The unfortunate mountain girl
page: Illustration (TitlePage) [View Page Illustration (TitlePage) ] THE UNFORTUNATE MOUNTAIN GIRL. BY MSS L. J. PRATT. BOSTON: . PRINTED BY W. S. DAMRELL AND F. C. MOORE, 16 DEVONSHRE STREET. ' 1860. page: (Table of Contents) [View Page (Table of Contents) ] 'PREFACE. PREFACE. IN presenting this little work to the public, the writer would beg leave to say that she does not make special claims to erudition, or a style of Writing which shall at- tract for its novelty. Having been nearly deprived of the use of her eyes since the age of eleven years, she has made such use of her mental faculties as her kind Hea- venly Parent has permitted; and, through the aid of her friends, presents in this little volume some of those medi- tations which have occupied her mind, while the external world, in all its beauty and splendor, has in a great mea- sure been shut out from her vision. She can only hope that her readers will throw the mantle of charity over the many imperfections which, she is aware, exist in these humble efforts to give form and expression to a few wan- dering thoughts. She would respectfully ask that the Golden Rule might be the rule by which her cause might be tried, and then she may confidently expect that the "UNFORTUNATE MOUNTAIN GIRL" will meet with a kind reception from an indulgent public. WFEST BERESHRE, VT. CONTENTS. The Trials of the Inebriate's Family,.................... Filial Affection, ............................' I I. 26 True Piety Rewarded,............ 36 Lucy Bryant, ............. ......... 46 The Peaceful Cottage,. . .......................... 58 The Young Heiress, . .. ............ - .* .go.0......aoO 64 The Young Tutor, .....................p ............ * 085 The Orphan's Benefactress,.................. 93 Eva, the Little Christian . ..1.... n- The Berry Boy,........... . . * o 114 The Broken-Hearted Girl, ... ....................... 120 The Early araves,...... ..* *..* *....o o 125 The Mysterious Stranger,....... 133 The Great Levee, ....... ...................... 143 , The Berry Boy, ............ ............... page: Illustration[View Page Illustration] THE UNFORTUNATE MOUNTAIN GIRL. THE TRIALS OF THE INEBRIATE'S FAMLY. 'TWAS a bleak evening towards December as Mr. Brown and his family were gathered around a cheerful fire, after the laborsof the day were over. "' Mary," says he, "IT have been talking with Mr. Carroll. He proposes, as the times are so hard, that we leave our families for the winter, and avail ourselves of Mr. Howe's offer in York State. What do you say, Mary?" asked the husband, as he gazed intently upon her care- worn brow, while she folded her little one to her breast. "I have toiled early and late," said-he ; "no one has applied himself more assiduously, yet I am unable to meet our expenses." "Winter is rather a dubious time to be left with four little ones to provide for in such a place as this, with little or no means," said Mary, sadly. page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] THE UNFORTUNATE "But I will send the needful; also will agree with Mr. Hail to look after your wants during my absence."' Mrs. Brown did not for a moment reply. It seemed as if she could not bear up under the trial. At length she said: "I have some mis- givings with regard to your success in this enter- prise; also feel very unwilling that Mr. Carroll should be your companion." "My dear, why do you object to Mr. Carroll? He is much respected, and his family are people of more than ordinary influence." "It is his habits, George, that I object to; they are such, if continued in, as will soon destroy all his claims to respectful estimation." "You judge harshy," said Mr. Brown, coloring deeply. "I believe not; and, moreover, I am convinced that you are in imminent danger by associating with him." "' How?" was the quick reply. "For instance, were you not induced by him to go to a wine party last night? and was not the result painfully evident?" For a moment Mr. B. looked his wife in the face, while an expression of shame and grief MOUNTAIN GIRL. 9 passed over his own. "It is true," he at length replied in a subdued tone, "I did drink to excess last evening; but give yourself no alarm on that account, and I will'be more guarded in the future. Let me assure you most earnestly I am in no danger." Mrs. Brown saw by the tone and manner of her husband that it would be useless to press the subject further. "Well," said she, I am will- ing to do whatever you think is for the best." "That is right, Mary; winter will soon pass away, and, if prospered, I shall be able in the i spring to send for you and the children; and I trust by inl ustry and perseverance to place you beyond the reach of these our present trials. 'Hope on, hope ever,' is my motto; there is no cause for despondency." The day following, Mrs. Brown commenced making the needful preparations for her husband's departure; and ere the week ended he took leave of his family, and with the most sanguine ex- pectations set out for the promised land. Mrs. i Brown thought this the greatest trial she had ever passed through, although her's had been a thorny path. She did not, however, murmur or complain at her lot; but, as a pious and devoted Christian, *- ' '- 11 page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] THE UNFORTUNATE faithfully remembered her husband at the Throne of Grace, seeking also for wisdom to train up her children in the way they should go. Days and weeks passed, each unfolding trials before unknown to the mother. As the winter advanced, their increasing wants called loudly upon her finances, therefore she was compelled to apply for assistance from Mr. Hail, who, like many others, fearing he should not receive an equiva- lent, dealt sparingly. She now saw no other re- source but personal exertion. Many persons in her situation would have thought their hands and hearts full. But she, trusting in God, and relying upon his grace for help in this her hour of need, set out with renewed energy to seek employment. She called on Mrs. Moulton, who was ever ready to lend a helping hand, and glad of the opportu- nity to encourage so worthy a person. Cheered by success, Mrs. Brown turned homeward, grate- ful that her search was not in vain. A few min- utes' walk brought her again to her humble dwell- ing. There, surrounded with the musical voices of her children, she began her work with an in- centive to action which none but a mother can know. Towards dusk work was laid aside, and a frugal meal prepared, to which the little ones did MOUNTAIN GIRL. 1 ample justice. After putting them carefully to bed, she took her seat by a little table, and, with her dim light of one candle, diligently plied her needle until the village clock sounded the hour of twelve; then, committing herself and those dear to the care of Him who has promised never to leave or forsake his children, she sought the repose nature so much needed. It is now midwinter, and Mrs. Brown's in- cessant labor could procure but a scanty supply of food, and during the extreme weather the wood decreased rapidly. Day by day her little store diminished, till it was reduced to a few sticks. She had no means to purchase. What was to be done? Certainly they could not do without a fire. After a little reflection, she nerved herself for the task, and repaired to the woods, accompa- nied by her little daughter, who was not quite ten years old; by gathering up the broken pieces, and cutting some of the small saplings, she succeeded in loading a hand-sled they had taken for the pur- pose, and returned home to fit it for use as best she could. Letters came occasionally from her husband, always promising to send money as soon as it was paid to him. Buoyed up with this hope, she toiled on. Alas! who does not know "hope deferred maketh the heart sick?" page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] THE UNFORTUNATE T Thus passed the winter; succeeded by a cold, backward spring. Mr. Brown had delayed writing for some time,. for the reason he was minus of money to defray the expenses of moving his family; but, taking a glass of brandy, again took his pen to excuse himself to his injured wife, telling her his employer would not pay off until the first of June, bidding her to sell the fur- niture to save the expense of transportation, saying he could buy at a bargain, which would be a saving in the end; and to leave Julia, the eldest daughter, with her aunt, Hatty and Emma with their grandparents, and take the babe and come, and in two or three weeks they would get settled, and have the children home. This did not meet the approbation of the wife, but she saw no other way. Therefore she parted with her useful and convenient articles at a sacrifice, and reluctantly leaving the children, yielded to her husband's request. A fatiguing journey of two days brought her to her destination. Mr. Brown greeted her with much kindness, taking; the babe in his arms, imprinting kisses upon his chubby little cheek, and led the way to his room, feeling somewhat chagrined at the appearance of the house, also of the red-faced landlady who MOUNTIAIN GIRL. 13 saluted him as they reached the third floor, say- ;ng, Is that your bubby?- he is a fine fellow." "He is, indeed," replied he, as with a hurried step he proceeded to his apartment, anxious to shut out the reality from the wife's vision. He watched her expression as she glanced around this comfortless abode, tears stealing down her pallid face in spite of her efforts to restrain them. Drawing her towards him he said: "My dear, you look tired ; 'cheer up, we shall soon have sup- per; this is not to be our home but a day or two. Encouraged by your presence I shall soon be able to bring things round to our minds." A weari- some week rolled away, bringing no change towards bettering their condition. She deter- mined no longer to be shut up in a miserable garret chamber, with her babe, without making some exertion herself. Putting ion her bonnet and shawl, she went out to find her husband's employer, hoping to obtain from him a part of the wages due, thinking she might rent a small tenement and obtain a few necessary things to enable them to keep along until his work was slack, when he would have time to take hold at home and arrange in good order. Mr. Howe was surprised at Mrs. Brown's page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] request, not knowing she was so deceived; but, seeing the difficulty she was in, was moved with sympathy; yet he was by no means disposed to hide her husband's faults, but revealed them in their true light. While in his employ, his wages had been paid every Saturday night; but habits of idleness and dissipation grew so fast he had been compelled to discharge him some time ago; also Mr. Carroll, his associate companion. Their evenings were spent at some lager beer saloon, or gambling den, and while under the influence of stimulus, he was led on to throw away all he had earned, which should have been laid out for his family's comfort. She went away with a heart crushed; her fears were vividly realized, as she looked at her situation and future prospects. "' Four helpless children, and failing health!" With a deep sigh she arose and paced the room, pausing every now and then to listen to the sound of approaching footsteps, moving on again as the sound passed by. At length the door opened, and Mr. Brown entered in a state of evident intoxica- tion. "Mary," said he, looking at her, " what is the matter -- why are you so agitated?" In a tremulous voice she told him of her interview with Mr. Howe, and besought him, for the sake of all MOUNTAIN GIRL. 15 that was dear to them, and for the welfare of his immortal soul, to forsake the way of vice and intemperance -to put his name to the pledge, and -again become a respectable man, a kind hus- band, and affectionate father. This was enough- the dreaded truth was out. The blood mounted to his face; anger was kindled-and, with clenched hands and vociferous voice, he uttered a volley of horrid oaths, and left the house. Soon after, the woman with whom they were boarding came in, and with a good deal of embarrassment and hesitation said, "I am very sorry to tell you, Mrs. Brown, but I would like to have you vacate your room at the end of the week. It is more than a month since I have received any money from your husband, and from appearances there is little prospect of getting any more. If I were able, for your sake, I would not say a word about it, but I am not. Therefore, in justice to myself and family, I must request you to leave as soon as you can." Mrs. Brown pondered in her own mind what course, to pursue, until a late hour. She felt that God had carried her through many troubles. Would he leave her now? Faith answered, "No." And girding on this mighty ar- I -! B' 1? page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] mor, she became calm, preparing herself for any emergency that awaited her. Towards morning the unhappy husband came home, and threw him- self upon the bed, and fell into a heavy sleep. When he awoke to consciousness, and the effects of the liquor were somewhat slept off, she tried to reason with him, letting .him know that their board must be paid or other quarters obtained at once. There was no shirking. it; the landlady was peremptory. As before, her counsel was in vain. He maintained a gloomy and sullen silence, indicating the responsibility devolved upon her to make a move. Being a stranger and unknown to all, and thinking Mr. Howe manifested a kindly feeling for her, she went to him, soliciting a situa- tion in his family, to sew or do general house-. work. They were in need of some one at that time. Mrs. Howe objected on account of the child. But Mr. Howe prevailed upon his wife to take Mrs. B. on trial, saying they might be mutu- al helpers, and the poor woman was in immediate need of a home. Mrs. Howe was a very exacting person. Mutual interest was a subject she never studied. Obligation with her lay all on one side; besides, there was a great deal of work to be done in her large family, and it was not a very MOUNTAIN GIRL. 17 easy matter to find one competent that would re- main, as she was often irritable and fault-finding without a just cause. This was a consideration with her, therefore she engaged Mrs. B. to come and Try. Quite different in character was Mr. Howe, al- though he required a good deal from his work. people. Yet he was a conscientious and discrimi. nating man, willing to give every one his due. Mrs. Brown was duly installed in their famnily as mistress of all work. For she found that not only all the labor, but the entire care was laid upon her. A careless observer would only have known the bright side of the picture, so uncomplaining and indefatigable was she in her duties. But Mr. Iowe saw she was taxed beyond her powers of physical endurance. Also, anxiety for her hus- band and children was sapping the springs of life. his heart was moved to help her if he could. Brown continued idling about; gambling and drinking most of the time, though pretending he was seeking employment. Mr. Howe endeavored to win him from his evil courses, offering him work, and a tenement in a house he had recently had fitted up for his workmen. page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] THE UNFORTUNATE iHe portrayed to him the misery and desolation of his family, the awful ruin and guilt he was bringing upon himself, and encouraged him to arouse, and break the chain which the demon had already bound so tight arournd him; to again taste the bliss of domestic life, sweetened with the companionship and help of one of the best of wives; to have his dear little ones around his own board, and be unto them a protector and father. Brown promised amendment. But alas! he could not see his only safety. No persuasion could induce him to sign the pledge; and Mr. Howe feared he would not be able to resist temp- tation, as he relied too much in his own strength. But he had resolved to help them. Therefore, , firm to his purpose, and hoping that he might yet exert a restraining influence over him, he went security for a moderate amount to ena- ble him to procure the requsite things for house- keeping, and also gave him orders whereby he might furnish stores for present consumption. To Mrs. B. he paid wages in money, express- ing entire satisfaction for the service she had rendered while in his family. Even Mrs. Howe; though sorry to part with her, was influenced to present some useful garments to the children, MOUNTAIN GIRL19 and they were sent for to participate in he joy which again animated theparents. For a time things went on pretty well. ut Mrs rown t hope was a tremblng one. It was to obvious tha sher husband's reformation was nly partial. Well she knew tha pnothing short of a change of hear, and a fixed purpose to abstain from every- thing that intoxicates would be suficient to keep him from the " paths that takehold on death." One evening, after preparing a comfortable meal, she observed i Was much later than usual; tyet he did not come. Troubled thoughts passed through her mind. It grew quite dark, andssthe younger children became impatient for heir sup- er. There s aw i would e useless to wait any nger, h erelfandre soon satisfed them. Bt as or herself and Julia, their food Was put away tasted. Julia was beg innin ;g t feel the sorrow ar Was preying upon the mother's heart. r the little Voices were hushed i sleep a deep fence prevailed some time. At leepth th lughter said, Mother shall I read to you-? "Yes, dear," she -replied. "Get the Bible, at has often cheered my dark hours and kep, from despair, and it is your mother's earnest lyor that you may earlylove is Sacred truths, page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] "U. and apply the precious promises to your own soul. Our heavenly Father declares, 'They that seek me early shall find me,' and I trust that you are one of the number that seek him." "I do love to read the Bible," replied the child; and she read chapter after chapter ith great attention. Their peaceful hour was broken by the return of the wretched inebriate, cursing and ill-natured as he had been in former times. They soon saw the case to be that which they Os awfully dreaded. He was completely under the influence of that fearful enemy, showing no disposition to restrain the cravings of his appetite, and for many. days rum was his only desire. He would frequently fall asleep, or, if awake, was in so stupid a state that work or exertion of any kind was out of the question. When his lquor was exhausted and he began to arouse himself, Mrs. B. saw him take a bottle and put it into his pocket, preparing to go out; she said, "George, you must get some flour to day from some source, for we have heither bread nor meat in the house." She had been able to procure nothing but pota toes during his fortnight's spree. "There is always something wanting, or some- thing wrong. You can never be satisfied," said he, snappishy. "6And there always will be something wrong while you conduct yourself in this way. It is a cruel shame for a man to abuse his family as you are abusing your's." He became so enraged at this reproof, that nothing but the conciliating voice of Julia could at all quell the fierce current of his anger. II there was a spark of any redeeming feelings let in this man's heart, that rum had not entirely burnt out, it was centered in this lovely girl. "I treat you all much better than you deserve- and better than I will in future." "Don't say so, father, you deonot mean it," she said, laying her hand on his arm. I do," he replied, roughly pushing her aside, and telling her to begone. This unexpected repulse caused her to become as pale as marble, and shrinking from his pres- ence she rushed to her mother, and, hiding her face in her bosom, wept aloud. The mother soothed her daughter, and endeavored to strengthen her mind to bear up under the sorrow which lay like an in- cubus upon that young heart. Thus encouraged she rallied herself, and calling to remembrance page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] THE UNFORTUNATE the endurance and example of this dear parent, she determined with God's help to brace up and breast the storm. She was now nearly fifteen. What could she do that would best promote the interest of her family, was a subject of much re- flection. Heretofore, the most of the time, she had been kept in school, for Mrs. Brown thought if she could struggle on, and they could barely subsist, it was preferable to the children growing up in ignorance. She now felt it was not only her duty to earn her own bread, but to help her little sisters and brother, that they also might have the advantage of the district school. Being very neat and quick with her needle, and having pleasing manners, she had no difficulty in getting a situation. Therefore she engaged with a lady to learn the millinery business, receiving, during her apprenticeship of six months, fifty cents per week. Diligently did she apply herself to her new business, manifesting a deep interest in the work, and whatever she attempted was quickly and tastefully done. This failed not to gain the es- teem and respect of her employer. Her com- panions also soon learned to love the gentle and obliging Julia. At early dawn would she arise, that she might assist her mother, either with her needle or about the house, previous to her going to her daily task; and at evening was ever ready to help her sisters and brother on with their lessons.' Out of her small wages she improved her sisters' wardrobe, having a laudable desire for them to make a re- spectable appearance in the sabbath school, a place from which they never were absent, when practicable to attend. Julia was never a rugged girl, and before the term of her apprenticeship expired she found that such unremitting exertion was more than she was able to endure, and tried to resist the disease that was fast overtaking her; endeavoring to conceal the lassitude and pain from which she often suffered. But a mother's watchful eye detected thetincipient foe lurking around, and while many a pang went through her heart, she was comforted with the assurance that her daugh- ter would soon be where " the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." She was obliged at length to relinquish her calling, being confined to the house. Always of a quiet and retiring disposition, the depth of her religious character was not known until drawn out by her illness and happy death. page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] THE UNFORTUNATE The child felt that she had to do a work for the Lord, and set about it with a zeal and faithfulness far beyond the experience of many older Chris- tians. She affectionately persuaded her sisters to give their hearts to the Saviour, telling them she should soon be called away, and that they must comfort their mother and do all in their power, that God would make them a blessing. Her little brother, of whom she was very fond, while sitting beside her bed, she taught to re- peat many precious hymns, impressing on his young mind the love of Jesus Christ for little children. While propped up in her bed with pil- lows, she would sit for an hour at a time, her beautiful face radiant with hope and joy, pointing her mother to the crown that was laid up for her; presenting it with such lively faith, and bringing the time so near when they should meet in hea- ven, that their separation would seem short; she was only going a little before. Death was in a measure divested of its gloom, and the mother awaited with tranquil composure the hour for her departure. But there was yet a burden which rested upon this dying Christian. "Ah! who can tell?" All through her sickness it was her ear- nest request to be left alone during the night. