:i6HT FROM Gregory Paul, Books P.O. Drawer G Northridge, California ^ - fcv - I r-os^ """" HEART-HISTORIES AND LIFE-PICTURES. T. 5. ARTHUR. PHILADELPHIA: J. W. BRADLEY, 48 N. FOURTH STREET. 1860. Entere*, according to Act of Congress, In the year 1867, by J. W. BKADLEY. ! the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for Uw Eastern District of Pennsylvania, . INTRODUCTION. So interested are we all in our e very-day pursuits ; so given up, body and mind, to the attainment of our own ends ; so absorbed by our own hopes, joys, fears and disappointments, that we think rarely, if at all, of the heart- histories of others of the bright and sombre life-pictures their eyes may look upon. And yet, every heart has its history : how sad and painful many of these histories are, Jet the dreamy eyes, the sober faces, the subdued, often mournful tones, of many that daily cross our paths, testify. An occasional remembrance of these things will cause a more kindly feeling towards others ; and this will do us good, in withdrawing our minds from too exclusive thoughts of self. "Whatever tends to awaken our sympathies V PKEFACE. towards others, to interest us in humanity, is, therefore, an individual benefit as well as a common good. In all that we have written, we have endeavored to create this sympathy and awaken this interest ; and so direct has ever been our purpose, that we have given less thought to those elegancies of style on which a literary reputation is often founded, than to the truthfulness of our many life-pictures. In the preparation of this volume, the same end has been kept in view, and its chief merit'will be found, we trust, in its power to do good. T. S. A. PHILADELPHIA, December, ISM. CONTENTS. THE BOOK OF MEMORY, . . 7 THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMON-PLACB, . 58 JENNY LAWSON, 77 SHADOWS, . . . . . 131 THE THANKLESS OFFICE, .... 146 GOING TO THE SPRINGS, . ... . 115 THE WIFE, , . .. . . . .181 NOT GREAT, BUT HJTPPY, . . . 194 VI CONTENTS. THE MARRIED SISTERS, . , . . 214 TOOD-HEARTED PEOPLE, ... . 235 SLOW AND hURE, . ... 250 THE SCHOOL GIRL, . . . 282 UNREDEEMED PLEDGES, . . 301 DON'T MENTION rr, . . . 815 THE HEIKJW8, 541 THE BOOK OF MEMORY. CHAPTER I. " THERE is a book of record in your mind, Edwin," said an old man to his young friend, " a book of record, in which every act of your life is noted down. Each morning a blank page is turned, on which the day's history is written in lines that cannot be effaced. This book of record is' your memory ; and, according to what it bears, will your future life be happy or miserable. An act done, is done forever ; for, the tim^ in which it is done, in passing, passes to return no more. The history is written and sealed up. Nothing can ever blot it out You may repent of evil, and put away the purpose of evil from your heart ; but you cannot, by any repentance, bring back the time* that in 1* 10 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. gone, nor alter the writing on the page of memory Ah ! my young friend, if I could only erase some pages in the book of my memory, that almost daily open themselves before the eyes of my mind, how thankful I would be ! But this I cannot do. There are acts of my life for which repentance only avails as a process of purification and preparation for a better state in the future ; it in no way repairs wrong done to others. Keep the pages of your memory free from blots, Edwin. Guard the hand writing there as you value your best and highest interests !" Edwin Florence listened, but only half comprehended what was said by his aged friend. An hour afterwards ne .was sitting by the side of a maiden, her hand in bis, and her eyes looking tenderly upon his face. She was not beautiful in the sense that the world regards beauty. Yet, no one could be with her an hour without perceiving the higher and truer beauty of a pure and lovely spirit. It was this real beauty of character which had attracted Edwin Florence ; and th young girl's heart had gone forth to meet the tender of affection with an impulse of gladness. " You love me, Edith ?" said Edwin, in a low voice, as he bent nearer, and touched, her pure forehead with his lips. THE BOOK OF MEMORY. H " As my life," replied the maiden, and her eyes were full of love as she spoke. Again the young man kissed her. In low voices, leaning towards each other until the breath of each was warm on the other's cheek, they sat conversing for a long time. Then they separated ; and both were happy. How sweet were the maiden's dreams thatrpight, for, in every picture that wandering fancy drew, was the image of her lover ! Daily thus they met for a long time. Then there was a change in Edwin Florence. Ilis visits were less frequent, and when he met the young girl, whose very life was bound up in his, his manner had in it a reserve that chilled her heart as if an icy hand had been laid upon it. She asked for no explanation of the change ; but, as he grew colder, she shrunk more and more into herself, like a flower folding its withering leaves when touched by autumn's frosty fingers. One day he .called on Edith, lie was not as cold as he had been, but he was, from some cause, evidently embarrassed. " Edith," said he, taking her hand it was weeks since he had touched her hand except in meeting and parting " I need not say how highly I regard you. How tenderly I love you, even as I could love a pure and crentle sister. But " 12 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. He paused, for he saw that Edith's face had become very pale; and that she rather gasped for air than breathed. " Are you sick ?" he asked, in a voice of anxiety Edith was recovering herself. ' " No," she replied, faintly. A deep silence, lasting for the space of nearly half a minute, followed. By this time the maiden, through a forced effort, had regained the command of her feelings. Perceiving this, Edwin resumed " As I said, Edith, I love you as I could love a pure and gentle sister. Will you accept this love ?" Will you be to me a friend a sister ?" Again there passed upon the countenance of Edith a deadly palor ; while her lips quivered, and her eyes had a strange expression. This soon passed away, and again something of its former repose was in her face. At the first few words of Florence, Edith withdrew the hand he had taken. He now sought ij again, but she voided the contact. " You do not answer me, Edith," said the young man. " Do you wish an answer ?" This was uttered in a scarcely audible voice. " I do, Edith," was the earnest reply. " Let there be no separation between us. You are to me what you THE BOOK JK MEMORY. 13 have ever been, a dearly prized friend. I never meet you that my heart does not know an impulse for good I never think of you but " " Let us be as strangers !" said Edith, rising abruptly, And turning away, she fled from the room. Slowly did the young man leave the apartment in which they were sitting, and without seoiig any member of_ the family, departed from the house. There was a record on his memory that time would have no power to efface. It was engraved too deeply for the dust of years to obliterate. As he went, musing away, the pale face of Edith was before him ; and the anguish of her voice, as she said, " Let us be as strangers," was in his ears. He tried not to see the one, nor hear the other. But that was impossible. They had impressed themselves into the very substance of his mind. Edwin Florence had an engagement for that very evening. It was with one of the most brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating women he had ever met. A few months before, she had crossed his path, and from that time he was changed towards Edith Her name was Catharine Linmore. The earnest attentions of Florence pleased her, and as she let the pleasure she felt be seen, she was not long in winning his heart entirely from his first love. In this, she was innocent ; 14 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. for she knew nothing of. the former state of his affections towards Edith. After parting with Edith, Edwin had no heart to fulfill his engagement with Miss Linmore. He could think of nothing but the maiden he had so cruelly de- serted ; and more than half repented of what he had done. When the hour for the appointment came, his . mind struggled awhile in the effort to obtain a consent to go, and then decided against meeting, at least on that occasion, the woman whose charms had led him to do so great a wrong to a loving and confiding heart. No excuse but that of indisposition could be made, under the circumstances ; and, attempting to screen himself, in his own estimation, from falsehood, he as- sumed, in his own thoughts, a mental indisposition, while, in the billet he dispatched, he gave the idea of bodily indisposition. The night that followed was, per- haps, the most unhappy one the young man had ever spent. Days passed, and he heard nothing from Edith. He could not call to see her, for she had interdicted hat Henceforth they must be as strangers. The effect produced by his words had been far more painful than was anticipated ; and he felt troubled when he thought about what might be their ultimate effects. On the fifth day, as the young man was walking with Catharine Linmcre, he came suddenly face to face with THE BOOK OF MEMORT. 15 Edith. There was a change in her that startled him. She looked at him, in passing, but gave no signs of re- cognition. " Wasn't that Miss Walter ?" inquired the compan- ion of Edwin, in a tone of surprise. ** Yes," replied Florence. " What's the matter with her ? Has she, been sick ? How dreadful she looks !" " I never saw her look so bad," remarked the young man. As they walked along, Miss Linmore kept al- luding to Edith, whose changed appearance had excited her sympathies. " I've met her only a few times," said she, " but I have seen enough of her to give me a most exalted opinion of her character. Some one called her very plain ; but I have not thought so. There is something so good about her, that you cannot be with her long without perceiving a real beauty in the play of her countenance." 44 No one can know her well, without loving her for ne goodness of which you have just spoken," said Edwin. " You are intimate with her I" " Yes. She has been long to me as a sister." There was a roughness in the voice of Florence as he said this. 16 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE ITCTURK3. " She passed without recognizing you," said Miss Linmore. " So I observed." " And yet I noticed that she looked you in the face, though with a cold, stony, absent look It is strange I What can have happened to her ?" " I have observed a change in her for some time past," Florence ventured to say; "but nothing like this. There is something wrong." When the time to part with his companion came, Edwin Florence felt a sense of relief. Weeks now passed without his seeing or hearing any thing from Edith. During the time he met Miss Linmore fre- quently ; and encouraged to approach, he at length ventured* to speak to her of what was in his heart. The young lady heard with pleasure, and, -though she did not accept the offered hand, by no means repulsed the ardent suitor. She had not thought of marriage, she said, and asked a short time for reflection. Edwin saw enough in her manner to satisfy him that the result would be in his favor. This would have made him supremely happy, could he have blotted out all recollection of Edith and his conduct towards her. But, that was impossible. Her form and face, as he had last seen them, were almost constantly before his eyes. As he walked the streets, he feared lest he THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 17 hould meet her ; and never felt pleasant in any com- pany until certain that she was not there. A few days after Mr. Florence had made an offer of his hand to Miss Linmore, and at a time when she was about making a favorable decision, that young lady happened to hear some allusion made to Edith Walter/ in a tone that attracted her attention. She immediate- ly asked some^ questions in regard to her, when one of the persons conversing said 44 Why, don't you know about Edith-?" " I know that there is a great change in her. But the reason of it I have not heard." " Indeed ! I thought it was pretty well known that her affections had been trifled with." " Who could trifle with the affections of so'sweet, so good a girl," said Miss Linmore, indignantly. " The man who could turn from her, has no true appreciation of what is really excellent and exalted in woman's character. I have seen her only a few times ; but, often enough to make me estimate her as one among the loveliest of our sex." " Edwin Florence is the man," was replied. " He won her heart, and then turned from her ; leaving the waters of affection that had flowed at his touch to lose themselves in the sands at his feet There must be 18 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. something base in the heart of a man who could trifle thus with such a woman." " It required a strong effort on the part of Miss Lin- nore to conceal the instant turbulence of feeling that acceeded so unexpected a declaration. But she had, naturally, great self-control, and this came to her aid. " Edwin Florence !" said she, after a brief silence, speaking in a tone of surprise. " Yes, he is the man. Ah, me ! What a ruin has been wrought T I never saw such a change in any one as Edith exhibits. The very inspiration of her life is gone. The love she bore towards Florence seems to have been almost the mainspring of her existence ; for in touching that the whole circle of motion has grown feeble, and will, I fear, soon cease for ever." " Dreadful 1 The falsehood of her lover has broken her heart." " I fear that it is even so." " Is she ill ? I have not seen her for a long time," 1 said Miss Linmore. " Not ill, as one sick of a 'bodily disease ; but droop- ing about as one whose spirits are broken, and who finds no sustaining arm to lean upon. When you meet her., she strives to be cheerful, and appear inte- rested. But the effort deceives no one." THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 19 " Why did Mr. Florence act towards her as he has done ?" asked Miss Linmore. " A handsomer face and more brilliant exterior were the attractions, I am told." The young lady asked no more questions. Those who observed her closely, saw the warm tints that made beautiful her cheeks grow fainter and fainter, until they had almost entirely faded. Soon after, she retired from the company. In the ardor of his pursuit of a new object of affec- tion, Edwin Florence scarcely thought of the old one. The image of Edith was hidden by the interposing form of Miss Linmore. The suspense occasioned by a wish for time to consider the offer he had made, grew more and more painful the longer it was continued. On the possession of the lovely girl as his wife, depend- ed, so he felt, his future happiness. Were she to de- cline his offer he would be wretched. In this state of mind, he called one day upon Miss Linmore, hoping and fearing, yet resolved to know his fate. The mo- ment he entered her presence he observed a change. She did not smile ; and there was something chilling in the steady glance of her large dark eyes. " Have I offended you ?" he asked, as she declined taking his offered hand. 20 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " Yes," was the firm -reply, while the young lady as Burned a dignified air. " In what ?" asked Florence. " In proving false to her in whose ears you first breathed words of affection." The young man started as if stung by a serpent. " The man," resumed Miss Linmore, " who has been false to Edith Walter, never can be true to me. I wouldn't have the affection that could turn from one like her. I hold it to be h'ght as the thistle-down. Go ! heal the heart you have almost broken, if, per- chance, it be not yet too late. As for me, think of me as if we had all our lives been strangers such, hence- forth, we must ever remain." And saying this, Catharine Linmore turned from the rebuked and astonished young man, and left the room. He iinmedw/ ely retired. *. CHAPTER II. EVENING, with its passionless influences, was stealing softly down, and leaving on all things its hues of quiet and repose. The heart of nature was beating with calm and even pulses. Not so the heart of Edwin Florence. It had a wilder throb ; and the face of na- ture was not reflected in the mirror of his feelings. He was alone in his room, where he had been during the few hours that had elapsed since his interview with Miss Linmore. In those few hours, Memory had turn- ed over many leaves of the Book of his Life. He would fain have averted his eyes from the pages, but ha could not. The record was before him, and he had read it. And, as he read, the eyes of Edith looked into his own ; at first they were loving and tender, as of old ; and then they were full of tears. Her hand lay, now, confidingly in his ; and now it was slowly withdrawn. She sat by his side, and leaned upon him 22 HEART HISfORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. his lips were upon her lips ; his cheek touching her cheek ; their breaths were mingling. Another moment and he had turned from her coldly, and she was droop- ing towards the earth like a tender vine bereft of th support to which it had held by its clinging tendrils. Ah ! If he could only have shut out these images ! If he could have erased the record so that Memory could not read it ! How eagerly would he have drunk of Lethe's waters, could he have found the fabled stream 1 More than all this. The rebuke of Miss Linmore almost maddened him. In turning from Edith, he had let his heart go out towards the other with a passionate devotion. Pride in her beauty and brilliant accom- plishments had filled his regard with a selfishness that could ill bear the shock of a sudden repulse. Sleep- less was the night that followed ; and when the morn- ing, long looked for, broke at last, it brought no light for his darkened spirit. Yet he had grown calmer, and a gentle feeling pervaded his bosom. Thrown off by Miss Linmore, his thoughts now turned by a natural impulse, as the needle, long held by opposing attrac- tion, turns to its polar point, again towards Edith tVal- ter. As he thought of her longer and longer, tenderer emotions began to tremble in his heart. The beauty of her character was again seen ; and his better nature bowed before it once more in a genuine worship. THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 23 " How have I been infatuatod ! What syien spell has been on me !" Such were the words that fell from his lips, marking the change in his feelings. Days went by, and still the change went on, until the old affection had come back ; the old tender, true affection. But, he had turned from its object basely turned away. A more glaring light had dazzled his eyes so thafjie could see, for a time, no beauty, no attraction, in his first love. Could he turn to her again ? Would she receive him ? Would she let him dip healing leaves in the waters he had dashed with bitterness ? His heart trembled as he asked these questions, for there was no confident answer. At last Edwin Florence resolved that he would see Edith once more, and seek to repair the wrong done both to her and to himself. It was three months after his rejection by Miss Linmore when he came to this resolution. And then, some weeks elapsed before he could force himself to act upon it. In all that time he had not met the young girl, nor had he once heard of her. To the house of her aunt, where she resided, Florence took his way one evening in early autumn, his heart disturbed by many conflicting emotions. Hia love for Edith had come back in full force ; and hia spirit was longing for the old communion. 24 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " Can I see Miss Walter P he asked, on arriving at her place of residence. " Walk in," returned the servant who had answered his summons. Florence entered the little parlor where he had spent BO many, never-to-be-forgotten hours with Edith hours unspeakably happy in passing, but, in remembrance, burdened with pain and looking around on each familiar object with strange emotions. Soon a light step was heard descending the stairs, and moving along the passage. The door opened, and Edith no, her aunt entered. The young man had risen in the breathlessness of expectation. " Mr. Florence," said the aunt, coldly. He extended his hand ; but she did not take it. " How is Edith ?" was half stammered. " She is sinking rapidly," replied the aunt. Edwin staggered back into a chair. " Is she ill !" he inquired, with a quivering lip. " 111 ! She is dying P There was something of in- dignation in the way this was said. " Dying !" The young man clasped his hands to- gether with a gesture of despair. " How long has she been sick !" he next ventured to ask. "For mouths ehe has been dying daily," said the t THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 25 aunt. There was a meaning in her tones that the young man fully comprehended. He had not dreara ed of this. " Can I see her P The aunt shook her head, as she answered, " Let her spirit depart in peace." " I will not disturb, but calm her spirit," said the young man, earnestly. " Oh, let me see her, that I may call her back to life !" " It is too late," replied the aunt. " The oil is ex- hausted, and light is just departing." Edwin started to his feet, exclaiming passionately " Let me see her ! Let me see her !" " To see her thus, would be to blow the breath tliat would extinguish the flickering light," said the aunt, u Go home, young man ! It is too late ! Do not seek to agitate the waters long troubled by your hand, but now suosiding into calmness. Let her spirit depart in peace." Florence sunk again into his chair, and, hiding his ace with his hands, sat for some moments in a state of mental paralysis. In the chamber above lay the pale, almost pulseless form of Edith. A young girl, who had been as her sister for many years, sat holding her thin white hand. The face )f the invalid was turned to the wall. Her 26 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. eyes were closed ; and ske breathed so quietly that the motions of respiration could hardly be seen. Nearly ten minutes had elapsed from the time a servant whis- pered to the aunt that there was some one in the par- lor, when Edith turned, and said to her companion, in a low, calm voice " Mr. Florence has come." The girl started, and a flush of surprise went over her face. " He is in the parlor now. Won't you ask him to come up 2" added the dying maiden, still speaking with the utmost composure. Her friend stood surprised and hesitating for some moments, and then turning away, glided from the chamber. She found the aunt and Mr. Florence in the passage below, the latter pleading with the former for the privilege of seeing Edith, which was resolutely denied. " Edith wants to see Mr. Florence," said the girl, as she joined them. " Who told her that he was here ?" quickly asked the aunt. " No one. I did not know it myself." " Her heart told her that I was here," exclaimed Mr. Florence and, as he spoke, he glided past the aunt, and, with hurried steps, ascended to the chamber where THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 27 the dying one lay. The eyes of Edith were turned towards the door as he entered ; but no sign of emotion passed over her countenance. Overcome by his feelings, at the sight of the shadowy remnant of one so loved and so wronged, the young man sunk into a chair by her side, as nerveless as a child ; and, as his h'ps were pressed upon her lips and cheeks, her face was wet with his tears. Coming in quickly after, the aunt took firmly hold of his arm and sought to draw him away, but, in a steady voice, the invalid said " No DO. I was waiting for him. I have expected him for days. I knew he would come ; and he is here now." All was silence for many minutes ; and during this time Edwin Florence sat with his face covered, struggling to command his feelings. At a motion from the dying girl, the aunt and friend retired, and she was alone with the lover who had been false to his vows. As the door closed behind them, Edwin looked up. He had grown calm. With a voice of inexpressible tenderness, he said " Live for me, Edith." " Not here," was answered. " The silver chord wiH soon be loosened and the golden bowl broken." " Oh, say not that ! Let me call you back to life 28 HBART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. Turn to me again as I have turned to you with mj whole heart. The world is still beautiful ; and in it we will be happy together." " No, Edwin," replied the dying maiden. " The story of my days here is written, and the angel is about sealing the record. I am going where the heart will never feel the touch of sorrow. I wished to see you once more before I died ; and you are here. I have, once more, felt your breath upon my cheek ; once* more held your hand in mine. For this my heart is grateful. You had become the sun of my life, and when your face was turned away, the flower that spread itself joyfully in the light, drooped and faded. And now,' the light has come back again ; but it cannot warm into freshness and beauty the withered blossom." " Oh, my Edith ! Say not so ! Live for me ! I have no thoughts, no affection that is not for you. The drooping flower will lift itself again in the sunshine when the clouds have passed away." As the young man said this, Edith raised herself up suddenly, and, with a fond gesture, flung herself forward upon his bosom. For a few moments her form quivered in his arms. Then all became still, and he felt her lying heavier and heavier against him. In a little while he was conscious that he clasped to his THE BOOK OF MEMORY 29 heart only the earthly semblance of one who had passed away forever. Replacing the ligfyt and faded form of her who, a little while before, had been in the vigor of health, upon the bed, Edwin gazed upon the sunken features for a few moments, and then, leaving a last kiss upon her cold lips, hurried away. Another page in his Book of Life was written. There was another record there from which memory, in after life, could read. And such a record ! What would he not have given to erase that page ! When the body of Edith Walter was borne to its last resting-place, Florence was among the mourners. After looking his last look upon the coffin that contained the body, he went away, sadder in heart than he had ever been in his h'fe. He was not only a prey to sadness, but to painful self-accusation. In his perfidy lay the cause of her death. He had broken the heart that confided in him, and only repented of his error when it was too late to repair the rain. As to what was thought or said of him by others, Edwin Florence cared but little. There was enough of pain in his own self-consciousness. He withdrew himself from the social circle, and, for several years, lived a kind of hermit- life in the midst of society But, he was far from being happy in his solitude ; 30 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. for Memory was with him, and almost daily, from the Book of his Life, read to him some darkly written page- One day, it was three years from the time ha arted with Edith in the chamber of death, and when he was beginning to rise in a measure above the depressing influences attendant upon that event, he received an invitation to make one of a social party on the next evening. The desire to go back again in society had been gaining strength with him for some time ; and, as it had gained strength, reason had pointed out the error of his voluntary seclusion as unavailing to alter the past. " The past is past," ho said to himself, as he mused with the invitation in his hand. " I cannot recall ik I cannot change it. If repentance can in any way atone for error, surely I have made atonement ; for my repentance has been long and sincere. If Edith can see my heart, her spirit must be satisfied. Even she could not wish for this living burial. It is better for me to mingle in society as of old." Acting on this view, Florence made one on the next evening, in a social party. He felt strangely, for his mind was invaded by old influences, and touched by old impressions. He saw, in many a light and airy form, as it glanced before him, the image of one long THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 31 since passed away ; and heard, in the voices that filled (he rooms, many a tone that it seemed must have come from the lips of Edith. How busy was Memorj again with the past. In vain he sought to shut out the images that arose in his mind. The page was open before him, and what was impressed thereon he could not but see and read. This passed, in some degree, away as the evening progressed, and he came nearer, so to speak, to some of those who made up the happy company. Among those present was a young lady from a neighboring city, who attracted much attention both from her manners and person. She fixed the eyes of Mr. Florence soon after he entered the room, and, half unconsciously to himself, his observation was frequently directed towards her. " Who is that lady ?" he asked of a friend, an hour after his arrival. " Her name is Miss Welden. She is from Albany." " She has a very interesting face," said Florence. " And quite as interesting a mind. Miss Weldon is a charming girl." Not long after, the two were thrown near together, when an introduction took place. The conversation of the young lady interested Florence, and in her society he passed half an hour most pleasantly. "While talk- 32 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. ing with more than usual animation, in lifting his eyes he saw that some one on the opposite side of the room was observing him attentively. For the moment this did not produce any effect. But, in looking up again, he saw the same eyes upon him, and felt their expres- sion as unpleasant He now, for the first time, be- came aware that the aunt of Edith Walter was pres- ent. She it was who had been regarding him so at- tentively. From that instant his heart sunk in his bo- som. Memory's magic mirror was before him, and in it he saw pictured the whole scene of that last meeting with Edith. A little while afterward, and Edwin Florence was missed from the pleasant company. Where was he t Alone in the solitude of his own chamber, with his thoughts up'on the past. Again he had been reading over those pages of his Book of Life in which was written the history of his intimacy with and desertion of Edith ; and the record seemed as fresh as if made but the day before. It was in vain that he sought to close or avert his eyes. There seemed a spell upon him ; and he could only look and read. " Fatal error !" he murmured to himself, as he struggled to free himself from his thraldom to the past. " Fatal error ! How a single act will curse a man through life. Oh ! if I could but extinguish the whola THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 33 of this memory ! If I could wipe out the hand-writing. Sorrow, repentance, is of no avail. The past is gone for ever. Why then should I thus continue to be un- happy over what I cannot alter ? It avails nothing to Edith. She is happy far happier than if she had remained on this troublesome earth." But, even while he uttered these words, there came into his mind such a realizing sense of what the poor girl must have suffered, when she found her love thrown back upon her, crushing her heart by its weight, that he bowed his head upon his bosom and in bitter self-upbraidings passed the hours until mid- night, when sleep locked up his senses, and calmed th* turbulence of his feelings. CHAPTER III. MONTHS elapsed before Edwin Florence ventured again into company. " Why will you shut yourself up after this fashion V said an acquaintance to him one day. " It isn't just to your friends. I've heard half a dozen persons asking for you lately. This hermit life you are leading is, let me tell you, a very foolish life." The friend who thus spoke knew nothing of the young man's heart history. "No one really misses me," said Florence, in reply. " In that you are mistaken," returned the friend. You are missed. I have heard one young lady, at least, ask for you of late, more than a dozen times." " Indeed ! A young lady !" " Yes ; and a very beautiful young lady at that." M In whose eyes can I have found such favor f , " You have met Miss Clara Weldbn 3" THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 3ft " Only once." " But once !" * That is all." " Then it must be a case of love at first sight at least on the lady's part for Miss Weldon has asked for you, to my knowledge, not less than a dozen times." " I am certainly flattered at the interest she takes in me." " Well you may be. I know more than one young man who would sacrifice a good deal to find equal favor in her eyes. Now see what you have lost by this biding of your countenance. And you are not the only loser." Florence, who was more pleased at what he heard than he would like to have acknowledged, promised to come forth from his hiding place and meet the world in a better spirit. And he did so ; being really drawn back into the social circle by the attraction of Miss Weldon. At his second meeting with this young lady he was still more charmed with her than at first ; ami she was equally well pleased with him. A few more interviews, and both their hearts were deeply interested. Now there came a new cause of disquietude to Edwin ; or, it might be said, the old cause renewed. The going out of his affections towards Miss Weldon revived the whole memory of the past ; and, for a 36 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. time, he found it almost impossible to thrust it from his Hud. While sitting by her side and listening to her voice, the tones of Edith would be in his ears ; and, often, when he looked into her face, he would see only the fading countenance of her who had passed away. This was the first state, and it was exceedingly painful while it lasted. But } it. gradually changed into one more pleasant, yet not entirely free from the unwelcome intrusion of the past. The oftener Florence and Miss Weldon met, the more strongly were their hearts drawn toward each other ; and, at length, the former was encouraged to make an offer of his hand. In coming to this resolution, it was not without passing through a painful conflict. As his mind dwelt upon the subject, there was a reproduction of old states. Most vividly did he recall the time when he breathed into the ears of Edith vows to which he had proved faithless. He had, it is true, returned to his first allegiance. lie had laid his heart again at her feet ; but, to how little purpose 1 While in this state of agitation, the young man resolved, more than once, to abandon his suit for the hand of Miss Weldon, and shrink back again into the seclusion from which he had come forth. But, his affection for the lovely girl was too genuine to admit of THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 37 this. When he thought of giving her up, his mind was still more deeply disturbed. " Oh, that I could forget !" he exclaimed, while thia "uggle was in progress. " Of what avail is thia Darning over of the leaves of a long passed history ? I erred sadly erred ! But repentance is now too late. Why, then, should my whole existence be cursed for a single error ? -Ah, me ! Art thou not satisfied, de- parted one ? Is it, indeed, from the presence of thy spirit that I am troubled ? My heart sinks at the thought. But, no, no ! Thou wert too good to visit pain upon any ; much less upon one who, though false to thee, thou didst so tenderly love." But, upon this state there came a natural re-action. A peaceful calm succeeded the storm. Memory de- posited her records in the mind's dimly lighted chambers. To the present was restored its better influences. " I am free again," was the almost audible utterance f the young man, so strong was his sense of relief. An offer of marriage was then made to Miss Weldon. Her heart trembled with joy when she received it But, confiding implicitly in her uncie, who had been for the space of ten years her friend and guardian, she could not give an affirmative reply untU 38 HEART HISTOBIES AND LIFE PICTURES. his approval was gained. She, therefore, asked time for reflection and consultation with her friend. Far different from what Florence had expected, wa* the reception of his offer. To him, Miss Weldon eeemed instantly to grow cold and reserved. Vividly was now recalled his rejection by Miss Linmore, as well as the ground of her rejection. " Is this to be gone over again ?" he sighed to himself, when alone once more. " Is that one false step never to be forgotten nor forgiven ? Am I to be followed, through life, by this shadow of evil ?" To no other cause than this could the mind of Florence attribute the apparent change and hesitation in Clara Weldon. Immediately on receiving an offer of marriage, Miss Weldon returned to Albany. Before leaving, she dropped Florence a note, to the effect, that he should hear from her in a few days. A week passed, but the promised word came not. It was now plain that the friends of the young lady had been making inquiries about him, and were in possession of certain facts in his life, which, if known, would almost certainly blast his hopes of favor in her eyes. While in this state of uncertainty, he met the aunt of Edith, and the way she looked at him, satisfied his mind that his conjectures THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 39 were true. A little while after a friend remarked to him casually " I saw Colonel Richards in town to-day." " Colonel Richards ! Miss Weldon's uncle I" ** Yes. Have you seen himj" " No. I have not the pleasure of an acquaintance." " Indeed ! I thought you knew him. I heard him mention your name this morning." " My name !" " Yes." " What had he to say of me ?" " Let me think. Oh ! He asked me if I knew you." " Well 2" " I said that I did, of course ; and that you were a pretty clever fellow ; though you had been a sad boy in your time." The face of Florence instantly reddened. " Why, what's the matter ? Oh, I understand now 1 That little niece of his is one of your flames. But ccme ! Don't take it so to heart. Your chances ar one in ten, I have no dc abt By the way, I haven't seen Clara for a week. What has become of her! Gone back to Albany, I suppose. I hope you haven\ frightened her with an offer. By the way, let me whUper a word of comfort in vour ear. I heard her 40 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. say that she didn't believe in any thing but first love ; and, as you are known to have had half a dozen sweethearts, more or less, and to have broken the hearts of two or three young ladies, the probability is, Jbat you won't be able. to add her to the number of your lady loves." All this was mere jesting ; but the words, though uttered in jest, fell upon the ears of Edwin Florence with all the force of truth. " Guilty, on your own acknowledgment," said the friend, seeing the effect of his words. " Better always to act fairly in these matters of the heart, Florence. If we sow the wind, we will be pretty sure to reap the whirlwind. But come ; let me take you down to the Tremont, and introduce you to Colonel Richards. I know he will be glad to make your acquaintance, and will, most probably, give you an invitation to go home with him and spend a week. You can then make all fair with his pretty niece." " I have no wish to make his acquaintance just at this time," returned Florence ; " nor do I suppose he cares about making mine, particularly after the higk opinion you gave him^of my character." " Nonsense, Edwin ! You don't suppose I said thai to him. Can't you take a joke ?" " Oh, yes ; I can take a joke." THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 41 u Take that as one, then. Colonel Richards did ask for you, however ; and said that he would like to meet you. He was serious. So come along, and let me introduce you." " No ; I would prefer not meeting with him at this tune." " You are a strange individual." The young, men parted ; Florence to feel more disquieted than ever. Colonel Richards had been inquiring about him, and, in prosecuting his inquiries, would, most likely, find some one inclined to relate the story of Edith Walter. What was more natural ? That story once in the ears of Clara, and he felt that she must turn from him with a feeling of repulsion. Three or four days longer he was in suspense. He heard of Col. Richards from several quarters, and, in each case when he was mentioned, he was alluded to as making inquiries about him. "I hear that the beautiful Miss Weldon is to be married," was said to Florence at a time wher he was almost mad with the excitement of suspense. " Ah !" he replied, with forced calmness, " I hope she will be successful in securing a good husband." "So do I ; for she is indeed a sweet girl. I was more than half inclined to fall in love with her myself ; 42 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. and would have done so, if I had believed there wan any chance for me." " Who is the favored one ?" asked Florenee. "I have not been able to find out. She received three or four offers, and went back to Albany to consider them and make her election. This she has done, I hear ; and already, the happy recipient of her favor is rejoicing over his good fortune. May they live a thousand years to be happy with each other P* Here was another drop of bitterness in the cup that was at the lips of Edwin Florence. He went to his office immediately, and, sitting down, wrote thus to Clara : " I do not wrongly interpret, I presume, a silence continued far beyond the time agreed upon when we parted. You have rejected my suit. Well, be it so ; and may you be happy with him who has found favor in your eyes. I do not think he can love you more sincerely than I do, or be more devoted to your happiness than I should have been. It would have relieved the pain I cannot but feel, if you had deemed my offer worthy a frank refusal. But, to feel that one I have so truly loved does not think me even deserving of this attention, is humiliating in the extreme. But, I will not upbraid you. Farewell ! May you be