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 OR, 
 
 A WINTERS GLEANING. 
 
 IN A POEM. 
 
 By S. J. L. L(,.,vtv,cc 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY B. B. RUSSELL, 55 CORNHILL. 
 
 1871. 
 

 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, 
 
 By B. B. RUSSELL, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 Rand, A very, &* Fr^e, Printers, Boston, 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 To some few of my friends to memory dear 
 This work I offer, be they far or near ; 
 And if, in tracing these pages o'er, 
 They're reminded of days no more, 
 Of the pleasant hours we five have shared, 
 Then I am repaid for each line prepared. 
 Trusting to the loving-kindness of all, 
 I on your charity truly must call 
 To pardon the errors that uppermost lie : 
 They'll grieve, I know, the critical eye. 
 But not for the critic, be he good or wise. 
 Have I my heart-fancies bidden to rise. 
 But for those who lightened my lonely heart 
 When from home and loved ones doomed to part ; 
 Who by their tenderness sought to while 
 The tedious hours with song and with smile, 
 Nor sought in vain. Hot tears fall fast 
 As I think of the four, loved till the last ; 
 And though mile upon mile our persons divide. 
 Our souls, united, walk closely beside. 
 Dear friends of my heart, though we ne'er meet more 
 Until we've crossed to the shining shore, 
 May the past, with its memories kind and sweet, 
 With its halo of love, rest at your feet. 
 Where I, with humble reverence, lay 
 The book that " Hulda " has written to-day ! 
 
 April 13, 1873 
 
OOI^TEN'TS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. PAGE 
 The Wedbing 7 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Sakah's Childhood 11 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 The Vow 15 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 The Hospital 20 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 The Dying Soldier 24 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Mission 29 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The Repledged 34 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Sarah Horton 38 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Cornie's Story 41 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 The Two Friends 46 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER Xr. 
 
 The Departure 
 
 52 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 ISTew Ties 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 GrliENCORA MAYO'S STORY 
 
 62 
 
 Recreation 
 
 Visions 
 
 Rewarded 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 At Last 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 83 
 
 Fate 
 
 CHAPTER XVUl. 
 
 Stella Graham 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 95 
 
 Changes 
 
 CON( 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 103 
 
 111 
 
LONSOLATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE WEDDING. 
 
 ALL the long clay the pure and fleecy snow 
 Had been softly falling down in flumes 
 White ; while old Mount Grace was covered o'er 
 From base to crown with her spotless robe. 
 All the little brooks that in summer-time 
 Babbled to the passer-by so gayly 
 And so free were hushed then and still ;. 
 For 'twas mid-winter, and in her chill embrace 
 All Nature rocked'herself to sleep. 
 
 Some two miles out from the village street 
 
 Of dear old Warwick, — for there my stories lies 
 
 In its beginning, — there stood, and yet doth stand. 
 
 The pleasant farm-house of John Stevens, 
 
 A well-to-do farmer, kind and jolly, 
 
 Who loved to crack his joke with a neighbor, 
 
 And who loved his wife and his children well ; 
 
 But some there* were who said, perhaps with truth, 
 
8 CONSOLATION. 
 
 His idol and his pet was not his wife, 
 Nor either of his children ten, but his 
 Gray mare. 
 
 Within the house, the busy housewife, 
 On many cares intent, sped back and forth 
 With a smiling face, but with weary feet ; 
 For, when the evening came, Vira, her eldest. 
 The daughter of her youth, would leave her home 
 To share with him she'd chosen their future. 
 Be it weal or woe. Aunt Eunice and Thankful, 
 John's maiden sisters, were making wreaths 
 With which to deck the large old-fashioned room, 
 By courtesy called parlor ; though we of modern times 
 Would smile to have so plain and barren room 
 Thus denominated. 
 
 The dark yet polished floor was carpetless, 
 Save here and there a home-made rug. 
 
 The ample fireplace, from whence pleasant warmth 
 Permeated all the room, reflected back 
 The brightening glow of the great fire-dogs. 
 Polished so highly, they seemed like mirrors. 
 
 In the far-off corner stood the guest-bed. 
 With its silken curtains flowing loosely 
 From the wainscoted ceiling to the floor ; 
 A wooden settee, covered with gorgeous patch. 
 Graced another corner ; while close beside 
 Stood the three-legged light-stand, with the Bible, 
 A century old, lying on it year by year. 
 
 A large old-fashioned bureau with brass handles 
 Also pressed against the wall ; above it 
 Hung the "family record," wrought by Vira 
 When only eleven : its companion-piece 
 Represented a milkmaid and green cows. 
 
THE WEDDING. S 
 
 Blue grass, and yellow skies, purple roses, 
 And all the et cceteras that form a gay picture. 
 
 The one rocking-chair, and seat of honor. 
 Stood in the middle of the floor : 
 In the corner next the fire stood the clock. 
 Tall and shining in its oaken dress ; 
 And its long brass pendulum kept swinging 
 The same old tune, — " Never, forever, 
 
 Never more ! " 
 With the evenincr came the weddIno;-o;uests, 
 Who, despite the falling snow and threatened drifts, 
 Were in their gayest humor : while above. 
 In the girls'-room, a merry group displayed 
 Their love and pretty taste as they arrayed 
 The bride in her soft gray silk, trimmed with lace ; 
 While she, trembling with mingled joy and fear, 
 Repaid their teasing raillery of wit 
 With pleased yet silent smiles. 
 
 Upon the stair falls now a manly tread ; 
 And '' May I come ? " is knocked upon the door. 
 " Oh, yes ! " the laughing damsels cry; and then 
 Upon the threshold of the door stands James, 
 The bridegroom, so young, so fair and manly, 
 Who, turning to his bride-elect, with arms 
 Outstretched, holds her in a close embrace. 
 Pressing with his lips her lofty brow. 
 He murmured low, " May God ne'er smile on me 
 If I henceforth keep not the vows which I 
 To-night do take upon myself! " — " We're waiting ! " 
 Called forth the youngest brother from below : 
 So the bridal party passed down the stairs, 
 And quietly arranged themselves in the centre 
 Of the room, before the chair of state, in which 
 
10 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Good Parson Jones had been resting an hour 
 Or more, cracking a joke or two with zest 
 Among the merry guests assembled there. 
 
 A few brief words, an earnest prayer, and then 
 Vira Stevens was no more. A husband 
 Now claimed full allegiance from her heart ; 
 And, though the tears filled her eyes when she saw 
 Her mother's orbs o'erflowing with tender love, 
 She quickly drove them back, and gazed in pride 
 Upon her love and master, James Horton, 
 To her seeming the very prince of men ; 
 ''And all went merry as a marriage-bell." 
 
 The storm-clouds, which all ^aj 
 Had disgorged their fleecy contents, now broke, 
 Drifting from each other far and wide apart, 
 Letting in 'twixt their rifts the bright-eyed stars ; 
 While, slowly climbing overhead, the moon. 
 Night's fair and radiant queen, the heavens 
 Seemed to light into a brilliance most fair. 
 At last, wdien ten o'clock had slowly chimed 
 The hour, the guests, including bride and groom, 
 Were making their adieus ; w^hile Aunt Eunice 
 With hearty good will threw after the bridal pair 
 An old slipper, — " for good luck," she said. 
 The happy twain, thus escorted by friends. 
 Soon reached their own snug home; and therein paa ce 
 And the bliss of wedded life we leave them. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 Sarah's childhood. 
 
 FIVE years of mingled joy and pain have passed 
 Since Vira left the dear parental roof 
 Of her childhood's home. Now a little habe 
 Has come to bless her with its infant smiles ; 
 A little daughter, which she has christened 
 Sarah, — to her name ever dear, since 'twas 
 Her mother's. The father his disappointment 
 Could scarce conceal because his daughter dear 
 Was not a son ; for on that ideal 
 He had rested his fondest hopes for years. 
 
 Alas ! poor Vira had much need of comfort, 
 Since she was wedded scarce a year e'er she 
 Discovered she had indeed a rival, 
 And one much to be feared ; since passion hot 
 And fierce assailed her with this demon wild. 
 Who often seemed to tear at the very strings 
 Of her heart. Oh the agony of soul 
 She felt when first she knew that James, 
 Her idol and her liege lord, was subject 
 To the demon drink ! Prayers and tears alike 
 Seemed powerless to stem his downward walk 
 Into that abyss of shame, — a drunkard's grave. 
 
 And so the weary years rolled on, 
 
 Till fifteen summer- suns had cast their brightness 
 
 Over Sarah's face ; when, one wild autumnal night. 
 
12 CONSOLATION. 
 
 James Horton, the husband and father, 
 Was from a drunken frolic brouMit home dead. 
 The shock to poor Vira's nerves was fearful, 
 Quite unnerving her for all life's sterner tasks : 
 Thus a double burden fell on Sarah, 
 AVho bravely struggled with her adverse fate, 
 And by her kind solicitude and care 
 Smoothed from her mother's path each bitter thorn. 
 
 But Vh-a's life hung by a brittle thread ; 
 And, after many a long and serious talk 
 With the family physician, she one night 
 Called her daughter to her side, praying 
 That she might bear the burden given her 
 For some wise purpose from the Father's hand. 
 Resting her white and slender hand wi'h love 
 Upon her daughter's brow, she thus began : 
 " For fifteen years, my Sarah, you have been 
 To me the one bright centre of my heart ; 
 The one for whom I've wrought and toiled 
 With purpose strong and high : many a time 
 Have you stood betwixt me and harm, when he. 
 Your father, knew not what mad acts he wrought. 
 
 " On one sad night, when he with fury wild 
 Approached me with a hatchet keen, 
 I held you up before his face, and cried, 
 ^ O James ! see your little daughter's face ; 
 You will not, surely, harm your child ? ' 
 ' No,' said he ; ' the child is safe : but I wish 
 In darkest Hades was its mother.' 
 My Sarah, can you guess the bitter grief 
 That filled your mother's heart in those sad days ? 
 And yet it was not always so. At first. 
 Your father was as kind and good a man 
 
SAEAH'S CHILDHOOD. 13 
 
 As you would often see : but for a friend 
 
 He bound himself for all that he was worth, 
 
 And more ; and, through falsehood vile, this friend 
 
 Defrauded him of ail he had. 
 
 And then his courage, and his faith in man, 
 
 Vanished like the mists of mornino; : and so, 
 
 To banish his discomfiture, he took to drink ; 
 
 And, seething his brain with the vile poison. 
 
 He was not accountable for his deeds. 
 
 " He was my husband, the father of my child : 
 And so, despite the urgent wish of all 
 My friends, I staid with him until the last ; 
 Often going supperless to bed. 
 And sometimes shivering with cold. And you 
 Would put your precious arms about my neck, 
 Pressing with your own my tear-wet cheek, 
 And whisper, ' Don't cry, mamma ! don't you cry ! ' 
 Thus have you been my solace and my hope. 
 
 " For many years I've shared your daily presence ; 
 But now it seemeth best that we should part. 
 Your education is indifferent; and I wish 
 To place you for two years in Madam R.'s 
 Graduating-school for young ladies ; 
 Because, my child," — and now did Vira's voice 
 Grow low and tender, — "I deem that it is best 
 You should know that Dr. Walton and others 
 Think you may at any hour become 
 An orphan child indeed. My heart, they say. 
 Is much diseased ; "and I must be prepared 
 To bid farewell to life most suddenly. 
 
 " Could I but feel assured that you were well, 
 And happily provided for, I'd be 
 Content to submit to the Father's will ; 
 But love for you ofttimes makes me rebel. 
 
14 CONSOLATIOiT. 
 
 " If the wealth that once was ours 
 Could dower you with a competency, 
 'Twould be so much for you ; but now, alone 
 And poor, a harder path your feet must tread. 
 *Tis now Thanksgiving week ; and, when shall come 
 The Christmas holidays, we two must learn 
 To live apart." 
 
 " mamma ! if what you tell me is true, 
 I cannot leave you here and alone : 
 No comfort could I take, thouo-h much I'd like 
 To garner knowledge, for 'tis the key of power. 
 No, mamma : let me stay with you to cheer 
 Your last remaining days with deeds of love.'' 
 
 " Not so, dear child," Vira quick replied. 
 " I shall not be alone ; for your grandpa 
 Stevens is urging me to come and dwell 
 Once more beneath the dear, parental roof. 
 Besides, necessity almost compels me to : 
 Since all we have will barely pay your board 
 And tuition for the terms I've set for you ; 
 And, as this is all I can to you bequeath. 
 An education you must have. 
 
 " Yesterday I spoke to Melinda Jones, 
 Good old Parson Jones's youngest daughter. 
 To come and cut and make for you 
 Whate'er is needful for your coming use : 
 We have so much to do, we cannot waste 
 Our time in tears. And now, my darling girl, 
 Kiss me good-night ; and remember, dear. 
 You ever have your mother's love and blessing." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE VOW. 
 
 AMID the mountains of the Verd-mont State, 
 NestHng Hke the tiny violet from sight, 
 Lies the pretty town of W. 
 In the large two-story house, a Httle back 
 From the main street, a young wife and mother 
 Is battHng for her hfe. 
 Slowly she turns her death-filmed eyes 
 Upon each tearful face ; then beckoning 
 To one sister dearer than the rest, whose hand 
 She clasped with dying strength, she wildly cried, 
 " Glencora, do you love me ? Then listen ; 
 And, if you'd have me die in peace, you'll grant 
 This my last request. — Charles, come hither too : 
 Now take Glencora's hand in yours, and promise 
 Both of you, when I've been dead a year, 
 That you will marry : so this darling boy 
 May have a mother, who will love him 
 For his dead mother's sake." 
 
 The two, thus strangely and solemnly addressed, 
 Gazed with awe into each other's face ; 
 Neither feeling much inclined to speak. 
 ^' Speak, I do implore ! " the dying woman cried : 
 " My moments fast are ebbing out, and you 
 Will not ease their pain ! Glencora, oh, say 
 That you will be a mother to my child ! " 
 
 Then did this sister', nobly renouncing 
 
16 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Self and selfish feelings, make the vow 
 
 That henceforth shattered her own bright hopes ; 
 
 For well she knew another held the place 
 
 A husband alone should ever claim. 
 
 Solon Gordon was a clergyman of the 
 Episcopalian order, and in the town 
 Of W. had lived some two years or more. 
 Tall and commanding in stature, he walked 
 A very prince 'mong men. His broad, full brow 
 Showed the intellect hidden there ; 
 His eyes, so soft and dark, seemed wells of thought 
 About his mouth there was a pleasant smile ; 
 And Ills deep-toned voice rang out like music. 
 All the people loved him far and near. 
 He was so gentle and so good ; and he it was 
 Glencora had resigned to soothe the dying 
 Wish of one who now could see how great 
 Her sacrifice had been. 
 While yet that sister lay shrouded below, 
 Glencora, with an aching heart, a letter 
 Wrote to him, blotted o'er with tears ; 
 And thus the missive ran : — 
 
 '^ My dearest now, as you evermore will be, 
 I know not how or where to begin this 
 My last and farewell letter unto you : 
 For t]ioua;h our weddmo;-dav is set, and we 
 So many blissful plans have for the future 
 Made, it now must all be blotted out 
 As thouo;h it ne'er had been ; for I to-nio;ht 
 Have made a vow, to calm a dying soul. 
 That raises a barrier high 'twixt you and me. 
 
 " I hope some worthier one and happier 
 Far than I can ever be will make to you 
 
THE VOW. 17 
 
 Amends for all I've done amiss : 
 
 And, though I may not be your wife, your friend 
 
 Most firm and faithful I will ever be ; 
 
 And God, dear friend, well knows 'tis not because 
 
 I love you less I give you now this pain. 
 
 And much I hope your prayers '11 help us both 
 
 To bear the heavy cross I almost loathe. 
 
 " Do not forsake me, dearest ; and remember 
 You are, as you have ever been, the best 
 And dearest of God's creatures in my eyes. 
 And, oh I thank him, with me, this life is not 
 For always. There dawns another day. 
 When all the parted here shall meet ' up there ' 
 To glorify our Lord. — Glencora." 
 
 The morning sun of a chill November day 
 Threw its brightening gleams across the brow 
 Of the young minister as he in his 
 Quiet study sat. 
 
 Within his slender hand the golden pen 
 Still held the drop of ink just dipped 
 Into its hollow palm, when a gentle rap 
 Upon the door proclaimed a visitor ; 
 And to his kind response of " Come," Betty, 
 His old friend and faithful nurse. 
 With a smiling face, handed him the letter 
 From Glencora ; at sight of which his face 
 Lighted up to a beauty rare. And then 
 He took the missive dear, and kissed it o'er 
 And o'er, because, forsooth, her dear hand 
 Had lately pressed it. Carefully he cut 
 One end of it apart, loitering like a child 
 O'er the sweetmeats it has coveted, 
 
 2* 
 
18 CONSOLATION. 
 
 While his lips softly murmured, " My darling ! 
 God keep me from loving thee too well." 
 
