " The rent," said she, " has been regularly paid into 
 the hands of a faithful person, who also holds in trust 
 the remittances which you from time to time forwarded 
 me. I placed them there for the benefit of Agatha, should 
 she survive me. It came from you originally — it is 
 again your own — then hesitate not to receive it from my 
 hands." 
 
 " Excellent, noble woman ! " exclaimed Mr. Oakly, 
 overwhelmed with emotion, " how little have I merited 
 this kindness ! " 
 
 Indeed, together with principal and interest, what at 
 first was but a trifling sum, had in the course of eighteen 
 or twenty years amounted to quite a little fortune. It 
 was now settled that as soon as the Spring opened Mr. 
 and Mrs. Oakly were to take possession of the little cot- 
 tage, and rather than be separated from their dear Agatha, 
 the SuUivans were soon to follow and take lodgings for 
 the summer months. 
 
 *' But, my dear madam," says the reader, " you have 
 entirely forgotten to tell us what became of the unfortu- 
 nate anist, the lover of Louisa, whom you appear to 
 think happy enough in her present situation without a 
 lover." 
 
 " no, dear reader — but this is not a love-story, you 
 know — if it were I would tell you the particulars of a 
 most interesting love scene between Walter Evertson and 
 his adored Louisa. Suffice it to say, they were mar- 
 ried, and that the picture which caused their unhappy 
 separation occupies a conspicuous place in their beautiful 
 villa, a few miles from the city of P— — . 
 
216 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 THE COUNTESS, 
 
 A ROMANCE. 
 
 ** Oh, the saints, what will become of us, my lady ! All 
 alone in this dismal old Chateau, and two gay young 
 officers billeted upon us. — O del, what shall we do ! " 
 And it was piteous to see the distress with which poor 
 Lisette wrung her hands and rolled up a pair of sparkling 
 black eyes. 
 
 With a look of surprise, the Countess raised hers from 
 the embroidery on which they were bent, and demanded : 
 
 " What are you talking about, Lisette ? Officers bil- 
 leted upon us — what mean you ? " 
 
 " Ah, my dear lady, you heard tlie drums this morn- 
 ing — ?no}i Dieu, a whole regiment has marched into 
 the village, and every house, even the good curias, is 
 filled with these terrible soldiers, and then they cannot 
 all find lodgings ; and so the cure has sent them to the 
 Chateau — and, oh, my lady, you will be frightened to 
 death, I know you will, for there they are already below 
 in the court, with their swords, and pistols, and horrible 
 moustaches, as if for all the world they had come here to 
 devour us ! '' 
 
 " This is indeed embarrassing, my good girl. Send 
 Jacques hither at once." And rising from her embroid- 
 ery frame, the Countess walked to the window which 
 commanded a view of the court-yard. 
 
THE COUNTESS. 217 
 
 Ah, no wonder the pretty young countess blushed like 
 a damask rose, as she looked down upon the two gay 
 chevaliers thus forced upon her hospitality ! — bold, dash- 
 ing soldiers — their splendid uniforms glittering with gold, 
 and their long white plumes floating on the breeze, as 
 they paced to and fro the broad limits of the court ! It 
 was, indeed, as she had averred, very embarrassing! For 
 ever since the death of the old count, her husband, she 
 had remained like the beautiful p'rincess in the fairy tale, 
 shut up in the chateau, seeing no one, save Father Am- 
 brose, the cure, and the faithful domestics who shared 
 her solitude. 
 
 *' How is this, Jac'ques ! " she cried, as the old man 
 tottered in ; "what is it Lisette tells me — is our chateau, 
 indeed, turned into a garrison? Methinks our good 
 father Ambrose has gone beyond the limits of forbear- 
 ance, in sending hither such guests ! " 
 
 " Ah, my dear mistress, pardon the good father ! " an- 
 swered Jacques, " he is half bewildered — and, indeed, the 
 whole village is turned topsy-turvy, by the marching in 
 of this regiment. Every house is filled, and some of the 
 men, I am told, have even to quarter in barns — les pauv- 
 res — boys are shouting, women and children screaming, 
 and then such a hubbub in the poultry yards. Ah, my 
 lady, no wonder the cure is beside himself ! " 
 
 "Jacques," said the Countess, "you must transfer 
 these chevaliers elsewhere — alone, as 1 am, it is impossi- 
 ble for me to receive guests of such a character under my 
 roof. Go, and look to it at once, my good Jacques." 
 
 " But, alas, Madame, they already refuse to go ! I 
 begged of them to retire from the chateau — I told them 
 with tears in my eyes, that my lady, the Countess, was 
 14 
 
218 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 young- and beautiful, and had not seen a soul since the 
 old count's death, now a twelvemonth, and " 
 
 " Jacques, Jacques," exclaimed the Countess, impa- 
 tiently, " you surely were not so absurd as to say this ! " 
 
 " Indeed, my lady, I did, for it is the truth ; and I cau- 
 tioned them to reflect how very disagreeable their pres- 
 ence would be to you ; and that, as you were a young 
 and charming widow, it would not be proper for them 
 thus to intrude upon your ladyship ! " 
 
 " Mon Dieu, Jacques, how could you be so impru- 
 dent ! " exclaimed the Countess, starting up, and pacing 
 the room hurriedly. Then, with something of a smile, 
 already chasing away the frown, she added, " well, mon 
 ami, and what said they to such forcible arguments ? " 
 
 " En verite, my lady ; one would have thought I had 
 related some excellent jest, by the manner in which they 
 laughed ; thanking me for the agreeable information I had 
 given them, adding, that they certainly could not think 
 of tearing themselves away from the Chateau, after the 
 many inducements I had given them to stay. Then they 
 handed me their cards, bidding me present them to your 
 ladyship, whom they doubted not, was as beautiful as an 
 angel — " 
 
 " Coxcombs ! " 
 
 " And with their most profound respects, to say, that, 
 however they might regret being thus forced to intrude 
 themselves, their necessities must compel them to de- 
 mand the hospitality of the Chateau." 
 
 *' Cool, at any rate ! " remarked the Countess, with a 
 toss of her pretty head. " These cards, — let us see who 
 it is thus honors us. ' Louis Auguste, Francois Belle- 
 garde, Colonel &c. &;c.' ' Eugene Montespan, Lieuten- 
 
THE COUNTESS. 219 
 
 ant &c. &c.' Tres Men, Jacques, we must see to the 
 entertainment of these guests." 
 
 The Countess mused for a moment ; then a saucy 
 smile dimpled her rosy little mouth, and mischief sat in 
 her large blue eye. " Jacques," she cried, turning sud- 
 denly to her old servant, " Jacques, it would not become 
 us to be inhospitable to the brave soldiers of the Em- 
 peror." 
 
 ^^ Ah, vous avez raison, — Vive VEmpereur ! " ex- 
 claimed Jacques. " Ah, I was once a soldier myself, — 
 yes, under the banner of " 
 
 " Never mind now, Jacques," interrupted the Countess. 
 " Conduct these gallant officers then to the east-wing of 
 the chateau ; be attentive to all their wants, let Adolphe 
 wait upon ihem, and bid him not fail in any mark of 
 respect due such distinguished guests. Let dinner be 
 served in the great banqueting hall; there — go, — and 
 send Lisette to me." 
 
 The old man hesitated, took a step toward the door, 
 then returned, played with his fingers, rubbed his eye- 
 brows : 
 
 " My honored lady — ahem — pardon an old man, but 
 these are no doubt, wild young scamps, — I — my lady — 
 I was going to say, — grace a Dieu — I think I know how 
 to wait upon these gallants, and so if you please, I will 
 serve dinner, for my lady, the Countess, in her private 
 apartment." 
 
 " Ah, my good Jacques," said the Countess smiling, 
 " then you think I had better not appear before these gay 
 gallants ? " 
 
 " Pardon, my dear mistress, you are so young and 
 charming." 
 
220 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 " Never fear, mon ami, only do as 1 bid you and listen, 
 Jacques, whatever I may say, or whatever you may see 
 me do, show no surprise. In an hour, I will in person, 
 receive our guests." 
 
 " But my lady, " 
 
 ♦' Well, Jacques ! " 
 
 " My dear young mistress, let me entreat, you will 
 not." 
 
 " Ah, my good Jacques," cried the Countess, laughing, 
 
 and playfully patting the old man's cheek, " be easy, you 
 
 shall see how soon these dashing chevaliers will fall in 
 
 love with your mistress ! Now go, and send Lisette 
 
 speedily." 
 
 '^ w "^ '¥^ '¥? ^ 
 
 " Come here, Lisette, — now can you be secret ? " 
 
 Lisette bit her lips, as if to caution them of what they 
 might expect, should they be tempted to blab, and folding 
 her arms tightly over her neat little boddice, protested 
 and vowed, she would be as secret as — as — 
 
 " As most women, doubtless," answered her mistress. 
 " But you must promise me, that no consideration shall 
 induce you to divulge the secret, with which I am about 
 to entrust you." 
 
 " Ah, my dear lady, you may safely confide in me ; I 
 betray my dear mistress, I prove unfaithful to your com- 
 mands ! The saints forbid ! I will not tell even Adolphe, 
 no, not even if he should give me those red ribbons he 
 promised to bring me from the fair ! " 
 
 *'Very well, Lisette, I think I may trust you, even 
 against so tempting a bribe, as a new top-knot," answered 
 the Countess. " As for Adolphe, let me see ; yes, Li- 
 
THE COUNTESS. 221 
 
 sette, I think we must positively let him into our secret. 
 And now tell me, Lisette, have you seen these officers?" 
 
 Quite in a passion, apparently, did this question throw 
 the \hi\e femme de chambre ; her eyes grew rounder, and 
 brighter, and her cheeks redder, and redder, as she pro- 
 ceeded to relate how she had just met them in the gal- 
 lery, as she was walking along, and singing to herself, 
 and not thinking or caring, she was sure, about them ; for 
 if they did wear epaulettes on their shoulders, and feath- 
 ers in their caps, they were not half so handsome as 
 Adolphe, she could tell them. " And then one of them, 
 
 my lady, swore I had d sh fine eyes, yes, indeed he 
 
 did, my lady, and then squeezed my hand, in such a 
 fashion, that — ha ! ha I ha I I warrant his cheeks tingle 
 yet, with the blow he got from it ! And then, the 
 other came up with a mighty sweet smile, and asked 
 me, if my lady, the Countess, was not the most 
 beautiful creature in the whole world, — and, may the 
 saints in glory forgive me, my lady, I told him No, — that 
 you were old, and ugly, and " 
 
 " Bravo, Lisette ! Well, and what said he ? " 
 
 " He only laughed, and chucking me under the chin, 
 vowed I had spoken falsely, for that if my mistress was 
 old and ugly, he knew very well she would never employ 
 so preity a maid. Ah ! I wish the chateau was well rid 
 of them ; for, would you believe it, this bold fellow then 
 said," here Lisette came close to her young mistress, and 
 whispered, — " yes, said he would run away with you ! 
 Mon Dieu ! run away with my charming mistress ! " 
 
 Was her young lady bewitched, or why that merry 
 peal of laughter ! Instead of the overwhelming indigna- 
 tion Lisette expected to witness, the Countess appeared 
 
222 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 to think the idea of being run away with, a capital joke ; 
 clapping her little hands, and even embracing the bewil- 
 dered /t'7«;?ie de chamhre in her glee. 
 
 " Eh bien ! Lisetle," said the Countess, at length 
 abating her mirth, " we must punish these gay gallants 
 for their assurance. You have unconsciously assisted 
 my project. Now remember, you are to be very secret ; 
 you are to do just as I tell you, and under all circum- 
 stances to appear perfectly unconscious that any thing 
 unusual is going on. Take courage, my poor Lisette ; I 
 warrant these gay fellows will soon turn their backs upon 
 the chateau. Now, come with me to my chamber, and 
 we will prepare to receive these cavaliers as they de- 
 serve. AUons ! " 
 
 ^ * ^ ^ "H^ T^ 
 
 In another wing of the old chateau were our two offi- 
 cers, whose unlucky advent had caused so much confu- 
 sion. Hungry as wolves, for they had tasted nothing 
 since daybreak, they were impatiently awaiting a sum- 
 mons to the sail e- a- 77111 ?iger. 
 
 Silly little Lisette had no need to trouble her head 
 about them I What if the gallant Colonel did press her 
 little brown hand, as plump as a young pigeon, or chuck 
 her dimpled chin : more did he care for the smack of a 
 fine fat capon, than for the rosiest lips in all France ; and 
 I'll warrant that the sight of a sparkling wine cup would, 
 at that moment, have filled him with more pleasure than 
 a glance from the brightest eyes he had ever pledged 
 therein I 
 
 '• W ill that infernal dinner bell never sound ?" exclaimed 
 Bellegarde, the gallant Colonel, impatiently. 
 
 You see, dear reader, the truth of my assertions. 
 
THE COUNTESS. 223 
 
 '* Patience, patience, mon ami^^ interposed his com- 
 panion, who, it is but justice to affirm, was gazing with 
 evident pleasure upon the enchanting landscape spread 
 out before him — not even the keen cravings of appetite 
 could blunt his appreciation of the beautiful in nature. 
 
 " Ma foi ! you may well preach of patience to a man 
 who has fed only upon sour bread and garlics for a 
 month ! Diable, Eugene, what has come over you ? 
 An hour since, and you were as famished as myself, and 
 now, with the air of a well-fed berger^ you cry ' Pa- 
 tience ! patience /' Methinks you must find the air of 
 this crumbling old pile vastly invigorating !" 
 
 Thus grumbled the Colonel — but the more he grumbled, 
 the more cheerful became his companion ; it was thunder 
 and sunshine at the same moment. 
 
 "Come, come, Bellegarde !" exclaimed Montespan, 
 " cease this railing, and tell me, what think you of the 
 very opposite portraits drawn of the mistress of these fair 
 domains which we have received from the lips of her 
 attendants ? Quoth the old steward — ' My lady is a 
 charming young widow, and beautiful as an angel ; 
 begone, therefore — you cannot enter here;' while, on the 
 other hand, that little vixen of a Jille-de-chamhre would 
 make one believe her mistress as old as my grandmother ! 
 What say you. Colonel ?" 
 
 "That I care not whether she be fair as Venus, or 
 ugly as Hecate, so that her viands be but tender, and her 
 wine old," replied Bellegarde, drawing forth his watch. 
 
