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^Tjfe^sffii^ > — vc/r — .>pci-,iw:i3r • 
 
-N 
 
 Ki:W ExNGLAND: 
 
 A 
 
 Handbook for Travellers, 
 
 WITH 
 
 THE WESTERN AND NORTHERN BORDERS, FROM 
 NEW YORK TO QUEBEC. 
 
 Nkw l',Nr,i.\.vri hns hitlierto liccn Imt cnsuiilly treated in bookH which cover wiihv 
 sections of coniitn' ; siieciiil lociilities within its holders have hecu de.scriheil with 
 more or less iidelity in local giiido-hooks ; hut the present vohiuie is the first de- 
 voted to its treatment, aecordiny' to tlie most approved jirineijiles of Kuropean works 
 of siniila)- rhaiaeter. The llandliook is desi^'ned to enable travellers lo visit all or 
 any of the notable places in New England, with the greatest possible ocoiioiny of 
 money, linu', and tenipei', by giving 
 
 Lists of the Hotels with their Prices, Descriptions of the various 
 
 Routes by Railway, Steamer, or Stage, and Maps 
 
 and Plans of the Principal Cities. 
 
 Among the lattei' ari' jdans of l>ost(ni, New York, I'rovidence, Xew])ort, Hartford, 
 New Haven, Portland, Nh)ntrcal, (.(nebec, and luajis of New England, flie luivirons 
 of lioston, the AVhite Mountains, the Hudson River, ('entral Park, Lake Winnepe- 
 sankee, .Momit Anbuin, and Nahant. The letter-press inchides complete epitomes 
 of ilie histories of the old New England towns, a statement of the ])rinci]ial scenic 
 attractions, descriptions of the art and architectin-e of the cities, biographical sketches 
 in connection with the birthplaces of eminent men. and statistics of the chief hi- 
 dustries of the included States. 
 
 THE NEW ENGLAND HANDBOOK 
 
 comprises the gi-eatest mmd)er of facts in the least space, and gives the information ; 
 most valuable to the traveller. The famous watcring-pl.accs and mountain-i'es(irts in 
 which New l-^ngland abounds, and which are thronged by visitors from rdl parts of 
 the country diu-ing the summer months, aie fully described, and all desirable infor- 
 mation concerning them is given in this book. 
 
 Price, 
 
 $itS.OO. 
 
 *,»* For sale by Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 
 
 JAIflElS R. OSGOOD & CO., BoMoii. 
 
D: 
 
 ellers. 
 
 S, FROM 
 
 wliich fovt'i' widiv 
 ■en (lescrilicd witli 
 no is tliu first do- 
 if i'liirojiciiii WDi-ks 
 It'i's l<i visit all nr 
 ossiblu ocoiuiinv of 
 
 of the various 
 Maps 
 
 Xt'\v])i)i't, lliirtff'vd, 
 fliiiid, file J'liniroiis 
 k, Laki? Wiiiiiope- 
 conipletc opitomca 
 lie ])rini;i]iid scoiiie 
 of^rnpliicnl sketelies 
 ^s of llie cliief ill- 
 
 DBOOE 
 
 los flic infiiriiiation 
 momitaii)-i'eK(]rfs in 
 •s from all parts of \, 
 all desirable infor- 
 
 ! Publishers, 
 
 ;;;0.. BoMon. 
 
M i - ii m i« i if i 
 
 TT 
 
 ROPES OF SAND: 
 
 7 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "WOVEN OF MANY THREADS," "A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR." 
 
 ^'(^y-^.U.k (cgo4i^ 
 
 .4 
 
 "Then in Life's goblet freely press 
 The leaves that give it bitterness ; 
 Nor prize the colored waters less, 
 For in thy darkness and distress 
 f{ew light and strength they give." 
 
 LONGFELtOW. 
 
 
 EJnni.^SEM 
 
 w 
 
 
 BOSTON: 4 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 (late TICKNOR * FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, * CO.,) 
 
 124 Tremont Street. 
 1873. 
 

 i 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congreu, in the jrear 1873, 
 
 By JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congreu at Wathington. 
 
 I 
 
 SUnotyftdandPrimttdiy Rand, Avtry, 6* Ce, 
 
 panrar»^.^..».n«v. 
 
L 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ^'^ ROPES OF SAND. 
 
 I. nuiFTED ABHOUK 
 
 II. TOP'S HAfiY " 
 
 III. IlLUK-EYED VIOLET " 
 
 , IV. TUK OLD STOKY " 
 
 V. LOBT » 
 
 VI. TIIK niTTEU CUP ^ 
 
 Vll. A TEUUIULE INJUSTICE 
 
 VIII. LEFT TO HIMSELF 
 
 IX. A LITTLE ANOEL • ** 
 
 X. A WITIIEUED VIOLET *' 
 
 XI. ABEL'S SACRIFICE '" 
 
 / n 
 
 '' A WOMAN'S STOUY 
 
 07 
 
 K MUS. QOUDON'S CONFESSION 
 
 ^ EVERY STRING BROKEN 
 
 . 128 
 ^A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY 
 
 136 
 
 r MR. JOHN 
 
 V DRINKERS OF ASHES. 
 
 1. INTRODUCTION 
 
 140 
 
 a. BYLVBRINB 
 
 y 
 ^i> 
 
 'f< 
 
 1 " 
 
u h 
 
 % 
 
 \, 
 
 
MwaaMMaaaWB 
 
 ■i>^*ariMiM*» 
 
 ROPES OF SAND. 
 
 m 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DRIFTED ABIIORE. 
 
 Between Ilonnsditdi and Fcnchiirch 
 Streets is n narrow, <lin;jy iiUcy, known to 
 tho iiiUiiliitftnts of that jiart of fiomlon as 
 Black-cat Lano. Tho roar walls of'tlio };roat 
 win^luHises on Fenchnrch Street make a 
 dismal l)lank of one side, sliiitting out 
 every tiling but a narrow strip of cky from 
 tUoso who grovel in sqiiailor below. A 
 number of turablc-<lown sheds clin^ to those 
 wiudowlesa walls, like parasites to llu; stately 
 trunk of an oak ; tlicir poverty and decay 
 formin;^ a pitiful ('ontriwt to the massive and 
 indestructible blocks of stone a;^ainst which 
 they I'-an. On the other side, rows of 
 dilapidated timemcnt-houses, pressing; one 
 a:^ainst tho otlior like a file of tipsy 
 soldiers, present ('"'ir forbidtlin^ fronts, 
 their broken windows stulled with rags and 
 old hats, or roughly repaired with strips of 
 tin, leather, and oil-clotb, to keep out the 
 cold in winter, and the impure air in summer. 
 Dozens of half-nakeVl children wallow like 
 pigs in tho drains choked with all kinds of 
 refuse, or play with the happy indiflerenco 
 of childhood on tho broken and sloppy 
 paving, whore a ray of sunlight scarce over 
 falls ; while haggard and untidy women hang 
 about the doors, smoking and gossipping 
 with their ecjually haggard and untidy 
 neighbors. Though the pure air and the 
 lifb-giving sun seldom visit this squalid sink 
 
 of tho groat city, thnso poor llttlo weeds of 
 humanity seem to grow ami flourish in this 
 rank soil more abundantly than in healthier 
 localities: they run and laugh ami shout, 
 in tludr blissful i ^norance, as merrily as 
 though they were never dirty, col<l, or hun- 
 gry ; as though there were no griping want, 
 no pain, no sin, no sorrow, among this strug- 
 gling, suffering community. They are l)om 
 and live and die in this foul atuiosphono, 
 never knowing, that within tho distance of a 
 milo is another existence, another class of be- 
 ings, another world, better and hap[)ier than 
 theirs. Year after year, generation after 
 generation, these poor weeds spring into 
 life, flourish fur a brief day, fado and die, 
 and are plucked up by the hand of (lod to 
 leave room for another growth. The most 
 of them are poor, deserted waifs, who never 
 know to whom they owe their existence. 
 Chiinco adixes some namo to them by which 
 they are called during their lives : when 
 they die, it dies with them, and they are 
 remembered no more on earth. 
 
 One dreary night in November, how 
 many years ago it matters not, an old man 
 sat alone before his little firo in tho cellar 
 of one of tho most respectable of these ten- 
 ements, diligently repairing a much-worn 
 waistcojvt by the feeble light of a tin lamp 
 that hung from a hook in the smoky jamb 
 of the firepliico. He was a most singular 
 little figure, being scarce five feet tall, while 
 his head was unusually large, and covered 
 
 SkafeSSsS 
 
 sm uMimi a n ^SS 
 
 
I. 
 
 6 
 
 B0PE8 OF SAND. 
 
 with coarse, thick hair as white ns snow ; 
 his eyes, very small and close toj^etlier, 
 peered out from under a pair of shaggy 
 brows with an expression of uiiuglcd cun- 
 ning and good nature ; ills face, destitute of 
 beard save a iew straggling hairs under liis 
 chin, was covered with fine, deep lines tliat 
 crossed eacli otlier at every angle, making 
 his skin appear like closely (juilted parcli- 
 ment. Althougli his clothes denoted ex- 
 treme poverty, tliey were scrupulously clean, 
 and liad been patched and repatched with 
 the utmost care, showing as many colors as 
 did Joseph's coat. Every thing in the mis- 
 erable room was pitifully poor, yet as neat 
 and orderly as tliough some tlirifty liouse- 
 wife had just finislied her day's cleaning. 
 The tin lamp, that tlirew its dickering blaze 
 over his bent liead and large rough liands. 
 shone like jjolished silver; the deal table 
 and broken Uoor were scoured to a remark- 
 able whiteness; and the miserable bed 
 against the wall was neatly made, and cov- 
 ered witli a much-worn but clean coverlet. 
 There was notliiug in tlie room but tlic 
 table, bed, and three-legged stool on wliicli 
 he sat, besides a little common crockery on 
 a shelf, some tin measures scoured to the 
 same briglitness as llie lamp, a few pails and 
 baskets, and in one corner a lieap of clean 
 white sand. 
 
 The fire blazed cheerily, the flame of 
 the lamp flickered over the little old man, 
 who stitclied away industriously, his feet 
 on the high fender, and his nose al- 
 most touching his knees. From time to 
 time lie straightened himself, pushed up his 
 spectai;les, and very delibeiately took a 
 large brass pin from tlie lining of his jacket, 
 with wliich he knocked off" the black cap 
 that h:id gathered on the wick, and jiicked 
 it up to a brighter blaze ; then he wvped the 
 pin carefully on a bunch of wool that hung 
 under the lamp, quilted it again into las 
 jacket, and returned to his work as though 
 there had been no interruption. At last, 
 when the blue patch was placed upon tlie 
 brown garment to his entire satisfaction, he 
 helil it up admiringly, and said to himself 
 in a cheery, chirping voice, " It's good, as 
 
 good as new; an' I only paid a shillin' for 
 it. It was so dirty when I bought it, that I 
 thouglit it was black : now I've washed it, 
 it's a fine brown ; an' this bit o' blue cloth 
 covers the holes uncommon well. It's a' ex- 
 cellent thing that you're handy with your 
 needle. Top, so ; hat you can go well dressed, 
 while your neighbors are in rags." Then 
 he smootlied it out over his knees, clipped 
 oir some little frayed threads around the 
 edges, and tblded it carefully, patting it 
 with a loving hand, while he smiled fondly 
 as tiiough it were a living thing he caressed ; 
 after which he stood up, straightened hun- 
 self out of his cramped position, and held 
 it at arms' length, looking at it once more 
 approvingly before ho laid it on a shelf over 
 the fire[)lace, and covered it with a paper 
 to protect it from the dust. " Now, Toj), 
 make vour tea," he continued, addressing 
 himself in tlie same cheerful tone ; for, hav- 
 ing been alone all his life, lie made a com- 
 [janion of himself by fancying that he was 
 another person, and, under this hapi>y delu- 
 sion, he carried on long dialogues, person- 
 ating two voices, so that any one listening 
 would certainly have said that another be- 
 sides himself was talking in the little cellar. 
 '• Where's the tea ? " he questioned, bustling 
 around, and setting a bright kettle on the 
 hob. " Why, there's a pen'orth o' the best 
 (piality in a paper bag in the table drawer. 
 Top, you're stupid to-night." — "Yes: I'm 
 stupiil, 'cause I'm tired. It's hard work to 
 lug sand all day in two pails, an' stop here 
 an' there, at everybody's call, to measure 
 out a ha'peu'orth ; besides, I've sanded the 
 Uoor o' the Blue Dragon. It's the first 
 lime in my life that ever I was asked to 
 sand the floor o' the Blue Dragon. I've 
 supplied that inn with sand for more 'an 
 filty years, every day, an<l al'ays left my 
 measure at the door o' the bar-room with- 
 out bein' asked to sift it over the floor." 
 " Who told you to do it to-day. Top ? " — 
 " Why, the new bar-maid. Says she, as pert 
 as couhl be, 'Mr. Top, just take that sifter 
 an' give it a fling 'round : your arms is longer 
 an' stronger 'an mine, an' you ain't 'alf as 
 much to do as I 'ave.' Well, I did it; 
 
will a shillin' for 
 I bought it, that I 
 w I'vu washed it, 
 
 bit o' blue oloth 
 u wfll. It's a' ex- 
 handy with your 
 in '^o well dressed, 
 
 in raj;s." Then 
 lis knees, clipped 
 eads around the 
 efully, patting it 
 ! he smiled fondly 
 hing ho caressed ; 
 straigiitened hliu- 
 josition, and held 
 ; at it once more 
 
 it on a shelf over 
 J it with a paper 
 ust. " Now, Top, 
 inucd, addressing 
 ful tone ; for, hav- 
 , ho made a com- 
 ity ing that he was 
 r this happy delu- 
 dialogues, person- 
 ally one listening 
 I that another lie- 
 in the little cellar, 
 ucstioned, bustling 
 ight kettle on the 
 an'orth o' the best 
 
 the table drawer. 
 ;ht."_"Yes: Tin 
 
 It's hard work to 
 tails, an' stop here 
 j call, to measure 
 iS, I've sanded the 
 on. It's the first 
 !r I was asked to 
 lue Dragon. I've 
 sand for more 'an 
 nd al'ays left my 
 he bar-room with- 
 it over the floor." 
 
 to-day. Top?" — 
 . Says she, as pert 
 ist take that sifter 
 your arms is longer 
 i' you ain't 'alf as 
 Well, I did it; 
 
 DUIFTED ASHORE. 
 
 though mighty unwillin', an' all the while 
 she asked me (piestions as sa'cy as any 
 wench you over see. Says she, 'Wiiat's 
 your name 'sides Top ? ' Says 1, ' I've got 
 no other name that I knows of.' ' Well," 
 gays she. 'how did you .get that? did your 
 daddy an' your mammy give it to you ? ' 
 Says I, ' I never had any daddy an' mammy 
 as I can remember. A' old woman as lives 
 in the next collar, told me, that when I was 
 a wee thing, a toddlin' 'round, some one said, 
 ' He's no bigger 'an a top ; ' an' so they al'ays 
 called me Little Top; now they call me Old 
 Top.' Then she laughs, an' says, 'It's a 
 good name for you ; an' I'll make you spin 
 'round, an' sand the floor for me every day.' 
 Don't you call that too bad? Here I've 
 lived more 'an sixty years, an' never been 
 out o' sound o' Bow Hells, never left off one 
 day carryin' sand with not a pebble nor 
 stick in it, an' al'ays heaped the measure 
 at the Blue Dragon extra high in the mid- 
 dle ; now I say it's too bad, at my time o' 
 life, to be drove by that sa'cy new bar-maid 
 to sift, it over the floor. Don't you say it's 
 too bad?" — '* Yes, I do: I wouldn't doit, 
 Top, I wouldn't do it."—" But if I refuse I'll 
 lose their custom, an' there's a penny ha'- 
 penny a day gone. Hark ! what's that ? Did 
 some one knock ?" — " Yes : some one 
 knocked ; " and, as he answered himself, he 
 replaced the hissing kettle on the hob, from 
 whence he had taken it, and turned toward 
 the rickety door, which was fastened with 
 two stout boards, propped slanting, and se- 
 cured by iron spikes driven into the floor. 
 " Who's there ? " he shouted, hollowing his 
 hands behind each ear, the better to hear the 
 ' answer. But there was no answer, only a 
 slight rustling and sobbing which sounded 
 like the wind driving the black fog before 
 it. "I don't believe it's any one at all. 
 Do you. Top? " — " No, I don't." — " It's a 
 nasty gusty night as makes one's bones creep 
 in his body, an' the door rattles itself, or may 
 be it's a dog, or a child, or a — woman an' 
 a babby," he added, with sudden animation, 
 as a fiiint wail fell on his ear, mingled with 
 a pitiful, broken voice that entreated," Let 
 me in 1 let me in, for the love of God 1 " 
 
 " She's not the first poor crctur' you've 
 sheltered from the wind and rain ; is she. 
 Top?" he ((uestioned as he removed the 
 boards briskly, and threw o])en the creaking 
 door, before which stood the figure of a wo- 
 man, in strong relief against the darkness ami 
 dense vapors of the November night. She 
 looked more like a corjise than a living 
 thing, with her shrunk, hol.ow face, long, 
 dank hair, and naked, skeleton arms, from 
 which the tatters of a shawl had fallen, 
 revealing a babe a few w(^e)--s' old pressed 
 convulsively to her breast. 
 
 " Lord love you ! how dreadful you ilo 
 look ! But Top ain't afraid of you ; are you. 
 Top? Get in out o' the wind an' rain ; an' 
 don't stand there, starin' like a spirit come 
 to give a man his warnin'." 
 
 The miserable creature said nothing, but 
 tottered over the threshold, looking around 
 with a bewildered stare, while Top secured 
 the door carefully. Iler great hollow eyes 
 rested on the fire for a moment, and then 
 wandered about the room as though seeking 
 for some place of rest. Suddenly utteriii'^ 
 a sharji cry, she staggered forward, and fell 
 in a heap on the pile of sand, clutching it 
 with her hands, while she gasped in broken 
 tones, " Sand I dry, warm sand 1 Ah, what 
 a welcome bed for me ! " 
 
 " She needn't fall down there all in a 
 heap, need she, when there's my bed ? " 
 said Top, drawing near her, and looking at 
 her pitifully. " Come, come, mistress, raise 
 up, an' give me the babby ; give old Top the 
 little one ; he'll warm it, an' feed it with 
 some good milk, while you take a nice 
 strong cup o' tea that'll set you up in a 
 minit. There's nothin' like a cup o' tea to 
 chirk a body up when they're weak like, an' 
 down t'the heel. It's all hot. It's just 
 ready. Give us your hand, mistress, and 
 I'll help you up." 
 
 " No, no ! " she sobbed out with passionate 
 tears drenching her haggard cheeks. " No : 
 let me be here. It's better 'an London mud. 
 I don't want no tea ; I don't want nothin' 
 now only to lay still on this sand an' die." 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense, mistress ! the like 
 o' you don't die so easy; do they. Top? 
 
 
8 
 
 ROPES OF SAND. 
 
 
 •Sides, that sand-heap's no place to die on, 
 when there's a bed which is fitter for a 
 human bciii*." 
 
 " It's a good enough bed for me. It's a 
 better than I've had i'or many a day. Tlie 
 smell o' tlic sand docs me good. When 1 
 was a' innocent child I played in the sand 
 away olf on the downs. I made palaces, 
 an' gardens, an' caves, an' mountains of it; 
 an' all the while I heard the sea roarin' an' 
 breakin' on tiie shore miles an' miles below. 
 I hear it now t " she cried, starting up wild- 
 ly, " [ hear it now 1 an' there's father's boat 
 a comiu' in on tlie top o' that big wave." 
 
 " Wliat's she talkin' of, Top V Does she 
 know what she says ? I tell you, mistress, 
 there's no sea here, nor no downs, nor no 
 waves, nor no boat. You're in Black-cat 
 Lane, huddled up on a heap o' sand in old 
 Top's cellar. Come, cheer up a bit 1 take a 
 drop o' tea, an' you'll know where jou arc 
 d'rectly," said the old man encouragingly, 
 forgetting for a moment to address his other 
 self, now that he had an actual body to talk 
 to, while he bent over her, and tried to raise 
 her head, with its tangled mass of hair, from 
 the clinging sand. 
 
 " It's no use. I can't move, an' I won't 
 move 1 Leave me here : I want to die here ! " 
 she cried, obstinately repulsing Top with 
 what little strength remained to her. 
 
 With a puzzled, worried expression, the 
 ohl man let the heavy head settle back again 
 on its shifting pillow, while he shook the 
 sand from the long hair that hung over his 
 arm. He did not know what to do with 
 this evidently starving creature, wlio refused 
 food and drink ; so he only knelt by her, 
 looking at her stupidly, while she muttered 
 incoherent sentences of which he occasion- 
 ally caught the words, " Downs, boats, and 
 sea." At last the poor baby struggled in its 
 mother's close embrace, and cried feebly. 
 Top attempted to take it; but she only 
 clasped it more tightly, and glared at him so 
 wildly, that, half afraid, he retreated to the 
 other side of tlie room. " What will you 
 do, Top ? what will you do with this cretur' 
 and her babby ? " ne (piestioned, scratching 
 his head violently with a comical e.xpression 
 
 of bewilderment on his broad face. " You're 
 not the man to turn her out o' door, are 
 you V No : I'm not the man to turn her out 
 o* door, nor to let her die on a heap o' sand 
 neither ; but she won't move, nor won't let 
 me give the poor starvin' mite nothin' ; an' I 
 b'lieve they'll both die, if they don't have a 
 snitl o' somethin'." Then a sudden inspi- 
 ration seemed to take possession of his puz- 
 zled brain ; i'or he turned nimbly toward tlie 
 fire, and, taking a little sauce-pan i'rom a 
 shelf, he poured some milk into it which 
 he warmed, and then sweetened. When 
 it was prepared to his taste, he crept softly 
 toward the woman, knelt down by her side, 
 and with a small, wooden spoon put some 
 of the sweet, warm milk to the lips of the 
 baby. The little creature swallowed it 
 eagerly, all the time struggling to free Itself 
 from its mother's close embrace 1 but the 
 wretched woman only clasped it closer, mut- 
 tering her broken sentences, while she 
 gazed into vacancy with fixed, glassy eyes. 
 When the child had satisfied its hunger, 
 Top tried the same experiment with the 
 mother ; but she set her teeth firmly, and 
 refused to swallow a drop, 
 
 " It's no use," he said grimly ; " the ere- 
 tur's determined to starve herself; an' I 
 can't help it. So I'll jest let her have her 
 way, as is mostly best with wiinmin ; an' I 
 shouldn't wonder, when she rests a bit, if 
 she'd come to her appetite." With this 
 conclusion he took the coverlet from his 
 bed, and spread it gently over the mother 
 and child. Then he stood with liis hands 
 ou his hips, watching both with an expres- 
 sion of mingled pity and curiosity, until the 
 baby slept, and the woman fell into a heavy 
 stupor, 
 
 " They'll wake up all right ; don't you 
 think they will. Top ? " he muttered softly, 
 as he crept back to his scat on the three- 
 legged stool. The lamp burned dimly : he 
 picked up the wick, knocked off the black 
 cap dexterously, and stirred the fire to a 
 bright blaze. Tlien he poured -out a mug 
 of tea ; and, taking a penny roll and a scrap 
 of cheese from the drawer of the table, he 
 munched them with evident relish, sipping 
 
 I 
 
 
 -XiiWu'j 'iiriiTihfrtr- ■-■■'■-' 
 
sad face. "You're 
 r out o' door, arc 
 iian to turn her out 
 
 on a heap o* sand 
 lOve, nor won't let 
 mite nothin' ; an' I 
 [■ they don't have a 
 n a sudden inspi- 
 jsession of his puz- 
 ninibly toward tlie 
 
 pauee-pan i'roni a 
 nilk into it wliich 
 sweetened. When 
 ate, lie ercpt softly 
 t down by her side, 
 n spoon put sonic 
 
 to the lips of the 
 ture swallowed it 
 ggling to free Itself 
 
 embrace 1 but the , 
 isped it closer, niut- 
 itences, while she 
 , fixed, glassy eyes, 
 tisfled its hunger, 
 periment with the 
 r teeth firmly, and 
 'p. 
 
 grimly ; " the cre- 
 \rve herself; an' I 
 !st let her have her 
 ■ith wiinmin ; an' I 
 
 she rests a bit, if 
 )etite." With this 
 ; coverlet from his 
 ly over the mother 
 X)d with ]iis hands 
 jth with an expres- 
 1 curiosity, until the 
 an fell into a heavy 
 
 1 right ; don't you 
 he muttered softly, 
 seat on the thrce- 
 ) burned dimly : he 
 )cked off the black 
 ;irred the fire to a 
 poured -out a mug 
 nny roll and a scrap 
 vcr of the table, he 
 ident relish, sipping 
 
 DRIFTED ASHORE. 
 
 9 
 
 now and then, from the mug, as he glanceil 
 over his shoulder at the (juiet heap on the 
 sanil. After he had finished his humble 
 meal, he moved about softly, making every 
 thing tidy, with the neatness and skill of a 
 woman. When the troublesome lamp was 
 trimmed again, the fire stirred up, and the 
 broken hearth swept, he took a pair of 
 coarse stockings from the table drawer which 
 seemed to contain all his worldly goods, 
 dove his hands into the capacious pockets 
 of his patched trousers, and fished out a 
 ball of blue yarn, then a needle-case made 
 of the leg-bone of a goose, and dosed with 
 a small wooden plug. From this he 
 selected a large darning-needle, and pro- 
 ceeded to darn his well-worn stockings, 
 while he carried on his usual dialogue in a 
 half-whisper, glancing from time to time at 
 the sleepers on the sand. 
 
 Just as Top was in the miilst of a very 
 animated discussion with himself in regard 
 to the history of the miserable woman 
 whom he thought to be sleeping peace- 
 fully, she started up wildly, and cried out 
 in ringing tones, — 
 
 " I see father's boat a comin' ; the sails is 
 white in the sunlight, an' the sea is blue 
 like the sky ; an' he's standin' on the bow, 
 a holdin' out his hands, an' he looks at me 
 kind and pitiful. lie was a good man 
 — do 3011 hear? — he was a good man; 
 an' he told me that my evil ways would 
 Iciid to ruin. He said that I was twistin' 
 ropes o' sand, that would break, an' leave 
 me a wreck on the shore. An' he was 
 right ; for he was a good man. His name 
 was Abel Winter. I've named my baby for 
 him : perhaps the name may save him from 
 sin anil sorrow. Poor little thing ! I've 
 never loved him till now, when I can't hold 
 him no longer. 1 hope the world'll be bet- 
 ter to him than it's been to me. Somc- 
 thin's gnawed at my heart ibr many a 
 
 laid her face on the shifting sands that 
 still smelt of the salt sea and the sunny 
 downs. 
 
 After that she was silent ; and old Top, 
 who had turned on his stool, pushed up his 
 spectacles, and wiped away a tear with the 
 toe of the stocking that he held on his 
 hand, saying, " Poor cretur', she's dreamin', 
 an' talkin' in her sleep." 
 
 AVhcn Bow IJelis sounded the hour of 
 nine, the old man always covered his dying 
 fire, ])Ut out his little lamp, and crept to his 
 bed ; lait to-night what could he doV The 
 wretched woman still slept, and showed no 
 signs of waking. At last, overcome by 
 weariness, and before lie was aware of it, 
 his head sank upon his breast, and he slum- 
 bered peacefully, sitting upon his three- 
 legged stool. When he awoke, his fire was 
 nearly out, and his lamp burned very 
 dimly. 
 
 '• Why, Top, you almost lost yourself, 
 didn't you? "he said, stretching and blink- 
 ing like a toad suddenly exposed to sun- 
 light. " It must be late, awful late ; an' you 
 mi'iht as well go to bed, an' sleep like U 
 Christian, as to sit here all cramped, up, 
 watehin' that poor cretur' that's sound as a 
 roach, an' won't talk any more in her 
 dreams." So, with the intention of retiring 
 lor the night, he covered the few embers 
 carefully, pulled off his heavy shoes, and 
 drew a red night-cap over his ears. Then, 
 before extinguishing the light, he crept 
 softly toward the sand-heap to see if all was 
 well with the sleepers ; but the child was 
 wide awake. Its great dark eyes shone 
 like stars out of the heavy shadow of the 
 mother's hair: its lips were parted in a 
 warm smile ; and, with one little finger, it 
 followed the track of a tear that rolled like 
 a pearl down the pale cheek of the wo- 
 man. 
 
 " (}od bh'SR the little angel 1 " said Top, 
 
 month. It's been more 'an I could bear ; 1 ben<ling lower to smile on the child. 
 
 an' it's never been easy, day nor night: 
 but now it seems to die away ; an' I 
 b'lievc I'm cured, 'cause father's comin' 
 for me." Then she sank back, and 
 
 Something in the mother's face startled 
 him ; and he took up one hand that lay 
 loosely enough now over the baby's neck. 
 It was cold and rigid. She was dead I 
 
 -ma 
 
 ^«feifc<»!awafeit ' fe ' ti^ ' ^^" 
 
10 
 
 ROPES OF SAND. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 top's haby. 
 
 The next niorninji, when the parish 
 umlortakiT, with liis assistant, came to take 
 away the body of tlio unknown woman, they 
 foiuiil To]) sitiinjr hclore tlic firii with his 
 fci't on the fender, and the l)ahy, wrapi)ed 
 in one of'iiis clean, well-patehed waisteoats, 
 lyin',' aiiosshis knees, cooing and hur^hinji, 
 all unconscious that its mother lay dead 
 upon the lied, with her hands folded peaee- 
 i'uily. and the penitential tears wiped away 
 I'loui lier eyes Ibrever. 
 
 " What you ^'oin' to do with the child ? " 
 questioned the undertaker, who stood look- 
 ini; with stony indiU'erenee upon the "ghast- 
 ly face of the mother. 
 
 '• Whv, keep it, to be sure. You're poin' 
 to keep it; ain't you. To])?" he said with 
 decision, as he ])ressed it, close to liis heart. 
 " It's a little an:j;el, a blessed little an;iel ; 
 ai\' I wou'dn't send it away ibr the whole 
 world!" 
 
 " IJut what can you do with it ? A 
 youn'^ one o' that ape needs a deal o' care : 
 an' vou've no woman about, hiive you ? " 
 
 '•i don't need no woman to take care of it : 
 I'm woman enoui;h myself 1 can wash an' 
 mend an' cook, an' that's all a mistress does ; 
 an' sonie of 'em don't do that. Now, mind 
 yon, Mr. Undertaker, give her a kind o' de- 
 cent burial ; an' I'll look out for the child, 
 and brin^ it u|) like a Christian." 
 
 '• Know the i>ariy V " asked the assistant, 
 twirling tlie screws out of the cover of tlie 
 pine-bo.\ that they had placed near the 
 
 bed. 
 
 '^ No," replied Top laconically: "never 
 saw her tilLshe came here to die." 
 
 " Drunk, wasn't sh') V " questioned the 
 undertaker. 
 
 " No," returned Top indignantly, " no 
 more chunk an' you are this blessed minif, 
 but all worn out. like a' old jrarnient, that 
 can't hold itself together. The doctorsaid she 
 died o' weaknc'ss an' starvation : but Lord 
 knows she needn't; for I tried hard enough 
 to have her eat, an' she wouldn't swallow a 
 
 mouthftd. It's my 'pinion as how slie was 
 kind o' tired like o' livin', an' didn't want 
 to have the life ke[)t in her." 
 
 " Likely ; tliey often do get tired, that 
 sort ; an' I 'magine she was a precious bad 
 lot. Didn't tell you lier name nor nothin' V " 
 continued the undertaker, as he lilted the 
 heavy head with its mass of black hair. 
 " Young, shoiddn't you say ? Not a day 
 over twenty. Lord 1 what tools these cre- 
 tur's arc to throw theirselves away like 
 
 that I " 
 
 Top covered the baby's face, and turned 
 his l)ack, while they laid the hapless woman 
 in her rndo coffin, and carried her away as 
 indiiferently as though their burden were 
 b<it a dumb animal, instead of a humf\ 
 being who had sinned, and suffered, and 
 i died with a tear of penitence on her 
 I clieek. 
 
 After they had gone with their 8a<i bur- 
 den. To]) laid the child gently upon the 
 pile of sand, while he arranged the bed 
 liom which tliey ha<l removed the body of 
 the mother. He shook up the straw pallet 
 to a -sofl bundle, spread out the coverlet 
 so that there was no crease nor wrinkle, 
 and then lifted the baby on the palms of 
 his hands as carefully as though it were the 
 most delicate spun glass, and deposited it 
 with a sigh of happiness in the middle of 
 the bed, saying, with a lively chirp, " There, 
 there, chickey ! ain't that nice an' soft? 
 It's Top's bed, where he sleeps every night. 
 It's clean enough for a king ; an' you sha'n't 
 sleep no more on mud nor sand, but on 
 sweet, tiesh straw, with a good warm rug 
 over you." 
 
 The child looked at him intelligently, 
 with gniat, serious eyes, and cooed and 
 nestled, as though it were thoroughly con- 
 tented, and iuUy appreciated the comforta- 
 ble condition into which it had so suddenly 
 fallen. Then he bustled about, opening 
 the drawer, and searching for something, 
 with an anxious exinvssion on his comical 
 old face. "1 thought I had a little bit 
 somewhere. Top, don't you remember you 
 washed it the other day, and put it away to 
 mend your shirt with ? Ah I here it is," 
 
 ' 
 
TOP'S BABY. 
 
 11 
 
 as how she was 
 an' didn't want 
 r." 
 
 get tired, that 
 IS a pre<'iims had 
 me nor notliin' V " 
 
 as he hi'ti'd the 
 a of hlacli hair. 
 !ay? Not a day 
 ,t fools these cre- 
 selves away like 
 
 1 face, and turned 
 he hapless woman 
 rried lier away as 
 heir hurden were 
 toad of a humiT 
 and suiFered, and 
 leniteiice on her 
 
 rith their 8a<i hur- 
 gently tipon the 
 arranged the bed 
 noved the body of 
 lip the straw pallet 
 1 out the coverlet 
 rease nor wrinkle, 
 y on the palms of 
 !thou;4i it were the 
 s, and deposited it 
 s in the middle of 
 vely chirp, " There, 
 hat nice an' soft? 
 ! sleeps every nif^ht. 
 ;in!i ; an' you sha'n't 
 1 nor sand, but on 
 a good warm rug 
 
 ; him intelligently, 
 us, and cooed and 
 ere thoroughly con- 
 ciated the comforta- 
 ■h it had so suddenly 
 tied about, opening 
 hing for something, 
 ssion on his comical 
 ; I had a little bit 
 I't you remember you 
 ly, and put it away to 
 ? Ah I hero it is," 
 
 and ho drew out from the bottom of the 
 drawer a small piece of old linen, from 
 which he cut a scrap carefully ; then he jiro- 
 ceeded to put a spoonCid of rather samly 
 sugar in the centre of it ; after which he 
 gathered it up into a little hall, and tied a 
 thread tightly around it. " There's a 
 sugar-teat for you," he said with great sat- 
 isfaction, as he introduced it into the rosy 
 mouth of the child, who tugged at it vigor- 
 ously. 
 
 Top stood watching this process of nour- 
 ishment, perfectly enchanted, his hands on 
 his hips, and his whole little hoily convulsed 
 with a chuckle of delight, when the door 
 opened, and an old woman entered uncere- 
 moniously. So absorbed was he, that he 
 did not hear her until she slapped him 
 smartly on the shoulder, and shouted in a 
 shrill voice, — for she was deaf, an<l so 
 thought every one else was, — " Top, Top, 
 what 'ave you got there ? " 
 
 The old man started, and looked around 
 crossly, then burst into a hearty laugh when 
 he saw who it was. " Ila ! ha ! It's you, is 
 it. Mother Birch ? so you've come to see 
 Top's baby. Well, now look 1 ain't it a 
 beauty V " 
 
 " That it is," piped the old woman ; " but 
 Where's the poor cretur' ? Have they took 
 her away a'ready ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Top : " she's gone to her 
 long home ; an' it's the best place for 
 one o' them poor, sinniu', sufferiu' sonls. 
 But, thank God ! Top's got the baby safe : an' 
 you mean to keep it ; don't you. Top? " 
 
 " You mean to keep it 1 " cried the oLl 
 woman in surprise. " Why, good Lord ! 
 man, you must be crazy. You don't know 
 what a trouble it'll be." 
 
 " A trouble ! not a bit of a trouble, if I can 
 only get bread an' milk for it," replied 
 Top wiih a eunningglance at his visitor. 
 
 " Perhaps you'll find that harder 'an 
 you think ; for these little cretur's do eat a 
 deal." 
 
 " Well, then, I'H go without my own crust 
 for it, if there's need. But, stars o' light ! 
 Mother Birch, there's nine o'clock struck, 
 an' I ain't been out with my sand ; au' I can't 
 
 leave this little thing alone, can T, now?" 
 said Top, looking at the baby tbndly, but 
 with a jiuzzli'd anil anxious expression on 
 his poor old face. " 'Sides, it's got to have a 
 frock, an' sonu'thin' to be comfortable in. 
 I've saved a few shillin's, I have; an' I'll 
 go to the Jews in Iloundsdilch, an' hunt 
 uj) some little duds, if you'll stay an' watch 
 it while I'm gone." 
 
 " Oh I I'll do that for once in a way," jiiped 
 the old womiui ; " but you know I've got my 
 own livin' to earn ; an' I can't give my time 
 to you an' your baby tor long. There's a 
 great heaj) o' rags a waitin' to be picked 
 over ni>w." 
 
 Top scratched his head reflectively for a 
 few moments, and then looked up brightly 
 as a happy idea struck him. "I'll tell you 
 what I'll do, Mother Birch ; I've saved a lew 
 shillin's, I have ; an' I'll give you one an' 
 sixpence a week, if you'll stay here an' 
 minil the baby when I'm out, which isn't all 
 day, yon know ; an' you can bring your rags 
 here to sort, an' won't make no more mess 
 'an you can help, or won't let the chilc^ 
 touch 'em, cause they're mostly nasty. 
 So you can't lose a deal o* time, an' you'll 
 get soinethin' into the bargain." 
 
 "I'll do it; I'll do it willin'ly," returned 
 the old woman, her eyes brightening, and 
 lier whole face expressing her full approval 
 of the arrangement. 
 
 Top bustled about, filled his pails with 
 sand, put on his patched jacket and 
 oil-clotli cap, and then lingered a moment to 
 look at the child, who had fallen asleep with 
 the collapsed sugar-teat hanging from one 
 corner of its little mouth. " Isn't it lovely ? 
 Isn't it sweet ? " he murmured, bending over 
 it, and brushing its solt cheek with his wrin- 
 kled old face. " Mind, now. Mother Bircli, 
 an' don't let it he hungry ; for there's plenty 
 o' milk, an' a fire to warm it, an' sugar to 
 sweeten it ; an' don't let a body 'sides your- 
 self jiut a finger on it, now mind you! If 
 you do, I'll bury you 'live in that sand-heap^ 
 as sure's my name's Top!" ami with this 
 awful threat he hobbled oil', looking back 
 with I'll expression of niiir^lcd love and 
 anxiety at the sleeping child. 
 
 aij ai -V ii fcHW i l U M iii ' li" . ! i ;^W. i .'iU'y' 
 
12 
 
 ROPE3 OF SAND. 
 
 Long boforc Mnthor Birch oxi)Pcti'(l liiin, 
 Top r(!-ap|ii'!iri'(l, hurried ami civicr, his 
 pails oiiiply of sand, and filled instead witli 
 'red (lannel and din|j;y linen. " How i.s the 
 little cretin-'?" he cried liefore he had 
 fairly closed the door. " What ! slept all the 
 time ? You don't say that it's never woke ! " 
 
 " Not nineh to speak of," returned Jlolher 
 Birch with a satisfied chuckle. " It nestled 
 a little once, an' I fed it with some milk, 
 an' turned it over. Then it went right otl' 
 asle(!p d'rcctly, an' ain't moved since. You 
 sec, Top, the poor mite's been dragged 
 about, an' been hungry an' cold likely, 
 ever since it was born ; now it's warm an' 
 comfortable, it wants to sleep a deal, which 
 is best for such wee things." 
 
 Toj) assented with a good-natured, " Yes, 
 yes : you're right ; no doubt, you're right. 
 But look a here, Mother Birch, an' sec 
 what I've got." Then he emptied the 
 contents of the pails on the table. Two red 
 flannel petticoats, a frock, two little caps, 
 and a pair of tiny socks, with some coarse 
 much-worn baby-linen, comprised his pur- 
 chases. "Now, ain't these here little duds 
 good enough (or the Prince o' Wales; now 
 ain't they Y " he questioned earnestly. 
 
 Mother Birch assured him that thoy 
 were good enough for any of the royal 
 family, adding, with a toothless grin of 
 delight, that " nothing was too good for 
 such a dear little thing, as slept all the 
 time, and wasn't no trouble to nobody." 
 
 " An' I got 'em for 'most nothiu' : three 
 shillin's for all. It's true, they're worn a 
 little ; but then, they'll last a while, for all o' 
 that," saiil Top, selecting a complete out- 
 fit, and fidgeting back and forth between 
 the table and the bed, comparing the size 
 of the clothes with the diminutive thing 
 wrapped in his old jacket. 
 
 At last the bundle stirred. Two little 
 pink hands struggled out from among the 
 blue and brown patches, and a sound, that 
 was as much a grunt of contentment as a 
 cry, proclaimed the baby to l)e awake. 
 
 " I'll dress it, Top," said Mother Birch, 
 officiously seating herself, and turning her 
 apron the clean side out. 
 
 " No, no ! that you don't, mistress," 
 returneil Top, with an air of entire propri- 
 etorship : " it's my baby; an' I'm a goin' to 
 dress it the first time myself: an' you 
 needn't be so busy an' useful when there's 
 no need." 
 
 •' But a woman's more handier, you 
 know," suggested Mother Birch humbly, 
 her shrill voice wonderfully soft and com- 
 placent, in spite of Top's snubbing. 
 
 " I'm handy enough. I don't want to 
 be no handier 'an I am. Just stand by an' 
 see how lovely an' neat I'll dress the little 
 cretuV. There, there, chickcy I" he jiiur- 
 mured soothingly, as the child twisted its 
 little limbs, and nestled against his rough 
 jacket with the instinct that teaches a 
 baby where to seek for Us natural nourish- 
 ment. 
 
 " I'm 'fraid I'll break it, it's so little an' 
 delicate: I declare, I'm 'fraid I'll break itl" 
 said Top ruefully, as he vainly tried to 
 introduce its tiny pink feet into the little 
 socks. 
 
 Mother Birch watched with a sarcastic 
 smile bis awkward and inefii'ectual attempts, 
 until he looked up, and said with pathetic 
 humility, "You're right, mistress: you're 
 quite right. I ain't as handy as I thought. 
 I believe wiuiniiu is cleverer 'an a man 
 with babies; but I'll learn. Top'U learn 
 in no time, if you'll jist give him a lifb 
 now." 
 
 Tlie old woman could not resist this 
 kindly invitiition, especially when her fin- 
 gers were itching to get hold of the child ; 
 so, with an amiable grin that inq)lied full 
 p.ardon for Top's snubbing, she set to work; 
 and, in a few moments, the little creature 
 was as respectably and comfortably clothed 
 a baby as ever was seen, even in the most 
 aristocratic family of that neighborhood. 
 
 " There, now I " said Top, as soon as the 
 important toilet was completed,"! s'pose 
 you want to be about your work ; don't you, 
 Mother Birch ? an' I don't need you no 
 more to-<lay." 
 
 " I'm kind o' unwillin' to leave the 
 young one ; still, I must, or I sha'n't get 
 nothiu' done to my rags," said the old 
 
 ' 
 
I don't, mistress"," 
 iiir of entire propri- 
 ' ; an' I'm a }j;oin' to 
 
 myself: an' you 
 useful when there's 
 
 norc handier, you 
 Iier Bireh htiini)ly, 
 ■fully soft and corn- 
 's sniihbing. 
 
 I don't want to 
 
 Just stand hy an' 
 
 I'll dress the little 
 
 chiekey!" he .niur- 
 
 le cliild twisted its 
 
 1 against liis rough 
 let that teaches a 
 Us natural nourish- 
 
 it, it's so little an' 
 'fraid I'll break it 1" 
 he vainly tried to 
 
 feet into the little 
 
 :d with a sarcastic 
 nefi'ectual attempts, 
 1 said with pathetic 
 it, mistress : you're 
 landy as I thought, 
 everer 'an a man 
 jarn. Top'll learn 
 ist give liim a lift 
 
 dd not resist this 
 ially when her fin- 
 hold of the child ; 
 n that implied full 
 ng, she set to work; 
 , the little creature 
 comfortably clothed 
 , even in the most 
 It neighborhood. 
 Fop, as soon as the 
 )mpletcd, " I s'pose 
 ur work ; don't you, 
 on't need you no 
 
 lin' to leave the 
 3t, or I sha'n't get 
 ags," said the old 
 
 BLUE-EYKD VIOLET. 
 
 13 
 
 woman, with a lingering look at the child, 
 as she turned toward the door. 
 
 Motlur Hirch wjis what they, in their 
 vulgar parlance, called a "bad lot." Her 
 coarse, wrinkled face bore the indelible 
 stamp of an evil life ; and those who knew 
 her l)e.-t <lechired that she had neither heart 
 nor soul, so depraved and vieiouR was she 
 in her conduct. But there nnist have been 
 some latent good under the crust of sin and 
 degradation, some sensitive spot that the 
 fires of i)assion had not seared, or that soft, 
 almost tender smile would never have 
 touched her lips as she turned away from 
 Top's baby. 
 
 Every one in the lane knew how the 
 little stranger had come among them ; for 
 the night before, when Top found that the 
 woman was dead, he had rushed out and 
 called in his neighbors, who had cared for 
 the ])oor body, and prepared it for its burial 
 as decently as their liumble means would 
 allow them to do. Now, as Mother liirch 
 emerged from the old man's cellar, all the 
 A women and children cried out, " How's 
 
 Top's baby V how's Top's baby ? " 
 
 " As well as can be, you rag-a-muffins, 
 you I Stop your noise, an' get out o* my 
 way I I don't want to answer none o' your 
 questions," replied the old creature as she 
 hurrieil along with an air of great impor- 
 tance ; while the women hurled taunts and 
 insults after her, and the children straight- 
 ened themselves up, puffed out their cheeks, 
 and, with their hands on their hips, imitated 
 her appearance, walking close behind her, 
 until she disappeared within her own door. 
 
 As soon as Top was alone, he turned 
 toward his treasure with an air of relief: 
 already it was so precious to him, that he 
 was jealous if anotlier touched it, or looked 
 at it ; besides, he felt a sort of awkward 
 shame, a kind of fear of showing his love 
 for it, of petting and caressing it before 
 strangers. 
 
 " I'm glad she's gone," he said, with a 
 great sigh of contentment, as he held the 
 child close to his heart, and swayed back 
 and forth gently. " She's a' old meddler, is 
 Mother Birch, an' I'm very sorry I've got to 
 
 leave you with licr, chiekey ; but I can't 
 help it: you ain't old enough to stay alone, 
 an' Top's got to sell his sand to buy bread 
 an' milk for your little stomach. Oh! 
 you're a beauty, you arc ; such soft little 
 hands an' feet, such little fingers an' toes ! 
 An' you're mine, all mine. Top's never hud 
 much; an' he's al'ays been a lonely cretur', 
 witii no one but hisself to talk to. Now 
 he's got a baby that'll stay with him day 
 an' night, that'll laugh an' talk some day, 
 an' call him daddy. Yes : you'll say daddy 
 to |)oor old Top, won't you, deary ? 'cause 
 he's al'ays thought as how he'il like to have 
 a little cretur' to call him daddy. IIow 
 thankful I am that your poor n)ammy fell 
 dowir an' died on my sand-heap 'stead o' 
 any other ! 'cause it's better for me to have 
 her baby than to leave it to suHer like him- 
 dreils of poor little souls in this great city. 
 Top'll be good to you, little one : Top'll bo 
 real good," he said, with a smile full of ten- 
 derness, as he stroked his wrinkled old face 
 with its soft, warm hand. " Yes, Top'll be 
 good. He'll give you enough to eat, au*« 
 nice, clean clothes to wear; an' when you're 
 big enough, you'll go to school, an' learn to 
 read like a real gentleman. Y(ju've crcjjt 
 into my heart, baby, — my poor old heart 
 that's al'ays been kinil o' empty, a waitin' 
 for somethin'. Now God's sent you to fill it, 
 an' it'll never be hungry any more ; for you 
 crowd it full o' love, till it's ready to burst." 
 Here the old man's trembling voice broke 
 into a sob ; and, laying his face against the 
 silken hair of the child, he wept happy 
 tears for the first time in his dreary life. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 MLUE-EVED VIOLET. 
 
 Before the dwellers in Black-cat Lane 
 were well aware of it, Top's baby liad 
 grown into a fine lad of twelve years. He 
 was a tall, straight, handsome boy, with 
 regular features, and serious brown eyes, 
 so calm and deep that they seemed al- 
 
 r« 
 
14 
 
 ROPES OF SAND. 
 
 ready to have looked into the mysteries of 
 life. His I'l'ieili, maiineiN, nw\ cliarai- 
 ter were alto-ether superior to those 
 around him; and, as Top always kept h-m 
 clean and fairly well dresse.l, cM)u.i)anMl to 
 the othi-r dirty, ra--ed children, he looked 
 every inch a little aristocrat. Then he 
 knew how to read and write; for the oUl 
 man had kept the promise made to his haby. 
 and had tried to have him tau-ht like a 
 " real gentleman." llesides, he never exact- 
 ed any'labor from the boy, who was not idle 
 and indiflerent, but simply ignorant that 
 there was any need of his working. He 
 had always had a poor but clean bed, 
 coarse but abundant food, decent clothes, 
 and a warm (ire in winter ; therefore he did 
 not know how dilferent was pinchin;,' and 
 do'radin^ w.int from his comparatively com- 
 \l forUble iwsition. Old Top adore.l him as 
 
 Jlj gomeihin- infinitely superior tooiher chd- 
 
 ^ dren. He was proud that his hands were 
 
 soft and white, his skin elean and smooth, his 
 beautiful black hair carefully eomlu^d, and 
 his clothes whole and neat. It was no 
 matter if he worked harder than ever, 
 tottering about all day under the heavy 
 weight of his s.and, e.irning a penny hon- 
 estly ; no matter how toilsome the means, 
 scheming, economizing, pinching, often 
 goin^r hungry hiniself, that his boy might 
 be w"ell fed ; working late into the night by 
 the feeble flame of his little lamp, while 
 the child slept peacefully in his warm bed. 
 It was seldom now that Top retired when 
 Bow Bells struck nine. There were little 
 socks to be mended, little trousers and 
 jackets to be patched, an<l little shirts to be 
 carefully darned. His poor old back oiten 
 ached, his eves were dim and watery, and 
 bis limbs trembled weakly under his bur- 
 den ; for he was growing old, —just how old 
 he did not know ; but he wiis certainly not 
 far from seventy. Yet he bore the labor 
 and privations of his life with sweet seren- 
 ity and patience, and no one ever heard a 
 murmur escape his lips- Mother Birch had 
 remonstrated with him more than once, 
 because he worked like a slave, and did so 
 much for the boy. 
 
 " Not a wonl. not a word ! " he would say 
 with an impatient jerk of the head. " Top 
 knows what he's about, an' don't want no 
 interferin'; Abel ain't like other boys, ho 
 iiin't. There's difference 'tween fisli an' 
 fowl. You never saw him a playin' in the 
 gutters, black an' dirty ; you never hear no 
 b;id lang'age out o' his mouth, nor rude, 
 nasty tricks like other young ones. ^ He 
 likes to go to his school, clean an' rcg'lar ; 
 an' when he's home, he likes to set by the 
 fire with his old daddy an' his books. He's 
 a rare boy, Mother Birch ; an' I count my- 
 self lucky if I can work my fingers off for 
 
 him." 
 
 In this Top did not the least exaggerate. 
 He would willingly and gladly have given 
 every limb of his poor old body for the boy, 
 if it would have served him in any way. 
 Labor for him was light, self-denial and 
 privation sweet. It did not matter how 
 tired lie was : his aching back and stiff limbs 
 were forgotten when, tlio <lay"9 labor over, 
 his boy stood at his side, one arm laid 
 fondly around his neck while he repeated 
 iv lesson, or read a simple story, which 
 seemed to him a remarkable aetiuirement 
 for one so young. Or sometimes he would 
 kneel at the old man's feet, leaning his 
 head against his kneo while ho looked 
 silent and thoughtful into the glowing fire. 
 Top, wondering what he saw there, would 
 remain perfectly quiet lest he should dis- 
 turb a reverie that seemed sacred. At last 
 he would look up, his great serious eyes full 
 of mysterious light, and say, " Daddy, don't 
 you see things in the fire, — cities an' 
 palaces an' mountains ? " 
 
 " No, sonny," Top would reply gravely : 
 " I can't say as I do. I don't see nothin' but 
 red coals an' black, an' bits o' white 
 
 ashes." 
 
 " Why, there, in the middle o' tho grate, 
 there's what looks like human beings a 
 struggling an' fighting together. Some- 
 timeTthe blaze makes them red an' mad ; 
 then it dies out, an' they're black an' solemn ; 
 an' at last they all go to smoke an* ashes. 
 It's like life some way, daddy, isn't it ? " 
 " Yes, yes : I s'pose it is," Top would an- 
 
 a . ^ l. mui i JAJ(».rt I ll " 
 
 w»i»iiiniinaiiB>iil»iWWM»M'.'!"" 
 
BLUE-EYED VIOLET. 
 
 15 
 
 1 ! " he would say 
 Ihe huiul. " Top 
 n' don't want no 
 ;i' other hoys, ho 
 'twuen fish an' 
 n a playin' hi the 
 ^oii neviT hear no 
 mouth, nor rudo, 
 youii^ ones. Ilo 
 L'lean an' rc^'lar ; 
 iki'8 to set by the 
 'his hooks. Hu's 
 ; an' I count niy- 
 my fingers off for 
 
 a least exag'j;erate. 
 gladly have (^ivcn 
 d body for the boy, 
 him in any way. 
 lit, self-denial and 
 I not matter how 
 back and stitV limbs 
 J day's labor over, 
 lido, one ann laid 
 while he repeated 
 iinple story, which 
 rkable aeiiulrement 
 sometimes he would 
 •s feet, leaning his 
 
 while ho looked 
 to the glowing fire, 
 he saw there, would 
 
 lest he should dis- 
 ued sacred. At last 
 reat serious eyes full 
 
 1 say, " Daddy, don't 
 le fire, — cities an' 
 ?" 
 
 vould reply sjravely : 
 don't see nothiu' but 
 , an' bits o' white 
 
 s middle o' the grate, 
 ike human beings a 
 ng together. Some- 
 s them red an' mad ; 
 sy're black an' solemn ; 
 » to smoke an' ashes, 
 r, daddy, isn't it?" 
 J it is," Top would an- 
 
 swer with grave reverence, and a l(X)k of 
 wonder, as though he were aHuenting to 
 the polemn |ir<>|ihe('y of a Hiiered oracle. 
 He had told the lH>y again and again the 
 sad story of his mother's death, always 
 throwing a mantle of charity over lier sins ; 
 and tlie child would li.sten with pale cheeks 
 and tearful eyes, won<lering if she really 
 heard the voices of tho sea, and saw the 
 downs, and the ships, and her father's boat 
 with sunlight on tho sails. Where were 
 those <lownH she played u])on when achihl V 
 Who was her father? and why had she wan- 
 dered so lar from him and the blue sea, to 
 die unknown in the very heart of London ? 
 These thoughts disturbed the dreamy brain 
 of the hoy, and awoke in him a vague curi- 
 osity to know something of his mother's 
 history. 
 
 •'You needn't puzzle yourself about it, 
 child," Top would say, in reply to Ids many 
 questions. " It don't make no matter who 
 your gran'daddy was, nor where he lived. 
 J?he said with 'most her last breath, that 
 he was a good man ; an' that's enough 
 to know. You've got his name, an' its 
 a fine one as ever a lad had. Abel is a 
 pious name, an' Winter sounds serious an' 
 good. Two names, my boy ; an' poor old 
 Top never had but one, an' he only got that 
 by chance. I don't find no fault, 'cause it 
 ain't no use now as I've gone through my 
 life with only one name. Still, it's a deal 
 more respectable to have two, an' you've 
 got 'em, my boy ; so be contented, an' don't 
 puzzle your brains a tryin' to find out what 
 the Lord never intended you to know." 
 
 Although the boy was still called Top's 
 baby by the greater part of the dwellers in 
 Black-cat Lane, Top never failed, when 
 speaking of him, to give him his full title ; 
 for to the simple-minded old man, whom fate 
 had defrauded of his birthright, it was the 
 proudest inheritance that he could possess. 
 
 Sometimes when Abel had a holiday, and 
 Top was away at his work, the boy would 
 wander off alone into Lcadenhall Street, 
 through Poultry and Cheapside to St. Paul's, 
 where he would remain ibr hours, looking 
 with a sort of awe at the solemn pile, think- 
 
 ing how near tho dome was to Iieaven, ami 
 how lie should like to be a bird with li^ht 
 win'jfs, that he might tly up abov(! the smoke 
 and fog, and sit and sing all day in ndd- 
 heaven, hnjipy and tree. Another place 
 that particularly pleased him was Christ's 
 lh)spital. From St. Paul's he would go 
 into Newgate Street, and stand for hours 
 with his earnest faci- pressed against llio 
 raiJlM'z, watching the scholart at their piny. 
 The Ultie-coat boys were very curiiMis and 
 interesting to him on account of their ipiaint 
 costume. Their blue gowns, yellow petti- 
 coats, red girdles, and white eler;:yiMiin's 
 band round their necks, seemed to distin- 
 guish them as something uncommon and 
 superior. lie looked at the lofiy, beautiful 
 hull, and the clean, smooth court where 
 they played, and sighed when he contrasted 
 it with Top's cellar, and the dirty, broken 
 paving in ISIack-cat Lane. Poor boy ! ho 
 was beginning to take life seriously, be- 
 ginning to leel, in the depths of his heart, 
 the dillerence between his surroundings and 
 that which he looked upon with longing, 
 admiring eyes. For some time he did not 
 know just what this institution was: until 
 one day a goo<l-na'i.ured gentleman, who was 
 watching the scholars at their play, noticing 
 his earnest, intelligitnt face, entered into 
 conversation with him, and, in reply to his 
 eager ({uestions, told him that it was a 
 school to educate poor boys. That many 
 great men, whose names would live always, 
 had there learned all they knew ; and that 
 knowledge could make people noble in 
 spite of lowly birth and poverty. 
 
 The boy went home more thoughtfiil 
 than usual, an<l applied himself to his hooks 
 with renewed /.eal. For days and days a 
 new desire filled every thought. Why 
 could he not be a IJlue-eoat boy, and learn 
 every thing, and become great through 
 knowledge ? At last one night, when he 
 stood by Top with his arm over his shoulder 
 in aifectiouate intimacy, he approached the 
 subject. 
 
 The old man looked at him in fear and 
 astonishment, and said, with a pitiful tremor 
 in his voice, " Whv, now, Abel, that am't 
 
 wmWWWiW.- 
 
 '-MJ'Jiiw^sEr'' 
 
KOI'ES OF SAND. 
 
 po.i,.l..! you .lon-t .nnt to «o an' .lu.t ; thin' ,.. -"• ^-•;;; ^^l" ^^^'']^ 
 
 y„,„. poor ol.l .lu.Mv alo„.., .lo you V " oftcu want l.oy. o your a,o. lo .k 
 
 * :\; , , ,io„'t! Im.v.rll .rht oli>iroun.Uom...il you'll only vva.limu.ut. 1 11 
 
 ':t'7::':r':l:iruu.uy..u..oui,.n-ti..a.u^^^^^ 
 
 'fl 
 
 p,.| in, ynu .■(.uMu'i. Tlu.l sdioolV lor tin- 
 ivxpei'tiilili! iwor, not for the Ilk." o" ux. n.y 
 lail : wf «l<m't oxat'tly conu' uiu1<t that lu'a<l. 
 We've no Irii'UiU to lu'lp us, an' tho Lord 
 Mayor an' aliiernu^n ain't a (.'oiu' to liother 
 th.'irKelves with hun.lilo cn-lurV aa us. 
 Tlifii anollier thin}.', sonny, you're too old. 
 I've heard nay as no child eould net in there 
 atU'r lie's seven, ami you're twelve ; ho it 
 ain't no use to try. 'Sides, there's no nee.l 
 of it : you can reiul an' write, an' you're 
 uneoinmou clever with your 'rithnietic, an' 
 that's enoui^h ; you've learnt pUnty at rag- 
 ged school to take you throu-h decent. 
 Look at vourpoorold<laddy,he never knew 
 nothin', never could tell one letter from 
 another, an' never had no one to send hiui 
 to school. I hoi-c, sonny, you're not a i;oin' 
 to find fault 'cause I ain't done more for 
 you." This thought was more than the old 
 man coul.l hear: his voice was choked with 
 emotion, and somethiu;; like a sob broke 
 from his full heart. 
 
 " Find fault with you, daddy, dear I no, 
 no, imleed 1 " said Abel, lian<;in{,' round his 
 neck, and crying with liiin. "You've 
 always been <;ood to me, too ^ood : don't 
 think I complain; but l'<l like to be a 
 scholar, and know every tliin^;, for I'm sure 
 readin- and writing isn't all ; and I'd like to 
 be rich and "jreat, so that I could t;ive you 
 a fine house to live in with a t;ar.len, and a 
 hike, and a boat on the Thames. 1 won't 
 say any more about the Blue-coat School : 
 1 won't think any more about it; but, 
 daddy, 1 want to do something to earn my 
 own living. You're too old to work ibr me, 
 and I do nothing." 
 
 "liless my soul, boyl what ails you 
 now? I ain't a workin' for you, I'm a 
 workin' for myself; an' you ain't no extra 
 
 to defer the long-dreaded day that would 
 separat'! them in a measure. Uc could not 
 endure the thou-ht that his boy was no 
 longer a baby, that he was fast growing to 
 an age when ho must go out into the worhl 
 and struggle for himself. But, while the 
 old man procrastinated, Abel was busy 
 looking out Ibr his own interests. Ho 
 never passed a counting-iiouse into which ho 
 did not slip, ami ask modestly and respect- 
 fully, if Ih-y ncclcd a boy. Nearly every 
 „ne spoke kindly to him ; Ibr his handsome, 
 intelligent face and remarkable neatness 
 impressed them favorably. Although no 
 one wanted him at that moment, many 
 promised to give him the first vacancy ; 
 and, with this in prospect, he waited hope- 
 fully, with many strange dreams of the fu- 
 ture iloatirg through his restless brain. 
 
 When Abel promised T<.p that he would 
 think no more about the Blue-coat School, 
 lie tried very hard not to do so; yet he 
 could not drive it from his mind. Day after 
 day ho lingered around the double railing 
 on Newgrte Street, watching the happy 
 bovs, and envying them as much as it was 
 in his noble iitlle heart to envy any one. 
 As he was returning home from his visit, 
 late one afternoon, a little girl sitting on 
 the steps of the Mansion House attracted 
 his attention. Her face was covered with 
 her hands, and she was weeping bitterly. 
 Her Iroek was dirty and ragged ; and her 
 little bare feet were grimy and bruised, as 
 tliough she had walked over rough paths, 
 while her torn apron was full of crushed 
 and broken violets bound together with bits 
 of soiled ribbon wliich showed that they 
 had been tied up into small bouquets such 
 as gentlemen wear in their t'oats. 
 
 " What's the matter with you, little 
 
 u you aiu I no call. - . , ,. i „_ 
 
 1 <r,\\ «mv vou're "et- "irl V " said Abel gently, bending over her, 
 
 ,.~ v^^ii ' fm, -%'. u> r'^ '*^M. '' m!S^ . i i tn i w?3tfg * 
 
* lots o' countiti'- 
 itri'ct, wlurc ilii'y 
 ir ii^ii!. I'll l'>"lt 
 ly wail imlii'iit ; I'll 
 
 I'll imtu'iitly. Top 
 |)iimii-i', or. /i'lu'il 
 ii!(l iliiy tliiit would 
 sure. liccouKl not 
 lit his boy was no 
 was I'ast lii-owin;^ to 
 
 out into tl"! world 
 i>lf. IJiit, while- the 
 ■a, Alu'l was busy 
 own interests, llu 
 r-house into which ho 
 lodi'stly and respect- 
 boy. Nearly every 
 
 111 ; for his handsonu", 
 •eniarkablu neat:ies8 
 •ably. Aliliou|j;h no 
 that moment, many 
 n the first vacancy ; 
 lect, he waited hope- 
 ;ire dreams of the fu- 
 lis restless brain, 
 id To]) that he would 
 he niue-coat School, 
 ot to do so; yet he 
 
 1 his mind. Day after 
 id the double railing 
 watchin;,' the happy 
 !m as much as it was 
 lart to envy any one. 
 hon\e from his visit, 
 
 little <;irl sitting on 
 ision IIousc attracted 
 ice was covered with 
 was weeping bitterly, 
 and ragged ; and her 
 <rriniv and bruised, as 
 ed over roiigh paths, 
 n was full of crushed 
 )und together with bits 
 ich showed that they 
 ) small bouquets such 
 1 their t'oats. 
 itter with you, little 
 ntly, bending over her, 
 ids away from her face. 
 
 \ 
 
 ULITK-KYRD VIOLKT. 
 
 17 
 
 Ills pleasant voice imothed her directly. 
 Swaliowiii'^ a great sob, she rai-ied ii pair 
 of wonderfu! Ii|iii> eyes ronfidingiy, and 
 sail], ill a very sweet, winning voicu, " Ii'm 
 nwfiil, it's re.d awful I " 
 
 " What's awful ? an' what are you prying 
 for? an' what's your violets all broken to 
 pieci's for '/ " 
 
 " It's that I'm cryin' aliont : my vi'Iets U 
 all riiiniMl. Some nasty, bail Iwys snatched 
 my board away, an' pulled them nil out of 
 the holes, an* tore 'era all in pieces, an' 
 throwcil 'cm in my lap, and run aw.iy as 
 fast as ever they could ; an' now I ain't got 
 none to sell, an* Mammy Flint'll beat me 
 awful if I go homi! without money. An' 
 I'm hungry an' tired." Here the poor 
 little soul broke into bitter sobs, and buried 
 her face again. 
 
 " Never mind," said Abel encouragingly : 
 " dim't cry so, an' I'll try an* help you. 
 Wiiy didn't you call a policeman before 
 they run away ? " 
 
 " Lor', Iwy, what a flat you are I " and she 
 looked at him with undisguised contempt 
 in her great blue eyes. « You don't 'spose 
 p'licemcn is ever round I Why, they're 
 never nowhere when you want 'em. I did 
 cry an' call ; but no one heard me, least 
 ways if they did, they didn't come. Oh I 
 oh ! Mammy Flint'll beat mo awful if I go 
 home without no money." 
 
 "Tliere, there, don't cry so I "said the 
 boy again ; for the passionate weeping of 
 the child moved him strangely. « 'Tell me 
 ■where you live, an' what's your name." 
 
 " My name's Vi'lct," she replied : " they 
 call me Blue-eyed Vi'let, most al'ays ; an' 
 Mammy Flint lives in Duck's-foot Lane, 
 an' 1 stay with her when she don't beat me 
 an' drive me away." 
 
 " Haven't you no father, nor no mother ?" 
 questioned Abel, his little heart all aglow 
 with indignation against Mammy Flint, 
 and admiration for tlie beautiful child. 
 
 " No : I ain't none. Mammy Flint says 
 as how my mother sold flowers in Drury 
 Lane, an' how she was a real beauty, an' 
 a 'ansome actor fell in love with her, an' 
 how she died when I was born ; an' that's 
 
 all I know, which isn't mnih. P'rhnps if 
 she'll lived, .Maiiiiny Flint woiililu't a got 
 me, an* I wouldn't a iieen beat so." 
 
 "Poor little thing I" returned Abel; 
 " but what makes you j,'o back to M;iinmy 
 Flint again when she's so eriiel to you i"' 
 
 "'Cause I ain't got no other jilaee to yo; 
 an' I'm hungry an' tired," ,iaid Violet, 
 looking imploringly Into the face of her 
 little champion. 
 
 " Never mind, come along with mo. I've 
 got a good home with Uaddy Top. He's 
 real good, he's always real good to me ; an' 
 I know he'll give you something to eat, an' 
 p'rhaps lie'll let you stay with us." 
 
 Violet hung bac^k, drawing away from 
 Abel's prolTered hand, while her cheeks 
 suddenly Hushed crimson, and her great 
 blue eyes sought the ground with evident 
 ginlt and confusion. " I'm 'shamed to go 
 with you," she stammered out at last, 
 " 'cause I told you an awful lie 'Ixiut them 
 vi'Iets. I broke 'cm to pieces myself. Thiu'.s 
 a dodge Mammy Flint learnt us ; an' it pays 
 better 'an sellin' 'em whole. When they' 
 gets a little wilted, we tears 'em up ; an' 
 then we sets down, and cries like mad till 
 some one comes along as pities us, an' asks 
 us what's the matter. Tlien wo tells 'em the 
 same story as I just told you, when no boys 
 ain't been a near us; an' they most al'ays 
 give us a shillin', an' sometimes more. 
 When we've sold that party, wo goes to 
 another place, and plays the same game, 
 till a p'lieeman comes 'long an' spots us. 
 I'hen we have to run away an' keep out o' 
 sight, or else we'd get trapped, an' our fun'd 
 be spi'led." 
 
 Abel looked at her in profound astonish- 
 ment ; for, although he had lived all his life 
 in the midst of iniquity, owing to Top's 
 watchfulness and his own natural gcxidness, 
 he knew very little of such dark ways. 
 The coolness, and evident relish, with which 
 the little imp told her story at first fright- 
 ened and disgusted him ; and he was inclined 
 to run away and leave her to lier fate. 
 Then, on second thought, he felt that it 
 would be ignoble and cowardly to desert 
 her, as she was only the victim of Mamm/ 
 
 It 
 
 ii y wiw i j i 
 
 I' 'Jmiiiiiiiiiiii . 
 
la 
 
 MOH'.S OF HAND. 
 
 Flint, nn<l, likely. li;iil ncvor Ix'.'ii laii.;li' 
 any iii'tttT ; mul llu'U i-lif wan m> juiiii'^ iu»<l 
 Ml |.i'i'liy, it w.ii ilivaill'iil to l<iivu h«T to 
 thii ii'ii.lcr iinTiii"* 1)1' Hiiili a wretch a* lliii* 
 erwaiiiiH' who luul coiniittiMl her m) early. 
 
 Wiiilo Ahi'l wax thiiikiii,' this over, 
 icuree kmiwinn what to <1<>, Au: was wal( h- 
 In;; iiiin luixioiisly. " I r'|>om! you (hm't 
 want inn to «o with you now you know iiow 
 uwliil I lieV" cho siiil at h'Hirtli, willi iv 
 sort ortiuii.l itniile, wliilc thu tears gathercil 
 slowly in litT cyns. 
 
 " I'm sorry, I'm real sorry, you're ho 
 wieked." returneil Aliel ceriously. " I'm 
 nlVaid Daildy Top won't like, me to hriii;,' 
 home a little (;irl that tlon'l tell the truth." 
 " Yon needn't blamo ini-, you needn't," 
 (laid Violet, a little sullenly. " It ain't my 
 i'ault : A\ii luiikes me do it. If I didn't, she'd 
 beat mo to death every day, dho would. 
 Oh, I'm awful 'Iraid of her ! An' I ean't 
 (TO hack to her to-day, any way, 'I'ause I've 
 tlirowed away my vi'lets, an' I ain't <,'ot no 
 money, an' I ca'i't get none now. It's 
 awlnl, it's real awful ! I wish I hadn't told 
 you, I do, then you'd a took me with you." 
 Here. ]iiissionato sobs ehoked her voice; 
 and, thniwin„' herself on the steps, she 
 bur.-t into a llooil of j,'enuino tears which 
 melted Abel's heart directly. 
 
 " Don't cry any more, don't, for pity's 
 Buke ! and I'll take you just the same. Of 
 coin-se it ain't your fault ; and you sha'n't 
 go back to that horrid old woman that 
 makes you do such wicked thin;^s. I'll tell 
 Daihly Top all about it, and he'll help you 
 to get an honest living." 
 
 The chilli spran;,' up readily, wiped off 
 the tears with her dirty apron, and gave 
 her little hand confidingly to Abel, who led 
 her away from the m\ and suffering of her 
 old life, to what might have been a beauti- 
 ful destiny, but for the fatal inheritance 
 left Iu;r by her mother. 
 
 " Where in the world did you get that 
 little crctur' ? "cried Top, who stood in the 
 door as Abel approached, still holding the 
 hand of the child. 
 
 » O daddy 1 I ibuud her a crying on the 
 Mansion-house steps I " and the boy told her 
 
 brief, Had history, with 'flowing cheeks and 
 sparklin,:; eyes. " Now give her «nmeihin;| 
 to eat, i'tr Aw't tired an' himjity, theru'n n 
 dear d.iddy." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Abel, o* course I will. Old 
 Top never refiiM'H nothin' you a-k him, 
 does he V I don't wonder you pity tli" poor 
 mite. It's awlul to he brought np iu such 
 sin an" wickedness, an' so dirty too! 1 
 b'lieve a little waler'll do her more good 
 'an vict'als at first. So your name's Vi'let ? 
 I hopi! you'll be a good Utile gal, 'eaiise 
 you've got a real sweet name as al'ays 
 'minds me o* spring," said 'lop, addressing 
 the child kindly, as he poured out a ba>in 
 of fresh water, and gave her some soap and 
 ft coarse, clean towel. " Now w.ish yourself 
 clean, mind, real clean ; for Top don't like 
 dirt, 'specially on children : " and, with this 
 injunction, he left the. child to her ablutions, 
 and went to the door-ste[) where Abel was 
 sitting in deep thought. 
 
 " Now, sonny, what's to be done with this 
 little crctur' you've brought home? We 
 can give her a crust to eat, that's true ; but 
 she can't sleep here, fieein' we've only one 
 room. She's (piite ft big gul, ten ye.irs old 
 I should think; so you see, she can't stay 
 hero o' nights." 
 
 " I never thought of that, daddy," said 
 Abel dejectedly, while Top scratched his 
 head and poi\dered dee])ly. 
 
 " I've got a plan at last," cried the old 
 man, briglitening up. " I'll go an' seo 
 Mother Hindi : I b'lieve she'll let her stay 
 with her nights, 'cause she's feeble-like now, 
 an" all alone, an' the child'll be company 
 for her. She's better an' more 'uinble 'an 
 she used to be ; an' she won't be bad to her, 
 if she ain't a goin' to cost her nothin'. I'll 
 go right off an' see her, belbre I give you 
 your "supper ; an' I'll bo back by the time 
 the little gal's washed." 
 
 Abel watched the old man hobble off on 
 his errand of kindne.«s, and then peeped into 
 the door to see if Violet had finished her 
 bath. She was rubbing her lace vigorously, 
 and shaking her abundant curly hair while 
 she laughed to see the water fall in showers 
 over her bare white arms. 
 
 ■ j. i j ' j»ln.M. i u» i» «m"^"V ' t'> ' -i'.Ol i l » »'.W>»J» I W|l!'>«i«ljl&W ^ 
 
THE OLD STORY. 
 
 will;; clicik't nw\ 
 
 VI' lll'l' •><>U|l-|lllll^ 
 
 hiiiijiry, iheru'n ft 
 
 iiw I will. 0{(f 
 1* )oii ii-k liiiii, 
 yiiii |iilv ill" IMMit' 
 iii'^ht 111) ill Hiii'li 
 Ko ilirty III')! 1 
 II lnT iiHir'' «i«)il 
 iiir niiine'!* V'i'lct ? 
 Hull' Kill, 'ciiiinu 
 n;iiuc ii'< iil'iiyK 
 I 'I'op, iviMri-iHiiv^ 
 
 lirml out 11 lill:<ln 
 u'l' dome fimp ivml 
 low Wiisli yoiirsi'lt' 
 titr Tup iliiii'l likii 
 I ; " mill, with this 
 il to lu'r;iljlution-<, 
 p whiTu A1h;1 was 
 
 I 1h! (loiHi with this 
 il;,'ht hoiiH'V NVe 
 it, that's trim ; hut 
 ■In' wii'vi.' only ono 
 j^al, ti'ii yi'.irs old 
 seo, »Lo Oil n't stay 
 
 that, daihly," said 
 Top scratched bis 
 :ly. 
 
 ast," cried the old 
 " I'll i^o an' SCO 
 she'll let her stay 
 le's fecble-liko now, 
 liild'U be company 
 i' more 'iiinble 'an 
 won't be bad to her, 
 st her nothin'. I'll 
 r, belbre I tiive you 
 
 back by the timo 
 
 1 man hobble oflT on 
 nd then peeped into 
 ■t had finished her 
 her iace vigorously, 
 ,nt curly hair while 
 vater fall in showers 
 
 I!) 
 
 " SIki'k ever tm minli prettier now hUv'a 
 clean," thiiil^ht Abfj. •• I do hope duddy 'II 
 let her Hiay here alwayo, hIic'II In- hi niiicli 
 tof/ipiny Tor me; mid »<h<! diM'Kn't Keem a 
 wicked I'liild, aller nil, ' In the liili|<it of hit 
 »o!^''"<|iiy, Top letiirued to Niiy liial .MuiIut 
 Birili \v;|s [lerfcetly willin,' lli;it the Utile 
 yirl >liiiiild sh.iiv l(( rhiiiuble lied. "She's 
 old an' feeble now," said Tup coiiipaMHion- 
 aleli . " an' its Ix'tter for her to have Hoine 
 one with her »/ iii;;hl,s. "cause, if she's wor^-e, 
 Violet's hijif enou'^h to call in lhenei;,'lil)ors, 
 nn' f^o ,«Iii\ won't be the least in the way." 
 
 Tlii'ii the old iiiiiii biiNtliMl iiroiiiid iiiid 
 prepiireii the simple evening,' meal, while 
 Aiiel showed tlie ehiliHiis bonks, and opi'ned 
 to her, for the fust liiiie in her lile, the 
 beaiiiifiil new world of knowledge. 
 
 'I'he next morning Top boii;;ht a fresh 
 siip[»ly of (lowers fir Violet, ami sent her 
 out with miii'h K"ol advice, tellin;; her 
 seriously but kindly that she must work 
 lioiiestly to earn her llvin-,', as he wa.s ((ki 
 poor to feed and clothe her, and that she 
 must b(! a ttood child, and ivniember, if .she 
 did not sell her (lowers, that she must not 
 resort to falsehood, as she always had a 
 home ti) come to where there, was no 
 Miimmy Flint to beat her. Lon;f btfore 
 ni,dil, Violet retiirneil bri;;ht and happy. 
 She had snlii all her llowers and broui,dit Top 
 llio proceeds, which were three siiillin^s. 
 Wiih this lie boii.;lit jut a neat, second- 
 hand calico frock at his old friend's, the Jew 
 ill Ilomidsditeh. .So, clean and fresh, with 
 Imely fice and fragrant llower.s, IJhie-eyed 
 Violet became a ijreat favorite with the 
 gentlemen who passed in and out of the 
 Mansion Ilonse, scllin;,' her bouipiets so 
 re.idily, that, instead of being an extra ex- 
 pense to Top, she rather increased his small 
 iucoiae. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TIIK OLD 8TOBY. 
 
 Now that Violet was earning money, 
 Abel was not contented to be idle any 
 longer. So ho gave up his school, his dreamy 
 
 ' wiinderln;{ round St. Paul'n Churrdiyard, 
 
 bis iile.isimt hours at the riiling of Cliiist's 
 
 llospiiiil, iiinl bis w.ilks to and fimn 
 j the Mansion House, wliere Violet sat on the 
 
 steps like II little ipieeii. her lap full of 
 I llowers, and her bine vyrs sparkling with 
 I pleasure as slxpenee aller nixpence fell 
 
 with a cheerful ring into her tin money. 
 
 l>OX. All llie<i, dear deli.^hts Abel ivli'ii. 
 
 ipiished to p(»s< his lioiirs from seven in 
 llie iiiornlug until wv« n at ni.dit in the 
 I'ountinjj-lioiise of Thiir|» k ^ii\, sliip- 
 ihanillers, on Lower Thames Street, when) 
 he reicived three shillings a week ll)r 
 running of errands, «wcepin.r, dustiie,', and 
 makiii',' hiiMself ;,'enerally useful. 
 
 .Mr. Thor|)e, who was the only one now 
 in the firm, his father having died a year 
 belld-e, was a pli ts.nit. kind-hearted ;;entle- 
 inaii. I-'iom the day when Abel had first 
 stood before lllli) with his line eyes raised 
 frankly to his face, he iiad been tiivorably 
 impressed with the boy ; *o lie often talked 
 with him as lie passed in and out of thk 
 clerk's odlee where he was always busv, nnd 
 sometimes he siuit fir him to come into his 
 own private room to receive some messaire, 
 or to pertbrm .soim^ little .service. In this 
 way he saw considerable of Abel, and began 
 to feel (piite ,111 interest in him. One day, 
 when they were alone, the boy .sorting and 
 arranging his pajicrs with defl hand, .Mr. 
 Thorpe (piestioned him about him-elf. 
 Thereupon Abel told him his little history 
 with such winning artlessuess that tho 
 kind-hearted merchant could scarce restrain 
 his tears. 
 
 " So you really wish to go into the Blue- 
 coat School?" he .saiil, when Abel toM liim 
 of his desire and disappointment. '• Well, 
 my lad, you're too old for that now ; but 
 there's nothing to prevent your .studying 
 alone. You shall have all the books you 
 need. Come to me tor what you want : I will 
 supply you. Devote your evenings, in fact, 
 all your leisure hours, to study; and ther(''s 
 no reason why you shouldn't become an 
 educated man. After all, the will's what's 
 required. Be attentive, <liligent, and honest 
 in your work ; and you shall remain with mo 
 
 wsii^S*^'" "" ' 
 
 '^'' iS^ J .'m.i!i!& >,!k V ? 'fiiJ^;,>5 ^ i ^^;; 
 
 ^a ^ ^ :,:^:- ^'^J,,i ;J a^i ^ g^; - ;^;.,;;a!a --.,^ ^^Ki^tl..t.^',viW:^ 
 
20 
 
 BOPES OF SAND. 
 
 Il 
 
 ir 
 
 as lon<^ as you wisli, and bo promottnl as 
 you deserve. Now, my boy, you have your 
 fortune in your han.ls ; only be industrious 
 and faithful to my interests, and you -hall 
 never ne(<l a friend." Then he told him, 
 with a fother'.s fond pride, that he had a son 
 at Eton who was nearly seventeen, and that 
 when ho linished his eoUeglatc course he 
 would enter the counting-house, .and a.'Ver- 
 wards become his partner; so that the stylo 
 of the firm might remain Thorpe & Son, 
 as it had been for more than a century. 
 
 All these promises .and little confidences 
 dcli'dited Abel, who studied to please his 
 employer in every way. He was always on 
 the alert to do any thing that was nee.led; 
 early and late at his post, watchful, quick, 
 and careful, ready to lend his hand to 
 assist any one, whether in his department 
 or not; s^howing remarkable skill and in- 
 tclli"encc (or one so young. Years after, 
 ho looked back on these days as the happi- 
 est of his life ; for his troubles had not then 
 bcTun. When his work was done, and well 
 done, he would hasten to his humble home, 
 with a step that was never weary, and a 
 heart that was never anxious, carrying with 
 him some new books, a ribbon for Violet, 
 some little rUl for Top. or a dainty for their 
 simple supper. How they enjoyed that 
 meal! the three seated round the pine 
 table. Top as much a chiM as either of 
 them, laughing with delight at Violet's 
 lively description of some little adventure, 
 counting with eager pleasure the proceeds 
 of her day's sales, planning for a new Irock 
 or hat with as much interest as the girl 
 herself, or listening attentively to Abel's 
 account of his work, his friends, his con- 
 versation with llv. Thorpe, his ardent boy- 
 ish plans and expectations, beautiful with 
 the -low of youth and hope. These were 
 moments in the old man's life that left him 
 nod.in ' to desire or regret. Instead ot one 
 child, he had two ; for Violet was very fond 
 of him, and had given him no trouble : so 
 llvr, she had been a good girl, had kept her- 
 self neat and clean, and had assisted Top 
 about his household affairs willingly and 
 skilfully. Every morning she went to sell 
 
 I her flowers on the steps of the Mansion 
 ' House ; and every .:vening she returned 
 cheerfullv, with a merry he.art and light 
 step, to give old Top the proceeds of her 
 day's sales, which he carefully adde.l to a 
 little fund he was saving for her i'uture 
 needs. So Violet had nothing to comp.ain 
 of: she was well fed, well clothed, clean, 
 and healthy ; she ha.l almost Ibrgotten her 
 piist life and old Mother Flint; and there 
 was not a happier llower-girl in all London 
 than she ; and, besides all her other bless- 
 ings, Abel was teaching her how to read 
 and write, and how to bo good. The boy 
 was a guanlian angel, who stood between 
 her and evil ; and old Top was her faithtu 
 mentor, who never failed to point a moral 
 from the wretched girls and women who 
 filled the tenements around them. " Look 
 at her, Vi'let," ho would siiy, referring to 
 some poor sinner who was reaping the bit- 
 ter harvest of her folly, "1 can remember 
 her when she was young, an' as lov'ly as a 
 flower, with blue eyes like yours, an' cheeks 
 as red as .laraask roses I but she was vam 
 an' idle, an' went wrong. Dear Lord 1 sec 
 her now I what a wreck she is ! an' it s the 
 way you'll look if you ever follow in her 
 steps; mind what me an' Abel say to you; 
 keep tidy an' modest, an' tend to your work 
 an' books, an- one o' these days, who knows, 
 p'rhaps you'll be mistress o' your own house, 
 with a husband an' a baby that you'll be 
 as fond of as I was o' mine when he was a 
 
 wee thing." 
 
 In a year Abel had become so useful to 
 Mr. Thorpe, that he increased his wages, 
 and allowed him many favors unusual to a 
 1 boy in his position. The money he earned 
 seemed a small fortune to Top, who hoarded 
 it carefully, to the end that his chil-l, who 
 was Trowing tall and large, might bo better 
 clothed ; for he could no longer wear the 
 little patched jackets and trousers which the 
 old man picked up for him in lloun.lsditch. 
 Top was delighte<l when he saw him ar- 
 rayed for the first time in an entire now 
 suit, coarse and plain, to be sur3, but well 
 cut, and well made ; and Violet daneed 
 around him, like a bewildered sprite, clap- 
 
 t^iwtssttawi'g'ew * ! " » »" ■*' 
 
 asjja teisaat sggsStr' 
 
3f tlio Mansion 
 c she retiirneil 
 heart and liglit 
 proce(!ils of her 
 ully added to a 
 fur her i'uturo 
 jing to conii»iain 
 I elothi'd, clean, 
 »st forj^otten her 
 ^Unt; and there 
 irl in all London 
 her other bless- 
 ler how to read 
 good. The boy 
 
 stood between 
 was her faithful 
 
 to point a moral 
 
 and women who 
 
 d them. " Look 
 
 say, referrhij; to 
 
 reaping the bit- 
 
 1 can remember 
 
 an' as lov'ly as a 
 
 yours, an' cheeks 
 
 but she was vain 
 
 Dear Lord 1 see 
 
 he is ! an' it's tlie 
 
 ver follow in her 
 
 Abel say to you ; 
 
 tend to your work 
 
 ■ days, wlio knows, 
 
 o' your own house, 
 
 iby that you'll be 
 
 ine when he was a 
 
 jcome so useful to 
 :reased his wages, 
 favors unusual '.o a 
 e money he earned 
 ) Top, who hoarded 
 that his child, who 
 ■"e, might be better 
 10 longer wear the 
 
 1 trousers which the 
 im in lloundsditch. 
 jn he saw him ar- 
 
 in an entire new 
 to bo sura, but well 
 ind Violet daneed 
 ildered sprite, clap- 
 
 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 21 
 
 ping her hands, laughing, and telling him 
 that he was "a deal ban'souier 'an the 
 Prince o' Wales." 
 
 It was on a Sunday, when Abel wore his 
 fine clothes for the first time, and Violet 
 had a new cambric frock, and a pretty straw 
 hat with a blue ribbon. Like all girls of 
 that age, she was anxious to display them : 
 therefore, she clamored to be taken some- 
 where ; and Abel joined her, crying at the 
 same time with her, " Take us somewhere, 
 daddy : take us somewhere." 
 
 " I would willin'ly, children ; but I ain't 
 fine enough to go out with you, I ain't," 
 said Top, looking at himself ruefully. " I've 
 got only my old patched duds, that ain't 
 fit company for these new things." 
 
 " O daildy I don't say that," cried Aljcl, 
 bringing forward the old man's best jacket 
 and cap ; while Violet tied his neckerchief 
 into a smart bow. *' You're always nice 
 enough. We're proud of you any way ; 
 ain't we, Violet V " 
 
 " Well, then, if you don't mind, an' if 
 you ain't 'shamed o' your old daddy, I'll go 
 along an' take you both to the Tower. 
 Have you ever seen the Tower o' London, 
 Vi'let V " 
 
 "No, no, daddy, I never have. I've 
 never seen only the outside," cried the girl 
 eagerly. " Oh, oh ! won't it be jolly to see 
 the inside 1 " 
 
 " An' Abel'll tell us all about it, 'cause 
 he knows history," said Top proudly. 
 
 " Yes : Abel'll tell us," echoed Violet, 
 as they set out on each side of the quaint 
 old man. 
 
 It was a bright June day, for there are 
 bright days in London, and a happy day for 
 these three beings who envied no one. 
 Violet almost laughed under the noses of 
 the warders, who were so important in 
 their curious costume; but when they en- 
 tered the Lion's Gate, she became suddenly 
 grave, and clung closely to Abel's band. 
 The deep moat, the gloomy arches, the 
 warlike towers, frightened her a little ; and 
 her great blue eyes devoured Abel, while 
 he whispered, " This is the Traitors' Gate, 
 where prisoners, brought by the Thames, 
 
 entered never to go out again. This is the 
 Bell Tower, wl.>;re Queen Klizabeth was 
 imprisoned; aud this is the Bloody Tower, 
 where the lit»le Princes were murdered by 
 their cruel uncle." 
 
 " It don't look very wicked now," whis- 
 pered Top, as they followed the warder 
 into a room where the portcullis to one of 
 the inner tower gates was drawn up, un- 
 used and harmless enough. One of the offi- 
 cers lived in this tower ; his wife was wash- 
 ing dishes on a table near the massive iron- 
 barred portcullis, with its great crank and 
 rusty chain ; some scarlet geraniums blos- 
 somed in a window over it ; and a child 
 played on the floor with a broken painted 
 soldier. The woman was singing cheerfully 
 when they entered ; and the sun shone 
 bright on the flowers, and touched the ojjpo- 
 site wall with a patch of gold. 
 
 " It's innocent an ' peacefiil enough here 
 now," said Top with some surprise. " I 
 don't b'lieve its true that all them wicked 
 deeds was done here." 
 
 " True as gospel, my man," returned the 
 warder, as be stooped to pinch the baby's 
 cheek. 
 
 " Will you let us look under the stairs 
 where the bones of the little Princes were 
 found V " asked Abel of the pleasant-faced 
 woman. 
 
 " Yes, indeed I will, ray little man," she 
 replied, kindly patting the boy's handsome 
 bead. Then she threw a tin horse to the 
 child to amuse it while she was gone, and 
 led the way, while the warder stop[)ed to 
 take a drink from a bright pewter mug. 
 
 Violet would not look into the dark hole : 
 she disliked dreary places ; and her face was 
 quite pale and awestricken when Top and 
 Abel joined her at the door. 
 
 " Goodness ! child, you needn't be afraid. 
 There's nothin' there but an old closet, an' 
 some pots an' pans, common enough now, 
 even if the Princes was burled there, which 
 I don't much b'lieve, seein' as no one can 
 tell correct what happened so long 
 ago." 
 
 The armory Interested and pleased them 
 all much better than did the Towers. Violet 
 
 , .»iiwii^.>i; ;a: Hi3a^^a ^^^i' ~" 
 
 '''«^4 ^ r.si a ^»,j it!a.g J Siwsasi 
 
 ^?-*'V.k.^i^i-^fr^;!:^^g3gjjiiif4^M-M^^JJ^^!»j^>*^^^ ' .w\M* ' 
 
MWito 
 
 •><> 
 
 ROPES OP SAND. 
 
 |t<' 
 
 (•ln|)|(('<l lior Imnds at tho linr?os all dressi'd 
 in till' hiiglite'st fti'cl, tliinkin:; at first that 
 they were real animals tliat would praiicf 
 and jiaw if those iirim wai'i-iofs, also in shin- 
 in.; ariniir, did not hold thcni so ti;j;ht]y. 
 TluMi slio wished that all theso (jiiiet figiiros 
 and iiroiid-lookin<i char^jers would suddenly 
 eonu- to lil'e, and rush at each oilier with 
 their laiiees tilted, and their searlet and 
 white plinnes wavinj;loand fro. And what 
 ii' all these gilded banners and badges and 
 ])ennons should tlutterand (loat in tlie wind, 
 and the swords should elasli, and the can- 
 nons roar, and these brazen-mouthed triun- 
 pots shoidd ring out their loudest jieals ? 
 So absorbed was she in thinking of ail this, 
 that she scarcely heard Abel tell her she 
 must walk faster, as the warder w;\s impa- 
 tient at her lagiring steps. Although she 
 was delighted with the armory, she thought 
 the jewel-house the most beautiful of all. 
 The crowns and the royal sceptre with the 
 cross of gold, the rubies, emeralds, and 
 diamonds, the rodofeipiity with the golden 
 dove, and the orb baniled with ])recious 
 stones, all these made her eyes sparkle and 
 her cheeks glow. She loved bcautitiil 
 things ; and she showed her love so strongly, 
 that Top would not allow her to remain to 
 hxik at I hem as long as she wished. 
 
 " They're only temptations o' Satan," he 
 said, " to lead the poor astray. You mustn't 
 love jewels, chihl ; if you do, they '11 bo your 
 ruin. Many a girl has lost her soul for one 
 o' them sparklin' things. Don't love 'em, 
 don't covet 'em, don't think nothin' about 
 'em." 
 
 Abel could not help looking at them nny 
 more than Violet could ; for he was saying 
 to himselti " Her eyes are as blue as the 
 pajiphires, her teeth as white as the pearls, 
 her lips as red as the rubies; and, while we 
 have her, wc needn't envy tho queen her 
 jewels." 
 
 Tlicy were both unwilling to go, and 
 lingered a little as Top led them away : then 
 the old man, fearing that he had deprived 
 them of a pleasure, began to blame the 
 warder to excuse himself. " They al'ays do 
 hurry so," he said, when they were outside 
 
 the gate. " Wc ain't seen half our money's 
 worth, have we V " 
 
 " Oh, yes, we have, dixody I " cried Vio- 
 let cxciti dly : "them bcautitul jewels is 
 enough for one day. O Lor ' ! how I should 
 like to liave a brooch as big as that biyrest 
 oiie that sparkled so." 
 
 " Hush, husli, Vi'let," said Top sternly, 
 " don't go to admirin' jewels ; if you do, 
 you'll soon learn t'adniiro sin : don't think 
 o' finery if you want to be a virtuous, happy 
 girl." 
 
 " I only like them 'cause they're pretty, 
 that's all, dad<ly," returned Violet, glancing 
 slyly at Abel, who was walking thoughttiilly 
 at her side. 
 
 " You're not ponderin' on 'em, are you, my 
 boy V " (juestioned Top anxiously. 
 
 '' No. no, daddy ! I wasn't thinking of 
 them at all. It was something (juite dilfer- 
 ent: I was thinking that I should be con- 
 tented to be poor and humble, if I only 
 might be happy an<l peaceful all my lilc. 
 If I could, I shouldn't like to be rich and 
 great, and miss being happy." 
 
 " You're a g(xjd boy, Abel : you're al'ays 
 thinkin' o' somethin' good," said Top 
 approvingly ; '• an' so you can't fail to bo 
 happy. You've got a fair prospect before 
 you ; an' you'll be a blessin' to every one, 
 'specially your old daddy." 
 
 '■ But don't you b'lieve that every one 
 that's ricjj is happy ? " questioned Violet 
 with unusual thoughtfulness. " Seems to 
 me, if I liad silk frocks and pretty jewels 
 I'll be awful happy." 
 
 " O Vi'let, Vi'let I I'm sorry, I am, to hear 
 you say that. It's only good jieople that's 
 happy," replied Top severely. " You never 
 can have silk an' jewels honest, never ; an' 
 if you get 'em any other way you'll come to 
 dreadful misery." 
 
 The girl opened her great blue eyes, and 
 smiled a little disdainfully, but said nothing.; 
 (or the jewels seemed to Hash belbre her, 
 and the silken embroidered braners to 
 float in the air around her. From that 
 day a new passion took possession of her 
 heart. She thought constantly of silks 
 and jewels, and looked with silent contempt 
 
 « ■ . I'MJ-m'm , ^ »MlW^i n m ' ,-■.,^■-^iW « M f fe l ' .'.»(i.ilti !( > i B.'»BMfe^ 
 
LOST. 
 
 23 
 
 half 
 
 our money 8 
 
 'dy ! " crii'il Vio- 
 aiiiit'iil jewels is 
 jr ' ! liow I (ilioiild 
 ig as that bigrest 
 
 laid Top sternly, 
 
 ivels ; it' you <lo, 
 
 sin : don't think 
 
 a virtuous, happy 
 
 «o they're pretty, 
 I Violet, iflaiieiiig 
 king thoughtt'uUy 
 
 n 'em, are you, my 
 xiously. 
 
 asn't thinking of 
 thing (jnitu diller- 
 I should be eon- 
 umljle, if I only 
 eeful all my lile. 
 ce to be rich and 
 )y." 
 
 bel : you're al'ays 
 ;ond," said Top 
 can't fail to be 
 r prospect before 
 isin' to every one, 
 
 c that every ona 
 rjuestioued Violet 
 less. " Seems to 
 ind pretty jewels 
 
 srry, I am, to hear 
 ood jieople that's 
 siy. " You never 
 onest, never ; an' 
 'ay you'll come to 
 
 eat blue eyes, and 
 , but said nothing.; 
 iiash betbre her, 
 iered bamners to 
 her. From tlvat 
 possession of her 
 nstantly of silks 
 th silent contempt 
 
 on the plain clothes Top bought for her. 
 She never saw an elegantly dressed lady 
 pass in her carriage but she envied her, 
 and wished that she could have the same. 
 Still she breatheil no word of her discon- 
 tent to Abel, who loved her more and more 
 as time passed away. During the still 
 happy ye.irs of their childhood. To]), liking 
 to make them happy, otlcn took them on 
 little excursions. In the winter they went 
 to the liritish Museum, to Kensington, and 
 the National Gallery, — for this poor old 
 man was naturally refined and intelligent, 
 enjoying even what ho did not understand ; 
 and in the summer, to Windsor, to Ilamj)- 
 ton Court by the Thames, to Kew Gardens, 
 to Greenwich, and to many other suburban 
 resorts. Often in the long twilights of 
 spring, they took an omnibus and rode to 
 Hyde Park, where they wandered about at 
 will among the crowd of pleasure-seekers. 
 There Violet saw much to strengthen her 
 love for finery and showy attire. In the 
 innocence of her heart she envied the guilty 
 women who flaunted in robes of shame, not 
 knowing at what a ruinous price they liad 
 bought them. Ollen when Top and Abel 
 thought hei* perfectly contented and happy, 
 she was making comparisons, complain- 
 ing silently of her hard lot in life, and wish- 
 ing she were oliler, tliat she might earn 
 money enough to buy handsomer dresses. 
 
 Almost before old Top was aware of it, 
 his children were no longer children : for 
 Violet was sixteen, and Abel eighteen. 
 Tlic boy had gone on steadily improving in 
 knowledge and goodness, having been pro- 
 moted from one position to another, until 
 he was now Mr. Thorpe's private secretary, 
 with a salary of forty pounds a year. Vio- 
 let still sold her flowers on the steps of the 
 Mansion House, a neat, graceful girl, whose 
 blue eyes and lovely face attracted far too 
 much attention ; yet her innocence and 
 youth had jirotected her till now, and Abel's 
 love and watchful care left her little to fear 
 in the future. 
 
 Old Top still continued to live in his 
 cellar, and carry his sand to his customers 
 as usual. Though he was very feeble now, 
 
 [ and tottered pitifully, nothing could induce 
 him to leave a jdace that had been his 
 I home for so many years ; but he liad hired 
 the floor above, and now had a little parlor 
 and two sleeping-rooms, one of which 
 Violet had occupied for some lime, ^lother 
 Birch having dropped olf suddenly about 
 i the time of Aiiel's first promotion. They 
 i were a very happy little family, an<l the 
 i old man w.as more than contented with his 
 lot. Sometimes, in thinking of all his bless- 
 ings, bis heart would soften until the tears 
 would run down his cheeks, and he would 
 s.ay in a voice of reverential gratitude, ad- 
 dressing himself after his old habit, '• Top, 
 you've never deserved half you've got. The 
 Lord's been too good to you to give you two 
 such children, an' four rooms to live in, an' 
 such a blessin' in Abel. If that poor cre- 
 tur' coulil see her boy now, wouldn't she 
 rejoice over him, he's so good, and such a 
 gentleman ! An' Vi'let, too, that'll be his 
 wife some day, he couldn't find a better nor 
 a fairer in all London." 
 
 So, while Top was rejoicing over his own 
 happiness, and the pleasant future of his 
 children, Abel and Violet were rehearsing 
 the first chapter of that sweet old story 
 that nearly all who have lived have lis- 
 tened to in the glowing morning of youth 
 and hope. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LOST. 
 
 ' " Isn't that beautifnl ? isn't that perfect ? 
 Won't you buy it for nie? I should so like 
 to have it 1 " said Violet, looking into Abel's 
 face with real entreaty in her lovely eyes. 
 " I haven't a single pretty thing ; and that 
 is so pretty 1 " 
 
 They stood before a jeweller's window in 
 the Strand ; and the object which she so 
 much coveted was a flashy brooch of fiilso 
 diamonils and emeralds, marked, " Only one 
 crown." 
 
 " Buy that for you, Violet ? Why, it's 
 
 Mm i \ iv irtmi i aaiBS*" ' 
 
 ,M^St}&m^kSHiimmi" . tmfm'Smii'j'> 
 
 AV,i i t ' iiift p yjai»iht''s » mw:j,?jfe^iu g ,iM^li<j^ < j ' -# 
 
iiHi 
 
 24 
 
 B0PE8 OF SAND. 
 
 Ihti 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 HI 
 'I 
 
 ill 
 
 m 
 
 E III 
 
 
 only jjlass and pincbbeck," replied Abel, 
 laujjliin^. 
 
 " 1 don't care if it is : it's lovely, and you 
 might buy it for me." 
 
 " My dear Violet, you know I bate to 
 refuse you any tbinjr," said Abel, gently 
 pre8sin<r tbe band tbat lay on bis arm ; 
 " but be reasonable, and don't ask for what 
 is ini|K)ssible. In the first place, even if it 
 wasn't a waste of money to buy it, it's not 
 a suitable thing for you to have. Tliink 
 of the folly of your wearing such an orna- 
 ment as tbat in your present position. 
 One of these days, when you're my dear 
 little wife, and I have a salary of perbaps 
 two hundred pounds a year, you shall have 
 a brooi'h of real gold ; but now, pray don't 
 ask for such a bauble : it would add 
 nothing to your beauty." 
 
 " Indeed it would," returned Violet, pout- 
 ing and tearful. " I'd look ever so much 
 better if I bad that to fasten my collar in- 
 stead of this ugly bow. If you really loved 
 me as much as you siiy you do, you would 
 not refuse me such a little thing." 
 
 " Don't say tbat, dear," cried Abel, with 
 a troubled glance at the pretty, clouded 
 i'ace at his side : " I give you all I can. I'd 
 willingly give you more if I couhl ; but we 
 must save our money, and be very prudent, 
 tbat in a year we can furnish rooms in a 
 more respectable locality than Black-cat 
 Lane. Then, dear old daddy mustn't work 
 any longer. lie is very feeble, and we 
 must support him comfortably as long as 
 be lives. He has done so much for us, that 
 we can never half repay hiui." 
 
 " I know it, Abel : he's been good, and 
 we'll do every thing to make him happy ; 
 but still, I do want tbat brooch awfully." 
 
 " Don't look at tbe worthless thing any 
 longer. Forget such follies, and be liappy 
 with what you have," said Abel a little 
 sternly, as he drew tbe reluctant girl away 
 from tbe show window with its false glare 
 and glitter. 
 
 " Why don't you ever take me to a play ? " 
 persisted Violet. " Other young people, no 
 better off than we are, go sometimes." 
 
 " I dou't take you because I don't think 
 
 it best, in our position, to indulge in such 
 useless expense ; besides, it promotes a taste 
 for pleasure that is ruinous to sober con- 
 tentment." 
 
 "I can't see any barm in being happy 
 once in a while." 
 
 " Happy once in a while ! But ain't you 
 always happy witli me, Violet V " qi^estioned 
 Abel sadly and anxiously. 
 
 "I am happy enough, I suppose," re- 
 turned tbe girl. " But every one wants a 
 change now and then." 
 
 " Well, we often have a change. Didn't 
 we go to Battersea, and pass a delightful 
 dav, last week ? d<jn't we take charming 
 walks in tbe parks? don't we go to free 
 lectures and concerts ? and don't we have 
 plenty of books to read together ? How can 
 we be happier than we are ? We're young 
 and healthy, and have enough for our sim- 
 ple wants : then, why wish for what wo 
 can't have Y " 
 
 "I'm glad if you're contented," replied 
 the girl fretfully ; " but I'm not. It's no use. 
 I may as well tell you tbe truth : I do like 
 fine things. I should like to be rich, and 
 ride in the park, and go to plays ; to dance 
 and sing ; to have gay company around me, 
 and — and " — 
 
 " No more, Violet I that's enough I " cried 
 the young man sternly. "I know what you 
 would say : that you're not 8atis(fied with the 
 life I ofl'er you. In Heaven's name, think 
 what you are saying 1 and, if you have such 
 foolish desires, keep them in your own 
 heart, and smother and kill them there ; 
 tor they never can bo gratified lawfully. 
 Don't pain me, don't pain the good old 
 man who has done so much for you, by 
 giving expression to them." 
 
 '' O Abel I you're so cross, so awful 
 cross and unreasonable 1 " returned Violet 
 pettishly. " You know I love you dearly, 
 and Daddy Top too; still I can't help it if I 
 like pretty things : but dou't look no, don't 
 speak so, and I won't mention it again." 
 