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 25 Many'friends kindly offered to watch, who esteem- ed it a privilege to watch in that sick chamber. But she was so decided in this desire, that none would intrude. Low but fervent supplications were overheard by One who could not mistake their meaning. "God's spirit was also striving with that sinner." Would he still pursue his way to perdition, while this darling child was just on the threshold of heaven, only waiting for a jewel to be set in her coronet by the Redeemer, which would sparkle with unfading lustre throughout the countless ages of eternity? One morning, feeling a little stronger than usual, she asked her mother to bring paper, pen, and ink, and raise her up in her bed. Then drawing up a simple pledge, accompanied with a petition to Almighty God, she presented it to her father, as her dying request. "Thanks be to grace!" He could no longer refuse. Contrite and broken in spirit, he took the pen from her, and put his sig- nature to the paper, she also writing out her own in a legible hand, underneath, once more lifting her voice, praying that their names might be recorded in blood in the Lamb's Book of Life. "Her work was done; there was joy in heaven among the angels of God." i '1 page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] THE UNFORTUNATE FILIAL AFFECTION. MR. LEWIS, by industry and economy, accumu- lated a large property, and was considered im- mensely rich. But "riches sometimes take to themselves wings and fly away." So it was with his. At the time of his death he was greatly in- volved in debt; and all of his creditors, eager to receive their full amount, crowded heavily upon Mrs. Lewis. She was a very intelligent woman, high-minded, and possessing a keen sense of moral justice. She would have parted with every cent rather than that one of her husband's creditors should remain unpaid. At length the estate was settled, leaving a small sum for the support of Mrs. Lewis, an aged father, and one child, which was about twelve years of age. She soon left her splendid mansion, and all that was beautiful within and around, and purchased a small cottage in a more retired part of the vil- lage, where she was enabled, by frugality, to keep Charles at school until he reached his nineteenth year. During this time he became very profi- MOUNTAIN GIRL. 2 7 cient in his studies. He had come up to manhood under the fostering care of a judicious and pious mother, who was careful to sow good seed into well-tilled soil, which could not fail to secure a good harvest. Heretofore no pains had, been spared to fit him for the duties of life; now he had arrived at an epoch when he must go from his maternal home, and take upon himself indi- vidual responsibility. It was a beautiful evening in October. The moon poured forth its gentle rays through the windows of Mrs. Lewis's cottage, and she and her son sat by the fire, which was blazing upon the hearth, until the village clock struck ten. Charles had all the evening been wishing to speak upon a subject which was dwelling on his mind, but kept putting it off; finally, he resolved he would not retire until he had consulted his mother with re- gard to his future course. He had already a project, and, with her approval, intended to put it into immediate execution. "Mother," said he, "I am thinking it is about time for me to begin to repay you and grandpa for some of the sacrifices you have made, and are making, on my account. An opportunity now offers for a young man of requisite qualifica- page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] THE UNFORTUNATE tions in a mercantile house ; and, with such refer- ences as ate offered me, I think I may obtain the situation." "My son," she replied, while the tears stole down her cheeks, "it will be very hard for us to part with you; and, moreover, the temptations which surround young men in a large city com- pletely fill me with dismay. I know you cannot always remain at home; but I have accustomed myself to look at the time of our separation too much in the distance; therefore I am unpre- pared to-night to decide upon your applying for this place; but to-morrow we will talk about it." As they separated for the night, each felt that the little family circle must soon be broken; but they were enabled to seek guidance and strength from Him who has said, "Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he will sustain thee." Thus, upon reflection, did Mrs. L. feel more willing to trust her son to the care of a covenant-keeping God. Duty appeared leading in this direction: she therefore yielded to it, making preparations for his departure. To Charles, leaving home was a source of heartfelt sorrow; but he bravely bore up, cheering the dear ones he was leaving, saying if he could get established in business they would MOUNTAIN GIRL. 29 be able to live together again, until a summons came to call one: from earth to heaven. Upon reaching the city he inquired out Mr. C., who was the head of the house where he hoped to be employed. An interview with him resulted in an engagement for one year, and he immedi- ately entered upon his duties, with a cheerfulness and alacrity which at once showed to his employ- ers that they had not entered into an engagement with a half-hearted or inefficient person. Charles made it his motto, that " whatsoever he found to do, to do it with his might." Soon after getting installed in his new situation, he wrote home, being particular to name every thing which he thought would interest his grand. father and mother. Thus he continued to write from week to week; never forgetting, amid busi- ness or pleasure, the lively interest they would ever feel in every thing pertaining to him. At the end of three months he received his quarter's salary. After paying for his board, and several little incidental expenses, he enclosed the remain- der and sent it to his mother, begging her to make use of it for comforts which he knew they needed. A year passed away. The firm considered page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] 4,' THE UNFORTUNATE Charles Lewis an invaluable clerk; trustworthy, and competent in every part of their business, it was their wish to secure him permanently. They had remarked among themselves, that, al- though perfectgentlemanly in his deportment, his apparel was hardly suitable for his station. Mr. C. was curious to know why he was so eco- nomical, and also was desirous that he should improve his personal appearance. But it was a subject he hardly knew low to hit upon, as his clothing was always whole and clean; but it was very unlike what fashionable young men usually wear in cities, as he had not added any thing to it since he left home, but a pair of boots. About this time Mr. C. was called away on busi- ness, expecting to be absent two or three weeks. Upon leaving he entrusted Charles mostly with the affairs, having confidence that every thing would go on well. While away he had occasion to pass through the village where Mrs. Lewis resided. He thought it would be a nice time to seek her out, thinking he would have a better opportunity to judge of his clerk's real circumstances than he otherwise could. Accordingly, after stopping and refreshing himself at a very respectable hotel, he inquired of the landlord in what part of the vil- MOUNTAIN GIRL. 1 lage he should be able to find her. Upon being informed, he set out for her cottage. On reach- ing the place, he knocked at the door, which was opened by a sweet-looking, middle-aged lady, who politely asked him to walk in. He introduced himself as a stranger looking about the village, remarking that he was much pleased with its general appearance, and asked her if a village lot, with a cottage house upon it, could be purchased by a cash buyer. She appeared thoughtful for a i few moments, and then replied, "I have thought that if I could dispose of this one, at a good bar-. gain, there are some reasons that would make it desirable for me to do so. I have an only son, who is nearly all our support, whose employment is about seventy miles from here, consequently we are deprived of each other's society, and he is i obliged to make a home with strangers. If I could arrange it, by selling this little place, so that the interest money would procurk us a snug tene- I ment in the city, and our expenses would not i increase beyond our ability to meet them, it ap- pears to me the happiness of all would be very much enhanced. My fatheris advancing in years, and being dotingly fond of his grandson, he feels e his loss deeply. But I should not wish to do any '] '/'i . page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] 3-2 THE UNFORTUNATE thing without consulting him, as I should rely more on his judgment than my own." "Where is your son, madam?" "In Boston, sir. He is a clerk in a wholesale house." "What is his name?" "Charles Lewis." "Indeed, I am happy to say he is a young. man for whom I have the highest respect; he is in my employ." Mrs. L. was surprised, but thankful that she had an opportunity to make the acquaintance of Mr. C., of whom she had heard so much, and to hear directly from one who occupied the chief place in her heart. After a mutually pleasant interview, they separated, feeling a real interest in each other. On reaching home, he found everything had been done to his satisfaction. Mr. C. also had an only son, about eighteen years of age. He had often contrasted him with Charles, and often had he wept tears of anguish over his waywardness, and had almost given up in despair of his reformation. About this time there was a deep religious in- terest felt in Boston, and protracted meetings were being held in many of the churches. Charles MOUNTAIN GIRL, 33 saw the parents' anxiety for their son, and, seiz- ing this opportunity, resolved, by the grace of God assisting him, to win Edward from his down- ward course, and bring him to a knowledge of the truth as it is in Jesus. He persuaded him to attend the evening meetings, and improved every opportunity to converse with him, making him a subject of ardent prayer. During this revival, many of Edward's associ- ates were converted, and made to rejoice in the Rock and God of their salvation; and, while lis- tening to their exhortations, he would betray emotions, which at first he endeavored to conceal. One evening, after returning from a solemn season of prayer, he unbosomed his feelings to Charles, and expressed a desire to become a Christian. Charles felt encouraged to hear Ed- ward commit himself in this way, and pointed out many passages of scripture suited to hi3 case; then, prevailing upon him to kneel, devoutly prayed for the salvation of his soul. The stubborn sinneryielded. He was now a penitent; uttering from an overflowing heart the prayer of the publican, "God be merciful to me, a sinner! Before they ceased their importunities at the mercy-seat, Edward felt that his soul was set free page: 34-35 (Illustration) [View Page 34-35 (Illustration) ] O4f T114E UVNFOIlTUTATE from the power and dominion of sin, and he was blessed with a. sense of the pardoning love of Christ. The next evening, without hesitation, he arose in church, and testified to the goodness of God toward him; and his soul was filled with joy and peace in believing. The parents, also, re- joiced at the return of this young prodigal, and ever regarded Charles as instrumental in his conversion. At the end of three years, when Edward be- came of age; Mr. C. received the young men as co-partners in his business. Prosperity has at- tended their steps. Charles is enjoying affluent circumstances, surrounded by those he loves best, and they feel that to them he is as a strong staff, on whom they love to lean. Let the young learn to " seek first the kingdom. of God. and his righteousness, and all things shall be added." Ali, page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] 36 THE UNFORTUNATE TRUE PIETY REWARDED. SOME twenty years ago, there might have been seen walking about the streets of Boston a young lad, some fourteen or fifteen years of age, poorly clad, and half famished with hun- ger, by the name of Harry Corban. Destitute as he was, Harry was too proud to beg, and faithfully sought for employment. But days passed, and he was still unsuccessful in his efforts; and when night spread its dark mantle over the earth, Harry had but three pennies left in his purse ; taking one, he bought a penny's worth of gingerbread, and turned his steps slow- ly towards an open shed, where he had spent the night before in an oldcart. On reaching this unattractive place, he sat down to ponder upon his condition. Though he had met with cool and indifferent treatment from many people through the day, yet he did not feel disheartened, but assured himself that God would do some- thing for him yet. lHe then knelt beside the cart, and1 poured out Iis soul in prayer to his MOUNTAIN GIRL. 37 - Heavenly Father, and thanked him that he had been blessed with a pious mother, who had early taught him in whom to trust. He felt comforted by the cheering promise that " all things shall work together for good to them that love God." Laying himself down for the night, he had no fear, for he believed that God would take care of him. The next morning he arose and repaired to a bakery near by, where he procured another penny's worth of gingerbread for his breakfast. He then entered a wholesale store, and asked for employment, saying," I would give you my ser- vices, sir, for something to eat and a place to lay my head, until I could do better." The merchant looked at him, surprised that one so meanly clad should present himself for a clerk, and very coolly said, "I have all the help I need." Mr. Wilson, a gentleman who was sitting near, heard the application made, also the refusal, and, being struck with his address and manners, saw he was no ordinary fellow. Turning to him, he said," Boy, I will give you food and lodging for a few days until you can'find a situation." "Thank you, sir, and Heaven will reward you," he replied. Harry thoughtfully passed that day. Was he not even beginning to realize the promise, "When page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] 88 TITE UNFORTUNATE thy father and mother forsake thee, then the Lord will take thee up"? And, when he laid down upon a comfortable bed that night, how gratefully did he recognize the care of his Divine Parent! Would He not provide for him in future? lie surely would. Through the day the words of the boy kept passing through the mind of Mr. Wilson, "Heaven will reward you." "Heaven reward me? How little have I done to merit the reward of Heaven!"So impressed was he with the appearance and sit- uation of the boy, that he resolved to learn the cause of his destitution, and to befriend him if it was in his power. The next morning he called him apart alone, saying, "Now, my little fellow, sit down; I wish to talk with you and learn the cause of your hard fortune." Harry replied: "Sir, I will tell you as briefly as I can. My father was a merchant. But he and my mother both died within the short space of two years, leaving me their only child. Father suffered from ill health several years, consequent- ly his business affairs suffered also, being obliged to leave matters too much to the care of others and, during times- of pressure, he was obliged to mortgage one thing after another until nearly MOUNTAIN GIRL. 80 everything he possessed passed out of his hands. At his death his estate was settled; and my mother was induced to sign away all her claims for a. small frame dwelling-house free from incum- brance. With this, and the portion of house- hold furniture assigned to her by the creditors, she hoped to secure to us a comfortable living. She rented out a part Of the house, and opened a small store, and for a little while we were very happy, she having no other ambition than to Fain a mere livelihood, and to fit me for usefuales. "Death came suddenly upon us, but not so sad- den as to find my mother unprepared. After coa- mitting me to the care of a coVenant-k#epjin God, she went to her rest. I was taken with a fever, and was carried to :the hospital, wheo I remained until I recovered my health. My illness lasted many weeks; and, in the ti e, fire consumed the little dwelling, with all ay effects. Thus I am now reduced to the satmi you see me in; but I am not willing to be dependent in the sense of charity,- I only want employ- ment." Mr. Wilson felt that it was. i:his power to assist him, and said, "You do d pook rugged enough to do anything in the w4 of manual labor. Do you know any thing of nlres Per- page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] 4Q TRE UNFORTUNATZ haps you may be useful in a countingroom."' "I do, sir, and am very quick with my pen." "Well, Harry, go out with me, and I will see -what I can do for you." They proceeded to a clothing store, where he was furnished with a plain but decent suit throughout, Mr. Wilson settling the bill, and telling Harry he might pay him at some future time, adding, "I will take your Bank of Faith for security."' Mr. Wilson had a friend who, a few days pre- vious, was telling that he had been obliged to part with a juniorclerk, discovering him to be dishonest; saying, if he could find another as competent, who had striot principles of integrity, he would take him and help him along, so that some day he might make a mark for himself. Mr. Wilson thought of him, and hoped that if he had no other person in view, he would intercede for his little friend; for he was becoming more and more interested in him. Therefore, he proposed to Harry that they should call in the evening and see him at his house, thinking he would have more leisure to converse than he would have during the business hours of the day. Towards eight o'clock they accordingly set out for Beacon, Strect, to Mr. D.'s dwelling. Finding him at MOUNTAIN --IRL.