happy." THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 49 Sealing up this epistle, the young man, scarcely pausing even for hurried reflection, threw it into the post office. This done, he sunk into a gloomy state of mind, in which mortification and disappointment struggled alternately for the predominance. Only a few hours elapsed after the adoption of this hasty course, before doubts of its propriety began to steal across hjs mind. It was possible, it occurred to him, that he might have acted too precipitately. There might be reasons for the silence of- Miss Weldon entirely separate from those he had been too ready to assume ; and, if so, how strange would his letter appear. It was too late now to recall the act, for already the mail that bore his letter was half way from New York to Albany. A restless night succeeded to this day. Early on the next morning he received a letter. It was in these words " MY DEAR MR. FLORENCE : I have been very ill, and to-day am able to sit up just long enough to write a line or two. My uncle was in New York some days ago, but did not meet with you. Will you not come up and see me? " Ever Yours, CLARA WELDON." Florence was on board the next boat that left New York for Albany. The letter of Clara was, of course, 44 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. written before the receipt of his hasty epistle. What troubled him now was the effect of this epistle on her mind. He had not only wrongly interpreted her silence, but had assumed the acceptance of another lover as confidently as if he knew to a certainty that such was the case. This was a serious matter, and might result in the very thing he had been so ready to assume- 4 the rejection of his suit Arriving, at length, in Albany, Mr. Florence sought out the residence of Miss Weldon. " Is Colonel Richards at home ?" he inquired. On being answered in the affirmative, he sent up his name with a request to see him. The colonel made his appearance in a short time. He was a tall, thoughtful looking man, and bowed with a dignified air as he came into the room. " How is Miss Weldon ?" asked Florence, with an eagerness he could not restrain. "Not so well this morning," replied the guardian. " She had a bad night" " No wonder," thought the young man, " after receiving that letter." " She has been sleeping, however, since daylight," added Colonel Richards, and that is much in her favor." " She received my letter, I presume," said Florence, in a hesitating voice THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 45 " A letter came for her yesterday," was replied ; u but as she was more indisposed than usual, we did not give it to her." ".It is as well," said the young man, experiencing a sense of relief. An hour afterwards he was permitted to enter the chamber, where she lay supported by pillows. One glance at h.er face dispelled from his mind ever) lingering doubt. He had suffered from imaginary fears, awakened by the whispers of a troubled conscience. CHAPTER IV. IN a few days Clara was well enough to leave her room, and was soon entirely recovered from her sudden illness. That little matter of the heart had been settled within three minutes of their meeting, and they were now as happy as lovers usually are under such favorable circumstances. When Edwin Florence went back to New York, ii was with a sense of interior pleasure more perfect than he had experienced for years ; and this would have remained, could he have shut out the past ; or, so much of it as came like an unwelcome intruder. But, alas I this was not to be. Even while he was bending, in spirit, over the beautiful image of his last beloved, there would come between his eyes and that image a pale sad face, in which reproof was stronger than affection. It was all in vain that he sought to turn from that face. For a time it would remain present, and then fade slowly away, leaving his heart oppressed. THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 47 " Is it to be ever thus !" he would exclaim, in these seasons of darkness. " Will nothing satisfy this accu- sing spirit ? Edith ! Dear Edith ! Art thou not mong the blessed ones ? Is not thy heart happy oeyond mortal conception ? Then why come to me thus with those teaiful eyes, that shadowy face, those looks of reproof ? Have I not suffered enough for purification ! ~Ara I never to be forgiven ?" And then, with an effort, he would turn his eyes from the page laid open by Memory, and seek to forget what was written there. But it seemed as if every thing conspired to freshen his remembrance of the past, the nearer the time approached, when by a marriage union with one truly beloved, he was to weaken the bonds it had thrown around him. The marriage of Miss Linmore took place a few weeks after his engage- ment with Clara, and as an intimate friend led her to the altar, he could not decline making one of the n imber that graced the nuptial festivities. In meeting the young bride, he endeavored to push from his mind 11 thoughts of their former relations. But she had not done this, and her thought determined his. Her mind recurred to the former time, the moment he camo into her presence, and, of necessity his went back also. They met, therefore, with a certain reserve, that was to 48 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. him most unpleasant, particularly as it stirred a hundred sleeping memories. By a strong effort, Florence was able to conceal from other eyes much of what he felt. In doing this, a certain over action was the consequence ; and he was gayer than usual. Several times he endeavored to be lightly familiar with the bride ; but, in every instance that he approached her, he perceived a kind of instinctive shrinking ; and, if she was in a laughing mood, when he drew near she became serious and reserved. All this was too plain to be mistaken ; and like the repeated strokes of a hammer upon glowing iron, gradually bent his feelings from the buoyant form they had been endeavoring to assume. The effect was not wholly to be resisted. . More than an hour before the happy assemblage broke up, Florence was not to be found in the brilliantly lighted rooms. Unable longer to conceal what he felt, he had retired. For many days after this, the young man felt sober. " Why haven't you called to see me ?" asked th friend who had married Miss Linmore, a week or tw after the celebration of the nuptials. Florence excused himself as best he could, and promised to call in a few days. Two weeks went by without the fulfillment of his promise. " No doubt, we shall see you next week," said the THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 49 friend, meeting him one day about this time ; " though 1 am not so sure we will receive your visits then." "Why not T u A certain young lady with whom, I believe, you have some acquaintance, is to spend a short time with us." " Who ?" asked Florence, quickly. " A young" lady from Albany." " Miss Weldon ?" " The same." " I was not aware that she was on terms of intimacy with your wife." " She's an old friend of mine ; and, in that sense a friend of Kate's." " Then they have not met" " Oh, yes ; frequently. And are warmly attached. We look for a pleasant visit. But, of course, we shall not expect to see you. That is understood." " I rather think you will ; that is, if your wife will admit me on friendly terms." " Why do you say that ?" inquired the friend, appearing a little surprised. " I thought, on the night of your wedding, that sho felt my presence as unwelcome to her." " And is this the reason why you have not called to see us" 3 50 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " I fiankly own that it is!" u Edwin ! I am surprised at you. It is all a piece of imagination. What could have put such a thing into vour head ?" " It may have been all imagination. But I couldn't help feeling as I did. However, you may expect to see me, and that, too, before Miss Weldon's arrival." " If you don't present yourself before, I am not so sure that we will let you come afterwards," said the friend, smiling. On the next evening the young man called. Mrs. Hartley, the bride of his friend, endeavored to forget the past, and to receive him with all the external signs of forgetfulness. But, in this she did not fully succeed, and, of course, the visit of Florence was painfully embarrassing, at least, to himself. From that time until the arrival of Miss Weldon, he felt concerned and unhappy. That Mrs. Hartley would fully communicate or covertly hint to Clara certain events of his former life, he had too much reason to fear ; and, were this done, he felt that all his fond hopes would be scattered to the winds. In due time, Miss Weldon arrived. In meeting her, Florence was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment, never before experienced in her pre- sence. He understood clearly why this was so. At each successive visit, his embarrassment increased ; and, THE BOOK OF MEMORT. 51 the more so, from the fact that he perceived a change in Clara ere she had been in the city a week. As to the cause of this change, he had no doubts. It was evident that Mrs. Hartley had communicated certain matters touching his previous history. Thus it went on, day after day, for two or three weeks, by which time the lovers met under the influence of a most chiHyig constraint Both were exceedingly unhappy. One day, in calling as usual, Mr. Florence was aurprised to learn that Clara had gone back to Albany. " She said nothing of this last night," remarked the young man to Mrs. Hartley. " Her resolution was taken after you went away," was replied. " And you, no doubt, advised the step," said Mr. Florence, with ill-concealed bitterness " Why do you say that ?" was quickly asked. " How can I draw any other inference ?" said the young man, looking at her with knit brows. " Explain yourself, Mr. Florence T ** Do my words need explanation ?" " Undoubtedly ! For, I cannot understand them." u There are events in my past life I will not say how bitterly repented of which only you could have informed her.*" f>2 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " What events ?" calmly asked the lady. " Why lacerate my feelings by such a question ?" said Florence, while a shadow of pain flitted over his face, as Memory presented a record of the past. " I ask it with no such intention. I only wish to understand you," replied Mrs. Hartley. " You have brought against me a vague accusation. I wish it distinct, that I may affirm or deny it" "Edith Walter," said Edwin Florence, in a low, unsteady voice, after he had been silent for nearly a minute. Mre. Hartley looked earnestly into his face. Every muscle was quivering. " What of her ?" she inquired, in tones quite as low as those in which the young man had spoken. " You know the history." " vVell ?" "And, regardless of my suffering and repentance, made known to Clara the blasting secret." " No ! By my hopes of heaven, no !" quickly exclaimed Mrs. Hartley. "No?" A quiver ran through the young man's frame. " No, Mr. Florence ! That rested as silently in my own bosom as in yours." , " Who, then, informed her ?" THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 53 No one." u Has she not heard of it ?" "No." " Why, then, did she change towards me ?" " You changed, first, towards her." "Me!" u Yes. From the day of her arrival in New York, she perceived i_you a certain coldness and reserve, that increased with each repeated interview." " Oh, no !" " It is true. I saw it myself." Florence clasped his hands together, and bent hia eyes in doubt and wonder upon the floor. " Did she complain of coldness and change in me ?" he inquired. " Yes, often. And returned," last night, to leave you free, doubting not that you had ceased to love her." " Ceased to love her ! While this sad work has been going on, I have loved her with the agony of one who is about losing earth's most precious thing. Oh I vn-ite to her for me, and explain all. How strange has been my infatuation. Will you write for me ?" " Yes." "Say that my heart has not turned from her ac instant. That her imagined coldness has made me of all men most wretched." 54 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " I will do so. But why not write yourself ?" " It will be better to come from you. Ask her to return. I would rather meet her here than in her uncle's house. Urge her to come back." Mrs. Hartley promised to do so, according to th wish of Mr. Florence. Two days passed, and there was no answer. On the morning of the third day, the young man, in a state of agitation from suspense called at the house of his friend. After sending up his name, he sat anxiously awaiting the appearance of Mrs. Hartley. The door at length opened, and, to his surprise and joy, Clara entered. She came forward with a smile upon her face, extending her hand as she did so. Edwin sprang to meet her, and catching her hand, pressed it eagerly to his lips " Strange that we should have so erred in regard to each other," said Clara, as they sat communing tenderly. " I trust no such error will come in the future to which I look forward with so many pleasing hopes." " Heaven forbid !" replied the young man, seriously " But we are in a world of error. Ah ! if we coulc only pass through life without a mistake. If the heavy weight of repentance did not lie so often and so long upon our hearts this would be a far pleasanter world than it is." " Do not look so serious," remarked Clara, as shf THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 55 bent forward and gazed affectionately into the young man's face. " To err is human. No one here is perfect. How often, for hours, have I mourned over errors ; yet grief was of no avail, except to make my future more guarded." tt And thaj; was much gained," said Florence, breathing deeply with a sense of relief. " If we cannot recall and correct the past, we can at least be more guarded in the future. This is the effect of my own experience. Ah ! if we properly considered the action of our present upon the future, how guarded would we be. All actions are in the present, and the moment they are done the present becomes the past, over which Memory presides. What is past is fixed. Nothing can change it The record is in marble, to be seen in afl future time." The serious character of the interview soon changed, and the young lovers forgot every thing in the joy of their reconciliation. Nothing arose to mar their inter- course until the appointed time for the nuptial ceremo- nies arrived, when they were united in holy wedlock. But, Edwin Florence did not pass on to this time without another visit from the rebuking Angel of the Past. He was not permitted to take the hand of Clara in his, and utter4he words that bound him to her forever, without a visit 'from the one whose heart 56 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. he had broken years before. She came to him in the dark and silent midnight, as he tossed sleeplessly upon his bed, and stood and looked at him with her pale face and despairing eyes, until he was driven almost to madness. She was with him when the light of morning dawned ; she moved by his side as he went forth to meet and claim his betrothed ; and was near him, invisible to all eyes but his own, when he stood at the altar ready to give utterance to the solemn words that bound him to his bride. And not until these words were said, did the vision fade away. No wonder the face' of the bridegroom wore a solemn aspect as he presented himself to the minister, and breathed the vows of eternal fidelity to the living, while before him, as distinct as if in bodily form, was the presence of one long since sleeping in her grave, who had gone down to her shadowy resting place through his infidelity. From this time there was a thicker veil drawn over the past. The memory of that one event grew less and less distinct ; though it was not obliterated, for nothing that is written in the Book of Life is ever blotted out. There were reasons, even in long years after his marriage, when the record stood suddenly before him, as if written in >ords of light ; and he would turn from it with a feeling of pain. THE BOOK OF MEMORY. 51 Thus it is that our present blesses or curses our future. Every act of our lives affects the coming time for good or evil. We make our own destiny, and make it always in the present The past is gone, th* future is yet to come. The present only is ours, and, according to what we do in the present, will be the records of the past and its influence on the future. They are only wise who wisely regard their actions in the present THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMONPLACE DAY after day I worked at my life-task, and worked in an earnest spirit. Not much did I seem tc accomplish ; yet the little that was done had on it the impress of good. Still, I was dissatisfied, because my gifts were less dazzling than those of which many around me could boast. When I thought of the brilliant ones sparkling in the firmament of literature, and filling the eyes of admiring thousands, something like the evil spirit of envy came into my heart and threw a shadow upon my feelings. I was troubled because I had not their gifts. I wished to shine with a stronger light. To dazzle, as well as to warm and vivify. Not long ago, there came among us one whom nature had richly endowed. His mind possessed exceeding brilliancy. Flashes of thought, like light- ning from a summer cloud, were ever filling the air THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMONPLACE. 59 around him. There was a stateliness in the movement of his intellect, . and an evidence of power, that oppressed you at times with wonder. Around him gathered the lesser lights in thf hemisphere of thought, and veiled their feeble rayt beneath his excessive brightness. He seemed conscious of his superior gifts, and displayed them more like a giant beating the air to excite wonder, than putting forth his strength to accomplish a good and noble work. Still, I was oppressed and paralyzed by the sphere of his presence. I felt puny and weak beside him, and unhappy because I was not gifted with equal power. It so happened that a work of mine, upon which the maker's name was not stamped work done with a purpose of good was spoken of and praised by one who did not know me as the handicraftsman. " It is tame, dull, and commonplace," said the brilliant one, in a tone of contempt ; and there were many present to agree with him. Like the strokes of a hammer upon my heart, came these words of condemnation. " Tame, dull, and commonplace !" And was it, indeed, so ? Yes ; I felt that what he uttered was true. That my powers were feceedingly limited, and my gifts few. Oh, what I not have then given for brilliant endowments 60 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE IICTURE8. like those possessed by him from whom had fallen the words of condemnation ? " You will admit," said one I thought it strange at the time that there should be even one to speak a word In favor of my poor performance " that it will do good " " Good !" was answered, in a tone slightly touched by contempt. " >h, yes ; it will do good !" and the brilliant one tossed his head. " Anybody can do good !" I went home with a perturbed spirit. I had work to do ; but I could not do it. I sat down and tried to forget what I had heard. I tried to think about the tasks that were before me. " Tame, dull, and common- place !'' Into no other form would my thoughts come. Exhausted, at last, by this inward struggle, I threw myself upon my bed, and soon passed into the land of dreams. Dream-land ! Thou art thought by many to be only a land of fantasy and of shadows. But it is not so. Dreams, for the most part, are fantastic ; but all are not so. Nearer are we to the world of spirits, in sleep ; and, at times, angels come to us with lessons of wisdom, darkly veiled under similitude, or written in characters of light. I passed into dream-land ; but my thoughts went ou THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMONPLACE. 61 in the same current. " Tame, dull, and commonplace I* I felt the condemnation more strongly than before. I was out in the open air, and around me wert mountains, trees, green fields, and running waters ; and above all bent the sky in^ its azure beauty. The sun was just unveiling his face in the east, and his rays were lighting up the dew-gems on a thousand blades of grass, and making the leaves glitter as if studded with diamonds. " How calm and beautiful !" said a voice near me. I turned, and one wliose days were in the " sear and yellow leaf," stood by my side, "But all is tame and commonplace," I answered. " We have this over and over again, day after day, month after month, and jear after year. Give me something brilliant and startling, if it be in the fiery comet or the rushing storm. I am sick of the commonplace !" . " And yet to the commonplace the world is indebted for every great work and great blessing. For every thing good, and true, and beautiful !" I looked earnestly into the face of the old .man. He went on. " The truly good and great is the useful ; for in that is the Divine image. Softly and unobtrusively has the dew fallen, as it falls night after right. Silently it 62 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. distilled, while the vagrant meteors threw their lines of dazzling light across the sky, and men looked up at them in wonder and .admiration. And now the soft rass, the green leaves, and the sweet flowers, that .rooped beneath the fervent heat of yesterday, are fresh again and full of beauty, ready to receive the light and warmth of the risen sun, and expand with a new vigor. All this may be tame and commonplace ; but is it not a great and a good work that has been going on ? " The tiller of the soil is going forth again to his work. Do not turn your eyes from him, and let a feeling of impatience stir in your heart because he is not a soldier rushing to battle, or a brilliant orator holding thousands enchained by the power of a fervid eloquence that is born not so much of good desires for his fellow-men as from the heat of his own self-love. Day after day, as now, patient and hopeful, the husbandman enters upon the work that lies before him, and, hand in hand with God's blessed sunshine, dews, and rain, a loving and earnest co-laborer, brings forth from earth's treasure-house of blessings good gifts for his fellow- men. Is all this commonplace ? How great and good is the commonplace !" I turned to answer the old man, but he was gone. I was standing on a high mountain, and beneath me, as far as the eye could reach, were stretched broad and THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMONPLACE. 68 richly cultivated fields; and from a hundred farm- houses went up the curling smoke from the fires ot industry. Fields were waving with golden grain, and trees bending with their treasures of fruit. Suddenly, the bright sun was veiled in clouds, that came whirling up from the horizon in dark and broken masses, and throwing a deep shadow over the landscape just before bathed in light "Calmly had I surveyed the peaceful scene spread out before me. I was charmed with its quiet beauty. But now, stronger emotions stirred within me. " Oh, this is sublime !" I murmured, as I gazed upon the cloudy hosts moving across the heavens in battle array. A gleam of lightning sprang forth fro?n a dark cavern in the sky, and then, far off, rattled and jarred the echoing thunder. Next came the rushing and roaring wind, bending the giant-limbed oaks as if they were but wands of willow, and tearing up lesser trees as a child tears up from its roots a weed or flower. In this war of elements I stood, with my head oared, and clinging to a rock, mad with a strange and wild delight " Brilliant ! Sublime ! Grand beyond the power of description !" I said, as the storm deepened in intensity. 04 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " An hour like this is Worth all the commonplace, dull events of a lifetime !" There came a stunning crash in the midst of c dazzling glare. For some moments I was blinded. When sight was restored, I sawj below me, the flames curling upward from a dwelling upon which the fierce lightning had fallen. " What majesty ! what awful sublimity !" said I, aloud. I thought not of the pain, and terror, and death that reigned in the human habitation upon which the bolt of destruction had fallen, but of the sublime power displayed in the strife of the elements. There was another change. I no longer stood on the mountain, with the lightning and tempest around me; but was in the valley below, down upon which the storm had swept with devastating fury. Fields of grain were level with the earth ; houses destroyed ; and the trophies of industry marred in a hundred ways. " How sublime are the works of the tempest !" said a voice near me. I turned, and the old man was again at my side. But I did not respond to his words. " What majesty ! What awful sublimity and power !" continued the old man. " But," he added, in a changed voice, " there is a higher power in the gentle rain than lies in the rushing tempest. The power to THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMONPLACE. 65 destroy is an evil power, and has bounds beyond which' it cannot go. But the gentle rain that falla noiselessly to the earth, is the power of restoration and recreation. See !" I looked, and a man lay upon the ground apparently lifeless. He had been struck down by the lighting. His pale face was upturned to the sky, and the rain shaken free frofo. the cloudy skirts of the retiring storm, was falling upon it I continued to gaze upon the face of the prostrate man, until there came into it a flush of life. Then his limbs quivered ; he threw his arms about. A groan issued from his constricted chest. In a little while, he arose. " Which is best ? Which is most to be loved and admired ?" said the old man. " The wild, fierce, brilliant tempest, or the quiet rain that restores the image of life and beauty which the tempest has destroyed ? See ! The gentle breezes are beginning to move over the fields, and, hand in hand with the uplifting sunlight, to raise the grain that has beeu trodden beneath the crushing heel of the tempest, whose false sublimity you so much admired. There is nothing startling and brilliant in this work ; but it is a good and a great work, and it will go on silently and efficiently until not a trace of the desolating storm can oe found. In the still atmosphere, unseen, but all- 66 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. potent, lies a power ever busy in the work of creating and restoring ; or, in other words, in the commonplace wark of doing good. Which office would you like best o assume which is the most noble the office of the destroyer or the restorer J" I mted my eyes again, and saw men busily engaged in blotting out the traces of the storm, and in restoring all to its former use and beauty. Builders were at work upon the house which had been struck by lightning, and men engaged in repairing fences, barns, and other objects upon which had been spent the fury of the excited elements. Soon every vestige of the destroyer was gone. "Commonplace work, that of nailing on boards and shiugles," said the old man ; " of repairing broken fences ; of filling up the deep foot-prints of the passing storm ; but is it not a noble work ? Yes ; for it is ennobled by its end. Far nobler than the work of the brilliant tempest, which moved but to destroy." The scene changed once more. I was back again from the land of dream 3 , and similitudes. It was midnight, and the moon was shining in a cloudless sky. T arose, and going to the window, sat and looked forth, musing "upon my dream. All was hushed as if I were out in the fields, instead of in the heart of a populous city. Soon came the sound of footsteps, heavy and THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMONPLACE. for appointment. Many reasons were conjectured by the young man, who, at last, resolved on pushing through his application, if personal efforts could be of any avail. To this end, he repaired to the seat of government, and waited on the Secretary. In his interviews with this functionary, some expressions were dropped that caused a suspicion of the truth to pass through his mind. A series of rapidly recurring questions addressed .to the Secretary were answered in a way that fully confirmed this suspicion. The effect of this upon the excitable and impulsive young man will appear as our story progresses. It was while Mark's application was pending, and a hort time before his visit to Washington, that he came up to Fairview, the residence of his grandfather. Mark had always been a favorite with the old gentle- man, who rather encouraged his desire to enter the navy. "The boy will distinguish himself," Mr. Lofton 80 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. would say, as he thought over the matter. And the idea of distinction in the army or navy, was grateful to his aristocratic feelings. " There is some of the right blood in his veins for all." One afternoon, some two or three days after the young man came up to Fairview, he was returning from a ramble in the woods with his gun, when he met a beautiful young girl, simply attired, and bearing on her head a light bundle of grain which she had gleaned in a neighboring field. She was tripping lightly along, singing as gaily as a bird, when she came suddenly upon the young man, over whose face there passed an instant glow of admiration. Mark bowed and smiled, the maiden dropped a bashful courtesy, and then each passed on.; but neither to forget the other. When Mark turned, after a few steps, to gaze after the sweet wild flower he had met so unexpectedly, he saw the face again, for she had turned also. He did not go home on that evening, until he had seen the lovely being who glanced before him in her native beaut enter a neat little cottage that stood half a mile from Fairview, nearly hidden by vines, and overshadowed by two tall sycamores. On the next morning Mark took his way toward the cottage with his gun. As he drew near, the sweet voice he had heard on the day before was warbling JKNNT LAWSON. 8l tenderly an old song his mother had sung when he was but a child ; and with the air and words so well, remembered, came a gentleness of feeling, and a love of what was pure and innocent, such as he had not ex- psrienced for many years. In this state of mind he entered the little porch, and stood listening for several minutes to the voice that still flung itself plaintively or joyfully upon the air, according to the sentiment breathed in the words that were clothed in music ; then as the voice became silent, he rapped gently at the door, which, in a few moments, was opened by the one whose attractions had drawn him thither. A warm color mantled the young girl's face as her eyes fell upon so unexpected a visitor. She remem- bered him as the young man she had met on the eve- ning before ; about whom she had dreamed all night, and thought much since the early morning. Mark bowed, and, as an excuse for calling, asked if her mother were at home. " My mother died when I was but a child," replied the girl, shrinking back a step or two ; for Mark was gazing earnestly into her face. " Ah ! Then you are living with your your n u Mrs. Lee has been a mother to me since then," aid she, dropping her eyes to the floor. M Then I will see the good woman who has tskeo 4* 82 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. your mother's place." Mark stepped in as he spoke, and took a chair in the neat little sitting room into which the door opened. " She has gone over to Mr. Lofton's," said the girl, in eply, " and won't be back for an hour." u Has she, indeed ? Then you know Mr. Lofton ?" " Oh, yes. We know him very well. He owns our little cottage." " Does he ! No doubt you find him a good land- land." " He's a kind man," said the girl, earnestly. " He is, as I have good reason to know," remarked the young man. " Mr. Lofton is my grandfather." The girl seemed much surprised at this avowal, and appeared less at ease than before. " And now, having told you who I am," said Mark, " I think I may be bold enough to ask your name." " My name is Jenny Lawson," replied the girl. " A pretty name, that Jenny I always liked the sound of it. My mother's name was Jenny. Did you ever see my mother ? But don't tremble so ! Sit down, and tell your fluttering heart to be still." Jenny sunk into a chair, her bosom heaving, and the crimson flush still glowing on her cheeks, while Mark gazed into her face with undisguised admiration. " Who would have thought," said he to himself, JENNY LAWS01C. 83 " that so sweet a wild flower grew in this out of the way place." " Did you ever see my mother, Jenny ?" asked the young man, after she was a little composed. " Mrs. Clifford ?" " Yes." Often." " Then we wilj be friends from this moment, Jenny. If you knew my mother then, you must have loved her. She has been dead now over three years." There was a shade of sadness in the young manV voice as he said this. " When did you see her last ?" he resumed. " The summer before she died she came up from New York and spent two or three weeks here. I saw her then, almost every day." " And you loved my mother ? Say you did !" The young man spoke with a rising emotion that he could not restrain. " Every body loved her," replied Jenny, simply and earnestly. For a few moments Mark concealed his face with his hands, to hide the signs of feeling that were playing over it ; then looking up again, he said m " Jenny, because you knew my mother and lovfd her, we must be friends It was a great loss to me 84 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. when she died. The greatest loss I ever had, or, it may be, ever will have. I have been worse since then. A.h me ! If she had only lived !" Again Mark covered his face with his hands, and, this time, he could not keep the dimness from his eyes. It was a strange sight to Jenny to see the young man thus moved. Her innocent heart was drawn toward him with a pitying interest, and she yearned to speak words of comfort, but knew not what to say. After Mark grew composed again, he asked Jenny a great many questions touching her knowledge of his mother ; and listened with deep interest and emotion to many little incidents of Jenny's intercourse with her, which were related with all the artlessness and force of truth. In the midst of this singular interview, Mrs. Lee came in and surprised the young couple, who, forgetting all reserve, were conversing with an interest in their manner, the ground of which she might well misunderstand. Jenny started and looked confused, but, quickly recovering herself, introduced Mark as th grandson of Mr. Lofton. The old lady did not respond to this with the cordiality that either of the young folks had expected. No, not by any means. A flush of angry suspicion came into her face, and she said to Jenny as she Lauded her the bonnet she hurriedly removed JENNY LiWBON. 86 "Here take this into the other room and put it away." The moment Jenny retired, Mrs. Lee turned to Mark, and after looking at him somewhat sternly for a moment, surprised him with this speech " If I ever find you here again, young man, I'll complain to your grandfather." " Will you, indeed !" returned Mark, elevating his person, and looking at the old lady with flashing eyes. M And pray, what will you say to the old gentleman P* " Fine doings, indeed, for the likes o' you to come creeping into a decent woman's house when she is away !" resumed Mrs. Lee. " Jenny's not the kind you're looking after, let me tell you. What would your poor dear mother, who is in heaven, God bless her ! think, if she knew of this ?" The respectful and even affectionate reference to his mother, softened the feelings of Mark, who was growing very angry. " Good morning, old lady," said he, as he turned way ; " you don't know what you're talking about !" and springing from the door, he hurried off with rapid steps. On reaching a wood that lay at some distance off, Mark sought a retired spot, near where a quiet stream went stealing noiselessly along amid its alder and willow-fringed banks, and sitting down upon a 86 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. grassy spot, gave himself up to meditation. Little inclined was he now for sport. The birds sung in the trees above him, fluttered from branch to branch, and even dipped their wings in the calm waters of th stream, but he heeded them not. He had othe thoughts. Greatly had old Mrs. Lee, in the blindness of her suddenly aroused fears, wronged the young man. If the sphere of innocence that was around the beautiful girl had not been all powerful to subdue evil thoughts and passions in his breast, the reference to his mother would have been effectual to that end. For half an hour had Mark remained seated alone, busy with thoughts and feelings of a less wandering and adventurous character than usually occupied his mind, when, to his surprise, he saw Jenny Lawson advancing along a path that led through a portion of the woods, with a basket on her arm. She did not observe him until she had approached within some fifteen or twenty paces ; when he arose to his feet, and she, seeing him, stopped suddenly, and looked pale an alarmed. " I am glad to meet you again, Jenny," said Mark, going quickly toward her, and taking her hand, which she yielded without resistance. " Don't be frightened. Mrs. Lee did me wrong. Heaven knows I would not hurt a hair of your head ! Come and sit down with JENNY LAWSON. 8' me in this quiet place, and let us talk about my mother. You say you knew her and loved her. Let her memory make us friends." Mark's voice trembled with feeling. There was something about the girl that made* the thought of his aiother a holier and tenderer thing. He had loved his mother intensely, and since her death, had felt her loss as the saddest calamity that had, or possibly ever could, befall him. Afloat on the stormy sea of human life, he had seemed like a mariner without helm or compass. Strangely enough, since meeting with Jenny at the cottage a little while before, the thought of her appeared to bring his mother nearer to him ; and when, so unexpectedly, he saw her approach- ing him in the woods, he felt momentarily, that it was his mother's spirit guiding her thither. Urged by so strong an appeal, Jenny suffered herself to be led to the retired spot where Mark had been reclining, half wondering, half fearful yet impelled by a certain feeling that she could not well resist In fact, each exercised a power over the other, a power not arising from any determination of will, but from a certain spiritual affinity that neither comprehended. Some have called this " destiny," but it has a better name. "Jenny," said Mark, after they were seated he 88 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. still retained her hand in his, and felt it tremble " tell me something about my mother. It will do me good to hear of her from your lips." The girl tried to make some answer, but found no utterance. Her lips trembled so that she could not speak. But she grew more composed after a time, and then in reply to many questions of Mark, related incident after incident, in which his mother's goodness of character stood prominent. The young man list- ened intently, sometimes with his eyes upon the ground, and sometimes gazing admiringly into the sweet face of the young speaker. Time passed more rapidly than either Mark or Jenny imagined. For full an hour had they been engaged in earnest conversation, when both were painfully surprised by the appearance of Mrs. Lee, who had sent Jenny on an errand, and expected her early return. A suspicion that she might encounter young Clifford having flashed through the old woman's mind, she had come forth to learn if possible the cause of Jenny's long absence. To her grief and anger, she discovered them sitting together engaged in earnest conversation. " Now, Mark Clifford !" she exclaimed as she advanced, " this is too bad ! And Jenny, you weak and foolish girl ! are you madly bent on seeking tha JENNY LAWSON. 89 fowler's snare ? Child ! child ! is it thus you repay me for my love and care over you !" Both Mark and Jenny started to their feet, the face of the former flushed with instant anger, and that of the other pale from alarm. " Come !" and Mrs. Lee caught hold of Jenny's arm and drew her away. As they moved off, the former, glancing back at Mark, and shaking her finger towards him, said " I'll see your grandfather, young man !" Fretted by this second disturbance of an interview with Jenny, and angry at an unjust imputation of motive, Mark dashed into the woods, with his gun in his hand, and walked rapidly, but aimlessly, for nearly an hour, when he found himself at the summit of a high mountain, from which, far down and away towards the east, he could see the silvery Hudson winding along like a vein of silver. Here, wearied with his walk, and faint in spirit from over excitement, he sat down to rest and to compose his thoughts. Scarcely intelligible to himself were his feelings. The meeting with Jenny, and the effect upon him, were things that he did no* clearly understand. Her influence over him was a mystery. In fact, what had passed so hurriedly, was to him more like a dream than a reality. No further idea of sport entered the mind of the 90 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. young man on that day. He remained until after the sun had passed the meridian in this retired place, and then went slowly back, passing the cottage of Mrs. Lee on his return. He did not see Jenny as he had hoped. On meeting Mr. Lofton, Mark became aware of a change in the old man's feelings towards him, and he guessed at once rightly as to the cause. If he had experienced any doubts, they would have been quickly removed. " Mark !" said the old gentleman, sternly, almost the moment the grandson came into his presence, " I wish you to go back to New York to-morrow. I presume I need hardly explain my reason for this wish, when I tell you that I have just had a visit from old Mrs The fiery spirit of Mark was stung into madness by this further reaction on him in a matter that involved nothing of criminal intent. Impulsive in his feelings, and quick to act from them, he replied with a calmness and even sadness in his voice that Mr. Lofton did not expect the calmness was from a strong effort : the sadness expressed his real feelings : " I will not trouble you with my presence an hour longer. If evil arise from this trampling of good impulse out of my heart, the sin rest on your own head. I never was and never can be patient under a JENNY LAWSON. 