 Abel's heart softened directly when she 
 raised her beautiful eyes, full of tears, to 
 his face with a timid, imploring glance. 
 They were iu tbe street, but it Wiw eveu- 
 
 II J) ». v!\-^»*wma i H'J u .!.m w 
 
 \ i t) f t! ■»?»: .m '.v%.i!--Jt/ : iis. ' :t^' :' -WM>Mm ' -ii ^J M«imm 
 
 I.UII II J miiUBII iiB|M«lSiii|il,>JJ«l#iaS-ltf!ifc • 
 
in(lul<;c in 8iieh 
 t pruinutu!* u tasto 
 (US to sober con- 
 
 1 in buing liappy 
 
 D ! But ain't you 
 )let V " qiK'stioned 
 
 , I suppoM'," re- 
 cry one wants a 
 
 change. Didn't 
 pass a delightful 
 a take charming 
 't wo go to Tree 
 id don't we have 
 ;ether ? How can 
 ? We're young 
 )ugh for our sim- 
 lish for what we 
 
 itented," replied 
 1 not. It's no use. 
 truth : I do like 
 I to be rich, and 
 9 plays ; to dance 
 apai.y around me, 
 
 's enough ! " cried 
 I know what you 
 ; satis^fied with the 
 ren's name, think 
 , if you have such 
 m in your own 
 kill them there ; 
 ratified lawfully, 
 tin the good old 
 iiuch for you, by 
 
 Q." 
 
 cross, so awful 
 " returned Violet 
 [ love you dearly, 
 I can't help it if I 
 n't look so, don't 
 ition it again." 
 irectly when she 
 !, fidl of tears, to 
 mploring glance. 
 , but it Wi»a even- 
 
 LG3T. 
 
 25 
 
 lag, and no one was near; so he put 
 his arm round her, and kissed her fondly. 
 Atler that they walked on in silence. At the 
 entrance into Ludgate Street, they were 
 met by a wretched looking man, who held 
 out the stumps of both arms, and asked (or 
 charity in a voice of pitiful entreaty. 
 There was an expression in his mournful 
 face that Abel could not resist; so he 
 stopped, spoke kindly to him, and gave 
 him a shilling. 
 
 " There," said Violet, when they were 
 out of hearing, " you gave that beggar a 
 shilling ; but you would not buy the brooch 
 for me. You are so generous to every 
 one else." 
 
 " What ! complaining again ? remember 
 the promise you just made me." 
 
 " Ah ! I forgot : I will remember it. For- 
 give me, Abel ; you're better than I am," 
 replied the girl penitently. 
 
 When they reached home, they found 
 the lamp burning on the table, and their 
 books laid ready for them ; for it was a 
 rule with Abel never to go to bed until he 
 had read something useful. Top had re- 
 tired for the night, but called to them from 
 his little room to say that they would find 
 some currant-buns in the closet for their 
 supper. 
 
 " How thoughtful he always is I " said 
 Abel with a tender smile. " How much we 
 shall have to do for him to repay him for 
 all his loving care ! " 
 
 Violet made no reply, but silently laid 
 aside her hat and shawl. 
 " Shall we read a chapter of The Heart of 
 Mid-Lothian,' before we go to bed ? " ques- 
 tioned Abel, drawing a chair near to the 
 table. 
 
 "No: I don't want to read to-night," 
 replied the girl, twisting a curl of her sod 
 brown hair idly round her finger. 
 
 " Are you vexed with me, Violet, dear ? " 
 said Abel at length. 
 
 " Vexed ? Oh, no I I was only thinking." 
 
 "Of what'/" 
 
 " Never mind : I sha'n't tell you ; because, 
 if I do, you'll only be cross and scold me. 
 I'm sleepy and tired, so I'll go to bed ; " 
 
 and, stooping overiiim, she touched her lips 
 lightly to his forehead, and they parted for 
 the night. 
 
 I^ng afler Violet retired, Abel sat at the 
 little table with "The Heart of Mid- Lo- 
 thian "open before him. But he was not read- 
 ing : he was thinking deeply ; and more than 
 once a silent tear rolled down his face, 
 and fell unnoticed on the pages of the 
 book. Tlie next morning ho awoke with 
 an unaccountable depression at his heart, 
 which ho carried with him to his work. 
 \Vhen he entered the ofli(;e, Mr. Thorpe 
 met him at the door, and introduced liiui to 
 his son, Mr. Robert Tliorpc. The young 
 man gave his hand to Abel pleasantly 
 and frankly, and said, that he was glad 
 to have a companion whom his father re- 
 spected so highly; that they were to be 
 together in the private office ; and he was 
 sure they would soon be good friends. 
 
 Abel replied simply and honestly, that 
 he should do all in his power to deserve his 
 esteem and confidence ; and that he should 
 be happy to be useful to him in any way. 
 
 " Then take him under your care, and 
 introduce him to business at once ; fur I'm 
 afraid he's an idle dog, and will find work 
 here rather dull afler his life at Eton," said 
 Mr. Thorpe good-naturedly. "Now I'm 
 going to Lloyd's fo^' an hour ; and I'll leave 
 you together to get better acquainted." 
 
 When Abel was alone with young Mr. 
 Thorpe, he studied hiin carefully ; for he 
 had seldom seen a handsomer face and fig- 
 ure. He had a broad, white forehead ; light, 
 curling hair ; brown eyes, womanly sweet in 
 their expression; a small mouth, with full 
 lips, shaded by a thin, silken mustache ; a 
 short chin a little receding ; round, white 
 throat ; broad, square shoulders ; small feet 
 and hands; and long, well-shaped limbs. 
 Although he was handsome, as Abel saw at 
 a glance, still there was something wanting 
 in his face : perhaps it was strength, perhaps 
 it was truth. His countenance was like an 
 unfinished sketch, full of beauties, and full 
 of impisrfections. " He is indolent," thought 
 Abel, making his mental estimation, " fond 
 of pleasure, generous, and weak, and be 
 
 MiMimiMnmsi. ' Ug'. ' Wtviimmif - ^Af'^tj'm.' 
 
^6 
 
 B0PE3 OP SAND. 
 
 will disappoint his r,oo<\ father. Still 1 know 
 I shall become attacheil to him in a very lit- 
 tle while ; and before a year I shall be 
 readv to make any sacrifice for him." 
 
 In'that, Abel had jiid;j;ed rightly : before a 
 month he was devoted to youn-,' Mr. Thorpe ; 
 and, before a year, ho loved him better than 
 any one besides VioKit and Top. And tlie 
 yoiin',' licntlemar. i'ked Aixd in a !j;ood-na- 
 tmvd, patronizing w.ay. He was very iilie, 
 and took bi-.L little interest in his father's 
 business, although he had the prosjiect of a 
 partnership after the first year. Mr. Thorpe 
 never knew how careless Mr. Robert wiw ; 
 for lately, being in bad health, he spent less 
 of his time in his oHice than formerly, leav- 
 a great [yart of his work to his son, whom 
 he" wished to bo thoroughly aecimunted 
 with the business of the house before he 
 represented it as q. partner. But Al)el did 
 the work of both manfully ; never com- 
 plaining if he was overtaxed, or if lie 
 worked" earlier and later than the other 
 clerks, so that Mr. Thorpe sliouM not dis- 
 cover liis son's unworthiuess. 
 
 "It's cursed dry work!" young Mr. 
 Thorpe would say sometimes, yawning over 
 the Imgc i>iles of letters that it was his 
 duty to open, " to sit here hour after hour, 
 bent over these papers, when one wants to 
 be in the park or on the 'J'liames." 
 
 Often he would come in late, flushed and 
 excited ; and, instead of taking his seat at 
 his desk, he would say, " Winter, you must 
 look over the letters to-day. I'm off to 
 Regent's for a game of cricket." Per- 
 haps it would be the match of " Gentle- 
 men" against" Players," or '• Kent" against 
 " All England," or " Eton " against " Har- 
 row ; " and he was an inveterate cricketer, 
 and could not deny himself the pleasure of 
 being present at every popular match. 
 Then ho would add, as he hurried away 
 alter selecting his own private letters, " If 
 the governor couies, don't tell where Vm ofl" 
 to ; "and, if there's more than you can do, 
 give it to some of »' "'bs ' in the outer 
 office." 
 
 After he was gone, Abel would tackle his 
 work resolutely, and never leave his post 
 
 until every thing was completed, lie liked 
 to labor hard ; he did not mind being over- 
 tasked; he was young and strong, and 
 withal, very ambitious, and anxious that his 
 employer should fiml him useful and faithful. 
 He hail often boasted that he never was tired 
 in all his lifij ; that at night he was as fresh as 
 in the morning ; that he could work like a 
 horse, and never exhaust his strength : but 
 now there were times when he liked to bo 
 inactive ; when his daily duties seemed to 
 weigh a little upon him ; when his step was 
 not so elastic, nor his heart so light. Was 
 it weariness, or anxiety V He did not know. 
 Perhaps it was disappointment ; for Violet 
 was very strivngo sometimes, anil ho could 
 not always find an excuso for her caprices. 
 Not long after the evening when he had 
 refused to buy the brooch for her at the 
 Strand, he happened to be near the Man- 
 sion House, returning from a commission for 
 Mr. Thorpe ; so he thought ho would stop 
 and walk home with her. The girl, looking 
 another way, did not sje him until he was 
 close beside her ; but the first thing ho no- 
 ticed, as he approached, was the hateful 
 gewgaw that ho had denied her, f\istened 
 into Uio front of her dress. His disappoint- 
 ment, and the thought that she should buy 
 it in spite of his advice to the contrary, 
 wounded him so deeply that he could scarce 
 conceal his trouble. The moment her eyes 
 fell upon Abel, she started violently, flushed 
 crimson, and, hastily tearing out the offen- 
 sive ornament, she tried to conceal it in her 
 pocket, while she stammered a confused 
 welcome. 
 
 •' Violet, how long have you had this 
 thing V" said Abel severely, intercepting 
 her hand on its way to her pocket. 
 " Three days," she stammei-ed. 
 "Then, why have I never seen it be- 
 fore?" 
 
 " Because — because — I don't know " — 
 " No equivocation 1 It's a little thing, but 
 it hurts me dreadfully. You know I didn't 
 wish you to have it ; yet you bought it, 
 and concealed the fiict from mo. Have you 
 worn it before to-day ? " 
 "Yes." 
 
 - , ;.J MHM U lll umU •mmm < MMJ , M,.M)ILmlimM l i;ar 
 
LOST. 
 
 27 
 
 plotcil. lie liked 
 iniiiil huiii;; oviT- 
 nnil stron;;, and 
 il anxious that his 
 isft'iil anil faithful, 
 lie iR'vt-r was tired 
 he was as fresh as 
 soulil work like a 
 his »tri'n;;th: but 
 leu ho likid to ho 
 duties seemed to 
 when his step was 
 irt so lij^ht. Was 
 lie did not know. 
 tmeiit; for Violet 
 mes, and ho could 
 B for her caprices. 
 nin<^ when ho had 
 L'h for her at tho 
 be near the Man- 
 mi a commission for 
 ^ht he would stop 
 The f,'irl, looking 
 ij him until he was 
 
 first tiling ho no- 
 1, was the hateful 
 mied her, listened 
 IS. His disap])oint- 
 hat she should buy 
 tx to the contrary, 
 that he could scarce 
 ho moment her eyes 
 ed violently, flushed 
 vring out the offen- 
 
 1 to conceal it in her 
 nmered a confused 
 
 have you had this 
 
 verely, intercepting 
 
 her pocket. 
 
 ;ammei'ed. 
 
 ; never seen it be- 
 
 . — I don't know" — 
 It's a little thing, but 
 You know I didn't 
 ; yet you bought it, 
 from mo. Have you 
 ?" 
 
 " Then, you've hidden it away when you 
 came home, so that I should not see 
 it." 
 
 " I was afraid that you'd bo cross, and 
 that D.iddy Top would scold me." 
 
 " And so you deceive<l us both V " 
 
 "I didn't deceive you; I didn't say any 
 tliiM'4 about it," she returned, looking at 
 Abel a little defiantly. 
 
 " Violet, where did you get the money 
 to buy it with ? You've broui;ht home your 
 usiiid amount every night : how, then, did 
 you get a crown ? " 
 
 She hesitated, turning ,)ale and crimson 
 by turns, and hanging her head in the 
 dee]K'st confusion. 
 
 '• Tell me : where did you get it? " urged 
 Abel with a determination to know all. 
 
 " A young gentleman gave mo a crown 
 for a bouipiet." 
 
 " Why did he give you a crown for a 
 boucpiet, when you sell them for sixpence 
 each Y " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 "And you kept it?" questioned Abul. 
 his eyes fi.\ed on her sternly, and his face 
 pale with anger. 
 
 '• Why, he wouldn't take it back ; so 
 what could I do but keep it ? " 
 
 " What did he say to you ? tell me qinck, 
 what did he say?" cried Abel, almost 
 beside himself with jealousy, which lie now 
 felt tor the first time in his life. 
 
 " How can I tell what he said ? I don't 
 just remember." 
 
 " Tell me the truth : I know by your 
 face that you remember every word." 
 
 " Well, he said — he said I was too 
 pretty to sell flowers." 
 
 " Was that all ? " 
 
 '♦ Tho last time he said that I ought to 
 he dressed like a lady, and have nothing to 
 do, instead of sitting here all day." 
 
 "Tho villain I did he say that? Then 
 you've seen him more than once? " 
 
 " Yes : he passes hero every day." 
 
 " And stops to talk with you, and you 
 listen to him ? " 
 
 " What can I do ? he always buys my 
 flowers." 
 
 " What sort of a man is he ? Do you 
 know his name ? " 
 
 "No: how should I know his name? 
 He's young and handsome, lias beautiful 
 eyes, and wears rings and chains, lie's a 
 gentleman, I'm sure of that." 
 
 " Violet, come homo with lue at once," 
 said Abel, (piivering with anger, as he took 
 her by the arm, and led her away rapidly. 
 •' Your flowers are all gone, you'd nothing 
 more to sell : what were you waiting there 
 for? Toll me, what were you waiting 
 (or ? " 
 
 " I wasn't waiting. I was just going 
 when you came." 
 
 " O Violet, Violet ! how wicked you are t 
 how false to me when I trusted you so ! " 
 and Abel trembled so that ho could scarce 
 speak. 
 
 " Let me alone : you're real cruel, and 
 you hurt my arm ! " cried the girl, wrench- 
 ing herself from Abel's tight clasp. " You 
 ought to be ashamed to bully me in the 
 street, with every one hearing : I say, you 
 ou'^ht to be ashamed 1 " And she burst into 
 a fluoil of tears, whieli were more passionate 
 than [lenitent. 
 
 " Hush I For God's sake, don't say I 
 bullied you t It breaks my heart to speak 
 cross to you ; but this is more than I can 
 boar. Let us got home as quickly as we 
 can." 
 
 « And you'll tell Daddy Top?" sobbed 
 Violet. 
 
 " Yes : I'll toll him. I never keep any 
 thing from him." 
 
 " And he'll abuse me too." 
 
 " How can you be so unjust ? Has he 
 ever abused you ? " 
 
 " No ; but he will if you set him on." 
 
 " Violet, I sha'n't set him on : I shall 
 tell him the truth, and let him advise us 
 what to do ; for you can't go there again." 
 
 '• Can't go there again I then, what am I 
 to do ? " cried the girl, tho tears dry on her 
 hot cheeks, anil her eyes wide with aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 " Violet, you're my promised wife. In 
 less than nine months we're to bo married ; 
 then is it right that you should listen to 
 
' I 
 
 28 
 
 HOPES OF SAND. 
 
 sucli tftllt ? thiit you slioiilil take money 
 from stniii^ern ? You'ru [wor ; (jimI knows 
 ■we're all poor enough ; but tliat's no reason 
 wliy we can't be honest : and there must he 
 no secrets between us, nor no »usj)ic'ion. 
 You're too young," he said, soileninj^ as he 
 Idokeil at her, " ami too pretty, dear, to he 
 exjKJ.-ied to such temptation. You can't go 
 there agawj : you must either stay home 
 with (hiddy, or find sonic other occupation 
 more suitable ibr you." 
 
 When Top saw Abel and Violet enter 
 with such troubled faces, ho knew at once 
 that something was wrong, and questioned 
 theuj anxiously, Tlien Abel, trembling 
 and pidc, told the cause of his vexation ; 
 while Violet sat silent and sullen, neither 
 interrupting him nor excusing herself. 
 
 The poor old man's face clouded sadly ; 
 and, looking at Abel with infinite pity and 
 love, he said soothingly, "I'm surprised and 
 soiry ; but don't take it too serious, my boy. 
 Vi'let's only thoughtless. You're thought- 
 less, ain't you, Vi'let, an' not wicked Y 
 An* y(ju won't never do so again ? It's 
 the first time you've gone wrong, an' I'll 
 venture to say it'll be the last. It'll be the 
 last, won't it ? Why don't you speak, an' 
 answer me ? " he said a little impatiently, 
 as he waited for a reply. 
 
 "What's the use of my speaking when 
 you're both against me V " 
 
 " We're not against you, my girl," re- 
 turned Top severely ; " don't go to havin' 
 that talk. Me an* Abel's your best 
 friends in the world. I'm your lather, in a 
 manner ; an' Abel's to bo your husband in 
 less 'an a year, if you behave yourself. 
 Then, how in the world can we bo against 
 you ? liemember what I told you long ago 
 that a love 'o finery would lead to ruin. An' 
 the flattery an' fine words o' these dandy 
 jackanapes is a curse an' a blight, a livin' 
 blight, that'll blacken an' wither the 
 sweetest flower as ever blossomeil. Good 
 God, girl 1 ain't 1 seen 'euj V 'ain't I knowed 
 things as 'd make your heart ache 
 bitter enough ? " and he glanced compas- 
 sionately at Abel, who sat with his face cov- 
 ered, weeping silently. " I once heard a 
 
 poor, dyin' crctur' deplorin' her evil ways. 
 She was an outcast. She'd hail no bed tor 
 months but Loudon mud ; she was notliin' 
 but a skeleton, wasted with starvin' an' 
 sickness, an' so young, not more' an 
 twenty ; an' a most the last words she said 
 was that she'd twisted ropes o' sand, an' 
 trusted to 'em ; an* they'd broke, :in' lelUier 
 a wreck. I tell you, my girl, that's the way 
 it'll be with you, if you don't mind what 
 Abel an' me tell you." 
 
 " O dadily, stop I " cried Abel, springing 
 from his seat ; lor Violet, deadly pale, was 
 swaying to and fro, ready to fall from iier 
 chair. He put his arms round her, and 
 drew her hoad to his shoulder, saying ten- 
 derly, " You're Borry and suflering, dar- 
 ling ; and that's enough. It's all forgiven : 
 we won't think of it again." 
 
 " Yes, I'm sorry. O daddy, I did wrong ! 
 Abel, I deceived you ; but I won't do so 
 again. I'll never do so again, only Ibrgive 
 me this once." 
 
 " You're forgiven, Vi'let ; " and Top 
 smoothed back the girl's beautiful hair, and 
 patted her cheek fondly, saying again, " It's 
 all over, an' you'll never hear any more 
 about it." 
 
 After that she did not return to her old 
 place. The Mansion -house steps knew no 
 more of Blue-eyed Violet. Abel procured 
 her a situation at a flower-shop in Holborn, 
 which was a more respectable way of 
 earning her living; and she seemed per- 
 fectly contented with the change, attended 
 diligently to her work during the day, and 
 passed her evenings preparing her simple 
 wedding outfit ; for in the early summer she 
 and Abel were to be married. In this way 
 the winter passed off quietly and happily ; 
 but when spring came there was a noticeable 
 change in Violet. She grew moo<ly and irri- 
 table, irregular in her hours of returning 
 home at night, and idle and listless when 
 she was there. Abel noticed this change 
 with anxiety ; and Top watched ker closely, 
 yet could discover no cause for her uncer- 
 tain behavior. Still the humble prepa- 
 rations went on for the expected marriage- 
 Abel had found four ueat rooms in a clean 
 
LOST. 
 
 29 
 
 rin' her evil wny«. 
 u'tl had no bud for 
 ; i>hu was nutliiii' 
 with 8tarviii' nii' 
 r, not more' an 
 ast words she said 
 ropes o' sand, an' 
 
 brolce, nn' lelUier 
 pr\, that's tlie way 
 
 don't mind what 
 
 id Abel, spriM<;ing 
 , deadly pale, was 
 \y to fall from her 
 » round her, and 
 oulder, sayinjj teu- 
 um\ 8uflering, dar- 
 It's all forgiven : 
 n." 
 
 laddy, I did wrong 1 
 but I won't do so 
 again, only Ibrgive 
 
 i'let; " and Top 
 beautiful hair, and 
 saying again, " It's 
 i!r hear any more 
 
 t return to her old 
 use steps knew no 
 it. Abel proeured 
 IP-shop in Holborn, 
 ispeetablo way of 
 1 she seemed pcr- 
 
 ehangc, attended 
 iring the day, and 
 sparing her simple 
 e early summer she 
 rried. In this way 
 lietly and happily ; 
 3re was a noticeable 
 new moo<ly and irri- 
 hours of returning 
 
 1 and listless when 
 loticed this change 
 ratched ker closely, 
 ause for her uncer- 
 jo humble prepa- 
 expected marriage* 
 3,1 rooms in a clean 
 
 court out of Little Kasfpheop, Graro-church 
 Street. It was near his jjlacc of business, 
 and could be made very nomforfablo and 
 cosoy ; and Top had promisi-d liiin, rathiT 
 reluctantlyhowever, togoanil live with luui, 
 nslie was now too feeble to work. So Abel 
 looked forward with honest pride and plea- 
 sure, to the moment wlien lie should have 
 a home of his own, where he eould protect 
 and care for the two beings ho loved best 
 on earth. 
 
 One night, about tt month before the day 
 fixed for their marriage, Abel went to the 
 shop in Ilollwrn to fetch Violet homo; for, 
 having finished his own work earlier than 
 tisual, he had an hour to devote to her. 
 While he was waiting for Violet to put on 
 her hat, Mrs. Burt, the mistress of the shop, 
 began to express her regrets to the young 
 man that she should lose her as!<islaiit so 
 soon. "She brings me a deal o* trade. 
 Her pretty face and nice ways ])lease my 
 customers amazin'. Why, there's one young 
 gentlemsin as spends a crown reg'lar every 
 d.ay for (lowers. I don't know whether it's 
 the roses or the vi'lets he likes best," this 
 with a sly glance at the girl, who stood 
 with averted face and burning cheeks. 
 
 " I'm glad she pleases you," replied Abel 
 very gravely, so gravely that the good 
 woman looked at him in some surprise; 
 " but I'ni not sorry that she will 
 have a home of her own soon : you can 
 underst.ind my reasons. Put on your 
 shawl, Violet," he added, turning to the 
 girl, who lingered, as though unwilling to 
 go. 
 
 She obeyed silently and reluctantly ; 
 and, taking Abel's arm, she left the shop 
 with a sullen good-night to her mistress. 
 The young man watched her face closely 
 while he talked on some indifferent subject. 
 Jlore than once she glanced back anxiously, 
 as though she were looking ibr some one, 
 while she talked r.apidly, and w.tlked hur- 
 riedly. At last, when they led Holborn, 
 and turned into Farringdon Street, her 
 manner changed suddenly ; and she said in 
 a harsh, angry voice, " Abel, you're watch- 
 ing nic." 
 
 " God forbid, Violet, that 1 >hr,nh\ watch 
 one w4io'll bo my wifo in less than a 
 month ! " 
 
 "Hut you do, nil the same: I see it in 
 your face. You don't trust me." 
 
 " Violet, darling, .sometimes whi-n people 
 do wrong, they're very suspicious." 
 
 " I don't understand you," she saiil sid- 
 lenly. " You have a strange way of saying 
 thing.i." 
 
 " Never mind, dear, don't let us disagree. 
 I'm too happy to notice trifles, and I don't 
 want you to either. If you're a little uncer- 
 tain sometimes, I think it's the way with all 
 girls : that some whim has entered your 
 pretty head, and to let you indulge it is the 
 best way." 
 
 " I don't have whims, Alwl : I've serious 
 things to think o(," r.!ie returned with a 
 heavy sigh, and a furtive glance at Jiis kind 
 face. 
 
 " Possible ! " ho said, laughing a little. 
 " I thought you were full of fancies, and as 
 careless as the wind." Then he chiingcjd 
 the conversation, and toM her how very 
 kind Mr. Thorpe had been to him ; how ho 
 had nifide him a present of ten poiinils 
 toward furnishing Ids rooms, an<l had 
 promised to increase his salary at the enil 
 of the year. All this Violet listened to 
 with little apparent interest, and Abel felt 
 it ; still he was too confident, and too huppy, 
 to be e.\acting. An hour after, while they 
 sat around their little supper-table, sudden- 
 ly the girl burst into tears, and soi)hed pas- 
 sionately, refusing to tell them the cause of 
 her trouble, and declining to answer their 
 anxious questions. 
 
 " She's tired and nervous," said Top, 
 in reply to Abel's mute look of inquiry. 
 " She's nervous, that's all ; to-morrow she'll 
 be better. (Jo to l>ed, Vi'let, dear, an' rest, 
 an' sleep; it'.s that you need." 
 
 The girl got up with a trembling step, 
 still holiiing her handkerchief before her 
 eyes, and went toward her bedroom d<K)r. 
 Then, as if some suilden impulse hiid 
 prompted her, she turned, and, throwing 
 her arms around Top's neck, she kissed him 
 fondly, and said in a choked voice, " You 
 
30 
 
 nOPES OF 8AND. 
 
 I 
 
 liiive hcen piMwl to inc, diiiMy; nnd I'm! 
 (;riilf('iil mill tliiiiikl'iil. Ami yim, too, 
 Alicl," clii! ( ricil, with luiotlicr paHi-ioimtc * 
 burnt of li'arK, i\A nIic clim',' to tlie yomi^' 
 iiiiin, ami kism'il liliii with ii sorrowful fiT- 
 vor, "yoii'vi! lit'cn so iiationt ami ^viuW 
 with inc; ami I don't tU'scrve it." Tlion, 
 bi'forc Ahul coiiM ftpeak, shii broke away 
 from his iMicirLlin;,' aniin, ami, rushin;i into 
 her room, nho clocfd the door, mid locked 
 it behind ber. Both renu-mbered that 
 Heeiie and that embrace lonj; aAer. The 
 thought of it was a comfort to jmor old 
 Top on his death-bed; the memory of it, 
 a consolation to Abel in the dark hours 
 that followed. 
 
 The next night Abel was detained in (he 
 oflice to ilo some extra work for young Mr. 
 Thorpe, whom he had sca.vc seen for the 
 day; therefore it was late \.i en he reached 
 home. The first (pieslio'i from Top, ns 
 he entered the little parlor, was, " Where's 
 Vi'letV" 
 
 «' Why; isn't she home ? " cried Abel in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " No : cihe hasn't coiue, and I thought 
 she was with you." 
 
 " I h '.ven't seen her. I've just lefl 
 the ofTici-. She must be at the shop: I'll 
 go and fetch her ; " and, wiiliout another 
 word, he rushed out, leaving Top to wonder 
 why she was so late. 
 
 When Abel reached llolborn, Mrs. Burt 
 was just putting up her shutters ; ancl to 
 his anxious inquiries, she tcld him that 
 Violet had left earlier than usual, saying 
 that she had a headache, and must go 
 Lome. 
 
 " But she's not there," cried Abel in dis- 
 may. 
 
 " Not there I AVhere can she be, 
 then 'i " 
 
 "God only knows. What shall I do? 
 Where shall I go?" he said, trembling 
 with excitement. 
 
 " I'd kec]) calm ; I wouldn't worry : she's 
 no doubt all right. Perhaps she's met an 
 ac(|uaintaiice, and gone somewhere to 
 pass the evening." 
 
 " She has no accjuaintances ; she never 
 
 would do such a, thing : something has hnp- 
 pimeil to her." 
 
 "(io back home, an' likely you'll find 
 her there," said the woman kindly. 
 
 "Tell me, Mrs. Burl, have you noticed 
 any thing wrong? has Violet had any ic- 
 (piaintances that T don't know of? " 
 
 "I'm not sure, Mr. Winter; 1 it I am 
 afraid she lias. That handsome young 
 gentleman, as I s|><jke of the other niuht, 
 has been here lately more 'an was neces- 
 sary. Only to-day I spoke to Vi'let about it, 
 kimlly like, just as 1 would to one of my 
 own children. At first she was a l>it cross ; 
 then she laughed it oflT, and nolhin' more 
 was said. I'm sure somethin's been 
 troublin' her lati'ly. To-day she seemed 
 dull like, an' just before she went out I'm 
 sure I saw her a cryin'." 
 
 " I can't hear any more," said Abel 
 fairly (juivoring, ami pale as death. " I'll 
 
 •ro home and see if she's there yet ; for of 
 ^ ..It, 
 
 course she'll come some time to-ni,ilit. 
 
 Scarce knowing what ho did, he ruslied 
 
 like the wind through the streets, and burst 
 
 into the little room where Top waited 
 
 anxiously, only to find that she was not 
 
 there. Without stojiping to listen to the 
 
 old man's trembling imptiries, he started 
 
 out again. Pale, wild-eyed, driven by 
 
 the demon of suspicion and doubt, ho 
 
 scoured the streets around IIollx)in, in the 
 
 hope that he might see her or hear from 
 
 her. At last, almost exhausted, ht^ Ieane<l 
 
 a"ainst a lami)-post and tried to think ; but 
 
 his brain was in a whirl, his senses seemed 
 
 leaving hiin. A policeman seeiii,' him, and 
 
 thinking he was intoxicated, spoke harshly 
 
 to him; but, hearing his story, he tried to 
 
 comfort him. "You'd better go- home tin' 
 
 go to bed. It's late, an' you can't do 
 
 nothin' till daylight. The gal's lost, that's 
 
 certain ; an' it's common enough in London : 
 
 but you can find her in no time, if you set 
 
 about it the right way, an' if she ain't gone 
 
 otr of her own free will. In that case it's 
 
 hard to find 'em. Wait till mornin', an' go 
 
 to Scotland Yard : they'll fix it up all right 
 
 for you there. Young an' pretty, you say ? 
 
 Well, then, it's not so strange that she's 
 
TUtt. «1TTE* f^^9K 
 
 luthin;^ lm« linp- 
 
 ki'ly you'll find 
 kirxlly. 
 
 ivi! villi iioticotl 
 let liiul liny ic- 
 low ol'V " 
 iitiM-; l.tt I am 
 aiulsoiiiu young 
 tilt' otluT niulit, 
 I' 'an was iii't'i-s- 
 to Vi'let ultout it, 
 1(1 to one ol' my 
 ' was ii l>it croHs; 
 inil iiolliin' iiioro 
 souu'tiiiii's lit'cn 
 -day dii- cfciiicil 
 shu went out I'm 
 
 loro," saiil Abel 
 • ns death. "I'll 
 there yet ; for of 
 me to-ni^iit." 
 10 did, hf nishcd 
 
 street.", and Imrst 
 lere Top waited 
 that she was not 
 'T to listen to the 
 |uiiies, he started 
 -eyed, driven hy 
 ) and doubt, ho 
 id Ilollxiin, in the 
 I her or hear from 
 liaiisted, h(^ leane<l 
 tried to iliinlc ; but 
 
 his senses seemed 
 lan seein.; him, and 
 ited, spolvo harshly 
 
 story, he tried to 
 better jro-homu an' 
 
 an' you can't do 
 he gal's lost, that's 
 enou;.;h in London : 
 no time, if you set 
 m' if she ain't gone 
 . In that case it's 
 t till mornin', an' go 
 'II fix it ui) all right 
 in' pretty, you say ? 
 I stranjio that she's 
 
 logt. If she was old and u;;ly, ten to one 
 you'd find her lionie safe enough when you 
 got there.'' 
 
 Abel did not wait to hear any more from 
 thu "guardian of the ni'^ht," hut dashed od' 
 wiih the Word "iDst" riii'^'ing in his ears 
 like a funeral knell. Neither did htt wait 
 for morning belLire hu went to Scotland 
 Yard, lie took a hansom, and paid the man 
 an extra shilling to drive him iheru as 
 quickly an jiossible. 
 
 The ollicer listened to his story with 
 what Abel thought stony indiHerence; 
 took the 'description of the girl, item by 
 item, even to the color of the ribl)oii she 
 wore on her hat ; and then said coolly, '- Hut 
 how <Io you know she ain't gone oil' of her 
 own accord 'I " 
 
 " I know sho would never do that," cried 
 Abel iles|)erately. " Why, we were to be 
 married in less than a month." 
 
 The odicer looked lit him with a sort of 
 sarcastic piiy ; ami, turning to a man half 
 asleep in a corner of the room, ho said 
 laconically, giving him the written descrij)- 
 tion, " Here, ,Jim, look this gal up." 
 
 Abel saw there was nothing more to be 
 learned there, and nothing more to be done 
 for the present ; so he dismisseil the hansom, 
 and walked away he scarcely knew whither. 
 
 It was daylight wlieii he reached home. 
 To]) was still up, waiting anxiously. 
 "Have you heard anything'/" he cried, 
 looking with fear at Abel's haggard coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 "Nothing, nothing, daddy: she's lost! 
 she's lost 1" and, throwing himself on the 
 floor at the ohl man's feet, he hid his face 
 against his knees, and sobbed aloud. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE DITTEK CUP. 
 
 The first thing that Abel did the next 
 morning was to take a cab, and drive out 
 to Mr. Thorjie's at Brompton. He did not 
 go there with the intention of intruding his 
 
 81 
 
 i|it>4i 111'* «"»! fitj'i'r, Imt li.r ill'' |)ur- 
 jHHi I obtaiiiiiii; mvu of aliseiice for a 
 weci. iliat lie mip..u devote his whole timu 
 to lii« M ;inh tiir Viiiict. As soon a* ho 
 entered his preseuct-, Mr. Thurpc saw by 
 his dciwiirast, snrrowfiil face, that he was in 
 trouble; and, holding out his liatid, he said 
 kindly, " What is it, Abel '.' " This une.x- 
 jK'ctfd interest was too min h (i)r the pmir 
 Icllow, whose heart was ready In civcrdiiW 
 at thu first word of sym|>athy ; sn. with a 
 burst ol' tears, he told his ciiiployrr of the 
 sudden and strange disapiiraranic of Vio- 
 let, of his tears of tbiil play, and his wish 
 to devote his entire time to a seareh for 
 her. 
 
 Mr. Thorpe listened to him with the 
 deepi'st pity. He had his suspicions ; but 
 ho could not hear to discourage the poor 
 young man, by even hliiliii.; them. "So 
 you think there is some villainy at the bot- 
 tom of this ? you are sure that she hasn't 
 gone of her own will ? " 
 
 "No, no I I don't know. I'm sure of 
 nothing. O Mr. Thorpe I don't say that! 
 don't li)r (Jod's sake ! She was as good 
 and as ])nre-hearted a gii'l as ever lived," 
 cried Abel, struggling desperately against 
 his own fears and suspicions. 
 
 "Yes : she may liavo been all that; and 
 I dare say she was: but still some villain 
 might have deceived her, and won lier eon- 
 fideiiee, and at last induced her to listen to 
 his [iroposals." 
 
 " I can't bear it, Mr. Thorpe ; indeed I 
 can't : pray don't think that of her." 
 
 " I know it hurts you, Abel ; you loved 
 the girl; yon trusted her; and you still 
 have faith in her : but bo prepared for the 
 worst, tlu! very worst, and try to bear it 
 like a man. You have my warmest sym- 
 pathy, and more than thiit, my assistance 
 in finding her. Advertise in all jlie news- 
 papers; employ any means you like, and 
 I'll defray the expense. It's a hard blow 
 for you; and you don't deserve it. You've 
 tried bravely to get on, and you're worthy of 
 a better fate ; but, in case of the worst, bo 
 patient and strong, and in time you'll get 
 over it." 
 
 V^P' 
 
 t ^-!-^-> ' -^^^tf^ ' ^.-VjVim'**^-j i '^w« ' .i ' .w"»- ' "ji.. ^..I ' j 'i uM 'i 
 
32 
 
 nOPKB OF BAND. 
 
 I 
 
 1! 
 
 "I noviT Klmll, Mr, TlwNrpo : 1 iu'v.t| 
 thnll. I I'lVf'l liir inoru tliiui my "wn 
 
 llfi'," 
 
 " AM, I RiM'iik to you nn rricinl to 
 frlcnil, ii« mini to in;in. I've llkiil you 
 from the fir!<t ; tluTi''.^ iihviiyi* tn'cn a «)rt 
 of !«ymi>iitliy lii'lwccn m\ ami now in your 
 tnitililf I <Mii li'''l t'"" y""' '>" ' •■""''' ''"* '"•' 
 own con. I'vi' liii'l comi' I'Sprrir ico. Tve 
 drunk of the Wtter cnp myxi-lf. Wlun 
 UolK'n'!" motliiT (lii'il, I tlion:;lnt. lifi' WHS 
 finislii'iMor mi' ; liiit I'vf oiitliviMl (Ifspiiir, 
 nml am rt-ni'^nt'il, ami i^vi'n Iniupy at times. 
 Onr first tronUlf U tliu hardest to hear. 
 Time cures, while it inurpH iw to our mis- 
 forlunes. IJe patient, and trust in God; 
 and you'll oullivo this, even at its worst." 
 
 " I iinpe I niay ; for it wcmn to me that 
 I eouM not endure life with «ueh a wei^jht 
 upon me," said Ahel, as l\v wipeil away his 
 fast llowiu'j; tears. 
 
 It was a lilossed thin;; for him that he 
 was youn,', and had not outlived his tears. 
 No matter how },'reat is tlio (;rief, wldle we 
 can weep, it does not hum and consume the 
 heart. 
 
 " Take a week, and lon;;er if you like ; 
 and rU do your work myself," said Mr. 
 Thorpe, pressing his hand kimlly anil cn- 
 Coura;;in^ly as he lell him. 
 
 From there, he went to Scotland Yard. 
 Of course nothiir^ had houn heard of the girl 
 in HO chort a tiuu-. Then he hastened to 
 the jiublishing houses of nil the prominent 
 London journals, and caused the following 
 B<lverti»enient to bo inserted. 
 
 " If Violet will return to her home, and 
 
 her unhappy friends, all will he Ibr^iven, 
 
 no matter ho^v 'neat the fault. 
 
 " AnEL." 
 
 Tills could only apply to her if she had 
 gone away of her own will : he was slow to 
 admit it, still, he would leave no stone un- 
 turned, if he might but win her back. 
 AiVerwaid he went to the flower-shop, in 
 Ilolboru, to learn if Mrs. Burt had heard 
 any thin;; of her. 
 
 "1 don't know as it's much to tell you, 
 Mr. Winter; but my little boy, as carries 
 
 out the doweri", sayn he's nure he- mw Vl'let 
 ..;et into a cab, at the iwtii -f Oxfonl 
 Street, alKHit seven o'clirk last ni;ht; an* 
 that wan a few nilnutoii at\er the tlmo (ho 
 
 let> h.-re." 
 
 » Where is tho hoy ? It't tt». *oti him at 
 once;" and Ab.'l's fai'c c»iiim-. I suddenly 
 from thu liallor of despiur to the crimson 
 of hoiH-. 
 
 " Here he is. Now, Johnny, tell tho gen- 
 tleman all you know, as straight as a I k," 
 
 saiil the mother, as the Ikiv spran,' over tho 
 coimter, an-l placed hiuiU'lf scpiarely before 
 the young man, eager to give any informa- 
 tion, in the hope of receiving a MXpenee. 
 
 " Are you stire it was she V " asked Abel, 
 fixing his eyes on tho boy, as though ho 
 would read his heart. 
 
 " Yes, sir, as sure's can bo. Wliy, I just 
 seed her an 'alf an hour afore, an' sho 
 'ad on the vi>ry self-same things. I can tell 
 you every one, sir. A grayish-like ealikur 
 gown, with tucks inter the bottom, a little 
 black apron with crinkly red braid ou it, a 
 brown shawl, an' a while straw hat with a 
 bluish-plaid ribbon. An' 'cr hair a kind 
 o' hangiu' down 'er back in curls. Ain't 
 that 'er, sir? " 
 
 " Yes : that is certainly the way she was 
 dressed," replied Abel, almost weeping at 
 tho exact description, as exact as ho had 
 given it the ni-ht before at Scotland Yard. 
 " Did you see her face ? " he incjuired ; for 
 the boy wtis burning to tell more. 
 
 " No, sir, I can't say as I did . 'cause when 
 I first popped 'er, she was a-puttiu' one foot 
 on ter the steps o' the cab, an' 'er back was 
 ter me, an' the driver he was a-leanin' for- 
 •ard to listen to someihin' she was a-sayin', 
 an' she was a-cryin' like a— like a — fish," 
 ho blurted out, in dire extremity for a 
 comparison. 
 
 " How did you know she was crying, if 
 you didn't see her A\ce V " asked Abel stern- 
 ly, not caring for any elaborations, and only 
 requiring in his emergency tho simple, 
 unvarnished truth. 
 
 " Hush, hush, Johnny," interposed his 
 mother. " You didn't say afore as how she 
 was a-cryin'." 
 
 pt5-5rglPfSK'^^^^3S«B!!W 
 
THK niTTKIl CUP. 
 
 .13 
 
 in" he Kiiw Vrict 
 ir«t., .f Oxlunl 
 ; lust ni'jlit; nn' 
 lifr llio tliiio Am 
 
 t ivv *oo 111 in at 
 mmn' I Hiiilili'iily 
 r to iho irinison 
 
 inny, tdl tlio Rfin- 
 •ai(;ht us ii liDok," 
 y sprun'^ over tho 
 ir wiiiurcly ln'li>ro 
 ;;ivi! any iiirorma- 
 iiiS a fixpi'iici'. 
 Iiu V" iiski'il AIm'I, 
 DV, fts tlioii^h ho 
 
 bo. Wliy, I just , 
 ur afort', iin' slie 
 tliinu'8. I can tell 
 rayish-like ciilikcr 
 he bottom, a littlo 
 ' reil briiiilcii\ it, a 
 
 utraw hat with a 
 n' 'er hair a kind 
 c in curls. Ain't 
 
 y the way «ho was 
 [ilmost weeping at 
 s exact as ho liad 
 at Seotlaml Yard. 
 " ho iniiuired ; for 
 ;cll more. 
 
 » I did . 'cause when 
 IS a-puttin' one foot 
 lb, an' 'er back was 
 u was a-leanin' for- 
 n' she was a-sayin', 
 , a— like a — fish," 
 •0 extremity for a 
 
 she was crying, if 
 " asked Abel stern- 
 aborations, and only 
 geney tho simple, 
 
 ly," interposed his 
 say afore as how she 
 
 7 
 
 " Will, 'cause I didn't think of if," re- 
 turnt il the iiiipiTtiirlialilc infoiiu.iiit ; " an' 
 
 now I 'ill Inr MS how [ ihoiiijiit nho was. 
 
 'eauM' I fifil 'er'nnkcivlierin 'er'and when 
 she reai'hi'il out to fasten the door." 
 
 " \V:m 'hi' alone Y Now tell nie tho truth, 
 and I'll ;,'lve you a shillin;;." 
 
 " I flon't know, sir ; but I "'noso she were, 
 'cau-'c I didn't see ni. <n , .loii'^di I should 
 n't wonder if I here wero someone a-wnitin' 
 lor 'er in tlui cab ; 'eniiso thu (Mirtains was 
 down like as they al'ays is to u funeral." 
 " Wliiili way did the cub |,'oV" 
 " Wiiy, down Oxford like mad. So fast 
 that a p'liceinen batted at the "orses ; hut he 
 didn't hit 'cm, an' the driver just snick- 
 ered, an thiiiidied his noso at 'im." 
 
 In spite of I he seriousness of the occasion, 
 Mrs. Uiirt l,iii;,rhed at the facetious deserij)- 
 tlon of her oll'sprin},', and Abel si;;hed heav- 
 ily ; but (he boy nniintained his solemn 
 tjravity, his head thrown back, his thinnbs 
 in his trousers pockets, and his unwaverinf; 
 eyes fixed on the youn;? man's face, as un- 
 flinchingly as a statue of Truth, 
 
 " Did you notice the number of the cab 'i"' 
 cried Abel caf,'erly, as a sudden thought 
 made his heart bound with hope. 
 
 "No, sir, I didn't. How could I when 
 he drove ofl" like lii^htnin' ? but I'd know the 
 cabby anywhere if I set eyes on 'im, 'cause 
 he 'ad a noso as bi<r as — as big as a 
 — stove." 
 
 "Johnny, Johnny, bo c.ireful an* tell the 
 truth," mildly interposed Mrs. Burt again. 
 
 "Well ain't I a tellin' the truth, as 
 solemn as ihoujrh I was swore V " questioned 
 Johnny in an injured tone of voice. 
 
 " Well, I can't say as how you are ; "cause 
 no man's got a nose as big as a stove." 
 
 " Yes, them cabbies is. Lots of 'em's got 
 noses as big as little stoves ; an' I didn't flay 
 what size stoves," returned tho boy, deter- 
 mined to defend his word from imputation 
 by the most unanswerable logic. 
 
 " Never mind that," interrupted Abel, 
 
 driven to desperation by this nonsense. 
 
 " You think you'd know the man if you saw 
 
 him again 'I " 
 
 " Certain, 'cause 'o tho nose," replied 
 
 [.Johnny with nnnlrof the strongest convlc 
 lion. 
 
 " Well, then, Mrs. Hurl, will you hi the 
 Imiv CO with nie V perhiips with his help [ 
 •■an find the calmian, ami may learn iVoiii liiiii 
 what I want to know." 
 
 "Certain, certain, Mr. Winli'r: kee[iliim 
 as long as ymi like, an' I'll bonow a iici.;h- 
 bor's little boy to ru'i errands while hc'n 
 gcuie," replied Mrs. Hurt kindly a.s Abel 
 hurried away. 
 
 .Johnny, delighted with the prospect of a 
 day among Lcmdoii cabs, expressed his 
 satisfaction wiili a double somerset, ami a 
 final exit on his hands, much to the diMiiay 
 of his mother, who declared that he would 
 turn his brains upside down. 
 
 It is needless to say that .Johnny's story 
 of the nose was a fabrication of his inven- 
 tive brain : there was no cabby to be f mnd 
 with a facial appendage larger ami more 
 striking than that of a hundred otiiers, 
 as Aliel began to susjieet; for, atler a day's 
 search among tho five thousand publi^ 
 vehicles which eimstitute part of tin! rolaiy 
 motion of London, and iheir live tliousand 
 drivers, ho f.uled to find one with a nose as 
 largo as even the smallest of stoves, in spitu 
 of Johnny's constant prediction that they 
 would ('ome ujwn him somewhere when they 
 didn't exi)ect it, although he pretended to 
 bo looking for him every moment. Heforo 
 the day was over, the pwjr fellow, hoping 
 against hope, had asked hundreds of these 
 obdurate Jehus if they had driven a young 
 girl from Oxford Street the night before, 
 only to receive an indifferent and dis- 
 heartening negative. Nearly all tho week 
 he might have been seen at the differcuit 
 cab-stands, and around IloUjorn and Ox- 
 ford Streets, with .lohnny always at his side, 
 interested and attentive ; but still tho man 
 with the remarkable noso never made his 
 appearance, nor ever had been soon by any 
 one, that he could discover, except that 
 young disciple of Truth, who frequently 
 declared that" ho must a died sudden, or 
 else he'd a turned up afore." 
 
 It was not until a week was spent in this 
 useless search that Abel would acknowlodi'e 
 
 't/S!f!JfS~S&SSK:stEiCVIIKIiSi&^'\'ih 
 

 il 
 
 84 
 
 ROPE8 OP SAND. 
 
 to himself that he had been dcceivcl in 
 rcf^iird to Violet's haviiv^' Roiie away in a 
 cab. Slill, the lond mother had not the 
 bast donbt that her ollVpi-in:^ had seen the 
 girl driven olV in a vehicle whose eon.luctor 
 had an enormons nose, though, perhaps, 
 not .piite .as large as a small stove. At the 
 end of the week, after Abel had haunted 
 Seotland Yard, the cab-stands, and the 
 Btreets aroun.l Ilolborn, with no success, he 
 was obliged to confess to poor old Top, who 
 sat at home, weakly lamenting, that he had 
 but little hope of ever finding Violet, or of 
 even hearing from her. " She must have 
 gone of her own will, or else all my cflorts 
 wouldn't have been in vain," bo saul 
 
 gloomily. 
 
 " God forgive her, my boy, if she did . 
 for it'll be the means o' my death. It's a 
 blow I can't get over. Some way I feel ten 
 years older an' I di<l a week ago. I'm 
 
 tient like, and not lose your interest in life, 
 iin' get discouraged when you're all alone, 
 an' don't have me to talk to you." 
 
 '•• Don't have you, d.addy ? Why, what 
 do yon mean? You're not ill, are youV 
 Do you feel pain anywliero V T.'H me, 
 and I'll bring a doctor," said Abel anxious- 
 ly, as he looked with close scrutiny into the 
 pale, wrinkled face of the old num. His 
 trouble surely had blinded him, or he 
 would have noticed before how drea.lfully 
 this week of anxiety had told upon poor 
 old Top. His ciieeks, that had always a 
 healtliy flush, were now colorless and. 
 sunken. His bands trembled pitifully , ami 
 his voice, that had never lost its cheery 
 chirp, was now low and depressed. "I 
 believe you are ill, da.ldy, and won't tell 
 mc 1 I'll go at once for a doctor, ' he ex- 
 claimed, starting up, ami taking his hat. 
 » Now, Abel, dear, don't <lo no such a 
 
 iling in his 
 I'vi 
 
 
 my 
 
 trouble, an' not be able to comfort you. 
 I've al'ays been a comfort to you afore 
 Ain'tl, my boy?" 
 
 go. When God callh poor old Top, he's 
 ready ; an' all the doctors in tlic world can't 
 keep him a minit. So you see, it'd be a 
 
 uV' 'ves vouhave daddy, dear," sobbed pity to spend money for naMy drugs, as'd 
 a ^ ,,, J ,.s, > ou have, aaa ly, , i ^_^^^j ^^, ^ . ^^ ^j.^,^. 
 
 Abel ; '' and you are now." 
 
 " No : it don't seem as if I was now. I 
 know I kind o' fail to reach your case. It 
 ain't like your other little troubles; an' 
 none but God can comfort you. It's no use 
 for me to talk much about it to you. It's 
 no use to keep l^ tearin' open your wounds 
 
 only turn my stomach, an' spoil my ai)pc- 
 tite. Now, you don't s'pose poor old cre- 
 tur's like mc is a goin' to last al'ays, do 
 you? Why, look at my sand-pails: how 
 many times I've had to get new ones ! An' 
 people can't last al'ays, any more 'an sand- 
 pails. Don't talk any more 'bout my bein' 
 
 no use to keep l^ tearin open )our «uuu.= r ■ . ^. 
 
 that'll bled enough without. _ I was very su^k, but jus try an e ^^^^ U^^^^ 
 
 fond o' Vi'let ; but o' course I didn't love 
 her as you did, that was to be her husband 
 Still, I loved her so much, that, if she 
 should come back penitent, I'd forgive her; 
 an' I hope you would too." 
 
 " Yes, I'd forgive her ; I have already : 
 but she'd never be the same to mc again. 
 I've lott ber; I know and feel it : even if 
 ehe should come back now, she wouldn't be 
 the same. I've lost Violet, and I never 
 shall find her." 
 
 There's a nice slice o' bacon, and some 
 muffins hot an' well buttered. I've got 
 your supper for you many a night when 
 you had such an appetite that you couldn t 
 get enough. Now you've got plenty, an' 
 j-ou ain't got the will to eat it." 
 
 Abel drew near the table, and tried to 
 force down a little food ; but Violet's place 
 opposite to his was empty, and he missed 
 her as he never had before. There seemed 
 to be a black shadow over the spot where 
 
 Mf:',':;;'.' .,■,• »»• be -e.i»„ed .„• ,.. \ U « .«» l.» ,0™., f.c. .» often. HI. 
 
 H 
 
 \ ' 
 
 J 1 ^ 
 
 ■^-':/>^^irhi^-^-yJI^^'f^r^^^^'^<^'-^''^— 
 
 S»SS^2SES5W«S»"i+*S*WKffl 
 
Jk 
 
 THE BITTER CUP. 
 
 85 
 
 interest in life, 
 u'ro all iildiio, 
 you." 
 
 ? Why, what 
 t ill, are youV 
 •c V Tell nie, 
 , Abel anxiuiis- 
 .•rvitiny into the 
 old inaii. His 
 III hitn, or lie 
 how ilreadCnliy 
 told upon poor 
 t had always a 
 colorless aii'l 
 ■d pitil'iilly , and 
 
 lost its cheery 
 
 depressed. " I 
 , and won't tell 
 I doctor, * he ex- 
 )king his hat. 
 't <lo no such a 
 , smiling in his 
 gently. '* I've 
 
 life, an' I never 
 ,d a sick day, an' 
 ly time comes, I'll 
 jr old Top, he's 
 n the world can't 
 ou see, it'll be a 
 nafiy drugs, as'd 
 i' spoil my appe- 
 ase poor old ere- 
 to last al'ays, do 
 • sand-pails; how 
 jt new ones ! An' 
 ny more 'an sand- 
 ore 'bout my bein' 
 
 a bite o' supper. 
 
 bacon, and some 
 luttered. I've got 
 my a night when 
 B that you couldn't 
 ve got plenty, an' 
 eat it." 
 
 table, and tried to 
 1 but Violet's place 
 ity, and he missed 
 ore. There seemed 
 rcT the spot where 
 face BO often. His 
 
 y 
 
 heart was to<i full. A sob rose in his 
 throat and almost suffocated him. He 
 tried to drink the liot, strong tea that Top 
 had ])oured tor him; but he could not swal- 
 low ; his tears fell into his cup, and scorched 
 his lips. " It/s no use, daddy," he cried, 
 putting it down. "I can't eat, I can't 
 (b'ink ; my heart is broken." Then lie 
 wrung his hiuids, and moaned, " Oh, if she 
 were Init ilead ! If she were but dead ! I 
 could bear it, and thank God. Tm too 
 wretched ! My cup is too bitter, my bur- 
 den too heavy ! Let n>o go to uiy own 
 room. I'm better alone ; and I'm so tired, 
 periia])s I shall sleep a little, and forget my 
 sulVering." 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if your bed was the 
 best place lor you," said Top encoura- 
 gingly, as he lit his candle. " But before 
 you sleep, just ask God to help you a bit, 
 an' he'll do it; tor ho al'ays gives us a lift 
 when our burden's too heavy for us to pull 
 through alone." 
 
 In his Utile room, Abel tried to lift his 
 heart to God, tried to draw strength from 
 the lijuntaiii of love and pity ; but, in lh(; 
 midst of his prayers and sobs, he saw only 
 the face of Violet, her blue eyes tearful, 
 her mouth quivering with sorrow and jieni- 
 teaee, and lier hands outstretched to him. 
 At last overcome by weariness, lor the first 
 time within a week, he sank into a dee[) 
 sleep, from which he did not awake until 
 the morning sun slicjne into his room. 
 That day he took his place again in the 
 ollice of Mr. Thorpe, and performi'd his 
 duty wilh his usual attention, though all 
 noticed that his liice was gloomy and down- 
 cast, and his manner more reserved and 
 serious than usual. Only Mr. Thorpe knew 
 Lis sad secret, and he respected it. Young 
 Mr. Thorpe came in late. He was silent 
 an<l pre-occui)ied, and Abel thought that he 
 looked jaded and ill : perhaps it was his 
 morbid imagination ; lor certainly every 
 thing seemed changed to him now. When 
 he returned home at ni^iht, with that 
 dreary dread which we feel on entering 
 for *lie first tiaie a house from whence the 
 mortal remains of some beloved one has 
 
 been carried, he found Top in bed, and 
 very weak. Again he expressed his anxi- 
 ety, and again the old man smilingly as- 
 sured him that it was nothing. At his time 
 of lil(! people needed more sleep : they were 
 babies tor the second time, and returned 
 again to the needs and habits ot'iiifanry. 
 
 About three weel's after \'iolet's disap- 
 pearance, anil the day belbre the ont^ fixed 
 for his marriage, Abel returned luiine to 
 find the poor old man very weak and drowsy. 
 "jIt's no use, my boy," he said, smiling 
 faintly, as the young man leaned over his 
 bed and smoothed his ])illow. " I've hated 
 to break it to you ; but I've got to now, seein' 
 as I've had my warnin', an" I ain't long to be 
 with you." 
 
 " Uon't say that, daddy, dear ; don't, I 
 pray," cried Abel, tis more than one tear 
 dropped on t\w jiinched, wrinkled face. 
 
 " But it's true, my child, an' you ought to 
 be glad to see a poor ohl cretin'' like me fin- 
 ish up his work, an' go to sleep in God's 
 cradle ; for the grave's his cradle, an', some 
 way, I'm longin' for it, an' ain't sorry, only 
 for leavin' you alone an' in trouble : that's 
 what grieves me now. I've thought of it, 
 a-lyin' here to-day with no one to speak to 
 but (;od." 
 
 " O daddy ! why didn't you let me stay 
 with you 'I " 
 
 " 'Cause, Abel, I wanted to be alone. 1 
 had business with my Maker, accounts to 
 settle; an' I didn't want no confusin' o' fig- 
 ures wilh others bein' round. We wanted 
 it all alone to otirselves, (iod an' Top, lor 
 the last reckonin'. I said to myself, loud 
 an' earnest, like them judges in court, ' Top, 
 confess wherein you've done wi'ung.' An' I 
 answered, alter I thought my lili; all over 
 like, ' Good Lord, I can't see if I've ilone 
 wrong al'ays, 'cause in my ignorance I don't 
 know ; but I've tried to do right. I've 
 never wrongeil any one knowin'ly. I've 
 al'ays give just measiu'eo' sand. I'vi' ])aid 
 to the utmost f'arthin' for all I've 1^1. I've 
 kept myself and all about ine CTean, an' 
 I've never refused a crust an' a cup to the 
 poor an' hungry ; but you know if in 
 thoughtlessness I've committed sins, been 
 
 MWL i i |ii uawii^-.j- i iJLWjJH..- i ..i. ' V>' ',i u ' ^Ji*.i i' 
 
.■mm 
 
 i'i< 
 
 36 
 
 ROPES OF SAND. 
 
 over Imsty in my temper, an* misjudged 
 any one, an' spoke na.'^ty angry words, an' 
 been harsli an' unforgivin' ; you know it all, 
 Lord, an' I 'umbly crave your pardon.' Tlion 
 it seenu'd to me that a voice, clear and dis- 
 tinct, like water a tricklin' over stones, 
 said some words that I heard a minister 
 speak once in a meetin' at Sniithfield, long 
 ago, when I was a young man ; an' it was 
 this : ' Though your sins be as scarlet, they 
 shall be as white as snow.' By that I 
 know it's .all settled, an' I've nothin' more 
 to worry about ; now I've had my warnin', 
 an' I'm ready to go. I'll tell you about it, 
 Abel. Last night, just after Bow Bells 
 struck twelve o'clock, — I've heard 'em for 
 over ei'^hty years, an' soon 1 shall hear 'em 
 for the last time ; but they'll ring, an' ring 
 the same when I'm gone ; an' some other 
 poor cretur'll lay in this little room, an' 
 hear 'em ; an' Top'U be safe enough in his 
 Father's house a listenin' to 'em, i'aint-like, 
 way below, here on earth. Well, as I was 
 a savin', I heard Bow Bells ; an' they sounded 
 as they never did before , — as though angels 
 had rung 'em, an' then waited an' rung 'em 
 again. An' then all was still, an' I sort o' 
 slept, an' dreamed that your mother — your 
 poor mother, Abel, that died on my sand- 
 heap — come to me all in beautiful white, as 
 clean and fresh as a lily, with a face as inno- 
 cent an' peaceful as a baby, an' held out her 
 hands, an' said, ' I've come for you, good old 
 Top,' — think of that, she called mc ' good,' 
 — ' The dear Lord says I may bring you to 
 him.' Then I took her hand confidin'-like, 
 an' we seemed to be floatin' in the air, 
 away up above the cross on St. Paul's ; an' 
 as we went, leavin' the city an' all its noise 
 an' sin below us. she leaned toward me, 
 an' said so sweet an' saintly, ' Top, you've 
 Siived my child ; through you my boy will 
 come to mo. My sins are all washed away, 
 an' I shall look in his face holy an' pure.' 
 That is what she said, I remember every 
 word. 'Jijien it seemed as though a great 
 light sliOTC round us ; an' music like the 
 charity children a singin' in St. Paul's fdled 
 the air. ^Vith that I woke, an' found myself 
 here in my little room, an' the lamp out, an' 
 
 the moon a-lookin' in my window ; an' I felt 
 so peaceful an' liapiy that I knew I'd 
 had my warnin', an' my work was nigh 
 done." 
 
 " It was only a dream, a sweet, liappy 
 dream," said Abel, laying his face on the old 
 man's pillow, to hide his tears. " My poor 
 mother knows in the other world how good 
 you've been to her hoy ; and God sunt her 
 in a dream to tell you so. Daildy, dear, 
 I've been thinking a good deal of my mother 
 since Violet went .away ; and I've sometimes 
 thought that perhaps she was one of those 
 poor outcasts, whom the world never for* 
 gives, and whom God never refuses to pity." 
 "I'm 'fraid she was, Abel. I never 
 meant to tell you, but now p'rhaps it's best : 
 it may make you more gentle with Vi'let. 
 It was her that said as how she'd twisted 
 ropes o' sand. Poor cretur' 1 she'd suffered 
 an' was penitent, 'cause I saw the tear on 
 her cheek after she was dead. Remember 
 that, if ever you come across Vi'let; ibr no 
 matter what she's done, there was some- 
 thiu' good in the girl. I can't never forget 
 how she put her arras 'round my neck, the 
 night before she went away, an' kissed my 
 old fivce so lovin'. Her heart was full then ; 
 an', if we'd a knowd all, we might have 
 saved her. Abel, since I've laid here alone, 
 weak an' tired like, I've thought more 'an I 
 ever did in my whole life afore, an' I 
 b'lieve it ain't intended for us to be very 
 happy here on earth, 'cause our happiness ia 
 to come after this life, an', more 'an that, I 
 b'lieve God don't mean us to be harsh an' 
 condemn any one ; for we're all sinners in 
 his sight; an', if one's a little better an' 
 another, it's p'rhaps 'cause they ain't been 
 tempted an' tried : an', good or bad, we're all 
 his children, an' he loves us all. If that 
 poor, s'iled, crushed mother o' yours is 
 clean an' white in heaven, we musn'i turn 
 our backs on any one. That's why I don't 
 feel hard to'ard Vi'let, an' I could take her 
 in my arms an' forgive her, 'cause I know 
 (iod will. An', Abel, dear, I want you to, 
 if you ever find her. Be pitiful to her, an' 
 kind, just like the Lord's been to your 
 mother." 
 
 • 
 
 > f. 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 li »aj..a»J.t.i<Af' 
 
THE BITTER CUP. 
 
 idow ; an' I fi-lt 
 t I knew I'd 
 fork was nigh 
 
 sweet, liappy 
 I face on the old 
 .rs. " My poor 
 vorld liow good 
 (I God Sunt lier 
 
 Daildy, dear, 
 [il of my mother 
 I I've sometimes 
 IS one of tliose 
 rorld never for- 
 refuses to pity." 
 ibel. I never 
 I'rhaps it's best : 
 ntle with Vi'let. 
 w she'd twisted 
 I she'd suffered 
 saw tlie tear on 
 ad. Remember 
 5S Vi'let ; ibr no 
 here was some- 
 in't never forget 
 id my neck, the 
 :, an' kissed my 
 rt was full then ; 
 we might have 
 e laid here alone, 
 ought more 'an 1 
 ife afore, an' I 
 ir us to be very 
 ! our happiness is 
 more 'an that, I 
 to be harsh an' 
 re all sinners in 
 little better an' 
 B they ain't been 
 dor bad, we're all 
 I us all. If that 
 ther o' yours is 
 1, we niusn'l turn 
 'hat's why I don't 
 ' I could take her 
 tir, 'cause, I know 
 u', I want you to, 
 pitiful to her, an' 
 I's been to your 
 
 37 
 
 " T will, I will," said Abel solemnly : " I 
 promise you tliat I will." 
 
 " An' I want you to try an' be strong, an' 
 patient, an' live to do all the good you can 
 to the poor an' sufferin'. P'rliaps God 
 intends that you ain't to be happy here : 
 I'm 'fraid he does. I'm 'fraid sorrow'll be 
 your portion, 'cause you've commenced so 
 young ; but you'll get your share o' happi- 
 ness in the end when God takes you home, 
 — that is, if you don't trust to ropes o' sand ; 
 an' I'm sure you won't, Abel. You've more 
 good in you than to turn to folly an' sin for 
 'comfort. I'm sure you'll do right, even if 
 it makes you suffer for the time. If you 
 have enemies, forgive 'em, an' do 'em a 
 good turn ; an' be just to every one. I 
 'don't know as I can say any more 'an that. 
 Now, my boy, I've got somethin' to give 
 you 'sides advice. AVhen I'm gone, you'll 
 fiml a box under my bed, an' here's the key 
 round my neck. There's near upon a hun- 
 dred pounds in that box, — I've been all my 
 life a savin' it, penny by penny, — an' six 
 pounds that belongs to Vi'let. It's her 
 money that I laid away for her to buy things 
 for her weddin.' If ever you find her, give 
 it to her with my love an' forgiveness. 
 P'r'aps some time that money that I've saved 
 scrap by scrap '11 be of use to you. Then, 
 dear, you'll think o' your oM daddy, an' 
 love him, won't you ? " 
 
 " I shall think of you always without 
 that, an' love you while my life lasts," said 
 Abel, tendei-ly smoothing the scanty gray 
 locks, and the closely-lined brow. 
 
 " I've been good to you most al'ays, 
 haven't I V " 
 
 " Yes, yes, better than I've deserved." 
 
 " If I've ever been a little harsh an' im- 
 patient to you, you'll forgive me, won't 
 you?" 
 
 " You've never been : I can't remember 
 an unkind thing." 
 
 " Thank God for that 1 I shouldn't like to 
 think that I'd made you unhappy when 
 you've been such a blessin' to me. The 
 only thing I'm sorry for is that you couldn't 
 a gone to Blue-coat School when you set 
 your mind on it. I don't think there w.is 
 
 ever any thing else that T didn't try to do 
 for you. Now I've finished nil, an' I'd like 
 to have dieil seein' you happy wiih Vi'let; 
 but that can't be, so I nnist go an' leave 
 you alone an' in trouble ; an' it's hard, but 
 God knows best when to take me." 
 
 Afler that he fell into a light slum!)er, 
 and Abel sat by his side holding the gentle 
 hand that had caressed him and toiled for 
 him so lovingly, with a heart too full for 
 tears. From time to time he awoke, and 
 talked calmly and cheerfully of some scene 
 in his boy's childhood, or some of his pretty 
 baby ways, the memory of which still had 
 the power to warm and cheer his heart. 
 Once, after a long silence, when Abel 
 thought him sleeping, he looked up and 
 said, " Do you mind that day, so long :igo, 
 when we'd been to the Tower, an' you said 
 you shouldn't like to miss bcin' hapi)y? 
 You was so young an' full o' life then that 
 you thought you couldn't bear it. Now I'm 
 'fraid you'll have to : I'm 'fraid sorrow an' 
 sacrifice '11 be your jwrtion ; an' the oijly 
 anxiety I have is that you'll sink under 
 it." 
 
 " Don't fear for me, daddy. I know 
 what my lot's to be : I know that my happi- 
 ness is all behind me ; but 1 shall try to 
 bear whatever's laid upon me. 1 shall try 
 to bear it like a man." 
 
 " That's right, Abel. I'm glad to hear 
 you say that ; but don't forget to look to 
 God for help." 
 
 When Bow Bells struck twelve, the old 
 man was sleeping like a child ; and Abel, 
 watching him, saw a smile of ineffable 
 peace steal over his face, — a still, holy smile, 
 while his lips parted in a few, low, broken 
 words : " I'm ready. Top's ready ; give me 
 your hand, mistress, an' Abel '11 come after 
 us." Then, without sighing or moving, he 
 ceased to breathe ; and the smile «cttle<l over 
 his kind old face, touching it into childish 
 calm and simplicity. 
 
 The dawn of the day, the da^^Rhat was 
 to have witnessed his marriage, tiiund Aljel 
 sitting motionless by the bed, holding the 
 gentle old hand in his, and looking with a 
 sort of stupor into the plain, wrinkled face 
 
 mt- 
 
 J 
 
88 
 
 BOPES OF SAND. 
 
 I 
 
 that had always s>hono with love and kind- 1 
 ncss tor him. The ton It airuction, the ) 
 really sympathy, the patient, unwaveriiij; 
 love i>l' his lite, was gone ; and he was alone 
 and in trouble. 
 
 CHAPTER Vir. 
 
 A TEURIDLE INJUSTICE. 
 
 The pleaaantest of all pleasant June 
 mornings ! The sun is turniu}? the smoke 
 into a ;;()l(len mist ; the fresh wind shakin<? 
 down showei-s of blossoms from every tree . 
 and shrub, the birds sin^'ing, the diildren 
 laujihin;,', the parks and gardens lull of 
 merry, lii.'lit-hearted strollers: the whole 
 city is alive with gayety and excitement ; for 
 it is the carnival of London ! it is " Derby 
 
 Dny!" 
 
 Ill a small, neatly-furnished room in a 
 clean court out of Little Eastcheap, near an 
 open window filled with geraniums and 
 loses, at a table covered with books, sits 
 Abel Winter, reading attentively, lie is 
 very thin and pale; and his face has an 
 expres.-i(m of patient seriousness which 
 cannot be called sorrow ; his dress of deep 
 mourning, though plain, is scrupulously ne.at 
 and precise, and his manner that of a man 
 ■who lives within himself, asking little and 
 expecting little from those around him. 
 There are no signs of luxury in the room, 
 except in books and ilowers. The win- 
 dows, and two or three stands, arc filled 
 with choice plants, and pots of sweet 
 P.irma violets; and books are scattered 
 i'.round on shelves, tables, and chairs, in 
 that careless fashion which shows that they 
 are constant and ^miliar companions. 
 There is a tap at the door; and Abel lifts 
 his heaflknd shuts his book with a lingering 
 trlanee, as though unwilling to leave it, as 
 his landlady enters with his breakfast. 
 
 " I'm a little late this mornin'," she says, 
 in a pleasant, u-iarty voice; "but it's not 
 
 my fault in the least. It's the boy as is he- 
 hind time with the milk ; an' he said as how 
 it wasn't his fault neither, 'cause nothin's 
 reg'lar on Uarby Day." 
 
 " Never mind, Mrs. IJattle. I've an hour 
 yet be tore olliee-time ; and I'd rather read 
 before hreakfivst than alter: the brain's 
 more active Avhen the stomach's empty." 
 
 "Are they? AVell, 1 don't know as to 
 that; but 1 like to eat before I do much: 
 I'm iaint-like if I don't." 
 
 " Well, for jihysical labor you need to; 
 but lor mental, that's dilferenl," returned 
 Abel gravely, as ho seated himself at the 
 table with his book still in his hand. 
 
 " Lor ! now, Mr. Winter, I'm no scholard, 
 an' I don't undcrstaml half them big words 
 you've used; but do just put down your 
 book while you cat your breakfast. I've 
 heard as how it was the worst thing in the 
 world for the digesters to read when you're 
 eatin'." 
 
 Abel smiled a little, sad smile, and said 
 he belii'ved it was considered injurious, 
 but that ho had never felt any ill ellects 
 Irom it. 
 
 Mrs. Battle poured out his coffee, placed 
 the muffins and chops conveniently near 
 him, smoothed the table-cloth, and changed 
 the arrangement of his knife and fork sev- 
 eral times, and then lingered as if loath to 
 cTo; for she (piite depended upon a chat 
 with Abel while he was taking his break- 
 fast: but this morning he seemed less 
 inclined than usual to listen to her enter- 
 taining remarks ; for he divided his attention 
 pretty equally between his book and his 
 coffee. 
 
 "Your flowers is lookin' tine this 
 mornin' ; ain't they, Mr. Winter V " she said 
 at length, hovering round them, and i)ieking 
 off a dead leaf here and there. " I dusted 
 'em yesterday, an' drowned 'em with 
 water, which freshened 'em up amazin' : an' 
 them vi'iets, how sweet they do smell 1 
 Why, they scent the room like a garden." 
 " Yes : they're very fragrant, and grow 
 beautifully," replied Abel sadly and ab- 
 stractedly, as though he were thinking of 
 1 something else. 
 
 s 
 
 \ 
 
 I 
 
A TERRIBLE INJUSTICE. 
 
 89 
 
 iO boy Hs is be- 
 lie said as bow 
 cause nothin's 
 
 . I've an bour 
 a\ ralhiT real 
 : tbe lirain's 
 .li's empty." 
 I't know as to 
 )re I do niucb : 
 
 ' you need to; 
 ent," returned 
 biinsulf at tbe 
 lis band. 
 I'm no Hcbobxrd, 
 tbein 1)1;; words 
 put down your 
 breaivfast. I've 
 rst tliin;; in tbe 
 !ad when you're 
 
 smile, and said 
 lered injurious, 
 t any ill elleets 
 
 is coffee, pbiced 
 nveniently near 
 lb, and clian;^ed 
 ifc and forlc sev- 
 ed as if loatli to 
 }d upon a chat 
 lining bis break- 
 be seemed less 
 ten to ber enter- 
 idedbisattencion 
 is book and bis 
 
 lokin' lino tbis 
 'inter V " she said 
 liem, and jueking 
 Iiere. "1 dusted 
 iwned 'era with 
 1 up amazin' : an' 
 tbey do smell 1 
 » like a garden." 
 grant, and grow 
 ul sadly anil ab- 
 wcre thinking of 
 
 I t 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Winter, that it's 
 just fimr years ago to-day since you come 
 here ? " saitl Mrs. Battle, with tbe door in 
 ber fingers, as if it bad just occurred to 
 her as she was going out, when really she 
 h.id been thinking of it ever since she en- 
 tered the room. 
 
 " Yes : I remember it loo well," returned 
 Abel with a sigh. 
 
 " I don't forget it, 'cause it was a awful 
 day for me. First, in the mornin' early, I 
 hciiril as bow my Cousin Betsy's little lM)y 
 was drowned in a wash-tub down in Sus- 
 sex. Then straight upon that bad news 
 comes more, — for cats never die but kittens 
 do, — a' aunt o' my husband's mother had 
 to drop down sudden that very time, an' 
 never 'sjieak again ; an' it was a great dis- 
 appointment too, 'cause she had property, 
 an' died afore she bad time to make 'er 
 will, an' my poor man never got a penny ; 
 an' goodness knows ho needed it bad 
 enough ! Then, just as my eyes was as red 
 as a lobster with cryin', an' I burryin' like 
 mad to get your rooms ready for you an' 
 your bride," (Abel winced), — " tryin' to 
 make 'em neat an' pleasant-like, you come 
 all in deep mournin', pale as a sheet, an' 
 tells me that you'd lost her sudden, an' 
 shouldn't need four rooms, but would take 
 two all the same. I can't never (brget 
 what a shock it was, along of not lettin' all 
 ray rooms, and a-thinkin' that every one 
 was a-dyin' sudden ; for no one would never 
 a thought it of that young pretty cretur' 
 as come with you one evenin' to look at the 
 rooms." 
 
 " Please don't speak of it, Mrs. Battle : 
 I can't bear to be reminded of that dread- 
 ful time." 
 
 "Oh ! I beg your pardon, Mr. Winter. 
 I didn't mean to hurt your feelin's ; I was 
 only just a-lbinkin' bow long you'd lived 
 all alone an' in mournin' ! an' how much 
 happier you'd be if you had a wife to 
 keep you company, an' to dust your books, 
 an' tend to your flowers I '' 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Battle ; you're very 
 kind ; but I never shall have a wife. I'm 
 contented as I am. I'm sure you don't 
 
 mind taking care of my things ; and I'm 
 (piito satisfied." 
 
 " An' I am, too, Mr. Winter, for that mat- 
 ter. You're a' excellent lodger as ever wa,<i : 
 so quiet an' no trouble, as I've oflen told my 
 man, an' always wipes your feet, an' dim't 
 i'orget there's a scraper at tbe street-door: 
 still, it seems to mo you're kiml o' lonely- 
 like, for all." 
 
 " No, Mrs. Battle: I don't think I am. 
 Books and flowers are pleasant compan- 
 ions." 
 
 " Yes, I s'jKjse them are for scholars ; 
 but there's peo])le as needs human bein's 
 round 'em to sort o'chirk 'em up a bit. Now, 
 Mr. Winter, instead o' settiu' here alone, 
 an' puzzlin' over them books, which is like 
 deal men's bones, dry an' mouldy, why 
 don't you go to the Darby ? Everybody's 
 goin', an' it's a day like we don't often 
 have. It'd do you a deal o' good. 
 Me an' my man'll bo startiii' in a' bour. 
 We've a pickled tongue, a slice o' bam, an' 
 bread an' ale, with a 'alf of a cold chicken, 
 for a lunch. There's a plenty for you, 
 if you'd like to go an' take a bite along of 
 us." 
 
 "Thank you kindly, Mrs. Battle; but I 
 haven't a holiday : there's a deal to be done 
 in the oflice ; for young Mr. Tborjie goes to 
 the r.iees, and we're behindhand in our 
 work." 
 
 " Oh ! that's a pity to shut yourself up 
 to-day. Now, Mr. Winter, if you don't mind, 
 I'll pick up a bit," said Mrs. Battle, 
 clearing away the breakfast things before 
 Abel had fairly swallowed bis last cup of 
 coffee ; " for, you see, I must fly round to get 
 things tidied up before 1 go, an' my man's 
 so unpatient if I'm late." 
 
 " I'm going out directly, Mrs. Battle," 
 said Abel, taking up his bat. " So you can 
 hurry all you wish. Good-morning, and a 
 pleasant day." 
 
 "He's always nice an' civil spoken," 
 soliloiiuized Mrs. Battle, as the door closed 
 upon the young man ; " but I'm glad he's 
 gone, 'cause I can clatter the things as 
 much as I like, an' I can work a deal faster 
 when 1 caa make a noise. It's the only 
 
40 
 
 ROPES OF BAND. 
 
 tliinj; lie's the least fiii«!iy about, is noise ; 
 an* he ilo Wkii to he still as well as any one 
 1 ever see. How awful pale he turned 
 •when I spoke of his trouVile I Lor I I 
 thought tiiere wasn't the inan born as'tl 
 remember a woman a month after she was 
 <lcacl. let alone four years, and never take 
 off his hat-band neithi-r. I've nl'ays won- 
 dereil what killed her, whether it was a fit, 
 or a turn o' fever, for she died awfid sudden ; 
 but I never can draw it ont o' him, he's so 
 dose-like. Yon mi;,'ht as well try to <;et 
 hair otf a' «•<:!:;. Any way, it was a' awful 
 stroke, I'm sure ; for I used to hear him 
 ni.dits a-walkin' an' walkin', 'till I thought 
 he'd wear the iloor throu<,di. Hut now lie's 
 pot (piii'ter, and reads and studies more, an' 
 tends his llowers, an' lingers round them 
 vi"lets tender-like. I know he loves 'em best 
 of all his plants 'eause her name was Vi'let ; I 
 heard him eall her that the ni^dit they eome 
 to'iether to look at the rooms. Though he's 
 calmer an' stiller now than he used to be« 
 still I believe he ain't cured yet; 'cause he 
 never smiles like a man as has much heart. 
 Goodness t there's my man a-bawlin' for 
 me to hurry, as thoujrh he thought I had a 
 do/en jKiir o" hands, :in' could do every tiling 
 in a iniiiit. I'm a-eomin', I'm a-c-omin' in 
 a Hash," she shouted, seizing the tr.ay, and 
 hastening ofl" with an awful clatter of 
 dishes and a slipshod sculRng. 
 
 ^Vhat Mrs. Battle had said was, for the 
 greater ]iart, true. Abel, after having buried 
 jioor Old Top resi)eetably in Kensal Green, 
 had eome there dressed in deep mourning, 
 with eyes that looked as though they were 
 drained of tears, and a face so i)alo and 
 wan that Airs. Battle declared he seemed 
 more like a ghost than a living man. lie 
 had said very little, only giving her to 
 understand, that, instead of a happy bride- 
 prcKJUi, lie was a sorrow-stricken lover, who 
 had lost the object of his aireclion almost 
 on the eve of his marria-^e. The kind- 
 hearted woman pitied him, and respected his 
 grief, though she was aching with curiosity 
 to know all about it ; but Abel's reserve 
 and dignity baffled every eflbrt to draw him 
 out i so that after iour years she knew no 
 
 more of the particulars of his loss than sLo 
 did the first day that he came. 
 
 In less than a year afler her disappear- 
 ance, ho had seen Violet twice. The first 
 time was shortly afler Top's death, when 
 he caught a glimpse of her driving in Hyde 
 Park. She was dressed in silk and muslin, 
 and wore a fashionable blue bonnet. The 
 carriage, her dress, explained all : she had 
 deserted him to become the mistress of some 
 wealthy rival, w' o gave her rich dresses 
 and j'!wels. He had suspected and feared 
 it ; but now, when lie knew it beyond a <loubt, 
 ho was completely beside himself with rage 
 and indignation. Not knowing what he did, 
 he followed the carriage, running like a 
 madman in the hot July sun, until he at- 
 tr.acted the attention of the p.assers, who 
 turned and hjoked after him, saving that he 
 had escaped from an asyliiin ; this brought 
 him to a consciousness of his ioWy ; and, rush- 
 ing into the shrubbery, he sank exhausted 
 and (piiveriug with anguish on the grass 
 under a tree, where he lay with his face to 
 the ground <or hours, while those who no- 
 ticed him thought him either sleeping or 
 intoxicated. AVhen lie was calmer, he arose 
 and staggered home ; shutting himself in his 
 own ro(jm, he wept, and moaned, and raved 
 the night away, forgetting his courage, his 
 manliness, his dignity, his promises to poor 
 Old Top, in the one maddening thought, that 
 she had been false to him, and was happy, 
 living in sin, with another. After that 
 passionate outburst, with a feeling that the 
 inevitable must be endured, he becarao 
 calmer and more resigned. Still, with the 
 strange inconsistency of the human heart, 
 he haunted every place where he thought 
 that there was a possibility of seeing her, 
 until one night he caught another glimpse 
 of her in the crowd around the door of 
 Covent Garden Theatre. She was just 
 stepping into her carriage ; and .ill he saw 
 was her beautiful tticc and head, with a 
 cluster of pink roses in her brown curls. 
 Forgetting himself, tbrgetting the place and 
 the people, he darted forward, and cried out 
 in bitter distress, •' Violet, Violet ! " But 
 the crowd drove him back, scarce noticing 
 
 '¥' 
 
 I) 
 
J 
 
 A TERRIBLE INJUSTICE. 
 
 41 
 
 loss tlmn gko 
 
 er (lisa|»|)Oiir- 
 !u. The first 
 
 (k'iitli, when 
 iviiv^ in llvile 
 k and imi)<lin, 
 lioniu't. Tho 
 1 iill : iiliR liiid 
 istross ot sonio 
 r rich dresses 
 k>d and fi-ared 
 cyoml a <louht, 
 isclf with rage • 
 1^ whathiMlid, 
 uniiin.i; liiic a 
 1, until he at- 
 I passers, who 
 aayin'i that he 
 ; this hroii<;ht 
 illy ; and, rush- 
 uik exhausted 
 on the grass 
 ritli his t'aee to 
 those who no- 
 ler sleejiin'^ or 
 aimer, he arose 
 ; himself in his 
 ued, and raved 
 is eourai^e, his 
 roniises to poor 
 ig lhouy;ht, that 
 ,nd was happy, 
 p. After that 
 reeling that the 
 d, he became 
 Still, with tho 
 I Imnian heart, 
 ere he thought 
 ' of seeing her, 
 nother glimpse 
 id the door of 
 She was just 
 and all he saw 
 
 head, with a 
 ■r brown eurls. 
 ig tho plaeeand 
 (1, and cried out 
 Violet ! " But 
 searce notichig 
 
 H 1 > 
 
 I ! 
 
 his pathetic cry, so eager was each person 
 to extricate himself from the i)ress, while 
 the strong arm and menacing cliih of a po- 
 liceman prevented him from reaching her 
 in s[iite of the most frantic elVorts. While he 
 struggled in vain, the carriage drove away, 
 and was lost to sight among the hundreds 
 of otlier vehiiles that tilled tho throngeil 
 street. After tliat, ho went constantly to 
 the same places, hut he never saw her again. 
 In those two brief glances he had learned 
 that tho flesires of licr girliiood were grat- 
 ified, — that she had jewels, rich dre.sses, 
 and a carriage, and went to the play like a 
 fine lady. When ho thought of it all lie. 
 abliorred lier; and, grinding Ids teeth, he 
 woulil say with terrible vindictiveness, 
 " She's twisting her ropes of sand ! she's 
 twisting lier ropes of sand ! and by and by 
 they '11 break, and leave her a wreck. " I$ut 
 as time passed olF, and he did not see her 
 again, his feelings softened toward her ; and 
 he began to think of her as we think of 
 those who have sinned against us and are 
 dead, with pity and forgiveness, wishing 
 again that she would come back to hini 
 lienitont, that ho might show her the en- 
 durance of his love and tenderness. 
 
 The day after " Derby," Abel was at his 
 desk, when Robert Thorpe came in, look- 
 ing pale, heavy-eyed, and jaded. Only 
 noticing his companion with a curl " Goixl- 
 niorning," ho throw himself into his chair, 
 leaned his elbows on his desk, and, dropping 
 his head into his hands, he remained for a 
 long time in dee]) thought. At last ho 
 looked up with a weary sigh ; and, drawing 
 a pile of letters towards him, he began to 
 open them, glancing over them, and hastily 
 flinging them aside impatiently, as thougli 
 the least labor were unendurable. 
 
 " Are you not well this morning, Mr. 
 Thori>eV" said Abel, after watching him 
 for a few moments. 
 
 " Thank you, I'm well enough, as far as 
 my health goes ; but I'm awfully bothered 
 in my mind. To tell you tho truth, Win- 
 ter, I bet too heavy yesterday, anil lost : it's 
 like my cursed luck 1 and tho governor is 
 as hard as a mill-stone this morning. I've 
 
 been going over some little items with him; 
 and I swear if he (h)n't think I'm extrava- 
 gant, — says I'm too (lush, and spend more 
 than I ought to of the profits ; but what's 
 the use of being partner in a house like 
 this, and working like a dog, if one can't 
 spend a iiiuind without accounting li»r it. 
 I declare, I'd rather work on a salary as 
 you do: ilien I could dis{K)se of my money 
 as I liked." 
 
 Just then there was a tap at the door; 
 and a clerk, pulling in his head, saiil, •♦ A 
 man to see Mr. Itobert Tlior|)e." 
 
 *• Show him in," returned Robert griiflly. 
 
 Abel looked up, as a common, low- 
 browed, evil-eyed Jew entered ; but, under- 
 standing that ho h.id private business with 
 his employer, he bent over the invoice ho 
 was copying, and paid no attention to the 
 new-comer. 
 
 When Robert Thorpe saw who tho per- 
 son was, his lace flushed with anger and 
 niortilied priile. Rising, ho ojiened tho 
 door of a small cabinet, which was seldom 
 used by Mr. Thorpe, iw all his jirivate busi- 
 ne^s was transacted in the luesenco of 
 Abel, and desired the evidently unwelcome 
 visitor to enter. They remaineil closeted 
 for some time, in a very loud and stormy 
 interview ; for Abel occasionally heard the 
 words, "Derby," "betting," "interest," 
 " security," and so on, bandied about be- 
 tween tho disputants. 
 
 At last the Jew came out with a cun-- 
 ning glitter of satisfaction in his snaky 
 eyes, and glided away without a word; 
 while Robert took his seat at his desk, 
 pale, and trembling with angry excite- 
 ment. 
 
 Neither spoke for a long time. Abel 
 eojiied attentively ; and Mr. Robert read 
 and re-read iiis letters, without understand- 
 ing their contents, so confused was he by 
 the Jew's visit. 
 
 At last he started up, and said, "It's 
 no use : I can't do any thing to-day. That 
 infernal Jew's upset me. You'll have to go 
 over the correspondence. Winter; and, for 
 Heaven's sake I see that every thing's right; 
 because the governor'll be in to-morrow. 
 
 fcw i iii a i i riwr i r i wt i m i M »iiiiiiii'ii f i' M ph m n 
 
42 
 
 ROPES OP SAND, 
 
 if 
 
 V 
 
 He's getting over liis attack, and lie's al- 
 ways cross-;,'rivine(l and I'nssy nftor ; bo 
 look out lliiit tiir^ straisjiht. I'm iioing to 
 the I'lub. to rest a while ; and I shan't Im 
 back to-day. If Lloyd's man comi's in, pay 
 him ninety-thn-o i)otnidH, seventeen >^liil- 
 l„,^s, — a private liill. I'll put it in the safe ;" 
 and, as he si)oke,he folded a nunildT of notes 
 in an cnvi'lopi'.and.openins a safe useil tode- 
 ])0:<it»niall amounts, he placed tliepaekaj^e in 
 it, and closed the door with a nharp banj?. 
 Ahel was lookin<; at him ; and he remem- 
 bered the violence with which he shut the 
 door, and the expression of his face, lon;^ 
 atU'r. Then, takinj^ his hat and cane, he 
 walked out, tellin;,' the clerks in the outer 
 oflice, as he passed, that he should not be 
 back ni.'ain for the day. 
 
 Alter he had gone, Abel sat fi)r a lon;^ 
 time in deep thought. Something was 
 wrong with Mr. Uobcrt Thorpe : he had 
 feared it for some time ; but lie had liked 
 him so well, that he would not acknowledge 
 it, even to himself. Now the Jew's visit 
 liad confirmed liis worst susi)icions. He was 
 involved in debt, and his father knew noth- 
 ing of if. and, that he might not learn of 
 his folly, he had gone to tliis unprincipled 
 
 It was very lato when Abel left the oflTicc, 
 as he had double duty to i)erform. All the 
 other clerks had gone long before ; ami he 
 let himself out, as he always diil, by a small 
 rear door that led through the warehouse 
 into a narrow, covered passage, which -on- 
 ducted to the street. As ho passed out 
 some one was loaning against the wall near 
 the door, who, when ho approached, moved 
 toward him, and then drew back hastily, 
 and remained motionless. " It is some 
 houseless creature who has sought a shelter 
 here," ho thought, as lie hurried out into 
 the half light of Lower Thames Street. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Thorpe came 
 into town early. He was weak and thin 
 from a severe attack of gout; and Abel 
 thought that he had never seen him look- 
 ing so poorly. Mr. llobert was at his 
 diTsk working dilijiently when his father 
 entered. He got up, shook hands allection- 
 ately, and inquired about his health. 
 
 " I'm better, thank you," returned Mr. 
 Thorpe ; " but I'm weak, nuserably weak, 
 and fit for nothing. Why didn't you come 
 home last night, Robert? I was alono all 
 the evening." 
 
 " I'm sorry, sir ; but I stopped at my club, 
 
 his o IV, lie nail jioiie lu imo uin.i...-.| »■ -- , 
 
 „.onev-i:.nder to Ixtrieate himself. Then, and went to bed early. I was so used up 
 his pale face and jailed air told of late and tired." 
 
 hours and dissipation. He had neglected 
 his bu^illess, injured his heallli, and sijuan- 
 dered his money ; and his father, in igno- 
 rance of it, triisti'd his most imjwrtant 
 interests to him. " How will this all end 'i " 
 thought Abel. " Perhaps it's my duty to 
 tell Mr. Thorpe my tears. But how can I, 
 how can 1 go to my employer, and com 
 
 "Tired, wore you? Why, was there 
 more to do yesterday than usual ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Robert, looking fur- 
 tively at Abel, who was bending over his 
 desk, apparently absorbed in bis work, 
 though in reality be heard every word of 
 the conversation. 
 
 " But you manage to keep every thing 
 
 how can i iro lo mv eiiiTn"y<^i, "••" >-"■" j ■= „.. ,- -, ,„, 
 
 plarof a so; that he loves to i.lolatiy ? straight between you?" said Mr. Thorpe, 
 1 eaii't do it. I must go on, as I've been glancing at Abel. 
 
 doing, working for him like a slave ; for I 
 j.iiy him, and like him, and I can't betray 
 him. For near five years I've devoted 
 myself to him, been patient enough, God 
 knows! under his exacting commands; 
 shielded him, and excused him, in a hun- 
 dred ways : and what have 1 got for it ? a 
 pleasant smile, a kind word now and then 
 
 " CerUinly, sir 1 Winter's invaluable in 
 an emergency; but I'm afraid he's over- 
 worked." 
 
 " Ah 1 you young men don't know what 
 work is," returned Mr. Thorpe a little fret- 
 fully. " Why, afler my fathec died, all the 
 business came upon lue ; and it was as large 
 then as it is now, for it hasn't increased 
 
 pleasant smile, a Kinu worn iiu« «"u I.-... - . „„ i i ,i;,i nlnnn 
 
 Ifs a m vsterv why 1 should like him, when any these last tour J'^'^" • ""'l J ""f, 
 Iknow heis'nnprincipled; but still I do." 1 as much work as you and Abel do together. 
 
 

 .l)(!l left the office, 
 pt'rf'oriii. All the 
 ij; bi'lliro ; iintl he 
 jH dill, by a onmll 
 :;h the waichimse 
 issii;;e, which "on- 
 ^8 ho passed out 
 inst thi! wall near 
 pproaihed, moved 
 rew l)U(k hastily, 
 ss. " It is some 
 as sought a shelter 
 ! hurried out into 
 riiaines Street, 
 ilr. Thorpe came 
 us weak and thin 
 f t;out; and Abel 
 ver seen liim look- 
 Lobert was at his 
 y when his father 
 jok hands aiVection- 
 it his health. 
 foa," returned Mr. 
 ik, miserably weak, 
 hy didn't you come 
 t V 1 was alone all 
 
 [ stopped at my club, 
 I was so used up 
 
 Why, was there 
 han usual ? " 
 Robert, looking fur- 
 as bending over his 
 arbcd in his work, 
 leard every word of 
 
 to keep every thing 
 ?" said Mr. Thorpe, 
 
 '^inter's invaluable in 
 ['m afraid he's over- 
 
 nen don't know what 
 r. Thorpe a little fret- 
 iiy fathec died, all the 
 e ; and it was as large 
 )r it hasn't increased 
 L-ars : and 1 did alone 
 ind Abel do together." 
 
 A TERRinLK INJUSTICE. 
 
 43 
 
 " Well. 1 don't understand it ; I'm sure 
 I'm not idle," .<ai(| Uobert, wiiii uninistiik- 
 al)le dissatisfaction; "and Winter works 
 like a horse." 
 
 Alii'l i(H>kediip f;ratefully, and was about 
 to speak, when there was a tap at the <UM)r, 
 niid a clerk enlerin;^, said, " A man from 
 I.lovil's with a bill." 
 
 '■ 'I'lien ho ilidn't come yesterday V " and 
 ItiljiTt imlo<-keil the safe as he spoke. 
 
 •• Xo, sir," replied Abel. 
 
 •• Where's the uioney V It is not liere," 
 said Robert, lurnin;;; with a blanched face. 
 
 '• I don't know," replied Al)el, risin.: 
 from his seat. " I saw you put some money 
 there yestenlaj" before you went out, an<l 
 I've not seen it since. The man didn't come, 
 and I had no occasion to open the safe." 
 
 '• l$y Jove 1 that's strange," e,\clainied 
 Robert, ;^lancing from his father to AIm;!. 
 " There's no one that has a key to the sale, 
 but my father, you, and I." 
 
 " Tell the man to wait a moment," said 
 ^Ir. Thorpe to the clerk, who still stood at 
 the door all eyes and mouth. " (iive him a 
 elieclc (or the amount, Robert, and send the 
 messenger away ; then we will look into 
 this matter," he aiMcd, turning toward his 
 sou a ])uzzled, troubled face. 
 
 While Robert Thorpe wrote his signa- 
 ture to the draft with a very unsteady 
 hand, Abel stood watchin'^ him in a dazed 
 sort of a way, scarce comprehending the 
 magnitude of the suspicion that had fallen 
 upon liim. 
 
 " Now pray explain this to me," said 
 Mr. Thorpe, when the man had finally 
 withdrawn with the check ; " for I must 
 coni'css I don't quite understand such an 
 irre;jular proceeding." 
 
 " It's very easy to explain, sir," returned 
 Robert, still very pale and nervous. " 1 
 owed a bill iit Lloyd's, a private bill ; and 1 
 cxpecte<l the man to call yesterdfvy. I put 
 the amount, which I happened to have by 
 me, into the safe, telling Winter if the man 
 eamu to pay it to him. He did not come 
 yesterday ; but this morning he comes. 1 
 open the safe : the money is gone. No one 
 has the key but you, myselll and Winter. 
 
 II<! was the last one In the office yesterday, 
 and the first one this mornin^t! vet he says 
 that he knows nothing about it." 
 
 " Do you dare to say tliat I do ? " cried 
 Abel, turning toward Robert Thorpe with 
 a face as white as marble, and eyes that 
 glowed like fire. 
 
 " Yes, certainly ; who else but you can 
 know any thing about itY " 
 
 " Vou are a liar I You know I've never 
 seen the money," shouted .Vbel at the top 
 of his voice, utterly forgetting himself in 
 his indignation. 
 
 Poor fellow ! he had not come from a 
 good stock ; so lie lacked the Jine.ise that 
 teaches better-bred people to (Control their 
 temper in every enieri;ency. 
 
 " Mr. Winter" (the" Mr. ' was ominous), 
 said Mr. Thorpe slowly and sternly, " that 
 will do. You have forgotten yoursi'lf : you 
 have insulted your employer, and my son." 
 
 " He insulted me first," returned Abel 
 angrily. 
 
 " Leave us alone, my son : we'll settle 
 this between us," and Mr. Thorpe motioned 
 to Robert to (juit the nxim. 
 
 As the young man went out ho looked 
 back with a strange expression on his f ice, 
 — an ex[)ression that Abel remembered long 
 after; and the remembrance of it .softened 
 his animosity wluin the first bitterness of 
 the wrong had passed away. 
 
 When his son h.td gone, Mr. Thorpe 
 turned a troubled face toward Abel, and 
 said, in a voice of mingled jiity aiul en- 
 treaty, " I'm sorry for this, Abel. For 
 God's sake 1 can't you explain it? If you 
 needed the money, and took it, say so at 
 once; and I'll overlook it. I'll promise you 
 I will." 
 
 " Do you believe me capable of such a 
 thing, Mr. Thorpe ?" asked Abel with a 
 strange calmness. 
 
 "I'm unwilling to; but what can I 
 think ? Robert put the money there : you 
 saw him. He went away, and left you 
 here ; and, when he returns, the money is 
 gone. No one else but you and he 
 have keys to the sat'*!, or even to the room. 
 Nothing else is disturbed : no other person 
 
 M j i i'WMIUJI.^ ■a. U-lgj ' m * ! W W 
 
rl 
 
 44 
 
 ROPES OF SAND. 
 
 
 cnn have taken It. You »eo It'n n-^aiiist i 
 you. 
 
 "Yc!"; luce it ic," ri'fiirtiiil llio poor fi'l- 
 Idw, tri'iiililiii'.! ill cvoiy iiinli an liix anijir 
 (Iiivi- wiiy to llic {iriff of licinv; mispi'ctcil 
 by tlic man wlio had tnislt'd liim imfj bi'- 
 fricndi'il him nlway.*. " Still, .Mr. Tlior[)o, 
 you know nm ko well, I iilionld liop(>, tlint 
 no HUHpiciouM circinns'fani'o coiilil i'lian;;i' 
 your i;o(>d opinion of inc." 
 
 " IJut wliiit can I do? It lies In'twcon 
 you and Uobcrt. I can't accuse my con : 
 it lies between you two. 
 
 " 'riien he is ;;uilly ; for I am not." 
 "How dare you say that in my pres- 
 ence Y " f<lioute(l the old gentleman furi- 
 ously. Then lie calmed hinmelfaiid said, 
 " But I'm an idiot to lose my temper with 
 you; there's no excuse for me. He reason- 
 able, Al)el, and think of tlie absurdity of 
 such a siipjiosition. What would induce 
 Mr. l^>llert 'I'hoipe to steal the pitiful sum 
 of ninety-three pounds from liimself? " 
 
 " I diin't know. I know nothiii'^ about it- 
 I never have sci'n the money. You know 
 it ; and lie knows it too. I've worked day 
 and iii<xbt for him. I've served him faith- 
 fully. I've made myself a slave to him, 
 and ibis is iht^ return. H** accuses me of 
 stealin;,' a paltry sum of money ! " here the 
 poor fellow broke down ; and, sinkinir into 
 a diair, be wept violently. 
 
 Mr. Thorpe wat<hcd him with a pain- 
 fully puzzh'd, pitying look, thinking; to him- 
 self, " I can't believe he's guilty : I really 
 can't." 
 
 At last Abel started up ; and, dashing 
 off the tears, lie cried out in iiard, angry 
 tones, " I'll never tbrgive him : I never will ! 
 He shall suffer if he don't take that back." 
 " Calm j-oiir.self, Abel, and listen to rea- 
 son. I can't think you've done it. I really 
 can't, thouixh every thing's against you. 
 I'd rather lose a hundred times that sum 
 than to accuse you. I'll replace it. I'll 
 speak to my son, and you must apologize to 
 him ffir what you said ; you really must. 
 Tlien, I think, we can let every thing go on 
 as usual, and, perhaps, in time, the matter 
 will be explained." 
 
 •' What t You think I'll stay here and 
 go on the same with that siisjiicion resting 
 upon me'? And that I'll apoloyrize to Mr. 
 Hobert'? No, Mr. Thorpe : I'll ilo neither. 
 You've been good to me, sir ; once, when I 
 was in dreadl'iil trouble, you were kind to 
 me, and I don't forget it; liut now you ask 
 too much. No ; I'll not work for you an- 
 other <liiy. I'll starve first." With this 
 he took his hat and rushed out of t'r." rear 
 
 door, beibro Mr. Thorpe could say another 
 woid. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I.EKT TO HIMSELF. 
 
 For several days after the unhappy 
 aH'air in Mr. Thorpe's office, Abel re- 
 mained at home in his room, shutting him- 
 self up, rcfufiiig food and the kindly atten- 
 tions of Mrs. Battle, who thought he was ill, 
 and declared it to be the result of his por- 
 ing over his liooks while ho was taking his 
 meals. She was not wrong in su()posing 
 that he was suffering, though the cause 
 was a very different one from what she 
 imagined; for in his deepest trouble he 
 had never been through darker hours than 
 these. The worst feelings in his nature 
 were .aroused : every vindictive, cruel pas- 
 sion, that until now had lain dormant, 
 started into action at this provocation. 
 \Vhatev(!r of evil his mother had be- 
 iiueathcd to him was stirred up against the 
 perpetr.ator of this bitter wrong. In his 
 other troubles ho had been gentle and pa- 
 tient, enduring all with a quiet courage 
 worthy of a superior nature. But now his 
 heart was seething hot with hate and re- 
 venge toward the man who had accused 
 him so unjustly, who had ruined him with 
 a word ; and the most unbearable 'part of it 
 was that lie had loved his enemy, had de- 
 voted bis best feelings to him, his most 
 earnest endeavors, the very treshness and 
 strength of his IjJ'e. Virtually he had been 
 
 1 
 
 ^ 
 
LEFT TO HIMSELF. 
 
 45 
 
 dtny Ihtc antl 
 iHjiii'inn ri'ntln}; 
 Kilovrizn to Mr. 
 I'll ilo rifiihiT. 
 • ; onci', wlicn I 
 1 yu'Vi' kitiil to 
 lUt now you link 
 )rk Cor you nn- 
 dt." With tliU 
 
 out of til" rciir 
 ul(i Bay anuthur 
 
 HI. 
 
 ELF. 
 
 r the unhappy 
 ofHce, AIk'I re- 
 in, sliuttin;^ liini- 
 ;lic kindly atten- 
 uu;:;lit 111! vrna ill, 
 result of Ills por- 
 
 was taking Iiis 
 ng in 8U[)po8ing 
 ough the causo 
 
 from wliat sho 
 >pe9t trouble ho 
 arker hours than 
 ;s in his nature 
 ictive, cruel pas- 
 
 1 lain dormant, 
 this provocation, 
 mother had be- 
 ud up against the 
 r wrong. In his 
 m gentle and pa- 
 a quiet courage 
 re. But now his 
 yith hate and re- 
 who had accused 
 
 ruined him with 
 )oarable'part of it 
 is enemy, had de- 
 to him, his most 
 ery Jreshncss and 
 ually he had been 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 hix !<lava, toiling for him day and night, 
 anil ri'cciving birt a scanty pittance in r(!- 
 turn, studying his interest more lliaii his 
 own, wearing out health and strength in 
 his service, making every I'llnrt to save 
 hiiu from censure, lilinding his own tUtlier 
 tu his tiiults, and enduring lilanu; patiently 
 that he might sutler no reproof. In short, 
 he had sacrificed himself day by day, night 
 by ni^lit, to be of service to this man who 
 had so cruelly accused him on the first oc- 
 casion for suspicion ; and for what motive 
 he coulil not divine. His anger against 
 his enemy made him see his faults in the 
 worst light, iind ho now encouraged con- 
 jectures which he never would have ad- 
 mitted before : he began to doubt liis honor. 
 Only Ilobert Thorpe himself could have 
 witliilrawn the money from the safe where 
 he hail placed it. Hut what reason had he 
 for doing so? the sinallness of the amount 
 made the very supposition absurd. If lie 
 was involved in debt, so pitiful a sum as 
 ninety-three ]>ounils could not e.Mrii.'ate 
 him ; besides, was he not a |)artner in a nour- 
 ishing, well-established house V and could 
 he not have raised ten limes the amount 
 in a hundred dilFerent ways? Therelbre 
 he could not have taken it simply to get 
 possession of the money, which had been 
 Abel's first impression . there must be an- 
 other and a deeper motive behind it all ; 
 and that could only be a determination to 
 disgrace him so that there should be a rea- 
 son to dismiss him from his service. 
 
 " I understand it all now," he cried 
 starting up, alter hours of deep rellcction, 
 and walking the floor r.apidly. '• He's a 
 greater villain thiin I thought him : he 
 fears that I suspect him, that I know too 
 miii'h, and that I will betray him ; he looks 
 uj)oii me as a spy, and has taken that base 
 means to banish me. After all I've done 
 for him, it is too cruel. It is more than I 
 can bear. I will not submit to it calmly. 
 I will not allow that man to ruin me. I 
 will go to him, and expose him before his 
 father, who .shall know all of his irregular 
 proceedings for the last four years. And 
 the Jew, how can he explain that ? Why 
 
 was he closeted with him ? What can ho 
 say when I tell his I'atlier of all these 
 things ? " 
 
 Full of this intention, and bcsidi' him- 
 selt' with exi'iti'iiiciU and anger, he did tho 
 very worst thing that he could have done : 
 he rushed into Mr. Thorpe's private ollice, 
 where he was sitting ipiietly with bis son, 
 and accused the yoiini; man bel'ore bis I'.i- 
 tlicr in the most immoderate and insulting 
 language. ItolM-rt, with fearful pallor and 
 llaming eyes, interrupted liiiii U'/ain iiiiil 
 again; while Mr. Thorpe treiiil)li'd so with 
 indignation that he could scarce speak; 
 but, when at last he rc'covered himself, ho 
 (i|>ened the door with a dignity that Abel 
 could not mistake, and, sayin'.; a ti'W low, 
 impressive words to him, which eoolcd him 
 directly, he bade him leave his prcseuco 
 ti>rever. 
 
