Leah's confessions
page: (TitlePage) [View Page (TitlePage) ] CONFESSIONS. AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. "Who never loved, ne'er suffered ; he feels nothing Who nothing feels but for himself alone And when we feel for others, reason reels O'erloaded from her path an ra man runs made Y BSoS A. ROtMA AND - COMPANY, BOOKSELLERS, PUBLISHERS AND IMPORTER8: 1867. page: 0[View Page 0] Entered according to Act of Congress. in the Year of our Lord. 1867, BY A. RBOMA & CO;. In the Clerk's Offce of the District Court for the District of California TOWNE AND BACON, PBINTERA SIEREOTYED AT THE CAIIFOPRNIA TYE rOTNDRY. "EAH'S CONFESSIONS. CHAPTER -I. There was snow rn the ground, which a rude north wind had caught up fiercely and tossed about in the moonlight, leaving the earth ex- posed in dark grey patches devoid of herbage. Icicles clung to the housetops, and nooks and by places -ere water had settled, reflected on earth the glory of a wintry heaven. Away from the distance came the music of the chimes, announ- cing the anniversary of the Advent. It mingled with the whistle of the wind as it swept round the corner, and the wayfarer drew closely his garments about him, and hastened his footsteps to join in festivity. In the halls of the rich there was music and dancing; around humble hearths there glowed ruddy fire- lights, and family groups were gath- ered together to give utterance to mirth befitting the season. Yet there were some homes for- getful of Christmas. It is forty years since; still well I remember a weather beaten house which stood back'from the street, and was part- ly hidden by poplars. The gate was torn away, and the door creaked aloud on its hinges. A fire burned low on the hearth in the kitchen, and a man sat before it asleep or in reverie, for he paid no heed to the little child who played beside him. In the chamber of my memory the scene lives as a picture; and yet, in the grey-haired woman who pens these pages, I can hardly identify the lonely child, standing so clearly out in the fore-ground. I touched my father; he did not speak to me, and I moved softly to the window, to 'seek amusement from the view without. I crept beneath the curtain. There were few passers in the street, and I scraped 1away the frost that had gathered upon the window-panes till I grew weary, played with the little heap of snow that had drifted in at the casement, and which the warmth of the room was slowly page: 4-5[View Page 4-5] dissolving, then moved on, softly still, to a room on the opposite side of the entry. It was long and low, with a narrow beam crossing the ceiling in the centre. There were blue Dutch pictured tiles around the fire-place, illustrating incidents in the history of Moses, but then I paid no heed to them. Candles were burning upon the mantle, casting fitful shadows. Tall straight- backed chairs stood stiffly around the room, and so gaunt and grim looked all the furniture, that the coffin which occupied the middle of the apartment seemed almost a part of it. But my mother was sleeping therethen. I onlywantedtowaken her, and moved towards it. Her face was thin and worn. There were silver hairs among the dark brown locks of youth. I had nev- er seen her sleep so sweetly, and, almost sorry to disturb her, laid my hand upon her cheek It was cold, and I looked about for some- thing to cover her. There was no fire in the room. I felt chilled myself, and wondered why they had left her there, with only a sheet for a covering. I stood a little longer; it puzzled me now that she did not waken; the long still sleep and the shadows about the room began to frighten me, and I took the stool upon which I had been standing and re- turned to the room where my fa- ther was sitting. He saw me then, and drew me towards him. He scanned my face, then told me it was bed time and sighed so heavily that I looked wistfully at him, but he did not speak to me, and I turned to do his bidding. At the landing upon the stairs I stopped, and looked into the room where for so many months -my mother had lived an invalid. There was no light but that of the moon which streamed in fully upon the bed with its snowy covering. My own little candle was dimmed by its bright- ness, and the glittering whiteness of everything around seemed to make me shudder, and passing hastily on, I stopped at the room of Dorcas; our only domestic, and asked her to come and undress me. How brightly the moonlight lay upon the frost-work M .th which the window was so thickly cur- tained. I could scarcely look be- yond it, but tried to do so, and distinctly then I heard the chime bells. I looked at Dorcas, her eyes were red with weeping. "Is it Christmas to-morrow?" I asked. "Yes, it's Christmas;" but she said no more, undressing me more tenderly than I had ever known her to do before, and then turned in silence to leave me. "O! don't go yet, please don't you go," said I, half starting from the bed. "I am afraid to be alone to-night." "It's cold, child, but lie down and I will stay awhile." "Won't you sing to me, Dorcas, just as mother did? She's asleep and I can't wake Jer. What have they taken her down stairs for? It's very dismal, and her own room is full of moonlight. "Go to sleep--there's a good child," said Dorcas, and turning my face to the wall, she drew the clothes around me, and with the lulling of the Christmas bells, I fell asleep. I dreamed that night, for clearly then I saw my mother bend above me. Her seeming presence must have soothed me, for I awoke so -brightly and listened with such pleasure to the Christmas morning bells. The sun was high when Dorcas dressed me, and I told her my dream, I believed a reality. "Mamma is well now, Dorcas, you know, she has left that gloomy parlor, for she came up stairs last night, and kissed me, and it's very long since she was well enough to come to me before." "Your mother is dead, my poor little Leah,"replied Dorcas. "She will never come to your bed any more; they are: going to put her into the ground to-day." "But you don't know, Dorcas. I shall just go down and see. You only want to frighten me, while mamma bade me be happy this beautiful Christmas," and I ran down stairs. Alas! alas! she laid there still A strange man was arranging the coffin. I ran away and cried till Dorcas found me, and by and by they dressed me for the funeral. My black robe contrasted strange- ly with the snowy dress of winter, but no more strangely than the merry joy of happy childhood con- trasted with the heavy heart that had become my portion. I stood in the dreary graveyard and saw the Coffin placed beneath the ground. ; I should have screamed, for I could not understand the scene before me, but my father checked me. The minister "said my mother had gone to Heaven. I looked above; there was only the clearblue wintry sky-while they lowered' the coffn, where I watched them' heap the mould above' it-and crying, clung to my father, begging him to take my mother away from the cruel men, and bring her home again. My grief was turbulent; almost by force they drew me from the graveyard, and when we reached home, I threw myself in Dorcas' arms and refused to be comforted. That night the moon was lying behind snow clouds. There was a fierce strong wind whistlingdis- mally among the poplars, and as I closed my eyes the scenes of the day rose again before me, but hi- ding my face in the bed-clothes, I must have fallen quickly asleep, for again I seemed to hear the music of the chimes, but faintly, as if from the distance. My little room grew luminous, but not with moonlight, and a brilliant vapor floated about me, disclosing to my gaze the beautiful face of my moth- er, who smiled serenely bidding me calmly slumber, for she would linger near me. And then I must have fallen very sound asleep, for I heard and saw no more until the morning, when I awoke and found myself alone in the chilly chamber, with the snow piled up against the casement But the sorrows of childhood are fortunately transient, and as page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] the days wore on, my grief was left in the distance, and by the time our neighbors had ceased to pet me, load me with sweetmeats, and call me an orphan, I had grown somewhat used to my moth- erless portion. The spring came again, the grass was green in "Copp's Hill" burying groomL& I walked there with my father. We stood before my mother's monument. I read aloud its inscription. "Sacred to the memory of Leah More, who died in Boston, Dec. 24th, 18-." I read it again. My mother was still there then; if she had gone to Heaven, why did she need that white house over her? But my father had grown weary of my questions, and paid no heed to them. That night, with my evening prayers, I asked of God to take nmy dear mother out of the ground, and bring her home to me, and then again in a dream she stood before me. But the weeks rolled on. In hope for the future my attention was now to be altogether dierted from the memories of the past. "A new mother is coming, child," said Dorcas, one morning, as she combed from my face the elfish locks that hung about it. "You're to lay off your old black frocks, and have some new ones now, and if you'll be a little lady you shall go to the wedding before very long." I did not know what a wedding was, but I danced for joy. In the new mother I hoped to find the old made new, with roses on her cheeks and the worn, sad look gone out of the eyes. I ran about the house thereafter as gaily, as a bird, watching the changes that were being made in the homestead; the tearing down of the old paper-hangings and puttingup of new, and admiring the freshness of the clean white paint, and the glaring colors of the new carpet. The gate was hung once more upon hinges. The lion's head knockerupon the old front door was polished to a degree I had never conceived possible, and I told old Mouser--who received with the utmost gravity my earnest communications,-I was sure it must be gold; then having satisfied myself with admiring the general renovation, went softly to my own little chamber, pinned upon the walls some bright colored engrav- ings Ifound among mypossessions, opened a small green box which contained my most cherished treas- ures, and admired anew the piece of gilt paper, a box of pebbles, and a pewter ring with its bright red stones which--as I said to Mouser-I had bought with my "ownty downty" money-the cop- pers my father gave me one morn- ing for taking O! such a bitter potion. All these I pictured to myself as bestowing upon my mother when she should take once more possession of her seat at the fire- side. The day came at length, and in the pretty white dress prepared for the occasion I went into the parlor. The company was assem- bled, and with some impatience, I waited formy father to lead in my mother. They came. She was thin and pale, almost as when they laid her in the coffin. She seemed much younger, but the gentle look she always wore was gone. There was hardness rather than sweetness upon her face, and I whispered "Dorcas, that is not my mother!"The ser- vant smiled, perceiving then what thought I gathered from the words "new mother." 'She had believed me unfeeling, to be so glad when she first told me of the new mamma, for she had been long a servant with the old, and loved her too well to wish to see her place so soon supplied. I was disappointed and felt like crying, but still when the wedding was over, I grew bold -and went up to the side of my new mamma and took hold of'her dress, to attract her notice. I hoped she would kiss me, but instead she drew herself away and looked at the spot I had touched as if it were soiled as she said, "it is time good children had gone to bed." My father, looking bright' and happy, bade me Good night." A lady, a friend of my mother's, perceived my disappointment and said she would take me up stairs, and then while I sat on her lap, I told her I never should love my new mother. "If it spoiled peo- ple so to go down to Heaven, I hoped nonb else I loved would go there too, and then come back - again." She smiled at my mistake, which Dorcas had not yet made clear to me, and then in simple words, explained her own belief of our hereafter. CHAPTER :IL I shall pass quickly over the days of my childhood. They gave me little pleasure. My stepmother added no joy to the household, for her nature was harsh and unsympathetic, and gladly enough I escaped from our cheerless home to the busy school- room, and as the years rolled on, looked to the future with dread, as I thought of the only kind of woman's life I had been used to contemplate. Day after day the same unvary- ing round of household duties attracted my attention to the un- wearying patience with which they were fulfilled by my step-mother, while at the same time I only wished far away in the distance the evil day of my own approach to such a treadmill. It was unnecessary apprehen- sion. Since then, I have prayed that my life might become mechan- ical, that my feet might patter and -my hand be moved by the same mechanism which seemed to regu- late my pale stepmother; that with the same confidence; I might receive the opinions vouchsafed me, till my own individuality even should be lost. in that of those around me. Softly the years passed by. They touched me lightly. Like a sculptor completing his work. page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] Time chiselled away much physi- cal roughness and shaped my form unto symmetry. I looked back sometimes, but rarely forward. My indefinite dread of the future grew stronger as new life was dawning upon me. I closed my books, bade farewell to my school-days, and stepped out into life, the every day life of ordinary women. ' My mother made room for me upon her treadmill, and I envied even the party of Canadian emi- grants, I remember once to have seen encamped at sunset, near a country village. They were dirty and squalid enough, and of course like myself were longing for some- thing better than their former life, or they would have permanently pitched their tents beside some running water, where their miser- able animals could have found at least a pasture. But regardless of the noon-tide heat and the dust of the road, they toiled patiently on until beneath a tree at sunset they wearily pitched their tents, and reposed in peace, until the morning sun disclosed again the figure of Hope, luring them still farther into the distance. But for me there was no hope. I had no genius. I was simply a woman, earnest enoughin purpose, comely enough in person, but wanting an occupation sufficient to prove that the years of patient toil for an education, which had at last been attained, had not been worse than useless, having simply unfitted me for a life of common household drudgery. Not being able at present to solve the problem, I laid it aside for a while, and planned a course of study. There was no stimulus for exer- tion, and no sympathy from those around me. I knew enough now; they said it was idling time away. I ought to throw aside my books and learn to be a woman. To be a woman! I had now arrived at a problem more difficult to solve than any I had found in Euclid! What is a woman? Out- side barbarians had regarded her as an animated body without a soul. But the theory to the con- trary had been accepted by civil- ized communities, although the practices of society almost justified the former opinion. But at all events her individu- ality seemed entirely ignored, as but one model was always to be held before her-the pattern housekeeper, wife and mother. A genius, perhaps, might escape, or some erratic being whose power the world could not fail to acknowl- edge. But any one less extraor- dinary must never forget that a true woman's place is only beside the fireside. The model is simple, and, ignoring the individuality of woman, easily copied. My step-mother was a Presby- terian, strictly religious. "She is a true woman, imitate her," said my father. And a true woman she was, in accordance with the model. Order was written on everything about her. The six days for labor, and the seventh for religion and rest. Each hour for its special avocation, and though determina- tion was Written upon her counte- nance, rather than contentment, I really think she knew no want, and never at least inwords repined. But she filled the position. 'Gra- ciously she endeavored to allow me to share it with her. I felt I was an interloper and (I acknowledge it) my discontent was manifest, at least in action. "If you could but experience a change of heart, Leah," said my mother. "The Rev. Mr. Stone must certainly talk with you," "It would be of no use, mother. My heart is like a mill-stone, and even the waters of baptism could. not soften it, I am afraid." "You are a foolish discontented girl, and need the grace of God. I shall take you up to be prayed for atthe Thursday night meeting." "If prayers could avail I would certainly accept them. If I could become what you call religious, I should be very glad. If I could take my knitting and sit quietly down, and listen to Mr. Stone -upon the doctrine of a vicarious atonement, election and regene- ration, with the same satisfaction that you appear to receive, it would rejoice my heart. But no, at the first point which he intended to make, I should stop him and say, ' Do you mean to tell me that the sin of disobedience was atoned for by the murder of the only Son of God? No! no! my dear mother, I have struggled, yes, fought with myself to accept your religion, but at length have said if there is such a place as Hell, not an inhabitant of Heaven- could, in the nature of things, be happy till he had sent ;V angels with cups of cold water, to minister to the suffering; and upon the wings of angels at length would they all mount to Heaven." My mother was horrified. I was certainly worse than she had sup- posed. With such free thought she could have no sympathy, and. she left me at length to my fate. I became morose and sullen, and sadly must I have tried my poor father's heart, for I know that often I became the subject of conversation between him and my mother. One day when they were less guarded than usual, I overheard my father say, "It is really a great disappointment to have had her turn out in this way-a child of whom I had hoped to be proud." "She needs occupation," said imy step-mother. "Could you not obtain the school in this dis- trict for her? Abby G-, you know, is going to be married." "I had thought of that, but then D- is an invalid, with four small children, and his daughter will apply, and I hope will get it, for I don't believe in robbing those who need to give to those who don't " "Well, never mind, husband, she is not like other girls, it is true, but she'll come round in time. It is only the matter of getting broken in. She will go well enough in harness yet, I dare say." "Harness!" thought I, but I was really ashamed of myself, and more assiduously set about attemp- ting to copy the model. tUp early the next morning, I astonished page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] my mother by asking her for the materials to copy a mourning piece like one belonging to our next door neighbor, which my father had long admired. It was to be worked in floss silk on canvass, and represented a tall, and I must confess rather stiff-looking woman, leaning upon a monument beneath a drooping willow. To the simple minds of my parents, this was a master-piece of art, and both of them watched its progress with great interest, and the style of frame it should have was often the. theme of discussion. Before its completion I be'came quite reconciled to my position, and had even planned several other elaborate pieces of embroidery, when suddenly my eyes commenced to trouble me and a darkened room and almost solitary confinement again aroused my irritation; but fortunately, just at this juncture a path opened which led me from my home and early associations, and opened before me untried scenes with promised usefulness. My father had an aunt living in the city of New York, who was supposed to be very wealthy. I had often heard him speak of her, but in such a formal manner that an invitation for me to visit her gave me great surprise. My father was pleased by an unexpected piece of kindness upon the part of a personage deemed so important by her family, and the invitation was of course accepted. Of so much consequence was this anticipated movement re- garded by my parents, that several weeks were occupied in replenish- ing my wardrobe; and so greatly was my importance increased in the neighborhood by the proposed visit not only to the far away city of New York, but to a wealthy relative, that I was almost sorry to put an end to it by naming the day for my proposed departure; but everything being at length in readiness, I bade farewell for an indefinite period to the home of my childhood; and under charge of a friend of my father, found myself at length in the presence of my aunt. The old lady was upwards of eighty, and all that age could give of deformity was impressed upon her face. Her eyes were glassy, and being nearly blind, were almost entirely devoid of expression. Her nose and chin had drawn together above her toothless mouth; the parch- ment-like skin well written in wrinkles, and the straggling gray locks which had fallen from her cap gave her a weird, and to me, almost witch-like appearance. The dignity of age, had it ever existed, was entirely passed, and simple decrepitude in its most de- plorable form was allthat remained of what I had been told was once a beautiful woman. She was supposed to be wealthy, but the room which she occupied was meagrely furnished, and her own black robe, of the coarsest material. In all her surroundings was but one redeeming quality-entire cleanliness. Her cap was of the snowiest lawn. The foldsof muslin about her withered throat could not have been purer, but the very whiteness only made the yellow face appear more dingy still, .and with a feeling, half of awe, half repugnance, I took the withered hand, and thanked her in my heart that she offered no closer salutation. She was constantly attended by a middle aged woman, a Quaker- ess, who eyed me sharply, and bade me be seated, while I an- swered-the few questions my aunt seemed pleased to put to me, and then, at the bidding of the old lady, I was shown to the room I was to occupy during my visit. It was cold and dreary. There was no carpet upon the floor and very little furniture, but the same snowy whiteness was visible in the meagre drapery of the bed and windows, as I had observed before in- my aunt's apartment. I looked from the window and found that my room was in the back of' the house, for quite a large garden lay beneath it. But it was a dreary day in November. The sky was leaden, the leaves had fallen from the trees, and lay rustling upon the ground, in the sombre hues their last to assume before they crumbled at length to their native dust. Snow would fall before long, but just now Nature seemed like the old lady below, and I gladly turned to look at some pic- tures upon the wall. Fine old por- traits they were, perhaps family likenesses. I looked again at the furniture, and thought to myself that my' father was mistaken in regard to the wealth of the old lady, and: that she was poorer than we. I had not then learned that Av- arice sometimes aped Poverty,- that it would creep into the heart and become its master; lock with its keys a mine of wealth, and make its possessor stand over it, even as a sentinel, forbidding to touch, except the smallest portion; planting in the heart which it occupied a dread of its counter- part Poverty, whose fruits were no more bitter, until in fear and trembling, the sentinel went to the grave and the possessions were scattered. "Old age and poverty," thought I, "how very terrible;" but I reso- lutely smothered the homesickness that was coming upon me, and determined to do all thatIcould, to make the life of decrepitude more endurable. Returning to my aunt, I found her quietly sleeping, and sat down besideher. Perceivingsome books, I amused myself with glancing at their contents. They were not exactly the kind of books I should have expected to find at the couch of so old a person, being neither religious works, nor those of medi- tation, but volumes of poetry and sentimental novels. lMy aunt had slumbered lightly, for the careless turning of leaves awakened her, and the sharp quick glance of the Quakeress made me conscious of the indiscretion of which I had been guilty. The old lady smiled rather pleas- antly, and commenced at once to talk in an energetic manner, really page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] surprising in one so old. Her fac- ulties, with the exception of sight, had been wonderfully preserved, and I soon found that this wreck in reality was all that remained of a once remarkable woman. In her conversation she seemed to ignore (both present and future, dwelling almost altogether in the limits of the past. As the days went by, and I be- came better acquainted with her, I found my aunt by no means an un- interesting companion, and time did not pass as wearily as I had at first anticipated. Being used to a religious atmos- phere, by early association, the entire absence of everything like a sentiment of devotion, in a person who was standing so near to the confines dividing time from eter- nity, filled me not only with won- der, but pity, and once I ventured to speak of a future existence. "Dust and ashes, nothing more, Leah," was the decided answer. "Rest, simply rest-but let us talk of something else. Do you dance?" No. " "Then you must learn," and much to my delight, but more, I am sure, to my step-mother's hor- ror, when she learned it, I was soon being initiated into the mys- teries of Terpsichore. The weeks slipped away, and as the winter passed, I became con- vinced my aunt was studying my character, for she finally announced to me that neither idle curiosity, nor a simple wish on her part for amusement had induced her to' send for me, but that my future good had been, and was now more than ever her object. She, said nothing more, and though my curiosity had been excited, I understood sufficiently the moods of my relative to press no farther, until such time as she chose herself to lift the veil of mystery. In the month of June appeared a new actor upon our little domes- tic stage. A young Dr. Herndon. He had evidently come by invita- tion, but as I had never even heard of him: I was quite surprised when I found him domiciled with us. He was a fine looking man of gentlemanly manners, but rather haughty bearing. I did not like him though' I could not tell why. In some mysterious manner, his nature at that time must have jarred against mine, for a certain suavity of speech which made him to most people exceedingly agree- able, in me aroused a spirit of distrust, over which I had but little control. But the voice of my aunt grew. almost tender as she addressed him. A half sad smile played over her face, and a dewy moisture gathered in her eyes, as she said, "You are very like your father." I fancied then some old time reminiscence had been stirred by the appearance of the young man. I little thought that a whole life of sentiment could only find an outlet now in him. "He is the son of an early love," was the explanation of the Quaker- ess. "Circumstances prevented her marriage, and thy aunt is a woman with too strong a heart to break. She could not forget, she has never ceased to endure." I must confess that after this explanation, the youngmanbecame more interesting to me, and some- times I found myself endeavoring to roll back the years that had gone, and to make young and beautiful the poor old wreck before me. But the days wore on. Not as agreeably to me, I must confess, as before this intrusion, which my aunt, I think, must have perceived, for with her accustomed kindness, she endeavored to relieve the mo- notony by suggesting first one ,pleasure, and then another, until at length I arrived at an epoch in my life, or what at the time I cer- tainly considered as worthy of the title of epoch, "My first grand ball." I have never forgotten the thrill of delight with which I received the- -announcement that I was to attend, the following week, under charge of Dr. Herndon, a festival given by some college society, of which he had been a member. My aunt's heart was warmed, I think, by my enthusiasm, for she opened her purse less reluctantly than usual, to bestow in reality a very small sum, which was to serve to purchase the one thing needful, a dress befitting the occasion. It was of plain white muslin, but the pattern being scanty and my mo- diste, the Quakeress, even I could perceive that my homely merinoes were far more becoming, and the fastidious doctor would, I am sure, most gladly have left me at home; had not fear of my aunt's displeas- ure deterred him. As it was he was very; ungracious, and during the evening avoided me as much as propriety would allow. I was somewhat .chagrined, but being dissatisfied with my own appear- ance, was quite content for awhile to remain a wall-flower, and enjoy myself, rather unnaturally, per- haps, under the circumstances, but still quite heartily, in listening to the music, and admiring the beau- tiful dresses about me. Nor were these the only sources of amuse- ment. Young Stanley, a cousin of the Doctor, did not dance, and seemedto like my quiet corner, or perhaps the freshness of my enjoy- ment amused him, for notwith- standing my homely appearance, he insisted on Herndon's dancing while he took charge of the young damsel, who like himself, seemed to prefer to be simply a looker on of pleasure. It is not, however, so very agree- able for a young lady who is fond of dancing, to become a lay figure adorning the walls, even with an elegant young man like Edward Stanley to assist in the decoration. As the evening passed, I became less amiable in my criticisms of the scene before me. Perhaps otherwise my conversation would soon have become insipid to my self-constituted protector, but I grew caustic, witty, almost wicked in my sarcasms. My eyes, I know, became brilliant, and my cheeks glowed with an unwonted bloom, the secret of which was the sting of mortification rankling in my page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] heart, as dance after dance I found myself still unrecognized as a dancer. Dr. Herndon again made his appearance, and something per- haps in my manner induced him to apologize for his neglect, and to ask me to waltz with him. I declined, and when he had again left us, I asked Mr. Stanley, were the favor not too great, if he would call a carriage and take me home. He replied that with Herihdon's leave he would do so, but that I had better remain till supper was over, which I did, when the Doc- tor himself took me in charge, and very soon after I found myself in my own little chamber, when a hearty fit of crying cooled my brain and restored my equanimity. I at once resolved to say nothing to my aunt of my mortification, knowing that she had hoped to grive me pleasure; and to meet Dr. Herndon as if nothing had hap- pened, though in my heart that night I most cordially hated him. There was something so mean in his desertion of a young girl under such circumstances, such a want of moral power, that I felt sure we should never be friends again. How little we knowwhat is really in store for us. A few days later, my aunt was closeted for some time with the Doctor, and -pon his emerging from her presence, I at once perceived that something had transpired to please him. The result had evidently been quite as agreeable to my aunt, and that in some way I had been the subject of conversation, I felt quite assured, for the Doctor's manner to me entirely changed. He became attentive, devoted almost, and agreeably surprised me with little tokens of thought- fulness and consideration, of which I had never before deemed him capable. The climax of my sur- prise was not however reached till he not only invited me to attend another party, but proposed to make amends for his previous ill manners by presenting me with a dress which he wished to purchase, and which was to be made by one of the most fashionable modistes in the city. . My pride caused me to demur at such an arrangement, till my aunt laughed at what she was pleased to term my nonsensi- cal scruples, and saying that as the Doctor evidently wished to display his good taste, it would be unkind in me to refuse. The con- sequence was that my dress, not only upon that evening, but upon the many succeeding ones of fes- tivity, for which my aunt with a generosity at the time incompre- hensible to me, gave the Doctor carte blanche, was always a success, I was never again allowed to remain a wall-flower. In the Spring, my father wrote for my return; perhaps his letter hastened the denouement, but at all events, with the ardor of the most devoted lover, Dr. Herndon offered me his hand, and shall I say it, in'spite of the opinion I had once entertained of him,with my own consent, I referred him to my aunt This last, of course, was only a form. For sometime I had felt assured in my mind that this was the future good my aunt had pur- posed for me; had I then, however, known all that I afterwards learned, I might, perhaps, have been saved much later misery. The matter was then submitted to my parents, who also deferred to the decision of my relative, but insisted before any final arrange- ment, upon my return home. I left my aunt with real regret. I did not like to think of the gap I was making in the life of one to whom the world could give so little of pleasure, and assuring her that at the earliest moment possible, I would return, accom- panied by my lover, I turned towards home. The Doctor's apparent devotion could not be surpassed. - He was an adept in the art of pleasing, and I was happy. The world then seemed so beau- tiful to me. Even the chilling March wind was softer than I had ever before felt it. There were dreary-looking cloudsfloatinghith- er and thither, but there were such bright blue patches of sky between, giving unwonted signs of future promise, and the occasional patter of the rain upon the roof of the coach-for in those days there was no railroad between New York and Boston-portended nothing of storm for me. The- way seemed neither long nor weary as' it had been when I passed it before, and I was rather sorry, I think, than glad, when my destination was finally reached. TheDoctorwascordiallyreceived by both my parents, but as they wished me to remain at home for awhile before my marriage, my lover, in a few days, returned to New York. In my private conversations with my mother upon the subject of marriage, but little was urged by her but the necessity of religious sentiment as a ground-work for happiness, and she continually ex- pressed: regret that. neither my lover nor myself had, as yet, ex- perienced religion. My father was satisfied because the young man bore the reputation of morality, and was well to do in the world; but neither of my pa- rents had the slightest misgivings, apparently, in regard to the adap- tation of the one to the other, and though at that time I was not of sufficient age to have made legally any other contract, no one seemed to doubt my ability to judge for myself in this respect; and that I was possibly making a mistake which in after years I should seri- ously regret, did not enter my mind. One evening, I asked my father regarding the early history of my aunt. She had been an only child. Early an orphan with a large for- tune, every wish had been gratified by an injudicious relative, who, through the girl's strong and affectionate nature, had exercised over her great control. Wishing her niece never to marry, partly from a selfish desire to retain her with her, and partly because she page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] felt a distrust of all who paid court to the heiress, she had im- planted in the immature mind of the girl, those germs of doubt and suspicion which in later years brought fruits of misery. Suitor after suitor was rejected, until one alone remained, and that one the father of Dr. Herndon. My aunt gave to him her heart without reserve, but she wished his love for herself alone, and she accepted him on condition that she might transfer her property at once to her relatives. Whether Mr. Herndon was really wooing her for money, or whether the distrust which this proposed ar- rangement implied, and which was the reason he gave for the with- drawal of the suit, was the cause, the result was the same, a separa- tion of the lovers and marriage of Herndon with another. From that, moment my aunt had changed. She withdrew from society, closed her doors, and commenced to devote herself to the accumulation of wealth, and her fortune was now said to be enormous. What she intended, upon her demise, to do with it was a matter of speculation. But that Dr. Herndon and myself would be handsomely provided for, my father had now no doubt. For myself, I had little desire for wealth; indeed, I was quite romantic enough to think "love in a cottage" the most desirable; but I was glad that the fastidious tastes of my lover were to be grati- fied, and was quite content My aunt became suddenly ill, and sent for my parents and my- self. We lost no time in obeying the summons, and as soon as pos- sible found ourselves, with Dr. Herndon, around her death bed. A clergyman was also present, and at my aunt's most urgent de- sire, in the presence of Death, Dr. Herndon and myself were united for life. As the ceremony ended, "it is finished," she said. "Dust to dust, and ashes to ashes." "O! no," I cried, "the future for you is as bright as for us, for see and listen, do you not hear?" and whether an intensely excited imag- ination, or reality, I heard sweet sounds,- and bending above the couch of Death, yet looking wist- fully towards me, I thought I saw again my mother. CHAPTER IL But I weary now of -my own reminisences, and would like for a while to change the current of my thought; and this I can do through the history of another, whose lines of life have crossed my own, and of whom I learned in after years. In an upper room of an old building over by the North River, lived an elderly woman and her two daughters. The mother was nearly sightless and the girls were seamstresses. The eldest was plain, with a face bearing such marks of mature thought, of strong energy, and correct judgement, one could not help feeling that the time must come when she would burst the shackles poverty had bound around her, and became more than the slave to those who dealt her out a pittance. But the younger was beautiful, and one wondered how such a flower had chanced to bloom in so dreary a spot. They are busy, both, as we first see them, the eldest with her lips pressed closely together, and the noiseless needle darting backwards and forwards. The curls of the other droop over her work, and her hand moves slowly, till with a gesture of impatience, she tosses back a golden mass of hair, which a little ray of sunlight plays upon. "Give me the scissors, Anna," says she, "my hair torments me so. It is too fine for this cold garret. Perhaps some lady may deign to wear it with her tresses." "Don't speak so loud, May, you'll waken mother. No! no!" said Anna, holding back the scis- sors "you shall not cut it. But come, do hurry, it is getting late, and this work must be finished be- fore night-fall." "I'm tired, sister, and will not sew another stitch; I had rather go both supperless and cold to bed, than feel my side ache so I cannot sleep, as it did last night. Sleep! were it not for dreams I should wish to die at once. I al- ways fancy myself rich in them, and these fine dresses we are privi- leged to look upon form but the least of all my wealth. Well there, sister," she added contritely, as Anna turned a sad reproachful glance from her mother to herself, 2 "I will help you, and perhaps we shall be able to finish this work in time to take it home before dark; the walk would do me so much good." But the mother opens her eyes. She has been sleeping in her chair by the fire, and the partly-knitted stocking lies loosely in her lap. There is vacancy in the half-sight- less eyes. The mouth is irreso- lute, and a want of strength is visi- ble in every line of the face. She does not look like a person who has ever been accustomed to labor, and we wonder as we gaze, how it has chanced we find her here. It is an old tale. One which has been told in the past, still lives in the present, and will undoubt- edly be often repeated in the fu- ture. Reckless speculation, extrava- gance and death on the part of the father, followed by destitution the only inheritance of the mother and daughters. But the oldest girl has so, much hope. ' She feels strength yet and the future wears a rosy hue, notwith- standing the doubtful look the clouds assume. And Mary is so beautiful; she has hope too, and often tells her sister, as they sit at their work, she shall never employ a sewing girl without thinking of that little garret.' But the work is ended, and Anna begs Mary to cover her curls for more than once they have drawn attention to the unprotected beauty, as she walked the crowded street, and so with their bundles they pass page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] along forgetting themselves in the the countless thousands who help to make up life. It is a lovely evening. The sun has gone down in October clouds,. and they prolong theirwalk, dread- ing a return to the little garret which twilight renders still more gloomy. A treacherous, unseasonable warmth pervades the atmosphere, and Mary throws open the shawl which her sister had pinned so carefully about her, and laughs at the prudent fears of Anna, who begs herto hasten her pace, as she is fearful that one of the te- dious attacks of illness, to which the delicate Mary had long been subject may follow this impru- dence. But the younger is wilful. "It -is glorious,!" she says, "I am in no haste to return to that dreary attic. We are are very unlike, sister. It seems to you well enough, while to me it is a purgatory of which I am only anx- ious to be rid." And then she turns another street, and another, and not until she finds that Anna is really angry, does she consent to return home. A long and tedious illness fol- lowed this exposure, opening the door for a messenger, who brought back health to the body, but left a dis ee upon the soul of the beautiful Mary. It was twilight again in the little garret. The last rays of the sun were lying on the grey hairs of the mother, whose head had. fallen for- ward, and Anna was folding her work, as she sat beside her sister. They were speaking of the physi- cian. "He is so good," said Mary.