 "Incorrigible gourmand!" cried his friend; "have 
 you then no curiosity to solve this enigma — no desire to 
 behold this wonderful woman, in whose person youth 
 and beauty, old age and ugliness are synonymous ! Ha, 
 
2:24 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 ha. ha ! mafoi ! I shall not soon forget the perplexed 
 and anxious look with which that old fellow, the stew- 
 ard, I suppose, enireaied us to continue our march ; the 
 very arguments he enforced defeating his own object ; 
 like a man in haste to arrive at his journey's end, first 
 laming the steed that is to bear him." 
 
 " And I will lay you a wager," interrupted the other, 
 his thoughts for a moment soaring higher than his stom- 
 ach, " that, after all, his picture is the right one. Yes, 
 yes, 7non ami, we shall find our Countess beautiful as an 
 angel. J\Ia foi I well thought of — eh, Euo;ene, am I 
 presentable ? The toilet of a soldier on march is but a 
 rough one for a lady's boudoir ; tell me, shall I not shock 
 the fair one by my bearish appearance !" 
 
 *^ N imporie,'' replied Montespan, laughing, ''attend 
 to her ladyship's mutton, if you please, and " 
 
 " Leave the lamb to you, you would say ; tres bie?i ! 
 agreed; now, hark! grace a Dieu ! there sounds the 
 dinner bell — a2Io7is ! and here comes our crusty old 
 friend to marshal us, I suppose." 
 
 Yes, it was Jacques at last, who bowing, conducted 
 our two friends to the saUe'd-7}ia7iger. 
 
 Jacques threw open the large folding doors leading 
 from the lofty corridor into the dining room. At the 
 same moment, as if governed by the same impulse, two 
 other doors, directly opposite, silently flew back, and at 
 the instant when the Colonel and his friend stepped over 
 the marble sill on one side, Lisette, assisted by her lover 
 Adolphe, appeared upon the other, wheeling in a small 
 couch, covered with black velvet, and over which was 
 suspended a canopy of black lace, fringed with gold. 
 
THE COUNTESS. 225 
 
 Beneath this canopy reclined an elderly lady, dressed 
 in the deepest mourning weeds. As her attendants 
 wheeled the couch nearer the table, she bowed coldly to 
 her stranger guests, and motioned them to be seated, the 
 one upon her right hand, the other upon her left. Her 
 hair, already silvery white, was parted smoothly on her 
 brow, brought far down over her temples, and confined 
 by a close widow's cap of plain while leno. Yet what 
 added greatly to the singularity of her appearance v/as 
 an immense pair of green goggles — so huge, in fact, that 
 they almost obscured even her nose ! 
 
 " The little shrew was right ; confound her black eyes, 
 how they twinkle," thought Bellegarde. " Ugly ! she 
 is a perfect ogress," 
 
 " Peste ! what stuff was the old man prating, about 
 his beautiful young mistress, the charming widow. 
 Widow ! ma foi ! Yes, and likely to remain so ; 
 heavens, what a fright !" soliloquized the Lieutenant at 
 the same moment. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the unconscious object of such 
 slanderous thoughts, " although we have for many 
 months eschewed all society, nor since the death of the 
 master of these domains have admitted other to our 
 presence than the few faithful attendants you see around 
 you ; we, nevertheless, bid you welcome to our chateau, 
 and to such poor fare as is in our power to place before 
 you." 
 
 Saying this with the most stately air, she motioned 
 Jacques to fill the glasses of her guebts, and merely 
 touching her lips to her own, gracefully bent her head in 
 token of the sincerity of her words. 
 
226 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 " Have we, then, the honor of addressing the Countess 
 D'Argentine ?" said the gallant Colonel. 
 
 The Countess bowed, but in so stately a manner as to 
 check all further attempts at conversation. 
 
 Bellegarde, however, soon buried his chagrin in a fine 
 venison pastry, and with copious libations of her lady- 
 ship's excellent Bordeaux, washed down his disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 Not so Montespan. All the delicacies in the world 
 would now have failed to tempt his appetite. Besides 
 he felt embarrassed — ill at ease in the presence of this 
 singular Countess, who caused herself to be thus borne, 
 like some effigy of sorrow, hither and thither upon a 
 funeral car. For as such seemed to him the sombre 
 equipage on which she reclined. How many thoughts 
 flitted through his brain ! 
 
 She was lame then — perhaps paralytic ! And then 
 those goggles — heavens, was she nearly blind, too ? 
 Perhaps she had but one eye ! perhaps she squinted ! 
 And drawing a long breath, the poor Lieutenant looked 
 another way. But, as if by some magical influence his 
 eyes again rested upon the Countess. 
 
 Her complexion, what little her hair, and those hor- 
 rible goggles left exposed, he discovered must have been 
 fine in youth, for it was still quite fair and smooth ; while 
 her chin might serve for the model of all chins — it was 
 really a lo^'e of a chin, and either her teeth were in 
 excellent preservation, or the dentist had accomplished a 
 chef d'cBUvre, when he supplied her ladyship's gunis. 
 
 He felt tempted to knock down old Jacques. Just as 
 if it was his fault that his mistress was so old and ugly ; 
 and as for Lisette, how he did long to shake her, looking 
 
THE COUNTESS. 227 
 
 at him as she did with such saucy, knowing eyes. In 
 fact, he was getting quite savage, when suddenly the 
 Countess, with another bend of her aristocratic head, was 
 borne from the presence of her guests. 
 
 The heavy folding doors silently swung together, and 
 they were left to their wine — alone, save Jacques. 
 
 '''■ Par (lieu V^ cried the Colonel, seizing the old man 
 by the arm, " did you not tell me your mistress was 
 young?" 
 
 " Oui, Monsieur .'" 
 
 " And very beautiful ?" quoth the Lieutenant. 
 
 " 0^^^, Monsieur — my lady is young and beautiful ; for 
 goodness like hers never grows old or decays." 
 
 " Bravo ! a sentence worthy of Fenelon ; your health, 
 old gargon.^^ 
 
 At this moment Adolphe entered with the compliments 
 of the Countess d'Argentine, and would be happy to see 
 the gentlemen in the drawing room. 
 
 "Pe5?e.?" whispered the Colonel, "I'd much prefer 
 the bottle ; an agreeable time we shall have, ma foi, with 
 the old lady. I leave her to you, Eugene, and will make 
 love to that arch little coquette, the maid." 
 
 -it, -^ ^ ■it, .il, -^ ^ M, 
 
 The immense drawing room was blazing with light. 
 There was, in fact, but one dark spot — it was the little 
 old Countess, still reclining upon that hearse-like appen- 
 dage, and half buried within the black velvet cushions. 
 At her feet knelt Lisette, with an enormous fan of pea- 
 cock feathers, which she waved incessantly, as though 
 her mistress suffered from faintness. Nothing could be 
 more recherche than the taste which marked the adorn- 
 ments of this splendid apartment ; no particular style, 
 
228 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 no particular date had here its portraiture, but there was 
 a grouping together of the rare and beautiful, most 
 charming to the eye. Here was music, too ; a beautiful 
 harp rested its golden frame against cushions of azure 
 velvet — a piano, its keys glittering in the mellow light of 
 waxen tapers, and, as if carelessly thrown by the same 
 fairy hand that had swept its strings, a guitar lay upon a 
 small table within a little recess, over which curtains of 
 crimson velvet swept to the floor. 
 
 " Mafoir' whispered the Colonel, with a shrug of his 
 shoulders, as his eye took in this brilliant scene, and then 
 glanced toward the black mass in its centre. " The spot 
 upon the sun ! Mafoi, our hostess well befits this tem- 
 ple of beauty ! But, allons, let us lay our laurels at her 
 shrine." Then with something of a swaggering air, 
 approaching the Countess, he attempted to pass off a few 
 witty compliments. Abashed and crest-fallen, he soon 
 fell back, for an empress could not have assumed more 
 haughtiness than did that same old Countess behind her 
 horrible goggles I 
 
 Montespan was not more fortunate in his advances, 
 and turning away, sought for amusement among the 
 numerous gems of art which adorned the walls. Leav- 
 ing all others, his eye rested upon one picture alone. 
 
 It was a portrait — the portrait of a charming young 
 girl, but so life-like, so fresh, so beaming with gladness, 
 as she stood there, the very personation of " heaven 
 y'clep'd Euphrosyne," that our chevalier involuntarily 
 opened his arms, as if to catch the nymph in the airy 
 descent she was about to risk. This charming por- 
 trait represented a young girl tripping beneath a broken 
 archway, as if in playful chase of the little fawn skipping 
 
THE COUNTESS. 229 
 
 and leaping before her over the grass grown ruins. A 
 robe of pure white, confined at the slender waist by a 
 scarf of pale blue silk, floated with airy grace around her 
 lovely form^ — save a narrow fall of lace upon the shoul- 
 der, her fair, round arms were bare — one little hand 
 gathering her robe above the tiny foot, just poised upon 
 a fragment of the ruins, as if to spring therefrom — the 
 other swept back from her beautiful brow the long, golden 
 tresses, wherein a few wild flowers were carelessly en- 
 twined. What could be more graceful than her attitude 
 — what more charming than her sweet, youthful face ! 
 Ah ! Montespan was very sure the world could not pro- 
 duce its equal ! 
 
 The Countess saw a great deal behind those goggles — 
 yes, and she saw the start of surprise which marked our 
 chevalier's first view of the portrait, and she saw what 
 an impromptu pantomine was performing before that 
 senseless canvass ! 
 
 A low, musical laugh broke the solemn silence ! 
 
 Could it have been that little, impudent^^ZZe de cham- 
 bre ! Eugene turned round. The Colonel turned 
 round. Well — the Countess was as motionless as a 
 statue, while Lisette, with a face half an ell long, was 
 sweeping the ponderous fan with the regularity of a 
 Chinese puntak. It must have been a bird — yes, it is 
 astonishing how some birds will imitate the human 
 voice, thought Eugene. And this reminded the Colonel 
 of music, so once more approaching the couch of the 
 ' dark ladye,' he ventured : 
 
 "Your ladyship, I see, is a patroness of the goddess 
 Melpomene — may I presume to inquire, do you play ? " 
 
 " When I am in the mood for music," was the reply. 
 
230 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 Another silence — and again the brave Colonel hazard- 
 ed a few remarks, which were met with the same 
 chilling reserve. 
 
 " You have really some exquisite paintings, Madame," 
 exclaimed Montespan ; " pardon my curiosity, but will 
 you have the kindness to inform me whether that beauti- 
 ful picture which hangs opposite, is an original portrait, 
 or some ideal sketch of the artist — if so, like Prome- 
 theus, he must have worshiped the creation of his own 
 genius ! " 
 
 «' Lisette, does the gentleman allude to the picture in 
 the oaken panel?" asked the Countess, without turning 
 her haughty head. 
 
 " Ah, oui, Madame." 
 
 " It is an original, Monsieur," with a slight, very 
 slight inclination of the head. 
 
 " Moil Bieu ! how lovely ! And, will Madame excuse 
 the liberty — this beautiful creature — she — she still 
 l-i-ves ? " 
 
 Another slight bow was the only response. The. 
 Countess then blows a small silver whistle — Adolphe 
 glides in, and stations himself behind the sombre couch 
 of his lady. Lisette, with a coquetish air, throws 
 down the fan, and stands by the side of her lover. A 
 slight effort — a gentle pressure — and slowly the strange 
 equipage moves forward — slowly — slowly, and with a 
 formal " good evening, Messieurs," the Countess D'Ar- 
 gentine disappears. 
 
 T^ *«• ^ -T?- * 
 
 " Ah, was there ever such a fright ? " quoth the 
 wicked little Countess, viewing herself in the full 
 
THE COUNTESS. 231 
 
 length mirror. ''What think you now, m}?- good Lisette, 
 are we in danger of being run away with? " 
 
 *' Ah, but my dear lady— c'e^^ dommage — you so 
 young — so charming ! del, ihat odious cap — that 
 horrid wig — ah, let me tear them to pieces ! " cried 
 Lisette, preparing to disrobe her young mistress. 
 
 " Carefully, carefully, ma honne — remember we have 
 need of this same odious cap and wig again." 
 
 " But these goggles — ah, mon dieu — suffer me to 
 break them." 
 
 " Not at all, Lisette — these goggles, too, must do their 
 duty." 
 
 Lisette assented, with very bad grace, to her lady- 
 ship's whim, and while she braided the long, fair hair of 
 her mistress, and prepared her toilet for the night, 
 continued to chatter about the handsome chevaliers, and 
 what a pity it was after all, that they should think her 
 beautiful lady was such a fright ! While the Countess, 
 it must be owned, hstened to the idle prating of YiQtfille 
 de chambre, with praiseworthy patience : 
 
 " Lisette, he is very handsome — heigho ! " 
 
 " The Colonel, my lady ? " 
 
 " Oh, no — the Colonel — he is very stupid ! " 
 
 " It is Monsieur Montespan, my lady thinks is hand- 
 some." 
 
 " Heigh-ho ! " 
 
 " Yes, my lady, he is very fine." 
 
 *' Such magnificent large eyes ! " 
 
 " Oui, Madame:' 
 
 " Such a splendid figure ! " 
 
 " Ah, yes." 
 
 " And so graceful ! " 
 
 " So graceful, Madame ! " 
 
232 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 "Lisette." 
 
 " Madame." 
 
 " No matter, — you may go." And resting her dimpled 
 chin in the hollow of her little hand, the thoughts of the 
 Countess got entangled in such a maze, as — but no 
 matter, — we must not betray our little heroine, — so good 
 night, charming Countess. 
 
 -^ ^ ^£f "^ 4te -^ 
 
 'Tr- •Tv' VP* 'Tv' •3^ "rr 
 
 "Ha! ha! mon ami, what say you now, to running 
 off with our fair hostess ! " cried the Colonel laughing, 
 and slapping Montespan upon the shoulder. 
 
 " Why, as the lady does not seem to have the use of 
 her limbs, I must give it up, Colonel." 
 
 " Good. But what a misfortune ; had this widow 
 been but young, and charming, we might have crossed 
 swords, for the possession of these fine domains." 
 
 " But listen, Colonel, — that portrait, tell me, was 
 there ever such an angel, such beauty, such sweet in- 
 nocence ! Ah, mon ami, could I but behold the heavenly 
 original." 
 
 " Charming,-^ — and find her grandmother, perhaps." 
 
 " Ah, impossible ; who knows, my friend, perhaps this 
 lovely being dwells within these walls. O rapture ! yes, 
 it must be so, the harp, the guitar, the paintings, the 
 books, all proclaim her presence; I tell you there is 
 some mystery here." 
 