 The poor fellow tottered out throii;.;li lliu 
 warehouse into the dark passage, so faint 
 and dizzy that be was obli'^cd to lean tor 
 support against the wall. .\ great sob broke 
 from his trembling lips, and a convulsion of 
 gi'ief shook him like a leaf. Mr. Thorpe, 
 the man he had so loved and reverciu'cd, 
 the man tin* whose esteem and confideneo 
 he had laliored all his life, had threatened 
 to have liiin arrested like a common crim- 
 inal I had ordered him to leave his ollice, or 
 he would send for an officer to take him to 
 prison on a charge of theft ! Was there 
 ever a more cruel wrong done an iiino<-cnt 
 man ? The first shock had cooled him, 
 now the numbness had pa.ssed away ; and 
 the sting that remained maddened him. 
 r-iill of a terrible resolve, alone in that dark 
 I)assage, but a few steps from God's blessed 
 sunlight and tho hurrying feet of men, 
 women, and children, he took a lisarful oath, 
 clutching his hand, and fdiaking it in the di- 
 rection of the office where Mr. Thorpe sat 
 with his son, silent and gloomy, neither 
 daring to accuse or excuse the rash young 
 man who had insulted them in such an 
 unwarrantable inanncr. Then he hurried 
 home, rushing blindly through the crowds ' 
 of ])eople who stared at him woiideringly. 
 Fires and tempests had slumbered in hia 
 
46 
 
 ROPKB OF SAND. 
 
 jK)()r KOiil until MOW ; nml lu' liiul lu-vcr 
 Im'cii iiwiirc III' ilirir cxisti'iii'i'. It w.it tin' 
 iiijiii'iirf, tilt' ti'iTiltlr iiiiuilii'c, that iinmni'd 
 tlii'iii III Ik wliirlwiii'l. 'I'lioKi- wliii ilii«k 
 tlioy iiiuliTKiiiiiil liiiiiiaii iKitiii-i- wi'll tell ut 
 thitt It ciiiiHi'iimMni'iiN nf innni'uiu'u iiiiikcM um 
 milMiiit t((iifi'ui.;itioiic:iliiily. 'I'liiit will |>iis?< 
 iiH a lliciiry nl' i<iiiii(' |i<'ri<iiiiH who li.ivi! Iiuil 
 but littlu t'X|n'rl»'nfo in llm wopkiir^H of ilio 
 liciirl ; fell', if lliiTc U oiii' njiitrk of |iHK!'Ioii in 
 tlif Kiiiil, it will \h'. al)la/u at ttiicli an injury, 
 or wt> arc not liiiinan. 
 
 Wlii'u Alit'l ri'achcil IiIm rfM)m, lie threw 
 hiniHt'lt' iijioii his Ih'iI, and hiy lor lioiirn in ii 
 Btiipor of ilcopnir anil (li,<coiini;:rnii'iit. 
 " What is thf <«*i'," ho thiti|i;ht. " to strii;,",'lc ] 
 any liMv^cr 'I I've trii-il, il'cvcr any <Mvaiiiri' 
 dill, to keep my lii'ad ahovc wati'r. Since I 
 lost lier and dear old daddy, I've had as little 
 heart as n man ever had ; and yt t I've trieil 
 mil to sink. I've devoted invself to these 
 two men. I've lived on lli 'if approval, 
 their kindnesf). I had no other niui in my 
 desolate lilt! than to serve them I'aitlifillh . 
 I've lived titr them and my hooks, I've 
 studied hard, when I haven't lieeii woikin'/, 
 to raise iny.self up to an intellectual level 
 with them ; to make myself more worthy of 
 their esteem and friendsliip. I've never 
 wronged any one in my life, and I never 
 meant to ; for four years my heart has hied 
 filently, and I haven't distiirlied others 
 with my ^rief. I've tried to live a hlame- 
 less, uiiolilrusive life, satisfied with enough 
 f(jr my daily bread, and my other small 
 needs ; and I've jjiven what I could spare to 
 those poorer than myself. I couldn't do 
 much (or others; but (Jod knows I've done 
 what I eoiild. My confidence in them was 
 the link that bounil ine to humanity. After 
 my dreadful disappointment, their friend- 
 ship made lile endurable. I've been un- 
 happy enou'jih ; I've had my share of 
 trouble, yet this seems to be the hisiviest of 
 all. Pour old daddy was ri^ht : I was born 
 for sorrow and sacrifice. There's always been 
 a sad si'^hiii'.; in my ears : perhaps it is the 
 old mom of the ocean that my mother heard, 
 or the iiilieritan<'e she gave me Ijelbre I saw 
 the li 'ht. What a lot mine's been I — 
 
 never to know n filher, to lie born of an 
 ditfast, to lie reared in |ioverly and i'.<no- 
 rani'e, with ii »oiil thirstiu'j liir kmnvled'^'o 
 as the dry earth liir rain ; to love but ono 
 wmiian, to be deceived and doerti'd ; and 
 now to be crushed witii this cruel wnm^'I 
 Wlial is there to be ihinkliil liir in such a 
 di'siiny ? Fate is a'.;aiiiit me. It isnoiise: 
 I shall sti'U'iK'e no more I '" Then, )()r;.'etting 
 p lor old Tup's ilyiu'^ wiirniii'„', he beran tu 
 twist his ropi's of sand : he bejaii lo accuse 
 (to<l of injustice, and all mankind of mis- 
 chievous irileiiiions toward him; he exa;;- 
 licrated the evil by eiicoura','iii'i it, and 
 ihinkin'^' of it. until he worked hiiiisrll' up to 
 a frenzy of passion and revcii'^c. He wan 
 liurnin;; with li'ver, .i scurchini thirst tor- 
 lured him ; 111' drank water by the i|ii:ni, but 
 that did not appease it. Then he did 
 another foolish tliiii'.;: ho sent Mrs. Ilatlie 
 for a bottle of brandy, and drank a ;.'lass liir 
 the lirst timi' in his lilii. 
 
 The i^iiod woman was an.sioiis and 
 alarmed when she looked at his ha'jr'.'ard 
 face and blood-shot eyes. " You're ill, you 
 are, Mr. Winter; an' you must have a doc- 
 tor. You're leverish an' thirety, \vlii(di is 
 the way they're took with siiiall-po.\ an' 
 yallcr fever; lioth's )iO\n' about I.iinilnn, 
 and you've eome across 'cm some v he re," 
 ^he said with melancholy decision, referrin;; 
 to the diseases in a way that corresponded 
 with the fijfiirative lani;uafj;o of the Ilible, 
 " of phv'iues thit stalk by noonday ! '' 
 
 " You're mistaken, Mrs. Battle ; I'm not 
 ill, and I don't want a doctor," ri'iiirncd 
 Abel in such a loml, cross tone, and so 
 unlike his usual polite, fiuiet way, that his 
 landlady I'll the room in terror, ileclurin^ 
 to her husband that their lod;jer had fiot 
 the ''delirium treml)lers instead ol'ihc small- 
 pox, which was caused, no doubt, by them 
 books." 
 
 All the remainder of the day, Abel 
 drank brandy, and raved and tossed, 
 swcariii;^ liitter vengeance against Robert 
 Thorpe, so that by night he was in a fit 
 condition to commit almost any iiiadness. 
 When Bow Bells, that had made such 
 music in poor Old Top's dying ears, rang 
 
 'L 
 
 ji\ 
 
LKKT TO HIMBRLP. 
 
 47 
 
 !)(> horn of nn 
 iTiy iiiiil iuiio 
 t for kiiiiwlfil'.'o 
 I) liivt' lint iiiut 
 (I'M'rti'il ; iiii(l 
 H criii'l wrun;.' ! 
 
 ll till' 111 Nllrll a 
 
 It is rill iisi' ; 
 riii'ii,fi>r;.'i'ttins 
 ii'„', lif Ill-rail to 
 lii'iilii lo in ril>ii' 
 i;iiikinil iif mi.*- 
 Iiiiii ; lie I'xa;;- 
 ir:i','iii'i it, lUid 
 n<l liimNrlt'iip to 
 
 ell','!'. Ill' WHS 
 
 liiiij tliii-ftt tor- 
 ly tlx' i|ii:n'l, lillt 
 ' Tlicii Ik. .lid 
 I'nt iMi's. Iliiitlo 
 Iniiik ii ;.'ia(<.'< lor 
 
 anxious anil 
 lit liis li,i;j:'.'ar(l 
 " You're ill, you 
 iiist hiivf a (loc- 
 liirs-ty, which is 
 
 Miiiall-po.\ an' 
 uhoiit Loiiilon, 
 in some vliuru," 
 I'ii'ioii, rcH'i-rini^ 
 it corrc-ponili'cl 
 ro of till' llible, 
 )oiiilay ! '' 
 BattU' : I'm not 
 R'tor," ri'i iirnt'd 
 IS tone, and so 
 L't way, thiit his 
 error, ileclai-in;^ 
 lod'.rer had not 
 :(!ad ol'ihe Miiall- 
 donht, liy them 
 
 the d.iy, Abel 
 d and tossed, 
 against Robert 
 he was in a fit 
 it any iiiadness. 
 lad made sueh 
 lying ears, rang 
 
 f\ ^ 
 
 i 
 
 • <: 
 
 
 J^A 
 
 nine, he was prepannn to ;;o nut. lie ar- 
 ran'.'e<l Ids disordered dress with treiiibliii.; 
 hands, drank another ^lass of brandy, and 
 then, taking; a small revolver from his 
 drawer, whieh he had used to praiitise in 
 a sh(K)tin(;-'.;allery, he loadeil it carefully, 
 with a sti'ady hand, ami put It resolutely 
 Into his breast-|)oeket. As he took his hat 
 ihiin the tahltt, hu (!aii;;ht n ^"■np<**^ of hiiii- 
 lelf ill a ;,das.s, and looked with a va^iie 
 wonder at the ha;,"^ard face and wild eyes, 
 whieh seemed bill a spirtral relleution ol 
 his own. Then he stole out of the house 
 like aei'iminal, sayiir.', " He shall ri'j;ht me, 
 or I'll- take his lite;" and he repeated it 
 over and over in his heart, as ho went 
 throUL,di the street, until ho reaehed Lon- 
 don Urid^e, where he eould seu through 
 the (b:; the dim li.dit in iIk! window of the 
 oflii'O on Lower Tlianies Street. It was 
 as he had expected : llobert Tliorpo was 
 wriiing there, doiii.; the work that he had 
 always dono ; and later ho would leave by 
 the rear exit, throu.fh the warehoiiso and 
 covered way, as was the custom with those 
 who remained late. 
 
 The iii'^dit was very dark ; and a sou^li- 
 inn wind drove the dense foi^ into the 
 gloomy passa'^e where Abel waited with 
 the instriiinent of revenge clasped firmly 
 in his hand, re[)eatiii:^ over and over to 
 himself, '• lie shall right me, or I'll shoot 
 him liko a do^." It seemed to hiin that 
 ho had waited there for hours, pressed 
 against the door, listening for the steps 
 that did not come, his soul a whirlwind of 
 fierce passion, his heart full of burning 
 Late and revenge, when suddenly he be- 
 came conscious tliat some one was there 
 besides himself; that another human bein^ 
 was watching in the darkness with him ; 
 for a soft, rustling .sound told him that a 
 woman's drapery was brushing against 
 the damp wall. Turning his head, the faint 
 light from Lower Thames Street struck 
 across his face, and revealed it in all its 
 ghastly pallor to the person, who sighed 
 heavily, and withdrew again into the 
 shadow. 
 
 " Who is here ? " ho said in a voice of 
 
 ill-eontrolied anger, fur he feared that this 
 intruder would baillo liiiii in his scheiuu 
 liir extorting reparalimi Iroiii Robert 
 Tlior|K'', but ilu'i'e was no n-ply, only a 
 low, broken sob which toudied liis heart 
 directly. " My (iod I It's a woman, and 
 slut's ill trouble. What can I doy llow 
 can I get her away before he conies',' " 
 
 Holding out one hand in the ilark, while 
 with the oilier he clasped the wea[ioil of 
 death <'liise to his heart, he said liioro 
 kindly, and with a sofiMtied voice," What's 
 the matter',' are you liiin,'ry? Do you 
 want money to get a night's lodging V ll' 
 you do, Here it is : taki^ it, fur (iod's sake ! 
 and goto a more comfortable place tlian 
 this." lint still tliere was no answer, only 
 llie low, brok(!n sob. Then lie lell his 
 post, and went softly toward lint tl irk 
 mass huddled against the wall. She was 
 draped in black from head to foot, and not 
 one fi'ature of her face was visilile in the 
 obscurity. As ho approiudied her, trem- 
 bling with excitement and a nameless fear, 
 she advanced toward him, uid held out a 
 dark bundle with a weary, di'oopiic^ motion, 
 as thoii'j;!! she could no longer retain it in 
 her grasp. 
 
 Instinctively, scarce knowing what ho 
 did, with the pistol still clenched in his 
 hand, Abel reached out his arms, and 
 received into them what he knew directly 
 to be a child, wrapped in a tliick garment. 
 Before ho was well aware of what he had 
 done, before he h.ad tiini! to refuse the 
 little creature so strangely thrust into his 
 keeping, the woman glideil by him out of 
 the passage into the street, and he saw 
 her no more lor he made no cU'ort to 
 follow lier, but stood stupidly holding the 
 bundle at arms' length, A moment after, 
 a slight niovetiient and a iiitifiil cry re- 
 called him to himself; and, galhering the 
 child close to his breast with the first 
 instinct of the human heart, he tried to 
 soothe it, and silence its plaintive wail. 
 The instant that the little living thing 
 nestled to his bosom, the warmth anil life 
 seemed to penetrate to his very soul, driv- 
 ing out the demon of darkness that reigned 
 
 m 
 
m> 
 
 48 
 
 BOPES OF SAND. 
 
 I i 
 
 there. " My God ! " he cried, like one 
 awakened suddenly from a horrible dream, 
 " Where am I ? Why am I here Y " Then, 
 as the thought of the erime ho had medi- 
 tated iiiirst upon iiim in all its horror, he 
 j;roaned aloud ; and, (Iin;jing the pistol as 
 I'ar from him as he eould, he elasped the 
 child closer, and rushed trom the ])laee, 
 just as llobert Thorpe's advancing steps 
 fell upon his ear. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A MTTLE ANGKL. 
 
 WiiKN Abel fled from the advaneinct 
 steps of llobert Thorpe, his one desire was 
 to escape from temptation. In an instant 
 his feelin^is had entirely changed ; and he 
 now looked upon the crime he had been 
 about to connnit with the j;reatest horror. 
 lie did not stop until he was snlficiently 
 far from his enemy to insure his safety ; then 
 he turned ilito a dark court ;r,led with 
 bales of j^oods, where unobse.-v-.il he eould 
 pause a moment to recover himself. Sink- 
 ing down on one of the boxes, an<l still 
 holding the child to his heart a? a shield 
 against the tempter, he tried to think of 
 what had taken place during the last few 
 days; but he could remember nothing 
 clearly since the hour that Robert Thorpe 
 had accused him of a crime he had never 
 committed. Ail the intervening time was 
 like the confusion of a troubled drea:"i 
 that left, no distinct impression, only fear. 
 
 " Father in heaven ! " he cried with 
 anguisii, "I was about to commit a 
 dreadful crime : I was about to stain my 
 soul with another's blood. Ilowcan I ever 
 expect mercy from thee ? How can I ever 
 raise my eyes to thy face ? IIow can I 
 walk ujirightly and fearlessly before my 
 fellow-men with the memory of this awful 
 intention haunting me ? I wixs insane. 
 I was deserted by my good angel. I was 
 
 left to myself. O daddy t dear daddy ! did 
 you know what your hoy was about doing ? 
 Did you entreat Christ to interpose and 
 save him? Ilowcan 1 ever meet you in 
 the other world with my sin and ingratitude 
 ever betbre me ? I forgot all my promises 
 to you, — promises that comforted you in 
 your last hour. I forgot my resolution tO 
 do light, to be patient in trouble!, to be 
 faithful to your advice. I forgot all; and 
 how can I hope for mercy and l(:)rgiveness 
 from God V " 
 
 There alone, in the darkness and dreari- 
 ness of night, utterly broken in spirit, and 
 crushed, with remorse and peniti'nce, ho 
 prayed as he never liad prayed before, witli 
 the child clasped to his heart, a saving 
 angel that had come between him and sin. 
 After that he was calmer : a great agony 
 seemed to have been lifted from him ; and 
 he walked out thankfully into the street 
 with the feeling of one who had been saved 
 from sudden destruction. He stojjped for 
 a moment under the nearest lamp; and, 
 drawing back the shawl from the face of 
 the infant, he looked at it for the first time. 
 It was fast asleep : two little pink lists were 
 doubled close under its dimpleil chin, long 
 curled lashes lay on its cheeks, and little 
 rings of golden hair clustered round its 
 white forehead. Its frock was fine and 
 white : it was warm, clean, and sweet, and 
 did not look like the neglected child of an 
 outcast. Tliere was a mystery about it. 
 AVho had thrust it into his arms? AVas it 
 some poor creature who wishe<l to abandon 
 the fruit of her shame, and had not the 
 courage to leave it in the street, or at a door 
 '.7 here charity could not refuse it? Or was 
 it sent to him by God to save him from 
 himself? Was it a little angel clothed in 
 human flesh that had been put into hia 
 arms to drive the demons of hate and 
 revenge from his heart? While these 
 thoughts were passing in his mind, he had 
 formed no plan as to what he should do 
 with it. Its very helplessness appealed to 
 him for protection. The warmth of its 
 little body penetrated his heart. It had 
 saved him from a fearful sin : he could not 
 
 "J 
 
 > 
 
A LITTLE ANQEL. 
 
 49 
 
 (lour daddy ! diil 
 iViis about doing ? 
 to intorpose and 
 ver nuut you in 
 n and iii<rratitudo 
 , all my promises 
 'ouitbrted you in 
 my I'L'solutiou to 
 in trouble, to be 
 I forgpf all ; and 
 y and ibrgivencss 
 
 mess and drcari- 
 en in spirit, and 
 id ponitimt'e, ho 
 ayi'd before, witli 
 
 heart, a saving 
 iicn him and sin. 
 : a great agony 
 [1 from liim ; and 
 • into the street 
 ohad boon saved 
 
 He stojjped for 
 rest lamp ; and, 
 rora the face of 
 for the first time. 
 le pink lists were 
 npled chin, long 
 heeks, and little 
 Uered round its 
 k was fine and 
 , and sweet, and 
 L'ted child of an 
 ystery about it. 
 
 arms? AVas it 
 she<l to abandon 
 nd had not the 
 ;reet, or at a door 
 fuse it? Or was 
 D save him from 
 ivngel clothed in 
 :cn put into hia 
 IS of hate and 
 ? While these 
 is mind, he had 
 it he should do 
 less appealed to 
 
 warmth of its 
 
 heart. It had 
 [i: he could not 
 
 abnrtdon it, even thou;,'h a policeman was I falseluMxl. " I felt feverish and poorly ; so 
 
 at that m )ment walking towards him, and 
 he had only to tell him the story, which 
 was a ciiinMion one, and put, the child into 
 his arms to be relieved of it and all further 
 responsibility ; but be could not do that, — 
 no, lie could not. It nestled again in his 
 arms; iind he clasped it closer to his heart, 
 as he turned into Little Eastcheap, and 
 liurrieil toward his own home. 
 
 When Mrs. Battle discovered that Abel 
 had Stolen (piietly out of the house, from, 
 wha* she supjiosed to be a sick bed, she 
 declared to hi'r man, with the most ominous 
 solemnity, that his boily would be found in 
 the Tliauies next morning, as he was '■ as 
 crazy as a Marcli hare. lie had slipped 
 away to drown liisself, an' it was a' awful 
 misiortune, besides bein' a loss, as they'd 
 never in the world let their rooms when it 
 was known that a lodger had drowned his- 
 self out of 'em ; " but when she saw him 
 enter her little back jjarlor, after she had 
 given liiiu up entirely, damp, pale, disor- 
 dered, but alive, with a large bundle 
 wrapped in a blue and green plaid, her 
 anxiety was changed into joy ; and, scarce 
 knowing what she did, she accumulated 
 question upon question. '■ Why, Mr. Win- 
 ter, how could you do so? You don't 
 know what a' awful start I got when I 
 found you'd gone out. You seemed so sick 
 and strange-like this afternoon, that I was 
 afrai<l you was light-headed, and had 
 kind o' wandered off, an' might come to 
 harm. I've been into a dreadful state, 
 a-fidgittin' to the door every minit to see if 
 you'd come. Why, what possessed you to 
 go out when you was so knocked up? 
 Wliere have you been ? an' what 'ave you 
 got in that shawl ? " 
 
 " Don't get excited, Mrs. Battle ; pray, 
 don't. There's nothing at all the matter. 
 I'll tell you all about it, if you'll only give 
 me time," said Abel, sinking into a chair, 
 and smiling a sickly sort of a smile, to re- 
 assure the good woman, who was (puvering 
 with curiosity and surprise. '• I went out 
 to get the air," he continued, feeling obliged 
 under the circumstances to resort to a 
 
 I thought I'd take a turn " — 
 
 Just then the child nujved and cried a 
 little; and .Mrs. B.ittio threw u|) her hands 
 and exclaimed, " Good Lord, Mr. Win- 
 ter ! you've got somethin' livin' in that i)un- 
 dle. Is it a baby, or a <log? " 
 
 " It's a baby, Mrs. Battle ; and, if you'll 
 be calm a moment, I'll tell you the strangest 
 thing of all. I'd stopped a moment to rest, 
 and was leaning against a wall ; or, rather 
 I saw a woman leaning against a wall, — 
 excuse mo if I'm a little confused, my 
 head's not just right yet, — I saw a woman 
 leaning against a wail, in a very dejected 
 and feeble sort of a way ; and so 1 went 
 toward her to see if I could l)e ,i" any 
 assistance, when she held out this tjiindle ; 
 an' I, not knowing what it was, took it froui 
 her; th(!n, before I fairly knew what I had 
 done, she disappeared in the darkiie.<s, and 
 I couldn't see her anywhere." 
 
 " O Mr. Winter ! is it j)0ssible that you 
 are so innocent as that? Why, it'.s an old 
 trick in London, for them miserable cretur's 
 to get clear o' their babies that way. I 
 must say as how you was took in nicely. 
 What kind of a, thing is it? Ii you've no 
 objections, I'll take a peep; " and Mrs. Battle 
 began to untold the shawl with averted 
 face, saying, " I'm a'lnost afraid to touch it : 
 I da' say it's pison with dirt." 
 
 " No," returned Abel, giving it into her 
 hands with a sigh of relieK " I've looked at 
 it: it's like all babies, but it seems neat 
 enough." 
 
 " I do declare if it ain't as clean as wax, 
 and as lovely too," exclaimed Mrs. Battle, 
 dropping off its cocoon-liko wrappings, and 
 holding it up to the light, — a tiny, little, 
 white creature, as pure and sweet as a 
 rosebud. "Mercy alive I Mr. Winter, 
 don't it puzzle you to know how them 
 mothers can 'bandon a child like this — an' 
 a cambric frock with lace, an' 'broidery 
 on its petticoat 1 It ain't no common 
 child." 
 
 Tho little creature winked and blinked 
 under the strong light, rubbed its tiny 
 nose with its pink fists, and whined, sjrew- 
 
 t « 
 I 
 
iT 
 
 I 
 
 50 
 
 HOPES OF SAND. 
 
 ing up its little face to an unintelligible | 
 
 knot. 1 1 1 • 
 
 "Is'poseil's hungry. If you'll hold it 
 a niiuit, I'll ;:et it some milk," suid Mrs. 
 Battle, reaching it out like a roll o. 
 
 hnen. 
 
 Abel took it, awkwardly enough to be 
 sure; but a warm thrill, common to all 
 humanity, went through his heart when it 
 nestled its little head against hnn. It 
 had beautiful blue eyes ; and, as he looked 
 into their depths, his own grew misty and 
 tender. 
 
 " What are you going to do with the 
 mite, Mr. Winter ?" questioned Mrs. Bat- 
 tle, as she fed it handily, patting it i very 
 now and then on its back when it choked 
 
 a little and caught its breath. 
 
 " 1 don't know, Mrs. Battle," returned 
 
 Abel thoughtlully : "I've 'not decided. 
 
 What do you think we'd better do with 
 
 itV" 
 
 " Why, I should say to call a p'liceman, 
 an' let 'im take it to Guildford Street, to the 
 fondlin' 'oapital." 
 
 •' Oh, I can't do that 1 " cried Abel, remem- 
 bering at what a moment it had been put 
 into his arms, and what it had saved him 
 Irom. '• It would be cruel to send it to 
 such a place." 
 
 " Well, I don't see no other way. A 
 child like this is a heavy charge, an' no 
 small expense." 
 
 " Yes, that's true, Mrs. Battle ; but you 
 can take care of it to-night, can't youV 
 and by to-morrow I'll decide what I am to 
 do with it. Now I'll go to bed ; lor I'm tire.l 
 and not feeling well, and I know you'll take 
 the best of care of it." Before he went out, 
 he stooped over the child, and looked into 
 its beautiful eyes, smoothiug its sofl check 
 gently. A little hand struggled from the 
 folds of the towel that Mrs. Battle had 
 placed under its chin when she fed it, and 
 twining itself round one of Abel's fmgers, 
 it held fast with a clinging, detaining 
 grasp, lie could not resist.that : it appealed 
 to him more forcibly than language. Snatch- 
 i„T it up in his arms, he kissed it over and 
 over, and then laid it down, blushing like 
 
 a girl. " Good-night, Mrs. Battle, pood- 
 night," he said almost cheerfully. " Take 
 gwd care of it, and we'll decide iu the 
 morning what to do." 
 
 When Abel entered his room, he sat down 
 quietly among his books and flowers. It 
 was not yet midnight ; still it seemed to him 
 that he had been away for weeks, so stni .ge 
 had been the experience through which ho 
 had passed. In thinking of what Had hap- 
 pened during the last few days, he seemed 
 not to have been himself, but another i.erson. 
 Now that he had returned to his normal 
 state, he could look upon«very thiug calmly 
 and reasonably; and his thoughts went 
 back to his past life, to his babyhood, to • 
 poor Old Top, who had taken him, a waif 
 thrown upon his charity, as this little one 
 had been thrust ui)on him, and reared him, 
 iind loved him faithfully all his life. I'hen 
 how could he refuse to do the same fbr this 
 little abandoned creature V Besides, had 
 it not been sent to him in a moment of ter- 
 rible temptation, to save him from a crime 
 that would have ruined him forever. Was 
 it not a gift of (' ■■ a little angel laid into 
 his arms to con ibi ' », ^o soften his heart, 
 and to cheer . ' "HI not cast it 
 
 away," he resolvi ... keep it and care 
 
 fbr it. It's my duty, and I'll do it." Then 
 he began to think again of his troubles, — of 
 Robert Thorpe, and the wrong ho had 
 done him, — and was surprised to find how 
 much his feelings had changed and softened 
 towards him. Instead of wishing for re- 
 venge, he almost pitied him, and even 
 thought that in time he might forgive him. 
 Wh °n Bow Bells struck twelve, he retired 
 for the night ; and, being completely ex- 
 hausted by all he luid experienced, he 
 soon fell asleep, and dreamed of .lear Old 
 Top, — thought that he came to him with 
 a face full of tender peace, and, laying his 
 hand on his head, ho said sweetly, " Abel, 
 give thanks to God, and never forget his 
 
 mercy ! " 
 
 The next morning he was up early, and 
 waiting anxiously fbr Mrs. Battle, who was 
 later than usual with his breakfast. When 
 at last she made her appearance, she ex- 
 
 1 
 
 mmt^M*-»iidti/mtiBm^ 
 
 i^uiiliiiiiliiHiiiii^ 
 
B. Battle, pood- 
 jrl'ully. '• Take 
 
 I decide in tUc 
 
 lom, be sat down 
 mil flowers. It 
 t seemed to liim 
 veeks, sostni-.!j;e 
 irou^h which he 
 f what wad hiip- 
 ilays, he seemed 
 t another person, 
 il to his normal 
 rery thinj; calmly 
 i thou;;his went 
 his babyhood, to • 
 iken hiui, a waif 
 as this little one 
 , and reared him, 
 
 II his lite. Then 
 the same for this 
 
 i'l Besides, had 
 a moment of ter- 
 liim from a crime 
 im forever. Was 
 Ic an;4el laid into 
 
 soften his heart, 
 " I'll not cast it 
 
 i keej) it and caro 
 I'll do it." Then 
 f his troubles, — of 
 le wrong ho had 
 rprised to find how 
 inged and softened 
 of wishing for re- 
 id hiui, and even 
 mii^ht Ibrgive him. 
 twelve, he retired 
 ing completely ex- 
 
 1 experienced, he 
 earned of dear Old 
 
 came to him with 
 aee, and, laying his 
 x\d sweetly, " Abel, 
 id never forget his 
 
 le was up early, and 
 Irs. Battle, who was 
 is breakfast. When 
 ippearanco, she ex- 
 
 s 
 
 A LITTLE ANGEL. 
 
 01 
 
 ciised herself a little crossly, on the ground 
 that the baby had hindered her. 
 
 '•How is it, and how did it sleep?" 
 inquired Abel eai^erly. 
 
 " Oh, it's well enough ! but it's a deal o' 
 trouble. It kept me an' my man awake all 
 ni',dit." 
 
 " I'm sorry for that, Mrs. Battle ; because 
 I've (leciiled to keep it, if we can make some 
 arrangement." 
 
 " As to that, Mr. Winter, I've nothin' to 
 say. You've a right to keep it if you want 
 to; but you don't expect me to take care 
 of it, do you V " 
 
 " No, certainly not, Mr?. Battle ; unless 
 I pay you to attend to it. 1 thought, as you 
 had no children of your own, you might 
 like to keep the little thing, for a considera- 
 tion; ami it would be a ileal of company 
 for me when I'm in the house." 
 
 '• Well, I don't know as I'd mind. It's a 
 nice little thing ; an' my man's took quite a 
 notion to it," retm-ned Mrs. Battle, liright- 
 euinu' up at the thought of the " considera- 
 tion." " I'll do the l)est I can for it ; but it'll 
 need clothes and things." 
 
 "Yes: I've thought of that. Here's 
 five pounds ; lay it out for it to the best ad- 
 vantage,"' said Abel, oi)ening his desk, and 
 lianding her a note. 
 
 " Now, I declare, this is real handsome of 
 you, Mr. Winter ! I'll fit her up nice for 
 that : she'll be as neat as a pin." 
 
 "Oh! it's a girl, is it? I never thought 
 whether it was a girl or a boy." 
 
 "And another thing, Mr. Winter: we 
 must have a name for lier." 
 
 "Yes: 1 suppose we must; but I can't 
 think of one. Never mind it now : we'll 
 wait a while, and peih;ips one will come to 
 us. Bring the little thing up, Mrs. Battle : 
 I'd like to see it before I go out." 
 
 Mrs. L.ittle brought the baby. It was as 
 clean and fresh as a rose, its mouth dim- 
 pled with smiles, and its blue eyes wide and 
 sparkling. 
 
 Abel held it for more than an hour ; awk- 
 wanlly at first, but s<x)n be became acciis- 
 touieil to the delicate liitie bundle, ami 
 handled it more gracefully. She cooeil 
 
 and laughed, and held out her chubby 
 hamls H)r his flowers; and he allowed her 
 to clutch her little fingers full of blossoms; 
 but, when she crammed them into her rosy, 
 wet mouth, he became alarmed, and called 
 lor Mrs. iJattle to take them out. Every 
 movement seemed perfect, every smile and 
 glance wonderful. She had brought a new 
 interest and ho|)e into his life, to take the 
 place of the old ; and, while he looked at 
 her, he found himself thinking. '• She is a 
 little angel, sent by Goil to sooiIk! my 
 troubled heart, and to brighten my dreary 
 life." 
 
 It wiis some months before Abel could 
 find any new emi>loyment : but he did not 
 suffer, because he had saved (juite a little 
 sum liom his own earnings, and lie hail in- 
 vested the hundred pounds that Top had left 
 him, to good advantage; therel()rc, he had a 
 small income bo defray his expenses and 
 provide for the child. But, as month :dlcr 
 month passed away, he began to get dis- 
 couniged, and feared that he should never 
 find a situation, not having any reference; 
 as he could not mention Mr. Thorpe, for 
 reasons that can be easily understood. At 
 last, one day, when he was almost in de- 
 spair, he chanced to enter a counting-house 
 on Fleet Street, where they were in need 
 of a co])yist. Judging favorably of liim 
 from his liieeand appearance, they engnged 
 him for a fair salary, without re(iuiring 
 reference. It was a long time helbre he 
 could li;el at home in his new jtosition : he 
 missed the faces and surroundings among 
 which he hail passed the greater part of 
 his lilij ; but at last he became accustomed 
 to the change, and settled down patiently 
 to his new work. There he displayed the 
 same fine (juality that had won Jlr. 
 Thorpe's euulidence : so that his new em- 
 ployer began to look upon him as a valua- 
 ble actjuisition, and treated him with so 
 much consideration, that he had nothing to 
 com|)lain of. IVrh;ips his condiaon was 
 even bettered ; for, alter a year, he received 
 a larger salary, and had less work to do 
 than before. 
 
 So the time passed off; month followed 
 
02 
 
 ROPES OF SAND. 
 
 month, and year followed year, until the 
 baby, who had never ruceived any other 
 name than Pet, had f;rown into a lovely 
 child of five years. She was alleetionate, 
 docile, and intellijient ; and Abel loved her 
 to idolatry. Mrs. Battle lia<l been an ex- 
 cellent nurse, had kept her clean and neat, 
 and had not spoiled her with injudicious 
 j)ettin;4; so that Abel, in his hours at home, 
 had not found it dillicult to train her mind, 
 in the right direction. Besides his busi- 
 ness, he had no thought, desire, or aim, 
 that was not connected with the child. 
 Every shilling lie saved from his wages 
 was hoarded for her; every plan was in 
 refL'reiice to her i'uture ; he forgot himself 
 in his love for her, or he united his life so 
 closely with hers, that ho confounded one 
 with tlie otlier. Sometimes he would look 
 at her, as she lay asleep in his arms ; and 
 thinking of her beauty, which he felt was 
 a dun'.;eroiis gift, he would wish she were 
 less attractive and lovely, trembling as he 
 remembered the unhappy fate of poor Vio- 
 let. Had he ceased to regret Violet, in 
 this new love ? Oh, no ! there were hours 
 when he thought of her with anguish, — 
 liours when the stone would suddenly be 
 removed from the grave of his love, and 
 she would stand before iiim- in all the fresh- 
 ness and beauty of those early days. But 
 in nine years the heart changes ; and some 
 tell us, that even the systinn undergoes a 
 complete transformation once in seven 
 years, — that every drop of the original 
 ichor passes away, and a new takes its 
 place. If that be so, then we cannot won- 
 der if we transfer our sentiments, our de- 
 sires, our hope, to some new object. Violet 
 was gone forever out of his life : for nine 
 years he had not looked into her face ; for 
 nine years he had not heard the sound of 
 her voice. She was no more to him than 
 a |)hantom of the past, a memory, a dream. 
 111! had long thought upon her as dead, 
 long ceased to look for her in the streets. 
 It was years since his heart had leapt to 
 his throat at a glimpse of a face or figure 
 that resembled hers. There was a time 
 when ho could not turn a corner without 
 
 thinking tliat ho might meet her fiiee to 
 face ; but at last he began to feel that Lon- 
 don was large, that the world was large, 
 and that their paths might run forever one 
 on each side of life's river ; and that the 
 river woulil broaden and deepen, until it 
 reached the ocean of eternity, and tbey 
 who had comraen(!ed their jimrney side by 
 side would meet no more on earth. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A WITHKRKD VIOLET. 
 
 It was Sunday morning. Mrs. B.ittlo 
 was tying a pretty blue bonnet over Pet's 
 golden curls. Abel was leaning back in his 
 chair by the open window, with a copy of 
 the " Times " in his hand ; but he was not 
 reading, he was watching the child, while 
 Mrs. Battle dressed her that he might take 
 her for a walk. Slie was such a lovely 
 little creature, that; in spite of his better 
 judgment, he was very proud of her, and 
 bought her pretty, dainty things, — kid shoes, 
 embroi<lered frocks, and little silk bonnets, 
 that she might be as neatly dressed as other 
 children in the park. There lias been no 
 notable cliange in the room since we peeped 
 into it. The flowers bloom as brightly, the 
 violets are as fragrant, the breakiiist-table, 
 witli its clean cloth, and remnants of chops 
 anil muflins, presents the same appearance ; 
 only that now there is, beside Abel's chair, 
 a child's chair, and, beside liis plate, a 
 child's bright pewter plate and mug : and 
 perhaps there are not quite so many books 
 strewn round as formerly ; but, instead of 
 them, arc headless dolls, broken toys, col- 
 ore<l blocks, and illustrated primers. A 
 child's presence is visible c. :;rywhere ; and 
 Abel finds no fault. He likes to sec her 
 things lying about ; for Pet is a part of liim- 
 self, and what she likes he likes also. 
 While be was fondly watching her, stand- 
 ing docile uniler tiie hands of Mrs. Battle, 
 who turned her round like a top, giving 
 
 ' 
 
A WITHERED VIOLET. 
 
 63 
 
 ot licr fiiee to 
 3 fuel thiit Loll- 
 jrlil Wits lar<;e, 
 •UM (brevur ono 
 ' ; iinil that the 
 U'cpen, until it 
 ■nity, ami tbey 
 iouniey side hy 
 earth. 
 
 X. 
 
 OLET. 
 
 ;. JMi'8. Biittle 
 iinet over Pet's 
 niiii; bauk in his 
 with a copy of 
 but he was not 
 the child, while 
 t he inii;ht take 
 ! such a lovely 
 to of his better 
 ud of her, and 
 Qgs, — kid shoes, 
 tie silk bonnets, 
 dressed as other 
 re has been no 
 since we peeped 
 as brightly, the 
 break!iist-table, 
 nn.-vnts of chops 
 ine appearance ; 
 de Abel's chair, 
 le his plate, a 
 and niii<T : and 
 so many books 
 but, instead of 
 roken toys, col- 
 cd primers. A 
 . :;ry where ; and 
 likes to 50C her 
 is a part of him- 
 hc likes alsO' 
 ling her, stand- 
 of Mrs. Battle, 
 e a top, giving 
 
 I 
 
 
 her a twitch here, and a pull there, he 
 fjlanced from time to time at the journal he 
 held in his hand; suddenly he uttered a 
 cry of astonishment, the paper fell to the 
 floor unnoticed, and ho said, as though he 
 were thinking aloud, " How strange, aRer 
 all these years, to read of their ruin t " 
 
 "What's ruined, Mr. Winter?" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Battle, who had caught the last 
 word of his remark. " I hope it ain't all the 
 fruit a? is dropped off the trees along with 
 them nasty caterpillars." 
 
 " Oh, no, I^Irs. Battle 1 It's nothing to do 
 with fruit and caterpillars. It's the failure of 
 a house I once worked for, — the house of 
 Thorpi! & Son. They were considered very 
 reliable ; and it gives mc quite a shock, 
 as their liabilities are unconuuonly large." 
 
 " Well, that's a pity," returned Mrs. Bat- 
 tle, who was a clever business woman, and 
 understood the terms he had used. " It's a 
 pity for them, if they're honest, which looks 
 very doubtful ; an' a greater for them that 
 they owes. I hope you didn't have any 
 thing with them, Mr. Winter ? " 
 
 " Oh, 1 ' I drew out what little I had at 
 
 the time 1 left their employ, five years ago." 
 
 " What's been the cause of it, do you 
 
 s'pose ? " continued Mrs. Battle, who always 
 
 wanted the particulars of every thing. 
 
 " I don't know, unless young Mr. Thorpe 
 has been very extravagant, and managed 
 affairs badly. You see, Mrs. Battle, his 
 father's health was poor ; and I fancy every 
 thing was left to him at the last. It's given 
 me quite a shock : it's very sad, really. I'll 
 go out and take a turn in the air, as soon as 
 you have Pet ready." 
 
 " She'd been ready a' 'our ago, if she 
 wasn't the troublesoraest little mite in the 
 world to dress. She's so small, that \'.r 
 things is al'ays a-droppin'off; an' I do want 
 'er to look tidy-like." 
 
 « She'll do nicely, Mrs. Battle; she's very 
 well as she is," said Abel, taking his hat, 
 and holding out his hand to the child, who 
 danced down the stairs, delighted to be free 
 from Mrs. Battle's fussing fingers. 
 
 " Where would you like to go, * ot V " he 
 asked, looking into her sweet face. 
 
 " Oh, to St. James's Park, papa I I've got 
 some biscuit for the ducks, an' they do wad- 
 dle so cunnin', an' eat out n' my hand as 
 tame as kittens." 
 
 He never denied her any thing reasona- 
 ble, so of course they went to St. James's ; 
 and Pet enjoyed a perfect morning, feeding 
 the ducks, and following them from ])lace 
 to place ; while Abel sat near, on a bench, 
 watching her graceful little figtire flitting 
 here and there, her golden curls blowing in 
 the wind, and her blue eyes sparkling with 
 health and happiness. While he was look- 
 ing at the child, and mentally comparing 
 his present peace and prosperity wiih the 
 mislbrtunes that had Allien on his old enemy, 
 he saw a gentleman apjiroach her and speak 
 to her. At first he did not pay much atten- 
 tion to it, as it was not an uncommon thing 
 for peoi)le to notice Pet, and it rather 
 pleased than disturbed him ; but as he 
 glanced again at the stranger, who stood 
 with his back toward him, he was struck 
 with something familiar in his appearance. 
 Those fine shoulders, that curling brown 
 hair, he had seer, before. At last he turn«d 
 in his direction ; and Abel saw, for tlie first 
 time in five years, the face of Robert Thorpe. 
 For a moment, something of the old anger 
 stirred in his heart ; but, when he noticed 
 how changed he was, his feelings softened, 
 and he pitied him deeply, in spite of all. 
 His face was thin and pale, his eyes sunken 
 and dull, his handsome mouth drooping and 
 sad, and his air weary and dejected. He 
 looked like a man who had sufi'ered deeply, 
 who had striven and struggled, but who 
 had been at last defeated in the battle of life. 
 If Abel had seen him happy and prosperous, 
 he would have passed him with pride and 
 indifference ; but, as it was, ho lelt sin- 
 cerely sorry for him, and almost forgave 
 him the wrong he had endured for so 
 long. 
 
 He seemed to be deeply interested in Pet, 
 who stood with her sweet face raised to his, 
 her blue eyes full of innocent light, her 
 long golden curls falling away from her 
 flushed cheeks, — 
 
 " A sight to make an old man young." 
 
 w 
 
 M 
 
 m 
 
 
11' 
 
 S4 
 
 B0PK8 OF SAND. 
 
 AIUt a f(!W iiioiiu-ntH, at somo remark of 
 the cliild'H, Uoljert Thdi/i^ looked toward 
 Al)el, and caw liiiii Hittin;^ tliere, (or thu 
 first time, lie started with surprise; a 
 vivid (liisli erimsoiied liis t'aee ; and tiirnin;» 
 snildi'niy. witiiout anotlier word to I'et, he 
 oll'ered his arm to a i'eeiile old (rentleniah, 
 will) sat on a bench, halt' liidden by a elns- 
 ter of laurel ; then thu two walked hastily 
 away, wiili a backward jinnee in Abel's ili- 
 reciiuM. The old, siekly man was ]\Ir. 
 Thorpe. He scarce reeo:,'ni/e(l him in 
 the shrunk face, tlio stoopinj; hotly, and 
 trembling limbs. Mislbrtune had left ter- 
 ril)ie traces upon him, as well as upon his 
 son. 
 
 As soon as Robert Thori)e turned aw.ay, 
 Pet came rnnniiig to Alu'l, all doli^lit and 
 animation. " What was that <;tmtleman 
 savin;.; to you, dear ? " he asked, drawing 
 her to his side. 
 
 " Oh, nolin' much ! he said, What was my 
 name Y " 
 
 «' And you told him ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir : I said it was P(!t." 
 
 " Was that all he asked you V " 
 
 " No, sir : he said, Where did I live ? an' 
 did I like the ducks V an' did I think the 
 park was nice ? an' who was with me V An' 
 I said my papa, an' I showed you ; and 
 then he went away. An' — an' — that was 
 all." 
 
 Abel gave but a passing thought to the 
 circumstance of Robert Thorpe's having 
 spoken to the child, supposing that he had 
 been attracted by her beauty, as others 
 were, and luid talked with her, not knowing 
 that she belonged to him ; but he could not 
 banish from his mind the image of the fee- 
 ble, tottering father, clinging to the son who 
 had ruined him. " They are bitter toward 
 nie yet," he thought. " They've not out- 
 lived their old inilignation and anger. If 
 they knew what I had sulfered for them, 
 of niy per'tence and remorse, tbey would 
 pity and forgive me, even as I do them." 
 
 One evening, not long after that, Abel 
 went home, and found a letter lying on his 
 table. It was addressed in a woman's 
 hand, scrawling and irregular ; and it sur- 
 
 prised him gre.itly, an he hail no correspond* 
 ents, especially feminine. With a present- 
 iment of trouble, he turned it over an^l 
 looked at it, not daring to br«ak the seal. 
 At last he summoned courage ; and, tearing 
 it open with a nervous hand, he reiid the 
 following : — 
 
 " Dkau Ahkl, — I wouldn't troi'I)Ie you, 
 but! know I haven't long to live : therelbro 
 I ask you to come to me, as I have thin.;9 
 of importance to say to you. Forget all 
 the trouble I've made you, and remem- 
 ber oidy when I was good. Don't be long 
 aflcr you receive the letter, in eoniing, oT 
 perhaps I sha'n't be here. You'll find mo 
 at No. 3, Cottage Place, Pimlico. Ask ti)r 
 Mrs. Watson, which is the name I'm 
 known by. Vioi-kt." 
 
 With a face of marble, Abel thrust the 
 letter into his pocket, sei/.ed his hat, and 
 rushed out, almost pushing over Pet, who 
 was hurrying up stairs to see him. Stoop- 
 ing, he caught the child in his arms, kissed 
 her wiih a strange fervor, and bade her sco 
 to Mrs. Hattle, as he was obliged to go out, 
 and would not be back for some time. 
 Then he hastened into the street ; and, hail- 
 ing a fly, he told the man to drive him to 
 Cottage Place, Pinilieo, as quickly as possi- 
 ble. Arrived there, ho knocked at the 
 number designated in Violet's note. A 
 neat, elderly woman answered his summons. 
 To his iiujuiry, " If Mrs. Watson lived 
 there Y " she replied, " Yes, sir ; and I sup- 
 pose you're the gentleman she's expecting. 
 She said, when you came, I was to show 
 you up directly." 
 
 A moment aller, Abel stood, pale and 
 trembling, at Violet's door. The woman 
 tapped lightly : a weak voice said, " Come," 
 and he was alone in the presence of his 
 lost love. She was propped up with i)il- 
 lows on a low bed before an open window. 
 Some woodbine and honeysuckle trained 
 over the casement filled the roem with 
 fragrance ; the last beams of the sun lay in 
 I level rays over the bed, and the thin white 
 ! hands folded patiently on her breast 
 
 I r • 
 
 / I > 
 
1 IK) corrc'ipoiiil- 
 
 Witll 11 plH'SlMlt- 
 
 cil it DVLT an. I 
 l)r«iik the ci'iil. 
 '^f ; iuiil, Iciiriir^ 
 111, liu rc'it<l thu 
 
 In't troi'hic v<ni, 
 o live : thuri-loru 
 i 1 have tliiiv^s 
 'Oil. Forget all 
 )ii, and rcMiiiMii- 
 
 Don't 1)0 loni^ 
 \r, in coiiiiii;;, oT 
 
 You'll rniil mo 
 mlico. Ask ti)r 
 thu namu I'm 
 
 ViOLKT." 
 
 Abel thrust tbo 
 zed his hat, ami 
 'r over l\'t, wlio 
 lee him. Stoop- 
 
 his arms, kissed 
 »nd bade Ikt sco 
 bli;j;ed to <so out, 
 
 for some time, 
 street ; and, hail- 
 to drive him to 
 quickly as poasi- 
 knoeked at the 
 iolet's note. A 
 •ed his summons. 
 I. Watson lived 
 1, sir ; and I sup- 
 she's expecting. 
 !, I was to show 
 
 stood, palo cand 
 ir. The womaa 
 ce said, " Come," 
 presence of his 
 ed up with i)il- 
 in open window, 
 jysuckle trained 
 the ro«m with 
 of the sun lay ia 
 id the thin whito 
 on her breast 
 
 / • \ 
 
 A WITHEEED VIOLET. *'* 
 
 I • r„:„* W..1 I •' What ? " oried Abel, bewildered and 
 
 to hear, " Abel 1 Abel ! " 
 
 In a moment he was on his knees by her 
 side, his arms round her, and she wcepin;; 
 passionarely with her face pressed close to 
 his. lie never could remember distinctly 
 what passed in that moment ; for his emo- 
 tion i)aralyzed him. In thinkinji; of it after- 
 ward, he could only recall a lew broken 
 sentences in which she implored him to 
 forgive her, and he, in a voice choked with 
 Boks had assured her that she was for;,'iven 
 Ion;; a'„'o. It was not much, but it was 
 enou;jl 1? There are some fcelin;;* too deep 
 for words. Then, exhausted by her ^yw\y 
 ing, she threw herself back on her pillow, 
 ami lay with closed eyes, like one in a 
 swoon. Abel leaned over her, clasping 
 her hands in his, and weeping bitterly, his 
 Boul full of sorrow and pity at seeing her 
 but the wreck of herself. Her wan, sunken 
 face showed the ravages of a terrible dis- 
 ease, and w.as already stamped wiih the un- 
 mistakable signs of approaching dissolution. 
 He had found her after nine long years ; 
 but, as he had said to poor Old Top before 
 his death, he had not found the iresh, 
 sweet Violet that he had lost : she was but 
 the shadow of his early love, — a crushed, 
 scentless, withered flower. 
 
 While he hung over her, noting every 
 change in her beloved countenance with 
 an a''nguish too deep for expression, she 
 opened her still beautiiul eyes -, and, looking 
 at hiin imploringly, said with a gasi)ing, 
 broken voice, " Abel, tell me something of 
 my child. I'm longing to hear from her. 
 Tell me of her." 
 
 "Your child, Violet?" then a sudden 
 conviction struck him like a blow. " Your 
 - child 1 Is she yours ? Was it you who guve 
 her to me 1 " 
 
 " Yes, Abel : I gave her to you." 
 " Why were you there alone in the 
 darkness of night with your child ? " 
 
 face, shrinking from the blow which ho felt 
 he was about to receive. 
 
 " Aliel," she said in a weak, excited 
 voice, "try and be calm while 1 tell you 
 all. I'm so feeble that you luusln't agitato 
 me too much, or I can't never say what I 
 want to. It was llobert Thoriie who " — 
 Abel clenche.l his hands, anil groaned aloud 
 — '< though, as God is my witness. I didn't 
 know his true name until long aller. I 
 don't want to excuse myself, and I won't : 
 I'll tell you the whole truth, Aliel. I loved 
 him, — yes, I loved him so well that I 
 would willingly have died for him. I •lidn't 
 count myself as any thing besi.le him. I 
 worshipped him from the first day he 
 bought my flowers on the Mansioii-liouso 
 step's. Then you took me away, an 1 I 
 didn't see him for a long time. 1 tried to 
 forget him, and be happy with you, — yos, I 
 tried hard, Abel, to be happy wiih you 
 and dear old daddy. I know what you 
 would say : you think I don't know that 
 he's dead, but I do. It was a long time 
 a. -o, just after I went away, that he died ; 
 and jierhaps I helped kill him. I've been 
 many a tinv. since to the old cellar. Just to 
 see the place where we were cliildrtsn to- 
 gether, and so happy with him. When 
 you took me away, I thought IM never see 
 liobert lliorpo again. I didn't even 
 know his name, who he was, nor where ho 
 lived ; but still, though I tried hard enough, 
 I was sure that I could never forget him. 
 It was toward spring, when, one day, he 
 hapjieued to be passing the shop in Hol- 
 born, and saw mo. It's no use to tell you 
 all that followed. Abel, I've been wick- 
 eder than you ever thought ; and even then 
 1 deceived you time and time again." 
 
 " O Violet! don't tell me that : you break 
 
 my heart. I thought you good then,"criod 
 
 Abel,his pale features working ctmvulsively. 
 
 " Ko, Abel : I wasn't good even before I 
 
 .. I was there many times before. I was | left you. I deceived you imd met him 
 waitlgibr a chance'to see its father." 1 over and over when you didn't susi>oct .t. 
 
 -..J 
 
 mmismi^m^sim^^imm^ 
 
M 
 
 R0PK8 OP BAND. 
 
 Wliili' you were soiirdiiiv.; for nic, ami 
 advurtioin;;, I wiiH in lod^iii^H not tlir from 
 you. It WiiH all vt'ry (iiuiply pluiiiii'd : I 
 walki'il out of till! (iliop as usual, — al- 
 tliou^^h my lifart was lu'arly l)reakiu;; at tliu 
 tliou;,'lit of your anil daddy's sorrow when 
 you would find mi' jjoiio ; and, at t\w corni-r 
 of tlu! street, I met Uobert. I ditln'l 
 know where I was j;oii)};: I didn't eare, 
 BO tliat I was with him. He sliowt^d me 
 your adverti.xement : we reail it to^ietlier ; 
 anrl he. knew tlien who you were, tiiou;;h I 
 didn't suspeet. 1 fhouj^ht him to be t'harles 
 AVatson, — that was wliat lie ealled himself 
 nt that lime. I took that name, and siiiee 
 have always been known as Mis Watson. 
 It was more than two years alVer that I aeei- 
 di^ntally found out his real name was Robert 
 Thorpe. Then I pitied you more than ever, 
 beeausc the one you still trusted as your 
 friend had wron-jed you so. For a long 
 time we were happy toj^elher " — 
 
 " And poor oltl daddy was dying, and my 
 heart was breaking for you," interrupted 
 Abel bitterly. 
 
 '• Yes, I know it : I've felt it all sinee ; but 
 ' still I was happy then, — so hajipy that to 
 think ot it reeoneiles me to all that followed. 
 Ho was very jjroud of my beauty, — 1 was 
 vain then, Abel; but I'm not now, beeause 
 I've learned the true value of good looks ; 
 they're a poor inheritance for one like me, 
 — and he bou;^ht me jiretty dresses, bonnets, 
 and jewels, and hired a carriage tor me that 
 I nii;^bt ride in the park like a lady while 
 Le was at his business. You know, I always 
 wanted fine things ; so I enjoyed them 
 when I got iheiii : and I suppose you'll feel 
 sorry, Abel, when i tell you that I never 
 regretted what I'd done. Sometimes I 
 used to think of poor old d.addy's warning, 
 and his rojies of sand, and laugh to iiiy- 
 gelf, and call it all nonsense, because I didn't 
 see the end. When we're so happy we 
 never can feel that we can come to be 
 wrelehcd. llobert loved me so that I never 
 thought he'll change ; and he was so proud 
 of nil- 1 He delighted to have me make 
 myself as pretty as possible. Then he 
 would take me to the play, and be perfectly 
 
 happy when all tho glasses were turned 
 toward our box. Yes : he loved me then 
 I'm 8uru of it; and I worshippeil him. 
 You mustn't think, Abel, that 1 ever loved 
 you as I loved him. Now I know [ only 
 loved you as a brother. We were brought 
 up together, and how could it ever have been 
 any thing else'^ " 
 
 " Uon't, Violet, don't, for God's sake ! " 
 groaned AIhjI. 
 
 " It isn't because I want to hurt you, 
 indeed it isn't," she returned, with a strange 
 mixtiiru of heartlessness and pity ; " but I 
 want to be truthful to you now, beeause 
 I've been false enough all niy life. I wish 
 I could let it end here, and not tell you any 
 more ; but, if I should, you'd think me bet- 
 ter than I am, and there mustn't be any 
 deception when we're going into eternity. 
 I must say solemnly, Abel, that, though I've 
 much to blame llobert Thorpe for, I believe 
 he loved me then ; and, if I'd been a good 
 woman, I believe he'd love me now. I 
 don't lay all that has happened to me at his 
 door. It was partly my f lult, — my vanity 
 and weakness; and perhaps, also, the 
 thought of what I had sprung from. With- 
 out doubt I inherited evil from the unhap- 
 py creature who gave me being. I don't 
 think Goil can e.xpect (juite as much from 
 we poor weeds who grow out of vile soil." 
 
 " But, Violet, remember the best old man 
 that ever lived brought you up from a child, 
 and taught you only good : and he was one 
 of the jioor unfortunates. Think of his lift', 
 and don't say lliat it isn't possible lor us to 
 be virtuous." 
 
 "I've thought of it all, Abel. I've 
 thought of you and daddy, how good you 
 both were ; but I never could have been 
 like you. He and you were exceptions. 
 You never had any temptations to do differ- 
 ent ; but I was tainted ii-om the first. I 
 was always devoured with the desire for 
 finery and pleasure ; and it was only you 
 and dear dailily that restrained uie so 
 long. If I'd luarried yon, Abel, deny, you 
 wouldn't have been hapjiy : I should have 
 tormented your life. It was best as it was ; 
 and I've nothing to reproach myself with 
 
 \ ly ' 
 
A WITHERED VIOLET. 
 
 87 
 
 9 wciv liirncd 
 1()V(mI inc then 
 rHliippi'iI liiiii. 
 t I (^vor lovt'd 
 1 know I unly 
 li were brou^rht 
 ever havo bt-en 
 
 God's 8!ikc ! " 
 
 t to hurt you, 
 witliii stnu)<^e 
 pity ; " but I 
 now, bi'causo 
 r Mi'ti. I wish . 
 ot tell you any 
 think uie bet- 
 lustn't 1)0 any 
 into eternity, 
 at, tlioujih I'vb 
 )e tor, 1 believe 
 1 been a yood 
 I inu now. I 
 ud to nie at his 
 , — my vanity 
 pis, also, the 
 : i'roui. Wiih- 
 jni the unhafH 
 eiii<:;. I don't 
 iis niueh from 
 of vile soil." 
 le best old man 
 p iVoui a ehild, 
 nd he was one 
 link of his lite, 
 sible lor us to 
 
 , Abel. I've 
 jow good you 
 ild havo been 
 re exceptions, 
 as to do diU'er- 
 i the iirst. I 
 he desire lor 
 was only you 
 mined mo so 
 ,U1, deny, you 
 I should havo 
 best as it was ; 
 li niyi^elf with 
 
 on that nccount. But T must po on, nntl pot ' 
 this miserable contension oil' my mind, or I 
 sha'n't have strength to finish. I was as , 
 happy as I cotdd be for three years. We 
 lived a <::\y life. Uol)ert brought a preat 
 many younp men to see me; for he was 
 prouil to display liis property. I was ad- 
 mired and flattered, and oflTered many heau- 
 til'ul presents, whieh I reeeivcd seeretly, 
 beeaijse he was proud and jealous, and 
 didn't like me to tiike things from others. 
 Do you reniend)er that u;;ly brooeh I want- 
 ed 80 mueh, Abel, and how you wouldn't 
 buy it for me, and I was determined to 
 have it, and pot it slyly V That was my first 
 deception, and the beginning of all. And 
 such a worthless thing too ! since then I've 
 had real emeralds and diamonds almost as 
 beautiful m those we saw at the Tower that 
 day when wo were children." 
 
 " () Violet I how can you ? Pray don't 
 recall those things ! It tears my heart to 
 hear you speak of them." 
 
 " Why should it, Abel ? why should it 
 hurt you to recall them? I like to think 
 of them sometimes : I like to think that I 
 was innocent once. But, as I was saying, 
 Robert didn't like me to receive presents, 
 and I did all the same ; besides, I was very 
 imprudent and foolish ; I encouraged visit- 
 ors when ho was away, until at last he 
 discovered it, and was dreadfully angry 
 and jealous. Then he watcheil, and sus- 
 pected, and blamed me even when I was 
 innocent. Just before my baby was born, 
 we had a final quarrel. Ho declared the 
 child was not his, though I swore solenmly 
 before God that it was ; for I was true to 
 him, Abel, until ho deserted me. Alter 
 ho loft me, I quitted my expensive lodgings, 
 sold some of my jewels, and took cheap 
 but respectable rooms, where my child was 
 born. You might think that my being a 
 mother would havo changed me, and made 
 me better ; but it didn't : my heart was too 
 full of pride and anger, and I never sought 
 a reconciliation with Robert. In fact, 1 
 •didn't Wiint to : I was tired of his jealousy 
 and suspicion ; and, besides, I knew he was in 
 debt, and that there must be a change soon ; 
 
 and I wasn't contented to live humbly, even 
 with him. I thought of this all : lor, owing 
 to poor old daddy's excellent teaching, I 
 was |irudent in managing t'or my own in- 
 terest ; and I was determineil, as I liail lost 
 all else, to sell myself fo the highest bidder. 
 Hut my chihl was a drawback lo my ''itnro 
 suocess. I loved it in a way, — yes. Abel, nuw 
 I know I loved it; and, if thert^ had been 
 enough good in me, it might have saved me. 
 I was angry and imbittered against Hoi)- 
 ert : the ehild was his, and he had deserted 
 mo just when I needed his care and ten- 
 derness most. lie alone had the right to 
 provide for it, and ho had left it to mu. I 
 thought it all over for a long time, and at 
 last I resolved to see him by some means, 
 put the child into his arms, and leave him 
 to su[>port and care for it. I had not tlio 
 courage or boldness to go into Ids olliee, 
 and ccJnfront him ljefi)re his father; so, as I 
 had heard him say that he worked some- 
 times until late, ami came out through a 
 side passage into Thames Street, I deter- 
 mined to go there, and wait for him. For 
 several nights I watched lor hours, but I 
 didn't see him. One night I heard somo 
 one, and I thought it was he ; but, instead, 
 you came out. I knew you instantly, and 
 was frightened, and drew back in the shad- 
 ow of the wall. A few nights after I went 
 again, and had only been there a little 
 while, when you came, and leaned against 
 the door, as if you, too, were waiting for 
 somo one. I saw your face once in a ray 
 of light from Thames Street ; and it was 
 ghastly pale, and full of anger, and I caught 
 the glitter of somo instrument in your 
 hand : thou I thought you had learned all, 
 and had come to be revenged on Robert 
 Tlior[)0. I was in dreadful agony, for 
 even then 1 loved him enough to wish to 
 save him. While I leaned against the 
 wall, almost fainting with fear, you spoke, 
 and your voice touched my heart. Some- 
 thing of the old feeling of those iimocent 
 days returned ; and it seemed as though 
 dear daddy came to me, and said soltly, 
 " Give the child to Abel." Then you 
 spoke again, and came toward me ; and, 
 
 \ ; 
 
 I ' 
 
 I - 
 
 >:ffiB(Wrar; 
 
 -.;«i«sr*ssr:^sswfs?as53=w«sf^'" 
 
 
58 
 
 HOPES OF BAND. 
 
 ioarco knnwliia wimt I iM, I r.-nclu-.l it to ] 
 you ; you took If, uiul I liiirrU'il nwiiy, l'«-<'l- 1 
 111'.' tliat I lia.l Hitv.-il yon liolli, im wt-ll n* 
 my liiil'v. I knew you woiilil not (•oiiiiiit 
 a iTlnii' Willi tliiit inixK'uiit in your iniiiH ; 
 nuil, .\l»'l. I kn.^w you ho well, lliat I wiis 
 Hur.' von wonl.l iu'v.t iil)anilon it, anil that 
 yon would tiwli it to 1m! virlnons ami 
 
 liapps" 
 
 '•6 VioU^t, Violet! wliy <li<ln't you 
 upcak to Ml.- Y wliy ilidn't yon t.-ll in.! wlio 
 yonw.n'V I wonl.l liavi- Ihmu y..in' Irii'lul, 
 yo.nl.rotlur. 1 wonl.l Invu huvc.I you IWmi 
 furtliiT sin," cri.-.l Alu-l rt'in-oai'lilully. 
 
 « It'.s no UK.! to think ..f that, my poor 
 Abel. It wouliln't have lii'.-n lliu luni't 
 pood. Yon .'onl.ln't hav.! naveil ,nu-. 1 
 wouldn't 1k! wive.l: 1 like.l my >*inlul lite 
 too well. It wad only after my h.-allh 
 pave wav. ami I ktu-w I mni»t die, that I 
 rei)cnte.ran.l felt s.H-ry for it all ; an.l even 
 now gomeiime.H I'm afraid I'm not i.enilent 
 cn.ai'^h, an.l I think that perhaps, if I 
 Bhonld live, I nii-ht S" ''■^'-'k to it a;^ain. 
 Oh. it's dreadful to he »o wi.-ked and nneer- 
 tain when I'm so near death ! " Here h.'r 
 voiee waH broken with f.ol.i', ami she we|.t 
 passionatidy for a tew moments. Aliel 
 cootheil h.-r a» well as lie eoul.l, tor his 
 own soul was sinartint; under iho torture. 
 At last she rejraiiie.l her ealinness, and 
 resumed her .ml story. '-I m'Vi-r lost 
 8i;;llt of you, Aliel, IWini the luiur I lett you. 
 1 knew of dear old da.l.ly's .lealli, ami how 
 atU'rward you wont to live in the rooms in 
 Little Easteheap that we looke.l at to-elh- 
 er. Lamb, the faithiul ereatnrc who let yon 
 in, an.l who has been with nic tor years, 
 knew a cousin of Mrs. liattle, your land- 
 la.ly, ami ihrontih her I learne.l that you 
 iut.uded to keep the child : then I was 
 ,,uile easy almut it, because 1 knew it 
 wonl.l bo well cared tbr. I've seen her 
 Al,cl, — I've, often seen her in the jiark with 
 you ; an.l I've so longed to take her in my 
 arms and kiss her. but I di.ln't dare to. 
 She's beautiful, isn't she V ami I'm sure 
 she's a sood child. Wli;- do you call her 
 Pet ? Mrs. Lamb found out that she bad 
 no other name." « 
 
 " She was always oalle.l that frcnn tho 
 first. 1 wante.l lo name her tiir y.m ; but I 
 hadn't the coura^je to hear it eonstanlly," 
 i-etiirm-d Abel, averting his fa.e lo liiilo 
 the tears that tilled his I'yes. 
 
 "Poor soul!" sai.l Viol.-t, laying; her 
 feverish han.l on his. " Hav.'n'l y.m not 
 over that yet Y I thoujiht you'.l forjjottcn 
 me Ion}? a(io, and hated in.', too, bilte-ly." 
 
 "I've never hated y.m, Viol.t. I'hero 
 was a time when I felt hard towar.1 yon; 
 but I siHin <;.>t over it, an.l Ibrgavo yon, and 
 lon^e 1 to see you." 
 
 "Ah, Abell you were jroo.l, too fi.Kid 
 for me. If IM been dillerent I niinht have 
 been hai>|)y with y.JU to-day, instea.l of 
 lyin^ here r.-penlinj,' of my sins. Ooil 
 knows I'm thankful that one linnian being 
 has remained faithful t.) me 1 Unt tell mo 
 how did you know that it was Robert 
 Thorpe Y" 
 
 " 1 never knew it, Violet, until I heard it 
 this in.mient from your lips." 
 
 "Then why di.l yo" tiuarrel with him, 
 and leave his emphiy V " 
 
 " It was another matter entirely ; and I'm 
 thankful I .li.ln't know this then, because 
 it wonl.l have maddened me beyond all 
 ...ntrol." Tlien Abel told her brietly of his 
 trouble with Ilobert Thorp.!, of his terrible 
 t.'iniitation, an.l of his salvation throujrh 
 the child that she ha.l put into his arms. 
 
 " How thankful I am now that I listened 
 to that voice in my heart ! Isn't it a proof 
 that those who love us watch over us after 
 ileath Y I told you I thought daddy was 
 near me. Now I know that Go.l sent him 
 to save you. Dear, dear, old dadtly, — he's 
 often been with me since I've lain here 
 al.me, thiiikin;r of every thin^' ; an.l I know 
 by that he tbr^ave me lietbre he dit!d." 
 
 "He (lid, Violet: hu sjmke of you sO 
 swe.!ily, and made me promise to be kind 
 to you if I ever tbnn.l yon ; and he MX you 
 six pounils, that he had saved tor you, with 
 his love and lor^iveness." 
 
 " O Abel I I'm so thankful that he didn't 
 die feeling angry against me. 1 woul'ln't 
 have courage to meet him in another world 
 if 1 know it ; but the money, — 1 don't want 
 
A withkuki) violkt. 
 
 r>\) 
 
 lit rroin tlio 
 
 )r you ; liiK I 
 
 ciiiistanllv," 
 
 fan! to lildo 
 
 Invln;^ luT 
 ■n't you j;ot 
 
 tl liir^otttn 
 (1. l)itfi'-ly." 
 
 )li't. riicro 
 tiiwaril ynu ; 
 ^avt! yon, and 
 
 1, too };iM)(l 
 
 I iMfiht have ' 
 
 y, iiistcatl of 
 
 ' hiriH. (lod 
 
 liiinian hoinir 
 
 Hut ti-ll mo 
 
 was Uoburt 
 
 intil I huard it 
 
 I'R-I with him, 
 
 tirt>ly ; and I'm 
 tlirn, becauso 
 lie beyond all 
 LT briefly of his 
 , of his terrible 
 vatioii through 
 nto his arms. 
 ' that I listened 
 Isn't it a i)roof 
 h over us after 
 ^ht daddy was 
 , God sent him 
 1 daddy, — he's 
 I've lain hero 
 t\'^ ; and I know 
 e he died." 
 oke of you so 
 lise to be kind 
 and he lert you 
 ed lor you, with 
 
 il that he didn't 
 lie. I woul'ln't 
 n another world 
 , — I don't want 
 
 it ; I've more than I should need it' I lived i 
 tor liKinibs, whieh I !-hii'ii't. I sold all my 
 jewels that I li>>U);ht ut such a |irie(<, and ' 
 hired ibis little (ilta^'e todle in. I've been 
 here nine iiniiill.'<, and I've been very eoni- 
 Ibrtable with Lanili. There's enciiii;h to 
 bury nie when I'm ;;i)ne, and someibiirj; for 
 her. I floii't want to pive my elilM any 
 lliiii'.'. Miiiiey f^ot in an evil way would 
 only lie a eiirKe." 
 
 " .She d<in't iieeil it, Violet. I shall pro- 
 vide tlir her as loie^ as I live." 
 
 " Now, Abel, I've! told you all but the 
 parlieiilars of the last five years. They've 
 been bud enou'jfh, and it's no use to harrow 
 your leeliii'^s iiy dwellinj; on tlieiii, (iod 
 don't require it of me. I've been a J.'^eMt^in- 
 lier, and I've suifered ; Imt perhaps I've not i 
 snlVered half enough, liir it's more mercy 
 than I deserve to be taken away yonn;;. It's 
 what I've hoped and prayed lor, and (lod's 
 been';^K)<l to listen to nw. Now I've made 
 my ])«'aee with every one, and I don't e.ire 
 how soon I j;o. Yesterday I wrote to 
 Kobert Thorpe, telliu'^ him that i was 
 dyiiiu'. I want him In know that I was in- 
 noi'eiit when he ae<Mised me; ami now, 
 surely, on my death-bed, lie won't disbelieve 
 me. I tolij him about Pet, — how beaulil'tll 
 she is, and how kind you've been to her." 
 
 " O Violet, Violet I why di<l \ou tell him 
 that 1 have his child? He'll take her from 
 me : lie'il rob me of my only treasure, my 
 only liappiness I I've loved her always as 
 tlioiii^h she were riiy own ; and, now that I 
 know she's yours, I love her a thousand 
 times more. He'll elaim her, aa<l I shall 
 have to give her up," cried Abel, in extreme 
 distress. 
 
 " Don't blame me : she's his child. When 
 you think of it calmly, you'll see that I did 
 i'i;j;ht in tellin<^ him. Besides, Abel, which 
 is the most unhappy, — he or you V He's a 
 poor, ruined youn^ man, with nothing in 
 the world. Perlmps he needs the child 
 more than you do. And then, she's his: 
 il' he wants her, he certainly has a ri;;ht to 
 her; but don't fret. I'm sure he won't 
 take her : he can't proviile I'or her now. and 
 she'd oidy be a burden on him." i 
 
 " 'Hiat may be he may not take her 
 away at present, but I'll iu'ver li'cl any 
 surely. 1 shall never leel a^ain as tliiiu;;h 
 •he beloii'.'ed to me, I shall never know 
 anollier happy day with her. Violet, you 
 ini^ht Inive spareil me this. You mi);la 
 li.ive led him In ignorance re-peciiiii; a 
 child he disowneil beliire it wa'< born." 
 
 " lie reasonablt^, Abel," slw returned 
 with somethin}{ of her old obsiina<'y and 
 sellishness, *' and look ut it as you ou;;lit to. 
 You're better than I am, and you ou;;bt to 
 see that it was my duty to clear myself 
 beliire I died ; and how could I s])eak of 
 the child, without tellin;; him where she 
 was '( It makes no ilill'erence if you blame 
 me : I think I did i i;;ht. Ihit that's not nil, 
 .\bel," she added, bursting into tears, ami 
 clin^iin;^ to his hands. " I <'an'l jjet over 
 my habits of deception. Mammy Flint's 
 lessons clinix to me yet. My real reason is, 
 that I still love him, and want him to tijiiik 
 of me sometimes. I know if he lias the child 
 she'll remind him of me ; and I'll never bo 
 (piite liir^otten. U Abel I I love him yet. I'd 
 ;ii\e worlils, if 1 had tbciii, to see him but 
 Ibr one hour, — to lay my head on his shoul- 
 der a^rain, to leel his hand smooih my hair. 
 It seems as though I couldn't die without 
 seeiii'^ him, and yet I must; ii)r if I see liiin 
 I'll want to live, and I'll he an|j!ry against 
 God it' he takes me away. Now 1 must bo 
 calm and |ieniteiit ami patient, that I may 
 cleanse and purity my soul for the last 
 jjrcat (hankie. There's notliin;^ more in 
 this world that I desire, but a si;;ht of 
 Hobert; and it's required of me as ])art 
 of my penance to deny myself that happi- 
 ness ; so 1 must, or Christ will never let mo 
 sit at his feet with the other Magdalen." 
 Then she covered her face with her hands, 
 and remained lorn Ion-;; limeiiideeplhou;^ht, 
 while Abel watched her silently. At last 
 she luoki'd up, and said, with a patient 
 entreaty in her voice, " 1 thou'jlit that was 
 all : but there's another tbinj:, Abel. I 
 w,.af to see my chilil. You must bring 
 lier to me. I must hold her in my arms. 
 She must see her mother oiu-e, so that she 
 will remember her ; tor 1 don't want to bo 
 
 ■5? 
 
6» 
 
 IIOPK8 OF SAND. 
 
 ftirtrolli'ii. () Aljil ! I don't wiint to bu fi-ntcil it' I don't spc Iut. I'vo [{ivon up 
 
 for;lolli'ii liy every oiii'." ' liiU-rt, liut lot iiu- H'e liis cliilil." 
 
 " Ycm'll nt'vtT lie tiir'^dttrn, Vii)lt't, hy " Ymi uliall we Iht, Violet: !»• ciiliii, ami 
 
 0(i<' : llif only one yoii'vi- lu'vcr lovi-il will yon rliall mm- Iut. I'll hrin;; Iht I'lirly 
 
 rrrni'inbcr you iilwayii. Yon tliink of liiin, to-niorrow, I'd no tlion^lit Hnrli as yuu 
 
 i>nt yon ticvcr tliink of my a;jony. My iircnxc uw of: I wax unly tliinkin;^ of iliu 
 
 iii'url'N l.ri'akin<{; and yim liavr not ii word 
 of romli)rt for mr," fried Aliel, for;{etlin;{ 
 the )>tern eompoFiire lie liiul t'oried ti|Min 
 liinicejl', while he wept pa^iHioiialely over 
 lier, welting her face with hii hot teant. 
 
 The poor, weak, MelfiNh mini wiin liinched 
 to ilN deptliK hy Ihi"; ami, putting her 
 feeble arniH ronml bin neck, die drew hi-i 
 face ilown toiler", and kiHxed him with nor- 
 rowfiil fervor. Then nIiu mild, witii Inux- 
 lilvMnlble jialbon In her voice, " AIh-I, dear, 
 r>e ({iven yon the very bent I had to (?ive. 
 I'vi) loved yon with iho only pnni love of 
 >ny lite. I've loveil yon lu ii hlitter lovew a 
 brother." 
 
 That wnn enough: it reachc<l the, very 
 dcptliH of IiIh heart, and comfurted him an 
 nothiii'^ else conld. " Tliiink you, darlini;," 
 lie replied. Htru;.';ilin^{ hard ((>r eompoHure. 
 '• Y'oii've (jiven me Homethini; to live on. I 
 ehall bear it all belter now." 
 
 "Try to be calm and happy, .Vbd ; don't 
 Waste any Ic'clin;^ on uie; imleeil, I'm not 
 worth it. I've made you siill'ur ciion^h 
 already, and you've been s-o ^ood to me. 
 1 don't deserve such a friend. There's 
 only one thin<; more you can ilo; and that 
 is to brinn I'et ns soon as possible, lor I've 
 not Ion;; to wait for her." 
 
 Abel niivdo no reply : he was thinking of 
 the ed'eet such a, sad scene would have 
 upon the sensitive vhiUl. Violet noticeii 
 his liesitation, and, mistaking' its cause, cried 
 passionately, " Yon won't, brin;; lier 1 
 you're afraid her own mother will pollute 
 her. \'ou don't want such an iniKxient to be 
 clasped in the arms of a sinner. Abel, that's 
 cruel I Haven't 1 earned thu ri^jht to see her 
 now 'i* For nine months I've been purifying 
 myself to be lit to touch her. I've shed j 
 
 sad lm|ires!<i(in it will make on lier happy 
 little iieart ; but I'll brin<{ lu-r ; you sliall 
 H»'«' her." 
 
 "Tliank you, Abel," ghe replied ^Tate- 
 fully; "now I'm <'ontented; but biiii;^ lier 
 early, for I'm so exhausted perhaps I 
 slia'n't last thron^li the day. I'll try and 
 be patient until hIk^ comes. Call I>amb, 
 pleas(>. U'h time I had my tonic ; and I 
 need it." 
 
 Tiie old woman came In sufHy and sad- 
 ly, at Abel's Mummona, and leaned over the 
 bed. 
 
 " Ah, Lamhy dear, it's you," she said, 
 raisin;{ her beautiful eyes and smilin;j 
 ;;ently, "it's all settled. This is Abel, my 
 brother Abel, tliat I've told you of «o 
 ollea. II(?'s |)romised to brin^ the child 
 to-morrow, ami I've nothin;{ niori\ to ask. 
 Now jiive me my tonic, and try to keep 
 lite in me until site comes." 
 
 Then Abel, seeing how exhausted she 
 was, and how much she needed rest, kissed 
 her tenderly, and went away promisin;^ to 
 return early the next day. The ibllowln;^ 
 morning he obtaineil leave of absence from 
 lii§ desk ; and by tellin;r Mrs. liattle that 
 lie was )!oin;r to take I'el to visit a lady 
 whom he hail known since childhood, and 
 who was very ill, her curiosity was satis- 
 fieil, and she dressed the child without 
 overwhelming; him with ((uestions which 
 he was in no mood to answer. 
 
 When he reached No. 3, Cottage I'lace, 
 Mrs. Lamb met him at the door; and to his 
 an.\ious iiKpiirics, she re|>lied that Mrs. 
 Watson was comlbrtable, had rested well 
 all ni<;ht, and was waitin;; patiently to see 
 the little ^irl. 
 
 Now, darling," said Abel, bctbre ho 
 
 tears enough to wash me clean. Christ' took the child into the room, "this' poor 
 won't refuse me no more than he did that lady is very ill ; and you're not to disturb 
 other sinner; then, don't you be hard on her. You must be good and gentle, and go 
 mc, Abel ; don't, I pray. I sha'n't die con- to her directly she asks you " 
 
 « ■ ' 
 
 •axRsss^amataSMHMM 
 
A WITII'CIIKI) VIOLKT. 
 
 « 
 
 vc ^ivon up 
 It 
 
 lit- calm, mill 
 ^ licr I'lirlv 
 tiii'li us yi'M 
 iklii;^ III' tliu 
 1 liiT Iwppy 
 r ; yiiii .•.hall 
 
 splictl jiratc- 
 
 llt liliri;^' her 
 
 peril. ipM I 
 
 I'll try ami 
 
 Call Luiiii), 
 
 tuiiiu ; ami I 
 
 IHy mill sail- 
 iiL'il over tho 
 
 I," hIh! saiil, 
 1111(1 Miiillinij 
 
 is Al)i;l, my 
 1 yoii of no 
 iir tlu! I'hild 
 iiiorc to nuk, 
 
 try to kei'p 
 
 KliausU'il hIio 
 J rust, kisjiuil 
 prumiMii);r to 
 liu iullowiii;^ 
 iibseiiue from 
 Huttlu tlmt 
 vinit a lady 
 lililhooil, and 
 ty was satis- 
 liilil without 
 »tions wliich 
 
 otta^c I'lace, 
 )v; and to Ills 
 id that Mrs. 
 1 rusted wull 
 tiuntly to see 
 
 3l, bcl'ore ho 
 i, "this' poor 
 lOt to disturb 
 gentle, and go 
 
 .'.-ynj....,.....j.,nyi!,aj!. ' i i .i'S'-^ 
 
 " Yfs. papa : I'll bu vewy nood," npliud 
 Pi't nirckiy. 
 
 Then hi! wont in, lioldin;: hi-r liy the 
 band. VIoU'l's larni', bright I'jcs wiTi- lixcd 
 
 on ihe liiior; and ll mment ilio i<aw tin- 
 
 fhild, dhc utlcred a biilo cry of ji>y, and 
 held out her arms. Abfl led IVt riirwanl ; 
 her mother chmped her, and drew her close 
 to her heart; then there was a moment's 
 nilenee, liroken only by stilled snlis. Alter 
 the first violent burst of emotion was some- 
 what calmed, she held theUttle ^irl at arms' 
 len;{lh, and h)oked at her limdly ami 
 proudly, with threat tears brimmiie^ over 
 lier eyes, and trieklin;; ilown her i>ale 
 cheeks. 
 
 " She's like him," she said at len;;tli ; " ohe 
 has his brow and mouth, and my eyes. 
 Haven't you noticed it, AbelT' 
 
 '• I've always tlmuuht her like you, Vio 
 let : her eyes have always rcmlndiMl me nt 
 yours; but I don't see his looks, and 1 
 don't want to." 
 
 " I'm <^\.i<\ she's like me, Abel. He'll nev- 
 er for^^et me while he has her lieliire him." 
 The poor fellow had a spasm of j)aln at 
 these thoiiiihlless words, but ho said noth- 
 ing : he would not cloud that moment ol 
 happiness with his own sorrow. 
 
 " Put her on the bed by me, so that I 
 can hold her close, and give her some 
 grapes, lit you like grapes, darlin;.; 'I " 
 
 " Yes, I do, thank you," replied Pet 
 sweetly. 
 
 Then Abel went away for a little while, 
 and lell the mother alone with her child, 
 for her first interview, and her last sad 
 farewell. He went out into the street. The 
 morning sun shone brightly, dozens oi" 
 liappy mothers passed him with their chil- 
 dren Then his heart was filled willi bit- 
 terness. She, still so young and beautiful, 
 lay there dying, holding in her arms, for 
 the lir>t and last time, the child she had 
 alwndoned years before. How her sad 
 fate had overshadowed and crushed him ! 
 What a grievous destiny had led hiin 
 years before to the weeping child, ])laying 
 her first game of deception. How that early 
 inlluence had blighted her whole liiij, and 
 
 ruined what ml^hl have been a lieautiful 
 character I lie had already sullired much, 
 liut still he felt that the wor^t wis to 
 
 , ic. Through his love for her child, ho 
 
 had yet to drain the dregs nf the bitter 
 
 cup. 
 
 When he entered, alb'r a half-hour's 
 absence, he liiund Violet weeping loiuul- 
 ^ively with her face buried in the pillow; 
 while the child's little hands caressed her 
 head lovingly, and smoothed the long, soil 
 hair that clung round her neek. 
 
 "'n»o lady cries, papa; an' I've been 
 weal iU)od. I've kissed her, an* told her all 
 my 'ittle stories, and said I'd be a dood dill 
 al'ays, an' love her, an' — an" she won't stop 
 at all," said I'et pitifully, with a little sad, 
 puzzled face. 
 
 " () Abel I take her away, fake her away I 
 I can't bear it!" cried Violet, litliug her 
 tear-stained face, " I can't bear it ! She's 
 so good and sweet, that it bre;iks my he.irt 
 to listen to her innocent prattle: every 
 word she says stabs me like a knll'e. Tako 
 her away, or I sha'n't have coin-age to die. 
 Let me kiss her oiifU more, and then tako 
 
 her." 
 
 Abiil turned away his he.ad, while the 
 poor mother took her last farewell of tho 
 little unconscious thing. Then, when ho 
 heard a sharp cry of anguish, and a liitlo 
 frightened sob from Pet, he knew the bit- 
 terness of death was over ; and, tmnini:, he 
 took the child from the relaxing clasp of 
 the mother, and hurried from the room. 
 Mrs. Lamb went to her, when Aiiel came 
 down with the little girl, and found her in 
 a deathlike swoon, from which she did not 
 recover for hours. " It was the keenest 
 sulFering I ever felt," she said to her laith- 
 ful servant, who was crying near her pillow. 
 '• Every word the sweet innocent spoko 
 was a terrible reproach to me. I've never 
 had a harder punishment, than to hold her 
 in my arms, and teel that I was as far re- 
 moved from her as earth is from heaven. If 
 I'd lived, Lamb, she couldn't have ever 
 been any thing to me. There an; stains 
 that can't be wiped out. There's no place 
 on earth for such as we : we need to bo 
 
 ..A-.-- ' ,j«m ' JHJ»,M ' # B ',l..-- g>^8aB3g^ 
 
ill 
 
 r 
 
 lit 
 
 i*! 
 
 I 
 
 62 
 
 BOPES OF SAND. 
 
 clcanswl hy death, beforo we're fit to touch ^ insciiplion, " To the memory of a good 
 
 man." There is nothing to marii the spot 
 where she sleeps, but a mound tliickiy cov- 
 ered with tui'ts of fragrant, deep-bhie vio- 
 
 the pure." 
 
 AVhen Abel had taken Pet home, he re- 
 turned again to the bedside of Violet, to 
 remain with her what little lime she lived, lets. 
 All through the afternoon and evening, he 
 Bat near her, holding her hand in his, silent 
 and sorrowful, watching her beloved face, 
 while she slept peacefully. Onec she 
 awoke, and spoke of Robert Thorpe, as 
 though she had dreanird of him ; and then, 
 seeing Abel by her bed, with his sad eyes 
 fixed on her, she clasped his hands, and 
 said entreatingly, " You'll Ibrgive him, dear, 
 you'll forgive him, even as God will forgive 
 you ; and, if he wants his child, you'll let 
 him have her. Promise me, Abel, that 
 you'll let him have her." 
 
 " I promise you," he said in a scarce au- 
 dible voice : " he shall have her, even though 
 it breaks my heart." A faint glimmer of a 
 Buale stole over her face, as slu; sank again 
 huo a peaceful sleep. About midnight, 
 Abel ielt that lie could not endure a longer 
 vigil ; so, telling Mrs. Lamb that he would 
 return again early in the morning, he 
 stooped over her, and, brushing back the 
 thick curling hair from her transparent 
 temples, he kissed her again and again 
 with a despairing tenderness. She half 
 opened her eyes, smiled, and murmured 
 " Robert," then closed them again, and sank 
 into a heavy sleep. 
 
 " Her last thought will be for him," said 
 Abel bitterly, as he went away, and left 
 Mrs. Lamb watching her. When he re- 
 turned in the morning, the faithliil servant 
 met him at iLe door, with pale face and 
 swollen eyes. 
 
 " It's all over, sir," said she. " Her sor- 
 rows are ended. She never woke after 
 you left her, but dropped off in her sleep 
 without a sigh or a word." 
 
 Abel could hear no more; turning, he 
 rushed fiom the house, and wandered he 
 eared not whither : he could not look upon 
 her dead. The next day they buried her 
 in Kensal Clreen, by the side of poor Old 
 Top, over whose grave Abel had placed a 
 neat stone, with the simple but touching 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Abel's sacrifice. 
 
 Aktku Violet's death, Abel tried to re- 
 sume his duties as though nothing had oc- • 
 curred to disturb the even stream of his life, 
 — tried to renew liis hopes and plans for 
 Pet's future, without fear or anxiety. But 
 it was in vain ; things did not seem as they 
 had before ; there was no secin-ity in his 
 present, no confidence in las future. He 
 felt like a man in mid-ocean, upon a sink- 
 ing ship, who knows not at wliat moment 
 the threatening waves may close over him 
 forever. It was a moral torture to him, to 
 feel that he was resting his whole hajipi- 
 ness on so frail a ibundation ; that he was 
 worshipping something that diil not belong 
 to liim, something that he might lo-^e at 
 any moment. When the child hung round 
 his neck with fond caresses, he felt a sort 
 of cuilt at appropriating an all'ection which 
 was only his through circumstances. 
 Every kiss, every touch of her soft, 
 little hands, were stabs, that bled constant- 
 ly. He loved her so well, and felt that she 
 was so necessary to his existence, shat, if 
 he should lose her, he could not.eii<luie his 
 life ; and so he looked upon himself, as a 
 kind of felo de se, to encourage such an ex- 
 clusivJ^ passion. "I must wean myself," he 
 would say. "I must gradually unloose ihe 
 cords that slie has wound around mo, so 
 that, when the time comes, 1 can give lier 
 up without its killing me." Therefore he 
 felt no real enjoyment in her society, see- 
 ing that every natural impulse was gijaixled 
 under a protest of self-denial. 
 
 Sometimes she would talk to him grave- 
 ly of the lady who had kissed her and cried 
 
 /' 
 
 t- 
 
r of a good 
 irk the spot 
 thickly cov- 
 up-bhie vio- 
 
 tried to re- 
 liiiii» had Of- • 
 im of his life, 
 lul plans for 
 nxii'ty. But 
 suein as tiicy 
 ciirity in his 
 
 futuru. Ilii 
 upon a sink- 
 fhat moment 
 ose over him 
 ire to him, to 
 whole happi- 
 
 that he was 
 id not belong 
 iii<!;ht lose at 
 1 hung round 
 le felt a sort 
 flection which 
 ircumstances. 
 of her soft, 
 jled constant- 
 1 felt that she 
 itence, that, if 
 iotien<luie his 
 
 himself, as a 
 ;e meh an ex- 
 tn niyselti" he 
 ly unloose iho 
 round mo, so 
 can i.dve her 
 Therefore he 
 r society, see- 
 13 was gijai-ded 
 
 to him grave- 
 1 her and cried 
 
 ABEL'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 63 
 
 over her; and say she was pretty and kind, 
 an.l be-r to be taken to her ajjam. 1 k'.. 
 Abel told her that she was dead, and that 
 Bhe could no to her no more. ^_ 
 
 "What is it to be dead, papa ^ she 
 asked with a puzzled, serious iiice. 
 
 » To be at rest when one is tired, and to 
 have no more fear." 
 
 » Oh, no 1 It's to RO away for ever anU 
 ever. Mrs. Battle says so." 
 
 " Yes, that is one kind of death," he re- 
 turned musingly. 
 
 " Will you ever be dead, papa f > i" 
 vou ever go away, and leave Pet ? " 
 
 "God only knows, dear." Thsn he pu 
 the child ii-om oir his knee, strugghng '---.rd 
 to keep back the tears. 
 
 She saw his trouble in his eyes ; and, taK- 
 his face between her little hands, she said, 
 "What makes you cry, papa? Is it be- 
 cause the lady's dead V " 
 
 " No, no, darling : it's not that, he re- 
 plied, as if thinking aloud. "I'm thank ul 
 that she's dead ; for now I know where she 
 is I searched for her years and years. 
 At last I've found her, and I never can lose 
 her again. But go away. Pet; run to Mrs 
 Battle, I've something to do." 
 
 After she had gone, he went to his bed 
 room and wept freely, feeling that his 
 heart would break if he did not find some 
 relief in tears. The time had not yet come 
 when he could not weep, but it was draw- 
 in"- nearer than ho thought. 
 
 One afternoon Abel came home earlier 
 than usual, and found that Mrs. Battle had 
 taken Pet to the park. Shortly after, the 
 good woman came in greatly excited, her 
 face extremely red, and her breath coming 
 in short gasps. " Such a strange thing has 
 , happened, Mr. Winter!" she exclaimed, 
 dropping into a chair, and fannmg herseli 
 vigorously. " Such a strange thing, — m a, i 
 my life I never met a more curiouser." 
 
 " What was it V " hiquired Abel, with a 
 Bud.len fluttering at his heart. 
 
 " Why, I was a settin' on a bench with 
 my work, an' Pet was a play in' round, when 
 all of a suddent a gentleman comes up to 
 her, an' begins to talk to her. 1 kind o 
 
 kep' my eye on him, though he .lidn't look 
 like one o' then men as steals .■hildren. 
 Well, he talked to her, an' the stui.wl httle 
 cretur' seeme.l mighty pleased with us 
 chat. By aiul by he took some sugar-barley 
 out o' his i.ocket, an' otVered .t to her 
 a-sndlin' like a angel, which she took, the 
 .rvcedy little mite ! an' swallowed all -lown 
 r„ a wink. Then he held out his han.l. 
 and she put hers in it, jest like a bird as is 
 charmed by a sariient, an' was actally 
 ■roiii' off with him. I supiiose he ili.ln t 
 nrink 1 was a watchin' him, 'caasc I was 
 behind a tr.- with my head b.nt as if 1 
 was busy with my work. Well, I jest let 
 him -et oir a little way, like a cat does a 
 mousx., all the while ready to clap my paw 
 on him when I see what he intended to do 
 Tlien I started, an', afore he knew it, 1 
 was there, an' had the child by the han.l 
 ready to carry her off. An' I did want to 
 shake her awful, for the first time since I 
 have had her in my care. He looked at 
 me as though he would eat me with his 
 eyes, bones an' all, an' asked me what I 
 wanted. Says I, as proud as the fiueen,^^ 1 
 want my child, if it pleases your honor. . 
 " What reply did he make '\ " (luestioned 
 Abel with trembling anxiety. 
 
 " Why, he turned as white as a stone, 
 an' says", aiigrv-Uke, ' She's not your chiUl ; 
 an' you've no" right to her.' - ' Sb;'s mine, 
 sir, I told him, ' while I've the care of her. 
 Mr. Abel Winter put the little girl m my 
 char-e, an' you've no right to me.idle with 
 her.'" Then he come close up to me, an 
 said, low and confidential-like, ' See here, 
 ,„y <,ood woman, the child belongs to me: 
 Iw^nther; an' if you'll let me 'ave er 
 peaceable, PU give you somethin and- 
 soine' OLord! Mr. Winter, you ought 
 to have seen how mad I was 1 Tl.evilla.nl 
 to try an' buy me that way! But I didn t 
 ka him know i. : so I s.ays, cool-hk.^ 
 < Thai's all very well ; but what can 1 tell 
 Mr. Winter when I uo home without the 
 child V— -Oh, that's easy enough to ar- 
 n-n-e: you can invent something. Say 
 you' lost her, or she was stolen.' - ' Hiank 
 you' I says, sort of sarcastic, ' thank you, 
 
 •I 
 
 raiHiaB>;^ »jWte 'Jg i»B i»S»^«» *^ 
 
C4 
 
 ROPES OF SAND. 
 
 sir. You're a vory 'oncst mmi, an' I like 
 your manners niiicli lor a cliilil-sU-aler ; but 
 you've fxot to liml a (latter party 'an me to 
 "swallow your nonsense. You l(X)k like a 
 fTcntlenian, that's true ; but you're not; an' 
 it' you're Pet's father I'm sorry for her. 
 Still, 1 <lon't believe it. You're more like 
 one o' them eircus fellows as wants to >;et 
 Vr to ihiiKe the tij^ht rope.' Then he 
 turned awful mad, an' white, an* looked 
 round as if he didn't know what to do, like 
 as if he wished he had win^s, an' could take 
 the child an' lly ott" with 'er. An', would 
 you believe it, tlie little meek mite was a 
 boldin' his haml fast, as if she'd. like to go 
 too." 
 
 Abel sighed, and looked at the child 
 reproaehfnlly. 
 
 " Well, 1 didn't know just what to do, 
 till 1 see a i>'licemiin in the BirdcaRe Walk : 
 then I says, as bold as eoultl be, ' Now, sir, 
 you may be the child's father or not, I'm 
 sure I tion't know, as that isn't easy to tell ; 
 but, if you are, you've got to prove it to 
 Mr. Wi'nter, an' get 'er in a 'onest way. 
 You can't buy her or steal 'er from me; 
 an', if you don't let 'er go 'ome peaceable, 
 I'll call that holHeer yonder, an' tell 'im the 
 whole story.' With that he jest wilted-like 
 an' settled down onto a bench, an' dragged 
 the child up to 'im an' hugged 'er like a 
 bear, a sayin' sometbin' low, as I didn't 
 hear only the last words; an' them was. 
 She's nunc, an' I'll 'ave 'er.' I did pity 
 
 liim, Mr. Winter, spite o' all; an' if he was 
 
 not a thief he was a hactor, 'cause no one 
 
 but a hactor could work their face an' leign 
 
 to feel bad as he did; an' he was 'andsonie 
 
 too, an' '.veil .Iressed for that matter, 
 
 though a bit thin an' p.de, an' sad-lookin'. 
 
 At last, I felt as though my own feelin's 
 
 w;is a givin* way, an' my heart a ri^in' u[) 
 
 in my throat, so I just took the child and 
 
 says, ' Come, Pet. come home and see 
 
 papa.' Then he lla>h.^d up like a ilame. 
 
 an' says he, ' By God 1 he's not her father. 
 
 An' I'll prove it, an' have her. Tell him 
 
 so if you like. Abel Winter 'as no right to 
 
 the child.' Then he kisseil Pet over and 
 
 over, an' says, ' Will you go with me, dar- 
 
 lin' ? • An' the wicked, ongrateful little cre- 
 tur', she sort o' clung to bis hand, an' 
 looked at him as though she didn't know. 
 So I just led her otV and brought her 'ome ; 
 though I do verily believe she'd a' gone 
 with 'im in a minute." 
 
 "Woulil you have, PetV" said Abel, 
 taking her on his knee with a sinking 
 heart, " would you have gone with the 
 strange gentleman, and left your poor 
 
 papa"? " 
 
 " He did give me nice barley-sugar, an' 
 said, if I'd go with him, he'd buy me a 
 great doll with eyes to open and shut, an' 
 pink shoes, an' — an' — lots o' things." 
 
 " Oh, you wicked little girl 1 " cried Mrs. 
 Battle indignantly, " to leave your good 
 jiapa for barley-sugar, an' pink shoes, an' a 
 stranger that p'rhaps 'd break your back, 
 and make you stand on the tips o' your 
 toes all day long." 
 
 '•Don't scold her, Mrs. Battle," said 
 Abel calmly. " The child's not to blame. 
 Her little heart recognized the author of 
 her being; for without doubt it was her 
 father. I've lately learned who he is : he 
 knows that I have his child, and he'll likel- 
 claim her." 
 
 " O love alive I " exclaimed Mrs. Battle 
 in real terror. "You can't mean it, Mr. 
 Winter 1 he'll claim her, an' you'll give her 
 up, an' we'll lose Pet? Why, that can't 
 be. AVe can't live without her, me an' my 
 man, let alone you." 
 
 " It's hard, I know, Mrs. Battle. I don't 
 see how we can bear it. It seems to mo 
 as if I hadn't strength to go through with 
 it ; but, if it comes, I suppose I must," said 
 Abel with sad resignation. " He's her fa- 
 ther ; and he alone has a right to her." 
 
 " Do tell me, Mr. Winter, how did you 
 finil it out? an' is he a hactor, or a gentle- 
 man ? " 
 
 " It's too long a story to tell you, how I 
 discovered it ; and, besides, there are other 
 reasons why I can't explain it to you : but 
 I'm convinced that this person js her 
 father; and he's no actor, Mrs. Battle. 
 We won't talk about it any more, only 
 you're not to take Pet to the park again : 
 
 --'1 
 
ABEL'S SACEIFICB. 
 
 65 
 
 fill little cre- 
 is hand, an' 
 lidn't know. 
 ;ht her 'ome ; 
 lie'J «■ gone 
 
 ' said Abel, 
 h a sinking 
 inc with the 
 t your poor 
 
 ley-sugar, an' 
 'd buy ine a 
 ;ind shut, an' 
 ' things." 
 1 " criL'd Mrs. 
 ve your good 
 k shoes, an' a 
 k your back, 
 > tips o' your 
 
 Battle," said 
 not to blame, 
 the author of 
 bt it was her 
 who he is : he 
 ,nd he'll like)/ 
 
 a Mrs. Battle 
 mean it, Mr. 
 you'll give her 
 hy, that can't 
 ler, me an' my 
 
 Battle. I don't 
 t seems to mo 
 I through with 
 e I must," said 
 
 " He's her fa- 
 ht to her." 
 , how did you 
 or, or a gentle- 
 tell you, how I 
 there are other 
 
 it to you : but 
 person is her 
 r, Mrs. Battle, 
 vny more, only 
 te park again: 
 
 he mustn't have a chance to get her in that 
 way. If ho wants her he must come to me 
 like a gentleman, and say so. Now bring 
 us our suppers ; for the poor little thing 
 must be hungry and tired." 
 
 After Pet had eaten heartily, •while Abel 
 watched her, scarce tasting a mouthful, he 
 un(lresscd her, as ho often did, and then 
 li'Hcn'Ml to her prayers, while she knelt 
 b-fon him with sweet, demure face, and 
 clasped hands. Then he took her in his 
 arms ; and, pressing her close to his heart, 
 be leaned his cheek against her curls, and 
 fell into a deep reverie. The weight of his 
 destiny crushed him I His past sorrows 
 and disappointments sank into nothingness 
 compared with this present trial ; but with 
 it all he felt a strange calm and resigna- 
 tion, -»- a consciousness that the worst had 
 come, and that nothing more could be 
 added to his already brimming cup. 
 There was no vindictive passion, no re- 
 venge, no hate in his heart against Robert 
 Thorpe : ho was the faher of the child 
 he held in his arms, — the child he 
 loved with a mother's tenderness. Noth- 
 ing could exceed the charity, pity, and 
 kindness that filled his heart. Pet slept 
 on his breast, her warm, soft cheek pressed 
 to his, her sweet breath floating over his 
 face, her smooth, silken hair clinging to his 
 hands. He looked at her closely, so that 
 every feature might be prinfed upon his 
 memory in tints that never could be 
 dimmed only by the effacing finger of 
 death. She would spring up a slender, love- 
 ly maiden. Under other fond eyes, the flower 
 of her beauty would unfold. She would 
 grow from grace to grace, and he would 
 not be there to see her. To him she would 
 be only Pet, little, golden-haired Pet. He 
 would lose her soon, lose her as he had 
 lost her mother, and never find her again, 
 save in his memory. Then his lips 
 parted close to her ear, and he talked 
 softly, as though she could hear him; as 
 though the voice of his love could pp; ^- 
 tratc''the dull car of sleep. "Darling, 
 I've done the best I could for you. 
 Pve tried to make you happy ; I've tried 
 
 to make you good. If misfortune and 
 sorrow come to you in the future, God 
 knows it will not bo my fault. If ho had 
 left you to me, I would have guarded you 
 day and night. I woulil have watched 
 over you as a miser does his gold. I would 
 have given the last drop of my heart's 
 blood for you ; but now he will take you, 
 and I can do nothing more, only to give you 
 into the hands of God. It's not my fault, 
 little one. I would rather have parted 
 with every limb of my body than to part 
 with you. I don't give you up without 
 giving the greater half of my life. What 
 can I do ? There's no compromise that I 
 can make between love and duty. I'm 
 spared temptation in the matter. He knows 
 all : he will come and demand you ; and I 
 must yield you up, far more reluctantly 
 than i would my life. Yes, fiir more : be- 
 cause life is nothing, — at thirty years I've 
 finished it. I've no more to hope, to de- 
 sire, to expect : beyond you there is only a 
 blank. I commenced life full of unshaken 
 faith in the future. I believed in friendship, 
 in love ; and I was deceived in both. Why 
 did they not tell me that all was false,* 
 that only the hereafter was true ? Why 
 did they leave me to buy my experience 
 at such a price ? I've searched into the mys- 
 tery of sorrow, and fcund in it nothing but 
 grievous chastening. I've asked why it 
 has come so thick and fast upon me, and 
 the only answer I receive is that God has 
 willed it; therefore I must be resigned. 
 But you, darling, how will it bo with you ? 
 What fate awaits you, my precious one ? 
 O my angel I who will love you as I have ? 
 who will count thee more precious than 
 life or happiness ? " Then he carried her 
 gently, and, laying her in her bed, he 
 smoothed her pillows, and pressed his lips 
 to her flushed cheeks with mournful ten- 
 derness. After that he went back to his 
 chair before the fire; and instead of 
 taking a book, as had been his habit, his 
 head sank dejectedly upon his breast, and 
 he fell into a profound reverie. Suddenly a 
 knock at his door, and steps mounting the 
 stairs, startled him. 
 
66 
 
 BOPES OF SAND. 
 
 \ 
 
 " A gentleman to sec Mr. Winter," said 
 Mrs. Battle's little maid, " an' lie's followed 
 me up. Shall I let him in ? " 
 
 " Certainly," replied Ahcl rising, and 
 trembling so that he could scarce speak, 
 irhile he turned away his head to hide the 
 anguish in his face. When he heard the 
 door close he looked up, and Robert Thorpe 
 stood before him, serious, sad, and almost 
 humble. Abel bowed mechanically, and 
 pointed to a chair; for his lips refused to 
 utter a word. His visitor sank into the 
 proiTered seat, put his hat upoa the table, 
 and, drawing his handkerchief from his 
 pocket, he wiped the beaded drops from his 
 face with a nervous hand ; and yet neither 
 spoke. 
 
 Abel was the first to break the painful si- 
 lence : he had conquered his emotion, and 
 regained his calmness in the face of this ter- 
 rible trial, which he knew reiiuired all his 
 courage to go throu;.;h with unfalteringly. 
 One thought was uppermost in his heart : 
 there could be but one object in this visit ; 
 and so he said, addressing Robert Thorpe 
 with quiet dignity, " You've come to take 
 your child. Am I not right ? " 
 
 " No, Mr. Winter : I've not come to take 
 her ; I've come to ask for her." 
 