- "Goodi" replied Anna. "He is a bold bad man, his thoughts are evil." "But has he not proved him- self our friend?" "We do not want his friendship, and I shall tell him to-morrow, we have no further need of him." "! not to-morrow, Anna, don't tell him to-morrow. It is very dull here all day alone by ourselves, besides he-knows better than you, and he says I am far from well." Nor were the visits of the physi- cian discontinued; but Anna kept faithful watch, as she thought, of her sister, and feared no evil though the pale face regained its color but slowly, and the careless laugh and song were banished from the household. "She needs change, poor thing, she shall have it if possible," thought Anna. "I will wear my old straw bonnet another season and patch up the dress I was going to lay aside," and she looked anxiously at the blue-veined delicate hand at work upon the satin, as the thought passed through her mind. But the Doctor came in at the mo- ment, and Anna watched with ter- ror the light in the eyes of her -sister, and the tenderness which met her greeting. The visit was lengthened beyond the patience of Anna, and when Dr. Herndon was gone, she said to her sister, "This must be the last visit, Mary; I shall go to her office to ask for the bill to-mouow." "Is there any harm, sister, in receiving the visits of my affianced husband?" "Your affianced husband! You are being deceived, or you are simply jesting. Tell me ,darling, don't trifle with me, you are not in earnest?" "Anna Leighton, in truth and earnestness, I am the affianced wife of Dr. Herndon. When his practice is sufficient to support us properly, we shall marry; until then, I must see him as often as I wish." " The man is deceiving you, Mary, his purpose is not good. He will not marry you. Look at him. Has he the air of self sacri- fice? Does he seem one to step from his sphere into one so hum- ble as ours? You are beautiful, Mary, but beauty is often a curse, rather than a blessing; and joined with poverty, Heaven knows it cannot ask too fervently to be spared temptation. O! Mary, take back your love, do not give it him I beg. My woman's instinct tells me there is danger." "You are wrong, Anna. Dr. Herndon is true and good and no- ble. I love him. I believe in him. I know him to be capable of the sacrifice you deem so much beyond him. Why, Anna, love is equal to any sacrifice. I could beg for him, steal for him, were it necessary, and do you suppose that he cannot stoop to the sphere into which misfortune has plunged us, to elevate one whom he loves to a place beside himself. How little you know him, Anna," and bursting into tears, she left the room. "How cruel I am," thought the sister, "to wound her with my doubts. O God! I trust it is right; but we are so alone in the world. There is none to give us council, and there are times when the Fa- ther of the fatherless Himself has seemed to desert us. Could mother but council us; but she will see only visions of splendor in Mary's prospects. Go8d God! have mercy!" CHAPTER IV. The will of my aunt was opened. The whole of her property had been left to Dr. Herndon and my- self on condition we married. Otherwise, an annuity to each, and after a few legacies, the re- mainder was to be bequeathed to different charitable institutions. Of this Dr. Herndon had some time since received information, but of his knowledge I knew noth- ing, and I was too happy to even surmise that he had married a for- tune rather than myself. Our home was a palace in com- parison with anything to which I had been accustomed. His taste had gathered works of art about us, and no luxury was omitted which could add either to the ele- gance or the comfort of our estab- lishment. From the moment of our mar- riage Dr. Herndon changed to- wards me; a little colder, a little more distant, and in the midst of all my splendor, I felt myself be- ing gradually frozen. I cannot tell how wretched I page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] was; what was causing the change I did not know. At first a slight impatience in the manner of my husband towards me, then averted looks, and by- and-by such apparent distaste for my society that in my anxious efforts to please, I felt a constant' desire to obtrude myself as little as possible upon his notice; indeed my whole manner at that time, I think, must have been one of apol- ogy for being so much in his way, as I perceived I evidently was. In the first days of his coolness I attributed to myself his decline of affection, and earnestly endeav- ored to remedy the evil by watching his looks, and anticipating in every respect his wishes. He was greatly annoyed. "Mrs. Hemndon," said he one day, emphatically, when I had thought to please him by some little attention, "will you leave me alone? Because I have mar- ried you, does it necessarily follow that my steps must be dogged in this ridiculous manner? There are servants enough in the house to wait upon nme. In one respect I wish you to copy my example; Let me alone as I shall do you." a "Will you tell me," said I, with a little of my old spirit, which at that time seemed almost to have deserted me, "what I have done to offend you?" "Offend! nothing but 'marry me. I have no explanations to make. Hereafter let us simply live without quarrelling." AMy heart seemed at once to turn to stone. I went about the house quietly, calmly, coolly. I rode in my carriage; dressed most ele. gantly. In society, I was brilliant, witty, gay beyond the gayest, and the fascinating Mrs. Herndon had the entree of the most fashionable society in NewYork. But I very soon hated my husband, most cordially hated him. In later years, I doubt if I had ever loved him, for I know so well now that a woman excuses in the man she loves, even his vices, and I certainly never for one moment forgave Dr. H-- our first scene, or' rather perhaps our first quarrel. At times my mind reverted to my aunt's sick chamber, and to the morning when, emerging from his long conference with her, Dr. Herndon's manner changed toward me, and then I knew that she had confided to him her intentions with regard to her property, and that for the fortune alone he had mar- ried me; but why I, with my heart full of love for him, should have evenbeen an incumbrance to the fortune, I did not then know, and that the temptation of the money had made him doubly base I little dreamed, till many years had. passed away, and through trials and change came the revelation. My position was by no means one devoid of temptation. Young and inexperienced, with my heart wounded, my self-love mortified beyond expression, I cannot tell how soothing was the adulation which often greeted my entrance into the salons of pleasure, and sometimes, wicked though I felt it to be, I longed to lay my wearied homeless soul within a heart which would shelter it; then rousing sud- denly to my real position, I would almost startle myself with an, apparent gayety which, with the crowd passed current for real. Perhaps Dr. Herndon was suffi- ciently a man of the world to per- ceive the dangers of my position, and did not care to risk that his own name should be tarnished by my imprudence, at all events he proposed a duenna. For weeks we had seldom met when he was not acting as escort, except at table. Then, if alone, which was seldom, we perused the papers to relieve the awkwardness of tele a tete. I-was quite as cool and dignified as he, and when he condescended to address me one morning at breakfast with rather an air of de- siring that I gave attention, I retained the paper, and simply raised my eyes as if my interest could of course be but momentary. I perceived I imitated him, but felt no desire to-do otherwise. To this, perhaps, was owing the fact that his manner was unusually offensive, as he said, "'I wish to assert to you, madam, that no mar- ried lady in society receives the attention that you do-without causing scandal. Your male vis- itors are entirely too numerous, and I think it best that you take' into the house some suitable com-- panion." "' To act, I suppose, as a spy," I interrupted, with bitterness. "The protection of my father and mother might not, under all the circumstances, be entirely unde- sirable to me." "Yotr father and mother," said l he, with a sneer, but wishing him a ceremonious "Good morning," I left the room. My conduct at the time of which I write, was not at all to my credit. Every evil passion of my nature seemed roused into action, and I steadily shut my heart to softening influence; and yet after the first of my trials, I was not very unhappy. I was young. The world was too bright and beautiful, there was a great deal too much to be enjoyed though the means, of which I had plenty, to prevent my being en- tirely wretched. I came at last to find an excitement, if not a real pleasure, in the very antagonism existing in my marriage relation, and having entirely forgotten 'that my husband's conduct could never excuse mine, that I was narrowing my own nature into grovelling limits, with a feeling of at least having evenly matched my oppo- nent on the morning of which I write, I left the breakfast room. My triumph, however, was not of long duration, for in a few hours, with flashing eyes and heightened color, I met my newly constituted duenna where I had been sum- moned by my husband, in the drawing-room. "Mrs. Herndon, this is my cousin, Mrs. Ormond," said the Doctor, " the lady of whom I spoke to you this morning. I hope you will do your best to make her visit agreeable." For once I was non-plussed. Till now, we had had no witness of our domaestic difficulties, and I page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] was rather unprepared to admit a spectator to a family scene; besides I had not fallen so far as to forget politeness, and reflecting that the new comer was probably an inno- cent party in the present arrange- ment, I subdued my ill temper, and received her with decency. Mrs. Ormond was an elegant woman. No other term describes her personal appearance. Her manners were insinuating, and her knowledge of the world to me somewhat remarkable. I was at once delightedwith her, and ready, with all the ardor of youth to give her my heart as well as my home. Of course, not many weeks elapsed till she became my coznfi- dante. Her sympathy was un- bounded. She re-echoed my often expressed sentiments of dislike for my husband with an unction for which, at the time, I could hardly account, and assisted to cherish in my heart every bad feeling which myunfortunate marriage had aided to develope. To my husband his cousin made herself equally agreeable. "I can only serve you by playing the hyp- ocrite," she said to me one morn- ing as we sat over the fire. "Do you know why Ihate him? I have more cause than you know, Leah. My youngest sister, to whom I have acted in place of our mother, who was taken from us in Lillie's infancy, had loved Dr. Herndon almost from childhood, and was betrothed to him in a quiet man- ner, a fact unknown to your aunt, till upon having learned from him that a fortune depended upon his marrying you, she generously withdrew all claim upon him, and, poor girl, is lost to her friends in this world." "Is she dead?" asked I. "To us, yes! unfortunately she had been educated in the convent at Georgetown. She dearly loved the sisters there, and the world lay before her so dark and dreary in the gloom through which her vision could not penetrate, that she stole back again to the convent, and has vowed to herself a life of seclusion. She has not yet taken the black veil, but in time will do so; we cannot prevent it." "She loves him still, but I hate him; and in answer, to your hus- band's summons, came here to serve a purpose of my own. I am obliged to mask myself; do I do it well?". "Admirably," said I, turning away quickly from the eyes which absolutely flashed with some ma- lignant thought I could not pene- trate. But conscience smote me. I had not quite degraded my bet- ter nature; indeed, thus far my malice had never thought of vent- ing itself except by words or slight annoyances, but now to find I had taken to my confidence one who acknowledged an intent of evil towards my husband, made me shudder, and the change in my manner must have been percepti- ble, for as I stood gazing thought- fully from the window, she came and placed her arm around me, and said, "have I frightened you, Leah? I've a very bad temper, and when it is roused by the thought of your wrongs as well as Lillie's, it is hard to check myself, but I meant nothing; come, I'm going to find his lordship,. and read him that article we were ad- miring in - last evening." I did not go with her but sat reflecting. on what I had heard till I became weary, and, passing the drawing-room door, which was open, I caught her musical tonesr as she read, and marked the ab- sorbed and well pleased manner of her listener. "Were I not his wife, I could make myself endura- ble," thought I. What is there in marriage to change so completely the relative positions of the sexes? When a woman actually belongs to a man, when he has placed his legal brand upon her, when she is regularly his, chattel, if he does not love her, her position is like that of nothing in the heavens above, or on the earth beneath, she is neither mistress nor maid in her own household. By suf- ferance alone she holds a false po- sition, and she strives in vain to find the one' to which she has a moral and a legal right. So thought I, and now I longed to go home and feel at rest. Rest! as if peace had not forever de- parted; and when Mrs. Ormond came up to my dressing-room, I was glad to forget my distrust, to listen again to the seduction of her tongue, and dream of the strength of friendship. But often, after this conversa- tion,- there came the thought, " my husband lpves another. He has sold himself for the price of a for- time, and I am in the way. Is there any help for it? if I resign all claim to the estate of my aunt and take upon myself poverty- better that than such a life-shall I not win at least my own respect? The law says no! in this it reigns supreme. You have registered a vow, 'till death does part.' Let the chains be light or heavy, silk or iron, let them wound the flesh, or bend you to the earth, it is all the same. For life. Let the darkness shut out day, let night fall at once upon the morning of youth, there is no redress. Your heart may starve, your soul be cldsed within its prison, naked and hungry, so that he gives your body food and raiment, you have no cause for complaint, there is nothing to redress, so saith the law. You would be generous, eh? A married woman generous! All is your husband's now, saith the law. You'd brand yourself for him, and Lillie would brand herself by stepping into your place, and he, poor innocent victim, the world smiles sweetly on. I was not prepared for the finale of my picture, and so I turned its face, unfinished, to the walls of my imagination, and took a more prac- tical, less romantic view of the position. It was possible Mrs. Ormond had embellished her sto- ry. I afterwards learned it was altogether untrue, that Lillie's nature was plastic and serious. Her early life in the convent had engendered a religious zeal which had concentrated in itself all the powers of her mind, and that, with the slight disposition to battle page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] with life, while yet quite young, she had decided to take refuge in a convent. Mrs. Ormond was early a widow, and though older than her cousin, it was at one time supposed she was endeavoring to fascinate him. She succeeded in making herself an agreeable companion, of whose accomplishments Dr. Herndon was always ready to avail himself, but nothing more. I fancied she be- lieved she had been trifled with, and having little to occupy her, had allowed her mind to dwell upon her injuries, till it had engen- dered a morbid desire for revenge, which in some manner she hoped to gratify. This was my second interpreta- tion of her fancied dislike for Dr. Heindon, but neither proved to be correct. An entirely differentv motive instigated her. She neither liked nor disliked Dr. Herndon. They understood each other per- fectly. She was a clever actress. I, young and inexperienced, inclined to romantic rather than practical explanations, besides knowing no adequate motive for any secret understanding or compact between Lucy Ormond and my husband, it is not strange that the thought did not occur to me that an ample equivalent for services rendered would place Lucy pecuniapily in a position far better than the one she had occupied previously; and not knowing the stake for which my husband was playing, it is not strange Lhat even in after years, when I learned her enjoyment of a competency, until the final de- nouement, I did not mistrust that she was an accomplice in a plot, of which Dr. Herndon was himself chief actor. As it was, she com- pletely. deceived me. But I an-, ticipate. CHAPTER V. But once again I weary of wy- self, and wisk to return to the sto- ry of my beautiful seamstress, with whose love we have become slightly acquainted. The time that Dr. Herndon be- came betrothed to Mary Leighton as I have since learned, was the autumn previous to my own ac- quaintance with him. That his intentions were then honorable, I have never doubted. That he loved her, rather than Lillie, and that her's was the shade that rose constantly between my husband and myself, even in the hours of the honey moon, I. am now quite assured. But be that as it may; it was midsummer again in the mnetro- polis, which was not deserted, though the rich had left it, and weary little travellers were daily passing the bourne from which there is no return. The sun looked down with pitiless warmth upon myriads of beings, with whom green fields were things of story, and the term sea breeze brought thoughts alone of the docks and their surroundings. Anna Leighton and her mother still occupied the garret, but no Mary was there, and the buoyant, hopeful look of Anna was gone; passive endurance marked her features: and as, the sun fell in the heavens, and the little patch of sky which was visible from the window lost its burnished hue, she said: . "Come, mother, let us take a walk; it is cooler now." "Shall we find Mary!" "Perhaps so," and the daugh- ter smoothed the gray hairs, and tied the strings of the old black bonnet under the withered chin of her mother. They walked far, and the old lady said she was tired, when they reached a fine large mansion on the other side of the city. The bell was answered, and without waiting for farther sum- mons, they followed the servant to the second story. It was elegantly furnished. The room into 'which they were ushered was covered with a carpet whose design was a frosted ground over which trees had seemed to drop their foliage. Through the rich curtains the sun fell softened, just as it steals through a thick grove -sometimes at noonday, and the delicately carved furniture had been selected with all the taste of Dr. Herndon. The lady reclining upon the lounge was evidently in no expectation of company. , Her dress was disordered. The thin blue robe was thrown open, expos- ing the beautiful neck, and the golden hair was tied carelessly back as if too warm for the com- fort of its owner. But the,scream, the look of sudden paleness which overspread her face told more than a story of mere surprise, and she rested lier, hand for a moment upon a chair beside -her as she started to her feet, as if unable to sustain herself without assistance. "O! Maxy, Mary! was it for this?" said Anna, advancing-to- wards her. "No! no! Anna, not for these alone. I love him, Anna, I do love him," drooping her head upon her sister's shoulder. "Love him?" "Yes, love him," replied Mary, raising her head and withdrawing herself from her sister. "Love him as you never will love with all your coolness, all your prudence. Love him above all and every thing. For him I would stake my life and lose it. My heaven is in his presence. It would be hell where he could never come." "Forgive me, Anna," she added with childish contrition, as the tears ran slowly down her sister's cheeks. . Forgive me. I love you too, and mother, but not as I love him." "Come home, Mary, do come home," said the old lady, upon whom, within the last five months, the weight of years seemed at once to have fallen, and the mother placed her hand upon the daugh- ter's head, as lovingly as when in youth, the child had fallen asleep beside her. "Come, dear, I'm so lonesome without you. You shall have some short cake for supper, to- page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] night, if you'll only come. O! I forgot," said she with a strange half laugh, "you're a big girl now, and don't care for short cake. But come, and you shall have my string of gold beads to wear on your pretty white throat, as you used to. There's a dear, do come." "Will you, lary?" said Anna, earnestly. "He will leave you by-and-by, his love will cool and you will go down into pollution and infamy. Before it is too late, Mary. O! he is a bad, bad man. He has a wife, sister." "I know it, but he loves only me, Anna. He had asked me to marry him, but when he told me that an old lady had promised to give him her fortune if he would marry another, I could not stand in his way, when I knew that he must toil for years before he could attain the position for which na- ture has so evidently fitted him; but I could not live without him, Annie, and married or single, I shall follow him to the ends-of the earth, will he but allow me." "What folly! what madness, Mary. For the love of this selfish man, who allowed you to brand yourself with ignominy that he might live in luxury, you have re- nounced all hope of happiness, all hope of heaven. But come, moth- er, Eve must go now. We can be of no service here. When he de- serts you, darling, come back to us, for we shall always love you, Mary;" and she drew her mother's arm within her own, and with one sad glance at her sister, turned away. "Don't! Don't go yet, Anna. You are hungry, it is warm, you are thirsty," and she placed her hand upon the bell rope. "No! No! No!" said Anna, de- taining her, "we do not need it." "It would not poison you," re- plied Mary, as she noticed the look upon her sister's face, but the color mounted to her own temples, as a thought of their humble home and her mother's frugal meals arose before her. "As you wish, however." "It is a part of your soul's poi- son, Mary. But come, mother, it's getting late, and the walk looks long before us." "Come home to-morrow, dar- ling," said the half imbecile moth- er; "but dear sakes! our room isn't half so pleasant as this," and leaning heavily upon her daughter, she tottered down stairs. Then Mary threw herself despe- rately upon the lounge, and burst into tears;. she recalled herself in a few moments, and, starting to her feet, consulted an elegant watch that lay upon her dressing table, and commenced a hurried toilet. A robe of pure white, of delicate and costly fabric hung gracefully upon her person. Brace- lets of pearls encircled her arms and throat, and a bandeau of the same pure jewels confined the golden curls which lay upon ,her shoulders. "He will come to-night," said she, impatiently pacing the floor. "He will come;" and her nerves seemed stretched to their utmost tension, till she heard the door-, bell and a step on the stairs, then seated herself, and coolly returned the pressure of the hand that grasped her own. "Bah! it's chilly here, absolutely cold, "said Dr. Herndon; "although the thermometer has stood at a hundred all day upon the outside of this building. Your influence is cooling. My own blood seems to be congealing. Really, Mary, I did not come all the way from Sar- atoga With any idea of such a re- ception." "And yet all day you have grumbled, no doubt because it was too warm. Man is hard to be pleased. I have a dislike to human perspiration. I cannot bear the touch of a hand thus moistened, and, Doctor, you would not choose me to risk spoiling this beautiful dress by allowing i' to come in closer contact with your dusty habiliments." "As you know very well, I am neither hot nor dusty; much as I longed to see you, I would not have sought you in such a costume. However, as my presence is dis- tasteful, I will relieve you of it," and he turned towards the door. In real alarm the actress started. An aspersion of that sort was un- endurable to Dr. Herndon, and Mary found it hard to soothe him. Succeeding at length, shesaid, "I am so tired of this dull room and dusty street. You spoke of being frozen, I am petrifying by a process, silent, slow and certain; the first might melt, the other on- ly hardens; if you do not like one, pray do not force me to the other." ' Be reasonable, Mary," said he, playing with the curls which lay upon his shoulder. "I have granted all your wishes; this house is yours, you should have had a carriage were there not reasons why our connection had be'.ter remain a quiet one, and that might have drawn attention towards us. I have left my wife and cousin at Saratoga, where they will remain a month, and in answer to your letter, am here to take you to the country. I will stay with you, but we must go quietly, and avoid recognition. You must be satis- fied with me, and me alone, in some quiet country village. But why have you been weeping?" "Anna has been here." "Did she want money?" "You do not know her if you suppose she would take anything from us." "Well! what then?" "She says you will cease to love me." "Was that the object of her mission? When that time comes it will be soon enough for her to interfere in what does not concern her. Meanwhile, the less you suggest the probability of losing my love, the better. There is no use in borrowing trouble." So Mary said no more, but her heart ached. She needed reassur- ance; but the man knew his power, and held the reins upon his inclin- ation to speak the tenderness he could not help feeling for the beautiful being before him. But his love of tyranny was greater -than his tenderness, and so the weaker nature cowed before him, and dared not weep again until he left her. But the night was page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] devoted to tears, and the morning found her heavy hearted still, for the memory of Anna and her moth- er would not leave her even in the bustle of preparation for de- parture. CHAPTER VI The summer had ended. The votaries of fashion returned to the city. Up-town was in commotion. Servants were industrious, and 'their patrons preoccupied with arrangements for the winter. The widows' faces looked sadder, and even thinner, as the breath of autumn touched them, and ragged little children drew closer their rags, and crossed to the sunny side of the pavement. The stores assumed a holiday garb, and the obsequious clerks welcomed back their customers, and displayed their warmest tinted goods on the counters. It was the last chance for the moths,. for the season was ended, and trunks were unburdened of their contents, and woolens and furs again saw the daylight. The windows of our own domi- cile were closed these chilly morn- ings, the doors shut carefully, and bright fires burned in the grate, and the heavy curtains were arranged to admit all possible sunlight. We had spent part of the sum- mer at Saratoga, Lucy and myself, without my huksband, who pleaded business in the city, and I on the whole, had been rather glad to be 1 freed from his presence, and was A comparatively happy in the society E about me; well principled both by nature and education, I had de- rived no other injury from my surroundings, as well as associa- tion with Mrs. Ormond, than habits of frivolity, which I felt could be laid aside at pleasure. Lucy's character developed it- self to me. Her teachings were of the worst possible order; yet though she had obtained sufficient ascendancy over me to command my attention, sometimes even my reflection, there being no response in my heart in favor of her argcu- ments, they seemed to recoil with- out harm to the point from which they emanated. "You're a simpleton, Leah," she said to me one morning after a ball, where I had received even more attention than usual. "How little you know how to make use of your power. Do you think I would spend my life in devotion to a man's reputation, who cares no more for me than Herndon does for you? He is always en- joying himself, probably in his own fashion, while you play pro- priety, and are the virtuous Mrs.' Herndon." "Pray what would you have me? should I be any happier for being the vicious Mrs. Herndon?" "No! but a woman without any thing to love is an anomaly which ought to be blotted out of creation. Love is the cry of every human soul, and no law of man is suffici- ently strong to keep the heart eventually from wandering in for- bidden paths, where the fruits of weclock are such dust and ashes as seems to be your portion. You waste your youth, Leah, in need- less restraints, and I for one con- demn you." "I trust you are but jesting, Lucy. Do not, I beg of you, speak to me in that way again. Love is not for everybody; it evidently is not for me, and I Jm quite content withoit it." I did not speak truth, for I had seen enough of Lucy to perceive that. neither was friendship for me, as I had hoped, and my heart ached for something to fill it. One night after a brilliant party, I went alone to my room, and seated myself where the warm summer breeze played gently on my forehead. My pulse was still bounding from the effects of ex- citement, and too restless for sleep, for an hour I sat watching the stars in their onward march, as they seemed to wait on the moon, as she sank below the horizon. All nature, fevered as myself with the heat of the day, silently drank the descending dews, till even the crickets were hushed to rest. In the silence of that hour there came to me better thoughts; and I asked "Is this to be all of life?" and looking from the earth again upwards, in my heart I cried, "Fa- ther in heaven, direct me; am I not thy child?"My prayer was so fervent I almost wondered there was no immediate response, but somewhat soothed, I went to rest. I think the angels must have visited me in my dreams, and per- haps stamped the impression of the last night's meditation upon my soul, for in a quiet tranquil state I awoke the next morning, filled with an earnest resolution to live to some purpose. Leaving a note for Lucy, that- she might not be uneasy, after an earlier breakfast than the pleasure seek- ers were wont to partake, I put on my hat, and strolled into the for-' est. But one purpose defined it- self to me, to be alone, away from the giddy and reckless, and away from the restless pursuit of pleas- ure. We were to leave Saratoga in a few days, and I was very glad. Now I desired communion with nature, and throwing myself upon the earth beneath the entwining boughs, I listened in the Sabbath silence to the music of the forest, and yielded myself to quiet medi- tation. My life had been given me for some purpose. For what? For myself and my own pleasure, for the butterfly pursuit of a fleeting summer? No! there was work for me in the world, I must seek it and do it-and as the day passed on, my plans were matured,. and I strolled leisurely back to the hotel. Meeting Lucy Ormond upon the piazzi, she seemed surprised at my neglige toilet, and more particularly so at my' being alone, but I gave her no explanation, and pleading fatigue, excused myself from far- ther festivities during the remain- der of my stay at Saratoga. The morning upon which this chapter commences, I was awaiting in the drawing room the appearance of my husband, for whom, as he page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] was later than usual, we had not remained at the breakfast table, and for whom I had left a message that I would like to see him. He looked rather surprised as he entered, for my manner was courteous, as I had seriously re- solved that hereafter, whatever po- sition he might take, I would never assume the offensive. Wlhen he was seated, I said, rath- er abruptly, for I was anxious at once to dash into the subject, "My life is neither happy nor useful. I wish to make it both, and can only do so with your assistance." He said nothing, assumed an attitude of listening, and I con- tinued,' "I wish a monthly allow- ance of money for my own expenses." "And you imagine, I judge from your tone, your wish to be law. You have unlimited credit if you need jewels, silks or laces, you have only to order them. Good morning, madam," said he, rising. "Stop one moment, if youplease, Doctor, and hear me. You have placed me in the position I now occupy. We are married-in many respects divorced. You have said to me, 'go your way, I will go mine." An equal division of the property, under all the cir- cumstances, would only have been fair;, but as it is, I simply ask an allowance for my own purposes. Do you refuse?" Women know nothing of busi- ness, they are not fit to be en- trusted with money. You have carte blanche to purchase all you require. Good morning," and so he left me, throwing down my castle, which I had hoped to build even higher, as time rolled on. My plan may have been entirely impracticable, but I do not think so. I had intended to take under my charge some half dozen respecta- ble families whom I knew to be struggling with the ills of poverty. People who were doing their best to maintain themselves, and to whom a little assistance would seem a fortune. For example, a seamstress by the name of Leighton, and her old mother, had been plunged into want by the long illness of the daughter, who supported the fam- ily. Grief, it is said, at the mis- conduct of a sister had brought on a fever, and they, both mother and daughter, were now sustained by charity. I had done what lit- tle lay in my powers but the daugh- ter needed country air, and I would like to have placed them in sunny and more cheerful apart- ments. A woman, whose boy was crippled, could find employ- ment in the neighborhood, were she relieved for a few hours in the day of the charge of the child, and her neighbor with a sick husband would mind the boy and find as- sistance from the pittance I had hoped to be able to allow her. The winter was coming; there were enough half-naked little children who needed clothing, and I determined to make use of my credit to supply the material, while my needle should be made to help me. I was indignant, of course, with my husband, though I had half expected a refusal; but falling back upon all there was left me, I was soon very busy. "Good news for you, my dear lady Bountiful," said Lucy, one day, as I sat busily at work upon a mering dress for one of myprote- ges. This horrible monotony is to be disturbed by the arrival of my brother Ned, whom I think you have met. If I remember rightly he assisted you as wall-flower at your first ball." "Indeed! For your sake I am glad; but I am in love, I believe, with monotony." "Nonsense! you are getting as tiresome as possible, and if some- thing does not rejuvenate you be- fore very long, you must don cap and glasses, and become an old woman. The winter bids fair to be written the dullest in my life. Herndon is never at home, and since you have commenced to play saint, it is duller here than a coun- try parsonage. Ned is not likely to make the house more attractive for me, unless you should conde- scend to fall in love with him, which I strongly recommend, to get up some kind of excitement." "Don't talk to me in that way, Lucy, as I have said before, even in jest. I, shall never amuse you by forgetting I am a wife; but you can occupy yourself, while I finish this frock, by enumerating your brother's attractions." "Ian the first place, he's hand- some. " "That is merely a matter of taste. Perhaps I don't think so, but proceed." "He's very fascinating, particu- larly to women. Gentle, tender almost in his manner, yet firm and strong, with great intellectual ca- pacity, and a fund of information. He has travelled everywhere, and has had the advantage of the most polished society. O! he's extremely dangerous, my lady." "I defy him, Lucy, but go on." "I have nothing more to say. He will be here to-morrow." I was not particularly delighted. I had had quite enough of the family already, and I wanted rest; to go home to die, if nothing else was left me. How wearily impatient was I of life, and how many poor, aching- hearted women are even now toiling on, and looking only to eternity for peace. Bondage! what bondage like an invisible chain, when it presses upon the soul, corroding where it touches? Occupation! Did the negro in slavery, his intellect awakened to the knowledge of his real position, feel his chains less heavy when buried beneath the weight of labor? Perhaps! There was less time, at least, for gloomy meditation, and so I bought piece after piece of goods, and piled up garments to be made, to be worn by the needy; plunging my life into theirs, and as a reward forget myself. But eventhiswas notto continue. My husband perceived, in looking over my bills, or perhaps he had been told by Lucy, what had been the nature of my recent occupation, and forbade all farther expendi- ture, except for necessaries. page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] "I give money enough," said he, " for both. Charity is exacted from those who have the reputation of riches-it is ndt optional. Not a day passes, that I am not called upon to give more than I can really afford, so I wish this extra- vagance to be ended at once." I was indignant, but of course obedient. My next thought. was, had I any talent which could be turned to account, to supply the money necessary for private chari- ties, but the way did not seem clear to me without injury to those who depended upon their labor for support, and so I plunged again into fashionable dissipation. Meantime Edward Stanley had made his appearance. His sister was riglt. I felt he was dangerous, and endeavored, as much as possi- ble, to avoid his society. I knew, however, that his eye was upon me, I had his sympathy, I did not want it. Myi heart recoiled from the idea of pity. I assumed digni- ty and haughtiness, but for the first time felt the real humiliation of my position. I had never yet met him alone, but going to the library for a book, one evening, found him in quiet possession. I would have retreated, but he had seen me, and as I rather irresolutely advanced to fulfill my purpose, he said he hoped I would not allow him to disturb me. With some stiffness, I replied that "I merely wished a book, and that I was the one to offer an apol- "Il you allowme to speak to "( Will you allow me to speak to you, Mrs. Herndon, before you leave?" "Most certainly, sir," said I, taking a chair which stood on the opposite side of the table upon which he was writing, and await- ing his communication. "I am afraid, from your manner, that you look upon me in the light of an intruder upon your family; but some of Herndon's affairs have complicated themselves in such a manner, that he has required legal advice, and whilst I remain in town, which must be for several months, he wished me to be dom- iciled here; if it is not perfectly agreeable, will you have the frank- ness, and do me the kindness to say so." "I am sorry my manner has been such as to lead to any con- clusion on your part, of that kind. It is utterly impossible for anyone to know Mr. Stanley, and look upon him in the light of an intru- der." "You evade my question, Mrs. Herndon, which, finder the cir- cumstances, is some what culpable. Will you answer me honestly, am I intruding?" "Franklythen, I cannot answer. It is both yes, and no. There are circumstances which render me chary of intimate family visitors, but at the same time, I have no' personal feelings in the matter, and as Dr. Herndon would be very angry if he supposed his wishes to be set aside for mine, I beg you will not disturb yourself." "I can arrange the matter without offending Herndon if you wish it." "I do not wish it, but let me come and go without notice, and whatever my manner may be, re- member it is prompted by no un- kindly feeling," and almost ready to burst into tears, I left the room. A few evenings after, as I en- tered the drawing-room where Lucy was conversing with her brother, the former remarked, "then you are a woman-hater, brother?" "Not by any means," was the reply. "Yet I reiterate what I was saying, Mrs. Herndon, women are very weak." Iassented without knowingupon what grounds they were speaking, and he continued; "Lucy was ar- guing their equality with man, and says that man has kept them in subjection. I say that their own want of moral power has held them where they are, and that they can never rise in the scale of creation, till they see it fo-. themselves, and raise their standard. Women are narrow and selfish, speaking, of course, generally." I looked surprised and Lucy said, "I have always supposed men to be selfish, and women to be capable of great self sacrifice." "As far as their affections are concerned, yes; otherwise, no. For their husbands and children, as well as, perhaps, a circle of per- sonal friends; but man sacrifices not only for his fireside, but for his country and the world. Wheth- er this results from difference of organization in the commencement, or is consequent upon position, I cannot tell. .The more limited the 3 sphere of action, the weaker be- comes the power to act. To grow, space is necessary, and women have so long been taught to believe that their whole duty consisted in attending simply to the demands, of the fireside, they absorb them- selves so completely with the petty details of the measles, or whoop- ing cough on one hand, or display in dress on the other, that it almost seems a question whether they have the capacity to comprehend at all, the grand questions of the day. Women have courted to be called weak. Let some unfortu- nate being, who fancies she has a mission, come forward and sus- tain what she believes to be a re- form, how soon is the finger of scorn pointed at her, and the ter- rible epithets, 'old maid,' and 'strong minded,' the mildest her sisters will deign to employ; while without enquiring even into the justice of her cause, she is advised to return at once to the sphere to which she belongs." "Whilst men, you would have us infer," said Lucy, "would judge the cause, and let alone the advocate. If the advocate hap- pened to be a man, yesj if a wo- man, no. If she were young and pretty, no- matter how silly the cause, she would find plenty of partisans, some of whom, however, would doubtless be anxious to introduce her into what they would term a higher sphere, their own firesides. If she were old and ugly, the justice of her cause would be better appreciated through a masculine mouthpiece. But come, page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] "eah, let us don the bloomer, and go out lecturing." "If you have sufficient talent to sustain you, sister, I have no objection; but I do not ask any woman to take any public position, unless her own necessities impera- tively demand it; but I do ask that she grow less selfish, absorb her- self less in the petty details of life, interest herself more in the grand cause of humanity, and make more potent her influence." "But you will allow, Mr. Stan- ley," said I, "that women have more moral courage than mef; they certainly dare to say very often what men would not, and to stand fast where men's hearts would fail? For instance, at the crucifixion, the women of Galilee stood round the cross of our Sav- iour, when all his disciples, save one, had fled." "Yes, women speak because they are not held as responsible for their language as men. The women of Galilee were influenced by their affection, which is the exception I have made in woman's favor; moreover there was not the same danger for them as for the male disciples, who were likely to be implicated with their master, and to meet his doom. No! wo- men are wanting in moral courage; were it not so, they would not be so uncharitable to the fallen of their own sex. No matter what may be the extenuating circum- stances, women dare not stand by their own unfortunates, while they bow to the same sin in man, and allow him to go -unwhipped of their justice. It is because of their want of moral courage, that while women yield to the demands of . men for the purity of women, they do not ask the same in return, but unblushingly give their vir- tuous daughter to the corrupt embrace of men of the world. I say again, let woman raise her moral standard, be more true to herself, her higher instincts, and her Maker, and worship less the opinion of man, and the world, through her, can become regene- rate." "What a pity, Ned, you were not a parson," said Lucy. But Ithought to myself, "he is righ. The reason that the morality of the social world is at so low an eb, is that one half are allowed all license, against which the rest are called to defend themselves. Com- pel man to respect himself, as: wo- man is compelled to respect herself, and in regard to licentiousness, the world would become almost a garden of Eden, and crime which is now entailed on posterity as an inheritance, would be half blotted out." I avoided Mr. Stanley no lon- ger. I looked upon him as a friend in whom I might trust. I believed in his principle, and I thought to gain strength from him to learn my duty and to do it. "Let me tell your fortune, Mrs Herndon," said he, one morning. "It can be done in a few words." "Certainly. I shall be glad to hear it." "You are very undeveloped. There is a great deal promised in the germ, but suffering and trial will be needed to bring it to full perfection." "You are but a stupid prophet, Mr. Stanley. You might at least have told me something new. Suffering and trial is the common lot of humanity." "Yes, but of some more than others; and yours, I think, will be a double portion. You doubtless think it has commenced, and are quite right in your belief. The seed is sown, but simply floats upon the water. By-and-by will the still stream be stirred, the roots strike deeper into the soul, and then the outgrowth will be real suffering; but in riper years, a lily of peace will float upon the troubled waters. I can look in your eyes and read it, and I know it has all to come." "I do not understand your fig- ure, Mr. Stanley. I simply know you are croaking, and I do not feel disposed to accept your proph- ecy." "As you like; and I suppose it is unwise to disturb you with fore- bodings. I would wish, on the contrary, to assist you in some way. Will you tell me how I can do it?" "Not unless you can tell me how to live and what to live for?" "Endurance is sometimes all f9r which we seem to live, and at present I can advise you to noth- ing else. To endure and be con- tent, relying upon the father of all for guidance. It would be of no use for me to pretend that I do not understand your domestic position. There is no love in your marriage relation. In fact, it is hard for you to avoid hatred." ' This is wrong," he continued. "I cannot say to you, love your husband, because I believe love to be a principle of the human soul which comes not at our call, nor for every person, but I can say, respect yourself. Do not let your own nature corrupt itself by drink- ing bitter waters, and remember that- whether your present position is the result of your own misguid- ance, or that your Heavenly Fa- ther has placed you in it for his own purposes, you may draw from it useful lessons, and growing strong in self discipline, be able to battle with further ills." "But you persist in talking, Mr. Stanley, of coming evil. Is my life to be all so dark and dismal? I am young yet; I know I hAve contracted to bear through life a burden which is hard to be borne, but is there no hope?" "There is hope everywhere and in every position. Bear patiently, pleasantly, cheerfully. Remember if you should attain the ideal of your heart, you would find, after all, it had not brought you the happiness you anticipated. Bring your own soul into the condition to find happiness anywhere, re- membering that the Almighty Fa- ther careth even for you, and that when you had derived what disci- pline is necessary for you in the present position, in his own good time your conditions will be changed." "But can you give me no help page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] ill my eforts to find something for which to live?" "ife may end to-morrow. -On- ly this day, this hour, perhaps only I this minute is ours. Have you no unfulfilled duty to occupy the next half hour? Do it and do it well. Take simply each moment of your life, and fill it; it is all that is required, and if you ear- nestly desire to be of use in the world, as each well filled moment passes out with its own little bur- den, rest assured some other duty will follow to occupy those that come after, and when you have done well in little things, if the Divine mind orders greater, you will be prepared to fill i. As it is, patiently wait." "All very well, Mr. Stanley," thought I, as he bade me good morning. "What a very good man you must be, if your example equals your precept. As it is, I 'have some unperformed duties with which I will now occupy my- self." CHAPTER VIL The feeble wail of a child was heard-a new born babe, and then it was still, and lay, a little, soft, warm thing, unconscious of even an animal existence, asleep in its nest of linen, flannel and lace. Dr. Herndon bent quietly over the couch of Mary Leighton. She was asleep, and he raised the child, and wrapped it warmly, and laid it carefully in a softly lined basket, and took it away with him. A carriage stood at the door. The Doctor spoke a moment to the driver, and then, with his charge, he entered the vehicle. It was a chilly morning, and very early, yet Anna Leighton was stirring already. No matter the length of the nights to the poor. The happy unconscious hours of oblivion, when dreams perhaps of peace and plenty, float dimly in the over weary brain, must be cur- tailed, the waking hours are mas- ters whose wants must be supplied at any cost of physical suffering, and as the Doctor's heavy tread resounded along the uncovered entry, Anna opened the door in surprise at so early a visitor. "I have brought you Mary's baby," said the Doctor. "It must remain in your charge. 