 His eyes had travelled half way down the sheet, 
 When a cold tremor seemed to shake his frame. 
 Twice he read the cruel missive over, — 
 Cruel, because it blighted in their freshest 
 Bloom two fond hearts. Dry and tearless sobs 
 Swelled his heart almost to suffocation ; 
 While on his brow, from which the waves of hair 
 Were pushed so carelessly, the drops of keen 
 And bitter anguish stood. 
 
 " O God ! why hast thou forsaken me ? " he cried. 
 " And must I thus resign my one ewe-lamb, — 
 The only one I have, save thee, in all 
 This earth ? Can I see another claim 
 From her a wife's fond duty ? know her kiss. 
 Which I yet can feel upon my brow. 
 Henceforth rests upon another's face ? 
 Can I meet her eyes, sweet mirrors of the soul. 
 And crush out from my own the fond desire 
 My soul must ever feel to call her mine ? 
 Can I ever clasp her hand, and not feel 
 The sweet electric sympathy that thrills 
 Between us two ? To meet in the common 
 Walks of life only as friends ! O Jesus ! 
 Who by thy bloody sweat and agony 
 Didst bear the cross for such as me, listen 
 To my cry, and make this trial, so 
 Bitter now, to prove some day for my good. 
 And she, my poor Glencora ! — oh ! give her 
 Strength to bear the burden she takes upon 
 Herself, thinking, poor child ! she is doing 
 Her duty now ; although, most unhappily. 
 
THE VOW. . 19 
 
 She is making, not only for herself, 
 But others, a weary bed of thorns, 
 Unsolaced by the priestess of a true 
 Home, — the goddess of love. 
 
 " As all is over between us two, 
 'Tis best we should not meet again ; and so 
 I'll ask leave of absence for a time, 
 Getting my old chum, Albert Nevers, 
 To take charge of my flock for me. I am not fit 
 For any duty now ; but, in other 
 And far different scenes, my mind 
 May be eventually restored to its olden 
 Calm at least : but happiness seems ever 
 Removed from my path." 
 
 At luncheon-time, he astonished the faithful 
 Betty by saying he wished her to pack some 
 Linen changes in his valise ; for he 
 On the morning train was going away. 
 His hasty preparations were soon made ; 
 His letter to his friend written, and 
 To wdiich an answer of acceptance came. 
 Then he from an inner pocket of his coat 
 Drew forth a lady's face framed in golden case. 
 Upon which he gazed long and earnestly : 
 And to the thought arising in his heart 
 He quick replied, " No, no ! I cannot yet 
 Return this treasure dear, my bonnie bride, 
 My sweet, blue-eyed Glencora." The present hour 
 With its bitterness b'erwdielmed his soul ; 
 And the strong man leaned his head upon 
 The table-slab, weeping bitterly. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 THE city of Newbern, North Carolina, 
 Held in possession by the victorious 
 Army of the North, on the fifteenth of March 
 Presented a sad spectacle of dead 
 And wounded soldiers. 
 Hospitals were gotten up 
 In imjjj'omptu style for the suffering men ; 
 And, though all was done by the humane 
 Surgeons that circumstances would allow, 
 The suffering of those heroes brave was 
 Intense. Many a fond Northern woman's 
 Heart has shed tears of bitter grief for those 
 Dear lads who went from ahnost every home ; 
 Many to suffer the tortures of captivity 
 And death. No pen or imagination, 
 Be it e'er so prolific, can picture 
 The daily struggles of those to whom toll 
 And hardship were once things unknown. 
 In the present contest for the city 
 Of Newbern, four hundred and sixty-six 
 Gallant men were wounded, and ninety-one 
 •Had passed on to that unseen land from whence 
 No traveller returns to tell us 
 Of the quiet meadows watered by the 
 River of Life ; of the beautiful mounts, whose peaks 
 Seem crusted o'er with gold and vermilion ; 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 21 
 
 Above the streets of shining jasper, so pure 
 In hohness, no sin can enter there. 
 
 In the month of May, the slant rays of the 
 Afternoon sun fell across the row 
 Of single cots in the hospital- ward 
 Of number eight. The thin pale faces 
 Of those lying there lighted up as they 
 Heard the echo of the doctor's step going 
 His evening rounds. Presently their door swung 
 Quietly upon its hinges, disclosing 
 To their view the hospital-surgeon, 
 Accompanied by a tall, noble-looking 
 Man, dressed in clerical black, whom they all 
 Denominated " a parson," and whom most 
 Of them rejoiced to see ; the attention 
 Of this stranger being kindly directed , 
 By the humane physician to those who 
 Had suffered most by their heroic valor 
 In their country's cause. Here, as elsewhere. 
 Some there were who could not admit the truth 
 Of divine justness in their present trials. 
 
 When this young soldier of the cross turned from 
 One and another of* those maimed and crippled 
 Men, he thought it was hard indeed to talk 
 To them of submission and patience, since 
 They were living monuments of a fealty 
 Most loyal ; and yet he felt he could not 
 Leave them there in their wounded state without 
 Conveying to their souls the promises 
 Of the Saviour, crucified for their sake. 
 
 One man, who seemed older than the rest, 
 Since his closely-shaven hair had turned gray, 
 With wistful earnestness watched the visitor, 
 
22 CONSOLATIOK. 
 
 Until at last he stood before his 
 Narrow cot: and when the surgeon, turning 
 Down the sheet, disclosed the stumps of his poor 
 Handless arms, t^ie tears rolled down the face 
 Of our old friend Solon Gordon ; for he, 
 To forget his own keen trial, had sought. 
 By ministering to the deeper woes of 
 The sufFerincT about him, to lio-hten 
 As far as possible the wearisome hours 
 Of the inmates of the various hospital- 
 Wards. Taking from his pocket a Common 
 Prayer Book, he was proceeding to 
 Open it : when the soldier cried, " You needn't 
 Do that ; I want to hear none of your cant ! 
 If God is wise and just, as you pious 
 Ones pretend, why did he let this war 
 Sweep over the country, bringing ruin 
 And death to so many homes ? 
 Does he give me back my two hands ? 
 Restore from their early graves my sons, — 
 The three brave boys ! — who, filled with valor 
 For their country's wrongs, so bravely fought. 
 And, fighting, died ? Will he restore to my 
 Dear old wife the husband and sons 
 Of her youth, and make the bread to ripen 
 Without labor at her feet ? I tell you, 
 No, no ! instead, this fair and pleasant land 
 Will be strewn with the dead and dying. 
 The war is only just begun : there will 
 Be scarce one home in all the States, North or 
 South, but that shall be made to mourn. And why ? 
 Where is the justice of it ? I don't see 
 Why the good and poor must suffer for the 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 23 
 
 Sins of the rich and wicked ones. And I 
 
 Say again, there is no God of justice 
 
 Or mercy, or he would not allow^ 
 
 Such things to be ; and so, as I don't beheve, 
 
 You needn't waste your prayers on me. 
 
 There is one in the corner there, who is 
 
 Ahnost through with this world, and to whom you, 
 
 Perhaps, will be a welcome messenger." 
 
 By advice of this blunt, outspoken old man, 
 Our friend slowly passed down the narrow space 
 Allotted between the t\Y.o rows of cots 
 Until he gained the spot designated. 
 Lying before him was a young man. 
 Evidently some twenty-two years of age. 
 And upon whose manly face cruel Death 
 Had already set his seal. In his eyes 
 There gleamed a peaceful light of contentment. 
 
 He grasped the minister's hand as though 
 Welcoming a long-known friend ; so quickly 
 Can the soul intuitively perceive 
 Those who are congenial. The physician 
 Seemed to think it would be best, perhaps, 
 To leave the ward and its occupants 
 To their usual rest and quietude ; 
 And in the morn, as early as he liked. 
 He could come asain. Biddino; his new friend 
 A kindly farewell, he left him with the 
 Promise of coming on the morrow, God willing. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DYING SOLDIER. 
 
 THE morning of the sixteenth of May found 
 Solon Gordon seated by the simple 
 Yet wholesome cot-bed of William King, 
 Whose sallow face lighted up with vivid 
 Pleasure when he saw liis kind visitor 
 Of the previous day had not forgotten 
 To fulfil his promise ; which, alas ! 
 Too many are prone to do. 
 After the morning salutations had 
 Been exchanged between the two, Gordon took 
 The Prayer Book, which he opened, turning 
 With thoughtful hand to the one hundred 
 And thirtieth Psalm, commencing, 
 " Out of the deep have I called unto thee, 
 O Lord ! Lord, hear my voice." 
 By request of the sick man, he went through 
 With the usual morning service, bearing. 
 As it seemed, upon the wings of faith. 
 The weary soul of him who listened, to 
 The very throne of grace. At its close. 
 Stretching forth his hand, the sick man cried, 
 " Bless you for your kindness to one unknown, 
 And but a simple soldier too ! 
 Forgive me if your kindness I shall over- 
 Tax ; but they tell me, sir, my lease of life 
 Has most run out. You seem to me a good 
 
THE DYING SOLDIER. 25 
 
 Man and a true ; and so if you will be 
 So kind as to take charge of these for me," — 
 Drawing from beneath his pillow two small 
 Packets, — " and deliver them to the ones 
 Addressed, when I am in my Southern grave. 
 Then will you indeed make my last moments 
 Happy by your deed of cliarity. 
 
 " This package, tied with a strip of green, 
 Belongs to my mother, who is a widow 
 In the bustHng town of B,, 
 In the State of Vermont. 'Twill be a sad 
 Day for her when she learns her eldest boy. 
 The pride of her fond heart, has run his race 
 So quickly here ; though thus she prophesied 
 'Twould be. This one, banded with the blue. 
 Goes to Amy Norton, my old school-chum, 
 The dear competitor in all my classes. 
 And who by my side I had hoped, fondly. 
 Some day in the future to win for my 
 Own sweet wife. These are her letters and 
 Dear pictured face ; and here upon my 
 Heart rests the golden tress she gave me 
 The sad morn we parted. And tell her. 
 Too, — for she will prize that more than the 
 Rest, — that her teaching and her prayers 
 At last prevailed ; and I now believe 
 In the Father and the Son and the 
 Holy Ghost, — the three in one combined. 
 She knows how sceptical I used to be. 
 Often wounding her by my ill-timed jests 
 Of the rarity of Christian men ; 
 Judging, as too many are prone to do, 
 The whole by the faithlessness of the few. 
 
26 CONSOLATION. 
 
 She, dear girl ! has had bitter trials to 
 Contend ao;ainst. Her mother died when she 
 Was but an infant child ; and her father, 
 Being left with many little ones 
 Upon his hands, soon married again, — 
 One who was, most unfortunately, unkind 
 To him and them : so she really had no 
 Home, no mother's kindly influence 
 To guide her in the path of rectitude. 
 Her aspirations were of a nature 
 Lofty, and not easily dispelled. 
 Outstripping all her mates in the common 
 School, she resolved to attend the large 
 And flourishing academy in the town 
 Adjoining : so various methods she 
 Contrived to earn the wherewithal 
 With which to pay her board and tuition. 
 
 " I need not tell you how diligently 
 She toiled : oftentimes the midnight-hour 
 Found her still poring o'er her books. Rivals 
 From the first were we : but soon a warmer 
 And more earnest feeling filled my heart 
 For her ; and there was nothing, no sacrifice 
 I would not make for her dear sake ; and so 
 Our friendship ripened into love faithful 
 Unto death. The hardest thought of all 
 To me is this, — I never more shall meet 
 The sunny glance of her large blue eyes, 
 Nor gaze upon that brow so broad and full ; 
 Ne'er listen more to her mellow voice so 
 Clear, nor feel the pressure of her hand 
 Upon my own tired brow. But God is good, 
 And he will care for her as well as me ; 
 
THE DYING SOLDIER. 27 
 
 Will lead her feet o'er pastures fittest for 
 Her need. Tell her I have done my duty here 
 To the best of the powers given me ; 
 Shrinking not from toil, howe'er hard and 
 Distasteful it might be ; and at the last 
 I die resigned to my fate, well knowing 
 For some good purpose 'tis wisely ordered." 
 
 Sharp spasms of pain now contracted Will 
 King's face ; and, after passing him the cordial, 
 Gordon said, " As you are so weary now, 
 I will leave you, and come ao;ain at nicht.'^ 
 
 Smiling assent, the dying soldier closed 
 His weary eyes, hoping to gain some rest. 
 
 At the evening hour, the minister was 
 
 Wending his way adown the length of ward 
 
 Number eight. Tlie moment his e^-e rested 
 
 Upon the face of William King, he knew 
 
 The hours of his life were numbered : 
 
 About his mouth and nose was the blue, pinched 
 
 Look which ever indicates the dread reality 
 
 Of death. With a smile he greeted the new- 
 
 Found friend, hoarsely murmuring, " You've come 
 
 Just in time to see me die. I am so glad 
 
 Not to be alone ! though I am not that ; 
 
 For the room seems full of angels. Hark, hark ! 
 
 Did you not hear that strain of music rare ? 
 
 They're coming near and nearer : glory be 
 
 To thee, thou Lord of all ! " And, raising 
 
 His hands in an ecstasy of delight. 
 
 His eyes set ; when with one spasmodic 
 
 Effort he gasped, " Dear mother ! Amy ! 
 
 Blessed ! " — and, with the utterance of .that 
 
28 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Last word, the spirit of William King passed 
 From its prison-house of clay up to the 
 Paradise of the happy souls made free. 
 
 The next morn, at an early hour, the burial- 
 Service for the dead was read over the 
 Cold body of another gallant hero, 
 Who, in the morning of youth, gave his health 
 And life for the preservation of our 
 War-stained land. 
 
 Feeling that his mission recalled him 
 Elsewhere, Solon Gordon bade farewell to 
 Newbern, bearino; with him the dead soldier's 
 Messages of love, and the packages 
 Which he was to deliver to the mother 
 And the dearest friend of the deceased. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE MISSION. 
 
 THE thriving town of B., not far distant 
 From the Massachusetts hne, was the home 
 Of Wilham King's mother, who, by the death 
 Of this son, would be indeed bereft, — with 
 Only one child left, and he of not much 
 Promise. Gordon felt his courage fail 
 Most rapidly when he found himself at 
 Last before the widow's door ; for nouo-ht he 
 Dreaded more than a woman's tears. 
 When his sad, brief story had been told, she 
 Calmly thanked him for his kindness to her 
 Son ; assuring him wdth broken voice. 
 That, though she could not reward him, there was 
 One who would. Reminding her that she must 
 Henceforth believe she had a friend in him. 
 Upon wdiom she could depend in case of need, 
 He, with cordial hand-clasp, bowled himself away, 
 Questioning in his mind if every woman's 
 Heart was as firm as seemed the one 
 Of this middle-aged lady, so tearless, 
 Yet so stricken. 
 
 The first day of June, which was a bright and 
 Odorous one, the dead soldier's messenger 
 Found himself in the small and common- 
 Looking reception-room of a large and 
 Fashionable boarding-house. 
 
 3* 
 
30 CONSOLATION. 
 
 To the servant he gave his card ; waiting 
 
 Meanwhile, with a strange desire, to see 
 
 The face of her who filled so completely 
 
 The young hero's ideal of a woman. 
 
 Presently he heard the soft rustle of 
 
 A dress upon the stair. Turning his back 
 
 To the opening door, the visitor 
 
 Felt that mysterious fascination 
 
 Which some souls ever exert upon 
 
 Sympathetic powers. He turned and bowed, 
 
 Saying, " Miss Norton, I presume," as she. 
 
 Advancing, met his outstretched hand. 
 
 " Will you be seated, please ; and tell me, pray. 
 
 Why I am thus indebted for your call." 
 
 Viewing her with a critic's eye, Gordon 
 Saw that she was fair and sweet and young ; and, 
 Better still, that truth and purity looked 
 Fortli from those lovely eyes of blue : her brow 
 Was high and full ; her nose, the short Grecian ; 
 While about her mouth, the sweetest feature 
 Of the face, much tenderness, yet firmness, 
 Seemed to lie : then her chin was not pointed • 
 Nor retreating, but rounded and dimpled ; 
 Her hair was in the shadow brown, golden 
 In the sun ; her figure round and flexible ; 
 And, taken as a whole, she was as sweet 
 A type of womanhood as one would care 
 To see. " Dear lady," he answered, speaking 
 Very low, " I bring you news of a friend 
 Who held you most dear, and whose memory 
 Will ever treasured live within 3'our heart. 
 I speak of William King, who on his dying- 
 Bed gave me this, and bade me bring it you, 
 
THE MISSION. 31 
 
 And with it his best love ; also to tell 
 
 You that he'd done his duty well, dying 
 
 At last, trusting and believing in the God 
 
 Whom you adore ; and all through your dear faith. 
 