 " And you expect me to give her up ? 
 Remember, her mother put her into my 
 arms when she was but a few weeks old ; 
 and I've loved her ever since. She's as 
 dear to me as my life. Think what you 
 ask, Mr. Thorpe, and be merciful." 
 
 " Don't speak of mercy, for God's sake, 
 don't I If you could know what was pasr- 
 ing in my heart at this moment, you would 
 see that I was the one to be pitied, not 
 you," cried Robert Tliorpe, still wiping the 
 great drops from his face, with a hand t)iat 
 trembled in spite of every effort at self- 
 control. 
 
 " You are thinking of Violet," said Abel 
 with painful calm. " We will not speak of 
 that. I saw her before she died ; I forgave 
 her ; I've nothing more to say." 
 
 " Would to God that I could have seen 
 her also t " exclaimed Robert with a burst 
 of emotion. " I loved her : I'm not ashamed 
 
 to say it. I loved her dearly, but I lost 
 confidence in her." 
 
 " I know it all," interrupted Abel. 
 
 " Since she has written to luu with her 
 dying hand, I believe her to be innocent. 
 The child is mine : she is her living image. 
 After I received her letter, I tried to find 
 her. I longed to throw myself at her feet, 
 and implore her pardon before she died ; 
 but 1 sought in vain, until yesterday, when 
 I accidentally met Lamb, her old servant ; 
 and she told me all, — how you brought the 
 child, and how contented and peaceful you 
 made her last moments." 
 
 " Say no more of it, Mr. Thorpe. You must 
 know how I have suflered. Spare me the 
 pain of referring to her. It is the child that 
 occupies all my thoughts now : let us settle 
 that matter. You want her, and you are 
 determined to have her : am I right ? " 
 
 " I want her, and I am determined to 
 have her," returned Robert with some of 
 his old authority. 
 
 " Are you aware that you cannot claim 
 the child legally, unless you legitimize her ? 
 that yoi< cannot compel me to give her up, 
 unless i choose to relinquish her ? " 
 
 " I trust to your honor in the matter," 
 said Robert, dropping his eyes beneath the 
 steady gaze of Abel. "You surely will 
 not keep the child from her father." 
 
 " No, I'll not ; but first you must do me 
 justice; you must make a sacrifice for me. 
 You must acknowledge that you believe me 
 innocent of the crime you accused me of 
 five years ago." 
 
 Robert changed color, and turned his 
 head, trying to evade Abel's searching eyes. 
 
 " You know, as God is our witness, that I 
 never removed the money from the safe. 
 You knew it at the time, Mr. Thorpe, and 
 yet you let me suffer. Now is your time to 
 right me." 
 
 It was evident from the convulsive work- 
 ing of Robert's) face, that a terrible struggle 
 was going on in his heart. Pride and re- 
 morse, good and evil, were in arms together ; 
 and the moment was agonizing.' At last 
 he started up, and exclaimed, as though the 
 words were forced from him ajjoinst his 
 
ABEL'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 67 
 
 r, but I lost 
 
 Abel. 
 
 uu with hor 
 innoocnt. 
 iviiig image, 
 tried to fmil 
 at her feet., 
 re she died ; 
 iterday, when 
 old servant ; 
 lU brought the 
 peaceful you 
 
 pc. You must 
 S|)aro me the 
 > the child that 
 : let us settle 
 and you are 
 I right ? " 
 leterrained to 
 with some of 
 
 II cannot claim 
 legitimize her ? 
 ;o give her up, 
 her?" 
 
 the matter," 
 fes beneath the 
 'ou surely will 
 father." 
 
 ou must do me 
 lacrifice for me. 
 ; you believe me 
 accused me of 
 
 and turned hia 
 s searching eyes. 
 ir witness, that I 
 from the safe. 
 VIr. Thorpe, and 
 r is your time to 
 
 convulsive work- 
 , terrible struggle 
 Pride and re- 
 in arms together ; 
 mizing.' At last 
 ed, as though the 
 him against his 
 
 will by an interior power: " By Heavens! 
 Winter, you are ri;^iit : I know you never 
 took the money. It wn:t not there for i/nu to 
 take; and I was a cursed villain to aci-use 
 you. You know what such a confession 
 costs me, but I'll do it. ril make a clean 
 breast of it. I wanted to get rid of you. 
 Not that F had any thing against you per- 
 sonally. No : I always likeil you, and you 
 were very useful to me ; but at that time I 
 was in dreadful complications, and did not 
 dare .acknowledge it to my father. I 
 thought if I only had time, that I mi'j;iit 
 work out of them, and lie know nothing 
 about it. The slightest suspicion on his 
 part would hnve ruined me ; and I feared 
 that you would discover somethinj;, and ex- 
 pose me. It was al>out the time 1 1 |uarrelled 
 with Violet ; and she threatened to disclose 
 all to you. I knew if she did, that you 
 would malre my father acquainted with my 
 wickedness ; and I fe.ired the consequences 
 of his anger. Besides, j-our knowledge of 
 our private affairs enabled you to discover 
 how badly I was managing in my father's 
 absence. I knew you suspected mu after the 
 Jew's visit; and I thought that you would 
 act the part of a spy, and denounce me to my 
 father. I had tried for some time to think 
 of a plan to get you discharged ; when sud- 
 denly the Uevil put that into my head, and I 
 acted upon it at once. It is true that I put 
 the money in the envelope before your eyes ; 
 but, instead of placing it in the safe when 1 
 stooped to do so, I slipped it into my pock- 
 et. I knew the man would not come until 
 the next day, as I had told him to call then. 
 You sec, I was safe from being suspected ; 
 but I sulFered tortures. Don't think I did 
 it coolly, and without pity for you." Abel 
 made a gesture of ineffable contempt. 
 " The consequences might have been worse 
 than they were. Your immoderate temper 
 almost forced my father to resort to harsh 
 means, although I believe he never really 
 thought you guilty." 
 
 " Now you must right me with him," 
 said Abel quietly." 
 
 " How can I, Winter? Good Grod t my 
 father's dead : he died two weeks ago." 
 
 Tlien Abid noticed, for the first time, his 
 deep mourning. " 1 regret that more than 
 any tiling. I should have wished Aim, of 
 all others, to have been certain of my inno- 
 cence ; but now I must wait until it is de- 
 clared before the Judge of all." 
 
 llobert Thorpe regarded him with .aston- 
 ishment. He had expected a l)urst of 
 piussionatc anger ; but, instead, he had re- 
 ceived his avowal calmly and almost 
 indifferently. It touched the not entirely 
 ignoble heart of his old enemy as nothing 
 else could, and forced from his lips an <'.\- 
 clamation of surprise and .admiration. " By 
 Jove, Winter, you take it coolly ! You're 
 a dilFerent man from me ; for, although I'm 
 jiretty well down by misfortune, I couldn't 
 listen to the confession of such a wrong 
 without boiling over." 
 
 "Mr. Thorpe," returned Abel, in a 
 solemn, still voice, " I had my hour of pas- 
 sion, my temptation of revenge, long ago. 
 It passed over, and left us both unharmed. 
 Thank God for it, not me. Your full for- 
 giveness you owe to the mother of your 
 child. I don't complain, nor accuse you : 
 let the dead p.ost bury its dead." 
 
 Aflcr a few moments of deep silence, 
 during which Abel seemed to be plunged 
 in a profound reflection, he looked up, and 
 said, '• In regard to the child, if you take 
 her, are you able to provide for her and 
 educate her properly ? " 
 
 A flush of pride burnt for a inoin^mt on 
 Robert's pale cheek, as he replied, " Certain- 
 ly. If I were not com|)ctent to dj so, 
 I would scarce undertake the charge. 
 Through the influcii'.-e of a friend of my 
 father, I have a situation, ami a salary tl'.at 
 will enable me to live coujfortably. i have 
 entirely changed my habits, Winter. My 
 past experience has taught me a bitter 
 lesson. In the future I shall avoid the shoals 
 that wrecked me before. *'Ty plan is to put 
 the little girl in a good school ; and, when 
 she is grown up, she will keep house for 
 me, and be a great comfort to me." Abel 
 shivered from head to foot, and clasped his 
 hands with a gesture of pain. " I shall never 
 marry," continued liobert in a cold, philo- 
 
 11 
 
68 
 
 ROPES OF SAND. 
 
 i 
 
 pophkiil tono. " I've lost all confidence in 
 wuiucn. In fact, 1 can never cnro for 
 anulhcr as I cared for lier " — 
 
 "The child has never been baptized, 
 never rcceive.l any name," interrupted Abel 
 suddenly. " It's my wish that she should 
 be called Violet : 1 hope you'll regard it." 
 
 "I've thought of that," rei)lied K<3bert: 
 " it's been my intention from the first. It's 
 the only reparation I can make the poor 
 thin.;, to give her name to the child." 
 
 Abel sprang up, anil paced the fioor 
 rapidly ; then with a heavy sigh he subsi.led 
 again into his chair, and waited, with his 
 eyes fi.\ed on vacancy, ibr his visitor to 
 gpcak. 
 
 " When may 1 take her ? " Robert com- 
 
 nienrcd. . , ., , 
 
 " When may yon take her ? " cricil Al)el 
 with Hashing eyes. "I've never said yet 
 th:it vou coulil take her. I've not made 
 up nn" mind." Then he pressed his hands 
 over ills eyes as if striving for self-control, 
 ami added more cahnly. " Give me time, 
 Mr. Thorpe; give me one week. This 
 d,u- week you shall have her : come for 
 her tlwn, and she 'will be ready to go 
 with you. 1 must have a little time : she's 
 wound herself so rouml my heart, that 1 
 can't tear her olf sud.lenly. You know, one 
 gets so fond of a cliiUl at that age," he ex- 
 plained with a sickly smile. 
 
 " I don't doubt it, Winter : I'm sorry for 
 you ; but, if it's got to be, it's better now 
 than later. It's better to break this up 
 before her tastes are formed." 
 
 Abel replied not a word, llobcrt Thorpe 
 took his hat, and turned towards the door 
 saying, " Very well, then ; this night week 
 I'll come for her." 
 
 '• This night week," repeated Abel vaguely, 
 and added! with a mechanical motion of the 
 head, " Good-evening. Mr. Thorpe, good- 
 evening." Then he sank back into his 
 ch:dr, treinbling and exhausted. 
 
 Aller a few moments he got up, took a 
 cnndle, and went into Tet's room. She was 
 sleeping sweetly, one little hand under her 
 check, the other thrown over her head, and 
 tan-'led fast in her silken hair. He stooped, 
 
 and pressed his lips gently to her forehead. 
 To-night she seemed more than ever like 
 her mother; and he murmured sotlly close 
 to her ear, '• Violet, Violet," She partially 
 awoke and nestled to him. One little hand 
 sought his face, and lay soil and warm on 
 his cheek, cold and damp with the dews of 
 emotion. The touch went to his heart. 
 It seemed as though her tender fmge. s had 
 opened the flood-gates of his soul ; and, 
 bowing his head, he wept abundantly, let- 
 ting Ids hot tears fall over the golden curls 
 of the child. 
 
 Four days after ho sent for Mrs. Battlo 
 to come to his room. It was evening : Pet ' 
 had gone to bed ; and he was alone, pacir.g 
 the Hoor rapidly, his cheeks unnaturally 
 flushed, and his eyes wide and bright, like 
 one sufTering from some terrible mental 
 excitement. 
 
 The pood woman looked at him with 
 some surprise ; but he plunged at once into 
 the object of his summons, without giving 
 her time to make her usual intiuisitive 
 remarks. 
 
 " Good-evening, Mrs. Battle. I've sent 
 for you to tell you that I'm going away." 
 
 " Good Lord, Mr. Winter ! Going away ! 
 an' without givin' me a month's notice 1 " 
 she cried indignantly, her own interest be- 
 ing uppermost in her mind. 
 
 " Yes : I'm obliged to go at once, day 
 after to-morrow ; but I'll pay you the month's 
 rent all the same, and you can find another 
 lodger in the mean time." 
 
 Satisfied pecuniarily, Mrs. Battle began 
 to quiver with curiosity to know all about 
 it. " Going away, Mr. Winter 'i Why, it's 
 so sudden-like that I can't realize it. 
 Where are you goin', an' what are you 
 goin' for'; An' Pet, arc you a-goin' to 
 Uikeher,the little dear that I've had so 
 long V ' and up went her apron to her eyes, 
 whUe a sort of explosive sob struck Abel's 
 car most unpleasantly. 
 
 " Pray, be calm," he said, though he was 
 more excited than his landlady. " Pray, be 
 calm, and I'll explain it in a few words; 
 and you must assist me all you can, and be 
 as quiet about it as possible, for I've a great 
 
ABEL'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 69 
 
 lier forclicud. 
 ;in ever like 
 I sotUy (.'lopo 
 She partially 
 inc Utile hand 
 nd warm on 
 ;» the dews of 
 to his heart. 
 L-r fin;^e. 3 had 
 is soul; and, 
 undantly, Ict- 
 ! golden curls 
 
 r Mrs. BattlQ 
 evening: Pef 
 alone, paeir.g 
 [9 unnaturally 
 id bright, like 
 rrilile mental 
 
 . at him with - 
 ed at once into 
 without giving 
 lal imiuisitive 
 
 tile. I've sent 
 ^oing away." 
 I Going away ! 
 nth's notice 1 " 
 wn interest be- 
 
 ) at once, day 
 you the month's 
 an find another 
 
 3. Battle began 
 know all about 
 Iter? Why, it's 
 an't realize it. 
 ' what are you 
 you a-goiu' to 
 hat I've had so 
 pron to her eyes, 
 3b struck Abel's 
 
 d, though he was 
 lady. " I'ray, be 
 in a few words ; 
 i you can, and be 
 
 e, for I've a great 
 
 N I ' 
 
 deal to think oA In the first ph,ce, you're never find -U,er like you , "and ..p went 
 
 not to mention it to any one ; it's strictly 
 private. Tlio hoiisc I'm with is obliged to 
 send a clerk to South America. I am of- 
 fered the chance; my passage is taken: . 
 the shin sails Wednesday, an.l 1 have a most conflicting en.ol.ons 
 great deal to do. You must prepare f et 
 for a long cea-voyage ; comfortable clothes, 
 you \inderstand." 
 
 " What makes you take her, Mr. Winter ? 
 You can leave her with me : I'll be like a 
 mother to her ; an' I'll look out that that 
 
 liactor-man don't get a sight of 'er. Do 
 
 leave her with mo till you come back ! " 
 " I've no <loubt that you'd take the best 
 
 of care of her, Mrs. Battle, but I don't 
 
 know as 1 shall ever come back ; and I have 
 
 decided to take her. It's cost me enough 
 
 to decide, so don't try to change my reso- 
 lution; but get her ready, and I'll pay you 
 
 the apron, while Mrs Battle made her exit, 
 weeping bitterly. 
 
 After she had gone, Abel walked the 
 floor like one poisessed, a prey to the 
 
 ' I've dfciil- 
 ed now, and I cWt recall it. I must take 
 her with me : I can't leave her," he groiineil, 
 heavily oppressed with his burdened con- 
 scienco. " I've a right to her, — the divine 
 right of love. He'll never caro for her as I 
 have : ho never will, he never can. She'll 
 be every way better with me. She loves 
 mc. I'll train her carefully. I'll make her 
 a good woman ; and what guaranty have I 
 that he won't go back to his old ways, and 
 neglect her, and leave her to ruin ? It's my 
 duty to take her. Yes, it's my duty ! " but 
 the very persistency with which he said 
 it showed that he doubted it. " I thought 
 
 but act ner reauy, hiki ^ " i"v .'"" , , . ^ • i , .,,. 
 
 .ell- said Abel, so finnly and harshly I'd have courage at the last to give her up 
 .'Mrs. Battle was a little frightened. but this temptation's too great for me o 
 
 ..Oh! I'll do all I can to help you, for resist I can take her away out of the 
 that matter, but it's hard for me to lose the country, and he w. 1 never ^^^^^J^ 
 .,.d. I love 1^ like my own," and ^V^ 
 ^Mlt;:'rArBaUle,Iknowyou are It may be that Providence ordered this s. 
 
 fond of her," said Abel, softening :" but it 
 can't be helped ; there are very hard things 
 in life, and we have to endure them the 
 best way we can. It'll make no difference : 
 for, if 1 wasn't going away, we'd lose her all 
 the same ; her father would take her. It 
 was he who came the other night to tell me 
 
 so." 
 
 " I knew it was him, the villain. I was 
 a-peekin' out o' the parlor door, an' I knew 
 
 that i may keep her with me. Yes, I'll 
 take her. Wednesday night he'll come for 
 her, but he'll find her gone. The shij) will 
 sail in the morning : at night she'll be out 
 to sea, and he cannot ollow us. Then she 
 will be mine forever." 
 
 Suddenly he stopped in his hurried walk : 
 a dreadful pallor passed over his face ; and 
 he sank back in a chair like one who had 
 received a mortal blow ; for it seemed to 
 
 zz -, r:n;; ziz, ;„■ ,.. .» .... p»-, ^,-^ - - 
 
 a mind to tell Betty to slap the door to in 
 
 his face." 
 
 « You musn't feel that way, Mrs. Battle : 
 she's his child, and no one else has a right 
 to her : but I shall take her nevertheless, — 
 I can't give her up. However, we won't 
 
 and said distinctly, " Abel, give the child 
 to her father ; don't go to twistin' ropes o' 
 sand ; remember, they'll break, an' leave you 
 a wreck. Give the child to her father, and 
 trust in God for the future." Then all was 
 silent. He looked round wildly : the room 
 
 airanymore boutVt:getherr:ady,that's was empty ; but still he seemed to sec 
 laiKan; "'"" = . , . , ../•__.».•..„ .i,„ bin.l linmplv. wrinkled face. 
 
 all. My books I'll have packed to take 
 with me. The flowers you may have: 
 they'll make your room pretty for your new 
 lodger." 
 
 « Oh I don't speak of it, Mr. Winter : 1 11 
 
 before him the kind, homely, wrinkUid flice, 
 sublime with truth and justice, — he seemdl 
 to see it as it had looked upon him so many 
 times; and yet he knew that it had been 
 hidden under the sod for nine years. 
 
 mti t »i mt> 
 
L.,11 1 _JiB| l 'l' l lllLg" 
 
 70 
 
 ROPES OF SAND, 
 
 " Daddy, daddy I " ho criuil, " I hear you ; I 
 listen U> you ; I'll f;ive' lit i- to lior father ; 
 I'll leave the future to (^lod ; I'll do what's 
 right. Hear what I say, ami let it he rejjis- 
 tered in heaven ! " Then ho tottered to 
 the child's room ; and, throwin;^ himself on 
 the little hed by her side, he elasped luif 
 in his arms, as ho had onue before, to siiield 
 himself from the tempter, and j)rayed be- 
 tween his Bobs, asking God to help him. 
 At last calmness came, and with it sleep. 
 All througli the night ho slumbered peace- 
 fully, with tho child folded to his heart; 
 and, when ho awoke, tho morning sun shone 
 into tho room. Then, atVer bathing his 
 face, and arranging his disordered dross, ho 
 sat down, and wrote tho following : — 
 
 " Mr. Thorpe, — I've decided to give up 
 the child to you. To-morrow morning I sail 
 for America, never to return. Let mo siiy a 
 word to you that comes from my heart. I 
 love her ; she is dearer to me than my own 
 life ; yet I leave her because it seems to mo 
 to be right. She is naturally a good child : 
 if she turns out badly, I do not hesitate to 
 say that it will bo your fault. Think of her 
 mother's unhappy fate, and watch over her 
 as a choice treasure committed to your care 
 which I shall require from your hands, pure 
 and unstained, at the day of final judg- 
 ment. In giving her up, I give up all 
 that can make life endurable. Remember 
 that, and value my sacrifice according to 
 what it has cost me. I have but little to 
 give her, — in all, three hundred pounds, 
 the half of which is the fruit of years of 
 self-denial on the part of the good old man 
 who cared for her mother. The remainder 
 I have saved from my own wages. It is 
 not much ; but, if properly invested, it may 
 be of some use in educating her. Enclosed 
 you will find a draft for the amount on the 
 Bank of Engliind, payable to you. I give 
 you no advice in regard to it. I trust to 
 your lovo for your child, and the bitter les- 
 son taught you by your past experience. 
 Pet is young : she will soon forget me ; and 
 I wish it to be BO. I would not have her 
 sweit life marred with one regret. Let 
 
 tho thought of what it has cost me to give 
 her up induce you to bo faithful to her, 
 and I shall bo contented with my sacrifice. 
 "Abel Winter." 
 
 When he finished his letter to Rcjbert 
 Tliorpe, ho rang for Mrs. Battle, who 
 answered his summons with red eyes and a 
 dejected air. " You'll think me very uncer- 
 tain," ho said in a voice of ibrced resolu- 
 tion ; " but I've changed my mind in regard 
 to Pot: I've decided that it will not bo 
 right tor mo to take lier away from her fa- 
 ther. He will come lor her tivmorrow even- 
 ing, when you will give her to him with 
 this," and ho handed her tho letter he 
 had sealed and addressed. " Tonlay you 
 must pack, and get my things ready for me. 
 Tlio ship sails early to-morrow morning, 
 and I shall go on board to-nij^ht. Dun't 
 say any thing to Pet alwut my going away : 
 I don't want her little heart saddened. 
 Her father will tako her : she's already dis- 
 posed to love him. Among new sienos 
 she'll soon forget mo, and porhai)s it'll bo 
 better for her in tho end. I sha'n'c bo in 
 through the day ; put her to bed to-night, 
 and, after she's asleep, I'll come in and tako a 
 good-by kiss." Here Mrs. Battle covered 
 her face and sobbed aloud : tho anguish in 
 his voice affected her beyond control. 
 " Don't, my good woman, lor Heaven's sake, 
 don't weaken me with a sight of your tears I 
 for I need all my strength. I'm going out 
 directly before Pet wakes. You needn't 
 prepare any breakfast for me. Amuse tho 
 child, and bo very gentle with her. Hero's 
 your month's rent, and a little gift for you. 
 I wish it could bo more ; " and he pressed 
 a roll of notes in tho hand of the subdued 
 and weeping Mrs. Battle. Then he took 
 his hat and went out, never as much as 
 glancing in the direction of Pet's room. 
 
 About nine o'clock in the evening he 
 returned. Mrs. Battle always remembered 
 it as long as sho lived ; and she told Robert 
 Thorpe how he had crept up stairs tb take 
 a last look at the child, as weak as a dying 
 man, — so weak that ho was obliged to 
 cling to the railings for support; bow he 
 
 V I ' 
 
, nn! to j^ivo 
 iful to hur, 
 ly Huciifit'c. 
 
 VlNTEn." 
 
 r to Rijlx^rt 
 iliittlu, who 
 I oyt's and a 
 very uiicer- 
 rtied reaolu- 
 ntl ill rc;^anl 
 ■will not bo 
 from her fa- 
 iiorrow even- 
 to him with 
 he letter ho 
 To-diiy you 
 •eatly for mo. 
 ow morning, 
 ii;,'ht. Don't 
 going ivway : 
 rt saddened. 
 1 already dis- 
 new Hceues 
 rhajis it'll bo 
 sha'n't be iu 
 bed to-night, 
 \ in and take a 
 attle covered 
 lu anguish in 
 ond control, 
 leaven's sake, 
 of your tears 1 
 I'm going out 
 You needn't 
 . Amuse the 
 her. Here's 
 e gift for you. 
 id he pressed 
 f the subdued 
 Fhen ho took 
 r as much as 
 'et's room. 
 B evening he 
 's remembered 
 le told Robert 
 stairs tb take 
 jak as a dying 
 as obliged to 
 pport; bow he 
 
 \ I ' 
 
 ABEL'S BACRIFIOB. 
 
 71 
 
 bad come down pale as death, with wide, 
 tearless eyes that seemed to be looking 
 beyond this world ; how ho had wrung her 
 hands without speaking, and gone away 
 like one walking in his sleep. 
 
 The child slumbered peacefully. Perhaps 
 bcr guardian angel fanned her pure brow 
 with its soft wings ; for no dark shadow of 
 parting crept over her sweet, smiling face, 
 as Abel Winter knelt by her bed like a 
 statue of stone, his elbows resting on hei- 
 pillow, his hands pressed against his tem- 
 ples, his wide, tearless eyes devouring ".ler 
 face. How long he knelt there he never 
 knew J for he seemed to have changed into 
 a being capable only of one sense, and that, 
 intense suffering. He had sunk below the 
 region of tears, or risen to a sublimity of 
 grief that could find no expression in out- 
 ward emotion. At last, the clear, musical 
 chime of Bow Bells struck upon his ear, 
 and recalled him to himself. It seemed 
 like a summons to his martyrdom. With 
 
 one heroic effort he struggled to his feet, 
 clasped the sleeping child in a long, fren- 
 zied embrace, pressed kiss after kiss u|ion 
 brow, lip, and cheek ; and then, laying her 
 back half awake on her pillow, without 
 another glance, ho rushed from the room, 
 leaving her to sink back into peaceful 
 slumber. 
 
 The next morning, in the early dawn, 
 the ship sailed away. Tlie rising sun 
 gilded her full sails ; and, like a joyous bird 
 that spreads its wings toward heaven, she 
 went out into the great unknown, bearing 
 with her, her freight of human happiness 
 and woo. She sailed away ; and, alas 1 no 
 eager, watchful eye ever greeted her return. 
 She sailed away, and the world knew noth- 
 ing more of her fate. 
 
 Top and Violet sleep side by side in 
 Kensal Green, but only the ocean with its 
 ceaseless sobbing was wide enough to en- 
 tomb the great heart of Abel Winter. 
 
 ■'-.WjSsWPS" 
 
 g r i i iiimfnif'T''''"'''''-- "'"•''' '""""" ' """""" 
 
TT" 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 X ■ ' 
 
^ ■ ' 
 
 A WOMAN'S STORY. 
 
 "Ton louventr eit toiijoura Ik, 
 O tol qui no peux plui m'cntendre I " 
 
 My poor lliioul, whi-n ho furnished this 
 pretty npartinent in the Avenue Montaigni-, 
 did not tliink that I should one day sit 
 alone at tlio writing-table he bought for me, 
 sad and desolate, dressed in widow's weeds, 
 striving to find some di-traction in making 
 this llUle sketch; though for wlw-.o eyes 
 besides my own I cannot tell, since the 
 only eyes I should care to read it have 
 been closed for nearly two years. I 
 
 It was a long while belbro wo could 
 marry. Raoul was «oiM-lieutenant in the 
 Garde Nalionale ; an<l I, the orphan of a 
 poor physician, had not a relative in the 
 world besides an uncle, who was both father 
 and guardian to me. I had only a slender 
 dot, and Rioul had nothing but his small 
 pay. Therefore, although we loved caclf 
 other devotedly, it was thought best by 
 older and wiser heads than ours, that we 
 should not unite our lives until something 
 had been put aside toward beginning our 
 little menage. 
 
 We were both young and ardent, and at 
 first it seemed hard to comply with those 
 practical restrictions to ofar happiness. 
 However, time went on. Raoul was almost 
 alvays absent with his regiment in some of 
 the provincial towns, while I passed my 
 dull days in the peaceful house of my 
 uncle, situated in the pretty suburbs of 
 Passy. It is true that there were a few 
 gala days to brighten my seven years of 
 waiting ; and these were when my hand- 
 some soldier obtained leave of absence to 
 
 pass a week in Paris, or, perhaps, I should 
 say, In Passy ; for ho spent the moat of Ins 
 time with us, ami a happy time it was. My 
 uncle was very fond of ILioul ; and I was 
 so much like a daughter to him, that 1 .lon't 
 belicvo the dear old .gentleman ever 
 thought that he was a bachelor and child- 
 less. Gentle heart ! he had had lii." romance 
 belbro 1 was born ; and there was nothing 
 Icll of it but a grave in the cemetery of 
 Montmartro, with the name, " Silvio, aged 
 18," cut upon a simple stone. From my 
 earliest childh.xwl, the first day of every 
 June I went with him to cover the spot . 
 with roses, and I might say witli tears 
 also ; for I always cried with him to see him 
 sobbing over her grave. 
 
 As I was saying, ho liked to see us 
 happy ; for ho remembcrc<l how death had 
 robbed him of his future, and, therefore, 
 he trusted only the present. Looking back 
 to-night, frdm ray desolate heart, from my 
 silent room, those sweet days that cheered 
 my seven years of waiting seem like a ten- 
 der, pcacciul dream of childhood. Though 
 often dull, I was never unhappy, while pre- 
 paring mv simple trounseau with my own 
 hands", and attending to the uninteresting 
 affairs of our household. At last the day 
 camo when my soldier rushed into our little 
 salon with glowing cheeks, happy and 
 handsome, and, throwing into my lap his 
 papers of promotion, ho cried in a glad 
 voice, " Now, ma che'rie, I am captain ; and 
 wo can marry." A few days after, that 
 long-looked-for event was qinetly solem- 
 nized. Wo passed a very happy week to- 
 gether; then Raoul went back to Lyons to 
 
 V 
 
 1 
 
 nt^nRwatMMmMMHMi 
 
74 
 
 A WOMAN'S BTOBY. 
 
 
 ( 
 
 join liiri rt'^'linont, nml I ri>mi»lncil Htlll with 
 my iiiH'lf, only wi-iiv^ i»y liiMlmn'l imtji- 
 ■lonally, whldi wan c'lTtiiinly it ({roat trial 
 to nil'; lint t'nr rn;iny ri-aHoiin lin conlil ruti 
 P't I'xcliiiM^'cd to I'arin; niicl my uncif 
 llioii;;lit it l)oiit tliiit I hhoiild remain wiili 
 liini until Il'ioiil vtix* |H'rnianfntly Ht'ltlcij 
 HOMicwIicri'. So outwnrilly llit-ro was vi-ry 
 litilii iliU'crunfii in my lil'o, cxtM-pt tliat. I 
 wiiM calliMl " niailanif," and itoinctinii!!* went 
 uiit williont onr maid. 
 
 Oni' niorniii'.'i niori! than two yearn after 
 our marria'^e, Atar^ot, onr maid, rnsthed into 
 my room, cryin;^, " Momtieiir Henri Id 
 (leiwl I " 
 
 I followed her into tho nalnn ; and there, 
 just as I had lell him tho iiiij;ht hefore, »at 
 my dear nncle, hi.s head leaning a^ainHt 
 tho liaek of his chair, a smilo of jrroat con- 
 tentment on his face, and liis thin cold 
 finders ela«<])ini? a lo<!k of brown hair. 
 Yes, lu! was dead, llaoul came, and we 
 hurled him hy Silvit;, and put up another 
 »tono, with tho name. ' Henri, njjed 00,' in- 
 leribed nimn it. Ki^hleun nnd sixty I 
 AViiat a ehn!<m of years l)otweon to bridj^e 
 over with tears and si;;h» t 
 
 After my uncle's chsath, I was so misera- 
 ble that llaoul would not leavo mo, with 
 only Mar;{ot, in tho dull houso in Passy. 
 \\\i was then cxpectin;; to be exchan<TC'd 
 to Paris at once ; and as his pay, with what 
 my uncle left; rac, fully authorized a little 
 cxpondituro beyond our usual economical 
 way of living, be hired this apartment 
 where I am now writing, and arrangeil it 
 quite elegantly, by adding a few luxuries 
 to the neat furniture which had been famil- 
 iar to me from childhood, and which I 
 loved too well to change for newer. 
 
 I have passed the same number of j'cars 
 since my marriage that I pa88e<l in waiting 
 for my Raoul, — seven years ; and I now am 
 thirty-two, and wearing widow's weeds, 
 with God only knows how many more 
 years to wait before I shall be united to 
 him again. Those seven years wore very 
 long when I had hope to uphold me ; now 
 what am I to do with, perhaps, six times 
 that number to live, and nothing to look 
 
 forwanl to? But should I say nnthintjf 
 1 am ungratufid and sinful to speak so 
 vaguely of the future. Altlioii'.;h I have 
 not always Iteen as giMxl and ])atient ai 
 one should Iw, yet I am sure I shall see my 
 darling again, — only the sorrow ii in tho 
 long waiting. 
 
 You all know of tho dark days that full 
 u[)on us, during which a nation was 
 drenched in blood and tears, and beaten 
 |)ittless into the very mire ; but, thank (Sod I 
 she is rising up again, and shaking oil' tho 
 stain of lior defeat. My France, cleansed 
 with Iier own blood, is still a nation for tho 
 world to envy ; ancl I am proud to havd 
 given my all toward the cleansing. 
 
 llaoul was in Lyons with his regiment 
 when the trouble began ; and, fearing I 
 should bo anxious, he came to me for a 
 hasty visit. In the evening wo had a few 
 friends, as we always did when he came 
 home ; and some one sang the Marseillaiiie. 
 My woman's lieart was faint with fear for 
 him. With eyes full of tears, and my 
 hands cold and trembling, 1 drew him into 
 our bedroom, and said, while my soul was 
 shrinking with shame, " llaoul, mon ami, 
 give up your commission before war is de< 
 clarod. You must not go to fight, and die 
 away from me 1 I have no courage to beur 
 it." 
 
 " Lache I " he cried sternly, putting my 
 clinging bands from his neck, while be 
 looked at me with dry, burning eyes. " You I 
 a soldier's wife I You I a Frenchwoman I 
 Quelle honte I" 
 
 " Pardon, pardon," I implored, falling 
 on my knees at bis feet, for in that moment 
 I adored him as I never bad before. He 
 seemed to me a king, and I a disgraced 
 subject, a traitor to my country. " Go, mon 
 dme, go ; and if you die for France, I shall 
 rejoice in my widowhood, even though my 
 heart breaks." Then I pressed my lips 
 to his feet, and wet them with my tears. 
 He raised me gently, and hold me close to 
 his heart, kissing my eyes, and whispering, 
 " I shall go; I shall 6ght like a man ; and, if 
 I die for my conntry, I shall die like a sol- 
 dier. Have no fear for me, cherie, think 
 
miy nothlnfjf 
 
 to Kjll'ltk (0 
 
 Iii>ii.;1i I hiivo 
 )(1 piiticnt M 
 I hIiiiII Hfo my 
 TdW in ill tho 
 
 Inyn that full 
 nut ion w»R 
 •«, iiml lu-aten 
 
 t, tilllllk (iiMll 
 
 iiikin;^ olV tho 
 
 iiKH', eli'uniuHl 
 
 iiiilion tiir tho 
 
 proiiil to have 
 
 lllHill;^. 
 
 h liii* ro'^imont 
 nmt, renrin<; I 
 iii to mu for a 
 { wo hiid a fow 
 whtm ho came 
 ho Mar8c-iliui!<o. 
 nt with fi-ar for 
 tears, ami my 
 I (Irvw him into 
 ilo my soul wai 
 iiuiul, mon ami, 
 Kiforo war i» do- 
 to fijjht, and die 
 ) courage to bear 
 
 rnly, putting my 
 
 neck, while he 
 
 jingcyes. "You I 
 
 i Frenchwoman! 
 
 implored, falling 
 r in that moment 
 had before. He 
 id I a disgri^ced 
 intry. " Go, mon 
 or France, I Bhall 
 
 even though my 
 
 pressed my lips 
 m with my tears. 
 
 hold me close to 
 !, and whispering, 
 ike a man; and,if 
 all die like a sol- 
 
 me, cherie, think 
 
 A WOMAN'S BTORY. 
 
 Ti 
 
 only of oiir Frnnci', nrnl pray for Iiit a* 
 woiiit-n pray who luvo honor nioru than 
 Ilfo." 
 
 It win I'liiiii'jli. I liiul inivli' my nacrlfirc. 
 I wipcil iiwity my tcarx, and followod my 
 husband into the nalnn whcru tlicy still 
 sail';. TIhti', for tlio firxt time, I Joincil 
 ill I lid Miirsi'iliairu with a clour voico ami n 
 stron'^ heart. But do you siipposio I nuvcr 
 rc;;rct? Ah, la, /A / I am a woman; ami 
 tiicrc arc times when I ijn not iico France 
 for wccpiiv^. Ni;;lits when I turn on my 
 pillow, and put out my h iml for a warm 
 fiicc! that iiKcd to lie close to iiiiiic, and, 
 inslcad, I cecin to touch a cold, wia wound, 
 and I sliiidder and think that I, too, am 
 drenched with his blood ; ami I am alone, 
 niid the ni'^lit U no ctill and dark I () (iod. 
 how drcaiy, with no liiiman heart to weep 
 upon 1 Then I wi>h — but perhaps I 
 should not say it — that my R.ioul had 
 been any thin;? rather than a HoMier, ami 
 that France had not needed his life. Well, 
 ns I said before, our nation has Inu-n puri- 
 fied with her own bloo 1 ; and .xlioiilil I feel 
 BO proml to-day of my country if I had 
 escHfied the criinHon biptlini '!" 
 
 Tho next nioriiiii;^ Raoiil bade nio a 
 tender but hurried au rcvoir ; he did not 
 think it was adieu no more than I ; nor did 
 the faintest furebodin<; tell ine that I had 
 seen him for the last time, as I watched liiiii 
 turn from my 8i;;ht into the Cours-la-Ilcinc, 
 with his (piick, soldierly stop, and tall, up- 
 right figure. I could not see his face ; yet 
 sometimes I think that perhaps it was wet 
 with tears, and dark with the shallow of com- 
 ing sorrow, for I remember how ho told me 
 once that ho never wept until ho was out 
 of my siijlit. Poor darling I we had to part 
 so often during the few years of our mar- 
 ried life, that ho began to look upon it as a 
 part of his lot, and seldom ever complained ; 
 still, I know that his lieart ached each time 
 as much as mine did. Although my eyes 
 were full of te'ars as I turned from watching 
 him, still I had no premonition that he had 
 gone from my sight forever. I did not 
 know that his regiment would be ordered 
 to the frontier in a few days, and that I 
 
 sliiiiild hoar nntlilmx of It until aOcr lie Ii:id 
 '.;oiie. I may be wron.;; but I like to think 
 that perhaps (iod in lii.^ pity ordered it so, 
 to i<[iare us the pain of parting'. 
 
 I did not bei;iii tills simplu story with 
 the intention of telling you only of my own 
 troubles ; but iinknowiiii;ly one iicioii'ilcal, 
 and it is ho naturit.1, when one ol>i«>ct (ills 
 the memory, to i<peak €>f «hi»», ratlicr than 
 annilu'r. Althuinyh ' i,ave been •>• iifrii ken, 
 and although (»rav5-loffe aad S ilan are 
 burned ii[K)n my lu.-'^rv and briiim, iMid I 
 am haunted ''.rxv.'r with a Imrriiti red 
 wound acrosN the wl>ito torchi'iiml oif' iiiy 
 Raoill, and a wider, redder won I ■ i tlio 
 earth, where lie was thrown wiik _.iit Ireils 
 of others, yet with it a.11 rheire coiuos 
 before iiio tho beaiitifiiil luir« of omn il loved 
 like a sister, and ivitli it ammiier face, 
 darker and more brilliant, that I ^imetimes 
 wish I had never seen; not tliii I loved it 
 less than hers, not because df my own 
 regrets, but tor her dear sake who was 
 hidden away from my sight only yesterday. 
 
 I did think that my own history, unevent- 
 ful though it had been until tlut last few > 
 years, would have lengthened out to a 
 number of pages ; but now it seems to mo 
 that I have told it all in these very few, 
 and that I must introduce my other char- 
 acters at once to make any thing of a 
 story. Certainly, any one will know that, 
 though tho greater p.irt of my life was 
 passed in dull tran(|uillity, the last few years 
 must liave been tragic and stormy enough, 
 and that I might fill almost volumes by 
 describing minutely my own feelings ; but, 
 if I should do so, the pa|>or on which I 
 write would be so wet with tears as to 
 make the characters entirely illegible. 
 Therefore I prefer to speak as little as pos- 
 sible of myself, while I tell, as intelligently 
 as I am able to do, something of the 
 romance of Aglad Thevdnot's life. Indeed 
 I could not write more particularly of tho 
 dreadful scenes through which I have 
 passed, of my bereavement, of the misery 
 which fell ujion our country, without speak- 
 ing of her, so closely has she been inter- 
 woven with it alL 
 
76 
 
 A WOMAK'S S- ORY. 
 
 'i f: 
 
 i\ 
 
 On the very day when Raoul brought 
 me to look at my new apartment, as we 
 ascended the stairs slowly, — for it sfcmed 
 very hiij;h to me after our cottage in Passy, 
 — the door of the entresol opened, and a 
 lady came out, followed by her servant. 
 Her lovely, intelligent face, and sweet 
 smile, interested us both ; and, as soon as we 
 were well out of hearing, we said in the 
 same breath, " I wonder who she is." A 
 few days after we were established, Margot 
 informed me that the lady, with an aged 
 aunt, occupied the entresol, and that she 
 was called Madame Aglae Tiicvenot. So 
 much for Margot's ability in discovering 
 who our neighbors were. After that, we 
 met often on the stairs, going in and out ; 
 and her graceful salutation was always 
 returned by me with one as cordial as her 
 own. Gradually we fell into speaking ; 
 and one day, feeling emboldened by her 
 kindness, I asked her if I might come ; nd 
 make her a little visit sans ceremonie. She 
 seemed delighted with my jiroposal, and 
 told me with the nioft winning smile, that; 
 as I was the elder, she had been waiting 
 for me to make the first advances toward a 
 friendship. It is true I was her senior, but 
 not by iis many years as she thought ; for 
 she was twenty -six she told me, and I was 
 not then thirty : yet I am so serious and 
 plain, that I appear much older than I am. 
 AVhen Raoul came home at the end of 
 the month, he found us fast friends ; and 
 he soon learned to like her as much as 
 I did. During that time, we had had many 
 confidential talks; and I had learned from 
 her that she was an orphan, as well as my- 
 self. Oh 1 how I pitied her when she added, 
 " And a widow 1 " She noticed my naive 
 expression of Eorrow, and said with a 'ittle, 
 sad laugh, " Why, my dear, you should con- 
 gratulate me ; for my four years of married 
 life were the saddest yea's I have 'ever 
 known. I was married at seventeen, and 
 my husband was more than sixty." 
 
 " Then you did not love him ? " I asked, 
 with a feeling of trouble that I could not 
 conceal. 
 '• Oh, no 1 not in the least. I never saw 
 
 him but three times before the day of our 
 marriage. Aunt arranged it while I was in 
 school. You see I bad no dot; and so I 
 could not expect to marry for love. IIo 
 was rich, and it was thought to be a very 
 fortunate thing for me ; but the worst of all 
 was, that he was not kind to me. He was 
 as jealous and as cruel as a Turk ; and so 
 miserly, he never allowed uie a son that I 
 did not account to him for. I can lau;;h 
 even now at the ridiculous rage he went 
 into when I once spent a franc for 'vn-bons. 
 I don't think our personal nnnoyant 's and 
 disappointments are the worst features in 
 our system of marriage. What I despise 
 most are the deception and sin which iire 
 so often hidden under a form of duty. Per- 
 haps, had I been of a difierent character, I 
 might have consoled my aching heart as 
 other poor women have done; but, as it 
 was, I struggled tl^ough with no serious self- 
 condemnation. However, it was a great 
 relief when he died. I received with the ut- 
 most propriety the condolence of my Irienils, 
 wore widow's weeds the prescribed time, 
 and erected a handsome monument to his 
 memory in Pere-la-Chauie. What more 
 could I do ? A few months ago I laid 
 aside my mourning with a feeling of free- 
 dom I never before experienced. There- 
 fore I am not at all a subject for your gentle 
 pity, although I have had my disappoint- 
 ment." 
 
 " But you are young, lovely, and rich," I 
 said, still feeling very sorry for her : " you 
 can now make a marriage of affection." 
 
 " Oh, no I " and she sighed sadly. " I 
 must always remain his widow : his jealousy 
 and avarice fetter me to hiu: yven now. 
 He left his fortune in such a way, that, if I 
 marry again, it will all go to a distant rela- 
 tive, whom he always hated and neglected ; 
 but, as much as he disliked him, he would 
 rather he should have it, than that I should 
 be happy with another after his death. 
 What a contemptible character he had 1 I 
 dislike even to speak of him. But don't 
 think that I am dissatisfied with my present 
 condition, or ever wish to marry again. Oh, 
 no I I have never yet seen the man for 
 
 i 
 
 Ix. 
 
A WOMAN'S 8T0EY. 
 
 77 
 
 le (lay of our 
 while I was in 
 'ut ; and so I 
 'or love. IIo 
 
 to be a very 
 he worst of all 
 
 inc. He was 
 Turk ; an'l so 
 
 a son that I 
 
 I can luu;4h 
 
 rage he weui. 
 nc for !'on-bons. 
 nnoyant>'s and 
 rst features in 
 Hiat I di-spisd 
 
 sin which j'.re 
 I of duty. Per- 
 ■nt character, I 
 L'hing heart as 
 sne; but, as it 
 J no serious self- 
 t was a great 
 ived willi the ut- 
 je of my friends, 
 )rescribed time, 
 lonumcnt to his 
 !. What more 
 [iths ago I laid 
 
 feeling of free- 
 •ienced. Therc- 
 ct for your gentle 
 . my disappoint- 
 
 ely, and rich," I 
 •y for her : " you 
 of affection." 
 ghed sadly. "I 
 (low : his jealousy 
 
 bin: uvcn now. 
 
 a way, that, if I 
 to a distant rela- 
 id and neglected ; 
 id him, lie would 
 than that I should 
 
 after bis death, 
 •acter he hadl I 
 
 him. But don't 
 id with my present 
 marry again. Oh, 
 een the man ibr 
 
 whom I would resign my dearly-bought I 
 freedom." 
 
 " lie is in the world, and he will come," 
 I said wiih a strong conviction. "I have 
 aljyays believed that there is some one cre- 
 ated for every person, if they are only so 
 fortunato as to meet; and it is not at all 
 impossible to find the right one, since I 
 with my few attractions secured such a 
 prize as Raoul." 
 
 She laughed, and replied, " I am so fas- 
 tidious, that any one in the least inferior to 
 him would not suit me ; and he is so excel- 
 lent that I am sure I shall never find his 
 like." 
 
 It was early in the month of June, two 
 years after we went to live in the Avenue 
 Montaigne. I remember the time perfectly, 
 because it was the eve of Raoul's /ete, and 
 he had come to pass it with mc, as he always 
 did before and after our mariiage. The 
 weather was very warm for the season, and 
 after dinner Aglae ami I sat on the balcony. 
 The windows were all open, and the salon 
 was full of flowers ; our Iriends had brought 
 a great many ; and the others Aglae had se- 
 lected that morning at the Madeleine, and 
 arranged with such skill that the room 
 looked like a bower of roses. I thought it 
 all very pretty, and I was so happy because 
 it was done for Kaoul : but, as much as I 
 admired the flowerp, I admired Aglad still 
 more; she looked unusually lovely, ui a 
 soft, while dress, a cluster of scarlet ceillet 
 mixed with reseda (listening the broad col- 
 lar that turned gracefully away from her 
 throat, llaoul had gone to invite a brother 
 officer to dinner with us the next day ; and 
 we two chatt'"' alone until the soft twilight 
 giithcred around us, and the music from the 
 Champs-Flyse'es sounded clear and sweet, 
 mingled with the voices of the passers. 
 Murgot was bringing in the lamps, and the 
 salon door was open. I turned, and saw 
 Raoul entering with a gentleman whom I had 
 never seen before. Somewhat surprised, I 
 came in from the balcony, followed by 
 Aglae; and my husb;;nd ])resciited " M. 
 lihadi Effendi, attache prh I'amhassadcur 
 de Turquie." 1 was very much impressed 
 
 with the foreign title, as well as with the 
 appearance of the young man who stood 
 before us, bowing low in the Oriental fash- 
 son, all eyes and teeth, as I said afterward. 
 I had never seen such a brilliant face as his ; 
 its beauty quite startled me. Ikfore he 
 had well finished his salutation to me, his 
 s])lcndid d.irk eyes fell upon Aglae with a 
 look of unmistakable admiration, llaoul 
 then presented liim to our friend ; and I 
 livncicd a flush passed over his clear olive 
 cheek as he turned toward her. 
 
 " Is it possible," I whispered to my hus- 
 band, while our visitor was talking with 
 Aglae on the balcony, — " is it possible 
 that he is the Turk of whom I have heard 
 you speak,— tile one who watched poor Vic- 
 tor through his last illness ? Victor was a 
 cousin who had died of a malignant iiver 
 that spring ; and I had often heard R loul 
 speak of this young man's devotion to him 
 during his dreadful sickness, 
 
 " The very same," rci)lied my husband, 
 while he assisted me with the tea to drown 
 ourconversation.which otherwise might have 
 been heard on the balcony ; and don't yon 
 think him very elegant, as well as remark- 
 ably handsome ? As I was walking up the 
 Champs-Elyscea \vi was walking down : wo 
 stopped to speak a mcmcnt, when he re- 
 minded me of a promise thut I had made 
 him to introduce him to you; so I brought 
 him up. Invite him for dinner to-morrow, 
 
 cherie." 
 
 I gave M. Rhadi a cup of tea with my 
 own hands. He took it, thanking me very 
 prettily; and while he gii)ped it. talking 
 gayly at the same time, in excellent French, 
 to Aglae, i studied him a little. He v.'as 
 considerably above the inediiiin htight; 
 slight, with well-shaped, mus..'ular limbs, 
 small feet, and slender, nervous hands ; his 
 shoulders were scjuare, and rather broad ; 
 his neck and head finely shaped ; his beau- 
 tiful dark eyes looked out steadily and 
 frankly from under a pair of heavy brows ; 
 his skin was of a pale, clear olive; and his 
 ' mouth, perfect in form, smiled as sweetly as 
 a woman's, with a little expression of bash- 
 
 fulness that was very winning. 1 am aware 
 

 
 iit 
 
 78 
 
 A woman's story. 
 
 
 .» r 
 
 A }> 
 
 f i'l 
 
 i 
 
 that this Imperfect description can give you 
 but a feeble idea of his brilliant and strik- 
 ing beauty ; still it is the best I can do, as 
 I never had any gift for word-painting, and 
 the most expressive terms I can use seem 
 pale and poor when I think of him as I first 
 saw him ; therefore I will leave it to your 
 imagination to fill out the faint outline I 
 have given you. The more I studied hiin, 
 the more I wondered that he could be a 
 Turk ; and the old saying, '■ Cruel as a Turk," 
 the same that Aglac had used in speaking 
 of her husband, came into my mind. " He 
 does not look cruel," I thought ; " and yet 
 I should scarcely like to see him angry." I 
 glanced at Aglad. She was lovely : some 
 new emotion beautified her. What if she 
 should learn to love himY The possibility 
 filled me with forebodings of sorrow ; and I 
 pressed llaoul's hand with such a strong 
 clasp that he looked at me inquiringly. 
 Perhaps if I had told him of my fears then, 
 that which happened afterward raiglit have 
 been prevented ; for I am sure, if we could 
 have looked into the future, we never would 
 have encouraged an acquaintance by asking 
 him to dine with us the next day. 
 
 After tea the conversation became gen- 
 eral ; and some remark led M. llhadi to 
 speak of himself. " I am a Persian," he said ; 
 " or, rather, I was born in Persia, of Turkish 
 parents. When I was a child, my father, 
 through the force of events, became an 
 officer under the Sultan ; and I was edu- 
 cated a Mahominedan, or a^ nearly as one 
 can be who believes in God, and does not 
 believe that Mahomet was his prophet." 
 
 " Tlien you are a Christian?" said Aglad 
 with sudden interest. 
 
 " I profess no creed, madame," he replied 
 with a low bow. " I worship God ; I wor- 
 ship the sun, the moon, and the stars, and 
 all that he has made beautiful." 
 
 While he s]>oke, his face was so brilliant 
 with animation and intelligence, that one 
 given to fine language would describe him 
 as an Eastern Apollo, a child of the sun, a 
 passionate Persian, overflowing with the 
 romance and poetry of the Orient. To me, 
 simple as my f'uncies are, he seemed like a 
 
 I irince who had stepped for a moment out 
 of some Arabian tale into the homely real- 
 ity of our every-day life. 
 
 After he had gone, Aglad remained silent 
 for some time, apparently lost in thought, 
 while Riioul and I watched her with inter- 
 est. Suddenly she started from her reverie, 
 and said with some confusion, " A Turk ! 
 ' Cruel as a Turk ' cannot apply to al! Turks ; 
 for he does not look cruel, <loes he i " 
 
 " Not at all," replied Rtioul, smiling. 
 " What an idea to associate with hiin ! " I 
 know he was thinking of poor Victor when 
 he added," I iim sure he has a kind heart." 
 
 " One would think so," she said absent- 
 ly, as Raoul opened the door for her to go 
 down ; for it was late. Then, as she went 
 out, she looked back, smiled, and kissed her 
 hand to me, but without saying a word ; 
 which was strange, seeing she had been so 
 animated all the evening. 
 
 My husband laughed, and said, " She is 
 pleased with Rhadi, iind he is pleased with 
 her. It is easy to see how that will end." 
 
 I did not like him to speak so lightly, for 
 something told me that there was a fatality 
 in their meeting. Although I have been 
 much ridiculed by sensible people, I still 
 believe with the jioet in — 
 
 " A illvlnlty that Bhapco our cnd«, 
 Bough'bcw them how wo wlU." 
 
 and now, knowing their sad fate, I am more 
 than ever impressed with the belief that 
 some influence other than that of ordinary 
 events brought about the meeting between 
 Rliadi EfTendi and Aglae Thcvenot. 
 
 The next day our guests were all wait- 
 ing in the salon some time before A ;lae 
 camo up. She was late: whether Tom 
 capriciousness, or whether from t-.king 
 more tiiiin ordinary pains with her toilet, I 
 do not know ; however, it was past the time 
 announced for dinner, and I noticed that 
 M. Rhadi's eyes sought the door anxiously, 
 while a shadow of disappointment passed 
 over his expressive face. At last, when 
 even I, as much as I loved her, had grown 
 impatient at the delay, she entered the 
 salon as indifferently as though she had 
 
 iimm'. ' ^ Hyig« i ! e ^-j<tivJ . a jw n w. ': ■' rm*v 
 
moment out 
 le homely real- 
 
 emnint-d silent 
 St in tliouglit, 
 ler with iriter- 
 11) her reverie, 
 on, " A Turk ! 
 ly to al! Turks; 
 es lie •? " 
 loul, smiling. 
 
 Iwith him I " I 
 r Victor when 
 a kind heart." 
 u siiiil ab.senN 
 
 r for her to go 
 
 in, as she went 
 and kissed her 
 
 aying a wonl ; 
 
 le had been so 
 
 said, " She is 
 is pleased with 
 that will end." 
 ik so lightly, for 
 re was a fatality 
 ;h I have been 
 3 people, I still 
 
 t our ends, 
 we wiU." 
 
 fate, I am more 
 
 the belief that 
 
 that of ordinary 
 
 leeting between 
 
 lievenot. 
 
 were all wait- 
 
 e before i\ ;lae 
 
 whether 'roin 
 
 r from t .king 
 
 'ith her toilet, I 
 
 as past the time 
 
 I noticed that 
 
 door .inxiously, 
 
 •intment passed 
 
 At last, when 
 
 her, had grown 
 
 he entered the 
 
 bough she had 
 
 A woman's story. 
 
 79 
 
 been the first to arrive instead of the last. 
 She looked exceedingly pretty, but a little 
 paler and graver tlian usual. M. Rhadi 
 saluted her with a profound reverence, 
 while his face changed as suddenly as does 
 a dark cloud when a ray of sunlight (lashes 
 upon it. She bowed to him a little coldly, 
 but greeted our other guests with more 
 than usual effusion. His expression of 
 delight turned instantly to one of chagrin ; 
 and, drawing haughtily back, he looked out 
 of the window in moody silence. I, seeing 
 that he was annoyed, and wishing all my 
 guests to be at ease, very injudiciously 
 asked him to take Madame Thdvcnot in to 
 dinner. He did so, and they certainly 
 seemed veiy well satisfied with the ar- 
 rangement; for they laugbed and talked 
 with the freedom of two happy children. 
 I think it was a pleasant dinner to all ex- 
 cepting myself; for there was one little 
 incident that marred my enjoyment, — so 
 little, that perhaps I should not mention it. 
 Bha<li EiTendl had filled a very delicate 
 Venetian glass, and was raising it, with a 
 compliment (or Aglac upon his lips, when 
 suddenly it fell (i-om his fingers, and shiv- 
 ered to atoms on his plate, spattering the 
 wine right and left. His hands, as well as 
 R loul's, who sat next to him, were covered ; 
 and it looked like blood. There was some- 
 thing disagreeable in the sight ; and I fairly 
 turned cold when I saw a large splash 
 crimson Aglae's white dress just over her 
 heart. I suppose we were all too polite to 
 show any confusion. M. Rhadi excused 
 himself gracefully, while he wiped the wine 
 from Aglae's dress with his own handker- 
 chief. Jean removed the plates, and served 
 the next course as though nothing had hap- 
 pened ; but I, — I could not keep my eyes 
 off the red stain on Aglae's dress. Besides, 
 I felt very sorry for the loss of my glass, 
 which had belonged to my dear uncle ; and, 
 it being the only Venetian glass I owned, 
 I had placed it for M. Rhadi, as he was 
 our most di!<tinguished guest. 
 
 We took our coffee in the salon: the 
 evening was very warm again, and the win- 
 dows were open. Our guests were all 
 
 friends of long- standini? except M. Rhadi 
 and Aglac. Some attraction seeincd to draw 
 them together, away from the others ; and 
 they stood side by sidi' on the balcony, en- 
 gaged in earnest conversation. I wish I 
 were a jioet, or an artist, so that I could de- 
 scribe them as they appeared to iiie at that 
 moment. I am sure 1 have never seen any 
 thing more lovely in art; but why should 
 IV for is not nature always more beautiful 
 than art 'I Tlie dark trees in the Cluimps- 
 Elysees, the clear sky, and the full iii<K)n, 
 made a very pretty background for the 
 white figure of Aglae, who stood with her 
 face turned towards us : as she leaned 
 against the railing of the balcony, her fin- 
 gers were idling with the leaves of an 
 exquisite rose that had adorned the button- 
 hole of M. Rliadi's coat a few moments 
 before. Her eyes were cast down, until the 
 long lashes ahnost rested on her slightly 
 flushed cheeks, while a smile that spoke 
 elofjuently of entire contentment played 
 around her mouth, and sol'teneil her face 
 into almost childish beauty. Her compan- 
 ion leaned over her, a itriking contrast to 
 her fairness, — graceful, persuasive, ele- 
 gant : his splendid eyes seemed to devour 
 her face. 
 
 " What if they should love one another? " 
 I whispered to Raoul. 
 
 " How can they help it ? " he rej)lied, I 
 hoped he would say something more, for I 
 was full of uneasiness ; but just at that mo- 
 ment Madame Aubert began to sing, and 
 of course we were silent. 
 
 That happy evening came to an end, as 
 all happy evenings must. I often wonder 
 why time seems so much shorter when we 
 are happy. Without doubt hap;iiuess is 
 only an emotion, the same as is s( . row ; 
 and I cannot understand why one should 
 make the hours fly, and the other make them 
 drag. 1 am no philosopher, neither am I 
 the least clever in finding out reasons for 
 things; yet I have thought much on this 
 subject, and have come to a conclusion, 
 which, after all, may not be the right one, — 
 that sorrow is only selfishness ; that, while 
 we are unhappy, we are thinking of 
 
80 
 
 A woman's story. 
 
 ourRulvcc ; and that while \re arc hapi>y, 
 wc arc thinkin;j; of some one, else Aglad 
 did not know she had hetraycd her 
 sceret, nor (.'onfirmt'd mo in my sim- 
 ple theory, when she sail.' afterward, " I 
 never knew so .^^hort and so hap|iy an even- 
 ing in all n)y life before." ]t was as 
 thou;j;h she had said, " I tiioii;;ht only of 
 M. Rliadi, and never of myself." Poor 
 eliild ! it was the beginning of a happiness 
 that she had better never have known. 
 
 Well, to go on with ray story : from that 
 day, Rhadi ElTcndi became an almost 
 constant visitor ; and, as Aglae was with 
 mo a great deal, she saw him very often. 
 I believe I have not mentioned before, that 
 her aunt, on aeeount of a lameness, never 
 left her room : therefore the poor girl was 
 very much confined, not having an older 
 person to go out with her. 1 call her a girl ; 
 for she still seemeil so young, although she 
 had made that marriage, which I, with my 
 old-fashioned notions, could never think 
 any thing but unfortunate. You eannot 
 wonder, then, that my cheerful salon, and 
 the eharining society of Ilhadi EfTendi, was 
 a most welcome distraction to her, when 
 she had so little to amuse her : not because 
 she could not receive in her own home ; for 
 being rich and young, as well as handsome, 
 she could have furroundcd herself with 
 visitors, which would have been quite nat- 
 ural under the circumstances. Still, she 
 often told me that she did not like 
 general society ; and that she did not en- 
 courage attention, because she did not wish 
 for it. In that respect, she had a superior 
 characti'r, tor, although she was so lovely, 
 she was not in the least coquettish ; and for 
 that reason, I was certain that her evident 
 liking i(jr Rhadi EfTendi was not a mere 
 capricious fancy. Week after week passed 
 away, until I began to count by months 
 the time since their first meeting ; and yet 
 a word had never been said by either ex- 
 planatory of their true feelings; still I saw, 
 as plainly as two eyes can sec, that M. 
 Rhadi was deeply, passionately, devoted to 
 Aglae. Indeed, it did not need words ; for 
 every changi) in his expressive face told it 
 
 more clearly than the most eloquent lan- 
 guage. His sudden clouds, his equally 
 sudden smiles, his nervous restlessness 
 when she was absent, his excited joy when 
 she was present, were all first symptoms of 
 his absorbing passion. Then succeeded 
 strange abstractions, gloomy broodings, ten- 
 der, almost tearful regards, a slavish devo- 
 tion to her slightest wish, a watchfulness, a 
 patience and gentleness, that were quite 
 pathetic. lie grew pale and thin; his 
 eyes glowed under his contracted brows 
 like smouldering fires; his mouth seemed 
 drawn and sad, and sometimes I fancied 
 his white teeth looked almost cruel, t^ntil 
 he smiled : there was something wonderful 
 in his smile ; it seemed to illuminate hia 
 whole faeo with a sort of divine light, 
 driving away instantly every shadow that 
 rested there. At other times he would be 
 haughty, defiant, sceptical, scornful, almost 
 brutal, in his remarks, until, suddenly, a 
 strange expression would pass over his 
 face ; and he would clasp his hands, and cry 
 out, '^ Mon Dieu! I hato myself!" then, 
 rushing impetuously from the room, he 
 would leave Aglae and I looking at each 
 other in astonishment. Often she would say 
 with a sigh, " I almost fear him : in these 
 moods he seems possessed with a demon; 
 and yet how sweet and gentle he is at other 
 times I Ah me ! how will this end ? " 
 
 I had often asked myself the same ques- 
 tion, therefore I wa« unable to answer 
 hers ; and perhaps I was even more per- 
 plexed than she with it all. Because I 
 was not blinded by love, I saw more plain- 
 ly the danger, and yet could discover no 
 way to avert what had jvlready arrived. 
 Aglad too, about this time, was most uncer- 
 tain in her behavior. For several days in 
 succession she would be feverishly gay; 
 and this unnatural frivolity was sure to be 
 followed by a period of gravity that was 
 almost solemnity; when she would go 
 about like one smitten with a heavy grief, 
 absorbed in her own serious thoughts, from 
 which all my little devices were powerless 
 to arouse her. Again she would be as 
 fretful and capricious as a child, weeping 
 
 iJlL 
 
ost eloquent lan- 
 luds, his equally 
 vous restlessness 
 excited joy when 
 first symptoms of 
 Then succeeded 
 nv broodinss, ten- 
 a slavish devo- 
 a watchfulness, a 
 that wcro quite 
 Ic and thin ; his 
 ontractcd brows 
 8 mouth seemed 
 letimes I fancied 
 Iraost cruel, ijntil 
 nothing wonderful 
 to illuminate his 
 ; of divine light, 
 ?vcry shadow that 
 imes he would be 
 il, scornful, almost 
 until, suddenly, a 
 Id pass over his 
 his hands, and cry 
 ite myself!" then, 
 om the room, he 
 I looking at each 
 )flen she would say 
 fear him : in these 
 led with a demon ; 
 ;cntle he is at other 
 ill this end ? " 
 self the same ques- 
 unable to answer 
 as even more per- 
 it all. Because I 
 , I saw more plain- 
 could discover no 
 1 already arrived, 
 le, was most uncer- 
 For several days in 
 be feverishly gay; 
 ility was sure to be 
 f gravity that was 
 in she would go 
 with a heavy grief, 
 ious thoughts, from 
 ;es were powerless 
 she would be as 
 IS a child, weeping 
 
 A woman's story. 
 
 81 
 
 sullenly, and refusing all my efforts to con- 
 sole her. I pitied them both, and waited 
 ptitieiitiy, hoping that she, at least, would 
 voluntarily make nio a confidant of her 
 feelings. The time came at last. One 
 afternoon Ilhndi had been sitting with us. 
 He had brought a volume of poems written 
 by Jaini, a Persian poet of the fourteenth 
 century ; and, to give us some idea of the 
 literature of his country, ho had read one 
 aloud, in his own musical and majestic 
 language ; and afterwards had graccfuHy 
 translated it, — so gracefully, that I think it 
 did not lose any of the beauty of the senti- 
 ment, which was a regret for a lost love ; 
 not a dead love, but a living lost love, 
 'which to me is the most pitiful of all losses. 
 The harmony, glowing color, passion, and 
 pathos of the complaint softened my feel- 
 ings, so that I, unsentimental as I am, almost 
 wept, while the tears rolled slowly over 
 poor Aglad's face. She had grown suddenly 
 pale, — paler than I had ever seen her. 
 Rhadi did not notice her emotion ; for before 
 he had finished the poem, she had regained 
 her usual composure : and when he closed 
 the book, she told him with a smile, that he 
 had read it so exquisitely as to make her for- 
 ever in love with Persian poetry. He bowed 
 low, with his hand on his heart, and went 
 away directly, more silent and grave than 
 ever. When he had gone, suddenly — so 
 suddenly that it startled me — she clasped 
 my neck, and cried out in a voice I shall 
 never forget, " I love him, I love him I and 
 in that poem he bus read his fate and 
 mine." 
 
 " But why," I asked, trying to soothe 
 her, " why his fate and yours ? You arc 
 both free, you love him, and there can be 
 no doubt of his love for you : then, what 
 cause is there for unhappiness ? " 
 
 " It is because he loves me," she said 
 between her sobs, " that wo must part. I 
 cannot marry him : every thing is against 
 it. My position, his religion, bib ■■■ery 
 nature ; for I fear him as much as I love 
 him. No, no : I would not dare to become 
 his wife, for I should only be his slave ; 
 and I cannot sacrifice the liberty that I 
 
 
 have bought at such a price. It is impos- 
 sible : we can never marry, and Platonic 
 love will not satisfy such a nature as his. 
 I must be all to hiui or nothing. I have 
 known it for some time, and I have sulfered 
 so much ; and yi.'t I have no strength to 
 deny myself the dangerous pleasure of 
 seeing him." 
 
 Before giving her any counsel, I tried to 
 calm her; for she was very much excited, 
 and very wretched at the dismal thou<iht 
 of giving him up forever. I must confess 
 that I did not see the necessity of it ; for I 
 believe that love should overcome every 
 obstacle, and make every sacrifice, to attain 
 its end : this I told her as clearly as I 
 could, at the same time advising her to 
 listen entirely to the dictates of her own 
 heart and conscience, instead of the 
 promptings of worldly interest. Before I 
 had said half to her that I wished to say, a 
 visitor was announced; and she left me, 
 and went down to her own room. In the 
 evening I went to her, and was told by her 
 maid that she had gone to bed with a 
 severe headache. I did not disturb her, but 
 sat alone all the evening, thinking sadly of 
 both; and perhaps I felt more pity for 
 Rhadi than for her : for to me her conduct 
 seemed inexplicable, if not selfish. If 
 Riioul had only been there, that I could 
 have talked it over with him, I should have 
 felt better ; but as it was, I went to bed 
 with a very heavy heart. 
 
 The next day M. Rhadi came ; and, not 
 finding Aglat with me, he went down 
 to ask after her health. He came back 
 almost directly ; and, throwing himself 
 into a chair, he said with a heavy sigh, 
 " She is ill, confined to her room. I 
 could not see her, and she did not even 
 send me a kind message. She might 
 have sent me a kind word : I know nothing 
 at all of what this means." He spoke 
 impatiently, and there was an ugly shadow 
 on his face which I did not like to see 
 there. I had grown to love him dearly : he 
 seemed like a brother t/ me. There was so 
 muc-li sweetness and .rankness in his na- 
 ture, in spite of its uiystery and contradic- 
 
i • 
 
 82 
 
 A WOMAN'S STORY. 
 
 tioii, that no one could be inditTurcnt to 
 liiiii ; and, bcvsides, Uacjul lovud liiiu. I 
 watc'la'il liiin fioinu tiinu, while he sat with 
 hid uriiis toldL-d, and hisi eyes fixed upon the 
 fluur, wonderin<r what was |>assin;r in \i\a 
 soul, when suddenly he utarted like one 
 aroused iroui a dream, and cried out in the 
 same way as A;;lae had done the day 
 betbre, '"I lovo her, I love her!" 'Hien, 
 covering; his face with his hands, he burst 
 into tears, and wept so passionately that I 
 was f'ri;;hteni"d as well as surprised. Ah, 
 nie ! I can sec him now sitting there, his 
 pride completely crushed, his handsome 
 head bowed, and the great tears falling in 
 drops between his fin;;ers. I never saw 
 Kiuml weep ; and I am thankful I never 
 did, (or the thou|^ht ot' it would break my 
 heart now. I loved jwor Khadi too well 
 to see him so distressed without tryinjj; to 
 comfort him, and in that way I became 
 hln confidant also. During an earnest con- 
 versation ol' more than an hour, h« told me 
 of all his struggles and anxieties, — how he 
 hadloved Aglae, from the first moment that 
 he had seen her, with the only lovo of his life, 
 — a life that had been any thing but happy. 
 lie spoke sa(Hy and briefly of his father's 
 death, his lonely, neglected childhood, his 
 conflicts with destiny, that seemed at first 
 all against him, his ellbrts to gain the posi- 
 tion that he had at last secured through 
 the kindness of the ambassador, who had 
 been like ca father to him, and to whom he 
 owed every thing. " At first," he said, 
 " although ! knew I loved Madame Thdvd- 
 not, T could not decide to ask her to become 
 my wife, because such a step would be 
 ruin to my future prospects ; and I had not 
 the strength and courage to resign all for 
 love, 4'ven to the affection and patronage of 
 my pitsha, who wishes to marry his only 
 daughter to me, as soon as she is of age, 
 and in that way to stivn.'then the bond 
 of interest already estabi' i'yd between us. 
 I love him ; I owe him every duty ; he will 
 be deeply, and perhaps justly, indignant 
 at my ingratitude, and will cast me olT 
 without the least hope of reconciliation ; 
 y(!t I have decided to ondure it all for her 
 
 lovo, to resign for her an honorable and 
 brilliant future, an alliance with the daugh- 
 ter of one of the most j)owerful ])rinces in 
 the Ottoman Empire, and, more than all, 
 the love and confidence of the man who 
 has been a father to me. Now you can 
 understand a little what this decision 
 has cost me, — what a strife there has been 
 between my heart, my duty, and my 
 worldly interests : my nights have been 
 sleepless, my <lays a torture. I have been 
 torn to pieces by conflicting feedings. The 
 honor and wealth that has been my life- 
 long desire, on one hand ; her love, her 
 beauty, her goodness, on the other. Ah, 
 dear inadame I how could I decide but in 
 favor of n>y own heart, my own life, and 
 hap|)iness ? and hers also ; for she loves me, 
 — am I not right ? " 
 
 He stopped speaking, and looked at me 
 anxiously, while he wij)ed his fbrelicad ; 
 for he had told his story with so much 
 feeling, so earnestly and so rapidly, that 
 great drops of 'sweat had gathered like 
 rain on his face. I pitied him beyond 
 expression : he seemed almost exhausted 
 with his mental conflict, and I knew it was 
 not over ; for I remembered my conversa- 
 tion with Aglad the day before, and saw 
 tliat an obstacle, perhaps more serious 
 than any, was still to be overcome. I ad- 
 mired him for his noble sacrifice, and in 
 my heart I blamed her for what seemed to 
 me only selfishness ; yet I was sure she 
 loved him. So what could I say other than 
 to give him that assurance ? As lie went 
 away, after a little more conversation, he 
 said, " To-morrow I shall come to know 
 my fate. I can sacrifice every thing for 
 her ; but does she love me with the same 
 demotion? " 
 
 I could not answer ; and so I said nothing, 
 but pressed his hand encouragingly. 
 
 The next day Aglae came up looking 
 pale and very sad ; and I thought I detected 
 an expression of firm resolve aroun<l lier 
 mouth that did not predict a favorable re- 
 ception of llhadi EfTendi if he came. She 
 did not speak of him ; neither did she refer 
 to the conversation of the day before, but 
 
 XI f 
 
 ^iai3MS(assmsrrs:n!^i5r^^S^''^5S5^'^«?:- 
 
A woman's 8TORT. 
 
 83 
 
 honorable and 
 ith the (liuii;li- 
 rful princes in 
 uoro than all, 
 the man who 
 Now you can 
 this decision 
 thi're has been 
 liity, and my 
 hts have been 
 . I have been 
 feelin<;s. The 
 been my lil'o- 
 her love, her 
 
 10 other. Ah, 
 
 I decide but in 
 y own life, and 
 :br she loves me, 
 
 d looked at me 
 (1 his forehead; 
 with so much 
 so rapidly, that 
 d gathered like 
 ed him beyond 
 most exhausted 
 id I knew it was 
 ed my conversa- 
 belbre, and saw 
 s more serious 
 )vcrcome. I ad- 
 sacrifice, and in 
 what seemed to 
 I was sure she 
 
 1 1 say other than 
 e ? As he went 
 
 conversation, he 
 
 II come to know 
 I every thing for 
 ae with the same 
 
 so I said nothing, 
 uragingly. 
 came up looking 
 thought I detected 
 solve around her 
 :t a favorable re- 
 if he came. She 
 ither did she refer 
 e day before, but 
 
 talked absently on indifferent subjects. Wo I 
 heaid tlic bell. She turned drcadlully pale. , 
 and Idoked around as though siie would like 
 to es('a[)e ; but at the moment Margot nn- 
 noiiuiod M. Uliadi Etl'endi. lie entered : 
 with a '^rave almost stern face, more | 
 elegant in Ids dress than ever, and it seemed 
 to me more refined in every way, even to 
 the faultless linen, pale gray gloves, and 
 linnt Oriental perfume which always be- 
 trayed his i)resenee. (To-day, while looking 
 over a desk of Aglae's, I came upon a pack- 
 age wrapped in Turkish paper which emit- 
 ted that same perfume. I will not inter- 
 rupt my story to speak of its contents now : 
 later, when all is finished, I will tell you 
 why I wept over it, and then laid it away 
 reverently.) I welcomed him warmly, but 
 I think my face was not free from anxiety ; 
 and Aglae half rose up, extended her hand 
 a little fearfully and coldly, and then sank 
 back into her chair without a word. 
 
 After the usual commonplace remarks, 
 M. Uliadi turned to her, and said, very 
 > J ' slowly and seriously, " Madame, I have some- 
 
 thing to say to you of the greatest impor- 
 tance. It must be said todiiy. Will you 
 do me the favor to hear it '( " She bowed 
 slightly in reply to his question ; and he went 
 on, in the same formal way, to make his ex- 
 planation. " As I came up, I stopped at your 
 door : your maid told me that you were here. 
 Will you do me the favor to descend? or will 
 you allow me to speak in the presence of 
 madamc, if she will kindly permit it ? " 
 
 I did not wish to be present at a moment 
 so trying to both : therefore I arose to leave 
 the room, when Aglae seized my hand, and 
 said in a voice that betrayed much uneasi- 
 ne«s, " Remain, remain ! What can M. 
 lll.adi have to say that you caitnot hear ? 
 Whatever it be, I prefer that you should 
 hear it." 
 
 That was how I came to be a witness o 
 the interview that decided their whole des- 
 tiny. It makes me tremble even now to 
 think of it. Ah ! if I had had the power to 
 arrest the fatal words that destroyed their 
 happiness forever ; but, if it had been given 
 me, would I have dared to use it ? Per- 
 
 haps not; fori could not have been sure 
 that I shoidd have savtMl her ; one knows so 
 little of what is for the best. 
 
 Ilhadi looked at Aglae earnestly, (lushing 
 and paling while she spoke ; and when she 
 said to me, " I preti^T tliat you should hear 
 it," he exclaimed impetuously, " Madame 
 has already heard it. I have told her of my 
 love for you, my adoration, my consuming 
 passion. It is useless to repeat it to you 
 who already know it. I only wish to ask 
 you whether you love me in return, and 
 whether you are willing to become my wife 
 at once." 
 
 Aglad turned very pale, and I put my arm 
 around her, thinking that she was about to 
 faint ; but, after a little trembling, she re- 
 covered her composure, and said firmly, " I 
 love you : you must have known it Ibr some 
 time." 
 
 Before she had fairly finisheil the sen- 
 tence, he sprang toward her with such an 
 expression of joy as I had never before seen 
 on any face ; and, clasping her hands, he 
 pressed them over and over to his lips, call- 
 ing her his angel, his soul, his life, in tones 
 that must have gone deep into her heart. 
 
 She looked at him with a warm, sweet 
 smile, — a smile that seemed to transfigure 
 her into a divine loveliness, but only tor an 
 instant ; then a cold, hard stillness settled 
 over her face. Struggling to withdraw her 
 hands, she said rapidly. " Yes, yes, I love 
 you: God knows I love you! my aching 
 heart tells me I love you I but it is of no 
 use to repeat it ; for I can never, never be 
 your wife." 
 
 Suddenly, as suddenly as though he had 
 been smitten helpless, he let her hands fall, 
 and started away from her with such a louk 
 as I can imagine Lucifer casting at the niigei 
 who hurled him from the battlemenis of 
 heaven. It was terrible. I was trembling 
 with fear ; and Aglad cowered under it aa 
 though it were a scorching blast. At length 
 he spoke, but his voice was so changed that 
 I should never have known it for his. '* Is 
 your decision irrevocable, madamc ? " 
 
 " It is," replied Aglae in a scarcely artic- 
 ulate voice. 
 
 - im^^.^mi0i»emmmmt 4 
 
1' • 
 
 84 
 
 A WOMAN'S STORY. 
 
 '• I will a«k for no reasons : it is onou^li 
 thiit tiiuro aru reasons. I'anlon niu tor 
 bavin;; tr(jiil)lo(l you : I will trouhlo jou no 
 more," and, Irowiii;; almost to the flwr, lie 
 turneil to leave the room. 
 
 I could not endure to have him leave 
 A'r\ii6 without any further explanation : so I 
 laid my hand upon his arm, and said gently, 
 " Do not }j;i) away angry : there is muili to 
 be said yet, much to soften the bitterness 
 of this moment." 
 
 " No, no : nothing can soften it. I am not 
 a child to be soothed with sweet words : 
 there is nothing to bo said. Allow mo to 
 go in peace." 
 
 " Listen to me," implored Aglad, taking 
 his hand and pressing it to her tear-wet 
 face ; " listen to nie, Uhadi. Do not leave 
 me in anger; do not condemn me un- 
 heard I I love you , — you know 1 love 
 you ! " 
 
 A scornful, sceptical smile flickered over 
 his face, while he said coldly and cruelly, 
 " No more, no more falsehood, I entreat, 
 unha|)py woman. Do not attempt to play a 
 farce. I understand you too well : you cannot 
 impose your lollies upon me." Aglae drew 
 away, frightened by his violence, while he 
 continued, more fiercely than before : " I 
 have lieard your profession of love ; but 
 something within me refuses to believe you. 
 You swear you love me ; you are free : and 
 yet you will not became my wife, ha, ha ! " 
 his sharp, mocking laugh thrilled me 
 through and through ; and his teeth gleam- 
 ed like an angry tiger. " I must confess 1 
 am more surprised at your folly than at 
 your wickedness, if you think you can im- 
 pose a caprice upon me, and make me be- 
 lieve it to be love. Be truthful, and say 
 that your heart is of very little value ; that 
 one can easily touch its depths ; that, when 
 you have won your victim, you weary of 
 him and desire another ; that you bestow 
 your preference on the first who comes, and 
 withdraw it as easily ; that you amuse your- 
 self by deluding the confident, — in short, 
 that you are a heartless coquette, and not 
 the exceptional woman I thought you to be. 
 Say any, or all, of these things ; but do not 
 
 profane love by giving its name to your 
 vanity." 
 
 " Mon Dieul" I cried, aroused to indig- 
 nation at his injustice and cruelty to Aglad, 
 who had fallen on the floor, abnost at his 
 feet, with raised hands, as if to ward off a 
 heavy blow. " llememlier to whom you 
 are speaking ; brutality is useless ; yo ir 
 taunts and insults are misplaced : un- 
 h.appily she loves you too much to defend 
 herself with the same weapons. You will 
 not listen to her explanation ; there are 
 obstacles " — 
 
 " Oh, yes, there are obstacles ! " ho inter- 
 rupted passionately ; " but what are obsta- 
 cles when one loves V I lell you they are 
 nothing. Have 1 not overcome the great- 
 est? You know what 1 have put under 
 my feet, and yet you talk coldly of obsta- 
 cles. I am disappointed, — bitterly disap- 
 pointed ; my heart is bleeding, my head is 
 troubled. Say no more. In pity allow me 
 to go, that I may recover myself. I shall 
 strive to bo a man. 1 shall live ; I shall 
 eat and drink and laugh ; but there will be 
 a frightful void here ; " and he laid his hand 
 on his heart, while ho smiled a ghastly, 
 unnatural smile. 
 
 I did not like him then — no, I absolutely 
 feared him ; for in that moment ho looked 
 like a man capable of any thing ; and I did 
 not wish to see Aglad abase herself to no 
 purpose ; so, whispering to her, I bade her 
 rise, but she seemed neither to hear nor to 
 heed me ; there was a dreadful grief in her 
 face, a longing and a fear in her eyes that 
 I could not understand. 
 
 "You will not leave me forever," she 
 sobbed at length, " O Rhadi 1 have pity : 
 I sufier more than you. Come to me 
 when you are calmer, and I will explain 
 all." 
 
 " There can be no explanation," he inter- 
 rupted harshly. " A word from you would 
 have made me happy, — only a word : I 
 asked no more. A thousand now can be of 
 no avail. The wound is here in my heart, 
 nothing but death can cure it. I love you. 
 I shall never see you again : adieu 1 " And 
 before either Aglad or I could say another 
 
 Mm 
 
 
A WOMAN'S STOKY. 
 
 aine to your 
 
 ised to indlg- 
 I'lly to AgliwS, 
 tliiiost iit his 
 to waril off a 
 .() whom you 
 U!*t'h'»s; yo'ir 
 sphtcud : un- 
 u;h to defend 
 )n8. You will 
 n ; theru are 
 
 es ! " he intcr- 
 luit arc obsita^ , 
 , you thoy are 
 liny the great- 
 ve put un(hir 
 oldly ol" obsta- 
 ■ i)ilterly diHap- 
 ni^, u>y head is 
 1 pity allow mo 
 nysulf. I shall 
 U live ; I shall 
 ut thoru will bo 
 lie laid his hand 
 ilcd a ghastly, 
 
 no, I absolutely 
 nent he looked 
 ling ; and I did 
 c herself to no 
 [jer, 1 bade her 
 to hear nor to 
 Iful grief in her 
 her eyes that 
 
 e forever," she 
 
 ,di 1 have pity : 
 
 Come to me 
 
 I will explain 
 
 lation," he inter- 
 froni you would 
 only a word; I 
 d now can bo of 
 ere in my heart, 
 it. I love you. 
 : adieu 1" And 
 }uld say another 
 
 word, he rushed from tho room, leaving us 
 in blank dismay. 
 
 For a moment there was silence ; an<l 
 then A^^'lae laid her hand on mine, and 
 said calmly, " I told you he was cruel, — 
 do you remember, — cruel as a Turk. I 
 said it after I had seeu him for the first 
 time. I knew it was his nature ; still I did 
 not think he coidd be cruel to me, and 
 accuse uie so unjustly. But he has betrayed 
 his true character, and I li-ar him more 
 than ever. It is over: ho has gone; and 
 now all that remains for mu is to for^^et 
 that I have ever seen liiin, to banish him 
 from my heart entirely, liut how? but 
 liow V " then her imnatural calm breaking 
 down before a Hood of memories, she sank 
 into a chair, and sobbed bitterly. 
 
 I tried to comfort her by telling her that 
 perhaps when he was calmer he would 
 return, and that matters could be arranged, 
 with a bettor feeling on both sides. Still, 
 like a foolish woman, I added, " I wish you 
 had never seen him." 
 
 " It is too late now," she said, with a 
 wan sndle; and then she fell a-weeping 
 again, at the thought of all the happy hours 
 that she had passed with him, hours which 
 she well knew could never be restored to 
 her as beautiful as they had been, with the 
 freshness, the romance, the confidence, the 
 grace, of a fii*st love. 
 
 I cannot tell you in detail of the sorrow- 
 ful days that followed this sudden and pain- 
 ful parting, — of the feverish, restless days 
 when Aglad wanderud about from room to 
 room, like an uneasy spirit, pale, silent, and 
 tearless. Sometimes she would sit absorbed 
 in long reveries from which I could only 
 arouse her by suddenly pronouncing the 
 name of Rhadi. Again she would lie for 
 hours on the sofa in my room, her eyes 
 closed, her hands clasped over her heart, 
 while from time to time she uttered a sharp 
 moan that seemed to come from the very 
 depths of her suffering soul ; or she would 
 talk calmly, but in a pitiful, 'plaining voice, 
 of the scenes in which Rhadi had been an 
 actor with her. Recounting minutely each 
 little event, dwelling fondly on every evi- 
 
 dence of his love, she would say, " Do you 
 remember when he said this? or did that ? 
 Have you for^;otten the evening; when we 
 sat and watched the moon rUi'. bcliiiiil the 
 trees in the ClimpiM-Eli/sdes ; how he said ho 
 would rather look ai me than at the moon '.' 
 All I his flattery was tixj sweet to me. I 
 knew he was proud and sensitive ; but I 
 thought him so tender, so very tender. 
 How (juickly he woulil detect llie slif;hU'st 
 shadow on my face, the fuintest i'lian;j;e in 
 my voice I How careful he was of my health ! 
 He feared the winds of heaven would 
 touch me too roughly. He said ofteu he 
 envied the sunlight that caressed my hair, 
 the earth under my feet. Every thing I 
 touched seemed siicrcd to him. How ol'ien 
 I had smile<l ut delectiii;.; hiiii in the act of 
 concealing some worthless thing that I had 
 cast aside ! A withered flower, a I'adecl 
 libbon, a torn glove, a shred of silk froiii 
 my embroidery, were all precious to hiiu. 
 What devotion, what care, what sweet and 
 graceful attention I How can I live without 
 him ? how can I live to know that I havo 
 lost him forever ? " . 
 
 She seemed to have no thought beyond 
 the time in which he had loved her ; those 
 few months comprised her life : before she 
 had known him she had only half lived ; 
 after she lost him she seemed like a body 
 without a soul, a pale shadow, a dead leaf 
 driven by the restless wind of passion. " I 
 am nothing," she would say, when I begged 
 her to take some interest in life : " all is over 
 for me ; I have no aim, no desire, no hope." 
 She never left tho house : any society, save 
 mine, seemed hateful to her ; tho noise of 
 the streets worried her beyond endurance, 
 the glare of the sunlight made her shiver. 
 She wept freely at a glimpse of the sky, 
 beautiful with moon and stars ; the per- 
 fumes of the flowers they had loved and 
 worn turned her pale and faint; music 
 alTected her to such a degree that I dared 
 not touch my piano, or sing one note of a 
 familiar song when she was present. AU 
 though she did not speak of it, I knew she 
 was constantly expecting something; for, 
 whenever the bell sounded, she would start 
 
r 
 
 m 
 
 A WOMAN'S STORY. 
 
 up with pnrttMl lips and oh«imi- pyi'!«, only 
 to HUik l)ii<k with a lunvy sigli "f ilUiii>- 
 poiiiliiu'wl. Neiirly a month pii««'«l awiiy 
 in lliirt »u\U\ of min«k'il cxiK'ctiitloii iiiid 
 doHpalr. In the inoininj; she would say, 
 " Perhaps to-day I hIhiH m") l'""- "i" •"^'*'* 
 fi-oui him." At ni'^ht -he would xob and 
 moan, " I chall nee him no moio : he i* gone 
 forever." 
 
 Noticing she looked very 111 one day, I 
 questioned her about her heavy eyes, (lushed 
 cheokd, anil languid movements; and nhe 
 confessed that fho did not sleep ; that she 
 had not slept since that dreailful day, only 
 at short and rare intervals ; that a f ver 
 was eonsumiuR her, a weakness gaininj^ 
 Ui)on lier to whieh she felt that she must 
 loo-i sueeuuil). At times the old pride and 
 gelfishuess would flame up lor a moment, 
 and she would cry out rc(;retfully, " I am 
 insane to think of him ! I am worse ; 1 am a 
 poor, fe<-l)le creature to sutler fiir one so cruel 
 and severe. It it not better to be free ? I 
 am fri'e; and that should sufliie." At 
 other times, especially when she lay alone 
 in the lon;^ sjiring twilight, — for it was 
 spring again, and nearly a year since 
 Raoul's birthday dinner, — she would sigh, 
 and murmur as though she feared to have 
 mo hear her confession, " I am so ired 1 I 
 am so wretched 1 If tears and prayers 
 could give me back his love, I would go on 
 my knees at his feet; but he is cruel and 
 unrelenting : ho does not love me now ; for, 
 . if he loved me, ho would not leave mo to 
 die. I am so young to diol 1 have no 
 desire for death ; and yet I cannot live 
 without him." 
 
 I had written to Raoul, begging him to 
 come homo as early in the month as possi- 
 ble ; lor I thought that perhaps his presence 
 might divert her a little from her sorrow, 
 lie came as soon as he could obtain leave, 
 and was more shocked than was I at the 
 change in Aglae. " She will die," ho said, 
 overhand over, "unless a reconciliation 
 can bo arranged. She is foolir<h, and 
 more, — she is to blame for her selfishness. 
 If she loves him so, why does she not 
 renounce all, and become his wife? I 
 
 must coi\(''8» 1 do not understand such a 
 
 love." 
 
 " Neither do 1." I remarked, thinking 
 how easily I could make any sacrilice for 
 llaoul. 
 
 " And, Uhadi, it seems so unlike him : I 
 thought him ail gentleness. Why, he was as 
 tender as a woman Ui Victor." 
 
 "His pride is woundfd, his (•(mfideneo 
 abiis''d, and he has an untbrgivin,' n iture ; 
 besides, he does not Iwliovo in a love ihiit 
 is not entire abnegati,>n," I sni>l ; for I 
 likeil him still so well that I eould lu.ike 
 excuses for him. " 1 i)ity Agl.ie as nin. h as 
 I blame her; and I am sure, if he knew 
 Hhe was ill and sull'i 'ring, his feeliiii< would 
 Botten, and all might yet be well." 
 
 '■ It is unaccountiiiile," continued Uaonl, 
 lifter a few moments of thou-ht, " suili an 
 entire separii lion between two pco|tk' who 
 lovo each other to distract icm, and for no 
 cause that I can see. I will go this very 
 moment, and talk Uhadi into reason; and 
 you, c/itVie, bring Aglae to her senses ; for 
 she must bo a little insiine to let trifles 
 keep her from a man she is dyiu:: fin-." lie 
 took his hat, and went out, singing cheer- 
 fully, "Zo Donna e Mobile." Dear soul I 
 he thought he could arrange it all so ea>ily, 
 and make them both happy by his media- 
 tion. 
 
 Before I had time to go down to Aglae, 
 ho came in more sadly than ho had gone 
 out, saying with an air of great dissatisfac- 
 tion, "I went to the Krabassy to fmd 
 Rhadi ; and Uustan EH'endi tells mo that In; 
 is at Ems, taking the waters for his health." 
 "What I is ho ill?" I cried in surprise. 
 " It appears so ; although no one seems to 
 know what has happened, yet all speak of 
 tho frightful and sudden change in his 
 appearance." 
 
 " When will he return ? " 
 " I could not learn. They h.avc heard 
 nothing from him. Ho does not write, 
 although his Iriend has asked for news of 
 his hoiUth. All seem surprised, and say 
 that he has turned into a savage within a 
 month." 
 I thought it best to tell Aglae of what 
 
stand fiK'li a 
 
 oil, iliiiikiiij^ 
 diicrilU'c lor 
 
 iiilikf liim ; I 
 
 HlV, 111' w:i8«!» 
 
 I* 
 
 lis (•(tnfiili'ni'O 
 iviii.: nitiii-i'; 
 n ii li>v>' ili:it 
 I xiii'l ; for I 
 
 I ooiild lu.ike 
 .\6 as iiiiuli ii* 
 ■c. it' lie Kiiinv 
 t'ci'liir^'* would' 
 
 itimH'd UmoiiI, 
 Liht, " siK'li an 
 ro i)('n|>k' who 
 m, mill lor no 
 
 II go tills vnry 
 ;o reason ; und 
 lev Ki-n^os ; for 
 J to li'l trilli'g 
 ,yin:j for." Ho 
 sini^iu'^ clii't'r- 
 " Dour fonl I 
 it all so i'a>iiy, 
 by his nieilia- 
 
 iown to AiTlad, 
 liu liad '^ono 
 •cat dissiitisfac- 
 iWassy to find 
 ;ells me that lie 
 for his health." 
 led in surprise. 
 no one seems to 
 et all spenk of 
 change in liis 
 
 cy have heard 
 oes not write, 
 cd for news of 
 )rised, and say 
 lavage within a 
 
 Aalae of what 
 
 »'ff> 
 
 A woman's story. 
 
 HT 
 
 Raoul hud loarned n'iip«'nlini; Rhadi; »n | 
 that she should not he worried any lons;.r 
 with constant expectation and di» >pi»oint- 
 inent, KtrauRe to say, it seemeil some 
 consoKuion to lier to know tlnit I'.? .vas ill; 
 for from thai moment she seemed to rally 
 frarn her utiir ilespimilenuy, so much so as 
 to give ns the hope that witli time she 
 might overeomoher unhappy piv.ssion. For 
 myself another and a nuire intimate sorrow 
 liiled my lieart. One day llaoiil came in 
 all e.xfited. It was the day of \m fete ; 
 and he told mo that trouble was hrewinB 
 between Franee and Prussia, — tionhlo of a 
 BeriouH nature, which would end in wai. 
 During the same evening the little scene 
 occurred of which I have spoken before, 
 when the Marseillaise was sung, and I was 
 go base ;is to wish him to resign his com- 
 mission. Thank I Jod I that lie did not 
 listen to my shameful request ; for li>day, 
 instead of lieing his widow, I might be the 
 wife of a coward, and a traitor t ' his coun- 
 try. Our dinner that day w.-js a very dif- 
 ferent afl'air trom that of a, year before. 
 We had a few friends, but it passed oil" 
 eaiily enough; lor all were pre-occui.ied 
 with their own fears and anxieties, and all 
 foresaw dark and sorrowful daysforour poor 
 country. Ah, me I out of the eight odicers 
 who dined with us on llaoul's thirty-second 
 birthday, there are but two left; and one 
 of them lost an arm at Sarrbriick, and the 
 other is blind from a shot at Mar«-la-tour, 
 Nothing would induce Aglad to make one 
 of our party on that day. *' No, no," she 
 Baid: "it will remind me of too much; anil 
 I cannot expose my folly to strangers." 
 After dinner I went down to her for a mo- 
 ment. It was almost such an evening as 
 that of a year before, very warra^and pleas- 
 ant; but she lay wra[)ped in a heavy 
 shawl, weeping, with a faded rose crushed 
 in her fingers. 
 
 As I told you before, Raoul went back to 
 his regiment next morning, and I was left 
 alone with nothing but Aglatj's sorrow and 
 my own anxious thoughts for company. 
 Every day the political horizon became 
 more clouded, and tlie warm summer air 
 
 was heavy with ominous shadow*. People 
 talked of nothiii^' but war; bands of nd- 
 capped revohiiionists filled the stri'et", and 
 till Marseillaise wiis shouted in every key, 
 from the shrill treble of childlnxMl lo tho 
 croaking bass of age 1 knew tin time was 
 drawing near when my saerilirt- would be 
 retiuired of me ; and my soul ached with- 
 in me. Still I made iiu complaint; |!)r I 
 had jjromi-ed hiiii to be brave and strong, 
 and I did not mean that he should fmd me 
 weaker than my word. 
 
 Aglae was in my room one day, when Mar- 
 got brought in the journal ; and among the 
 items I was reading aloud, I chaneii! to 
 stumble upon the name of llliadi Kll'endi. 
 It was a brief notice that he had resigned 
 his position in the ambassador's umlf, and 
 was then taking the waters of Kins in order 
 to re-establish his health before entering 
 upon his duties as secretary In the minister 
 of fbi-ieign affairs at Constantinople. I ex- 
 pecleii Aglae would make .some exclama- 
 tion licfore I finished, but she did not ; and 
 the only sign of emotion she showed was a 
 sudden and death-like pallor, which never, 
 left her from that day. It seems to me, 
 that, although she lived for so long after, 
 she was struck with death then. It was 
 certainly death to whatever hope she might 
 have had ; and she was not the one to live, 
 as another could, when there was nothing 
 to live for. 
 
 " You aro very calm," I said a few mo- 
 ments afler. 
 
 " It is not calmness," she answered, " it 
 is despair." 
 
 Tho next day she did not leave her bed, 
 nor for many days after ; and I was wearied 
 and worn beyond expression, not only with 
 watching, but with my anxieties about 
 llaoul, from whom I could not bear to be 
 separated at thafmoment. 
 
 On the loth day of July, a day that Franee 
 will never forget, I went alone into the 
 Champs-^lyseea for a little rest and a breath 
 of fresh air. Walking slowly and languid- 
 ly toward one of the most retired spots, — it 
 was tho place where, one sweet night a year 
 before, wo had watched the moon rise be- 
 
88 
 
 A woman's btory. 
 
 Iilml llui tnH«», — 1 camo imMi'iily upon 
 
 Ulimli I'lliiiili fitiiii'_'<»n Diic (if till' cliuli's, 
 hit iini,:^ liilili'd, lii-i lu'Uil ln'iit.iuiil his <'yt'M 
 llxcd ii|)(m 11 <lii>tfr of M'iiili-t (tillel llial 
 IiIds-miiuciI at liiK (i'ft. 'I'lif I linii'.'c in liiiii 
 WiiH K'l ti'irililt^ liiKt it iiliiici>t Mtartii'ii iiic 
 iiilu nil I'Xclaniiitioii. Ill' Idcilii'il twciiiy 
 j'i'iii'H oilier. lliH llu-i! v;,iH (it'll ;rniy iiiillor, 
 lii» I'ycH » nki'n unci luKtrcli'i's, liin iiuniili 
 ilniwii iiii'l forniwl'ui, ami his wlmlo ii|i- 
 ]a'ariiiii'c ti-.i' ol' oiii- who lui'l been wcll- 
 iiiuli killf'l in ii I. iTililt' «'onlli(;t. So lont 
 was he in tii')n,'lit, that he did not si'o nif 
 .aiili I Htood hfllirc him imd niiiil, " i1/»n 
 ami, I am «lad to find yoii liore." 
 
 Ilf Ktarii'd iVoni his mtat with tri'inhiin'.' 
 mycrin'^s ; and hoini'thiii'^ of his olil Hinili' 
 cnruo to his lips an hi! Mui/ed my hamlH, and 
 ])ri'!<sud tlu'iii in his with ii ('onvulslvc 
 clasp, 
 
 I too!; ir.s chair ; and liu drew another to 
 my side, t\ in;;, " I siaiccly know whclher 
 to remain or to ff)." 
 
 •' Yoi! niiist ri'iiiaia,"' I said firmly. "1 
 Lavu sninethiii;; to say to you." 
 
 " For the love of God, spare nic," he 
 cried, eoverim; his face with his liands. 
 
 '• 1 eannol," I replied, tir^cd to sjieak hy 
 the thoii'.dit of Aglac's pale face. " Yon 
 mast. li>ten to me calmly, llliadi. A^lae is 
 very ill ; she cannot live long; slie is dyin;^ 
 for a sij^lit of you." 
 
 His hands lell ti-oiii his face, and a spasm 
 ol' pain contracted every feature; but he 
 B.iid coldly, " If Madame Thevenot is ill, 
 slie must find some other euro. I cannot 
 see her to save her from a dozen deaths." 
 
 The cruel, almost brutal reply allocked 
 and disgusted me ; and, not knowing what 
 1 saiil, 1 poured out all the strength of my 
 indignation upon him. lie listened, smil- 
 ing haughtily from time to time ; but he 
 never interrupted me until I said, "^You 
 are cruel : it is your nature to be cruel. It 
 is a saying, ' Cruel as a Turk : ' you arc a 
 Turk, and you are more cruel than any 
 other of your nation." 
 
 I had scarcely finished these harsh words, 
 betbro 1 regretted having said them ; for 
 Buch an expression ol anguish passed over 
 
 Ills face that it iihiiost made mo weep beforo 
 him. 
 
 " () iiimlamn, madaine! bo just in yimr 
 anger. Who has lieeii cruel 'I AVlm lit 
 erutl 'I Am I cruel liecauso I will not 
 pinnae niysel. in tlio finim » atler having 
 Ihmii (iiice afniot eonsumed'i' Of what use 
 to see lier'i' She ciuinol save me from tor- 
 ment and despair. Is it just to ask mo to in- 
 crease my misery to culten hers'' loH'ci il 
 her all a man has to'^iK',— luy heart, i.y 
 soul, my lifu : she refused iliein ; uud, *'< am 
 that moment, somelhln'/ was broken i"i bin 
 mil which is as irrepaiablii .'.i di-aili. I am 
 hopi'l'jgsly ruined: there is nothing to bis . 
 dill", nothing to bo said. There is no 
 healing such a wound. She must bear her 
 siillering lis i bear mine, while waiting for 
 death to eini it." 
 
 " 'llien a rciMnciliution is hopeless?" I 
 asked tearfully. 
 
 " A'l liiipeless as ii>j.«i-i\ir. In a few days 
 I luavo I'aris forever." 
 
 " I !'.'. iiiglit von had a!iv e'.y gone. A'.'lad 
 thought you had gone; and since she has 
 failed rapidly." 
 
 " I had led, not intending to return ; but 
 something brought me back : perhajis it was 
 a desire to see this spot again. I regret the 
 fate that led you here at this moment ; ibr 
 dearly as I love you, deeply as I reverence 
 you, I would rather have suli'ertd tortures 
 than to have seen you. Ab, my God ! if I 
 could separate you from her, I might still 
 have a friend ; but I cannot. Y'ou both are 
 so connected in my memory, that I cannot 
 think of you without thinking of her. I 
 cannot see you without seeing iier. For- 
 give mo if I am harsh and brutal: I ain 
 mailB so by pain. Do not try to attach mo 
 again to you, — try rather to forget mo. 
 Adieu 1 adieu 1 " And taking my hands in 
 a tight clasp ho pressed them to his lips, 
 and wet thein with the tears that covered 
 his face. 1 never saw such tears : they fell 
 from his eyes like the great drops of a sum- 
 mer rain. Poor Uhadi 1 my heart ached for 
 him, yet I could say nothing to comfort 
 him : his passionate defence had silenced 
 me. • Ho made a convulsive effort at uelf- 
 
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 ^4«Si**«^*ai' 
 
A woman's story. 
 
 89 
 
 control, dashed the tears from his fuce, gave 
 Lis iiiustaclie a savage twist, and, Ijowing 
 low witli a forced and haggard smile, he luit 
 mo, as I thought, forever, and walked 
 doiwn the flower-bordered path with his 
 usual prouil, firm step. 
 
 I sat there in deep thought until the 
 lengthening shadows warned me that night 
 was drawing near ; then, unmindful of the 
 signs of some unusual event, I drew my 
 veil over my tiice, and turned sadly toward 
 home. Two olUcers were just in advance 
 of me ; and their loud voices and half-fran- 
 tic gesticulations attracted my attention. J 
 listened to their words, and heard, " At the 
 last he was unwilling; but the Chand)er 
 forced him to make the declaration. Now 
 •we will march straight to Berlin." Then I 
 knew war was declared, and what I had 
 feared was actually come. T felt cold and 
 faint, and scarcely had strength to reach 
 my room. When there, I closed my door, 
 and prayed as I never had prayed before, all 
 the while struggling with niy tears and my 
 own weak heart. At last I arose from my 
 knees calm. My trouble was lifted from me 
 like a great cloud that dissolved and drilled 
 away, mingling with the other prayers that 
 ■went up to God that night from the anxious 
 heart of a nation. 
 
 In a little while I went do\yn to Aglae ; 
 but I did not think it best to tell her of my 
 meeting with llliadi Eilendi. She was very 
 weak and nervous, and I knew she had no 
 strength to lose in useless excitement. I 
 did not even like to startle her with what I 
 had heard ; but knowing that she must learn 
 it soon, I said as calmly as I could, " Chcrie, 
 my trouble is coming. War is declared. 
 Raoul will go, and 1 shall lose him." 
 
 She did not speak, but put her arms 
 round my neck, and we wept silently to- 
 gether. 
 
 That same evening I wrote a long letter 
 to my poor darling, often turning my 
 head, that the tears might not fall upon the 
 paper. I tried to write hopefully and en- 
 couragingly. I knew that he did not wish 
 for war ; but I also knew that when he saw 
 it was inevitable he would be among the 
 
 first to give his life for our France. I poured 
 out my whole soul in that letter. I em])tied 
 my heart into his : I told him how good and 
 patient I should be, no matter what hap- 
 pened. I am sure it would have southed 
 his poor heart, v-hich must have ached ter- 
 ribly at that moment : but I have no reason 
 to think that he ever received it ; fur, be- 
 fore it coidd have reached him, his regiment 
 was already en route for the frontier, and 
 (he first news I had of it was from a few 
 hurried lines written an hour before he left. 
 It was the last letter I ever received j)enned 
 by his hand; for he was wounded in the 
 arm, during a skirmish at Gcrsweiler, which 
 prevented him from using his pen. Still 
 from time to time I had news from him 
 written by one of his oflicers. lie was ear- 
 nest, active, courageous ; always at the head 
 of his men in spite of his Wound, which 
 must have tormented him constantly. I 
 never had one moment of peace, I never had 
 a night of sleep, after I knew he had been 
 wounded again through the shoulder at the 
 terrible battle of Gravelotte, where the 
 French stood their ground and died, and the 
 Prussians stood their ground and died, both 
 l)y himilreds; and he never flinched nor 
 failed, uniil, fainting from lossof blood.lie fell 
 from his hor8(s and was dragged to the rear 
 by one of his faithful soldiers. O my God 1 
 and 1 not there. How long he lay ill, I 
 never knew. When I heard from him again, 
 he was still fighting, although his right arm 
 was useless, beside General de Wimpllen at 
 Sedan. I did not learn, until months after, 
 how my Raoul died. I knew he was killed 
 at Sedan, and I never doubted that he dieil 
 bravely ; but I never knew how bravely 
 until an officer who had survived that 
 dreadful day said, " Ah, madame, your hus- 
 band was a hero ! It was he who followed 
 General de WimpfTen when he rallied his 
 tbrlorn hope, and rode out of the burning 
 town against the serried ranks of the en- 
 emy, although he know that he rode into tlio 
 jaws of <leath. I shall never forget him, 
 as he looked back at me and smiled just be ■ 
 fi)re a volley of Prussian balls : he smiled 
 bravely, but his eyes were full of tears. I 
 
 3 
 
90 
 
 A WOMAN'S STORY. 
 
 never saw him again : lus was swept away 
 in that horrible teiupcst of shot, l)lood, and 
 
 despair." 
 