'The moth- er is too delicate for the care of it, and I would entrust it to no one else. The allowance I shall make for its support will be sufficient for the maintenance of yourself and mother, and as an earnest of ;my intentions, you will find with the child, an ample allowance for present expenses." Anna had taken the basket in a- stupor of speechless amazement, and the Doctor, fearful, perhaps, that the care ot the child might be rejected, retreated in the same haste that he came. For a monent Anna stood irres- olute, then she opened the basket, lifted the child, and laid it beside its grandmother, who was still asleep. Unfolding the blanket, and exposing the little face, she said, "Iike Mary, too like, too like," and softly kissing a curl of gold which lay on its forehead, she covered the child again in its slumbers, gathered together the embers upofi the hearth and lighted the fire. When she had finished, and turned again to the bedside, her mother was awake, and gazing at the baby. "See, Anna, said the old lady, "Mary has come home; she has been away with the fairies, and they have brought her back again. They kissed her, she was so pretty, till she became 'little once more, but they could not make her as small as they, and so they've sent her back. It is not fair of- them, Anna. We helped her grow to a woman once, and trouble enough we had of it, so when the moon rises we'll go find the grove where I know they've kelpt her, and if there's any pity in their hearts, they'll take her back again, for she never could live in this cold, dark place. Or come, let us go away from here somewheres, and leave her until they take her themselves. I'm afraid she might cry, and I couldn't bear it," and she com-' menced to huddle on her clothes, looking timidly at the child, still lying in sweet unconsciousness. "Don't mind it, mother," said Anna, soothingly. "We will take it away to-morrow," and she dressed the old lady;, whose mind was now entirely shattered, and placed her' in a chair beside the fire.- Again in a peculiar position, with none to aid by council, Anna was obliged to rely upon her own judgment. Her first thought was to take the child again to its mother. Her second, that perhaps she could save it from a life oi crime. As Mary had said, Anna did not comprehend the ardent, passionate nature which had sacrificed every- thing to the love of Dr. Herndon. She believed it wanting in virtue, totally unprincipled, orat least, un- willing to endure a life of hard- ship, toil and privation,-when ease lay before her, though coupled with vice. Had she recognized that Mary had sacrificed mother, sister, herself and all life's pros- pects for an undisciplined heart, she might perhaps have restored the child to its parents, trustingo that the voice of maternity would guide her to a truer life. As it was, to take the child away from its home of shame, to surround it with pure influences, to keep it in ignorance of its birth, was her final. conclusion, and in order to do this, to remove from all who had lately known them, and to seek a retreat in the country village where she had passed her childhood, she did not scruple to make use of the money Dr. Herndon had left her, though she inwardly resolved it should be the last of the ill-gotten hoard she would ever accept. Anna had always been scrupu- lously truthful. Now, for the good of a cause she felt called up- on to serve, she did not hesitate to fabricate a story to conceal the circumstances of the birth of the child, and to announce it as an or- phan, whose parents had left it in page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] her charge. But the day was spent in preparation for departure, and when Dr. Herndon, anxious for its health, and not wishing to lose sight of thechild altogether, moun- ted again the stairs, the attic was cold, and dark and gloomy as ever, and the stage was taking away the occupants. The heart of Mary had warmed within her, as she touched the tiny thing to whom her pangs had given birth. A tear of remorse and shame had fallen on its fore- head, as the remembrance of its branded innocence had tlhust itself upon ier, and she thought of her home, and the attic of her mother and sister, and for the first time, a thrill akin to dislike pervaded her being, as she looked upon the man who had wrecked her young life, and thrust it amid desolation. But now the Doctor stood beside her, bending tenderly over her, and the momentary feeling was displaced by the one to which she was more accustomed, and taking the hand that laid so soothingly upon her forehead gently within her own, she said: "Is it dead, Herndon?" "No, tMary; but why exhaust yourself. Sleep, and let me watch beside you;" and the hardened man was nearly overcome as his eye fell upon the lovely face, now almost transparent, and he wished the reproachful eyes would close, and shut from his sight the anguish of soul which filled the penitent. "I wish it were, and I. O! Herndon, have you no remorse? Does it never come to you how young I was, and how my youth was blighted, and that the love in my heart, which should have made our life a garden, has created only a desert? And our child, Hern- don, a girl, to bear upon its fore- head, the mark of shame its parents placed there, to sink her perhaps from its weight, into some pool of iniquity. O! Herndon, I cannot bear it, but what shall be done with her? shall she be left upon a doorstone, or dropped in a kennel to save her from the life to which her parents have condemned her?" "Neither, Mary, but she shall be well cared for. Under the circumstances, for her own sake she must never know her parents. You ask me, have I no remorse? In better 'moments how I loathe myself I cannot tell you, and if by now renouncing my fortune and taking the humblest poverty, could I make you my wife, and own my child, God knows I would 'do it. As it is, for my sake, Mary, let. me beg you to sleep. This excite- ment is dangerous, and if you love me, you will not add your death to my other transgressions against you." "Do not speak so, Herndon. I will sleep, but first give me an anodyne, and let me take your hand that I may feel you are with me. " Under the blessed influence of the narcotic, Mary soon lay in death-like slumber, and then with- drawing his hand, the Doctor com- menced softly pacing the floor. "My God!" said he, "have I not debased myself and the ones only dear to me upon earth, and for what? Every thing that makes life desirable. I do not. regret. Pah! I am but a weak drivelling fool. I would have had love in a cottage, forsooth! and yonder fra- gile specimen of womanhood to have served as a dairy maid, but the child shall be saved in blissful ignorance from the consequences of her father's poverty, and Mary must remain content." Not many days after, Anna Leigh- ton was gazing from the window of their little'cottage, upon the hills that were piled with the flaky snow. The trees were fairly bending beneath their weight of stalac- tites, while the sun looked pale, as if its force had been diminished by contact with some unseen power, for its heat scarcely penetrated the icy covering that hid the earth, even where its rays lay heaviest. But Anna's heart seemed colder than the world, and even the little babe she pressed to her breast served not to warm it. There was not a hill over which she and Mary had not rambled in childhood, not a tree which was not as familiar in its icy covering, as in its emerald garb of summer, but the medium through which she gazed had changed. There was no beauty now in the frost- work, though it seemed a fitting shroud for all her memories. The winter's 'sun would lengthen- therein she read no hope of future promise. How she hadloved only some sis- ters know, who have but one com- panion to intertwine both joys and sorrow from infancy to childhood, girlhood to womanhood. Such death as fell on Anna's joy had blotted out all pleasant, memories, and now, cumberedwith two most helpless, living in duty only, must her life wear on. CHAPTER VIII. In returning to my own reminis- cences, I find that the winter pre- ceding the birth of my child, being the one in which the reader sees Mr. Stanley domiciled with us, was among, if not the happiest of my life. Dr. Herndon was rarely at home, and Lucy, her brother and myself were constantly associated in a mannerwhich certainly seemed sat- isfactory to all Whether Lucy enjoyed our conversations as much as she pretended, I cannot say. The motive of her heart, the de- sire she had once expressed to me in some serious manner to annoy the Doctor, was not then apparent, and indeed I had almost forgotten our earlier conversations, and should never perhaps have recalled them, had not subsequent events, and a desire to analyze the feelings which prompted Mrs. Ormond in her late conduct, brought them in review before me. During that, winter, Edward- Stanley was always our escort. ' No one doubted the propriety of our being attended in public by the brother and cousin, and everywhere his fine taste and art in criticism was of great service to me. page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] The opera, theatres, lectures were at our option, and later on, when circumstances rendered it incumbent for me to remain at home, and Lucy, kindly as I then thought, declined to leave me, the evenings were spent in reviewing and discussing new books, and the topics of the day thereby elicited. Mr. Stanley's manner to me was always kind, but never presuming, and I accepted his evident friend- ship, taking continual delight in the present, dreamipg never for the future. That Mr. Stanley, with his clear perceptions, delicate intuitions and fine reasoning power, did not avert the danger, has since seemed strange to me. I can only account for his dulness in his strong desire to overcome my present unhappi- ness, or perhaps, being satisfied and happy in our present home relations, he forgot his usual habit of analysis, and enjoyed, as I en- joyed, without perception of dan- ger, olr present relations. The room we used as a library opened into the conservatory, from which there was no other exit. Engaged, one day, in attention to some favorite plants, I did not per- ceive that I was likely to play the part of listener, till I became so entangled, I could not extricate myself without embarrassment to all concerned, and was thus obliged to accept the other alternative, and remain involuntarily to listen to a conversation by no means in- tended for my ears. "I do not understand it, Hem- don. Your affairs are in a state of great embarrassment, and your constant call for so much money makes it almost impossible for me to place them in the condition you wish." "D--n it, Stanley, is that all the consolation you have to offer? Were my affairs not embarrassed, I should not require the services of a lawyer, but it is easy enough to see that no estate can be so large, that a helpless wife, like mine, and an expensive establish- ment should not make sad inroads. Besides, not being bred to business I have naturally not managed as well as I might, but a clever fel- low like you ought to be able to extricate me." "Not whilst a clever fellow like you is managing to rid himself of such enormous sums; but seriously, Herndon, you have no right to speak of your wife in such a man- ner, because it is entirely untrue; she is not helpless, neither is she the cause of your pecuniary diffi- culties." "The d--l she isn't. I have told you before, I perfectly hate her. She has been the cause of more unhappiness to'me than you will ever know. Hence my reckless- ness-but a truce to that subject." "I repeat again, Herndon, plainly, she is not the cause. Her fortune may have been a tempta- tion. The weakness was in your- self to covet it sufficiently to lead you to a step, which has proved so unfortunate. You are not frank with me, Herndon. You have some arriere pensee, some corner of your heart you choose to cover. Be it so, but ,be manly enough, and strong enough to take the burden upon your own shoulders, and not, endeavor to lay the load upon a helpless woman. What- ever the -position is, it is due to yourself, and because you have made her lot so hard to bear, you owe heevery courtesy and kind- ness. I do not much believe in inherited fortunes, because to take care of them requires the same skill, even more if possible, which has effected their first accumula- tion; but marrying for money almost always is followed by a curse." "From my heart, Stanley, I wish I might bestow upon you my inestimable treasure, but as no stretch of the law will ever cover the gift of a wife to a friend, I sup- pose I must jog along as before. But apropos of business, what about the mortgage upon street property?" "I have half a mind to decline all, further business for you, Hem- don. For the sake of your wife and unborn child, however, I shall make one effort more to extricate your affairs from their present embarrassed condition, but I warn you that in whatever quarter such large sums of money go, you must retrench. Your income with even the burden of interest money upon mortgages, is more than sufficient for necessary expenses, but you will, in a few years, hopelessly in- volve yourself, if you do not un- derstand your own affairs and manage your business better. To- morrow I will attend to the mort- gage, but to-day something else ce- mands my attention, "and greatly to my relief they left the library. It was I of whom they had been talking. I, whose pride was equal to that of the proudest. How I despised myself; how I loathed my position; but I was living un- der the law, and must "render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's," yet no door was opened for my escajpe and I waved one side the phantom of disgust, look- ing steadily, away from it, and taking up again the burden of life. We sat rather later than usual one evening. Lucy had retired, and Herndon had not returned for the night. Mr. Stanley and I were reading, and neither seemed disposed to speak. I closed my book, at length, and Stanley,' per- ceiving the movement, said, " ex- cuse me, iMrs. Herndon, I did not. like to interrupt you, but before you retire, I have something to say to you." The pulsations of my heart were quickened. I felt myself nervous- ly agitated and dreaded his words with forebodings of evil. "Do not be alarmed, "he added, observing my emotion. "It is nothing, only that I have been here too long, and must arrange to leave as speedily as possible." "Leave us! leave us!" said I, "Ieave us? But I am not well to-night, you shall tell me to-mor- row," and I hurriedly left the room. With every step the mist that had enveloped my soul seemed rolling away, and now I saw dis- tinctly the abyss that yawned be- page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] fore me. I did not pause till I was alone, and the door of my chamber had shut me from the world. I went to the window, and dashed away the heavy dra- pery that hid the inner from the outer life. The night was too calm for my turbulent spirit, and I dropped again the curtain. the room was lighted. Inadvertently my eyes fell upon the mirror, opposite which I had thrown myself. Fierce and pale was the face reflected. What was next the soul to bring forth-desperation or strength? I had burdens that have seemed harder than they could bear. I could not tell, like others who have would have prayed for death, but the angel who guarded my unborn babe must have given me strength, for I grew calm and slept. 1 wished to avoid Mr. Stanley till I had grown so accustomed to my secret, I need not betray it, and when breakfast was over the next morning, went directly into the street. I had not quite renounced my objects of charity. A few I still assisted, and to one who had been long an invalid, I now directed my steps. All day long I sat by the bedside of the sick girl, whose life was ebbing, but I knew no compassion, for I felt how gladly I would exchange her burden for my own. Fiercely, perhaps, rath- er than tenderly, I administered to her wants, for I saw how re- lieved she felt when her mother, who had been absent all day at labor, returned and pressed the wasted hand in her own hard palm, and I fancied I heard a sigh of relief, when I bade her good night, as I opened the door to leave her. The rain fell pitilessly, and my garments were drenched when I reached my own home. The same fierce face met mine in the mirror, which I had seen reflected the night before, but with every des- perate thought there came another to relieve it, the whispering of nature, possibly of angels. It was selfishness that sent me daily now to the sick girl's bed. To be rid of myself, or my own thoughts, with desire for constant action, I could live thus and thus only, and when compelled to rest, the desire for some drug to steep thought in oblivion, without be- numbing the senses, was all I could pray for. Of course none such exists, or there are times when aarge portion of humanity would be walking the earth, un- conscious of other than an animal existence. And now it was New Year's, and stormed so fiercely, I did not think it prudent to leave the house, but entering the library, was gazing from the window upon the whitened landscape, when Stanley entered. I would have left'the room, but he stopped me, saying, "Will you not speak to me, Mrs. Herndon? Will it be any comfort for you to know that the cup I have so unwittingly placed to your lips, I am drinking myself to the bitter dregs. I had hoped to be of service to you, I had hoped to teach you a lesson of life, that whatever our surround- ings, there is enough in the uni- verse left for our happiness, iade- pendent of what the heart may crave. I have been presumptuous, it seems, I have needed the lesson before I could teach it, and'now my cross is doubly heavy that I have not only mine to bear, but the knowledge that I have laid another among your burdens. Can you forgive me? "Can I be less magnanimous than you, Mr. Stanley? It is my- self I must forgive. My own weak- ness has made itself felt that it may be strengthened. You told me I was undeveloped, you said that I needed discipline, I have re- ceived my rebuke, my work is now before me. I have nothing in you to forgive." I spoke bravely, but alone in my chamber, I felt that death had come unto me-a night without morning. That there was nothing around me but blackness, that the sun had passed from the heavens, and not even a star was left to illumine my path. I was wicked in my misery. I cried there is no God, or he has forsaken me. My nervous excitement must. have been intense, for as the darkness of evening closed around me, I raised my head from its drooping position, and looking up, beheld, as I supposed, the tender gaze of my mother first falling upon me, and then turned upward. But I stubbornly said "I have no faith, there is no hope, there is no God of love or justice, or he would pity his children, and not lead them on in their ignorance to misery." And then there came to my soul the, words, "till the heart is made pure through suffering, there can be no real joy nor heaven," but I would not believe, and hastily dressing myself for the evening meal,metthe family as usual, calm- ly, quietly, but of course hypo- critically. My intuitive powers were quick- ened, and again I distrusted Mrs. Ormond. I knew she watched me, I was sure she read my secret. Her sympathetic manner annoyed me, and I avoided her as much as possible. "Do you not believe in divor- ces?" said she, one evening to her brother, who had just come from some business of my husband's, and looked rather weary. "At present, no; but why do you ask?" "Because sometimes they seem to me to be very convenient. But what are your objections?" "Having taken upon us a vow, solemnly and for life, we have, of ourselves, I believe, no right to break it. We need even greater check than we have to entering upon marriage unadvisedly. Tne world requires farther discipline in this matter. It needs to be whipped, through the ordinance of marriage, to the very heart's cole, and not to be freed lightly from the chains it accepts so readily. What God has joined together no man can put asunder, yet no ceremony joins two people whom God has not joined. This is the lesson that the world has not yet learned, or else it ignores. For parents and children enter with their lips into marriage, when page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] the heart is too often far from it." "But, brother, love marriages are often very unhappy." "Not if they are really love marriages. A true marriage is indissoluble from its very nature, and in spite of everything, as far, at least, as that relation is con- cerned, it cannot be unhappy." "You talk as a bachelor might be expected to, of that of which he knows nothing; but can you give us a test whereby we may know true marriage?" "That problem, I admit, is -ifficult of solution. Did we, however, listen to our intuitions, we should be better guided. There is an instinct, I believe, in every individual, properly heeded, to warn us of danger, but we cover it so with our worldliness, we clothe it so with our caution, we burden ourselves so, with the care which belongs to Providence, serving the Mammon of the world rather than the God of our higher nature, that better promptings are cast one side, and our worldly wisdom pushes us on to misery. And here again, comes in the effect of the social evil, I have before spoken of, of making a distinction in the required morality of the sexes. The two have, in the order of things, to come together in matri- mony. Of one, moral purity has been required, she is said to be the weakest. To the other, lati- tude in the way of licentiousness 1 not only has been allowed, but ] rather encouraged. He is consid- ered the strongest, and is made by ] the law the natural guardian of the woman. He has graduated in a school of vice. His intimate female associations have been, most probably, among the vicious. What possible chance is there for him to understand the pure un- sullied nature of the woman he has sought in marriage, or the 'love she brings him? The sub- strata being foul, the superstrUc- ture is permeated with noxious vapors, and not till we have struclk at the root of .the tree, will the terrible and widely growing evil of unhappy marriage be corrected. When mankind has suffered suffi- ciently from ignorance of the real nature of the laws that govern the marriage relation and seeks to be enlightened, the door will open for further instruction; meantime we must pay. the penalty of our neglect and ignorance upon the subject, and wait, as I said before, till the chastisement has been sufficient. But I did not propose to deliver an address upon the sub- ject, this evening, and as I am really weary will bid you good night." "I have no patience with the man," said Lucy. "He is as vis- ionary, and as full of odd fangled notions as possible. Men and women don't understand each other, nor never will, and mar- riage would cease should they wait for a miracle." "But perhaps, if they associated upon terms of more equality," said I, "they might do so." "Nonsense! I am only sorry Ned has such ideas, for I had hoped that we might obtain an ally in him, in your case. Your troubles will only end in divorce, I am sure." "Your imagination is taking a more active journey than usual; there will be no divorce, and you will need nio allies in my interest." But why not? You and Hern- dA hate each other. Do you con- sirer it a virtue, under the cir- cumstances, to play a part for the world's deception?" "My feelings for my husband hardly merit the term-hatred. Moreover, I consider that for some wise purpose a cross has been laid upon my shoulders, which I shall be helped to bear, otherwise it would be taken from me." But it was easier to say that to Lucy than to think it alone in-my chambenr I wondered there if I was right in bearing the cross, in allowinig my womanhood to be dragged to the depths where I now found it. I asked "' am I an ac- countable being, responsible for my actions, and for the conditions in which I find myself?" But I reflected that in good faith I had taken upon myself the vows so difficult to keep, and I said, ] "Amen! I will try to endure." c Mr. Stanley did not leave us for t some weeks after he announced j his determination to -do so. We met as before, I never avoided him. His own self control was so strong that mine was no effort. One day, however, he broached the t: subject nearest the hearts of both, t] saying: "Leah!-allow me to call you so-our lot in life hereafter, in b one respect, must prove similar. We have both ourelves to subdue. Connubial love must be absent from the lives of both, if, as I be- lieve, the divine unquenchable spark has been lighted, which, under-other circumstances, might have kindled true marriage. For once let me speak, hereafter I will h old my peace. I love you deeply, truly, tenderly. I shall go forth to fight the battle of self conquest to endeavor to be happy, setting aside one of the greatest elements of happiness. You have the same work to perform. In this must our marriage consist. In this must we ever be united Can you say amen?" I could say nothing, but I took the hand he gave me, and he continued. "I could have wished you spared this sorrow, save that I believe it will tend to strength and purifica- tion. The father loves his chil- dren, we will place ourselves in his arms, and say 'teach us thy will, that we may fulfil it.'" "I am rebellious, Mr. Stanley. My heart is hard and stubborn. I accept my discipline, because I cannot help it, but the World looks to me, filled with sorrow and in- justice. I see no hand divine giding the elements. They come battling together and strife, inhar- mony and discord are the results." "But above them all is a hand that guideth. Watch and note the power that brings at length order from chaos." "I do not see it; there is'ia6hing but darkness." page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] "You will soon, my child, if not now. Accept the discipline, and say amen." "Amen, because you wish it," and I hurried from the room. That night my little Harry was born, I had not cared for life. I had hoped I might die, and thus escape the trials that lay before me. It was cowardly, but I hugged my weakness to my heart, and never asked for strength. Life was so worthless, I felt it would not be taken from me, but when I held the tiny baby hand within my own, and knew its utter helpless- ness, I thanked God he had spared me, and given me something I had a right to love. In selfish joy, I forgot, almost, the partner of my sorrow, until at length he was admitted to see me. "I am going away to-morrow, but I must tell you how glad I am that you have something now to divert you from yourself, some- thing for which to live, and for which you will be able to make any sacrifice." "But must you go? I need your strength to help me when mine shall fail, your council to guide when my own judgment falters." "External help gives but mo- mentary strength. You should not seek it in yourself; but from on 'High. I must go. I have ar- ranged my business so that I need never return to America, if I can find a field for usefulness in Eu- rope. We may not meet again, and yet if it is right, and best in the eye of a Hiigher Power, we shall undoubtedly do so. But remem- ber that we never suffer unless we need it." "But will you tell me in what way I have merited my punish- ment. I certainly thought, when I married Dr. Herndon, I loved him." "Yes! but you remember you told me when you first met him, you did not like him. You disre- garded instinct, and suffered yourself to be overcome by his blandishments; your weakness needed strengthening, and as the law you broke was a high one, the reaction must be correspond- ingly great. The same, also, with my own error. I loved you from the beginning, but strong in my strength, suffered myself to play with the temptation, and selfishly regarding my own happiness, heedlessly led you into farther suffering, which might have been avoided by my own self denial. I well merit 'the suffering which has and must still follow my trans- gression, made doubly poignant by regret." "Think nothing of me, Mr. Stanley. For a few happy hours of my life I am indebted to you; but this doctrine of compensation is terrible, and seems to be visited even upon our errors." "Our good deeds find their own reward; our sins point out the weakness which has caused them, requiring strength, that in the end we reach perfection. We ought, therefore, to accept our punishment, kissing the rod that chasteneth. " "It seems to me your entire doctrine inculcates the total abne- gation of our own wills." "By no means. I simply ad- vocate the 'reaching of under- standing to the highest possible point of principle, as a standard, shaping our wills in accordance with that standard, as far as we can do so, leaving then the result. I do not, know that I make you comprehend my meaning, but I am loitering. It is time I left you. Lucy and Herndon will always be informed of my where- abouts, meantime, God bless you and keep you," and he turned to leave me. "Don't ,go! O! Mr. Stanley, don't go yet. Shall I never see you again?"I cried in such anguish that he turned towards me. "Don,t tax me too greatly, Leah! Leah!" he said in a voice of sorrow I could never forget, and hastily touching his lips to my cheek, he left the room. Again the darkness of blackness; again an empty void; again the longing for the sweet sleep of for- getfulness. Even my little child could rouse no emotion in my soul. I listened for his footsteps, as I had often heard them pass the door, the sound of voices reached me, the rolling of the carriage to the gate, my breath was hushed- he was gone. There was life in the street,' motion' and sound. Its murmur reached me, producing no echo within my soul, falling idly upon my ear. The city was one great void. In spirit I left it, in spirit pursued the phantom of joy which was hastening away. What was life to me in those dark moments; but sighing heavily, I drew back my soul to the infant at my side, and bade myself value my life for its sake. Fortunately he was very troub- lesome, requiring all my care, and crying almost continually. Hern- don seemed to hate him, and said "of all the villainous brats that had come into the world, this one might take the palm." At length he proposed that the child should be removed from the house, saying that I could not manage it, and he would no longer be disturbed. At first I paid no attention to his remarks, believing them to be the result of simple irritation, but when, one day, in a serious manner, he informed me he had decided to send the child to the country, to a person whom he believed to be entirely trust- wurthy, my indignation knew no bounds, yet I replied quite calmly. "Of this matter I have, I think, the right to judge. Hitherto you have ignored my individuality altogether, in our relations, but there are rights which belong to every person, married or single, that ought to be consulted by the partner on either side, as well as an identity which should be pre- served, for without individuality we are like a ship without a rud- der or anchor, floating about upon the sea of circumstances, at the mercy of the whims of others, whether reasonable or otherwise. I have allowed myself, heretofore, to ignore this fact, and lived ac- page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] corclingly. Now the responsibility of this child is given me, you may rest assured I shall assert myself, as far at least as he is concerned, and I now inform you that he will not be sent from me." "You have profited well by the instruction of your teacher Stan- ley. It is a pity he did not also instruct you, that the husband is made the legal guardian of his wife, as well as his children. These are my rights, and yott may rest assured I shall assert them." As he left the room, Lucy Or- mond entered, and said, "I am very sorry for you, Leah, but the matter is settled, the child goes to-morrow, and it is my impression it will never be returned to you. I have heard some stories in re- gard to your husband, and have reason to believe that another oc- cupies the place towhich you have a right in his heart. He would probably like to cause a rupture, which the law only could heal, but still wishes to retain the child. This he can do if you and Harry are one parted, by bringing char- ges against you, substantiated by false swearing or otherwise. Char- ges which you would have no power to refute." "I do not understand what you mean, Lucy. He can show no 3 cause for divorce." "Morally he has none, legally e he may buy witnesses to accuse i you, and you have no money 1 wherewith to defend yourself. I am very sorry Edward has gone." 1 And so was I, though I believed E nothing more of this story than c that my child was to be taken from me. At the same time, knowing nothing very good of mly husband, from any one but Lucy, I should have received the whole tale as truth. As it was, my distrust of her left some room for doubt; and yet, feeling that my child was to be taken from me if I did not at once take active measures to prevent it. I accepted the only council and assistance I could obtain in the' emergency, and was that afternoon C en rolte " for Boston. There was nothing, of course very strange, in my seeking refuge under my father's roof, and with distance between us, it seemed the easiest thing in the world to ask of him sympathy and protection; but as the distance lessened, I re- membered that his ideas of the duty of a wife were perfectly inex- orable. "Wives submit your- selves unto your husbands in all things," was the text I'had always heard quoted in all differences, in the marriage relation, where his opinion had been asked, and the idea even of seeking his council deserted me, as I neared my old home. Hiswife isa woman thoug'ht I; she will, at least, give me pity and advice. But she had never been a mother, and though she re- ceived me as cordially as the cool- ness of her nature would allow, the frigidity of the atmosphere seemed to increase with every mo- ment of my stay, until at length it became utterly impossible to tell her, that immaculate woman, who had never been guilty of visible sin, of all the short-comings of a deserting wife. My parents were not apparently surprised by my visit, though they vigorously opposed my desire to leave in a few days, which I thought it best qute soon to an- nounce. They were so matter of fact in 'their own lives, so utterly unob- servant of others, that I was ena- bled to play the part I was called upon to perform, better than I should otherwise have done. Lucy had promised to write me, notify- ing me of any movement upon the part of Herndon necessary for me to know, and I awaited in great. anxiety the letter. In a few days it reached me, and thus it read: DEAR LEAH :-Your sudden dis- appearance was a matter of great surprise of course to us all. Hern- den returned as usual, and remark- ed it was a wonder that the house was so quiet, that your anxiety to. retain possession of the child had undoubtedly induced you to take more pains to keep him still than before, but it would be of no use, as he was resolved. I repliedyou had been out with the boy all the afternoon. He- seemed rather startled, yet remained quiet until dinner, but when that hour had passed and you had not returned he indignantly ordered the car- riage and drove to the house of - and- thinking perhaps you had sought to alarm him by your absence. He was still more irritated, evidently, than uneasy, and returned feeling confident he - should find you here. He was x still more irritated at this second r disappointment, and questioned E 4 me in regard to your movements. Of course again I knew nothing, nor had the servants observed you leaving the house. He then sail your manner had been so peculiar of late, he was afraid you had com- mitted suicide. Of course, I laugh- ed at the idea, and he still contin- ued his speculations. I do not wish you for a moment to suppose he misled me by his manner, to fancy his love for you was the cause of his anxiety. He is such a proud man, and likes to appear so proper in the eyes of the world, that the idea of the public announcement of a domestic catas- trophe nearly frightened him into something like humanity. Besides his love for the child, notwithstand- ing its irritability, is really great within him. It bears his. naime and his blood, and that anything should happen to it he prayed might be averted.: I had really a great deal to do to pacify him, and suggested that you had probably been anxious to keep the child, and after the nurse, who was to come in the morning, had departed, you would very likely return. This solution he seemed inclined to accept. His anxiety threw him into the melting mood, and he did not go out as usual that evening, but appeared desirous I should keep up his courage by repeated reiterations of my assurance that you would return in the morning. It was a fearful night. The wind wailed among the trees, the boughs rattled against each other, and the rain spattered and splashed in the street. No traveller ventured forth page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] unless the messengrof death or danger. I was too much excited too sleep, and several times during the night looked out upon the vio- lence of the storm. You know my room commands a view of the Doctor's north win- dow, and I noticed he burned his light all night, and observed his shadow flitting hither and thither. Towards morning, I fell asleep. We were all late at breakfast, and when Herndon entered, the post man had brought a letter, which laid upon the table. He turned rather pale, as he observed the writing, and grasped firmly the chair, by which he was btanding, as he read aloud your letter, (here enclosed, by the author.) "I leave you Dr. -Herndon, be- cause I can no longer consent to be trodden under your feet. I take my child. God gave him to me, through the sufferings of ma- ternity, and I believe I have there- by the right to protect him. You have still that, for which you mar- ried, money, and can thus'afford to lay aside the claims, the law has given you, upon my liberty. I trust to your magnanimity, that you will not follow me, but will allow me, humbly and quietly to devote my life to my little Harry. Few words perhaps are best, and thus, farewell. LmEH --. ' "For the boy's sake this must be kept quiet," said he; "give out she has gone to her father's, where she probably is. This afternoon I will follow her." I dissuaded him from doing so, saying, if you were not there it would cause a more speedy devel- opement than under existing cir- cumstances seemed to me judicious; that you were evidently in safety, and in time would undoubtedly beg to return. I felt sure you were not supplied with money, and were in no way fitted to battle with pov- erty. "If she is at her father's, let her finish her visit, and give her time to return to her senses." This I said to allow you opportunity for final arrangements. He concurred in my judgment, and you will consequently have a week or two to mature your plans. During the morning we received etters from Edward. The Doe- or's annoyed him, and he read aloud the following extract: "But I cannot close without a word of advice. Herndon, you do not ap- preciate your wife. Study her character, endeavor to assimilate her tastes with yours; make your home pleasant to yourself; for the happiness of both is at stake." "Bah!" said the Doctor, crush- ing the letter in his hand, "how easy it is to arrange other people's affairs for them. I wish he had her himself, he admires her so much." "You forget you are speaking of my brother." "I beg pardon Lucy. He is brother in blood, but not in char- acter. He's a would-be saint, and will never reach his aspirations in this world. Suchmenonly delude themselves, and not being at all able to reach their own standard of perfection in practice, are look- ed upon as hypocrites." But my letteris alreadytoo long, and I will close here, promising to write youfagain in a few days. Let me hear of your plans for the future, and believe me, with the utmost affection, LucY- . I distrusted every word of that letter, and resolved to give her no farther confidence; and my dis- trust may well be accounted for, when I explain that in later years I had reason to believe that Lucy Ormond had been constantly act- ing as an accomplice with my hus- band to make me take such steps as in the eyes of the law would justify divorce. That all her in- terests had centered upon its ac- complishment, as a large sum of money was to be the reward of success. That the Doctor had read her from childhood, had known her unscrupulous, schem- ing disposition better than any member of her own family; and I have now the satisfaction of know- ing that when I returned to Bos- ton, I had simply fallen into the snare which had been spread for me. CHAPTER IX. Mary Leighton was seated upon a low stool. A robe of white cashmere, with palm-leaf border, lay gracefully about her. Her head was resting on her hand, a bright rose spot burned upon her cheek. She was lonely; she was often lonely-now, and had been thinking of Anna and her mother, and a tear wet the downcast lash as she thought of the time when they alone were dear to hen She longed for them now, she had even sought them; but an old crone filled her mother's corner, while the' coarse Irish woman, who opened the door, answered her roughly that she knew nothing of those for whom she enquired, and the lame shoemaker, who lived below, looked so familiar Qshe dared make no farther enquiry, lest he should recognize her. And now, more lonely than ever, she sat by herself in her splendid rooms, listening for his footsteps, for he alone was left her. Her musings were of the past, of the hour when she forsook her moth- er's home, feeling that life would perish should she try to exist with- out his love. She had sacrificed all, and every- thing. Had she received compen- sation? Was there any one in the world who merited such sacri- fice? And she sighed as she said, "It has been hard; it is still hard; it must always be hard. I am not happy; indeed I am very wretched; but I love him still. And where," she said, with a kind of fierceness, "has been my crime, in giving myself unre'erv- edly, where my affection led me? And yet I have no peace. Night and day I feel my degradation. O, God! if I could hold myself before the world, and brave it; but I am weak, so weak." Then she heard his footsteps, and brushed away her tears. No repining before him; no sadness. Her trust in his affection was hardlygreat enough to make him page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] full confidante in her misery, and she wiped away her tears and smiled upon him as he entered. But his mood was irritable. "What are you doing to your- self, Mary, to look so ill? It is a poor recompense for my love, that after all my trouble you can- not make yourself happy enough to keep, at least; in good health." "Is it possible to be happy, with the heart ill at ease?" she said, in a tone to which he was little ac- customed. "And why need your heart be ill at ease? Have you not what you bargained for, my love and all your surroundings?" "I am an out-cast from the world; everything decent shuns me;" and she walked rapidly up and down the room, as if endeav- oring to control her feelings.