OF THE U N I VERS liY Of ILLINOIS &I& '? 2 S /’<2 /&&- ^ 4 • a ir^ .vw V ^ ^ Liv fi- 5. : CENTRAL CIRCULATION BOOKSTACKS The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its renewal or its return to the library from which it was borrowed on or before the Latest Date stamped below. You may be charged a minimum fee of $75.00 for each lost book. Theft, mutilotleii, and underlining of books ore reasons for discipiincny action and may result in dismissol from the University. TO RENEW CALI TELEPHONE CENTER, 333-8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAAAPAIGN HAR 0 6 199!t i dec 3 01998 XI „3 21X10 1 QGl Z8 j \ .'h^' lyBH 1 MAY 1 8 2000 1 i I'i Si Jl M 1 s ^ When renewing by phone, -; previous due date. , write new due date below L162 ‘ , [r > ^ ' i.^( 9^T*7r3'* V 5-^ wV ^"♦ * ' 9 ■■i' »■>! 4'|, > A.^-j . i ' j>\ r '-V '- i ,/m '^■ ?,!}' '*’ •'ll ,■ s fS’ii * .'*■ *'*?i >*■ OF THE U N I VERS liY or ILLINOIS SIB T&Bf earthly pathway. B SELF-CONQUEST. “ Well Bridget, what do you think of the br-de ? ’’ “ 0, she ’s a pretty young thing ; but if she had known as much as you and I do of her husband’s mother, she never would have come to live with her. She ’s a regu- lar old hyena, and if she don’t bring the tears into those blue eyes before the honey-moon is over, my name is n’t Bridget. Why, she ’s the most owdacious old thing ! She overhauled all her wardrobe yesterday, before she could get here ; and, as I passed through the entry, 1 heard her muttering to herself, ‘ Silk stockings, humph I — ruffled under-clothes ! Wonder if she thinks I ’ll have them ironed here ? Embroidered night-caps, silk dresses ! Destruction and ruin ! ’ ” “ I ’ll tell you what, Bridget, there never was a house built yet, that was big enough for two families to live in ; and you ’ll find out that this won’t be, I reckon.” “ What ! tears, Emma ? — tears ! ” said the young hus- band, as he returned from his counting-room one day, about a month after thoir marriage ; and, with a look of SILF-OONQUEST. 27 anxiety, he drew her closer to his breast. “ Tell me, you do not so soon repent your choice ? ” The little, rosy mouth was held up temptingly for a kiss ; and in those blue eyes he read the answer his heart was seeking. “ What, then, is your pet canary sick ? Can’t you dress your hair to suit you ? Or are you in despair because you can’t decide in which of all your dresses you look prettiest ? ” Don’t be ridiculous, Harry ! ” said Emma, laughing and crying together. “ I feel nervous, that ’s all. I ’ra so glad you ’ve come home.” Harry felt sure that was not all ; but he forbore to question her, for he felt very sure she would tell him all in good time. The truth was, Harry’s mother had been lecturing hei daughter-in-law, all the morning, upon the degeneracy of the times; — hoped she would not think of putting on all the fine things her friends had been so foolish as to rig her out in ! — times were not now, as they used to be ! — that if Harry gave her pocket-money, she had better give it to her to keep, and not be spending it for nonsense ; — that a young wife’s place was in her husband’s house ; — and sue hoped she would leave off that babyish trick, of running home every day to see her mother and sisters. Emma listened in silent amazement. She was a warm- hearted, affectionate girl, but she was very high-spirited. The color came and went rapidly in her cheek ; but she 28 SBLF-CONQUB&T . forced back the tears that were starting to her eyes, fo/ she had too much pride to allow her to see them fall. After old Mrs. Hall retired, she sat for a moment or two, recalling her words. “‘Babyish,’ to love my own dear home, where I was as merry as a cricket from morn- ing till night ; where we all sang, and played, and read, in mother’s dear old room, and father and mother the happiest of us all ‘ babyish ! ’ I won’t be dictated to ! ” said the young wife. “ I ’m married if I am only nine- teen, and my own mistress;” and the rebellious tones would come in spite of her determination. But then she thought of Harry, — dear Harry, — whom she had already learned to love so well. Her first impulse was, to tell him. But she had a great deal of good sense, if she was young ; and she said to herself, “ No, that won’t do ; — then he ’ll have to take sides with one or the other, and either way it will make trouble. It may wean his love from me, too. No, no, I ’ll try to get along without ; but I wish I had known more about her, before I came hero to live.” And so she smiled and chatted gayly with Harry, and hoped he had set it down to the account of “ nervous- ness.” Still the hours passed slowly, when he was absent at his business ; and she felt uneasy every time she heard a step on the stairs, lest the old lady should subject her to some new trial. “ I wonder what has come over our Emma ? ” said one SELF-CONQUEST. 29 of her sisters; “ she has grown so grave and matronly. L half-hated Harry when he carried her off, and I quite hate him now, for she ’s so sedate and moping. I desire to keep my neck out of the matrimonial noose.’ Shortly after this, Emma’s mother sent her some little delicacy, manufactured by herself, of which she knew her daughter to be particularly fond. Mrs. Hall brought it into her room, and set it down on the table as if she were testing the strength of the dish, and said, “ I wonder if your mother is afraid you ’ll not have enough to eat here. One would think you were a child at a boarding-school.” Emma controlled herself by a strong effort, and made her no reply, simply taking the gift from her hands, with a nod of acknowledgment. Every day brought her some such petty annoyance ; and her father-in-law, who was old and childish, being quite as troublesome as his wife in these respects, it required all Emma’s love for Harry to carry her through. She still adhered to her determination, however, to conceal her trouble from her husband ; and though he noticed she was less vivacious, perhaps he thought the mantle of matronly dignity so becoming to his young wife, that he felt no disposition to find fault with it. In the mean time, old Mrs. Hall being confined to her room with a violent influenza, the reins of government were very unwillingly resigned into Emma’s hands. What endless charges she received about the dusting and sweeping, and 80 S E L F - 0 0 N U U is S T . cooking, ending always with this soliloquy, as the dooi closed upon Emma’s retreating form, “ I am a goose to tell her anything about it. She ’s as ignorant as a Hot- tentot, — it will all go in one ear, and out the other.” And the old lady groaned in spirit, as the vision of the nose of the tea-kettle pointing the wrong way, or the sauce-pan hung on the wrong nail, flitted through her mind. Emma exerted herself to the utmost to please her ; but the gruel was always “ not quite right,” the pillows not arranged easily behind her back, or she ex- pected to find “ Bedlam let loose” when she got down stairs, and various other encouraging prognostications of the same character. “ Emma,” said Harry, “how should you like living five miles out of the city ? I have seen a place that just suits my fancy, and I think of hiring it on trial.” Emma hesitated. She wished to ask, “Does your mother go with us ? ” but she only said, “ I could not te” dear Harry, how I should like the place, till 1 saw it but I should fear it would take you too much from me. It would seem so odd to have five miles’ distance between us for the whole day. 0, I ’m very sure I should n’t like it, Harry ! ” and the thought of her mother- in-law clouded her sunny face, and, in spite of herself a tear dropped on her husband’s hand. “ Well, dear Emma, now I ’m very sure you will like it,” — and his large, dark eyes had a look she did not S E L F - C 0 N Q D E S T . 3 'i quite understand, even with all her skill and practice in reading them, — “and so I’m going to drive you out there this very afternoon, and we ’ll see,” said he, gayly kissing her forehead. “ 0, what a little Paradise, Harry I Look at that cluster of prairie roses ! What splendid old trees ! See how the wind sweeps the drooping branches across the tall grass ! And that little, low window, latticed over with sweet briar ; and that pretty terraced flower-garden, — 0, Harry ! ” “Well, let us go inside, Emma and, applying a key he held in his hand, the door yielded to his touch, and they stood side by side in a little rustic parlor, furnished simply, yet so tastefully. Tables, stands, and mantel, covered with vases, sending forth fragrance from the sweetest of wild-wood flowers ; the long, white muslin curtains, looped away from a window, whence could be seen wooded hill, and fertile valley, and silvery stream. Then they ascended into the old chamber, which was quite as unexceptionable in its appointments. Emma looked about in bewildered wonder. “ But who lives here now, Harry ? ” “ Nobody.” “ Nobody ? WTiat a tease you are ! To whom does all this furniture belong, — and who arranged everything with such exquisite taste ? I have been expecting every minute to see the mistress of the mansion step out.” 32 SELF-CONQUEST. “ Well, there she is,” said Harry, leading her gayly up to the looking-glass. “ I only hope you admire her half as much as I do. Do you think I ’ve been blind ana deaf, because I ’ve been dumb ? Do you think I ’ve not seen my high-spirited little wife, struggling with trial, day by day, suffering, enduring, gaining the victory ovei her own spirit, silently and uncomplainingly ? Do you think I could see all this, and not think she was the dearest little wife in the" world ? ” and tears and smiles struggled for mastery, as he pressed his lips to her fore- head. “ And now you will have nobody to please here, but me, Emma. Do you think the task will be difficult ? ” The answer, though highly satisfactory to the husband was not intended for you, dear re«/i«r ; m ejccnse Viuuijr Fern. “OUR HATTY.^’ Sue miglit have had twenty other names, but that was the only appellation I ever heard. It was, “ Get out of the way, Hatty ! ” — ‘‘I dare say, Hatty broke that vase, or lost that book ! ’’ — “ Don’t come here ; what a fright you are, Hatty ! ” till the poor, sensitive child almost felt as if she had the mark of Cain upon her fore^ head. She had brothers and sisters, but they wer^* bright, and saucy, and bold, and cunning ; and, whe they wished to carry out a favorite scheme, could throw their arms about the parental neck, flatter some weak side, carry the day, and then laugh at their juvenile foresight ; so their coffers were always filled, while poor Hatty’s was empty ; — and she laid all these things up in her little grieved heart, and, as she saw duplicity better rewarded than sincerity, began to have little infidel doubts whether the Bible, that her father read so much out of, was really true; while Joseph’s coat of many colors ” flaunted ever before her tearful eyes ! All her sweet, childish impulses were checked and crushed ; and, where the sweet flowers of love and confidence should have sprung up, the weeds of distrust and suspicion took bitter root ! 34 “OUR HATTY. She took no part in the conversation of the domestic circle. “ She was stupid,” so they told her ; and she had heard it till she believed it true. Sometimes, as was often the case, some talented person made part of the family circle ; on such occasions, Hatty would listen in her corner till her great, wild eyes glowed and burned like living coals of fire. But there was one spot where none disputed Hatty’s right to reign, — a little lonely room at the top of the house, which she had fitted up in her own wild way, and where she was free from reproof or intrusion. You should have seen her there, — with her little yearn- ing heart half broken by neglect, — doubtful of her own powers, and weeping such passionate tears, that she was “so stupid, and ugly, and disagreeable,” that nobody could ever love her ! And so she made friends with the holy stars, the fleecy clouds, and the brilliant rainbow, the silver moonbeam, and the swift lightning; and an artistic eye, seeing her soul-lit face at that small window, might have fancied her some Italian improvisatrice ! There, the fetters fell off, the soul was free, and the countenance mirrored it forth. Back in the family circle, she was again “ Our Hatty ! ” “ That young daughter of yours differs very much from the rest of the family, Mr. Lee,” said a maiden lady, whd was visiting there. OUR HATTY. 35 fes, yes!’’ said the old man, with a shrug. “She don’t look much like a Lee ; in fact, she ’s very plain. She ’s a strange, unaccountable child, — likes her own company better than anybody’s else, and don’t care a rush-light for all the nick-nacks other girls are teasing for. Sometimes I think she belongs to another brood, — got changed in the cradle, or something.” “ How does she spend her time ? ” said Miss Tabe fcha. “ I ’m sure I don’t know. Wife says she has a little den at the top of the house, where she sits star-gazing. Queer child, that Hatty! — plain as a pike-staff;” anr' Mr. Lee took up his newspaper, and put his feet on the mantel. Miss Tabetha was confounded ! She had an uncom- monly warm heart, for an old maid. She had never been a parent ; — she wished she had, just to show some people what a nice one she ’d have made ! She inwardly resolved to know more of “ Our Hatty.” Rap, tap, on the door of Hatty’s little dei* - what on earth did it mean ? She hoped they were ^.ot going to take that away from her ; and, with a guilty, frightened look, she opened the door. Miss Tabetha entered. “ Are you vexed with me for coming here, child ? You don’t look glad to see me.” “ No, no ! ” said Hatty, pushing back a tangled mass 86 “OUR HATTy.' of dark hair ; but it ’s so odd you should want to come. Nobody ever wanted to see me before.’’ “ And why not, Hatty ? ” “Well, I don’t know,” said she, with touching meek ness and simplicity ; “ unless it ’s because I ’m < stupid, and ugly, and disagreeable.’ ” “Who told you that, Hatty ?” “All of them down stairs,” said she; “and I don’t care about it, only — only,” — and the tears rolled down lier cheeks, — “ it is so dreadfiil to feel that nobody can ever love me ! ” Miss Tabetha said, “ Humph ! ” “ Hatty,” said she, “ come here. Do you ever look in the glass ? ” “ Not since a long while,” said the young girl, shrink ing back. “ Come here, and look in this little mirror. Do you see those large, dark, bright eyes of yours ? Do you see that wealth of raven hair, which a skilful hand might render a beauty, instead of that tangled deformity ? Do you see those lithe, supple limbs, which a little care and training might render graceful as the swaying willow ? There is intellect on your brow ; soul in your eyes ; your voice has a thrilling heart-tone. Hatty, you are a gem in the rough! — you cannot be ‘ugly;* but, listen to me. It is every woman’s duty to be lovely and attractive. V'ou have underrated and neglected yourself, my poor “OUR HATTY. 37 child. Nature has been no niggard to you. I do not say this to make you vain, but to inspire you with a proper confidence in yourself. But — what have we nere ? ” as a large portfolio fell at her feet. “ 0, Miss Tabetha, please don’t ! It ’s only a little scribbling, just when I felt wretched ! — please don’t ! ” “ Yes, but I shall, though. It ’s just what I want to see most and she went on reading paper after paper, while Hatty stood like a culprit before her. When she had finished, she said, very slowly and deliberately : “ Hatty, come here ! Did you know that you were a genius ? ” “ A what. Miss Tabetha ? ” “ A genius, you delicious little bit of simplicity, — a genius ! You ’ll know fast enough what it means ; and to think I should have been the first to find it out ! ” and she caught the astonished child in her arms, and kissed her, till Hatty thought a genius must be the most delight- ful thing in the world, to bring so much love with it. “ Look here, Hatty, — does anybody know this ?” hold- ing up the manuscripts. Hatty shook her head. “ So much the better. * Stupid, ugly and disagree- able ! ’ humph ! Do you know I ’m going to run off with you ? ” said the little old maid. “We shall see what we shall see, Miss Hatty ! ” 88 0 U R H A T T Y Five years had roUed away. A new life had been opened to Hatty. She had grown into a tall, graceful woman. Her step was light as a fawn’s. Her face, — not beautiful, certainly, if tried by the rules of art, — and yet, who that watched its ever- varying expression, would stop to criticize ? No one cared to analyze the charm. She produced the effect of bfeauty ; she was magnetic ; she was fascinating. Miss Tabetha was satisfied; — “she knew it would be just so.” They had almost forgotten her at Lee house. Once in a while they wondered “ if Miss Tabetha was n’t tired of her.” Miss Tabetha thought she would let them know! Unbounded was their amazement, when Miss Tabetha ushered “ Our Hatty ” in. It was unaccountable ! She was really “ almost pretty ! ” Still there was the same want of heart in their manner to her ; and the little old maid could not have kept within bounds, had she not haa powerful reasons of her own for keeping quiet awhile. “ By the way. Miss Tabetha,” said Mr. Lee, “ as you are a blue-stocking, can you enlighten me as to the author of that charming little volume of poems, which has set all the literary world astir ? It is n’t often I get upon stilts but I ’d give something to see the woman who wrote it.” Miss Tabetha’s time had come. Her eyes twinkled with malicious delight. She handed him a volume, say- ing, “ Well, here is a book I was commissioned to give vou by the authoress herself.” “OUR HATTY 89 Mr. Lee rubbed his glasses, set them astride his nose, and read the following on the fly-leaf : “ To my dear father, James Lee ; from his afPectionate daughter. The Author.” Mr. Lee sprang from his chair, and, seizing his child by both hands, ejaculated, “ Hatty Lee ! I ’m proud of you ! ” Tears gathered slowly in her large eyes, as she said “ 0, not that ! Dear father, fold me once to your heart, and say, ‘ Hatty, 1 love you ! ’ ” Her head sank upon his shoulder. The old man reaa his child’s heart at last ; he saw it all, — all her childish unhappiness, — and, as he kissed her brow, and cheek, and lips, said, in a choking voice, “Forgive your old father, Hatty ! ” Her hand was laid upon his lips, while smiles and tears chased over her face, like sunshine and shadow over an April sky. 0, what is Fame to a woman ? Like the “ apples of the Dead Sea,” fair to the sight, ashes to the touch ! From the depths of her unsatisfied heart, cometh ever a voico that will not be hushed, — Take it all back, only give me love ! TWO IN HEAVEN. “You have two children/^ said I. “ I kave four,’’ was the reply ; “ two on earth, two in heaven.” There spoke the mother ! Still hers, only “ gone t/efore ! ” Still remembered, loved and cherished, by the aearth and at the board ; — their places not yet filled ; even though their successors draw life from the same faithful breast where their dying heads were pillowed. “ Two in heaven ! ’* Safely housed from storm and tempest. No sickness there, nor drooping head, nor fading eye, nor weary feet. By the green pastures, tended by the good Shepherd, linger the little lambs of the heavenly fold. “ Two in heaven ! ” Earth less attractive. Eternity nearer. Invisible oords, drawing the maternal soul upwards. “ Still small ” voices, ever whispering. Come ! to the world weary spirit. “ Two ui heaven ! ” Mother of angels! Walk softly! — holy eyes watch thy fo jtsteps ! — cherub forms bend to listen ! Keep thy spirit free from earth taint ; so shalt thou “ go to them,” though “ they may not return to thee ! ” ‘‘SUMMER DAYS;’ OR, THE YOUNG WIFE'S AFFLICTION. A DELIGHTFUL Summer we passed, to be sure, at tno Hotel, in the quiet village of S . A collection of prettier women, or more gentlemanly, agreeable men, were never thrown together by the necessity of seeking country quarters in the dog-days. Fashion, by common consent, was laid upon the shelf, and comfort and smiling faces were the natural result. Husbands took the cars in the morning for the city, rejoicing in linen coats and pants, and loose neck-ties ; while their wives were equally independent till their return, in flowing muslin wrappers, not too dainty for the wear and tear of little climbing feet, fresh from the meadow or wildwood. There were no separate “ cliques ” or “ sets.” Nobody knew, or inquired, or cared, whether your great grand- father had his horse shod, or shod horses for other peo- ple. The ladies were not afraid of smutting their fin- gers, or their reputation, if they washed their children’s faces ; and did not consider it necessary to fasten the door, and close the blinds, when they replaced a missing button on their husband’s waistband, or mended a ragged frock- ^2 SUMMER days; OK, Plenty of fruit, plenty of fresh, sweet air, plenty of children, and plenty of room for them to play in. A short nap in the afternoon, a little additional care in arranging tumbled ringlets, and in girdling a fresh robe round the waist, and they were all seated, in the cool of the evening, on the long piazza, smiling, happy, and expectant, as the car bell announced the return of their liege lords from the dusty, heated city. It was delightful to see their business faces brighten up, as each fair wife came forward, and relieved them from the little parcels and newspapers they carried in their hands, and smiled a welcome, sweet as the cool, fresh air that fanned their heated foreheads. A cool bath, a clean dickey, and they were presentable at the supper-table, where merry jokes flew round, and city, news was discussed between the fra- grant cups of tea, and each man fell in love with his pretty wife over again, — or his neighbor’s, if he liked ! It was one harmonious, happy family ! Mrs. and her husband were the prime ministers of fiin and frolic in the establishment. It was she who concocted all the games, and charades, and addles, that sent our merry shouts ringing far and wid?e, as we sat in the evening on the long, moonlit piazza. It was she who planned the pic-nics and sails, and drives in the old hay-cart ; the berry parties, and romps on the green ; and the little cosey suppers in the back parlor, just before bed-time, that nobody but herself could have coaxed out of the THE yOUNG wife’s AFFLICTION. 48 fussy old landlord. It was she who salted our coftee and sugared our toast ; it was she who made puns for us, and wrote verses ; it was she who sewed up pockets in over- coats, or stole cigars, or dipped the ends in water ; it was she who nursed all the sick children in the house ; it was she who cut out frocks, and pinafores, and caps for un- skilful mothers ; it was she who was here, and there, and everywhere, the embodiment of mischief, and fun, and kindness ; and as she flew past her handsome husband, with her finger on her lip, cent upon some new prank, he would look after her with a proud, happy smile, more eloquent than words. He was the handsomest man I ever saw — tall, com- manding and elegant, with dark blue eyes, a profusion of curling black hair, glittering white teeth, and a form like Apollo’s. Mary was so proud of him ! She would always watch his eye when she meditated any little piece of roguery, and it was discontinued or perfected as she read its language. He was just the man to appreciate her, — to understand her sensitive, enthusiastic nature, — to know when to check, when to encourage ; and it needed but a word, a look ; for her whole soul went out to him. And so the bright summer days sped fleetly on ; and now autumn had come, with its gorgeous beauty, ana no one had courage to speak of breaking up our happy circle ; but ah, there came one with stealthy steps, who had no such scruples ! 