 " Yes, yes, you are right, Eugene. Some step- 
 daughter, perhaps, held in 'durance vile,' through 
 jealousy, — some dependent niece, — yes, yes, far only 
 fancy the old lady at the harp, or sweeping the guitar ; 
 mafoi, the idea is too absurd. Allans, let us summon 
 Jacques." 
 
THE COUNTESS. 233 
 
 " Ah, Jacques, come in, Jacques. Charming old lady, 
 your mistress, you have lived here, I suppose, at this old 
 chateau, — fine place — beautiful scenery — I say, you have 
 lived here, I suppose, many years, good Jacques." 
 
 " Yes, you may say that, Monsieur, six and sixty 
 years man and boy, have I dwelt within these old walls ; 
 and never, until the death of my honored master, the 
 Count, had I cause of sorrow." 
 
 " But now, I suppose, it is difTerent — the Countess has 
 it all her own way, you understand." 
 
 " Non, Monsieur, I do not understand — but if your 
 honor means any thing disparaging to my beloved 
 mistress, I — I am an old man, but pardonnez-moi, I 
 should feel constrained to knock your honor down ! " 
 
 " Ha, ha ; bravo — no, nothing at all disparaging, 
 Jacques. She is an excellent mistress." 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur, she is the kindest, the loveliest, the 
 sweetest young lady." 
 
 " How — what — Jacques ! — young — ha, ha, come, that 
 won't do ! " 
 
 " Pardon me, Monsieur, I have known my lady ever 
 since she was a child, and I forget " 
 
 " Yes, you forget that you have grown old together." 
 
 *' Did your master, the Count D'Argentine, leave any 
 children ? " said Montespan, for the first time joining in 
 the conversation. 
 
 " Children — oh, no. Monsieur ; why they were only 
 married a few hours before my honored master breathed 
 his last ! " 
 
 " Then, whose portrait is that which hangs in the 
 drawing room, good Jacques ? " 
 
 •' That — why, that is the Countess herself." 
 15 
 
234 THE COUNTESS, 
 
 " Fl-donc ! That is impossible ; the colors are as 
 fresh and glowing as if painted yesterday, and it should 
 be more than fifty years old. No, no, good Jacques, you 
 mistake." 
 
 " Ah, your honor, just like that picture does my be- 
 loved lady look to me, even to this day ! " 
 
 " Then, by all the saints in the calender, I wish I saw 
 with your eyes ! But the harp, the piano, who plays ? " 
 
 " Why, my lady plays and sings like an angel ; a-hem, 
 I mean — that is — she did play like an angel." 
 
 " But her fingers are getting stiff — eh, Jacques ? " 
 added the Colonel, " no offence, Jacques — thank you — 
 thank you — good night." 
 
 A week — how soon it passed even in that old chateau 
 
 — and the little circle thus strangely thrown together, 
 
 became quite agreeable and confidently. The Colonel 
 
 sings 
 
 " Combien j'aime, 
 Hors moi-m§me, 
 Tout ici ! " 
 
 while he ogles Lisette, whose blushes and smiles, render 
 poor Adolphe quite beside himself with jealousy. He 
 also hunts in the forest, and drinks wine with his 
 comrades below in the village, where all is mirth and 
 jollity. Montespan, in the mean time, cannot account 
 for the strange interest which keeps him within the 
 chateau. He spends a great deal of time before that 
 mysterious portrait. He feels unaccountably attracted 
 toward the old Countess— at the sound of her. low, soft 
 voice, he becomes confused, and wonders why% isMP 
 much sweeter than any other woman's he ever hearlw^ 
 He is now almost constantly by the side of that funeral 
 
THE COUNTESS. 235 
 
 couch — he sometimes takes the fan from the hands of 
 Lisette ; yes, and more than once assists Adolphe to 
 place his mistress where she directs — it is such a 
 pleasure to serve so amiable an old lady ! 
 
 The reserve of the Countess rapidly wears off; she 
 condescends to converse agreeably. She is fond of 
 reading— so is Montespan ; it is surprising how their 
 tastes assimilate. Together they read Racine, Rousseau, 
 and the charming Sevignp, and the Countess is several 
 times thrown into an agitation quite unsuited to her 
 years. Montespan is a musician, too — he plays the 
 piano with superior skill, blending therewith the tones 
 of his rich voice. Sometimes the Countess is prevailed 
 on to touch the guitar— she certainly makes sweet 
 music; but it is an effort, she says, and she dare not 
 trust her voice to sing ; it is tremulous — [query, with 
 age ?) She begins to abhor that odious cap and wig, as 
 much as Lisette, and substitutes a pair of spectacles for 
 those horrible goggles ! 
 
 " Strani;e," said Montespan, one day, with his eyes 
 fixed on that charming portrait — " strange, when I listen 
 to the Countess, I sometimes forget, like poor old 
 Jacques, that she is no longer young and beautiful? " 
 
 Jt -5i- -Si- 4i- -Si- 44- 
 
 T" "TV- w •??■ "Tt- "TF 
 
 " You are not well this morning, my friend ! " 
 
 " Perfectly so, honorable lady ; but my regiment leaves 
 
 tomorrow." 
 
 " Tomorrow ; ah, so soon ! " and there was a slight 
 
 tremor 4'n the voice of the speaker. 
 ' " The thought of parting, perhaps forever," continued 
 
 Montespan, " with one to whom I am indebted for so 
 
 much kindness, fills me with pain ! " 
 
236 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 The Countess turned away her head, and Montespan 
 saw she grew very pale. 
 
 "Ah, it is you, Madanme ; you who are not well — 
 alas, you have exerted yourself too much ! " 
 
 " No ; it is only a faintness with which I am some- 
 times seized. I am better now." 
 
 For the first time, he ventured to take her hand — that 
 hand so fair and delicate — its touch thrilled him — he 
 carried it to his lips. 
 
 " Pardon me, estimable lady, your kindness to a stran- 
 ger has called forth feelings such as I never before expe- 
 rienced ! Helas, Madame, I am alone in the world — an 
 orphan from my earliest childhood. No mother's love, 
 dear lady, ever blessed me ; pardon me, but since I have 
 had the happiness of knowing you, I have for the first 
 time realized of what an inestimable treasure death has 
 deprived me ! Ah, Madame, that you were indeed my 
 mother !" 
 
 " Your mother ! A — h !" screamed the Countess, and 
 buried her face in her handkerchief — suddenly she be- 
 came convulsed — there was a merry peal of laughter — 
 then low, deep sobs succeeded. 
 
 " Oh, heavens, you are very ill !" exclaimed Monte- 
 span, not doubting the poor lady was in hysterics, " and 
 I — I have caused it ; Ah, quel malheur ! Lisette, — 
 Adolphe — " and seizing the fan, he began to wave it 
 rapidly, over the head of the unfortunate Countess. 
 
 In a moment, however, she recovered herself. '^Helas, 
 my friend," said she, " you touched a chord, of whose 
 vibration you little dreamed." Then drawing a valua- 
 ble ring from her slender finger, " Accept this, my dear 
 young friend, in token of the regard with which you 
 
THE COUNTESS. 237 
 
 have inspired me. If, at any future day, you have a 
 boon to ask of the Countess D'Argentine, send me this 
 ring, and it is granted. Adieu, mon ami .'" 
 
 .Al, ^ ^ M, ^ ■il' 
 
 T? VC" W Tf- "TV" Tf 
 
 Hark, how mournfully echo the drums, as the regiment 
 slowly winds through the rugged defiles of the mountain. 
 
 And the Countess and Lisette stand watching them 
 from a turret of the old chateau. 
 
 " Ah, les pauvres ! and they were such charming 
 chevaliers! Helas I"" exclaimed Lisette, wiping her eyes. 
 " And now, my lady, as they are gone, I suppose I may 
 as well put away your venerable grandmother's wig." 
 
 " Ye-e-s, Lisette, — heigh-ho !" 
 
 " And the cap, and the " 
 
 " Yes, Lisette, take them all, all away, — Helas ! I wish 
 I had never seen them." 
 
 But whether her mistress meant the wig, or the 
 Chevaliers, Lisette could not determine. 
 
 4/, .u, M. .^ .u. M^ 
 
 W W "Tf" 'TV' -Tf" 'T^ 
 
 All Paris, that is all the musical world of Paris, was 
 in ecstasy. Radiant with the most lovely countenances, 
 with eyes more sparkling than the brightest jewels, and 
 smiles so beaming with the happiness of the hour — the 
 Opera House presented one blaze of magnificence, from 
 pit to gallery. 
 
 These happy people, — yes, they are happy — forgetting, 
 for a few brief moments, the vicissitudes of the world 
 without, they have met beneath this splendid dome, to 
 greet once more their favorite Prima-donna, who, after a 
 twelve-month's absence is again to thrill their souls with 
 her ravishing notes. Even Royalty itself has steppe'd 
 
238 THE COUXTESS. 
 
 from the throne, to smile upon this nightingale of the 
 hour. 
 
 It was rather late, as a party of officers entered this 
 scene of brilliancy. Chatting, and laughing gaily, their 
 eyes appeared far more engaged in surveying the galaxy 
 of beauty which surrounded them, than their ears, in 
 listening to the magnificent trills gushing forth from the 
 enchantress of song. One of the party, however, must 
 be an exception ; for after an indifferent glance around, 
 he seated himself listlessly, in one corner of the box, and 
 resting his head upon his hand, made his own thoughts 
 his companions. 
 
 " Come, come, Montespan, a truce to your melancholy, 
 for to-night, man," exclaimed one, " How can you re- 
 main so insensible to the peerless charms around ; see, 
 
 there is the beautiful Marchioness D , one glance at 
 
 her bewitching face, would warm the heart of an an- 
 chorite ; and there, too, is that superb Madame, with her 
 gazelle eyes, and the charming little Baroness, — but, 
 wjon Dieu ! who is that lovely creature, just entering the 
 
 box of La Duchesse De B ! Look ! look ! what an 
 
 angel ; tell me, Baraton,— La Fleur, tell me, do you 
 know who she is ?" 
 
 No, they do not know; so they level their eye-glasses, 
 and swear a great many oaths, that she is the most divine 
 creature they have ever beheld. 
 
 Scarcely conscious of so doing, Montespan languidly 
 raised his head, and cast his eyes to the box of La 
 Duchesse. HJeavens ! what does he see, that he thus 
 starts to his feet, and with trembling hand, clings for 
 sCipport to one of the gilded pillars ? Mark how his 
 cheek flashes, and pales, by turns, and how wildly his 
 
THE COUNTESS. 239 
 
 eyes rest upon that fair young creature, whose whole 
 soul seems only intent upon the stage. 
 
 Ah, well may he gaze, — for it is the living image of the 
 picture, which hangs in the parlor of that old chateau, 
 afar off among the mountains, and which, fresh and im- 
 maculate, has hung in the inner chamber of his heart, 
 for a whole year, that he sees. Fortunately, surprise and 
 joy, do not often kill one, — if so, alas for poor Eugene, 
 he must have given up the ghost on the spot. 
 
 As a lily, swayed by the breeze, the lovely unknown 
 suddenly inclines her graceful head to the spot where 
 Montespan is still clinging to the pillar. Their eyes 
 meet. By what strange sympathy, should this fair crea- 
 ture also evince so much agitation ? As if involuntary, 
 she half rises from the velvet cushions, and with her 
 small hands clasped together, bends toward him, and 
 then suddenly sinks back, nearly fainting. 
 
 Again her eyes met his, but this time she did not 
 withdraw them, while a blush like the shadow of a rose, 
 mantled her sweet face. To render her resemblance to 
 the portrait more perfect, she was dressed in pure white, 
 with a few flowers enwreathed among the beautiful 
 tresses which fell untrammeled around her. Montespan 
 hid his face in his hands a few moments to assure him- 
 self this was no illusion ; he looked again — oh, happi- 
 ness ! she was still there ! 
 
 Convinced, now, that his imagination had not played 
 him false — that he really saw before him the original of 
 that ravishing picture, Montespan scarcely knew how to 
 deport himself in the first delirium of his joy. Then a 
 thousand conflicting thoughts chased through his brain. 
 Who could she be ? what connection could she possibly 
 
240 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 have with the inmates of that old chateau ? why did his 
 venerated friend the Countess, whose parting gift still 
 sparkled upon his finger — why did she always shun 
 inquiry, when he ventured to speak to her of that beauti- 
 ful portrait. True, Jacques had affirmed this picture 
 was that of the Countess herself; but the fallacy of this 
 assertion was now fully established ; yet, strange ano- 
 maly, so inseparably was the Countess associated with 
 the picture, in his mind, that now to separate the two he 
 found most painful. Suddenly the conversation he had 
 held with the Countess at their last interview, her agita- 
 tion, when he alluded to the ties of parent and child, and 
 her remark, " you have touched a chord of whose vibration 
 you little dreamed,''^ occurred to him, and with it the 
 rapid conviction that this beautiful creature, whose 
 resemblance to the portrait would almost challenge belief, 
 could be no other than the daughter of the Countess 
 D' Argentine. Yes, he was sure of it, and some unhappy 
 difference had led to the estrangement of mother and 
 child — quel malheur^ and so young and beautiful! Could-- 
 she be married ? Married I ah, heaven forbid ! And 
 raising his eyes with almost an imploring look to the 
 spot where he had beheld her, he finds, alas ! the fair 
 unknown has vanished, leaving no trace by which he can 
 hope to see her again. 
 
 "^ OlA. 4£, M^ 41, 4£,. 
 
 wj^ "TV* '??• t't 'TV' •'v' 
 
 " If to meet an old friend will be agreeable to Monsieur 
 " Montespan, the Countess D' Argentine will be at home 
 " to-morrow morning at twelve. 
 
 " Hotel De B . Rue Chaussee D'Autin." 
 
 Such was the billet which awaited our hero upon his 
 return from the opera. 
 
THE COUNTESS. 241 
 
 " Ah, happy moment ! The excellent Countess was 
 then in Paris ; he should behold her again, that estima- 
 ble, venerated friend ; and ah ! rapture — her daughter — 
 that beautiful impersonation of all the loveliness which 
 once adorned her mother — her, too, he should see — he 
 should speak to her — perhaps touch her fair hand, per- 
 haps " 
 
 Ah ! to what heaven his imagination would not have 
 soared, it is impossible to say, had not his aspiring 
 thoughts been suddenly dashed to earth by the thought 
 that he was only a poor Lieutenant, without friends or 
 fortune ; which reflection caused him to beat his breast 
 and tear his hair in such a tragedy fashion, that his kind 
 landlady begged a set of merry lodgers in No. 10 to be 
 quiet, as the poor young gentleman in No. 12 had a 
 grievous headache — listen ! they might hear him now 
 pacing his room, pauvre jeune homme ! 
 