- She looked very pale. Herndon saw her suffering, and, loving her beyond all else in this world, his heart was moved; besides, he felt his injustice. Upon that young and lovely wo- man, one of the rarest specimens of God's creation, his act had cast a blight. He had shut her from his own sphere in life, and cast her where her only associates could be from the depths of im- purity; and though erring from her great love for him, yet she was not unchaste enough in soul to be able to cast herself lower into the purlieus of sin. Her loneliness was adding to the blight, and, feeding herself upon the morbid fancies which such a life must necessarily engender, her physical strength was failing. She seemed fading from earth. The only tender chord in his soul had been touched by Mary. She, alone, had power to waken his better nature; and now, his irritability vanquished, he drew her gently towards him. "Forgive me, Mary, forgive me," said he. "I am sometimes very cross to you; but my position is so false, to all connected with me. that I am as wretched as you. That cursed old woman! that cursed money! O! if I could but live again in my young man- hood, be satisfied with an humble home, and a beautiful bride. But come, I have maneuvred thus far, and must continue to maneuvre. You shall go to Europe, Mary; upon that I have determined. My wife has gone home to her father's, and I will go with you, as guar- dian to the ward of an orphan friend. But, first, I shall send you to the country and let you try your powers as actress there." "But, Herndon, I am tired of deceit. I long to live a true life. I want to begin again; to go back to the clear, open path. Can we not do so?" "Yes! by renouncing each other." But she was not ready for that. She must suffer still more; and so, the plan was announced, and in a few days carried into operation. Some miles from the city of New York,. in a country village, lived the widow of a cler- gyman, by name Munson. She was 'passed the prime of life; a good motherly soul whose child- ren had crossed the river of death long before they reached maturity, anq left the room in her heart to be occupied by nearly every child in a tolerably large parish. She was genial and sin- gle-hearted in the extreme. She believed no evil. If a knowledge of it was forced upon her she cov- ered it with the mantle of charity, and thus glided about her own little world, gilding it with the halo of her own goodness. Dr. Herndon had known her long, and it was she whom he had selected to carry out his plans, in. his own behalf and Mary's. With her assistance he hoped to cloak with respectability the new posi- tion in which he proposed to place his so-called protege, and acting immediately upon the announce- ment of his design to Mary, he took a carriage and drove to the village where Mrs. Munson lived. It was early spring, and chilly still; perhaps that was why he rode so fiercely, or, perhaps his haste was increased by the anxiety which this interview with Mary had caused him. At any rate, he drove so rapidly the horses seemed almost to fly past one guide-board and another, the driver hardly perceiving that tender green leaves were springing-up in the meadows; that the brooks, released from their icy boindage, flowed merrily over their pebbly beds; - that only here and there a patch of soiled snow was rapidly melting from sight, as if ashamed of the stain its contact with earth had cast upon it. It was afternoon when he reached the village, and seek- ing the cottage of the clergyman's widow he entered, as he had often done before, without knocking. The old lady had fallen asleep, as was her wont at this hour of the day. Her knitting lay upon the handkerchief, spread .upon her lap, her hands-were folded upon her breast, and her bright rosy cheeks, with their setting of spot- less lawn, gave an idea of health and purity which charmed even the hard man before her. "The angels have fanned her with their wings," said old Katie, the house- keeper, as she stood with Herndon before her, but even the Doctor's haste would not allow him to dis- turb her, and seating himself at the window, he waited the waken- ing. It was not long, and somewhat surprised as she opened her eyes to behold an intruder, she wiped her glasses and adjusted them to her sight before she recognized Dr. Herndon. He was not an habitual visitor, still she had seen him sufficiently often to manifest no surprise at his appearance now. Her husband had finished Dr. Herndon's preparation for 6ollege, and at the time he had been domi- ciled with them. There were other of her hus- band's pupils she had loved more warmly, still, he had always mani- fested an interest in the widow of his old teacher, and she had re- tained a kindly feeling towards him. His wife, Mrs. Munson had page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] never seen, nor in his domestic affairs had she ever shown interest. It was, consequently, with some surprise she listened to the com- mencement of his business. "I have come to ask a favor of you," said he, " which I acknowl- edge our friendship is almost too slight to warrant, and which, un- der any other circumstances, might seem almost presumption, but as the life of a human being depends upon it, I must take the liberty." Mrs. Munson listened without replying, and as Dr. Herndon was not in the habit of deliberate false- hood, his embarrassment increased with every word he uttered; but ras. Munson, mistaking its cause, endeavored to assist him to a con- clusion by an encouraging nod and look of sympathy, and he pro- ceeded, "I am going to Europe on business; my domestic affairs are in such a condition I cannot take Mrs. Herndon, who is now on a visit to her father, or I should not be obliged to apply to you. A friend has died at the West, leaving me the charge of his or- phan daughter. Sinceher father's death the young lady's health has been failing, and I am confident now that nothing but a sea voyage will restore her, and I wish to take her with me. This cannot be done without a chaperone. In the midst of my anxiety my mind reverted to the motherly care and kindness of my Prdfessor's wife, and almost ashamed now of mylpresumption, I would like to be able to induce you to go with us." Mrs. Munson's surprise was so manifest that, with the aid of Herndon's guilty conscience, it was easy for him, for a few min- utes, to fancy she detected the de- ceit.- The old lady's kindly na- ture came again to the rescue, and in proportion to his discomfitire she felt the need of exerting her- self to re-assure him. "This is a matter which re- quires consideration. You do me much honor," she said, "in deem- ing me worthy to fill the posi- tion. I am a very poor traveller, still, if so much depends upon it, and your wife does not object, I may accept your kindly offer, if no one else can be found to do so; at the same time, I must first see the young lady." Mrs. Munson did not for a mo- ment doubt the truth of the story which had been told her. Her own upright and truthful nature, made her utterly incapable of sus- pecting the capacity of any one to coin such a story, and her own willingness to be of service to others made it not incredible that even Dr. Herndon, who had al- ways been accused of selfishness, might occasionally be moved to perform a generous action. .She would have preferred, had it been possible, to have seen Mrs. Hern- don before accepting the charge, but as that lady was in Boston she satisfied herself with asking time for consideration, and demanding to see Mary. Dr. Herndon lost no time un- necessarily in complying with the wishes of Mrs. Munson in this re- spect. Mary was informed of the part she was to play in the trans- action. It was a difficult one. With all her faults, she was natur- ally truthful, and had been taught from childhood to despise false- hood. Not even the urgency of the case would seem to excuse the meanness-a meanness towardthat old woman who looked so kindly upon her and spoke so gently. Thus Mary answered Mrs. Mun- son's questions with such timidity the old lady's heart was moved within her, and she questioned if it would be right to refuse a re- quest, when by accepting she might be of such service to the beautiful motherless girl, standing at present in such need of protec- tion, and she consented to be one of the paity to Europe. Mary was almost sorry. She doubted her ability to act contin- uously the part she had assumed, and for a moment felt inclined to throw herself on the neck of good Mrs. Munson and confess the truth; but this involved the out- ward surrender, at least, of her affection for Herndon. She had not strength for that, and the good impulse died in the heart that prompted it. CHAPTER X. Two weeks from my arrival at my father's had passed, and found me stationary, hearing nothing more from Lucy. This' state of uncertainty was very disagreeable, and I concluded at length to de- cide upon some movement imme- diately. But one plan presented itself to me-to go .into the interior of New Hampshire, where I was en- tirely unknown, leaving no trace behind me of my movements. The day before the one on which I decided to leave, however, brought me a note from Lucy, stating that my husband was go- ing to Europe, and advising me to remain at my father's. This course was as repugnant to me as to return to New York, be- cause I dreaded the criticism of my family, and fearing that they might in some way learn of my husband's departure, was more anxious than ever to hasten my movements. I had been well supplied with valuable jewelry, which I now de- termined to turn to account. 'My early habits of frugality came to my assistance, and I was sure my means would be sufficient to sus- tain me, even for years, were it necessary, in the humble manner in which I had determined to live. For days I had pondered upon a vision of my childhood-an old red farm-house among the hills of New Hampshire. It was a hoBem picture, with but little beauty, but the idea of comfort and peace, in- dependence and plenty, attracted 'me, and these inducements were the remnants of early reminis- cences. The bright, yellow sunflower, the crimson hollyhock, the bril- liant marigold, which had dazzled the fancy of childhood, had lost their charm for me now; but rest seemed to be personified in the page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] little red farm house which was at length to be the goal of all myf hopes. My parents wondered at the va- gary which sent me to New Hamp- shire rather than to my home in New York; but, luckily, they did not press me for explanations, which, under the circumstances, would have proved exceedingly awkward, and thanking them in my heart for their forbearance, I seated myself in the stage which was to assist me in reaching my destination. The rain was pouring in tor- rents; my companions seemed cross and uncomfortable, and my owni dejected looks passed unno- ticed in the general gloom. The atmosphere of the 'stage was intolerable, and an old woman behind me drew up with a jerk the glass of the only opened window, preventing any addition to the small supply of oxygen which the passengers were rapidly consum- ing. Fortunately she was made so uncomfortable by this move- ment, she was suddenly obliged to reverse it. Harry began to whine a little, and a surly-looking man frightened him into a louder cry, by glaring at him through his glasses, and when he was pacified my own head ached so violently I could scarcely endure it. The journey throughout was fatiguing and disagreeable in the extreme, consuming two days, exhausting my patience, and almost my cour- age. I began to ask myself if I had not been hasty; if my flight had not shown weakness rather than strength; if I felt strong in ftle justice of my cause why had I not informed my father of my po- sition and asked his advice? I had acted throughout in the most cowardly manner; had I reason to suppose I had strength and courage to complete my design? But, I argued to myself, my own reason is my best judge, none else can decide my course of action, and if I am weak I must find strength to continue on my way. But on the afternoon of the sec- ond day, when I reached my des- tination, I was glad to find at the country tavern a kind-hearted landlady who showed me to a room, lighted the fire, and, with the candles, brought in tea and toast, when I undressed little Harry, who soon fell asleep. Then I sat alone before the fire, listening to the rain drops as they pattered upon the roof, thinking of him I had left -behind, of the past, with its little of pleasure- looking to the future with anxious eyes. To Stanley next, my mind re- verted. What would he think of these last movements? I could not say. In this respect my mind misgave me. But then, how could he know the feelings of a mother trampled in the dust? I should never ask his opinion; very likely I should never know it. It was late before I retired, and then the noise. of the elements disturbed me. The wind went wailing about the building like lost spirits, creaking the faded old sign of Gen. Washington, moan- ing around the corners, and dying into silence in the distance. I slept at length, and awoke in- to sunlight; but my first inquiries doomed m'e to disappointment. The farmers around were quite in- dependent and declined to take boarders, especially strangers and city folks, but my kind-hearted landlady came again to my assis- tance, and informed me of a house she thought I could. obtain, the owner of which had lost his wife, and his own work called him to the neighboring village. A home to myself I had scarcely expected, but I accepted the landlady's offer to obtain for me the required in- formation, and as the matter was speedily arranged, by night I found myself in a home of my own-an humble one, and meanly furnished. But when the fire was lighted, the kettle singing upon the hearth, and Master Harry again asleep, I felt that I could rest. Still! how still the whole world seemed to me. Safe! I was cer- tainly safe, at the foot of that high hill, just as the hare was safe when it had found a covert, pro- vided no hound should track it. And he whom I alone had cause to fear I hoped was on his way to Europe.' But, supposing I had been misinformed, would he seek me out and drag me back; worse still, would he take my child away? And then I locked the door and fastened the windows, and clasped the boy's hand, while my thoughts still wandered. But now to him who awakened my heart to knowl- edge of itself. What was his love? A simple passion born to die without the food that nourished it? God knew he could be nought to me. My duty now was with my boy. There was no remorse, for I thought I was right. My home must be made more inviting; the cottage was comfortable but rather homely with its cheap red paint on the outside and its naked floors within. I must train some vines over the windows and take away the sunflowers. The hops run- ning upon the tall straight poles might be trained up the sides and a climbing rose or two concealed the paint for the summer. My means were small, but with economy I could afford a few de- corations; and a simple matting upon the floor, with pretty white curtains, would give a less comr mon look to the general appear- ance of the house. I had stepped aside from lux- ury, but was not prepared for pov- erty, even thus half way, as yet. What need? time enough in the distance. Bye and bye, perhaps, when less crippled by HarTy's in- fancy, I might obtain a woman's pittance by work, hard work in this work-a-day world. Thank God, not yet! and I counted over my little hoard, placed it in safety, and giving one glance at the stars, which spangled the Heavens, thanked God for the peace that surrounded me, and cast away all care in sleep. page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] CHAPTER XL A Scotch mist was hanging heavily over the city of New York. The shipping in the harbor was nearly concealed by it, and it bathed the faces of those who were gathered upon the deck of the vessel, where everything be- tokened a speedy departure. A carriage drove rapidly to the wharf, and Dr. Herndon assisted to the ship his younger charge and Mrs. Munson. He did not wait for the recognition of friends, but hurried at once to the state rooms, under the plea that Mary must not be exposed to the in- clemency of the weather, nor would he leave her, notwithstand- ing Mrs. Munson's repeated asser- tions that there was no necessity for him to remain, and that she could take care of Mary while he went on deck. He was in no mood to meet such friends as he might find among the spectators. He knew the part he had to play was a perilous one. Time enough to gratify curiosity when it could not be avoided. Had he dared, he would have confined Mary to her stateroom during the voyage. But this would have been impossible. For a few days, he reflected, she would probably be obliged to re- main there, meantime he could accustom himself to his novel po- sition. Were the whole world as unsuspecting as good Mrs. Mun- son, thought he; but the mist was lifting, the ship was at sea, and he breathed more freely. It was several days before Mary made her appearance among the assengers, when the admiration excited was so great as to be cidedly visible. No one among the -passengers knew either the Doctor or his charge, and the mystery which enveloped them was increased by the distance of manner the gentleman thought proper to assume. But the effort to be exclusive simply marked them more, and as the monotony of a life at 'sea causes anything promising excitement to be seized upon with avidity, they were the theme of every tongue. The ge- nial nature of the old lady made it very difficult for her to confine herself within the lines which the Doctor had marked out. There were young mothers with babes, her own warm heart would have prompted her to succor; invalids to whom she did venture some- times to offer relief; and she sighed very often at the thought of the restraints which of a sud- den had fallen upon her freedom. Mary seemed perfectly indiffer- ent to the admiration her beauty excited. A few young gentlemen, more daring than the rest, offered her civilities, but they wearied of their efforts when they found their politeness could scarcely obtain a smile as a recompense. But this kind of life was very distasteful to Dr. Herndon. He would have liked to have vented his rage sometimes upon the can- didates for favor who obtruded themselves upon Mary. He felt no strong confidence in her prin- ciples, and gave her credit for vanity she did not really possess. Knowing little of the strength of affection of which some women are capable, and through which such can only fall; he judged her as the world ifpt to judge of women-that yielding once she needs but the trial to fall again. Poor Mary! with her heart only aching for his affection-her sac- rificed life to be warmed in the sunlight of his love. Poor girl! could she but have earlier known that the sacrifice, of truth and right could bring nothing but misery, she would have stayed, with her heart turned to stone by his perfidy, in the little garret, rather, than to have sold for his selfish love her higher nature. Mrs. Munson was unremitting in her kindness, and Mary some- times laid her head upon the motherly bosom, while the old lady, glancing at the mourning garments Mary had assumed, and thinking of, the dead father Hern- don had told her of, forbore to check the tear that might serve to relieve the aching heart. Mary's contempt for her own meanness in deceiving the old lady grew stronger every day. She was sometimes tempted to -confess-to ask to be led back to the path of truth. The little garret now seemed the Garden of Eden, from which her sin had ex- pelled her. No peace had she known since. She would tell all, and ask in the name of our common Father, the help to right. But again came the tempter. He took her hand; he looked upon her face, and the angel was driven away again. They had been at sea some days, and the monotony of the voyage was fairly established when one of those scenes occurred which render the passage from this world to another almost visible, and which upon the ocean seems to bring to the spectator with ten- fold force the reality of life uncer- tainty. Nearly all the passengers were on deck, for it was one of those glorious days when the elements of nature are most in harmony, and all were quiet, because to breathe was bliss sufficient with- out further effort at enjoyment. But a bustle at the gangway at- tracted attention, and an old man bearing the form of a young girl in his arms appeared on deck. One glance at the face showed Death was approaching, but she had begged so earnestly to be al- lowed to die in: the sunlight that the effort was permitted, and the young consumptive, with her father and sister, were the central objects of attraction upon that crowded deck. The sick girl paid no heed to it. "Is it not lovely," said she, "this Sabbath morning? I could die here, with the billows making end- less music, and the warm sunlight round about. The world is very beautiful, is it not, father? and I so young. Do not weep for me, sister," as a tear fell upon the thin white hand so fondly clasped. "It's best I go, I am too weak to cumber the glad earth longer. It page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] is no place for such as I, and the kind God takes the useless cum- berers and warms them in his arms, and makes them well again. Is Doctor here," said she, "it grows so dark," and she raised her hand as if to wipe away the film collecting, "I feel so strange- ly. But even while she spoke the spirit departed, and in the bustle which ensued Dr. Herndon en- deavored'to draw Mary, who was very pale, away to her stateroom. "I cannot go, Herndon, do not ask me," said she, "I could not breathe below; let me remain here; will you not?" and all daylong she sat on deck with so much thought on her face the Doctor wondered what it augured. The sun went down behind a cloud-a dark portentous cloud- yet fringed at first with gold and then with lightning messengers across its face, while the distart thunder muttered. The waves grew black and turbid, and still, with close reefed sails the heavy mass which bore its freight of life from continent to continent lay waiting for the conflict. For hours the storm swept round it. Like a child's toy the heavy mass was tossed hither and thither, and hearts grew cold, and death seemed coming very near to those who felt the strength of life'when that frail girl was yield- ing up her breath; but now God only knew the end. Not yet! not yet! with every heart-beat went the cry, not ready yet! Not yet the hour had come; for soon the storm weg down; the stars shone out to mark the peace that fell upon the sea, and then-while yet the waves, boiling and surging in their lonely wrath, (all else was stilD; awaited theirvictim, withthe lowered flag, the tolling bell, the solemn dirge, the plunge that made the reckless pause -the young consumptive found her final resting place. Mary Leighton had fainted. It was some time before she recov- ered, and then, in the seclusion of her stateroom, from which, on some pretext she had dismissed Mrs. Munson, she threw her arms around the Doctor's neck, saying, "I can't die now; don't let me die," and she sobbed convulsively. "Calm yourself, Mary," said the Doctor sternly, "you are not going to die; nerve yourself, and you will be as well as ever." "Bnt I cannot act this part any longer; I cannot deceive. Mrs. Munson more. This living lie will kill me. The passive life of sin was nothing to one of gross deceit. Let me tell Mrs. Mun- son, none else need know it, and then I will go back and redeem my past life with one of virtue. O! Herndon, let me." "Let you," said he, fiercely, "think you I have staked all for nothing-that I have brought you thus far to yield you now? Mary, your life is my life; I have ab- sorbed it; it is to be mine hence- forth and forever, and woe be to him who shall dare to come be- tween us. Look at me, Mary!" and he seized her arm fiercely, "Do I look like one to be trifled with?" "O, Herndon," said she, "have mercy upon me." "Mercy! hark you, Mary!' let my will be your will; not one word to any one;" but Mrs. Munson re- turned at this moment, and Mary did not leave her stateroom again during the voyage. It happily was not long, and when they had reached Liverpool, and parted with their fellow travellers, Herndon was at ease again. They travelled all over the Euro- pean continent, the Doctor amus- ing himself byplaying the amiable, dutiful son to the old lady, and the fatherly councilor to the young one. All his powers of fascina- tion seemed brought to bear upon both, and whatever of natural irri- tability must needs find vent was expended in private, or on such as were compelled to do him ser- vice. Mary's health was com- pletely re-established, and she had become so accustomed to the part she had forced herself to play it was now quite natural to do so; and as Herndon had recently as- sured her that his wife had en- tirely deserted himL-that hereafter he should regard her as a stranger, and in all probability be enabled soon to obain a divorce, Mary nearly forgot the past, and looked forward with hope to the future. Upon their return trip, a day or two before the arrival in New York, Herndon said, "I trust, Mrs.,Munson, you will not refuse me the favor to take Mary to your home and care until such time as I can make other arrangements." "With the greatest pleasure, Doctor; Mary seems to me like a child of my own. But how will your wife like such an arrange- ment; will she not feel that your ward should find a home under your roof?" "I have no wife, Mrs. Munson. To be more explicit, I have been deserted. The subject is painful aad I have heretofore endeavored to dismiss it from my mind, but it is now a matter that may as well be spoken of." "O, Doctor, how pained I am to hear this. Are you quite sure there is no mistake which cannot be rectified-that she has really, intentionally deserted you?" "I have the avowal over her own signature. She does not con- fess what I really believe, that her affections have been given to another. SSuch being the case, of course there is no hope-" "O! do not say so. Assure yourself upon the subject, afid do not give up the case so lightly. What God has joined together let no man put asunder, and until you have ascertained beyond a doubt, do not, I beg of you, yield the case so readily." "Beyond a doubt, in my own mind, is the case decided." "Under the circumstances, then, we have acted very imprudently in taking your ward to Europe. Under the circumstances you are placing yourself in the way of temptation in associating with her so freely, and though I have learned to love Mary, and am now quite willing to continue my page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] charge, because I see, more than ever, how much she needs it, still, I, must say, Dr. Herndon, that had I known your true posi- tion, I should not have consented to have accompanied you upon your voyage, and in this matter I do not think you have behaved well towards me." "Pardon me, Madame; remem- ber Mary's condition, and do not judge me too harshly." But the old lady was more ex- cited and angry than he had ever before known her to be, and Hern- don was not at all at ease. "For Mary's sake I pardon you;" said she, "but we will speak no more upon the subject." Of course Mrs. Munson did not even then suspect the truth, or in her heart she could not have so readily pardoned the Doctor. She felt she had been duped; that her kindly nature had been turned to a use which, had she known the circumstances, her better judg- ment would have denied. She was too much of a woman not now to suspect that the feelings Dr. Herndon entertained for their beautiful charge were stronger than he chose to avow, and she also believed that the separation from his wife had be- come irrevocable simply because he wished to remove all barriers to a union with Mary. That the beautiful girl was particeps crimi- nis with Herndon she by no means suspected, and avowedly pardoned the Doctor in order that she might the better protect and council Malry. She had been used as an accomplice forHerndon's purpose; she would now protect her from his machinations; and they were soon both located in her home on the Hudson. CHAPTER XII The summer had departed-the emerald tint given way to the rus- set in the foliage. The glory of the garden had faded, and the stalks and dried leaves were all that remained of its beauty. Cold from the North came the breath of the frost king. It wrote itself upon the window panes. It crept into my rickety dwelling, and the muslin drapery and matting, which had seemed to soften the fervent heat o; sum- mer, added to the general cheei- lessness of my winter dwelling. And now the snow piled itself against the building, bringing into the foreground the bright red sides, which the summer flowers had concealed. There was little poetry now, and I began to long for a relief from poverty. My brain needed work; I had but few books. My neighbors lived at some distance. The' minister's wife had visited me, as well as Mrs. Deacon, who offered me a seat in her pew in church and invited me to join the sewing cir- cle, neither of which invitations I accepted, partly because I had no inclination, and partly because I felt that had my history been known, the courtesy would not have been preferred. Visits of inquiry not having proved satisfactory, and my re- serve being in no way removed thereby, the neighborly kindness ceased and the villagers began to feel quite certain that contamina- tion of some kind lurked about? my premises. The red house wa neglected, and doubtful nods a d a-erted looks often greeted necessary appearance in the vil- lage. I needed work--brain work of some kind. In my isolation even from the society where/ brains were held at a discount, prung a new cause for mental 1 bor, and now that my little hoardof money was growing less some/ means to live, even in poverty, woul'd soon be needed. I had heard nothingfrom Hern- don or Luq; perhaps the former thus tacitly gave consent to my own and Harry's absence, and-my mind was left untrammelled with anxiety upon that subject to pur- sue my own pleasure. I had read a German tale with Stanley which had afforded me much pleasure, and which I knew had never been' translated. I felt competent to undertake the work, and all alone the long, long, win- ter evenings I pursued my pleas- ant toil. The fascination of Stan- ley's presence seemed to cling to it, and never work bore lighter. By the. spring my manuscript 'was ready for the press. Pub- lishers, however, refused it, and my hopes in regard to financial success very soon were blighted. However, I had had occupation- one grand panacea for the lt that hope was now take . from me, and as our ills in life seem fond of company, a second followed on the-first, for I opened the door one morning and my hus- band stood before me. I very nearly fainted, but collected my- self sufficiently to ask him to en- ter. 'He looked about with an air of contempt, but espying Harry his attention was diverted for a few moments from my surround- ings, and as the child was hand- some, and very like himself, he could not fail to be pleased with him, and for a moment, in my mother's pride, I almost forgot our relative positions. He praised the healthy look of the boy, add- ing I had made a better nurse than he had supposed possible. He was very gentle, and I almost wondered if my heart might not go back to its allegiance; if I had not been hasty, and if I ought not to fall upon my knees, acknowl- edge my error, and ask his for- giveness. The feeling was but momentary. A vision of my married life passed quickly before me, and the possi- bility of its continued existence vanished. But, wearying soon of affability, my husband put aside the boy from his knee, and glanced coolly about the room. "You have chosen homely quar- ters, Leah," said he, "and your married life must indeed have been a hard one to have forced you from luxury into such poverty." page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] I made no reply, and he con- tinued: "You were summary in your prbceeding;' you might, at least, have given me notice of your intention, and spared my feelings, as you know I dislike a surprise." I still continued silent-in fact, I knew not what to say. It'was prudent for me to keep my tem- per, but his tone was so taunting it seemed nearly impossible to do so. "Have I struck you dumb by my unexpected appearance? I re- member a time whenever, after shorter absence, a warmer welcome met me." My lip quivered; I could not forget altogether my aunt's sick- chamber A recollection of the joy with which I had once heard his footsteps arose in contrast with the immediate terror of his presence, and the tears gathered beneath my eyelids, but I still said nothing. "I can make you speak. Do you not admire my forbearance? Come here, Harry, my boy," said f he to the child, who was playing upon the floor, "we must leave t mamma." The child looked wonderingly i with his large dark eyes at his father, but came to me. The purpose of the man's visit, which had seemed to float like an e intangible vapor before my mental 1 vision now defined itself. He had s come to take my boy away. "Leave me, Harry? leave me?" I asked beseechingly. "Ah! it has found its voice. - Yes, Harry leave you! Do you n suppose I can give up both my t treasures?" f "Take me again then, Herndon; y take us both. I cannot yield up a Harry yet." "Take you? I took you once; that is sufficient. A runaway wife t3 ires of her poverty, and a kind, forgiving husband takes her to his arms again; what a touching epi- sode in this matter of fact exis- tence. No, Leah! I can't take you; perhaps Stanley or some one else will." My fear fled in an instant. I stood erect before him, my eyes dilated, my nostrils distended. I felt as if a thousand furies had taken possession of me, and I ad- vanced towards him. The man was afraid. His fear cooled me, and I seated myself again. "If you were ten times the fiend you are, you are still my boy's father. I am aware that the law will not allow me to take him from you, or, at least, I suppose that such is the case-still, not peace- fully shall I yield him to you. I will fight for him every inch of the way-lay in wait for him and steal him when you least expect it-dodge your footsteps, and make your life so miserable you will be glad to return him." "Idle words, simply strongly expressed, avail you nothing. The law is on my side-the voice of society is with me. Poor, weak, frail woman, do you for one moo ment suppose you can threaten me into submission? But, listen, I have not come to quarrel with you; I am willing to compromise. I must have a divorce. We can no longer live together. It is better that we eternally part; if you make no opposition, the af- fair can proceed quietly, and the child shall. remain with you; otherwise, if you defend yourself I shall at once assert my rights as' a father, and you will see him no more." "You are base, Herndon, and so wicked I do not know if I may trust you. WAill you give me a writing to that effect?" "When the divorce is obtained -not before." "I have no other hope," said I hesitatingly, "but can you give me no time for reflection?" "No! Now or never!" "Then I must assent," said I, very slowly, "to your proposal. God forgive me if in this I am-" "Do I understand you to grant my request?" I bowed in the affirmative. "Then I will rid you of my presence. In case of your non- appearance upon due notice the case will go by default; there will be no publicity-and you are free." He left us. I could breathe more freely. Had I not been hasty; had I done right? Truly, I could never live with my husband again; why not a divorce? Alas! there was none to advise me; I would not go to my parents; there was no one else of whom I could ask council. Divorce was almost un- known in the district where I had 5 cast my lot. The character of the people was strictly Puritan- ical. There had been no innova- tion among them, nor in the Church since the settlement of the town. New isms, of whatever name or'nature, stood aloof. The preachers were noted for their bigotry, and the yearly revivals swept into the fold the greater part of their youths and maidens. From this pinnacle of supposed moral purity these villagers looked upon the world, its temptations and transgressions, and thanked God they were sure of Heaven, for like the Pharisees, they were not as others. In the midst of such a com- munity, to whom could I look for sympathy? Curiosity in regard to me had not entirely subsided when a re- port of my husband's arrival sped to the four quarters of the village. The little nurse girl with whom I had been obliged to supply my- self in the service of Harry had related all she knew of the visit, and no one looked kindly upon me. Had I thought to ask counsel of the village lawyer I should have learned that at 'the time of which I write even desertion would not have been sufficient to have procured a legal separation, and only on proof of adultery could such an end have been attained. Had I known this, even to have re- tained the child, I would not have consented to have thus branded its mother, but in my ignorance I had giveni consent; and endeavor- page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] ing to dismiss the subject from my mind, returned a'. once to my daily avocations. Soon after Herndon's visit a letter reached me from Mr. Stan- ley, dated Paris. It read: "Leah! Leah! I am afraid you have acted unwisely, and have thereby laid in store for yourself one more lesson to learn in expe- rience. If principle, not pique, has dictated the movement, not one word have I to say against it. If the highest motive in your heart, accept whatever trial it brings you, feeling that every thorn which surrounds the flower you have endeavored to aid to blossom is as direct from the hand of God as the bud itself, and though painful, as it wounds the flesh, is of use, or it would find no place in creation. From my point of view, it would have been wiser to remain with your husband, yielding to him in his wishes in regard to your child, waiting for the deliverance which Heaven sends through time and patience. Do not think I con- demn you, but I know how little the law recognizes the rights of a woman apart from her husband, and I fear you must pass over burning ploughshares of suffering before you reach your, journey's end. But. do not let them hurt you. If truth has actuated you, let it gird you round about like an armor. Lift up your soul, and say: The God above and within me protects me-to the world without I have nothing to answer. "Pity me, Leah, that I cannot serve you. Pity me, that if I come even near you I can only in- jure and compromise. "O, God! it is hard to walk sometimes in the path of right. harder to endure the vicarious suf- feriag through sympathy of those we love than to bear the cross upon our shoulders. My philos- ophy neyer seems to reach the point except when, in true sub- mission I can say: 'I lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. My help com- eth from the Lord who made Heaven and earth.' "I leave Paris next week, and shall travel for awhile, and hardly know when, if ever, I shall learn of you again, or be enabled to write you. "Lucy has written me full par- ticulars of your late trial. If this reaches you, let it bear to you every kindly wish for your hap- piness, every