44 SUMMER days; or, * I'he merry shout of the children is hushed in the wide halls ; anxious faces are grouped on the piazza ; for in a \arkened room above lies Mary^s princely husband, delir- ious with fever ! The smile has fled her lip, the rose her cheek ; her eye is humid with tears that never fall ; day and night, without sleep or food, she keeps untiring vigil ; while, — unconscious of her presence, — in tones that pierce her heart, he calls unceasingly for “ my wife ! ” She puts back the tangled masses of dark hair from his heated forehead ; she passes her little hand coaxingly over it ; she hears not the advice of the physician, “ to procure a nurse.” She fears not to be alone with him when he is raving. She tells no one that on her delicate breast she bears the impress of an (almost) deadly blow from the nand that was never before raised but to bless her. And now the physician, who has come once, twice, thrice a day from the city, tells the anxious groups in the hall that his patient must die. Not one dare break the news to the wretched Mary ! There is little need ! She has gazed in their faces, with a keen, agonized earnestness; she has asked no question, but she knows it all ; and her heart is dying within her ! No entreaty, no persuasion, can draw her from the bedside. The old doctor, with tearful eyes, passes his arm round her trembling form, and says, “ My child, you can not meet the next hour — leave him with me THE YOUNG WIFE S AFFLICTION. 45 A mournful shake of the head is her only answer, as slie takes her seat again by her husband, and presses her forehead low upon that clammy hand, praying God that she may die with him. An hour of time — an eternity of agony — has passed A fainting, unresisting form is borne from that chamber of death. Beautiful, as a piece of rare sculpture, lies the hus- band ! — no traces of pain on lip or brow ; the long, heavy lashes lay upon the marble cheek ; the raven locks, damp with the dew of death, clustered profusely round the noble forehead ; those chiselled lips are gloriously beauti- ful in their repose ! Tears fall like rain from kindly eyes servants pass to and fro, respectfully, with measured tread ; kind hands are busy with vain attempts to restore animation to the fainting wife. 0, that bitter, bitter, waking ! — for she does wake. God pity her ! Her hand is passed slowly across her forehead ; she remembers — she is a widow ! She looks about the room — there is his hat, his coat, his cane ; and now, indeed, she throws herself, with a burst of passionate grief, into the arms of the old physician, who says, betwixt a tear and a smile, “ Now, God be praised, — she weeps ! And so, with the falling leaves of autumn, “ the Great Reaper ” gathered in our noble friend. Why should ] dwell on the agony of the gentle wife ; or tell of her re- turn to her desolate home in the city ; of the disposal of 46 8UMMEK DA YU. the rare pictures and statuary collected to grace its walla by the refined taste of its proprietor ; of the necessary disposal of every article of luxury ; of her removal to plain lodgings, where curious people speculated upon hei history, and marked her moistened eyes; of the long, Interminable, wretched days ; of the wakeful nights, when she lay with her cheek pressed against the sweet, father* less child of her love ; of her untiring efforts to seek an honorable, independent support ? It is but an every-day history, but — God knows — its crushing weight of agony is none the less keenly felt by the sufferer ! COMFORT FOR THE WII>OW A LITTLE fatherless boy, four years of age, sat upoD the floor, surrounded by his toys. Catching sight of his mother’s face, as the tears fell thick and fast, he sprang to her side, and peeping curiously in her face, as he put nis little hand in hers, said — “ You ’ve got me ! ’* Simple, artless little comforter ! Dry your tears, young mother. There is something left to live for ; there are duties from which even your bleeding heart may not shrink ! “ A talent ” you may not “ bury ; ” a steward- ship, of whi©h your Lord must receive an account; a blank page to be filled by your hand with holy truth ; a crystal vase to keep spotless and pure ; a tender plant, to gutiid from blight and mildew ; a dew-drop that must not exhale in the sun of worldliness ; an angel, for whom a “ white robe ” must be made ; a cherub, in whose hands a “ golden harp ” must be placed ; a little “ lamb,” to bo ed to the “ Good Shepherd ! ” “ You ’ve got me ! ” Ay ! Cloud not his sunny face with unavailing sadness, lest he catch the trick of grief,” and sigh amid his toys. Teach him not, by your vain re- pinings, that “ our Father ” pitieth not his children ; teach C 0 M F 0 K T FOR THE Vi OW , hiiu to love Him, as seen in the sky and sea, in rock and river ; teach him to love Him in the cloud as in the sun- shine ! You will have your gloomy hours; there is a void even that little loving heart may not fill, but there is still another, and He says, “Me ve have alwayp/’ THORNS FOR THE ROSE. ‘ It will be very ridiculous in you, Rose, to refuse to give up that child,” said a dark-looking man to the pretty widow Grey. “ Think what a relief it will be, to have one of your children taken off your hands. It costs something to live now-a-days,” — and Uncle Ralph scowled portentously, and pushed his purse farther down in his coat-pocket, — “ and you know you have another mouth to feed. They T1 educate her, clothe and feed her, and — ” “Yes,” said the impetuous, warm-hearted mother, rising quickly from her chair, and setting her little feet down in a very determined manner upon the floor, while a bright flush passed over her cheek, — “ yes, Ralph, and teach her to forget and disrespect her mother ! ” “ Pshaw, Rose, how absurd ! She T1 outgrow all that when she gets to be a woman, even if they succeed now. Would you stand in your own child’s light ? She will be an heiress, if you act like a sensible woman ; and, if you persist in refusing, you may live to see the day when she will reproach you for it.” This last argument carried some weight with it ; and Mrs. Selden sat down dejectedly, and folded her little C 4 5U THORNS FOR THE ROSE. hands in her lap. She had not thought of that. She might be taken away, and little Kathleen forced to toil for daily bread. Uncle Ralph saw the advantage he had gained, and determined to pursue it, — for he had a great horror of being obliged eventually to provide for them himself. “ Come, Rose, don’t sit there looking so solemn ; put it down, now, in black and white, and send off the letter, oefore one of your soft, womanish fits comes on again,” — and he pushed a sheet of paper toward her, with pen and ink. Just then the door burst open, and little Kathleen came bounding in from her play, bright with the loveli- ness of youth and health, and springing into her mother’s lap, and clasping her neck, frowned from beneath her curls at Uncle Ralph, whom she suspected somehow or other to be connected with the tear-drop that was trem- bling on her mother’s long eye-lashes. “ I can’t do it, Ralph,” said the young widow, clasping her child to her breast, and raining tears and smiles enough upon her to make a mental rainbow. “ You are a fool ! ” said the vexed man, “ and you’ll live to hear somebody there tell you so, I 'm thinking ; ” and he slammed the door in a very suggestive manner, as he passed out. Poor Mrs. Selden ! Stunned by the sudden death of a husband who was all to her that her warm heart craved THORNS FOR THE ROSE. 51 she clung the more closely to his children. No woman ever knew better than Rose Selden the undying love of a mother. The offer that had been made her for Kath- leen was from distant relatives of her husband — of whom she knew little, except that Mr. and Mrs. Clair were wealthy and childless, and had found a great deo-l of fault with her husband’s choice of a wife. They had once made her a short visit, and, somehow or other, all the time they were there, — - and it seemed a little eternity to her for that very reason, — she never dared to creep to her husband’s side, or slide her little hand in his, or pass it caressingly over his broad white forehead, or run into the hall for a parting kiss, or do anything, in short, save tu sit up straight, two leagues off, and be proper ! Now you may be sure this was all very excruciating to little Mrs. Rose, who was verdant enough to think that husbands were intended to love, and who owned a heart quite as large as a little woman could conveniently carry about. She saw nothing on earth so beautiful as those great dark eyes of his, — especially when they were bent on her, — nor heard any music to compare with that deep, rich voice; and though she had been married many happy years, her heart leaped at the sound of his foot step as it did the first day he called her “ wife.’' Cared “ the Great Reaper ” for that ? Stayed he foi the clasped hands of entreaty, or the scalding tear of agony ^ Recked he that not one silver thread mingled 52 THORNS FOR THE ROSE in the dark locks of the strong man ? No ! by the desola* tion of that widowed heart, no ! he laid his icy finger on those lips of love, and chilled that warm, brave heart, and then turned coldly away to seek another victim. And Kose pressed his children to her heart, with a deeper love, — a love born of sorrow, — and said, we will not part. She knew that fingers that never toiled before, must toil unceasingly now. She knew, when her heart was sad, there was no broad breast to lean upon. She had already seen days that seemed to have no end, drag^ ging their slow, weary length along. She dared not go to a drawer, or trunk, or escritoire, lest some memento of him should meet her eye. She struggled bravely through the day to keep back the tears, for her children’s sake ; but night came, when those little, restless limbs needed a respite, — even from play, — when the little prattling voices were hushed, and the bright eye prisoned beneath its snowy lid ; then, indeed, the long pent-up grief, held in check through the day by a mother’s unselfish love, burst forth ; till, exhausted with tearful vigils, she would creep, at the gray dawn, between the rosy little sleepers, and, nestling close to their blooming faces, dream — Grod knows how mockingly — of happy hours that would never come again. And 0 ! the slow torture of each morning waking ; the indistinct recollection of something dreadful; the hand drawn slowly across the aching brow ; the struggle to iHORNS FOR Tni!, ROSE 53 remember ! Then, — the opening eye, the unfamiliar objects, the strange, new, small room ; nothing home-like but those sleeping orphans. God help the widow ! " And now, as if her cup of bitterness were not full little Kathleen must leave her. Must it be ? She paced the room that night after Uncle Ralph had left her, and thought of his words, “ She may live to tell you so.” Then she went to the bed-side, and parted the clustering hair from Kathleen’s forehead, and marked with a moth- er’s pride the sweet, careless grace of those dimpled limbs, and noted each shining curl. There were the father’s long lashes, his brow, his straight, classic profile. 0, what would he tell her ? And, then, old memories came back with a rushing tide that swept all before it ! Poor Rose ! Kathleen stirs uneasily, and calls “ Mamma,” and smiles in her sleep. 0, how could she part with that little, loving heart ? Countless were the caresses she received from her every hour. Watchful and sensitive, she noted every shade of sorrow on her mother’s face ; and, by a thousand mute remonstrances, testified her unspoken sympathy. That LMe, impulsive heart would be cased in an armor of frigidity at Olairville. She might be sad, or sick, or dying, and Rose shuddered and 54 THORNS FOR I HE ROSE. eat still nearer to her child. "V^Hiat companionship would she have ? what moral influence exerted ? Might she not even be weaned from the heart she had lain beneath ? Ah, Uncle Ralph ! you little knew, as you sat in your office the next morning, and folded a little slip of paper back in its envelope, upon which was written these ^simple words, “ Kathleen shall go,’^ — you little knew at what cost ! You marked not the blistered paper and the unsteady pen-marks, as you smiled satisfactorily, and said, “Very concise and sensible, for a woman.” Uncle Ralph did think of it again once, as he walked home to his dinner ; but it ws«s only to congratulate him- self that if Rose should be unable to support herself, — which he doubted, — there would be one less for him to look after ! As to a woman’s tears, — pshaw ! they were always crying for something; if it wasn’t for that, it would be something else. We will pass over the distressflil parting between mother and child. The little trunk was duly packed ; the little clasp Bible down in one corner. A book-mark, with a lamb embroidered upon it, was slipped in at these words, — “ Sufier the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.” Mother’s God would care for Kath- -een ; tk jre was sweet comfort in that. SO Rose choked back her tears, and unclasped THORNS FOR THE ROSl. 55 again and again the little clinging arms from her neck, and bade her sunny-haired child “ good-by ! ” and laughed hysterically, as the little hand waved another, and a last adieu. Even Uncle Ralph felt an uncomfortable sensa- tion about his fifth button, gave his dickey a nervous twitch, and looked very steadily at the tops of the oppo- site houses ! ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ Two months had passed! Little Kathleen sat very quiet in that heated, close school -room. There was a dark shadow under her eyes, either from illness, or sor- row, and her face was very pale. Rose had written to her, but the letters were in the grave of Mrs. Clair’s pockets, never to be resurrectionized ; so Kathleen was none the wiser or happier. Uncle Ralph made it a principle never to think of anything that impaired his digestion ; so he dismissed all uneasy thoughts of, or care for, his niece, and made no inquiries ; because he was firmly of the opinion, that “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” “ You are uncommonly obtuse about your lesson this morning,” said Kathleen’s tutor ; “ you ’ve told me twice that France was bounded south by the Gulf of Mexico. What are you thinking about ? ” said he, as he grasped her arm. “ Sir ? ” said little Kathleen, abstractedly. Ot) THORNS FOR THE ROSE. “ I say, what ails you, to be so stupid this morning ? *' «aid the vexed pedagogue. ‘‘ My head aches badly,” said Kathleen ; “ and — • and—” “ And what ? ” said Mr. Smith. “ And — I — want — to see — my — mother ! ” said the child, with a burst of tears. “Fiddlestick!” said the amiable Mr. Smith; “if she cared much about you, I reckon she would have written to you before now. Mrs. Clair thinks she ’s married again, or something of that sort ; so don’t worry your head for nonsense. How ’s Fran^^ bounded, hey ? ” The division lines osi the atlas were quite concealed by Kathleen’s tears ; so she was ordered into the presence of her grim relative, who coaxed and threatened in vain, and finally sent her to bed. For two long, weary months the free, glad spirit of the child had been fettered and cramped at Clairville. No one spoke to her of home, or her mother ; or, if they chanced to mention the latter, it was always in a slurring, sneering manner, more painful to the loving, sensitive child than their silence. But why did mamma not write ? — that was the only wearing thought by day and night. And so Kathleen drooped, and lost color and spirits, and walked, like an automaton, up and down the stiff garden- walks, and “ sat up straight,” and “ turned out her toes,’' as she was bid ; and had a quick, frightened, nervous THORNS iOR THE RO^i^. 57 manner, as if she were constantly in fear of reproof oj punishment. Bridget,’^ said Mrs. Clair, “ how is Kathleen ? get over her hysterics ? I must break her of that.” “ Dear heart, no ma’am ! She ’s just fretting the sou^ out of her, for a sight of her mother ; it ’s nater, I s’pose,” said Bridget, polishing her face with her cho ked apron. Stuff, Bridget ! The child ’s just like her mother ; and that ’s saying enough ! However, give her a little valerian, and sleep at the side of her bed to-night. I ’ll look in, in the morning,” said the angular lady, as she smoothed out her dress and her wrinkles. And so Bridget, obedient to orders, stretched her stout Irish limbs “ at the side of the bed,” though she might as well have been in Ireland as there, for any response she made to that plaintive petition, through the long night, ‘ 0, do call my mamma ! please call my mamma ! ” And so night passed ! and the golden morning light streamed in upon the waxen face of little Kathleen. No breath came from those parted lips; no ringlet stirred with life ; the hands lay meekly beside her, and the last tear she should ever shed lay glittering like a gem upon her cheek ! “ Balph,” said Mrs. Seldon, “ I shall start for Clair- ville to-morrow; I can stay away from Kathleen nc (Onger.” C* 68 THORNS FOR THIS ROSE. “ You ’ll be mad if you do,” said Uncle Ralph ; “ the child ’s well enough, or you would hear ; you can’t expect them to be writing all the time. Your welcome will be a sorry one, I can tell you ; so take my advice, and let well alone.” Mrs. Seldon made no reply, but began to pack her trunk, and Uncle Ralph left the house. In about an hour’s time he returned, and found Rose trying, in vain, to clasp the lid of her trunk. “Do come here, Ralph,” said she, without looking up, “ and settle this refractory lock. Dear little Kath- leen ! I ’ve crammed so many traps in here for her. How glad she will be to see me ! ” and she turned and looked up, to see why Ralph did n’t answer. Brow, cheek and lip were in an instant blanched to marble paleness. A mother’s quick eye had spared his tongue the sad tidings. If you visit the Lunatic Asylum at , you will see a very beautiful woman, her glossy ringlets slightly threaded with silver. Day after day, she paces up and down that long corridor, and says, in heart-rending tones, to every one she meets, “ 0, do call my mamma ! won’t y^u please call my mamma ! ” THANKSGIVING STORY. “ Mary ! ” said the younger of two little girh, as they nestled under a coarse coverlid, one cold night in December, “ tell me about Thanksgiving-day before papa went to heaven. I ’m cold and hungry, and I can’t go to sleep ; — I want something nice to think about.” “Hush ! ” said the elder child, “ don’t let dear mamma hear you ; come nearer to me ; ” — and they laid their cheeks together. “ I fancy papa was rich. We lived in a very nice house. I know there were pretty pictures on the wall ; and there were nice velvet chairs, and the carpet was thick and soft, like the green moss-patches in the wood ; — and we had pretty gold-fish on the side-table, and Tony, my black nurse, used to feed them. And papa ! — you can’t remember papa, Letty, — he was tall and grand, like a prince, and when he smiled he made me think of angels. He brought me toys and sweetmeats, and carried me out to the stable, and set me on Romeo’s live back, and laughed because I was afraid ! And I used to watch to see him come up the street, and then run to the door to jump in his arms ; — he was a dear kind papa,” said the child, in a faltering voice. 60 THANKSGIVING STORV. “ Don’t cry,” said the little one ; “ please tell me some more.” “Well, Thanksgiving-day we were so happy; we sat around such a large table, with so many people, ^ — aunts and uncles and cousins, — 1 can’t think why they never come to see us now, Letty, — and Betty made such sweet pies, and we had a big — big turkey; and papa would have me sit next to him, and gave me the wish- bone, and all the plums out of his pudding ; and after dinner he would take me in his lap, and tell me ‘ Bed Biding Hood,’ and call me ‘ pet,’ and ‘ bird,’ and ‘ fairy.’ 0, Letty, I can’t tell any more ; I believe I ’m going to cry.” “ I ’m very cold,” said Letty. “ Does papa know, up in heaven, that we are poor and hungry now ? ” “Yes — no — I can’t tell,” answered Mary, wiping away her tears ; unable to reconcile her ideas of heaven with such a thought. “ Hush ! — mamma will hear ! ” Mamma had “heard.” The coarce garment, upon which she had toiled since sunrise, dropped from her hands, and tears were forcing themselves, thick and fast, through her closed eyelids. The simple recital fourd bui too sad an echo in that widowed heart. SUMMER FRIENDS; OR, “WIl.L IS MIGHT.’’ “ It is really very unfortunate, that forgery of Mr Grrant’s. I don’t see what will become of Emma. T pre- sume she won’t think of holding up her head after it. I dare say she will expect to be on the same terms with her friends as before, — but the thing is — ” “ Quite impossible ! ” said the gay Mrs. Blair, arrang- ing her ringlets ; “ the man has dragged his family down with him, and there ’s no help for it that I can see.