91 false judgment. Farewell, grandfather ! We may never meet again. If you hear of evil befalling me, think of it as having some connection with this hour." With these words Mark turned away and left the house. The old man, in grief and alarm at the effec of his words, called after him, but he heeded him not "Run after him, and tell him to come back," he cried to a servant who stood near and had listened to what had passed between them. The order was obeyed, but it was of no avail. Mark returned a bitter answer to the message he brought him, and continued on his way. As he was hurrying along, suddenly he encountered Jenny. It was strange that he should meet her so often. There was something in it moro than accident, and he felt that it was so. " God bless you, Jenny !" he exclaimed with much feeling, catching hold of her hand and kissing it. " We may never meet again. They thought I meant you harm, and have driven me away. But, Heaven knows how little of evil purpose was in my heart ! Farewell ! Sometimes, when you are kneeling to say your nightly prayers, think of me, and breathe my name in your petitions. I will need the prayers of the innocent. Farewell !" And under the impulse of the moment, Mark bent forward and pressed his lips fervently upon her pure 92 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. forehead ; then, springing away, left her bewildered and in tears. Mark hurried on towards the nearest landing place on the river, some three miles distant, which he reached just as a steamboat was passing. Waving his handkerchief, as a signal, the boat rounded to, and touching at the rude pier, took him on board. He arrived in New York that evening, and on the next morning started for Washington to see after his application for a midshipman's appointment in the navy. It was on this occasion that the young man became aware of the secret influence of his father against the application which had been made. Tlis mind, already feverishly excited, lost its balance under this new disturbing cause. " He will repent of this !" said he, bitterly, as he left the room of the Secretary of the Navy, " and repent it until the day of his death. Make a fixture of me in a counting room ! Shut me up in a lawyer's office ! Lock me down in a medicine chest ! Mark Clifford never will submit ! If I cannot enter the service in one way I will in another." Without pausing to weigh the consequences of his act, Mark, in a spirit of revenge towards his father, went, while the fever was on him, to the Navy Yard, and there entered the United States service as a common JENNY LAWSON. 93 sailor, under the name of Edward James. On the day following, the ship on board of which he had enlisted was gliding down the Potomac, and, in a week after, left Hampton Roads and went to sea. From Norfolk, Mr. Clifford received a brief note written by his son, upbraiding him for having defeated the application to the department, and avowing the fact that he had gone *o sea in the erovmnient service, as a common sailor. " CHAPTER II. IT was .impossible for such passionate interviews, brief though they were, to take place without leaving on the heart of a simple minded girl like Jenny Lawson, a deep impression. New impulses were given to her feelings, and a new direction to her thoughts. Nature told her that Mark Clifford loved her ; and nothing but his cold disavowal of the fact could possibly have affected this belief. He had met her, it was true, only three or four times ; but their interviews during these meetings had been of a character to leave no ordinary effect behind. So long as her eyes, dimmed by overflowing tears, could follow Mark's retiring form, she gazed eagerly after him ; and when he was rrt length hidden from her view, she sat down to pour out her heart in passionate weeping. Old Mi-s. Lee, while she tenderly loved the sweet flower that had grown up under her care, was not, in JENNY LAWSON. 95 all things, a wise and discreet woman ; nor deeply versed in the workings of the human heart Rumor of Mark's wildness had found its way to the neighborhood of Fairview, and made an unfavorable impression. Mrs. Lee firmly believed that he was moving with, swift feet in the way to destruction, and rolling evil under his tongue as a sweet morsel. When she heard of hjs arrival at his grandfather's, a fear came upon her lest he should cast his eyes upon Jenny. No wonder that she met the young man with such a quick repulse, when, to her alarm, she found that he had invaded her home, and was already charming the ear of the innocent child she so tenderly loved and cared for. To find them sitting alone in the woods, only a little while afterwards, almost maddened her ; and so soon as she took Jenny home, she hurried over to Mr. Lofton, and in a confused, exaggerated, and intemperate manner, complained of the conduct of Mark. " Together alone in the woods !" exclaimed the old gentleman, greatly excited. " What does the girl mean ?" " What does he mean, thus to entice away my innocent child ?" said Mrs. Lee, equally excited. " Oh, Mr. Lofton ! for goodness' sake, send him back to New York ! If he remain here a day longer, all may be 96 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. lost ! Jenny is bewitched with him. She cried as if her heart would break when I took her back home, and said that I had done wrong to Mark in what I had said to him." " Weak and foolish child ! How little does she know of the world how little of the subtle human heart ! Yes yes, Mrs. Lee, Mark shall go back at once. He shall not remain here a day longer, to breathe his blighting breath on so sweet a flower. Jenny is too good a girl to be exposed to such an influence." The mind of Mr. Lofton remained excited for hours after this interview ; and when Mark appeared, he met him as has already been seen. The manner in which the young man received the angry words of his grandfather, was a little different from what had been anticipated. Mr. Lofton expected some explanation by which he could understand more clearly what was in the young man's thoughts. When, therefore, Mark abruptly turned from him with such strange language on his tongue, Mr. Lofton's anger cooled, and he felt that he had suffered himself to be misled by a hasty judgment. That no evil had been in the young man's mind he was sure. It was this change that had prompted him to make an effort to recall him. But, the effort was fruitless. JENNY LAWSON. 97 On Jenny's return home, after her last interview with Mark, she found a servant there with a summons from Mr. Lofton. With much reluctance she repaired to the mansion house. On meeting with the old gentleman he received her in a kind but subdued manner ; but, as for Jenny herself, she stood in his presence weeping and trembling. " Jenny," said Mr. Lofton, after the girl had grown more composed, * " when did you first meet my grandson ?" Jenny mentioned the accidental meeting on the day before, and the call at the cottage in the morning. " And you saw him first only yesterday f n " Yes." " What did he say when he called this morning T " He asked for my mother." " Your mother ?" " Yes. I told him that my mother was dead, and that I lived with Mrs. Lee. He then wanted to see her ; but I said that she had gone over to your house.' " What did he say then 2" " He spoke of you, and said you were a good man, and that we no doubt found you a good landlord. I nad mentioned that you owned our cottage." Mr. Lofton appeared affected at this. " What then T he continued. 5 98 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " He told me who be was, and then asked me my name. When I told him that it was Jenny, he said it was a good name, and that he always liked the sound of it, for his mother's name was Jenny. Then he asked me if I had known his mother, and when I said yes, he wanted to know if I loved her. I said yes for you know we all loved her. Then he covered his face with his hands, and I saw the tears coming through his fingers. ' Because you knew my mother, and loved her, Jenny,' said he, ' we will be friends.' Afterwards he asked me a great many questions about her, and listened with the tears in his eyes, when I tolc him of many things she had said and done the las A . time she was up here. We were talking together about his mother, when Mrs. Lee came in. She spoke cross to him, and threatened to complain to you, if he came there any more. He went away angry. But I'm sure he meant nothing wrong, sir. How could he, and talk as he did about his mother in heaven ?" " But, how came you to meet him in the woods. Jenny ?" said Mr. Lofton. " Did he tell you that he would wait there for you ?" " Oh, no, sir. The meeting was accidental. I was sent over to Mrs. Jasper's on an errand, and, in passing through the woods, saw him sitting alone and looking very unhappy. I was frightened ; but he told me JESNY LAWSON. 99 that lie wouldn't hurt a hair of my head. Then ha made me sit down upon the grass beside him, and taTk to him about his mother. He asked me a great many questions, and I told him all that I could remember about her. Sometimes the tears would steal over his cheeks ; and sometimes he would say ' Ah ! if my mother had not died. Her death was a great loss to me, Jenny a great loss--and I have been worse for it'" " And was this all you talked about, Jenny," asked Mr. Lofton, who was much affected by the artless narrative of the girl. " It was all about his mother," replied Jenny. " He said that I not only bore her name, but that I looked like her, and that it seemed to him, while with me, that she was present." " He said that, did he !" Mr. Lofton spoke more earnestly, and looked intently upon Jenny's face. " Yes yes it is so. She does look like dear Jenny," he murmured to himself. "I never saw this before. Dear boy ! We have done him wrong. These hasty conclusions ah, me ! To how much evil do they lead?' " And you were talking thus, when Mrs. Lee found you?" * V tar " A co, air. 100 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " What did she say ?" " I can 'hardly tell what she said, I was so frightened. But I know she spoke angrily to him and to me, and threatened to see you." Mr. Lofton sighed deeply, then added, as if the remark were casual " An.l that is the last you have seen of him." " No, sir ; I met him a little while ago, as he was hurrying away from your house." " You did !" Mr. Lofton started at Jenny's unex- pected reply. " Yes, sir." " Did he speak to you ?" " Yes ; he stopped and caught hold of my hand, saying, ' God bless you, Jenny ! We may never meet again. They have driven me away, because they thought I meant to harm you.' But he said nothing wrong was in his heart, and asked me to pray for him, as he would need my prayers." At this part of her narrative, Jenny wept bitterly, and her auditor's eyes became dim also. Satisfied that Jenny's story was true in every particular, Mr. Lofton spoke kindly to her and sent her home. A week after Maik Clifford left Fail-view, word came that he had enlisted in the United States' service and JENNY LAWSON. 101 gone to sea as a common sailor ; accompanying this intelligence was an indignant avowal of his father that he would have nothing more to do with him. To old Mr. Lofton this was a serious blow. In Mark he had hoped to see realized some of his ambitious desires. His daughter Jenny had been happy in her marriage, but the union never gave him much satisfaction. She was to have be.en the wife of one more distinguished than a mere plodding money-making merchant Painful was the shock that accompanied the prostra- tion of old Mr. Lofton's ambitious hopes touching his grandson, of whom he had always been exceedingly fond. To him he had intended leaving the bulk of his property when he died. But now anger and resent- ment arose in his mind against him as unworthy sucH a preference, and in the warmth of a moment's impulse, he corrected his will and cut him off with a dollar. This was no sooner done than better emotions stirred in the old man's bosom, and he regretted the hasty act ; but pride of consistency prevented his recalling it From that time old Mr. Lofton broke down rapidly. In six months he seemed to have added ten years to his life. During that period no news had come from Mark ; who was not only angry with both his father and grandfather, but felt that in doing what he had done, he had offended them beyond the hope of 102 HEAKT HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. forgiveness. He, therefore, having taken a rash step, moved on in the way he had chosen, in a spirit of recklessness and defiance. The ties of blood which had bound him to his home were broken ; the world was all before him, and he must make his way in it. alone. The life of a common sailor in a government ship he found to be something different from what he had imagined, when, acting under a momentary excitement, he was so mad as to enlist in the service. Unused to work or ready obedience, he soon discovered that his life was to be one not only of bodily toil, pushed some- times to the extreme of fatigue, but one of the most perfect subordination to the will of others, under pain of corporeal punishment. The first insolent word of authority passed to him by a new fledged midshipman, his junior by at least three years, stung him so deeply that it was only by a most violent effort that he could master the impulse that prompted him to seize and throw him overboard. He did not regret this success- ful effort at self-control, when, a few hours afterwards, he was compelled to witness the punishment of the cat inflicted on a sailor for the offence of insolence to an officer. The sight of the poor man, writhing under the brutality of the lash, made an impression on him that nothing could efface. It absorbed his mind and JENNY LAWSON. 103 "brought it into a healthier state of reflection than it had yet been. " I Lave placed myself in this position by a rash act," he said to himself, as he turned, sick at heart < away from the painful and disgusting sight. " And all rebellion against the authority around me will but make plainer my own weakness. I have degraded myself; but thete is a lower degradation still, and that I must avoid* Drag me to the gangway, and I am lost !" Strict obedience and submission was from that time self-compelled on the part of Mark Clifford. It was not without a strong effort, however, that he kept down Jhe fiery spirit within him. A word of insolent com- mand and certain of the youug midshipmen on board could not speak to a sailor even if he were old as their father, except in a tone of insult would send the blood boiling through his veins. It wa* only by the narrowest chances that Mark escaped punishment during the first six months of the cruise, which was in the Pacific. If he succeeded it bridling his tongue, and restraining his hands from violence, he could not hide the indignant flash of his eyes, nor school the muscles of his face into submission. They revealed the wild spirit of rebellion that was in his heart Intelligent promptness in duty saved him. 104 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES This was seen by his superior officers, and it was so much in his favor when complaints came from the petty tyrants of the ship who sometimes shrunk from the fierce glance that in a moment of struggling passion would be cast upon them. After a trying ordeal of six months, he was favored by one of the officers who saw deeper than the rest, and gathered from him a few hints as to his true character. In pitying him, he made use of his influence" to save him from some of the worst consequences of his position. Jenny Lawson was a changed girl after her brief meeting with Mark Clifford. Before, she had been as light hearted and gay as a bird. But, her voice was no longer heard pouring forth the sweet melodies born of a happy heart. Much of her time she sought to be alone ; and when alone, she usually sat in a state of dreamy absent-mindedness. As for her thoughts, they were most of the time on Clifford. His hand had stirred the waters of affection in her gentle bosom ; -and they knew no rest. Mr. Lofton frequently sent for her to come over to the mansion house. He never spoke to her of Mark ; nor did she mention his name though both thought of him whenever they were together. The oftener Mr. Lofton saw Jenny, and the more he was with her, the more did she remind him of his own ost child his Jenny, the mother of Mark now in JENNY LAWSON. 105 heaven. The incident of meeting with young Clifford 'had helped to develop Jenny's character, and give it a stronger type than otherwise would have been the case. Thus, she became to Mr. Lofton companionable ; and, ere a year had elapsed from the time Mark went away, Mrs. Lee, having passed to her account, she was taken into his house, and he had her constantly with him. As he continued to fail, he leaned upon the affectionate girl more and miore heavily ; and was never contented when she was away from him. It would be difficult to represent clearly Jenny's state of feeling during this period. A simple minded, innocent, true-hearted girl, in whose bosom scarce beat a single selfish impulse, she found herself suddenly ap- proached by one in station far above her, in a way that left her heart unguarded. He had stooped to her, and leaned upon her, and she, obeying an impulse of her nature, had stood firmer to support him as he leaned. Their tender, confiding, and delightful intercourse, con- tinued only for a brief season, and was then rudely broken in upon ; forced separation was followed by painful consequences to the young man. When Jenny \hought of how Mark had been driven away on her account, she felt that in order to save him from the evils that must be impending over him, she would devote even her life in his service. But, what could 5* 106 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. she do ? This desire to serve him had also anothef origin. A deep feeling of love had been awakened ; and, though she felt it to be hopeless, she kept the flame brightly burning. Intenser feelings produced more active thoughts, and the mind of Jenny took a higher development. A constant association with Mr. Lofton, who required her to read to him sometimes for hours each day, filled her thoughts with higher ideas than any she had known, and gradually widened the sphere of her intelligence. Thus she grew more and more companionable to the old man, who, in turn, perceiving that her mind was expanding, took pains to give it a right direction, so far as external knowledges were concerned. Soon after Mark went to sea, Jenny took pains to inform herself accurately as to the position and duties of a common sailor on board of a United States' vessel. She was more troubled about Mark after this, for she understood how unfitted he was for the hard service he entered upon so blindly. One day, it was over a year from the time that Mark left Fairview, Mr. Lofton sent for Jenny, and, on her coming into his room, handed her a sealed letter, but without making any remark. On it was superscribed her name ; and it bore, besides, the word " Ship" in red printed letters, " Valparaiso," also, was written upon it. JENNY LAWSON. 107 Jenny looked at the letter wonderingly, for a moment or two, and then, with her heart throbbing wildly, left the room. On breaking the seal, she found the letter to be from Mark. It was as follows : " U. S. SHIP , Valparaiso, September 4, 18 , "My GENTLE FRIEND. A year has passed since our brief meeting and unhappy parting. I do not think you have forgotten me in that time ; you may be sure I have not forgotten you. The memory of one about whom we conversed, alone would keep yout image green in my thoughts. Of the rash step I took you have no doubt heard. In anger at unjust treatment both from my father and grandfather, I was weak enough to enter the United States' service as a sailor. Having committed this folly, and being unwill- ing to humble myself, and appeal to friends who had wronged me for their interest to get me released, I have looked the hardship and degradation before me in the face, and sought to encounter it manfully. The ordeal has been thus far most severe, and I have yet two years of trial before me. As I am where I am by my own act, I will not complain, and yet, I have felt it hard to be cut off from all the sympathy and kind in- terest of my friends to have no word from home to feel that none cares for me. I know that I have oftend- 108 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. ed both my father and grandfather past forgiveness, and my mind is made up to seek for no reconciliation with them. I cannot stoop to that. I have too much of the blood of the Loftons in my veins. " But why write this to you, Jenny ? You will hardly understand how such feelings can govern any heart your own is so gentle and innocent in all of its impulses. I have other things to say to you ! Since our meeting I have never ceased to think of you ! I need no picture of your face, for I see it ever before me as distinctly as if sketched by the painter's art. I sometimes ask myself wonderingly, how it is that you, a simple country maiden, could, in one or two brief meetings, have made so strong an impression upon me ? But, you bore my mother's name, and your face was like her dear face. Moreover, the beauty of good- ness was in your countenance, and a sphere of innocence around you ; and I had not strayed so far from virtue's paths as to be insensible to these. Since we parted, Jenny, you have seemed ever present with me, as an angel of peace and protection. In the moment when passion was about overmastering me, you stood by my side, and I seemed to hear your voice speaking to the rising Btorm, and hushing all into calmness. When my feet have been ready to step aside, you instantly approached and pointed to the better way. Last night I had a * JENNY LAWSON. 109 dream, and it is because of that dream that I now write to you. I have often felt like writing before* now I write because I cannot help it. I am moved to do so by something that I cannot resist. " Yesterday I had a difficulty with an officer whi has shewn a disposition to domineer over me ever since the cruise commenced. He complained to the com- mander, who has, in more than one instance shown me kindness. The commander said that I must make certain concessions to the officer, which I felt as humil- iating; that good discipline required this, and that unless I did so, he would be reluctantly compelled to order me to the gangway. Thus far I had avoided punishment by a strict obedience to duty. No lash had ever touched me. That degradation I felt would be my ruin ; and in fear of the result I bore much, rather than give any petty officer the power to have me punished. ' Let me sleep over it, Captain,' said I, so earnestly, that my request was granted. " Troubled dreams haunted me as I lay in my hammock that night. At last I seemed to be afloat on the wide ocean, on a single plank, tossing about with the hot sun shining fiercely upon me, and monsters of the great deep gathering around, eager for their prey. I was weak, faint, and despairing. In vain did my eyes sweep the horizon, there was neither vessel nor * 110 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. land in sight. At length the sun went down, and the darkness drew nearer and nearer. Then I could see nothing but the stars shining above me. In this moment, when hope .seemed about leaving my heart oiever, a light came suddenly around me. On looking up I saw a boat approaching. In the bow stood -my mother, and you sat guiding the helm ! She took my hand, and I stepped into the boat with a thrill of joy at my deliverance. As I did so, she kissed me, looked tenderly towards you, and faded from my sight. Then I awoke. " The effect of all this was to subdue my haughty spirit. As soon as an opportunity offered, I made every desired concession for my fault, and was forgiven. And now I am writing to you, I feel as if there was something in that dream, Jenny. Ah ! Shall I ever see your face again ! Heaven only knows ! " I send this letter to you in care of my grandfather. I know -that he w-ill not retain it or seek to know its contents. Unless he should ask after me, do not speak to him or any one of what I have written to you. Farewell ! Do not forget me in your prayers. MARK CLIFFORD." The effect of this letter upon Jenny, was to interest her intensely. The swell of emotion went deeper, and JKNXY LAWSON. Ill the activity of her mind took a still higher character, It 'was plain to her, when she next came into Mr. Lofton's presence, that his thoughts had been buy ibout the letter she had received. But he asked her 10 questions, and, faithful to the expressed wish of Mark, she made no reference to the subject whatever. One part of Jenny's service to the failing old man, had been to read to him daily from the newspapers. This made her familiar with what was passing in the world, gave her food for thought, and helped her to develop and strengthen her mind. Often had she pored over the papers for some news of Mark, but never having heard the name of the vessel in which he had gone to sea, she had possessed no clue to find what she sought for. But now, whenever a paper was opened, her first search was for naval intelligence. With what a throb of interest did she one day, about a week after Mark's letter came to hand, read an announcement that the ship had been ordered home, and might be expected to arrive daily at Norfolk. A woman thinks quickly to a conclusion ; or, rather,' arrives there by. a ptocess quicker than thought ; especially where her conclusions are to affect a beloved object. In an hour after Jenny had read the fact just stated, she said to Mr. Lofton, who had now come to be much attached to her 112 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " Will you grant me a favor ?" " Ask what you will, my child," replied Mr. Loftcn, with more than usual affection in his tones. " Let me have fifty dollars." "Certainly. I know you will use it for a good purpose." Two days after this Jenny was in Washington. She made the journey alone, but without timidity or fear. Her purpose made her self-possessed and cour- ageous. On arriving at the seat of government, Jenny inquired for the Secretary of the Navy. When she arrived at the Department over which he presided, and obtained, an interview, she said to him, as soon as she could compose herself " The ship : has been ordered home from the Pacific ?" " She arrived at Norfolk last night, and is now hourly expected at the Navy Yard," replied the Secretary. At this intelligence, Jenny was so much affected tha it was some time before she could trust herself to speak. " You have a brother on board ?" said the Secretary. " There is a young man on board," replied Jenny, in a tremulous voice, " for whose discharge I have come to ask." The Secretary looked grave. JENNY LAWSON. 113 " At whose instance do you come ?" he inquired u Solely at my own." " Who is the young man ?" " Do you know Marshal Lofton ?" " I do, by reputation, well He belongs to a distin- guished family in New York, to which the country owes much for service rendered in trying times." " The discharge I ask, is for his grandson." " Young Clifford, do you mean ?" The Secretary looked surprised as he spoke. " He is not in the service." " He is on board the ship as a common sailor." " Impossible !" " It is too true. In a moment of angry disap- pointment he took the rash step. And, since then, no communication has passed between him and his friends." The Secretary turned to the table near which he was sitting, and, after writing a few lines on a piece of paper, rung a small hand-bell for the messenger, who came in immediately. " Take this to Mr J , and bring me an answer immediately." The messenger left the room, and the Secretary said to Jenny " Wait a moment or two, if you please." 114 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. In a little while the messenger came back and handed the Secretary a memorandum from the clerk to whom he had sent for information. " There is no such person as Clifford on board the hip , nor, in fact, in the service as a common sailor," said the Secretary, addressing Jenny, after glancing at the memorandum he had received. " Oh, yes, there is ; there must be," exclaimed the now agitated girl. " I received a letter from him at Valparaiso, dated on board of this ship. And, besides, he wrote home to his father, at the time he sailed, declaring what he had done." " Strange. His name doesn't appear in the Depart- ment as attached to the service. Hark ! There's a gun. It announces, in all probability, the arrival of the ship at the Navy Yard." Jenny instantly became pale. " Perhaps," suggested the Secretary, " your best way will be to take a carriage and drive down, at once, to the Navy Yard. Shall I direct the messenger to call a carriage for you ?" " I will thank you to do so," replied Jenny, faintly. The carriage was soon at the door. Jenny was much agitated when she arrived at the Navy Yard. To her question as to whether the ship had arrived, she was pointed to a large vessel which lav JENNY LAWSON. 115 moored at the dock. How she mounted its side she hardly knew ; but, in what seemed scarcely an instant of time, she was standing on the deck. To an officer who met her, as she stepped on hoard, she asked for Mark Clifford. " What is he ? A sailor or marice T " A sailor." u There is no such person on board, I believe," said the officer. Poor Jenny staggered back a few paces, whila a deadly paleness overspread her face. As she leaned against the side of the vessel for support, a young man, dressed as a sailor, ascended from the lower deck. Their eyes met, and both sprung towards each other. " Jenny ! Jenny ! is it you !" fell passionately from his lips, as he caught her in his arms, and kissed her fervently. " Bless you ! Bless you, Jenny ! This is more than I had hoped for," he added, as he gazed fondly into her beautiful young face. " They said you were not here," murmured Jenny, " and my heart was in despair." " You asked for Mark Clifford I" " Yes." u I am not known in the service by that name. I entered it as Edward James." This meeting, occurring as it did, with many 116 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. spectators around, and they of the ruder class, was sc earnest and tender, yet with all, so mutually respectftu and decorous, that even the rough sailors were touched by the manner and sentiment of the interview ; and more than one eye grew dim. Not long did Jenny linger on the deck of the . Now that she had found Mark, her next thought was to secure his discharge. CHAPTER III. IT was little more than half an hour after the Secre- tary of the Navy parted with Jenny, ere she entered his office again ; but now with her beautiful face flushed and eager. " I have found him !" she exclaimed ; " I knew he was on board this ship !" The Secretary's interest had been awakened by the former brief interview with Jenny, and when she came in with the announcement, he was not only affected with pleasure, but his feelings were touched by her manner. " How is it, then," he inquired, " that his name is not to be found in the list of her crew ?" " He entered the service under the name of Edward James." "Ah! that explains it." " And now, sir," said Jenny, in a voice so earnest and appealing, that her auditor felt like granting her 118 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. desire without a moment's reflection : " I have come to entreat you to give me his release." " On what ground do you make this request ?" inquired the Secretary, gazing into the sweet youn face of Jenny, wU,h a feeling of respect blended wit! admiration. " On the ground of humanity," was the simple yet earnestly spoken reply. " How can you put it on that ground ?" ." A young man of his education and abilities can serve society better in another position." " But he has chosen the place he is in." " Not deliberately. In a moment of disappointment and blind passion he took a false step. Severely has he suffered for this act. Let it not be prolonged, lest it destroy him. One of his spirit can scarcely pass through so severe an ordeal without fainting.'' " Does Mr. Lofton, his grandfather, desire what you ask?" " Mr. Lofton is a proud man. He entertained high hopes for Mark, who has, in this act, so bitterly disap pointed them, that he has not been known to utter hi* .name since the news of his enlistment was received." "And his father?" Jenny shook her head, sighing JENNY LAWSON. 119 I don't know anything about him. He was angry, and, I believe, cast him off." " A.nd you, then, are his only advocate P Jenny's eyes dropped to the floor, and a deeper tinge overspread her countenance. " What is your relation to him, and to his friends P asked the Secretary, his manner becoming more serious. It was some moments before Jenny replied. Then she said, in a more subdued voice : M I am living with Mr. Lofton. But She hesitated, and then became silent and embar- rassed. " Does Mr. Lofton know of your journey to Wash- ington P Jenny shook her head. u Where did you tell him you were going ?" " I said nothing to him, but came away the moment I heard the ship was expected to arrive at Norfolk." " Suppose I release him from the service P ' I will persuade him to go back with me to Fair- view, and then I know that all will be forgiven between him and his grandfather. You don't know how Mr Lofton has failed since Mark went away," added Jenny in a tone meant to reach the feelings of her auditor 120 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " He looks many years older. Ah, sir, if you would only grant my request !" " Will the . young man return to his family ! Have you spoken to him about it ?" " No ; I wished not to create hopes that might fail. But give me his release, and I will have a claim on him." "And you will require him to go home in ac- knowledgment of that claim." "I will not leave him till he goes back," said Jenny. " Is he not satisfied in the service ?" " How could he be satisfied with it ?" Jenny spoke with a quick impulse, and with something like rebuke in her voice. " No ! It is crushing out his very life. Think of your own son in such a position !" There was something in this appeal, and in the way it was uttered, that decided the Secretary's mind. A man of acute observation, and humane feelings, he not only understood pretty clearly the relation that Jenny bore to Mark and his family, but sympathised with the young man and resolved to grant the maiden's request. Leaving her for a few minutes, he went into an adjoin- ing room. When he returned, he had a sealed let- ter in his hand directed to the commander of the ship . JENNY LAWSON. 121 " This will procure his dismissal from the service," said he, as he reached it towards Jenny. " May heaven reward you !" fell from the lips of the young girl, as she received the letter. Then, with the tears glistening in her eyes, she hurriedly left the apartment. While old Mr. Lofton was yet wondering what Jenhy could want with fifty dollars, a servant came and told him that she had just heard from a neighbor who came up a little while before from the landing, that he had seen Jenny go on board of a steamboat that was on its way to New York. " It can't be so," quickly answered Mr. Lofton. " Mr. Jones said, positively, that it was her." " Tell Henry to go to Mr. Jones and ask him, as a favor, to step over and see me." In due time Mr. Jones came. " Are you certain that you saw Jenny Lawson go on board the steamboat for New York to-day ?" asked Mr. Lofton, when the neighbor appeared. tt Oh, yes, sir ; it was her," replied the man. " Did you speak to her ?" " I was going to, but she hurried past me without looking in my face." " Had she anything with her T " There was a small bundle in her hand.** 6 122 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. '* Strange strange very strange,* murmured the old man to himself. " What does it mean ? Where can she have gone ?" " Did she say nothing about going away ?" f " Nothing nothing !" Mr. Lofton's eyes fell to the floor, and he sat thinking fcr some moments. " Mr. Jones," said he, at length, " can you go to New York for me 1" " I suppose so," replied Mr. Jones. " When will the morning boat from Albany pass here ?" " In about two hours." " Then get yourself ready, if you please, and come over to me. I do not like this of Jenny, and must find out where she has gone." Mr. Jones promised to do as was desired, and went to make all necessary preparations. Before he re- turned, a domestic brought Mr. Lofton a sealed note bearing his address, which she had found in Jenny's chamber. It was as follows : " Do not be alarmed at my telling you that, when you receive this, I will be on a journey of two or three hundred miles in extent, and may not return for weeks. Believe me, that my purpose is a good one. I hope to be back much sooner than I have said. When I do get JENNY LAWSON. 12? home, I know you will approve of what I have done. My errand is one of Mercy. " Humbly and faithfully yours, JENNY." It was some time before Mr. Lofton's mind grew calm and clear, after reading this note. That Jenny's absence was, in some way, connected with Mark, was a thought that soon presented itself. But, in what way, he could not make out ; for he had never heard the name of the ship in which his grandson sailed, and knew nothing of her expected arrival home. By the time Mr. Jones appeared, ready to start on the proposed mission to New York, Mr. Lofton had made up his mind not to attempt to follow Jenny, but to wait for some word from her. Not until this sudden separation took place did Mr. Lofton understand how necessary to his happiness the affectionate girl had become. So troubled was he at her absence, and so anxious for her safety, that when night came he found himself unable to sleep. In thinking about the dangers that would gather around one so ignorant of the world, his imagination magnified the trials and temptations to which, alone as she was, she would be exposed. Such thoughts kept him tossing anxiously upon his pillow, or restlessly pacing the chamber floor until day dawn. Then, from over-excitement and loss of rest, he was 124 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. seriously indisposed so much so, that his physician had to be called in during the day. He found him with a good deal of fever, and deemed it necessary to resort to depletion, as well as to the application of ther remedies to allay the over-action of his vital system. These prostrated him at once so much so, that he was unable to sit up. Before night he was so seriously ill. that the physician had to be sent for again. The fever had returned with great violence, and the pressure on his brain was so greSt that he had become slightly delirious. During the second night, this active stage of the disease continued ; but all the worst symptoms subsided towards morning. Daylight found him sleeping quietly, with a cool moist skin, and a low, regular pulse. Towards mid-day he awoke ; but the anxiety that came with thought brought back many of the unfavorable symptoms, and he was worse again towards evening. On the third day he was again better, but so weak as to be unable to sit up. How greatly did old Mr. Lofton miss the gentle girl, who had become almost as dear to him as a child, during this brief illness, brought on by her strange absence. No hand could smooth his pillow like hers. No presence could supply her place by his side. He was corapanionless, now that she was away ; and his JENNY LAWSON. 125 heart reached vainly around for something to lean upon for support. On the fourth day he was better, and sat up a little. But his anxiety for Jenny was increasing. Where could she be ? He read her brief letter over and over again. "May not return for weeks," he said, as he held the letter in his hand. " Where can she have gone ? Foolish child ! Why did she not consult with me ? I would have advised her for the best." Late on the afternoon of that day, Jenny, in company with Mark, the latter in the dress of a seaman in the United States service, passed from a steamboat at the landing near Fairview, and took their way towards the mansion of Mr. Lofton. They had not proceeded far, before the young man began to linger, while Jenny showed every disposition to press on rapidly. At length Mark stopped. " Jenny," , said he, while a cloud settled on his face, u you've had your own way up to this moment. IV been passive in your hands. But I can't go on with you any further." " Don't say that," returned Jenny, her voice almost imploring in its tones. And in the earnestness of her desire to bring Mark back to his grandfather, she seized one of his hands, and, by a gentle force, drew 126 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. him a few paces in the direction they had been going. , But he resisted that force, and they stood still again. " I don't think I can go back, Jenny," said Mark, in a subdued voice : " I have some pride left, much as las been crushed out of me during the period of my absence, and this rises higher and higher in my heart the nearer I approach my grandfather. How can I meet him !" " Only come into his presence, Mark," urged Jenny, speaking tenderly and familiarly. She had addressed him as Mr. Clifford, but he had forbidden that, * saying " To you my name is Mark let none other pass your lips !" " Only come into his presence. You need not speak to him, nor look towards him. This is all I ask." "But, the humiliation of going back after my resentment of his former treatment," said Mark. " I can bear anything but this bending of my pride this humbling of myself* to others." "Don't think of yourself, Mark," replied Jenny. " Think of your grandfather, on whom your absence* has wrought so sad a change. Think of what he must have suffered to break down so in less than two years, In pity to him, then, come back. Be guided by me, JENNY LAWSON. 