 " I saw him die, and with these hands softly 
 Closed his eyelids down. I saw him laid in the 
 Soldier's grave, and marked the spot with a wooden 
 Cross, lettered ' W. K. ; twenty-two ; May 
 Sixteenth.' " All the time. Amy had sat like 
 Some marble image without soul ; but, when 
 Gordon arose to go, she made 'efforts 
 Strong to command herself. But, alas ! the 
 Strain upon her nerves was too great : fainting, 
 She fell at his feet. Yery tenderly 
 He laid her upon the sofa, sprinkling 
 Water upon her face till she revived. 
 Then the re-action came : sobs wild and deep 
 Sliook her frame in convulsive throes. The friend 
 At first nothing said ; but, after the 
 Yiolence of her grief had spent itself. 
 He again repeated the facts of lier dear friend's 
 Happy death, comforting her with the sweet 
 Promises of the Lord, that all " those who 
 Die in Jesus shall meet again." 
 Taking her hand in parting, he asked her 
 "To rely upon him as a friend ; and 
 He wished that she would write sometimes to him. 
 And let him know how fate was using her : " 
 To all of which she promised. 
 
 And how, meantime, has fared Glencora, 
 The once promised bride of the wandering 
 Minister ? As the weeks slowly lapsed, 
 
32 CONSOLATION. 
 
 She felt more and more the wickedness 
 Of enterinor into vows she never 
 Could accept with truth. Two letters she had 
 Written to Gordon, claiming his pardon 
 And return, — letters fraught with tenderest 
 Language from her heart, but which he never 
 Had received. Now he had returned, seeming 
 To her eyes dearer tlian before. Sometimes 
 She thouglit she would write him yet again ; but 
 Pride forbade : and so the weeks rolled on 
 Until the autumn came, rich with fruitage 
 And with flowers. One fair autumnal eve, 
 At the closing of the week, the minister, 
 Returning from a pleasant but lonely 
 Stroll, was met at the door by his faithful 
 Betty, who announced that " a lady all 
 In black was waiting in the study for 
 His return." Little thinking who was his 
 Guest, he quietly entered the room ; and 
 At first it seemed vacant, as the gloom 
 Of the twilight hour concealed from view 
 The form of the tremblino- woman, 
 Who, advancing, threw herself at his feet. 
 Crying, " Have you indeed forgotten your 
 Glencora, who, humbly kneeling at your feet, 
 Lnplores forgiveness for the past, and love 
 For the future? I cannot live without 
 You, my darling and my pride : nothing 
 In this life seems worth the having, bereft 
 Of you. I'd rather live in the poorest 
 Hovel, upon some lone mountain, as your ivife, 
 Than be the titled misti^ss of thousands, 
 With countless servants to heed my slightest 
 
THE MISSION. 33 
 
 Call. When I promised you to forsake, 
 
 I thought it was my duty : but, alas ! 
 
 I've found 'twould be a trespass upon the 
 
 Holiest laws of God and man should I 
 
 Persist in keeping that mad vow ; for I 
 
 Love him not, save as the father of my 
 
 Sister's child ; and she in paradise doth 
 
 Surely know how utterly wrong the keeping 
 
 Of her wish would be. My pride I've humbled ; 
 
 And here I am suing for your dear love, 
 
 The best and richest gift earth can on me 
 
 Bestow. Gordon, dear one, oh ! say you'll not refuse 
 
 Your poor Glencora ! " 
 
 " Refuse you ? no, my darling ! " quoth he : 
 
 " You are much too sweet and dear a treasure 
 
 To my heart for a resistance to your 
 
 Love. For months I've sought to blot your image 
 
 From my soul ; but never has there dawned 
 
 A day or hour that I have not thought of 
 
 You, my treasure sweet." And, bending low. 
 
 He raised her from his feet, restino; her head 
 
 Upon his breast, her face bathing with the 
 
 Happy drops of joy, and then softly kissing 
 
 Them away. The blissful silence that e'er 
 
 Falls between the long parted and re-united 
 
 Ones fell upon them in tliat hour of peace. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE REPLEDGED. 
 
 OCTOBER the sixteenth was the time 
 Re-appointed by Glencora for the 
 Consummation of tlieir marriage. The guests 
 Were invited, the weddino:-a:arments made, 
 And the bride-cake was ready for the knife ; 
 When, like a two-edged sword to the young 
 Pastor, came another note from Glencora, 
 Saying she once again had proved traitor- 
 To her vows, and all must drop at the 
 Eleventh hour : not one word the reason 
 To assign ; leaving him and others to 
 Their own conjectures. 
 This was, in truth, the hardest trial he 
 Had yet been called upon to bear. He felt 
 'Twas neither wise nor best for him to longer 
 Tarry in the place where twice he had been 
 Duped by the loving words of a woman 
 Unstable as water, and whose conduct 
 Would cast a seeming disgrace upon his 
 Character. He at once called a parish- 
 Meeting, simply asking them for a quick 
 Dismissal, which was without a murmur 
 Granted ; for the people were sensitive 
 To their minister's misfortune. 
 
 Once more was Gordon a wanderer. 
 Roaming from place to place where'er his feet, 
 
THE EEPLEDGED. 35 
 
 So restless, were guided by the hand of Fate. 
 
 At last he thought of Amy Norton, from 
 
 Whom he had heard by letter, it is true ; 
 
 But the sympathy of whose sweet face 
 
 He felt would now be doubly precious. 
 
 Speedily his way he wended to the 
 
 Inland town where she resided ; and, when 
 
 He had clasped in his her welcoming hand, 
 
 He felt as though he had indeed a friend 
 
 In that dear woman. He came again, and 
 
 Yet again, the souls of each grown nearer 
 
 From their frequent intercourse of thought j 
 
 Until at last he shaped into words the 
 
 One thought that in his dormant heart 
 
 Had struf]i;o;led into life : and thus it was 
 
 He showed her all his heart, telling her 
 
 With tearful eyes of high hopes blighted, and 
 
 The heart's fondest affections chilled, by the 
 
 Fickle nature of one woman's caprice. 
 
 He had loved her, oh, so much ! yet she duped 
 
 And betrayed him. " Perhaps," he said, " he'd made 
 
 Of her too fond an idol, forgetting 
 
 The Creator in the creature ; but now 
 
 'Twas all a dream of the past, sweet and pleasant. 
 
 But with the life before him shared no part. 
 
 She had suffered too, therefore could enter 
 
 Into all his feelings. Sympathy was sweet. 
 
 And there were many things between themselves 
 
 Congenial. The warmest friendship and 
 
 Respect stirred the hearts of both, each for each ; 
 
 And why should they not unite their broken 
 
 Lives in the strong, endearing cord of 
 
 Matrimony ? They thus could lighten each 
 
36 CONSOLATION. 
 
 The other's woe, and be the best of friends ; 
 
 Since reason would guide their actions, and not 
 
 The wild delirium of love." 
 
 To this mild philosophy fair Amy gave 
 
 Assent ; and they right speedily were 
 
 Married, and enjoying the peaceful rest 
 
 Of a Platonic love. In course of time, 
 
 Four children — three sons and a dauMiter dear — 
 
 Biightened their home, and strengthened the placid 
 
 Friendship of the two so happily united. 
 
 Soon after leaving W., he had a call 
 To preside oyer a parish in the 
 City of Albany, New York ; and there 
 Until the death of his gentle Amy, 
 Which transpired when the tiny Sarah 
 Was a sedate little miss of two years. 
 He had hved, laboring for his Master's 
 Cause. Fortune had not been .lavish of her 
 Smiles. Once the little parsonage and all 
 Its contents were burned to the ground ; 
 And, though his parishioners were most kind. 
 They could not to him restore his library, 
 Made dear from memories of the past. 
 In less than a year after his wife's decease. 
 His second son " passed over the river, 
 'Yond the tide ; " and soon, following him, his 
 Little daughter " sailed away with the boatman 
 Pale : " and so his household joys were wrested 
 From his clasping arms of love. 
 Feeling that home was now home no longer, 
 He sent his eldest son to live with his 
 Grandparents, keeping his youngest 
 (And the inheritor of his name) with him. 
 
THE EEPLEDGED. 37 
 
 From city to city, to country town 
 And village, they roamed, — the father and son 
 Ever inseparable. Years would be consumed 
 In followino; them in their various 
 Sojournings : so we will leave them to fate, 
 While we look after other characters 
 Of our story who have been too long 
 Neglected. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 SARAH HORTON. 
 
 « 
 
 TEARS have placed their record upon 
 The book of Time since Sarah entered Madam 
 R.'s " Seminary for Young Ladies," — 
 The first two years as a pupil, 
 Afterward as an assistant-teacher. 
 She had been there some twenty-two months, when 
 She one night received a despatch from her 
 Grandpa Stevens, saying, *' Come home at once : 
 Your mother is dead ! " Oh, dreadful words to 
 A loving child ! — your mother is dead ! 
 Volumes seem written in that one phrase. 
 Sarah immediately gave notice 
 To the principal of the school ; and 'mid 
 The tears of her classmates and teachers, all 
 Of whom had learned to love her, she quickly 
 Departed on her sorrowful journey. 
 But not alone was she. The teacher of 
 Mathematics, a quiet and scholarly 
 Man, had thoughtfully followed her, and, 
 In his gentle way, soothed much of her grief ; 
 Presenting to her view the beauty of 
 The life beyond, and that, instead of our 
 Feeling so unreconciled to the departure 
 Of those our hearts hold dear, we sliould esteem 
 It a blessing for them, if not for us. 
 Rapidly as the train moved, it yet seemed 
 
SAEAH HOETON. 39 
 
 To the sorrowing girl freighted with lead •; when 
 
 Suddenly the cars with a frightful leap 
 
 Went crashing through a bridge into the 
 
 Cold, blue waters of the Connecticut. 
 
 The sickening details of that sad, sad 
 
 Catastrophe, no pen can describe. 
 
 Four were killed, and seventeen wounded ; and 
 
 Among the dead was the kind friend who had 
 
 So tenderly befriended her in her 
 
 Sorrow, and who, they told her, had stood between 
 
 Her and death, as his head had been pressed 
 
 Against the stone hutments of the bridge, where 
 
 Hers would naturally have fallen had he 
 
 Not thrown his arm about her, — giving for 
 
 Her life his own. One of her arms was broken, 
 
 Her left ankle sprained, with some cuts upon 
 
 Her face. The nearest houses were turned 
 
 Into hospitals. Where Sarah was left. 
 
 Five gentlemen and three ladies were brought, — 
 
 Some in the most critical condition. 
 
 The present hour was to our heroine 
 
 The climax of her sorrows, since she now 
 
 Could not reach home in season to see once 
 
 Ao-ain her dear, dead mother's face ; for on 
 
 The morrow would be the funeral ; and she 
 
 Could not be moved for some days, and perhaps 
 
 Weeks, the attending surgeon said. 
 
 Meanwhile, sharing her own couch, was a young 
 Lady from Illinois, who had been on a 
 Visit to some friends in Springfield, Mass. 
 She was severely suflPering from a 
 Spinal injury received in the late 
 Disaster, Yet her fortitude and patience 
 
40 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Seemed to Sarah and to others as somethino: 
 
 Ahiiost divine. Her lovely face, though pale 
 
 From suffering, seemed lighted with a power 
 
 Pertainins; not to earth. Passing her hand 
 
 Most lovingly over Sarah's tear-wet 
 
 Cheek, she queried with sympathetic voice 
 
 If she might not learn the cause of her grief ; 
 
 For well she knew it was not the pain that 
 
 Caused such bitter tears to fall mixed with the 
 
 Cry of " Mother ! O my mother ! " 
 
 'JNIid broken sobs and tears the poor girl turned 
 
 To that dear friend in her distress, pouring 
 
 Out to her sympathetic ear the history 
 
 Of her grief and of her mother's sad and 
 
 Broken life. " And now, to think that she is dead, 
 
 And I, her only child, cannot pay to 
 
 Her the last fond tribute of respect, seems 
 
 Almost more than I can bear ! " moaned Sarah 
 
 In her anguished grief. 
 
 " It is, in truth, a trial keen," replied 
 
 Sweet Cornie Houston. "Perhaps 'twill soothe your 
 
 Grief to know I, too, have lost my mother. 
 
 With you, no pangs of remorse linger 
 
 Around your heart in memory of that 
 
 Dear and ever-cherished friend's decease : 
 
 While I must always bear the sting of self- 
 
 Reproach; for 'twas through my own wilfulness 
 
 My mother was hastened to her death." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 '^ ~\'\TH^^ I w^s sixteen, I, with an elder 
 
 V V Sister, — who now stands in the place of a 
 Mother and a sister too, so kind is she 
 To me, — was sent away to school, and there 
 Formed the acquaintance of Ralph Hammond, 
 A young student of pleasing address. But 
 I since have learned his morals were corrupt. 
 Then I could in him no failing see, and 
 At last grew so infatuated, I 
 Was quite ready to accede to his proposed 
 Elopement, thinking it would be something 
 Grand to relate in after-years : besides, 
 Would not the newspapers chronicle the 
 Event with superfluous items of their 
 Own ? Each Wednesday afternoon, the pupils, 
 From three to eight o'clock, had a holiday ; 
 The intervening hours to pass as best should 
 Suit their fancy. For several weeks, Ralph and 
 I the fondest love-letters had written 
 And exchanged, hiding them beneath a large 
 Flat stone at the end of the garden-walk. 
 Under cover of this impromptu office. 
 All, our plans of elopement had been 
 Discussed and finally arranged ; and thus 
 The matter stood. I was to mincrle with 
 
42 CONSOLATION. 
 
 The others, careless and unconcerned, as 
 Though no weighty act was pressing on my 
 Heart. The tea-bell rang at seven : and then, 
 Making an excuse, I hurried to my 
 Room, where I rapidly exchanged my dress 
 For the one I had selected ; hastily 
 Gathered a few most needful articles ; 
 Down the broad stairs sped, across the garden- 
 Walk, and out by the little wicket-gate, 
 Close by which Ralph was awaiting me. 
 ' My darling girl ! ' he cried as he helped me 
 Throuo;h. ' I was so afraid Maria would find 
 It out, and all our fun be stopped ! 
 Now hurrah ! away for the station, or 
 We shall miss the train, and also miss 
 The boat.' We were in time ; and quickly, and. 
 To my seeming, all too soon, we reached the 
 Station on the wharf; for even then 
 My heart misgave me, and I wished myself 
 Back again by dear Maria, who, I knew. 
 Was ere this searching for Sister Cornie. 
 
 " We safely reached New York ; were booked at the 
 Astor House. Leaving me alone, Ralph went 
 Out to make inquiries rela4:ive to 
 A clergyman who would unite us. 
 He had been gone an hour or more, when on 
 My door there came a heavy knock. 
 
 '^ Unthinking of the grief in store for me, 
 I answered the demand. Before me stood 
 An official anient, bearino; a telem'am 
 From my sister, running thus : — 
 ' Our mother is dead ! come home at once, dear 
 Cornie ! — Maria.' 
 
CORNIE'S STORY. 43 
 
 You, my dear Sarah, can imagine somewhat 
 Of my feehngs in that hour. At once I 
 Started, and alone, leaving for Ralph a 
 Line, saying, ' Gone home. Farewell forever ! — 
 
 CORNIE.' 
 
 In a state of mind bordering upon 
 Frenzy, I arrived at home, and found my 
 Sister's message was too true, and I had 
 Killed her ! " 
 
 Powerful emotion shook Miss Houston's 
 Feeble form at the bare memory of 
 The dire calamity she had caused. Sarah 
 Gently urged her not to harrow up that 
 Sad past, as 'twould surely make her ill. 
 After a little, she resumed in calmer 
 Tones : — 
 
 " Missing me at the supper-table, my 
 Sister r^n up to our room to see what 
 Had become of me ; where, finding things in 
 Such disorder, she at once proceeded 
 To ' tidy up ' the room, as she expressed 
 It. Lifting from the floor the dress I'd worn. 
 With a'gentle shake she was proceeding 
 To hang it in the wardrobe, when from its 
 Folds a letter fell, which she at once 
 Unclosed and read. And then she knew it all; 
 For in that, the last one Ralph had written 
 Me, the plan of the elopement, and place 
 Of sojourn, was fully explained. At first. 
 My sister was bewildered ; but anon 
 She thought, ' I will not let our schoolmates know, 
 Since there is no need.' Speeding to the 
 Telegraph-room, she sent her message : — 
 
44 CONSOLATION. 
 
 ' Cornie has eloped — New York — Astor House 
 Tell me what to do. — Maria.' 
 