*’ “ He has no family but Emma.” said her friend, “ and 1 suppose some benevolent soul will look after her ; at any rate, it don’t concern us ; ” and the two friends (?) tied on their hats for a promenade. Emma Grant was, in truth, almost broken-hearted at this sad faux pas of her father’s ; but, with the limited knowledge of human nature gleaned from the experience of a sunny life of eighteen happy years, she doubted not the willingness of old friends to assist her in her determi- nation to become a teacher. To one after another of these summer friends she applied for patronage. Some could n’t in conscience recommend the daughter of a 62 SUMMER friends; OR, defaulter ; ” some, less free-spoken, went on the non-com mittal system — “ would think of it and let her know,” — taking very good care not to specify any particular time for this good purpose ; others, who did n’t want their consciences troubled by the sight of her, advised her, very disinterestedly, to “ go back in the country somewhere, and occupy the independent position of making herself generally useful in some farmer’s family others, still, dodged the question by humbly recommending her to ap- ply to persons of greater influence than themselves ; and one and all “ wished her well, and hoped she ’d succeed,” — thought it very praiseworthy that she should try to do something for herself, but seemed nervously anxious that it should be out of their latitude and longitude ; and so, day after day, foot-sore and weary, Emma reached home, with a discouraged heart, and a sad conviction of the selfishness and hollow-heartedness of human nature. In one of these discouraged moods she recollected he^ old friend, Mr. Bliss. How strange she should not have thought of him before ! She had often hospitably enter- tained him, as she presided at her father’s table ; he stood very high in repute as a pious man, and very benevo- jently inclined ; he surely would befriend with his influ- ace the child of his old, though fallen, friend. With enewed courage she tied on her little bonnet, and set out ji search of him. She was fortunate in finding him in ; out, ah * where was the old frank smile, and extender! “WILL IS M 6HT.' 63 Hand of friendship ? Mr. Bliss might have been carved out of wood for any demonstration of either that she could see. A very stiff bow, and a nervous twitch of his waistband, was her only recognition. With difficulty sh^ choked down the rebellious feelings that sent the flush tc her cheek and the indignant tears to her eyes, as she recollected the many evenings he had received a warm welcome to their hospitable fire-side, and timidly ex- plained the purpose of her visit. Mr. Bliss, employing himself during this interval in the apparent arrangement of some r^usiness papers, with an air that said, “If you were not a woman I should n’t hesitate to show you the door in a civil way ; but as it is, though I may listen, that ’s all it will amount to.” Like many other persons in a like dilemma, he quietly made up his mind that if he could succeed in irritating her sufficiently to rouse her spirit, he would in all probability be sooner rid of her so he remarked that it was “ a very bad affair, that of her father’s ; there could be but one opinion about its disgraceful and dishonorable nature ; that, of course, she was n’t to blame for it, but she could n’t expect to keep her old position now ; and that, in short, under the cir- cumstances, he did n’t feel as if it would be well for him to interfere in her behalf at present. He had no doubt in time she might ‘ live down’ her father’s disgrace and so he very comfortably seated himself in his leather-backed arm-chair^ and took up a book. 64 SUMMER friends; OR A deep red spot burned on Emma Grray’s cheek, as she retraced her steps. Her lithe form was drawn up to its full height ; there was a fire in her eye, and a firmness and rapidity in her step, that betokened a new energy. She would not be crushed by such selfish cowardice and pusillanimity ; she would succeed, — and unaided, too, save by her own invincible determination. It must be that she should triumph yet. “ Will is might,’’ said Emma, as she bent all her pow- ers to the accomplishment of her purpose ; and when was that motto ever known to fail, when accompanied by a spirit undiscouraged by obstacles ? It did not. True, Emma rose early, and sat up late : she lived on a mere crust ; she was a stranger to luxury, and many times to necessary comforts. Her pillow was often wet with tears fi-om over-tasked spirits and failing strength ; the malicious sneer of the ill-judging, and the croaking prophecy of the ill-natured, fell upon her sensitive ear ; old friends, who had eat and drank at her table, “ passed by on the other side : ” and there were the usual number of good, cautious, timid souls, who stood on the fence, ready to jump down when her position was certain, and she had placed herself beyond the need of their assistance ! Foremost in this rank was the correct and proper Mr. Bliss, who soiled no pharisaical garment of his, by juxtaposition with any known sinner, or doubtful pers/^)n “WILLIS MIGHT.” 65 At the expiration of a year, Emma’s school contained pupils from the first families in the city, with whose whole education she was entrusted, and who, making it their home with her, received, out of school hours, the watchful care of a mother. It became increasingly popular, and Emma was able to command her own price for her services. “ Why don’t you send your daughter to my friend. Miss Grant ? ” said Mr. Bliss to Senator Hall ; “ she is a little protege of mine — nice young woman ! — came to me at the commencement of her school for my patronage ; — the consequence is, she has gone up lik(5 a sky-rocket. They call it the ‘ Model School.’ ” Condescending Mr. Bliss ! It was a pity to take the nonsense out of him ; but you should have seen the crest- fallen expression of his whole outer man, as the elegant widower he addressed turned on him a look of withering contempt, saying, — “ The young woman of whom you speak, sir, will be my wife before the expiration of another week ; and, in her name and mine, I thank you for the very liberal patronage and the manly encouragement you extended to her youth and helplessness in the hour of need.” It is needless to add how many times, in the course of the following week, the inhabitants of , who had 66 SUMMER FRIENDS. found it convenient, entirely to forget the existence of Miss Emma Grant, were heard to interlard their con- versation with “ My friend, Mrs. Senator Hall.” Alas ! poor human nature ! ‘^NIL DESPERANDUM. ’ No, NEVER ! Every cloud has a silver lining ; and He wno wove it knows when to turn it out. So, after every night, however long or dark, there shall yet come a golden morning. Your noblest powers are never developed in prosperity. Any bark may glide in smooth water, with a favoring gale ; but that is a brave, skilful oarsman who rows up stream, against the current, with adverse winds, and no cheering voice to wish him “ God speed.” Keep your head above the wave ; let neither sullen despair nor weak vacillation drag you under. Heed not the poisoned arrow of sneaking treachery that whizzes past you from the shore. J udas sold himself when he sold his Master ; and for him there dawned no resurrec- tion morning ! ’T is glorious to battle on with a brave heart, while cowering pusillanimity turns trembling back. Dream not of the word “ surrender ! ” When one frail human reed after another breaks, or bends beneath you, lean on the “ Rock of Ages.” The Great Alchemist passes you through the furnace but to purify. The fire may scorch, but it shall never consume you. He will yet label you “fine gold.” The narrow path may be thorny to your tender feet ; but the “ promised land ” 68 NIL LESPER ANDUM . lies beyond ! The clusters of Hope may be seen with the eye of faith; your hand shall yet grasp them ; your eyes revel, from the mountain top, over the green pastures and still waters of peace. You shall ret unbuckle your dusty arw^or, while soft breezes shall fan your victor 'imples NU desverandu7n ! CECILE GREY. “ Alas for Lore ! if this he all, And naught beyond ; 0 earth ! ” “ ’T IS a girl, sir ; my lady has a daughter.” “ Heaven be praised ! ” said the discontented father of six unruly boys. “ Now I shall have something gentle to love. Small comfort to me, those boys ; house topsy- turvy from morning till night, with their guns, fishing tackle, pointers, setters, hounds, spaniels and what not. Tom’s college bills perfectly ruinous — horses, oysters and cigars all lumped under the general head of et cete'^'as ; I understand it all — or my purse does ! But this little, gentle girl, — climbing upon my knee, mak- ing music and sunshine in the house, with her innocent face and silvery laugh, — this little, human blossom by life’s rough, thorny wayside, she ’ll make amends. I ’m not the happiest husband in the world ; my heart shall find a resting-place here. She must be highly educated and accomplished. I shall spare no pains to effect that. Ah, I see, after all, I shall have a happy old age,” Very lovely was the little Cecile. She had her mother’s soft hazel eye and waving auburn hair, and her 70 CBOILE GREY. father’s Grecian profile. There was a winning sweetness in her smile, and grace and poetry in every motion. It was a pretty sight, her golden tresses mingling with those silver locks, as she rested her bright head against the old man’s cheek. Even “ the boys ” could harbor no anger at her quiet reign. She wound herself quite as closely around their hearts. Then it was a new tie to bind the sundered husband and wife together. Some- thing of the old, by-gone tenderness crept unconsciously into their manner to each other. It was their idol ; and they pressed her rapturously to the parental heart, for- getting she was but clay. Tutors and governesses without limit went and came, before the important selection was made. Then, so many injunctions ! She “ must not study so much as to spoil her fine eyes ; ” she “ must draw only a few minutes at a time, lest it should cause a stoop in her shoulders ; ” she “ must not go out in the sun, for fear of injuring her complexion.” She was told, every hour in the day, of some rare perfection ; now her attitude — then her eyes — then her shape ; she “ danced like a fairy ” — “ sang like a seraph ” — in short, needed wings only, to make her an angel ! Every servant in the house knew that his or her for- tune was made if Miss Cecile was pleased, and shaped their course accordingly. If “ the boys ” were doubtful :f the success of a request, Cecile was employed secretly OECILE GREY. 71 CO negotiate. The reins of household government were in those little, fairy fingers. No wonder the little Cecile thought herself omnipo- tent. No wonder she stood before her “Psyche,” ar- ranging, with a maiden’s pride, those glossy ringlets. Small marvel that she saw with exultation those round, polished limbs, pearly teeth,, and starry eyes, and tossed her bright curls in triumph, at the hearts that were already laid at her feet. Her mirror but silently repeated the voice of flattery that met her at every step. Cecile was beautiful ! The temple was passing fair ; but, ah ! there rose from its altar no holy incense to Heaven. Those bright eyes opened and closed like the flowers, and like them drank in the dew and the sunlight, regardless of the Giver. It was Cecile’s eighteenth birth-day. The most expen sive preparations had been made to celebrate it. She was to electrify the beau irumde with her debut, A gossamer robe, fit for a Peri, silvery and light, floated soft as a fleecy cloud around those matchless limbs. Gems and jewels would have been out of place besid<» those starry eyes. Nature’s simplest offering, the droop- ing lily, blended with her tresses. The flush of youth and hope was on her cheek ; her step was already on the threshold of that brilliant, untried world, which her beauty was to dazzle and conquer. Other sylph-like forms Uiere were, and bright faces, that made sunlight in 72 CSGILE GREY. happy homes ; but the peerless Cecile quenched their beams on that happy birth-night. The proud father looked on exultingly. “Beautiful as a dream ! ’ ’ echoed from one end of the saloon to the other. His eye followed her, noted every glance of admiration, and then he said to himself, “The idol in, mine.” Say you so, fond father? See, her head droops heavily, — her limbs relax, — she has fainted ! They gather round her, — they bathe her pale face and power- less hands; then they bear her to her dressing-room, and she lies on that silken couch, like some rare piece of sculpture. The revellers disperse ; the garlands droop ; D* 6 82 THE WAIL OP A BROKEN HEART. pictured lineaments, that quickened busy and torturing memory, till your heart was breaking ! — never waked from a dream of Paradise, to weep unavailing, bitter tears at the sad reality ! — and never — alas ! — bent your rebellious knee at God’s altar, when your tongue was dumb, to praise Him, and your lips refused to kiss the Smiter’s rod ! 0, no ; no ! better never to have loved ! — Tenfold more gloomy is the murky day, whose sunny morning was ushered in with dazzling, golden brightness ! Agonizing is the death-struggle of the shipwrecked mariner who perishes in sight of shore and home ! Harshly fall care- less words upon the ear trained to the music of a loving voice. Wearily stumble the tender feet unguarded by love’s watchful eye ! O, no ; no ! better never to have loved ! — He, whose first breath was drawn in a dungeon, never pines for green fields, and blue skies, and a freer air ! — God pity the desolate, loving heart, the only star of whose sky has gone out in utter darkness ! MARY LEE. “ Percy, dear Percy, take back those bitter words 1 A Heaven is my witness, they are undeserved by me. See, my eye quails not beneath yours; my cheek blanches not. I stand before you, at this moment, with every vow I made you at the altar unbroken, in letter and spirit; ” and she drew closer to him, and laid her delicate hand upon his broad breast. “ Wrong me not, Percy, even in thought.’’ The stern man hesitated. Had he not wilfully blinded himself, he had read truth and honor in the depths of the clear blue eyes that looked so unflinchingly into his own. For a moment, their expression overcame him; then, dashing aside the slender fingei*s that rested upon him, he left her with a muttered oath. Mary Lee had the misfortune to be very pretty, and the still greater misfortune to marry a jealous husband. Possessing a quick and ready wit, and great conversa- tional powers, a less moderate share of personal charms would have made her society eagerly sought for. As soon as her eyes were opened to the defect alluded to in her husband’s character, she set herself studiously to avoid the shoals and quicksands that lay in the matri 84 MARY LEE. monial sea. One by one, she quietly dropped the acquaintance of gentlemen, who, from their attractive- ness or preference for her society, seemed obnoxious to Percy. Mary was no coquette. Nature had given her a heart ; and superior as she was to her husband, she really loved him. To most women, his exacting unreasonableness would only have stimulated to a finished display of coquetry ; but Mary, gentle and yielding, made no show of opposition to the most absurd requirements. But all these sacrifices had been unavailing to propitiate the fiend of jealousy; — and there she sat, an hour after her hus- band had left her, with her hands pressed tightly together, pale and tearless, striving, in vain, to recall any cause of ofience. Hour after hour passed by, and still he came not. The heavy tramp of feet had long since ceased beneath the window ; the pulse of the great city was still ; silence and darkness brooded over its slumbering thousands. Mary could endure it no longer. Bising, and putting aside the curtain, she pressed her face close against the window-pane, as if her straining eye could pierce the gloom of midnight. She hears a step ! it is his ! Trembling, she sank upon the sofa to await his coming and nerve herself to bear his bitter harshness. Percy came gayly up to her and kissed her forehead Mary passed ber hand over her eyes and looked at him MARY LEB. again. No ! he was not exhilarated with wine. What could have caused this sudden revulsion of feeling? Single-hearted and sincere herself, she never dreamed of treachery. “ Percy regrets his injustice,” she said to herself. Men are rarely magnanimous enough to own they have been in the wrong ; ” and, with the generosity of a noble heart, she resolved never to remind him, by speech or look, that his words had been like poisoned arrows to her spirit. The following day, Percy proposed their taking “ a short trip into a neighboring town,” and Mary, glad to convince him how truly she forgave him, readily com- plied. It was a lovely day in spring, and the fresh air and sweet-scented blossoms might have sent a thrill of pleasure to sadder hearts than theirs. “ Wliat a pretty place ! ” said Mary. “ WTiat a spacious house, and how tastefully the grounds are laid out ! Do you stop here ? ” she continued, as her husband reined the horse into the avenue. “ A few moments. I have business here,” replied Percy, slightly averting his face, “and you had better alight too, for the horse is restive and may trouble you.” Mary sprang lightly from the vehicle and ascended the capacious stone steps. They were met at the door by a respectable gray-haired porter, who ushered them into a receiving room. Very soon, a little, sallow-faced man. 86 MARY LEE. bearing a strong resemblance to a withered orange, made his appearance, and casting a glance upon Mary, from his little twinkling black eyes, that made the blood mount to her cheeks, made an apology for withdrawing her hus band for a few minutes, on business,” to an adjoining room. As they left, a respectable, middle-aged woman entered, and invited Mary to take off her hat. She declined, saying, she was to leave with her husband in a few minutes.” The old woman then jingled a small bell, and another matron entered. “ Better not use force,” said she, in a whisper. ‘‘ Poor thing ! So pretty, too ! She don’t look as though she d wear a ‘ strait-jacket.’ ” The truth flashed upon Mary at once ! She was in a Lunatic Hospital ! Faint with terror, she demanded to see her husband, — assured them she was perfectly sane ; to all of which they smiled quietly, with an air that said “We are used to such things here.” By and by, the little wizen-faced doctor came in, and, listening to her eloquent appeal with an abstracted air, as ^ one would tolerate the prattle of a petted child, he examined her pulse, and motioned the attendants to “ wait upon her to her room.” Exhausted with the tumult of feeling she had passed through, she followed without a show of resistance; but who shall describe the death-chill MARY LEE. OT that struck to her heart as she entered it ? There was a bed of snowy whiteness, a table, a chair, all scrupulously neat and clean ; but the breath of the sweet-scented bios soms came in through a grated window ! Some refreshment was brought her, of which she refused to partake. She could not even weep ; her eyes seemed turned to stone. She could hear the maniac laughter of her fellow-prisoners, — she could see some of the most harmless marching in gloomy file through the grounds, with their watchful body-guard. Poor Mary ! She felt a stifled, choking sensation in her throat, as if the air she breathed were poison ; and, with her nervous, excitable temperament, God knows the chance she stood to become what they really thought her To all her eager inquiries she received only evasive answers ; or else the subject was skilfully and summarily dismissed to make place for one in which she had no interest. Little Dr. Van Brunt daily examined her pulse, and hoped she was improving ” — or, if she was n’t, it was his interest to issue a bulletin to that eifect, and all “ com- pany ” was vetoed as “ exciting and injurious to the patient.” And so day after day, night after night, dragged slowly along. And Percy, with the mean- ness of a revengeful spirit, was “ biding his time,” till the punishment should be suiBSciently salutary to warrant his recalling her home. But while he wa?^ MARY LEE. 8P quietly waiting tho accomplishment of his purpose, the friend of the weary came to her relief. “ Leave me, please, will you ? ” said Mary to the nurse, as she turned her cheek to the pillow, like a tired child. “ I want to be alone.” The old woman took her sewing and seated herself just outside the door, thinking she might wish to sleep. In a few moments she peeped cautiously through the open door. Mrs. Percy still lay there, in the same position, with her cheek nestling in the palm of her little hand. ‘‘She sleeps sweetly,” she muttered to herself as she resumed her work. Yes, Dame Ursula, but it is the “ sleep ” from which only the trump of the archangel shall wake her ! Mary’s secret died with her, and the remorse that is busy at the heart of Percy is known only to his Maker. A TALK ABOUT BABIES. Baby carts on narrow sidewalks are awful bores, especially to e bur •*©d business man.” Are they ? Suppose you, and a certain pair of blue eyes, that you would give half your patrimony to win, were joint proprietors of that baby ! I should n’t dare to stand very near you, and call it a “ nuisance.” It ’s all very well for bachelors to turn up their single-blessed noses at these little dimpled Cupids ; but just wait tDl their time comes ! See them the minute their name is written “ Papa, ” pull up their dickies, and strut off down street, as if the Commonwealth owed them a pension ! When they enter the office, see their old married partner — to whom babies have long since ceased to be a novelty — laugh in his sleeve at the new-fledged dignity with which that baby’s advent is announced ! How per fectly astonished they feel that they should have been so infatuated as not to perceive that a man is a perfect cipher till he is at the head of a family ! How fre- quently one may see them now, lookuig in at the shop windows, with intense interest, at little hats, coral and tiells, and baby-jumpers ! How they love to come home to dinner, and press that little velvet cheek to their BO A TALK ABOUT BABIES business faces? Was ever any music half so sweet to their ear, as its first lisped “ Papa ” ? 0, how closely and imperceptibly, one by one, that little plant winds its tendrils round the parent stem ! How anx- iously they hang over its cradle when the cheek flushes, and the lip is fever-parched ; and how wide, and deep, and long a shadow, in their happy homes, its little grave would cast ! My DEAR sir, depend upon it, one’s own baby is never ‘ a nuisance.” Love heralds its birth ’ ELSIE’S FI 1ST TRIAL. Five happy years had Elsie Lee slept on her husband^s bosom. False prophets were they, who shook their heads at her bridal, and said she would rue the day she wedded Harry Lee ; — that he was “ unsteady, impulsive and fickle.” She tnew it was true, as they said, that he had loved unhappily before she met him ; but the bright vision that bad bewildered him was far beyond the seas; — she might never cross his path again. Be that as it may, Elsie was not the woman to cloud the sunshine of the present wiidi dim forebodings, or question the past of the history of a heart now so loyal to her. They were not rich ; but light hearts seldom keep com- pany with heavy coffers ; and Elsie’s fairy hand had maa© their small house better worth the seeing, than many a gorgeous drawing-room with its upholstery show. And for sculpture, she could show you a little dhnpled fairy, whose golden head was nightly pillowed on her breast, and whose match it were hard to find in any artist’s studio in the land. Yes, with Harry by her side and her babe upon her knee, Elsie defied the world. Kings and 92 ELSIE’S FIRST TRIAL queens might lord it where they liked, — her reign wai absolute in her own little kingdom. “ So you are married and settled since I went abroad,” said Vincent to Harry ; — “ have a nice little wife, so 1 hear ; — ‘ sown all your wild cats,’ and made up your mind to be virtuous. Now, I shan’t come to witness )rour felicity, for two reasons. Firstly, if your wife is n’t pretty, I don’t want to see her. I think it ^verj ugly woman’s pious duty to make way with herseli l Sec- ondly, if she is handsome, I should make love to ner, spite fate or you ; for I ’m neither a ‘ non-resistant ’ nor a ‘ perfectionist,’ as you very well know. And, thirdly, to sum up all I have to say, your old ideal. Miss , returned in the steamer with me, lovely as a Peri. She inquired about you ; and, if your little wife will allow you,” — and a slight sneer curled his handsome lip, - ** I ’d advise you to call on her ; but, prenez garde, Harry, I defy any man tc withstand her witchery. I ’m an old stager myself, but she plays the very mischief with my petrified heart, for all that.” “ If his little wife would let him ! ” It rang in Harry’s ear all the way home. Vincent thought him already in leading-strings. That would never do ! — and so he per- suaded himself this was the reason he intended calling on the fair Marion, — just to show Vincent how angelic Elsie ELSIE’S FIRST TRIAL. 