127 Mark, and I will lead you right Think of that strange dream !" At this appeal, Mark moved quickly forward by the side of the beautiful girl, who had so improved in every way mind and body havinV developed wonder- fully since he parted with her that he was filled all the while by wonder, respect and admiration. He moved by hej: side as^if influenced by a spell that subdued his own will. In silence they walked along, side by side, the pressure of thought and feeling on each mind being so strong as to take away the desire to speak, until the old mansion house of Mr. Lofton appeared in view. Here Mark stopped again ; but the tenderly uttered " Come," and the tearful glance of Jenny, effectually controlled the promptings of an unbroken will. Together, in a few minutes afterwards, they approached the house and entered. " Where is Mr. Lofton ?" asked Jenny of a servant who met them in the great hall. " He's been very ill," replied the servant. " 111 !" Jenny became pale. " Yes, veiy ill. 'But he is better now." " Where is he ?" " In his own chamber." For a moment Jenny hesitated whether to go up 128 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. alone, or in company with Mark. She would hav-. preferred going alone ; but fearing that, if she parte< even thus briefly from Mark, her strong influence ovei him, by means of which she had brought him, almos( as a struggling prisoner, thus far, would be weakened, and he tempted to turn from the house, she resolved to venture upon the experiment of entering Mr. Lofton's sick chamber, in company with his grandson. " Is he sitting up !" she asked of the servant "He's been silting up a good deal to-day, but is lying down now." " He's much better ?" " Oh, yes !" " Come," said Jenny, turning to Mark, and moving towards the stairway. Mark followed passively. On entering the chamber of Mr. Lofton, they found him sleeping. Both silently approached, and looked upon his venerable face, composed in deep slumber. Teal's came to the eyes of Mark as he gazed at the countenance of his grandfather, and his heart became soft as the heart of a child. While they yet stood looking at him, his lips moved, and he uttered both their names. Then he seemed disturbed, and moaned, as if in pain. " Grandfather !" said Mark, taking the old man.' hand, and bending over him. JENNY LAWSON. 129 Quickly his eyes opened. For a few moments he gazed earnestly upon Mark, and then tightened his hand upon that of the young man, closed his eyes again, and murmured in a voice that deeply touched the returning wanderer " My poor boy ! My poor boy ' Why did you do BO? Why did you break my heart? But, God be thanked, you aro^back again ! God be thanked !" " Jenny !" said the old man, quickly, as he felt her take his other hand and press it to her lips. " And it was for this you left me ! Dear child, I forgive you !" As he spoke, he drew her hand over towards the one that grasped that of Mark, and uniting them together, murmured " If you love each other, it is all right. My blessing shall go with you." How mild and delicious was the thrill that ran through each of the hearts of his auditors. This was more than they expected. Mark tightly grasped the hand that was placed within his own, and that hand gave back an answering pressure. Thus was the past reconciled with the present ; while a vista was opened toward a bright future. Little more than a year has passed since this joyful event took place. Mark Clifford, with the entire approval of his grandfather, who furnished a handsome 6* 130 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. capital for the purpose, entered, during the time, into the mercantile house of his father as a partner, and is now actively engaged in business, well sobered by his evere experience. He has taken a lovely bride, who is -he charm of all circles into which she is introduced ; and her name is Jenny. But few who meet her dream that she once grew, a beautiful wild flower, near the banks of the Hudson. Old Mr. Lofton could not be separated from Jenny ; and, as he could not separate her from her husband, he has removed to the city, where he has an elegant residence, in which her voice is the music and her smiles the ever present sunshine. SHADOWS. A HAPPY-HEARTED child was Madeline Henry, foi the glad sunshine ever lay upon the threshold of her early home. Her father, a cheerful, unselfish man, left the world and its business cares behind him when he placed his hand upon the door of entrance to his household treasures. Like other men, lie had his anxieties, his hopes and losses, his disappointments and troubles ; but he wisely and humanely strove to banish these from his thoughts, when he entered the home- sanctuary, lest his presence should bring a shadow instead of sunshine. Madeline was just twenty years of age, when, as the wife of Edward Leslie, she left this warm down-covered nest, and was borne to a new and more elegant home. Mr. Leslie was her senior by eight or nine years. He began his business life at the age of twenty-two, as partner in a well established mercantile house, and, as 132 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. he was able to place ten thousand dollars in tha concern, his position, in the matter of profits, was good from the beginning. Yet, for all this, notwithstanding* more than one loving-hearted girl, in whose eyes he might have found favor, crossed his path, he resolutely turned his thoughts away, lest the fascination should be too strong for him. He resolved not to marry until he felt able to maintain a certain style of living. Thus were the heart's impulses checked ; thus were the first tender leaves of affection frozen in the cold breath of mere calculation. He wronged himself in this ; yet, in his worldliness and ignorance, did he feel proud of being above, what he called, the weaknesses of other men. It was but natural that Mr. Leslie should become, in a measure, reserved towards others. Should assume a statelier step, and more set forms of speech. Should repress, more and more, his heart's impulses. In Leslie, the love of money was strong ; yet there was in his character a firmly laid basis of integrity. Though shrewd in his dealings, he never stooped to a system of overreaching. He was not long, therefore, in establishing a good reputation among business men. In social circles, where he occasionally appeared, almost as a matter of course he became an object of interest. Observation, as it regards character, is, by far, too SHADOWS. 13c }uperficial. With most persons, merely what strike* the eye is sufficient ground for an opinion ; and this opinion is freely and positively expressed. Thus, a good reputation comes, as a natural consequence, to a man who lives in the practice of most of the apparent social virtues, while he may possess no real kindness of heart, may be selfish to an extreme degree. Thus it was with Mr. Leslie. He was generally regarded as a model of a man ; and when he, at length, approached Madeline Henry as a lover, the friends of the young lady regarded her as particularly fortunate. As for Madeline, she rather shrunk, at first, from his advances. There was a coldness in his sphere that chilled her ; a rigid propriety of speech and action that inspired too much respect and deference. Gradually, however, love for the maiden, (if by such a term it might be called) fused his hard exterior, and his manner became so softened, gentle and affectionate, hat she yielded up to him a most precious treasure whe love of her young and trusting heart. Just twenty years old, as we have said, was Madeline when she passed, as the bride of Mr. Leslie, from the warm home-nest in which she had reposed so happily, to become the mistress of an elegant mansion. Though in age a woman, she was, in many things, but a child 134 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. in feelings. Tenderly cared for and petted by hei father, her spirit had been, in a measure, sustained by love as an aliment. One like Madeline is not fit to be the wife of such a man as Edward Leslie. For him, a cold, calculating woman of the world were a better companion. One who has her own selfish ends to gain ; and who can find, in fashion, gaiety, or personal indulgence, full compensation for a husband's love. Madeline was scarcely the bride of a week, ere shadows began to fall upon her heart ; and the form that interposed itself between her and the sunlight, was the form of her husband. As a daughter, love had ever gone forth in lavish expression. This had been encouraged by all the associations of home. But,- from the beginning of her wedded lifft, she felt tho manner of her husband like the weight of a hand on her bosom, repressing her heart's outgushing impulses. It was on the fifth evening of their marriage, about the early twilight hour, and Madeline, alone, almost for the first time since morning, sat awaiting the return of her husband. Full of pleasant thoughts was her mind, and warm with love her heart. A few hours of separation from Edward had made her impatient to meet him again. When, at length, she heard him SHADOWS. 185 enter, she sprang to meet him, and, with an exclamation of delight, threw her arms about his neck. There was a cold dignity in the way this act was received by Edward Leslie, that chilled the feelings of his wife. Quickly disengaging her arras, she assumed a more guarded exterior ; yet, trying all the while, to be cheerful in manner. We say "trying;" for a shadow had falletv. on her young heart and, to seem cheerful was from an effort. They sat down, side by side, in the pensive twilight close to the windows, through which came fragrant airs ; and Madeline laid her hand upon that of her husband. Checked in the first gush of feelings, she now remained silent, yet with her yearning spirit intently listening for words of tenderness and endearment. " I have been greatly vexed to-day." These were the very words he uttered. How chilly they fell upon the ears of his expectant wife. " What has happened ?" she asked, in a voice of concern. " Oh, nothing in reality more than usual. Men ii business are exposed to a thousand annoyances. If all the world were honest, trade would be pleasant enough. But you have to watch eveiy one you deal with as closely as if he were a rogue. A man, whom I haa confided in and befriended, tried to overreach me to- 136 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. day, and it has hurt me a good deal. I couldn't have believed it of him." Nothing more was said on either side for several minutes. Leslie, absorbed in thoughts of business, so far forgot the presence of his wife, as to withdraw the hand upon which her's was laid. How palpable to her was the coldness of his heart ! She felt it as an atmosphere around him. After tea, Leslie remarked, as he arose from the table, that he wished to see a friend on some matter of business ; but would be home early. Not even a kiss did he leave with Madeline to cheer her during his absence. His selfish dignity could not stoop to such childishness. The young bride passed the evening with no companionship but her tears. When Leslie came home, and looked upon her sober face, he was not struck with its aspect as being unusual. It did not enter his imagination that she could be otherwise than happy. Was she not his wife ? And had she not, around her, every thing to make the heart satisfied ? He verily believed that she had. He spoke to her kindly, yet, as she felt, indifferently, while her heart was pining for words of warm affection. This was the first shadow that fell, darkly, across the young rife's fath. For hours after her husband's SHADOWS. 137 senses were locked in slumber, sho lay wakeful and weeping. He understood not, if he remarked the fact, why her cheeks had less color and her eyes less brightness on the morning that succeeded to this, on Madeline's part, never forgotten evening. We need not present a scene from the sixth, the seventh, or even the twentieth day of Madeline's married life. AJ1 moved on with a kind of even tenor. Order we might almost say, mercantile order reigned throughout the household. And yet, shadows were falling more and more heavily over the young wife's feelings. To be loved, was an element of her existence to be loved with expression. But, expressive fond- ness was not one of the cold, dignified Mr. Leslie's weaknesses. lie loved Madeline as much as he was capable of loving anything out of himself. And he had given her the highest possible evidence of this love, by making her his wife What more could she ask? It never occurred to his unsentimental thought, that words and acts of endearment were absolutely essential to her happiness. That her world of interest was a world of affections, and that without his companionship in this world, her heart would feel an aching void. Who will wonder that, as weeks and months went by, shadows were more apparent on the sunny face of Madeline ? Yet, such shadows, when they becam 138 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. visible to casual eyes, did excite wonder. What was there to break the play of sunshine on her counte- nance? " The more some people have, the more dissatisfied they are," remarked one superficial observer to another, in reply to some communication touching Mrs. Leslie's want of spirits. " Yes," was answered. '* Nothing but real trouble ever brings such persons to their senses." Ah ! Is not heart-trouble the most real of all with which we are visited ? There comes to it, so rarely, a balm of healing. To those external evils which merely affect the personal comfort, the mind quickly accommo- dates itself. We may find happiness in either pros- perity or adversity. But, what true happiness is there for a loving heart, if, from the only source of reciproca- tion, there is but an imperfect response ? A strong mind may accommodate itself, in the exercise of a firm religious philosophy, to even these circumstances, and like the wisely discriminating bee, extract honey from even the most unpromising flower. But, it is hard nay, almost impossible for one like Madeline, reared as she was in so warm an atmosphere of love, to fall back upon and find a sustaining power, in such a philosophy. Her spirit first must droop. There must be a passing through the fire, with painful purification. SHADOWS. 139 Alas ! How many perish in the ordeal ! How many gentle, loving ones, unequally mated, die, daily, around us ; moving on to the grave, so far as the world knowa, by the way of some fatal bodily ailment ; yet, in truth, faihng by a heart-sickness that has dried up the fountains of life. And so it was with the wife of Edward Leslie. Greatly her husband wondered at the shadows which fell, more and more heavily, on Madeline wondered as . time wore on, at the paleness of her cheeks the sad- ness which, ofien, she could not repress when he was by ; the variableness of her spirits all tending to destroy the balance of her nervous system, and, finally, ending in confirmed ill-health, that demanded, impe- riously, the diversion of his thoughts from business and worldly schemes to the means of piolonging her life. Alas ! What a sad picture to look upon, would it be, were we to sketch, even in outline, the passing events of the ten years that preceded this conviction on the part of Mr. Leslie. To Madeline, his cold, hard, impatient, and, too frequently, cruel re-actions upon what he thought her unreasonable, captious, dissatisfied states of mind, having no ground but in her imagina- tion, were heavy heart-strokes or, as a discordant hand dashed among her life-chords, putting them forever out of t'me. Oh ! The wretchedness, struggling 140 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. with patience and concealment, of those weary years, The days and days, during which her husband main- tained towards her a moody silence, that it seemed would kill her. And yet, so far as the world went, Mr. Leslie was among the best of husbands. How little does the world, so called, look beneath the surface of things ! With the weakness of failing health, came, to Made- line, the loss of mental energy. She had less and less self-control. A brooding melancholy settled upon her feelings ; and she often spent days in her chamber, refusing to see any one except members of her own family, and weeping if she were spoken to. " You will die, Madeline. You will kill yourself !" said her husband, repeating, one day, the form of speech so often used when he found his wife in these states of abandonment. He spoke with more than his usual tenderness, for, to his unimaginative mind had come a quickly passing, but vivid realization, of what he would lose if she were taken from him. " The loss will scarcely be felt," was her murmured answer. " Your children will, at least, feel it," said Mr. Leslie, in a more captious and meaning tone than, upon reflection, he would have used. He felt her words as expressing indifference for himself, and his quick retort SHADOWS. 141 involved, palpably, the same impression in regard to his wife. Madeline answered not farther, but her husband' words were not forgotten " My children will feel my loss." This thought became so present to her mind, that none other could, for a space, come into manifest perception. The mother's heart began quickening into life a sense of the mother's duty. Thus it was, when her oldest child named for herself, and with as loving and dependent a nature opened the chamber door, and coming up to her father, made some request that he did not approve. To the mother's mind, her desire was one that ought to have been granted ; and, she felt, in an instant, that the manner, as well as the fact of the father's denial, were both unkind, and that Madeline's heart would be almost broken. She did not err in this. The child went sobbing from the room. How distinctly came before the mind of Mrs. Leslie a picture of the past. She was, for a time, back in he father's house ; and she felt, for a time, the ever present, considerate, loving kindness of one who had made all sunshine in that early home. Slowly came back the mind of Mrs. Leslie to the present, and she said to herself, not passively, like one borne on the current of a down-rushing stream, but resolutely, as 142 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. one with a purpose to struggle to suffer, and yet be strong " Yes ; my children will feel my loss. I could pass away and be at rest. I could lie me down and sleep weetly in the grave. But, is all my work done ? Can I leave these little ones to his tender mer " She checked herself in the mental utterance of this sentiment, which referred to her husband. But, the feeling was in her heart ; and it inspired her with a new purpose. Her thought, turned from herself, and fixed, with a yearning love upon her children, gave to the blood a quicker motion through the veins, and to her mind a new activity. She could no longer remain passive, as she had been for hours, brooding over her own unhappy state, but arose and left her chamber. In another room she found her unhappy child, who had gone off to brood alone over her disappointment, and to weep where none could see her. "Madeline, dear!" said the mother, in. a loving, sympathetic voice. Instantly the child flung herself into her arms, and Jaid her face, sobbing, upon her bosom. Gently, yet wisely for there came, in that moment, to Mrs. Leslie, a clear perception of all her duty did the mother seek to soften Madeline's disappointment, and to inspire her with fortitude to bear. Beyond her SHADOWS. own expectation came success in this effort The reason she invented or imagined, for the father's refusal, satisfied the child ; and soon the clouded bro was lit up by the heart's sunshine. From that hour, Mrs. Leslie was changed. From that hour, a new purpose filled her heart. She could not leave her children, nor could she take them with her if she passed away ; and so, she resolved to live for them, to forget her own suffering, in the tenderness of maternal care. The mother had risen superior to the unhappy, unappreciated wife. All marked the change ; yet in none did it awaken more surprise than in Mr. Leslie. He never fully understood its meaning ; and, no wonder, for he had never understood her from the beginning. He was too cold and selfish to be able fully to appreciate her character or relation to him as a wife. Yet, for all this change though the long drooping form of Mrs. Leslie regained something of its erect- ness, and her exhausted system a degree of tension the shadow passed not from her heart or brow ; nor did her cheeks grow warm again with the glow of health. The delight of her life had failed ; and now, she lived only for the children whom God had given her. A man of Mr. Leslie's stamp of character too rarely 144 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. grows wiser in the true sense. Himself the centre of his world, it is but seldom that he is able to think enough out of himself to scan the effect of his daily actions upon others. If collisions take place, he thinks only of the pain he feels, not of the pain he gives. He is ever censuring ; but rarely takes blame. During the earlier portions of his married life, Mr. Leslie's mind had chafed a good deal at what seemed to him Madeline's unreasonable and unwomanly conduct ; the spreness of this was felt even after the change in her exterior that we have noticed, and he often indulged in the habit of mentally writing bitter things against her. He had well nigh broken her heart ; and was yet impatient because she gave signs indicative of pain. And so, as years wore on, the distance grew wider instead of becoming less and less. The husband had many things to draw him forth into the busy world, where he established various interests, and sought pleasure in their pursuits, while the wife, seldom seen abroad, buried herself at home, and gave her very life for her children. But, even maternal love could not feed for very many years the flame of her life. The oil- was too nearly exhausted when that new supply came. For a time, the light burned clearly ; then it began to fail, SHADOWS. 145 and ere the mother's tasks were half done, it went out in darkness. How heavy the shadows which then fell upon the household and upon the heart of Edward Leslie ! As he stood, alone, in the chamber of death, with his eyes fixed upon the pale, wasted countenance, no more to quicken with life, and felt on his neck the clinging arms that were thrown around it a few moments before the last sigh of mortality was breathed ; and still heard the eager, " Kiss me, Edward, once, before I die !" a new light broke upon him, and he was suddenly stung by sharp and self-reproaching thoughts. Had he not killed her, and, by the slowest and most agonizing process by which murder can be committed ? There was in his mind a starlling perception that such was the awful crime of which he had been guilty. Yes, there were shadows on the heart of Edward Leslie ; shadows that never entirely passed away. THE THANKLESS OFFICE. ** AN object of real charity," said Andrew Lyon to bis wife, as a poor woman withdrew from the room in which they were seated. " If ever there was a worthy object, she is one," re- turned Mrs. Lyon. " A widow, with health so feeble that even ordinary exertion is too much for her ; yet obliged to support, with the labor of her own hands, not only herself, but three young children. I do not wonder that she is behind with her rent." " Nor I," said Mr. Lyon in a voice of sympathy. " How much did she say was due to her landlord ?" u Ten dollars." " She will not be able to pay it." " I fear not. How can she ? I give her .ill my extra sewing, and have obtained work for 'her from several ladies ; but, with her best efforts she can barely obtain food and decent clothing for herself and babes." " Does it not seem hard," remarked Mr. Lyon, " that THE THANKLESS OFFICK. 147 one like Mrs. Arnold, who is so earnest in her efforts tc take care of herself and family, should not receive a helping hand from some one of the many who could help her without feeling the effort ? If I didn't find it so hard to make both ends meet, I would pay off her arrears of rent for her, and feel happy iu so doing." " Ah !" exclaimed the kind-hearted wife, " how much I wish that we were able to do this. But we are not" " I'll tell you what we can do," said Mr. Lyon, in a cheerful voice " or, rather what / can do. It will be a very light matter for, say ten persons, to give a dollar a-piece, in order to relieve Mrs. Arnold from her present trouble. There are plenty who would cheerfully con- tribute for this good purpose ; all that is wanted is some one to take upon himself the business of making the collections. That task shall be mine." " How glad, James, to hear you say so," smilingly replied Mrs. Lyon. " Oh ! what a relief it will be to poor Mrs. Arnold. It will make her heart as light as a feather. That rent has troubled her sadly. Old Links, her landlord, has been worrying her about it a good deal, and, only a week ago, threatened to put her things in the street if she didn't pay up." " I should have thought of this beforo," remarked Andrew Lyon. " There are hundreds of people who are willirg enough to give if they were only certain in 148 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. regard to the object. Hene is one worthy enough in every way. Be it my business to present her claims to benevolent consideration. Let me see. To whom shall I go 1 There are Jones, and Green, and Tompkins. I can get a dollar from each of them. That will be .hree dollars and one from myself, will make four. Who else is there ? Oh ! Malcolm ! I'm sure of a dollar from him ; and, also, from Smith, Todd, and Perry." Confident in the success of his benevolent scheme, Mr. Lyon started forth, early on the very next day, for the purpose of obtaining, by subscription, the poor widow's rent. The first person he called on was Mal- colm. " Ah, friend Lyon," said Malcolm, smiling blandly. * Good morning ! What can I do for you to-day ?" " Nothing for me, but something for a poor widow, who is behind with her rent," replied Andrew Lyon. " I want just one dollar from you, and as much more from some eight or nine as benevolent as yourself." At the words "poor widow," the countenance of Malcolm fell, and when his visiter ceased, he replied in a changed and husky voice, clearing his throat two or three times as he spoke, *' Are you sure she is deserving, Mr. Lyon ?" The man's manner had become exceedingly grave. THE THANKLESS OFFICE. 149 " None more so," was the prompt answer. " She is in poor health, and has three children to support with the product of her needle. If any one needs assisl auce it is Mrs. Arnold." " Oh ! ah ! The widow of Jacob Arnold 1 n " The same," replied Andrew Lyon. Malcolm's face did not brighten with a feeling of heart-warm benevolence. But, he turned slowly away, and opening his money-drawer, very slowly, toyed with his fingers amid its contents. At length he took there- from a dollar bill, and said, as he presented it to Lyon, sighing involuntarily as he did so " I suppose I must do my part. But, we are called upon so often." The ardor of Andrew Lyon's benevolent feelings suddenly cooled at this unexpected reception. He had entered upon his work under the glow of a pure enthu- siasm ; anticipating a hearty response the moment. his errand was made known. " I thank you in the widow's name," said he, as he xxik the dollar. When he turned from Mr. Malcolm's store, it was with a pressure on his feelings, as if he had asked the coldly-given favor for himself. It was not without an effort that Lyon compelled himself to call upon Mr. Green, considered the " next best man" on his list. But he entered his place of 150 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. business with far less confidence than he had felt when calling upon Malcolm. His story told, Green without a word or smile, drew two half dollars from his pocket, and presented them. " Thank you," said Lyon. " Welcome," returned Green. Oppressed with a feeling of embarrassment, Lyon stood for a few moments. Then bowing, he said "Good morning." " Good morning," was coldly and formally responded. And thus the alms-seeker and alms-giver parted. . " Better be at his shop, attending to his work," mut- tered Green to himself, as his visitor retired. " Men ain't very apt to get along too well in the world who spend their time in begging for every object of charity that happens to turn up. And there are plenty of such, dear knows. He's got a dollar out of me ; may it do him, or the poor widow he talked so glibly about, much good." Cold water had been poured upon the feelings of Andrew Lyon. He had raised two dollars for the poo. widow, but, at what a sacrifice for one so sensitive as himself. Instead of keeping on in his work of benev- olence, he went to his shop, and entered upon the day's employment. How disappointed he felt ; and thii disappointment was mingled with a certain sense THE THANKLESS OFFICE. JfiJ of humiliation, as if he had been asking alms for him self! " Catch me at this work again !" he said, half aloud, as his thoughts dwelt upon what had so recently occurred. "But this is not right," he added, quickly. It is a weakness in me to feel so. Poor Mrs. Arnold must be relieved ; and it is my duty to see that she gets relief. I had no thought of a reception like this. People can talk of benevolence ; but putting the hand in the pocket is another affair altogether. I never dreamed that such men as Malcolm and Green could be insensible to an appeal like the one I made." "I've got two dollars towards paying Mrs. Arnold's rent," he said to himself, in a more cheerful tone, some- time afterwards ; " and it will go hard if I don't raise the whole amount for her. All are not like Green and Malcolm. Jones is a kind-hearted man, and will instantly respond to the call of humanity. I'll go and see him." So, off Andrew Lyon started to see this individual. Tve come begging, Mr. Jones," said he, on meeting him. And he spoke in a frank, pleasanfc manner. " Then you've come to the wrong shop ; that's all I have to say," was the blunt answer. T>'t say that, Mr. Jones. Hear my story, first." 152 HEART HISTORIES ANE LIFE PICTURES. " I do say it, and I'm in earnest," returned Jonei u I feel as poor as Job's turkey, to-day." " I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her rent," said Lyon. " Oh, hang all the poor widows ! If that's your game, you'll get nothing here. I've got my hands full to pay my own rent. A nice time I'd have in handing out a dollar to every poor widow in town to help pay her rent ! No, no, my friend, you can't get anything here." "Just as you feel about it," said Andrew Lyon. ** There's no compulsion in the matter." " No, I presume not," was rather coldly replied. Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened than before. He had undertaken a thankless office. Nearly two hours elapsed before his resolution to per- severe in the good work he had begun came back with sufficient force to prompt to another effort. Then he dropped in upon his neighbor Tompkins, to whom he made known his errand. " Why, yes, I suppose I must do something in a case like this," said Tompkins, with the tone and air of a man who was cornered. " But, there are so many calls for charity, that we are naturally enough led. to hold on pretty tightly to our purse strings. Poor woman ! I feel sorry for her. How much do you want i" THE THANKLESS OFFICE. 153 " I am trying to get ten persons, including myself, tc give a dollar each." '-v:. " Well, here's my dollar." And Tompkins forced * smile to his face as he handed over his contribution but the smile did not conceal an expression which said very plainly " I hope you will not trouble me again in this way." 9 " You may* be sure I will not," muttered Lyon, as he went away. He fully understood the meaning of the expression. Only one more application did the kind-hearted man make. It was successful ; but, there was something in the manner of the individual who gave his dollar, that Lyon felt as a rebuke. " And so poor Mrs. Arnold did not get the whole of her arrears of rent paid off," says some one who has felt an interest in her favor. Oh, yes she did. Mr. Lyon begged five dollars, and added five more from his own slender purse. But, he cannot be induced again to undertake the thankless ^Sce of seeking relief from the benevolent for a fellow creature in need. He has learned that a great many who refuse alms on the plea that the object presented is not worthy, are but little more inclined to charitable deeds, when on this point there is no question. How many who *cad this can sympathise with 7* 154 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. Andrew Lyon. Few men who have hearts to feel fol others but have been impelled, at some time in their lives, to seek aid for a fellow-creature in need. That their office was a thankless one, they have too soon become aware. Even those who responded to their call most liberally, in too many instances gave in a way that left an unpleasant impression behind. How quickly has the first glow of generous feeling, that sought to extend itself to others, that they might share the pleasure of humanity, been chilled ; and, instead of finding the task an easy one, it has proved to be hard, and, too often, humiliating ! Alas, that this should be ! That men should shut their hearts so instinctively at the voice of charity. We have not written this to discourage active efforts in the benevolent ; but to hold up a mirror in which another class may see themselves. At best, the office of him who seeks of his fellow-men aid for the suffer- ing and indigent, is an unpleasant one. It is all sacri- fice on his part, and the least that can be done is to honor his disinterested regard for others in distress, and treat him with delicacy and consideration. GOING TO THE SPRINGS; OR, VULGAR PEOPLE. " I SUPPOSE you will all be off to Saratoga, in a week or two," said Uncle Joseph Garland to his three nieces, as he sat chatting with them and their mother, one hot day, about the first of July. " We're not going to Saratoga this year," replied Emily, the eldest, with a toss of her head. " Indeed 1 And why not, Emily !" u Everybody goes to Saratoga, now." " Who do you mean by everybody, Emily F* " Why, I mean merchants, shop-keepers, and trades men, with their wives and daughters, all mixed up together, into a kind of hodge-podge. It used to be a fashionable place of resort but people that think any thing of themselves, don't go there now." M Bless me, child !" ejaculated old Uncle Joseph, in I 156 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. surprise. " This is all new 1 to me. But you were there last year." " I know. And that cured us all. There was not a day in which we were not crowded down to the table among the most vulgar kind of people." " How, vulgar, Emily ?" " Why, there was Mr. Jones, the watchmaker, with his wife and two daughters. I need not explain what I mean by vulgar, when I give you that information." " I cannot say that I have any clearer idea of what you mean, Emily." " You talk strangely, uncle ! You do not suppose that we are going to associate with the Joneses ?" " I did not say that I did. Still, I am in the dark as to what you mean by the most vulgar kind of people." " Why, common people, brother," said Mrs. Ludlow, coming up to the aid of her daughter. " Mr. Jones is only a watchmaker, and therefore has no business to push himself and family into the company of genteel people." " Saratoga is a place of public resort," was the quiet reply. " Well, genteel people will have to stay away, then, that's all. I, at least, for one, am not going to be annoyed as I have been for the last two or three seasons GOING TO THE SPRINGS. 157 at Saratoga, by being thrown amongst all sorts of people." " They never troubled me any," spoke up Florence Ludlow, the youngest of the three sisters. "For my part, I liked Mary Jones very much. She was " " You are too much of a child to be able to judge in matters of this kind," said the mother, interrupting Florence. Florence was fifteen; light-hearted and innocent. She had never been able, thus far in life, to appreciate the exclusive principles upon which her mother and sisters acted, and had, in consequence, frequently fallen under their censure. Purity of heart, and the genuine graces flowing from a truly feminine spirit, always at- tracted her, no matter what the station of the individ- ual in whose society she happened to be thrown. The remark of her mother silenced her, for the time, for experience had taught her that no good ever resulted from a repetition of her opinions on a subject of this kind. " And I trust she will ever remain the child she is, in these matters," said Uncle Joseph, with emphasis. " It is the duty of every one, sister, to do all that he can to set aside the false ideas of distinction prevailing in the social world, and to build up on a broader and truer foundation, a right estimate of men and things. 158 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. Florence, I have observed, discriminates according tc the quality of the person's mind into whose society she is thrown, and estimates accordingly. But you, and *Smily, and Adeline, judge of people according to their ank in society that is according to the position to which wealth alone has raised them. In this way, and in no other, can you be thrown so into association with ' all kinds of people,' as to be really affected by them. For, the result of my observation is, that in any circle where a mere external sign is the passport to associa- tion, ' all sorts of people,' the good, the bad, and the indifferent, are mingled. It is not a very hard thing for a bad man to get rich, sister ; but for a man of evil principles to rise above them, is very hard, indeed ; and is an occurrence that too rarely happens. The conse- quence is, that they who are rich, are not always the ones whom we should most desire to mingle with." " I don't see that there is any use in our talking about these things, brother," replied Mrs. Ludlow. "You know that you and I never did agree in matters of this kind. As I have often told you, I think you incline to be rather low in your social views." "How can that be a low view which regards the quality of another, and estimates him accordingly ?" was the reply. " I don't pretend to argue with you, on these subjects, GOING TO THE SPRINGS. 159 brother; so you will oblige me by dropping them," said Mrs. Ludlow, coloring, and speaking in an offended tone. "Well, well, never mind," Uncle Joseph replied socthingly. " We will drop them." Then turning to Emily, he continued " And so your minds are made up not to go to Sara toga f ' " Yes, indeed." " Well, where do you intend spending the summer months ?" " I hardly know yet But, if I have my say, we will take a trip in one of the steamers. A flying visit o London would be delightful." " What does your father say to that ?" " Why, he won't listen to it. But I'll do my best to bring him round and so will Adeline. As for Flor- ence, I believe I will ask father to let her go to Saratoga with the Joneses." " I shall have no very decided objections," 'was the quiet reply of Florence. A half angry and reproung glance from her mother, warned her to be more discreet in the declaration of her sentiments. A young lady should never attempt to influence her father," said Uncle Joseph. "She should trust to his judgment in all matters, and be willing to deny 160 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. herself any pleasure to which he objected. If you* father will not listen to your proposition to go to London, be sure that he has some good reason for if" " Well, I don't know that he has such very good reasons, beyond his reluctance to go away from busi- ness," Emily replied, tossing her head. " And should not you, as his daughter, consider this a most conclusive reason ? Ought not your father's wishes and feelings be considered first ?" " You, may see it so, Uncle ; but I cannot say that I do." " Emily," and Uncle Joseph spoke in an excited tone of voice, " If you hold these sentiments, you are unworthy of such a man as your father !" " Brother, you must not speak to the girls in that way," said Mrs. Ludlow. " I shall always speak my thoughts in your house Margaret," was the reply ; " at least to you and the girls. As far as Mr. Ludlow is concerned, I have rarely occasion to differ with him." A long silence followed, broken at last by an allusion to some other subject ; when a better understanding among all parties ensued. On that evening, Mr. Ludlow ' seemed graver than visual when he came in. After tea, Emily said, break TO THE SPRINGS. 161 iiig in upon a conversation that had become somewhat interesting to Mr. Ludlow " I'm not going to let you have a moment's peace, Pa, until you consent, to go to England with us this season." " Fm afraid it wiL be a long time before I shall have any peace, then, Emily," replied the father, with an effort to smile, but evidently worried by the remark. This, Florence, who was sitting close by him, perceived instantly, and said " Well, I can tell you, for one, Pa, that I don't wish to go. I'd rather stay at home a hundred times." u It's no particular difference, I presume, what you like," remarked Emily, ill-naturedly. " If you don't wish to go, I suppose no one will quarrel with you for staying at home." " You are wrong to talk so, Emily," said Mr. Ludlow, calmly but firmly, " and I cannot permit such remarks in my presence." Emily looked rebuked, and Mr. Ludlow proceeded. " As to going to London, that is altogether out of the question. The reasons why it is so, are various, and I cannot now make you acquainted with all of them. One is, that I cannot leave ray business so long as such a journey would require. Another is, that I do not think it altogether right for me to indulge you in 162 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. 