 Oil, inv husband 1 I loved him as well as 
 any woman ever loved. I loved him so 
 wJll, that I would have suiVvroA a thousand 
 deaths to have saved him irom one. I 
 loved him so well, that life is one long night 
 without him; and yet I would not have 
 saved him from so glorious a triumph, j 
 Tliank God ! that wlwn he fell into the 
 hands of the Prussians he was not their 
 prisoner, as too many of our soldiers were. 
 No: his brave, sweet sold was free for- 
 ever. 
 
 During the terrible days that followed, 
 God and^Aglae were my only consolations. 
 His pitying love sustained me ; and she for- 
 got her own sorrow to eomfort me. Day 
 after day, night after night, while the siege 
 guns roiled out their ominous warnings, we 
 sat together before the scanty fire in our 
 desohue house, where our only guests were 
 cold and hunger. Aglae might have left 
 Paris before the gates were closed; hut 
 nothing would induce her to leave her 
 aunt, whose lameness confined her to her 
 bed, and whose weakness was so great 
 that the least exertion might have been 
 fatal to her. Besides, I think we were both 
 too enfeebled by our troubles to make the 
 necessary exertion for our safety. So, be- 
 fore we were aware of our dreadful posi- 
 tion, we found ourselves shut up with thou- 
 sands of others, to endure privations that 
 have few parallels in the records of history. 
 At first we di<l not believe, more than 
 did others, that the siege could last so 
 long; while fears of cold and hunger were 
 the^last an.xieties that disturbed us. Still 
 they came, slowly but surely ; and there i 
 was a day toward the last of December, j 
 when we sat and looked hopelessly, each 
 into the face of the other, so cold, so faint 
 and weary, that life seeme.l to hang by a 
 very feeble threa.l. Poor Margot, as well 
 as Aglae's servant, remained faithful almost 
 to the last ; going each day for their scanty 
 rations, which they divided generously 
 with us and the feeble old lady who was 
 
 dying for nourishing food. For ourselves, 
 Agl.ac and I, at first we did not care to eat 
 meat ; we were (piite satisfied with rice and 
 the little bread we could get: b\it at Inst 
 nature asserteil itself, and our emi)ty stom- 
 achs craved animal food incessantly. I 
 grew v.-ry selfish, being so hungry ; and I 
 am ashamed to confess it, 1 sometimes ate 
 the little morsels that belonged t.. Aglae, 
 with the eagerness of a starving dog. 
 
 One morning Margot came in weeping 
 bitterly, her cap and gown torn, her face 
 scratched and bleeding, and her whole ap 
 pearance most deplorable. As soon as she 
 could calm herself sufficiently to speak, she 
 said, " O madamc ! if we all starve, I shall 
 go no more to the bureau for our rations. 
 The canaille set upon me, beat me. and 
 drove me away, calling me a servant of the 
 aristocrats. I thought they would murder 
 me, before a guard came to my assistance. 
 We must starve, for I cannot go again. O 
 Mon Dieu! when will this end?" 
 
 "God only knows, Margot," I replied, 
 with a sinking heart. " We have borne it so 
 long, we wiil bear it still longer without 
 complaining. I, for one, would rather die 
 than surrender." Although I was so hun- 
 .rrv that there seemed to be a tiger gnaw- 
 Tn-' at ray stomach, although Aglae was 
 .rrowing more feeble each day, and the poor 
 old aunt down stairs was literally dymg 
 for nourishment, yet I could not say that I 
 was willing to take food from our cneuues. 
 Margot had returned with an empty bas- 
 ket ;°and all we had in the house between 
 us and starvation was a little rice and 
 chocolate, against which our stomachs re- 
 volted. There seemed to be nothing but 
 death before us; and to that eventuality, I 
 [ was resigned ; but something within my 
 poor weak frame resisted, fiercely, the very 
 thought of surrender. So I looked at 
 I Agla'd as encouragingly as I could, and 
 ! said, " We will die together, darling, and it 
 will not be long before." 
 
 " No, it will not be long," she replied, 
 
 in a tone of such patient resignation, that 
 
 1 it touched my heart to the quick; and. I 
 
 I wept more weakly than a stoic who had 
 
For onrselvos, 
 i not care to oat 
 I'd with rice ami 
 yd: but at last 
 our eiiii)ty stoin- 
 
 incessantly. I 
 
 hun|j;ry ; am' I 
 I sometimes ate 
 longed t., Aglae, 
 irvin^ dog. 
 ame in >veeping 
 n torn, her lace 
 d her whole aj)- 
 Aa soon as she 
 itly to epeak, she 
 dl starve, I shall 
 
 for our rations, 
 le, beat me. and 
 
 I a servant of the 
 .>y would murder 
 to my assistance, 
 not go again. O 
 send?" 
 
 irgot," I replied, 
 c have borne it so 
 
 II longer without 
 Avould rather die 
 igh I was so hun- 
 be a tiger gnaw- 
 liough Aglae was 
 
 day, and the poor 
 as literally dying 
 )uld not say that I 
 from our enemies, 
 th an empty bas- 
 ,he house between 
 a little rice and 
 our stomachs rc- 
 to be nothing but 
 that eventuality, I 
 cthing within my 
 I, fiercely, the very 
 So I looked at 
 y as I could, and 
 her, dariing, and it 
 
 long," she replied, 
 nt resignation, that 
 I the (piiek ; ami . I 
 m a stoic who had 
 
 A woman's story. 
 
 91 
 
 just resolved to die should weep. After a ' reached Aglad and brought her hastily to 
 moment she said soothingly, " Let us be the stairs. " Here is meat ! hei-e is meat ! " 
 calm : bodily sull'ering is not so terrible. I j and, scarcely knowing what I did, 1 tore off 
 Lave lived through greater pain : and I have ' a mouthful of the raw horse-meat that lay 
 one thin" to be' thankful for, that is, that on the top, and devoured It eagerly. 
 
 Rhadi is not suffering with us ; he is safe, 
 and he will never know of our distress. 
 And perhaps when he learns I am dead, he 
 will forgive mo, and think kindly of me." 
 Then she burst into tears, and we wept 
 passionately together. She had not spoken 
 hia name for a long while ; neither had I, 
 for my terrible anxieties and sorrows had 
 driven him almost from my thoughts ; still, 
 I knew by that outburst, that death was a 
 consolation she desired as much as I did. 
 There would have been nothing dreadful 
 in death then ; but one cannot die of hun 
 
 Aglae seized the basket, and explored its 
 contents, crying and laughing like a child, 
 while she enunerated them, — one-half of a 
 chicken, a length of sausage, a box (if sar- 
 dines, a pot of beef extract, a slice of bacon, 
 and the cut of horse-meat I still held tender- 
 ly in ray hands. Ah, my God! these little 
 things '.,'ave us life and hope. What treas- 
 ures ! what joy ! We had wished to die : 
 we had thought we could die rather than 
 vield. But in that moment we did not see 
 our bleeding eoiuitry : we saw before U9 
 food ; we were starving, and we thought 
 
 ger while there is the least thing left to only of eating. The poor old aiuit found 
 sustain life ; and the rice and chocolate, ! strength to take a large basin of the beef 
 
 which we could not resist, did that, much to 
 our regret. 
 
 Aglae's servant had gone with tlip ambu- 
 lance corps ; it was useless to remain and die 
 with us ; Margot was too weak and fright- 
 ened to leave the house ; our last resources, 
 the rice and chocolate, were gone ; and yet 
 we could not die. 
 
 One morning, driven by the keenest 
 pangs of hunger, I went down to the jwrte, 
 which had not been opened for some days, 
 thinking I might see a guard who would be 
 willing to sell his rations for the last hun-. 
 dred francs wc had in the house. As I 
 approached the door, some one rang the 
 bell : it was a strange sound then ; and I 
 undid the bolts with eager, trembling fin- 
 gers, thinking always that relief had come. 
 
 Almost before I was visible, a hungry- 
 looking man thrust a small basket into my 
 hands, and, turning, ran swiftly toward the 
 Champs-El i/sc'es, without having said a 
 word. I was so surprised, that, instead of 
 opening the basket, I stood staring after 
 the man, who I was sure joined some one 
 standing behind a fountain on the rond- 
 point. At that momenta faint odor of 
 
 extract economically diluted, and a slice 
 of the chicken, which she devoured, 
 although she was so weak, with the eager- 
 ness of a hungry laborer. Margot made 
 a delicious ragout of the horse meat ; an<l 
 we feasted sumptuously, forgetting in our 
 selfishness those who were starving around 
 us. Neither did we fjuesiion as to where 
 it came from : we only knew we had it, and 
 that was enough. 
 
 There was something in that process of 
 slow starvation that hardened and brutal- 
 ized the best. Can we, then, wonder that 
 the degraded and ignorant became like 
 savage animals during that dreadful ordeal ? 
 
 We were bo hungry that we were not 
 prudent, and devoured almost in one day 
 the food which must have cost a small for- 
 tune, besides no end of trouble, to procure ; 
 so in a little while wo were suffering again, 
 and worse than belbre, because of the sud- 
 den stimulant our systems had received 
 from the (piantity of meat we had eaten in 
 so short a time. In the very depths of 
 our distress another basket came from the 
 same mj-sterioiis source ; and although the 
 meat was of the poorest quality, and tho 
 
 meat from the basket attracted my atten- \ smallest quantity, we welcomed it as a sal- 
 tion ; and, tearing off tho cover, I cried, i vation from the keenest suffering. I often 
 " Mon Dieu, mon Dieu ! " in a voice that i thought the most foolish things in regard 
 

 92 
 
 A WOMAN'S STORY. 
 
 to this titnelv md. Every one wax moru or 
 Ics suporstit'ious then ; and tlic feelin-^' that 
 the dear spirit of my llaoul interceded 
 with (Jod in my behalf, twk the firmest 
 possession of my mind ; for from what other 
 source could assistance come ? who was 
 there in that doomed city who cared 
 whether we lived or died? and how was it 
 possible at such a time for any one to pro- 
 cure more than enou-h for his own needs? 
 Three times life and hope came to us in 
 this mysterious way ; three times we were 
 saved 'from the keenest an;j;uish by this] 
 An^el of Mercy, and still it seemed that 
 we "were set apart for the sacrifice, with 
 hundreds of others who fell uneomplainingly 
 at that harvest of woe ; for one morning 
 A.rlac came up at <lawn of day with wild 
 eves and drawn lips, crying in piercing 
 tones "Aunt is dead 1 she died alone, 
 while I slept like a beast. She died from 
 hun<'er ; and I shall go insane, or die before 
 ni-ht, if I do not have food." We ha.l 
 caU'u nothing but a little bread for six 
 d.iys. Ulargofs hunger had overcome her 
 fid'elitv, and she too had joined the ambu- 
 lance 'corps; so we two women were alone 
 in this great, desolate house with our dead. 
 AH I could do was to pray silently while I 
 said, " Be patient, dear 1 perhaps God will 
 send us something to-day." Then, crying 
 like a sick child, I followed her down to 
 the room of her aunt, who now lay so 
 placid and smiling, — she who had hungered 
 and suffered but a few moments before. 
 Already she had eaten of the bread of 
 life ; and her shrunken old face was full of 
 contentment and satisfaction. While I 
 looked at her, something sublime entered 
 iny soul ; and I felt how little are the ills 
 of lii'e when a moment of death can cure 
 them forever. So I drew Aglac to my 
 heart, and sat down patiently beside the 
 dead, waiting for the desired consoler, who 
 reiused to come to us. We were ready, 
 we were willing ; and yet we could not die. 
 Then one of those dreailful spasms of hun- 
 ger came upon me, and I started up with a 
 new strength born of my pain ; drawing 
 Acrlao after me,l cried, " Come, we will go 
 
 into the streets, wo will go to the bureau ; the 
 people will pity us ; we are women; we are 
 starving: let us go while we have strength. 
 
 "No, no," moaned Aglae, clinging to the 
 c.ld hand of her aunt. '' 1 am too weak : 
 let me die here in peace." 
 
 Our misery had stupefied us : we had sat 
 all these hours by the dead woman, and 
 had made no preparation for her Surial. 
 
 «' It is useless to refuse : you must go with 
 me to find an undertaker," 1 said with de- 
 termination ; "we cannot leave the poor 
 ibody unburied; let us make the elfort. 1 
 I am too miserable for fear; and we may as 
 well die in the streets as to die here alone. 
 She followed me reluctantly ; and, wrapping 
 ourselves in our thickest mantles, we crept 
 out shiveringly into the desolate streets. 
 The cold wind pierced us through ; the 
 wild-eyed men and women appalled us ; but 
 still we struggled on with other starving 
 creatures toward the barrier that kept the 
 frenzied crowd away from the bureau. 1 
 shall never Ibrget the curses, the cnes, the 
 moans, of hun.lreds of poor beings whoso 
 endurance had reached the last lunit. 
 Death was written on the skeleton forms 
 of the women, dogged determination on the 
 sullen faces of the men. « We must sur- 
 render," 1 said at last, "or the Prussians 
 will have only a city of dead for their con- 
 
 *^"" My God, my God I " cried a poor wretch 
 close in my car, "two of my children have 
 starved, and I shall lose my last if I cannot 
 iret a morsel of meat to-day." The crowd 
 pressed closer and closer to the barrier; 
 and, in spite of ourselves, Aglae and 1 were 
 carried on with the others, only to be dnv- 
 en back by the stern-faced guards. As the 
 morsels of meat were passed out to those 
 who were fortunate enough to be near, the 
 si.dit of it seeme<l to iuturiate those who 
 could not reach it, »« the smell of 
 blood is said to atlect wild aniuials. Uowls, 
 shrieks, yells, and groans arose from a bun- 
 dred throats, and a hundrv^d emaciated 
 hands were stretched forth, some iinplor- 
 UvAy, some threateningly. Suddenly a voice 
 1 that sounded like the shrill ring of a clar- 
 
tothoburean; the 
 •1! w onion; wc are 
 wi! liiive 8twnt;th." 
 at', clini^ing to tlio 
 " 1 am too weak : 
 
 etl us : wc hail sat 
 (lead woman, and 
 1 for her Surial. 
 ; you must '^o with 
 r," 1 said with dc- 
 ot leave the poor 
 nake the effort. I 
 ir ; and we may as 
 3 to die here alone." 
 itly -, and, wrapping 
 ; mantles, wc crept 
 le desolate streets. 
 d us throu'^h; the 
 icn appalled us ; but 
 vith other starving 
 irrier that kept the 
 i-oni the bureau. I 
 lurses, the cries, the 
 
 poor beings whoso 
 cd the last limit. 
 
 the skeleton forms 
 letermination on the 
 in. " We must sur- 
 t, "or the Prussians 
 f dead for their con- 
 
 " cried a poor wretch 
 of my children have 
 se my last if I cannot 
 to-day." The crowd 
 loser to the barrier; 
 ves, Aglae and 1 were 
 liers, only to be driv- 
 aced guards. As the 
 3 passed out to those 
 nough to be near, the 
 3 iuturiate those who 
 , as the smell of 
 wild animals. Howls, 
 ,ans arose from a hun- 
 a hundriid emaciated 
 d forth, some implor- 
 a|rly. Suddenly a voice 
 i shrill ring of a clar- 
 
 A woman's story. 
 
 93 
 
 ion, shoute<1, " En avant 1 " A strange 
 thrill went through me as I turned and saw, 
 at the head of a frantic mob, the haggard 
 face, wild eyes, and fierce white teeth of 
 Rhadi Effendi. llefore I was fully con- 
 scious of what I had seen, before 1 could 
 express my astonishment, he had leaped 
 the barrier, and seized the hamper from 
 which an oflicur was dispensing the rations ; 
 then with a triumphant cry, and a wild 
 bound, he sjirang forward almost into the 
 arms of Aglae. A guard darted afler him : 
 there was a gleam of steel, followed by a 
 red stream, a cry of pain, a deathly pallor; 
 he looked around like a tiger at bay, the 
 food he had risked his life to obtain fell 
 from his relaxing hold, and he sank help- 
 less into our outstretched arms. The con- 
 fusion, the struggles, the shrieks, were 
 appalling. A dozen guards surrounded us, 
 and forced back the mass of human beings 
 who were fighting frantically for possession 
 of the hamper that had fallen in their 
 midst. Aglae never released her hold on 
 Khadi. She had Ibrgotten her weakness and 
 hunger ; and her face was full of courage, 
 as she said to an olHcer, " For the love of 
 Christ, do not let him die I " Something in 
 her voice touched the heart of the man : 
 he ordered a stretcher, and they laid Rhadi 
 on it. Aglae held one cold hand and I the 
 other, the guard surrounded us, the crowd 
 fell back, and we turned toward the Avenue 
 Montaigne. Ghastly forms carried by on 
 stretchers were a common spectacle then, 
 and attracted but little attention. Indeed, 
 the sight of death was rather welcome 
 than otherwise, because there remained 
 one less to feed. 
 
 The night that followed seems to me 
 now like a ghastly dream. The guards 
 were full of pity for us, showing their sym- 
 pathy by sending us a surgeon, an under- 
 taker, and what food they could procure. 
 Ah 1 how terrible was our condition when 
 these were our greatest needs I 
 
 All through the night Aglae held the un- 
 conscious form of Rhadi in her arms, and 
 the blood from his wound stained the 
 whiteness of her breast. I think hunger 
 
 and fear had turned her brain ; for she did 
 not seem to understand that ho had been 
 wounded, and was dying. She talked to 
 him incoherently of the past, never sfieiik- 
 ing of the dreadful present. She smiled 
 on liim, she I'.isscd his closed eyes and cold 
 lips; she buricil her face in his h;iir, and 
 wet it with her tears ; an<l then, se<.'ing how 
 motionless he was, she implored him to 
 smile, to speak : but there was no smile, no 
 speech ; and yet he lived. 
 
 There was no iire on the hearth, there was 
 but the faintest liglit in the solemn room. 
 The winter wind screamed and moaned 
 around the windows, making a fierce treble 
 to the hoarse bass of the cannonade, as the 
 bombardment was continued without inter- 
 mission. The skies rained shot and shell. 
 Famine and despair preyed upon the 
 doomed city, while I sat there looking with 
 dull anguish on the ghastly ftiee of Khadi, the 
 insane gesticulations of Aglae. Suddenly 
 there started up before me, in iiitiful 
 contrast, a picture of that radiant night 
 when they stood together on the balcony, 
 slie looking at the rose in her fingers, ho 
 looking at her, his brilliant face iieaming 
 with happiness ; and my llaoul was near 
 me, full of tenderness, cheerful and con- 
 tented ; the voices and laughter of our 
 friends, the bright light, the soft summer 
 air, the flowers, the music from the gardens 
 below, — my God I my God I how all have 
 changed 1 My husband dead, my Franco 
 dying, my friends dying ; no light, no fire, 
 no hope I Was it the same world V was I 
 the same woman who had loved, who had 
 been loved, and who had been happy Y 
 There was no hunger gnawing at my heart 
 then ; and yet I wept, and wished that I 
 were dead. 
 
 When the dawn came, pale with fear at 
 the sight of death and despair, Rhadi raised 
 his heavy lids, and, recognizing the face 
 bending over him, he smiled that rare, sweet 
 smile, that makes sunlight in my memory 
 even now, and murmured softly, " My dar- 
 ling, my adored ! am I with thee at last? " 
 Then, as his mind cleared, a slight shade 
 passed over his face, and he said, " I have 
 
 ■ mm^^i 
 
 J^ 
 
94 
 
 A woman's story. 
 
 never loft you ; 1 Iwvc watchod over you 
 
 tlirou-li :ill ; 1 wi^^lu-il to ifuttW with you ; 
 
 I rravc nil to profun! tooil i'oi- you ; I trii-il by 
 
 every iiiei\iis, every Hiierilke, but at the last 
 
 I i';ule(l. 1 knt.'W you were starving, mid the 
 
 8iy,ht of the i'oo.i luiKllened me. Ah ! 1 
 
 reineniher: I leaped the barrier; T seized 
 
 it for you ; 1 hehl life for you in my hand ; 
 
 then 8()uiethin;,' jiiereed me through the 
 
 Iwart, anil I fell ; but it is over now ; the 
 
 siege is ended ; wo are no lon;^er hungry •, 
 
 wu^iire happy, my beloved, we are hajipy ! " 
 
 Aglae pressed him tightly to her heart, 
 
 and said over and over, " Yes, yes, we are 
 
 happy : there is no hunger no pain ; we are 
 
 happy." 
 
 Then I heard him fay, like one talking 
 in sleep, " Cruel 1 she said 1 was cruel ; and 
 jot I have given my life. 1 loved her as 
 a Turk loves, — onee anil former ; through 
 pain, through death. How long the night 
 has been ! but now my sun t^hines, my glo- 
 rious Sim that shone upon my birth ; ami he 
 will set no more. I see his light, and 1 am 
 happy." After that all was silent. The 
 guns had ceased their sullen roar;- the wind 
 had sunk to rest ; and 1 slept, overeonie by 
 weakness and livtigue. When I awoke, the 
 sun was shining into the room. It was 
 high noon. Jlhadi slept, but never to 
 awaken. Aglae slept with her cheek 
 presHcd against his hair, and her .awakening 
 was terrible. 
 
 On the 2Sth of January, while all Paris, 
 relieved by an armistice just signed and 
 the prospect of speedy peace, buried the 
 wounds in their hearts and the dead in 
 their graves, I Ibllowed all that remained of 
 Rhadi EtVcndi to the cemetery of Pere-la- 
 Chaise. Can you wonder that 1 was a real 
 mourner, as 1 thought of what had passed 
 since the night when Kaoul brought him to 
 us. so haiulsomo, so strong, so brilliant, so 
 lull of life and hope V The dull gray face, 
 in the coflin. that I had looked upon for the 
 last time, bore little resemblance to the ex- 
 pressive features that fairly dazzled me on 
 that happy evening. He must have suf- 
 fered terribly beibre death came to his 
 relief; for his beautiful hair was almost 
 
 white, and his face was ploughed with line!'. 
 I think his pmir heart was broken Ion j be- 
 fore it was pierced with the cold steel of 
 the brutal guard. It must have been ii 
 welcome stroke that healed the deeper 
 wound, and gave him jieace at last. 
 
 AllhoM-h it has been nearly two years 
 
 since Aglae awoke to find Uhadi dead in 
 her arms, she has never left her room, never 
 ceaseil to weep for him, never ceased to 
 pray for the peace of his soul ; until four 
 days ago, the last pr.ayer was said, the last 
 tear wiped away, and the penitent, purified 
 spirit went to join his. Only yesterday I 
 saw her laiil by his side, not far from the 
 tomb of Abelard and lleloise ; and, in spite 
 of my sorrow, there wont up from my heart 
 a prayer of thanksgiving that her waiting 
 was over, that they were united forever. 
 
 I am very lonely now she is gone : my 
 rooms seem full of shadows and sighs. 
 Already scarcely a trace rem-ains of the 
 terrible conlliet through which we have 
 passed; The trees, replanted, wave in the 
 Cliamps-Eli/ae'es the flowers blossom, the 
 sun shines, the voice of strangers, mingled 
 with the strains of gay music, are heard as 
 of yore ; only here and there stands a black- 
 ened ruin, a mutilated statue, a crumbling 
 wall. The heedless passers, the triumph- 
 ant conquerors, the careless strangers, do 
 not see the graves in the green bosom of 
 our country, nor the graves in the sad hearts 
 that beat under the black robes of many 
 mourners who go about the streets. 
 
 Outwardly with me nothing is changed. 
 I still sit in my room that Raoul arranged 
 for me, listening for a voice and a step that 
 I shall hear no more. Strangers are mov- 
 ing already into Aglac's vacant apartment. 
 They will eiit and drink and laugh in the 
 rooms where the poor old aunt starved, 
 where Rhadi died, where Agla6 mourned, 
 and will know nothing of what has passed 
 there. It is well that walls are mute, and 
 can never tell what they have seen. 
 
 All that remains to me of the dear friend 
 who shared my bitter sorrows is a small 
 desk she put into my hands an hour before 
 she died. It contains a miniature painted 
 
 I 
 
ighed with line?, 
 irokon hn\i Ix- 
 10 cold stL'i'l vil' 
 !<t havo been a 
 lud the ilecpcT 
 i> at last. 
 K'ai-ly two years 
 
 Uhadi (K'ait in 
 
 her rooiii, never 
 never eeased to 
 
 soul; until four 
 vas said, llio last 
 penitent, purified 
 Only yesterday I 
 not far from the 
 )ise ; and, in spite 
 up from my heart 
 that her waiting 
 united forever, 
 she is gone: my 
 idows and sij^hs. 
 i remains of the 
 
 which we havo 
 nted, wave in the 
 vers hlossoui, the 
 strangers, min;;led 
 usic, are heard as 
 •re stands a black- 
 atue, a crumbling 
 icrs, the triumph- 
 less strangers, do 
 ) rrreen bosom of 
 is in the satl hearts 
 ck robes of many 
 he streets. 
 )thin<5 is changed. 
 It Raoul arranged 
 ice and a step that 
 Strangers are mov- 
 
 vacant apartment. 
 
 and laugh in the 
 
 old aunt starved, 
 •e Aglad mourned, 
 )f what has passed 
 alls are mute, and 
 r have seen. 
 le of the dear friend 
 sorrows is a small 
 mds an hour before 
 i miniature painted 
 
 A woman's story. 
 
 95 
 
 for Uhadi, some jewels, a faded rose, and a 
 package of which I havo spoken before. 
 Therein* nolliingof value in that crumpled 
 paper ; but the wealth of the whole world 
 could not buy it from me, — a small, white 
 glove, a plain hanilkerchief, a sprig of with- 
 ered aillet, these are all ; but they are 
 stained with his heart's blood. The sur- 
 geon ii)und them on his breast when he 
 dressed his wound. The glove and alllet 
 Aglad wore the night of our dinner ; the 
 handkerchief was the one Rhadi used to 
 wipe the wine-stains from her dress. Ah, 
 mo 1 how the faint Oriental odor about them 
 reminded me of that moment when the 
 glass fell from his fingers, scattering its crim- 
 son fluid on the three who are now gone. 
 I felt then that it was an omen of ill. I 
 am sure of it now ; for did not the cup of 
 his happiness tall and shatter l)eti)re it 
 reached his lips? and did not the red wine 
 of his life stain her heart ? I pressed those 
 mournful relics of the saddest and sweetest 
 scenes I had ever known to my lips with 
 many a sigh, and laid them away reverent- 
 ly among my dearest treasures. 
 
 There are times when I regret bitterly 
 that I ever saw Rhadi f^tfendi, or, .-ather, 
 I should say, that Aglad ever saw him ; 
 for, had it not been for that fatal passion, 
 
 she might have lived many hapjiy years, 
 allliough her |)liysician says that liiT sys- 
 teni was so weakened iiy the pi'ivalinns >he 
 snU'ered during the siege, that nothing could 
 prolong her life. They talk well, and 
 sometimes wif'ly ; but I believe, if Rliiidi 
 had lived, she would have bei'n here to-day, 
 and I should not be alone. After the ])nii]f 
 she had of his love and devotion, I lliink 
 she would havo married him without fear; 
 lor he nuist have had a noble heurt an I a 
 faithful nature to love as lie loved, ami to 
 endure what ho endured by reuiainiiig in 
 Paris through the siege, that he might be 
 near her to save her from suH'ering. He 
 must havo gone hungry himself to have li'd 
 lis ; and he must have made almost super- 
 human efforts to procure the food which I 
 thought could only have come from (Ind. 
 Well, did it not come from (lod ihrou.di 
 him V and was not Raoul glad in heaven to 
 know that some one on earth was caring 
 for usV 
 
 Poor Rliadi Etfendi ! to-day the grass 
 grows greiMi on his grave; and already the 
 vines creep from it, ami spread their licntle 
 shade over the sod that covers Aglae. He 
 was passionate, proud, and unrelenting. 
 He was a Turk ; but was ho cruel '/ I 
 leave you to be his judge. 
 
 \ 
 
 '\ 
 
 u 
 
 fc^a^ 
 
 JiiA^Vimi 
 
% 
 
 MRS. GORDON'S CONFESSION, 
 
 <♦> 
 
 " What ! eleven o'clock, and I still sitting 
 hero (lrc!iiiiin<j V Why, I am inHane, when 
 I have no end of work beforo me," said 
 the Uuv. John Henediet, as he started from 
 his conif'urtable chair before n <;lowin^ ^Vate, 
 and looked around his luxurious study 
 with a most irresolute j^lanee. It is true 
 that he had much to do ; but the brij,dit fire, 
 the quiet room, and his own reverie, were 
 more inviting than the chilly vestry where 
 the wardens of the church were then assem- 
 bled to debate a matter of imjjortance that 
 required his attendance. 
 
 For some reason this usually active pas- 
 tor was very indolent on this bright Octo- 
 ber morning ; and instead of starting off, as 
 he sjiould have done after his exclamation, 
 he dreamily let his watch slip into his 
 pocket again, and himself settle back into 
 his chair, while a pensive and thoughtful 
 expression, that betokened some interior 
 pro-occupation, fell again over his fine face. 
 It was his thirty-fifth birthday; and, inter- 
 mingled with his other thoughts and mem- 
 ories, many scenes of his past life came 
 vividly before him. It seemed to him less 
 than twenty years beforo that he had been 
 a boy in a New-England village, guiding 
 the plough with one hand, while he held a 
 hook in the other ; or, lying under the elms 
 during the harvost^noons, he had studied 
 while the other laborers slept, — a delicate, 
 thoughtful boy, orphaned and friendless, 
 bound to a hard master, who had no sym- 
 pathy for his hungry, craving heart. Loving 
 knowledge, and thirsting for it as a flower 
 thirsts for rain, he had drunk greedily every 
 drop that he could obtain, no matter from 
 7 
 
 what source. What a drurlgery his youth 
 had been I None but God hail known of 
 his sorrows, his privations, his poverty, his 
 stru^'glcswith " low birth and iron fortune." 
 Hut he ha<l conipiered most noi)]y. Self- 
 taught and sell-made, he now stood (irmly 
 on the topmost height that his ambition 
 had always aspired to. Entirely through 
 his own e.xertions, ho had gone through 
 college, and graduated with every honor. 
 lie had passed his theological examination 
 with marked success, and directly after his 
 confirmation had been called to a thriv- 
 ing church in a small but wealthy town in 
 one of the New-England States. There 
 he had labored successfully for several 
 years. Then a trip througli Europe, and 
 a year in a German University, had fitted 
 him for a wider sphere, which was soon 
 opened to him. A natural eloquence, a 
 sincere nature, a fervent piety, a profound 
 intelligence, and a tender, generous heart, 
 united to an almost faultless person, a 
 manner dignified, refined, and gentle, made 
 him one of the most popular men of his 
 time. He was the friend of the poor and 
 suffering, the fearless defender of the 
 oppressed, the eloquent denouncer of 
 hypocrisy and gilded vice, as well as the 
 welcome guest in the most refined and 
 elegant circles. For three years he had 
 presided over one of the wealthy and fash- 
 ionable churches of New York. His salary 
 was almost princely; and, in comparison 
 with the poverty of his youth, his present 
 prosperity seemed magnificent. His house 
 was furnished richly, liis servants were 
 devoted and faithful, his congregation 
 97 
 
 
 "I^SaSgJBS 
 
 iJ^^'^MJstj S ijjS.w-^^fei^^-^JiJSl '" 
 
98 
 
 MUR. OOnnoN'S CONFKaBIOV. 
 
 i r 
 
 adorcil liiiii, ami h\* rliiiiih was iiIwuvk 
 fillcil witli iiitcHi,'cnt,alt('iiilvi' wornlilpiMT!*. 
 Whiil iiKirf coiilil lie ilcNirc V Siinly lii^ 
 lini'H liiul lallfii ill |ili':wiiil pliU't'H, ami lie 
 hail a ^(Hxlly licrita'^t'. Yot on tliln OrtobtT 
 inoriiiii',', an lu^ nat niti-inir licfiirc Ii'im fire, In- 
 WHS not altdHctliiT (•(Hitciitcil ; ami lor 
 wliat rcnKon? IIo wan not roiiscioiii) of 
 liaviii^i lifi'ti r<'mi»H in any iliity. Ilisncr- 
 nion of till- pri'vioiiH day li.nl lii-iiii liHtciicil 
 to with tliu ciosi'dt nttt-ntion ; h« hail 
 prviU'litMl tVoin his hoii! to hi" linmlnMld ol" 
 iioaii-rs ; he hail cniplii'il IiIh lu-art into 
 thcirH, ami ho knew liy tin- oarnctit faces 
 and rajit divotion of many, that his 
 words had not fallen on insensible ears. 
 lie had been very aetive iltninf^ the jiast 
 week in his eharitable work. He could 
 renieiiiber with iileasiiro tho gratituile of 
 deveral ))o<)r siiflirers whom he had raised 
 from the depths with his timely aid and 
 encoiira'^enient. A volume f)f his sermons 
 which had just been published had met 
 with marked siicecss. The most captions 
 critics had dealt gently with him, and the 
 most just had found nothiii';; to condunin in 
 the dainty little Iwok that lay on nearly 
 livery study table. The day before he had 
 asked two thousand dollars of liis con;j;re^n- 
 tion for mission-work, and they hail given 
 him three. Every thing that ho had under- 
 taken prospered; success crowned every 
 effort. Then, what cause had he for dissat- 
 isfaction ? One might naturally think that 
 he had none, and yet his thoughts were not 
 entirely of a pleasant nature. In the first 
 place he was discontented with himself. 
 He feared that his prosperity was spoiling 
 him, that he was becoming less earnest, 
 lees 8elf-<lenying, less active in his Master's 
 work. Was he not one of those who had 
 come out from the world? Then, was it 
 right that he should spend so many hours 
 in fashionable circles, listening too often to 
 the senseless twaddle of manffiuvering 
 mothers and ambitious daughters, when 
 there were human woes to relieve, weeping 
 eyes to dry? Was it not his duty to 
 spend that time in seeking for his Master's 
 lost sheep ? Was it right for him to live 
 
 in luxury when thousands were hiinsTV ? 
 In fact, was it ri;.'ht for him to ppeml hin 
 youth, his hcallli, his sfien'.'th.in the feeble 
 and encrviiliiig routine of a fashinniiblu 
 church, when then! were wide Ken* to lie 
 sailed, wildernesses to be pcni'tratcd, biirn- 
 ingsands tobetrixldcii.ihat, the Lord's truth 
 might be sounded in the ears of all nations? 
 Was it not his dream onci-, — the dream of 
 his siidering boyhood, — to become a mis- 
 sionary, a pioneer of the gosfM^l.ii staiidard- 
 beuriM- in (Jod's army '! And here he wasi 
 at thirty-five, settleil down in silken ease, in 
 gilded jirosperity, tiie tlatteri'd leader of a 
 l'a^hionablu religion, — a thing that in his 
 younger days he would not have believed; 
 yet he had drifted into it, he had thought 
 that it was his placid : this morning he felt 
 that it was not. Something stirred within 
 his heart, the memory of his boyhood came 
 strong u]ion liim ; he felt a<iain the damp 
 air of (he early dawn when he leaned from 
 his window to catch the first rays of light 
 upon his book ; the hot breath of the suin- 
 mei' nixjn, while he lay under the trees and 
 read; the free, wild winds that frolicked 
 about him as he drove the cattle over the 
 hills; the scent of the sweet hay that ho 
 had mowed, and turned, and raked, drifted 
 across his face, and with it the vision of a 
 little blue-eyed girl, the only thing that ho 
 had ever loved, that had ever loved him in 
 those dreary days. His eyes filled with 
 tears when he remembered how he had 
 carried her home in his arms from tho hay- 
 field one hot July noon, her feverish cheek 
 pressed close to his, her little, hot hands 
 clinging around his neck. And then the 
 great loneliness in l\is life when she 
 sickened and died. He had loved nothing 
 so well since. " If she had only lived," he 
 had said so many times; and this morning 
 he said it again with a he.'ivy sigh. "Ah ! I 
 was better and stronger then. What am 1 
 now ? What sliall I become in a few years, 
 if I live this life of ease and luxury?" 
 Tlien another subject intruded itself, not a 
 new one, for he had often thought of the 
 same thing before. Why he had never 
 married. There were dozens of lovely 
 
 .-..iiiiii a I - 11 ^-js^— ^. • 
 
iiiKiinitK wort! liiincrry V 
 lor liiin U> p|)(>iii| hiH 
 s ctl-cii'.'tli, ill till! (ccMu 
 
 itilH- lit' It t!l»llil)||||lllu 
 WiT(^ Wirlo I<CIIH to llO 
 
 to 111' iicni'tr^iti'ij, liiirn- 
 ■M.iliiii, llic Lonrw truth 
 iliccars lit" 111! iiiitic»n(i? 
 
 II diici', — thi^ ilrniiiii (if 
 
 — to llCCOIIKt II llliM> 
 
 t' lilt! (^osfM'i, II MtamluriU 
 And liiTi' lit! wiiK) 
 liown in ."ilkrii uiihi-, in 
 11- IIiUtiTi'd Ic.uiur of a 
 , — a thinij thiit in Inn 
 iilil not Imvo l)(«lii'V(Ml ; 
 nto it, lio liiid tlioiii^lit 
 ' ; this luornin;^ ho felt 
 imctliinj; Ntirrt.il within 
 ry of his lioyhooil (•uin« 
 lu felt a'iiiin tlie dump 
 i'n when he ii-ancd fi-oin 
 1 thu first riivs of lij^ht 
 hot Iircath of thu sum- 
 lay iind«!r tlio triM's and 
 d winds that frolickiMl 
 »ve the rattli! over the 
 tho sweet hay that ho 
 rned, and raked, drifted 
 1 with it the vision of a 
 , the only thin'^ that ho 
 t had ever loved liiin in 
 His eyes filled with 
 nembered how he had 
 I his arms from the liay- 
 oon, her feverish eheek 
 s, her little, hot hands 
 i neck. And then the 
 n l^is life when she 
 He had loved nothin;.' 
 she had only lived," ho 
 mes; and this morning 
 1 a heavy 8ij;h. "Ah ! I 
 i^er then. AVhat am I 
 I become in a few years, 
 )f ease, and luxury? " 
 :t intruded itself, not a 
 1 often thought of tho 
 Why he had never 
 nrere dozens of lovely 
 
 Mn». oonnoN'8 coNFRsaiov. 99 
 
 Ijirlii in liin church, rich, ac('om|ili'<h<'d, and i Mr. Kencdict' heart had never liernrn 
 
 lasliionalily jiioiis, who imiki'd at him with beat iiiori' ijiiirkly in the pretence nf a wo- 
 
 piil't, bcscecliiiii; eyes, and nho iiirl him man : now it Hceiiied as tlmu'.di he wiiiiM 
 
 with delicate and tiallerin.; nitcntioii ; but siillbcate; and he could s<arcii control lilni- 
 
 none of tlii-m had toiU'lu'il bis ht'art, where si'lf cnou'jh to say calmly, " I am very ^lad 
 
 dwelt always iiii ideal wijmaii, the reality if my advice can be of any use to voii ; 
 
 of which he miitlit never liiul, — a stiinii,' but first tell nie, pray, wlioiii I have the 
 
 noble coul, a stately fiiturc, with the iiino- hon if iiddressin;;." 
 
 cent face of a child. "My name is (iordim, — Mrs. rmrd'in. 
 
 Tlii-re was a tap at the stiuly-clnor, and I am a straic^cr in Ni'w York. Yi^sterdav. 
 
 liis servant, cnterin;;, said, " .\ lady to see by chance, I drilleil into your church : yo;ir 
 
 you, sir: shall I fliow her in?" sermon interested nie, and awoke in my 
 
 Mr. Heneilict started like one from a heart a lunfi-sliimbcriii'i desire to do some- 
 dream, and rcplie'l inditl'erently, '• A lady: thing for others. I havi' plenty of leisure; 
 
 what name ? " 
 
 " She didn't give her name, sir; she said 
 yon didn't know her." 
 
 "Very well, iho may come In." He 
 glanced at his watch, and thought of his 
 
 and I can spare something from my income, 
 if you will kindly tell me how I am to he- 
 gin." 
 
 " With pleasure ; but flrnt, if it is not 
 presuming, may I ask you a few (pies- 
 
 vestrymen waiting impatiently for him. " I tioiis V " 
 hope she will not detain nie long," ho said, " Certainly," with a little touch of grave 
 pushing back his hair, and raising hinisidf : reticenee in her voice which Mr. Heneilict 
 to a more dignified position. Then his ' did not fail to notice. Still ho was pos- 
 cyes wandered toward an cxipiisite boii- , sessed with as strong a ilesire to know 
 (piet of rare flowers that stood near him ; something of this woman as though his 
 a rosebud was drooping, it did not touch ' whole destiny was to be left in Ikt hands, 
 the water; he leaned forward to arrange it, ! "Pardon me, if I am too curious. Aro 
 
 thinking still of the little (lower that had 
 perished so early, when the door opened 
 and the visitor entered. Rising, he went 
 toward her. Something in her face star- 
 tled him, and, almost trembling, he gave 
 her a chair. It was his ideal woman who 
 stood before him, — a beautiful, stately fig- 
 ure, with the innocent face of a child. At 
 a glance he understood that she was rich- 
 ly but simply dressed, and that she had 
 the ease and self-possession of one accus- 
 tomed to the refinement of life. She took 
 the offered chair, bowing gracefully, and 
 said with a slight tremor in her voice, 
 " Pardon my intrusion : my errand is a very 
 
 you an American by birth ? " 
 
 " I am, but I have liverl for a long time 
 abroad." 
 
 "I thouaht so from your manner and 
 speech. Did I understand you to say that 
 you were a stranger here ? " 
 
 " I have no acquaintances," she replied 
 a little sadly. " I am living at ," men- 
 tioning a jirivate hotel of the greatest re- 
 spectability ; " but I have not met any of 
 the ftimilies residing there. I suppose they 
 look with some distrust on an entire stran- 
 ger." 
 
 " I am sorry to say that it is often so," 
 he replied hesitatingly, for he scarce knew 
 
 simple one, and will not detain you long, what to say; "but you must not remain 
 
 I have a small amount to use in charity : I 
 wish you to tell me how I may expend it 
 to the best advantage." Tlie soft, gray- 
 blue eyes looked at him steadily as she 
 spoke ; and there was a grave earnestness 
 about the mouth that had appeared so 
 childishly sweet when she entered. 
 
 without friends : your life will be very lone- 
 ly. Cannot I introduce you to some whom 
 I prize very highly, and who are most at- 
 tentive to strangers Y " 
 
 "But you know no more of me than 
 others do," she said, with a faint smile; " and 
 I have no credentials of respectability." 
 
i i 
 
 100 
 
 MRS. GORDON'S CONFESSIOX. 
 
 A puddcn fear seizpil his heart. After 
 all, who was this woman that interested 
 him in such an unusual manner? She 
 was married. Was she a widow V lie 
 was <leterinined to know, ?o ho said rather 
 awkwardly, " And your husband? " 
 
 ' I have no husband." She rci)lie(l so 
 coldly and curtly that Mr. Benedict felt 
 that lie had touched an uni)leasant subject, 
 and he could have punished himself for 
 his want of tact. " I am a rude brute to 
 (luestion her in this way," he thought; 
 "but I am determined to know, and I must 
 know." 
 
 There was a moment's silence ; then she 
 raised her eyes, and, looking him in the 
 face, she said earnestly and frankly, " Mr. 
 Benedict, I have come to you because I 
 need a friend. I am respectable ; there is 
 not the slightest stain upon my character; 
 but circumstances over which I have no 
 control have isolated me somewhat from 
 society. 1 feel that I must say this to you 
 to explain my lonely position. I need 
 friends : will you take me on my own rec- 
 ommendation, and present me to your fam- 
 ily, your church ? " 
 
 "I have no liimily, madam; but my 
 church, I am sure, will welcome you warm- 
 ly-" 
 
 « No family," she repeated, with some 
 
 surprise in her voice; then a faint flush 
 spread over her face, and she arose to leave. 
 « Perhajis, when you know of something in 
 which I can be of use, you will be kind 
 enough to inform me," she said, giving him 
 her card. " I fear I have intruded too long ; 
 thanks for your kindness," and she turned 
 toward the door. 
 
 Mv. Benedict followed her in a tremor 
 of agitation. He did not wish her to leave 
 so abruptly; he had a great many more 
 things to say, but he could not detain her ; 
 so, as he opened the door, he only murmured 
 the usual conventionalities aboui being 
 very happy to be of use ; and, before he was 
 (juite conscious of what he was saying, she 
 had bowed her " Good-morning," and was 
 gone. For a moment he stood quite still 
 where she had left him, thinking, " I have 
 
 always dreamed of such a woman : how 
 lovely ! what a soul in her face ! what truth 
 in her eyes, and yet a mystery 1 Who is 
 she ? I nuist see her again : I must know 
 more of her. Then he took his hat me- 
 chanically, for the vestry meeting intruded 
 itself into his dazed mind. He '.new it was 
 long past the hour, an<l that nothing could 
 be determined until his arrival: but ho 
 might as well have remained in his study ; 
 for his usually clear mind was incapable of 
 frrasping the most simple detail. So, after 
 an hour lost in useless discussion, the mcet- 
 
 .ng adjourned until another day. 
 
 Mrs. Gordon hastened down the steps, 
 into the clear October sun*liglit, with a very 
 heavy shadow on her face. " Heavens ! " she 
 thought. " What a mistake I have made ! 
 What will he think of me ? AVhy did I 
 take it upon myself to suppose ho was mar- 
 ried ? Because clergymen at his age al- 
 most always are ; and so I thought he was. 
 Now see what my desire for action has 1('<1 
 me into! Why was I not contented to sii 
 in my room alone, and let my lifi; llowon as 
 it would, without any effort to change its cur- 
 rent? I feel the need of friends: I thought 
 that I might find them in his church. I 
 thought he was a great, noble soid, above 
 the httle suspicions and follies of society, 
 who would accept me for what I appeared, 
 and take me into his family and church as 
 a lonely, sorrowful woman should be re- 
 ceived by those who profess to follow 
 Christ's example. But he has no wife, no 
 family 1 What will he Uiink of me ? To say 
 the least, it was most indelicate to present 
 myself in that manner to an unmarried man. 
 And he will never know that I thought him 
 married. Perhaps he will think it was a 
 plan of mine : but I am foolish ; he is too 
 noble for that ; I will think no more of it. I 
 presume by to-morrow he will scarce remem- 
 ber that he ever saw me. He will not need 
 me : there must be plenty to do his charity 
 work. I will go back to my lonely life that 
 this absurd idea has disturbed for a little 
 while. Ah, my God, what a destiny 1 no 
 home, no friends, wandering from place to 
 place ; treated with suspicion and indiffer- 
 
 t 
 
such a woman : how 
 1 lii>r face ! what truth 
 a mystery ! Who is 
 r ii<^ain ; I must know 
 
 he took his hat me- 
 3try niL'cting intruded 
 iiind. He '.now it was 
 id that notliiiij; could 
 
 his arrival : but ho 
 Mnained in his study ; 
 iiind was incapable of 
 nple detail. So, after 
 s discussion, the meet- 
 nother day. 
 encd down the steps, 
 r sun*liglit, with a very- 
 face. " Heavens ! " she 
 iiistake I have made ! 
 : of me? Why did I 
 
 suppose ho was niar- 
 Tyinen at his a^a al- 
 d so I thought he was. 
 isire for action has led 
 
 1 not contented to sii 
 id let my life (low on as 
 effort to change its eur- 
 l of friends : I thought 
 liem in his church. I 
 reat, noble soul, above 
 
 and follies of society, 
 e for what I uppeared, 
 
 I family and church as 
 woman should be rc- 
 
 ho profess to follow 
 But he has no wife, no 
 le til ink of me ? To say 
 St indelicate to present 
 er to an unmarried man. 
 :now that I thought him 
 he will think it was a 
 [ am foolish ; he is too 
 
 II think no more of it. I 
 )w he will scarce remem- 
 r me. He will not need 
 plenty to do his charity 
 ck to mjf lonely life that 
 18 disturbed for a littlo 
 )d, what a destiny ! no 
 andering from place to 
 I suspicion and indiffer- 
 
 MR8. OOUDON'S confession. 
 
 101 
 
 ence, if not with cruelty and scorn ; and for 
 no fault of Miy own. Grace Gordon, lliere 
 is nothiu',' for you but [)atienee anil coura'^e." 
 She had intended to banish the recollec- 
 tion of this visit ; to think no more of it ; to 
 forget that she had been so foolish as to 
 present herself before this stranger, with 
 the double hope that she might do somi' 
 {{ood to others, and receive some gooil for 
 herself: but she coidd not, slie was so 
 angry ami mortified in thinking of the 
 wrong construction that might b'j put ujion 
 an act in itself most innocent of any sche- 
 ming. Sne was very proud, this ])oor, lone- 
 ly, friendless woman ; and her isolation 
 was owing, in a measure, to her pride. Tlie 
 second day after calling on Mr. IJenedict, 
 she sat alone in her room, copying with ex- 
 quisite skill the " Melancholy " of Uomenico 
 Feti tVoni an ivory miniature. It represents a 
 woman kneeling, her left hand supporting 
 her head, while she considers a skull atten- 
 tively ; at her feet is a palette, brushes, and 
 the fragment of a statue ; behind lier, on a 
 stand, are a globe and a clepsydra; in tlic 
 back-ground, ruins are seen. Whether it 
 was the subject of her picture, which was 
 certainly suggestive, or hi r vexed feelings, 
 I know not ; but more than once she wiped 
 away the hot tears as she continued her work. 
 She was surrounded with the evidences of a 
 rare and refined taste ; copies made by her 
 own hand of Rapliael, Fra Angelico, and Pe- 
 rugino, with carved Florentine frames, or- 
 namented the walls. The wing-footed 
 Mercury floated from a bronze pedestal ; a 
 marble copy of the Farnese Minerva, and 
 another of the bcautilul Capua Psyche, 
 rested on antique brackets ; a vase of choice 
 flowers stood near lier ; and books bound 
 in old Roman and Venetian lay on the 
 tables. A cabinet piano stood open, and one 
 of Beethoven's sonatas lay upon it as 
 though she had just left it. It was evident 
 this morning that her heart was not in licr 
 work. It did not seem to please her ; for 
 she corrected it impatiently here and 
 there, and then looked at it critically with 
 knitted brows. At last she laid down her 
 palette, went to her piano, played a few 
 
 bars, and then walkecl restlessly around the 
 room, taking up dill'cn'nt ulijecisand laying 
 them down again witii no deliniie ])iir{Mi>c. 
 Finally she selected a book, and sen led 
 herself to read, when a tap at the diMir 
 startled her, and a servant entered wiili a 
 card. She took it, and read, " IJev. ,Im1iii 
 Benedict." "Ah!" she said with a litlj.' 
 surprise in her voicis "you may show hiiu 
 in." 
 
 Mr. Bf'.'dict entered her presence willi 
 more diseoaiposure than he liked to ac- 
 knowledge to himsell'. Siie reei'iveil him 
 kindly, but he thought a little coldly, and 
 said, when he was seated, " I am very glad 
 to see you. I feared you would not have 
 time to comply with niy reipiest so soon ; lor 
 I may conclude, may I not, that you have 
 found something for aie to do V " 
 
 "I have," he replied, smiling; " l)ut to 
 tell you so is not entirely the object of my 
 visit. I wish, if you will allow me, to 
 become better ae(|uainted with you." 
 
 " Yon are very kind," she returned with 
 a slight flush. " It is |)ieasant to find any 
 one who desires my aetpiaintance." 
 
 " Are you not a little in fault yourself? " 
 he inijuired gently, as he glanced round 
 the room. " Do you not find these com- 
 panions more interesting and absorbing 
 than your fellow-creatures V You are an 
 artist ; you live in an ideal world of your 
 own ; you keep aloof from the common 
 interests of life, and then complain because 
 they do not come to you." 
 
 " Oh, no I you arc mistaken," she returned 
 warmly. " I am not morbid nor exclusive. 
 I love my fellow-creatures, and court their 
 society. They have wounded me cruelly 
 sometimes, yet I love them all the same. 
 My books, my music, my jiaintings, are dear 
 to me, it is true ; but I should devote the 
 smaller portion of my life to them, if I had 
 some human interest to occupy the other 
 part." 
 
 Mr. Benedict remained silent for a few 
 moments. His heart was full of the desire to 
 know all of this woman's history, to have 
 her whole past laid before him ; but lie dared 
 not question her, and he felt that her con- 
 
r IT -TfTM-tttm-TI «»i M-Bly 
 
 11 
 
 102 
 
 MRS. GORDON'S CONFESSION. 
 
 fidence would not be voluntary. At last make friends when one ia situated as I am 
 
 ho said, noticinj^ that her face was very 
 sad and anxious, " I hope later, when you 
 know nie better, you will speak more ireely 
 of your sorrows." 
 
 " Perhajjs so, when I have proved your 
 friendship ; but at present you must accept 
 me without e.\planation." 
 
 " I will do 80 Ireely," he replied wilh 
 deep earnestness in his tones, " contented 
 to wait if I may hope in time to win your 
 confKlence. I have known what it is to be 
 friemUess, misundertooil, and neglected. Do 
 not fear to trust me : if you are unhappy 
 let me try to make you happier." 
 
 The tears started to her eyes ; and she 
 said in a voice tremulous with emotion, 
 " It is a long time since I have spoken so 
 freely to any one, a long time since I have 
 listened to such kind words ; and I have 
 been so hungry for sympathy." Then 
 she made an etfort to regain her composure, 
 and added, with forced animation, " But 
 tell me, please, what am I to do ? When 
 am I to begin my work, and where V " 
 
 " I have thought over the matter seri- 
 ously," replied Mr. Benedict; "and it 
 seenjs to me that the most feasible plan is 
 for vou to become a member of our Char- 
 itable Association. In that way you can 
 make the ac(iuaintance of the ladies of my 
 congregation. The society meets once a 
 week in the vestry of the church. To-mor- 
 row is the day. If you will come, I will 
 introduce you to some of my best friends, 
 anil bespeak a warm welcome for you." 
 
 " Th»nk you," she said gratefully. 
 "You are kind to think of that; but are 
 you sure that I can be of any use there, 
 where so many are interested ? Would not 
 some work alone be belter for me? One 
 poor family, for example, whose children I 
 might teach and clothe." 
 
 "Under the circumstances, I think not; 
 because in that case you will be as friend- 
 less and isolated as now. I want that 
 you should make friends who will under- 
 stand and appreciate you." 
 
 " Yotn- intention is kind," she said with 
 some hcBitatioti ; " but it is not so easy to 
 
 Women do not receive each other with 
 open arms when there is the least mystery 
 or circumstance unexplained." 
 
 " But I shall present you ; and I hope 
 the confidence they have in me will estab- 
 lish you on the right footing." 
 
 " You are very good. You mean to do 
 what is best for me ; and you think this 
 is best because you do not know what I 
 have suttered before iu trying to win the 
 confidence of society : therefore I pray you 
 to be careful how you ex])ose me to fresh 
 insults." She spoke rapidly, with Hushed 
 cheeks and angry eyes; then she added 
 more gently, after a short silence, " But I 
 will trust you ; I will make one more ellbrt ; 
 and if I fail now I shall never try again." 
 " Let us hope for the best," said Mr. 
 Benedict kindly. " Say you i/ill come to- 
 morrow, and that will be the first step to- 
 ward a better state of things." 
 
 " I will come, then, with the determina- 
 tion to put aside my pride, which is a ter- 
 rible enemy to my peace ; and I will be 
 verv gentle and patient, and submit to be 
 suspected at first if I may but win confi- 
 dence afterward." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you speak so sensi- 
 bly. Weil, thuii, at one o'clock : I shall be 
 there to meet you." 
 
 "I shall not fail," she replied. Then 
 they shook hands like old iriends ; and Mr. 
 Benedict went away more interested and 
 more puzzled than before. She is young and 
 lovely ; she is alone and needs friends. I 
 would stake my life on her goodness, 
 on the purity of her character, and I am 
 seldom deceived : then why should 1 not 
 befriend her ? " Suddenly his own. years, 
 his celibacy, his position, the construction 
 that the world might put upon his conduct, 
 all came into his mind. " Nevertheless," he 
 thought, " if I can do any thing to make 
 her happier, I shall do it." 
 
 The next day Mr. Benedict entered the 
 vestry-room, where the ladies were assem- 
 bled, chattering like magpies over a table 
 covered with garments of every size, color, 
 and material that could be used for charita- 
 
 malu 
 
I 
 
 MRS. GORDON'S CONFESSION. 
 
 103 
 
 lie 18 situated as I am. 
 
 live each other with 
 
 ■e is the least mystery 
 
 [plained." 
 
 ent you; and I hope 
 
 have in me will estab- 
 
 footing." 
 
 )od. You mean to do 
 I ; and you think this 
 
 do not know what I 
 J in trying to win the 
 : therefore I pray you 
 DU ex])ose me to fresh 
 3 rapidly, with Hushed 
 syes ; then she added 
 
 short silence, " But I 
 
 make one more ellbrt ; 
 shall never try again." 
 )T the best," said Mr. 
 
 Say you ■».'ill come to- 
 ill be the first step to- 
 rf things." 
 n, with the determina- 
 
 pride, which is a ter- 
 
 peace ; and I will he 
 lent, and submit to be 
 ' I may but win conii- 
 
 2ar you speak so sensi- 
 ; one o'clock : I shall bo 
 
 1," she replied. Then 
 ke old friends ; and Mr. 
 ly more interested and 
 lefore. She is young and 
 e and needs friends. I 
 life on her foodness, 
 ir character, and I am 
 :hen why should 1 not 
 uddenly his own. years, 
 isition, the construction 
 it put upon his conduct, 
 ind. " Nevertheless," he 
 
 do any thing to make 
 I do it." 
 r. Benedict entered the 
 
 the ladies were assem- 
 ce magpies over a table 
 jnts of every size, color, 
 ould be used for charita- 
 
 ble purposed. Singling out an elegant- 
 looking elderly lady with a sensible benev- 
 olent face, lie said, bowing smilingly to all 
 as he spoke, " Will you come with me for 
 a moment, Mrs. Wynton? I should like 
 to introduce you to a friend." 
 
 Mrs. Wynton, who was president of the 
 society, laid down the report she was about 
 to read, and followed her handsome pastor 
 willingly. 
 
 As they crossed the vestry, Mr. Benedict 
 said, " The lady for whom I wish to be- 
 speak a kind welcome is a friend of mine, 
 and an entire stranger, having lived abroad 
 for a number of years. She wishes to en- 
 gage in charity work. I hope you will 
 receive her cordially, and make her feel 
 quite at home among you." 
 
 " How can you doubt it, Mr. Benedict ? 
 Are not your Iriends always welcome to 
 me?" 
 
 Mr. Benedict thanked her warmly, as he 
 opened the door of his study where Mrs. 
 Gordon was waiting. 
 
 Nothing could be more friendly and cor- 
 dial than was Mrs. Wynton's reception of 
 the stranger. Much to the satisfaction of 
 Mr. Benedict, she at once took Mrs. Gor- 
 don by the hand ; and, leading her to the 
 vestry, she presented her to every one as a 
 friend of Mr. Benedict's who had just re- 
 turned from Europe. 
 
 The lonely woman was somewhat aston- 
 ished when she found herself " taken up " 
 at once. Every one paid her the most 
 marked attention, she was so stylish, so 
 elegant, so refined, there was such an Old- 
 World air about her ; and, besides, she was 
 a friend of their dear pastor. Was she a 
 widow ? No one knew ; but they left that 
 quLstion for the future to answer. It was 
 a new and not unpleasant experience to 
 her : she watched with interest these ex- 
 travagantly dressed women, who scarce 
 ever took a needle into their jewelled fin- 
 gers to work for their own families, sewing 
 80 industriously on these coarse charity 
 garments, and listening with the deepest 
 attention to the details of some new case 
 of poverty. Mr. Benedict glanced at her 
 
 from time to time : she was sitting between 
 two ladies, her head was bent over the 
 work which seemed to absorb all her atten- 
 tion. The lady who sat on her right, lan- 
 guidly stitching a Uannel petticoat, was 
 the widow of Mr. Van Ness, " ont! of our 
 old families, you know," whispered Mrs. 
 Wynton, as she introduced her. She was 
 clotheil in crajie, the depth of the most pro- 
 found grief; yet she cast sorrowfully long- 
 ing glances at Mr. Benedict, who, she said, 
 had been a great comfort to her in her 
 affliction. " He is just perfect ; and my 
 dear husband was so fond of him," she 
 whispered confidentially to Mrs. Gordon, 
 whereupon Miss Laselle, who sat on the 
 other side, a dashing beauty, whose active 
 benevolence deceived no one, drew u|) her 
 moutl, and smiled significantly. Mrs. Gor- 
 don did not like either of these women. 
 TTie widow was too soft and cat-like ; the 
 young lady too bold and flippant. " Still 
 they are of the best society," she thought ; 
 "and I must not presume to criticise 
 them." 
 
 Once Mr. Benedict came to her, and 
 said pleasantly, " You see I was right : you 
 are already quite at home." 
 
 " Yes, for the present," she replied ; " but 
 it will not last long." Yet from that day a 
 new life opened before her. The church 
 received her. Tlie ladies visited her, invited 
 her, consulted her, and envied her. The gen- 
 tlemen admired, praised, flattered her, and 
 overwhelmed her with attention. She had 
 work enough to do, —charity-visits to 
 make, committees to consult, fairs to attend, 
 concerts to patronize, — in fact, every thing 
 that a lady of wealth and leisure engages in. 
 She sang, she painted ; and her talents were 
 always in requisition for some charitable 
 object. Then there were dinners and 
 soirees and receptions and assemblies ; and 
 she was so popular, so much the fashion, all 
 the season, that such success as hers would 
 have completely turned any other head : 
 but she went on her way serenely, not too 
 much pufled up by her triumph ; for she 
 felt that to a certain extent she was sailing 
 under false colors. Sometimes she said 
 
104 
 
 MRS. GORDON'S CONFESSION. 
 
 ' i 
 
 !l S 
 
 sorrowfully to Mr. Benedict, when he con- 
 gratulatud her on her changed life, " Yes, 
 1 nm too happy: it cannot last. It is 
 always so: I allow myself to bo happy; 
 and then I suffer terribly after." The 
 winter was almost gone, and these two per- 
 Bons had met somewhere nearly every day. 
 They had had many long and earnest con- 
 versations which had approached closely 
 to confidences ; but yet no woi-d had been 
 spoken that could throw .any light on her 
 past history. 
 
 One day Mr. Benedict called upon her, 
 and surprised her with red eyes and sad 
 face. " Are you not happy ? " he inquired ; 
 and she replied, " No, not altogether. One 
 cannot forget the past, and live only in the 
 present." 
 
 " The past is dead," he returned ; " and it 
 may be folly to rera>^mbcr too much. Your 
 present life must satisfy you: you have 
 friends in abundance." 
 
 " Friends I " she said scornfully. " I 
 have h.ad just such friends as the most of 
 these before ; and I know what they are 
 worth. Wait until something liappens, 
 and then see who will stJind by me." 
 
 " But nothing will happen," he returned 
 encouragingly. 
 
 " Yes, there will : I know it. I am sure 
 some trouble is approaching : I am never 
 happy long ; but you, my best friend, you 
 will never desert me, no matter what 
 comes V " Then she covered her face with 
 her hands, and burst into tears. 
 
 Mr. Benedict was more distressed than 
 surprised ; and his tender soul was full of 
 love and pity for her. In that moment he 
 felt that nothing could separate them ; so, 
 taking her hands in his, he said firmly, •' I 
 promise you, by the God I love, that I will 
 never forsake you." Tlien he would have 
 saitl more : the words were on his lips that 
 he had been longing to speak for some 
 months ; but she drew her hands away, 
 crying earnestly and imperatively, " Go, 
 Mr. Benedict ; go, or I shall lose my only 
 iriend I " 
 
 He looked at her imploringly, bis heart 
 too full to speak ; but she only insisted the 
 
 more, 
 bio. 
 
 and he went 
 
 away very misera- 
 
 It was Miss Laselle who first said to Mrs. 
 Van Ness, " I'll bet my new saddle-horse 
 against your phaeton, that Mr. Benedict 
 will marry Mrs. Gordon. My Kate has a 
 sister who is a servant in the house where 
 she lives, and she says that Mr. Benedict 
 is there half of his time." 
 
 Mrs. Van Ness turned as white as her 
 widow's cap, and then laughed a little soft 
 laugh, "Oh, my dear I you are late with 
 your news. I saw how that would end 
 from the first, and told Mrs. Wynton so. I 
 believe they were engaged in Europe.'? 
 
 " Tlien some of my friends have wasted 
 their time in fishing for him all winter," 
 returned Miss Laselle spitefully. 
 
 " Yes, I have thought so," said Mrs. Van 
 Ness, with treacherous calm. " However, 
 she has secured the prize : nothing suc- 
 ceeds so well as a little mystery. Who of 
 us know any thing of this Mrs. Gordon, 
 who she is, where she came from, and 
 whether she ever was man-ied or not? 
 She never speaks of her husband, when ho 
 lived, or when ho died. No one knows any 
 thing of her except Mr. Benedict, and he 
 is as impenetrable as a sphinx." 
 
 " I have wondered, more than once, at our 
 set taking up a person we knew so little 
 of. In my opinion Mr. Benedict is no bet- 
 ter acquainted with her past than we are. 
 I had it from the best authority, — Miss 
 Laselle's coachman got it from Mr. Bene- 
 dict's servant, — that Mrs. Gordon pre- 
 sented herself at the rectory an entire 
 stranger." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " cried Mrs. Van Ness, full of 
 righteous indignation, " how we have been 
 imposed upon, and by Mr. Benedict 
 too t I must go and tell Mrs. Wynton at 
 once, so she will not waste her kindness on 
 an adventuress." 
 
 "Bah!" said Miss Laselle scornfully, 
 " she knows it. I told her my opinion ; but 
 she thinks her perfect, and won't believe 
 a word without proof. For Heaven's sake, 
 Fanny Van Ness t don't say a word until 
 after to-morrow evening. I want her to 
 
 I 
 
 m' trni 
 
VMpn 
 
 I 
 i 
 
 kway very misera- 
 
 lio first said to Mrs. 
 r new sadille-ljorse 
 that Mr. Benedict 
 1. My Kate lias a 
 n the house where 
 tliat Mr. Bi-oedict 
 
 'A as white as her 
 aughed a little soft 
 you are late with 
 w that would end 
 ^Irs. Wynton so. I 
 ;ed in Europe.'? 
 I'iends have wasted 
 )r him .a'.l winter," 
 litefuliy. 
 
 so," said Mrs. Van 
 calm. " However, 
 rize : nothing suc- 
 mystery. Who of 
 this Mrs, Gordon, 
 3 came from, and 
 man'ied or not? 
 • husband, when he 
 No one Itnows any 
 •. Benedict, and he 
 iphinx." 
 re than once, at our 
 
 I we knew so little 
 Benedict is no bet- 
 past than we are. 
 authority, — Miss 
 it from Mr. Bene- 
 Mrs. Gordon pre- 
 rectory an entire 
 
 •8. Van Ness, full of 
 how we have been 
 jy Mr. Benedict 
 
 II Mrs. Wynton at 
 ite her kindness on 
 
 Laselle scornfully, 
 er my opinion ; but 
 and won't believe 
 ?or Heaven's sake, 
 t say a word until 
 g. I want her to 
 
 MRS. GOnDON's CONFESSION. 
 
 105 
 
 /■, 
 
 sinff at my reception : after that the expose 
 may come, for all I <^m. She slia'n't im- 
 pose upon us, even if Mr. Benedict <loes 
 marry her," 
 
 The next evening Mrs. Gordon, all un- 
 conscious of the storm that was brewing, 
 walked serenely tlirouj^h Miss Lasellc's re- 
 ception-rooms to the liostess, who stood 
 with her father, receiving their guests. 
 " How lovely she is this evening ! " was whis- 
 pered on all sides; and indeed she was 
 lovely. She wore a dress of amethyst- 
 colored velvet, trimmed with rich white lace ; 
 amethyst and pearl ornaments ; and a heavy 
 coronet of purple and white pansies on lier 
 hair. Mr, Benedict felt a thrill of pain as he 
 looked at her : she was lovely, she was pale 
 and sad, and she wore colors of purity and 
 sorrow. Why had she selected that drass 
 for such an evening ? Was it accident, or 
 was it design ? She sang more exquisitely 
 tlian ever ; unconscious that it was the last 
 time she should sing to these hypocritical 
 flatterers, who gathered around her, charmed 
 in spite of themselves. Later in the even- 
 ing, she stood quietly talking to Mr. Bene- 
 dict, who, almost forgetting the argus eyes 
 of society, had hovered around her all the 
 evening. She was very happy for the mo- 
 ment: she had floated away from her old 
 sorrows, and now resigned herself to this 
 new breeze and tide of happiness. Mr. 
 Benedict loved her, — his every act, look, 
 and tone told her so. And she ? A woman 
 must be silent until a man speaks. He had 
 just said softly, " May I come to-morrow, 
 at three ? I must speak with you alone," 
 when Mrs. Van Ness led up a gentleman, 
 saying, " Mrs. Gordon, may I introduce my 
 friend ? " Their eyes met : the man 
 flushed crimson ; she turned deathly white, 
 and instinctively put out her trembling 
 hand for Mr. Benedict, who had turned 
 away at that moment, without noticing her 
 emotion. So she stood alone in the face of 
 her enemies ; and, knowing it, she called up 
 all her pride and courage, drove back her 
 trembling and pallor, and addressed the 
 disagreeable intruder calmly. Mrs. Van 
 Ness's snaky eyes were fixed upon her ; but 
 
 she bore their gaze without flinching; talk- 
 ing with her usual grace and case, as Ion" 
 as eti(|uette demanded. 
 
 A half hour later Mr. Benedict looked 
 among the crowd for Mrs. Gordon ; but she 
 had gone, anil gone without a word to bur 
 host and hostess. 
 
 It was Mrs, Van Ness, who, the next 
 morning, said curtly and cruelly to Mis. 
 Gordon, while she looked her full in the 
 face, " How long since you lost your hus- 
 band ? " 
 
 Mrs, Gordon started like one who had 
 received a blow, turned pale and red by 
 turns, hesitated, and then replied in a hard, 
 constrained voice, " Eight years." 
 
 " Eight years I you were a widow very 
 young." 
 
 " I was married at seventeen." 
 
 " AVliere did your husband die ? " contin- 
 ued Mrs. Van Ness, looking triumpliantly 
 at the face that seemed to be settling into 
 stone under her gaze, 
 
 Mrs. Gordon did not reply to this refine- 
 ment of cruelty ; but, rising suddenly and 
 haughtily, she said, " Excuse me, Mrs. Van 
 Ness: I believe our business is finished. I 
 wish you good-morning;" and before the 
 widow had recovered from her surprise, she 
 had left the room. 
 
 " It is true ; yes, it is true," exclaimed 
 Mrs, Van Ness joyfully, as the door closed 
 upon her visitor : " I knew she was an ad- 
 venturess," 
 
 Poor Mrs, Gordon walked out into the 
 sunlight like one blind. She had expected 
 this ; yet, when it came, it shocked her as it 
 always did. She was one of a purchasing 
 committee with Mrs, Van Ness ; and some 
 days before, she had made the appointment 
 with her for that morning, which she did 
 not fail to keep, in order that she niiulit 
 know the worst. If this man had betrayed 
 her secret, she would know it at once. She 
 did not remain long in doubt ; for Mrs. Van 
 Ness's manner, when she entereil the room, 
 told her more plainly than words that she 
 knew ail. They had arranged their ac- 
 counts, and finished their business, before 
 Mrs. Van Ness put the questions that shat- 
 
 ^ff1gg0fit i&tmt 
 
 !-"!i»"l ' . W 
 
106 
 
 MR8, GORDON'S CONFESSION. 
 
 ' 
 
 tt'i-ed nil her hopes at one Wow. She went t" " Calls herself— ! do not understand 
 home, and went to hed with a siek and sore ' you," and he looked*in(iuirin;,'ly from ono 
 heart. Mr. Benedict eanie at three : she | to the other. 
 
 could not see liini. What ri^ht had she to " Coine with me, Mr. Benedict," said 
 sec him V How dare .xhc love him V Sliepira. Wynton, turning' towards the door, 
 could not see him a'^'ain. Her happiness i He followed her, filled with surprise, to a 
 was over. Kvery thing was over. Sht; ' small room known as the pastor's study. 
 
 must go away, just as she had gone aw.iy 
 from so many other jdaees. So she wept 
 and moaned through the day, and scarce 
 slept until dawn. It was late when she 
 arose, and the morning of their charity- 
 school. She would go as usual, and see if 
 they all knew her secret. But she had not 
 been there ten minutes before she was sure 
 that every lady who had been her friend 
 was intbrmcd of her past history. Mrs. 
 Van Ness turned her back upon her ; Miss 
 Laselle looked her steadily in the face, 
 without making the least sign of recogni- 
 tion ; and the others drew away trom her, 
 and whispered apart, as though she were in- 
 fected with some contagious disease. She 
 had ii class of little German girls whom she 
 taught to sew : they loved her dearly, and 
 gathered around her with kisses and smiles. 
 This morning she drew them closer, an<l 
 tried to get some comfort from their inno- 
 cent art'ection. " Ah, little Gretchen, how 
 haiijiy you are ! " she said to a llaxen-haired 
 child. The pretty creature leaned lovingly 
 against her shoulder. Mrs. Gordon laid 
 her cheek on the soft curls, and almost 
 sol)bed in her distress. Mr. Benedict was 
 not there : perhaps he would not come ; per- 
 haps she would never see him again. How- 
 ever, she was too uidiappy to stay ; so she 
 kissed the rosy little faces, and went away^ 
 leaving a tear on more than one soft cheek. 
 But she had scarce gone, when Mr. Bene- 
 dict came. Looking around, and not seeing 
 lier, he feared she was ill ; so he went straight 
 to a side room, where Mrs. Van Ness sat with 
 a grouj) of ladies, and asked rather excit- 
 edly, " Has Mrs. Gordon been here this 
 morning V " 
 
 Mrs. Van Ness drew herself up haugh- 
 tily, and rei)lied, " Yes, Mr. Benedict : the 
 
 There Mrs. Wynton closeil the doo> ; and, 
 looking him full in the face, she said, "Did 
 you know any thing of this woman when 
 you presented her to us as your friend ? " 
 
 " If you refer to Mrs. Gordon," lus re- 
 l)lied sternly, " I did : I knew that she was 
 a noble, good woman, who had suflered for 
 no fault of her own ; and she w my friend, 
 — a friend whom I love and esteem deeply." 
 " O Mr. Benedict ! how you have been 
 deceived ! " cried Mrs. Wynton wrathfuUy. 
 " Slie is an impostor, an adventuress. Her 
 name is not Gordon, and she is not a 
 widow." 
 
 " How do you know this ? How can 
 vou prove it ? " said Mr. Benedict, almost 
 beside himself. 
 
 " A friend of Mrs. Van Ness, who knew 
 her years ago, recognized her last night at 
 Miss Laselle's reception. He spoke to her, 
 and she almost fainted. Mrs. Van Ness 
 could not get the whole story from him, 
 but he told her enough. He says she is 
 deceiving us all " — 
 
 " I cannot believe it, I will not believe 
 it," interrupted Mr. Benedict. " I will 
 stake my life on her goodness, on her truth. 
 You are a noble-hearted woman, Mrs. 
 Wynton: do not condemn her until you 
 know all. Wait until I hear her history 
 from her own lips. I pray, I entreat, that 
 you will remain her friend until you heai 
 from me. I am sure she is innocent ; and 
 I will convince you, if you will only stand 
 by her in this trial.'' 
 
 Mrs. Wynton loved her pastor dearly: 
 besides she was, as he had said, a noble- 
 hearted woman ; so, seeing him in such a 
 terrible state, she tried to soothe and com- 
 fort him, telling him that she would believe 
 every thing he wished, and that in any case 
 
 person who calls herself Mrs. Gordon has ' she would stand by the poor thing. 
 
 been here." I The ai'ternoon of the same day, Mrs. 
 
 «pi Ti"~ - J ! I J |M . W»*WiM 
 
 ■Mta 
 
tlo not understand 
 ntjuirin^ly I'roin oiio 
 
 Jr. Benedict," saiil 
 towards the door, 
 1 with surprise, to a 
 1 the pastor's study, 
 losed the doo' ; and, 
 fiiee, she said, " Did 
 if this \voinan when 
 s as your iViimd ? " 
 [rs. Gordon," ]w rc- 
 I knew that she was 
 who had sudered for 
 ind she w my friend, 
 ? and esteem deeply." 
 how you have been 
 . Wynton wrathfuUy. 
 in .idventuress. Iler 
 , and she is not a 
 
 w this? How can 
 Mr. Benedict, ahnoi^t 
 
 /"an Ness, who knew 
 .zed her last nir;ht at 
 tn. He spoke to her, 
 ed. Mrs. Van Ness 
 hole story from him, 
 igh. He says she is 
 
 it, I will not believe 
 Benedict. " I will 
 oodncss, on her truth, 
 iarted woman, Mrs. 
 ndemn her until you 
 il I hear her history 
 [ pray, I entreat, that 
 friend until you heai 
 ! she is innocent ; and 
 if you will only stand 
 
 id her pastor dearly: 
 he had said, a noble- 
 seeing him in such a 
 ed to soothe and com- 
 that she would believe 
 i, and that in any case 
 ;he poor thing, 
 the same day, Mrs. 
 
 MRS. GOUDON'8 CONFESSIOX. 
 
 lOT 
 
 <^ 
 
 ) t 
 
 Gordon lay on her sofa, pale, sorrowful, 
 and anxious, trying to arrive at some de- 
 cision respecting her future. " In any 
 case," she rcpeateil over and over, " I 
 must go away. I cannot remain here : I 
 can never sec these people again. Oh, 
 what folly for me to imagini^ that I might 
 be happy ! My misfortunes follow me every- 
 where ; and there is no real friendship in 
 the world. All those who appeared to love 
 me, who flattered and atlmircd me, have 
 turned their backs upon me as though I 
 were a criminal." Then she thought of 
 Mr. Benedict, and an unbidden tc^ar rolled 
 down her pale cheek. " Will he remain 
 true ? Will he keep the promise he made ? 
 1 ihink he will ; but to retain hlui as my 
 friend will injure him in the estimation of 
 these ])eople whom I have deeeiveil. It is 
 true I have deceived them ; but how could 
 I help it? how could I help itV" Then 
 she burst into tears, and wept freely ; after 
 which she was calmer. She had asked 
 herself twenty times through the day, if he 
 would come; and at last, when she had 
 almost ceased to hope, he came. He was 
 very grave, and resolved to know all, even 
 a little severe in his determination ; but 
 when she raised her soft blue eyes to his, 
 with their childish, innocent expression, a 
 thrill of tenderness went through his heart. 
 A smell of new-mown hay, the dreamy 
 languor of a July noon, a hot little cheek 
 pressed to his, smote him to weakness ; and, 
 before he well knew what he was doing, he 
 had seized her hands, and was vehemently 
 pouring out the story of his love. • He 
 called her Grace, his adored, his cherished ; 
 the only woman he had ever loved, the 
 only woman he ever could love ; and sl.o 
 listened pale and terrified. At last she 
 wrenched her bands away from his clasp, 
 and cried, " O Mr. Benedict 1 stop, I im- 
 plore you ! You must not speak these words 
 to me: 1 must not hear them. I have 
 deceived you ; for aught I know, my hus- 
 band is still living." 
 
 Mr. Benedict started up, stunned, con- 
 fused, almost stupid, and stood looking at 
 her as though he scarce understood her 
 
 words. At last, sighing heavily, ho turned 
 toward tlii^ door. 
 
 " Ah, you will go ! " she cried, " my con- 
 fession will drive you away; you, too, will 
 desert mc, as all the others have, — reuu-m- 
 ber you ])romised by the (loil you love." 
 
 He stood irresolute, terrified by the 
 strength of his emotions. " It was a sol- 
 emn promise," he thought: "no, I will 
 never desi^rt her." Then ho sat down 
 near her, ami saiil as calmly as he could, 
 " No, Grace, I will never forsake you : I can 
 still be your friend. Now tell me all." 
 
 " I must go back," she said with a gasp, 
 " a long way back. I was so young when I 
 married, only seventeen, and neither father 
 nor mother 1 " she looked at him appealing- 
 ly. "You know what it is to be without 
 father and mother. Besides, I had a little 
 fortune, and you know also how that 
 attracts. I met my husband at a ball. Ho 
 was older than T, but so handsome 1 so ele- 
 gant 1 I loved him : yes, 1 am sure 1 loved 
 him then. In less than a month after I met 
 him, we were married. I lived with him two 
 years, — two years of fashion, luxury, and 
 folly, and I only a child. My fortune was se- 
 cured to me in charge of a guardian until I 
 was twenty-five. My maiden name was 
 Grace Gordon Barrett. My husband's name 
 was Edward Tremlett." 
 
 " Edward Tremlett, the bank defaulter ! 
 Is it possible?" cried Mr. Benedict in 
 astonishment. 
 
 "I see you remember the sensation of 
 eight years ago. You know how he dis- 
 appeared with his ill-gotten gains, no 
 trace of him ever having been discovered. 
 Then he died to me; and I, deserted, 
 heart-broken, and ruined, died to all my 
 former friends. My only uncle, who was 
 my guardian, took me abroad ; and we 
 lived for four years in Germany. There I 
 adopted my middle maiden name, that 
 I might the better conceal myself from all 
 who had ever known mc. While my 
 uncle lived, I was as hapi)y as one could bo 
 alter such a terrible experience ; but when 
 he died, four years ago, and left me alone, 
 my troubles began. I was too young to 
 
 ,:i#?aag^jij.'s 
 
 ran'-^- « ~ii-Xit- 
 
108 
 
 MRS. GOHDON'8 CONFESSION. 
 
 
 i 
 
 wander nlioiit tlio wnrM, with no ono to 
 pmtopt luo ; anil wIktcvit I wi-nt I crcatcil 
 BMs|iicii)ii. Even my diaiv^c ol' name told 
 a;;ainst mc ; l)iit how could I retain a name 
 that liad been so diMlionored ? In the 
 most imexpi'ctcil jilacesi, at tho most unex- 
 pected times, some one would appear hefure 
 me who recojinized me as Miss IJarrett. 
 A;,'aiii another who knew me as Mrs. 
 Tremlett. For that reason, I could not 
 remain lon|4 in one place. 1 grew weary 
 ■with wandering, and at last decided to 
 return liome. I hoped that ei-^ht years 
 liad chau;j;ed me so that 1 would not be 
 easily recognized. I Bhunned the society 
 that I hail associated with as Mrs. Tremlett, 
 and tried to make friends in another set. 
 You must not think me better than I am. 
 When 1 went to you, it was not so niueli 
 from a desire to en;^agc in some charitable 
 work as to make friends through your inlhi- 
 cnce. I have been very hajjpy since I 
 knew yon, until night before last, when I 
 met face to face an intimate friend of my 
 husbanil, who recognized me at once, but 
 who was pitiful enough not to ex])ose me 
 on the spot. I felt instinctively that Mrs. 
 Van Ness, in spite of her kindness, was atl 
 enemy. I saw her silent exultation when 
 she discovered my confusion, and I knew 
 that my secret was in bad hands. Now I 
 am convinced of it; and the others, not 
 knowing the circumstances, look upon me 
 as a criminal. They, and perhaps you, 
 will accuse me of falsehood, because I left 
 the impression that I was a widow. I told 
 you that I had no husband. I have none : 
 he died when he deserted me with an odious 
 Btain upon his name. M;s. Van Ness 
 asked me impertinently, bow long a time 
 it had been since I lost my husband. I 
 replied ' Eight years ; ' and that also was 
 true. I lost him more entirely than 
 though the grave had hidden him from me. 
 But perhaj)s you will see only equivocations 
 in all that. Now I have nothing more to 
 confess. You arc the first person to whom 1 
 have laid bare my heart since I lost my 
 uncle. Explanations often are of little usjj. 
 Each one prefers his own construction to 
 
 tho most lucid information ; but T believe 
 J cm to be an exi'ej)tion. I have told you all 
 because I still desire your friendship, your 
 esteem ; but love, — there can be no love for 
 me ; you must never speak of it .again." 
 Then she covered her face, and sobbed bit- 
 terly. 
 
 Mr. Benedict took her trembling hands 
 in his, and said very gently and ealndy, 
 though his heart was bleeding within him, 
 '' My dear child, I thank you for your con- 
 fidence, it might liiivo been better if you 
 had told me all before. I believe in you, 
 and trust you, as I have done from the first 
 moment I saw you. There is but one thing 
 to blame, — the mistake which you have 
 allowed because you thought it best. Had 
 I known your true position, I never should 
 h.ave encouraged a passion which I fear I 
 shall find it dillicult to conipier. However, 
 with God's help, I hope to do it in time, — to 
 become only your friend, your true friend, 
 your father, your brother, — what you will. 
 I shall never change towards you ; but out- 
 wardly I cannot be the same. I cannot 
 see you at present as often as I hivve done : 
 1 cannot expose myself to the j)leasure of 
 your society." 
 
 " I know it, I know it," she interrupted. 
 " What shall I do ? Where shall I go ? " 
 
 " Nowhere : remain here, and live this 
 down." 
 
 " That is impossible. I Lave not a friend 
 besides yourself." 
 
 " Mrs. Wynton will be your friend : she 
 h.as promised." 
 
 "Put of kindnpss to you : that cannot be. 
 I must go where I am not known." 
 
 " Do nothing rashly. Remain here for 
 the present; and I will explain whiit is 
 necessary. There are some who will be 
 kind to you." 
 
 " No, no," she cried passionately. " I 
 have done no wrong ; I will not be the object 
 of their commiseration." 
 
 Mr. Benedict talked with her for some 
 time, trying to strengthen and encourage 
 her. When he left her, promising to see her 
 again in a few days, she appeared calmer, 
 and more resigned to her position. 
 
tion ; l))it T hplicvc 
 I liavi' told yini all 
 ur lVii'ii(l>liii>, your 
 •f I'iin 1)0 MO love for 
 peak of it a;fiiiii." 
 ICC, and wibbcMl liit- 
 
 ■r tri'iiiblin;; hands 
 fi-ntly and calndy, 
 'udin^ within him, 
 : yon for your eoii- 
 bui-n belter if you 
 I believe in you, 
 done from the first 
 uro is but one tliin;^ 
 e which you liavo 
 lu^^ht it best. Had 
 ion, I never should 
 lion which I fear I 
 onquer. However, 
 odoit in time, — to 
 , your true friend, 
 r, — what you %vill. 
 'ards you ; but out- 
 
 same. I cannot 
 en as I have done : 
 to the j)leasure of 
 
 t," she interrupted, 
 here shall I go ? " 
 here, and live this 
 
 1 have not a friend 
 
 le your friend : she 
 
 ou: that cannot be. 
 ot known." 
 
 Remain here for 
 11 explain what is 
 some who will be 
 
 passionately. " I 
 dll not be the object 
 
 with her for some 
 len and encourage 
 )romising to see her 
 I appeared calmer, 
 r position. 
 
 MRS. OOUDON'S CONFF.asioy. 
 
 ino 
 
 The ni;:ht that followed was a nii;ht of 
 severe conflict to the nobli'-hoartccl man. 
 lie loved this woman with the first, the 
 only love of his life ; and shi' was separated 
 from him by an insnrmoimtable l)arrier. 
 It was a sin to think of her with love. The 
 necessity of giving her up, of crushing his 
 new-l)orn hope to (U'alh, was not the most 
 ])ainful thing to him. It was the thou<j;ht 
 of her loneliness, her suffering, her great 
 ni'i'd of friends ; and he could not even offer 
 her the sympathy that filled his heart be- 
 cause of the wicked and suspicious world. 
 II(' thought of her with infinite sorrow and 
 jiity. He thought of liis own disappoint- 
 ment with regret, of his future struggle 
 with anxiety. " After all," ho said, " com- 
 pareil with the lofty aim of my lift-, a disap- 
 pointed love is but a little thing. I will 
 try to do my duty, and leave the result to 
 God." 
 
 Tlic next day he had a long conversation 
 with his friend, Mrs. Wynton, during which 
 he explained all the peculiar circumstances 
 of ^Irs. Gordon's life; and she was satisfied 
 with the explanation : having no selfish 
 motive in her affection for her pastor, she 
 was prepared to be just toward the friend- 
 less woman. " Trust all to me," she said 
 kindly to Mr. Benedict as he was leaving : 
 " I will see that all mistakes arc rectified. 
 She shall never need a friend while I live." 
 Mr. Benedict pressed her hand gratefully, 
 and went away happier. 
 
 Mrs. Wynton was not idle. In three 
 days she made quite a revolution in Mrs. 
 Gordon's favor ; put Mrs. Van Ness down, 
 and silenced Miss Laselle so effectually, 
 that both were almost ready to receive her 
 as they had done. 
 
 " Ah I you are a powerful champion," 
 said Mr. Benedict thankfully to Mrs. Wyn- 
 ton, who had come to the rectory to impart 
 her success to him. " I must see the poor 
 child, and tell her of your goodness: it will 
 comfort and encourage her." While no 
 spoke, a servant handed him a note. He 
 opened it, and read with a blank face the 
 following lines from Mrs. Gordon : — 
 
 " I cannot go away without thanking you 
 
 for your kindness, without saying good-by. 
 Your ailvice for me to remain here was, 
 l)erhaps, ^ood ; but I cauni>t feel so at pres- 
 ent. It is best for both that we should 
 meet no more. I go to hi(U' my sorrow and 
 disgrace iimong strangers. If, in the future, 
 I know myself free, I will come to you 
 again ; until then, think kindly of me, and 
 ]im\ for me." Without a word he gave 
 the note to Mrs. Wynton ; an<l, sinking into 
 a chair, he ))urst into tears. 
 
 A year passed away, — a long, weary year 
 to Mr. Benedict, bringing no news of Mrs. 
 Gordon, no cure for his love, no forgctfiil- 
 ness of her. He thought of her constantly 
 when alone and unoccupied. He had tried 
 in vain to discover her retreat. He longed 
 intensely to see her again, if only once. Ho 
 had grown so thin, pale, and melancholy, 
 that his church, not knowing his secret, 
 thought him overworked, and proposed a 
 trip abroad for the next summer. Mrs. 
 {Jordon had already dropped out of the 
 memory of nearly all who had known her ; 
 but she still reigned supreme in his heart, 
 and he had no power to banish her. Ho 
 worked with more zeal, more energy, 
 preached with deeper meaning and force ; 
 went less into fashionable society, and more 
 among the poor ; was as poi)ular as ever, 
 as successful, as prosperous : but something 
 had gone out of his life. He felt as he diil 
 afler he lost the little blue-eyed darling of 
 his boyhood, — an inexpressible loneliness 
 and dreariness. One evening, late in 
 March, he sat before his study-fire, dream- 
 ing, as he of\cn did, of his lost happiness, 
 when a servant came to say that ho was 
 called to see a dying man at a neighboring 
 hotel. The person who had como for 
 him was waiting in the hall as he 
 went out. " I could not go, sir," he said, 
 " until you went with me ; for I prom- 
 ised the poor gentleman not to come back 
 without a minister." 
 
 " Has he been ill long ? " inquired Mr. 
 Benedict, as he hurried into the street. 
 
 " I can't say, sir. He was brought to 
 the hotel yesterday from a South-Ameri- 
 can steamer." 
 
 m 
 
 'ammwj. 
 
 i uim.'J | 'ji'jul.Aju 3g 
 
110 
 
 MU9. OOnnON'S CONFKSSIOy. 
 
 .. II„, hP no fn..n.l« >vith Imn ? " I rcmaiu.-l, .....k forfilvcncHS of God, ami .li« 
 
 . N 1 : 1. Havs he has not a friend in ' in ...u.. 1 .l.on.l.t to have liv.l lon,..r 
 
 .. ' I than lliii* : now 1 l«now nnotlu-r honr will 
 
 ^r' IW^li... ..n,or...l .h. Hilont, .lin.ly- ' .m,! all. In my trnnks an- pap.Ts that will 
 
 ,y .,...1 roon. .aaiy ; .or a lon.^y .loath. In-.l | ox,Iain every thin, = .ee that J^-.-v -c 
 
 hail a norrowl'nl niranin'^' for him 
 
 The dyiri'/ man, who was emaciated to a 
 fri;:littiil deL'ree, and jrhactly jiale, tinned 
 his dull eyes toward Mr. Benedict as he 
 npiiroached the lied, ami said in a weak, 
 but thankful voice, " I am ho i^lad you have 
 come t I suiniose it'.s ehildi^h, l)Ut I can't 
 bear to die alone." Tlien lie motioned the 
 servant to leave the room, and added, 
 " Come nearer : 1 want to tell you who I 
 am ; hut first take my hand, an<l promise 
 me that you will stay with mo until all is 
 
 over." 
 
 Mr. Benedict did as ho requested. 
 " Now," he said, " hold my hand tightly 
 in yours, and jiray to (Jod lor nic ; for I am 
 a great sinner, and I want to be forgiven : 
 but how am I to ask for it V " 
 
 "If you had oiTended a dearly-loved 
 father, you woul<l know how to approach 
 hlra. Go to God in the same way," replied 
 Mr. Benedict gently. 
 
 " 1 liave so little time 1 I am cold : my 
 Bi-rht is failing. O God ! can you hear 
 meV But first I must confess all to you. 
 l)o you remember the hank defiiulter, who, 
 oi'dit years ago, ruined hundreds?" 
 l^lr. Benedict bowed his head silently. 
 "1 urn he, — Edward Tremlett. Can 
 there be mercy for one who wronged and 
 ruined so many V " 
 
 Mr. Benedict was almost overcome by 
 this revelation ; liut he said with calmness, 
 " Yes : there is mercy for you, <br all. You 
 are weak, you arc helpless, you need 
 strength ; then lean hard on God." 
 
 " I have tried to find forgiveness. I have 
 suffered and repented. I have longed all 
 these years to return, to give myself up, to 
 restore my ill-gotten wealth ; but fear and 
 pride have prevented me. At last I knew 
 I had but a little time to live, —the fever of 
 remorse has consumed mo ; and I felt that 
 I must return, throw myself on the mercy 
 of those 1 have wronged, restore what 
 
 given into proper hands. I hope those 
 whom I have injureil will forgive me when 
 I am dead, and pity me for what I have 
 snll'ered. My memory is leavin,' me ; there 
 are other thin;;s that I would say, but 1 can- 
 not think now. Oh I show me how to find 
 (iod before it is too late." 
 
 " I will pray for you ; pray with mo for 
 yourself; " and sinking on his knees, while 
 iie still held fast to the damp, cold hand, 
 Mr. Benedict poured out his soul in plead- 
 ing for the (lying man. All night, alone 
 and silent, he sat by his bed, the thin fingers 
 clutching his tightly. Ho slept. Would 
 he ever awake? Would he be conscious 
 again? Would he sjieak of his wile? 
 Would no memory of her disturb or bless 
 his last moments, — the woman who had 
 loved him, and whoso life he had ruined ? 
 Toward daylight there was a change, an<l 
 Mr. Benedict knew that the last moment 
 was drawing near : for he startetl out of his 
 long stupor ; and looking up with wide-open 
 clear eyes, and a smile that made him 
 almost beautiiul, he said, "Forgive me, 
 Grace." Then he sank back on his pillow ; 
 and great tears welled slowly from under 
 his lids, and rolled down his face. He tried 
 to speak again, looked thankfully at Mr. 
 Benedict, clasped his hand tighter, and 
 dropped away without a sigh. 
 
 It is needless to say that Mr. Benedict 
 did all the dying man had requested, — saw 
 him laid peacefully in the family tomb at 
 Greenwood, and then took such measures as 
 were necessary in regard to the restitution 
 he had intended to make, managing every 
 thing so quietly, that the public knew noth- 
 ing of the death of the man whose defalca- 
 tion, eight years before, had caused such a 
 sensation throughout the country. 
 
 It was some time before Mr. Benedict 
 allowed himself to think of Mrs. Gordon as a 
 widow, — as a woman whom he might mai-ry. 
 But when at last he admitted the thought, he 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
MUS, OORPON'S COXFF.aHrOK. 
 
 Ill 
 
 iH of (lod, nnil dio 
 iiivc liviMl lonjier 
 motliiT lidur will 
 re jaiuTs tlwit will 
 [«o that tilt")' nro 
 
 1h. I liopi! tllOXO 
 
 I tin'^ivc nil' tvhfti 
 
 tiir wliiit 1 Imvo 
 
 leaving mi' ; tlicro 
 
 uulil siiy, I'lit lean- 
 
 jw me how lo fiiul 
 
 I* 
 
 pray with mo for 
 oil his l;iu'('», while 
 
 (laini), cold hand, 
 t liiH soul ill jdead- 
 All ni;;ht, alone 
 1)0(1, thu thill finj;i'r9 
 IIo 8U'i)t. Would 
 Id he he conscious 
 leak of his wife? 
 ler disturh or bless 
 e woman who had 
 ifo he had ruined V 
 was a chanj^e, an<l 
 it the last moment 
 he started out of his 
 ir up with wide-open 
 lie that made him 
 said, "For^^ive me, 
 . back on his pillow ; 
 
 slowly iVom under 
 n his face. He tried 
 I thankfully at Mr. 
 
 hand ti;;hter, and 
 a sigh. 
 
 y that Mr. Benedict 
 lad requested, — saw 
 the family tomb at 
 took such measures as 
 ird to the restitution 
 ake, managing every 
 ,hc public knew noth- 
 e man whose detiilca- 
 e, had caused such a 
 ;he country, 
 before Mr. Benedict 
 k of Mrs. Gordon as a 
 whom he might maiTy. 
 initted the thought, he 
 
 was pofi-oKxed wiili the desire to dUooverhor 
 r.ti-eat. r.Thaps she had ^oiie again to Ku- 
 rotic. He caused the regislrrsof the steam- 
 ship eomimnies to he examined ; Imtamon,' 
 the names of passengers who had sailed 
 (luring llie year, hers was not to he found. 
 He aiUertised eautiou-ly in the dilVerent 
 journals of the princii-nl cities. He wn.te to 
 j„„minent clergymen in every part of the 
 eountry,axking information ; to physicians : 
 ,.ven t() State registrars and police olUcials ; 
 Imt ill vain : such a person did not seem to 
 Ik- in the country. Then his hope failed, 
 and with it his health. He lost his interest 
 in his Master's work. Study was impossi- 
 ble : his sermons were badly prepared, and 
 badly delivered. Nevertheless his church 
 was most indulgent, attributing the change 
 to overwork and ill health. " He must have 
 n vacation," they said : " he must go abroad, 
 and travel until he is better." So a meeting 
 was ('ailed, and a fund was raised which he 
 was begged to accept with his dismissal for 
 a year!" He did not refuse the dismissal, 
 altiiough he did the money ; for he had in- 
 tended to resign at the end of the year, 
 feeling that he required a new sphere of la- 
 bor, new scenes, and new interests, to dis- 
 tract his mind from the one absorbing 
 subject. He had long desired to visit Pal- 
 estine, the theologian's Mecca ; now he was 
 rcfolved to go ; but, before he went, he felt 
 an ardent longing to sec again the New- 
 Kn'rland village where he had passed his 
 ho)diood, and where the blue-eyed little girl 
 had fallen asleep. 
 
 It was late at night when he reached 
 
 p^ The landlady of the little inn gave 
 
 him a comfortable bed, where ho slept more 
 peacefully than he had done for a long time. 
 When he arose the sun was shining 
 into his window, and the swallows were 
 beating the blue air with light wings. He 
 leaned^from his casement: the sweet scent 
 of new-mown hay drif\ed across his face, 
 dew drops sparkled on every leaf and shrub ; 
 the songs of the birds, the tinkling of the 
 bells, and even the mower whetting his 
 scythe, sounded like the sweetest music to 
 him. " Oh, how lovely the country is 1 " he 
 
 said. " Perhaps I should have been happier, 
 if I had staid here and li>ll.>vv('d the 
 plough." Then he felt a pang of remorse 
 ill his ingratitude for all th(,' blessiirgs show- 
 ered upon his life. Ih^ had received even' 
 thing but this.>negif> of love. " And yet." 
 he said, " without that all the rest are 
 worililess." H(^ knelt down at his open 
 window with his face toward the rising sun. 
 The soft air touched his forehead as gently 
 lis a niotlier's kiss. Ciod's sweet day 
 beamed (Ui him. Was not life glorious and 
 iK'autiful V Thinking this, he bowed his 
 head, and prayed for one thing only, and 
 that was resign.ation. All through the sum- 
 mer day he wandered over the old farm 
 where he had toiled and studied and strug- 
 gled through his boyhood. Lay at noon 
 under the elms, and watched the mowers 
 swinging their glistening scythes, listened 
 to the drowsy hum of the insects, and the 
 murmur of the wind among the leaves, until 
 he felt as though all the intervening years 
 were blotted out; and ho was again the 
 farmer's boy waiting under the trees for the 
 blue-eyed child to bring him his homely 
 dinner. It was nearly night when ho 
 started to walk back to the inn, — one of 
 those calm, sweet nights that fill the soul 
 with gratitude and peace. The road was 
 lonely and deserted, save now and then a 
 few cattle driven by a tired boy. Here and 
 there a white cottage gleamed from its ein- 
 bowering foliage ; and the sound of a child's 
 voice, or^a mother singing her baby's lul- 
 laby, came softly to his ear. A pretty little 
 dog ran down a shady garden walk, and 
 leaped among the flowers. He looked up, 
 and the spot was so lovely that he looked 
 again. The house was small and low, ami 
 almost covered with climbing roses. The 
 windows were open; and he caught a 
 glimpse of white curtains waving to and fro, 
 pictures, flowers, and books that Beemc(l 
 strangely familiar to him. On a balcony of 
 one window, nearly hidden by a trellis of 
 vines, sat a lady; her elbow on the railing, 
 her chin resting on her open palm, and her 
 eyes fixed steadily on the distant heavens. 
 ' There was no mistaking her profile, the 
 
- i 
 
 112 
 
 Mns. OOItI)ON'8 CON'FKSSrOX, 
 
 UTiKM.fiil turn of. li.T li.'Mil. Ft wnn Mrn. 
 
 <ionll)tl, Willi I.IM' Im.111,,1 li,. ,.|,.;„.,„| III,. 
 
 l"w linn', iiml nI I iivmbli,,,,, almo.t lliiut- 
 
 ill.', lit her li'ct, 
 
 Wlicii luT cyt.M (;.1I uiMiM liiiii, sh,. wtiirtcil 
 MtKliitt.Tr.lalittl.'cry; aii.l tli..n nm ,|„wii 
 111. ^-t.'i.M.) iiHTt liiin. " () Mr, Jk-ncMli,.t, 
 1 iiin f'o ;;lii(l ! " Aw iiliiioMt hi.MhmI. 
 
 " (Jriicc, my Gni.f, liow cruel you have 
 been ! " wii^ill h,. f;,iil. 
 
 'I'licn he IimI her to n ^'iirili'n-!<oat ; nnd 
 tlu'iv. li(.|ilin;f lu'r Immirt in ],U, l„, t„|,i l,,,,. 
 I.rirdy cf till ilcilli „f IvhvanI Tiviiilctt. 
 
 Ml.' li-tfiu'il Willi ^i.l tiur, liiit ilry ,.v..m ; 
 nn.l when he liiuj fiiilKJied, she wniil ;.'ravelv. 
 "I r.-iret his iiiiha|)|.y fat,'; l.ui I cannof 
 iiioiirii for him, lor 1 have never loved him 
 niiii'f I lost him." 
 
 " We will speak oC iiiin no tiinre. Th(> 
 (ioil that has taiieii him has leii nic to you. 
 Yon are i'rce, and I liavo I'oiind you: are 
 you mine fon^verV " 
 
 " Forever," she aiiiwered softly ; and the 
 Hoft evenin;,' wind echoed again and again, 
 '• Forever." 
 
 Then they talked together in tlic moonlit 
 dimmer evening, with grateful, happy 
 liearts. 
 
 " Why did you come here ? " inquired Mr. 
 Benedict. 
 
 " He. nil,,. It wnn the pla.e whorp your 
 
 ''".*■•' ' "••■'" l'"^-'"l. I wished t.> !.e.-|„de 
 
 inyselnroin the wnrl.l that had tfiited me 
 K'l I'rilelly. I kmw you loved 'his spot ; and 
 
 r Im'II.'v.mI that you wouM n'tum hi j',- to' (Ind 
 "I" it' living, t.) we.'i, over niv grave if 
 dead." 
 
 Then Mr. Iten.Mliet toM her of all his 
 sorrow, all his ellorts to fiii.l her, all his h.ne- 
 liness an.i liopeleKsnesd. " H,u now, thank 
 <iod!itisende.l. You are mim-, an.l we will 
 w.irk to-ether for the lovin- Mast.T who 
 liMs united us at hist. IFerelhrntlhesweet 
 little girl who was all my happiness in tlioso 
 "I'ld.iys: here Hin.l the .lear woman who 
 will he nil my happiness in tlio future. 
 (i<A is good. Life is sweet. Look up, 
 dear love, to the h..aveiis Oiled with stars, 
 like angels' eyes.tlmt beam on ur tender- 
 ly." 
 
 Mr, Benodiet sailed th.' appointed dnv, 
 as iie ha.l inten.le.l, on his h.n- pn.posJd 
 visitto the Holy Lan.l; hut he did m.t go 
 iildic. When some of his most intimnte 
 li-i.'u.ls went to the steamer to see him olf, 
 they were greatly astonished to find Mrs. 
 Gordon leaning on his arm, whom he intro- 
 duced as his wiie. 
 
till' pinpo whore ymir 
 I wIhIiuiI to set-'lutle 
 il ilmt hud tn-afi'.l mo 
 ■nil IdvciI rlusspot [iiiid 
 i>iilil return iiw>v to find 
 ■p over my grjivi. If 
 
 •t (ol.l her of all his 
 to find lit«r, all his lnn«- 
 *»< " Hilt now, thiink 
 I an! mine, ami wc will 
 loviri',' MiiKtiT who 
 
 HtTc I lost the sweet 
 invhappiiicHs ill tho^o 
 till' ili'ur woman wlio 
 liiiess in the riitiiru. 
 is sweet. I-ook up, 
 VMS filled with starx, 
 
 beam on us temler- 
 
 1 tlie appointed ilay, 
 
 n his ]()Il;r pri)]„,.si.(l 
 
 ; Imt he (lid nut ^o 
 >t' Ills most intimate 
 amer to see iiim oil", 
 mislied to find Mrs. 
 
 arm, whom hu iutro- 
 
 I 
 
 \ / 
 
 ' 
 
 I 
 
 EVERY STRING BROKEN. 
 