93 was, and how far above such a petty feeling as jealousy. And then his imagination wandered back to by-gone days, when a radiant smile of Marion’s, a flower she had worn in her hair, a touch of her small hand, was worth all the mines of Peru to him. “ Pshaw ! how foolish ! — and I a married man ! ” — and he stepped off briskly, as if in that way he could rid himself of such foolish thoughts. Elsie met him at the door, fresh and sweet as a daisy. '‘You are not well, Harry,” she said, as she marked his heightened color ; “ you ’ve been annoyed with busi- ness.” “ Not a bit,” said he, patting her on the cheek, and tossing up his child. “ Not a bit ; and now let ’s have dinner, for I ’ve a business engagement at four.” How absent he was ! — how abstracted ! — he seemed to eat just for the form of the thing, although she had been all the morning preparing his favorite dish. “Never mind,” said the gentle little wife to herself ; “he has some business perplexity that he is too thoughtful to annoy me with and she passed her hand caressingly ?ver his forehead, as if to assure him silently of her sympathy. “Elsie,” said he, with a slight heart-twinge, “you have heard me speak of Marion Ruthven ? Vincent says she has returned with hun in the steamer, and as she is a 94 ELSIE’S FIRST TRIAL. stranger in the city, I feel as if I must call on her. She 'eaves soon for her brother’s house in New York.” Elsi<^’s heart throbbed quickly, but she bent her grace- ful head very closely over the little frock she was em- broidering, so that Harry could not see the expression of her face, and said, in her usual tone, “ Don’t apologize to me, dear Harry, if you wish to go.” “ Like yourself, dear Elsie ! ” said he, kissing her cheek. And in half an hour afterwards he emerged from his dressing-room, where he had made himself very unnecessarily handsome, by a most careful toilette. Elsie complimented him on his appearance, and gave him her usual warm-hearted kiss as he left ; and Harry said to himself, as he went down the street, “ How glad I am she is not jealous ! Some women would have made quite a scene.” Short-sighted Harry ! — look back into that little room. The frock has fallen from her fingers, and tears are fall- ing fast upon it. Now she paces the fioor. What ! she jealous of Harry ? 0, no, no ! — but the bright, dazzling Marion ! — so talented, so gifted, so fascinating ! If Harry’s old penchant for her should return ! 0 ! what had she to oppose to all her witchery ? Only a sweet, childish face, and a heart whose every pulsation was love, love for him who had won it. 0, why did she ever come back ? Such a happy dream as her wedded life had been, thus far ! BLfelK’S FIRST TRIAL 95 O, how slowly the hours passed, as she gave herself up to this voluntary self-torture ! Harry must not see her thus — no. She rose and bathed her eyes, and tried to busy herself with her accustomed occupations, and so far succeeded, that when he sat opposite her at the tea-table, that evening, he was quite convinced that he could repeat his call without giving his little wife a single heart-pang. Poor little, proud Elsie ! — he did n’t know how you longed to throw your arms about his neck, and say, “ 0, never look on those bright eyes again, dear Harry ! Be mine — mine only ! ” No, he did n’t know that ! The spell had begun to work, — he was blinded ! Elsie hoped the fair enchant- ress would soon leave ; but it was not so, and Harry became more abstracted every day, although his manner still continued kind as usual. Elsie’s heart could not be deceived, it was not “ busi- ness ” that kept him so often from his hearth-stone. No, she had twice, thrice, heard him murmur the bright stranger’s name in his dreams But no word fell from her lips to remind him of all this heart- wandering. She was more studious than ever for his comfort. She never upbraided, never questioned. He went and came, as he liked. Still it was telling fast, this secret sorrow, upon the patient little wife. There was a pallor on her cheek 0 that told its own story, — or would have done so, to eyes blinded than Harry’s. 9(5 ELSIE S FIRST TRIAj.. Our sorrows are so lightened by sympathy ; but the grief that may not be spoken,— the weight of trouble that Render shoulders must bend under alone, — who shall know, save those who have borne it ? Elsie was alone in her dressing-room, where she had sat for hours, motionless. A sudden thought seemed to inspire her. She started up, bathed her pale face, smoothed her sunny ringlets, and arrayed herself with more than usual care. “ That will be better,” she murmured to herself, as she passed through the busy street to lady Marion’s dwelling. “ I do not recollect,” said Marion, with a graceful courtesy, and blushing slightly, as Elsie entered. ‘‘I am a stranger to you,” said Elsie, her silvery voice tremulous with agitation ; and, as her eye glanced over Marion’s full, round figure, with its queenly grace of motion, and noted her large, bright eyes, and raven hair and snowy shoulders , she marvelled not at the spell ! I am Harry Lee’s wife,” said Elsie. “ 0, lady Marion ! of all the hearts your beauty wins, only one I claim ! For God’s sake, do not wrest it from me ! Earth would be so dark to me without my husband’s love ! ” and her tears fell fast upon the fair stranger’s hand. As God is my witness, never ! ” said the impulsive woman, touched with her sweet c-onfidence. “ T wUl bljsie’s first trial. 97 lever see him again and she drew her to her side with i sister’s fondness. “ God bless you ! ” said the happy Elsie. “ An ' you ^ill keep my secret ? ” “ Elsie, ’t is very odd you were never the least bit jealous of my old friend Marion,” said Harry, a few days after the above occurrence. ‘‘ Very shabby of her, don t you think so, to leave town without even saying good-by to me ? NHmporte ; my little wife is worth a dozen of her and Harry kissed her cheek fondly. E T A NIGHT-WATCH WITH A DEAD INFANT. Moorest thou thj bark so sooii little voyager ? Through those infant eyes, with a prophet’s vision, sawest thou life’s great battle-fi^'ld, swarming with fierce combatants ? Fell upon tb y timid ear the far-oflf din of its angry strife ? Drooped thy head wearily on the bosom of the Sinless, fearful of earth taint ? Fluttered thy wings impatiently against the bars of thy prison- house, sweet bird of Paradise ? God speed thy flight ! No unerring sportsman shall have power to ruffle thy spread pinions, or maim thy soar- ing wing. No sheltering nest had earth for thee, where the chill wind of sorrow might not blow ! No garden of Eden, where the serpent lay not coiled beneath the ‘flowers ! No “ Tree of Life,” whose branches might have sheltered thee for aye ! Warm fall the sunlight on thy grassy pillow, sweet human bloSvSom ! Softly fall the night dews on the blue- eyed violet above thee ! Side by side with thee are hearts that have Img since ceased hoping, or aching. There lies the betrothed maiden, in her unappropriated love'iness; the bride, with her head pillowed on golden A NIGHT-WATCU WITH A HEAD INEANT. 99 tresses, wli^se rare beauty even the Great Spoiler seemed loth to touch ; childhood, but yesterday warm and rosy on its mother^ s breast ; the loving wife and mother, in life’s sweet prime; the gray-haired pastor, gone to his reward ; the youth of crisped locks and brow unfurrowed by care ; the heart-broken widow, and tearful orphan, — all await with folded hands, closed eyes, and silent lips alike with thee, the resurrection morn. A PRACTICAL BLUE-STOCKING. “Have you called on your old friend, James Lee, ^mce your return ? ” said Mr. Seldon to his nephew. “ No, sir ; I understand he has the misfortune to have a blue-stocking for a wife, and whenever I have thought of going there, a vision with inky fingers, frowzled hair, rumpled dress, and slip-shod heels has come between me and my old friend, — not to mention thoughts of a dis- orderly house, smoky puddings, and dirty-faced children. Defend me from a wife who spends her time dabbling in ink, and writing for the papers. I’ll lay a wager James has n’t a shirt with a button on it, or a pair of stockings that is not full of holes. Such a glorious fel- low as he used to be, too! ” said Harry, soliloquizingly, “ so dependent upon somebody to love him. By Jove, it ’s a hard case.” “Harry, will you oblige me by calling there ?” said Mr. Seldon with a peculiar smile. “Well, yes, if you desire it; but these married men get so metamorphosed by their wives, that it ’s a chance if I recognise the melancholy remains of my old friend. A literary wife!” and he shrugged his shoulders oontemptuously. A PRACTICAL H L IT R - S T 0 C K T N G . 101 At one o’clock the next afternoon, Harry might have been seen ringing the bell of J ames Lee’s door. He had a very ungracious look upon his face, as much as to say, — “ My mind is made up for the worst, and I must bear it for Jemmy’s sake.” The servant ushered him into a pretty little sitting- room, not expensively furnished, but neat and tasteful. At the further end of the room were some flowering plants, among which a sweet-voiced canary was singing. Harry glanced round the room ; a little light-stand or Chinese table stood in the corner, with pen, ink, and papers scattered over it. “ I knew it,” said Harry ; “ there ’s the sign ! horror of horrors ! an untidy, slatternly blue-stocking ! how I shall he disgusted with her ! Jemmy ’s to be pitied.” He took up a book that lay upon the table, and a little manuscript copy of verses fell from between the leaves. He dropped the book as if he had been poisoned ; then picking up the fallen manuscript with his thumb and forefinger, he replaced it with an impatient pshaw ! Then he glanced round the room again, — no ! there was not a particle of dust to be seen, even by his prejudiced eyes ; the windows were transparently clean ; the hearth-rug was longitudinally and mathematically laid down ; the pic- tures hung “ plumb ” upon the wall ; the curtains were fresh and gracefully looped ; and, what was a greater marvel, there was a child’s dress half finished in a dainty 102 A PRACTICAL BLUE -STOCKING. little work-basket, and a thimble of fairy dimensions in the immediate neighborhood thereof. Harry felt a per- verse inclination to examine the stitches, but at the sound of approaching footsteps he braced himself up to undergo his mental shower-bath. A little lady tripped lightly into the room, and stood smilingly before him ; her glossy black hair was combed smoothly behind her ears, and knotted upon the back of a remarkably well-shaped head ; her eyes were black and sparkling, and full of mirth ; her dress fitted charmingly to a very charming little figure ; her feet were unexcep- tionably small, and neatly gaiter ed ; the snowy fingers of her little hand had not the slightest “ soup^on ” of ink upon them, as she extended them in token of welcome to her guest. Harry felt very much like a culprit, and greatly in- clined to drop on one knee, and make a clean breast of a confession, but his evil bachelor spirit whispered in his ear, — “ Wait a bit, she ’s fixed up for company ; cloven foot will peep out by and by ! Well, they sat down ! The lady knew enough, — he heard that before he came ; — he only prayed that he might not be bored with her book-learning, or blue-stockingism. It is hardly etiquette to report private conversations for the papers, — so I will only say that when James Lee came home, two hours after, he found his old friend Harry in the finest possible spirits, tete-a-tete with his ‘‘ blue A PRACTICAL BLUE-STOCK TNG. lOo wife. An invitation to dinner followed. Harry demurred, — he had begun to look at the little lady through a very bewitching pair of spectacles, and he hated to be disen- chanted — and a blue-stocking dinner ! However, his objections, silent though they were, were Dver-ruled. There was no fault to be found with that t^ble-cloth, or those snowy napkins; the glasses were clean, the silver bright as my lady’s eyes ; the meats cooked to a turn, the gravies and sauces perfect, and the dessert well got up and delicious. Mrs. Lee presided with ease and elegance ; the custards and preserves were of her own mamxfaeture, and the little prattler, who ^as introduced with them, fresh from her nursery bath, with moist ringlets, snowy robe, and dimpled shoulders, looked charmingly well cared for. As soon as the two gentlemen were alone, Harry seized his friend’s hand, saying, with a half smile, “James, 1 feel like an unmitigated scoundrel ! I have heard your wife spoken of as a ‘ blue-stocking,’ and I came here pre- pared to pity you as the victim of an unshared heart, slatternly house, and indigestible cooking ; but may I die an old bachelor if I don’t wish that woman, who has just gone out, was my wife.” J ames Lee’s eyes moistened with gratified pride. “ Yoi don’t know half,” said he. “ Listen ; — some four year, since I became involved in business ; at the same time my health failed me ; my spirits were broken, and 1 was get- 104 A PRACTICAL B L U E - ft T 0 C K I N G . ting a discouraged man. Emma, unknown to m made application as a writer to several papers and magazines She soon became very popular ; and not long after placed in my hands the sum of three hundred dollars, the prod- uct of her labor. During this time, no parental or household duty was neglected ; and her cheerful and steady affection raise*! my drooping spirits, and gave me fresh courage to commence the world anew. She still continues to write, although, as you see, my head is above water. Thanks tG her as my guardian angel, for she says, ‘ We must lay up something for a rainy day.’ God bless her sunshiny ^ce ! ” The entrance of &iima put a stop to any further eulogy, and Harry took his leave in a very indescribable and penitential frapie of mind, doing ample penance for his former unbelieving seruples, by being very uncom fortably in love with a “ Blue-Stocking. THE LITTLE PAUPER. It is only a little pauper. Never mind her. You see she knows her place and keeps close to the wall, as if she expected an oath or a blow. The cold winds are making merry with those thin rags. You see nothing of child- hood’s rounded symmetry in those shrunken limbs and pinched features. Push her one side, — she ’s used to it, — she won’t complain ; she can’t remember that she ever neard a kind word in her life. She ’d think you were mocking if you tried it. She passes into the warm kitchen, savory with odorous dainties, and is ordered out with a threat by the portly cook. In the shop windows she sees nice fresh loaves of bread, and tempting little cakes. Rosy little children pass her on their way to school, well-fed, well-clad and joyous, with a mother’s parting kiss yet warm on their sweet lips. There seems to be happiness enough in the world, but it never comes to her. Her little basket is quite empty ; and now, faint with hunger, she leans wearily against that shop window. There is a lovely lady, who has just passed in. She is buying cakes and hon-hon^ for her E* 106 THE LITTLE PAEPER. little girl, as if she had the purse of Fortunatus. How nice it must be to be warm, and have enough to eat ! Poor Meta ! She has tasted nothing since she was sent forth with a curse in the morning, to beg or steal ; and the tears will come. There is happiness and plenty in tlie world, but none for Meta ! Not so fast, little one ! Warm hearts beat sometimes under silk and velvet. That lady has caught sight of your little woe-begone face and shivering form. 0, what if it were her child ! And, obeying a sweet mater- nal impulse, she passes out the door, takes those little benumbed fingers in her daintily gloved hands, and leads the child, — wondering, shy and bewildered, — - into fairy land. A delightful and novel sensation of warmth creeps over those frozen limbs ; a faint color tinges the pale cheeks, and the eyes grow liquid and lovely, as Meta raises them thankfully to her benefactress. The lady’s little girl looks on with an innocent joy, and learns, for the first time, how “ blessed are the merciful.” And then Meta passes out, with a heavy basket, and a light heart. Surely the street has grown wider, and the sky brighter ! This can scarcely be the same world ! Meta’s form is erect now ; her step light, as a child’s should be. The sunshine of human love has brightened bor pathway ! Ah, Meta I — earth is not all darkness \>right angels- yet walk the earth. Sweet-voiced Pit^ THE LITTLE PAUPER. 107 and heaven-ejed Charity sometiraes stoop to bless. God’s image is only marred, not destroyed. He who feeds the ravens, bends to listen. Look upward little Meta ! EDITH MAY; OR, THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME A lover’s quarrel ! A few hasty words, — a forma: parting between two hearts, that neither time nor dis* tance could ever disunite, — then, a lifetime of misery ! Edith May stood before me in her bridal dress. The world was to be made to believe she was happy and heart- whole. I knew better. I knew that no woman, who had once loved Gilbert Ainslie, could ever forget him, — least of all, such a heart as Edith’s. She was pale as a snow- wreath, and bent her head gracefilly as a water lily, in recognition of her numerous friends and admirers. “ What a sacrifice ! ” the latter murmured, between their set teeth ! “ What a sacrifice ! ” my heart echoed oack. • Mr. Jefferson Jones was an ossified old bachelor. He nad but one idea in his head, and that was, to make money. There was only one tiling he understood equally well, and that was, to keep it. He was angular, prim, cold and precise ; mean, grovelling, contemptible and cunning. And Edith ! — our peerless Edith, whose lovers were KDITH MAY. 109 ‘ legion,” — Edith, with her passionate heart, her beauty, grace, taste and refinement, — Edith, to vow love and honor ” to such a soulless block ! It made me shudder to think of it ! I felt as though his very gaze were pro- fanation. Well, the wedding was over ; and she was duly in- stalled mistress of Jefferson House. She had fine dresses, fine furniture, a fine equipage, and the stupidest possible incumbrance, in the shape of a husband. Mr. J eff erson J ones was very proud of his bride ; — firstly, because she added to his importance ; secondly, because he plumed himself not a little in bearing off so dainty a prize. It gave him a malicious pleasure to meet ner old admirers, with the graceful Edith upon his arm. Of course she preferred him to them all ; else, why did she marry him ? Then, how deferential she was in her manner since their marriage ; how very polite, and how careful to per- form her duty to the letter ! Mr. Jones decided, with his usual acumen, that there was no room for a doubt, on that point ! He noticed, indeed, that her girlish gayety was gone ; but that was a decided improvement, accord- ing to his view. She was Mrs. J ones now, and meant to keep all whiskered popinjays at a respectful distance. He liked it ! And so, through those interminable evenings, Edith sat, playing long, stupid games of chess with him, or 110 EDITH may; ok, listening (?) to his gains or losses, in the way of trade ; or reading political articles, of which the words conveyed nc ideas to her absent mind. She walked through the busy streets, leaning on his arm, with an unseen form ever at her side ; and slept — Grod forgive her ! — next his heart, when hers was far away ! But when she was alone, — no human eye to read her sad secret, her small hands clasped in agony, and her fair head bent to the very dust, — was he not avenged ? It was a driving storm ; — Mr. Jones concluded to dine at a restaurant instead of returning home. He had just seated himself, and given his orders to the obsequious waiter, when his attention was attracted by the conver- sation of two gentlemen near him. “ Have you seen la belle Edith, since her marriage ^ Harry ? ” “ No : I feel too much vexed with her. Such a splen- Qid specimen of flesh and blood to marry such an idiot ! All for a foolish quarrel with Ainslie. You never saw such a wreck as it has made of him. However, she is well punished ; for, with all her consummate tact and efibrt to keep up appeara^aces, it is very plain that she is the most miserable woman in existence ; as Mr. J effer- son Jones, whom I have never seen, might perceive, if TH£ MISTAKJB OF A jbl F - T 1 M B . J]1 be was n’t, as all the world says, the very prince of donkeys.” Jones seized his hat, and rushed into the open air, tugging at his neck-tie as if he were choking. Six times he went, like a comet, round the square ; then, settling his beaver down over I is eyes, in a very prophetic man- ner, he turned his footsteps deliberately homeward. It was but the deceitful calm before the whirlwind ! He found Edith, calm, pale, and self-possessed, as usual. He was quite as much so himself, — even went so far as to compliment her on a coquettish little jacket that fitted her round figure very charmingly. “ I ’m thinking of taking a short journey, Edith,” said he, seating himself by her side, and playing with the silken cord and tassels about her waist. “ As it is wholly a business trip, it would hamper me to take you with me ; but you ’ll hear from me. Meanwhile, you know ho amuse yourself, hey, Edith ? ” He looked searchingly in her face. There was no conscious blush, no change of expression, no tremor of the frame. He might as well have addressed a marble statue. 