8uch views and feelings as you and Adeline are begin- ning to entertain. You wish to go to London, because you don't want to go to Saratoga, or to any other of ur watering places ; *nd you don't want to go there, Decause certain others, whom you esteem below you in rank, can afford to enjoy themselves, and recruit their health at the same places of public resort. All this I do not approve, and cannot encourage." " You certainly cannot wish us to associate with every one," said Emily, in a tone less arrogant. " Of course not, Emily," replied Mr. Ludlow ; " but I do most decidedly condemn the spirit from which you are now acting. It would exclude others, many of whom, in moral character, are far superior to yourself, from enjoying the pleasant, health-imparting recreation of a visit to the Springs, because it hurts your self- importance to be brought into brief contact wth them." " I can't understand what you mean by speaking of these kind of people as superior in moral character to us," Mrs. Ludlow remarked. " I said some of them. And, in this, I mean what I say. Wealth and station in society do not give moral tone. They are altogether extraneous, and too fre- quently exercise a deteriorating influence upon the character. There is Thomas, the porter in my store GOING TO THE SPRINGS. 163 a plain, pocr man, of limited education ; yet possessing high moral qualities, that I would give much to call my own. This man's character I esteem far above that of many in society .to whom no one thinks of objecting. There are hundreds and thousands of humble and unassuming persons like him, far superior in the high moral qualities of mind to the mass of self- esteeming excluSkes, who think the very air around them tainted by their breath. Do you suppose that I would enjoy less the pleasures of a few weeks at Saratoga, because Thomas was there ? I would, rather, be gratified to see him enjoying a brief relaxation, if his dudes at the store could be remitted in my ab- sence." There was so much of the appearance of truth in what Mr. Ludlow said, combined with a decided tone and manner, that neither his wife or daughters ventured a reply. But they had no affection for the truth he utttered, and of course it made no salutary impression on their minds. " What shall we do, Ma ?" asked Adeline, as they sat with their mother, on the next afternoon. " We must go somewhere this summer, and Pa seems in earnest about not letting us visit London." "I don't know, I am sure, child," was the reply. 164 HEART HISTORIKS AND LIFE PICTURES. " I can't think of going to Saratoga," said Emily, iu a positive tone. " The Emmersons are going," Adeline remarked. "How do you know?" asked Emily in a tone of surprise. " Victorine told me so this morning." " She did !" " Yes. I met her at Mrs. Lemraington's and she said that they were all going next week." " I don't understand that," said Emily, musingly. " It was only last week that Victorine told me that they were done going to Saratoga ; that the place had become too common. It had been settled, she said, that they were to go out in the next steamer." " Mr. Emmerson, I believe, would not consent, and so, rather than not go anywhere, they concluded to visit Saratoga, especially as the Lesters, and Milfords, and Luptons are going." "Are they all going?" asked Emily, in renewed surprise. " So Victorine said." M Well, I declare 1 there is no kind of dependence to be placed in people now-a-days. They all told me that they could not think of going to such a vulgar place as Saratoga again"." Then, after a pause, Emily resumed, GOING TO THE SPRINGS. 165 " As it will never do to stay at home, we will have to go somewhere. What do you think of the Virginia Springs, Ma ?" " I think that I am not going there, to be jolted haL o death in a stage coach by the way." " Where, then, shall we go ?" "I don't know, unless to Saratoga." " Victorine saW," remarked Adeline, " that a large number of distinguished visiters were to be there, and that it was thought the season would be the gayest spent for some time." " I suppose we will have to go, then," said Emily. " I am ready," responded Adeline." " And so am I," said Florence. That evening Mr. Ludlow was graver and more silent than usual. After tea, as he felt no inclination to join in the general conversation about the sayings and doings of distinguished and fashionable individuals, he took a newspaper, and endeavored to become interested n its contents. But he tried in vain. There was something upon his mind that absorbed his attention at the same time that it oppressed his feelings. From a deep reverie he was at length roused by Emily, who said " So, Pa, you are determined not to let us go out ia the next steamer ?" 186 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " Don't talk to me on that subject any more, if you please," replied Mr. Ludlow, much, worried at th*e remark. " Well, that's all given up now," continued Emily, "and we've made up our minds to go to Saratoga. How soon will you be able to go with us ?" "Not just now," was the brief, evasive reply. " We don't want to go until next week." " I am not sure that I can go even then." " O, but we must go then, Pa." " You cannot go without me," said Mr. Ludlow, in a grave tone. " Of course not," replied Emily and Adeline at the same moment. " Suppose, then, I cannot leave the city next week ?" " But you can surely." " I am afraid not. Business matters press upon me, and will, I fear, engage my exclusive attention for several weeks to come." "0, but indeed you must lay aside business," said Mrs. Ludlow. " It will never do for us to stay at home, you know, during the season when everybody is away." " I shall be very sorry if circumstances arise to prevent you having your regular summer recreation," was replied, in a serious, even sad tone. " But, I trust GOING TO THE SPRINGS. 167 my wife and daughters will acquiesce with cheerful- ness." " Indeed, indeed, Pa ! We never can stay at home," said Emily, with a distressed look. " How would i* appear ? What would people say if we were to remain in the city during all the summer ?" " I don't know, Emily, that you should consider that as having any relation to the matter. What have other people to do with matters which concerns u.% alone " " You talk very strangely of late, Mr. Ludlow," said his wife. " Perhaps I have reason for so doing," he responded, a shadow flitting across his face: An embarrassing silence ensued, which was broken, at last, by Mr. Ludlow. " Perhaps," he began, " there may occur no better time than the present, to apprise you all of a matter that must, sooner or later, become known to you. We will have to make an effort to reduce our expenses and it seems to me that this matter of going to the Springs, which will cost some three or four hundred dollars, might as well be dispensed with. Business is in a worse condition than I have ever known it ; and I am sustaining, almost daily, losses that are becoming alarming. Within the last six weeks I have lost, 168 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. beyond hope, at least twenty thousand dollars. How much more will go I am unable to say. But there are large sums due me that may follow the course of that Iready gone. Under these circumstances, I am driven to the necessity of prudence in all my expenditures." "But three or four hundred are not much, Pa," Emily urged, in a husky voice, and with dimmed eyes. For the fear of not being able to go somewhere, was terrible to her. None but vulgar people staid at home during the summer season. " It is too large a sum to throw away now. So I think you had all better conclude at once not to go from home this summer," said Mr. Ludlow. A gush of tears from Emily and Adeline followed this annunciation, accompanied by a look of decided disapprobation from the mother. Mr. Ludlow felt deeply tried, and for some moments his resolution wavered ; but reason came to his aid, and he remained firm. He was accounted a very rich merchant. In good times, he had entered into business, and prose- cuted it with great energy. The consequence was, that he had accumulated money rapidly. The social eleva- tion consequent upon this, was too much for his wife. Her good sense could not survive it. She not only became impressed with the idea, that, because she was richer, she was better than others, but that only such GOIKO TO THE SPRINGS. 139 customs were to be tolerated in " good society," as were different from prevalent usages in the mass. Into this idea her two eldest daughters were thoroughly inducted. Mr. Ludlow, immersed in business, thought little about such matters, and suffered himself to be led into almost anything that his wife and daughters proposed. But Mrs. Ludlow's brother Uncle Joseph, as he was called a baclTelor, and a man of strong common sense, steadily opposed his sister in her false notions, but with little good effect. Necessity at last called into proper activity the good sense of Mr. Ludlow, and he commenced the opposition that has just been noticed. After reflecting some time upon the matter, he resolved not to assent to his family leaving home at all during the summer. All except Florence were exceedingly distressed at this. She acquiesced with gentleness and patience, although she had much desired to spend a few weeks at Saratoga. But Mrs. Ludlow, Emily, and Adeline, closed up the front part of the house, and gave directions to the servants not to answer the door bell, nor to do anything that would give the least suspicion that the family were in town. Then ensconcing them- selves in the back buildings of their dwelling, they waited in gloomy indolence for the " out of the city" season to pass away ; consoling themselves with the 170 HEAKi' HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. idea, that if they were not permitted to join the fashionables at the Springs, it would at least be supposed that they had gone some where into the country, and thus they hoped to escape the terrible penalty of losing caste for not conforming to au indispensable rule of high life. Mr. Ludlow was compelled to submit to all this, and he did so without much opposition ; but it all deter- mined him to commence a steady opposition to the false principles which prompted such absurd observances. As to Uncle Joseph, he was indignant, and failing to gain admittance by way of the front door after one or two trials, determined not to go near his sister and nieces, a promise which he kept for a few weeks, at least. Meantime, every thing was passing off pleasantly at Saratoga. Among the distinguished and undistin- guished visitors there, was Mary Jones, and her father, a man of both wealth and worth, notwithstanding he was only a watchmaker and jeweller. Mary was a girl of no ordinary character. With beauty of person far exceeding that of the Misses Ludlow, she had a well cultivated mind, and was far more really and truly accomplished than they were. Necessarily, therefore, she attracted attention at the Springs ; and this -had been one cause of Emily's objection to her. GOING IO THE SPRINGS. 1*71 A day or two after her arrival at Saratoga, she wa sitting near a window of the public parlor of one of the hotels, when a young man, named Armand, whom she had seen there several times before, during the watering season, in company with Emily Ludlow, with whose family he appeared to be on intimate terms came up to her and introduced himselfc " Pardon me, Miss Jones," said he, " but not seeing any of the Miss Ludlows here, I presumed that you might be able to inform me whether they intend visiting Saratoga or not, this season, and, therefore, I have broken through all formalities in addressing you. You are well acquainted with Florence, I believe 2" " Very well, sir," Mary, replied. " Then perhaps you can answer my question I" " I believe I can, sir. I saw Florence several times within the last week or two ; and she says that they shall not visit any of the Springs this season." " Indeed 1 And how comes that ?" " I believe the reason is no secret," Mary replied, utterly unconscious that any one could be ashamed of a right motive, and that an economical one. " Florence tells me that her father lias met with many heavy losses in business ; and that they think it best not to incur any unnecessary expenses. I almire such a course in them." 172 HEART HISTORIES J ND LIFE PICTURES. " And s do I, most sincerely," replied Mr. Armand. Then, after thinking for a moment, he added " I will return to the city in the next boat. All of their friends being away, they must feel exceedingly lonesome." " It will certainly be a kind act, Mr. Armand, and one, the motive for which they cannot but highly appreciate," said Mary, with an inward glow of admiration. It was about eleven o'clock on the next day that Mr. Armand pulled the bell at the door of Mr. Ludlow's beautiful dwelling, and then waited with a feeling of impatience for the servant to answer the summons. But he waited in vain. .No servant came. He rang again, and again waited long enough for a servant to come half a dozen times. Then he looked up at the house and saw that all the shutters were closed ; and down upon the marble steps, and perceived that they were covered with dust and dirt ; and on the bell- handle, and noted its loss of brightness. u Miss Jones must have been mistaken," he said to himself, as he gave the bell a third pull, and then waited, but in vain, for the hall-door to be swung open. " Who can it be ?" asked Emily, a good deal disturbed, as tlfle bell rang violently for th third time. TO THE SPRINGS. 173 and, in company with Adeline, went softly into th parlor to take a peep through one of the shutters. " Mr. Armand, as I live !" she ejaculated, in a low* husky whisper, turning pale. " I would not have him know that we are in town for the world !" And then she stole away quietly, with her heart leaping and fluttering in her bosom, lest he should instinctively perceive her presence. Finding that admission was not to be obtained, Mr. Armand concluded that the family had gone to some other watering place, and turned away irresolute as to his future course. As he was passing down Broadway, he met Uncle Joseph. " So the Ludlows are all out of town," he said. " So they are not !" replied Uncle Joseph, rather crustily, for he had just been thinking over their strange conduct, and it irritated him. " Why, I have been ringing there for a quarter of an hour, and no one came to the door ; and the house is all shut up." " Yea ; and if you had rung for a quarter of a century, it would all have been the same." " I can't understand you," said Mr. Armand. " Why, the truth is, Mr. Ludlow cannot go to the Springs with them this season, and they are so afraid that it will become known that they are burying them- 174 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. selves in the back part of the house, and denying all visitors." " Why so t I cannot comprehend it." " All fashionable people, you know, are expected to o to the sea-shore or the Springs ; and my sister and her two eldest daughters are so silly, as to fear that they will lose caste, if it is known that they co'uld not go this season. Do you understand now ?" " Perfectly." " Well, that's the plain A B C of the case. But it provokes me out of all patience with them." " It's a strange idea, certainly," said Mr. Armand, in momentary abstraction of thought; and then bidding Uncle Joseph good morning, he walked hastily along, his mind in a state of fermentation. The truth was, Mr. Armand had become much attached to Emily Ludlow, for she was a. girl of imposing appearance and winning manners. But this staggered him. If she were such a slave to fashion ind observance, she was not the woman for his wife. As he reflected upon the matter, and reviewed his intercourse with her, he could remember many things in her conversation and conduct that he did not like. He could distinctly detect a degree of self-estimation consequent upon her station in society, that did not meet his approbation because it indicated a weaknesa GOING TO THE SPRINGS. 1*74 of mind that he had no wish to have in a wife. The wealth of her father he had not regarded, nor did now regard, for he was himself possessor of an independence. Two days after, he was again at Saratoga. The orief interview that had passed between- him and Mary Jones was a sufficient introduction for him ; and, taking advantage of i^, he threw himself in her way frequently, and the more he saw of her, the more did he admire her winning gentleness, sweet temper, and good sense. When he returned to New York, he was more than half in love with her. " Mr. Armand has not been to see us once this fall," said Adeline, one evening in October. They were sit- ting in a handsomely furnished parlor in a neat dwelling, comfortable and commodious, but not so splendid as the one they had occupied a few months previous. Mr. Ludlow's affairs had become so embarrassed, that he determined, in spite of the opposition of his family, to reduce his expenses. This resolution he carried out amid tears and remonstrances for he could not do it n any other way. " Who could expect him to come here ?" Emily replied, to the remark of her sister. " Not I, certainly." " I don't believe that would make any difference with him," Florence ventured to say, for it was little that she could say, that did not meet with opposition. 176 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. ' Why don't you ?" asked Adeline. " Because Mary Jones " " Mary Jones again !" ejaculated Emily. " I beheva you don't think of anybody but Mary Jones. I'm sur- prised that Ma lets you visit that girl !" " As good people as I am visit her," replied Florence. "I've seen those there who would be welcome here." " What do you mean ?" " If you had waited until I had finished my sen- tence, you would have known before now. Mary Jones lives in a house no better than this, and Mr. Armand goes to see her.'' " I don't believe it !" said Emily, with emphasis. " Just as you like about that. Seeing is believing, they say, and as I have seen him there, I can do no less than believe he was there." " When did you see him there ?" Emily now asked with eager interest, while her face grew pale. " I saw him there last evening and he sat convers- ing with Mary in a way that showed them to be no strangers to each other." A long, embarrassed, and painful silence followed this announcement. At last, Emily got up and went off to her chamber, where she threw herself upon her bed and burst into tears. After these ceased to flow, and her mind had become, in some degree, tranquillized, her GOING TO THE SPRINGS. 177 thoughts became busy. She remembered that Mr. Armand had called, while they were hiding away in fear lest it should be known that they were not on a fashionable visit to some watering place how he had rung and rung repeatedly, as if under the idea that they were there, and how his countenance expressed disappointment as she caught a glimpse of it through the closed shutters. With all this came, also, the idea that he might have discovered that they were at home, and have despised the principle from which they acted, in thus shutting themselves up, and denying all visiters. This thought was exceedingly painful. It was evident to her, that it was not their changed circumstances that kept him away for had he not visited Mary Jones ? Uncle Joseph came in a few evenings afterwards, and during his visit the following conversation took place. " Mr. Armand visits Mary Jones, I am told," Adeline remarked, as an opportunity for saying so occurred. " He does ? Well, she is a good girl one in a thou- sand," replied Uncle Joseph. " She is only a watchmaker's daughter," said Emily, with an ill-concealed sneer. " And you are only a merchant's daughter. Pray, what is the difference P u Why, a good deal of difference !" 8* 1*78 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURE*. " Well state it." " Mr. Jones is nothing but a mechanic." " Well I" " Who Chinks of associating with mechanics ?" " There may be some who refuse to do so ; but upon what grounds do they assume a superiority ?" " Because they are really above them." " But in what respect ?" " They are better and more esteemed in society." " As to their being better, that is only an assumption. But I see I must bring the matter right home. Would ycu be really any worse, were your father a mechanic ?" " The question is not a fair one. You suppose an impossible case." " Not so impossible as you might imagine. You are the daughter of a mechanic." " Brother, why will you talk so ? I am out of all patience with you !" said Mrs. Ludlow, angrily. "And yet, no one knows better than you, that I speak only the truth. No one knows better than you, hat Mr. Ludlow served many years at the trade of a shoemaker. And that, consequently, these high- minded young ladies, who sneer at mechanics, are themselves a shoemaker's daughters a fact that is just as well known abroad as anything else relating to the family. And now, Misses Emily and Adeline, I hope OOIXO TO THE SPRINGS. 179 you will hereafter find it in your hearts to be a little more tolerant of mechanics' daughters." And thus saying, Uncle Joseph rose, and bidding them good, night, left them to their own reflections, which were not of the most pleasant character, especially as the mother could not deny the allegation he had made. During the next summer, Mr. Ludlow, whose busi- ness was no longer embarrassed, and who had become satisfied that, although he should sink a large propor- tion of a handsome fortune, he would still have a com- petence left, and that well secured proposed to visit Saratoga, as usual. There was not a dissenting voice no objecting on the score of meeting vulgar people there. The painful fact disclosed by Uncle Joseph, of their plebeian origin, and the marriage of Mr. Armand whose station in society was not to be questioned with Mary Jones, the watchmaker's daughter, had soft- ened and subdued their tone of feeling, and caused them to set up a new standard of estimation. The old one would not do, for, judged by that, they would have to hide their diminished heads. Their conduct at the Springs was far less objectionable than it had been heretofore, partaking of the modest and retiring in deportment, rather than the assuming, the arrogant, 180 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. and the self-sufficient. Mrs. Arinand was there, with her sister, moving in. the first circles ; and Emily Lud- low and her sister Adeline felt honored rather than humiliated by an association with them. It is to be hoped they will yet make sensible women. THE WIFE. " I AM hopeless !" said the young man, in a voioa that was painfully desponding. " Utterly hopeless ! Heaven knows I have tried hard to get employment ! But no one has need of my service. The pittance doled out by your father, and which comes with a sense of humiliation that is absolutely heart-crushing, is scarcely sufficient to provide this miserable abode, and keep hunger from our door. But for your sake, I would not touch a shilling of his money if I starved." " Hush, dear Edward !" returned the gentle girl, who had left father, mother, and a pleasant home, to share the lot of him she loved ; and she laid a finger on his lips, while she drew her arm around him. "Agnes," said the young man, "I cannot endure this life much longer. The native independence of my character revolts at our present condition. Months 182 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. have elapsed, and yet the ability I possess finds no employment. In this country every avenue is crowded." The room in which they were overlooked the sea. " But there is another land, where, if what we he? be true, ability finds employment and talent a sure reward." And, as Agnes said this, in a voice of encouragement, she pointed from the window towards the expansive waters that stretched far away towards the south and west. " America !" The word was uttered in a quick, earnest voice. Yes." " Agnes, I thank you for this suggestion ! Return to the pleasant home you left for one who cannot procure for you even the plainest comforts of life, and I wih 1 cross the ocean to seek a better fortune in that land of promise. The separation, painful to both, will not, I trust, be long." " Edward," replied the young wife with enthusiasm, as she drew her arm more tightly about his neck, " will never leave thee nor forsake thee ! Where thou goest I will go, and where thou liest I will lie. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." " Would you forsake all," said Edward, in surprise, u and go far away with me into a strange land ?" THE WIFE. 183 " It will be no stranger to me than it will be to you. Edward." "No, no, Agnes! I will not think of that," said Edward Marvel, in a positive voice. " If I go to that land of promise, it must first be alone." " Alone !" A shadow fell over the face of Agnes. " Alone ! It cannot it must not be I" "But think,-Agnes. If I go alone, it will cost me but a small sum to live until I find some business, which may not be for weeks, or even months after I arrive in the New World." " What if you were to be sick ?" The frame of Agnes slightly quivered as she made this sugges- tion. " We will not think of that" " I cannot help thinking of it, Edward. Therefore entreat me not to leave thee, nor to return from follow- ing after thee. Where thou goest, I will go." Marvel's countenance became more serious. ** Agnes," said the young man, after he had reflected for some time, " let us think no more about this. I cannot take you far away to this strange country. We will go back to London. Perhaps another trial there may be more successful." After a feeble opposition on the part of Agnes, it was finally agreed that Edward should go once more to 184 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. London, while she made a brief visit to her parents, If he found employment, she was to join him imme- diately ; if not successful, they were then to talk further of the journey to America. With painful reluctance, Agnes went back to her father's house, the door of which ever stood open to receive her ; and she went back alone. The pride of her husband would not permit him to cross the threshold of a dwelling where his presence was not a welcome one. In eager suspense, she waited for a whole week ere a letter came from Edward. The tone of this letter was as cheerful and as hopeful as it was possible for the young man to write. But, as yet, he had found no employment. A week elapsed before another came. It opened in these words : - " MY DEAR, DEAR AGXES 1 Hopeless of doing any- thing here, I have turned my thoughts once more to the land of promise ; and, when you receive this, I will be on my journey thitherward. Brief, very brief, I trust, will be our separation. The moment I obtain employment, I will send for you, and then our re-union will take place with a fulness of delight such as we have not yet experienced." i Lng, tender, and hopeful was the letter; but it brought a burden of grief and heart-sickness to the THE WIFK. l^J tender young creature, who felt almost as if she had been deserted by the one who was dear to her as her own life. Only a few days had Edward Marvel been at sea, when he became seriously indisposed, and, for the remaining part of the voyage, was so ill as to be unable to rise from his berth. He had embarked in a packet ship from Liverpool bound for New York, where he arrived, at the expiration of five weeks. Then he was removed to the sick wards of the hospital on Staten Island, and it was the opinion of the physicians there that he would die. "Have you friends in this country?" inquired a nurse who was attending the young man. This question was asked on the day after he had become an inmate of the hospital. " None," was the feebly uttered reply. " You are very ill," said the nurse. The sick man looked anxiously into the face of his ' attendant. " You have friends in England ?" "Yes." " Have you any communication to make to them ? n Marvel closed his eyes, and remained for some tim* ilent. 186 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " If you will get me a pen and some paper, I will write a few lines," said he at length. " I'm afraid y DU are too weak for the effort," replied the nurse. " Let me try," was briefly answered. The attendant left the room. " Is there any one in your part of the house named Marvel 2" asked a physician, meeting the nurse soon after she had left the sick man's room. " There's a young woman down in the office inquiring for a person of that name." " Marvel Marvel ?" the nurse shook her head. " Are you certain ?" remarked the physician. " I'm certain there is. no one by that name for whom any here would make inquiries. There's a young Englishman who came over in the last packet, whose name is something like that you mention. But he has no friends in this country." The physician passed on without further remark. Soon after, the nurse returned to Marvel with the writing materials for which he had asked. She drew a table to the side of his bed, and supported him as he leaned over and tried, with an unsteady hand, to write. " Have you a wife at home ?" asked the nurse ; her eyes had rested on the first words he wrote. THE WIFE. 187 u Yea," sighed the young man, as the pen dropped from his fingers, and he leaned back heavily, exhausted by even the slight effort he had made. " Your name is Marvel !" Yes." * A young woman was here just now inquiring if we had a patient by that name." " By my name ?" There was a slight indication of surprise. "Yes." Marvel closed his eyes, and did not speak for some moments. " Did you see her ?" he asked at length, evincing some interest. " Yes." u Did she find the one for whom she was seeking ?" " There is no person here, except yourself, whose name came near to the one she mentioned. As you said you had no friends in this country, we did not suppose that you were meant." " No, no." And the sick man shook his head slow ly. " There is none to ask for me. Did you say it was a young woman 1" he inquired, soon after. His mind dwelt on the occurrence. " Yes. A young woman with a fair complexion and deep blue eyes." 188 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. Marvel looked up quickly into the face ot the attendant, while a flush came into his cheeks. " She was a slender young girl, with light hair, and her face was pale, as from trouble." " Agnes ! Agnes !" exclaimed Marvel, rising up. "But, no, no," he added, mournfully, sinking back again upon the bed ; " that cannot be. I left her far away over the wide ocean." " Will you write ?" said the nurse after some mo- ments. The invalid, without unclosing his eyes, slowly shook his head. A little while the attendant lingered in his room, and then retired. " Dear, dear Agnes !" murmured Edward Marvel, closing his eyes, and letting his thoughts go, swift- winged, across the billowy sea. " Shall I never look on your sweet face again ? Never feel your light arms about my neck, or your breath warm on my cheek f Oh, that I had never left you! Heaven give thee strength to bear the trouble in store !" For many minutes he lay thus, alone, with his eyes closed, in sad self-communion. Then he heard the door open and close softly ; but he did not look up. His thoughts were far, far away. Light feet approached quickly ; but he scarcely heeded them. A form be it over him ; but his eyes remained shut, nor did he op * THE WIFE. 189 them until warm lips were pressed against his own, and a low voice, thrilling through his whole being, said "Edward!" " Agnes !" was his quick response, while his arms were thrown eagerly around the neck of his wife, Agnes ! Agnes ! Have I awakened from a fearful dream ?" Yes, it was indeed her of whom he had been think- ing. The moment she received his letter, informing her that he had left for the United States, she resolved to follow him in the next steamer that sailed. This purpose she immediately avowed to her parents. At first, they would not listen to her ; but, finding that she would, most probably, elude their vigilance, and get away in spite of all efforts to prevent her, they deemed it more wise and prudent to provide her with everything necessary for the voyage, and to place her in the care of the captain of the steamship in which she was to go. In New York they had friends, to whom they gave her letters fully explanatory of her mission, and earnestly commending her to their care and protection. Two weeks before the ship in which Edward Marvel bailed reached her destination, Agnes was in New York. Before her departure, she had sought, but in vain, to discover the name of the vessel in which her 190 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. husband had embarked. On arriving in the New World, she was therefore uncertain whether he had preceded her in a steamer, or was still lingering on the The friends to whom Agnes brought letters received her with great kindness, and gave her all the advice and assistance needed under the circumstances. But two weeks went by without a word of intelligence on the one \ubject that absorbed all her thoughts. Sadly was her health beginning to suffer. Sunken eyes and pale cheeks attested the weight of suffering that was on her. One day it was announced that a Liverpool packet had arrived with the ship fever on board, and that several of the passengers had been removed to the hospital. A thrill of fear went through the heart of the anxious wife. It was soon ascertained that Marvel had been a passenger on board of this vessel; but, from some cause, nothing in regard to him beyond this fact could she learn. Against all persuasion, she started for the hospital, her heart oppressed with a fearful presentiment that he was either dead or struggling in the grasp of a fatal malady. On making inquiry at the hospital, she was told the one she sought was not THE WIFE. 191 there, and she was about returning ta the city, when the truth reached her ears. " Is he very ill ?" she asked, struggling to compose herself! " Yee, he is extremely ill," was the reply. "And it might not be well for you, under the circumstances, to see him at present." " Not well for his wife to see him ?" returned Agnes. Tears sprung to her eyes at the thought of not Being permitted to come near in his extremity. " Do not say that. Oh, take me to him ! I will save his life." " You must be very calm," said the nurse ; for it was with her she was talking. " The least excitement may be fatal." " Oh, I will be calm and prudent." Yet, even while she spoke, her frame quivered with excitement. But she controlled herself when the moment ot meeting came, and, though her unexpected appear ance produced a shock, it was salutary rather thai injurious. "My dear, dear Agnes!" said Edward Marvel, s. month from this time, as they sat alone in the chamber of a pleasant house in New York, " I owe you my life. But for your prompt resolution to follow me across the ea, I would, in all probability, now be sleeping the 192 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. sleep of death. Oh, what would I not suffer for your take r As Marvel uttered the last sentence, a troubled ex- pression flitted over his countenance. Agnes gazed tenderly into his face, and asked " Why this look of doubt and anxiety I" " Need 1 answer the question ?" returned the young man. " It is, thus far, no better with me than when we left our old home. Though health is coming back through every fibre, and my heart is filled with an eager desire to relieve these kind friends of the burden of our support, yet no prospect opens." No cloud came stealing darkly over the face of the young wife. The sunshine, so far from being dimmed, was brighter. " Let not your heart be troubled," said she, with a beautiful smile. " All will come out right" " Right, Agnes ? It is not right for me thus to depend on strangers." " You need depend but a little while longer. I have already made warm friends here, and, through them, secured for you employment A good place awaits you o soon as strength to fill it comes back to your weak- ened frame." " Angel !" exclaimed the young man, overcome with motion at so unexpected a declaration. THE WIFE. 193 * No, not au angel," calmly replied Agnes, u only a wife. And now, dear Edward," she added, "never again, in any extremity, think for a moment of meeting trials or enduring privations alone. Having taken a wife, you cannot move safely on your journey unless she moves by your side." " Angel I Yes, you are my good angel." repeated Edward. " Call me what you will," said Agnes, with a sweet smile, as she brushed, with her delicate hand, the Hair from his temples ; " but let me be your wife. .. asc 00 better name, no higher station." NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY. How pure and sweet is the love of young hearts 1 hfow little does it contain of earth how much of heaven ! No selfish passions mar its beauty. Its tenderness, its pathos, its devotion, who does net remember, even when the sere leaves of autumn are rustling beneath his feet ? How little does it regard the cold and calculating objections of wondly-mindedness. They are heard but- as a passing murmur. The deep, unswerving confidence of young love, what a blessed thing it is ! Heart answers to heart without an unequal throb. The world around is bright and beautiful : the atmosphere is filled with spring's most delicious perfumes. From this dream why should we call it a dream ? Is it not a blessed reality ? Is not young, fervent love, true love f Alas ! this is an evil world, and man's heart is evil. From this dream there is too often a NOT 6KKAT, BUT HAPPT. 195 tearful awaking. Often, too often, hearts are suddenly torn asunder, and wounds are made that never heal, or, healing, leave hard, disfiguring scars. But this is not always so. Pure love sometimes finds its own sweet reward. I will relate one precious instance. The Baron Holbein, after having passed ten years of active life in a large metropolitan city of Europe, retired to his estate in a beautiful and fertile valley, far away from the gay circle of fashion far away from the sounds of political rancor with which he had been too long familiar far away from the strife of selfish men and contnding interests. He had an only child, Nina, just fifteen years of age. For her sake, as well as to indulge his love of quiet and nature, he had retired from the world. Her mother had been with the angels for some years. Without her wise counsels and watchful care, the father feared to leave his innocent- minded child exposed to the temptations that must gather around her in a large city. For a time Nina missed her young companions, and pined to be with' them. The old castle was lonely, and the villagers did not interest her. Her father urged her to go among the peasantry, and, *s an inducement, placed a considerable sum of money at her command, to be used as she might see best in works of benevo- lence. Nina's heart was warm, and her impulse-.. 196 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. generous. The idea pleased her, and she acted upon it. She soon found employment enough both for her time and the money placed at her disposal. Among the villagers was a woman named Blanche Delebarre, a widow, whose only son had been from home since his tenth year, under the care of an uncle, who had offered to educate him, and fit him for a life of higher useful ness than that of a mere peasant. There was a gentleness about this woman, and something that marked her as superior to her class. Yet she was an humble villager,, dependent upon the labor of her own hands, and claimed no higher station. Nina became acquainted with Blanche soon after the commencement of her residence at the castle. When she communicated to her the wishes of her father, and mentioned the money that had been placed at her disposal, the woman took her hand and said, while a beautiful light beamed from her countenance " It is more blessed to give than to receive, my child. Happy are they who have the power to confer benefits, and who do so with willing hearts. I fear, however, that you will find your task a difficult one. Every- where are the idle and undeserving, and these are more apt to force themselves forward as objects of benevo- lence than the truly needy and meritorious. As I NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPT. 197 know every one in the village, perhaps I may be able to guide you to such objects as deserve attention." u My good mother," replied Nina, " I will confide in ur judgment. I will make you my almoner." ' " No, my dear young lady, it will be better for you to dispense with your own hands. I will merely aid you to make a wise dispensation." " I am ready to begin. Show me but the way." ' u Do you see that company of children on the green ?" said Blanche. " Yes. And a wild company they are." " For tours each day they assemble as you see them, and spend their time in idle sports. Sometimes they disagree and quarrel. That is worse than idleness. Now, come here. Do you see that little cottage yonder on the hill-side, with vines clustering around the door r Yes." M An aged mother and her daughter reside there. The labor of the daughter's hands provides food and raiment for both. These children need instruction, and Jennet Fleury is fully qualified to impart it. Their parents cannot, or will not, pay to send them to school, and Jennet must receive some return for her labors, whatever they be." " I see it all," cried Nina with animation. " There 198 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. must be a school in the village. Jenne, shall be the teacher." " If this can be done, it will be a great blessing," said Blanche. " It shall be done. Let us go over to that sweet little cottage at once and see Jennet." The good Blanche Delebarre made no objection. In a little while they entered the cottage. Every thing was homely, but neat and clean. Jennet was busy at her reel when they entered. She knew the lady of Castle Holbein, and arose up quickly and in some confusion. But she soon recovered herself, and wel- comed, with a low courtesy, the visiters who had come to grace her humble abode. When the object of this visit was made known, Jennet replied that the condition of the viHage children had often pained her, and that she had more than once prayed that some way would open by which they could receive instruction. She readily accepted the proposal of Nina to become their teacher, and wished to receive no more for the service than what she could now earn by reeling silk. It did not take long to get the proposed school in operation. The parents were willing to send their children, the teacher was willing to receive them, and the young lady patroness was willing to meet the expenses. NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY. 199 Nina said nothing to her father of what she was doing. She wished to surprise him some day, after every thing was going on prosperously. But a matter of so much interest to the neighborhood could no* , remain a secret. The school had not been in operation two days before the baron heard all about it. But he said nothing to his daughter. He wished to leave her the pleasure which he knew she desired, that of telling him herself. At the end of a month Nina presented her father with an account of what she had done with the money he had placed in her hands. The expenditure had been moderate enough, but the good done was far beyond the baron's anticipations. Thirty children were receiving daily instructions ; nurses had been employed, and medicines bought for the sick ; needy persons, who had no employment, were set to work in making up clothing for children, who, for want of such as was suitable, could not attend the school. Besides, many other things had been done. The account was looked over by the Baron Holbein, and each item noted wit! sincere pleasure. He warmly commended Nina for what she had done ; he praised the prudence with which she had managed what she had undertaken, and begged her to persevere in the good work. For the space of more than a year did Nina submit 200 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. to her father, for approval, every month an accurate statement of what she had done, with a minute account of all the moneys expended. But after that time she . failed to render this account, although she received the usual supply, and was as actively engaged as before in works of benevolence among the poor peasantry. The father often wondered at this, but did not inquire the cause. He had never asked an account : to render it had been a voluntary act, and he could not, therefore, ask why it was withheld. He noticed, however, a change in Nina. She was more thoughtful, and conversed less openly than before. If he looked at her intently, her eyes would sink to the floor, and the color deepen on her cheek. She remained longer in her own room, alone, than she had done since their removal to the castle. Every day she went out, and almost always took the direction of Blanche Delebarre's cottage, where she spent several hours. Intelligence of his daughter's good deeds did not, so often as before, reach the old baron's ears ; and yet Nina drew as much money as before, and had twice asked to have the sum doubled. The father could not understand the meaning of all this. He did not believe that any thing was wrong he had too much confidence in Nina but he was puzzled. We will briefly apprise the reader of the cause of this change. KOT GREAT, BUT HArPT. 