word of sympathy, a friendly heart is prompted to utter. E. STANLEY." Were these lines precious? God knows how precious! Did I burn them? No! I pressed them in my hands and to my lips, and placed them safely, where in hours of trial I could call them to my aid. Upon one side a voice said: It is sin; you are brealking your vows! Upon the other, came the ieply: Down deep in the heart of every human being is the germ of an im- mortal affection planted by the divinity for the good of humanity. Covered over, buried beneath the dross of worldliness, it seldom finds birth in this world. Its sem- blance is seized upon, and, like all counterfeits, brings misery oftener than happiness. In you it bannot die; it has a tangible existence. I will live struggling with the world; bringing with it pain rather than gladness. But then your heart will be enlarged thereby, the warmth of your nature developed, and for the weak and erring you will find excuse that you have never known before. In expiation of vows made falsely, where ,God had never joined together, though sinning in ignorance, accept the burden; bear it patiently to the end till death itself doth part. And I said: Amen. CHAPTER XII. A year had passed, and with some anxiety Mary Leighton awaited the fulfillment of Doctor ,Herndon's promise in regard to her change of position. He had obtained his divorce, and still said nothing of marriage. It evidently pleased the tan- tilizing spirit of the man to keep even Mary in doubt in regard to his intentions, or perhaps he enjoyed his freedom and the evident attention consequent upon his new position. Wealthy and' marriageable, mammas flattered him; pretty daughters smiled upon his civilities, and those whose religious scruples would otherwise have prevented their marrying the divorced, so sin- cerely pitied his deserted condi- tion that even they might have been induced, almost, to favor his suit, had he offered it. But none had the beauty of Mary. Not one, he felt, was so well fitted by nature to adorn his magnificent home. Moreover, in justice, not one could move his heart as she had done, and every day, in real- ity, drew him nearer to a decision to marry at once, when a letter from Mrs. Munson ended his va- garies, and affairs were. brought to a speedy termination. The let- ter summoned shim at once to -- , as the old lady stated a gen- tleman wished to obtain permis- sion from the guardian of Mary to pay his addresses to the ward. The suitor was unexceptionable, and as far as the old lady's obser- vation had gone, Mary was not disinclined to his addresses, still, as Mrs. Munson did not wish to assume the responsibility without the consent of Dr. Herndon, that gentleman was notified of the as- pirations of the suitor, and his presence was desired as speedily as possible at the home of Mrs. Munson. The suitor was, of course, dis- missed, and Mrs. Munson noti- fied that in a few weeks she should be relieved of all further responsibility in regard to Miss Leighton, as the Doctor had de- termined to make her his wife. Mrs. Munson was not surprised; but she was none the less indig- nant, and she openly expostulated with Mary for uniting herself with a man whose wife was still living. "I love him, auntie." said she. page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] "And so I suppose did his wife, till your beautiful face came be- tween them. God gave it you to help adorn the world, and not to make misery." "But he loved me before he ever saw his wife. It was she who made the mischief; but now every- thing is coining right again, don't try to deter me." "It is too late, poor child; I have no hope to save you. But do you not perceive that you are yielding your liberty, your life even, to a man destitute of prin- ciple? one who once bartered your love for gold; obtained it, and cast away his marriage vows to deal, perhaps, as lightly by another? O, Mary! from my heart I pity you. You do not know what mar- riage is, or you would not trust your happiness with a man who shows himself so little worthy. You need protection; you are too ,beautiful to go through the world alone; and I would gladly have placed your hand within some honest man's, who had a right to claim a wife, and bid God bless you; but as it is, our lives part here. I have-aided unwittingly in your marriage with Herndon; it is needless to say I regret it." "Don't talk so, auntie; don't desert me! But I love Dr. Hern- don as I can never love again; and I can bear what his wife could not have borne, because she did not love him. But you- have been my only other friend, and don't desert me!" "But I must do so, Mary. I do not believe in divorces, still less in such second marriages. I should be neither true to myself nor to you, if I upheld you; and much as I am pained to do so, must still pronounce my judg- ment, and say again our paths/ diverge with your marriage with Herndon." It was soon announced to the fashionable world that Dr. Hern- don would lead to the altar the beautiful daughter of a deceased friend. None had hoard of her; none had seen her; but a report was current that she was wonder- fully beautiful, and the circle to which Dr. Herndon belonged was upon the qui vive when the wed- ding day was at length appointed, and the fashionable church of designated for the perform- ance of the ceremony. Long before the hour appointed the building was filled to overflow- ing, and only the solemnity of the place prevented, a general buzz of admiration as the bride and groom, unattended, approached the altar. The magnificent bridal veil did not conceal the curls of burnished gold that fell upon the shoulders of the bride, and the delicate orange blossoms could not rival the tint of the brow that lay be- neath it. A brilliant blush suffu- sed. her cheek as she felt herself- the object of attraction to that vast multitude, and she raised her eyes tenderly, yet timidly, to the man who was now pronounced her husband. There were many who had known the former Mrs. Herndon. But no one thought of her, save as a Pariah upon whom a stain was cast which could not be effaced. Men and women both condemned her. Christ was ban- ished from the heart as well as the church and there was none to say: "Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone." CHAPTER XIV. Do we have forebodings? Does the shadow of ill cast itself in our presence even in the gleam of sun- light? For days a cloud had obscured my mental horizon. I could not dispel it, nor could I account for its- presence, floating, as it seemed, upon the calm seren- ity of peace. Alas! the cloud was ominous. I had been very rest-' less, and now sat idly leaning my head upon my hand. The clear, blue sky of October was reflected upon the waters of the Connecti- cut where my eyes were resting. The harvests were gatheredithe frost had been upon the stubble; the distant hills were .gay with autumnal foilage, and the winter still seemed distant. For many weeks previous I had been very happy. No effort had been made to' take away my boy and, poor as I was, I still felt possessed of a treasure. A few weeks before I had seen the announcement of my husband's second marriage, and I now felt certain my child would always re- main with me. For some weeks the boy had had his freedom. Previously, even withhis little nurse Lizzie, I had hardly allowed him out of my sight. Upon this particular morn- ing I could not tell why I felt so uneasy, but I put on my bonnet and went in search of him. I saw him in a moment; he had only been to the grove with Lizzie to gather the nuts he now held in his apron. I was so relieved I caught him in my arms and would not let him even walk to the house, but pressed him to my heart and kissed him, whilst Harry, struggling, wondered why mamma looked as if she was going to cry. I did not put him down until I placed him upon the door sill, and then I turned, for a step upon the gravel attracted my notice. It was the sheriff of the county. I had seen him before and knew his official position. He was a kind man. He came in and looked about the room a moment and seemed unwilling to enter upon his business. At length he drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to me. lIt was a writ of habeas corpus commanding the body of Harry Herndon, the only child of William and Leah Herndon, to be brought into the court sitting in the county town of --, and cause to be shown by the mother why the child should not be re- manded . to the custody of the father. A deadly fear fell upon me. I became, as it were, mentally para- lyzed. M]y eyes rested upon the paper, but the brain refused im- pression, and I was obliged to ask an explanation. The sheriff gave it as gently as possible, and added: page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] "There is no time to lose; to-mor- ] row is the date you will perceive, 3 and as the hour is early we must i take the stage, which leaves at noon. Is there no one you would like to consult before we leave?" "Consult! consult! who shall I consult?" said I grasping his arm. The man seemed startled by my wildness. "Have you no friends," said he, "is there no one to advise with you?" "Friends! counsel! You will go away now," said I, recovering myself, "and come again when the stage leaves, will you not? We have to prepare for this jour- ney. Lizzie, get Harry's things ready." '-I shall find you," asked he rather doubtfully; "I do not know that I ought to leave you." "Have no fear. It has got to be decided. Better now than later." And the man left me, but I trembled so I was perfectly helpless, and with difficulty found strength to make the necessary preparation. The stage came for us, and I thought to myself, "counsel! of whom?"Of God and my own heart; there was none else of whom to ask it. And then what man could know, what man could plead the cause of a mother. O, how the thoughts rushed through my brain! My heart seemed swell- ing to bursting. I pressed my. hands against my temples; they felt like cords beneath it. My eyes fairly ached with the pressure be- hind them; and yet there was no moisture. I have since doubted if, for the time, I was not partially demented, for in the court I stood before my former husband to make my own defense. I know I was eloquent; I felt inspiration. - It seemed as if I were not myself, but that some overwhelming spirit had taken possession of me, and the words poured forth in the cause of a mother pleading the law of God in behalf of maternity. It was of no avail. There were tears upon rough faces when my plea was ended; but no! the hen may gather her chickens under her wing, the kid lie down by the side of its dam, but with the strength of man, unredeemed by the influx of the spiritual in his nature, there is ever oppression; and the law of man which in its course too often adds strength to the strong, but weakens still more the weak, must be sustained. The child was yielded to the care of the father, in spite of the suffering which gave it birth; in spite of the source of nourishment which had increased its life; in spite of, in this instance, of the promise, made to be broken, of the man who vowed to love and cherish. The Judge was calm. He was not a hard man, but he was sworn to sustain the,law of the'land. Was that law faulty, he had not made it. His duty alone was to expound and dispense it; more- over, this broken law of woman- hood, this assumption of respon- sibility by one who was born to be weak and dependant, was not to be countenanced, and the child was remanded to the custody of the father, while the mother went her way. The officer did not leave me till he had seen me in my lonely home again. There were no tears, no sighs, no words of relief. I folded my shawl, and even my gloves, I laid away carefully, while Lizzie brushed away the tears that stole over her face, and made some effort to attract my attention to the cup of tea she had placed be- fore me. There was no Harry now to eat his supper; no Harry to be put to bed. All up and down the house the pattering of little feet had ceased. The tea was untasted; the fire went down early; and the mother tossed upon her sleepless pillow. From the stricken came no cry; no sound could be heard all night in that lonely chamber, save the noise of the wind and the rattling of the rose tree as it brushed against the window. But the unnatural calmness passed with the morning. The seal was removed from the fountain. Close by the bed, on a chair, lay the pinafore with its treasure of nuts, which, in his joy at the thought of the ride, was all forgotten by tlk child, and the tears fell fast on the pillow of the mother, while the spirit cried aloud and refused to be comforted. O, it was worse than death to lose him thus! Easier far to have yielded him to the angels than to have sent him forth with no mother's hand to guide him, with hardly the recollection of a moth- er's love as an inheritance. And now, I felt indeed I had sinned. For my child's sake I should have borne all and braved all. I should not then have risked his entire separation from myself. O, God! watch over him and pre. serve him! Then I rose and dressed myself, and went forth steadily. Despite of all I would live a good life; would work a good work, and time should do me justice. But my footsteps faltered. I felt very old that day, as I gathered up my boy's clothes and playthings and hid them from my sight. I nerved myself to do what myhands should find to 'do, but I could not pre- vent starting as I fancied I heard him coming, or, losing myself, would forget he needed not my at- tention, and haste to perform some duty to which I alone was accus- tomed for little Harry. It is not easy to divest ourselves of cares to which we have been used, when they are suddenly snatched away, and my heart would beat faster and ache again so many times during each of the first days of Harry's absence; and then when the night came, those terrible nights of restless anguish, I thought if the Father would only take me and let me lay in the village churchyard, I would wil- lingly yield all hope of immor- tality, accepting as a boon annihi-- lation. But it is not for us to choose, and I lived on. My sin had been so great the Christians of the village shunned me; my own sex seemed afraid to brash page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] against my garments in thrvillage street, and the men stared rudely at me, as if -my present position gave them a right to forget my womanhood and their own cour- tesy. One crone alone found her way to my dwelling. A poor old woman, whose whole life had borne the brand of love' betrayed in girlhood. I gave her a seat at my now lonely fireside-for Lizzy's parents had removed her from the contamination of my influence as soon- as possible-and waited her errand. "Poor thing! poor thing! you're over young yet, ain't you? I wanted to see how you bore it; I hearn tell of your troubles up in the village, but people hain't got nohearts until they've suffered as we have." I winced a little. But we were both outcasts; what did it matter. Thus much of sympathy was not now to be scoffed at, and I said: "You have lived through your suffering, I shall be beyond mine, in time." "Lived! yes, and died a thou- sand deaths. Suffered! as nobody knows what suffering is, until they've tried it. You wouldn't believe, p'raps, that I was pretty and delicate once, and had pa- rents that doted on me. I never 'knew what made me do it, but John Aborn was the devil, 'and jest as black as he's painted,' and he got my fool girl's heart, and- there, well, it's no matter-I spose you know all about it. He run away and left me when he. saw how it was, and that most Ibroke my heart; but 'twant nothing to what the folks in the village made me suffer. God wouldn't kill me up to this time, and so I've borne a'most everything, and haint been good for nothing neither. Some- times the minister he'll come and say, 'Do you love Jesus?' and I think 'well, I guess on account, as you see, of Mary Magdalene I do;' but then I know Christ says if you don't love your neighbor whom you have seen, how can you love God whom you haven't? and when I think how hard my neighbors have been to me I don't love 'em much. But there can't be no worse hell than these folks have made it for me, and 'praps some of the angels who know what I've gone through with will take pity on me, when I die, and show nme where Christ is, who cast the devils out of Magdalene, and may be he'll cast 'em out of 'me. But I thought I'd jest come and see you, for I didn't know but what. the people here might treat you so, you'd go the same gate I've gone, and be good for nothing neither, and that would be apity. "I thank you for your sympa- thy," said I, "but don't be wor- ried, I shan't faint by the way, and shall be able, with God's help, to steer my bark through theetem- pest." She looked at me, as if she but half understood me, and said: "Well, I've meant no offence, ma'am; good bye." When she was gone I said to myself: Here is my first lesson; people will- judge me; they will strew my path with thorns. They shall not hurt me; only the judg- ment of my Maker can affect me. I have erred because I did ndt see that hoowever unjust the law mak- ing the woman subservient to the man, ignoring the rights of her individuality, it is the law under which I live-and,-however imper- fect, made for the common good, in good faith, at a time before civ- ilization had arrived at a point where women were admitted to any equality with man. In the march of education these things must change. The time will come for the modification of laws; when women in all stations- fathers with daughters, and broth- ers with sisters-shall see their injustice, and bring their whole energy to bear upon their im-' provement, en masse. Until then there is but one way to prevent my sinking beneath the weight I have taken upon me--girding myself in the armor of strength, striving to live for the truth and the right, evolving from the germ within myself the ele- ments of happiness, independent of all external influence, save that from the God above us. Is it a hard task, or is it easy-to overcome the world in this re- spect? "Nous verrons." CHAPTER XV. Dr. Herndon had long since in- formed Mary that their child was dead. He hoped he spoke the , . truth, though he had certainly no reason to \uppose so. She was now very' rydy to accept Harry in its stead, to love him, to pet him, to discipline him, even as the case might be. But Harry was by no means willing to respond to her favors. He was very home- sick and cried almost constantly to be taken back to his mamma. It was wearisome, at least to Mary, and she was rather inclined to second his proposal when his father took charge of the case, and the matter was settled. "The mother's bad nature is too visible in the child," said his father, "I must thrash it out of him." The boy grew calm in a mo- ment, and, looking his father in the face, he said: "I hate you. You have stolen me from mamma, and when I am a man I'll thrash you 1" Herndon must have forgotten the youth of the child, or he could not have punished him so severely as he did. The boy, as-he has since told me, never forgot it. Flogging him severely, he thrust him into an empty room, where, worn with excitement, he soon fell asleep. It was quite dark when he was released, and a long, long fever followed, through which, Mary, God bless her woman's heart,' nursed him most tenderly. He was never whipped again, and though he often spoke to Mary of his mother, he did not ask to be taken home to her, though he would some- times say: "When I am a man! * page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] when I am a man!" "What then, Iaste r Harry?" said his ste - mother. "Then I shall find poor mamma in her shabby home, and take care of her. I know I was stolen away, but I can't tell why; Dr. Herndon," (when he could avoid it he would never call him 'Father,') "wanted me because he does not like me." "O, Harry!" said Mary, "you must not talk so; your father loves you." "Then, why did he whip me? My mother loved me, and so do you, but you do not strike me." "He whipped you because you. were naughty, and because he loved you well enough to wish to make you good." "I don't want him to love me, I think I'd rather he wouldn't." Harry was a precocious child- energetic and peculiar. My own condition, and the excitement un- der which I labored at the time of his birth, had undoubtedly im- pressed itself upon his character; and though Herndon was proud of the boy, he had nio affection for / him. The home was not as happy as he had anticipated. Indeed, as the reward of so much manceuver- ing it was decidedly a failure. He had no strong faith in the principle of his wife. She was admired, but the contemplation of the admiration she always excited gave him no pleasure, and the very conspicuous position she now occupied kept him in constant fear that their former relation should be discovered and exposed. The fear became almost a terror to him, and he finally resolved to remove to Boston, where the dan- ger would be lessened. And again, Mary's health began to fail; again she thought of An- nie; again she felt remorse, for, though wilfully at times blinding herself to the conduct of her hus- band, in regard to his former wife, still, there were moments of loneliness when the truth became plain to her, and she felt both her sin and real degradation. Ever in her love for Harry was mingled the feeling of deception, and she felt how surely the noble mind of the child would. condemn her as he grew older, should he come to know the assistance she had lent to the artifice by'which she had supplanted his mother, and with her whole heart she seconded her husband's removal to Boston. CHAPTER XVI. Day followed day. Weeks gath- ered together in the past. Each month seemed a year---its course was so weary. My life dragged along. I now had nothing to con- tend against-no way in which to test my newly-acquired theoreti- cal strength. My money was not as quickly exhausted as when Harry was with me. It might last me even years as yet, and I was too much of a Yankee in my habits of forethought to recklessly trust my bark upon the open sea, b while it could ride safely in har- bor, without some motive strong enough to prompt the risk. And / thus, notwithstanding my good resolutions, with some exceptional bursts of energy into my daily life, I was listless and without ambition., At times, a desire to force myself into some new chan- nel of existence came upon me, but the wish would die almost at birth, and I fell back upon my old habits. But at length' there was excite- ment even in our unexciteable village. A preacher came among us-a man of natural eloquence, fervent piety, but stronger and fiercer in denunciation than all his brethren, with the magnetism t'o overpower the multitude, and revivals of religion had followed in his track throughout New En- gland. And now he stood in our devoted village. There was rare material for harsh enthusiasm. There were those who would have been martyrs for bigotry, and they came and offered up their child- ren for prayers, and would have laid them on the altar for sacrifice if by so doing their cause would have gained in strength. I longed for comfort now-for religious consolation. This life seemed darkened forever. Could another look brighter before me? In my heart I had almost said, "there is no God," but now I thought I will seek him in his temple; perhaps I may find him there and he will open my heart for comfdrt. 'It was a stormy Sabbath, but that did not deter me. A passing farmer took me in his wagon, and soon we were within the old fash- ioned meeting house. The ex- citement even then had com- menced. The building was filled with hard working men and wo- men, and their faces seemed hard- er, illumined as they were by unwonted excitement. They had gathered for miles, from the farm- houses, and were rocking them- selves to and fro while awaiting the speaker. But soon a space was opened amid the throng of human beings, and a powerful looking man made his way to the pulpit. He stood for a moment looking round upon his audience, as if to measure their caliber, or to send from the large ,dark eyes beneath the shaggy brows, the electric sparks which were to enkindle the souls of the multitude. The' prayer commenced, low, soft and sweet, while every other sound was hushed, till it could be heard in the farthest corner of that large building. Gradually, it increased in volume, and finally arose in fierce denunciation, till at length it had seemed to sweep over the multitude and aroused them again into stronger excite- ment. It ceased, almost from ex- haustion, when men, women and children crowded to the anxious seat to be prayed for, amid the sighs, groans and tears of the Lwhole audience. Half fearful my own senses would leave me, I was about to ; retire from the church, when the voice of a woman arose in prayer. L Like the calm which follows a tempest of horrors, it fell grate- page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] fully upon my ear, and a rare old Methodist hymn, sang by a child, seemed' to calm the excitement, while the hard faces grew soft, and the rains of the soul washed away all former fierceness. I had not noticed the child before. She was very lovely, but strange in the queerly cut robe of gray, fit- ting closely to her throat, and the hood which nearly concealed her face. The hands, but half con- cealed by the long sleeves of the dress, were very delicate, and a golden curl escaping from the hood contrasted strangely with the nun-like robes of the little devotee. As I had never seen the child be- fore I asked my neighbor con-. cerning her. She was named Magdalene Leighton, and was cared for by her aunt, the woman who had led in praye. Not much was known regarding the child, and none liked to question Miss Leighton, who lived in the next village, concerning her, as she was a close-mouthed woman, my in- formant said, who got her living by teaching. I felt very strongly attracted toward the woman and child, and I remembered some person of the same name in New York whom I had assisted in my wealthier days, but there was no' opportunity for further investiga- tion at that time, and I went home 'with my heart somewhat softened by the scene I had witnessed. During my weeks of loneliness, previous to .this revival, in one respect I had strengthened myself. I had risen superior to the opinion of my neighbors in regard to my conduct, and conscious of my own integrity of purpose had lived above their slights and coolness, and could now move among them, when occasion demanded, with calm self respect. Perhaps my manner impressed them favorably. At any rate, they seemedc to deem me a brand to be plucked from the burning, and the revivalist preach- er was sent to seek me. I was not sorry to see him; in- deed, I was anxious to second his efforts, desirous, if possible, to become a religious enthusiast; but with no gentleness were my wounds handled. They were opt healed as yet, and my soul re- volted. He told me of my sin, of its enormity in the sight of Heaven' I had been unfaithful to vows assumed before its emissary; I had been condemned of man as unworthy even to be allowed the control of my own offspring. But there he was interrupted, for I could endure no more, and I said, "Judge not lest ye be judged, for with whatsoever judgment ye judge ye shall be judged, and with whatsoever measure ye mete it shall be meted to you again." I paused for a moment, and then continued: "Pardon me; in the pursuit of what you deem your duty to call a sinner to repentance, have you come to me; in the'pur- suit of what I believed my duty have I lost child and friends. I was wrong perhaps, in this world of matter, to endeavor to follow the spirit rather than the letter of the law, to openly renounce the vow I could not keep in inward o peace. You are wrong to intrude upon my wounded soul the re- viling of a world that knoweth not of what it raveth. My excite- ment is riot your excitement. I am not calm enough to be stirred by your religious enthusiasm. You may still move the whirlpool; you cannot divert it to another chan- nel till oil is poured upon the troubled waters-till they are still. Not for me, it seems, is this reli- gious excitement. It can come only to those who stagnate. Open for them the vials of wrath of the new dispensation; for those who suffer as I am suffering pour only the oil and wine of the new." He asked me to pray with him. I declined "You would rouse me only to vengeance toward those who have sinned against me. For my example would you give me that you suppose to be of the Most High?" He went'away. The villagers again shunned me. I had dared to oppose evil doctrine to that of the famed revival preacher who had increased the church through- out New England. Had I lived much earlier, I might have been accounted a witch. As it was, the younger children avoided my notice as they passed the windows, for they had grown accustomed to regard me as something set apart from the community-as a thing un- holy. I was alone a few weeks after, when Anne Leighton came to see me. I then recognized, her as one of my old proteges. The child was not with her, but there was so much of suffering in the face of the woman my heart drew to- ward her. I did not know then that she held a thread which would un- ravel the tangled mysteries of my life; that she had power to force my child from its father and back again to my possession. I should not have looked as kindly on her had I known that love for her sister had allowed her to sac- rifice another-that other myself. As it was, I was glad to see her. Sorrow had made her earnest. Her woman's nature gave her tact, and she approached my grief with such tenderness, I blessed her in myheart as she spoke, and thanked God for the gift of her sympathy. It was no mawkish sentiment, but deep, strong, and earnest, bidding me seek in life the panacea for woe-to rouse myself from apathy, and go out into the world to em- ploy the talents God had given me-to do something worthy of myself, and not let life time pass in idle, vain, repinings. She had some influence, she said, with the clergyman of her own parish, who had relatives in New York. She could obtain for me, she thought, a position as governess in a family, if I would accept it. I was only glad to do so, and to thank her warmly for her unaffected inter- est in my behalf, and she went her way. A few days after, Miss Leighton sent for me to communicate the successful result of her mission. I went to her and there beheld the page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] little Magdalene, who had before so excited my interest. They lived alone in the cottage adjoin- ing the school house. Quietly, and almost solemnly, Ihe child moved about in her nun- like attire. The manner of, 3iss Leighton towards her was marked with austerity rather than affec- tion. No flowers grew around them. Never floated the music of her voice in that dead atmosphere. Everything of beauty was ban- ished, as if some cause existed why her tastes should not be fos- tered. And yet, no doubt, in the forest, Magdalene had listened to the music of the pines-in the fields had nestled among the wild flowers; at night, from the gloom of darkness, gazed upon the stars; and in times of peculiar religious excitement her voice broke out of silence, and the aunt forbore re- buke. Of the future in this world, Anna Leighton seemed to ask no hope. Duty, duty! with its iron hand, was laid upon her. Her mother had died. The vil- lage clergyman, who was a wid- ower with a young family, had asked her to become his wife, but for the sake of Magdalene, she preferred to continue without fur- ther incumbrance. Her footpath was now trodden-marked with neither thorns nor flowers; well beaten, as any teacher knows, whose life for years has passed I between the alphabet and multi- i plication table. Still, she was o content--suppressing all desire h for wide fields of usefulness. Af- fection she neither claimed nor gave. The ashes of her one love had buried its source, and she had neither strength nor desire to un- cover it. Of my affairs, however, we talked that day. A Mrs. Harmon was in want of a governess. I had been proposed and accepted, and Anna was ready to afford me any further assistance. None, how- ever, was needed, and, parting again from my benefactress, I /went, alone, on my way. CHAPTER XVII. Again in New York, alone, un- loved, unprotected. No longer rich, no longer envied-but a pale, sad woman, adding another to the ,thousand lives which form a popu- lation. I had been in the woods, and alone, but not solitary. In the wilderness of life, where I almost lost myself, on Broadway, I was alone in reality, and in my desolation felt my utter insignifi- cance. But now I was seeking subsistence it would not do to look for it in reveries; and stopping at the door which answered the de- scription upon the card I held in my hand I pulled the bell. Now my heart quivered in its resting place, and as I stood at that fine portal where I was hoping to ex- change what I had made my own, my mental wealth, for what I needed, daily bread, it seemed as if the stately building frowned up- on me and crushed out all my hope. I followed the footman into an elegantly furnished apartment, 'where sat the lady to whom I had been recommended, Mrs. Harmon. She was a large, fine lookiiig woman-one .whom I should have supposed, in addition to an enjoy- ment of. this world's goods, might have added perfect health. This it seemed was not the case, as with a listless air she at once informed me that our conference must be a short one, as the derangement of her nervous system did not admit of any effort. She asked me no questions, but commenced at once a dissertation upon the descent and general qualifications of the Harmon family. Warming with her subject, and forgetting her invalidism, with a gracious wave of the hand, which would have done credit to Dicken's model of deportment, she begged me to be seated, and then con- tinued : "Upon the subject of my child- ren you may find me rather pro- lix. Our darling Lillie is such a bright child we have given her the benefit of the very best schools, indeed, the most expensive in the city.' Our family pride is such the children have all enjoyed these advantages, and had our income been less than it is, I should have felt it incumbent on me to have used every exertion to bring them up in a style befitting their birth and ancestry. I flatter myself it will only be necessary for you to become acquainted with my eldest daughters to perceive at once they have sprung- from no common stock. I have thought it best in Lillie's case to remove her from school that she may be more un- der the influence of her sisters; still as they have no fondness for the drudgery of teaching, I wish to employ. your assistance. The government I shall choose to have left to Miss Alice, and you may also consult her in regard to the arrangement of Lillie's studies. Music you do not teach; it is quite as well, however, as I should not choose to have/ her style - spoiled. The 3lisses Harmon were finished last year by a prima donna at seventy dollars a quarter, and Lillie's taste seems so really re- markable we shall probably em- ploy the same lady for her. You may go now; Miss Alice will give you further directions." And re- suming again her languid air, she said, as she waved her hand to- ward the door, "I have quite ex- hausted myself; the least exertion entirely overpowers me." I was shown to my room in the fourth story. A half worn mat- ting was upon the floor, and the pine bedstead with a common light-stand and a hard chair, formed a somewhat sorry con- trast to the luxurious furniture of the lower apartments. It seemed well, however, to define the boun- daries of our relative positions, and I was not sorry to have them at once so plainly indicated. It was undoubtedly expected, more- over, that most of my time should be occupied, so that a dormitory alone was necessary. But this thought did not disturb me; I wished to be occupied; for I de- page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] sired as little time as possible'at present for my mind to excite it- self with its own reflections. I arranged my hair, and turned to look lfrom the window. The view embraced the door yards only of our neighbor's habitation; but I was glad to observe, for the sun was now shining, that a portion of the light and heat of that lumi- nary bestowed itself upon the space around me. Some one knocked and entered. I turned and beheld a tall, stylish looking girl, an evident represen- tative of Mrs. Harmon, whose stateliness might perhaps have entirely overwhelmed me, had I not already become somewhat accustomed to the general air of the place. She introduced her- self as the eldest daughter, Miss Alice, and added that she had come to show me the school room. I followed the young, lady and was led into a small room which had formerly been used as a con- servatory, where I was introduced to Miss Lillie, a pert looking girl, who noticed me simply by ,a stare and slight bow, and continued reading the book before her. "You will find my sister, I think, well advanced as far, at least, as her intellect is concerned. Had I had the entire control of her she would have been under much better discipline. Hereaf- ter I am to assume that duty, and' trust in twelve months to behold her much more womanly." Miss Lillie slightly elevated her eyebrows, paid no further atten- tion, but still continued her read- ing. As it seemed to be expected I should now speak to my pupil, I addressed her in French. She answered fluently, and continued the conversation, as if determined to let her governess know she had no ordinary pupil to deal with. I spoke of books; to my astonish- ment she talked, still fluently in French, of Keats and Shelly, even of Goethe and Schiller, until I was fairly dismayed at the pros- pect of teaching a child who seemed already advanced beyond more intelligent women of thirty. "Now Lillie," said Alice, who had been impatiently awaiting the conclusion of' this conversation,. "remember what pa says; you're to mind me in every thing; if I just raise my finger I expect it will be sufficient; and don't you forget that you are not too old as yet to feel the rod of correction." "Perhaps you'd better try it, sister," said Lillie as she placed her book upon -a shelf. "It is too late for me to commence my ,studies to-day, so I shall continue my holiday," and she coollywalked away. "She's dreadfully spoiled," said Miss Alice. Ma's such an invalid and pa's very weak with her; but now I'm to take her in hand, I hope we shall make something out of her," and she left me to my own reflections. For the rest of the day I re- mained unmolested, and really wondered if the family had not already forgotten my very exist. ence. Till night closed in I was occupied in unpacking my some- what scanty wardrobe and arrang- ing my room as best I might with regard to its general embellish- ment. I had a few books, but as it was now too late to read, I sat watching t'le lights, which in the neighboring houses sprung up to illumine the darkness. Here and there a figure flitted before the window or dropped a curtain, and in one nursery, where the shades had evidently been' forgotten altogether, a group of children upon the floor and-a mother fold- / ing an infant in her arms, appar- ently awaiting the return of the father, made my sad heart ache as I felt my own loneliness. My physical wants had com- menced to make themselve felt, when a servant entered to tell me that dinner was upon the table. It was then I learned I was ex- pected to dine with the family, at least, when no strangers were present. Mrs. Harmon nodded as I entered, and pater falias, a mild looking man, beckoned me to take a seat beside him. Not- withstanding ill health, Mrs. Har- man presided, and if stateliness and dignity of demeanor alone are necessary to give elegance to the general air of a family dinner, that dinner must certainly take ,precedence of any I had ever be- fore beheld. The conversation was of a de- cidedly familiar character, not- withstanding the presence of- a stranger, and was evidently a con- tinuation of one commenced be. fore my entrance. 