'Mr. Jefferson Jones was posed! Well, he bade her one of his characteristic adieus ; and when the door closed, Edith felt as if a mountain weight had been lifted off her heart. There was but one course for her to pur- sue. She knew it : — she had already marked it out. 112 EDITH may; ok, She would deny herseii* to all visitors, — she would not go abroad till her husband’s return. She was strong in her purpose. There should be no door left open for busy scandal to enter. Of Ainslie she knew nothing, save that a letter reached her from him after her marriage which she had returned unopened. And so she wandered restlessly through those splendid rooms, and tried, by this self-inflicted penance, to atone for the defection of her heart. Did she take her guitar, old songs they had sang together came unbidden to her lips ; — that book, too, they had read. 0, it was all misery, turn where she would ! Day after day passed by, — no letter from Mr. J ones ! The time had already passed that was fixed upon for his return ; and Edith, nervous from close confinement and the weary inward struggle, started like a frightened bird, jjLevery footfall. ^^t came at last — the letter — sealed with black ! “ He had been accidentally drowned. His hat was found ; all search for the body had been unavailing.” Edith was no hypocrite. She coaid not mourn for him, save in the outward garb of v oe ; but now that he was dead, conscience did its office. She had not in the eye of the world, been untrue ; but there is an Eye that searches deeper ! — that scans thoughts as welJ as actions. Ainslie was just starting for the continent, by order of TUB MISTAKE OF A LIFE- TIME. 113 a physician, when the news reached him. A brief time he gave to decorum, and then they met. It is needless to say what that meeting was. Days and months of wretchedness were forgotten, like some dreadful dream. She was again his own Edith, sorrowing, repentant and happy. They were sitting together one evening, — Edith’s head was upon his shoulder, and her face radiant as a seraph’s. They were speaking of their future home. “ Any spot on the wide earth but this, dear Ainslie. Take me away from these painful associations.” “ Say you so, pretty Edith ? ” said a well-known voice ‘‘ I but tried that faithful heart of yours, to prove it ! Fity to turn such a pretty comedy into a tragedy ; but 1 happen to be manager here, young man ! ” said Mr. Jones, turning fiercely toward the horror-struck Ainslie. The revulsion was too dreadfiil. Edith sui'vived but a week. Ainslie oecame hopelessly insane. 8 M A^BEL’S SOLILOQUY. This is a heartless life to lead,” said Mabel Gray, as she unbanded her long hair, and laid aside her rich robe. “ It is a life one might lead, were there no life beyond When I left the heated ball-room to-night, the holy stars, keeping their tireless watch, sent a thrill through me ; — and the little prayer I used to say at my dead mother’s knee came unbidden to my lip. There ’s Letty, now ; — she ’s happier than her mistress. Come here, child ; — unbraid my hair, and sing me that little Methodist hymn of yours, ‘ Jesus, I my cross have taken.’ “ That will do, — thank you, child, — now you may gc What a sweet voice she has ! Either that, or my tears, have eased my heart. I ’m too restless to sleep. How softly the moon-light falls to-night ! — and years hence when these myriad sleepers shall have sunk to their dreamless rest, earth will still be as fair, the silver moon will ride on as triumphantly. How many sad hearts she looks down upon to-night ; and never a thanksgiving has gone up from my lips for countless blessings ! Soft sleep with balmy touch has closed these thankless eyes ; the Mabel’s soliloquy. 115 warm, fresh blood of youth and health has flowed on, unchecked by disease. I have sat at the table of ‘Dives,’ while ‘ Lazarus ’ has starved at the gate. The gold and purple robe of sunset has been woven for me ; the blue vault of heaven arched over my head ; the ever-changing, fleecy cloud has gone drifting by ; the warm sunlight has kissed open the flowers I love ; the green moss has spread a carpet for my careless foot ; and I have revelled in all this beauty and luxury — God forgive me ! — unmindful of the Giver.” Dear reader, shall it be only at “ Bethesda’s Pool ” that you seek your Benefactor ? While your life-cup overflows with blessings, when the warm blood coursep swiftly, shall there come no generous response to tha'^ -'till small 7oice, “ Jesus of Nazareth passeth by ? HOW HUSBANDS MAY RULE. Dear Mary,” said Harry to his little wife, “ [ Have a favor to ask of you. You have a friend whom I dislike very much, and who I am quite sure will make tiouble between us. Will you give up Mrs. May for my sake, Mary ? ” A slight shade of vexation crossed Mary’s pretty face, as she said, “ You are unreasonable, Harry. She is lady- like, refined, intellectual, and fascinating, is she not ? ” “ Yes, all of that ; and, for that very reason, her influ- ence over one so yielding and impulsive as yourself is more to be dreaded, if unfavorable. I ’m quite in earnest, Mary. I could wish never to see you together again.” “ Pshaw ! dear Harry, that ’s going too far. Don’t be disagreeable; let us talk of something else. As old Uncle Jeff says, ‘ How ’s trade ? * ” and she looked archly in his face. Harry did n’t smile. “Well,” said the little wife, turning away, and pattk^ her foot nervously, “ I don’t see how I can break with her, Harry, for a whim of yours ; besides, I ’ve promised to go there this very evening.” h:>w husband? may rule. 117 Harry made no reply, and in a few moments was on his way to his office. Mary stood behind the curtain, and looked after him as he went down the street. There was an uncomfortable, stifling sensation in her throat, and something very like a tear glittering in her eye. Harry was vexed, — she was sure of that; he had gone off, for the first time since their marriage, without the affectionate good-by that was usual with him, even when they parted but for an hour or two. And so she wandered, restless and unhappy, into her little sleeping-room. It was quite a little gem. There were statuettes, and pictures, and vases, all gifts from him either before or since their marriage ; each one had a history of its own, — some tender association connected with Harry. There was a bouquet, still fresh and fragrant, that he had pur- chased on his way home, the day before, to gratify her passion for flowers. There was a choice edition of Poems they were reading together the night before, with Mary’s name written on the leaf, in Harry’s bold, handsome hand. Turn where she would, some proof of his devotion met her eye. But Mrs. May ! She was so smart and satirical ! She would make so much sport of her, for being “ ruled ” so by Harry ! Had n’t she told him “ all the men were tyrants,” and this was Harry’s first attempt to govern her. No, no, it would n’t do for her to yield. 118 HOW HUSBANDS MAY RUDE. So the pretty evening dress was taken out ; the trinv mings readjusted, and re-modelled, and all the little et- ceteras of her toilette decided. Yes, she would go ; she had quite made up her mind to that. Then she opened her jewel-case ; a little note fell at her feet. She knew the contents very well. It was from Harry, — slipped slyly into her hand on her birth-day, with that pretty bracelet. It could n’t do any harm to read it again. It was very lover-like for a year old husband ; but she liked it ! Dear Harry ! and she folded it back, and sat down, more unhappy than ever, with her hands crossed in her lap, and her mind in a most pitiable state of irresolution. Perhaps, after all, Harry was right about Mrs. May ; and if he was n’t, one hair of his head was worth more to her than all the women in the world. He had never said one unkind word to her, — never ! He had anticipated every wish. He had been so attentive and solicitous when she was ill. How could she grieve him ? Love conquered ! The pretty robe was folded away, the jewels returned to their case, and, with a light heart, Mary sat down to await her husband’s return. The lamps were not lit in the drawing-room, when Harry came up the street. She had gone, then ! — after all he had said ! He passed slowly through the hall, entered the dark and deserted room, and threw himself on the sofa with a heavy sigh. He was not angry, but he was grieved and disappointed. The first doubt tha^ HOW HUSBANDS MAY HOLE. 119 creeps over the mind, of the affection of one we love, is so very painful. Dear' Harry ! ” said a welcome voice at his side. “God bless you, Mary!’^ said the happy husband; “ you Ve saved me from a keen sorrow I ” Dear reader, — won’t you tell ? — there are some hus- oands worth all the sacrifices a loving heart can make ’ LITTLE CHARLEY. It is hard to lie upon a bed of sickness, even though that bed be of down. Nauseous, too, is the healing- draught, though sipped from a silver cup, held by a loving hand. Wearisome are the days and nights, ever with the speaking eye of love over your pillow. But what if the hand of disease lie heavily on the poor ? What if the “ barrel of meal and cruse of oil ” fail ? What if emaciated limbs shiver under a tattered blanket ? What if lips, parched with fever, mutely beg for a permitted but unattainable luxury ? What if the tones of the voice be never modulated to the delicately sensitive ear ? What if at every inlet of the soul come sights and sounds harsh and dissonant? Ah! who shall measure the sufferings of the sick poor ? Dear little Charley ! you were as much out of place, in that low, dark, wretched room, as an angel could well be on earth. Meekly, in the footsteps of Him who loveth little children, were those tiny feet treading. Patiently, unmurmuringly, uncomplainingly, were those racking pains endured. A tear, a contraction of the brow, a slight, involuntary clasping of the attenuated fingers, were the LITTLE CHARLEY. 121 only visible signs of agony. What a joy to sit beside him, — to take that little feverish hand in mine, — to smooth that rumpled pillow, — to part the tangled locks on that transparent forehead, — to learn of one, of whom the Saviour says, “ Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven ! But never did I bless Grod so fully, so gratefully, for the gift of song, as when, with that little, sensitive heart held close to mine, I made him forget his pain by some simple strain. I had sung for my own amusement ; 1 had sung when dazzling lights, and fairy forms, and festal hours, were inspiration ; but never with such a zest, and with such a thrill of happiness, as when, in that wretched room, I soothed the sufferings of “little Charley.” The garland-crowned prima donna^ with half the world at her feet, might have envied me the tightened clasp of that little hand, the suffused, earnest gaze of that speaking eye, and that half- whispered, plaintive, — “ One more ! Charley is so happy now ! ” Ay ! Charley is happy now ! Music, such as only the blessed hear, fills his soul with rapture. Never a dis- cordant note comes from the harp swept by that cherub hand, while forever that majestic anthem rolls on, ip which his infant voice is joining, — “ Worthy the Lamb.’ F THE LOST AND THE LIVING. “ Tlie husband’s tears may be few and brief. He may woo and win another ; But the daugitter clings in unchanging grief To the image of her mother ! But a fleeting twelvemonth had passed since the heart, that for years had beat against his own, was forever stilled, when Walter Lee brought again a fair young creature to share his widowed home. Nor father nor mother, brother nor sister, claimed any part of the orphan heart that he coveted and won. No expense or pains lad he spared to decorate the mansion for her reception Old familiar objects, fraught with tenderest associations, had been removed, to make way for the upholsterer^s choicest fancies. There was no picture left upon the wall, with sweet, sad, mournful eyes, to follow him with silent reproach. Everything was fresh and delightful as the new-born joy that filled his heart. “ My dear Edith,” said he, fondly pushing back the hair from her forehead, “ there should be no shadow in your pathway, but I have tried in vain to induce Nelly to give you the welcome you deserve ; however, she shall THE LOST AND THE LIVING. 123 4tmoy you. I shall compel her to stay in the nursery till she yields to my wishes.” O, no ! don’t do that,” said the young step-mother anxiously ; “ I think I understand her. Let me go to her, dear Walter;” and she tripped lightly out of the room. Walter Lee looked after her retreating figure with a lover-like fondness. The room seemed to him to grow suddenly darker, when the door closed after her. Beach- ing out his hand, he almost unconsciously took up a book that lay near him. A slip of paper fluttered out from between the leaves, like a white-winged messenger. The joyous expression of his face faded into one of deep sor- row, as he read it. The hand-writing was his child’s mother’s. It ran thus : — “ O, to die, and be forgotten ! This warm heart cold — these active limbs still — these lips dust ! Suns to rise and set, flowers to bloom, the moon to silver leaf and tree around my own dear home, — the merry laugh, the pleasant circle, and I not there ! The weeds choking the flowers at my head-stone ; the severed tress of sunny hair forgotten in its envelope ; the sun of happiness so soon absorbing the dew-drop of sorrow ! The cypress changed for the orange wreath ! O, no, no, don’t quite forget ! close your eyes sometimes, and bring before you the face that once made sunshine in your home ! feel again the 124 THE LOST AND THE LIVING. twining clasp of loving arms ; the lips that told yon — not in words — how dear you were. 0, Walter, don’t quite forget ! From Nelly’s clear eyes let her mother’s soul still speak to you. Mary Lee.” Warm tears fell upon the paper as Walter Lee folded it back. He gave himself time to rally, and then glided gently up to the nursery door. It was partially open. A little fairy creature of some five summers stood in the middle of the floor. Her tiny face was half hidden in sunny curls. Her little pinafore was full of toys, which she grasped tightly in either hand. No, you are not my mamma,” said the child. “ I want my own, dead mamma, and I ’m sorry papa brought you here.” “ 0, don’t say that ! ” said the young step-mother , “ don’t call me ‘ mamma,’ if it gives you pain, dear. I am quite willing you should love your own mamma best.” Nelly looked up with a pleased surprise. “ I had a dear mamma and papa once,” she continued, “ and brothers and sisters so many, and so merry ! but they are all dead, and sometimes my heart is very sad ; I have no one, now, to love me, but your papa and you.” Nelly’s eyes began to moisten ; and taking out one after another of the little souvenirs and toys from her pinafore, she said, And you won’t take away this — and this — and this — that my dead mamma gave me ? ” UHE LOST AND THE LIVING. 125 No, indeed, dear Nelly ! ” “ And you will let me climb in my papa’s lap, as I used ; and put my cheek to his, and kiss him ? and love him as much as I ever can, won’t you ? ” “Yes, yes, my darling.” Walter Lee could hear no more, — his heart was full. What! Mary’s child pleading with a stranger for room in a father’s heart ! In the sudden gush of this new fount of tenderness, had he forgotten or overlooked the claims of that helpless little one ? God forbid ! “ From Nelly’s clear eyes let her mother’s soul still speak to you.” Ay ! it did ! When next Walter Lee met \n& young bride, it was with a chastened tenderness. Nelly’s loving little heart was pressed closely against his own. He was agam * tier own papa ’ ” No, he did not quite forget ! ” ON A LITTLE CHILD WHO HAD CREPT BEFORE A LOOKING-GLASS THAT WAS LEFT UPON THE SIDEWALK. What do you see, pretty one ? Large, wondering blue eyes ; a tangled mass of sunny curls ; small, pear]}^ teeth ; plump, white shoulders, that the ragged dress has failed to hide ! Saw you never that little face before ? A smile of innocent pleasure curls your lip ; — ah ! you have found out, that little face is fair ! Poor and beau- tiful — holy angels shield you, little one ! I look at you with a tear and a smile. Shall sin cast its dark shadow over those clear, pure eyes ? Shall the hollow-hearted sensualist find you out ? Shall you turn from homely, but honest toil, to honeyed words and liveried shame ? Shall you curse the day you first crept to that mirror, and saw your sunny face ? 0, heard you never of Him who biddeth “ little chil- dren come ? In your dark and noisome home, heard you never the name of J esus,” save from blasphemous lips ? Closed those blue eyes never with a murmured “ Our Father ? ’’ Have the rough grasp and brutal blow descended on that fair young head ? Has daily bread ON A LITTLE CHILL 127 eome sparingly to those cherry lips ? Crept you out into the warm sunlight, under the bright blue sky, with a bird’s longing to soar ? Soar you may, pretty one ; — there ’s a'** song,” an 'I a “harp,” and a “white robe” for you! Just such as you were “ blessed ” with holy hands ; sacred lips have said, “ Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” God seep you undefiled, little earth pilgrim ! KITTY^S RESOLVE. It wo aid puzzle a Philadelphia lawyer to tell why Kitty Gray looks so serious as she sits by her latticed window this bright summer morning. Is she not the un- disputed belle of ? — adored by the young men, envied by the girls, who try in vain to find out the spell by which she monopolizes all hearts. Has she, at las\ found one insensible mortal, cold-hearted enough to re- sist all love’s artillery ? That would be a novelty for Kitty ! Has she detected a gray hair stealing in among her tresses, or an incipient crow’s-foot at the corner of her eye ? Banish the thought, at sweet eighteen ! Mirror never refiected back lovelier tresses, brighter eyes, a fairer brow, or more symmetrical form. The hand her cheek rests on is faultless, and her foot is as perfect as a model. 'Ah, Miss Kitty, you were cut out for a coquette, but spoilt in the making! Nature gave you a heart. You are neither making a female Alexander of yourself by sighing for fresh hearts to conquer, nor consid- ering profoundly the fashion of your next ball-dress. You have lived eighteen years in this blessed world, and your life has been all sunshine. Why not ? Beauty and wealth have made you omnipotent; bnt UITTY g RESOLVE you are weary of your crown. My little queen has on her “ thinking cap,” and it becomes that sweet brow passing well. She wonders, “ Is this all of life ? ” Has a pretty woman nothing to do but smile and look capti- vating. and admire herself? She might as well be the marble Venus in her dressing-room ! And then she casts her mental eye over the circle of her acquaintance. For aught she sees, they are quite satisfied with the same Dutterfly existence. Women frivolous ; men, on the cox- comb order, — all but Harvey Fay. He is talented ; owns a soul; is not dependent on a moustache or French boots for happiness ; is refined in all his tastes, and a gentleman in the highest sense of the word ; can sing the soul out of you, and make time fiy faster than any man you ever saw. Alas! that there must always be a “ but ! ” Har- vey, the peerless Harvey, had one sad foible — and it was that which had clouded Kitty’s brow and saddened her heart. True, it had not, as yet, become a fixed habit, but where was the security for the future ? And so Kitty sat leaning her cheek upon her hand, and wondering if a woman’s power, if her nice tact and delicacy, were not bestowed upon her for something better than to further her own selfish purposes ? Harvey was sensitive, proud and high-spirited, — it must be a very gentle hand that would turn him back from that dizzy precipice. Could she not save him ? She resolved F* 9 130 K ZTe7 T’S resolve. to try ; she would exert hei power — for once — for som^ noble purpose. It was a gay scene — that ball-room ' The fairy forms that floated down the daoce, with flowing tresses’ and sparkling eyes, and snowy necks, might have bewildered the sober head of age. Soft, entrancing music, brilliant lights, and the overpowering perfume of myriad sweet flowers, all lent their aid to complete the spell. Kitty shone, as usual, the brightest star of the evening. One jannot gaze long at a “ star ” without being dazzled ; so how can I describe it ? 1 can only say Kitty was irre sistible. One minute you ’d think it was her eyes ; then the little dimpled hand that rested on your arm ; then her golden ringlets, or the tiny feet that supported that swaying, graceful figure. A.s to her eyes, whether black, or blue, or hazel, you could not tell. You only knew it was very dangerous looking at them long at a time, unless you had made up your mind to surrender. Well^ Kitty had received her usual share of homage, with her usual sweet nonchalance, and now accepted the arm of a gentleman to the supper-table, where wit flew like champagne corks, and hearts were lost and won with a celerity worthy this progressive age. Harvey was ag handsome as he well could be, and be mortal ; in nigh grood-humor, and as felicitous as only he knew how lo be in sayinp; a thousand brilliant nothings. kitty's resolve. « lai Kitty followed him with her eyes, and saw him, ere long, retire to a side-table, and, turning out a glass of wine, hold it to his lips. In an instant she was by his side. “ It is mine ! ” said she, playfully, extending her little hand to grasp it ; but there was a deep glow upon her cheek, and an earnest, imploring look in her eye, that said more than her words, and deepened the flush on Harvey’s temples. “ As you will, fair lady,” said he, with a slight shade of embarrassment ; but wherefore ? ” “ 0, only a woman’s whim ! ” said Kitty. “ You are no true knight, if you cannot serve a lady without a reason.” “ I ’d serve you forever ! ” said Harvey, as he looked admiringly upon her changing countenance. “ Then drink no wine to-night, unless I fill the glass for you,” said she, smiling, as she joined the dancers. “ Only a woman’s whim ! ” Harvey did n’t believe it. “ How very lovely she looked ! What could she mean ? Could it be she thought hi n in da nger ? Had he gone so far, almost imperceptibly to himself? Could Kitty think that of him ? Pshaw ! it could n’t be and he drew himself proudly up. “It must be some girlish nonsense, — a wager, or a bet of some kind. But that imploring, timid look ! O there was vsomething in it, kitty’s kesolve. 