201 One day it was nearly a year from the time Nina had become a constant visitor at Blanche Delebarre's the young lady sat reading a book in the matron's cottage. She was alone Blanche having gone out to visit a sick neighbor at Nina's request. A form suddenly darkened the door, and some one entered hurriedly. Nina raised her eyes, and met the gaze of a youthful stranger, who had paused and stood looking at her with surprise and admiration. With more confusion, but with not less of wonder and admiration, did Nina return the stranger's gaze. " Is not this the cottage of Blanche Delebarre ?" asked he, after a moment's pause. His voice was low and musical. " It is," replied Nina. " She has gone to visit a sick neighbor, but will return shortly." " Is my mother well ?" asked the youth. Nina rose to her feet. This, then, was Pierre Delebarre, of whom his mother had so often spoke, ^he heart of the maiden fluttered. " The good Blanche is well," was her simple reply. ' I will go and say to her that her son has come home. It will make her heart glad." " My dear young .ady, no !" said Pierre. " Do not disturb my mother in her good work. Let her come borne and meet me here the surprise will add to the 0* 202 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. pleasure. Sit down again. Pardon my rudeness but are not you the young lady from the castle, of whom my mother so often writes to me as the good angel of the village ? I am sure you must be, or you would not be alone in my mother's cottage." Nina's blushes deepened, but she answered without disguise that she was from the castle. A full half hour passed before Blanche returned. The young and artless couple did not talk of love with their lips during that time, but their eyes beamed with a mutual passion. When the mother entered, so much were they interested in each other, that they did not hear her approaching footstep. She surprised them leaning toward each other in earnest conversation. The joy of the mother's heart was great on meeting her son. He was wonderfully improved since she last saw him had grown several inches, and had about him the air of one born of gentle blood, rather than the air of a peasant. Nina staid only a very short time after Blanche returned, and then hurried away from the cottage. The brief interview held with young Pierre sealed the maiden's fate. She knew nothing 'of love before the beautiful youth stood before her her heart was as pure as an infant's she was artlessness itself. She. had heard him so often spoken of by his mother, that NOT OKBAT, BUT HAPPZ. 203 she had learned to think of Pierre as the kindest and best of youths. She saw him, for the first time, as one to love. His face, his tones, the air of refinement and intelligence that was about him, all conspired to win her young affections. But of the true nature of her feelings, Nina was as yet ignorant. She did not think of love. She did not, therefore, hesitate as to the propriety of continuing her visits at the cottage of Blanche Delebarre, nor did she feel any reserve in the presence of Pierre. Not until the enamored youth presumed to whisper the passion her presence had awakened in his bosom, did she fully understand the cause of the delight she always felt while by his side. After Pierre had been home a few weeks, he ventured to explain to his mother the ca.use of his unexpected and unannounced return. He had disagreed with his uucle, who, in a passion, had reminded him of his dependence. This the Ligh-Bpirited youth could not bear, and he left his uncle's house within twenty-four hours, with a fixed resolution never to return. He had come back to the village, resolved, he said, to lead a peasant's life of toil, rather than live with a relative who could so far forget himself as to remind him of his dependence. Poor Blanche was deeply grieved. All her fond hopes for her s6n were at an end. She at his small, delicate hands and slender pro- 204 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. portions, and wept when she thought of a peasant's lift of hard labor. A very long time did not pas? before Nina made a proposition to Blanche, that relieved, in some measure, the painful depression under which she labored. It was this. Pierre had, from a child, exhibited a decided talent for painting. This talent had been cultivated by the uncle, and Pierre was, already, quite a respectable artist But he needed at least a year's study of the old masters, and more accurate instruction than he had yet received, before he would be able to adopt the painter's calling as one by which he could take an independent position in society as a man. Under- standing this fully, Nina said that Pierre must go to Florence, and remain there a year, in order to perfect himself in the art, and that she would claim the privilege of bearing all the expense. For a time, the young man's proud spirit shrunk from an acceptance of this generous offer ; but Nina and the mother overruled all his objections, and almost forced him to go. It may readily be understood, now, why Nina ceased to render accurate accounts of her charitable expendi- tures to her father. The baron entertained not the slightest suspicion of the real state of affairs, until about a year afterward, when a fine looking youth presented NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPT. 20fi bimself one day, and boldly preferred a claim to his daughter's hand. The old man was astounded. " Who, pray, are you," he said, that presume to make such a demand ?" " I am the son of a peasant," replied Pierre, bowing, and casting his eyes to the ground, " and you may think it presumption, indeed, for me to aspire to the hand of your noble daughter. But a peasant's love is as pure as the love of a prince ; and a peasant's heart may beat with as high emotions." "Young man," returned the baron, angrily, "your assurance deserves punishment. But go never dare cross my threshold again ! You ask an impossibility. When my daughter weds, she will not think of stoop- ing to a presumptuous peasant Go, sir !" Pierre retired, overwhelmed with confusion. He had been weak enough to hope that the Baron Holbein would at least consider his suit, and give him some chance of showing himself worthy of his daughter's hand. But this repulse dashed every hope to th earth. As soon as he parted with the young man, the father sent a servant for Nina. She was not in her chamber nor in the house. It was nearly two houre before she came home. When she entered the pres 206 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTCRES. enoe of her father, he saw, by her countenance, that all was not right with her. " Who was the youth that came here some hours ago ?" he asked, abruptly. Nina looked up with a frightened air, but did not answer. " Did you know that he was coming ?" said the father. The maiden's eyes drooped to the ground, and her lips remained sealed. " A base-born peasant ! to dare " " Oh, father ! he is not base ! His heart is noble," replied Nina, speaking from a sudden impulse. " He confessed himself the son of a peasant ! Who is he ?" " He is the son of Blanche Delebarre," returned Nina, timidly. " He has just returned from Florence, an artist of high merit. There is nothing base about him, father !" " The son of a peasant, and an artist, to dare approach ne and claim the hand of my child ! And worse, that child to so far forget hir birth and position as to favor the suit ! Madness ! And this is your good Blanche ! your guide in all works of benevolence ! She shall be punished for this base betrayal of the confidence I have reposed in her." NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPT. 207 Nina fell upon her knees before. her father, and with tears and earnest entreaties pleaded for the mother of Pierre ; but the old man was wild and mad with anger. He uttered passionate maledictions on the head of Blanche and her presumptuous son, and positively for- bade Nina again leaving the castle on any pretext whatever, under the penalty of never being permitted to return. Had so broad an interdiction not been made, there would have been some glimmer of light in Nina's dark horizon ; she would have hoped for some chancre & would have, at least, been blessed with short, even if stolen, interviews with Pierre. But not to leave the castle on any pretext not to see Pierre again ! This was robbing life of every charm. For more than a year she had loved the young man with an affection to which every day added tenderness and fervor. <3ould this be blotted out in an instant by a word of command ? No ! That love must burn on the same. The Baron Holbein loved his daughter; she was the bright spot in life. To make her happy, he would sacrifice almost anything. A residence of many years .in the world had shown him its pretensions, its heart- lessness, the worth of all its titles and distinctions. He did not value them too highly. But, when a peasant approached and asked the hand of his daughter, the 208 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. old man's pride, that was smouldering in the ashes, burned up with a sudden blaze. He could hardly find words to express his indignation. It took but a few days for this indignation to burn low. Not that he felt , more favorable to the peasant but less angry with his daughter. It is not certain that time would not have done something favorable for the lovers in the baron's mind. But they could not wait for time. Nina, from the violence and decision displayed by her father, felt hopeless of any change, and sought an early opportu- nity to steal away from the castle and meet Pierre, not- withstanding the positive commands that had been issued on the subject. The young man, in the thought- less enthusiasm of youth, urged their flight. " I am master of my art," he said, with a proud air. " We can live in Florence, where I have many friends." The youth did not find it hard to bring the confiding, artless girl into his wishes. In less than a month the baron missed his child. A letter explained all. She had been wedded to the young peasant, and they ha left for Florence. The letter contained this clause, signed by both Pierre and Nina : " When our father will forgive us, and permit out return, we shall be truly happy but not till then." The indignant old man saw nothing but impertinent assurance in this. He tore up the letter, and trampled NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY. 209 it under his feet in a rage. He swore to renounce his child forever ! For the Baron Holbein, the next twelve months were the saddest of his life/ Too deeply was the image of his child impressed upon his heart, for passion to efface it. As the first ebullitions subsided, and the atmo- sphere of his mind grew clear again, the sweet face of his child was beTore him, and her tender eyes looking into his own. As the months passed away, he grew more and more restless and unhappy. There was an aching void in his bosom. Night after night he would dream of his child, and awake in the morning and sigh that the dream was not reality. But pride was strong he would not countenance her disobedience. More than a year had passed away^ and not one word had come from his absent one, who grew dearer to his heart every day. Once or twice he had seen the name of Pierre Delebarre in the journals, as a young artist residing in Florence, who was destined to become eminent. The pleasure these announcements gave him was greater than he would confess even to himself. One day he was sitting in his library, endeavoring to banish the images that haunted him too continually when two of his servants entered, bearing a large square box in their arms, marked for the Baron Holbein, When the box was opened, it was found to contain a 210 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. large picture, enveloped in a cloth. This was removed and placed against the wall, and the servants retired with the box. The baron, with unsteady hands, and a heart beating rapidly, commenced removing the cloth hat still held the picture from view. In a few moments a family group was before him. There sat Nina, his lovely, loving and beloved child, as perfect, almost, as if the blood were glowing in her veins. Her eyes were bent fondly upon a sleeping cherub that lay in her arms. By her side sat Pierre, gazing upon her face in silent joy. For only a single instant did the old man gaze upon this scene, before the tears were gushing over his cheeks and falling to the floor like rain. This wild storm of feeling soon subsided, and, in the sweet calm that followed, the father gazed with un- speakable tenderness for a long time upon the face of his lovely child, and with a new and sweeter feeling upon the babe that lay, the impersonation of innocence, in her arms. While in this state of mind, he saw, for the first time, written on the bcttotr of the picture " NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY." A week from the day on which the picture was received, the Baron Holbein entered Florence. On inquiring for Pierre Delebarre, he found that every one knew the young artist. w Come," said one, " let me go with you to the exhi NOT GREAT, BCT HAPPT. 211 bition, and show you his picture that, has taken the prize. It is a noble production. All Florence is alive with its praise." The baron went to the exhibition. The first picture that met his eyes on entering the door was a counter- part of the one he had received, but larger, and, in the admirable lights in which it was arranged, looked even more like life. " " Isn't it a grand production ?" said the baron's conductor. " My sweet, sweet child !" murmured the old man, in a low thrilling voice. Then turning, he said, abrupt- ly- " Show me where I can find this Pierre Delebarre." " With pleasure. His house is near at hand," said his companion. A few minutes' walk brought them to the artist's dwelling. " That is an humble roof," said the man, pointing to where Pierre lived, " but it contains a noble man." He turned away, and the baron entered alone. He did not pause to summon any one, but walked in through the open door. All was silent. Through a neat vestibule, in which were rare flowers, and pictures upon the wall, he passed into a small apartment, and through that to 212 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. the door of an inner chamber. It was half open. He looked in. Was it another picture ? No, it was in very truth his child ; and her babe lay in her arms, as he had just seen it, and Pierre sat before her looking tenderly in her face. He could restrain himself no longer. Opening the door, he 'stepped hurriedly for- ward, and, throwing his arms around the group, said, in a broken voice " God bless you, my children !" The tears that were shed ; the smiles that beamed from glad faces ; the tender words that were spoken, and repeated again and again ; why need we tell of all these ? Or why relate how happy the old man was when the dove that had flown from her nest came back with her mate by her side ? The dark year had pass- ed, and there was sunshine again in his dwelling, brighter sunshine than before. Pierre never painted so good a picture again as the one that took the prize that was his masterpiece. ***** The young Baron Holbein has an immense picture gallery, and is a munificent patron of the arts. There is one composition on his walls he prizes above all the rest. The wealth of India could not purchase it. It is the same that took the prize when he was but a babe and lay in his mother's arms. The mother who helc 1 NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPT. 213 him so tenderly, and the father who gazed so lovingly upon her pure young brow, have passed away, but they live before him daily, and he feels their gentle present ever about him for good. THE MARRIED SISTERS. u COME, William, a single day, out of three hundred and sixty-five, is not much." " True, Henry Thome. Nor is the single drop of water, that first finds its way through the dyke, much ; and yet, the first drop but makes room for a small stream to follow, and then comes a flood. No, no, Henry, I cannot go with you, to-day ; and if you will be governed by a friend's advice, you will not neglect your work for the fancied pleasures of a sporting party." " All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy. W were not made to be delving forever with tools in close rooms. The fresh air is good for us. Come, William, you will feel better for a little recreation. You look pale from confinement. Come ; I cannot go without you." " Henry Thorne," said his friend, William Morelaud, THE MARRIED SISTERS. 215 with an air more serious than that at first assumed, . u let me in turn, urge you to stay." " It is in vain, William," his friend said, interrupting him. " I trust not, Henry. Surely, my early friend and companion is not deaf to reason." " No, not to right reason." " Well, listen "to me. As I said at first, it is not the loss of a single day, though even this is a serious waste of time, that I now take into consideration. It is the danger of forming a habit of idleness. It is a mistake, that a day of idle pleasure recreates the mind and body, and makes us returh to our regular and necessary em- ployments with renewed delight. My own experience is, that a day thus spent, causes us to resume our labors with reluctance, and makes irksome what before was pleasant. Is it not your own ?" " Well, I don't know ; I can't altogether say that it is ; indeed, I never thought about it." u Henry, the worst of all kinds of deception is self- deception. Don't, let me beg of you, attempt to deceive yourself in a matter so important. I am sure you have experienced this reluctance to resuming work after a day of pleasure. It is a universal experience. And now that we are on this subject, I will add, that I have observed in you an increasing desire to get away 216 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. from work. You make many excuses and they seem to you to be good ones. Can you tell me how many days you have been out of the shop in the last three months ?" " No, I cannot," was the reply, made in a tone indi- cating a slight degree of irritation. " Well, I can, Henry." " How many is it, then !" " Ten days." Never !" " It is true, for I kept the count." " Indeed, then, you are mistaken. I was only out a gunning three times, and a fishing'twice." " And that makes five times. But don't you remem- ber the day you were made sick by fatigue ?" " Yes, true, but that is only six." "And the day you went up the mountain with the party ?" " Yes." " And the twice you staid away because it stormed ?'' " But, William, that has nothing to do with the matter. If it stormed so violently that I couldn't come to the shop, that surely is not to be set down to the account of pleasure-taking." " And yet, Henry, I was here, and so were all the workmen but yourself. If there had not been in your THE MARRIED SISTERS. 21 Y mind a reluctance to coining to the shop, I am sure the storm would not have kept you away. I am plain with you, because I am your friend, and you know it. Now, it is this increasing reluctance on your part,' that alarms me. Do not, then, add fuel to a flame, that, if thus nourished, will consume you." "But, William " " Don't make excuses, Henry. Think of the aggre- gate of ten lost days. You can earn a dollar and a half a day, easily, and do earn it whenever you work steadily. Ten days in three months is fifteen dollars. All last winter, Ellen went without a cloak, because you could not -afford to buy one for her; now the money that you could have earned in the time wasted in the last three months, would have bought her a very comfortable one and you know that it is already Octo- ber, and winter will soon be again upon us. Sixty dollars a year buys a great many comforts for a poor man." Henry Thome remained silent for some moments. He felt the force of William Moreland's reasoning; but his own inclinations were stronger than his friend's arguments. He wanted to go with two or three com- panions a gunning, and even the vision of his young wife shrinking in the keen winter wind, was not suffi- cient to conquer this desire. 10 218 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " I will go this once, William," said he, at length, with a long inspiration ; " and then I will quit it. I see and acknowledge the force of what you say , I never viewed the matter so seriously before." " This once may confirm a habit now too strongly fixed," urged his companion. ** Stop now, while your mind is rationally convinced that it is wrong to waste your time, when it is so much needed for the sake of making comfortable and happy one who loves you, and has cast her lot in life with yours. Think of Ellen, and be a man." " Come, Harry !" said a loud, cheerful voice at the shop door ; " we are waiting for you !" " Ay, ay," responded Henry Thorne. " Good morn- ing, William ! I am pledged for to-day. But after this, I will swear off!" And so saying, he hurried away. , Henry Thorne and William Moreland were work- men in a large manufacturing establishment in one of our thriving inland towns. They had married sisters and thus a friendship that had long existed, was con- tirrned by closer ties of interest. They had been married about two years, at the time of their introduction to the reader, and, already, More- land could perceive that his earnings brought many more comforts for his little family than did Henry's. THE MARRIED SISTERS. 219 The difference was not to be accounted for in the days the other spent in pleasure taking, although theh aggregate loss was no mean item to be taken from a poor man's purse. It was to be found, mainly, in disposition to spend, rather than to save ; to pay awa for trifles that were not really needed, very small sums, whose united amounts in a few weeks would rise to dollars. But, when there was added to this constant check upon his prosperity the frequent recurrence of a lost day, no wonder that Ellen had less of good and comfortable clothing than her sister Jane, and that her house was far less neatly furnished. All this had been observed, with pain, by "William Moreland and his wife, but, until the conversation recorded in the opening of this story, no word or remonstrance or warning had been ventured upon by the former. The spirit in which Moreland's words were received, encouraged him to hope that he might exei cise a salutary control over Henry, if he persevered, and he resolved that he would extend thus far towards him the offices of a true friend. After dinner on the day duri ig which her husband was absent, Ellen called in to see Jane, and sit the afternoon with her. They were only sisters, and had always loved each other much. During their conver- sation, Jane said, in allusion to the season : 220 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " It begins to feel a little chilly to-day, as if winter were coming. And, by the way, you are going to get a cloak this fall, Ellen, are you not ?" " Indeed, I can hardly tell, Jane," Ellen replied, in a erious tone ; " Henry's earnings, somehow or other, don't seem to go far with us ; and yet I try to be as prudent as I can. We have but a few dollars laid by, and both of us want warm underclothing. Henry aaust have a coat and pair of pantaloons to look decent this winter ; so I must try and do without the cloak, I suppose." " I am sorry for that. But keep a good heart about it, sister. Next fall, you will surely be able to get a comfortable one ; and you shall have mine as often as you want it, this winter. I can't go out much, you know ; our dear little Ellen, your namesake, is too young to leave often." " You are very kind, Jane," said Ellen, and her voice slightly trembled. A silence of some moments ensued, and then the subject of conversation was changed to one more cheer- ful. That evening, just about nightfall, Henry Thome came home, much fatigued, bringing with him half a dozen squirrels and a single wild pigeon. u There, Ellen, is something to make a nice pie for THE MARRIED SISTERS. 221 us to-morrow," said he, tossing his game bag upon tha table. " You look tired, Henry," said his wife, tenderly; I wouldn't go out any more this fall, if I were you." "I don't intend going out any more, Ellen," was replied, " I'm sick of it." "You don't know how glad I am to hear you say BO ! Somehow, Falways feel troubled and uneasy when you are out gunning or fishing, as if you were not doing right." "You shall not feel so any more, Ellen," said Thome: "I've been thinking all the afternoon about your cloak. Cold weather is coming, and we haven't a dollar laid by for anything. How I am to get the cloak, I do not see, and yet I cannot bear the thought of your going all this winter again without one." " O, never mind that, dear," said Ellen, in a cheerful tone, her face brightening up. ' We can't afford it this fall, and so that's settled. But I can have Jane's whenever I want it, she says ; and you know she is so kind and willing to lend me anything that she has. I don't like to wear her things ; but then I shall not want the cloak often." Henry Thome sighed at the thoughts his wife's wo- d* stirred in his mind. " I don't know how it is," he at length said, des- 222 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. pondingly ; " William can't work any faster than I cau, nor earn more a week, and yet he and Jane have every thing comfortable, and are saving money into the bargain, while we want many things that they have, nd are not a dollar ahead." One of the reasons for this, to her husband so un- accountable, trembled on Ellen's tongue, but she could not make up her mind to reprove him ; and so bore in silence, and with some pain, what she felt as a reflection upon her want of frugality in nianaging household affairs. Let us advance the characters we have introduced, a year in their life's pilgrimage, and see if there are any fruits of these good resolutions. " Where is Thorne, this morning ?" asked the owner of the shop, speaking to Moreland, one morning, an hour after all the workmen had come in. " I do not know, really," replied Moreland. " I saw him yesterday, when he was well " " He's off gunning, I suppose, again. If so, it is the tenth day he has lost in idleness during the last two months. I am afraid I shall have to get a hand in his place, upon whom I can place more dependence. I shall be sorry to do this for your sake, and for the sake of bis wife. But I do not like such an example to the THE MARRIED SISTERS. 223 workmen and apprentices ; and besides being away from the shop often disappoints a job." " I could not blame you, sir," Moreland said ; " and yet, I do hope you will bear with him for the sake of Ellen. I think if you would talk with him it would do him good." " But, why don't you talk to him, William ?" " I have talked to him frequently, but he has got so that he won't bear it any longer from me." " Nor would he bear it from me, either, I fear, Wil- * liam." Just at that moment the subject of the conversation came in. " You are late this morning, Henry," said the owner of the shop to him, in the presence of the other work- men. " It's only a few minutes past the time," was replied, raoodily. " It's more than an hour past." " Well, if it is, I can make it up." i " That is not the right way, Henry. Lost time is never made up." Thome did not understand the general truth intend- ed to be expressed, but supposed, at once, that the master of the shop meant to intimate that he would wrong him out of the lost hour, notwithstanding he 224 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. had promised to make it up. He therefore turned an angry look upon him, and said "Do you mean to say that I would cheat you, sir ?" The employer was a hasty man, and. tenacious of his dignity as a master. He invariably discharged a journeyman who was in the least degree disrespectful in his language or manner towards him before the other workmen. Acting under the impulse that at once prompted him, he said : " If ou are discharged ;" and instantly turned away. As quickly did Henry Thorne turn and leave the shop. He took his way homeward, "but he paused and lingered as he drew nearer and nearer his little cottage, for troubled thoughts had now taken the place of angry feelings. At length he was at the door, and lifting slowly the latch, he entered. " Henry !" said Ellen, with a look and tone of sur- prise. Her face was paler and more care-worn than - il was a year before ; and its calm expression had changed into a troubled one. She had a babe upon her lap, her first and only one. The room in which she sat, so far from indicating circumstances improved by the passage of a year, was far less tidy and comfortable ; and her own attire, though neat, was faded and unseasonable. Her husband replied not to her in- quiring look, and surprised ejaculation, but seated him- THE MARRIED SISTERS. 225 self in a chair, and burying his face in his hands, remained silent, until, unable to endure the suspense, Ellen went to him, and taking his hand, asked, so earnestly, and so tenderly, what it was that troubled him, that he could not resist her appeal. " I am discharged !" said he, with bitter emphasis. " And there is no other establishment in the town, nor within fifty miles !"* " 0, Henry ! how did that happen ?" " I hardly know myself, Ellen, for it all seems like a dream. When I left home this morning, I did not go directly to the shop ; I wanted to see a man at the upper end of the town, and when I got back it was an hour later than usual. Old Ballard took me to task before all the shop, and intimated that I was not disposed to act honestly towards him. This I cannot bear from any one ; I answered him in anger, and was discharged on the spot. And now, what we are to do, heaven only knows ! Winter is almost upon us, and we have not five dollars in the world." u But something will turn up for us, Henry, I know- it will," said Ellen, trying to smile encouragingly, although her heart was heavy in her bosom. Her husband shook his head, doubtingly, and then all was gloomy and oppressive silence. For nearly an hour, no word was spoken by either. Each mind wa? 10* 226 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. busy with painful thoughts, and one with fearful fore- bodings of evil. At the end of that time, the husband took up his hat and went out. For a long, long time ftar, Ellen sat in dreamy, sad abstraction, holding her oabe to her breast. From this state, a sense of duty roused her, and laying her infant on the bed, for they had not yet been able to spare money for a cradle, she began to busy herself in her domestic duties. This brought some little relief. About eleven o'clock Jane came in with her usual cheerful, almost happy face, bringing' in her hand a stout bundle. Her countenance changed ih its express- ion to one of concern, the moment her eyes rested upon her sister's face, and she laid her bundle on a chair quickly, as if she half desired to keep it out of Ellen's sight. " What is the matter, Ellen 1" she asked, with tender concern, the moment she had closed the door. Ellen could not reply ; her heart was too full. But she leaned her head upon her sister's shoulder, and, for the first time since she had heard the sad news of the morning, burst into tears. Jane was surprised, and filled with anxious concern. She waited until this ebullition of feeling in some degree abated, and then said, in a tone still more tender than that in which sh had first spoken, " Ellen, dear sister ! tell me what has happened ?" THE MARRIED SISTERS 227 " I am foolish, sister," at length, said Ellen, looking up, and endeavoring to dry her tears. " But I cannot help it. Henry was discharged from the shop this morning ; and now, what are we to do ? We have nothing ahead, and I am afraid he will not be able to get anything to do here, or within many miles of the village." " That is badj^Ellen," replied Jane, while a shadow fell upon her face, but a few moments before so glowing and happy. And that was nearly all she could say; for she did not wish to offer false consolation, and she could think of no genuine words of comfort. After a while, each grew more composed and less reserved j and then the whole matter was talked over, and all that Jane could say, that seemed likely to soothe and give hope to Ellen's mind, was said with earnestness and affection. "What have you there?" at length a*ked Ellen, glancing towards the chair upon which Jane had laid her bundle. Jane paused a moment, as if in self-communion, and then said " Only a pair of blankets, and a couple of calico iresses that I have been out buj ing." " Let me look at them," said Ellen, in as cheerful a foice as she could assume. 228 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. A large heavy pair of blankets, for which Jane had paid five dollars, were now unrolled, and a couple of handsome chintz dresses, of dark rich colors, suitable for the winter season, displayed. It was with difficulty that Ellen could restrain a sigh, as she looked at these comfortable things, and thought of how much she needed, and of how little she had to hope for. Jane felt that such thoughts must pass through her sister's mind, and she also felt much pained that she had unde- signedly thus added, by contrast, to Ellen's unhappy feelings. When she returned home, she put away her new desses and her blankets. She had no heart to look at them, no heart to enjoy her own good things, while the sister she so much loved was denied like present comforts, and, worse than all, weighed down with a heart-sickening dread of the future. We will not linger to contrast, in a series of domestic pictures, the effects of industry and idleness on the two married sisters and their families, effects, the causes of which, neither aided materially in producing. Such contrasts, though useful, cannot but be painful to the mind, and we would, a thousand times, rather give pleasure than pain. But one more striking contrast we will give, as requisite to show the tendency of good or bad principles, united with good or bad habits. Unable to get any employment in the village l THE MARRIED SISTERS. 229 Thome, hearing that steady work could be obtained in Charleston, South Carolina, sold off a portion of his scanty effects, by wnich he received money enough to remove there with his wife and child. Thus were the sisters separated ; and in that separation, gradually estranged from the tender and lively affection that presence and Constant intercourse had kept burning with undiminished brightness. Each became more and more absorbed, every day, in increasing cares and duties ; yet to one those cares and duties were painful, and to the other full of delight. Ten years from the day on which they parted in tears, Ellen sat, near the close of day, in a meanly furnished room, in one of the southern cities, watching, with a troubled countenance, the restless slumber of her husband. Her face was very thin and pale, and it had a fixed and strongly marked expression of suffering. Two children, a boy and a girl, the one about six, and the other a little over ten years of age, were seated listlessly on the floor, which was uncarpeted. They eemed to have no heart to play. Even the elasticity of childhood had departed from them. From the appearance of Thome, it was plain that he was very sick ; and from all the indications the room in which he lay, afforded, it was plain that want and suffering were its inmates. The habit of idleness he had 230 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. suffered to creep at a slow but steady pace upon him Idleness brought intemperance, and intemperance, reacting upon idleness, completed his ruin, and reduced his family to poverty in its most appalling form. Now he was sick with a southern fever, and his miserable dwelling afforded him no cordial, nor his wife and children the healthy food that nature required. " Mother !" said the little boy, getting up from the floor, where he had been sitting for half an hour, as still as if he were sleeping, and coming to Ellen's side, he looked up earnestly and imploringly in her face. " What, my child ?" the mother said, stooping down and kissing his forehead, while she parted with her fingers the golden hair that fell in tangled masses over it. " Can't I have a piece of bread, mother ?" Ellen did not reply, but rose slowly and went to the closet, from which she took part of a loaf, and cutting a slice from it, handed it to her hungry boy. It was her last loaf, and all their money was gone. The little fellow took it, and breaking a piece off for his sister, gave it to her ; the two children then sat down side by side, and ate in silence the morsel that was sweet to them. With an instinctive feeling, that from nowhere but above could she look for aid and comfort, did Ellen lift THE MARRIED SISTERS. 231 her heart, and pray that she might not be forsaken in her extremity. And then she thought of her sister Jane, from whom she had not heard 'for a long, long time, and her heart yearned towards her with an eager and yearning desire to see her face once more. And now let us look in upon Jane and her family. Her husband, by saving where Thorne spent in foolish trifles, and working when Thorne was idle, gradually laid by enough to purchase a little farm, upon which he had removed, and there industry and frugality brought its sure rewards. They had three children : little Ellen had grown to a lively, rosy-cheeked, merry-faced girl of eleven years ; and George, who had followed Ellen, was in his seventh year, and after him came the baby, now just completing the twelfth month of its innocent, happy life. It was in the season when the farmers' toil is rewarded, and William Moreland was among those whose labor had met an ample return. How different was the scene, in his well established cottage, full to the brim of plenty and comfort, to that which was passing at the same hour of the day, a few weeks before, in the sad abode of Ellen, herself ita saddest inmate. The table was spread for the evening meal, always saten before the sun hid his bright face, and George and Ellen, although the supper was not yet brought in, 232 HEAET HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. had taken their places ; and Moreland, too, had drawn up with the baby on his knee, which he was amusing with an apple from a well filled basket, the product of is own orchard. A hesitating rap drew the attention of the tidy maiden who assisted Mrs. Moreland in her duties. "It is the poor old blind man," she said, in a tone of compassion, as she opened the door. " Here is a shilling for him, Sally," said Moreland, handing her a piece of money. " The Lord has bless- ed us with plenty, and something to spare for his needy children." The liberal meal upon the table, the mother sat down with the rest, and as she looked around upon each happy face, her heart blessed the hour that she had given her hand to William Moreland. Just as the meal was finished, a neighbor stopped at the door and said: " Here's a letter for Mrs. Moreland ; I saw it in the post-office, and brought it over for her, as I was coming this way." " Come in, come in," said Moreland, with a hearty welcoriie in his voice. " No, I thank you, I can't stop now. Good evening,*" replied the neighbor. THE MARRIED SISTERS. ^ft 233 " Good evening," responded Moreland, turning from the door, and handing the letter to Jane. " It must be from Ellen," Mrs. Moreland remarked, as she broke the seal. "It is a long time since we heard from them ; I wonder how they are doing ?" She soon knew, for on opening the letter she read thus : SAVANNAH, September, 18. MY DEAR SISTER JANE : Henry has just died. I am left here without a dollar, and know not where to get bread for myself and two children. I dare not tell you all I have suffered since I parted from you. I My heart is too full ; I cannot write. Heaven only knows what I shall do ! Forgive me, sister, for troubling you ; I have not done so before, because I did not wish to give you pain, and I only do so now, from an impulse that I cannot resist. ELLEN. Jane handed the letter to her husband, and sat down : n a chair, her senses bewildered, and her heart sick. " We have enough for Ellen, and her children, too, Jane," said Moreland, folding the letter after he had read it. " We must send for them at once! Poor Ellen ! I fear she has suffered much." "You are good, kind and noble-hearted, William !