- 4J home, the object of their call was soon :made known. Mr. D. was a very affble, kind man, and truly benevolent, although rather cautious, and always wanting to know the merits of a case before he entered into an engagement of any kind. IoH was therefore very-inquisitive while' conversing with the lad. But Harry, conscious of his integrity, and having been early trained to treat superiors with great respect, entirely won the confidence of the gentleman. Mr. D. told him to come to his place of business the next day, and he would enter into some arrange. ment whereby they would soon become better' acquainted. The day following he repaired to the place appointed, and, after waiting some time, Mr. D. arrived, -who, greeting him cordially by way of encouragement, began to inquire into his qualifications. Judging that by some instruc' tion, and a little experience, he might make him useful, he introduced him into his counting. room upon a month's trial; and at the expiratioh of that period, without' hesitation, agreed with him for a year, allowing a salary of two hundred and fifty dollars, saying that was fifty dollars more than-he had paid his former clerk, and he hoped he should not have cause to regret it. page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 42 THE UNFORTUNATE Harry was diligent, and careful to improve every advantage offered. He found the senior clerk a young man of sterling character, and willing to aid him along. He appreciated all these blessings, firmly believing that he was under the guardianship of the Almighty. He was soon able to return to Mr. Wilson the money which was paid out for his clothing, when that gentleman remarked to him, If ever you need my assist- ance in any way, just let me know, and I shall be happy to render it." There was one young man in his counting-room who was decidedly pious; "as drops of water soon mingle in one," so did these kindred hearts. Thus was Harry led unto the prayer meetings, and installed as a teacher in the Sabbath School. By his disinterested and persevering efforts in this department, he gained the affection of a large class of boys, and, while laboring to benefit them in intellect and heart, was made instrumental, under the blessing of God, of win- ning the larger number of them to the love of Jesus. Harry was faithful, and continued to give satisfaction to his employer in the discharge of his secular duties, and was often told by Mr. D. that he should promote him. But this was MOUNTAIN GIRL. 43 not our young hero's ambition. There was some- thing that fired-his bosomr with other desires. He felt that the emoluments and distinctions of this world were for others; but it was his choice to follow Him, "who, although 'he was rich, yet for our sakes became poor." Con- stantly did he hear a still, small voice, whis- pering, "..This is not your vocation. Go, preach my gospel." This rested with great weight upon his mind; often did he ponder upon it in his closet, and during the silent watches of the night. Upon reflection he resolved to break the sub. ject to his early friend, Mr. Wilson; who, after a long and interesting conversation, advised him to converse with his minister and other brethren, saying, if there were indubitable proofs that the call was from God, he would cheerfully aid him in the enterprise. Upon mature deliberation of the church, it was thought advisable that he should commence a preparatory course of study for college, that in the end he might be set apart for the Christian ministry. Mr. D. was sorry to part with him; but, being satisfied that he was led by conscientious motives, he entered heartily into co-operation with Mr. -Wilson to fur- ther it on. His preparatory course was short; page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] " Till UNFORTUNATE but he passed a good examination, and entered college, where he pursued his studies with un- tiring energy, ever deporting himself as one who realized that his time, talents, and entire being were consecrated to the service of God. He felt that, while pursuing his collegiate course, he was not excused from laboring in the Lord's vineyard. He made certain students special subjects of prayer, and sought opportunity to persuade them "to be reconciled to God." Some have since testified that these appeals were a word in season unto them. After passing through his collegiate and theolo- gical course, he was ordained to preach the ever- lasting gospel. With prompt obedience to the former call of God, he now, divinely commissioned, inquires, "Lord, whereunto wilt thou send me?" A noble ship, with sails unfurled and pendants flowing, is getting ready to sail from Boston harbor to a distant port. A thoughtful crowd are pursu- ing their way toward this bark, to transact busi. ness for eternity. Four immortal beings are embarking to carry precious seed to plant on heathen shores. United prayer and praise as- cend as incense, that God may accept and bless this sacrifice. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 465 :Harry's field of labor is in India, where he is now laboring as an acceptable and useful mis- sionary of the cross of Christ. Some of my little readers may be asking where is Harry's reward. Let them for answer take the New Testament, and turn to 2 Timothy, iv. 8. page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] " THS UNFORTUNATE "UCY BRYANT. 4V I WILL give my little readers a faint sketch of the life of Lucy Bryant. She was an amiable girl, : prepossessing in her manners, and, in short, ad- mired by all who knew her. Lucy had been blessed with a pious mother who had early taught her to love the Saviour ; also that he died to-save sinners, "that whosoever believed in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." When Lucy was about eleven years of age she had a long and painful illness; yet she did not murmur or com- 1 plain, but sensibly felt that this affliction was to i show her the importance of being prepared to meet her God in peace. And faithfully did she promise her Heavenly Father, that, if he would restore her to health, she would endeavor, by his grace, to live the life of a Christian. At length she regained her former health, and did not forget her promise, as many children do; for she was a faithful follower of Christ during her life. Mary Wheeler, a girl of about the same age, was very sick, and her physician pronounced her MOUNTAIN GIRL.. 47 disease incurable. Mary, though but a child, felt very uneasy respecting the welfare of her soul, and desired her mother to send for Lucy Bryant. Her request was granted, and Lucy soon arrived, and on entering the room Mary exclaim- ed with great agitation," Lucy, I am about to die, and feel that I am a great sinner, and without an interest in Jesus Christ. I have sent for you to come and pray with me." Well, Mary, you know Christ died for the greatest of sinners; and if you ask God with all your heart to forgive your sins, for Christ's sake, he will hear and answer your prayers." "Lucy, I have tried to pray, and yet I do not feel any better; I wish- you would pray for me now.- Lucy knelt beside her bed, and prayed fer- vently to God, that, for Christ's sake, he would cleanse her heart from sin, and give her assur- ance of pardon and peace in believing in a cru- cified Saviour. Before she had finished pray. ing, Mary was rejoicing in the love of Christ. After prayer Lucy remained some time directing the sick girl's mind to the many precious promises in the word of God; and, on leaving, she kissed her, saying she would noon come again. The day page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 48 THE UNFORTUNATE following she called, and found that Death was already laying his icy hand upon her. As she ap. proached the bed she could not refrain from weep- ing aloud. Mary, looking up, said," Lucy, do not weep, I am not afraid to die now: I feel that I can say, 'Lord Jesus, come quickly.'" Then turning to her mother, who was bathed in tears, she said, "M a, do not mourn for me. I am going to rest; but we shall meet in heaven, to part no more." Then putting her hands together she said, "My happy soul is on the wing ;" and her spirit took its flight to the regions of bliss. Lucy returned home feeling a stronger determination to live and die a Christian than she had ever felt before. She bloomed into womanhood, a mild and lovely being. She was beloved by a brother of Mary's; but, alas! he feared not God. This was a -great trial to her; but she hoped by the grace of God to overcome his stubborn heart, and incline him to forsake his sins and seek his soul's salvation. See finally consented to become his bride, and on the day of her marriage many a sympathetic tear was shed for poor Lucy. Charles Wheeler took her from a happy home to their chosen place of residence, where every thing lookel fai ar and lronmiiing, But happiness -MOUNTAIN- - IL. 49 does not consist in externals, nor in the abun- dance of the things of this life. Lucy-could not be happy : she prayed, almost without ceasing; for her unconverted husband, but whenever she talked with I m upon the subject of religion he would fly into a passion and say, "I wish you would not trouble yourself so much about me ;I think I am quite as good as those who profess religion," In. vain did she try to have him read the Bible, or listen to her; he would not, but would immediately leave the room. Often did she feel as if her heart would break; and, falling upon her knees, she would implore her Heavenly Father to awaken and bring him to the knowledge of the truth. He at length refused to attend church; in spite of Lucy's warm entreaties he would still negLvct the offers of mercy, and remain at home. Time passed on. At length, obliged to leave home on business for the space of ten or fifteen days, he requested his wife to put a change of linen in his valise, saying, "As the boat leaves at one o'clock, I must be off in half an hour." While she was arranging his linen she pleasantly said, "Charles, will you allow me to put my pocket-Bible in with the things?" le, turning scornfully away, re- plied," You may put it in, but I presume that I 4 P A@s page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 TtE UNFORTUNATH shall not open it while I am gone." She added, "It may be a comfort to you before you return." The time arrived for his departure, and taking up his valise he bade her "good afternoon," and started for the door. Lucy replied, "Good afternoon; may God be with you!" Charles left the house, and " may God be with you!" still sounded in his ear. In vain did he try to drive it away, - he could not. After he went on the boat he tried to forget it, and amuse himself by walk- ing on the deck; but still "may God be with you!" occupied his mind. He said within himself, "Will God protect me, - such an unworthy being as I?" And then he w en on to reflect upon his former life. When he left the boat, he resolved to open the pocket-Bible as soon as he reached the room which should be allotted to him for the night. He did so, saying, a I will see what Is hall open to; " and the first thing that met his eye was, "He that, being often reproved, hardeneth his neck, shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy." He was not away from home long when he was taken very ill, and his physician thought his disease would prove fatal. He was very much alarmed about himself, and inquired whether the do or MOUNTAIN GIRL. 51 thought he should die. Dr. D-- frankly told him that he thought he could live but-a short time. This threw him into a state of agitation, and h, exclaimed, I cannot die, I am not pre- pared." Dr. D tried to console him, and asked him if he would have a minister come and pray for him. He declined having a minister, and begged them to send for his wife. Your request shall be granted," replied the doctor. Accordingly a messenger was despatched in haste, and Lucy at length arrived. She ap- proached his bed with her heart lifted in prayer to God that she might be instrumental in the sal. vation of his soul. Taking his hand, and looking him in the face, she said, "Charles, are you will- ing to die?" "Oh no " he replied, "I can never die in such a frame of mind." "Well, my dear, have you read any in my- Bible?" "Oh yes! it was that which brought me to a sense of my situation." "Well, you know there is nothing but the blood of Christ that can atone for your sins ; and if-you will repent, and come to him, he will abundantly pardon and make you to rejoice in his' love. page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] TilE UINFORTUNATE 'Come, now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be like crimson, they shall be as wool.'" "Oh yes! I know it all. If I could only come to Christ! I wish you would pray for me." Lucy was glad of this opportunity; and, kneeling down beside his bed, she poured out her desires to God in prayer for her husband, who was so distressed in body and soul. She prayed earnestly that God would restore him to health if it could be con. sistent with his will; but, above all, to cleanse his heart from sin, and prepare him to meet his God in peace. When she ceased, Charles joined, and prayed vocally for himself. The Holy Spirit was in that sick room, and the penitent felt therejVas a power in prayer, to him before unknown. He felt the joys of redeeming love, and rejoiced in a sense of pardoned sin. He now thanked God that he had been blessed with a pious companion. At length he began to recover, and in a few weeks was able to be removed home. The wife rejoiced from the fulness of her heart for the conversion of her husband, declaring it to be the happiest period of her life. Charles remembered his covenant with God, MOUNTAIN GIRL. 53 and established an altar in his house, where they returned thanks for the preservation of his life and the conversion of his soul. Ever after they were happy followers of Jesus. Their lives passed pleasantly, until she reached her thirty-third year, when the Lord saw fit to call her away from earth to glory. Taking leave of her husband she said, '"Charles, I am not afraid to die ; but there is a tie which binds my heart to you, and, although we have not yet reached the meridian of Jife, God's time is the best: let us both say, Not our will, but the will of God be done.' Be faithful in the vineyard of the Lord a little while, and we shall meet again in heaven to part no more." She then asked those around her to sing the Dying Christian, and she tried to sing, There's not a cloud that doth arise To hide my Je ua froma my eyes; I soon shall mount the upper skies: All is well, all is well. Then, bidding farewell, her spirit on angels wings was wafted to its home. page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] 4 THE- UNEORITUNATH DIALOGUE BETWEEN HARRY AND CHARLES. ClQarles. - Good morning, Harry. Harry. -Good morning, Charles: we are ex. pecting to have a dancing-school here this winter, if we can get a sufficient number to subscribe. Will you put your name to the paper? Charles. -Yes, if you will convince me that I shall derive any benefit from it. Harry. - Why, it will teach us how to appear in company, and pass the long winter evenings very pleasantly; besides, father says if a young man is only an accomplished dancer, he will get through the world well enough, if he has not much learning. Charles.-- Nonsense, Harry, that is a sad mistake. William Dix is as good a dancer as ever need be,'and you know everybody is laugh- ing at him for his ignorance. And then look at David Smith, a pious and well-educated boy,-- he has told me he never danced in his life : every. body respects him; even the young ladies think MOUNTAIN GIRL. 5 they cannot have an evening visit unless he is present. Harry. -Well, it may not always be the case, but then it is for a general thing. Charles.-- How many subscribers will it require? Harry.- Only fifteen; at three dollars apiece, we can have thirteen schools and one public. Charles. - Fifteen; three times fifteen, - a very liberal sum, -forty-five dollars. Now, how much good it might do, if it were only put to the right use! Harry. -Pray, what would you have it put to? Charles. I would have it equally divided between the two poor widows that are right here in our neighborhood. It would do much towards relieving their wants, I assure you. Harry. - Oh, don't preach to me in that way! if they can't take care of themselves they may go to the poorhouse. Charles. - Well, Harry, you know we ought to do unto others as we would they should do to us. Now, if you were sick or blind, and could not take care-of yourself, would you like to be sent to the poorhouse? page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] 56 THE UNFORTUNATE Harry. - Well, no; and I should not have to go, for I'have friends that would take care of me. Charles.-- Yes, but Mrs. Bliss has no friends, and I would prefer to give my three dol- lar to little Henry Bliss, or poor James Hail, the blind boy. Now, Harry, if either of us were sick or blind, we should be very glad to have people divide their spoil with us. Harry. - Well, I was in to see James Hail, to- day, and I feel real bad for him; and I would have given him some money, only I have but just enough to pay my tuition at the dancing-school. Charles. -I think I shall feel much better satisfied, when little Henry is dead and gone, td know that I used my money towards sup- plying his wants, instead of spending it for dancing. Harry. - Will Henry die? Charke.- Oh yes, Harry! The physician says he can live but a short time. Now, Harry, would it not grieve you to hear that Henry suf. fered for the comforts of life during his sickness, when it was in your power to relieve him? Harry.- Well, Charles, instead of sub- scribing for the dancing school, I will tako MOUNTAIN. GIRL. 57 what I have to relieve the wants of James and Henry, and I will try to influence the other boys to do so also. Charles. - I will back you up in it with three dollars; and you go around and see what you can get from the boys to-day, and to-morrow we will go together and try to gladden the hearts of our unfortunate little friends." Harry. -Good morning, Charles. Charles. - Good morning. page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] 558 THE UNFORTUNATi THE PEACEFUL COTTAGE. IN a small village, in the eastern part of Maine, lived, some years since, an old woman, who was known by the name of Industrious Mary. Her cottage was built with logs and covered with slabs, but, from the air of neatness which every thing about it exhibited, could not fail of attract- ing the notice of the passing stranger. Soon after the death of the old lady, two friends hap- pened in their travels to meet at this place; and being invited, by the beauty of the scenery and the desire of discoursing with freedom upon past events, to a walk in the fields, they found them- selves unexpectedly at the humble cottage, which a tall hedge had at first hindered them from seeing. While they stood admiring its neatness and simplicity, and anxious to know something of its occupant, they were joined by a villager, who informed them that it was then uninhabited, and at their request proceeded to give the char- acter of its late owner, the substance of which was as follows: MOUNTAIN GIRL. 59 She was a native of this village, and lived all her life here without any loose desire of seeking her fortune or fancy expectation of meeting with advancement in distant places. Being always averse to society, she had no borrowed vices nor imitated follies. She was unacquainted with the false. pleasures of luxury, and what she knew nothing of she neither desired nor envied. Her wants were the wants of nature. She had not habituated herself to falsehood by flattering the vanity of a gaudy mistress, nor borrowed the art of shedding tears for trifles, nor bearing inso- lence with an affected submission; but having thus escaped the general source of corruption, and, at the same time, excluded herself from all hopes of any assistance but that of Providence, she maintained herself by an honest and unwea. ried industry, free from distress and above de- pendence. It is the right of every cottager to graze a cow on the adjoining common. This pri- vilege was Mary's estate. She had many years ago purchased a cow with the money she had saved from wages of her daily labor. \ From her she was supplied withmiilk and butter and cheese, part of which she lived upon, and part she car- ried to the market. In a little garden close to page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] 60 THE UNFORTUNATE the house she had a row of apple-trees, under which, when no other business called her away, she sat sewing with a contented heart and a smiling face. Thus, what would have been wretchedness and poverty in the estimation of those who have been accustomed to fashionable life, was easy affluenri in the natural condition of humanity. The neatness and regularity of her house made me often frequent it; her furniture and utensils, of the cheapest sort, were always clean, and always in order; and every thing about her seemed to be under the direction of Providence and the smiles of Heaven. When she rose in the morning her devotions were her first employment: her earliest and purest thoughts were given to her Creator in a form of humble adoration. She then read a short portion of the Holy Scriptures with a sincere and earnest atten- tion, not with a view of reconciling them to vice, or of interpreting them in her own favor, but of regulating her behaviour by their unerring rules; nor till those diuies were performed did she suffer her mind to fix upon the business of the day. She then milked her cow and made her cheese; after which she sat down to her sew- ing, and, except the little time spent at her meals, f 'X MOUNTAIN OIRt. C. worked till evening. She never went far from home: her longest journey was to the next market, where she sold the produce of her little dairy, re- ceived the price of her sewing, and bought what her own cow and garden could not afford her. At the close of day, she again milked her cow, ana concluded the day with reading and devotions.