 My friend Horatio savs that these three 
 leaves IVoiii my jdiiriinl, with liie MS, oC 
 poor (liiiiio I'alri/.in, will make ii verv 
 pretty little story, i'li'ttyl what a word 
 to use! Tragic, I should say was the 
 proper expression; Imt llori'tio is some- 
 thiiiu' of a '•spoon," allhoii'ih he is :_'ray, 
 iiiid uses the' tamest ami softest wor<Is to 
 rwpresent tlie most strikiii;;; ihinjjs. llotf- 
 uver, I won't find fault with my chum ; but 
 I'll coiiy the three payes from my diary, 
 and lend you the MS., written in little, 
 cramped, nervous, Italian rliaraeters, which, 
 with the had Kn.;li'<h. you may find dillieiilt 
 to ili'ciplicr. When you have done with 
 it, 1 hope you will return it safely to me, 
 so that 1 may keep it always in the ease 
 with the '' Stradivariiis ; " lor one would he 
 of no value without the other. 
 
 COPIED FROM MY JOURNAL. 
 
 Jan. -20. — There goes that confounded 
 violin iv^ain 1 Is the man mad that he 
 makes that horrible instrument scream and 
 trroan in tliat way V Is there simie demon 
 imprisoned in it, or is that little ugly 
 Italian jiossessed with the Devil V I don't 
 wonder they thought I'a^'anini in lea;;iie 
 with the Evil One, if he evoked such sounds 
 from his '• Cremona." I came to this house 
 to find peace. 1 thou.;ht because it was 
 down town, not fashionable, and not dear, 
 that I never should hear music. 1 don't 
 like music., — I never did: I've lived too 
 much in boarding-houses, ami heard too 
 
 8 
 
 much privctishk;; on iiie^dinu pianos. When 
 I eiiine here I asked the lanillady if ib'fe 
 was a piano in the house; and she said 
 "no," an if she were sorry; but when I 
 remarked that I was j;lad, she added ili:it 
 she didn't like them herself, tlioie.dit them 
 Ihlrty, di»turbill',' lliill'^'s ; yet a week alter 
 she pllf liiis mad fiddler ri^lit over my head, 
 nml he practises eternally. Simetimes he 
 fairlv drives intf out of the hoilsi' with his 
 inlernal elllerwauliic,' — yes, caterwauliu^'s 
 the word, altliotigh it's vulvar; llir 1 de- 
 clare, if any (uic didn't know, they'd cei- 
 tainlv say there was a convention of catH 
 in the room over my head. <:oin:z throu.;li 
 every tone of tlieir diabolical i,'am.-.t .^' once. 
 I don't think I'd mind it so much tlii(.f»,'h 
 the day, if he didn't keep il up half tho 
 nijiht. Often I I'an't sleep ; and, if I do fall 
 into a doze for a few minutes, when he 
 seems to have (ini«lied scrapin;:, suddenly 
 he wakes me witli the most unearthly yell- 
 iii" that ever was heard out of I'alidenio- 
 ninm. I'd complain, and have him tinned 
 away; only my lanillady's told me a pitiful 
 story about his bein;^ poor, and in Jeelile 
 health, and havin'4 to get his living by 
 playing oil' nights in the orchestra at 
 Niblo's. I suppose he has to praeti.se ; and 
 it wiHild be confoundedly mean in me to 
 prevent the jioor ilevil i'rom earning his 
 daily bread. Still, it's hiird to bear pa- 
 tiently; and these last few nights he's 
 been worse than ever. I could swear that 
 he's been playing lately on oidy one string, 
 and that stretched to the utmost tension, 
 and worn to the finest attenuation. It 
 
 • ^a a aaaaa iaaili aas a s BSt B ai 
 
 is'te ' i i ja j goi. '. li ' u^ 
 
 US: ' a 4 l ' a^-jgftg^Sa) | gU)Jj|.«^Wg^| rig Nl;^JM I MB! B ^.J ^ »^y^J,4J^»; 
 
 il 
 
k-imimmmik-inat-i 
 
 ' I 
 
 114 
 
 EVERY STRIKG BROICEX, 
 
 must III' ii wondcvfnl violin to make so inuuh 
 .uiisf. I slioiiMn't lu! sur|)ri?c'il if it was a 
 iviil " CiviiKiiiii." All I tluTf he ;:oi's a<,'ain ; 
 anil tliorc's soinutliiiif; in it that 1 can't 
 bciir to-nii^ht as well as usual. It seems as 
 thiiir^h a liunian soul, imprisoned in it, was 
 wiiirni;4 ami entreating to l<e iVee. Good 
 (Jod ! it's like the voice of some one in 
 agony. If it wasn't fiji- the fearful storm, 
 I'd rush out of the house, and never coi;5e 
 back. I'm afraid of the diabolical thing. 
 I believe the Evil One stands at his elbow, 
 and urges him on. .Midnight, a January 
 tempest beating at my window, shaking the 
 sa-hes,and screaming down the chimney; my 
 lire out ; and that awful music in the room 
 above, — that wild, weird, unearthly music. 
 Now he produces the most discordant notes ; 
 now succeeds a gush of delicious melody 
 that laps mo in Elysium. What is be try- 
 in,' to do? I've never heard any thing 
 like this: it surely can't be fiddling. 
 Angels, instead of demons, stand at his 
 elUiw now, and 1 could cry like a child ; but 
 I won't : no, I declare I won't be a fool. 
 Ha I ha ! ha ! this is a carnival of mirth : 
 1 am convulsed with laughter. I think the 
 D'vil is trying to bewitch me. I must get 
 out of tljis, or I'll lose my senses. Now his 
 violin bellows like an enraged bull. Is he 
 playing on one string, or a hundred? 
 ■\Vbat a temi)est! What groans, sobs, 
 roaring tlwinder, screaming wind ! What 
 a clashing of combatants ! armies are con- 
 tending, and above all I hear shrieks of 
 lauijhter like mocking fiends rejoicing over 
 the ruin of a world. The armies tlee, the 
 fiends pursue, the winds rush after ; and this 
 tornado of sound fades away into silence 
 and distance. Now it changes, and 
 resembles a jjlacid,. rolling river, which dies 
 into a thin transparent tinkle, mystical 
 and sweet as the silvery tones of a lute. 
 Again it rises, wild, beautiful, passionate, 
 pleading, — the outcry of a longing, hungry 
 soul, a reaching up to the Infinite, the 
 Eternal ; a current of melody, bearing the 
 unresisting sjjirit up, up, into the divine 
 ether, the limitless expanse of heaven. 
 What am I ? Where am I ? Have I been 
 
 in a trance? Have I been bewitched, and 
 by music too ? I believe I liave ; but don't 
 tell me that I've writlcn all this trash 
 while I've been listening to that horrible 
 violin. I've a good miml to tear it out : 
 no, I won't. I'll leave it, because the 
 whole impression was so curious. I think 
 I was half asleep. I iloii't know vvhether 
 I was or not; but any way, I lost myself 
 in the midst of that unearthly fiildling, and 
 went through all sorts of fantastic s^ensa- 
 tions. I'm absurd : I dare say my dinner 
 hasn't digested, and it's that instead of the 
 music. However, I ha<l a new experience. 
 I wonder if people who are music-mad feel 
 as I did. I thought I was going straight 
 up to God, sins and all ; and I wasn't afraid 
 either. That smooth, clear stream of 
 sound seemed to carry me away into infi- 
 nite space. I was as light as a bird, and as 
 free as air; when suddenly the one string 
 he was playing upon snappe<l with a noise 
 like the report of a pistol, and I came back 
 to earth as heavily as an old lead block 
 di'oppe<l from the steeple of Trinity Church. 
 It's nearly two o'clock : there is a lull in 
 the storm, and a deathly silence in the 
 room above. Poor tool 1 he's broken every 
 string: ho can't scrape any more, and so 
 he's gone to bed ; and I'll go too, though I 
 don't believe I'll sleep a wink after having 
 ray nerves so worked upon. 
 
 Jan.2\. — Tliis morning my landlady 
 rushed into my room, without her teeth 
 and back-hair, as pale as parchment, and 
 as wild as a maniac, crying, " O Lord ! O 
 Lord! he's dead." — "Who's dead?" I 
 inquired in a very unsympathetic way ; for 
 I thought she meant her nasty pcjodle, that 
 always barked at me when I came in, and 
 I was secretly glad. " Why, that fiddler, 
 that poor man up stairs : he's sitting in his 
 chair stone-dead." I must say her words 
 gave me a shock, a fearful shock ! and, 
 scarce knowing what I did, I followed her 
 up stairs. The morning sun shone into 
 the dingy little room with wohderful bril- 
 liancy, and lay like a golden halo on the 
 upturned forehead of the dead miin. I had 
 always thought him an ugly, insignificant 
 
 P 
 
en bewitched, nnil 
 
 1 Imve ; but don't 
 en all this trash 
 5 to tluit horriblo 
 nd to tear it out : 
 ! it, becauso tho 
 
 eurious. I thiiilc 
 )ii't know wliether 
 vay, I lost myself 
 irthly fiddling, and 
 of lUntastie s^ensa- 
 aru say my diTiner 
 that instead of tlie 
 
 a new experience, 
 are music-mad feel 
 ivas '^oiny; straight 
 and I wasn't afraid 
 clear stream of 
 me away into infi- 
 lit as a l)ird, and as 
 ;idy th(! one string 
 i[)pe<l with a noise 
 A, and 1 eame back 
 an old lead block 
 1 of Trinity Church. 
 : : there is a lull in 
 hly silence in the 
 ! he's broken every 
 
 any more, and so 
 '11 go too, though I 
 , wink after having 
 ion. 
 •ning my landlady 
 
 without her teeth 
 
 as parchment, and 
 ■ying, " O Lord ! O 
 ^ Who's dead?" I 
 mpaihetic way ; for 
 :r nasty poodle, that 
 hen I came in, and 
 ■' Why, that fiddler, 
 
 : he's sitting in his 
 uust s.ay her words 
 ['earful shock ! and, 
 
 did, I followed her 
 ing sun shone into 
 ivith wonderful bril- 
 l|olden halo on the 
 le dead man. I had 
 n uglv, insignificant 
 
 EVERY STRING BROKEN. 
 
 115 
 
 i-^ 
 
 creature, when 1 hail met him on the 
 stairs, going in and out ; but, now, ennobled 
 by death, there was something positively 
 sublime in the expression of his face. His 
 head was thrown back against his chair ; his 
 wide-open eyes looked up with infinite long- 
 ing and passion in their fixed gaze; his Wps 
 were parted in an enraptured smile ; and 
 his long, thin fingers held in their rigid 
 clasp the wonderful instrument that worked 
 such a spell upon me last night. As I 
 looked at him, I could not but feel that 
 there was an awful mockery in that cold, 
 still face ; those sightless eyes staring into 
 vacancy, with their eager (juestioning; the 
 glowing sun kissing his brow ; the parted 
 lips smiling at death ; tho violin clenched 
 in his powerless hand, silent and tuneless, 
 with every string broken. In a moment of 
 ecstasy, death must have touched him into 
 painless repose. With tho mystery of 
 another existence close upon him, he had 
 played himself into eternity. AVhcn tho 
 last string broke, the last cord of his life 
 snapped asunder ; and master and instru- 
 ment became silent forever. I took the 
 violin from his rigid grasp : it Avas an 
 antique of exquisite workmanship. On 
 the back was the name, " Stradivarius," 
 and the date, — 1782. Being frightfully 
 emaciated, he was as light as a child ; so I 
 took him in ray arms, with a strange chok- 
 ing in my throat, laid him on his bed, and 
 tried vainly to close his wide-open eyes with 
 their haunting, inquiring gaze. Then I sent 
 the landlady for a doctor, although 1 knew 
 it was useless ; and, while she was gone, I 
 looked around the room to see if I couhl 
 discover any thing to explain the mystery 
 that seemed to surround this strange man. 
 The attic was poor and dingy, with not a 
 comfortable article of furniture in it ; there 
 were no clothes in closet or drawers, and 
 those he had on were much worn ; he had 
 no watch, no jewelry, no money about him ; 
 and there did not seem to be a thing in the 
 room of the least value, except this almost 
 priceless " Stradivarius." On the table lay 
 a few sheets of music, an English diction- 
 ary and grammar, and a sealed paper, 
 
 addressed, strange to say, " To the gentle- 
 man in till' room below." I took possession 
 of this document, so unexpectedly thrust 
 tipim me ; and, when the landlady returned 
 with the doctor, I came down to my room 
 anil read it with a feeling of awe and 
 pity. 
 
 TIIK MS. OF GTULIO PATRIZIO. 
 
 When I am dead, some one will bury 
 me, some one will take possession of my 
 " Stradivarius ; " and I wish it to be one 
 who will understand the value of the treas- 
 ure I leave to him. Therefore I take the 
 lilicrty of addressing this to iny fellow- 
 lodger, whoso benevolent and intelligent 
 face has impressed me tavorably in the few 
 times that I have had the honor to meet 
 him passing in and out. 
 
 My name is Giulio Patrizio. I was 
 born in Cremona. My father was a violin- 
 maker, and his fathers before him were 
 pupils of the Auiatii and Stradivarii. At 
 an early ago I displayed (juitc a remarka- 
 ble talent for music ; and my father allowed 
 me to quit the workshop and study with 
 Savori. For a while I made very good pro- 
 gress, but I never cared to study closely : 
 what I learned, I learned with very little 
 trouble. I lacked application ; and, without 
 that, one can never reach real excellence. 
 Before I was twenty I grew discontented 
 with my home, which was very unhappy, 
 owing to a domestic trouble, and jiined tho 
 .army without my father's permission. I 
 served with a savage energy for three years : 
 then peace was restored, and I received an 
 honoralile discharge ; but my career as a 
 musician was ruined. My father, disap- 
 pointed, poor, and unhappy, died of .a broken 
 heart, leaving hi? " Stradivarius," which 
 was an heirloom, and all he possessed, to 
 me his only child. With my treasure, and 
 nothing besides, I left my country, deter- 
 mined to see the world. I playeil in differ- 
 ent parts of Germany, in Paris, and Lon- 
 don, but met with little success, owing to 
 the popularity of Vieuxtejnps, who was 
 
!l ! 
 
 110 
 
 EVERY STRING BROKEN. 
 
 then lit tlic zenith of his fame, and my own 
 lack of inlliience, hesiiles my iirnornnce, and 
 the (li(!id('iic(^ wliieli I eoiiM never over- , 
 come. SdiiK! years passed away in the nil- j 
 snecessful strn'jfile ; and at last, tlioroil'.'hly | 
 disenaraieil witji my ICiiropean experience, 
 broken in liealtli and spirit, I cU'cided to 
 visit America, which I looiced npon as tlie 
 artist's KIdorado. 
 
 Less tlian a year a^';o I arrived in New 
 Yoric, alone, friendless, and witli very littiu j 
 besides my violin, wliicli sliould have l)een a 
 fortune to ine, i)Ut. insleail, I jiave almost , 
 starved; ilirwitii my talent, the insiriiction 
 of tiie divine Savori, and my matchless in- , 
 strument, 1 liave never suceei.'ded in }j;ettin^ 
 an en;rai;emenf, hut have only existed as 
 second or third violin in the orchestras of i 
 the different theatres. | 
 
 .\ few inontlis a<;o I was j)laying off 
 ni,:^hts at Niljlo's; and a new actress was 
 turning the heads of all the orchestra with 
 her talent and boatily. T sean'i; ever 
 noticed the ditrerent women who played 
 their ])arts more or less badly, decked with 
 paint and tinsel as false as their roles. 
 Neither did I visit the green-room, nor as- 
 sociate with the artists; because I never was 
 liked, not being of a social or convivial 
 character. And no one ssemed to notice 
 me, unless it were to laugh at my bad Eng- 
 lish, odd looks, and awkward manners ; 
 therefore 1 oidy got through my parts indif- 
 ferently enongli, ti)r T had no inspiration, no 
 motive, to call forth the soul of music that 
 still slumbered within me. This eveninir, 
 which decided my destiny by conducting 
 me at last to the end of all things, T sat in the 
 orchestra, scraping away gloomily enough at 
 my part. Almost hidden by the instruments 
 and players,! could not see the stage tlii-ce 
 feet beyond the footlights ; still, I knew that 
 the new actress had ai)peared by the storm 
 of apj)lause that greeted her. It was som(! 
 time before I saw her; and, when I did, she 
 was standing .almost over me in a full blaze 
 of light, the most glorious, the mo.st divine 
 beauty I had ever seen, or dreamed of: 
 not the false, glaring beiiuty of the stage, 
 but Nature's own matchless perfection. As 
 
 she first ajjpeared to me, she appears to me 
 now, here in the darkness and silence of 
 night. A\'heu I close my eyes sIk? stands be- 
 fore me, as she stooil before nie then: her 
 great passionate iilue eyes, like violets wet 
 with dew; h(;r matchless brow, lier smiling 
 mouth, her sparkling teeth ; her wr.ves of 
 golden-brown hair, such as our old artists 
 loved to paint ; her neck and arms of pei'li'ct 
 shapif and dazzling whiteness; the shim- 
 mer of her pale blue robe ; the regal light of 
 the gems that decked her brow and bosom, — 
 madi! her a vision too glorious l()r me to 
 look npon face to face. I forgot where I 
 was, I f()rgot every thing, and gazed at her 
 entranced, with the wide-open eyes and 
 rapt expression of one who suddeidy sees 
 something supernatural l)ef()ri' him. There 
 was a pause in the orchestra; but, uncon- 
 sciously, I ])layed several bars after every 
 other instrument was silent. The eircct of 
 those single shrill strains was electric. The 
 audience burst into a roar of laughter; the 
 musicians were convulsed witli niirtli, as I 
 dropjHMl my violin in tin; greatest confusion, 
 and kK)ked wildly around. Tlieii her sweet 
 eyes fell n])on me, and I fancied there was 
 an expression of pity in their gentle glance. 
 I could have wept te.irs like rain ; I coidd 
 have knelt at lua- feet, and kissed the dust 
 under them ; I coidd have worshipjjed her 
 as devout Catholics worship th(! mother 
 of God. From that moment I adored her ; 
 my soul went out from my own keeping, 
 and lay trembling before her ; I saw nothing 
 beyond her ; she was light and life to me. 
 I was no longer a sullen, impassive man, 
 void of desire and hope : a new lite awoke 
 within my veins, and tlirobbed in every 
 pulse. "My geidus, that had loiei lain dor- 
 mant, stirred and quickened into a glorious 
 resurrection. Jly violin spoke to me in 
 new and wonderful tones. I poured out 
 my soul to it, and it answered me in impas- 
 sioned floods of melody. I longed to play 
 before her, that she might recognize the 
 divine hidden under my forbidding exterior. 
 She seemeil to me the embodiment of every 
 perfection, an angel shrined in flesh, a sa- 
 cred thing, the hem of whose garment I 
 
 i <&; 
 
 HHMi 
 
EVERY STRING BIIOKKN. 
 
 117 
 
 ', sli(! appi.'ai's to me 
 less anil silt'tipu ol' 
 V fycH sli(^ stamls lio- 
 clore 1110 llii'ii : her 
 ;vi's, like violets wet 
 ss l)n)w, her sinilinj; 
 i'ftli ; luT wr.vi's of 
 li as our old artists 
 c ami ar.iis of ptTlt'i't 
 liiteiii'ss; the ^hilll- 
 le ; the rej;al li;^ht of 
 rlii'ow and liosom, — 
 glorious lor me to 
 
 . I tbl'liOt wluTC I 
 
 IJ, and jfazed at her 
 idc-open eves and 
 who siiddt'iilv sees 
 lielbre him. There 
 .•hestru ; but, uneon- 
 ral bars after cvcrv 
 lieiit. The I'lFeet of 
 IS waseleetiie. Tlie 
 liar of lau;j;hter; the 
 ■ed with inirtli, as I 
 e greatest confusion, 
 id. Tlien her sweet 
 [ fancied there was 
 
 I their gentle glaiiee. 
 ! like rain ; I eould 
 anil kissed the dust 
 lave worshipiied her 
 'orship the mother 
 meat 1 adored her ; 
 
 II ni}' own keeping, 
 e her ; I saw nothing 
 ght and lifij to me. 
 len, impassive man, 
 •i : a new lite awoke 
 
 tlirob!)ed in every 
 t had lori'i lain dor- 
 ieiied into <a glorious 
 in spoke to me in 
 jnes. I poured out 
 <wered me in iiiipas- 
 '. I longed to play 
 light recognize the 
 • forbidding exterior, 
 'inbodiment of every 
 fined in flesh, a sa- 
 if Avhose garment I 
 
 f 
 
 dared not hope to touch. T only lived when 
 she was betiire me. I followed her like a 
 shadow, that I might not lose the least 
 glimpse of her. I resigned my place in the 
 orchestra, that I might hang around ihe 
 door of the green-room to be near her when 
 she passed in and out, to feel the air Irom I 
 her dress, to ealeh the faint perfume from ; 
 her waving hair. Sometimes her lovely j 
 eyes turned upon me for a moment, indiller- , 
 futly, carelessly, it is trm;; for what eould , 
 that' radiant, happy creature see in iht! little, j 
 dark, shabby man who lingered in the path j 
 where she walked triumphantly, followed 
 by a crowd of adorers. One night she 
 passed very near to me ; and I heard her 
 say to tlu! gentleman upon whose arm she 
 leaned, " What glorious eyes ! " Whose 
 eyes did she mean V Not mine, surely ; and 
 yet she looked at me. For more than two 
 months I haunted her steps, consumed with 
 this anient passion. I eould not sleep ; I 
 could not eat ; I eould only count the slow 
 moments until night, when I eould go and 
 worship her ; and my only consolation dur- 
 ing these hours of waiting was my violin. 
 I poured out all the story of my love, my 
 adorati.m, upon its sympathetic string, 
 until I had a composition perfect enough to 
 express to her what I felt, when the time 
 came that I should play in her presence. 
 Sometimes I was tortured with jealousy. 
 I envied the actors who jilayed with her : 
 every fibre of my being resented the neces- 
 sary familiarities of the stage. I trembled 
 and grew cold when the mock lover knelt 
 at her feet : when he pressed her hands to 
 his lips, when he poured his passion into 
 her listening ear, my blood ran like liipiid 
 fire through my veins. In every part she 
 acted, I was with her, and went through 
 every gradation of feeling even as she did. 
 I*Iy heart wept when tears fell from her eyes ; 
 when she represented mental suffering, my 
 whole being was in agony, not imaginary, 
 but real ; when she smiled, I was softened 
 to tears; when her face wore a shadow, 
 black darkness settled around me. I lived 
 but in the light of her eyes. I showered 
 flowers upon her in a single night that cost 
 
 the labor of weeks; and. when T had spent 
 all, I sold everything I possessed, to earjiet 
 the stage with roses. Onee she droplied 
 her ^love almost at my feet. Si'veral^ 
 stooped to pick it up ; but I th-ew myself' 
 upon it with such violence that I attracted 
 the attcnlion of all, and made myself the 
 butt of their ridicule. Again, one ev(Miing, 
 while 1 waited in the dimly-li-hted corri- 
 dor, two gentleman came out of the green- 
 room, and one of them spoke insolently of 
 her as he jiassed. In an iiist.iiit I was 
 I upon him, lashing him fiercely with my cane. 
 I Then both turned ; one said, " It is the 
 I crazy fiddler ; " and the other, a tall, power- 
 ' fill man. struck me between the eyes, and 
 I knocked me senseless against the wall. I 
 ' lay there for some time unconscious ; but 
 at last I returm^d to myself, remembered 
 where I was, and stru'j;i;led to my feet just 
 in time to see her pass leaning on the .arm 
 of the man whom I had struck ; ami he 
 looked at her, and spoke to her, in a way 
 that made me mad with jealousy. That 
 little adventure cost me a very ugly mark 
 on my face, which lastod for some days, and 
 I)revented me from appearing before her, 
 though I watched her in secret. Anotlu!r 
 night I stood near the door when she came 
 oiit. It had rained ; and the pavement be- 
 tween her and her carriage was dam[), — too 
 damp for her satin-shod feet to touch. I 
 saw her glance of perple.Nity ; and, (piiek as 
 thought, I threw my mantle on the ground 
 for her to step upon. She looked at me 
 with the swe(!test expression of gratitude, 
 and thanked mo cordially, bowing, and 
 bowing again, as the carriage drove away. 
 Then I was inexpressibly hajjpy. I was 
 encouraged. I even dared to hope that I 
 might yet be allowed t(j play in her pres- 
 ence. I felt confident, that, if she only knew 
 of my desire, she would grant it. I was 
 sure that she was so kind she would not 
 refuse me. All night I lay awake thinking 
 it over ; and at dawn I eominenced a care- 
 fully-worded letter, telling her of my past 
 I disai)pointments and sorrows, my jn-esent 
 ! experience, and my ardent desire that she 
 I should hearme play; and finished by im- 
 
<ll 
 
 118 
 
 EVERY STRING BROKEN. 
 
 plovinj; lier that she would Ri-aiit me per- 
 mission at her earliest convcnienee. This 
 note I coiK'eak'd in an ex(iui»itc l)ou(iuut 
 which I sunt her that nij^ht. Then I 
 waited (Uiy after day for iin answer, but 
 none came. At last I could endure my 
 suspense no lon<;er, and resolved to make 
 one hold stroke — to succeed or die, to speak 
 to her, to receive either permission or re- 
 fusal fron\ her own lips. I was sure, if I 
 could but ff\h\ her ear, I could make my 
 " Stradivarius " speak to her heart, and 
 compel her to acknowled<;o the divine 
 superi(jrity of genius. At last my chance 
 came, after mwh waiting and watehin;.'. 
 The door of the green-room was partially 
 open ; and she sat quite alone, with a half 
 pensive smile on her lips, waiting her call. 
 Holding my heart in a tight grasp, and 
 struggling hard for composure, I entered 
 quietly. She did not see me until I stood 
 before her. Then she rose up haughtily, 
 and looked at me with stern inquiry ; hut 
 mv agitation evidently disarmed her, and 
 moved her heart to pity, for she said 
 gently, " Are you aware that you are 
 intruding?" 
 
 " Yes, madame," I stammered ; "but some- 
 times unfortunate subjects are obliged to 
 resort to stratagem to present a petition to 
 sovereignty." 
 
 She smiled half compassionately, half 
 scornfully, and said, « Well, what is your 
 petition V" 
 
 " That I may be allowed to play in your 
 presence." 
 
 " Ah 1 I rcnunnber : you are Signor 
 Tatrizio, the violinist who scut me a letter 
 in a bouquet." 
 
 I couhl only bow : my emotion choked 
 my voice. Still she looked at me with 
 clear, searching eyes, and a smile of min- 
 gled pity and curiosity. " Sit ilown," she 
 said at last, pointing to a chair, " and don't 
 look as though you were afraid of me. 
 Am I so dreadful that you should tremble 
 in my presence V " 
 
 " No, madame," I almost sobbed : " you 
 are too good." 
 
 " Do you, then, play so well that you 
 
 think it will be a pleasure for me to hear 
 you ? " 
 
 " You must judge of my merit yourself: 
 that your judgment may be favorable is 
 my only hope." 
 
 <' Perhaps you wish for an engagement 
 through my inlluence." 
 
 " No," I replied, gaining courage from 
 her gentle tone. " I wish to speak to your 
 heart through my violin." 
 
 " Ah ! " she said, smiling softly, '• then 
 you are a troubadour as well as a knight- 
 errant Y " 
 
 I started with astonishment. How liad 
 she learned of the mad attack that had 
 resulted so disastrously for ine 'I She no- 
 ticed my confusion, and smiled indulgently. 
 " Your motive was good, no doubt ; but 
 you are too impulsive : don't expose your- 
 self to ridicule. We nmst all submit to 
 many things we can't avoid." 
 
 " 6 madame ! I would give my life lor you, 
 and count it a joy," I cried, looking into 
 her eyes with all my passion concentrated 
 in a glance. 
 
 She returned my jraze fixedly, while an 
 inexplicable expression flickered over her 
 face, and ended in a light laugh, as she 
 said, " Nonsense, my poor enthusiast 1 the 
 days of chivalry are passed ; and it is no 
 longer necessary to die to show your devo- 
 tion. Be reasonable and prudent ; that is 
 the better way to i)rove it." 
 
 A great ball seemed to rise in my throat; 
 rushing waters surged in my ears; my 
 heart iroze with fear and suspense. Would 
 she refuse me ? All my destiny depended 
 on that moment, all my future weal or woe. 
 At last my strength failed, something 
 seemed to break within me ; and I was on 
 the point of falling at her feet, when the 
 door opened, and a call-boy entered. 
 
 " I must go," she said, rising, while her 
 glance still lingered upon me. 
 
 " Then I cannot see you again V I may 
 not play for you V " I cried desperately. 
 
 " Yes, yes I be calm," she said softly : 
 "you may come to my house Sunday even- 
 ing at nine o'clock ; but learn to control 
 yourself, and don't act like a madman," 
 
 
 L 
 
e for me to hear 
 
 \y merit yourself: 
 ' be favorable is 
 
 r an engagement 
 
 ng eouragc from 
 , to speak to your 
 
 ing softly, "then 
 veil as a knight- 
 
 ment. How had 
 attack that had 
 jr me ? She no- 
 nilcd Indulgently. 
 .1, no doubt ; but 
 on't expose your- 
 lust all submit to 
 .id." 
 
 ive my lite ibr you, 
 Tied, looking into 
 sion concentrated 
 
 fixedly, while an 
 lliekered over her 
 ;ht laugh, as she 
 )r enthusiast 1 the 
 «sed ; and it is no 
 
 show your devo- 
 i prudent ; that is 
 t." 
 
 rise in my throat; 
 in my ears ; my 
 suspense. Would 
 destiny depended 
 iture weal or woe. 
 failed, something 
 ne ; and I was on 
 ler feet, when the 
 loy entered. 
 , rising, while her 
 
 1 me. 
 
 ou again? I may 
 ed desperately. 
 " she said softly : 
 )use Sunday even- 
 t learn to control 
 like a madman," 
 
 EVERY STRING BKOKEN 
 
 119 
 
 i 
 
 then she held out her little \»hite hand as 
 she turned away. I seized it almost sav- 
 agely, and [jtessed it over and over to my 
 burning lips. O my God I even now, in 
 the cold and darkness, struck with a mor- 
 tal chill, at the thought of that soil warm 
 hand touching mine, the blood rushes 
 through my brain with the force of seetli- 
 inff lava. For a moment she allowed it to 
 reniaiu in my clasp, like a trembling, im- 
 jirisoned bird; then she drew it gently 
 away, with a look that left me blind, dizzy, 
 and faint, and passed through the door 
 without another word. For a moment I 
 gazed after bcr stui)idly ; then I turned, and 
 nished wildly out? making my way through 
 the crowd in the corridor almost at a bound. 
 Iklany looked after me, and many cried, 
 " He is mad ; " but I did not hi-ed tliein. In 
 an instant I was in the almost deserted 
 streets. I do not know what passed that 
 night between the wind and me : my i'eet 
 did not touch the earth, my body seemed 
 to mount to the sky, and turn, and float in 
 a whirlwind of bliss. Tlie stars looked at 
 me as though they knew my secret, and re- 
 joiced with me. I saw the promise of my 
 happiness written upon the heavens in 
 letters of fire. All night long 1 drank in 
 the vapors and the wind to cool my fever. 
 1 bared my head to the cold dews, and 
 wandered I know not whither. When the 
 dawn came, chill and gray, 1 found myself 
 at my door, and in my room, where 1 threw 
 myself on my bed, and slept stujjidly tor 
 hours, exhausted by my emotion. When 1 
 awoke I was cool and calm ; my frenzy was 
 subdued, and reason asserted itself; yet I 
 never asked whether this woman had a 
 heart or not, whether she felt, or acted a 
 part toward me. In fact, I did not stop to 
 think, I only knew that I adored her : the 
 delicious tones of her voice, the transpar- 
 ency of her color, the dreamy shadows 
 that floated in her lovely eyes, her smile 
 full of mysterious sweetness, enchanted me 
 to such a degree that I saw and felt noth- 
 ing beyond ; and to merit my happiness, 
 J was capable of any thing, — any madness, 
 any folly. I felt an imperious need to 
 
 serve her, to perform some impossiitility to 
 show my devotion, to die fur her if I iiii.dit : 
 tiir, from the moment wlien 1 loved licr lor 
 the first time, I lelt that I was no l()M'j:<'r 
 master of iiiVM'lf; that I was coiii|Uen'd and 
 t'nslaveo. fallen into a servitude from which 
 I could never again be Iree. 
 
 She had said that I could come on Sim- 
 day evening, and this was Friday. Wliat 
 an eternity it seemed until then I Howi-vei', 
 I passed the time in rehearsing over and 
 over the composition that I was to play, — tiie 
 song without words, that was to express all 
 my adoration, all my ])assion. At last the 
 moment came when I stood trembling belbre 
 her door, with my violin jm-ssed close to my 
 heart, that it might listen to its wild beating, 
 and interpret it aright. She was alone, and 
 how lovely, — how angelically lovely, in 
 the subdued light of her room ! Flowers 
 bloomed around her, and filled the air with 
 their intoxicating perfume ; soft carpets 
 deadened the step ; golden silk ami creamy 
 lace covered dooi-s and windows ; and she, 
 the saint of that (juiet shrine, smiled upon me 
 as I entered, — I tht; poor, ugly man, pale, 
 embarrassed, and shaking like an aspen 
 with suppressed emotion. For a moment 1 
 thought my agitation would overcome me ; 
 but she said sweetly, " Do not fear," and I 
 was strong in an instant. At first tin)idly 
 and hesitatingly my instrument confessed my 
 admiration, tlien my devotion, then my ad- 
 oration : it expressed every shade of feeling 
 from the moment when I had first seen her, 
 until, beside myself with joy, I had rushed 
 I'rom her presence to pour out my rapture 
 to the winds of night. I went through 
 every phase of passion, pensive, tender, 
 dreamy, voluptuous, sweet and delicate as 
 a silver rivulet flowing through wind-shaken 
 reeds ; then, rising and gathering strength 
 and force, I concentratetl all my soul, my 
 heart, my desire, my life, into one frenzied, 
 passionate outburst that left me weak and 
 trembling before her. Through all. my gaze 
 was fixed upon her face; and with every 
 change, every gra<lation of sound, I saw hei 
 eyes grow dreamy, or light up with enrap- 
 tured fires, her lips quiver, her bosom heave 
 
120 
 
 KVERY STIllNG BROKKN. 
 
 'I 
 
 licv color ('Diiu' ivml fro. until at liitit licr 
 lifiiil SMiik tl)i'waiil on licf hiviist, her hands 
 ti'll lan;,'ni(ll_v, tin- liils ilroopiMl ovi'v Ikt 
 swi'i't I'ji's, U'iirs rolli'd :<l()wly down lii-r 
 clucks, and a (hint, snppivssi'd sob tell on 
 my far. I had \rorkid my spell : thi' mys- 
 tiTions ])owcr (il';:;i'nnis had con(|UC'ri'd. I 
 had spoken to her heart, and she was mine. 
 In an instant I was on my knees hel'ore her, 
 kis>in;; lur l'eet,her c're:s, her hands wildly. 
 In a I'mit ot'raptnre. I clasped her unresist- 
 in" form to mv lieart : I (uinld have stilli^d 
 her with my kisses. I could have crushed 
 her in my cmhraec. I was mad to con- 
 lunuil her with myself, her breath with my 
 l)re;i|h, her lite with mine. Shu lUd not re- 
 cist ; sho loved me ; and the truth was more 
 fhiin my (('eble mind could endure. Sudden- 
 ly the violence of my transi)ort i^avo place 
 to a sorrowful tenderness. My Hlee|)in;^ 
 reason awoke with a terrible bound, and 1 
 saw myself as I was : her an;;elic good- 
 ness overwhelmed me. What was I thai she 
 should love me 'j Humiliated and crushed 
 beneath my uuworthiness, I fell at her feet, 
 and, leaning my head upon her knees, I 
 buried my face in lier robe and sobbed aloud. 
 At that moment a harsh, mocking voice 
 cried close to my ear, "Ha! ha! ha! 
 another llizzio. By my faith, Helena, when 
 will you bo done with this cursed lolly V " 
 Before I couhl turn my head, a strong liand 
 jerked me violently to my t'eet ; and I stood 
 face to fiice with the man I bad struck in 
 the lobby of the theatre. 
 
 '• What pantomime is this ? " he cried in 
 a voice hoarse with rage. " What are yon 
 doing at this lady's feet, you black, foreign 
 rascal ? Do you see the door l' Then take 
 yom- devilish liddle, and march, or I'll 
 bi-eak every bone in your body with it." 
 
 Then a voice as nmsical as a crystal bell, 
 broke!! with a ripple of laughter, said half 
 imiiloringly, half scornfully, " For Heaven's 
 sake, Charles, let the poor fellow al(jne ! he's 
 doing no harm, and he plays like an angel. 
 His nmsic made ">'■ (brget where I was. I 
 declare, I don': 'new whether he was at 
 niv feet or not." 
 
 as loni' as vou have vour fot)t or some one's 
 neck: it's all the sanm to you whether it's 
 a mad fiddler oi' a ])rince. if he only has a 
 heart t(>r you to crush. I am tired of thiu 
 fidly : 1 swear, I am." 
 
 Then that mocking laugh smote my 
 eara"ain, and a fren/y took po.ssession of 
 my soul : mad, blind with rage, I threw my- 
 self upon the man, and dashed him to the 
 floor as though he were a wisp of straw, 
 siezed my violin, |)ressed it to my heart 
 with a crushing embrace; and crying at 
 the top of my voice, " Come, my oidy mis- 
 tress, let us leave this accursed jilac.e : 
 death and damnation to the false-hearted 
 and cruel!" 1 rusheil Irautieally from the 
 room, and never stopped until I reached 
 the open air. 
 
 After that, I cannot tell clearly what 
 hap|)ened. I have a vague recollection of 
 tearing wildly through the streets, my 
 violin pressed to my heart, without seeing, 
 without knowing, where I was or whither 
 I was "oing. Some one called, '■ Stop 
 thief! " and grasped me by the skirt of my 
 coat. I broke away, and 3i)ed on, hearing 
 but not understanding. I thought only of 
 that woman, whose kisses still rested upon 
 my lips like a smarting burn : neither frost, 
 nor wind, nor rain, could cool them. And I 
 cried with piercing tones, in a sort of sav- 
 age transport, " I lield her in my arms, 1 
 kissed her lips, and I have had enough of 
 poison : her tears were poison, her kisses 
 were poison." T'hc sound of my voice re- 
 stored me to consciousness. I paused, and 
 leaned against a wall. Accidentally I 
 touched a string of my violin : it wailed 
 pitifully, as though 1 had hurt it, and then 
 died away into silence with a lingering 
 'plaint like a human being in pain. Where 
 was I ? Who was I ? There was once a 
 Giulio Patrizio who had worshipped music 
 and fame and countr}-, — who had loved a 
 woman with a divine love ; but I was not 
 he. This man had hoped with the eternal 
 courage of a man's heart, had trusted with 
 a hoi}' trust ; but I, who stood alone under 
 the night, did neither. I was not he: I was 
 
 ^;o : you never know, nor care, Helena, ! a black shadow, hurled here and there by 
 
KVEKY STIUNO liUOKKN. 
 
 121 
 
 I'cKJt or (ioiiic r)iii''s 
 
 you whctlier it's 
 
 . if lie only lias « 
 
 . iiiii tirud of tUiu 
 
 iiui^li sinoto my 
 )ok jHi.-isoMsiou of 
 riigf, I threw iiiy- 
 aslied him to llio 
 11 wisp of straw, 
 1 it to my heart 
 ' ; ami eryin;^ at 
 juie, my only mia- 
 aecurseil jihice : 
 the false-hearted 
 intieally from the 
 1 until I reached 
 
 tell clearly what 
 ue reeollectiou of 
 the !-treets, luy 
 i-t, without seeing, 
 I was or whither 
 ine called, '■ Stop 
 by the skirt of my 
 1 3i)ed on, hearing 
 I thought only of 
 s still rested upon 
 urn : neither frost, 
 I cool them. jVnd I 
 I, in a sort of sav- 
 Lier in my anus, 1 
 ve had enough of 
 poison, her kisses 
 id of my voice re- 
 :ss. I paused, and 
 i. Accidentally I 
 ' violin : it wailed 
 1 hurt it, and then 
 ; with a linifcrinir 
 ig in pain. Where 
 There was once a 
 1 worshipped music 
 — who had loved a 
 >ve ; but I was not 
 ud with the eternal 
 't, had trusted with 
 I stood alone under 
 [ was not he : I was 
 here and there by 
 
 a tempi'st of passion. Somethin- passed ' 
 in the air : a voice seemed to say, •' Your , 
 country! vou have still a country." And: 
 1 answered aloud, looking at the stars, 
 " (iiulio ratrizio is dead." A windmill 
 seemed to turn ever and I'ver before me, ! 
 and its sails were tresses of golden hair;j 
 and, looking at it, I said again, "(linlio 
 Patrizio is dead," I cannot be he : it is 
 impossible. The streets, the passers, the 
 skv, the stars, my thoughts, my recollec- 
 tions, — all sei'uied impossible ; and nothing 
 that 1 saw wiinin or beyond myself seemed 
 real. The world was but a hideous harle- 
 (uiin, that changed shape and color each 
 moment. Then 1 laughed loudly and bit- 
 terlv, and said again, '^ am not (Jiulio 
 Patrizid." A few nights before, I had wan- 
 dered until <lawn, wild with joy, restless 
 with a new-born hope, believing that the 
 iiromise of mv happiness was written upon 
 the heavens in letters of fire. Now the 
 glowing characters are blotted out. and a 
 pall hau'is between me and the stars. A 
 j„an cannot change in a moment; the 
 world cannot change in an hour; and, after 
 all, 1 am not he : I am not Giulio Patrizio. 
 It has been three days since, and 1 have 
 walked and talked like other men. I have j 
 remembered all with a wonderful distinct- 
 ness, even to the minutest emotion that 
 has stirred my heart. I have written this 
 clearly and calmly, without a Haw or break 
 in mv memory ; and yet I am not myself. 
 I am'not Giulio Patrizio : his soul is in his 
 violin ; and it has wept, and moaned, and 
 ra.'ed with sorrow. It has throbbed with 
 such passion, that every string but one is 
 
 broken, and on that l.«t .•..id han-s my 
 life: when tliiil snaps, my iieart will bivak, 
 iin.l all will eii.l. You will say tliat it was 
 afoUvt.. l..veher: if s.., it was a sublime 
 folly; for il was hi'r beauty I worsliii)pe<l, 
 an.i that .vas real an.l .livin... I was not 
 more untijrtunate than others in b.hig «le- 
 ceive.l: the misfortune was in knowing it; 
 for all the world is decepli.m. ami all man- 
 kind self-deceivers, inasniu.h as lliey be- 
 lieve in such a sentim.nt as truth. Tlwy 
 tlunmht I was ma.l : 1 m;iy bav.' b.'.'n ; Ibr 
 who can t.'U whether he himself, or all the 
 worl.l besi.les, is ma.!'.' Surely I was i„.t 
 like others. Is it. tbeii. a pn.of that I was 
 mad? IdonotkiDw; I .■ami.. t say ; and, 
 alter all, I am not (iiulio Patrizio. 
 
 COPIED FUOM MY JOURNAL. 
 
 Jan. 21. — 1 have just retnrn.'.l from 
 following that unhappy man (.) his burial, 
 ami my heart is sa.l.ler than I like it to be 
 at the death of a stran-er. I have given 
 hun a most respectable funeral, — a rose- 
 w...)<l casket, (lowers, and carriages; II.)- 
 ratio and I as mourners; an.l a grave in 
 „,y own lot at Green W00.1. I have d.,ne 
 th'is, not only out of pity ibr the poor fel- 
 low, but because I felt obli-ed to in i^e- 
 turn for the " Stra.livarius," whi.'h I shall 
 always keep just as he left it, with every 
 string broken. It seems to me too sacred 
 lor other hands to profane with a touch. 
 To-morrow I shall move. I cannot remain 
 here any longer ; for every night I fancy I 
 hear that strange, unearthly music in the 
 room above. 
 
 - .dW > iSjWWIMIl"-W>tf" . l'"^*" ' 
 

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY. 
 
 Dii. Warden sat in Jano Herbert's 
 coacy l)ruaktlist-room, waiting; tt>r her to 
 come down. It was early, the mornin- was 
 dan.i. Hu.l eol.l, and he was a little cross : 
 therefore lie did not like to l)e detaine.l, 
 althon-h the lire was bright, and the 
 " Times " lav temptingly near. " 1 thought 
 Bhe was an early riser," he said solilo.iuiz- 
 i„.rly ; "and here it's nine o'eloek, my pa- 
 tients wailing, and my lady not yet out of 
 her chamber. I would have come after 
 dinner, and prol)al)ly it would have done 
 just as well, if she hadn't sent for me to be 
 here the first thing this morning. Mary 
 savs she isn't sick; then, what in the worl.l 
 can she want of me so early ? " Ju-st then 
 the object of his thoughts entered the 
 room, — a little plain, pale woman; with 
 yellow hair, {j^ntle blue eyes, and long, 
 li.rht lashes : she was dressed in a gray 
 wrapper, with a white breakfast-shawl 
 folded around her as though she were cold 
 Although she was plain, she was not uniu 
 teresting, - a mild, delicate creature, with a 
 sweet voice, and timid, appealing glance. 
 
 " Ah, doctor 1 how good of you to come 
 80 early ! " she said, giving him her httle 
 thin hand, which he crushed like a rose- 
 leaf in his strong clasp. " I'm very sorry to 
 have kept you waiting: I didn't intend to, 
 gbc continued deprecatingly ; "but Mary 
 didn't wake me, because I had rather a 
 sleepless night, thinking gf it all. 1 hope 
 you won't mind : you can take your break- 
 fast while I tell you." 
 
 "Thank you. I breakfasted nearly two 
 hours ago," replied the doctor gruffly. " It's 
 my patients I'm thinking of: they suffer 
 
 from my waiting, not me. But what in tho 
 worl.l w the important news ? Tell me as 
 (piickly as possible, for 1 must lie off." 
 
 "You could never imagine," she said 
 with a little shy smile. " It's s.uh good 
 news, so very g.K.d 1 1 had a letter last 
 ni.'ht. It was ten o'clock when it came : 
 that's why I sent so late lor you to come 
 
 this morning." , , , , 
 
 " Strange 1 very strange," grumbled the 
 doctor, "for you to get a hotter; and 
 stranger still, to send at eleven o'clock at 
 night" to tell me to come here this morning 
 to be informed of the fact." 
 
 " O doctor I don't laugh at me," she said 
 imploringly; "but you won't, when you 
 know who it's irom. It's Iroui Allen, she 
 added triumphantly: "he's got his dis- 
 charge, and he's coming home." 
 
 « A— h 1 " and the doctor's countenance 
 fell suddenly : " you call that good news, do 
 
 " Certainly," she sahl with a little sur- 
 prise. " Why, I've not seen him for six 
 years; and I've not heard from him since 
 
 father died." 
 
 "More shame to him, then, the good-tor- 
 nothing scapegrace ! " 
 
 « O doctor 1" cried Jane, holding up her 
 hands, " pray don't 8[)eak so of him." 
 
 " It's the truth : it's (iod's truth ! " re- 
 turned the doctor wrathfully. " I say his 
 very silence and indillerence helped kill 
 your father. I know more about it than 
 you do. Didn't he take that boy, only a 
 cousin's child, and bring him up as though 
 he were his own son ; educate, and care for 
 him with a most remarkable interest : and 
 
 123 
 
124 
 
 A DOMRSTIC TUAOKnY. 
 
 i 
 
 > Hit 
 
 i* 
 
 wlicn 111- L">t iilil I'nniiuli to he !ui honor iiiul 
 foiiilnri to liiiii, wliiit iliil 111- iloY" 
 
 "lie wa.-i !<o \;nw^ llifii!" i)liMilt'il 
 
 Jiini'. 
 
 '• So voiiiii ! I iIom'I cull iitniin (if twi'iity- 
 onc a .liiM liy Miiy iiiiMn-". II>'. was too 
 (,li| to Ifiiil 11 lill' of (li^^<i|^allon, lo s.|iiiiii- 
 (liT money lis llioiiili it wen; dirt, uiul to 
 jfcl into nil f^ort^ of mtmiics. 1 siiy, if he 
 was iKhiM. lit' >lioiiM liavc lia.l tin! tastt•^< 
 of a iliil'l. Tliink of wliiit it cost your 
 fatlu'r to i.ay lis ilfl.ts, -.'I't liis dislioiioralili- 
 (IcimIs covi'ri'.l ii]). anil start liiiii fair iiillio 
 navy. You don't know wlutlicr liis lif.-'s 
 bi'iMi lionoiahli" or not ilii'Sf last six years, 
 bi'eanse lie's tu'on in forei^^Mi nervici! all the 
 time. However, as we'vi! heard notliin'.' 
 B'.'ainst him, we'll give him tho benefit of 
 the d(inl)l." 
 
 " 1 know he's . tianired." cried .Tane 
 easerly: "he's been very dilferent since 
 that last serajM!." 
 
 "You know a crrcat deal about it," re- 
 turned till' doctor Mivindy, " vdien he hasn't 
 even taken the troulilo to write K) you since 
 vour father died; and didn't write to him 
 "when he was liviiej;, which made the poor 
 8oul miserable in his la*t hours. Didn't he 
 It- ov your fatlier was breaking uji, and 
 th.-.t his letters wouhl have been a comfort 
 to himV I declare, it made me hale him, 
 when I used to hear the poor dyinj; man 
 ask until th.' very last, ' Any letters from 
 Allen?' then his pathetic look of disap- 
 pointment, when he was told ' No ' over and 
 over. 1 never can for-i't it, and I don't 
 want to. I want to remember such ingrati- 
 tude and heartlessness." 
 
 " Please, don't say he was heartless," 
 cried Jane imploringly: "he never was 
 heartless: he was only thoughtless; and he 
 was so far away, that he didn't undcrstaml 
 how ill lather was." 
 
 " Yes : you can make excuses for him, as 
 you always did. You have a tender spot 
 in vour heart for him even yet." 
 
 " Oh, no ! pray, don't say that. .Tt's all 
 over : it was over long ago. I love Allen 
 as a — as a brother now." 
 "Jane Ilerliert. I'll tell you the truth. 
 
 It's a duty I owe to you and to your dead 
 
 father, it's a soleinii duly to tell you the 
 
 truth before il's too late. That s.anip 
 
 is eoniin.; Iiack to wheedle yoin- Ibrliiiie out 
 
 of you. Now your father's ._'"ne, he's sure 
 
 that it's all yours; ami he remeniljcrs what 
 
 a soil heart you had for him. <iod ki'ows, 
 
 I had hard enou-li work to kee|i ii from 
 
 him. If I hadn't watched youi faiher as 
 
 sharp as a cat watches a mouse, he would 
 
 hive ciian','ed his will at the last, and left 
 
 him the half Allliou.rh he s(iuandered more. 
 
 than you have, before ho was twenty-one, I 
 
 am convinced that your fuller had Hiich a 
 
 weakness for him, that he would have ;;iveii 
 
 him the remainder if 1 hadn't looked out 
 
 for your interest." 
 
 "I think he should have hail somethhvi," 
 said Jane stoutly; tliou-h she was frbiht- 
 eneil the next moment at having dared to 
 disagree with the doctor. 
 
 " You do, do you V Well, then, jiive him 
 all ; and the sooner he spends it, the sooner 
 vou'lV get rid of him. <iive him your 
 money, and marry him besides, if you like ; 
 you're yotu- own mistress; but don't say I 
 didn't warn you." 
 
 " () doctor ! how can you be so cruel ? " 
 cried Jane pitifullv. '-.You know I will 
 never marry him now : once, when I was 
 younger, I might, if he hadn't been so wild ; 
 but now I'm too old, — I'm thirty-live in a 
 month, and he's only twenty-seven." 
 
 " No more dillerence in your ages than 
 there ever was : you're older, he's older ; 
 you're wiser, you're richer; he will take 
 that instead of youth. If he can't get 
 your fortune into his hands in any other 
 way, he'll want you to marry him : you 
 love him as well as ever, and you'll do 
 
 it." 
 
 "No, no: you're mistaken, you're un- 
 kind ; you don't like Allen ; you never did ; 
 and you're prejudiced iigainst him," re- 
 turned Jane hotly. "What would you 
 have nie do? close my doors against one ] 
 love like a brother, and atler six years' 
 absence too? llemember how father loved 
 him. Why, he would be angry in heaven, 
 1 if he knew 1 did such a thing ; and, besides, 
 
 *) 
 
mill ti> your ilfii'l 
 ly til till villi tlio 
 If. Tiiiit i<i'iiiii|> 
 I! your t'cirtiine out 
 r'* ijdiic, lii''.s Hiiro 
 I' ri'iiu'iiilifr.-' wliiit 
 liin. (loil l>i'i>ws, 
 k to kri'|i ii I'liiiii 
 fil yiiiii liiilii'r !H 
 II inou-i', lie would 
 
 till' hist, mill Ift't 
 (' s(|1iiiiu1*'1'imI iniiro 
 1 wiiH twi'nty-onc, I 
 
 liiilii-r li;iil Hiicli !i 
 !• wdiilil liiivi! ;:ivrii 
 hiidn't looki'il out 
 
 VI' hail Houu'thiivi," 
 ^li j-lii- w;is I'riixlit- 
 iit liiiviiiL? (iiiruil to 
 
 k'cll. tlicii, ^ivc him 
 puiiils it, till' Soulier 
 (iive him your 
 ii'xiili'!!. il' you liki' » 
 ss; but tloii't siiy I 
 
 you bo so crunl ? " 
 •.You know I will 
 ; onei', when I wiw 
 ladii't lii.'1'u M»wil(l; 
 - I'm thirty-live in a 
 ^ciity-seven." 
 
 ill your ajies than 
 • older, he's older; 
 eher; ho will take 
 . If lie can't <;et 
 Hands in any other 
 
 inarry him : you 
 ;ver, and you'll do 
 
 istaken, you'ro un- 
 llen ; you never diil ; 
 
 1 against him," rc- 
 " What would you 
 doors against one ] 
 
 md atU-r six years' 
 her how father loved 
 be angry in heaven, 
 , thing ; anil, besides, 
 
 iW^MBSTIO TnAOF.OY. 
 
 1'2« 
 
 I rnn-ld.T tlmt Allen lm« i\ rinl" '>••'•'• 
 fathrr'^ adiipli'd koii." 
 
 '•Just ll'* yoii iili-iice," "iii'l '!"' '" 
 r.ildly. IIS he' took up his hut mid -lnves. 
 
 What an l.iiikin..' of.' liy Jove t wliero 
 ar«mv (.. .enl^'.' 'riiey'lh.ll die before I 
 
 ,shetoo.upnismum ..^ . " - _ , ,„„^, ,-. .,„ ,; ,.„„„„ 
 
 j^::::;;i;'."'i;t;;;:nJ;::s-^^^ ^v^■-■•>^"- -''-• '•^' 
 
 h.'r to .i-iarrel with her best frieinl. her 
 
 f.itliev's best friend. li«'r tried .'oiiiisell.ir 
 and "Hide. Tliev had never ilisa.Jtreed mi 
 any mibieet save thi^. Allen was .'omiiv.' 
 liome. Allen must enme ; bill Jmie did not 
 wish hiin to eome in the very teeth of the 
 doelor's opposition. She wished to snioolli 
 the way. to si.ften bis pi-ejinliees, to -et his 
 t'onseni. if not hi" approiiatinn. No^v she 
 naw that she bad -one too far in di'lendii",' 
 her eoiisin so warmly ; that the doetor was 
 seriously displeased, and that she. mii^t use 
 a little" feminine tact to cmiciliati' him. 
 So, as he was tinnlii},' to go, she laid her 
 haml on his arm. mid said, while sfie looked 
 into his face appeaiin'.dy. "You're not 
 unioL' without telliil'.; ine what to do .> 
 You've only blamed me, and I wanted your 
 advice." 
 
 more lime;" ami, ernsliiii'.' her binds until 
 die almost cried with pain, he nisbed oiir 
 of the room, h'aviie.' her fn wnmler at bis 
 sudden and siran^'e ileparlnre. 
 
 It was early moniiie.', aluint a month 
 niter the conversation reeonled iibiive. and 
 Jane Herbert sat alone in her breakfast- 
 
 , 1,1. She held till' '•rimes " in her list- 
 
 less fni'.'crs, but she was not reading'; Ibr 
 her mild eyes were fixed rclleclively lipoU 
 the ulowhl'i coals in the jirale. and a sniilo 
 hallCad, half-happy, Imseied round her 
 penile niimili. Tiie table was spread fir 
 breakfast. It was nearly ten n'elnek. and 
 yet Jane had eaten nothiii;,'. W.is she 
 'wallin'.;V or was she absorbed in a pleasant 
 •everie? She was wailiii'i and tbinkin^ 
 iiitb. Wailiu',' tbr Allen, who never eamo 
 liiwn early, and tliinkiii',' bow happily the 
 
 ^^; Jane: I've not blamed you. ami, by time had passed s nee he had been wu 
 Heav ' 1 ' never will, let what may come." her. Just as the clmc was on the, s, oke, 
 he t r in a strangely agitated of ton, the door was thn.wn open, and my 
 
 voice. " It's because I don't want to sei 
 you wreteheil that I speak so strongly. 1 
 Jell von. if be comes here, he will rob you 
 .,„d" break your heart. My advice would 
 be to close your doors against him, and 
 never see him'; but I can't reasonably expect 
 vou to do that, lor, alter all, he's your 
 cousin. Still. I warn you against —doiii'j; 
 anv thing tbr him, .a'iainst marrying him." 
 
 •' I shall never marry him." interrupted 
 J,,ne resolutely. -'I shall never marry 
 him. Now are you satisfied V " 
 
 The doctor smiled sce|lli(^'llly : then, 
 taking her hands in his, he looked at her 
 long "and tenderly, while something like 
 tears dimmed his eyes. " Poor Jane, poor 
 little woman 1 " he said at length : " you 
 mean it now, no doubt ; but you'll not be 
 proof aiainst his hamlsomc face, his fasci- 
 nating tricks. You know my interest in you 
 ia sincere : don't blame me because I want to 
 
 .gentleman entered briskly, 
 
 ' Jmie looked 111) wiih a sweet, warm smile 
 
 as he eaiiie behind her chair. •' I/.it.<' again, 
 
 you naughty boy." 
 
 "Yes: 1 am always late, Jennie; but 
 
 don't scold ; " and, leaniiv,' over her. he took 
 
 ber fice between bis hands, ami kissed her 
 
 aU'eetionati'ly. 
 
 Jane looked like any thin.' but scolding, 
 us she let her little hand rest on bis head 
 with a caressing toui-h. " The rolls are 
 colli, and the colfee is spoiled," 
 
 ••.Never mind; I can't, eat, ami I won't 
 eat tiiilil you've answered ibe ciiiestion I 
 asked you last eveniic.'. I've not slejit 
 all night thinking of it. Jane, why will 
 you torment me when I'm so anxious. 
 'Coine, dear, say ' Yes ' at once ; " and he 
 slipped down on the stool before her. and 
 took her hands tightly m his. '• See, here, 
 I am at vour feet; and here I shall remain 
 
 U sincere : don t ) ame me oecausu i "....>■ ^^ , ., 
 
 "av °you: O Jane. J;u.e ! if you only cared I until you say you wdl be my wde. Now, 
 
V2(\ 
 
 A DOMKrtTIO TIIAUKDY. 
 
 do uny it nt miri', Ji-nnli', Jut-uim) I w:iiit 
 my lirt'iiklii^l." 
 
 I'lior.Iaiu'! llic Iniv^ lijjlit IaAu-h Ii'hI llic 
 iiiilil cyc^* ; till' littli' tliiii liamli tri'iiilili'il 
 like t'i'i;{lit)Mii'il liiriU ill his liolil ('lan|i. 
 Slic lovfd liiin; hIii' hail iiIwuvh IhvimI him ; 
 iiiiii liii) fvU'* of hiT hi'iirt ilniwiu'il tin- 
 (l('i'|t, (|iiii't wiiniin;^ of ri'iimiM. IIi- w;is j-o 
 liaililMimr, W) |iri!*lllll«ivc, III) aHi't'linillltO ; 
 
 ln' wiw nil f>hi' hull in the worM ; )ht icmhT 
 lii'iirt li)ii;:i'il tlir smiii lUU' tn hivl-li itx 
 
 Wi'llllh 1)1' liiVi- ll|liill, ''illrr IliT t'ltllfr ilii'il 
 
 t]u> hiiil I Ml'- AiUii WMx cvrry thiri'^ 
 
 fi) hiT. Slu> li;iil told till- iliM tiir llmt nIm- 
 lnvi'il him iiM a lii'otlici' : r<hi' IimiI tili'il to 
 think ulie iliil ; hiil now hIiij km^w that xhc 
 lovfil him wiih tln' "love of love." Hit 
 liiMft caiil " Yis ; " hiT ri'itMim, " No ; " Imt, 
 lookin}r into liin liiinilfiotnt' liit'i', Aw cloricil 
 hi'iM'ai-8 to ihi'ih'rp., ijuict voii'i'.anil li.tti'iicil 
 to this IouiUt crii < of hiT hfiirt. "Speak, 
 Jaiu'," lio m';;i'il, |ircnsing hur hanils mill 
 niori! closi'Iy. 
 
 " What fan I say, AUimV" she Haiil at 
 k-n^tli, in a Ininlilinir, irri'soliito voin-. 
 " You know I love you iloarly, that I've 
 always lovuil you ; nnil I hi'liovu you love 
 nif : hm is it lii'st that we should marry? 
 Think of till' ililVerenee in our ages, in our 
 tastuB and hahits." 
 
 " These are weak oxeuscs, Jane. What 
 does a few v ears more or less matter to me V 
 It's all the sanio whether you are older or 
 younger. 1 love jou as you are. Si.\ years 
 ago there was the same disparity. You did 
 not think of it then: why should you 
 now ? " 
 
 " Hut I'vo changed so since then. I've 
 grown so old, so very insignificant and 
 plain." 
 
 " You're not plain : you never were plain ; 
 and you never will be jilain to me." Jane 
 looked at liim gratefully. " Haven't I 
 loved you faithfully? Think how many 
 years I've loved you. And you know it 
 was your father's dearest wish." 
 
 " Yes," said Jane earnestly, " it was : 
 even when you were so wild, he thought it 
 might be : he thought if you were married 
 you might settle down." 
 
 " I've willed ili»im iviihoiit, Jennto. I'm 
 a rhaiiiied mini, %'liire I didn't kno>f 
 what an angel vimi were ; now I know how 
 to appreeiate yoii. and I swuar I'll maku 
 you happy." 
 
 " I don't doiilil "♦. Allen ; I'm always 
 happy with you: hut can't w«) Ix; happy as 
 lirotlier and sUter .' " 
 
 " No, we ciin't. The world won't let us. 
 \Ve don't want to be lirother and slsfi-r; 
 anil, by .Fove ' I'm glad we're not. IIo\r 
 loll'.', do you -iiippose, before peojile wiiulil 
 Ih' gossippiiiL: aUint US if we don't marry? 
 No : I ean'i stay here unless you're my wil'i- ; 
 and you don't want to si'iid me oil' again 
 to wander about the world alone, do 
 yon ? " 
 
 " No, Allen, I don't, and I won't," »lio 
 said, her eyes filiiie/ with tears as she bent 
 over him. " I'm a poor, little, plain thing, 
 to be the wife of n s[>h>ndid fellow like 
 you : but, if I ean make you happy, myself, 
 and all I have, is yciiirs." 
 
 Poor little woman ! she didn't suspect 
 that it was "all she had," and not "her- 
 self," that he wanted. When this sent for 
 Dr. Warden, and told him with fear nnil 
 trembling, that, in sjiite of her promise, 
 she had resolved to marry her cousin, the 
 doctor turned very pale, like one who hail 
 received a mortal blow ; and, sinking into 
 a chair, he covered his face, and remaineil 
 silent tor a long time. 
 
 Jane looked at him greatly troubled. 
 " Arc you angry ? " she said at last. 
 
 " No, no, Jane ; I'm not angry : I'm hurt. 
 Rut I'm a fool to feel it so, when I knew it 
 would come ; though I suppose a blow 
 doesn't hurt any the less because we're 
 [irepared for it. It's the end of you. It's 
 the end of every tlung for me. But don't 
 say I didn't warn you. God knows, I'd 
 have saved you if I could." 
 
 " O doctor I " cried Jane entroatingly : 
 " pray, don't speak so I one would think I 
 was about to sacrifice all my future happi- 
 ness." 
 
 " That's it ; th.it's just what you're going 
 to dx I Ic'll you if you marry him your 
 future's ruined. But I said, before, all I 
 
 .-^ 
 
wiiliDiit, Ji'nnlc. F'rii 
 I'li-i' F iliilii'f knit\r 
 : iiiiw I kiiDtv liowr 
 I I swc:ir 111 miiku 
 
 Alliii ; I'm nlwnyg 
 •an't WK Iw liuppy nst 
 
 ic world won't iut ii». 
 roiInT iiiul xiifcr ; 
 u\ wcVi' not. IIo\r 
 lii'lorc pcci|(l(' woiilil 
 if We (liiri't iimrry? 
 iiiIi"<'<yoii'n' my wil'o j 
 
 scnil iiK' oil' a'^'iiiii 
 11' worjil iiloiii', do 
 
 't, ftiid I won't," ftjio 
 
 vitli ti'iirs us slin bi>nt 
 
 r, littlo, plain thin;^, 
 
 [iK iidid ti'ilow lik(! 
 
 <ii yon liappy, myHi'lf, 
 
 I'X." 
 
 1 hIic didn't xn^pcct 
 liad," and not " licr- 
 
 Wlmn t\w. sent for 
 d Idni with fear and 
 )it(! of Irt [iromisi', 
 narry Iicr cousin, tho 
 ilu, lik(! onu who had 
 )w ; and, .^inking into 
 s fiR'C, and reniainuil 
 
 im greatly troubled, 
 lu said at last, 
 not an^'ry : I'm hurt. 
 it 80, when I knew it 
 l> I supposo a blow 
 less because wo'ro 
 the end of you. It's 
 ; for nw. Hut don't 
 ou. God knows, I'd 
 uld." 
 
 1 Jane cntroatingly : 
 I one would think I 
 all ray future happi- 
 
 ist what you're going 
 
 you marry him your 
 
 I said, before, all I 
 
 A nOME«TIO TRAOKDY. 
 
 I'JT 
 
 /' 
 
 coiiM nay; and It wa« unfli'-<. Von will 
 ll.>l('n til yi>nr heart, Jane, and not to rea- 
 son. Sii thi're'H iiidy one tiling for ine to 
 do. I sha'M't liiithiT you with any roiiven- 
 tional wishes for your ha[>pinesii ; lint, my 
 t'hlld, if ever you're in tmubU! you'll know 
 where to ninie, won't yon? Xow, lillli' 
 woman, (jood-by, and kis^ inc onre lii'liire 
 I In^i' yon llirevcr J for you'll never be the 
 Kunie Id me a;,'ain." 
 
 .lane was about to reply; but ho cla»|m(| 
 her tightly in IiIm arniH, and kissed her over 
 and over with pa^slonati' fervor. Then, 
 betbre she coiild spe.ik, In^ was ^one, and 
 ■he was alone. Lon^ after she remem- 
 bered that moment, — how bri;;hlly the sun 
 shone into ilii> rcMim, the si.'ent of the mig- 
 nonette that Allen hail piled into a vase 
 un the niaiille, the eraekling of the lire, 
 the song of a rubin outside, telling that 
 spiing had rome, mingled with the voiee of 
 her cousin who sang a tew bars of "The star- 
 spangled banner," in the adjoining room, — 
 ii straieje medley of color, sound, and feel- 
 ing, that smote her overburdened heart, 
 until it aclied beyond emluranee I Shu 
 could bear no more ; and, throwing herself 
 on a sofa, she burst into tears, and wept 
 long and bitterly. 
 
 Till' beaiilit'id flays of suminer had come. 
 It was now the last of June, and they had 
 been married nearly three months. How 
 like a dream of ha[)piness the days had 
 passed to Jane I Not that shi; had been 
 entirely free from fears and anxieties ; not 
 that she was entirely confident in her 
 future ; but because she had been always 
 with Allen, and ho had been kind to her, 
 she had been more than contented. He 
 had not grown cold, nor had ho been less 
 devoted ; but perhaps his love was a little 
 spasmodic, a little like one who, suddenly 
 remembering that he has a part to act, in 
 his haste rather overdoes it. He was less 
 inclined to be frank and confidential, nnrc 
 inclined to reserve and thoughtfulness. 
 " He is married now," said Jane excus- 
 ingly, " and married to an old wife ; so he 
 must be more dignified, more serious." 
 Still, sometimes she sighed, though she 
 
 woidd not acknowledgp It to lientelf, for 
 a little of the liovish eageriii'ss and 
 demonstratlvi'uess that had been so win- 
 ning in the lirsf davs alter bis return. 
 Nor had she ipiite as much of liis siniety 
 as tiirmei-ly ; but perhaps a woman mIiouIiI 
 not exjiect a husband to !»• conslantly at 
 
 'her side. It was not reasiitiable, and she 
 had determined to lie riMisonabht from tho 
 first. A few days at\er her marriage she 
 
 I had said to Allen, " Now, dear, we will 
 begin with every thing fair and sipiare, 
 
 I Vol! are my Inisband, and I have bound- 
 los conlidence in you. I'm at best but a 
 
 [ poor liu-iiiess woman, and lliere are many 
 
 tliini's that II 1 looking into: so I want to 
 
 I . . . 
 
 give every thing into your hands. Now 
 
 that I am your wile, all 1 have is yours; 
 ' though, for that matter, I've always eonsiil- 
 ] ered that half belonged to you. Father 
 I never would have cut you oil', if he liadn't 
 I been iniliienced " — she had scarce said the 
 words when she was angry with herself 
 ! for allowing a hard thought against Dr. 
 I Warden, — "but he knew he cimld trust to 
 me to make it all right liir you ; and, if I 
 hadn't married you, dear, I always intenil- 
 ed to give you your share just the same." 
 " Good littlo soul ! " said Allen, pressing his 
 lips to her faded cheek with well-assumeil 
 fondness. Jane looked at him worshi|it'iilly, 
 and then went on with her plans. " Now 
 we will arrange it once and for all, and 
 never speak of it again ; fiir I hate business, 
 anil you must take all the eare from mo. 
 All is yours, — houses, lands, bank-stock, 
 railroad bonds, government securities, and 
 all. In that desk are all father's books and 
 papers : my lawyer made the transfer be- 
 fore we were married. I would have it 
 so : it's all there ; and here's the key." 
 
 Allen hesitated ; but she thrust the kcya 
 into his fingers, and patted him, and kissed 
 him, and was tho proudest and happiest 
 of women. She never knew nor felt that 
 she had made any sacrifice. Innocent 
 and trustinir, she thought ho loved her, 
 and not her fortune. Then, if she belonged 
 to him, was not all she had his ? Perhaps 
 her confidence might have been a little 
 
128 
 
 A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY. 
 
 J i 
 
 shaken, if slio could Imvo known tlio true 1 iike to run down to New York on busi- 
 fitato of tliiiii;s. — of till' lirx'x list of di'l)ts. | ness." 
 
 di'lits oflionor, he called tlu'in; of llu'shiiino-i "You're very good, Allen ; T shall be 
 fill record of his last six years of filly and I '_dad to have yon •^n ; and I hope you'll like 
 reckless dissipation. Hut "he. suspected | Ethel," continued Jane, as she glauce<l 
 nothin" : her own soul was so white and 
 
 pure, that she could not iinaj;iiie another's 
 to l)e so dark and stained. If slui had 
 known half the poor infatuated father 
 knew, she never would have desi'j;nated 
 that time of his \i\c thoughtless and wild, 
 whicli was little less than criminal ; and 
 the last six years liad i)een almost a rep- 
 etition of his iiiriuer sins. Then, I'ow could 
 sugh a man settle down quietly and con- 
 tentedly as tlie devoted husband of a 
 woman older and less attractive tlian him- 
 self? As soon as her fortune was firmly 
 within his grasp, he began to consider hia 
 true position ; his marriage bonds pressed 
 upon him like chains; he constantly wished 
 lor chau'ie, treedom, amusement, any thing 
 to break the monotony of his too-peaceful 
 life; but Jane, so happy herself, thought 
 him equally so, and suspected noth- 
 ing. 
 
 As T said before, the long days of sum- 
 mer had come. Dinner li.ad been over an 
 hour. Allen sat on the balcony smoking, 
 his handsome head resting against the well- 
 cushioned back of a lounging chair, and 
 his legs extended to the full length of 
 that comtlirtable piece of furniture, enjoy- 
 ing the cool of the evening in indolent ease, 
 when Jane came out from the drawing- 
 room with an open letter in her hand." 
 " It's from Ethel," she said, " and she's 
 coming." 
 
 " Ah ! How soon ? " incjuired Allen, 
 with mcn-e interest than he h.ad shown in 
 any thing for some days. 
 
 " She will be in New York to-morrow. 
 
 over the letter with a thoughtful air. 
 
 .Mien watched her lor ii (ew i.ionn'nfs 
 curiously ; then he threw away his ci'iar, 
 and drew her to his side. " Sit, here. .Tennic, 
 a little while," he said, " and tell me aliout 
 this girl. Although you've spoken of her 
 so ollen, T know nothing of her history." 
 
 " It was my finishing year at Maple 
 Grove, and I was nearly ei;;hteen. when 
 she was brought there, i 1-vc',.. little 
 thing of four years, in deep mourning for 
 the mother she had just lost. She was 
 from New Orleans, and spoke French as 
 well as English. From the first she 
 called meher;7e/(7e mamnn, and I loved her 
 dearly. She slept with me; I dressed, 
 and combed, and bathed her: in fact, I 
 took nearly iill the care of her ; for she 
 was so sweet and gentle, and seemed to 
 cling to me as though I were indeed her 
 mother. Before she had been there six 
 months, the dreadful news came that her 
 father, in a fit of despair at the suihlen loss 
 of his fortune, had taken his own life. 
 No one came forward to provide for the 
 child : she seemed to be left .alone in the 
 world, friendless and destitute ; and I <!0uld 
 not desert her, she loved me an<l clung to 
 me so. I wrote to papa, telling him the 
 pitiful story, and asking him to allow me 
 to do something for the dear little thing 
 out of my own small income left me by 
 mamma. He at once consented ; and the 
 principal of the school, who was very fond 
 of her, agreed to keep her until she was 
 sixteen, if I would defray h.alf the ex- 
 penses of her tuition, iind provide her with 
 
 You must go down in the morning train, . clothes. This papa allowed nie to do. 
 
 She finished her education, and came to 
 me about a year after you went away. 
 We were all so fond of her, papa loved her 
 dearly, and Dr. Warden petted her like a 
 child. She was a great comfort to us, and 
 we really needed her ; when most unexpect- 
 cdlv a letter came from an aunt in New 
 
 and bring her uj). She conies as far as 
 there with friends, and expects some of us 
 to meet her; but if 30U don't care to go, 
 Allen, I will send Tlumias for her." 
 
 " You needn't send a servant, Jane, when 
 you've a husband ready to wait upon you 
 and your Mr prolt'gte ; and, besides, I should 
 
 !» 
 
 n 
 
)Jt'W York on busi- 
 
 , Allen ; T sliiill be 
 lid I hopu you'll like 
 lie. as she glanced 
 lu)n,j:litt'iil air. 
 for a (ew i.ionn'iifs 
 row away his ci'iar, 
 e. " Sii, hero. Jonnic, 
 " and tell me ahoiit 
 )u've spoken of her 
 ig of her history." 
 ing year at Maple 
 3.arly ei ;;liteen. when 
 
 3re, 
 
 I,..,-, 
 
 ittle 
 
 I deep mourning for 
 
 just lost. She was 
 id spoke French as 
 from the first she 
 man, and I loved her 
 nih me ; I dressed, 
 ;hed her: in fact, I 
 lare of her ; for she 
 ntle, and seemed to 
 1 I were indeed her 
 had been there six 
 news came that her 
 Liir at the sudden loss 
 aken his own life, 
 d to provide for the 
 be left .alone in the 
 lestitute ; and I could 
 ved me and clung to 
 papa, telling him the 
 ing him to allow mo 
 the dear little thing 
 ,11 income left; me by 
 e consented ; and the 
 3l, who was very fond 
 3ep her until she was 
 
 defray half the ex- 
 and provide her with 
 
 allowed nie to do. 
 kication, and came to 
 ifter you went aw.ay. 
 of her, papa loved her 
 •den petted her like a 
 reat comfort to us, and 
 ; when most unexpect- 
 frora an aunt in New 
 
 A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY. 
 
 129 
 
 Orleans, who had not made herself known 
 when Kthel was a heljjlesa child, a.-^kiiij; 
 her to come and live with her. Dearly as 
 we loved her, we could not keep her from 
 a relative; so she went, unwillingly at first, 
 thou.;lj now she is quite contented with 
 her lilb there. Ilcr aunt is very gay, and 
 she meets more society than she could in 
 oiu- (piiet home. Every sununcr she sjiends 
 three months with me ; with that exception, 
 I have lost her altogether." 
 
 " Uather selfish of her to go off just as 
 soon as she was old enough to be a com- 
 paniou for you," yawned Allen. 
 
 " I have thought so myself soractiraes," 
 returned Jane sadly. " I made a great many 
 sacrifices for her ; and I loved her so dearly 
 that I hoped she would never leave rae. 
 Still, I must not blame the dear girl : I am 
 sure she loves me as well as ever ; and, of 
 course, her relatives had the first claim upon 
 her." 
 
 Allen remained silent; and Jane 
 leaned her head against his shoulder and 
 looked into his face with tender, tearful eyes. 
 " "What are you thinking of, little woman ? " 
 he said at last. 
 
 " O Allen ! I am ashamed to tell you, 
 my happiness has made me so selfish ! 
 I don't like to feel so ; but I can't bear that 
 there should be any change, any break, in 
 our life. I am so contented, so pe-fectly con- 
 tented, with you, that I don't want a third 
 person to disturb our peace." 
 
 " Then, you don't want her to come ? " 
 asked Allen bluntly. 
 
 " Yes : oh, yes, I do I It's not that. You 
 don't understand me, dear; and I'm very 
 foolish." 
 
 " It seems to me you are a trifle, Jane. 
 I think it'll be very pleasant to have a 
 bright, cheerful girl in the house." 
 
 " Why, Allen I you're not dull, you're 
 not discontented, are you ? " cried Jane 
 wiih a sharp ring of ' trouble in her voice. 
 ' I hope you're not tired of your quiet life 
 already. I hope you're not tired of me." 
 Then, overcome by a terrible thought, she 
 covered her face, and hurst into tears. 
 
 Alien looked at her almost angrily : then 
 
 he said fretfully. "This is too much, Jane! 
 I thought you were a woman of sense. 
 Tired of you V how absurd! If I were tired 
 of you, I needn't stay here at your elbow 
 all the time, need IV How unjust and 
 childish .o speak so ! " 
 
 "I know it, dearest; pray forgive me! 
 I am very nervous and tbolish to-night : a 
 Ibreboding of trouble haunts me ; but don't 
 scold me, Allen," cried Jane in a pitil'ully 
 imploring voice. 
 
 " I don't scold you ; I won't scold you ; only 
 be reasonable," returned Allen, as he arose 
 had paced the balcony. lie diil not caress 
 her : th«re was no tenderness in his voice. 
 Jane was woimded and disa]t|)ointed : her 
 heart ached ; but she was silent, and Ibrced 
 back her tears resolutely. 
 
 " He shall not see rae cry," she said. " I f 
 I am unhappy, he must not know it." 
 
 The next day she dressed herself with 
 imusual care, struggled out of the sadness 
 that still hung over her, crushed every re- 
 gret and disappointment ; and, thinking only 
 of her husband and her joy at seeing him, 
 even after so short a parting, she went to 
 the station to meet him with an expres.sion 
 of contentment on her placid face. The 
 train arrived a few moments after she 
 reached the platform. She ran to her hus- 
 band, kissed him fondly, and clasped Ethel 
 in her arms, almost weeping with joy. 
 " How well you're looking ! how tall you've 
 grown ! how pretty you are ! O Allen ! isn't 
 she a darling ? " she cried, hurrying them 
 to the carriage. During the drive home, 
 she held a hand of each. Allen was in 
 excellent spirits. Jane looked at him 
 proudly. Was there ever another such a 
 noble, handsome man as her husband ? and 
 Ethel, she was very lovely, a dark, queenly 
 girl, with lustrous eyes, and full, rosy lips. 
 What a contrast to her ! For a moment a 
 pain pierced her heart : she seemed so old, 
 so faded, so plain, beside this glorious 
 creature 1 but she would not allow a shadow 
 to cloud this evening. No : her two dear 
 ones should be happy, very happy. It did 
 not matter whether she were young and 
 pretty : they loved her, and that was enough. 
 
A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY. 
 
 130 
 
 The dinner passed off in almost childish 
 merriment. Dr. Warden w«stl.ere. I. only 
 
 ean.e occ.ionally, and Ethel was the x- 
 cusc for his presence this even.n;r. In the 
 twilight, they pac.l up and down the jr- 
 
 window, watehlnK the rising moon, as pale 
 and.puetasaspirit;andthron,l.herbva.n 
 
 and thro«.4h her heart, minified with Al e s 
 voice and the sonj; of Ethel, soun.ledtlio 
 prophetic words of the doctor, " But the end 
 
 den walks. Ethel, leanin, on the arm ol . - J^^ ; ,^^„^,^ , ,,,ay slowly 
 
 Allen, talked and la„,hed with g.rl.sl.c^^ Jane, swiftly and joyously 
 
 dom ; and Jane, happy but qu.et, l.=t u.d .„c^wea > ^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^^^.^ ,^ 
 
 toDr.Warden-smoreseriousc<M.v.rsaU .. to ^^^^ ^^^^^ , 
 
 Ever sinee her n.ama.^e, Allen had l^^?" M j; ^^ ^hc first they had made a 
 
 prohibited ,uestion between the.r. ^M;^:l,, of sharin, their time with her; but 
 doctor never spoke ot lum but «^^ ^'^J ,„„„ ,,,v that she was ra her a 
 
 he dislike<l him none the less, ^l^'""'^' ^"^^1,4 ,i,,„ otherwise to their happi- 
 hc treated him with the utn^st pohtene s, ' -;^-\^^„^^,„,„,, ja„e did not ride 
 he was always formal and cold towanllnn-«a^^^^ l^orsewoman, and 
 
 At first Jane had used all her em.n.ne tact Lthe wa p ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ . ^^ 
 
 to brin, about a better ieehng ^^ ^^ I t^;;,", d alf their mornings in the sad- 
 them; but she had faded, and she now ey p ^^^ delicate, and 
 
 allowed nuuters to take their own course dl • Jane ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^ 
 
 without interference. Several tune «^ ^^ Z^,'!^^ ,, ^..^ the country, so she was 
 hadbeenontheln-inkoftelm,the doc^ o .^^^^^^^ ^^^^ ^„,.,_ „, to wander 
 
 how mistaken he had been m regard her left a o ^^^^^^ ^_^^^ ^.^^ ^^^ 
 
 position as Allen's wife; ^^^ V"'' ^""''^ '^" P^^ ,ome distraction for her unqmet 
 son, she had never found the ^^''f .H ^^^^ There were picnics ami croquet- 
 approach the interdicted subject : but his Uf ■ „^. i^^,,.i,oo,l. Sl.e had never 
 ellnin,, emboldened by the hour, the doc- P^^^; '\j^^,, ;„, ,,,did not care to now ; 
 tor's ,entle mood, and her own con dence attended ^^^^^^^ ^^^_^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 i,. her happiness, she said -f- >f ryol^Jd to, accompanied by Allen Some- 
 lusion, alter a few moments of sdence. You hou , ^^^^ ^ j.^^j^ ^^j^^^j^ 
 
 see, doctor, your fears were groundless, or t.m^^^^^^^^^ .^^^ J^^^,^^ ^,^.„ ,^ ,, 
 
 I am perfectly contented. Allen ^s so go d to Je v ^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ 
 
 so very good, that I have never regretted f^^^^^^^^i,,, confidence, she made excuses 
 
 for a moment." „ 
 
 The doctor did not reply at once, lie 
 turned his head away, and looked resolutely 
 
 her boundless confidence, she made excuses 
 for them. They were young and lull ot 
 Ufo, they were congenial to each o^e. 
 
 av, and looked resolutely me, mey «.- ^" = ^j^^^^j^ 
 
 into the distance, i- waited a^^ U-eha^-^|he.^ 
 Was he convinced, or was he evading an ^«. dcs y \ ^^^^^jj. i,,, .instant 
 
 answer? At last he cleared his throat, and gam «hc rep ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^^^ ^ ^^^^ 
 gasped out, like one choking down a «ob, Ic^so", ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^,^ 
 
 fyls: you're happy enough now ; "1^^^ Ln -uld follow the prophetic 
 end is not yet. However, don't speak of l^e a ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ 
 
 that You know my opinion. ^^^'^^ f ,, Sometimes she would be restless, 
 
 in:it'sgettingtoodamptoryouhere. Ihe e j ,i,„t, and inclined to lee 
 
 laughter of Ethel and Allen jarred upon us nuserab , P^ ^^^ ^^^^ . ^„, 
 
 nei'ves, and worried him : he could not h.ten uro^ Al ^^^ ^^ ^.^^^^_ ^^,^ ,, , 
 
 to it any longer; so, saying he had a pau^nt hew .^^^^^ ^^^,j good-natured, 
 
 to visit, he wishe.1 them a turned ' good- ahva) 9 ^^^ ^^^^jj^, ^^^j^^^g 
 
 nigh ," and went away. Ethel seated herself ha^on^ ^^ j^^^, j^^,^ ,,, „,ver 
 
 atWpiano,andsanginaclea.,sw^tvo..jto^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^,^^, ,,, ^,t 
 
 Allen turned the music: Jane sat bytaei 
 
 ■ 
 
A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY. 
 
 131 
 
 r moon, as pale 
 roui^li lirr brain, 
 ;le(l with Allen's 
 lel, sounded t\iO 
 >r, " But the end 
 
 ged away slowly 
 ly and joyously 
 were always to- 
 ren tliuni entire 
 icy had made a 
 mi) with her; but 
 ihc was rather a 
 
 to their happi- 
 ane did not ride, 
 lorscwonian, and 
 that exercise; so 
 rnings in the sad- 
 jeen delicate, and 
 cl and Allen liked 
 untry ; so she was 
 sofa, or to wander 
 
 and silent garden, 
 II for her unquiet 
 nics and croquet- 
 od. Slie had never 
 .id not care to now ; 
 ral than that Ethel 
 
 by Allen. Some- 
 were a little selfish 
 much ; then in the 
 lad the stren-th of 
 c, she made excuses 
 
 young and full of 
 tiial to each other, 
 er; then, why should 
 asure? Again and 
 herself her constant 
 reasonable : I must 
 And close upon it, 
 follow the prophetic 
 " But the end is not 
 e would be restless, 
 , and inclined to lec- 
 only the chance ; but 
 Lttle, and then ho was 
 te and good-natured, 
 he had really nothing 
 J loved her, she never 
 why should she fret 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 because, he did not show it in the way she 
 preOrn-d. And Ethel was so sweet, so 
 carc?sing, so loving, that she could find no 
 fault with her. Still, she was not satisfied ; 
 "she was iinluippy, and she could not tell 
 why. " Patience, patience," she would say 
 to soothe herself. " I am wicked and scKish. 
 In a few weeks Ethel will be gone, llie fine 
 weather will ho over, and Allen will be 
 with me always; then wc shall return to 
 our old, intimate Wfe, and all will be as it 
 was before." Inasmuch as she was sad 
 and depressed when alone, she tried to be 
 cheerful and happy when she was with 
 tlieiii ; and they, too much absorbed in their 
 own pleasure, did not notice how forced 
 and unnatural it was. In the beginning 
 of September she grew languid and weak, 
 remaining in her room for entire days. 
 Then Alien had, sp.asuiodic fits of tender- 
 ness that almost re-assured her, and drove 
 away hi'r gloomy forebodings. Dr. War- 
 den came occasionally, looked at her piti- 
 fully, held her thin wrist between his fin- 
 gers, and counted her languid pulse with 
 most ilepressing gravity. Tlien he would 
 prescribe a tonic, and go away, without her 
 reailiiig any thing in his impassive face. 
 One (l:iy she felt very poorly, and Allen 
 and Ethel reuiained with her all the morn- 
 ing. She slept during the afternoon while 
 they rode, and when dinner was over both 
 ha<l come into her room and talked a half- 
 hour affectionately and cheerfully; then 
 Allen proposed a walk to Ethel. 
 
 '• Lie still and try to sleep until we 
 return," said he to Jane, as he leaned over 
 her, and touched his lips lightly to her 
 foreheail. 
 
 Ethel had left the room : some sudden 
 emotion stirred Jane's poor heart to its 
 very depths ; and, throwing her arms around 
 her husband's neck, she drew his face close 
 to hers, and sobbed, " I love you, dear : I 
 love you so much ; and I am so unhappy." 
 Allen turned dreadfully pale : something 
 ia her voice struck his heart like a blow ; 
 but he drew away from her clinging arms, 
 and said sternly, -'What childishness, Jane ! 
 
 this way." Then, kissing her again m ire 
 coldly than before, he went out and left her 
 alone. Her hands fell helplessly ; and she 
 turned her face to the pillow, sighing 
 heavily, " It's no use : I will be reasonable. 
 I will not make him unhappy." Then 
 came the refrain, " The end is not yet, the 
 end is not yet." She tried resolutely to 
 compose herself to sleep, but she could not ; 
 then she arose and looked from the win- 
 dow. The sun was setting : she watihcd 
 it with slow, intense gaze. " Would she 
 see it set iigain ? To-morrow would she be 
 living and suffering ? or would she be lying 
 cold and dead? There was mignoni^tte 
 on the table. Allen was so fond of it. 
 " When she was dead, would he stoop over 
 her coffin, and lay it upon her bre.ast, and 
 drop a tear upon her fiice ? " She leaned 
 forward, and looked down the avenue. 
 Allen and Ethel were returning from their 
 walk. They were talking earnestly, and 
 never raised their eyes to the pale face at 
 the window. Smiling and happy, full of 
 life and joy, they passed out of si.;ht and 
 entered the house. " Will they come ii|) 'I " 
 she wondered. She waited a long time, 
 and they did not come ; so she resolved to 
 iro down. " Yes," she thought : " I will 
 make the effort. I will dress myself and 
 iro down. I will spend another hajipy 
 evening with them. I am dreadfully ner- 
 vous : all these morbid feelings are a part 
 of my disease ; and I cannot ih-ive them 
 away." She arranged her hair with trem- 
 bling hands, and put on a white dress. 
 Allen liked her best in white, but how 
 •diastly pale she was I " Would she look so 
 when she was dead ? " she ftjund herself 
 thinking again. " Would they dress her 
 in white, and put myrtle and pansies on 
 her breast? What folly 1 was she going 
 mad ? She must go down to save herself 
 from such dreadful thoughts. The doctor 
 had told her not to leave her room : Allen 
 had told her the same ; yet she must go, 
 and she would go. The drawing-room 
 was silent and dark. " They are on the 
 balcony," she said, and walked straight 
 
 you'll make yourself worse if you fret in I toward her sad destiny. Her own name 
 
r 
 
 A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY. 
 
 fs 
 
 
 132 
 
 fell dear and sharp upon her car. It was 
 Ethel ^vho .poke ; and she said, " But Jnno, 
 po.,r Jane 1 when she Las been so good to 
 !ne,what a return to rob her of her hus- 
 ban.l's love." Then Allen replied distinct- 
 ly and passionately, " For God's sake! 
 Ethel, don't say you've robbd her of my j 
 love. It never was hers. I hcver loved 
 
 her, never 1 " , , , . 
 
 Jane thought she cried out sharply, but 
 she was n.istaken ; for her white lips made 
 no sound : neither could she hear; a ieariul 
 rin.^ins in her ears drowned their voices, 
 and black darkness settled upon her. blie 
 reached out her arms for some support, but 
 there was nothing to lean upon. "I must 
 «ot fall l.ere," she thought; and, struggling 
 to overcome her mortal weakness, she 
 reached the door, and groped blindly back 
 to her room. There she was safe from in- 
 trusion ; there she could look her nun in 
 the face undisturbed. She clasped both 
 han.ls over her heart, to still its heavy 
 beatin-r. Above all she must be calm. 
 No one must know what had happened, 
 not even they : they must never know that 
 Bhe ha.l overheard them ; there was some- 
 
 thin- humiliating in the very thought, 
 eeemed to her that she stood for hours in the 
 middle of her room, outwardly (luiet as a 
 statue, doing battle with an army of interior 
 emotions. " First of all," she said, '« I must 
 calm myself before I can see clearly into 
 my own heart, before I can be just to 
 them." At last some one knocked gently. 
 It was her maid, who asked if she nee.led 
 any thing. Jane opened the door, and said 
 softly, "Nothing: don't disturb me again 
 to-night. I think I shall sleep, for I am 
 very dred." Afterward the woman remem- 
 bered how strangely her mistress's voice 
 had sounded. She lit her night-lamp, 
 pliced it near her bed, and shaded it so 
 that the room was nearly dark. Then she 
 sat down by a table, and took her Bible : 
 she had used it from childhood, and had 
 always fbuiid comfort in its blessed pages; 
 now slie held it in her fingers for a few 
 moments, and then laid it down, seeing 
 noihiag to console her. She was ship- 
 
 wrecked, with not even a plank to clini to ; 
 an<l the one thing only tbat she understood 
 elearly was her utter desolation. She was 
 alone in the world, utterly alone. Allen 
 did not love ln'.r, ha.l never loved her; 
 neither had Ethel; and she had .lone so 
 1 muc.h for both 1 " Why have they .le.eivcd 
 me ? why have they deceived me i" " she 
 I repeated over an<l over. " How could they 
 have the heart to deceive me? Have I 
 not loved them both, as a mother loves 
 her children? Why, then, have they 
 deceived me so cruelly? Why did Allen 
 profess to love me? Why .lid he wish to 
 marry me ? And why has Ethel loaded me 
 with affection and caresses?" In her in- 
 finite h.ve, in the generosity of her noble 
 heart, she even tried to find excuses for 
 both. '• Poor Allen 1 " she thought : '• he must 
 have suffercl so much, and he will sutler 
 so, to be boun.l to a woman he .Iocs not 
 love ! And Ethel, what a fate for her to be 
 separated from him by such a barrier! 
 The. she began to blame herself lor allow- 
 in- him to make 8u<;h a sacrifice. '• I might 
 ha've known that he was mistaken when he 
 thought he loved me. Poor boy! he im- 
 agined it; and now, in the constant society 
 of a young and lovely woman, he has dis- 
 1 eovered his delusion. What am I to do I 
 I lomred to make them both happy; and 1 
 havclnade them miserable. I am an obsta- 
 cle ; and how shall I remove myself from 
 their path?" She imagined a hundred 
 impossible projects, that afforde.l her no 
 comfort; for, in spite of herself, she always 
 returned to the old thought, of her utter 
 desolation. She had no husband, no love, 
 nothin-. She had stripped herself of every 
 thin-, to give all to Allen ; and now she lay 
 crushed and broken, like a poor weed, torn 
 up by the roots, and lcf\ to die. Hasty 
 steps approached her door : she knew it was 
 her husband. It was late, and he was corn- 
 in- to his bed. How could she meet him i 
 Her heart stood still, and the cold sweat 
 lav in drops on her ilice. She was thank- 
 fu"l for the friendly shade of the room, that 
 hi.1 her b^rrible pallor. There was an ex- 
 pression of triumph on Allen's face, and a 
 
 ^ 
 
A DOMESTIC TBAQEDY. 
 
 1S8 
 
 plank toclini to; 
 liat sliu unilor?lo()tl 
 solation. Slic was 
 >rly alone. Allen 
 never loved her; 
 1 tihe had done so 
 have they dei^eivcd 
 ;ceived mc ? " she 
 
 " How could they 
 ive nie? Have I 
 as a mother loves 
 , then, have they 
 ■ ? Why did Allen 
 ,Vhy did he wish to 
 lias Ethel loaded me 
 ■?ses ? " In her in- 
 3rosity of her noble 
 to find excnses for 
 lu tho>i'i;ht : " he must 
 1, and he will suA'*?'" 
 woman he does not 
 it a fate for her to be 
 by such a barrier ! '* 
 mo herself for allow- 
 i saerifiee. " I nii;.'ht 
 -as mistaken when he 
 , Poor boyl he im- 
 1 the constant society 
 y woman, he has dis- 
 
 What am I to do? 
 m both hai>py ; and I 
 rable. I am an obsta- 
 I remove myself from 
 imagined a hundred 
 that afforded her no 
 of hers'-<lf, she always 
 thoui^ht, of her utter 
 1 no husband, no love, 
 ripped herself of every 
 lUen ; and now she lay 
 like a poor weed, torn 
 ,d left to die. Hasty 
 r door : she knew it was 
 is late, and he was com- 
 w could she meet him ? 
 ill, and the cold sweat 
 face. She was thank- 
 shade of the room, that 
 lor. There was an ex- 
 1 on Allen's face, and a 
 
 V I ' 
 
 . 
 
 certain excitement in his voice, as he said, 
 "What, Jane 1 not in bed yet;" then he 
 cried in a ditfcrent tone, for her strant,'C 
 manner startled him, " Are you worse ? In 
 Heaven's name 1 what is the matter with 
 
 you .■* „ 
 
 " Nothing is the matter : I'm no worse, 
 replied Jane calmly, turnin-; away her head 
 as she spoke, "but I should like to bo alone 
 to-ni._d.t. Will you sleep in the m-xt cham- 
 ber?" 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it. Can I do 
 any thin;j;for you?" 
 
 " Nothing', thank you;" and with these 
 indiiferent words, they parted forever on 
 earih, without either having the slightest 
 premonition of it. 
 
 Jane's eyes followed him as he walked 
 coldly li-om the room : a wild light spark- 
 led in them, — a flame of longing love, 
 that flickered a moment, an<l went out, leav- 
 ing bcr lace as pale and fixed as a corpse. 
 " fr he had but kissed inc. If he had but 
 spoken kindly to me," she said with a dry 
 sob. " O Allen, Allen ! you will live to re- 
 gret it." Then a convulsion of grief shook 
 her frail form, and she wrung her hands 
 wildly, and looked around, as though she 
 would fly somewhere for shelter. " If Dr. 
 Wiirdeu were here," she cried, " he would 
 savemc. Where shall I go? What shall 
 I do? I am alone, with nothing in earth 
 or heaven to lean upon. I cannot live : uiy 
 heart is breaking, my biain is on fire. If 
 
 ■ I could but sleep, and sleep forever." A 
 bottle on the table near her bed caught her 
 
 ■ half-frenzied glance. It was an opiate, 
 that Dr. Warden had given her that morn- 
 ing, when she complained of insomnia. 
 " Take ten drops," he had said, " and no 
 more." Now she forgot his directions, she 
 forgot every thing; and, scarce knowing 
 whit she did, she put the bottle to her lips, 
 and drank the contents eagerly ; then she 
 fell on her knees before her bed, and tried 
 to pray. Perhaps it was from habit, \)<ir- 
 haps it was her great need of help, that led 
 her to God in that last moment. Still it 
 was Allen that was first in her thoughts. 
 " Forgive him, and make him happy," she 
 
 repeated over and over, until her voice 
 .lied away in a confused mm-rnur. A 
 strange drowsiness and nundmess crept 
 over her : she reached out her arms, and 
 tried to raise them upward ; but tlity tell 
 heavily on the bed, lier head drooped, her 
 eyes (closed, a smile of ciiildish sweetness 
 settled around her lips, and she slept peace- 
 fully. 
 
 That night Dr. Warden dreamed that 
 Jane called him. He awoko cold and 
 trembling, while a voice seemed to say 
 close to his ear, " The end has come." Af- 
 ter that he could not sleep, but tossed 
 restlessly on his bed until daylight. Then 
 he rose, dressed himsfilf, and waited pa- 
 tiently for the proper hour to visit Jane. 
 When he reached the house, Mary was 
 dusting the hall ; and she opened the door 
 lor him. " How is your mistress ? " he 
 said anxiously. 
 
 " I don't know, sir : I've not been to her 
 yet this morning." 
 
 "Is Mr. Alien down?" 
 
 " Yes, sir : he's in the garden with Miss 
 
 Ethel." 
 
 " Go up to y"ur mistress, and say I am 
 waiting to see her, when she is ready to 
 receive me." 
 
 A moment after a loud scream from 
 Mary rang through the house. It was an 
 ominous summons that lell no time lor delay. 
 When he entered the room, the shaded 
 night-lamp still burned upon the table. 
 Slanting rays of sunshine struggled throu-h 
 the half-open curtains, and rested warm and 
 bright on the floor where Jane still knc'lt in 
 the°attitude of prayer, her head bowed on her 
 clasped hanils, silent, cold, dead ! With a 
 cry of an-iuish he lifted her in his arms, and 
 laid her upon her bed as .en-lerly as though 
 she had been a sleeping infant. " Go find 
 your master," he said to the half-f.antic 
 maid. She left the room, weeping bitterly. 
 Then he leaned over Jane, and pressed a 
 long kiss on her placid brow. " You called 
 melast night, darling : you called me, and I 
 did not come. If I had been here, I might 
 have saved you." Looking around, his eye 
 fell ui)on the empty bottle ; and the truth 
 
 ^•Jkit&^um z -- • 
 
134 
 
 A DOMESTIC TUAOEDY. 
 
 burst upon liiin in all its force. " Oli, my 
 Go.1 ! n.y <Joil ! " lu' ctI'mI : " it !« as 1 
 feiirtil ; iind 1 uiu'onsciously furnislii'd luT 
 
 till- nit-aii!'. I'ow •':>"'' ' I"""'' ''''^'''''■' '"'"■ 
 turod woman ! your uiisi'ry was too much for 
 you ; but, thank (io.l 1 yon arc at rest; and 
 no one shall ever know the secret of your 
 death." A half-honr later he came out of 
 the room, howe.l and ii-ehle like one smitten 
 sud.lenly with old a;je. At the door he met 
 Allen, pale and horror-stricken. He ha.l 
 just learned of the dreadful event, and was 
 hastenin;^ wildly to Jane's room. 
 
 " () doctor 1 " ho cried, " is it true ? Is 
 
 she dea<l V " 
 
 » Yes," returned the doctor sternly, " yes : 
 she is dead ; and I thank God for it." 
 
 "What? How? Tell me the cause of 
 her death," questioned Allen with trem- 
 bling;, broken voice. 
 
 " Ask your own heart, and it will answer 
 you better than I can," replied the doctor 
 
 with a look of deep si;:;nificance, as ho 
 turned away, and rushed from i he house 
 like one berel't of reason. 
 
 Neither Allen nor Kthel ever kn.-w tho 
 direct cause of .Jane's sudden death ; lor 
 , later the dm-tor pronouueeil it h.'art dis- 
 ! oase, which, after all, was not far from tho 
 i truth. Aft.-r the funeral, Kihel ret urnod to 
 ' her aunt. Allen also left the p'.iee : tho 
 ' house was closed, and no one except Dr. 
 I Warden ever knew of the sad tra-edy that 
 ended the life of Jane Herbert. 
 
 Before the violets bloomed the secmd 
 time over Jane's -rave, Allen and Kihel 
 were married ; but they never returned to 
 their old home. Perhaps they had a va-ue 
 fear of a hauntinj;; presence there. 'I he 
 house was sold, and Ur. Warden h-^. i.ne its 
 
 owner. 
 
 Is poor Jane forgotten ? I think not ; for 
 some one keeps the llowers fresh and beau- 
 tiful upon her grave. 
 
 ' 
 
 A 
 
I 
 
 nifioancp, as ho 
 Irom I lii; liou^o 
 
 1 ever km-w the 
 l.K'ii (U'Mth; for 
 cil it hi'iirt dis- 
 not Car IVoni tho 
 ICihi'l rctiifnodto 
 't tho i>!.K'f : tho 
 
 one I'xcc'.pt Dr. 
 
 sad tragedy that 
 rbert. 
 
 iiuod tho socrond 
 Allen and Kihel 
 lever retnrned to 
 
 tlu'y had a va^ue 
 .Mice there. The 
 Vanlen l.'Oi imo its 
 
 ' I think not ; for 
 rs fresh and beau- 
 
 MR. JOHN. 
 
 I AM thirty years old, and a painter : 
 that is, a worshipper of hi-h art; a disciple 
 of Kaphael, Mi.diael An-elo, Tintoretto, 
 Leonardo, Paul Veronese, and a host ot 
 other Old-World divinities. I read Uuskin 
 from principle, Eastlake from curiosity, an(' 
 
 chance have I with my homely New-En<;- 
 lan.l ori-inality V for 1 maintain that it is 
 „ri;,dnality, though not of tho markolablo 
 
 kind. , , 
 
 I was born in Boston, — set that down in 
 niv favor; and my father was poor,— as 
 
 V . • ..11... t .Mi^lr I'k 
 
 Vasari from lo^e. 1 look upon uit. i t j j common with 
 
 masters as standards, the modern as teach- ^J^/^^ i„k, ni.ht-work, an.l 
 ers; and try to imitate the --»--- °' j 1^:;^^:: I",. nld what little vitality 
 Kaulbach, Zainacois, Rousseau, and Uau- 
 bi<rny. I dabble in landscape, still-life, and 
 ge"nre compositions. Sometimes I am de- 
 cided that the only style worth copying is the 
 gray melancholy of Troyon ; ajjain the senti- 
 mental delicacy of Hamon, or the ex(pn- 
 gite lenderness of Merle. 1 have no settled 
 school, no settled method. There is so 
 much good in every age, every style, m fact 
 almost every artist, as far as I can see, that 
 I don't know just how to condemn any. 
 When I think I have decided on one, before 
 I am aware of it 1 am admiring another 
 still more. I am a shuttlecock of every 
 form and color, balancing between four -^'en- 
 erations of battlodoors. I often regret this 
 indecision, because I think it is the only 
 thing that has prevetited mc from becoming 
 a great artist. ARer confessing my weak- 
 nesses, I may leave the impression that I am 
 not original in my subjects : but that is not 
 
 had air consumed what little vitality 
 there was in him. I was four years old 
 when he died, leaving my mother, a delicate 
 woman of twenty-five, with just nothing but 
 Miy«elf, as cross and troublesome a httle 
 creature as ever was. I don't think mother 
 lasted more than three years atler lather. 
 I know she sewed, and sewed ; and then we 
 were both often hungry. At last her poor 
 eyes -ave out, " From over use," the oculist 
 who "examined them kindly said, and 
 char-Tcd her ten dollars for saying it. Poor 
 «ouir her last ten dollars which she had 
 .,ive.l from the sale of lather's watch. 1 
 think that ten dollars, paid for fifteen min- 
 utes of time, and no good from it, broke her 
 heart ; ibr she talked of it constantly untd 
 she died. Well, he was a rich man, and of 
 course his time was valuable ; but I laid it 
 up a-ainst him in my childish heart, always 
 intending to be even with him by making 
 
 the Boston literati, ship-owners, and doc- 
 tors, the New York merchants and railroad 
 
 spet'ulators, will have the modern French 
 
 and perhaps I shall some time. If ever 1 
 do, every cent of it goes into gravestones 
 
 speculators, will have the moaern .renc. f-X';;„^ J ^ d,' what became of me 7 
 school, - Bouguereau, Meissonter, Frere AfU^ mother cUc ^ ^^ ^ 
 
 Diaz, and others equally popular. So what I Let me try to remc ^ 
 
136 
 
 MR. JOHN. 
 
 newsboy, then an errand-boy, tlien a prin- 
 ter's <lcvil in die •' lIeruia"ollii:e, iben aeoni- 
 pos-iloron the "Ji)nrnal," wbiclioeeiipiition I 
 followed nnlil I eoiniuenced my prolefsion. 
 When I was twelve ye:ir» old, I be;,'an my 
 art stndies nnder the favorable auspices of 
 the Lowell Institute. How well I remember 
 my cveninjjs in that low, gassy studio! 
 The over-heated boys ami youn'„' men, the 
 plaster models, the grave, kind face of Mr. 
 