* exclaimed Jane, bursting into tears. 284 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " I don't know that I am any better than anybody else, Jane. But I can't bear to see others suffering, and never will, if I can afford relief. And surely, if industry brought no other reward, the power it gives us to benefit and relieve others, is enough to make us ever active " * * * * * In one month from the time Ellen's letter was received, she, with her children, were inmates of More- land's cottage. Gradually the light returned to her eye, and something of the former glow of health and contentment to her cheek. Her children in a few weeks, were as gay and happy as any. The delight that glowed in the heart of William Moreland, as he saw this pleasing change, was a double reward for the little he had sacrificed in making them happy. Nor did Ellen fall, with her children, an entire burden upon her sister and her husband ; her activity and willing- ness found enough to do that needed doing. Jane often used to say to her husband " I don't know which is the gainer over the other, \ or Ellen ; for I am sure I can't see how we could do without her." GOOD-flEARTED PEOPLE. THERE are two classes in the world : one acts from impulse, and the other from reason ; one consults the heart, and the other the head. Persons belonging to the former class are very much liked by the majority of those who come in contact with them : while those of the latter class make many enemies in their course through life. Still, the world owes as much to the lat- ter as to the former perhaps a great deal more. Mr. Archibald May belonged to the former class ; he was known as a good-hearted man. He uttered the word " no" with great difficulty ; and was never known to have deliberately said that to another which he knew would hurt his feelings. If any one about him acted wrong, he could not find it in his heart to wound him by calling his attention to tho fact. On one occasion, a clerk was detected in purloining money ; but it was all 236 HKART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. hushed up, and when Mr. May dismissed him, he gave him a certificate of good character. " How could you do so ?" asked a neighbor, to whom he mentioned the fact. " How could I help doing it ? The young man had a chance of getting a good place. It would have been cruel in me to have refused to aid him. A character was required, and I could do no less than give it. Poor, silly fellow ! I am sure I wish him well. I always liked him." u Suppose he robs his present employer f " He won't do that, I'm certain. He is too much ashamed of his conduct while in my store. It is a lesson to him. And, at any rate, I do not think a man should be hunted down for a single fault." " No : of course not. But, when you endorse a man's character, you lead others to place confidence in him ; a confidence that may be betrayed under very aggravated circumstances." " Better tnat many suffer, than that one innocent man should be condemned and cast off." " But there is no question about guilt or innocence. It was fully proved that this young man robbed you." "Suppose it was. No doubt the temptation was very strong. I don't lelieve he will ever be guilty of such a thing again." GOOD-HEARTED PKOPLK. 237 " You have the best evidence in the world that he will, in the fact that he has taken your money." " no, not at all. It doesn't follow, by any means, that a fault 1'ke this will be repeated. He was terribly mortified about it. That has cured him, I am certain." "I wouldn't trust to it." " You are too uncharitable," replied Mr. May. " For my part, I always*look upon the best side of a man's character. There is good in every one. Some have their weaknesses some are even led astray at times ; but none are altogether bad. If a man falls, help him up, and start him once more fair in the world who can say that he will again trip ? Not I. The fact is, we are too hard with each other. If you brand your fellow with infamy for one little act of indiscretion, or, say crime, what hope is there for him." " You go rather too far, Mr. May," the neighbor said, " in your condemnation of the world. No doubt there are many who are really uncharitable in their denunciations of their fellow man for a single fault But, 'on the other side, I am inclined to think, that there are just as many who are equally uncharitable, in loosely passing by, out of spurious kindness, what should mark a man with just suspicion, and cause a withholding of confidence, Look at the case now be- fore us. You feel unwilling tc keep a young mar 238 HEAET HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. about you, because he has betrayed your trust, and yet, out of kind feelings, you give him- a good character, and enable him to get a situation where he may seriously "prong an unsuspecting man." " But I am sure he will not do so." " But what is your guarantee ?" "The impression that my act has evidently made upon him. If I had, besides hushing up the whole matter, kept him still in my store, he might again have been tempted. But the comparatively light punish- ment of dismissing him with a good character, will prove a salutary check upon him." " Don't you believe it." " I will believe it, until . I see evidence to the contra- ry. You are too suspicious too uncharitable, my good friend. I am always inclined to think the best of every one. Give the poor fellow another chance for his life, say I." " I hope it may all turn out right." " I am sure it will," returned Mr. May. " Many and many a young man is driven to ruin by having al! con- fidence withdrawn from him, after his first error. De- pend upon it, such a course is not right." " I perfectly agree with you, Mr. May, that we should not utterly condemn and cast off a man for a single fault. But, it is one thing to bear with a fault, and GOOD-HEARTED PEOPLE. 239 encourage a failing brother man to better courses, and another to give an individual whom we know to be dis- honest, a certificate of good character.'' " Yes, but I am not so sure the young man, we are speaking about is dishonest." " Didn't he rob you ?" . Don't say rob.^ That is too hard a word. He did take a little from me ; but it wasn't much, and there were peculiar circumstances." " Are you sure that under other peculiar circumstan ces, he would not have taken much more from you P "I don't belie /e he would." " I wouldn't trust him." " You are too suspicious too uncharitable, as I have already said. I can't be so. I always try to think the best of every one." Finding that it was no use to talk, the neighbor said but little more on the subject. About a year afterwards the young man's new em- ployer, who, on the faith of Mr. May's recommendation, ad placed great confidence in him, discovered that he ad been robbed of several thousand dollars. The rob- bery was clearly traced to this clerk, who was arrested,, tried, and sentenced to three years imprisonment in the Penitentiary. "It seems that all ycur charity was lost on that 240 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. voung scoundrel, Blake," said the individual whose conversation with Mr. May has just been given. " Poor fellow !" was the pitying reply. " I am most grievously disappointed in him. I never believed that he would turn out so badly." " You might have known it after he had swindled you. A man who will steal a sheep, needs only to be assured of impunity, to rob the mail. The principle is the same. A rogue is a rogue, whether it be for a pin or a pound." " Well, well people differ in these matters. I nev- er look at the worst side only. How could Dayton find it in his heart to send that poor fellow to the State Prison ! I wouldn't have done it, if he had taken all I possess. It was downright vindictiveness in him." "It was simple justice. He could not have done otherwise. Blake had not only wronged him, but he had violated the laws, and to the laws he was bound to give him up." " Give up a poor, erring young man, to the stern, unbending, unfeeling laws ! No one is bound to do that. It is cruel, and no one is under the necessity of oeing cruel." " It is simply just, Mr. May, as I view it. And, fur- ther, really more just to give up the culprit to the law GOOD-HEARTED PEOPLE. 241 he has knowingly and wilfully violated, than to let him escape its penalties." Mr. May shook his head. "I certainly cannot see the charity of locking up a young man for three or four years in prison, and utter- ly and forever disgracing him." " It is a great ejdl to steal ?" said the neighbor. u 0, certainly a great sin." "And the law made for its punishment is just P " Yes, I suppose so." " Do you think that it really injures a thief to lock him up in prison, and prevent him from trespassing on the property of his neighbors ?" "That I suppose depends upon circumstances. If " "No, but my friend, we must fix the principle yea or nay. The law that punishes theft is a good hysician. But, if any doubt remained, a vial of lauda- num and a spoon, found in the washstand drawer in Jane's room, dispelled it. The most prompt and active treatment was resorted to by Doctor B in the hope of saving the child. But his anxious efforts were in vain. The deadly nar- cotic had taken entire possession of the whole system ; had, in fact, usurped the seat of life, and was poisoning its very fountain. At day dawn on the next morning the flickering lamp went out, and the sad parents looked their last look upon their living child. " I have heard most dreadful news," Mrs. May said to her husband, on his return home that day. " You have ! What is it ?" . " Jane has poisoned Mrs. Campbell's child !" " Ella !" and Mr. May started from his chair. " It is true. She had it to wean, and gave it such a dose of laudanum, that it died." " Dreadful ! What have they done with her ?" " She can't be found, I am told*." " You recommended her to Mrs. Campbell." GOOD-HEARTED PEOPLE. 255 " Yes. But I didn't believe she was wicked enough for that." " Though it is true she ill-treated little Charley, and ye knew it. I don't see how you can ever forgive your- elf. I am sure that I don't feel like ever again look- ing Mr. Campbell in the face." " But, Mr. May, you know very well that you didn't want me to say any thing against Jane to hurt her character." " True. And it is hard to injure a poor fellow crea- ture by blazoning her faults about. But I had no idea that- Jane was such a wretch!" " We knew that she would steal, and that she was unkind to children ; and yet, we agreed to recommend her to Mrs. Campbell." " But it was purely out of kind feelings for the girl, Ella." "Yes. But is that genuine kindness? Is it real charity ? I fear not." Mr. May was silent. The questions probed him to the quick. Let every one who is good-hearted in the sense that Mr. May was, ask seriously the same ques- tions. SLOW AND SURE. ** Yoi D better take the whole case. These goods will sell as fast as they can be measured off." The young man to whom this was said by the polite and active partner in a certain jobbing house in Phila- delphia, shook his head and replied firmly " No, Mr. Johnson. Three pieces are enough for my sales. If they go off quickly, I can easily get more." " I don't know about that, Mr. Watson," replied the jobber. " I shall be greatly mistaken if we have a case of these goods left by the end of a week. Every on who looks at them, buys. Miller bought two whole cases this morning. In the origina packages, we sell them at a half cent per yard lower tLan by the piece." " If they are gone, I can buy something else," said the cautious purchaser. " Then you won't let me sell you a case ?" SLOW AND SURE. 257 No, sir." " You buy too cautiously," said Johnson. " Do you think so ?" " I know so. The fact is, I can sell some of your neighbors as much in an hour as I can sell you in a week. We jobbers would starve if there were no more active men in th^trade than you are, friend Watson." Watson smiled in a quiet, self-satisfied way as he replied " The number of wholesale dealers might be dimin- ished ; but failures among them would be of less fre- quent occurrence. Slow and sure, is my motto." u Slow and sure don't make much headway in these times. Enterprise is the word. A man has to ba swift-footed to keep up with the general movement." " I don't expect to get rich in a day," said Watson. " You'll hardly be disappointed in your expectation," remarked Johnson, a little sarcastically. His customer did not notice the feeling his tones expressed, but went on to select a piece or two of goods, here and there from various packages, as the styles happened to suit him. " Five per cent, off for cash, I suppose," said Wat- son, after completing his purchase. " Oh, certainly," replied the dealer. " Do you wish to cash the bill 3" 258 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " Yes ; I wish to do a cash business as far as I can. It is rather slow work at first ; but it is safest, and sure to come out right in the end." " You're behind the times, Watson," said Johnson, shaking his head. " Tell me who can do the most profitable business, a man with a capital of five thou- sand dollars, or a man with twenty thousand ?" " The latter, of course." " Very well. Don't you understand that credit is capital ? M " It isn't cash capital." " What is the difference, pray, between the profit on ten thousand dollars' worth of goods purchased on time or purchased for cash ?" " Just five hundred dollars," said Watson. " How do you make that out ?" The jobber did not see the meaning of his customer. "You discount five per cent, for cash, don't you ?" replied Watson, smiling. " True. But, if you don't happen to have the ten thousand dollars cash, at the time you wish to make a purchase, don't you see what an advantage credit gives you ? Estimate the profit at twenty per cent, on a cash purchase, and your credit enables you to make fifteen per cent where you would have made nothing." " All very good theory," said Watson. " It look* SLOW AND SURE. 269 beautiful on paper. Thousands have figured themselves out rich in this way, but, alas ! discovered themselves poor in the end. If all would work just right if the thousands of dollars of goods bought on credit would invariably sell at good profit and in time to meet the purchase notes, then your credit business would be first rate. But, my litlje observation tells me that this isn't always the case that your large credit men are forever on the street, money hunting, instead of in their stores looking after their business. Instead of getting dis- counts that add to their profits, they are constantly suf- fering discounts of the other kind ; and, too often, these, and the accumulating stock of unsaleable goods the consequence of credit temptations in purchasing reduce the fifteen per cent, you speak of down to ten, and even five per cent. A large business makes large store-expenses; and these eat away a serious amount of small profits on large sales. Better sell twenty thousand dollars' worth of goods at twenty per cent profit, than eighty thousand at five per cent You can do it with less labor, less anxiety, and at less cost for rent and clerk hire. At least, Mr. Johnson, this is my mode of reasoning." " Well, plod along," replied Johnson. " Little boats keep near the shore. But, let me tell you, my young friend, your mind is rather too limited for a merchant 260 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. of this day. There is Mortimer, who began business about the time you did. How much do you think he has made by a good credit ?" " I'm sure I don't know." " Fifty thousand dollars." " And by the next turn of fortune's wheel, may lose it all." " Not he. Mortimer, though young, is too shrewd a merchant for that. Do you know that he made ten thousand by the late rise in cotton ; and all without touching a dollar in his business ?" " I heard something of it. But, suppose prices had receded instead of advancing ? What of this good credit, then ?" " You're too timid too prudent, Watson," said the merchant, " and will be left behind in the race for pros- perity by men of half your ability." " No matter ; I will be content," was the reply of Watson. It happened, a short time after this little interchange of views on business mattei-s, that Watson met the daughter of Mr. Johnson in a company where he chanced to be. She was an accomplished and inte- resting young woman, and pleased Watson particular- ly ; and it is but truth to say, that she was squally well pleased with him. SLOW AND SURE. 261 The father, who was present, saw, w'ih a slight feel- ing of disapprobation, the lively conversation that passed between the young man and his daughter ; and when an occasion offered, a day or two afterwards, made it a point to refer to him in a way to give the impression that he held him in light estimation. Flora, that was th^ daughter's name, did not appear to notice his remark. One evening, not long after this, as the family of Mr. Johnson were about leaving the tea- table, where they had remained later than usual, a domestic announced that there was a gentleman in the parlor. " Who is it ?" inquired Flora. " Mr. Mortimer," was answered. An expression of dislike came into the face of Flora, as she said " He didn't ask for me ?" " Yes," was the servant's reply. " Tell him that I'm engaged, Nancy." "No, no!" said Mr. Johnson, quickly. "Thia #ould not be right. Are yo'u engaged ?" " That means, father, that I don't wish to see him ; and he will so understand me." " Don't wish to see him ? Why not P " Because I don't like him." 262 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " Don't like him ?" Mr. Johnson's manner waa slightly impatient. " Perhaps you don't know him." The way in which her father spoke, rather embar- rassed Flora. She cast down her eye and stood for a few moments. " Tell Mr. Mortimer that I will see him in a little while," she then said, and, as the domestic retired to give the answer, she ascended to her chamber to make some slight additions to her toilet. To meet the young man by constraint, as it were, was only to increase in Flora's mind the dislike she had expressed. So coldly and formally was Mortimer received, that he found his visit rather unpleasant than agreeable, and retired, after sitting an hour, somewhat puzzled as to the real estimation in which he was held by the lady, for whom he felt more than a slight pref- erence. Mr. Johnson was very much inclined to estimate others by a money-standard of valuation. A man was a man, in his eyes, when he possessed those qualities of mind that would enable him to make his way in the world in other words, to get rich. It was this ability in Mortimej that elevated him in his regard, and pro- duced a feeling of pleasure when he saw him inclined to pay attention to his danghter. And it was the ap- SLOW AND SURK. 263 parent want of this ability in Watson, that caused him to be lightly esteemed. Men like Mr. Johnson are never very wise in their estimates of character ; nor do they usually adopt thf best means of attaining their ends when they meet with opposition. This was illustrated in the present case. Mortimer was frequently referred to in the pres- ence of Flora, and"~praised in the highest terms ; while the bare mention of Watson's name was sure to occa- sion a series of disparaging remarks. The effect was just the opposite of what was intended. The more ier father said in favor of the thrifty young merchant, the stronger was the repugnance felt towards him by Flora ; and the more he had to say against Watson, the better she liked him. This went on until there came a formal application from Mortimer for the hand of Flora. It was made to Mr. Johnson first, who replied to the young man that if he could win the maiden's favor, he had his full approval. But to win the maiden's favor was not so easy a task, as the young man soon found. His offered hand was firmly de dined. " Am I to consider your present decision as final ?" said the young man, in surprise and disappointment " I wish you to do so, Mr. Mortimer," said Flora. 264 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " Your father approves my suit," said he. " I have his full consent to make you this offer of my hand." " I cannot but feel flattered at your preference." re- turned Flora ; " but, to accept your offer, would not be just either to you or myself. I, therefore, wish you to understand me as being entirely in earnest." This closed the interview and definitely settled the question. When Mr. Johnson learned that the offer of Mortimer had been declined, he was very angry with his daughter, and, in the passionate excitement of his feelings, committed a piece of folly for which he felt an immediate sense of shame and regret. The interview between Mr. Mortimer and Flora took place during the afternoon, and Mr. Johnson learned the result from a note received from the disappointed young man, just as he was about leaving his store to return home. Flora did not join the family at the tea- table, on that evening, for her mind was a good deal disturbed, and she wished to regain her calmness and self-possession before meeting her father. Mr. Johnson was sitting in a moody and angry state of mind about an hour after supper, when a domestic came into the room and said that Mr. Watson was in the parlor. " What does he want here ?" asked Mr. Johnson, in & rough, excited voice. SLOW AND 8XTRE. 285 " He asked for Miss Flora," returned the servant. Where is she ?" " In her room." " Well, let her stay there. I'll see him myself." And without taking time for reflection, Mr. Johnson descended to the parlor. " Mr. Watson," said he, coldly, as the young man arose and advanced towards him. His manner caused the visitor to pause, and let the hand he had extended fall to his side. " Well, what is your wish ?" asked Mr. Johnson. He looked with knit brows into Watson's face. " I have called to see your daughter Flora," retu.ned the young man, calmly. " T hen, I wish you to understand that your call is not agreeable," said the father of the young lady, with great rudeness of manner. " Not agreeable to whom ?" asked Watson, mani- festing no excitement. ** Not agreeable to me," replied Mr. Johnson. " Nor greeable to any one in this house." " Do you speak for your daughter ?" inquired tha young man. " I have a right to speak for her, if any one has,' 1 was the evasive answer. 12 286 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. Watson bowed respectfully, and, without a word more, retired from the house. The calm dignity with which he had received the rough treatment of Mr. Johnson, rebuked the latter, and added a feeling of shame to his other causes of mental disquietude. On the next day Flora received a letter from Watson, in part in these words-r- " I called, last evening, but was not so fortunate as to see you. Your father met me in the parlor, and on learning that my visit was to you, desired me not to come again. This circumstance makes it imperative on me to declare what might have been sometime longer delayed my sincere regard for you. If you feel towards me as your father does, then I have not a word more to say ; but I do not believe this, and, there- fore, I cannot let his disapproval, in a matter so intimately concerning my happiness, and it may be yours, influence me to the formation of a hasty decision. I deeply regret your father's state of feeling. His full approval of my suit, next to yours, I feel to be in every way desirable. " But, why need I multiply words ? Again, I declare that I fee* for you a sincere affection. If you can return this, say so with as little delay as possible ; and if you cannot, be equally frank with me." SLOW AND 8URS. 261 Watson did not err in his belief that Flora recipro- cated his tender sentiments ; nor was he kept long in suspense. She made an early reply, avowing her own attachment, but urging him. for her sake, to do all in his power to overcome her father's prejudices. But this was no easy task. In the end, however, Mr. Johnson, who saw, too "plainly, that opposition on his part would be of no avail, yielded a kind of forced consent that the plodding, behind-the-age young merchant, should lead Flora to the altar. That his daughter should be content with such a man, was to him a source of deep mortifica- tion. His own expectations in regard to her had been of a far higher character. " He'll never set the world on fire ;" " A man of no enterprise ;" " A dull plodder ;" with similar allusion's to his son-in-law, were overheard by Mr. Johnson on the night of the wedding party, and added no little to the ill-concealed chagrin from which he suffered. They were made by individuals who belonged to the new school of business men, of whom Mortimer was a representative. He, too, was present. His disappoint- ment in not obtaining the hand of Flora, had been solaced in the favor of one whose social standing and money-value was regarded as considerably above that of the maiden who had declined the. offer of his hand. He saw Flora given to another without a feeling of regret, 268 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. A few months afterwards, be married the daughter of a gentleman who considered himself fortunate in obtaining a son-in-law that promised to be one of the richest men in the city. It was with a very poor grace that Mr. Johnson bore his disappointment ; so poor, that he scarcely treated the husband of his daughter with becoming respect. To add to his uncomfortable feelings by contrast, Mortimer built himself a splendid dwelling almost beside the modest residence of Mr. Watson, and after furnishing it in the most costly and elegant style, gave a grand entertainment. Invitations to this were not extended to either Mr. Johnson's family or to that of his son-in-law an omission that was particularly gall- ing to the former. A few weeks subsequent to this, Mr. Johnson stood beside Mr. Watson in an auction room. To the latter a sample of new goods, just introduced, was knocked down, and when asked by the auctioneer how many cases he would take, he replied " Two." " Say ten," whitepered Mr. Johnson in his ear. "Two cases are enough for my sales," quietly re- turned the young man. " But they're a great bargain. You can sell their at an advance," urged Mr. Johnson SLOW AND SURE. 269 "Perhaps so. But I'd rather not go out of my regular line of business." By this time, the auctioneer's repeated question of "Who'll take another case?" had been responded t by half a dozen voices, and the lot of goods was gone. " You're too prudent," said Mr. Johnson, with some impatience in his manner. "No," replied the young man, with his usual calm tone and quiet smile. " Slow and sure that is my motto. I only buy the quantity of an article that I am pretty sure will sell. Then I get a certain profit, and am not troubled with paying for goods that are lying on my shelves and depreciating in value daily." " But these wouldn't have lain on your shelves. You could have sold them at a quarter of a cent advance to-morrow, and thus cleared sixty or seventy dollars." " That is mere speculation." " Call it what you will ; it makes no difference. The chance of making a good operation was before you, and you did not improve it. You will never get along at your snail's pace." There was, in the voice of Mr. Johixon, a tone of contempt that stung Watson more than any previous remark or action of his father-in-law. Thrown, for a moment, off his guard, he replied with some warmth 270 HEAKT HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " You may be sure of one thing, at least." "What?" " That I shall never embarrass you with any of mj fine operations." " What do you mean by that ?" asked Mr. Johnson. " Time will explain the remark," replied Watson, turning away, and retiring from the auction room. A coolness of some months was the consequence of this little interview. Time proves all things. At the end of fifteen yearfj, Mortimer, who had gone on in the way he had begun, was reputed to be worth two hundred thousand dollars. Every thing he touched turned to money ; at least, so it appeared. Ills whole conversation was touching handsome operations in trade ; and not a day passed in which he had not some story of gains to tell. Yet, with all his heavy accumulations, he was always en- gaged in money raising, and his line of discounts was enormous. Such a thing as proper attention to busi- ness was almost out of the question, for nearly his ject of benevolente. Let us see if we cannot find one. What have we here?' And as the Quaker said this he paused before a build- ing, from the door of which protruded a rod flag, con- taining the words, "Auction this day." On a 1,-trge card just beneath the flag was the announcement, "Pos- itive sale of unredeemed pledges." " Let us turn in here," said the Quaker. " Xo doubt wo shall find enough to excite our sympathies." Mr. Edwards thought this a strange proposal ; but 304 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. he felt a little curious, and followed his companion with, out hesitation. The sale had already begun, and there was a smaL company assembled. Among them, the merchant no- ticed a young woman whose face was partially veiled. She was sitting a little apart from the rest, and did not appear to take any interest in the bidding. But he no- ticed that, after an article was knocked off, she was all attention until the next was put up, and then, the mo- ment it was named, relapsed into a sort of listlessnesa or abstraction. The articles sold embraced a great variety of things useful and ornamental. In the main they were made up of watches, silver plate, jewellery and wearing ap- parel. There were garments of every kind, quality and condition, upon which money to about a fourth of their real value had been loaned ; and not having been re- deemed, they were now to be sold for the benefit of the pawnbroker. The company bid with animation, and article after article was sold off. The interest at first awakened by the scene, new to the young merchant, wore off in a little while, and turning to his companion he said " I don't see that much is to be gained by staying here." " Wait a little longer, an 1 perhaps thee will think ' UNREDEEMED PLEDGES. 305 differently," returned the Quaker, glancing towards the young woman who has been mentioned, as he spoke. The words had scarcely passed his lips, when the auctioneer took up a small gold locket containing a miniature, and holding it up, asked for a bid. " How much for this ? How much for this beauti- ful gold locket and miniature ? Give me a bid. Ten dollars ! Eigtt dollars ! Five dollars ! Four dollars why, gentlemen, it never cost less than fifty'. Four dollars ! Four dollars ! Will no one give four dollars for this beautiful gold locket and miniature ? It's thrown away at that price." At the mention of the locket, the young woman came forward and looked up anxiously at the auctioneer. Mr. Edwards could see enough of her face to ascertain that it was an interesting and intelligent one, though very sad. " Three dollars !" continued the auctioneer. But there was no bid. " Two dollars ! One dollar !" "One dollar," was the response from a man who stood just in front of the woman. Mr. Edwards, whose eyes were upon the latter, noticed that she became much agitated the moment this bid was made. "One dollar we have! One dollar! Only on dollar !" cried the auctioneer. " Only one dollar for a gold locket and miniature worth forty. One dollar !" 306 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " Nine shillings," said the young woman in a low timid voice. " Nine shillings bid ! Nine shillings ! Nine shil- iflgs!" " Ten shillings," said the first bidder. "Ten shillings it is! Ten shillings, and thrown away. Ten shillings !" "Eleven shillings," said the girl, beginning to grow excited. Mr. Edwards, who could not keep his eyes off of her face, from which the veil had entirely fallen, saw that she was trembling with eagerness and anxiety. " Eleven shillings !" repeated the auctioneer, glancing at the first bidder, a coarse-looking man, and the only one who seemed disposed to bid against the young woman. " Twelve shillings," said the man resolutely. A paleness went over the face of the other bidder, and a quick tremor passed through her frame. "Twelve shillings is bid. Twelve shillings is bid. Twelve shillings!" And the auctioneer now looked .owards the young woman who, in a faint voice, said " Thirteen shillings." By this time the merchant began to understand the meaning of what was passing before him. The minia- ture was that of a middle-aged lady ; and it required no great strength of imagination to determine that the UNREDEEMED FLEDGES. 307 original was the mother of the young woman who seemed so anxious to possess the locket. " But how came it here ?" was the involuntary sug- gestion to the mind of Mr. Edwards. " Who pawned it? Did she?" " Fourteen shillings," said the man who was bidding, breaking in upon the reflections of Mr. Edwards. The veil flsat had been drawn aside, fell instantly over the face of the young woman, and she shrunk back from her prominent position, yet still remained in the room. " Fourteen shillings is bid. Fourteen shillings ! Are you all done ? Fourteen shillings for a gold locket and miniature. Fourteen! Once! " The companion of Mr. Edwards glanced towards him with a meaning look. The merchant, for a mo- ment bewildered, found his mind clear again. " Twice I" screamed the auctioneer. " Once ! Twice ! Three " " Twenty shillings," dropped from the lips of Mr. Edwards. " Twenty shillings ! Twenty shillings !" cried the auctioneer with renewed animation. The man who had been bidding against the girl turned quickly to see what bold bidder was in the field : and most of the company turned with him. The young woman at the 308 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. same time drew aside her veil and looked anxioxisly towards Mr. Edwards, who, as he obtained a fuller view of her face, was struck with it as familial*. " Twenty-one shillings," was bid in opposition. " Twenty-five," said the merchant, promptly. The first bidder, seeing that Mr. Edwards was deter- mined to run against him, and being a little afraid that he might be left with a ruinous bid on his hands, de- clined advancing, and the locket was assigned to the young merchant, who, as soon as he had received it, turned and presented it to the young woman, saying as he did so " It is yours." The young woman caught hold of it with an eager gesture, and after gazing on it for a few moments, pressed it to her lips. " I have not the money to pay for it," she said in a low sad voice, recovering herself in a few moments, and seeking to return the miniature. " It is yours !" replied Mr. Edwards. Then thrust ing back the hand she had extended, and speaking with some emotion, he said "Keep it keep it, in Heaven's name !" And saying this he hastily retired, for he became conscious that many eyes were upon him ; and he felt half ashamed to have betrayed his weakness before a UNREDEEMED PLEDGES. 809 coarse, unfeeling crowd. For a few momtnts he linger- ed in the street ; but his companion not appearing, he went on his way, musing on the singular adventure he had encountered. The more distinctly he recalled the young woman's face, the more strangely familiar did it MUD. About an hour afterwards, as Mr. Edwards sat read- ing a letter, fc^e Quaker entered his store. " Ah, how do you do ? I am glad to see you," said the merchant, his manner more than usually earnest " Did you see anything more of that young woman f ' " Yes," replied the Quaker. " I could not leave one like her without knowing something of her past life and present circumstances. I think even you will hardly be disposed to regard her as an object unworthy of interest" "No, certainly I will not Her appearance, and the circumstances under which we found her, are all in her favor." " But we turned aside from the beaten path. We ooked into a by-place to us ; or we would not have discovered her. She was not obtrusive. She asked no aid ; but, with the last few shillings that remained to her in the world, had gone to recover, if possible, an unredeemed pledge the miniature of her mother, on which she had obtained a small advance of money to 310 HEART HISTORIES AND LIB .2 PICTURES. buy food and medicine for the dying original. This is but one of the thousand cases of real distress that are all around us. We could see them if we did but turn aside for a moment into ways unfamiliar to our feet" " Did you learn who she was, and anything of hei condition ?" asked Mr. Edwards. " Oh yes. To do so was but a common dictate of humanity. I would have felt it as a stain npon my conscience to have left one like her uncared for in the circumstances under which we found her." " Did you accompany her home ?" " Yes ; I went with her to the place she called her home a room in which there was scarcely an article of comfort and there learned the history of her past life and present condition. Does thee remember Bel- grave, who carried on a large business in Maiden Lane some years ago?" " Very well. But, surely this girl is not Mary Bel- grave ?" " Yes. It was Mary Belgrave whom we met at th pawnbroker's sale." " Mary Belgrave ! Can it be j ossible ? I knew the family had become poor ; but not so poor as this !" And Mr. Edwards, much disturbed in mind, walked uneasily about the floor. But soon pausing, he said u And so her mother is dead !" UNREDEEMED PLEDGES. 311 a Yes. Her father died two years ago ; and her mother, who has been sick ever since, died last week in abject poverty, leaving Mary friendless, in a world where the poor and needy are but little regarded. The miniature which Mary had secretly pawned in order to supply the last earthly need of her mother, she sought by her labor to redeem ; but ere she had been able to save up enough for the purpose, the time for which the pledge had been taken, expired, and the pawn broker refused to renew it Under the faint hope that she might be able to buy it in with the little pittance of money she had saved, she attended the sale where we found her." The merchant had resumed his seat, and although he had listened attentively to the Quaker's brief history, he did not make any reply, but soon became lost in thought. From this he was interrupted by his visitor, who said, as he moved towards the door " I will bid thee good morning, friend Edwards." " One moment, if you please," said the merchant, arousing himself, and speaking earnestly, " Where does Maty Belgrave live ?" The Friend answered the question, and, as Mr. Edwards did not seem inclined to ask any more, and besides fell back again into an abstract state, he wished him good morning and retired. The poor girl was sitting alone in her room sewing, 312 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. late in the afternoon of the day on which the incident at the auction room occurred, musing, as she had mused for hours, upon the unexpected adventure. She did not, in the excitement of the moment, know Mr. Edwards when he first tendered her the miniature ; but when he said with peculiar emphasis and earnestness, turning away as he spoke " Keep it, in Heaven's name !" she recognized him fully. Since that moment, she had not been able to keep the thought of him from her mind. They had been intimate friends at one time ; but this was while they were both very young. Then he had professed for her a boyish passion ; and she had loved him with the childish fondness of a young school-girl. As they grew older, circumstances sepa- rated them more ; and though no hearts were broken in consequence, both often thought of the early days of innocence and affection with pleasure. Mary sat sewing, as we have said, late in the after- noon of the day on which the incident at the auction room occurred, when there was a tap at her door. On opening it, Mr. Edwards stood before her. She stepped back a pace or two in instant surprise and confusion, and he advanced into the desolate room. In a moment, however, Mary recovered herself, and with as much self-possession as, under the circumstances, she UNREDEEMED PLEDGES. 313 could assume, asked her unexpected visitor to take a chair, which she offered him. Mr. Edwards sat down, feeling much oppressed. Mary was so changed in everything, except in the purity and beauty of her countenance, since he had seen her years before, that his feelings were completely borne down. But he soon recovered himself enough to speak to her fcf what was in his mind. He had an old aunt, who had been a friend of Mary's mother, and from her he brought a message and an offer of a home. Her carriage was at the door it had been sent for her and he urged her to go with him immediately. Mary had no good reason for declining so kind an offer. It was a home that she most of all needed ; and she could not refuse one like this. " There is another unredeemed pledge," said Mr. Edwards, significantly, as he sat conversing with Mary about & year after she had found a home in the house of his aunt. Allusion had been made to the miniature f Mary's mother. " Ah !" was the simple response. " Yes. Don't you remember," and he took Mary's unresisting hand " the pledge of this hand which you made me, I cannot tell how many years ago ?" " That was a mere girlish pledge," ventured Mary with drooping eyes. 14 314 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " But one that the woman will redeem," said Edwards confidently, raising the hand to his lips at the same time, and kissing it. Mary leaned involuntarily towards him ; and he perceiving the movement, drew his arm around her, and pressed his lips to her cheek. It was no very long time afterwards before the pledge was redeemed. DON'T MENTION IT, " DON'T mention it again for your life." " No, of course not. The least said about such things the better." " Don't for the world. I have told you in perfect confidence, and you are the only one to whom I have breathed it. I wouldn't have it get out for any consid- eration." f " Give yourself no uneasiness. I shall not allude to the subject." " I merely told you because I knew you were a friend, and would let it go no farther. But would you have thought it ?" " I certainly am very much surprised." " So am I. But when things pass right before your eyes and ears, there is no gainsaying them." 316 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " No. Seeing is said to be believing." " Of course it is." " But, Mrs. Grimes, are you very sure that you heard aright F '* I am positive, Mrs. Raynor. It occurred only an hour ago, and the whole thing is distinctly remembered. I called in to see Mrs. Comegys, and while I was there, the bundle of goods came home. I was present when she opened it, auJ sLe showed me the lawn dress it contained. There were twelve yards in it. 