 ^ ^A. .AT. .A£, AA. ^ 
 
 •TV- -T? •tT- •Ty' ■vf' "TV" 
 
 The next morning, at twelve o'clock, precisely, Mon- 
 
 tespan was at the Hotel De B . He was introduced 
 
 into a charming saloon, where he was told the Countess 
 would soon receive him. 
 
 The certainty of so soon meeting this beloved friend, 
 drove all other thoughts from his mind ; even the portrait 
 and its lovely counterpart were forgotten ! The same 
 ■delicious feelingf to which he attributes all the sweetness 
 of filial regard, and which he experienced so forcibly at 
 the chateau, again stirs his bosom. He wonders through 
 which of the many doors the couch of the Countess will 
 be drawn; he listened eagerly for her approach, when 
 suddenly the tapestry at one end of the apartment is 
 slightly raised, and the same lovely girl whom he had 
 
242 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 seen in the box of La Duchesse De B glides in, and, 
 
 with a graceful bend of the head, desires him to be 
 seated. 
 
 Conceive, if you can, his emotion ! It was with diffi- 
 culty he could even return the salute of the fair lady, and 
 I am sure you would have felt quite ashamed of his awk- 
 wardness, dear reader, had you been there. At length 
 he ventured to ask, " Have I the pleasure of addressing 
 the daughter of my honored friend, the Countess D'Ar- 
 gentine ?" 
 
 A mischievous smile played over the young girl's 
 features as she answered : 
 
 " I am the Countess D'Argentine, Monsieur." 
 
 " Good heavens !" exclaimed Montespan, turning pale, 
 and forgetting all in this one apprehension, " do you tell 
 me, helas ! that my excellent friend is no more ?" 
 
 " Did you, then, esteem her so much ?" and the voice 
 of the fair querist trembled. 
 
 The tones of that voice made him start ; how much 
 like the sweet accents of her mother ! 
 
 " Pardon my agitation ; but tell me, when did this 
 melancholy event take place ?" said Montespan. 
 
 ''Helas! it was on the 19th of August, 182-." 
 
 "The 19ih of August! Mo7i Dieu ! why that was 
 the very day I left the chateau ! alas ! and was her end 
 so sudden ?" exclaimed Montespan. 
 
 " True — it was. We buried her forever, Monsieur ; 
 we bade farewell to her silvery hair, and — and her green 
 goggles — and — " 
 
 " But you smile ! Good heavens ! what mean you ?" 
 
 The young girl extended her little hand, so much like 
 
THE COUNTESS. 243 
 
 the hand of her departed mother, and with an arch smile, 
 and a blash which well became her sweet face, said: 
 
 " And when we skipped away from the funeral rites, 
 we laughed at the ruse we had played our gay gallants. 
 Hither, Lisette, and tell Monsieur of our masquerading 
 in the old chateau !" 
 
 m 
 
 '■jm 
 
244 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 THE CUETAIN LIFTED. 
 
 OR PROFESSIONS — PRACTICAL AND THEORETICAL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 The Deacon. -^ 
 
 Everybody called Mr. Humphreys a good man. To 
 have found any fault with the deacon would have been 
 to impugn the church itself, whose most firm pillar he 
 stood. No one stopped to analyze his goodness — it was 
 enough that in all outward semblance, in the whole 
 putting together of the outward man, there was a con- 
 formity of sanctity ; that is, he read his Bible — held 
 family prayers night and morning — preached long homi- 
 lies to the young — gave in the cause of the heathen — 
 and was, moreover, of a grave and solemn aspect, seldom 
 given 10 the folly of laughter. 
 
 All this, and more did good Deacon Humphreys ; and 
 yet one thing he lacked, viz., the sweet spirit of charity. 
 
 I mean not that he oppressed the widow, or robbed the 
 orphan of bread ; no, not this, it was the cold, unforgiving 
 spirit with which he looked upon the errors of his fellow 
 man — the iron hand with which he thrust far from him 
 the offender, which betrayed the want of that charity 
 " which rejoiceth rvot in iniquity, suffereth long, and is 
 kind.'^ 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 245 
 
 He was also pertinaciously sectarian. No other path 
 than the one in which he walked could lead to eternal 
 life. No matter the sect, so that they differed from him, 
 it was enough — they were outlawed from the gates of 
 heaven. Ah! had the deacon shared more the spirit of 
 our blessed Saviour, in whose name he offered up his 
 prayers, then, indeed, might he have been entitled to the 
 Christian character he professed. 
 
 Mrs. Humphreys partook largely of her husband's 
 views. She, too, was irreproachable in her daily walks, 
 and her household presented a rare combination of order 
 and neatness. The six days work was done, and done 
 faithfully, and the seventh cared for, ere the going down 
 of the Saturday's sun, which always left her house in 
 order — her rooms newly swept and garnished — the 
 stockings mended — the clean clothes laid out for the 
 Sabbath wear — while in the kitchen pantry, a joint of 
 cold meat, or a relay of pies, was provided, that no hand 
 might labor for the creature comforts on the morrow. 
 As the last rays of the sun disappeared from hill and 
 valley, the doors of the house were closed — the blinds 
 pulled down — the well-polished mahogany stand drawn 
 from its upright position in the corner of the sitting-room, 
 which it occupied from Monday m'orning until the coming 
 of the Saturday night — the great family Bible placed 
 thereon, while with countenances of corresponding gravi- 
 ty, and well-balanced spectacles, the deacon and his wife 
 read from its holy pages. 
 
 Thus in all those outward observances of piety where- 
 on the great eyes of the great world are staring, 1 have 
 shown that the deacon and his good wife might challenge 
 the closest scrutiny. Nor would I be understood to 
 
246 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 detract aught from these observances, or throw down one 
 stone from the altars of our Puritan fathers. We need 
 all the legacy they left their children. The force of 
 good example is as boundless as the tares of sin — let us 
 relax nothing which may tend to check the evil growth 
 — and who shall say that the upright walk of Deacon 
 Humphreys was without a salutary influence. 
 
 But it is with the 'umcr man we have to do. The 
 fairest apples are sometimes defective at the core. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Gra^smere and its hiliahitaiits. 
 
 Grassmere was a quiet, out-of-the-way village, hugged 
 in close by grand mountains, and watered by sparkling 
 rivulets and cascades, which came leaping down the hill- 
 sides like frolicksome Naiads, and then with a murmur 
 as sweet as the songs of childhood, ran off to play bo-peep 
 with the blue heavens amid the deep clover-fields, or 
 through banks sprinkled with nodding wild-flowers. 
 
 A templing retreat was Grassmere to the weary man 
 of business, whose days had been passed within the brick 
 and mortar walks of life, and whom the fresh air, and 
 the green grass, and the waving woods, were but as a 
 page of delicious poetry snatched at idle hours. Free 
 from the turmoil and vexations of the city, how pleasant 
 to tread the down-hill of life, surrounded by such peace- 
 ful influences as smiled upon the inhabitants of Grass- 
 mere, and several beautiful cottages nestling in the valley, 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 247 
 
 or dotting the hill-side, attested that some fortunate man 
 of wealth had here cast loose the burthen of the day, to 
 repose in the quiet of nature. 
 
 Although our story bears but slightly save upon three 
 or four of the three thousand inhabitants of Grassmere, I 
 will state that a variety of religious opinions had for 
 several years been gradually creeping into this primitive 
 town, and that where once a single church received the 
 inhabitants within one faith, there were now four houses 
 of worship, all embracing different tenets. But the 
 deacon walked heavenward his own path, shaking his 
 skirts free from all contamination with other sects, whom, 
 indeed, he looked upon as little better than heathen. 
 
 The pastor of the church claiming so zealous a mem- 
 ber, was a man eminent for his Christian benevolence. 
 His was not the piety which exhausted itself in words — 
 heart and soul did he labor to do his Master's will, and 
 far from embracing the rigid views of the worthy Deacon 
 Humphreys, he wore the garb of charity for all, and in 
 his great, good heart loved all. 
 
 He had one son, who, at the period from whiich my 
 story dates, was pursuing his collegiate course at one of 
 our most popular institutions, and in his own mind the 
 deacon had determined that Hubert Fairlie should be- 
 come the husband of his only daughter, Naomi. In 
 another month Hubert was to return to pass his vacation 
 at Grassmere, and Naomi looked forward to the meeting 
 with unaffected pleasure. They had been playmates in 
 childhood, companions in riper years ; but love had 
 nothing to do with their regard for each other, yet the 
 deacon could not conceive how friendship alone should 
 
248 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 thus unite them. At any rate Naomi must be the wife 
 of Hubert — that was as set as his Sunday face. 
 
 The deacon was a man well oil' in worldly matters. 
 He owned the large, highly cultivated farm on which he 
 lived, as also several snug houses within the village, 
 which rented at good rates. 
 
 But the little cottage at Silver Fall was untenanted. 
 Through the inability of its former occupant to pay the 
 rent, it had returned upon the hands of the deacon, and 
 although one of the most delightful residences for miles 
 around, had now been for several months without a 
 tenant. 
 
 A charming spot was Silver-Fall, with its little dwell- 
 ing half hidden by climbing roses and shadowy maples. 
 Smooth as velvet was the lawn, with here and there a 
 cluster of blue violets clinging timidly together, and 
 hemmed by a silvery thread of bright laughing water, 
 which, within a few rods of the cottage-door, suddenly 
 leaped over a bed of rocks some twenty feet high, into 
 the valley below. This gave it the name of Silver-Fall 
 Cottage — all too enticing a spot it would seem to remain 
 long unoccupied. Yet the snows of winter yielded to 
 the gentle breath of spring, and the bright fruits of sum- 
 mer already decked the hedge-rows and the thicket, ere 
 a tenant could be found, and then there came a letter to 
 Mr. Humphreys from a widow lady living in a distant 
 city, requiring the terms on which he would lease his 
 pretty cottage. 
 
 They were favorable, it would seem, to her views, and 
 in due time Mrs. Norton, her daughter Grace, and two 
 female domestics, arrived at Silver-Fall. 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 249 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 One Fold of the Curtain draivn back. 
 
 A new comer in a country village is always sure to 
 elicit more or less curiosity, and Mrs. Norton did not 
 escape without her due share from the inhabitants of 
 Grassmere. With telegraph speed it was found out that 
 she was a lady between thirty and forty years of age, 
 dressed in bombazine, and wore close mourning caps. 
 Miss Norton was talked of as a slender, fair girl, with 
 blue eyes, and long, flowing curls, and might be seven- 
 teen, perhaps twenty — of course, they could not be strict- 
 ly accurate in this matter. 
 
 Bales of India matting were unrolled in the door-yard 
 — crates of beautiful china unpacked in the piazza — sofas 
 and chairs crept out from their rough traveling cases, 
 displaying all the beauty of rosewood and damask, until 
 finally by aid of all these means and appliances to boot, 
 Mrs. Norton and her daughter were pronounced very 
 genteel — but — 
 
 " But, I wonder what they are !" said Mrs. Humphreys 
 to the deacon, as talking over these secular matters she 
 handed him his second cup of coffee. 
 
 Not that the good lady had any doubt of their being 
 bona fide flesh and blood ; neither did she believe they 
 were witches or fairies who had taken up their abode at 
 Silver-Fall. " I wonder what they are /" must therefore 
 be interpreted as ^'' I wonder what church they attend ^^"^ 
 or " what creed they profess.^^ 
 16 
 
250 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 The deacon shook his head and looked solemn. 
 
 " It is to be hoped," continued Mrs. Humphreys, com- 
 placently stirring the coffee, " that at her period of life 
 Mrs. Norton may be a professor of some kind." 
 
 The deacon dropped his knife and fork — he was 
 shocked — astounded. 
 
 " I am surprised to hear you speak thus lightly, Mrs. 
 Humphreys — a professor of some kind ! Is it not better 
 that she should yet rest in her sins, than to be walking 
 in the footsteps of error — a professor of some kind I Wife 
 — wife — you forget yourself!" exclaimed the deacon. 
 
 " I spoke thoughtlessly, I acknowledge," answered 
 Mrs. Humphreys, much confused by the stern rebuke of 
 her husband. " I meant to say, I hoped she had found 
 a pardon for her sins." 
 
 " Have you forgotten that you are a parent?" contin- 
 ued the deacon, solemnly. " Can you suffer the ears of 
 your daughter to drink in such poison ! A professor of 
 some kind 1 Naomi, my child," placing his hand on the 
 sunny head before him, " beware how you listen to such 
 doctrine ; there is but one true faith — there is but one 
 way by which you can be saved. Go to your chamber, 
 and pray you may not be led into error through your 
 mother's words of folly !" 
 
 But there were others at Grassmere most anxiously 
 wondering, like good Mrs. Humphreys, " what they 
 were,''^ ere they so far committed themselves as to call 
 upon the strangers. Sunday, however, was close at 
 hand ; Mrs. Norton's choice of a church was to determine 
 them the choice of her acquaintance. 
 
 Does the reader think the inhabitants of Grassmere 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 251 
 
 peculiar ? I think not. There are very many just such 
 people not a hundred rods from our own doors. 
 
 Unfortunately, on Sunday the rain poured down in 
 torrents. Nothing less impervious than strong cowhide 
 boots — India-rubber overcoats, and thick cotton um- 
 brellas, could go to meeting, consequently, Mrs. Norton 
 staid at home, and on Monday afternoon, after the wash- 
 ing was done, and the deacon had turned his well satur- 
 ated hay, Mrs. Humphreys put on her best black silk 
 gown and mantilla, her plain straw bonnet, wiih white 
 trimmings, and walked over with her husband to Silver- 
 Fall cottage. As the widow rented her house of ihem, 
 they could not in decency, they reasoned, longer defer 
 calling upon her. 
 
 A glance within the cottage would convince any one 
 that Mrs. Norton and Grace were at least persons of 
 refinement — for there is as much character displayed in 
 the arrangement of a room as in the choice of a book. 
 
 Cream-colored mattings, and window-curtains of trans- 
 parent lace, relieved by hangings of pale sea-green silk, 
 imparted a look of delicious coolness to the apartments. 
 There was no display of gaudy furniture, as if a cabinet 
 warehouse had been taken on speculation — yet there 
 was enough for comfort and even elegance ; nor was 
 there an over exhibition of paintings — one of Cole's 
 beautiful landscapes, and a few other gems of native 
 talent were all ; nor were the tables freighted as the 
 counter of a toy-shop ; the only ornament of each was a 
 beautiful vase of Bohemian glass, filled with fresh garden 
 flowers, whose tasteful arrangement even fairy hands 
 could not have rivaled. 
 