-? Thus was her life one uniform scene of innocence and piety; not saddened by misfortune, nor va, ried by caprice. She enjoyed almost uninter- rupted health till the age of sixty, and then, dying of a short illness, was found possessed of seventy- five pounds, which she had laid up, that when she should be able to work no longer, she might not subsist upon the labors of other. Such was the history of Mary, the inhabitant of the little cot- tage,-a place which, by her industry and virtue, she rendered far more venerable than the elegant mansion of sloth and luxury. When we sit in solitude out of the sight of men, and unbiased by their customs, when we are not afraid of being ridiculed by wit, nor wondered at by folly, is it possible to doubt a moment which to prefer? Can rational beings put weeks, months, and years trifled away in unimproving discourse, idle visits, and emity amusements, in page: 62-63 (Illustration) [View Page 62-63 (Illustration) ] 62 THB UNFORTUNATE competition with Mary's useful labor? But if we look further into the conduct of those who stand in higher life, and add their vices to their follies; if, with the time lost in thoughtless divcr- sion, we think of that which is wasted by unlaw- ful passions, in ambitious pursuits, or criminal in- dulgences; if we reflect on the allurements to wickedness and discouragement from virtue, - we shall be still more convinced of the happiness of obscurity. The devotions of Mary, so far as we may presume to judge, were not disregarded, since they were offered by one who lived in the practice of all the duties that fall within the com- -pass of action. They, no doubt, drew upon her the eyes of those angelic beings who look with contempt on pompous greatness, and turn with abhorrence from prosperous wickedness, and opened to her those regions of eternal happiness, whither many, who now bonst their noble, ample fortunes and extensive capacities, will never ar- rive. When we are led to repine at our station, and to envy the rich and the great, let us look at their vices,- their cares, and their troubles, and we may learn to hush every murmur by contrasting them with the happy life and peaceful death of the contented, the industrious, the pious Mary. MOUNTAIN GIRL. O page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] " THE UNFORTUNATE - THE YOUNG HEIRESS. CHAPTER I. IT was the close of a glorious summer. Old Mr. Morton's small white house on the banks of the Illinois, embosomed in a rich profusion of living green, adorned by flowers of deep luxury, and canopied by a sky of sunny and gorgeous hues, hhad been that summer the abode of as happy a party as ever gathered around a cottage door on a summer's evening. Charles Eltham and his sister had spent several months there. Arthur's health, which had been seriously im- paired by severe suffering, was now so far re- stored as to admit of active exertion, for which the state of his finances was calling loudly. And it was agreed that the party, on the mor- row, should leave the undisturbed repose of the country for New York. The circle at old Mr. Morton's had certainly been a happy and interesting one. The old gen- tleman had been a soldier in the army of the Re- volution; and the young people were as fond of MOUNTAIN GIRL. 65 listening to his long and minute stories of those ever-interesting days, as he was of relating them; and, among the listeners, none dwelt with more undivided attention on every word than Marcia. And then the long, long romantic walks on the oceanlike prairie, and amid' the mosses of the never-ending forest. They gathered wild flowers, they listened to the music of morning's earliest birds, they traced the course of the wayward brook, they drank in the influence of nature together. Marcia had been happy, most happy, even while she had been nursing a hopeless passion. But to her it was not then hopeless. Sanguine in all her expectations, unused to the blandish. ments of polite society, unskilled in reading hu- man hearts, and too conversant with novels and ;omances, she imagined that the fondness which Eltham manifested for her society was love. Deluded girl!'. ... . . . He did, indeed, regard her as beautiful, and rather interesting, but withal a wayward and faulty child. And the at- tention with which he treated her was more the effect of gratitude and friendship for the brother, than tribute to any qualities possessed by the sister. And had he even looked on her with more partiality, he would not have aspired to her hand, 6 page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] " THE UNFORTUNATTE for she had now become an heiress. Eltham admired the firmness with which she bore her good fortune, and very justly considered it an indica- tion of a strong mind. But sometimes he thought of what she would be, when experience should have corrected her faults, education refined her manners, and time matured her beauty. Had he known the sacrifice she had been wil- ling to make for his sake, his feelings towards her might, perhaps, have been more ardent. He never dreamed of the existence of that foolish passion which his slightest attention, his most un meaning compliment, was nursing. If he had, his manner towards her would have been cold. Willingly he would not have blighted one rose in her future path ; little did he think he was strew- ing it with thorns! Little did he think, while he twined wild flowers amid her flowing tresses, and praised the fresh bloom of her cheek, how many bitter tears would be shed over the memory of these careless actions and idle words! Little did he think, as he playfully kissed her forehead, while in all the artlessness and innocence of early childhood she clung around his neck, that he was mingling anguish in her cup of bliss! And were Arthur Morton and Lucy all thiis '4 o - - MOUNTAIN GILL. 67 time unmindful of each other's charms? Oh no, inquisitive reader! The germs of affection, nour- ished at first in secret, had expanded into full and beautiful bloom. The course of true love had for once flowed smoothly. And now they stood to. gether before the marriage altar.- Lucy had" never looked so beautiful before. Her health, which intense anxiety had impaired, was now per. fectly renovated. A faint, retiring red was just perceptible on her cheek; her soft eyes were re- dolent of bliss; and there was a devoted look of fond confidence in the most pensive smile that played around her beautiful lips. Arthur's ap- pearance was a perfect and happy contrast to Lucy's. He was tall, his form manly and strik- ing; his forehead was noble, and its clear, pure white was shaded by hair of the deepest black. His lips curled haughtily; but his eyes were the most striking of his features. It would have been, difficult for the careless observer to have told their color, but their expression was never sur- passed. Whether they kindled Ai ith anger, flashed with delight, or melted in tenderness, they were alike unrivalled. There was a remnant of boyhood's roses on his cheek, which, in moments of animation, would gradually change to' a deep, page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] 68 THE UNFORTUNATE burning red; yet his countenance was manly in the extreme, and had nothing of the round, smil- ing plumpness usually associated with red cheeks. But, though the personal appearance of that youthful pair was interesting, it was nobility of mind that shed an unearthly glory around them. They were, indeed, redeeming spirits among com- mon minds. CHAPTER II. A few short years,- Ah! who can tell? MARCIA MORTON was left to eep over the presumption of unfounded hope , - to lament va- nished dreams. But she was a proud girl: her pride was lofty as her affections were constant; and, though in the depths of her heart was burled anguish, yet hers were not the eyes to quench their fires in unavailing grief, nor hers the cheek to grow pale from unrequited love. But she had soon other sorrows than those of disappointed love over which to grieve. Her parents, ere the return of spring, were both laid in the same grave. Marcia, for a long time, was involved in the deepest anguish. She had been a wayward, and sometimes a disobedient, child; - - .MOUNTAIN GIRL. 69 but she had loved her parents with a depth and fervency of feeling, of which common minds never dreamed; and so now the bitterness of her re- gret was proportional to the intenseness of her love, and made a thousand times more bitter by every recollection of her former unkindness to- wards those who were now alike insensible to her , love apd her repentance. There was, however, one consoling reflection, for during months of their illness she had been to them a ministering angel. Yet her reflections were sufficiently bitter to steal the color for a while from those blooming cheeks, which nothing else could have paled. Marcia spent several years at a boarding-school, and then went, in company with her brother and his angel. wife, to spend a few weeks at the Springs. The beautiful orphan and rich heiress did not escape admiration and flattery. But she was no coquette; she treated all her admirers and suitors with the samoe old, oalm, hardly respectful indifference. Years had passed. Charles Eltham and Ar- thur Morton had met as old friends at the Springs, to again renew the early friendship which had ever glowed in their hearts since their first ac- quaintance in Illinois. , page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 THE UNFORTUNATE "Who was that queenlike beauty by your side to-day, Mrs. Morton?" said Eltham, as they sat together in a private apartment that evening. "And is it possible that you have really for- gotten your little favorite amid the wild haunts of the Illinois?" "' Was that really Marcia Morton? Impossi. ble! She cannot be so splendidly beautiful, - and such expression in her looks!" "Certainly, Mr. Eltham, six years have pro- duced some change." At that instant, the young lady in question en- tered the apartments, along with her brother. There was a slight embarrassment in her manner as she returned Eltham's salutation ; but it passed away, and Eltham found her conversation bril- liant, rich, and refined. She was no longer the fond, wild girl of fifteen, who had innocently re- turned his caresses, -no longer the wayward, pas- sionate child ; but a dignified, graceful, and rather reserved young woman. A slight paleness sha- dowed her brilliant features, as the conversation turned on long-passed days, old familiar scenes. One long-buried but not forgotten dream of her girlhood rushed obstinately to her mind, and she was silent. She moved as in her brilliant sphere MOUNTAIN GIRL. 71 of indifference, her heart untouched, and her mind weary of this homage. There was one who remained apparently indifferent to her peorless charms. Charles Eltharm treated her in company with a cold, distant respect. In the private cir- cle, at Morton's, he conversed familiarly with her, and seemed happy in her society, but never be- trayed any other regard for her than mere com- mon friendship. Another year had gone by, and wrought its full share of changes. Mary Huntington was a widow. She had long been an orphan, and her brothers were in foreign climes. She resided in the family of her sister Matilda, who was married, and mistress of a hotel at the Springs. Morton and Eltham were again at the Springs. Lucy and Marcia were at home, the home of Marcia's childhood, by the side of the Illinois. Marcia had positively, and rather obstinately, refused to accompany her brother to the Springs; and Mrs. Morton's presence was required at home a few weeks, at the end of which period she intended joining her husband at the Springs. Eltham was thrown constantly into the society of Mrs. Huntington. Indeed, he was always among the invited guests at Patterson's; for page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] 72 THE UNFORTUNATE Matilda, though she had seldom met him during their long separation, still regarded him as a very particular friend. He and Morton, who was a cousin of hers, were invited to join, as often as it should be convenient, in their private family cir- cle. Eltham, who was much fonder of joining a social circle of friends than of mixing in promis- cous society, soon became almost an inmate of the family. His presence at first inspired bitter thoughts in the blighted heart of Mary; but, as they had met as friends during her husband's life, so they met now. Eltham remembered his early love only as a bright dream, and he often smiled when he thought of his waking disappoint- ment. All resentment had long been dead, and he regarded Mrs. Huntington as an early and dear friend. She was changed,- entirely changed; and in the melancholy widow, with her white marble cheeks, and smileless lips, none would have recognized the blooming and happy Mary Enfield. Yet she was still an interesting woman, and still beautiful. In mixed company, he treated her with marked attention ; she was his partner in the dance; he listened with rapture when she sung; and his delicate attentions to her were remarked by all observers. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 73 Did he love her'? No. Neither did he dream that in her bosom-cold, passionless as she seemed--there could possibly linger a single smothered spark of young affection, to be kindled to a flame CHAPTER III. IT was summer-proud, gorgeous summer. Eltham's health had suffered severely from close application to business, and he was now trying leisure amid the beautiful scenery of Illinois, as a restorative. He and Mrs. Morton were sitting together one eve)ning, when a letter, directed in a delicate female hand, was brought to him. He gazed at the superscription in evident surprise, broke the seal hastily, and glanced at the sig- nature. He changed color, and immediately left the room. When he was alone, he read as fol- lows :- "MY EARLY FRIEND:--You will be sur. prised, perhaps displeased; at the reception of a letter from me. I know too well that I am transgressingthe received laws of female delicacy in addressing you on the subject I am about to introduce. But when I recollect how much hap- piness I once recklessly threw away, I would, if possible, regain some small portion of it. You recollect too well my foolish coquetry, my heart- page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 THE UNFORTUNATE less falsehood. I saw you were suspicious of my constancy, and - fool that I was - I resolved to sport with your feelings. Yet, shall I say it?- I loved you well ... and the thoughts of a final separation at that time would have been anguish. I did not know your spirit; you treated me with a degree of indifference, which, in return, roused my resentment. I avoided you, and spent my time with Huntington. I will not now speak par- ticularly of his attention; but at last he taught me to believe I loved him better than I had ever loved you. I married him. I will pass slightly over the events of long, long years. I would not for all sublunary happiness pluck one green leaf from his laurel wreath of fame. I would not shadow the unsullied reputation of his name. But, had suffering power to atone for crime, then had my perfidy long since been expatiated, I had learned to think of my love for you as something for ever past. But, - shall I own it? - in spite of what the world would call indelicacy, in spite of my own burning pride, ... your presence, your con- versation revived all my young affection. Yet would I have smothered and concealed it in my own bosom had not your delicate attention to me, and some expressions (perhaps they were un- guarded) led me to believe my love was returned. Why should we sacrifice a life of happiness to pride or resentment? Do not despise me for what I have written, and I say adieu. "MARY HUNTINGTON." MOUNTAIN GIRL. 75 He sat alone with this effusion in his hand from one he had once warmly, confidingly, and absorbingly loved. What memories rushed thick and fast upon his mind! The hopes, the fears, the bliss, the agonies of youth seemed all present. That fatal evening when he had rushed from the presence of Mary; his hopes blighted; his fond I affection thrown back; pride, scorn, resentment in his heart,- then, even then, at that bitter moment, his wild projects of ambition had, for the first time, taken a definite form. They had grown, at once, into a fixed and immovable resolve to stand one day high on the ladder of ambition, where the proud girl who had just (contemptu- ously, as he thought) discarded the poor, friend- less and unknowrn youth, should look up to the station occupied by the successful man, and re- member her folly. His resolve was- partly ful. filled; and the same girl now sued for his favor, - offered the hand he once so dearly prized. "UiTTiiE PROM THE HON. MR. ELTHAM. "To MRS. MARYf HUNTINGTON: -I was in. deed,.my fair friend, surprised, and even pained, at the reception of your letter. You say, Why should we sacrifice a life of happiness to pride or resentment? Believe, me, I am not influenced page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] 76 THE UNFORTUNATE by either of these motives. As for pride, I might be well proud of a union with you; and resent- ment has long, long ago passed from my mind, and with it passed my early dream of love. True, I did love you, love you deeply, fervently, and too confidingly. But it became necessary for me to conquer that love: I struggled long and painfully to banish it from my mind. At last I succeeded. I crushed, I trampled it in the dust, - utterly extinguished its last spark! It can never revive. If any of my expressions have implied a continua- tion of that love, they were indeed unguarded expressions, and I deeply regret them. My parti- cular attentions to you, you should have imputed to friendship. I am very sorry if they have been the cause of unhappiness. I have indeed felt for you, and do still feel, a tender and uncommon regard; but it is friendsnip, pure and passionless. As such I sincerely hope it may be returned. Write me,-tell me you have abandoned your wild dream of love, and will be my friend; and I shall be happy. CHARLES ELTHAM. "MRS. MARY HUNTINGTON." Mary read this letter with all the bitterness of wounded pride and blighted hope. Her last dream of earthly bliss was over. Miss Morton went one day into Eltham's room, to return a book she had borrowed of him. He MOUNTAIN GIRL. " was not in the room. As she glanced over some papers on his table, she observed a folded and sealed letter, directed to Mrs. Mary Huntington. She gazed at it some time1 as if to assure her- self tat she read aright. "It is then true," she exclaimed; "he is to be married to my proud cousin." And rushing from the apartment she sought her own room. A golden sunset, and a long, long ramble on the prairie, had filled the minds of Eltham and the loverly being at his side with poetry and dream, ;f"This is wrong,-it is foolish," thought Miss Morton, as she'stosd :close by the side of him whose image had, for long years, mingled in her dreams, "These solitary walks, delightful as they are, are only stepgthening affection it will now be crime to indulge. And do I indeed love one who will soon be the husband of another? I love him still, in spite of my better resolu- tions." "A glorious view," said Eltham. "One may be proud of his country, when he looks on a scenelike this." Here he paused. Then turning to Marcia he said, - "I have never talked to you of love. Perhaps page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] 78 THE UNFORTUNATE you have never dreamed how deeply and hope- lessly I have loved you." "Mr. Eltham," said Marcia, with a cold and indignant look of pride, "I have always consid- ered you a friend, and treated you as such; if you value my friendship, you will not renew this trifling. I cannot tolerate insult." "If my professions of love are insults, I will certainly never again trouble you with the subject. But I think, if you felt one particle of that friend- ship which you profess for me, you would at least repress your anger, and treat me with common respect. I am not aware of deserving your con- tempt." "A man deserves contempt the moment he stoops to " She paused abruptly, as they reached the house, and glanced towards him a look of indig- nation. "To what, Miss Morton?" i She hesitated, and then turned towards the door, as if to enter. "I have a right to demand an explanation," he said, in a low, compressed tone. "It is un- generous to leave your meaning unexplained." And he caught hold of her burning and trem- bling hand to detain her. 1a,;B MOUNTAIN GIRL. 79 She suddenly and with some effort withdrew her hand, and with one more glance, in which love, pride,resentment, and scorn were mingled, entered I the house, followed by Eltham. In the parlor they found several of their young $ acquaintances, all in high spirits. Marcia joined in the mirth with more than natural animation and wild gaiety. There was a deep, unusually deep, and burning glow upon her cheeks; while her lips and. brow were deadly pale, and there was almost a maniac wildness in her eyes. The wild flowers the playful Eltham had twined amid her hair, on the prarie, were allowed to remain, and she took no pains to arrange the beautiful but dishevelled tresses. Eltham was reserved and gloomy. Marcia retired as soon as the company were gone, and she wept as wildly as she had laughed and sung. The next evening Miss Morton sat on a sofa, alone, in a richly furnished apartment. The poems of Julian were in her hand, but she was not reading. She was started from a long, deep reverie, by the abrupt entrance of Eltham* "I beg pardop; Miss Morton, for this intru- sion," said Eltham. "I thought you attended Mrs. P--'s splendid party to-night." 