6 "I fear Gertrude," said the sage mother, "that you are encourag- ing too much the attentions of young Reed. I have no objection to your making such use of him as you can innocently do without leading him to presumption. He is undoubtedly a worthy young man of good capacity; but brains is not always the road to wealth, and it would break my heart to behold you in any other position than that to which you have al- ways been accustomed. On the other hand, you do not treat Judge Verplank with the consid- eration his wealth deserves. He is very eligible, and certainly no, gentleman appears upon Broad- way whose toilet is more thor- oughly unexceptionable. I have no need, I am happy to say, to remind Alice of my wishes, in this respect; she is the child of my heart. Lillie is too young to require advice on this subject at present, but as life is uncertain and my health so delicate, it is well she should hear the counsel of her mother, the better that she may profit by it when years have brought its usual experience." A smile upon Lillie's face, to- gether with the fact that. a few days after I saw her in close con- versation with the druggist's clerk, at the corner, led me to infer that it was possible Lillie's mind was already in a state of formation up- on these interesting subjects, and that her mother's advice, notwith- standing the youth of my pupil, was by no means premature. Ger- trude, however, seemed anxious page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] to divert the conversation from the channel into which it had fallen. "(By the way, mother," said she, "I met Dr. Herndon with his new wife, on Broadway to-day. She is a perfect angel." "The dear Doctor," said Mrs. Harmon, "I must say that in all my life as an invalid, I have never had a physician who so thoroughly understood my case as the Doctor did. So his wife is really hand- some?" "Perfectly beautiful," replied Gertrude. "His first wife was such a dowdy." "And so common. I've heard it said he married her from pity," remarked Mrs. Harmon, "and to think she should turn out as she did; but if people will let their kind hearts mislead them they must suffer the consequence." "Take some more meat," Mrs. More," said Mr. Harmon, who, perhaps attributed my paleness to the fact that I was a stranger, and ill at ease, and had already nearly surfeited me with everything up- on the table, "a glass of wine, perhaps," which I did not refuse, and was thus enabled to continue in my position till the ladies rose to leave. "As there is no gas in your room, you can sit in the conserva- tory," was Mrs. Harmon's dismis- sal,'but I went to my chamber, wrapped myself in my shawl, and laid down on the bec. In earlier years I should have ] cried with grief and mortification. After great'sorrow tears do not so easily come at the fist bidding, and now I simply felt like reflec- tion. These were the crosses, then, with which my life was to be burdened. I wondered if it would not perhaps be better to confide in Mrs. Harmon, who it seemed was a stranger to my his- tory, and trust to her generosity. I had only, however, to recall to my mind her hard black eyes, the sentiments which I had already heard her utter, to feel that such confidence would be fatal to my present prospects, and I concluded at length to abide the result. My' prospect for happiness looked fur- ther in the distance than ever with this new care upon me-this new danger of exposure. Had I known where to have gone, or how to have obtained employment I should at once have done so; as it was, I felt that I must stand still, and be pushed into the world, be- fore I should have courage to ex- pose myself to the vicissitudes which beset the path of the poor and friendless, and I thrust the thought away from me and fell asleep. The next morning, when break- fast was over my pupil followed me to the school room, where I commenced a more thorough in- vestigation of her scholastic at- tainments. To my astonishment, notwithstanding the young ladies' acquaintance with French poets, the primary branches of an En- glsh education had been entirely neglected, and in no other way could the defect be remedied than by commencing almost at the ru- diments of instruction. To this proposal my pupil demurred, and *I felt it best to appeal to the sis- ter. The contempt which the in- formation received from that young lady I can hardly describe. "A pretty idea, truly," said she, "my sister, educated the last four years at Madame Bonbon's school, to be taught spelling now by a Yankee governess. No, ma'am! I'll thank you to continue the plan of education so successfully com- menced by her former teacher." I was greatly perplexed; to allow such ignorance to continue with- out an attempt to remove it seemed positively wicked. I was like a person tied hand and foot, and commanded to labor, but the shackles I could not break, and I should soon have lost all courage in my labors had not my chains been suddenly removed, and I made free again. I was sent for to the parlour one evening, as was often the case when company was present, upon some pretext-an ordeal I would gladly have avoided had it been possible, for I had constantly upon me the dread of recognition by some of the guests. My fears were not, it seems, with- out foundation. As I handed a collection of mosses to the gentle- man who had asked to see them I recognized Colonel Percival, an old acquaintance, whom, in former years, I had met at Saratoga. "Mrs: Herndon! said he. "1 I hardly recognized you." "I beg your pardon," said I, coolly, and walked at once away. I felt my hour had come. Upon -I the whole I was not sorry, and slept none the less quietly that night, because I was certain in the morning of dismissal. My pupil did not follow me to the school room the next day, as usual, and very soon after I re- ceived a summons to meet Mrs. Harmon in her own apartment. There was a slight accession of dignity in the manner of the lady, even though such an accession would before have seemed impos- sible.' "I have sent for you," Mrs. Harmon said, " to notify you of your discharge, and to say it would be better for you to seek some other situation than that of gov- erness, as a woman in your equiv- ocal position is hardly the one to be entrusted with the work of forming the opening mind of the young and innocent. I am aston- ished at your impertinence in hav- ing obtruded yourself upon a re- spectable family. Here are your wages. I wish you to leave the house immediately." "Madame," said I, "I have but a word to say to you. You have daughters; for their sakes I' beg you to be more 'charitable to those of your own sex who have been unfortunate. Their lives are begun, but not yet ended." "ily daughters! as if my daugh- ters could ever fall to your condi- tion." I signed a receipt and left the room, and in an hour the house -glad to be free, glad now to be upon the world, where there was surely work for those who chose page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] to seek it. I would not be cast down. Though all earthly means should fail, there was. a God above who would hear my prayer, and some avenue would surely be op- ened before me. It is well to have hope, well to have faith, and yet there are hours when both seem to fail us, and it is hard through the thick darkness to be- hold the hand that guides our des- tiny. Still, if we can but trust- still, if we can believe that all is -right, our bark will, in the end, be moored in safety, even though Death alone becomes the pilot. I found a humble boarding house-clean, respectable, inex- pensive, the only qualities I now demanded of my habitation, but even this strained hard upon my finances, and I felt I must bestir myself, and lose no time in idle- ness. CJAPTER XVIII And now in earnest was I out upon the world alone. In that vast city there was none to whom I could apply for assistance. I might have written to my father; his home perhaps would have been opened to me, but I was too proud for that. Besides, to re- turn to that life of stagnation seemed altogether impossible. I fancied I would rather die of physical suffering. I did not know where to look for employ- ment. I could only refer to my country friend, and I thought it unwise to accept another situation as governess without making known to such as might wish to employ me my true position. Had I been fitted by talent or educa- tion to have followed any respec- table mechanical occupation, the matter could have been more easily managed; as it was, I conclu- ded to advertise, and then trust to the magnanimity of such as might wish to employ me, without re- gard to my history. I was return- ing hastily from the office where I had deposited my advertise- ment, when I was met by the gen- tleman through whose recognition I had lost my recent situation. "Let me walk home with you," he said quite respectfully. "I have to apologise for the unfortu- nate position in which I have placed you." I had just reached the door of my boarding house, and said so. * Then I must come in; for I wish to speak to you." I did not refuse, though I would gladly have done so. He seemed both embarrassed and awkward, and said: "Perhaps I am intruding, but I regret so sincerely the misfortune I have caused you, I would like in some manner to be able to serve you." "You have caused me no mis- fortune; only, perhaps, hurried my departure from a situation which I am certain I should never have been able to fill." "You are very polite, but I am none the less anxious to be of ser- vice to you. Will you show me the way." "Shall I be candid? You can serve me only by leaving, me. A \woman unfortunate enough to be separated from her husband, whether justly or otherwise, is always a mark for contempt or suspicion. It would only add to the difficulties of my present posi- tion for you, or any other gentle- man, to attempt to serve me. I must go my way alone. Whether I have been in error, or other- wise, but few of my own sex will endeavor to sustain me. Indeed, I am sorry to say that, thus far, they have. been the first to cast; stones. I am anxious only to se- cure some position, no matter how humble, in which I can earn my daily bread." "Shall I help you with money, Mrs. Herndon?" "I cannot place myself under such obligations, though I appre- ciate your kindness. You must go now," I said, "I have no pro- tector and little enough of repu- tation left already." And I gave him my hand, I honestly hoped, for the last time, as I rose to leave him. But he seemed disposed to linger. "Will you not tell me your plans for the future?" "I have none; any situation that offers I shall take, no matter how humble. The way, in time, may. open for me for something better; meantime I must try and be content." As the days passed on I became very anxious. My advertisement received no answer, and as my funds were visibly decreasing, I yX saw nothing but starvation before me if I could find no outlet for industry. I had returned from a walk, one day, and was standing in the com- mon little parlor, drawing off my -gloves, with the feeling of weari- ness dejection sometimes gives, when the housemaid opened the door, and before I was aware of the arrival of a visitor.' Edward Stanley stood before me. I be- came very faint, and he said: "I have startled you, -Leah, but I saw you enter, and I could not risk losing you again before I had spoken with you." I drank some water. He waited a moment, then seating himself beside me, he said: "I have been months already seeking you. Hearing of your divorce, I came from Paris, fear- ing you would at least need coun- sel. Lucy pretended she knew nothing of you, and your parents would give me no information. I was nearly disheartened, when I saw you to-day on Broadway." As he spoke, the color came back to my face; there was a flut- tering at my heart. A glad warmth stole upon me. That terrible sensation of utter loneli- ness disappeared for the time. I was conscious my face was tell- ing my pleasure, but Stanley did not look at me. His manner was cold and almost distraite, as he continued speaking. "You have mistaken, it would seem to me, your path, and yet it would be wrong for me to judge you, Leah. If you have acted page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] from your highest idea of right in placing yourself in your present position, I cannot condemn you. If you have erred in perceiving the right, you will learn without my intervention your error. The consciousness that you have acted from high and pure motives can only sustain you in the terrible battle you have undertaken to fight in behalf of what you be- lieve to be principle. When I left college I proposed to mark out for myself a path which should best develope my spiritual nature. I had studied the lives of the wise and great; had made myself ac- quainted with the different schools of philosophy; had followed the course- of philanthropists in my studies, and said, there is but one example for man, the Lord Jesus Christ. I did not ask of his ori- gin. His divinity was to me as nothing compared with his won- derful life, anid I cried: There is my jstandard; help me Heavenly Father, that I may attain' it. It was no easy task; the forgiveness of enemies; the submission to the Divine will, but all my tempta- tions were as nothing to the terri- ble trial of principle when my heart first learned its capacity to love, and that love was given to the, wife of another; the harder because I most firmly believe that the 'true germ principle of love, once roused into action, can never be made again to slumber; harder because I could perceive that your own marriage was but a semblance, and without great endurance, great trust in the Almighty power above, it could be productive only of trial and evil. I left you because I owed it to both to do so; even the power to counsel you was thus removed, and when I learned the step you had taken, God knows my misery. When the news of Herndon's divorce and subsequent marriage reached me, my first thought was to fly to you, but I paused and said: ' And if a wo- man putteth away her husband and marry another, she com- mitteth adultery.' Do not think me hard and unfeeling in defining thus abruptly my present position. I have come to serve you, to help you, if possible, fight the battle of life, but in no way to compromise your present or your future peace." "Your doctrines, it seems to me, are. not consistent, Mr. Stan-- ley," said I. "In the, first place, you say you believe in a germ principle of love, which is immor- tal. In the second, that that germ in my soul had not been aroused into action by my hus- band, consequently, no real mar- riage could have taken place. Then you say that Christ forbade divorce, and pronounced second marriage adultery. To my mind it follows, either that Christ did not admit the existence of the im- mortal germ principle of love in the human soul you speak of, and pronounced all marriage divine, or you mistake the ,meaning of Christ in his denouncement. There was one ground upon which divorces were sanctioned. If such a germ principle as you have spoken of really exists, any sin against it would be, spiritually sieaking, licentiousness, conse- quently, a marriage in which a vital love principle was absent would be unsound, and no ceremony nor effort on the part of those con- cerned could make it otherwise. But I do not wish to argue the matter; I am no logician. I have no desire for a second marriage. I did not leave Dr. Herndon be- cause I loved another merely, but because I found myself utterly in- capable of fulfilling the vow to love I promised. Neither man nor woman who has not been placed in a similar position can know the complete forfeiture of self respect which follows, upon the attempt to fulfill the relation of marriage when the heart is far from it, and the heart is a refrac- tory member and cannot be made to love when it refuses." "You have not altogether un- derstood me, Leah. The life teaching of Christ was entire sub- mission to the will of the Divine, under all circumstances. He gives the germ in his own good time; he grants the increase. Life is so short a portion of existence we can afford to wait the good God's time, 'but if we have not patience, if we hastily thrust ourselves from the conditions which surround us, we axe like a body suddenly dismem- bered, and discord and inharmo- ny follow until time has done its work again. This is your present condition. You are at war with all the world. Was the world bet- ter-was mankind as nearly Christ- ianized as it is supposed to be- you would be dealt with merci- fully and charitably, even if you -were in error. As it is, you will be driven to despair, perhaps even to death. I must take you to your father, Leah. His house is your only ark of safety at pres- ent. I will then endeavor to find some remunerative employment. for you so that you need not be altogether dependant." "You are very kind, Mr. Stan- ley. I accept your sympathy, but this battle I must fight myself. I can accept no assistance. -I can involve no one belonging to me in the conflict, neither can I com- promise either you or myself by accepting your assistance. I am strong. I own myself; am sole possessor of my hands and head, and they alone must do me ser- vice." I spoke bravely, and Stanley did not dream of the worm that gnaw- ed at my heart as the thought of my poverty passed again before me. "But, Leah, you are young and unprotected?" "Where is your faith in the Father now? God protects wo- man, even if the world does frown upon her. Have no fear for me; but you must not seek to meet me again. You, of all else in the world, can least assist me; and total absence, total silence, can be your only kindness." "Good God! what misery!" said he, as he commenced walking the floor; then taking his hat ab- ruptly, he added, "I must see page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] you once again to-morrow, if 'pos- sible," and hurriedly left me. Not if I can help it, thought I. I may be ungenerous, but it is best for both that we meet no more, and I went to my room, preparejl my trunk again for re- moval, and started in search of another boarding place. I walked, on Broadway, joined the crowd which moved hither and thither, feeling as an atom in the mass of human life which thronged that thoroughfare. It was cold, and snowflakes gathered in the at- mosphere, sending their messen- gers to warn the homeless to seek a shelter, but I felt it not. Bright flushes burned upon my cheeks, and I walked rapidly, longing almost for wings to fly, I cared not whither. The snow fell faster. My gar- ments were whitened ere I reached my destination. No one noticed me. Who heeds a stranger in a city? On! on! till I stopped at the door of a home for sewing girls, who lived alone upon the miserable means their hard earned labor brought them. O, God! thought I, as I looked about me, will the time ever come when jus- tice will be accorded to the work of woman. In the sight of Heav- en is her toil, though in its re- sults the same, worthless, because at the cost of physical pain, of which mankind knows nothing? But the landlady came to show me her vacant' bedroom, and I follow- ed her to my future domitory. It was coarse and common, no coarser than that of the rest of the work- women, and I returned, paid my recent board bill, and found my- self again at my new abode. -But soon a chill came over me; I shuddered from head to foot; no covering seemed sufficient to warm me, and I fell asleep at length, to wake with burning fever. Was I going to be ill, with .no home, only a strangers's refuge? and fainting upon my pillow, the landlady-a kind, good woman, whose own hard lot had developed the generous sympathies of her nature found me-and I felt that Providence, in this, had cared for me, She nursed me through the ravings of fever, and when it left me and I began to recall my destitute condition, she marked my troubled aspect and told me to give myself no uneasi- ness in regard to pecuniary mat- ters, for at the worst she could occasionally afiford the luxury of' kindness. "I have a daughter," said slie, "somewheres in the wide world. She came to shame, like many another child of poverty, and went her ways. She does not know the yearnings of a mother's heart, or she would come home to nme. As it is, with every cup of cold water I give to one of the suffering ones of earth my heart goes, out in' prayer that it may be returned to her again." Mrs. Markham was no ordinary, woman. Her heart was filled with generous sympathy, and I felt glad, if I must be indebted, to be. the recipient of her bounty; but I was all the more anxious to earn my-daily bread, now that this debt was upon me. The idea of attempting to teach again in a family, I had entirely abandoned. Overcoming in my heart a natu- ral aversion to a menial 'position, I at length concluded to endeavor to obtain a situation as chamber- maid in some respectable private family. I reasoned in this wise: I should then find a home, a shel- ter and protection. Even if my history were to become known, there could be no dread on the part, of those who employed me of contaminating influences. All labor is honorable. .It is simply a matter of taste in the choice of positions, whether an employe of tailors and dealers in gentlemen's furnishing goods at starvation prices, by which the masters only enrich themselves upon the labor of the white slaves of poverty, or as an associate with the 'servants in a gentleman's family. I decidedly preferred the latter, a's being quite as respectable, more lucrative as well as physically more whole- some, and succeeding at length in obtaining a situation where refer- ence was for once'dispensed with, e I found myself at length in this new capacity at Mrs. Lyford's. Ancd, now, American women, if you please, a little digression. Do you know how weak you really are?' But do hot alarm yourselves; far be it from me to presume to at- "tempt to convert you to the ranks of' thee strong-minded. You are too far gone, in most instances, for that. Nothing short of seling you openly into bondage would arouse many of you from your state of torpor. There is more danger, as a race, of your becom- ing simply an animated bundle of nerves, than a rival of your- lordly brothers. And why? Because this American custom of treat- ing a woman as a child, or a doll, is deteriorating in its influence, and she is, too often, 'sinking into nonentity. It is not what men do, or leave undone, in your behalf; it is what you do and assist by your' influence "to be done, that makes you weak and of little worth. At home the children rule, of course. As your recognized guardian in law, the absolute dependant upon your husband's bounty, he has a right to rule; but here ends not your dependence. Bowing your head beneath the yoke; you have become so accustomed to obey that when Biddy, free and untrameled, steps into the kitchen and asserts her rights, you answer, "So let it be." Indeed, many American women dare not to step into the kitchen at all; and so Biddy has become a power in the land, and people hold up their hands and say- "'What are we coming to?" Simply, as I said before, to a bundle of nerves, "unless you gather up your forces, renounce your doll-like existence, burn up your fashion plates, and accept in yourselves an individuality which it is your proud duty to maintain. If the right of suffrage were granted to women, who would take advantage of it? Not our delicate ladies, of course," but Biddy would go to the polls, while page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] their mistresses dawdled about in their elegant robes de chambre, consulting Godey upon the last new fashion for babies' bibs, and complaining when their husbands came home of how Biddy would have her days out, and her own consequent weariness. There are honorable exceptions to this rather general rule, but half a dozen weak women in any community can do more injury than -the same number of strong can possibly overcome, because the world unfortunately, seems prove to gravitate to the side of weakness and folly. And to the weak belonged Mrs. Lyford. Kind hearted, well edu- cated, and, of course, well dressed. Three unruly children graced, or disgraced, the household, and her life was spent in superintending their wardrobes, fashionable visit- ing and fashionable dissipation. TIp stairs and down stairs Mrs. L. was in reality a slave; a slave to her children, who seemed born tyrants, and a slave to Biddy, who knew her own power and used it without mercy. Mr. L. was a large, strong man; large in intellect, strong in heart. He loved his children, and he loved his wife, and to the utmost of his power protected her weak- ness from the encroachments made upon it. But his care was such as he gave his children, and he could hardly have regarded her in the light of a companion. Had his nature been tyrannical her condition would have been simply abject. Firmness, decision, a lit- tle energy, would have lightened all her burdens, but the value of these qualifications she had never learned, and so she fretted and frittered, what might otherwise have been the sunshine of exist- ence, into clouds and shadows. But I did not long remain with Mrs. Lyford. She came home one day with a frown upon her face, and I felt at once that the tempest was directed to me. She said nothing, however, but upon her husband's return, when din- ner was over, I was called to their presence, "Where have ydu lived before you came here Ellen?" "In the country principally, the last few years." "Have you ever resided in the city before?': "Yes." "Were you ever Mrs. Dr. Herndon?" c "Yes." "What unblushing impudence," said Mrs. Lyford, turning to her husband, while a glow of indigna- tion suffused her cheeks. "To think of a respectable family's being subjected-- " "My dear, allow me to settle this matter," interposed Mr. Ly- ford. We - shall not need your services longer, Ellen," said he with emphasis. "It would have been better had you confided to me your position before. You must leave to-morrow. Give me your direction, and I will call and settle with you after your remo- val." I had nothing to say, nothing to do but act as t was bidden. Mrs. Lyford was out when I left, with the children, so there was but little leave taking, and after all the much abused Biddy alone attempted sympathy. To be out of a place touched at once her feelings, and she told me that one of her cousins was going to leave her situation, and maybe I could get it. But Hwas again on the world, and I went back to Mrs. Markham's. I felt neither joy nor sorrow-scarcely anxiety. I was desperate, and did not care. In the night I thought how cool the water looked between New York and Brooklyn. One plunge and it would be all over. Should I take it? A shudder responded. I was not prepared for self mur- der yet, and I went to sleep to dream horrible dreams, and awoke in the morning to dread uncer- tainty. I received a letter from my father. I had written him while at lMrs. Lyford's my whole - story. I did not expect his approval, nor sympathy. I hardly expected his forgiveness even;. but his letter gave me some consolation, because it expressed kindness, and a de- sire that I should return home, though he added: "you do not, of course, expect me to agree with you in the step you have taken in regard to your separation from your husband; but the Lord has punished you already for your rebellion against his holy law, and my reproaches shall not be added to your measure already filled and running over. You have acted unwisely in maintaining so long a silence toward your natural pro- tector-this is also forgiven; but I trust, as I have said before, that you will now come home." I ate no breakfast; my heart was too full for that, but was waiting in the common parlor when Mr. Lyford came, as he had promised. I was indifferent to his opinion, as to. all others concerning my- self or my actions. Hardened, I supposed people thought me- reconciled to their condemnation, I so believed myself to be. To be allowed to earn my daily bread in peace was all I now required of the world, but that seemed almost out of the question, and my faith in the power of the Almighty- never, I admit, as strong as itI ought to have been-nearly de- serted me, and with apparent apa- thetic indifference, but real heart- aching beneath it, I met Mr. Ly- ford. He counted out some money and laid it on the table before me. The amount was what I expected. He put up his pocket book, and I awaited his departure. He did not move, however. My mlanner was such, I suppose, he did not know how to address me. I looked at him in surprise, that he did not go. "What will you do now, Mrs. Herndon?" said le at length. "Seek another situation. I may find onie of which the Christian world will deem me worthy." "You speak bitterly. Do you blame me for refusing to keep you in my service?" page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] "Of course not, you have a right to suit yourself in choice of servants. Moreover, the world is so pure and good, it has, of course, a right to demand not only faith- ful service from its lowest menials, but also that their former lives should have given no cause for condemnation. The parable of the prodigal son was intended for Jews or heathens, not for Christ- ians of the nineteenth century." "You wrong yourself, Mrs. Herndon, in indulging such bit- terness, and you also wrong me in supposing me capable of treat- ing you unjustly. I dismissed you from my family because I could not consent to witness an educated lady degraded to the condition of a menial when it was in my power to place her in a better condition." He spoke very kindly, and I looked at him with astonishment. Kindness, and for me! was-it pos- sible? Did I not labor under -a delusion? I would wait; there was undoubtedly a sting some- where. He continued: "You have undertaken to fight against social laws and social order. You must accept cheer- fully the result. Our state of society is supposed to be Christ- ianized; but I am sorry to say that it seems to have been so oc- cupied with points of doctrine, the trinity, vicarious atonement, election, and so on, that the spirit of Christ's life, his charity and divine forgivness, seem nearly lost sight of, and the old Mosaic law of "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth," characterizes now the social order nearly as much as in the times of Christ. Upon woman is the hand of con- demnation laid most heavily, but it is, I am. sorry to say, the fault of women, who are always the first to condemn the erring." "And yet, Mr. Lyford, you would not be willing that your wife should openly put out her hand to help an erring woman? Women's desire is to please man, rather, I am sorry to say, than God, You pretend to more strength than we if you, in your hearts, condemn the want on wo- man's part of charity to woman. Why do you not make it manifest, and insist upon reformation?" "Well! well! Mrs. Herndon, there is a screw loose in the world's morality somewhere; but I am not an adept in that kind of mechanism; so we will, if you please, leave this discussion, and return to your own affiirs. A friend of mine who has, in a humble way, undertaken to exem- plify Christianity, is in want of a governess. She knows your his- tory and position, and would like to see you." "And do you recommend me?" "Most certainly I do," was the reply. "I cannot thank you; I am too unused to kindness to be able to demonstrate properly its appre- ciation; but if you have ever been utterly friendless, utterly without hope in the world, you know alrea- dy what I would say; if you do not from experience, God grant you never may." An appointment was made, and an arrangement completed, when I was suddenly called to the sick bed of my father, who was struck with paralysis. The summons was one which could not be disregarded. My engagement was postponed, And I was soon on the road from New York to Boston. The journeywas wearisome; my mind being filled with sad reminiscences, or dread foreboding of future evil, and I was glad when at length I found myself even in the presence and knew the extent of the ill, which could only foreshadow certain death. The sensation experienced up- on return, after a long absence, to the home of one's childhood is very peculiar. Everything, though familiar, seems changed from the ideal in which during absence we clothe it; and yet enough is left to perceive the foundation of our illusions. The house with the poplars seemed older than I supposed; the rooms looked smaller; the ceilings lower and the furniture more ancient. The step-mother was the same, only older;- her very dress the counterpart of what she wore so many years before. But a few straggling locks lay around my father's forehead; the rest had gone, and le seemed very old in his helplessness. He could not speak; but the first look of ten- derness I ever saw upon his face seemed settled there, ats if the shock which had destroyed his physical powers had drawn from its concealment all paternal affec- tion, which never shunned the daylight more while he remained on earth. His hand felt cold, and I laid it gently under the coverlid, then stirred the fire to conceal the tears which were rolling down my cheeks. I wiped them away has- tily, and returned again to meet that look of affection mingled with pity falling upon me. I could not endure it. Harshness I was used to. I could have well borne sternness and have gone on doing daily duty, unmoved beneath its infliction. But love had al- ways been indicative to me of sorrow, and surely now I read in it a premonition of my father's dissolution; and I ient up to my little room and put aside the yines, which were very luxuriant, and endeavored to prepare my mind for the messenger whose footsteps were quickly approach, ing. For days my father lingered; but each one left its impress. As I watched by the bedside, with no sound to disturb the quiet but the noisy ticking of the clock, telling of time hastening on to eternity, my mind reverted to the past, connecting all about me with early reminiscences. My foot rested on the same stool on which I had climbed to the coffin of my mother. The floor was sanded in the herring-bone pat- tern of bygone days. There was the patchwork quilt I had years ago pieced together; scraps of z , page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] dresses worn by my mother, of my own, when a little child I first began to feel my loneliness. My father died at length as the sun set, when the leaves were falling. I held his hand and bent over him as his spirit passed; there were no signs of suffering.- And then the little parlor held another coffin; but no child stood over it. A firm, strong woman dropped a tear and closed the lid, and went to her room to-think. We were alone-step-mother and daughter-alone, but yet not so. There were busy memories bubbling and surging, dying away and blending with others. The funeral was over, and we sat by the fire, which the chill autumn evening called for, ar- ranging plans and talking of the future. The property was small, but during my step-mother's life I renounced all claim to it, and a little would suffice for the need of the widow. In a few weeks I was to return, to New York. I would not remain in Boston. The con- stant dread of meeting Dr. Hern- don was ever upon me. I could hardly walk the streets without trembling, so apprehensive had I become upon the subject; and yet I looked curiously at every boy I chanced to meet, searching for Harry-who was still invisible. A few days before my return to New York, however, I induced my step-mother to visit, with me, a gallery of paintings. We were quite fatigued, and sauntered lei- surely along, sitting down occa- sionally to admire some picture, till we came at length upon a portrait of a boy who looked Lke Harry; so like; I passed my hand ;.quickly over 'my face, as if to 'brush away an illusion, when I was startled "by a voice beside me. Dr. Herndon! He had grown older, stouter and coarser. Be- hind him was Harry; and step- ping hastily one side I turned directly towards the boy, meeting him face to face. Then the hall appeared swim- ming around me, and I should have fallen had not my step- mother caught me, and with the assistance of a gentleman, led me to a seat. The bustle attracted Harry's notice; I heard him say, "Papa, who is it?"Dr. Herndon looked towards me, then led his wife and child away, and I was left to wonder if the boy had known me. Why had I fainted? Why did I not speak to him? It might have recalled me to his recollection, so he would never have forgotten'me again. But the opportunity was lost, and I went home sadly, to talk of my child to my step-mother, more freely than I had ever spoken to her before. I was almost hysterical in my nar- ration as I told of the little events of his childhood; but my freedom of speech relieved me, and then quite calmly I made preparation and returned to New York. My next employers were very eccentric; some even called' them crazy; and indeed their course was so unusual it was hardly sur- prising that the matter of fact -jog-trot kind of people, who com- * \ pose what is called the world, shofld have looked upon the wan- dering sheep of the flock who had left" the track of the bell-Weather, and were walking their own way through life; as fit only for the lunatic asylum. They were abolitionists when anti-slavery was not the fashion; liberal Christians, when'liberality was considered akin to infidelity; women's' rights advtates when almost every woman kbelieved her only right was to love her hus- band 'and children. They were wealthy, yet lived very plainly; childless, but had taken from the very kennels of iniquity six of the most forlorn and friendless child- ren into their home, and it was for their instruction my services were needed. My antecedents were to them my own alone; my motives they neither impugned or ques- tioned. Conscious of their own strength, they felt no danger of contami- nation by touching the hand of vice, when vice could thus be led 'to virtue. Many a Magdalene had by them been raised from the mire into which she had fallen, and many a youth been rescued from the, paths which lead to destruc- tion. To them I am indebted. May God reward. them. CHAPTER XIX. Another year had passed, and again I was summoned to the house with the poplars. The last link connecting child- hood with maturer years was sud- denly-- brokehn My stepmother had solved the great mystery, and thus I was left alone in possession of the house with the poplars. I had now sufficient property to prevent the necessity for farther effort for the means to live. Con- cluding to remain in Boston, and having set my house in order, I began to wonder in what manner I should best occupy my time, to render it in my own sight worthy possession, when an incident oc- curred which changed its current, and gave me an object and aim in life. It was a sultry summer's night. The moon had rolled away, leav- ing the stars in undisputed pos- session of the firmament. A rose tree, nestling close to the window sent forth a few rich breaths from the solitary flowers which were upon 'its branches, and a soft southern breeze seemed seeking a refuge amid its luxuriant verdure, and leaning back in an old arm chair, I gave myself up to reverie. To no time did I confine myself. The past, the present, the future, were blending in one comrmon pe- riod till the hours flitted by, and the clock tolled midnight, when I went to my chamber and laid down to sleep. I was lying still awake when the door opened gently and a child clothed in white, with naked feet, glided up to the bedside. The curtains had fallen about me, so that I did not distinctly perceive the Visitor till she stood quite be- side me, and then I moved from page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] the little hand that seemed seek- ing my face. I started; it was no dream, but a being natural or spiritual who stood beside me. "Aunty! dear aunty! why will you not speak to me; whywill you not come to me," said a voice too sweet almost to be of earthly sound; but something appeared to attract her attention, for the little face turned, the head up- raised, the hands clasped, the voice murmured, "Oh!" and the apparition vanished. The door remained open, and I, recovering from the surprise, the alarm, or whatever emotion might have in- fluenced me, sprang from the bed, lighted a candle, and followed my mysterious guest. There wasnoth- ing to be seen. The crickets were chirping- n the hearth of the kitchen, b4t all beside was still. I looked into the garden. A brilliant flash of lightning illumi- nated it for a moment. Away in the distance reverberated thunder, and the black clouds rolled while the sudden pattering of rain made my heart stand still almost, as I thought, if the child were really in the flesh, she might be exposed to such inclemency. Again, my eyes were strained into the outer darkness, and again the lightning showed me no one visible. I slept at length, but my first waking thoughts recalled my last night's visitor; yet the day passed on, bringing no clue, and I finally almost believed the vision a hallu- cination, when again my rest was disturbed by a second visit from the little apparition. I woke one night to find it at my bedside, and as the warm hand lay softly on my cheek it removed all thought of other than an earthly guest. "What do you wish, my dear?" said I, gently. The child bent over me till her curling locks fell quite upon my face, and I could feel her warm breath, as she-whispered "Aunty, are you here, dear aunty?" - A lighted taper burned upon the hearthaf the chimney, and I could see distinctly the delicate features of the girl as the face was turned toward me. "Hush! hush!" said she, placing her fingers upon her lips, and she moved away so quickly I could hardly follow her, but she left the entrance to the back of my house, and I watched her to the door of a neighboring tenement. M[y curiosity had become so great I was almost too impatient to wait for a suitable hour the next morning to make the inquiries I was anxious to institute respecting my strange little visitor, at the house where my maid informed me she probably belonged. The child herself opened the door for my entrance, but was ap- parently ignorant that she was the object of my mission. The woman who had charge of the girl was evidently hard work- ing and practical, and looked upon the child, as unlike her own as a piece of porcelain to common delf, with apparent contempt, for in that house of poverty she could* be of little use. lThe woman was busy, but not unwilling to gossip, or perhaps her anxiety to be rid of the child induced her to look on my visit as an opening, and wiping her hands from the steaming suds she seated herself beside me. "It's Maggie I suppose you are wanting to know about," said she. "She ain't none of mine, you better believe," casting her eyes with a mother's pride on a sturdy urchin who stood beside her. She's a poor, weak one; and Smith says we've got to get rid of her somehow, for she can't earn her salt. She's a deal older than she looks, and so strange, I think perhaps she's a half-wit. But the Irish declare she's uncanny like, and won't have nothing to say to to her. But the fact on't is, she came here some months ago with a queer little body she called her aunt. The woman seemed rather slender, and once she said some- thing about being afraid she was going to die, and her coming down here from the country to look for some body the child had a claim on in case she died. She seemed to get better, and then as she was one of them sort of folks who's always a-dying, I didn't think no more about it. She went to stay a while 'long witl Miss More, over to your house, but, bye and bye, back she comes, gets a great deal worse, and died kind of sudden like, after all. She didn't know nothing, the last two days, nor nobody, and Mag- gie was all alone with her when she did die, for I had to go out nmd staid longer than I meant to, 7 and when I got back the woman was dead and Maggie was trying to wake her. She said her aunt knew her and spoke to her, and then said she was tired, and so fell asleep. You never in your life see a young one go on as that one did, when we told her her aunt was dead. 