132 after all ! He would n’t be so tortured ; he would know before he slept that night.” There ’s an end to all things, and balls are no excep- ^ion. Happy cavaliers were performing the agreeable luty of settling refractory shawls upon round, white shoulders. “ Pdgoletts ” were to be tied under pretty chins, and lace kerchiefs around swan-like throats. These interminable matters being concluded, Kitty accepted Harvey as her escort home. They talked about a thousand little nothings, about which neither cared, when Harry cut it all short, very suddenly, with, “ Miss Gray, will you tell me frankly why you tabooed ’ that glass of wine ? ” All Kitty’s practised self-possession forsook her. She hesitated a moment ; — she feared to wound his feelings. No, she would not falter ! So she said, in a clear, low voice, while her long lashes swept her cheek, “ Because 1 knew that to you it was a poisoned draught, Mr. Fay ; and I were no true friend did I fail to warn you. You will not be vexed with me ? ” said she, with winning sweetness, as she extended him her hand. Harvey’s answer is not recorded ; but it is sufficient to say, that the secret of his high legal eminence is known only to the belle of . Alas ! that woman, gifted with an angel’s powers, sent on an angel’s mission, should so often be content with iiic butterfly life of a pleasure-seeking fashionist ! WOMAN. If a woman once errs, K-ick her down, kick her down j If misfortune is hers. Kick her down ; Though her tears fall like rain, And she ne’er smiles again, Kick her down. If man breaks her heart. Kick her down, kick her down ; Redouble the smart — Kick her down ; And if low her condition, On, on to perdition, — Kick her down.” At! pass her by on the other side; speaK no woid of encouragement to her ; measure not her fall by her temperament, or her temptations, but by the frigidity of your own unsolicited, pharisaical heart. Leave no door of escape open ; close your homes and your hearts ; crush every human feeling in her soul ; teach her that the Bible and religion are a fable ; check the repentant prayer on her Magdalen lip ; thrust her back upon the cruel tender mercies of those who rejoice at her fall ; sena her forth with her branded beauty, like a blight and a mildew. “Stand aside, for thou art holier;”- — holier than the Sinless, whose feet were bathed with her tears, “ and wiped with the hairs of her head.” Cast the “ first stone ” at her, 0 thou whited sepulchre * though those holy lips could say, “ Neither do I condemn thee, — go and sin no more ^ THE PASSIONATE FATHER. “Greater is he who ruleth his spirit, than he who taheth a city.” “ Come here, sir ! ” said a strong, athletic man, as Le seized a delicate-looking lad by the shoulder. “You ’ve been in the water again, sir ! Have n't I fc^-bidden it?” “ Yes, father, but — ” “ No ‘ buts I ’ — have n’t I forbidden it, hey ? ” “ Yes, sir. I was — ” “No reply, sir ! ” and the blows fell like a hail-storm about the child’s head and shoulders. Not a tear started from Harry’s eye,*‘but his face was deadly pale, and his lips firmly compressed, as he rose and looked at his father with an unflinching eye. “ Go to your room, sir, and stay there till you are sent for. I ’ll master that spirit of yours before you are many days older ! ” Ten minutes after, Harry’s door opened, and his mother glided gently in. She was a fragile, delicate woman, with mournful blue eyes, and temples startingly transparent. Laying her hand softly upon Harry’s head, she stooped and kissed his forehead. 136 THE PASSIONATE FATHER, The rock was touched, and the waters gushed forth. “ Dear mother ! ” said the weeping boy. “ Why did n’t you tell your father that you plunged into the water to save the life of your playmate ? ” “ Did he give me a chance ? ” said Harry, springing tc his feet, with a flashing eye. “ Did n’t he twice bid me be silent, when I tried to explain ? Mother, he ’s a tyrant to you and to me ! ” “ Harry, he ’s my husband and your father ! ” “ Yes, and I ’m sorry for it. What have I ever had but blows and harsh words ? Look at your pale cheeks and sunken eyes, mother ! It ’s too bad, I say ! He ’s a tyrant, mother ! ” said the boy, with a clenched fist and set teeth ; “ and if it were not for you, I would have been leagues ofi* long ago. And there ’s Nellie, too, poor, sick child ! What good will all her medicine do her ? She trembles like a leaf when she hears his footsteps. I say, ’t is brutal, mother ! ” “ Harry ” — and a soft hand was laid on the impetuous boy’s lips — “ for my sake — ” “ Well, ’t is only for your sake, — yours and poor Nel- lie’s, — or I should be on the sea somewhere — anywhere but here.” Late that night, Mary Lee stole to her boy’s bedside, before retiring to rest. “ God be thanked, he sleeps ! she murmured, as she shaded her lamp from his face. Then, kneeling at his bedside, she prayed for patience THE PASSIONATE FATHER. 137 and wisdom to bear uncomplainingly the heavy cross under which her steps were faltering ; and then she prayed for her husband. “No, no, not that!” said Harry, springing from his pillow, and throwing his arms about her neck. “ I car forgive him what he has done to me, but I never will for- give him what he has made you sufier. Don’t pray for him, — at least, don’t let me hear it ! ” Mary Lee was too wise to expostulate. She knew her boy was spirit-sore, under the sense of recent injustice ; so she lay down beside him, and, resting her tearful cheek against his, repeated, in a low, sweet voice, the story of the crucifixion. “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do ! ” fell upon his troubled ear. He yielded to the holy spell. “ I will ! ” he sobbed. “ Mother, you are an angel ; and if I ever get to heaven, it will be your hand that has led me there.” There was hurrying to and fro in Robert Lee’s house that night. It was a heavy hand that dealt those angry blows on that young head ! The passionate father’s repentance came too late, — came with the word that his boy must die ! “ Be kind to her ! ” said Harry, as his head droopeo on his mother’s shoulder. 138 THE PASSIONATE KATHEK. It was a dearly -bought lesson ! Beside that lifeless corpse, Robert Lee renewed his marriage vow ; and now, when the hot blood of anger rises to his temples, and the basty word springs to his lip, the pale face of the dead rises up between him and the offender, and an angel voice vhispers, ‘‘ Peace, be still ! ” THE PARTIAL MOTHER. Mother, Is that you, my darling I Child, No, mamma, *t is only me ! Fancy that little, pale, neglected, sensitive child, meek- ly returning that touching answer to the mother of her petted, beautifiil sister ! Who would not find a warm comer in their heart for her ? Who would not hasten to make those sad, pensive eyes beam happiness ? Who would not raise her estimate of her own powers, chilled and crushed in the germ, by the hand that should wipe away every childish tear ? Ah ! “ the coat of many colors ” is not yet worn out. The sullen brow of defi- ance, or the early grave, is too often the sad pen- alty. Other J osephs and Ishmaels may yet “ thirst in the desert;” other Jacobs and Elis have their “gray hairs brought with sorrow to the grave.” How seldom is equal justice done to the children of a large family ’ The superficial, the brilliant, the showy, the witty, throw a dazzling glare over parental eyes. They mark not the less gifted, but often warmer-hearted, child, as she creeps with swelling heart and filling eyes to some unnoticed corner, to sob, with passionate tears, “ Ah, it ’s only me ! ” 140 THE PART1A1> MOTHER. Frown not, impatience, at the little, shrinking creature at your side, — slow of speech and stammering of tongue, turning his eye timidly even from a mother’s glance, — because the quick flush of embarrassment mounts to his forehead, and he stands not up with a bold, flashing eye, to answer the pleased guest ! Chide him not ! Let him hide his tearful eye and blushing cheek in the folds of your dress, if he will ; put a loving arm about him, and let him creep to your heart, and nestle there, till the little dove gains courage to flutter and soar with a strong wing. He shall yet, eagle-like, face the sun ! You shall yet scarce keep in sight his soaring pinions ! Bear with him yet a while, ambitious mother ’ THE BALL-ROOM AND THE NURSERY. ‘‘You are quite beautiful to-aight,’^ said Frank Fear- ing to his young wife, as she entered the drawing-room dressed for a ball ; “I shall fall in love with you over again. What ! not a smile for your lover-husband ? and a tear in your eye, too ! What does this mean, dear- est ? ” Mary leaned her beautiful head upon her husband’s shoulder, and turned pale as she said : “ Frank, I feel a strange, sad presentiment of some impending evil ; from whence, I cannot tell. I have striven to banish it, but it will not go away. I had not meant to speak of it to you, lest you should think me weak or superstitious; and, Frank,” said his sweet wife, in pleading tones, “ this is a frivolous life we lead. We are all the world to each other, — why frequent such scenes as these ? A fearful shadow lies across my path. Stay at home with me, dearest; I dare not go to-night.” Frank looked at her thoughtfully a moment, then, gayly kissing her, he said, “ This vile east wind has given you the blues ; the more 142 THE BALL-ROOM ANL THE NURSERf. reason you should not give yourself time to think of them ; beside, do you think me such a Blue Beard as to turn the key on so bright a jewel as yourself? No, no Mary, I would have others see it sparkle and shine, and envy me its possession ; so throw on your cloak, little wife, and let us away.” “ Stop a moment, then,” said Mary, with a smile and a sigh, “ let me kiss little Walter before I go ; he lies in his little bed so rosy and so bright. Gome with me, Frank, and look at him.” With kisfiies on lip, brow and cheek, the child slum bered on, and the carriage rolled away from the door tc the ball. It was a brilliant scene ; that ball-room! — Necks ana arms, that shamed for whiteness the snowy robes thai floated around them ; eyes rivalling the diamond’s light tresses whose hue was borrowed from the sun ; man hood’s peerless form and noble brow ; odorous garlands, flashing lights, music to make the young blood race more swiftly through the veins ; all — all — were there, to intoxicate and bewilder. Peerless in the midst — queen of hearts and of tne dance — stood the young wife of Frank Fearing. Accept- ing the offered hand of an acquaintance, she took her place among the waltzers. She made a few turns upon the floor, then, pale as death, she turned to her husbanc^ Btying, THE BALL-ROOM AND THE NURSERY. 143 “ 0, Frank, I cannot, — I feel such an oppression here, nere and she placed her hand on heart and brow. Frank looked annoyed ; he was very proud of his wife ; her beauty was the admiration of the room. She had never looked lovelier than to-night. Whispering in het ear, “ For my sake, Mary, conquer this weakness,” he led her again to the dancers. With a smile of gratified pride he followed her with his eyes, as her fairy form floated past him, exoitement and exercise lending again to hei cheek its loveliest glow, while on all sides murmurs of “ Beautiful, — most beautiful ! ” fell on his ear. “ And that bright vision is mine,” said Frank to himself ; “ I have won her from hearts that were breaking for her.” When the dance was over, following her to the window, he arranged her scarf about her neck, with a fond care ; and with a “ Thank you, dearest,” was leaving her, when she again laid her hand upon his arm, saying, with a wild brilliancy in her eye, “ Frank ! something has happened to Walter ! take me home now.” “ Pshaw ! Mary, dear ; you looked so radiant, I thought you had danced the vapors away. One more, dearest, and then, if you say so, we will go.” Suffering herself to be persuaded, again those tiny feef were seen spurning the floor ; towards the close, her face grew so deadly pale, that her husband, in alarm, flew to her side. ‘‘The effort costs you too much, Mary,” said Frank 144 THE BALL-KOOM AND THE NURSEa> “ let US go home.” He wrapped her cloak carefullji about her. She was still, and cold as a marble statue. As the carriage stopped at their door, she rushed past him with the swiftness of an antelope, and, gaining her boy’s chamber, Frank heard her exclaim, as she fell senseless to the floor, “ I knew it, 1 told you so ! ” The child was dead. The servant in whose care it had been left, — following the example of her mistress, — had joined some friends in a dance in the hall. That terrible scourge of children, the croup, had attacked him, and alone, in the still dark- ness, the fair boy wrestled with the “ King of Terrors.” From whence came the sad presentiment that clouded the fair brow of the mother ; or the mysterious magnet- ism drawing her so irresistibly back to her dying child ? Who shall tell ? For months she lay vibrating between life and death . “ Yet the Healer was there, who had smitten her heart. And taken her treasure away ; To allure her to Heaven, he has placed it on high, And the mourner will sweetly obey.” “ There had whispered a voice, — ’t was (he voice of her God, - ‘ I love thee ! I love thee ! pass under the rod ! * ” Other fair children now call her “ mother ; ” but never again, with flying feet, has she chased the midnight hours away. Nightly, as they return, they find her within the THE BALL-ROOM AND THE NURSERY. 14S quiet circle of home, — within call of helpless childhood. Dearer than the admiration of the gay throng, — sweetei to her than viol or harp, — is the music of their young voices, and tenderly she leads their little feet into the green pastures and unto the still waters of salva- tion blest with the smOe of the Good Shepherd, who saith, “ Suffer the little i»hildrea to come unto me, and forbid them not.’’ to G ALL’S WELL. " Twelve o’clock at nightj and all U #ell ! ” False prophet ! Still and statue-like, at yonder Wift dow, stands the wife. The clock has told the small hours ; yet her face is pressed closely against the window- pane, striving in vain, with straining eye, to pierce the darloiess. She sees nothing ; she hears nothing, but the beating of her own heart. Now she takes her seat ; opens a small Bible, and seeks from it what comfort she may, while tears blister the pages. Then she clasps her hands, and her lips are tremulous with mute supplication, liist ! There is an unsteady step in the hall ; she knows it! Many a time and oft it has trod an rery heart- strings. She glides down gently to meet ili© uanderer He hdls heavily against her ; in maudlin tones, pro- nounces a name he had long siv.cc forgotten “to honor. 0, all-enduring power of woman’s love! No reproach, no upbraiding — the slight arm passed around that reel- ing figure, once erect in “God’s own image.” With tender words of entreaty, which he is powerless to resist, if he would, she leads him in. It is but a repetition of a thousand such vigils ! It is the performance of a vow -vLL’S WELL. 147 with a heroism and patient endurance too common and every-day to be chronicled on earth ; too holy and heavenly to pa unnoticed by the “ registering angel ” above “All’s weU!” False prop! let In yonder luxurious room sits one whose curse it wa to be fair as a dream of Eden. Time was »vhen tl ose cl 3ar eyes looked lovingly into a moth- er’s face — when a gray-haired father laid his trembling hand, with a blessing, on that sunny head — when broth- ers’ and sisters’ voices blended with her own, in heart- music, around that happy hearth. 0 ! where are they now ? Are there none to say to the repenting Magdalen, “Neither do I condemn thee, — go, and sin no more?” Must the gilded fetter continue to bind the soul that loathes it, because man is less merciful than God ? “ All ’s well ! ” False prophet ! There lies the dead orphan. In all the length and breadth of the green earth there was found no sheltering nest where that lonely dove could ^'old its wings, when the parent birds had flown. The brooding wing was gone, that covered it from the cold winds of neglect and unkindness. Love vas its liff and so it drooped ! 148 ALLS WELL. “All’s well !” False prophet I Sin walks the earth in purple and fine linen ; honest poverty, with tear-bedewed face, hun- gers and shivers and thirsts, “ while the publican stands afar ofF ! ” The widow pleads in vain to the ermined judge for “justice;” and, unpunished of Heaven, the human tiger crouches in his lair, and springs upon his helpless prey ! “ All ’s well ! ” Ah, yes, all is well ! — for “He who seeth the end from the beginning ” holds evenly the scales of justice. “ Dives ” shall yet beg of “ Lazarus.” Every human tear is counted. They shall yet sparkle as gems in the crown of the patient and enduring disciple ! When the clear, broad light of eternity shines upon life’s crooked paths, we shall see the snares and pitfalls from which our hedge of thorns has fenced us in ; and, in the maturity of our full-grown faith, we shall exultingly say, — “ Father ! not as I will, but as Thou wilt! ” HOW WOMAN LOVES. Walter,’’ said Mrs. Clay, “ you have not tasted your coffee this morning ; are you ill ? ” and she leaned across ihe table, and laid her hand upon his arm. “No — yes, not quite well. I had a great deal to occupy me yesterday and he arose from his seat to avoid the scrutiny of those clear eyes, adding, “If I should n’t be home at the dinner-hour, Marion, don’t wait for me ; — I may be detained by business. And now kiss me before I go.” “ If Walter would only leave that odious bank ! ” said Marion to herself. “ Such a tread-mill life for him to lead, — they are killing him with such close applica- tion ; ” and she moved about, busying her little head devising certain pathetic appeals to the “ Board of Directors ” for a mitigation of his sufferings. When one is away from a dear friend, ’t is a satisfac- tion to be employed in performing some little service foi them, how trifling soever it may be. So Marion passed into the library ; — arranging Walter’s books and papers, producing order out of confusion from a discouraging and heterogeneous heap of pamphlets and letters; moved 150 HOW WOMAN LOVE 3 his easy-chair round to the most inviting locnlit^ jitid then her eyes fell upon a little sketch he had drawn. “ Poor Walter ! ” said she ; “ with his artist eye and poet heart, to be counting up those interminable rows of figures, day after day, that any man who had brains enough for the rule of three could do just as well. To think he must always lead such a tread-mill life! — never feast his eyes on all that is beautiful and glorious beyond the seas, while so many stupid people are galloping over the continent, getting up fits of sham enthusiasm, just as the ‘ Guide Books’ direct! It is too bad.” She wished heartily she had brought him other dowry than her pretty face and warm heart. Well, dinner-hour came, but came not Walter. Marion was not anxious, because he had prepared her for his absence ; but she missed his handsome face at the table, and pushed away her food untasted. She was unfashion- able enough to love him quite as well — although she had been married many happy years — as on the day when the priest’s blessing fell on her maiden ear. “Come here, Nettie,” said she to a noble boy. “Spring into my lap, and let me look at papa’s eyes ;” — and she pushed back the clustering curls from his broad, white forehead, “Tell me, Nettie, which do you love best, papa or me ? ” “ Papa said I must love you best, because he does»” said the child. HOW WOMAN LOVES IM Bless your baby lips for that sweet answer ! Where can that dear papa be, I wonder ? The words had but just escaped her lips when hei father entered. Not with his usual beaming smile and extended hand, but with a slow, uncertain step, as if he could with difficulty sustain himself And such a hag- gard look ! “ Send away the child,” said he, huskily ; “ I want tc speak with you, Marion.” “ He is not dead ? — don’t tell me that ! ” said sue, with ashen lips — her thoughts at once reverting to her husband. “ Better so, better so,” said the old man, shaking his gray head, “ than to live to disgrace us all as he has ! ” “Who dare couple ‘disgrace’ with Walter’s name?” said Marion, with a flashing eye. “ Not you, 0, not you, dear father ! ” and she looked imploringly in his face. “ He has disgraced us all, I say ! ” said the proud old man ; — “ you and I, and that innocent child. He has embezzled money to a large amount, and is now in cus- tody ; and I ’ve come to take you home with me, — you and Nettie, — for you must forget him, Marion.” “ Never, never, never ! ” said she, solemnly. “ ’T is false ! — my noble, generous, high-minded husband I — never ! There is a conspiracy, — it will all be cleared up. (), father, unsay those dreadful words! I wib HOW WOMAN LOVES. 102 never leave him, though all the world forsake him. Lt^ me go to him, father ! ” “ Marion,” said the old man, “ he will be sentenced to a felon’s cell ; — there is no escape for him. When that takes place, the law frees you. Would you disgrace your boy ? Come back to your childhood’s home, and forget him, — ’t is your duty. He is unworthy your love or mine. If not,” said the old man, marking her com- pressed lip and heightened color, “ if not — ” “ What then ? ” said Marion, calmly. “ You are no child of mine ! ” said the irritated old man. “ God help) me, then ! ” said Marion ; “ for I will never leave nor forsake him.” It was a sight to move the stoutest heart, that fair, delicate woman in the prison cell. Walter started to his feet, but he did not advance to meet her. There was little need. Her arms were about his neck, her heaa upon his breast. Once, twice he essayed to speak, but her hand was laid upon his lips ; — she would not hear even from his own mouth, that he had fallen. The old jailer, stony-hearted as he was, drew his coat-sleeve across his eyes, as he closed the door upon them. “ Some fiend from hell tempted me ! ” said the wretches? man, at last ; “ but the law frees you from me, .Marion, ^aid he, bitterly. HO\f WOMAN LOVE? “ rours till death ! ” whispered the weeping wife. God bless jour noble heart, Marion ! Now 1 can bear mj punishment.” If ‘‘ death loves a shining mark,” so does malice. Every petty underling, who owed Walter Clay a grudge, took this opportunity to pay the debt. The past was ransacked for all the little minutiae of his history ; dark hints and innuendoes were thrown cut, to prejudice still more the public mind. There were cowardly stabs in the dark, from pusillanimous villains, who would have been livid with fear had their victim been free to face them. Reporters nibbed their pens with an appetite ; and the “ extras ” teemed with exaggerated accounts of the pris- oner and the trial. Even the sacredness of the wife’s sorrow was intruded upon by those ravenous, must-have- a-paragraph gentry. Then there were the usual number of sagacious people, who shook their empty heads, and “ always expected he would turn out so, because those who held their heads so high generally did.” First and foremost were these “ Good Samaritans ” at the trial ; noting every flitting expression of the agonized prisoner’s face, and only wishing it were in their power to prolong his acute suflFering and their exquisite enjoyment months instead of hours. “ Good enough for him ! ” was their final doxology, when the verdict of “ Guilty ” was ren- dered. “It will take his pride down a peg.” 0, most Pharisaical censors ! who shall say, that, with equa^ a* 154 HOW WOMAN LOVES opportunity and temptation, your vaunted virtue wocdd have better stood the test ? “ The worst is over now,” said Walter, as Marion bathed his temples. “ I will struggle to bear the rest, since you do not desert me, Marion ; but Nettie, poor innocent Nettie ! ” and Ihe strong man bowed his head, and wept at the heritage of shame for that brave boy. And so days, and weeks, and months, dragged their slow length along to the divided pair. He, in the livery of ignominy, bearing his sentence as best he might among the desperate and degraded ; experiencing every moment a refinement of torture of which their dull intellects and deadened sensibilities knew nothing. She, pointed out a? the “ felon’s wife ” by the rude crowd; shrinking nervously from notice ; trembling at the apprehension of insult, as she toiled on heroically, day by day, for daily bread. Whence came that quiet dignity with which Walter Clay exacted respect even from his jailers ? Ah ! there was a true heart throbbing for him outside those prison' walls. Nightly was he remembered in her prayers. Daily she taught their boy to lisp, even now, his father’s name. Like music to his ear was that light footstep ech- oing through the gloomy corridor to his cell. Tenderly those loving arms twined about his neck; sacred and true were the holy words with which she cheered his sinking spirit. Hopefully she painted the future — this trial past — when, in some home beyond the seas, he should HOW WOMAN LOVES. 