 " Our parents were seated upon the broad 
 Veranda of their country home, fronting 
 To the west ; when down the tree-lined avenue 
 A horseman from the village galloped up, 
 And to our father gave Maria's despatch. 
 * Good God ! ' he, turning to mamma, cried out, 
 ' Our Cornie has with some scamp eloped, 
 And gone to York ! — so our Maria says. 
 Now, is not this a pretty ' — But the sentence 
 Was never completed; for mother was* 
 Leaning against the trellis-frame of the 
 Door, white and motionless ; and, in less time 
 Than it takes me to record it, toas dead! 
 We all, for years, had known there was a small 
 Collection of water about her heart, 
 Which any undue excitement or grief 
 Would determine a rupture, producing 
 Almost instant death ; and so we had 
 Always careful been heretofore. But then 
 My father was so surprised, he did not 
 Realize the danger his startling * 
 
 News would engender. On me, and me 
 Alone, her sudden death must rest. At first, ' 
 I felt most wild with grief; but passing years 
 Have lifted from my heart its heaviest 
 Weights, crushing all joyousness from my life. 
 I find sweet consolation in the thought, 
 There is a purpose in each event of life : 
 A power divine is leading us tlu'ough ways 
 We would not walk were we not o-uided there ; 
 
COENIE'S STOEY. 45 
 
 And what may now so strange and chanceful seem 
 Is but the hand of Fate, whose leadincr-lines 
 Are often tangled in the brittle web 
 Our hands seem weaving for ourselves, thinking, 
 Meantime, we our own destinies are shaping. " 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 IN the quiet old town of N., bordering 
 Upon the lovely Connecticut, stands 
 A large, old-fashioned farm-house, shaded by 
 Elm-trees tall and old. Here Nathan Stevens 
 Had from his marriage lived, and his 
 Large family had been born and bred ; and 
 Now all were gone save one, — the youngest son. 
 Who, at the time of which we speak, was 
 Not so very young, as more than thirty winters 
 Had set their seal upon his brow. 
 Mr. Stevens, or Uncle Nat as he 
 Was termed by old and young, was the brother 
 Of Sarah Horton's mother. He, on learning 
 Of the accident which had befallen 
 Her, wrote a letter overflowino^ 
 With sympathy and love. In it he begged 
 That Sarah would come to them as soon as 
 It was prudent, and make a lengthy stop. 
 The sorrowing girl was very glad when 
 She read Uncle Nathan's missive ; for she had 
 Dreaded returning to her grandpa's. 
 Where every thing would so remind her of 
 Her mother. One thought, however, dampened 
 All her joy, — the idea of leaving 
 Cornie Houston, who was not able yet 
 To journey home. " If Cornie could but go 
 
THE TWO FBIENDS. 47 
 
 With her I And why not ? " was Sarah's thought. 
 
 The new-born wish was set to words, to which 
 
 An answer came, — " Bring all the friends you wish : 
 
 Be sure they and you are welcome." 
 
 Thus it was, the week before Thanksgiving, — 
 
 That dear, time-honored day, — those two 
 
 So strangely brought together were resting 
 
 Beneath the ample roof of Uncle Nathan. 
 
 Charles Stevens, though old enough in years. 
 Was a bashful man, wooing his books. 
 And not the ladies. His nature was 
 A sweet and silent one. Beneath his quiet 
 Ways were hidden rich veins of wit and 
 Knowledge, which sometimes, in unguarded 
 Moments, would peep out like sun-gleams beneath 
 A cloud. At first, of Cornie he was shy ; 
 But after a time, as he grew wonted 
 To her presence, Sarah saw his eyes oft 
 Rest upon her friend with earnest gaze. 
 Quietly and happily some six weeks 
 Had lapsed their record upon the book of Time, 
 When Cornie, upon receipt of home-letters, 
 Declared she must within the coming week 
 Bid adieu to her dear and cherished friends, 
 And turn her steps homeward. A friend 
 Of her father would pass that way within 
 Ten days, with whom she could journey all the 
 Way to her home. Not one word was uttered 
 In protest ; and yet not one in the dear, 
 Familiar circle but felt it would be 
 A trial to lose the presence of this 
 Sweet girl, so patient and tender in all 
 Her ways. 
 
48 CONSOLATION. 
 
 " I'll tell you what, wife," good Uncle Nathan 
 Said, " we must make a party for these girls. 
 One good, old-fashioned time we'll have before 
 We part ; so Cornie here, in her Western 
 Home, may remember how we old farmers 
 Do thino-s in Massachusetts." 
 
 " Indeed we will ! " quoth Aunt Fannie. *' I'll send 
 To-morrow morn for Hannah Jenks, whose nose 
 Would be forever out of joint should there 
 Be a party gotten up, and she no 
 Finger in it. 
 
 I'm right glad you named it, Nathan ; for it 
 Is just what we need to rouse us up," 
 Said Aunt Fannie, following him she loved, 
 To make arrangements for the gala-night. 
 
 With the morning came Miss Hannah Jenks, 
 Who with her funny ways, and her " Massy sakes ! " 
 Kept the friends in a titter all the day. 
 Loner before the festive hour arrived. 
 Every thing was pronounced by Aunt Fanny 
 And Hannah in " apple-pie order." 
 The lighter and more pleasing duties 
 Had fallen upon Charles and the two girls, 
 Who had ruthlessly robbed, not only Uncle 
 Nat's, but all the neighboring house-plants 
 Of their blooms, with which to deck the scene. 
 At last the eventful Thursday eve was 
 Welcomed by Uncle Nathan and his wife. 
 Who, dressed in their best, stood at the entrance 
 Of their large and brightly-lighted parlors, 
 Receiving the numerous and smiling 
 Guests fast assembling there. 
 The two friends, escorted by the bashful 
 
THE TWO FEIENDS. 49 
 
 Charles Stevens, were soon the cynosure of all 
 
 Eyes ; though Sarah quickly perceived that 'twas 
 
 Her friend's sweet face and queenly grace of 
 
 Manner that was the centre of attraction. 
 
 No thought of jealousy wound itself into 
 
 Her heart, as is too often the case 'mid 
 
 Those professing warmest friendship. 
 
 She was an ardent admirer of Cornie 
 
 Herself, and would have felt aggrieved to see 
 
 That others did not share the loving homage 
 
 She laid with loyal love at her dear one's feet. 
 
 " I declare ! " said Julia Alden, one of 
 
 The sprightly beauties of the town, " I didn't 
 
 Know before that your cousin could talk. 
 
 Just see him now, bending o'er Miss Houston, 
 
 Conversing as though his very life was 
 
 Forfeited ! " Sarah turned her eyes upon 
 
 Her cousin's face, and saw what she before 
 
 Had only questioned in her mind might be 
 
 In the coming future. But how was it 
 
 With Cornie ? She dared not ask, but would wait, 
 
 Giving them every chance for meeting, if 
 
 They wished. 
 
 Music was called for ; and old Squire Hastings 
 With courteous smile and bow, begged Miss Houston 
 For a song, — "just one," he said. 
 - With sweet assent she yielded, and was led 
 By the kind old gentleman to the 
 Piano ; striking the keys of which, with 
 Gentle prelude she awakened into 
 Life the sympathetic (?ord running through 
 All hearts by the sweet melody of 
 Her impromptu song : — 
 
50 CONSOLATION. 
 
 " Dear friends, kind friends, of Massacliusetts State, 
 i\Iy gratitude accept for favors small and great : 
 I came to you a stranger, ill, and quite forlorn ; 
 And I can you repay with but a simple song. 
 
 When I'm far, far away, within my Western home, 
 I shall remember hours the brightest I have known. 
 My heart will linger oft 'mid scenes I love so well : 
 For we may meet no more ; the future none can tell. 
 
 Life's changes, like a book, we're turning leaf by leaf; 
 For us our summer holidays are ever all too brief: 
 Soon the parting comes, when friendships true must sever ; 
 But, oh, thank God ! it cannot be forever." 
 
 Tears were in the eyes of the fair songstress 
 As she arose from the piano ; and 
 Tears also filled the eyes of more than one 
 Honest heart who listened to the touching 
 Pathos of her song. 
 
 The quiet stillness of the room was broken 
 By Uncle Nathan, who announced that " all 
 Those desirous of witnessing the tableaux 
 Would please adjourn to the library." 
 Approaching Cornie, he seemed to be pressing 
 Something upon her ; to which, at first, she 
 Seemed disinclined to listen ; but later 
 She bowed her head in acquiescence. 
 One of the young lady-actors had been 
 Suddenly called away ; and there seemed 
 To be no one who could well fill her place, 
 Save Cornie ; and thus was she selected. 
 The fifth scene represented her, queenly 
 And fair as the bridal rose, standing as 
 The betrothed of young Stevens, who, bending 
 
THE TWO FRIENDS. 51 
 
 On one knee, was in the act of placing 
 
 Upon her finger the betrothal ring ; 
 
 When he whispered, " Look at me ! oh, look ! " 
 
 And she, with flushing cheeks, turned her eyes 
 
 For one brief moment on his face, and yet 
 
 Full long for her to read in his the old 
 
 Sweet story, so dear to the heart of woman 
 
 When coming, as it now did, from one 
 
 So well beloved. 
 
 " If this was only a reality ! " he 
 
 Murmured, as the curtain folded them from 
 
 Sight. The' grand and beautiful tableau, 
 
 " Rock of Ages," was the closino; scene. 
 
 Anon the merry company dispersed, 
 Writing down upon their calendar- 
 Book of " good times " another, and perhaps,. 
 For some, a " last good time." 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 THE bright beams of a winter sun streamed in 
 Upon the thoughtful brow of Charles Stevens, 
 Who, seated in the pleasant library 
 Of his father's house, was seekinc^ to still 
 His wildly-throbbing heart before the hour 
 Should come when he must bid farewell to one 
 Who had, for his peace of mind, become much 
 Too dear a treasure for him to lose, as now he 
 Saw he must, without a parting sigh. 
 While yet "he sat buried in mental thought. 
 The door quietly unclosed, admitting 
 Cornie, who, smilijig bade him a pleasant 
 Morn ; and had he seen her little book of 
 Songs? She could not find it elsewhere, so thought 
 It might have been mislaid among the books 
 In there. 
 
 " I'll help you search," said Charles, approaching near 
 But when he found himself close by her side. 
 And thought how soon she would be gone, perhaps 
 Forever, his bashful ness slipped from him 
 Like a garment old, to be exchanged for 
 One newer and brighter. Seizing her hand. 
 Which he with gentle fervor pressed, he cried, 
 " How can I let you go, dear Cornie ? 
 The house will seem doubly desolate 
 Bereft of you and Sarah. I know not 
 
THE DEPAETUEE. 53 
 
 How I ever lived before you came. 
 
 In truth, it was not living, but a tame 
 
 Existence, which the past few weeks have taught 
 
 Me most heartily to loathe. By every 
 
 Pleasant hour we've passed, by all the sweet 
 
 Soul-thoughts between us nourished, by every 
 
 Song you've sung, by every joy we've shared 
 
 And thought us two between, I claim you for 
 
 My friend, near and dear. And Cornie, darling! 
 
 Must it be only friend ? May not a nearer 
 
 Tie exist between us two ? or is there 
 
 Some other who would claim the one /choose 
 
 For wife ? " 
 
 Flushed with eagerness he stood, his hand 
 
 Upon her shoulder resting, awaiting 
 
 Her reply, which came at last, — "Z^ cannot 
 
 Bey 
 
 " No hope? — none ? O Cornie ! at least I may write ? " 
 
 He queried with broken voice. " It is not best ; 
 
 But strive to forget me, as thouo;h we had 
 
 Never met," she answered back. 
 
 Just then Sarah's voice was heard, loudly 
 
 Calling for her friend. " I must go," Cornie 
 
 Gently said, looking up with wistful eyes, 
 
 As though she would daguerrotype 
 
 His face forever in her mind. *' Yes," he said. 
 
 Unconscious of the word ; " and, as I go 
 
 This morn to F., you will be away ere 
 
 I return. Perhaps 'tis better thus. 
 
 Sometimes remember him whose future days 
 
 Will ever be one memory of you. And now 
 
 God bless you, and good-by ! " 
 
 Silently Cornie Houston turned from him, 
 5* *«• 
 
54 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Unheeding her fallen hankerchief as 
 
 She passed from the room. Not so unmindful 
 
 He : for scarcely was she gone ere his eye 
 
 Rested upon it ; and, stooping, he raised 
 
 The dainty fabric to his lips again 
 
 And yet again, while the soft perfume 
 
 It distilled through all the room seemed redolent 
 
 Of her presence. He placed it in his 
 
 Pocket in company with the book he 
 
 Had purloined. Soon he, too, passed from the 
 
 Room, and anon w^as on his way to F. 
 
 Two hours more beheld Cornie and Sarah, 
 Accompanied by Uncle Nathan, 
 Driving toward the town of V. ; 
 For, at this junction, Cornie's father 
 Had written her she would meet his friend. 
 
 Silence fell between the two so soon 
 To be separated. Many sweet 
 Communinors had knit their souls too-ether 
 In close bonds of sympathy ; and now 
 God alone could know, if, in their coming 
 Years, their paths would ever mingle 
 Again as in the pleasant days agone. 
 
 Ai'riving at the station, our party 
 Found there was none too much time, as the train 
 For the West was even then approaching. 
 Upon the platform of the advancing 
 Train stood a tall, dark-browed man, who, stepping 
 From the car ere 3^et it ceased to move. 
 Advanced towards the two, and asked 
 If either of the ladies was Miss 
 Houston, of whom he was to take charge 
 By request of her father. 
 
THE DEPAETUEE. 55 
 
 Stepping forward, Cornie replied, *' I 
 Am she you seek ; and you are Mr. 
 Golding ? These are my friends, — Miss Horton, 
 And her uncle Mr. Stevens." 
 At that moment, " All aboard ! " sang out 
 The conductor's voice : so, with a hasty 
 Embrace, the two girls, with mutual vows 
 Of remembrance and correspondence, 
 Separated, — to meet how" and where ? 
 
 Later that same day, Charles returned from his 
 
 Ride to F. in but a sorry plight. 
 
 *' Beauty had taken flight," he said, " upon 
 
 His homeward way, at an ugly 
 
 Wheelbarrow standing by the wayside. 
 
 And began to run ; but he kept him 
 
 In check, until a sudden turn in 
 
 The road capsized the sleigh, throwing him 
 
 Upon the crusted snow, thereby 
 
 Bruising his face somewhat, and tearing 
 
 His coat, which he would be pleased to have 
 
 His cousin mend." 
 
 With a happy smile, she, procuring silk 
 And thimble, sat down by her cousin's 
 Side 3 meanwhile telling him of Cornie 
 And her farewell words. 
 Turning the garment up and dowm, in 
 And in, there fell from its breast-pocket 
 A book and handkerchief, which needed 
 Not its sweet perfume to tell her who 
 Was once the owner. With furtive glance 
 She souojht her cousin's face wuth 
 Questioning eyes. Seeing his 
 
56 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Desponding look, she asked with gentle 
 
 Voice, " What is it, Charlie dear, between 
 
 You two? Is it not to be ? " 
 
 " No ; it is not to be," he answered back. 
 
 " But why ? " persisted Sarah. " Did she 
 
 No reason to you assign ? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 " And yet," she mused, " I'm sure she loves 
 
 Him. I'll solve the riddle yet." 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 NEW TIES. 
 
 A FEW clays after Cornie's departure, 
 Sarah received from Madam R. a 
 Letter, ofFeriiig for her acceptance the 
 Position of assistant teacher 
 In place of one who had left since her 
 Departure. A new lady principal 
 Was also installed ; and various 
 Changes had transpired in the few weeks 
 Of her absence. Despite the urgent 
 Entreaties of her grandfather and 
 Uncle Nathan, Sarah wrote an eager 
 Letter of acceptance and thanks ; 
 The time of her return appointed for 
 The coming week. Fondly and sadly 
 The young girl parted from those so dear 
 To her by ties of nature, and found 
 Herself once more a resident 
 Beneath the ample roof of Madam 
 R. She and the new principal were 
 To consort together, sharing one 
 Room, and, as events proved, many a 
 Pleasant hour of converse. 
 Glencora Mayo, from W., Vermont, 
 Was a lady gentle and prepossessing 
 In all her ways. Sarah at once felt 
 That they should be friends warm and true. 
 
58 CONSOLATION. 
 
 There was about her a nameless charm, 
 
 A quiet sadness, or serenity 
 
 Of peace that won upon each kind 
 
 Sympathy at once. Not until long 
 
 Months afterwards did she learn the inner 
 
 Life of her friend ; then, in the ravings 
 
 Of delirium, she unlocked from the 
 
 Closet of her heart the ghosts tliat had 
 
 For weary months been haunting her. 
 
 One name seemed ever upon her lips. 
 
 The most frantic appeals were made to 
 
 This same friend for love and protection. 
 
 One night, in the height of her mad ravings, 
 
 She seemed most determined to leave the 
 
 Room ; while with gleaming eyes she whispered, 
 
 " I must see him : I tuill tell him 
 
 How all the time I loved but him ; and 
 
 How at last they told me, if I kept 
 
 Not my vow, my dead sister's curse would 
 
 Follow me and mine all our days ; 
 
 And, if I'd save him from reproach and 
 
 Sin, I must him renounce, e'en at the altar. 
 