'It did beat everything you ever saw. She got just as sick as could be, and we thought she was going to die too. It's real strange, though, how much a child can stand. I've seen my Eben there, sick as any- thing in the night, and all right the next morning. It took Mag- gie longer than that, though; but bye and bye she begun to come round, and then she seemed stranger than ever. "I've seen her looking half an hour together as if she see some- thing; and then one night I went into the room where I'd put her to sleep, 'long with my young ones, and she wasn't there. I was just as scired as ever you see a body, when I thought perhaps she'd gone to her aunt's room, and sure enough there she was, in her long white night-gown, feeling over the bed, with her eyes wide open, but she didn't seem to know nothing, so I took her back and thought she'd gone crazy, but in the morning she was all right enough. Ever since she's been a sleep walking, frightening every- body in the house out of their wits. Her aunt always acted as if she had some trouble to think of, and sometimes I used to try to coax it out of her, guessing pre- page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] haps she'd feel better if she could only speak her mind out--I always do-but 'twant no use, she'd beem jest as if she was going to, then she'd give a great sigh, and choke it all back again." The child was a somnambulist. How she had got into my room was a mystery, till Mrs. Smith in- ormed me that the door at the back of my house could be opened from the outside by any one un- derstanding the secret, unless a bolt which I had often noticed but could see no necessity for, was drawn upon the inside. I asked to speak with Maggie. She came in and looked curiously at me, answering the questions I asked her with great timidity. She had no relatives that she knew of. Her aunt had never told her of whom she was in search. She would like to go home with me, if Mrs. Smith wished, but was afraid she would only be troublesome; and then, as I saw her heart was full and her eyes filling with tears, I told her I would see her again, and bid- ding Mrs. Smith good morning went home to reflect. The child was beautiful-too beautiful to be thrown unpro- tected upon the world, and as I recalled the lovely face, marked with the greatest refinement and delicacy, the classic features, the golden curls clustering about the pure white throat and above the forehead, I wondered whence she had strayed, and how she had fallen into the conditions which now surrounded her. The expres- sion of her face was peculiar. It was sad; but I could not help thinking of what Mrs. Smith had said, that she looked in vacancy as if she saw something. "I will have her to live with me," said I, at length, as the memory of my own childhood's loneliness came back upon me, and I went into the garret and searched out a cot I had occupied in childhood, and placed it at my bedside. There was little about my sombre dwelling to prove at- tractive to childhood, but Maggie was peculiar, and when I brought her home she seemed to like the quiet air that pervaded the house, and to feel in harmony with her surroundings. "Is your name Margaret?" said I, on her first arrival. "The children call me Maggie. My name is Magdalene." "And your other name?" "Is Leighton," was the reply. "And your aunt's name,Annie?" "Yes!" How stupid I had been. But the girl had grown-and I had seen her but twice. "You are the lady," said she, C "who came once to see my aunt, in New Hampshire. You were so unhappy then I could never for- get you." "Was it me of whom your aunt was in search when you came to Boston?" "I think not; besides, your stepmother, Mrs. More, told her you were still in New York; so that she could easily have written you." Then it was evidently Magda- lene's parents for whom Annie was seeking. Who could they be; and why had Annie made no reve- lation? She had probably discov- ered they were no longer living, but it was strange she should have died and made no provision for the child to whom she had devoted so much of her life, and I at length concluded that Death had been nearer than she had sup- posed, and approached unawares. But the child was mine now. No one could take her from me, and I accepted the charge with my heart filled with gratitude to that mysterious power which guides our destiny. That Provi- dence had led her to my care I did not doubt. To show myself worthy of the trust I asked for help from Heaven. ,- She was low in stature, child- like in her general appearance, but older than she looked. At first I thought her education had been greatly neglected, but after- wards discovered that she was not only slow to learn, but her organ- ization was such that. only the gentlest means could be used to develop her intellect. She was h quiet child, silent and shy, steal- ing about the house performing offices of love and kindness with patience almost painful. I sent her to school for a while, trusting that the noisy, boisterous life of other children might infuse itself in her's, but the same little, anxious, womanly face I met each night on the threshhold forced me to renounce the experiment and take her more wholly to myself. I was rewarded for my efforts, for, bye and bye, a tinge of the rose stole over the lillies on her cheeks, and soon the perfect music of her voice made my hearth-stone glad with its melody. And yet she was very peculiar. The same dreamy look into vacancy, the same strange thoughts and expressions met my anxious observance of her differ- ent conditions. "Six hundred millions of peo- ple, mamma," for thus I chose she should call me, "believe in the transmigration of souls, it is said. I believe when I lived before I must have been a bird." "And when you take form again it may be that of a kitten; puss, how will you like that?" "You are jesting; I am in ear- nest. There is no danger of that. I know what we become when we leave this state, for I have looked away beyond into the other 'life, and have seen the angels. Let me tell you," said she with a smile, as she noticed my look of surprise, "I saw one first in a dream; it was some time ago, before I left the Smiths. I fell asleep, and bye and bye it seemed as if aunty was not dead, but called me. I tried to go, but felt so tired and lay so heavy until strength seemed to be given me; for I felt as if I flew, and alighted at the bedside where she died. She was not there, and I heard her voice again say softly 'Magdalene.' I turned, she was there," she said, looking upward. "I saw her clearly, bright and shining, and then she page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] led me home, and then I found myself all snug and warm and covered up so nicely. It was repeated some weeks afterwards, but then I awoke as a flash of lightning in the room dimmed the halo that surrounded her. You think it was only a dream; I know it was reality; but she does not come to me now; perhaps she thinks I do not need her; but I look sometimes so hard," said she, glaring upward, " and can catch the light a little which seemed to surround her; that is all." I reasoned with Magdalene, without, however,' shaking her faith. I told her that a state of nervous excitement had undoubt- edly produced so powerful a dream that it seemed like reality. I quoted from my own experience at the death of my mother, also at the death of my aunt. Both times my mind was wrought upon by intense excitement, and both times I fancied I heard a voice. "I think you did, mamma," said Magdalene, "I do not wish to lose my faith. O, mother, it is beautiful to fancy the angels near us. Beautiful to feel that only a film over our own vision prevents our seeing them." "But, my dear, is it not selfish in us to ask that they remain near us? They have had their days of suffeiing, is it not for us to wish them to enter perfect peace?" "But mamma, the world is beautiful. It is only conditions that make it otherwise; and when the poor tired soul has gone out of the body, do you suppose that its previous sorrow makes it less sympathetic for those who are left behind? and do you think that sitting upon a throne and singing psalms in Heaven would make you happier now than giving a little aid to some poor suffering soul? and do you believe that when you are fit to enter the king- dom you will be satisfied with less? O, mamma, I do not be- lieve there is a hole or corner upon this poor earth so vile that there is not a time when some angel from the other world for a moment will find admittance, to endeavor to elevate its occupants, and I am sure, when 'I was in trouble, my Aunt Anna came to me.' There was no. use in arguments with her. In other respects she consented to be led. Upon other subject'sshe rarely seemed to have a thought; but to combat these opinions were useless. I could only avoid them as much as pos- sible. Indeed, she spoke with no fluency; seemed in no way gifted upon any other topic, and an or- dinary child of twelve would have excelled Magdalene at fourteen, in all intellectual effort. Her pro- gress was so slow at times I al- most despaired of raising her even to mediocrity; then the veil which obscured her intellect would lift a little, and thus she acquired, by degress, a fair education. In drawing she was skillful; in mu- sic no effort was required; she learned almost by intuition, and her whole soul poured itself into song, which seemed, sometimes, as the strain of an angel. Her somnambulism ceased after she came to live with me. Her health was firmer, but her reveries, or whatever induced her dreamy habit of gazing on vacancy, in- creased, notwithstanding my ear- nest effort to remove a habit so idle and at the same time perni- cious. Once I yielded to her pre- suasion, and accompanied her to a Methodist class meeting; but I never did it again; for in a pause after a vehement exhortation from the leader, the girl commenced to speak before the audience as if unconsciously, and I was alarmed by the peculiar condition which seemed to have come so suddenly upon her. She said I was mistaken; that it was not sudden; that the mo- ment she entered the building she seemed to be thrown into an abnormal condition in which she lost all self-control, and could offer no resistance. "Do you think it possible, mother," said she, " that we ever lose our individuality so that the body becomes a simple machine, inhabited by another? It seems to me, sometimes, that I have left the body and some one else has taken possession." "Perhaps you are possessed," replied I, smiling, for I would not let Magdalene see how seriously her language impressed me. I almost doubted, sometimes, the sanity of the child of my adoption, and I wished greatly now to know her antecedents, if there was any cause to fear hereditary taint, and indeed if this might not have been the reason of Annie's silence in regard to this girl's mother.. But now I could only watch and guard Magdalene; using every means in my power to preserve her health,. and, if possible, strengthen her mind. Notwithstanding my un- easiness upon this point, that was by far the pleasantest period of my earlier life, and the one upon which I still look with the great- est pleasure. CHAPTER XX. The Herndons were still rd- siding in Boston; Time had not injured Mary's beauty. 'Sickness had spiritualized it as youth was departing. She had riches in abundance. Society courted her. But yet she was not happy. The gossips of their fashionable sphere had ever styled her wretched. The spirit which haunted Herndon's hearth had been by them called jealousy, and of late intemperance had entered the contest, and home became a hell into whose depths the early course of Mary Herndon now consigned her. Her husband was ever distrustful, ever on the watch for some short coming on the part of his wife-and with no proof, indeed, with no cause, he reproached her constantly with meditated faithlessness, and was always watching her. For a time he withdrew her altogether from the world; and then, as she seemed in no way annoyed by her seclu- sion, plunged her again in society. But this time he entered himself into dissipation, and became upon page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] intimate terms with a beautiful Fr h widow, whose damaged reputation was but slightly cov- ered by the gilding of reputed riches. Not satisfied with his .own friendship, he insisted upon her intimacy with his wife, and when poor Mary, heart weary and near- ly longing for death, begged him to remember the reputation of the woman, and not insist upon her receiving her as a constant com- panion, he sneeringly bade her remember what she had been, and if there were any great points of distinction between them. He even invited the woman to take up her residence with them while she remained in the city; and then Mrs. Herndon's female friends deserted her, for they would not be thrust into associa- tion with Madame Adele, and as Herndon's character, unmasked: by intemperance, began to be shown to the world, society frowned and commenced to shun them. Worse thau all was the influ- ence upon Harry, soon percepti- ble. Mary's affection for the lad had produced its reward; but now he seemed to be attracted from his allegiance by the wiles of the French woman, till Mary, roused from quiescence, threatened her husband to dismiss Madame from the house altogether. "Do so, darling, if you wish," was the reply, in a tone of mock affection, "though it would be rather expensive, we can keep a separate establishment. You know I became somewhat accustomed to the two in former days." Mary said nothing but wondered for a moment if, of all her friends in affluence, one could be found to shelter her from the brutality of the man she called her husband, and then she repented even of the thought. With her whole heart she loved him still, and she went up and laid her hand upon his shoulder, and looked pleadingly into his face. But he shook- her off. "Milk and water!" said he. "Give me some life and spirit. And here it comes. Adele, can- not you infuse some of your life and animation into this palefaced wife of mine?" The French woman laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "Ah, it is von petite," said she, placing her hand on Mary's head, who shuddered beneath the infliction of the caress thus graciously be- stowed. Through Madame Adele, per- haps at the instigation of Dr. Herndon, Harry, at this time heard his father's version of his mother's story. He had often thought to ask it, but with a strong repugnance to uncover the cherished spot in his heart, he crushed back the desire and wait- ed for time's developement. It came at length through the lips of a woman whose nature could heartily believe in the guilt of another, and from that time he lost the joyous buoyancy of youth, to become at once a man. Heretofore he had waited almost with impatience for age to aid him in behalf of his mother, but now he was covered with shame. He was very capable, and early en- tered college, showing such evi- dence of talents his friends be- lieved that even his position and the reputation of his father's wealth, would be no injury, for he had worked hitherto as if spurred on by the necessity of forcing his own advancement Now, however, there came a change. A bitter spirit took pos- session of him, and as the years rolled on, in his passage through Harvard, he formed one unwor- thy friendship after another, and seemed fast sinking into a dissi- pated youth of fortune, with con- science enough left to despise his own folly, and an occasional weak resolution to live above it. Harry had never loved his father. The half disguised bru- tality of the man sometimes dis- gusted him, and until the French- woman's disclosure he had not believed any wrong on his mother's part had caused the rupture of family ties, but the woman's story pointed so conclusively at the guilt of his mother he felt no help was left him, and that he had nothing now for which to live. Still, his old habits of study, or, perhaps his talent, gave him yet a position in'his class, for he delivered the valedictory at, the close of his collegiate career. But modesty or perverseness would yield nothing as a reward of his own merit. He chose at least to appear to believe his success to arise more from his father's position than his own des- serts. "That's enough!" said he to a friend who was congratulating him on his success. Don't you sup- pose I understand this farce well enough to perceive from whence this brilliancy arises? Some things shine by reflected light. Look at ------ , the son of a cobbler; how he tugged and plodded on. - Was he foolish enough to suppose the Faculty would recognize his mer- its? No! Old Harvard has re- ceived too many of her riches from the dying bequests of wealthy patrons not to fully appreciate the merits of a gold heap." "Well, never mind Harvard, but come and take supper with me at the Tremont," was the reply of Jack Benson." "It's my turn to stand treat to-night, and I mean to do it gloriously. Next week farewell to feasting unlesss I can make capital of some of the skel- etons at the Doctor's office. Dried herbs and physic, bah! But you see, when that aged and respect- able relative, my governor, was called away upon his long ex- pected journey, he bequeathed to me the scrapings of his life time, and a formal recommendation to the care of old Doctor Benedict. I am washing my hands now of the scrapings, and shall have to fall back upon the Doctor and his skeletons for the balance of my portion. What a lucky dog you are--plenty of money in hand and a large fortune in prospective." "But, Jack, you are the luckiest; you've got through with your mon- page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] ey in time for a fresh start for more. What have I to do in the world; born to a position and for- tune, with no object for an effort before me? Money-I am sick of money; tired of this money-loving people, who spend the best part of their lives in gathering pennies, to behold, as the days turn to years, the small coin changed into dol- lars, and happy in their old age if the homes of their youth are only represented by a sufficient accu- mulation of, to them, the one thing needful. Fame! what is it? the breath of my fellows for whose opinions I care never a jot, float- ing in bubbles about me, to burst at length upon a marble monu- ment, and a newspaper eulogy, of the virtues, and talent of the de- i parted. Is it worth struggling for?" "That'll do, Hal! a truce to moralizing. Who'was that pretty girl, who seemed so sweet upon E you last evening, at old Madame v Disbrow's?" " They're all sweet, for the mat- a ter of that.' The old women ogled t( me, in behalf of their daughters, d and manifest the greatest anxiety h in regard to my health. The young o ones sigh and look up in my face, A and talk about the moonlight, and 1t implore my autograph for their ri albums. By Jove, if I do marry, h it will be some wild Indian girl fu that never heard the word money." m " You are bitter; but that little bE rosebud, what's her name, can't be si calculating." "Isn't she? but don't let's talk fr, about it. It's all disgusting. I up )r wish sometimes I had been borna e beggar-there would have been -pleasure at least in the dream of t something better. But come, drain f me that bottle, and then let's go and lose a few dollars at poker." f "No, Hal! I'm through with my money, and you're too good a fellow to go so straight to the devil. Let's home to-night, and to-morrow I'll take you to see the sweetest little rosebud, who don't know you've got any money, and would'nt care a straw more for you if she did." "Don't you delude yourself. But come home if you wish; it does'nt matter much to me where Igo." "You're unusually bitter to- night," replied Benson; but the youth could not divine the cause. It lay, indeed, far deeper than he dreamed. From the time that Harry be- gan to look to the future, this hour was the one that was to have ful- filled his hope. To lay his talents at the feet of that mother whose tenderness in his childhood as a dream overhung him, had been his boyish aspirations. The devel- opement made to him by Madame Adele had withdrawn the stimu- lus, but not till the hour had ar- rived which would have fulfilled his boyish dream did he feel the full measure of his disappoint- ment. The future lay very dark before him. Almost morbidly sen- sitive to anything like dishonor- the very separation of his parents from each other had been a cloud upon his life. Years did not lighten the weight of the burden, but now he felt that' his own suc- cess would only make more prom- inent his mother's shame, and affecting to despise the world, to conceal in reality his dread of its scorn, he bade fair to become an idler, a cumberer of the earth, from want of moral courage to brave the sneers of the world. All this, and indeed much more, I learned from Harry, when years had brought the truth to light, and the .story of his mother as well as Mary Herndon had been made known to him. For ever the truth comes uppermost, And ever is justice done, And many a battle we deem was lost, We find at length is won. , '7 CHAPTER XXI By the taste of Magdelene, the house with the poplars seemed almost rejuvenated. Everything about it wore an air of refine- ment. Little luxuries of art were filling its niches; plants, summer and winter, shaded its windows, and canaries sang in its sunlight. i Spiritual faces, the work of Mag- dalene's pencil, seemed gazing from the wall upon our group. 1 The house was a rendezvous for s artists and musicians, attracted as much, perhaps, by Magdelene's beauty as by her performances, t and life was almost a gala, when A Edward Stanley appeared again t] in dur midst. Was I glad? Yes! And sorry? Yes! Glad once more to see him; I i, sonrryto disturblgain my sleeping -heart. i- He had been a wanderer, fight- i ing the battle of life in earnest. o His profession had long since s yielded him the possession of e money-more than enough for his daily needs. Its judicious ) expenditure in the alleviation of misery, had been his later mission, and now, thin, and wan, and pale, 3 he had come to me once more. I was glad he had come; was glad to give him rest and shelter; though the world would frown, and say hard things again; per- haps the dead past, even, unbury. When I saw that weary look I said, "I will bare my head to the storm; LET the world condemn me. Thank God, I have strength now, and am able to bear it!" But Stanley'said, "No! I have come but to look once again upon you, that we may mark the changes of time upon each other; then take myself away, perhaps never to meet you more." Was this kind? I did not ques- tion it. But Heaven had not willed an immediate separation. Overcome by weakness he would not admit, Stanley fainted, and remained so long unconscious I sent for a phy- sician, who restored him, but for- bade his removal till morning. Brain fever ensued, through which, thank God, I could nurse him. And none but those who know the strength of affection, can ap- preciate the blessed privilege. Did I care for him still? Yes. I had lain my love deep down in page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] my soul, covered it over, and piled upon it duty, cares of life, and aught else that came in my power; but it survived all this, it was not quenched; and now great tenderness came to aid me in re- storing to life this tempest-tossed wanderer. Weeks passed; he at length awoke to know me, to feel thankful, grateful for restoration; still he was too weak to leave us. Magdalene, my beautiful Mag- delene; how like an angel she glided hither and thither; taking my place at his bedside when fa- tigue overcome me; relieving me often of duties I would have en- trusted to none other. And thus in convalescence bright indeed was the sunlight of love and har- mony within our humble dwell- ing. But this was soon to end. The hours were already numbered. Brighter, perhaps, because known to be transient. Enjoyed more intensely because so fleeting. Magdalene understood and ap- preciated the character of Stanley perfectly. An element common to both natures, but wanting in mine, the strongest religious faith, drew them near to each other, and while I wondered I ardentlylonged for the well-spring of truth, from 3 which they quaffed such draughts s of comfort. I "Out in the highways and by- ways is now my mission," said Stanley, the day he left us. "Tlere I learn such lessons, there i I see such misery. Thank God, t who gives me power sometimes to 1 soothe the aching souls; to let a i glimmer of light into their gloom and darkness. There is a pana- cea for our own woes-the allevia- tion of the misery of others; and when I have been into a den of infamy, the air polluted by the breath of vice such as you never dreamed of, and found one being in a condition to receive a drop of the clear, pure water of Christian- ity, I have said, 'Thank God for the power to give.' And when I see the injustice of man to man; when I behold the weak and mor- ally crippled crowded by their more fortunate brothers into the dens and corners of the earth, I have said there are angels who will yet be born from this degradation into a, world of light, for God is here, and in his own good time will show an upward way. I have been into the prison cell, and taken by the hand a man born with crime as an inheritance, edu- cated by the ignorant, goaded by the injustice of his fellows, till at last, to satisfy the law, he is con- demned to death. I have said to that man, 'The image of God within, you have desecrated; it is not too late to repent; let us oc- cupy your last remaining hours on earth in wiping away the deface- ment'; and little by little have seen erased the deepest stains, the burning thirst for vengeance, the, desire to turn his hand on every man, when he recognized the soul within, scarred and defaced by its indulgence of bad passions, while the world without moved on, un- harmed by all his desperate long- ing for revenge, until he wept, and said, 'Had some man taken me by the hand in my youth and said these words, I might never have come to this.'" But when I replied that God in his wisdom had ordained he should walk this path that our Savior in all his purity and innocence had walked before, he bowed his head and resigned himself to the will of the Father. I have seen mothers in parlors' looking with envy upon some more wealthy or more fortunate neigh- bor, taking perhaps the good name of another, murdering what is dearer than life-reputation. For them were no prisons, no gallows, but the inexorable law-visiting upon the third and fourth genera- tions the sins of the parents-pro- ducing at length a criminal, while they have passed out of life partak- ing the Christian's communion, and dying in a belief of a blessed immortality. The world looks up- on the prisoner with horror-the mother as a saint upon whom God's justice has been visited too harshly, but whose trials will be sanctified in Heaven. But 'no fruit is produced without a germ, and society sows her seed broad- cast, and gathers up her crop so loosely that were it not for the judgment of Heaven eternal exis- : ence could be only an evil, as it is-thank God for his laws. The world has got to go deeper, deeper into the soul principle before it it can become regenerated. Until it has there can be no millenium. 1 Of love, not a word was spoken 1 during his visit. His manner to me was the same as to Magdalene. I longed to know if I still retained a place in his affections. My want of faith, my distrust of my own power, with his peculiarity of man- ner, led me to infer that simple friendship was all that was left me, and adding this thought to the burden I had piled upon the love of my own heart, with a sigh of regret I saw him depart. We were lonely at first from his absence. His visit, with the sick- ness which followed, had changed the current of our life, and it was not quite easy to restore it again to its former channel. Besides, the contrast of my life of pleas- ure with the self-denying habits of Stanley were not in my favor, 'and I felt the developement 'of the spiritual in his nature to be much higher than mine of simple intel- lect. Besides, I began to doubt if I was guiding Magdalene aright; our life was frivolous-and alto- gether my tranquillity was not easily restored. Dr. Herndon had lived the past few years a short distance only from the city; still, we had never chanced to meet. Lately I had thought much of Harry. He was old enough now to judge for him- self in regard to the relative posi- tions of his father and mother. He had probably heard one story; I was anxious now to obtain a hearing. The post-office could be my only Pmedium of communica- tion. I indited a letter desiring to see him. Receiving no reply, page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] I conjectured he discarded me, relinquished all hope upon that score, and took up again the thread of my old existence. But still I was restless; there seemed no heart in my forced contentment. I lived two lives-a troubled, tired, un- happy one, but concealed by an- other of apparent equanimity and industry, yet longing, cowardly praying for death; as if my re- moval to another existence could rid me of myself. Magdalene in- tuitively felt my condition, and begged me to open my heart and let her share my unhappiness. I bade her ask' herself if I was not surrounded by everything to make life desirable? if there could be any possible excuse for unhappi- ness save my own wickedness? The last she denied; but I made no explanation, and exerting my- self to throw from us the cloud which threatened to overshadow Magdalepe as well as myself, was partially successful. My old restlessness returned upon me, however, one morning Magdalene was away, and I made little attempt to check it. I wan- dered from the house to the gar- den, attempting one employment after another, which I speedily relinquished. I could not con- centrate my mind upon the book I was reading, and threw it aside with impatience. My needlework met with a similar fate, and I laid back on my chair to let the cloud pass over and leave me in a con- clition fit for employment. I heard a step upon the gravel; it was too heavy for my daugh- ter. The door was open, and in a minute a young man, stood be- fore me. I did not recognize him. "Mrs. Herndon?" said he in- quiringly. "Yes," was my reply. "Do you not know me?" he asked, with some emotion. "I am your son, Harry Herndon." "Harry! my boy Harry? im- possible! A mother could never thus forget her son. You would impose upon me, sir. His hair was light and curled all over, while yours is black and straight as mine. The eyes," I trembled visibly, "were like yours; but in this tall young man is no other likeness to little Harry. - You know him, per- haps; perhaps he sent you. Bid him come to me, and let me warm his heart once more towards me. But no! he has been taught to distrust me. It is not easy to overcome the prejudices of child- hood. But has he sent you? Speak Let me know what is really your mission." I had risen as I spoke, but, nearly fainting, sank again into a chair, when he placed his own beside me. "It is Harry, mother," said he, "Harry Herndon, your boy Harry. Look here," putting aside the hair from his forehead adml exposing a scar which was made in childhood. "You have not forgotten the brook that ran behind our old red house, and the treacherous stones which not only refused to receive my little footstep but left their im- press there. It is Harry, indeed, mother; and I have come in obe- dience to your request." Theie was a pause. He was in- deed my son; but I could not span at once the gulf of time which separated the past of his infancy from the present of his manhood. I knew not what ta say. The child I might have taken in my arms; this firm, strong man could not receive caresses. Besides, he was evidently embar- rassed, andt devolved upon me to make the interview of service to both; and nerving myself I said: "I have sent for you, Harry, to make good, if possible, my cause with you; to extend to you now what, through the instrumentality of others, has so long been denied you. It devolves upon you, after hearing my sthry, to accept or re- nounce the strongest of earth's emotion-my offering, the love of a mother." As briefly as possible I recapitu- lated what the reader knows already; making no comments. When I had finished, Harry seemed still embarrassed. At length he replied: "A son has no right to judge his parents. We will be friends, at least," and he extended his hand. I took it as it was offered, but felt its want of cordiality, and my heart sank as I saw, at least at, present, this must be all. And yet I was not right to judge him harshly. His mind had been poi- soned against me. One interview, and the explanation of a stranger could hardly prove an antidote. Magdalene came in, and I in- troduced my adopted daughter. He started, colored profoundly, then said: "Excuse me; the likeness to some one I have seen is so striking I fancied I had met the young lady before." He chatted easily with Magde- lene, and his visit became more agreeable as the time wore on. To her I was indebted more, I think, than to my own powers of impression, for his continued vis- its. That he was fascinated, I saw from he first. To be glad or sorr adIly knew. Even to my own sIa qould not have given my adopted daughter, till he proved himself worthy. Like most women, jumping at a conclusion, the end of which is so often matri- mony, I saw him depart sorry, almost, he had ever come to me. But we cannot go back; we must walk forward. The sorrows of the future, consequent upon our own actions, we do not foresee; the most trivial circumstance produces sometimes -results so unexpected- it seems a fearful thing to live until we can acknowledge that God guides all and even from our errors brings forth good.. Harry's manner changed toward me; perhaps because he learned to know me better; and doubted less my story. Perhaps his heart so filled with love for Magdalene it softened toward the world. But he was idle. I did not like his habits, and took him to task for the waste of his youth. He ad- mitted his error, and pledging himself to better endeavors for the future, left us that evening, and X, . page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] in a short time becoming im- mersed in the study of the law, we saw him less frequently.- Harry had said but little of his father. At length he told me of Dr. Herndon's dissipation, and the general supposition that gaming and expensive habits were wreck- ing his fortune. Harry's evident devotion to Magdalene at first appeared to reap its reward. She listened for his footsteps. Her eyelids fell. to conceal her delight at his coming, and a shadow rested upon her face if anything prevented his wonted visit. For a time her hap- piness seemed complete; then a change came over the spirit of us all. Magdalene's manner grew colder. Harry felt the chill, but then she seemed unwell; perhaps physical causes produced the change. For a long, long time, her so- nambulism had ceased, but recent- ly I had noticed her falling into a peculiar state, even in the midst of daylight. At first, it was but for a moment, and she was easily aroused. After a while it con- tinued longer, until at length an hour would pass before she re- turned to a normal condition. At first she was simply immovable, with her eyes fixed upon vacancy; gradually she assumed the appear- ance of a person under the influ- ence of magnetism, saving that her eyes were never closed, but remained perfectly fixed in one direction. I became very much alarmed, and travelled with her- no good resulting. She renounced all animal food, and seemed grad- ually sinking into a state of great weakness, and again I dreaded in- sanity. Her manner to Harry grew more and more distant; in act, she avoided him altogether. I took her to task one day for her conduct. "You have induced my son to believe you loved him," said I, de- cidedly, "and now e can only suppose you have been trifling" "I am not capable of trifling, mother," was her reply. "I have loved Harry, and now am holding my heart in check, that I may change the nature of my love to that of a sister. I am glad you have spoken, for now I can ask you to help him in the contest which he will be required to make with the love he has so freely given me." "You speak very coolly, Mag- dalene," said I. "Is love some- thing to be taken off and laid away at the bidding of a foolish girl, whom I shall begin to think, bye and bye, has not the capacity even to judge of the effects of the emo- tion." "You are angry, mother. I do not wonder. You do not know the hidden spring that moves my action. I cannot even tell you now, for you will not believe me. I wish I had ever done anything which would have given you full confidence in my judgment, and sufficient belief in the uprightness of my nature to have taught you that I would not willingly have caused another suffering-much less your son." These were the first angry words that had ever passed be- tween us. I was sorry when I saw how pale she looked, and how evidently she was strug- gling with emotion. I took her hand, and drawing her towards me, said, "Forgive me, Magda- lene, but I have seen so much of sorrow where the heart's affections are concernej trifling seems too terrible. You are doubtless right, and have some urgent reason for your apparent fickleness, but, tell me; will you not be frank with me; there can be nothing of which it is necessary to keep me in igno- rance?" "You will not respect my rea- sons, mother. They are of weight to me, but to you they will seem 'trifles light as air.' Something tells me my union with Harry can never take place, and that for both our sakes all intimacy should be discontinued. I do not know the origin of these impressions. Since childhood, upon all important matters, I have been guided this way. It may be instinct, intui- tion-anything you please to term it. I always find it bestto heed it." I had always believed, or sup- posed I believed, in woman's in- tuition-not thus practically, how- ever,-but I did not deem it best to oppose her just at present, and I said, "if that is all, time will perhaps change your intuitions," and quite relieved, I left her-in reality believing she was actuated by a girlish caprice which would probably be overcome, if not op- posed, I had seen enough of Harry to deem him worthy of Magdalene, and my crowning desire was for their union, but day by day/her manner became more distant; day by day she grew paler and paler, till, alarmed for her health, I took Harry in council. He had been very reserved towards me, but now the ice was broken seemed thank- ful to speak. "She will die, mother, if this illusion is not destroyed. What causes it; can you tell me? I love her beyond everything. If she wishes me to leave her I will go; but I can divine no cause." "I believe she is the victim of some phantasy," said I, and then I told him of my former fear for her reason, and that I sometimes now believed they were not with- out foundation. This solution he rejected, but our interview at length concluded in the united opinion that a decided change of climate would be of benefit, and that a voyage to Europe must be arranged as speedily as possible. But Magdalene's health appeared to fail so rapidly it was deemed inexpedient to move her, till at length my fears were increased to the uttermost by her falling into a state of catalepsy from which I almost feared she would never re- cover. We were sitting alone in the moonlight one evening, Magda- lene and I. We did not speak. I was occupied with my own thoughts, which were not of the present. Magdalene had not seemed well, page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] and was resting quietly upon the sofa, as I .pupposed, when I spoke to her. She made no reply. I thought she had fallen asleep, and would not disturb her, when she said in a low tone: "Fear not, it is well." Looking at her more closely, I perceived her eyes were closed, and that her face was pale. Greatly alarmed, I endeavored to arouse her, but was not able; and for hours she remained in this trance-like condition. At length, a slight contortion, a twitching of the muscles, and she looked about her. "What's the matter, mother, have I been sleeping?" "I believe so, child; do you feel well?" "Not very; it's cold; will you shut the window?" Magdalene appeared now very ill. - A violent fever followed, and gradually seemed leaving her un- til upon the ninth day, when she grew cold, her pulse ceased almost entirely, and she lay apparently lifeless. "She is not dead; if we work vigorously we may even yet re- store her," said the physician. For twenty-four hours our ex- ertions were unceasing; then life returned. Almost with agony came the first breath. Then more easily, and stronger, till like one from the dead she seemed to rise again. "Sit by me mother; will you not? I want to talk to you," said she one day during her convales- cence. "I have my senses now; but I'fear you will not believe me. I have been out of this life, in a portion of my illness. My body was not dead when you feared so, but in such a condition that I saw it lie here. I saw you all bending your efforts towards its recovery. It seemed a cold and hateful shell to-me, and I thought how much trouble you were taking about a thing of so little worth. I did not suppose I was going to put it on again, uni I turned and saw my aunt. She looked both light and shining, but her face was sad, and she gazed wearily upon me, and then she turned away. I begged her not to go, or else to take me with her. She said it was time to leave me; My hour had 'not yet come. 'I cannot creep within that thing again,'- said I, pointing to the body, 'it cumbered me and hurt me here and here,' laying my hand upsh what seemed to be different por- tions of my real self. But as I spoke the vision faded into the space around us, and life seemed drawing me back to the body again. In pain, struggling for breath, forced almost with agony to life, I came; I wish I could have staid. It would have been better for you, and better, I know, for Harry." "Do not talk so Magdalene; you are very dear to us." "Too dear, perhaps; but I am sleepy now;" and she turned her face away, but I knew she was not sleeping. "Magdalene must become my wife," said Harry one day. "She needs change, and such attention as I alone can give." "Are you sure, my son," said I, "she will consent to such an ar- rangement?" "I have not yet asked her, mother, "but I know we love each other." "Do not be too sanguine, Harry. I fear, at least, you will be doomed to present disappointment." He looked up quickly and per- ceived how greatly I was in ear- nest, and I continued: "I am not certain, Harry, that Magdalene's mind has entirely recovered from the shock her dis- ease has given it. Though she has seemed kinder to you of late, and avoided you less, it is because she believes you now understand your union can nver take place. At any rate, she is still laboring under the delusion that some ob- stacle exists. But you shall talk with her, and judge for yourself." A few days after he gave me the result of his interview. "I approached," said he, "the subject carefully, but at once my intention flashed upon her. 'Say no more, Harry,' was her reply, 'I thought you had accepted our position.'" "'Our position! I know no po- sition but the one that love assigns us. Why, Magdalene, do you trifle with me? Are hearts of no ac- count, that they can be thus light- -ly tamnpered with?' "'I will not tamper with them; that is why I tell you now. One day you will thank me for the de- cision I have taken.' "'You do not love me then. lMy one thought for months has been 8 to make you my wife. I never imagined you cared nothing for me. Every dream of fame, all hope has twined itself with thoughts of you Suddenly all is gone. My staff is taken from me. The future has no balm.' "Magdalene was pale. 'Yon are wrong, Harry; nay, wicked. God bids us raise no idol. If you have no strength within yourself, no arm on which to lean, because a poor, frail girl bids you look beyond her for happiness, you require the dis- cipline awarded you. But listen, Harry; I do love you; I shall nev- er love again-never as you love- never as man would wish. M1y staff is gone, but God will give me strength to bear myself in life, even if my heart is stricken. Are you frailer than I? but listen still, Harry! I am strange, I know; I have been strange from childhood In my dreams another world is mingled; I believe myself not long for this. The timeis coming when I must go out from you all. I have been too long a burden on you, mother. My life is yet to be more active. You do not compre- hend me, Harry. Dear Harry, y6u cannot. You think me a wild, excited girl; but I am a simple woman-destined from birth to give sorrow to others. More than my will parts us, Harry, but as yet I have no living proof of what I solemnly believe. For your sake, for your mother's and my own, I have not wished to reveal to you all my reasons-for rejecting your addresses. My birth is stained, indeed, we can never marry.' page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] "Hervoice faltered as she spoke; and there was such a pleading look upon her face my anger vanished, and I drew her towards me. 