 II , with his large shirt collar, and the 
 
 long, di^liuvelled locks of i^ood Mr. C . 
 
 They were fine teachers; and, without 
 doubt, I owe all my anticipated success to 
 them. 1 am sure it was thought that 1 had 
 some talent; ibr, after si.\ years of drilling, 
 1 could make as clever an oiV-hand sketch 
 as any of the artists who have graduated at 
 that famous institution. Then I went into 
 the " lile-school," and struggled through 
 every possible position of the brawny black- 
 smith who served as a model. Ho must al- 
 ways remeud)er me ; ibr there was no other 
 scholiir as anxious as I was that he should 
 twist himself into impossible contortions, 
 which I gloried in producing in the boldest 
 and most angular manner. 
 
 One evening, I think it was the begin- 
 ning of my seventh year there, I entered 
 with the nonchalant air of an old habitue, to 
 take my usual place, when I was conironted 
 
 bv Mr. II , who looked at me sternly, 
 
 alid said very cavalierly, " It seems to me. 
 young man, that you've been here long 
 enough. We can't teach you any thing 
 more : you must leave your place to others 
 who haven't had a chance yet." Then he 
 added dryly, " All you nee<l is practice to 
 make a second Benjamin West." I went 
 away from this temple of high art, a rejected 
 devotee, turned out because I could do 
 something ! It was a dreadful blow ; and 
 the only consolation I hatl was, that they, 
 the Alpha and Omega of art, couM teach 
 me no more, and that in lime I might be- 
 come a second Benjamin West. On the 
 strength of that encouraging prediction, I 
 took 'an eigbt-by-ten studio, with a very 
 poor light; and, with twenty-ei.iht dolhirs 
 and twenty-nine cents in my pocket, I com- 
 
 menced my career. It's no use to give the 
 details of two years of misery, during which 
 I only existed by giving a few hours now 
 and then to my old occupation, drawing n 
 crayon portrait when I cimlil get a sitter 
 whi<;h I believe was two in as many years, 
 or retouching jiictures for photograi)liefs. 
 
 Was there ever such a mistake in the 
 choice of a profession 'I Yes : there has 
 been many, and even more fatal ones than 
 mine ; for I always had, and still have, the 
 hope of success to lead me on to victory. 
 One only neetls to succeed a little to suc- 
 ceed a great deal ; and now that Mr. John 
 has given mo the golden key I shall open 
 the door easily. 
 
 I don't know whether it was a fiend or 
 an angel, in the shape of a great hulking 
 sculptor, that said to me one d;iy when I 
 was awfully hungry and blue, " Why don't 
 you go abroad and study a while ? It would 
 be a sure fortune to you. All you need is 
 a few years of foreign t(!acliing to become 
 one of the greatest painters of the time." 
 lVrhai)s he was making fun of me ; but I 
 
 didn't suspect it then, although I have 
 since. However, whether he was jesting 
 or not, his words put a new idea into my 
 head; and I thought upon it night and day. 
 It was so pleasant to know that a tbrtnne 
 could be made in any honest way, lor I 
 must confess 1 had about given up the hope 
 of making mine legitimately ; but h..w could 
 I take advantage of this prelimiaary step 
 of going abroad, when 1 had not a dollar in 
 Iht" world, and owed fifteen ibr my rent ? 
 At last I hit upon a plan, if it only succeed- 
 ed. I had an uncle, mother's only brother, 
 somewhere in the wilds of Maine. He was 
 rich, but a thorough old curmudgeon ; and 
 I hated him heartily because he had retuscl 
 to help mother after father died. " It will 
 do no harm to try him," I said : " at the 
 worst, he can only refuse me." So I spent 
 a whole day in composing a letter, in which 
 I told him of my tmdoubtcd genius, that 
 required a little ibreign cultivation to make 
 my fortuiu' ; of my inabliity to take advan- 
 tage of this rare chance, because 1 lacked 
 the one thing needful ; and 1 entreated hiiu 
 
MR. JOHN. 
 
 137 
 
 10 ufo to give tlio 
 ury, (luriii',' wliidi 
 a i'cw lioiirs now • 
 latioii, (Iniwiii;^ n 
 )iilil ^I't iv fitter 
 I us iiiiiny yiMrn, 
 |)liot();4rii[)lii'i's. 
 I luistuki! ill tliu 
 Yes : '.lierc, li:i« 
 u fatal oiu's tliaii 
 ,11(1 still liavo, tlio 
 le on to viilory. 
 Ill a little to suc- 
 i)w that Ml'. John 
 key I shall o|ien 
 
 it was a fiend or 
 f a ^^reat hulking? 
 ; one d;iy whi'U I 
 blue, " Why tlon't 
 X while ? It would 
 All you need is 
 aeliinLj to becomo 
 ters of the lime." 
 fun of nie ; hut I 
 
 although I have 
 er he was jesting 
 new idea into my 
 a it ni;;ht and day. 
 low that a ibrtune 
 
 honest way, for I 
 
 given up the hope 
 tely ; but In nv could 
 is preliuiinary step 
 had not a dollar in 
 I'teen ibr my rent 'i 
 1, if it only ^ueceed- 
 ilher's only brother, 
 of Maine. He was 
 
 curmudgeon ; and 
 ause he had refused 
 her died. " It will 
 1," I said : " at the 
 e me." So I spent 
 iig a letter, in which 
 oubted genius, that 
 cultivatton to make 
 liity to take advan- 
 .', because I lacked 
 ind 1 entreated hiiu 
 
 
 / V 
 
 by the sacred memory of my mother, who 
 died from poverty, to give the aid to her 
 sou that he had refuse.l to her. In short, I 
 wrote tt letter that would have melted the 
 heart of an English oak. Alter two months 
 of alternate hope ami fear I receiveil an 
 • answer. I knew it wa.s from him before 1 
 opened it ; because my name was eomineuced 
 with small letters, — he was too stingy to use 
 largo ones. I came very near dying of 
 surprise, when I opened that yellow envel- 
 ope, and saw a eheek — yes, actually a 
 check, for live hundred dollars ! I danced 
 for the first time in my life : I cried, I fairly 
 howled for joy ; and then I read the charm- 
 ing epi.stle. If space permitted, I would 
 give it verbatim ; but, as it will not, I can 
 only say that the first part was devoted to 
 abuH«, ill whieli he ealle.l me" a lazy, gude- 
 fur-nothiu' doag," who wanted to live off of 
 his rel.itions, instead of working like an 
 honest man. The second part was full of 
 advice of a religious nature. The third 
 was practical ami business-like. Ho said 
 that he had always intended to leave me 
 five hundred tloUars when he was "dun 
 with thiu'.'s airthly ; and it didn't make eiiy 
 grate dilVerenee whether I had it now or 
 later." How thankful I was that I had it 
 now instead of later! In conclusion, he 
 said that I " needn't expect another cent," 
 from him "never;" that I could use that 
 sura that he had " aimed " by the " swet " of 
 his brow in " riotus livin" if I pleased: 
 that was " nothin " to him ; he had " dun " 
 bis duty to his sister's child as " beseamed 
 a Christen." And then he added that he 
 hoped I would make good use of the talents 
 God had given me, and not paint " nakeil 
 wimmen, and statues, and sich-like abomi- 
 nations, but copy natur', fields, and trees, 
 and cattle and sheep." 
 
 1 can assure you that I didn't spend 
 much time over the soiled, blue-line<l letter. 
 The clean white check was what pleased 
 me most; and, fearing that the bank might 
 « suspend " before I could get it cashed, I 
 rushed down to State Street with the im- 
 portant air of a heavy financier about to 
 " tijihten " the market. 
 
 I think 1 was the bapplest man living, 
 the day I sailed frmu New York with my 
 ticket and three hundred dollars in gold 
 In my pocket. Never having had so much 
 money, 1 thought it an almost inexhausti- 
 ble fund ; however, it was not, as 1 found 
 to my se)rrow, alter I had lin-eri'd a few 
 weeks ill I'aris. When I reached Rome, 
 my iiiteiide.l destination, I had i)ut twenty 
 Niipoleons and a few sous; and no letter 
 of credit to back the amount that now 
 seemed proportionately small when I com- 
 pared it with the sum that I had started 
 with. IJut what ilid I care ? I was young 
 ami str.mg; and my fortune awaited me. 
 So I hired a little attic in the Via IJ.ibiii- 
 no, for whiih I paid three scudi a monili, 
 iind commenced my career in earnest. 
 
 After all my Boston training, I found 
 that I was lainentai)ly ignorant and stupid ; 
 for I thought I had only to paint the hand- 
 some conladini, the picturescpie children, tho 
 grand and inollow-tinted ruins, tho broad . 
 sweeps of campn'ina, to sell them at onco. 
 In my self-conceit, I thought that I was tho 
 only artist in Home, and that all the It.d- 
 ian nobles, the Knglish lords, and Ameri- 
 can nabobs, were waiting with open purses 
 and impatient hearts to buy my i.ielures as 
 fast as I finished them. Fool that I was ! 
 I didn't stop to think that Uonie was a 
 city of painters. I didn't know that there 
 was more genius hidden in one narrow 
 street than ever existed in our great re- 
 public. It took almost a year to unde- 
 ceive me, and teach me that I knew nearly 
 nothing. Until I arrived at that point, of 
 coursell had learneil very little; ami as, .at 
 the same time, I ibuud myself reduced to 
 abject poverty, my condition was not ono 
 of the most enviable. Sometimes I laugh 
 and cry together in thinking of the ciwe.'* I 
 resorted to, the better to hide my true 
 situation from my pwlrona lU casa. Sho 
 was. a good old soul, and very careful of 
 my comfort, — almost too careful. Ono 
 morning she would say, " Will the signor 
 have his coll'ee and roll at eight? " And 1 
 would reply carelessly, although my stomach 
 appealed to me pitifully at the word coHee, 
 
 ...i j^masi^ semsfr 
 
138 
 
 MR. JOHN. 
 
 "No. tlmnk you, Simiora Tita: 1 fhall 
 biviiklUHt out lliiH ii>')rniiv.'." 'ri"'" I 
 woul<l wiiiidfr forlh with »n iiwliil iippiMilt' : 
 
 nn.l ill ll>«' '•"""•^'' "'■ '">■ """^ ' ""'"''' 
 pcrlmiis |>i'k up n raw I'lirrnt at « ftull, 
 wl.irli I woul.l wiif.li <l'>wn with a .Iran-lit 
 of water at n nri-lil)<>ri"H I'oMiitain; alli'r 
 wliich I would ri.'turn to my work, appa- 
 ri'iilly as nuicli rcrn'slu'il m tlioii'^li I Ii.kI 
 l.riMklUHH'.l lu-arlily at tlio" (;ivco." Anoili- 
 .T day Aw woul.l ask polit.-ly, " At wliat 
 liour will 111.' M^nor <liiie '.' " I woiil.l pivtend 
 i„pt lo liciir lur, wlii.h siave im- time to in- 
 vent an answer; then, when she repeated 
 the .piestioii. I would say, with the air of 
 one eniin-lv ahsorluMl in his work, "Oht 
 it's you. Si-nora Tita. What did you ask 
 ine? Wliiit hour will I dineV Let me 
 see : I think it'« to-day I dine with friends, 
 at the llot.'l de lloma." Ajiain, allo;,'ellier 
 too niixioua lor my welfare, " Will the 
 M;.nor leave hia soile.l linen? Tlie wash- 
 woman has been several times." — " Ah, I 
 have fnr-olten it !" I would answer blan.lly. 
 
 '• You niiiy tell her not to come aj,'ain. I 
 have (ound another who is better: she it 
 lame, and I earry the elothes to her." 
 
 Poor old Si^iiora Tita! she lhou-;ht me 
 the best and most tru'hful of bein-s. 
 Thank (lod ! she never knew how I lie.l to 
 her; slie never knew that I washe.l my 
 clotlies in my little attie, and dried them 
 on the roof fastened to nn old canvas- 
 fVauie; she never knew that my shirts 
 wen- without stareh, thanks to the artist's 
 blouse wliieh 1 wore continually. 
 
 Well, two years passed away in this 
 wearisome stmsisle ; ami I I'^-gan to feel, 
 niter having been thoroughly unlearned, 
 that 1 was at last learninj; a little of true 
 ait : vet no one came to buy my pictures, 
 or evi'ii to see them, unless ihey stumbled, i 
 throie^h a mistake, into my studio, as 1 , 
 insisted upon uallin- my attic. I declare | 
 to (lod that no poor soul was ever so neg- 
 leete.l as I was during those two years! 
 1 >hould have dii'.l 'it;'"" an>l ^^S^'" °^ 
 gtaivation, if a kind-hearted dealer in the 
 I'ia/.za di Spa-giia had not bought a picture 
 now and then iroiu sheer pity, affixed an 
 
 Italian name to it, and sold It to fomo nu- 
 Hiispeeting compatriot of mine for nix 
 '.lines the amount he gave for it. 
 
 Hut you will naturally womler why I 
 coul.i not sell my i.ietures, as well as other 
 American artists who live in Home. I 
 will explain to you why I I'oiild not ; be- 
 cause an explaiiali.m is ilue to myself, lest 
 you shoul.l tliink that my p'etures wero 
 either very bad, or that I have overcoloreil 
 uiy story, which is a sluiiile statemiiiu of 
 facts. In the lirst place, I was poor ; and, 
 l)ein.„' poor, I could not give dinners, and 
 invite strau'.'ers to eat them, while 1 told 
 thi-m that Lord Knglish, or Lady Russia, or 
 the Countess of Fran.'.-, or Mrs. Colonel 
 America, had bought my " Star of Hethle- 
 liein," or my " Kvander and iEneas," or 
 some other eipially interesting subject ; 
 nor could 1 have a large studio ilecked 
 with brie-a-l.rac. where I could give weekly 
 reccpti.ms, anil invite people to m-et all 
 the eelel.rilies; nor had I a .Iress-eoat, 
 white tie, and lavender gloves, with which 
 to make my appearance at bankers' balls, 
 and resi.l.Mit tea-parties. I was wily a 
 hard-working young man, who shut himself 
 up in a din'iy attic, aixl devoted his lile to 
 his art, instead of ogling hidii's on the 
 I'incio, or promenading the Corso. So 
 what chance was there lor me V Although, 
 as you perceive, I did not live luxuriously 
 in the Eternal City, I lived wisely, and 
 much as did the old philosophers, whom 
 we admire and hold up as examples of 
 lieroic fortitude and self-denial, though we 
 despise an<l neglect their prototypes of the 
 present day. 
 
 Well, time went on. I was without money ; 
 and the dealer in the Piazza di Spagna 
 had closed his heart against me, because I 
 su-'gested that he might give me one-fourth 
 of" what ho received for my pictures. 
 Again ruin stared me in thei'ace; and I 
 dt"spaired, and shut myself up, and wept 
 until hunger drove me out to seek a carrot, 
 my staple article of tbo.l, — it is astonish- 
 in.r how much nourishment there is in a 
 carrot. At last 1 grew homerick (how 
 absurd I), when 1 had no home, and began 
 
 ««^»»«**r*s!*»!««» 
 
 jixin'n»i ii ia r< i » ir«» 
 
MR. JOHN. 
 
 139 
 
 solil It to fomo Hii- 
 ()(■ iniiu! for Hix 
 vc tor it. 
 illy woniltT why I 
 
 iTf, ns well ;is "tliiT 
 live in IIdiiU'. I 
 ly I ('((iilil nut ; be- 
 1 iliii' to inyt-i'lf, Wst 
 t my i.'i'tuivH wore 
 t I Imvi! ovcri'olDroil 
 
 (Implt! HtlltClllCIU of 
 
 •f, I w;is |M)()r ; imd, 
 [)t liive diiini'rf, and 
 t tlifin, wliim 1 told 
 h, or Laily Kusciii, or 
 ii'(!, or Mrs. Colonel 
 my "Star of Uftlile- 
 k-r and ^Ent-aK," or 
 inttTi'ittin^' Hnliji'ct; 
 lur^i.' studio dt-rkcd 
 e I could give wwkly 
 ! jH-ople to mi'i!t all 
 had I a drfss-coat, 
 er gloves, with which 
 \w. at hankers' halls, 
 ■ties. I was only a 
 nan, who shut Idmself 
 nd devoted his lile to 
 iv'liiv ladies on the 
 lin'^ ihu Corse. So 
 re tor n»e V Although, 
 1 not live luxuriously 
 , I lived wisely, and 
 il philosophers, whom 
 I up as examples of 
 self-denial, though we 
 iheir prototypes of the 
 
 1. 1 was without money ; 
 he Piazza di Spagna 
 against me, because I 
 ight give me one-fourth 
 ,ed for my pictures, 
 me in the iace; and I 
 t myself up, and wept 
 ne out to seek a carrot, 
 
 tbod, — ' it is astonish- 
 irishment there is in a 
 
 grew homerick (how 
 ad no home, and began 
 
 t 
 
 '» 
 
 to think that after all my fortune wa.« behind 
 nie, in ilial land across tlie si'a, — dear, gen- 
 erous, appreeialive America ; but how could 
 I •'ct tlu'i-eV I had no •^ood uncle down in 
 Maine to apply to; for he was dout^ \yitli ; 
 "tbin-s aiillily." ami hail letl his properly 
 toliMiia a toNvndionne as a monnnicnt of his 
 g.'iierosity ; and I had notliin',' in the world 
 to convert into immey Hrtvo about a hun- 
 dred canvasses covered, more or less 
 thickly, Willi paint. 
 
 One day, when I was more than ever 
 disgusted" with carrots ami water, with 
 wasliiie.' and drying, and lying to my land- 
 huly, a liappy accident occnrrcil. A good- 
 natured Kn.;lishman came pullhi',' ami 
 blowing into my ilen. He was looking tin- 
 a celebrate.l French artist, whose name 
 mine resemlilcd, and never doubled lor a 
 moment that I was lie. I supjiose, virtuous 
 reader, you think it would have been nior.' 
 honest if I had undeceived him; but, good 
 Lordl 1 was starving, ami I had no notion 
 of losing a chance to save my lilc. Well, 
 he looked around, asnired me in very bad 
 French that he was charmed with my 
 •'sketcbe-;" selected one of the best, and 
 oifeicd 1111^ fifty pounds for it; which 1 
 accejited witli a readiness that almost 
 frightened him into suspicion. Do you 
 suppose he would have bought it if he had 
 known how poor I was, and that I was uoi 
 the iMviichman he had heard of; or if he 
 had undiTstood the language he murdered 
 •well enough to know that mine wascipially 
 bad, and theielbre I could not be any thing 
 but an ignorant, vulgar American ? How- 
 ever, without an ida^f how he Wiw being 
 sold, he gave me a check for lifty pounds ; 
 ordered tlie picture done up, — it was m.t 
 Ijir^e, — and trudged oil' with it, fearful lesl 
 it might be changed tor a copy if he left it 
 to.be sent. 1 can imagine that iiicture 
 adorning the wall of a stately Knglish 
 mansion, and the jwmpous, self-satislied 
 
 owner showing it as an "original of II , 
 
 immensely clever, but very eccentric, as 
 most Frenchmen are." 1 am thankful that 
 my si'^nature, wliich I always make as illegi- 
 ble as possible, will never betray me. 
 
 You can naturally suppose that I wa- not 
 lim.; ill rolling I'j' "'>' cinvasses, and start- 
 lug" for the " 1-and of the fiee." I'oor 
 Si^'uoraTital I'oor oM attic in the Via 
 ilabiiino, wlioso every spot of lloor I have 
 washed with my tears ! Wai in, sunny roof 
 
 that dried my clothes I Hard idi where 
 
 1 rested my lon;i, tired limbs 1 Juicy ear- 
 rots and >]) irkling water ! Adieu ; for I shall 
 see you no more. 1 have fifty pounds ; 1 am 
 rich"; and I am starting for America, for 
 Boston, where my Ibrtiine awaits me. 
 Such were the thoii-hts that lloaled through 
 mv mind as I drove triunipliantl.v away 
 from the grim door that had opened tin- me 
 
 so mauv limes. What a sc to enlarge 
 
 „p„„! ■ Hi.t here I am half ibrongli my 
 storv. and I have not yd begun to tell you 
 h,)w I found my wife, Mr. .John, and all the 
 good things that have lately (alien to my 
 
 lot. 
 
 Well, to go on with this Irh n'riliqn'' bin- 
 /oire, 1 aiTiveil in Uoston one drin/ly 
 mm-ning iu October, by the night-train 
 from New York, after three years' absence, 
 sleepv, tired, and hungry, with a shabby 
 valise somewhat collapsed, an immenso 
 roll of canvas done ui) in a tin liox, ami a 
 one-dollar giT'en-lwck in iny pocket. 
 Where was I to goV I had no friends to 
 welcome me, no home awaited me ; so I 
 letl my treasures in the charge of a depot 
 clerk.'took a check lor them, and then wan- 
 dered into the dirty " saloon." where a 
 crimpy girl dispensed muddy coll'ee and 
 (labbv biscuit. I invested twenty-tive cents 
 in "ix'frcshments," and then started out to 
 
 find a studio. 
 
 It was scarce sunrise: nevertheless I 
 .lire-.'ted my steps toward that modern tem- 
 ple of art, the Studio liuilding, where I 
 found a yawning porter dragging the dirt 
 over the rope-carpeted stairs with a stubby 
 broom. " Are there any studios to let 'I " 
 I iufiuired with as foreign a drawl as I 
 could produce. It commanded immediate 
 attention. " Yes, sir," he said respectfully : 
 " there is a small one just vacated : the 
 artist has gone South, and lett il to be let 
 furnished." 1 looked at it: it was an 
 
140 
 
 MU. JOHN. 
 
 liiiiuov.-menl .m my Houmn Htili", mvI 1h- 
 
 li„V tw..lv .••.In.k. I WUi.-t.ll.li4*.Ml »vltli 
 my nlvn.ler \m:iVvh- ieu<ly lu UH.ive lh.' 
 Ion line lh.it wa< Kiir.i to <m>iiii' to m: Hut ' 
 ha.l l.iti-mM li-'Mii I'ii^'l •■xi'i-rl'iif" tl"H •>"'' 
 iiUMl l.avo liH.ll wl.il.- hi- wall-., M. I ..■l.rt.MJ 
 u U.M..1 i.irliin- u( ii [lU'iiHluiJ miKj.'.'t, ami 
 
 .lurit.l il I" II 'l»'i'l''<' "«"'■ ''>> *" **'""" ' 
 oIUto.I il r..r wli;it.-vci- luir.- lio (iUmm-'I t.i 
 j,„y im-. Ill- Kiivi- 111.- iliiity .Lillui-fi (it 
 was woilh two liuii.ln-.l), wliidi I iim'l.t.-.l 
 tlianktullv ; tin- at last I lia.l i-t)im- t.. nii.l.-r- 
 mau.l tli.it the ri-al valii.- ..t' my l'i<tui(-J' 
 wa!. wUt tlo-y woul.l l.i-in.^,<.tUfi'wiHi! ih.-y 
 wi-io ....•; V .•aiiva^ ami Iiaint. 'Hiat im-a-iv 
 KUiu ..I thirty .lollwH ki'i.t lh.- w..ir from 
 ti,.. il.M.r wliiUi I i.wk.-il arotiml, ami ma.h- 
 th.- i.ivli.irm.iry arran^'.-uH-nts that hh..iil'l 
 h.ii.l lilt- to Hii.Tfus ami I'orimii). For Houm 
 n-miuM that I t-ainiot uxplain, I oxpi-.-t.-.l 
 my arrival w.)iiKl en-ate a Uttlo Mir in tla- 
 w.'.il.l of art. I th.m.^ht it would sjradually 
 h-ak ...It that I ha.l ivtiiriu-.l with nm.ilu-r.. 
 of htmlics ; that all the artists wv.iihl llofk 
 to Hoe them, then all the people ; that my 
 Mu.lio wo.il.l he nile.l with appr.-.-iativ.' 
 visitors, that my pi.ttircs w..iil.l Hell, aii.l 
 that ill a little while I shouM be on the 
 hi-h roa.l t.) prosperity. My first xtep. 
 which 1 now know w.is a li.olish one, was to 
 make tViemls with the artists. They came, 
 luokeil at my pi.lares, praise-l them to my 
 iaee. ami then w.-nt away, ami tonml i'ault 
 with them. I pla.e.l several of tlu^ best on 
 i...\hil.llion in the various j^alleries; hut 
 th. y atiraeie.l little or no attention. Who 
 ha.l heard ..I' me? I eoul.l not be a eele- 
 brated artist, or Mime one would have km.wn 
 of me. 1 don't suppose they ever stoiipe.l to 
 think whether lliiui.u'l or i.cimard.) eame 
 into ]>ul<lic favor with their lirst pictur.-. 
 Hut what else could I expect of Boston. 
 It is such a hi.i;h-t(me.l city, it has such a 
 lofty standard ..f art ami liu-raiure, such 
 finely eultivatiMl tastes, such precise dis- 
 t-rim'iiiation ! of course it could mjt decide 
 at once in f.ivor of a new-comer. My suc- 
 cess mi;:ht be slow in comin;.'; still, I never 
 d.mbted but that it woul.l come in the eiul. 
 Aceordin-ly 1 waited patiently six montlis, 
 
 ih.-n impatiently kU morn, ami at ihe oml 
 „( that limo 1 bewail to itu»p.-.t tint my 
 fortmm was no nearer limn it wan at Iho 
 f„.,t .I..V ..f my arrival. My ph-tnres dhl 
 mitpleiwe: m) one e..uhl tell win : nu.l I 
 wa« not Mire myself wh..ih.'r ih.-y w.-ro 
 .M,o.l or ha.l. ILwevei-, I .li.l mana-e to 
 sell en.mzh to ke.'p m.ul au.l body l.. M-ih.-r, 
 ami that w.is somelliin;.,'. I'erhaps il wai 
 as mu.-h as I eouhl rea*.mahly expect, see- 
 in^ t la-re were so many belter p.iinti-m 
 
 than I. 
 
 At last some otio su;;';e»te.l that I 
 sh..ul.l paint autumn s.-enery, - s..m.-lhin-^' 
 f.imiliar au.l homelike, smnethin- bri;ilit 
 and cheerful, instead «)f those sa.l, ^ray 
 lan.lseapes that l ha.l put all my s.ml into. 
 It was a new i.lea: perhaps, after all, tlu-re 
 lay the s..urce of my success. So, with 
 hi^h h..p.-s, I pa.ke.l my traps, t.)..k my 
 c,unp-slo.)l, sk.-fhin-,' easel, ami bi-^ (.Tceii 
 umbrella, au.l starte.l for New Hampshire. 
 il was a warm, dreamy aftern..ou, late 
 ill Sepi.-mber ; the trees wens bc^rinnin-,' 
 to turn from -^rei-n to vivi.l sjold an.l re.l ; a 
 violet ha/e hun- over the hills, and the 
 valleys were full of silver mist. I'.-rch.-d 
 bi-h up..n a woo-ly hill, my e.asel sim-lc 
 fn-mlv into the groun.l, my eamp-sKiol 
 prop'peil up with stones, and my H'een 
 umbi-ella sprea.l over me, I was tryiiv,' to 
 .rive the (inishin;,' tou.-lics to a long 
 stretch of landscape, mountains in the per- 
 spective, -real, beetling precipices in the 
 ini.ldle dist.ince, ami a lan-uid, reedy 
 river in the for.-'^round, ereepin;,' betw.-en 
 clumps of scarlet and gol.l elms. I had 
 lai.l on the color thick and warm, with a 
 free, Iwhl touch ; yet for some reason it .lid 
 not s.-e.n so tender, and still so brilliant, as 
 the cviuisite tints of nature which I was 
 trviu',' to copv. Thrne was something 
 ermiraml tawdry in the eflect that i)leased 
 me less than any thin:,' I bml done. 
 A.uunm scenery is beautiful, with its f..liagO 
 of a thousand womlrous shaiies ami tones, 
 its sweet harmony, its strikin- contrasts, 
 its -or.,'e.ous .lecay, but what human haml, 
 with the i.osiiive m.-.lium of canvas and 
 paint, can imitate that which the mystio 
 
Mil. JOHN. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ivnil i»t llie pnil 
 MiK|M'(t ili.it my 
 
 ,11 it WliM lit tilt) 
 My plrtlirr't <licl 
 It'll wli\ : nii'l I 
 
 ll'liuT 111'')' W.MO 
 
 dill mikimu'ti til 
 ml Idcly lo.'i'llii'r, 
 
 I'. rliii|c* It w;i« 
 iilily i'X|K'i't, Kt'iv 
 ■ bi'iti'i' ii.ilntiTH 
 
 Ul^'^l'Htl'il lli:it I 
 ii'i'y, — hoiiiclhin'^ 
 (i(>iiietliiii;j> l)ri;»lit 
 ' ihoHo Hiiil, uniy 
 , 111! my MDiil ii'to. 
 ips, iil'H'r nil, tliiTO 
 iiici'i'sK. So, with 
 iv trup'', tiHik my 
 H'l, ami Itig ^reua 
 
 Nt^w lliiiuiMliiii). 
 ,iy iit'lcniooii, lato 
 •H wep! bi'^iiniiing 
 il fjolil mill It'll; a 
 the hillH, iiml ihn 
 er mi!*t. I'lTclu'il 
 1, my p.isi'l siiH'k 
 il, my oanip-alool 
 g, anil my ntv^^n 
 ic, I WII8 tvyiii'.; to 
 lUi'lics to a long 
 luiitains ii» tlu; per- 
 
 preciiiices in the 
 
 a lan:^niil, recily 
 , en!t'I)iii;f hflwci-n 
 (Told olms. I had 
 
 and warm, with a 
 • some reason it did 
 
 still so brilliant, as 
 lature which I was 
 re was something 
 ) efl'eet that pk-ased 
 hin:^ I had done, 
 tit'ul, with its t'oliago 
 s shiidea and toni'S, 
 ! strikin*; contrasts, 
 t what human hand, 
 inn of canvas and 
 t which the mystic 
 
 n„„..r. of the f.o.t.kln.,' have ton.ln'd ... that over mad.- n.y Iwa-t st,.p l-'itln,' wa. 
 i!VNo no-inHpiteofn.y dcHire to be M.dd.nly addre I by a pr-t.y 
 
 , .t .Lost blinded me, as, lor the and lank, with a hatchet taee. and a «. t 
 
 n dawned npon ,ne that this bnndl.. of h.dr and b-ard ; bn. tny eves a 
 
 I. m not n.y>W«. and that I rather ,ood 1 the bnc o, "./"-'-' 
 
 1.1 her- as I had In every thin, very bad. It -nust have been my t„n b.y 
 
 eU T li ron.ddy diseonra,e,l. I leaned and awkwardness that tnade ,ne .so r.^l e„- 
 t heai lej.retedly upon n.y hand, and ! loi.s ....d stnpid when I ene.mnte.vd 
 r.!k vav ,.to the nlysterious distance, woman. Now. as I looked ..p and . 
 
 "" , •, , , ,,,,.,, ,11, I wi-l. V For the ' those beantifnl ey»'s tJi/.m; stead.ly at me, 
 
 w..sl..n,.-l.ut -'■''-" ,;";,^ w n.v-land the p.-etty ...onth jnst parted In a little 
 
 t nw t -li.lla bill-, lor a. that .,.o,ne..t sink into the ea.-th. «reen ;-.->'-; 
 
 Ided it .no.-o than a.,y tl.i... el-e. My all. There was -;--; ;,";"- 
 
 financial ..flairs were a^am In a most '1'^" :':;"'::;;'"..;,',..^.,; , „,,..„ ^_ 
 
 t'oiiraj;.!.'^ 
 
 ,,„..r..ion. .mil that was ahvays lollow.n',' eonve.-sat.on took i 
 
 a eai.^e of depi'e^sion and di-salislaetion 
 I never was pleased with any ihiiej; when 
 I was out of mo.iey. For nearly th.re 
 nionlhs 1 had been wanderiii;,' about the 
 country, r.vin;; in the woods, and workin;,' 
 like a'slave, only to.be disappointed at 
 hist with what 1 had done. This little 
 village in Northern New ll.impsliire, wheie 
 I h;ul pitched my tent lor a few days, 
 otlei-ed ve.-y little attraclio.i to pleas.n-e- 
 seekers; still, it was a eharinin',' spot for an 
 artist, a.id I was loath to leave it until I 
 had consi^rned some of its slrikin- points 
 to canvas; but how could I remain when 
 I had not enough money to pay a week's 
 board ut the lly-iidiabited little inn V Lost 
 in these painli.l reflections, I did not hear 
 appioachin- steps, nor did I look up, until 
 a shadow was thrown across my canvas 
 and a sweet, clear voice said, '• Oh, what 
 a pretty picture ! " 1 raised my eyes, and, 
 Htandin;' between me and the level rays 
 of the siin, was what 1 mi-ht have thou,;!.! 
 a vision, only for her speakin:^ ; but. 
 althou-h I was dazzled and sui'prised, I 
 
 "How in the world can yon eoi)y all 
 thi'-e lbin'.,'s so exact? " 
 
 " I don't think they are very exact, and 
 that tronldes me." 
 
 " Cioodness Kraeions ! why it's as natural 
 „^ lii;., _ Farmer .Jones's mill, Mr. John's 
 meadow. Cherry lliU, and Aimmw Creek, 
 — why, I should know it all ni.ywl.ei-e." 
 
 "Should you? I'm ve.-y «lad." 
 
 "Do tell' me how you ^'o to work to 
 make such a picture. Of all thiii-s, I 
 
 ,hoiild like to "know how to draw. Is it 
 verv dillieult ? " 
 
 " Not vei-y. when one has a talent for 
 
 it." 
 
 " Oh, a talent t but can't you learn unless 
 
 you have a talent?" 
 "Not isily." 
 
 » Is that so ? Well, don't you get lone- 
 son e here all alone?" 
 " Soi.ieti.nes." 
 
 » I suppose. thou;,di, that when you're at 
 wo.-k, you'd rather be alone, just as I 
 would when I read. I like to come here, 
 
 . „,.,,„... it's so still 1 I can think better. I like this 
 
 .oon discovered that it was .,o a,.,el, only so nn.ch - " J-^in, at_ a book in her hand, 
 a pretty ,irl in a eand^= ^^ ;.v. s.aw ;; . > -n. J ^ ^ ^ ^^d it amon, Mr. 
 
 i;ri:::;i::::;::e^:;;;:::=aaoh.t.sb.^ 
 
 than 1 wan ; lor the only thing in the world | so well. 
 
 ".jsi^^f^Si^s 
 
 ■ IH i .i !i 4 'i -l.-^ ' ll- Ju^L-. 
 
142 
 
 MB. JOHN, 
 
 " Then you like to read ? " 
 " Very iiurU, bfcuiise I've nothing else 
 to do. Ml-. Juhn won't let me work, nor >ro 
 to the vinii;j;e, nor got ac(iuiunted with peo- 
 ple ; so I should be awful dull if it wasn't 
 for hooks." 
 
 » Who is Mr. John ? " 
 
 "Mr. John? why he's the gentleman I 
 live with : he's the same as a father to me." 
 
 " Then you have no father nor mother ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 » Nor I either : I lost both when I was a 
 
 very little boy." 
 
 " And you had no one, like Mr. John to 
 take eare of you V " 
 
 " No one : I've always taken care of my- 
 self." The lovely eyes were full of pity, and 
 the sweet mouth looked very sorry for me, 
 so I thou;4ht I would chanijje the subject. 
 "])o you live near here ? " I said. 
 
 » Just behind the hill, on the other side 
 of the road, in the great stone house." 
 
 '• Ah ! a very pretty place ; and is Mr. 
 John's wife kind to you V " 
 
 She lau^died a short, musical laugh. "Mr. 
 John's wiib ! Why, he nev.r had any.'' 
 " And you live there alone with him V " 
 " No, not alone : there's Ben and Tom, 
 the hired men; and Mrs. Smith, the house- 
 keeper -, and Sallie, the kitchen-girl." 
 
 It was astonishing how comfortable I was 
 beginning to feel in the presence of this 
 simple cliild of nature. I even had the 
 courage to ask her in the boldest manner 
 by wliat name she was called ; to which she 
 frankly replied, "Kate: Mr. John calls ine 
 Kate, and the servants Miss Kate." 
 " Well, may I call you Miss Kate." 
 " I don't know — just as you like," with a 
 little confusion. '• But perhaps Mr. John 
 wouldn't be pleased if he knew I was talk- 
 ing to a stranger. He's very particular 
 about it : he never lets me talk to any one ; 
 so I think I must go." 
 
 " Ob, no! not just yet. Wouldn't you like 
 to be painted in a picture 'I See, here is a 
 little canvas; if you will stand still jiist as 
 you are I will make a drawing of you." 
 
 She was delighted, and promised to stand 
 very still. I had almost finished an exqui- 
 
 site little sketch of her, into which 1 had 
 l)Ut a great deal of life and feeling, when 
 a sudden crash in the underbrush startled 
 me ; and a great dog leaped out from among 
 the trees, followed by an elderly man, with 
 a kind though sad face. He was dressed 
 in a hunting-suit, and carried a gnu and 
 game-bag. 
 
 « O Mr. John ! " cried Kate, rushing 
 toward him eagerly. " Look, do look 1 I ain 
 having my picture painted 1 " 
 
 Mr. John seemed very angry as he 
 glanced from one to the other in surprise; 
 but perhaps something in my homely, stui)id 
 face re-assured him, for he drew near, and 
 looked over my shoulder. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he cried, bringing his hand 
 heavily down on my knee, " it's like herl 
 Imt what in the Devil are you <loiiig here, 
 Kate V What are you doing here with this 
 stranger ? " 
 
 I didn't like to see him angry with the 
 poor girl ; so I explained gently how she had 
 accidentally come upon me, and how I asked 
 her to stand for a sketch. 
 
 " It's the first time ? You're sure it's the 
 fn-st time ? " he said, looking suspiciously 
 from one to the other. " Tell mo the truth, 
 
 Kate." 
 
 " Of course," she replied, laughing and 
 blushing a little, " I have never seen him 
 before." 
 
 This seemed to appease Mr. John ; for ho 
 patted heron the head, called her a good 
 girl, and then told Jier to run away home. 
 She looked lingeringly at the picture, and, I 
 thought, lingeringly at me, as she turned 
 away, followed by the great dog. After she 
 hadgonc, Mr. John came, and sat down near 
 me. pushing over my umbrella and color-box. 
 " See here, young man," he said, " I want to 
 have a litde talk with you. I like yoiw face : 
 I believe you're honest. You're the first man 
 Kate has ever talked with alone. She's 
 romantic and silly, and it would be just like 
 her to fall in love with some otie. Now, I 
 don't want any of that nonsense, you under- 
 stand. I brought her uj), and educated her 
 to be with me, and to take care of me when 
 I'm old ; and I don't intend to lose her. 
 
 'jmB#j...iil'<lli«'***'^'-" ' 
 
 ftw w i.MiNWHW-^-U'-J'"' ''*-"-" ' ' '"*" 
 
 Wtrrtmm 
 
MR. JOHN. 
 
 143 
 
 to wliich 1 had 
 1 luiUliij;, whi!Q 
 jrbriish stiivtled 
 out t'rom iiiiiong 
 Mcrly iniin, with 
 llo was dressed 
 riud a guii and 
 
 I Kati', rushing 
 }k, ilo look 1 I am 
 1" 
 
 •y aw^vy as he 
 Lher in surprise ; 
 iiy homely, stupid 
 i drew near, and 
 
 (ringing his hand 
 e, " it's like herl 
 1 you (loiii'i here, 
 ing liere with this 
 
 n ani^ry with tlie 
 ;ent!y how she had 
 e, and liow I asked 
 
 i'ou're sure it's the 
 oking suspiciously 
 ■ Tell mo the truth, 
 
 ied, lau;^hing and 
 c never seen him 
 
 e Mr. John ; for he 
 called her a good 
 o run away home. 
 : the picture, and, I 
 me, as she turned 
 eat dog. After she 
 !, and sat down near 
 )rella and color-box. 
 he said, "I want tD 
 u. I like your face : 
 You're the first man 
 with alone. She's 
 itwoulil be just like 
 some one. Now, I 
 nonsense, you under- 
 1]), and educated her 
 ake care of me when 
 intend to lose her. 
 
 Now, I'd like to have her portrait painted 
 ri'.'ht well ; but I've never had it done, be- 
 cause I'm afraid of Artists. They're a 
 precious bad lot, the most of them. See 
 here, are you married Y " — " No," I stam- 
 mered out; i'or the very thought frightened 
 me. " I'm sorry for that," he returned. 
 *' However, if you will promise me that you 
 won't encourage Kate to fall in love with 
 you, nor won't fall in love with her yourself, 
 I'll let you paint her portrait ; and you may 
 come to the house to-morrow, and begin it. 
 But first you must promise me." 
 
 How could I do that ? I was sure alrea- 
 dy that if I saw her again I might fall in 
 love with her ; but I needed money, so I tried 
 to resolve that I would not. Though I gave 
 the desired promise rather unwillingly, I 
 was honest enough in my intention. 
 
 That night I put a few questions to the 
 landlor.1 of the inn about Mr. John, which 
 elicited the following remarks : — 
 
 " No one knows notliin' about him ; he 
 came here ten year ago, an' bought that 
 place of Curnel Simpson's, an' paid ready 
 cash down : then he went oft"; an' in a few 
 weeks he cum back with a little gal eight 
 or nine years oki, an' an old woman to take 
 care of his house, an' another servant-gal, 
 an' two men. Then lots of furniture cum 
 by rail to the town below, an' was carted 
 up here, — cheers, an' sophys, an' a grand 
 piany, an' Lord only knows what else! 
 They say it's most like a palace up there : 
 though I've never seen it ; an' I don't 
 know who has, for that matter, for no one 
 never sets loot in his door ; an' he never 
 ■was in a house in this district ; an' the 
 men an' the servant-gal don't speak to 
 any one, more'n to say 'good-day,' the 
 same as their master ; an' they never any 
 of 'em come to church, no more'n a pack o' 
 heathens. The little gal never went to 
 school to the 'cademy ; an', now she's grown 
 up, she never comes to the village. They 
 say that he's edicated her himself, an' that 
 she's a i)rop(.'r pretty gal ; but no one thinks 
 she's his child, an' they do say queer things 
 about her," — Here I interrupted the old 
 gossip with such a sudden "Good-night," 
 
 that I left him, his mouth wide open and 
 his eyes staring wilh surprise. 
 
 The next morning I pri senti'd myself 
 at the stonli houses with canvas, Ciiscl, and 
 ]taint-box, ready to begin my jileasant 
 labor. Kate and Mr. John receiveil me in 
 a large, hiindson-ely-fin-nished room which 
 they called the library, and which was to 
 to be my stud'o while I was painting the 
 portrait. My charmiu'^ sitter was full of 
 delight at the thought of any break iu the 
 monotony of her life. She took a dozen 
 dilTerent, graceful positions, arran'zing her 
 simple dress and blueril»bons with bewitch- 
 ing coipietry. I don't think any one was 
 ever so happy as 1 during those (irst days. 
 I didn't quite understand how happy I was, 
 or perhaps I might have been conscience- 
 smitten to find that it was perlc-ct bliss 
 only to be able to look at Kate, with Mr. 
 John sitting by, regarding her with pathet- 
 ic tenderness. I knew bcliire the third 
 day that I was in love with her, desper- 
 ately, di.-honestly in love ; but I was detcr- 
 nuned that neither she nor Mr. John should 
 suspect it. Almost before I was aware of 
 it, Mr. John had gained my confidence, 
 and I had told him of all my past struL'gles 
 and sorrows. Sometimes he would listen 
 to me quietly and tearfully, then again ho 
 would break into a furious tirade against 
 the injustice of the world and the cruelty 
 of fate. One day, when I had finished 
 telling of my trials in Rome, he slapped 
 me heartily on the shoulder, and said 
 cheerfully, though there was an undertone 
 of sadness in his voice, " Never mind, ray 
 boy : don't think any nr>re of it. Keep 
 your promise to me, and I will see that you 
 sell your pictures. I lost all my chance in 
 lile when I was your age, through poverty. 
 I might have been happy i but I tell you 
 I lost the chance then, and, by Heaven I 
 it was a wrong that nothing else can com- 
 pensate me for." Then his voice choked, 
 and he fairly broke down. The next morn- 
 iii" he n-avc me three hundred dollars, 
 which, he said, was a prei)ayinent on the 
 portrait. 
 1 I think I had been there ci^jht or ten 
 
114 
 
 MR. JOHN. 
 
 asain. 
 
 dav«, an<l niv work was ^oinR on finely; 
 v..t I was not sati^fR•.l with mysolf. I'or 
 ihe fn'.t thnc in ,ny life-, I Ml that I vvas 
 reallv dishonest, that I was stealm- the 
 treaMue of n.y henoliu'tor un.ler h.s very 
 eyes; Ibi-in >,,itc -f my honor, in spite ot 
 n'y resolve, I was in love with Kate, an.l 
 the dear ehil.l, m"eh to my astonishment, 
 ^v-as beeomin^ too ibn-l of me. I saw U ... 
 eveiv tender ^lanee, I felt it in every inno- 
 cent' wor.1. 1 was a sreat, lank, awkwanl 
 fallow, poor and unfortunate; but I was the 
 onlv .nan she had ever known heside Mr. 
 ■ John,andshefaneied that 1 was the l.e.4,, 
 
 and the handsomest in ll.c world. One 
 luornin;; wc were alone for a few moments : 
 Kate was more lovely, more gentle, than 
 ever, and I was eonipletely heside myselt 
 I l,ad oeeasion to ehan-e the position ol 
 iKT hands; and, before I knew what 1 was 
 
 ahont, 1 pressed them to my hp- ^^he 
 drew them awav, looked at me a little snr- 
 pvised, then sn.ldenly threw her arms] 
 round u.y neek, and burst into tears. 
 There was a po-ition for an honorable man. 
 who had iiiven his word to bis benefaetor. 
 Ahnost crushed with shame and remorse, 
 1 held her to my heart until she broke 
 away iiom my elasp, and rushed from the 
 
 'Tr. John ean.c in peaceably. "Where 
 is Kate •! " he said. I cowered beneath his 
 glance. AVhat could 1 say V What excuse 
 could I make? He had been noble and 
 generous to me: I had broken ...y prom. - 
 and betrayed his confidence, and 1 lelt akc 
 a criminal. He looked at me gently, 
 waitin,' lor my an.wer. I could not 
 sneak : my shame made me dumb. 
 ^^Ah 1" he said at last," 1 see how It .s." 
 
 Then I threw down n.y palette and l).-ushes, 
 andtohlhimall. " >W I cried " I .«- 
 .ot Ican'tstayheretoseehert Hove 
 ter: I can't help it ; and there's nothm.^ 
 ...oretosay! The sooner I get away, the 
 
 better ! " , ^ -t •> » 
 
 " And without finishing the portrait . 
 
 said Mr. John ruefully. , .^ .. i 
 
 u Yos without finishing the portrait, J 
 
 returned decidedly. "1 must not see her 
 
 a-au.. I ha.l never forgotten myself, ...y 
 dWlidence, mv awkwardness, so completely. 
 For the first time in my life I was sure ot 
 ,„vself. 1 knew I had the strength to go 
 then; but, if I hesitated, I felt that I was 
 
 lost '■ I will return you the money you 
 paid me," I said, picking up n.y things 
 rapidly; "keep what there is^ of the por- 
 trait : it's better than nothing." 
 
 Mr. .Tohn looked at me pityingly. "Its 
 true vou've broken your promise; but per- 
 
 ' 1 . •!• «rt nrtiir I Inn t 
 
 haps'ifs not too late if you go now. Don t 
 sneak of returning the money : the portrait, 
 even as it is, is worth double the sum. 
 Sen.l mc some pictures, and I will pay you 
 la good price lor them. Perhaps you 11 
 think I'm hard : may be 1 am : but I cr.n t 
 lose Kate; she's all .ny life. You cant 
 love her half as well as I do." 
 
 I had a"there<l up n.y thin-s with aburst- 
 in.r heart" gave my han.l to Mr. John, and 
 1 turned toward the door. 1 had been in 
 paradise for a little while; now I was 
 leaving it iorever. As I stood on the 
 thresh' n' listening to Mr. John's "Im 
 ,orrv •. "■ •• I"'" sorry," the door was 
 throV ' '. '-iolently, and Kate burst in 
 with fi...-c.i taco and red eyes. Looking 
 from one to the other, and noticing Mr. 
 John's agitation, ami my preparat.ons for 
 departure, she divined th. truth, and 
 crie.l out sharply. " Where .are you going . 
 Then, springing at Mv. John like an angry 
 little ti-er, she sei/.ed him by the arm, and 
 demanded what it all meant. " You are 
 sending him away because I love h.m and 
 you think ni never see him again ; but 1 
 will ! I will ! " Then, coming to my side, she 
 put her hand on my arm, and said gently, 
 " If you go, I'll go too." 
 
 That was more than Mr. John could 
 bear. He trembled, turned deadly pale, 
 an<l at last sobbed out, " O Kate, Kate 1 
 is that the way you return my love i " 
 
 In a moment the impulsive girl was ^at 
 his side, with her arms roun.l his neck. " I 
 love you, vou know I love you ; but I love 
 him too, and you want to sen.l him away. 
 Let him stay here, and I can love you 
 both." 
 
■»Tr- 
 
 for^ottcn mysflf, my 
 rihiL'ss, so compk'tt'ly. 
 iiy lite I w:is suro of 
 ,r the stron;^lh to go 
 ited, I felt that 1 was 
 1 yoii the money you 
 )ickiiv4 up n.y things 
 t there 19 of the por- 
 n nothing'." 
 
 at me pityingly. " It's 
 'our promise ; hut per- 
 
 I if von go now. Don't 
 le !noney : the portrait, 
 orth double the sum. 
 ires, and I will p:vy you 
 them. PiThaps you'll 
 ly he 1 am : but I cr.n't 
 
 II my life. You can't 
 
 11 as i do." 
 
 p my thin'zs with a burst- 
 hand to Mr. John, and 
 : door. 1 h:id been in 
 tie while; now I was 
 As I stood on the 
 T to Mr. John's "I'm 
 'm sorry," the door was 
 mtly, and Kate burst in 
 and red eyes. Looking 
 other, and notieing Mr. 
 and my preparations for 
 livined the truth, and 
 "Where are you •^oin;! ? " 
 ,t lilr. John like an angry 
 ized him by the arm, and 
 it all meant. " You are 
 y beeause I love him ! and 
 rer see him again ; but I 
 lien, eoining to my side, she 
 my arm, and said gently, 
 
 ro too." 
 
 ,re than Mr. John could 
 bled, turned deadly pale, 
 hed out, " O Kate, Kate 1 
 you return my love ? " 
 the impulsive <?'••• '■"^^ "* 
 r arms round his neck. " I 
 now I love you ; but I love 
 ,u want to semi him away, 
 here, and I can love you 
 
 MR. JOHN. 
 
 145 
 
 «(jlWft-.4J(!M.'4^"-J5**^'" 
 
 " Child, child," said Mr. John, srently 
 Btrokini; her hair, " you don't know what 
 you ask : you don't know how hard it is to 
 give you to another. How can I live if I 
 lose you 'I " 
 
 " You won't lose me," she said earnestly ; 
 " that is, if yon will let us both stay with 
 you and love you; but if you send him 
 away, I will go too, — remember what I say, 
 I wi'u go." 
 
 I stood during this touching conversation, 
 silent, embarrassed, guilty, yet very happy, 
 because the dear girl loved me, and had 
 deilured her intention to go with me. 
 
 At last Mr. John said sadly and almost 
 reluctantly, " Put down your box, boy, and 
 let's talk this over. Perhaps we can ar- 
 range it. Go away, Kate : when we have 
 finished talking, I'll call you." 
 
 " You won't go without seeing me ; prom- 
 ise me," and she looked me imploringly in 
 the face. 
 
 " I promise you," I said, pressing my lips 
 to her Ibrehead ; then she went away and 
 left me alone with Mr. John. 
 
 I was full of contrition at seeing the 
 good man in such trouble. " Forgive me," 
 I said with a broken voice. "It's my 
 fault, I know ; but I never meant to make 
 trouble. I love her : she's the only creature 
 besides mother that ever loved me. I'm 
 BO poor and unfortunate, such a miserable 
 man for a sweet girl like her to love 1 I 
 worship her ; but don't fret, Mr. John : even 
 if she wants to go, I won't take her away 
 from you. No : 1 can't marry lier, as dearly 
 as I love her ; I can't marry her, for she 
 would starve with me. No, no, I never 
 can drag her down to my misery." 
 
 "But you won't drag her down, — by 
 Heaven you won't. I've money enough 
 for all. I'm a selfish brute to stand be- 
 tween the poor girl and her happiness. 
 I've sufTered all my life because cursed 
 poverty stood between me and the only 
 ■woman I ever loveil. I did a great wrong 
 to her mother. Now's my chance to atone 
 for it. If you really love her, and she loves 
 you, take her ; and I will make every thing 
 easy for you, even if it breaks my heart." 
 10 
 
 Before I knew it, I was on my knoes cry- 
 ing like a child, while I thanked Mr. John 
 between my sobs; and he cried too. wring- 
 ing my hand until it adied, and calling me 
 over and over his boy, his dear boy. 
 
 " But wait, wait a little: don't go crazy 
 with Joy until I tell you all ; for, by Heav- 
 en ! I won't deceive you in the least ; 
 but remember, you're to keep it from her. 
 She's my own child, and I never was mar- 
 ried. Do you understand ? Iler motluT 
 was the sweetest, the truest. O my (jod I 
 what an angel she was I but she was a poor, 
 humble girl ; and my father, a [inrse-iproud 
 old Jew, swore that he would disiidierit mo 
 if I married her ; and I was a coward, a 
 weak coward, and afraid to make her my 
 lawful wife in the face of it all. She loved 
 me, poor girl I she gave uj) all for me : but 
 shame and remorse broke her heart ; and 
 she died when Kate was born. I've never 
 known a hap[)y day since. If she had lived 
 to share the fortune that my father left mo 
 a few years after, how different all would 
 have been ! It did me no good tlien : my 
 heart was buried in her grave. I hated 
 the world, and determined to leave it and 
 devote my life to her child. I've watched 
 over her and guarded her as a miser does 
 his treasure. I've kept her away from 
 every one, because I wanted all her ! love all 
 her life, for myself. Good God I how her 
 mother's face comes before me to-day I No, 
 no : I won't make her unhappy. I believe 
 you're a good, honest man, and she loves 
 you : that's enough. You shall have her, if 
 it breaks my heart." 
 
 I thanked him over and over, and assured 
 him that it never would break his heart, 
 and. that Kate would love him iione the 
 less because she loved me a little. 
 
 "But you don't think any the less of 
 the girl after what I've told you." 
 
 [ assured him that nothing could change 
 my love for her. 
 
 " Remember, she's never to know it : she 
 must think, as she always has, that she's 
 only an adopted child." 
 
 I promised him every thing he asked 
 with the happiest heart that ever beat in 
 
i 
 
 a 
 
 1 . 
 
 146 
 
 MB. JOHN. 
 
 any man's breast. Kate was deli-l.te( 
 wl.on Hh.. loavniMl of the course events luvl 
 taken; and I believe she lovea Mr. John 
 
 better than she ever had before. W ell, we 
 were married very quietly, an.l my wife and 
 I remaine.1 with Mr. John until nearly 
 Christmas. Now wc have come to Boston 
 for a little while. It's no use to take a 
 house, because we shall pass the greater 
 part of the year with Mr. John. But Kate 
 Lists that I shall have an elegant stmlio. 
 So I've abandoned my little hole in the 
 temple of art, and have taken a lar-e, airy 
 
 room on Street, No.-, where my 
 
 former works, autumn scenery and all, are 
 handsomely framed, and hun? in the 
 best possible li-ht ; and the public are 
 respectfully invited to call an.l see them, 
 at any hour between ten and three. You 
 
 know, I told vou that I only had to succeed 
 a little to succeed a fjrcat deal ; and now 
 I've proved it, tor I've already several or- 
 ders from studies made abroad ; and yester- 
 day the very .loctor who robbed my poor 
 mother bousht a picture from me, ior 
 which he paid five hundred dollar., ^ot 
 as much as I intended to get : not as 
 much as I will get in the future ; but stil 
 it's not a bad interest on ten dollars. 1 
 shall double the amount without any delay, 
 and buy those grave-stones, which have 
 been the dearest wish of my life. So you 
 see that my iortune is in a fair way to come 
 to me at last. Not from having been 
 abroad ; not from painting autumn scenery ; 
 not even from my profession: but through 
 I the love of my dear Kate and good Mr. 
 I John. 
 
 Uj 
 
only hail to succeed 
 •i.ut (Iciil ; and now 
 
 already several or- 
 abroail ; and yester- 
 ho robbed my poor 
 :nre I'roin nie, ibr 
 ndred dollars. Not 
 led to get : not as 
 the future ; but still 
 ; on ten dollars. I 
 it without any delay, 
 -stones, which have 
 ; of my life. So you 
 in a fair way to come 
 from having been 
 iting autnmn scenery ; 
 ifession: but through 
 
 Kate and good Mr. 
 
 THE DRINKERS OF ASHES. 
 
 [translated from the "revue des deux mondes."] 
 
 >•» 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Ai-Tiioufsii every one knows that Savo- 
 narola, exconnnunicated by Poj)e Alexander 
 VI., was burnt at Florence the 23d of 
 Miv, 1498, but few persons are auiu.unted 
 with the strange events that immediately 
 Ibl lowed his martyrdom. 
 
 It was not for having overthrown the 
 jiower of the Medici, and in its stead sub- 
 stituted his own authority, that Fra Giro- 
 lomo, so dear to the Florentines, was torn 
 from the convent of San Marco where he 
 had taken refuge, endured torture, and at 
 last perished by the flames : it was for hav- 
 ing shaken the all-iK)werful of the Court of 
 Rome, — ibr having declared that the Borgia 
 could neither be considered a bishoj}, nor 
 yet a Christian. 
 
 In spite of the terrible re-action against 
 the poor monk, he had nevertheless, until 
 hJs last hours, many secret disciples, who re- 
 mained faithful to his cause, and who tried 
 in vain to save him. Those who were 
 present at his death divined his thoughts 
 when he cried to his two companions, Uom- 
 inico da Pesuhia, and Silvestro Marussi, 
 " In miinus 'uas Dominie, comendo spiriium 
 mmm ! " In effect, these words were less a 
 prayer addressed to God, than a last injunc- 
 tion to his disciples, to continue the strug- 
 gle, even to the thres! d of death, against 
 that powerful opponent, who triumphed 
 over his enemies only by torture and fire. 
 
 The Court of Rome, fearing that they 
 would make relics of the remains of the 
 martyr, ordered his aslii-s to be thrown 
 into the Arno ; but the people broke 
 throuifh the line of guards, in spite of 
 the blows of their pikes, rushed upon 
 the still burning remains, and carried them 
 away, crying that they had murdered a 
 saint. 
 
 Three of the disciples of SavonaroLn, 
 those to whom his last words were addressed, 
 took possession of the charred head and 
 heart of their master ; and, baffling the pur- 
 suit of the guards by traversing the narrow 
 lanes of Florence, they were enabled, with- 
 out being detected, to take refuge in a 
 ruined hut near the convent of Sant' Ono- 
 frio. During the fray one of them was 
 wounded in the shoulder by the blow of a 
 halberd. Once in security, they adored the 
 shapeless remains of him whom they had 
 loved so much, as if they were the relics of 
 a saint. Then followed a strange scene : 
 they mixed with wine some of the martyr's 
 ashes, and added to it the blood of the 
 wounded man ; then all three, having par- 
 taken of these new sacramental elements, 
 swore to avenge their master, and to com- 
 bat then and always, until they had effaced 
 from the earth the power of the sacred 
 throne, and all the strength that flowed from 
 it. Th(^y swore to be apostles to all the 
 world, to raise up enemies against Rome, to 
 be ready for battle in the light of day, ia 
 147 
 
 MS«(Sli»!*J.i!'" 
 
i 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 148 
 
 THE DRINKEna OF ASHES. 
 
 the darkness of ni^'ht, by swonl und liy 
 Bpeoch, iinil as tliey saiil in theiroaih, "/»«/• 
 /as,per nefas. In ii word, all was pitimUlcmI 
 fxcei)t assassiiiaiion ; for it- was the author- 
 ity itself they would overthrow, instead of 
 its ri'presentatlves. 
 
 Thus was formed a secret society, that 
 rai)i(lly developed. At that epoeh reform 
 ■was ill the air : John IIuss was dead, leav- 
 ing' numerous disciples ; and Luther, alreaily 
 born, was not loi"^ in raising the cry of re- 
 volt. The friends of Savonarola, re-united 
 as understood between them, (.Mthered 
 around those who had communed with the 
 remains of the martyr ; establishing their 
 ramillcations indiscriminately among lay- 
 men and priests, frequenting the courts of 
 Italian princes, fomenting opposition against 
 the monks; and, as much to bewilder the 
 curious, as to be recognized by them as a 
 common rallying word, they took the name 
 Tt'/ihnijtotus, composed of two (Ireek 
 words which signify Drinkers of Ashes. 
 Tliey then elected seven chiefs, to whom 
 they gave the names of the first seven 
 Kings of Edoin, predecessors of the Kings 
 of Israel. As at that time many were well 
 versed in the, lore of the Cabala, their tradi- 
 tions were derived from the Zuhar, which 
 no one will ignore as its universal code. 
 
 These seven chiefs of the Drinkers of 
 Ashes transmitted their names to their suc- 
 cessors in such a manner that one would 
 almost believe the founders of this singular 
 society to have been immortal. During a 
 conspiracy that was discovered ic Rome in 
 tlie beginning of the eighteenth century, 
 one of these Tephrapoles was arrested: 
 •when interrogated, he replied that his name 
 was Bela, sou of Beer. 
 
 " Who has induced you to conspire 
 against our Holy Father the Pope? " 
 " Bela, son of Beor." 
 " .Vhat is the name of your father ? " 
 " Bela, son of Beor." 
 " And your grandfather ? " 
 " Bela, son of Beor." 
 " llow old are you V " 
 " Three hundred and twelve years." 
 " Do you try to persuade us that you 
 
 have lived always, — that you are a man 
 who has existed for three centuries? " 
 
 He replied simi)ly, " I have." 
 
 They believed hiin insane, and that saved 
 his life. He was imprisoned in the castlo 
 of Sant' Angelo, from which hu escaped by 
 the aid of other Drinkers of Ashes, who 
 had watched over him in secret. 
 
 The Roman government, so well instruct- 
 eil in every thing, thanks to the cijules- 
 
 sional, was not long in discovering the exist- 
 ence of a society inimic.ll to its interests. 
 At first It was little troubled ; but, seeing 
 the number of its adherents increasing rap- 
 idly, an'l believing that the death of Savo- 
 narola was the only cause of their hate, it 
 would use mildness, withdraw the former 
 (•ondemnatit)n, and at least rehabilitate the 
 martyr. Paul III. declared any one who 
 attacked his memory a heretic; Paul IV. 
 determined, after examination, that his 
 writings were irreproachable ; and at last 
 Benoit XIV. no longer hesitated to rank 
 him among the .lercitnts of God who merited 
 healificaliun. Such measures, however, were 
 not sufficient to disarm the men who de- 
 sired, not only vengeance, but also the 
 entire destruction of an order of things the 
 most complete and most solid that had ever 
 existed. 
 
 The scene of action of the Drinkers 
 of Ashes was not confined to Italy. They 
 en>'aged in the struggle against the house of 
 Austria. They took an important part in 
 the Reformation, the Thirty Years' War, the 
 creation of the kingdom of Prussia, that, 
 with its new Protestant power, seemed to 
 demand an overthrow of the old edifice of 
 Ilapsbnrg. During the French Revolu- 
 tion, one of the chiefs of the Drinkers of 
 Ashes was a member of the Convention : he 
 voted the death of Louis XVI., held impor- 
 tant offices under Napoleon, endeiivoring 
 with all his influence to overthrow the tem- 
 poral power. At the time of the Restora- 
 tion, the Ttphrapotes, who contended that 
 kings had no divine right, were in commu- 
 nication with the French Carbonari, and, 
 above all, with the various retreats of the 
 Dauphin. Dispersed in other times over 
 
 -ii 
 
 * .} i ^..i'^J\t "k- ' :^.^^^ ^ V i ' » ,.! ' 
 
SYLVRUINK. 
 
 149 
 
 you nro a man 
 L-entiirics ? " 
 
 ilVC." 
 
 I', and that saved 
 ed in the castle 
 •h hu oscapetl by 
 8 of Ashes, ivho 
 iccret. 
 
 , so well instruet- 
 s to the eijiilcs- 
 i)verin<; the exist- 
 I to its interests, 
 bled ; but, seeing 
 s inereasini; ra[)- 
 c death of Savo- 
 j of their hate, it 
 draw the iornier 
 t rehabilitate the 
 ed any one who 
 jretic ; Paul IV. 
 nation, that his 
 l)le; and at last 
 iiesitated to rank 
 '■ God who merlled 
 •es, however, were 
 the men who de- 
 ce, but also the 
 rder of things the 
 olid that had ever 
 
 of the Drinkers 
 d to Italy. They 
 ;ainst the house of 
 juportant part in 
 ty Years' War, the 
 , of Prussia, that, 
 power, seemed to 
 the old edifice of 
 French Rcvolu- 
 the Drinkers of 
 le Convention : he 
 XVI., held impor- 
 ilcon, endeavoring 
 )vert]irow the tem- 
 iie of the Ilestora- 
 lio contended that 
 t, were in eommu- 
 h Carbonari, and, 
 )us retreats of the 
 . other times over 
 
 N 1 / 
 
 Europe, and even the New World, the 
 force of the work within liirty years sfcined 
 concentrated upu.i three principal points. 
 — the destruction of the temporal power, the 
 ■overthrow of the empiri; of Austria, and 
 the annihilation of the Turkish empire of 
 the Occident. To these tende<l all the elforts 
 of the Tt'iihrripo/es. God alone in his un- 
 fathoniable secrets knows to what destiny 
 they are reserved. 
 
 The oath of 1408 is sworn .to-day ; but 
 * the mystic formula of the compact, im- 
 printed with the confused ideas of the Mid- 
 dle Ai^es, has expired, and it can find no 
 place iiere. It is enough to know that each 
 Drinker of Ashes is i)ledged never to risk 
 his life but ibr the work to which he is j^iven, 
 and under no pretext to fail to obey ; for, 
 if he refuses obeilience, he is punished by 
 death. In short, no matter what power is 
 vested in one member, he is never to use it 
 to arrive more surely or more (piickly to 
 the supreme end, unless the chiefs and the 
 association approve of it. TIte eldest chief 
 dwells beyond Jordan. By these words is 
 understood the territory of the power with 
 which there is no temptation to affiliate. 
 The six others reside ordinarily in the cen- 
 tre of the same country, ollen living two 
 and two together, or, at least, not far fiom 
 each other, so that they may be able to 
 take promptly any position that cu-cum- 
 stances demand. 
 
 These explanations, which I have given 
 as briefly as jiossible, seem necessary for the 
 comi)rehen8iou of the true story I am about 
 to relate. 
 
 I. 
 
 BfLVERINE. 
 
 Between the end of the Oriental crisis 
 in 1840, and the first Italian commotion of 
 1847, a great calm seemed to reign over 
 the world. A profound silence enveloped 
 the ordinary political conspirators: kings 
 
 ] seemed to sit traiuiuilly upon their thrones, 
 I and niimarchs the must ccmstitutional 
 I i)elieved tlieniselvi's al)sulute soverei'.'US. 
 During that period, the Drinkers of A>h('S 
 seemed to have vanished entirely, so pro- 
 found was their silence. The supreme 
 chief residiiil sometimes in Paris, .some- 
 times in London. His six associates were 
 scattered over Euroi>e, —two in Italy, two 
 others in Austria, and the two last lived 
 sometimes in Serbia, sometimes in Con- 
 stantinople. They olK'u held secret coun- 
 cils between them, when one would agitato 
 some new (juesi ion; for the initiative was 
 allowed to each one, especially for the 
 si)hero of action in which he moved. The 
 society re-united usually in Switzerland, a 
 free country, undisturbed in circulation, 
 and bordering on the scene of action. 
 They resembled birds of passagi!, who, 
 guideil by their instinct, sometimes arrive 
 in the same country froui all four corners 
 of the world. They gave the fraternal kiss 
 to those, who, without personal ambition, 
 worked for a common good; saluted each 
 other as in the time of Alexander VI., " /;» 
 nomine fratris Hicronfimi ;" discus»i»d 
 eagerly the question most important, dis- 
 playing the strongest airection in and confi- 
 dence for each other; parting, not only 
 with the hope of ai)proaching triumph, hut 
 armed with an unshaken faith, and a per- 
 sistent courage in spite of delay and defeat. 
 At that epoch one of the chiefs, who, in 
 his order, was styled Johab, son of Zerdi, 
 king of Edom for the tribes of llomagna, 
 lived in Ravenna, the centre of his action 
 in the Papal Stales. He had dissimulated 
 so cleverly, and had concealed his opinions 
 80 well, that he was left to live tran(iuilly 
 in the midst of the serious occupations 
 that seemed to fill his life. He was very 
 gentle, very affable, and not proud. I!o 
 talked voluntarily with the fishermen on 
 the coast ; and if by chance he had needed 
 a boat to have taken him even to Corfu, I 
 am convinced, so well was he liked, that 
 he would have found one without search- 
 ing long. He was called Flavio Masterna, 
 I and belonged to a very old Tuscan family. 
 
T 
 
 150 
 
 THK DKINKEBS OF ASHES. 
 
 Conipliiisiint <;t'm'alo,'Hl^ fvi'ii triwl to 
 trivet' it, l)ii(k to llu" Ktriixi'an Masturnii, 
 who rci'jiicil in Uoium uiiiUt tli(! iiiinic of 
 S(!rviiis TiiUiiis. Flavio was tlu; fivft to 
 liiiijjh at the iihi!<trioiis origin they would 
 thrust upon hiui. He was a count or a 
 inar(|uis, I know not which ; l)ut hi; had 
 neviT taken any title, believin;,' that siieh 
 puerilities appertain liy rij^ht to those who 
 are lijreed to rtttrace the course of time to 
 Uiseover a merit, or to seareli a distinetion 
 anionj; the generations that arc for;i0tten. 
 He remained, then, particularly simiile; 
 intelligently attached to the work that re;;- 
 ulated his iilb ; beloved by those who sur- 
 rounded him. devoted, ready, and anxious 
 to please him ; and that sidlieed him. lie 
 lived beyond the city, on the border of 
 the celebrated forest of pines, in a small, 
 isolated house, covered with verdure, and 
 filled with books. He seemed to pass his 
 life ill a very simple fashion, between read- 
 in;4 and the few friends who visited him. 
 At least outwardly, there was nothing 
 stran'.'e in liis life. Ho accomplished reg- 
 nlarly, but without excess of zeal, the re- 
 li'j;ious duties imposed in the States of the 
 Church ; <;ave voluntary alms ; never spoke 
 of poUtics ; was friendly with the officers 
 who commande<l and tlie soldiers who held 
 the -garrison in tlie city ; but was never 
 Been in the cafeii, knowing well that they 
 are the refuge of idleness and fanaticism. 
 Soni'itimes he took long, solitary walks, 
 Ibllowed by a great dog, alert and watch- 
 ful, that was usually seen lying in the sun 
 on the door-stone of the house. Sailors 
 returning late from fishing had sometimes 
 encountered him on the shore, sitting upon 
 an upturned boat, as though hu waited for 
 some one ; but they had not paid much 
 attention to him, merely remarking, " Oh, 
 he is an original 1 " In spite of his extreme 
 sweetness ; in spite of his caressing man- 
 ners, peeidiar to the men of the Tuscan 
 race ; in spite of the dreamy sadness that 
 floated in his dark eyes.— when one regarded j 
 attentively his tall figure, already a little | 
 bent, his vigorous thinness, his olive tint, [ 
 the energetic arch of his brows, his large, j 
 
 . full forehead, that a premature balducsB 
 made more striking, one li'lt in seeing the 
 ' gravity that predominated in the expres- 
 si(m of this man of thirty-five years, that 
 iu him was something implacable and ab- 
 ■ struse, — an interior life hidden from al'.of 
 ' which he alone possessed the secret. 
 " Bah 1" said they, not icin'_' how grave he 
 was, ''he thinks of some old love sorrow." 
 |{ut they were mistaken : he lived in the 
 dilfiuulties of his double existence, con- 
 tbrming to the device, in the ba<l f.aiiu of 
 the Middle Age. betpiealhed to him by his 
 ancestors: '^ Alque wile itawm, juslillh" 
 (Kvcn belbre bread, justice.) He had no 
 family; his father had died in exile; his 
 brother had been shot at Jlodeua in the 
 course of a fruitless insurrection ; his 
 mother he hardly knew ; when he thought 
 of her, he remeuibered vau'Uely a large, 
 thin woman, who, each evening at her de- 
 votions, mingled prayers lor the carbonari 
 with imprecations against those she called 
 princes of the cursed alliance. Being ar- 
 rested at Milan fa- having insulte.l an 
 Austrian ollicer, when interrogated, she 
 declined to give her name and title ; then 
 added, Schiaua ! (slave). The police under 
 this foreign government not being merci- 
 ful, the Marchesa Masterna, of the dukes 
 of Montcspertoli, was treated as a woman 
 of abandoned life. She became insane 
 from humiliation, and died soon alter in a 
 mad-house. 
 
 Flavio was then alone, without any of 
 those natural ties which retain a man 
 within the circle of his own family. His 
 need of affection was nevertheless impe- 
 rious; and he had concentrated all ujwn 
 two persons, who formed what he called, 
 smiling to himself, his sentimental hori/on. 
 One of these persons lived not far from 
 him, in a modest liouse, hidden among the 
 pines that separate Ravenna from the sea. 
 II<'r name was Sylverine, and she was 
 very beautiful. She was a woman of 
 about thirty, and had been connected with 
 Flavio for somj years. Her origin seemed 
 doubtful: some s|)oke vaguely of a hus- 
 band abandoned in a strange country, of 
 
 u 
 
r 
 
 mnttiro baliliicgii 
 •It ill »criii'4 the 
 1 ill ihi( I'xpri's- 
 •fivi.' yeiirs, that 
 |)liu'!il)lii iiml ab- 
 lidi'ii iVoiu ill', of 
 •(I'd tlie ^'la•l•et. 
 )'_' how (jravc he 
 jlil love sori'ow." 
 ho livfil ill the 
 cxisteiU'f, t-'cm- 
 llie hail Laliii of 
 lod to him liy hin 
 /xinem, Jitsiill'a " 
 ii'i'.) He liad no 
 ied in exile; his 
 t Modeiia in tho 
 iisurrcction ; his 
 when he thoujjht 
 va'jTUcly a lar'»e, 
 treiiiii'4 at her do- 
 lor the carhonari 
 : those Am called 
 iance. Beiiij^ ar- 
 vin<^ insfulte.l an 
 interro;4ated, she 
 e and title ; then 
 The police under 
 not beiii;4 merci- 
 jrna, of the dukes 
 iated as u woman 
 e became insane 
 id soon after in a 
 
 e, without any of 
 .h retain a man 
 
 own family. Ilis 
 levcrtheless impe- 
 lentrated all nixin 
 d what he called, 
 ntiinental hori/on. 
 lived not far from 
 hidden among the 
 ;nna from the sea. 
 ine, and she was 
 was a Woman of 
 en connected with 
 
 Her origin seemed 
 vaguely of a hus- 
 trange country, of 
 
 RYLVKIUNE. 
 
 161 
 
 fliglit. of alidiiction ; but romance, without 
 doubt, coii^'lituled a ^rcat part of tlie'<e , 
 vuiiiors. Sonic time before, she had come , 
 to Uaveiina, under the jiretext of taking i 
 sea-baths. 'Hie country scciiu^d to |)lea!<c \ 
 ber: she had hired a Iiouko, and installed j 
 herndf with two old domestics, who com- i 
 posed her whole family. She received 
 Flavio tamiliarly every day, and seldom 
 made visits in the city. That was all aliy 
 one knew ; but tliey were not slow in re- 
 marking that lier absences otlen coincided 
 with those of Flavio, and they were very 
 quick to divine that there existed between 
 these two persons more than the siiiiiile 
 relations of i'riendship. Without any 
 doubt they loved one another ; but there 
 was, in tlieir respective allections, diifereiit 
 essentials, of which it is well to take notice. 
 Wounded by the deception of life, hav- 
 ing crossed the fire and water of events, 
 associated from childhood with the various 
 eoni[)lications of a political career, Flavio 
 lacked that outward tenderness of sentiment 
 so agreeable to women, yet whicli so often 
 hides the emptiness of the heart. He was 
 a man solid in the lull acceptation of the 
 word, and lie found no need to repeat what 
 he felt each day. He loved Sylverine, 
 it is trui!, with a love unutterable and 
 devoted ; and, owing to the excessive matu- 
 rity of his nature, he seemed also like a 
 father to her. 
 
 " I ask but one thing," he said once to 
 Sylverine. " Never tell me a falsehood : 
 never deceive me. I am always strong 
 enough to liear the truth." 
 
 " Bah ! " she replied, laughing. " You 
 speak like an old tutor." In effect, slie 
 considered him a little as such, but she loved 
 him none the less. She was intelligent, and 
 understood with what a superior soul she 
 had to deal. She wept over the dangers 
 and trials of a Hie of which she alone knew 
 the secret. She understocl his most hidden 
 thoughts, when he recounted to her his 
 hopes and fears ; and even once in Sicily she 
 was associated with his perils during an 
 insurrection which was quickly suppressed. 
 She crossed with him mountains on foot 
 
 wiihoiit complaining, forgot the fecbleneis 
 of her sex, slept oil the bare earth, or took 
 refuge in the huts of the half-famished 
 herdsmen, playing tho riVr of heroine with 
 a simplicity that was the a^liniration of all 
 who saw lier. Hut inasmu; i as she was 
 invincible and resolute in the face of peril, 
 in herself she was wavering and uncertain : 
 she had strau.'e imaginations, reveries with- 
 out end, inexiilicalile abandcmments to 
 tears. She was not a virago, as one ini>;ht 
 think after such adventures, but a woman 
 sulVering i'rom all feminine weaknesses, to 
 which she succumbed without courage. In 
 the secret of her heart, she knew she was de- 
 voured with a need of tenderness that noth- 
 ing couhl satisfy. The emotion, whatever 
 it was, had for her a power that she knew 
 not how to conquer. She was all expansion, 
 all enthusiasm. The cold, sure, and severe 
 Flavio was not the man to entirely satisfy 
 the cravinus of such a nature. Sometimes, 
 in default of the love which she would have, 
 she played at the comedy ot love. Throw- 
 ing herself in the arms of Flavio, and leaning 
 her head upon his breast, she would remain 
 tor a long time, recounting to herself an 
 imaginary romance in which she and Flavio 
 played the first role. But, when she raised 
 her eyes, she could understand by his fiAcd 
 and absent regard that he was plunged in 
 far-off speculations that engrossed his 
 spirits entirely. Often she would hurst 
 into laughter, and say, " What a menage 
 we make, my Flavio I I sing, and you calcu- 
 late : I am a romance married to a theorem." 
 Then, seeing him Siuldened by these remarks, 
 she would throw herself on his neck, and cry, 
 " My Flavio, knowest thou not that I jest ? 
 I am a poor fool, that thou art too good to 
 love." 
 
 In saying this she was sincere ; for when 
 she accused lierself she spoke but the truth ; 
 knowing she was capable of "any rash act, 
 she distrusted her own heart. In fact, she 
 was an Italian, and had light ideas of 
 women's virtue, and estimated still less that 
 of men. 
 
 A celebrated Italian monk came to 
 I Ravenna to preach during Lent. He tbun- 
 
ii 
 
 I 
 
 152 
 
 THK DUINKKKS OF A8IIE8. 
 
 d.rcil nnfilnKt woiih'M. — pmIIoiI llicin clmi'^h- 1 'viml'l cay, " Lfuvf iiic niolu' : I am ncrt-r 
 tfin (if Satan, vt-»i'l!< ol' iiiii|uiiy; riirKcil • inihtiikoii." 
 
 the llfnh ivml its cins ; <in'il tliti Siriptiiri-H ; At lunt oik- uvi'iiin>:. wlicii Flavio wan nt 
 anil, ill chort, <>|M'iu'il to tlicm lM)tl» »i<k'J« of' tlic lioiici- of Sylvi'iini', lln'y huard Htcpn 
 
 the iloors of hell. 
 
 " What an iiifnifliTiihlL- piMhint ! " »niil 
 Sylvt'r'nui to Flavio. 
 
 " IVrhaiw he li convini'eil," roplii'il 
 Flavio. 
 
 .Sylvciine fihni;;;:»'il her Hhonl'U^rc, but 
 
 ra|(iilly mounting; llu- ctiiir-i, th(^ lioor 
 oprtifi! wilh a '^rcal noise, and riiovaii threw 
 hiniNeh' into th(^ arms of liis friend. He 
 tool* tlie hand of Sylverine fraterTialiy, rntl 
 tlieii l)e.;an to opejilt with a voliihility that 
 i)on' little rettMuliltiiue to the hal)itual ealui 
 
 made no reply. Alh-r that, she was so kiml of Flavio, 
 
 to th(! ]toor monk that he eoinpletely lost iiis 
 senses: one ilay, fallin<^ on the lloor at her 
 li'et, and embracin;,' them in his eoarse robe, 
 he deelanMl that lie. atlored her. " Pnilrc, 
 padre," said she, laui^hinj;, " yon must not 
 be no severe on the ptK)r women." And lie 
 never wasn'^ain. 
 
 It was then near to her in reality that 
 Flavio passed his life. She listened to him, 
 loveil him, ealmed liim, looked with resi;.'- 
 nation on the terrible eventualities that sur- 
 rounded his life, and was resolved to tiillow 
 him wherever he went. He ofk-n spoke 
 to her o.' (iiovan Seo^jlia, who, with her, 
 shared all his alFt'eiions. Tliis Uiovan 
 Seo^ilia, also Drinker of Ashes, and Kin^ 
 of Edom tor the Neapolitan tribe?, under 
 the name of Balhenane son of Aehl)or, 
 had ibr a lon;j; time inhabited Naples, 
 from whieh plaee ho had been oblij^cid 
 to rtee, followed by a too clairvoyant 
 poliee. At that time he had been all over 
 Europe, visitin;:; the faithful, and strength- 
 onini; everywhere the eonls that de- 
 feat had weakened. When his journey 
 terminated, he was to come to llavenna and 
 nettle near Flavio, who felt Ibrhiin a friend- 
 ship so tender that it was almost a weak- 
 ness. Flavio rejoiced at the approaching 
 arrival of his friend ; and Sylverine, who had 
 heard so much of liiin, awaited him with 
 impatience. " When Giovan comes," was 
 a sacramental [)hrase of the lovers : all 
 seemed suspended until that arrival so 
 aiuiously expected. Sylverine had never 
 seen him ; but she imagined how he would 
 look, pretendinjito know him much better 
 than Flavio. Sometimes, when he would 
 correct her nii^taketi on the subject, she 
 
 Sylverine regarded the new-comer; Im 
 was not at all what she <'xp('t'ted. Inste.'td 
 of the man, absorbed, sc^rious, and uvon a 
 little sullen, that she had ima|.;ined, she 
 saw a yoim'^ man of nlmut twenty-five, 
 blomle, sli',dit, but of an elegant fi'.:ure, 
 showiu'i with coinplaceney hands womanly 
 white; while on his lips, a little too red, 
 was an expression of seornlul ]iride, that 
 seemed to contradict the extreme sweetness 
 of liis blue eyes. His manner toward 
 Flavio was that of a s])oil(Ml child, — a sort 
 of timid respect mixed with a wheedliiii; 
 resistance. Then! was in him an exuber- 
 ance of life that escaped in s))ite of his 
 eflurts to repress it, while he heaped ipies- 
 tion upon ipiestion. 
 
 "What do you do liere ? Are there 
 any amusements ? Have you any horses V 
 Is there n theatre ? Are the women 
 pretty ? Where do you go in the evening ? 
 Can one hunt about here ? " 
 
 Sylverine listeneiJ a little confused to the 
 flood of words. " At least, he is full of 
 life," she thought. 
 
 Flavio himself seemed disconcerted by 
 so much non.sense. " It is T, nevertheless, 
 who have raised such a rattle-brain, "said he. 
 
 " You have an astonished air," said Syl- 
 verine, "like a hen who has hatched a 
 duck." 
 
 They did not separate until late in the 
 night, for they had much to recount. 
 
 " How do you like him ? " said Flavio to 
 Sylverine. 
 
 " He is charming," she replied. 
 
 Ho put the same question to Giovan, 
 respecting Sylverine. " I don't know," he 
 said : '* I have scarcely looked at her." 
 
 I 
 
on«> : I am m^rer 
 rn Flavio w;in at 
 
 lll'y lu'ill'll Htl'pH 
 
 iiiiii'", tlio iloor 
 
 iiiil (fidvaii threw 
 
 Ills trii'iul. IIu 
 
 rratcniiilly, mil 
 
 a viiliihilitv that 
 
 till- Imliitual calm 
 
 iu'w-comor : ho 
 
 iM'ti'd. Inittend 
 
 iitiH, ami (;vt>n a 
 
 il iiiia;{inoil, tiliu 
 
 iKiiit twi!iity-fivo, 
 
 1 I'lc'^ant fi','iiru, 
 
 y liaiiils voiimiily 
 
 il little too roil, 
 
 oriiliil priili', that 
 
 ?xtr<'nu? sweetness 
 
 niaiiner towaril 
 
 li'il child, — a sort 
 
 iviili a wheeijliiii^ 
 
 I him mi exiilicr- 
 
 'd ill spite of hid 
 
 i liti heaped (jiios- 
 
 here? Are there 
 J you any horses ? 
 Are the women 
 ro in the eveiiin;^ ? 
 '! " 
 
 tie confused to the 
 last, he is lull of 
 
 1 disconcerted by 
 is I, nevertheless, 
 ;tle-brain,"8aid he. 
 led air," said Syl- 
 
 has hatched a 
 
 until late in the 
 
 to recount. 
 
 ? " said Flavio to 
 
 a replied. 
 
 estion to Giovan, 
 
 1 don't know," he 
 loked at her." 
 
 8YLVKUINE. 
 
 153 
 
 He lied, for II.' had n>j;nriU'd her with 
 much niM'iitiiin ; hut he liinl the singular 
 (.'ift thai leloli;^'* to the doiihle nature of the 
 Italian and conspirator, tu asioiii:<h people 
 hy a (low of wonis, by precipitate u.'ive- 
 ment^, Ity an appearance of Itliisteriii^' 
 frankness, that ilcccived the host advised ; 
 while he tiillowed iin|)erluiiialily the iln'cad 
 of his secret thou;;hts, and ohserveil with a 
 marvellous perspicuity all that [lassed 
 nroiiiid him. He had often put that science 
 to the service of his own jiassions ; tor he 
 fiutVered the tyrnnny of a (lery impetu- 
 osity. 
 
 '• I have tempests in me," he often said. 
 At times Im fci'.;ned violence, and his vio- 
 lence served his dissiinnlation. lie turned 
 nway suspicion iiy force of iiliandon, hy 
 vivacity ami l)oyi:<hnes;<, as I'Mavio did by 
 reserve and di;,'nily. While talkin;.^ freely 
 to Flavio. he watched Sylverine. In the 
 pure lilies of her lieautiful face, in the 
 veiled glances of her lar;^e eyes, of a blue 
 so deep as to appear black, in the sparkliiii.; 
 liiuiih that >howed her whit*! ti'cfli, he 
 fancied hi; detected somethiii;.; of weari- 
 ness and inditl'crence, that indicated a 
 native weakness ; and he did not hesitate 
 to say to Fl.ivio afterwards, " I will bet my 
 ca)) a<rainst n carilinal's hat, that you, with 
 your Fententions and (loji;matie love, weary 
 her enough to make her weep." 
 
 In that he was mistaken. Sylverine sut- 
 fered, it is true ; but it was because she be- 
 lieved she was not loved enough. 
 
 As to Flavio, he needed nothing : he lived 
 in the plenitude of happiness, with the two 
 beings he loved best in the world. He 
 listened to their conversation with pleas- 
 ure, laughed at their follies, and sometimes 
 softened almost to tears on seeing them so 
 hapjiy together. They scarcely parted 
 during the day ; they read or walked under 
 the shadows of the pines ; and their even- 
 ings were spent with Flavio, who, olU-n lost 
 in his own thoughts, left them to a tele-a-ti^r. 
 They did not intend to abuse his confi- 
 dence, certainly not ; but their conversa- 
 tion became more intimate, and glided 
 gradually down the declivity of confidence 
 
 from which it is imponsible to reiiirii as 
 intact as one has ileM'einleil. 
 
 Xeiiher .Sylverine nor (iiovan coldly 
 
 conceived the thought to ih ive Flavio, 
 
 The iiliM gave birth to itself. It was the 
 result of their meeting, their const.int coiih 
 paiiionship, their youth, in fact, a thousand 
 circiinistanccs against wliich only those 
 could striig'.'le who were cold, selt-con- 
 tained, and invincibly armed with virtue. 
 They did not go toward the limit, if I may 
 so speak : the fault came to tlnin. They 
 Were young and congenial to each other; 
 and, having no solid Ibiiiidation on whicii 
 to stay their resistance, they gradually 
 drifted toward the sad result. 
 
 Very often Sylverine, looking at Gioraii 
 and Flavio, and compariiit; their diverse 
 characters, would think witli an iiiex|iressi- 
 hie Jiaiig, •' My (iod I these poor, dear beads 
 will, jierhaps, fiill on an obscure scallbld. 
 I will keep them with me, and hide them 
 from all danger; or I will accompany them 
 in their enterprise, share their p(!rils, and 
 die in their anus." 
 
 Had (iiovan, then, taken such a place in 
 her heart? It seems so. In any case, she 
 was the most clear-sighted, and the first to 
 feel that the situation was becomiiig dan- 
 gerous. She was very severe with herself 
 in the calm of her reflections, making no 
 cowardly excuses. " Wilt thou, then, leave 
 thyself to bi; bewitched with Giovan?" she 
 wouhl-say. " Wiltthoudeceive Flavio? " It 
 was not because she believed it to be a sin, — 
 1 have said that abstract virtue had no great 
 hold upon her mind ; but she feared to dis- 
 tress the man whom she loved .so much, who 
 had for her an extreme aftection, and who 
 had treated her so long wi'th the greatest 
 kindness. In any other circumstances, she 
 would not have hesitated to have given her 
 hand to (iiovan, and said, " I love you ; " 
 but, arrested by the thought of the good 
 Flavio. she dared not advance a step on 
 the way that attracted her to the new-comer. 
 '• We can, perhaps, save ourselves," she 
 said, but without much conviction ; for 
 she could not count upon herself to accom- 
 plish guch a miracle. 
 
fT 
 
 154 
 
 TFTR imiNKERfl «>P ASFfKH. 
 
 On Iii« "iiK'. riio\,ui wim no hm^ji-r trim* 
 <|i)il. Till' I'niii that liiiii'."* on it ti rbiilili-n 
 Iri'i* iill'ct'x II r>iii'jill.'ir iiltriuMioii In riTtiill) 
 iiiiiiiri's. Ui'<«i|iiii', |iriiiii|, mill iicrnUtfiit, 
 III- liml i|iiii'kly I'ljiiiiii'ii till! oii!itiU'lu!t tliiit 
 Hi'|iui'<iii'i| liim Iriiiii HvlvrrliKV, lint llicxi- 
 tili.'ttai'li'n ii'iiialcil, r:illii'i' lliaii riHili'ij, liji 
 piMNJiii. KiMiinrHi- lillc'il liiH heart, wla-n liu 
 tlion.'ht ut' liin frii'inl; ami iu; trit-il to rv 
 uiii<iiri' liiiifi'ir wiili wi':ik iii%;uiii''iil<i ; oHi-ti 
 Kiiyin'^, wlii'ii ill- fiiw liiitv culin w:ih the iit- 
 luctiim tliiil Flavin ilMplaycil tiir Hylverlno, 
 " Hah t it ii imt Invi', it i" only lialiit." 
 Iti-a^iiiiu'.' loiili>h anil wick' il, tliiit lu> 
 (U>H|iii<ci| hiinKt'lt' Cor cviT toii-riii iii'^. What 
 woiiM \u\ liavo ? He wan not contcntcil 
 with liiin-ii'll'. ilis coiiscicni'i! was not at 
 ruHt ; Miini'tiiin'4 wiiliin him ('oiii|ilaintMl 
 iiiL'(':<i<ani!y, that hi* rmilil not <|Mii't : that 
 iiili'rior voiri' was heanl ahovi- all the noisii' 
 of the worlil ; it raticiii'ii him with itn jicr- 
 Histi'ni'y, yt't gave him no (^trcni^th to make 
 a jtimmI iuhI tlelinitc ri'!«olntion. "Alter 
 III!," he saiil, ■' I love her: ami it is not my 
 limit." He lieeaine sail ; aiKJ to llie exeess of 
 gayety that during the first diiys disturbed 
 the serious lite of Flavio, siieieeiled a sort 
 of irritation, the uaiitic of wliieh he would 
 not avow. 
 
 " Al'ter such a life of exeitement," thouj^ht 
 Flavio, " he fiiiils it dilliriiil to nceustoui 
 himself to our too peaeealilo existence." 
 
 He could not deceive Sylveiine, who felt 
 that a crisis !i|iproaelie(l ; yet she had re- 
 wilved notliinj^ within herself; she regarded 
 Flavio with sudnesH, and Giovan with uax- 
 iety. 
 
 It was on the shore of the sea that the 
 important words escaped their lips. They 
 had gone out together, and crossed the for- 
 est of pines, where forever moans the 
 monotonous breeze that resembles the con- 
 fused and perpetual 'plaining of sorrow. 
 Walking side by side, they had reached the 
 sandy shore of the Adriatic. ISotli wure si- 
 lent. Giovan, uneasy, and irritated by his 
 interior struggle, never raised his eyes to 
 Sylveriiie, whose affected calm betrayed her 
 inr{uietude. They sat down under tuo 
 shadow of u iishermun's hut, and looked out 
 
 I on lite tnini|iiil iiuii, whoMt an-vn pl.mc 
 Heenieil to reach the horixon. (iiovnn 
 drew to_'elher with his cane sonic •.lidU 
 and dried sea-weed; .Sylverine mechani- 
 cally traced undeciileil lines in the mo\ in^ 
 sand. In u moment, as if he had taken a 
 Hiidden resoliiiion, (iiovaii said to iier, 
 "Can you write on the sand where the 
 
 i waves will ellaeu it, tint name of him you 
 
 ' love ? " 
 
 " Of what giMid to write, if the waven 
 
 I must efface it? " replied Sylverine. " .Viid 
 
 I yoii," added she, looking at him lixcilly^ 
 " will you write the name of her you 
 
 I love V " 
 
 lie arose from his seat with iin|ietuosity, 
 
 'mid cried, "Yes: by (iod! I will write it, 
 thiiiigh the heavens crush mi! t " and, with 
 
 ; the aid of his stick, he traced in lar<;u 
 letters the name of Sylverine. 
 
 iSilentlv. with the end of her parasol, sho 
 
 I ell'accd the letters slowly one by one : then, 
 without raising her eyes, she said, " You are 
 insane." 
 
 , Ciiovan's passion broke all l)ound» ; and, 
 
 I forgetting all prudence, he told her how ho 
 
 ' had loved her trom the first day that Iw had 
 seen her ; that he was invincibly drawn 
 
 I toward her ; that l»o was not guilty for 
 yielding to a jiassion he could not resist. 
 
 ' That his will, usually so strong, was as 
 
 I nothing when he would place it as an ol)- 
 staele against his overwhelming love. IIo 
 spoke with ardor, and said more than 
 he intended. " I love you : I love none but 
 you," cried he, taking her hands. " If you 
 refuse me, if you laugh at me, it' you treat 
 me as a child or a fool, I will go away, and 
 rush into danger where I will find death." 
 "And Flavio 1 " cried Sylverine. 
 It was the drop of water that cooled tho 
 ebullition. Giovan sank into his seat ; and, 
 covering his face with his hand, he groaned, 
 " 1 am miserable, I am miserable ! " 
 
 At that moment, Sylverine perhaps 
 might have saved all, if there had been in 
 Giovan a strength that she had the right 
 to invoke. A man of sacrifice in his pub- 
 lic lite, she could have shown him the 
 grandeur of a sacrifice made to gratitude 
 
 ?KaKWis«r 
 
11 ({ri:«'n 1>1 «no 
 i/,iiii. (li'ivan 
 If Hiimr -lit'll^ 
 •riiu" nii'il>'*i"" 
 1 ill ill.' iii..\in'^ 
 HI liail t;ik.'n n 
 I Hlllll I" ^'^'i'' 
 511(1 wlllTC lilt' 
 
 imi- ot liiix y" 
 
 !(., it' tlic waves 
 
 ^Ivi'i'iiu'. " '^'>'' 
 
 ul him (ixi'illy, 
 
 mi. of hor )uu 
 
 with iiniu'tiiosity, 
 I! 1 will writo it, 
 I mill" ami, with 
 iratc.l ill large 
 rinc. 
 
 )i" hiT iinrasol, nho 
 one by "lie '• ll>i'n» 
 <hc naiil, " You uro 
 
 1 all Ixmnils ; and, 
 liu tohl her iiow ho 
 rst (lay that he had 
 
 invincihly drawn 
 rAi not 'guilty ibr 
 ,e could not rc^ist. 
 so Btronjr, was as 
 
 pi lice it as an ob- 
 rhclmiii;; love. He 
 1 i^aid more than 
 ■ou ; I love none but 
 ler hands. " If you 
 I at me, if you treat 
 
 I will so away, and 
 . I will find death." 
 d Sylverinc. 
 rater that cooled tho 
 »k into liis seat ; and, 
 his hand, he groaned, 
 I miserable 1 " 
 
 Sylverine perhaps 
 if there had been in 
 lat she had the right 
 1 siicrifiee in his pub- 
 lave shown him the 
 ,ce made to gratitude 
 
 
 BYLVEUINK. 
 
 1» 
 
 nnd f..l..nd.hi,.; .h« .•■"«M have entreated | 
 
 him to leave her. and. profiiln- by hi. real , 
 
 .orrow. havo »e.ured fn.u. him a proml.o 
 
 tnilepart at one,. ; Imt nhe was enchained , 
 
 hvihe power ofthi. m-w all-eetlon ; and, 
 
 ftiihoii di she knew she was pli.n-m,' her- 
 
 »,.lf into dreiullul .•omplleations, tar Irom 
 
 bein' .liMuaved, she was attrivted by the 
 
 neeifof strong emotions, which slui d.'sned 
 
 without ceasinjl. M'S alter a moments 
 
 eiU.nce, .he exclaimed.^ " Alas ! and what 
 
 Kliidl 1 say of myself? " 
 
 It was an avowal. Giovan seized her 
 hands, ami covered them with kisses. 
 
 The ni-lit had come: they arose to 
 reliirn U. llaveuna. Slowly, step by step, 
 they crossed the obscure forest, and mvol- 
 „„„,ilv ,hcv subsided into the reaction 
 that follows such a crisis. It seemed as 
 thou-h they were arrested on the very 
 threrhold of what they called happiness, 
 but what was in reality treason. They 
 .poke little, ami in a low voice Then, 
 thinkini,' of tlie honest man they had de- 
 ceived, they said. '• Poor Flavio I " 
 
 " I have not the courage," said Sylvenne, 
 «• to ti'll him the truth." 
 
 " Neither have I," replied Giovan. 
 "Tlien he must remain in i'^noranco 
 always," returned Sylverine. 
 
 Giovan did not answer, but inclined his 
 head in Bi^n of aciiuiesence. 
 
 One might say that Sylverine, who loved 
 these two men, and who did not understand 
 her own diseased anil troubkd heart, had 
 „b..yed a double insti,iet,-alas! too cotu- 
 mon,- fragility and perlidy. But or 
 Giovan, accustomed to the loyalty ot a hie 
 where sacrillee demanded the greater part, 
 one may readily believe that>he did not 
 re.i.'n himself to the sad rvle which was 
 reserved for him without many interior 
 combats. There would have been a cer- 
 tain nobility in seeking Flavio, and saying 
 tohim,"! love Sylverine 1 How shall it 
 be settled between us ? " But Giovaii was 
 afraid of his friend- He feared to blush 
 belbre him who alone knew how great was 
 his ingratitude. So he preferred to enter 
 into the labyrinths of an intrigue where he 
 
 would be rchiccd to unworthy ni.e* to 
 a.-reivti the man under whose root he lived, 
 ,u,.l who had opem.d to him the d.H.r of 
 
 Sylverine with such I idless illden.'O. 
 
 Ill spite of the revolts of cimsciemc he le- 
 Mi.M.ed himself u. the unworthy poMtion 
 tliat became day by day more dilUciilt to 
 Hustain. In f.U't, the love of Giovan lor 
 Sylverine was m.t a caprice .puckly satis- 
 tiiMl l'osses^ion only exaggerated it, until 
 it became an ardent passion, exclusive and 
 tryannical. which im'reased in spite ot all 
 obstacles and would only siippcrt with In- 
 finite trouble the restraints imposed. 
 
 It was no l.mger Flavio that Sylvrino 
 feared. It was Giovan ; for he had reached 
 Huch a state of jealousy that he would break 
 through all reserve, ami iutHic.'e every 
 right. " Vim will make nm hate Flavio, 
 Haid he to Sylvcrluo. 
 
 .'Alas!" replied she, nearly weeping, 
 •«lt is Flavio I have deceived Ibr you, and 
 not you for him. What more woul.l you 
 
 bave V " , r 1 1 
 
 "If he w.as but your husband I woiilU 
 support it, for I should be obliged to ; but 
 he is not. and I am right to exact that yoii 
 break absolutely every tie with hiiu. Ah 1 
 1 will seek him, ami tell him all, and then 
 _ to the nier(7 of God 1 " 
 
 " Uo what thou wilt, my poor Giovan. 
 1 I am prepared for the woyst.^^ The heart 
 ' of Flavio is greater than thini'." 
 
 (iiovan fell into indecision. He loved 
 liis frienil; he adored Sylverine ; yet some- 
 times he felt like cursing both. The vio- 
 lence of his nature was revealed lu the 
 struggle, ill which he was always van- 
 (piished, never having the strength to con- 
 nuer himself. He sullered dee|.ly i and 
 Flavio anxiously interrogated him as to the 
 cause of his apparent illness. Giovan was 
 on the point of throwing himself on his 
 friend's neck, and of telling him all the 
 lamentable history, but a mistaken shame 
 retained the confidence on his lips : he pre- 
 tended a nervous disease, and said nothing. 
 Outwardly, .at least, nothing was changed 
 in their existence. They lived as unitedly 
 as before. They passed their evenings to- 
 
 raasT' 
 
156 
 
 THE DPJNKKRS OF ASHES. 
 
 
 gfther with Sylverinc. Toward ini(liii:j;lit 
 they l)otli siiitl lulicii, iuul re'urnud to the 
 house of Flavii>, who, tnmiiiiilly (Ireiuniii;; 
 anil relh'ctin'j. played his part in the <h-nnia 
 without suspicion. How could he divine V 
 was not his confi(h'nco absolute ? 
 
 Svlverine, who loved emotion, had more 
 than she wished i'or. The siru;^:,'le in- 
 creased nevertheless, until often she was 
 ready to abandon all. The violent and 
 incessant reproaches of Oiovan wearied her 
 beyond measure. Flavio, in his paternal 
 ailection, always had a mild, indul'^ent 
 kindness for her. Now there was nothin',' 
 but tempests : she had desired them, it is 
 true ; but she had more than enou^'h. Some- 
 times, playin;; upon the name, of Scojrlio, 
 which si;;nilies clilFor rock, she would say, 
 " Ah ! thou art well-named. I shall be 
 wrecked a;_'ainst thee." Nevertheless, she 
 closed her eyes, and drifted with the cur- 
 rent, not havinj^ streni^th to return. Often 
 she asked herself, " How will thi.s end V " 
 then she fell into depths of sadness when 
 the tenilerness of Flavio only seemed a re- 
 proach. She loved Giovan : she loved 
 Flavio ; which did she love the best ? She 
 could not say. " In short," she thought, 
 " if both were in the perils of death, if both 
 were drowning under my eyes, which would 
 I save ? " She rellecteil a long time upon 
 the question she addressed to herself; then, 
 bursting into tears, she cried, " Alas 1 I 
 would save him who was nearest me, and 
 pass the remainder of my life in regretting 
 the other." Beyond these obscurities, she 
 could find no light to guide her : she was 
 lost in the confusion of her own sentiments. 
 But, by a contradiction that existed with- 
 out the power of explanation, she often 
 thought of Giova:i when with Flavio, and 
 of Flavio when near Giovan. If one had 
 asked her which she preferred, she would 
 have replied in all sincerity, " He who is 
 not here." 
 
 Nevertheless, life went on; day fol- 
 lowed day, and the three persons in the 
 drama moved in the same circle. Flavio 
 always calm; Giovan forever meditating 
 Bome new violence that he dared not cxe- 
 
 I cute ; Sylverine resigned to the catastro- 
 phe that she foresaw without power to 
 avert. 
 
 It was a chance, or an imprudence, of 
 (Jiovan, that revealed at a single blow, to 
 his friend, the truth of which he had no 
 suspicion. As nearly always in such cir- 
 cumstances, fate uses the mer as the most 
 simi)le to enlighten the darkness. 
 