 Oh hard and cruel fate ! Yet I was 
 
 Weak, and yielded to their power. 
 
 Now he has gone from me forever : 
 
 Another, a lady fair and gentle. 
 
 Is sheltered on the breast I love so well. 
 
 " Another than Glencora 
 Fulfils the duties of a wife ; and • 
 
 I, the faithless and yet the stricken 
 One, must bear the burden it seems 
 Ofttimes must crush my very soul." 
 For days and weeks did Sarah watch by 
 
NEW TIES. 69 
 
 The sick-bed of her friend, allowino; 
 
 None to share with her the lonely vigils 
 
 Of the night save the physician, who 
 
 Must necessarily understand 
 
 Far better than herself the electric 
 
 Sympathy between heart and brain. 
 
 She, m the reticence of her heart, 
 
 Felt that her friend's secret, which she so 
 
 Carefully guarded in her hours of 
 
 Health, should not be exposed to the oft 
 
 Careless and unsympathetic remarks 
 
 Of others. Though often weary, she 
 
 Still toiled on with tearful eye and aching 
 
 Brow ; and at last was rewarded one 
 
 Morning, during the doctor's daily 
 
 Visit, by hearing him say, '^ Your friend 
 
 Is better. Keep her perfectly quiet 
 
 When she awakens from this gentle 
 
 Sleep. I think I can trust you," he 
 
 Resumed : '' for I give you this assurance. 
 
 That, under God, she owes her life to 
 
 You ; since the ph3^sician's efforts are 
 
 Futile unless seconded by the 
 
 Prompt, unceasing care you have 
 
 Displayed in following my directions. 
 
 Aside from the many little acts 
 
 The heart of a faithful nurse inspires. 
 
 Hereafter I recommend you to 
 
 Change your vocation of teacher to 
 
 That of nurse," he added with pleasant 
 
 Smile. 
 
 Some two hours later, as Sarah 
 
 Sat watching by her friend, now weak and 
 
60 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Helpless as a child, her eyes unclosed, 
 
 And, with a look of wonder, rested 
 
 Upon her attendant's face. Gone, then. 
 
 Was the wild and burning look which 
 
 For many days had haunted them, and, 
 
 With a wistful gaze, they turned on surrounding 
 
 Objects. 
 
 With whispered voice she queried, " What is 
 
 It ? Why are you here ? Am I sick ? 
 
 Why do things seem so strange to me? " 
 
 " Hush ! you must not talk ; but be good, and 
 
 I will tell you all about it soon. 
 
 Now take this strengthening tea, and let 
 
 Me bathe your face. There, now ; that is nice. 
 
 You've been very ill, my dear, but now 
 
 Are out of danger." 
 
 The weary eyes soon closed again in 
 
 Slumber. Tlie next day, as Sarah was 
 
 Freshening up the room. Miss Mayo 
 
 Asked her with timid voice if she had 
 
 Talked in her sleep, and what she said. 
 
 With adroit tenderness, her friend told 
 
 Her of the fancies she had cherished. 
 
 And how that one name was ever on 
 
 Her lips ; and that was Solon Gordon ! 
 
 She told her how she saw from the first 
 
 Some heavy heart-grief was hidden 
 
 From the common gaze, as the miser 
 
 Hides his cherished gold ; and so when she 
 
 Grew so ill, and unwittingly revealed 
 
 That which had long been hidden, she was 
 
 Determined in her mind none other than 
 
 Herself should listen to the ravin o^s 
 
GLENCOEA MAYO'S STORY. 61 
 
 Of her tortured mind : she had only 
 Done by her as she should wish a friend 
 To do by herself were she so circumstanced. 
 She had, she owned, learned so much of her 
 Friend's past, she would like to gather more 
 Some day, if in her friendship she could 
 Faithfully trust ; if not, no matter. 
 
 What now she knew 
 Would sacred he within her heart, and 
 She would ever feel the strongest 
 Sympathy and love for one who had 
 Bi;avely suffered so much and so long. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 GLENCORA MAYo's STORY. 
 
 "Oi OME years ago, I was the promised 
 
 k3 Wife of my heart's dear and chosen one, 
 Solon Gordon. My sister died, and. 
 Dying, wished me to promise some day 
 To marry her husband for the sake of 
 Her child. But passing time proved to 
 Me I could not with honor keep my 
 Vow, After the return of one I 
 Almost worshipped, whom I had driven 
 To exile for many months, I so 
 Far humbled my pride as to sue for 
 His forgiveness and a renewal 
 Of his love ; to which his generous 
 Nature freely responded. 
 Another wedding-day was set ; when 
 I, cowed and frightened by the jeering 
 Oaths and maledictions of those fiends 
 In human shape, again betrayed his 
 Confidence and love in me. 
 Not one word of palliation was 
 I permitted to offer to the 
 Being whom I had twice wantonly 
 Insulted through his tenderest feelino-s. 
 I suffered from an attack of brain- 
 Fever, which brought me so near Death's door, 
 It seems almost a wonder I did 
 
GLENCOEA MAYO'S STOEY. 63 
 
 Survive. From that bed of anguish I 
 
 Arose to learn that the man I had 
 
 Twice outraged had gone, none knew whither. 
 
 Ere my strength had fully returned, 
 
 I was beset to marry Charles Steele. 
 
 Ah ! he is rightly named. 
 
 I rebelled ; and, incredible as 
 
 It may seem in these days, my brother 
 
 Kept me a prisoner in my room 
 
 For two weeks, and the last one served me 
 
 But one meal per day. Opposition 
 
 To their will seemed so to enrage them, 
 
 They seemed more like brutes than human 
 
 Beinors. Finding at last that I would not 
 
 Yield to harsh treatment, they tried the 
 
 Persuasive ; but again I was like 
 
 Adamant. Too yielding in the past 
 
 To the will of others, I had learned 
 
 By bitter experience, when, as it 
 
 Seemed, almost too late, that my heart was 
 
 My best and most honest counsellor. 
 
 Finally I was turned from the house, 
 
 And forbidden ever again to 
 
 Darken it with my hateful presence. 
 
 I left it, all unknowing where my 
 
 Steps should lead, trusting the hand of God 
 
 Would guide and sustain me. 
 
 Feeling that I needed some active 
 
 And engrossing duty to divert 
 
 My mind from my own sorrows, I sought 
 
 A large city in the Empire State. 
 
 Soon after my arrival there, in 
 
 Answer to my application, I 
 
64 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Was elected assistant matron 
 
 In the Female Hospital. For four 
 
 Years I followed this life of toil and 
 
 Recompense : ay, recompense ; for is it 
 
 Not such, when the weary faces of the 
 
 Sufferers light up with joy divine 
 
 At the approach of one who has toiled 
 
 To ease their pain, and soothe by kind 
 
 Ministrations their fretful repinings ? 
 
 One sweet old lady, who in one year's 
 
 Time had been bereft of husband, child, 
 
 And home, won most upon my sympathies. 
 
 'No doubt have I but her dear words of 
 
 Faith and trustful love in the Father's 
 
 Will did more to ease my heart than all 
 
 Else combined. So confident was she 
 
 Christ's power and tove was over all 
 
 iVnd in all ; that what we needed most 
 
 We should receive, e'pn though it should be 
 
 Farthest from our wills, — that I at 
 
 "^jast the same inculcated. The yoke I'd almost 
 
 Scorned to bear seemed lighter then, and I 
 
 Was not alone. The dear Lord was my 
 
 Helper and my friend : alone, deserted, 
 
 As I felt, I yet was not alone. 
 
 At last, it came to me my labor 
 
 There was done. The world was wide, and 
 
 Various occupations open to my . 
 
 Acceptance. Always ardently 
 
 Fond of music, I bethouo;ht me of 
 
 A plan long ago cherished, — to be 
 
 A teacher of music. Perfectino- 
 
 o 
 
 Myself in a method of recent 
 
GLENCOPvA MAYO'S STOBY. 
 
 Date, I threw myself once more upon 
 
 The world, a wanderer. Another 
 
 Two years were passed in restless journeymgs. 
 
 " Through Massachusetts and New York I 
 Roamed. New Hampshire and Canada 
 My feet have also pressed. I loved my task. 
 
 " O music ! grand and subhme art thou 
 In thy native power ! What human 
 Heart so dull and dead that thy sweet voice 
 Cannot awaken to holy 
 Symphony ? Thrills of rapture keen seem 
 To chase the life-blood from my heart when 
 The soft music of Handel and Mozart 
 Floods the air with its rhythmic melody. 
 
 " And yet again I wearied of my 
 Wanderings. Casually I saw the 
 Advertisement of Madam R., and 
 Hither came, unknowing how long my 
 Wild unrest will slumber. Here we have 
 Met, the corner-stone of our friendship 
 Placing upon sympathy of soul. 
 Many ties of friendship have I formed 
 Since my banishment from kindred friends ; 
 But none have proven sweeter than yours. 
 
 Oh, may tfiis blessed bond, so sweet and 
 Pure and so true, grow strong, and yet more 
 Strong, with passing years ! Yet, despite 
 
 These friendships, I often query of 
 " My soul, What good do I do, or what 
 
 Happiness confer ? My days seem- but 
 
 A continuance, or like some 
 
 Divided mechanism of art, 
 
 6* 
 
 65 
 
6Q CONSOLATION. 
 
 That keeps perpetual motion because 
 It cannot stop save at the master 
 Touch. I find no consolation 
 Where'er I turn. Upon a pedestal 
 High I have placed Duty, dressed in sombre 
 Robes. Do as I will, she mocks me. 
 While crowning her with my hardly-won 
 Labors, she wreaths for my gaze Love's 
 Fairest pictures. A home she shadows forth, 
 A perfect garden of contented love, 
 Where Hope and Peace walk hand in hand, 
 Where Joy blooms eternal, and Faith dies 
 Not, — a very paradise on earth. 
 
 " But for Duty, stern and pitiless 
 As Death, this bower of Eden might 
 Have sheltered me, and all my days been 
 Crowned with Peace." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 RECREATION. 
 
 rr^HE seasons sped their annual rounds, — 
 JL Summer succeeding winter, and winter 
 Summer. Sarah Horton, after an 
 Absence of years, was spending her few 
 Vacation-weeks with Uncle Nathan 
 And Aunt Fannie. Glencora Mayo, 
 Too, had been invited, but gently 
 Declined, feeling that duty compelled 
 Her to remain at the seminary. 
 As some of the pupils were obliged 
 To pass the short reprieve from study 
 In the quiet old town, and still more 
 Quiet institute. 
 
 Sarah was greeted by her cousin 
 Charles in his usual friendly 
 Manner ; and yet there was an added 
 Something, that gave him a new interest 
 In her eyes. • 
 
 The second morn after her arrival. 
 While busily engaged with Aunt Fan, 
 Her cousin came in, inquiring " if 
 Slie would not enjoy a visit to 
 The Old Hermit of the Mountain. 
 There is a party going from here ; 
 Will start in just an hour. And, mother. 
 Please to see we have a lunch prepared." 
 
68 CONSOLATION. 
 
 At the hour appointed, the pleasure- 
 Seekers all faced the mountain. 
 Durino; the drive, Charles Stevens oft 
 Questioned his cousin respecting Miss 
 Houston. With manner unconcerned. 
 She told him of her friend's past life ; 
 Of her morbid feeling in respect 
 To love, and the reason thereof. 
 " I know," said Sarah, " she cares for you 
 As you desire ; but, feehng as she 
 Does, it was her own wild caprice that 
 Caused her mother's death, she deems the vow 
 Then made — henceforth to have with love no 
 More to do — still binding: and so, though 
 Lovinoj you with affection strono; and 
 Pure, she will herself deny, without 
 Confiding the same to you, or even 
 Hintino; of her heart's fond devotion ; 
 Fearing, as well she may, that your 
 Solicitations, combined with the pleadings 
 Of her own woman's heart, would break down 
 The v/all of reserve behind which she 
 Stands intrenched. 
 If," added Sarah, " I did not deem 
 Her Quixotic, and suffering from 
 Her own resolve, I'd not have told you. 
 Cousin mine. 
 
 Of course you've heard the adage old, 
 ' Faint heart ne'er won fair lady ; ' which same 
 I advise you to remember, you 
 Dear, good, bashful coz ! " 
 
 Anon the party, leaving their horses 
 Some rods below, were toiling up 
 
EE GEE ATI ON. 69 
 
 The shelving rocks to tlie Hermit's Cave, 
 Which they soon reached ; finding that, early 
 As they had started, two separate 
 Parties had them preceded. 
 
 It was, in truth, a primitive style 
 Of living, though not quite a hermit's 
 Life, judging from the names recorded 
 In the " suest-book " lying there. 
 Our party, standing and sitting about 
 In various groups as best their fancy 
 Suited, were soon joined by two young men, 
 And seeming strangers to all there present. 
 Approaching Sarah and her cousin, 
 The taller of the two, lifting his 
 Hat, bowed ld\v, begging to know if he 
 Had not the honor of addressing 
 Miss Horton, the sometime ardent friend 
 Of Miss Cornie Houston. 
 "I see my face you do not recognize : 
 And 'tis not strange, as you had but a 
 Passing glimpse, when your thoughts were all 
 Engrossed in parting from your friend : so 
 I must be my own re-mtroduaer. 
 I am Mr. Golding, your friend's former 
 Escort ; and this gentleman is Mr. 
 Hubbard, — Miss Houston's cousin, and my 
 Dear college-chum." 
 
 Mutual greetings being exchanged, 
 The four, thus brought in contact, were soon 
 Engaged in lively and earnest talk. 
 Many questions fell from Sarah's lips 
 Respecting her friend, which both young mer 
 Seemed eager to answer ; while Charles, witl: 
 
70 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Love-quickened sense, caught every word 
 
 While talkino; with seemino; interest 
 
 With the friend or cousin, as the case 
 
 Might be. Harry Golding seemed most persistent 
 
 In his endeavors to please Miss Sarah ; 
 
 So much so, that the lookers-on 
 
 Began to make comments at his expense. 
 
 During the hours of rambling, and 
 Afterward the dinner-picnic, shared 
 By all, the two strangers were introduced 
 To the rest of the party from N. 
 Miss Julia Alden declared at once, 
 She should set her cap for Mr. Hubbard, 
 For two reasons : viz., because he was 
 The cousin of that darling Miss Houston ; • 
 And he also seemed in her eyes much 
 The nicer of the two. She did not 
 Favor tall men : they were apt to be . 
 Conceited. 
 
 Doll Hubbard, who, notwithstanding Miss 
 Julia's assertion, was as conceited 
 As the generality of men, soon saw 
 His name was written down among the 
 List in Miss Alden's good o-i'^'ices : and, 
 To assure her of her good taste, he 
 Certainly exerted himself to please 
 The wilful lady ; and, as ofttimes 
 It proves, in pleasing her he found he 
 Yet more pleased himself. 
 
 The leno-thenino; shadows of the bright 
 Afternoon sun warned the picnickers 
 That it was time to leave the mountain 
 Wilds, as they had yet a long ride before 
 
EECEEATION. 71 
 
 Them. By invitation of Charlie 
 Stevens, the two young men, so lately 
 Strangers, were induced to make a 
 Visit to N., and stop, meanwhile, at 
 Uncle Nathan's. 
 
 While they were waiting for the teams, 
 Hal Golding said to Sarah, '^ You will 
 Please ride with me, and Doll with your 
 Cousin." — " Ah, indeed ! it is immaterial 
 To me." Which answer caused Mr. 
 Golding to gnaw his nether lip in 
 A fashion quite his own. 
 
 He thought, " Where is the girl's mind ? I don't 
 Believe she even knows if I am 
 Dark or fair, old or young. I'm not used 
 To such cool treatment from ladies ; and 
 I'll teach her the lesson not to treat 
 Me with such cool indifference ! " 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 VISIONS. 
 
 THE two weeks following were rife with each 
 Pleasure the country could afford. 
 Picnics of every description, long 
 Boat-rides on the beautiful Connecticut, 
 Re-unions at different homes, pleasant 
 Walks and talks, no more to be indulged : 
 For soon the happy company of 
 Friends would be scattered, to meet no more ; 
 Or, if they met some day in the future, 
 They would not be the same as then. 
 New scenes, new ties, the world's hard buffets. 
 Would change produce ; and though glad to meet. 
 And often longing for another grasp 
 Of the old friend's hand, yet when clasped, and 
 Eyes gazed once again in those so dearly 
 Loved, a change is there. What is it ? 
 We see it, we feel it, although their 
 Words and acts may be as kind as in 
 The past. 
 