 The few moments they were awaiting the entrance of 
 
252 THE CUKTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 Mrs. Norton were employed by Mrs. Humphreys in taking 
 a rapid survey of all these surroundings, the result of 
 which was to impress her with a sort of awe for the 
 mistress of this little realm. 
 
 " My stars !" said she, casting her eyes to the right 
 and left, half rising from the luxurious couch to peep into 
 one corner, and almost breaking her neck to dive into 
 another, " my stars, deacon, if this don't beat all I ever 
 did see !" 
 
 But the deacon, with an air worthy of a funeral, shook 
 his head, closed his eyes, and muttered, 
 
 " Vanity — vanity !" 
 
 The door opened, and Grace gliding in, sweetly 
 apologized for her mother, whom a violent headache 
 detained in her apartment. 
 
 " Well, I do wish I knew what they were !" again 
 exclaimed Mrs. Humphrey, as she took the deacon's arm 
 and plodded thoughtfully homeward. 
 
 Then going to a dark cupboard under the stairs, she 
 rummaged for some time among the jars and gallipots, 
 and finally producing one marked " Kaspberry Jam," she 
 told Naomi to put on her Sunday bonnet, and carry it to 
 the cottage, and — 
 
 " Naomi, you may just as well ask Grace Norton what 
 meeting she goes to." 
 
 Delighted to make the acquaintance of Grace, Naomi 
 threw on her bonnet and tripped lightly to the cottage, 
 thinking little, we fear, of her mother's last charge. At 
 any rate, it was omitted, and so the night-cap of Mrs. 
 Humphreys again threw its broad frilling over an unsat- 
 isfied brow. 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 253 
 
 In the morning the deacon received a very neat note 
 from Mrs. Norton, requesting to see him upon business. 
 
 " And now, my dear sir," said she, after the common 
 courtesies of the day were passed, " I have taken the 
 liberty to send for you to transact a little business for me. 
 If not too great a tax upon your time, will you purchase 
 a pew for me ?" 
 
 The deacon grimly smiled, and rubbing his knee, 
 replied. 
 
 " Why, yes, Mrs. Norton, I shall be glad to attend to 
 the matter. True, it is a busy season with us farmers, 
 but the Lord forbid I should therefore neglect his busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Do you think you can procure me one ?" asked Mrs. 
 Norton. 
 
 " O, I reckon so, for I am certain there are several 
 pews now to be let or sold either." 
 
 " And what price, Mr. Humphreys ?" 
 
 " Well, I guess about sixty dollars ; and now I recol- 
 lect, Squire Bryce wants to sell his — it is right alongside 
 of mine, and I reckon my pew is as good for hearing the 
 word as any in the meeting-house. I am glad, really I 
 do rejoice to find you a true believer." 
 
 " You mistake my church, I see," said Mrs. Norton, 
 smiling, " I belong to a different denomination from the 
 one of which as I am aware you are a professor." 
 
 " Then," cried the deacon, rising hastily and making 
 for the door, " excuse me — I — I know nothing of any 
 other church or its pews. I cannot be the instrument of 
 seating you where false doctrines are preached ! I — 
 good morning, ma'am." 
 
254 THE CURTAm LIFTED. 
 
 The widow sighed as the gate slammed after her visi- 
 tor, but Grace burst into a merry fit of laughter. 
 
 " How ridiculous !" she exclaimed; " was there ever 
 such absurdity !" 
 
 " Hush, hush, my dear child," said Mrs. Norton, " Mr. 
 Humphreys is without doubt perfectly conscientious in 
 this matter — we may pity, but not condemn such zeal in 
 the cause of religion." 
 
 " Do you call bigotry religion, mamma ? " asked 
 Grace. 
 
 "A person may be a very good Christian, Grace, and 
 yet be very much of a bigot," answered her mother. 
 " That such a spirit as Mr. Humphreys has just now 
 shown may often be productive of more evil than good, 
 I allow. His aim is to do good, but he adopts the wrong 
 measures." 
 
 " Why, mamma, one would have judged from his 
 manner that we were infidels !" said Grace. 
 
 " O no, my child, he did not really think that," replied 
 Mrs. Norton, smiling at her earnestness. " He only felt 
 shocked at what he deems our error — for he sacredly 
 believes there can be no safety in any other creed than 
 his own. Without the charity therefore to think there 
 may be good in all sects, and lacking the desire to study 
 the subject, or rather so much wedded to his belief that 
 he would deem it almost a sin to do so, like an unjust 
 judge, he condemns without a hearing. There are too 
 many such mistaken zealots in every creed of worship. 
 O, my dear child," continued Mrs. Norton, her fine eyes 
 bathed in tears, " would that members of every sect 
 might unite in love and charity to one another I They 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 255 
 
 are all aiming alike to love and serve Christ, and yet 
 take no heed to his commandment, ' Love ye one 
 another /' " 
 
 " Well, mamma, for the sake of his sweet daughter, 
 Naomi, I can forgive the good deacon. I have never 
 seen a more interesting face than hers, and her manners 
 are as graceful and lady-like as if she had never seen the 
 country," said Grace. 
 
 " And most probably a great deal more so, my love," 
 replied Mrs. Norton, "for nature can add a grace which 
 courts cannot give. But I agree with you in thinkmg 
 Miss Humphreys interesting; she is, indeed, so, and if 
 her countenance prove an index of her mind, I think you 
 may promise yourself a pleasing companion." 
 
 But the deacon, it seems, was of a different way of 
 thinking, and no sooner did he enter under his own roof, 
 place his oak stick in the corner, and hang up his hat on 
 the peg behind the door, than going into the kitchen 
 where the good wife was busily employed preparing the 
 noonday meal, assisted by Naomi, he made known with 
 serious countenance, that he had discovered what they 
 were at Silver-Fall cottage ! 
 
 Of course, Miss Norton was not such a companion as 
 they would choose for Naomi. True, she was a pretty 
 girl, and Mrs. Norton a lady of faultless manners; but 
 then so much the more danger, and therefore Naomi, 
 though not forbidden, was admonished to beware of their 
 new acquaintances. 
 
256 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. > 
 Love Passages. 
 
 The summer passed, and in the bright month of Sep- 
 tember, came Hubert Fairlie, to pass a few weeks 
 beneath the glad roof of his parents, whose only and 
 beloved child he was. 
 
 Their warm welcome given, the first visit of Hubert 
 was to Naomi. They met as such young and ardent 
 friends meet after an absense of months, and Naomi soon 
 confided to him her regret that her parents would not 
 allow her to cultivate the friendship of Grace Norton, 
 whom she extolled in such warm and earnest language, 
 that Hubert found his curiosity greatly excited to behold 
 one calling forth such high eulogium from the gentle 
 Naomi. 
 
 An evening walk was accordingly planned which 
 would lead them near the cottage, hoping by that means 
 to obtain a glimpse of its fair inmate. Fortune favored 
 them. As they came within view of the cottage, a sweet 
 voice was heard chaunting the Evening Hymn to the 
 Virgin, and Hubert and Naomi paused to listen to as 
 heavenly sounds as ever floated on the calm twilight air. 
 Then as the song concluded, Grace herself siill sweeping 
 her fairy fingers over the strings to a lively waltz, sprang 
 out from the little arbor, and with her hair floating 
 around her like stray sunbeams, her beautiful blue eyes 
 lifted upward, her white arms embracing the guitar, and 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 257 
 
 her graceful figure swaying to the gay measure like a 
 bird upon the tree-top, tripped over the greensward. 
 
 Among other amusements which the deacon held in 
 great abhorrence was dancing, and Naonrii had been taught 
 to look upon all such exhibitions as vain and sinful. 
 Yet never, I may venture to say, did any pair of little 
 feet so long to be set at liberty as did Naomi's — pat — 
 pat — pat-ing the gravel-walk where they stood, urging 
 their young mistress to bound through the gate and trip 
 it with those other little feet twinkling so fleetly to the 
 merry music. 
 
 The cheeks of Grace rivaled the hue of June roses, as 
 she suddenly encountered the gaze of a stranger ; but 
 seeing Naomi, she hastened to greet her, and thereby 
 hide her embarrassment. Naomi introduced her com- 
 panion, and then Grace invited them to walk in the gar- 
 den, and look at her fine show of autumn flowers. Min- 
 utes flew imperceptibly, and ere they were aware, Hubert 
 and Naomi found themselves seated in the tasteful parlor 
 of the cottage listening to another sweet song from the 
 lips of Grace. 
 
 As this is not precisely a love tale, I may as well 
 admit at once, that Hubert became deeply enamored of 
 the bewitching Grace, and from that evening was a 
 frequent and not unwelcome visitor — a fact which was 
 soon discovered by the deacon, for noting that Hubert 
 came not so often as was his wont to the farm, he set 
 about to find out what could have so suddenly turned the 
 footsteps of the young man from his door. 
 
 Alas, for his hopes of a son-in-law in Hubert ! He 
 found those footsteps very closely on the track of as 
 
258 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 dainty a pair of slippers as ever graced the foot of a 
 Cinderilla. 
 
 Nothing- could exceed his disappointment, save the 
 pity he felt for his minister, whose son he considered 
 rushing blindly into the snares of the Evil One. Nay, 
 so far did he carry his pity as to warn Mr. Fairlie of the 
 dereliction of Hubert. But when that worthy man 
 reproved his uncharitableness, and acknowledged that 
 he could hope for no greater earthly happiness for his 
 son, than to see him the husband of so charming and 
 amiable a girl as Grace Norton, the deacon was perfectly 
 thunderstruck! It was dreadful — what would die world 
 come to! In short almost believing in the apostacy of 
 the minister himself, the deacon went home groaning in 
 spirit, as much perhaps for the frustration of his own 
 schemes, as for the "falling off," as he termed it of the 
 reverend clergyman ! 
 
 The swift term of vacation expired, and Hubert returned 
 to college. His collegiate course would end with the 
 next term, and then it was his wish to commence the 
 study of the law. Mr. Fairlie was, perhaps, somewhat 
 disappointed that his son did not adopt his own sacred 
 profession ; but he was a man of too much sense lo force 
 the decision of Hubert or thwart his wishes. He hoped 
 to see him a good man whatever might be his calling; 
 and if ever youth gave promise to make glad the heart 
 of a parent, that youth was Hubert Fairlie. 
 
 The intercourse between Grace and Naomi from this 
 time almost wholly ceased, much to the regret of both. Yet 
 such were the orders of deacon Humphreys, whose good- 
 will toward the widow and her daughter was by no 
 means strengthened by the events of the last four weeks. 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 259 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 The Practical and Theoretical Christian. 
 
 " Why, what have you done with Nelly, to-day ? " asked 
 Mrs. Humphreys, of her washerwoman, who came every 
 Monday morning, regularly attended by a little ragged, 
 half-starved girl of four years old, whose province it was 
 to pick up the close-pins, drive the hens off the bleach, 
 and keep the kittens from scalding their frisky tails — 
 receiving for her reward a thin slice_of bread and butter, 
 or maybe, if all things went right, and no thunder-squalls 
 brewed, or sudden hurricanes swept over the close-fold, 
 a piece of gingerbread or a cookey. " What, I say, 
 have you done with Nelly ? " 
 
 " 0, ma'am, she has gone to school — only think of it, 
 my poor little Nelly has gone to school! It does seem," 
 continued Mrs. White, resting her arms on the tub, and 
 holding suspended by her two hands a well-patched shirt 
 of the deacon's, "it does seem as if the Lord had sent 
 that Mrs. Norton here to be a blessing to the poor ! " 
 
 " Humph ! " ejaculated Mrs. Humphreys, spitefully 
 rattling the dishes. 
 
 " Only think," continued Mrs. White, "she has given 
 up one whole room in her house to Miss Grace, who 
 has been round and got all the children that can't go to 
 school because their parents are too poor to send them, 
 and just teaches them herself for nothing! God bless 
 her, I say ! " exclaimed the washerwoman, strenuously, 
 her tears mingling with the soap-suds into which she 
 
260 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 now plunged her two arms so vigorously as to dash the 
 creaming foam to the ceiling. 
 
 Mrs. Humphreys was at once surprised and angry. 
 She could not conceive why a lady like Mrs. Norton 
 should do such a thing as to keep a ragged school, and 
 that, too, without pay or profit. She had forgotten the 
 words of our blessed Lord, " WAoso shall receive one 
 such little child in my name, receiveth me,'''' or, " Inas- 
 much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye 
 have done it unto mey Charity alone, she argued in 
 her selfish nature, could not have influenced Mrs. 
 Norton to put herself to so much trouble for a troop of 
 noisy, dirty, half-clothed children ! No, there must be 
 some deeper motive — some sectarian object, perhaps, to 
 be gained ; and, impressed with this idea, she said tartly, 
 
 " I think it is a pretty piece of presumption in Mrs. 
 Norton to come here and set herself up in this way, 
 telling us as it were of our duty. She is a stranger, and 
 what business is it of hers, I should like to know, 
 whether the children go to school or not ! " 
 
 " O, Mrs. Humphreys, indeed, I think the spirit of the 
 Lord guides her ! " said Mrs. White. " Miss Grace 
 came and asked me so humbly like, if I would let her 
 teach my Nelly, and then kissed the little fatherless 
 child so, so — that — that — 0, I could have worshiped 
 her ! " and fresh tears streamed down the cheeks of the 
 washerwoman. 
 
 " Worship a fiddle-stick ! " exclaimed Mrs. Hum- 
 phreys, out of all patience, " I know what she wants — 
 an artful creature ; yes, she wants to make Nelly go to 
 her meeting ! " 
 
THE CUETAIN LIFTED. 261 
 
 Poor Mrs. White could not help smiling at the idea of 
 attempting to form the religious creed of a child scarce 
 four years old. 
 
 " Well, if she will only make her as good as she is, I 
 don't care ! " she answered, " for the Bible says, ' By 
 their fruits ye shall know them ! ' " 
 
 Mrs. Humphreys was more and more shocked at this. 
 She whispered it to Mrs. Smith, who whispered it to 
 Mrs. Jones, who told Mrs. Brown, who told all the 
 society, that the Nortons were wicked, designing people, 
 come into the village to stir up schism in the church ! 
 Yet all sensible persons applauded the good deed of the 
 widow, and cheerfully aided her efforts. The little 
 school prospered even more than she had dared to hope ; 
 the children were cheerful and happy, and those whose 
 parents could not afford them decent clothing, were 
 generously supplied by Mrs. Norton — and many a heart 
 blessed the hour which brought her among them. 
 