'And I, too, believed you there," she replied. Y page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] 80- 8TOIu UNFORTUN ATE An awkward silence. "And so you read Julian's poems sometimes,, said Eltham, as he sat down by Marcia's side. She made no reply, but dashed away a gather in tear. a her "You are sad to-night, Marcia. May I be permitted to inquire the cause?, "Thle cause, certainly, is nothing which can possibly interest you; but I am indeed sad, and in no humor to enjoy company. Forgive me bt I beg you will leave me." "Yes, I will retire immediately; butfirst give me leave to say that your Conduct towards me has been u generous me bas b een unge8ner - unworthy a woman of sense and refinement; and to me it has been, and still is, inexplicable. Whatever maybe your remaining faults, I think you have entirely eon quered your propensity to flatter Miss Morton is quite as innocent of that crime as Iam. Perton haps, however, I spoke severely; but remember you have used lanutage to me, which, if used by a gentleman would have justified me in demand. ing an explanation. Now, Miss Morton,if you have one particle of the generosity or frankness I donce imputed to you, you will not leave your con- duet unexplained. You told me last evenirg I deservedI contempt, and you have heen paying it MOUNTAIN GIRL. 81 off profusely. Will you now condescend to inform me in what manner I had deserved it?" X "Yes, I will. Your declaration of love was either insult to me, or perfidy to another. As either, I have a right to resent it." "Perfidy to another! Is it possible, Miss Morton, that you believed the common report, that I was engaged to be married to Mrs. Hunting- ton?" "I did. And were you not so engaged?" "Certainly not. But what reasons had you for believing this foolish story?" "A variety of reasons. In the first place, your very particular attentions, which I presume you will not deny, implied an engagement. And then your sister believed it, or at least I have reason to suppose she believed it; and then Miss ,who, you know, is the intimate friend and bosom confident of my cousin, told me in confi dence you were so engaged. She, you must have discovered, is an artful and unprincipled girl. But there was another reason, stronger with me than all the rest." "And, pray, what was that?" "You certainly will not deny corresponding with Mrs. Huntington? "No, I will not; but there was nothing in that 6 page: 82-83 (Illustration) [View Page 82-83 (Illustration) ] c8f2 TTHE UNFORTUNATE correspondence, which, as your professed lover, I would be unwilling you should read. As for what you are pleased to call my very particular attentions to that lady, they were dictated entire- ly by friendship; and she so understands them, whatever the world may say to the contrary. But why so very positive about the correspond- ence?" "Because I saw on your table a letter directed in your handwriting to Mrs. Mary Huntington." "And may I ask if this belief that I was en- gaged to another influenced materially your con- duct towards me?" "It did, very materially." "And are you now convinced that such an engagement never existed?" "I have certainly no right or inclination to dispute your candor." The conversation now took a somewhat gentler turn. We will not stay to repeat it. But there was a wedding at Morton's the next fall. The proud beauty, the rich heiress, gave her hand confidingly to the poor but noble-hearted Eltham. Six years from that time, Charles Eltham, with his still beautiful and devoted wife, was pleas- antly situated on the lovely banks of the Illinois. MOUNTAIN GIrRL. 8 page: 84 (Illustration) -85[View Page 84 (Illustration) -85] 81 TIlE UNFFORTUNATE IMOU TAIZ GIRL. 85 THE YOUNG TUTOR. ZELI was an only and idolized child. Since her mother's death, every wish, every feeling of her youthful heart had been indulged. She was the image of his lost, his loved one, and her father cherished her as the only flower of his lonely parterre. On her he expended all the fervency, all the earnestness of his love. She was dearer to him than life itself; and, when 'he witnessed her childish delight at Walter's visits, he cheer- fully broke through his established rules, and told him, in a few words, that his presence would be as light to his dwelling. Her father had been too jealous, of his beauti- ful child to suffer her to seek instruction away from home; but he was delighted at Walter Durand's proposal to become her tutor. aShe showed, decided talent for music and paintings; and, under the instruction of the young tutor, Zelia made rapid progress. And each day her love grew stronger, yet hard she strove to smother it in her own bosom. We ' page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] 86 / TUE UNFORTUNATE all know the power of love in subduing preju- dices and overcoming difficulties. Constantly with Walter, her thoughts, her feelings, were imbibed from or colored by his. Did Walter reciprocate this love? Deeply, passionately. Her beauty and childlike sweetness had at first attracted his notice; and now, added to these charms, he had, as it were, moulded her mind and heart, and almost worshipped the being who had been committed to his charge. But honor kept her place firmly in his heart. He felt that great would be his sin to gain the love of that young, happy heart, which could never, by her father's will, be his; and that father had received him and trusted him as a friend. No! never would he betray the precious trust which had been so con- fidingly reposed in him. His mind was soon determined; he would fly from Zelia, flyfrom her sweet friendship, which had been to him such happiness. No longer would his evenings be passed in listening to the songs he had taught her; no longer would he guide that little hand whose slightest touch caused a thrill through' his very heart; no longer would he sit and gaze on her dark eyes, forgetting earth, heaven, all but her sweet sel'. But, in denying himself this MOUNTAIN GIRL. 87 happiness, he would, at least, be gaining that of an approving conscience. The evening preceding that fixed upon for his departure, he entered the house of Mr. Hartland, to visit Zelia for the last time. He paused at the half opened door of Zelia's room. He entered, and seating himself by her side, clasped her hand in his. She turned her full gaze upon him t with such a look of confidence, -holy, confiding feeling, that for the first time the thrilling thought, "She loves me!" rose in his heart, and almost overcame his fortitude. Could he deter- mine now, when he first felt assured that his love was returned, to dash from his lips the brimming - cup? Could he resolve to destroy the beaming glance of those eyes, so full of deep feeling? His resolution lingered, his lips'faltered, the tempter was fast weaving his net around him; but with a firm, a strong effort, he threw from him the weakness, and in a low, but calmvoice, told Zelia of businss that called him far from her. In an instant she was transformed; those eyes, but late revealing the depths of her pure, loving heart, now sank beneath his glance; tears gathered and fed over her pale and agitated face, and her whole frame quivered with excess of page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 TiHE UNFORTUNATE emotion. Durand could bear it no longer; and drawing her head unresistingly to his bosom, he mingled his tears with hers. "Zelia, dearest love, I can no longer endure the burden, of silence, - silence, that like a moun- tain has weighed down my very heart. I love, nay, idolize you ; but I dare not ask you to love me in return. Your father, who has received me as a son,-in whose house I have enjoyed more happiness than I ever thought or dreamed of ... Can I then ask you to love me? Can I wish to take from him his beloved child, - her on whom his very life rests? Can I deceive him who has trusted me, and be worthy of your love? No, Zelia, his dear heart shall never be saddened by me, - by me on whom he has lavished so much love." "But you mistake if you think that Zelia, who has loved you, can ever be the bride of another. I know what you are going to say, - that I am young; but, believe me, this poor heart can never know change until death." Mr. Hartland, who had been listening for the last half-hour to the conversation that passed be- tween the two lovers, now entered the room, and, taking Zelia by the hand, he said, while a tear trickled down his pallid cheek:- MOUNTAIN GIRL. 89 "My dear, my only child, you have ever been all to me that a child could be; but ere long I feel that I must be an inhabitant of the spirit- land, and leave you to share the friendship of a cold-hearted world. Zelia, dear child, you know not how long I have read your young heart, and that of Walter. Nay, tremble not, my child- ren: I heard yoar last conversation, and find that you are worthy of my love and each other. For months I have watched your growing love, and could not wish to check it. Guard her, Walter, guard her young, pure heart. I now give her to you." We will not stay to repeat the conversation which followed; but will say that Mr. Hartland had the pleasure of seeing his beautiful daughter married to Walter Durand ere the autumnwinds withered the summer's rich bloom. Three years passed away, and left Zelia a poor and broken-hearted orphan. Walter by degrees became neglectful of her, and atparties he would chat, laugh, and dance with the trifling and vain; while the more sensible portion of the company woeId gather round her, delighted by her fine manners and polished conversation. But what i : to her was the admiration of the multitude, when "'" page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] 90 THE UrNORTUNATE she was suffering for the want of the sunny beams of affection? Her heart was like a sensitive plant, and shrank as instinctively from the slight- est breath of unkindness as does the mimosa from an uncongenial atmosphere. She became feeble and melancholy; and, when he demanded her reason for refusing to attend parties, she gave him to understand that she thought her presence would be little missed by him, and she preferred remaining at home. One evening Walter returned home at a late hour, and found Zelia lying upon a bed, the ser- vants weeping, and a physician in attendance, who said she was suffering from a spasm on the heart, which he attributed to fatigue. She soon revived, and greeted him with a smile of unutter- able sadness; but no word of reproach escaped her lips. She then sank into a stupor, and re- mained some days in a state of unconsciousness. During this time he was unremitting in his atten- tions; and, as soon as her strength was sufficiently restored to hear him with safety, he fell on his knees and most earnestly implored her forgive- ness. She replied, "My dear Walter, may God forgive you as freely, as fully, as I do But in vain were all his cares to restore her to MOUVNTAIN GIRL. (1 health. She wasted away, like a flower of earth. Eminent physicians were consulted, but to no effect. Her disease was one which no medicine could remove. It was a beautiful evening in September. Zelia awoke from a sweet slumber, and desired to speak with her husband. He entered and ap- proached the bed, when Zelia took him by the hand, saying: "My dear Walter, I have much that I wish to say before I leave this world. I blame myself that I did not make sufficient exer- tion to win you back, and render yofr home the most attractive place on earth. I yielded too soon to gloom and despair; and it was but natu- ral that you, in health and cheerfulness, should seek society more congenial with your feelings. For this, my great mistake, I beg your forgive. ness. Let your future life, as far as may be, atone for the errors of the past. Seek to do rood, and prepare to meet our dear parents in that world where parting will be no more. Dear Walter, farewell!" She gave him her hand, they exchanged a parting kiss, and both remained silent. He watched her in grief; and, after a few moments of apparent slumber, she once more roused herself page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] 92 THE UNFQRTUNATE a smile of heavenly peace rested on her coun- tenance, and giving him a look of forgiving ten- derness, her spirit departed. For Zelia now poor Walter weeps, And o'er her grave his vigil keeps; Nor does he leave her grassy mound, But lies upon the cold, damp ground. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 93 THE ORPHAN'S BENEFACTRESS. "GOOD MORNING, my dear; why do you weep?" said Virginia, as she placed her hand upon the shoulder of a little girl, who stood at her door. She replied, as she wiped away the falling tear, "It is not for myself, but for my mother." "Your mother, child -what is the matter?" said Virginia, drawing her to her side. "Be- lieve me your friend) and tell me all." "My mother," said the trembling girl," is very sick, and has nothing for her comfort." ' "What!!ave you no father?" said Virginia, anxious to know more of the little stranger's his- tory. "And what is your name?" "My name is Julia Mason, and my father died some years ago." "Well, my dear, do not weep; I will assists you." Julia's heart s elled with emotion as she accom- panied Iler kind benefactress to the lonely dwell- ing of her afflicted mother. On reaching the page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] " THE UNFORTUNATE house, Virginia entered; finding Mrs. Mason lying upon a pile of straw, in one corner of the desolate room, apparently asleep. Julia ap- proached the spot, and, kneeling by her side, whispered in a soft tone, "Dear mother, here is a kind lady who has promised to be our friend; and we may again be happy." At that moment Virginia approached, and, taking the invalid by the hand, said, "My friend, you are certainly afflicted;" while a tear stole down her blooming cheek. Mrs. Mason only answered by tears. '"But," said Virginia, "the Lord is able to do great things for you yet; and I trust that I may be an instrument in his hand of doing something for you." Mrs. Mason thanked the lady forher kindness. and Virginia took her leave, promising to call again the next morning. The next day dawned brightly, and Virginia arose with a glad heart; and, preparing the morn- ing's meal in haste, she sallied forth in pursuit of her benevolent purpose. She thought the sun had never shone so sweetly before; and the beams that strayed through the shrubbery, as she crossed a little stream on her way, seemed danc- ing gaily on the grass-plot, as-if Flaving at bo- MOUNTAIN GIRL. ' 95 peep among the beautiful flowers; and the brook itself had never rung its chimes so musically be. fore. She did not know that the wires which gave forth all this melody were vibrating in her own heart; and that gratified benevolence was the seraph-minstrel whose magic touch was thrilling the silvery chords, whose mysterious music-tones are but stray notes, detached chimes of that' anthem whose full, harmonial symphonies roll ever from the angelic harps that surround the throne of Eternal Majesty, whose eye of love is never clouded nor diih, but surveys with equal care the vast and ponderous globes which wheel their cir- cling marches through the unknown realms of trackless space, and the frail children of his boun- ty who bloom and fade and die in this diminutive portion of his domains. Virginia rapped lightly at the door, and was admitted by Julia, on whose features rested a shade of sadness; but it, seemed so blended with unmurmuring patience, that the beholder could not fail to perceive the young spirit had been moulded under the influences of those prin- ciples that kindled the undying flame upon the innermost shrine of the heart, --the pure altar- fire of love and devotion, which, purging the soul ; \ page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] '96 TIIE UNFORTUNATE from the cross of false pride and undue ambition, teaches it to look for happiness where alone it can be found, namely, in the paths of virtue and piety. The poor woman had passed a restless night, and was much exhausted ; and it would seem that Vir- ginia had anticipated this, for she had brought some cordial and refreshments. After partaking of some nourishment, the sick one was able to sit up a little, and thanked her visitor for her kind attention. "Heaven has bestowed upon you a kind heart,*' said she: "may you never feel its warm affec- tions crushed by the heartlessness of a selfish world, or blighted by the chill blast of penury and desolation!" Mrs. Mason informed Virginia that they had formerly possessed a good property; but her hus- band had sold all and gone to the Far West, where he purchased a large tract of land, and had com- menced improvements preparatory to moving his family there, when he became a victim to the fe- vers of the climate. Mrs. Mason wrote frequent- ly, but could learn nothing satisfactory, and finally received a letter informing her that the title under which her husband purchased was not good; so she was left penniless to struggle alone MOUNTAIN GIRL. 97 through life's thorny way, with none to protect her, save Him who is the orphan's father and the widow's God. "I am now alone in the world, save this poor orphan," said the mother, as she put back the tresses from the fair brow of Julia, who was kneeling by her side. Tears of joy glistened on Virginia's face as she bestowed her gifts, and saw the expression of gratitude enliven her pallid features. You are an angel of mer- cy, said the suffering one, as the warm blood rose even to her marble brow. "Language is too poor to speak the emotions of the grateful heart. I caunnever repay you; but He who planted in your heart the principles of active be- nevolence will be ever near you, to shed upon your spirit the radiance of love." Having arranged a comfortable bed, and other things, as far as her circumstances would admit, Virginia returned home, promising to call again soon. A few evenings after this scene a joyous party assembled at Mr. Wilton's in honor of his daugh. ter's birth-day. We need not stay to describe the decorations or illuminations of the house, for at the time of which we are speaking the rage for display and maintaining the just rank in os. 7 page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] 98 THE UNFORTUNATE tentatious luxuries had not attained its medium height. But, as every one loved Virginia for her unpretending goodness, they were not the less happy to tender their homage to her this even- ing, as the queen of the festivities. The Misses Nealand were there, splendidly attired in white satin, and, turning to Virginia, asked if Mr. Elmer was not to be of her party. "I do not know," said she. "Is he not here? I presume father invited him." The dance had been some time begun, when a plain, but elegantly dressed gentleman entered the room, and after the usual ceromonies, took a proffered seat beside Mrs. Nealand, with whom he was slightly acquainted; she having managed to procure herself an introduction to him since his recent abode in the village. "Who is that beautiful girl in the dance?" in- quired Mr. Elmer, after a pause in conversation; "that one so simply attired in plain muslin, with the white rose in her hair? She seems the per- sonification of cheerful goodness." "That is Miss Wilton," said the superfine lady, biting her lip with vexation. "Amelia, my love, will you take the fan? The heat is oppressive. I do not wonder you decline dancing." MOUNTAIN GIRL. 99 The tutored damsel bowed and smiled languid. ly, and by mere chance raised her beautiful eyes with deliberate timidity to the gaze of the stran. ger. It was plain from Mrs. N.'s satisfied look that he regarded her with admiration, for she was really a lovely girl. But his gaze was soon care lessly withdrawn, as if those features lacked some lustre of expression that might radiate upon the mirror he carried in his heart. He was a noble-looking man, in the prime of manhood. The expansive brow was finely marked, and his eye was the mirror of all the noble qualities that dwelt in his breast. Calm, clear, and discrimi- nating, it looked to the face divine for the delinea- tion of-the soul. A shade approaching to sad- ness rested on his features. He had returned to his native land, after a long absence, to find the household hearth deserted, dead, or dispersed he knew not where. He was now in search of a wife, even as Mrs. Nealand had divined; but he sought not wealth or superficial accomplishments, but a true, kind heart, on which his own might re- pose its cares, and lavish its wealth of affection. Just as the self-satisfied Mrs. N. had begun to congratulate herself upon the certainty bf Amelia's producing an impression upon the rich stranger, page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] 100 THE UNFORTUNATE he remarked: "It is long since I have danced, but I have a great mind to join the fantastic mea- sure. May