 No more the tender eyes beam the same ; 
 No more the smiling lips sing the sweet refrain 
 
 They sang bright years agone. 
 There is a something lost, we scarce know what : 
 When friends long parted meet again, they've not 
 
 The freshness of their morn. 
 Ah, Change ! twin-sister of old Time art thou. 
 We must yield thee homage, unto thee bow. 
 
VISIONS. 73 
 
 Laying life's sweet hopes down. 
 In vain we'd hold thee back ; thou wilt not stay : 
 Joys our hearts find most complete soon fade away, 
 
 And for our past weave a crown. 
 
 One more 
 Day of pleasure yet remained ; and it 
 Was finally decided in the glen 
 To have a rural picnic. Sarah 
 And her cousin were hostess and host, 
 All needful preparations making. 
 No shadow marred the beauty of the 
 Sky, and no cloud hovered o'er 
 The pleasure-seekers, on this last gala- 
 Day, save sometimes the thought of coming 
 Separation. Harry Golding proved 
 Sarah's shadow, much to her annoyance. 
 Him she avoided much as Avas 
 Consistent with her character of 
 Hostess, not wishing to pain him by 
 A refusal of the honor he 
 Designed for iier ; for, woman-like. 
 She read his heart's true wish. 
 Fate and Harry Golding willed otherwise. 
 
 Somewhat apart from the others she 
 Sat, wearied with her unusual efforts 
 To entertain so many guests ; 
 When Golding, seeing her thus alone. 
 And somewhat sad, approached, and at her 
 Feet himself he threw with happy smile. 
 " At last," he said, '* I see you as I 
 Wish, — alone. 
 
 To-morrow, as you know, our pleasant 
 Party of five-weeks' duration must 
 7 
 
74 CONSOLATION". 
 
 Separate, and all these happy hours 
 
 Be numbered with the past. 
 
 I came here seeking pleasure, and the boon 
 
 Has been granted me beyond my hopes ; 
 
 Although my heart I can but question 
 
 How much has your dear presence enhanced 
 
 My pleasure. From our first brief meeting 
 
 At the station, my thoughts to you have 
 
 Oft reverted. Miss Cornie, who has 
 
 Your picture, oft laughed at me because 
 
 I asked so many, and, to her seeming, 
 
 Useless questions respecting you ; 
 
 Oft with this assertion ending, 
 
 ' That girl shall be my wife, if she will 
 
 Me accept.' 
 
 From Cornie I have learned of your early 
 
 Trials, of your lonely life, bereft 
 
 Of home and parents as you are, and 
 
 Yet surrounded by friends kind and true. 
 
 " With my hand, which I now offer you. 
 Wealth and high position you'll receive. 
 No more this hand " — pressing the one he 
 Plad in his ardor taken — " shall toil 
 To gain such pittance small. Instead, 
 A lady you shall be, and loving 
 Mistress of my heart." 
 
 " Am I really less a lady 
 That I now earn my daily bread ? 
 No, Harry Golding : your wife I'll never 
 Be. The life of toil you've pictured forth 
 Better far suits me than the idle 
 One you'd woo me to. 
 We all from the Creator's hand first 
 
VISIONS. 75 
 
 Fare alike. The accidents of wealth 
 
 And distinction in my eyes are nought. 
 
 Forgive me if I press too sorely 
 
 On your pride by pointing you to the 
 
 Many paths open to you and honor. 
 
 Go, toil and win your way amid the 
 
 ToiHng great ones of the day. Set high 
 
 Your mark, and guard with jealous care. 
 
 What ! you, a man, strong and young, with wealth 
 
 At your command, would idly fritter 
 
 The God-given years in senseless rounds 
 
 Of pleasure ? O Harry Golding ! I 
 
 Do beseech of you to pause ere yet 
 
 Too late. Remember, this life's brief span 
 
 Is soon run out : and much it does 
 
 Behoove each one of us to fill our 
 
 Record-book with deeds of virtue ; 
 
 For, when comes the reckoning-day, what 
 
 Then will matter the fashion of our 
 
 Garments here ? That will not be recorded ; 
 
 But the good deeds done, the one soul saved, 
 
 Some heavy yoke lightened, — these will upon 
 
 The Book of Life be written with our 
 
 Names. Oh ! is it not worth striving for, 
 
 Toiling for, and, if need be, dying for ? " 
 
 Sarah's face, beautiful with the soul's 
 Reflections, was raised in earnestness 
 To her companion's gaze ; and he, more than 
 Ever infatuated with her, because 
 Of her reticence and coolness to 
 Himself, determined to make yet one 
 More appeal for her love. 
 
 " If," said he, " I prove to you and others 
 
76 COXSOLATIOX. 
 
 I am with the tide a co-worker, 
 And bind upon my brow tlie laurel- 
 Wreath of fame, then may I not be 
 Rewarded with your love, to me the 
 Highest honor that I crave ? " 
 
 " Do not ask it," she replied with voice 
 Low^ and sad. " We ne'er should be congenial. 
 No true soul-sympathy exists 
 Between we two. And forgive me, but 
 I think much of your present sorrow 
 Lies in your thwarted wish. To will is, 
 Vv^ith you, to have ; but it may not always 
 So remain. 'Tis for yourself, without « 
 Regard to me, I'd have you change. 
 You'll find 'twill bring you sw^eet content 
 If you wnll yourself ofttimes deny. 
 And thereby upon some other less 
 Favored one a cheering hope bestow. 
 
 " You w411 some day thank me," she resumed, 
 " That I can better understand your 
 Needs than does yourself ; and this is but 
 A passing shadow athwart your life. 
 Accept my earnest friendship, and be 
 Assured your future path will a recipient 
 Be of my. friendly hopes and earnest 
 Pravers." 
 
CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 REWAHDED. 
 
 BY earnest request of his late guests, 
 Charles was to accompany them, first 
 On a trip to the White Mountains ; then 
 To Saratoga and Lake George ; later. 
 To their home in the West. 
 
 Doll Hubbard was in the highest spirits ; 
 For he would have the bright, piquant Miss 
 Julia for his own some day in the 
 Future. They both were young as yet, and 
 Her parents would not listen to her 
 Marriage for some years at least. 
 
 Sarah and Golding parted as friends 
 Ordinarily part, with pleasant 
 Wishes for each other, and full-spoken 
 Words of remembrance. " Give me some 
 Souvenir of these pleasant hours ! " he 
 Cried, when standing in the hall but a 
 Moment preceding his farewell. 
 
 " And shall you them forget ? 
 Howe'er, I give you this ; and let 
 It ring in your heart its paeans sweet. 
 May it be your honored mistress, the 
 Companion of every secret thought. 
 The idol of your manhood strong, the 
 Recompenser of your age ! — Excelsior ! " 
 r* 
 
78 CONSOLATION. 
 
 At last they were gone ; and the old home 
 Of Nathan Stevens seeme'd so quiet 
 And forsaken, our friend felt almost 
 Glad when the hour of her departure 
 Arrived. Ere she returned to H., she 
 Was to pay her grandpa a few days' 
 Visit ; for much she wished, yet dreaded, 
 To see her mother's grave. That act of 
 Love and duty accomplished, she returned 
 Again to Madam R.'s, where she was 
 Joyfully received by teachers and 
 Pupils, but by none so truly and 
 Fondly welcomed as by Glencora, 
 Who had suffered from her friend's absence 
 IMore perhaps than she would to herself 
 Have owned. The same old routine was 
 Renewed, and Sarah felt herself at home. 
 Sometimes a smile of conscious pleasure 
 Her lips would cross, in memory of 
 Harry Golding's blank dismay^ when he 
 Realized that she, even she, the 
 Poor orphan-girl, with no inheritance 
 Save her brains, had dared to refuse his 
 Proffered hand, preferring her life of 
 Toil to the drudgery of his love. 
 Of Glencora she a confidante made. 
 Who much approved her choice. Together 
 They would talk and plan of coming years, 
 When they, with more experience, should 
 Themselves be founders of a school that 
 Must always for its motto bear 
 " Excelsior ! " 
 
KEWAr.DED. 79 
 
 Occasionally Sarah from her cousin 
 Heard ; and in the last he wrote, 
 " Next week, cousin mine, we are en route 
 For Rock Island ; and soon I shall clasp 
 In mine the hand of the dearest and 
 Most lovable of created beings. 
 Wish me joy ; wish me success ! Did I 
 Not know how much your sympathies 
 With me were cast, I'd not thus freely 
 Speak : and, when I my fate shall learn, 
 I'll let you know ; for from what yourself 
 Has said, and what from her friends I glean, 
 I shall not take her former ' No ' as 
 Final answer." 
 
 A few weeks later, and Cornie Houston 
 Penned the following letter to her 
 Friend : " My darling friend, and sometime cousin. 
 Yourself prepare for a missive long, 
 And perhaps wearisome ; and yet I 
 Can but feel your sympathetic heart 
 Will truly rejoice that at last I 
 Saw the foolishness of my vow, 
 And so abjured it. 
 
 As you may guess, I was surprised and 
 Glad when once again I looked upon 
 My dear beloved's face. Mine I know 
 W^as of a scarlet flame, when, bending 
 Low, he said, ' Dear Cornie ! was I wrong 
 To come ? ' — ' Not wrong, but right,' I answered 
 Back ; and then the joyful pressure of 
 His hands set all my pulses throbbing. 
 Two blissful hours we passed in happy 
 Interchano-e of thought. To him I then 
 
80 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Confessed my youthful folly and its 
 Sad consequence, causing me to make 
 That bitter vow, which, made, I felt in 
 Honor bound to keep, till o'er-persuaded 
 By reason and his love. He argued. 
 That, in addition to the past error, 
 I was, in refusing him when loving 
 Him, doing a far greater wrong than 
 E'er before ; for were not two lives 
 Blighted instead of one ? 
 
 " I had, by my hours of anguish, 
 Expiated the result of that mad freak, 
 And now surely had earned the boon of 
 Love. 
 
 " I had so thirsted for a sight of 
 His dear face, I could not struggle long 
 Against the pleading voice and my own 
 Fond heart. But, when he pressed for an 
 Early marriage, I could not yield assent. 
 ' Not yet, oh ! not yet ; give me time,' I 
 Urged. ' We can wait : we're not old or 
 Gray.' — 'But why ? ' said he. ' Life at the longest 
 Is but short ; and I have lived so alone. 
 It seems I cannot you resign, when 
 At last you own your heart is mine. 
 My darling ! let me claim you this fall : 
 Let me not return alone to pass 
 In exile another dreary winter.' 
 
 *' His entreaties I firmly resisted ; 
 Finally promising, that when the 
 Next September sun should tint with warm 
 Radiance fair scenes of Titian hue. 
 Then would I become his bride. With kiss 
 
REWAEDED. 81 
 
 Like morning dew, we the compact sealed ; 
 And tJien, ourselves bethinking that there 
 Were others than we two upon the 
 Sphere terrestrial, we joined our friends. 
 To me, dear Sarah, it was indeed 
 The happiest evening of my life. 
 Song after song we sang, while o'er the 
 Keys my fingers ran with gleeful touch. 
 
 " ' There is a song just out,' friend Harry 
 Golding said, ' which I incline to think 
 AH our hearts w^ill suit just now.' 
 
 " As we that happy evening closed with 
 That sweet song, so I w^ill my letter end 
 By giving you the same, hoping you 
 May some day not far distant apply 
 It for yourself : — 
 
 "Ever on my lips, like unbreathed prayer. 
 Thy name is wafted on the balmy air : 
 There is no time or spot, afar or near. 
 But tliou art remembered with smile or tear 
 
 *' At the morning's dawn, and at the even-tide, 
 My soul is walking ever by thy side : 
 My yearning heart cries out to thee in vain, 
 Breathing but tender prayers born of pain. 
 
 " The past has garnered such memories kind. 
 And close about my heart an altar twined : 
 The present, too, has mingled joy and pain. 
 The future unkind words shall never stain. 
 
 " When, that hour comes which to all will not fail, 
 When my soul goes forth with the boatman pale. 
 
82 CONSOLATION. 
 
 When Death's cold icy hand shall chill my brow, 
 My prayer then shall be the same as now. 
 
 " First and last, dearest and best, 
 Thy name shall with me float to dreamless rest : 
 E'en in the grave, with that I'm not alone ; 
 For me 'tis heaven, rest, and home. 
 
 " Ever your " Cornie." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 ANOTHER year, freighted with mortality's 
 Joys and sorrows, had circled on her 
 Way since last we looked on Sarah, who 
 Now, in company with Glencora, 
 Was passing vacation-weeks at Uncle 
 Nat's. Within the year her grandpa had 
 Passed on, and the dear old home to the 
 Hand of strangers had fallen ; for his 
 Two maiden sisters lono; aoi;o had 
 Returned to Mother Earth their tribute. 
 With happy zeal did Sarah's fingers 
 Deftly fashion the pretty garments 
 Destined for herself and her friend, who 
 No aptitude possessed for tiny 
 Items of a lady's stylish dress. 
 
 And why was Sarah thus anxious for 
 The adornment of her friend and self? 
 Simply in honor of her cousin's 
 Alliance with her almost worshipped 
 Friend, dear Cornie Houston. 
 She, and her later chum Miss Mayo, 
 Were bidden to the wedding, but could 
 Not well accept, and com|)romised the 
 Warm entreaties of their friends with the 
 Assurance of meeting the bridal 
 
84 COXSOLATIOISr. 
 
 Party at Saratoga when they 
 
 Should there arrive. Much need had Sarah 
 
 For her haste, as time was passing on ; 
 
 And, in a letter late received, she 
 
 Learned that the tourists, per New York, 
 
 Would reach " Fashion's Babel " the coming 
 
 Week. 
 
 So in and out among the fabrics 
 Fine her needle flew, until at last 
 All was complete, and nicely packed in 
 Trunks fitted with compartments neat. 
 It was a blissful treat to the two 
 Weary girls for a time to leave all 
 Care behind, and revel in Nature's 
 Panorama, so pleasing to the eye. 
 
 The bright September day to its close 
 AVas drawing, when the two girls, somewhat 
 Weary with their long and dusty ride. 
 First pressed the platform of the depot 
 Small and old. No friendly face was there 
 To give them welcome, save the hackmen. 
 Who with their usual gusto bawled out, 
 *' A carriage, marm? " " Congress Hall ? " " Union? " 
 '' Clarendon ? " " Columbian ? " '' Pavilion ? " " New 
 
 York?" 
 " Carriage to the American House " was 
 Indeed an announcement pleasing to 
 The bewildered girls, as 'twas there Sarah 
 Had been directed by her cousin to 
 Go, and there their pleasant rooms had for 
 Weeks been engaged. 
 The bridal party had not arrived : 
 So from their room they did not venture. 
 
AT LAST. 85 
 
 Save to partake of their simple tea. 
 
 Ere yet the rosy beams of old Sol 
 Threw his brightning rays across the 
 Slumbrous town, the country-bred girls 
 Were out drinking iil the morning air, 
 Permeated with the attributes of 
 The many springs, the waters of which 
 They did not at first over-fancy. 
 Returning from their long and appetizing 
 Walk, joyfully were they surprised to 
 Find their party already domiciled. 
 
 With eager joy, Sarah rushed up the 
 Stairs leading to her cousin's parlor. 
 More quietly, Glencora followed. 
 " O my darling Cornie Houston ! " cried 
 Sarah ; " do I indeed behold your 
 Dear, sweet face ? " kissing lips, cheek, and brow 
 Ere her friend could respond save by her 
 Kisses fond. Charles, approaching, ^aid, " I 
 See, ' mad-cap ' cousin mine, I must your 
 Memory refresh, and to you 
 Introduce my wife^ and your cousin, 
 Mrs. Charles Stevens." 
 
 " What a jealous bundle of masculinity 
 He's got to be ! now, hasn't he, my 
 Darling one ? Oh ! pray forgive me for 
 My remissness in introducing 
 To your kind regard my cherished 
 Glencora Mayo." Saying which, she 
 Turned toward her friend, who, reclining 
 In the large rocker, seemed Parian 
 Marble, so white and still was she. 
 To their inquiries kind, and efforts 
 
86 CONSOLATION. 
 
 For relief, she begged them no alarm 
 To feel, since 'twas nothing but a pain 
 In her heart, from which she had of late 
 Felt more free until that morn ; and, as 
 Quiet would soonest her restore, by 
 Their leave she would retire, and join them 
 Later in the day. 
 
 Sarah, who accompanied her to 
 Their room, was startled by the thrilling 
 Pathos of her voice, as the words, half 
 Breathed, fell from her lips, " J've seen him, — liim^ 
 Gordon! Did you not see that man, tall 
 And dark, yet, oh ! so beautiful, pass 
 Down the hall as we entered ? " 
 
 " Indeed, no : I no one saw but you ; 
 And think you must have been mistaken. 
 One's fancy, you know, sometimes strange freaks 
 Will play. Some one, perchance, there was, who 
 Much resembles this friend so cherished : 
 It could not well be him, you know." 
 