 As the thunder which suddenly rends the heavens, 
 when not a cloud on the blue expanse has heralded the 
 coming storm, was the calamity which now as suddenly 
 burst over the head of Mrs. Norton. 
 
 She retired at night to her peaceful slumbers, sup- 
 posing herself the mistress of thousands. With the 
 early dawn there came letters to the cottage, telling her 
 that her worldly possessions were swept from her. The 
 man to whose care her fortune was entrusted, had basely 
 defrauded her of every cent, and now a bankrupt, had 
 fled to a foreign land. 
 
 The stroke was a severe one. She must have been 
 divine to have resisted the first shock which the tidings 
 caused her. But that over, like a brave and noble 
 
262 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 spirit she rose to meet it. Her treasures were not all of 
 earth — in heaven her hopes were garnered; and, al- 
 though henceforth her path in life might be in rougher 
 spots, and through darker scenes than it had yet 
 traversed, to that heaven she trusted to arrive at last. 
 
 It happened, unfortunately, that the half-yearly rent of 
 the cottage became due that very week ; and Mrs. 
 Norton, thus suddenly deprived of her expected funds, 
 had no means to meet it. Where should she raise two 
 hundred dollars ! Her courage, however, rose with her 
 trials. A little time to look into her affairs — a little time 
 to form her plans for the future, and she doubted not she 
 should be able to liquidate the debt. Unused to asking 
 favors, she yet courageously went to Mr. Humphreys, 
 and stating candidly her inability to meet the rent-, 
 requested a few weeks indulgence. 
 
 The deacon was not caught napping. Evil news 
 always travels with seven-league boots — and long ere 
 Mrs. Norton knocked at the door of the farm-house, it 
 was known throughout the village that her fortune was 
 gone. 
 
 Now the deacon, good man that he was, was " given 
 to idols,^^ and Mammon was one. Moreover, he owed 
 the widow a grudge, as we already know, and the old 
 leaven of sin was at work beneath the crust of piety. 
 
 He was accordingly well prepared to receive her. 
 And sorry, very sorry was the worthy deacon, but he 
 had just then a most pressing necessity for the rent — he 
 really must have it, if not in cash, perhaps Mrs. Norton 
 might have some plate to dispose of; he would be 
 happy to oblige her in that way, for the Lord forbid he 
 should deal hard with any one — but, the amount must 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 263 
 
 be paid when due. Wait he could not — and if the rent 
 was not foTthcoming- on the day stipulated in the con- 
 tract — why — why — he was very sorry — but he should 
 be obliged to take other measures, that was all! 
 
 Mrs. Norton soiled not her lips by making any reply 
 to this Christian Shylock — no expostulation or entreaty 
 — but coldly bowing, she took her leave. 
 
 As soon as she reached home she sent for a silver- 
 smith, brought out her valuable tea-set — doubly so from 
 having been the marriage gift of her father, requested its 
 apprisal, and then duly attested as to its weight and 
 purity, it was forwarded to the clutches of the deacon. 
 
 Mrs. Norton met with a great deal of sympathy in her 
 misfortunes. During the few months she had resided 
 among them, the villagers had all learned to love and 
 respect her. Even the poor came from their humble 
 homes, and with looks of sympathy and outstretched 
 hands tendered their offerings — their hard earned wages 
 to the kind lady who had taught their little ones ; they 
 would work for her — they would do any thing to serve 
 her. With a sweet smile Mrs. Norton put back their 
 grateful gifts, and thanked them in gentle tones for their 
 love — to her a far more acceptable boon than gold could 
 buy. 
 
 Again Silver-Fall cottage fell back on the hands of its 
 owner. 
 
 Dismissing her attendants, Mrs. Norton took a smaller 
 and cheaper house. Her choice and beautiful furniture 
 she sold, only retaining sufficient to render her now 
 humble residence comfortable. The avails of the sale 
 amounted to several hundred dollars — enough at any 
 rate, she deemed, for present necessities, while she 
 
264 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 trusted in the meantime to find some means of subsist- 
 ence by which she and Grace might support themselves. 
 
 What more noble spectacle, than an elegant, refined 
 woman thus meeting, uncomplaining and cheerfully, the 
 storm of adversity. 
 
 And Grace, too — sweet Grace — sang like a skylark, 
 and made her little white hands wonderfully busy in 
 household matters. Hubert Fairlie was yet absent, 
 though his long and frequent letters brought joy to the 
 heart of his beloved. 
 
 And had Naomi forgotten her friend in this season of 
 trial ! Not so ; yet forbidden as we have seen from the 
 society of Grace, all she could do was to sympathize 
 deeply in spirit, happy when a chance opportunity 
 brought them together; and those meetings although 
 rare, only served to strengthen the friendship which 
 united these two lovely girls. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Pestilence. The Curtain wholly Lifted. 
 
 It was now the middle of October. 
 
 " Filled was the air "with a dreamy and magical light, and the land- 
 scape 
 Lay as if new created, in all the freshness of childhood : 
 All sounds were in harmony blended. 
 Voices of children at play — the crowing of cocks in the farm-yard, 
 Whirr of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, 
 All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love," 
 
 when suddenly the Angel of Death folded his dark 
 wings, and sat brooding over the peaceful, pleasant vil- 
 lage of Grassmere. 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 265 
 
 A terrible and malignant fever swept through the 
 town, spreading from house to house, like the fire which 
 consumes alike the dry grass and the bright, fresh 
 flowers of the prairies. Old and young, husband, wife 
 and child, were alike brought low. There were not left 
 in all the village those able to attend upon the sick. 
 From the churches solemnly tolled the funeral bells, as 
 one by one, youth and age, blooming childhood and 
 lovely infancy, were borne to the graveyard — no longer 
 solitary — for the foot of the mourner pressed heavily over 
 its grass-grown paths. 
 
 Still the contagion raged, until the selfishness of poor 
 human nature triumphed over the promptings of kindness 
 and charity. People grew jealous of each other ; neigh- 
 bor shunned neighbor ; ^ 
 
 " Silence reigned in the streets — 
 
 Kose no smoke from the roofs — gleamed no lights from the win- 
 dows," 
 
 save the dim midnight lamp which from almost every 
 house betokened the plague within. 
 
 None had shut themselves up closer from fear of 
 infection than Deacon Humphreys. His gates grew 
 rusty, and the grass sprang up in the paths about his 
 dwelling. And yet the Destroyer found him out, and 
 like a hound long scenting its prey, sprang upon the 
 household with terrible violence. 
 
 First the pure and gentle Naomi sank beneath the 
 stroke, and ere the setting of the same day's sun, Mrs. 
 Humphreys herself was brought nigh the grave. 
 
 Like one demented, pale with agony and terror, the 
 deacon rushed forth into the deserted streets to seek for 
 aid. His dear ones — his wife and child were perhaps 
 17 
 
266 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 dying; where, where should he look for relief — where 
 find some kind hand to administer to their necessities. 
 
 At every house he learned a tale of wo equal to his 
 own. Some wept while they told of dear ones now lan- 
 guishing upon the bed of pain, or bade him look upon 
 the marble brow of their dead. Others grown callous, 
 and worn-out with sorrow and fatigue, refused all aid, 
 while some, through excess of fear, hurriedly closed their 
 doors against him. 
 
 Thus he reached the end of the village, and then the 
 small, neat cottage of Mrs. Norton met his view, nestling 
 down amid the overshadowing branches of two venerable 
 elms. From the day he had almost thrust her from his 
 gate, with cold looks and unflinching extortion, Mrs. 
 Norton and the deacon had not met, and now the time 
 had come when he was about to ask from her a favor 
 upon which perhaps his whole earthly happiness might 
 rest — a favor from her, whom in his strength and her 
 dependence he had scorned. Would she grant it ? He 
 hesitated; would she not rather, rejoicing in her power 
 now, revenge the slights he felt he had so often and so 
 undeservedly cast upon her. But he remembered the 
 sweet, calm look which beamed from her eyes, and his 
 courage grew with the thought. 
 
 Putting away the luxuriant creeper which wound itself 
 from the still green turf to the roof of the cottage, hang- 
 ing in graceful festoons, and tinged with the brilliant 
 dyes of autumn, seemed like wreaths of magnificent 
 flowers thus suspended, the deacon knocked hesitatingly 
 at the door. 
 
 It opened, and Mrs. Norton stood before him, pale 
 with watching — for, like an angel of mercy had she 
 
THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 267 
 
 passed from house to house, since the first breaking out 
 of the scourge. In fahering accents he told his errand ; 
 and, 0, how like a dagger did it pierce his heart, when,, 
 with a countenance beaming with pity and kindness, and 
 speaking words of comfort, the widow put on her bonnet 
 and followed him with fleet footsteps to his strickea 
 home. 
 
 All night, like a ministering angel, did she pass from 
 one sick couch to the other, tenderly soothing the ravings 
 of fever, moistening their parched lips with cool, refresh- 
 ing drinks, fanning their fevered brows, and smoothing 
 the couch made uneasy by their restless motions. 
 
 Unable to bear the scene, the deacon betook him in his 
 hour of sorrow to his closet, where all through the dreary 
 watches of the night he prayed this cup of affliction 
 might pass from him. His heart was subdued. He saw 
 that like the proud Pharisee he had exalted himself, 
 thanking God he was not as other men. 
 
 At early dawn came Grace also to inq[uire after her 
 suffering Naomi, and finding her so very ill, earnestly 
 besought her mother that she might be allowed to share 
 the task of nursing her. Mrs. Norton had no fears for 
 herself, yet when she looked at her only and beautiful 
 child, she trembled; but her eyes fell upon the bed 
 where poor Naomi lay moaning in all the delirium of 
 high fever, and her heart reproached her for her mo- 
 mentary selfishness. Removing the bonnet of Grace, 
 she tenderly kissed her pure brow, and then kneeling 
 down, with folded hands she prayed, "Thy will, O 
 Lord, not mine be done ! Take her in thy holy keeping, 
 and do with her as thou seest best ! " 
 
 From that day Grace left not the bedside of her 
 friend. 
 
268 THE CURTAIN LIFTED. 
 
 On the third day Mrs. Humphreys died. Her last 
 sigh was breathed out on the bosom of the woman whom 
 she had taught her daughter to shun. For many days it 
 seemed as if Death would claim another victim ; yet 
 God mercifully spared Naomi to her bereaved father ; 
 very slowly she recovered, but neither Mrs. Norton nor 
 Grace left her until she was able to quit her bed. 
 
 With the death of Mrs. Humphreys, the pestilence 
 staid its ravages, while, as a winding-sheet, the snows of 
 winter now enshrouded the fresh-turned clods in the 
 late busy grave-yard. 
 
 The eyes of Deacon Humphreys were opened. He 
 became an altered man. He saw how mistaken had 
 been his views, and that it is not the profession of any 
 sect or creed which makes the true Christian, and that if 
 all are alike sincere in love to God, all may be alike 
 received. 
 
 I have said this was no love tale, therefore, by merely 
 stating that in the course of a twelvemonth Hubert 
 Fairlie and Grace were united, I close my simple story. 
 
THE MAID OP CHE-KYANG. 269 
 
 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the reign of Kien-lung, 1736, the Ladrone Islands on 
 the coast of China were infested with vast hordes of the 
 most desperate and daring pirates. Large squadrons 
 were fitted out from these islands even under the very 
 eyes of government, and boldly proceeded to sea to com- 
 mit their daring piracies. They were a terror not only 
 along the coast of Cochin-China, but even to the shores 
 of Formosa, and, indeed, so daring were they as to have 
 at one time anchored a fleet of nearly eight thousand 
 war junks in a bay near Canton. 
 
 They were commanded by a bold and, desperate out- 
 law, named Ching-yih, who, availing himself of the 
 cupidity of these desperadoes, as a means to encourage 
 their cruelty and the terror of his own name, is said to 
 have paid each man ten taels for the head of every pris- 
 oner brought before him. But at length this terrible 
 Ching-yih was accidentally drowned, and his widow 
 Kea-she assumed the command of the whole piratical 
 force. Her courage and her cruelty were worthy of her 
 deceased consort, for, if possible, under her dominion this 
 horde of bucaneers became even more formidable. This 
 is a rare instance in the annals of Chinese history, where 
 the female sex are held is such contempt and derogation, 
 that men, and those, too, of the most lawless and des- 
 perate character have held themselves in subjection to a 
 woman — but such was the fact. 
 
270 THE MAID OF OHE-KTANG. 
 
 Two sons alone were the offspring of Ching-yih and 
 Kea-she ; as different in their characters as is the wild 
 mountain torrent, foaming and raging on its devastating 
 course, from the gentle stream which glides so peace- 
 fully through its verdant banks, sprinkled with the flow- 
 ers which its own revivifying power has called forth. 
 Lon-chi, the eldest partook of all the ferocity and cruel 
 daring of his parents. No sooner was he old enough to 
 wield the bow, or handle the pike, than he fearlessly fol- 
 lowed in the train of the outlaws, claiming only as a 
 reward for any display of youthful courage, the boon of 
 torturing vnth his oion hands the victims whose unhappy 
 destiny had placed them in their power. Such was 
 Lon-chi — but how different the youthful Kon-chi ! Grace- 
 ful and beautiful as Adonis, he was brave, noble and 
 generous. He turned sorrowing away from the daily 
 scenes of bloodshed he was compelled to behold, and 
 although in the cause of justice, or for his country's 
 glory, he would have shone the bravest of the brave, he 
 now shunned as much as he abhorred the life of these 
 island bucaneers. 
 