'Magdalene, said I, 'tell me plainly the full extent of this de- lusion that haunts you so. Let me explain it away. Let my first care be to remove this doubt from your mind. I am Mrs. Herndon's son-you, her adopted daughter. Prove that your birth is stained, and what care I? If your father was a profligate and your mother some deluded victim, 'tis you alone I want, and not your history. There can be nothing worse than this, and see, I can cast away the shadow, and take you as my own, and rejoice in the sunlight of your presence. ' "'Please don't talk so, Harry. I'm very sony; but suppose you were my brother?' "For a moment a cloud dimmed my vision, then I said, 'Impos- sible. You are cherishing still some phantom of illness.' But she looked weary and I left her, my castles falling about me. Now, tell me, mother, all you know of Magdalene's history." "Her brother!" said I. "3fy dear Harry, are you not now con- vinced that she labors under some hallucination?" I told him all I knew of Mag- dalene. He was not satisfied, but further satisfaction was out of the question, and again uniting in the opinion that a voyage to Europe would benefit her, and must be speedilyundertaken, we separated, each to our own avocations It was with dfficulty Magdalene was induced to consent to the jour- ney. Not until I proved, which was really the case, that my health required a change, as well as her own, did she yield to our, persua- sions. Fearful that even at the eleventh hour she might repent her promise, I hurried our depar- ture, and breathed more freely when we were at length embarked for the voyage. Harry, of course, remained behind, and as I was but a novice in traveling I was heartily rejoiced to find among the pas- sengers a Greek youth returning to Smyrna, a former classmate of Harry, to whose kindness my son recommended us. We sailed at length, and when repentance came we were many miles at sea, the waves before and behind, from a point where no will of my own could return us to the post we had deserted. Then I did repent. I was but a timid traveller, and when I looked at Magdalene and realized the responsibility I had assumed in almost forcing this voyage upon her, with the prospect of an indefinite sojourn in a strange land, with none but a helpless girl as a companion -my heart nearly failed me. But my repentance did not reach its height till the fifth day after our departure, when a violent storm arose which terrified me be- yond measure, and in which all hope deserted me. As I look back now to the moment; my heart stands still. Utter helplessness, the dread waiting for the end, is all that forces itself upon the mind of the unoccupied, while the vessel is tossed hither and thither-the plaything of the element. None can-tell with which will be the vic- tory, and the heart stands still while the quick ear listens as the wind howls among the rigging, and the ship groans and creaks as the angry waves toss it hither and thither. Not a sound is heard among the passengers; the reck- less pause; faces are pale and anxious. No fear, perhaps, is spoken; yet one great dread has brought all into brotherhood, and the lion and lamb of humanity, for a time, lie down together within the circle of one common terror. My strength now failed me. I was faint, almost, with apprehen- sion. I had not deemed myself before afraid of death; but this combat of the elements was terri- ble. I felt as if the ship, protect- ing us from their wrath, would be destroyed, and that not death but hungry fiends were waiting to mutilate our fragile bodies before they delivered us to the keeping of the denziens of the ocean; and I said, "O, Miagdalene! is there no escape?" M3y weak girl endeavored to be- come my strength. "'Mother," said she, rebukingly, "where is God? and don't you see them? mother, they are help- ing us." "Who help us my child; of whom are you speaking?" "Angels, mother; but I forgot you could not see them. They are all about us; so many of them; they are helping the captain, they are helping the sailors; some are trying to give you strength; they will if you have faith. O, mother! God is good; He has sent these ministers unto us; we shall not be lost; but if we were, what then? One plunge, and our half worn bodies would be consigned to the deep, and we should join the spirit friends about us. But come, I am tired, and long to sleep; let us go to the state-room; the storm will be over soon, I do assure you." And as I granted her re- quest, like a weary child in a cra- dle, she consigned herself to rest. I could feel no faith in her pre- diction. All night I gazed from the port hole upon the mad waves which were fighting about us. There was not one glimmer of starlight. The white foam of the ocean alone relieved the black- ness, and I looked at the girl, so quietly sleeping, firmly believing that reason had utterly forsaken her. But as the night wore on, the wind went down, the sea be- came more calm, a star showed itself above the horizon, and when the morning dawned it was glori- ous as the morning that must first have dawned upon Paradise. Then Magdalene awoke and said: "Is it not lovely, mother? but how worn you look; you have not slept, I'm sure, all night. It was selfish in me to forget you so; but somehow, since my illness, I have not felt such calmness as came upon me during the storm last night, and I yielded myself trust- fully to the care of those I knew to be about me." page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] I looked steadily at Magdalene. There was no wildness. If in- sanity it was a happy madness. But I resolved, as little as possi- ble, to allude myself, or allow her to allude to the subject, and cau- tioned her to say nothing of what she believed she had seen, to others. She smiled as if she read my thought, and I felt the confu- sion of detected mistrust; still I watched her closely, weighed every word, but could perceive nothing to warrant my belief in the suspi- cion I had formed. We were A6go to Italy. Na- ples was our port of destination. When we reached Liverpool, therefore, our journey was only commenced. Our Greek friend was consequently of much assist- ance in directing our travel; still as I perceived the impression Mag- dalene had made upon his impres- sible na xe, I almost regretted we should not have seperated. I was heartily tired of love affairs of every description, and certainly had no desire to superintend an- other. Magdalene seemed con- stantly pre-occupied, and scarcely noticed the civilities of the young man, other than to remark to me his kindness of heart, his agreea- ble companionship, and the good fortune which had made him our traveling companion. For myself I looked with some impatience for the arrival at the point of destina- tion, to put an end to this, to me unpleasant position. But when we reached Naples and he with sadness left us, I could not but recall the words of Magdalene, that she had been destined from birth to give sorrow to others. The climate of Naples charmed us, and Magdalene's health im- proved rapidly. Indeed, she now seemed stronger than I had ever known her. There was no more somnambulism, no more catalepsy -not even a shadow of a vision- and I had almost forgotten my former suspicions of Magdalene's sanity when I was startled again from my calmness. We were one day visiting a gal- lery of paintings, and were stand- ing in front of a picture of a very lovely woman. "Is it possible this can be a portrait," said I, "it really seems toobeautiful to have ever existed in reality?" "I assure you, mother," replied Magdalene, "it is not only a por- trait, but a very truthful one; I am not sure, even, that it does the original justice." "How do you know?" said I, with some surprise. She colored as she said: "Be- cause at our first approach, the spirit of the original stood beside the picture. It is gone now." My distress was almbst appar- ent. I turned hastily away. Then the object of our mission was not yet accomplished-Magdalene was still a monomaniac. I now longed for home, and a letter from Harry made me more anxious still to hasten our departere, but circum- stances rendered it for a time bet- ter that we should do otherwise; and taking another lesson in pa- tience, I forced myself to submit. CHAPTER XXII. Mary Herndon was dying. Does it matter to the weary victim whether Death strikes his blow in a hovel or palace? But now a clock of ormolu tells with a sil- very sound the hour of midnight, and wakens from her restless slumber an apparently favored child of wealth. But the hireling nurse is sleeping in a chair beside her, and he who should have watched her latest 'moments on the earth is buried in the poisoned sleep of drunkenness in another apartment. Beautiful still, the fair face presses the luxurious pillow. Her eyes seem large and bright, and a rose spot burns upon her cheek Masses of beautiful hair cluster about her shoulders, but all un- cared for now, and the sufferer pushes them with difficulty away, as if she found them burdensome. She moves restlessly, but her movements do not disturb the sleeping nurse, and Mary makes no effort to waken her, but her weakened mind goes wearily back to the days of her mother and sis- ter, to those of her youth and beauty, to the early hours of her marriage. The couleur de rose of her youthful visions have deep- ened in their hue, and black alone seems all her memories. And now she waits almost with longing the coming of death to free her, for what she hardly knows. If phy- sical suffering disciplines, she is disciplined; if the torture of the soul can purify, she is purified. "I have sinned, Father, in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy child; make me as one of thy hired servants," had been her cry through months of torment, and now within the shad- ow of death she lay, waiting her release. But one more dutylies before her-to confide to Harry her whole history. Till within a few months she had not doubted her husband's story that their child was dead. Among a parcel of waste papers were some. opened letters care- lessly thrown one side by her hus- bond, probably when in a state of partial intoxication, and an old letter written by Anna, apparently in reply to one of the Doctor's, in which he had bound both himself and his wife to renounce their child forever if she would assume its care, and offering to settle upon her a handsome sum for its sup- port. In the reply, the money was declined, but the burden of child assumed. Since the discov- ery Mary's illness had so increased that she had made no effort to dis- cover if Anna and the child were still living. She must now ask Harry to seek them out, ascertain their condition, and do what he could, should they need relief. He was sleeping to-night; to- morrow, perhaps, her earth work done, -she might sleep well The day dawned, but few of its beams found their way within the heavy drapery of that sick room, and Harry stood for the last time by the bed where so little of life reposed. e page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] Mary moved slightly. She felt the gentle pressure of his hand and smiled, and then, with more strength than she had used for months she called up all that Har- ry had not known of her life; of her early love for Dr. Herndon; his subsequent marriage to an- other, followed by her own deser- tion of her mother and sister, Anna Leighton, to live with him; the birth of her child, a girl; its desertion by its parents-and here Harry started and withdrew his hand from her's. A cold chill passed over him. It was even possible Magdalene's surmise had been correct-that some natural barrier opposed itself to any close union between them-even pos- sible they were brother and sister. All this flashed through his mind in an instant, and was as instantly dismissed as after all unlikely, and resuming his position he pressed tenderly the hand of the dying woman, as if to assure her of his attention and sympathy, and she continued her narrative to the end, conjuring him to seek his sister if she were living; if she needed his protection to give it, for her sake, and as Christian charity. There was time for nothing more. The unwonted exertion had numbered the minutes of Mary, and alone with the nurse, now hastily sum- moned, Harry received the last breath of his step-mother, and closed over the beautiful eyes the delicately veined lids, whose gold- en fringe touched now the pallid cheek of death I It was all over, and Harry could think. -As yet there was no real proof that Mary was the mother of Mag- dalene. Should he write the story he had heard to his own mother, or should he wait for further evi- dence? He decided upon the for- mer course, and in the midst of my disappointment at finding that Magdalene had not yet reached the mental condition I had wished for, and once believed attained, I received from my son the written record of Mary Leighton's early history, the birth of her child, and its consignment to the care of her sister, Anna Leighton, with the final disappearance of both. The paper fell from my hand. I had been looking out upon the bay of Naples. A few light skiffs were skimming its surface, and a vessel here and there was moving on its 'bosom. A storm might arise which would disturb its quiet, the little fleet drift hither and thither, and the clear, sleeping waves become rough and turbid. Just so the calm tranquillity of my mind had become stirred by the reading of that little paper. My whole life passed quickly be- fore me-my married years, with all their hours of torment; my subsequent isolation and poverty in that country village; the loss of my child, and my own reputa- tion. And this was Heaven's jus- tice-that I should be allowed to take to my arms and my heart the child of my greatest enemy; to cherish and protect it, and give it the place of the son of whom they had robbed me. The strength of human passion almost over- whelmed me, and I felt weak from the contemplation of the pages of memory with the written appen- dix now lying open upon my lap before me. Magdalene came in. I had no mercy. At any other time I should have made known my dis- covery gently. Now I had no thought for the effect it might have upon her. There seemed no room in my heart for pity. I only thought of justice, and I rebelled that not till this late hour had justice been done me, and that even now the world would be none the wiser, for the truth could never be made known without in- jury to the innocent. Magdalene read the letter. "This is not new to me, moth- er-I may call you so, may I not? In a dream it was told me, and re-called to my mind, a letter which I remember I saw accident- ally as my aunt was burning some papers. Child-like, I amused my- self looking over her, and taking up one which lay on the table, JI read the name of Herndon, and saw that it concerned myself. My aunt caught it hastily away and destroyed it. My dream brought the circumstance to my mind, and believing that my real name was Herndon, I received the solution which seemed to come to me in my vision, and accepted the posi- tion in my mind as Harry's sister. You will forgive me, mother, now will you not?" "Forgive you! for what?"I could say no more; the tears came, and Magdalene from her great store of simple wisdom gave me comfort. My beautiful birth- stained Magdalene, with the weight of her cross upon her, could forgive and say amen! and should not I? "Our father in Heaven ordains that we walk through tribulation and anguish, because by sorrow alone we attain purification, shall we not accept it? I would that I might have closed my dying moth- er's eyes, but thank God, that though it might not be, he of all others I would have chosen, was allowed to take my place; but I must go home to my father, soon. Now she is gone, he will certainly need me." "Do not think of it, Magdalene; you will only meet with insult and contumely." "But I must try; if my father repel me, I shall have done what I believe to be my duty, and shall thereafter rest content." It was of no use to argue with Magdalene. Yielding as she was in many respects, whenever she believed herself guided by duty, real or fancied, none could turn her; and perceiving that only time or circumstances could change her intentions, I said noth- ing farther; and soon she left me to my own reflections. Inscruta- ble indeed, thought I, are the ways of Providence; but the end is not yet page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] CHAPTER XXIII. An auction flag streamed from the window of a large stone house in one of the aristocratic villages in the suburbs of Boston. Ever and anon, as the wind tossed its burden, the massive front was brushed by the lower limbs of a fine old elm, which had cast its shade for perhaps a century. Even improvement had not disputed its right to its present locality, and over many passed and gone, as over the head of Mary Herndon, as she stepped from the carriage, a fair young wife, to her husband's home, had it bowed its welcome, as over others than that same wife had it dropped its tribute. Death had done its work, and again was life busy. Here and there, in the still chamber, moved careless strangers. Prying eyes looked under the curtains and ex- amined the hangings; rough hands touched rudely the precious biou- terie, which to love would death -have rendered sacred; but life had lingered longer than love. It was not altogether curiosity which had attracted so fashiona- ble an assemblage to the sheriff's sale. Dr. Herndon was renowned for his exquisite taste, and persons who were destitute of the gift felt sufficiently secure in purchasing the effects of the bankrupt, from the simple fact that they were his selection. Harry superintended the sale. He had had some difficulty in keeping his father sufficiently so- ber to attend the funeral of his i wife. He had noticed the tear that dimmed the eye of his parent as they returned to the desolate home, and the hope that for a moment filled the heart of Harry as he witnessed the solitary mark of tenderness, which yet denoted him a point above brutality, was destroyed as he saw the cup ap- plied again to his lips when the unwonted restraint was removed. Dr. Herndon was now a ruined man. Hungry creditors had wait- ed with what patience they might the tardy work of death, to strip off the gilded shell of their debtor and expose the worm of poverty, which now had found an entrance. But on Harry alone the blow seemed to have fallen. His father was proof against shame. But one want was left him-drink! drink! which thus far he had been successful in obtaining. The sale was over, and at night Dr. Herndon took possession of. the furnished lodgings which Har- ry had provided for their mutual accommodation. They were small and gloomy, and admitted but slight embellishment; but a minia- ture upon ivory of l\[ary in her girlish beauty, which Harry had found in her writing desk after her decease, hupg over the mantle, and Harry stood before it. It was Magdalene to him; the likeness was so great that in absence of other proof the miniature itself would have proved the relation; and Harry, now thoroughly satis- fied that Magdelene was the. daughter of his step-mother, was glad his sister was away, that he might become accustomed to the idea of their relationship without the torture of her presence. He had a strong, firm nature, and felt sure he should conquer regret and be prepared to receive her with fraternal love, when next they met. His father was half intoxicated, but came and stood beside him. "Where did that come from?" said he, pointing to the picture. "Take it down. I don't want any such reminder. By Jove! she was pretty, and so devilish crafty. It makes me laugh now when I think how many years we tricked those dear good Beacon street people, who wouldn't have looked at her if they had known what I could have told them. Ha! ha! and how they used to court her; her pretty face was such an embellishment to theirhballs and parties, and all the old ladies called her an angel." "And so she was, father, if pa- tient endurance of suffering makes an angel." "Ha! yes. She was a nice little angel when she came to my rooms in- street, in New 'York, to watch over me and pro- tect me from the 'miseries of a home in another part of the city. It was good of her, especially as she left a comfortable garret and plenty of hard work for my luxu- rious quarters. We managed it nicely, and people thought me a saint, and the clergy were looking after me to join their churches as an example of a practical Chris- tian. But don't look so black, bantam! take a glass of this," said he, raising a decater. "This is what puts good humor into a man." Harry did not attempt to stop him. As yet he had not assumed authority with his father. That he must do so now appeared inev- itable; still, to-night he was in no humor to commence it, and he let him take his fill. But sleep soon followed the debauch and Harry was alone. He had nearly finished his stud- ies, but this terrible incubus, a drunken father, lay on his road to ambition. He could not remove it to the right nor left, neither thrust it aside altogether. He could only take his load upon his back and move along, but the weight seemed terrible. Still, in some measure, it alleviated his suffering in regard to Magdalene, for he never could have asked her to help him share such a burden. In the day of their prosperity his father had not been wanting in kindness towards his son. His money had always been freely lav- ished upon him, and it seemed to Harry but a little while since he had been proud of his father's po- sition, proud of his talents and physical perfections. Now, all was changed. A disgusting, pre- maturely old man, was all that was left him of the past, as a curse for the future. The fourth day after their remo- val Dr. Herndon was brought home in a state of beastly intoxi- cation, and the landlady gave them notice to leave her premises. Harry was thus again in search of page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] lodgings, but his father did not return that night, and a day or two after, in the midst of his son's tribulation, for he hardly Iknew what new disgrace might not await him, he received a note from his father, stating that he had con- cluded to relieve his son from the burden of his presence by sailing for California, and shortly after, Harry received, in a strange hand- writing, the announcement of his father's death at Aspinwall. But, though he dropped a tear to.. the better memory of his parent, it was easy to say, "it is all'for the best.' CHAPTER XXIV. It is easier in the first of trouble to bear it than when the excite- ment is passed, the burden fairly lifted upon our shoulders, and with no extraneous help we start along. It was easier for Magda- lene, in calming my excited mind, to overlook her own unfortunate position, and say, "He doeth all things well," than to apply always to her own case her religious phi- losophy, and so engraft it in her life that her cross would be lighter. After the receipt of Harry's let- ter she greatly changed. Her face lost its soft and almost angelic expression. The lines were deep- ened to ones of firmness, and day by day her likeness to Anna Leigh- ton grew upon her. For me alone was reserved all her sympathy and tenderness. On my harsh moods she poured oil and wine, and sub- dued them, yet rebelled herself at all expressions of pity. She was too beautiful to escape admi- ration, but vanity had no kin in her nature. Artists and sculptors begged her to sit as a model, but no persuasion could move her, and the nearest approach to scorn I ever saw upon her face accom- panied her refusal. "Is there anything of my hu- manity," said she to me, "that either you or I should wish to perpetuate?" "You are under the influence of pride now, Magdalene," was my reply. "You are. not bearing your cross with meekness, now." "Meekness! that is what the world demands of such as I. But you are right, mother, you shall see how I can bear it." Before this I had deemed Mag- dalene as almost unfitted to live in this world, and as already half belonging to another. The com- plete discovery, of her unfortunate parentage seemed to have aroused her slumbering earthness, and brought her back to develope, per- haps in the end to eradicate, her worldly passions. Notwithstand- ing her assertion that some ob- stacle existed to prevent her mar- riage with Herndon, I do not think she fully realized the posi- tion she assumed; but now, the fact revealed to her, leaving no hope, she felt the weight of that burden, and sometimes almost bowed beneath it. To assist her to live above the misfortunes con- sequent upon her birth 'was nmy desire, and to enable myself to do so I resolved to break down all barriers to mutual confidence still existing, and one day approached her upon the subject of her so- called spiritual sight. "I do still believe, my dear mother," said she, "that the knowledge of my relationship to Harry was given me by spiritual intervention. I do believe that I have been out of this world and into another, a-. d I have as clear perceptions of-the existence of an- other life as I now have that the sun is shining. "Itis all past," said she, sadly, "whether my stronger health is the cause, or whether the heavy misfortunes that have lately opened about me have with- dcawn my mind too much from things external, I have no longer sight, and am left to grope my way alone in darkness; but I can bear it mother, I can bear it. " About this time she refused alto- gether to go into society. "I am happier by myself," was always her plea. But now it became her custom to visit Roman Catholic churches, morning and evening. I supposed the music soothed her, and did not oppose it, but one evening proposed to go with her. She evaded my proposal and went into the street before me. I fol- lowed at some distance, but could only keep her in view, and did not overtake her till she had entered the church, where I found her kneeling before a picture of the virgin. Shocked as I should other- wise have been, her surpassing loveliness alone impressed me. The last rays of sunlight stream- ing through the stained glass of the Gothic window seemed to nave crowned the devotee with a halq like that which encircled the hea4 of the Madonna before whom she was kneeling. The weather was warm, and she had thrown back the black lace mantilla which had covered her, and left exposed the rippling waves of golden hair lying in ringlets about her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, but her face turned upwards with such an ex- pression of tenderness and en- treaty I could not disturb her, but walked away and listened to the strains od4ie Angelus flowing from the orghlr As I looked about me I could scarcely wonder at her infatuation. The dreaminess of the atmosphere; the spiritual pic- tured faces of saints, warmed into life by chastened rays of sunlight which fell upon them, steeped my own senses almost to intoxication, and I walked away. A few days before, we sailed for America, Magdalene said to me: "I have been wrong, perhaps, mother, in following so closely my own desires as to have neg- lected to consult you before upon a subject of vital' interest. My duties on earth are now all ended. Harry can take my place to you, and there is nothing left for me but to seek, away from my former sphere, my happiness. It is my desire to embrace the Roman Catholic faith, and when we reach America to take upon myself the vows of a Sister of Charity. Fa- ther Antoine has given me letters to some of the clergy in Boston, because I felt that there, rather page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] than in Italy, I would prefer to be located. Will you give your consent?" "O, Magdalene," said I, "is this to be the end?" "And why not, mother, I can- not lead this kind of life any longer. I must have action to exclude all morbid thought. I have no claims. I was rejected at my birth and thrown out upon charity. I have stolen like a thief in the night into the affections of those who have cause to spurn me. My life can never be that of other women. I cannot love again as man would wish, even could such be found to take my birth stain to entail on his posterity. There is but one avenue left for my relief; the dead- ness of a cloister life would turn my mind too much, perhaps, with- in itself;, the active duties of a Sister of Mercy, alone would suit me. You will not withhold your consent?" "I do not like the Romish Church, Magdalene. It seems to me like a step backward to enter it." "It need not be mother. It is the faith in our own hearts that makes any church living or dead -the want of it that stops our pro- gress; and, mother, in no Protest- ant church is there any such out- let for the activity ofi an unhappy woman, whose own sufferings have led her into such universal pity for all mankind that she longs to put forth a helping hand to aid the myriads who need it." "You will take further time for consideration, Magdalene?" "Until we reach America; bu4 I do not think I shall change my purpose." I 'could only hope that the in- terval, with the persuasion of Harry, would change this plan to something more acceptable, and consigning ourselves to the care of the good ship , we were a few days later, again at sea. CHAPTER XXV. Home again; home again. The house was very bright and cheer. ful. The twilight had shortened, and the shadow of night fell early, for it was autumn. The garden walks were strewed with' the leaves of the old Lombardy poplars, and they stood stiff, and tall, and stark, as if begging the snow for a covering. There was a chilliness in the atmosphere, out- side our dwelling. It was early for snow, and yet an occasional avant courier of its approach floated about in the atmosphere, or laid itself in some snug place where warmth dispersed it, leaving alone a drop of moisture. But a bright coal fire enlivened our little parlor, gas-light illumined it, and the crimson curtains were carefully closed to shut out all external discomforts. As yet, we had seen Harry but a moment. He had been called suddenly away upon some busi- ness, but now we listened for his footsteps. He came. In the bus- tle of our arrival I had n6t noticed his meeting with Magdalene. Now I observed them closely. He was courteous, warm and brotherly. She abrupt, hurried and nervous in her manner. With all her ef- forts she had not reached the point of self-control that Harry had attained. The tenderness of his voice overcam her entirely, and she suddenly lethe room. "This is hard mother, is it not," said Harry. "It will not be possible for us to remain to- getler as brother and sister, at prevent. We had neither of us known how strongly we had loved until this trial came upon us. I shall be very soon now admitted to the bar, and then perhaps it will be better for me to enter upon my profession in the city of New York." "Do not speak of it now, Har- ry; we are hardly able to judge at present wlTat will be best." I then told him Magdalene's plan for the future, and asked him to endeavor to dissuade her from taking upon herself religious vows. "I must speak with her first, mother, before I promise to use the influence of which you believe me possessed, for any such pur- pose. Her nature is peculiar. If she'is well grounded in her belief that a life as a Sister of Mercy is necessary to her happiness, I should not oppose it, knowing as I do her sensitive nature, so con- stantly liable to be wounded by a knowledge 6f her antecedents in what is called the social world, and the pangs she could so easily be made to suffer by those envious of her talent and beauty. No, mother, if she desires it let her choose her own path now." I acceded to his wish, more per- haps because I found I should be * alone in my opposition, than be- cause I rbally approved it, but my attention was diverted from Mag- daleneb by the arrival of a letter from Stanley, announcing his in- tention to be with us by Christ- mas, which was quickly approach- ing. -He came. I will not attempt to portray his look of joy when he took my hand and said, "Mine, Leah! now forever." There was no need to speak. There are times when the intense commu- nion of spirit denies us language, and silence is in itself expressive. We were too old perhaps to talk of love, but the world is mistaken if it deems that to youth alone be- longs the tender passion. Strong- er in riper years, more firm and more enduring, because we are immortal, and the germ principle of love in the human soul must live as a part of ourselves through countless time, or else we lose one of the essential elements of our being, one point of our individu- ality, and are thus far on the road to annihilation. Then why should it die with youth. O, no! robbed in some degree perhaps of its ex- ternal, but living purely, deeply, tenderly in the innermost sanctu- ary, ready to be born into life by its kindred spirit. Smile world, if you will; the first birth of pas- sion in the younger soul is far less pure, far less unselfish in its ex- actions than the dkep, quiet senti- page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] ment matured in riper years, and born perhaps into life through sorrow and suffering. The days wore on. We still said little of love. It was enough that we were together;' enough that our souls seemed conjoined; that here, there, everywhere, our minds met in communion, and God knows that my heart and soul, the diviner portion of' my nature, I gave to Stanley, and felt that I had received his in ex- change. All else was forgotten. Magda- lene even brightened in the sun- light of our happiness. Stanley seemed to lend her of his strength. He counselled, advised her, even to the course she had chosen. "It matters not under what banner you enlist, so that you work in the cause of humanity. The world is full of the weary and suffering. Give, and it shall be given to you again." My wedding day was approach- ing. Magdalene had deferred as- suming her vows until I had en- tered the life of matrimony. But Heaven is within. Our conditions may assist internal harmony; no other bliss can stand the beating of the elements of time and circumstance but the cheerful submission to the will of the Father, the calmness and trust with which we say, "Thy will, what e'er betide, be done." This was not my state. I had erected the pinnacle of desire. I was soon to assume the wedding gar- ments in which my heart had already been clothed; and happy beyond measure, suddenly felt that a cloud overshadowed me; that something was to come again between me and my great joy. I reasoned with myself. My hap- piness had made me fearful; ex- citement had been too great; this was simply reaction. 'No; for while I reasoned myJfate ap- proached me. Southward rode a steamer from California, and landed its passen- gers at Panama, who were travel worn and weary as they sailed north again, and counted the days when land and home should break upon their sight. All were tired, and but few retained their amia- bility; but the greatest grumbler, the most habitually ill-natured, was, I was told by a fellow-pas- senger, an! elderly man, whom every one avoided. "Can't you stop that brat's noise, ma'm," said he to a mother bending over a little sick girl, whose moans, sufficiently painful to any one, were daggers to the heart of the mother. "Pity the company didn't find pens forward for such kind of cattle." The man paid no attention to the host of indignant glanceswhich followed his inhuman speech, but moving away, he seated himself alone and looked sulkily out upon- the waters. Not many days after, the same elderly man was ringing at t e door of the house witlhhe p- lars. It was opened ky Harry, who at first did not recog zg "How are you, Harry? Glad to see your old father, of course," said he with a chuckle. "What are -you staring at?" he continued, for. the, young man was speech- less. "Thought I was dead, didn't you? Meant you should, and so I had the letter written informing my friends of my un- timely end. Yeryuntimelyit would have been, wouldn't it, when I had such a fine son, who owed his old father for twenty year's mainte- nance, to take care of me? At first I thdSght I would weather it out alone, but when I learned how happy you all were-you and your old maother-concluded I'd come back to complete the family group. Glad to see me, ain't you Harry?" "I should be glad' to see you, were you not even now the worse for the liquor you've been drink- ing. But you cannot stay here. You must go at once. If you need a support, you shall have it; but you are not to molest my mother." "Go! what, without seeing my beloved wife? Why, why, man! it is you who have lost your senses! I couldn't think of such a thing." "But you will- go!" said Harry, firmly. "If you have any man- hood left you will go with me quietly where 1 will see you com- fortably housed and carea for, -and when you, are in a condition to talk with me rationally, you may make what terms you please, provided you agree not to disturb my mother. If you do not go quickly I shall no longer hesitate to employ the assistance of the po- lice to eject you." "Call them, and be d d, you ungrateful" - , but he did not finish the sentence, for Mag. dalene, hearing the Altercation, had come into the hall. "My God!" said he, "Mary!" ad as if sobered suddenly, he left /he house quietly, without, how- ever removing his eyes from the face of his daughter till he was out of sight; then, with his son, went into aotel, and going to a room which was pointed out, he seated himself in silence, and still seemed gazing upon vacancy. "Mary! Mary!" said he, softly. "O, Harry! she was beautiful, and I did love her. You would not wonder, could you have seen her as I saw her. O, well! it's all over now. It's all gone-money and Mary. I fancied I saw her as I was talking to you, but it was the brandy, I suppose, that had got into my head; but I'd like to see her again-so, come boy, get' your old father a glass of liquor, won't you?" "Not to-night, father; you've had enough already," and leaving him to his own reflections Harry returned to us, to soothe what fears might have been aroused by Magdalene's story. Truly are ways of Providence mysterious, thbught Harry, as he hurried along. Men have gone down to the sea in ships, fathers of families dependant upon their exertions, and their bones have bleached among the coral. The. only sons of widowed mothers perish from disease, and their dust mingles with the decayed vegetation of the Isthmus of Pan- ama. Bright and shining lights page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] have faded into death, even in sight of the land of promise, and yet, a man broken by vice, of serv- ice to none, a disgrace to all, has made the voyage to the western shore, returns and lives to annoy those whom he seems to have been born to curse. It. was the night before my in- tended marriage. When Harry came home I was still in blissful ignorance of the errand which had called him out, after announcing his intention of spending the evening with us. Magdalene had surmised who the unwelcome visitor might be, but had had sufficient presence of mind to ward off the announce- ment to me till Harry's return. The evident agitation of my son excited at once my anxiety; that something had happened to Stan- ley was my first thought; it was consequently a relief to know that so great a misfortune even as the return of Dr. Herndon had alone caused dismay. "You must go at once to Stan- ley, Harry, and tell him what has happened, for we cannot marry." "Why mother, that is foolish. The law long since divorced you." "But Mr. Stanley does not re- cognize the right of the law to diiorce two people who have as- sumed in good faith their vows for life. I cannot agree with him. I do not believe in the attempt to keep externally vows which the heart rejects so utterly; still I would not consent to endeavor to move him in his convictions of what he believes to be right. If God hads joined us neither time nor circumstance can put us asun- der. We have only again to as- sume our burdens, walk again our own paths, and believe that the Divine Providence will do for us what in the end will be best." It was easier to say these words for the comfort of others than in my own heart to accept them; still I wished to do so, and when Mr. Stanley came to me and said, "Another trial, Leah; let us grow sirong beneath it," said amen! But he was pale; his lips were firmly compressed like a man who has nerved himself to bear some torture. This had come upon us so suddenly we were un- prepared to mark out other courses for ourselves. We met quite fre- quently, sustaining each other in our better resolutions. But I was weary, O, how wearied with life. My heart seemed sometimes to have died with its excess of an- guish, and I to be living almost withoutit. Atothers, rousing into life, I longed for some potion which would put it at rest forever, and allow me to become a moral, mental, physical machine, utterly incapable of affectional efotionq I was not rebellious. I longed only for the power to say with my whole being, "Thy will be done!" but never till then did I fully realize the difficulties besetting the sacrifice required of us, the crowning glory of Christ's life and mission contained in these few words. A few days after, in one of his half drunken moods, Dr. Herndbn thought proper to pay me a visit. "On myword," said he, "you're a fine looking woman; better pre- served than Mary was at the time she died. I dare say you are quite obliged to me now for leav- ing you all to yourself so many years. Quite a nice place you've made of it here, and a snug little property you've got in store for your old age. Come now, for Harry's sake, let's make it up;" said he, approaching me and gazing into my face with his bleared, darkened eyes; "let us live together again, like Christians as we are. O," said he, "I have in- deed repented, the suffering of remorse drove me to the wine cup. We can all be happy now, if you will only make us so." He laid his hand upon me. I shuddered at his touch, and was just moving toward the bell-pull when Magda- lene came into the room. A fright- ened look passed over his face. "Mary! Mary!" said he, "are they both, here! I closed the lid upon the coffin myself," and he moved towards the door. He did not kn.'w that his daughter was with me. . He had never learned that fact. I now resolved to prevent a second intrusion. A higher power relieved me. * The penaltyoof years of broken physical laws at length was paid. Alone, at midnight, none but the angels near him, the soul life left the misused body, and through the gate of death I came peace to'all- 8 a CHAPTER XXV. I have been married now some years to Edwin Stanley. We are upon the shady side of life, but walking firmly on, regretting noth-- ing in the past, and looking to the future of age with joy, and not with grief that the end draws near -the serenity of our lives lead- ing us so gently towards the dark valley we fear no evil. Thankful for times of trial in. the days that arefid, because from them all we have leaged lessons of faith and patience ththave given us strength 'and courage to et the future- thankful for the consu mation of our union upon earth, beaswe recognize the adaptation of our. characters, our mutual power to benefit, our mutual satisfaction in our union, and consequently an increase of power for mutual de- velopement. Respecting each the individual liberty of the other, we are yet thankful that the groundwork of love in our hearts is so great there is no danger that the maintenance of the rights of the one can ever inharmoniously jar upon t]ie rights of the other; and thanking God for the blessed pow r with all the soul to love, I draw he veil upon this, to me, most sacred theme, and return again to Harry and Magdalene. There was war in the land- fraternal war, when brother raised his hand against brother to rend asunder the banner of unity waving above them. Cold hearts grew page: 130[View Page 130] warm with fervent desire to main- tain in all its strength the inheri- tance bequeathed them by their fathers-the blessed Union-and youth and manhood, fired alike with zeal, laid aside the garments. of peace, and pledged themselves to stand or fall in one grand cause. Then Harry laid aside his books, shut up his office, and came to me in the uniform of a private, announcing his intention to leave with his regiment the following week, for the seat of war. I wished to procure a commission for him; he declined, saying: "I would rather earif it!" and went his way. My heart was full; but I felt he was right, and when he left me I said: "To thee, O, Fa- ther, and to this, thy cause, I cheer- fully resign him, and if it is Thy )vill that I shall see his face on earth no more, I know it will be well with him." Magdalene had not assumed her vows when the war cryrose. "For my country first!" she said. With much difficulty on account of her youth and beauty, we obtained permission for her to join the corps of hospital nurses who fol- lowed the army, but her urgent entreaties were at length reward- ed. Success walked in her foot- steps, for her angel face at the beds of the wounded and dying encouraged the sufferers, while her strong faith and belief in her spiritual perceptions led her with them almost across the iiver into the land that lies beyond. When the war was ended Harry and Magdalene returned to us, both worn and weary, but other- wise unharmed. Col. Harry Hern- don was older by many an expe- rience than when he left us. Calmer, more grave and thought- ful; life upon the battle field had schooled him in patience and en- durance, but it had made him restless in the quiet of home, and the law seems tame and dull to him at present. Magdalene says nothing more of joining the Sisters, but a visit last week from a young officer in the regular army, hardly yet re- covered from the effects of his wounds, called such bright blushes to her cheek, some deep emotion must have brought them there. And though with fear and trem- bling I witness sometimes the as- sumption of marriage vows, still, I must say, relying upon the noble nature of the man who seeks her love: "God speed the wooing."