I presume upon your favor for an in- troduction to Miss Wilton?" It was with ill-concealed chagrin she presented him to Virginia, and saw him lead the dance with her, plainly clad as she was ; while her own petted idol was left to languish in her well-worn delicacy of appearance. The evening passed in mirth and hilarity, and an early hour saw all parties quietly seeking that repose which is as necessary after enjoyments as labor. "I wonder where Virginia can be going," said Mrs. Turner, as she was fanning herself in Mrs. Nealand's parlor, at sunset, a few days after the party. "I see her passing every day at about the same hour," replied Mrs. N. "I should hardly think she could find time to leave work every day to ramble, being so penurious as she is." "Penurious!" said Mrs. T. "I thought her a generous hearted girl. I believe she is the only one who could fulfil the arduous duties of her station. I know she is sadly tied to drudgery, poor thing; perhaps that may be an excuse for her miserly turn." MOUNTAIN GIRL. 101. It so happened that Mr. Elmer was enjoying a social chat with Mr. Nealand at the farther part of the room, yet he evidently heard the conversa- tion, as it was intended he should. A shade of painful dissatisfaction passed over his fine features for a moment, for he could not but perceive that malice dictated her speech. And it produced a contrary effect from what she intended, for it awakened in him a slight interest in behalf of Virginia, as he wished to know what secret cause existed for this display of unkind feeling. He was, however, a stranger, and could. not hope to learn the secret at present. "I am told there is a desolate lady near the village," said a gentleman, one day, as he entered a store, "who is suffering severely from want and disease. Indeed, it is thought she isnear death." "And are there none to relieve her wants?" asked Mr. Elmer, with surprise. "She has no friends that I kn-w of," said the gentleman; "but Miss Wilton, I am told, ihas been very charitable to her indeed, and visits her every day, though she is no relative of hers.' "No friends!" exclaimed Mr. Elmer; "will you please to direct me to her residence?" page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 102 THE UNFORTUNATE Mr. Turner, as this was the gentleman'sname, with a somewhat mortified air gave him the di- rection, and he started in pursuit of the victim of poverty. He rapped at the miserable abode, and was admitted by a lovely girl, upon whom he gazed with more. than ordinary interest for a moment, and then took a proffered seat. The little girl retired to another room, and soon Miss Virginia Wilton came out, and passed the compliments of the morning. "I am glad to find myself preceded by an angel of mercy to this place. Will you be so kind as to make use of this, for the benefit of the poor woman?" said Mr. Elmer, as he handed her his purse. "I fear, sir," said the lady, "that money can avail little with her. We had the advice of a physician this morning, and he thinks she can survive but a short time." "Is the sick woman a friend of yours?" asked Mr. Elmer. "I have never seen her, sir, till within a few days, except at church." Mr. Elmer took his leave, saying, "If there is not enough to supply her wants I will leave more." MOUNTAIN GIRL. 103 "Thank you," said Virginia: ' this will do for the present." Just then a low moan from the inner room caught their ear, and Virginia hastened to the bedside of the sufferer, where she found her in the agonies of death. She smiled, but it was chilled by a fearful pang; a shudder, a faint gasp for breath, and all was over. Julia held the hand of her mother's corpse. The neighbors were im- mediately summoned, and the last sad offices for the dead performed. The poor little orphan's grief was assuaged by the kind-hearted Miss Wilton, who took her home and cared for her as a sister. This act of benevolence awakened the warmest affection in the heart of Mr. Elmer, who from this time paid his addresses entirely to Miss Wil- ton, and in less than one year she was made the happy bride of George Elmer. With them the ';ttle orphan ever found a welcome home. page: 104 (Illustration) -105[View Page 104 (Illustration) -105] 10 4 THE UNFORTUNATK iMOUNTAIN GIRL. 105 EVA, THE LITTLE CHRISTIAN. IT was a fine morning in December, and peo- ple were going to and fro, carrying baskets of evergreens, to dress out their windows, and to adorn their chimney-pieces for the approaching Christmas day; others were buying and selling these innocent decorations, and either walking abroad for recreation and amusement, or hurry- ing on to their respective mansions; while not a few, of commonplace character and more ordinary pursuits, were intent on their respect. tive business, or hastening homeward to -plan fireside enjoyments in the bosom of their less elegant, but ofttimes more happy, families. Each and all of them seemed intent On some object conneoted with the present hour. Few or none appeared to be ruminating on the shortness of time, or the vanities of the world. H'ew seemed to have eternity before :them, or to be '+aare of the interesting life and approaching death of little Eva; they entered not into her joys, nor did they partake of her sorrows. The greater page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] 106 THE UNFORTUNATE part of them had never heard her name pro- nounced, much less did they know how the Lord was conducting her through this vale of tribula- tion towards the kingdom of heaven. But this was of no consequence. He who clothes the grass of the field, and provides for the fowls of the air, had given this child food and raiment; and, having these, she was therewith content and happy. Her young but enlightened mind had been enabled to discover the pearl of great price; and her soul had grasped it as her own inestima- ble treasure. The Lord Jesus had given unto her his peace, and the world could not increase or take it away. Hence she could well forego all the attentions and sympathies of the vain and busy tribes of men, -of that world which knows not God, nor loves his son Jesus Christ. After a while we reached the dwelling of little Eva. On entering the first room from the street, the -couch of the sick child immediately presented itself. It had been brought into that apartment, and placed in one corer, not far from the grate, that she might enjoy the warmth of the fire and the constant presence and assistance of some of the family. So far all was well. On entering the room where the little Eva lay, for some time MOUNTAIN GIRL. 107 I felt myself unable to do more than silently gaze on the emaciated, but still sweet-looking, child's countenance. I could not request the family to withdraw, and while they were present I for a while could say nothing. Her father at length broke in on our unprofitable silence by saying,- "' Well, Eva, I have brought a kind lady to talk to you about heaven, and about your soul, and about Jesus Christ. She loves children-who love their Saviour." She turned her bright black eyes upon me and smiled, and moved her lips; but the sounds fell short, - they were too faint to reach my ear. "She can only speak in a whisper," said her father. "You must go nearer." I did so; and, while the mother was reaching a chair, the repeated smile on little Eva's counte- nance, and the pleasing look she first cast on her father, and then on myself, spoke plainly enough to this effect: "Lady, you are welcome here; I am glad of one more opportunity to hear of my dear Saviour, and to tell to others that I love him." Indeed, there was not one symptom of confusion or fear about her. Her whole manner was calcu- lated to do away with all my hesitations, and to page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 10X THE UNFORTUNATE lead me on at once to a familiar conversation; no did I leave her without having cause to say to myself, "It is good for me that I have both seen and conversed with thee, thou happy and interesting stranger." In the course of my conversation with this child, I learned that it was a considerable while ago that the Lord had more especially convinced her of her lost and fallen condition as a child of Adam. She had, indeed, been a considerable time in a well-conducted Sunday-School, and had received one of the first prizes, a -copy of an elegant edition of Banyan's"Pilgrim's Progress, as a reward for diligence and good behavior; but she did not note any particular stage of her Christian experience from what she read or heard there, nor did it appear that her teachers were ac- quainted with what was passing within her bosom. After the Lord himself had convinced her of sin, and directed her soul to Christ Jesus for salva- tion, she became very earnest in her attendance on every public means of grace, and was much edified under the preaching of the Word. Al- though so young, and never prompted by any one to attempt any such thing, she had for a good while been in the habit of writing down the texts t. i, MOUNTAIN GIRL. 109 and heads of most of the sermons she heard preached. But such was her humility, and her i fear of being thought too highly of after her disease, that, not long before her death, she took }?qiM the opportunity of her mother's absence, and !!j4; prevailed on her sister to burn all these little interesting papers. The parent came in just time enough to see them consuming, but not in season to rescue. any part of them from the de- vouring flames. I shall not attempt to give the particulars of my conversation with her. Suffice it to say, that through the whole she expressed her conviction that she should soon die, --that she was a great sinner, and-merited no good thing at the hand of God but she believed that Jesus Christ had died or her, and that she loved him, and longed to depart to be with him. I thanked the Lord that I had seen her,-- that I had been permitted to converse and pray with her, that I had wit- nessed the power of divin'e grace in her soul. I was about to leave; and, short as our acquaint- ance had been, it was found sufficiently long to call forth the tear of affectionate sorrow at that moment of separation. As I turned from her couch to open the door; I said to myself, Fare- page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] "O THS UNFORTUNATE well, my young sister, farewell, until we meet iwian undying world, and hail each other in a kingdom 'Unstained by woe, unchanged by years, Unlike this gloomy vale of tears.' " In the full assurance that she would soon be beyond the reach of every pain and conflict, I felt all that is expressed in the following hymn; and I wish to express the whole as referring to little Eva: "Happy soul, thy days near ended,- All thy mourning days below, - Go, by angel guards attended, To the sight of Jesus go! Waiting to receive thy spirit, Lo! the Saviour stands above; Shows the purchase of his merit, Reaches out the crown of love. Struggle through the latest passion, To thy dear Redeemer's breast,- To his uttermost salvation, To his everlasting rest. For the joys he sets before thee, Bear a momentary pain; Die, to live the life of glory; Suffer, with thy Lord to reign." CHAPTER II. A FEW days after, I again called upon little Eva, whom I found in the embrace of death. The MOUNTAIN/GIRL. 1" family had gathered around the couch of the dying Christian, to receive her last and final adieu,until they should meet her beyond the shores of Time, to part no more. As I approached her couch, she extended her hand, and said with a smile, "My good lady, I am about to leave this world; my spirit must soon depart." I then asked her if Christ was still precious to her soul. "Oh yes!" she replied, "I long to be with him." She then requested all her books and trinkets to be brought down stairs: these she divided and gave to different members of the family, as tokens of affectionate love. Her Bible she now gave to her mother, with particular orders that it should never be parted with. She then gave directions about her funeral, naming the young people she wished to carry her corpse, and those she would like to attend the ceremony as pall-bearers. All this was done with as much composure as any person would have made ar- rangements for a journey, or any common event of life. For many months past, her mind had been impressed with the conviction that she should not long continue to be an inhabitant of this lower world, and anxious, if possible, when dead, to . e page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] 112 Tru UNFORTUNA'E V benefit her surviving relatives, and to proclaim to the world her love to and her confidence in Christ, she wished to be buried in such a spot, as that her relatives might, every time they went to and from church, behold her resting-place, and be reminded of their approaching end. From the same pious motive of benefiting survivors, she wished that a monumental inscription, expressive of her faith and of the desires and feelings of her mind, might be placed over her mouldering dust, to admonish and encourage others to seek the Lord for themselves. With this view she finally chose the following lines for her epitaph: - "While thou, my Jesus, still art nigh, Cheerful I live and joyful die; Secure, when mortal comforts flee, To find ten thousand worlds in thee." This done, she told those about her that her time was drawing near, - that she should soon be gone, but that she had no fear of dying. She then made several attempts to speak, but was unable. After watching her some time, I then said, "My dear Eva, if you are happy, - if you are satisfied that Jesus loves you, lift up your hand." No sooner was this request made than she raised her poor, emaciated arm, in token "M: NMOUNTAIN GIRL. " that she was happy in the assurance of the love of Christ. From that moment she lay in the arms of her gentle and good Shepherd, who car- ried her in sweet composure through those waters which have alarmed many an older Chris- tian than little Eva; nor did He leave her until her happy spirit had clean escaped the prison of the body, and fled to the assembly of angels, and mingled with those who compose the church triumphant above. On the sabbath following, her body was consigned to the grave, as near as possible to the chancel door of her parish church, the spot she herself had previously fixed upon as being the most likely to present her grave to the eyes of her brothers and sisters as they approachad the house of God. The young people whom she had chosen for that purpose carried and attended her corpse to its long home, agreeably to her wish; and then the mourners returned to their respective homes. Thus ended the brief pilgrimage of little Eva. In the short period of thirteen years she had run the race appointed for her; and at its conclusion we doubt not that she obtained the crown of vie- tory. 8 page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] 1 l[- iHE UNFORTUNATE THE BERRY BOY. IN the summer of 1838, Mr. Benton, on his way home from the Springs, where he had spent several weeks with his daughter, stopped at a hotel in a small village, to rest awhile, in the heat of the day. He had not been there long, when a lad about ten years of age came up with a basket of berries, whose countenance bespoke poverty and distress. Mr. Benton looked at him with an eye of compassion, and with a sort of interest, and, thinking that he would lighten his load, ie said,- "What will you take for your berries, my little fellow?" "Four cents a quart," replied the boy, while his keen black eye sparkled with joy at the thought of finding a purchaser. Mr. Benton had great curiosity to learn thing of the young stranger's history, and saiu inquiringly, "Do you go to school?" "No, sir," said the boy. "I used to go before my mother died, but now it is all I can do to support my Foor blind grandfather." MOUNTAIN GImL. 15 "Iave you no father?" "Oh no! he died some years before my mother," said the boy, while the tears ran down his cheeks. "What do you do for a livelihood?" asked Mr. Benton, while his heart moved with sympathy for him. "I saw wood, pick berries, go on errands, or any thing else I can find to do." "You are a fine fellow, "said Mr. Benton; l" but I will not take your berries, for you can sell them to some one else, and here are five dol- lars, which will lighten your burden a little." 'Theboy looked at him with amazement, for he had never before in his possession hadthat amount of money, and he hardly knew how to express his gratitude; but, afterthanking him over and over again. lS wt3nthoudv , feather. , . i Mr. Benton watched the movements ohe lad, and soon saw him enter asmall cottage, where sat his grandfather, leaning upon his staff; and after carefully depositing his treasure in the hands of the old veteran, he immediately set out with his berries. Mr. Benton then resolved to befriend the poor orphan, and assist him in getting an education. n a few ays after he reache home page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] "6 THE UNFORTUNATE he put his resolution into practice, and immedi- ately prepared a subscription-paper for the benefit of the poor orphan boy. Ho signed ten dollars; and, being a man who exerted great influence in society, in a few days he had enough signed to accomplish his design. Mr. Benton accordingly enclosed the money in a letter, addressing it to Simon Powell, for this was the name of the orphan. I will not pretend to describe the joy which the, reception of that letter occasioned the poverty-stricken heart, although his affectionate grandfather had but a few days since been con- veyed to the silent tomb. I will only say that the money was carefully managed, and Simon obtained a liberal education. When he was about eighteen years of age, he let himself as a cleik to Mr. Saxe, a wholesale merchant. By his industry, honesty, and uprightness, he gained the esteem of both Mr. and Mrs. Saxe; and, having no children of their own, he soon became their adopted son, and was now known by the name of Simon P. Saxe. Three years passed pleasantly away; but, ere the fourth autumn appeared, Mr. Saxe was numbered with the silent dead. His death was lamented by all, especially by the poorer class ; for he was a very charitable man, I , 154MOUNTAIN GIRL. 117 and no beggar, ever left his dwelling without finding some relief. All business was now left in the hands of Simon P. Saxe, who managed it with - such care and prudence as to add a hand- some sum yearly to his now large estate. One evening in September, as Simon was reading the advertisements- which are always more or less in a paper, his eyes rested upon the well-known name of Mr. Benton, stating that his whole establishment was to be sold at auction, for debt, on the 7th of October. Simon now felt that it was in his power to befriend him, and resolved that he would. At length the day ap- peared, and men of different classes were upon the ground, viewing the premises with great inte- rest. Among the rest was Simon P. Saxe.' At one o'clock the sale commenced, and to the sur- prise of all the whole establishment was struck off to Simon P. Saxe. He then entered the house with Mr. Benton to view the property. Mr. Benton invited him into the parlor, and, introducing him to Mrs. and Miss Amelia Benton, said,-- . "This is the gentleman who now owns this establishment. " At this Amelia burst into tears, for she could not conceal her emotion. I .A page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] "8 THE UNFORTUNATE Simon was much affected by her grief, for he too had tasted the cup of bitter sorrow, and turn- ing to Mr. Benton, he said, - "Sir, do you remember the poor orphan boy whom you befriended some fourteen years ago-?" Mr. Benton hesitated a few moments, and then said, "Yes, but I should never have thought of it again." Well, I am that person. It was by your assistance that I obtained an education. I then resolved, by the grace of God, that I would repay you for that act of kindness; and, as Provi- dence would have it, I am now enabled to befriend you. I well know your misfortunes. You will not be under the necessity of moving a single- article; for I have purchased this stand for the purpose of giving you ample time to redeem it." Mr. Benton and family were overcome with joy, and could not express their gratitude, and all wept convulsively. Simon could but weep with the overjoyed family. Assoon as he could collect himself, he sat down and related his history from the time that Mr. Benton met him as a berry-boy at the hotel, until the present. After much persuasion, he spent the night with them very pleasantly. From MOUNTAIN GIRL. 119 that time he paid his addresses to Miss Amelia Benton, who, in less than a:year, was made the happy bride of Simon P. Saxe. He then removed her to his place of residence, where they passed many years in happiness with the bereft widow. page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 120 TUE UNFORTUNATE THE BROKEN-HEARTED GIRL. THE sun had shed its last rays over the earth, when Edward pressed his lips to the forehead of the beautiful and gentle-hearted girl for the last time. "My dear Emily, you will think of me when far away," said he, holding her trembling hand in his; " but then 'three years will soon pass, and then, dear Emily, we will meet beneath this shade, where