 From his earliest childhood Kon-chi had manifested 
 an engrossing earnestness for literature. The works of 
 Confucius, of Mencius, and other eminent scholars of the 
 Celestial Empire, w^ere ever in his hands, and their 
 principles and precepts he adopted and cherished as his 
 rule of conduct. Although the habits and disposition of 
 Kon-chi were so much the reverse of that bold and 
 bloody commerce which for many successive generations 
 had distinguished the race of Ching-yih, it was only for 
 him that the tender nature of woman ever humanized the 
 heart of his mother Kea-she. Fondly did she love him 
 
THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 271 
 
 — there was a charm, a soothing influence in the society 
 of this her youngest boy, which, falling like the gentle 
 rain from heaven, insensibly seemed to soften that arid 
 and flinty soil which had choked up those springs of 
 tender affections and sympathies wont to gush forth so 
 beautifully in the heart of woman. There were times, it 
 is true, when she urged and even commanded him to 
 abandon his books — to quit the listless and inactive life 
 he led, for the turmoil and bloody scenes of piratical 
 warfare ; yet in a few hours she would forget both her 
 commands and threats, and seek only the means to ad- 
 vance still farther the peaceful pleasures of her son. She 
 furnished him with the most liberal sums of money that 
 he might prosecute his desire for travel and improve- 
 ment ; she caused to be constructed for his use one of 
 the most beautiful barges which ever floated on the 
 Chinese waters ; and gave to his command a band of 
 trusty men chosen by himself from among the horde — 
 men who were human, and who gladly turned from the 
 life to which force and fear had alone consigned them, to 
 submit themselves to the more congenial authority of 
 Kon-chi. 
 
 In proportion as Kea-she loved and indulged her 
 youngest son did the heart of the elder, Lon-chi, increase 
 in bitterness and hatred to his brother. He embraced 
 every opportunity to revile and insult him — encouraged 
 also the sneers and jests of his familiars at the cowardly 
 and pusillanimous nature of Kon-chi, and strove by every 
 means to anger his dignified forbearance. 
 
 At length the latter voluntarily banished himself 
 almost entirely from the Ladrones — only returning 
 occasionally to gladden the eyes of his mother, for whom 
 
272 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 
 
 he felt filial love and sorrow, yet un mingled with that 
 respect which binds the heart of the son to a mother so 
 closely, and which if destroyed^ alas, how humbling the 
 situation of that mother in the eyes of a noble and up- 
 right child ! 
 
 Kon-chi accordingly visited the great cities of the 
 Empire — made himself acquainted with their arts and 
 sciences ; and also took great delight in the more hum- 
 ble scenes of rural life. He visited Japan, and other 
 contiguous isles, and after an absence of more than a 
 year returned once more to his native isle to embrace his 
 mother. 
 
 He arrived on the bridal eve of his brother. The 
 haughty Hoo-she, daughter of the next chieftain in com- 
 mand to himself, was the bride, and entertainments of 
 the most magnificent nature were in preparation. The 
 sound of drums, trumpets and gongs, mingled with the 
 softer notes of flutes and stringed instruments, echoed 
 from cliff to clifl', and from fortress to fortress through 
 those rocky isles, and stole afar out over the waters, now 
 bathed in the first beams of the rising moon. Gorgeous 
 palanquins hung around with lanterns of every form and 
 color, resembling fish, birds and serpents, and borne by 
 carriers dressed in the gayest and most fantastic fashion, 
 with bands of music at their side — banners flying on 
 which were portrayed geese and ducks, while the living 
 birds themselves were borne in front in golden cages — 
 were already issuing forth from the brilliantly illuminated 
 fortress of Kea-she, to escort the bride elect to the dwell- 
 ing of the fierce Lon-chi. 
 
 Kon-chi mingled not with these festivities, but sought 
 the presence of his mother. Kea-she received him with 
 
THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 273 
 
 kindness, but apparently the scenes going on around her, 
 in which her eldest son bore so conspicuous a share, had 
 aroused the spirit of vanity and ambition within her. 
 After a slight conversation, in which affection bore but 
 little share, she in a more stern and haughty manner 
 demanded of her son how long he was to continue a life 
 so disgraceful to his birth and lineage — reproaching him 
 with cowardice, and for concealing, under an affected 
 taste for literature, only a craven and groveling spirit- 
 
 " Behold thy brother Lon-chi," she continued ; " like 
 the God of Thunder, when he frowns, he hurls down 
 destruction and devastation on his enemies — with the 
 flash of his eye they are consumed! Look forth — see 
 from how many island peaks fearlessly waves the flag of 
 our race ! And at yonder floating armament which 
 covers our waters ! Does the blood of Ching-yih flow in 
 your veins ? and are you not aroused to deeds of daring 
 by the sight ? And listen — hear you not the sound of 
 music ? and flashes not yonder brilliant array upon your 
 eye? Yes, Lon-chi, the brave, weds with the dark-eyed 
 Hoo-she, the loveliest daughter of our tribe." Then 
 suddenly fixing her piercing gaze upon Kon-chi, who 
 remained standing firm but respectful before his excited 
 parent, she continued : " Kon-chi, you are not now to 
 learn for the first time the laws which govern our mighty 
 band, for they were taught you even in your earliest 
 infancy, by the death struggles — by the piercing shrieks 
 of those wretches who dared to disobey them ! ' Wo, 
 then, to him,' says the great Ching-yih, ' who weds with, 
 the daughter of a stranger ! wo to him who may look 
 with pleased eye upon the charms of other than a 
 daughter of our tribe ! Torture and death await the 
 
274 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG, 
 
 criminal — torture the most horrible — death the most 
 ignominious !' Then beware, Kon-chi, if, in thy life of 
 indolence and fancied pleasure, thou list to the music of 
 other voices than here might charm thine ear, or look 
 with delight upon other eyes than here might meet thy 
 glance — or if thou takest a stranger to thy bosom, then 
 mark me, thou art doomed ! Not even the glory of 
 calling Ching-yih father — Kea-she mother — can avert 
 thy fate. Thy punishment shall be the more severe, 
 that the illustrious example shall cause all future gene- 
 rations to tremble and forbear !" 
 
 The fears of Kea-she were, however, without founda- 
 tion, for never yet had the heart of Kon-chi felt the 
 influence of love. Many and beautiful were the maidens 
 who had attracted his notice, but they were to him as 
 the bright flashing stars — glorious and lovely to look 
 upon — giving light and beauty to his path, yet leaving 
 in his heart no trace that they had ever been. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The crescent moon peered through the dark glossy 
 foliage of the India fig and banian trees interspersed with 
 the graceful yulan, which shadowed a lovely garden in 
 the Province of Che-kyang. The air was heavy with 
 the rich odor of the magnolia, ye-hiang-ho, azelia, orange 
 blossoms, and countless fragrant shrubs — a fountain, 
 encircled by a low marble balustrade crowned with jars 
 of beautiful plants, sent forth the most soothing murmurs, 
 while the gold and silver fish, sporting beneath the mir- 
 rored surface, flashed like jewels in the moon's rays. A 
 
THE MAID OP CHE-KYANG. 2T5 
 
 few yards from this lovely fountain, a flight of marble 
 steps adorned with images, each bearing some fragrant 
 shrub, led to a gentle eminence on which stood a pavil- 
 ion hang with the most gorgeous silks wrought in taste- 
 ful designs with thread of gold, and which seemed as if 
 it were suspended within the gigantic branches of the 
 rare ou-tong-chu, whose thousands of large snowy blos- 
 soms exhaled the most delicious fragrance as they were 
 gently swayed by the light evening wind. 
 
 At one extremity of the pavilion the curtains were 
 partially drawn aside, disclosing a view of the interior. 
 The floor was paved with lapis-lazuli and white jasper, 
 re-presenting birds, flowers, et cetera — large vases of the 
 most exquisite designs were scattered here and there — 
 the chairs and couches were covered with white satin, 
 embroidered with the richest colors, while, in the centre, 
 a small jet d''eau of perfumed water, dropping upon a 
 pavement formed of the sonorous yu, so rare and valua- 
 ble, caused a constant variety of agreeable sounds, as the 
 humming of bees over beds of violets. 
 
 Upon one of these couches reclined a fair young 
 maiden. One small hand was pressed upon her lovely 
 brow, from which the dark hair was drawn back and 
 caught in the beak of a silYer fo7ig-koang, whose delicate 
 wings shaded her temples as a vail, while the long glit- 
 tering tail, studded with minute gems of emeralds and 
 rubies, formed a most graceful and beautiful plume. 
 The other hand rested upon a small musical instrument 
 resembling a guitar, which, as the Chinese maiden 
 carelessly swept the strings, gave forth sweet and mourn- 
 ful sounds. Her little foot, encased in a jeweled slipper, 
 twinkled like a star from the cushion on which it rested. 
 
276 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 
 
 Apparently the thoughts of the maiden were soaring 
 far away from the present scene, for twice had the name 
 of Leet-sie been pronounced in a sweet voice by a young 
 girl, who advanced gently from the more retired recesses 
 of the pavilion, ere the former seemed aware of her 
 presence. 
 
 '' Thy voice, dear Ma-che, sounds sweet as the mur- 
 muring of the dove. Methought our blessed Queen of 
 Heaven whispered * Leet-sie,' and called me to her side." 
 
 " Still so pensive, dear Leet-sie," answered the other 
 maiden. " Why art thou now ever sad and tearful, and 
 thy voice low and trembling, even as the strings of thy 
 lute when the wind whispers through them ?" 
 
 Leet-sie made no answer, but buried her face in her 
 little hands. Ma-che continued : 
 
 " Dost thou forget, my own Leet-sie, that when next 
 yonder moon shall dance upon the waters of the Golden 
 Lake, then with sounds of sweetest harmony — with flash- 
 ing lanterns, and torches, whose brilliancy shall make 
 the darkness hide itself beneath the waters of the Yellow 
 Sea, thou wilt be borne from thy father's palace in a 
 gorgeous palanquin, to become the bride of the great Kia- 
 chan ? — of him whose eyes have even looked upon the 
 face of the Emperor, nor yet been blinded by the dazzling 
 glory ! From all the daughters of Che-kyang, thee hath 
 he chosen for his consort — thee^ who can call the mighty 
 warrior Long-han, father ! Then why are the stars of 
 thy forehead darkened ? and why do those pearly eye-lids 
 tremble ? Tell me, dear Leet-sie." 
 
 The maiden was about to reply, when suddenly a low 
 strain of music swept the air. Uttering an exclamation 
 of delight, Leet-sie half rose from her seat, bent eagerly 
 
THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 277 
 
 forward, and with one hand raised, as if to bespeak 
 attention, remained listening to the notes. 
 
 The strain ceased — and all was still. Then turning 
 and throwing her arms around the neck of Ma-che, 
 Leet-sie murmured : 
 
 "Alas, what can I do? Listen, dear Ma-che, to my 
 secret — but bury it in thy heart deep and forever. Hark ! 
 again." 
 
 And again a soft and gentle air mingled with the low 
 music of the fountain. 
 
 Quickly throwing a vail around her, Leet-sie, with 
 trembling hand, caught up the lute, and timidly ran her 
 fingers over the strings, which responded as though 
 brushed by the wing of some frightened bird. A slight 
 rustling was heard — a shower of white blossoms from the 
 quivering branch of the ou-tong-chu fell around the en- 
 trance of the pavilion, and a youth sank on his knees 
 before the couch of Leet-sie ! 
 
 Ma-che uttered a faint scream — drew her vail over her 
 face — and fled timidly from the presence of the stranger 
 youth. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Long-han, the father of Leet-sie, was the most re- 
 nowned warrior throughout all Che-kyang; indeed, the 
 neighboring provinces of Fokien and Kiang-nan could 
 boast no braver soldier. His name had rung even in the 
 ears of the Emperor Kien-lung, who, as a reward, per- 
 mitted him the honor of wearing the " yellow button^''^ 
 allowed only to Princes of the Blood. Ten thousand of 
 
278 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANd. 
 
 the bravest soldiers of Che-kyang were at his command. 
 His palace, situated on the flowery borders of the beauti- 
 ful lake Si-hou, was more sumptuous than that of the 
 greatest mandarin in the province, while love and har- 
 mony breathed the gentlest spirit of happiness through- 
 out the interior of this luxurious abode. 
 
 Only three moons had waned prior to the events last 
 related, when Kon-chi, the son of the terrible pirate 
 Ching-yih, in one of his rambles in this delightful pro- 
 vince, had seen the loved Leet-sie, the only daughter of 
 Long-han. 
 
 In one of those beautiful pleasure boats, so adorned 
 with flowers that they resemble some large and exquisite 
 boquet floating on the limpid waters of the lake, had the 
 females of Long-han's household embarked to enjoy the 
 soft breeze which came wafted from the Yellow Sea 
 across the spicy groves which shaded its borders. 
 
 It was near the rainy season, when sudden and fre- 
 quent storms arise ; and while yet the dip of the oars 
 sounded in unison with the notes of flutes and other 
 gentle wind instruments, one small dark cloud appeared 
 as a speck upon the blue sky — the whole heavens were 
 suddenly obscured — the wind seized the frail bark and 
 tossed her like some fairy plaything upon the now foam- 
 ing waters of the little lake. The thunder rolled, while 
 the lightning, as in sport, flashed and danced across the 
 angry heavens. The unskillful and frightened mariners, 
 instead of endeavoring to guide the little boat, prostrated 
 themselves on the deck, uttering prayers to the gods of 
 storms and winds, while loud screams and sobs from the 
 cabin mingled with the roar of the elements. At that 
 
 O 
 
 perilous moment a light bark, guided by one single hand, 
 
THE MAID OP CHE-KTANG. 279 
 
 is seen rapidly sculling the foaming- waves, and soon 
 reaches the doomed pleasure boat. Kon-chi springs on 
 the deck — he seizes the abandoned rudder — his voice 
 restores courage to the frightened sailors and comfort to 
 the drooping females, who, totally forgetful in this hour 
 of danger of that reserve to which custom dooms them, 
 now cling tremblingly around him, and call upon him to 
 save them. 
 
 The eye of Kon-chi falls upon the unvailed counte- 
 nance of Leet-sie, pale, yet beautiful as the fabled houri. 
 His efforts redouble ; once more he turns to look upon 
 the maiden, while love, more powerful than the elements, 
 calms the terrors of Leet-sie, and aids the arm of Kon- 
 chi to her rescue. The boat is soon safe by one of those 
 massive galleries which here and there span the more 
 narrow surface of the lake. He then falls upon his knee 
 before the blushing maiden, imprints one kiss upon her 
 hand, springs upon the galley and is gone. 
 
 Already was the youthful Leet-sie promised in mar- 
 riage to the great Kia-chan. In accordance with the 
 arbitrary custom of the empire, Leet-sie had never looked 
 upon the features of her future lord, yet, submissive to 
 the will of her parents, she had unmurmuringly consent- 
 ed to become the bride of Kia-chan. The most magnifi- 
 cent presents had been showered upon the youthful 
 beauty by the bridegroom elect. The richest silks from 
 Persian looms — pearls and gems of rare and dazzling 
 beauty — shawls from the vale of Cashmere — birds of 
 exquisite plumage, confined in cages of silver-net, which 
 continually poured forth the most enchanting notes — 
 these and a thousand other rare and precious gifts were 
 lavished upon the fair Leet-sie ; and already the luxuri- 
 
280 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 
 
 ous apartments prepared in the mansion of Kia-chan 
 seemed lonely without the presence of their young and 
 beautiful mistress. As soon, therefore, as the pale fra- 
 grant blossom of the double flowering almond should bud 
 amid its spicy foliage, it was determined the impatient 
 bridegroom should receive the trembling Leet-sie from 
 the hands of her brave father. 
 