'I must see if there is good measure,' she said, and she got a yard-stick and measured it off. There were fifteen yards instead of twelve. ' How is this ?' she remarked. ' I am sure I paid for only twelve yards, and here are fifteen.' The yard-stick was applied again. There was no mistake ; the lawn measured fifteen yards. ' What are you going to do with the surplus ?' I asked. ' Keep it, of course,' said Mrs. Comegys. ' There is just enough to make little Julia a frock. Won't she look sweet in it ?' I was so confounded that I could'nt Bay a word. Indeed, I could hardly look her in the face. At first I thought of calling her attention to tho dishonesty of the act ; but then I reflected that, as it was none of my business, I might get her ill-will for meddling in what didn't concern me." DONT MENTION IT. 317 u And you really think, then, that she meant to keep the three yards without paying for them F' " Oh, certainly ! But then I wouldn't say anything about it for the world. I wouldn't name it, on any consideration. Of course you will not repeat it." "No. If I cannot find any good to tell of my friends, I try to refrain from saying anything evil." " A most-excellent rule, Mrs. Raynor, and one that I always follow. I never speak evil of my friends, for it always does more harm than good. No one can say that I ever tried to injure another." " I hope Mrs. Cornegys thought better of the matter, upon reflection," said Mrs. Raynor. " So do I. But I am afraid not. Two or three little things occur to me now, that I have seen in my intercourse with her, which go to satisfy my mind that her moral perceptions are not the best in the world. Mrs. Comegys is a pleasant friend, and much esteemed by every one. It could do no good to spread this matter abroad, but harm." After repeating over and over again her injunction to Mrs. Raynor not to repeat a word of what she had told her, Mrs. Grimes bade this lady, upon whom she had called, good morning, and went on her way. Ten minutes after, she was in the parlor of an acquaintance, named Mrs. Florence, entertaining her with the gossip 318 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. she had picked up since their last meeting. She had not been there long, before, lowering her voice, she said in a confidential way " I was at Mrs. Comegys' to-day, and saw something hat amazed me beyond every thing." " Indeed !" " Yes. You will be astonished when you hear it. Suppose you had purchased a dress and paid for a cer- tain number of yards ; and when the dress was sent home, you should find that the storekeeper had made a mistake and sent you three or four yards more than you had settled for. What would you do f ' " Send it back, of course." " Of course, so say I. To act differently would not be honest. Do you think so ?" M It would not be honest for me." " No, nor for any one. Now, would you have believed it ? Mrs. Comegys not only thinks but act* differently." " You must be mistaken, certainly, Mrs. Grimes " " Seeing is believing, Mrs. Florence." " So it is said, but J could hardly believe my eyes against Mrs. Comegys' integrity of character. I think I ought to know her well, for we have been very inti- mate for years." DON'T MENTION IT. 819 " And I thought I knew her, too. But it seems that I was mistaken." Mrs. Grimes then repeated the story of the lawn dress. M Gracious me ! Can it be possible ?"' exclaimed Mrs. Florence. u I can hardly credit it." M It occurred just as I tell you. But Mrs. Florence, you rnusn't tell it again for the world. I have men- tioned it to you in the strictest confidence. But I neea hardly say this to you, for I know how discreet you are." " I shall not mention it." "It could do no good." " None in the world." " Isn't it surprising, that a woman who is so well off in the world as Mrs. Comegys, should stoop to a petty act like this ?" " It is, certainly." " Perhaps there is something wrong here," and Mrs. Grimes placed her finger to her forehead and looked ber. " How do you mean ?" asked the friend. " You've heard of people's having a dishonest mono- mania. Don't you remember the case of Mrs. Y ?" "Very well." " She had every thing that heart could desire. Her 320 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. husband was rich, and let her have as much money as she wanted. I wish we could all say that, Mrs. Flor- ence, don't you ?" "It would be very pleasant, certainly, to have as much money as we wanted.* " But, notwithstanding all this, Mrs. Y had such a propensity to take things not her own, that she never vent into a dry goods store without purloining some- thing, and rarely took tea with a friend without slip- ping a teaspoon into her pocket. Mr. Y had a great deal of trouble with her, and, in several cases, 'paid handsomely to induce parties disposed to prose- cute her for theft, to let the matter drop. Now do you know that it has occurred to me that, perhaps, Mm. Comegys is afflicted in this way ? I shouldn't at all wonder if it were so." " Hardly." " I'm afraid it is as I suspect. A number of suspi- cious circumstances have happened when she has been about, that this would explain. But for your life, Mi's. Florence, don't repeat this to any mortal !" " I shall certainly not speak of it, Mrs. Grimes. It is too serious a matter. I wish I had not heard of it, for I can never feel toward Mrs. Comegys as I hare done. She is a very pleasant woman, and one with DON'T MENTION IT. 321 whom it is always agreeable and profitable to spend an hour." " It is a little matter, after all," remarked Mrs. Grimes, and, perhaps, we treat it too seriously." " We should never think lightly of dishonest prac tices, Mrs. Grimes. Whoever is dishonest in little things, will be dishonest in great things, if a good opportunity-offer. Mrs. Comegys can never be to me what she has been. That is impossible." " Of course you will not speak of it again." " You need have no fear of that." A few days after, Mrs. Ray nor made a call upon a friend, who said to her, " Have you heard about Mrs. Comegys ?" " What about her ?" " I supposed you knew it. Pve heard it from half a dozen persons. It is said that Perkins, through a mistake of one of his clerks, sent her home some fifteen or twenty yards of lawn more than she had paid for, and that, instead of sending it back, she kept it and made it up for her children. Did you ever hear of such a trick for an honest woman ?" u I don't think any honest woman would be guilty of such an act. Yes, I heard of it a few days ago as a great secret, and have not mentioned it to a living soul." 14* 322 HEART HISTORIES AND UFE PICTUKES. " Secret ? bless me ! it is no secret It is in every one's mouth." " Is it possible ? I must say that Mrs. Grimes baa been very indiscreet." " Mrs. Grimes ! Did it come from her in the first place r " Yes. She told me that she was present when the lawn came home, and saw Mrs. Comegys measure it, and heard her say that she meant to keep it." " Which she has done. For I saw her in the street, yesterday, with a beautiful new lawn, and her little Julia was with her, wearing one precisely like it." " How any woman can do so is more than I can understand." "So it is, Mrs. Raynor. Just to think of dressing your child up in a frock as good as stolen ! Isn't it dreadful ?" " It is, indeed !" "Mrs. Comegys is not an honest woman. That is clear. I am told that this is not the first trick of the kind of which she has been guilty. They say that she has a natural propensity to take things that are not her own." " I can hardly believe that." " Nor can I. But it's no harder to believe this than to believe that she would cheat Perkins out of fifteen DON'T MENTION rr. 323 01 twenty yards of lawn. It's a pity ; for Mrs. Comegys, in every thing else, is certainly a very nice woman. In fact, I don't know any one I visit with so much pleasure." Thus the circle of detraction widened, until there was scarcely a friend or acquaintance of Mrs. Comegys, near or remote, who had not heard of her having cheated a dry goods dealer out of several yards of lawn. Throe, it had first been alleged ; but the most common version of the story made it fifteen or twenty. Meantime, Mrs. Comegys remained in entire ignorance f what was alleged against her, although she noticed in two or three of her acquaintances, a trifling coldness that struck her as rather singular. One day her husband, seeing that she looked quite sober, said " You seem quite dull to-day, dear. Don't you feel well?" " Yes, I feel as well as usual, in body." " But not in mind ?" " I do not feel quite comfortable in mind, certainly, though I don't know that I have any serious cause of Uneasiness." " Though a slight cause exists. May I ask what it It ia nothing more nor less than that I was coolly i 324 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. cut by an old friend to-day, whom I met in a store on Chesnut street And as she is a woman that I highly esteem, both for the excellence of her character, and the agreeable qualities, as a friend, that she possesses. I cannot but feel a little bad about it. If she were one of that capricious class who get offended with you, once a month, for no just cause whatever, I should not care a fig. But Mrs. Markle is a woman of character, good sense and good feeling, whose friendship I have always prized." " Was it Mrs. Markle ?" said the husband, with some surprise. " Yes." " What can possibly be the cause ?" " I cannot tell" " Have you thought over every thing P " Yes, I have turned and turned the matter in my mind, but can imagine no reason why she, of all others, could treat me coolly." " Have you never spoken of her in a way to have your words misinterpreted by some evil-minded per- son Mrs. Grimes, for instance whose memory, or moral sense, one or the other, is very dull ?" " I have never spoken of her to any one, except in terms of praise. I could not do otherwise, for I look her as one of the most faultless women I know." DON'T MENTION IT. 325 " She has at least shown that she possesses one fault.* * What is that I" " If she has heard any thing against you of a charac- ter so serious as to make her wish to give up your ac- quaintance, she should at least have afforded you the chance of defending yourself before condemning you." u I think that, myself." " It may-be that she did not see you," Mr. Comegys suggested. " She looked me in the face, and nodded with cold formality." u Perhaps her mind was abstracted." " It might have been so. Mine would have been very abstracted, indeed, to keep me from a more cor- dial recognition of a friend." " How would it do to call and see her ?" " I have been thinking of that. But my feelings naturally oppose it. I am not conscious of having done any thing to merit a withdrawal of the friendly senti- nents she has held towards me ; still, if she wishes to withdraw them, my pride says, let her do so." u But pride, you know, is not always the best ad- viser." u No. Perhaps the less regard we pay to its prompt- ings, the better." " I think so " 826 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " It is rather awkward to go to a person and ask why you have been treated coldly." " I know it is. But in a choice of evils, is it not always wisest to choose the least ?" " But is any one's bad opinion of you, if it be not correctly formed, an evil ?" " Certainly it is." "I don't know. I have a kind of independence about me which sap, 'Let people think what they please, so you are conscious of no wrong.' " " Indifference to the world's good or bad opinion is all very well," replied the husband, " if the world will misjudge us. Still, as any thing that prejudices the minds of people against us, tends to destroy our useful- ness, it is our duty to take all proper care of our repu- tations, even to the sacrifice of a little feeling in doing so." Thus argued with by her husband, Mrs. Comegys, after turning the matter over in her mind, finally con- cluded to go and see Mrs. Markle. It was a pretty hard trial for her, but urged on by a sense of right, she called upon her two or three days after having been % treated so coldly. She sent up her name by the ser- vant In about five minutes, Mrs. Markle descended to the parlor, where her visitor was awaiting her, and met hei in a reserved and formal manner, that was alto DON T MENTION IT. getter unlike her former cordiality. It was as much aa Mrs. Comegys could do to keep from retiring instantly, and without a word, from the house. But she com- pelled herself to go through with what she had begun Mrs. Markle did, indeed, offer her hand ; or rather the tips of her fingers; which Mrs. Comegys, in mere reciprocation of the formality, accepted. Then came an embarrassing pause, after which the latter said " I see that I was not mistaken in supposing that there was a marked coldness in your manner at our last meeting." Mrs. Markle inclined her head slightly. " Of course there is a cause for this. May I, in jus- tice to myself as well as others, inquire what it is ?" " I did not suppose you would press an inquiry on the subject," replied Mrs. Markle. " But as you have done so, you are, of course, entitled to an answer." There came another pause, after which, with a dis- turbed voice, Mrs. Markle said " For some time, I have heard a rumor in regard to you, that I could not credit Of. late it has been s often repeated that I felt it to be my duty to ascertain its truth or falsehood. On tracing, with some labor ; the report to its origin, I an grieved to find that it ia too true." 328 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " Please say what it is," said Mrs. Comegys, in a firm voice. " It is said that you bought a dress at a dry goods store in this city, and that on its being sent home, there proved to be some yards more in the piece of goods than you paid for, and that instead of returning what was not your own, you kept it and had it made up for one of your children." The face of Mrs. Comegys instantly became like crimson ; and she turned her head away to hide the confusion into which this unexpected allegation had thrown her. As soon as she could command her voice, she said "You will, of course, give me the author of this charge." " You are entitled to know, I suppose," replied Mrs. Markle. "The person who originated this report is Mrs. Grimes. And she says that she was present when the dress was sent home. That you measured it in her presence, and that, finding there were several yards over, you declared your intention to keep it and make of it a frock for your little girl. And, moreover, that she saw Julia wearing a frock afterwards, exactly like the pattern of the one you had, which she well remem- bers. This seems to me pretty conclusive evidence. At least it was so to my mind, and I acted accordingly." DON'T MENTION rr. 329 Mrs. Comegys sat for the full space of a minute with her eyes upon the floor, without speaking. When she looked up, the flush that had covered her face had gone. It was very pale, instead. Rising from her chair, she bowed formally, and without saying a word, withdrew. " Ah me ! Isn't it sad ? w murmured Mrs. Markle, as she heard the street door close upon her visitor. "So mucH-that is agreeable and excellent, all dimmed by the want of principle. It seems hardly credible that a woman, with every thing she needs, could act dishon- estly for so small a matter. A few yards of lawn against integrity and character ! What a price to set upon virtue !" Not more than half an hour after the departure of Mrs. Comegys, Mrs. Grimes called in to see Mrs. Markle. " I hope," she said, shortly after she was seated, " that you won't say a word about what I told you a few days ago ; I shouldn't have opened my lips on the subject if you hadn't asked me about it. I only mentioned it in the first place to a friend in whom I had the greatest confidence in the world. She has told some one, very improperly, for it was imparted to her as a secret, and in that way it has been spread abroad. 1 regret it exceedingly, for I would be the last person in the world to say a word to injure any one. I am par- ticularly guarded in this." S30 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. ** If it's the truth, Mrs. Grimes, I don't see that you need be so anxious about keeping it a secret," returned Mrs. Markle. " The truth ! Do you think I would utter a word that was not true ?" " I did not mean to infer that you would. I believe that what you said in regard to Mrs. Comegys was the fact." " It certainly was. But then, it will do no good to make a disturbance about it. What has made me call in to see you is this ; some one told me that, in conse- quence of this matter, you had dropped the acquain- tance of Mrs. Comegys." " It is true ; I cannot associate on intimate terms with a woman who lacks honest principles." " But don't you see that this will bring matters to a head, and that I shall be placed in a very awkward position ?" " You are ready to adhere to your statement in re- gard to Mrs. Comegys?" " Oh, certainly ; I have told nothing but the truth. But still, you can see that it will make me feel exceed- ingly unpleasant" " Things of this kind are never very agreeable, I know, Mrs. Grimes. Still we must act as we think right, let what jvill follow. Mrs. Comegys has already DON'T MEKTION IT. 381 called upon me to ask an explanation of my conduct towards her." " She has !" Mrs. Grimes seemed sadly distressed. " What did you say to her V " I told her just what I had heard." "Did she ask your author?" Mrs. Grimes was almost pale with suspense. " She did? " Of course you did not mention my name P* " She asked the author of the charge, and I named you." " Oh dear, Mrs. Markle ! I wish you hadn't done that. I shall be involved in a world of trouble, and get the reputation of a tattler and mischief-maker. What did she say ?" ** Not one word." "She didn't deny it?" "No." u Of course she could not. Well, that is some satis- faction at least. She might have denied it, and tried to make me out a liar, and there would have been plenty to believe her word against mine. I am glad she didn't deny it She didn't say a word !" "No." "Did she look guilty T 332 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " You would have thought so, if you had seen her." "What did she do?" " She sat with her eyes upon the floor for some time, and then rose up, and without uttering a word, left the house." " I wish she had said something. It would have been a satisfaction to know what she thought. But I suppose the poor woman was so confounded, that she didn't know what to say." " So it appeared to me. She was completely stun- ned. I really pitied her from my heart. But want of principle should never be countenanced. If we are to have social integrity, we must mark with appropriate condemnation all deviations therefrom. It was exceed- ingly painful, but the path of duty was before me, and I walked in it without faltering." Mrs. Grimes was neither so clear-sighted, nor so well satisfied with what she had done, as all this. She left the house of Mrs. Markle feeling very unhappy. Although she had been using her little unruly member against Mrs. Comegys with due industry, she was all the while on the most friendly terms with her, visiting at her house and being visited. It was only a few days before that she had taken tea and spent an evening with her. Not that Mrs. Grimes was deliberately hypocriti- cal, but she had a free tongue, and, like too many in DON T MENTION IT. 333 society, more cautious about what they said than she, much better pleased to see evil than good in a neigh- bour. There are very few of us, perhaps, who have not something of this fault an exceedingly bad fault, by the way. It seems to arise from a consciousness of our own imperfections, and the pleasure we feel in making the discovery that others are as bad, if not worse than we are. Two days after Mrs. Comegys had called on Mrs. Markle to ask for explanations, the latter received a note in the following words : " MADAM. I have no doubt you have acted according to your own views of right, in dropping as suddenly as you have done, the acquaintance of an old friend. Perhaps, if you had called upon me and asked explanations, you might have acted a little differently. My present object in addressing you is to ask, as a matter of justice, that you will call at my house to- morrow at twelve o'clock. I think that I am entitled to speak a word in my own defence. After you hav heard that, I shall not complain of any course you may think it right to pursue. ANNA COMEGYS." Mrs. Markle could do no less than call as she had been desired to. At twelve o'clock she rang the bell at Mrs. Comegy's door, and was shown into the parlor, 334 HEART HISTORIES AKD LIFE PICTURES. where, to her no small surprise, she found about twenty ladies, most of them acquaintances, assembled, Mrs. Grimes among the number. In about ten minutes Mrs. Comegys came into the room, her countenance rearing a calm but sober aspect. She bowed slightly, but was not cordial toward, or familiar with, any one present. Without a pause she said ' Ladies, I have learned within a few days, very greatly to my surprise and grief, that there is a report circulated among my frieitds, injurious to my character as a woman of honest principles. I have taken some pains to ascertain those with whom the report is familiar, and have invited all such to be here to-day. I learn from several sources, that the report originated with Mrs. Grimes, and that she has been very indus- trious in circulating it to my injury." " Perhaps you wrong Mrs. Grimes there," spoke up Mrs. Markle. " She did not mention it to me until I inquired of her if the report was true. And then she told me that she had neve told it but to a single person, in confidence, and that she had inadvertently alluded to it, and thus it became a common report- So I think that Mrs. Grimes cannot justly be charged with having sought to circulate the matter to your injury." " Very well, we will see how far that statement * DON'T MENTION IT. 835 correct," said Mrs. Comegys. " Did she mention the Bubject to you, Mrs. Ray nor ?" " She did," replied Mrs. Raynor. "But in strict confidence, and enjoining it upon me not to mention it to any one, as she had no wish to injure you." Did you tell it to any one ?" " No. It was but a little while afterward that it was told to me by-some one else." u Was it mentioned to you, Mrs. Florence ?" pro- ceeded Mrs. Comegys, turning to another of the ladies present " It was, ma'am." " By Mrs. Grimes T " Yes, ma'am." " In confidence, I suppose ?" " I was requested to say nothing about it, for fear that it might create an unfavorable impression in regard to you." " Very well ; there are two already. How was it in vour case, Mrs. Wheeler ?" This lady answered as the others had done. The question was then put to each lady in the room, when it appeared that out of the twenty, fifteen had received their information on the subject from Mrs. Grimes, and that upon every one secrecy had been enjoined, although not in every case maintained. 836 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE Plf&TURES. " So it seems, Mrs. Markle," said Mrs. Comegys, after she had finished her inquiries, " that Mrs. Grimes has, as I alleged, industriously circulated this matter to my injury." "It certainly appears so," returned Mrs. Markle, coldly. Thus brought into a corner, Mrs. Grimes bristled up like certain animals, which are good at running and skulking, but which, when fairly trapped, fight des- perately. u Telling it to a thousand is not half as bad as doing it, Mrs. Comegys," she said, angrily. " You needn't try to screen yourself from the consequences of your wrong doings, by raising a hue and cry against me. Go to the fact, madam ! Go to the fact, and stand alongside of what you have done." " I have no hesitation about doing that^ Mrs. Grimes. Pray, what have I done 3" " It is very strange thai you should ask, madam." " But I am charged, I learn, with having committed a crime against society ; and you are the author of the charge. What is the crime ?" " If it is any satisfaction to you, I will tell you. I was at your house when the pattern of the lawn dress you now have on was sent home. You measured it DON'T MENTION rr. 337 in my presence, and there were several yards in it more than you had bought and paid for" " How many ?" Mrs. Grimes looked confused, and stammered out, " I do not now exactly remember." u How many did she tell you, Mrs. Raynor ?" " She said there were three yards." "And you,-jklrs. Fisher ?" tt Six yards." " And you, Mrs. Florence ?" " Fifteen yards, I think." " Oh, no, Mrs. Florence ; you are entirely mistaKen. You misunderstood me," said Mrs. Grimes, in extreme perturbation. " Perhaps so. But that is my oresent impression," replied Mrs. Florence. " That will do," said Mrs. Comegys. " Mrs. Grimes can now go on with her answer to my inquiry. I will remark, however, that the overplus was just two yards." M Then you admit that the lawn overran what you had paid for?" " Certainly I do. It overran just two yards." " Very well. One yard or a dozen, the principle is just the same. I asked you what you meant to do with it, and you replied, ' keep it, of course.' Do you deny that?" 15 838 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. " No. It is very likely that I did say so, for it was my intention to keep it." " Without paying for it ?" asked Mrs. Markle. Mrs. Comegys looked steadily into the face of her nterrogator for some moments, a flush upon her cheek, an indignant light in her eye. Then, without replying to the question, she stepped to the wall and rang the parlor belL In a few moments a servant came in. " Ask the gentleman in the dining-room if he will be kind enough to step here." In a little while a step was heard along the passage, and then a young man en- tered. M You are a clerk in Mr. Perkins' store ?" said Mrs. Comegys. u Yes, ma'am." " You remember my buying this lawn dress at your store T " Very well, ma'am. I should forget a good many incidents before I forgot that." " What impressed it upon your memory ?* " This circumstance. I was very much hurried at the time when you bought it, and in measuring it off, 'made a mistake against myself of two yards. There should have been four dresses in the piece. One had been sold previous to yours. Not long after your dress had been sent home, two ladies came into the store and DON'T MENTION rr; 339 chose each a dress from the pattern. On measuring the piece, I discovered that it was two yards short, and lost the sale of the dresses in consequence, as the ladies wished them alike. An hour afterward you called to say that I had made a mistake and sent you home two yards more than you had paid for ; but that as you liked the pattern very much, you would keep it and buy two yards more for a dress for your little girl." " Yes ; that is exactly the truth in regard .to the dress. I am obliged to you, Mr. S , for the trouble I have given you. I will not keep you any longer." The young man bowed and withdrew. The ladies immediately gathered around Mrs. Come- gys, with a thousand apologies for having for a moment entertained the idea that she had been guilty of wrong, while Mrs. Grimes took refuge in a flood of tears. " I have but one cause of complaint against you all," said the injured lady, " and it is this. A charge of so serious a'nature should never have been made a subject of common report without my being offered a chance to defend myself. As for Mrs. Grimes, I can't readily understand how she fell into the error she did. But she never would have fallen into it if she had not been more willing to think evil than good of her friends. I do not say this to hurt her, but to state a truth that it 340 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. may be well for her, and perhaps some of the rest of us, to lay to heart. It is a serious thing to speak evil of another, and should never be done except on the most unequivocal evidence. It never occurred to me to say to Mrs. Grimes that I would pay for the lawn ; that I supposed she or any one else would have inferred, when I said I would keep it" A great deal was said by all parties, and many apologies were made. Mrs. Grimes was particularly humble, and begged all present to forgive and forget what was past. She knew, she said, that she was apt to talk ; it was a failing with her which she would try to correct But that she didn't mean to do any one harm. As to the latter averment, it can be believed or not as suits every one's fancy. All concerned in this aftair felt that they had received a lesson they would not soon forget. And we doubt not, that some of our readers might lay it to heart with great advantage to them- selves and benefit to others. THE HEIRESS KATE DARLINGTON was a belle and a beauty ; and bad, as might be supposed, not a few admirers. Some were attracted by her person ; some by her winning manners, and not a few by the wealth of her family. But though sweet Kate was both a belle and a beauty, uhe was a shrewd, clear-seeing girl, and had far more penetration into character than belles and beauties are generally thought to possess. For the whole tribe of American dandies, with their disfiguring moustaches and imperials, she had a most hearty contempt. Hair never made up, with her,. for the lack of brains. But, as she was an heiress in expectancy, and moved in the most fashionable society, and was, with all, a gay and sprightly girl, Kate, as a natural conse- quence, drew around her the gilded moths of society, not a few of whom got their wings scorched, on ap- proaching too near. 342 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. Many aspired to be lovers, and some, more ardent than the rest, boldly pressed forward and claimed Her hand. But Kate did not believe in the doctrine that love begets love in all cases. Were this so, it was clear that she would have to love half a dozen, for at least that number came kneeling to her with their hearts in their hands. Mr. Darlington was a merchant. Among his clerks was the son of an old friend, who, in dying some years before, had earnestly solicited him to have some care over the lad, who at his death would become friendless. In accordance with this last request, Mr. Darlington took the boy into his counting-room ; and, in order that he might, with more fidelity, redeem his pro- mise to the dying father, also received him into his family. Edwin Lee proved himself not ungrateful for the kindness. In a few years he became one of Mr. Darlington's most active, trustworthy and intelligent clerks ; while his kind, modest, gentlemanly deportmen at home, won the favor and confidence of all the family With Edwin, Kate grew up as with a brother. Their intercourse was of the most frank and confiding char- acter. But there came, at last, a change. Kate from a graceful sweet-tempered, affectionate girl, stepped forth, THE HEIRESS. 343 almost in a day, it seemed to Edwin, a full-grown, lovely woman, into whose eyes he could not look as steadily as before, and on whose beautiful face he could no longer gaze with the calmness of feeling he had until now enjoyed. For awhile, Edwin could not understand the reason of this change. Kate was the same to him ; and yet not the**ame. There was no distance no reserve on her part ; and yet, when he came into her presence, he felt his heart beat more quickly ; and when she looked him steadily in the face, his eyes would droop, involuntarily, beneath her gaze. Suddenly, Edwin awoke to a full realization of the fact that Kate was to him more than a gentle friend or a sweet sister. From that moment, he became reserved in his intercourse with her ; and, after a short time, firmly made up his mind that it was his duty to retire from the family of his benefactor. The thought of endeavoring to win the heart of the beautiful girl, whom he had always loved as a sister, and now almost wor- shipped, was not for a moment entertained. To him there would have been so much of ingratitude in this, and so much that involved a base violation of Mr. Darlington's confidence, that he would have suffered anything rather than be guilty of such an act. But he could not leave the home where he had been 844 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. so kindly regarded for years, without offering some rea- son that would be satisfactory. The true reason, he could not, of course, give. After looking at the subject in various lights, and. debating it for a long time, Edwin could see no way in which he could withdraw from the family of Mr. Darlington, without betraying his secret, unless he were to leave the city at the same time. He, therefore, sought and obtained the situation of super- cargo in a vessel loading for Valparaiso. When Edwin announced this fact to Mr. Darlington, the merchant was greatly surprised, and appeared hurt that the young man should take such a step without a word of consultation with him. Edwin tried to explain ; but, as he had to conceal the real truth, his explanation rather tended to make things appear worse than better. Kate heard the announcement with no less surprise than her father. The thing was so sudden, so unL okcd for, and, moreover, so uncalled for, that she could not understand it. In order to take away any pecuniary reason for the step he was about to take, Mr. Darling- ton, after holding a long conversation with Edwin, made him offers far more advantageous than his pro- posed expedition could be to him, viewed in any light, But he made them in vain. Edwin acknowledged the kindness, in the warmest terms, but remained firm in his purpose to sail with the vessel. THE HEIRESS. 345 u Why will you go away and leave us, Edwin ?" said Kate, one evening when they happened to be alone, about two weeks before his expected departure. " I do think it very strange I" Edwin had avoided, as much as possible, being alone with Kate, a fact which the observant maiden had not failed to notice. Their being alone now was from acci- dent ratherthan design on his part. " I think it right for me to go, Kate," the young man replied, as calmly as it was possible for him to speak under the circumstances. " And when I think it right to do a thing, I never hesitate or look back." " You have a reason, for going, of course. Why then, not tell it frankly ? Are we not all your friends ?" Edwin was silent, and his eyes rested upon the floor, while a deeper flush than usual was upon his face. Kate looked at him fixedly. Suddenly a new thought flashed through her mind, and the color on her own cheeks grew warmer. Iler voice from that moment was lower and more tender ; and her eyes, as she con- ersed with the young man, were never a moment from his face. As for him, his embarrassment in her pres- ence was never more complete, and he betrayed the ecret that was in his heart even while he felt the most earnest to conceal it. Conscious of this, he excused himself and retired as soon as it was possible to do so. 246 " HEAKT HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. Kate sat thoughtful for some time after he had left. Then rising up, she went, with a firm step to her father's room. " I have found out," she said, speaking with great eif-composure, " the reason why Edwin persists in going away." " Ah ! what is the reason, Kate ? I would give much to know." " He is in love," replied Kate, promptly. " In love ! How do you know that ?" " I made the discovery to-night." " Love should keep him at home, not drive him away," said Mr. Darlington. M But he loves hopelessly," returned the maiden. " He is poor, and the object of his regard belongs to a wealthy family." " And her friends will have nothing to do with him.* U I am 'not so sure of that. But he formed an acquaintance with the young lady under circumstances that would make it mean, in his eyes, to urge any claims upon her regard." " Then honor as well as Icte takes him away." " Honor in fact ; not love. Love would make him stay," replied the maiden with a sparkling eye, and omething of proud elevation in the tones of her voice! THE HEIRESS. '347 A faint suspicion of the truth now came stealing on the mind of Mr. Darlington. " Does the lady know of his preference for her P he asked. "" Not through any word or act of his, designed tc communicate a knowledge of the fact," replied Kate, her eyes falling under the earnest look Dent upon her by Mr. Darlington. " Has he made you his confidante P . " No, sir. I doubt if the secret has ever passed his lips." Kate's face was beginning to crimson, but she drove back the tell-tale blood with a strong effort of the will. " Then how came you possessed of it," inquired the father. M The blood came back to her face with a rush, and she bent her head so that her dark glossy curls fell over and partly concealed it In a moment or two she had regained her self-possession, and looking up she answered, " Secrets like this do not always need oral or written language to make them known. Enough, father, that I have discovered the fact that his heart is deeply im bued with a passion for one ^ho knows well his virtues his pure, true heart his manly sense of honor' with a passion for one who has looked upon him UL 348 HEART HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. now as a brother, but who henceforth must regard him with a different and higher feeling." Kate's voice trembled. As she uttered the last few words, she lost control of herself, and bent forward, and hid her face upon her father's arm. Mr. Darlington, as might well be supposed, was taken altogether by surprise at so unexpected an announce- ment The language used by his daughter needed no interpretation. She was the maiden beloved by his clerk. " Kate," said he, after a moment or two of hurried reflection, "this is a very serious matter. Edwin is only a poor clerk, and you-*-'' " And I," said Kate, rising up, and taking the words from her father, " and I am the daughter of a man who can appreciate what is excellent in even those who are humblest in the eyes of the world. Father, is not Ed- win far superior to the artificial men who flutter around every young lady who now makes her appearance in the circle where we move ? Knowing him as you do, I am sure you will say yes." But, Kate " " Father, don't let us argue this point. Do you want Edwin to go away !" And the young girl laid her hand upon her parent, and looked him in the face with unresisting affection. THE HEIRESS. 349 " No dear ; I certainly don't wish him to go." Nor do I," returned the maiden, as she leaned for- ward again, and laid her face upon his arm. In a little while she arose, and, with her countenance turned partly away, said " Tell him not to go, father '' And with these words she retired from the room. On the next evening, as Edwin was sitting alone in one of the drawing-rooms, thinking on the long night of absence that awaited him, Mr. Darlington came in, accompanied by Kate. They seated themselves near the young man, who showed some sense of embarrass- ment. There was no suspense, however, for Mr. Dar- lington said M Edwin, we none of us wish you to go away. You know that I have urged every consideration in my power, and now I have consented to unite with Kate in renewing a request for you to remain. Up to this time jou have declined giving a satisfactory reason for your sudden resolution to 1 , i ave ; but a reason is due to us tc me in particular a-id I now most earnestly conjure you to give it.'' The young man at this became greatly agitated, but did not venture to make a reply. u You are still silent on the subject,'' said Mr. Bar- Jogton. 850 HEAKT HISTORIES AND LIFE PICTURES. u He will not go, father." said Kate, in a tender, ap- pealing voice. " I know he will not go. We cannot let him go. Kinder friends he will not find anywhere than he has here. And we shall miss him from our .ome circle. There will be a vacant place at our board. Will you be happier away, Edwin ?" The last sentence was uttered in a tone of sisterly affection. "Happier!" exclaimed the young man, thrown off his guard. "Happier! I shall be wreiched while away." " Then why go ?" returned Kate, tenderly. At this stage of affairs, Mr. Darlington got up, and retired ; and we think we had as well retire with the reader. The good ship " Leonora" sailed in about ten days. She had a supercargo on board ; but his name was not Edwin Lee. Fashionable people were greatly surprised when the beautiful Kate Darlington married her father's clerk; and moustached dandies curled their lip, but it matter- ed not to Kate. She had married a man in whose worth, affection, and manliness of character, she could repose a rational confidence. If not a fashionable, she was a hapuy wife. iJST OF VALUABLE AND POrtJIAR BOOKS. 19 THE BATTLE FIELDS OF THE REVOLUTION. COMPRISING DESCRIPTIONS OF TUB Different Battles, Sieges, and other Events of the War of Independence. INTERSPERSED WITH CHARACTERISTIC ANECDOTES. Illustrated with numerous Engravings, and a fine Mezzotint Frontis- piece. By TaoiiAs Y. RHOADS. Large 12mo. Price $1.00. OOZtTTElSTTS. The Sergeant and the Indians. Burning of the Gaspee. The Great Tea Kiot. The First Prayer in Congress. Battle of Lexington. Fight at Concord Bridge. Capture of Ticonderoga. Battle of Bunker's Hill. Attack on Quebec. Attack on Sullivan's Island. The Declaration of Indepen- dence. 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