 The gong was sounded ; and Sarah, by 
 Entreaty of Glencora, left her alone, 
 While she with her friends proceeded to 
 The ample dining-room. Cornie's 
 Sister and husband. General Davidson, 
 Escorted the newly-married pair ; 
 And Sarah, by her cousin, was then 
 Presented to the Reverend Mr. 
 Gordon, and by whose side she sat in 
 Bewildered thought. " Glencora was right. 
 After all," she mused : " but how came he 
 Here ? and how so intimate as he 
 Seems with Cornie and her friends ? '' So much 
 
AT LAST 87 
 
 She speculated with regard to 
 
 Him, her appetite, wliich she had thought 
 
 So keen, seemed to utterly have fled. 
 
 Soon as by courtesy allowed, she 
 Her cousin questioned respecting the 
 " Divine," and learned that he, being an 
 Old college-chum of Davidson, v/as 
 By the latter invited to unite 
 The newly-wedded ones, and afterwards 
 To join their party in a pleasure- 
 Trip. " The poor man," continued Cornie, 
 " Has seen ' piles of trouble ; ' and, though so 
 Youthful in his looks, is now^ a 
 Widower, with two young lads, his sons. 
 
 " Dear Sarah, I am so happy ! " whispered. 
 The blushing bride ; " and I wish others 
 To be as blest ; though not many can 
 Be quite as much so as myself," 
 Glancing toward her husband with love- 
 Freighted eyes : " and so I have been 
 Thinking how nice 'twould be if you would 
 Only show your better self to this 
 Good yet sorrowful man. In his 
 Early youth he was most shamefully 
 Used by one who him professed to love, 
 Yet who tivice his confidence betrayed. 
 Exiled from his former home, he most 
 Hastily united with one who 
 Proved indeed a fitting wife and friend. 
 But whom it was not his fortune long 
 To possess. Death, the all-conquering. 
 Bore her to the land of shadows : 
 There his twin-children have also gone. 
 
88 CONSOLATION. 
 
 His property he lost by fire not 
 Long ago. His healtli is also broken. 
 Ah ! why is it some must bear a yoke 
 So heavy, and others one of flowers ? 
 Pity," added Cornie, " they say, is 
 Akin to love : if so, I'm sure you 
 Him will love, since pity him you must.'" 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 FATE. 
 
 "HTT surely is Fate," mused Sarah, as 
 
 1 She her way wended to the room where 
 She by Glencora's request left her, 
 And whom she now found enjoying a 
 Restful sleep. Quietly she darkened 
 The room, and, herself by the window 
 Sitting, mused of Life's strange crossings, which 
 Surely was not all chance ; else why were 
 These two, so long and strangely divided, 
 Brought in contact without foreknowledge 
 Of the other ? And, as Fate seemed most 
 Earnestly inclined to solve the riddle 
 Of their past, no human hand should 
 Interfere ; at least, not her's. Anon 
 There came on the door a gentle rap ; 
 And Cornie, radiant with happiness, 
 Upon the threshold stood, and, with voice 
 Attuned to the quiet room, questioned 
 Sarah of her friend. Learning of her 
 Sleep, she begged her cousin to prepare for 
 A drive to the " Spouting Spring," called one 
 Of Nature's curiosities ; said to have 
 Been discovered by prophecy of 
 A dream, or spirit-warning. " We shall 
 
 8* 
 
90 CONSOLATION. 
 
 With us take a lunch," contmued Cornie, 
 '• As we may be away some hours." 
 
 Leaving for the sleeper a note 
 Explanatory of her absence, she 
 Speedily joined the party below, 
 And anon was, with the rest, 
 Complaining of the dust, and the land 
 So dry and barren. Somewhat amused 
 Was Sarah at Cornie's finesse in 
 Brinmno; between her clerical friend 
 And herself a pleasant intercliange 
 Of thought, combined with friendly acts of 
 Courtesy; which Gordon, being a 
 Gentleman in all his ways, was not 
 Slow to offer, and which Miss Sarah 
 Accepted in the same kind spirit. 
 
 Having lunched, and tested the flavor 
 Of the " Sulphur" as well as the " Spouting " 
 Spring, our party to the " Glass Factory " 
 Journeyed. A pleasant hour was consumed 
 In watching the operators at their 
 Labor, and in gathering trophies 
 Of their visit, a less fortunate 
 One some day to regale with said 
 Exhibitions. Deciding at last nothing 
 Else was worth their notice, they homeward 
 Tarned. On Circular Street they paused by 
 Gordon's request ; and there he left them. 
 His footsteps turning toward the Park, 
 The others passing on to the '' Empire " 
 And "High-Rock" Springs; then home, per Broadway, 
 North. 
 
FATE. 91 
 
 Glencora from her lonoj-refresliiiicr 
 Sleep arose. Soon Miss Sarah's note 
 Caught her eye. '' Ah ! so they've gone," said she. 
 '' I'm truly glad ; for now I can a 
 Few more hours of quiet have in which 
 My heart to fortify against tlie 
 Shock this morn received at sio-ht of that 
 Once-famihar form so like to him : 
 And yet himself it could not be ; for 
 He is far from here, and married too. 
 O heart ! poor foolish thing, to flutter 
 Thus in memory of one who has 
 Ere this forgotten thee ! " Soliloquizing 
 Thus, Glencora herself arrayed in 
 A black grenadine, with wheat-ears 
 Sprinkled o'er it ; corsage low, and her round 
 White arms Meamincr throuo;h the texture thin 
 
 o o o 
 
 Like things of wax. Amid her tresses 
 
 Loosely flowing she twined a spray of 
 
 Natural flowers. Thus simply yet. 
 
 Tastefully adorned, she slowly and lone 
 
 Down Broadway passed, uncertain where her steps 
 
 Would lead ; until, feeling the need of 
 
 The cool, refreshing water, the Park 
 
 She entered, and liberally she quafled 
 
 From the '' Columbian." Upon the 
 
 Upper walk of " Congress Park" she sat, 
 
 Deadened to every outward scene, but 
 
 Keenly alive to Memory's touch. 
 
 Sitting thus, with eyes upon the earth 
 
 Intent, and soul-visions of the past 
 
 Absorbing all her mind, she noticed 
 
 Not the manly step so near, pausing 
 
92 CONSOLATION. 
 
 At last in front of her, while a ne'er-to- 
 Be-forgotten voice questioned thus ; — 
 " Do I indeed behold her who once 
 Bore the name Glencora Mayo ? or 
 Is this of the brain some fancy ? Yes, 
 You are, you must be, Glencora ! 
 Oh ! what strange fate brings you here, to mock 
 Me once again with the witchery 
 Of your love, so sweet, and yet so fickle ? 
 Methought my heart had learned its lesson 
 Of forgetfulness ; when, lo ! one glimpse 
 Of your dear face divests it of its 
 BouD-hten robe, leavino; it bare and stricken. 
 Glencora ! O Glencora Mayo ! 
 Would that I had ne'er beheld you, lovely 
 As you are ! for you have blighted the 
 Freshness of my youth, tarnished my dreams 
 Of power, and despoiled my future : 
 And yet — oh, madness of despair ! — I 
 Love you ; ay, adore you ! " 
 
 With changing cheek Glencora listened 
 To his words ; and, though his tones of love 
 Thrilled all her heart, she thought of his wife, 
 Whom his present words to her thus had 
 Outraged. With tear-filled eyes she turned to 
 Him, saying, " I o)ice thought Solon Gordon 
 The prince of honor. I now see my 
 Mistake ; since no true man would venture 
 Thus to speak. It matters not what our 
 Relations in the past have been : the 
 Present should be remembered, and ^oiir tuife.'' 
 
FATE. 93 
 
 " My wife is now an angel there," said 
 Gordon, turning his eyes so sorrowful 
 Toward heaven. " I have no wife, no 
 Home, no friend I almost said : but that 
 I have no right to say, since Jesus 
 Bears for me my crown ; which I shall 
 Some day wear, if I do but faithful keep." 
 
 " Formve me ! " and Glencora's hand once 
 
 o 
 
 More upon that strong arm rested. " Sit 
 By me," — moving along, — " and tell me 
 Of your past since last we met ; then, if 
 You wish, the favor I'll return." 
 
 Hours passed on ; and they two, by Fate 
 Separated, and by the same power 
 Re-united, still talked of past, present, 
 And i'uture. 
 
 Returning from their drive, Sarah hastened 
 Glencora to find ; and whom, not 
 Findinoj, she searched for far and near. 
 At last, some premonition warned her 
 That all was well with her, and not to 
 More disturbance make. Alone she 
 Sauntered toward the Park, which almost 
 Seemed deserted in the hush of coming 
 Twilight. At last, sitting upon a 
 Double seat, Sarah saw her friend ; and. 
 As she had divined, her companion 
 Was the restless Gordon. 
 They, so engrossed by each other, did 
 Not hear the intruding step drawing 
 Near and nearer, until at last she 
 Could but hear the sweet words of her friend, 
 Who, with head upon his shoulder resting. 
 
94 CONSOLATIOK 
 
 His arm about her thrown, thus breathed of 
 Her soul's sweet content : * — 
 
 " The hght is fading down the sky ; 
 The shadows grow and multiply ; 
 I hear the birdies' evening; son^ : 
 But I have borne with toil and wron^ 
 So long! — so long ! 
 Dim dreams my drowsy senses drown : 
 So, darling ! kiss my eyelids down. 
 
 " My life's brief spring went wasted by ; 
 My summer's ended fruitlessly ; 
 
 I learned to hunger, strive, and wait : 
 I found you, love, — • oh hapj^y fate ! 
 So late ! — so late ! 
 Now all my fields are turning brown : 
 So, darling ! kiss my eyelids down. 
 
 " Oh blessed hour ! oh perfect rest ! 
 Thus pillowed on your faithful breast ; 
 Nor hfe nor death is wholly drear, 
 O tender heart ! since you are here, 
 So dear ! — so dear ! 
 Sweet love ! my soul's sufficient crown ; 
 Now, darling ! kiss my eyelids down." 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 STELLA GRAHAM. 
 
 THE day following the one of so 
 Many happy incidents, a ride 
 To the lake was proposed ; and to which 
 All most happily concurred, save one, — 
 Miss Sarah, who declared she could not 
 Go, as she had home-letters that must 
 Be written : besides, if she went, an 
 Odd number would be formed, which she quite 
 Solemnly averred would be fatal 
 To their pleasure. They finally were 
 Persuaded, and left her to her own 
 Devices. Her letters being done, . 
 She started on an aimless stroll 
 About the lovely village. Passing 
 Caroline Street, she, from a rustic 
 Cottao;e near, heard such heaven-born strains 
 Of music as held her an enchanted 
 Listener. A sweet girlish voice oft 
 Broke forth in song like some bird beating 
 Its fettered wings against its prison- 
 Cage ; and in those notes was breathed a heart's 
 Crushed sorrow. Unconsciously Sarah 
 Ao;ainst the fence-railino- leaned, drinkinc^ 
 In with eager ear the notes of harmony. 
 Some little time she thus stood, unheeding 
 The passers-by, who rudely jostled ; 
 
96 ' CONSOLATION. 
 
 Feeling but one wish just then ; viz., 
 
 To know who had invoked such music 
 
 Almost divine. Anon her attitude 
 
 From the house was noticed ; from whence a 
 
 Lady grand and beautiful, although 
 
 Her hair was snowy white, in the open 
 
 Door-way stood, and questioned Sarah 
 
 If she felt ill ; else why did she upon 
 
 Their yard- fence lean ? No queen could be more 
 
 Fair, no voice more pleasing to the ear, 
 
 Than was this dear old lady's, whose eyes 
 
 Were yet as blue and kind as in her 
 
 Early youth, whose cheek still bore the rose's 
 
 Bloom, and whose mouth itself was sweetness. 
 
 So thouo-ht our heroine as she looked on 
 
 Her ; and born in a moment was the 
 
 Wish to know and have her for a friend. 
 
 Sarah most truly felt alone since 
 
 Glencora had returned to him so long 
 
 Beloved. She knew for her friend she felt 
 
 Rejoiced ; and yet a pang 'twould bring 
 
 Despite of all to see how quickly 
 
 Cornie and Glencora both had her 
 
 Forsaken for the love of man. She 
 
 The same would do, no doubt, if ever 
 
 She loved ; and more than foolish it seemed 
 
 To give it a passing thought. They all 
 
 Loved her well, and much would laugh at her 
 
 Sad fancies. 
 
 " Will you allow me to come in and 
 Rest, dear madam? " questioned Sarah. '' I 
 Feel a little weary, and homesick 
 Withal." — " Certainly, dear child," the kind 
 
STELLA GEAHAM. • 97 
 
 Old lady said. " You do look tired and 
 White. Let me take your hat and gloves ; and 
 Rest you in this chair," — drawing forth a 
 Large stuffed rocker, which to her guest's eye 
 Seemed most invitinoj. 
 
 The room in which she sat was to her 
 Vision like some fairy picture, sweet 
 And beautiful. Upon the floor was spread 
 A carpet of white ground, with bouquets 
 Of lovely flowers sprinkled o'er it. 
 A marble-topped table stood in the 
 Centre of the floor, upon which was 
 A rich vase of Bohemian w^are filled 
 With the late autumn flowers. A what-not, 
 Laden with many a curious 
 And tasteful relic, one corner filled. 
 A pretty tete-a-tete was rolled against 
 The wall. A parlor-organ and 
 Piano also graced opposite 
 Sides of the room. Ottomans of rich 
 Embroidery mixed among the stately 
 Chairs. One of Rubens' paintings hung 
 Against the walls, and others of less 
 Note. Brackets of every size and shape 
 Were scattered here and there, all laden 
 With trifling gems of art. Over- 
 Head a pretty bird-cage hung, in w^hich 
 Dick and Charlie kept house year after 
 Year, and, when fancy willed, free concerts gave. 
 The long white curtains were of lace, and 
 Just revealed the pretty shades beneath. 
 Upon a bracket shaped for books, a 
 Fine assortment met the eye : all the best 
 
98 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Literature of the day was gathered 
 
 There. A stand close by was laden 
 
 With fruit of various kind ; but the 
 
 Fairest thing of all was the young girl 
 
 Reclining upon a couch, close drawn 
 
 To the open window. All other 
 
 Items Sarah's eye had taken at 
 
 A glance, save this sweet statue ; for such 
 
 She seemed. Scarce eighteen summers their seal 
 
 Had set ere Death his signal gave, and, 
 
 By his cruel frown, the coming years 
 
 Affrighted. Her brow was broad, full, and 
 
 High, with eyebrows arching over eyes - 
 
 Of darkest hue, yet full and soft as 
 
 Midsummer's dream ; nose slightly aquiline ; 
 
 Pure oval cheeks, compressing a mouth 
 
 Broad and sweet with human richness ; 
 
 Chin perfect in its outline, 
 
 Upon a neck slender, yet graceful, the lovely 
 
 Head was poised, with its wealth of shining 
 
 Hair ; her perfect form was but a child's 
 
 In stature ; her hands, idly resting 
 
 In her lap, were beautiful beyond 
 
 Compare. 
 
 Sarah thought of the " Arabian Nights " 
 And its enchanted land ; questioning 
 If she, too, were not under magic 
 Influence ; fearing almost a movement 
 The whole bright picture would dissipate. 
 
 From an inner room close at hand, the 
 Kind old lady, we must henceforth know as 
 Mrs. Raymond, now drew near, in her 
 Hand a tiny waiter bearing, upon 
 
STELLA GEAHAM. 99 
 
 Which were placed cookies and a glass of 
 Home-made wine, of which she pressed her guest 
 To partake, and which she did with thanks. 
 
 " Forgive me if over-rude I seem : 
 But a woman's curiosity, you 
 Know, is proverbial ; and I am not 
 From others of my sex exempt. 
 As I entered, upon the door-plate 
 I saw inscribed a name which I conclude 
 Must be yours : therefore, if I mistake 
 Not, you are Mrs. Raymond; and yonder 
 Is your daughter, the fair musician 
 To whose charming powers I am 
 Indebted for the treat I, a stranger, 
 Am enjoying ? " 
 
 " I see," said Mrs. Raymond ; " you are in 
 Truth ' a Yankee,' most excellent at 
 Guessino; ; thouo-h some features of the case 
 You've not rightfully hit. — 
 " Stella, darling, are you rested yet ? 
 If so, come sit beside me, while I 
 Somewhat of ourselves relate to this 
 Pleasant-looking lady, who, my heart 
 Tells me, will soon become to us a 
 Friend." 
 
 Stella, approaching, bowed with graceful 
 Ease ; and on an ottoman at her 
 Grandma's knee she sat, her head reclining 
 In her lap. " Stella Graham," resumed 
 The old lady, " is the only 
 Daughter of my only daughter, and 
 From early childhood has been bereft 
 Of parental care ; though I have e'er 
 
100 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Striven to make for her the orphan's 
 
 Wants unknown." From those soft blue eyes the 
 
 Tear-drops fell amid the silken tresses 
 
 Of her pet, whom she caressed while talking. 
 