 But alas, the sudden storm which had swept the calm 
 surface of the lake had as suddenly disturbed that peace- 
 ful tranquillity which had ever reigned in the pure bosom 
 of the Chinese maid. No longer did she take delight in 
 the splendors which surrounded her ; the voices of the 
 singing birds had lost their power to charm, and seated 
 in the midst of those gorgeous gifts which slaves were 
 continually placing before her, Leet-sie remained silent 
 and sad, her pale face bathed in tears ; yet whenever the 
 gracful image of the brave youth who had rescued her 
 from a watery grave flitted before her, her little heart 
 fluttered, and those cheeks, before so pale, now vied in 
 bloom with the blushing pomegranate. 
 
 Again the daring Kon-chi kneels before Leet-sie, and 
 gazes unreproved upon those charms which have destroy- 
 ed his peace of mind forever, unless he can win the maid 
 to his home in the Pirate Isles. Their vows of love are 
 interchanged, and at length the daughter of the mighty 
 Long-han consents to flee far from her father's palace, 
 far from Kia-chan, who even then awaits his bride. 
 Disguised in the most common garb, as attendant upon 
 the handsome youth Kon-chi, Leet-sie is soon far beyond 
 the confines of Che-kyang; a few days, and they are 
 safe beyond pursuit amid the rocky defiles of the La- 
 drones. 
 
THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 281 
 
 Here, in a spot almost inaccessible to mortal footsteps, 
 had Kon-chi already constructed a dwelling suitable for 
 his lovely Leet-sie. He had caused to be borne thither 
 the richest and most fragrant woods wherewith to rear 
 his fairy palace. The doors and pillars were of sandal- 
 wood, on which birds and flowers were exquisitely delin- 
 eated with inlaid ivory. Silken hangings of delicate 
 azure adorned the walls — couches, formed of silver fili- 
 gree and pearl, were cushioned with satin of pale rose 
 color — curtains of fine silver net-work, so flexible that 
 with each breath of wind they moved gently to and fro, 
 gleaming in the air as moonbeams on the water, were 
 suspendedi^ver the doors and windows, and the little 
 foot of the beautiful bride pressed only upon carpets of 
 rich velvet. The sound of falling cascades and fountains, 
 mingled with the sweet notes of birds, charmed the ear, 
 while, as the mountain wind whispered through th^ 
 branches of the superb flowering trees, which the love of 
 Kon-chi had caused to be transplanted thither, it wafted 
 to the senses an odor more delicious than the breath of 
 June roses. 
 
 A body of armed followers were ever at hand, and 
 each rocky defile which led to this abode of love and 
 happiness was guarded by a chosen troop ; for too well 
 did Kon-chi know that notwithstanding the love with 
 which his mother Kea-she regarded him, should she 
 discover his retreat, his beloved Leet-sie would fall an 
 instant victim to her wrath and the stern laws of the 
 pirate horde. Twice, unarmed and alone, had Kon-chi 
 visited the fortress where his mother held such absolute 
 command over thousands of the wild and lawless pirates. 
 He had been each time received with great kindness and 
 18 
 
282 THE MAID OP CHE-KYANa. 
 
 favor, which only seemed to rouse anew the bitter hatred 
 that lay hidden in the heart of the wicked Lon-chi. 
 
 Again did Kea-she urge upon Kon-chi to wed with 
 one of the fair daughters of the tribe ; his renewed 
 refusal seemed to kindle her suspicion and her anger, for . 
 in a voice tremulous with rage, and eyes flashing defi- 
 ance, she exclaimed : 
 
 " Again I tell thee, Kon-chi, to beware ; for, by the 
 head of Confucius I swear that should'st thou wed with 
 a stranger maid, were she the daughter of the Emperor, 
 the mighty Kien-lung, death to thee, and a torture worse 
 than death to her, shall be thy reward !" 
 
 And Kon-chi left the presence of his mother with 
 dread forebodings at his heart, followed by the sneers and 
 malicious eye of Lon-chi. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 A year of blissful happiness had rapidly flown over 
 the youthful pair, when one day as Kon-chi was return- 
 ing from a ramble through the interstices of the moun- 
 tain, he several times fancied he detected the sound of 
 footsteps close behind him ; but whenever he turned to 
 look around him all was still ; the ring-dove flew from 
 her nest amid the deep foliage of the Mo-wang, and the 
 whizzing of pheasants, startled from their covert in the 
 deep jungle, were the only sounds that met his ear. Still 
 the fears of Kon-chi were aroused, and no sooner did he 
 reach his peaceful dwelling than he ordered his follow- 
 ers to scour the defiles in every direction, and bring to 
 his presence any persons they might find lurking therein. 
 
THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 283 
 
 Nor were his precautions vain, for scarce an hour had 
 passed, ere one of the most daring of his brother's band 
 was brought before him. Two of these outlaws had 
 been discovered prowling within a few rods of Kon-chi's 
 abode. One had unfortunately effected his escape ; the 
 other, after a desperate resistance, and mortally wounded, 
 was at length captured. Dogged and sullen, he stood 
 before Kon-chi, refusing to answer every question that 
 was put to him, and died at length, breathing only oaths 
 and defiance toward his captors. 
 
 "We must fly, star of my life," cried Kon-chi, press- 
 ing Leet-sie to his bosom. " The hatred and jealousy 
 of my wicked brother have at length discovered our 
 retreat ; even now we may be too late !" 
 
 Then ordering his men to proceed cautiously in ad- 
 vance, and clasping the light form of Leet-sie in his 
 arms, Kon-chi turned sorrowing away from the charming 
 spot which had so long sheltered their loves. Wearily 
 they began their descent down the steep mountain slopes. 
 In a small cove, on the western side of the Ladrones, the 
 beautiful traveling barge of Kon-chi was moored ; but, 
 death to his hopes ! As the wide expanse of ocean burst 
 on his view, he saw he was too late ; that his enemies 
 already held possession of the only means of escape 
 for his beloved Leet-sie. 
 
 " Too late — too late !" he exclaimed ; " but on, my 
 brave fellows. Strike down the pirate band !" 
 
 Then placing the trembling Leet-sie in safety, and 
 leaving a chosen guard around her, Kon-chi placed him- 
 self at the head of his men, and, like a torrent, they 
 rushed down the mountain to battle with the foe. The 
 combat was short and decisive. Love nerved the arm of 
 
 .^ 
 
^84 THE MAID OP CHE-KTANG. 
 
 Kon-chi ; his valor inspired his followers with renewed 
 courage, and in a short time scarce one of the pirates but 
 lay weltering in blood upon the sands. Swiftly returning 
 now to the trembling Leet-sie, Kon-chi again took her in 
 his arms and bore her to the barge. The light sails were 
 soon hoisted, and taking his station at the rudder, while 
 the long oars were propelled by strong and willing hands, 
 the fugitives directed their course for the shores of 
 Cochin-China. But hardly had the barge proceeded a 
 mile from the towering islands, when suddenly the rocky 
 sides of the mountain seem alive with armed men pour- 
 ing down toward the shore ; the sound of gongs, drums, 
 and trumpets came wafted to their ears, while from every 
 cove the armed junks and fast-boats of the pirates were 
 rapidly approaching the barge. 
 
 Two of these junks are larger than the others, whose 
 brilliant decorations, gay silken awnings, with the red 
 and black flag displayed from their masts, denote them 
 to be those of Kea-she and the terrible Lon-chi. With 
 every sweep of the oar the pirates gain upon the light 
 boat of Kon-chi, and already was that commanded by 
 Lon-chi within a few rods of the fugitives, when at the 
 loud blast of a trumpet from the war-junk of Kea-she, 
 the rowers of Lon-chi suddenly, with uplifted oars, re- 
 main motionless — the junk of Kea-she is soon alongside 
 that of her pirate son : 
 
 " Leave the rebel to me !" she exclaimed ; " proceed 
 no farther without my orders. I alone will deal with 
 the wretched man. Back, I say, nor come between me 
 and my vengeance." 
 
 Then ordering all the other boats to lie on their oars, 
 she w^as soon alongside of the flying barge ; and com- 
 
THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 285 
 
 manding Kon-chi to lie to, this bold and daring woman 
 fearlessly stepped on board. 
 
 " Ungrateful, rebellious man," she cried, sternly re- 
 garding Kon-chi, " down with your arms, and instantly 
 surrender yourself my prisoner." 
 
 " Not while I have life," replied her son, proudly; 
 " you are now in my power ; either return at once to the 
 deck of your own vessel, or yield as my prisoner !" 
 
 " This to me, unworthy son of the brave Ching-yih ! 
 This to thy mother and sovereign ! But listen, base 
 boy — (shame upon me that the only love I ever felt even 
 now stirs my heart, degenerate as thou art !) Tell me 
 where is the unhappy wretch who hath lured the eaglet 
 from the parent nest ? Bring her before me, that, as 
 the fire of heaven, my eyes may strike her dead at my 
 feet !" 
 
 " Never, never will I yield my lovely Leet-sie to thy 
 tyranny, cruel mother," replied Kon-chi. " No, sooner 
 shall this dagger let out her pure and innocent heart's 
 blood, than she shall be made to feel the vengeance of a 
 cruel and heartless woman!" 
 
 But there was a slight rustling as of silken garments, 
 a faint sob, a light form tottered past Kon-chi, and throw- 
 rng back her vail, Leet-sie, pale and trembling, fell at the 
 feet of Kea-she, and lifted her glorious eyes to the stern 
 countenance bent upon her : 
 
 " Behold, mother of Kon-chi — behold the innocent 
 cause of thy son's apostacy ! Strike — I await the dread- 
 ful blow which separates me from my beloved ; but, oh, 
 spare him — the young, the brave, the beautiful !" 
 
 "Kneel not, dearest Leet-sie," cried Kon-chi, raising 
 
286 THE MAID OP CHE-KYANG. 
 
 her to his breast. "Ask no mercy ; we will die as we 
 have lived — united!" 
 
 The eyes of the stern mother roved for a moment over 
 the young and beautiful pair before her. Kon-chi stood 
 firm and erect, nor quailed his eye under her fearful 
 glance; one arm supported the light form of Leet-sie, 
 who, clinging tremblingly around him, now gazed with 
 love and tenderness into the countenance of her beloved, 
 or lifted a timid, shuddering glance upon the cruel wo- 
 man before her. 
 
 For some moments no word was spoken ; the features 
 of Kea-she gradually relaxed ; the light of pity and love 
 stole over her countenance, as the sunbeams flashing on 
 the harsh, rugged peaks of her mountain home. Motion- 
 ing those around her to stand back, she advanced a few 
 paces nearer to the unfortunate pair, and, in a tremulous 
 voice, said : 
 
 " My son, maternal love has conquered ! Depart 
 quickly with thy lovely bride. Seek some foreign land, 
 and there dwell in peace and happiness. My children," 
 she added, " curse not the name of your mother V 
 
 Kon-chi fell at her feet, and was about to reply, when 
 there was a sudden and rapid dash of oars, and ere Kea- 
 she could recover from her emotion, the terrible Lon-chi, 
 with death and vengeance in his eye, and cimiter in 
 hand, sprang on the deck, followed by a body of ruffians 
 as ferocious as himself. 
 
 " What means this daring intrusion, Lon-chi ? " ex- 
 claimed Kea-she,. instantly resuming all her sternness 
 and dignity; "did I not bid you await my orders? 
 Retire then, instantly, to the boats, and return to the 
 
THE MAID OP CHE-KYANG. 287 
 
 fortress. Know that I have pardoned thy brother ! How 
 now — dare you rebel ?" 
 
 Lon-chi turned to his men. There was a hoarse 
 murmur of defiance, and each man placed his hand on 
 his dagger ; then advancing to his mother, Lon-chi re- 
 plied : 
 
 " No, never will I leave this deck until yonder grovel- 
 ling miscreant meets the death he merits. What ! shall 
 he go unpunished for a crime which has already, cost the 
 lives of some of our bravest men ? Seize him, brave 
 boys, and strangle him before the eyes of his mountain 
 dove!" 
 
 " Advance one step at your peril," cried Kea-she, 
 springing before the furious pirates, who were already 
 closing around Kon-chi. " Back, I say, it is your sov- 
 ereign commands !" 
 
 " Heed her not, my gallant men; heed not a woman V 
 cried Lon-chi, with a laugh and look of scorn. 
 
 Kea-she raised her arm, while fury flashed from her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Seize the rebel !" she exclaimed, pointing to Lon- 
 chi, " and bear him to the dungeon in the rocks !" 
 
 Almost before the words were uttered, there was a 
 flash, a report, and, with a low scream, the 'pirate chief- 
 tainess fell dead upon the deck ! A bullet from the carbine 
 of her son had pierced her heart ! 
 
 For a few moments all was confusion; even the hearts 
 of the ferocious pirates were awed and touched at the sud- 
 den death of the daring woman who so oft had led them 
 forth to conquest. Kon-chi seized the favorable moment, 
 placed himself at the head of the pirates and rushed 
 upon the parricide. Hand to hand the brothers fought 
 
288 
 
 THE MAID OF CHE-KYANG. 
 
 
 above the body of the murdered mother. All 
 back to gaze upon this dreadful combat. It was soon 
 decided — guilt and horror, as he viewed the pale bloody 
 corse of his parent, paralyzed the arm of the wicked 
 Lon-chi ; his dagger remained powerless in his hand, 
 and, after a few faint struggles, he fell, mortally wounded 
 by the hand of Kon-chi. 
 
 Our story is ended. Suffice it only to say that Kon- 
 chi, with. his beloved Leet-sie, reached in safety one of 
 those sea-girt isles which " like to gems inlay " the 
 bosom of the Pacific Ocean. 
 
 Deprived of their bold and terrible leaders, the Ladrone 
 pirates from this time ceased to be longer objects of 
 terror. They were soon disbanded ; some formed them- 
 selves into small hordes, and were taken and put to 
 death; while others, joining the armies of the Emperor, 
 were even promoted to high rank and power for their 
 superior skill and bravery. 
 
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