we have spent many happy hours in our childhood, and again renew our vows for life." "Yes, Edward," said Emily; " but something whispers in my ear that your vows will soon be forgotten, and another save me shall be called your bride." Oh, fie, Emily! away with such maidenly fears! Ere I prove untrue to you the sun shall cease to rise and set. But the boat is in view, and I must away." He again pressed her to his bosom, they ex- changed a kiss, and parted as all lovers part. Emily stood in breathless silence as she watched I MOUNTAIN GIRL. 121 her lover until his form was lost in the distance. She returned home and sought her chamber where she spent the night in bitter tears, giving way to fear and doubt. A year had passed, and Emily had received three letters,-the first a long and affectionate one, sealed with a kiss; the second, a cold and ceremonial one; and the third blighted poor Emily's hopes for ever. Her fears were now realized. His vows were forgotten, and again plighted to another. Poor Emily's heart was chilled by the piercing blast; the rose gradually faded from her cheek; and ere the chilling winds of autumn had unrobed the trees of their green foliage, she had fallen a prey to disease. Slowly and painfully the knowledge of her lover's infi- delity came over her sensitive heart. She sought for a time to shut out the horrible suspicion from her mind; she half doubted the evidence of her own senses; she could not believe that he was a traitor, for her memory had treasured every token of his affection, every impassioned word, and every endearing smile of his tenderness. But the truth came at last; the doubtful spectre which had long .haunted her, and from which she had turned away, as if it were sin to look upon it, page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 THE UNFORTUNATE now stood before her, a dreadful and unspeakable reality. There was one burst of passionate tears, the overflow of that fountain of affliction which quenches the last ray of hope. As I approached the quiet and secluded dwell- ing of the once happy Emily, I found the door of the little parlor thrown open; and a female voice, of a sweetness that could hardly be said to belong to earth, stole out upon the soft summer air. It was like the breathing of an JEolian lute to the gentlest visitation of the zephyr. Involuntarily I paused to listen, and these words - I shall never forget them--came upon my ear like the low, melancholy music sometimes heard in dreams: "Oh, no! I do not fear to die, For Hope and Truth are bold; Andlife is but a weariness, And earth is strangely cold. In view of Death's pale solitude, My spirit hath not mourned, - 'Tis kinder than forgotten love, Or friendship unreturned!" It was the voice of Emily, - it was her last song. She was leaning on the sofa as I entered the apartment. Her thin white hand rested on her forehead. She rose and welcomed me with a melancholy smile. It played over her features MOUNTAIN GIRL. 123 for a moment, flushing her cheek with a slight and sudden glow, and then passed away, leaving in its stead the wanness and mournful beauty of the dying. It has been said that death is always terrible to look upon. But to the stricken Emily the presence of the destroyer was like the ministra- tion of. an angel of light and holiness. She was passing off to the land of spirits, like the melting of a sunset cloud into the blue of heaven, - steal- ing from existence like the strain of ocean music when it dies away slowly and sweetly upon the moonlight waters. A few days after I stood by the grave of Emilv. The villagers had gathered together, one and all, to pay the tribute of respect and affection to the lovely sleeper. They mourned her loss with a sincere and deep emotion, - they marvelled that one so beloved should yield herself up to melan- choly, and perish in the spring-time of her exist- ence. But they knew not the hidden arrow that rankled in her bosom, - the slow and secret with. ering of her heart. She had borne the calamity in silence, in the uncomplaining quietude of one who felt that there- are woes which may not ask for- sympathy, afflictions, which, like the page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] canker concealed in the heart of some fair blos- soms, are discovered only by the untimely decay of their victim. I have been this evening to the grave of Emily. And, when I kneel above the narrow mansion of one whom I have known and loved in life, I feel a strange assurance that the spirit of the sleeper is near me, a viewless and ministering angel. It is a beautiful philosophy which has found its way, unsought for and mysteriously, into the silence of my heart; and if it be only a dream, the unreal imagery of fancy, I pray God that I may never wake from the beautiful delusion. 2...q ..... MOUNTAMN TGIL. 125 THE EARLY GRAVES. MR. ASHLAND, who resided in the town of P ,was by no means wealthy, but was con- sidered a comfortable liver. He had a daughter, an only child, who was a great favorite with her associates, and was considered by all the belle of the village of? . No ride, visit, or dance could pass pleasantly, unless the gentle-hearted El!a Ashand formed one of the guests. She had, by her mild and amiable disposition, won the heart of James Wilson, a schoolmate of hers, who had ever cherished the warmest affection for her. Mr. Wilson was a proud, aristocratic man, and was by no means pleased with the'growing affec- tion in the hearts of the young people. One beautiful morning in the month of August, Mr. Wilson resolved that he would seek an inter- view with James, and ascertain, if possible, how matters stood between him and -Ella Ashand. As soon as breakfast was over, he accordingly turned to James, and said, "My son, I would like to talk with you a while." page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] Q126 THE UMFOITUNATE Leading the way to his room, James reluctantly followed, well knowing from what cause this in- terview proceeded. On reaching his room they seated themselves upon a sofa beside the window; while the cool, fresh breeze gently played through the rustling vines which twined about the win- dow. "James," said Mr. Wilson, "I have taken this opportunity to converse with you upon the subject of matrimony, and learn, if possible, what peculiarities there are about Miss Ashand that you should pay your adresses entirely to her." "Well, father, since you have expressed a desire to know, I will tell you. Ella is very in- dutrious, possessing a generous heart, a noble mind, and a lovely disposition, which have won my affections." "Won your affections!" interrupted his fa- ther; "then you really intend to marry a farmer's daughter, do you?" "I do," said James emphatically. "Well, James, as you regard the wishes of your parents, I wish you would forsake the society of Ella Ashand, and pay your addresses to Miss Imogene Cornwall, who belongs to an aristocratic family. Besides, she will have a fortune with her." MOUNTAIN GIRL. 127- "Well, father, I do not think that happiness consists in aristocracy; for my part I had rather have a fortune in a heart than with one." "Well, James," said Mr. Wilson, rising from his seat, while his cheeks flushed with anger, "if you persist in marrying Ella Ashand, you must not expect to find a home with me,--I will en- tirely disown you." James seemed somewhat puzzled at this denun- ciation, not knowing how Mr. Ashand might feel upon the subject, but resolved that he would know the worst, and immediately set out for his dwell- ing. On reaching his house he found Mr. Ash- land in the garden, who met him, as he approached with a cheerful smile, and invited him to take a seat in the arbor. James accordingly sat down, and, mustering all his courage, commenced the subject, telling him of the conversation which had passed between him and his father respecting his marriage. Mr. Ashand remained silent a few moments, then, rising from his seat, he said,- I Vell, James, if this is your choice, you may I ave a home here, although I am not wealthy like your father, but I have enough to make us all comfortable." This was more than James had anticipated, page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] 128 THE UNFORTUNATE and, after expressing his gratitude to Mr. Ashand for his kindness, they both entered the house. The day for their nuptials was appointed, and every preparation was made for the occasion which would add to the happiness of the fair cou- ple. Time swiftly glided, and the appointed day arrived, and found the intended bride on her deathbed. It was a beautiful morning in September. About nine o'clock she revived, and, calling her friends around her bed, she addressed them as follows: - "My dear friends, I am about to leave you, and that in a short time. I have only to regret that I have not set a better example before my friends and associates; but I wish to be forgiven by them all, even as God has, for Christ's sake, forgiven me. And now let me entreat you to prepare to meet your God in peace. Life is un- certain: but one week ago I was in the bloom of health, and no* my soul shall be in the spirit-land ere the sun shall set." Then taking her lover by the hand, she placed in it a lock which had been severed from her glossy hair, with a Bible, and said, - "O James! may this be a star of light which will guide you to the fold of Christ!" XMOUNTAIN GIRL. 12^ :; She then bade them all farewell, until they should meet at the judgment-seat of Christ; and in a few moments her spirit was wafted on angels' wings to the realms of eternal bliss. Poor James was not prepared for this heavy I and unexpected blow: he had hoped for pleasure; but, alas! how soon were his hopes blighted. "In one short day,- Ah! who can tell?' James now felt that he had no friend to whom he could unbosom his sorrow, but unto Him who heareth in secret; and from that hour he sought an interest in Christ. In a few days after her death he resolved that he would fit himself for a missionary, and in a short time he left for college. But it seems that this was not the office which he was designed to fill; for he had scarcely been there one month, when he was taken with a disease of the heart, which carried him down to the grave. He was then removed to his home, where he lived but two weeks after his return. During his illness he talked much about Ella Ashand, and often requested them to read to him in the Bible she gave him. One pleasant evening in November, the family 9 page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 130 THE UNFORTUNATE of Mr. Wilson was alarmed by the cry, "James is dying." They thronged around his bed and wept. James seemed unconscious of what was passing for some time ; then, opening his glassy eyes and looking around him, he said, "Do not weep for me, but prepare to meet me in heaven." He then gave his favorite Bible to his sister, saying,- "Put your trust in God, and be guided by the precepts which are contained in this precious book." He then imprinted a kiss upon each cheek, and, stillholding his father by the hand, he said: "Father, I have one re quest to ask of you, that I may be laid by the side of Ella Ashand, and that my monument may be precisely like hers. Also, I wish you to place at the head of our graves a weeping willow. Then turning towards his afflicted mother, he said, with a smile, - "O mother! I am going home," and closed his eyes in death. Mr. Wilson felt that this was the most tring scene he had ever been called to pass through. The funeral sermons of James Wilson and Ella Ashand were both!preached by G. G. White. ii' MOUNTAIN GIRL. 131 There was not one dry eye among the whole con: gregation, which consisted of over four hundred. As we have said before, they were both great favorites among their associates, and every heart was bereft at their loss, and could sympathize with the afflicted families. James was laid, according to his request, by the side of his intended; and the monuments of the two lovers are placed upon the graves, with a weeping willow at the head. page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] 132 THE UNFORTUNATE THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. CHAPTER I, ABOUT fifty years ago a post-chaise was a sight more novel in the little hamlet of Dresden, than silk gowns in country churches during the maiden- hood of our great grandmothers; and as one drew up t the only public house in the village, the inhabitants, old and young, startled by the unusual and merry sound of its wheels, hurried to the street. The landlady, on the first notice of its approach, had hastily bestowed upon her goodly person the additional recommendation of a clean cap and apron; and, still tying the apron strings, ran bustling to the door, smiling, coloring, and courtesying, and coloring again, to the yet unopened chaise. Poor soul! she knew not well how to behave, - it was an epoch in her annals of inn-keeping. At length, the coachman, opening the doori: handed out a lady in widow's weeds; a beautiful, golden-haired child, apparently not exceeding three years of age, was assisted to the ground and MOUNTAIN GIRL. 133 grasped her extended hand. "What an image o' beauty!" exclaimed some half-dozen by-stand- ers, as the fair child lifted her lovely face of smiles to the eyes of her mother. The lady stepped feebly .towards the inn; and though the landlady's heart continued to practise a sort of fluttering motion, which communicated a portion of its agitation to her hands, she waited upon her unexpected and unusual guests with a kindliness and humility that fully recompensed for the ex- pertness of a practical waiter. About half an hour after the arrival of her visitors, she was seen bustling from the door, her face, as the villagers said, bursting with import- ance. They were still standing in groups about their doors, and in the middle of the little street, discussing the mysterious arrival; and, asshe hastened on her mission, she was assailed with a dozen such questions as these: "Who is that 'ere body?" "Who brought her here?" "What's she arter?" But to these and sundry other interrogatories, the important hostess gave for answer, "I have no time to tell you." She o topped at a small, but certainly genteel, house in the village, occupied by a Mrs. Dustan, who was a very nice, respectable lady, and the widow of a page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] 134 THE UNFORTUNATE Methodist minister. In the summer season Mrs. Dustan let out her little parlor to lodgers, who visited the village to seek health, or a few weeks' retirement. She was compelled to do this from the narrowness of her circumstances. In a few minutes, Mrs. Dustan, in a clean cap, a muslin handkerchief round her neck, a quilted black bombazine gown, and snow-white apron, followed the landlady to the inn. In a short time she returned, the stranger lady leaning upon her arm, and the lovely child leaping like a young lamb before them. Days and weeks passed away, and the good people of Dresden, notwithstanding all their sur- mises and inquiries, were no wiser regarding their new visitor. All they could learn was, that she was the widow of a young general, who was one of the first that fell when Britain interfered with the French Revolution; and the mother and her child became known in the village by the desig- nation of "Mrs. Dustan's two pictures, "--- an appellation bestowed on them in reference to their beauty. The beautiful destroyer, however, lay in th mother's heart; now paling her cheeks like the early lily, and again scattering over them the rose MOUNTAIN GIRL, 135 and the rainbow. Still dreaming of recovery, about iux months afte hor arrival in Dreaden death stole over her like a sweet sleep. It was only a few moments before the angel hurled the fatal shaft, that the truth fell upon her soul. She was' stretching forth her hand to her work-basket, her lovely child was prattling by her knee, and Mrs. Dustan smiling like a parent upon both, striving to conceal a tear while she smiled, when the breathing of her fair guest became difficult, and the rose, which a moment before bloomed upon her countenance, vanished in a fitful streak. She flung her feeble arms around the neck of her child, who now wept upon her bosom, and ex- claimed, ' Oh! my Parthena, who will protect you now? - my poor, poor orphan" Mrs. Dustan sprang to her assistance. She said she had much to tell, and endeavored to speak; but a gurgling sound only was heard in her throat. She panted for breath; the rosy streaks, deepening into blue, came and went upon her cheeks, like the midnight dances of the northern lights; her eyes flashed with a momen- tary brightness more thaa mortal; and the spirit fled. The fair orphan still clung to the neck, and kissed the yet warm lips, of her dead mother. page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] 136 THE UNFORTUNATE As yet she was too young to see all the dreari- ness of the desolation around her; but she was indeed an orphan in the most cruel meaning of the word. Her mother had preserved a ytery over her sorrows and the circumstances o er life, which Mrs. Dustan had never endeavored to pe- etrate. And now she was left to be as a mother to the helpless child, for she knew not if she had another friend; and all she had heard of the mother's history was recorded on the humble stone which she placed over her grave, "Here resteth the lifeless form of Angeline Baker, widow of General Baker: she died among us a stranger, -but beloved." The whole property to which the fair orphan became heir by the death of her mother did not amount to fifty pounds, and amongst the property no document was found which could throw any light on who were her relatives, or if she had' any. But the heart of Mrs. Dustan had already- adopted her as a daughter; and, circumscribed as her circumstances were, she trusted that He who provided food for the very birds of heaven would provide the orphan's morsel. Years rolled on, and Parthena Baker grew in stature and in beauty, the pride of her protector, MOUNTAIN GIRL. 137 and the oy of her age. But the infirmities of years grew upon her foster-mother, and- disabled her from following her habits of industry. Stern want entered her happy cottage. -Still Parthena appeared only as a thing of joy, contentment, aid gratitude; and often did -Iher eiening soig be- guile her aged friend's sigh into a smile. --And to, better their hard lot, she hired herself to watch a few sheep upon the neighboring hills, to the steward of a gentleman named Comstook, who, about the time of her mother's death, had-pur- chased the estate of Dresden. He- wa but little beloved, for he was a hard master and a bad hus- band; and more than once he had been seen at the-hour of midnight, in the silent churchyard, standing over the grave of Mrs Baker. ':This gave rise to not a few whisperings respecting the birth of poor Parthena. He had no children, and a nephew who-resided in his house was under- stood to be: is heir - Arnold Comstock was about two yearsolder than, our fair orphan; and ever as he could escape the eye of his uncle, he would fly to the village, and seek out Parthena as aplaymate. And now, while she tended the few sheep, he would steal round the hill, :and,iplaoing hiimelf by herside,: page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] 138 THE UNFORTUNATE teach her the lesson he had that day been taught; while 'his arm in innocence rested on her neck, their glowing cheeks touched each other, and her golden curls played around them. Often were their peaceful lessons broken by the harsh voice and blows of his uncle. But still Arnold stole to the presence of his playmate and pupil, until he had completed his sixteenth year. When he was to leave Dresden preparatory to entering the army, he was permitted to take a hasty farewell of the villagers, for they all loved the boy; but he only went to the cottage of Mrs. Dustan. As he entered Parthena wept, and he also burt into tears. Their aged friend beheld the yearn- ings of a young passion that might terminate in sorrow; and, taking his hand, she prayed God to prosper him, and bade him farewell. She was leading him to the door when Parthena raised her tearful eyes; he beheld them, and read their meaning, and, leaping forward, threw his arms around her neck, and printed the farewell kiss on her forehead. "Do not forget me, Parthena," he cried, and hurried from the house. Five years from this period passed away. Thbe lovely girl was now transformed into an elegant MOUNTAIN : GIRL. 139' woman, in the summer majesty of her beauty. For two ye ar Parthen had kept a school in the village, to which her gentleness and winning manners drew prosperity; and her gray-haired benefactress enjoyed the reward of her benevo- lence. Preparations were making at Dresden Hall for the reception of Arnold, who was now returning as Major Comstck. A post-chaise in the village had then become a sight less rare; but several cottagers were assembled before the inn to 'wel- come the young lord. e arrived, and with him a gentleman between fifty and sixty years of age. They had merely become acquainted as travelling companions; and the stranger being on his way northward had accepted his invitation to rest at his uncle's for a few days. The footpath to the Hall lay through the churchyard,-about a quarter of a mile from the village. It was a secluded path, and Parthena was wont to repair to it be. tween school hours, and frequntly to spend a 'few moments in silent meditation over her mother's grave. She was gazing upon it, when tt voice arrested her attention, saying,-"Parthena Miss Baker!ks " - vm" co ne 'd, 'The speaker was Major Comstocki, accoipanied page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] "O THE UNFORTUNATE by his friend. To the meeting of the young lovers we shall add nothing. But the elder stranger gazed on her face and trembled, and looked on her mother's grave and wept. "Ba- ker!" he repeated, and read the inscription Oa the humble stone, and again gazed on her face, and again wept. "Lady!" he exclaimed, " pardon me!