 " She is a slender child," she added : 
 
 " Still, w^hen quite an infant, the strongest 
 
 Love for music she betrayed. 
 
 We are not wealthy, as you see ; and 
 
 Yet we need not to complain ; since we 
 
 Have enough for all our needs. But she, 
 
 My Stella, for years one wish has cherislied, — 
 
 To be a public singer ; and for 
 
 That purpose she has toiled until 
 
 Perfected in the art she's chosen. 
 
 And now, when fame seemed within her grasp, 
 
 Her health has failed ; and, by advice of 
 
 Our physician, we hither came last 
 
 Spring. Strangers in the place, but few there 
 
 Are w^hom w^e call fy^iend, I had hoped much 
 
 From change of climate and the waters 
 
 So medicinal ; but, to my seeming, 
 
 She grows weaker day by day. As you see. 
 
 She is quite weary from just that little 
 
 Song to which you listened. O my darling, 
 
 My beautiful darling ! what have I 
 
 Done that God should so scourge me ? " 
 
 " Hush, dear grandma ! " said Stella, wiping 
 From her old friend's face the falling tears. 
 '' You know I am quite reconciled at 
 Last to the dear Lord's will ; and what does 
 It matter, after all, the few more 
 Years of life ? Besides, you promised, dear 
 Grandmamma, to ever remember 
 
STELLA GEAHAM. 101 
 
 My favorite Psalm : ' The Lord my shepherd 
 Is : I shall not want. He maketh me 
 To lie down in green pastures ; he leadeth 
 Me beside the still waters ; he restoreth 
 My soul ; he leadeth me in the paths 
 Of righteousness for his name's sake. 
 Yea, though I walk-through the valley of 
 The shadow of death, I will fear no 
 Evil : for thou art with me ; thy rod 
 And thy staff they comfort me. 
 Thou preparest a table before 
 Me in presence of mine enemies ; 
 Thou anointest my head with oil ; 
 My cup runneth over. Surely 
 Goodness and mercy shall follow me 
 All the days of my life, and I will 
 Dwell in the house of the Lord forever.' 
 
 " He has stilled my troubled soul with his 
 Promises so beautiful and full 
 Of hope," -she added, turning to Sarah. 
 " My heart was very hard at first. I 
 Could not, without many pangs, renounce 
 The inborn wish of my heart. Music 
 Has been and is the one love of my life : 
 E'en paradise will be no haven 
 Of bliss, if Music's pasans sound not 
 Within the jasper gate. Ah I there must be 
 Music there, more grand and holy than 
 Mortal ears can e'er divine ! '^ 
 
 Sarah's eyes upon the glowing face 
 Of the enraptured girl's were fastened ; 
 For never had they seen beauty so 
 Sublime. 
 
 9* 
 
102 CONSOLATION. 
 
 *' Fate once more has proved my friend," she said, 
 Arising to depart, " in leading 
 Me to you. You will not refuse me 
 Welcome if again I trespass ? " she 
 Questioned with anxious voice. 
 " Indeed, no ! " they both exclaimed : ^' come in* 
 Whene'er you wish." With mutual kind 
 Wishes, they parted ; Sarah leaving 
 Upon a bracket a card-board 
 Lettered thus, — " Miss Sarah Horton, 
 Warwick, Massachusetts." 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 CHANGES. 
 
 SARAH became with the passing days 
 A regular visitant at the cottage ; 
 To the inmates of which she became 
 Endeared. With their permission, Cornie 
 And Glencora both were frequent guests, 
 And, with Sarah, were quite enraptured 
 With the lovely Stella and her stately 
 Grandame. Their purest hours of pleasure 
 Were passed within that cosey home, so 
 Pregnant with the peace of holy lives. 
 The invalid was oft their companion 
 In pleasant walks and drives about the 
 Town, though oft the hectic flush burned upon 
 Her cheek. By mutual assent, they 
 Dear Mrs. Raymond styled " Mamma," 
 And to her appealed in all their little 
 Trials, as daughters ever do to 
 A mother well beloved. 
 One morn, the rest of her party 
 Having joined an excursion to Glen's 
 Falls, Sarah entered the pretty home 
 Of her friends, and found them for a walk 
 Prepared, and, on inquiry, learned they 
 To church were going ; so her they asked 
 To join with them in the coming service. 
 
104 CONSOLATION. 
 
 For the first time, our friend listened to 
 The beautiful and soul-inspiring 
 Church ritual. Tears filled her eyes, while 
 Her very soul seemed like ocean-billows 
 Heavino;. What was this stranoje religion, 
 So new to her experience, yet so 
 Grandly solemn ? She crossed the threshold 
 Of Bethesda Church, heedless, truth to 
 Say, uncaring for its sacred rites : 
 She left it with an arrow in her 
 Soul, barbed at every point. Thought 
 Was awakened ; and yet no word she 
 Breathed to those around, their comments dreading. 
 
 October, with her gorgeous drapery, 
 Mantled the Eastern States, warn in o; the 
 Pleasure-seekers that Summer's reign was 
 Over. The large hotels were closed ; and 
 Our bridal-party prepared to bid 
 Adieu to Saratoga and her pleasant 
 Nooks. On the fourth day of the month, 
 Upon the morn of their departure, 
 Gordon and his fiancee were most 
 Quietly united in wedlock's 
 Holy bonds. The rector of the church 
 Episcopal the ceremony performed. 
 With no witnesses save their own party. 
 Including Stella and her grandma. 
 By this arrangement, Sarah was left 
 Decidedly de trop ; and, having really 
 No home-ties to draw her hence, she, by 
 Invitation kind of her new-found friends. 
 Decided to remain a while with 
 Them. By urgent request of Charles Stevens, 
 
CHANGES. 105 
 
 The tourists, the intervening weeks 
 Ere Christmas, would pass at the dear old 
 Home in N., where great preparations 
 Even then were being made for their 
 Reception. 
 
 Now Sarah's life flowed in a different 
 Channel from its olden groove. 
 Such quiet hours of perfect peace had 
 Ne'er before fallen to her^lot. 
 
 She to Stella taught the art of 
 Imitating God's handiwork of 
 Flowers ; though poor indeed the little 
 Worsted imitations looked beside 
 His glowing blooms : but time it served to 
 While, and brightened many an hour. 
 In return, Stella feasted Sarah's 
 Soul with music. The old masters seemed 
 To breathe again 'neath her touch : those hands 
 So white and slender were endowed with 
 A glorious gift,' such strains commanding 
 As sent sweet thrilhngs hot and fast through 
 Sarah's frame. 
 
 From the re-action of such a moment 
 One night, Sarah clasped her friend 
 Closely to her throbbing, aching heart. 
 And exclaimed, " You must not, shall not, die ! 
 I will so importune our Lord, he 
 Will death's fiat arrest, and you restore 
 Once again to health ; or, if some 
 Sacrifice is needed, I'll him beseech 
 Myself to take in place of you : 
 Any thing, rather than your dear form, 
 So beautiful and fair, shall fade and 
 
106 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Mould beneath the coffin-Hd. O God ! 
 Hear thou my anguished prayer, and let 
 Me die for her ! But few would miss me 
 Long ; and no work here that I could do 
 Would be so great as my life giving 
 Up for hers. Think of her rich gifts by 
 Thee bestowed ; of her young heart with 
 Devotion filled ; of all her pure, grand 
 Thoughts crushed out in silence of the 
 Grave ! " 
 
 " Cease, dear friend ! " Stella answered back. 
 " Against our Lord you do blaspheme when 
 Thus you speak ; for we are his, to do 
 With as he wills. My darling, I see 
 Your heart is very selfish ; and the 
 Creature 'tis you love, and not the Creator. 
 Bitter sorrows as your lips have quaffed, 
 They yet must drain more bitter still. 
 'Tis the fiery furnace alone that 
 Cleanses. Now listen. On that day when 
 First we met, you said 'twas Fate that brought 
 You here ; and, if 'twas Fate, then God is 
 Fate, and we are walking as he wills. 
 Some purpose of his own, to us unrevealed, 
 Has formed this friendship more than dear, and 
 On your part a worship wild. Be governed 
 By his hand ; your heart submit to his 
 Decree : and be assured that whate'er 
 Is, is so to be ; and we can nothing 
 Change. This poor body, lovely as you 
 Deem it, is not yours or mine, but his ; the 
 Gifts that he has with me crowned, whene'er 
 He wills, must honor his commands. 
 
CHANGES. 107 
 
 ' Up there ' he has for me some work to 
 
 Do, — greater far than my mission here 
 
 Could be. Perhaps 'tis through your very 
 
 Love for me, your heart, so long rebellious, 
 
 Is touched into submission : loving 
 
 Me, you my home will love, and thus your 
 
 Thoughts become familiar with the life beyond." 
 
 " Oh, consolation I — you are indeed 
 My consolation ! " the weeping Sarah cried. 
 
 The days and weeks rolled on. ''Mamma" and 
 Her friend, with wistful eyes, saw the light 
 Slowly fading from their darling's face ; 
 And mutely questioned each of each, " How 
 Long, how long ? " She did not suffer much ; 
 And for that they were thankful : but like 
 A lovely flower, yielding, as it 
 Faded, its sweetest perfume ; so did 
 Stella fill their hearts with the holy 
 Richness of her dying hours. Tears seemed 
 Out of place in that room of peace. 
 
 The short November day to its close 
 Was drawing, when Stella, rousing from 
 Her half-conscious state, wished to gaze once 
 More from the western window. The clouds 
 Seemed all aflame with tints of orange 
 And vermilion cast by the setting 
 Sun : and, as her dying eyes rested 
 Upon the heaven's panorama, a 
 Look of glory shone o'er all her face, 
 And with clasped hands slie slowly said, 
 " And there shall he no more nights 
 
108 CONSOLATION. 
 
 As the sun's slant rays on the far-off 
 Tree-tops hngered, she closed her eyes, 
 Murmuring low, " When next he comes, I 
 Shall be away. Sarah, hold me in 
 Your arms once more ; and, while the 
 Twilight shadows creep o'er all the earth. 
 Let me thank you for your tender care 
 Of me through these long, weary hours : and 
 If 'tis possible for spirits of 
 Those gone before to earthward come, then 
 Will I some day return to you, and 
 On your brow my hand will press " (thus 
 Laying her waxen hand on Sarah's 
 Face) ; " and you will know 'tis me, because 
 I'll whisper in your ear, ' Consolation ! ' 
 
 " Grandmamma, dear grandmamma ! " the dying 
 Angel said, " weep not for Stella much ; 
 And you will not be alone, since our 
 God-given friend will still be yours. Death 
 Is nothing. Imagine a river 
 Two states dividing, called mortal and immortal. 
 Upon this river a boat is moored ; 
 And those who would or must cross over 
 The helmsman hail, called Deathj and he will 
 Row us across the heaving tide, safe 
 Landing us upon the shore immortal. 
 And there, there, is rest. Yes, there, too, is 
 Music, heaven-born. I can hear the 
 Strains even now ; cannot you ? " turning 
 Her death-filmed eyes upon Sarah's face. 
 " Strange you cannot hear it too ! It is sweet, — 
 Sweeter far than aught of earth. Truly, 
 
CHANGES. 109 
 
 ' To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 
 The God whom we adore. 
 Be glory as it was, is now, 
 And shall be evermore.' " 
 
 The beautiful lips were closed, never 
 
 Again to open in this life ; the 
 
 Eyes, eloquent till death, were now sealed 
 
 Forever, their lono; lashes restino; 
 
 Upon a cheek like marble ; about 
 
 The mouth a soft smile lingered, and the 
 
 Waxen hands still clasped as though in prayer. 
 
 " She has reached the shore immortal," 
 Sarah whispered to the kneeling woman 
 By her side. " Our darling has passed on ; 
 And we are left. See ! how happy is 
 Her smile ! how beautiful, hoto beautiful. 
 She' looks ! — my sweet, my blessed consolation ! '' 
 
 After Stella within the tomb was 
 Placed, Mamma Raymond went to C, the 
 Coming winter to pass with relatives. 
 The pretty cottage was closed ; and to 
 The door a placard was attached, 
 '^ For sale." 
 
 Sarah to her olden life returned 
 Again ; the same, yet not the same. 
 Changes had wrought their influence on 
 Her heart, in which one idol was 
 Enshrined, one memory of a pure 
 Friendship, surpassing that of Hymen's 
 Yow, — the dream of her woman's heart, when 
 Every nerve within her being vibrated 
 
 10 
 
110 CONSOLATION. 
 
 To the touch of those slender hands so 
 Loving in their clasp, and on whose brow 
 The sorrowing girl a crown of love 
 Had placed ; and 'mid the leaves embalmed 
 Were twined the words, " My consolation." 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 VISIT with us once again the pleasant 
 Farm-house of Uncle Nathan, whose laugh 
 Eesounds as gayly through the house as 
 When, a youth, he brought his bright-eyed wife 
 To dwell with him years agone. And can 
 It be, the social, gentlemanly 
 Master of the house is the once- 
 Bashful Charles ? Where now has fled his 
 Olden disdain for the ladies ? 
 Echo answers, " Where ? " And Cornie, fair 
 As summer morn, is of her husband's heart 
 The queen, as of all the household. A 
 Precious hope now thrills her heart with joy 
 For the future ; while Charles's step more 
 Manly grows while dreaming of the May 
 Be. Gordon and his beloved Glencora 
 Are in their olden home at W. 
 He with lavish hand the manna 
 Of life imparting to those who will 
 Partake ; enjoying in the sweets of home 
 The happiness that ever crowns hopes 
 Long deferred, when at last they realize 
 Their fruition. 
 
 Visiting in N., Sarah was one evening 
 Startled by her cousin's saying, " There 
 
112 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Is to be, this week, a lecture upon 
 
 ' The Times,' from a young man of more than 
 
 Ordinary abiUty : you remember 
 
 Him, cousin, — our old friend, Harry 
 
 Gelding ? " — " Yes, she remembered, and would 
 
 The lecture most certainly attend ; " 
 
 Which proved to be rich with cultured thought. 
 
 A thrill of honest pride through her ran 
 
 As she listened to the warm words of 
 
 Eloquence which from the lips of this 
 
 Dark-browed speaker fell ; thinking, " He once 
 
 Loved me, plain and humble ; and I have 
 
 Been the means of stirring into life 
 
 The electric wells of thought with which 
 
 This man was endowed, but which slumbered 
 
 Beneath the bond of pleasure. One good 
 
 Deed I can to myself accredit." 
 
 As on former days, he was invited 
 By her cousin home ; which invitation. 
 With a glance at Sarah, he accepted. 
 During their walk from the hall, questions 
 Were exchanged, and answers given. Just 
 As they entered the house, his hand was 
 Laid on Sarah's arm with gentle force, 
 While with voice suppressed, yet eager, he 
 Said, " Here, where the motto was to me 
 Given, I the same restore w^ith its 
 Added crown ; fondly hoping 
 The mistress of my heart that word will 
 Supplant with the dearer one of love. 
 Which shall it be, dear friend ? " 
 
 '' Harry, excelsior is from me 
 A kinder word than love, and you the 
 Same must keep. I have for you none other." 
 
CONCLUSION. 113 
 
 October, soft and solemn in her 
 Wearing, again the earth was carpeting 
 With a o-arment rare, when Sarah's foot 
 Pressed the streets of Saratoga on a 
 Pilgrimage of love. Up to the 
 Cemetery her steps she wended 
 To the spot where she and " Mamma " had 
 Cansed to be erected a plain white 
 Slab over the dear remains of one 
 To them beloved. Anon her hand npon 
 The stone was pressed, on which was graven 
 An open book, and on its marble 
 Page was cot a rose with scattered leaves. 
 Above the book a slender hand was 
 Poised, with index-finger raised. By the 
 Hand a ribbon-scroll was held, bearing 
 On one end the name and age ; upon 
 The other, the word, " Consolation." 
 
 Next to that grave, Bethesda Church was 
 To her heart the dearest spot she knew. 
 Many have been her silent vigils 
 At either shrine. Long her stubborn heart 
 Refused to be comforted, yet e'er 
 Beseeching help ; when, like a vision 
 Of the morn at day-dawn, her soul caught 
 The radiance of our Father's love. 
 And was bathed in the light thereof. 
 Daily she wandered by the 
 To her sacred o-rave, livinof o'er once 
 Again that friendship, sudden in its 
 Bloom, ardent and changeless to the end. 
 Behold her now as the slant ravs of 
 
114 CONSOLATION. 
 
 The setting sun shine athwart the grave, 
 With hands clasped, and eyes upraised to the 
 Heaven's blue ether, whither her darling 
 Has gone ! She waits for the unseen hand 
 Her brow to press, and for her souVs 
 Assurance of " consolation."