 Flavio had known for a long time that 
 the Drinkers of Ashes meditated a move- 
 ment in Southern Italy. He had calcu- 
 lated the chances, — they were di>ubtfid, if 
 not contrary; but he had judged that even 
 an imsuccessful insurrection was necessary, 
 if but to awaken the interest of ()ub!ic 
 opinion. During forty years, Ein-ope had 
 been surprised at the failure of all tiie ellbrts 
 in Italy, which seemed often only to tend 
 to the shooting, hanging, or imprisoning of 
 some poor creature, generous (!ven to iblly. 
 The insiu'rection with which Flavio was 
 occupied at that time had been i)repared 
 in silence. At the last moment, when all 
 should be ready, a chief of the Drinkers of 
 Ashes must, according to the custom in 
 su<'h a case, be on the spot where the first 
 blow was to be struck, hiding his identity 
 under the disguise of a /(V/dm/i/, re-uniting 
 under his hand all the secret threails of 
 the adventure, arranging and directing all 
 without exciting the least suspicion. The 
 movement had been devised and conducted 
 almost to the point of disclosure during 
 the absence of Giovan, who scarcely sus- 
 pected it. His friend had spoken of it 
 vaguely, waiting until all was concluded 
 to show him the complete plan. 
 
 Flavio was then much engaged with the im- 
 portant arrangements ; for, if the insurrec- 
 tion succeeded in the Neapolitan States, he 
 would immediately stir up Romagna, and 
 recommence the fruitless campaign of 1831. 
 He passed his time meditating upon this 
 project, and often remained entire hours 
 studying the map of Calabria, searching 
 the points of landing, and the roads most 
 sin-e to arrive at Cosenza, from which 
 place they had intelligence, and which 
 they hoped to make the centre of supplies 
 
1 to the catastro- 
 witliout power to 
 
 an iinpriidenoe, of 
 ,t a siiv^Ie blow, to 
 ' wliii'h he hail no 
 Iways in such cii'- 
 ,e uicius the most 
 darkness. 
 
 a long time that 
 meditated a niove- 
 y. He had calcii- 
 ■y were doubtful, if 
 il judged that even 
 tion was necessary, 
 interest of public 
 years, Eiu'ope had 
 are of'all tiie ellbrts 
 often only to tend 
 f, or iin[)risoninp; of 
 eroiis (!ven to folly, 
 wliich Flavio was 
 liad been i)repared 
 t moment, when all 
 of the Drinkers of 
 ; to the custom in 
 ?pot where tlio first 
 hiding his identity 
 fiflurnnU re-uniting 
 ! secret tlireads of 
 ig and directing all 
 ;ast suspicion. The 
 i'ised and conducted 
 f disclosure during 
 I, who scarcely sus- 
 1 had spoken of it 
 all was concluded 
 etc plan. 
 
 engaged with the im- 
 for, if the insurrec- 
 leapolitan States, he 
 r up Romagna, and 
 ss campaign of 1831. 
 leditating upon this 
 nained entire hours 
 Calabria, searching 
 and the roads most 
 isenza, from which 
 Jigence, and which 
 le centre of suppliea 
 
 SYLVEEINE. 
 
 157 
 
 for the insurrection, as well as the centre 
 from which the revolt would spread to the 
 neighboring jjrovinces. One night ho sat 
 until bite, searching for a landing-place. 
 Should it be on the eastern side, toward 
 Cotrone, where the Bandieri brothers had 
 stranded? Or should it be on the west- 
 ern side, near Sapri, where, later, Tiscane 
 came to dieV lie lelt liitigued with med- 
 itation, anil a prey to the cruel insomnia 
 familiar to those who overtask the brain. 
 Needing some one to speak to, to distract 
 his thoughts from himself, he went into 
 the chamber of Giovan to talk with him. 
 The room was emi)ty; the bed :iad not 
 been used. Flavio made a gesture of sur- 
 prise, and then began to laugh. " Ah 1 " 
 said he, " he seeks adventure in llavenna, 
 and says not a word to me. What child- 
 ishness ! " 
 
 He descended, and left the house. The 
 moon, at its full, illuminated with pearly 
 tints the heavens sown with stars. Reach- 
 ing the house of Sylverine, he thought, 
 " Perhaps she has not retired," and rapped 
 lightly at her window. He repeated it sev- 
 eral times, but no one replied. "She 
 *8leei>s," he said, and turned away to take 
 one of those long, nocturnal walks, that 
 calmed and soothed him after his mental 
 fatigue. Scarcely had he taken a dozen 
 steps when a sudden suspicion wrung his 
 heart. " Giovan absent ! the door of Syl- 
 verine closed 1" He strove to shake off 
 tlio cruel thought. "I am insane," he 
 said. Nevertheless, he sat down at the foot 
 of a tree, and surveyed the route atten- 
 tively. For more than an hour, he re- 
 mained plunged in retlections that tortured 
 him. Then suddenly ho heard a window 
 open softly, and Sylveriue, putting out her 
 bead, regarded carefull> the road. Flavio, 
 lost in the shade, was invisible. Some 
 moments after a door opened, and a man 
 descended the st.eps. It was Giovan, 
 who walked away peacefully in the di- 
 rection of his dwelling. 
 
 Flavio started up with a bound, and 
 iaughed with dreadful bitterness. " Ah 1 " 
 said he, " that is it." 
 
 Then, turning his 
 
 back upon the house that, revealed the 
 odious secret, he rushed away with rapid 
 steps. To his first burst of rage, succeed- 
 ed a deep dejection at finding himself sud- 
 denly face to face with his interior ruin ; 
 then a profound commiseration filled his 
 heart when he thought of the treason hid- 
 den with such care. "Ah!" said he, 
 " how they must sulfer to deceive me so ! " 
 His great soul, his unselfish soul, was up- 
 permost in the conilict ; and little by liitle 
 it calmed the finiipi-st that raged with such 
 fury. Still he returned often to the thought, 
 " Why have they deceived me ? Why 
 have they been so false ? Am I, then so 
 cruel and severe that they must dupe me 
 by the deepest hypocrisy?" He suifered 
 much in his friendship for Giovan, in his 
 love for Sylverine, and his confidence for 
 both. " Who, then, can one trust? "demand- 
 ed he ; and the grave voice of his own 
 experience answered, " No one." He re- 
 flected on his life, the great aim ho pursued, 
 the important matters that occupied him ; 
 and, in comparison with these, a disappoint- 
 ed love was but a little thing. Still his 
 philosojjhical reasoning did not comfort 
 liim. " My life is sad, tormented, misera- 
 ble : Sylverine was my only light and joy. 
 Why, then, has she deceived me? And 
 Giovan, the child who has grown up 
 under my eyes, and who is as my own son." 
 Then he repeated his eternal question, 
 " Was she not free ? Why, then, have they 
 both deceived me? Their only excuse, 
 if they have one, is that they were invinci- 
 bly attracted towards each other by a 
 passion too strong for them to resist ; and 
 they have hidden it ii-om me because they 
 feared to distress me 1 " He held fast to 
 that thought : it gave him something real 
 to seize upon ; and in it ho found almost an 
 excuse for them. Although he accepted the 
 idea, he knew it was but false coin. He 
 paid it, neviirtheless, for her. Giovan and 
 Sylverine, were they not as his own chil- 
 dren ? and if he had for them that inex- 
 haustible indulgence that survives every 
 thing in the heart of a parent, how could 
 he reproach and despise them ? Certainly* 
 
158 
 
 THE DRINKERS OP ASHES. 
 
 
 in an explanation, he coulil have played 
 the siiiicrior role, that of juil'^e ; but to hun 
 till! thought of such an explanation was hu- 
 niiliatin;^ bi'yoiid expression. " Fight on, 
 old gladiator!" he said at last with a 
 smile "that contained many tears, "and 
 learn how to die with courage." 
 
 AVhen the day dawned pale and cold 
 over awakening nature, it revealed Flavio 
 leaning against a tree, watching the waves 
 that broke tremblingly on the shore. I 
 know not why ; but the movement always 
 repeated, and the murmur always the same, 
 Beemed to irritate him. " O brutal and 
 perfidious!" he cried, throwing a sharp 
 stone against the advancing wave : " why 
 do you complain without ceasing V " 
 
 That niuht of anguish and contradiction 
 — a night more terrible than that of Jacob ; 
 for Flavio had to struggle, not only with his 
 good, but also with his bad angels — purified 
 his heart already so noble, and strength- 
 ened it in its sorrow. It was not without 
 great ami painful convulsions of feeling that 
 he took his resolution ; but at last he took 
 it, and he kept it. " And sc." said he, " I 
 have but two friends." 
 
 When the three met again, the face of Fla- 
 vio had resumed its habitual impassibility ; 
 and Sylverine.iii spite of her inquietude, read 
 nothing there. " I knocked last night," he 
 said to her; " but you did not hear." She 
 •was not re-assured. Was Flavio as ignorant 
 as he appeared ? She believed not. What 
 •was then passing within his heart? a de- 
 crease of love, or an excess of generosity ? 
 She knew not. In any case, she would have 
 preferred his reproaches ; for she felt ill at 
 ease before the Sphinx, who would not pro- 
 nounce tlie word of his enigma. 
 
 From that day there was a certain change 
 in the habits of Flavio : he came less often 
 to the house of Sylverine ; and sometimes 
 in the evening he did not appear with Gio- 
 van as had been the custom. 
 
 " What is the matter, my Flavio ? " she 
 said to him : " 1 scarcely see thee now." 
 
 '• I have much to do at present," he re- 
 plied. She was ast(mishe(l and distressed 
 at his excessive reserve. He was no longer 
 t 
 
 the same to her, and she was as irritated as 
 though it were treason. She was tossed be- 
 tween two contrary currents, anil knew not 
 where to rest. At times she said, '• What 
 have I done that he should no Itmger love 
 ine ? " At other times she understood her 
 guilt; and, looking into the very depths of 
 her heart, she knew how odious was her 
 crime. Then she asKed herself, " Why do 
 I complain ? has he not the right to desi)iso 
 me ? " Still, she could not accustom her- 
 ,^elf to the thought that she had lost the es- 
 teem and tenderness of Flavio. At times 
 she blamed Giovan, forgetting that she was 
 as much in fault as he ; and that it was 
 her own will that had plunged her into such 
 dreadful complications. And so she re- 
 volved in this bewildering circle, at times 
 resolved to tell all to Flavio, and entreat 
 him to take her away from Giovan : again 
 she thought of his despair, and ima.;iiied 
 that he also was necessary to her happiness. 
 In this way she was something as a needle 
 between two magnetic poles, sorely bailliMl 
 and perplexed. She had believed that love 
 consists in loving much ; and, in spite of her 
 sorrows and her struggles, she did not yet 
 understand that love consists in loving but 
 one. Giovan understood it, for he desired 
 to tear every thought from her heart that 
 was not for him : his love — the love that 
 at first had appeared so resigned — had now 
 become a permanent fury. " As long as we 
 two are together near thee," said he to Syl- 
 verine, " there can be no happiness for us." 
 She had spoken to him of the reserve of 
 Flavio : he did not believe it, or at least his 
 jealousy would not allow hi in to. " Love 
 is a repose," she said, " and not a combat." 
 Still he was none the less aggressive and 
 violent : obeying his nature, which was ex- 
 clusive even to injustice, he made Sylverine 
 suflPer because he sutfered himself. 
 
 Flavio, who lived impassibly in the secret 
 of his own sorrows, read upon the pallid fea- 
 tures of Giovan the too visible traces of his 
 ceaseless struggle. All was explained to him 
 now: the irritability of his friend, the 
 unquiet sadness of Sylverine. Looking at 
 himself, and comparing his own sorrow with 
 
 ■s a i a.a'jijti^-i^ 
 
W!i9 as irritated as 
 Slu! was tossud i)L'- 
 nts, anil k\w\v not 
 
 slie itaid, '• Wliat 
 lid no lon'^or lovo 
 he understood luT 
 tlie very dejitlia of 
 w odioi's was her 
 
 liLT-seli', " Why (lo 
 tlie ri^lit to despiso 
 not accustom hor- 
 she h:ul lost the es- 
 
 Flavio. At times 
 jetting that she' was 
 1 ; and that it was 
 lun<^ed her into such 
 And so she re- 
 •in^ circle, at times 
 Flavio, and entreat 
 rem Giovan : again 
 pair, and ima'^incd 
 iry to herhap[)iness. 
 iiething as a needle 
 
 poles, sorely baiUiMl 
 ad believed that lovo 
 ; and, in spite of her 
 les, she did not yet 
 Hisiats in loving but 
 o<l it, for he desired 
 from her heart that 
 love — the love that 
 resigned — had now 
 iry. " As long as we 
 ;hee," said he to Syl- 
 no happiness for us." 
 n of the reserve of 
 ieve it, or at least his 
 ow him to. " Love 
 ' and not a combat." 
 
 less aggressive and 
 ature, which was ex- 
 e, he made Sylverine 
 red himself, 
 ipassibly in the secret 
 ,d upon the pallid fea- 
 3 visiblo traces of his 
 I was explained to him 
 
 of his friend, the 
 Iverine. Looking at 
 g his own sorrow with 
 
 SYLVERINE. 
 
 ir>9 
 
 the "re.atneas of his sacrifice, he said, " And i have neither strength nor virtue : neverihe- 
 
 " . . __ . . . -r , t . .1 •_ 1 :* :.. *1 
 
 they are not even hapjiy ! " He knew the 
 character of (iiovan ; and he expected every 
 day to see hiin enter, furious, not knowing 
 that he had learned all, and to hear him ile- 
 niand in his impetuous manner, '• By what 
 right do you love Sylverine V " As much 
 to escape from himself as to force his obtru- 
 sive thoughts to silence, he worked with 
 ardor, and prepared, without relaxation, 
 the movement that the Drinkers of Ashes 
 intended to make in the Neapolitan prov- 
 inces. 
 
 The day that he feared airived. One 
 nioruing, being alone in his room, occupied 
 with writing an important letter in cipher, 
 he saw Giovan enter. At the first glance, 
 he knew that the decisive moment had ar- 
 rived. Giovan, his eyes on fire, his lips pale 
 and trembling, advanced rapidly toward 
 him, saying excitedly, " I love Sylverine, 
 and she loves me. I wish thee to know it." 
 " I know it," replied Flavio calmly. 
 The blow was sudden for Giovan, who 
 felt his anger soften in the presence of his 
 friend ; but he quickly recovered himself, 
 and cried angrily, " If you know it, why do 
 you allow itV" 
 
 " Because I love thee," replied Flavio 
 with a smile that brought the tears to his 
 eyes ; " because 1 am the only judge of my 
 renouncements ; and perhaps, also, because 
 it is more sweet for me to suffer, than to 
 know that thou art unhappy." 
 
 Giovan could contain his feelings no 
 longer ; throwing himself upon the breast 
 of Flavio, he burst into tears. " Ah 1 " he 
 cried, " tliou art truly our dear Masterna ; 
 thou art truly he whom we call heart of dia- 
 mond, the greatest of us all ! Curse me, beat 
 me, driveme from thee; but do not in pity 
 kill me with thy kindness 1 Thou makest me 
 hale myself. What ! wilt' thou say noth- 
 ing V Thou knowest all, and hath not mur- 
 dered me like a dog V I adore I.; •. I am 
 dying ■.'. ith jealousy ; I am maa at the 
 thought of her loving thee ; I despise my- 
 self beyond expression, but I cannot help 
 it. I am bewitched ; I am possessed ; I can- 
 not recover myself, an<l I am miserable. I 
 
 less I must do soinetliini : and it is tlioii 
 who must aid me. It is Ihoii who hast ever 
 assisted me. Tliou hast tau'iht me what 
 I know ; and, if I have not fallen into the 
 gulf of debauchery, it is because tliou hast 
 always upheld me and restrained me. In 
 spite of all. thou art calm and indulgent. 
 Why dost thou not reproach me ? " 
 
 " Thou reproachest thyself," replied Fla- 
 vio. " I have nothing to say." 
 
 Giovan had a spasm : he held his heart 
 in both hands. " What wilt thou do ? 
 What wilt thou do ? " he cried. 
 
 " What wilt thou that I do, my child ? " 
 demanded Flavio. " Canst thou not enjoy 
 thy happiness in peace, without disturbing 
 that of others ? " 
 
 '' Thou lovest her no longer, then V " 
 cried Giovan. 
 
 " Ah 1 why should 1 show it ? " returned 
 Flavio. " I love her still, and more than 
 
 ever. 
 
 " Thou tearest my heart in shreds," 
 cried Giovan, falling into a chair, and cov- 
 ering his face with his hands. 
 
 Flavio, hearing him sob, took him in his 
 arms, and caressed him as mother would a 
 sick child. But Giovan discn'j:ag(Ml him- 
 self by a sudden movement from his gentle 
 embrace ; and, raising toward him his fiice 
 disfigured with anger, he cried, " Ah, thou 
 art my evil genius ! Thou hast entangled 
 me in political impossibilities, and the only 
 woman I can ever love thou lovest also." 
 
 Flavio made a gesture of inefiable pity. 
 " Poor child ! " said he : " how thou must suf- 
 fer to be so unjust 1 I am sorry for thee, from 
 the bottom of my heart." 
 
 " I will not have thy pity," cried Giovan. 
 His tears were dried: passion had taken 
 possession of hun, and he overwhelmed 
 Flavio with reproaches ; he heaped injustice 
 upon injustice with rudeness and insult. 
 
 Flavio looked at him with sorrow. He 
 was grieved that such a soul should so for- 
 get and dishonor itself. At last he took 
 his hands ; and, turning his calm face full 
 upon him, he said, " Compose thyself, 
 young volcano, and mistake not anger lor 
 
160 
 
 THE DRINKERS OF ASHES. 
 
 strength. We are men I remeinbor that, 
 anil leave all violences to sick cliililren. 
 AVhy dost thou come to reproach me in this 
 manner? And what wilt thou have of 
 
 meV" 
 
 " 1 will finish this at once ami foi^ever," 
 cried Giovan, " for I cannot live in such 
 an-^uish. One of us is one too many under 
 Leaven. Let us go to the shore, and fi.;ht 
 until death comes to relieve one; and Syl- 
 verine shall he the reward of the other." 
 
 " Enou;4h 1 " replied Flavio with a smile. 
 « Wh.at kniu'ht-errantry I Thou forgettest 
 that the time of Ariostes has passed." 
 Then all his features sollcned with an ex- 
 pression of infinite sadness, and he added, 
 " And thou fori^ettest .above all, that the 
 survivor would die of grief at having mur- 
 dered his friend. And thou forgettest 
 many other things, my poor Giovan : thou 
 forgettest that we do not belong toourselves, 
 and aiat we have no right to dispose of our 
 lives arbitrarily ; thou foi-gertest our old 
 friendship ; and I understand it, for passion 
 hath made thee insane ; but remembcv the 
 oath that thou hast sworn, and sealed with 
 the ashes and the blood." 
 
 Giovan cried out in despair : his heart 
 was like a field of battle whereon contended 
 three armies of equal force. " Have pity 
 on me ! " said he to Flavio : " I can do no 
 
 more." 
 
 There was a long silence. Flavio walked 
 the leniTth and breadth of the chamber. 
 And Giovan, extended upon a sofa with 
 his face buried in the cushions, struggled 
 ■with all his strength against the passions 
 that overwhelmed him, passing from one 
 extreme to the other, without the power of 
 taking any decided step. At last he arose. 
 « Come with mo to her," he cried. 
 
 « Of what use? " said Flavio, "of what 
 use to make her the witness of our violence, 
 and to afflict her with our discords? " 
 
 " Come to her house," continued Giovan. 
 "Come, I pr.ay and entreat you. And 
 whatever she pronounces will be as the 
 judgment of God. 1 will accept it, and 
 Bubmit to it." ^^ 
 
 They lell the house togetoer, "Ah I 
 
 said Giovan, walking by the side of his 
 friend, "If tliou couMsi know what I sutfer, 
 and what I hiive suH'cred." 
 
 " ITiou hast not sullered alone," returned 
 Flavio; "but the cries of thine own sorrow 
 hath so deafened thee that thou hast not 
 heard the moaning of others." 
 
 Tliey entered the presence of Sylvin-ine. 
 She appeared calm; but her heart beat 
 violently, ibr it was not dilUcult to read 
 their emotion in their f.ices. However, she 
 restrained herself, and said, " What good 
 fortune t " 
 
 Giovan walked rapidly tow^vrd her. 
 '• Listen 1 " cried he. " Flavio knows all ; 
 we have both come : we love thee ; which 
 dost thou love ? speak quickly." 
 
 Sylverine arose pale and trembling ; and, 
 regarding the two men who disputed for 
 her heart, she placed a hand on the shoul- 
 der of each, and dared to say, " I love 
 you both." Then, as if crushed by the 
 avowal, she hurst into tears. 
 
 « O misery 1 " cried Giovan : " is it not 
 better to die, than to live thus ? " 
 
 Flavio approached Sylverine, took her in 
 his arms, and kissed her forehead; and, 
 holding her to his heart, he said, " My dar- 
 liu'T child, you must not demand of men 
 what gods could not endure. I am an old 
 soldier. I have had so many wounds that 
 I know not even the nubmer of my scars. I 
 believe I love thee ; but I will cure myself 
 of this weakness. Thou lovest life, and I 
 regard it not ; (or I know what it is worth. 
 I am an obstacle to thy happiness, — thee 
 whom I consider with the tenderness of a 
 mother ; to Giovan, who is as my child. I 
 will retire from thy path, and trouble thee 
 no more. Be happy, then," added ho with 
 some bitterness, " and speak of me when 
 thy tendernesses leave thee the time." 
 
 " In the name of Heaven, do not leave 
 us 1 " cried Sylverine. 
 
 " I will not have thy sacrifice," said Gio- 
 van with anger. 
 
 " Whether thou wilt or not, I will accom- 
 plish it. Thou wouldst have accepted it if 
 it had been imposed by Sylverine. Then, 
 by what right dost thou refuse it because it 
 
8YLVEUINE. 
 
 IGl 
 
 \';r by the siilo of liis 
 1. 1st know what IsulTer, 
 Il-ro.l." 
 
 illcruil iiloiic," returned 
 ies of thine own sorrow 
 ee that thou liast not 
 of others." 
 
 presence of Sylverinc. 
 1 ; but her heart beat 
 vs not (lilUeult to read 
 iir faces. However, she 
 and said, " What good 
 
 rapidly tow;vrd her. 
 ic. " Flavio knows all ; 
 ; we love thee; which 
 •ak (iiiickly." 
 )a!e and tremblinj; ; and, 
 
 men who disputed for 
 cd a liand on the shoiil- 
 dared to say, " I love 
 , as if crushed hy the 
 nto tears. 
 
 ried Giovan : " is it not 
 to live thus 'I " 
 B(l Sylverine, took her in 
 fed her tbreliead ; and, 
 heart, lie said, " My dar- 
 ust not demand of men 
 at endure. I am an old 
 id so many wounds that 
 le nubmer of my scars. I 
 ; ; but I will cure myself 
 
 Thou lovest life, and I 
 I know what it is worth, 
 to thy happiness, — thee 
 with the tenderness of a 
 a, who is as my child. I 
 ly path, and trouble thee 
 )py, then," added he with 
 " and speak of me when 
 leave thee the time." 
 of Heaven, do not leave 
 •ine. 
 'e thy sacrifice," said Gio- 
 
 1 wilt or not, I will accom- 
 rouldst have accepted it if 
 ised by Sylverine. Then, 
 St thou refuse it because it 
 
 is voluntary ? Learn to look into thine [ Imvin.; repudiated all probity, swrifice the 
 own heart, and take care that thy intolera- liappiness of olliers to their own .sellishness. 
 
 4>> 
 
 ble pri'le does notcauseto otiiers niori! sor- 
 row than they can bear." lie extenile(l liis 
 haiiils to (liovan and Sylverine. '• God 
 bless you both ! " said h(!. Then he went 
 aw:iy without turning! his head. He did 
 not u'o to his own house, but walked on until 
 he reached the shore of the Adriatic : there 
 he remained a lon;^ time, lost in thou;j;hta 
 more soni!)re and more profound than the 
 sea that beat at his teet. When, toward 
 evenin.', he returned to his house, he no 
 longer ibund (iiovan there. He had hired 
 an apartment in a little villa near that in- 
 habited l)y Sylverine. 
 
 Flavio rarely went out, only during the 
 evening ; then he wandered through the 
 great l()rest of pines which hid iiim in its 
 shadows. He evaded Giovan, and Giovan 
 evaded liim. After all, neither of these 
 three persons was happy, nor could tluiy 
 be : they thought constantly of each other 
 with aorrowfid anxiety. " She loves him 
 yet," said (iiovan. '• Is it true that ho no 
 longer loves me?" demanded Sylverine. 
 " I love her always," thought Flavio. 
 
 It was, however, not Flavio who had the 
 most to regret. He had a solid basis on 
 whieh to support his sorrow. Though the 
 revelation that camo so unexpectedly 
 had been terrible, the sacrifice that fol- 
 lowed had been free and spontaneous, 
 given bv himself, and of his own free will. 
 The only one of these three unhappy be- 
 ings who had acted according to the dic- 
 tates of a better nature, he preferred his 
 suifering to a pitiful compromise which 
 nothing could induce him to make. He re- 
 gretted Sylverine as one regrets an absent 
 love ; he thought of Giovan as of a sick 
 friend ; but at least he reposed upon the con- 
 viction that he had done his duty without 
 hesitating. 
 
 Giovan was not satisfied. Irritated 
 against himself, irritated against others, 
 ready to burst into a rage at the slightest 
 contradiction, he could not find a place in 
 his heart that was not full of sorrowful 
 regrets : it is the fate of those, who, not 
 U 
 
 .Ml th:it should liave remlereil him h:i[)py 
 made hlni sull'er ; the absolute submission 
 of Sylverini! was to him a e(inst:int and in- 
 su|)portable reproach. " Of whom does she 
 think ? " he said, when often, immnhile and 
 dreamy, she kept long sili'iiees whieh he re- 
 spected in spite of himself. Sometimes, 
 when a gleam of reason came to clear the 
 shadows that enveloped him, showing him 
 Flavio, .so devoted, so generous, who for so 
 many years had had (or him the tenilerness 
 of a fuller, he fiilt the deepest remorse min- 
 gliMl with desire to go to him, to entreat his 
 pardon, and to restore to him all he had 
 taken. But of what good were these im- 
 pressions? He lelt that he was enslaved, 
 bewitched, as he had said to Flavio; nnd, 
 if in the evening he had made the sacrihce, 
 the !U!,xt morning he would have cursed 
 himself tor having done it. At other times, 
 more docile to his imperious nature, he 
 meilitated quitting Ilavenna, and taking 
 refuge in some otiier part of Tuscany, car- 
 rying Sylverine with him, and so separating 
 her from ELavio, whoso presence — so dis- 
 creet, so absent, dare I say, tlwugh it was — 
 only enraged him. 
 
 As to Sylverine, never ship without com- 
 pass, driven by the tempests, was more cru- 
 elly tossed than that poor soul, who for a 
 long time had found no star to guide 
 her. She regretted Flavio witi; a fervor 
 that would have caused her to think 
 .she loved him aione, if she had not 
 known how much .she loved Gio'-an. Un- 
 certain between those two soatiments, she 
 lived a life without happiness, dignity, or 
 satisfaction. She passed long hours in 
 dreaming of the execution of impossible 
 projects. She regarded with affright the 
 gordian knot thai she had not the courage 
 to cut, asking often, " Will it unravel it- 
 self? " Weakness is sometimes as much a 
 sin as is perversity. Flavio had never 
 appeared at her house since the scene I 
 have recorded, and she desired to see him 
 beyond expression. She could not under- 
 stand his sacrifice, neither could she ac- 
 
 Rwa.WBjWk^-;jkwrtNWJ^y ?pf^ggy^ siWi<*iWM^v.j^ ' .itft^> ^^ 
 
c.ou,.t for -lul .he styk..l an "excess of, 
 virtue." Tlu.,vw.sa,.vull.ckoli.nn.Mple, 
 in l.er, but Flavio was in lau t there. 
 -1 «.lfli liis i( ea (iltecuia- 
 tions, l>eha.l not taken care to ashumhu 
 Boul to .generous sentiments. Ihe soil was 
 rich, but he had sown nolhin:, : therelore 
 r^ had no ri,ht to complain that there ^v.s 
 
 notlnn.^toveap. Sylverine, >vo cat. t nb 
 Ty thought not of, hat. She Hearehe.l or 
 Fhvio, she followed him, .he waited ior 
 bin,. One evening, unexpectedly, .he met 
 hh„;a„d,run,.in;^.oldn..Bhep«therarm 
 S;inhi;andsaidjoyiully,-'AtlastUee 
 
 ''nrreco,ni^ed quickly hi. peril, but l.ad 
 the strength to jest in .pi,e 01 Ins trouble, 
 
 an.l, .lisen-a-in- his arm, he s'"'l' " 
 
 "Dost thou romcnbcr the words of the 
 French son- the children sing 
 
 those secret .neans which ,he Drinkers of 
 
 • Wo will go no '"«'•'' Into ,110 wood. 
 The iBurcle ftU are cut.' ' 
 
 ..Why dost thou fly from mc, dear 
 Flavio? Why hast thou left .nc ? Is .,ot 
 ,he best place in my heart lor thee t 
 
 ..llni:" said he, placing h.s fingers 
 
 upon her lips. "An ^^V^^^'^';^'^^ 
 . Thou thallnot tempt the saints; at^I^u 
 buta,nan." The.i feeling, pe.haps.thalus 
 coura-^e failed, and his en.otion gained, he 
 k3 her hands, and rushed away with 
 
 hurried steps. . 
 
 Shelookedaftevhimwithout making a 
 
 gesturetovetainhlin;butasnnlec^joy 
 trembled on her lips, and lighted up lu^i 
 eyes. " Ah 1 " she said, "he loves me 
 
 ''yL certainly, he loved her still; for he 
 J n't one of those who know how to take 
 
 back what they have once given. 
 
 II. 
 
 Two months had passed, without bring- 
 • Tin-e to their sorrowful situation, 
 
 ing any change to t ^ . ^ ^ne of 
 
 when Giovan received Buaaeniy, u;r 
 
 those secret. iii>.v"= • 
 
 Ashes employ f..r their comn.nn.cat.ons, 
 orders to leave «ave,.na within .i^\M days, 
 an.l to preset Imnself at a point des.g- 
 nated on the bo,-ders of Calabria, to take 
 ,be inune.liate direction of a movement 
 ,vhich ha.l been preparing tor son- ,,m3 
 These instructions ad,n,tted ol .,ei her 
 ,,„„bt nor delay. It was a thunderbolt ,o 
 (Jiovan; who, instead of accepting h.s »W6 
 with resignation, if not with eag.-rness, .as 
 was his du,y, declare.1 that the f.reler was ab- 
 surd, and impossible of execulnm. 51. -vi- 
 ed by the passion that overwhelmvd h> m, 
 be saw nothing clearly beyond; and so ho 
 
 bna'incd that this s.uhlen order was a 
 scheme invented by F hivio to tree Sylver- 
 ine from his presence, that he might repos- 
 sess her love. "It is he who has done this. 
 Why does he not go himselt .' lie '"i 
 not reflect that it was for bin. espec.ally 
 that this task had been reserved : as he had 
 lived so long in the Neapolitan provinces, 
 all the means of action were known to h.m. 
 
 Let what may come," said he, "Tsha 
 not be taken in so clmusy a, let; and I will 
 not -o." Then he wrote to the ch.et of the 
 Drinkers of Ashes, notifyb.g him of h.s 
 refus..l to engage in an enterprise wWh he 
 
 considered inopportune. I.i that case .is 
 in many.others, Giovan was u.ijust ; tor ho 
 truth was, that Flavio, desirous ol rush ng 
 into action to escape Ins trouble, h.td 
 asked to direct the expedition h.msell ; and 
 they had replied that his presence was in- 
 disiLsable in the Papal States, us he would 
 have to rise, in case of success, to g.ve aid 
 
 to a Neapolitan movement. 1< lavio knew 
 l.owtoobey,because he was accustomed 
 
 to command, and was resigned without a 
 
 murmur. . ^ , . „ 
 
 Giovan had consulted no one m taking 
 
 bis resolution. He said nothing to bylver- 
 
 ine; and, as he never saw Flavio, naurally 
 
 be had not spoken to him. Nevertheless, 
 what he feared was not long inarming. 
 About eight days after he had sent the let- 
 ter announcing his refusal one evening 
 toward the hoar of midnight, he walked 
 hurriedly along the seashore, until he 
 
c;h lUc Driiikci-s of 
 ir ooiiuunuuMl '•'>"'> 
 a within (•i:^lit <liiy:*, 
 t' iit ii liniiit (lo^i;^- 
 of Ciiliiliriii, to t;»l;o 
 on of a iiiDvemunt 
 iriii'j; I'or sdim! tiiii3. 
 ..linittod of luitliiT 
 IAS 11 thunilcrl)olt to 
 ol" iU'iTiitiii'j; hi* '''''"^ 
 ,t, witli I'lViiTin'SH, as 
 that the r>nliM-w:i-^ilb- 
 jf cxufUlinn. 15!iml- 
 it ovfrwlii'linvil '"'"> 
 y iH-yoiiil ; ii"'l so ho 
 siidd'cn onkT was a 
 i'lavio to t'rc(! Sylver- 
 , tliat ho \wih^ I'^'l'os- 
 i be wlio has done this, 
 ohim.ein" lie '1'>1 
 vas I'oi- him csiwcially 
 en reservod : as lie had 
 
 Neapolitan provineus, 
 ion were known to hira. 
 ,„o," said he, '•! ^hall 
 luuisy a net ; and I will 
 ,vrote to the ehiet' of the 
 , notityin-j; him of his 
 I an enterpvi^^e which ho 
 tune. In that case, as 
 ,van was unjust ; for the 
 ivio, desirous of rushin<; 
 icape his trouble, had 
 expedition himself; and 
 liat his presence was in- 
 Papal States, as he would 
 sc of success, to ^ive aid 
 novcraent. Flavio knew 
 luse ho was accustomed 
 
 was resigned without a 
 
 nsulted no one in taking 
 le said nothing to Sylvcr- 
 ever saw Flavio, naturally 
 .n to him. Nevertheless, 
 was not long in arriving. 
 , after he had sent thelet- 
 his refusal, one evening, 
 r of midnight, ho walked 
 r the seashore, until he 
 
 V 
 
 BYLVERINK. 
 
 163 
 
 reached a siwt where there were neither | <le:-[teiate enterprise. No one can know 
 tre.'s nor houses : he stoppeil and listened ; lii'tter than myself (he comliiinii of the 
 a man rominjj from the opiiosite direction ! Southern provinces; and 1 allirni lliaf they 
 apiiroache.l liim ; and, hy the (loiil)tfiil j are not ready; that the counti-y, crushed 
 
 li'lit of tiie stars, he recognized Flavi 
 
 Art thou, then, called '.' " said Giovan. king, will not echo a response to the cries 
 
 under the double despotism of clcr','y and 
 
 " I am called," replied Flavio. 
 They remained without speaking again, 
 until a boat api)roached the shore, an<l left 
 rapidly, after a man had Icapcil upon the i 'rii.ii," adij.d 1 
 sand. 
 
 The now-comcr walked straight toward 
 the two, who, enveloped in the darkness, 
 awaited him at some distauct!. St(i|ipiug 
 within a few steps of them, lio said, — 
 
 "Jnfi-dlrU lliintmim! nnmbie, salee ! To 
 which llicy liotli rcplieil at the same time, 
 "In nomine frill ri.i FJieroiiiimi. vale!" 
 
 Giovan and Flavio gave the fraternal 
 kiss to lh(! othei', who, tiirowing his mantli^ 
 upon the ground, desired them to sit 
 down. 
 
 This mysterious |)erson was no o;her 
 than the chief of the Drinkers of Ashes. 
 liis name is of little importance. We will 
 only say that ho was knoivu among the 
 
 T('j)liriij)oles, under the Edomiteai)pellation. 
 as S.unla. lie entered at once into the 
 
 f;iibject, as one who knows the value of 
 
 time. 
 
 "There can be no secrets between us," 
 
 saiil he to Giovan : " here is Flavio ; here 
 
 am I, — I, who am come expressly to know 
 
 the reason why, in scorn of your oatli, you 
 
 refuse the post confided to you ? " 
 
 Giovan, in spite of his stubbornness, knew 
 
 himself guiliy. Fearing to liave it known 
 
 that he repudiated a peril jus mission, in 
 
 order to remain with Sylvoriae, he com- 
 menced to excuse himself with political 
 
 reasons, hoping in that way to escape the 
 
 avowal he dreaded. "Is it not folly at 
 
 this moment, when all Europe sleeps in 
 
 profound peace, to arouse a country where 
 
 the Drinkers of Ashes have met only do- 
 feat, since CampancUa, who submitted 
 
 seven times to torture, to the Bandie-i 
 
 brothers who were sliot ; " and he went on 
 
 more warudy, "I am resolved as well as 
 
 another not to throw away my life in a 
 
 for deliverance ; lliat the prqiected expedi- 
 tion is ali^ui'd. iuipossible ; and that ihe 
 best thin'.i to do is to al)audoii it at oiicc. 
 
 iv d ) we go to Cala- 
 bria, or even to Naples? Is the enemy 
 we have sworn to combat tliere '.' Of what 
 Use to decimate our forces, and reveal our 
 projects in badly arranged operations. 
 The enemy is not there; the cneuiy is at 
 Iliiiii'. Once overihiow the [lower there, 
 ami all will liill as if by enchantmeni. If 
 you inlend si'riously to eslaiilish liberty in 
 the world, destroy the principli^ that is cim- 
 trary to it. Begin at the source from 
 which II iws all authority ; for where it 
 springs Ibith, the world will go to drink." 
 
 "ll'voii knew how to play at chess," 
 responded S.iinla, " you woiilil not speak 
 so. To take the king, you must first re- 
 move all the pawns that surround him. 
 You have taken the wrou'j way instead of 
 the right; and you refuse to go, not only 
 U'cau.so you judge tin; cxjiediiion b.idly 
 conceived, but because you are in love 
 with a woman you have stolen fi-oni Flavio, 
 and yiki fear to leave her." 
 
 " Has Flavio told you that? " cried Gio- 
 van in fury. 
 
 " Rest in peace : it was not Flavio. 
 Why do you pretend to suspect one whom 
 you know to be incapable of a doubtful 
 action? I am acquainted with the history 
 of both : it is of little importance how. 
 Giovan, all the wrong pertains to you ; and 
 you have singularly aggravated it in refu.s- 
 ing the work that has the right to claim 
 you. Into what miserable clay have you 
 then been turned, to let a woman arrest 
 you on the road to duty ! Every other 
 object is absolutely secondary in the pres- 
 ence of the great aim wo follow. Each 
 one of us must remember that he has 
 sworn to say to those who would retain 
 him, 'Woman, what is there in common 
 
 •«B^!^^S(8^^8»!»S«a»s 
 
 .i. i unjM. i M Kj mUiwJlii.a i l.MWWiim'.i.iiiii-aKiwa! ' - 1 ' ' iwnyUJ i "- 
 
164 
 
 THE DR1NKEU8 OF ASHES. 
 
 ; 
 
 botwiHsn thco anil incV Wo imiHt n-miiiii 
 holitiiry : ncvur lor'j;i't that. Seo where 
 that LTeaturo I'or whom you iiro nisane hiis 
 emuUiutL'tl you ! Look at yoursi'lf, (iiovaii. 
 You, oiu" man of action /iiir inxellviice, our 
 staii(l,u'il-l)earer, have Iweouie more (h'l)ili- 
 tated than an old i)riL'st who fears hell ! 
 Soe Flavio, our most brilliant li^^ht, our 
 projector of tlie nioi>t profounil iileis: what 
 has 80 bewildered and thtrkened his mind 
 that lie has no power to dincern elearly in 
 the midst of liis troubled thou;;ht8 V If you 
 must bo children, take the Bible, and learn 
 from it to recite each ni'^ht before goin^ 
 to your beds the history of Samson and 
 Delilah, lie men 1 you aro not made to 
 be either lovers or husbands : amuse your- 
 selves if you please ; but, in the name of 
 Heaven I <;ive notliing of your hearts, noth- 
 iw^ of your brains, to these feeble creatures. 
 Do you know what you resemble with 
 your sad amourelles ? those tamers of lions 
 vrht) at last are eaten by the ferocious 
 boasts. Our work is a work of justice, 
 and remember the words of wisdom, ' Wo- 
 man is the desolation of the just.'" 
 
 "You are wrong, S.imla!" said Flavio, 
 in a grave vo'ice : " the woman of whom 
 you speak has not a weak heart. She was 
 •with me at one time in Sicily, and she is 
 capable of foUowin.; (iiovan to Calabria." 
 
 " Ah ! she is a Clorinda, then," returned 
 Samla, makin;^ a disdainful jresture that 
 •was lost in the darkness. " It may be that 
 she has all tlie. virtues and all the charms, 
 — I a-^ree to it if you will ; but she is nont^ 
 the less dangerous to you both, and you 
 know that wo aro accustomed to remove 
 obstacles from our path. She has set you 
 at variance; and that is already a crime : 
 we know how to prevent her from commit- 
 ting another. It is necessary that the in- 
 surrection in Calabria have a chief: Giovan 
 is designated ; he would go if it were not 
 for thit woman who opposes it." 
 
 " How can she oppose it? "' said Giovan : 
 "slio is in entire ignorai'ce of our [)roject." 
 
 " Tlien," roi»lied the inllexible Samla, 
 " you rel'usc to go because of her, wliich 
 amounts to the samo : in any case, she is 
 
 the obstacle. IJe yt^ reconciled : it is ne- 
 cessary, (iiovan, '^ive Flavio llic kiss of 
 peace. Flavio, remain in coiuinunicatiou 
 with {Jiovan, in (jrder to bo ready to assist 
 him at n('e(l. That woman comes between 
 you : have the courage of great hearts, and 
 renounce lier. If you will not, why, •hen, 
 remain near her, but live united : that is 
 indispensable. There are two beings iii 
 yon, never forgot that, — the man ami the 
 IJrinker of Ashes. If the man Hiillers, it is 
 best that the Drinker of Ashes know noth- 
 ing of it. Give the hand I " continued he 
 with authority, "and swear to me, who am 
 the invested chief, to live in friendsliip, one 
 with the other, — far from that woman or 
 near her ; to cease your dissensions, and to 
 act but lor the furtherance of our work." 
 
 "1 swear it!" said Flavio, grasping the 
 hand of Giovan. " I swear it ! " said Gio- 
 van, " oven if I die of madness." 
 
 " Well ! I accept your i)roinise, and I 
 know that you will keep it. (Jiovan, it is 
 you who have the weak head in this matter. 
 Listen to Flavio : lie is your elder ; ami his 
 intelligence is greater than yours. You 
 have eight days to arrive at the place 
 designated, to i)Ut yourself at the head of 
 the men who await you. Will you go 'I " 
 
 " Yes," replied (Jiovan. 
 
 " Flavio," continued Samla, "if, in eight 
 days, (iiovan is not at his jwsit, }0U will 
 take liis place, and march straight upon 
 (vosenza." 
 
 " It is well," replied Flavio. 
 
 They remained together until dawn, talk- 
 ing over their projects, discussing and 
 modifying thoui according to the possible 
 eventualities. When the rays of morning 
 whitened tho heavens, Saiula arose, and 
 embraced his two friends. " It is well ! " 
 he said to them. " You can be men in your 
 spare moments; but, before all, you are 
 Drinkers of Ashes." 
 
 " Yes ; and God guide us I " responded 
 Giovan and Flavio. 
 
 S.imla gave a vigorous whistle, the boat 
 re-appeared, ho sprang in, and soon it was 
 lost to sight on the coast of Commacchio. 
 
 Giovan was much softened toward Flavio: 
 
 I 
 
infili'il : if in nu- 
 liivio lilt' kiss of 
 
 I I'oiiiiniiiiiiMtioii 
 ic ri!ii(ly ti) assist 
 
 111 t'OlllL'S Im'IWI'I'II 
 
 i;reiit in'iil'ts, iiml 
 
 II not, "liy, 'iii'ii, 
 uniU'il : tliiit ia 
 
 L" two Ih'IiI^S ill 
 
 :he nuin anil tliu 
 man siiU'i'rs, it is 
 Ulii's know iiulli- 
 I" eoiiliiiiii.'(l liu 
 ir ti) 111!', wlio iuu 
 in Irioiiilslii]), one 
 » lliitt woman or 
 issensions, am) to 
 I of our work." 
 vio, <;rasi)'M);^ tlio 
 ir it ! " said Gio- 
 Iness." 
 
 ■ i)roinist', and I 
 it. (liovan, it is 
 lad in tliis iiiattur. 
 iir elder; and his 
 lan yours. You 
 vu at tlic place 
 f at tlie head of 
 Will you go?" 
 
 nila, " if, in eight 
 is jx)st, >ou will 
 .•h straight upon 
 
 ivio. 
 
 • until dawn, talk- 
 disuussiiig and 
 5 to the possible 
 rays of morning 
 samla arose, and 
 s. " It is well ! " 
 vn be men in your 
 lore all, you are 
 
 ) us I" responded 
 
 1 whistle, the boat 
 , and soon it was 
 of Commacchio. 
 itid toward Flavio: 
 
 •■» 
 
 BYLVRUIKE. 
 
 166 
 
 the memory of hi« old friendship filled his 
 heart, and excluded all anger; still, he 
 was distracted l>y sorrowful contradictions. 
 At that moment, moved liy the stern 
 autluiiity of Samla, ho was decideil to go. 
 Hut he knew himself, and lie feared his 
 resciliitiiin might aliandon hiiii at the last. 
 Besides, the idea of leaving Sylveriiie, and 
 of leaving her with I'Mavio, was insiipport- 
 ahle. "If I go,"' though, he, "she must 
 leave Ilayenna." Neverthe';'ss, he wished 
 to perform an act of courage and self-abne- 
 gation ; yet it was not without an ellbrt over 
 himself, that he said to Flavio, betbre leav- 
 ing him," Let us pass the evening together 
 with Sylverine." 
 
 " We will," replied Flavio. " Samla is 
 right ; a woman must not come between us." 
 
 That evening they met at the house of 
 Sylverine. She, happy to see Flavio, and 
 hoping that all dissensions were ended (br- 
 cver, abandoned herself to the joy that 
 reconciliation (^ivuscd. Hut there occurred 
 what neither of them expected: inasmuch 
 as they regained their (iirmer intimacy, the 
 old contradielions filleii each heart. Syl- 
 verine, more in doubt than ever of herself, 
 fell into an interior contemplation, while 
 she tried to decide which of the?e two men 
 she loved the best. 
 
 Very soon Giovan felt his anger and jeal- 
 ousy ready to burst all bounds : he made 
 of Flavio a redoubtable rival, whom he 
 feared would displace him in the heart of 
 Sylverine. 
 
 .As to Flavio, a nameless sadness over- 
 wlielmed him when he found himself sitting 
 in the place where he had passed so many 
 happy evenings near tho woman whom 
 ho adored and regretted always, and 
 whom, in spite ot his disappointment, he 
 could never entirely and hopelessly resign. 
 Then there arose in his heart sentiments, 
 not unknown, but severely restrained until 
 that hour. He regarded Giovan with envy ; 
 he accused him ; he forgot the tacit pardon 
 he had pronounced ; he retracted, one 
 might iay, his indulgence, and repeated 
 olteu to himself, " It is too much 1 It is 
 more than I can bear 1 " 
 
 They talkoil, nevertiielenn, all three, — 
 Sylverine with a tlirced abandon that de- 
 ceived no one, (iiovaii with a scarcely dis- 
 simulated viiilenee, Flavio with a gravity 
 that resembled despair. The hours passed 
 away ; midnight had long since Hounded ; 
 but m'ither seemecl to think of retiring, 
 Sylverine, who understood plainly what was 
 passing within them, was more llattered 
 than disturbed ; for she well knew they 
 remained in her presence less to be togeth- 
 er, than to watch and guard her. 
 
 At last Sylverine arose, and, extending 
 a hand to each, she said " Good-night." 
 
 'Ilio two men clasped her hands with 
 apparent calmness, and then went away 
 together. For a long time they walked 
 side by side without speaking. Flavio 
 was the first to break the silence. " 1 can- 
 not endure this," he said : " I was wrong to 
 accompany thee to the house of Sylverine. 
 I telt all my old tenderness spring to lite 
 within me. I have been jealous of thee, 
 and I suH'ered to see thee near her." 
 
 " Thou art right," replied (Jiovan : " the 
 situation is intolerable ; there will be no 
 repose until one of us is far from her." 
 
 " It must be ended : one of us must make 
 the sacrifice." 
 
 '• Which '{ " demanded Giovan with 
 terror. 
 
 Flavio did not reply : they walked on in 
 silence, crushing beneath their icet the pine 
 cones that had fiillen from the trees. 'I'he 
 sun appeared above the horizon : the city 
 was awake. They passed women and 
 chilflren gathering dead wood in the forest. 
 Flavio stopped to look at them : seeing tho 
 misery that had no other care than the hard 
 occupation to gain their daily bread, a feel- 
 ing of envy passed through his heart, and 
 lie cried, " Ah ho..' happy they are 1 " 
 
 Then he shook offhis reverie ; and, turning 
 to Giovan, he said, " It is necessary that one 
 of us should go to Calabria, Thou lovest Syl- 
 verine, and thou dost not wish to leave her : 
 I love her, and I have the right to remain, 
 But that is of little importance : we alone are 
 the judges of our rights and duties. If we 
 go to her and interrogate her again, she 
 
 niw 
 
160 
 
 THR imiNKKUS OF \HHK8. 
 
 will ri'ply as lii-Corc, ' I l"V« yoti 1m. th.' aivl 
 we will Hiiik Mtii-w iiit.i llif itiimt' iiiisiTV. 
 Let liitf (li'iiili- lii'twfcn iih. My lU'ar 
 (JidVMii, wilt llioii fon.ciit to it? " 
 
 " 1 will," rcplii'il Ciioviin. " Ah. llii^ i* 
 tcvrll.l.' I " 
 
 •■ Whit fJoil ilix'^ is wi'll ilimc," <on- 
 tiuiuid Flavid. " This cvfiiinv' wcwiU ■;<> 
 tDiii'thcr to Sylverine ; iind tin- ono to whom 
 »ln' iul.lrcsM's till' first woril will tfiivc to- 
 morrow Ibi- Calahriii. Wilt thou liiivu it 
 no?" 
 
 " Yes," rcl>lit'il (]ioviin. 
 Thry imssc'l thu (liy to'j;clluT at tllf 
 house of Fl.ivio, who instructfil his iriciul in 
 all till' lnrpariMl projects, iiidieiniiv^ the 
 point in till' (Julf of Taiviila where they 
 were to eiubaik, explainiii j to him what re- 
 Bourees lie eonld count upon, ami where the 
 luom'y anil anus were. When the ni'jht 
 hail fome, there was nothing mmv to le.ivn. 
 They went out to'j;ether : the nioinent was 
 grnvc. The Benteme that fate slioulil 
 pronounee upon them Kfi ihein little to 
 hope. 'I'he one who went woulil iloubtless 
 find death in his adventure. In any case, 
 dhl he not renoiinee her he loved V 
 
 When they reached the door, they 
 stopped and wrun;,' each other's hands with 
 force. " Coiira;4e ! " they said in the same 
 breath, as il ihey were in the face of an inev- 
 itable ilan|,'er. 
 
 •' Good-evening to both," said Sylverine, 
 
 as they entered. 
 
 They rei)lied to her by a sign of the head, 
 and sat down. 
 
 She was emb'-oidering a p-"ce of dainty 
 nlu^lin, and, without raising her eyes, eon- 
 tinued, '• Why havi; you i>ot been to see me 
 through the day ? " 
 
 Neither rejilied. Astonished at their 
 silence, s-ho regarded alternately Giovan 
 ftiid-Flavio; and, noticing their jjallor, she 
 said, "What is the matter with you?" 
 Then, not obtaining any reply, she cried, 
 "In the name of Heaven! are you 
 
 dumbV" 
 
 Both turned their heads, as if to evade a 
 direct (luestion. Then she arose, went to 
 Flavio, and, taking his hand, said, " See 
 
 rnv Flavio, I havo rwiragc, Answer jno. 
 Wliv do yon not speak? " 
 
 FlavioU'lt iiponhii fiieo that iinpereep- 
 tilile moisture which is the dew of violent 
 emotion, as he rcplicl in achoked voice, " A 
 inoveinoiitis ])repared at Cosen/.a ; one ol 
 us must go and take the direction." 
 
 " Which will go V " cried she ; " for I nhall 
 go with him." 
 
 " What lolly ! " said Flav> .. " There will 
 be innumerable fatigues to support. I will 
 not have ihee go." 
 
 '• I wi>h to go, and 1 will jio." reiilicd 
 Svlverine. •' You have seen me in the 
 work, and you know what I can do. It is 
 decided : I shall go. Is it thee, (Tiovan V la 
 it thee, Flavio." 
 
 (iiovaii bowed his head, wilhoiit daring 
 to reply. Flavio made a sU|)reineelVorl, and 
 said, " It is Giovan : he will leave in a 
 month." 
 
 (jiovan remained immovable, as if 
 crushed upon his chai'-. Sylverine put her 
 hand upon his head. " I will .^o with thee, 
 my p(,,a- Giovan." she ^aid; " and thou shalt 
 see that I am not a had companion." 
 
 "Yes," added Flavio, coniinuing his 
 thou'ilits : " (Jiovan will leave in a moii;li: 
 the expeilition will be short, and there aro 
 chances of success. If all goes well, I will 
 join you; but at present I have no time to 
 lose, li)r I must [irepare all. I leave tomor- 
 row fur the coast of Tuscany lo or.;.inize a 
 navy, and to make the last arrangemcutB. 
 When all is finished I will return here, and 
 Giovan will leave." 
 
 A susi>ieion crossed the mind of Sylver- 
 ine : she looked Flavio fixedly in the iiice, 
 and said, "Thou dost not deceive meV 
 Thou wilt go away for a month, and atVer 
 return here Y " 
 
 "Have I ever deceived theeV" replied 
 Flavio, lowering his eyes. 
 
 Giovan arose as if to speak ; but, wanting 
 1 coura'ie, sat down without a word. His 
 heart was full of pity for Flavio. " Wretch 
 that I am 1 " he sighed. 
 
 They passed a part of the night in talk- 
 ing of the projected expedition. Sylver- 
 ine, delighted to leav« her monotonous life, 
 
•mm*- 
 
 Au.twci' mo. 
 
 hat Impi'iTc-p- 
 
 li'W of violfiit 
 
 )kc(l voict", " A 
 
 »i'i\/.ii ; Dili: of 
 
 crioii." 
 
 lio ; " for I hIijiU 
 
 ,. " Th.n' will 
 iiipport. I will 
 
 ill i;o," ri'ijlii'tl 
 
 •\'n WW ill till! 
 
 can tlo. It is 
 
 u'l', (tii)vanV Is 
 
 witliimt duiiii'^ 
 )riMii(' clVoi'l, ;inil 
 ,vill Kmvi! in ii 
 
 novnUlc, iis if 
 lylvi'i'iiic pill Iilt 
 vill i^o witli ilii'L', 
 
 " iinil thou ."halt 
 inpaiiion," 
 
 coniinuiim his 
 avi! in a month: 
 •t, an<l thiTu aro 
 
 jiOi'S well, I will 
 
 have no tiinu to 
 
 Heave to- nioi-- 
 
 ny lo oi"i.iiii/e a 
 
 ist arrangement*. 
 
 return hero, and 
 
 miiiil of Sylver- 
 iceilly in the I'ace, 
 not deceive me? 
 
 month, and after 
 
 d theeV" replied 
 
 eak; but, wanting 
 )ut a word. His 
 Flavio. " Wretch 
 
 the nii^ht in talk- 
 ])edition. S\'h",r- 
 •r monotonous life, 
 
 SYLVKIUNK. 
 
 107 
 
 olapprd her hands, hui^thed, and said to i wiitcheil it diuMppear, dreamily roek.d hv 
 
 liie iiiciiiotdiKPils iiioliiiii. An aliy^ ol Kor- 
 row (teemed to open liefore him. Hi-* heart 
 notK-ned, and he wept freely. Two limirs 
 after lii(t departiir., tin- fori'st of It.ivcnnii 
 — that tltiest that threw its shadow over 
 all he liived — appeared to him a warco 
 preceplilile line, iilixni'e, and nearly con- 
 loiindi d wiih the heavens. 
 
 Sylverine was very nad after the depart- 
 ure of I'Mavio. She snllered ii va'.'iie in- 
 (liiietilde that (iiovan had no power to 
 relieve; for he was liimself the jirey lo con- 
 tinual aniiiish. His reason, firm and clear 
 when iJasKJon did not hlind him. chowed 
 him to what an extent his selli>hiie'<s liad 
 made him c iminal. 'I'o console hiim-elf, 
 and to drive away his own remorse, he 
 often rejieated, thai, if the expedition suc- 
 ceeded, all the jjiloiy woulil appertain to 
 Flavio : yet he could not re-assuie himself 
 with such a reason; for he knew, belter 
 than any erne, with how miieli danu'er such 
 a veiiliire was menaeed. Ho lell into a 
 deep melancholy; and he, usually so ex- 
 pansive, kept Ion;; and profound silences, 
 from which it was impossible to arouse him. 
 At any price, he would not leave Sylverine; 
 and yet he wished to he with Flavio. The 
 thou^lht of his absent friend ])ossessed him : 
 ho could not drive him from his mind. 
 This pertinacity wearied and irritated liiin 
 b«yond measure. He thoie.'ht of him, a 
 dij'esa lit Deo ! perche pur glacif ' (O justice j fii;;itive upon the mountains ; living' at 
 of Ciod 1 why dost thou sleep V) He | ha/.ard, from the water sources and wild 
 
 fruits; repulsed by the shepherds from 
 whom he demanded shelter ; tracked as a 
 lerocious beast by the peasants armed with 
 
 Giovan, " Thou wilt see Imw well I march, 
 BmI that I am not afraid of the carbines." 
 The two frienils went away to;»ether. 
 " ,\li ! what hast thou done Y " said 
 Giovan. 
 
 " That which was ii;;reed upon. He to 
 whom she spoke the (irst, was he not tofioV 
 and what woiildst tlinu think of me, if I 
 •hould take her with meY" 
 
 III the nioriiin',' Flavio went to say adieu 
 to Sylverine : he had the couiay;e not lo 
 appear moved, though his heart was torn 
 within him. 
 
 " in three weeks at the latest, 1 will re- 
 turn." be siud. 
 
 (iiovan and Flavio had a last conlerence. 
 At the moment of separation, perhaps 
 never tomeet a;,'ain, Oiovan's compunctions 
 overcame liim. "Stay!" cried he: "it is 
 1 who on-.'bt to go; ami I will not accejit 
 tliy sairiiice 1 " 
 
 " It is my destiny," replied Flavio. " I 
 never return when the route is once taken. 
 I leave .Sylverine to thee. Adieu, brother, 
 and be liapjiy. " 
 
 "If thou need inc, send, and I will 
 come," said (iiovan. " What shall bo the 
 word if thou .-end an emissary ? " 
 
 Flavio extended his hand toward the 
 table, and took therefrom a volume of 
 Dante. He opened it, and read a verse of 
 the twentv-ninth song of the PurUlko. " ' 
 
 who comes from me shall repeat the first 
 part of the verse, and thou shalt repeat the 
 second." 
 
 They embraced each other. "If thou 
 die," said Giovan, " it is I who have killed 
 thee." 
 
 " Rest in peace," replied Flavio. " Is not 
 destiny the mistress of all V lleturn to 
 Sylverine, and leave me .-vlone ; for I need 
 strength. God bless thee I " 
 
 " And thee al.-o 1 " 
 
 After they parted, Flavio hastened 
 toward the shore. A boat awaited him : 
 lie went on board, they raised the sails, 
 and swiftly left the coast behind. He 
 
 scythes; sold by his host of an hour; 
 arresteil, imprisoned, condemned, hung. 
 All this tortured him until ho yielded to his 
 anguish, and, making that sellish return 
 u])on himself that we all make when we 
 sull'er a merited misfortune, he would cry, 
 "Am I not unhappy enough ? " He could 
 not remain (piiet in any place ; repose was 
 odious to him ; he went out, he returned, ho 
 was restless in his inaction ; he wished to 
 go, and yet he remained. Ho lieaped 
 strange reproaches upon Sylverine, of 
 
 ii.mj w MW i"* u i i«wi<Liw»im i' .i* i - 'i 
 
: 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 108 
 
 Tin: DIIINKKUS or ASHES. 
 
 which nho iimltTntoiiil nolhin;,'. Olh-ii lie 
 wuiit tu llic «hiirc, ami icmiiiui'il ihi-ro Iciii,' 
 hour*, Iciokiii;; towiinl tho itoiith, im if mmw 
 hrco/.c ('inti'm'i t'lDiii Caliil)ri;i foiilil toll him 
 Ol' tllC lUlC 1)1' lii^ iViciicl. 
 
 Mori! limn liiroo vn-vkn liml panrtcii, und 
 Sjlvi'iiiiu jirt'w unxiim-*. " It is Hiniiii^c," 
 »ui<l flif III Oloviui, "llmt WD i-ucuivo nu 
 ni'WH ol' Kliivio." 
 
 lie Iti'w into ft |)ftsnion to cviidu ft n'\i\y. 
 At liiht, to ciilia liiiii, Sylvcriiio npolvu of 
 tlii'ir projiM'iutl i'X|)(!iliiion, in wliicii Mii- 
 conntcd to a(.'com|iany liiiu. " WIk.'H will 
 wo UmvoV" she iii(|iiiri'.l. 
 
 (iiov.iii could contain hiniMi'lf no lon'.'<'rJ 
 ho nir-hod I'loni the houno, and clio Haw liini 
 no moro tliat diiy. 
 
 "What have I done, that ho.ftvoidn mo 
 in lliirt manner '.•"• She iamnined thiit 
 Flftvio liad Homothin;; to do with ihe troii- 
 l.le of {;iovaii ; l)nt hIio conchided it wan 
 ft new lit of jealou.ty, ftnd so did not sus- 
 pect the truth. 
 
 Travelleis wlio passed thron!;h Italy at 
 tlie epoch of our story will easily believe 
 that an insurrection could liavo taken jilaee 
 in Calahria, ami the neii;hl)orin|4 I'rovinces 
 know nolhinif of it fur some time. In 
 ell'ecl, the journals were mute, the ])oliee 
 exorcised a pitiless inspection. The post 
 had no respect lor iho secrets of letters, 
 and they arrested without mercy the 
 bearers of evil tidin;?s. One can under- 
 stand very easily the radical alisenco of com- 
 munication, when it is reinemherod, that in 
 H, nu)re recent epoch, durin;;; the war of the 
 Crimen, the ojjlcial Gazelle, of the king- 
 dom of Ihe Two Sicilies, the only journal 
 then in all the Neai)olilan provinces, pub- 
 lished not one lino that could lead any one 
 •o suppose that a Ion;; war in which live 
 powers took part, one of which was Italian, 
 was then occnrrin;; in the EJlst. 
 
 Calabria luul been a^ritated some days 
 before Ravenna knew any thin^i of it: at 
 , last, a coast in;; vessel comin;; from Brin- 
 di?i brou^iht the news, which soon circu- 
 lated, and incresisod in spreading. 
 
 One mornin:^ a servniit of Sylverine, 
 • who had just returned from the town, en- 
 
 tered llm room of her mWtre^n, and »aiiJ, 
 •• .Si.;uora, do you know that ile'y aro 
 fiijhtin.; in C.ilabria uinl tlio l)order of 
 Ci>sen/a 'I " 
 
 It wan ft llmli of ll'^ht to Hylvertno : kUo 
 understood all. While she clrl'■^^el| in iLUte, 
 the servant told her what she had learmd. 
 That thu insur;{ent» had been beaten by 
 the royal triHips; thiit the chief hid lieeu 
 taken ; that ho was a very brave and hand- 
 some man ; and that he had been sent to 
 Naples, to bo sentenced and exeeiilecl. 
 
 Sylverine made no ri'ply; but, from liino 
 
 to time, she moaned, •' My (Jod I my (iud 1 " 
 
 Then sill) ran wildly to the bouse of (Jio- 
 
 van. As soon as she saw him, she cried, 
 
 '• Wretch I where is Flavio 't " 
 
 He trembled out an evasive reply. 
 
 " Ilu>h I " rospondi'd she with pission. 
 
 " I know all. Thou art a coward 1 Thy 
 
 place is at his side, lie is in Calabria: 
 I p 
 
 what ait thou doin;; here '.' " 
 
 (iiovan threw himself at her feet. 
 " Crush me," he said : '• I deserve thy con- 
 tempt ; but I love thee ; I adoro thee ; and I 
 could not resolve to leave thee. We letl 
 it to chance, my Sylverine; Flavio lost, 
 and therefore ho went." Ho then recount- 
 ed all their stru^r^^le ; the visit of Samla, 
 their last resolution, and the departure of 
 Flavio. He wept bitterly. " Ah ! I 
 know loo well that 1 merit neither compas- 
 sion nor i)ardoii ; but thou hast made mo 
 insane ; and, tor love of thee, I know not 
 what crime I would not eounnit." 
 
 " '^'hey say that ihey are defeated, that 
 he is taken," cried Sylverine. " Our place 
 is where he sull'ers. He is our Flavio : wo 
 must save him. All this news may be ex- 
 an'iorated, — who knows the truth in this 
 country of falsehood '? L'.'t us go at once : 
 [)erhaps there is yet time." 
 
 " Yes, we will go. If I perish, I will go 
 straight to him. In an hour I am ready. 
 We will go direct to Leghorn : there 1 will 
 take a boat that will carry us to Tola. It 
 is the shortest route, and the most sure." 
 
 " If we do not save him," said Sylverine, 
 — "listen well to my words, Giovan, — I 
 will never see thy face again in all my lil'e." 
 
 'm 
 
iotri'im, aixl miiil, 
 r til, it ilii'y iiro 
 I till) l)i)rili'r of 
 
 to Hylvi-rlno : nho 
 iilri'XM'd ill ll;l!<t(', 
 
 nIiu liail Icai'iii'il. 
 I liwm iM'iitL'ii by 
 
 (• cllil't' lll'l lll'CIl 
 
 V lir.ivit ami liaml- 
 iiad lii'i'ii trnt to 
 
 ■ III I'XCl'lltcll. 
 
 \y\ lull, Irom lime 
 f (juil ! iiiy G<»il I " 
 
 In) lloUKi! of (iio- 
 
 .w liiiii, hUu eriuJ, 
 io ■/ " 
 
 aAvu reply, 
 sliu with pission. 
 II cowan 1 1 Thy 
 
 u Ih ill Calabria : 
 , ■) « 
 
 ■It' nt Ikt foot. 
 I dosoi'vt! thy coii- 
 
 adore tlicu ; mid I 
 vt) ihco. Wo lotl 
 riiu! : Flavid lost, 
 
 llo thon roooimt- 
 u! visit of Sainia, 
 
 tho (lo|)artiiro of 
 tterly. " Ah I I 
 rit lU'iihor coiiijias- 
 011 hast iiiado me 
 
 thoo, 1 know not 
 uoniinit." 
 
 nro dofuatod, that 
 iriiie. " Our plaoe 
 I is our Flavio : wo 
 I nuws may bo ex- 
 s the truth in lliia 
 L'.'t us 150 at onoo : 
 0." 
 
 ' I porish, I will go 
 I hour I am ready, 
 i^horn : there 1 will 
 rry us to I'ola. It 
 1 the most sure." 
 lUi," said Sylverine, 
 words, (iiovaii, — I 
 ijjaiu in all my life." 
 
 SVr.VKRINE. 
 
 109 
 
 Thoy wore Hoparatiii;; to hasten their 
 depart iiro, when humio oiiu knoekud at thu 
 door, (iiovnn opciieil it, ami timnd hiin- 
 Belf fai'o to lace with a man dresseil us a 
 ■ailor. 
 
 " (Jiovan Seo^liaV" impiired tho man. 
 
 *' I am he," replied (iiovan. 
 
 " O ilij'r.id iti JJeo!"inin[ tho itrangur, 
 in a low voiee. 
 
 " I'enlm pur ijiiwi f " responded Glovnu ; 
 then, tiiriiiiig to Svlvurinu, hu cried, " News 
 of Flavio." 
 
 The man took olT oao of \\\a heavy 
 shoes; anil, t(e[iaratin'^ tlio sole with the aid 
 of his knil'e, he drew from it a sealeil letter, 
 whieh lie ){avo to (iiovan. Ho broke tho 
 8oal : the envelope contained a letter lor 
 Sylveiiiie, and a note l()r himself. The note 
 comprised but tliroe words, " All is lost I " 
 
 There was a moment of stupor : (Iiovan 
 and Sylverim^ lo'iked at eacli other iii si- 
 lence, Tho man hid seated himself, and 
 was trying to repair his shoe. 
 
 " llead thou (piickly I " cried Giovan, 
 wlio was the lirst to recover himself. 
 Instinctively, Sylverino regarded tho un- 
 known, who understood hor look of dis- 
 trust. 
 
 " Aht am I a restraint? " said he. "It 
 is not eight days since I was assistant 
 jailer at tlie |)rison of Cosenza. I know 
 all the history: you can speak boiiire nie 
 without fear," 
 
 Sylverino opened Flavio's letter, and 
 read, — 
 
 " I have deceived thee; but pardon mo, 
 my darling child I Giovan will tell to thoo 
 all our sad history ; and thou wilt see that 
 I could not do otherwise than hide from 
 thee tho end of my journey. I knew too 
 well tho courage of thy heart I I know 
 that thou wouldst accompany me, if thou 
 knowost to what destiny I inarched ; and 
 that could not be. One of us must lose 
 thee. I accepted the will of fate, and I loll 
 thee. But why complain? There is in 
 all this a profound wisdom, before which I 
 am constrained to bow. Each man, in this 
 life, has his share of hajipiness. Thou wort 
 mine : could I, then, [lossess thee always ? 
 
 I Alan I no: the laws of Gml ndmit of no 
 
 {exception; and I would be iiii.;riiti-l'ul to 
 
 I aeeu^e de<liliy. I lo<t thee vvIumi llic hour 
 
 to lo.se thee sound' 'd ; but still I have lor 
 
 thee a tenderness without equal, and in 
 
 my heart there is iiotlihi'^' fiir tlice but 
 
 ihiiilglits ijif inlillite sweettii'ss. AluHo all, 
 
 do not w?[>r(i !■ \\ 1 hsH'W. Wi' are of those 
 
 who Jiitii ...irn for tjfe-feat. I obeyed my 
 
 jdesilny: ttnoii i\;»>rt thu i«iii»tr«.inient, that in 
 
 all. Tli'm ;\i» innocwnt, uiidl never aeeiiso 
 
 tliyseli. 
 
 " It is the prison of C<*»en«n from which 
 I write. I iiave Uien liit»>«< "(tir tlircf dii\s, 
 under a rigomii* jfUjiT'l, in i.» true; liui they 
 leave me, mnui 'jlw l iiiii. nibi> possibility of 
 wriling. and endlinjf to t^tiftr my last adieu. 
 All is liiiislved ! [ ain noit tho man to bo 
 allured by vain hopes. I know my diiy.i 
 are eoiinted, and the I.lsI will bo welcome. 
 ■' I'erhiips, by giviii'j; niiuh trouble, and 
 compromising many [joople, 1 might f;ain 
 my liberty; but of what good t.) rerom- 
 meiico my life of other times? to renew 
 that enervating struggle in which I have 
 always been defeated? to roll a'^ain the 
 rock of Sysi|)lius, tiiat always and always 
 returns? No: I am weary, and I need rest. 
 Dost thou remember the words ot' Luther, 
 when ho looked uiion tho tombs in the 
 cemetery (jf Worms, ' I envy them, l)ecauso 
 they repose.' Thanks be to God ! 1 i-liall 
 soon have nothing to envy tlieiii. lie 
 calm, Sylverine: and, (iiov/in, de.s|)air not. 
 I am the eldest : I must have gone lirst ; so 
 it is but ai<ling nature a little, and that is 
 not a s;iH'at evil. And neverihidess, as thy 
 poor Flavio loved thee; as he would joy- 
 ously have given his life for thee ; as he 
 rested in confidence, — and what a hard 
 awakening thou didst prepare fijr him I — 
 in short, in short, — I will speak no iiioro 
 of that : of what good to reflect ? Are wo 
 not already unhajjpy enough ? I know 
 thou wilt never forget me, and that thought 
 consoles nie. 
 
 "Take every precaution at Ravenna. 
 It is possible some one may discover a 
 thread that will lead to you : that would 
 astonish me nevertlieloss, lor who knows 
 
170 
 
 THE DUISiCEBS OP ASHE3. 
 
 our secret? Myself only hero; ami I 
 need not say, tliiit never mine of a ser:i;,'lio 
 was more impenetrable than I. MyJu(l;^eH 
 are exasperated to sec me so indiil'erent. 
 Yesterday, after my exandnation, the ])res- 
 ident of the eourt-niarlial eame into my 
 chand)er, and there mysteriously oilered 
 me a lart,'(! sum of money if I would expose 
 to him the true euljjrits. ' For,' said he, ' I 
 see in you hut a passive instrument saeri- 
 ficed to the aud)itioa of others.' I iuiniedi- 
 atelv named to him Kin-j; Ferdinand and 
 all his ministers. That tolly has cost me 
 a new auuoyanei!. Last n>i;ht I was given 
 for my supper dry bread and water, like a 
 scholar who has not learned his lesson. 
 All this is very pitiful, AVhen I see l)y 
 V'hat means these men are governed, in 
 what subjection thiy iire kept, and with 
 what arguments they ure satisfied, I ask 
 myself by what irony God has endowed 
 such aiumals with si)eeeh? bjinetimes 
 we imagine naturally that humanity aspires 
 to the light; but the greater part of men, 
 wallowing iu.-eiisibly in their viee and 
 i^niorauee, return to it eag(!rly, if, by 
 chance, they have been rescued from it for 
 a while. God lias made man of clay, and 
 he forgets not his origin. I may be unjust : 
 but these dregs of humanity stir my soul 
 with indignation. 
 
 " In our first engagement, we were very 
 few. ^V'e had tlefeated the royal troops, 
 who flew at our attack like a flock of 
 pigeons, and marched straiglit upon Coseti- 
 za ; but they were not long in discovering 
 the nuaibin' of our forces, and consequently 
 our weakness. We were surroimded and 
 overwhelmed, but died bravely, shouting, 
 ' Vim Italia ! ' I had forceil a passage, at 
 the head of fifty men, by which we gained 
 the moimtains, directing our march towards 
 Poliehoi'o, where we hoped to embark ; but 
 enraged wolves were never hunted as wo 
 were. Day and night we were on the 
 alert; but we were captiu'cd, and, conse- 
 quently, we were criminals. It was then 
 natural that each one should turn against 
 us. A band of peasants and (jemlurmes 
 ariested ns. I believed that I had already 
 
 drunk all the bitterness of life ; but I was 
 mistaken. Tho.se whom we had come to 
 deliver rushed upon us with the greatest 
 fury. But perhaps they were just with- 
 out knowledge, and crushed us i)ecauso we 
 were defeated in our enterprise, and still 
 delayed their hopes. 1 have asked, myself 
 if it were not folly to endeavor to save 
 such men in spi^e of themselves ; and if, 
 under the pretext of duty, we did not 
 instinctively obey the su >tle needs of a 
 personal ambition 'i .'Jut ni. w, when all is 
 finished for me, and I have no i'urther 
 interest in the things of life, I reply. No, no! 
 It is not a folly to save a man in spite of 
 himself. It is a duty, an absolute duty ; 
 and, Tiovan, never forget to guide the 
 flock toward the light. Before, in sjjeak- 
 ing of th'MU, I was bitter, 1 was unjust, I 
 was resentful, because of my defeat. I was 
 wrong: liiey are enveloped in obscurity, 
 they are conducted and retained in tho 
 brutalizing road of servitude. It ajjper- 
 tains to us to carry the light, — the torch 
 of need. It is our duty, our only duly, and 
 he who fails is guilty, llememberest thou 
 the words of the dying Goethe, which thou 
 hast often heard me repeat? Light, light, 
 still more light 1 There are shadows that 
 hinder mankind from discovering the true 
 path. At any price they mu^it be dissi- 
 pated. I speak myself of what I believe, 
 but whom do I doubt? Uave I not 
 searched history ? and do I not know that 
 in some jjlace there is always a vestal 
 who watches over the sacred fire ? That 
 suffices ; for it will never be extinguished, 
 and one day it will illuir'uo the world. I 
 die, then, in peace, secure in my unshaken 
 fiiith. Giovan, my well-beloved child, 
 continue thy work imperturbably ; and 
 thou shalt have in thy soul the peace 
 promised to men of good-will. 
 
 " Will all be finished soon ? I know not, 
 and 1 am not anxious. Life is a mortal 
 malaily : each d ly that passes conducts us 
 toward the healing; and the essential is to 
 heal, no matter how or when. I believe, 
 nevertheless, that it will not be long : they 
 are expeditious here, and haste to finish. 
 
!S of life ; but I was 
 in wc had cuiiie to 
 s witli the greatest 
 ley were just with- 
 isheil us l)eeausc we 
 enterprise, and still 
 [ have aske'l myself 
 o endeavor to save 
 theiuf'i.'Ives ; and if, 
 duty, we did not 
 su 'tie needs of a 
 Jut IK w, wlien all is 
 I have no further 
 ' life, 1 reply, No, no I 
 ) a man in spite of 
 , an absolute duty ; 
 ijr;^et to i^uiJe the 
 I. Before, in speak- 
 tter, I was unjust, I 
 of my deiiiat. I was 
 lo[)ed in obseurity, 
 nd retained in tho 
 urvitude. It aj)per- 
 le light, — tho torch 
 y, our only duly, and 
 lleineinberest thou 
 ; Goethe, which thou 
 jpeatV Light, light, 
 jre are shadows that 
 discovering iho true 
 they niu^it be dissi- 
 If of wliat I believe, 
 jbt ? Have I not 
 do I not know that 
 is always a vestal 
 sacred fire ? That 
 ^er be extinguislied, 
 um'ue the world. I 
 sure in my unshaken 
 well-beloved child, 
 imperturbably ; and 
 ;hy soul the peace 
 od-wiU. 
 
 J soon ? I know not, 
 3. Life is a mortal 
 t passes conducts us 
 nd tlie essential is to 
 or when. I believe, 
 ill not be long : they 
 and haste to finish. 
 
 
 8YLVERINE. 
 
 171 
 
 AVhen the Angel of Death, comes she will 
 be welcome ; and she will give the kiss of 
 peace to him wiio loves her. 
 
 " \h) not imagine that I suffer here. No, 
 I am comparatively well-treated. My 
 chamber is large; and from my window 1 
 see the city, and the amphitheatre under 
 tlie liill, and I can even perceive the place 
 where the s^oldiers of Alaric tm-iied the river 
 to inter their general. Yesterday I was 
 at the casement : a woman passed carrying 
 a cliild. She saw me, and knew, without 
 doubt, who F was. Falling on her knees, 
 she raised her infant to war 1 me, as if to 
 demand my blessing upon it. Tliat hurt 
 ine : 1 threw inysclt' on my bed, and wept 
 freely in ihiiikiiig of thee. 
 
 " The man who comes to thee is sure. 
 lie has Ijcloiiged to us for some lime, (iio- 
 van will send him to Saaila, wlio will do 
 iijr him what is necessary. 
 
 '•My darling child, I would ein1)race 
 thee, and iiolil thee once more tJ the heart 
 that adores thee; but that cannot be. 
 The will of (lod be done ! If, during the 
 hajjpy years 1 have lived near thee, 1 have 
 caused thee some pain, Ibrgive me, and 
 guard my memory as of one who has loved 
 thee much. Tliou kuowest that I shall 
 die witli thy name upon my lips. Adieu, 
 Giovan I Adieu, Sylverine ! Be happy, 
 and ibrget not 
 
 " Youu Flavio." 
 
 Her face bathed with tears, Sylverine 
 turned toward the man. " Teii me all : I 
 will know all,'' she said. 
 
 " 1 will 'rll you all I know," he replied. 
 " When I left, he was not yet condemned. 
 The tentence was to be pronounced the 
 next day, or the day after. Ah I he has a 
 great heart : at the last tho judge could 
 scarcely sjjeak to him." 
 
 " But all Is not yet finished," cried Syl- 
 verine : " there is yet some hope. O my 
 Gou 1 to be so lar fi-om hiin I Tell me, 
 cannot we save him yet ? " 
 
 The man shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 " When once the sentence is pronounced, 
 they will forward, without doubt, the pro- 
 
 ceedings to Naples. In that case there 
 will ])ass some days before the sentence 
 will be executed. But how to s;ivt! him Y 
 Do you believe they will ever release 
 such prey V " 
 
 " No matter," replied Sylverine. " I 
 will go to Naples. I am a woman, and 
 they will allow me to enter everywhere. I 
 will y;o to the king. I will throw myself 
 at his feet. Giovan, wo must leave imme- 
 diately, this instant." 
 
 " We will go," said Giovan in a voice 
 so choked that one could scarcely hear 
 him ; " and, if the king refuses liis mercy, 
 I will send him to entreat his own par- 
 don of God ! " 
 
 An hour alter, they were rolling rapidly 
 along the road ii-oin liaveiina to Leghorn, 
 by the way of Florence. Tliey scarcely 
 sjjoke : sometimes Sylverine wept, moaned, 
 and wrung her hands; Giovan, silent and 
 sullen, resembled a chained lion. Once or 
 twice he (lew into a fearlul rage widi the 
 postilion, who drove as fast as ho could, 
 urging his horses at their utmost spc-ed. 
 
 They- arrived at Leghorn, a mai-itiine 
 city, in constant relation with oilier ])arts 
 of Italy, always ready lor emancipation, 
 and listening eagerly to the revoluiionary 
 news that came from the other provinces. 
 There, no doubt could remain. Flavio w;is 
 dead. The sentence of the court-marti::! 
 had been executed in twenty-four Iiours. 
 Covered with the black clotli of the par- 
 ricide, his head veiled in crape, his bands 
 bound behind his back, he had been con- 
 ducted beyond the city, near to the chapel 
 of Santa Maria, where he ollered calmly 
 his breast to the soldiers, and fell on his 
 face dead, without prtuioiiiieing a word. 
 
 Sylverine, with both hands pressed to 
 her heart, listened to the sad recital, her 
 eyes fixed, and her face paler than death. 
 When it was ended, she was seized with a 
 sort of spism of rage ; and, turning toward 
 Giovan, she cried, " Cain '. Cain ! Cain ! " 
 Then a Hood of tears calmed the storm, 
 and she fell into a chair exhausted. 
 
 Giovan kuelt betbre her, and ;oi)bed 
 with the sharp anguish of those who know 
 
r 
 
 172 
 
 THE DRINKERS OP ASHES. 
 
 not how to weep. "I have murtlured 
 him ! I liiive munlered him ! " 
 
 "Yes, thou haat mm-dered him!" s;iiil 
 Svlverine, re'^ariling him with a eontempt 
 eo deep that it teirilied liim. " Yes, tliou 
 hast murdered thy tVieiid. It was tliy 
 selfislmess. and thy cowardice, that sent 
 him to aplaee of (h\n-;er to. which thou 
 didst not dare go. I will see thee no more." 
 He tried to stammer a reply, but she 
 would not hear him. 
 
 " Go," she cried : " I am afraid of thee. 
 I have been insane to love thee, or, more, 
 to believe I loved thee. It is ho that I 
 have loved. It is the dear dead, that I 
 shall see no more. Ah 1 the misery of life. 
 "What a wretched heart I had wiihin me, 
 to deceive him, and to deceive him for 
 thee 1 " 
 
 Giovan extended his hands toward her, 
 and cried, " Sylverine ! Sylverine ! " 
 
 She arose impetuously, opened the door, 
 and, poiniin'^' to it with a <:esture that 
 expressed her hatred, she said, " Go, thou! 
 and may I never, never see thee again. 
 There is now between us an abyss thou 
 canst not cross. It is the bloody grave 
 where Flavio lies with ten balls in his 
 breast. Speak, not 1 Go, thou ! " 
 
 She pushed him outside the door with an 
 astonisliin;^; violence, and closed it upon him. 
 " O Flavio, Flavio ! " she cried," I deceived 
 thee in lile, but now I swear to be faithful 
 to thee until death." 
 
 Giovan wandered all night, driven by a 
 tempest of passion and gi-ief. He rushed 
 over fields and through forests as one 
 insane : sometimes he fell on his face beneath 
 the trees and wept ; then he arose and hur- 
 ried on with rapid steps, crying with fury, 
 and clenching Ids hands at the heavens as 
 though he would insult and defy God. The 
 strongest contradictions passed through his 
 mind. He would go to JSIai)les, raise the 
 people, barn the palace of the king, slaugh- 
 ter the soldiers, hang the ministers, and 
 make fur Flavio frightful obsequies. Or he 
 would reject the oath of the Drinkers of 
 Ashes, reconipier Sylverine, take her with 
 him to some other country, to a house in a 
 
 forest, where no one would coino to disturb 
 them. In the morning, as he passed a farm- 
 house, a dog ran toward him and barked. lie 
 threw himself upon the animal, and, seizing- 
 it by the hind legs, served it as a club, crush- 
 ing its head against the wall at a single blow. 
 The brutal stui)idity of the action r.called 
 him to himself. "Have I, then, become 
 insane ? " lie thought. Toward the middle 
 of the day, worn out, soiled, and ghastly, ho 
 returned to the inn where he had left Syl- 
 verine. She had gone, leaving a letter for 
 liim. 
 
 "I fly from thee," she wrote, "for I 
 know thy violence. I go to hide my shame 
 at having thought I loved thee, and my 
 desjjair at losing him whom I loved. Why 
 didst thou come into our life ? Belbre thy 
 arrival we were happy. Do not search tor 
 me : thou wilt never find me. I care for 
 nothing, I love nothing, I desire nothing. I 
 ._ro to await death, that it may rid ine of a 
 lile that thou hast rendered insiipiiortable. 
 Adieu. That thou wilt forget ine, is the 
 only fiivor I demand of thee ! " 
 
 Giovan rushed through the city. He 
 interrogated the captains of shi[)S. the con- 
 ductors of diligences, he searched the hotels, 
 he questioned the officers in the service of 
 the port, the gcndaiines who guarded the 
 gates. It was in vain : he could not discover 
 Sylverine. 
 
 " At daybreak," said the landlord, " the 
 lady paid her bill, and left that letter lor 
 you : then she went out alone, and on foot, 
 and has not returned since." 
 
 Nevertheless, ailer much searching, he 
 found that she had taken a ( iriiage to 
 t"lorence. He hastened after h(.'r ; l)Ut 
 there lie lost all trace, and wa'^ n(!ver able 
 to gain the slightest intelligence afterward. 
 He searched none the less for an entire 
 month. He was wretched without her, and 
 longed ardently to see her, if but ibr once. 
 He even tried to put in movement the 
 secret means which the Drinjcers of Ashes 
 had at their disposal. Whereupon Samla 
 wrote liim. 
 
 » We are not m.idc to calm the despair 
 of love. That woman is your evil genius, 
 
 
■ » L.' l lH»J . I>.IJ I 
 
 1(1 coino to disturb 
 s he [lassi'd a I'arin- 
 iin iiiid harked. IIo 
 nnnal, and, wilziii^ 
 I it as a cduh, crusli- 
 all at a siii^de hlnw. 
 the action r.calK'd 
 e I, then, become 
 Toward the middle 
 ed, and jjha^tly, ho 
 re hi! had left 8} I- 
 leaving a letter for 
 
 she wrote, "for I 
 3 to hide my shame 
 ived thee, and my 
 lom I loved. Why 
 r life ? Belbre thy 
 Do not search for 
 [id me. I care for 
 I desire nothing. I 
 it may rid ine of a 
 cred insiipiiortable. 
 It forget me, is the 
 thee ! " 
 
 ugh the city. He 
 us of shi[)S. the con- 
 ! searched the hotels, 
 irs in the service of 
 IS who guarded the 
 ic could not discover 
 
 1 the landlord, " the 
 left that letter lor 
 t alone, and on foot, 
 ince." 
 
 much searching, he 
 aken a ( iriiage to 
 ned aftev h(.'r ; but 
 and wa*- ni;ver able 
 telligence afterward, 
 le less for an entire 
 hed without her, and 
 her, if but tor once. 
 it in movement the 
 e Drinjcers of Ashes 
 Whereupon Sanda 
 
 to calm the despair 
 n is your evil genius, 
 
 SYLVEEINE. 
 
 178 
 
 It is because of her that Flavio i.") dead. 
 Keep that in remumbrance 1 and take 
 care that wo do not demand of you, in 
 the future, a severe account of your con- 
 duct." 
 
 Siicli a letter was not of a nature to calm 
 Giovan in his state of revolt and anxiety ; 
 and he replied to Sanda, — 
 
 *' If I nmst not be human, tear from my 
 heart the passions that torture it, and I 
 will devote myself to our work ; but first 
 thert is a motive that urges me onwaril, 
 though the heavens crush me. I must 
 find Sylverine, and 1 will find her." 
 
 He then continued his search with the 
 energy that charpcterized him. He ex- 
 plored the neighboring cities of Florence, 
 went to llavenna in the hope that she had 
 returned there, and even d.ared to go into 
 the city of Cosenza. thinking that perhaps 
 she had hidden herself where Flavio had 
 perished. It was in vain : he could not di^^- 
 cover her. 'I'hen he imagined, that, to 
 conceal herself the letter, she had gone to 
 Home, tlie very camp of the enemy, the 
 place to him especially perilous, where ho 
 could not venture without risking his head. 
 One believes easily what one wishes. He 
 took a false j)asspnrt, and arrived in Home 
 at the time wlien the ceremonies of Holy 
 Week attract so many strangers. He visited 
 all the hotels, demanded impudently of the 
 police to examine the register of names ; 
 and, instead of evading the suspicion that 
 his ])resence might excite, lie seemed to take 
 pleasure in braving it. He attended all the 
 ceremonies of St. Peter's, for there he itoped 
 to find Sylverine. He laughed under the 
 noses of thi; Swiss Guards, dressed like 
 knaves of diamonds. And he did not 
 hesitate to make in public observations the 
 least favorable to the government of the 
 Pope. One day, in the gallery of the 
 Vatican, while looking at the picture, too 
 much praised, of the Commumon of St. 
 Jerome, he heard a voice behind him which 
 said, " The communion of St. Jerome 
 should make those who h:ive partaken of 
 it more prudent." He turned, and saw 
 an unknown man, who regarded him stead- 
 
 ily, and added, " We must never forget St. 
 Jerome." 
 
 The unknown man went away; and Gio- 
 van, always accustomed to mystery, Ibund 
 no dilUculty in understandiu.; that the 
 phrase, stripped of its apparent meaning, 
 played upon the name of Jerome., that is to 
 say, upon the nanie of Savonarola, and was 
 a conuntnucation from the Drinkers of 
 Ashes. He nevertheless persisted in his re- 
 searches. He went to Tivoli, lo Rocca ill 
 Papa, to Castel Gondolfo, to FrascatI, — in 
 short, everywhere where he supposed Syl- 
 verine could have concealed herself. One 
 morning, while walking through the shaily 
 road that borilers the Like of Albano, ho 
 found himself lace to face with the uian 
 who had spoKen to him in the gallery of the 
 Vatican. Tlie unknown stepped lieroio 
 (iiovan, and said to him, '• She whom thou 
 seekest is not here. It is useless to search : 
 thou wilt not find her." 
 
 "Where is she, then ?'' demanded Gio- 
 van. 
 
 " I cannot tell you that," replied the man ; 
 " but I have come to warn you. They i)e- 
 gin to suspect you ii. U)me. It is time tor 
 you to leave if you would not stay here 
 always." 
 
 '• Ah ! Who has sent you V " 
 
 " Tbo«e with wlwm you have partaken 
 the communion." 
 
 " Well, go to them, and say that I dety all 
 Rome, and that I shall remain here as 
 as long as it pleases me to do so." 
 
 The man t miled pityingly, saluted Giovan, 
 and went away. 
 
 Three days after the nnhapt, young man 
 returned to Rome. One everdng, as he 
 walked solitary along the deserted space 
 that borders the Tiber, beyond M juat .Vven- 
 tine, three men rushed upon him, enveloped 
 him in a mantle, and forced him into a car- 
 riage that rolled away swiftly toward the 
 Campitfjita. Before the Ijreak of day they 
 had arrived at the little |)ort of Fiumicino. 
 There, on the deck of a vessel that awaited 
 them, one of his captors gave him a letter 
 from San^la. 
 
 " Knowinjj that thou wilt never over 
 
174 
 
 THE DRINKEliS OV ASHES. 
 
 come thysulf," wrote he, " necessity com- ] 
 pels us to use such inoiiiis to recall thee 
 to tliy senses, ami to save thee. The 
 hour will soon ari-ive when we shall 
 need all the energy which thou expendest 
 so badly. Couio to ; le ininiediiitely ; and 
 later thou shall iierhaps know where she is 
 whom thou hast so vainly sou;^ht." 
 
 Always watcheil, hut treated as a master 
 by his attendants, Giovan arrived at 
 Genoa; and from there he hastened to 
 Sauila, whom 1 have said lived beyond Jor- 
 dan. On seeing him his first words were, 
 " Where is Sylverine V " 
 
 " Thou shalt know later," replied Samla ; 
 and then he added, with an expression not 
 habitual on his impassive face, " the time 
 when thou canst see her will come all too 
 soon tor thee." 
 
 In spite of his rebellion, Giovan was 
 curbed hetijro that will of iron which none 
 could resist. He commenced to work with 
 a fiery energy, thinking it would distract his 
 thoughts from the one maddening remem- 
 brance, but it had no effect ; and, although 
 the name of Sylverine never passed his lii)s, 
 he thought of her continually. She reigned 
 tyrannically over his heart, thereby remind- 
 ing him of Flavio, and kee|)ing alive a fire 
 of remorse that nothing could extinguish. 
 
 Two years had passed, — two long and 
 wearisome years. No action had taken 
 place to occupy the mind of Giovan, neither 
 had any news arrived to him of Sylverine ; 
 yet he was no more accustomed nor resigned 
 to his sorrow. One day Samla, more serious 
 than usual, entered his room and gave him 
 a letter. " Thou canst go to her now," he 
 said : " at last thou art about to be I'rtsa." 
 
 Giovan took tlie letter, and opened it with 
 a beating heart ; for he at once recognized 
 the writing of Sylverine. It contained but 
 a line, that seemed traced by a feeble hand. 
 " I am at I'isa. I am dying, and I would 
 see thee." 
 
 Giovan was not long in reaching Pisa, 
 and hastening to the house of Sylverine. 
 When he saw her, he started with terror ; 
 for she vtiw only the ghost of herself. Her 
 sunken eyes, surrounded by purple shadows 
 
 seemed to (loat in sockets too large for them ; 
 the transparent temples showed the violet 
 veins ; an opa([iie jjallor gave to her com- 
 plexion the whiteness of wax ; her lips, thin 
 and parched, showed her discoloreil teeth ; 
 and her long, emaciated hands had the 
 vague gestures of an incomi)arable languor. 
 She had said truly ; she was dying, — wast- 
 ing away slowly and without ouHering, con- 
 sumed by one of those mysteri(uis maladies 
 where the mind and the body n!-act one 
 upon the other. A doctor would have 
 said, " She is dying of dyspepsia ; " a phi- 
 losopher w^iild have said, " She is dving of 
 sorrow:" and neither would have been 
 wrong. 
 
 A feeble smile lighted her face, and a 
 fugitive Hush passed over her thin cheek, 
 when she saw Giovan enter. 
 
 " 1 am glad to see thee," she said ; " for I 
 could not go to Fhivio until 1 had clasped 
 thy hand once more." 
 
 Her hours were numbered : each one that 
 passed increased her weakness. Giovan 
 never left her. He remained near her, 
 tender, anxious, almost womanly in his 
 gentle care, watching with terror the rapid 
 proiiress the disease made from day to day. 
 She" sull'ered no i)ain. The sjjirit seemed 
 to leave little by little the exhausted body. 
 They spoke seldom, but always of Flavio. 
 Shelovcd to recall the first happy days of 
 her acquaintance with the regretted dead. 
 The time seemed so long to her since she 
 lost him, and she was so near death, that 
 she believed herself to be old. Sometimes 
 she said to Giovan, " Dost thou remember 
 when we were young V " Often she remained 
 for hours, immobile, silent, her eyes closed, 
 her head turned away, and her hands tbld- 
 ed serenely, giving no sign of lilt: save a 
 sort of mechanical moan that wrung the 
 heart of Giovan. One ilay a low sob tell 
 upon her i;ar : she raised her eyes with 
 eilbrt, and saw Giovan leaning over her 
 bed, weeping to see her die. She had no 
 convulsions, no agony, none of the terrible 
 combats, where life and death seem to 
 } struggle with each other. She spoke of 
 I Flavio, extended her damp hand to Gio- 
 
SYLVERINE. 
 
 175 
 
 ts too liifiTC for them ; 
 ■s showi'd the violet 
 ai" gave to her eoiii- 
 af wax; her lips, thin 
 lu'r (liaeoloreil teeth ; 
 ited hands had the 
 iiuomparable lan;^iior. 
 le was dying, — wast- 
 nthout Bulleriiig, con- 
 i mysterious maladies 
 the body rti-act one 
 doctor would have 
 r dyspepsia ; " a phi- 
 laid, " She is dving of 
 iv would have been 
 
 hted her face, and a 
 over her thin cheek, 
 1 enter, 
 hee," she said ; " for I 
 
 io until I had clasped 
 
 f» 
 
 mbei-ed : each one that 
 ,'r weakness. Giovan 
 ! remained near her, 
 nost womanly in his 
 ■r with terror the v;i\n<l 
 made fi'om day to day. 
 in. The si)ii-it seemed 
 lo the exhausted body, 
 but always of Flavio. 
 the first hajjpy days of 
 ilh the regretted dead. 
 3 long to her since she 
 ras so near death, that 
 to be old. Sometimes 
 '■ Dost thou remember 
 r V " Often she remained 
 silent, her eyes closed, 
 -ay, and lier hands fold- 
 no sign of HIl: save a 
 moan that wrung the 
 One day a low sob fell 
 i raised her eyes with 
 iovan leaning over her 
 e her die. She had no 
 ny, none of the terrible 
 le and death seem to 
 I other. She spoke of 
 ler damp hand to Gio- 
 
 van, breathed a light sigh, and died. II(! 
 watched over iier while a priest murmured, i 
 in a low voice, the consecrated orisons, 
 regarding, without power to move his eyes, 
 the form innnovaide forever. It seemeil 
 impossible that she was dead. Once he 
 called aloud, " Sylverine ! Sylverine I " in 
 a voice broken with fatigue, grief, and sobs. 
 Then a heavy stupor fell upon him, and he 
 slept, overcome by watching and weariness. 
 When he awoke, day had already dawned. 
 He looked from his window : the swallows 
 floated in the blue heavens ; the Arno 
 flowed peacefully, with a sad, monotonous 
 'plaint. When he returned to the funeral 
 chamber, and saw Sylverine, u|)on whom 
 death had already strewn its pale (lowers, 
 he cried, " All 1 how can day dawn alter 
 such a night Y " 
 
 During the religious ceremony, which 
 was held in the cathedral, Giovan had 
 only a confused consciousness of the sad 
 event. He suffered in an intolerable man- 
 ner, thinking of Sylverine and Flavio; of 
 j> the work of the Drinkers of Ashes, their 
 
 efforts always frustrated, always deleated ; 
 of the great motive that had directed all 
 their actions, and tor which Flavio had been 
 sacrificed; and regarding the great bronze 
 lamp that is suspended to the ceiling by a 
 long cord, and whose oscillations revealed 
 to Galileo the theory of the pendulum, he 
 said, as did the great Pisan, " Nevertheless, 
 it moves I " 
 
 Sylverine reposes in the Campo Santo, 
 not far from the fresco Orgagna painted of 
 Christ, showing his wounds, to teach men 
 that life is but one long scene of siiiferiug. 
 Beside the spot where she sleeps forever, 
 Giovan bought two burial places. One can 
 understand for whom they were intended. 
 
 At last free, as Samla had cruelly said, 
 be returned to his post, that is to say, Kaven- 
 na. Gloomy, sullen, and s".ent, ho lived 
 among men like one in a desert. In 1848 
 he threw himself into action with a blind 
 fury, as though he had something per- 
 sonal to avenge. He was everywhere. 
 At Naples, at Cortonc, at Milan, upright 
 uncovered, always in the front rank, he as- 
 
 toidslied the most hardy by liis recklessness. 
 They called him " the invulnerable," tor 
 death seemed to avoid him in spite of the ad- 
 vances lie made. When he knew that many 
 of their hopes were vanishing bctbre the 
 counter revolution, — that in Italy, Hun- 
 gary, and everywhere, the cause he loved 
 would return again to silence and shadows, 
 — he conceiveil with Samla the project of 
 bringing into Italy, /ev uniK'e.i AJar/i/wcs 
 attacked on the Danube by the Ausirians. 
 In spite of perils without number, and ad- 
 ventures usi'li;ss to recount, he reached 
 Transylvania, and entreated Bern to block- 
 ade Venice, ami to conunetice a strug- 
 gle between the Adriatic and Mincio; but 
 he was too late. The destiny of Ilimgary, 
 fixed by the ca|)itulation of Villagos, forced 
 Bem to seek a ref\ige in Tui'key. 
 
 Wlien Giovan returned to Venice, there 
 also all was over. Hushing insanely to 
 Ferrara, then occup:e<l by the Austrians, 
 he endeavored to renew the combat. He 
 was taken, judged, and condemned, not to 
 be shot as a soldier, but to be hung as a 
 bandit. The sentence pronounced in tli.' 
 morning was to be executed the same even- 
 ing. At sunset Giovan was in his cell, 
 sitting upon the bundle of straw that served 
 for his bed, calm, immobile, absorbed in 
 the retrospective contempluion of his life, 
 which seemed to pass betore him with won- 
 derful distinctness in the last hour. The 
 door opened, and an Ilieronymite monk 
 entered, — one of those whose rules are so 
 austere that the people of the Ucubrias 
 take them for sorcerers. 
 
 " I do not wish a confessor," said Gio- 
 van sternly. 
 
 The monk made a sign for the jailer to 
 leave. Then, raising the hood from his 
 eyes, he walked toward the prisoner and 
 said, — 
 " In nominejratri^ Hieronymi, salve ! " 
 " Samla," cried Giovan, recognizing his 
 voice. Then,thvowlng himself in hisfriend's 
 arras, he said ■' I will not be saved." 
 
 " I have Mot come to save thee," replied 
 Samla , who, having fled from Uonie, had 
 found an asylum in a convent near Ferrara. 
 
1T6 
 
 THE DrjNKERS OF ASHES. 
 
 «' I have not come to 8:ive thee ; for I know 
 well that thou hiist thirst of deiUh. 1 have 
 come to know tliy hist wishes, and to uxe- 
 cilte them il i)()ssii)ic." 
 
 In th(! i)resen<'e of the >:rim monster, 
 (;ic)van lhoii;j;lit hut of Sylverine. " There 
 is one thin^i," said he, " which thou must 
 promise me; and that is, that thou wilt re- 
 move my hody to the Camiio Santo, at I'isa. 
 and place it beside Sylverino." 
 
 A smile of jiity passed over the face of 
 Sanila, as he replied, " I promise it ; but is 
 there nothin;; else 'I " 
 
 " Nothini,'," saiil Giovan : " all my life 
 was engrossed in that passion ; and I have 
 cared ibr nothing else since 1 lost her." 
 
 They sat side by side on the bundle of 
 straw, and talked toi^ether as thou'^h death 
 did not wait at the <loor. Samla spoke of 
 his jjrojects ; lor, with him, hoi)e was inde- 
 structible, as well as conviction. " This is 
 but another delay," said he: "we must 
 know how to await our time." Then, after 
 a short silence, he said to Giovan, " Art 
 thou very sure there is nothing more thou 
 desircst Y " 
 
 " Whatever I may desire, amounts to 
 nothing," replied Giovan. "In an hour I 
 shall be hung. It is very foolish, I know, 
 to dispute upon the outward form of death; 
 but to make gnmaces on a scaffold belbre 
 people who will clap their liands, I avow 
 that tortures and humiliates me. I would 
 have died as Flavio died, by and before 
 the carbines." 
 
 » I cannot give thee carbines," said Sam- 
 la, " but I can tell thee how to evade the 
 rope. Take this," said he, giving a little 
 
 bottle. " See my provision of deliverance. I 
 have kept it for a solemn occasion. Use it 
 dear child; and ilie with the consolation 
 that thou wilt not be a spectacle for the 
 curious and iudill'crcnt." 
 
 An hour after, when they entered the cell 
 of Giovan to comluct him to tho plice of 
 execution, they found him extended upon 
 the floor, cold and dead, and around hint a 
 strange perfume of bitter almond. 
 
 A doctor, called in haste, declared that 
 ho was poison(Hl by a powerful dose of 
 cyanhydriiiue acid. The body was, never- 
 tiieless, hung as an example. 
 
 Tho last wish of (Jiovan has been exe- 
 cuted. He reposes near to Sylverinc ; and 
 Flavio also has been united to them. In 
 the first days of the month of SeptembiT, 
 IHGO, after Garibaldi had taken the city of 
 Cosenza, the body of Flavio was removed 
 from the little chapel of Sauta Maria, 
 where it had been placed, and brought to 
 tho Metropolitan Church. There it was 
 recttived with military honors, to the sound 
 of bells and the report of cannon ; then it 
 was placed upon a caisson of artillery, and, 
 accompanied by an escort, it was carried 
 to Pola, embarked to Leghorn, and from 
 thence to Pisa. 
 
 Those who wore separateil in life are to- 
 day forever uniteil in death. Upon their 
 tombs one reads simply their names, — 
 
 GIOVAN. 8YLVF.RINE. FLAVIO. 
 
 which crosses an epitaph of a single line, — 
 Eccl. vii. 26, " And 1 find more bitter than 
 death the woman whose heart is snares, 
 and whose hands are chains." 
 
 s 
 
 THE EKD. 
 
 .1 
 
I .III | H |i nn « 
 
 on of deliverance. T 
 » OLHMsioii. Use it 
 ith the eonsoliition 
 a spectacle for tlic 
 
 licy entered the cell 
 ill! to the plice of 
 liin extended iipnn 
 1, and around hint a 
 r almond. 
 
 laste, declared that 
 ])iiwcrftil dose of 
 10 body was, never- 
 nplo. 
 
 )van lias been exe- 
 r to Sylverine ; and 
 inited to theni. In 
 lonth of SepteinbiT, 
 id takon the city of 
 <'lavia was rouioved 
 1 of Santa Maria, 
 [;ed, and brought to 
 •ch. There it was 
 honors, to the soiuid 
 of cannon ; then it 
 son of artillery, and, 
 scort, it was carried 
 Leghorn, and from 
 
 arated in life are to- 
 death. Upon their 
 f their names, — 
 
 BINE. FLAVIO. 
 
 [)h of a sin;;le line, — 
 hid more bitter than 
 ose heart is snares, 
 ;hains." 
 
m^v 
 
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