- what was the name of your mother?-who the family of your father? Answer me, I implore you!" "Alas! I know neither," said the astonished and now unhappy Parthena: "My name is Baker," cried the stranger; '1: had a wife,-I had a daughter once; and my Angeline's face was thy face!" While he yet spoke, the elder Comstock drew near to meet his nephew. His eyes and the stranger's met. , Comstock!" exclaimed the stranger, start- ing. "The same," replied the other, his brow blackr ening like thunder, while a trembling passed over his body. He rudely grasped the arm of hi nephew, and hurried him away. The interesting stranger accompanied Parthena to the house of Mrs. Dustan. Painful were th* MOUNTAIN GIRL, 141 miquiries ; for, while they kindled hope and assur- ance, they left all in uncertainty. "Oh, sir!" said Mrs. Dustan, "if you are the: father of my blessed child, I do not wonder ast old Comatock's coloring wheabhe saw you; for, when poverty compelled Parthena to watch his sheep by the hill-side, and the dear child would be reading in her Bible like a little angel, and the heaep- were feeding near -her, that hard-hearted wretch would creep softly toh her side, andi, grasp- iAg the- precious book, would- hurl it from him, ut tering oaths too terrible .to: mention.:^. But. the nephew -was aie young marin and often -soght ttei' society of m child'. Eagerly did thes er who gave ;his na as- en.- Baker, watch ithe ;fair being wtih b-ad conjured up-the sunshine of his youth* O-ne-by one, he was weeping and tracing every- rem em bered feature of his wife upon her face:,.; when doubt again entered his mind, and he exclaimed Wi:bittemness,-:- "Mercifult Heaven! canvince me, oi '! convinQe me that H havt e f-ud:: my child e, The few articles: that:bade boged todMrs Bakei had been parted with in the:tda thof her poverty. At iiatt -monent Major maiStok:hastily ehn- tered the cottage. He statidthitthis uanle ,had page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] I142 THE UNFORTUNATE left the Hall, and delivered a letter from him to Gen. Baker. It was of few words, and as follows: "Mr. BAKER : Sir,-- We were rivals for Ange- line's love: you were made happy, and I miser- able. But I have not been unrevenged. It was I who betrayed you into the hands of the enemy. It was I who reported you dead, -who caused the tidings to be hastened to your widowed wife. It was I who poisoned the ears of her friends, until they cast her off. I dogged her to her ob- scurity, that I might enjoy my triumph; but death thwarted me as you have done. Yet I will do one act of mercy, - she sleeps beneath the grave where we met yesterday; and the lady before whom you wept-is your own daughter." He threw down the letter, and exclaimed,-- "My child i my long-lost child!" And, in speechless joy, the father and the daughter rushed to each other's arms. Shall we add more? The elder Comstock left his native land, which'he never again disgraced with his presence. Arnold\nd Parthena wan- dered by the hill-side in bliss, catching love and recollections from the scene. In a few months her father bestowed on him her handu, ad Mrs. Dustan, in joy and pride, bestowed upon both he* -MOUTTATiN GXL. LL. page: 144 (Illustration) -145[View Page 144 (Illustration) -145] THE UNFoaRTuAT&r MOUNTAIN GIRL. 145 A CHAPTItR I. "IyN a- eat but unpretending parlor of a small house in one of our villages was assembled a happy famy, -consisting of father, mother, a lovelydbauter of thirteen, and two boys, younger than th grl,around whom they clustered as: she knit the b atstitoh in thW two pairs of mittens - Nhileh they iWere to' wear for the rst time on the morr, o w. - - - D ' l,- .w:ife, e:rd the hasband: gayl:, " avitis d y mi' p u the seven unt ed dol- lars urchase ourTwild int e W st. iut indeed, Uet lhg^v arnestly looled forward to thisday,^ , I e':-:" ss :tat I feel my heart shtri: i m e. ir y hardships which we "ust eiare,: '"he ",: t /::':: th ^erbaieefir amoment," replied the chee wife "w ar ndal of hope and resolutia. We-::: not . sirinkJ fro the. few years:of- toil a hardsh :b:ioh will secure ease and -pinty t ourselves ad eildren the remain- der of ohur ti as. " "But, ibh," resumed the husband, "I page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] "6 TBE UNFORTUNATEi fear that our boys will have no opportunities for acquiring an educaticn, for the lack of which neither lands nor money can be sufficient com- pensation." "There, you are borrowing trouble again, James. Jane is capable of instructing her bro- thers in all useful learning until they are old enough to go from home to some good institu- tion." "Our Jane is indeed a treasure," - and the father's face glowed with pride as he spoke, - "jnd it does seem that knowledge is hers by in- tuition. To think of all the branches that she has mastered - and the French and Greek lan- guages too! And then her drawings are so beautiful! Oh! she will be a treasure to us, and a wonder in the new settlement; and who knows but that she may become the wife of some great statesman yet?" At this suggestion even the hopeful mother looked thoughtful, and sighed as she gazed upon her fair daughter. But it was arranged that they- should take up their line of march early in the spring for that land of promise, the Far West. Having suffered them to remain about two vearE in their new location, we will just look in DOUNTAIN-.GIRL.- i4 upon. them as we pass through the fertile wastes in the vicinity of the now flourishing town of Newport. Remember, reader, we are reviewing the scenes of the past eight years. WeHl, here0 is a little log cabin in the centre of a small sth- ble field, which has pparetl ilded fie crop of wheat, though it now has its peculiar Iook- of desolation. This is the home of our friend James Gilbert. We willlookin uponhim. Ther seems but little comfort in this small dweuing with but two rooms on the ground, and a garret- like chamber, with furniture such as the 'new settler; :substitute for the costly elegance which they could not transport, and: which would be: sadly out of place in log cabins . We arrived at a very sad- crisis. Mr. Gilbert lay on: his humble bed very sick with a feir-r. Poor Hannah lookedi weary and careworn. S was attnding to her affectionate husbantilid- cooking dinner. The youngest of the bbys they brought with- tem was sitting listlessly. by the fire, pale- and emaciated by the fever, from whih he was just recovering. Hnde-d, i. ; would seem .. that they had already paid aa .hgi, p for year of independenence and honor, if sttii;are really in store for them, The: sick man' ,yes wandre;d o I J . 4 page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] "8 TIE UNFORTUNATE from the patient wife to the suffering child, and the tears stole down his burning cheeks. An elegant carriage stopped in front of the cottage door, and a lady alighted, in the most showy and expensive dress possible. Mrs. Gilbert mean- time prepared to welcome the stranger, who entered with an air of proud condescension, and announced herself as the daughter of General Mayfield. "1 was informed that you have a daughter," said the fine lady, addressing Mrs. Gilbert. "I have," was Mrs. G.'s reply. "Is she at home now?" inquired the lady. "She will be in presently," said Mrs. G.; "would you like to see her?" "Yes," replied Miss Mayfield; "I would like to see her before I make my proposals. We have found it very difficult to get a good girl. I presume we have had some dozen or fifteen in the past year, and were glad to get rid of every one of them. Some were so ignorant, and some so lazy; others careless: but the worst fault of this class of girls is, they are so impudent and assuming. They will behave just as if they thought themselves quite as good as their employ- ers; and, if we do not treat them with the utmost MOUNTAIN GIRL. 149 courtesy, they will leave us, no matter in how much of a difficulty. The girl who left us this morning was highly recommended, to me; but she would not stay unless she could sit with us at table, though she said she did not expect to sit down when we had compay, but she would not eat in the kitchen with the colored servants. But then she is the daughter of a once-wealthy gen- tleman in Boston, and has an elegant education, and is so very fond of reading. Now servants ought not to read at all. The less book-learning they have, the better drudges they are. Edu- cated girls have such lofty notions of themselves, and some of them really pretend to romance. Indeed, it is enough to disgust one. But I am informed that your husband was only a poor me- chanic before he came here, and so t hope that your daughter has no inportant airs and delicate accomplishments." This oration was so volubly delivered that Mrs. Gilbert could not interpose a word; and just at this moment Jane and her oldest brother entered the house, carrying between them a bas- ket of vegetables which they had been gathering in the field. Jane had on a pretty red sun-bon- net and dark gingham dress; and her sweet, in page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] 150. THE UNFORTUNATE tellectual face was glowing with her over-exer- tion, and she appeared truly beautiful. Miss M. surveyed her with a disdainful air as Mrs. Gilbert presented her daughter. "I am afraid she will make but an indifferent kitchen maid," observed Miss M. "However, as we are entirely destitute of help, I will give her a trial, but cannot promise to give her great wages at first. We will give her four shillings the first week; and then, if she suits us, we will increase her wages." "Indeed, Miss Mayfield," began Mrs. Gilbert. "Oh! I assure you," interrupted the lady, "I cannot offer a cent more; she is so very small and delicate-looking." "Miss!" exclaimed Mr. Gilbert, raising him- self in bed, if you will permit me to speak, I will settle this affair at once. My daughter is not obliged to work out for a livelihood; and, if she were, I will take the liberty to say that she should never work in your kitchen. People of your way of thinking should look out for colored servants." "Indeed!" retorted the lady, rising from her seat withi an air of contempt. -"Your daughter may yet be glad to work in our kitchen," And the lady departed with great indignation. MOUNTAIN GIRL. 151 "WTho ever saw such important creatures and in such low -circumstances, too!"I ejaculated iss Mayfield, as the driver turned homeward. I hope that girl will be obliged to beg for a living, since she is too good to work,--which she undoubtedly will before another year rolls round. I think ladies will be compelled to do their own work soon, poor people are becoming so insolent and exacting." But was Jane Gilbert compelled to beg bqfore another year? We think not, for six months from that time found the family all well and full of hope. CHAPTER II. "Dear me,'" drawled Miss Sophia, as she floated affectedly into Mrs. Mayfield's dashy par- or, " would you believe it? Jane Gilbert is now in the Academya teacher of music and drawing; and they say her drawings are beautiful." At that moment the door-bell rang, and a ser. vant announced that Mr. Warner and his sister wished to see Miss Mayfield at the door. A mo ment, and Sophia stood before her welcome guests; and after the usual compliments the page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] 152 THE UNFORTUNATE gentleman politely invited her to call with them on Miss Gilbert, saying, "I am ijformed that she is very beautiful, and plays the piano ele- gantly." Sophia's eyes flashed with indignation, and her lip curled with scorn as these words fell from her lover's lips. "You are really in love before seeing her,' ejaculated the jealous hearted girl. "Oh no!" said her lover, laughing; "but I should like to hear her play." "Yes," rejoined Miss Warner: "you know Hubert is very fond of music, and they say she has a melodious voice. But come, let us away and judge for yourselves." Miss Mayfield reluctantly consented, and they were soon on their way. Not a word escaped the lips of Sophia during their walk, but she listened with disgust to the conversation which passed between Mr. Warner and his sister until, they had reached the place of their destination. A rap was heard at the door. A servant ap- peared, and politely ushered them into a neat little parlor, where sat Miss Gilbert at the piano, and Mr. Le Roy at her side. Miss Gilbert rose, somewhat embarrassed at the unexpected arrival, but with an air of gentility and refinement re- MOUNTAIN GIRL. 153 ceived the aristocratic guests. After some con- versation, - Miss Gilbert," said Mr. Warner, "we would be highly delighted to hear atune on the piano." She politely declined; but, the invi- tation being repeated, she assented, and a trium- phant smile passed over the Ifeatures of the preceptor as she advanced to take her seat. Mr. Warner and his sister listened with great satisfaction to her birdlike voice, while Miss Mayfield's heart burned with envy and hatred as she watched the graceful movements of the admirable Miss Gilbert. Time flew rapidly, and when an hour had passed it seemed but a moment to Hubert. "That is indeed beautiful," said Miss Warner, X as the music ceased. It was now nine o'clock; and the guests took their departure, leaving Mr. Le Roy and Miss Gilbert to themselves. CHAPTER III. "MISS GILBERT is indeed beautiful, and plays the pianoforte elegantly, and her drawings are said to be the nicest in these parts; yet she is only the daughter of a mechanic, and it must be page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 154 THE UNFORTUNATE that Mr. Le Roy has an uncommon regard for her) or he would not honor her with a levee,".said Miss Mayfield, addressing her nOther, as she seated herself by a half open winIow, one beauti- ful May morning. - "Is it possible that the levee is to be for the benefit of that little upstart?" said Mrs. May- field, with an air of disdain. "I presume the foolish girl will expend the last cent to decorate her person with finery, ia hopes she may make a favorable impression on the heart of Mr. Le Roy." "Yes, I dare say the little miss indulges a hope that she may yet become his bride; but he is too proud-spirited to pay his addresses to a poor girl like Miss Gilbert, I assure you," said Miss Mayfield haughtily. At that moment the door opened, and an aris- tocratic lady was ushered into the room, who prided herself on having the most refined and sentimental daughter in the village; for Mrs. Elford had often prefaced her demands for money with the information that Augusta's taste was so refined, and her mind so exceedingly sensitive, that she positively could not bear contradiction. "Good morning, Mrs. Elford," said Miss May MOUNTAIN GIRL. 155 field, rising frqm her seat: " has Augusta suc- ceeded in obtaining the white satin dress pat- tern?" "No!" said the lady, while a shade of disap- -pointment passed over her features; "the last pattern had just been purchased by Mr. Warner, as I entered the shop." "Indeed!" said the disappointed girl, "I had congratulated myself on having our dresses precisely alike." "You can both dress in peach-blow satins," said Mrs. Mayfield, gazing intently on her daugh- ter. "Yes, but I left my pattern at the dress- maker's yesterday; besides, white would be much nicer to wear on such an occasion." "Well," replied the lady, rising from her seat, "Mr. Elford is going to the city to-morrow, and perhaps he can obtain the pattern desired." So saying, she took her leave, and hastily re- turned home. The next morning Mr. Elford set out with a light heart for the city, to gratify the wishes of his only child, resolved to purchase the pattern so much desired, even should he be obliged ta pay double the value. Time passed heavily page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] 156 TIH UNFORTUNATE away, and the minutes were almost numbered by Augusta, who waited anxiously between hope and fear for the return of her father. It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Mr. Elford entered his house; holding in his hand the article which had caused so much anxiety in the bosom of his idolized daughter, who received it with a smile of satisfaction and triumph. "You are very fortunate," said Augusta, throwing on her hat and shawl, and immediately set out for the dressmaker's. CHAPTER IV. "My dear Armenia," said Mr. Hasson, "I have brought you the pattern you wished, but I know not how I shall pay for it." "Father, father," said the astonished girl "what does all this mean? I would never have asked for the dress, if I had thought you could not afford it. Indeed, I cannot wear it now; I am sure I should feel very unhappy. Do, dear father, take it back." "Oh no, Armenia! it will perhaps look rather odd if I cannot afford you a new dress to wear oi such an occasion. Besides, you told me you MOUNTAIN GIRL. 157 thought you had none that would be proper to wear." "I did," said Armenia, blushing deeply; "but I now remember that Aunt Amelia told me so, and said Miss Warner and Miss Mayfield were to have white satin dresses richly trimmed with heavy point lace, and were, to have pearls in their hair. I did not think of asking so much; but aunt said she thought I ought not to be out- shone by every one, so I made my request for the dress, which I now feel was dictated by vanity, perhaps tinctured with envy." "You certainly deserve the pattern, Armenia, for this ingenuous confession; and I shall insist on your keeping it." 'Do not think of it, papa; indeed, I cannot wear it." And the utterance of the gentle girl was choked by tears. "I was desponding when I said that, but times may improve. Heaven will bless my endeavors for the happiness-of so good a child. Now dry your tears, dear, and I will send Aunt Amelia to you before night; and you will be all ready for the levee in good time." "Nay, but, father, that is not necessary for my happiness; and I feel that umy heart must be page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] i o8 THE UNFORTUNATE sadly out of tune if its serenity could be disturbed by the lack of a little splendor." "Well, keep it, dear, at any rate. I feel a sort of affection for this dress, since it has shown me the character of my child in so lovely a light." Mr. Hasson was an industrious merchant, whose wife had been dead some three years, and the expense of rearing small children was of course greatly enhanced; yet he had sustained good credit, and had kept up an equal appear- ance with the world. But the expense of his family increased, while his health failed by con- stant labor; and he saw the shadow gathering over his path, now no longer lightened by one who had been as the polar star to the wanderer on the pathless deep. Yet it was very bitter to think of adding to the weight of care that already. ' .-"-Jd on the heart of his beloved child; for, since the death of her mother, she had supplied her place in so kind a manner, that they scarcely knew the loss of their maternal guardian. She was nearly eighteen, and it was for the great levee that she had asked the dress. -MOUNTAIN QIRL. I59 CHAPTER V. THE. nticipated hour at length arrived. We will not stay to describe the decorations or the illuminations of Mr. Le Roy's mansion. We will only say that it was as light as the hearts of the gay throng who had assembled to tender their homage to Miss Gilbert this evening as queen of the levee. Mr. Le Roy had corres- ponded with Miss Gilbert for nearly a year, with- out giving rise to the least suspicion of their in- tended marriage. The guests were now seated; and Mr. Le Roy, with his lady splendidlfattired in white satin, her fine auburn tresses- eautifully contrasting with the costly gems that sparkled amid their dark glossy luxuriance, entered the hall; and a plain but noble-looking gentleman approached the fair couple, and very politely re- quested the assembly to rise, and to the aston- ishment of the happy guests eloquently performed the marriage ceremony. Each face beamed with joy as they saluted the fair couple. The evening passed in mirth and hilarity; and a suitable hour saw all parties quietly seeking that repose which is very necessary after attending such an unex- pected wedding. page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] 160 THE UNFORTUNATE MOUNTAIN GIRL. Mr. Le Roy spent his life in happiness with his lovely bride, though somewhat envied by the Mayfield family. The Gilbert family grew up, respected by all who knew them, acquired liberal educations, and became useful men; and made their home a little paradise.