155 yet be the happier for being so chastened by sorrow, and where no malicious tongue should remind him of his temptation or his fall. Sweetly upon his ear fell those soothing words — first uttered by sacred lips — “ Go and sin no more.” No, Walter Clay was not deserted quite ! He was not degraded, even there and thus, while he could hold up his head and boast of a love so devoted, so pure, so holy ! The hour of emancipation came at last, and Walter Clay stepped forth under the broad, blue sky, once more a free man ; and in the little room where the heroic wife had suffered and toiled, she once more clasped her hus band to her breast. “ And Nettie, where is he ? Let me kiss my boy,” said the joyful father. “ Where ’s Nettie ? ” “ On the Saviour’s bosom ! ” said Marion, with a chok- ing voice. “ Dead ? And you have buried this sad secret in your breast, and borne this great grief unshared, lest you should add to my sorrow ! ” and he knelt at her feet reverently. “ God knows you had enough to bear ! ” said Marion, as they mingled their tears together, and gazed at the long, bright, golden tress, all that remained to them of little Nettie. 156 HOW WOMAN LOVtes, “What 8n interesting couple!” said a travelling artist in Italy to his companion. “ That woman’s lace reminds one of a Madonna, — so pensive, sweet and touching. If she would but sit to me. Who are they, Pietro ? ” “They came here about a year since, — live in the greatest seclusion, and seem anxiously to avoid all con tact with their own countrymen. All the poor peasantry bless them ; and Father Giovanni says they are the besi* people, for heretics, he ever saw.” A MOTHER’S SOLILOQUY. T TS mine ! Bound to me by a tie that death itself cannot sever. That little heart shall never thrill with pleasure, or throb with pain, without a quick response from mine. I am the centre of its little world ; its verj life depends on my faithful care. It is my sweet duty tc deck those dimpled limbs, — to poise that tiny, trembling foot. Yet stay, — my duty ends not here ! A soul looks forth from those blue eyes, — an undying spirit, that shall plume its wing for a ceaiKjl^ flight, guided by my erring hand. The hot blood of anger miy ji«)t poison the fount whence it draws its life, or the hasty word escape my lip, in that pure presence. Wayward, passionate, impuls- ive, — how shall I approach it, but with a hush upon my spirit, and a silent prayer ! 0, careless sentinel ! slumber not at thy post over its trusting innocence ! O, reckless “ sower of the seed ! ” let not “ the tares spring up ! 0. unskilful helmsman ! how shalt thou pilot tha^ 158 A mother’s soliloquy. little bark, o’er life’s tempestuous sea, safely to tue eternal shore ? “ ’T is ours ! ” A father bends proudly over that little cradle ! A father’s love, how strong, how true ! But 0, not so warm, not so tender, as hers whose heart that babe hath lain beneath ! Fit me for the holy trust, O good Shepherd, or fold it early to thy loving bosom ’ THE INVALID WIFE. • KTery wife needs a good stock of love to start with.*’ Don’t she ? — You are upon a sick bed ; a little, feeble thing lies upon your arm, that you might crush with one hand. You take those little velvet fingers in yours, close your eyes, and turn your head languidly to the pillo;y. Little brothers and sisters, — Carry, and Harry, and Faiiny, and Frank, and Willy, and Mary, and Kitty, — half a score, — come tiptoeing into the room, “to see the new baby.” It is quite an old story to ‘ nurse,” who sits there like an automaton, while they give vent to their enthusiastic admiration of its wee toes and fingers, and make profound inquiries, which nobody thinks best to hear. You look on with a languid smile, and they pass out, asking, “ Why they can’t stay with dear mamma, and why they must n’t play puss in the corner,” as usual ? You wonder if your little croupy boy tied his tippet on when he went to school, and whether Betty will see that your husband’s flannel is aired, and if Peggy has cleaned the silver, and washed ofl the front-door steps, and what you: blessed husband 160 THE INVALID WIFE. is about, that he don’t come home to dinner. There sits old nurse, keeping up that dreadful tread-mill trotting, ‘to quiet the baby,” till you could fly through the key- hole in desperation. The odor of dinner begins to creep up stairs. You wonder if your husband’s pudding will be made right, and if Betty will remember to put wine in the sauce, as he likes it ; and then the perspiration starts out on your forehead, as you hear a thumping on the stairs, and a child’s suppressed scream ; and nurse swathes the baby up in flannel to the tip of its nose, dumps it down in the easy-chair, and tells you to “ leave the family to her, and go to sleep.” By and by she comes in, — after staying down long enough to get a refreshing cup of coffee, — and walks up to the bed with a bowl if gruel, tasting it, and then putting the spoon back into the bowl. In the first place, you hate gruel ; in the next, you could n’t eat it, if she held a pistol to your head, after that spoon has been in her mouth ; so you meekly suggest that it be set on the table to cool — hoping, by some providential interposition, it may get tipped over. Well, she moves round your room with a pair of creaking shoes, and a bran-new gingham gown, that rattles like a paper window-curtain, at every step • and smooths her hair with your nice little head-brush, and opens a drawer by mistake (?), “ thinking it was the oaby’s drawer.” Then you hear little nails scratching 5n the door ; and Charley whispers throujjh the kev THE INVALID WIDE. 161 hole, “ Mamma, Charley ’s tired ; please let Charley come in/’ Nurse scowls, and says no , but you inter- cede — poor Charley, he’s only a baby himself. Well, he leans his little head wearily against the pillow, ana looks suspiciously at that little, moving bundle of flannel in nurse’s lap. It ’s clear he ’s had a hard time of it, what with tears and molasses ! The little shining curls, that you have so often rolled over your fingers, are a tangled mass ; and you long to take him, and make him comfortable, and cosset him a little ; and, then, the baby cries again, and you turn your head to the pillow with a smothered sigh. Nurse hears it, and Charley is taken struggling from the room. You take your watch from un- der the pillow, to see if husband won’t be home soon, and then look at nurse, who takes a pinch of snuft' over your bowl of gruel, and sits down nodding drowsily, with the baby in alarming proximity to the fire. Now you hear a dear step on the stairs. It ’s your Charley ! How bright he looks ! and what nice fresh air he brings with him from out doors ! He parts the bed-curtains, looks and pats you on the cheek. You just want to lay your head on his shoulder, and have such a splendid cry ! but there sits that old Gorgon of a nurse, — she don’t believe in husbands, she don’t ! You make Charley a free-mason sign to send her down stairs for something. He says, — right out loud, — men are so stupid ! — What did you say, dear?” Of course, you protest il THE INVALII> Wlii’E. you did n’t say a word, — never thought of such a thing — and cuddle your head down to your ruffled pillows, and cry because you don’t know what else to do, and because you are weak and weary, and full of care for your family, and don’t want to see anybody but “ Charley.” Nurse says “ she shall have you sick,” and tells your husband “ he ’d better go down, and let you go to sleep.” Off he goes, wondering what on earth ails you, to cry ! — wishes he had nothing to do but lie still, and be waited upon ! After dinner he comes in to bid you good-by before he goes to his office, — whistles “ Nelly Bly ” loud enough to wake up the baby, whom he calls “ a comi- cal little concern,” — and puts his dear, thoughtless head down to your pillow, at a signal from you, to hear what you have to say. Well, there ’s no help for it, you cry again, and only say “ Dear Charley ; ” and he laughs, and settles l|is dickey, and says you are “ a nervous little puss,” gives you a kiss, lights his cigar at the fire, half strangles the new baby with the first whiff, and tpkes your heart off with him down street ! And you lie there and eat that gruel ! and pick the fuzz all off the blanket, and make facei? at the nurse under the sheet, and wish Eve had never ale that apple — Genesis 3 : 16, — or that you were “ Abel ” to “ Cain ’ her for doing it ! THE STRAY LAMB. I WAS walking through the streets yesterday, chiliea outwardly and inw^ardly, as one is apt to be, by the first approach of winter, — somewhat out of humor with myself, and indisposed to be pleased with others, — when I noticed before me, on foot, a party of emigrants in a very destitute condition. One of the women -was tottering under the weight of a huge chest she carried upon her head; most of them were ragged, and all travel-stained and careworn. Bringing up the rear, with uncertain, faltering steps, somewhat behind the rest of the party, was a little girl of eight years, bon- netless, bare-footed and bare-legged, her scanty frock barely reaching to her little, purpled knees ; her tangled brown hair the sport of the winds. She stepped wearily, as if she had neither aim nor object in moving on ; showing neither wonder nor childish curiosity at the new sights and scenes before her. It seemed to be a matter of indifference to the rest of the party whether she kept pace with them or not. My heart ached foi her, she looked so friendless, so prematurely careworn 164 THE 8TBAT L A M H . What should be her future fate in this great city of snares and temptations ? Who should take her by the hand ? Ah, look ! the Good Shepherd watches over the stray lamb ! I hear a shriek of joy ! A well-dressed woman before me sees her ; with tho spring of an ante- lope she seizes her, presses her lips to those little chilled limbs, then holds her, at arms’ length, pushes back the hair from her forehead, strains her again to her breast, while tears of gratitude fall like rain from her eyes ; then lifts her far above her head, as if to say, “ 0 God, I thank thee ! ” What can this pantomime mean ? — for not a word have they spoken, amid all these sobs and caresses. “ What does this mean ? ” said I to a bystander. “ 0 and it ’s a child come over from the old counthry, ma’am, to find her mother ; and sure, she ’s just met her in the street, and the hearts of ’em are most breaking with the joy, you see.” “ God be thanked! ” said 1, as I wept too ; “ the dove has found the ark, the lamb its fold. Let the chill wind blow, she will heed it not ! The little, weary nead shall be pillowed, sweetly, to-night, on that loving breast : the chilled limbs be warmed and clothed ; the desolate little heart shall beat quick with love and hope.” And there I left them, — still caressing, still weeping, — unconscious of the crowd that had gathered about them, forgetting the weary years of the past fHE STRAY TiAMB. 165 pressing a life-time of happiness into the joy of those blissful moments. “ Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I say unto you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father.’' LENA MAI; OR, DARKNESS AND LIGHT. Sdch a gloomy room as it was ! You may sometimes have seen one just like it. The walls were dingy, the windows small, the furniture scanty and shabby. In one corner was a small bed, and on it a boy of about nine years ; so pallid, so emaciated, that, as he lay there with his long lashes sweeping his pale cheeky you could scarce tell if he were living. At the foot of tho bed sat a lady, whose locks sorrow, not time, had silvered. Her hands were clasped hopelessly in her lap, and her lips moved as if in silent prayer. “ Good morning, Mrs. May,” said the doctor, as he laid aside his gold-headed cane, very pompously. “I have but a minute to spare. General Clay has another attack of the gout, and can’t get along without me. How ’s the boy ? ” and he glanced carelessly at the bed. “ He seems more than usually feeble,” said the mother, dejectedly, as the doctor examined his pulse. “ Well, all he wants is something strengthening, in the way of nourishment, to set him on his feet. Wine and LENA MAY. 167 Jellies, Mrs. May, — that ’s the thing for him^ — that will do it. Good morning, ma’am.” ‘‘ Wine and jellies ! ” said the poor widow ; and the tears started to her eyes, for she remembered sunnier days, when those now unattainable luxuries were sent away untasted from her well-furnished table, rejected by a capricious appetite ; and she rose and laid her hand lovingly on the little sufferer’s head, and prisoned the warm tears ’neath her closed eyelids. Little Charley was blind. He had never seen the face that was bending over him ; but he knew, by the tone of her voice, whether she was glad or grieving ; and there was a heart-quiver in it now, as she said, “ Dear, patient boy,” that made his little heart beat faster ; and he pressed his pale lips to her hand, as if he would convey all he felt in that kiss ; for love and sorrow had taught Charley a lesson — many of his seniors were more slow to learn — to endure silently, rather than add to the sor- row of a heart so tried and grief-stricken. And so, through those tedious days, and long, wearisome nights, the little sufferer uttered no word of complaint, though the outer and inner world was all darkness to him. Gently, noiselessly a young, fair girl glided into the room. She passed to the bedside ; then, stooping so low LENA may; or that her raven ringlets floated on the pillow, she lightl} pressed her dewy lips to the blind boy’s forehead. “ That ’s your kiss, Lena,” said he, tenderly. “ I ’m so glad you are come ! ” and he threw his wasted arms about her neck. “ Put your face down here, — close, Lena, close. The doctor has been here, and mamma thought me sleeping ; but I heard all. He said I must have wine and jellies to make me well, and dear mamma so poor, too ! 0, you should have heard her sigh so heavily ! And, Lena, though I cannot see, I was sure her eyes were brimming, for her voice had tears in it. Now, Lena, I want you to tell her not to grieve, because Charley is going to heaven. I dreamed about it last night, Lena. I was n’t a blind boy any longer ; and I saw such glorious things.” “ Don’t, don’t, Charley ! ” said the young girl, sobbing. “ Take your arms from my neck. You shall live. Char- ley, — you shall have everything you need. Let me go, now, there ’s a darling and she tied on her little bon- net, and passed through the dark, narrow court, and gained the street. “ Wine and jellies !” — yes, Charley must have them but how ? Her little purse was quite empty, and the doctor’s bill was a perfect night-mare to think of. 0, how many tables were loaded with the luxuries that were strength, health, life, to poor Charley ! — and she walked on despairingly. The bright blue sky seemed to mock DARKNESS AND LIGHT. 169 her ; the well-clad forms and happy faces to taunt her O, throbbed there on the wide earth one heart of pity ? Poor Lena ! — excitement lent a deeper glow to her cheek, and a brighter lustre to her eye ; and the cold wind blew her long tresses wildly about. One could scarce see a lovelier face than Lena’s then, — so full of love, so full of sorrow. At least so thought Ernest Clay ; for he stopped and looked, and passed, and looked again. It was the embod- iment of all his artist dreams. “ I must sketch it,” said he to himself. “ She is poor, — that is evident from her dress ; that she is pure and innocent, one may see in the holy expression of her face.” And low and musical was the voice which expressed his request to Lena. His tone was respectful ; but his ardent look embarrassed her, and she veiled her bright eyes with their long lashes, without replying. “ If your time is precious, you shall be well paid ; — it will not take you long. Will money be any object to you ? ” “ O, yes, yes ! ” said Lena, despair giving her courage. “ O, sir, I have a brother, sick, dying for necessaries beyond our reach ! Give me some wine to keep him from sinking — now, if you please, sir . ” — and she blushed at her own earnestness, — “ then I will come to you to-morrow My name is Lena May.” no GENA may: or, “ Dear, dear mother ! — wine for Charley, and more when this is gone.” “ Lena ! ” said her mother, alarmed at her wild, excited manner. • “ An artist, mother, gave me this, if I would let him make a sketch of me. Dear Charley ! ” — and she held the tempting luxury to his fever-parched lip, — “ drink, Charley. Now you ’ll be strong and well, and all for this foolish face and she laughed hysterically ; then her hands fell at her side, her head drooped ; the excite- ment was too much for her, — she had fainted. “ There, that will do ; thank you. Now turn your head a trifle to the left, so and the young artist’s eye brightened as his hand moved over the canvas. In truth it were hard to find a lovelier model. That full, dark eye and Grecian profile ; that wealth of raven hair, those dimpled shoulders. Yes, Lena was the realization of all his artist dreams ; — and then, she was so pure, so inno- cent. Practised fiatterer as he was, professionally, praise seemed out of place now, — it died upon his lip. He had transferred many a lovely face to canvas, but never one so holy in its expression. And little Charley, day by day, grew stronger ; and rare fiowers lay upon his bed ; and he inhaled their fra- DARKNESS AND LIGHT. 171 granoe, and passed his slender fingers over them caress- ingly, as if their beauty could be conveyed by the touch. And then he would listen for Lena’s light footstep, and ask her, on her return, a thousand questions about the picture, and sigh as he said, “ I can never know, dear sister, if it is like you and then he would say, “ You will not love this artist better than me, Lena?” and then Lena would blush, and say, “No you foolish boy ! ” “ Well, Lena,” said Ernest, “ your picture will be finished to-day. I suppose you are quite glad it is over with ? ” “ Charley misses me so much ! ” was love’s quick evasion. “There are still many comforts you would get for Charley, were you able, Lena ? ” “ O, yes, yes ! ” said the young girl, eagerly. “ And your mother, she is too delicate to toil so unre fittingly ? ” “ Tes,” said Lena, dejectedly. “ Dear, good, lovely Lena ! they shall both have such a happy home, only say you will be mine.” Dear reader, you should have peeped into that artist’s home. You should have seen the proud, happy husband. ^Tou should have seen with what a sweet grace the little i72 LENA M A t . child- wife performed her dutj as its mistress. You should have seen Charley with his birds and his flowers, and heard his merry laugh, as he said to his mother, that “ if he was blind, he always saw that Ernest would steal away our Lena.” THOUGHTS BORN OF A CARESS “ O, WHAT a nice place to cry ! ” said a laughing little girl, as she nestled her head lovingly on her mother’s breast. The words were spoken playfully, and the little fairy was all unconscious how much meaning lay hid in them ; but they brought the tears to my eyes, for I looked for- ward to the time when care and trial should throw their shadows over that laughing face, — when adversity should overpower, — when summer friends should fall off like autumn leaves before the rough blast of misfortune, — when the faithful breast she leaned upon should be no longer warm with love and life, — when, in all the wide earth, there should be for that little one no nice place to cry.” God shield the motherless ! A father may be left, — kind, affectionate, considerate, perhaps, — but a man’s affections form but a small fraction of his existence. His thoughts are far away, even while his child clambers on his knee. The distant ship with its rich freight, the state of the money-market, the fluctuations of trade, the office, tlie shop, the bench ; and he answers at random the little 174 A THOUGHT BOKN OF A CARESS. lisping immortal, and gives the child a toy, and passes on. The little, sensitive heart has borne its childish griefs through the day unshared. She don’t understand the reason for anything, and nobody stops to tell her. Nurse “ don’t know,” the cook is “ busy,” and so she wanders restlessly about, thi*ough poor mamma’s empty room. Something is wanting. Ah, there is no “ nice place to cry ! ” Childhood passes ; blooming maidenhood comes on ; lovers woo ; the mother’s quick instinct, timely word of caution, and omnipresent watchfulness, are not there. She gives her heart, with ail its yearning sympathies, into unworthy keeping. A fleeting honey-moon, then the dawning of a long day of misery ; wearisome days of sickness ; the feeble moan of the first-born ; no moth- er’s arm in which to place, with girlish pride, the little wailing stranger ; lover and friend afar ; no “ nice place to cry ! ” Thank Gr 1 ! — not unheard by Him, who “ wipeth all tears away,” goeth up that troubled heart-plaiut from the despairing lips of the motherless ! A CHAPTER ON LITERARY WOMEN. Well, Colonel, what engrosses your thoughts m entirely this morning ? The last new fashion for vests, the price of Macassar oil, or the misfit of your last pair of primrose kids ? Make a ‘ clean breast ’ of it.’' “ Come, Minnie, don’t be satirical. I ’ve a perfect horror of satirical women. There ’s no such thing as repose in their presence. One needs to be always on the defensive, armed at all points ; and then, like as not, some arrow will pierce the joints of his armor. Be amiable, Minnie, and listen to me. I want a wife.” “You! a man of your resources! Clubs, cigars, fast horses, operas, concerts, theatres, billiard-rooms ! Can’t account for it,” said the merciless Minnie. “Had a premonitory symptom of a crow’s foot, or a gray hair i Has old Time begun to step on your bachelor toes ? ” and she levelled her eye-glass at his fine figure. The Colonel took up a book, with a very injured air, as much as to say, — Have it out, fair lady, and when you get oft' your stilts, I ’ll talk reason to you. But Minnie had no idea of getting off her stilts ; so sh« 176 A CHAPTER ON J\TERAIIY WOMEN. proceeded, — “Want a wife, do you? 1 don’t see but your buttons, and stridgs, and straps, are all tip-top. Four laundress attends to your wardrobe, your hotel de maitre to your appetite, you ’ve nice snug quarters at the House, plenty of ‘ fine fellows ’ to drop in upon you, and what in the name of the gods do you want of a ‘ wife ? ’ And if it is a necessity that is not postponable, what description of apron-string does your High Mighti- ness desire ? I Ve an idea you ’ve only to name the thing, and there ’d be a perfect crowd of applicants for the situation. Come, bestir yourself, Sir Oracle, open your mouth, and trot out your ideal.” “Well, then, negatively, I don’t want a literary woman. I should desire my wife’s thoughts and feelings to centre in me, — to be content in the little kingdom where I reign supreme, — to have the capacity to appre- ciate me, but not brilliancy enough to outshine me, or to attract ‘ outsiders.’ ” “I like that, because ’tis so unselfish,” said Minnie, with mock humility. “Go on.” “You see, Minnie, these literary women live on public admiration, — glory in seeing themselves in print. Just fancy my wife’s heart turned inside-out to thousands of eyes beside mine, for dissection. Fancy her quickening ten thousand strange pulses with ‘ thoughts that breathe and words that burn.’ Fancy me walking meekly by her aide, known only as Mr. Somebody, that the talented Misi? A CHAPTER ON LITERARY WOMEN. 17 ” condescended to marry. Horrible ! Minnie, i tell you, literary women are a sort of nondescript mon- sters ; nothing feminine about them. They are as ambi tious as Lucifer ; else, why do they write ? ” “Because they can’t help it,” said Minnie, with a flashing eye. “ Why does a bird carol ? There is that in such a soul that will not be pent up, — that must find voice and expression ; a heaven -kindled spark, that is unquenchable ; an earnest, soaring spirit, whose wings cannot be earth-clipped. These very qualities fit it to appreciate, with a zest none else may know, the strong, deep love of a kindred human heart. Beverence, respect, indeed, such a soul claims and exacts ; but think you it will be satisfied with that ? No ! It craves the very treasure you would wrest from it. Love ! That there are vain and ambitious female writers, is true ; but pass no sweeping condemnation; there are literary womer who have none the less deserved the holy names of wii 3 and mother, because God has granted to them the power of expressing the same tide of emotions that sweep, per chance, over the soul of another, whose lips have never been touched ‘with a coal from the altar.’ ” “ Gt)od morning, Colonel,” said Minnie ; “ how did you like the lady to whom I introduced you last evening ? ” “ Like her ? I don’t like her at all, — [ love her H* le 178 A CHAPTER ON LITERARY WOMEN. She took me by storm ! Minnie, that woman must be Mrs. Col. Van Zandt. She^s my ideal of a wife em- bodied.” “ I thought she ’d suit you,” said Minnie, not trusting herself to look up. “She’s very attractive* but t/e you sure you can secure her ? ” “Well, I flatter myself,” said the Colonel, glancing at an opposite mirror, “ I shall, at least, ‘ die making an effort,’ before I take No for an answer. Charming woman ! feminine from her shoe-lacings to the tips of her eyebrows; no blue-stockings peeping from under the graceful folds of her silken robe. What a charmed life a man might lead with her ! Her fingers never dabbleo with ink, thank Heaven! She must be Mrs. Col. Van Zandt, Minnie ! ” She was “Mrs. Col. Van Zandt.” A week after their marriage, Minnie came in, looking uncommonly wicked and mistnievous. “ What a turtle-dove scene ! ’ ’ said she, as she sk od at the door. “ Do you know I never peep into Parauise, that I don’t feel a Luciferish desire to raise a mutiny among the celestials ? And apropos of that, you recollect ‘ Abelard,’ Colon^^-l ; and the beautiful ‘ Zeluka,’ by the same anonymox:^ ^rv^riter ; and those little essays by the same hand, that you hoarded up so long? Well, I’ve discovered the author, — after a persevering investigation among the knowing ones, — the anonymous author, with the signature of ‘ Heloise. You A CnAPlJfiK ON LITER Ally WOMEN. 179 have your matrimonial arm around her this minute ! May 1 be kissed if you haven’t! ” and she threw herself on the sofa in a paroxysm of mirth. “ 0, Colonel ! ‘ marry a woman who has just sense enough to appreciate you, and not brilliancy enough to attract outsiders ! Fancy my wife quickening ten thousand strange pulses with thoughts that breathe, and words that burn 1 Fancy me walking meekly by her side, known only as the Mr. Somebody the talented Miss condescended to marry ’ ! I declare, I ’m sorry for you, Colonel ; you have my everlasting sympathy ; you look already like a a man ‘ iransported for life ! ’ ” “Jjaughaway, Minnie! You might have played me a woMe trick, — for instance, had you married me your- self! ‘ Heloise ’ or Amy, ’tis all one to me, so long as I can call her wife. I ’m quite happy enough to be wilhng you should enjoy your triumph ; and quite will- ing to subscribe, on my knees, to your creed, that a woman may be literary, and yet feminine an^ lovable ; content to find her greatest happiness in thi diarmed circle of Home.” HE WHO HAS MOST OF HEART. “ He who has most of heart knows most of sorrow.’* Yes, yes, — they are a fair target for the envious che malicious, the selfish, and the crafty. God pity them, when the wide world is before them ; — when every rough breath of unkindness sends a chill like death to the trusting heart ; — when the coarse sneer, and brutal jest, fall with a crucifying sharpness on the sensitive ear , — when private griefs and sorrows, borne with all their crushing weight unshared, too sacred to be trusted to ears that may prove treacherous, are rudely probed, and laid bare to careless eyes, by hands and tongues that should say, “ Lean on me, I will shelter you.” Yes, yes, — most of heart, most of sorrow ! Treachery repaid for trust, — once, twice, thrice, — the heart still throwing out its tendrils to clasp again but a crumbling ruin . Leaves — buds — fiowers — stem, all trampled un- der the ruthless foot. The same blue, mocking sky over- head ; the same heavy thunder-cloud ever looming up in the distance. The little bark, feebly piloted, dashing on imid the billows, amid rocks, and shoals, and quicksands HE WHO HAS MOST OF HEART. l?St no strong arm to help ; no friendly voice to say, ‘‘ God speed you ! ” no hope on earth ; no haven of rest ; no olive branch for the weary dove. The waters never assuaged ; the bow of peace never in the heavens. The feeble, fluttering wing beaten earthward when it would soar. 0, surely, “ he who has most of heart knows most of sorrow ! ” DARK DAYS. “Dying! How can you ever struggle througn the world alone ? Who will care for you, J anie, when I am dead?” “ Have you rooms to let ? said a lady in sable to a hard-featured person. “ Rooms ? Why — yes — we have rooms ; ” surveying Mrs. Grey very deliberately. “ You are a widow, I sup- pose ? Thought so by the length of your veil. Been in the city long ? How long has your husband been dead ? What was the matter of him ? Take in sewing or any- thing ? Got any reference ? How old is that child of yours ? ” “I hardly think the situation will suit,” said Mrs* Grey, faintly, as she rose to go. “Don’t cry, mamma,” said Charley, as they gained the street. “ Won’t God take care of us ? ” “ Put another stick of wood on the fire, Charley ; my fingers are quite benumbed, and I ’ve a long while to work yet.” DARK DAYS. 183 “ There ’s not even a chip left, said the boy, mourn- fully, rubbing his little purple hands. “It seems as though I should never groTv a big man, so that I could help you ! ” “ Hist ! there ’s a rap.” “ Work done ? ” said a rough Yoice ; “ cause, if you ain’t up to the mark, you can’t have any more. ‘ No fire, and cold fingers.' Same old story. Business is business ; I ’ve no time to talk about your affairs. Women never can look at a thing in a com- mercial p’int of view. What I want to know is in a nut- shell. Is them shirts done or not, young woman ? ” “ Indeed, there is only one finished, though I have done my best,” said Mrs. Grey. “Well, hand it along; you won’t get any more; and sit up to-night and finish the rest, d’ ye hear ? ” “ Have you vests that you wish embroidered, sir ? ” “Y-e-s,” said the gentleman (?) addressed, casting a look of admiration at Mrs. Grey. — “ Here, J ames, run out with this money to the bank. — Wish it for yourself madam ? ” said he blandly. “ Possible ? Pity to spoil those blue eyes over such drudgery.” A moment, and he was alone. 84 DARK DAYS “ He ’s a very sick child,” said the doctor, “ and .here ’s very little chance for him to get well here ; ” drawing his furred coat to his ears, as the wind whistled through the cracks. “ Have you no friends in the city where he could be better provided for ? ” Mrs. Grey shook her head mournfully. “Well, I’ll send him some medicine to-night, and to- morrow we will see what can be done for him.” “To-morrow!” All the long night the storm raged fearfully. The driving sleet sifted in through the loose windows, that rattled, and trembled, and shook. Mrs. Grey hushed her breath, as she watched the little, waxen face, and saw that look creep over it that comes but once. The sands of life were fast ebbing. The little taper flickered and flashed — and then — went out for- ever ! It was in the “ poor man’s lot ” that Harry Grey’s pet /)oy was buried. There were no carriages, no mourners, no hearse. Mrs. Grey shuddered, as the wagon jolted over the rough stones to the old burying-place. She uttered a faint scream, as the sexton hit the coffin against the wagon in lifting it out. Again and again she stayed his hand, when he would have fastened down the lid ; she heard with fearful distinctness the first heavy clod that fell upon her boy’s breast ; she looked on with a dreadful fiKcination, while he filled up the grave; she saw the last DARK DAYS. shovelflil of earth stamped down over him, and when the sexton touched her arm, and pointed to the wagon she followed him mechanically, and made no objection, when he said “he guessed he ’d drive a little faster, now that the lad was out.” He looked at her once or twice, and thought it very odd that she did n’t cry ; but he didn’t profess to understand women folks. So, when it was quite dusk, they came back again to the old wooden house ; and there he left her, with the still night and her crushing sorrow. “ Who will care for you, J anie, when I am dead ? ” NIGHT. Night ! The pulse of the great city lies still. The echo of hurrying feet has long since died away. The maiden dreams of her lover ; the wife, of her absent husband ; the sick, of health ; the captive, of freedom. Softly falls the moonlight on those quiet dwellings ; yet under those roofs are hearts that are throbbing and breaking with misery too hopeless for tears ; forms bent before their time with crushing sorrow ; lips that never smile, save when some mocking dream comes to render the morrow’s waking tenfold more bitter. There, on a mother’s faithful breast, calm and beautiful, lies the holy brow of infancy. 0, could it but pass away thus, ere the bow of promise has ceased to span its future! — ere that serenest sky be darkened with lowering clouds ! — ere that loving heart shall feel the death-pang of despair ! There, too, sits Kemorse, clothed in purple and fine linen, “ the worm that never dieth ” hid in its shining folds. There, the weary watcher by the couch of pain, the dull ticking of the clock striking to the heart a name- less terror. With straining eye its hours are counted ; with nervous hand the draught that brings no healing is held to the pallid lip. NIGHT . 191 The measured tread of the watchman as he passes his round, the distant rumble of the coach, perchance the disjointed fragment of a song from bacchanalian lips, alone breaks the solemn stillness. At such an hour, serious thoughts, like unbidden guests, rush in. Life appears like the dream it is. Eternity, the waking ; and, involuntarily, the most careless eye looks up appealingly to Him by whom the hairs of our heads are all numbered. Blessed night ! Wrap thy dark mantle round these weary earth-pilgrims! Over them all the “Eye that never slumbereth ” keepeth its tireless watch. Never a fluttering sigh escapes a human breast unheard by that pitying ear. Never an unspoken prayer for help, that finds not its pitying response in the bosom of Infinite mercy. CHILDREN’S RIGHTS. Men’s rights ! Women’s rights ! I throw down the gauntlet for children’s rights ! Yes, little pets, Fanny Fern ’s about “takin’ notes,” and she ’ll “print ’em,” too, if you don’t get your dues. She has seen you seated by a pleasant window, in a railroad car, with your bright eyes dancing with delight, at the prospect of all the pretty things you were going to see, forcibly ejected by some overgrown Napoleon, who fancied your place, and thought, in his wisdom, that children had no taste for anything but sugar-candy. Fanny Fern knew better She knew that the pretty trees and flowers, and bright blue sky, gave your little souls a thrill of delight, though you could not tell why; and she knew that great big man’s soul was a great deal smaller than yours, to sit there and read a stupid political paper, when such a glowing land- scape was before him, that he might have feasted his eyes upon. And she longed to wipe away the big tear that you did n’t dare to let fall ; and she understood how a httle girl or boy, that did n’t get a ride every day in the year, should not be quite able to swallow that great big lump in the throat, as he or she sat jammed down in a children’s rights. m dark, crowded corner of the car, instead of sitting by that pleasant window. Yes ; and Fanny has seen you sometimes, when you ’ve been muffled up to the tip of your little nose in woollen wrappers, in a close, crowded church, nodding your little drowsy heads, and keeping time to the sixth-lie and sev- enth-lie of some pompous theologian, whose preaching would have been high Dutch to you, had you been wide awake. And she has seen you sitting, like little automatons, in a badly-ventilated school-room, with your nervous little toes at just such an angle, for hours ; under the tuition of a Miss Nancy Nipper, who did n’t care a rush-light whether your spine was as crooked as the letter S or not, if the Great Mogul Committee, who marched in once a month to make the “ grand tour,” voted her a “ model school-marm.” Yes, and that ain’t all. She has seen you sent off to bed, just at the witching hour of candle-light, when some entertaining guest was in the middle of a delightful story, that you, poor, miserable “ little pitcher,” was doomed never to hear the end of! Yes, and she has seen “the line and plummet” laid to you so rigidly, that you were driven to deceit and evasion ; and then seen you punished for the very sin your tormentors helped you to commit. And she has seen your ears boxed just as hard for tearing a hole in your best pinafore, or breaking a 190 children’s rights. China cup, as for telling as big a lie as Ananias and Sapphira did. And when, by patient labor, you had reared an edifice of tiny blocks, — fairer in its architectural proportions, to your infantile eye, than any palace in ancient Rome, — she has seen it ruthlessly kicked into a shattered ruin, by somebody in the house, whose dinner hadn’t digested ! Never mind. I wish I was mother to the whole of you ! Such glorious times as we ’d have ! Reading pretty books, that had no big words in ’em ; going to school where you could sneeze without getting a rap on the head for not asking leave first ; and going to church on the quiet, blessed Sabbath, where the min- ister — like our dear Saviour — sometimes remembered to “ take little children in his arms, and bless them.” Then, if you asked me a question, I wouldn’t pre- tend not to hear ; or lazily tell you I “ did n’t know,” or turn you off with some fabulous evasion, for your memory to chew for a cud till you were old enough to see how you had b^en fooled. And T ’d never wear such a fashionable gown that you could n’t climb on my lap whenever the fit took you ; or refuse to kiss you, for fear you ’d ruffle my curls, or my collar, or my temper, — not a bit of it; and then you should pay me with your merry laugh, and your little confiding hand slid ever trustingly in mine. children’s rights. 0, I tell you, my little pets, Fanny is sick of din, and strife, and en\'y, and uncharitableness ! — and she ’d rather, by ten thousand, live in a little world fiill of fresh, guileless, loving little children, than in this great museum fiill of such dry, dustv. withered hearts. SORROW S TEACHINGS. ‘‘ How is it,” said I, despondingly, to Aunt Milly that you, who have been steeped to the lips in trouble C5an be so cheerfld ? ” Listen to me, Ellen. You know my first great sor- row, — the loss of my husband. When the grave closed over him, the star of hope faded from my sky. I could see no mercy in the Hand that dealt that blow. The green earth became one wide sepulchre ; the sweet min- istrations of nature had no healing power. In my selfish despair, I would have shrouded the blue heavens in sable, and thrown a pall of gloom over every happy heart. Months passed by slowly, wearily, and I found no allevi- ation of my sorrow ; no tears came to ease that dull, dead pain that seemed crushing the life from out my heart ; no star of Bethlehem shone through the dark cloud over my head. “ I was sitting one afternoon, as usual, motionless and speechless. It was dark and gloomy without, as my soul within. The driving sleet beat heavily against the win* dows. Twilight had set in. My little Charley had patiently tried for hours to amuse himself with his toys SORBOW’S TEACHINGS m now and then glancing sadly at my mournfiil face. But the oppressive gloom was becoming unendurable to the child. At length, creeping slowly to my side, and lean- ing heavily against my shoulder, he said, in a half sob, ‘ Does God love to see you look so, mamma ? ’ “ ‘ No, no, Charley ! ’ said I, as I clasped him to my heart with repentant tears. ‘ No, no ! — I ’li cloud vour inny face no longer.’ “ Alas ! dear Ellen, I but turned from one idol to another ; — I gave God the se cond place, and lived only for my boy ; and so my wayvard heart needed another lesson. The grave took in my last earthly treasure. But when the Smiter had done his work, those little lies, though silent, still said to me, ‘ God loveth the cheerful giver and so, smiling through my tears, I learned to say, ‘ Thy will be done.’ Dear Ellen, if the good Father takes away wkh one hand, he gives with the other. There is always some blessing left. , ‘ Ilka blade of p*ras^ keeps its ain drap o’ dew ! ’ ” INFIDEL MOTHER. Caj^ it be ? Can you look into the depths of thost clear blue eyes, that seek yours in such confiding, innocent trust, — can you deck those dimpled limbs, so “ fearfully and wonderfully made,” — can you watch with him the first faint streak of light, that ushers in another happy day, — can you point him to the gold and purple sunset glory, — can you look upward with him to the shining host, or place in his eager hand the field flowers which bend their dewy eyes with grateful thanks, and never name “ Our Father ? ” When, at dead of night, you watch beside his sick couch ; when you hush your very breath, to listen to his pained moan ; when every gust of wind makes your cheek grow pile ; when you turn with trembling hand the healing drops , v^hen every tick of the clock seems heating against your heart ; when the little, pallid face looks beseechingly into yours, for the “ help ” you cannot give ; O, where can you turn the suppliant eye, if yov see not the “ Great Physician ? ” When health slowly returns ; when the eye brightens ‘ind the red blood colors cheek and lip ; when the vaiam ** A I N F 1 I> E 1 MOTHER.” xUb :ihair is again filled ; when the little feet are again busy ; when lovinpf arms in playful glee twine again around your neck ; — comes there from that mother’s heart of thine no burst of grateful thanks to Him who notes ever the sparrow’s fall ? Suppose death come, ’k ou fold away the little, use- less robes ; you turn with a filling eye from toys and books, and paths those little feet have trod ; you feel ever the shadowy clasp of a little hand in yours ; you turn heart-sick from happy mothers, who number no missing iamb from their flock. A sunny ringlet, a rosy cheek, or a piping voice, gives your heart a death-pano* You walk the busy street, and turn your head volun- tarily when a little, strange voice calls “ Mother ! ” 0, where can you go for comfort then, if you believe not that the “ good Shepherd ” folds your lamb to his loving breast ? There is perfidy at your household hearth. There are broken vows, which you may not breathe to human ear. There is treachery repaid for trust ! Childhood looks on with a sad wonder ; you must “ go backward and cast the mantle ” of evasion over the moral deformity. Whence shall strength come to your slender shoulders, to bear tills heavy cross ? How silence the ready tempter’s i^)t) "‘AN INJFIl^EL MOTHEK.” voice ? Where shall all those warm affections now be garnered up, if not in heaven ? 0, you have no anchor, no rudder or compass ! — your little bark is adrift, at the mercy of every pitiless gale — the sea is dark and fearful, the billows mountain high the sky blaek with darkness, if you turn from the Great Pilot ' LITTLE CHARLIE, THE CHILD ANGEL. I AM one of that persecuted class, denominated old maids. By going quietly about the world, taking care not to jostle my neighbors, or hit against any of their rough angles, I manage to be cheerful, contented and happy. In my multitudinous migrations, I have had some opportunity to study human nature. Lately, I have become a temporary inmate of a crowded boarding- house. My little room has already begun to look home- like. The cheerful sun has expanded the fragrant flowers I love so well to nurture ; my canary trills his satisfaction in a gayer song than ever ; and my pictures, books, and guitar, drive “ dull care away,” and beguile many a pleasant hour. And now my heart has found a new object of interest. I Ve noticed on the staircase, and in the hall and lobby, a lovely child, who seemed wandering about at his o\\n sweet will ; sometimes sitting wearily on the stairs, almost asleep ; then loitering at the kitchen door, watching the operations of the cook ; then peeping into the half-open doors of the difi'erent apartments. As, by a rule of the hou-se, “ no children were permitted at £*98 LITTLE CHARLI®, .fible,” it was some time before T could a^ertain who claimed this little stray waif. One morning, attracted by the carol of my canary, he ventured to put his little, curly head inside my door. He needed little urging to enter, for he read, with a child s quick instinct, his welcome in my face. An animated conversation soon ensued about birds, flowers and pic- tures, — his large, blue eyes growing bright, and his cheek flushing with pleasure, as story followed story, while he sat upon my knee. At length I said to him, “ Charlie, won’t mamma be anxious about you, if you stay so long ? ” “ 0, no,” said he, “ Lizzie don’t care.” “ Who ’s Lizzie ? ” “ Why, my mamma ! She don’t care, if T ’m only out of the way. Lizzie made me this pretty dress,” said he, holding up his richly-embroidered frock ; “ but Lizzie don’t know any stories, and she says I ’m a bore. What is a ‘bore?’” said the sweet child, as he looked trustingly in my face. “ Never mind, now,” said I, tearfully ; “ you may stay with me whenever you like, and we will be very good friends.” The dinner-bell sounding, a gayly-dressea young thing vociferated, in a voice anything but musical, “ Charlie, Charlie ! ” When I apologized for keeping him, she «‘